A Star Is Born Chapter 35 (Patreon)

Chapter 35

Harry woke slowly, dragged toward consciousness by the uncomfortable realization that nearly every part of his body hurt. His ribs protested first. A dull ache wrapped around his right side and sharpened immediately when he tried to take a deeper breath. His shoulder wasn't much better, while the pounding behind his eyes made opening them feel like an unnecessary commitment. Harry lay still for several seconds, staring at nothing, until pieces of the previous evening began returning without permission.

Rain. Ballycastle. The Snitch. Five yards.

Then nothing.

Harry opened his eyes. The room came gradually into focus. Pale walls. A window covered by grey afternoon light. The unmistakable smell of potions and magical disinfectant. St Mungo's, Harry assumed, though he couldn't remember arriving.

“Harry?”

He turned his head carefully. Hermione was sitting near the foot of the bed with Ron beside her, while Gabrielle occupied the chair closest to him. She looked nothing like the woman Harry remembered from Friday night's gala. Her hair was loose, most of her makeup gone, and the relief that crossed her face when his eyes found hers made Harry wonder just how bad he had looked before waking.

He swallowed against a dry throat. “The match.”

Gabrielle's relief vanished beneath immediate irritation. “You fall from the sky, sleep for nearly a day, and this is your first question?”

“Did we win?”

Ron laughed.

Hermione sighed as though this were exactly the answer she had expected. “Yes.”

Harry relaxed back against the pillow. “The score? How did we do it?”

“Three-ten to two-seventy,” Ron said.

Harry frowned as he worked through the numbers, then his eyes snapped back toward him. “Cho caught it?”

Ron grinned. For perhaps the first time since waking, Harry forgot that he hurt.

“She caught it?”

“Twenty-three minutes after you went down,” Hermione confirmed as she glanced over a sheet of paper that was likely Ron's notes.

A broad smile spread across Harry's face, painful enough around his ribs that he had to temper the laugh trying to escape him. “Brilliant.”

“She was,” Ron said. “Ballycastle went straight after her too. I think they figured the reserve coming in cold after three hours would be easy pickings.”

Harry could picture that perfectly. Cho sitting on the sideline through the storm, watching Ballycastle batter everyone in sight, then being told to mount her broom immediately after watching Harry disappear toward the pitch. “And?”

Ron shrugged. “She made them regret it.”

Harry laughed and immediately grabbed his side.

“Don't,” Hermione warned.

Gently pushing away her fussy hands, Harry shook his head. “She fucking did it. A little more pain is worth it.”

“Language, Harry!” Hermione chastised.

Ron laughed again. Gabrielle reached for the glass beside his bed and helped him take a drink when Harry's right arm proved less cooperative than expected. He disliked needing the help, though not enough to refuse it. “How long was I out?”

“Most of the night,” Hermione said. “You woke a couple of times, but the Healers said you weren't really lucid.”

Ron leaned back in his chair. “You kept asking about the Snitch.”

Harry looked at him. “Seriously?”

“Apparently you asked one Healer if she was Cho,” Hermione joked.

Gabrielle finally laughed.

Harry closed his eyes. “I'm never coming back here.”

“You said that last time,” Hermione reminded him.

Harry opened one eye. “That sounds like something I'd say.”

The door opened before Hermione could answer, and Harry caught a glimpse of movement beyond it. Several familiar blue robes occupied the corridor outside. “The whole team is here?”

“Most of them,” Ron said. “They've been taking turns checking on you since this morning.”

Harry stared toward the doorway.

“You've created a scheduling problem,” Hermione added. “The Healers finally banned more than a few visitors at once.”

That suited Harry perfectly well. He wasn't particularly interested in entertaining his entire team at once. His side would likely split in two once the jokers were done with him.

There were brief appearances regardless. Pucey leaned through the doorway long enough to announce that Harry remained offensively ugly. Charlotte came in to tell him Ballycastle's Beaters had sent their regards and a bottle of firewhisky thanking him for the chase, which Harry found considerably funnier than Hermione did. Chandler assured him his broom had survived. Conner promised to smuggle him real food if St Mungo's kept feeding him whatever was currently on the tray.

Harry saw all of them. He remembered only pieces. The room finally quieted again before the door opened and Cho stepped inside.

Harry's smile appeared immediately.

Cho stopped. “No.”

Harry hadn't even spoken. “No what?”

“Whatever you're about to say,” Cho accused.

Harry raised his good hand in a salute to his head. “Bat Slayer.”

Ron barked a laugh.

Cho's eyes closed. “I hate all of you.”

“You caught it.” That stopped her. The joke disappeared from Harry's voice as she approached the bed. “You actually fucking caught it.”

Hermione opened her mouth.

Ron pointed at her. “Hospital exemption.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Cho smiled despite herself and slapped Harry's raised hand carefully. “They put me in and I genuinely thought I might throw up.”

“You didn't.”

“You were unconscious.”

“Ron told me.”

“Ron exaggerates.”

“Constantly,” Hermione said.

“Why am I even here?” Ron complained.

Harry barely listened. He was watching Cho, enjoying the strange mixture of embarrassment and pride she was trying unsuccessfully to hide. “You won us the match.”

Cho shook her head. “We won the match. Everyone had been flying for nearly four hours by then. I came in fresh.”

“And caught the Snitch.”

“Yes.”

“Against Ballycastle.”

“Yes, Harry.”

“Sounds suspiciously like you won us the match.”

Cho laughed.

Harry's smile softened. “I'm serious. Don't make it smaller because I got hurt.”

Something in Cho's expression changed. “I thought you had it.”

Harry went still.

Cho glanced toward him. “Before they hit you. I thought you'd got clear.”

Harry remembered gold ahead of him. The first Beater. The dodge. Then—

Nothing.

“Me too.”

“You were right there.”

“I know.”

Cho seemed to realize she'd pressed somewhere tender and started to retreat from the thought, but Harry saved her the trouble.

“Three straight Monday and now a professional match winner. You're becoming unbearably proficient.”

“Learned that from you,” Cho accused.

“Clearly,” Harry deadpanned.

She stayed for another few minutes before leaving, passing Oliver in the doorway.

Unlike the others, Oliver entered without a joke. “Can I have the room for a moment?”

Gabrielle, Ron, and Hermione immediately stood up to leave. Hermione looked like she might say something to Wood, maybe about taking it easy on Harry, but she never found the words and offered Harry a consoling look before closing the door behind her.

When the door closed, Wood walked toward the bed, looking Harry over with the sort of expression Harry had learned meant his captain was deciding whether anger or relief was more appropriate.

Harry beat him to it. “I know.”

Oliver folded his arms. “Do you?”

“I should've come off.”

Oliver considered Harry for several seconds. “Probably.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That all?”

Oliver exhaled through his nose. “You think I'm going to pretend I would've climbed off voluntarily?”

Harry smiled. “Not really.”

“Then I'm not going to insult you by pretending otherwise.”

Oliver pulled the remaining chair closer and sat. His expression stayed serious, but the edge had gone out of it. “You took three hours of everything Ballycastle could throw at you. You were still hunting the Snitch with one arm half-useless and ribs that were probably already bruised.”

“Cracked, apparently.”

“Even better.”

Harry laughed once, carefully.

Oliver leaned forward. “But next time I point at the sideline, maybe consider that I have a reason. You trust me with the game, Harry. Trust me when I tell you it's time to come off.”

Harry nodded. “Fair.”

“You scared the shit out of everyone.”

That landed harder than the criticism.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled.

Oliver shook his head. “Don't apologize for getting hit. Just learn something from it.”

Harry looked back toward him, desperate to change the topic. “Cho looked good.”

Oliver smiled then. “Cho looked really good. She saved our asses out there.”

Harry's grin returned. “Good.”

Oliver squeezed Harry's uninjured shoulder before standing. “Get healthy. We need both of you.”

The room settled after he left, while Ron, Hermione, and Gabrielle returned quietly. Ron started telling Harry about the final minutes of the match in considerably more detail than Hermione thought necessary, while Gabrielle remained beside him with her fingers loosely threaded through his. Harry listened, asked questions, and slowly reconstructed everything he had missed.

Puddlemere had won. Cho had caught the Snitch. Nobody seemed angry with him. Considering how the game ended, Harry supposed things could have gone considerably worse.

The final visitor arrived nearly an hour later. Robertson stepped into the room, exchanged brief greetings with Ron, Hermione and Gabrielle, then looked at Harry.

Harry knew immediately this conversation wouldn't be social. “When am I flying again?”

Robertson almost smiled. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“When?” Harry pressed.

“Thursday.”

Harry frowned. “Thursday?”

“You have two cracked ribs, a concussion, enough bruising to change your skin colour and a shoulder the Healers would prefer you to be able to use in the future.”

Harry stared. Robertson remained completely unmoved.

“And the match next Sunday?” Harry asked, dread creeping into his body.

“We'll decide Thursday.”

Harry's irritation sharpened. “What does that mean?”

“It means you fly Thursday. Cho flies Thursday. I decide who starts based on what I see.”

The room suddenly felt quieter. Harry glanced briefly toward Ron before returning his attention to Robertson. “You're considering starting Cho.”

“Of course I am. She played her heart out for the time she was on the field. She won the game.”

Harry didn't like how quickly the answer came. Robertson pulled a chair nearer but remained standing behind it. “She just entered a Ballycastle match cold and caught the Snitch under pressure. You just got knocked unconscious and haven't been medically cleared to sit on a broom.”

“When I'm cleared—”

“When you're cleared, you get the opportunity to show me you're ready.”

Harry stopped.

Robertson's voice wasn't harsh. If anything, that made it worse. “This isn't punishment, Harry.”

“I know.”

“I don't think you do.”

Harry's jaw tightened.

Robertson continued before he could answer. “You played a hell of a match yesterday. Nobody is questioning that. Nobody thinks you failed. Ballycastle caught you with a legal hit after more than three hours in conditions that should've drowned half the stadium.”

Harry stared at him. “Then why am I fighting for my start?”

“Because this is professional Quidditch.” Robertson let the answer sit. “Cho did her job. Now you recover and do yours.”

Harry looked toward the window. He hated it. Not Cho getting the opportunity. She'd earned that. He hated being unable to do anything about it until Thursday.

Robertson seemed to understand. “Rest.”

Harry looked back at him. “That's an order?”

“Yes.”

“I'm getting tired of those.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to issue them.”

Ron snorted. Harry shot him a look.

Robertson finally smiled. “Thursday, Potter. Show me you're ready.”

He started toward the door.

“Coach,” Harry called.

Robertson glanced back.

Harry hesitated only briefly. “How good was Cho?”

Robertson's smile changed. “Good enough that you should take Thursday seriously.”

Then he left. Harry remained staring at the doorway for several seconds. Gabrielle squeezed his hand. He looked down at their joined fingers, then back toward the grey afternoon beyond the window. Puddlemere had won. Cho had delivered. Harry was going to recover. There wasn't a crisis anywhere in sight. And yet, for the first time since joining Puddlemere, Harry had four days ahead of him where there was absolutely nothing he could do to prove he belonged on the pitch.

He already hated every one of them.

St Mungo’s finally released Harry late Sunday evening, though only after making him promise several times that he understood the meaning of the word rest. Hermione listened to every instruction as though she planned to administer his recovery personally. Ron carried the small collection of potions and pain draughts the Healers sent home with him, while Gabrielle stayed close enough to Harry's uninjured side that he suspected she was prepared to catch him if his legs gave out. They didn't.

Harry was battered, not helpless, and he stubbornly walked himself from the ward despite Hermione asking twice whether he wanted a chair. The Floo trip home was uncomfortable enough that he briefly wished he'd accepted the Side-Along Apparition, but he refused to admit that when they finally stepped into his sitting room.

Ron and Hermione eventually left only after Harry promised to send an owl if anything changed during the night. Hermione repeated the instructions regarding his concussion twice on the way out and made Gabrielle promise to wake him periodically.

Harry waited until the door closed. “She knows you're not my Healer, right?”

Gabrielle looked toward him. “She knows you are difficult.”

“That's different.”

“Not very.”

Gabrielle stayed. Harry didn't ask her to. That night had none of the reckless energy of the week before. She helped him change when pulling his shirt over his injured shoulder proved nearly impossible, settled beside him carefully enough not to touch his ribs, and woke him twice exactly as Hermione instructed despite Harry's complaints.

By Monday morning, Harry was already sick of being injured. He woke alone on the enlarged sofa sometime after eight, Gabrielle having left early for another agency meeting with a note on the table beside him reminding him to take the green potion before breakfast.

Harry considered ignoring it. Then remembered Hermione existed. He drank it. The pain eased within minutes, leaving him mobile enough to shower and dress without assistance. That was almost worse. Harry felt functional. His shoulder moved. His ribs hurt but no longer screamed every time he breathed. The headache had faded into something distant and manageable.

He felt perfectly capable of going to practice. He was not allowed to go to practice till the next day. Harry stood in his kitchen staring at the clock. Eight forty-three. Normally he would already be on the pitch. Robertson would have released the first Snitch by now. Cho would probably be circling high, trying to pretend she hadn't noticed Harry searching lower. The Chasers would be warming up on the opposite side while Oliver shouted at someone about spacing.

Harry hated knowing exactly what he was missing. By nine, he had eaten. By nine-fifteen, he had read the Prophet. By nine-twenty, he had decided the Prophet remained rubbish. At nine-thirty, Harry found himself standing in front of his broom. He stared at it for several seconds.

Technically, Robertson had said he couldn't fly until Thursday. Harry reached toward it. Then stopped. “Fuck.”

He walked away. Ten minutes later he came back. The broom remained where he'd left it. Harry glared at it as though this were somehow its fault. Eventually he did the only Quidditch-related thing nobody had specifically forbidden him from doing.

He went into the kitchen, collected the enchanted match reels Oliver had sent over Sunday night and carried them into the sitting room.

Ballycastle filled the wall. Harry watched the opening twenty minutes first. Then another twenty. The footage looked different from the ground. On his broom, the match had felt almost shapeless—rain, movement, impact, the constant requirement to react. From outside it, patterns emerged.

Ballycastle's Beaters weren't simply aggressive. They were disciplined.

Harry watched them funnel Chandler toward one side of the pitch and then punish him when he had nowhere else to go. He watched the same trap collapse around Pucey. He watched himself draw one Beater away from a Chaser formation without even realizing he'd done it.

Harry rewound that part. Watched again. Then kept going. Hours disappeared. He watched Charlotte hit the barrier. Jason take the blow that broke his nose. His own first hit. Then the second. Harry leaned forward as the match entered its third hour.

There he was. Slower than he'd felt. Not slow. Harry would have laughed at anyone who called the version of himself on the wall slow. But he could see it now. A recovery that required two movements instead of one. A turn slightly wider than necessary. A Bludger Harry avoided because of reflex rather than because he'd seen it early.

Harry stopped the footage. Robertson's voice came back to him. You're good enough to get away with mistakes other Seekers can't.

Harry stared at his frozen image. Then restarted it. He watched himself take the hit to the arm. Watched Oliver point toward the sideline. Watched himself refuse. Harry's jaw tightened. The footage continued.

He nearly caught the Snitch. Lost it. Kept flying. Then finally—

Gold.

Harry moved closer to the wall. He already knew what happened. That didn't stop his pulse from increasing. The Snitch appeared near the southern stands. Harry went. The Ballycastle Seeker never saw it.

Harry slipped beneath the Chaser. Thirty yards. Twenty. The first Beater moved. Harry watched himself recognize him. Change line. Drop beneath the Bludger.

Perfect.

Harry froze the image. The second Beater was already there. Not in front of him. Off to the side. Waiting. Harry stared. He restarted the footage. Five yards. Harry reached. The Beater swung.

The image jolted as the enchanted camera tried to follow him away from his broom. Harry stopped it before the fall. For a long time, he didn't move.

Then he rewound the chase. Watched it again. And again. On the fourth viewing, Harry stopped watching the Beater. He watched himself. His approach. His line. His reaction to the first Bludger.

Everything.

Five yards. Maybe less. Harry leaned back slowly. Would he have caught it if he'd been sharper? If he had been better rested? He wasn't sure what time he had come home Saturday morning from the gala, but maybe he should've seen the wisdom in Gabrielle's offer to turn in early. Would listening to her have made a difference? He didn't know. That was the problem.

There was no obvious mistake. No moment Harry could point toward and declare that Friday night had cost him the match. The second Beater had made a brilliant play. Harry could have slept twelve hours and still taken exactly the same hit.

Maybe.

Harry rewound it again. This time, when the footage reached the moment he disappeared from his broom, he let it continue. Cho entered the frame, and Harry just watched as the match carried on without him for twenty-three minutes.

Harry returned to Puddlemere Tuesday morning. He was not allowed anywhere near his broom. The club physiwizard made that clear within ten minutes of Harry arriving, checking his ribs, shoulder and eyes before finally permitting him to do limited conditioning provided nothing involved impact, sudden movement or anything that could reasonably be described as flying. Harry accepted the restrictions with considerably less enthusiasm than the physiwizard seemed to expect, but being inside the training facility was already better than another day trapped at home.

Practice continued above him. Harry could hear it from the conditioning room. Every whistle from Robertson seemed deliberately loud. He worked instead. Slowly at first, testing what his body would tolerate. His shoulder limited much of the upper-body work, and anything that required twisting quickly reminded him that two of his ribs were still healing, but his legs were perfectly functional. Harry spent nearly an hour on conditioning exercises before moving into strength work specifically designed not to aggravate his injuries.

It was maddening. He had fought in a war, won, and nearly killed himself a hundred times over doing it. Now he couldn’t even fly his broom without the medical team, his teammates, and the coaching staff biting his head off.

Each workout just seemed tedious and boring when usually he enjoyed the physical part of his training. The truth was it just wasn’t the same as flying.

When Harry eventually walked back toward the pitch, Cho was descending with the Snitch in her hand. She spotted him near the sideline and flew over.

“Three,” she called out above him, sounding confident.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Only three?”

Cho threw the Snitch at him.

Harry caught it automatically with his left hand and immediately received a glare from Robertson. Harry tossed it back. “Apparently I'm not even allowed to do that.”

“You're very delicate now,” Cho teased.

“Enjoy flying without me until Thursday while you can. I’ll be coming for everything.”

Her smile widened. That was how Harry wanted it. He didn't resent Cho for competing for the start. If anything, knowing she had become good enough to threaten him made Thursday more interesting. What irritated him was being forced to stand beside the pitch while somebody else did the work he wanted to be doing. So Harry found other work.

Tuesday afternoon became film, treatment and conditioning. He reviewed Ballycastle again with Oliver, though Harry carefully avoided mentioning how many times he had already watched the final chase. They looked instead at Puddlemere's positioning, the ways Ballycastle had disrupted their Chasers, and several moments where Harry could have contributed differently without ever going near the Snitch.

Wednesday followed much the same pattern. The bruising had begun to yellow around the edges, his shoulder moved more freely, and breathing no longer reminded Harry of every Bludger he had taken Saturday. The physiwizard increased what he was allowed to do, and Harry attacked the expanded programme hard enough that he eventually had to be told recovery training was not supposed to become punishment.

Harry backed off, but only while the staff was watching. He lifted. He ran. He stretched. He sat through tactical meetings. He watched Cho fly with Robertson. He watched the Chasers work formations and found himself unconsciously shifting his weight whenever someone changed direction, his body trying to follow movements his broom wasn't there to make.

By Wednesday afternoon, Puddlemere had become less a place Harry was recovering and more a place he was waiting. Thursday sat over everything.

Cho knew it. Robertson knew it. Harry certainly knew it.

Gabrielle remained around during those days, though the pace between them had changed almost without discussion. She had work, Harry had recovery, and neither suggested another night resembling the ones that had filled the previous two weeks. She visited Tuesday evening with dinner and stayed until Harry began yawning. Wednesday they saw each other only briefly before another agency obligation carried her back to London.

Ron and Hermione checked in constantly. Hermione wanted reports on Harry's concussion symptoms. Ron mostly wanted to know whether Harry had managed to convince anyone to let him fly early. He hadn't. Strangely, for once Harry hadn't seriously tried. He pushed every boundary they gave him, but the thought of secretly climbing onto his broom never went beyond temptation.

The footage had taken some of the fight out of that idea. Not out of him. Just out of his impatience to prove he was invincible. Whenever Harry had a quiet moment, the same images returned.

The Snitch. Five yards. The first Beater. The second. And then Cho took his place and finished the match.

Harry had watched her twenty-three minutes more than once. She hadn't done anything miraculous. That was almost what impressed him most. Cho had flown patiently, stayed away from Ballycastle's traps, waited for her opportunity and then taken it.

She had been ready when the moment came. Harry kept returning to that thought.

Wednesday night, his broom waited in the corner of his bedroom. Harry looked at it for several seconds before turning out the light. Tomorrow, finally, he would get to silence the doubt that had been creeping into his mind all week.

Thursday morning, Harry was on the pitch before Robertson. His ribs still ached beneath the layers of protective wrapping the physiwizard insisted he wear, and his shoulder remained tender when he stretched it too far behind him, but the difference from Saturday was unmistakable. Harry had slept. Properly. He had eaten. He had spent three days doing almost nothing except recovery, conditioning and thinking about Quidditch.

His broom felt right beneath his hand again.

Cho arrived a few minutes later and gave him a long look as she crossed the grass. “You look excited.”

Harry smiled. “I've been grounded for four days.”

“You were grounded because you fell out of the sky,” Cho said with a shake of her head.

“I was knocked out of the sky.”

“Important distinction.”

“Very,” Harry agreed.

Cho mounted beside him. Neither needed Robertson to explain what the morning meant when he arrived. Coach Deverell was watching from the sideline. Beside him stood Daniel Deverell, whom Harry hadn't spoken to since dinner weeks ago. Harry hadn't expected the owner to come. This was serious business.

The first drills were ordinary.

Robertson had Harry work through turns, dives and abrupt recoveries without a Snitch anywhere near the pitch, testing the shoulder before he allowed the session to become competitive. Harry followed every instruction without complaint. He took the turns cleanly, held his lines, recovered from each dive without hesitation and felt some of the tension he'd been carrying since Saturday begin to disappear. His body was ready.

Robertson finally produced the Snitch, and it zoomed off into the sky. Cho smiled. Harry kicked off without taking his eyes from it. The first chase lasted nearly six minutes. Cho gained an early lead heading toward the northern stands. Harry closed the gap slowly. There was no clean angle past her, and he resisted the urge to force one. He stayed on her outside shoulder through a diving turn and waited for the Snitch to change direction.

Cho followed. Harry anticipated. He cut inside her and caught it. 

One.

The second was closer. Harry saw gold beneath the western hoops barely a second before Cho did. They accelerated together, neither gaining more than a broom length through the entire chase. Cho forced him wide around Chandler. Harry recovered, and the Snitch shot upward between them. Both reached. Harry's fingers closed first.

Two.

Cho landed afterward with a look Harry knew well. “Don't even start.”

“I didn't say anything.” Harry shrugged, but the smile on his face said it all.

“You were going to,” Cho grumbled.

“Again,” Robertson called out, and then let a blast of the whistle follow his instruction.

Harry had caught them all, but Cho made him fight for every Snitch. That mattered. She wasn't the reserve Seeker Harry had first started training against. She had stopped reacting to Harry and begun making decisions of her own. She anticipated turns. Used traffic. Refused obvious feints. Twice she forced Harry to abandon lines he normally would have bullied through simply because she had positioned herself better.

Harry loved it. He also kept winning. Three. Four.

Cho finally took the fifth after drawing Harry toward the eastern stands and breaking away at exactly the moment the Snitch reversed direction. Harry slapped the side of his broom. Cho raised one fist in triumph. “Finally.”

Harry took the next two. By then the session had changed. The Chasers had stopped what they were doing on the opposite side of the pitch. Harry noticed Pucey first, hovering near midfield with his arms folded over his broom. Charlotte and Chandler were beside him. Conner had drifted closer. Even Oliver had left his hoops.

Nobody said anything. They simply watched. Robertson released the Snitch again. Harry followed it with his eyes until it disappeared. Then he stopped looking for Cho. That was the difference.

Monday he'd measured himself against her. Tuesday he'd wanted to beat her. Wednesday he could only count the hours until he could. Thursday Harry simply flew.

He found the next Snitch first. Cho matched him. Harry changed altitude. She followed. He cut across midfield, slipped beneath Pucey and used the Chaser's broom to briefly obscure his line.

Cho adjusted immediately. Harry accelerated. The Snitch dropped. Cho went low. Harry stayed high one heartbeat longer, saw the turn forming before it happened, and dove through the space Cho had expected to occupy alone.

Gold flashed. Harry reached, and the Snitch disappeared into his hand. The team erupted. Harry pulled out of the dive laughing, circling once before coming back toward the ground. Cho landed a moment after him, annoyed but smiling despite herself.

Robertson looked down at the Snitch in Harry's hand. “Again.”

Harry nodded, and they kept going. By the time Robertson finally called an end to it, Cho had caught three. Harry had caught ten, but Cho had made nearly every one difficult. Harry had never been better, and neither had Cho.

There wasn't anything else to say. He landed with sweat dampening his hair and his ribs complaining loudly enough to remind him that he was still healing, but the exhaustion felt clean. Familiar. Earned. Pucey clapped as Harry walked toward the sideline. Charlotte joined him. Soon most of the team was doing it.

Harry shook his head. “Idiots.”

Oliver smiled from beside the hoops.

Robertson didn't join the applause. He simply walked toward Harry and held out his hand. Harry placed the Snitch into it.

“You're starting,” Robertson said.

Harry nodded. He had known before Robertson said it. Cho walked past and bumped Harry lightly with her shoulder.

“Good work today, Harry,” Cho complimented him.

“You were brilliant,” Harry assured the witch. “You didn't make it easy.”

“Sunday is yours,” Cho pointed out.

“Next Thursday could be yours,” Harry countered and remained on the pitch as the rest of the team began gathering their equipment.

He should have felt relieved. He did. Mostly. The doubt about whether he belonged on the pitch Sundaywas gone. Another doubt had replaced it. Harry looked across the emptying stadium, remembering himself on the Ballycastle footage. The turn that required two movements. The late recognition. The Bludger he had dodged because his reflexes saved him rather than because he'd been ready for it. Then he thought about the morning he'd just had.

Ten catches. Cho fighting him for every one. Harry still getting there first. This was what he was supposed to feel like. Sharp. Patient. Early. Ready. 

Harry looked down at his broom. If he had flown like this against Ballycastle—if he had arrived Saturday feeling like this—would he have seen the second Beater? Would he have caught the Snitch? Maybe. He was really starting to hate that word. He couldn't prove Friday night had cost him the catch any more than he could prove twelve hours of sleep would have changed where that Bludger hit. Ballycastle's Beater had made a brilliant play. Harry knew that. But standing there after the sharpest session he'd flown in more than a week, he could no longer pretend he didn't understand the difference between the Harry on Saturday and the Harry who had just beaten Cho ten times.

Maybe he still would have been hit. Maybe he wouldn't, and as Harry stared at the broom in his hand, he was beginning to realize he hated not knowing.

That night, dinner was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Nothing between Harry and Gabrielle had suddenly soured. They were simply tired. The frantic energy that had carried them through the previous two weeks seemed to have finally caught up with both of them, and for once neither appeared interested in finding somewhere louder when their plates were cleared. Gabrielle talked about another fitting scheduled for Monday, a photographer she already disliked, and the possibility that the agency might send her to Paris for several weeks before bringing her back to London. Harry listened, smiled when he was supposed to, asked questions and genuinely cared about every answer.

Yet his mind still kept returning to Quidditch. Ten catches. The Ballycastle footage. Five yards…maybe it was less.

Gabrielle stopped talking.

Harry realized he'd been staring at the table. “What?”

“You have not heard anything I said for the last minute,” Gabrielle said softly.

“I did.”

“What did I say?”

Harry hesitated.

Gabrielle shook her head knowingly. “Exactly.”

“Sorry.”

She studied him across the table. “Quidditch?”

Harry nodded.

Gabrielle leaned back in her chair. She didn't appear annoyed. If anything, that made what Harry had been thinking all afternoon considerably harder to say.

“I got the starting spot back,” Harry offered.

“I know.” Her smile returned. “I knew you would.”

Harry looked down at his glass. Water tonight. He'd poured the glass without thinking much about the decision. “I was really good today.”

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. “Modest too.”

Harry laughed softly. “No, I mean—I was sharp. Really sharp. Cho flew brilliantly and I still kept beating her.”

“That sounds like you.”

“Yeah, well, at least it should.”

That was exactly the problem. Harry fell quiet again, searching for words that didn't make Gabrielle responsible for something she hadn't done. The truth was almost the opposite. Friday night, she had reminded him about the match. She had offered to go home. Harry had been the one who looked at the clock and decided there was still room for more.

“I've watched that last chase about twenty times.”

Gabrielle's expression softened. “Harry—”

“I know that's mental.”

“A little.”

“Probably more than a little.”

She smiled, but Harry didn't. “I can't tell if it mattered.”

Gabrielle frowned. “What mattered?”

“Friday.”

Understanding came slowly. “The gala?”

“After.” Gabrielle became very still.

Harry immediately shook his head. “I'm not blaming you.”

“I did not think—”

“You told me we could go home.”

Gabrielle remembered. “I did.”

Harry rubbed a hand through his hair before placing the other firmly on hers. “That's the thing. You gave me the choice and I wanted to stay. I wanted another drink. I wanted to go home with you afterward. I wanted all of it.”

“That does not sound terrible.”

“It wasn't.” Harry looked at her. “It was fucking brilliant.”

That drew a small laugh from her, though uncertainty remained in her eyes.

Harry exhaled. “But Saturday I wasn't as sharp as I was today. I know I wasn't. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Maybe that Beater hits me regardless. Maybe I catch the Snitch first if I sleep another three hours. I don't know.”

Gabrielle watched him quietly.

“And I hate that I don't know,” Harry added.

There it was.

Harry felt strangely relieved simply having said it aloud. “This means too much to me, Gabrielle. Quidditch. Puddlemere. I don't want to watch another match afterward wondering whether I gave myself everything I could've given.”

Her eyes dropped toward the table.

Harry immediately felt awful. “I really like you.”

Gabrielle laughed quietly without looking up. “You have a strange way of showing it tonight.”

“I know.”

Harry squeezed her hand from across the table. “That makes this worse, actually.”

Gabrielle looked up.

“If I didn't like you, this would be easy,” Harry continued. “But when we're together, I don't want to go home.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “I have noticed.”

“I don't want you to either.”

“No. You have also made that very clear.”

Harry smiled despite himself.

Then Gabrielle's expression became more serious. “You want space.”

Harry hated how easily she understood. “During the season. Yeah.”

She withdrew her hand, but only to fold her arms loosely in front of herself while she thought. “Do you think I distract you?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately. “I think I let myself get distracted.”

Gabrielle stared at him for several seconds. Then she nodded, her gaze dropping to his hand on the table. Harry hadn't expected that to hurt.

“My work is becoming busy too,” she admitted. “Paris. Perhaps Milan after. London again sometime next month. I was fighting the travel to be around, but…”

Harry tried not to react to how long those weeks suddenly sounded. “So maybe…”

Gabrielle finished it for him. “We slow down.”

Harry nodded. “Not stop.”

She smiled, though there was something softer beneath it now. “Not stop. The season does not last forever.”

“You’re right,” Harry agreed.

“And I am coming back,” Gabrielle promised.

Harry felt some of the tightness in his chest loosen. “Good.”

Gabrielle laughed. “Very romantic, Harry.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

She stood, moved around the table and stopped beside him. Harry looked up at her before Gabrielle bent and kissed him, slowly enough that for several seconds Harry wondered whether asking for space had been the stupidest decision he'd made all week.

When she pulled away, her forehead rested briefly against his. “Go, become the best player in the league. Just like we all know you will. There will be time for us if it’s meant to be.”

Harry kissed her again, grateful for her understanding. Grateful for all their time together. This time, when the evening ended, neither of them tried to make it last another hour. They just lay together and slept in peace.