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HRA# CHAPTER 102
🕑 Added 2025-04-18 19:05:57 +0000 UTCAs he had in every match this season, Harry Potter led the Gryffindor Quidditch team to victory in their final Hogwarts game with an unstoppable, almost overwhelming force, clinching the Quidditch Cup. The stadium roared with excitement, the air thick with triumph.
When the two teams met for the customary handshake, signaling the match’s end, the seven Gryffindor players made their way to the elevated platform that had once been the commentary box. Now magically expanded into a broad stage, it could easily hold a crowd. After Headmaster Dumbledore delivered a speech declaring Gryffindor’s victory, Harry stepped forward as team captain and hoisted the gleaming Quidditch Cup aloft.
The Gryffindor stands erupted in deafening cheers, a wave of jubilation that rippled across the entire stadium. Even students from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin joined in, their voices blending into a unified roar. Initially, the other houses had felt the sting of defeat, their players daunted by the prospect of facing Gryffindor’s relentless team. But as match after match showcased Harry’s extraordinary skill, a shift occurred. Students began to see him not as a rival but as a phenomenon—a Hogwarts champion whose prowess transcended house rivalries.
Harry’s talent was undeniable, far surpassing what any student could reasonably achieve. Rather than resent his dominance, the school rallied behind him, especially with the news that he would soon represent Hogwarts in the professional Quidditch League Cup. With a simple change in perspective, cheering for Harry became a point of pride. After all, he was on the cusp of leaving the Gryffindor team, and his future victories would reflect glory on all of Hogwarts. Years from now, students could boast about having witnessed his meteoric rise.
The fervor reached new heights when word spread that Darren O’Hare, the renowned coach of the Kenmare Kestrels, had attended the match. Quidditch enthusiasts craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the man standing beside Professor McGonagall, their excitement palpable.
Harry, however, knew the spotlight would make him a target. For the next few days, he’d need to lie low to avoid being mobbed. Thankfully, the Disillusionment Charm and the enchanted suitcase gifted by Newt Scamander offered him a discreet escape. He lingered in the locker room for half an hour, waiting until the clamor outside faded before emerging. To his surprise, Professor McGonagall and Darren O’Hare stood on the grass nearby, clearly waiting for someone.
Who else could it be?
“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said, hurrying over. “I didn’t realize you were waiting. You could’ve sent for me.”
“No trouble at all, Harry,” Professor McGonagall replied, her tone unusually warm. Perhaps it was the thrill of the Quidditch Cup victory, the looming prospect of the House Cup, or the presence of a star player from her favorite team. Whatever the reason, her cheeks glowed with a rare flush of delight. “We understand you needed a moment to decompress, my dear boy.”
She beckoned him closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come here. Allow me to introduce you. This is Harry Potter, Mr. O’Hare. And Harry, this is Darren O’Hare, coach of the Kenmare Kestrels—the Quidditch team I’ve arranged for you.”
Darren O’Hare cut an imposing figure: tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a smattering of freckles across his face. His sunny demeanor and confident air immediately put Harry at ease.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Hare,” Harry said, extending his hand. “I’ve got plenty of friends who are huge fans of your team.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Harry—may I call you that?” O’Hare’s enthusiasm was infectious, far warmer than Harry had expected. “Congratulations! You’ve shattered records out there. No one’s ever seen a Golden Snitch caught that fast. You’re on your way to becoming a legend! Honestly, even Viktor Krum couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Now, now, O’Hare,” Professor McGonagall interjected, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “This was a school match, and Harry’s opponents were students.”
“Of course, Professor, of course,” O’Hare said with a chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But you must admit, Hogwarts’ Quidditch matches are more professional than many amateur leagues.”
McGonagall’s expression suggested she agreed, though she refrained from saying so. Harry turned to her, his tone earnest. “Professor, I kept my promise—a decisive victory for Gryffindor.”
McGonagall blinked, caught off guard, then offered a soft smile. “Thank you, Harry.”
She quickly adopted a more serious demeanor, though her eyes twinkled. “However, I have important news. Due to your exceptional skill, which has rather dampened the competitive spirit of the other houses, I’m afraid you’ll be barred from intramural matches starting next year—except for friendly exhibitions.”
Harry nodded, unsurprised. He’d known his dominance was skewing the game.
“But don’t worry,” McGonagall continued, her smile returning. “I’ve secured a place where you can fully showcase your talents. The Kenmare Kestrels are, without question, the finest club team at the moment. I have no doubt they’ll reclaim the League Cup this year.”
As Harry’s unofficial mentor in his Quidditch journey, McGonagall had meticulously vetted professional clubs, determined to steer him toward a team worthy of his potential. She wouldn’t dream of letting his talent languish in a mediocre organization.
“You’re too kind, Professor,” O’Hare said modestly. “Other teams are formidable, but Harry, we’re confident that with you, we can elevate the Kestrels to new heights.”
O’Hare’s gaze turned serious as he addressed Harry directly. “I know it sounds absurd to say this to a first-year, but—well, you don’t exactly look like one. Your build, your presence—you could pass for a third- or fourth-year. But more than that, I saw it in your game. That solitude of being unmatched. I only watched two minutes—yes, Professor, I know,” he added with a grin as McGonagall stifled a laugh, “but it was enough. Your reaction speed, your precision—it’s extraordinary.”
He leaned forward, his voice intense. “You thrive on the edge, don’t you? You make moves that look reckless to others, but you’re in complete control. Your reflexes are unmatched, and your body has the agility to back it up. You were born for Quidditch, Harry.”
O’Hare’s credentials—captain of the Kestrels and three-time leader of the Irish national team—lent weight to his words. Yet he spoke with a humility that acknowledged Harry’s potential to transform any team he joined.
McGonagall remained silent, giving Harry space to decide. She wouldn’t push him toward any team; the choice was his alone.
“Talk of being a star feels a bit premature, Mr. O’Hare,” Harry said, shaking his head with a faint smile. “I’m joining a club because I crave real competition, something to push me physically. I assume Professor McGonagall shared my expectations?”
“Absolutely,” O’Hare replied, his grin returning. “And I’ve heard from your fellow students about your performances this year. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, Harry, but other teams simply won’t keep up with you. They couldn’t match your pace or coordinate with your style. The Kestrels can meet your needs—every single one.”
“Then I’m in,” Harry said, extending his hand. “When’s the tryout? I’ll need to prove myself to your team.”
O’Hare clasped his hand, his smile radiant. “That won’t be a challenge for you, Harry.”
The agreement was sealed with a handshake, a decision made swiftly but not lightly. Harry had done his homework, researching top teams while McGonagall made her inquiries. The Kestrels were among his top choices, and O’Hare’s genuine enthusiasm cemented his decision.
The next morning, a flock of owls swooped into the Great Hall, delivering the latest Daily Prophet. The headline screamed: Harry Potter Joins the Kenmare Kestrels! Britain’s Answer to Viktor Krum! The article detailed the Kestrels’ bold move to recruit the young prodigy, accompanied by glowing praise from O’Hare about Harry’s unparalleled talent.
For many students, seeing Harry’s name in the Prophet was no longer a surprise. Since the school year began, he’d graced its front page alongside Dumbledore and maintained a steady presence with his exploits. Those who’d spotted O’Hare at the match weren’t shocked by the news—especially Seamus Finnigan, who’d been so ecstatic the previous night that he’d tackled Harry in a bear hug, singing and dancing before begging for an autograph as a keepsake.
The Gryffindor common room had turned into a frenzy during the victory celebration. Harry lost count of the autographs he signed—on shirts, amulets, and even a hat after Fred and George’s outrageous request to sign their buttocks was swiftly vetoed with a well-placed kick. Though he hadn’t played a professional match, Harry was already being treated like a Quidditch icon.
Wisely, he skipped breakfast to avoid the inevitable mob. By evening, owls delivered stacks of letters—most from Kestrels fans, others from admirers of Harry himself, many referencing his fame as the Boy Who Lived. Mindful of Dumbledore’s warnings about unknown senders, Harry opened each with caution.
“…Congratulations… Believe…” Hermione muttered, sorting a letter into the “positive” pile. “Another fan letter for Harry.”
“That’s better than this rubbish,” Ron grumbled, tossing a letter into the bin. “This one claims Harry’s joining the Kestrels weakens the team and tells him to sod off. Idiots!”
“It’s because he’s so young,” Hermione said, her tone measured despite her frustration. “To outsiders, it’s hard to believe. I just wish his first professional match would come soon. One game, and he’ll silence them all.”
“Ugh, this one’s awful too,” Neville said, grimacing as he discarded another letter. “They’re saying vile things about Harry—and even Headmaster Dumbledore.”
Some letters accused Dumbledore of orchestrating Harry’s rise, painting the Boy Who Lived as a mere puppet. The venom in the words was unmistakable.
The Daily Prophet fueled the fire, churning out articles for nearly a week. What began as coverage of the Kestrels’ recruitment shifted to speculation about Harry himself. One piece quoted a Hogsmeade villager who’d attended every match, praising Harry’s skill. But the tone soon turned skeptical:
As we know, Hogwarts’ Quidditch season welcomes Hogsmeade villagers. I interviewed one who saw every game Harry Potter played… His admiration for the Boy Who Lived is clear, but I question his claims. Is it true? Harry Potter is a first-year student, yet he’s broken Hogwarts’ longstanding rule barring first-years from house teams. What lies behind this exception?
Talent might explain it. We could say it’s the Boy Who Lived, the child who vanquished the Dark Lord as an infant. But is that the full story? Those dazzling Quidditch maneuvers, that commanding presence on the field—can they really belong to a boy who spent eleven years outside the wizarding world, untouched by Quidditch? Forgive my bluntness, but I suspect an unseen force is propelling our Boy Who Lived forward.
“What is she on about?” Hermione slammed the newspaper down, her face flushed with anger. “Rita Skeeter! She doesn’t know a thing!”
“I’ve heard of her,” Ron said, frowning. “Some call her a truth-teller. My mum reads her stuff.”
“Then it’s clear she’s spouting nonsense, not truth!” Hermione snapped, folding her arms. Neville flinched at her intensity.
“My gran doesn’t like Skeeter either,” Neville added quietly. “Says she makes things up.”
“I’m starting to agree,” Hermione huffed.
Within days, her disdain for Skeeter deepened. The reporter’s articles grew increasingly outrageous, each more inflammatory than the last. If Rita Skeeter had the misfortune of crossing Hermione’s path, she’d be dodging an earth elemental spell without hesitation.
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
