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HRA# CHAPTER 92
🕑 Added 2025-04-08 20:55:49 +0000 UTCDespite his bold words, Ron suddenly shivered.
As he spoke, a vivid image flashed through his mind: Filch—bald, his face a map of wrinkles—grinning at him with that eerie, toothless smile. It wasn’t just unsettling; it was the stuff of nightmares.
“Forget it,” Ron muttered, scratching the back of his head. “That’s a bit too creepy for me.”
“Don’t worry, Ron,” Neville said reassuringly, his tone gentle as always. “Filch is one of us now—well, sort of. He’s practically Harry’s apprentice these days, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I just wish he’d cut us some slack,” Ron grumbled. “You know, like turning a blind eye when we’re sneaking around after hours.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Even if Filch did pretend not to see you, it’d only be for Harry’s sake. Instead of daydreaming about that, why don’t you focus on something useful—like bonding with the elements? You’re the only one in the Shaman Priest Club who hasn’t connected with the earth element yet.”
Ron’s spirits sank like a ship hitting a reef.
The fact that he couldn’t even measure up to Filch had become a nagging thorn in his side, a quiet torment that gnawed at him. It left him distracted later when he tried to coax the little unicorn over to them. The group spent some time playing in the suitcase, enjoying a hearty barbecue feast before heading back out, their bellies full and their moods lifted.
By the time Ron flopped onto his dormitory bed, his usual cheer had returned. Tomorrow was the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match, and that was more than enough to brighten his outlook.
Though the game hadn’t even started, the Gryffindor students were already acting like victory was in the bag. Some had begun hauling crates of butterbeer into the common room for the inevitable celebration. A few of the older students had even managed to smuggle in some firewhisky—Harry had complained last time that butterbeer was too tame for his taste.
Their confidence wasn’t just blind optimism. Harry had dominated Slytherin in the first match of the season, proving his skill beyond a doubt. On top of that, whispers had spread that Professor McGonagall was negotiating with professional Quidditch clubs on his behalf—a rumor that had everyone buzzing.
A Quidditch player gearing up for the League Cup while still at Hogwarts? It was unheard of! How could someone like that possibly lose to a bunch of schoolkids? The very idea was laughable.
The next day’s match lived up to every expectation. Harry didn’t play as a Beater this time; instead, he took the role of Chaser. Fred and George reclaimed their spots as Gryffindor’s Beaters, while Katie Bell stepped up as Seeker.
Katie, a second-year from Harry’s club, had passed Wood’s rigorous tryouts a while back and earned her place on the team. Still, she was green—very green. But it didn’t matter much. Not even Wood was banking on her to carry the game.
Harry, though, was a different story. He showcased exactly why Professor McGonagall was reaching out to pro teams on his behalf, even as a student. He was a force of nature.
School Quidditch teams trained regularly, sure, but Hogwarts was a place for learning magic, not churning out athletes. Unlike professional players, students couldn’t dedicate their days to perfecting their game just to chase a trophy. That lack of intensity showed.
Against the ruthless Slytherins, who’d stoop to any trick to win, Harry had played Beater and left them humiliated. Now, facing the Hufflepuffs, he switched to Chaser—and owned the pitch. The Hufflepuff Chasers couldn’t match his speed, no matter how hard they tried.
At one point, they’d ganged up on him, three against one, desperate to steal the Quaffle. But Harry’s agility was unreal—beyond anything they could’ve anticipated. He didn’t just dodge them; he toyed with them. In a move that defied belief, he stood on his broom, kicked it into a spin, and used the momentum to flip over the Hufflepuff Seekers’ defensive line. Then, as if it were nothing, he landed smoothly on his broom on the other side.
Was this guy even human?
The Hufflepuff Chasers froze, staring in disbelief as their confidence crumbled. The Gryffindor stands erupted, their cheers so loud they swallowed every other sound. Meanwhile, the Hufflepuff supporters turned pale, and even the Ravenclaws nearby looked uneasy—they’d have to face Harry eventually, and that mountain seemed impossible to climb.
The final score settled at 274 to 150, with Hufflepuff’s Seeker, Cedric Diggory, snagging the Golden Snitch. Per Quidditch rules, catching the Snitch earned 150 points and ended the game. That meant Gryffindor had shut out Hufflepuff entirely—no goals scored against them. It explained why Cedric had flown so recklessly, nearly crashing into the stands in his desperation to grab the Snitch. If Hufflepuff couldn’t stop Gryffindor from racking up points for the House Cup, ending the match early was their only lifeline.
A brutal, bittersweet choice.
Hovering on his broom, Harry soaked in the roars from the stands. This time, unlike the Slytherin match where cheers had come from three sides, the noise was mostly Gryffindor’s. The Slytherin and Hufflepuff sections were graveyard-quiet. A few Ravenclaws clapped for Harry’s jaw-dropping move, but they were a minority. The game had been thrilling, no question—but the pressure it brought was just as real.
From the commentary box, Harry spotted Professor McGonagall, her face flushed—whether from excitement or the chill, he couldn’t tell. Even after Madam Hooch’s whistle signaled the end, she kept clapping, her hands a blur of motion.
Lee Jordan, Gryffindor’s excitable commentator, had been hoarse since the score hit 150–0. By the final whistle, he could barely croak, but that didn’t stop him. He seized the microphone, leapt onto the commentary table, and bellowed in a ragged voice that this was Gryffindor’s greatest triumph in decades. True or not, no one cared to check—today’s victory was undeniable, and the crowd ate it up.
Normally, Lee’s antics might’ve earned a sharp word from McGonagall or a tussle over the mic. But today? She didn’t seem to hear him. She just kept clapping, lost in the moment.
“…Couldn’t you go a little easier on us, Mentor?” Cedric called out, guiding his broom to Harry’s level. His tone was light, but his expression carried a hint of resignation. “Seriously, this is the first time I’ve really felt that line you dropped in our first class.”
“Which one?” Harry asked, racking his brain. He’d said a lot back then. “And I told you, no need to call me ‘Mentor’ outside the club.”
“No way,” Cedric replied, shaking his head. “You’ve taught us a whole new kind of magic, shared knowledge selflessly—heck, you might’ve just handed me a brighter future. Wherever we are, you’ve earned my respect.”
“Fair enough,” Harry said with a shrug. He wasn’t one to fuss over titles. “So, which line?”
“That a shaman priest needs a strong body,” Cedric said, letting out a dramatic sigh. A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I’ve heard you’ve been at it every day—running laps around the Black Lake before dawn. No one’s caught you in the act, but… mind if I tag along?”
Harry chuckled. “You don’t need to stress about it.” He nodded toward the stands. “If all goes well, I’ll only be on the house team for one term. Professor McGonagall won’t let me dominate like this for seven years.”
“What? Why not?” Cedric’s face shifted from relief to surprise. “That’s not fair—I mean, to you. She wouldn’t ban you from Quidditch just because you’re talented, would she?”
“No, no,” Harry said, grinning. “It’s my idea too. The castle rumors are true—McGonagall’s lining up pro teams for me.”
Cedric’s eyes widened, then lit up. “For real? That’s incredible! You could be a Quidditch star while still in school—like Viktor Krum at Durmstrang!”
“Slow down,” Harry teased. “I haven’t played a single pro game yet. Don’t hype me up too much just because I look good here. For all I know, I’ll step onto a pro pitch and get flattened. Ha!”
“No chance,” Cedric shot back, laughing. “That ‘Harry Potter Move’ you pulled? I’d bet my broom no pro could copy it. It was insane—in the best way.”
“Ugh, don’t call it that,” Harry groaned, his smile fading slightly. Lee Jordan had coined the term when Harry leapt off his broom midair, soared over the Hufflepuff defense, and landed back in the saddle. Genius or not, the name made him cringe.
Cedric burst into laughter. “Fine, fine. I’ll grab a ticket to your first pro match, though, Professor. For now, I’ll let you enjoy the party. Good luck!”
With a wave, Cedric veered off toward his teammates. Harry descended toward the Gryffindor crowd, who’d already spilled onto the pitch’s edge. As he neared, their cheers hushed, all eyes on him, expectant.
“Another victory!” Harry shouted, scanning the sea of grinning faces. “Now—let’s celebrate!”
“WOOO!!!”
The roar was deafening, and Harry reveled in it. It wasn’t the triumphant cry of a war won, but a celebration of victory without loss—and that was just as sweet. A hero’s job, after all, was to leave smiles in their wake.
The Gryffindor common room buzzed well past curfew, the pre-stocked drinks flowing freely. But what Harry hadn’t expected was Snape storming over the moment he dismounted, his face dark with fury. The Potions Master tore into him for that reckless midair stunt—dangerous, foolish, a disaster waiting to happen.
Watching Snape rant, Harry couldn’t help but think—though he’d never admit it aloud—that the man looked like a worried father scolding his kid. An odd, grumpy, overly dramatic father, sure, but still.
Even Ron, who’d been shrinking into the background to avoid Snape’s wrath, had to agree. “I’d gouge my eyes out and scrub them before saying this,” he muttered later, “but yeah, he kinda did.”
“Imagine if it were James,” Ron added, turning to Harry with a serious look once Snape had stalked off. “He’d sling an arm around you, laugh his head off, and say, ‘That’s my boy!’”
Harry didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Ron was spot-on.
After a few visits, Ron and the others had gotten to know Harry’s parents well enough to peg their personalities. James, especially, made no secret of his disdain for Snape—a hostility that had fueled plenty of awkward stories. Bit by bit, the trio had pieced together the messy history of the previous generation.
To say they were shocked was an understatement. Snape, the sneering Slytherin who lived to torment Gryffindors, had a past that didn’t quite fit the villain mold. And Lily—Harry’s soft-spoken mother, always ready to help Ron and Neville with their Potions homework—had been Snape’s childhood best friend. They’d grown up together, inseparable, even after arriving at Hogwarts and landing in rival houses. That bond held strong until their later years, when it finally fractured.
James, it turned out, had been the latecomer in that saga.
The breakup had a laundry list of causes: the Gryffindor-Slytherin divide, the toxic house rivalry seeping into their lives, Snape’s growing obsession with the Dark Arts—and his attempts to pull Lily into it. Then there was James and his gang stirring the pot.
James swore Snape was a scheming, slimy git destined to be a Death Eater. But Hermione, ever the sleuth, had dug into old detention records in the library. The truth? Most entries starred James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter picking fights with Snape—not the other way around. Snape’s retaliations, successful or not, filled the rest.
She’d even grilled the castle ghosts for details. Some warned her to leave the past alone; others admired her tenacity and spilled the tales. Lily had shone as a Gryffindor star from day one. James had fallen hard, chasing her relentlessly—though she’d brushed him off for years. Meanwhile, he and his crew clashed with Snape in a cycle of petty vengeance.
Hermione’s take? Snape came off less like a villain and more like a kid who’d been kicked around but kept swinging back, fighting for his pride. She even wondered if his split with Lily had been partly defiance—a “fine, I’ll be the bad guy you all want” moment sparked by one jab too many.
Still, the care lingered. Years later, Lily spoke of Snape with fairness, urging James and the others not to judge him too harshly. “He’s gentler than he seems,” she’d said, unraveling his defenses with quiet patience. James, on the other hand, couldn’t resist butting in—only to get shooed off by Lily every time.
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
Comments
Vick
I don't know about the book, but Movie James was a asshole when young
