Two days had passed since Harry's mid-air rescue of Neville and his subsequent recruitment as Gryffindor's newest Seeker. The castle was still buzzing with the news, but at four in the morning, Hogwarts was dead silent.
Harry blinked his eyes open, staring up at the dark crimson canopy of his four-poster bed. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he dispelled the subtle, self-cast privacy wards humming around his frame, allowing the soft sounds of snoring from Ron and Seamus to filter back into his space. He lay there for a long moment, hands resting behind his head, contemplating the day ahead with a quiet sense of dread.
First thing on the schedule was double History of Magic.
While Harry found most classes severely lacking in challenge, History was a special kind of torture. Professor Binns was, without hyperbole, the most dreadful presence in the entire castle. Someone desperately needed to pull the old ghost aside and inform him that he was, in fact, deceased to free him from his teaching duties before a fresh batch of first-years turned into ghosts themselves out of sheer boredom.
A sudden thought struck Harry, bringing a faint smirk to his lips. He could always drop a suggestion in Dumbledore's ear. And he even had the ideal replacement in mind: Remus. Vernon had mentioned back home that Remus was a absolute history enthusiast, having tutored him multiple times during their Hogwarts years. The man would be brilliant at it, and it would give Remus a proper position.
Definitely worth bringing up during the next visit to the Dumbledore's office, Harry thought, dragging himself out of bed.
Twenty minutes later, fresh from a cold shower and fully dressed, Harry stepped out of the dormitories and down the winding stairs.
The Gryffindor common room was completely deserted. The embers in the hearth had died down to faint gray ash, casting long, quiet shadows across the empty armchairs. A dry chuckle escaped Harry's lips as he glanced at the clock on the wall, 4:32 AM. No one in their right mind was awake at this hour. He was officially the lunatic of Gryffindor Tower.
He slipped through the portrait hole and navigated the silent, sleeping corridors of the castle. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the high, wind-swept tower of the Owlery. The cool morning air rushed through the open stone arches, filled with the soft rustling of feathers and quiet hoots.
Near one of the lower perches, Athena, Ron's sleek white barn owl was fast asleep, her head tucked neatly under her wing. Higher up, sitting proudly against the morning gloom, was Hedwig.
"Hey, girl," Harry murmured softly.
Hedwig let out a soft, affectionate hoot, fluttering down to land gracefully on his extended arm. Tied securely to her legs were two small wrapped parcels and two sealed letters.
Harry quickly pulled a few treats from his pocket, feeding them to her as he unbuckled the delivery. Opening the packages first, he smiled at the familiar scents of treacle tart sent straight from Petunia, and a heavy box of homemade fudge from Molly. He safely stowed both treats directly into his subspace pouch for later.
Unfolding the letters, he skimmed through the updates from home. Everything was well. Abigail had been thrilled with the rare Aurora Petal he had sent her, and Ginny was apparently obsessed with the Luminaflora Diurna he had enclosed for the Burrow.
Harry reached into his jacket and pulled out the letter he had already written the previous night. Smoothing out the parchment, he tied it securely to Hedwig's leg, ensuring the request for the Nimbus 2000 and the update on his Quidditch selection were firmly attached for Vernon.
Before sending her off, Harry raised his hand over her snowy feathers. Without drawing his wand, he wove two seamless spells through pure intent. A light Flight Charm settled around her form to cut through the mountain winds, paired with a specialized refreshment charm that would keep her energy entirely boundless throughout the long journey south.
He pulled a few extra owl treats from his pocket, feeding them to her one by one as she soft-hooted in satisfaction.
"No need to rush, girl," Harry murmured, giving her head a gentle stroke. "You will barely feel the distance."
Hedwig gave his thumb an affectionate nip of agreement, stretched her pristine white wings, and launched off the stone ledge, cutting effortlessly into the pale blue morning sky.
Instead of heading back to the common room, Harry decided a visit to the kitchens was overdue. He shifted direction, aiming toward the out-of-the-way staircase that led down to the basement corridors near Hufflepuff territory.
He strolled past the massive barrels stacked in the stone recesses until he found himself standing in front of a vibrant still-life painting. Framed in dark wood, it depicted a giant silver bowl piled high with fruit: apples, grapes, and a massive green pear right at the center.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, as Harry reached out to tickle it, the painted fruit began to squirm. The pear let out a soft, high-pitched giggle, rippling under his touch until its green skin puckered outward, transforming into a large, gleaming brass doorknob.
Harry let out a quiet chuckle, amused by the novelty of it. He turned the handle, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped into the sprawling room.
The rich aromas of breakfast preparation hit him all at once: sizzling bacon, baking bread, and fresh coffee. Dozens of house-elves darted efficiently between stations, their movements coordinated and cheerful as pots clinked and pans hissed.
One elf, wearing an impressively tall chef's hat that wobbled with every step, noticed Harry immediately. His large eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he rushed forward so fast that a wooden spoon clattered from his apron.
"Good morning," Harry said, offering a polite nod. "I am Harry. May I ask your name?"
"Master Harry Potter, sir!" the elf squeaked in absolute awe, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the stone floor. "Oh, what an honor! Chef Bolly is most delighted to see Harry Potter in his kitchens!"
Harry smiled warmly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Chef Bolly. I was hoping I could trouble you for a mug of black coffee and something substantial to eat, if it isn't too much bother."
"Coffee and food? For Harry Potter, sir?" Bolly's ears flapped with excitement. "Bolly will make the strongest, richest black coffee in Hogwarts! Bolly will not disappoint the great Harry Potter! And what is Harry Potter sir wanting to eat?"
Harry glanced around the bustling prep tables. "Do you have fresh baguettes? I would love a large sandwich on one. Crispy bacon, sausage, fried eggs, a bit of salad, and a good mayo dressing inside. And if it isn't too much trouble, could you melt a layer of cheddar directly onto the griddle first, and press the outside of the bread onto it so it forms a crispy cheese crust?"
Bolly was practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "A giant baguette sandwich with cheese crust! Anything Harry Potter desires! Bolly will make it perfect!"
The elf rushed off in a blur of motion. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a massive 500ml ceramic mug filled to the brim with steaming black coffee, along with a heavy, parchment-wrapped baguette sandwich that smelled incredible.
"Bolly hopes Master Harry Potter enjoys it very much, sir!"
Harry took a bite right there. The golden cheese crust crunched loudly, giving way to the rich layers of bacon, egg, and warm bread. "This is phenomenal, Bolly. Truly. Thank you."
Bolly looked ready to burst with pride. Harry thanked him again, took his mug and wrapped sandwich, and stepped back out into the cool corridor. With a casual flick of intent, he let the heavy mug hover smoothly alongside him at chest level, wrapped in a subtle warming charm so it stayed piping hot.
By the time Harry reached the Fat Lady's portrait on the seventh floor, the entire baguette sandwich was gone. It had been so delicious that, far from filling him up completely, it had simply primed his appetite for breakfast later. He caught the floating mug of coffee out of the air, taking a deep, satisfying sip of the dark roast as he stepped through the portrait hole.
The time was exactly 5:14 AM.
The Gryffindor common room was pleasantly quiet. Only a handful of early risers were scattered about, including a couple of fifth-years reading by the far windows. Just as Harry walked toward the hearth, a third-year girl, Patricia Stimpson, came padding down the dormitory stairs, rubbing sleep from her eyes with a quiet yawn.
Harry headed straight over to his favorite plush armchair near the fire, settling in as the warmth seeped into his clothes.
Patricia, still looking half-asleep, walked toward the hearth to chase away the morning chill. She eyed the empty armchair opposite him, then froze as her nose twitched, catching the potent, rich aroma of roasted coffee beans rising from his oversized mug.
"Morning," Harry said with an easygoing smile. He gestured politely toward the vacant chair. "Feel free to sit down. It is easily the warmest spot in the room."
Patricia blinked, startled to be addressed by the famous first-year. She glanced at the chair, giving him a grateful, if slightly exhausted, smile.
"Thanks," she said, sinking into the soft leather with a relieved sigh. She rubbed her eyes, looking at him with mild curiosity. "I'm Patricia, by the way. Though I suppose everyone in the house knows who you are."
Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Well, my fables certainly travel fast. But please note that about ninety-nine percent of what is written in those books is pure exaggeration." He extended a hand across the gap. "Just call me Harry. Nice to meet you, Patricia."
Patricia smiled, completely disarmed, and shook his hand. "The books definitely leave out a lot then. I did not expect the Boy-Who-Lived to be so easy to talk to."
Harry snorted, taking another sip of black coffee. "Honestly, that title always cracks me up. You could say that about literally everyone sitting in this room. After all, everyone who is alive, lived."
Patricia burst out laughing, her shoulders relaxing completely as she leaned back. "Fair point. I suppose 'The Boy Who Happened to Be in the Room' lacks a bit of dramatic flare." She glanced toward the high windows, where the sky was only just beginning to turn pale gray. "So, are you up early to cram for classes, or is waking up before dawn just a hobby?"
"Bit of both," Harry replied smoothly. "Though today we have double History of Magic, so I am mentally preparing myself for the ordeal."
"Ugh, Binns," Patricia groaned, running a hand through her hair. "Ancient Runes is turning my brain to mush, and my internal clock decided to punish me for it today. Speaking of which... where on earth did you manage to score a massive mug of real coffee this early? The Great Hall doors will not unlock for another hour."
Harry leaned forward slightly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "It is actually pretty straightforward. If you head down to the basement corridors, past the massive Hufflepuff barrels, you will find a giant still-life painting of a fruit bowl. Right in the middle, there is a big green pear. You just walk up and tickle it. It giggles, turns into a brass doorknob, and you walk right into the kitchens."
As he spoke, Harry caught a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the older students by the windows had suddenly gone dead quiet. Pages stopped flipping. A fourth-year boy held his quill frozen mid-air, his ears practically straining to catch every detail.
Harry hid a smirk behind his mug. Chef Bolly and the elves were about to have a very busy morning.
"Tickle a pear," Patricia repeated, her eyes lighting up with absolute determination. She stood up from the armchair, all traces of sleep instantly gone from her face. "Right. Ancient Runes can wait. I am going down there for a cup of coffee right now."
Harry chuckled, waving her off. "Go right ahead. The elves are brilliant." He gave her a subtle nod. "Tell Bolly you are a friend of mine, and he will take extra good care of you."
Patricia practically bounced on her toes. "I am holding you to that extra care," she grinned, already striding toward the portrait hole. "Thanks, Harry!"
"Anytime," Harry called after her, raising his mug in a silent toast.
He settled back into the armchair, watching the portrait swing shut behind her. A quiet smirk played on his lips as he took another long sip of coffee. The morning was shaping up to be far more interesting than double History.
Slowly, the deep silence of Gryffindor Tower completely gave way to the familiar, comforting hustle and bustle of a Hogwarts morning. Floorboards creaked upstairs, sleepy greetings were exchanged on the spiral staircases, and a steady stream of students began trickling down into the common room.
"Blimey, Harry, you're up early," a groggy voice called out.
Harry looked up to see Ron trudging down from the boys' dormitory. His bright red hair was a wild, unruly nest, and his uniform was loosely thrown together, his tie hanging completely undone around his collar. Right behind him was Hermione, looking entirely awake, her dark hair neatly brushed and her heavy shoulder bag bulging with textbooks.
"Morning," Harry said, taking a slow sip from his mug.
Ron's eyes immediately locked onto the dark liquid in Harry's hand, his nose twitching. "Is that... coffee? Where did you manage to get that? The Great Hall isn't even open for another twenty minutes."
"Made a quick detour down to the kitchens," Harry replied smoothly. "Needed something proper to wake me up."
Ron collapsed into the opposite armchair with a dramatic groan of betrayal. "You are killing me, mate. I would trade my soul for a bacon sarnie right now. Next time you go on a kitchen raid, you are dragging me with you. I don't care if it's four in the morning."
"Deal," Harry chuckled.
Hermione came up beside them, adjusting her bag. She looked between the steaming mug and Harry's relaxed posture, her eyebrows pulling together in a sharp frown of genuine confusion.
"Harry, students aren't supposed to wander into the kitchens," Hermione said, her voice dropping into a stern whisper. "And how do you even know where the kitchens are? It isn't in Hogwarts: A History!"
Harry took another sip, looking up at her with an innocent smile. "A magician never reveals his shortcuts, Hermione. Besides, the house-elves are brilliant. They practically begged me to take extra food."
The trio eventually made their way out of the portrait hole as the common room began to crowd. Ron spent the entire walk down the moving staircases complaining about their morning schedule, his stomach letting out an audible rumble every few steps.
"Double History first thing should be illegal," Ron muttered, dragging his feet. "It's a health hazard. I swear Binns puts a collective Sleeping Charm on the entire room the second he floats through the blackboard."
"History of Magic is a foundational subject, Ron," Hermione argued, though her tone lacked its usual conviction. "Understanding the past is vital, even if... well, even if Professor Binns' delivery is somewhat monotone."
"Monotone?" Harry offered with a dry grin. "Hermione, the man sounds like a rusty hinge scraping against stone. It is a miracle anyone passes the OWLs without dying of sheer exhaustion first."
"See? Harry gets it!" Ron gestured wildly. "Someone needs to tell the bloke he's dead! Just give him a mirror, wave him goodbye, and hire a real human being."
Harry's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as they reached the Great Hall. "You know, that isn't actually a terrible idea."
"What isn't?" Hermione asked, leading them toward the Gryffindor table.
"Replacing Binns," Harry said, taking a seat across from them as platters of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh toast materialized on the golden table. "I was thinking about it this morning. We need someone who actually cares about the subject. Someone who can make history sound like history, not a list of tax records."
"Good luck finding a wizard mad enough to want that job," Ron snorted, piling three sausages onto his plate. "Who would willingly sign up to teach a bunch of half-asleep first years?"
"Remus Lupin," Harry said simply.
Ron paused, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. "The chap who visited our place? He seemed intense and a bit mad, but is he really suited to come teach here?"
"Remus loves history," Harry explained, spearing a slice of grilled tomato. "Dad told me he used to tutor the entire crew back in their school days. He practically carried them through their exams. He knows the subject inside and out, and he is actually patient enough to explain things."
Hermione set her fork down, her eyes lighting up with interest. "That... actually makes a great deal of sense. A living professor could hold discussions, grade essays properly, and answer questions about modern historical contexts. But Harry, Professor Binns has been teaching at Hogwarts for centuries. Overturning that kind of institutional inertia will be nearly impossible, even for Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Binns doesn't even take attendance, Hermione," Harry noted drily. "He hasn't noticed a student leave the room mid-lecture since 1842. I doubt he'd even realize he was retired if someone gently directed his ghost toward the afterlife."
"I will personally buy your uncle's friend a round of Butterbeers every week if he saves us from Binns," Ron declared solemnly.
"I am planning to drop by Dumbledore's office after Quidditch practice tonight to bring it up," Harry said, leaning back. "It can't hurt to plant the seed."
The conversation shifted as the hall filled, but the morning classes arrived all too quickly.
History of Magic proved to be every bit the endurance test they expected. Professor Binns drifted through the solid stone wall precisely on the hour, unrolling a yellowed parchment, and immediately launched into a flat, droning lecture on the Goblin Rebellion of 1612.
Harry lasted ten minutes before he gave up trying to extract anything useful from the ghost's monotonous voice, choosing instead to quietly doodle spell diagrams on the margin of his parchment. Ron lasted less than three minutes before his forehead made solid, painful contact with his desk, out cold. Even Hermione, who stubbornly gripped her quill as if battling for her life, looked pale with misery by the forty-minute mark.
When the bell finally rang, the collective sigh of relief in the classroom was palpable. Hermione had to physically shake Ron by the shoulders to wake him up, muttering under her breath about "ruined posture" as they packed their bags.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was only a slight improvement.
Professor Quirrell stuttered his way through a disjointed, painfully slow lecture on basic counter-curse movement. The room smelled overwhelmingly of garlic, and Quirrell's large purple turban twitched oddly every time he turned toward the blackboard.
Harry sat near the back, his eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the man. Lumos hadn't shown any distress, meaning Quirrell hadn't spilled unicorn blood in the forest yet, but there was an unmistakable, unnatural heavy presence clinging to the back of the professor's head. Harry kept his posture relaxed, casually spinning his quill while mentally taking notes. Whatever was wrong with Quirrell, it was getting worse by the day.
By the time lunch rolled around, the trio was more than ready for a break. They claimed their usual spots at the Gryffindor table, loading their plates with roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and gravy.
"If I have to endure one more hour of Quirrell stammering about knockback jinxes, my brain is going to melt," Ron groaned, pouring a generous helping of gravy over his food. "Between him and Binns, two-thirds of our education is a complete wash."
"Well, that is why we are going to fix the History part," Harry said with a smirk, taking a bite of chicken. "I'm sure I can make him see reason."
"Just be careful how you word it to the Headmaster, Harry," Hermione advised softly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "He might be fond of tradition. You shouldn't sound like you're trying to dictate school policy."
Harry gave her an easygoing wink. "Relax, Hermione. I am just offering a friendly suggestion. He loves friendly suggestions."
Ron snorted into his cup. "Right. And I am the next Minister for Magic." He glanced toward the high, enchanted windows of the Great Hall, where the bright afternoon sun was streaming down through clear skies. "Anyway, you've got Wood's first practice session after classes today, haven't you?"
Harry smiled, his eyes drifting up toward the simulated blue sky above them. "Yeah. Oliver mentioned he wants to test strategic plays or whatever."
"Try not to catch the Snitch in ten seconds," Ron grinned.
"On school brooms? It would be a miracle if I somehow manage to catch the Quaffle, much less a snitch." Harry chuckled, finishing his plate as his mind shifted from ghostly professors and twitching turbans to the open air of the Quidditch pitch. "But I don't think Wood will push me much today considering it will be my first practice."
Later that afternoon, the sun was casting long, golden shadows across the grounds as Harry made his way down the sloping lawns toward the Quidditch pitch. The air had taken on a crisp, early-autumn chill, the kind that promised a biting frost in a few months, but for now, it was perfect flying weather.
He reached the wooden changing rooms tucked beneath the towering spectator stands. Pushing open the door, he found the rest of the team already gathered inside.
As expected, no one was wearing the formal scarlet Quidditch robes reserved for official house matches. Instead, the team was dressed in comfortable, hard-wearing casual clothes suited for heavy physical exertion. Oliver Wood was pacing near a massive chalkboard, wearing a faded wool sweater and thick trousers, while Fred and George lounge against a wooden bench in identical rolled-up flannel shirts. Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell were chatting near the equipment lockers, dressed in practical trousers and sturdy leather boots.
The room fell quiet for a second as Harry walked in, before Oliver turned around, his eyes lighting up with intense, manic energy.
"Harry! Excellent. You're right on time," Oliver said, clapping his hands together. "Right, everyone, listen up! This is Harry, as you all know. He is our new Seeker."
"We've met," Fred grinned, leaning back against the bench. "He's the bloke who stole all our thunder this year by becoming the youngest player in a century."
"And the chap who managed to catch Neville on a malfunctioning Shooting star," George added, winking at Harry. "Our very own in-house celebrity."
Angelina Johnson stepped forward with a warm smile, offering her hand. "Ignore the twins, Harry. I'm Angelina, and these two are Alicia and Katie. It is really nice to have you on the team. Oliver has been talking about nothing else for two days straight."
"I have not!" Oliver protested, flushing slightly before clearing his throat. "I mean, I've just been emphasizing that we have a serious chance at the Cup this year. A proper, honest-to-goodness chance. Slytherin has held that trophy for seven years, and I am not leaving Hogwarts without taking it back."
"Oliver," Alicia said with a fond sigh, rolling her eyes. "It is the first practice of the term. Give the poor boy a minute to breathe."
"Right, right," Oliver muttered, though he looked incapable of standing still. He reached into the corner near the equipment chest and pulled out a broom, handing it over to Harry. "Now, Harry... I know your personal broom hasn't arrived yet. But you have written home for it, right?"
"Yes, Oliver," Harry chuckled, taking the worn handle. "I have. I'm getting a Nimbus 2000. It's just not here yet."
The changing room went dead silent.
Fred froze mid-reach for his elbow guards, his jaw hanging slightly open. George let out a low, breathless whistle, looking between Harry and Oliver as if checking to see if this was an elaborate prank.
"Did you just say a Nimbus 2000?" Katie gasped, her eyes wide as saucers.
"The ones that came out this year?" Alicia added, leaning forward with a look of pure disbelieving delight. "Harry, that is literally the fastest broom on the market!"
"Blimey," Angelina whispered, a massive grin slowly spreading across her face. "The Slytherins aren't going to know what hit them. Malfoy and his lot are going to be choking on your dust before they even spot the Snitch."
Oliver looked like he had just been told he was being crowned King of England. A mad, euphoric glint entered his eyes, and he grabbed Harry by both shoulders, shaking him with terrifying enthusiasm.
"A Nimbus 2000..." Oliver breathed, his voice trembling with sheer joy. "A Seeker with natural talent on the absolute fastest stick in the entire school. We aren't just going to win the Cup this year, Harry. We are going to obliterate them!"
"Easy, Oliver, don't shake the poor lad to pieces before he even takes off," Fred laughed, clapping his hands together. "Though I have to admit, mate, I might actually pay money to see Flint's face when you pull up alongside him on that beast."
"Right!" Oliver clapped his hands loudly, all nervous energy instantly transforming into pure determination. "Until it gets here, you can use one of the school brooms from the shed for today's basic drills."
Harry took a closer look at the broom in his hands and winced slightly. It was an ancient Shooting Star. The tail twigs were frayed, dried out, and bent in odd directions, and the wood of the handle looked ready to crack under a heavy breeze.
"Oliver," Harry said drily, tapping the handle with a finger. "With all due respect, these school Shooting Stars are practically antique museum pieces. They wobble if you accelerate past ten miles an hour, and they lose height on every sharp turn. If I try to dive on this thing, the handle will split before I hit sixty feet."
Oliver inspected the broom, his triumphant face falling slightly as reality set in. "Right. Yeah. School stock is absolute rubbish. Forgot how slow those old Stars are."
"It's fine," Harry smiled, leaning the ancient stick against the wall. "I'll just watch from the ground today, observe your formations, and get a feel for how you all play together."
"Are you sure, mate?" George asked, throwing his arm over Harry's shoulder. "We could try tying two Shooting Stars together. Double the power."
"I think I'll pass on the suicide flight, George," Harry chuckled.
The team trooped out onto the field, taking to the sky to start their session. The wooden stands framed the late afternoon clouds as Oliver immediately began barking orders, directing the Chasers into a fast-paced triangular pass.
Harry casually reached into his subspace pouch and pulled out a small brown paper bag filled with chocolate-covered almonds and dried fruits he had saved. He strolled along the sidelines near the goalposts, munching contentedly on his snacks while his sharp green eyes tracked every movement above.
He watched Angelina's aggressive drive toward the hoops, noted Alicia's sharp tactical positioning, and paid attention to how Fred and George swung their heavy Beater bats to alter the trajectory of the practice Bludgers. Even without flying, Harry was dissecting their entire playbook, identifying tiny gaps in their timing.
Up above, the three Chasers were putting in serious work, running loop after loop across the pitch. After forty-five minutes of continuous high-speed passing, Oliver finally called a brief water break.
The team spiraled down toward the grass, out of breath and wiping sweat from their foreheads.
Katie Bell landed near Harry, letting out a heavy sigh as she rested her weight against her Cleansweep 7. "Merlin's beard, Oliver is completely ruthless today," she gasped, fanning herself with her hand.
Harry reached into his pouch, pulled out a bottle of Butterbeer, and handed it to her with a warm smile, as he chilled the bottle with magic. "You look like you need this."
Katie's face lit up in absolute gratitude. "Harry, you are officially my favorite first-year. Thank you!" She took a long, eager gulp before looking at her broom, then back at Harry. "Hey... you haven't even had a chance to fly yet. Why don't you take my Cleansweep for a spin? Just so Oliver stops twitching about your form."
Harry looked at the sleek Cleansweep 7. While it wasn't a Nimbus, it was a fine, reliable broom with decent responsiveness and stable handling.
"Are you sure, Katie?" Harry asked politely. "I don't want to hijack your break."
"Positive," Katie grinned, stepping back and handing the broom over by the handle. "Show us what you've got."
Oliver, who was currently chugging water nearby, instantly perked up. "Wait! Is Harry flying? Everyone look! Harry is taking the Cleansweep!"
Fred and George leaned against their bats with wide, knowing smirks. "Oh, this is going to be good," Fred murmured to his brother.
"That's the Potter we know," George agreed, crossing his arms. "Watch closely, Oliver. You might actually pass out from happiness."
Harry adjusted his grip on the smooth wooden handle. The moment his hands touched the Cleansweep 7, his intent hummed through the wood, instantly aligning with the broom's internal flying mechanisms. He didn't just climb onto the broom; he became a single fluid entity with it.
He kicked off the ground.
Harry didn't just rise into the air. He exploded upward in a vertical rocket launch, cutting through the atmosphere with breathtaking velocity. The wind whipped past his clothes as he reached the height of the highest goalposts in less than three seconds.
Down on the turf, Oliver dropped his water bottle. His jaw unhinged completely, his eyes wide in absolute shock.
High above the field, Harry threw the Comet into a sharp, sixty-degree bank. A normal flyer on a Cleansweep would have lost control or slid out of the turn due to momentum, but Harry effortlessly guided the broom through sheer force of intent. He executed a flawless Sloth Grip Roll, flipping upside down beneath the crossbar of the central hoop before pulling up into a dizzying double corkscrew.
Angelina and Alicia, who were sitting on the grass resting their legs, stood up instantly, their eyes tracking the blur of red and black in the sky.
"Sweet Salazar," Alicia whispered, her voice barely audible. "Look at the turning radius! He isn't even braking!"
Harry spotted a small, golden leaf fluttering down from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, caught in a crosswind over the center of the pitch.
His eyes locked onto the tiny falling target. He flattened himself completely against the handle of Katie's broom, pressing his chest against the wood to minimize drag. The Cleansweep screamed down the pitch in a terrifying steep dive, aiming straight for the hard turf below.
"Harry, pull up!" Oliver screamed from the ground, his hands flying to his hair in sheer panic. "Pull up!"
Harry didn't pull up. He waited until he was barely five feet above the grass.
With a movement so fast it looked like a blur, his hand shot out, snatching the tiny golden leaf right out of the air. At the exact same fraction of a second, he yanked the handle upward, executing a Wronski Feint recovery so sharp that the tail twigs grazed the grass blades, leaving a small streak in the turf.
The broom shot back upward, executed a effortless horizontal spin, and settled into a gentle hover right in front of the stunned Gryffindor team.
Harry casually dropped his feet back to the ground, stepping off the Cleansweep as smoothly as if he had just stepped out of a chair. He spun the broom around and handed it back to Katie, holding up the tiny golden leaf between two fingers.
"Nice broom, Katie," Harry said smoothly, offering her an easygoing smile. "I love it."
Silence hung over the pitch for three long seconds.
Then, Oliver Wood completely lost his mind.
"Did you see that?!" Oliver shrieked, bouncing up and down on his toes like an excited seven-year-old child on Christmas morning. He rushed over to Harry, practically vibrating with frantic, hysterical joy. "Did you see that dive?! The drift recovery! The grip! The absolute raw precision!"
Oliver grabbed Fred by the shoulders and shook him violently. "Fred! Did you see him snatch that leaf?! That was barely five feet off the ground! He didn't even blink!"
"We saw it, Oliver," Fred laughed, trying to free himself from the captain's death-grip. "We told you the kid was a menace in the air."
"There is no way!" Oliver yelled at the top of his lungs, turning back to Harry with wild, triumphant eyes. "There is no physical way Gryffindor loses a single match this year! I don't care if Slytherin buys dragon-powered brooms! If you fly like that on a Cleansweep 7, what are you going to do on a Nimbus 2000?!"
Angelina walked over, shaking her head in sheer disbelief as she clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Harry, that was ridiculous. I've seen professional Seekers struggle with a sharp descent like that. Where on earth did you learn to pull up so late?"
"Just instinct, really," Harry chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "You get a feel for when the wood is about to touch the grass."
"Instinct," Alicia repeated, letting out a breathless laugh. "The boy dives at eighty miles an hour toward solid dirt and calls it instinct."
"Right!" Oliver shouted, clapping his hands together so hard it sounded like a gunshot. "That's it! Practice is over for today! I need to go rewrite our entire tactical notebook to build our plays around Harry's dive trajectories!"
"Don't do that, Wood, I'm a Seeker remember?" Harry chuckled. "The Chasers are the most important. You should write plays around them and the Beaters."
Oliver stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes opening wide as a fresh wave of sheer, unadulterated delight broke across his face. He looked at Harry as if the first-year had just handed him the secret to eternal life.
"He gets it!" Oliver roared, clutching his parchment scroll to his chest like a sacred text. He pointed a trembling finger at Harry, turning toward the rest of the squad with wild enthusiasm. "Did you hear that?! He actually gets it! A Seeker who doesn't think the entire world revolves around his own golden snitch hunt! Most Seekers just float around up there admiring their reflection until the fifty-minute mark, but Harry understands foundational field strategy!"
"Oliver, if you keep shouting, the giant squid is going to march up here to see what the noise is about," Alicia teased, though she was grinning warmly at Harry.
"I am serious!" Oliver insisted, practically vibrating on his heels. "A Seeker with world-class instincts who actually understands the structural flow of the Quaffle game is an absolute cheat code. I'm not rewriting the playbook, Harry, I'm expanding it!"
Fred and George burst into twin fits of laughter, walking over to clap Harry on the shoulders.
"Careful, Harry," Fred warned, winking. "You just gave Wood a reason to keep us out here until midnight next week."
"He's going to invent formations named after you," George added, shaking his head. "The Potter Pincer. The Harry Hawk-Dive. We'll be doing drills in our sleep."
"Right!" Oliver barked, finally stowing his parchment away into his coat, though his grin never vanished. "That's officially it for the flying today! Gear away, everyone!"
"Hold on a second, everyone," Harry called out, reaching into his subspace pouch. "Before we trudge back up to the castle, I brought a few proper refreshments for the team."
He pulled out a large, intricately woven hamper and set it down on the lawn. From inside, he began pulling out boxes of Cauldron Cakes, heavy blocks of rich fudge, delicate Chocolate Cauldrons, and several glass bottles of Butterbeer.
Fred and George dropped to their knees beside the hamper, their eyes widening in pure disbelief as the spread unfolded across the grass.
"Blimey, Harry," Katie gasped, coming over to sit down. "Did you raid Honeydukes before term even started?"
Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not quite. I just stocked up on sweets and treats for the entire term on the Hogwarts Express trolley."
"Stocked up?" Fred snorted, taking a bottle of Butterbeer as Harry passed it to him. "Mate, 'stocked up' is the understatement of the century."
"We didn't even see it happen because we were in a different compartment," George chimed in, grinning broadly as he reached for a slice of fudge. "We only found out when Ron told us later. Apparently, Harry bought over four hundred Galleons worth of treats from the trolley lady. He practically wiped out twenty percent of her yearly supply!"
Alicia, who was currently taking a sip of her drink, instantly choked, spraying a fine mist into the air as her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Angelina dropped her Cauldron Cake back into the box, staring at Harry in utter shock, while Oliver froze mid-reach, his jaw hanging completely unhinged.
"Four hundred Galleons?!" Alicia wheezed, wiping her chin furiously. "On trolley sweets?!"
"Well," Harry retorted with a calm, easygoing smirk, completely unfazed by their reactions, "it is useful, isn't it?"