A Star Is Born Chapter 36 (Patreon)

A/N: Sorry I didn't get the bonus update last week! Got busy, but should have sometime this week to get you guys a second update. Cheers!

Chapter 36

Friday morning found Harry back at Puddlemere long before anyone expected him. The grounds were quiet when he arrived, but never unattended. Puddlemere kept security around the stadium at all hours, and Harry had barely made it through the outer gate before Rex looked up from his post. The wizard stared at him for a moment. "I haven't seen you this early in a while. Good morning, Mr. Potter."

Harry glanced toward the dark shape of the stadium beyond him. "Morning, Rex."

"Everything alright, sir?"

Harry almost smiled as he glanced back at the man. "All good, Rex, thanks for checking."

Rex looked over his shoulder at the clock behind him, then back at Harry. "Practice isn't for another two hours."

"I know."

"You were here almost the whole day yesterday."

"I know that too."

Rex studied him for another second, clearly deciding whether there was any point arguing. Apparently there wasn't. He waved Harry through. "Try not to kill yourself before the coaches get here. Makes the paperwork complicated."

"No promises," Harry offered cheekily.

"That's exactly what I was afraid you'd say," Rex said with a sigh, but a grin followed.

Harry continued toward the pitch. The stadium itself was empty when he stepped inside. Not quiet. Empty. There was a difference, he'd learned. Quiet was a room after someone stopped shouting. Empty was cleaner. It asked nothing. The stands rose around him in dark sleeping rows. Twenty-four hours earlier, the same pitch had given Harry what he'd spent the better part of a year chasing. Ten catches. His place in the starting lineup. Proof that neither Ballycastle nor anyone else could take from him the one thing he'd sacrificed so much to earn. It should have been enough.

Harry set his bag near the sideline, pulled his broom free, and looked out across the vacant pitch. It wasn't. Then he kicked off. The first lap was slow. He pushed harder on the second, but his thoughts were still too loud to let him enjoy it. By the third, the warm-up was over and his shoulders had begun to burn. That was good. Pain was honest. It didn't flatter him, didn't write his name across the front page. It took what it was owed and gave nothing back except proof that he was still moving.

He went around again. Once. Twice. Three times. By the tenth lap, the lie he was telling himself stopped working. He wasn't doing this because it felt good. He was doing it because he had to. He needed to leave behind the ghost of the last few months so he could focus on the match before him.

Susan. Hannah. Daphne. Gabrielle.

He'd let each one slip by him. Not out of malice, not even out of choice sometimes, but because something in him always bent back toward the game. Daphne was the first to recognize that in him. She likely spared him a good deal of trouble in doing so. Gabrielle and Hannah both had their own lives to live outside of his increasingly chaotic circle. While Susan was just Susan.

Taking a breath, Harry knew the truth. They had all been sacrificed along the way for the game. If he turned into just another decent player in the league, then it would have all been for nothing. If he wanted to be great, then he would have to push himself beyond even what he thought himself capable of. Only then could this all be worth it.

Aggressively he turned sharply around the northern hoop, sleeve grazing the cold metal. No. He would not let it be for nothing.

"Potter?"

The voice came from below. It nearly distracted him, but Harry finished the line before looking down. Robertson stood beneath him with a cup of coffee steaming in one hand. He stared at Harry for several seconds before glancing pointedly toward the still-empty stands. "You know we did this yesterday."

Harry descended several feet but didn't land. "Yesterday was different."

"You caught ten Snitches yesterday," Robertson said pointedly.

"I remember."

"And I told you that you're starting."

"I remember that too."

Robertson took a slow drink of his coffee. "Practice isn't for two hours."

"I know."

Robertson looked at him for another moment. Whatever question he might have asked seemed to die before reaching his mouth. Instead, he nodded toward the northern hoops. "Run it again, then. You were too close to that hoop."

Harry looked toward it.

"One of these mornings you'll drive yourself right through Wood, and neither of you will be thanking me for the endless paperwork," Robertson chided, turning to head back toward the facility.

That nearly pulled a smile from Harry. Nearly.

He turned his broom. That was it. No lecture. Harry appreciated Robertson more in that moment than he ever had. The next hour was not dramatic. By the time the rest of the team began to arrive, Harry's arms were beginning to ache. His fingers were stiff, and his ribs were sore with the ache of cold air. By the time Wood called the team together for warm-ups, Harry had already worked the stiffness from his limbs and was listening with the sharp, deliberate focus of someone who couldn't afford to miss a word.

Nobody asked why he'd been there early. They just registered that he was. That was fine. He didn't need credit. He just needed Sunday. It would be Puddlemere's first Sunday night match of the year, broadcast across the league. Half the country would be tuning in to see whether Ballycastle had finally broken Harry Potter. Another forty-five percent would be hoping to watch him prove they hadn't. The remaining five percent were the Puddlemere faithful. Harry intended to make sure they enjoyed themselves.

By the time the final whistle cut across the pitch, Harry had been dominant. He played as though his career depended on every possession, disrupting Chaser formations that had nothing to do with him and forcing Cho to chase him from one end of the pitch to the other. When the Beaters turned their attention his way, Harry didn't simply evade their shots. He attacked them, knocking Bludgers off line with the same aggression he'd shown against Ballycastle. By the end of practice, he'd run himself ragged, and no one doubted any longer that Harry meant business.

Brooms dipped, boots thudding on the turf. Harry landed near midfield, breath slow, hands still tight around the handle.

Jason shook frost off his sleeves. "If Kenmare thinks you're taking it easy, they're in for a miserable Sunday."

Cho tugged her goggles up into her hair and said, "You lot are complaining? I was the one chasing him."

A quick laugh moved through the group and, for a moment, it almost felt normal.

Oliver's short blast cut that away. "Inside everyone. Go get warm. I don't want anybody limping into Sunday. Good work today."

The team drifted off. When Harry stooped for a practice ball, Oliver's voice stopped him. "Leave it."

Harry glanced up at the man and just offered a shrug before slowly making his way back to the locker room. Oliver waited until the last of his teammates had entered the building before speaking again. "You looked sharp today."

Harry gave a short nod. "I felt sharp. It just didn’t feel like enough."

"No matter how well we practice, sometimes it never feels like enough. You had some sloppy moments out there trying to prove you could run a bloody Quidditch marathon, but that's not what I was watching." Oliver paused. "I watched what happened when you got tired. You cleaned it up. Your decisions got better when your body started slowing down. That's an improvement."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. He met his captain's eyes, but as the silence stretched between them, his gaze eventually slipped away.

Oliver sighed. "I know you want to win."

Harry's grip tightened around his broom, his eyes drifting over his shoulder toward the emptying stadium.

"I'm not saying that it's a bad thing. Merlin knows I want to win too," Oliver went on. "Most days, that's your edge. But on Sunday, I need your head on Kenmare. Not Ballycastle. Not the papers. Not that cute little blonde you've been sharing a bed with. Kenmare."

Harry's eyes snapped back to him.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "What? You thought nobody noticed? It didn’t take a genius to figure out why you were coming to practice so tired and stopped showing up two hours early for our morning practices. I don’t blame you. Enjoy your life, but don’t forget how much you’ve given up to be here."

“I haven’t,” Harry said gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you, because you know how much I have sacrificed. What maybe you aren’t getting here, Wood, is how much more I am willing to sacrifice.”

Oliver’s expression shifted. “What do you mean?”

Harry looked back toward the pitch, avoiding Oliver’s eyes. Somehow the words felt more solid in his throat now than they had the night before when he’d said them to Gabrielle. “We’re slowing things down. During the season, at least.”

For once, Oliver had nothing immediate to say.

“We haven’t broken up,” Harry added before he could ask. “She has her modeling. I have this. We’ll see where things are when the season’s over.”

Oliver studied him. “Is this because of Ballycastle?”

“Maybe in part,” Harry admitted, his jaw tightening. “But mostly because I don’t know if things could have been different. I don’t know if another few hours of sleep would've changed anything. I don’t know if I would’ve seen the second Beater. I don’t know if I would’ve caught the Snitch had I been fractions of a second faster. Maybe I still end up in St Mungo’s. Maybe we lose the game if I stay in, but I can’t do this all over again.”

“Do what?”

“The wondering.”

That silenced Oliver.

Harry finally looked at him. “I’m going to know that whatever happens out there happens because I gave everything I had before I ever got on the broom and will continue giving it till I get knocked off.”

Oliver nodded slowly. He understood. Harry could see that much. Whether he agreed was something else entirely.

“I’ll keep the idiots off your back about Gabrielle,” Oliver finally said.

Harry gave him a grateful look. “Thanks.”

“Within reason.”

Harry frowned.

Oliver shrugged. “I’m their captain, not a miracle worker. Just be careful, Harry. This game has a habit of defining people’s lives, and if you’re not careful, it may not define yours the way you want.”

Harry went still as he considered the advice. “I’ll do my best.”

Oliver’s voice softened. “I know you will. I also know you’ve already seen one hospital bed this season, and I’m not interested in watching you wake up in another because you were trying to win six different battles at once.” He paused. “I just need you to be clear.”

Harry swallowed, then nodded once.

“Kenmare,” he said.

“Kenmare,” Oliver agreed, clapping him once on the shoulder. “Now go get warm. It’s miserable out here.”

Harry almost smiled. “Yes, Captain.”

Harry didn't stop thinking about Oliver's words when he left the stadium. Kenmare. It rang like a dial tone in his mind. Constant. He got home sore, poured himself a drink, told himself it was just one, to take the edge off. Ron and Hermione had pushed their dinner back to Saturday night, which left Harry nowhere to be.

By Saturday morning the soreness had settled deeper, which led him to a light morning run down the Thames. When he finished up, he made breakfast while watching Kenmare footage. This activity occupied so much of his days that formations were blurring behind his eyes. By the time he arrived at Ron and Hermione's place, Kenmare was still scrolling in his mind.

Ron greeted him, butterbeer in hand. "There he is, the man about to ruin Kenmare's weekend."

"Don't say that," Harry grunted.

Ron's grin slipped. "What?"

"Don't say it like it's already done," Harry nearly snapped.

Hermione appeared in the doorway, towel in hand, already reading the tension.

Ron lifted his hands. "All right, fair enough. It’s not done yet."

Harry's voice stayed flat. "I need to see everything you’ve seen on them."

Ron blinked. "Mate, it's Kenmare."

"I know who it is. What do they do well? Where do they hurt teams? I—"

Hermione's voice cut in softly. "Dinner first, Harry."

He almost pushed back, but Ron was already nodding in agreement. "Yeah. Let’s eat, then we'll go through it."

Harry just nodded, came inside, and sat while Hermione began setting plates down. Impatient to see the footage, Harry folded his hands tight under the table to keep himself from fidgeting. Kenmare, he told himself. Sunday was Kenmare. Nothing else.

Hermione set the plates down, keeping her tone light. "So, how's Gabrielle?"

The fork paused halfway to Harry's mouth. "Fine."

“That’s oddly unspecific.” Ron said with a frown.

“She was fine last time I talked to her.” Harry said simply.

Ron's brows drew together. "Mate, are you going to tell us what’s going on?"

Harry's shoulders tightened. "Nothing is going on. She has her modeling. I have Quidditch. We're just slowing things down during the season."

Hermione's eyes searched his. "Harry—" Her voice was soft, but persistent.

"I'm fine," he snapped, a little too quickly, then regretted it.

Ron shifted. "All right. Leave it, Hermione."

The room settled into an awkward quiet.

Ron nudged his glass toward Harry. "Eat first, then we'll look at Kenmare."

Harry forced a nod, but the set of his jaw said he was already somewhere else. The match was waiting. Later, Ron clicked the projector on, grainy play flickering across the wall.

"Mate, seriously, it's Kenmare. They're down in the same muck as Chudley. Have been for nearly a decade."

Harry leaned forward, not smiling. "They're professionals," he said flatly. "They've made it to this level. That means something."

Ron sighed. "All right. Superficially, their Beaters swing hard, but they are also sloppy. Their Keeper guesses more than he reads so sometimes he gets really lucky sometimes and looks amazing. They have one really good Chaser and the others wouldn’t even make it to the reserves in Puddlemere. Opposing teams usually send both Beaters after Johnston and let their Chasers pressure the other two. It’s been pretty effective, and Pucey is more than a match for even Johnston. Ginny picked them apart a few weeks ago, if you remember?"

Harry's eyes stayed sharp. "Then our goal shouldn’t be just to win."

Ron glanced over. "What do you mean?"

Harry's voice was low, steady. "We should dismantle them."

Ron blinked. Then slowly nodded. "Right. Dismantle them."

Ron shut the projector off after nearly an hour of reviewing footage Harry had already seen.  The screen faded to black while Ron sighed, "You sure you're alright, mate? You look..."

"I'm fine," Harry said again, softer this time. "Just focused."

Ron clapped his shoulder, understanding. "All right. See you Sunday. Try to get some rest."

Hermione hugged him at the door, her brow still creased. "Get some sleep?"

He promised he would, and the night air bit his face as he stepped out into the dark. He walked slower than usual. Sunday was already pressing at his chest.

The next morning came gray and brisk. Harry laced up his trainers and ran until his legs burned, until the cold air scraped his lungs clean. Then back home, match reports spread across his table. Kenmare's patterns circled, arrows drawn across formations, while notes were written in the margins.

By the time the sun had climbed a little higher, Harry was already deep into his review. The match wasn't here yet. But he was already playing it. By six-thirty Sunday evening, Harry had nothing left to think about. The Puddlemere locker room carried the usual noise around him. Broom cupboards slammed shut. Someone laughed near the showers. Jason and Conner were arguing over something Harry wasn't listening closely enough to understand. Charlotte sat on the bench opposite him tightening the leather around her wrists while Pucey paced slowly in front of his locker.

Harry sat between them, already dressed. His broom rested across his knees. He hadn't said more than a few words since arriving. It wasn't nerves. Harry knew what nerves felt like. They moved. They made his stomach turn, made his fingers restless, made him want to stand when he was sitting and sit when he was standing. This wasn't that. He felt still. Everything he'd spent the last three days carrying had finally narrowed into something simple enough to hold. Kenmare.

Oliver stepped into the center of the room with Coach Deverell beside him. The conversations died, and their coach spoke. "You know the plan."

Nobody answered. "We don't chase the occasion. We don't chase the broadcast. We don't chase whatever rubbish gets printed tomorrow morning. None of that matters."

Coach Deverell looked around the room. "We play our game. We win."

Harry lifted his eyes. Oliver found them for half a second. Kenmare. Harry gave the smallest nod. Oliver looked away before the coach thumped the captain on the shoulder. "Let's go, Puddlemere! Bring it in."

The team came together in a circle, raising their hands into the middle to meet Oliver's. "Puddlemere on three...one...two...three!"

"PUDDLEMERE."

The team cried out before grabbing their brooms and heading towards the tunnel. The tunnel was louder than anything Harry had experienced through the day. Harry could hear the stadium before he could see it, tens of thousands of voices compressed into a roar that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath his boots. Somewhere beyond Puddlemere, that sound was being carried into pubs and sitting rooms across Britain.

For the first time all season, Harry didn't care. He mounted his broom. The gates opened. The announcers began calling their names. The team flew out of the tunnel. The noise struck him all at once. Harry climbed into the air immediately, pushing all the noise out, the floodlights washing across his goggles as he rose above the rest of the formation. Blue filled the stands beneath him. Puddlemere banners snapped against the night. Across the pitch, Kenmare emerged in green and gold.

Harry found their Seeker. The man was already watching him. Good, Harry thought, I'll make you regret it.

The whistle sounded. Harry moved. The first Bludger came at him less than thirty seconds into the match. Harry almost laughed. He rolled beneath it, felt it tear through the space where his head had been, and watched the Kenmare Beater follow through. Ron had been right about their Beaters. They hit hard, but it was sloppy.

With a sharp turn on his broom, Harry swung around as Conner batted the Bludger toward Kenmare's Chasers—sending it veering back before it had even covered twenty yards. Harry surged forward into an acceleration. Meanwhile, Johnston carried the Quaffle directly up the center of the pitch with Pucey glued to his outer flank. Dubois and Chandler kept Kenmare’s other Chasers locked down, leaving Puddlemere’s Beaters free to swarm Johnston. Spotting Johnston under heavy pressure, both Kenmare Beaters swung outward toward Pucey to clear an opening.

Exactly as Ron had described.

Harry went into a steep dive, and the Kenmare Seeker trailed him out of pure instinct—a fatal error. Harry had no interest in the Snitch. Instead, he cut directly through the narrow gap separating Johnston from the closest Kenmare Beater. The Beater froze for a fraction of a second. That brief hesitation gave Pucey all the opening he required to slice inward, strip the Quaffle from Johnston, and feed it directly to Dubois. When Johnston scrambled to cut her off, Dubois smoothly flicked the Quaffle to Chandler, who beat the opposing Keeper with a clean strike.

Ten-zero.

Harry pulled out of the dive. The Kenmare Seeker stared at him. Harry smiled at the man, and he looked grim in return. Now the opposing Seeker seemed to understand what he was in for, or at least he thought he did.

The next ten minutes were miserable for Kenmare. Harry made certain of it. He didn't abandon the Snitch. He never stopped searching. His eyes moved constantly, checking the stands, the hoops, the open air above the Chasers. But every time Kenmare tried to settle into the match, Harry appeared somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. Their Beaters tried collapsing on Pucey again, but Harry crossed one of the Beaters' lines and forced him to hesitate on his swing leading to Charlotte scoring. Their Chasers tried isolating Pucey. Harry dropped through the formation closely enough that two defenders turned their heads which then led to Pucey scoring.

Their Keeper was growing increasingly desperate, guessing wildly with every attack. On Pucey’s third straight drive coming in from the left, Harry picked up on the trend—the Keeper had committed to his right before Pucey even released the Quaffle. Harry registered the error immediately, and Pucey caught it too. Twenty seconds later, when Pucey pressed forward again, Harry swept behind the left hoop. The Keeper’s gaze darted toward Harry just long enough for Pucey to launch the Quaffle to the right.

Goal.

Harry laughed as he climbed away. Thirty-zero became sixty-ten. Then ninety-twenty. Eventually Kenmare changed tactics. Puddlemere however had anticipated that too. Another influx of scoring occurred, which led Kenmare’s Beaters to change targets. The next few Bludgers weren't aimed at Pucey. They came for him. Harry saw the Beater wind up from forty yards away. He accelerated toward it. The crowd rose. Harry heard Oliver screaming something from below, but he didn't care. Not because he was reckless. Because this time he had seen everything. The Beater. The angle. The Bludger.

The second Beater was thirty yards behind him. Ballycastle flashed through Harry's mind for less than a heartbeat. Then it was gone. Harry waited. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. He rolled at the last possible moment and swung the tail of his broom through the Bludger's path. The impact jarred through the handle. The Bludger changed direction. It screamed back toward Kenmare's Seeker, who did not have time to duck.

The stadium exploded. Harry pulled upright. Across the pitch, Oliver had both hands on top of his head. Harry couldn't tell whether his captain wanted to celebrate or murder him. Probably both. The Kenmare Seeker recovered, but his arm was mangled, and he glared as he went to the sidelines for a substitution. Harry shrugged.

Bring on the next then.

The new man rose to the sky and charged, thinking he was going to make an example of Harry Potter. That was his first mistake. Harry drove upward. The new Seeker followed. Harry accelerated. Higher. The stadium seemed to disappear beneath them. Cold air tore across Harry's face as they climbed above the floodlights. Harry decided it was time to end this as his eyes scanned the pitch below.

Gold flashed near the western stands, and Harry plummeted across the sky. The Kenmare Reserve Seeker reacted a fraction late. That was enough. Harry fell almost vertically, flattening himself against his broom as the stadium rushed toward him. The Seeker chased, but it was hardly a competition. Harry could hear him falling behind, and he did not seem daring enough to follow Harry in the nosedive.

Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

Harry reached—

The Snitch turned. Harry followed. The Kenmare Seeker couldn't. Harry snapped his broom sideways through the turn and heard the other man swear as momentum carried him past. Harry didn't even smile. Not yet. Gold disappeared beneath the lower stands. Harry followed it through the shadows. A Bludger entered from his right. He saw it. Another from his left, but he saw that too. Harry dropped beneath the first. Climbed over the second. The Snitch broke into the open air. Harry accelerated. The crowd was standing now. He knew because the sound had changed. Not cheering. Anticipating. Harry stretched his arm forward. Five yards. The number came without permission.  Harry's fingers extended. Behind him, a Beater swung. Harry heard the crack. He didn't turn. He didn't need to. He had already seen the angle. Harry shifted half a broom width to the left. The Bludger passed his shoulder.

Gold filled his vision. His hand closed. For one second, everything stopped. Then the Snitch beat furiously against his palm. Harry pulled out of the dive and raised his fist.

The stadium detonated.

He barely heard the whistle. Below him, the scoreboard flashed the final score while Puddlemere players abandoned every position on the pitch and flew toward him. Harry hovered above them. Breathing hard. Sweat cooling against his skin. The Snitch fighting uselessly inside his fist.

He looked toward the Kenmare Seeker. Then their Beaters. Then the scoreboard. They hadn't beaten Kenmare. They had done exactly what he had planned to them. Ron had been right about almost everything. Except one thing. Kenmare had been good at something. They had given Harry somewhere to put all of his frustration. Pucey reached him first and nearly knocked him from his broom with the force of the embrace.

"You absolute fucking menace."

Harry finally laughed. Around them, Puddlemere celebrated. Across Britain, Harry imagined people beginning to write whatever story they wanted about what they'd just seen. Comeback. Redemption. Proof.

Harry looked down at the Snitch in his hand. None of those words felt quite right. He had wanted to know what happened when he gave the game everything. Tonight, at least, he had his answer.