A Star Is Born Chapter 39 (Patreon)

Chapter 39

A Star Is Born

The Quaffle flew. Pucey reached it first. Harry barely registered the opening possession before the pitch exploded around him. Montrose attacked immediately. Not recklessly. Not desperately. But with precision.

Their Chasers collapsed on Pucey before he could build speed, forcing him toward the outside of the formation while one of the Magpie Beaters sent a Bludger screaming through the space where Charlotte had been moving to receive the pass.

Pucey pulled up. Chandler cut underneath. The Quaffle changed hands. Harry was already moving. He dropped twenty feet, carving through the center of the Montrose formation and forcing one of their Chasers to bank away sharply before she could close on Chandler.

“Inside!” Harry shouted.

Garrett saw it. He fired the Quaffle across his body. Charlotte caught it in stride. The Puddlemere end of the stadium erupted. Harry climbed again, eyes sweeping automatically across the stadium for gold. Nothing. He looked toward McCloud. The veteran wasn’t searching either. He was already diving.

Harry’s stomach dropped. For half a second he thought McCloud had seen the Snitch. Then he realized where the man was headed. Pucey.

“Adrian!”

Too late. McCloud sliced directly through the passing lane just as Charlotte released the Quaffle. He never touched the ball. He didn’t have to. Pucey saw the veteran coming and instinctively shifted his broom to avoid the collision. The hesitation was enough. A Montrose Chaser intercepted.

McCloud shot upward again before Harry could even reach him. The Magpies countered. Three passes. One shot. Wood knocked the Quaffle away with the heel of his hand. Chandler recovered. Harry grinned despite himself.

This was going to be a fucking nightmare.

He accelerated. For the next twenty minutes, neither team gave the other room to breathe. Harry had spent most of his rookie season discovering that the easiest way to help Puddlemere was often to stop behaving like a traditional Seeker.

He crowded Chasers. Cut passing lanes. Forced opponents toward the sidelines. Called out formations from above. Every few seconds his eyes still swept the pitch for the smallest flash of gold, but between those searches he became another moving piece in Puddlemere’s defense.

Against almost every other club, it had given United an advantage. Today, Montrose had McCloud. Every time Harry disrupted something, McCloud seemed to answer. Harry forced a Montrose Chaser wide. McCloud drove Charlotte off her route at the other end. Harry slapped the Quaffle away from a Magpie and toward Chandler.

McCloud dropped beneath Pucey and forced him to release early. Harry baited one of Montrose’s Beaters into wasting a shot. McCloud pulled Jason far enough out of position that the second Bludger screamed untouched through the Puddlemere formation. Neither Seeker had caught anything. Neither had even seen the Snitch.

And somehow both were already influencing nearly every possession. “Potter!”

Harry turned.

McCloud swept past him close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Busy today?”

Harry kicked harder and matched him. “Trying to keep up with you.”

McCloud laughed. Then dropped away without warning. Harry followed. The veteran flattened himself against his broom and tore straight toward Pucey.

Harry understood immediately. “No you fucking don’t.”

He overtook McCloud just before they reached the Chasers and slid between him and Pucey. McCloud pulled up violently. Harry shot him a grin.

Pucey scored behind them. Ten points. The Puddlemere supporters detonated. McCloud looked toward the hoops. Then back at Harry.

“That was irritating,” the man gritted out, but didn’t look angry in the slightest.

“Good,” Harry offered with a dramatic bow of his head.

The veteran smiled. “I like you, Potter, but I like beating you more.”

Then he was gone. Harry barely had time to enjoy it. Montrose scored twice in the next three minutes. Puddlemere answered. Montrose answered again. Thirty minutes became forty-five. Forty-five became an hour. The scoreboard climbed without either club creating meaningful separation.

PUDDLEMERE 100

MONTROSE 110

Harry’s lungs burned. Sweat ran beneath his goggles. Wood was playing brilliantly, but Montrose was too good to shut down completely. At the opposite end, Pucey had already scored five times, while Chandler seemed determined to make every Montrose Chaser regret coming anywhere near the Quaffle.

Charlotte darted through the middle. Pucey found her. Harry saw the Bludger before she did. “CHARLOTTE!”

Jason swung. His bat connected—

—but only barely.

The Bludger changed direction, but a second was right behind it, leaving him no time to swat at the second as it struck Charlotte high along her left side. The sound reached Harry even over the crowd. Charlotte folded.

Her broom dropped beneath her. The whistle screamed. Play died instantly. Harry was already diving. Charlotte managed to stay on her broom, but only because her right hand had locked around the handle. Her left arm hung tightly against her ribs. Harry reached her as Chandler came in from the other direction.

“I'm fine,” Charlotte gasped.

“You look as fantastic as always,” Chandler said helpfully.

“Shut up.”

She tried to straighten. Pain flashed across her face. Wood arrived. One look was enough. “Grounded.”

“I can play,” the woman defended desperately.

“Charlotte,” Wood said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“We're in the Championship!” she said, swatting away his hand, but grimacing in pain, tears welling up in her eyes. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the pain or the situation.

“And I need you to be able to breathe,” Wood countered.

“I can breathe!” she countered loudly.

She inhaled and immediately regretted it. Harry winced.

“You’re grounded, Charlotte. I’m sorry.”

Charlotte glared at him. Medical staff were already approaching from below. She looked toward Deverell on the sideline. Then toward the scoreboard.

Her jaw tightened. “Fuck.”

Harry touched her good shoulder. “We've got you.”

Charlotte looked at him. “You'd better.”

The healers guided her down. The crowd applauded as she reached the ground. Harry hovered above the pitch watching Deverell confer with the medical staff for less than thirty seconds before the decision became obvious. Charlotte wasn't coming back.

A figure in Puddlemere blue shot upward from the sideline. Malcolm Brogdon. The first-line reserve Chaser had been through this before. He joined Pucey and Chandler without ceremony. Pucey pointed toward Charlotte as she disappeared toward the medical tunnel.

“We win this for her.”

Brogdon nodded. The referee raised the Quaffle. Harry looked toward McCloud. The veteran gave him a small nod. No smile this time. The whistle blew. They went back to war.

.o.

Three hours later, Harry had stopped noticing the crowd.

The scoreboard read:

PUDDLEMERE 280

MONTROSE 270

Four hours and fourteen minutes had passed since the opening whistle.

It felt like ten minutes at times. Then it felt like twelve hours at others. Harry had lost any meaningful sense of time.

There was only the game. Search. Defend. Search. Attack. Search. McCloud. Always McCloud. Twice Harry had thought he saw the Snitch. Once it had been the reflection of sunlight against a spectator’s Omnioculars.

The second time it had been real. Harry had spotted gold near the southern stands and launched into a dive so quickly that his stomach seemed to stay behind. McCloud had seen him go. Of course he had. The veteran caught Harry halfway down. They raced side by side through three hundred feet of open air before the Snitch vanished beneath a row of seats. Neither man had touched it. They had barely slowed before returning to the match.

By the fourth hour, their game had changed. The early playfulness was gone. No comments. No smiles. No admiration. They knew what the other could do now. Harry began watching McCloud almost as closely as he watched for the Snitch. McCloud did the same. Every feint was challenged. Every dive followed. Every attempt to disappear into the Chaser formation answered.

Harry could not lose him. McCloud could not lose Harry. Below them, the rest of the teams continued beating the hell out of one another. Pucey took a shoulder to the chest and somehow kept possession. Garrett intercepted two passes in less than a minute. Wood made a save one-handed while shouting at Conner to cover the opposite side.

Brogdon had settled into the match remarkably well. Not Charlotte. Nobody expected that. But good. Dependable. Enough. Puddlemere scored.

290–270.

The roar barely registered. Montrose came back immediately. Harry dropped into the lane. A Chaser saw him and passed early. Garrett read it. Intercepted.

“GO!” Harry roared.

Puddlemere surged the other direction.

Pucey.

Chandler.

Brogdon.

Harry raced beside them. McCloud appeared on his right. Harry shifted toward him. McCloud shifted back. Neither wanted the other anywhere near the play.

Pucey threw back to Brogdon. One of the Montrose Beaters swung. Harry saw the Bludger leave the bat. “Malcolm!”

Brogdon turned. The warning saved him from taking it in the face. It did not save him completely. The Bludger smashed into his right knee. His leg snapped sideways. Brogdon screamed. The Quaffle fell from his hands.

The whistle blew. Harry stopped so hard his broom nearly bucked underneath him. Brogdon was falling. Chandler caught his upper body. Pucey grabbed the broom. Together they lowered him toward the ground. Harry followed. He knew before they landed. Everyone did.

Brogdon clutched his knee with both hands, face white. “No,” he gasped.

A healer reached him.

“No, no, no. Give me a minute.”

“Don't move,” the healer pleaded.

“I can go back,” Malcolm begged.

“Malcolm—” Pucey began.

“Give me a fucking minute!”

The healer touched the knee. Brogdon screamed again. That ended the argument. Wood landed beside Harry. His chest heaved. For the first time in the match, the captain looked genuinely rattled. Harry looked toward the Puddlemere sideline. Charlotte was nowhere in sight. Still receiving treatment. Brogdon lay on the grass.

Pucey. Chandler. Two healthy Chasers. That was it. Phil Deverell was already moving.

He signaled toward the officials. “TIMEOUT!”

The referee acknowledged him. The Puddlemere players descended. Harry pulled off his goggles as soon as his boots touched grass. More than four hours into the Championship.

Twenty points ahead. One starting Chaser gone. Her replacement gone. And Montrose looked as dangerous as they had at the opening whistle. The team gathered around Deverell. Nobody spoke.

Wood looked at the bench. Then the medical tunnel. Then at Deverell.

“We don't have another Chaser,” Wood said.

“No,” Deverell agreed.

Harry wiped sweat from his forehead. His heartbeat was still racing from the match.

“Jimmy, Finn, did either of you ever play Chaser in school? With your mates, anything?” Wood asked, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

The reserve Keeper and Beater both looked pale at the question.

Finn O’Hara shook his head. “Sure, Wood, but never on my school team. Backyard Quidditch with people who weren’t even good enough to make their school teams.”

Jimmy Christie answered immediately. “I haven’t even done that. I’ve been a Beater since before Hogwarts.”

Wood swore under his breath.

“What about shifting Garrett inside more?” Pucey offered. “Let him carry the middle and we play two Chasers wide.”

“With who?” Chandler asked. “We still need a third body.”

“Jimmy could just stay high and move the Quaffle. Play defense.”

Jimmy stared at him. “I genuinely don’t know if you’re joking.”

“I’m running out of ideas,” Pucey defended angrily.

“So am I, but I’d rather not lose the Championship because I forgot which end of the Quaffle to throw.”

Charlotte’s absence suddenly seemed enormous. Deverell rubbed both hands over his face. “We could move one of the Beaters into the formation and play with one bat.”

Conner immediately shook his head. “Against Montrose? Absolutely not.”

“They’ll murder us with Bludgers,” Jason agreed.

“Then Finn,” Oliver said.

Finn’s eyes widened. “I stop Quaffles; I can’t throw one to save my life.”

“It’s the same ball shape!” Wood said in irritation.

“No thanks, Cap, but that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“And I’ve known him for years,” Pucey added.

Nobody laughed. Harry listened as one option after another died almost as quickly as it was suggested. Two Chasers and an extra Beater. Wood moving out of goal—he at least knew the formations but had never played Chaser.

Chandler playing almost alone in the middle was offered. Trying to hide Finn on the wing and hoping Montrose didn’t notice was the worst alternative. Montrose would notice. Of course they would. McCloud certainly would. Harry looked toward the other sideline. The Magpies had already gathered around their captain, talking calmly while Puddlemere scrambled for an answer.

They knew. Harry could practically see it from here. One more injury and Puddlemere was bleeding. The referee approached.

“Two minutes, Puddlemere.”

Wood nodded sharply. “Understood.”

The official walked away. Two minutes. Harry looked at Pucey. At Chandler. At Cho standing behind Robertson with her broom in one hand. Then at McCloud across the pitch.

And suddenly the answer seemed so fucking obvious Harry nearly laughed. “I’ll do it.”

Nobody reacted at first. Wood was still talking.

“We could put Jimmy on the weak—”

“I’ll do it,” Harry said again.

This time everyone heard him. The entire huddle turned.

Wood frowned. “Do what?”

Harry pointed toward the Chasers. “I’ll play with them.”

Silence. Pucey stared at him. “As a Chaser?”

“Yes. I know the formations. I have studied them all year so I don’t get in their way as I interfere.”

Robertson’s eyebrows rose. Deverell looked from Harry to Cho. Harry already knew where his mind had gone.

“No,” Wood said immediately.

Harry looked at him. “Why?”

“Because you’re our Seeker.”

“And she’s also our Seeker.”

Harry pointed at Cho. Cho went very still. Wood stared at him.

Harry continued before anyone could interrupt. “We need a Chaser. I can fly the position. I’ve spent half the season inside their formations anyway. I know our routes. I know where Adrian wants the Quaffle. I know how Garrett moves. I spent most of the season taking shots at you before practice and even scored a few.”

“You’ve never played Chaser professionally,” Deverell said.

“Neither has anybody else we can put in there.”

That shut him up.

Harry looked at Cho. “And she’s already proven she can catch the Snitch.”

Cho’s eyes widened slightly. The referee called from across the grass.

“Sixty seconds!”

Harry turned back to Wood. “We can keep talking about bad options, or we can use the one that might actually work. Let’s face it, it’s this, or Montrose runs up the scoreboard so fast the Snitch will be irrelevant.”

Wood said nothing. Harry could see the argument happening behind his eyes. Captain versus Keeper. Risk versus necessity.

Harry glanced at the scoreboard. Twenty points. Four hours. Montrose. Championship.

Then back at Wood.

“I can do this. You’ve prepared me for this since I was eleven years old. I’ll keep us alive; Cho will win us the game.”

Wood looked toward Cho. “You ready?”

Cho swallowed. Then tightened her grip on her broom. “Yes.”

Harry smiled. Wood closed his eyes for half a second. When they opened again, the decision had been made. “Fine.”

Pucey blinked. “Fine?”

Wood pointed at Harry. “You’re our third Chaser. Follow Adrian and Garrett’s lead.”

Then at Cho. “You’re our Seeker now.”

The referee shouted again. “Thirty seconds!”

Wood looked around the huddle. “Congratulations. We’ve officially lost our fucking minds.”

Harry grabbed the red Chaser band from Deverell’s hand. “No.”

He pulled it over his robes. “We’re still playing. We can still do this.”

The referee’s whistle cut through the stadium. “Puddlemere! Positions!”

Pucey grabbed Harry by the shoulder before he could mount his broom. “Potter.”

Harry looked at him.

“You follow me. Don’t try to be clever.”

Harry frowned, but his adrenaline kept him falsely cheery. “I’m always clever.”

“You’re a Seeker wearing a Chaser band.”

“Fair.”

“Garrett owns the middle. I take the right. You stay left unless one of us tells you otherwise. If you don’t know where to go—”

“Follow you.”

“If you get the Quaffle and don’t know what to do—”

“Give it to you.”

Pucey nodded, mounting his broom.

Harry climbed onto his own Comet. “Sounds easy.”

“It won’t be.”

They kicked into the air. The stadium reacted immediately when the crowd realized what Puddlemere had done. Harry heard his name rolling through the stands. Then Cho’s. He ignored both. Across the pitch, McCloud stared at the red band around Harry’s chest.

For the first time in the match, the Montrose captain looked genuinely surprised. Harry shrugged at him. McCloud laughed. The whistle blew. Montrose came at them immediately.

Harry learned within thirty seconds that knowing a Chaser formation and actually being part of one were two very different things. Garrett recovered the Quaffle and sent it toward Pucey.

Harry accelerated down the left side exactly where he thought he should be.

“POTTER!”

Harry reacted on instinct and dodged high. A Montrose Chaser shot through the space Harry had just abandoned. Garrett barely intercepted the return pass. Pucey flew alongside Harry. “You’re too fucking high!”

“You said left!” Harry yelled back.

“I didn’t say disappear!” the man accused.

Harry banked lower. “Helpful distinction!”

Pucey threw him the Quaffle. Harry nearly dropped it under the force of the throw. Not because he couldn’t catch. Because it felt completely wrong. They were in the middle of a Championship match, and he was playing on the largest stage in the world, in the wrong position. Wood was right; they had lost their fucking minds.

A defender closed. Harry pulled the ball against his chest. Another approached from the left. Harry did what came naturally. He flew. Harry dropped beneath the first Chaser, rolled around the second and accelerated through the gap before either could recover.

The crowd roared. For half a second, Harry forgot what position he was playing. He looked toward the hoops. The Keeper was waiting. Harry drew his arm back. McCloud appeared.

Of course he fucking did.

The Seeker swept through Harry’s shooting lane. Harry hesitated. That was enough. A Chaser slammed into his side. The Quaffle flew loose. Montrose recovered.

“Shit!” Harry swore.

Harry spun. They were already counterattacking. He chased. Garrett forced the first Chaser toward the outside. Pucey covered the middle. Harry saw the third Montrose player streaking unattended toward Wood. His body moved before his mind did. Harry cut across the pitch and dropped directly into the passing lane. The Montrose Chaser released. Harry stretched. The Quaffle struck his fingertips. Changed direction.

Garrett caught it.

“YES!” Pucey shouted.

Harry wheeled around. Garrett threw to Pucey. Pucey threw back to Harry. This time Harry was ready. He caught the Quaffle cleanly. One defender. Harry climbed. The Chaser followed. Harry dropped. The defender followed again. Harry smiled. He knew this game. Not Chaser.

Flying.

Harry accelerated straight toward the center hoop. The Keeper shifted. Harry drew back his arm. Then remembered Pucey. He snapped the Quaffle sideways. Pucey caught it completely uncontested. Ten points.

The Puddlemere half of the stadium exploded.

Pucey flew past Harry. “Better.”

“I’m learning,” Harry added excitedly.

“You’ve completed one pass. Let’s not get too excited.”

“It was a perfect pass!” Harry protested.

“Shut up and get back,” Adrian demanded.

Harry grinned and followed.

.o.

Forty minutes later, Harry’s shoulder felt like it was on fire. Chasers threw far more than he had ever appreciated. His first two shots had missed. The third had been blocked. Pucey had screamed at him for drifting too far inside. Garrett had screamed at him for drifting too far outside. At one point, both men had shouted opposite instructions simultaneously. Harry had informed them they could go fuck themselves.

The match had passed five hours now.

PUDDLEMERE 350

MONTROSE 390

Harry bent low over his Comet. They were losing. But they were alive. That was his job now. Keep them alive. Cho would do the rest. Harry glanced upward. She circled nearly a hundred feet above the main formation. McCloud remained thirty feet away from her.

He had adapted too. The moment Harry changed positions, McCloud had largely abandoned his work inside the Chaser formations. Harry understood why. Cho was no longer a substitute standing on the sideline. She was the opposing Seeker in the Championship.

And McCloud was treating her like one. Good. Harry turned back toward the Quaffle. Pucey had it. Harry accelerated. The next hour became a blur. Pass. Dive. Hit. Turn. Score. Recover. Harry stopped thinking about where he was supposed to be. He began feeling it.

Garrett moved and Harry filled the space behind him. Pucey cut inside and Harry automatically widened. When Montrose overloaded one side, Harry dropped deeper, using the defensive instincts he had spent an entire season sharpening. He still wasn’t Adrian Pucey. He wasn’t even Garrett Chandler. He had yet to even score a goal.

His passes occasionally arrived too hard. His shot placement was inconsistent. Twice he nearly collided with Garrett because he anticipated the same opening. But Montrose had a problem. Harry Potter was very fucking difficult to catch. He carried the Quaffle through traffic like it had insulted him personally. He drew defenders farther from Pucey than they wanted to go. And when the Magpies tried to punish him physically, Harry simply flew around them.

Five hours and forty-eight minutes.

Harry took a pass from Garrett. One Chaser closed. Harry spun underneath her. Another moved to cut him off. Harry kicked his Comet upward. The Keeper expected the pass. So did Pucey. Harry saw it. For once, nobody shouted.

Harry fired.

The Quaffle tore through the left hoop.

Ten points.

Harry threw both fists outward. The stadium shook.

“GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! HARRY POTTER HAS SCORED!” the announcer bellowed.

Pucey smacked him on the shoulder in support as they turned back. “You’re still a shit Chaser!”

Harry laughed. “I just scored!”

“You’re a shit Chaser who scored!”

“In the Championship! I’ll take it!”

The scoreboard changed.

PUDDLEMERE 410

MONTROSE 430

Twenty points.

They were alive.

.o.

Six hours. Harry’s entire body hurt. He had forgotten Charlotte’s injury. Forgotten Brogdon screaming on the ground. Forgotten the awards dinner. Forgotten the Burrow. There was only the match now. The scoreboard. The Quaffle. And every few seconds—

Cho.

Harry checked her constantly. She looked exhausted, but she was much fresher than McCloud, who had only subbed for five minutes to take a breather, which surprised Harry. Neither had found the Snitch again since Harry changed positions. Or if they had, neither had given anything away.

Montrose scored.

440–410.

Puddlemere answered.

440–420.

Another Montrose goal.

450–420.

Wood screamed something Harry couldn’t hear. Conner smashed a Bludger through the formation. Garrett stole the Quaffle. Harry moved. The pass came to him. He accelerated toward the hoops. A Montrose Chaser collided with his shoulder. Harry kept possession. Another came high. Harry dropped.

His arm drew back—

Something flashed above the western stands. Gold. Harry froze. The Quaffle nearly slipped from his hand. The Snitch. His entire body reacted. Every instinct screamed at him to turn. To dive. To chase.

Harry looked upward. Cho had already seen it. She was moving. Harry’s breath caught. McCloud saw her move. The Montrose captain turned, and he then saw the Snitch too.

Both Seekers were launching across the field. Harry hovered for half a second in the middle of the Championship holding the Quaffle. He had spent his entire season waiting for moments like this. Every match had eventually become Harry and the Snitch. Not this one.

“POTTER!”

Pucey. Harry snapped back. A defender was coming. Harry drove forward. Above him, Cho and McCloud streaked toward the western stands. Harry could hear the crowd changing. Not cheering now. Screaming. Everyone had seen them.

Harry threw to Pucey. Pucey returned it instantly. Harry caught it. The Montrose Keeper shifted toward him. Harry looked up again. Cho was ahead. Barely. McCloud was gaining.

Harry’s heart hammered. “Come on, Cho.”

A Montrose Chaser slammed into him. Harry nearly lost the Quaffle again. He recovered. Garrett flew underneath. Harry passed. Above them, Cho dove. McCloud dove beside her. Harry could barely follow the two figures against the wall of spectators. Gold flashed again. Closer to Cho. McCloud shifted. He was faster in the dive. Harry knew that posture.

He had spent seven hours watching it the first time they played. McCloud was gaining.

“No,” Harry whispered.

Garrett threw the Quaffle back. Harry caught it automatically. He was twenty yards from the hoops. The entire Montrose defense had collapsed around Pucey. Harry had space. He should shoot. His eyes went upward. Cho flattened herself over her broom. McCloud drew level.

They disappeared beneath the lowest tier of stands. The crowd became one enormous sound. Harry couldn’t see them.

“POTTER!”

Harry turned. The Keeper was exposed. Harry threw. The Quaffle left his hand. It struck the inside rim. For one horrible second, Harry thought it would bounce out. Then it dropped through.

450–430.

Harry didn’t celebrate. He turned immediately toward the stands. Nothing. No Cho. No McCloud. Harry stopped breathing. Then two figures exploded back into open air. Side by side.

McCloud was slightly ahead. Harry’s stomach dropped. Cho reached. McCloud reached. Neither had it. The Snitch shot upward between them. Both climbed. McCloud had the angle. Harry knew it instantly. Cho knew it too. Instead of following him, she broke away.

Harry blinked. “What are you doing?”

McCloud continued upward. The Snitch juked left. McCloud corrected. Cho dove. Away from them. Harry stared. Then understood.

She wasn’t chasing the Snitch. She was chasing where it was going. The Snitch reversed. Straight down. McCloud had to stop his climb. Cho was already there. Harry’s mouth fell open.

She had read it. The way Robertson taught. The way Harry had learned. Not where it was. Where it would be. Cho flattened herself against the broom. The Snitch streaked toward her.

McCloud dove after it. Too late. Cho stretched out one hand. Harry forgot the Quaffle. Forgot Montrose. Forgot everything.

Her fingers closed. The whistle screamed. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Cho hovered above the pitch with her fist clenched. McCloud pulled up beside her.

Harry stared. Then Cho opened her hand. Gold fluttered between her fingers. The stadium detonated. Harry’s scream tore out of him before he could stop it.

“YES!”

Pucey slammed into him from the side. Garrett hit him from the other. Harry nearly fell off his broom. Below them, Wood had both fists raised above his head. Conner threw his bat into the air. Jason was screaming. Harry could hear nothing.

The scoreboard began to change.

MONTROSE 450

Then—

PUDDLEMERE 580

Harry stared at it. Six hours. Two injured Chasers. A reserve gone. A Seeker playing Chaser. A backup Seeker carrying the Championship in one hand. Cho still hovered near midfield. For one second she looked almost stunned. As though she hadn't quite understood what she'd done.

McCloud looked at the Snitch. Then at her. The veteran captain smiled. He extended his hand. Cho took it. McCloud said something Harry couldn't hear. Then released her.

Harry kicked his Comet forward. Cho saw him coming. Her stunned expression finally broke. She smiled. Harry was laughing before he reached her. “You fucking did it!”

Cho held the Snitch up between them. “No.” Her eyes shone. “We fucking did it.”

Harry grabbed her around the shoulders. Somewhere beneath the noise, the announcer was screaming the result. Harry didn't need to hear it. He could see it. He could feel it.

Puddlemere United were champions.

For one impossible second, Harry could only hold on. His arms were still locked around Cho’s shoulders, her broom pressed awkwardly against his own as they hovered somewhere above midfield. She was laughing against him. Or crying. Harry couldn’t tell which. Probably both. He was doing a fair bit of both himself.

Cho pulled back just enough to look at him. Navy and gold exploded above the stadium. Then the sky disappeared. Thousands upon thousands of tiny pieces of enchanted parchment poured from above, catching in the stadium lights as they fell. Navy. Gold. Navy. Gold. They swirled through the air until Harry could barely see the stands anymore.

Confetti caught in Cho's dark hair as it fell. It clung to her robes. A gold strip even landed across her nose, and Cho spat another out of her mouth as she laughed.

Harry stared at her clenched fist that still held the Snitch, tiny golden wings beating between her fingers. She did it.

The announcer’s voice thundered through the stadium. “EARLIER IN THIS MATCH, THIS SITUATION LOOKED HOPELESS FOR PUDDLEMERE UNITED!”

Harry barely heard him. Pucey slammed into Harry from one side. Garrett Chandler hit him from the other.

“POTTER! CHANG!”

Harry nearly lost his broom. "Don't kill me now!"

“You’re a Chaser!” Pucey screamed, grabbing Harry around the neck. “You’re a real fucking Chaser!”

Harry laughed hysterically.

“A shit one!” Pucey yelled over the sounds of the stadium.

“I SCORED TWICE!” Harry defended.

Garrett crashed against them, nearly sending all three tumbling. “WHO FUCKING CARES?”

Harry didn’t. Not anymore. Conner and Jason were coming in now. Wood was racing toward them from the hoops with both fists above his head.

The announcer continued somewhere beyond the wall of sound. “TWO CHASERS LOST TO INJURIES! THEIR STARTING SEEKER FORCED OUT OF POSITION! MONTROSE WITH THE LEAD! MONTROSE WITH THE MOMENTUM!”

Harry found Cho again through the confetti. She was staring at the Snitch. Almost like she still couldn’t believe it was there. Harry could.

Cho looked up. Their eyes met. Harry grinned. We did it. Wood hit the group hard enough that Harry finally did nearly fall from his broom.

“YOU LUNATICS! WE DID IT!” Wood screamed.

Harry grabbed the captain’s arm. Wood grabbed his.

Jason was shouting something completely unintelligible. Conner had apparently recovered the bat he’d thrown because he was waving it over his head like a sword. Pucey had one arm around Garrett and the other around Cho.

“And somehow—SOMEHOW—two rookies, two young stars, rewrote the history books! Today was a match no one will ever forget!”

The stadium answered with another deafening roar.

Harry looked around him.

Wood.

Pucey.

Garrett.

Jason.

Conner.

Cho.

The team did it.

They stayed there for another few seconds, suspended above the pitch in a tangled mess of brooms, bodies, tears, laughter and navy-and-gold confetti.

Then Wood pointed down. “Ground!”

Nobody argued. One by one, Puddlemere United descended. Harry’s boots struck the grass. For some reason, that was when it became real. The moment his feet touched the pitch, Harry stopped. He looked down at the grass beneath his boots.

Six hours.

They had spent more than six hours fighting over this patch of earth. Six hours of Bludgers and Quaffles and blood and sweat. Six hours chasing something Harry had wanted for the last year, but never really imagined what it would be like once he had it.

Now he knew. It felt like he couldn’t breathe. Someone hit him from behind. Harry stumbled forward.

“Come here, Potter!”

Pucey.

Harry turned around. Adrian’s face was red. His hair was soaked with sweat. There was blood dried beneath one nostril and Harry had no idea when that had happened. He was also crying. Harry stared at him as he approached.

Pucey immediately pointed a finger at him. “One smart-ass response and I'll gut you, Potter.”

Harry burst out laughing. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” Adrian accused.

“I was absolutely thinking it.”

“Fuck off.”

Pucey grabbed him and pulled him into an aggressive hug. Garrett joined them. Then Jason. Then Conner. Cho was swallowed somewhere in the middle. A hand appeared between Pucey and Garrett. It was still holding the Snitch.

The Puddlemere end of the stadium had become one enormous wall of movement. Supporters were jumping against one another. Flags waved from every section. Someone had somehow produced an enormous banner bearing Wood’s face that stretched across nearly twenty rows.

Harry pointed to it immediately. “Oliver!”

Wood turned. Harry gestured toward the stands.

Wood stared at the enormous version of himself. “Merlin.”

“It’s so handsome,” Garrett teased.

“It looks nothing like me,” Wood protested.

"Then it should be an improvement," Jason added loudly.

Harry laughed. This. This was Puddlemere. This was what they had built. Then Harry remembered the two people missing from the circle. He looked toward the sideline. Charlotte stood near the medical tunnel. Her left arm was secured tightly against her body, but nothing on earth could have kept her away now. She was crying openly as she hurried toward them as quickly as the healers would allow.

The team saw her almost simultaneously. “CHARLOTTE!”

Her face crumpled. “Oh, I hate you all.”

Pucey reached her first. He was careful with her injured side. Garrett was less careful.

“Garrett!” Charlotte protested.

“Sorry!” the man laughed.

“You idiot!”

“You love me.”

“I'll love you less if you don't let go of me.”

“Fair enough.”

Harry reached her next. Charlotte looked at him. Her eyes dropped immediately to the red Chaser band still stretched across his robes. She stared at it for a long second. Then looked back up. “I leave you alone for a few hours.”

Harry shrugged. “We improvised.”

“You played Chaser. Pretty well from how it sounded on the wireless.”

“I scored twice,” Harry bragged, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Pucey groaned behind him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Charlotte laughed and immediately winced, clutching her ribs.

Harry’s smile disappeared. “You all right?”

“No.” The honesty caught him. Then Charlotte smiled again. “But we won.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Her eyes filled again as she screamed, “We fucking won!”

Harry wrapped his arms carefully around her. “We got you.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. “I know. Thanks, Harry.”

Another roar rolled through the stadium. Harry looked toward the touchline. Malcolm Brogdon was being brought back out. His knee was immobilized, his leg stretched straight in front of him, but he was upright now on a magically propelled stretcher. One of the healers appeared to be arguing with him about whether he should even be there. Malcolm was ignoring every word. His fist was already raised.

Pucey saw him and ran in his direction. “Oh, you stupid bastard.”

The team moved toward the other injured player. Harry hung back for a moment to just watch. Charlotte was leaning against Garrett. Pucey was bending down to say something to Malcolm. Jason and Conner were arguing over which one of them had prevented more goals. Cho was still holding the Snitch like she was afraid someone might tell her it hadn’t counted.

Wood was standing slightly apart from all of them. Just looking. Harry knew that expression. Wood was counting. Not points. People. Making sure they were all here. Harry walked toward him. Oliver noticed. For a moment, neither said anything. Around them, the stadium continued to shake. Harry looked toward the scoreboard.

PUDDLEMERE 580

MONTROSE 450

Then toward Wood. “We did it.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Just like we said we would.”

That was all he managed. Harry smiled. Wood looked away quickly and wiped beneath one eye.

Harry’s grin widened. “Are you crying?”

“Don't ruin the moment, Potter.”

“That’s twice now.”

“I’m warning you, Harry.”

Harry laughed. Then Oliver grabbed the back of Harry’s neck and pulled him forward until their foreheads nearly collided. “You did it.”

Harry shook his head. “We did it.”

Wood stared at him. Something passed between them that Harry couldn’t quite put into words. He felt eleven years old again. A borrowed school broom. A Quaffle. A Snitch. A Bludger. Three hoops. Oliver Wood explaining a sport Harry had never seen before. Harry remembered Wood standing on the Hogwarts pitch, teaching him rules Harry barely understood. He remembered his first Snitch. His first match. Rain. Mud. Broken bones. Losses. Wins. The people.

Then a thirteen-year-old Harry standing on that same pitch while Oliver Wood finally held the Quidditch Cup above his head. For the briefest moment, Harry experienced it all again. He could see the scarlet robes. Hear Hogwarts screaming around them. See Oliver lifting the Cup while tears ran down his face. Harry had thought that was as happy as anyone could ever look. He had been wrong. Because Oliver was standing in front of him now. Twenty-three years old. Captain of Puddlemere United. Champion of Britain. And somehow Harry had gotten to come with him.

Oliver squeezed the back of his neck. “You were mental today.”

Harry laughed. “You let me do it.”

“I was mental today too.”

That broke whatever remained between them. Harry pulled him into a hug. Wood held on. Not long. They didn’t need long. When they separated, Harry could see the same understanding on Oliver’s face. They had a ceremony to finish.

The officials were already assembling near midfield. The Puddlemere players were directed toward a temporary platform that had been conjured onto the grass. Montrose stood on the opposite side. Harry’s smile faded slightly when he saw them.

McCloud stood at the front. Exhausted. Sweat-soaked. Defeated. But upright. Their eyes met. Harry walked over before anyone could stop him.

McCloud gave him a tired smile. “Potter.”

“McCloud.”

Harry held out his hand. The Montrose captain took it.

“You’re a terrible Chaser.”

Harry stared at him. Then McCloud smiled.

Harry laughed. “So I’ve been told.”

McCloud looked past him toward Cho. “You still haven't beaten me yet, you know. We will have to settle this next year.”

“I'm already looking forward to it.”

McCloud released Harry’s hand. “Enjoy this one.”

Harry looked back at him. McCloud’s smile had disappeared. “You never know when you’ll get another.”

Harry nodded, no other words needing to be said. McCloud gave him one last nod and walked back toward his team. Then the stadium announcer’s voice changed. The screaming had died down now.

Not silence. There could never have been silence in a stadium containing this many Puddlemere supporters. But something approaching ceremony settled over the pitch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Herbert Fleet, Head of Magical Games and Sports!”

The applause swelled again. Harry turned. Herbert Fleet walked onto the pitch. And Harry laughed softly. Of course. Fleet. The man who had stood on the stage months ago and announced Harry Potter’s name to the professional Quidditch world. The man who had officially made him a Puddlemere United player. Now he was walking toward them carrying the League Championship Cup.

The trophy gleamed beneath the stadium lights. Harry stopped breathing again. It was beautiful. Ridiculously so. Polished silver, gold worked around its handles, ribbons in Puddlemere navy and gold already tied beneath them.

Fleet stepped onto the platform. The Puddlemere players gathered beside Wood. Harry ended up between Cho and Pucey. Charlotte stood in front so nobody could accidentally hit her injured side. Malcolm remained beside the platform, surrounded by medical staff and looking furious that nobody would let him stand.

Fleet waited. The stadium slowly quieted. Then he smiled. “What a match.”

The crowd roared. Fleet waited again. “What a season.”

Louder. Harry looked around. Cho bumped her shoulder against his. Harry looked down. She smiled. He smiled back.

Fleet continued. “Six hours of Quidditch. Two clubs refusing to yield. A championship decided by players who, when the moment demanded it, were willing to become whatever their team needed them to become.”

Harry swallowed.

“And after one of the most extraordinary Championship Finals this league has ever witnessed—”

Fleet turned. His eyes found Wood.

“—it is my privilege to present the British and Irish League Championship Cup to the captain of Puddlemere United, Oliver Wood.”

The stadium began to rise. Not sections. Everyone. Harry watched Fleet lift the trophy. Wood stepped forward.

For one heartbeat, he was thirteen again. Hogwarts. Scarlet and gold. Oliver Wood standing beneath a spring sky with the Cup in his hands. Harry remembered the look on his face. The disbelief. The tears. The years of wanting something so badly that everyone around him thought he was slightly insane.

Then Harry blinked. The scarlet was gone. Navy and gold surrounded him. Herbert Fleet handed Oliver Wood the Championship Cup. Wood took it with both hands. And stopped. The stadium waited. Wood stared down at the trophy. His thumb ran once across the silver. Harry could see his chest rising and falling.

Then Oliver lowered his head. And kissed it. The stadium detonated. Hundreds of cameras flashed simultaneously. Then hundreds more. For an instant, the entire pitch turned white beneath the explosion of magical photography.

Harry watched Oliver straighten. Watched him close his eyes. Watched the captain of Puddlemere United lift the Championship Cup above his head. The sound that followed was unlike anything Harry had ever heard.

Harry screamed with everyone else. Pucey grabbed him. Garrett jumped onto Jason’s back. Conner nearly knocked Charlotte over and received an elbow for his trouble. Cho threw both arms above her head, the Snitch still clenched in one fist. Malcolm was shouting from below. And Harry looked at Oliver. Just Oliver. Cup overhead. Navy and gold falling around him. A thousand flashes preserving the moment forever. Harry knew the photograph before he ever saw it. Tomorrow it would be everywhere. The Prophet. Quidditch Weekly. The European papers. Shop windows. Bedroom walls. Oliver Wood kissing the Championship Cup. Captain. Champion. Harry hoped they used that one.

Wood lowered the trophy. His eyes immediately found Harry. Then he jerked his head. Come here. Harry hesitated. Wood rolled his eyes. “POTTER!”

Harry laughed and stepped forward. Oliver shoved the Cup toward him.

Harry stared at it. Held it up, with Oliver holding one end. The moment lasted only a second, and when Harry turned and gestured to the rest of the team, that was all it took. Pucey surged forward. Garrett followed. Jason. Conner. Cho. Charlotte squeezed him with her good arm.

Hands covered the Cup. Harry didn’t even know whose belonged to whom. His fingers closed around one of the handles. Cho’s hand landed over his.

The Cup rose above Puddlemere United. Navy and gold swallowed the world. Harry screamed until his throat hurt. Cho was laughing beside him. Pucey was crying again. Wood had his head thrown back. Harry looked at them. Really looked.

Charlotte, injured and smiling. Garrett screaming something obscene. Jason and Conner trying to lift the Cup higher than everyone else. Cho with navy-and-gold confetti tangled through her hair and the Golden Snitch still trapped in her fist.

Wood. The boy who had taught Harry Potter how to play Quidditch. Now the man who had brought him here. The captain who had trusted him when Harry suggested the most insane tactical change imaginable in the middle of a Championship Final.

Harry felt thirteen again. And eighteen. And eleven. And every age between. He looked at the Cup. At his teammates. At the confetti falling around them. At the photographers recording an image that would exist long after all of them had stopped playing.

Harry smiled. It was a moment he could have lived in forever.

They had done it. All of them. And as Harry stood beneath the falling navy and gold, surrounded by the people who had somehow become his family, he finally had an answer to the question that had followed him all season.

Every morning.

Every sacrifice.

Every mistake.

Every single thing it had taken to get here.

Was worth it.