marie @florascentedd - Tumblr Blog

florascentedd

Mar 17

cipheress-to-k-pop

media training (h.p.)

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 13.3k

Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.

A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet

Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!

(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?

The Evening Prophet never did subtle.

The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.

A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.

You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.

"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.

“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.

Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.

After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.

When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.

Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.

Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.

Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.

The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.

“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.

Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”

You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.

Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.

Exactly the image you wanted.

Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”

You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”

You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.

Harry.

He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.

It made his skin crawl.

You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.

Harry looked away first.

And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.

Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.

The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.

The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.

Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.

“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”

You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.

From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.

A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.

Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.

From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.

The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.

And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”

The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.

Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.

Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.

“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.

You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”

Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"

Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”

Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”

From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.

The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.

It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.

Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.

“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”

For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.

Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”

A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”

The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.

You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.

The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.

Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.

“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”

He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”

Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”

“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”

A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”

“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”

“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”

Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.

He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.

A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”

Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”

The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.

You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.

You loved kids.

What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.

You were here because you were a woman.

As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.

You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.

You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.

“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”

“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”

You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.

Harry looked down at your hand.

Then back up at your face.

One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.

The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.

And then—

“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”

The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.

You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.

A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.

Your birthday.

Your breath caught.

“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”

Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.

“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”

You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”

She lit up like a summers day.

“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”

Your heart twisted.

“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”

Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”

“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."

She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.

You listened. Truly listened.

“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”

Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.

“I think you can, love.”

She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”

“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”

You glanced over your shoulder, searching.

“Isn’t that right, Potter?”

Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.

He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.

At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.

“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”

The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”

Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”

Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.

You met Harry’s gaze briefly.

He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.

As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.

You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.

“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”

Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”

“Got it.”

She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.

You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.

Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.

“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.

“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.

This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.

You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.

“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”

Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.

“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”

His expression shifted, “For what?”

“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”

Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”

A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”

For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.

“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”

“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”

He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.

Just acknowledging you.

And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.

You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.

That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.

The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.

And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.

“Shake hands!”

You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.

“Good luck.” He said.

The words barely registered.

Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.

The whistle shrieked.

You launched.

The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.

Puddlemere played aggressively.

Too aggressively.

A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.

They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.

But it didn’t stop.

Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.

From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.

His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.

The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.

Something in him broke.

“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”

The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.

One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”

“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”

The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.

The crowd erupted.

You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.

“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”

“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.

“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”

“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”

He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.

You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”

The whistle blew again.

You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.

The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.

Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.

Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.

You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.

Harry.

He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.

“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”

“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.

You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”

“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”

“Help who?” You asked.

He hesitated, “What?”

“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.

“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”

You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”

For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.

Instead, he exhaled.

“…Right.”

You nodded once, “Good.”

And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.

The flowers arrived the next morning.

You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.

A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.

You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.

I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it. — Harry

You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.

Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.

“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”

You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.

You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.

Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.

So you came back.

Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.

The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.

She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.

You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.

“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”

She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”

You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Teddy.”

The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”

“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.

“I’m better.” He added instantly.

“Are you?” You asked, playing along.

It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.

“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”

“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”

“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.

You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.

You bit your lip.

You loved children.

The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.

“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”

He beamed.

You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.

“Teddy.”

You looked up.

Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.

Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.

He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”

Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”

You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.

Something warmer.

The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.

You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”

A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”

A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.

Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.

And froze.

Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.

Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.

Your stomach dropped.

What the hell?

Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—

No. Absolutely not.

You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.

“Everything okay?”

You startled.

Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.

“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”

His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.

You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”

He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.

Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.

Your breath caught.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”

When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.

You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.

“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”

“That’s—are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation in his voice.

He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”

You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.

A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.

Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.

“Okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”

You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.

“Stay close.” He murmured.

“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”

His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.

The air shifted.

You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.

You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.

As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.

“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—” “Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”

You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.

Only then did Harry stop.

“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.

You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.

You knew yours did the same.

His hand was still at your back.

And neither of you pulled away.

The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.

Harry swallowed.

“This is probably—” He began, voice low.

You didn’t let him finish.

You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.

His lips met yours.

Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.

There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.

No fans. No cameras. No expectations.

Just the two of you.

Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.

“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.

The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.

And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.

Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.

“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”

You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”

Still, neither of you moved.

After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.

“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”

You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.

Harry’s fingers.

They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.

You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.

“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”

You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.

“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”

You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.

“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”

His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.

Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”

You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.

You almost drifted off again.

Almost.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.

“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”

You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."

He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.

He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.

You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.

"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.

And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.

A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.

Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.

Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.

A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.

“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.

It felt… solid. Comfortable. Real.

So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.

Had you left a lamp on?

You took another step inside.

No. This wasn’t overhead light.

This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.

You froze just inside the doorway.

The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.

And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—

Harry.

He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.

“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.

You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.

“…Harry.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”

He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.

“I thought I’d try.”

Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.

Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.

He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”

“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”

His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”

You laughed, bumping your nose against his.

“Oh thank Godric.”

He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.

Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.

Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.

Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.

You found him on the balcony.

The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.

That smile.

The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.

“Morning.” He said.

“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.

Brief didn’t last.

It never did.

The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.

You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.

Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.

The long lens.

The quiet click.

By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.

All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.

Intimate.

Suggestive.

Just unclear enough.

Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.

Harry Potter spotted outside private residence. Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment. Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker? Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.

Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.

Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.

“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”

You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”

And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.

The flat felt smaller than it ever had.

Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.

You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.

Every headline said the same thing in a different font.

You reread them anyway.

Sources suggest. Industry insiders hint. Mystery woman. Rising star. Harry Potter spotted.

They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.

You didn’t hear the door open.

You felt it.

The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.

His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.

“We need to talk.” He said.

You stepped aside silently, giving him room.

The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.

“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”

Your head snapped up, “What?”

“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”

Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.

“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”

Your heart dropped straight through the floor.

“No.”

He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”

“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”

He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”

“For you.” You shot back.

His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”

His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”

You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”

“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

The words hung there, heavy and cruel.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.

"Here. Take it."

Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.

“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”

He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.

“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”

The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.

And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.

The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.

“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.

“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”

Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.

“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”

“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.

“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”

Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.

“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”

The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.

You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.

You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.

The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.

You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.

The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.

You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.

Finally, you stepped back inside.

The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.

That was when you noticed it.

A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.

Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.

You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.

And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.

You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.

You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.

Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.

You had your life. Your team. Your game.

And maybe, one day, he would understand.

The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.

She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.

“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”

Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”

You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.

“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.

Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”

You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.

Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.

“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."

The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.

You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."

You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.

“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.

You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”

“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.

“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”

The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.

You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”

The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.

They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.

“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”

Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”

Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”

Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”

“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.

Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”

Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”

“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”

Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”

Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”

Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”

“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.

Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.

Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”

Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"

Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."

Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.

And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.

The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.

The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.

As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.

It lingered.

Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.

“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.

The whistle shrieked.

Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.

Then, chaos.

One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.

Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.

“Harry!”

You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.

The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.

You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.

Hard.

The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.

“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.

Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.

“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.

Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.

Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.

Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.

The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.

The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.

Then, finally, a flicker of movement.

“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.

“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.

Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”

You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”

Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”

Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.

His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.

You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”

He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.

“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.

You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.

For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.

The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section “Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”

After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.

Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.

This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.

bonus:

The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.

And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.

Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.

And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.

“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.

Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”

The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.

You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”

The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.

Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.

“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”

You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”

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