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Author: parakletos Story: Twelve Months Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-OotP Status: WIP Reviews: 18 Words: 206,778
Much to her surprise and relief, sleep came easily to Ginny and she woke refreshed and ready to meet the day. Wrapping her light summer dressing gown around herself, she shuffled into her slippers and made her way down the creaking stairs to the kitchen. After a quick breakfast of tea and toast, she showered, changed and made her way outside. She walked down the garden path and sat beneath the ancient oak tree that had been the scene of so many significant moments for her and Harry. The air was already warm, with a sultry feel that promised rain later on. Growing up, she had always loved the warm summer rain. Ron and her other brothers had always hated the rain, complaining whenever the heavens opened as they came scurrying in from the paddock. But as soon as she heard the pitter-patter of rain, she would rush up to her bedroom and watch the raindrops on her window, racing down the pane. Once the rain had ended, the birds came to bathe and drink in the bit of broken, blocked guttering that hung down from the gable in which her bedroom was situated. As she grew older and bolder, she would open her window and sit on the sill. As the rain continued, her room echoed with her laughter as she stretched out her legs and wriggled her bare toes in the cloudburst. For hours she would sit, enjoying the sense of freedom this simple pleasure bought, before having to return to the restrictions imposed on her by being both the youngest and the only girl. But that had all changed. It was raining. Not the cleansing rain at the end of a hot, heavy day, but a long persistent drizzle, which seeped into everything and added to the gloom of an already depressing day. She knew that this was the day. The day she had both dreaded and hoped for. When Tom Riddle would come seeking to destroy a seventeen year old boy, when Harry Potter would become the Boy-Who-Lived-Again. Hopefully. Over breakfast he had been silent, playing with his food whilst Dumbledore announced what they already knew to the whole school. Harry ignored him. "Voldemort's playing with us," he mumbled to no one in particular. "If he thought we were a real threat he would have attacked us at dawn." He was right, of course. Dumbledore may have been the head of the Order, but people had looked increasingly to Harry for leadership. The Hogwarts Headmaster had aged considerably in Harry's final year. Continued Ministry intransigence and a series of blunders by the Order had left Voldemort with the upper hand. The only respite they gained was when Percy Weasley defected from the Ministry to join the rest of his family. Although not a Death Eater, he had nonetheless been able to supply valuable information that gained time for the Order. And that time had now run out. As the older students and teachers had joined the Aurors and Order members on the school steps, the first curses had lit the air and the first casualty fell. "Come on", he urged, grabbing her arm, "let's go." They took off, intent on taking the battle to the enemy rather than waiting for the inevitable. The rest of the DA followed them as Harry set off to find the only other person that mattered that day. The rain and the battle dragged on; neither side being able to strike the decisive blow. Voldemort seemed content to let the stalemate continue. Ginny in particular found it hard to deal with the wait. "Why doesn't he attack? What is he waiting for?" "Isn't it obvious?" said Harry, forgetting that only he had been shoved through the Aurors' course on battle tactics. "He has the superior numbers, why should he push for victory? If I were him I would do exactly what he's doing - wear my enemy down before appearing to deliver the fatal blow." As the dreary day crawled towards its climax and the rain became heavier, the grounds around the school were churned to quagmire by the feet, claws and hooves of the two armies. She knew the end was near, but she had lost him. In the last duel, they had become separated. "Damn you, Harry Potter; so much for your grand promise. I should have known better." She had demanded that she be there when he faced Riddle. Oh, he had tried to persuade her otherwise, but she would not be denied. Many times she had argued with him long into the night. Big, emotional arguments where rational discussion descended into name-calling as Ginny blamed Harry for every slight and injury she had suffered at the hands of the male of the species. These nights were the only times they actually cast a silencing spell around Harry's bed. They were the only nights they needed to. In the end he had relented. Barely. But now she had lost track of him. He had slipped away, leaving her alone. Not to be denied, she had searched frantically for him, but the rigours of the day began to get the better of her. She struggled for grip in the quagmire. With each squelching step, her school robes grew heavier as they became caked with mud. And as she stumbled from duel to duel, she began to despair of ever finding him. As she ran down towards Hagrid's hut, she slipped and fell flat on her back, her wand flying from her muddy hand. "Can this day get any worse?" she yelled at the overcast sky. Still muttering curses against whichever fates had conspired against her, she began to haul herself to her feet. Pausing to get her bearings, she wiped her mud spattered face with an equally muddy sleeve. Spotting her wand just a few feet away from her, she stooped and reached for the nine and three quarter inches of hazel. She was denied by a large, muddy black leather shoe that stepped on the wand. "Well, well, Miss Weasley, it appears that your day can get worse. Whereas mine¡ well I think mine has just got a lot better." Looking up she saw the thin face and cold grey eyes that had taunted her in Flourish and Blotts all those years ago. He smiled at her, a knowing smirk that was born out of a sense of misplaced superiority. "I do believe we've come full circle, my dear. I'm sorry I don't have any interesting presents to give you this time, but I'm sure we'll find some way of entertaining ourselves." His grin had widened to a leer, leaving her in no doubt as to what he sort of entertainment he was envisaging. He closed the gap between them, anticipation evident in his eyes. She ignored his approach, choosing instead to scan the area for Harry. "I haven't got time for this, Malfoy. I'm looking for the organ grinder and not his monkey. By the way, you should do something about those calluses on your knuckles; it's very unbecoming in a pureblood." "No good looking for your boyfriend, Ginevra," he mocked, "the Dark Lord has him well under control. Sorry, my dear," he droned, his patronising tone irritating her to no end, "no knight in shining armour is going to come and rescue you this time. You've run out of fairly tale endings." He was now towering over her, an evil grin adorning his pale face. His smile revealed a set of yellow, rodent-like teeth. "Oh yeah?" she laughed sardonically, and with one swift movement, her knee connected with his groin and he fell to the ground writhing in agony. Picking up her wand she stood next to him. She managed to keep her voice calm, but her anger was obvious. "And this, you bastard," she spat, "is a thank you for giving me Tom's diary all those years ago." Before he could react she lifted her foot up and brought it crashing down on his nose, leaving his face a bloody mess. She never found Harry before the end, although she was close. She had tracked him down to the Quidditch pitch and as she drew nearer, she could sense the hum of magic in the air as each protagonist cast their spells. To her dismay, just as she was about to enter the stadium, the sky above their duel flashed a sickly green and she saw the Dark Mark float into the air. Fearing the worst, she ran the last few yards, anxious to do what ever she could, determined that Voldemort would not triumph. But no sooner than she had made it to the stadium's entrance, the whole arena was filled with a blinding light. Ginny, along with everyone else in the field that day, collapsed to the floor as if they'd had their strings cut, their own magic drained by the spell that Harry had cast. For a few precious minutes Ginny lay unconscious on the grass In the weeks and months that followed, she beat herself up repeatedly, blaming herself for his condition. It wasn't until he regained consciousness that she began to forgive herself. When she came to, she was further frustrated by the refusal of any of her limbs to function. Agonising minutes went by as she lay in the mud, waiting for her strength to return. And all the time she struggled with very strong but conflicting emotions. She was filled with joy at the thought of Riddle's demise, but fearful for Harry's wellbeing. When she finally managed to raise herself onto her wobbly legs, she staggered past the broom shed and into the stadium itself. There, in the middle of the pitch, lay Harry. Above him a haze of purple smoke and sparks of magic hovered, refusing to be dispersed by the wind that had begun to blow. Around him the grass was scorched and his robes smouldered, occasionally bursting into brief blue flames. He was dead. She was convinced of it. She pulled his apparently lifeless body to her, tears splashing onto his pale face. He was gone. The prophecy had been fulfilled. Riddle was dead and now Harry was gone too. There she sat, her heart broken, weeping openly over the Boy-Who- Lived but who had died to save them. As others arrived, they stood and stared in disbelief. The Order had an unshakeable faith in Harry's ability to fulfil the prophecy, a faith that lay shattered on the floor along with Harry's broken wand. From the group that had gathered, Hermione emerged, her face filthy from the day's battle, her expression grim but determined. "Come on, Ginny, it's over, let him be." Her voice was businesslike and expected to be obeyed. Ignoring the older girl, she wrapped her arms around him even tighter, in defiance of the Head Girl's instructions. Ron stepped forward an anxious look upon his face. "Hermione," he ventured, wary of upsetting his girlfriend but conscious of his sister's need. "Can't you just give her a few more moments?" Hermione carried on as if Ron hadn't spoken and started to pull at Ginny's arms. "It's for the best, Ginny," her tone softer than before, but still insistent. She responded by lashing out with one arm and screaming abuse at the older girl. "Hermione Granger, why don't you just f--" Her voice stopped mid sentence, her attention inexplicably drawn back to the young man in her arms. Suddenly his body started to spasm and he drew a ragged breath before slumping against her. As she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, she felt his chest rise and fall. Short shallow breaths. Not enough for the living, but enough for life. In spite of the warmth of the day, she shivered as she recalled the terror that filled her when she thought he was dead. That was the last time she had been forced to contemplate life apart from Harry, and although the raven-haired young man was still alive, she was not looking forward to life without him by her side. More than anything she was dreading trying to sleep without him. Okay, she had not been able to sleep with him as she had wished at The Burrow, but the fact that he slept in Percy's old room beneath her had allowed her to sleep most nights. And those times when nightmares took over, Harry was always on hand to comfort her. Now he was in Cumbria, his mind focussed on making Puddlemere's squad and not on her. Ah well, thought Ginny letting out a long sigh. No use wallowing. She sat underneath the tree for a few more moments letting her mind drift, enjoying the peace that the location always brought her. It was their place and their spot. She took comfort in that and for a few moments pictured herself under its dappled shade as Harry came running towards her proudly proclaiming that he'd made the team. There you go; she observed wishing your life away. The end of the month couldn't come soon enough for her. In the meantime she just had to get on with things and hope that the days would pass quickly. She rose, dusted the dried grass from off her denim skirt and wandered back to the house to see what chores her mother had left for her. ~*~ Harry had risen early to finish packing his bags before his Portkey to The Lake District activated at ten o'clock. He had taken the precaution of buying some extra T-shirts and socks, assuming that Ginny would have rifled through his chest of drawers before his departure from The Burrow. Sure enough, he found that several pairs of socks and not a few T-shirts had disappeared, along with two pairs of his summer pyjamas. Not that Harry minded; as far he was concerned, she was welcome to anything he possessed. He was worried to be leaving Ginny, especially after last night's episode with Riddle. Harry knew that Ginny was tough; she had proven that time and time again. But he worried about the long term effects of having Voldemort in her head. True, the memory of the sixteen year old Tom Riddle was not the same as having the real thing loose in your head, but the events of the Chamber had proved that, even as a memory, Voldemort was dangerous. Much as he wished Ginny would let him help, he knew that her pride wouldn't let her ask him. Well, she's no longer a child, Harry reminded himself, it's her choice to make and she won't thank me for interfering. After one last check to make sure that he had everything, he grabbed hold of his trunk and waited for the Portkey to activate. Bang on ten o'clock, Harry felt that familiar tug from behind his navel as his feet left the ground and he sped forward in a swirl of colour and a rush of wind. Bracing himself for the landing, he bent his knees in anticipation of the sudden contact with the ground. With a loud thud, Harry and his trunk arrived in heap in Puddlemere, much to the amusement of his former Gryffindor team mate, Oliver Wood, who was there to greet him. "Like all the greats; clumsier than a three legged Erumpent on land, but soars like a Phoenix in the sky. Welcome to Puddlemere, Harry Potter." Harry looked up from his undignified position on the ground to see the hazy outline of the former Gryffindor extending his hand to him. He cast around for his glasses and to his annoyance, he found that they were stuck under the corner of his trunk, the lenses shattered by its impact. Struggling to his feet he gave an apologetic shrug to Wood. "They're easily repairable, done it loads of time before." "Well, we'll have to change that, Harry, if you're going to play with the pros. It's either contacts or eye potion; specs are too much of an unknown quantity for the professional game." Harry was pleased to note that Wood's tone was businesslike and not patronising. The last thing Harry wanted was to be treated either as a special case or as a celebrity in search of a bit of excitement. If Wood wasn't going to treat him seriously, then he was certain that none of the rest of the team would. Squinting to focus on Wood's face, Harry tried to appear informed. "Wouldn't it be best to wait until I've made the roster before sorting all that out?" "No, Harry," he said the faintest hint of condescension touching his voice. "If, by some miracle, you manage to scrape onto the roster, then you will still have a lot of catching up to do. Believe me, you will need every advantage that you can muster. The potion does take a couple of weeks to brew so I think it'll be contacts for you to start with. I'll see that you get the Apparition coordinates for the optician this afternoon." Pausing to allow Harry time to get to his feet and repair his mangled glasses, Wood led the young man away from the Apparition point and up a narrow gravel path. Harry followed, his charmed trunk now floating and following him obediently like a well trained dog. As they approached the brow of the hill, a red sandstone ruin appeared; an incongruous sight on the edge of the wide flattened summit. Upon reaching the first crumbling wall, the air in front of him shimmered and an entirely different building manifested itself. Harry wasn't sure what he had expected, but the stadium that loomed in front of him was light years removed from the wooden stadium at Hogwarts. Built of red St Bees Sandstone, the Puddlemere United stadium was an impressive sight. Its towering walls curved into the distance, reminding Harry more of an amphitheatre that a sports stadium. Wood noticed his expression and laughed. "It impressed me too when I first arrived, Harry. And before you ask, the Muggles don't know it's here, though I think that's helped by the large numbers of magical folk in the area as well as the Muggle repelling charms." "It's certainly impressive," said Harry with his mind more on the approaching sandstone building than the Puddlemere captain. "We'll give you a stadium tour some other time, Harry," Wood smirked, "but first we need to get you settled, and then meet your team mates and then the press." "The press?" groaned Harry. "I'm meeting the press?" His voice showed more than a hint of anger. "Why?" "Why? Why do you think, Harry?" Wood's tone had lost its earlier friendliness. "You didn't think that the team would invite you to a trial and not let the press know, did you?" The Puddlemere captain was clearly incredulous that it hadn't occurred to Harry that the press would be eager to know of Harry's arrival. "Well," he sighed, acknowledging the inevitability of it all, "I would have liked to have kept it quiet, at least until I was actually on the team." "I understand that, Harry," said Wood in a slightly more sympathetic tone, "and all things being equal that would be the case, but being honest with you, Harry, it was harder than I'd led you to believe to get you a trial. I mean, don't get me wrong, I think you're great and have all the potential to be a starter, but I had to use the "Boy-Who-Lived" card to get you a trial. Apparently an unbeaten record, Dementors excepted, wasn't good enough for them." Harry wondered who the 'them' were and if Wood and his 'catch the snitch or die trying' was the moderate in all this, how would he ever fulfil their expectations? Fighting the urge to head back to the Apparition point and admit it was all a mistake, he reluctantly agreed with the older man. "Okay," he conceded, "but just this once, unless of course it's post game and I've played." "Well all that will be specified in the contract that you sign." "And when do I sign that?" Harry asked. Although it was obvious to him now, it had never occurred to him that he would get paid for playing, let alone have to worry about contracts. "Once it's agreed," said Wood matter of factly. "When do we do that?" Harry asked, not really sure if he actually wanted Wood to answer. He'd been in Puddlemere less than fifteen minutes and already he felt like his life was spiralling out of control. "Harry," Wood replied letting out a long sigh. The irritation in his voice was evident and Harry got the feeling that, once again, he had missed something that should have been obvious to him. "Contracts for people like you, take forever. The club has to meet with your agent and..." "What agent? I don't have an agent." Harry was getting annoyed. What he had envisaged as a stress-free alternative to the intensity of Auror training, or the monotony of life behind a Ministry desk, was rapidly becoming an overly complex nightmare. "If you take my advice, Harry," Wood said in an almost fatherly tone, "you need to get one and get one fast." "I suppose so," said Harry, letting out a sigh of exasperation. "Listen, Oliver, I'm not in this for the money, so can't I just sign a standard contract or something? You know, no fancy bits?" There was a slightly pleading tone to his voice, but it couldn't be helped. He had to find a way to solve the matter of his contract without too much fuss. "I'll see what I can do for you, but no promises. Right," said Wood his tone altogether brighter, "if we're done, let's get you off to your digs and then back to the stadium to meet the team." Wood led Harry to a small house, a stone's throw away from the end of the ground. Nestling amongst a grove of oak trees was a two story house built of the same red sandstone as the stadium. The house had no garden, but the walls around the door were covered in the pink and yellow flowers of Clematis. Each of the four windows was partly obscured by a riot of colour that exploded from the plain wooden window boxes. Outside of the dwelling stood the four people who would look after him for the next two weeks. "Harry," said Wood, "I'd like you to meet our Kit Manager, Paul Heckingbottom, his wife, Susan, and his two lovely daughters, Kathryn and Katrina." Harry surveyed the man mountain in front of him. Broad shouldered and thickset, his craggy face had the weathered look of a man who had spent his life out-of-doors. His top lip was covered by a thick bushy moustache that had been meticulously trimmed. In stark contrast, what remained of his unkempt brown hair was swept over his bald head in a precarious comb-over. Harry felt slightly intimidated and hesitated as the kit manager proffered his large meaty hand. All sense of inferiority disappeared as soon as the man spoke. "Don't be shy, Harry, we're all friends here." Heckingbottom spoke with an obvious Birmingham accent, which had been tempered by his time in the North of England. He knew he was just manifesting his prejudices, but Harry always thought that people from the West Midlands sounded slightly stupid. The nasal accent lacked the softness of the often derided West Country lilt and it wasn't as agricultural as that found in Norfolk. But Harry couldn't help but feel that Brummies had been at the end of the queue when God was handing out dialects. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Heckingbottom," said Harry, taking the man's large hand. He winced as Heckingbottom closed his powerful fingers around his hand and did his best to crush it. Trying to be the Alpha Male, thought Harry, resisting the urge to display any sign of the pain he felt. Harry had encountered enough bullies to know that any show of strength was a big bluff and he suspected that around the house, away from the competitive gaze of the team, Paul Heckingbottom was quite a pleasant wizard. "Now, now, Paulie," chimed Mrs Heckingbottom, "don't hog Harry all to yourself." By contrast, her voice betrayed no particular accent, leading Harry to wonder how the two had met. The big man reluctantly released Harry's hand and before the young wizard could do anything about the pain he felt, it was snatched up by Mrs Heckingbottom. "Delighted to meet you," she beamed. Her grip was firm, but not overly so, giving the impression that she was a woman who was very much in control and didn't need to brag about it. Her skin was soft, but Harry could feel calluses that even wizarding hand cream couldn't remove. In contrast to her husband's build she was a tall, willowy woman with jet black hair that hung down her back in long single braid. "We've so looked forward to meeting you." She shook his hand with an enthusiasm that unnerved him, especially when the handshaking went on for a full minute. "We hope you'll be very happy during your stay with us," she said, finally releasing his now aching hand. Her blue eyes sparkled and her face filled with pride as she turned to the two young women standing slightly behind her. She pulled at Harry's elbow to ensure he followed her and didn't miss out on the pleasure of meeting her pride and joy. "May I introduce my two daughters, Kathryn and Katrina?" Harry shyly shook the hands of the two young women, trying his best to avoid any lingering eye contact. "Hello, Harry, I'm Katrina," the youngest one simpered. Her hand was large, but her grip was almost nonexistent, as if contact with The Famous Harry Potter was too much for her young soul to bear. Risking a glance at her face, Harry saw a girl for whom all her dreams had come true in this one meeting. Harry judged that she was about the same age as Ginny, but there the similarity ended. From her build and complexion she took after her father rather than her mother. Her hair a deep brown rather than her mother's jet black, her build stocky rather than slender. In truth she was not unattractive, but that was a moot point as Ginny was waiting for him back at The Burrow. "Erm...pleasure," mumbled Harry, unsure as to how to respond to such open adoration. She released his hand quickly and put her fingers on her lips as she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Harry turned to her sister, praying that she would display some degree of maturity. Kathryn was taller than her sister with short dark brown hair and her mother's blue eyes. Harry's wish that she act with more maturity than her sister was granted, but not in the manner he would have chosen. "Hello, Harry," echoed the elder girl in a voice that spoke of greater confidence and indeed greater purpose. She held his hand firmly as if trying to ensure that after waiting this long, her prize wasn't going to get away from her. "I'm really looking forward to getting to know you better," she said in low warm tones that suggested that this girl may not be quite as innocent as her parents would like to believe. She winked at him and let her long fingers caress the back of his hand. "Well... erm... yes, delighted," he mumbled, finally managing to pull his hand from her. "Come on, Harry," roared the Kit Manager slapping him on the back with a force that he supposed was meant to show comradeship. "You'll be seeing plenty of the girls during your stay with us, so don't feel you've got to decide between them now." Harry stared at the man, looking for the hint of mischief that would reassure him that this was all some huge practical joke, but found none. "See you after lunch, Harry," smirked Wood, "that's if you can escape the clutches of your fan club." Harry groaned to himself. This was going to be a long two weeks. ~*~ Harry sat on his small bed, adjusting his blue and gold Quidditch robes before looking around the box room that was going to be his home for the next two weeks. The walls of the small room seemed to press in on him, adding to the pressure that he already felt. His conversation with his captain and the greeting afforded him by his hosts had left him feeling exposed. He was no stranger to pressure; after all he had lived with the threat of Voldemort since the age of eleven, but that pressure had built gradually and he had had first Ron and Hermione, and then, more importantly, Ginny with him. Today he felt very much alone; Ginny felt a lifetime away and not even Hedwig was with him. He let out a long sigh, picked up his broomstick and dragged himself out of his room and into the hallway. As he headed for the front door, he was waylaid by Kathryn. "Hi, Harry," she said enthusiastically, "going to the stadium? Mind if I come with you?" Harry mumbled something about being old enough to find his own way, but he doubted whether the young witch was paying any attention. Shrugging his shoulders he made for the door, wishing she would just go away. "I must say blue and gold do agree with you, but your cloak is a little messed up around the back." Before Harry could say that it didn't matter what state his kit was in, she was fussing around his neck, back and, more worryingly, his backside. Finally reaching the front door, he pulled it open and took in a long deep breath, enjoying the open space, pleased to be free from the confined spaces within. He glanced over his shoulder at Kathryn who was locking the door behind her. "Is that the time?" exclaimed Harry looking at his watch. "Sorry Kathryn, I'm late, see you later." He felt horrible, but he couldn't take any more cloying attention today and ran at full tilt towards the stadium. He found Wood underneath the goals at the home end waiting for him. "Harry, glad you could join us. How's the fan club?" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "Don't ask, Oliver, I'm not sure I can stick it for two weeks." "Get used to it, Harry," Wood said matter of factly, "we all get our fair share of interesting fan mail. Most of the time you're protected from the fans, except before and after a game when you need to be out meeting the people who pay your wages. Oh, and there will always be public appearances for sponsors and charity." He noticed the despondent look on younger man's face. "Cheer up, Harry," laughed Wood, "it's not all glory and broken bones." Seeing his words were having little effect, Wood walked over and put his arm across his shoulder, like a father consoling his son. "Look Harry," he said a hint of mischief in his voice, "if you're good and practise hard, we'll let you break a few bones and spent the night in the medical centre. Janet's not Poppy Pomfrey, but she's very good." "Ha, ha, very funny, Oliver, not." Harry's mood hadn't improved, but a least a smile had briefly graced his lips. "That's better, Harry. Don't want your team mate's first impression of you to be with a face like a wet weekend, do we?" "I suppose not, Oliver," he mumbled, not sure if he wanted to meet anyone else today. The prospect of finding that the Cumbrian chapter of the Harry Potter Fan Club had members in the team filled him with dread. "Less of the 'Oliver', Harry. Round here I'm known as Captain or Skipper. Skip is the most informal it's going to get. Okay, Harry?" "Yeah, sure thing, Skip. Any other titles I need to know?" he asked, slowly coming out of his mood. "I don't want to put my foot in it on my first day." "Yes, I'm glad you asked. The Manager is known as The Boss or The Gaffer. Sometimes Mr Shanklin, if you're lucky." "Never William?" Harry asked mischievously, finally getting back to normal. "If you marry one of his granddaughters, then possibly, and probably not even then." Harry had heard of the legendary Mr Shanklin. On the surface he was just a dour faced Scotsman from the Govan area of Glasgow, but he had a feel for Quidditch, an understanding for the game that transcended mere talent. He was the author of the now infamous quote, "Some people believe Quidditch is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that." With that life or death attitude he had dragged a struggling team up by its bootstraps until they had become the rising stars of the league. Not quite the team to beat, but close. Life or death, thought Harry, no wonder Wood feels at home here. "Come on, Harry, let's go and meet the rest of the misfits who make up this ragtag team." Harry followed Wood as he made his way to the middle of the pitch. He shielded his eyes from the sun and watched his new team mates trace a series of complicated patterns in the sky above him. He was struck not only by the speed at which they moved, but also the control they exhibited in the elaborate twists and turns that made up their aerial ballet. "They're good aren't they, Harry?" "Oh... what? Yes, very good." "I bet you're wondering if you're ever going to get to that standard, aren't you?" Wood didn't wait for an answer. "I felt exactly the same way, Harry. I nearly packed my bags and left on the first day. No one will think any less of you if you don't make the team, Harry. I had the whole preseason and only just made it. Just give it your best shot. You can always come back next year." "There's no way I'm coming back next year," declared Harry trying to muster all the defiance he could. "This is my one shot, and I'm going to give it my best." Wood laughed. "That's the spirit, Harry." Turning from Harry, Wood put his thumb and little finger to his lips and whistled. As if responding to a prearranged signal, one of the players began to descend towards them, landing at a run before coming to a halt in front of him. "Harry, I'd like you meet Pauline, our reserve Keeper." Dismounting from her broom was a tall muscular woman in her mid-thirties with long brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail. Her blue and gold robes were stained with sweat, a testament to both the heat of the day and the hard work she had been putting in. "Yeah and I used to be the first choice until this cocky bugger nicked it from me." There was a smile on her face as she spoke, but it was clear that the loss of the starting spot hurt her deeply. "Now, now Pauline," said Wood, choosing to respond with humour. "Bitterness is not the professional player's friend." "Shut it, Wood," she joked, "when you get to my age you need all the friends you can get. Ignore 'im 'arry, since he got made captain he's been such a plonker, the git." "Ignore her, Harry; she's just a mouthy cow. She talks a good game, but that's all she can do these days. Now clear off, Cope, and let's see if you can keep the Quaffle out just once this session." The woman shot Wood the sort of steely glare Harry had often seen an annoyed Mrs Weasley throw her husband. Satisfied the message had been understood, she kicked off from the ground and back to her training. Although there was no suggestion that she had shown any disrespect for Wood in front of him, Harry wondered what had happened to the 'call me Skip' speech he had given him earlier. Was there one rule for him and a different one for the more experienced players? Or did their easy banter indicate that there was more to the two Keepers' relationship than just Quidditch? Harry spent the next hour being introduced to the rest of the team. Next to greet him were the Beaters; the redheaded brothers Pascal and Didier Renard, recently signed from the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, and the returnees from the previous season, Danielle Murphy and Ertha Pond. The Chasers were a mixed bunch; Hafwen Richards, signed from the Caerphilly Catapults, and Ann-Marie Heatherson late of the Holyhead Harpies, both looked too small to compete at this level. Lloyd Foster and Augustus Barnet were the oldest of the bunch and were approaching the twilight of their careers. Grant Holt and Shalma Khan were the stars of the team. The two chasers had notched up over two hundred points a game between them in the previous season. "So Harry," asked Shalma, "are you going to be the one to make all our hard work finally pay off? I'm not sure I could stand another season like last year." Puddlemere had become notorious as a team who couldn't put the opposition away. They could defend, they could score, but they couldn't catch the Snitch. Harry had chosen them because despite their potential, they had failed to sign a Seeker amongst a number of useful new signings. If he was going to make any team this late on, it was this one. As the Chasers returned to their drills, and the Seekers arrived, he found out why they had struggled. Harry watched as the two men approached. The first man to land was as tall as Harry, but his small frame was packed with muscles. Harry speculated that he was in his mid to late thirties, judging by his grey hair and the crow's feet around his eyes. I really should have checked up on their roster before arriving, thought Harry. Despite his age, the man gave the impression of being someone who looked after his body meticulously. His cheekbones stood proud on his stubble covered face, his gaunt appearance capped by his close cropped hair. The overall impression was of a man who was determined to wring the very last moment from his career. The second man was much younger, probably in his late twenties, and should be at the top of his game. But Harry could see that he was not as fit as he should be, and where the older man was lean and positively buzzed with energy, the younger man was slightly flabby with the hint of a double chin. He gave Harry the impression that he was a man who liked the good life more than the training. Harry wondered if this was the man responsible for Puddlemere's poor season, and more importantly, if he was the man he was here to replace. "Harry," said Wood, his voice displaying none of the pride he had shown whilst introducing the rest of the team. "This," he almost spat the words out, "is your competition." He introduced the older man first. "Harry Potter, this is Albert Lambiner." "Enchante, Monsieur Potter." A warm smile filled the Frenchman's face, deepening the lines around his warm brown eyes. Harry shook the man's hand, taking an instant liking to him. "Albert has been with us for nearly ten seasons," Wood informed him, "and, according to his contract, will make it to twelve. We'll see." Both men laughed, but Harry knew that professional sport was not ruled by sentiment and that no one was interested in what you had done; only what you could do. "And this," said Wood, not bothering to hide his contempt, "is the current incumbent Jeremy Pollock." The man's fleshy face betrayed no emotions: Harry had had warmer greetings from Professor Snape. "Charmed," he said in a disinterested voice, letting Harry know how unimpressed he was. He offered no hand of friendship and Harry was pleased not to have to force a friendly greeting. "However," stated Wood puffing up his chest as if to deliver a lecture, "if he wants to keep his starting position, he is going to have to do a lot better than last season. Aren't you, Jeremy?" The undertones in Wood's voice made it clear that the Puddlemere Captain didn't think much of Jeremy Pollock and Harry could sense that the dislike was mutual. "Well I am the best you've got, Oliver," the man responded in a voice that spoke of old money and privilege, "and no offence to our famous friend here, but I am the best you're going to get this late on. I mean, who is going to up sticks and transfer at this stage of the season? If you want to boot me out, old fruit, you'd best get those jonnies in the front office to get their act together sooner rather than later." "Well, my fun loving friend, the workings of the front office jonnies will have to remain a mystery to you for a little while longer. As it is, you look more like Ludo Bagman than a professional player." "Well, Bagman was one of the best, Skipper." "Yes, Pollock," the burly keeper said pointedly, stepping closer so that he was almost nose to nose with the Seeker, "but he was a Beater and they are always a sandwich short of a picnic. Now get your lardy arse back on that broom and back into the sky." Pollock shrugged his shoulders and looked at Harry with distain. "Good luck, Potter. Let's see how you get on competing with men rather than boys." Harry watched the man disappear into the sky, turning recent events over in his mind. It had never occurred to him that he would have to deal with the internal politics of the team. He groaned inwardly. Why is nothing in my life simple? The confrontation over, Wood turned to Harry, a smile back on his face. "I'll leave you in the capable hands of our affable grenouille here. I have to get back to the office. Albert, put Harry through some basic drills, but try and keep him alive, eh?" As Wood disappeared, Albert came over and put his arm around Harry. "Do not worry mon ami, Monsieur Popaul, will be out on 'is ear, if he carries on like that. Venez ici, we have work to do; le Vif d'Or n'attendra pas, même 'arry Potter." The rest of the afternoon passed very quickly. Jeremy Pollock may have been out of shape but he knew how to fly a broom. The Firefly Signature brooms that Puddlemere were using and Harry's Firebolt were so far apart in broomstick technology that he was frequently left stranded whenever the others turned or dived. He could tell that he wasn't that far behind in terms of talent, but experience and a better broom meant that he really was a boy amongst men. He continued to practise long after the others had gone to the changing rooms, trying to find an extra bit of speed or a tighter turn, anything to close the yawning gap between him and the others. As the sun's golden orb began to touch the hills around the stadium, Wood finally called him down. "Don't worry, Harry," Wood said cheerily, "once you get your new broom, things will get a lot easier." "And when will that be?" Harry tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice but his whole body spoke of defeat. "When you make the team, of course!" Wood laughed loudly, as if the whole thing was one great big joke. Harry's muscles ached and the last thing he wanted to do was laugh. Even more depressing was the fact that he still had a press conference to attend. "When is the press conference, Skip?" "Press conference?" Wood laughed. "That was hours ago." "Wasn't I supposed to be there?" "Originally yes, but we decided to leave the announcement of your arrival until Monday. Come on, Harry, the changing rooms will be shut if you don't get a move on." Harry followed him off the pitch and towards the showers, dragging his broom behind him, wondering what the hell he had got himself into. ~*~ Sunday was just as exhausting for Harry and just as dissatisfying. Pollock, or Pillock as he was invariably called by his team mates, continued to rub Harry's face in it at every opportunity. "Not as easy now you've got to play against adults, is it, boy?" Harry was tempted to show him just what this 'boy' could do, but he was reminded of the way that Draco Malfoy would taunt him on the Hogwarts Express each year and was mindful to ignore him. He noticed that Albert kept a close eye on the exchanges and nodded sagely to Harry each time he refused to rise to the bait. Perhaps he had been right, he was here to replace the man? It struck Harry as a little strange that they should look to replace an experienced player with someone as inexperienced as him. There was obviously something more to this than met the eye. Was he no more than a stalking horse, there to provoke the starter into getting his act together? Towards the end of the practise Albert called him over. "Eh! Vif d'Or, venez ici." "Qu'est-ce Albert?" The Frenchman nodded his approval at Harry's accent and continued. "Prenez mon balai, and show le débile what you're capable of." Harry took the proffered broom and, after a few seconds admiring the craftsmanship, he took off after Pollock. As the ground retreated below him and the wind rushed through his hair, Harry was reminded of the first time he'd flown on his Nimbus 2000. The difference between this broom and his Firebolt was as marked as the difference had been between the school brooms and the Nimbus. The acceleration was frightening and if he hadn't have had to face Voldemort he would have called the first dive he took the scariest thing in his life. However, after a few more dives and turns he felt as if he'd never ridden anything else and began to enjoy himself trying to push the broom to its limits. After five minutes of hair-raising manoeuvres, he had still not tapped into the broom's full potential and he doubted that, barring a death wish, he ever would. Not a clever thought with Wood around, thought Harry. He looked around in search of the Snitch, but all he could see was Pollock circling round above him. He glanced down at the pitch and saw that his team mates had all congregated to watch the forthcoming spectacle. Well best not disappoint them, Harry thought. He leaned back on the broom and shot upwards joining his rival at the same altitude. Harry had learned that the Snitch in the professional game was trickier than the ones he'd used at school. They were faster and more elusive, and he had yet to catch one even when training solo. "Glad you could join me, Potter- not too scary for you up here? It's a bit high, wouldn't want you to fall, would we? After all there are no friendly Headmasters watching to ease your fall." Harry smiled at him, refusing to be bullied by the man. "Thanks for your concern, Jeremy. I'll try and remember that." Over the man's shoulder he spied the tell tale streak of yellow as the Snitch tore through the sky behind him. "I'd love to stay and chat, but..." Harry sped off at breakneck speed after the Snitch. He was still in awe of the acceleration that the broom could produce and he soon surpassed the speed he had used earlier in the afternoon. His quarry started to zig and zag wildly, and Harry was relieved to find that the broom turned as well at high speed as it did at a more sedate pace. He was so focused on his prey that he had forgotten all about his adversary until he was nearly unseated by a less than gentlemanly shoulder charge. "Sorry, Potter! Didn't see you there; too busy focussing on the main prize. Professional vanity, you know." Harry recovered his grip, hauled himself back onto his broom and sped off after his foe, determined not to be humiliated on his first full day at training. He flattened himself against the handle, trying to wring every ounce of speed from the Firefly. He could see that he was gaining on the older man, but not quickly enough to catch the Snitch before him. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though Harry and decided that for once he would take seriously Wood's immortal phrase "Catch the Snitch or die trying." Trusting in the broom's stability charms to prevent a very nasty accident, Harry stretched his body out so as to lie flat on the broom. He had once watched Muggle cyclists on telly, hanging over their handle bars to reduce their profile whilst hurtling down a mountain, and now he hoped to do the same. Here goes nothing. Harry's new position helped with his speed and soon the gap was closing rapidly, helped by the Snitch beginning to dance around. He willed every ounce of acceleration from le balai, desperate to beat Pollock. The Snitch dived and Harry and his rival both swooped down after it. He was close enough to hear the flutter of its tiny wings, but he knew that wouldn't be enough as he could see the blond-haired man's arm reaching out to grab it. Harry had now drawn along side and attempted to barge Pollock off the same way he had been. The man saw it coming and as Harry leaned in, his rival's elbow flew upwards and caught him on the chin, causing him to bite his tongue. Harry winced in pain but an advantage of having fought and won a war is that he had learned that pain could be forgotten if one really wanted to do so. Banishing the sensation from his mind, he focused on the Snitch and the now rapidly approaching ground. Harry had never played against a Seeker who was as reckless as he was, not even Ginny. Pollock's eyes remained fixed on the prize and not on the ground as he tried to complete the catch and pull up. As the ground raced up to meet them, the Snitch ended its descent and streaked across the ground brushing the blades of grass as it did so. Pollock was too late to adjust and ploughed into the ground before the breaking charm could do anything more than ensure that his crash would not be fatal. Harry faired little better, despite noticing the Snitch's change of direction before his rival. He had started to pull up, but his hope of completing the manoeuvre was dashed as he was hit in the shoulder by a large splinter of rosewood as Pollock's Firefly disintegrated on impact. Shocked by the searing pain and thrown by the force of the impact, Harry spiralled away from the scene before corkscrewing across the grass, finally coming to a halt in a crumpled heap fifty yards from his rival. Before he lost consciousness, he became aware of the Snitch fluttering above him as if mocking his schoolboy efforts to play a man's game. ~*~ It was a familiar feeling; a hospital bed, bright lights, people talking--no, arguing. He could almost imagine that he was back in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, surrounded by his friends. But he knew that he wasn't and, more importantly, he knew that he was on unfamiliar ground. One thing his advanced defence training had taught him was to use very advantage you could. So he kept his eyes shut and continued to listen. Not that he wanted to rejoin the land of the living. His whole body ached; even breathing caused him to wince in agony. If anyone had given him any painkilling potions they had surely worn off. His left shoulder and arm, together with the whole of his right leg, throbbed with such an intense pain it caused his eyes to water. The only good thing about the throbbing was that it told him he was alive and that someone had mended his broken bones. Not much else was right in his world. He suspected that he knew the reason for the discussion. He'd been caught out showing off and Wood or Albert was probably trying to stop the manager from throwing him off the team. Well done, Potter! You survived less that one full day before letting everyone down. Once you've completed your convalescence you'll be packed of to... to where? Although he hadn't burnt his bridges with the Weasleys, he had been very insistent that he was moving out and had made a show of his newfound independence. Suddenly the thought of living on his own seemed very unattractive and he was left to contemplate his impetuousness. Still it would be a few days, given his injuries, before he moved out of the Heckingbottoms and he could take his time before sorting his future out. Harry froze. The Heckingbottoms! He groaned as he imagined Katrina and Kathryn rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of being able to play doctors and nurses with him. Where was Ginny when you needed her? The raging argument involved Albert, Wood and a Scots voice he didn't recognise. Presumably it was the manager, Mr Shanklin. He wondered why Pollock was not involved, but he reasoned that he was in the medical centre too. Or dead. Harry had stopped feeling guilty about the deaths of those around him a long time ago. It wasn't that his heart had become hardened; he'd cried at enough funerals to prove that, but long-term grief was not a luxury that he could afford during the war. Instead he'd developed a curious detachment where he could observe his grief almost as a third party. Bizarre as it was, it had enabled him to avoid a repeat of his fifth year and left him less vulnerable to Voldemort's efforts to infiltrate his mind. He also knew that Ginny had been instrumental in his change of attitude. Yes, Potter, another thing you owe her for. "Wha' is i' wid thoo people, eh?" the voice continued. "Thoo persuade me agains' me better judgemen' ter sign this lad an' then thoo dee yoower bes' ter kill him." The voice didn't shout, but Harry could sense the anger and frustration contained in every syllable. "We didn't try and kill him," said a voice Harry recognised as Wood's. "Someone decided that they would give Harry a pro-broomstick to kill himself on." "A though' A tel' thoo tha' 'e rode 'is own broom until 'e made the team, like. Which divvy is responsible, eh?" Silence filled the room. Everyone knew who had given him the broom, but they were reluctant to land the Frenchman in it. Finally, it was Albert himself who spoke. "Cetait moi, I gave it to 'im. He certainly know how to ride it. Caught le débile up wiz out a problem. He pulled up in time az well. It woz only when ee got 'it wiz un morceau de balai zat ee 'ad un problem." "Is this true, eh?" asked the unknown voice. "Yes, Mr Snoad," replied Wood. "Well what's yoower worry lad? If the charver can fly, that's wan' we wan' isn't i', eh? Didn't thoo tell me 'e wuz gan ter be a grea', eh?" "Yes, Mr Snoad, he is going to be a great." "Well jus' mek sure thoo dee a better job ov keepin' him alive fre noo on, like eh. Come on William, let's leave this lo' wid Potter, like." Harry heard two sets of footsteps making their way out of the room and down the stairs. "It's okay, Harry," said Wood his voice full of amusement, "he's gone now." Harry tentatively opened one eye to see the burly keeper standing at the end of his bed grinning from ear to ear. Next to him was Albert, shaking his head, an amused smile breaking into a soft chuckle. As the coast was clear he put on his glasses and sat up, wincing as he did so. "What was that all about?" he gagged as he spoke. What had they given him? His mouth felt like Snape had used it to wash his hair in it. "I think you've passed your first test, Harry," said Wood, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. "Du Bois is right, mon ami, it will get easier from now on." "Blooming well hope so," replied Harry fighting his gag reflex. What had they given him? "I can't go on giving my body this sort of punishment for much longer." "The staff have stuffed you to the gills with potions; your broken bones are healed, although they will be sore for the next twelve hours so. By Tuesday you should be fit enough to train again." Wood leaned in closer, his smile widening into an open smile. "Didn't I tell you, Harry, that if you trained hard then we'd let you spend some time with Nurse Janet?" "If I've passed my first test, will I get my own Firefly?" "Just be thankful that Snoad doesn't charge you for the broken one. Now get some sleep and we'll see you tomorrow."
A/N Puddlemere We don't know where Puddlemere is, so I've placed it in the Lake District in NW England. Its fairly remote so fits with where a team could be. A few pieces of French vocab. le Vif d'Or - The Golden Snitch un balai - broom, brush débile - weak, feeble, frail, sickly, poor grenouille - Frog Popaul - I'll leave this to your imagination Players A fair number of the women in the team take their names from the Carlton Athletic women's team. It's my way of saying thank you to them for the coaching my daughter has received. Take a bow Pauline Cope, Ertha Pond, Danielle Murphy and Ann-Marie Heatherson. William Shanklin AKA Bill Shankly. If you have to ask who is, then nothing I can say here will mean anything to you. Harold Snoad The Cumbrian accent comes from an online translator I found. If you are from that neck of the woods and cringe when you read his speech then feel free to put me right. And Finally... Thanks to my pre-beta Natbag and my site betas Cera and Xiao Xiao. And last and by no means least, Elsielann, who has always gone the extra mile.
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