Chapter 63: Born to Lose
The sheets were rough against his skin, the air glacial, but Harry barely noticed as he rocked in his bed, knees pulled tight into his chest, hands tugging at his hair, gasping for breath.
It was a dream. He couldn't quite remember it, not like the ones that had haunted him since June. This had been different, no sneering, angry young Sirius lashing out at him and abandoning him. Sirius had been there, always just out of reach; his voice called to him from down a dark corridor, demanding answers he was incapable of giving. The questions were lost to his waking mind, but the feelings the questions stirred were still with him. The panic and the desperate desire to flee, to escape. He wasn't sure what it was he was fleeing from, but he knew where he wanted to be.
"Home."
There had been a time when he thought Hogwarts would always be his home, but this place was not his Hogwarts. It was every bit as alien and forbidding as he had thought it to be. As he fought to put air into his lungs, the boy wanted nothing more than to run from this strange bed and room, find the headmaster and demand he be sent back to where he belonged. A pang of guilt hit him at the idea of deserting James the morning of the game. Filial loyalty was the only thing keeping him in 1977. His only other reason to stay had been left in the dungeons.
Sirius had made little effort to speak to him since the night of their shared detention. Dejected glances across the common room and notes easily ignored during class had been his sole attempts at rekindling their short-lived relationship. Harry had never been so grateful for Filch and detentions, for they kept him far from the boy who was nothing like the man he missed.
He clenched his eyes shut and tried to push all thoughts of Sirius from his mind. There had been a time during the summer when such a thing had come easily. Weeks of meditation practice at Privet Drive had allowed him to sit in semi-consciousness with thoughts of absolutely nothing in his brain, but it had been ages since he had attempted it. He was out of practice, and all he saw when he shut his eyes were the two faces that had dogged his dreams since June. Angry tears threatened to spill down his face. He wiped them away and opened his eyes in time to see the curtain move.
It was a slight shake of the fabric, as if someone on the other side grasped and then released the curtain. It came again a moment later. Then again. Finally, the curtain pulled aside just long enough for a face to push in. Peter's face, his round cheeks flushed red and eyes clamped shut.
"What are you doing?" Harry asked.
"Eh?" the boy squeaked, watery blue eyes flying open. "James made me do it!"
"Is he there?" The Chaser's voice demanded, at once commanding and slightly queasy.
"No."
"Yes, I am," Harry said.
"Oh, thank Merlin! I thought I'd have to castrate my best mate." James threw the curtain aside and stared down at Harry. "You look like hell."
"Thank you, but I'm here. Why say I'm not?" He looked between the two boys, not sure what sort of game they were playing.
"Padfoot's gone missing. The git."
"But it's game day," Harry said with a frown. He unfolded his body and marched across the room to Sirius's bed. He needn't have bothered; the curtains were tied to the bedposts, the blankets as neat as the house-elves had left them the previous day. He hadn't even slept there. "Where is he?"
"No idea." Peter shrugged.
"Last I saw him, he was in the common room writing out an essay or something," James recalled. "That was near midnight. He said he was coming straight up once he was done."
"Did he fall asleep down there?" Harry suggested.
"Nah," the boy shook his head, "I looked there first. Also checked the kitchen and the library. He's nowhere. And that bloody stupid git lost our map to Filch."
"I've got—" Harry began but snapped his mouth shut as Peter turned to look at him with hopeful eyes. The boy still didn't know the truth. How would he explain owning an exact duplicate of their Marauder's Map, down to title and spells used to unlock it?
"I've got to go to the loo," he declared hastily and ran from the room.
"Prat," James called after him.
The boy took his time in the washroom, not at all keen to be involved in a discussion on where the missing Beater might possibly be hiding. He knew that if it came to offering up suggestions, he would be left with nothing to say. Despite being in the boy's confidence for months, he had to confess that he still knew very little about Sirius. It pained him to have to admit it.
"You look like hell," he told his reflection. It made no reply.
He returned to their room, where James was still pacing and muttering curses under his breath.
"Where's Peter?"
"Gone to check the kitchen again," James said. "Really, I think he just wants a custard pie, but he might have a bit of luck and stumble on the git. I thought he might have gone to set up a prank or something, but he would have clued me in to where it would be. Git's been weird since you turned up." The boy offered an accusatory glare at him
"Whatever," Harry said. "I've got a copy of the map."
"You have? Brilliant! Give it here," his young father demanded.
Harry unlocked his trunk, digging through the contents –quills, ink, notebooks and parchment. "I thought I left it up top…" He pulled the brass handles, lifting the topmost compartment up and aside to reveal the compartment below. It held shirts trousers and the album Hagrid had given him first year. Still no map. "Merlin, I hope it isn't in the bottom."
"Why?"
"It's huge," Harry insisted. "I could fit my whole cupboard in there and still have room to fly around it on my broom!" There was nothing for it; he would have to dig through that cavernous compartment if he wanted to find the map and Sirius with it.
He took hold of the brass handles and tugged. "Oi!"
"What now?"
"It's jammed."
"Shove over," James ordered and gave the handles a hard pull. He grunted and cursed, but the compartment refused to be moved.
The Chaser glared at the trunk. "You take that one," he said, drying the palms of his hands on his trousers.
They each grasped a single handle, braced their feet on the trunk and pulled hard. James's fingers slipped, and he clattered to the floor in a jumble of robes and curses. Harry fared little better.
"What is wrong with this thing?" Harry offered the trunk a kick before trying the handle again.
"We don't have time to find out," James said. "The game is barely three hours away. We still need to warm up and go over the plays one last time."
"Yeah," Harry replied, not taking his eyes off the recalcitrant trunk. "What about Sirius?"
"Let him have his strop. We'll win without him." The Chaser collected his broom and headed for the door. "Come on!"
Harry hurried to change into his Quidditch robes, throwing his clothes into the trunk along with his books and half-finished potions essay. Dumbledore had said they would leave after the match, but hadn't said precisely when. For all he knew, they would be whisked away immediately after the final whistle was blown. He took one final glance around the room. There was nothing left but the trunk and his broom.
His broom.
He frowned as he looked at it. He was certain the Firebolt had been in his trunk, locked safely away from covetous little fingers after having caught a second year trying to borrow it one day in January. Yet there it was, leaning up against his bedside table.
His eyes turned back to the trunk. Then to the broom.
"James," he called as he marched down to the common room. "You've pranked me, haven't you? Left a little present in my trunk for me to find when I get back home?"
"I don't know what you're on about," the boy said with a look on his face too innocent to be believed.
"Sure, you don't."
"No time for being suspicious. Breakfast, warm up, run through and win," he declared. "Let's go!"
The boy grabbed his arm and hauled him from the common room. The rest of the team followed on stumbling, sleepy feet. Harry wondered how James had managed to get them all up at such an hour on a Saturday, and if he would ever have such a talent when he became Captain. He remembered the terror that swept over him when he unwrapped the Captain's badge, the dread and absolute conviction that he had no right to wear it, that he would bollocks it up. That anxiety no longer plagued him. After watching his father in action, he knew he could live up to his standards and make him proud on the pitch.
James interrupted his thoughts with a hard slap on the head. "Pay attention!"
Any further thoughts on his own captaincy or suspicions of what his father may have done to his possessions were forced to the back of his mind as James started reviewing the plays they needed to work on. He arranged rolls and goblets on the Gryffindor table, moving them around with his wand so they could all see how the plays were meant to be performed.
"See that feint, Silvia?"
"Yes, I know about the feint. And the dive. And the U-turn," the girl groaned and rolled her eyes. "James, we've been over this enough."
"No, we haven't! This game has to be perfect!" The boy slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the goblets.
"What's so bleeding special about it?" Fenton yawned.
"It's the last game we'll play with Harry."
Harry stared at him, fighting a stupid smile and more than a few tears. He had thought James's fanaticism was all to do with wanting the Cup. He had no idea it was for him. More than ever, he hated having allowed himself to be distracted by Sirius and his games. James and Lily should have been the central focus of his time here. They were his parents. They died to save him, and he hadn't spent nearly enough time with them.
"Oh, quit staring at me," James huffed.
"Yes, sir," Harry grinned and turned his attention to the roll that was meant to be him. "Why isn't it moving?"
"Because you actually know what you're doing up there," Silvia nudged him with a surprisingly sharp elbow.
Again, it took all his effort not to grin like a fool.
"Enough," James cried. "You're going to give him a bigger head than he's already got. Let's take this to the pitch."
Harry had to wonder how James was allowed near-constant access to the Quidditch pitch. Surely, the other teams needed to practice as well. Which professor had he bribed for admittance? Or did he have blackmail on someone?
"Oi! What about Sirius?" Marsh called as he raced to catch up, a roll falling from his sleeve as he jogged after them.
"What about him?" Fenton snorted.
"I resent that."
Harry had to fight to keep from snapping his head toward the voice. It was one he knew too well and wished he didn't. Sirius's voice had all but fused to his cells. Just hearing it made his skin prickle and blood run a little faster in his veins.
Thankfully, no one paid him any attention as the Keeper retorted, "You've no right to. You've been rubbish all week. And you're late."
"Shut it!" James ordered as he shoved past everyone to reach his best mate. "Are you actually going to play properly? I'll not have you embarrassing me."
Sirius just grinned. It was answer enough.
"Git."
With his final comment on the matter, James started moving, and everyone else had no choice but to follow. Harry tried to keep up with his father, but the boy kept shouting for others to come close so he could give them more details on the plays. Harry was left to the back along with Sirius.
He tried to pretend the boy wasn't there, but Sirius wasn't having it.
"Last game of the season," the boy said, smile on his face. "It's no wonder he's so wound up."
Harry couldn't understand how he could speak so calmly. This boy had said that he loved him and then been rejected. How could he possibly be this normal? No one had seen much of him over the past two days. Perhaps he had found someone new to throw his attentions at. Or perhaps it had been an act all along.
"Where've you been the last two days? You missed half your classes," Harry asked. He tried to sound cavalier but instead sounded cross.
A frown pulled at his mouth. "Bit fuzzy actually. Was thinking rather a lot, and then I was playing around with some spells to take my mind off things."
"Take your mind off things…" Harry repeated dully. "So that's all it takes?"
"Apparently," Sirius shrugged.
He stopped, watching the boy as he continued down the hill toward the pitch. Something struck him as off. Not as off as the previous week when the boy was barely capable of stringing two words together after being hit by Snape's Confundus, but there was still something not right.
"You coming?" Sirius called.
It had to be his imagination. He was just annoyed that Sirius wasn't curled up in a ball crying and trying to put together the rent pieces of his heart after Harry walked away from him.
"Yeah, I'm coming," he muttered.
Harry watched the boy as they took flight, studied his broom work and how well he executed James's intricate plays; he kept his eyes trained solely on the black-haired Beater. He was desperate to find something the matter with him. He found nothing. His arm seemed weaker than it ought to be, but that was the only thing Harry managed to find amiss. Throughout their final practice and even the game, Sirius showed no signs of returning to the distraught and distracted boy he had been in previous days.
"Harry, stop staring as Sirius and look for the bloody Snitch!" James shouted as he flew past.
He was right. It was pointless looking for some defect in the boy. He was leaving. What did it matter how broken-hearted Sirius was?
Narrowing his eyes, he glared his frustration at the boy and the shimmering ball trailing his broom.
The Snitch.
He had been so lost in studying Sirius, he had no idea what the score was. If he caught the Snitch too soon, James would be furious. But he knew Cartwright was a decent Seeker. He was sure to see the ball if it continued to hover around so prominent a player, and if Slytherin took it they might manage a win.
Gritting his teeth, Harry dove for the ball. He shot across the pitch, flying so close to Silvia that she practically fell from her broom. He would have shouted an apology, but he was already gone, racing ever nearer his goal. Sirius was drawing closer, the tiny golden ball circling the tail of his broom. As if knowing it had been spotted, the Snitch dropped into its own dive. Harry followed. He plummeted down, watching the ball and ground as they grew steadily nearer. If he didn't catch it soon, he would have to give up on it or risk crashing.
He reached out, urging his broom faster.
As his fingers closed around the Snitch, his eardrums practically exploded from the noise; the stands erupted in screams of delight and dismay as he fought to come out of the dive. His Firebolt quaked with the effort of changing directions at speed. It was too much, he was sure it was too much. He gave the broom one final tug and felt the tail sweep across the grass and last of the March snows as the Firebolt abruptly shifted direction and shot skyward.
As he flew up, he saw the terrified face of Cartwright as he continued to plummet toward the pitch. The other boy's efforts to change direction were too late, and his dive ended in a strangled scream and a bone-rattling crash as he hit the ground.
"Madam Pomfrey is on her way!" the announcer called. It was the first Harry had noticed the voice all game. "And he's on his feet!"
The stands exploded again with cheers, this time for Cartwright. He lost the Snitch, but his death-defying drop made him the unofficial hero of the game. He and Harry were each hoisted onto the shoulders of their teammates and paraded back to their respective dormitories for post-game parties unlike any ever seen at Hogwarts.
Only twice before had Harry seen the Gryffindor common room festooned in gold and scarlet. In his time, the celebrations after winning the Cup were tremendous, but this was even grander. The entire common room had been taken over; the walls strung with banners; the ceilings draped in more flags than Aunt Petunia hung about the house for the Queen's Jubilee. He laughed even as he ducked to keep from being entangled in a lion banner.
Harry had been certain Gryffindor dominated the Quidditch Cup competition since James became Captain, but they were acting as if this was their first win in ages.
"To the best game of Quidditch ever seen!" someone shouted. Everyone cheered in reply.
"To the best Captain in history!"
"To the best Seeker!"
The toasts continued until every player on the team had been celebrated. Twice. His hand once again became public property, as Gryffindor after Gryffindor offered him private congratulations and attempted to pull him into a discussion of his fantastic catch.
As he extricated himself from another small pride of well-wishers, Harry backed into an enormous trumpet.
"Careful!" Tildy cried.
The girl checked the trumpet, dusting the dingy brass with a thick cloth and ensuring it was both immaculate and securely connected to the sleek, black, state-of-the-art record player to which it had been attached.
"Nice, right?" she grinned, mistaking his confusion for admiration. "Took me forever to sort out how to make it run on magic instead of electricity."
Tildy, it seemed, had been planning for this party all her life. Her entire record collection was on display in the common room, arranged in groups according to a system that would only make sense to her. She slapped his hand when he tried to pick up an LP. "That one is for later," she insisted in a stern tone he had never before heard from her. When it came to music, Tildy Moorehead was all business.
She stood atop an ottoman to shout, "Let's start with one for the Slytherin side!"
The needle barely made a scratch when she set it down on the rotating vinyl. The trumpet filled the room with a discordant guitar and bass that might arguably be called a rhythm; the drummer joined, followed by the rasp of a singer, whose shouting Harry couldn't actually understand.
"'Born to Lose'," Tildy grinned. "Get it?"
Hating to disappoint her, he nodded. "I get it."
"I knew you'd like it!" She wrapped him in a hug. "You'll dance with me later, right?"
"Maybe he'd dance with you now if you'd play something else," Mary shouted. "Enough of this underground nonsense. We want to dance and celebrate!"
"Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers are going to be HUGE!" Tildy insisted. "You'll be dancing to them just fine when they're on the Wizarding Wireless next year. You'll see," Tildy insisted loudly, but her confidence dropped along with her voice as she turned back to him. "They will, won't they?"
He had never heard of Johnny Thunders or this song, but, again, Harry hated to disappoint her. Maybe the group was a household name and the only reason he hadn't heard of them was because Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wouldn't tolerate such music. "Yeah," he assured her. "Huge."
"Oh, good," she smiled. "Let's dance!"
She took his hands and dragged him into the centre of the room, leading him in a dance that was little more than jumping up and down in time to the music. He had been terrified she would expect him to put his hand on her waist and lead her around in a waltz as Professor McGonagall had tried to teach them fourth year. That was beyond his ability, but this he could do.
He grinned and bounced along with her. He bounced in a circle, taking in the revelry in the common room. He saw James and Lily in a corner. On another jump, he spied Remus and Hermione sneaking down from the boys' dormitories and slipping in with the crowd as if they had been there all along.
He jumped again, and his grin fell.
He saw Sirius. He was amid a cluster of girls. He saw that familiar smirk on his face. He saw the boy's arm draped around a girl he thought might be named Julie. He saw his hand reaching out to brush the cheek of another. Each jump showed him more things he hadn't wanted to see, but he kept bouncing until he was ready to vomit. Finally, his body stopped without him telling it to. He stood, the crowd pogoing up and down around him, the music clattering around his head, the shouted chorus of the song echoing in his ears.
Born to lose.
Yeah, he got it now.