A Star Is Born Chapter 26 (Patreon)

Chapter 26

By the time Harry reached Puddlemere Stadium on Monday morning, he had already seen the photograph three times. The first copy had been waiting outside his flat when he woke. Another was displayed in the window of the newsagent beneath a handwritten sign promising additional copies before noon. Two witches carrying shopping bags had been studying one beneath the awning of Puddles Pastries, and Harry had heard one of them remark that Daphne looked lovely before he escaped down the opposite street.

He had considered taking the longer route around the wizarding district after that. Unfortunately, there were only so many ways to reach a stadium that dominated the Puddlemere skyline, and apparently every one of them passed someone carrying a copy of the Puddlemere Press.

Rex was waiting inside the players’ entrance when Harry arrived. The security wizard sat behind his usual desk with a steaming mug beside one hand and the morning paper spread open in front of him. He did not immediately look up. That alone told Harry everything.

“Morning,” Harry said cautiously.

“Morning, Mr. Potter.”

Rex turned one page with exaggerated care. Harry stopped in front of the desk. “You’ve already read that page.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“You’ve been staring at the same photograph since I came through the door.”

“A remarkable piece of photography.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly. “Give it here.”

Rex finally looked up, failing rather badly to conceal his amusement as he folded the paper and handed it across the desk. The photograph occupied nearly half the front page of the sports section. Harry and Daphne had been captured leaving the restaurant Saturday evening, her hand resting comfortably through the crook of his arm while they walked beneath the rain. Harry was looking toward her instead of the camera, laughing at something she had said. Daphne had apparently noticed the photographer and was staring at the man with the unimpressed expression of someone committing a face to memory for later retaliation.

Above them, an enormous headline announced:

POTTER FINDS ANOTHER CATCH AFTER PUDDLEMERE VICTORY AGAINST THE FALCONS

Harry stared at it. “They could have gone with something less terrible.”

“They probably could have,” Rex agreed.

Beneath the headline, a smaller line read:

Puddlemere’s newest star celebrates with local heiress Daphne Greengrass.

Harry scanned the first few paragraphs. The article contained very little about the dinner and considerably more speculation about whether Puddlemere’s most famous rookie had already become the district's most eligible bachelor. Lord Greengrass was described as a prominent local businessman and lifelong supporter of the club. Daphne was described as elegant, mysterious, and—according to an unnamed source—someone Harry had been seen walking through Puddlemere with more than once.

The final line asked whether Harry Potter had found a reason beyond Quidditch to make Puddlemere his permanent home. Harry folded the paper. “At least they were nice about her.”

“Very nice,” Rex agreed. “Elegant and mysterious.”

Harry gave him a flat look. Rex took a long drink from his mug. “Good photograph too.”

“I liked you better when you were removing annoying reporters,” Harry deadpanned.

“I contain a multitude of talents, Mr. Potter,” Rex joked.

Harry placed the paper back on the desk and continued toward the changing rooms. He heard Rex chuckle behind him but refused to provide the man with the satisfaction of turning around.

The corridors were quieter than usual. During a match week, Monday mornings carried the lingering weight of the previous result and the first murmurings of whatever opponent came next. Coaches moved between offices carrying tactical boards. Healers conducted evaluations. Players arrived with tired muscles and fresh complaints, already measuring the days until the next match.

The bye week had softened everything. There was no opponent waiting on Saturday. No tactical session scheduled before breakfast. No reason for anyone to be inside the stadium this early except for a brief recovery meeting that Coach Deverell had placed on the calendar.

Harry should have recognized that as a warning. The moment he pushed open the locker-room door, every conversation stopped. Ten faces turned toward him. Harry remained in the doorway, one hand still resting against the door, considering going home and calling in sick. “Not a word.”

Conner Statland looked offended. “You haven’t even heard what we were going to say.”

“I don’t need to.”

“You might,” Jason Milroe said solemnly. “We put a great deal of thought into this.”

Harry’s eyes moved toward his locker. Someone had covered it in photographs. Copies of the Puddlemere Press had been cut apart and arranged across the blue-painted wood. Harry’s face appeared at least seven times. Daphne appeared nine. Paper flowers had been charmed around the edges, opening and closing in a slow rhythm, while a silver banner stretched across the top.

CONGRATULATIONS, MR. GREENGRASS

Harry stared at it for several seconds. Then he looked toward Oliver. The captain was sitting on the bench near his own locker, wrapping one wrist with training tape. He did not look up.

“You let them do this?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“I arrived three minutes before you,” Oliver defended with a grin. “Normally I would be proud that the team arrived before us on any day, but I can't say I am surprised that this is what happened when they did.”

“You’re the captain,” Harry accused.

“It’s the bye week,” Oliver said with a shrug.

“That doesn’t mean you stop being captain.”

Oliver finally glanced toward the decorated locker. “I considered intervening.”

“And?”

“I wanted to see your face,” Oliver said with a grin.

The room erupted. Harry shook his head as he entered, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Conner was already holding another copy of the article, his expression holding the solemnity of a broadcaster preparing to deliver tragic news.

“Puddlemere’s victorious young Seeker,” he read, “was seen enjoying an intimate dinner with Daphne Greengrass, eldest daughter of prominent local businessman and club supporter Caius Greengrass.”

“Intimate?” Harry repeated. “They were nowhere near our table.”

“They didn’t need to be,” Charlotte said. “You apparently looked intimate from the street.”

“We were walking.”

“Very intimately,” Cho added.

Harry stopped beside the bench and began removing his outer robes.

Conner continued reading. “Witnesses report that the pair appeared comfortable and affectionate throughout the evening—”

“What witnesses?” Harry demanded.

“Don’t interrupt the press, Potter,” Charlotte said from the corner.

“—with one diner claiming the young couple seemed unable to take their eyes off one another,” Conner continued.

Harry tossed his robes into the locker. “That entire restaurant was full to the brim. Bollocks to that. They couldn't possibly see us that well.”

“So you admit you know precisely how many witnesses there were,” Jason said.

“I-I,” Harry stammered. “Well, of course I didn't bloody count them.”

Adrian Pucey leaned against the neighboring locker with his arms folded, looking more entertained than Harry believed any decent person had a right to be in the morning.

“Greengrass,” he said thoughtfully. “Interesting choice.”

Harry glanced toward him. “Don’t start.”

“I knew her at Hogwarts.”

“So did I.”

“No, you occupied the same building. There’s a difference.”

Several players laughed, and despite himself, Harry’s mouth twitched.

Pucey tilted his head toward the photograph. “She was two years below me. Quiet. Clever. Never particularly impressed by anyone.”

“That still appears to be the case,” Harry said.

Pucey considered him for another second before nodding. “Then I approve.”

“Brilliant. I was terrified you wouldn’t.”

Conner lowered the paper. “Are we calling her your girlfriend?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Lady friend?” Jason asked innocently.

“No,” Harry said with a sigh.

“Romantic companion?” Cho asked helpfully.

“Absolutely not.”

Jason raised a hand. “Future owner of the club?”

Harry threw one of his gloves at him. Jason caught it against his chest while the locker room broke into fresh laughter.

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” Harry said, fighting a smile as he sat down. “We had dinner.”

“And afterward?” Charlotte asked.

Harry reached for his boots. “Afterward, I continued living my private life.”

The room became louder than it had been before.

“That is not a denial!” Conner shouted.

“It was never meant to be one.”

Cho laughed so hard she had to brace herself against Charlotte’s shoulder. Even Oliver abandoned whatever effort he had made to remain detached, dropping his head as his shoulders shook.

Harry pointed accusingly at him. “Careful, Wood. At least when Daphne and I reached the restaurant, the hostess didn’t take one look at me and run into the back.”

Oliver’s head snapped up. The laughter shifted direction instantly. Charlotte covered her mouth. Cho made no such effort. Conner slapped the nearest locker hard enough to make the metal doors rattle, while Jason nearly fell from the bench.

Oliver stared at Harry in disbelief. “She was preparing a table.”

“She fled.”

“She recognized the team.”

“She recognized you,” Harry corrected. “Then fled.”

The captain’s face turned red. Harry pulled on one boot and leaned back with the satisfaction of someone who had finally found shelter from the storm.

Adrian nodded once. “Well played, Potter.”

It was a small thing. A ridiculous thing, really. Ten professional athletes shouting over one another inside a changing room because Harry had been photographed walking through the rain with a pretty woman. Only a few weeks earlier, he might have wondered whether they were laughing with him or whether he was merely the easiest target in the room.

He did not wonder now. The newspaper flowers continued blooming around his locker. Jason had begun speculating about whether Lord Greengrass would demand a dowry from Harry or offer one himself. Cho was suggesting that Daphne’s expression in the photograph meant the reporter might not survive long enough to publish a follow-up. Pucey had taken the paper from Conner and was correcting the article’s description of the Greengrass family finances with the casual authority of a former Slytherin.

The door opened while Conner was attempting to charm a veil onto Harry’s photograph. Coach Deverell entered carrying a thin folder beneath one arm. He stopped two steps inside the room, surveyed the silver banner, the enchanted flowers, and Harry’s face staring out from half a dozen pieces of newspaper.

Nobody spoke. Deverell looked toward Harry. “Is this going to affect your flying?”

“No, sir.”

He looked toward the others. “Is harassing him going to affect yours?”

“No, sir,” several voices answered.

“Then carry on until nine.”

The coach walked toward his office.

Harry blinked. “That’s it?”

Deverell paused beside the interior door. “She’s not a Seeker for Caerphilly, is she?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t care.”

The office door closed behind him. Jason pointed after the coach. “That sounded like approval.”

“From the manager,” Conner agreed. “Very important stage in any relationship.”

Harry threw his other glove.

.o.

The recovery meeting lasted less than thirty minutes.

Deverell congratulated them once more on the victory over Falmouth, reminded everyone that one strong result did not erase the mistakes that had nearly cost them the match, and instructed the team to use the week intelligently. He wanted bruises healed, shoulders rested, and minds clear when full training resumed the following Monday. There would be no mandatory practice until Thursday.

Anyone requiring treatment was to report to the Healers. Anyone caught attempting a seven-hour private session would be personally removed from the pitch. Deverell looked directly at Harry and Oliver while delivering that warning. Neither argued.

When the meeting ended, however, no one immediately left. Oliver wandered toward the equipment room. Jason and Conner began discussing Beater drills. Charlotte asked whether anyone fancied working through a few passing formations at half speed. Pucey disappeared briefly and returned carrying a Quaffle beneath one arm. Even Cho remained seated beside her locker, already tightening the straps on her gloves.

Harry glanced around the room. “I thought we were supposed to rest.”

“We are resting,” Conner said. “Usually I hit things much harder.”

“That’s very responsible of you,” Harry pointed out.

“It comes with age,” Conner agreed wisely.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“An ancient twenty-six.”

Within fifteen minutes, nearly the entire squad had made its way onto the pitch. There were no coaches waiting for them and no whistles dividing the morning into drills. The stadium remained empty beyond a few groundskeepers moving near the far stands, while a pale autumn sun climbed over the open roof. Brooms rose lazily into the air. The Chasers passed without contact. Jason and Conner sent a Bludger between them at half strength, arguing over whether one of Jason’s swings would have counted as a foul in an actual match.

Harry flew several slow circuits with Cho before releasing a practice Snitch between them. Neither moved. The small golden ball hovered uncertainly, apparently confused by the lack of immediate pursuit.

“This feels wrong,” Cho admitted.

“Deeply.”

They allowed it a generous head start before following. The pace remained easy. For once, Harry did not feel the urge to push until his arms shook or the air burned inside his lungs. He followed the Snitch through a broad turn, watching Cho mirror his line from twenty feet away, and found himself enjoying the simplicity of being on a broom without needing to prove anything.

Below them, Oliver had joined the Chasers near the goal hoops, shouting instructions despite the complete absence of any official practice. Harry smiled. Some things did not change during a bye week. He caught the Snitch after several minutes and drifted lower, rolling the golden ball between his fingers as he watched the veterans gathering near the center of the pitch.

“I’m going to Hogwarts this week,” he said.

Oliver looked up immediately. “When?”

“Saturday, probably. McGonagall answered my owl yesterday.”

Cho descended beside him. “The exhibition?”

“Partly. Demelza Roberts wrote to me a while ago. She’s Gryffindor captain now, and she wants advice about the combine.”

Pucey tossed the Quaffle lightly from one hand to the other. “Is she good enough?”

Harry considered the question. “She could be.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No,” Harry admitted. “But I haven’t seen her play since the war.”

Jason rested his bat across his shoulders. “Then don’t tell her anything until you have.”

Harry looked toward him. The older Beater shrugged. “Everyone wants to know what scouts look for. Speed. Strength. Hands. Reaction time. All the obvious things. But a school player can look brilliant when everyone around them is slower.”

“They’ll watch what she does after a mistake,” Charlotte added. “Anyone can look composed when a match is going their way.”

“And whether she listens,” Pucey said. “Talent gets you noticed. Being coachable keeps you employed.”

Conner pointed his bat toward Harry. “Tell her not to train only for the combine either. You can always spot the ones who spent six months learning how to perform four drills and forgot they were auditioning to play Quidditch.”

Cho added, “I was guilty of that. It probably cost me a spot in the draft. My agent kept me grounded and said we had a real shot at going to someone looking for an extra reserve in the second round, but when that didn't happen, I knew I should've focused on being a more well-rounded player.”

Harry nodded slowly, committing each answer to memory. He had expected jokes when he mentioned Demelza. Perhaps a few casual suggestions he could pass along when he returned to Hogwarts. Instead, the conversation sharpened around him. Every veteran seemed to remember some detail from their own combine, some mistake made or lesson learned while trying to convince professional clubs that a school player belonged among grown men and women.

Oliver watched Harry listening to them from beside the hoops.

“Bring her onto the pitch,” the captain said at last.

Harry turned toward him.

“When you get there,” Oliver continued. “Don’t just sit in McGonagall’s office and tell her what professional scouts want. Watch her fly. Put her under pressure. Find out what she does when she’s tired and frustrated.”

“That sounds suspiciously like practice.”

“For her,” Oliver said. “You’re on holiday.”

Harry smiled, closing his hand around the Snitch.

“And if she’s good?”

Oliver glanced toward the rest of the Puddlemere players circling leisurely beneath the morning sun. “Then make sure she understands that being good is only where it starts.”

Harry turned the Snitch once between his fingers, watching its wings flutter uselessly against his palm. “What comes after that?”

The question quieted them more effectively than any whistle might have done. Pucey was the first to answer. He tucked the Quaffle beneath one arm and drifted lower until his boots nearly brushed the grass. “Consistency,” he said. “Every school has someone who can be brilliant for ten minutes. Scouts want to know what you look like during the other fifty.”

“Especially when nothing’s going in for you,” Charlotte added. “A Chaser might go half a match without touching the Quaffle. Doesn’t mean she gets to stop moving.”

Conner pointed his bat toward her. “That was directed at Chandler.”

“It was directed at every Chaser who thinks passing the Quaffle makes them temporarily unemployed,” Charlotte countered.

Garrett, circling behind them, raised two fingers in a gesture Charlotte pretended not to notice, though she smiled anyway. Jason rested both hands across the handle of his bat. “She needs to know what sort of player she is.”

Harry looked toward him. “She’s a Chaser.”

“That’s a position. Not a role,” Jason pointed out before nodding towards Pucey. “He can score with the best of them.”

Pucey inclined his head graciously.

“He can also hold possession, slow a match down, draw two defenders and leave someone else open. Clubs don’t only ask whether you’re good. They ask what they can use you for.”

“And whether you’ll accept the answer and develop your game around it,” Pucey said.

Charlotte landed beside Harry and worked one glove loose with her teeth. “Some players arrive convinced they’re going to be the star of whichever club takes them. Then they’re offered reserve minutes, practice duty, or a year in development, and suddenly professional Quidditch isn’t the dream they imagined.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Is that what happened to you?”

“Oh yeah,” Charlotte said as she finally pulled her glove free. “This is my eighth season, but I've only been a starter for three of those. I was a reserve for two, and my first two I spent every day wondering if I was going to get cut in a developmental league on the continent.”

Cho pulled up beside Harry. “I spent most of my combine trying to prove I could catch a Snitch faster than everyone else.”

“That seems reasonable for a Seeker,” Harry said with a nod of his head.

“It seemed reasonable to me too. The scouts were more interested in what I did during the twenty minutes when there wasn’t one.”

She glanced toward Oliver. “Wood told me afterward that I stopped flying whenever I wasn’t chasing something.”

Oliver shrugged. “You did, but I was trying to show you what you still needed to fix before you were ready for the league. Had Harry not been available in the draft, I would've suggested Coach take a chance on you in the second. You were right there on the cusp, and with the right guidance you would've been good.”

“You could have phrased it more kindly,” Cho grumbled.

“You remembered it,” Oliver pointed out.

Cho rolled her eyes but did not disagree.

Harry looked from one face to the next. Until that morning, he had thought of the combine mostly as a collection of trials: speed, handling, endurance, reaction time. That's how he had approached it. Those were the things people discussed in newspapers and the things younger players practiced because they could be measured.

The Puddlemere players spoke about everything beyond the measurable drills. What happened after a missed pass. Whether a player listened when corrected. Whether they understood their place in a formation. How they behaved when tired, ignored, frustrated, or asked to do something that would never appear in the match report.

“Anything else?” Harry asked.

“Don’t promise her anything,” Pucey said.

The humor faded from Harry’s face.

Pucey’s tone was not unkind. That almost made the warning heavier.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You might without meaning to,” Pucey grunted out. “You’re Harry Potter. You're a starter on a team that has a real shot at being in contention to win the league and you're only a few years older than her. She’ll hear more in ‘you looked good’ than you intend to put there.”

Harry glanced down at the Snitch. He knew how easily affection could disguise itself as certainty. He wanted her to succeed. She had been part of the team that won it all at Hogwarts. He hoped she could make it in the league. That did not mean she would.

Oliver watched him for a moment before speaking. “Be honest enough that she can use what you tell her.”

Harry looked up. “And if she isn’t ready?”

“Tell her why.”

“That might be worse.”

“It might,” Oliver said. “Doesn’t make it less useful.”

For a few seconds, the only sound was the distant clatter of the groundskeepers moving equipment beneath the eastern stands. The stadium seemed larger without a crowd inside it. Their voices rose into thousands of empty seats and disappeared. Then Conner clapped both hands around his bat.

“Well. That was unpleasantly responsible.”

“Terrible way to spend a bye week,” Jason agreed.

Charlotte collected the Quaffle from Pucey and tossed it toward Garrett.

“Ten more minutes. Losers buy lunch.”

“We’re all on the same side,” Harry pointed out.

“Not anymore.”

The Chasers scattered before anyone could clarify the teams. Jason and Conner launched after them, immediately arguing over which of them had been selected by whom. Cho kicked away from the grass and hovered beside Harry.

“Coming?”

Harry looked at the Snitch in his hand, then toward the players already rising into formation. “Apparently.”

He released it again and followed. They stayed for considerably longer than ten minutes. The relaxed passing drill became a short-sided match, which became an argument about whether Beaters should be allowed to score with the Quaffle, which became an even louder argument when Conner did so and insisted there was no rule forbidding it. Oliver eventually joined one side to restore order and instead made everything worse by taking the match seriously enough to begin calling formations.

By the time they landed, Harry’s hair was damp with sweat and the pale morning sun had climbed high above the stadium. It had not felt like practice. There had been no coaches, no measured drills, and no punishment for mistakes. They had flown because none of them had been ready to leave. One by one, however, the others began drifting toward the changing rooms.

Pucey went first, still debating Garrett over whether his last goal should have counted. Cho followed with Charlotte, discussing the possibility of meeting for lunch. Jason and Conner remained behind just long enough to retrieve a bat they had somehow managed to lodge inside one of the goal hoops.

Harry crouched near the equipment chest, returning the practice Snitch to its padded compartment.

Oliver’s voice came from behind him. “You’re taking this seriously.”

Harry closed the lid. “Demelza asked for help.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Harry straightened. Oliver stood several feet away with his broom resting against one shoulder. His hair was flattened with sweat, and there was a streak of grass along one sleeve where he had taken a low pass badly and refused to admit it.

“What do you mean?”

Oliver glanced toward the tunnel where the others had disappeared. “A few months ago, you were the one asking all the questions.”

Harry looked back at the equipment chest. “I still ask questions.”

“You do. Better ones now.” There was no teasing in Oliver’s face. That made Harry more uncomfortable than the banner across his locker had.

“I’m only passing along what everyone said.”

“That’s usually how it starts.”

Harry frowned. “How what starts?”

Oliver’s mouth curved faintly. “Getting old.”

Harry snorted. “You’re twenty-three.”

“And already responsible for you. Imagine the strain.”

“You encouraged the banner this morning,” Harry accused.

“I said responsible, not competent,” Oliver countered dismissively.

Harry reached for his broom and followed Oliver toward the tunnel. Their footsteps echoed through the empty corridor beneath the stands.

“What would you tell her?” Harry asked.

Oliver did not answer immediately. “That depends on what I saw.”

“You must have something.”

“I’d tell her the combine isn’t an examination she can revise for. Not really. She can improve her fitness and sharpen her handling, but the scouts are trying to see the player underneath everything she prepared.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It should. Most prospects arrive trying to hide every flaw they have. The good scouts spend the day looking for them.”

Harry thought of Demelza’s letter, the confidence running through it and the uncertainty she had tried to disguise. She had asked what the scouts wanted to see. Perhaps she should have been asking what they were likely to find.

They reached the changing room. Most of the paper flowers had begun wilting magically around Harry’s locker, though the silver banner still gleamed overhead. Oliver stopped beneath it. “Mr. Greengrass.”

“Don’t.”

“Lunch at noon tomorrow. Captains’ table. Don't be late.”

Harry pulled the banner down and crushed it between his hands. The charmed fabric immediately sprang straight again. Oliver grinned and disappeared toward the showers.

.o.

Harry returned to his flat shortly after three with the folded banner stuffed beneath one arm and several sheets of blank parchment tucked into the pocket of his robes.

The apartment felt unusually still after the stadium.

He left his broom beside the door, dropped the banner onto the small table in the sitting room, and stood for a moment listening to the silence. During match weeks, he rarely noticed it. There was always somewhere else he needed to be, something he needed to review, or enough exhaustion following him home that quiet felt merciful. The bye week made the empty rooms seem larger.

Harry went into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and discovered that he had very little suitable for lunch beyond half a loaf of bread and something wrapped in brown paper that might once have been cheese. He considered both, decided against testing either, and made himself a glass of firewhisky instead.

By the time the burn of the first sip took hold, he had spread the parchment across the table. Before he could begin, however, he noticed a graceful tawny owl appear on his balcony clutching a letter stamped with a green seal. Frowning, Harry opened the door to the outside and greeted the owl. “Hey, girl, you have a letter for me?”

The owl hooted impatiently, and Harry chuckled, taking the letter in one hand, his glass of whisky in the other. The Greengrass family seal was on the letter, and Harry knew immediately who had written to him.

Harry,

My father has now purchased more copies of the Puddlemere Press than any individual could reasonably require. He insists it is good publicity for the village. Astoria has preserved one photograph in a frame and claims it will become valuable after our wedding.

I enjoyed Saturday. I suspect we both knew, however, that a pleasant evening did not need to become the beginning of something larger simply because several strangers photographed it.

I would still be glad to see you when our paths cross in Puddlemere. Don’t be a stranger, and feel free to write back; it’ll make a girl feel important.

Good luck at Hogwarts.

Daphne

Harry sighed as he took a long swig of his drink, going back inside and returning to his notes, but only after he refilled his cup. At first, he wrote only names.

Oliver — Adapting under criticism.

Pucey — consistency

Charlotte — movement without the Quaffle

Jason — know your role

Cho — what you do when there is nothing to chase

He stared at Conner’s name for several seconds before writing:

Conner —

Harry crossed it out immediately, remembering a story about Conner nearly vomiting on his scout for Tutshill. Beneath it, he added:

Do not hide weaknesses.

That looked better. He carried his whisky to the table and sat. The first page filled faster than he expected. Once he began, fragments of the morning returned in no particular order, mixed with advice Harry had heard during his own first months at Puddlemere.

Recovery after mistakes.

Listening when corrected.

Fitness after the first hour, not the first ten minutes.

Can a club trust you to do something boring?

What happens if nobody drafts you?

His quill stopped. Harry looked at the final question. He could imagine telling Demelza how to prepare. He could tell her to train, listen, recover, and make herself useful. He could repeat everything the veterans had offered and pretend wisdom became his merely because he had written it down. He was less certain what he could tell her about failure.

Harry had failed at plenty of things. He had lost matches, missed Snitches, disappointed people, and survived mistakes that should have cost him far more than points on a scoreboard. But he had never entered a room and wondered whether anyone would remember his name afterward.

He dipped the quill into the ink again and wrote a new heading across the top of the next sheet.

MY COMBINE