Chapter 38

By noon Sunday, the Burrow looked less like the home of the Weasley family and more like somebody had attempted to fit an entire Puddlemere supporters' section inside Molly Weasley’s kitchen.

Harry stopped just inside the doorway and stared. Blue and gold everywhere. Ron was wearing a Puddlemere jersey with POTTER stretched across the shoulders and a massive gold 7 on the back. Arthur had somehow found an old-fashioned Puddlemere scarf that looked older than Harry was. Bill wore a newer version around his neck, while Fleur had tied a blue-and-gold ribbon into her hair. Even Percy had surrendered to the occasion and was wearing a Puddlemere pin on his robes.

George had gone considerably further. His face was painted half blue and half gold. Harry pointed at him.

“Wow.”

George looked pleased. “Gotta be in the right spirit for a game like this.”

“Okay,” Harry said with a laugh. “Glad you’re having fun with this.”

Ginny was perhaps the strangest sight of all, wearing her Holyhead Harpies shirt beneath an enormous Puddlemere scarf. Harry looked at her. She held up a hand immediately.

“I have contractual obligations.”

“You're cheering for us.”

“Today.”

“I'll take it.”

Molly emerged from the kitchen wearing a blue jumper beneath a gold apron, saw Harry standing there, and immediately caught him by both shoulders. “There you are.”

“Hello to you too,” Harry said, greeting his surrogate mother.

“You’ve eaten?”

Harry glanced toward the table already disappearing beneath plates.

“I assumed that was why I was invited.”

Molly frowned. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“He’s playing for the British and Irish Championship in three hours, Mum,” Ron called from the table. “I think even Harry understands he should eat.”

“Thank you, Ron,” Harry said as he threw an arm around his friend.

“I said think,” Ron countered with a laugh.

Harry gave him two fingers. The kitchen erupted. “Did Demelza get her ticket?” Ginny asked as Harry slid away from Ron.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I gave it to her yesterday. She's meeting everyone at the stadium.”

Ron glanced over. “Good seat?”

Harry gave him a look. “She spent months asking me questions about professional Quidditch. I'm not sticking her in the top row for the Championship.”

Ginny grinned.

“You've created a monster, you know. The other girls I played with in my last year tell me she is a slave driver now.”

“Good.”

Harry shrugged out of his cloak. “Maybe somebody else can deal with her next year.”

Ginny's grin widened, but mercifully she let that one go. Nearly everyone was there.

Hermione sat beside Ron. Arthur occupied one end of the table beside Percy, who had apparently spent most of lunch attempting to explain some Ministry regulation nobody else cared about. Bill and Fleur had arrived that morning. Charlie had somehow made it back from Romania. George was already taking bets on how many times Wood would scream at an official during the opening hour.

Ginny sat opposite Harry, looking considerably too pleased with herself. “You know,” she said, “if you win today, Holyhead can technically say we gave the champions their hardest match.”

Harry stared at her. “You lost by a hundred and forty.”

“We played for six hours.”

“You still lost.”

“Details.”

Ron leaned across the table. “Ignore her. She's been unbearable since that Prophet article called it the best match of her career.”

“It was the best match of my career,” Ginny defended.

“You scored on Puddlemere's backup Keeper.”

Ginny threw a roll at him. “I scored on Oliver too!”

Molly turned around instantly. “Ginny!”

“He deserved it,” Ginny grumbled.

“He usually does,” Harry agreed.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Harry smiled as the noise swallowed the table again. This was what he had wanted. He hadn't realized it until he was sitting there. No reporters. No questions about MaCloud. No one asking how it felt to be Rookie of the Year or whether ten Snitch catches had changed his expectations for himself or whether Puddlemere's nine-match winning streak created additional pressure.

Just Molly putting too much food on his plate. Charlie asking whether the Comet had been serviced. George insisting that Montrose's Keeper had a weakness low and left despite having absolutely no evidence to support the claim. And Ron looking more nervous than Harry felt.

Harry pointed his fork at him. “You all right?”

Ron blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Harry acknowledged.

“Fine.”

“You've checked the clock four times in ten minutes.”

“I'm making sure you aren't late.”

“The stadium is seconds away by Apparition.”

“Still.”

Ginny snorted. “He's been like this all morning.”

“It's the Championship.”

Harry grinned. “I know. I'm playing in it.”

“That is not helping.”

Fleur laughed quietly from beside Bill. Then her attention shifted toward Harry. “Gabrielle says congratulations, by the way.”

The name caught him slightly off guard. Not badly. Just enough.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. She wrote.”

The letter had arrived Thursday evening, only a few hours after the awards had been announced. Three pages. Paris was incredible. The new campaign had expanded again. There had been meetings in Milan. Someone in New York wanted to speak with her before summer. And between all of it, several paragraphs about him. About Rookie of the Year. About Wood winning MVP. About the Championship.

She had underlined the last line twice. I promised I would be there Sunday. I will be there.

Fleur smiled. “She is very proud of you.”

Harry looked down at his plate. “I'm proud of her too.”

And he was. That was the strange part. There had been no fight. No betrayal. Nothing Harry could point toward and say there—that's where it went wrong.

Gabrielle's life had simply become larger. So had his. Their letters still came. Their conversations were still easy. But weeks had begun passing between seeing one another without either of them seeming particularly surprised by it.

Ginny studied him from across the table. “She coming today?”

Harry looked up. “Yeah.” The answer came without hesitation. “She said she'd be there.”

Fleur nodded as though that settled it. Harry did too.

Ron, however, watched him for another second. “You two all right?”

Harry frowned. “Why wouldn't we be?”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno.”

Harry considered the question. Longer than he probably should have. “We're fine. I’ll look forward to celebrating with her tonight, when we win.”

Ron glanced toward Ginny. Ginny suddenly became extremely interested in her potatoes.

Harry rolled his eyes. “We are.”

“Didn't say anything,” Ron defended.

“You made a face.”

“I've got one face.”

“That explains a lot.”

George leaned around Charlie. “For what it's worth, Harry, Angelina says you should never trust anyone who says they're fine.”

Charlie nodded gravely. “Usually means they're about to hex you.”

“Our family is incredibly helpful,” Harry deadpanned.

“We try.”

Molly saved him by placing another helping onto his plate despite the fact Harry hadn't finished the first.

“Mrs. Weasley—”

“You'll need it.”

Harry surrendered. Across the table Arthur raised his glass. “Actually, before everyone starts rushing about…”

The room gradually quieted. Arthur looked at Harry. There was no grand speech in his expression. That was probably why Harry immediately felt something tighten in his chest.

“We're proud of you. Molly and I, the whole family. We couldn’t be more proud of the player and the young man you’ve become.”

Harry swallowed.

Arthur smiled. “Whatever happens today. Nothing will change that.”

Harry heard Wood's voice in his head. Wrong answer. He smiled.

“To Harry.”

Everyone followed.

Harry looked around the table.

Molly.

Arthur.

Ron.

Ginny.

Bill.

Fleur.

Charlie.

Percy.

George.

People who had known him before anyone had cared how many Snitches he caught. Before Puddlemere. Before Rookie of the Year. Before newspaper columns discussed him like he belonged among professional stars.

Harry lifted his own glass. “To one more win.”

That received a considerably louder response. Glasses clinked. Harry took a long sip of his water. A few minutes later, chairs began scraping backward. The peaceful lunch disintegrated immediately. Molly started shouting about scarves. Ron disappeared upstairs because he'd forgotten something. George began arguing over whether bringing fireworks into a professional Quidditch stadium technically violated League regulations.

“It absolutely does,” Percy said.

“Wonderful,” George replied.

Harry stood near the kitchen door and checked his watch. Time. His stomach tightened. Not fear exactly. Something sharper. Something he'd been carrying for months.

Ginny stepped beside him. “MaCloud's good.”

Harry looked at her. “I know.”

“But you're better than you were.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I know that too.”

“Good.” She slapped his shoulder. “Go prove it.”

Harry took one last look around the Burrow. Then reached for his cloak. Somewhere in the Championship stands, Gabrielle would be waiting. Demelza would be there too. Ron and the others would be there. Thousands of Puddlemere supporters would be there. Oliver would already be losing his mind. And MaCloud would be waiting on the other side of the pitch.

Harry opened the door.

Sunday had finally arrived.

Harry heard the stadium before he saw it. He Apparated into the secured League arrival area and was immediately met by a roar powerful enough to carry through the surrounding woods. Harry stopped. Not cheering. Not yet. Just noise.

A hundred thousand people talking, singing, stamping their feet, and waiting for something that had consumed nearly the entire Quidditch world for the last week.

Puddlemere.

Montrose.

Harry adjusted the strap of his Comet case across his shoulder and followed the stream of League officials toward the stadium. Already photographs were being snapped of him, and journalists were shouting questions towards him. Harry waved, but nothing more.

Harry stared up at the stadium as he stood at the entrance to the facility. He had been here before. Years ago. He had been fourteen years old, following the Weasleys through a crowd larger than anything he had ever seen, climbing toward seats that seemed impossibly high while Ireland and Bulgaria prepared to play for the World Cup. He remembered looking down at Viktor Krum and wondering what it must feel like to fly in a stadium like this with the entire world watching.

Harry's heart gave one hard beat against his ribs. Then another. Funny how things worked out.

“Potter?”

Harry looked over. A League security wizard held open the players' gate, no Rex in sight.

“Puddlemere changing room is through the western corridor.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

He stepped inside. The corridors beneath the old World Cup stadium had been transformed for the Championship. League banners hung from nearly every wall.

BRITISH AND IRISH QUIDDITCH LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP

PUDDLEMERE UNITED VS MONTROSE MAGPIES

Blue and gold marked one side of the central corridor. Black and white marked the other. Officials Harry didn't recognize stood at nearly every intersection. He passed broadcasters, medical staff, more photographers waiting behind restricted barriers, equipment crews and League personnel rushing in both directions.

Nobody owned this stadium today. Not Puddlemere. Not Montrose. They had both earned the right to be here. That was all. Harry kept walking.

He reached the western changing room and pushed through the doors. Most of the team was already there. And for once, nobody was messing around.

Pucey sat at his locker wrapping his wrists. Charlotte was tightening the straps on her gloves. Conner and Jason quietly inspected their bats. Garrett sat forward on the bench, elbows against his knees, staring at the floor. Cho was already dressed.

Harry had barely taken two steps inside when a voice echoed faintly through the concrete walls.

“—and I simply don't know how you separate these two clubs anymore.”

Harry stopped. The voice wasn't coming from inside the room. Somewhere beyond the changing-room doors, one of the League's pregame broadcasts was being carried throughout the stadium. It wasn't loud enough to hear every word, but the old structure seemed to catch certain sentences and funnel them directly through the corridors.

Another voice answered. “You separate them at Seeker.”

Nobody in the locker room moved. Harry slowly lowered his Comet case beside his locker as he pretended not to be interested in what the commentators were saying.

“Puddlemere may have the League MVP in Oliver Wood. They may have the Rookie of the Year, and they may have been one of the hottest clubs in Britain down the stretch. But if you're asking me what decides this Championship, I'm looking at Potter and MaCloud.”

Harry glanced toward Robertson. The Seeker coach was listening too. So was Cho.

“Cormac MaCloud has been doing this for years. He's captained Montrose on stages like this before. Potter hasn't. That's not criticism. That's simply the reality of what these young stars are going to have to overcome.”

A few muffled words disappeared beneath a sudden roar from outside. Then the first broadcaster came back through the wall. “Ten Snitch catches as a rookie suggests Potter hasn't been particularly interested in reality this season.”

That earned the smallest snort from Pucey. Harry looked over. Adrian continued wrapping his wrist as though he hadn't made a sound.

The broadcast continued. “And that's what makes this fascinating. The established star against the one everybody has spent this season watching become one. MaCloud has the experience for sure, but Potter has perhaps been the most disruptive Seeker in the League because he refuses to play the position the way anyone expects him to.”

Harry found himself staring down at the number seven waiting inside his open locker, the butterflies feeling more real now than they ever had.

“And I remember their first meeting. Seven hours before MaCloud caught the Snitch. Montrose wins, and Potter had to live with that result for most of this season. I would expect him to come out like he has something to prove.”

Harry's jaw tightened. Apparently the broadcast wasn't interested in helping.

The second voice cut back in. “But this isn't the same Harry Potter who walked into Montrose months ago.”

That made Harry's eyes narrow, determination swelling within him.

“No. And this certainly isn't the same Puddlemere United,” the first announcer agreed.

Another surge of noise rolled through the walls. The broadcaster raised his voice over it. “That's the story today. Puddlemere haven't come here trying to prove they belong anymore. They've already done that. Harry Potter has already done that. The question now is whether this young club can finish what it started.”

For several seconds there was only the distant sound of the crowd. Harry looked around the changing room. The whole team had heard every word. Nobody said anything. Harry felt something shift low in his stomach. Not nerves. Recognition.

Months ago, people had wondered whether Puddlemere had made a mistake drafting him. Whether Wood was too young to captain. Whether their roster was good enough. Whether Harry Potter could actually become a professional Seeker instead of simply being a famous wizard who happened to fly well. Nobody was asking those questions anymore. Now there was only one game left.

"Thank Merlin, they finally shut up," Pucey mumbled as he leaned back staring at the white lights of the ceiling.

Harry laughed softly and reached his locker. His uniform was waiting. Blue. Gold. Number Seven. He ran his fingers over the jersey before pulling it free. His heartbeat remained steady. Fast. But steady.

Harry began piecing together his uniform. Undershirt. Protective padding. Trousers. Boots. Gloves. Every piece went on exactly the way it had twelve times before. That helped, because everything felt different.

The stadium was different. The changing room was different. The crowd outside was larger than anything he had played in front of all season. But his uniform?

Harry tightened his left glove. This he knew. He opened the Comet case. The broom gleamed beneath the changing-room lights. Robertson appeared beside him.

Harry glanced over. “You going to tell me not to think about MaCloud?”

“No.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Robertson shrugged. “You'd ignore me.”

“Probably.”

“MaCloud's going to watch you.”

Harry looked back at his broom. “Let him.”

“Exactly.” Robertson gave his shoulder one firm squeeze. “Fly your match.”

Then he walked away. That was it. Harry appreciated that. A few minutes later, Phil Deverell entered. Conversation died immediately. The coach looked around the room.

At Wood.

At Chandler.

At Pucey.

At Charlotte.

At the Beaters.

At Harry.

He seemed to consider saying something. Then apparently thought better of it. “You know the plan.” Heads nodded. “You know them.”

Another round of nods. Coach Deverell looked toward Wood. “They're all yours.”

Oliver stood. Harry waited. He could almost feel everyone preparing for the speech. Wood looked around the changing room. His team.

“Opportunities like this don’t come along every day, or even every year,” Wood said simply. “We have to play like each possession could be our last. We are going to win this game, but only if every one of us plays for the people beside him.”

Wood paused, looking from one face to the next. “We are one team, with one dream.”

Harry felt a smile pull at his lips. He remembered those words. His first match. His first time wearing Puddlemere blue in front of the world. A group of players who had still felt more like strangers than teammates. Wood held his hand out toward the center of the room.

Unlike earlier in the season, nobody needed to be asked twice. Pucey was first in. Then Chandler. Charlotte. Jason. Conner. Harry pressed his hand into the pile with the rest as the entire team crowded together.

Wood looked around the circle. “One team?”

“One dream!” they roared.

“One team?”

“One dream!”

Wood nodded in satisfaction, a huge smile on his face now. “Puddlemere on three.”

“One!”

“Two!”

“THREE!”

“PUDDLEMERE!”

The shout shook the changing room. Wood snatched up his broom. “Let’s go win this fucking game!”

The team moved toward the tunnel as one. The sound grew with every step. Harry had played in loud stadiums. He had played in front of crowds that sang his name. He had played seven hours against Montrose. He had been knocked unconscious against Ballycastle. He had flown through rain so heavy he could barely see. None of it sounded like this.

The tunnel vibrated beneath their feet. Thousands of Puddlemere supporters had somehow made themselves heard even among a crowd large enough to fill the World Cup stadium again.

U-NIT-ED!

The answer rolled across the bowl in a three-syllable chant.

U-NIT-ED!

Harry swallowed. They reached the mouth of the western tunnel. Daylight spilled across the floor. A League official held up one hand. “Wait for the introduction.”

Harry stopped beside Wood. Across the pitch, the eastern tunnel opened beneath a wall of black and white. Montrose. Harry could barely make out the figures waiting inside. Then one stepped forward. MaCloud.

Even from across the stadium, Harry recognized him. The announcer's voice thundered through the enormous bowl. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—WELCOME TO THE BRITISH AND IRISH QUIDDITCH LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP!”

The roar became deafening. Harry's heart slammed against his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

He breathed through his nose. The Montrose players were introduced first. Each name received a mixture of cheers, applause, and boos depending on which section answered loudest. Then MaCloud.

The response was enormous. Harry rolled his shoulders.

Beside him, Wood stared straight ahead.

“And now—the challengers from Puddlemere!”

Blue and gold erupted throughout the stadium. “PUDDLEMERE UNITED!”

Wood went first. Then the rest. Harry stepped into the light. The sound hit him like something physical. Blue-and-gold sections stretched upward through the stands, battling with Montrose black and white and the thousands of neutral supporters who had come simply to watch the two best teams in Britain settle it.

Scarves.

Flags.

Banners.

Number Five.

Number Eleven.

Number Seven.

Harry climbed onto his Comet. Names thundered overhead.

“ADRIAN PUCEY!”

The Puddlemere sections roared.

“CAPTAIN AND MVP, OLIVER WOOD!”

Louder.

Then—

“THE ROOKIE OF THE YEAR, AND SEEKER FOR PUDDLEMERE UNITED, HARRY POTTER!”

Harry kicked away from the ground. The stadium disappeared beneath the noise. He climbed hard, circling once above the pitch while nearly a hundred thousand voices seemed to shout at the same time. For one brief second, Harry remembered sitting somewhere high above this same grass watching Viktor Krum dive after a Snitch. Now people were watching him.

Harry banked sharply. No time for that. He looked toward the section reserved for players' families and guests. Red hair everywhere. Ron was standing. Ginny beside him, her enormous Puddlemere scarf impossible to miss. Molly. Arthur. Bill and Fleur. Charlie and George waving something enormous that Harry was almost certain League security should have confiscated.

Demelza sat a few seats farther down, decked out in Puddlemere blue and staring at the pitch like she intended to memorize every second. Harry smiled. His eyes moved once more through the section. Looking. He didn't even realize he was doing it until he reached the end. No Gabrielle. Harry's smile faded. Maybe she was late. The stadium was enormous. Security was ridiculous. Getting through the crowds couldn't have been easy. She'd be there.

Harry turned away. It couldn’t matter. Not now.

The Puddlemere players descended toward midfield, lining up shoulder-to-shoulder opposite Montrose. Harry landed beside Pucey. Wood stood at the end of the line, expression hard, broom held vertically against his side. Across from them, Montrose settled into place. MaCloud stood directly opposite Harry.

The announcer spoke again. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem.”

The stadium changed. Not quiet. Something bigger than quiet. Nearly a hundred thousand people rose together as a magical brass ensemble somewhere beneath the western stands began the opening notes of what sounded suspiciously like God Save the Queen.

Harry straightened. Around him, Puddlemere stood motionless. Blue and gold on one side. Montrose black and white on the other. Then the crowd began to sing. The sound rolled down from every level of the old World Cup stadium, tens of thousands of voices merging until Harry could feel the anthem through the soles of his boots.

He looked upward. Flags moved in the wind above the highest stands. England. Scotland. Puddlemere. Montrose. For now, nobody was booing anyone. Harry felt his heartbeat hammering beneath his jersey. He had stood in this stadium years ago as a boy surrounded by the Weasleys, watching international stars prepare to play the biggest match of their lives.

He remembered Krum. Ireland. The impossible size of the place. How distant the players had seemed from where Harry sat. Untouchable. Now he stood on the grass. Number Seven across his back. Rookie of the Year. One match from a Championship. The final notes echoed away. For half a second, silence held. Then the stadium erupted all over again. Harry exhaled. That was enough looking backward.

The teams mounted their brooms and took to the skies. Harry crossed the pitch. MaCloud met him near midfield. For a moment they hovered opposite one another.

MaCloud glanced toward Harry's Comet. “Ten catches.”

Harry nodded. “Eleven sounds better.”

MaCloud laughed. “There he is. Good luck, Potter. You’re going to need it.”

The referee’s voice boomed across the pitch. “Puddlemere United, Montrose Magpies—congratulations on outstanding seasons. You have both earned your places here today. This match will be officiated under standard League rules. Obey my commands at all times. When the whistle sounds, play is dead. Any infractions may result in penalty shots. Am I understood?”

Both sides answered.

“Good. Captains, shake hands.”

Oliver flew to the center of the pitch, meeting MaCloud there. They clasped hands once before separating and returning to their respective sides. The chants were building again as the stadium announcer took over, but Harry barely heard them now. His eyes were fixed on the official carrying the regulation ball case onto the grass.

His heartbeat thudded against his ribs.

Harry knew what came next. The official set the case down.

Harry leaned lower over his Comet. The referee kicked the release. The latches snapped open. Two Bludgers tore free immediately, rocketing toward opposite ends of the pitch. The Golden Snitch flashed gold for barely half a second before disappearing into the enormous stadium. Harry's eyes instinctively followed it for as long as he could, but it was gone in seconds. Below them, the referee pulled the Quaffle from the case and walked toward the center circle.

Harry could barely breathe. For one strange moment, everything seemed to slow. The crowd. The flags. MaCloud hovering across from him. Oliver tightening his grip on his broom.

The referee raised the Quaffle. Harry’s heart slammed once against his chest. The whistle blew. The Quaffle flew.

The Championship began.