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Harry Potter
"Right," Harry said as they gathered in a loose circle on the grass. "We need to assign positions. Three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, and I'll be Seeker."
"I'll take Chaser," Draco announced immediately, as though this had been predetermined by divine mandate. "I've been flying since I was six—did I mention that? Father had professional instructors come to the manor every summer. I know the basic offensive formations."
"You mentioned it," Theodore said dryly. "Several times. This morning, in fact."
Draco's ears turned pink, but he pressed on. "The point is, I've got experience. Put me at Chaser."
Harry nodded. That made sense. Draco's boasting aside, he genuinely had more flying experience than most of them. "Alright, you're Chaser. Who else?"
"I'll do it," Blaise said with a casual shrug. "I'm decent with a broom. Not brilliant, but I probably won't fall off and embarrass us all."
"You're in. One more Chaser."
Tracey Davis raised her hand tentatively. "I'll try? I mean, someone has to, right? And I'd rather be trying to score points than getting hit by those iron ball things."
"Bludgers," Draco supplied helpfully.
"Whatever they're called, I don't want them near me," Tracey said firmly. "So, Chaser. Final answer."
Harry looked at Theodore. "What about you?"
Theodore adjusted his imaginary spectacles. "I'll take Keeper. Seems appropriately strategic. I get to watch the entire pitch, analyze their patterns, and make defensive decisions. Plus, I don't have to chase anyone."
"You're Keeper."
That left Beaters and the most problematic position of all: Goyle and Crabbe would need to swing bats at iron balls while flying. Harry watched Goyle straighten with obvious determination.
"I'll be a Beater," Goyle said determinedly. "I'm strong. I can hit things. And..." he paused, then added with surprising insight, "someone needs to protect you while you're looking for the Snitch."
"Thank you, Greg. You'll be excellent."
Everyone turned to look at Crabbe.
The larger boy had gone pale, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I... I don't think I should..."
"Vincent," Harry said gently, but Crabbe was already shaking his head.
"I don't like heights," Crabbe blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "Not like this. Flying lessons are one thing—we stay close to the ground. But a real match?" He looked up at where the Slytherin team was circling overhead, easily thirty or forty feet up. "That's different. What if I fall? What if I mess everything up?"
The others exchanged uncomfortable glances. They needed seven players, and they only had seven people. There was no alternative, no substitute waiting on the bench.
Harry made a decision. "Everyone else, start warming up. Try some basic maneuvers, get comfortable with the brooms. Vincent, come with me for a minute."
He led Crabbe away from the group, toward the edge of the pitch where they could talk privately. Behind them, he could hear Draco organizing the others: "Right, mount up everyone. Goyle, try swinging that bat a few times..."
When they were alone, Harry turned to face Crabbe properly. The boy was nearly as tall as Harry despite being the same age, built like a young ox, but right now he looked small and frightened.
"Vincent," Harry began, keeping his voice calm and steady. "I need you. The team needs you."
"But what if I fall?" Crabbe's voice was barely above a whisper. "What if I can't do it? What if everyone's counting on me and I just... freeze up there? My grandfather would skin me alive."
"Do you remember when Mulciber cornered us?" Harry asked. "That first week?"
Crabbe nodded slowly.
"You and the others could have just stayed quiet. Could have let me handle it alone. But you didn't." Harry met Crabbe's eyes directly. "And Greg—he stood between me and five fourth-years. That took real courage, Vincent. The kind of courage that matters."
"That was different," Crabbe protested weakly. "That was just standing there."
"No," Harry corrected firmly. "That was choosing to stand with someone when it would've been easier not to. That's what teammates do. And that's what we'll do for you now." He gestured back toward where their makeshift team was attempting to fly in formation. "If you fall, we catch you. That's what teammates do."
Crabbe looked at the ground.
"This is just flying," Harry continued, softer now. "Just you, a broom, and a bat. You're braver than you think, Vincent. I know you are. Everyone who saw you stand up to Mulciber knows you are."
"I'm not brave, not even cunning," Crabbe mumbled. "Greg's the brave one...which is a little weird."
"You're both brave," Harry said simply. "Just in different ways. Greg's brave in the moment—he acts without thinking. But you? You think about all the scary things that could happen, all the ways it could go wrong... and then you do it anyway. That's a different kind of courage. Maybe a harder kind."
Crabbe's head came up slightly, surprise flickering across his features like he'd never considered that perspective before.
"I won't lie to you," Harry said. "You might fall. We all might. Those Bludgers are going to be coming at us, and Flint's team is much better than we are. But Vincent..." he paused, making sure Crabbe was really listening. "I asked you because I trust you. Not because I don't have a choice. Because I genuinely believe you can do this."
For a long moment, Crabbe just stared at him. Then, slowly, something shifted in his expression. Not confidence, exactly, but maybe the ghost of it. The possibility that maybe Harry was right.
"Only because you asked," Crabbe said finally. "If I die up there, you better feel really guilty."
Harry grinned. "Deal. Come on, let's go join the others before Draco reorganizes them into some overly complicated formation his father once mentioned."
They walked back to where their team was attempting to fly in something resembling coordination. Draco was indeed trying to arrange them into a triangle pattern, gesturing wildly while maintaining his hover at about fifteen feet.
"Vincent!" Goyle called happily when he spotted them. "You're doing it?"
"Apparently," Crabbe replied, trying to sound grumpy but failing to hide his small smile.
Harry whistled to get everyone's attention. "Alright, listen up! Strategy time."
They descended and reformed their circle, all seven of them now, looking at Harry.
"They're going to demolish us in terms of points," Harry said bluntly. No point sugarcoating it. "We're not trained. Most of us have only been on brooms for flying lessons. They've been playing together for years."
"So why are we doing this again?" Blaise asked, though his tone was more amused than concerned.
"Because," Theodore said slowly, "the only way we win is if Harry catches the Snitch. Everything else is just... buying time."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed. "A Snitch catch is worth a hundred and fifty points and ends the game. So your job isn't to beat them at their own game—it's to keep me in the air and minimize their score while I hunt."
"What if they target you specifically?" Draco asked. "Flint said they'd play seriously. They could send Bludgers at you, block your vision..."
Harry's smile turned sharp. "Then they're not paying attention to the Quaffle. Use it. If their Beaters are focused on me, our Chasers have more freedom. If their Seeker's worried about what I'm doing instead of finding the Snitch himself, I've already won."
"That's actually pretty clever," Tracey admitted.
"I've been reading Quidditch strategy books," Harry said with a slight shrug. "Basic tactics. Chasers, try to maintain a triangle formation when you have the Quaffle—it creates passing options and makes you harder to defend. Theodore, watch how they shot, and find an opportunity. Goyle, Crabbe—your job is simple. Keep the Bludgers away from me and our Chasers if you can."
"And if we can't?" Crabbe asked nervously.
"Then you yell 'BLUDGER' really loud and hope we're paying attention," Harry replied pragmatically.
From the stands, Daphne's voice carried across the pitch. "Don't get killed, Potter! I refuse to explain to Professor Snape how our best Charms student died playing unauthorized Quidditch!"
Harry looked up and waved. "No promises!"
"Mount your brooms," Flint's voice boomed from where the Slytherin team had been watching this strategy session with various expressions of amusement. "We're burning daylight, and I want to see what you've actually got!"
Harry's team mounted up, the old school brooms. Across from them, the Slytherin team floated on much nicer equipment.
A figure in referee's robes had appeared at the side of the pitch, Madam Hooch; someone must have fetched her. She strode to the center with a trunk containing the game balls, her hawk-yellow eyes sweeping over both teams.
"I'll be refereeing this match," she announced. "Standard Quidditch rules apply. I expect clean play from both sides—that means you, Flint. They're first-years."
"We'll go easy on them," Flint replied, but his grin suggested 'easy' was a relative term. "Mostly."
His team chuckled.
"Mr. Potter," Hooch said, fixing him with an intense stare. "I heard about your catch earlier. Twenty-nine seconds on a school broom. Impressive. Let's see if you can replicate that under pressure."
"I'll do my best, Professor."
"See that you do." She turned to address both teams. "I want a clean game. Excessive force will result in penalties. Attempts to injure will result in immediate disqualification and detention. Am I clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, Madam Hooch" followed.
"Excellent." She opened the trunk, revealing the Quaffle, the two Bludgers straining against their restraints, and the Golden Snitch hovering in its compartment. "Captains, shake hands."
Harry and Flint flew to meet in the center.
"Good luck, Potter," Flint said quietly. "You're going to need it."
"Thanks," Harry replied with a slight smile. "But I tend to make my own luck."
They separated, returning to their teams. Harry could feel his heart pounding now, adrenaline singing through his veins. This was it. The moment everything either came together or fell apart spectacularly.
"Everyone ready?" he asked his team.
Nervous nods all around. Even Draco looked uncertain now that the reality of playing against actual competition was setting in.
"Remember," Harry said one last time. "Keep me flying, keep them from scoring too much. We can do this."
"And if we can't?" Blaise asked.
Harry's grin turned wild. "Then at least we'll look impressive failing."
Madam Hooch's whistle shrilled across the pitch.
"Mount your brooms!"
Madam Hooch mounted her own broom, hovering at the center line between the two teams. Her hand rested on the trunk containing the game balls, and Harry could see the Golden Snitch's wings fluttering against its confinement.
"On my whistle," she called, her voice carrying across the pitch. "Three... two... one..."
The whistle's shrill blast cut through the autumn air.
Hooch released the balls in rapid succession. The Bludgers shot out like cannonballs, immediately beginning their chaotic dance through the air. The Quaffle rose. And the Snitch, that tiny golden promise of victory, hovered for one perfect moment before vanishing into the grey sky.
Harry kicked off hard. Around him, both teams exploded into motion.
He'd barely climbed twenty feet when he heard the unmistakable sound of the Quaffle being caught, followed by Pucey's voice: "Got it!"
The older Chaser moved between Harry's teammates like they were standing still. Draco tried to intercept, but Pucey feinted left, then right, leaving the first-year grasping at empty air.
Theodore was positioned in front of the goals, his face set with concentration as he tried to predict where Pucey would shoot. But the third-year barely seemed to aim before releasing the Quaffle in a casual toss that nevertheless found the center hoop.
The red ball sailed through.
"Ten points to Slytherin team!" Hooch's voice announced.
Thirty seconds. They'd lasted thirty seconds before conceding.
Harry pushed the disappointment aside, rising higher above the chaos. His job wasn't to stop the other team from scoring—it was to find that Snitch before Bletchley did. Everything else was just noise.
"Comfortable up here, Potter?" A voice came from his right. Miles Bletchley had appeared at his shoulder, close enough that Harry could see the competitive gleam in his eyes. "Not too scared?"
Harry didn't answer, his gaze sweeping the pitch in the search pattern he'd read about. Start high, work down in sections, watch for movement against static backgrounds.
"The silent treatment, is it?" Bletchley continued, apparently determined to be annoying. "Smart. Probably worried you'll bite your tongue off when you crash."
Below them, the game continued its brutal demonstration of skill versus inexperience. Graham Montague had the Quaffle now, passing it to Talbot who dodged around Blaise with embarrassing ease. Blaise tried to follow, but his broom handling was just too slow.
Theodore positioned himself better this time, watching Talbot's eyes rather than the Quaffle. When she shot, he moved to intercept—
But Talbot had faked it. She passed at the last second to Pucey, who was waiting at a completely different angle.
Another goal.
"Twenty-zero, Slytherin team!"
This is going to be ugly, Harry thought, but he kept his expression neutral. Let them run up the score. As long as I catch the Snitch first, none of it matters.
A flash of movement caught his attention—Goyle had actually connected with a Bludger, his massive swing sending the iron ball rocketing toward Montague. The Chaser had to pull up sharply to avoid it, losing possession of the Quaffle.
Draco swooped in, intercepting the loose ball with a whoop of triumph. "Got it! Blaise, Tracey, triangle formation!"
Draco passed to Blaise, who nearly fumbled it but managed to keep control. Blaise passed to Tracey, who—
Got absolutely demolished by Bole, one of the Slytherin Beaters. The massive seventh-year didn't even send a Bludger at her, just flew directly into her path, forcing her to swerve wildly and drop the Quaffle.
Talbot caught it before it fell ten feet.
Twenty seconds later: "Thirty-zero, Slytherin team!"
Harry gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on his own task. Where was that Snitch? He'd seen it disappear near the eastern goalposts, which meant it could be—
There. A glint of gold near the ground, just visible against the brown grass.
Harry didn't hesitate. He tucked into a dive that made his eyes water, the wind screaming past his ears as the ground rushed up to meet him. Behind him, he heard Bletchley's startled curse as the older Seeker scrambled to follow.
Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.
Harry's fingers stretched out, inches from the golden shimmer—
It was a leaf. Just a stupid yellow leaf catching the light.
"Damn it," Harry muttered, pulling up hard. His stomach lurched at the sudden change in direction, and for a moment he thought he might actually be sick. But he maintained control, leveling out about five feet off the ground.
Bletchley pulled up beside him, slightly higher, his face flushed with exertion and what might have been relief. "False alarm?" he asked with false sympathy. "Happens to everyone. Well, everyone who doesn't know what they're—"
The real Snitch shot past Harry's left ear like a golden bullet.
Both Seekers saw it at the same instant. Both reacted at the same instant.
The race was on.
Harry leaned forward until he was nearly lying flat on his broom, coaxing every bit of speed from the old Cleansweep. Beside him, Bletchley did the same, his slightly newer broom giving him a fractional advantage.
The Snitch wasn't fleeing in a straight line—that would be too easy. Instead, it wove through the air like a drunken firefly, zigging left then right, climbing then diving, all while maintaining just enough distance to stay tantalizingly out of reach.
They shot through the main game area, causing both teams to scatter with startled shouts.
"SEEKERS!" Draco's voice carried over the chaos. "Watch out!"
Theodore had to abandon his defensive position entirely as Harry and Bletchley screamed past the goalposts in pursuit of the dancing golden ball. The Snitch seemed to be heading toward the Slytherin scoring area, hugging close to the stands where Daphne and the other non-playing students had gathered to watch.
Bletchley, more experienced at this game, seemed to anticipate where the Snitch would go before it got there. As it banked left around the goalpost, he cut the angle, forcing Harry to choose between colliding with him or banking wider.
Harry banked, giving up precious feet of distance.
The Snitch used their moment of jockeying to escape into open air, climbing rapidly toward the cloud layer. Both Seekers followed, but Bletchley had gained the advantage—he was closer now, maybe two body lengths ahead.
"Give it up, Potter!" Bletchley called over the wind. "You're good for a first-year, but this is real flying!"
Harry's response was to push his broom harder, the wood creaking ominously under the strain.
Below them, the match continued. Harry caught a glimpse of the score—the Slytherin team had to be up by at least forty points now. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that glint of gold ahead, those frantically beating wings, that promise of one hundred fifty points and victory.
Then he heard Tracey's triumphant shout: "YES! I scored! I actually scored!"
Even from this height, Harry could hear the cheers from his friends in the stands. Theodore must have been celebrating too, because Hooch's voice carried up: "Ten points to Potter's team!"
"Nice shot!" That was Flint's voice.
The moment of distraction almost cost Harry everything. The Snitch had changed direction again, now heading back toward the center of the pitch where the main chaos of the game continued. Both Seekers banked hard to follow, but Bletchley still maintained his lead.
The Snitch was heading directly toward where Crabbe was struggling to maintain altitude. Harry had been peripherally aware of his friend's difficulties throughout the match—the way Crabbe stayed away from the main action.
Now, with two Seekers diving directly at him at top speed, Crabbe's fragile control shattered.
"VINCENT!" Goyle's scream cut through every other sound on the pitch.
Crabbe jerked his broom in panic, overcorrected, and suddenly he wasn't flying anymore—he was falling, his broom spiraling away as his hands lost their grip.
One hundred feet up. Fifty. Falling.
Bletchley was closer to the Snitch. If Harry went for it, he'd lose. But if Harry went for Crabbe...
There was no choice. There had never been a choice.
Harry abandoned the Snitch pursuit, pulling into the steepest dive of his life. His right hand released the broom handle, fumbling for his wand while his left hand and his legs maintained control through sheer desperate instinct.
Twenty feet. Crabbe is still falling, his scream of terror piercing the air.
Fifteen feet.
Harry's wand came up, his mind forcing the words out: "WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!"
The magic hit Crabbe like an invisible cushion. His fall didn't stop entirely, Crabbe's body drifting down like a leaf instead of a stone.
Ten feet. Five.
Crabbe hit the ground hard enough that Harry heard the impact, but it was survivable. The larger boy rolled, came to a stop, and lay there gasping.
Harry pulled out of his dive, landing beside Crabbe with enough force that his knees buckled. He stumbled but stayed upright, his wand still clutched in his shaking hand.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrilled across the pitch. "TIME OUT! Everyone down! NOW!"
Players descended from all directions, forming a loose circle around where Crabbe lay.
"Vincent? Vincent, can you hear me?"
Crabbe's eyes opened, focusing slowly on Harry's face. "Did I... did I die?"
"No," Harry said. "Does this look like heaven to you?"
Madam Hooch pushed through the crowd. She ran through diagnostic spells. "Nothing broken," she announced after a tense moment. "Bruised ribs, some scrapes, but no serious damage." Her hawk-yellow eyes fixed on Harry. "You cast a spell mid-flight?"
"I... yes, Professor." Harry's brain was starting to catch up with what he'd done. "Didn't really think about it. Just reacted."
"That's third-year material," Hooch said slowly. "Performing magic while maintaining flight control." She shook her head as if trying to clear it. "Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable."
But it was Flint's voice that made Harry look up. The captain had landed nearby, and he was staring at Harry.
"You chose your teammate over the Snitch," Flint said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"Of course I did." Harry met his gaze directly. "It's just a game. Vincent could have been seriously hurt."
The others looked at him strangely.
Crabbe pushed himself up to sitting, wincing at the movement. "You saved me...Thanks."
Harry helped him to his feet. "Told you we'd catch you, didn't I? You okay to keep going?"
"I want to keep going. You saved me. I'm not going to quit just because I fell."
Madam Hooch, however, had other ideas. She'd finished her diagnostic spells and was now looking at Crabbe with a stern expression. "I appreciate your courage, Mr. Crabbe, but I'm afraid I can't allow you to continue. Those bruised ribs need immediate attention from Madam Pomfrey, and you've had quite a shock. You're done flying for today."
Crabbe's face fell. "But Professor—"
"No arguments," Hooch said firmly. "You showed remarkable bravery getting back on that broom after your fear. Don't diminish that by pushing yourself into injury. Off to the Hospital Wing with you."
"I'll go with him," Goyle volunteered immediately.
Harry felt a surge of gratitude toward his friend. "Thanks, Greg. Make sure he's okay?"
"Course," Goyle said simply.
As Crabbe and Goyle headed toward the castle—Crabbe walking with a slight limp but his head held high—Hooch turned to the remaining players.
"We'll continue with uneven teams," she announced. "Potter's team will play with one fewer Beater and one fewer Chaser. Potter, are you ready to resume?"
Harry took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline still singing through his veins. "Yes, Professor."
He remounted his broom, aware that something had changed. Not just in how others saw him, but in how he felt. He felt...more ready for this. He knew he could do this.
The whistle blew.
Harry shot upward, his eyes already scanning for that flash of gold. Below him, the score had reached sixty to ten in favor of the Slytherin team, but he barely registered it. All that mattered was ending this. Now.
Bletchley was climbing to meet him, and Harry could see the uncertainty in his eyes. He was rattled, probably by what he'd just witnessed, definitely by the way even his own teammates had looked at Harry with something like respect.
The Snitch appeared near the center of the pitch, hovering at about forty feet like it was taunting them. Both Seekers saw it simultaneously.
They raced toward it from opposite directions, their brooms at maximum speed, the wind screaming past Harry's ears loud enough to drown out everything else. Bletchley had years more experience, but Harry was faster—noticeably faster. His lighter weight on the school broom gave him an advantage, and his natural instinct for flight made every movement more efficient.
Harry was going to reach it first.
The older Seeker's hand stretched out desperately, but he was still three body lengths behind—
Then Harry saw it: the way Bletchley's eyes flicked to something behind Harry, the slight widening that preceded a warning shout. A Bludger, coming fast from Harry's blind spot.
If he continued for the Snitch, the Bludger would hit him. If he dodged, Bletchley might catch up enough to grab it while Harry was recovering.
So Harry did neither.
Instead, he rolled his broom into a corkscrew spin at full speed, a maneuver he'd read about but never attempted. The Bludger screamed past where his head had been a moment before, close enough that he felt the displacement of air. But the spin didn't slow him down; if anything, the momentum carried him forward faster, and when he came out of it, he was even closer to the Snitch.
His fingers closed around the cold metal sphere.
The entire sequence—from spotting the Snitch to the catch—had taken maybe eight seconds.
Harry held the Snitch aloft, feeling the tiny wings beat frantically against his palm before going still. He'd won.
Bletchley pulled up short, staring at Harry with an expression that had gone beyond humiliation to something like disbelief. "That spin—you shouldn't—that's a professional maneuver!"
"I read about it," Harry said simply, descending toward the ground. "Seemed like the best option."
"You READ about it?" Bletchley's voice cracked. "You can't just read about advanced aerobatics and then perform them perfectly under pressure! That takes years of practice!"
Madam Hooch's whistle shrilled before Harry could respond. "Harry Potter has caught the Snitch!" she announced, her voice carrying clearly across the pitch despite the tiny audience. "That's one hundred fifty points to Potter's team! Final score: one hundred sixty to seventy! Potter's team wins!"
From the stands, Daphne's voice carried down with what sounded like reluctant admiration: "That was showing off, Potter!"
"Maybe a little!" Harry called back, not bothering to hide his grin.
Millicent Bulstrode was laughing. "Did you see that spin? Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"
Harry descended slowly, savoring every second of the flight. When his feet touched grass, his legs nearly buckled from exhaustion—that corkscrew had taken more out of him than he'd expected.
His remaining teammates rushed him—Draco crashing into him hard enough to nearly knock him over, Tracey laughing with pure joy, Blaise maintaining his dignity but grinning nonetheless, Theodore was smiling.
"That was AMAZING!" Draco shouted directly in Harry's ear. "That spin thing—I've seen professionals do that in the World Cup! Father's going to die when I tell him a first-year pulled it off!"
"We won," Theodore said, as though he couldn't quite believe it. "You magnificent bastard."
"Best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in years," Tracey added.
But the celebration cut short as footsteps approached. The team parted to let Marcus Flint through, and Harry felt his stomach clench with sudden nervousness. The captain's expression was unreadable as he stopped directly in front of Harry, Harry had to look up to look at his eyes.
Then, slowly, Flint extended his hand.
"That was exceptional flying, Potter," Flint said. "That corkscrew dodge? I've been flying for seven years and I wouldn't attempt that in a real match. You did it on instinct."
Harry shook his hand, trying to keep his expression calm despite the relief flooding through him. "Thank you, Captain."
"Don't thank me yet." Flint's grip tightened fractionally. "I want you on this team. I don't care if you're eleven years old, I don't care if it's unprecedented, and I don't care if Professor Snape has some personal vendetta against you. That performance earned you a spot, and I'm going to talk to him today. This afternoon."
"I'd be honored," Harry said, and he couldn't quite keep the smile from spreading across his face.
"You should be," Flint replied. "We're going to make you the youngest Seeker in a century. That carries weight. Responsibility. Think you can handle it?"
"Yes, sir."
Flint studied him for another moment, then nodded once and stepped back. "Good. We'll start practice sessions next week. Hope you're ready to work harder than you've ever worked in your life."
Not everyone was celebrating. Miles Bletchley had landed on the far side of the pitch, his face thunderous with humiliation and rage. He didn't approach, didn't congratulate anyone, just stood there gripping his broom like he wanted to snap it in half.
But Adrian Pucey was approaching with a grin that suggested he found the whole situation hilarious. "That corkscrew was insane," the third-year said, clapping Harry on the shoulder, Harry almost winced. "I've seen Seekers with five years more experience who can't pull that off. You're either the most naturally talented flyer I've ever seen, or you've been secretly training since birth."
"Just read a lot," Harry admitted. "And apparently have good instincts."
Pucey's eyebrows shot up. "Good instincts. Right. That's like saying dragons are 'somewhat warm.' Welcome to the team, kid. Try not to make the rest of us look too bad before the Gryffindor match."
Madam Hooch was approaching now, and her expression made Harry stand a bit straighter. She looked like she couldn't decide whether to praise him or lecture him, settling for both.
"Mr. Potter, that was some of the most impressive first-year flying I've seen in thirty years of teaching," she began. "Your instincts are exceptional, your control is remarkable, and your decision to save Mr. Crabbe shows exactly the kind of character we want in our athletes."
Harry started to smile, but she held up a hand.
"However," and her voice took on a sharp edge, "that corkscrew maneuver, while brilliantly executed, was extraordinarily dangerous for someone of your experience level. If you'd miscalculated by even a fraction, you could have broken your neck or been hit by that Bludger anyway. Natural talent only takes you so far, Mr. Potter. The rest requires training, discipline, and respect for the dangers of the sport."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said.
Her stern expression softened fractionally. "That said, I expect to see you at team practice regularly from now on. We need to channel that raw talent into proper technique before you kill yourself trying something even more reckless. Assuming Captain Flint can convince Professor Snape to approve this, which..." she glanced at Flint, "might prove challenging."
"I'll handle Professor Snape," Flint said confidently. "The boy's wasted on the ground. Anyone who saw that performance can see it."
Hooch nodded slowly. "Very well. I'll support your petition to the Headmaster if necessary. Dumbledore has always valued exceptional student achievement." She turned back to Harry. "Clean flying from here on out, Mr. Potter. And for Merlin's sake, learn the proper safety protocols before attempting any more professional-level maneuvers. Understood?"
"Yes, Professor. Thank you, Professor."
As Hooch walked away, presumably to file whatever paperwork magical school Quidditch matches required, Harry finally let himself relax. His friends crowded close again, all talking at once.
"You have to teach me that spin—"
"Did you see how fast he was—"
"I can't believe we actually won—"
"Father is going to be so impressed—"
Now, all left was for Snape to step on the trap, and Harry knew the professor would.
"Guys, I need to do something right now. I need to speak with Flint before he talks with Professor Snape."
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