Chapter Text
The orbital stadium of Astra-Prime was less of a pitch and more of a giant asteroid floating amongst the space debris that orbited the planet. Beneath the shimmering atmospheric dome that covered it, the air hummed with the collective anticipation of thousands of fans seated at the stands, and no doubt the millions more who were SYNK-ing from across the star-systems, all tuning in to watch the first major game that would kick off this year’s M-Quid League.
The docking bay of the Gryffindor Strikers was a cathedral of reflective steel and glowing holograms where seven Mecha units stood proudly, gleaming red and gold as they towered over the shouting artificers, engineers and mechanics in frantic circles around them.
The smallest of them, the Firebolt, sat at the heart of the frenzy.
It was a masterpiece of a rig, a fusion of high-gloss fiberglass and reinforced steel filigree. Despite its smaller frame, the Firebolt’s presence was domineering, radiating a sense of restless danger.
Under its rounded glass dome sat Harry Potter at the cockpit, the seeker and captain of the Gryffindor Strikers.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. The familiar smell of scorched ozone, recycled oxygen, and the metallic tang of his own magic filled his nostrils. There was a restless current vibrating against the cage of his ribs, begging to be let out.
He ran his hands over the sleek panel in front of him until his fingers found the central triangular module. At its heart sat a dull, crimson crystal core.
Harry pressed his palm flat against the module. Reached inside himself for the familiar tug of magic, then he pushed.
He had done this thousands of times, maybe more, yet the sensation of the raw, potent magic surged violently through his veins never failed to make his whole body shudder with excitement. The core ignited, drinking from him as the cockpit burst to life. Panels and buttons flashed on as the engine kicked on with a sound of a beast awakening from slumber.
"Core charged at seventy-five percent and climbing, Harry. You’ll need to keep a lid on your magic," Hermione — their chief artificer’s voice crackled through his headset. "If you hit ninety now, you’ll be overloading a few minutes into the game."
Harry exhaled, forcing the tide of his power to recede. The blinding light of the core dimmed to a steady, rhythmic pulse. The faces of his teammates flickered on as the holographic HUDs appeared all around him, their cockpits visible behind them.
"No worries, 'Mione," Ginny Weasley said, her face splitting into a predatory grin behind her visor. She adjusted a dial in her crimson Holy Harpy rig. "I’m sure Harry can catch the Snitch before he blows his load. He only needs a few seconds... I speak from experience."
Hermione disconnected with an amused huff and a last warning to Harry while Dean Thomas and Ritchie Coote erupted into howling laughter.
Harry rolled his eyes, his mouth twitching. Playing on the same team as your now-lesbian ex-girlfriend was a special kind of torture, and Ginny Weasley lived to remind him of it every single day.
"Shut it, Harpy," Harry muttered, though there was no heat in it.
"C’mon, Cap! I was talking about your record-breaking speed on the pitch," she teased, not unkindly. “I’m sure you can catch the Snitch-drone in seconds if your heart is in it.”
“Well what’s the fun in that?” Harry smirked, and all his teammates chortled in agreement.
Suddenly, a violent, bass-heavy blare rang through the arena, signalling the conclusion of the pre-game show. The holographic fireworks outside were fading, replaced by the deep, rhythmic pounding from the audience.
STOMP-STOMP-CLAP.
Harry’s expression hardened, and across the HUDs, his teammates followed suit. He wasn't one for long-winded pep talks; the Strikers operated on a tried and tested strategy: keep the score high enough to humiliate, keep the game long enough to entertain, then STAY OUT OF HARRY’S WAY when he dives for the Snitch.
Their team’s entrance anthem started blasting through the Sonorus charmed speakers and the crowd erupted into a volcanic cheer, a hundred thousand voices merging into the deafening, rhythmic thunder of the Strikers’ anthem.
"From the pride of the lion, to the heat of the core,"
"The Strikers are hunting, listen to the roar!"
"BLETCHLEY at the hoops, a wall made of stone,"
"COOTE and JONES, breaking metal and bone!"
"THOMAS and FLINT, the Quaffle’s on the spin,"
"WEASLEY is flying, we're chasing the win!"
Each name of their team was belted, vibrating the atmospheric dome across the asteroid. The HUD screens flickered with the proud smiles and arrogant smirks of Harry’s team, they weren't just M-Quid pilots; they were celebrities, they were the best goddamn players of the game, they were reigning champions of the League, and they were determined to keep that a fact.
"But look to the heavens, where the gold is caught,"
"The Seeker is diving—the battle is fought!"
"POT-TER!" (STOMP STOMP) "POT-TER!" (STOMP STOMP)
Hearing the sound of his own name shouted with a fervency that borderlined religious worship made the hair on Harry’s arms stand up, but he couldn't help the sharp grin that cut across his face.
The bay doors hissed open, letting in the bright neon lights as the chant reached its crescendo, a final, earth-shaking declaration that rattled the arena:
"GRYFFINDOR STRIKES!"
"WE OWN THE NIGHT!"
Harry snapped his visor down, palms closing around the HOTAS controller in front of him.
“They came for a game. Let’s give them a game.”
—
"WELCOME BACK TO THE INTERGALACTIC M-QUID LEAGUE!"
The voice of commentator Lee Jordan boomed through every headset SYNK-ing in from across the stars, vibrating with an excitement that Harry didn't currently share. Most pilots muted the commentary to focus on their telemetry, but Harry kept the channel open. He liked the third-person perspective, it was useful at times.
Like now, when the game was becoming an agonizing bore.
Harry drifted around the pitch aimlessly, he was counting down the seconds until it was socially acceptable to end the game.
"We are currently fifty minutes into a match between the Puddlemere Pulsars and the Gryffindor Strikers on home turf!" Ludo Bagman’s voice chimed in, sounding breathless.
"Just seconds ago, the Strikers’ Chaser, Gwenog Jones, PUMMELED the Quaf-Droid through the hoops! That’s another ten points for the Lions!"
From his peripheral, he saw Gwenog’s Starchaser Rig bank into a celebratory barrel roll. The massive mechanical arm of her Mech waving at the thousands of adoring fans screaming her name.
"The score sits at a brutal 160 to 30," Lee Jordan added, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that reached billions. "Can Puddlemere turn this around with a lucky Snatch? Or will Gryffindor prove they’re the unbeatable champions of the Intergalactic Q-League?”
“The Golden Snitch-drone has yet to show itself, but once it does, which pilot will be faster? Diggory on his brand new Comet-Millenium, or Potter’s trusted Firebolt?”
Beneath him, Harry saw the Comet swerving around on alert—a sleek, chrome-plated beauty, all round edges and sleek curves. The Comet was a clean rig, one of the fastest and newest Hybrids on the market now, and Cedric Diggory was a fitting pilot for the powerful Mech. He was a good seeker, a great one even, he was charming and handsome and the fans love him.
But he wasn’t Harry, and his shiny new Comet was certainly not the Firebolt.
Within the digital HUD of his visor, Harry saw the clock counting the match time hit sixty minutes—the “strongly advised” minimum before he could end this.
He grinned.
Finally.
Harry snapped his focus back onto the sky above them, jagged asteroid remnants and loose space debris floated in the darkness beyond the dome, but he was looking for his prize.
As if answering his challenge, a streak of blurred gold flashed near the Pulsars’ goal-hoops, moving so fast it looked like it was phasing in and out of existence. Immediately as he veered towards his target, he saw the Comet kick into action, flying towards it already.
"THERE IT IS!" Lee Jordan screamed, the stadium volume spiking into the red. "THE SNITCH IS LIVE! AND DIGGORY HAS THE LEAD!"
“Fuck!”
Harry didn't wait for the rest. He slammed the stick in his hands forward. The Firebolt’s engine screamed as a shockwave of scarlet light erupted from the thrusters, pinning Harry back into his seat as the core converted his raw magic into pure, terrifying speed.
Cedric’s Comet was a blur of navy chrome, its precision thrusters firing in perfect micro-bursts as he threaded the needle between Ritchie and Ginny’s larger rigs.
Harry yanked his stick left, then cut hard right in a brutal corkscrew that should’ve blacked out a lesser pilot. The G-forces crushed his ribs; his vision tunneled for half a second before the suit’s compensators kicked in. Scarlet exhaust trails painted the void behind him like blood in water.
Cedric was still ahead—barely, slicing a surgically precise arc around the edge of the goalposts. The Snitch darted, changed vector in an impossible angle, then shot straight upward toward the upper atmosphere limit of the dome.
Harry licked his lips. There you go, you slippery little bastard.
He slammed both foot pedals down—and the rig lunged. Not forward but up. A near-vertical climb that made the stadium collective gasp audible even through the cockpit dampeners.
“POTTER’S GONE VERTICAL!” Lee Jordan’s voice cracked with glee, “Look at that thing go! The Firebolt isn’t even pretending to play nice tonight—pure Void-Class brutality, folks!”
His partner joined in, “Unlike most Hybrid models playing in the Q-Legue, that beast runs purely on Potter’s raw magic! And rumour has it he has enough magic in him to wipe out a small planet!”
The Firebolt surged as the Comet twisted into a mirror-image climb.
For one suspended heartbeat they were level, two glowing rigs streaking upward side by side, the golden blur just above them.
Through the Comet’s glass, Harry could see Cedric Diggory, eyes fixed on the prize with determination.
Harry bared his teeth.
Then he pushed.
The Firebolt gave a warning shriek—the core capacity bar shooting from the green range to crimson as it reached its limit as the whole cockpit started flashing red, blaring warnings.
Harry ignored all of it, pressing his stick forward, dismissing the droop of his stomach at the G-force that would be tearing him apart if not for the regulators of his Mech.
The Firebolt’s reached out its mechanical arm, just below him, he saw the Comet reach out its sleek one.
The Snitch jinked one final time.
Steel talons clamped shut around the phasing gold drone.
A heartbeat later, the Comet’s hand closed on empty space.
“POTTER HAS THE SNITCH!” Lee screamed, voice breaking into static.
“A PREDICTABLE BUT NO LESS THRILLING WIN FOR THE REIGNING CHAMPS! AT SIXTY-THREE MINUTES AND FORTY-ONE SECONDS, THE STRIKERS TAKE THE MATCH!”
The stadium erupted.
—
“Celebratory drinks tonight?” Marcus Flint asked, voice bright with post-match adrenaline, the last journalist cleared the room and the team was finally peeling out of sweat-soaked flight suits.
Harry stepped through the Scourgify arch and felt all the grime and sweat caked on his skin vanish in a cool rush. He hummed something noncommittal while the others erupted in eager agreement.
Ginny rolled her eyes at him. “Come on, Cap. Season opener. Next match isn’t for a week. Join the living for once.”
Harry shrugged one shoulder. “There’s no version of tonight where I walk into any bar on this planet and don’t get mauled. I’d ruin it for everyone.”
It was not an exaggeration. All the Strikers were celebrities too, sure—they all got digi-pads waved in their faces for an autograph. But Harry, Harry was a god. He’d have hands on him, knickers shoved into his pockets, and worst of all—a line of tearful people thanking him for his parents' sacrifice as if he personally sent them on a death mission that successfully stopped the Second Intergalactic Wars.
Most of the team thrived on the attention, as he too once did. But now his jaded heart only wished for silence.
“Fine, fine.” Dean shrugged, pulling a casual shirt over his head. “We can hook onto the team lounge in the SYNK?”
Harry snorted, “Can we?”
The team lounge was heavily moderated by management, who 'strongly discouraged' the pilots from consuming anything outside of their regulated meal plans—even if the alcohol was merely the product of a complex Legilimency-charmed neural link designed to trick the brain into a pleasant, synthetic buzz.
Besides, they were all expected back by 0900 for a proper debrief and a brutal round of training drills. They would be logged out forcefully as soon the clock hit 2200.
“We’ll use alias avatars and find some dive in the Hub, then,” Bletchley suggested, “Don’t tell me you don’t have a burner skin, Cap.”
Harry sighed. Of course he did. It would be hard for anyone whose name people recognised to be without one for private use. But his was truly an alias—a ghost in the SYNK that not even his teammates had ever seen.
”Drinking on the SYNK makes me feel like my brain's been scrubbed with steel wool the next morning anyway,” Harry said, reaching for his jacket. “I’m calling it a night. You guys have fun.” He paused at the door, offering a faint, crooked smirk as the team began to boo. “Just not enough fun to miss 0900.”
He slipped out the back service exit, the boos and groans of his teammates immediately swallowed by the muffled, deafening roar of the fans swarming the stadium's front gates still vibrating through the floorboards. Moving past the hulking security droids and the hum of the anti-Apparition wards.
Protocol said he should use the designated portals or the discreet transport Mechs—splinching was bad optics for the reputation of the league. But as per usual when no one was watching, Harry did not give a damn about protocol.
He turned on his heel and Disapparated.
His ears were still ringing as reality folded and spat him out onto the worn leather of his couch. He collapsed there, not bothering to take his boots off.
Home.
—
Harry’s apartment was a sleek, minimalist high-rise that overlooked the neon-drenched heart of Astra-Prime. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city was a restless ocean of light, the "Never-Sleeping Star" some dubbed.
Astra-Prime was a planet built on the hunger for spectacle, priding itself on having long outgrown the need for conventional labour. The star was the cradle of magic infused technology and produced everything anyone could want—food, shelter, medicine, luxury, almost without the need of human hands ever touching the process.
Entertainment had bled into careers and vice versa until the distinction vanished. The planet brimmed with young dreamers, eyes full of neon, reflecting a glittering hive of watchers and performers feeding off each other in endless loops.
Harry knew quite well he was the center of one of those loops, except more people fed on him than most. On some days, he wasn’t sure if his physical body would one day simply disintegrate—dissolving into the hungry mouths of shouting fans and the leering eyes of management.
He poured himself a glass of Firewhiskey and stared at the flickering traffic-streams below.
He had lied to the team. Drinking on the SYNK didn't make him groggy. It made him feel empty. There was something hollow about the way the warmth of alcohol warming in his belly would suddenly vanish the moment he unhooked, along with the laughter and music.
Every time he disconnected, the silence of his apartment felt heavier, more suffocating.
Is this it? he wondered. Is my life just going to be a series of sixty-minute timers and artificial roars until my magic eats me alive?
His adrenaline, what little there had been from such a routine match, was waning and Harry felt his magic starting to grow restless, the faint tingle returning to his fingertips that demanded he do something other than sit in this silence. Casting a quick Tempus to check the time was only 2230, Harry admitted defeat.
—
A few minutes later, he was logged onto his burner username nimbus01— an avatar wearing the default preset skin that no one would look twice at.
From his personal hub – a largely empty looking room since he never bothered to customise it, he pulled up the Browser UI and flicked through the public boards first. The M-Quid forums were exploding with post-match excitement.
He flicked through the public boards first. The M-Quid forums were exploding with post-match excitement.
@Potterhead1000: POTTER IS A GOD. That vertical was insane!
@CircuitCritic: Am I the only one bored? Potter plays it too safe now. He drags these games out to exactly sixty minutes every time. He could finish them in five if he actually tried.
Harry scowled, his thumb twitching over the holographic message. He wanted to shout back—to tell them that he hated the clock more than they did.
What if he was playing safe? If he didn’t there would be nothing to play.
Annoyed, he exited the main forums with a flick of his wrist.
To clear his mind, he began his usual routine of browsing the "New Arrivals" on the streamers list—the bottom-tier streamers who were just starting out.
It was a private habit that grew out of boredom and feeling ridiculous whenever he checked his bank account. Nothing flashy enough to draw attention, just enough to make their night.
He would wave his hand and a few of the monstrous amount of credits he had would be gone, and somewhere out there, a young teen would whoop or tear up or quietly thank the anonymous benefactor. He liked the idea. It was faceless kindness, nothing management could run to the press with.
He was scrolling idly when one name caught his eye.
Dragon (dragon_0506)
Viewers: 0
Thumbnail: A blank, default grey avatar.
No biography, no tags, no follower count. Just the live indicator glowing faintly.
Curiosity tugged. Harry tapped in as a viewer.
The stream flickered to life, but it wasn't the high definition sensory immersion Harry was used to. The resolution was slightly grainy, and all the colours felt slightly off.
First-person POV. Default settings. No fancy cams or overlays, Harry mused, leaning back in his chair. Whoever “Dragon” was, they must not be from Astra-Prime, this kind of old technology would be in the archives by now.
The streamer, Dragon, was talking to himself—a low, aristocratic drawl that sounded both fascinated and deeply disgusted. It became clear within seconds that the man had no idea he was broadcasting to anyone who wished to watch, he must not have turned off the default options that the SYNK used to encourage users to stream more.
"What in the name of Merlin is that?" the voice muttered. The POV panned across a group of avatars dressed in neon-lattice skins and gravity-defying hair. "Is that supposed to be a cloak? How ringarde."
Harry stifled a laugh. He watched as Dragon wandered through the bustling plaza of the SYNK welcome hub, reacting to the world like a man who had just stepped out of a time capsule.
The plaza was already a step toned down from the usual craziness and fluorescence of the major public SYNK hubs that mostly mirrored the aesthetics of Astra-Prime, the SYNK developers believing most newcomers to be teens who could benefit from the sunlight and breeze.
Dragon stopped dead at the sight of a group with hybrid animalistic avatars.
"Animagus transformations?" the voice whispered, sounding scandalised. "But on their two hind legs? With those proportions? With their tails doing—oh Merlin, obscene!” He looked away quickly.
Harry stifled another laugh.
The POV walked past all the sectors with flashing signs of “Arcade” or “Social Lounge” and drifted into a "Petting Zoo" sub-sector with a wooden arch lined with white lilies—a soft-coded relaxation zone. Immediately, the streamer was swarmed by a dozen fluffy, purring digital cats.
"Get off! Shoo!" Dragon hissed, though the camera didn't turn away. "Disgusting little creatures. Hair everywhere—oh, wait. It’s not real. There is no hair."
There was a pause, then a pale, slender hand reached into the frame, tentatively scratching a ginger tabby behind the ears. The cat let out a purr. "Oh. Well. I suppose... I suppose this is…tolerable.” Another pale hand joined and soon enough, Dragon was scratching, petting and running his hand through the fur of all the surrounding cats thoroughly.
Harry felt himself being genuinely entertained. He tapped his interface and sent a small burst of credits.
In the stream, a bright, flashing notification banner splashed across the center of the POV: [nimbus01 donated 500 Credits!]
"Gah! What is this?" Dragon recoiled from the feline fluffballs who immediately scattered, his view swerving wildly as he seemingly tried to swat the message away. "Begone! Is the machine malfunctioning?"
The streamer let out a frustrated huff. "Enough of this madness. I should go to bed before this…this stimulation melts my brain entirely."
Harry smiled and quickly typed into the chat box.
nimbus01: u shd prob turn off ur stream if u dont want the credit notifs.
The POV froze. Then whipped around to stare at the floating text box in his peripheral vision. "Is... is that a system message? Some kind of…code? Notif? Stream? Credits?"
nimbus01: nah im a person irl i donated the credits 2 u
"What does I-R-L even...wait—" The voice went sharp, “As in you are an actual person? Watching me? You aren't a…a robot or a program?"
nimbus01: nah just a normal bloke in a hi rise
"That is deeply unsettling!" Dragon exclaimed, the camera shaking as he clearly looked around his physical room in panic. "How long have you been there? Are you some sort of digital stalker?"
nimbus01: it was fun, better than the m-quid game tonight. ur funny.
nimbus01: will u b bk tmr?
“Whoever you are, I have no interest in being 'funny' for your amusement," Dragon fumed, "And I’m afraid I don’t understand your language. It’s obviously not English.”
nimbus01: lol
nimbus01: im typing english
nimbus01: u gonna stream again tomorrow?
"No!" The POV jerked violently. "Don't be absurd! Absolutely not. This...streaming, was clearly an error in interface navigation, and I have no intention of repeating it!”
nimbus01: im not a stalker i promise
“Exactly what a stalker would say,” Dragon huffed, “Anyway, I’ve had quite enough of this. Good night, whoever you are.”
The stream cut to black instantly. [STREAM ENDED]
Harry pulled the silver band from his head and sat in the quiet of his dark apartment. The restlessness that had been gnawing at him had vanished.
"Goodnight, Dragon," Harry whispered to the empty room, a genuine smile tugging at his lips.