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HRA# CHAPTER 130
🕑 Added 2025-05-17 00:23:39 +0000 UTCTo be honest, this was the real reason Harry had agreed to join the Quidditch club in the first place—a chance to find a recreational activity that let him cut loose and revel in the thrill of intense competition without the shadow of war hanging over him.
The Ballycastle Bats were every bit as formidable as their reputation suggested. Back at Hogwarts, during school matches, no one had ever forced Harry to relinquish the Quaffle once he had it in his grasp. But the Bats had managed it.
Not only did they provide Harry with enough pressure and competition to push him to fully immerse himself in the game and give his all to win, but they also maintained their ability to fight back even when trailing by a massive score.
When the Kenmare Kestrels’ score reached 330 points, the Ballycastle Bats were at 240. Harry couldn’t always secure the Quaffle, even with the help of Ryan and Quigley. The Bats had completely shed their initial underestimation of Harry, now treating him as a prime target. At this stage of the match, their two Beaters had abandoned all other tasks, focusing solely on hammering Bludgers toward Harry to hinder his every move. They even assigned a Chaser to shadow him, reducing his chances of getting the Quaffle.
Targeting a twelve-year-old boy like this might have seemed a bit shameful, especially since no one had thought much of him before the match. But the Bats didn’t care about appearances anymore—winning was all that mattered.
—Was that really a twelve-year-old boy out there?!
If anyone dared repeat their pre-match doubts to the Bats’ players now, they’d likely get a face full of spit and a challenge to try playing against him themselves.
“You can see Potter’s putting immense pressure on the Ballycastle Bats. They have to—oh! Look at that! It’s the Parkin’s Pincer!” Ludo Bagman suddenly roared. “O’Connor and Flynn are closing in on Harry from both flanks! So fast! And Gallagher’s charging straight at him! No mistake—this is the Parkin’s Pincer! Merlin’s beard!”
This tactic, invented by early members of the Wigtown Wanderers, was designed to force the targeted Chaser to either abandon the Quaffle or halt their advance—or, in its more ruthless version, to take them out in a one-for-one trade.
Speeding up again, Gallagher crouched low on his broom, shielding his head and tucking in his neck, making the Bats’ intentions crystal clear.
Ludo was shouting, the stands were erupting, and the fans were screaming so chaotically they could barely tell what they were yelling anymore. Every eye was glued to the figures colliding in the sky.
The cacophony faded from Harry’s awareness. His vision narrowed to O’Connor and Flynn closing in from both sides, his teammates Quigley and Kelly roaring something as they rushed to intercept—and a Bludger rocketing toward him, followed by another that slammed into it, boosting its speed and force.
And there, dead ahead, was Gallagher, teeth gritted, robes flapping as he crouched low on his broom.
The wind from his speeding Nimbus 2000 stung Harry’s face. He held his breath, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest, blood roaring through his veins like a raging river, exhilarated.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump…
Under O’Connor’s shocked gaze, Harry moved. One arm clamped the Quaffle tightly to his side, the other gripped the broom handle to steady his course. Then, in a flash, he stood up.
It all happened in the span of a single breath. By the time O’Connor realized what was unfolding, Harry had stomped down on his broom, launching himself forward into the air.
The Nimbus 2000 dipped under the sudden force but then surged forward at its original speed, narrowly avoiding Gallagher, who had braced for a collision.
Time seemed to slow. The players passing each other watched Harry, watched Gallagher. Gallagher, ready for impact, frowned when no collision came. He cracked his eyes open just a sliver, catching sight of his teammates, the sky, and the figure soaring high above…
Thud!
Harry landed heavily back on his Nimbus 2000, the impact causing the broom to dip slightly before he steadied it, charging toward the Bats’ goalposts.
Clang!
The Bats’ Keeper, Liam McKeen, stretched out a hand to block, but his fingers only brushed the hem of Harry’s robes as the Quaffle smashed into the goal frame and sailed through.
The stands exploded as if a bomb had gone off. Everyone lost their minds—Kestrels fans and Bats fans alike, screaming and roaring to release the pent-up excitement coursing through them.
Some were so caught up they tore their robes, ripping holes in their clothes.
“No one—no one has ever broken the Parkin’s Pincer like that!” Ludo bellowed from the commentary box, one foot planted on the table as he roared, legs spread wide. “For centuries, Chasers either dropped the Quaffle or got knocked out of the game because of this move! But today! Right now! Harry Potter has shown us a new possibility—I’m calling it the Potter Breakthrough!”
Riding his broom, Harry waved excitedly to the crowd chanting his name, acknowledging their cheers.
Truth be told, Harry thought Ludo’s naming sense was awful. “Potter Breakthrough” sounded far from impressive. If it were up to him, he’d have called it something like “Skyward Bull Rush”—but with the stands erupting in wave after wave of cheers and the crowd’s wild excitement, he doubted he’d get the chance to rename it.
They were shouting “Potter Breakthrough” at the top of their lungs.
Maneuvering his broom toward the Kestrels’ half, Harry passed Connolly Byrne, one of the Bats’ Beaters, and gave a quick wave.
“Nice playing.”
It was genuine praise. Just ten minutes earlier, under heavy pressure, Harry had snatched a Quaffle from Declan Flynn, only to take a Bludger to the shoulder from Byrne. He’d nearly fallen off his broom. Callum O’Hare had even called a timeout, insisting Harry slather his bruised shoulder with a thick layer of Essence of Dittany.
Harry had found it a bit excessive—it was just a minor injury, not even a broken bone.
“…You too, nice flying,” Connolly Byrne sighed, returning a wave.
By now, with the scoreboard glaring at them, even the Bats’ players had likely accepted the truth—they were going to lose this match. All they could do was keep the final score from looking too embarrassing.
As the Quaffle rose into the air for the umpteenth time, the Bats’ players seemed almost numb.
Despite their best efforts to block him, Harry Potter scored with excruciating difficulty—but the problem was, difficult or not, he still scored.
After that unexpected Parkin’s Pincer, the Kestrels’ players stuck close to Harry, ensuring their star Chaser wouldn’t get caught in another one-for-one or worse.
It wasn’t total domination—after all, the Bats’ score kept climbing too. But whenever Harry got the Quaffle, it was almost a guaranteed ten points for the Kestrels. He’d only failed twice the entire match.
As for the fans in the stands… the match had subtly shifted in meaning. It was no longer just about who won or lost. They felt they were witnessing the birth of a Quidditch legend who would leave a mark on wizarding history.
This was the first official match of a legendary player, and they were the witnesses to Harry’s rise—a moment of historic significance.
Twelve years old. Before the match, that age had been a source of doubt and mockery. Now, it signified Harry’s vast potential and a brilliant future.
Nearly every spectator had their Omnioculars locked on Harry, watching him dart through gaps between opponents and Bludgers like a Golden Snitch. This relatively small Chaser was redefining the tactical boundaries of professional Quidditch.
When the score hit 470 to 300, the Kestrels’ fans in the stands began singing “The Song of the Dawn Hunter.” It started with just a few voices, but soon swelled into a unified chorus.
When Aidan Lynch, the Kestrels’ Seeker, raised the Golden Snitch high above his head, the Bats’ players felt a simultaneous sense of relief: It’s finally over. Honestly, this match had been more exhausting than most they’d ever played.
Every player had to drain every last ounce of strength and focus to keep their team’s score from slipping too far behind.
“With the 150 points for catching the Snitch, that’s 620 points total! 620 to 310! The Kenmare Kestrels have won the match! It’s over!”
Ludo, swinging his coat above his head like a windmill, gripped the microphone so tightly his knuckles turned white. He roared with fervor.
“Today, we’ve witnessed the birth of a legendary player! At just twelve years old, Potter has become the match’s top scorer! He’s also the youngest player in the Quidditch League Cup—and the youngest top scorer ever!” Ruar Knight, the co-commentator, bellowed with equal excitement.
“Exactly! 320 points! Of the Kestrels’ total, a whopping 320 points were scored by Potter! I owe O’Hare an apology for doubting his decision to make Potter the lead Chaser before the match!”
Ludo was so worked up he was practically incoherent, thrilled beyond measure to be commentating this match. He wasn’t just a commentator—he was the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. With Harry’s performance, this was a clear win for his career.
Never mind what the Department had actually done for Harry’s growth—political points were political points.
The two commentators kept jabbering on, while the crowd showed no signs of leaving after the match ended, still waving wildly and shouting.
The two teams landed together, and the captains shook hands again. This time, compared to the pre-match handshake, it felt far more natural.
“I know it’s a long shot, but to avoid getting an earful from our coach, I have to ask—any interest in joining the Ballycastle Bats, Harry? We can offer you better than the Kestrels,” Liam McKeen said, bending slightly to shake Harry’s hand.
“Hey, McKeen!” Callum protested.
“Sorry, I’m not looking to switch teams right now,” Harry said with a shrug.
“Figured as much,” McKeen said with a grin, turning to Callum. “If you’re up for it, how about some practice matches? Most teams can’t keep up with your pace—Chudley Cannons, for example, are useless for training.”
“No problem at all,” Callum said with a smile. “But it’ll have to wait a bit… I think right now, they just want to celebrate.”
“Keep in touch,” McKeen said, leading his team away without further ado.
“Keep it up, Harry. You could be a Quidditch superstar.”
“Yeah, maybe even dominate the League for a decade or two!”
“By then, we’ll be calling you the King of Quidditch, haha.”
After the match, the Bats’ players were surprisingly friendly. Before following their captain off the pitch, they each shook Harry’s hand, offering warm words of encouragement.
“Surprised?” Aidan Lynch nudged Harry with his shoulder, grinning. “By their attitude?”
“A little,” Harry admitted after a moment. “They were a lot nicer just now than they were on the pitch.”
“Matches are matches, life is life, Harry,” Aidan said, slinging an arm around his shoulders and sharing his wisdom with a chuckle. “Club matches are our job, so we give it everything to beat the other team—within the rules… or at least without killing anyone. But once the match is over, there’s no bad blood.”
“Not only that,” Tegan Ryan added, “Quidditch clubs sometimes trade players, or players switch teams on their own. One match, you’re opponents; the next, you might be teammates. So no one goes around making enemies.”
The group chatted as they headed toward the locker room, occasionally waving or whistling to the crowd.
“Except for the Holyhead Harpies and the Heidelberg Harriers,” Quigley Kelly said with a booming laugh, sparking a round of chuckles.
“What’s up with those two?” Harry asked, curious.
“Old history,” Ronan Kaiser said, stifling a grin. “Almost forty years ago now, right?”
“It was 1953, I remember it well,” Aidan said, smiling. “The Holyhead Harpies are the only all-witch team in the world. That match in 1953 lasted seven days, and the Harpies won.”
“But that’s not the point, Harry,” Ronan said, laughing harder. “The real story is that the Harriers’ captain, Brandt, jumped off his broom at the end of the match and proposed to the Harpies’ Morgan on one knee.”
“Seven days of battling plus a proposal,” Harry guessed. “He succeeded? That’s why it’s so famous?”
“Famous?” Aidan mused. “If you call hilarious famous, then sure. Morgan whacked Brandt with her broom and gave him a concussion on the spot.”
Harry: “…”
What could he say?
It was perfectly in line with his overall impression of wizards—mysterious and chaotic.
“So the bad blood between those two teams has carried on ever since,” Callum said with a shrug. “Other teams don’t usually have grudges like that. If the chance comes up, we’ll schedule a practice match—a quality opponent is important.”
“Exactly. The Bats are tough,” Aidan agreed. “And who knows, in two years, the Ministry might pick a few players from us, them, or other British clubs to form a World Cup team.”
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
