Possibilities

Time is a fickle thing, Harry has come to realise. It moves so slow when you are looking forward to something, yet when you dread the future the days fly past. 

The past week has been a whirlwind of classes and lessons with Marcus Flint; the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He’s determined and hardworking with a competitive streak that Harry finds contagious. He’s tough on the team, pushing them to the limit; yet he always congratulates the team afterwards. 

He’s been plagued by the intrusive thoughts of: ‘What if..?’. He’s terrified he’s going to fall off his broom and disappoint the team - Ron says the Medi-Witch at Hogwarts is exceptional, so he won’t die. Hermione seems nervous too, she’s compiled a list of books that she plans to read all about Quidditch and its safety guidelines. 

Now, it’s the day before the match and Harry is practically vibrating with nerves. The weather is pleasant and Draco tells him he’d have to be impressively unlucky for it to rain tomorrow. Harry thinks it’ll probably rain. 

“Harry,” Flint clears his throat, and pulling Harry away from his friends. “I’ve sorted it all with Snape and we’ve got you a Nimbus - the new one, top of the line.” 

Harry’s at a loss for words, “I - I - thank you, Marcus, really, I - How - ”

“It’s nothing, really,” Marcus smiles, “It’s in your dorm room, don’t go advertising it though, it’s technically not allowed.” 

Harry nods his head seriously, “Of course not.” 

Marcus makes to leave before turning back, wanting to say something. Harry waits. “I don’t expect this applies to you, Harry, really,” his face is set seriously, “but play a clean game tomorrow, the referee will be looking for any chance to call us out, because - ”

“We’re Slytherin,” Harry mutters, bitterly. 

He’s once again reminded just how unfair the whole thing is; doors closed to him because he’s in Slytherin. Life is instantly harder, there are more obstacles and he’s shut out. 

“Yeah,” Flint pats him on the back. “Don’t worry about the game, Harry - it’s just that, a game.” 

Harry gets the distinct feelings it’s not infact just a game to Flint, so this doesn’t really work to relieve the pressure he feels. He appreciates the sentiment though, so he smiles and thanks Flint before going back to his friends. 

“Anything interesting?” Ron asks as soon as he’s back within hearing range. 

“Well,” he says, “I got a new broom for the game, but that’s about it.” 

“You know,” Ron says, “Fred and George are on the Quidditch team for Gryffindor.” 

“Oh,” Harry doesn’t think he wants the twins as opponents. “What position?”

“Beaters, bloody brilliant ones too, let me tell you.”

“Please don’t,” Harry begs, the anxiety setting in properly now, he does not want to hear about how good the Twins are at batting angry balls in his direction. 

“Speak of the devil,” Hermione mutters. Harry looks up to see The Twins making a line straight for their little group. 

“Ah, Harry,” Fred calls, “Just the man we’ve been wanting to see, isn’t that right George?” 

“It most certainly is, Fred.” 

“Oh, joy,” Harry grumbles having a new found respect - and admittedly fear - for the twins. 

“How you wound us, Harry.”

“His words; beautiful yet cutting.” 

“Shut it,” Ron says. “I was just telling Harry that you two are beaters.” 

“That we are,” George grins, “Excited for the game tomorrow, Harry?” 

“Oh, for sure,” Harry mutters. 

“Such passion, don’t you think, Fred?” 

“Surely - you aren’t scared for tomorrow?” 

Harry feels almost embarrassed at the blatant truth - he’s just scared. “I don’t trust you two with bats and flying balls,” he says casually. 

“Why ever not?” Fred cries in mock disbelief. 

“In case you hit them at me,” Harry explains. 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” George says grinning, “We don’t hit them at you; just very near you. Give you the fright of your life.” 

Fred shrugs, “Besides, it’s all good competition, eh?” 

Harry wants to tell the twins there’s nothing ‘good’ about it, that the game is unfairly referred and judged. But he doesn’t - he enjoys the twins company and he doesn’t want to scare them off quite yet. 

“Totally.” 

The twins walk away, leaving Harry with one last, “Try not fall off your broom!” 

Comforting. 

He doesn’t sleep well that night; his mind toying with him. Every time he tried to sleep he was presented with the horrific images of him hurtling to the ground - a bludger to the head - the crowd jeering. 

Breakfast is quiet the next morning - Harry’s up early so he’s prepared for the game. Hermione’s loaded his plate with toast, bacon and eggs - enough to feed five people. He can barely stand to look at it, never mind eat it. 

Hermione - who also woke up extremely early to keep him company - is staring at him, willing him to eat. “Oh, Harry,” she shakes her head, “Eat something, please? Even just a slice of toast.” 

Harry shakes his head, pushing the plate away from himself, “I can’t Hermione - I feel awful.” 

Ron and Draco join them; neither in a good mood considering the hour. Draco’s face is set in a cold glare, and Ron keeps yawning and grumbling, ‘Stupid mornings’. 

“Potter,” Draco complains, “Eat something - for Merlin’s sake - before Granger pulls out her hair.” 

“You’ll blow away in the wind mate,” Ron tells him. Encouraging. 

“Yeah, Harry,” the twins chorus behind him. “When we win we want it to be fair and square.” 

Harry takes an aggressive bite of toast and glares at his friends.

They make their way down to the pitch soon after, and they leave him at the changing rooms. Wishing him “Good luck”, they make their way to the Slytherin stands to get seats. 

Normally they would support their own house and set in their respective area - however, this time they all are there to support Slytherin as the opposing team is Gryffindor. 

He walks into the changing room and when he’s in kit he joins the rest of the team on the benches where Marcus Flint is giving his pre-game speech. 

The team is made up of the following: Marcus Flint is a chaser, along with Graham Montague and Gemma Farley. The two beaters were: Liz Tuttle and Terence Higgs. Harry was the seeker and the keeper was Cassius Warrington. 

All of them were at least third years - making Harry stand out significantly. 

“This is a lot harder than it looks,” Flint reprimands, “and I don’t think you understand that.” 

“I refuse to have this negativity in my eye sight,” Cassius cries, dramatically. He’s by far Harry’s favourite in the team - humorous and good natured. “Remove yourself at once.” 

Harry grins and the rest of the team are laughing at Cassius’ antics as Flint glares at him. “Lighten up, Cap,” Cassius says, “We know what we’re doing.” 

“I’m bitter and complicated - it’s one of my charms.” 

They’re out on the field twenty minutes later, in formation. Harry’s hovering towards the back, analysing the opponents. 

Harry reckons Slytherin have better chasers, but Gryffindor wins out with beaters. Harry is once again thankful for his place as seeker; he would not want to be a beater or a chaser or a keeper. 

Madam Hooch stands between the two teams with the quaffle in her hands - she blows the whistle and chucks the quaffle up and the game begins. 

Harry immediately flys up. Up and up until he can see the whole pitch below him; he circles it. He keeps his eyes trained for anything, any sign of movement. 

The other seeker tails Harry. He’s a sixth year boy who doesn’t seem to be enjoying the height - he looks slightly green. There’s a crack and an angry whizzing noise as a bludger flies past Harry’s ear - he looks down to see Fred shrugging at him. 

Slytherin is down ten points. 30 - 20. Oliver Wood - Gryffindor Captain - is an exceedingly talented Keeper, Harry thinks begrudgingly. 

He flies down, closer to where the real action is happening, scanning his surroundings for the snitch. 

Then his broom shakes. Harry tenses immediately, gripping the wood tighter. Nothing happens after that though, so he relaxes. 

He continues to fly around until his broom gives another violent shake, darting to the side. Harry lets out a small shriek, grabbing the attention of some of the players. 

Flint flies up to him, “Everything good, Harry?” 

“No,” Harry gasps as his broom starts to dislodge him. “There’s something wrong with my broom.” 

“Look!” Cries a disembodied voice from the stands. 

“Stay here,” Flint cries, “I’ll try get us time off.” 

Harry’s broom flips and he’s hanging onto the shaking thing by only his hands; he dangles hundreds of feet off the ground. He kicks his legs uselessly. 

He looks down to see Fred and George circling below him - ready to catch the boy if he falls. “Weasley,” Oliver Wood cries. “What are you doing? Play for gods sake - we could win this!”

“It’ll be no fun to win, Wood, if he dies!” George yells back. 

His broom slows its attempts to dislodge Harry, before it stills completely. He hauls himself up till he’s sitting again. Fred and George fly up to him: “Okay, Harry?” 

Harry nods, “Yeah, thanks.” Before the Weasleys are flying off. 

That’s when Harry sees it - glinting off to the right, dancing in the early morning sun. He shoots right and the snitch plummets, he dives after it, hand outstretched - the ground getting closer and closer and closer and then he pulls up. 

There’s silence from all around. Then he holds up the tiny gold ball he has clasped in his hand. 

“HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! SLYTHERIN HAS WON!” 

There are eruptions from all around. 

The watchers in the stands all jump up - except for Gryffindor - waving flags and yelling at the players. 

The team surround Harry, congratulating him and thumping him in the back. “Potter did it!” 

“He bloody well did,” Flint grins at him. Harry glows at the thought - he did it, he caught the snitch, he won. 

After he’d showered and changed he left the team to find Hermione, Ron and Draco waiting for him. Hermione jumps at him, wrapping her arms around him, “Harry, that was brilliant, simply brilliant.” 

Ron offers him an awkward hug and clap on the back, “Blimey, that was exceptional.” 

Draco looks at Harry with a raised eyebrow and a cocked head: “How the hell did you survive that, Potter?” 

Harry shrugged, “No clue, it was trying to kill me one minute and then it just stopped, I guess.”

The three people in front of Harry share a look. “What?” 

Hermione swallows, “We think someone cursed your broom.” 

“Who?”

“Snape.” 

Harry argues with them the whole way back to the castle - because it can’t be Snape, surely? Yes, the man was cruel and cold but he wasn’t evil. He wasn’t bad. 

But they have some pretty solid evidence, Harry has to admit - and he surrenders to the possibility of the idea. 

The four of them sit together for dinner, Hermione and Ron keep showering him with praise - which had been nice at first, but Harry was slowly becoming tired of. Draco just shrugged, “I’ve seen worse.” 

Harry grins at him. 

“That wasn’t a compliment, Potter.” 

“I know.” 

“Then why are you smiling like an idiot?” 

“It wasn’t an insult either.” 

Fred and George come over to check on him too. “Hell, Harry, what was that with your broom?” 

“I don’t know, thanks for watching out for me though, hope Oliver wasn’t too mad.” 

“We - er - we actually haven’t seen Oliver since, but he’ll live. What’s important is that you’re not dead.” 

“I agree,” Harry nods solemnly, “I find my being alive and all very important.” 

They bid farewell to the four of them and head back over to Gryffindor. Who’s table seems rather subdued after the game - and Harry can see, is in fact missing Oliver Wood. 

He sleeps well that night knowing he didn’t let the team down. He did it; and bit by bit this place was beginning to feel more like home.