A Star Is Born Chapter 33 (Patreon)

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Chapter 33

Harry woke slowly, warm in a way that had very little to do with the late summer sun creeping through the curtains.

For several seconds he stayed exactly where he was, eyes closed, one arm trapped beneath a pillow and the other resting across bare skin that definitely had not been there when he went to sleep the morning before. Gabrielle was tucked against his side, her back pressed to his chest, one leg tangled loosely with his beneath the sheets. Her breathing was slow and even.

Harry smiled before he could stop himself. His head felt pleasantly heavy rather than painful. There had been drinks, certainly more than Ron would have called sensible, but apparently not enough to leave him regretting every decision he had ever made. That was fortunate, because he remembered enough of the previous night to know he was rather pleased with several of those decisions.

Gabrielle shifted. Harry's hand moved with her, sliding lazily across her stomach before he caught himself.

She made a quiet sound that might have been amusement. “You are awake.”

“So are you.”

“I was not until your hands started wandering.”

Harry opened his eyes.

Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder at him, hair thoroughly ruined from sleep and one side of her face creased faintly from the pillow. It should have made her look less put together. Somehow it did the opposite.

“I wasn't wandering,” Harry defended.

Her eyebrow lifted.

Harry looked down at his hand before offering weakly, “They were exploring.”

“That is worse,” Gabrielle giggled.

“I thought it sounded better.”

“It did not.”

She turned beneath the sheets until she was facing him. Harry's eyes wandered, and Gabrielle smiled sweetly before pulling the sheet a little higher over herself.

Harry reached for it. She slapped his hand away.

“You had plenty of dessert. Perhaps we should try breakfast first.”

“I can't say you didn't live up to your promise. I suppose the least I can do is make you breakfast now.”

Both of them laughed, and whatever tiny amount of awkwardness Harry had been waiting for simply failed to arrive. That was new. Usually there was a moment. Not necessarily an unpleasant one, but a moment all the same. A quiet recalculation when morning arrived and the previous night became something that had happened rather than something still happening. Someone would find articles of clothing thrown haphazardly across his flat. Harry would offer breakfast; maybe they would accept to be polite, before going on with their lives.

Gabrielle showed no inclination whatsoever to leave.

Instead she stretched, completely unbothered by Harry watching her, then settled onto her back with one arm behind her head.

“I am starving,” Gabrielle admitted.

“I can't say French cuisine is in my skill set, but I can feed you or show you where you can find the stuff to make whatever you want.” 

Gabrielle gave him a very fake appalled look. “You would deny me your cooking just to dodge my home country’s superior food?”

“You know where the kitchen is,” Harry pointed out.

Gabrielle turned her head. “I am a guest.”

“You weren't acting very guest-like last night.”

Her smile sharpened. “No?”

Harry immediately regretted giving her the opening.

“No,” he said, attempting dignity.

Gabrielle rolled toward him again.

“Perhaps you should remind me.”

Harry kissed her before she could become any more pleased with herself. It was supposed to be brief. It wasn't.

By the time Harry finally pulled away, Gabrielle was smiling against his mouth and the sheet had become even less useful than before.

“I thought you were starving,” he murmured.

“I can have two interests.”

Harry laughed and dropped his forehead against hers. Breakfast eventually became lunch. Neither of them seemed particularly bothered by this.

Harry found something resembling food in the kitchen, though Gabrielle was openly horrified by the state of his cupboards and informed him that being a professional athlete did not excuse surviving on toast and whatever Oliver had bullied him into buying that week to stay healthy.

“I eat at the practice facility most days.”

“This is hardly a defence.”

“It works.”

Gabrielle leaned against the counter, now wearing one of his shirts with the sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, and nothing underneath. His eyes wandered again, but Gabrielle caught him, smirked, and then said, “You are burning eggs.” 

Harry looked quickly back at the stove. “Bloody hell.”

Gabrielle dissolved into laughter.

He managed to rescue enough of lunch that neither of them died, and they ate at the small table near the window, Gabrielle sitting sideways in her chair with one bare foot tucked beneath her.

The conversation wandered easily. The match. Conner's increasingly ridiculous stories from the night before. Whether Pucey had actually tried to argue with a bouncer or merely looked as though he was going to.

Ginny's insistence that Gabrielle had terrible taste in men. “She said that to you?”

“She said your ego required supervision.”

Harry snorted. “That sounds more like her.”

“She also said I should make you buy dessert.”

“I did buy dessert.”

Gabrielle took another bite. “And now you are making eggs.”

“I've had a very expensive twenty-four hours.”

“You are surviving.”

Harry looked around the kitchen. He should probably have felt strange about the whole thing. Instead, he felt absurdly comfortable. That was what kept catching him.

Gabrielle had been fun the night before. He had expected that much. What he had not expected was that she would be just as easy to have around when there was no music, no crowd, and nobody shoving another drink into his hand.

She didn't seem to need entertaining. She didn't fill every silence. She simply stayed. Harry found he liked that.

Gabrielle finished eating and glanced toward the clock. “I should go soon.”

There it was. Harry's stomach dipped unexpectedly. Not dramatically. Not heartbreak. Nothing ridiculous. Just disappointment. He leaned back in his chair. “Why?”

Gabrielle looked at him as though the answer were obvious. “Because I cannot spend all day in your shirt.”

Harry glanced at her. “I don't see the problem.”

“That is because you are a man.”

“Probably.”

“I have dinner with Fleur tomorrow, I need to collect several things, and unless you plan for me to arrive somewhere tonight looking like this—”

Harry paused. “Tonight?”

Gabrielle narrowed her eyes slightly. “Yes? I did promise to buy you dinner.”

Harry smiled and nearly decided that lunch was over, and it was time to resume their dessert on the table. Instead, he just offered her a smile. “If you're buying dinner, I can buy you something to wear. Then there is no hurry.”

Her expression changed just enough for Harry to notice. Not surprise exactly. Interest.

“I can buy my own dresses, Harry,” Gabrielle pointed out.

“That sounds like a lot less fun,” Harry countered before looking at the shirt again. “I still think—”

“Harry.”

He grinned. “Fine. Normal clothes. Seems like a quick trip to Puddlemere can fix this.”

She reached for her glass, studying him before clarifying, “You want to buy me a dress?” 

“You said you need one,” Harry said with a smile.

For once, Gabrielle didn't immediately answer. Her eyes narrowed again, though there was unmistakable amusement behind it. “You are very pleased with yourself.”

“Definitely.”

“Harry, I am not letting you spend some ridiculous amount of money because I stayed for lunch.”

“It's not because you stayed for lunch.”

“That sounds worse.”

Harry laughed. “I'm asking you to stay.”

That quieted her. Only for a moment.

Gabrielle's expression softened, though she covered it quickly by reaching for the last piece of toast. “And if the dress is expensive?”

Harry shrugged. “I've been paid to chase a tiny golden ball around a stadium since January.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“I spend most of my money on alcohol and food; I think I can afford you an outfit. If it makes you feel better, you can pick something out for me as well. I could probably use some clothes that are picked by someone who knows what they are doing,” Harry offered.

Gabrielle’s eyes widened at the offer before uncertainty crossed her features again.

Harry tried to reassure her: “I have money. It'll be fun.”

“Yes, I had gathered you had money from your flat.”

Harry glanced around. “This place isn't that impressive.”

“No,” Gabrielle said dryly. “But the location is, and the fact that you do not know that it is expensive is.”

Harry considered that. Fair enough.

Gabrielle stood and carried her plate toward the sink. “I choose the dress, and I insist on helping you pick out things that will look good on you as well, as a form of payment.”

“Excellent,” Harry agreed.

“You do not complain about how long it takes,” Gabrielle said sternly.

“I reserve the right to complain quietly.”

“No.”

Harry sighed. “Fine.”

Gabrielle nodded with a satisfied smile before reaching for her wand on the table and turning his long shirt into a short dress. Harry's mouth dried a little as he admired her, but she did not allow it to last; instead, she began walking towards the door. “No time to waste, then!”

Two hours later, Harry discovered that buying a dress was considerably more complicated than he had imagined. When they traveled to Puddlemere and began going through shops, the recognition was obvious. Gabrielle was very humble and polite to every shopkeeper, and Harry just watched as she discussed outfits with each clerk. She did not ask for his opinions, but made sure they purchased at least one outfit from the first two stores, even if she clearly wasn't in love with the quality or material.

Harry appreciated that. He had done well supporting Puddlemere businesses so far. He would rather have bought something he didn't love and kept up his good image in the community. He also loved that he didn't need to tell Gabrielle that; she just naturally understood.

After three stores and five outfits, Gabrielle looked quite satisfied. She had only made Harry try on clothes at the last location, where she seemed to genuinely love the selection. The last outfit he tried on he actually wore out because she insisted he wear it to dinner that night. 

The store Gabrielle liked was a very nice boutique with a kind young woman running the business. According to Gabrielle, she was quite talented, and Gabrielle even tried on several dresses.

Harry did not know dresses came in varieties beyond long and short, but he kept this observation to himself. He was placed in a chair outside a changing room and instructed to be useful. Harry lasted perhaps seven minutes before asking what useful meant.

“Tell me which one you like,” Gabrielle demanded.

“That sounds dangerous,” Harry joked.

“It is not difficult.”

“It feels difficult.”

Gabrielle disappeared behind the curtain. Harry sat back. By the time Gabrielle stepped out, Harry had almost forgotten why they were there. Then he looked up.

“Oh.”

Gabrielle stopped. The dress was simple compared to some of the things hanging around the shop, dark and fitted without looking overly formal, leaving her shoulders bare. She turned once in front of the mirror and then looked at Harry through the reflection.

“Oh?”

Harry cleared his throat. “That one.”

Gabrielle smiled. “You did not even see the others.”

“Don't need to.”

“That was very quick.”

“I'm decisive.”

“You are staring.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “You are quite beautiful.”

Gabrielle laughed softly, coming close to plant a kiss on his lips before turning back toward the mirror.

Harry watched her for another moment. Dinner had sounded like a good idea at lunch. Now it sounded considerably better. Dinner turned out to be considerably less private than Harry had expected. Gabrielle wore the dress. That alone made the shopping trip feel like money well spent.

They chose a restaurant in Puddlemere that had been recommended to Harry by Daphne on their last date. It was busy enough that he hoped they might disappear into the crowd. For most of the evening, they nearly did. A few people stared when they entered, one witch whispered rather loudly to her husband, and Harry signed two autographs on his way back from the loo, but otherwise they were left alone.

Gabrielle seemed entirely unbothered by any of it. If anything, she enjoyed watching Harry pretend not to notice. They ate slowly, shared a bottle of wine, and stayed longer than Harry intended. Gabrielle looked completely at ease beneath the low lights of the restaurant, laughing across the table at something Harry said while he wondered briefly how a night he had not planned twenty-four hours ago had become one he was reluctant to end.

The photographer caught them when they left. Harry noticed the flash before he saw the wizard standing across the street. His instinctive smile vanished.

Gabrielle merely glanced toward the camera, then back at Harry, before shrugging. Her hand slipped into his, and she waved to the photographer. Harry looked down at her hand; then another flash went off. This time, he laughed.

By Monday morning, the photograph was everywhere.

Harry Potter, grinning as he left a restaurant with Gabrielle Delacour beside him in a dark dress, their hands linked between them.

The Puddlemere Press wanted to know who she was. The team already knew, and by the time Harry stepped onto the training pitch that morning to a chorus of whistles from his teammates, he was beginning to understand that the quiet part of his weekend was very much over.

The whistles only got louder when Harry ignored them. Pucey was the first to reach him, falling into step beside Harry as they crossed toward the equipment shed with an expression of exaggerated approval.

“Two nights.”

Harry glanced at him. “What?”

“Two nights,” Pucey repeated. “Same witch.”

Charlotte made a thoughtful sound from Harry’s other side. “Could be serious.”

“Could be dessert,” Harry joked.

That earned him a shove from Pucey and a laugh from Charlotte. Oliver, already halfway onto the pitch, looked back at them. “If Potter’s finished discussing his love life, Robertson would like his Seeker sometime before lunch.”

“I wasn't discussing anything,” Harry defended.

“That’s because you’re terrible company,” Pucey called.

Harry raised two fingers at him and kicked off. After that, nobody had much to say. Robertson put him and Cho through nearly two hours of increasingly difficult drills, beginning with short-range releases before moving into concealed launches and finally a series Harry privately suspected had been designed purely to irritate him. The Snitch disappeared into the low cloud above the western stands three times.

Harry caught it three times. The fourth release came while Robertson was still talking. Harry saw the flash of gold over the coach’s shoulder, leaned sideways off his broom, accelerated hard enough to make Robertson swear, and closed his fingers around it before it made the halfway line. He tossed it back.

Robertson caught it against his chest. “Again.”

Harry grinned.

Tuesday was even better. The Chasers ran full formations against him and Cho for most of the morning, forcing both Seekers to work through traffic while Bludgers cut across their lines. Harry lost the Snitch once when Chandler nearly took his head off with a sharp crossing run. On the second attempt, Harry used Chandler instead, diving beneath his broom and letting the Chaser’s momentum block Cho long enough for Harry to reach the Snitch first.

On the third, he beat her cleanly. On the fourth, he caught it behind his back. That one earned an actual cheer.

“Arsehole,” Cho said as Harry opened his hand.

The Snitch fluttered between his fingers. “You almost had it.”

“I was twenty feet behind,” Cho deadpanned.

“Exactly. Almost.”

She kicked his broom as she passed him. Harry laughed.

By Wednesday, even Oliver had stopped pretending not to be impressed. Harry moved through the week with the peculiar certainty that seemed to come only when everything was working at once. The broom responded before he thought about turning. The Snitch seemed slower. Plays that had taken conscious effort in July now happened almost instinctively, Harry reading the shape of the pitch while it formed rather than after it had already happened.

Deverell began folding him into more of the tactical sessions with the Chasers. Robertson shortened several of his individual drills because Harry had already completed them. Even the conditioning work seemed easier.

Harry went home each evening tired enough to know he had worked and nowhere near tired enough to want the day to end. Gabrielle usually made sure it didn't.

Not every night became the Puddle Jumper. Harry had practice in the mornings and Gabrielle, despite revealing remarkably little about what she was doing in Britain, seemed to have places she needed to be during the day herself. But she appeared again Tuesday evening, and by Wednesday Harry had stopped thinking it unusual when an owl arrived shortly after practice carrying a note in handwriting he already recognized.

Dinner. A drink afterward. Once, a walk through Puddlemere that took almost an hour longer than either of them intended because Gabrielle discovered she could make Harry stop every few minutes merely by claiming she had seen another photographer.

There usually wasn't one.

By Thursday afternoon, Harry caught Robertson's final Snitch in less than eleven minutes. He landed to find Pucey sitting on the grass beside Charlotte, both of them watching him.

“What?”

Pucey shook his head. “I hate happy people.”

Harry pulled off his gloves. “You seemed pretty happy Saturday.”

“I was drunk.”

“So was I.”

“Yes, but apparently it improved you.”

Charlotte laughed.

Oliver walked past carrying his broom. “Whatever you’re doing, Potter, keep doing it.”

Harry looked after him.

Pucey pointed. “There. Captain’s orders.”

“Pretty sure that isn't what he meant.”

“Interpretation is an important part of leadership.”

Harry threw his glove at him.

By seven that evening, he had showered, changed, and discovered Gabrielle had somehow acquired another dress. Harry stopped at the bottom of the stairs when he saw her. She was standing near the front window, adjusting an earring in the reflection of the glass. The dress was a deep blue, simpler than the one Harry had bought her but somehow more striking, fitted neatly through her waist before falling loosely toward her knees. Her hair was down again, pale blonde against the darker fabric, and when she turned at the sound of him coming downstairs, Harry forgot for a second what he had been about to say.

Gabrielle noticed. “What?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing.”

Her smile appeared slowly. “That was not nothing.”

“You look nice.”

“Nice?”

Harry immediately recognized the mistake. “Incredible.”

“Better.” She crossed the room and kissed him once.

Harry watched her turn toward the door. “Where did that dress come from?”

“I own clothes, Harry.”

“I was beginning to wonder.”

Gabrielle laughed and pulled him outside. They chose somewhere quieter that night in Diagon Alley for a change, a small restaurant set back from the main road where the tables were spread beneath floating candles and enough greenery to make the room feel almost private. Nobody approached them after they sat down. Harry noticed several looks, but for once nobody seemed particularly interested in interrupting.

It was exactly what he wanted.

They talked through dinner without ever seeming to settle on one subject for very long. Gabrielle told him about France. Harry told her about the increasingly absurd training exercises Robertson had invented whenever Harry performed too well on the previous one. She accused him of bragging. Harry pointed out that she had asked. She accused him of bragging anyway.

By dessert, Harry realized he could not remember the last time he had spent this much of a week with one person outside Quidditch and still wanted another evening.

That thought should probably have concerned him. Instead, he found himself watching Gabrielle across the table while she talked with one hand wrapped loosely around her wineglass. She was stunning.

Harry had known that from the moment he saw her again. Anyone with functioning eyes knew that. But it was becoming strangely less important. He liked the way she laughed before she finished her own jokes. He liked that she could spend an entire evening surrounded by people staring at them and genuinely not care. He liked that she argued with him over stupid things and then forgot the argument three minutes later. He liked that she seemed equally happy at the Puddle Jumper surrounded by his teammates or sitting across from him somewhere quiet like this.

Mostly, Harry liked how easy everything had become. Quidditch was brilliant. Gabrielle was brilliant. His team was winning. For once, Harry wasn't waiting for the next disaster.

Gabrielle caught him staring. “You are doing it again.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Staring at me.”

“You are very distracting,” Harry complimented easily.

“There are other places you could look.”

Harry considered the room. “None as interesting.”

Gabrielle's mouth curved around the edge of her glass. “That was very smooth.”

“I've had practice.”

“With me?”

Harry smiled. “Recently.”

She kicked him gently beneath the table. Harry laughed and leaned back in his chair. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The restaurant murmured around them, quiet enough that Harry could hear the faint clink of glasses from the next table.

Then something occurred to him. “What do you actually want to do now that you're done with school?”

Gabrielle frowned. “That is a very large question.”

“You asked me about Quidditch.”

“Yes.”

“And you already know that's basically everything I've wanted since I was eleven.”

Gabrielle lowered her glass. “So you want to know my great ambition?”

“Yeah.” Harry paused. “I don't actually even know what you're doing back in Britain.”

Gabrielle traced one finger absently along the stem of her glass. For the first time all evening, she seemed to consider her answer before giving it. “I came because I was offered work.”

Harry leaned forward slightly. “What kind of work?”

Gabrielle looked at him. Then she smiled. “Modeling.”

Harry blinked once. “Modeling?”

Gabrielle nodded, watching him carefully now. “There is an agency in London. They saw some photographs from Beauxbatons’ last spring fashion show and contacted Fleur first since she's here in Britain. She thought I should come and meet them.”

“I think you'd be brilliant at it,” Harry offered confidently.

“You do?” Gabrielle asked, sounding surprised by his confidence.

“Obviously.”

Gabrielle looked down at her glass, smiling despite herself.

Harry shrugged. “You're beautiful, you are amazing with people, and you don't mind having them look at you.”

“I do not like people looking at me.”

Harry stared at her.

Gabrielle lasted perhaps two seconds before laughing. “Fine. I enjoy it.”

“So you don't get nervous around cameras. You’re not shy. It's perfect for you.”

She shook her head, still smiling, while explaining some of the details of the offer. The opportunity was apparently better than Harry had realized. Test photographs had gone well, and she was even able to keep the clothes she modeled in, which explained her new dress. There were even meetings planned through the next week, and if everything continued the way the agency expected, Gabrielle might be spending considerably more time in Britain than originally planned.

Harry found himself liking that idea more than he probably should have. “So that’s why you came back.”

“That was why.”

Harry caught the distinction. “Was?”

Gabrielle leaned back in her chair, considering him over the rim of her wineglass. “I expected Britain to be mostly work. A means to an end.”

“And now?”

“Now I am having a lot more fun than I expected,” Gabrielle said gently. “Maybe, like my sister, I am seeing more positives to hanging around your little island a while longer.”

Harry smiled. “That would be really…brilliant!”

Gabrielle laughed at his enthusiasm before her eyes dropped briefly toward his mouth. “We should go.”

Harry glanced toward the unfinished wine. “We haven't finished—”

“Harry.”

Something in her tone made him stop. Gabrielle stood and reached for her bag. “We should get back before I decide I truly want to make tomorrow's headlines.”

Harry stared at her for half a second. Then he nearly knocked his chair over while standing up. Gabrielle laughed all the way to the door.

Friday returned him, briefly, to something resembling normal. Harry went to Ron and Hermione’s as he had every week, studied his matchup against the Cannons, and endured Hermione asking approximately three minutes into dinner whether Gabrielle Delacour was now living at his house.

“She is not living there.”

Ron looked up from his plate. “How many nights?”

Harry pointed his fork at him. “Shut up, Ron.”

The man laughed while Hermione sighed, but she kept an amused smile on her face. Harry told them about the modeling offer, though perhaps with slightly more casualness than he actually felt about it. Hermione seemed genuinely pleased for Gabrielle and immediately began asking questions Harry had no answers to. Ron was mostly interested in whether dating a model meant Harry would finally learn how to dress himself.

Harry gave his friend two fingers before ending their night with the promise he was going to bed alone to make sure he had enough sleep for the afternoon game tomorrow in Chudley.

By Saturday morning, his attention had returned entirely to Quidditch. There was a match to win.

.o.

“Puddlemere’s offense and defense have controlled this match from the opening whistle, but once again the story is Harry Potter!”

Harry barely heard the announcer over the roar of the Chudley crowd, but still he basked in the moment. He was flying with poise and focus he rarely experienced, and his efforts to disrupt Chudley’s offense were taking their toll.

One hour into the match, the Chasers had already accumulated a 120-point lead, and soon his ability to catch the Snitch would be meaningless.

Harry dropped suddenly toward the Cannons’ goal posts, his eyes locking onto something beneath the lowest hoop as he flattened himself over his broom. The reaction behind him was immediate.

Mercer, the Cannons’ starting Seeker, followed.

“Potter dives again! Has he seen it?”

Harry heard the crowd rise as he accelerated. Fifty feet. Forty. Mercer was closing now, abandoning everything else on the pitch to stay attached to Harry’s shoulder. Thirty. Harry waited. Twenty.

Then he pulled sharply upward. Mercer swore behind him. Harry shot between the Cannons’ hoops, twisted around the center ring and came out laughing while Mercer barely avoided smashing headfirst into the wooden frame.

The crowd groaned. “Another feint from Potter! Mercer nearly bought that one completely!”

Harry looked back. Mercer glared at him. Harry grinned. It was the second time he had done it. The first had dragged Mercer nearly the entire length of the pitch before Harry casually sat upright and began searching again. That one had earned him several obscene gestures from the Cannons supporters beneath him.

This one had come considerably closer. Mercer wasn't smiling anymore. Neither was his coach.

Harry climbed back above the Chasers while the match continued beneath him. Charlotte added another goal less than a minute later before Oliver deflected Chudley’s response with ease.

Harry barely watched. He could feel Mercer shadowing him now. Every movement. Every turn of Harry's head. Exactly what Harry wanted. So when Harry suddenly snapped his gaze toward the eastern stands and accelerated for a third time, Mercer didn't hesitate.

Harry dove. Mercer came after him. This time Harry let him get closer. Ten yards. Five.

Harry rolled left beneath a Bludger, Mercer matching him almost perfectly. Then Harry saw Chandler cutting across their path. He changed direction at the last possible second. Mercer tried to follow. He didn't make it.

The Cannons Seeker clipped Chandler’s broom, spun sideways, lost his grip and crashed shoulder-first into the pitch below.

The whistle shrieked. Harry immediately pulled up and looked back. Mercer was already moving, but slowly, one arm tucked tightly against his body while the Chudley mediwizards sprinted onto the field.

Harry winced. He hadn't intended that. Chandler hovered nearby, looking almost apologetic despite having done nothing except fly his route.

The announcer filled the pause. “Mercer went all-in trying to stay with Potter there, and it has cost him! The Cannons’ medical staff are calling for a substitution!”

The Chudley supporters booed loudly.

Harry wasn't entirely sure whether they were booing him, Chandler, the referee, or their own luck. Probably all four. A few minutes later, Mercer was helped from the pitch and Chudley’s reserve Seeker kicked off from the sideline.

The young wizard barely reached Harry’s altitude before Harry saw gold. Low beneath the western hoops. Real this time. Harry moved instantly.

The Snitch flashed once between two orange-clad Chasers before disappearing toward the far corner of the pitch. Harry dropped into a dive, flattening himself over his broom as the wind tore at his robes.

Behind him, the replacement Seeker reacted late. Much too late. Harry glanced back once.

He grinned before cutting sharply beneath a Bludger and threading between Chandler and one of the Cannons Chasers without losing speed. The Snitch appeared again ahead of him, darting upward toward the stands.

Harry followed. The crowd rose as one as the announcer called it, “Hensley is nowhere near him!”

Harry climbed hard, the broom surging beneath him, and for one brief second the Snitch hung almost perfectly against the grey afternoon sky. He reached and had gold closed inside his fist in a flash.

The whistle sounded almost immediately. “POTTER HAS IT!”

Harry pulled out of the climb and threw one arm into the air. Blue erupted in the corner of the stadium where the traveling Puddlemere supporters had been packed together, their cheers cutting straight through the stunned silence around them.

The scoreboard settled at Puddlemere United 320 — Chudley Cannons 40.

Harry circled once before descending, still holding the Snitch tightly in his hand.

Hensley landed several seconds after him and simply stared. “You've got to be joking.”

Harry laughed. On the ground, Pucey met him first and nearly knocked him sideways with the force of the embrace. “Show-off.”

“You'd complain if I made it close.”

Charlotte arrived next, followed by Chandler and Oliver, the rest of the team spilling around him while the announcer continued talking somewhere above them.

“Another dominant performance from Harry Potter, and another emphatic win for Puddlemere United! Chudley threw two Seekers at him today and neither had an answer. Whatever this young man has found over the last few weeks, the rest of the league had better find an answer quickly.”

Harry looked up toward the Puddlemere section.

Gabrielle was already on her feet. Even from the pitch, he could see her applauding. Harry smiled. Another win. Another catch. And tonight, there would be another celebration he wouldn't want to forget.

The celebration began before Puddlemere ever left Chudley. Someone had produced a bottle in the changing room before Harry finished showering, and by the time Deverell finished reminding them that beating the Cannons did not excuse them from practice Monday, half the team was already singing the Puddlemere fight song. After all, they were now in second place just behind the Magpies.

The real party began when they returned to Puddlemere. The Puddle Jumper was packed. Harry heard the place before the Floo flames had completely released him, a wall of music and shouting crashing over the team as they stepped into the pub. Navy-colored robes filled nearly every available space. Someone saw Oliver first and started cheering. Then Pucey emerged behind him.

When Harry stepped through, the room erupted. “POTTER!”

Harry laughed as hands immediately reached for him. Someone slapped his shoulder. Another supporter grabbed his hand. A witch Harry had never met kissed his cheek before disappearing back into the crowd. Somewhere near the bar, a chant started and spread quickly enough that Harry couldn't make out anything except his surname.

Pucey appeared beside him with two glasses. “Drink.”

Harry accepted one. “Whose is it?”

“Yours.”

“Who bought it?”

Pucey looked genuinely confused by the question. “No idea.”

Harry laughed and took a drink. Getting from the fireplace to their usual section near the back took nearly ten minutes. The entire team was stopped repeatedly, though Harry received the worst of it. Cannons supporters might have hated him thirty minutes ago, but Puddlemere had apparently traveled home convinced they had just witnessed the beginning of something special. Harry wasn't particularly inclined to disagree.

By the time he reached the table, Gabrielle was already there. She rose when she saw him, smiling broadly, and Harry barely managed to put his glass down before she wrapped both arms around his neck and kissed him.

The reaction from the table was immediate. Pucey began pounding one hand against the wood. Charlotte whistled. Harry ignored all of them.

Gabrielle pulled back eventually, laughing. “You were showing off.”

Harry grinned. “Apparently.”

“You nearly killed the other Seeker.”

“I did not nearly kill him.”

“He hit the ground very hard.”

“That part wasn't planned.”

Gabrielle's eyes sparkled. “Of course not.”

Harry kissed her again simply because he could. When he finally sat down, another drink was waiting in front of him.

Harry looked at it. Then at Pucey.

Pucey raised both hands. “That one wasn't me.”

Harry shrugged and drank it anyway. The night blurred pleasantly from there. Chandler told the Mercer story first. According to Chandler, Harry had intentionally led Mercer directly into him.

Pucey corrected this fifteen minutes later by explaining to an increasingly captivated group of supporters that Harry had spent the entire match psychologically dismantling the Cannons Seeker before finally arranging his destruction.

“I arranged nothing,” Harry protested.

“You looked right at me,” Chandler said.

“I was trying not to hit you.”

“Exactly what a guilty man would say.”

Charlotte nearly spilled her drink laughing. The third version of the story involved Harry somehow signaling Chandler with his eyebrows from fifty yards away.

Harry stopped correcting them. Somewhere between the second and third retelling, his glass became full again. He wasn't sure who had done it. Harry drank.

Gabrielle moved through the evening as easily as she had every other part of his life that week. She talked with Charlotte until both of them were laughing at something Harry suspected was about him, listened to one of Conner's increasingly improbable childhood stories, and somehow managed to convince Oliver to dance for approximately thirty seconds before the Puddlemere captain realized what was happening and escaped.

Harry watched all of it with a stupid smile he made no effort to hide. At one point, a young witch approached their table. Harry instinctively started reaching for the quill that had somehow found its way into his pocket.

The witch walked straight past him. “Gabrielle?”

Gabrielle looked surprised. The witch gestured toward her dress and began talking excitedly about photographs Harry hadn't seen, something about the agency and a fashion spread expected later that month.

Harry leaned back in his chair. Gabrielle glanced at him. Harry grinned. She posed for the photograph. When the witch finally hurried away, Gabrielle returned to the table looking considerably more pleased with herself than she was attempting to appear.

Harry lifted his glass. “You’re becoming famous.”

“Be quiet.”

“She didn't even want my autograph.”

“This must be difficult for you.”

“Devastating.”

Gabrielle stole his drink, took a sip, and handed it back. Harry laughed. He couldn't remember ever having this much fun for this many consecutive days. Usually something intruded. A bad match. A headline. A nightmare. Some obligation he'd forgotten. Someone wanting Harry Potter instead of Harry.

Tonight even the people wanting Harry Potter didn't bother him. Why should they? He had played brilliantly. His team had won. His friends were around him. Gabrielle was sitting beside him wearing that ridiculously hot blue dress, occasionally resting one hand on his leg while she talked.

Everything was exactly where Harry wanted it. Music changed somewhere near the front of the pub.

Gabrielle's head immediately turned.

Harry recognized the expression. “No.”

She stood. “Yes.”

“I've already flown for an hour.”

“You sat on a broom.”

“At very high speeds.”

Gabrielle held out her hand. Harry looked at it, then down at the fresh drink someone had placed in front of him sometime during the conversation. He still had no idea who kept buying them.

“Harry.”

He looked back at Gabrielle. She raised an eyebrow. Harry picked up the glass, swallowed enough of it to make Pucey cheer from across the table, and put it back down. Then he took her hand. Gabrielle pulled him into the crowd.

The music swallowed them almost immediately. Puddlemere supporters moved around them, Charlotte appeared somewhere to Harry's left, and someone threw an arm around Pucey's shoulders as the Chaser shouted along with the chorus.

Gabrielle turned beneath Harry's hand and came back against him laughing. Harry laughed with her. Another camera flashed from somewhere near the bar. This time Harry didn't even look.

Gabrielle wrapped her arms around his neck. Harry pulled her closer. Tomorrow was Sunday. Practice wasn't until Monday. They had won by two hundred and eighty points.

And for once in his life, Harry Potter could not think of a single reason he needed to be anywhere else.