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Cannoning Towards Success? The Chudley Cannons Discuss New Season

by Romilda Vane for The Daily Wizard

All eyes are on Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, and Oliver Wood, or so it seems: the press conference announcing the lineup for the Chudley Cannons’ new season was jam packed. Everyone wants to know what the Golden Boy of Quidditch – and his golden team – have in store for us! 

Potter and Wood have joined the coaching lineup, of course, and most regard the new coaching trio as one of the strongest lineups in the league – especially as it includes Potter. Potter has long been considered the lucky charm of Quidditch, one wonders if Potter – long considered the lucky charm of Quidditch – plans to do the unthinkable and get the Chudley Cannons to win two championships in a row? 

Many have spoken of the Matthew Murphy curse, where the case of a championship win is followed by a string of failures in the league. The so-called curse is named, of course, for the infamous captain of the Kenmare Kestrels, who led the Kestrels to victory in 1981, and who also led them to five consecutive years at the bottom of the league after that; hardly an example to which to aspire. 

“Fuck that,” Potter says, when I ask the coaching team whether they are worried about the curse. “Why would I be worried about a made-up curse? There’s real shit to be scared of, and we’re choosing to focus on that instead. I’m also not worried about whether birds are going to kill me and whether the earth is flat, in case that was your next fucking question.”

“We’re hoping to do our best for the team,” Oliver Wood puts in. “We’re proud of how tryouts went, and the team we’ve put together.” 

The new team, of course, is captained by Angelina Johnson. Johnson, Katie Bell, and Grant Smith are the only two members of the Cannons to renew their contract after last season. They are joined by Kabir Khan (Chaser), Sam Peterson and Fatima Abdul (Beaters), and Dennis Brown (Seeker). 

The other members of last season’s team have moved on either to coaching the team (as is the case with Potter and Wood) or to post-retirement occupations. Fred and George Weasley, in addition to running their successful joke shop, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, are frequent guests on Potterwatch, the Lee Jordan-run wireless show on the WWN. Alicia Spinnet, on the other hand, has turned her attention to activism; the organisation she co-founded a few years ago advocates for gender equality in the traditionally male-dominated sport of Quidditch. For more on what the organisation does, see page 11.

***

“It’s not real,” Harry says, throwing his jacket onto the hook on the door. It misses, and he glares at it.

“What’s not real?” Ginny says. “And is there any reason you’re having a staring contest with the coat hooks?” 

“All the bullshit that Romilda Vane and all the other fucking journalists are on about. And the coat hooks pissed me off,” Harry says. Reluctantly, he bends down and lifts up his jacket to hang it up, ignoring the twinge in his knee as he bends. 

“Yes,” Ginny says, amused, “most things do, don’t they?” 

Harry turns and takes Ginny in. She’s taken up residence on the sofa, reading Harry’s well-worn copy of Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland with a half-empty cup of tea next to her. “You don’t,” he tells her. 

“High praise,” Ginny says, closing her book with a snap. “Is this how you get all the girls, Potter?” 

Harry feels a smile at the corner of his lips. “I dunno. Worked on you, didn’t it?” he says.

“That’s the key to romantic success,” Ginny says. “Be the only person who doesn’t piss your boyfriend off. I should abandon my book and become a romantic expert instead.” 

“People could write in with their problems,” Harry suggests. 

“Would you?” Ginny asks. 

“Without a doubt,” Harry says solemnly.

Ginny laughs. “So,” she says. “What are Romilda Vane and the other fucking journalists on about?” 

“The curse,” Harry says. The air quotations around ‘curse’ aren’t strictly necessary – and, to be honest, petty – but he does them anyway. For emphasis. And because he’s pissed off. Never let it be said that Harry Potter is above pettiness. 

Ginny tilts her head, and then realisation dawns. “The Matthew Murphy curse?” 

Harry grunts in the affirmative, flinging himself down on the sofa next to her. “If I ever see Matthew Murphy again, I’m going to kill him myself, for starting all of this. It’s all I’ve had to hear about for weeks.” 

“Weeks? Really?” Ginny says. She leans in, starts to stroke soft fingers through Harry’s hair. He’ll never admit to liking the action, but he does. Of course he does.

Harry grunts again. “Even before today’s press conference. Ron’s been fretting about the curse. Even Oliver Wood – the smartest man in Quidditch – said he was worried about it. Oliver fucking Wood! There’s no hope for the team, is there?” 

“And you don’t believe in the curse?” Ginny says. She doesn’t sound judgemental, just curious. 

“Do you?” Harry says.

Ginny snorts. “Fuck, no. It’s all nonsense. Superstitious nonsense.” 

“Unlike the astrology section in the Prophet, you mean?” Harry can’t resist saying.

“Of course. The astrology section is nothing but the truth,” Ginny says. “But I wouldn’t expect a Leo to admit how wrong he is about that.” 

“Of course,” Harry echoes. “But… aren’t you a Leo, too?” 

“I’m a Leo who’s self-aware,” Ginny explains. 

“Which is a whole other thing?” 

“Yes, of course,” Ginny says. “An entirely different thing.”

Harry doesn’t even bother trying to fight the smile this time. He’s only like this with Ginny; she has a way of making everything seem better, even without trying. He fucking loves her. 

“So,” Ginny says. “The press conference?”

“Complete and utter shit,” Harry says. He feels his body slump into the sofa further as he contemplates how magnificently shit his day was. “Why the fuck did you ever quit the Prophet, anyway? These things are complete shit without you.” 

“Well, I’m always looking for new ways to torture the Golden Boy of Quidditch,” Ginny says seriously. “Quitting the Prophet and making it so that your press conferences are more boring is all step one of my master plan.” She snuggles in, burying herself against his side, and he wraps his arm around her. 

“There’s a master plan?” Harry says.

“I thought you’d learned not to underestimate me by now, Potter,” Ginny says. 

“Looks like you’ll have to teach me that lesson all over again,” Harry says. 

“Mm. I just might,” Ginny agrees. 

Despite how flippantly they talk about it now, Harry knows that quitting the paper had been a whole thing. Ginny spent the summer agonising about her decision, but then once she sent some letters and figured out that people were interested –  really interested – in her book about the last season, she decided to give it a chance. Harry misses her at every press conference, but he knows how fucking incredible her book’s going to be, so it’s worth it. Besides, he gets to come home to her in his flat more often than not, so that makes up for it. 

Although he’ll be leaving soon. They haven’t talked about it, if he wants to do this coaching shit, seriously do it, then he’ll have to be close by to the Chudley Cannons’ practice pitch. Apparition only gets you so far – besides, he fucking hates Apparition. It’s murder on his knee. As is the Floo network. Not that he’d ever fucking admit either of those things. He loves the flat in London – it’s close to Grimmauld Place, close to Diagon Alley, and he’s been living here for years – but he won’t be staying here properly until the end of the season. Which is months away. 

As if she can read his mind – and Harry still hasn’t ruled out that she can – Ginny says, “So. Season’s properly starting soon, isn’t it?” 

Harry nods. “First match is in a few weeks.” 

“And training?” 

“Monday.” 

Ginny nods. 

Harry’s not good with this shit, is the thing. He doesn’t know how to tell her what’s on his mind. But he’s also not good at censoring himself. Never has been. 

“You could come,” he says. 

Ginny’s eyebrows raise. “I’m sorry?” 

“I’ve got a place near headquarters. It’s in Chudley. I’ll be able to walk there every morning,” Harry says. 

“Right,” Ginny says. 

“It’s not too far from the Burrow, actually. If you fly,” Harry says. 

“Which you will,” Ginny says. “Because you hate Apparition.” 

“I don’t hate Apparition,” Harry says automatically.

“Really? Then you do a terrible job at liking it,” Ginny says, and then, “are you asking me to move in with you?” 

“Well,” Harry says. “Er. I mean. Do you want to?” 

“You’re not answering my question,” Ginny says.

“You’re not answering mine, either!” 

“Don’t be stubborn,” Ginny says. “Merlin, you’re such a Leo…” 

Harry disregards that comment for the sake of his own sanity. “Yes,” he says. 

“Yes, you are a Leo? I knew that,” Ginny says. 

“Yes, I’m asking you to move in,” Harry says. “God, I’m fucking terrible at this, aren’t I?” 

“Not as bad as you think,” Ginny says. Her eyes are twinkling. 

“Is that a yes?” Harry asks. “You could write your book there. And… I don’t know, you could watch training if you wanted to watch me cock it up as a coach, or… I mean, Ron and Hermione are there, too, and we’d be able to go to the Burrow often. If you want to, I mean, we wouldn’t have to…” 

Ginny rolls her eyes, and leans up. She kisses him even as he talks, which is a very effective way of interrupting him when he rambles. It’s a good kiss, slow and deep enough that he feels oddly winded when she pulls back, like he took a Bludger to his chest. “You’re such an idiot,” she says. “Of course it’s a yes. And who says you’re going to cock it up as a coach?” 

“I’ve never coached a day in my life, Gin,” Harry points out. 

Ginny waves a hand. “Irrelevant. You’re going to be amazing.” 

“I don’t know if I’d say that,” Harry says. 

“What are you worried about?” Ginny says. 

He’s worried about the coach thing in more ways than he could ever hope to express, even if he wasn’t completely terrible at expressing feelings and shit. It seemed natural, agreeing to join Ron and Oliver for the next season. But the closer it gets to actually having to do this job, the more worried he gets. He’s not a fucking strategist. He doesn’t have Ron’s tactical knowledge, or Oliver’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the sport. He’s played professionally for all his adult life, yes, but the same could be said of so many fucking others here. 

“There’s a difference between being a good player and a good coach,” he finally says.

“Sure,” Ginny says. “But even if I hate to admit it, Ron’s a good coach. And he believes in you, so why’s it so hard to believe you’ll be a good coach?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry says, and then asks, “Do you think I’ll be alright?” before he can stop himself from saying something like that. 

“I do, yeah,” Ginny says. “But that shouldn’t matter. You’re Harry Potter. You’re the Golden Boy, remember? So fuck what Ron thinks. Fuck what I think, too, come to think of it. And if people think you can’t do it, fuck them, too. When have you ever cared what anyone else thinks?” 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Who thinks I can’t do it?” 

“Who cares?” Ginny says. “No one thought the Chudley Cannons could win a championship, did they? Including me. And you went and did that, didn’t you?” 

“It wasn’t just me,” Harry points out. “There was a team there.” 

“And you’ve got a team of coaches now,” Ginny says. “Plus a team that you believe in. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You can do this.” 

Harry looks at her. 

He keeps looking at her, for long enough that she says, “What? Do I have something on my face?” 

“No,” Harry says. “I fucking love you.” 

Ginny grins. “You’re a sap,” she tells him.

“I’ll deny it if you tell anyone,” Harry says, and leans down to kiss her again as she laughs.

***

It’s the first day of training, and there’s a shaggy black dog on the pitch. 

Or so reports Kit, the new kit man for the season. (His name is Christopher, technically, but he claims it would be a shame to not go by Kit, given his vocation. Harry can’t dispute that logic.) 

Harry’s in the dressing room, talking to Oliver. Or – more accurately – the both of them are tensely sipping cups of coffee and waiting for Ron to join them so they can get to business. It feels like a betrayal to start talking tactics without Ron, and Harry knows that Oliver feels the same way. 

But who joins them isn’t Ron, but Kit the kit man. “Um. Do you both have a moment?” he says.

Harry and Oliver turn in unison. “Alright, Kit?” Oliver asks. 

“Yeah,” Kit says. “Well, er. Not really, actually. It’s just… There's a dog on the pitch.” 

“A… dog?” Oliver says. “What kind?” 

“Well, like… a shaggy dog. A black, shaggy dog.” 

Harry closes his eyes. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck. Not on the very first day. 

“Yeah. I mean… he doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. No collar or anything,” Kit says. “But he just walked onto the pitch. Like he owns the place.” 

“Maybe we can contact the Muggle shelter,” Oliver says.

“That’s a good idea, but what if he’s just a dog who belongs to someone in town?” Kit says worriedly.

“Well, we could always look around, I suppose…” Oliver says.

Harry forces himself to open his eyes. “No,” he says. “No need.” 

Oliver blinks. “You don’t want to look around?” he says. 

“But… It seems like the logical thing to do,” Kit says. “Unless… I mean. You don’t think it’s the Grim, do you?” 

“Why would it be the Grim?” Oliver says, seemingly nonplussed. 

“You know,” Kit says, and leans in. “The curse. Murphy’s curse.” 

Harry groans, diverted from the point by the mention of this fucking curse, which is quickly shaping up to be his new nemesis. “That’s bullshit,” he snaps. “The curse is bullshit. Fuck’s sake, Kit, we’ve been over this.” 

The door opens, and Ron walks in before Harry’s rant can build up. Which is probably for the best, seeing as Kit is starting to look a bit pale. “What’s going on?” Ron asks.

“Harry’s going on about the curse being bullshit,” Oliver says helpfully.

“I saw a dog,” Kit says, slightly more helpfully. “There’s a dog on the pitch.” 

Ron looks at Harry and then back at Kit, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Would it happen to be a big, black, shaggy dog?” he says. 

“Yes!” Kit says. “Did you see it, too?” 

“I don’t need to,” Ron says. “Harry’s introduced me to that dog before.” 

“It’s Harry’s dog?” Oliver says. 

“In a manner of speaking,” Ron says, grinning. 

With another groan, Harry gets to his feet. He walks out of the dressing room, onto the pitch, closely followed by the other three – Oliver and Kit looking wildly curious, Ron amused. 

Sure enough, as reported by Kit, there’s a black dog lounging on the grass of the pitch. As soon as the dog spots Harry, he bounds up to him, and Harry does his best not to smile. “Can’t you just walk in the normal way?” he says, gently shoving the dog off him.

“The normal way?” Oliver asks Ron. 

Within a moment, the dog straightens up, and Harry looks up at the smirking visage of his godfather. “Hey, Sirius,” he says, and then he’s being pulled into another hug by his godfather, a human version of the dog hug he got only seconds ago. 

Kit squeaks. “You… you’re… Sirius Black!” he says. 

“Well noticed,” Harry grumbles. 

Sirius pulls back and surveys Harry with a look of barely-concealed mirth. “Hello, Harry,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Kit is still spluttering once they’re back in the training room. Ron offers him a cup of tea, and Oliver looks on with amusement. Harry, meanwhile, grabs Sirius’s arm and tugs him into the coach’s office – which is his office now as well, fucking hell. He’s still not used to that. But he figures some privacy is a good idea. “Is something wrong?” he asks him.

Sirius shakes his head. “Why would something be wrong? Can’t a man just come to visit his godson?” 

Harry narrows his eyes.

“It’s your first day at work as a coach,” Sirius says. “I thought you might appreciate the moral support.” 

Harry supposes that’s fair enough. “Alright,” he says. “Do you, er, want to stay for training?” 

“I’d love to. Don’t mind me, I won’t get in the way at all,” Sirius says. It’s incredibly unconvincing, especially since he then proceeds to crane his head out of the doorway to say, to Kit, “Are you alright, lad?” 

“I didn’t know you were an Animagus,” Kit says. 

“Can’t have the world knowing all my secrets, can I?” Sirius says.

“Can’t have the world robbing you of a dramatic entrance, you mean,” Ron says. “Alright, gather round, coaches.” Oliver joins him as he walks into the office, and Kit mumbles something about getting the training robes ready and disappears. “The players show up in half an hour or so,” Ron continues.

“We need to talk strategy,” Oliver says, with a manic look in his eyes. “All eyes are on us this season. Everyone’s talking about the Cannons.”

“It’s true,” Sirius puts in. “It’s the first time in a century that the Cannons aren’t a laughing stock.” 

“And with the Murphy curse, we need to be extra careful,” Oliver says.

“I wouldn’t put much stock in the Murphy curse, if I were you,” Sirius says.

“Thank you,” Harry mutters.

“I know Matt Murphy,” Sirius continues cheerfully. “The real curse he had was being terrible with women. And with men, really. An equal-opportunity terrible flirter, if I’ve ever met one.” 

“This is you not getting in the way?” Harry asks Sirius.

Sirius shrugs, grinning. 

***

It feels strange, watching all the players arrive and change into their training robes. Harry’s used to being amongst the players. He’s never done this coaching thing before, and he’s about ninety percent sure he’s going to cock it up, despite what Ginny might say. 

He follows Ron out of their office once the team’s all gathered and changed. 

“So we’re thinking November,” Angelina’s saying. “Or maybe next summer, after the season’s over.” 

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” Katie says.

“I mean, it depends,” Angelina says. “We don’t know if – hi, Coaches,” she says. 

There’s a general echo of her greeting through the room, and then Grant Smith says, “Uh… is that Sirius Black?” 

Sirius waves a lazy hand. “Hi, Smith,” he says.

“You know my name?” Grant whispers.

“I know everyone on my godson’s team,” Sirius says.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

Everyone who isn’t Ron looks at Harry. “Sirius Black is your godfather?” Angelina demands.

“Yes,” Harry says.

“Why didn’t you mention it?” Katie asks.

Harry shrugs. “Didn’t seem relevant.” 

“You didn’t even bring me up?” Sirius says. “I’m hurt, Harry.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck would I bring it up?” he says. “Let’s talk about the fucking sport we’re here for, shall we?” 

“Don’t hold back your language on my account,” Sirius says, clapping Harry on the shoulder.

Kabir Khan raises his hand. When Harry looks at him, he says, “So, Sirius Black raised you? Like… the Sirius Black?” 

“No,” Harry says. “My Muggle relatives raised me.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sirius mutters.

“Any other questions?” Harry says.

“Yes,” Katie says. “Several, actually.” 

“Too fucking bad,” Harry says. “Ron and Oliver are going to talk you through our strategy for practice today. So everyone, shut up and listen to them.” 

“You haven’t changed at all,” Angelina tells him. It sounds like a compliment. 

“We’re going to divide up today,” Oliver says. “Chasers, you'll be trying some new ideas on formations, and you’ll play against the reserve Chasers, to test them.” 

“Beaters,” Ron says, “we’ll focus on target accuracy today, so we’ve got some drills to help with that.” 

“And Brown, you’re with me,” Harry says. “I’m going to finish showing you a proper Wronski Feint.” 

“And after the first hour, we’ll be doing some basic endurance training,” Oliver says. 

“Let’s go, team!” Angelina says. 

“Yeah,” Sam Peterson, Beater, says. “We’ll show them that the Cannons aren’t afraid of the Murphy curse!” 

“No!” Fatima Abdul, the other Beater, hisses. “If you say the name of the curse, then it’s more likely to happen.” 

“Is that how it works?” Sam says.

“I’ve heard that,” Katie says gravely.

“Oi,” Harry says, and then, “OI!” Once he has everyone’s attention, he says, “The next person who talks about the curse has to run laps. Many laps. Am I clear?”

There’s a mumble, which Harry takes as general agreement.

“Alright,” Ron says. “Everyone on the pitch!” 

“Good job, Coach,” Sirius murmurs to Harry as they walk out. 

***

Practice goes about as well as they could have hoped. Harry counts three injuries (all minor enough to be healed with a flick of his wand, thankfully), fourteen mentions of the curse (there have been many, many laps run by the offending players), and one Bludger-adjacent collision (Sam Peterson, hitting the Bludger and colliding with Katie Bell’s broom on his way; Angelina chewed him out for ten minutes before Harry took over the yelling). So, all in all, a success.

“I really am sorry about your broom,” Sam tells Katie, once they’re back in the dressing room.

“Just be glad it was my practice broom,” Katie says.

“Or be glad that you signed on for a Nimbus sponsorship at the start of the season,” Angelina suggests, having calmed down. “Be easy to replace a damaged broom, wouldn’t it?” 

“A Nimbus sponsorship?” Kabir says. “Lucky.” 

“I got an endorsement offer the other day,” Grant says. “My first one. It was  from fucking Cleansweep, though. Like I’d be sponsored by them.” 

“The whole team’s getting Nimbus sponsorships, actually,” Ron says. “Hermione’s sorting out the paperwork now. It’ll be there in time for our first game.” 

“Sick,” Kabir says, exchanging a high five with Grant. 

“Who’s our first game with?” Fatima asks, looking from Ron to Harry.

Ron hesitates. “The Arrows,” he finally says. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans. “We’re dealing with Evil Smith again?” 

“Who’s Evil Smith?” Sirius says.

“You don’t know?” Fatima says. 

“Zacharias Smith,” Ron tells Sirius.

Sirius throws his head back and laughs. “Of course. Should’ve guessed,” he says. “How did you stay on the same team as him and not kill him, Harry?” 

“It was a struggle,” Harry admits.

Harry’s forgotten about an aspect of being the coach, and not one of the players: he has to stay back even once the players leave, to debrief with Ron and Oliver. (And, in this case, Sirius, who decides to stay back with them.) 

“Good practice today,” Angelina calls out to them on her way out. She’s the last one out, and once she leaves, it’s just the four of them.

“Do you think it was?” Harry asks Ron, perching on the desk. He winces at the sudden pain to his knee, and takes a moment to mentally curse it, yet again. He’s been doing all of the rehab for his knee that the Healers suggested over the summer, but it still decides to be a mercurial little fucker. Harry hates it.

“I think so,” Ron says.

“I thought it was great,” Oliver says. “Have you seen that Smith’s perfected the Sloth Grip Roll now?” 

“And the reserve team’s getting better, too,” Ron says. 

Harry grunts. 

“Stop overthinking it,” Ron advises him. “You’re doing great, and the team loves you. Cheer up.” 

“You’re telling Harry to cheer up?” Sirius says, and snorts. “Yeah, good luck there.” 

Harry resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him. 

“I think we should focus more on our endurance and stamina. Not to mention defence,” Ron says. “We’ve got our tactics down, but the downside of that is that the other teams in the league know our best tactics, too. So they’ll keep coming at us, and we need to know how to defend ourselves.” 

“Our defence isn’t the best,” Oliver says. 

“Which is why we’ll work on it,” Ron says. 

Harry nods, once again thanking his lucky stars that Ron’s here to head the team. He hadn’t even thought about the defence side of things, but Ron’s always been brilliant at that sort of shit. 

“Another thing– hi,” Ron says. This latter bit isn’t directed to them, but to Hermione, who’s just walked into the dressing room, looking nervous.

“Hi,” Hermione says, and wrinkles her nose. “Goodness. Does this room smell like this all the time?” 

“It’s a Quidditch dressing room,” Sirius points out. 

“Yes, but… hi, Sirius,” Hermione says. “How long have you  been here for?” 

“All day,” Sirius says, waving a hand. “How are you, Hermione?” 

“Good, thanks,” Hermione says. “Are all of you done with your work for the day?” 

“More or less, yeah,” Harry says.

“Great. Good. Um… Do all of you have a minute?” Hermione says. “Maybe we could talk in my office?” 

“Everything alright?” Oliver asks. 

“Yes, but… I’d rather not postpone this. I don’t think it can wait,” Hermione says. 

“I’ll go,” Sirius offers.

“No, that’s alright,” Hermione says. “You can come too, Sirius. Let’s go, shall we?” She turns on her heel, and walks upstairs. 

Harry looks at Ron. Ron shrugs. No idea, he mouths. 

Mutely, the four of them follow Hermione to the staircase up to her office where – to Harry’s surprise – Ginny’s sitting in an armchair, her eyes bright with barely-suppressed excitement.

Harry suddenly feels a weight in his chest lift, just at the sight of her. It’s the Ginny Weasley effect. “Hi,” he says. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was here to show the newest chapter of my book to Hermione,” Ginny says. “Over lunch. And then I decided to stay and write from here.” 

“You could’ve said hi,” Harry says.

Ginny shakes her head. “Hermione and I were bonding,” she says gravely, “I couldn’t let my boyfriend distract me from that.” 

Harry smiles, because he can’t help but smile around her.

“Hi,” Sirius says. “I’m Harry’s godfather.” 

Ginny jumps to her feet, and takes Sirius’s hand when he holds it out to her. “I know, Sirius,” she says. “We’ve met before.”

“But this is the first time we’re meeting since you started dating my godson,” Sirius says. “Which means that I have years’ worth of embarrassing stories about Harry to catch you up on.” 

“No fucking way that’s happening,” Harry interjects. “Hermione, what did you want to talk to us about?” 

Later, Ginny mouths to Sirius, who gives her a thumbs up.

“Right,” Hermione says. “Well, I  had a letter from Kingsley Shacklebolt today. He told me he isn’t going to run for another term as Minister for Magic. And… he’s recommending that I run, instead.” 

Ron’s eyes widen. “Seriously?” he says. 

“Seriously,” Hermione confirms. “And… I’ve been thinking, and speaking to Ginny about it, and… I think I want to do it. I want to run next year.” 

“Fuck,” Harry says.

“That’s amazing!” Oliver says. “Congratulations, Hermione. You’d make an excellent Minister.” 

“You certainly would,” Sirius agrees. 

Hermione flushes. “Thank you,” she says. “It would mean a long and intensive campaign over the next year. And… well, anyone running for Minister has to disclose their private assets to the Ministry. It’s protocol.”

“Okay…” Harry says.

Ron, meanwhile, has joined Hermione at her side of the desk. “Blimey,” he says. “Minister for Magic. Imagine that.” 

“I don’t know if I’d win,” Hermione protests. 

“You will,” Harry says. It’s not something he has even a single shred of doubt about. 

“I’m sure you’ll win. But… What’s this about your assets?” Oliver says.

“Right,” Hermione says. She looks at Ginny, who nods. “Well… I think it’d be for the best if I limit the private assets I have. Especially when it comes to things like… well, I mean, you have to think about the optics, don’t you, and owning a Quidditch team doesn’t really bode well for the idea of impartiality, and not being biased…” 

“Hermione,” Harry says. “For fuck’s sake, breathe. What’s going on?” 

Hermione looks at Ginny again. Ginny rolls her eyes. “If Hermione wants to run for Minister, and have a decent shot at it, she has to sell the Quidditch team,” she explains. 

“Seriously?” Oliver says.

Harry meets Ron’s eyes. He knows Ron is thinking the same thing as he is: the only reason he joined the team last year, the reason he started giving a shit about the Cannons in the first place, is because Hermione bought it as an anniversary present. He likes the team he’s put together, sure, and he liked winning the championship last season, but a version of the Chudley Cannons not owned by Hermione, without his friendship with Ron and Hermione to ground it, feels… odd. 

He’s not the best with change, to be fair, but this would be a lot of change for anyone, not just him. 

“Who are you going to sell to?” Sirius says.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione says. “I mean, it’s early days…”

Sirius nods. There’s a curious smile on his face. “Fair enough,” he says. 

“I’ll keep you posted,” Hermione says. “All of you. I mean, I know this is an abrupt change, and I’m springing this on you, on all of you, but… I didn’t really plan for this, but if I want to do something like this, then now’s the best timing.”

“We get it,” Oliver says. “I’m sure you’ll sell to someone sensible.” 

“And we’re all going to support your campaign,” Ron says. “Right?” he says, rounding on the rest of them.

“Of course we will,” Sirius says. “I can’t think of anyone more qualified.” 

Ginny appears at Harry’s side, and slips her hand into his. “You alright?” she asks him.

“Yes,” Harry says, automatically.

Ginny snorts. “You’re a shit liar,” she whispers to him. 

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says. 

Ginny squeezes his hand. “Alright. Let’s go home, then.” 

He doesn’t know if he’ll be fine. But Ginny’s holding his hand, and there are four other people in the office apart from them, and Hermione’s going to run for Minister, so. He needs to keep his shit together. 

And he will.

Even if it fucking kills him.

***

Excerpt: Transcript of This One’s a Keeper, hosted by Cormac McLaggen on the Wizarding Wireless Network, with special guest Zacharias Smith

Cormac: Hello everyone, and welcome to This One’s a Keeper! Today, we’re joined once again by Zacharias Smith. Hi, Zacharias!

Zacharias: Hi, Cormac. 

Cormac: (laughing) Now that the Appleby Arrows have started training regularly, we won’t get to have you around as often, will we? 

Zacharias: No, I’m afraid not, but I won’t be able to stay away for too long, I’m sure! 

Cormac: No, and we’re always happy to have you, whenever the Arrows can spare you. 

Zacharias: I know I’m an integral part of the team over at the Arrows, but I’ll do my best for you.

Cormac: We appreciate it. Now, onto the news. Yesterday, Hermione Granger, who owns the Chudley Cannons – your former team, Zacharias – announced that she plans to sell the team. What do you think could have brought on this change? 

Zacharias: Well, maybe she saw the writing on the wall.

Cormac: My thoughts exactly. Now, many have been talking about the Murphy curse, and Harry Potter, who’s now a coach at the Cannons –

Zacharias: Don’t remind me. 

Cormac: – said that he wasn’t worried about such a curse, and he went as far as to call the curse ‘made-up’. 

Zacharias: Did he really?

Cormac: He did. Now, is it possible Hermione Granger disagrees with him, and is selling the team so she won’t have to face the curse? 

Zacharias: I’d say that’s not just possible, but likely.

Cormac: Of all of the yes-men Harry Potter surrounds himself with, Hermione Granger is one of the most powerful, wouldn’t you say? 

Zacharias: Oh, definitely.

Cormac: The fact that she’s selling the team, just as Potter joins the coaching side of things… well, it’s certainly interesting timing, that’s all I’ll say!

***

When Harry gets home the Friday of their first week of training, the first thing he thinks is, thank fuck there’s no match tomorrow. They’ve got a couple of weeks before the matches begin, which means two weeks for Harry to learn how to not feel so fucking exhausted at the end of the day. Being a coach seems to be far more tiring than being a player ever was, and he doesn’t even fucking play anymore.

Ginny’s not home when he opens the door and walks in, which doesn’t surprise him. She’s spent the last few days with Hermione, holed up in her office and planning the official press release for Hermione’s campaign, which will apparently start in earnest very soon. 

Which means Hermione will finalise selling the team very soon. 

Just the thought of it makes Harry’s stomach sink. Maybe that’s why he’s so fucking tired: in addition to handling coaching, and strategy, he’s had to think about feelings. It’s something he avoids doing as much as he can. 

When the fireplace lights up and Ginny steps out of it, a while later, he’s still slumped on the couch, staring at nothing.

“What are you brooding about?” Ginny says, taking her jacket off and throwing it in the direction of the hook as she walks over to the sofa. It lands exactly on the hook, reminding Harry again of her past as a Chaser for the Harpies. 

“I’m not brooding,” Harry says. 

Ginny snorts. “Liar.” 

Harry lets that slide – because she is a hundred percent correct in her description of his actions. “How’s Hermione’s campaign going?” he asks.

“I’ve been helping her draft her announcement,” Ginny says, sitting down next to Harry. She lays back on the sofa, propping her feet up on his lap. He moves absentmindedly, wrapping his hand around one of her ankles. “It’s very hard, because for every suggestion I have, she has about ten counter-arguments.”

“Sounds like her,” Harry says. “Does she know who she’s selling the team to yet?” 

Ginny shakes her head. “No. What do you think?” 

“I’ve got no fucking idea,” Harry says. 

“Well, I’m sure they’ll keep you and Ron and Oliver on as coaches, no matter who it is,” Ginny says. “I mean, you lot managed to win the league last season.” 

“I’m not worried about my job,” Harry says. 

“Really?” Ginny says. 

“I mean… I don’t know. Maybe I am,” Harry admits. 

Ginny arches an eyebrow. “Don’t worry,” she says. “No matter what happens, I’ll make sure you look cool in my book.” 

Harry snorts. “I’m pretty sure you’re going out of your way to make sure I don’t look cool at all in your book, actually.” 

“Well… yes. But I can’t be accused of being partial, can I?” Ginny says. “Rita Skeeter is on my case about it as it is.” 

Harry groans. “She’s not still going on, is she?” 

“Oh, The Daily Wizard is full of articles about how I’m a nepotism hire,” Ginny says brightly. “But I think they’re not sure if I’m the one making you look good with my articles last season, which got you the coaching job, or if you’re the one who got me my book deal.” 

“So… they don’t know which of us is benefitting from the other?” Harry says dryly. “Sounds about right. That’s the kind of stellar reporting I expect from Lon Pierce and the team there.”

“They’re a hardworking set of scumbags,” Ginny agrees. “Come on then, are you ready?” 

Harry eyes Ginny warily. “Ready for what?” 

“We’re going to London,” Ginny says. 

“What?” Harry says. “No. What?” 

Ginny gives him an amused look. “You’ve forgotten that we’re having dinner with Sirius, haven’t you?” 

“Fuck,” Harry says. Truth be told, he had completely forgotten about it. In his defence, it’s been a busy week. (Sort of an understatement.) 

“I think Ron and Hermione are coming, too,” Ginny says. 

“Why the fuck is he even hosting a dinner?” Harry says. “We just saw him this week.” 

“I think he wants to get to know your incredible girlfriend,” Ginny says brightly. “And can you blame him for that?” 

“I feel like I’m being punished for him being in Europe all of last season,” Harry grumbles.

“Yes,” Ginny says. “Bonding with your godfather. You poor thing. No one’s suffered like you have. Should we go?” 

Harry grunts, letting Ginny pull him to his feet. “Fine, but once we get this dinner done with, I’m spending the rest of the weekend in bed.” 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Ginny says, slipping her hand into his. “Floo or Apparition?” 

“Both are shit,” Harry says.

Ginny gives him a sharp look. “Your knee?” 

Harry shrugs one shoulder, and then nods. He doesn’t want to get into it, and luckily, Ginny seems to understand. He knows her shoulder still gives her trouble, even all these years later, which is why she doesn’t need to pry about his fucked up knee. 

“The Floo’s probably better,” he finally says, and Ginny squeezes his hand before she tugs him over to the fireplace. 

“Good,” Sirius says, when Harry steps out of the fireplace, “you’re just in time. Ron and Hermione should be here soon. Want some wine?” 

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Fuck, no.” 

“You sure? I brought some back from France,” Sirius says.

“Oh, in that case… fuck, no,” Harry says.

Sirius laughs. “Firewhisky, then?”

“Cheers,” Harry says. 

“I’ll have some fancy French wine, Sirius, thanks,” Ginny says. 

“Of course,” Sirius says. “Right this way, then. Harry, you’ll help yourself?” 

“I… suppose so,” Harry says, but he’s speaking to the air, since Sirius has already swept Ginny with him to the kitchen. 

Luckily, he knows the way to Sirius’s bar cart by now. It’s been a year or so since he visited – Sirius spent most of the last year in Europe, citing ‘important philanthropy business’ which had made Harry roll his eyes – but his flat is still just the same. There’s some fancy new whiskeys and scotches that Harry ignores entirely, choosing instead to retrieve the dusty old bottle of Ogden’s in the corner. It looks untouched since the last time he was here, and the fine layer of dust tells him that no one drinks it but him. He appreciates Sirius keeping it around, anyway.

“Remus sends his regards,” Sirius says, returning to the living room just as Harry’s poured himself a (generous) glass. “He was meant to come tonight, but Teddy’s sick with a cold.” 

“Children have so many germs, don’t they?” Ginny says. She’s holding a glass of wine that Harry bet cost a billion fucking Galleons but tastes the same as every other glass of red wine in the world. 

“They’re monsters,” Sirius says. “Should we sit?” 

“What’s going on?” Harry says, levelling Sirius with his best unimpressed look – and his best unimpressed look is good, given that he’s been practising for over thirty years. 

“I just thought we might be more comfortable sitting,” Sirius says. 

“Fuck off, you know what I meant,” Harry says. “You invited us to dinner, even though you saw me about five minutes ago. You’re up to something.” 

Sirius affects a gasp, holding his hand to his chest. “Harry James Sirius Potter–” 

“Not my middle name,” Harry says.

“I raised you better than to talk to me like that–” 

“You didn’t raise me.” 

“And to assume that I must be up to something if I invite my darling godson and his beautiful girlfriend over for dinner–” 

“Thank you,” Ginny says.

“I am offended,” Sirius says. “Offended, and appalled. And shocked.” 

Part of why Harry is so good at his unimpressed look, he thinks, is because he gets to practise every time he meets Sirius. 

“And just because you happen to be right, on this one sole occasion…”

“I fucking knew it.” 

“Doesn’t mean you will always be right,” Sirius concludes. 

Harry sighs. “Come on,” he says. “Just tell me. Are you getting married or something?” 

Sirius snorts. “Fuck, no,” he says. “Don’t worry. This is good news. But let’s wait for the others to get here, shall we?” 

“We shall not,” Harry says. 

“Now I’m curious,” Ginny says. “Come on, Sirius. Give us a hint.” 

Sirius’s eyes sparkle. “Alright,” he says. “You don’t have to twist my arm. Come on, let’s sit down, I’ll tell you what I have planned.” 

Harry tries not to be offended that all it took was Ginny asking once for Sirius to give in. Then again, he supposes it’s impossible to deny Ginny Weasley anything she asks for. It probably goes against the fabric of the universe or something.

“As it turns out,” Sirius says. “I was looking at my wealth portfolio the other day, and I decided to diversify my assets.” 

There’s a pause.

“What?” Harry says.

“Is that a euphemism for something?” Ginny says.

“All my money’s sitting in a vault at Gringotts,” Sirius says. “It’s not doing anything useful.” 

“Aren’t you, like… famously a philanthropist?” Ginny asks. “Isn’t that doing something with your money?” 

Sirius shakes his head. “No. I mean… Well, yes, of course, but I want to do something beyond that. So, given the happy news about Hermione selling the team…” 

“I’m sorry, happy news?” Harry says.

“I’ve decided to buy it,” Sirius says. “This way, the team stays in the family, I’m doing something useful with the money my awful parents left to me, because they were stupid fuckers who forgot to modify their will before they disowned me. It’s a win-win, all around.” 

There’s another pause, a longer one this time, punctuated only by Hermione and Ron stepping out of the fireplace. 

“Hi,” Ron says cheerfully, and then, looking around, “What on earth happened? You all look weird.”

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asks, more tactfully than her husband. 

Sirius’s eyes glint. 

Harry takes a long sip of his Firewhisky, and exchanges a look with Ginny, who looks like she’s torn between amusement and shock; which, as it turns out, is exactly how Harry feels. “I don’t fucking know where to begin,” he says. 

***

Hermione Granger sells the Chudley Cannons

by Luna Lovegood for The Quibbler

This morning, Hermione Granger called for a press conference in the press room of the Chudley Cannons’ office. I quite like the room, even though it’s small. I’ve been to the press rooms of most of the teams in the country; Pride of Portree probably has the largest one, or maybe Puddlemere United. But the one for the Cannons is small, and it feels cosy. It’s too early for them to have a fire going, of course – and there’s no fireplace in the press room, which would make a fire a bit problematic – but it was cosy nonetheless. Last month, I ranked the top cosy elements in the modern wizarding home, so feel free to go look at that if you want my thoughts for how the cosy elements of the Cannons’ press room could be improved upon! 

“As you all know, I decided a little while ago to sell the Cannons,” Hermione Granger said. “This is not because of any absence of faith I have in Ron, Harry, Oliver, or the team – I think they’re all amazing – but because I am turning my attentions elsewhere. I am pleased to announce that I have found a suitable buyer for the team, someone who will do his best by the team, by the coaching staff, and by our fans.” 

Of course, at this point, as I’m sure you can imagine, the atmosphere was tense. The effects of the suspense were, actually, quite similar to the effects one feels when around a Crumple-Horned Snorkack for too long; prolonged exposure can lead to periods of high stress, dizziness, and occasional fainting. Luckily, there was no fainting, which is good, because I wanted to know who she was selling the team to. 

As it turns out, the buyer joined Hermione at the podium! It’s none other than Sirius Black, famous philanthropist. “I’ve been a fan of the Cannons for many years,” he said, “and I was thrilled Hermione agreed to sell to me. I hope I can do her, and all of you, proud.” 

I quite like Sirius Black. He’s a very nice man – not to mention, quite handsome, although not quite my type – and I think the Chudley Cannons will be in safe hands with him. When they allowed questions, I asked Harry Potter, who was sitting at the front with the other two, if he thought Sirius Black’s lack of Quidditch expertise would affect the team in any way. For some reason, he looked surprised at my choice of question.

“Oh, er… No,” he said. “Sirius played for Gryffindor at Hogwarts. And he’s very familiar with the sport. He’ll be great.” 

For what it’s worth, I believe Harry. I’m sure Sirius will be great, and I’m sure the team will have a good season, and won’t let worrying about the Murphy curse or about the fact that every magical eye in the country is on the Cannons to see what happens next get in their way!

*** 

The following Saturday, Harry wakes up to an empty bed, and curses how much of an early riser his girlfriend is. The bed’s cold, too, which means she’s been up a while. Harry’s had a career that’s meant early morning training for years – closer to decades, plural, than he’s comfortable with – but even he draws the line somewhere. A look at his watch tells him it’s eight in the morning. A perfectly reasonable time to wake up, and yet it seems like Ginny’s been awake for an hour at the least.

With a groan, he gets to his feet, padding over first to the bathroom and then the living room, wincing at the fucking sunlight all the way. Sure enough, Ginny’s sprawled herself out on the floor, sitting cross-legged with at least seven rolls of parchment around her.

“What the fuck is going on?” Harry says. “This looks… insane.” 

“Good morning to you, too,” Ginny says. “Don’t interfere with the parchment.” 

“It’s kind of impossible to. The parchment has taken over the flat,” Harry says. Even so, though, he’s careful, walking around the parchment as he walks to the kettle. “What’s all this, anyway?” 

“Well, that is a draft for chapter two,” Ginny says, pointing to one of the rolls. “And that one is a letter that has to go to Hermione. And that one is the prologue.” 

“For… the book?” Harry asks.

“The prologue for the book, yes,” Ginny says impatiently. “That’s a list of potential titles for the book. And then Hermione’s plan for the campaign there.” 

“Why do you have Hermione’s plan for the campaign?” Harry asks. He considers joining Ginny on the floor but, when his knee twinges, he settles for the sofa instead. 

“Because I’m writing it,” Ginny says, taking the cup of tea Harry offers her. “She hired Marietta Edgecombe to run her campaign, and I’ve interviewed her before at the Prophet. She’s absolute shit, so I told her I’d take over until she finds someone better.” 

“Aren’t you already writing her press releases and all that?” Harry says. 

“Well, yes,” Ginny says. “But now I’m going to help with everything else, as well.” 

Harry can’t resist leaning over to tuck a strand of Ginny’s hair behind her ear. “Do you have the time for that? You are also writing an entire fucking book, you know,” he points out.

“It’s just temporary,” Ginny says. “I’m going to get in touch with some of the best people in the business to plan it for her. I’m thinking maybe Padma Patil. She did Kingsley’s last campaign, didn’t she?” 

“Since when do you know so much about politics?” Harry says. 

Ginny shrugged. “Colin Creevey handled the politics for the Prophet. And he loved Quidditch, so we’d trade off sometimes, when I wanted something new.” 

Harry glares at Ginny. “So it’s your fault that he once spent an entire week hounding me for an exclusive and a signed picture?” 

“Actually, I’d say that’s your own fault. No one asked you to be the Golden Boy of Quidditch, did they?” Ginny says unrepentantly. 

Harry’s saved from having to think up a retort by the sound of a knock at the door. He grabs his wand and walks to open it, raising his eyebrows when he sees Ron. “Hey,” he says. He’s about to invite Ron in for breakfast, but then pauses when he sees the expression on Ron’s face. He looks worried. It’s very uncharacteristic. 

“Hi, mate,” Ron says. “Do you have a minute? Can we talk? It’s kind of important.” 

Harry’s suddenly reminded of the last time Ron showed up at his door, looking this urgent and worried. It was a few years ago – fuck, close to ten years ago – when he’d decided to propose to Hermione and needed help brainstorming a plan. 

“Everything alright with you and Hermione?” he asks warily. 

“What? Yeah, of course. Everything’s fine,” Ron says.

“Hi, Ron,” Ginny calls out from inside.

“Oh,” Ron says. “Ginny’s here?” 

“She lives here,” Harry says slowly. “Do you have a fever or something?” 

“Let’s talk outside, then,” Ron decides. 

Before Harry can protest – or put clothes on that aren’t an old t-shirt and joggers – Ron grabs Harry’s arm and tugs him outside, all the way outside to the garden. He sinks down on the grass and Harry, after looking at him for a moment, sits down there, too. It seems like sitting down on the ground is unavoidable today. His knee twinges in complaint, but he ignores it. He has a long history of ignoring that knee, so it can wait a bit longer.

“What’s up?” he says. 

Ron takes a deep breath. And then another. And then a third.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry says. “Spit it out, would you? Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.” 

“I have to tell you something,” Ron says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Figured that bit out for myself, actually.” 

“Two things, actually. I have to tell you two things. Just… don’t say anything until I’m done, alright?” Ron says. 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Alright,” he says. 

“Alright,” Ron repeats. “So… well. First thing’s first. Hermione’s announcing the campaign on Monday. And she says from then on, it’s going to take over her life.” 

Harry nods. 

“And… well, it’s going to be brutal,” Ron says. “And people will say shit if… well, if I’m not there. So. The first thing I have to tell you is… I’m taking the rest of the season off. I’m going to help Hermione with her campaign, so I can’t be the head coach anymore.” 

“What the f–” Harry starts to say, but cuts himself off when Ron glares at him. Ron can’t leave. 

The Chudley Cannons have no fucking chance in hell if Ron isn’t coaching this season. He’s the one who handles all of it. He’s the glue that holds the whole fucking team together. What are they meant to do without him? How are they meant to get through the season? 

“The second thing I have to say,” Ron says. “Is… well. If I’m leaving, someone else needs to be the head coach.” 

Harry waits for him to tell him that Oliver will be taking over.

“And it’s you,” Ron says. “You’re going to be the head of the coaching team in my place.” 

“No,” Harry says, before he can form any semblance of a coherent sentence. “Absolutely not. No fucking way.” 

“Yes fucking way,” Ron says. “Look. You were the captain last year. You led the team to a championship.” 

“That’s different,” Harry says. He has no time right now – and he wouldn’t know where to begin – to explain how it’s different, but it just fucking is. 

“Not that different,” Ron says. “You’re going to do it, mate. And you’ll be great.” 

Harry closes his eyes. Tries to take a breath. Fails. It’s impossible to breathe in times like this. In fact, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to breathe ever again. 

The Chudley Cannons, he thinks, are well and truly fucked. 

***

The first practice without Ron is… well. It’s a whole lot of practice. Harry isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. 

When he shows up to training, he’s greeted by Sirius: in human form this time, waiting for him by the door. 

“Do you always look this grumpy in the mornings?” Sirius says brightly.

“I like you better as a dog,” Harry says.

Laughing, Sirius throws his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “So, catch me up. What have I missed so far in the season?” 

“Well, we’re just about one week into training,” Harry says slowly. “And also, you were at training last week. And we haven’t actually played any matches yet. So… I’d say you haven’t missed much.” 

“Good to know,” Sirius says. “Come on. We’ve got time for a cup of tea before training begins.”

“I don’t want tea,” Harry says.

Sirius levels him with an unimpressed look.

“Fine,” Harry says. “Fucking hell. Fine. I’ll have some tea.” 

“That’s my boy,” Sirius says, tugging Harry into the office. 

Within a few minutes, once Harry’s holding a too-warm cup of tea (he’s already burned his tongue, twice, but keeps going back in for more sips. Why the fuck does Sirius make such good tea?), they’re joined by Oliver in their office. Oliver, as always, bustles in with a frown, and starts talking before he puts his bag down on his desk or looks up. “So about our defence, I was thinking – oh, hi, Sirius. Has the paperwork for the sale of the team all gone through, then? Everything went alright there?” 

Sirius nods. “It has indeed.”

“That was quick,” Oliver says, impressed. Harry’s learned a long time ago not to be impressed by Sirius: Sirius has done enough shit through his life that  Harry’s learned to roll with the punches. It’d take something extraordinary if Sirius wanted to impress him. 

“Well, it’s amazing what you can get done if you have lawyers willing to work over the weekend, young Oliver,” Sirius tells him. “Cup of tea?” 

Oliver looks at Harry. Harry shrugs. “Yeah,” Oliver says. “Go on, then.” 

“So what were you saying about our defence?” Harry says, once Oliver’s settled at his desk with a cup of tea that Sirius conjures up for him. 

They spend the next ten minutes discussing strategy: Harry hates meditation, fucking detests it, but he thinks that discussing Quidditch strategy is the closest he can come to feeling that sense of calm or what the fuck ever he’s meant to feel when he meditates. If he keeps glancing at where Ron’s empty desk is, half-expecting him to agree or disagree with what they’re saying, well… that’s neither here nor there. It’s meditative even if he misses Ron. 

“But the problem with placing Kabir there is that we leave so much to the timing of it all,” Oliver says earnestly.

“Well… yes,” Harry says. “But I think Kabir could pull it off. If he stays below Katie…” 

“Do you think he will, though? Do you think he’s capable of it?” Oliver says. 

“Yes,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think he could do it.”

“Yes, but… even so,” Oliver says, sounding anything but certain. 

“I hate to break this up, lads,” Sirius says, “but the players have started arriving. Should we go and have a word?” 

“Yes,” Harry says. “Suppose we probably should.” 

He wonders how to feel about Oliver doubting his assessment of Kabir’s capabilities. Does that mean he doesn’t think Harry’d make a decent head coach? Or is Harry just doubting himself too much, getting in his own fucking head? This spiral, whatever the fuck it is, is the opposite of meditation. For fuck’s sake, he thinks, doing his best not to glare at the world as they walk into the adjoining dressing room. 

From the way everyone looks at him, he’s pretty sure he’s failed his attempt to not glare.

“Everything alright, Coach?” Katie Bell asks. 

“Everything’s fine, yeah,” Harry says. 

Katie nods, not looking mollified in the least. Harry can’t say he blames her for that.

“Sirius is here,” he says. “Everyone, say hi to Sirius.”

After echoes of hi and see to meet you again are shared, Sirius bestows the room with a grin. 

“Hi, everyone!” Sirius says. “I’m very happy to meet you all properly.”

“Nice to see you, Mr Black,” Sam Peterson says. “Are you going to watch us during practice?” 

“Please,” Sirius says, waving a magnanimous hand. “Sirius is fine. And no, I wish I was, but since it’s my first official day as owner, I’m going to spend it in a very fun and exciting way – going through the several novels’ worth of  paperwork Hermione’s left me to fill out. Duty calls, I’m afraid. But I wanted to say hi and take any questions before I go on upstairs.” 

“Did you really not raise Harry?” Grant Smith says. 

“Is that surprising?” Sirius says.

“Well… yes, a bit. You both are just… alike, is all,” Grant says.

Harry raises an eyebrow. He chooses not to read into that comment or think about it too much. 

“I’m flattered,” Sirius says.

“So what did you think when he first signed to the Cannons last year?” Fatima Abdul asks.

“I bet you were shocked, weren’t you?” Angelina says, grinning.

“It is shocking, to be fair,” Katie says. 

Harry clears his throat. “Sirius meant, do you have any questions that aren’t about me?” 

“Oh,” says Grant Smith. “Then no, we don’t.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Excellent,” he says. “Then shall we get on the fucking pitch and fucking play, then?” 

“Excellent idea,” Oliver says, looking like he’s suppressing a grin. “Come on, then. Let’s go.” 

Harry takes mental notes of how the first practice with him as the head coach goes. By the end of training, he’s run out of mind space to process everything that happened: not only did Kabir Khan somehow manage to give Grant Smith a nosebleed with the Quaffle on three (three!) separate occasions, none of their strategies worked. And on top of all of fucking that, when they get back to the training room, Ron’s waiting for them there. 

“Hi,” he says with a sheepish wave and smile. “I was up talking with Sirius in his office, and I thought I’d come down and talk to all of you about the season.”  

“Everything alright?” Katie asks.

“Yeah,” Ron says. 

“Then why weren’t you at training today?” Angelina says.

Ron looks at Harry and then at Oliver. “You didn’t tell them?” 

Harry shrugs. 

“It was a busy morning,” Oliver offers.

“It’s not my news to tell, is it?” Harry counters. “Tell them yourself.” 

“Fine,” Ron says, and takes a deep breath. 

And Harry… Harry does not want to hear it. So he turns on his heel, walks into the office, and makes sure to close the door firmly behind him, loud enough to drown out the noise of Ron explaining where he’ll be the rest of the season. And while that might be what could only be classified as a gross overreaction, it makes him feel better, so it’s worth it. 

***

Two weeks after Harry’s first practice as Head Coach, things are going… better. Well, they’ve reached some form of stability, at any rate. 

Which means, of course, that it’s time for something to fuck it all up. Because of course it is. Harry’s expecting one of his players to quit, or for them to lose a match. Neither of those happen: so far, they’ve played one match against the Kenmare Kestrels, and won it by twenty points (hardly impressive, but a win is a win), and all his players have stayed on. Angelina Johnson is stepping into her captain role even better than any of them could’ve hoped. Oliver and he still disagree on the team’s defence strategy, but they get on apart from that. And, on top of everything else, no one’s brought up the stupid fucking Murphy curse. So it’s been a good two weeks. 

And then everything is thrown off balance by a letter that shows up on Sunday morning.

Harry awakes to a tap on the window. By the time he finally opens his eyes – which feel rather like they’ve been sandpapered shut – he can spot the blurry outline of a tawny owl, tapping away on the bedroom window. The owl has an expression on its face that resembles, of all things, a smirk. 

“Why is an owl smirking at us?” Harry mutters.

“I always knew you would go senile eventually,” Ginny says from next to him. 

“No,” Harry says. “There’s an owl smirking at the window.” 

“Is that the tapping sound?” Ginny says, turning to hide her face in the pillow. It’s early – it has to be early, if Ginny’s still sleeping.

“It is,” Harry confirms.

“Maybe you should go get the letter, then,” Ginny suggests. 

Harry can’t see fault with that logic, so he grabs his glasses and wand and grumpily gets to his feet. He returns from the window a few moments later, holding a roll of parchment addressed to the both of them in a messy scrawl that’s very, very familiar. 

“Who’s it from?” Ginny asks. 

“Here,” Harry tosses it to her; once she catches it, he goes to the kitchen. 

When he returns, holding two cups of tea, Ginny’s frowning at the parchment. “It’s from George and Angelina,” she tells him. “They’re inviting us to dinner at their flat tonight.”

“What’s the occasion?” Harry asks. “Fuck, it isn’t one of their birthdays, is it?” 

“No,” Ginny says. “But they do want us to get cake.” 

“They… what? Cake?” Harry says. 

Ginny shrugs. “Suppose we’ll find out what it is when we get there,” she says. 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry says. Hands her her cup of tea. “I still can’t believe they’ve been together this entire time,” he says.

Ginny snorts. “Really? I can’t believe you didn’t know,” she says, and tugs him down beside her in bed so she can snuggle into his side. 

So he doesn’t think anything more of it. In the evening, he’s reluctant to leave the flat, but they do, and they get the fucking cake as well for good measure. It’s from a Muggle bakery that Ginny swears by (I get my writing done there when everywhere else is managing to annoy me) and it’s vanilla flavoured. 

“Are you sure vanilla is the right flavour?” Ginny says, as they peer at the display.

“No one likes chocolate cake,” Harry says, crossing his arms. “It’s fucking garbage and everyone knows that.” He, apparently, has very strong opinions about this.

“It’s a classic,” Ginny argues.

“Yes, if you’re five years old. Not if you’re a grown fucking adult,” Harry says. 

“But vanilla is so… vanilla, you know?” Ginny says. 

“Which means no one will hate it,” Harry says. 

“They are out of red velvet,” Ginny says. “So I suppose we’ve got no choice there.” 

“So… the vanilla cake?” says the girl at the counter. 

“Yes,” Harry says. 

Ginny throws her hands up. “I suppose so, yes,” she says. “We’ll get the boring cake, please.” 

So they get the vanilla cake. It’s the right decision. Harry’s never felt less doubt about a decision in his life. 

He’s never been to George’s place, so he doesn’t know what to expect. When he lets go of Ginny’s hand and tries to compose his breathing (he hates Apparition, hates it with the wrath of a thousand burning fires, maybe more), he sees a small house with a bright orange front door and messy front garden, and he can’t imagine George living anywhere else. 

Angelina greets them at the door, grinning. “Hi,” she says. “Did you bring the cake?” 

Ginny offers her the bag with an apologetic expression. “It’s boring and white. Sorry,” she says. 

“Don’t worry. If boring and white was a dealbreaker, I wouldn’t be dating George,” Angelina says. 

Harry snorts.

“I heard that,” George says, joining Angelina at the door.

“I wasn’t whispering,” Angelina says, unrepentant. 

George gives Angelina the sort of fond look that makes Harry feel like he’s trespassing. “Come on,” he tells Ginny and Harry. “Everyone else is here already. What took you so long?” 

“Getting your stupid cake,” Ginny mutters. 

“Who’s everyone else?” Harry says, but his question is answered as George leads them to the living room, which is crowded with an unholy amount of Weasleys. All of George’s siblings are there, and Molly and Arthur, and Hermione, and Fleur, and an older couple who Harry assumes are Angelina’s parents. Alicia Spinnet and Oliver Wood are also there, sitting next to each other, and Lee Jordan. It’s a very crowded room. 

“Welcome,” George says. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here…” 

“I assumed it was for dinner. That’s what the letter said,” Ron says. 

“Yeah, it wasn’t that mysterious at all,” Ginny says. 

“Is everything alright?” Oliver says, more helpful than either Ron or Ginny. “I mean, you asked me to dress up.” 

“We didn’t say dress up, Oliver, we said not to wear your old Quidditch robes,” Angelina says.

“Which I see you disregarded,” George says. 

Harry looks down. He’s wearing a Potterwatch t-shirt and black jeans. “Hang on a moment. Were we meant to dress up?” he says.

“Nah,” George says. “We gave up on you lot looking presentable years ago.” 

Angelina clears her throat. “Like we were saying. While we did invite you for a dinner party, and we’re glad you could all come… it’s not just a dinner party.” 

George’s eyes look wild. Harry thinks about his expression in fourth year when he gave Harry his first Canary Cream. Fuck. Whatever he’s up to, it’s going to be worse than that. Far worse. 

“What do you mean, dear?” Molly asks. 

George grins. “If you would all follow Fred and Lee to the garden, then you’ll see exactly what I mean, Mum. We’ll get to the food and drink after, but that’s not the main event of the evening.” 

“It’s not?” Ginny whispers to Harry.

“I’ve got no idea what the fuck’s happening,” Harry tells her. “Oi,” he adds, catching up to Fred, “what’s happening?” 

Fred’s eyes twinkle. “Wouldn’t you like to know, young Harry?” 

“I don’t think he’d be asking if he didn’t,” Hermione puts in.

Outside, in the garden, there’s an area set up with chairs. Chairs on either side, with an empty passage in the middle. An empty passage that looks suspiciously like an aisle. 

“Hang on…” Hermione says. 

Fred winks at her. “You four are here,” he says, pointing to the second row. “Have a seat, and don’t ruin the surprise.” 

“We don’t know what the surprise is,” Ron says. 

“Good,” Fred says. “Alicia, join me,” he calls out. 

Alicia, looking perplexed, joins Fred. He offers his arm to her, and walks to the front. Lee’s also standing there, but unlike the rest of them, he looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

“Let’s begin,” Lee says, and nods his head towards the garden door. Everyone turns to look, in unison, and sees… George and Angelina. They’re both wearing Muggle clothes, a button down shirt and trousers for George and a floaty white dress for Angelina. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispers. 

“Holy shit,” Ron breathes.

Arm in arm, George and Angelina walk through the rows of chairs – down the fucking aisle – and join Lee and Fred and Alicia.

“Right,” Lee says. His voice is oddly thick. “Well, when George and Angelina asked me here, I didn’t know what it was for. They only told me about ten minutes ago.” 

“We didn’t want you to get in your own head about it,” Angelina explains. 

“But now… well, now I’m delighted to say… we’re all here, not for a dinner party – ”

“Although we will eat,” George makes sure to say.

“But for the wedding of George and Angelina,” Lee finishes. “Merlin, you both don’t let a man get a word in edgeways, do you?” 

“No manners,” Fred says gravely. “I’ve been trying to tell them for years, Lee.” 

A laugh ripples through the audience. 

It’s a relatively quick wedding ceremony – not that Harry’s been to too many others to compare it to. Lee directs George and Angelina through it. There are rings, and by the end of the ceremony, there’s not a dry eye among them. Not that Harry’ll ever admit it. It’s just… it’s fucking sweet, is all.

George turns to look at them once Lee declares them married. “Technically,” he says, “we were officially married this morning, when we went to the Ministry and signed what we needed to. But we thought this would go down better. So, now that that’s done, should we have some dinner?” 

They have dinner. Bill and Charlie transfigure the chairs into a few wide benches and a dining table, and Fred and Lee Summon the food and cutlery from the kitchen to lay the table with. Lee turns the wireless on, fiddles with the dials until Celestine Warbeck’s gently crooning to them. 

“What brought this on?” he asks Angelina. He’s sitting opposite her at the table. It’s absolutely laden with food; it seems like George and Angelina got everyone to bring along food, not just Ginny. 

She beams at him over the slice of cake she’s making her way through. “Well, we had the weekend off,” she says. “And we figured… why bother planning the sort of elaborate wedding neither of us want?” 

“I didn’t even fucking know you were engaged,” Harry says.

“Huh,” Angelina says, tilting her head to the side. “I don’t think we were, actually. Oi, George,” she calls out to him from where he’s sitting at the bottom of the table with Fred, “why didn’t you propose to me?” 

George shrugs. “Never got around to it,” he calls back. “The engagement ring’s upstairs somewhere, if you want me to get it.” 

“You’re the worst,” Angelina tells him. “I can’t believe I married you.”

“I love you too, baby,” George tells her.

Angelina rolls her eyes.

***

The first match of the season is against the Appleby Arrows, because of course it is.

“Are you worried?” Ginny asks Harry on the morning of the match.

“No,” Harry says.

Ginny snorts. “Do you want me to pretend to believe that?” 

Harry considers. “Yes,” he says.

“Fair enough,” Ginny says. “Good luck, though.” 

Harry really fucking loves her. 

They’re playing the match at home, in Chudley, and as Harry walks into his office he has the uncomfortable realisation that this is the first important Quidditch match in his professional career that he isn’t playing in.

“You alright?” Oliver asks him.

Harry shrugs. “Weird to not be playing,” he says.

Oliver nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean.” And Harry knows that he does.

Fortunately or otherwise, though, no one apart from Oliver notices his distracted state of mind, or the frown on his face. Even though the news is a week old now, all anyone can talk about is Angelina and George.

“Why didn’t you invite the rest of us?” Katie’s demanding as Harry walks out into the dressing room. 

Angelina shrugs. “Tell you what,” she says, “if we win the season, George and I will throw a party and all of you will be invited, how’s that?” 

“Speaking of which,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “Should we focus on the match?” 

Angelina gives him a grateful smile. “Good call, Coach,” she says. 

“Okay,” Oliver says. “Now, it’s just one match. It doesn’t determine how the rest of the season is going to go.” 

“But?” Katie prompts.

“Who says there’s going to be a but?” Oliver says.

“No offence, Coach,” Grant Smith says, “but there’s usually a but when it comes to your speeches.” 

“Almost always,” Fatima Abdul says. 

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Alright. It’s just one match, but… we’re going to play our fucking hearts out, alright?” 

“Well said,” Harry says. “You’re a good team. We’ve worked hard, and we’re going to fucking smash it, alright?” 

“And, as an added benefit,” Katie says, “we get to take down Evil Smith.” 

“We’d be fucking smashing it without Evil Smith or not,” Harry says.

“Of course,” Katie says hastily. “But it’s a nice motivator, isn’t it?” 

Harry can’t disagree with that. 

“Count us down, Captain,” Oliver says, looking at Angelina.

“Right. Hands in. Cannons on three,” Angelina says, putting her hand in the middle of the impromptu circle they’ve formed. “One, two, three… CANNONS!” 

Harry meets Oliver’s eyes. He knows that they’re both just as worried about each other. No matter what shit they might say to the contrary, this match is their first match as coaches. Everyone’s going to be judging the team. Judging them. It’s a huge fucking deal.

“Right,” Harry says, trying very hard not to think about what fate awaits them once they get out onto the pitch. “Let’s go, then.” 

***

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

To any returning listeners, welcome back, and to any new listeners, welcome! This is the match that every Quidditch fan has been most looking forward to this season: The Appleby Arrows face off with the Chudley Cannons. Now, of course, the Appleby Arrows have Zacharias Smith on their roster, who famously left the Cannons last season to join the Arrows. Do the Cannons still hold animosity towards Smith? This is also the first match with our very own Golden Boy, Harry Potter, and Oliver Wood on the coaching team. 

The Arrows captain, Robert Flynn, and the Cannons captain Angelina Johnson shake hands, and we are off to the start of what promises to be an exciting match! 

Now, we’ve been talking about this on my show, Potterwatch – which you simply must tune into if you haven’t yet – but many people have been worried about the so-called ‘Murphy curse’. The Cannons, though, don’t seem to have any such fear of it. Katie Bell in possession of the Quaffle – she passes to Johnson – back to Bell – who passes to Kabir Khan, the newest Chaser on the Cannons roster. He shoots – and he scores! 10-0 to the Cannons, and Khan’s first goal of the season!

That’s definitely spurred the Arrows into action – Zacharias Smith, in particular, seems to take Khan’s goal as a personal affront. He sends a Bludger his direction, and then another – luckily, Khan avoids them both. Sam Peterson sends a Bludger Smith’s way, which manages to get him to back off – and, in the ensuing confusion, the Arrows score a goal, which Grant Smith only lets in by inches, if that. That’s 10-10, a tied game so far. 

And – what’s that? It seems like Dennis Brown, the new seeker for the Cannons and the Golden Boy’s protege, has spotted the Snitch! Flynn takes advantage of the distraction and tries for another goal, but Grant Smith blocks it this time. Stephen Tolbin, the Arrows seeker, is following Brown – Brown gets ahead by inches – he leans forward – 

And he topples off his broom! That sound you heard was the entire audience gasping at once. Will Brown get up? 

And – there he is, getting to his feet! And what’s that in his hand? Merlin, he’s only gone and caught the Snitch! That’s 160-10, victory to the Cannons in their first match of the season! What an auspicious start to get off to!

***

There’s a celebration tonight. Harry isn’t sure if celebration is the word he wants. But they wind up in Sirius’s flat, and he gets the good alcohol out. It’s raucous, everyone is far tipsier than they should be, strictly speaking, and they’re all shouting over each other. Angelina’s invited George, who’s invited Fred and Ron and Lee, who’s brought Firewhiskey to spare. 

Ginny shows up with Hermione, grinning at Harry. “You won,” she says.

“Congratulations,” Hermione says. “You did an incredible job.” 

Harry shrugs. “How’s the campaign going?” he asks Hermione.

Hermione sighs. “Well… let’s just say that I need a drink. I’m going to go find one,” she says, and excuses herself, going to the kitchen where Ron and Sirius are.

“You don’t look worried anymore,” Ginny tells him, accepting a shot of Firewhiskey that Fred, who’s passing by, hands to her. 

“Don’t I?” Harry says. 

“Not so worried about the Murphy curse, are you?” Ginny says.

Harry rolls his eyes, because he’ll never stop hating the fucking Murphy curse. “One match doesn’t mean we’re going to win the season,” he says.

“There’s that optimistic attitude that got me to write a book about you,” Ginny says.

“Fuck off,” Harry says, pulling her closer, arm around her waist. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright. It’s very hard not to kiss her right now. 

He doesn’t have to wait. She leans up and kisses him, pulling back with a bright smile. “The book’s done, by the way,” she says.

Harry blinks. Blinks again. “What?” he says.

“I finished my first draft today. It’s with my editor now,” Ginny says happily. “So we’ve got more than one reason to celebrate tonight.” 

“That’s fucking incredible,” Harry says, because it is. “Can I read it?” 

“No,” Ginny says. “Maybe if you’d given me an official statement during the season last year, I would’ve let you sneak a peek, but you’ve lost peeking privileges.” 

“I’m going to tell Cormac McLaggen,” Harry says. “If being your boyfriend doesn’t get me privileges, then there’s no point levelling nepotism allegations at us anymore, is there?” 

“I think he’d still find a way,” Ginny says. “Because he’s a raging twat.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Harry says.

Her warm hand slips into his. “Seriously, though,” she says. “Good job on the match.” 

“Good job on the book,” he says in return, and then she leans up onto her tiptoes again, and there isn’t that much time to say anything at all anymore. 

***

“Have you thought about Christmas plans?” Ron asks Harry. It’s the week before Christmas, and Ron stopped by the office after training to ‘say hi’ (although Harry suspects it’s more that he’s having withdrawals from coaching the team). Harry’s staying back a bit later than usual today, poring over their strategy plan for the next match to see if he can find any flaws in it.

“Er…” Harry checks the whiteboard that’s up on the wall, where Oliver’s been keeping meticulous track of the season so far. Six wins, three losses: not the worst record, but not the best, either. If they want a chance to win the season – and get everyone shutting the fuck up about the Murphy curse once and for all – they need to step their game up. “We’re playing the Kestrels on Boxing Day. So I suppose my plans were to come to training.” 

Ron rolls his eyes. “Bullshit,” he says. “Come on, you know what I meant. Were you planning on going to the Burrow?” 

Truth be told, Harry hasn’t thought about it. Which is maybe a terrible confession, but he’s been busy. What with planning for matches, and Ginny being swept up in the first round of edits for her book, they’ve both barely made plans for dinner every night, let alone for something that seems as far off as Christmas. 

“I dunno,” he finally says. “How about you?” 

“Well, that’s why I’m here, actually,” Ron says. 

“I fucking knew it wasn’t to just say hi,” Harry mutters. 

“Look at this,” Ron says, handing Harry a letter. 

Harry skims it, and hands the parchment back to Ron. “They’re going to Romania?” 

“They’re going to Romania!” Ron says. “Fucking Romania. What’s in Romania?” 

“Their son?” Harry says. 

“Yes, but Charlie’s been in England the last few months,” Ron says. “He only went back to Romania last week. So now they’re abandoning us to go spend Christmas there?” 

Harry glances at Ron, and raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t spend Christmas at the Burrow last year,” he pointed out. “You and Hermione hosted your own Christmas.” A Christmas that Harry had attended. Ginny had been in attendance, along with Michael Fucking Corner. Someone that Harry is trying not to think about too much. 

“I know,” Ron says. “It’s just… I don’t know if we’re going to be able to host this year. Things are getting intense, with the campaign, and… Merlin, I don’t know. We’ll be too busy to host anything.” 

Harry looks at Ron. “No,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything!” Ron says.

“But you were going to,” Harry says. “Why don’t you ask George and Angelina?” 

“They’re doing Christmas with Angelina’s parents this year,” Ron says. 

Harry groans. “Fucking hell,” he says. “We’ve got a match on Boxing Day. I’m busy, too.” 

“Yes,” Ron says. “I know.” 

Harry rubs a hand over his face. “Fine,” he says. “Fuck. Fine. But only if Ginny’s alright with it.” 

“She will be,” Ron says brightly. “So, should I tell Hermione we’re spending Christmas at yours?” 

“Yes,” Harry grumbles. “I suppose you might as well.” 

***

Excerpt: Transcript of This One’s a Keeper, hosted by Cormac McLaggen on the Wizarding Wireless Network, with special guest Zacharias Smith

Cormac: Welcome back to This One’s a Keeper! It’s almost Christmas, and Quidditch fans all over the country know what that means: Puddlemere United against Pride of Portree on Christmas Eve, and the Chudley Cannons against the Kenmare Kestrels on Boxing Day! There’s a lot to discuss. Zacharias, what do you think? 

Zacharias: Honestly? I think Puddlemere’s having an excellent season so far, so my money’s on them. And as for the Kestrels… well, I think the Chudley Cannons are a fucking joke.

Cormac: (laughing) Say what you really think, why don’t you? 

Zacharias: I always do. 

Cormac: Now, I’m no fan of Potter and the Cannons, but they’ve won a majority of their matches so far.

Zacharias: Through sheer luck and nothing else, Cormac. There’s no strategy, there’s no vision there. Harry’s always been a dull and conformist player, so I suppose it makes sense that he’s a dull and conformist coach, too. 

Cormac: You think the Cannons’ performance is all down to Potter, then? 

Zacharias: Who else? He’s the Head Coach. If you’ll excuse my Muggle metaphor, the ball is in his court here.

Cormac: Good one! 

Zacharias: Thank you. 

Cormac: So do you think this is a case of the Murphy curse, then? 

Zacharias: A truly good manager would be able to overcome the Murphy curse. Do you think Potter has that in him? 

Cormac: Well, I suppose we’ll find out on Boxing Day.

Zacharias: Let’s move on. Now, about the Arrows’ strategy this season… 

***

Ginny wakes him up on Christmas with a pillow to the shoulder.

“What the fuck is happening?” Harry mumbles, even before he’s fully awake. He rolls over onto his back, and a blurry redheaded devil comes into his line of vision.

“You’ve got training soon,” Ginny says. It provides exactly zero explanation as to what the fuck is happening.

“Why –  what?” Harry says, 

Ginny laughs. “I figured I’d wake you up in a less dull and conformist way than usual. Something out of your comfort zone, you know,” she says cheerfully. 

Harry groans. “You’ve been listening to McLaggen’s show?” 

“I use it to motivate myself to work,” Ginny says. “I tell myself, if he has a successful career, then there’s no goddamn reason for me to doubt myself.” 

Harry grunts. He supposes that makes sense. “One minute,” he mumbles, and forces himself to his feet so he can go use his bathroom. When he returns, he collapses onto the blurry outline of the bed, listening to the sound of Ginny’s laugh. 

“You’re running late,” Ginny says, and sets Harry’s glasses down upon his nose gently. 

“Like hell I am. It’s arse o’clock in the morning,” Harry mutters, bringing a hand up to readjust his glasses. When the world comes into focus, Harry spots a few presents at the foot of the bed. “Hang on,” he says slowly. “It’s fucking Christmas, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” Ginny says. “Happy Christmas. When do you get off training?” Before he has a chance to answer her, she leans down and kisses him, and by the time she pulls back, training is the last thing on her mind. 

“S’a half day,” he manages to say. 

“Mm. Should I wait for you for presents?” Ginny says. 

Harry grabs his watch and peers at it. “I’ve got a moment,” he says.

“I know,” Ginny says. “I woke you early. I thought we could do a present each before you have to go.”

“Good job not being dull or conformist,” Harry says.

Ginny grins. “I do my best,” she says, getting her wand out to Summon the presents from the foot of the bed. “I wasn’t sure what to get you,” she says. “I didn’t think anything could top last year.” 

“It was a fucking good present, wasn’t it?” Harry grins. He’s still got the blanket she knitted him for Christmas last year, displayed proudly in the living room. 

“I think it ties our flat together just right. Everything has to match the hideous orange now,” Ginny laughs, and hands him a rectangular present. “So I don’t think this will match up. But I wanted to give it to you anyway.” 

Harry rips the paper off, and finds… a manuscript. The Potter Way, it’s titled, in Ginny’s messy handwriting. 

“You got me… your book?” he says.

“Now that it’s been through the first round of edits… I wanted you to be the first person to read the final version,” Ginny says. “I mean, obviously there’ll be another round of edits, but that’ll just be minor changes. And it’s not the only gift I’ve gotten you, of course, but I hated the idea of anyone else reading it, and –” 

She’s cut off by Harry tugging Ginny in. He tries to put everything he’s thinking into the kiss, because he’s not always the best at words. He tries to tell her how fucking touched he is that she wants to show this to him, to share this to him, that he won’t ever take it for granted, that he’s sure it’ll be an incredible book and even if it wasn’t, even if it was the shittiest book in the known universe, he’d love it anyway. Because it’s hers. When he pulls back, Ginny says, “So… good present, then?” 

“Fucking great present,” Harry says. 

There’s a happy flush on Ginny’s cheeks. 

“Except,” Harry continues, “I have a problem now.”

“What’s that?” Ginny says.

“Well, now I couldn’t give less of a fuck about training now if I tried,” Harry says solemnly. “Now I need three to five working days to read this book.” 

“Which means you’ll be finished just in time for Sirius’s New Years party,” Ginny says.

Harry groans. “Fuck,” he breathes out. The only thing he hates more than parties are parties where you have to dress up and, seeing as how the embossed invite he received a week ago said Black Tie Not Optional, he knows Sirius’s party is going to be the latter. “Let’s not think about that,” he says, and hands Ginny her gift. 

When she opens it and sees the contents, she smiles. It’s a fancy notebook and set of quills, the same as the one he got her last year. 

“You’ve used up the first one in writing your book, haven’t you?” he says, grinning. “I figured you’d need a new one.” 

Ginny’s eyes are shining. “Thank you,” she says. “I fucking love it.” 

Harry thinks of the shop he passed on the way back from Diagon Alley, the shop that almost made him stop and enter it to buy Ginny’s present there instead. He hadn’t gone into the fancy jewellers, but… he had wanted to. And he had lingered by the door longer than he cares to admit, and considered going in and buying her something from there instead.

And now, as he looks at her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, he wishes that he had.

***

The rest of Christmas day is a blur of food, friends, and presents both good and bad. Harry has no idea what to do, for instance, with the t-shirt Fred and George give him. It’s in the same style as the ridiculous merch Cormac McLaggen sells of his radio show, except it says This One’s a Seeker instead of This One’s a Keeper.

“Do you get it?” Fred asks him.

“It’s a tribute to our favourite radio show,” George tells Harry solemnly while handing him a box of products from Weasleys Wizard Wheezes – a far more useful gift than a joke t-shirt.

“There’s no fucking way I’m going to wear this out in public,” Harry says.

“I’m going to tell McLaggen,” Fred says, “and he’s going to sic his hundreds of fans upon you.” 

“I think hundreds is a bit generous, don’t you?” Angelina says.

“Tens of fans, then,” Fred says, grinning. 

Harry much prefers the present Hermione gets him – a book entitled The History of the Chudley Cannons: the untold story of the perpetual underdog – and the broomstick servicing kit Ron gets him. No gift lives up to Ginny’s, though, which he tells her in the night, once everyone’s left.

“You’re a sap,” she tells him. 

“You’re interfering with my reading time,” Harry retorts, opening the book as he leans back against the pillows. 

He reads the book over the next few days. He reads it on Boxing Day, when everyone else in the team is celebrating their win against Pride of Portree. He reads it at the office, when he’s waiting for everyone else to get there for training. And he finishes it two days after Christmas, setting the book down with a dull thud.

“Well?” Ginny asks him nervously.

“You’re a fucking genius,” he tells her, and he means every word of it. 

“Let’s see if you say that when I’ve got to deal with the next round of edits,” Ginny says. “That will definitely be nothing close to genius. That’ll be a woman about to kill everyone in her path.” 

Harry shakes her head. He refuses to let Ginny joke this one away. “I fucking mean it, Gin. I think this is the only book anyone’s ever written about me that I like,” he says.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “It’s not about you, it’s about the season the Cannons had last year. Honestly, Potter, you are an egomaniac, aren’t you?” 

He gives in this time and laughs. He can never help it with her.

The time between Christmas and New Years seems to pass in a blink of an eye. It fucks him over, just as it does every year. One second, they’re hosting Christmas, and he’s preparing for the Boxing Day match. The next, Ginny’s asking Harry to do up the zip on the dress she’s wearing to Sirius’s New Years party. It’s low-cut and gold and glittery and she looks just as incredible as she always does. Harry’s finding it a bit hard to breathe when he looks right at her.

“Are you looking forward to the party?” Ginny asks, moving her hair out of the way so it won’t get tangled in the zip.

Harry grunts.

“Oh, come on,” Ginny says. “I think it’ll be fun.” 

“Of course you do,” Harry says. He’s still not sure how he feels about the friendship that’s sprung up between Ginny and Sirius. He thinks it can only ever end in his doom, to be honest.

Ginny turns to look at him once he’s finished with her zip, giving him a smile. “You look nice,” she says. 

“I look ridiculous,” Harry corrects. He hates the dress robes he’s wearing, hates how restricted his movements feel in them. He feels like an idiot, the way he always does whenever he wears something that isn’t Quidditch robes or a black t-shirt and jeans. “You, on the other hand… You’re fucking amazing.” 

Ginny smiles at him. “Hey,” she says. “Who do you think the surprise guest Sirius hinted at is going to be?” 

Harry shrugs. “I’ve got no idea,” he says. “Maybe someone from the Weird Sisters? He’s always going on about how he’s friends with the lead guitarist.” 

“That would be fun,” Ginny concedes, and squeezes his hand before she lets go to grab a handful of Floo powder. “See you there,” she says cheerfully and throws the powder into the fireplace, stepping into the emerald fire with a bright smile. 

By the time Harry steps out of Sirius’s fireplace about a minute later, though, the smile on Ginny’s face has faded. She’s got her left hand over her right shoulder, face twisted up in a grimace that Harry recognises all too well. Without greeting Sirius or stopping to see who else is there in the flat – which is more crowded than Harry’s ever seen it – he rushes over to Ginny’s side. “What happened?” he says. 

Ginny shakes her head. Her breaths are slow and deep, as if she’s trying to steady herself. Fuck. “It’s – damn – it’s my shoulder. My bad shoulder. It jerked or wrenched or something like that when I was stepping out of the Floo.” 

Harry knows about Ginny’s shoulder, knows about the injury she sustained her first year of playing for the Holyhead Harpies. The injury that ended her professional Quidditch career one season in. He knows it’s been years and years, but it still acts up sometimes, still freezes up in absolute pain. “Do you need a pain potion?” he asks her. “I can go back to the flat and get one…” 

“No, no,” Ginny says. She takes a few more deep breaths and then straightens up, letting her hands fall to her side. “I’ll be fine. Just have to breathe through the pain, right?” 

Harry nods, but he wraps his arm around her, and silently determines to keep her by his side until he’s absolutely sure she’s okay.

“There you both are!” says Sirius’s voice, as he materialises out of seemingly nowhere. “I was wondering where you both were. Drinks?” 

“God, yes,” Ginny says. “Do you have some of that French wine, Sirius?” 

“Of course I do. Come on, I’ll show you where the drinks are set up,” Sirius says, offering his arm to Ginny. Harry knows that his resolution to keep Ginny close is one that is going to be broken very soon; if it comes to a choice between staying at  his side and letting Sirius show her the drinks, he’s well aware of what Ginny would choose. He’s not sure he can blame her there. “Harry, I want a word later, yeah?” 

Harry blinks. “Er. Alright, sure,” he says. 

He’s got no idea what Sirius wants to have a word with him about. He’s replied to Sirius’s letters, and sees him damn near every day at training. With their win on Boxing Day, the Cannons are now at seven wins and three losses, which isn’t a bad record. They’re on track to be near the top of the table, and despite his and Oliver’s disagreements about the team, they’re doing an alright job coaching. And yet, Sirius’s expression makes Harry feel like he’s in trouble.

Ginny raises her eyebrows at Harry over Sirius’s shoulder as he whisks her to the kitchen, giving him a smile before she and Sirius disappear into the crowd. 

Harry feels oddly wrong-footed, and still worried about Ginny’s shoulder. He hasn’t said anything about it to her, but he knows it’s been acting up more and more recently. The fact that she’s spent most days and nights writing and editing and rewriting only puts more strain on it, he knows. And he knows she doesn’t like talking about it. Just as he doesn’t like talking about his knee. But now, Sirius wants to talk to him about something, and her shoulder’s starting to hurt again, and this fucking New Years fucking party is turning out to be the least relaxing thing in the world.

Luckily, he spots Ron and Hermione, by the balcony off the living room, so he makes his way over to them. Hermione’s holding a half-empty glass of clear liquid that Harry suspects isn’t water, and Ron’s holding a Firewhiskey and gesticulating. 

“You need to look on the bright side,” he’s saying as Harry draws closer to them.

“Look on the bright side of what?” Harry asks.

Ron turns to look at Harry. “Harry. Don’t you think Hermione’s campaign is going great so far?” 

Harry blinks. “It’s going great,” he echoes.

“You don’t sound convinced at all,” Hermione points out.

“Why am I asking you? You’ve never looked on the bright side a day in your life,” Ron says.

That’s not exactly incorrect, so instead of refuting it, Harry just shrugs. “Why are you worried about your campaign?” he asks Hermione. 

Hermione takes a sip of her drink and wrinkles her nose –  definitely not water, then. “Have you read the Prophet? Or the Daily Wizard? They’ve got it out for me.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Come on, Hermione. They’ve got it out for anyone who isn’t a piece of shit. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“That’s what I said!” Ron says. “Didn’t I just say that, Hermione?” 

“What if it ruins my chances, though? With the election?” Hermione says. 

Harry wishes he could say something that would fix Hermione’s worries about her campaign. He wishes he could tell her that the idiots at the Prophet and the scumbags at the Daily Wizard don’t know shit, and that if he could personally burn every single copy of any article that says shit about her, he would. He wishes he could fix the ball of stress and worry that tonight has turned into. 

But he has no idea how to even begin to articulate everything on his mind, so instead, he points his wand at Hermione’s glass. “Do you want to get drunk until you forget anything the newspapers have ever said?” he offers.

A tiny smile appears on Hermione’s face. “Yes, please,” she says. “Thanks, Harry. Hey, where’s Ginny?” 

“In the kitchen with Sirius, I think,” Harry says.

“I think I’ll go find her and say hi,” Hermione says.

“No campaign events for the next week,” Ron tells Harry, once Hermione’s left for the kitchen. “So there’s something to look forward to, anyway.” 

“You can come watch us play the Holyhead Harpies next weekend,” Harry says. “It’s the first match of the new year.” 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Ron says. He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “How’s everyone on the team doing?” 

“They’re alright,” Harry says.

“The season’s been going well,” Ron says.

Harry snorts. “Like hell it has. It’s alright, but it’d be better if you were there. You know it.” 

Ron shakes his head. “You and Oliver are doing fine, mate,” he says, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I miss it, though.”

“You’ll be back next year, won’t you?” Harry says.

Ron shrugs. Takes a sip of his drink. Shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, I hope so, but… who the fuck knows how the election’s going to go? And what it’ll change… I want to come back, but… you know how it is.” 

Harry nods slowly. He can’t fathom another season without Ron. Being the Head Coach has felt, to him, like it’s a temporary thing, like he’s filling Ron’s shoes until Ron returns. Which he’s always viewed as an inevitability. The idea of staying on at the Cannons in a future where Ron doesn’t come back… 

Well. It’s a lot. 

By the time Sirius corners him, it’s about half eleven in the night. Harry’s found himself in the balcony with Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, sprawled over some chairs Hermione’s conjured up for them. It’s almost too cold to handle, but the Firewhiskey’s done an excellent job of warming him up. 

“Harry! There you are,” says Sirius’s booming voice.

Harry looks up, and sees Sirius next to… someone. A middle-aged man with a genial smile Someone who looks very familiar, but Harry can’t place him. 

“Oh my god,” Ginny says. “Hang on. I know you. You’re…”

“Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione,” Sirius says, and then pauses, because he’s a dramatic shit. “Allow me to introduce you to Matthew Murphy.” 

“I knew it!” Ginny says, springing to her feet so she can shake Matthew Murphy’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I interviewed you once, for the Prophet, but that was over letters.” 

“Of course,” Matthew Murphy says. “Pleasure to meet you properly. Had I known how beautiful you are, I would’ve consented to an in-person interview.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” 

“I must apologise to you,” Matthew Murphy tells Harry. “Sirius has told me how the press has hounded you about the so-called Murphy curse. I fear I must take some responsibility for that.” 

“Why?” Harry says. “You’re not the one who’s giving me shit about it. All you did was lose the Championship a couple of times.” 

Sirius makes a noise that sounds like an odd combination of a laugh and a cough. “Matt, you’re familiar with Hermione Granger? She’s running for Minister next year…” 

While Matthew Murphy turns to talk to Hermione, Sirius tells Harry, “Harry. A word?” 

Reluctantly, Harry follows Sirius to the living room, to a relatively quiet corner. “What’s up?” he says. “If you’re going to give me shit about being rude to Matthew fucking Murphy…” 

“Course I’m not,” Sirius says easily, “he deserves any shit you give him. No, I’m here to offer you a job.” 

Harry takes a moment. He wonders if it’s a bit early for Sirius to be going senile. “I have a job, Sirius,” he says. “You’re my boss. You own the fucking team I coach.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes. “I’m well aware,” he says impatiently.

“It kind of seemed like you weren’t,” Harry says. “If you’re offering me a job now.” 

“Would you hear me out?” Sirius says. “I’m offering you a three-year contract to coach. It’d mean a pay raise, benefit, and I wouldn’t have to hound you every year to get you to re-sign your contract.” 

“A three year contract,” Harry says slowly. 

Sirius nods. “My lawyers are drawing up a draft as we speak, but I wanted to talk to you about it first. What do you think?” 

Harry doesn’t know what to think. He’s spent his professional life mostly with Puddlemere United, and a couple years with the Wimbourne Wasps before that. He’s coached at the Cannons for less than a season. And played with them for only one year. And he’d only joined the team in the first place because Ron had asked him to. And now, Ron doesn’t even know if he’s going to be returning to the Cannons. So what Sirius is offering him is a three-year contract to a team that, until last year, he felt no real loyalty to, and a team he joined as a favour to a friend who isn’t even there anymore.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” Sirius says, after a pause that’s just long enough to be fucking awkward. “Just… think about it, yeah?”

“I’ve got no fucking idea, Sirius,” Harry says. “Really, I don’t know.” 

“What’s not to know?” Sirius says. He blinks, and Harry sees the shift in his eyes from Owner of the Cannons mode to Harry’s Godfather mode. “Is something wrong? Are you not enjoying coaching the team? I thought you were doing a good job. We’ve won most of our matches, haven’t we?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Harry says. “I just… Three years is a long time.” 

Sirius looks like he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, as I said, think about it. Let me know. This is a good opportunity, for a job you’d be good at. A job you are good at. Think about your future, yeah?” 

He claps Harry on the shoulder and wanders off, leaving Harry frowning. Think about his future, Sirius said. As if it’s that fucking easy. He doesn’t think he’s ever fell less sure of whatever it is that his future has in hold for him. 

“Hey,” says a bright voice an indeterminate amount of time later, and Harry looks up to see Ginny looking at him, cheeks flushed from the cold. “I thought I’d come save you from Sirius, but you’re just… standing alone here.”

Harry can’t exactly deny that description of his actions. “I was thinking,” he says. 

“Alright,” Ginny says. “So how’d your talk go?” 

Harry looks into Ginny’s brown eyes. He feels his tense shoulders relaxing, as if the stress is physically leaving his body. “It went alright,” he says. “He offered me a job for the next three years.” 

“Oh, shit,” Ginny says. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” Harry confirms. 

“What are you going to say?” Ginny asks. “Are you going to take it?” 

If it were anyone else, Harry would brush off the question, or grunt and change the topic, or even just walk away. This isn’t just anyone else, though. This is Ginny, so he gives her the honest answer. “I don’t know,” he tells her.

Ginny hums. “I suppose you don’t have to know just yet, do you? Think it over.” 

“That’s what Sirius said,” Harry says.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Ginny says, and slips her hand into Harry’s. “Come on. We’ve got some time until midnight, and I want to introduce you properly to Matthew Murphy. You didn’t get a chance to chat with him.”  

“Seriously?” Harry groans. The last thing he fucking wants is to properly chat with Matthew Murphy. If he had to line up a list of everything in the world in the order of what he wants to do most to what he wants to do the least, a proper conversation with Matthew Murphy would be damn near the bottom of the list. 

Ginny snorts. “No, of course not seriously. I’m going to take you to Sirius’s guest room and lock the door so we can snog a bit before the New Year.” 

Harry feels a smile spreading onto his face. “Excellent idea,” he says.

“I know,” Ginny says. “All of mine usually are. Come on.” 

She tugs him with her through the crowd, weaving in between it instantly. And Harry… Harry can’t do anything except follow her, smiling all the while.  

***

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

Lee: Welcome to Potterwatch, where we talk about Quidditch, Harry Potter’s career, and whatever nonsense Fred and George have prepared for us today!

Fred: I’m offended, Lee.

George: While it might be nonsense, what we’ve prepared for you is always nonsense of the highest calibre. How dare you suggest otherwise? 

Lee: My apologies. Now, before we get to the nonsense, what do you think of the season the Cannons have been having so far? 

Fred: I think they’re doing a good job, don’t you? Ever since their Boxing Day match, they’ve been on a win streak. Is that two or three matches now? 

Lee: Three straight wins so far. They’re right at the top of the table.

George: Their performance against the Kestrels last week… It was nothing short of poetry.

Lee: Now George, you, of course, are biased. You’re involved with a member of the Cannons.

George: Harry and I swore to keep our love affair under wraps.

Lee: That’s not what I mean and you know it, you twat. I mean, your, uh… Your girlfriend, Angelina, is the captain of the team.

Fred: (laughing) I’m sorry. His girlfriend? 

George: I hate to break it to loyal listeners of Potterwatch, but… Angelina Johnson isn’t my girlfriend anymore.

Lee: For fuck’s sake. Do you want to finish that sentence before I get hundreds of concerned letters? 

George: Of course, Lee. Keep your hat on. 

Fred: Honestly, the amount of stress you put yourself through cannot be healthy, young Lee.

George: Angelina Johnson isn’t my girlfriend anymore, because… for a couple of months now, she’s been my wife. 

Fred: Which you should know, Lee. Didn’t you marry them? 

Lee: I did, actually. It’s all coming back to me now. 

Fred: Good, we won’t have to call for an emergency Healer.

Lee: Speaking of Healers, did you see the scene at the Arrows versus the Wasps match last week? 

George: I thought those mediwizards would pass out when they saw how bad the poor Keeper’s knee was. 

Lee: We’ll be talking about the match more in a while, as well as ask George Weasley how married life is treating him – 

George: Honestly, you already know how it’s treating me. The way you act, Lee…

Lee: But first, the Weird Sisters’ latest single! And then I’ll be back with these two nightmares.

Fred: You love us.

Lee: Damn it, I do. 

***

The time after the New Year goes by faster than what seems ordinary. Harry blinks and it’s March. The frost is starting to thaw, some tentative flowers poke their way through the freezing ground, and Oliver and him argue less about strategy. 

They’ve only got a few matches left of the season, and truth be told, Harry has no idea what happens next. The election’s happening right after the final match of the Championship, which means Ron won’t know until after the season if he’s coming back. And Harry has no fucking clue if he wants to accept Sirius’s offer or not. Sirius, for his part, has stopped asking Harry about it, but he does give him meaningful glances whenever he sees him. And he owns the team Harry works for, so he sees him a lot. 

They play the Arrows tomorrow, and Harry is… well, he’s worried. After how the last match went, he knows Zacharias Smith will be in the mood to be even more of a shit than he usually is. Which is saying something.

The door to the office opens, and Oliver walks in. “You were right,” he says, apropos of nothing. 

Harry raises his eyebrows. “What?” 

“You were right,” Oliver repeats. “If Kabir stays back when we need him to, at the right moment, then there’s no reason why we can’t successfully pull off a Hawkshead Attacking Formation.” 

Harry sits up. “I’ve been saying that for fucking weeks,” he says.

“I know,” Oliver says. “I should’ve believed you. But I spent all of training today watching Kabir, and you’re right. He can pull it off. I need to have some more faith in him.” 

Harry won’t admit this, but he feels like he’s back at Hogwarts, like Oliver’s his captain on his first day of practice as a terrified eleven year old, and he’s just told him he’s doing a good job. 

“You know this team,” Oliver continues. “You were an incredible captain last year. You know everyone here. I don’t know if anyone knows the team better than you do.” 

Harry snorts. “Come off it, mate,” he says. “Ron–” 

“Ron’s great,” Oliver says. “But you’ve played with the team. It’s a different thing, isn’t it?” 

Harry shrugs. “Suppose so,” he says.

“Believe me,” Oliver says. “I know what I’m talking about.”

“I know you do,” Harry says.

“So we’ll do the Hawkshead Attacking Formation against the Arrows tomorrow?” Oliver says. 

Harry nods. “I think it’s our best chance of throwing them off,” he says.

“Fair,” Oliver says. “And I’ll tell Fatima and Sam to be careful with the Bludgers.” 

“Tell them to aim them at Evil Smith all the time,” Harry says.

Oliver gives Harry an amused smile, and sits himself down on the desk. On Harry’s desk, so he can look right at him. “You alright?” he says.

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. 

“Sirius offered me a job,” Harry tells him.

“A job as what?” Oliver says. “You already work for him.”

“Well, it’d be a contract to stay here for the next three years,” Harry says. 

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “When?” 

“During his New Year party,” Harry says. 

“What?” Oliver says. “Mate, that was a while ago. You’re still thinking about it?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry says, and slumps in his chair. “I don’t fucking know what I want, Oliver.” 

Oliver leans forward and pats Harry’s shoulder. “He offered me a three year contract, too,” he says.

“He did?” Harry says. That makes an incredible amount of sense to him. Oliver’s a damn fine player and an even better coach. It’d be ludicrous not to offer him a job.

“He did. Right after New Years,” Oliver says.

“What’d you do?” Harry asks.

“I took it,” Oliver says. “I like coaching. I like the Cannons. We’ve got some good players here.” 

“I know,” Harry says. “So… you think I should take it?” 

Oliver shrugs a shoulder. “You should do what you want. But I can’t see why you wouldn’t.” 

“I’ve only been with the Cannons for a year and a half,” Harry says.

“So have I,” Oliver says. “I was semi-retired before that. And then I was at Puddlemere before that.” 

“I know,” Harry says. “I mean, I was playing with you at Puddlemere.” 

Oliver grins. “Puddlemere was great,” he says. “And I’m sure I could work there, if I wanted to coach elsewhere. But… I thought it’d be nice to stay here and build something, you know?” 

Harry nods slowly. 

“For what it’s worth, I hope you take it,” Oliver says, getting to his feet. “I like working with you.” 

“Even if it means you have to admit that I’m right and you’re wrong sometimes?” Harry can’t help saying.

Oliver grins. “Even then. It’s worth it,” he says. “Don’t stay here too late, Coach. Big day tomorrow.” 

Harry nods. “See you tomorrow,” he says. He loses track of how long he sits at his desk once Oliver leaves. The conversation they had keeps swimming in his head, and all he can think of is the smile on Oliver’s face as he said stay here and build something. He thinks of Sirius telling him think about your future. 

The future has always been a nebulous thing. He stayed at Puddlemere until he was ready to retire – well, it was less that he was ready and more that his knee was not up to playing there anymore – and then he did a year with the Cannons when Ron asked him if he would consider it. 

He fell into his position on the team here, and fell into his coaching position. And now that he isn’t falling into anything, now that he can actually sit and think about what he wants to do, it feels more nebulous than ever. How the fuck is he meant to know what he wants to do next – and not just now, but for the next three fucking years? It’s hardly an easy decision, but Oliver seemed to reach it, easy as anything. How the fuck did he manage that? 

By the time he makes it home, it’s later than usual, and entirely dark out. 

Ginny’s waiting for him in the flat. “There you are,” she says. “Did practice run late?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, actually. I just… needed to think.” 

“Well, no wonder you look so tired. S’not something you’re used to, is it?” Ginny says with a smile. “You know what you need?” 

“What’s that?” Harry asks, hanging his jacket up by the door. 

“Pizza,” Ginny says without missing a beat. “I got us some from the Muggle place down the road. I’m sorry if it’s a bit cold, my heating charms are shit, but… I mean, in my defence, you’re the one who’s late, so you can’t be mad at me.” She gestures at the dining table, covered in a couple of pizza boxes, a lit candle, and what looks like three or four empty cups of tea. Harry also can’t help but notice the parchment spread out over the table, and what look like several scraps of discarded parchment on the floor by the table, which Ginny clearly hasn’t gotten around to Vanishing yet.

“Long day?” Harry asks. 

Ginny sighs. “You don’t know the half of it. Don’t let me write a book again, yeah?” 

Harry snorts. “Since when do I let you do anything?” 

“Fair point,” Ginny says. “Come on. Let’s eat.” 

Harry looks at her. He might not know about his future but, he thinks, as long Ginny’ll be there, it can’t be half bad at all.

***

Over the last few months, he takes to walking home after training every day, instead of taking the Floo. And he takes to lingering by the same shop on his way back. It’s different from the shop in Diagon Alley, because it’s tinier, more boutique, and it’s a Muggle shop, but a jewellery shop is a jewellery shop, and he lingers by the door every day, anyway. Just in case it feels like the right time to walk in. Every day, he almost does.

***

Tensions high as the Chudley Cannons face off against the Appleby Arrows

by Lon Pierce for the Daily Wizard

What should we expect from the match? Everyone is anticipating the clash of the titans, David vs Goliath – except this time, we’re not sure who’s who! Harry Potter, Head Coach of the Cannons, has had many a clash with Zacharias Smith, Beater for the Arrows. Their first match of the season last year was certainly exciting – but what many a reader is wondering is how unbiased Potter will be with his coaching strategy going into the match.

Last season, Zacharias Smith famously left the Cannons to join the Arrows, and has made many a comment about how he feels that the Arrows treat him better than the Cannons did. When speaking to me last week, in fact, Smith said, “I wish I could say that I wish the Cannons nothing but the best. I truly do. Unfortunately, Lon, since I can’t say anything nice, I’ll have to say nothing at all.” A display of class from the talented Beater! 

Potter, on the other hand, is known for not holding back his opinions about anything. Will he be able to keep his temper in check? Or will he direct the Cannons to attack Zacharias Smith at the expense of a larger strategy – or, heaven forbid, at the expense of winning the match? After all, being cool and collected is about the furthest thing any of us expect from the Golden Boy of Quidditch himself.

We can only wait and see, but one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be an unmissable match either way!

***

“Look at this,” Sirius says, walking into Harry’s office early the next morning. 

Harry still feels half asleep, so he says, “Hm?” 

“I said, look at this, Harry,” Sirius says, throwing a newspaper at him.

Harry catches it, and wrinkles his nose. “The Daily Wizard? Since when do you read that bullshit, Sirius?” 

“Since Lon Pierce has taken to accusing you of risking the match just to get your revenge on Zacharias Smith,” Sirius says.

Harry read the article, his brow knitted up with concentration. “Fucking hell,” he says. “I mean… fucking hell. He’s a prick, isn’t he?” 

“He is,” Sirius agrees. And then hesitates.

Harry groans. “It’s not true, Sirius!” 

“Of course it isn’t true,” Sirius says, waving a dismissive hand. “Do you think I listen to idiots like Lon Pierce?”

“What is it, then?” Harry says. 

Sirius shrugs. “Just… you know you’re going to have to talk to the press after the match today, right?” 

“No,” Harry says. “Sirius… no. We’re going to win. And then Angelina can handle the press. She’s the captain.” 

“She is the captain, yes. And a damn fine captain she is, too,” Sirius agrees. “But she’s not the one avoiding the press. You are. So you’re going to deal with them after the match, win or lose.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Are you saying that as my boss or as my godfather?” 

“Does it matter?” Sirius says. “Either way, you have to listen to me.” 

Harry groans. He fucking hates that he can’t refute that.

“Good luck today,” Sirius says cheerfully. “I’ve got faith in you and the team.” 

He breezes out of the office, leaving Harry glowering at the door.

***

The team is… angry. The vibe in the dressing room is very much not positive. As Harry surveys the team before the match begins, he doesn’t know whether to encourage their anger – the more people angry with Zacharias Smith and the Arrows, the better – or to calm them down.

“Right,” he says. “How’s everyone feeling?” 

“Like we’re ready to fucking smash this shit,” Angelina says, and a cheer rings through the dressing room.

“We love to see it,” Oliver says, nodding approvingly.

And Harry… well. Harry would usually agree, but something in his gut tells him that this sort of anger isn’t the sort that will win them the match. This is the sort of anger that will get his players distracted. Making stupid mistakes. And it’s the sort of anger that could cost them the match.

So he sighs, and says, “Wait.” 

When he feels everyone’s gaze on him, he says, “We need to calm the fuck down before any of you are going out there.” 

“But… it’s Zacharias Smith’s team,” Sam Peterson says. “We need to take that fucker down.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “No. What you need to do is listen to me. None of you are going to help us win shit if you go out on the pitch glaring and pissed off.” 

“You spent your entire career glaring,” Angelina says.

“No,” Harry says. “I never smiled. There’s a difference.” 

Angelina snorts. 

He meets Oliver’s eyes, and Oliver, with a barely-suppressed sigh, says, “Harry’s right. You shouldn’t be playing with a hot head. Even if it is about Smith.” 

“What about me?” Grant Smith.

“No,” Oliver says. “Other Smith.” 

“Evil Smith,” Angelina says. “Have you seen his new bullshit? If I can’t say anything nice, I’ll say nothing at all. He’s full of shit.” 

“No one’s denying that,” Harry says impatiently. “Of course he’s full of shit. He’s always been full of shit.” 

“So true, Coach,” Katie says. 

“But his shit isn’t our problem anymore,” Harry says. “Angelina, Katie, Kabir. Hawkshead formation. Dennis, don’t forget your Sloth Grip Roll. Sam, Fatima, don’t let him get to you.” When everyone looks unconvinced, he says, “Look. You’re all a good team. A fucking good team. Which is why you’re going to go out there and do what you do, which is to play a good fucking game of Quidditch. That’s all you’re going to do. And whether you win or lose, you’ll just be glad that idiots like Zacharias didn’t affect how you play and get you to lose your temper.”

There’s a pause. And then Angelina mutters, “I hate it when you’re right.” 

“Hands in,” Oliver says.

“Cannons on three,” Angelina says. “One, two, three… CANNONS!” 

As the team begins to file out, Angelina tells Harry, “I never thought I’d see the day where Harry Potter tells everyone to control their temper.” 

Harry shrugs. He feels oddly sheepish about the whole thing. He can’t count the amount of times that coaches have told him that he can’t let his temper get the better of him. He’s heard that shit at the Wimbourne Wasps, at Puddlemere, and last year at the Cannons. And now here he is, solemnly telling his players the same shit. And meaning it, which is even worse. He has no idea how that happened. 

“It’s a good look on you,” Oliver says, giving him a smile before they walk out onto the pitch. 

“You’re one to talk. I’m surprised you didn’t tell them to win the match or die trying,” Harry tells Oliver, who snorts.

The match is off to a good start. Robert Armstrong, the Arrows captain, and Angelina shake hands. The referee blows her whistle, and they’re off.

“What do you think is the biggest thing to worry about here?” Oliver asks Harry. 

They’re watching from the sidelines, as always, and Harry – as always – hates the helplessness that comes with it. It was different when he was playing. Now, all he can do is watch and hope that everything he’s done up until this point – everything they’ve done – is enough to get the team through the match. He fucking hates it. Times like this, he wishes he could skip to the end of the match, so he wouldn’t have this knot of nerves in his stomach, driving him insane. 

“Smith,” he answers Oliver.

“Yes,” Oliver says, and then, “he’s a right dickhead, isn’t he?” 

Harry nods. There’s nothing more to add to a statement as true as that.

“How’s it going?” Sirius asks them five minutes later, when he joins them.

“No goals yet,” Harry says, “but I think Fatima and Sam have a plan.” 

“What sort of plan?” Sirius says.

“Wait and watch,” Oliver tells him. 

Sirius narrows his eyes, but falls silent and watches.

Sure enough, Fatima Abdul and Sam Peterson have started a strange routine that no one can seem to keep track of – no one but Harry and Oliver, that is. Using their bats, they bat a Bludger to each other, rallying it back and forth, only growing faster and firmer each time.

“Are they trying to knock each other out?” Sirius mutters.

“No,” Oliver says. “They’re trying to distract everyone.”

“And they’re doing a fucking good job,” Harry agrees.

And then, all of a sudden, instead of hitting it back at Sam, Fatima swivels on her broom and hits the Bludger –  hard – towards Zacharias Smith.

“Heavens,” Sirius mutters. 

Zacharias dodges the Bludger, swerving wildly off-course on his bloom as he does so. 

“Fucking beautiful, Fatima,” Oliver murmurs.

Zacharias is too distracted to notice the Bludgers, and Sam takes advantage, lobbing one Bludger and then the other at the Keeper for the Arrows in quick succession. While the Keeper dodges the Bludger, Angelina takes the opportunity to score a goal. 

Sirius whistles. “That was brilliant,” he says. “Takes a good strategy to pull a goal like that off instead of being rash.” 

“Or a good coach,” Oliver says. 

Harry doesn’t respond, and does his best not to smile as he focuses on the match.

***

An hour and a gruelling match later, Sam Peterson and Kabir Khan carry Dennis Brown into the dressing room.

“We fucking did it!” Grant Smith says.

“We showed the Arrows!” Kabir says.

“We fucking smashed it!” Angelina says, and turns to look at Harry, who’s following the team into the room with Oliver and Sirius, feeling bemused. He’s glad they won the match, but his knee is also in agony from standing up for over an hour straight in the cold. “Come on, Coach. You’ve got to come out with us,” Angelina says. “And you too, Oliver.” 

“I’m in,” Oliver says.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. He’d very much been looking forward to icing his knee, maybe having a pain potion or ten. 

“Well, I do,” Sirius says. “We’re all going out tonight. My treat.” 

The room bursts into cheers, and Harry turns to look at the door. He waits. Sure enough, a moment later, Ginny slips through the door, a bright smile on her face. The team bursts into a fresh round of cheers to greet her, and she raises a hand. “Incredible match tonight, Cannons,” she says. “Thanks for letting me sneak in, Sirius.”

“Anything for you,” Sirius says gallantly.

“Gin,” Katie says, “you and Harry are coming out with us tonight, aren’t you?” 

“Of course we are,” Ginny says without hesitation.

Angelina looks at Harry and smirks. 

“Fucking hell,” Harry mutters. “Fine. We’ll come out.” 

“We have to celebrate not having to deal with Evil Smith for the rest of the season,” Kabir says.

“So true,” Fatima agrees. 

“No one’s staying in tonight,” Angelina declares. “Tonight, we did the impossible. Something that no one thought we could do, including ourselves. We got rid of Evil Smith once and for all.” 

“Until next season,” Sirius says helpfully.

Angelina looks at him.

“I mean… good job getting rid of him,” Sirius amends.

Angelina smiles. 

“So,” Ginny tells Harry. “We’re going out, are we?” 

“It looks like we are,” Harry says. 

Ginny squeezes Harry’s hand. “Good. Maybe, if I get very lucky, the golden boy of Quidditch will let me buy him a drink.” 

“Don’t count your Snitches before they’re caught,” Harry advises her. 

She tugs him out of the dressing room, into his little office, and points her wand at the door to close it. “What’s happening?” Harry says.

Ginny grins. “How long have you been a coach?” she says.

“Is this a trick question?” Harry says.

Ginny shakes her head. 

“Uh. A few months?” 

Ginny shakes her head again. “More than a few months. Eight months. Nearly nine. And yet, we’ve never snogged in your office, have we?” 

Harry feels a smile spreading onto his face. “You’re right,” he says. “We haven’t.” 

“It’s time to remedy that,” Ginny says.

“Excellent idea,” Harry agrees, letting his hand find her waist, and then neither of them have the time to talk at all anymore.

***

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

Lee: Welcome back to Potterwatch, your favourite source for any news on Harry Potter, the Quidditch Season, and what I think of Celestina Warback’s comeback tour! For those of you who wanted to spend your time with just me today, you’re going to be sorely disappointed, because I have a very special guest with me in the studio today. However, any disappointment is sure to be short-lived, because I have with me the one, the only… none other than the owner of the Chudley Cannons himself, Sirius Black!

Sirius: That’s an incredibly flattering introduction, Lee. Thank you.

Lee: Well, thank you for joining me! This is the first time you’re coming on the show, right?

Sirius: Indeed. And that’s on me, I apologise for not coming sooner. I am a long-time listener, though. I enjoyed the special episode you did during the off-season where you listed off your top ten times Harry caught the Snitch from memory. Incredible work.

Lee: I think you enjoyed it far more than Harry did.

Sirius: Well, he likes the attention more than he lets on.

Lee: You and I both know that to not be true.

Sirius: (laughing) Maybe so, but that won’t stop me from saying it. How are you, Lee? 

Lee: I’m doing very well, thank you. Especially with the incredible season the Cannons are having. 

Sirius: Yes, we are doing well, aren’t we? 

Lee: The Cannons only have three matches left in the season, and at this point, it’s pretty much guaranteed that you’ll finish near the top of the table – and that’s putting it mildly.

Sirius: Is that so? 

Lee: Were you worried when you bought the team from Hermione Granger that the team would fall victim to the Murphy curse? 

Sirius: Was I worried? No, I wouldn’t say so.

Lee: Why’s that? 

Sirius: Well. Let me be honest with you, Lee. Matthew Murphy is an old friend of mine. We go way back. And when the Kestrels won in 1980… was it 1981 or 82? 

Lee: 1981, I believe.

Sirius: Thank you. Anyway, when the Kestrels won, there was no reason for them not to win the next season. Or the season after that. You know why they didn’t? 

Lee: Because… of the curse? 

Sirius: No, Lee. Because Matthew Murphy was an idiot. He became the team captain too early in his career, won the championship too early, and let the success go to his head. It’s not a curse, or anything as romantic and mystical as that. He was just an idiot.

Lee: If that’s how you talk about your friends, then I shudder to think how you speak of your enemies.

Sirius: He’d be the first to agree with me on this, I’m sure. Anyway, it wasn’t a curse. It was an idiot captain, bad leadership, and a series of bad decisions.

Lee: And you’re not worried about any of those things here? 

Sirius: Angelina Johnson’s our captain, and she’s a damn fine one.

Lee: Agreed.

Sirius: And as for leadership… Harry and Oliver are doing an excellent job. I have full faith in them.

Lee: And as for the bad decisions? 

Sirius: I like to save those for my personal life, not for work. 

Lee: (laughing) So you’re not worried? 

Sirius: I’m not worried. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: anyone who doesn’t trust in a team coached by Harry Potter and Oliver Wood and captained by Angelina is a fucking idiot. Sorry for the language there.

Lee: It’s nothing our listeners aren’t used to.

Sirius: Well, anyone who tunes into a show about Harry Potter and gets offended by the language…

Lee: Is as much of an idiot as anyone who doesn’t have faith in the Cannons? 

Sirius: Precisely.

***

Sirius approaches him after training on Monday. They’ve only got three matches left in the season, so Harry’s decided to channel his entire focus on it. He doesn’t know if they’re going to win or not, but if they lose, it sure as fuck won’t be through lack of trying.

“Hey,” Sirius says.

Harry jumps, upsetting a bottle of ink all over the parchment he’d been doodling on. “Fuck,” he says.

“Sorry. Here, let me—” Sirius waves his wand, disappearing the ink and leaving the rough diagrams Harry’d been working on. “What’s that?” he asks. He waves his wand again; a comfortable-looking armchair appears out of nowhere by Harry’s desk, and Sirius sinks down onto it.

“My idea for what to do against the Harpies this week,” Harry tells him.

“And… What are those little figures meant to be?” Sirius says.

“They’re our team,” Harry says.

“Right… and those?” 

“They’re the Harpies!” 

Sirius snorts. “It’s very good you went into Quidditch and not into art. This might be the worst drawing I’ve ever seen.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s not meant to be perfect,” he says.

“Is it meant to be legible? Because it isn’t legible at all,” Sirius says.

Harry resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Sirius, but just about. “What’s up, Sirius?” he says instead.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Sirius says. “For months now.” 

Harry blinks. “What are you on about? We talk every day. We work together. I see you on weekends. We went to a stupid fucking tea room last weekend.” 

“That tea room was excellent,” Sirius argues. “And you know what I mean. Have you thought about the offer or not?” 

Oh, Harry thinks.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I have.” 

Sirius waits. A second passes. And then another. “For heaven’s sake, Harry,” he says. “Say something. Is your plan to just leave me dangling like this?” 

“I mean. Maybe?” Harry says. “It’s quite fun, now that I’m doing it.” 

Sirius glares at him, and Harry decides to put him out of his misery.

“Relax, won’t you?” he says. “I’m going to do it. I’ll sign the contract.” 

Sirius heaves a sigh of relief, a fucking visible sign of relief, and his entire body slumps back into the armchair. “Any reason you’ve waited this long to tell me?” he says.

“I only decided recently,” Harry says. Truth be told, it was winning the match against the Arrows, doing it by following the strategy he thought of, that cinched the decision in his mind. Made him realise that… Well, while it might not be where he spent his entire career, it feels damn near more like home than Puddlemere or the Wimbourne Wasps ever did. The realisation that he wants to stay, that he wants to build something here at the Cannons, hit him harder than any Bludger ever could.

“Any reason you decided to wait at all to tell me, then?” Sirius says. “If you’d told me whenever you decided, it would’ve saved me some stress.” 

“I know,” Harry says. “But I had a good reason.” 

“What’s that?” Sirius says.

Harry grins. “To fuck with you,” he says.

“You’re the worst godson ever,” Sirius says solemnly.

Harry puts his quill down. “Do you have a minute?” he says.

Sirius nods. “Course I do. I’m here in your office, aren’t I?” 

“No,” Harry says. “I mean, like… do you have a minute to come out with me now?” 

Sirius’s expression goes a bit softer. “Is everything alright?” he says.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Just need help with… something.” He feels oddly nervous asking. He’s been turning the matter over in his head – since Christmas, maybe even since before that – and he doesn’t know who else he can ask for help on something like this.

“In that case,” Sirius says, getting to his feet and tapping his armchair with his wand to get rid of it, “I’m all yours. Where are we going?” 

Harry takes a deep breath. Pictures the shop he has in mind. “We’re going to London,” he says. “To Diagon Alley.” 

“Sounds fun,” Sirius says. “Anywhere in particular?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “A jewellery shop.” 

***

Harry doesn’t know if it’s because of how well-known Sirius is or – Merlin forbid – the fact that people know who he is, but they get recognised and shown into a private little room as soon as he and Sirius walk into the little shop at the end of Diagon Alley.

“You should have told me that you wanted to go to Albert’s,” Sirius says, as they walk into the shop – which, indeed, is called Albert Goodall’s. “You’ve got good taste, though. Al’s the one you want for the best jewellery.” 

“Er,” says Harry, “good to know.” 

“I don’t think Albert’s in, though,” Sirius says, opening the door and waiting for Harry to walk . “Seeing as how he retired thirty years ago. But he’s a nice man. Should I write to him?” 

“I don’t want to meet Albert. I just want to buy a fucking ring,” Harry says, and blinks as a shop attendant appears out of nowhere. The shop attendant’s wearing one of the most formal suits Harry’s ever seen, complete with a bowtie. Black tie dress robes. Fucking hell, Harry thinks. 

“May I help you, sir?” says the attendant. There’s a discreet little name tag on his lapel that says Leon, lettered in an elegant cursive. Harry feels a bit like he’s walked into an alternate dimension. The shop definitely didn’t look this fucking… fancy, from the outside. 

“We’re here for a ring, apparently,” Sirius says, apparently unfazed by Leon. 

“Of course,” Leon says. “Mr Black, Mr Potter, let me show you somewhere where you’ll have some more privacy to peruse our selection.” 

“There’s no one here,” Harry points out. He doesn’t bother asking how the fuck Leon knows who he or Sirius is. He’s given up on that battle years ago.

“Accept the private room,” Sirius advises him, “or the next thing you know, the Prophet will have a picture of us in a jewellery shop on the front page tomorrow.”

“Precisely,” Leon says.

Harry knows when he’s outnumbered, so he shrugs. Which is how he and Sirius end up in a private room off Albert Goodall’s, sitting on two fucking plush chairs and holding two cups of tea. Leon excuses himself, promising to return with a selection of rings for Harry to look at.

“So,” Sirius says, when it’s just the two of them left in the room.

“So,” Harry echoes. He has no idea why it comes out as defiant as it does.

“You’re looking for a ring?” 

Harry looks at Sirius’s knowing look. “Shut up,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything!” Sirius says.

Harry groans, setting down his tiny cup and saucer so he can slump in his chair. “I’ve got no idea how to fucking pick a ring,” he admits.

“Well,” Sirius says. “If you want the ring so you can propose – and I assume you do?” 

Harry nods.

“Then it’s easy,” Sirius says.

“How the fuck is it easy?” Harry says. “How many rings have you bought?” 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Sirius says. “The point is, you look at all of the rings you want. And then you find one that makes you think that’s the one.” 

“I doubt it’s that easy,” Harry says.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “How did you know you loved Ginny?” he says. “How did you know you wanted to propose?” 

Harry takes a moment to think about it, to really think about it. After careful consideration, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just knew.” 

“Exactly,” Sirius says. “It’ll be the same with the ring. Trust me. It may take looking at one shop, or two, or ten, but you’ll know it when you see it.” 

And Harry does trust him, so he nods. “Alright,” he says and then, after an awkward beat of hesitation, “Thanks for being here.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Sirius says warmly. As Leon walks back into the room, levitating no less than three velvet-lined trays, he says, “Ready?” 

“No,” Harry says. “But when the fuck has that stopped me before?”

“Good lad,” Sirius says. “Let’s get into it.” 

***

Two days before of the next match – which is the third to last one in the league – Harry decides to try something new. The team is half an hour into practice, deep in the trenches of training, and he and Oliver are watching it in silence. 

“Fucking beautiful, Dennis!” Angelina yells out, as Dennis pulls off a perfect Sloth Grip Roll.

“If he plays like that tomorrow, we won’t have a problem,” Oliver says.

“Yes,” Harry says, and then raises an eyebrow. “They’re all doing well, aren’t they?” 

“They are,” Oliver says. “But to be fair, they’ve been killing themselves in training.” 

Harry hums.

“I mean, look at the Chasers. That Hawkshead formation is something they could do in their sleep by now,” Oliver says.

“Right. Yeah,” Harry says slowly, and then looks at Oliver. “I’m going to do something fucking insane. Do you trust me?” 

Oliver raises his hands. “Go for it,” he says.

Harry grins. He gets his wand out, and Summons his whistle, and blows on it as hard as he can. 

Angelina’s the first to touch down. “Everything alright?” she says.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Gather round, everyone. Come on.” Once everyone’s there, the team and the reserves alike, Harry says, “Forget everything we’ve done the last week.” 

“What?” Katie says.

“Yeah,” Oliver says, “What?” 

“We’re trying something new,” Harry says. “The last thing we need is to get fucking predictable. So… Kabir. What’s something you’ve never tried before?” 

“Uh… A Porskoff Ploy,” Kabir says.

“Excellent,” Harry says. “Fatima, you go. What have you always wanted to try?” 

Fatima goes bright red. After a moment, she says, “A Bludger Backbeat would be cool.” 

“Fucking brilliant. You know what?” Harry says. “We need to be inside for this. Come on.” 

He turns on his heel, and walks into the dressing room. Summons the whiteboard from the office, and writes down Porskoff Ploy and Bludger Backbeat. Turning to look at the confused team – and Oliver – he says, “Right now, we’re playing well. But you know what else we’re doing?” 

“Winning?” Angelina says.

“No,” Harry says. “We’re being fucking predictable. If I can guess what all of you are going to do next, that means the other team can as well. So… tell me Quidditch tactics you’ve always wanted to try. The wildest shit you can think of. Today, we’re going to try them all out, and see what sticks.”

“But… we’re good at what we do,” Angelina says.

“I didn’t say you’re not,” Harry says. “Which means you might be good at new shit, too.” 

“Rebounding to the Chaser,” Oliver says suddenly. “I only got to do that once when I played. I think it’d be fun.” 

“Brilliant,” Harry says, beyond relieved that Oliver seems to be on board. “Anything else? Come on.” 

Ten minutes later, the whiteboard’s covered in everything the team suggested, and they’re back on the pitch. 

“This might all blow up in our faces,” Oliver says.

“Yes, well,” Harry says. “It might not.” 

Oliver shrugs. “We’ll see.” 

When he tells Ginny about it that night, she laughs. “So that’s your plan for Pride of Portree this weekend?” she says. “Cause as much general chaos as possible?” 

Harry grins. “I don’t know. Is this on the record?” 

“It’s me,” Ginny says. “You’re always on the record. I’m going to return to my job early from my sabbatical so I can write about it. Harry Potter, excellent Cannons coach and average boyfriend, plans to cause chaos and destruction for one of the final matches in the season. What do you think?” 

Harry considers. “I don’t know. I think it should be average Cannons coach,” he says.

Ginny laughs. “It might work, though,” she says. “Who knows? I’ve learned not to doubt you, you know.” 

Harry looks at her and thinks of the ring in the little drawer in the bedside table on his side of the bed. It took looking at thirty different rings – Sirius counted – before he found the right one. It’s platinum with a diamond, same as the others, but something about looking at it convinced Harry it was the right one. Maybe it’s the way it glinted in the light – it’s not too dissimilar from how Ginny’s eyes are shining with amusement now. 

“What?” Ginny says.

“What?” Harry repeats.

“You’re staring,” Ginny says. 

“No, I’m not,” Harry says. Even though he definitely was.

“You’re a strange one, Potter,” Ginny says, getting to her feet to clear away their plates from dinner.

***

The Chudley Cannons New Tactics: A Success? 

by Romilda Vane for The Daily Wizard

In their match against Pride of Portree last week, the Chudley Cannons – who are currently second in the league table – stunned us all with completely abandoning the tactics that seem to have worked for them all season. 

Instead of the Hawkshead Formation, and keeping defence strong with the Beaters, they seemed to decide to throw caution to the win. We were all stunned when the Chasers executed a Porskoff Play which was successful, despite it being a famously difficult tactic. Unfortunately, though, excessive Cobbing meant a few penalty goals for Pride of Portree, and by the time Dennis Brown caught the Snitch, it was a very narrow victory for the Cannons. 

Despite the fact that the Cannons won, could this be considered a victory for them? When asked, Head Coach Potter said, “Well, we won. So yes, I would count that a victory.” 

Coach Wood hastened to add, “Every team tries new tactics. We’re very happy with the outcome of the match.” 

When I asked Potter how he would describe how the Cannons are feeling with only two matches left in the season, he said, “Win or lose, we’re going to do our fucking best. So write that shit down.” 

Fighting words indeed. Let’s see if they hold true for the last two matches the Cannons play this season!

***

The day before their last match, Ginny tells him that her publication date has been set. “It’s in June,” she says. “So during your off-season.” 

“Which means you’ll be able to drag me along to all of your book signings,” Harry says.

Ginny looks… oddly unsure. That’s not something Harry’s used to. “You don’t have to come,” she says. 

“Well… yeah. Course I don’t have to come,” Harry says. “I don’t have to do shit. I want to come.” 

“Yeah?” Ginny says.

Harry takes Ginny’s hand. “It’s a fucking good book. I’m going to come and yell at everyone about how good it is,” he tells her. “And you can’t stop me.” 

Ginny’s brow clears. “I really love you,” she tells him.

“I know,” Harry says. “You wrote a whole book about me.” 

“Bit embarrassing, that,” Ginny says. “But you wrote a whole foreward for the book. Which might be even more embarrassing.” 

“It’s a tie, then,” Harry says.

***

The morning of the penultimate match, Hermione’s waiting for Harry outside his office.

“Morning,” she says, offering him a cup. 

He accepts the tea from her and takes a sip. “Morning,” he echoes. “What are you doing here?” 

“Honestly?” Hermione says. “I suppose I missed getting to see you every day. So I thought I’d come by and wish you luck for the match today.” 

Harry smiles. “How’s the campaign going?” 

“Well,” Hermione says. “Really well, actually. I know the election isn’t for a couple of months, and I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but…” 

“But you’re going to be the next Minister for Magic?” Harry says, grinning. 

“Well, no one knows, really,” Hermione says. “But… I’m cautiously optimistic.” 

“That’s fucking incredible,” Harry says. 

“I mean, we won’t know until it happens, of course,” Hermione says. “For all we know, I might lose. Which might not be the worst thing. I mean, many politicians have to try more than once before they get elected to a position, and I know that it doesn’t reflect my worth – and who knows, maybe then I’ll finally get to achieving some of my other goals–” 

Harry knows a Hermione nervous ramble when he sees one. And he knows when to cut it off. “Hermione,” he says. “Fucking… breathe. It’s going to be fine.” 

“I hope so,” Hermione says.

“I know so,” Harry says firmly, and then, “Where’s Ron?” 

“Oh, he’s talking to Sirius upstairs,” Hermione says. “Why?” 

“I sort of wanted to talk to you both,” Harry says. 

“Is everything alright?” Hermione says. Her worried frown is back on her face. 

“Course,” Harry says. “Just… er. I sort of… well. I bought a ring the other day.” 

Hermione’s brow furrows for a second, and then clears. “Oh,” she says. “Oh. Well, I think that’s wonderful!” 

“Yeah?” Harry says. 

“I hope it was fair trade,” Hermione says. “Have you heard about how they get some diamonds? Where did you get it from?” 

“Albert Goodall’s?” Harry says tentatively.

“That’s fine, then,” Hermione says. “They’re fair trade. Merlin, I think that’s great news!” 

“What’s great news? That they’re fair trade at Albert’s?” Harry says.

“No,” Hermione says impatiently. “That you’re going to propose!” 

“You’re going to what?” says another voice, and Harry turns to see Ron and Sirius at the entrance of the office.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Hermione squeals. 

“The ring’s good, too,” Sirius says.

Ron’s eyes go even wider. “You bought the fucking ring?!” he says. “When were you going to tell me?” 

“Right now!” Harry says. “I told Hermione about five seconds ago.” 

“Hang on,” Ron says. “How does Sirius know about the ring?” 

Harry feels sheepish. He focuses very intently on his shoes and doesn’t say anything.

Ron groans. “Fucking hell,” he says. “How come Sirius gets to buy the ring with you and I don’t?” 

“Godfather privileges,” Sirius says brightly.

“What about best friend privileges?” Ron demands.

“Not as high on the list, I’m afraid,” Sirius tells Ron.

Ron glares at Harry. “You’d better tell me before you propose,” he says.

“I will,” Harry promises.

“And before you tell Sirius,” Ron adds.

“Hey,” Sirius says.

“I will,” Harry says, grinning.

“Okay, then,” Ron says. “Good luck for the match, mate. See you after?” 

“See you after,” Harry says, and that’s that.

***

They win the match, but by a narrow enough margin that it all comes down to the next match. The next match, their final one, is in two weeks’ time. It’s against Puddlemere United, and it’ll decide the fate of the championship.

Which is fine. Harry’s less worried about that than he is about what comes right after the match: the press room. He thought being the coach and not the captain would get him out of having to talk to the press as often as he does, but Sirius is pure evil and insists on sending him to the press room after almost every match he’s had this season. Usually, he drags Oliver with him, but today, he goes alone. He sits down at the table, surveys the room, which is absolutely packed with journalists. 

Fucking vultures, he thinks, and then amends his thought, because he quite likes Luna, and while Ginny’s on a sabbatical right now, she is, technically, a journalist, too. So. They’re all fucking vultures and fuck them all except for Ginny and Luna.

“Alright,” he says. “Who wants to go first?” 

There’s an outcry immediately, and Harry rolls his eyes. “Alright, then. I’m going to close my eyes and point at one of you at random.” 

He regrets his decision almost immediately, because when he opens his eyes, his finger’s pointed at… Cormac fucking McLaggen.

“Good evening,” Cormac says, because even his greeting has to be pompous and annoying. “Cormac McLaggen, host of This One’s a Keeper. I’m sure some of you have tuned in!” This is accompanied by a little affected laugh. 

“Did you have a fucking question?” he asks, ignoring how he can see Sirius, who’s standing by the doors, sigh at his response.

“I was wondering how you felt about the outcome of this match? It’s another narrow win for you,” Cormac says.

Harry hates how he emphasises the word another. He takes the advice that Sirius has given him maybe fifty or so times in his life, and takes a deep breath and counts to ten in his head before he answers.

“I think we played well,” he says. “And the Falmouth Falcons played well, too. It’s always more interesting when both teams play well, don’t you think? Makes for better radio for your show too, I’m sure,” he says.

“Yes, but–” Cormac starts to say, but Harry can’t deny being just as much of a twat as anyone else, so he interrupts him.

“Just one question each, please. Alright, how about you?” he says, pointing to a familiar face. (And amending his exception to the all journalists are fucking vultures rule, because Lee Jordan is anything but a vulture.) 

“Hi, Coach Potter,” Lee says, smiling. “I don’t know if we’ve met before. I’m Lee Jordan, from a little program called Potterwatch. I also cover the Quidditch season for the WWN.” 

Harry bites back a grin. “What’s your question, Lee?” 

“I’m curious about why the Cannons changed tactics,” Lee says. “While it seems to be working, it’s unusual to change tactics so dramatically this late in the season. Any particular reason for that?” 

Harry, who wasn’t expecting an actual question, sits up. “Well,” he says. “There’s no particular reason. But if you’re a Quidditch player and you haven’t tried a single new thing in the season, then you’re fucking slacking. And I don’t want my players slacking.” 

“So the solution to that is to have your players try every single new thing in the season?” Lee says.

“I thought it’s one question per person,” Cormac says, disgruntled.

“That was a follow-up question,” Lee says, unfazed.

“Yes,” Harry says. “That’s my solution.” 

“Excellent,” Lee says, and sits himself back down. 

Harry casts his eyes around until he finds Luna, and points at her. “Hi, Luna,” he says.

“Hi, Harry,” Luna says. “I was wondering… well, me and the Quibbler readers were wondering, what’s your plan for the off-season?” 

Harry grins. “I can answer that,” he says. “Ginny’s book comes out in June. I’ll be joining her on her book tour during the off-season.” 

“Oh, that’s this June?” Luna says, delighted. “That’s lovely. Any other plans?” 

Harry thinks about the ring. “No,” he says. “Just that, yeah. Uh… you, go on. What’s your question?” 

“Romilda Vane from The Daily Wizard,” Romilda says. “Mr Potter, I was wondering… given how much chatter there’s been about you and your girlfriend benefitting from each other’s positions, do you think promoting her book is the best use of your valuable time?” 

Harry snorts, feeling both nonplussed and angry. It’s a strange combination. “How the fuck are we benefitting from each other?” 

“Well,” says Romilda, “the flipside of being a so-called ‘power couple’ is–” 

“Let me stop you,” Harry says. “I didn’t write her book or get the publishers to get her a contract. She didn’t coach the Cannons. I’m going to join her on her tour because she’s my girlfriend, she wrote a fucking brilliant book, and I want to support her.” 

“Is that your answer?” Romilda says.

“No,” Harry says. “Your question is fucking stupid, so I’m not giving it an answer. Can I get a better question, please? Yes, you with the… fucking hat.” 

A journalist – who is indeed wearing a very pointed and ostentatious hat – stands up and says, “Meena Shankar from Witch Weekly. What can you tell us about how you’re preparing for the last match of the season?” 

“Finally,” Lee mutters, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room, “a real question.” 

Harry makes eye contact with Sirius, who’s looking just as amused as he feels. “I agree,” Sirius calls out, making the other journalists in the room laugh. 

Just one match to go, Harry thinks, once he finishes answering Meena Shankar’s question. Just one more press room. And then it’ll be the off-season and – he thinks of the ring again – whatever it has in store for him.

***

The day before the final match, Ginny tells him he’s looking stressed out. 

“Well… yes,” Harry says. “We’ve got the final match tomorrow–” 

“I know, Harry,” Ginny says. “I’m a Quidditch journalist, remember? S’my job to know. Also, I live with you. I think I know your schedule by now.” 

“It’d be weird if I wasn’t stressed out,” Harry says.

“You do weird shit all the time,” Ginny says, and takes his hand. “When’s training?” 

“In an hour,” Harry says. “I should start getting ready.” 

“Since when does it take you an hour to get ready?” Ginny says.

Fair enough. Truth be told, Harry’d been hoping that throwing himself into a task – even if it’s a task as mindless as pulling on the same pair of jeans he always wears and one of about a million black t-shirts he has – would take his mind off things. 

They’ve been training the last two weeks. More furiously than they’ve ever trained before. But knowledge of their training comes hand-in-hand with knowledge that Puddlemere will have been training just as hard as they have. Which means they might be fucked tomorrow.

As if she’s reading his mind, Ginny says, “Are you worried about the curse?” 

“Fuck off,” Harry says. “No, I’m not.” 

Ginny raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe I am,” Harry says, after a moment. “A bit.” 

“Either you win, or you finish second in the league,” Ginny says. “And the Murphy curse is about coming in last. So I’d say you’ve avoided it already.” 

Harry’s not superstitious. He isn’t. But… well, as a general rule, it’s impossible to play professional sports for years and not be a tiny bit superstitious. So Ginny saying categorically that they’ve avoided the curse, the day before their final match… if it makes him flinch a little bit, the tiniest bit, then that’s something he’ll deny to his dying day.

“Look at you,” Ginny says, amused. “For all your tough talk, you’re just as worried as everyone else, aren’t you?” 

“No,” Harry says. “Fuck… no, I’m not. And even if I was… which I’m not. But if I was…”

“You so are!” Ginny says. “Merlin, Harry. What the fuck are you worried about?”

Harry levels her with his best deadpan look. “Losing,” he says. 

“Even if you lose,” Ginny says, “you’d be second in the league. And following on from a win last season. That’s impressive.” 

“Do you think so?” Harry mumbles. He hates how he sounds. Unsure and weak. He hasn’t felt like this in a long time, but something about the match – about the season – about everything – has his stomach in knots.

“I know so,” Ginny says. She takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “And when you win tomorrow, I’ll be there telling you I told you so.” 

“You’re the fucking best,” Harry says, “you know that?” 

“I’ve suspected it for a while,” Ginny says, “but it’s always good to have it confirmed.” 

***

The day of the final match, Harry wakes up early. Very early. He gets dressed as quietly as he can so as to not disturb Ginny, and walks out of the door. Instead of doing what he usually does and beginning the walk to the Cannons headquarters, he holds his wand, closes his eyes, and Apparates. 

He winds up outside Ron and Hermione’s flat in London, and he pays no heed to the early hour as he knocks, gently at first and then louder. 

The door opens and Ron blinks at him, groggy. “It’s fucking six in the morning,” he says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. 

“You’ve got a match today,” Ron says.

“Yeah,” Harry says again.

Ron blinks slowly. “Do you want to come in?” 

“Yeah.” 

Ron steps aside and Harry walks in. The living room’s been turned into the headquarters of the campaign, and every inch of available space is covered in bits of parchment, charts, graphs, all the sort of political shit that makes Harry’s brain hurt. Before Ron can talk, he says, “Are you coming to the match?” 

“Course I am,” Ron says. 

“Good,” Harry says. He doesn’t say how nervous he is. 

“Want a cup of tea?” Ron offers.

“Fuck, yes,” Harry says, and slumps onto the couch. 

Ron brings him a cup a few minutes later. “What’s the plan?” he says, cradling his own cup. 

“The plan?” Harry says.

“For the match,” Ron says. “What’s the strategy?” 

Harry’s beyond relieved to be able to lapse into strategy talk with Ron. By the time it’s time to leave a couple of hours later, he’s managed a couple of slices of toast and two more cups of tea, and he feels slightly better about the whole thing. 

Oliver’s there to greet him once he gets to the dressing room. And, surprisingly, so is Ginny. “You disappeared,” she says.

“Went to Ron’s,” Harry says.

“Should’ve guessed. He’s your favourite Weasley, isn’t he?” 

“No,” Harry says. “That’s Bill.” 

“Damn,” Ginny says. “Is it the earring?” 

“It does it for me,” Harry agrees.

Ginny goes on her tiptoes and kisses him. “Good luck, Potter,” she whispers. 

Harry watches her leave and then, once he can’t see her anymore, he turns to Oliver. “All set?” he asks.

Oliver nods grimly. “We’re going to let them fuck it all up, aren’t we?” he says.

“That’s the plan,” Harry says. “Any last minute doubts?” 

“No,” Oliver says. “You?” 

“No,” Harry says.

“Hey, lads,” says Angelina as she walks in. She’s looking a bit nervous, but steely-eyed. 

“How are you feeling about the match?” Oliver asks.

“Fine,” Angelina says, setting her jaw. “I bet George five Galleons that we’d win. And I intend to win that bet.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Oliver says approvingly.

Harry feels like he’s in a dream. Later, he won’t remember a single word he said during the pre-match talk, but what he won’t forget is the feeling in his stomach as he walks onto the pitch with Oliver. 

He does his best to stay calm. 

When Puddlemere gets a goal three minutes into the match, he stays calm. 

When Katie attempts a Sloth Grip Roll and loses possession of the Quaffle in the process, he stays calm. 

When one of the Chasers for Puddlemere throws the Quaffle towards the left, and Grant Smith swerves to the right, he stays calm. Even if he doesn’t want to.

But then… miraculously, the ball swerves right, right into Grant Smith’s waiting arms. Instead of catching it sedately, Grant grabs it and uses the momentum to fling it right into Angelina’s waiting arms, and she races off to the opposing side.

“And we’re off,” Oliver mutters. 

It’s a nailbiter of a match. An hour in, and they’re tied, eighty to eighty. Which is fucking ridiculous. Dennis Brown, surveying the pitch, makes eye contact with Harry. He seems to be asking him a question, but it’s too far away for Harry to see anything except for the fact that his lips are moving. Harry has no idea what he’s asking, but he nods anyway.

“What does he want to do?” Oliver says.

“No fucking idea,” Harry says, “so let’s hope it’s something good.” 

Dennis redoubles his grip on his broom and starts to angle it down, as suddenly as if he spotted the Snitch.

“Wait,” Harry says. “Fucking… shit. He’s doing it.” 

“Doing what?” Oliver says.

“The Wronski Feint I taught him at the beginning of the season,” Harry says. “He’s really fucking doing it.” 

He thinks of little Dennis Brown at the beginning of the season, hanging onto his every word, and then looks up as he sees him dive. Suddenly, he’s beyond relieved that he’s staying on here. If Dennis is going to pull off what Harry thinks he’s going to pull off, then Harry’s going to make him do it a thousand times over next season.

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes, as Puddlemere’s Seeker follows him down, chasing a Snith that isn’t there.

At the last moment, just when Harry thinks he’s going to collide, Dennis pulls himself out of the dive, soaring high in the air to the raucous cheers of the crowd. Puddlemere’s Seeker isn’t so lucky; but instead of looking at him, Harry fixes his gaze on Dennis, who’s flying like a madman, like he’s spotted something, like–

And a few seconds later, Harry’s suspicion is proven true: Dennis holds up the Snitch to the exploding crowd, and the announcer is declaring a final score of two hundred and thirty to eighty. 

“We did it,” Harry says, very quietly.

“We fucking won!” Oliver says, and tugs Harry into a hug. 

That seems to break the spell that’s settled over Harry. He turns to look as the players touch down, as Angelina shakes the Puddlemere captain’s hand, as the barrier breaks free and the crowd starts swarming the pitch to celebrate.

His eyes only seek out one person. He doesn’t have to look too hard; within a few minutes, someone’s crashing into him and throwing herself into his arms, and Harry holds Ginny as tightly as he can.

She pulls back to look at him, eyes shining. “Do you want me to say it now or wait?” she yells.

“Now,” Harry yells back.

“I fucking told you! I told you so!” Ginny cheers. 

Harry’s been worried about the outcome of the championship all day – all season – but right now, he doesn’t give even a tiny bit of a shit. Right now, as he looks into Ginny’s eyes, all he wants to say are the words he’s been holding back since Christmas. Maybe even since before that. Except he doesn’t hold it back anymore.

“Marry me,” he says.

“What?” Ginny says.

“Marry me,” Harry repeats, louder this time. He digs around in his pocket and presents her the box he’s been carrying around for so long. “I can’t go down on one knee. My knee is shot,” he says.

“You… fucking hell. You mean it?” Ginny says. She has to yell to be heard over the din of the crowd.

“I mean it,” Harry yells back. 

Ginny’s eyes are shining brighter than they ever have. “Of course I will,” she says, and then, as she hugs him, she yells into his ear, “You couldn’t have the Cannons getting all the glory, could you?” 

Harry laughs. 

“Fucking kiss me, idiot!” Ginny yells, right into his ear, and Harry feels himself smile wide enough that his cheeks hurt. 

As he kisses Ginny, his favourite fucking person, surrounded by the team that’s become a home to him, he feels like… well, like whatever the opposite of being cursed is. And that feels like he very well might be the luckiest bastard in the universe. 

And he swears, he really fucking is.