Eventually, practical concerns intruded. They had to return to their public personas, maintain the careful facade they'd constructed.
Nymeria slipped back to her own room while Harry showered, and they met again in the common room, properly dressed and appropriately distant.
"Sleep well?" Helena asked as they settled at one of the study tables.
"Well enough," Harry replied, accepting the cup of tea she offered. "Though I kept thinking about last night's conversation. Ancient magic is such a fascinating topic."
"You certainly caught Riddle's attention," Robert observed. "I've never seen him so engaged in a discussion that wasn't directly about his own achievements. Bloke's a genius, but pretty self-obsessed too."
Harry hummed into his cup, but before he could respond, a tawny owl swooped through one of the tower's windows, landing directly in front of him. The letter it carried bore the Hogwarts seal and was addressed in elegant script.
"From Professor Dumbledore," Harry said with furrowed brows, breaking the wax seal. The message was brief:
Mr. Peverell,
I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you privately at your earliest convenience. Please join me in my office this morning at ten o'clock.
Yours sincerely,
A.P.W.B. Dumbledore
"Everything alright?" Nymeria asked, and though her tone was casual, Harry could tell she was concerned.
"Dumbledore wants to see me," Harry replied, placing the folded parchment on the table as he picked up his cup of tea again. "Probably just wants to discuss my placement in his class."
"Probably," she agreed, though he could tell she didn't believe it in the slightest, just like him.
"First Riddle, now Dumbledore asking for a private meeting. You're becoming quite a person of interest around here, Mr. Peverell," Helena remarked, her lips quirked slightly.
"Not something I asked for, Miss Burke," Harry replied, exchanging a telepathic message with Nymeria.
She won't be there with him physically, but there was no way he was going to meet Dumbledore on his own.
-Break-
Harry arrived at Dumbledore's office precisely at ten.
"Ah, Mr. Peverell," Dumbledore said, looking up from a stack of parchments. "Please, sit down. Would you care for some tea?"
"Thank you, Professor," Harry replied, settling into the offered chair. One could never have enough good-quality tea.
Dumbledore waved his wand, and a tea service appeared on the desk between them.
"I trust you're settling in well?" Dumbledore inquired, pouring tea into delicate china cups. "Your first few days must have been quite an adjustment."
"It's been interesting," Harry said carefully, internally wishing for the small talk to be over and for the man to get to the point. "Everyone's been very welcoming," he added.
"Indeed. Hogwarts has always prided itself on its sense of community." Dumbledore offered Harry a cup, his blue eyes twinkling with familiar warmth. "I understand you made quite an impression at Professor Slughorn's gathering last night."
Harry's pulse quickened. He had a faint idea where the future headmaster was going with this.
"It was a fascinating evening. I enjoyed meeting my fellow students. Quite a talented bunch here at Hogwarts."
"Yes, I heard you had some interesting discussions about magical theory. Ancient magic, specifically."
Obviously, Dumbledore knew about it. Was there anything publicly discussed in the castle that he didn't know about?
There was no accusation in his tone though, and yet Harry felt his keen attention on him nonetheless. It felt like scrutiny, and it felt unwarranted.
"It's a subject that's always interested me," he began slowly, staring at the steaming surface of the tea in his hand. "The theoretical foundations of what we do."
"Quite a remarkable interest for someone your age," Dumbledore observed. "Most young wizards are content to learn spells without questioning their underlying principles."
"I suppose I've always been curious about how things work," Harry replied, finally looking up. "The Peverell family has always valued understanding over mere application."
"Ah yes, the Peverells." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and fixing him with an even more intense stare. "A family with quite a remarkable history. Though records from that era are often... incomplete."
Harry felt like he was being tested, each word weighed and measured to bring out information Dumbledore wanted to know, or for him to admit. A part of him wanted to lay low, but he was slowly coming to understand that staying under the radar was not the option.
"Family stories tend to grow in the telling, Professor. Legends grow over time, and they are often embellished. But no matter what, there's usually some truth at their core."
"Indeed there is." Dumbledore's gaze was penetrating but not unkind. "I've done some research into your family's genealogy since your arrival. Fascinating lineage. The Peverell brothers, in particular, left quite a mark on magical history."
Harry's throat felt dry despite the tea. "The three brothers. Yes, they're prominent in our family legends."
"Legends speak of remarkable magical artifacts associated with them," Dumbledore continued conversationally. "A wand of unparalleled power, a stone that could recall the dead, and a cloak that rendered its wearer truly invisible."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Harry met Dumbledore's gaze steadily, knowing that his response here would set the tone for all their future interactions.
"The Deathly Hallows," Harry said quietly. "Yes, the stories are well-known in my family. I've always wondered whether they were actually created, or simply... found."
"An interesting distinction," Dumbledore observed. "The stories mention that the Hallows were given by Death itself, but you seem to disagree. What leads you to that theory?"
Harry chose his words carefully. "Magic of that level—true mastery over death itself—it seems beyond what any individual wizard could achieve. But if such power existed naturally, waiting to be discovered by those wise enough to recognize it..."
"Then the brothers would have been seekers rather than creators," Dumbledore finished. "Fascinating. And do you believe such artifacts actually existed?"
Harry met his gaze directly. "I believe that power calls to power, Professor. Whether the Hallows were real or not, the human desire to transcend mortality, to command absolute power, to hide from consequence—those drives shape magical development in every generation."
Dumbledore was very still for a long moment, his blue eyes searching Harry's face with uncomfortable intensity. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful.
"A remarkably mature perspective for someone so young. Tell me, Mr. Peverell, what brought you back to Britain? The truth, if you please."
The directness of the question caught Harry off guard, but he'd prepared for this eventual moment. He felt like he was standing on a precipice—a choice to gain Dumbledore as an ally or forget about it. He knew why Dumbledore was asking this question, and the obvious answer was the one that made the most sense.
"War, Professor. Grindelwald's influence is spreading across Eastern Europe. My family had... connections that made us targets. Coming to Britain seemed the safest option."
A hint. That was all he was going to give Dumbledore now. And from the way Dumbledore's eyes flashed in what he felt was recognition of Grindelwald's interest in the Hallows, he knew he had hit the nail on its head. The reason was false, but it was one that Dumbledore would believe wholeheartedly. His history with Grindelwald and the Hallows would make it so.
"And yet you chose to complete your education rather than simply seeking refuge. Why?"
"Because ignorance won't protect us," Harry said with genuine emotion. "If this war spreads—and I think it will—Britain will need every capable wizard it can get. I'd rather be prepared to help than spend my life hiding."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "A noble sentiment. And you believe this preparation requires understanding ancient magic?"
"I believe it requires understanding everything we can," Harry replied. "Modern magic is impressive, but it's also limited by current thinking. The wizards who built Hogwarts, who created artifacts like the Sorting Hat or the protective wards—they understood magic differently. If we're facing someone like Grindelwald, who clearly operates beyond conventional limitations, shouldn't we be willing to think beyond them as well?"
"Dangerous territory, Mr. Peverell," Dumbledore warned gently. "The pursuit of power for its own sake has corrupted many promising young wizards."
"Which is why wisdom matters more than power," Harry said, echoing his comments from the previous night. "The Peverell brothers—if the stories are true—found incredible power. But power without understanding led to their destruction. The youngest brother was the only one who survived, and only because he understood that some gifts are too dangerous to use."
Dumbledore's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features. "You know that interpretation of the tale?"
"It's the version my family tells," Harry said calmly. "Power offered freely is often a trap. True strength comes from knowing when not to use what you possess."
A moment of silence settled over the office as they sat there, both lost in thoughts, both nursing a cup of tea each. Finally, when Dumbledore spoke, Harry could sense a change in both his tone and his sentiments.
"You are a most unusual young man, Mr. Peverell. Your perspectives on magic, on power, on the responsibilities that come with knowledge—they suggest experiences far beyond your apparent years."
Harry's heart hammered, but he kept his expression calm. "I've had good teachers. And difficult experiences have a way of maturing a person quickly."
"Indeed they do." Dumbledore rose from his chair, moving to stand before one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. "Tell me, what do you hope to accomplish during your time at Hogwarts?"
"To learn everything I can," Harry replied. "To prepare myself for whatever's coming. And to help others do the same."
"And Miss Black? Does she share these goals?"
Harry found no reason to play ignorant about Nym. Dumbledore was too perceptive to not notice the closeness they shared.
"We've found our perspectives align on most matters," Harry said carefully.
Dumbledore turned back to face him, his expression unreadable. "She is fortunate to have found such a thoughtful companion. The Black family has produced many powerful wizards over the centuries, though not all have used their gifts wisely."
"Nymeria understands the importance of choice," Harry said firmly. "She's seen what happens when power is pursued without conscience. And given her history with the Blacks…"
Dumbledore nodded in understanding.
"Has she indeed?" He asked as he returned to his chair, his blue eyes twinkling with renewed interest. "And what has she seen, do you think?"
The question felt like a trap, but Harry answered truthfully. "The same thing I have. That power corrupts when it becomes an end in itself rather than a means to protect others."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "I believe I understand you both better now. You have my thanks for this conversation, Mr. Peverell, and for the honesty. It has been most illuminating."
"Thank you for taking the time, Professor," Harry replied, recognizing the dismissal.
His tea finished, he placed the cup on the table and slowly slid out of the chair, turning around and walking away.
"One last thing, Mr. Peverell," Dumbledore said as Harry reached the door. His hand paused over the doorknob and he turned slightly to indicate he was listening. "Should you find yourself in need of guidance—about your studies, about the choices you face, about anything at all—my door is always open. Sometimes the wisest course is not to walk a difficult path alone."
Harry turned back fully, surprised by the genuine warmth in Dumbledore's voice. For the first time since meeting him in this new timeline, Harry saw a glimpse of the old Albus Dumbledore who had been such a pivotal part of his life growing up, whose guidance, although flawed, had shaped him so immensely.
"I'll remember that, Professor. Thank you."
-Break-
Tuesday morning found Harry strapping on Ravenclaw blue Quidditch robes in the team changing room, still somewhat amazed at how quickly things had moved. Three days ago he'd been playing a casual scrimmage. Now he was about to make his debut as Ravenclaw's official Seeker.
The changing room buzzed with pre-match energy. His teammates moved through their familiar routines—some stretching, others checking their broom maintenance kits one final time. Harry found himself caught between genuine excitement and the nagging worry that he was making a mistake.
He'd been genuinely torn about joining the team initially. Drawing attention wasn't part of the plan he and Nym had discussed, working out how to navigate their time in the past without raising suspicions. But she'd cornered him two nights ago, fixing him with that knowing look that meant she'd already made up her mind about something.
"You're being an idiot," she'd said without preamble, settling into his lap and pulling the book out of his hand, throwing it away on the desk.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Harry had replied dryly, his hands instinctively reaching for her bare thighs, feeling the soft skin right where her skirt ended.
"I'm serious, Harry. You can't spend your time here hiding who you are completely. Yes, we need to be careful, but you also need to live." She'd leaned forward, her voice dropping to the whisper as she rested her forehead against his. "I've watched you enough over the years. You light up when you talk about flying. And that was the first time I've seen you genuinely happy since we got here… well, apart from the obvious."
She giggled, pressing her lips against his as they kissed softly.
She'd been right, of course. The constant weight of pretending to be someone else, of carefully monitoring every word and reaction, had been wearing on him more than he'd admitted. Flying had always been his escape, his joy, the one thing that made him feel truly himself. The idea of giving that up entirely felt like losing another piece of his identity.
"You get this look," Nym had continued, her voice warming as they continued to kiss. "When you're talking about Quidditch strategy or describing a particularly difficult maneuver. Your whole face changes. You become animated in a way that Harry Peverell the careful student never is."
"And what if I mess up?" Harry had asked quietly. "What if I accidentally do something that gives us away?"
"Then we'll deal with it," she'd said firmly. "But Harry, you're already barely holding yourself together. I can see it. You need something that's yours, something that reminds you who you really are underneath all this pretense."
She'd paused, then delivered the argument that had ultimately swayed him. "Plus, imagine how much easier it'll be to sell the ability of your reflexes and quick actions if you were a seeker on the team. No one will think twice when you use those abilities publicly."
That had sealed it. The strategic advantage was undeniable—Quidditch would give him legitimate reasons to be observant, to notice things others might miss. The next morning he'd found Captain Marcus Corner in the Great Hall and told him he was interested in trying out.
The tryout itself had been a formality—word of his flying from the scrimmage had already spread through the Ravenclaw team and half the house besides. Corner had watched him perform a few basic maneuvers, seen how he handled the Snitch in a practice scenario, and declared himself satisfied.
"Welcome to the team, Peverell," he'd said with a grin. "Hope you're ready to work. We've got Hufflepuff on Tuesday."
Now, adjusting his gloves, Harry listened to Captain Corner give his final team talk. The seventh-year had sharp green eyes and an authoritative manner that reminded Harry somewhat of Oliver Wood, though with less manic intensity.
"Remember, Hufflepuff's got a solid Keeper in Davies," Corner said, pacing in front of them like a general addressing troops. "He's quick on his feet and reads the game well. Don't waste shots hoping to catch him off guard—wait for the real opportunities."
He gestured toward the Beaters, twins named Geoffrey and Gregory Pemberton who looked nearly identical except for a scar on Geoffrey's chin. "Their Beaters are MacKenzie and Ross. MacKenzie's aggressive but not particularly bright—he'll go for the spectacular hit over the strategic one every time. Ross is craftier. Watch for him setting up plays rather than just trying to knock people off brooms."
The captain's gaze swept over his Chasers—Jennifer Bell, a sixth-year with steady hands and tactical brilliance; Robert Chang, a seventh-year whose reserved demeanor masked fierce competitive instincts; and Patricia Corner, the captain's fifth-year sister who had inherited the family's natural leadership qualities.
"Their Chasers are solid but predictable," Corner continued. "Johnson likes to hold onto the Quaffle too long—press him and he'll make mistakes. Williams always passes to her right when under pressure. Taylor's got good hands but terrible spatial awareness. Use these against them."
Finally, he turned to Harry. "Peverell, I know this is your first official match, but from what I've seen, you've got the skills. Peters, their Seeker, is competent but lacks imagination. He'll try to out-muscle you to the Snitch rather than out-think you. Don't let him rattle you, and don't overthink it. Trust your instincts."
"Understood," Harry nodded.
"Right then," Corner clapped his hands together. "Let's show them what Ravenclaw Quidditch looks like."
The team filed out of the changing rooms and into the tunnel that led to the pitch. Harry could hear the crowd already—a low rumble that would soon explode into cheers and chants.
They emerged onto the pitch to thunderous applause. The stands were packed with students, staff, and even some parents who'd come for the match. The October afternoon was crisp and clear, with just enough wind to make things interesting but not enough to seriously affect play.
Harry spotted Nym immediately in the Ravenclaw section. She caught his eye and gave him an encouraging thumbs up, mouthing "breathe" with an exaggerated expression that made him smile despite his nerves.
Scattered throughout the stands, he could see his housemates and acquaintances he'd made so far. Augusta sat with perfect posture in the front row with Harfang. Helena and Robert sat with Nymeria. Charlus was a few rows back, apparently taking bets with the students around him. The Blacks were right behind Nymeria, and he spotted Dorea lean over and speak something to her.
Even some of the more studious Ravenclaws had come out for the match.
Up in the teachers' section, Professor Flitwick was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement, his Ravenclaw scarf nearly as long as he was tall. Professor Merrythought sat beside him, his surveying the crowd with obvious enjoyment. The rest of the professors and Headmaster Dippet were scattered about, the latter sitting in the middle of the congregation.
The commentary box was positioned high above the stands, and Harry could see a sixth-year Gryffindor named Timothy Fletcher testing his voice amplification charm. Fletcher had a reputation for colorful commentary that walked the fine line between entertaining and inflammatory—he'd been banned from commentating Gryffindor matches after describing the Slytherin team as "a pack of cheating snakes with the collective intelligence of a flobberworm."
"Good afternoon, Hogwarts!" Fletcher's voice boomed across the grounds, magically amplified to reach every corner of the stadium. "Welcome to what promises to be a spectacular match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff on this glorious October afternoon!"
"For those just joining us, Ravenclaw has a new Seeker today—sixth-year Harry Peverell, who apparently impressed Captain Corner enough in tryouts to earn a spot just days after arriving at the school!" Fletcher's enthusiasm was infectious, and the crowd's noise level rose accordingly.
"Rumor has it," Fletcher continued, clearly enjoying himself, "that Peverell's flying during a scrimmage last Saturday was so impressive that half the spectators thought they were watching a professional exhibition! Students have been debating all week whether the stories are exaggerated or if we're about to witness something truly special!"
Fletcher paused dramatically. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, we're about to find out! Let's meet today's teams!"
He began introducing the Hufflepuff team first, giving each player a brief but colorful description.
"And now for Ravenclaw!" Fletcher announced. "Led by Captain Marcus Corner, a seventh-year who's never lost a match as captain and doesn't intend to start today, although he's captained only one match so far—the final match last year against Hufflepuff which Ravenclaw won 180-100!"
The introductions continued through the team until Fletcher reached Harry. "And finally, making his debut today, Seeker Harry Peverell! Sixth-year transfer student whose flying has already become the stuff of legend among those lucky enough to witness it! Let's see if he can live up to the considerable hype!"
The teams lined up in the center of the pitch. Madam Hooch's predecessor and her grandmother who also went by Madam Hooch stood between them with the Quidditch trunk, and the woman looking exactly as stern and no-nonsense as Harry remembered her granddaughter was from his own timeline. Her yellow eyes missed nothing as she surveyed the players.
"I want a clean game from all of you," she announced, her voice carrying clearly across the pitch. "No unnecessary roughness, no deliberate fouls, and absolutely no unsporting behavior. Captain Corner, Captain Johnson, step forward."
The two captains approached each other. Corner looked confident and relaxed; Johnson, the Hufflepuff captain, appeared grimly determined. They shook hands with a firm grip, silently showing that neither was willing to show any weakness.
"Mount your brooms," Hooch commanded.
Harry swung his leg over the old school broom, feeling its familiar sluggishness compared to his Firebolt. He'd spent the previous day practicing with it whenever he could steal time, learning its quirks and limitations. The acceleration was poor, the turning radius wide, and it had an annoying tendency to pull slightly to the left during sharp climbs. But it was reliable and responsive enough for what he needed.
The other players settled onto their brooms around him.
"On my whistle," Hooch announced, raising the whistle to her lips. "Three... two... one..."
The sharp blast sent fourteen players shooting into the air. Harry immediately climbed high, using the altitude advantage to scan the pitch below as his teammates and the Hufflepuffs sorted themselves into their respective positions.
The familiar rush of flight filled him with pure joy. Even on the sluggish and outdated broom, at least for him, being airborne felt like coming home. The ground fell away beneath him, the crowd's noise faded to a distant roar, and suddenly the only thing that mattered was the game.
Ravenclaw's Chasers wasted no time getting to work. Jennifer Bell took possession of the Quaffle straight from the opening play, immediately passing to Robert Chang to avoid a charging Hufflepuff Chaser. Chang caught it smoothly and began weaving through the defense. That bloke had had years of practice.
"And Chang's off with the Quaffle!" Fletcher announced, his voice rising with excitement. "He passes to Patricia Corner, who dodges a nasty Bludger from Hufflepuff Beater MacKenzie! Oh, beautiful flying there! The younger Corner definitely inherited the family talent!"
Harry kept one eye on the action below while systematically searching for the Golden Snitch. He'd developed a search pattern during his years of competitive Quidditch—methodical sweeps that covered different sections of the pitch in overlapping arcs. The key was to remain unpredictable while ensuring no area went unchecked for too long.
The Hufflepuff Seeker, Peters, was hovering about thirty feet away, trying to mirror Harry's movements. The bloke was clearly intimidated after hearing about Harry's skills—his flying was competent but tense, and he kept glancing over as if expecting Harry to suddenly dart away.
"Corner passes back to Bell," Fletcher continued his commentary, "she dodges around Williams, lines up her shot—and Davies makes a brilliant save! The Quaffle bounces off his fingertips, it's loose in the goal area!"
Chang swooped in for the rebound, but Hufflepuff Beater Ross had positioned himself perfectly. The Bludger caught Chang in the shoulder, not hard enough to knock him from his broom but sufficient to spoil his aim. The Quaffle tumbled toward the ground.
"Ross with excellent Beater work there!" Fletcher called. "Chang's shaken up but still flying, and MacKenzie recovers the Quaffle for Hufflepuff!"
The flow of the game settled into a familiar rhythm. Both teams were well-matched, with Hufflepuff's solid teamwork countering Ravenclaw's individual brilliance. The score remained close—first Hufflepuff took a 10-0 lead, then Ravenclaw answered with two quick goals to go ahead 20-10.
Harry continued his methodical search, rising and falling in smooth arcs that covered different sections of the pitch. The broom responded sluggishly to his commands, but he'd learned to compensate by anticipating turns earlier and using his body weight to assist the sluggish steering.
"Twenty minutes in and still no sign of the Snitch," Fletcher announced. "Both Seekers are hunting hard, but I have to say, Peverell's technique is remarkably sophisticated for someone so new to the team. Very systematic approach—nothing like the wild chasing we usually see from newer players!"
Several times, Harry thought he caught glimpses of gold, only to realize he was seeing reflections off brass buttons or the glint of someone's watch in the stands. The Snitch was notoriously good at hiding, and this one seemed particularly elusive.
The game's tempo increased as both teams grew more aggressive. Patricia Corner took a hard hit from MacKenzie that left her wobbling on her broom, though she recovered quickly and scored Ravenclaw's third goal moments later in apparent retaliation.
"That's 30-20 to Ravenclaw!" Fletcher called. "And Patricia Corner just proved that the Corner family doesn't back down from a fight! MacKenzie looks rather sheepish about that hit—I don't think he expected her to bounce back so quickly!"
Harry was completing another sweep near the stands when he finally spotted it. A flash of gold, barely visible against the afternoon sun, hovering near the base of the Hufflepuff goalposts. The Snitch was moving lazily, almost mockingly, as if it knew it was being hunted but didn't particularly care.
Harry's pulse quickened, but he forced himself to remain calm. Peters hadn't spotted it yet—the Hufflepuff Seeker was still scanning the opposite end of the pitch, following a false alarm near the commentary box.
Moving as casually as possible, Harry began angling his broom toward the Hufflepuff goal area. He kept his movements subtle, disguising his intent by making it look like he was simply continuing his search pattern. The key was to get close enough to make a decisive move without alerting Peters to what he'd seen.
The broom protested as Harry pushed it into a shallow dive. He could feel it shuddering slightly under the strain, the handle vibrating in his hands. He'd need to time this perfectly—one chance to close the distance before Peters realized what was happening.
Thirty yards. Twenty. The Snitch continued its lazy hovering, wings beating in the hypnotic rhythm that made it so mesmerizing to watch. Harry's every instinct screamed at him to dive immediately, to go for the spectacular catch that would end the match in style.
Instead, he waited. Patience had always been one of his strengths as a Seeker. The flashy players went for every opportunity; the successful ones waited for the right opportunity.
Fifteen yards. The Snitch began to drift upward, perhaps sensing the approaching danger. Harry tensed, ready to make his move.
"Wait!" Fletcher's voice shot up an octave, cutting through the crowd noise. "Peverell's moving! He's seen something! Peters hasn't noticed yet, but—there he goes! Both Seekers are diving toward the Hufflepuff goal!"
The crowd's roar intensified as Peters belatedly spotted Harry's movement and gave chase.
The Snitch, as if offended by the sudden attention, abandoned its lazy hovering and shot off like a rocket. It zipped left toward the stands, then banked sharply right, climbing rapidly as it gained speed.
"Incredible acceleration from the Snitch!" Fletcher shouted over the crowd noise. "Both Seekers are in hot pursuit, but Peverell's got the better position! Peters is trying to cut him off—this could get dangerous!"
Harry tracked the Snitch's erratic movement, his mind automatically calculating intercept angles and timing. The golden ball was fast, but it flew in patterns—spirals during climbs, zigzags during turns, sudden stops followed by explosive acceleration. If you watched long enough, you could start to predict its behavior.
The Snitch led them on a wild chase around the pitch, diving between goalposts and weaving through the ongoing Chaser action. Harry found himself having to dodge not only Peters, who was flying increasingly desperately, but also the other players who were too focused on their own game to notice the Seekers' pursuit.
"This is extraordinary flying from both Seekers!" Fletcher called, his voice nearly hoarse from excitement. "They're weaving through the other players like they're standing still! Wait—MacKenzie's lining up a Bludger shot! Surely he's not going to—he is! That's definitely aimed at Peverell!"
Harry saw the Bludger coming and rolled his broom hard to the left, the iron ball whistling past his ear with inches to spare. Whether MacKenzie had aimed at him deliberately or simply gotten caught up in the moment, Harry couldn't tell, but the near-miss drew angry shouts from the Ravenclaw stands.
"Questionable sportsmanship from MacKenzie there!" Fletcher called indignantly. "Though I have to say, Peverell handled it brilliantly! Barely broke stride, and he's still right on the Snitch's tail!"
The chase continued for another full minute, the Snitch leading them through increasingly complex aerial maneuvers. Harry's broom was beginning to show its limitations—the turns were getting sluggish, and he could feel it losing power during the steeper climbs.
They were neck and neck when the Snitch made its crucial mistake. Leading them in a spiraling climb toward the clouds, it suddenly stopped dead in the air—perhaps confused by a crosswind, or maybe just showing off. For perhaps two seconds, it hung motionless against the gray October sky.
Two seconds was all Harry needed. He urged every ounce of speed from the protesting broom, stretching out his arm as far as he could reach. His fingertips brushed the Snitch's struggling wings just as Peters arrived, a split second too late.
"HE'S GOT IT!" Fletcher's voice cracked with excitement, the magical amplification making his shout echo across the entire grounds. "PEVERELL HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! RAVENCLAW WINS, 280 TO 90!"
The explosion of sound from the blue and bronze sections of the stands was deafening. Harry raised the struggling Snitch high above his head, feeling the familiar thrill of victory course through his veins. The golden ball's wings tickled his palm as it fought futilely to escape.
His teammates reached him within seconds, their shouts of congratulation almost lost in the crowd noise. Captain Corner was the first to arrive, his face split by an enormous grin.
"Bloody brilliant, Peverell!" he shouted, having to lean close to be heard. "Absolutely bloody brilliant! That was some of the best seeking I've ever seen!"
Patricia appeared at his other side, her auburn hair whipping in the wind. "The way you stayed with it through those turns," she called, "I thought that old broom was going to fall apart!"
"Nearly did," Harry admitted, patting the worn handle with genuine affection. "But it held together when it mattered."
Jennifer Bell swooped in from below, her face flushed with victory. "Outstanding debut!" she called, reaching over to shake Harry's hand firmly. "Best seeking I've seen in my six years here!"
Robert Chang, normally reserved to the point of seeming standoffish, was actually smiling. "The way you read that Snitch's movement patterns," he said thoughtfully, having to raise his voice to be heard, "very impressive tactical thinking. Most Seekers just chase blindly."
Geoffrey Pemberton, one of the Beater twins, flew up alongside them. "MacKenzie's going to be eating his words about that Bludger," he said with satisfaction. "Showed him what real flying looks like!"
They descended toward the pitch in a loose formation, where the rest of their house was already streaming onto the grass. Harry found himself surrounded by cheering Ravenclaws, all wanting to congratulate him or shake his hand or simply be part of the celebration.
Nym appeared at his elbow almost immediately, her eyes shining brighter than usual in her excitement. "Harry, that was incredible!" she exclaimed. "When that Bludger nearly took your head off—I thought my heart was going to stop!"
"Thanks," Harry said, genuinely pleased by her obvious pride. "It felt good to be flying competitively again."
"Again?" Captain Corner had overheard, his eyebrows rising with interest. "You've played competitively before?"
Harry mentally cursed his slip. The adrenaline of the match had made him careless with his words. "Just where I used to live before," he said carefully. "Nothing as organized as this, though. Much smaller scale."
"Well, wherever you learned, they taught you well," Corner said approvingly. "I've never seen a debut performance like that. Usually takes new seekers half a season to get comfortable with the pressure."
More congratulations followed as they made their way back toward the castle. Students from other houses had joined the crowd—even some Hufflepuffs, displaying the kind of good sportsmanship their house was known for. Several offered genuine compliments on his flying, though Peters himself was nowhere to be seen.
"You'll be trying out for the clubs next year, won't you?" asked a third-year Harry didn't recognize. "With flying like that, you could make the league teams!"
"Maybe," Harry replied noncommittally, though the suggestion sent a small thrill through him. The idea of playing at that level was tempting, but it would also mean even more attention.
As they approached the castle, Professor Merrythought intercepted them, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mr. Peverell!" he spoke, his Ravenclaw scarf still wrapped around his neck. "What a marvelous debut! Simply marvelous! I haven't seen seeking like that since—well, since quite some time!"
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, touched by the wizard's obvious pleasure.
"The way you anticipated that Snitch's movements," he continued, "most impressive tactical thinking! You must have studied the patterns extensively."
"Just observation, sir," Harry replied. "Every Snitch has habits if you watch long enough."
Merrythought beamed at him. "Precisely! Precisely the kind of analytical approach we value in Ravenclaw! I do believe this calls for a celebration in the common room, don't you think?"
The suggestion was met with enthusiastic agreement from the surrounding students. Soon a procession was forming, with Harry at its center whether he wanted to be or not.
Back in the changing room, the team's mood was absolutely jubilant. They'd been expecting a much closer match—Hufflepuff had a strong team this year, and most predictions had called for a narrow victory either way. Harry's relatively quick capture of the Snitch had turned it into a comfortable win that boosted both their points total for the House Cup and their confidence for the season ahead.
"Drinks in the common room!" Bell announced, already changing out of her Quidditch robes. "Team's buying for our new Seeker!"
"You don't have to do that," Harry protested, though he was secretly pleased by the gesture.
"Course we do," Patricia said firmly, pulling her auburn hair back into a ponytail. "Team tradition. Every new member's first win gets celebrated properly. Besides, after flying like that, you've earned it."
"Speaking of which," Captain Corner said, hanging up his robes, "we need to talk strategy for the Slytherin match. If you can fly like that consistently, we might actually have a real shot at the Cup this year."
As Harry changed out of his Quidditch robes, he caught his reflection in the small mirror mounted on his locker door. His hair was completely disheveled from the wind, his cheeks flushed with exertion and excitement, and there was a grass stain on his shirt from the post-match celebration on the pitch. He looked genuinely happy.
Maybe Nym had been right about more than just the flying. Maybe he did need to allow himself these moments of genuine happiness, these connections with his teammates and housemates. The constant vigilance and careful pretense were necessary, but they didn't have to consume every aspect of his life here.
"You coming, Peverell?" Corner called from the doorway, where the rest of the team was waiting. "The butterbeer's getting warm, and Bell's threatening to start the celebration without you!"
"Right behind you, Captain," Harry replied, stuffing his regular robes into his bag and taking one last look at his reflection.
Perhaps for the first time since arriving in the past, he felt like exactly who he was supposed to be in this new life now.
TBC.
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