A Star Is Born Chapter 34 (Patreon)

A Star Is Born Chapter 34Lemon Scene

Harry had enjoyed many pleasant starts to the week since becoming a professional Quidditch player. This one had them all beat. He woke slowly, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, aware first of warmth, then movement beneath the sheets, and finally of the unmistakable realization that Gabrielle Delacour had apparently decided Monday morning deserved considerably more enthusiasm than Harry normally gave it.

His eyes opened. The bedroom was washed in pale morning sunlight, the curtains glowing softly around their edges. Gabrielle’s side of the bed was empty. Mostly. Harry glanced down at the shape moving beneath the sheets. For several long seconds he simply stared. Then his head fell back against the pillow as he groaned in pleasure.

“Good morning to you too.”

The movement beneath the blankets stopped. Gabrielle’s head appeared a moment later, pale hair thoroughly disheveled and blue eyes sparkling with absolutely no remorse whatsoever. “Bonjour, Harry.”

Harry looked at her. Gabrielle looked back.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” Harry said as she fondled his dick, never breaking eye contact.

“I am having a lovely morning,” Gabrielle said simply.

“It seems like it.”

She smiled, licking him from top to bottom while never breaking eye contact. “You were poking me rather rudely, and I thought it needed to be taken care of before practice.”

Harry glanced toward the clock. He wouldn’t be as early as he usually was, but he had plenty of time. His hand slid into her hair as she continued to work him, and he muttered, “How generous of you.”

Gabrielle offered him a wicked smile. Harry had learned very quickly that Gabrielle possessed several different smiles. There was the polite one she gave reporters. The charming one she gave strangers. The brilliant, unguarded one that occasionally appeared when something genuinely delighted her. Then there was this one. There was no teasing innocence about it. No attempt to pretend she was doing anything but enjoying having this control over him. She wanted him to stay. Better yet, she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Harry’s hand tightened in her hair as another wave of pleasure rolled through him, sharper than the last. His breathing had gone uneven without him noticing, each inhale catching somewhere in his chest before escaping in a low, helpless exhale. Gabrielle slurped around him, saliva spilling freely as she focused entirely on his pleasure. Harry lay back, feeling intoxicated as he basked in the attention she gave him. Every tightening of her fingers, every shift of her lips, just seemed to increase the sensations. She was learning from him, and he was enjoying the lesson.

The sheets were warm around him. Sunlight touched one side of his face. Gabrielle’s hair slipped between his fingers like silk every time she moved, brushing against his stomach and thighs in soft, maddening sweeps. The tension inside him kept building, gathering slowly at first and then with an insistence that made thought increasingly difficult.

“Merlin,” Harry said, gripping her head harder and guiding her as she took as much of his cock into her mouth as she could.

Gabrielle gagged, and the pleasure had stopped coming in separate waves now. It was something continuous, a slow-burning current that left every muscle in his body gradually more tense.

Gabrielle never hurried. That was what was undoing him. There was no frantic urgency to her. No sense that she was trying to reach some destination. She was enjoying his pleasure as much as he was. The gleam in her eyes told him everything.

Every time Harry thought she might finally relent, she changed something small. A pause. A shift. A different pressure. Just enough to steal another breath from him and remind him that this entire morning belonged to her.

Gabrielle stared at him, and Harry stared back, breathing hard. There was something unexpectedly intimate in it, buried beneath all the wickedness. The ease of being watched closely. The complete absence of embarrassment. The realization that Gabrielle seemed genuinely fascinated by how easily she could strip away every layer of him until there was nothing left except a man, tangled in sheets and thoroughly at her mercy.

Harry’s thumb lingered against her cheek as she offered him a wicked smile, using her tongue to pleasure him in a slow, teasing fashion. Gabrielle’s eyes never left his. Something shifted in him. He had been content to lie there and let her dismantle him piece by piece. Content to surrender the morning to her and enjoy every second of it. He wasn’t content with it anymore. He needed her.

Harry sat up. Gabrielle went still. Not uncertain. Not frightened. Interested. The wicked little curve of her mouth told him she understood exactly what she had started. Harry towered over her now, but instead of backing down, she rose up to meet him. As she leaned in to give him a kiss, Harry put a finger against her lips, stopping her. Gabrielle’s eyebrows rose, and Harry gave her a simple phrase. “My turn.”

Gently, he guided her onto her back. She offered no resistance as he began trailing kisses down her smooth body. Her back rose off the bed each time his lips found a sensitive spot around her nipples, then again as his fingers teased lower toward her thighs.

He didn’t let the mood break as he moved between her thighs and dove into her slick, wet folds. Harry wasn’t sure how long he held her trembling form, but some time later, Gabrielle was the one who finally glanced toward the clock. “Harry, the time.”

Lemon Ends

This time there was laughter in her voice. Harry looked. “Oh, shit.”

Gabrielle burst out laughing.

Harry was out of bed almost immediately, dragging on the first pair of trousers he found while trying to locate his training shirt. “Where’s my—”

Gabrielle pointed toward the floor.

Harry snatched it up. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

“Very much.”

“Helpful.”

“I told you the time.”

“Eventually.”

“You distracted me.”

Harry stopped halfway through pulling on his shirt and stared at her.

Gabrielle smiled innocently as she offered him a kiss. “You are blaming me?”

“Completely,” Harry said, accepting and returning the kiss.

She threw his pillow at him. Harry caught it, tossed it back, grabbed his bag, and disappeared downstairs.

He still made practice on time. Barely. Harry jogged out of the tunnel with his broom over one shoulder just as Robertson released the practice Snitch from its case.

Harry slowed. Robertson looked toward the large clock mounted below the press box. Then at Harry. No lecture came. Somehow that felt worse.

“Morning,” Robertson greeted.

“Morning,” Harry answered.

Robertson opened the case again. Harry mounted his broom. Across the pitch, Cho was already airborne. She smiled down at him. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, kicking off the ground to meet her in the sky and prepare for the first chase of the day.

He won the first release. It wasn't particularly close. Robertson sent the Snitch toward the northern stands, Cho spotted it first, and Harry still managed to cut across her line and snatch it before she could close her fingers. The second was harder. Cho stayed with him through a sharp climb, forcing Harry almost vertical before he rolled over her and caught the Snitch on the descent.

Harry landed smiling. Whatever amusement Robertson had gotten from his arrival appeared to disappear. “Again.”

The third release vanished almost immediately. Harry circled high while Cho dropped lower, both searching independently rather than shadowing one another. Harry saw the Snitch near the southern hoops and accelerated.

Cho moved at almost the same instant. Harry expected to beat her. He didn't. Cho came across from below, reached upward and closed her hand around the Snitch half a second before Harry arrived. Harry pulled away sharply to avoid colliding with her. Cho opened her fist. Gold fluttered against her palm.

Harry grinned. “Nice.”

Cho looked almost suspicious. “That's it?”

“What do you want?”

“I don't know. An excuse?”

“You beat me.”

Her smile widened.

“Again,” Robertson called.

Cho won the fourth. That one surprised Harry. She tracked the Snitch through a group of Chasers working formations on the opposite side of the pitch, anticipated where it would emerge and got there before Harry ever had a clean line.

Harry landed beside her. “All right. That was really good.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I've seen you fly.”

Cho shoved him. Harry laughed.

The fifth became a proper fight. Robertson released the Snitch without warning while both of them were still arguing. Harry caught the movement first and launched, Cho immediately behind him. The Snitch climbed, dropped, then disappeared between Charlotte and Chandler as the Chasers swept across midfield.

Harry went left. Cho went right. Harry realized his mistake almost immediately. He banked hard, but Cho was already there when the Snitch emerged. Her fingers closed. Three straight. Cho actually shouted this time, throwing one fist into the air. Harry slowed beside her, breathing harder than he expected.

“Three?”

“Three.”

“You've never beaten me three straight.”

“I know.”

Harry looked at the Snitch in her hand. Then at Cho. A warm, genuine satisfaction settled over him. She was getting better. Not marginally better either.

Weeks of flying against professional Chasers, working with Robertson and chasing Harry every morning were beginning to show. Cho had always been talented. Now she was learning to anticipate instead of react.

Harry knew exactly what that transition felt like. “Again.”

Cho blinked. Harry grinned. “Come on. Four's not happening.”

It nearly did. Harry caught the sixth with his fingertips after a chase that carried them halfway around the stadium, and he celebrated loudly enough that Cho called him several things he was fairly certain weren't complimentary.

The rest of practice followed much the same pattern. Harry wasn't bad. Far from it. He flew well during the tactical work, disrupted two Chaser formations cleanly and caught another Snitch before Robertson finally put it away.

He simply wasn't quite as untouchable as he had been the week before. Harry barely noticed. By the time they landed, he was far more interested in Cho. “You were reading the releases better today.”

Cho glanced at him while pulling off her gloves. “I've been working on it.”

“It shows.” The compliment stopped her for a moment.

Then she smiled. “Thanks.”

Harry slung his broom over his shoulder. Robertson was standing near the equipment case. His eyes remained on Harry for just a second longer than usual. Harry gave him a nod. Robertson returned it. Nothing was said.

Harry headed toward the changing rooms beside Cho, listening as she explained something Robertson had changed in her training over the previous week.

As Harry listened to her, he realized Cho was becoming a better Seeker, and after the weekend Harry had just had, he couldn't imagine finding much to complain about. Monday, as far as he was concerned, had gone rather well.

Tuesday morning gave Harry exactly the evidence he needed. He was awake before his alarm, alone in his bed, and standing on the pitch before Robertson arrived with the Snitch case tucked beneath one arm.

The coach looked at him. Harry smiled. “Morning.”

Robertson glanced toward the clock, muttering, “Much better.”

Harry chuckled and mounted his broom. Cho joined them several minutes later, looking entirely too pleased with herself after the previous day's performance.

“Four today,” Cho promised.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You've become ambitious.”

“I beat you three straight yesterday.”

“Yesterday was a strange day.”

Cho narrowed her eyes. “Already making excuses?”

“No.” Harry kicked off. “Just warning you.”

The warning proved justified. Harry caught the first Snitch in under two minutes. The second took longer, but only because Robertson released it behind the western stands and forced both Seekers to search nearly blind. Harry found it first and beat Cho by several broom lengths. He won the third cleanly. Then the fourth.

Cho landed after that one and stared at him. “This is irritating.”

Harry opened his hand, letting the Snitch flutter against his palm. “Yesterday was your day. Today is mine.”

“I hate you.”

“You liked me yesterday.”

“I was confused.”

Harry laughed.

By the end of practice, Monday had become exactly what Harry had assumed it was: a good day for Cho and an ordinary one for him. She still caught him twice, and both catches were excellent, but Harry controlled most of the morning with the same sharpness he had carried through the previous week. Now that Harry was rested, everything felt easy again. Harry didn't think much more about it.

That evening, Harry met Gabrielle outside Shell Cottage with flowers. He handed them to her. “Hey, beautiful.”

Gabrielle giggled into the kiss and wrapped her arms around his neck. “These are beautiful, Harry. Merci.”

She had been waiting near the garden path in another outfit Harry was beginning to suspect had come from the agency. He openly admired her, and she swatted him on the shoulder. “Careful, Monsieur, we do have to actually wait until our meal is over tonight before dessert.”

Harry followed her inside, laughing at the joke that had remained between them. Dinner with Bill and Fleur was considerably calmer than Harry expected.

Fleur had apparently decided that asking direct questions about whatever was happening between Harry and Gabrielle would only encourage Gabrielle to become explicit enough to leave them all blushing, so she mostly restricted herself to knowing looks whenever her sister touched Harry's arm or stole something from his plate.

Bill was less disciplined. “So,” he said eventually, looking between them, “will you be staying here tonight or?”

Gabrielle didn't hesitate. “Harry already promised me dessert, so non.”

Harry nearly choked on his drink. Fleur sighed. Bill shook his head but grinned regardless. The conversation moved on quickly enough. Bill talked about work at Gringotts, Fleur complained about one of her neighbors, and Gabrielle filled in more details about the modeling work than Harry had managed to get from her on Thursday. The agency had kept her busy. More photographs. More fittings. Another meeting.

Then, sometime between dinner and dessert, Gabrielle's tone changed. “There is something Friday.”

Harry looked toward her.

“A gala,” Gabrielle continued. “The agency is hosting it. Clients, photographers, several designers.”

Fleur smiled slightly from across the table.

Harry noticed. “And?” he asked.

Gabrielle turned her wineglass between her fingers. “And I think they are going to offer me something.”

Harry straightened. “A contract?”

“Maybe.”

The attempt at casualness fooled nobody. Fleur's smile widened. Gabrielle looked at Harry. “If they do, it should keep me here for most of the year.”

Harry felt the same immediate burst of enthusiasm he'd felt when she first mentioned staying in Britain. “That's brilliant.”

“It could be.”

“It will be.”

Gabrielle smiled at his certainty. Harry had no idea how modeling agencies worked, but he had seen enough of Gabrielle over the previous week to know one thing. “They'd be idiots not to.”

Fleur laughed softly. Gabrielle nudged Harry beneath the table. “I want you to come.”

Harry paused. “To the gala?”

“Yes.”

“Friday?”

Gabrielle nodded. Harry's mind went automatically to Ron and Hermione. Friday night. Dinner. Scouting. Match preparation.

Then he looked at Gabrielle. There was something different in her expression now. She wasn't teasing him or inviting him out because she wanted another night at the Puddle Jumper. She was nervous. Not greatly. Not enough that anyone who didn't know her would notice. But Harry did.

“When?”

“Seven.”

Harry nodded. “I'll be there.”

Gabrielle's smile came immediately. “You don't need to—”

“I want to.”

That stopped her.

Harry shrugged. “I'll tell Ron and Hermione. We can look at Ballycastle another time.”

Fleur looked distinctly approving. Gabrielle leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

Harry smiled. He didn't think he'd given anything up. Ron and Hermione would understand. Ballycastle wouldn't change its entire system because Harry missed one Friday dinner. He could study film Thursday or Saturday morning. And if Gabrielle was about to receive the opportunity that might define the next year of her life, Harry wanted to be standing beside her when it happened. It wasn't a difficult decision at all.

Harry did not get the good night’s sleep he probably should have. Dinner at Shell Cottage ended late enough on its own, and Gabrielle came home with him afterward with neither of them showing much interest in sleep.

By the time Harry finally fell asleep, Wednesday was already a few hours old, making his alarm at six thirty in the morning feel considerably less reasonable.

Gabrielle barely moved beside him. “Quidditch is stupid,” she murmured into the pillow.

Harry laughed tiredly and dragged himself toward the shower.

Wednesday’s practice wasn’t bad. That was becoming the dangerous thing about Harry's bad days. Even tired, he was still better than most Seekers Harry had ever flown against.

Cho took two of Robertson's early releases before Harry settled properly into the morning. After that, he won three straight and spent another hour working through formations with the Chasers. His legs felt heavier than usual, and Robertson made him repeat one dive after Harry came out of it too wide, but there was nothing Harry couldn't correct on a second attempt.

By noon, practice was finished. Harry thought that meant he was getting a rare early escape. Deverell had other plans. Puddlemere's recent run had apparently generated enough attention that three separate publications wanted time with the team before Saturday's match against the Ballycastle Bats. What Harry expected to be twenty minutes became more than an hour of photographs, questions and increasingly creative attempts to get him to discuss Gabrielle.

Harry refused. Then the club's physiwizard wanted him for his weekly assessment. Then Oliver caught him on the way out and reminded him they still needed to review Ballycastle's Beaters.

That took another hour. Harry sat beside Oliver in one of the small film rooms beneath the stands while enchanted footage replayed hit after hit across the wall. The Bats were enormous. Not universally, but enough of them.

Their Beaters in particular seemed to treat the distinction between controlling the pitch and assaulting it as mostly academic. Harry watched one drive a Bludger directly through an opposing formation before the other swept behind it and hammered the rebound back through from the opposite direction.

“They like trapping people between them,” Oliver said.

Harry nodded. He had noticed.

“Don't stare at the Snitch so long you forget them,” Oliver warned.

“I won't,” Harry promised.

By the time he finally stepped outside, the afternoon was almost gone. He should have gone home. Instead, there was a note waiting for him. Gabrielle had finished early. Harry smiled before he had even finished reading it.

They met for dinner in London. It wasn't a particularly wild night. They ate, walked for a while afterward and stopped somewhere for drinks. Harry had two. Gabrielle had one and stole enough of Harry's second that he accused her of ordering strategically.

They laughed. They kissed outside the restaurant. They were planning to go home separately. That didn't happen. Instead, it was after midnight when they climbed into bed.

Thursday morning, his alarm felt personal. Harry arrived early. That mattered to him for reasons he didn't particularly examine.

Robertson was already there. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Harry said through a yawn.

The coach studied him briefly.

Harry mounted his broom before the look could become a conversation. The first release went badly. Harry saw the Snitch first and still lost it.

Cho came from above, cut underneath him and caught it while Harry was forced to correct a turn he had entered too sharply. The second belonged to Harry. The third went to Cho. Harry took the fourth after a long chase that left his lungs burning considerably more than it should have.

He landed and rubbed both hands over his face. Cho dropped beside him. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Didn't sleep much,” Harry admitted.

“Again?” Cho asked, concern creeping into her voice.

Harry looked at her.

Cho smiled. “I'm observant.”

“Apparently.”

Robertson released the Snitch again. Harry kicked off. He won. Barely. The next hour was worse. Not disastrous. Harry never crashed, never missed anything embarrassingly obvious, never gave Robertson a single moment that could be pointed to as proof that he had no business being on a broom.

He was simply late. Late seeing openings. Late recognizing Cho's line. Late adjusting when Robertson changed the release angle. Half-seconds. Sometimes less. Harry's speed covered most of them. His reflexes covered the rest. Until they didn't.

Robertson sent the Snitch low across the pitch. Harry spotted it and dove. He came in too steep. Harry knew it almost immediately, but instead of abandoning the line he forced the broom through the turn, pulled hard enough to feel the handle fight beneath him and somehow managed to get his fingers around the Snitch.

He climbed out grinning. “Got it.”

“Land.”

Harry's grin faded.

Robertson was already walking toward him when Harry touched down.

“What?”

“You were late,” Robertson accused.

Harry opened his hand. The Snitch was still inside it. “I caught it.”

“I can see that.”

Robertson took the Snitch from him. “You were late seeing it, late into the dive and late correcting the angle.”

“But I caught it.”

Robertson stared at him. Harry stopped arguing.

“You're good enough to get away with mistakes other Seekers can't,” Robertson said, folding his arms.

Harry wasn't sure whether that was a compliment. Robertson made it clear that it wasn't. “You haven't learned to fly on no rest.”

“I've flown tired before.”

“No.” Robertson shook his head. “You've learned you can survive being tired. That's different.”

Harry glanced toward Cho. She had landed some distance away and was making an extremely obvious effort not to listen.

Robertson lowered his voice slightly. “I don't care what you're doing when you leave this pitch.”

Harry said nothing.

“Girlfriend. Pub. Press. Sit awake all night reading. Doesn't matter to me.”

Harry shifted his broom against his shoulder. “I'm not out every night getting pissed.”

“I didn't say you were.”

That stopped him. Robertson gestured toward the pitch. “I'm telling you what I'm seeing up there.”

Harry looked away. The coach wasn't angry. That somehow made the point harder to dismiss. “You've got more natural ability than anyone I've coached,” Robertson continued. “Right now you're using some of it to cover for being tired.”

Harry glanced back at him. The man looked far from finished. “Saturday you're playing the Ballycastle Bats. With some of the best Beaters in the game.”

Harry knew exactly what that meant. Robertson tossed the Snitch once and caught it. “You come into a turn half a second late against Cho today, she catches this.” He held up the Snitch. “You come into one half a second late against those Beaters, they catch you.”

Harry's expression tightened. Robertson put the Snitch back into its case. “Go home.”

“Practice isn't over?” Harry asked cautiously.

“It is for you.”

Harry frowned. “Coach—”

“Go sleep.”

Harry hesitated. Then nodded. He collected his things and headed toward the tunnel. Behind him, Robertson called Cho back into the air.

Harry didn't feel embarrassed. Not exactly. He hadn't been drunk. He hadn't missed practice. He hadn't stopped training. Wednesday had simply been long, and staying out with Gabrielle had been worth losing a few hours of sleep over.

Still, as Harry stepped into the changing rooms, Robertson's words followed him. Half a second. Harry knew better than most people how much could happen in half a second. For once that week, when he got home, he closed the curtains, ignored the post waiting on the table and went directly to his room.

He knew it was time to catch up on rest.

By Friday evening, Harry felt human again. He had taken Robertson's advice seriously. Thursday afternoon disappeared almost entirely into sleep, followed by dinner, another early night, and most of Friday spent doing very little beyond eating properly and reviewing Ballycastle footage at home.

The difference was remarkable. The heaviness in his legs was all but gone. His head felt clear. Even the soreness that had settled into his shoulders during the week had faded into the ordinary background ache of professional Quidditch.

Robertson had been right. Harry had needed sleep. Fortunately, Harry thought as he adjusted the collar of his dress robes in the mirror, he had gotten it.

He arrived in London shortly before seven. The gala occupied the upper floors of a wizarding hotel Harry had never entered before, though the crowd gathered outside suggested half of wizarding London knew about it. Photographers lined the entrance beneath enchanted lights while witches and wizards in expensive robes moved steadily through the doors.

Harry had barely stepped from the Apparition point when Gabrielle appeared. For once, Harry didn't even attempt to pretend he wasn't staring.

Her dress was silver, fitted elegantly without being excessive, with her hair swept back from her face in a style completely different from the loose blonde waves he had grown accustomed to over the last two weeks.

Gabrielle stopped in front of him. “Well?”

Harry took another second. “You look…”

Her eyebrow lifted.

Harry laughed. “I'm trying to think of something better than incredible.”

“You may continue trying.”

She kissed him. Several cameras flashed immediately.

Harry barely noticed. “You nervous?” he asked quietly.

Gabrielle looked toward the entrance. “A little.”

Harry offered his arm. “They'd still be idiots not to.”

That earned him the smile he wanted. Inside, the room was even more elaborate. Floating chandeliers cast warm light over polished floors while waiters moved between groups carrying glasses of champagne. Harry recognized almost nobody. Gabrielle seemed to recognize everyone. Or at least she behaved as if she did.

Within minutes she was introducing him to photographers, designers, representatives from the agency and several people whose jobs Harry understood only vaguely after they explained them. Harry didn't mind. Tonight wasn't about him. That in itself was strangely enjoyable.

Most people still knew who he was, of course. Several congratulated him on the Chudley win. One man from Comet's advertising team spent nearly five minutes explaining why Harry should appear in their advertisement before Gabrielle smoothly rescued him.

But most of the attention belonged to her.

Harry watched Gabrielle move through the room with the same ease she had shown at the Puddle Jumper, except here everything seemed built for her. The cameras didn't bother her. The introductions didn't exhaust her. She remembered names Harry forgot almost immediately and shifted effortlessly between English and French depending on who she was speaking with.

Harry understood, suddenly, why the agency wanted her. It wasn't simply because she was beautiful. She belonged here.

A little after nine, a witch Harry had met earlier approached Gabrielle and quietly asked for a moment. Gabrielle's hand found Harry's.

He squeezed it. “Go.”

She disappeared with the woman toward a smaller room near the back. Harry accepted a glass of champagne from a passing tray and waited. Five minutes became ten. Then fifteen. Harry was halfway through wondering whether he should find Fleur when the door opened. Gabrielle stepped out, and one look at her face told him everything. Harry smiled.

She walked toward him quickly.

“Well?”

Gabrielle tried to hold the expression. Failed. “A year.”

Harry's grin widened. “They offered you the contract?”

“One year.”

He barely had time to put his glass down before Gabrielle threw her arms around him. Harry lifted her briefly from the floor. She laughed into his shoulder.

“I told you.”

“Yes, yes.”

“I guess they aren't idiots?”

“Apparently not.”

Gabrielle kissed him. The cameras found them immediately. This time neither cared. Fleur appeared moments later, followed by Bill, and Gabrielle was immediately pulled into another embrace. Champagne arrived from somewhere. Then more. There were congratulations from people Harry didn't know. Photographs. Introductions.

Someone from the agency produced an actual copy of the agreement, and Gabrielle held it up while Fleur applauded. Harry stood beside her through all of it, absurdly proud.

Nearly an hour later, Gabrielle returned to him carrying two glasses. “One for you.”

Harry accepted it. “To Gabrielle Delacour.”

She smiled appreciatively while Harry touched his glass to hers. The gala officially began winding down sometime after eleven. Harry noticed the time.

So did Gabrielle. “You have your match tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow night,” Harry corrected.

Gabrielle studied him.

Harry shrugged. “I slept half of yesterday and most of today.”

“You did?”

“Robertson practically ordered it.”

Gabrielle laughed. “Then perhaps you are allowed to lose a little sleep tonight.”

The look she gave him promised him a night long beyond whatever time they left the party. As beautiful as she looked that evening, he was already looking forward to it. Harry grinned. “That was my interpretation as well.”

Gabrielle giggled and seemed ready to make a comment, but someone nearby called her name. A group from the agency was gathering near the elevators, discussing another place several streets away.

Gabrielle looked toward them. Then at Harry. “We could go home.”

Harry knew she meant it. He also saw the way she glanced back toward the group. This was her night. Her first real professional victory. And Harry felt fantastic. “What are they doing?”

“Drinks.”

Harry looked at the clock again. The match wasn't until the evening. He had no practice in the morning. He had spent more than a day catching up on sleep. A few drinks weren’t going to undo that. Harry held out his hand. “Come on.”

Gabrielle smiled as she took his hand and pulled him toward the elevators. Harry followed without thinking twice.

.o.

Rain hammered Harry so hard it began to sting. He wiped uselessly at his goggles and immediately lost another few feet of altitude as the wind caught the side of his broom.

“PUDDLEMERE SCORES AGAIN!”

The announcer was barely audible through the storm. Somewhere below Harry, Charlotte had scored, but he hardly had time to look. A black shape appeared through the rain instead. Harry dropped. The Bludger screamed through the space his head had occupied an instant earlier.

“Bloody hell!”

He flattened himself against his broom and accelerated away as the Ballycastle Beater swept past him. The bastard smiled. Harry gave him two fingers, but that only seemed to amuse him. It had been that kind of match.

The Ballycastle Bats had arrived in Puddlemere apparently uninterested in playing anything resembling graceful Quidditch. Their Chasers were bigger than Puddlemere’s and used every inch of their size, driving shoulders into opponents and nearly unseating them at every turn. Their Beaters were even worse.

Harry had known it would be this way. He had watched the film. Knowing it and experiencing it were entirely different things.

Another Bludger cracked through the rain. Harry rolled. It passed beneath him. He righted himself just as the second Beater appeared from his blind side. Harry jerked upward. The bat swung.

CRACK.

The Bludger caught the tail of Harry's broom instead of his ribs. His entire broom kicked sideways. Harry nearly lost his seat. The crowd screamed.

He wrapped one arm around the handle, legs swinging free for one terrifying second before he managed to drag himself back over it.

“POTTER HOLDS ON!”

Harry heard the roar before he heard the commentary. He climbed. His heart hammered against his ribs. The Ballycastle Beater circled beneath him.

Harry looked down before shouting, “You missed me, you bastard.”

The Beater laughed. Harry couldn't help laughing too. They were fucking lunatics. He liked them. At least he would have if they weren't currently trying to kill him.

Harry climbed above the Chasers again and forced himself to breathe. The match had been going for at least two hours.

It felt closer to three. His robes were soaked through despite every waterproofing charm Puddlemere had applied before kickoff. His fingers ached from gripping the broom. Every sharp turn demanded more strength than it should as the wind fought him across the pitch.

And Ballycastle never stopped hitting. Pucey had already taken one Bludger to the thigh. Jason had blood running from his nose. Charlotte had been driven into the barrier hard enough to stop play for several minutes, then returned before the mediwizard finished arguing with her.

Harry had been hit twice. The first had glanced off his shoulder. The second had caught him squarely in the side. Every deep breath reminded him of it, but he was still flying.

The Ballycastle Seeker appeared twenty yards away. Harry watched him. The man watched Harry. Neither moved. Then the Bats' Beater came again. Harry saw him this time. He accelerated directly toward the Seeker. The other man hesitated. Harry didn't.

Ten yards. Five. The Seeker broke right. Harry broke left. The Bludger tore between them. Harry laughed as he climbed. “Nearly!”

The Ballycastle Seeker shouted something Harry couldn't hear. Probably nothing complimentary.

Harry rested high in the sky, out of the range of the Beaters, surveying the field for the Snitch. His legs were burning, and that was starting to bother him more than the bruises. He had flown longer matches. Much longer. But every minute today demanded something. Fighting the wind. Dodging Bludgers. Recovering from contact. Searching through sheets of rain thick enough to hide half the pitch.

Nothing came easily. Harry wiped his goggles again. For a second his vision cleared. No gold. He circled. Another ten minutes passed. Ballycastle scored. Puddlemere answered. Oliver made a spectacular save at the western hoops and immediately screamed at Jason to get back into position.

Harry kept searching. A Bludger came from below. He saw it late. Too late. Harry twisted. It struck his upper arm. Pain exploded from shoulder to fingertips. His hand came off the broom. Harry dropped several feet before recovering.

“POTTER TAKES ANOTHER ONE!”

The whistle sounded. Harry barely heard it. His right arm hung strangely beside him. He flexed his fingers. They moved. That would have to be good enough.

“Harry!” Oliver yelled.

Harry looked down. His captain was pointing toward the sideline. Harry shook his head. Oliver pointed again. Harry shook his head and climbed back into position. Even from fifty feet away, Harry could see Oliver’s expression. He was not pleased, to say the least.

The referee was saying something to the Ballycastle Beater. Harry didn't care. The hit had been legal. Brutal. But legal.

Play resumed. Harry adjusted his grip. His shoulder screamed. He ignored it. Five minutes later, he nearly had the Snitch. Gold appeared through the rain near midfield. Harry went after it instantly. So did the Ballycastle Seeker. For the first time all evening, Harry felt like himself. Everything narrowed. Wind disappeared. Pain disappeared. Fatigue disappeared. There was only gold.

Harry accelerated. The other Seeker fell behind after a wicked strike came in from Conner. He was unmatched now. Ten feet. Five.

Harry grinned. There you are. The Snitch dropped. Harry followed. A Bludger crossed his path. Harry rolled underneath it without losing the line. Another came from his left. He pulled upward. The Snitch vanished.

“Damn it!”

Harry circled violently, searching. Nothing. The Ballycastle Seeker reappeared beside him, breathing hard.

“Thought you had it.”

“So did I.”

They separated. Harry's shoulder throbbed. His side hurt. His legs felt heavier every time he accelerated. Still he searched.

The match crossed three hours. Then three fifteen. The rain somehow became worse. Harry stopped feeling his fingers. Another collision beneath him sent Pucey spinning away from a Ballycastle Chaser. The referee's whistle disappeared beneath the crowd. Harry barely registered any of it.

Gold. He needed gold. Another circuit. Nothing. Another. Harry blinked rain from his eyes. Something flashed near the southern stands. His head snapped around and his exhaustion vanished. The golden ball darted beneath the lowest row of seats before turning sharply back toward the pitch.

Harry went after it. The Ballycastle Seeker didn't. He hadn't seen it. Harry flattened himself over his broom. The wind tore at him. His shoulder screamed as he forced the broom downward.

Fifty yards. The Snitch descended. Harry followed. Forty. A Ballycastle Chaser crossed ahead. Harry slipped beneath him. Thirty. The roar of the crowd changed. They knew he had it.

“POTTER'S SEEN IT!”

Harry barely heard them. Twenty. His fingers tightened around the broom. The Snitch was right there.

Harry saw the first Beater. He had been waiting near midfield. Harry changed his line immediately. The Bludger came. Harry dropped beneath it.

Perfect. He climbed again. Still on the Snitch. Still gaining. Ten yards. Eight. Five.

Harry reached for the golden ball, and he never saw the second Beater.

CRACK.

The Bludger hit him beneath the ribs with enough force to lift him completely off his broom. The worst part? Harry never felt himself hit the ground.