Chapter Text
The morning after Draco's failed challenge, the Great Hall buzzed with a different kind of energy than it had the previous evening. There was no hushed, guilty conversation about three-headed dogs or forbidden corridors. Instead, the talk was of flying and the upcoming Quidditch season.
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, still somewhat in shock that he hadn't been expelled, when Hermione appeared beside him with an armful of books. She set them down with a decisive thump.
"I've cross-referenced the library's Quidditch section," she said, her tone brisk and businesslike. "Quidditch Through the Ages is the foundational text, but The Noble Sport of Witches and Wizards has a better chapter on Seeker-specific positioning. I thought you might find it useful."
"Hello to you too, Hermione," Jackie said cheerfully, appearing at the table with a plate of toast and jam. She'd clearly migrated from the Hufflepuff table for a chat, a habit that was becoming increasingly common. "Nice to see you too. How are you this morning?"
Hermione flushed slightly, realizing she'd launched into her explanation without preamble. "Oh. Yes. Good morning, Jackie. I was simply trying to help Harry prepare for his training."
Harry, a bit overwhelmed but grateful, looked at the stack of books. "Thanks, Hermione. Really."
Ron, who was working his way through a plate of sausages, spoke through a mouthful of food. "Blimey, you sound like my mum when Charlie was made captain. It's brilliant, Harry! Wait 'til Malfoy sees you on a proper broom!"
Jackie leaned forward conspiratorially. "He'll be green with envy. Slytherin green, but greener. You'll be fantastic, Harry. Just remember to tuck in your elbows on sharp dives. Thaine says it's the first thing beginners forget."
"Your brother gives Quidditch advice?" Ron asked, looking impressed.
"Thaine gives advice about everything," Jackie said. "Whether you want it or not. But he's usually right, which is annoying."
When the Nimbus 2000 arrived that morning via owl post, the scene was one of pure, uncomplicated joy and rivalry.
Harry held the broom in his hands, marveling at its sleek lines and perfect balance. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever owned, besides Hedwig. The handle was smooth and warm beneath his fingers, and the twigs at the end were bound so tightly they seemed almost metallic.
"Blimey," Ron awed at the broom. "Is that a Nimbus 2000?"
"It is," Hermione confirmed, examining it with interest. "Top of the line. Extremely expensive. Only the best Quidditch players have them."
Jackie practically levitated out of her seat. "Oh, that's gorgeous! Professor Gally must have convinced Dumbledore! Harry, you're going to be unstoppable!"
But it was Draco Malfoy's reaction that was most telling. Draco Malfoy appeared at Harry's shoulder, his expression a complicated mask of conflicted awe and irritation. He stared at the broom in Harry's hands, his face a mask of conflicted awe and irritation. For a moment, his usual sneer faltered, replaced by something almost vulnerable—the look of someone who'd always expected to have the best of everything, only to discover that someone else had gotten there first.
"A Nimbus 2000," Draco said, his voice tight. "How did you...?" He couldn't finish the accusation, because he knew. Jackie's intervention the previous evening had been legendary—already spreading through the school like wildfire. He sneered, but it lacked its usual fire. "Enjoy it while it lasts, Potter. It won't make up for a lack of talent."
"Don't listen to him, Harry!" Jackie exclaimed cheerfully. "It's beautiful! Oh, Wood is going to weep with joy!"
And indeed, when Oliver Wood saw the broom later that day, his reaction was exactly as Jackie had predicted. He actually did tear up a little, holding the Nimbus 2000 as if it were made of spun glass.
"This is..." he said reverently, "this is the finest broom I've ever seen. Potter, do you understand what this means? This is a professional-grade broom. This is what the Holyhead Harpies fly on. This is..."He seemed unable to complete his sentences, overcome with emotion."This is going to help us win the House Cup," he said finally, his voice thick with determination.
Later that afternoon, on the rain-washed Quidditch pitch, Harry's first real practice unfolded under the guidance of two competing experts.
Oliver Wood stood before him, his eyes shining with fanatical zeal as he held the Golden Snitch aloft. The small golden ball glinted in the afternoon light, its delicate wings fluttering with an almost hypnotic rhythm.
"This, Potter, is the Golden Snitch," Wood said, his voice reverent. "It's the heart and soul of Quidditch. You catch this, we win. You don't... well, let's not think about that. I've waited four years for a Seeker like you."
Harry watched as Wood released the Snitch, and it immediately began to dart and weave through the air with impossible speed and agility.
"Your job," Wood continued, "is to catch that. Before the other team's Seeker does. It's worth one hundred and fifty points, and catching it usually ends the match. Everything else—the Chasers, the Beaters, the Keeper—they're all supporting players. You're the star."
Harry felt the weight of that responsibility settle on his shoulders, but it wasn't crushing. It was exhilarating.
Then a familiar voice drifted across the pitch.
"He's not wrong, Harry. But speed isn't everything."
Thaine Cloverleaf was leaning against the goalpost, having drifted over from Ravenclaw practice. He spoke with a calm, easy confidence that contrasted sharply with Wood's intensity. His Ravenclaw robes were slightly damp from the rain, and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead, but he looked completely at ease.
"It's about anticipation," Thaine continued. "The Snitch has a pattern, a flutter. Watch the air, not just the gold. The way it moves tells you where it's going to go next."
Wood's head snapped around, his expression darkening.
"He's not wrong," Wood said, his tone sharp. "But speed isn't everything. It's about anticipation. The Snitch has a pattern, a flutter. Watch the air, not just the gold." Wood added with a friendly smirk directed at Thaine.
"However, knowing all that won't stop Ravenclaw from winning a third year in a row. My Chasers, including me, are very fast." Thaine's lips curved into a smile that was equal parts amusement and challenge.
"Don't you have a library to haunt, Cloverleaf?" Wood said, glaring at Thaine with competitive fondness. "This is a Gryffindor practice."
"Just giving the competition a sporting chance," Thaine replied, pushing off the post and clapping Harry on the shoulder. His grip was warm and encouraging. "Good luck, Harry. You'll need it."
He gave Wood a salute and blurred back across the pitch in a streak of blue and bronze, his movements fluid and practiced.
Wood turned back to Harry, grinning fiercely.
"See that?" he said. "That's the arrogance we're going to smash this year. With you, Potter. With you."
As the weeks progressed, Harry began to understand the strange, intricate dance between Oliver Wood and Thaine Cloverleaf.
For instance, after particularly grueling practice, where Wood had pushed the entire team through drill after drill until Harry's arms felt like jelly, the Gryffindor team was wrapping up. Sweat-soaked and tired but buzzing with the kind of exhaustion that only came from pushing yourself to your limits, Harry was nursing a water bottle when Oliver Wood stood before his team, his usual fiery intensity softened by a sliver of paternal pride as he looked at his new Seeker.
"You handled that well, Potter," Wood said, his voice low and intent. "But remember, being Seeker for a Hogwarts team comes with a lot of attention. Newspapers, scouts in the stands, whispers in the corridors. Don't let it get to your head."
He didn't turn his head. His eyes stayed fixed on Harry, but a competitive, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
As if on cue, a familiar, easy laugh echoed from the sidelines.
Thaine Cloverleaf was leaning against the Ravenclaw equipment crate, having just finished his own team's practice. He was chatting with a group of admiring students from three different houses—a mix of ages and houses that seemed to gravitate toward him naturally.
Without looking away from Harry, Oliver bent down, picked up a slightly deflated practice Quaffle from the grass, and with a casual, powerful flick of his wrist, sent it whistling directly at Thaine's head.
"Unlike pretty boys like some people," Oliver said, his tone sharp but underpinned by a deep, familiar fondness, "who seem to thrive on attention. Distracting the entire female population of Hogwarts from their studies is hardly a recognized team strategy, Cloverleaf. Some of us are here to win cups, not popularity contests."
The Quaffle flew true. Thaine, without breaking his sentence to the group he was with, simply raised a hand and caught it one-handed. The impact made a soft thump against his palm, but he didn't look startled. He looked amused.
He turned the ball over in his hands, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face as he finally met Wood's gaze.
"Prejudice like that isn't very becoming of you, my friend," Thaine said, his voice carrying easily across the pitch. "Jealousy is an ugly color, even in Gryffindor scarlet."
Harry watched this exchange, his gaze darting between his fiercely scowling captain and the effortlessly cool Ravenclaw rival. A grin spread across his face. This wasn't hostility. This was a ritual—a dance they'd performed countless times before, and would perform countless times again.
"You two... really get along, don't you?" Harry asked.
Both older boys turned to look at him. Oliver's scowl deepened, but there was a spark in his eyes. Thaine's easy smile widened.
"NO," they said in unison, their voices overlapping.
Thaine pushed off the trunk, slinging his broom over his shoulder. He gave Harry a friendly smile.
"He's a territorial badger with a one-track mind," Thaine said. "But he's right about one thing, Harry. Keep your head down and your eyes up. Can't wait to try and beat that Seeker's speed of yours."
He nodded once at Oliver. "Wood."
Oliver grunted in acknowledgement. "Cloverleaf."
They watched as Thaine walked away, joining his Ravenclaw teammates who were waiting for him. Oliver's fierce scowl melted, replaced by a grudging, proud smile as he watched his rival go. He bent to pick up the Quaffle Thaine had returned.
"He's annoying as a jinxed Sneakoscope," Wood said. "Talks like a textbook. Thinks he's ten steps ahead of everyone."
He hefted the Quaffle, his smile turning into something genuine and fiercely competitive.
"He's also the best Chaser I've ever played against. The only one who can consistently break my defenses. I can't stand him."
The message to Harry was clear: this was the standard. This level of skill, this intensity of competition, this strange, grudging bond of respect—this was what it meant to play Quidditch at Hogwarts. And Harry, still grinning, knew he wouldn't want it any other way.
___
The following weeks became a blissful, exhausting whirlwind that Harry embraced completely.
Mornings began with breakfast in the Great Hall, where he'd sit with Ron and Hermione, and Jackie would invariably appear at some point with news, encouragement, or stolen toast. Hermione would present him with carefully researched notes on whatever subject she thought would benefit him most. Ron would tell stories about his family or complain good-naturedly about his classes.
Mid-mornings were spent in classes—now that he had mastered the basics of magic—the fundamental spells, the basic theory, the essential knowledge—his classes became genuinely interesting rather than overwhelming.
In Transfiguration, McGonagall began teaching them more complex transformations. Harry found himself fascinated by the theory, by the way she explained that successful transformation required not just will and magic, but a deep understanding of the object's essential nature.
"You must think like the object," McGonagall explained, demonstrating by transforming a teacup into a saucer and back again with effortless grace. "You must understand what it means to be a teacup, and then you must convince it to become something else. Magic is not force, Mr. Potter. It is persuasion."
Harry began to see the parallels between Transfiguration and Quidditch—the way you had to understand your broom, had to work with it rather than against it, had to anticipate rather than react.
In Charms, Flitwick taught them increasingly sophisticated spells. The Patronus charm was mentioned as an advanced spell, far beyond their current level, but Flitwick spoke of it with such reverence that Harry found himself curious about it, wondering what it would be like to produce a Patronus.
Even Potions began to make more sense. While Snape remained as cold and critical as ever, Harry realized that beneath the cruelty was actually a genuine understanding of potion-making. If you could get past Snape's personality—which was admittedly difficult—there was actually a lot to learn.
His afternoons belonged to the pitch.
Wood was a demanding but brilliant coach. He pushed the team relentlessly, drilling them on formations and strategies until they could execute them in their sleep. But he also genuinely cared about their improvement, offering constructive criticism alongside his fierce demands for perfection.
Harry's natural talent blossomed under the structured drills. He practiced catching the Snitch until his reflexes became almost instinctive. He learned to read the wind, to anticipate the Snitch's movements, to trust his body to do what his mind was still learning.
Occasionally, he'd see Thaine observing from the stands, offering a cryptic but useful tip shouted across the field: "You're leaning left on your turns, Potter! Compensate!" or "The wind shifts at sunset near the western hoop!"
Wood would glare at Thaine, but he'd incorporate the advice into the next drill, grudgingly acknowledging that his rival was right.
Evenings were divided between homework and relaxation. He'd spend time in the library with Hermione, who seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of every book in the place. He'd play wizard's chess with Ron, who was surprisingly strategic despite his casual demeanor. He'd sit by the fire in the common room, simply existing in the comfortable presence of his friends.
One evening, Harry stumbled into the common room after practice, muscles aching, hair plastered with sweat, a smear of mud on his glasses. He'd collapse into a squashy armchair by the fire where Ron and Hermione were usually playing wizard's chess or working on assignments.
"Rough one?" Ron would ask, barely looking up from the board.
"Wood had us practicing Wronski Feints until I nearly swallowed a bug," Harry would reply, his voice hoarse from shouting across the pitch.
Hermione would look up from her notes, her expression thoughtful. "I've charted your flight patterns from my window," she'd say. "Your rotational speed has improved by nearly fifteen percent. It's very efficient."
Harry smiled at her, grateful for her particular brand of support. Hermione couldn't fly herself—it wasn't something you could learn from a textbook—but she'd found her own way to contribute, analyzing his performance with the same intensity she brought to her studies.
Jackie would walk over from wherever she'd been—usually helping another first-year with homework or engaged in some elaborate prank with her Hufflepuff friends—and plop a Chocolate Frog into his lap.
"For the Seeker who seeks!" she'd announce cheerfully. "You look like you've been chasing Snitches through a hurricane."
It was during that evenings, smelling the peat smoke of the fire, hearing the comfortable crackle of the flames and Ron's groan as Hermione took his knight, that the realization struck Harry with the force of a gentle, warm wave.
Two months. He'd been at Hogwarts for almost two months.
The dread of the Dursleys felt like a story about someone else—a distant, unpleasant memory that had no power over him anymore. The gnawing loneliness that had been his constant companion, the sense that he didn't belong anywhere, had vanished completely.
In its place was something he'd never experienced before: contentment.
The chatter of the common room, the roar of the Quidditch stands, the quiet concentration of the library with Hermione, the steady loyalty of Ron, the chaotic energy of Jackie—these things had woven themselves into the fabric of his daily life so completely that he couldn't imagine Hogwarts without them.
The castle, with its shifting staircases and whispering portraits, with its secrets and its soaring, thunderous sport, felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had. More like home than anywhere he'd ever been.
The lessons were puzzles to be solved, fascinating in their complexity. The corridors were adventures to be had, full of mystery and possibility. And the future was not a fearful mystery, but a thrilling match, waiting to be played.
Harry Potter was not just surviving. He was living. And he was happy.