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Vernon
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry gave Vernon Dursley the overwhelming urge to wander through the highlands in any other direction, despite all the mumbo-jumbo his sister-in-law had chanted over him earlier, spinning a small cane—wand, she insisted—around him.
And it made him itchy.
Really, who would send a child to a crumbling castle in a place so remote that the only access was through a fireplace, of all things? Rather do someplace respectable, like Smeltings, or even Stonewall. You knew what you were in for with bastions of education like those. Perfectly normal students who didn’t wear black bathrobes around the grounds or have owls perching on their shoulders like crepuscular pirates. Ordinary lessons that certainly did not involve making the Christmas turkey dance a merry jig across the table, scattering his wife’s fine china.
The rest of the assembled party—the Potters, Dudley, and Petunia—had cheered and clapped, as if the Christmas dinner flapping its roasted wings while the peas spun in circles and the potatoes sashayed in a choreographed dance was a neat party trick, and not complete madness, unsuitable for polite company.
That was several weeks ago. Each day since then, he’d been expecting Petunia’s apology; both for her outburst when he politely asked the Potters to take their odd son and leave, and for making him sleep on the sitting room armchair since then.
“Really, Vernon,” she’d exclaimed that morning, long nose twisting, glaring at him in her pink house dress, clutching a cup of tea so tightly he thought it might crack. “Me, apologise? You sent our family packing at Christmas. I’ve had half a mind to ask you to do the same since then!”
What followed was a long and confusing conversation where he determined that Petunia was on the side of her weirdo sister’s family (of all things!) and that Vernon had been on the outs. And was set to be further on the outs unless, as Petunia said dramatically, “something quite drastic changes.”
So, when Petunia piled Dudley, herself, long jackets, blankets, and an army of thermoses into the car, he’d settled himself into the driver’s seat. The rest of the journey—to Godric’s Hollow, through the Potter’s fireplace, into a tiny village in the Scottish Highlands, and up towards a castle that looked less dilapidated with every step—had involved him laden with more thermoses than any respectable human had any right to carry, draped in blankets like one of Dudley’s old pillow forts. And that was why he was now here, watching some freaky sport that had required him to climb nearly twenty flights of stairs to sit on a rickety set of bleachers.
It was only one day, Vernon told himself. Show up, watch the wierdos float through the air, sitting on brooms like proper stereotypes, and Petunia would forgive him. It couldn’t be simpler.
The field below looked much like a football pitch, though three enormous bubble wands stood at each end. He wondered briefly whether they had to be drilled into the ground, and what type of drill was used. The players—seven in yellow, six in red—swooped dizzily on either end of the pitch, flitting in and out of shadows made by the patchy clouds.
“Have you seen a Quidditch match before, Vernon?” One of the school’s teachers, with a funny, made-up name, asked him kindly. Petunia had quickly moved towards the corner of the stands, out of the wind, settling in beside her sister. Already they were giggling over steaming mugs of something Lily poured straight from a tiny cauldron. A cauldron! (Why had he been forced to bring so many thermoses?). He’d been left to take a seat at the other end, beside the teacher, dressed in layers of thick wool and muted tweed.
“Never seen Ditch,” Vernon replied tersely. What a name!
“Well,” said the man, launching into an explanation of Keeping, Chasing, and Seeking that the man on his other side—Sirius Black, Vernon knew—kept correcting.
Black was the reason his in-laws had survived an assassination attempt fifteen years earlier, and he was forever grateful to the man. Not that he’d ever really spoken to him, even during the 15 minutes he endured each winter at the Potter’s holiday party.
That blasted Morty fellow—Vernon shuddered to think of it. Where would that boy have gone? To Petunia, certainly, as the only respectable family member either of the Potters had. The thought kept him awake some nights: raising the boy alongside Dudley, trying to hide his freakishness from the neighbours, explain him to the Grunnings higher-ups, buy him nonsense things like Christmas gifts. (Although, as he didn’t do the Christmas shopping, and he’d seen the Potters leave with full arms every year, he was fairly sure Petunia did that already.).
Their—Petunia’s, really, as she’d made explicitly clear that morning—relationship had come a long way since the so-called Wizarding War. Ever since learning about her sister’s near-death experience at the hands of that lunatic politician, Petunia had made a habit of visiting with her sister and her freaky family at least once a month, dragging Vernon along when he couldn’t find a Grunnings business dinner or other excuse to get him out of it.
“—and there’s the Beaters, now, with the bats.”
“Bats?” asked Vernon, looking more closely at the field for the first time. Yes, four of the players held something like old-fashioned cricket bats. He perked up. This game might be more interesting than he’d initially thought.
“Oh, yes!” Black said, leaning around the teacher to look at Vernon. “They hit the Bludgers towards the other team.”
Before he could ask more about the promising-sounding Bludger, Vernon was interrupted by a sudden swoosh of air above them and a cheerful voice shouting, “Hiya mum, dad!”
The speaker had his back to the sun and was cast in shadow, but Vernon was sure it was his nephew. The outline of disturbingly messy hair (did he not own a comb?) that exactly matched his father’s gave him away. His parents greeted him with equal enthusiasm, asking for updates about someone’s injury and their substitute on the team, to which Harry muttered sparse answers.
“Eyes on the pitch,” barked Black. “The whistle blew!”
The boy ignored him, turning his broom. “Thanks for coming, Aunt Tuney! Big D!” There was a short pause, and then: “Uncle Vernon! Wow!”
“What are the rest of us, chopped liver?” Asked the man seated between him and Black drily.
“You’re always here, Professor.” Vernon could hear the eye roll in the ungrateful boy’s voice. How dare he talk to one of his teachers like that? “Not that you watch the game.”
“You’re not watching it either,” Black said pointedly.
“Too early to catch the Snitch, Pads!” Without waiting for a reply, the boy zipped away past yellow, blue, and green stands before doing something that Vernon thought might be a barrel roll. His eyes roved back to Petunia at the other end of the stand, sandwiched between Lily and Dudley. She was leaning towards Dudley, pointing out something on the pitch. Was she ignoring him, or was she really so invested in Quidditch that she couldn’t tear her eyes from the pitch? He’d come all this way just for her, and she’d sat herself as far away as possible. How could he prove himself if she wouldn’t even sit with him?
An odd, dreamy voice echoed through the air. “And that’s Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle…”
Hermione
Hermione considered her circumstances grimly. All around her was a sea of red: red hair, crimson scarves, faces flushed from the cold.
Ronald, however, was nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, she steeled herself and left the shadow of the stairwell, waving hello to Professor Lupin as his husband leaned around him to talk animatedly to—she started in shock—Harry’s uncle Vernon, who was following Mr. Black’s every word, his thick mustache twitching up in what she though might be a smile.
“You haven’t missed anything,” Angelina swooped forward from between Fred and George to give her a brief, one-armed hug as Hermione settled in the last open seat in the row ahead, beside Bill and one of Ron’s uncles. “Harry’s not even out yet.”
Hermione choked down a nervous giggle, managing instead to say hello to Angelina and ask her about her studies post-Hogwarts, feeling an odd kind of kinship with the other girl; both Gryffindors thrown into the family section amid what could possibly constitute too many Weasleys.
Sitting in the midst of the Weasley clan was not for the faint of heart, and she felt her palms sweating nervously; it was one thing to say she’d sit in the family section with Ron’s entire extended family (Harry’s too, though that was a different matter), and another to do it. Alone. They’d made a big production of it, in front of Harry.
“Oh, Hermione, since I can’t play this match, I’m going to sit with my family. Want to join me?”
“Of course!”
She’d punctuated the conversation with a kiss to Ron’s cheek. She wasn’t sure who’d blushed harder: Ron, Harry, or herself.
She shouldn’t feel this nervous, it wasn’t like they were actually—
Harry flew over briefly to say hello to his family, much to the Weasley’s delight (if their cheers were anything to go by) and his godfather’s consternation, before soaring over the field. Hermione didn’t miss the distinct arc he made over the green and silver stands at the far side of the pitch. Nor the way a silver head tracked his movements.
Her careful concentration was only broken by Ron jostling her as he slotted himself—finally!—into the too-small space beside her. He was very nearly sitting in her lap.
She swallowed.
It wasn’t as if there was much room, but they’d agreed that they would act normal whenever Harry wasn’t in eyeshot. Although, she supposed he technically was, if he happened to glance over during the match. It should look like they were dating. It was only natural.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ron shouted directly into her ear, breathing hard. He paused, pulling a strand of her hair out of his mouth. “I was late because—” But his next words turned into a muffled curse as her shoulder collided with his jaw.
“My ’pologies,’” his uncle said in their general direction, passing a dragon egg-shaped flask to Mrs. Weasley. Ron, cradled his jaw, eyes wide as his mother took a swig before passing it back, throwing them even closer together.
“Did you see that?” she hissed, trying to ignore the way Ron leaned into her.
“See what?” Ron asked.
“Ronald, where have you been?” she demanded. “Harry just—”
“I took the invis—”
The mass of Weasleys surrounding them erupted to their feet, knees knocking into their spines and nearly throwing them forward into Mr. Black, Professor Lupin, and Harry’s uncle. Hermione caught a bit of Luna’s commentary, “—he’s lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him—” half drowned by a chorus of Weasley cheering. Ron leapt to his feet belatedly, joining in with the stand’s cheering, which quickly turn to jeers and then laughter at Luna’s next announcement: “Now that big Hufflepuff player’s got the Quaffle from her, I can’t remember his name, it’s something like—”
Angelina and the twins were screaming “Cadwallader” at the top of their lungs, just as McGonagall loudly said the same into the megaphone from beside Luna, to the burbling laughter from the surrounding stands.
“I’ll tell you later,” Hermione promised, sighing, fixing her eyes on Harry.
But Ron didn’t reply, too busy shouting abuse at McLaggen for allowing Cadwallader to score while he, in turn, had been too busy shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the Quaffle out of her possession, with the result that he had not noticed the large red leather ball soaring past his right ear.
Ron
He was late, he knew that.
Although Harry was about to be late, too, if he was right.
Ron had been lurking at the edge of the pitch under the invisibility cloak, waiting impatiently for a familiar head of messy black hair to come down from the castle; he was reasonably certain his sleuthing was about to pay off. Realistically, Harry should already be on the pitch: he’d left breakfast before the rest of the team, and yet only six of them were flying drills, testing the light wind and adjusting to the cloudy conditions.
“You’d better hurry up,” he heard a voice say. “They’ll be waiting for—” He lost the next words to the flap of the tapestries surrounding the stands, and then—“‘the Boy Who Scored’—whatever they call you these days.”
He heard a muffled “Shut up Malfoy,” and his pulse picked up its pace, a twin throbbing joining in his temple. Yes! He only just had time to duck behind a post—remembering at the last minute that he was still wearing the cloak and didn’t have to hide further—as Malfoy turned the corner, looking rather pink.
Ron watched him hurry towards the Slytherin stands and took off running in the opposite direction, shoving the cloak into his pocket as he went. He desperately wanted to look around the corner to confirm the suspicions he’d had since the beginning of fall term when Harry had disappeared on the train, but Hermione was likely already listing the ways she would kill him for being late. It would be worth it when he won the bet, he thought giddily as he sprinted up the stairs, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.
Luna (who in their right mind would have let Luna Lovegood commentate?) was just starting her commentary as he squeezed into the stands, sitting very nearly directly in Hermione’s lap. They were pressed together hip to knee, separated only by their heavyweight cloaks and jeans.
He flushed, telling himself it was from his rush up the stairs. He shouldn’t have done it—he’d promised Pomfrey he wouldn’t overexert himself if she’d let him attend the match, to which she’d sighed heavily but agreed—but being viciously murdered by Hermione outweighed the risks posed by the Healer.
“Sorry, sorry,” he huffed. He was so close to Hermione that his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear, and a strand of wild brown hair found its way into his mouth. “I was late because—”
Gideon—or Fabian, he’d never learned to tell them apart properly and was too afraid to ask now—had flung out his arm, shoving him even further into Hermione’s lap, if that was possible. Her shoulder hit his jaw, sending his head pounding even worse than the sprint up the stairs. Fabian—or Gideon—apologised, though his mum only winked at him when she handed the flask back to her brother, somehow managing to push him and Hermione closer together than before.
“Did you see that?” Hermione asked.
“See what?” Ron was determinedly ignoring that they were holding hands. Holding hands? He glanced down. Yes, they were indeed holding hands. Hermione didn’t even seem to notice. It was likely they’d just gotten too used to this type of thing, since they were pretending to date. Not that they were actually dating! It was all just a ruse to draw Harry out, get him to tell them about whoever he’d been seeing.
Though now, he thought he might have the answer.
“Ronald, where have you been?” she hissed. “Harry just—”
Ron lit up, remembering what, exactly, had kept him from the stands. “I was under the invis—”
But he was thrown forward as the crowd around them leapt to their feet. He scanned the field, trying to catch what had drawn their attention. And…there! Ginny had the Quaffle! He jumped up, bellowing in unison with the Gryffindor supporters. He could tell Hermione about what he’d nearly confirmed later, after the match.
Remus
“Harry was late, yeah?”
“And Harry Potter’s now having an argument with his Keeper—I don’t think that’ll help him find the Snitch but maybe it’s a clever ruse,” said Luna, voice crackling dreamily through the megaphone. Remus felt a surge of fondness for the girl but kept his gaze on Sirius, whose eyes were glued to the pitch and who clearly wasn’t listening.
“Ron’s not Keeping?”
“Yeah, he’s behind us with Hermione,” Remus replied. “Injured in practice.”
“Too bad, this Keeper’s shit. Ron played well last match.”
Remus looked at the boy hovering in front of the goals, red-faced as he shouted at Harry. McLaggen could have made a good Keeper—he had the build of a beater, and could have probably blocked all three goal hoops without even moving—but Harry had seemed defeated after each practice with the substitute Keeper.
It was a marked change from how he’d been all school year so far: more distractible than usual, late for class more often than not. It was unlike him; he’d been consistently early to Defense classes in all the time Remus had taught at Hogwarts, and often stayed after to help tidy the room or ask more questions about the lesson.
“Did you notice Harry was late?” He asked again, prodding.
“Sure, yeah. Then didn’t seem to care the match started and did some fancy maneuvers over the Slytherin stands. What’s he got, a Slytherin girlfriend?” Sirius was still tracking Harry as he took off around the pitch, scanning for the Snitch.
Remus felt his face contort into something between a grin and a frown. “I think something like that,” he laughed to himself. So it wasn’t just him noticing, then. There’d been the brief fling with the Chang girl last year, which had broken off when she’d got back together with Diggory, and now Ron and Hermione seemed to be dating, or at least they seemed extra cosy whenever they were with Harry. It was only natural that Harry start dating, too. He wondered who else knew. Ron and Hermione must. Though they seemed a little wrapped up in their own relationship.
He half listened to Luna, who seemed uninterested in the game beyond diagnosing Zacharias Smith with something called “Loser’s Lurgy,” instead enjoying the early March warmth and plotting out next week’s lessons—he’d need to hunt around the castle for a spare boggart, and a few varieties of pixies for the second years—when his attention was drawn back to the game harshly as Sirius stood and nearly tipped himself over the barrier into midair, shouting at McLaggen. He managed to snag the back of Sirius’s leather jacket, dragging him solidly back onto his feet.
“Oh look!” Said Luna vaguely. “The Gryffindor Keeper’s got hold of one of the Beater’s bats.”
Vernon
“What’s he doing?” Vernon had asked Sirius earlier. “The goalkeeper?”
“Not his job,” Potter replied from Black’s other side.
“Is he the captain?” asked Vernon, frowning. The boy, though he looked like a promising player, had let in several easy goals by the yellow player—Cadwallader—throughout the match, largely because his attention was on his teammates rather than the red ball Potter and Black were calling a Waffle. First, he’d told the red-headed girl (who apparently had about a hundred very loud family members, all seated behind him) off for having the Waffle stolen, and then he’d shouted at Harry for flying over to him, which, as far as Vernon could tell, was Harry’s job on the team: flying around aimlessly. He’d have much rather been a Beater.
“No, Harry’s the captain,” Black said. “McLaggen’s a sub. Regular Keeper’s injured.”
“OI!” Shouted Vernon in the general direction of the pitch. “STAY BY THE NET.”
“Hoops,” said the professor, confidently.
“Goals,” sighed Black.
“Then why’s he telling the rest of the team what to do?” Vernon continued.
“No idea, but I’d like to have a word with him,” Black replied darkly.
“Please don’t,” said the professor.
Now, the Keeper was holding one of the Beater’s bats—why the Beater, a slight boy who’d packed a surprisingly big punch all match, walloping Bludgers around with delightful accuracy, had deigned to hand over his weapon was beyond Vernon—and appeared to be showing him how to aim at Cadwallader.
Harry was racing back to the goals. Sirius was on his feet, leaning over the guardrail to bellow at the field. The professor grabbed him. Then nearly let him go. The Keeper had hit the Bludger. Directly at Harry. Who was now plummeting hundreds of feet through the air towards the ground.
Ron
Ron wished he wasn’t used to this: watching Harry drop from his broom, sure he was going to hit the green grass below in a shock of red. He never did, though. He could see the moment a dozen spells hit Harry at once, with another dozen softening the ground beneath him.
Hermione screamed and grabbed for his hand, leaning into him with a little sob as Harry landed gently on the pitch.
Harry, astoundingly, sat up. Waved. Then slumped back to the ground.
Hooch and Pomfrey were on him in an instant, casting spells to lift him up and bring him to the medical tent. The entire front row—Harry’s parents and extended family—were already rushing for the stairs. Ron took one look at Hermione’s wide eyes and pale face and they hurried to follow. Ron didn’t mention to Hermione that they didn’t have to hold hands the entire way down. But neither did he let go.
Vernon
By the time Vernon arrived back on solid earth and navigated towards the medical tent, huffing and puffing and slightly dizzy from twisting through the stairwell for twenty flights, Harry was up and laughing with his parents, Black and the professor by their side. Three black-robed students—little magic friends of Harry’s, he guessed—sat chatting quietly with Dudley, while Petunia fretted in the corner. He went to her, putting an arm over her shoulders, pleased when she didn’t shrug him off.
“That horrid Keeper!” she said, tears in the corners of her eyes. “Why was he trying to tell everyone what to do?”
“He shouldn’t have had that bat,” Vernon agreed.
“Yes,” she said vehemently. “He’s meant to Keep, and he could barely do that!”
“The good-for-nothing—”
The nurse clapped loudly, and told them in no uncertain terms they could leave her medical tent, though Harry was to avoid strenuous activity until the fracture in his skull healed in about two hours.
Harry led, flanked by his parents. They were talking quietly, laughing and nodding at one another. He felt a sudden surge of protectiveness for all of them—first the assissination, years ago, and now an entirely avoidable injury. It had looked worse than it was, Petunia assured him. She’d seen worse in her years coming to the matches. This would be a relatively easy recovery. Vernon was astounded.
The group following slowly behind Harry arrived at the changing rooms just as the red team were exiting the pitch, shoulders hunched and faces pinched.
“How much did we lose by?” Vernon heard Harry ask.
“Three hundred and twenty to sixty,” said the red-haired Chaser with disgust.
“Brilliant,” said Harry. “Really brilliant! Where’s McLaggen—ah—”
“Well done, my boy!” A wide man walked towards the despondent team in red, angling for the boy in question. “Tough game, tough game, of course, but you did your best.”
Black whirled towards the man. “His best?”
“Sirius! Wonderful to see you, my good man. Tell me, I have a matter for the Wizeng—”
“Tiberius,” Black spat. “Your nephew nearly killed my godson.”
Tiberius McLaggen looked shocked. “Cormac had excellent coaching throughout the game, if your godson hadn’t—”
“He what?” Vernon was shocked to hear the words coming from his own mouth. And more shocked when they continued. “The Keeper cost the team the game.”
“Cormac most certainly did not! If he hadn’t coached his teammates, Gryffindor would have lost by more than they did, I can tell you that!”
Vernon didn’t approve of imagination on principle, but he was almost impressed by Tiberius’s ability to reimagine the match he’d just watched. “No,” he said simply.
“Well I—” Tiberius drew a small cane from somewhere within his bathrobe, and Vernon was reminded of his time at Smeltings. The boys. The canes. The fights. He launched himself at the man, forgetting about magic and spells and all that funny business. There was just a man who had had the audacity to not only condone violence against his family, but to imagine ways in which it was right.
In the end, Black and the professor pulled him off, but not before he’d bloodied Tiberius’s nose as the students around them shouted in surprise and glee. Tiberius, for one, looked shocked, staring at the blood on his hand in surprise, as if he’d never been in a fight before.
Petunia flew towards him, wrapping him in her arms. Dudley joined her. Potter, after releasing Tiberius, did too, followed by Lily.
Vernon couldn’t remember being happier.
Harry
Deliveries of butterbeer had not stopped ever since they’d arrived in the Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta, hearing about the match and Harry’s latest near-death experience, was happy to boost the mood of the losing Gryffindors, who in turn were giddy over the very Muggle fight that had broken out following the game.
Around him was a sea of red: the Gryffindor team (minus Cormac), their classmates, and their families.
‘Course it had to take him getting injured to get to this point, but Harry wasn’t complaining. Other than a sore back and a blossoming bruise on his temple, he couldn’t have been happier. To one side, his aunt and uncle were chatting animatedly with Mrs. Weasley’s brothers and Sirius, laughing uproariously as they recounted the fight. To the other, Dudley, Ron, and Hermione were toasting the game with Draco. Ron and Hermione were holding hands, again. He grinned
Even his parents were grinning, chatting in a corner with Remus.
Right now, all was well.