Survivor

“What’s got you so excited, Potter?”

Harry looked at his friend incredulously for a few moments. He was so shocked that his brain actually couldn’t comprehend the question at first. When he finally figured out that she genuinely had no clue, he could barely conceal his indignation.

“You don’t know!?”

“Enlighten me,” Daphne requested with a roll of her eyes.

Harry threw his hands up in the air as if begging the lord above to spare him.

“Flying lessons, Daphne! How the hell did you forget!?” she raised an eyebrow at his obvious eagerness, and her raised eyebrow was met with even more exasperation. “You really aren’t excited to have a flying lesson!?”

“Why would I ever be excited for that?”

Harry looked personally injured by the very concept of someone not liking the idea of commandeering a floating stick. It was all he’d dreamed about for years while trapped in his spider-infested cupboard. Flying was more than just going airborne on a broom; it was freedom; it was leaving behind the burdens of the earth. No one could touch him in the air. No one could catch him if he didn’t want them to. 

“Have you ever even flown before? You didn’t grow up around magic.”

“I spent practically half the summer flying once I knew I could! This will be the first time I've had any proper instruction though,” Harry subtly bragged with a rare, genuine smile.

“Are you any good?” she prodded curiously. Broom flying was a talent with a lot of payoffs, both in school and out, if the person in question had enough skill.

Harry gave her a wink and a playful smirk, “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

She shoved him lightly, but a gentle smile settled on her face. It was hard not to be in a good mood when her usually rather apathetic friend exuded such blatant excitement. 

“Whatever you say, Potter.”

He chuckled and gave her a look that clued her into the fact that he knew a smile was present on her face. It was exactly three weeks from the start of classes. Harry’s only friend at Hogwarts was Daphne, and he couldn’t get her to use his first name for the life of him. She told him it was some kind of pureblood tradition when talking to someone who wasn’t very close. Harry took it in stride and didn’t complain when she used his last name. Similarly, though, he never caught her complaining about his use of her first name either, so he continued to use it with scandalous frivolity. 

He knew that the Slytherins looked at him with various states of disapproval due to his lax form of speech, but there was one thing above all else that he came to respect about Slytherin House: usefulness meant everything. It didn’t matter how much someone hated him in the house of snakes; if he provided something useful to the house, then they gave him the respect deserving of his skill. Harry was a point machine due to his prodigious skill at transfiguration. He hadn’t gotten a lick of homework from what was supposedly the most complicated class until arithmancy, and the amount of skill he displayed at the subject gained the respect of everyone in the house no matter how reluctant the respect was given. Even Malfoy, the little git he was, stayed out of his way so long as he kept bringing in those precious points. 

It was mostly due to this respect that Harry was allowed to behave like the inexperienced, ignorant, uncultured swine every pureblood Slytherin thought he was. He heard a lot from other houses that Slytherins were extremely disrespectful to muggle-borns and the type. In Harry’s experience, his muggle-born personality was largely forgiven and ignored due to his skill. 

Confident in his ability to act however he wanted so long as he kept performing for the ultra-competitive house, he continued to walk through the castle’s front gate while teasing one of the most prominent purebloods in the entire school. He would honestly like to see a Slytherin try to insult him and get away with it. The rest of the house would probably murder the poor bastard by the time the sun sank over the horizon just to keep the extra padding that put Slytherin so firmly in the lead with house points. 

“Up!” 

Harry had an insufferable grin on his face as the broomstick jumped into his hand like an eager puppy. His smile only grew when he noticed that both Longottom’s broom and Malfoy’s shot into their hands at almost the exact same time as his. Harry was actually very confident in his abilities on a broom after the amount of experimentation he did at Iris's house, but he was fine with a bit of competition if there was some to be found. Since the rest of his classmates had already shown him their performance, he looked over to Daphne and saw her struggling to get the broom to fly off of the ground. They were a fair distance apart for safety reasons, but he took a few steps over and nudged her with his elbow. His smile softened just a smidge when she whipped her head over to look at him with a frustrated gleam in her eyes.

“Magic is intent-based, Daphne. Your broom responds to your confidence. If you don’t believe you can control it properly, it won’t obey you.”

“But I can’t control it properly!” she whispered with a bit of snap to her voice.

“Then substitute your confidence with determination. Make the broom feel like you are worthy. If you let it treat you like a joke, then it will never take you seriously.”

She closed her eyes for a few seconds to gather herself. When she opened them, he already knew she had it. Daphne glared down at the broom and stuck her open hand above it.

“Up!” she commanded with a smidge of violence hidden in her tone.

Harry gave her a thumbs up when the broom shot into her hand much like a chastised dog might attempt to appease its owner. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the comparison. If anyone was going to attempt to control their broom by frightening it into submission, it would be Daphne Greengrass. Once all of the students finally got their brooms in hand or took the crouch of shame to pick it up manually, Madam Hooch told everyone to circle around and began explaining the complicated art of flying.

“I want everyone to hold your brooms in front of you and point the top of the broom toward you.”

Harry did as requested and gazed upon the many runes that made up the simplistic school brooms. He was tempted to suss out exactly what each rune symbolized, but he decided that it didn’t matter. The true importance didn't lay within the specific runes but rather in his ability to feel out the rune scheme’s magic and put his power into the ones that felt like they would give the desired effect.

“Now, for those who do not know, brooms must meet certain design requirements unless you build one yourself or get one custom made. For all of you out there with enough money to get one custom made, just know that only regulation, standardized brooms are allowed on an official quidditch pitch. Looking from the top of the broom down, you will see the runes for forward thrust, up strafe, right strafe, left strafe, down strafe, and backward thrust. No matter which regulation broom you ride, remember that every movement option I mentioned will have an energy efficiency that is similarly proportional to the forward thrust as the next. I will not bore you with the statistics; find them on your own time. What you need to know is that regulation brooms will have significantly slower strafe speeds than forward thrust. The backward thrust will be portioned to three-quarters of the forward thrust only until your broom reaches a standstill. Once your broom is stationary, the backward thrust becomes almost negligent. In other words, if you want to go somewhere with any real efficiency, the tail of your broom better be pointed in that direction; and while you can slow down quickly, moving in reverse is not an option on regulated brooms. This is meant to keep games competitive despite the differences in age between specific models. Even a very old broom will move forward faster than you can strafe to the side on a new broom. Unless your broom is absolutely ancient compared to another model, the proportional thrusts available to your two brooms will make competition heavily viable if you have the skill to utilize your broom’s speed to its maximum efficiency.”

Lots of the muggle-born students latched onto every word the flying teacher said. He imagined that they probably thought of broom flight much like he did. Flying a broom was similar to flying a slow jet with an easily manipulatable tail-end. The only real difference was that a broom’s up strafe was strong enough to rise or hover consistently without the presence of forward movement. The real skill came with how well someone could properly manipulate the forward thrust to fly where they wanted with speed while not falling off of it.

The notorious “I ask questions” Granger raised her hand eagerly, and Harry stifled a groan much to Daphne’s amusement while she asked her extremely technical, most likely unrelated question.

“If all of the runes are the same, why are there so many different brooms?”

“It's simple, Miss Granger. They are not made with the same runes but with different runes that must accomplish the same tasks and meet the same parameters. There are many different ways for a person to express and combine the runic schemes necessary to accomplish the regulated sets of movement options. Some of them do different things better than others. The only requirements on regulation brooms are the proportions between the different movement options and restrictions on other runic schemes that exceed the scope of what a competition broom is meant to do. Beyond that, the efficiency of a broom is mostly up to the creator. For example, the comet series has generally valued rune schemes that focus on acceleration with quick, choppy strafes. The nimbus series, though, focuses more on top speed and fluid strafes. As you can see, while the essential requirements are met by both, one would be much better for someone who values agility and easy directional changes while the other offers a much smoother ride with top speeds easily outstripping other brooms. The entire point of broom companies is to attempt to maximize their own style of flying within the parameters of the quidditch association regulations.”

Granger was the type of person who understood a certain type of thing very well and was willfully clueless about everything else. Experimentation and intellectual competition fell within her narrow-minded view of what made sense, so she accepted the explanation without complaint. 

“H-how do you make it go though?” asked a muggle-born to the general distaste of most Slytherins in the class. Of course, everyone who showered in the Slytherin dorm had to know how to power runes. If they didn’t know, they either learned, asked someone else, or let the grime collect until Professor Snape jumped on their case and taught them. He wasn’t sure if other houses worked the same before now, but that question made him think they did not. It didn't make for a great look.

“There are two methods of powering runes," Madam Hooch indulgently explained. "One is to know the physical location of the different rune schemes and channel your magic into it based on that knowledge just as you would when you channel magic into your wand for a spell. That is fine with the school brooms since all of the runes are on the outside of the broomstick. With professionally made brooms, the default is to carve runes into the broomstick before covering the runes with another layer of material to make it look better and to hopefully avoid the runes becoming compromised by general wear and tear. 

"If you want one with the runes on the outside, it is going to need to be custom ordered that way. When they are covered, you power the runes by reaching out with your magic, feeling the intent of the different runes, and powering the ones that give the desired intent. Professional players do use both, but a vast majority use the second. Needless to say, it takes a person either experienced with runes in general or experienced with the runes used in broom manufacturing to fly based on feeling out a rune’s intent. If you use the former, the flying will be much more technical. Using the latter will be more instinctual. Which one you choose really depends on personal preference. Having said that, do you guys think you want to try lifting off?”

The students all nodded eagerly, and they spread out a bit to get some extra room.

“Now, I will not dictate your method of flying, but I do hope that those who use the technical method remember the order I told you the runes go in. I want everyone to mount their brooms, and when I say the word, I want every one of you to channel magic into the up strafe rune as you would with a wand. If you have not done it before, it will be difficult to regulate at first. Just like with wand magic, though, you will find out how much energy is needed for smooth ascension with experience.”

All of the kids mounted their brooms, and the ones who hadn’t flown before looked clearly nervous. That was expected. He was nervous when he flew Iris’s rather old broom as well.

“Ready? Channel your power on the count of three. One, two….”

She never got to three.

A Gryffindor muggle-born whom Harry believed was named Dean Thomas accidentally pushed power into the up strafe rune prematurely. That would not have been too bad on its own, but he overpowered it too. Madam Hooch said that strafe movement was a small percentage of the forward thrust. Some muggle-borns may have taken that to mean strafe movement was slow. When even the worst school brooms could go around 40 miles an hour, a small proportion of that speed was still very fast for inexperienced flyers. Overpowering the rune also would not have been too bad if he stayed calm and stopped the flow of power to the upward strafe. If he simply stopped, the broom’s velocity would eventually succumb to gravity, and he could try to use his newly gained experience to regulate his next burst of power into the rune until he steadied out in the air and figured things out. 

Unfortunately, Dean Thomas panicked when he shot up in the air at about six miles an hour and let his magic loose on the rune schemes instead of stopping the flow. All of the broom’s runes started going off like a rapid-fire machine gun. Left strafe combined with forward thrust and then switched to the opposite in a second before proceeding to provide different combinations of movement. His broom was jerking in seemingly random directions, and the more Thomas bucked on his broom, the more his panic affected his magic. His movement was getting more and more erratic until his magic finally made an executive decision to hyper-focus on the forward thrust and sent him flying into the wall at damn near forty miles an hour. It was only Madam Hooch’s expertly placed cushioning charm on the castle wall that stopped Thomas from becoming a splat of gore on the outside of Hogwarts.

Madam Hooch rushed over to the curled, whining boy and coaxed him into opening up enough for a basic check-up. Harry had to resist the urge to sneer. He hit a cushioned wall, and he was going to cry like a little brat? Once Thomas’s arm was properly exposed, Madam Hooch could immediately tell that it was broken. 

“Come with me, Mr. Thomas. We will get your arm looked at by Madam Pomfrey. We can try flying again next class if you’d like,” she said softly to the injured boy before looking up at the entire class. “I expect everyone here to keep both feet on the ground! Anyone with the arrogance to try flying unsupervised should remember this scene and understand just how dangerous this can be if something goes wrong.”

She left with a limping Dean Thomas. Harry wasn’t laughing despite his annoyance at little Thomas’s dramatic display of agonizing pain, but he knew that lots of the pureblooded Slytherins were. It was something of an obsession for them to search for any opportunity to belittle muggle-borns. This was one of the areas purebloods tended to focus on. Muggle-borns came without knowledge of the magical world, and their ignorance of magical subjects gave them more than enough situations where they could lord their family-taught knowledge over the newly indoctrinated population. That was when Harry saw a shrunken book on the ground with the name “Dean Thomas” on the spine. He was about to pick it up when Malfoy snatched it instead. 

God Damn it. Malfoy was a particularly vindictive pureblood when it came to muggles and muggle-borns. This was not going to go over well.

“Oh, what a shame. The mudblood lost his book. I knew they were stupid, but I wasn’t aware they didn’t know how to take books out of their pockets before going on a fly. Did none of you warn the poor bastard?”

Malfoy’s response was meant to trigger anger, and he got what he wanted when the laughter of his friends brought a particularly foolhardy Gryffindor to draw his wand. Harry personally thought that it wasn’t much to get all nettled over, but he supposed that everyone was different. It was one thing for an adult to say those words, but Malfoy was a child if he ever saw one. 

Draco Malfoy was a mama’s boy, and he grew up with a mum who was more than willing to spoil and dote on him at every turn. Harry was struck dumb when he finally realized why Malfoy reminded him so much of Dudley. The blatant signs of a child who didn’t know hardship and was unnecessarily sheltered by spiteful people shone through both Dudley and Malfoy in flabbergastingly similar ways. Dudley was spoiled by a mother who gave him the world at the slightest request and did not know the definition of discipline, he had a father who had a lot of sway with the people they hung around, and both of them were extremely spiteful of anything not mundane. Draco also had a mother who did not know how to say no, a father who had infinitely more power than Vernon, and both of them were extremely spiteful of anything not magical. Both of the children were just as spiteful as the ones who raised them, and they both had the view that they ran every room they walked in. They did not know that there were consequences to their actions because the ones meant to teach them such a valuable lesson failed to pass it on. 

Do not misunderstand. Harry hated Dudley Dursley, but he had long since learned that there was no reason to be offended by anything the boy said. Kids like Dudley and Draco were not spiteful because they wanted to be; they were spiteful because the ones who gave them everything were spiteful, and they were raised to believe that they could do whatever they wanted, so they allowed their spite to destroy everything around them because, unlike their parents, they did not know that their actions could have repercussions. The words that came out of Draco Malfoy’s mouth were absolutely hollow. Draco didn’t spend a second to think about whether he agreed with the things he said. He was nothing more than an unfiltered mouthpiece for his father, and the empty words of a brainwashed sycophant were not worthy of true anger. He didn’t hate Dudley because the kid was a piece of shit; he hated Dudley because the git represented the very antithesis to the way he was raised.

The Gryffindor who happened to be Neville Longbottom should’ve recognized the same thing as Harry and allowed the insult to wash over him like the inconsequential spray of water it was. Instead, it seemed that Harry finally found something capable of legitimately riling the boy up. Even in the owlery, Longbottom refused to start a fight even though Harry knew the boy didn’t like him. Here, though, it looked like the boy was about to start a fight of his own with a fairly tiny amount of provocation.

“You take your insults back right now, Malfoy, or I am going to grab them out of the air and shove them straight down your throat for you!”

Malfoy laughed at the very real threat and turned around as if he could not be less worried about the wand pointed at him. See what Harry meant? Malfoy did not understand the concept of consequences. He did not get that someone like Longbottom had a bullshit limit. Malfoy was incapable of comprehending that his words might actually get him hurt. Just like Dudley learned when Harry finally decided to drag his fat arse down the stairs by his foot, Malfoy would eventually learn the same. Perhaps Longbottom would be the one to teach him about consequences in his parents’ stead. Maybe it would even happen right now. Harry couldn’t lie and say that the thought wasn’t appealing. As little as he cared about the words of Draco Malfoy, it was hard to deny that the git had it coming. 

“Did you hear that? Longbottom wants me to apologize for calling a mudblood what he is.”

Holy fuck, Malfoy was maybe even worse than Dudley. The look in Longbottom’s eyes was so very similar to the way he looked at Dudley when the miserable sod went too far. Dudley always stopped when Harry’s eyes looked like that. Malfoy was so far up his own arse that he couldn’t see the hole he was digging. There was no such thing as a shovel in Malfoy’s world. Holes were a logical impossibility… Until now, that was.

Longbottom was so far past his limit that he wasn’t even considering the use of magic. There came a time when there was so much anger inside of a person that the caveman DNA activated and the resolution could only be found with the thorough use of their bare fucking hands. Longbottom was power walking with enough fury to melt at least half of the arctic in one go, and Harry could tell that Longbottom was planning on beating Malfoy black and blue as soon as he closed the distance. 

Malfoy turned around to see the boy-who-lived charging at him with reckless abandon, and Harry was floored to see that the blond could only find it in himself to laugh. Malfoy held his broom out vertically in front of him and put a foot on the metal footrest in case he had to take off fast. 

That must be his plan.  

Malfoy might not comprehend consequences, but just like Dudley, he knew how to incite anger. Malfoy wanted to get Longbottom mad enough that reason wasn’t part of the equation. Now that Longbottom wanted nothing but to pound Malfoy into the dirt, the little bastard wanted to take things to the sky where he felt most confident. He was planning on humiliating the boy-who-lived for extra clout by leading him into the air and abusing the idiot due to the anger blinding him. Everyone intelligent knew that an angry opponent was an easy opponent, even an intelligent fool like Malfoy. 

“Ah, ah, ah, Longbottom,” Malfoy taunted with a killer smirk. “If you want poor Thomas’s book back, you're gonna have to earn it.”

Malfoy then took off into the air with vertical thrust and mounted the broom at the same exact time. Harry was begrudgingly impressed. The blond prick was actually skilled with a broom. It was no easy task to mount while simultaneously regulating power into the forward thrust and dealing with the corresponding shift of momentum. Before Harry could even blink, an irate Longbottom bolted into the air and followed a quickly ascending Malfoy with single-minded determination. 

Harry watched with the rest of the laughing Slytherins as an intricate game of tag proceeded in the air. Malfoy was most definitely an astute flyer. School brooms were notoriously clunky because it was difficult to direct power to multiple runes at the same time when the rune schemes were deliberately basic and underdeveloped; it could actually end up demolishing the run schemes to push it too far with intricate controls. While using complicated maneuvers, a variety of runes may be needed. Since it was hard to consistently utilize the runes together on a school broom, both of the flyers had to make do with mostly forward thrust. Still, the two were pulling off corkscrews and loops like they were nothing, and Malfoy was flying particularly fancy. The boy apparently wanted to show off a bit during their chase. It was exactly the kind of theatrical shit he would expect from his housemate. 

Longbottom, though, seemed to be making up for his lack of intricacy with pure speed. This was impressive in its own right. Lots of ignorant people assumed that speed was mostly up to the brooms. Even Madam Hooch sort of insinuated as much with her talk of max speeds and acceleration. Such a description wasn’t exactly true. Brooms were controlled with runes. The speed of the movement was determined by the transfer of magical energy to the runes and the amount of power that actually incited action at the end of the process. Runes had lots of advantages, the most priceless of which would be the ability for anyone to utilize magic created by another. The least skilled wizard in the world could still power a rune made by the most experienced rune master in existence.

The one major disadvantage, aside from the need to draw the rune before someone could use it, would be the fact that it turned what amounted to a mental spell into something physical. General wear and tear, age, and damage to the rune schemes could and would eventually hinder the efficiency of the energy transference between a mage and a rune. There was a reason ancient civilizations carved their runes into the most durable substances available and spent so much time and magic ensuring their longevity. When runes were carved into wood and flown for generations on end, a school broom’s efficiency might as well have been completely shot. Longbottom was pumping so much power into his broom’s rune schemes that he was actually matching the forward thrust of some of the less efficient broom models used by casual flyers of the modern-day despite the inefficiency of the transference. 

Malfoy noticed that Longbottom was gaining on him, and the Slytherin pulled off a brilliant move to stop the confrontation from ending too soon. He pulled his broom out of a loop and pushed the forward thrust as hard as he could. Longbottom was basically breathing down his neck when he engaged the backward thrust and came to a metaphorically screeching stop in the blink of an eye while flipping upside down on his broom. Longbottom flew straight past Malfoy, and his Slytherin target continued with his momentum until he was right side up once again. 

Deciding that he was not about to be outdone, Longbottom turned his thruster off completely and pushed on the front of his broom until he was upside down and the tail of his broom was facing the other way. He then engaged the thrusters full force and corkscrewed until his head was no longer pointed at the ground. The move was extremely efficient, and Longbottom was already darting the other direction in a flash. Still, he was moving so fast beforehand that he was a good distance away by the time he reversed his velocity. He was far enough away, in fact, that Malfoy had time to finish the confrontation. 

“You want the book, Longbottom? Go get it!”

Malfoy chucked the shrunken book straight at the ground and laughed at his brilliance. Harry sighed under his breath. That was exactly what he meant when he dissected Malfoy’s personality earlier. Malfoy didn’t understand that he could face personal consequences for his actions. He tossed the book at the ground thinking that the only possible outcome was Longbottom diving for the book. Malfoy didn’t get that it was possible for someone to be so done with his shit that they were willing to give up on their initial desire for the mere opportunity to fuck up the cause of their ire. Longbottom charged straight into Malfoy and shoulder-checked the thoroughly shocked and quite terrified boy before turning into a vertical dive straight at the ground. 

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the spiraling, rapidly descending Malfoy. It took him a good few seconds to ignore the currently deadly situation of the blond ponce and start watching the one whom everyone else had their eyes glued to. Longbottom was flying toward the ground, and both his forward thrust and gravity itself were pushing him faster and faster to what would be a fatal crash if he failed. He was gaining on the book, but it was pretty close to the ground, and Longbottom would have to catch it and shift his momentum enough to avoid becoming a pile of mush. 

Down and down Longbottom flew, and Harry knew that the boy-who-lived was refusing to pull out of the dive without the book. Longbottom was so enraged that he would literally rather die than fail at his silly, childish goal. His hand latched around the book with just enough space to pull out of the dive if he did it perfectly. Pulling up on his broom while simultaneously pushing power through both the upward strafe and forward thrust, he managed to change his downward velocity into horizontal velocity with enough space between himself and the ground for the toes of his shoes to skim across the grass beneath him. 

That dive was the most perfect piece of flying he’d seen in anything beneath professional play, and Iris gave him a lot of omniocular footage of quidditch games to watch over the summer. The entire Gryffindor class lost their minds as Longbottom pulled up to the group of students and dismounted his broom with a feral grin on his face. No one in the class noticed that Malfoy managed to not die during his descent. To be fair to them, Longbottom’s performance was much more interesting. The celebration was interrupted by the shrill, panicked voice of Professor McGonagall.

“Neville Longbottom! I can not even begin to think about what made you do something as mindless as that!!! Come with me this instant!”

Harry was sure that this was the angriest he’d ever seen his transfiguration teacher. The woman looked about ready to kill someone. He smirked slightly at Daphne who rolled her eyes at his obvious glee. 

What?

just because he wanted Longbottom to show Malfoy a lesson didn’t mean he would pass up the opportunity to watch both of them get their due. He was positively giddy as she dragged the boy by his ear into the castle. Oh, today was just perfect.

WHAT THE FUCK! 

Harry’s day couldn’t have been worse if God himself intervened to prove him wrong! It was mid-afternoon, and he was wandering around the school grounds, minding his own business, enjoying the bliss of a brilliant afternoon, when Ronald Weasley walked by with Neville Longbottom, patting the kid on his back and shouting out some excited gibberish the whole way. Harry didn’t care what delusions they were acting under and was completely content with ignoring them and basking in the afterglow of his awesome day of school, but he couldn’t help but come to a pause when he heard something involving Gryffindors, quidditch, and seekers.

What!?

He stopped in his tracks when he heard what they were saying. “You must be the youngest seeker in a century, Neville! I knew you were planning on joining the team as soon as you could, but this is a little extreme, mate!”

“Yeah,” Neville said with a satisfied sigh. “McGonagall gave me detention for a month, but I was too good to let it pass. She said that it shouldn’t be too hard to get past the rule against first-years with a showing like mine!”

Neville passed by him and gave him the widest shit-eating grin possible. The nerves on Harry’s entire body fired at full drive. His mind stopped working for an entire minute before he could force it to start back up again. What the bloody fucking hell did Weasley just say!?

He couldn’t make it make sense. Neville Longbottom straight up demolished one of the most long-standing rules in Hogwarts history by flying unsupervised as a first-year, got into a physical altercation with another kid flying without supervision, almost killed himself in a foolhardy dive for a book that would have been fine if it hit the ground, and he was given the spot of Gryffindor seeker despite the rule that explicitly banned him from playing!? 

Look, Harry understood the complexity of the situation. Once Longbottom told his story, he could see not punishing the kid too hard. The fight was clearly instigated by the other party, and while Longbottom did put the instigator in danger, it was obvious that he was emotional and irrational at the time. Harry could maybe even understand giving a slight reward in tandem with the punishment to encourage Longbottom’s instinct to stand up for innocent people even if he went about it in the wrong way, but to give him seeker!? That was some obviously biased shit! 

The Gryffindor team needed a better seeker, and she wanted to win the cup, so she took someone who blatantly broke the rules and gave him a spot on the team, breaking more rules herself just to get a better chance at winning the quidditch cup. Dumbledore didn’t stop Longbottom’s placement either, and Harry was certain that McGonagall used her student’s position as the boy-who-lived to help push Longbottom through despite the rules. Harry was pissed, and he found himself walking to the person he'd started going to whenever something drew his ire.

...

"Are you honestly surprised?" Daphne asked him as if he was a bit dull. Harry was seriously considering going back on the market for a new venting companion. Instead of gracing her question with a response, he glared at her until she changed her sassy attitude. Eventually, she smirked and raised her hands in silent surrender. "I just meant that he's the boy-who-lived, Potter. He could defecate on the floor and half the school would eat it up like pumpkin pasties. He flew really well too. I would be more surprised if Professor McGonagall didn't break the rules to get him on her team."

Harry slumped down on the common room couch next to his friend with a huff. It wasn't the fact that McGonagall broke the rules that aggravated him. Harry broke rules all the time if the risk was low enough and the reward was desirable. He just really liked flying, and it felt shitty that the boy-who-lived got to play on the team for being a dumbass while he was stuck watching from the stands. 

"I just wish I could play too."

Daphne looked somewhat sympathetic when she heard the real reason for his indignation. She thought for a moment, and she looked utterly devilish when an idea struck her. "Well, who said you couldn't?"

"You mean besides the rule telling me I can’t?"

Daphne sighed loudly, but her faux disappointment did nothing to improve Harry's brain function. "Use your head, Potter. Sure, if you tried to get on the field before, the rules would stop you. Longbottom only got on a team because he is literally the special case. Now that he did, though, I imagine it would be pretty hard for anyone to complain about someone else doing it too. A first-year is already on a team. Longbottom's case set a precedent, and that paved the way for someone like you to get in too… assuming you can back up your ego with some actual skill."

About halfway through the explanation, Harry started catching on. By the time she was finished, Harry was grinning so widely that his face threatened to split. Longbottom felt so proud about his little achievement. Harry honestly imagined that the poor boy-who-lived must've been feeling inadequate lately. 

Hermione Granger was showing everyone up in Charms, Astronomy, and History of Magic; and Harry held an unmatchable lead in transfiguration. Potions was turning out to be a subject with a lot of competition between himself, Malfoy, Daphne, a few Ravenclaws, and Granger. The process was so much like cooking that he couldn't not be awesome at it. Longbottom's only top subjects were herbology and DADA. For someone so loudly proclaimed as the best of the best, someone who was purposefully sorted first as a proclamation of his superiority, being the top in two classes was pathetic. After a whole month of being anything but the definitive top must’ve been physically painful for the savior of their country.

Harry originally thought that Longbottom's taunting grin on the grounds was simply him being a prat, but now that he thought about it, he was actually starting to think that Longbottom was beginning to feel threatened. He wasn't supposed to have competition in his year. Getting on his quidditch team as a first-year was his ticket back to the top, his way of remaining special.  

Unfortunately for the boy-who-lived, Daphne was right. Longbottom's fame was the reason a first-year could join a quidditch team, but now that a first-year was on a team already, the door opened up for the rest of them. Wouldn't it just be so sweet if he could make the team legitimately? What was stopping him from trying out? He was a brilliant flyer, and he messed around enough with some quidditch balls Iris got for him that he felt ready to compete on a school team. 

"Daphne, you are absolutely brilliant. What would I do without you?"

She shrugged with a pleased smile. "You'd probably be left fuming while Longbottom played for the quidditch cup."

She was probably right. Fortunately, he did have her, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do. Harry wanted to watch Longbottom's smile disappear when he got on the team the honest way by winning his spot during tryouts, and he was going to do it on a school broom just for extra measure. Harry wanted Longbottom to know that his "accomplishment" was topped in every conceivable way. 

The last three weeks were surprising for Harry. During his time with his relatives, he never really felt competitive. Suppressing his desire to win was tantamount to a survival instinct. After realizing how good it felt to exceed everyone so succinctly in his favorite subject, he found a bit of the drive that his uncle literally squeezed out of him. He concealed his most important abilities, sure, but long gone were the days where he would settle for second place. Iris would be so proud of him. In fact, he was very much looking forward to the letter he would be sending when he earned his spot on the team. 

Harry stood on the quidditch pitch with a slew of Slytherins, all of them hoping to gain a spot on the team. He carefully kept a look of apathy on his face to conceal his exuberance. He knew the dimensions of a quidditch field beforehand, but it was different standing in the middle of it. The field was longer than a football field by 50 meters but thinner than a football field by about ten. The goalposts were quite high in the air. The left was 10 meters tall, the middle was 15, and the right was 13. Each was placed exactly 5 meters away from the other, and all of the hoops were 2 meters in diameter. The circles were wide enough to be bigger than even the largest quidditch player considering they were curled up on a broom, but they were still small enough for a keeper to easily reach a shot on a hoop they were already covering. Considering the speed of broomsticks, it was also very reasonable for the keeper to easily traverse between the hoops during a shot to catch the quaffle if they were attentive and quick.

"Potter, what are you doing here?” Marcus Flint, captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, asked the scrawny first-year.

“Trying out, sir,” was his only response.

Everyone laughed at his statement, but Harry was not afraid of their jeers or taunts. It would take so much more than scathing remarks to hurt him. Thick skin was one of his most prominent traits. 

“Get out of here, Potter.”

“I don’t think I will, sir. Longbottom was allowed on his team, so I see no reason why you should deny me a tryout.”

Flint scowled at the respectful comment that was so obviously pumped full of sarcasm and vitriol. Potter’s refusal to obey made him defensive, and he responded in kind.

“I am the captain. I don’t have to take you if I don’t want to.”

Harry nodded with a smirk that pissed Flint off even more, “Then don’t take me, sir, but I will still be trying out. You can kick me off when you find me inadequate if you’d like.”

Flint almost sneered at the audacity of the upstart first-year trying to tell him what to do on his quidditch team, but it honestly made him want to give the boy a chance. He decided to let the kid try out if only to shoot him down when Potter turned out to be skilless. Even if he was somehow good, there was no way he was good enough to compete with Slytherin’s current roster.

“And you’re going to use a school broom, Potter?”

“First-year students aren’t allowed to have their own brooms, sir. If I make the team, I’m sure I’ll be able to get something more competitive.”

Pretty much everyone laughed again. Using a school broom against another school broom as Longbottom did against Malfoy was one thing. Harry, however, was competing with purebloods who almost unanimously had great brooms for their desired positions. It was true that his forward thrust would still outperform their strafe options, but he was basically begging to get driven into the dirt, and Harry was not lying when he said that Slytherin house was competitive. 

They appreciated his contribution of points to the house cup, but they were all still looking for a moment to put him in his place without harming their own standings. A private competition where he had a severe handicap was handing them this opportunity on a silver platter. His disrespect of the captain only made the rest of the team want their chance even more. In taking their revenge, though, they gave him what he wanted: a chance. 

“Whatever you want, Potter,” Flint said with a predatory grin. “Everyone trying out will line up with others going for the same position. From left to right will be the beaters, chasers, keepers, and seekers. Get to it.”

Harry walked over to the mass of people trying out for chaser. There were a good ten people competing with him. Only two would make it through since the captain was a chaser already. Competition was going to be stiff, especially with all of them having top-of-the-line brooms. Still, he could only feel confidence. He would get on the team, and he refused to let some fancy rune schemes get in his way. A broom was a fucking broom, and even if the damn thing fell apart beneath him, he was going to show them why he was confident enough to walk into tryouts without professional equipment. 

Looking, for a moment, up to the stands, he saw Daphne sitting with her usual “prim and proper” leg cross. She told him that she would come to watch him try out if only to see what he claimed to be “very good flying skills”. This, more than anything, was the main difference between now and his time at Grogory's primary school. One person was here explicitly to support him. Considering that number would be zero in the muggle world, this was literally an infinitely valuable upgrade. That was, at least, how he saw it.

“As always, Slytherin tryouts are elimination based. You will perform drills with your teammates, and the ones who lose will be eliminated. We stop when we have only enough to make a team.”

“Yes, sir!” was the response of the entire team.

“Good,” Flint said as his gleaming eyes latched onto the tyke of a first-year who angered him. “Since Potter wants on the team so badly, we will start with chasers.”

The entirety of the group stared at him with hungry expressions on their faces. They wanted to see him fall. They wanted to see him crash and burn before devouring him whole. They needed to know that they were better than him. They yearned to drag him down from the top and watch him suffer with the rest of their insignificant, unimportant ilk. Their animosity fueled him just like it did with the Dursleys, but he was allowed to use it now. 

He met their stares with a cocky smirk, placed his foot on the metal footrest just like Malfoy, and took off into the air while mounting his broom. Everyone who heard the story knew exactly what he had just done. It was a declaration of superiority. It was an attempt to let them know that he considered himself above them. He saw their hunger worsen to starvation. His brazen dismissal of them was nothing more than stimulation for their damaged egos, and the more they wanted to take him down, the worse they would play in the tryouts. They were all going to focus him either way to take out the weakest link. The only difference between his previous position and his current one was that they were all going to be playing like angry children instead of composed players with genuine skill.

The rest of the team took off into the sky like sharks circling prey, and when a quaffle was tossed to him by the captain and half of the group’s robes turned red, he knew what was going to happen. 

“This drill is keep-away. You have to remain inside the pitch, and you have to remain below the chaser’s max altitude. Besides that, you can do whatever you want. If the ball is taken from you or intercepted during a pass made by you, your color will change. This is an eight-minute drill. Whoever’s robes are still red by the end of the drill are out of the tryouts.”

Ah, and they gave him the ball first. Once the game started, everyone would be gunning for him. Oh well, that was pretty much exactly what he asked for. The ball was about thirty centimeters in diameter (a foot). It was about the size of an American football, but since it was spherical, it ended up being much bulkier. It was a comfortable size to tuck under a single arm, and it was relatively easy to keep in a single hand to make a toss, especially if he had the momentum to keep the ball in place. Considering his small size, though, it was a little too big for him to comfortably hold in one hand for an extended period of time. That was manageable. Much like an American football, most chasers pretty much exclusively kept the ball tucked under their arm unless they wanted to do something with it because holding it out was a good way to get it snatched by someone flying by at over a hundred miles an hour. 

He kept on working to get a feel for the ball while the team separated across the pitch and awaited the start of the match. Despite the obvious bias against him, the other team was still required to give him a fair amount of space until the game started. 

The quaffle had three circular indents in a triangular pattern around the front of the ball. The first was on the top, the second was on the bottom left, and the third was on the bottom right. They were about the size of an average clenched fist, and it made it easier to get a grip on it with his tinier hands. In between the three indents, though, were two runes that made the ball what it was.

The first rune was rather simple. It was a rune of power. The more you charged the rune, the more the ball would multiply the force you put on it. At max power, it put enough speed on the ball that it could keep up or even pass a broom in a race when tossed from a standstill.

The second rune, though, was where the game really started. It was just an artistic depiction of an air current, but that one simple rune was all it took to give the chaser position an entirely new and steep skill curve. Channeling magic into the rune merely allowed the quaffle’s rotational velocity to magically affect the air around it. If that was too complicated for a potential player to understand, it basically meant that powering the rune allowed the ball’s spin to potentially drastically affect its arc in the air. The more power someone put into that rune before losing contact with it, the more the spin would affect its ark. Right spin would make the ball arc to the right, and every other type of spin would do the same for its direction. At its max amount of power, it was possible to get crazy angles that would be completely impossible to gain with a natural throw. 

He began to power both runes on the quaffle for a deadly, fast toss with a heavy curve while slowly feeding his broom enough power to keep him afloat without changing his altitude. The other team was attempting to get into positions that would close him off. There were six reds and five greens including him. That meant there would be enough for every one of his teammates to remain marked while allowing the extra to go directly for him. It was a drill that was skewed pretty heavily in the red’s favor. 

Harry was currently close to the right side’s end of the pitch, and his distance from the goalposts was short enough to allow him an accurate measure of the chaser’s max altitude. He could go exactly five meters above the middle post, and he needed to use all of it if he didn’t want to fail. He kept himself strategically in the center of his max altitude limit to keep his options as open as possible. If one of the enemy players wanted to play tag, he wanted to make the fucker work for it. 

The second Flint told the players to start, they did exactly as he would expect. They marked one man each and sent the sixth darting toward him. The one to approach him directly had about half the pitch to go, but his broom’s rune scheme made that distance all too easy to cross. His opponent would be on him in seconds, and he used those seconds to analyze his options. The people on his team were not particularly rooting for him either, but he also knew that they were far too competitive to not play with him if he was able to help them succeed. They wanted him to fall, but not at the expense of themselves. He was confident that his teammates would perform to the best of their abilities. 

His four teammates were floating casually, attempting to see if they could get a lead on their marks. They weren’t having a ton of luck with that task mostly because the opponents were playing the game two-dimensionally. They were hyper-focused on blocking him from making a direct pass to his teammates, and that meant they were standing between him and his potential receivers with near reckless abandon. 

There was a pattern to their positions, though, and it was an understandable one too. All of them were sitting pretty damn high in the air. The ground was risky; it required a higher level of skill to navigate, and it limited a flyer’s movement options by a good margin. Unfortunately for them, this meant that they were opening a very real lane of opportunity, and floating directly between him and his teammates did not help when the movement options of each player were so vast. In their eagerness to block him from making an easy pass, they forgot that he could make a pass behind them with relative ease if he put enough spin on the ball. 

The rune on his quaffle was already at max charge, and he began his brilliant plan. He upped his output to his broom’s upward velocity and began ascending at a rapid pace. His opponent was so fixed on getting the ball that he immediately followed him up to the top of the chaser’s limit. As the sixth-year chased him like a fool to the upper limits of the chaser’s max altitude, Harry threw the ball as hard as he could toward the ground on the other side of the pitch, dug his fingers into the bottom rim of the top indent on the quaffle, and flicked his wrist on the release to give it a moderate amount of backspin. 

Flint almost couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched the play before him. Sure, the kid’s opponent was acting like an idiot, and the play was straightforward and predictable, but it was a plan, and the kid executed it flawlessly. It was a classic fade toss. Potter led his mark by going up, then threw the ball in the opposite direction. Potter’s mark was already going the wrong way, so there was no possible world where he could stop the pass. Flint watched the ball careen across the field like a bullet while flying toward the ground. If it was a normal toss, it would’ve hit the grass somewhere around midfield, but the charged rune and the spin made the very air around the ball lift it to create an upward arching pass.

The girl he chose to toss it to was a really lucky pick too. She was a starter for the last two years, and she was fast… very fast. She saw his plan as soon as the ball started curving in the air, and while she was just as surprised as Flint, she still bolted away from her mark toward the other end of the pitch at about 120 miles an hour. So high were all of the enemy players that the ball flew underneath all of them with no one to contest it. The ball curved just enough to avoid brushing the well-kept grass growing on the field below before flying upward toward the other side of the pitch. Everyone was staring at him as the girl he passed to reached out with her hand and caught the ball going full speed before turning around to face the pitch and coming to a stop with her forward thrust. 

He laughed loudly at the expression on the face of his mark, and he relished the feeling of victory coursing through him. 

YES!

Now, they could see. No longer were they expecting him to fail; they were now trying to find out a way to make him fail. He officially turned the slaughter into a competition by showing that he was far from worthless, and the games could properly begin. Harry looked at Flint with a dangerous grin that matched the one given to him earlier tit for tat. Then, he looked over to Daphne and saw her gobsmacked expression. He gave her a subtle wink before turning back to the game. 

He tried to tell her he was good.

Harry’s broom, though, was hot shit. Even though he was confident that he could fly as impressively as Longbottom and Malfoy did, that was nowhere near enough to overcome professional brooms. His style of play was just thankfully workable with small amounts of movement. He excelled at regulating his magic and matching it properly to make the angles he needed. He was also really good at reading people and analyzing the way the ball moved across the field. Combining that with his naturally brilliant senses and the coordination that came with being a cat animagus, even without a good broom, he could still somewhat perform.

The girl he passed to did not need to use such tactics. The second she was situated, she vanished like the devil himself was on her tail. She did not need to trick her mark because she was so damn fast and skilled with her flying that her mark was trailing a good few meters behind her, and he was losing ground fast. 

He figured out her strategy quickly. If she kept flying like this, then she could just run out the clock with no one there to take the quaffle. That, however, was not going to happen when the tryouts were between the clever. Noticing that they were going to lose if they didn’t do something, one of the enemy players left their mark and began to pursue the girl he gave the ball to, leaving one of the other marks to juggle between two players. Seeing her smirk with his brilliant eyes, Harry knew that was exactly what she wanted. The second one of her teammates became wide open, she spiked the ball’s power rune and threw it straight at the open player. With no curve on the ball, it flashed across the field at riveting speeds and smacked against the open player’s glove with a sound loud enough to echo across the quiet pitch. 

The man, still free of a mark, shot across the field toward one of the two players yet to receive the ball. The enemy player dutifully stayed between his mark and the approaching man, but there wasn’t a ton that he could do unless he could somehow figure out what the approaching player wanted to accomplish. Going about a hundred miles an hour, the man with the quaffle blew under both of the players and tossed the ball up to his teammate who reared his arm back and threw the ball high into the air, just barely adding enough curve to the quaffle’s rune for it to stay under the chaser’s max height and land directly in Harry's two hands. 

His mark was close, though, and Harry only really got the ball because his mark was still focusing too much on him to properly read the pass. Harry’s broom was still shit, so he didn’t have the other players’ option to dash away once he caught the ball. His only hope was to use quick bursts of unexpected movement to create enough distance to pass. 

Harry’s mark was right in front of him, and he didn’t have enough speed to go past him with forward thrust. Using the only option available to him, Harry used his legs to hop off of the broom and flipped it around beneath him to sit backward on it. It was fortunate for him that he spent so much time fucking around with Iris’s broom and letting his animagus instincts figure out how to balance on it because using these tricky, unorthodox movements was his only real shot at winning this shit. Now, with his broom tail facing his mark, he used his forward thrust to fly backward in the air relative to him. 

His mark approached at speeds far above what he could dish out, so Harry manipulated the broom tail, using the footrests as points of leverage to go in stomach-lurching zig-zags across the field. It was only due to the beast within him that he was able to keep himself aloft while flying backward and doing so much crazy shit.  His mark was gaining on him still, but he could see the man was getting frustrated due to the burning fire in his eyes, and he knew that this was the time to make a move if he wanted to get out of his situation. 

Letting his mind go blank as the beast directed him, he flipped around on his broom to lay facing forward, tilted to face the ground until he was almost vertical, and bolted toward the grass below. His broom might be shit, but diving from seventeen meters above the ground was unthinkable at top speeds anyway. His opponent went straight down after him with the eyes of a victor. Harry was approaching the only open space left to go, and once he was there, he would be cornered. 

Harry was starting to think that his zouwu animagus form might be a little broken for quidditch when he turned off his thrust, flipped 180 degrees to face the sky, and turned the thrusters back on to hover about two meters above the ground. 

Standing on a vertical broom by the footrests, he watched the chaser approach. His opponent started his dive a little behind him distance-wise, so the man was not directly above him, and that was when he got his game-saving idea. Grasping the ball with his right hand, he charged the air rune to the max with a giant burst of energy and tossed the ball directly to his left with as much right spin as he could muster.

His pursuer bolted after the ball that he seemingly tossed away toward nothing at all, but that was when his right spin kicked in. With the rune charged all of the way, the ball’s right spin rather quickly overcame its velocity to the left and flew straight back to him like a yo-yo. If the chaser was paying attention to the ball’s spin, he would’ve seen this coming, and the ball would be free for the taking. Since he did not, he flew right to where the ball would’ve been as it changed directions mid-air and flew back to him. 

The ball hit his hand with a dull thunk. He charged the power rune to the max and tossed it straight down the middle of the field. He was beginning to feel giddy and light from all of the intense play, and a massive, genuine smile plastered itself onto his face when the girl he passed to originally blurred across the field and snatched the ball out of the air with a ringing laugh. He was having so much fun, and his skill at the game apparently impressed the other girl enough that she was starting to have fun with it too. 

Looking back at Flint, he saw that his captain was no longer angry. He was looking at Harry with greed in his eyes. Flint was a natural leader. Just because Potter was an arrogant little brat didn’t mean he couldn’t see potential when it slapped him right in his face. The moves he pulled off were more than unorthodox. He could tell that the boy wasn’t as experienced as the other players, but there was a natural grace about his flying that was so amazing it was almost eerie. Experience could be gained, wisdom could be taught, but the intuitive grasp of broom mechanics and ball control that Potter seemed to possess was something that only came with talent. Flint was not a fool, and he would’ve had to be one if he didn’t at least play with the idea of taking Potter onto the team. 

Only placing more favor in Potter’s corner was the fact that the last starter for the previous year was the one that just got played twice by the first-year on a school broom. Potter probably didn’t even realize that he was flying circles around one of the three starters for the team that won the cup last year, but it was almost embarrassing him to watch a starter on his team get smacked around like an amateur. Certainly, part of the horrendous play going on in front of him was due to a combination of underestimating the brat and the frustration that came from being outperformed by such an inferior opponent. At the same time, play was still play. Just because his starter might be choking big time didn’t mean Potter wasn’t outperforming him. He wouldn’t be deserving of his captain title if he didn’t take the best. He had to begrudgingly admit that Potter was right. He was very good, and if his starter didn’t make it because Potter outplayed him, that was just the reality he had to work with.

Harry heard a growl from the young man marking him, and he looked at the furious chaser with eyes full of mirth. He was making that git look like a fucking joke. The girl he passed to was still laughing as she flew circles around the fifth teammate in their little posse before passing it to the only other girl on their team and taking off toward the other side of the pitch. 

The simmering anger in his opponent’s eyes turned into panic when the four-minute mark was called out by their captain. Harry’s taunting smile only deepened when his opponent realized the fatal mistake he made. His mark was so focused on suffocating him and getting him out that he wasn’t paying attention to the game. Half of the time was gone, and he spent all of it fruitlessly pursuing the source of his frustration instead of going somewhere that might be more useful. Harry started laughing mockingly when the man shoulder-checked him and started bolting after the girl who just received the ball. 

Harry had to admit that the extreme aggressiveness of his previous opponent was impressive in a way. It was with pure, determined power that he bolted full speed at the timid girl and knocked the quaffle right out from under her, switching the color of their uniform along with the change of possession. Taking the ball, he aimed back at Harry and chucked it at the first-year he left completely open with a speed that Harry previously would’ve said was impossible. 

The power rune was a multiplier. The harder someone could throw physically, the more the rune would power the ball. Whoever that guy was, he had some serious strength, and the power rune made his throwing speed absolutely terrifying. Harry’s hands stung through his gloves when the ball slammed into his double-handed catch, but he didn’t dare stop moving. With his overly determined hunter on his side now, he had to admit that the drill got much less interesting. Everyone was already so worried about his tricks and wary of his strategies that the way was open for him to start screwing with them. Now that his team had all of the already good players on it, the jersey colors only switched once more. 

Flint called all of them to the ground after eight minutes, and he sent the ones who didn’t make the cut off to the stands. Harry was the last one to land by far for obvious reasons, and when he approached the rest of the remaining candidates, he heard the now familiar ringing laughter of the girl he passed to on multiple occasions. By the time he got to the ground, she was almost collapsed on the field.

“Oh my God, Pucey, he flew circles around you!” she exclaimed in between stomach-clenching laughs. 

Harry dismounted his broom once he was in front of the duo, and seeing the look her teammate, Pucey, gave the first-year kid who beat him silly made her break out into another fit of hysterical laughter.

“Fucking circles!” She barked out while trying to contain herself by smacking her knee multiple times. “He made you look like a buffoon!” 

Watching her face turn red from laughter made Harry start to chuckle along with her. The source of their amusement only got angrier with every second they continued to have fun at his expense. The girl that Harry suspected was going to become an amazing friend couldn't have looked any more delighted than she did at that exact moment.

“You’ve been a starter for two years, and you looked like a monkey! He was on a school broom, Pucey! You lost to a school broom!” Pucey finally had enough and gave the girl a small shove, but the act of physical retribution only made her find the scene more hilarious. “He-He threw the ball to the left, Pucey! There was no one there! He threw it at the wall, and you chased it!” 

Harry thought that the girl looked close to passing out, and it was only when Pucey stomped away to prepare for the next trial that she finally started to calm down. The seekers were currently in the air right now, and they had to go through the beaters too before they could possibly be called up again. Still red in the face and smiling like a lunatic, the girl dropped to the grass and slapped the ground next to her as a sign of invitation. 

“I’ve always hated Pucey, the fucking git! I haven’t been happier in months!”

Harry plopped onto the ground too and crossed his legs to relax until their next trial started. It was a sunny day outside, and he was sweating like a dog. He'd have to find out where they kept the damn water soon.

“Yeah, his flying was definitely… Interesting,” Harry said with an air of neutrality.

The way she smiled at him was deathly contagious. “HA! Interesting!? I guess if that’s what you want to call it.”

“You fly really fast. I’m lucky I passed to you first. I don’t think anyone else would’ve gotten it.”

She smirked at the flattery and smacked him on the back with enthusiasm. “What can I say? It was a great pass. All the best passes need a fast receiver. It isn’t that good if you have to catch it slow, right?”

Harry shrugged and ducked his head a little bit. Praise was still something that he was not yet used to. A compliment here and there from a professor was one thing, but his peers treating him with respect and giving him credit was so foreign to him that he felt like it might take his entire school career to become accustomed to it. Looking back up from the ground, Harry could tell that she was amused by his reaction to her compliment. 

“Natalie Parker,” She said as she extended a hand.

Harry felt uncomfortable about the possible contact but grabbed the hand anyway. It wouldn’t do to turn down a handshake when it was offered by someone who might be able to give him pleasant company. “Harry Potter.”

The two continued to hold light conversation about quidditch and the school year in general while the beaters and the keepers did whatever the hell Flint wanted them to do, and when there were three keepers left, he took the chaser whom he felt was the weakest link and set him off against the extra keeper in a penalty shot 1v1. Harry had to admit that he wasn’t paying much attention, but the keeper won, so they were down to four chasers, four beaters, and three keepers. Harry mounted his broom for the second time that day to shoot against the three keepers with the rest of his teammates and Flint himself. The one that missed the most was sent away. 

Now, what amounted to two teams remained. Four chasers, four beaters, two seekers, and two keepers. Flint chose the obvious method of running the group against one another and decided to do a mini-scrimmage. Depending on their individual performance, the members who would be on the team would be posted that night in the Slytherin common room. 

Harry was expecting to be treated as fodder for whatever team didn’t get the most experienced players. He was the firstie, and he was completely ready to have an uphill battle the entire damn tryout. He was astonished to find Natalie latching onto his arm for the drill. Apparently, she really wanted him to be her partner; and with her on his team, Harry personally thought that they ended up forming the strongest combination of players available. Taking to the sky, they started a basic scrim with the usual quidditch rules.

Chasers had to shoot from somewhere behind the score line which was a circle around the posts with a ten-meter diameter. There was, of course, a bit of space behind the goal posts that chasers could circle around if they wanted, but shots had to go through the side of the ring that faced the pitch. Chasers were kept below their 20-meter altitude limit, and only one beater was allowed to go past mid-field at the same time. Off-sides was apparently still a thing in scrimmage according to Natalie, so they had to make sure that they did not pass the quaffle to get through the backward-most beater. The seeker, as always, acted as a pseudo-chaser without the altitude limit but also with a time limit of three seconds to hold the ball and without the ability to shoot on the rings. Each successful shot on the rings was ten points, and catching the snitch ended the game and gave the receiving team a 10% bonus to their score. 

Harry, Natalie, and the rest of their team gathered around midfield in a semi-circle, and once the balls were released, everything just clicked. If Harry ever thought that Natalie chose him simply because she found his playstyle amusing or hated Pucey enough to tolerate him, that notion was done away with almost immediately. Their plays just worked. Harry was infinitely slower than her in every way, but if he could get possession of the quaffle, he was an absolute demon. At the same time, it was literally impossible for Harry to throw a pass that Natalie didn’t catch. She seemed to appear out of thin air to receive every placement, every toss. He chose the spot that he thought would make the best play, and she caught it without fail. 

It was freedom at its highest. This was why he liked to fly. The other team seemed like a non-consequence. They were unstoppable. Halfway through the match, they started making plays for style’s sake just for laughs. He would never forget the last play of the game when he flew behind the enemy goalposts and caught a pass from above by Terrance Higgs, their seeker. Harry wound up his arm, and the second Pucey was about to pile drive straight through him, he tossed it to the left, curved the ball around the far goalpost straight to Natalie who sent the ball flying through the opposite post at 50+ miles an hour. The entire play lasted under a few seconds, and it was so smooth that they could pour the play into a cup like it was fucking whiskey. 

The other seeker caught the snitch, and their team laughed because they hadn’t focused on that golden wad of junk once the entire game. The other team didn’t get even a single point from it because his team's offence was just too clean. 

Natalie was more than ecstatic. Apparently, it was rare to wall a team off to under 100 points, especially in a scrim with fewer people and more opportunities to score. The other team’s seeker should’ve focused more on supporting the offence. Searching for the snitch the entire game was a good way to get your chasers outnumbered and outplayed. Catching the snitch only mattered if they could keep the game competitive enough for the point boost to be worth something. Terrance wasn’t worried about his spot in the slightest. Catching the snitch didn’t matter when their three-man offense was that effective. 

As soon as his team landed, Natalie was already going on about how kickass they were. The amount of trash talk coming from the various members of his scrimmage team was almost unbelievable. Every single one of his teammates knew that their performance was stellar, and they weren't afraid to lord their victory over the other team. Harry didn't personally participate, but he thoroughly enjoyed silently basking in his team's high spirits and listening to them celebrate.

"Okay, everyone, gather around," Flint shouted to the pitch. "The final team will be posted in the common room tonight. To those who make it, I expect to see all of you on the pitch at the same time next week."

Everyone nodded and started to walk away from the pitch. Natalie ended up walking out of the pitch with him for a bit.

"You pass like a god, Potter," she said with a brilliant smile. "I have a feeling we are going to make a hell of a team."

Harry was far too happy with his team's performance to get all weird about the compliments he'd been receiving since tryouts began. Instead, he took it in stride. 

"I've never played an actual game before, but I didn't expect to play with someone so good either, Parker. It was fun."

"Call me Natalie, Harry. The only time you call a teammate by their last name is when their name happens to be Pucey."

Harry chuckled at the comment and nodded his head. He wasn't a pureblood, so calling people by their last names was something he didn't want to do anyway. With how much Natalie truly loathed Adrian Pucey, Harry was almost inclined to believe that she only liked him so much because he was the one who managed to kick Pucey from his spot. 

Once they finally got out of the pitch and onto the grounds, a small group of older girls approached them; and after introducing Harry to her friends, she left with her group, giving her new teammate a promise to see him next practice. 

Once her group left, he took a seat next to a tree and propped the school broom against his outstretched legs. His muscles burned, and he could feel the drain on his magical reserves. Pushing those inefficient runes so hard really took some serious effort on his part. His still not super healthy body was protesting his physical exertion too. He felt like his muscles were killing themselves. To be completely honest, he'd never felt better.

 He wasn't lying. Playing quidditch like he just did was topping the list of the most fun and joy-filled moments of his life. His pain could double right now and it still wouldn't dim his mood. Looking toward the stadium, he caught sight of a blonde girl steadily approaching him. Raising his hand, he gave a wave and flashed a wide grin. 

"What the hell was that, Potter!?"

Harry started laughing at her expression. He only felt better when she reluctantly smiled too.

"What do you mean, Daphne? I told you I was good."

She crossed her arms over her chest, "You told me you were good, Potter. That was a lot better than good. Where did you even learn to do that!? You barely had a few months to practice!"

He gave a shrug, and when she stuck out her hand to help him up, he grabbed it. The girl hoisted him onto his feet, and Harry brushed off the dirt on his robes before beginning his trek back to the school.

"It just came intuitively to me, I guess. I messed around with a quaffle that I had on hand, and I played around with a broom. I found it was really easy, so I kept practicing, and here I am."

"No kidding," she said with a scoff. "I think you flew even better than Malfoy and Longbottom did a few days ago."

Harry thought it was more likely that he flew differently than flew better. The skill it took to pull off that dive and fly like they did was no small task. The difference between them and him was that they were flying for pure speed and momentum while he was flying for agility and maneuverability. Well, that and the fact that they didn’t have a zouwu inside of them influencing how they moved and reacted on their brooms. 

“You sell yourself too short, Harry,” came a smooth voice in his head that he wasn’t expecting.

“You’ve been strangely absent lately.”

“I’ve been bored, and I detest flying. You have a whole castle full of knowledge, and you choose to waste your time riding on a pathetic stick.”

“I think someone is jealous that they aren’t good at flying on a broom.”

The stranger gave Harry his signature sneer. “I do not need a broom to fly, Potter. Toys like broomsticks are for the weak.”

Well, it was nice to see that the stranger didn’t change during his absence. He was still the usual ball of sunshine. Harry gave a cocky affirmation to her compliment, receiving an eye roll for his efforts, and the two walked the rest of the way back to the common room in companionable silence. Harry had yet another thing to look forward to on top of Longbottom’s reaction. He had a few letters to write.

Ginny woke up in the Burrow to the shuffling of people below her bedroom. That right there was probably what she would consider the worst part of staying at home during a Hogwarts semester. All of the parents who normally would’ve been taking care of children in their free time had completely open schedules outside of work. The Weasley household just so happened to be where most of her mother’s friends liked to hang out during the day. Most of them liked to come by at what Ginny would consider a decent hour. Others, though, had an unfortunate habit of showing up at the arse crack of dawn. 

Groaning to herself, she rolled off of the bed and began her walk to the ground floor. The vague noises of movement that she could hear from her bedroom became discernible conversation the further down the stairs she went. By the time she made it into the living room, she already knew that it was Neville’s grandmother who decided to come over today. She wasn’t sure exactly what her mother was discussing with Neville’s gran, but she was brought into the conversation the second she entered the room.

“Oh, Ginny, you’re awake! Have you heard the news!?” her mother exclaimed excitedly as she bustled around the kitchen. 

“Maybe?” was Ginny’s unsure answer.

“My Neville made the Gryffindor quidditch team!” Madam Longbottom exclaimed with a proud smile. “He’s the youngest seeker in a century! Frank would be so proud of him!” 

Augusta Longbottom went back to bragging to her mum about Neville before Ginny even had a chance to respond. That was just like her; Ginny expected nothing less. The woman had an obsession with her son being the best. Everything Neville touched turned to gold in his grandmother’s eyes. It annoyed Neville to no end. Since Ginny was often the one who had to listen to the bragging while her brothers were off galivanting at Hogwarts, she wasn’t fond of it either. 

She did, in fact, know all about Neville’s placement on the Gryffindor team and the events that led to it. She was very proud of him, of course, and she thought that Malfoy was just as much of a git as her brother and his best mate did. It was odd for her to know about such things before Madam Longbottom. Actually, it was odd for her to hear much from Neville and Ron in general. Entire years have passed before without either of them acknowledging her further than a few passing glances, but ever since school started, Neville actually wrote to her a few times, and Ron had been writing her constantly. 

They both regaled her with stories of their adventures at school. The incident with Malfoy at flight training was only the latest. They told her all about their classes, about life in the castle, all of the odd things around Hogwarts, and every single letter from Ron had some mention of whatever vague, unpleasant interaction with Harry Potter they had that day. 

It was a little painful to realize that her brother and Neville disliked a person that she considered a friend. It was even more painful that they felt the need to tell her just how much they disliked him in almost every letter she received. It was as if they were trying to convince her of his horrible character while bribing her with amicable letters they knew she wanted so badly. There were many reasons they might dislike the boy, but she wished that they would just keep it to themselves for once. 

Harry, on the other hand, never mentioned Neville or her brothers at all after telling her about their impromptu encounter in the owlery. His letters were all about his experiences at school and the way things worked in his house since she'd never had anyone to tell her about Slytherin before. She found the difference between life in Slytherin and Gryffindor to be fascinating. She already knew where she was going to go. There was no real question about where the hat would put her. Still, she could respect just how private everything was in Slytherin. The way Harry described it, the house seemed like a really peaceful place to live so long as its members were capable of overlooking the various quirks that came with living in a house for the ambitious. 

She was about to get up and head to the kitchen for a bit of breakfast when Harry’s snowy owl flew through the window and came to a stop beside her on the couch. There was a rather thick envelope tied to Hedwig’s leg. Excitement built within her as she untied it. A delivery this big had to contain something worthy of interest. Harry was never one to mince words or over embellish. If he didn’t have much to say, he would not be sending something like this. Neville’s grandmother eyed the owl and Ginny’s letter with slightly squinted eyes, and her mother seemed to be glancing over at her too. Ignoring them for now, she tore open the envelope and tipped the letter into her hands. With the parchment that contained his letter came a photograph that fell face-up on her lap. What she saw on it made no sense, though, so she started reading.

Ginny’s expression started out excited and content at the top of the letter, but the further she read toward the bottom, the more her expression succumbed to a look of shock. Mrs. Longbottom’s suspicious stare got sharper as Ginny’s eyes kept moving faster and faster across the parchment. By the time she was done, she looked about ready to pop. Her mouth was opened as wide as it could, and she dropped her letter on the floor before scrambling to pick up the photo. 

On the piece of film was a picture of a bunch of students in green robes holding broomsticks and huddled together to get in the frame. Some of the students looked to be getting close to the end of their time at Hogwarts. A few of the others looked to be a bit younger, and at the very front of the photo was a very small Harry Potter holding a raggedy broom in both of his hands with an almost imperceptible smile on his face. Next to him was a girl just a little taller than him with her arm thrown over his shoulder, a wide grin on her face and the handle of an expensive broom held in her other hand and propped against the ground as the wind battered against their animated robes.

Holy shit.

“Ginny, dear, is something the matter?” Madam Longbottom asked the child.

Seeing her expression, her mother walked into the living room to wait for an explanation alongside Madam Longbottom.

“Harry… Harry made it on the Slytherin quidditch team, mum."

Both of the adults in the room looked stricken by the news just as much as Ginny was. Everyone was obviously surprised to see that Neville made the team, but it was Neville. The boy was literally famous for the anomalies that tended to happen around him. If anyone was going to make a quidditch team as a first-year against all odds, it would be him. Harry getting the spot, though, was world shaking. Harry was supposedly just another student along with the rest of them, yet he somehow managed to do something that only one other first-year managed to do since Hogwarts made the rule that banned them from quidditch. He followed up the boy-who-lived with perfect grace. It was so unbelievable that no one knew what to say for a second.

“You must be confused, dear,” Madam Longbottom said gently and maybe even slightly condescendingly. “First-years are not allowed on the team.”

As arrogant as that statement might’ve sounded considering her grandson just did the same thing, it was an understandable thing to say. Ginny looked at Mrs. Longbottom with the same flabbergasted expression she had on her face for the last minute or so. Upon registering Mrs. Longbottom’s protest, Ginny took the photo and flipped it around to show the two adults. Harry’s gently smiling face and the laughing girl next to him stared at the two adults, and they stared right back

“How did this happen?” her mum asked with a glazed look in her eyes. 

This made two children that her family knew who somehow did the impossible in the same week span.

“Harry said that Neville getting on a team meant that the teachers couldn’t complain if he got on one too, so he tried out, and his captain was apparently really impressed. He made it on as a chaser.”

Ginny understood the way they felt all too well. Neville had always been such a special case with her family that it caught all of them off guard to realize that he might not always be the only exception to the rules. Ginny’s shock slowly bled into excitement. Harry made the Slytherin team, and he made it in her favorite position!

“Mum! Mum! Can we go to his games!? Please!?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled kindly at her exuberant daughter and thought about it for a moment. It wouldn’t be too much of a problem. They would be going to all of the Gryffindor games as it was to support Neville, George, and Fred. Families of the players got in for free, and each player was allowed to give personal invites to three people during their games to get them in without charge too. It was a small perk given to students with the drive to make the team and keep up with it while navigating their schoolwork as well. If Harry decided to invite Ginevra, then it would be no problem to purchase a single ticket for herself. It would give her lots of extra time to see her own children too. 

“If Harry sees fit to invite you to his games, I see no reason why you couldn’t go. We will be there for his match against Gryffindor. If he wants you to go to more, we can get his game schedule to see if you can go to any of his other ones.”

Ginny excitedly rushed to get a quill and ink to write a reply and tell Harry about the three invites he had just in case no one thought to inform him of it. The entire scene played out before an extremely suspicious Augusta Longbottom. Neville always sent her a letter every week, and all three of the ones she received so far mentioned that he wasn’t sure how to feel about Harry Potter. Her Neville was nothing if not a good judge of character. Her grandson mentioned nothing explicitly and only really told her about a general dislike for the boy, but if he disliked Harry Potter, she had a hard time convincing herself to like him despite how well her son knew James. 

She decided to keep quiet about her suspicions. Everyone had to make up their own minds, and her’s was made only based on her grandson’s opinions. If Neville was right about Harry Potter, the Weasleys were bound to find out soon. For now, she had to go get Neville’s nimbus 2000 and send it to the school. Her boy had some quidditch games to win. She expected nothing less of Frank’s son.

Iris was sitting on a velvet couch in a large room filled with people who either already knew her or wanted to know her. It was an art convention held in Paris. Lots of the most prominent artists around Europe came to these kinds of things to advertise their work for potential buyers and maybe even sell a piece or two in the process. Iris came to them mostly to uphold her image. Her reputation was already strong and spread wide enough to attract people on its own. 

That was why she was sitting around a crackling fireplace with a wine in her hand instead of standing next to her art as she used to when she first started out. Around her were a few of the friends she made during her time as an artist. When someone had a job that took up such an astronomical amount of time, passion, and effort, they tended to make friends in the same field. That was, at least, how Iris justified only having a small number of friends within her work circle. 

She spared a glance toward her section of the building and smiled at the attention it was receiving. Iris had a feeling that she was going to be gaining quite a few new customers tonight. Every ounce of her attention, though, was immediately captured by a snowy owl that chose to land on the table in front of her. She was so focused on untying the letter on Hedwig’s leg that she didn’t catch the amusement in the eyes of her friends. They, of course, knew all about Harry Potter. All the woman did for the last two months or so was talk about him. 

All of her friends were attempting to stifle chuckles as they watched her read the letter with an intensity that they were unused to from someone like Iris. They were so entertained by this new side of her that they all jumped when she reached the end of the letter, looked at a photo that none of them could see, and promptly squealed at what she saw.

“Oh my god!” she screamed to the table.

“What is it!?” one of the women sitting next to her said while trying to lean in and get a glimpse of the picture.

“Harry made the quidditch team!”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and huddled around to look at what they all correctly assumed to be a picture of the team.

“Awe! Look at him! He’s so tiny!” 

“But how did he do it? Isn’t he a first-year?” asked one of the males who managed to fit in with her small group of companions.

“Yes,” Iris answered. “He said that the boy-who-lived was allowed on the Gryffindor team, so he tried out for Slytherin’s.”

“Who’s that girl next to him?” asked the woman sitting next to her. “They look like they get along.”

“Ummm,” Iris said while scanning the letter again. “Harry said her name is Natalie. They apparently got through the tryouts together. She’s been on the team for a few years.”

“So what are you going to do?” asked one of her more pragmatic friends.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at his broom, Iris. The kid is flying on a prayer and a dream!”

“Merlin’s beard!” she angrily whispered with the force of a thousand indignant mother figures. “He’s been flying on one of those death traps!? I’ll have his head if he hasn’t lost it already riding on one of those things!” 

Hedwig hooted at her with an equivalent amount of discontent. Those school brooms were not safe to fly on a competitive level. They might sort of work for beginners flying under ten miles an hour, but Harry could've been injured - no, should've been injured - flying on a school broom in any type of strenuous way. The question wasn’t whether she was going to do something but what she was going to do. There was only one tiny problem.

“I don’t know anything about brooms,” Iris admitted with a blank expression to her unsurprised friends.

Of course, Mathew, the other one of her male friends, was her one-way ticket out of her predicament. He was the quidditch fanatic of the group, and his title was absolutely indisputable. “What position does he play?” 

“He made the team as a chaser.”

“Hmmm,” Mathew hummed, thinking about what could work for him. Of course, considering Iris’s paygrade, there were quite a few possibilities. “Didn’t Comet come out with a new model last year? I’m sure some of the chasers out there who aren’t diehard comet 290 fans would be drooling over the 320.”

Iris nodded to herself and decided to trust her friend’s judgment. Mathew was serious about his quidditch. If the man thought that a certain broom model was good, there was no way she would attempt to argue with him. She pulled out her checkbook and tied a slip of it onto Hedwig’s leg after checking with Mathew to find out how much she needed. It was quite a bit of money; Mathew said that she should make the check for about 130 galleons just to be safe. Compared to how much she would be making tonight, it wasn’t too horrible for her vault. She smiled when she thought about Harry’s face when he would soon realize that she decided to get him a broom despite the fact that he lost their bet. What could she say? She had a soft spot for him, and he kept his promise to try his best in school even better than she thought he would. That kind of effort deserved recognition in her opinion, even if she was furious about the horribly foolhardy risk he took by using a school broom to accomplish his task.

The Great Hall was in chaos today. It was the last day of September, and breakfast on the thirtieth of September was the day that each house’s head posted the official quidditch roster in the Great Hall for everyone to see. Each house already had their tryouts, and all of the houses had their individual team rosters displayed in their common room, but this was when the houses would be forced to be forthright with their team makeup. Of course, certain people didn’t care to keep their positions secret, but most houses tended to keep their roster under wraps until the last moment possible.

Students from every house were speaking loudly to one another about who had the best chances of being on each team. An owl flew in at the beginning of breakfast and delivered a broomstick to Neville Longbottom. Harry was unsurprised to learn that the boy-who-lived owned such an outstanding broom. A Nimbus 2000 was the most advanced broom model for seekers available. Harry read in a few magazines that the SlipStream was coming out with a competing broom optimized for seekers during his spring semester, but there really wasn’t a better broom on the market for a flyer like Longbottom at the moment. It was going to make things more difficult for their first game. 

Natalie groaned from her seat across from him when she heard what model the broom was from the Gryffindor’s excited shouts. Their friends sort of meshed together over the few days between the Slytherin tryouts and the official team posting. The rest of the team also sat next to Harry and Natalie for the purposes of discussing the new team rosters and presenting a united front to the other houses. It was fortunate that Natalie sat so close because he would’ve had to explain the significance of Longbottom’s broom to Daphne otherwise. 

For the layman, it was more than good enough to understand that Longbottom’s broom meant he spent less magic to fly at the same or faster speeds, had better handling, smoother transitions between movement options, and overall more dangerous gameplay. The regulations made sure that the older broom varieties would still be competitively relevant, but if quidditch had a meta, which it did, the Nimbus would be among the new meta pick. Competitive people who didn’t pick the Nimbus did so because they weren't a seeker, they were already skilled with their model and understood its quirks, or thought they saw a specific model that had the capability of countering or outplaying the specific weaknesses Nimbus had to cultivate to make the improvements they gave their new model. 

The knowledge that would eventually level the playing field, though, took experimentation, and that kind of shit came from professionals over time. Their school games where they only played a match against each house did not give them nearly enough time to discern exactly how to play against the newest seeker broom available. They would simply have to hope that Longbottom had enough exploitable weaknesses as a player to make up for their lack of knowledge about his broom. 

Besides Longbottom, the team remained the exact same from last year. Natalie said that their lineup was very strong, but since there were no real changes in the roster other than the obvious, his teammates weren’t surprised in the slightest. Professor Sprout was the second head of house to post their team. This roster incited quite a bit more discussion.

“Who’s the seeker? He wasn’t there last year,” said an analytically curious Flint. 

“Cedric Diggory is a year below me, I think,” answered Natalie.

“Is he any good?” their keeper, Miles, questioned.

Natalie shrugged while leaning away from the table to get a good view of the Hufflepuff team. 

“Malcolm Preece and Anthony Ricket are back,” Marcus said with a sneer. “We’ll have to plan for those fucks during practice. They’re good, very good. I don’t recognize anyone else. We’ll have to scope out a few of their practices sometime soon.”

The badgers were given a bit of time to puff their chests and show off their new team before Ravenclaw’s head of house decided it was time to post their roster. It was the cause of much discussion, even more than Hufflepuff’s squad, but Marcus and Natalie both thought it was all conjecture.

“They’ll be a wildcard this season,” Marcus assured Harry. “Almost their whole team graduated last year. Jeremy McGrath was a decent beater, but he’s the only remnant of last year’s team. This will be his sixth year. I’m not surprised they made him captain, but if he’s the best they have, they are going to struggle. I don’t envy his position.”

Despite their seemingly precarious situation this year, the Ravenclaws made sure to display nothing but positivity and confidence. Harry would’ve had no clue that they were anything but prepared if his seniors hadn’t informed him otherwise. They let them have their moment. Every single person at the table knew that their posting was going to rock the entire school.

Severus Snape stood up from the teacher’s table and began walking toward the Great Hall doors with slow, long strides. Harry could tell just by looking at the man that he was relishing the moment and drawing it out for maximum effect. Professor Snape was not involved with his admission to the team, but he did have to approve the players once Marcus made his decision. Needless to say, Professor Snape was a very happy Head of House when he realized that a first-year had enough skill to garner the approval of Marcus Flint. Harry personally thought that Professor Snape might’ve been just as incensed with Professor McGonagall’s admission of Longbottom to the team as he was. Harry’s entrance allowed him to snap back, and that was a desire Harry understood very well. It was one of the reasons he wanted to try out so early in the first place.

Professor Snape put up the roster and stuck it to the wooden door with a charm before strolling back and shooting the most annoying grin possible at Professor McGonagall along the way. The students of each house shuffled to get a look at the roster, and peace reigned in the hall for a good six seconds until one third-year from Ravenclaw whispered a name under his breath, completely confused and absolutely clueless as to the owner of the name written before him.

“Harry Potter?”

Like a seismic wave, his name flew from the front of the Great Hall to the back as each house's first-year students confirmed his place among them, and Harry followed it across the room until the whispered name reached the teacher’s table. He smiled roguishly at Professor McGonagall, and she stared back at him with challengingly squinted eyes. She didn’t fool him though. He could see the minute upturn of her lips. The woman adored him, and something about his placement on the team must’ve done something good for her mood because she seemed oddly pleased. 

Harry then turned his eyes to the two people closest to him that he wanted to lord his victory over first. Malfoy and Pucey were both glaring at him enviously. Harry tried his best to just avoid Malfoy and let him be, but the kid became completely intolerable almost the second he realized that Harry tried out. When the blond prat took his complaints to Severus Snape, their Head of House told Malfoy that he should have tried out himself if he wanted a spot so bad. Apparently, fortune favored the bold even in the house of snakes. Never let it be said that the clever option couldn’t also be the brave one. He stuck his neck out and took a risk. It paid off for him due to his skill, so the vast majority of the house respected his decision as a calculated play that ended up being worth far more than the risk. It was because of this that Malfoy found his only real support with the outrageously jealous Adrian Pucey. The two spoiled pricks became anti-everything-Potter almost faster than Harry could blink. 

A screech came from above him in the Great Hall, and Harry looked up with the rest of the school to see none other than Hedwig soaring down from the owlery. Harry was initially just happy that he was going to get letters today. Hedwig was late for breakfast deliveries, so Harry was left slightly disappointed. He didn’t expect Iris or Ginny to send him a letter back at a moment’s notice, but he would’ve liked to get their congratulations or something on the day that his status was officially revealed to the school. Maybe that was high-maintenance and petty of him, but it mattered not because Hedwig was apparently making his delivery now.

Harry’s silent contentment turned into verbal confusion when he saw just how large of a package Hedwig was carrying with her. Just what the hell did his owl get her claws on? The closer Hedwig got to his table, the more apparent the package’s size became. Harry’s owl dove toward the table and landed while dropping the package in front of Harry’s plates. 

The package was rectangular in nature, and it was just long enough to be equivalent to him in height. That was a big fucking package, and everyone in the whole school was watching him before Hedwig crashed the party. All eyes were on him as he stood up, cleared the table in front of him, and slid the paper-wrapped box closer to his person. He hesitated for a second, and that was more than enough time for Daphne to nudge him.

“Open it already, Potter. You’re interrupting my breakfast.”

Harry could tell that she was only being snappy because she was just as curious as everyone else. He diligently began tearing the paper until it fell away from the box to lie flat on the table. The box was completely white, and bold, black letters spelled out a name on the lid of the box that made his heart start to beat wildly in his chest. On the top right corner of the box was a notecard, which he pulled off to properly read.

“I told Hedwig to save this delivery until after your team roster was posted just in case it might’ve caused problems with the other professors. You’re a lucky kid, losing our bet and still getting the prize for it even after your absolutely foolish stunt of flying around on a school broom competitively. Send me your schedule, and I will show up to watch every game you have. I’m proud of you, Harry.

P.S. We will be having words about your school broom stunt this Christmas.

Iris,”

Harry’s mouth hung wide open as an intense blush formed on his face. Iris just said she was proud of him!? This had to be the first time he’d ever heard those words from anyone. The fact that it came from someone he respected so much only added to the effect. He was a shuddering mess already, so it took him a few seconds to regain his composure; but once he got over his emotions, he tore open the top of the box’s lid and gazed upon a masterpiece. 

“Holy shit!” Natalie whispered to the vehement criticism of the prefects around them once she leaned over the table and got a look at what was in the box. 

The box was lined with black foam, and sitting in the center of it was a brand new, sleek broomstick with shiny, silver footholds. Everyone else rushed over to Harry’s package upon hearing Natalie’s explicative, and everyone had almost the same reaction as her. He held the broomstick reverentially and lifted it from the box. He knew what this was; he knew what Iris just got him… But he could not believe it for the life of him.

“That’s a fucking Comet 320,” Marcus said while trying to keep his head from spinning off of his shoulders. 

If the news of his place on the team traveled like a wave across the hall, news of his broomstick traveled like a tsunami. Slytherin students were shouting excitedly among each other while other houses groaned. He looked at the rest of the house teams and saw the worried looks on their faces. The boy-who-lived with a top-notch broom was one thing. Harry Potter, an unexpected first-year entry with unknown skill, having one was totally different. He went from being a shocking wildcard to a completely unknown threat in seconds all thanks to Iris and her befuddling ability to paint a scene. It was like she planned for the news to be delivered like this. No one knew what to think, and that was a prize in and of itself. How positively Slytherin of his unofficial Hufflepuff guardian. 

When Harry turned his broom vertically in his hands, he noticed that it was far better than just a top-of-the-line broom; Iris got the damn thing custom fit for his size too. How did she even do that!? His mind was completely shot. He wasn’t experienced enough with stuff like this to know how he was meant to express his gratitude or explain the warmth in his chest. Harry would’ve thought he just got a blessing straight from a god if he didn’t know what actually caused the strange emotions he felt.

She had the receipts for his wardrobe.

Iris really put in so much effort that she had the broom shop take his measurements via clothes and shoe size in order to get one specifically fit for him? He was so touched that he forgot all of his previous endeavors for the day. Neville Longbottom was glaring at him with such a delectable scowl on his face, but Harry didn’t notice for a second. He was too busy staring at the first gift he’d ever received in his life, which was sent to him by such a special person. Harry was a meticulously controlled individual. He learned how to hold back emotions that were difficult for him to handle, but this was so jarring and world-changing that he couldn’t stop his eyes from watering up or keep his nose from running.

“Who even bought you something like this?” Daphne asked incredulously. “I thought you lived with some muggle relatives or somethi-” She stopped when she saw the look on her friend’s face. His nose was reddening slightly, and he was wearing such an alien expression that it genuinely concerned her. “Potter… are you okay?”

Harry shook his head, gave a hard sniff, and wiped his nose. 

‘Damn, that woman is turning me into such a bitch,’ he thought to himself. ‘She’s going to ruin my reputation.’

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah,” he said finally and blinked the water from his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I need to go write a letter. I’ll see you in class.”

With that, he left the hall, bag and broom in tow. He didn’t want to sit there and become an emotional wreck in front of the whole school. Instead, he decided to go to his room and try to find some way to convey to Iris just how much her gift meant to him. He doubted that he would be able to get anywhere close, but he would be damned if he didn’t try.