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The team photo is a disaster.
Harry doesn't know why everyone's so surprised -- the team photo is always a disaster.
Oliver is locked in some sort of debate with Roger Davies because he booked the pitch for this morning and yet the Ravenclaws are gathered in a pack at the other end of the pitch, tossing a Quaffle between them and looking completely bored. Davies is talking, holding a hand up every now and again to stop Oliver from interrupting, his hands gesticulating wildly when he's finally allowed his rebuttal.
Fred and George are doing laps of the pitch, swooping low enough to make Oliver and Davies' robes flutter before spinning back upwards again, flying out of the line of fire. As the argument extends on and on they dart down to the chest by the door of the changing rooms and release the Snitch, laughing loudly when Oliver turns and yells at them before returning to Davies and his refusal to just give them five minutes so they can get this photo over with.
The Snitch darts around the two teams, wings fluttering madly at Harry’s ear for a moment before flying across to where Angelina, Alicia, and Katie are sitting with the girls from the Ravenclaw team. The pretty Seeker from their last match, Cho Chang, is there, laughing at something Katie is saying. Harry imagines for a split second about going over and introducing himself, the fantasy spluttering to a stop when Oliver shouts particularly loudly, everyone turning to stare.
“Fuck sake, Oliver,” Davies is saying, his mouth open in an easy laugh. “You keep getting yourself too worked up, mate.”
“All I’m saying, is that I booked the pitch.”
“You know what Hooch is like, she probably double-booked us.”
“How long’s it take to take a photo anyway?” Bruce Millen, a Ravenclaw Beater calls over, swinging his bat by his side absent-mindedly. “Can’t control your team, Wood?”
He can’t, actually. It’s common knowledge that although they’re the best side Gryffindor has seen in years, they’re unruly, unpredictable, and Fred and George alone are enough to have Oliver shouting himself hoarse, always desperate to maintain some semblance of professionalism in their practices.
But, in a show of solidarity, at Millen’s scoff the team gather around Oliver, arranging themselves into a somewhat picture-perfect pose. And then Katie snorts at something Alicia whispers in her ear, Harry stumbles over a discarded broom, and George attempts to sling his arm around Harry’s shoulders only to mis-judge and smack Oliver’s nose.
The blood grinds everything to a halt.
Polly, the other Ravenclaw Beater, comes over and examines Oliver’s nose for him, standing close enough that it suggests they’ve spent time with each other off the pitch. She waves her wand, muttering something Harry’s sure he’s heard Hermione use before, and the blood slowly disappears from Oliver’s face. “It’s not broken,” she tells him. “You’re going to have a shiner tomorrow, though.”
“Thanks,” he says quietly to Polly before he turns back to his team. “I thought this could be over and done in ten minutes --”
“Come on, Oliver,” Fred groans, arms wide, “it’s like you don’t know us at all.”
“Oliver, when was the last time this ever went the way you wanted it to?” Angelina asks.
He rubs at the back of his neck, frustration warring with giving in and letting things happen which ever which way. “We sit in two lines, we take the photo, we make sure it’s halfway decent, and that’s it.”
No one has the heart to remind him of the photo two years ago when Harry’s arm was in a sling or the year before that when Fred and George had thought it would hilarious to charm their bats to roar and instead set fire to half the teams’ robes or the year before that when Oliver had been injured and therefore had to sit on the bench instead of standing behind it in the Keeper’s space, chucking the whole seating plan out of the window. And then there had been last year where they hadn’t even got to finish the season but had to show up for the photo anyway, the whole team dejected and forced into smiling, Harry feeling decidedly guilty about the whole thing.
The thing is, no one really cares about the photo anyway. The four teams’ are displayed in their respective trophy cabinets, only fawned over by excited first years who try to spot someone they know from past years. After he had found out his dad had been on the team, Harry had spent a long time in front of the glass cabinet, scanning every photo for a glimpse of him. The photos only date back so far, old ones replaced by new, and so the only one he saw was of his dad’s seventh year where he could see the shiny Captain badge on his robes, his hair as messy as Harry’s and his grin twice as wide. Seeing the face he’d heard so much about, finally realising how similar the two of them are, had filled Harry with a giddy joy that had carried him through the following two weeks, a bubble which no amount of nastiness from Snape could burst.
So maybe some people care.
Catching the pleading look on Oliver’s face, Alicia is the first one to find her spot in the line behind the bench, Katie and Angelina falling into place either side of her. Harry sets his broom aside and sits down in the middle of the bench.
“Look at us,” George exclaims, dropping down on one side of Harry. “All of us present, no injuries, no evil spirits among us.”
“A miracle,” Fred declares, jostling Harry as he makes himself comfortable on his other side. “Only one injury -- so far this has been our best year yet.”
“Oi! Don’t jinx it,” Davies shouts from where the Ravenclaws have moved out of the way, spread across the first two tiers of the stands.
Fred waves him off and laughs, turning to look at Oliver. “Oliver, don’t we look fit?”
“Tell us we look beautiful, Oliver,” Katie gushes, pretending to swoon when their captain comes to stand beside her. “We all got made up for you.”
“Just to make you happy,” George simpers, reaching up behind for Oliver’s arm.
“Shut it. All of you,” Oliver says, but there, just as he’s in the final moments up to the taking of the photo, he breaks into a laugh.
Harry starts laughing too; that sets everyone off and then they’re back again to disorder and impatience.
As Harry’s head is tilted back, his eyes closed from laughing, and everyone else is falling about around him, a flash goes off
“Here.” Davies hands Oliver the developing picture, a smile spread across his face. “This sums you lot up more than any other photo was ever going to.”
They crowd around Alicia who holds the picture out in front of her, all of them waiting impatiently for them to appear. Oliver does first, head and shoulders above the girls beside him -- he’s grinning down at them all and as the rest of the picture fills in he shakes his head at Fred and George who are clamouring for his hand from the bottom row, their faces identically silly and simpering. Katie is wiping tears from her eyes as she supports an Alicia who is bent into her, laughter shaking through her body, and Angelina has her hand on Harry’s shoulder, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open in a shout of glee. Harry is the last to develop, the smallest and the darkest, his glasses glinting in the sun. When Harry leans over Katie’s shoulder to get a closer look he watches his picture-self turn and glance to the camera for a second, his smile so wide you can see all of his teeth.
“Think McGonagall will accept this?”
Oliver takes the photo from Alicia and carefully slips it inside of his robes. “I’m not going through that again.”
“Aw this is your last year, Oliver,” Cho pipes up suddenly. She has a Scottish accent, high and lilting like Oliver’s. Harry’s stomach is doing that twisty thing again. He’s suddenly putting a lot of effort into not blushing. “And yours too, Bruce.”
“Wonder who’ll be our captain next year,” Alicia says, looking around at her team.
“Any one of you’ll be a good pick,” Oliver says, something very fond on his face.
Harry doesn’t know who suggests it but everyone agrees to a quick friendly match, to finish the year off and to give Oliver and Bruce a bit of a send-off. They all kick off, someone grabbing a Quaffle and tossing it high into the air to signal the start.
They’ve decided not to release the Bludgers so instead Fred and George do laps of the pitch, shouting criticism and encouragement to those in need, providing an exaggerated commentary of the game as they weave to avoid being hit by the Quaffle. Despite being a Beater Bruce has possession of the Quaffle every time Harry sees him, fending off Katie and Angelina with his hand, the three of them a tight group over by the goalposts.
“How has the Firebolt been?” Cho asks Harry, appearing by his side. He hasn’t really been looking for the Snitch, content to watch his teammates dismantle the rules and have fun.
“Oh,” he fumbles his hands on the broom. “Uh -- it’s been great. Really brilliant.”
“I spent hours looking at it over the summer. Drove my mum mental,” she says. “Do you think I could have a go later?”
Harry’s mind unfolds a scenario where it’s the two of them alone on the pitch, darkness pulling in as they chat for ages about Quidditch. He imagines writing to Sirius, wherever he is now, and telling him about Cho, what advice he might have. “Yeah,” he manages to say. “The whole team’s been on it by now.”
“Everyone wants a shot of the best broom,” she smiles, and then, eyes still on Harry, she reaches out. For one stupid second Harry wonders if she’s going to touch his arm and what he should do but then her smile turns a little sharper and she withdraws her arm to show the Snitch fluttering in her hand. “The best broom doesn’t help you win every time, I see,” she says, another grin, and then she’s flying over to her team, hand raised in victory.
Harry swoops down to join his team, getting pulled into a huddle by Fred and Angelina. They ruffle his hair, both so loud and happy, and as the rest of the team joins them, not at all put out by their loss, the sun dips lower in the sky and Harry feels confident that he could produce a decent Patronus Charm with the way he’s feeling.