The week leading up to the first Quidditch match was a study in a new, specialized form of torment. Oliver Wood, a young man possessed by a singular, fiery zeal for the sport, had commandeered Harry's free time with the fervor of a missionary. Team practices were held at dawn, in the bitter, misty chill that clung to the Quidditch pitch, and again late in the afternoon, when the setting sun cast long, grasping shadows across the grass.
The Gryffindor team was a collection of personalities Harry was still struggling to navigate. There were the Weasley twins, Fred and George, Beaters whose constant stream of jokes and effortless camaraderie was a lifeline. They treated Harry's presence with a cheerful, irreverent normality that was as refreshing as cold water.
"Alright there, Harry?" George would ask, clapping him on the shoulder as they trudged to the pitch. "Ready to show those Slytherin gits what a real Seeker looks like?"
"Just remember," Fred would add, winking, "if a Bludger comes near you, it's probably just trying to get a closer look. Can't blame it, really."
Their humor was a shield, deflecting the other, more uncomfortable attention.
Because the rest of the team, to Harry's horror, included girls. And they were the worst kind: skilled, confident, and utterly fascinated.
Alicia Spinnet, a fifth-year with a kind smile and a fierce competitive streak, was the first. During their initial team meeting in the locker room, Wood was diagramming plays on a chalkboard. Harry, trying to be inconspicuous, leaned against a locker. Alicia, sitting on a bench nearby, had been listening intently. Then her gaze drifted. It slid down his body, pausing for a fraction of a second too long at the prominent bulge in his practice trousers, before snapping back to his face. A slow, appreciative smile spread across her lips, entirely different from the friendly one she'd given him moments before. It was a look of pure, unadulterated approval.
Katie Bell, a fourth-year with a cloud of dark hair, was more subtle. She watched him during practice. As Harry dove and swerved on his Nimbus Two Thousand, a gift that still felt surreal, he'd sometimes catch her staring not at his flying, but at the way his body moved on the broom, her expression one of intense, focused curiosity that would quickly shift to a blush when she realized he'd noticed.
But the most challenging was Angelina Johnson. The tall, athletic Chaser was a force of nature on the pitch, her movements powerful and graceful. She was also the most direct. After one particularly grueling practice where Harry had nearly caught the Snitch three times, she flew up beside him as they headed back to the locker room.
"Not bad, Potter," she said, her voice carrying easily over the wind. "You're quick. And you've got... good balance." Her eyes, bold and assessing, swept over him from head to toe, lingering openly. It wasn't a giggling glance or a shy peek. It was the look of a connoisseur appraising a fine piece of horseflesh. A look of outright, confident lust. "The stories don't do you justice."
Harry felt his face grow hot. "Thanks," he muttered, urging his broom forward to escape.
The locker room was its own special hell. He developed a new, even more frantic changing ritual. He would wait until the very last moment, often pretending to examine his broomstick with intense interest until the others had mostly changed. Then, in a blur of motion, he would duck into a toilet stall or find the most shadowy corner to swap his sweaty practice gear for his school robes. The Weasley twins, bless them, seemed to understand. They would often create a distraction—a loudly argued debate about the best way to polish a Beater's bat, or an impromptu wrestling match—that gave Harry the precious seconds of cover he needed.
He survived the team meetings by focusing solely on Wood's tactical ramblings or by engaging Fred and George in conversation. They were his sanctuary within the team, a bastion of crude, brotherly normalcy.
The day of the match dawned clear and cold. The Great Hall was a cacophony of noise and house pride, the enchanted ceiling a brilliant, hard blue. The smell of kippers and toast was thick in the air, but Harry's stomach was a tight, nervous knot. He couldn't eat.
"You'll be great, Harry," Hermione said, her voice earnest. She had a small, Gryffindor pennant laid beside her plate. "Just remember what Wood told you about the Wronski Feint."
"Yeah, don't do it unless you have to," Ron added through a mouthful of sausage. "Charlie says it's a surefire way to break every bone in your body if you mess it up."
The walk down to the pitch was a parade. Hundreds of students streamed out of the castle, their voices rising in a excited roar. The Slytherins, in their green and silver, jeered as the Gryffindors passed. Harry saw Malfoy, his pale pointy face alight with malice, miming someone falling off a broom. Pansy Parkinson was with him, but her eyes were on Harry. She gave him a slow, deliberate wink.
Then he saw Daphne Greengrass. She was walking calmly, apart from the raucous Slytherin crowd. She didn't jeer or smirk. She simply met his gaze and gave a single, slight nod, as if acknowledging a business associate before a important meeting. The message was clear: *I am watching. Perform well.*
In the Gryffindor locker room, the air was thick with the smell of liniment and nervous sweat. Wood was pacing, his face pale, running through the plays for what felt like the hundredth time.
"...and remember, their Chasers are big, but they're slow on the turn! Alicia, Katie, Angelina, you use that! Weasleys, you see a Bludger near Harry, you knock it into next week! Harry... just catch the Snitch. Catch it before you know it. Catch it even if you have to swallow it. I don't care, just END THE GAME."
As they pulled on their scarlet Quidditch robes, Harry's hands were trembling. He fumbled with the clasps. Angelina, already dressed, saw his struggle.
"Here, let me," she said, stepping close. Her fingers, deft and strong, quickly fastened the clasps at his neck and chest. Then her hands drifted down, ostensibly to smooth the fabric over his torso. He flinched as her knuckles brushed against him. She didn't pull away. Instead, she looked him directly in the eye, her gaze hot and intense.
"You're going to be brilliant out there," she said, her voice a low, intimate murmur meant only for him. Her hand rested on his hip, possessive and firm. "And after we win, maybe we can... celebrate."
Before Harry could stammer a reply, Wood blew his whistle. "Team! Huddle up!"
Angelina gave his hip a final squeeze and joined the circle. Harry stood frozen for a second, his heart hammering for reasons that had very little to do with Quidditch. Fred caught his eye over Wood's shoulder and mimed wiping sweat from his brow, giving Harry a look of mock-envy.
Then they were marching out onto the pitch, and the world dissolved into sound.
The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wall of noise that hit him in the chest. The stands were a swirling sea of scarlet and gold, interspersed with the green and silver of Slytherin. Banners fluttered. He could see Hagrid's massive form in the stands, waving a scarlet flag. He saw Ron and Hermione, their faces tiny white ovals of excitement near the front.
Madam Hooch, her silver whistle gleaming, stood in the center of the field with the game chest.
"I want a nice, clean game," she barked at the two teams as they faced each other. The Slytherin Captain, a hulking seventh-year named Marcus Flint, smirked. His eyes, small and piggy, scanned the Gryffindor team, lingering on Harry with a look of contempt.
"Mount your brooms!"
Harry swung his leg over the Nimbus Two Thousand. The familiar, comfortable weight of the broom in his hands was a small anchor in the storm of his anxiety. He pushed off, the feeling of flight instantly calming his nerves. He rose high above the pitch, circling, his eyes already scanning for a glint of gold, leaving the world and its complicated, desiring stares behind.
"AND THE BLUDGERS ARE RELEASED! FOLLOWED BY THE GOLDEN SNITCH!" Lee Jordan's magically magnified voice boomed across the stadium. "AND THE QUAFFLE IS TAKEN IMMEDIATELY BY GRYFFINDOR! THAT'S ANGELINA JOHNSON, A FINE PLAYER, AND MY, DOESN'T SHE LOOK DASHING IN THOSE ROBES—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's chastising voice echoed.
"Sorry, Professor."
The game began in a frenzy. The Quaffle changed hands with brutal speed. Angelina dodged a Bludger and shot towards the Slytherin hoops, scoring within the first minute. The Gryffindor stands erupted. Harry kept circling, his eyes sweeping the pitch, a hawk looking for prey.
He saw a flash of gold near the Slytherin goalposts. He dove, but the Slytherin Seeker, a wiry boy named Terence Higgs, had seen it too and cut him off, forcing Harry to pull up sharply.
"DIRTY PLAY FROM HIGGS!" Lee Jordan roared. "THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN A FOUL!"
The game settled into a brutal rhythm. The Slytherins were playing dirty. A Bludger shot dangerously close to Harry's head, only to be sent spinning away by a perfectly aimed swing from Fred Weasley.
"CHEW ON THAT, YOU OVERGROWN CANNONBALL!" George yelled.
Marcus Flint, a mountain on a broom, deliberately collided with Alicia, sending her spinning. The Gryffindor Chasers were skilled, but the Slytherins were ruthless. The score seesawed. 20-10. 20-20. 30-20. 40-30.
Harry weaved through the chaos, his world narrowed to the search for the Snitch. He dodged another Bludger, ducked under a Slytherin Chaser, his senses hyper-alert. This was where he belonged. Up here, he was in control. He was defined by his skill, his reflexes, his courage. Not by his body.
Then it happened. He saw it. The Snitch was hovering, glinting in the cold sunlight, just a few feet above the grass near the Gryffindor goalposts.
He didn't hesitate. He pointed the nose of his broom straight down and plunged into a dive. The wind tore at his clothes and hair, the roar of the crowd a distant hum. He stretched out his hand, his fingers inches from the fluttering golden wings.
And then, a blur of green. Marcus Flint shot directly into his path. Harry swerved violently to avoid a catastrophic collision, his broom spinning. The Snitch vanished.
"FOUL!" Lee Jordan screamed, the stands echoing him. "RED CARD! SEND HIM OFF!"
Madam Hooch blasted her whistle, awarding Gryffindor a penalty shot, which Angelina scored with savage precision. But it was cold comfort. The Snitch was gone.
Harry's blood was boiling. The purity of the game had been violated. This wasn't about Quidditch anymore; it was about him. About stopping him by any means necessary. The anger that was never far from the surface surged up, hot and clean.
He soared back into the sky, his eyes narrowed. The game became a personal duel. He ignored the score, which was now 60-50 to Slytherin. He ignored everything but the hunt.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. The Chasers below were tiring, their movements becoming sloppier. Harry felt a strange calm settle over him. The anger had refined into a cold, sharp focus.
He saw it again. This time, it was near the Slytherin stands. Higgs saw it too and was closer. They shot towards it, neck and neck. Higgs was leaning forward, his hand outstretched. Harry knew he couldn't win in a straight race.
An idea, reckless and brilliant, formed in his mind. Wood's warning echoed in his head. *The Wronski Feint.*
He pulled up sharply, as if he'd seen something terrifying. Higgs, confused, glanced back for a split second. It was all Harry needed. He dove again, but this time, it wasn't a feint. It was a genuine, suicidal plunge straight at the ground, a move so dangerous it made the crowd gasp as one.
He was daring Higgs to follow. And the Slytherin Seeker, panicked and desperate, took the bait. He dove after Harry.
The ground rushed up to meet them. The hard, frozen turf. Harry could see individual blades of grass. He waited, his heart in his throat, until the very last possible second. He pulled out of the dive so hard the broom groaned in protest, his feet skimming the grass.
There was a sickening thud and a cry from behind him. Higgs, unable to pull up in time, had crashed. He lay in a heap, moaning.
But Harry didn't stop. The Snitch, startled by the commotion, had fluttered up and was now hovering, stunned, right in front of his face. He reached out, closed his hand around the struggling ball, and held it aloft.
Silence.
Then, pandemonium.
The Gryffindor stands exploded. The noise was deafening. Lee Jordan was screaming himself hoarse. "HE'S DONE IT! HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS! TWO HUNDRED AND TEN POINTS TO SIXTY!"
Harry landed softly on the grass, his legs shaky. He was immediately mobbed by his team. The Weasley twins lifted him onto their shoulders. Alicia and Katie were hugging him, their cheers ringing in his ears. Angelina fought her way through the crowd, her face alight with triumph, and threw her arms around his neck, planting a firm, lingering kiss on his cheek.
"You were magnificent!" she shouted over the roar.
For a moment, suspended on the shoulders of his teammates, surrounded by the adulation of his house, Harry felt it. True, unadulterated joy. He had done this. He, Harry Potter. Not the-Boy-Who-Lived. Not the heir to any blessing. The Seeker.
They carried him back to the castle in a victory procession, a chanting, singing river of scarlet. The Great Hall was a riot of celebration. The noise was immense. Everyone wanted to clap him on the back, shake his hand, congratulate him.
He saw Hermione, beaming, her earlier reserve gone in the face of his triumph. Ron was puffed up with pride, as if he'd caught the Snitch himself.
For hours, he was the hero. He recounted the dive a dozen times. He accepted a glass of pumpkin juice that someone thrust into his hand. He laughed at Fred and George's impression of Marcus Flint's face when the Snitch was caught.
But as the celebration wore on, the other reality began to seep back in. The looks from the girls in the hall were more intense than ever. They were no longer just curious or giggling. They were proprietary. He was *their* hero. Their champion. And the victory, it seemed, had made him public property.
He felt a hand on his arm. It was Angelina again, her eyes bright from the firewhisky someone had smuggled in.
"Told you we'd celebrate," she said, her voice husky. She leaned in close, her body pressing against his side. "The common room party will go all night. But I know a better place we can go... to really celebrate. Just the two of us."
Her meaning was unmistakable. The triumph of the pitch was being immediately translated into a currency of desire. His victory was being claimed as her prize.
Before he could respond, a cooler voice cut through the noise.
"Potter. A word."
Daphne Greengrass stood there, looking utterly out of place amidst the Gryffindor revelry. She was calm, her expression unreadable.
Angelina's grip on Harry's arm tightened. "He's busy, Greengrass."
"I'm sure," Daphne said, her grey eyes flicking over Angelina with dismissive contempt before returning to Harry. "But this is important. It's about... future games. And the players involved."
Harry, seeing a way out of the uncomfortable situation with Angelina, gently extracted his arm. "It's alright."
He followed Daphne to a relatively quiet corner near the entrance to the hall. The noise of the party was still loud, but they could speak without shouting.
"That was an impressive display," she said, not looking at the party, but directly at him. "Reckless. But effective. You have a talent for dramatic gestures."
"What do you want, Greengrass?" Harry asked, his post-game euphoria rapidly evaporating.
"I want to reiterate my offer. Broaden it, really." She folded her hands neatly in front of her. "You saw today how the game is played. Not just on the pitch. Flint's tactics. The... attentions of your own teammates." She glanced meaningfully towards where Angelina was now watching them, her expression dark. "You are a prize, Potter. And you are currently undefended. You surround yourself with children and blood traitors who see you as a toy or a trophy."
"And you don't?" Harry shot back.
"I see you as a strategic asset," she said, utterly unfazed. "There is a difference. An alliance with my family would offer you protection. Influence. It would raise your status from 'novelty' to 'power player.' The stares wouldn't stop, but their nature would change. They would be looks of respect, of calculation, not base lust. You would have the power to dictate the terms of your own life."
It was the same offer, polished and refined. But after the high of the game and the cloying possessiveness of Angelina, the cold, political logic was strangely appealing.
"And what would you get out of it?" Harry asked.
"The continuation of a powerful bloodline. A connection to the most famous wizard of our age. And a husband who embodies a legendary magical potency." She said it as if listing items on a shopping list. "It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. Think about it. You won't be a first-year forever. The world outside Hogwarts is far less... forgiving. You will need allies."
She didn't wait for an answer. She simply nodded, turned, and walked away, her blonde hair shining in the torchlight as she disappeared through the large oak doors.
Harry stood in the corner, the sounds of the celebration suddenly feeling hollow and distant. He had won the game. He had been a hero. But it had changed nothing. In fact, it had made everything worse. The hunt had intensified. The predators were now openly circling, each with their own strategy: Angelina with her raw desire, Daphne with her cold calculation.
He looked across the room. Ron was arm-wrestling Seamus Finnigan. Hermione was debating something passionately with a group of fifth-years. They were his friends. They were real.
But were they enough? Could their friendship protect him from the world Daphne described? From the constant, grinding pressure of being wanted for all the wrong reasons?
He had flown higher than anyone today. He had tasted a freedom so pure it was intoxicating. But he had landed back in the same cage. The bars were just better disguised.
The party raged on around him, but Harry Potter felt more alone than ever. The first game was over. He had caught the Snitch. But he was starting to realize he was just another piece in a much larger, much more dangerous game, and he had no idea what the rules were, or how to win.
The victory high from the Quidditch match proved to be as fleeting as the Golden Snitch itself. By Monday morning, the castle had settled back into its usual rhythm, but Harry's place within it had undeniably shifted. He was no longer just a curious novelty or a walking scandal; he was a proven athlete, a champion. And for the predators circling him, this made the scent of his blood all the sweeter.
If the looks Pansy Parkinson had been giving him after he had shown up Draco Malfoy during their first flying lesson were bad, the looks she was now sending his way were a thousand times worse. They had evolved. The raw, acquisitive hunger was still there, a constant, smoldering ember in her dark eyes. But it was now layered with something new: a grudging, furious respect.
She had all but stopped joining in on the public mocking of him. When Malfoy would drawl a comment about "Potter's big head" in the corridors, Pansy would remain silent, her gaze fixed on Harry with an unnerving intensity. She didn't defend him, but her lack of participation was a deafening statement. It was as if she had reclassified him. He was no longer just "Gryffindor scum" to be derided; he was a significant entity that required a more sophisticated approach.
This shift was most apparent in Potions, their shared dungeon crucible. A week after the match, they were brewing a particularly tricky Shrinking Solution. The air was thick with the acrid smell of daisy roots and the nervous tension of students trying not to melt their cauldrons. Harry, partnered with Ron, was carefully stirring his potion counter-clockwise, his focus absolute. He felt the familiar prickle on the back of his neck and looked up.
Pansy, across the dungeon, was watching him. But she wasn't staring at his body. She was watching his hands as he measured caterpillar guts, observing the careful concentration on his face. When his potion, through some miracle, began to emit the precise pearlescent smoke described in the textbook, her eyebrows lifted slightly. It was the barest flicker of surprise, quickly schooled back into neutrality, but he saw it. It wasn't lust. It was... assessment.
Later, as they were filing out, her path intentionally intersected with his near the door. Malfoy was ahead, already whining about Snape's unfairness.
"A passable attempt, Potter," Pansy said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "For a Gryffindor. I suppose there's more to you than just... well. You know."
She didn't wait for a reply, sweeping past him to join Malfoy. But the comment lingered. *'There's more to you.'* It was the first time any Slytherin, anyone outside of his small circle of friends, had acknowledged that he might possess qualities beyond his scar or his curse.
He wasn't sure if this new behavior was solely due to her wanting something from him—a transaction of flesh for status—or if there was genuinely more to the high-cheekboned girl than he had first thought. Was she capable of seeing him as a person, or was this just a more refined form of hunting? The uncertainty was its own kind of torment. A blatant enemy was easy to dismiss. A complex one was dangerous.
This internal debate was interrupted by a new, and far more unsettling, development. It was in the library two days later. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were huddled at their usual table, attempting to tackle a viciously long essay for Professor Binns on the legal ramifications of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
"It's impossible," Ron moaned, his head on the parchment. "Who cares if a Muggle sees a floating teacup in 1692?"
"It's the foundation of our entire society, Ronald!" Hermione hissed, snatching the textbook from him before he could drool on it. "If you'd just read chapter seven—"
"Hello, Potter."
The voice was soft, cultured, and utterly cold. They looked up. Standing by their table was Millicent Bulstrode. She was a large, solidly built girl with a heavy jaw and small, deep-set eyes that reminded Harry of a troll. She was rarely seen without a scowl, but today her expression was different. It was focused. Predatory.
Ron visibly shrunk in his seat. Hermione drew herself up, her face a mask of prim disapproval.
"What do you want, Bulstrode?" Hermione asked, her voice crisp.
Millicent ignored her completely. Her gaze was locked on Harry. The raw hunger he'd seen on the Quidditch pitch was back, but it was sharper now, more personal.
"I was impressed by your flying," she said, her voice a low rumble. "You're strong. Quick." Her eyes traveled over his shoulders, his arms, with a blatant physicality that made Pansy's looks seem subtle. "I like that."
Harry said nothing. He just stared back, his Occlumency walls—walls built not against Legilimency, but against the world—slamming into place.
"I don't waste time with games," Millicent continued, taking a step closer. Her presence seemed to block out the light from the library windows. "I see something I want, I take it. You're the best of the Potter line. I'm the strongest daughter of the Bulstrode house. It's a good match. Strong blood. Powerful children."
Ron made a choking sound. Hermione's mouth had fallen open in outrage.
Millicent's lips curled into something that was not a smile. "Think about it. You won't find a witch who can... handle you... better than me." Her meaning was brutally, unmistakably clear. This wasn't about politics or social climbing. This was about a primitive, Darwinian concept of breeding. She saw him as a prime stallion, and she was claiming the right to mate.
Before Harry could form a response, a voice like cut glass sliced through the tension.
"That's enough, Millicent. You're disturbing the peace."
Daphne Greengrass stood a few feet away, her arms crossed. She looked bored, as if interrupting a vulgar street brawl.
Millicent turned her head slowly, her small eyes narrowing. "This doesn't concern you, Greengrass."
"It concerns the dignity of our house," Daphne replied coolly. "And you are making a spectacle of yourself. Scrambling after a prize like a common Kneazle. It's undignified. Come along."
For a moment, it seemed Millicent would argue. Her fists, which were large and looked very hard, clenched at her sides. But something in Daphne's icy composure, the unshakable authority of old blood and cold calculation, won out. Millicent shot one last, possessive look at Harry, then turned and lumbered away, following Daphne out of the library.
The silence they left behind was profound.
"Blimey," Ron whispered, his face pale. "She was... she was..."
"Appalling," Hermione finished, her voice shaking with fury. "Treating you like... like a piece of breeding stock! It's barbaric!"
Harry felt numb. Millicent's approach had been so crude, so fundamentally dehumanizing, that it made Pansy's transactional offer and Daphne's political one seem almost civilized by comparison. It was a stark reminder of the spectrum of desire he was facing, from the intellectual to the political to the outright primal.
He looked towards the library door where Daphne had just intervened. Why had she done that? To eliminate a rival? To reinforce her own claim by showing she could control the other contenders? Or was there, impossibly, a sliver of genuine disgust at Millicent's brutishness?
The encounter left a deep chill in him. That night, in the dormitory, he told Seamus what had happened.
"Millicent Bulstrode?" Seamus said, his eyes wide. "Merlin's pants, Harry. She could snap you in two."
"She doesn't want to snap me," Harry said darkly, staring at the canopy of his bed. "She wants to... continue the bloodline."
Ron shuddered. "That's even worse. It's like something you'd read in *The Tales of Beedle the Bard*. The Ogre Queen who steals the prince to be her husband."
The analogy was uncomfortably apt. Harry felt less like a prince and more like a piece of livestock being fought over by different farmers, each with their own idea of how best to utilize him.
The next day, in Charms, he caught Pansy's eye. She was sitting with her usual group of Slytherin girls, but she was slightly apart. When she saw him looking, she didn't smirk or lick her lips. She simply held his gaze for a long moment, and then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible roll of her eyes towards where Millicent sat, as if to say, *'See? See what you have to deal with? I'm not like that.'*
It was a clever move. By positioning Millicent as the true monster, she was making her own predatory interest seem refined, almost desirable. It was a game of contrasts, and Harry was the prize being played for.
He was starting to understand the politics of it all. The Slytherin girls weren't a unified front. They were a nest of vipers, each with their own strategy for claiming the top prize. Pansy, with her direct, physical appeal. Daphne, with her political alliances. Millicent, with her brute-force approach. And he had no doubt there were others, watching and waiting from the shadows.
The realization was exhausting. He couldn't just be a student. He couldn't just be a Seeker. He had to be a politician, a strategist, constantly reading the subtle shifts in allegiance and intention around him. A wrong look, a misinterpreted word, could escalate the hunt in ways he couldn't predict.
As he walked to his next lesson, the weight of it all settled on his shoulders. The castle walls, which had once seemed so full of magic and promise, now felt like the walls of a gilded arena. He was the star attraction, and the games were just beginning. And the most dangerous players, he was starting to suspect, weren't the ones who screamed their intentions, but the quiet, high-cheekboned ones who made you wonder if there was something more to them, all while they slowly, patiently, moved their pieces into place.