The first time Harry was on a broom, it tasted of freedom, the wind in his hair, like a mother’s embrace; how could you blame him?
Better yet, McGonagall put him on the team! As the seeker!
Yet, Wood was so excited and Harry, after hearing his Dad’s and Wood’s passion? He was excited with him.
He started to follow Oliver around, listening to quidditch plays, which Ron entertained at first but then soon realised it was much, much more than a passive interest. He spent every waking hour wishing he was on that pitch, the snitch squirming in his grip and his hair being blown in the wind. Even when he was asleep, he dreamt of that pitch, the bright, vivid colours that blurred together when he was going too fast.
Quidditch was his everything.
Thus, when his broom got cursed, he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the snitch. If he just dropped…
And that’s what he did. Stupid really. Plummeting towards that shimmer of gold, to a chorus of gasps, but never to his death. Fred and George were right there, to catch him. And he? He caught the snitch, the squirming gold a monument of his victory.