Chapter 23: Flirting with Dangers
Harry sat by the fire, his book propped on the arm of the couch so he would not have to hold it up. He did not remember his schoolbooks weighing so much. Either the NEWT-level books were that much heavier or he was far weaker than he thought after his summer barely eating. He focused on the book, trying to understand the complexities of Transfiguration, but it was hard. Transfiguration really was the most complicated subject at Hogwarts; McGonagall said as much first year and she had not been exaggerating. As he read, a warm weight fell on his lap. He ignored it, assuming it was Crookshanks, who had taken a liking to him near the end of the previous year. It took him half a chapter to remember that, if Hermione's mangy cat was at Hogwarts, it was at Hogwarts in 1996 and not here in 1976.
He looked down expecting to see someone else's pet cat curled up in his lap.
"Um… Sirius, why are you using me as a pillow?" Harry asked, certain his face was flushed to the colour of his tie.
"The good chair was taken," he replied without taking his eyes off his book.
"There was more than enough room for you to sit on the couch," Harry countered.
The boy sighed and dropped the book onto his chest. "I felt like lying down, you looked too focused to disturb… you also looked rather comfy."
"It's pointless arguing with him," Remus said from his seat on the nearby chair. "He wins every time."
"Yeah, but that still leaves him using me as a pillow," Harry said and shifted awkwardly.
"Oi! Don't you dare move," Sirius warned. "I'm far too comfortable. I think I'll be using you as a pillow from now on."
"Git."
"Says the bloke with a bogey the size of Ipswich," Sirius smirked as Harry's hand flew to his nose. "Just fucking with you, Harry James Granger."
Harry waited for him to call it all a joke, get up and move to the other side of the couch, but Sirius picked up his book and started reading again, his head still unmistakably in Harry's lap. "Are you seriously not going to move?"
"Nope, I'm comfy."
"Annoying, isn't it?" Remus muttered. "Used to do that to me. Why do you think I only sit on the chairs?"
Sirius offered his friend a pair of forked fingers but said nothing. Seeing that he really had no intention of moving, Harry tried again to shift out from under him. "I thought I told you not to move."
Harry groaned. "What if I'm uncomfortable?"
"Are you?"
He paused. "No."
"Well, then deal with it," Sirius grinned smugly and kept reading.
It was weird on so many levels. Harry tried to picture any of his friends from his proper time lying down with their head in his lap. Not even Hermione would have done this. Yet, despite how unnatural it seemed, Harry was not uncomfortable. Physically, it was fine. Psychologically, it was somehow heartening. He wondered if adult Sirius would have done this, too. The man always wrapped Harry in long, tight embraces as if proving to himself that the boy was really there and really wanted to be in his care. Surely, if they lived together as Godfather and Godson, Sirius would have gotten over hugging Harry for five minutes at a time in favour of this more subtle contact.
Hours passed with Sirius moving little more than his hand to turn the page of his book. It got to the point that Harry actually forgot he was there except for when someone walked past and muttered a comment. He should have been embarrassed when they did, but he wasn't.
"Well, I'm knackered!" Sirius declared loudly. "Off to bed with everyone."
"We have to go up just because you're tired?" Remus inquired, eyebrow raised in condescension.
"Quidditch tryouts tomorrow," Sirius reminded him. "And I expect everyone to be there. That means you, Harry James Granger."
"But I'm not trying out," Harry protested.
"I think you'll find that you are," insisted Sirius rather smugly.
Harry grumbled and groaned, but could not find an excuse that would let him off the hook. He had agreed to try out, though he had not seriously meant it. Hermione would kill him if he managed to get himself onto the Quidditch team. Throwing himself down onto the bed, he punched his pillow and kicked at his blankets in annoyance. He should have said 'no' with as much conviction as he possessed. Why had he not done that? Why had he been so stupid?
"Because you miss it," he said to himself. "You miss flying, competing in a game that actually has rules and a winner."
That was it. He missed playing Quidditch more than he missed food or a decent night's rest. He wanted to play, to fly, to win. He didn't even have to be on the team with his father and Sirius; the teammates were irrelevant. All he wanted was the wind in his face and the broom under his command. He dropped off as he remembered the last game he had played.
He woke, dry, calm and free from his normally tangled sheets.
He had actually slept, properly slept, undisturbed by dreams of Sirius or the Veil. He rolled over and removed the silencing spell around his bed, listening for signs of life. They came quicker than he had anticipated.
"Move it, Granger!" James barked and threw the curtain aside. "Get your scrawny arse down to breakfast. I expect you on the pitch in thirty minutes."
"Okay," Harry mumbled.
"That's 'yes, captain' to you!" he smirked.
"I'm not on the team!" Harry called after him.
"Not yet!" the boy shouted over his shoulder as he walked through the door.
"You get the impression," Remus sighed, "that this is James Potter's show and we're all just supporting cast members, don't you?"
Harry nodded dumbly, dressed and went down to breakfast. The Gryffindor table was buzzing with excitement over the Quidditch trials. More than classes or the chaotic common room, this energetic discussion made him feel like he was back in his own time. Listening to a small pride of second years, he felt the same thrill that he used to get before games, not quite queasiness, just a slight edge of uncertainty that made him work that much harder.
"Come on," Remus grinned. "James will hex us if we're late."
"Why are you going if you aren't trying out?" Harry asked.
He shrugged. "James and Sirius like an audience." He paused and turned back to Harry. "Do you have a broom? The school has some, but they're a bit shabby."
"Uh… yeah," Harry said uncertainly. He did have a broom, a great broom, the best broom money could buy. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it could outfly anything that existed in 1976, and that was bad. He could never hope to explain how his broom was so fast, not even if he claimed that it was custom made in South Africa.
"Go get it," Remus said. "I'll tell James you're on your way."
Harry nodded slowly, worried again that he had done something very stupid. "Hermione!" he shouted and ran after the girl. "Hermione! Help!"
"What is it?" she asked, her face stricken as if he were being chased by Voldemort himself.
"I need you to make my broom slower," he said, gasping for breath yet still pulling her toward Gryffindor Tower.
"Why?"
He explained as best he could James's insistence that he try out, and his fears of making himself stand out too much with his Firebolt. "Please, Hermione, just make it a bit slower."
"Harry, this is a bad idea," she argued. "You're too good. There's no question you'll make the team. I'd love to see you play again, really, but you can't."
"Hermione, please," he begged. "I can't explain it, but I need this."
She shook her head and sighed, but took out her wand as he pulled the broom from the trunk. "If you get your name on some trophy, don't blame me," she scolded. It was so odd a thing to say that he laughed.
"Thanks, Hermione," he grinned and ran for the door.
He ran the whole way from Gryffindor Tower, through the castle and down the lawn to the Quidditch pitch. It was more exercise than he had gotten in months, and the stitch in his side was letting him know it. Still, he ran, not caring about the pain or that it signalled his weakness or that his guilt had been the thing that caused it all. He ran.
"You're late," James informed him. "Seekers have already tried out."
"What?" Harry gasped, gripping his side and wincing.
"You'll have to wait. Go sit over there," he ordered.
Harry dropped onto the bench beside Remus, gasping for breath and fighting tears at having missed his opportunity. He watched, despondent, as the would-be-Beaters tried to knock each other off their brooms. Sirius and James hovered in mid-air watching the play and commenting to one another as, one by one, the number of serious contenders dwindled. When there were only three left, James called them back to Earth.
"Chasers!" he bellowed. Twelve hopefuls ran across the grass and waited for their orders. James threw a ball at them. "Up you get, let's see who can actually manage the job."
They kicked off and began circling the pitch, throwing the ball to one another. Three were dismissed instantly when they couldn't manage to catch the Quaffle. Another two were gone when they threw so badly the ball was too easily intercepted. Finally there were five and James ordered them to the ground.
"Scrimmage time!" he shouted, arbitrarily dividing the hopefuls into two teams, sending the only two Gryffindors trying out for Keeper to either end of the pitch. "Ready, steady… GO!"
They launched into the air, playing the most furious game of Quidditch Harry had ever witnessed. It was brilliant. James was the best Chaser on the pitch by a mile, stealing the ball easily and flying low and fast through impossibly tight gaps to make more goals than anyone. His team was up by 300 points and kept gaining. It was obvious who would make the roster; James could have called the scrimmage to an end at any time, but the boy was treating it as if it were a real game, which meant they could only stop when the Snitch was caught. Both Seekers, as James had predicted, could not find the little golden ball to save their lives. They circled the pitch, dove low to the ground, flew through the melee, but even after almost two hours the Snitch remained uncaught.
"How did they make the scrimmage team if they can't find the damn Snitch?" Harry muttered.
"James stunned it and hid it in the grass," replied Remus. "After they lost three in last year's try-outs, we knew there had to be a better way. Clearly, it was not that good a plan."
"The worst," Harry agreed and started griping. "I mean, what's the problem? It's right there!"
"You can actually see it?" Remus asked, astonished, squinting out at the pitch.
Harry nodded, his eyes fixed on the little golden ball that hovered just off the tail-end of the far Keeper's broom.
"JAMES!" Remus shouted, standing and waving his arms to get the boy's attention.
The boy flew over, sweaty and scowling. "What? I was about to score another goal!"
"I'd like the game to end soon. I'm getting hungry," Remus said with a calm sarcasm that cut through the competitive fog that clouded the other boy's vision. "Would you mind letting Harry catch the Snitch since none of your Seekers can manage it?"
His hazel eyes turned to Harry, sparkling with excitement. "You're in," he said and turned back to the pitch. "WILLIS! YOU'RE OUT!"
Harry threw his cloak onto the bench and kicked off the ground, flying as quickly as the broom would allow across the lawn, through the game, narrowly avoiding a Beater's bat to catch the snitch within half a minute of James letting him play. He expected to see shock or awe or amazement cross James Potter's face, for his jaw to drop and for him to be completely speechless, but James Potter, never one to aim for predictability, was staring at Harry with bright, hungry eyes.
His lips curled into a devilish smirk. "Let it go," James commanded.
Harry felt a slight chill overtake him, but he did as the Captain ordered. He released the struggling golden ball, letting it fly away from him and into the bright morning sky. He looked over at his young father, seeing his brow furrow as he lost sight of the ball. Harry looked back and could still make out the miniscule glint where the sun lit the polished gold and the shimmer of air that indicated its fast wing-beats.
"You still see it," James said, watching the boy's green eyes fixed on the distant point; Harry nodded. "Go catch it."
Pressing his body against the broom, Harry dove down. He hadn't flown in so long, he had almost forgotten what it felt like. It was as if the wind was ripping the worries and weight from his shoulders as it whipped past him. As he dove toward the grass below, he had no thoughts of prophecies or the future, Voldemort or Death Eaters. He thought only of getting his hands on the Snitch. He saw the ball growing closer, and he eased his broom to follow its erratic path across the pitch. Barely three yards from the grass, his fingers wrapped around the ball and he yanked hard on the broom to pull up from the dive. It was more difficult than it should have been given the reduced speed of the Firebolt, but he managed to avoid crashing into the ground.
"Congratulations," James said, slapping him on the back. "You made the team."
Harry could barely think for the sound of his heart beating in his ears. James was shouting again, calling everyone down to the ground, giving out team placements and naming second-string players for emergencies. Harry knew it was happening, but he did not hear a word of it. He was too busy relishing in that long-forgotten feeling of freedom.