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The Chudley Cannons boast of an unlikely new recruit

by Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Correspondent

In a move that is sure to surprise everyone with any knowledge of the sport – and quite a few people without – the Chudley Cannons announced a new member joining their ranks: none other than the Golden Boy of Quidditch himself, Harry Potter. Potter, who played at Puddlemere United for the last ten years and at Wimbourne Wasps for a few years before that, needs no introduction. Widely known as the Seeker with the fastest reflexes in the Quidditch League, Potter is perhaps best known for securing the win for England at the Quidditch World Cup during his first year on the national team. Many speculated that last year’s season would be Potter’s last, and that he would announce his retirement; his joining the Cannons, a team perhaps most famous for being the team with the greatest number of cumulative losses in history, bucks our expectations. Hermione Granger, owner of the Chudley Cannons and an old friend of Potter himself, said, “Despite what you lot at the press like to report, the Chudley Cannons are determined to win the league this year. Harry is just what we need.” Whether either of her claims are true remain to be seen. I will be covering the Chudley Cannons through the season to see whether the famed Potter effect will impact the Cannons. One way or another, one thing is clear: it’s bound to be an exciting season!

***

It’s a bright sunny day, and Harry doesn’t know how he feels about that. He squints against the sun as he approaches the premises, suddenly wishing he’d Apparated there instead of walking. The Chudley Cannons premises are modest compared to those of Puddlemere United or even the Wimbourne Wasps. It’s a small building attached to the smallest Quidditch pitch possible to have while still maintaining league regulations. Surrounding the area is… nothing. 

It’ll do just fine, Harry thinks. 

Ron’s waiting for him outside, holding two cups of tea, one of which Harry gratefully accepts from him. “Morning,” he says cheerfully. 

Harry grunts. 

“You’re chatty today,” Ron says. 

Harry takes a sip of his tea. “Fuck off,” he says. 

Ron laughs and, after a moment, Harry does too. 

“Why are you here, anyway?” Harry asks. “Your wife’s the owner, not you.” 

“You don’t have to remind me,” Ron says. “I still can’t believe she bought this team. Talk about a fucking amazing anniversary present.” 

It still doesn’t answer Harry’s question of what the fuck Ron’s doing here. He would usually guess that he’s here to welcome him, but that doesn’t explain why he’s walking in with him. Unless…

“Are you on the team, too?” Harry asks. 

Ron snorts. “Nah. I’ve had my fill of being a Keeper under you. Wouldn’t sign up for that again.” 

Harry grins. 

“I’m here because Hermione told me to be. She didn’t tell me why,” Ron says. 

Fair enough, Harry thinks. They both have learned a long time ago to do something if Hermione tells them to. It’s become one of his core principles in how he navigates the universe. “Let’s go in and see what she has to say, then,” he says. 

Hermione’s office is all the way at the top of the building. By the time they get there, they’ve both finished their tea. Harry doesn’t bother knocking before entering, Ron by his side. 

“Good,” Hermione says, “you’re finally here.” 

Harry looks at his watch and raises an eyebrow. “I’m on time.” 

“Well, I’ve been here for ages,” Hermione says. 

“I’m… sorry?” Harry says. 

“Hermione had to get here early to deal with the paperwork,” Ron explains. 

“Honestly,” Hermione says, “if I’d known that buying a Quidditch team would entail so much paperwork–” 

“You would have done it a lot sooner?” Harry guesses. 

Hermione smiles. “Maybe,” she allows. 

“Why did you want me here, then?” Ron asks. “Moral support?” 

“No,” Hermione says, and then revises, “well, not just moral support. As it turns out, we spent most of our budget paying Harry’s fees–”

“I told you, I would’ve done it for free,” Harry interjects. 

“–and so,” Hermione continues, blithely ignoring Harry, “we couldn’t afford a coach.” 

“What happened to Tim?” Ron demands. 

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione says. “He resigned last year after the Prophet called him… what was it again?” 

“‘Thoroughly inefficient not just as a coach but also as a wizard itself,’” Harry quotes. Hermione and Ron both look at him. Harry shrugs. “What? It was a fucking good article.” 

“It was,” Hermione allows. “If a bit… harsh.” 

“It was bloody brutal is what it was,” Ron says. “Can’t Ginny lay off?” 

“No, as a matter of fact, but I’ll get to that matter in a bit,” Hermione says. “Anyway, I asked around, and no one wants to coach the Cannons. Especially since you’ve joined, Harry.” 

“What did I do?” Harry asks. 

“No coach wants to be known as the person responsible for tanking the career of the Golden Boy of Quidditch,” Hermione says. 

Harry rolls his eyes. He fucking detests that nickname. 

“Who’s going to coach the Cannons, then?” Ron asks. 

Hermione turns to him and gives him a smile. “You are.” 

“What?” Harry and Ron say at the same time. 

“I’ve got no coaching experience!” Ron says. 

“Is this a fucking joke?” Harry says, and then, “no offence, Ron.” 

“None taken, I’m with you. Is this a fucking joke, Hermione?” Ron demands. 

Hermione glares at them both. “No one else will coach the team, the team needs a coach, and Ron has prior Quidditch experience.” 

“I played on the team for three years at school, that hardly counts as prior experience–” 

“Just sign the contract, would you?” Hermione says waspishly. “It’s the only option, and you and Harry know each other well enough that I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” 

Ron sighs and accepts the quill Hermione hands him. “Fine,” he grumbles.

“What was the other matter?” Harry asks. 

“The other matter is… Ginny Weasley.” 

Harry, who hasn’t really seen or spoken to Ginny since school, blinks. “What about Ginny?” 

“As you know, she writes for the Prophet. And you joining the team here… it’s noteworthy enough that she’s going to follow you and the team around for the season,” Hermione says. 

“What?” Harry says. “Listen, Hermione, I’m sure Ginny’s great, but I really don’t need anyone following us around all year… it’s going to be a rough enough season as it is.” 

“It’s too late,” Hermione says. “She’s going to be here in an hour.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” Ron mutters. 

“So,” Hermione says brightly. “My suggestion? You both should get to the dressing room. You’ve got work to do, boys.” 

***

Five minutes later, Harry and Ron are in the dressing room. Harry’s gotten changed into his new Chudley Cannons robes (they’re a bright orange that somehow manages to wash him out completely) and Ron, still wearing what he came in with, is making his way into the little office adjoining the dressing room. 

“So I took a look at the roster,” Harry says. 

“That’s no use,” Ron calls out, turning to look at Harry from the doorway. 

“Sorry?” 

“Half of those players have left for other teams.” 

Better teams, Harry thinks in his head. “And the other half?” 

“Is the reserve team,” Ron says. 

“So either we – you,” Harry corrects. 

Ron snorts. “Don’t worry, mate, I think this is a we situation. We’re in this together, except you get paid and I’ve got no idea what Hermione’s planning for me.” 

Harry allows himself a smile. “So either we promote the entire reserve team, or…” 

“Or we hold tryouts,” Ron says. 

“Tryouts would draw attention from the press,” Harry says. 

“You’re Harry Potter and you’re playing for the Chudley Cannons. We’re going to be drawing attention from the press either way,” Ron says fairly. “I mean, look at my sister.” 

“There’s no way you can convince her to trail another team for the season?” Harry asks. 

Ron snorts again. “What do you think?” 

Harry sighs. “I suppose we better start with some drills, then, Coach,” he says. 

“Lead the way, Captain,” Ron says. 

By the time they make it out onto the pitch, Harry’s mood is a bit better. The sun is still shining bright, bright enough that spotting the Snitch will be a real challenge. Nothing cheers Harry up like a good challenge. 

Mind you, there are also bad challenges. Like dealing with the reserve team. As Harry looks at them, walking onto the pitch with their broomsticks in hand, he tries to be optimistic. And fails. 

There’s only five of them, not the traditional seven – two Beaters, two Chasers, one Keeper, no Seeker. Harry holds onto his Firebolt and nods at Ron, who looks a little… lost. “A practice drill,” he murmurs. “Something simple, maybe. You just want to assess them.” 

“Right,” Ron says, and then blows his whistle – where did he even get a whistle from? “Alright, lads, gather round.” 

“Are you the new coach?” the reserve Keeper asks. 

“Er… yeah. I am, Smith,” Ron says. 

“Is that even allowed? You own the team,” Smith says. 

“Technically, my wife does,” Ron says. 

“But that’s the point of marriage, isn’t it? Joint assets,” says one of the reserve Chasers. 

“Not always,” the other Chaser argues, “not if you sign a contract beforehand.” 

“A what, mate?”

“You know! A prenup,” Smith says. “My cousin’s a Muggle, and she’s a lawyer. She’s heard of this sort of thing.” 

“Why would you need a contract before marriage?” says the first Chaser. 

“Marriage is a contract, isn’t it?” says one of the Beaters. 

Harry clears his throat. “Should we fucking play?” he asks. 

“Yes,” says Ron, pink around the ears, “Alright, we’ll start with the classic Kent manoeuvre, so if you could all get in formation…” 

An hour or so later, as Harry dismounts from his broom, he feels more demotivated than he has all day. It’s not that the team is bad, it’s just… Well, they’ve clearly never played all together, for one, and they’re also a member short, for the other. It’s clear that they’ll have to have tryouts. Which will be public, because of stupid fucking league law, which Harry really fucking hates sometimes. 

“You’ll have to hold tryouts,” says a bright voice. 

Harry turns to see Ginny next to Ron, holding a little notebook and a jaunty purple quill. He hasn’t seen her since their Hogwarts days, since he was in his seventh year. She’s still unmistakably Ginny Weasley: short and with a long mane of bright red hair, and a twinkle in her eyes. She’s older, though, he thinks, and then suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. What a stupid thought. Of course she’s older. They all are. That’s how time works. She’s wearing old jeans that have worn thin at the knees and a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt, and as he looks at her, her smile doesn’t fade. If anything, she looks even brighter. It’s a bit hard to look at her directly. 

“Yes,” he agrees, when he realises it’s been too long and he hasn’t said anything. “We will, I think. Hi.” 

“Hi,” Ginny says. “Been a while, hasn’t it? How have you been?” 

Harry grunts, and then shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Fine.” 

“Eloquent,” Ginny says. “Any comment on why you’ve joined this disaster of a team?” 

“Oi,” Ron says, affronted. 

“It’s just the truth, Ron, I can’t get a reputation as a journalist who lies, can I?” 

Harry feels his lip twitch. “Well, I’ve always wanted to go down in history as someone who’s thoroughly inefficient, both as a Captain and as a man, so this seemed the easy way out. Especially since you’re following us.” 

“Is that on the record?” Ginny asks innocently. 

“Fuck no,” Harry says. As he turns to walk back to the dressing room, the sound of Ginny’s laughter follows him. 

***

The Chudley Cannons to hold tryouts this Saturday

by Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Correspondent

The Chudley Cannons will hold team tryouts this Saturday. The event, as all Quidditch League tryouts are, will be open to the press and to any hopeful witches and wizards hoping to end up with a spot on the team. Has the Golden Boy of Quidditch done the impossible and made a spot on the Chudley Cannons something to covet, instead of something to be whispered about in shame? Only time will tell! When asked for a comment, Ms Hermione Granger, owner of the Cannons, said, “We’re looking forward to seeing what everybody has to offer; I know Ron and Harry feel the same way.” When I asked Potter if Ms Granger’s words were true, he said, “I suppose.” Full details of the tryouts can be found on page 9. 

***

Harry hates Saturdays. 

Well. Not all Saturdays, but he hates this Saturday. He arrives at the Cannons pitch early, as directed to by Ron and Hermione. Ron’s waiting for him in the dressing room. “How did tryouts go at Puddlemere United?” he asks Harry. He seems to be attempting to inhale his coffee rather than drink it, but then again, it is just seven in the morning. 

Harry shrugs, setting his rucksack down. “Intense,” he says. “But don’t worry,” he adds, seeing the look of what can only be called pure panic on Ron’s face, “we’ll be fine. Where’s Hermione?” 

“She’ll be watching the tryouts,” Ron says. “Which is Hermione-speak for I’ll be doing paperwork in the sidelines, of course.” 

“Of course,” Harry says, amused. 

He’s written to a few of his old friends, but he’s not sure who’ll be there. Some of them have played for other teams previously, to be fair, so he’s got no idea which of them will be able to show up or not. Fred and George officially went into retirement years ago to run their joke shop, and he doubts both of them will be able to make it, but he’ll settle for one of them, if he has to. 

The reserve team is… fine. They’ve had a few more days’ practice, as best as they can with a team that is still technically incomplete. Harry’s had a lot of practice holding in his temper, but it’s been hard. He’s desperately hoping for a good turnout today. 

“Morning,” says a familiar voice, and Harry turns to see Ginny Weasley at the entrance of the dressing room. She’s wearing robes today, a set of well-pressed and official-looking robes, and has an official press pass around her neck. Her official press clothes, Harry surmises. 

“You’re here early,” Ron says. 

“Early bird gets the exclusive with the Golden Boy,” Ginny says cheerfully. “So, Harry, how are you feeling about the tryouts?” 

“Oh, er. I dunno,” Harry says. 

Ginny rolls her eyes. “That would make a fun exclusive, wouldn’t it? Harry Potter, the Golden Boy of Quidditch himself, says he ‘doesn’t know’ about the tryouts. Come on, you don’t have anything better than that?” 

“I really hate the Golden Boy thing,” Harry says. 

“I know,” Ginny says. “You get all frowny whenever anyone brings it up.” 

“Frowny?” Harry repeats. 

“Yeah,” Ginny says, unfazed. “So. What are you hoping for? I’ve heard that people have already started to show up.” 

“Tryouts don’t start for an hour,” Ron says. 

“Yes, but when you get the chance to play for the Golden Boy himself…” Ginny winks at Harry, and Harry feels a spasm in his chest. A spasm of irritation, he tells himself, but he doesn’t know if he manages to convince himself in the least. “If I were you,” she continues, “I’d be hoping for a strong Keeper. You’re a strong enough Seeker that you don’t have to worry too much about the quality of your Chasers. But if you get a Keeper who lets in all the goals, you’ve lost before you even start playing, you know?” 

Harry blinks. As a matter of fact, that’d been his exact thought process. “Where are you going to watch from?” he asks Ginny. 

“The stands,” Ginny says. “In the press area. Why, is this a trick question?” 

“We’ve given the press a shit area,” Harry says. 

Ron cracks a smile at that. “I knew you did that on purpose.” 

Harry shrugs. “You should sit with Hermione,” he tells Ginny. “You’ll get a better view of everything.” 

“Are you sure?” Ginny says. 

In response, Harry gets his wand out and taps the pass Ginny’s wearing around her neck. “There.” 

“Thanks,” Ginny says. There’s a mischievous smile on her face as she says, “that’s almost as good as you giving me an official comment.”  

“Better luck next time,” Harry says. “You all set, Coach?” 

“Feels weird whenever you call me that,” Ron grumbles, but gets to his feet. “Come on, then. I’m all set.” 

***

The Chudley Cannons: Cannonballing into a new season? 

by Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Correspondent

“If you’re not here to fucking play the game, get the fuck out,” exploded Potter about an hour into the Chudley Cannons tryouts (language Potter’s own, with my apologies to our readers). It seems that – for once – the Chudley Cannons are here to play the game. 

The Chudley Cannons have been called many things over the last hundred years. At the top of most people’s list of adjectives, though, is ‘predictable.’ As my brother, Charlie, likes to joke, there are two things in life of which we can always be certain: the miserable weather in England, and the starting lineup of the Cannons. 

The tryouts yesterday at the Chudley Cannons seemed determined to prove me and Charlie wrong about that. No doubt inspired by Potter, the best and brightest in the country seemed to show up. Having attended the tryouts last year, I was expecting something similar: a one or two hour ordeal at most, with an anticlimactic team at the end. I had underestimated the Potter effect, which is a mistake I anticipate many teams will be making over the course of this season.

The tryouts, under Captain Potter and Coach Weasley, were an organised – if chaotic – affair. There were no less than two hundred prospective Chasers, Keepers, and Beaters – not to mention Seekers for the reserve team – but Potter and Coach Weasley saw to it that everybody was guaranteed a fair and reasonable chance. (Which did mean no do-overs, much to the chagrin of many an aspiring player.) I have lost count of how many team tryouts I have seen during my career, but I confess to being on the edge of my seat for the entire five hours, up until the results were announced. 

Our congratulations to Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell (Chasers, all of whom played with and were friendly with Potter during his school years); Oliver Wood (Keeper, having finished out his contract with Puddlemere United three years and seemingly out of retirement as a favour to Potter); and George Weasley and Zacharias Smith (Beaters; George Weasley played with Potter at school, although one might – if one is anything like me – speculate about how effective George will be since his twin and fellow Beater, Fred Weasley, has not come out of retirement. Smith played opposing him on the Hufflepuff team, although he reassures me that that is all ‘ancient history’ now). 

***

Harry tries to be early to the first practice of the season with the complete team, and fails miserably. First, it was a problem with the hot water in his flat, a problem that no heating charms seemed to solve. Then it was his fucking knee starting to act up and get all stiff. He’s had a potion for it, but it won’t kick in for another hour or so, so that should be fun. The shit cherry on the shit cake was that his knee made it so he couldn’t Apparate or fly, so he had to walk to practice. And by the time he gets to training, he’s ten minutes late, and still in his clothes from home. Which means that by the time he gets changed, it’ll be fifteen minutes late. Great. 

He stops outside the entrance to the building, swears to himself, and gets his wand out to point at his knee. “Stupid fucking knee,” he mumbles. “Stupid piece of… fucking shit…” 

“Colourful vocabulary,” Ginny Weasley says next to him, making him jump. 

“I didn’t see you there,” Harry says. 

“Why, would you have toned it down if you had?” Ginny asks. She’s holding a broomstick, an ancient Comet Two Sixty, and her hair is wind-blown.  

“No,” says Harry, “I would have dialled it up.” 

Ginny smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes today. 

“I know why I’m late,” Harry says, “why are you?” 

Ginny’s smile leaves her face. “Oh, you know. Tutshill is a ways away, it takes a while to get here from there if you fly, and I didn’t feel like Apparating or Flooing today…” 

Harry frowns. “Tutshill?” 

“That’s where Michael’s flat is,” Ginny says. 

Michael from Tutshill. Harry’s brain suddenly feels like it’s whirring a mile a minute, or even faster. It couldn’t be. But then again, what other Michael would choose to live in fucking Tutshill? It has to be… “You’re dating Michael Corner?” he says. He doesn’t mean for his words to sound so accusing. Or maybe he does. 

Ginny’s eyes narrow. “Yes,” she says. “As a matter of fact, I am. Is that a problem?” 

“Yes,” Harry says. “Because he’s a fucking dickhead.” He’s always hated Michael Corner, ever since first encountering playing opposite him during his second year with the Wasps. 

“I’m sorry?” Ginny says. 

“I’m not,” Harry says. “He’s the worst. An absolute dickhead.” 

“Thank you so much for letting me know your opinion,” Ginny says. There’s a certain coolness to her voice, but Harry’s far too angry to register it or heed the silent warning to shut up now. 

“Why the fuck are you dating someone like that?” he demands. 

Ginny is… she’s always been good. A good person, down to her core. What she’s doing with someone like Michael Fucking Corner (which might as well be his legal name for all that Harry’s concerned) is a confounding mystery. 

“I’m so sorry,” Ginny says. “I suppose I forgot that I need to get your permission with regard to how I live my life.” 

Harry shrinks back. This is the first time he’s seen Ginny be upset with him. “No– er, what I meant is–” 

“No, thank you so much,” Ginny says. “Should I run every other decision I make past you, just in case? I was planning on getting breakfast with Hermione before joining all of you at practice. Is that alright, do you think? God forbid you disapprove of what I do.” 

“No… fuck, listen, I just meant… he’s such a prick, and you–” Harry has no idea what he’s saying. His words sound feeble even to his own ears. 

Ginny tosses her hair over her shoulder. “See you at practice, Harry. I’ll make sure to consult you before I go to the bathroom.” 

She walks in before Harry’s even formulated what he wanted to say. Harry blinks, and then follows Ginny in, all thoughts of pain relief spells for his knee forgotten. 

Training is off to an inauspicious start, and when he makes it to the dressing room and sees everyone’s eyes on him, it only feels like it’s getting worse. 

“There you are, Captain,” George Weasley says cheerfully. “We were beginning to worry you’d tripped over your senses… but then we remembered that if you had any sense, you wouldn’t have signed onto this team.” 

“We’re all a part of the team now,” Zacharias Smith says reproachfully to George. 

“I think it was just a joke,” says Grant Smith, the reserve Keeper, who is already Harry’s favourite Smith on the team. 

“Jokes have meaning, though,” Zacharias says. “We all need to wear our team name with pride and honour.” 

Angelina snorts. “Relax, Smith,” she says. 

“What did I do?” asks Grant Smith. 

“Not you, Smith,” George says. “Angie means Other Smith.” 

“You’re right, George. I did mean Other Smith. Sorry, Smith,” Angelina says. 

“Oh, alright. No worries, Angelina,” Smith says, and Angelina waves a hand. 

“Why do I have to be Other Smith?” Zacharias says indignantly. “It’s insulting.” 

George pats his back in faux-consolation. “You came second, didn’t you? We can’t remove Smith’s name from him.” 

“What about my name?” Zacharias says. 

“That’s enough questions out of you. Let’s get on the pitch, shall we?” George says, and winks at Harry before he herds Zacharias out onto the pitch. 

“I’ll warm the team up with Ron while you get changed,” Oliver says, clapping Harry on the shoulder on his way out of the dressing room. 

“Going to be a fun practice, don’t you think?” Ron says to Harry, once the room’s emptied out of everyone but them and Harry’s begun to change into his practice robes. 

“Sure,” Harry says. “S’one way of putting it.” 

It’s an overcast day, which means Harry’ll be able to spot the Snitch easily, a glint of gold in the grey without the glint of the sun getting in the way. Unfortunately, it also means that it makes his job easier. Harry hates that, because if his job is easy, it means the job of the Seeker on the opposing side has an easy job, too. 

He tries to push back his burgeoning bad mood (which is a struggle he is always unsuccessful at, if he’s being honest) and joins Oliver on the pitch alongside Ron. “What did I miss?” he says. 

“Not too much. George and Zacharias are running drills with the reserve Beaters,” Oliver says. 

Harry squints up at the sky. He can make out George brandishing his Beater bat, hitting everything that Peterson and Abdul are throwing at him. Zacharias seems to be arguing rather than hitting anything, which pisses Harry off. It also seems to be pissing Abdul off, if the way she stops to gesticulate at Zacharias says anything. 

Ron follows his gaze and seems to be thinking along the same lines as Harry. “It’s a shame that Zacharias was the best at tryouts, isn’t it?” 

“It’s a shame that none of us could coax Fred out of retirement,” Harry says.

“Fred’s Beating arm was blessed by the gods,” Oliver agrees solemnly.

“I don’t know what Zacharias is so mardy about,” Ron says. 

“I think he’s upset that I told them what drills to run,” Oliver says. “Since I’m not his Coach or his Captain.” 

Harry snorts. “So fucking what? You played for Puddlemere over fifteen years. You know more about Quidditch than he ever will.” 

“Try telling him that,” Oliver says. 

“Don’t tempt me,” Harry mutters. “What about the others?” 

“Alicia is showing the Chasers how to do Wronski Feints successfully, and Smith’s guarding the goal. I was waiting for you both before joining them,” Oliver says. 

“Hang on a second,” Ron says, and blows his whistle. Loud. 

“Give us some warning next time,” Harry mutters, rubbing the ear closest to the offending sound as everyone else touches down. 

“Sorry,” Ron says, and then, once everyone else has gathered around, “Alright, everyone. We’re going to keep it simple and do a match. Main team versus reserve team, yeah?” 

“I’m sorry, but that’s it?”   Zacharias asks. “Just a practice match?” 

Harry narrows his eyes at Zacharias. He vaguely registers a bright red figure sitting in the stands; Ginny’s joined them. “What do you mean, that’s it?” 

“I mean… It's hardly impressive, is it? How are we meant to improve from that?” Zacharias says. 

He’s definitely Worse Smith, Harry decides. “You didn’t improve from the drills Oliver told you to do, either, since you weren’t doing them,” he points out, doing his best to keep his cool. 

“But that’s different,” Zacharias says. “What will we learn from this? How will we get better?” 

“You’ll play as a team for the first time,” Ron points out, but Harry can tell his ears are starting to go a bit pink. “And I’ll be able to pick up on any areas of improvement easier…” 

“Oh, and you’re skilled from all of your coaching practice, are you?” Zacharias says. 

Harry tries to take a deep breath and fails. “Our coach has told us to do something. We’re going to fucking do it. If you think you’re better than the rest of us on the team, Smith, you can leave.” 

There’s a brief silence, which George punctuates by saying, “I think you mean Other Smith, Harry.” 

Zacharias flushes. “No. Er… sorry, Coach,” he says. 

“S’fine,” Ron says. “Let’s just start, shall we?” 

***

“How was your first practice?” Hermione asks brightly that evening. They’re at Ron and Hermione’s flat, where Harry’s been dragged to for dinner. 

“Horrible,” Harry says. 

Hermione looks at Ron. “No, he’s right,” Ron says. “Horrible. And I was a shit coach.” 

“You were not a shit coach,” Harry says. “It’s not your fault that Evil Smith decided to be a wanker.” 

“I’m sorry… Evil Smith?” Hermione says. 

“We’ve got two Smiths on our team,” Ron explains. “Grant and Zacharias.” 

“And which one is the evil one?” Hermione looks amused. 

“Do you even have to fucking ask?” Harry says. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Hermione says, “That’ll be Ginny! I invited her, too.” 

“Ginny’s coming?” Harry asks Ron, as Hermione goes to get the door. He’d gotten dressed in a rush after training, and so he’s wearing an old t-shirt and some faded trousers that were once black jeans. 

“Yeah, mate. I forgot to tell you. Is that alright?” Ron says. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “S’fine. Is she bringing Michael?” he can’t resist asking. 

“I hope not,” Ron says, “he’s a proper wanker, isn’t he?” 

“He really is,” Harry says. 

“Hi, boys,” Ginny says cheerfully as she joins them, holding Hermine a bottle of wine as she walks. She’s changed as well, into a floaty sundress, and Harry suddenly wishes he was wearing something a bit nicer than a Weird Sisters t-shirt. “Good first practice, wasn’t it?” 

“Was it?” Harry says. 

“It was certainly entertaining, anyway. It’s going to make good journalism,” Ginny says. 

Ron groans. “You won’t write about it, will you? Come on, Ginny, you can’t!” 

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. All-access pass, Ron, remember?” Ginny says. 

“Ron,” Hermione says before Ron can respond, “can you come help me with the curry? I think I burnt it…” 

“Yeah, course,” Ron says, getting to his feet and following Hermione to the kitchen. 

It’s just the both of them now, Harry thinks, and he knows what he has to do. And it’s something he’s shit at doing. “Ginny,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m… sorry, about earlier,” Harry grits out. “It’s none of my business who you date. You can do what you want.” 

“I know,” Ginny says. “But I’m glad you arrived at that conclusion, too.” She smiles at Harry, which takes the sting out of her words. 

Harry thinks about whether he should tell her how Michael Corner just gets in his head like no one else, but maybe the topic of Michael Fucking Corner is best left alone tonight. 

“Zacharias really getting to you, isn’t he?” Ginny says.

Harry’s glad for the excuse. “Yes,” he says. “He really, really is.” 

“If it wasn’t for his skill with a Beater bat, I’d say he was the weakest link in your team,” Ginny says. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “He’s all too aware of his skill. I’m Zacharias Smith, I’m good with a bat and I’m the fucking worst.” He puts on his best, poshest accent. 

Ginny looks at him. “Wow,” she says. “You’re, like, really bad at impressions, aren’t you?” 

Harry tries not to smile.

***

Before Harry knows it, it’s the week before their first match of the season. The team is… sort of getting on. If Harry were being optimistic, he would say they’ve improved. Which is… something. 

“The problem isn’t aptitude,” Ron tells Harry over breakfast. They’ve started meeting before training every day to have breakfast, because Ron insists it’s the only way Harry will remember to eat the disgusting meal that masquerades as breakfast on his meal plan. 

“Of course it’s aptitude,” Harry says. 

“No, it’s not,” Ron says. “Everyone on the team is good.” 

“Even Evil Smith?” Harry snorts. 

“Even Evil Smith. He’s evil, but he’s good with a Bludger,” Ron says. 

Harry grunts. He refuses to acknowledge Ron’s point. “What’s our problem, then? If it’s not aptitude?” he challenges. 

“It’s teamwork. And chemistry. Everyone’s not used to playing with each other,” Ron says. 

Harry considers that, and then registers the way Ron’s looking at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “I’m an excellent fucking team player.” 

Ron only rolls his eyes in response. 

Harry spends his time drawing up plans, and then back-up plans: strategies the team should try out, tactics he thinks would be successful. Their first match is against his old team, the Wimbourne Wasps, and he’s determined to win. Unlike most Chudley Cannons matches, this one will be well-attended, as Ginny tells him cheerfully on Friday morning. 

“Word on the street is that they ran out of press badges to give out,” she tells him. “And tickets are being resold for a shameful amount. Everyone’s interested in seeing the Golden Boy’s first match on the Cannons.” 

“Is that meant to make me feel better?” Harry says. 

“Don’t tell me that Harry Potter can’t handle a few extra eyes on him?” Ginny teases. 

Harry groans. “Fuck off.” 

“Is that an official quote I should include in my next article?” Ginny asks innocently. 

“Maybe I’ll give my official quote to Which Broomstick? instead,” Harry says, just as innocently. 

Ginny gasps. “You wouldn’t.” 

“I just might,” Harry says, maintaining eye contact with Ginny for all of two seconds before the both of them burst into laughter. 

“Their Seeker is shit,” Ron tells Harry the next morning. The morning of the match. “So all you have to do is catch the Snitch.” 

“I think I can figure that much out, yeah,” Harry says. 

Ron looks at Oliver. “Their Chasers are amazing, so you’ll have to be on your A game.” 

“Oliver’s always on his A game,” Grant Smith says. 

“Thank you, Smith,” Oliver says, and looks at Zacharias. “You need to be careful with the bat, alright?” 

Last week at training, Zacharias had an accident that involved his bat slipping from his hand, and a nosebleed that Harry’s trying very hard not to think about. He frowns as he thinks about it now. 

Zacharias opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Ron cuts him off, which is good, because Harry is truly not up to the task of controlling his temper around Zacharias Smith right now. “Alright,” he says. “We’ve got this, yeah? Captain, why don’t you count us down?” 

Harry reluctantly decides not to yell at Zacharias Smith. (One of his core tenets, whether it be during Quidditch or in his life itself, is to always take Oliver Wood’s advice.) “Alright, then. Hands in, everyone. Team on three. Three… two… one…” 

***

Transcript of the live coverage of the match between the Chudley Cannons and the Wimbourne Wasps from the Wizarding Wireless Network’s Quidditch Correspondent, Lee Jordan

It’s a bright and sunny day and the Chudley Cannons are ready for their first match of the season. The captains of the respective teams – Harry Potter of the Cannons and his former teammate, Rowan Davies of the Wasps. This match, of course, marks the debut of Harry Potter playing for the Cannons. His move there at the start of the season left a lot of us with a lot of questions, but Potter refused to answer any of them, thanks to what I’m sure Witch Weekly might call his strong and silent demeanour. 

The captains have shaken hands, and the referee has blown the whistle! We’re off to an exciting start already, with Katie Bell in possession of the Quaffle. George Weasley sends a Bludger towards Davies – that was some fine Beating by Weasley, and I don’t just say that because he’s an old friend of mine. 

Bell passes the Quaffle to fellow teammate Johnson – back to Bell – back to Johnson – and then… if you heard the collective gasp around the pitch, folks, that was the Wasps stealing possession of the Quaffle. Jenkins is in possession of the Quaffle, despite Spinnet and Bell’s best effort to intercept it. Potter seems to be saying something to Weasley, who sends a Bludger Jenkins way, but Jenkins dodges it! She seems to be aiming for the left hoop, she shoots… and Wood prevents the goal! 

Thanks to some excellent Keeping from Wood, the Cannons are back in possession of the Quaffle, leading many to wonder if this is a record for the longest time the Cannons have ever been in possession before. I believe the previous record is about five seconds, personally. 

Spinnet in possession… she dodges an errant Bludger by mere inches – Matthews, with his trademark aim, is not to be trifled with, folks. I’ve long said the Wasps have the best Beaters in the league, but Spinnet’s reflexes are not to be underestimated, either. Thanks to a neat Sloth Grip Roll, Spinnet dodges and passes the ball to Johnson. Johnson shoots – it’s a long shot, but Johnson, of course, is known for these sorts of risky manoeuvres. Davies lunges for the Quaffle, but… he misses! That’s the Cannons with the first goal of the match, making it 10-0. Who would have thought? 

And… what’s that? Potter seems to have spotted the Snitch! Either that, or he’s doing a very impressive Wronski Feint, but it certainly has the attention of Wasps’ Seeker. McDevitt lunges along with Potter, and the entire stadium seems to be watching. Jenkins takes the opportunity to shoot a goal, which Wood misses narrowly – that’s a goal for the Wasps! 10-10, and the Seekers are neck and neck for the Snitch. 

Potter seems to be inching forward… The Beaters from either side are doing their best to divert the opposing team’s Seekers. Zacharias Smith of the Cannons hits the Bludger before Weasley gets the chance. It goes careening in the direction of both McDevitt and Potter and… I can’t believe it, it seems to hit the Snitch, if the Seekers’ reactions are anything to go by! Such self-sabotage in a Beater would certainly not be seen if Fred Weasley was still playing alongside George, it must be said… Potter dodges the Bludger just in time, and McDevitt, taking advantage of Potter’s momentary distraction, secures the Snitch. That’s a win for the Wimbourne Wasps, 160-10, and a short but memorable match for us all!

***

Monday is… rough. 

Harry walks in to practice, sees the dressing room full of people who turn to look at him, and feels it in his bones immediately. It’s going to be a bad one. He just knows it. What makes it worse is that everyone turns to look at him with expectant looks on their face. He’s meant to say something about the match on Saturday, he supposes. He fully intends to brush it off, to say nothing, or maybe to suggest that they all get to practice, but then he makes the mistake of making eye contact with Oliver Wood. Oliver raises an eyebrow at him, and Harry sighs. He knows what he has to do. 

“Alright,” he says. “Gather round, you lot. Yes, that means you too, Smith.” Zacharias nods and starts walking towards him, which makes Harry want to roll his eyes. (He could not have more clearly been talking to Grant Smith, who’s lurking by his cubby, but he supposes it’s fine.)  

“Am I included, too?” 

Harry turns to see Ginny at the door to the dressing room, a mischievous smile on her face. 

“You’ll come no matter what I say, won’t you?” he says. 

“You know me so well,” Ginny says, and joins the circle, quill drawn already. 

“Alright,” Harry says, once she’s joined them. “Our first match of the season was shit.” 

“You can say that again,” Oliver mutters. 

“But… it wasn’t all bad, right?” Harry says. He’s not a good optimist at the best of times, but he’s trying. He really is. “I mean… we scored our first goal of the season!” 

“Hear, hear, Angie,” George cheers, and Angelina grins. 

“And Oliver was fucking fantastic,” Harry says. “Only let one goal in.” 

“Next time, it’ll be none,” Oliver determined, and Smith (not the evil one) looks up at him in clear awe. 

“And as for the rest of it–” 

“You might have secured us a win if it hadn’t been for Zacharias’s Beating?” Alicia Spinnet says sweetly. 

“We’re the laughing stock of the country?” Katie Bell says. “Again?”

“As for the rest of it,” Harry continues, “we’re just going to have to deal with it, hope next week’s match is better, and practice like hell. Alright?” 

There’s a general rumble of agreement. 

“Alright,” Harry concludes. 

“Well said,” Ron says, and Harry jumps. He hadn’t noticed Ron coming in. 

“How much of that did you hear?” he asks. 

“All of it,” Ron says. “Let’s get to work, lads!” 

***

Their next match, the following week, is against the Tutstill Tornados, because someone out there has it in for Harry. 

“We’re going to Tutstill for it,” Ron says. “It’s our first away match of the season.” 

“It’s a fun town,” George says. 

“You think every place is fun,” Angelina says, rolling her eyes. “Even Tutstill.” 

“Stick with me, Johnson,” George says, nudging her, “we’ll make a Tutstill fan out of you yet.” 

“Impossible,” Harry mutters. No sane person would ever be a Tutstill fan, as far as he’s concerned. 

He’s dreading going back to Tutstill, and having to face the Tornados, and Michael fucking Corner. And Michael Corner will go home with Ginny after, which is… fine. She stays in his flat. He knows this. Why is it bothering him so much? 

Ron glances at Harry. “Anyway,” he says. “Harry, I want you to spend some time with Dennis today. Show him what you pulled off at the World Cup a couple of years ago, when you got us the win.” 

Harry looks at the reserve Seeker, a small and wiry man who looks like he’s maybe one year out of Hogwarts – and that’s being generous. “Sure,” he says. That match had been close – sixty all, and he had caught the Snitch just before a Bludger knocked out their Keeper, thanks to a combination of the Sloth Grip Roll, a one-man version of the Kent manoeuvre, and pure dumb luck. He doesn’t know if that’s something that can be taught, but he might as well give it a go. 

“In case something happens again, and you can’t play the match, we need to have a strong Seeker,” Ron explains. 

“In case your idiocy with a Bludger gets Harry knocked out, he means,” Alicia tells Zacharias Smith sweetly. 

“Then we need to make sure we have a strong reserve Seeker,” Ron says, undeterred. “The rest of you, six on six. Let’s go.” 

The only ray of hope, Harry thinks, is that Ron’s shaping up to be a fucking incredible coach. All those hours playing chess paid off. He sees things in a way that Harry – and everyone else on the team – can’t. 

Harry realises this half an hour into practice; Dennis has just about managed a Sloth Grip Roll, and they’re both taking the opportunity to take a little break before Harry moves on to trying to show Dennis how to do the Kent manoeuvre (which is traditionally done with three Chasers) on his own. “We can do it now,” Dennis insists, his face red. (The blood rushed into his cheeks from all the time he spent hanging upside-down from his broom, but it’s fine. Probably.) 

“Yes,” Harry says. “We can, but we’re going to take a couple minutes off.” 

“Why?” Dennis says. “I’m fine now!” 

“Because I’m your captain and I fucking say so,” Harry says. 

To Dennis’ credit, he takes that well. “Fair enough,” he agrees. “Maybe a water break, then?” 

They both disembark from their brooms and make their way to get some water, and Harry looks up at everyone else, who’s still up on their brooms. Everyone else except Ron, who he joins. “Taking a break?” Ron says. 

“It was either that or be held responsible for Dennis falling off his broom and breaking his skull,” Harry says. 

“Good call,” Ron says. “Look at Alicia.” 

Harry looks, but he has no idea what he’s looking at. The three of them – Alicia, Katie, and Angelina – are flying in a tight V-formation, passing the Quaffle between them as they make it to the goalpost. “What am I looking at?” he says. 

“She always passes to her left,” Ron says. “Whether it’s Katie or Angelina, it’s always to the left. Always aims for the left goalposts, too. It’s like she’s protecting her right side.” 

Harry shrugs. “So? She’s still a damn good Chaser.” 

“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Ron says. 

They both watch the Chasers in silence for a moment. Alicia shoots. Smith lunges for the Quaffle, but misses. It goes in, and Angelina and Katie both fly to Alicia to cheer her on. 

“The right goalpost,” Ron points out. “Beauty of a goal, though,” he adds. 

“It’s an old injury,” Harry says suddenly. 

“What?” 

“I just remembered. She got hurt in a match a couple of years ago, against the Appleby Arrows. Broke all the bones in her right arm. A couple of ribs, too.” 

“It healed, though, surely?” Ron says. “I mean, she passed her physicals and everything after tryouts.” 

Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, but… old injuries fuck with your head, you know? Even if you know you’re all healed… you still play protectively.” 

“Well, she’ll have to work on that, or the opponents will take advantage of it,” Ron says darkly. 

“I’m all ready to get back to it,” Dennis calls out to Harry. He’s jogging back from the side, where he’s finished sipping his water, broomstick held and a bright smile on his face. “And I think I want to give the Sloth Grip Roll another go before we move on. I think I can perfect it this time!” 

“Did I ever have that much energy?” Harry asks, and Ron pats him on the shoulder, snorting with laughter. 

***

Harry hates Tutstill. Harry hates Tutstill. 

“I hate Tutstill,” he says. 

“We know,” George says.

They’re in the dressing room, getting changed for their match. Harry hates the Tutstill dressing room, the obnoxious blue of their fucking robes. He hates everything about them. 

“You won’t shut up about it,” Angelina puts in. “Will you help me do up the back of my robes, George?” 

“Sure,” George says easily. 

Alicia raises her eyebrows at Katie, and then says, “I could have helped you with your robes, Angie.” 

“Or me,” Katie says. 

Fatima Abdul, looking shy but delighted, says, “I wouldn’t have minded helping, either.” 

“Yes, but I saw George first,” Angelina says. She doesn’t look flustered, but she looks as close to flustered as it is possible for Angelina Johnson to look. 

“Convenient, that,” Alicia says. Katie giggles. 

“Why do we hate Tutstill?” Good Smith asks tentatively. 

“No, young Smith. We don’t hate them. Harry does, though,” George explains, his cheeks a bit flushed as he steps back from Angelina, her robes now done up to her satisfaction. 

“Oh,” Good Smith says. “Why?” 

“Excellent question,” Ginny says. “Why do you hate them, Harry?” 

Zacharias Smith says, “Shouldn’t you be in the press area already, Ginny?” 

“There’s time before the match starts,” Harry says. “She can stay here.” 

“Can she?” Zacharias says. 

“I’m not here for long, anyway,” Ginny says. “I’m sitting with Hermione in the box, but I wanted to ask you lot how you all feel before the match. And I wanted to ask Harry why he hates Tutstill.” 

“They’re all pricks,” Harry says. 

Ginny levels him with her gaze. Harry, oddly, feels like shrinking away. “All of them, would you say?” she says. 

“No, I’m with Harry here,” Oliver Wood says, perching on the bench so he can do up his shoes properly. “No offence, Ginny, I know you’re dating their Seeker.” 

“None taken,” Ginny says, but her gaze doesn’t leave Harry’s face. What, he wonders, is someone like Ginny Weasley doing with Michael Corner, the prince prick of all pricks? It baffles the mind. 

“To answer your question,” Zacharias says smoothly, “we all feel fine before the match.” 

“Really?” George snorts. “So you promise not to fuck up this one, then?” 

The reserve Chasers, who are all sitting together in the corner of the room, giggle in unison. Zacharias frowns, and then rounds on Harry. “Are you going to let him say that?” he demands. 

Harry shrugs. “Don’t fuck up this match, and he won’t say it next time,” he says.

“Well said,” George agrees.

Zacharias frowns and opens his mouth, but luckily, before he has a chance to say anything else, Ron comes in. (Thankfully; Harry is never in the mood to listen to Zacharias Smith, but he is especially not in the mood to listen to him today.) 

“Alright. Listen up–” he says, and then pauses. “Ginny, you’re definitely not meant to be here.” 

“Too right you are, Ron,” Ginny agrees. “Good luck, Cannons!” She ducks out of the room after shooting Harry one last look. Harry tries not to dwell on it. 

“Alright, listen,” Ron says. “Gather round, lads.” 

“And ladies,” Katie says.

“No,” Angelina says, “I’m pretty sure lads is gender-neutral.” 

“Is it really?” Sam Peterson says. 

“It definitely is,” Grant Smith decides. 

“Yeah, Smith is right,” Alicia says. “It definitely is.” 

“Why does he get to be Smith?” Zacharias says, not for the first time. 

George and Oliver roll their eyes in unison. 

Ron clears his throat. “Gather round,” he says. “It’s almost time. Remember what we practised all week, right? We’ve got this. Wood’s incredible, our Chasers are amazing, our Beaters–” 

“Won’t mess up this time,” George says. 

Zacharias rolls his eyes. 

“Our Beaters know what they need to do,” Ron goes on. “Harry…” He looks at Harry, who quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Go out there and catch the Snitch before Michael Corner can?” he suggests.

“If you can, yeah,” Ron says. “That’d be great.” 

“I’ll give it a go,” Harry says. 

“Cheers,” Ron says. “Alright, three, two, one… let’s go, Cannons!” 

***

When Hermione bought a Quidditch team for her husband, she didn’t think that would make her an owner of a Quidditch team. Which… in retrospect, maybe she needed to think that one through. But she didn’t think being the owner of a team meant so many meetings, and paperwork (she enjoyed that bit), or so many Quidditch matches. 

At least this season, there’s Ginny. It’s always nice to have a friend at these things. 

“There you are,” she says when Ginny finally joins her in the box, and sits down beside her. “Were you in the dressing room again? You really shouldn’t be there before matches, you know.” 

“I do know, actually. I’ve heard that before,” Ginny says. She’s distracted today, in a way she usually isn’t. She’s laser-focused on her job usually; it’s one of the things she and Hermione have in common. 

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asks.

Ginny sighs. “No. I just… I suppose it’s weird, is all,” Ginny says. “Usually, when I watch the Tornados play, I root for them. And now…” 

“You’re just reporting on the Cannons this season,” Hermione points out “No one says you have to root for them.” 

“Of course I’m rooting for them,” Ginny says. “It’s impossible to watch them every day and not root for them.” 

“Why not just root for both teams, then?” Hermione says. She thinks it’s a reasonable suggestion, but Ginny looks at her like she’s lost her mind. 

“You can’t come to a match and root for both teams, Hermione,” she says impatiently. 

“I don’t see why not,” Hermione says. 

“How do you own a Quidditch team and still not get it?” Ginny says, but there’s a teasing smile on her face. 

Hermione smiles in turn. “Well, no one says you have to root for Michael, just because you’re involved with him,” she says. 

“Oh, he’d be so pissed off if I wasn’t,” Ginny says. “He’s passionate, you know? Passion goes a long way. I mean, you bought a whole Quidditch team just because Ron’s passionate about it.” 

“Sure,” Hermione says, “if you like that sort of thing. And it’s definitely important. It’s not the only important thing, though.” 

Ginny looks at her. “What do you mean?” 

Hermione thinks of her marriage, and smiles without thinking about it. “Well… what about accountability?” 

“Accountability?” Ginny repeats. 

“Ron and I fight all the time,” Hermione says. 

“I’m well aware.” 

“But what used to drive me insane back at school,” Hermione continues, “is that he’d never just take accountability for saying things that upset me. And when he got a bit mature and started doing that… I wouldn’t say it was smooth sailing from there, but it got a lot easier.” 

“And look at you now,” Ginny says. “Wearing orange at a Cannons game.” 

Hermione smiles. “Look at me now,” she agrees. 

***

Surprising results at the Chudley Cannons – Tutstill Tornados match

by Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Correspondent

Hundreds of onlookers were shocked to see the outcome of today’s match. The Chudley Cannons, despite being captained by Potter this season and boasting a truly impressive lineup of players, was the underdog going into the match. The Tutstill Tornados famously won the Championship the season before last, and have been in the finals the last three years; every person taking bets outside the pitch could’ve sworn the odds were in the Tornados’ favour.

And, indeed, the Tornados got off to a good start, with two goals in the first ten minutes. I do feel it’s important noting that for those two goals that he let in, Oliver Wood prevented about four other goals, proving once and for all what I have been saying for years: he is the finest Keeper in the league. 

Nevertheless, despite Wood and some well-placed Bludgers on the Cannons’ part (George Weasley and Zacharias Smith seem to have redoubled their efforts after what happened with the match against the Wasps), the Tornados didn’t seem to be letting up any soon. Half an hour in, though, the defence on the Cannons’ side seemed to have picked up, refusing to allow any further goals. Finally, the Cannons got their first goal, scored by Katie Bell with an excellent assist from Alicia Spinnet. The score, half an hour in, was twenty-ten in the Tornados’ favour. 

With the score the way it was, and the Cannons and Tornados playing as they were, it seemed like the beginning to any old Quidditch match. An exciting one, certainly, but one that was destined to be slow, goal by agonising goal. 

But then, both Potter (Seeker for the Cannons) and Michael Corner (Seeker for the Tornados) hurtled towards the same spot. I wondered if it was a Wronksi Feint and waited – along with the rest of the crowd – to see what would happen. Neither Corner nor Potter is a stranger to a well-timed Wronksi Feint. At this point in the match, both teams would benefit from the strategy: indeed, while the teams were distracted by Corner and Potter, Angelina Johnson took the opportunity to score another goal for the Cannons. Twenty-twenty: the score was tied, both teams were on high alert, and it all came down to the Snitch. 

We were not left in suspense for too long: a mere few minutes after the chase began, Potter’s hand closed around the Snitch. Corner, who was only inches behind him, registered his protest, but it was all too late: Potter clinched the win for the Cannons, making for their first official win this season, and the first time the Chudley Cannons have won a match since 1947!

Final score: 170-20, a win for the Cannons, and an exciting match for us all to watch! 

***

The team is loudly singing the unofficial Chudley Cannons theme song – which is loud, off-pitch no matter how you sing it, and tuneless as far as Harry can tell – as they parade back into the dressing room. 

“Chudley Cannons, we’re the fucking Chud-ley Can-nons, and we never give up!” 

“You know,” Angelina says thoughtfully from Harry’s side, “I never even knew the Cannons had a song.” The both of them are the only two who aren’t singing: Harry’s watching with a grin and Angelina looks amused. 

“I don’t think the Cannons have ever had a reason to celebrate before,” Harry says. 

Angelina snorts. “Fair.” 

“Angie!” George says, turning and grinning at them. “You owe me ten quid.” 

“Were you betting on us to lose?” Harry asks.

“Can you blame me?” Angelina says, and accepts George’s proffered hand. She joins the team in their celebrations; George conjures a bottle of champagne out of nowhere, and in a matter of seconds, the team has descended into pouring it on each other in turns. 

Harry leans against the lockers, watching with a tiny smile. 

“Good game,” says a voice by his shoulders, almost drowned out by the revelry. But Harry makes it out, recognises who it belongs to.

“How did you get so good at sneaking up on people?” he says. 

“Years of practice and many older brothers,” Ginny says. 

Harry turns, looks at Ginny. She’s smiling at him, and he feels his mouth curve up in a matching smile. 

“Not joining the celebrations?” she says. 

Harry’s not very good at the celebration part of the game, never has been. He likes playing, and he likes practising. Sometimes, after a win, when everyone’s celebrating, all he really feels is a craving to be back on the pitch, chasing the high of the Snitch. He has no idea how to explain that, so he just shrugs and says, “I will, eventually.” 

Ginny nods. “Suppose it’s a bit of an adrenaline crash, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Harry says. “That’s it, exactly.” He turns to face her properly. “So, how are the Cannons going to come off in your next article?” 

“I’ve just finished writing it, as a matter of fact,” Ginny says. 

“And?” Harry says. 

Ginny’s eyes twinkle. “And, you’ll have to wait and read tomorrow’s Prophet to find out.” 

“You follow my team around every day, and I don’t even get to read the article? That’s how it works?” Harry says. 

Ginny pretends to think about it. “That’s exactly how it works, as it turns out.” 

Harry grins. “I thought you’d be with Michael,” his mouth says, before his brain can catch up to it. 

Ginny’s smile fades. “Yes, well. He didn’t seem in the mood for company.” 

Harry knows he should shut up, but he can’t seem to stop. “He was always a sore loser.” 

“And an angry loser to boot,” Ginny says. 

Harry looks at Ginny, a slow frown dawning on his face. Angry. He wonders if Michael Corner snapped at Ginny in the few minutes between the match ending and her walking in here. He wishes a Bludger had made contact with him, if that was the case. “You alright?” he asks. 

“Hm?” Ginny says, as if startled by the question, and then straightens up, turning to look at the team. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Oi, George – is that champagne?” she calls out, and is swept up by George and Oliver before Harry can think of how to respond to her.

***

By the time the week before Christmas rolls around, they’re doing well.

“Much better than anyone expected us to,” Ron says, indicating the whiteboard that’s become a permanent fixture of the dressing room. “We’ve only lost three games this season so far.” 

“But we need to keep it up,” Oliver says, jumping to his feet and joining Ron at the whiteboard. “We can’t let ourselves get complacent. We have a whole league to prove wrong about what the Cannons can do!” 

“He’s in a mood, isn’t he?” George mutters to Harry. 

Harry shrugs. Oliver’s always… excited, about the sport, but something’s gotten to him the past week, and he has no idea what it is. But it does mean Oliver’s been playing even better than usual, and Harry isn’t about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. 

“That’s just his personality,” Angelina, who’s never far away from George these days, murmurs.

“Maybe you’re right. Oliver’s insane about Quidditch and Harry’s a grumpy git. Goes with the territory,” George says.

Harry hides a smile. “We should pay attention,” is all he says. 

“See?” George stage-whispers to Angelina.

“And finally,” Oliver says, “Smith, you need to get better about defence.” 

Grant Smith looks surprised to see everyone’s eyes on him. “I’ve only played in one game so far,” he says tentatively. “And, er… I mean, I thought I did alright.” 

“You did great,” Harry tells him. “He’s not talking to you.”

“He’s talking to Other Smith,” Katie says. 

Zacharias frowns. “I’m still not a fan of the nickname,” he says. 

“Well, I’m not a fan of how you’re slacking with the defence,” Oliver says. “You’re working too offensively – you hit ten Bludgers without thinking about it, when one well-aimed one would be more effective.” 

“He’s right,” George says. “You  need to focus on efficiency.” 

“I’m not a fan of everyone piling onto me, either,” Zacharias says. “I’m not responsible for the entire team, you know!” 

Harry’s not good with holding his temper. (Understatement.) He’s especially not good with holding his temper around Zacharias Smith. He opens his mouth, and Ron nudges him, so, reluctantly, he closes it again. 

“Besides,” Zacharias continues, “you’re not the captain, or the coach. So where do you get off, telling us what to do? Stay in your own lane.” 

That’s it. Harry sees red, and any hope of him holding his temper dissipates. He hears Ron’s tiny sigh next to him, and what might be the sound of the door to the dressing room opening, but he disregards it all. “Don’t fucking talk to Oliver like that,” he says.

“It’s alright, Harry,” Oliver says. 

“It’s not,” Harry says.

“It’s really not,” Alicia agrees. 

“Oliver’s played longer than any of us here, and he’s better than every single one of us. He knows more about captaining a team than I ever will,” Harry says. “So you have two choices. Apologise to Oliver, right now, or else.” 

Zacharias levels him with a look. “Or else what?” 

“You really want to fucking call my bluff right now?” Harry says.

“I think I do, yes,” Zacharias says. 

Harry turns to look at Ron, incredulous. He only notices then that Ginny’s next to Ron. She must have slipped in sometime; that would’ve been the sound of the door opening, he realises. Ron gives Harry a tight nod, which means that he knows what Harry’s about to say, and he’s alright with it. Thank heavens. 

Harry turns back to Zacharias, fast enough that he almost gives himself whiplash. “Apologise to Wood or you’re off the team,” he says. 

Silence rings through the room. No one speaks. It’s like no one breathes, either. Harry stares at Zacharias, refusing to avert his eyes. Refusing to so much as blink. He waits.

“You don’t mean that,” Zacharias says, after a pause that goes on far too long.

“Don’t I?” Harry says. 

“It’s not your place,” Zacharias says, and then seems to realise it’s the wrong thing to say. 

“He’s the Captain, mate,” George says mildly, “whose place would it be, if not his?” 

“You can’t kick me off the team,” Zacharias says. 

“You’re right,” Harry says, “technically, I can’t. But I can make sure you don’t play for a single moment all season. You can sit on the sidelines and watch.” 

Zacharias narrows his eyes. “You can’t do that. I’m the best Beater on the team.” 

“Are you fucking joking?” George mutters. 

“He’s right,” Ron says. Zacharias looks pleased for a second, but then Ron says, “Harry, I mean. Harry’s right. He can do that. And I’ll back him up.”

“What, all because I said something that offended you?” Zacharias says. “I’m invaluable to this team, I do my job, and I do it well.” 

Harry curls his hand into a fist, clenches his fingers into the skin of the palm of his hand. It helps ground him, but only slightly. “Part of your job is being a part of this team. Which includes not being a dick to the others,” he says. 

“Just because I don’t bow down to the greatness of Oliver Wood–” Zacharias starts to say.

“It’s not about that,” Oliver says. He manages to sound calm. Harry has no idea how he does it. “It’s about accepting constructive criticism without flying off the handle, and being respectful to everyone.” 

“Which includes Oliver Wood,” Angelina says sweetly, “who’s won a record number of  Dangerous Dai Llewellyn Commemorative Medals, so… I don’t think any of us are debating Wood’s greatness or skill.” 

“Thanks, Angelina,” Oliver says.

“That’s not the point! The point is that I don’t like being singled out, and being threatened,” Zacharias says. He even crosses his arms, the smarmy prick. Harry hates him. “Besides,” Zacharias adds, “Harry’s hardly respectful of everyone.” 

Ron steps forward. Ginny does, too. Both of them look furious. But before either of them can say anything, Grant Smith says, “Come on, mate, that’s mad talk. Harry’s a good teammate, we all think so.” 

“And a great Captain,” says Kabir Khan, reserve Chaser. 

“Thank you, but… Zacharias, if you have shit to say about me, then say it,” Harry says, trying not to let Kabir and Grant’s words get to him. (He’s not the best with compliments; another understatement.) “I’ll hear you out. Until then, though, apologise to Wood, and be a better fucking teammate to everyone around here, or you’re off the team.” 

Zacharias looks around at all of them. He seems to take them all in. Ron, exasperated. Oliver Wood, stone-faced and blank. George, still indignant. Kabir and Grant, flushed after speaking out. And Harry, fucking furious. 

“Fine,” Zacharias says. It comes out petulant, which only makes Harry feel angrier. “Fine, then. I’m out.” 

“You’re out?” Katie says incredulously. 

Zacharias slams his cabinet door shut; Harry watches Ginny jump at the noise it makes. “If you’re done, you’re done. That’s your choice,” he says. “There’s no need to throw a tantrum like a fucking child about it.” 

Zacharias, ignoring Harry’s words, gathers his things from the cabinet, and then walks to the exit. He pauses by the door, and when no one says anything, storms out, slamming the door behind him. 

“I think he was waiting for one of us to stop him,” Grant Smith says. 

“Yes, well. He would have had to wait a long time,” Harry mutters, and looks at Ron. “Can he just walk off the team like that?” 

Ron shrugs. “He’ll have to get the paperwork sorted with Hermione, but… he could transfer to another team.” 

“Their loss,” George says cheerfully, and turns to survey a corner of the dressing room, where the reserve Beaters, Fatima Abdul and Sam Peterson, are huddled together on a bench, looking scared. “So, which of you both want to step up in his place?” 

Peterson goes pale with terror, and Abdul says, “It’s really up to Captain Potter, isn’t it?” 

“Too right, it is,” George says, and turns to look at Harry. “Well?” 

Harry, still reeling from anger, hasn’t managed to move from fuck Zacharias Smith and damn him to the deepest pits of hell to we need a new Beater. He blinks.

“You’re not playing a match until Boxing Day,” Ginny says helpfully. “Enough time to find a replacement, or train up Fatima or Sam.” 

Harry narrows his eyes as he looks at Ginny. “You’re not going to write an article about Zacharias if he transfers, are you?” 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Ginny says, “I definitely am. And it’s more a when than an if. He’s a prick, but he’s in demand.” 

“Wonderful,” Ron says. “Well, then I give it a couple of days until Hermione makes us call a press conference.” 

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles.

“Look on the bright side,” Ginny says, “at least Zacharias is off the team now.” 

Good point, Harry thinks. 

***

Transcript from ‘Potterwatch’, hosted by Lee Jordan on the Wizarding Wireless Network, with special guest Fred Weasley

Lee: And that was Celestina Warbeck’s new single! Welcome back to Potterwatch. As you know, this show was started years ago to track the career of the Golden Boy himself, and we boast of being the only show to have not one, not two, but seven exclusive interviews with Potter–

Fred: And him being a family friend of mine only helped your case a little bit, I’m sure.

Lee: For any new listeners, that was Fred Weasley, retired Beater, joke shop owner, one of my best friends, and frequent guest on the show.

Fred: Hi, Lee. Pleasure to be here, and I’m not just saying that because of the free snacks the guests get.

Lee: You absolutely are.

Fred: Too right I am.

Lee: So, Fred, what did you make of the news this morning? 

Fred: About the shortage of nuts at Eyelops Owl Emporium, you mean? Shocking indeed, very shocking.

Lee: I absolutely was not talking about that, you little shit. 

Fred: (gasping) For any delicate listeners, I apologise on Lee Jordan’s behalf for his appalling language. Where he picks that up from, I simply do not know…

Lee: This morning, Zacharias Smith announced his transfer to the Appleby Arrows, leaving the Chudley Cannons without a Beater. What do you make of that news?

Fred: Honestly? I’m surprised. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to leave the Cannons under Harry Potter.

Lee: Imagine a sentence like that a few years ago. It’s mad, isn’t it? Someone saying they couldn’t imagine why someone would want to leave the Cannons.

Fred: Did he say why, in his statement? 

Lee: He said – and, for any listeners who will accuse me of twisting his words, this is a direct quote – he said, ‘I’m looking forward to going to a team that values me and the many contributions I bring.’

Fred: He said that? 

Lee: His exact words. 

Fred: Merlin. More of a little shit than I’ll ever be, isn’t he? 

Lee: (laughing) Well said. And now, the Weird Sisters’ latest song. We’ll be back after a break, with more from Fred Weasley!

***

Sure enough, Hermione calls for a press conference one day after Zacharias announces his transfer to the Appleby Arrows. 

“Do I have to?” Harry asks. 

“Yes,” Hermione says. She doesn’t look up from her paperwork. 

“It’s the day before Christmas,” Harry protests.

“Yes. You have a half day tomorrow, and you’re playing the day after. It’s better to address the situation sooner than later,” Hermione says, unperturbed. 

“Why can’t George or Oliver do it? They’re better with the press,” Harry says. 

“It’s true,” Ginny says, from her position where she’s lounging, catlike, on the armchair in Hermione’s office. “Harry’s terrible with the press.” 

“Thank you for that,” Harry says.

Ginny winks. Harry tries to act like that doesn’t affect him. She’s an old friend. Ron’s little sister.

“You have to do it, because you’re the Captain of the team,” Hermione says, unaffected. She looks up from her parchment and says, “And what’s more, you have to do it because I’m technically your boss, and I say you do.” 

“I hate you,” Harry says.

“You’ll live,” Hermione says. “Ron, show Harry to the press room, won’t you?” 

“I know where the press room is,” Harry protests.

“I don’t trust you to get there on your own without doing a runner,” Hermione says.

“Fair,” Harry allows. 

“I’ll come with you both,” Ginny says, getting to her feet. “I have my questions all prepared.” 

“You’re going to be there?” Ron says. 

“I’m a member of the press, aren’t I?” Ginny says, and offers Ron a one-fingered salute. “Come on. I’ll be right behind you.” 

“Don’t ask me very difficult questions,” Harry tells Ginny as they walk downstairs.

“No promises,” Ginny says. 

The press room might be Harry’s least favourite place in the world. It’s even worse when it’s as densely populated as it is now; every last chair is packed, and the second the two of them step in (Ginny’s slipped away to enter through the press entrance), he’s greeted by what seems like a million camera flashes in his face. “Fuck,” he mumbles. 

Ron pats his shoulder. “Come on,” he mumbles, and then, louder, to the journalists, “Alright, alright. Relax, all of you.” 

Once they both are sitting down, Harry makes eye contact with Ginny. Her eyes are shining, and her hand is raised. “Alright. What’s your question, then?” he asks her. 

“Ginny Weasley from the Prophet,” she says brightly. 

“Yes. I know. You’ve been at every practice this season,” Harry says.

“I’m flattered you noticed,” Ginny says. “My question is… rumour has it you’ve taught everyone on your team an effective Sloth Grip Roll. Is that part of a larger strategy for your upcoming match?” 

Harry blinks, surprised at her avoiding the obvious question. “Er… yes and no,” he says slowly. “It’s just a useful tactic to have up your sleeve. You never know when it comes in handy, which… yes, includes the Boxing Day match.” 

“Cheers. Thanks,” Ginny says, lowering her hand. 

“That’s all you had to ask?” the man next to Ginny says incredulously.

Ginny shrugs. “It’s a question about Quidditch. Which is what we’re all here for. The sport, not just gossip about the players.” 

The others have the decency to look uncomfortable.

Harry, biting back a grin, says, “You, in the front row. Go on, ask.” 

The man Harry points at stands up and says, “Lon Pierce, The Daily Wizard. Do you have any comment on Zacharias Smith’s transfer to the Appleby Arrows, and his comments about it?” 

The Daily Wizard. Tabloid scum of the worst order. Harry rolls his eyes, and turns and looks at Ron, hoping against hope that Ron will answer it for him. Ron just levels him with a look that Harry recognises all too well. It’s a look that boils down to you’re on your own with this one, mate. 

Sighing, Harry leans forward. “I was surprised when Zacharias chose to leave the way he did,” he says, weighing every word out carefully. The only thing that’s keeping him from losing his temper is seeing Ginny’s amused look in the second row. “I hope he’s happy at the Arrows. I wish Robert and the team the best.” 

There: neutral enough that it can’t be held against him. Hopefully that won’t get Hermione angry with him. Hell hath no fury like a Hermione scorned. 

“Follow up question,” Lon says, before Harry has a chance to call on any other reporter. “Do you mean to tell me that you wish nothing but the best for him, even after he left you and the team high and dry?”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Lon,” Harry says. “Like I said, I wish Robert the best. He’ll need it, captaining a team with Zacharias Smith on it. Not sure I’d wish that fate on anyone, even if they’re a rival,” he adds dryly. 

So much for not scorning Hermione, he thinks. 

“Let’s have another question,” Ron says hastily. “Luna – hi, what’s your question?” 

Luna Lovegood stands up from her seat in the third row, and waves at them. He hasn’t seen her at these press things so far, so it makes for a pleasant surprise. “Hi, Ron. And Harry. The readers of the Quibbler have been following along with your season so far, you know,” she says seriously.

Harry smiles. “Thank you. I appreciate the support,” he says. He’s always liked Luna Lovegood. 

“In fact, we predicted that the Chudley Cannons would be at the top of the league even before you signed on, Harry,” Luna continues. “My question is… do you think you have a chance of winning the league, even though your Beater’s stormed off your team?” 

Harry can’t bring himself to be angry at her. Maybe it’s the matter of fact way she has of saying things. “Yes,” he says, and sits back in his chair. “I think we can win the whole fucking thing.” 

Luna looks pleased. “I thought you might say that. The readers of the Quibbler will be happy to know you’ve still got faith in your team.” 

“Tell you what,” Harry says. “If we win the league, the Quibbler can get an exclusive interview with all of us. What do you say, Ron?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Ron says. “Definitely.” 

Ginny’s hand shoots in the air, and Harry says, “Yes, you in the red hair in the second row?” 

“Will you be giving the Prophet an exclusive interview, too?” Ginny asks. 

“Depends. Will you be taking it?” Harry says. 

“Yes,” Ginny says, and her smile tells Harry that she knows exactly what Harry’s going to say.

“Then fuck, no,” Harry says, and Ginny brings a hand up to hide her laughter. “Alright, this press conference is over. See you all on the pitch.” 

***

“I’ll be quite offended if you don’t give me an exclusive,” Ginny tells him after, catching up to him in the dressing room. “Although I can’t argue that Luna Lovegood deserves it.” 

“You’ve gotten enough information about me to write a whole book at this point, forget an article,” Harry says. 

Ginny grins at him.

It slowly dawns on Harry. “Fuck off. You’re going to write a book?” 

Ginny nods.

“About me?” Harry says. 

“It’s a compelling story,” Ginny says. “The Golden Boy of Quidditch, reviving the worst team in the League and winning the whole fucking thing. You would read it, wouldn’t you?” 

“Not if you call me the Golden Boy, I wouldn’t,” Harry says, shutting the door of his cabinet. 

“If you give me an exclusive, I won’t,” Ginny counters.

Harry leans against the cabinet, and looks at her. She has a teasing glint in her eyes. She’s wearing Muggle clothes today, and not her press robes, and her hair’s tied back in a messy knot at the back of her head with copper strands falling out of it to frame her face. “Are you really going to write a book?” he asks. 

“I wouldn’t be following you lot around all this time just for articles,” Ginny says. “And it wouldn’t actually be about you, anyway. Not exactly. But I think I’ve got enough material for a book. Or I will by the end of the season, anyway.” 

“It’d almost be a waste if you don’t write a book, then,” Harry says.

Ginny hesitates. “Michael thinks it’s a stupid idea.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, unable to hold back his reaction. “Michael Corner is an idiot. It’ll be a good book.” 

“You think so?” Ginny asks, tentative in a way that she rarely ever is. Harry’s used to Ginny being confident, sure in herself. Seeing Ginny Weasley tentative and uncertain is… strange. It feels odd. Like something’s wrong with the universe. He hates it. 

“Course,” Harry says. “An absolute idiot.”

A tiny smile appears on Ginny’s face, which encourages Harry to keep talking. 

“You should write your book,” he says. “It’ll be great. I’ll even write the forward or whatever for it, if you want.” 

“And give me an exclusive?” Ginny says, her smile growing wider.

“Don’t push your luck,” Harry advises. 

Ginny laughs. Harry doesn’t know why he’s never noticed how musical her laugh is before. It’s a nice sound. It’s like… a scale of the least musical sounds to most would be something like Bludger making contact with someone’s skull to Ginny’s laugh. “Are you coming to Christmas tomorrow at Ron’s?” she asks. 

Harry shrugs. He knows that Ron and Hermione are hosting Christmas after practice this year, with an open invite to all of the team to attend, but he hasn’t decided if he’s going or not quite yet. Christmas isn’t exactly his favourite day of the year, so he’d been tempted to just spend it alone in his flat after practice. “Are you going?” he asks instead of giving her a direct answer.

“Michael and I will be there, yeah,” Ginny says.

“It’s going to be a room full of Cannons and their supporters. You think Michael will fit in?” Harry asks.

Ginny shrugs. “He’ll get over it,” she says. 

Harry’s not so sure, but he supposes Ginny knows Michael Corner better than he does. He doesn’t like the idea of her knowing him at all. Not for the first time, he wonders what the fuck she’s doing with someone like him. 

“You should come,” Ginny says. “It’ll be fun, and I’ll get to give you a present.” 

Harry grunts. 

“Oh, come on,” Ginny says. “A bit of joy won’t kill you, Potter. I’ll see you tomorrow.” It’s decisive, and what makes the matter worse is that Harry knows that he’s going to end up going tomorrow, now that she’s told him she wants him there.

Damn it. 

***

He wants to go home. He’s got practice tomorrow, he’s grumpy after seeing the press, and there’s a carefully meal-planned dinner waiting for him. 

But he can’t, because he knows he’s going to go to Ron and Hermione’s tomorrow, which means… Christmas presents. He’s got his Secret Santa present covered, but he has a couple of other things he needs to buy, for a Christmas celebration he didn’t plan on going on. And it’ll have to be Diagon Alley, since all the local shops have closed. Delightful. He steps out of the building, shivering in the cold, and Apparates to the Leaky Cauldron. 

The pub is full, and Harry stifles an eye roll at the hush that falls in the room upon his appearance there. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. Luckily, he doesn’t want a drink, and he tells old Tom so, so he gets to pass on through to Diagon Alley, away from the stares of everyone. (Honestly, you’d think they’d have something better to do on Christmas Eve.)

Diagon Alley on Christmas Eve is… something else. It’s not snowing (of course it isn’t, they’re still in London), and it’s already dark, but the place is lit up by the bright displays of passing shops and Christmas decorations. It feels warmer here than it does back in Chudley, and while that might be because of the actual temperature, he’s sure it’s also because of the lights. The downside of a small town in winter is how dark everything gets, even with the Christmas decorations. It makes the cold colder. It makes everything lonelier. (It also does no favours for his fucked up knee, but that’s between his and the physiotherapist on the Cannons.)

He has no idea what to do once he’s there, after he takes a moment to take in the bright lights and Christmas displays. He has an absurd urge to get some hot chocolate, but he squashes it down. He needs to focus on the task at hand. He starts wandering, vaguely, in the direction of one of the shops. Jumping, he turns around, feeling oddly like he’s been caught in the act. Caught in the act of what, he doesn’t know; he’s perfectly allowed to browse the shops to buy a friend or two a Christmas present, for Merlin’s sake. It’s hardly a crime. 

He’s greeted by the smiling face of Neville Longbottom when he turns. “It is you! I thought I recognised you,” Neville says cheerfully. “What are you doing in London? I thought you were in Chudley these days.” 

“I am, yeah,” Harry says. “But… er, I had some last minute Christmas shopping to do.” 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Neville points out.

“Yes,” Harry says. “It is.” 

“That’s really last minute,” Neville says.

Harry sighs. “Yes. I’m well aware, Neville, thanks.” 

Neville considers. “Do you want some help?” he offers. 

Harry feels like he’s drowning, and he’s suddenly spotted a lifeboat in the distance, coming closer to him. “You don’t have to get home? It is Christmas Eve,” he says reluctantly. 

“Nah,” Nevilla says easily. “Hannah all but kicked me out of the house for a bit. Says she needs some alone time. So. Want some help?” 

“Fuck yes,” Harry says. 

“Great. It’ll give us a chance to catch up, too,” Neville says. “Who’s the gift for?” 

Harry hesitates. He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He has no idea where the sudden self-consciousness is coming from, but he hates it, he fucking hates it. “It’s for Ginny,” he says. It comes out more brusque than he intends, but it’s all because of how impatient he feels with himself and his sudden fucking coyness. 

“Oh, right. Are you doing Christmas with the Weasleys, then?” Neville asks.

“Ron and Hermione are hosting one. Everyone on the team’s invited” Harry says. It’s a perfectly sufficient explanation; he has no idea why he feels the need to add, “I wasn’t going to go, but Ginny wants me to.” 

Neville raises his eyebrows. “Right,” he says. There’s a tiny pause, and then he adds, “The last time I spoke to Ginny, she was dating Michael Corner. Is she still with him?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, trying very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Not a fan?” Neville says lightly. 

“Who would be? He’s a twat,” Harry says. 

Neville shrugs, but doesn’t say anything in agreement, which is infuriating. Harry thought Michael Corner’s twattishness was an objective fact; the earth revolves around the sun, the weather in England is shit, and Ginny’s boyfriend is a dick. “Have you thought about what you want to get her, then?” Neville asks. 

“I’m not sure,” Harry says. “It needs to be good, though.” 

When he looks at Neville, Neville has the oddest expression, as if he’s holding back a smile. Harry has no idea what’s so goddamn funny. “I’m sure it does,” Neville says. “We’ll find something, don’t worry.” 

Harry can only hope he’s right.

***

“Happy Christmas,” Fred Weasley says, when he opens the door of Ron and Hermione’s flat. “You’re just in time. George has been telling us about how you fired Zacharias Smith.” 

“I didn’t fire him,” Harry says, rolling his eyes as he walks in.

“That’s not the way George says it,” Fred says. “You’ll well shot of him, aren’t you?” 

“I like to think so, yes,” Harry says. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought it was just the team.” 

“The team and family, thank you very much,” Fred says.

“Fair,” Harry says, grinning. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is that Harry?” George says, joining Fred at the doorway. He looks at the pile in Harry’s arms. “Presents for everyone, I hope. Or alcohol, at the very least. You won’t be allowed in without alcohol. You’ll need it,” he adds, sotto voce. 

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Ginny’s brought the enemy,” Fred says. 

“Her Tutstill boyfriend,” George explains. 

Harry knew Ginny was bringing Michael. He has no reason to react to it. And he doesn’t. Or… at least, he tries not to. From the amused smile Fred gives him, he knows he’s failed. “So… alcohol?” Fred asks.

“I’ve brought some Firewhiskey, yeah,” Harry says. 

“Thank heavens. Come on in,” George says, grabbing the bottle Harry nods to before whisking him inside, Fred shutting the door. After greeting Ron and Hermione and setting down the presents he’s brought, he turns to survey who’s there. 

Most of the team have their own Christmases to go, of course, so Harry’s surprised at the turnout. In addition to all the Weasleys and Hermione, Oliver Wood’s there, and Angelina, and Lee Jordan, and Luna Lovegood of all people, and… there, on the sofa, is Ginny. She’s holding a glass, turning to talk to Michael Corner. Michael Corner is wearing a black turtleneck, like an absolute prick, and he has his head tilted back as he laughs. 

“I know,” George mutters to Harry. “Insufferable, isn’t  he?” 

Ginny looks up then, and makes eye contact with Harry. She smiles immediately, and gets to her feet. Harry meets her halfway, unable to help the way his mouth tilts up at the corners. “You came,” she says.  

“Happy Christmas,” Harry says. It feels insufficient. He looks up at her, into her brown eyes, and then suddenly she’s hugging him as if she hadn’t just seen him a few hours ago at practice. He forces himself to clear his throat and then says, looking over Ginny’s shoulder, “Hi, Michael.” He steps out of the hug, trying not to feel disappointed about the loss of contact. 

“Hey, Potter,” Michael says. “Sorry to hear about the loss of your Beater. And you’d been having such a good season, too.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Harry says. “I’m sure we’ll find a replacement soon enough. I have no plans to stop having a good season.” 

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” George says, going to sit next to Angelina on the sofa. “We found a replacement already.” 

“We did?” Harry says, and looks at Ron. Ron shrugs, as if to say, no fucking clue, mate. 

“Not we as in the team,” George clarifies, “we as in Angelina and me.” 

“It’s true,” Angelina says, pointing her wand at her glass, which refills itself. “We decided on it ten minutes ago.” 

“Who did you both decide on?” Fred asks curiously. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Luna says. The entire room is following the conversation now, drinks and other conversations clearly forgotten. Harry takes a seat on the armchair by Luna and Oliver, exchanging a little grin with Ron. 

“Is it?” Fred asks. 

“Yes,” Luna says, serene as ever. “It’s you. Obviously. Who else would it be?” 

George points at Luna. “One hundred and fifty points for Luna Lovegood,” he announces. 

“Oooh, thanks,” Luna says. 

“Obviously it’s you,” Angelina tells Fred, rolling his eyes. “Who else would it be?” 

“Surely you have to host tryouts,” Michael Corner says. 

“Hang on, I’m retired,” Fred says. 

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Oliver says.

“It could work,” Ron agrees. 

“I’m retired,” Fred repeats. 

“I really don’t think successful team decisions are made like this,” Michael Corner says. 

“What about the joke shop?” Fred says.

“Verity will run it when you’re away, and we’ll continue checking in,” George says promptly. 

“It’s a perfect plan,” Angelina says. 

“It’s a  good idea,” Lee agrees. 

“A very good one,” Ginny says. 

Fred looks at Harry, a silent question in his eyes. Harry raises his eyebrows, and Fred inclines his head just slightly with a defeated – but happy – expression. Alright. That settles it, then. 

“I think it’s a good idea,” he says. “We’re playing tomorrow. You’ll be ready?” 

“Do I have a choice?” Fred says. 

“You got to sit out the first half of the season,” George says. “Vacation’s over now.” 

“Be there by nine tomorrow. You can properly meet the team,” Ron says, and that’s that. 

“This is quite an interesting way to pick a Beater,” Michael Corner says, with a little laugh. 

The rest of them ignore him. Harry rolls his eyes, and when he catches Ginny looking at him, he turns away hastily.

***

“Seriously,” Fred says, cornering Harry by the drinks table. “You’re alright with this?” 

Harry frowns. “You and George are the best Beating team in the league. Course I’m alright with this. You’re sure you’re alright with it?” 

“Joke shop was getting a bit boring. And I can’t let George have all the glory, can I?” Fred grins. “Think it’ll be surprising for everyone tomorrow?” 

“Michael might have let the word slip by then,” Harry says. 

Fred rolls his eyes. “Git.” 

Harry hums in agreement. 

“Can you believe what he got Ginny?” Ron says, materialising by Fred’s side. “That dress is ridiculous. Like she would wear that.” 

“What dress?” Harry says. 

“Oh, right – you missed presents, didn’t you?” Ron says.

Truth be told, Harry took an hour after practice to stay home and try and sort his fucked up knee up, but that’s not the sort of thing he wants to say. “I had some shit to do at home,” he says instead.

“It just means you have to catch up now,” Fred says. “I’d get it done before dinner, if I were you.” 

“Which will be ready very, very soon, so you need to be quite quick,” Ron says. 

“You’ll need to get it done before our coach has a heart attack,” Fred says, and turns to look at George and Angelina. “Christ – someone needs to go sort those two out,” he says. He walks up to them, and Ron wanders in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to put the finishing touches on dinner.

Before Harry finishes pouring himself a drink, there’s a warm presence at his side. He turns and sees Ginny, who’s smiling up at him. She’s wearing a Christmas jumper that looks a thousand years old, and there’s some tinsel in her hair. “Hi again,” she says. “I wanted to give you your present.” 

“You didn’t need to get me anything,” Harry says. 

“Fuck off, it’s Christmas,” Ginny says. “You don’t have to feel bad if you didn’t get me anything.” 

“When did I say I didn’t get you anything?” Harry says. “Accio.” A clumsily wrapped present comes flying in his direction; he catches it one-handed, which makes Ginny roll her eyes.

“Is it necessary to show off your Seeker skills?” she teases.

“Necessary? No. Fun? Yes,” Harry says, and hands her the parcel. “Here. Happy Christmas.” He opens the present Ginny gave him. It’s a blanket, the exact colour of his player robes with the Cannons. 

“I made it,” Ginny says. “Knitted it myself and everything. This way, the horrible shade of orange will haunt your home forever even once you retire.” 

“Very thoughtful,” Harry grins. 

“I aim to please,” Ginny says. “Do you like it?” 

Harry surprises himself with how much he likes it. It’s soft, and warm. Ginny must’ve spent hours on it, and it might be among the most thoughtful gifts anyone’s ever given him. It also manages to take the piss, which he appreciates. 

“I do,” he tells Ginny. “It’s… it’s fucking amazing.” 

Ginny positively glows as she smiles. 

“Go on. Your turn,” Harry says. 

Ginny makes quick work of the present. It’s nothing too fancy: a new set of bright purple quills, like the ones she likes to carry around during practice, and a new notebook. He’d gone to three different shops trying to find the premium shit; after paying more Galleons than he ever thought possible, he thinks he’s found it. 

“It’s amazing,” Ginny breathes. 

“You don’t have to read the card,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s stupid.” 

“Let me be the judge of that,” Ginny says, and opens it. 

He’s not the writer; that’s Ginny. He’s not good with words and shit, so all he wrote was a simple, hastily scrawled out message: 

For Ginny, to get started on that book of yours. It’s going to be amazing and I can’t wait to read it. Harry. 

It’s short, but Ginny reads it several times over. When she looks up, her eyes are shiny. “This isn’t stupid at all,” she says quietly. “This is… this is amazing. Thank you.” 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Harry says. 

“I know. I’m doing it anyway,” Ginny says. She gets on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Harry.” 

“Dinner’s ready,” Ron bellows out from the kitchen. 

“Come on. We don’t want it to get cold,” Ginny says, smiling at him before she walks to the kitchen. 

As Harry follows her, he feels almost as if his face is on fire, but not in a bad way. In a good way, as if the warmth from Ginny’s lips grazing his cheek is going to surround him and keep him warm all his life. 

***

Boxing Day finds Harry back at the dressing room, half an hour earlier than everyone else is due there. He thought he’d have the place all to himself, but Ron’s there, studying a whiteboard with the kind of concentration that Harry associates with wizard’s chess.

“It’s blank,” Harry points out.

Ron jumps and turns around, fixing his gaze on Harry. “Right, yeah. I’m trying to figure out what our strategy should be during the match.” 

He waves his wand; seven orange circles and seven blue ones appear on the board. 

“We’re orange, obviously,” Ron says. “And Puddlemere is blue. Now, here’s the strategy I think Puddlemere will go with…” He waves his wand, and the blue circles reconfigure into a play Harry recognises from when he played with Puddlemere. “How likely do you think that one is?” Ron asks. “You did it all the time with them, didn’t you?” 

“I did, yeah,” Harry says. 

“It depends on if they’re going to try and double-bluff you,” says Ginny’s voice, from the doorway.

Harry turns and meets her gaze. She looks steady as ever, and she meets his gaze, as if nothing happened yesterday. And, to be fair, nothing did happen. She kissed his cheek. Big fucking deal. Hermione kisses his cheek all the time, and she’s like a sister to him. And Ginny’s with Michael Corner. She’s happy with Michael Corner. And she’s Ron’s sister. So he needs to derail his train of thought, quickly. 

“If they want to play mind games with you, they’ll go for that,” Ginny continues. “It’s what I’d do. Use Harry’s favourite strategy against him.” 

“You’re early,” Harry says. 

Ginny shrugs. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she looks as if she hasn’t slept at all. “I figured I’d come gather some intel.” 

“Intel? On what?” Ron says. 

“On how Fred’s first game goes,” Ginny says, but she doesn’t sound like her heart is in it. It’s half hearted at best. 

“Are you alright?” Harry says, before he can think better of it. He knows Ginny doesn’t like being prodded about her feelings. But he can’t help it. 

“I’m fine,” Ginny says immediately. And then she sighs, sits on the bench, and says, after a moment, “Michael and I ended things last night.” 

“What?” Ron says. “When?” 

“After dinner at yours,” Ginny says. 

“What happened?” Ron asks. “Did he do something?” 

“Sort of,” Ginny says. “I don’t really want to talk about it, though.” 

“But if something happened–” 

“It’s fine,” Ginny says. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Harry says.

Ginny shrugs. “It is what it is, isn’t it? Anyway, are you going to do the Potter strategy?” 

“That’s not what it’s called,” Harry says.

“It might as well be,” Ginny volleys. 

“Well, if it’s the Potter strategy, then I know how to handle it,” Harry says. He points his wand at the whiteboard, and the three of them watch the orange circles move into position.

“That could work,” Ron says.

“It definitely could,” Ginny says.

“No could about it,” Harry says. “It will work. We position the Beaters like this, get Katie to play decoy… Oliver’s a good enough Keeper to deflect any shit Puddlemere throw at him.” 

“And then you swoop and get the Snitch and save the day?” Ginny says.

“Well… yes,” Harry says.

Ginny smiles. It reaches her eyes. “It’s a good plan,” she says. 

“Great. That’s plan A, then,” Ron says.

“What’s plan B?” Ginny asks.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Ron says darkly. “Give me a second…” he disappears into the coach’s office, and Harry joins Ginny on the bench, sits down next to her.

“You want to ask what happened, don’t you?” Ginny says.

Harry shrugs. He does, but Ginny doesn’t want to talk about it, so he doesn’t want to push his luck. 

“It all started because of your present, weirdly enough,” Ginny says. 

Harry raises his eyebrows. He wonders if he should feel guilty or not. 

“I was talking to Michael after dinner, and I showed it to him. And told him it’s for the book,” Ginny says. “And he sort of blew up at me about what a stupid idea the book is, and how it’ll look for him, if the star player of the Tutstill Tornados has a girlfriend who writes a book about another team.” 

The snort leaves Harry’s mouth before he can think better of it. “The star player?” he repeats. “He has quite the ego, doesn’t he?” 

“He’s full of it, yeah,” Ginny says. “So there I was, listening to his shit. And then I realised…” 

“That you don’t have to listen to his shit anymore?” Harry guesses.

“That’s the sum of it, yeah,” Ginny says. “So… it’s over.” 

“You’re better off without him,” Harry says quietly. 

“I know,” Ginny says.

“You could do better than a prick like him,” Harry presses. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world that Ginny knows how much better than an idiot like Michael Corner she is. Nothing else is as important as that.

Ginny looks at him, and opens her mouth to say something, but then Ron’s entering the room again, juggling three cups of coffee in his hands, and she closes it again. “Is that coffee? Thank fuck, I’m dying for some,” she says brightly. 

And that’s that.

***

Transcript of the live coverage of the match between the Chudley Cannons and Puddlemere United from the Wizarding Wireless Network’s Quidditch Correspondent, Lee Jordan

Welcome back to the WWN’s coverage of the Quidditch season! It’s an incredibly cold day, and grey and miserable to boot, but our teams today seem determined not to let that stop that. Today, of course, is one of the most anticipated matches of the season: the Chudley Cannons play their first match after the abrupt transfer of one of their Beaters, Zacharias Smith. We’ve talked extensively about Zacharias Smith’s transfer both here and on Potterwatch, so I’ll spare you of the details, but suffice it to say, we’re all waiting to see whether the Cannons will play with one of their reserves, or if they’ve hired a new player. 

Here are the teams walking onto the pitch, and – 

Holy fuck. Can it be…?! 

I apologise for my language, but if you heard the cheer that just ran through the stadiums, it’s none other than Fred Weasley himself, occupying the position of the second Beater. Can you believe that? I certainly can’t – especially because he didn’t tell me himself. I feel personally betrayed, but we’ll save that for another day. Fred and George Weasley, reunited as a Beater duo – the Unbeatable Beaters themselves, as they are called. Hundreds of thousands of fans of the duo are currently thanking Zacharias Smith for his transfer, I’m sure. Fred Weasley is making sure to wave to all the fans in the stands, which doesn’t help the noise here at all.

And… right, here are the captains, Potter and Thomas, shaking hands. I was so shocked about Fred that I forgot that we still have an actual match ahead of us. Potter, of course, was at Puddlemere United up until last season, and it’s good to see that he still seems to get along with Thomas, who’s the new Captain. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Dean Thomas is one of the finest Chasers in the league. Loyal Potterwatch listeners will remember him from the exclusive interview he gave us after Puddlemere lost the finals last season by ten points, which led Witch Weekly to call him ‘the nicest man in Quidditch’ – a name I agree with, for the record.

And we’re off! The teams are up in the air, and the whistle has been blown! Thomas and the other Chasers form a triangle position quickly, and Thomas is in possession of the Quaffle, with Finnigan and Chase close to him on either side. This strategy leaves his sides protected, and Puddlemere’s Beaters are focusing their wrath on the Chasers from the Cannons. This is a strategy that Ginny Weasley, the Quidditch Correspondent from the Prophet, calls ‘the Potter strategy’ – it leaves the Cannons playing in defence mode from the very first minute of the game. The Chasers next to Thomas protect him from the wrath of the Bludgers, and the other team’s Chasers are too busy dodging Bludgers to try and tackle him from above or below.

Instead of playing defensively or offensively, though, the Cannons seem to be… calm? Which is the last thing anyone expects from a team captained by Harry Potter. And– Fred Weasley swoops, and hits the Bludger before it can hit Alicia Spinnet, and before either of the Beaters from Puddlemere can to the Bludger, George Weasley hits it towards Puddlemere’s Chasers, disrupting their formation for a brief moment – and that’s all the opportunity that Angelina Johnson needs to steal the Quaffle! 

Katie Bell, hovering by the goalpost, is making quite a show of asking to be passed the Quaffle, and Angelina fakes left – fakes left again – fakes right – and then, instead of passing it to Katie, which everyone expects, she shoots – she scores! 

Both teams seem to be playing at their absolute best today, which is the best sort of match to watch. Fred Weasley’s return seems to have electrified everyone! Seamus Finnigan is in possession of the Quaffle. He manages to throw it halfway across the pitch – Katie Bell almost intercepts it, but misses by inches – Thomas grabs it! He passes it to Chase, who passes it back, and he shoots! Wood lunges for the Quaffle, but just about misses it – the score’s currently tied, 10-10.

Neither Potter nor Fieldstone seem to have spotted the Snitch yet, which means it’s still anyone’s game. Fred and George are ensuring that Puddlemere’s Beaters don’t get near the Beaters, but Puddlemere is putting up quite the fight, too. And – a nifty goal by Alicia Spinnet there, putting the Cannons in the lead, 20-10. 

It’s an exciting game, folks, and only getting more exciting by the minute! Fred Weasley and George Weasley are an unstoppable force – an unbeatable force, some might say. And yes, listeners, I can hear you rolling your eyes at me. Let me have this one, alright? 

Oh – and that’s Finnigan with the Quaffle, and he makes a risky goal – Oliver lunges for it, but he misses, and it’s another goal for Puddlemere! It’s tied at 20-20. 

Potter seems to have spotted something! While he swoops, Puddlemere takes the call to make a goal – an excellent split-second decision on Captain Dean Thomas’ part – and makes it! 30-20, with Puddlemere leading. 

Puddlemere’s seeker, Wesley Quentin, seems to be following Harry. Quentin, of course, is a new hire, and Potter’s replacement on the team. Asking anyone to step into the Golden Boy’s Quidditch boots is a tough task; is Quentin up for it? 

And– that deafening roar means that Potter’s caught the Snitch, cinching the victory for the Cannons! The final score is 170-30, and what a fun match!

***

They celebrate, of course. They have to. They find themselves in a secluded private room of a club. It’s just inner circle: the team, and Ron and Hermione, and Ginny; Hermione gamely does her part in casting enough Muggle-repellant charms that they won’t be disturbed while they’re in there by anyone. 

“I fucking knew we could do it!” George cheers.

“You fucking smashed it,” Alicia declares, slinging her arm around Fred’s shoulders.

“You wait and watch,” Ron says. “This is just the start.” 

Fred rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest, Coach,” he says. 

“Yeah, let us celebrate,” George agrees. “And, in the spirit of celebration…” He reaches a hand out and tugs Angelina closer. Laughing, she leans in, and he kisses her, to a chorus of cheers from everyone around.

Harry blinks. “What the fuck,” he says.

George pulls back from the kiss, one arm around Angelina’s waist, and says, “Something wrong, Captain?” 

“Er… nothing, I suppose,” Harry says.

“Go on, lovebirds,” Fred says. “As you were.” 

Later on, many drinks later, Harry’s sitting by the door, watching the others. Grant Smith is talking to Fatima Abdul, George and Angelina are kissing in a corner, and Fred seems to be entertaining everyone else. And Harry is… Harry is fine. He’s a few drinks in. They’ve won a match. They’ve had a successful first half of a season. He should be happy.

And he is, he is, but he doesn’t think he’s happy about the right thing. He can only think about Ginny’s face this morning, how she told him that she broke up with Michael Corner. 

She’s Ron’s younger sister. She’s the journalist trailing the Cannons this season. She’s a friend. That’s it, surely. That’s it.

But she’s also the person who makes him laugh when nothing else does. She is… she’s unlike anyone else he’s ever met. That’s the Ginny Weasley guarantee. 

“Why are you sitting and brooding? You’re meant to be celebrating,” says Ginny, coming up to him. Speak of the devil.

Harry shrugs. “Who says you can’t celebrate with sitting and brooding?” 

“Fair point,” Ginny agrees. “And you’re certainly very good at it.”

“Years of practice.”

“Decades, some might say.” 

Harry inclines his head in agreement.

“Want to get some fresh air?” Ginny asks. 

It’s bracingly cold outside. They’ve all changed out of their Quidditch robes into Muggle clothes; Harry’s wearing a black jumper, black jeans, and an old leather jacket, which is enough to keep him warm, but one look at Ginny, who’s wearing a bright orange dress and nothing else, is enough to make him shiver. “Aren’t you cold?” he says.

Ginny shrugs. “Had to wear the Cannons colours, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” Harry says.

“We can’t all exist in moody black every day,” Ginny says, flashing him a grin. “I need to show where my loyalties lie.”  

“Hardly unbiased reporting, that,” Harry says. He takes off his jacket as he speaks, drapes it around Ginny’s shoulders. Tries very hard not to think that Ginny’s implying her loyalties lie with him. That’s ludicrous. She means nothing of the sort. He needs to get his head out of his arse. 

“That’s what I promise the loyal readers of the Prophet,” Ginny says. “Unbiased reporting. It’s the foundation of the journalism industry.” 

Harry looks at Ginny. Ginny snorts. “I was wondering how you managed to say that with a straight face,” Harry says.

“It was an uphill challenge,” Ginny says, drawing Harry’s jacket tighter around herself.

There’s a pause, and then Harry says, “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Harry doesn’t know how to say because you broke up with your boyfriend less than a full day ago, so he shrugs. “Lots of shit happened, didn’t it?” 

Ginny rolls her eyes. “If you want to ask about Michael, just do it. Don’t beat around the bush,” she advises.

“Alright,” Harry says. “Are you feeling alright about Michael?” 

“Yes,” Ginny says fiercely. “I am. It was the right decision to make. I only wish I’d made it sooner.” 

Harry shrugs. “Better late than never,” he says.

“Yes,” Ginny says. “But I feel like an idiot. Think of all that time I wasted…” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t say anything. It’s a course of action that has worked out very well for him in the past. What he does do is tentatively, slowly, rest his hand on Ginny’s shoulder. 

Ginny leans into Harry’s side. “Plenty of fish in the sea, right? I’ll find better,” she says.

“Right,” Harry says.

Ginny looks up at Harry, right into his eyes. Her eyes are blazing. “Right,” she says, again. “And better fish, too.” 

“Fish who are better Quidditch players,” Harry says. 

“Fish who aren’t twats,” Ginny says.

Harry chuckles. It’s cold enough that he can see his breath when he laughs.

Of course it’s cold. It’s late in the evening on Boxing Day. It’s freezing cold. He’s never felt more on fire. He lets his gaze drop from her brown eyes down to her lips. “Are you… are you going to write about the match today?” he says. 

He has no idea why he said that. 

A tiny, amused smile appears on Ginny’s face. “I expect so, yes. That is my job.” 

“Unbiased reporting,” Harry says. 

“Unbiased reporting,” Ginny agrees. She lets out a sigh; Harry watches it turn into mist in the late evening air. “I should get home,” she says. “I’ve got an article to write, after all. Hundreds of Prophet readers are waiting on it.” 

“Thousands,” Harry corrects. 

Ginny’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m too drunk to Apparate, and my flat isn’t too far away. Do you want to walk me home, Golden Boy?” she says. 

“Only if you promise not to call me that.” 

“I can’t do that,” Ginny says solemnly. “It would compromise my journalistic integrity.” 

“Well, if it’s about your journalistic integrity…” 

Laughing, Ginny leads into him further, and they both start walking down the path, the celebration they’re leaving behind long forgotten. That doesn’t feel as important as this, anyway.

***

A New Year: What can we expect from the Chudley Cannons? 

by Ginny Weasley

With half the season behind them, and Fred Weasley’s triumphant return to the team, what can we expect from the team that has managed to surprise us all? 

The Chudley Cannons’ first match of the new year will be against Pride of Portree, this Saturday. At the press conference this past Monday, coach Ron Weasley said, “We’re excited about our prospects. It should be a fun match.” When probed for his thoughts, Harry Potter said, “The Arrows are a good team. But so are we.” [full article on page 7]

***

Oliver Wood rushed to St. Mungo’s after the Arrows-Cannons match

by Ginny Weasley

Oliver Wood, Keeper of the Chudley Cannons, was rushed to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries after the match between the Pride of Portree and the Chudley Cannons earlier today.

The match was off to a good start: three goals by the Cannons and the Arrows had the teams tied within the first half an hour of the game, and it all came down to the Snitch. Or it seemed to be that way, anyway. While Potter was lunging for the Snitch – in a move that later proved to be a Wronkski Feint – the Arrow’s Beater, Johnson, hit the Bludger in Potter’s direction. While Potter missed, the Bludger would go on to make contact with Oliver Wood’s head, and Wood was seen collapsing from his place by the goalposts mere moments before the Arrows’ Seeker, Stephen Tobin, caught the Snitch (in a moment that seemed more the results of luck than any tactical planning on Tobin’s part). 

Final score was 180-30 in the Arrows’ favour, but there was little cause for celebration: Potter and the other members of the team were quick to rush to Wood’s side, where he was being seen by mediwizards. Wood was taken to St Mungo’s immediately after the match.

Said the mediwizard, “An injury like that, and to his head… he’ll be lucky if he recovers within the next few months. I wouldn’t bet on him playing again this season.” 

As the critics have learned, it’s best not to underestimate Harry Potter, or the formidable team he has assembled. I am staying impartial, of course, but if someone had to ask me – I’d bet on Team Potter. It’s a safe bet. 

***

It’s a disaster. 

“It’s a disaster,” Oliver says. 

Ron nods glumly. “You can’t help getting injured, mate,” he offers.

“I’m an idiot. I should’ve been more careful,” Oliver says. 

They’re all gathered in Oliver’s hospital room. Not all of them; the Healers had been very angry about how many people are allowed into the room. So Ron, Harry, and Fred and George are in the room, and everyone else – Hermione, the rest of the team, the reserve team – are in the waiting room outside. 

“It’s not your fault,” George.

“Just the fault of the idiot Beater who didn’t get the Bludger away from you in time,” Fred says glumly.

“Idiot Beaters, you mean,” George corrects.

“It could happen to anyone,” Oliver says.

Harry leans forward, rests his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?” he asks him.

“Like shit,” Oliver says.

Sounds about right, Harry thinks. Anyone with a shattered skull and several back injuries would probably feel like shit. “You should get some rest,” he says.

“I’ll be better by next week,” Oliver says. “I’ll play against Pride of Portree.” 

“Like fuck you will,” Harry says. “You’ll rest and take the Healers’ advice.” 

“Their advice is full of shit. They don’t think I’m fit to play for a few weeks,” Oliver says, miserable.

Harry and Ron exchange a look. Harry’s already spoken to the Healer outside; if Oliver plays before he’s staged a full recovery, he could fuck up his head in serious ways. Head injuries are… well, they’re horrible little fuckers. And now Oliver’s got one. And a dodgy back, too. It’s the worst luck. 

“Look… Just rest now, yeah? We’ll talk about it when you’re awake,” George says, not unkindly.

“And we’ll bring you Grant Smith, who’ll be ready to weep by your bedside for several hours,” Fred adds, which cracks a smile out of Oliver, at any rate.

***

When Harry walks into practice the following Monday, Ginny’s there, leaning against the door. “Hi,” she says. “How’s Oliver?” 

“He’ll be at Mungo’s for the week,” Harry says.

“Fuck,” Ginny says. “That bad?” 

“Worse than bad,” Harry says, and then, “This is all off the record, by the way.” 

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to quote you talking about your injured teammate. I’m not a vulture or Rita Skeeter, you know. I was just asking about Oliver because I care about him.” 

Harry feels something stab him in his heart. Guilt, he realises a second later. “Right,” he says. “Er… sorry. I didn’t mean to be a dick.” 

“Comes naturally, then, does it?” Ginny says, and thrusts her hand out at Harry. 

Harry has a sudden confused moment of thinking she’s going to punch him, but then realised that she’s handing him a cup. He takes it from her, and then takes a tentative sip. It’s tea – far too sweet and weak for his liking, but it’s warm and it achieves the desired effect of waking him up. “Seriously,” he says. “I’m sorry. You’re not just… some journalist. I know that. You’re definitely not Rita fucking Skeeter. And thanks for the tea.” 

“You’re welcome,” Ginny says, after a moment. “I know you weren’t meaning to be a dick. It’s been a rough weekend for you.” 

“Not as rough as it’s been for Oliver,” Harry says. 

“You know,” Ginny says. “I played for a year, after school.” 

Harry screws up his face, tries to remember. He remembers Ginny playing, but can’t place the team immediately. After school… That would have been a year or two after he graduated, which meant he would’ve been with the Wimbourne Wasps. “Right,” he says. “You were with the Holyhead Harpies, right?” 

Ginny points at him. “Ten points for Gryffindor,” she says, with a small smile.

“Why’d you stop?” Harry says. “You were good. Scored five goals in your first match where you played, didn’t you?” 

Ginny shrugs modestly, but there’s a pleased flush on her cheeks. “I was alright, yeah. But I fucked up my shoulder, during the final match. It never fully recovered, even after all the potions and spells and rehab. And you sort of need your right shoulder, if you’re a Chaser. It’s not a negotiable thing.” 

Harry nods. “Sounds rough,” he offers.

“It wasn’t fun, yeah. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about,” Ginny says, with a sharp look at Harry’s knee. “But… yeah. If Oliver has a career-ending injury, at least he’s surrounded by people who know what that’s like. That’s something, isn’t it?” 

“It’s definitely something,” Harry says. 

Ginny pats his shoulder, gives him a tiny smile. “Come on, Captain. Time for practice.” 

Harry follows Ginny into the building, wondering how it is that she always seems to know just how to say to make the knot in his chest unravel.

***

Their first match after Oliver’s injury is against the Kenmare Kestrels. 

“I can’t do this,” Grant Smith confides in Harry. He’s wearing the main team robes – not the reserve team robes – and a look of pure horror. 

“Yes, you fucking can,” Harry says. “I’ve played with you. Ron’s coached you. Oliver’s coached you, for fuck’s sake. Get your shit together.” 

“What if I let the team down?” Grant asks.

“The only way you’ll let us down is if you don’t play,” Harry says. “But you’re going to, and it’s going to be fine.” 

And… It is fine, in a manner of speaking. They win, but they only win by ten points. 200-190, and Grant Smith looks miserable as he slopes off to the showers after the game. Harry doesn’t stop him.

“A win is a win,” Ginny tells him. “Don’t be such a moody bugger about it.” 

“Thanks,” Harry says, “I think. It’s hard not to miss Oliver, though.” 

Ginny pretends to think about it, and says, “You know what I think? I think men who feel sorry for themselves, even though they get to play a game for a living, are just so sexy.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, trying very hard not to think about Ginny Weasley’s voice saying the word sexy, trying very hard not to replay it in his mind a million times over. 

“A win is a win. Good game, Potter,” Ginny says, and flashes him a grin on her way out of the dressing room.

***

It’s a bit hard not to feel sorry for himself – even though he’s a grown adult who gets to play a fucking game for a living – when they end up losing the next three matches. They’re all close, and Harry manages to catch the Snitch in one of them, but they still lose. Their spot on the league tables is slipping lower and lower by the minute, and the worst part is, no one seems surprised.

“The Cannons are certainly going through a rough patch,” Lee Jordan says on Potterwatch, which Ron is leaving on in the morning before practice, “and their losing streak of the last few weeks is proof of that. But there’s enough time to turn things around.”

“Or maybe the first half of the season was the fluke. Water finding its level, so to speak,” says Lee Jordan’s guest for today, Cormac McLaggen, a smug old twat with a posh accent who Harry hates. He’s always hated Cormac McLaggen, to be fair, but this interview certainly isn’t helping matters.

“Don’t say that, Cormac,” Lee says, “I still have faith in the Cannons.” 

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Cormac says. Harry can hear the sneer in his voice. “It’d be very off-brand to not have faith in Potter’s team. That’s the Potterwatch motto, isn’t it? ‘Keep calm and have faith in Harry Potter’?” 

“Twat,” Fred calls out to the radio.

“Arsehole,” George chimes in.

“What’s everyone yelling at?” Ginny asks, stepping through to the dressing room from the office, where she’d been writing something that definitely isn’t an article (judging by how she’s using the notebook Harry gifted her for Christmas).

“Lee’s show is on,” Ron explains.

“And he’s got that dickhead Cormac McLaggen on,” Harry adds. 

“I just think that despite Potter’s best efforts, the Chudley Cannons are doomed this season,” Cormac says on the radio.

“Wow,” Fatima Abdul says, “he makes best efforts seem like some sort of slur, doesn’t he?”

“It’s the Cormac McLaggen specialty,” Alicia agrees. 

“Why are you all listening to this?” Ginny asks.

Fred looks at her. “To support Lee, obviously,” he says.

“I’ll support any radio programme whose motto is Keep calm and have faith in Harry Potter,” Ginny says.

“You do a strangely accurate Cormac McLaggen impression,” Angelina says. 

Ginny takes a bow. 

“That’s not the point,” Harry says. “The point is, we need to sort our shit out so Cormac McLaggen can’t say shit like this anymore.” 

“He’d say shit like this anyway,” Katie Bell says.

“He has a problem,” Fred says solemnly.

“He should see a Healer, really,” George says.

“Chronic Shit-Speaking Syndrome,” Fred says.

“More and more cases by the moment,” George sighs.

Harry glances at them. Raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry, Captain Potter,” Fred says.

“We’ll discuss McLaggen’s medical diagnoses another time,” George promises.

“Not at home, I hope,” Angelina says.

“You both live together, too?” Harry says, and shakes his head. “Never mind. The point is…” He points his wand at the radio, and it goes silent immediately. “We’ve got seven matches left in the season. Ron, what do we need?” 

“We can’t lose more than two more matches, if we want a fighting chance,” Ron says.

“So… we’re not going to lose more than two more fucking matches,” Harry says. “Come hell or high water. Fred and George – play more offensively. Alicia, you need to get better at feinting. Katie, pass more. Smith–” 

“Be better, I know,” Grant says miserably. 

Harry looks at Ron. Ron nods at him.

“Smith,” Harry says. “It’s not about being better. It’s about having more fucking confidence in yourself. You hear me? You’re good. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t deserve to be.” 

“Told you,” Dennis, the reserve Seeker, whispers to Grant.

“So we’re all going to work our arses off this week,” Harry says, “and when we play this weekend, we’re going to smash it. Any questions?”

Fred raises his hand. “Can we listen to the rest of Potterwatch now, Captain?” 

Harry rolls his eyes.

***

They don’t lose the next match. They don’t win, either.

“A tie isn’t too bad,” Ron tells Harry. “And Grant’s getting better.” 

“Is he the one with the confidence problem?” Hermione says, setting the takeout bag on the table. 

They’re at Ron and Hermione’s, just the three of them, the day after the match. “Confidence problem is an understatement,” Ron says, helping himself to Thai, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” 

“Filling in Oliver Wood’s shoes is enough to unnerve anyone,” Hermione says.

“Well, he needs to… un-unnerve himself,” Harry says.

“Nerve himself?” Ron suggests.

“Yes, whatever,” Harry says. “He needs to get it together.” 

“What does Ginny think of it?” Hermione asks, faux-innocently.

Harry pauses midway through serving himself some spicy noodles. “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, haven’t you?” Hermione says. 

“She’s shadowing the team,” Harry says. “We’re all spending a lot of time with her.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Hermione says. She doesn’t look convinced, which makes sense, because Harry doesn’t feel convinced, either.

***

They win the next match by fifty points, and Grant saves more goals than he lets in. “It’s progress,” Ginny says, “and you’re still on track. Cheer up, Potter.” 

Harry tries very hard not to think of Hermione saying you’ve been spending a lot with her, haven’t you and of Ginny’s face the day he walked her home after the Boxing Day match, and says, “Sure, yeah. Progress.” 

***

Harry Potter isn’t good with feelings.

If pressed, most people you stop on the street would know three things about him, he thinks: one, that he wears a lot of black when he’s not playing. Two, that he plays Quidditch. Three, that he’s not a touchy-feely person.

He likes to focus on the goal. Right now, his goal is to get the Cannons to win. 

He’d been about to retire, after the last season. His knee was fucked, he was exhausted, and none of it felt like it mattered anymore.

And then Hermione Granger, appearing in his fireplace, said, “Do you think you could handle one last season? I just know it would mean so much to Ron if the Cannons had a successful season…” 

And so now, all he wants is to win. 

They have four games to go in the season. Based on how they play those four games, they have a chance of winning the whole damn thing. So he needs to focus. He needs to focus on the game, and it’s the kind of single minded focus he’s usually good at. But.

But, but, but.

As bad as Harry Potter might be with feelings, he’s equally worse with timing. He’s been accused of a lack of tact more times than he can count. He once watched Professor Trelawney predict someone’s death and laughed – to be fair, it was his own death, and it had been hilarious, even if she hadn’t thought so. But he can agree: he’s not good with timing. And he’s not good with realising his feelings.

But even he knows that this, three quarters of the way through the Quidditch season, is a horrible time to realise that he’s in love with Ginny Weasley.

And yet here he is.

Three quarters of the way through the Quidditch season. Four games to go. And in love with Ginny Weasley.

Fucking hell.

***

“You’re being strange,” Fred tells Harry, the morning of their next match. They’re playing the Harpies, and even though they won their last match with them, Harry’s nervous. Or maybe he’s stressed about discovering he’s in love with his best friend’s sister. That would do it, he reckons.

“Am I?” he says. 

“Nervous about the match?” George says.

Harry shrugs. 

“Well, I’ve got something that might help,” Ron says. 

Harry raises his eyebrows, sceptical. 

“It’ll help all of us get our spirits up a bit, I think,” Ron says. “Wood?”  

As if on cue, the door opens and Oliver Wood limps in. A cheer rings around the dressing room, and even Harry finds a smile on his face. 

“Hi, lads,” Oliver says. He looks tired, and he’s leaning on a cane, but the smile on his face is genuine. 

“Are you here to play today?” Grant Smith says hopefully.

“Nah,” Oliver says. “I’m not cleared for another three weeks.” 

“So not until our final match,” Smith says. The look of despondency on his face makes Harry wish he was an artist, just so he could try and capture that. 

“But my rehab’s in here, so I thought I’d come have a word,” Oliver says. “You have a minute?” 

“Who– me?” Smith stammers. 

“Who else?” Oliver says. “Come on, lad. Can we use your office, Ron?” 

“Of course,” Ron says. 

Oliver and Smith walk into the coach’s office. “He’s good with the players, isn’t he?” Ginny says.

Harry grunts.

“He’s got that in common with you,” Ginny says. “You ever thought about being a coach?” 

“Who, me?” Harry says. “I’d be shit at it.” 

“Nah,” Ginny says. “You’d be great at it. So would Oliver.” 

“I’m not sure if you’re right about that,” Harry says.

Ginny winks. She needs to stop fucking winking at him. If he needs to keep his sanity, she needs to stop. “Trust me,” she says, “I’m always right.” 

“And I’m always wrong?” Harry says.

“I didn’t say that,” Ginny says. “But I wouldn’t disagree with it, either.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, and watches Ginny as she walks out of the dressing room to go take her place in the stands.

“See?” Fred whispers to George, sotto voce. “I told you. Weird.” 

***

Three games to go, and Lee starts a segment on Potterwatch where he lists the odds everyone has on Chudley Cannons winning the season.

Ron tries not to think about the odds, he says, because he’s nervous enough. He fails. 

Harry tries not to think about Ginny. He fails, too. 

***

Two games to go, and Grant Smith tells Harry in the dressing room, “I think I’m getting better.” 

“Good,” Harry says. 

“No, really,” Smith says. “I’m sure I’m getting better.” 

“Good,” Harry says, again. “Don’t worry, Smith. You’ll be fine.”

They’re playing the Arrows today. It’ll be their first match with them since Zacharias Smith transferred there. George Weasley’s christened it the battle of Good Smith vs Evil Smith, and now Harry can’t view it any other way. It’s their penultimate game of the season, and if they win this, then they have a real, actual chance of the Cup. It’ll be a tangible chance. 

“Don’t let Evil Smith win,” Fred tells Smith solemnly.

Smith’s mouth twitches. “I’ll try.” 

“It’s your last game,” George says. “Your last chance to claim the Smith name for yourself once and for all.”

“There are about a million Smiths in England alone,” Grant says.

“Irrelevant,” Fred says.

“Leave him alone, you two,” Angelina says. “You’re going to do great, Grant. Don’t worry.” 

“Thank you,” Smith says in a small voice. 

It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

***

They just need a tie. They don’t need a win.

That’s what Harry keeps repeating to himself. Angelina scores a goal, Alicia scores a goal, Grant blocks two goals and lets two in, so they’re tied. They  just need to maintain a goal. They’re tied, and they need to maintain that.

And that is what Harry needs to focus on, rather than scouring the stands for a glimpse of bright red hair. 

He needs to be looking for a glint of gold. He needs to be focusing on the match, and not his fucking life. And – 

He needs to be focusing on dodging errant Bludgers, apparently. Fuck. 

“And, what’s that?” says Lee Jordan’s voice, projected across the stadium. “Zacharias Smith, with a Bludger straight in Potter’s direction – clearly no love lost for his old team, this one…” 

Harry’s filled with rage at the thought of Zacharias Smith, fucking twattish Evil Smith, lobbying a Bludger at him. His former Captain. It’s fucking… it’s a fucking travesty, is what it is. Fucking hell. 

He angles his Firebolt, flies close enough so Fred and George can hear him. “Let him have it,” he roars.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Fred says, grinning. He winds up his bat, swings it back, and hits a Bludger, which makes Zacharias dodge and have to flee to the other side of the pitch.

“Good lad,” George says. 

Harry nods at them both, and turns to focus on looking for the Snitch again. There’s no way Evil Smith is winning today. 

Spite’s usually a terrible motivator. But that’s two times that Zacharias Smith’s gone straight for him with a Bludger during this season – once when he hit the Snitch during the first match with the Wasps, and once right fucking now. So he’s filled with rage, and spite, and the urge to punch Zacharias Smith in the fucking face. 

There are a few crowd cheers. Maybe they’ve scored. Maybe the Arrows have. He doesn’t care. He narrows his eyes, surveys the stadium, and he focuses everything he has on catching the Snitch and winning this match.

Fifteen minutes later, when he catches the Snitch, and the final score is announced as one hundred and seventy to forty, he turns to look at Zacharias Smith, and he grins. 

***

What to expect from the final match of the season

by Ginny Weasley

After the Kestrels lost to the Wimbourne Wasps last week, the league title – and the Championship cup – seems to come down to the final match of the season next week. 

Next week, the Wimbourne Wasps will play the Chudley Cannons. Their first match this season, readers will remember, resulted in the Wasps’ victory, thanks to some unfortunate Bludger handling by Zacharias Smith. Quidditch enthusiasts, and those who have been following this season (including yours truly) are of the mindset that had it not been for Smith’s mishap, the results of the match might have been different.

The Wasps and the Cannons are tied this season, which means that all of us will be on the edge of our seats. Tickets are already sold out for the match, I am told, and Lee Jordan, the Quidditch Correspondent for the Wizarding Wireless Network, tells me that he expects ‘a few more listeners than usual’ – which, going by the wink he gave me right after, is something of an understatement. 

For my full breakdown of both teams and my predictions for the match, see page 11. 

***

Harry can’t sleep. Their final match of the season is coming up on Saturday. It’s Friday, and he can’t sleep. He doesn’t know if he’s nervous or excited. But something’s coiled up inside him, a knot of anticipation in his chest that’s settled and made itself a cosy little home. 

He’s played Quidditch matches before. (Something of an understatement.) And yet, the final match of a season always has him feeling uneasy. On edge. Even when he doesn’t care.

And he cares about this match. He cares about this match a lot. 

He tosses and turns until about five in the morning, and then finally gives up on sleep. He gets himself awake, gets some tea, forces himself to get changed. He’s moving on autopilot, because whatever it is that’s settled in his chest doesn’t leave room for feelings, or conscious thought, or anything else. 

It’s a home match today, and it doesn’t start until three in the afternoon. The team’s not meeting up until nine, but he’s up early enough that he might as well get there, three or four hours early. 

The sun’s just starting to rise as he leaves to walk to the Cannons’ office and pitch, and by the time he reaches, the sky’s pink and coloured with the hues of the early dawn. It’s beautiful, but Harry’s too fucking nervous to give a shit about the sunrise. 

He jumps when he walks into the dressing room and sees Ginny there. “You’re here,” he says.

Ginny seems just as startled to see him. “You should be asleep,” she says.

“You should be… not here,” Harry says, blinking. “Why are you here?”

“I just love the ambience of a dressing room,” Ginny says.

Harry snorts. “The smell of old shoes gets to you?” 

“Mm. It’s irresistible,” Ginny says.

Harry does something he thought was impossible today. He throws his head back and laughs. 

“Seriously? I’m here to write,” Ginny says.

“They don’t pay you enough at the Prophet, you know,” Harry says, sitting down next to Ginny. 

“I know they don’t. Which is why I’m not writing an article,” Ginny says, and leans into Harry’s side. Something about the warmth of her body against his arm feels… comforting. Reassuring.

“Your book?” he says.

“I think it’s going to be about you,” Ginny says, and then, blinking, “I mean… about the Cannons. How you’ve transformed the team.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry says. “I just got good players here and let them do their shit.”

Ginny shakes her head. “You’re an idiot,” she says.

“Er,” Harry says. “I am?” 

“You are,” Ginny confirms. “You have no idea, what you do to people. The effect you have.” 

Harry blinks. He’s not good with compliments. He’s especially not good, it turns out, with compliments that come from Ginny Weasley. “Do you want to take a walk?” he offers. 

“Hm?” Ginny says.

Harry shrugs. “We’ve got some time before the match. It’s fucking early. I need to clear my head. Let’s go for a walk.”

Ginny shrugs. “Yeah, alright. Why not?” 

So they walk. 

They don’t talk about the match, or Ginny’s book, or Quidditch at all. They talk about, of all things, the ducks that Ginny sees by the river on her walk over to the training pitch every day. “I’ve named one Henry,” she tells Harry. “He’s my favourite. I’d adopt him, but I’d feel bad about stealing him away from his little duck family.” 

They talk about weather – “I love when it gets warm,” Harry admits. “The cold fucking does my knee in.” 

They talk about Ginny’s flat – ”It’s tiny, and has the worst view, but it’s way better than where I was staying in Tutstill.” 

They talk about nothing, and everything, and by the time they return to the dressing room, an hour and a half later, Harry finds that the knot in his chest has eased. 

Everyone arrives by nine o’clock. Oliver Wood is first, staging a triumphant return after his weeks of rehab and walking in with Grant Smith. Angelina and George are next, both of them uncharacteristically serious. Fred walks in with Ron, and then everyone else trickles in after. All of them are wearing looks of nervousness, grim determination, or everything in between. 

Before the team is fully assembled, though, Harry feels a small tug on his hand. He turns, and sees Ginny, who’s giving him a secret smile. “I’m going to go find Hermione now,” she murmurs to him.

“You can stay a bit longer,” Harry says. He wants to say stay a bit longer. Stay forever. 

“I don’t want to get in your way,” Ginny says. “But good luck, yeah? Go win the league, Golden Boy.” 

“I fucking hate that nickname,” Harry says.

Ginny leans on her tiptoes, kisses his cheek. “Good luck,” she says, and slips out of the dressing room. 

Somehow, everyone in the dressing room has missed that moment, even though it feels like the most important thing that’s happened: not just today, but ever.

“Alright, everyone,” Ron calls out. “Big day today, but before we handle any of that, let’s all get warmed up and stretched out.”

Ron finds Harry when he’s on the pitch, trying to grit his teeth through an agonising hamstring stretch. “Listen,” he says.

“Oh, Merlin. What is it?” Harry says. 

“It’s our last match today. The last match of the season,” Ron says.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Are you alright?” 

“I was just wondering… are you going to sign on with us for another season?” Ron asks.

Harry has the feeling that that isn’t the question Ron started out with in his mind, but he answers it anyway. “Fuck, no. My knee would actively murder me if I tried and put it through one more season.” 

“Right,” Ron says. “That’s what I thought. So… what are you going to do, then?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I was a bit more focused on this match, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Ron says. “You should stay here.” 

Harry blinks. “Hm?” 

“As a coach,” Ron says hastily. “I’ve been talking to Oliver, too. He’s playing today, but that’s it, and he’s staying on as a coach here. You should, too.” 

Harry eyes Ron for a long moment. “Why?” he asks.

“I think you’d be good at it,” Ron says, almost tentatively. “And it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’d be fucking fun.” 

“Tell you what,” Ron says. “We win today, you sign on as coach.” 

“And if we lose?” Harry asks.

Ron shakes his head. “We won’t,” he says. “Come on, let’s get going.” 

***

The match is off to a bad start. Twenty minutes in, they’re already down by three goals, which means the Wasps are leading 30-0. 

Hermione, sitting next to Ginny, says, “You know, I’ve never cared about Quidditch before.” 

“Now’s not the time, Hermione,” Ginny says.

“Hear me out,” Hermione says. “I’ve never cared about Quidditch before. I’ve always known what to yell out, and when to get angry, and all of that, but my heart isn’t in it, you know? But today… today I care, quite a lot.” 

Ginny looks at the pitch, adjusts her Omniculars. Sees Harry, frowning as he always does during a match, the face of concentration. “Yes,” she says. “I know what you mean. Today I happen to care quite a lot, too.” 

***

They’re down by two goals. Angelina and Katie scored two goals, but the Wasps quickly scored one more. Which means it’s 40-20, they’re an hour in, and Harry can’t find the Snitch anywhere. If he hadn’t seen the bastard being released himself, he’d doubt its very existence.

“A close match so far,” Lee Jordan’s voice says, amplified as always through the stadium, “Although the Wasps seem to have the edge here. This is, of course, their home ground. A case of home pitch advantage, for sure, but is it enough to cinch the victory and the cup? Maybe not! Another goal, this time by Alicia Spinnet – that’s 40-30.” 

So it’s not too bad, Harry says, but it could be better. He rises in the air a few feet more, surveys his team.

He can see Fred and George brandishing their bats at anyone who comes close to them. Angelina and Alicia and Katie, passing the Quaffle between the three of them so quickly it’s a blur. Oliver Wood, guarding goals like his life depends on it.

They’re his team. They worked all year, and he’s proud to death of them. And – he catches a glimpse of bright red in the stands, in the owner’s box – it’s not just them that’s his team. Ron, Hermione, the reserves… Ginny.

Ginny.

All of them have been a part of this, and now all that it takes, all that it will take to end this, is for him to find the Snitch. For him to dive. 

He closes his eyes for a brief second. When he opens them, he finally sees it. From the corner of his eye. A glint of brightest gold.

And he dives. 

***

Winning feels nothing like what Harry thought it would. 

He’s held Quidditch cups before; he won the Championship when he was with Puddlemere, and he was a part of a winning World Cup team. He’s held cups. He’s been part of winning teams. None of this is new to him. He’s near the goddamn end of his career; he’s seen just about everything at this point. Wins, losses, everything in between. Nothing should be able to get to him anymore. 

But now, Ron passes him the familiar-looking Championship Cup, and he holds it, and the feeling in his mind is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out. 

“Yeah,” Ron says, grinning. “That about sums it up, I’d say.” 

“Fuck,” he repeats.

Ron leans over, yells in his ear. “See you next year on the coaching team?” 

“I suppose you will,” Harry says, laughing.

“I fucking told you!” Ron says. “I knew we could do this. I knew it!” 

They did this. He did this. No one thought they could, and here they are. They won the whole fucking thing. 

Disbelief. Shock. A happiness purer than any happiness accompanying his previous victories. That’s what he feels. 

Above them, there’s a crackle. And then another, and then another, followed by the pop of fireworks going off, celebrating their victory. He jumps, and then looks up. It’s bright orange, like the Cannons, like the robes he’s wearing on his back. 

“The Chudley Cannons have done the impossible,” says Lee Jordan’s voice above them. “Thanks to the Golden Boy’s ingenious skills with the Snitch, and a truly incredible team, the Chudley Cannons have won the Championship for the first time in– well, ever! What a nailbiter of a finale, all the way through!” 

He’s still talking, recapping the finer points of the match as best he can above the din of the crowd, but Harry tunes him out. He hands the Cup to Oliver Wood, who tugs him into a sweaty hug, the Cup uncomfortably pressed between their chests. When Oliver releases him, there’s a wide grin on his face. “You fucking did it!” Oliver says. 

“We fucking did it,” Harry agrees. 

He feels a hand rumpling his hair, and turns to see Fred and George, George’s arm slung around Angelina’s shoulders. “Congratulations, Golden Boy,” Fred grins. 

“Brilliant catch,” Angelina says. 

“I think we’re the Golden team now, actually,” Harry says. 

Angelina wrinkles her nose. “Doesn’t have the same ring, don’t you think?” 

“We’ll get used to it,” George says, and then, letting go of Harry, he wraps his arms around Angelina and kisses her. If possible, the crowd cheers even louder, and Harry doesn’t bother trying to hold back his grin. 

He turns, seeing everyone on the team cheering, passing the Cup around, passing it to Hermione, who’s joined them on the pitch, but there’s only one person he seeks out. 

He sees her all at once. A flash of orange, matching their robes, matching the fireworks above, matching the banners the crowd’s brandishing. The face he’s been seeking out from the beginning of the match. Maybe for a while before that, if he’s being honest. Maybe since the first time she kissed his cheek. Maybe since she first announced that she’d be shadowing the team. 

“Well played, Captain Potter,” Ginny Weasley says once she reaches him.

Harry tries to think of something witty to say, and fails. She’s the one thing brighter than the Cup, than the spark of the fireworks, than the flash of the cameras taking what feels like a million photographs of them all. She’s the brightest thing in the world, and the realest, and the best. 

“There’s still one more victory I’m hoping for today,” he tells her. 

“Really? Another? Good lord, Harry, you’re greedy today,” Ginny says, but the glint in her eye tells him that she knows exactly what he’s talking about. That shouldn’t surprise him at all; she has an uncanny knack for always knowing what’s on his mind. Why should this be any different, really?

He laughs, and then she leans up and closes the distance between them, and kisses him. 

Somewhere – just beyond the two of them – people are cheering. Fireworks are still going off. There’s a Quidditch Championship Cup being passed around the members of the Chudley Cannons. All he cares about, though, is Ginny. The second she pulls away, she’s giving him a teasing grin. “And?” she says. “Would you say you achieved your victory?” 

Harry smiles, and leans in to kiss her again. “You fucking know that I would,” he says. “And that’s on the record.”