The Seeker's Wager

Harry never thought he'd find peace in the soft light of dawn.

Most people would still be sleeping at this hour, their dreams undisturbed by the gentle chorus of birdsong outside their windows. But sleep had become his enemy since the Battle of Hogwarts, each night bringing memories he'd rather forget and faces he'd never see again. So he'd taken to early morning walks, breathing in the sweet country air around the Burrow, letting the damp grass soak his trainers as he wandered.

Today, though, he wasn't alone.

A flash of movement caught his eye as he crossed the apple orchard. High above, weaving between the trees, was a blur of copper and blue. Ginny. Her hair caught the morning light as she executed a turn around the far tree, then dove toward the ground before pulling up inches from impact. Harry's heart stuttered. Madam Hooch would have swallowed her whistle.

The crisp morning air carried the scent of apple blossoms and freshly turned earth. Near the edge of the clearing, a potato-headed garden gnome peeked out from behind a gnarled tree root, its beady eyes narrowing suspiciously at the human intruders.

"Bit early for a flying lesson, isn't it?" he called up.

Ginny jerked in surprise, her broom wobbling slightly before she stabilized and spiraled down to hover at eye level. Her cheeks were flushed, freckles standing out against skin pink from exertion and the morning chill. A leaf was tangled in her hair, and a smudge of dirt streaked one cheek. In the months since Fred's death, the Weasley household had been shrouded in grief, smiles becoming rare treasures. But here, in the privacy of dawn, Ginny seemed to have found a pocket of joy.

"Couldn't sleep," she said with a shrug, picking the leaf from her hair. "Thought I might as well be productive." She gestured to the broom beneath her, an old Cleansweep that had seen better days. "If I'm going to try out for the position you're giving up, I need all the practice I can get."

Harry nodded. They'd had this conversation before—how after everything that had happened, he wanted to try something different this year. How being a Seeker had always carried too much weight, too much expectation. How he thought he might enjoy the more collaborative role of Chaser instead.

Chaser. The prospect made him smile. After telling McGonagall he'd be returning to complete his education rather than accepting Kingsley's Auror offer, she'd asked about his Quidditch plans. He still remembered her raised eyebrow when he'd said he was considering a different position. "Potter, are you quite certain?" she'd asked, looking at him over her spectacles. But then she'd nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps a change would do us all good."

He understood why people were surprised. Ron had jumped at the fast-track Auror program, but Harry couldn't face immediately hunting dark wizards again. Not yet. He needed one normal year first, seeing Hogwarts restored and alive.

"You'll make an excellent Seeker," he said, watching as a gnome scurried away when Ginny absently kicked a clod of dirt in its direction. "Though your technique could use some fine-tuning."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Is that what you've been observing from down there? My technique?"

"I've been observing your tendency to nearly slam into trees," he countered, grinning despite himself.

"It's called precision flying," she said loftily, performing a small loop that ended with her hanging upside down, face level with his. "And I haven't hit one yet."

"The key word being 'yet,'" Harry pointed out.

Ginny swung upright with a fluid motion. "Well, are you getting on a broom, or are you just going to stand there critiquing my form?" she asked, flying a circle around him. A spray of dew kicked up from the grass as the tail twigs of her broom skimmed too close to the ground.

"I didn't bring my new Nimbus." The words felt oddly hollow. Charlie's old Cleansweep would do fine for practice, anyway. He ran his thumb absently over the callus that had formed from years of gripping his Firebolt's handle—a broom now lost, like the godfather who'd given it to him.

"Take Charlie's old Cleansweep. It's propped against the shed." She pointed to the ramshackle building at the edge of the orchard, its wooden walls weathered silver and sagging slightly in the middle. "It pulls a bit to the left, but it's not bad once you get used to it."

He retrieved the broom, feeling the age-polished grain beneath his fingers. Years of games and practices had worn away the varnish in places, revealing the natural wood underneath. Someone—probably Charlie—had carved their initials near the base, the letters weathered but still visible. This broom had seen championships and defeats, had soared through storms and sunshine. It carried history in every splinter.

He kicked off from the ground, the familiar sensation of weightlessness settling over him. Wind rushed through his hair, clearing away the cobwebs of another restless night. The broom did indeed pull slightly to the left, requiring a constant minor adjustment that would have annoyed him in another context. Now, he welcomed the distraction, the need to focus on something simple and immediate.

This – this was freedom. This was what he'd fought for. The simple joy of flying on a summer morning, with no threat hanging over his head. No prophecy, no Horcruxes, no destiny. Just the wind and the sky and the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

"Race you to the tallest oak and back?" Ginny challenged, zipping up beside him. Her eyes danced with mischief, hair whipping around her face.

"I thought you wanted to train as a Seeker, not a Chaser," Harry replied, adjusting his grip on Charlie's broom. The handle was slightly thicker than he was used to, the balance point different enough to require compensation.

"Speed is part of being a Seeker, isn't it?" She leaned forward on her broom, coiled like a spring. One foot tapped against the wooden handle in a rhythm of contained energy. "Unless you're afraid you'll lose to a girl on a hand-me-down broom."

"On this antique?" He tapped Charlie's Cleansweep. A wood chip flaked away, and he absently brushed it from his palm. "I'd say that gives you an unfair advantage. This thing's probably older than both of us combined."

"I thought the great Harry Potter could outfly anyone on anything." She smirked. "Even a tea tray, according to Ron."

"That was against a dragon," Harry said, but he was already positioning himself beside her, feeling the familiar pre-race tension coil in his muscles. "Fine. To the oak and back. Three, two—"

Ginny was gone before he said "one," a streak of blue pajamas and red hair against the green backdrop of the orchard.

"Cheater!" he shouted, laughing as he bent low over his broom and shot after her. The orchard blurred around him, apple trees becoming smears of green and brown. A bird took startled flight from a branch he passed too closely, its indignant chirping lost in the rush of wind.

The old Cleansweep had more speed than he'd expected, and he quickly closed the gap. Ahead, Ginny's blue-clad figure cut through the green landscape, glancing back with mock horror when she saw how close he was. She flattened herself against her broom handle, trying to coax more speed from it.

Harry drew level just as they approached the oak, its massive trunk looming ahead like a sentry. Ginny cut her turn sharply, the maneuver losing her momentum but giving her a more direct path back to their starting point. Harry took a wider arc, maintaining his speed, the wood of Charlie's old broom creaking slightly under the pressure of the turn.

For a breathless moment, they were neck and neck, the finish line approaching fast. Harry could hear Ginny's determined breathing beside him, could see her knuckles white against the wood of her broom handle. The competitive fire in her eyes matched the burning in his own chest—not desperate, not life-or-death, but pure and simple joy in the challenge.

At the last second, Ginny dropped into a dive, skimming just above the grass before pulling up sharply at their makeshift finish line, touching down a heartbeat before him. The tail of her broom scattered droplets that caught the sunlight, splattering against Harry's glasses.

"Ha!" she crowed, windswept and radiant. "That's Weasley one, Potter zero."

"You got a head start," Harry protested, wiping his glasses on his shirt. The dew left streaky marks on the lenses that he tried futilely to clear. "That's cheating in at least seven different countries."

"Eight, actually," she corrected with a grin. "But not in the Burrow Quidditch League, where the only rule is 'win or face endless mockery from your brothers.'" She demonstrated by adopting a deeper voice: "'Oh, Ginny got beaten by the Boy Who Lived? What a tragedy.'" Then switching to a higher pitch: "'Well, of course she did, she's just a girl!'"

Harry snorted. "They wouldn't dare."

"No," she agreed, "not anymore. Now they're too afraid I'll hex them into next Tuesday." She swung her leg over her broom, planting her feet on the grass. "Imagine if Rita Skeeter could see the Boy Who Lived now, defeated by a mere girl."

Harry rolled his eyes. "First, you're hardly a 'mere' anything. Second, you forget I've been watching you fly for years. I know exactly how good you are."

A flash of something passed over Ginny's face – surprise, perhaps, or pleasure. It was gone before Harry could identify it, like a swift shadow on a sunny day.

"Good enough to be Seeker?" she asked, her tone casual, but Harry detected the undercurrent of uncertainty. The question carried more weight than it seemed—this wasn't just about Quidditch positions.

He considered her seriously, taking in the determined set of her shoulders, the eager light in her eyes, the way she tried to appear nonchalant while clearly caring deeply about his answer. The girl who'd once blushed and run away at the sight of him had grown into someone who met his gaze straight on, who challenged him, who made him feel like Harry rather than The Boy Who Lived.

"You've got the instincts for it," he said finally. "You're fearless, which is half the battle. Your spatial awareness is excellent. But there's more to being a Seeker than just flying fast and taking risks."

"That's why I need you to show me," she said, tossing her broom from one hand to the other. "I was a good Chaser, but if you're switching to Chaser like you said, I want a shot at Seeker."

Harry nodded, a twist of pride in his chest. When he'd first mentioned wanting to try playing Chaser a few days ago, he'd expected everyone to be surprised, maybe even disappointed. Who would give up being the star Seeker? But Ginny had immediately understood. "Less pressure, more teamwork," she'd said, nodding as if it made perfect sense. And to her, it did.

"Alright then, Weasley. Lesson one starts now." He pointed to a distant treetop where a cluster of leaves moved slightly in the breeze. "See that movement at the top of the pine? A Seeker needs to spot tiny details from a distance. The Snitch can be anywhere in the stadium – you need to train your eyes to catch that glint of gold while dodging Bludgers and other players."

Ginny squinted at the tree, the morning sun illuminating her profile. A freckle just below her right eye caught Harry's attention, one he'd never noticed before.

"It's just leaves moving in the wind," she said after a moment.

"Exactly. A Seeker doesn't just look for what is there – they look for what shouldn't be there. Movement where there should be stillness. Stillness where there should be movement. The Snitch behaves differently from everything else on the pitch."

She tilted her head, considering him. "You're actually taking this seriously."

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I thought..." She shrugged, winding a strand of hair around her finger. "That maybe you'd hold back. That you wouldn't want to give away all your secrets."

Harry frowned. "Why would I do that?"

"Because next year at Hogwarts, we'll be on the same team, and there can only be one Seeker." She looked at him steadily, a challenge in her eyes. "If I'm better than you, McGonagall might pick me."

The thought hadn't occurred to him. He'd been so focused on the idea of flying as a Chaser, of seeing Quidditch as something joyful again rather than another responsibility, that he hadn't considered Ginny might actually outfly him for the Seeker position.

A miniature creature with a weather-beaten face scuttled past them, muttering what sounded suspiciously like gnomish curses. It paused to shake a gnarled fist at Harry before disappearing into the underbrush.

"If you're better than me," he said slowly, turning back to Ginny, "then you deserve to be Seeker."

Her eyes widened. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"Why would I mind?" He gestured around them, at the orchard, at the Burrow in the distance, at the brightening sky. "McGonagall will pick whoever gives the team the best chance to win."

The thought of watching Ginny play Seeker while he joined Katie and the other Chasers sent a surprising thrill through him. Flying together rather than alone. No longer carrying the sole responsibility for the game's outcome. Working in formation, setting up plays, being part of something collaborative instead of isolated high above everyone else.

Flying had once been his only respite from being the Chosen One. Now, it could just be flying.

"Quidditch isn't about who's famous or who's been playing longer," he continued. "It's about who can catch the Snitch and win the game."

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if looking for some hidden insincerity. Then her expression softened into a smile—a real smile that reached her eyes and lit her whole face.

"Well then, Potter. Teach me everything you know."

"Everything?" He raised an eyebrow, oddly aware of how close they were standing, of the damp grass beneath his feet, of the light freckles across the bridge of Ginny's nose.

"Every last trick, technique, and secret." Her smile turned mischievous, a dimple appearing in her left cheek. "Though I doubt I'll need them all to beat your record."

"My record?" He knew exactly which one she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"Catching the Snitch in under five minutes against Hufflepuff in your third year," she said promptly. "The whole common room talked about nothing else for days."

Harry blinked, surprised not just that she remembered, but that she'd paid such close attention back then. He'd barely noticed her at that age, too caught up in his own problems and adventures. The thought sent a pang of regret through him.

"That was luck as much as skill," he admitted. "Cedric got distracted by a cloud shaped like a dragon."

"Says the boy who nearly swallowed his first Snitch," she countered, mounting her broom again. The mention of Cedric didn't bring the usual stab of guilt—just a bittersweet memory of a fair player and a kind person. "Come on, then. Show me how to spot a Snitch that's hiding."

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Harry found himself enjoying the role of teacher more than he'd expected. Ginny was a quick study, absorbing everything he showed her with intense concentration. They worked on scanning techniques, making their way around the perimeter of the orchard in expanding circles, just as Harry would circle the Quidditch pitch.

The orchard came alive around them as they flew. Blackbirds darted between the trees, scolding them for disturbing the morning peace. Squirrels chattered indignantly from the higher branches. Once, a fox slipped through the underbrush, its russet coat a flash of color against the green grass.

"You need to train your eyes to catch any flash of movement," Harry explained as they hovered side by side above a particularly gnarled apple tree. A spider had built an elaborate web between two branches, the silk strands glistening with dew. "Not just gold, but any quick movement that seems out of place."

"Like that?" Ginny pointed to a distant flicker between two trees.

"Exactly like that," Harry nodded, impressed with her observation. "Though that's probably just another garden gnome. They're everywhere this year—your mum says they bred like crazy while everyone was away."

"Lovely," Ginny grimaced. "Just what we need. More foul-mouthed potato heads digging up the garden."

"Look for the reflection of light on the Snitch's wings," Harry continued, directing her attention back to their lesson. "Most people make the mistake of focusing only on gold, but depending on the sunlight, the Snitch can look silver or even bronze."

Ginny nodded, her gaze steady as she scanned the treetops. "What about in bad weather?"

"That's when it gets tricky," Harry acknowledged, remembering his own disastrous encounters with seeking in storms. "In rain, you have to filter out all the droplets that catch the light. In clouds or fog, you rely more on movement than color. And you have to account for how the weather affects the Snitch itself—the wings get heavier when they're wet."

"Like when you caught it during that thunderstorm? The one where the Dementors showed up?"

Harry glanced at her, startled again by her memory for his Quidditch career. Details he'd forgotten, she seemed to have stored away. "Yeah, exactly. I could barely see ten feet in front of me. I followed the movement rather than trying to spot the gold."

"And then you fell," she said softly, a shadow crossing her face. "I remember everyone screaming."

"I was more worried about the Dementors than the fall," Harry admitted.

"I wasn't," Ginny murmured, so quietly he almost didn't hear it.

Before he could respond, a voice called from the direction of the Burrow. "Harry! Ginny! Breakfast!"

They turned to see Molly standing in the back doorway, waving a tea towel at them. Even from this distance, Harry could see that she'd tried to arrange her face into its usual welcoming smile, but the expression didn't quite reach her eyes. Fred's death had hollowed something in Molly Weasley that not even her legendary cooking could fill.

"Coming, Mum!" Ginny called back, then turned to Harry. "Tomorrow we'll need a practice Snitch."

"Do you have one?"

"Fred and George's old one," she said, a flicker of pain crossing her face at the mention of Fred. But she pushed through it, squaring her shoulders. "They enchanted it to be even faster than regulation. Said it would make training more challenging."

"Or more impossible," Harry suggested gently, trying to ease the moment.

It worked. Ginny's smile returned, if slightly dimmed. "Exactly their style, isn't it? Make something ten times harder, then laugh when you fail."

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Fred's absence was still a raw wound in all their lives, a void that seemed to suck the air from a room whenever his name was mentioned.

"That'll be perfect," he said finally. "Meet here tomorrow, same time?"

Ginny's smile was small but genuine. "It's a date."

Harry tried not to read too much into those three simple words as he watched her walk ahead of him toward the Burrow, sunlight dancing across her shoulders. A date. Just a figure of speech, he told himself. Just two friends practicing Quidditch.

So why did his heart skip like a badly charmed stone across the Black Lake?

As the days passed, their training sessions fell into a comfortable rhythm. Each morning, Harry would wake before dawn, his nightmares driving him from bed—faces of the dead, flashes of green light, Voldemort's high, cold laugh. He'd slip out of Ron's room, careful not to wake his friend (though Ron, wrapped around his pillow and snoring softly, rarely stirred), and make his way to the orchard.

He'd find Ginny already there, sometimes just flying for the joy of it, executing complicated maneuvers that made his breath catch, other times practicing the drills he'd taught her the day before with a focus that would have impressed even Oliver Wood.

The orchard became their sanctuary, a place apart from the grief that still lingered in the Burrow's crowded rooms. Here, in the quiet of early morning, they could laugh and challenge each other without feeling the weight of sadness pressing down.

By the third day, Harry felt comfortable enough to bring out a small golden ball from his pocket.

"Is that—?" Ginny asked, eyes widening as they hovered side by side above the dewy grass.

"My first Snitch," Harry confirmed, holding it up so she could see the faded inscription: I open at the close. "Dumbledore left it to me in his will."

Ginny's gaze softened. "The one you nearly swallowed."

"The very same." He turned it over in his palm. The gold was warm against his skin, as if it retained some memory of the life-and-death struggle it had witnessed. "It's not as fast as it once was, but it's good for practicing basic tracking."

"Are you sure you want to use it for training?" she asked. "It seems... special."

Harry looked down at the small golden ball, remembering how it had contained the Resurrection Stone, how it had led him into the forest to face Voldemort. How it had helped him save them all. How it had shown him his parents, Sirius, and Remus one last time before he walked to what he thought was his death.

"It is special," he agreed. "But I think it would rather be flying than sitting in a drawer."

He released it, and they both watched as it fluttered upward, its wings beating slower than a regulation Snitch but still quick enough to pose a challenge. Without waiting for instruction, Ginny kicked off from the ground, her gaze fixed on the golden ball as it darted toward the trees.

Harry followed, climbing higher to observe her technique. The morning air was crisp and cool, filling his lungs and clearing his head. From this height, he could see beyond the orchard to the surrounding fields, green and gold in the early light.

Ginny tracked the Snitch well, anticipating its movements rather than simply chasing it. That was good – a key skill for any Seeker. Too many novices exhausted themselves by flying after every darting movement, never learning to predict the pattern within the chaos.

"Remember to keep your peripheral vision open!" he called as she narrowly missed a tree branch, bark scraping against the sleeve of her jumper. "The Snitch will try to distract you with feints!"

As if on cue, the enchanted ball dropped suddenly, then zigzagged through the lower branches of an apple tree. Ginny dove after it, executing a perfect slalom through the obstacles.

She was good. Really good. Not just good for someone learning the position, but naturally talented in a way that made him wonder why she hadn't been playing Seeker all along. Her instincts were spot-on, her reactions lightning-fast, and her flying style fearless.

The Snitch shot upward, and Ginny followed, climbing nearly vertical. For a heart-stopping moment, Harry thought she might flip over backward—her broom wobbled at the steepest point of the climb—but she maintained control, her hand stretching out as she closed in on the golden ball.

With a triumphant whoop that scattered a nearby flock of birds, she snatched it from the air, tumbling into a controlled roll before straightening out and holding the Snitch aloft. The morning sun caught the gold, sending a flash of light across the orchard.

"Not bad for a novice," Harry called, grinning.

Ginny flew toward him, her cheeks flushed with victory, eyes bright with exhilaration. "How long did that take?"

Harry checked his watch. "Just under nine minutes."

"Not quite five, then," she teased, reminding him of his record. "But not bad for a first attempt."

"It was brilliant," Harry said honestly. "Most first-time Seekers take half an hour or more."

She tossed the Snitch playfully from hand to hand, the golden ball a blur between her fingers. "Your instruction is paying off, it seems."

"You had good instincts," he corrected. "All I did was point them in the right direction."

"Hmm." Ginny continued tossing the Snitch, her eyes never leaving his. "I think you're selling yourself short, but I'll take the compliment. Though I still say I'll beat your record by the end of summer."

"Some achievements stand the test of time," he said, enjoying the way her eyes narrowed at the challenge. "Like Weasley's Keeper record for most goals prevented in a single match."

"Or Potter's record for most bones lost in a single Quidditch incident?" she countered.

"Low blow, Weasley."

"Accurate blow, Potter."

They grinned at each other, hovering in the morning light. A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the Burrow awakening—the clatter of pots and pans as Molly prepared breakfast, the ghoul in the attic banging on pipes, the chickens clucking in their coop.

"Hmm." Ginny tossed the Snitch once more, higher this time, then caught it with a deft movement. Her expression turned contemplative. "Care to make that an official challenge, Potter?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"A proper match. You versus me. First to catch the Snitch." Her smile turned sly. "Unless you're afraid I'll beat your precious record."

A year ago, Harry might have felt his competitive pride stir. But as he watched Ginny's fingers deftly manipulate the golden ball, he felt something entirely different—anticipation rather than anxiety. The stakes no longer felt life-altering. Instead, he found himself looking forward to simply playing well, win or lose.

The glint in Ginny's eye, though, made him pause. There was more at stake here than a friendly competition.

"What do I get when I win?" he asked, emphasizing the 'when.'

"If you win," she corrected, "you get the satisfaction of knowing your precious record stands unbeaten."

"And if you win?"

Ginny's smile widened. "If I win... well, let's just say I'll think of something suitably rewarding."

The way she said it sent a jolt of something like electricity down Harry's spine. They'd been dancing around each other since his return to the Burrow, neither acknowledging the unspoken tension between them. Before the Battle of Hogwarts, before his hunt for Horcruxes, they'd had something—something fragile and new that had been interrupted by war. Since his return, they'd slipped back into friendship, but moments like this—charged with possibility—reminded him of what they'd almost been.

"Deal," he said, offering his hand. "Tomorrow morning. Fred and George's practice Snitch."

Ginny took his hand, her palm warm against his. Her fingers were calloused from years of broom-handling, and a small scar crossed her knuckles—a souvenir from the Battle of Hogwarts that she'd never explained. "Deal. And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't hold back." Her eyes met his, serious now. "I want to win fairly or not at all."

He squeezed her hand before letting go. "I wouldn't dream of it."

That afternoon, after helping Molly de-gnome the garden (the creatures had grown bold during the months the Weasleys were in hiding), Harry found himself cornered in the kitchen by Ron and Hermione.

"So," Ron said, leaning against the counter with forced casualness, a half-eaten apple in his hand, "you and Ginny have been spending a lot of time together."

Harry busied himself with making a cup of tea, keeping his back to them. The kettle was old and temperamental, hissing steam from a crack in its spout. "I'm helping her train for Seeker tryouts."

"At dawn?" Hermione's voice was gentle but probing. She sat at the kitchen table, a book open in front of her, though Harry noticed she hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. "Every day?"

"It's cooler then," Harry said, stirring his tea with unnecessary vigor. The spoon clinked against the sides of the mug. "Less crowded."

"Less crowded than an empty orchard?" Ron snorted, taking another bite of his apple. Juice dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. "Yeah, those morning crowds are brutal. All those imaginary spectators."

Harry turned to face them, steeling himself. "What's this about, Ron?"

His best friend sighed, running a hand through his hair, which was getting long enough to rival Bill's. "Look, mate, I'm not blind. Or stupid." He paused. "Well, not completely stupid."

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. "That's debatable."

"Oi!" Ron protested, though without heat. He turned back to Harry. "The point is, we've noticed... things."

"Things?" Harry repeated, clutching his tea mug like a shield.

"What Ron is trying to say," Hermione interjected, closing her book with a soft thump, "is that we've noticed the way you look at each other."

"We're friends," Harry said automatically. It wasn't a lie—he and Ginny were friends. Good friends. But the word felt inadequate, like calling Hogwarts 'a school' or Voldemort 'a problem.'

"Right," Ron drawled, tossing his apple core into the bin with perfect aim. "Just like Hermione and I were 'friends' for six years."

Hermione elbowed him, but she was smiling. "What we're saying, Harry, is that it's okay. If there's something... more."

Harry stared down at his tea, watching the steam curl upward and disappear into the air. Was there something more? Before he'd left to hunt Horcruxes, he'd been certain of his feelings for Ginny. But now, after everything they'd been through—after death and resurrection and the reshaping of their world—those feelings seemed both more profound and more complicated.

The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking of the Weasley clock on the wall, all its hands now pointing to "Home" except for Fred's, which Mrs. Weasley had removed and kept in a small box beside her bed.

"I don't know what we are," he admitted finally. "Everything's different now."

Ron nodded, surprisingly understanding. "After what we all went through... yeah. It changes how you look at things."

"But some things don't change," Hermione said softly. "Some feelings only get stronger, even when you try to push them away." She glanced at Ron, a world of meaning in the look that passed between them. "We learned that the hard way."

Harry looked up at her, at the kindness in her eyes and the wisdom beyond her years, and felt a surge of gratitude for his friends. They knew him—knew the weight he carried, the darkness he'd faced. And they still believed he deserved happiness.

"We have a match tomorrow," he said. "Ginny and me. First to catch the Snitch."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "A proper match? Like, competitive?"

"She thinks she can beat my record." Harry couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "She's actually good enough that she might."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Ron asked, studying Harry with unusual perceptiveness. "I mean, I know you're planning to switch to Chaser anyway, but still."

"Why would it?" Harry countered. "She's put in the work. She deserves the chance."

"How very mature of you," Hermione said, a knowing smile playing at her lips.

Before Harry could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and Ginny walked in, dirt smudged across her cheek from gardening. She stopped short when she saw the three of them, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Just discussing tomorrow's match," Hermione said smoothly. "Harry says you're getting quite good."

Ginny's eyes found Harry's, a question in them. He nodded slightly, confirming Hermione's words.

"Well, when your coach is the youngest Seeker in a century," she said with a half-smile, "you pick up a few tricks." She went to the sink and filled a glass with water, drinking deeply. "Though I'm not sure he's prepared for how thoroughly I'm going to beat him tomorrow."

"Big talk from someone who's never caught a Snitch in an actual match," Ron teased.

Ginny's smile widened. "Yet."

The confidence in that single word sent another jolt through Harry's chest. This wasn't the same Ginny who had once been too shy to speak in his presence. This was a woman who knew her own mind, her own strength.

"Actually," she continued, leaning against the sink with casual grace, "I was hoping to borrow your new Nimbus for tomorrow, Harry. To make it a fair match."

Harry blinked, surprised. "You want to use my Nimbus?"

"I'll be careful with it," she promised. "But if we're both on Cleansweeps, you'll still have the advantage of experience. This evens the playing field."

It was a reasonable request, but something about it made Harry hesitate. The Nimbus was brand new, purchased to replace his lost Firebolt—the broom Sirius had given him, destroyed during their escape from Privet Drive. Though the Nimbus wasn't his godfather's gift, it represented a fresh start, something wholly his in this new post-war world. He rarely let anyone else fly his brooms.

A memory surfaced: Sirius watching Harry fly during his third year, his gaunt face transformed by a smile of pure joy. Your father would be proud, he'd said later. He was an excellent flyer too.

Ginny must have read his hesitation in his face, because she quickly added, "Or not. It was just an idea."

"No, it's okay," Harry found himself saying. "You can use it. I trust you."

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning beyond broom borrowing. Ginny's expression softened, and for a moment, it was just the two of them in the kitchen, the rest of the world fading away.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I won't let you down."

Ron cleared his throat loudly, breaking the moment. His ears had turned slightly red, a sure sign of Weasley embarrassment. "Well, this sounds like it'll be quite the match. Mind if Hermione and I watch?"

"Actually," Ginny said, still looking at Harry, "I was thinking we could make it a proper event. The whole family's been a bit... well, you know. This might be good for everyone."

Harry nodded. He'd seen how the atmosphere in the Burrow changed whenever Fred's empty chair caught someone's eye at dinner. How George's door remained closed most days, only the occasional muffled explosion suggesting he was working on something. How Molly would sometimes stop mid-sentence when setting the table, realizing she'd put out one plate too many.

Yesterday, he'd found Arthur in his shed, staring blankly at a dismantled toaster, tools forgotten in his hands. "Freddie always loved these Muggle contraptions," he'd said quietly, not looking up. "Said they were like magic, only backward."

A Quidditch match might give them all something else to focus on, even if just for an afternoon.

"Let's do it," Harry agreed. "Tomorrow afternoon, instead of morning. That way everyone can be there."

Ginny's smile brightened. "Perfect. I'll tell Mum to prepare a picnic."

As she left the kitchen, Ron turned to Harry with a knowing look. "Just friends, eh?"

Harry didn't bother answering. He was too busy watching Ginny go, wondering what exactly she'd ask for when—not if—she won their match.

That night, Harry couldn't sleep. He lay in Ron's room, staring at the orange Chudley Cannons posters that covered the ceiling, their animated players zooming back and forth in endless, hopeless pursuit of victory. Ron's breathing had long since settled into the deep rhythm of sleep, occasionally punctuated by a soft snore.

Harry's mind raced with thoughts of flying, of Ginny, of tomorrow's match. He tried counting Hippogriffs, tried breathing exercises, even tried mentally reciting the twelve uses of dragon blood. Nothing worked.

Finally giving up, he slipped out of bed, pulled on a jumper against the night chill, and made his way downstairs. The steps creaked beneath his feet, the old house settling into the night. Portraits on the wall watched him pass, some dozing, others whispering to each other behind cupped hands.

The Burrow was different at night—creakier, more mysterious, but still undeniably welcoming. He padded through the darkened kitchen, avoiding the chair that always seemed to find his shin in the dark, and out the back door.

The garden was transformed by moonlight, silver-washed and magical. Gnomes snored softly from their holes. Moths fluttered around the porch light. In the distance, the silhouette of the orchard stood black against the star-strewn sky.

And there, on the stone wall that separated the garden from the fields beyond, sat a familiar figure. Even in silhouette, Harry would know Ginny anywhere—the set of her shoulders, the curve of her neck, the way she tucked one foot beneath her.

He hesitated, not wanting to intrude on her solitude. But as if sensing his presence, she turned, moonlight silvering her hair.

"Can't sleep either?" she asked as he approached.

Harry shook his head, settling beside her on the wall. The stone was cool beneath him, still radiating the day's heat. "Too much on my mind."

"Worried about losing tomorrow?" There was teasing in her voice, but underneath it, a genuine question.

"Not worried," he said truthfully. "Though I'm not planning to make it easy for you."

"I'd be insulted if you did." She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The sleeve of her nightshirt rode up, revealing a thin scar that snaked across her forearm—another battle souvenir. "I've been thinking about the practice sessions. How to apply everything you've taught me."

"And?"

"And I think I might actually have a chance." She glanced at him sideways, her profile sharp against the night sky. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, a long, mournful cry. "You're a better flyer, but I'm more reckless."

Harry laughed softly. "Is that your strategy? Out-crazy me?"

"It's worked for me so far." Her smile faded, and she looked out over the moonlit fields. "It's strange, isn't it? After everything that happened... to be worried about something as normal as Quidditch."

Harry nodded, understanding completely. "I keep waiting for it to feel trivial. But it doesn't."

"No," she agreed. "It feels important. Necessary, even." She was quiet for a moment, then added, "Fred would have loved this, you know. The competition. The drama. He and George would have set up betting pools and created some ridiculous commentary system."

The mention of Fred didn't hurt as much as it might have a few weeks ago. "George should handle the commentary tomorrow," Harry suggested. "He's just as good as Lee Jordan. Better, even, because he's more ruthless."

"That's brilliant, Harry." Ginny turned to him, eyes bright in the moonlight. "He hasn't had much to smile about lately. This would be perfect."

"I want to hear the Weasley commentator bias in full force," Harry said. "Every brilliant move you make, exaggerated beyond recognition."

"And every mistake you make, dissected in excruciating detail."

"With sound effects."

"And dramatic reenactments."

"Exactly."

They fell into comfortable silence, the night air cool against their skin. In the distance, a fox barked, and an owl hooted in reply. It was peaceful in a way that Harry had rarely experienced—a moment out of time, with no expectations, no pressure, just existing beside someone who understood.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice was softer now, almost hesitant. "What would you ask for? If you win tomorrow?"

The question caught him off guard. He'd been so focused on the flying itself, on teaching Ginny, that he hadn't seriously considered what he'd want from her if he won their wager.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hadn't thought about it."

"Really? Not even a little?" She sounded skeptical.

Harry hesitated, then decided on honesty. "I guess I've been more focused on helping you become a Seeker than on winning myself."

Ginny studied him in the moonlight, her expression unreadable. A cricket chirped nearby, a rhythmic pulse in the darkness. "You really want me to succeed, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"Even if it means I take your position on the team?"

Harry considered this. The thought of not playing Seeker should have bothered him more than it did. But the more he thought about joining the other Chasers, working as part of a team rather than carrying the singular pressure of catching the Snitch, the more he welcomed the change.

"Quidditch was always my escape," he said slowly, trying to articulate feelings he hadn't fully processed. "When everything else was chaos—Voldemort, the prophecy, being the Chosen One—flying was the one place I felt free. In control."

Ginny nodded, listening intently. The cricket's chirping grew louder, then stopped abruptly as if it too wanted to hear what Harry would say next.

"But now..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the peaceful night, the war that was over, the future that stretched before them. "I don't need an escape anymore. I want to play because I love the game, not because I'm running from something." He picked up a small pebble from the wall and rolled it between his fingers. "And honestly, I'm looking forward to playing Chaser—being part of every play instead of floating above it all, working directly with teammates instead of always being on my own."

The words felt true as he spoke them, a realization dawning as he gave it voice. Quidditch had been his sanctuary, but now he was free to enjoy it simply as a game—to find joy in watching others excel, in being part of something larger than himself.

Ginny was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly he almost didn't hear it, she said, "You're different now."

"Different how?" He flicked the pebble into the darkness, listening to it bounce across the ground.

"More... settled." She turned to face him fully, tucking her legs beneath her. "Before, you were always carrying so much. The weight of everyone's expectations. The pressure of being Harry Potter. Even when you were laughing or playing Quidditch, it was there. This shadow behind your eyes."

Harry swallowed, uncomfortable with how accurately she'd seen him. "And now?"

"Now it's like you're finally living in your own skin." Her hand found his on the stone wall, her fingers cool against his. "Like you've figured out that being Harry is enough."

The touch of her hand sent warmth spreading up his arm, dispelling the night's chill. He looked down at their intertwined fingers, then back at her face, silver in the moonlight.

For a moment, he thought about leaning forward, about closing the distance between them. Her lips were slightly parted, her expression soft and open. It would be so easy...

But something held him back—not doubt, exactly, but a sense that the timing wasn't quite right. That tomorrow, after their match, would be the moment when everything between them would finally be said.

Instead, he squeezed her hand. "We should probably get some sleep. Big match tomorrow."

Ginny nodded, though she looked slightly disappointed. "You're right." She slid off the wall, her hand slipping from his, leaving a ghost of warmth behind. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight," he replied, watching as she made her way back toward the house, her silhouette gradually swallowed by shadow.

Harry remained on the wall a while longer, gazing at the stars and thinking about how much his life had changed in the past few months. How much he had changed. And how, for the first time he could remember, he was looking forward to the future with something like hope.

A shooting star blazed across the sky, a brief streak of silver against the black. Harry didn't bother making a wish. Everything he wanted was already here, within reach.

By noon the next day, the Burrow was buzzing with an energy it hadn't seen since before the war. Molly had prepared a picnic feast to rival the Hogwarts welcome banquet. Arthur had conjured rows of floating seats around the orchard for the spectators, each one a different vibrant color that clashed horribly but somehow felt perfectly right for the occasion.

Bill and Fleur had arrived just after breakfast, bringing Shell Cottage's particular blend of sea-air freshness and French elegance. Bill had brought his old Beater's bats, reminiscing about his own Quidditch days until Ginny threatened to use one on him if he didn't stop boring everyone.

Percy had arrived next, looking slightly uncomfortable in casual clothes, as if he wasn't quite sure how to exist outside of Ministry robes. He carried a notebook under one arm—"Research for a report on recreational flying safety standards," he explained, though Harry suspected it was just Percy's way of making himself feel useful at a family event.

The most unexpected arrival was Charlie, sporting a new burn across one forearm that resembled a dragon's footprint. "Romanian Longhorn got frisky," he explained, proudly showing off the wound. His dragon-hide boots left scorched footprints across the kitchen floor, much to Molly's exasperation.

Most surprising of all was George, who had emerged from his room not only willingly but with a spark of his old mischief in his eyes. He'd set up a commentator's podium at the edge of the orchard and was testing a Sonorus charm, his magically amplified voice booming across the garden.

"WELCOME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, TO THE INAUGURAL BURROW QUIDDITCH CHAMPIONSHIP!"

Harry winced, covering his ears. A nearby gnome gave George a rude gesture before diving for cover. "Bit loud, isn't he?"

"He's enjoying himself," Ginny replied, smiling as she watched her brother adjust the charm's volume. "I haven't seen him this animated in ages."

They were standing beside the broom shed, making final preparations for the match. Harry had just handed over his Nimbus 2001, and Ginny was running her hands along its polished handle with reverence. Her fingers traced the silver lettering, lingering on each curve and line as if memorizing them.

"I still can't believe you're letting me use this," she said. "Especially after losing your Firebolt in the escape."

"Giving myself a handicap," Harry replied with a grin, pushing away the pang of loss he still felt when thinking about his old broom. "Makes my inevitable victory more impressive."

Ginny arched an eyebrow. "Awfully confident for someone about to eat my dust."

"We'll see who's eating dust when-"

"WOULD THE COMPETITORS PLEASE TAKE THEIR POSITIONS!" George's amplified voice interrupted them. "SPECTATORS, PLACE YOUR FINAL BETS WITH THE LOVELY AND MODERATELY TERRIFYING HERMIONE GRANGER!"

Harry glanced over to see Hermione looking both pleased and mortified as she collected slips of parchment from various Weasleys. Catching his eye, she gave him a thumbs-up that he wasn't entirely sure how to interpret.

"Ready?" Ginny asked, mounting the Nimbus with practiced ease. She adjusted her grip, finding the optimal position with the instinct of a natural flyer.

Harry nodded, swinging his leg over Charlie's old Cleansweep. The wood was warm beneath his hands, the broom humming slightly as if eager to be airborne. "May the best Seeker win."

They kicked off together, rising into the clear blue sky to the cheers of the assembled Weasleys. Harry felt a surge of joy as the wind rushed past his face. This—this was what flying should be. Fun, exhilarating, shared with people he loved.

They hovered at the center of the makeshift pitch as George explained the rules.

"THIS WILL BE A STANDARD SEEKER'S DUEL! FIRST TO CATCH THE SNITCH WINS! NO WANDS, NO BLAGGING, NO BLATCHING, NO BLURTING, NO SNITCHNIPPING, AND ABSOLUTELY NO WEASLEYING! THOUGH THAT LAST ONE MIGHT BE DIFFICULT FOR OUR FEMALE COMPETITOR!"

Ginny shot her brother a rude hand gesture that made Molly gasp and Arthur pretend not to notice. Charlie whooped in appreciation and Percy scribbled something in his notebook, probably documenting the inappropriate behavior for his report.

"ON MY WHISTLE, THE SNITCH WILL BE RELEASED, AND THE DUEL WILL BEGIN! COMPETITORS, ARE YOU READY?"

Harry and Ginny locked eyes across the pitch. For all their friendly banter, he could see that she was taking this seriously—her jaw set, her posture tense with anticipation. Harry gave her a nod of respect, which she returned.

"THREE... TWO... ONE..." George blew a whistle, and simultaneously, Ron released Fred and George's practice Snitch from a small wooden box.

Harry caught a flash of gold as it shot upward, then zigzagged erratically before disappearing into the trees. Immediately, Ginny bolted after it, the Nimbus's superior acceleration giving her a head start. She weaved between branches with an agility that drew appreciative gasps from the spectators.

Harry took a different approach. Rather than chasing the Snitch directly, he climbed higher, circling above the orchard to get a better view of the entire playing area. It was a strategy that had served him well at Hogwarts—patience, observation, then a decisive strike when the moment was right.

"AND THEY'RE OFF! WEASLEY TAKES AN EARLY LEAD WITH WHAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS RECKLESS ABANDON! MEANWHILE, POTTER ADOPTS THE 'FLOAT AROUND LOOKING IMPORTANT' STRATEGY HE SO OFTEN EMPLOYS!"

Harry grinned despite himself. George's commentary was spot-on, reminiscent of the twins' constant teasing during Gryffindor practice sessions. From his vantage point, he could see the whole family watching—Molly clutching Arthur's hand anxiously, Bill and Fleur sharing a pastry, Charlie and Percy engaged in what looked like a friendly argument, Ron and Hermione sitting closer than strictly necessary.

For a moment, the scene blurred through sudden tears. This was what he'd fought for—not glory or power or even survival, but these simple moments of joy and family. Of belonging.

"WEASLEY EXECUTES A PERFECT SLOTH GRIP ROLL TO AVOID A COLLISION WITH AN UNFORTUNATE SQUIRREL! THE ANIMAL RIGHTS ACTIVISTS IN THE CROWD CAN BREATHE EASY! THOUGH THE FASHION POLICE MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT THAT JUMPER, PERCY!"

"George!" Percy protested, looking down at his perfectly serviceable (if slightly pompous) argyle sweater vest.

"SORRY, PERCE! COMMENTARY IMMUNITY IS A SACRED TRADITION!"

Shaking himself back to the present, Harry spotted Ginny below, her body pressed flat against the Nimbus as she weaved through the trees. She was following something—the Snitch! Without hesitation, Harry dove, the Cleansweep responding sluggishly compared to his normal broom but still fast enough to put him in the chase.

The wind whistled past his ears as he accelerated, a familiar exhilaration flooding his veins. This was the purest form of flying—the pursuit, the focus, the moment-by-moment calculations of speed and trajectory. He could see the Snitch now, a golden blur darting ahead of Ginny, who was gaining on it rapidly.

"POTTER JOINS THE HUNT! IT'S A TWO-SEEKER RACE NOW, FOLKS! WEASLEY HAS THE BETTER BROOM, BUT POTTER HAS THE EXPERIENCE! WHO WILL EMERGE VICTORIOUS? PLACE YOUR SUPPLEMENTARY BETS NOW! CHARLIE, I SAW THAT—NO CHANGING YOUR BET MIDWAY!"

Harry drew level with Ginny just as the Snitch made a sharp upward turn. They both pulled up, climbing nearly vertical, side by side. Her hair streamed behind her, her face set in fierce concentration. For a heartbeat, their eyes met—challenging, respectful, playful.

"Having fun yet?" he shouted over the rush of air.

"Ask me when I win!" she called back, then accelerated, leaving him momentarily behind.

The Snitch led them on a wild chase through the orchard, around trees, over the garden, past startled chickens, and dangerously close to Molly's laundry line. Harry had to admit that Fred and George's enchantments made it far more challenging than a regulation Snitch—it changed direction more abruptly, accelerated unpredictably, and seemed almost sentient in its ability to find the most difficult path.

At one point, it darted through the open window of Arthur's shed, requiring both Seekers to follow it into the cluttered space. Harry narrowly avoided a floating toaster, while Ginny had to duck under what appeared to be a bicycle that had been crossbred with a Venomous Tentacula. They emerged seconds later, slightly dusty but still in hot pursuit, much to the delight of the spectators.

"FIFTEEN MINUTES IN, AND STILL NO CAPTURE! THIS IS BECOMING LESS QUIDDITCH AND MORE AERIAL BALLET, WITH CONSIDERABLY LESS GRACE AND TUTUS! THOUGH I, FOR ONE, WOULD PAY GOOD MONEY TO SEE POTTER IN A TUTU! ANY TAKERS?"

Harry had nearly caught up to Ginny again when the Snitch vanished. One moment it was there, a golden flicker ahead of them, and the next—nothing. They both pulled up, hovering in midair, scanning the area.

"Where'd it go?" Ginny asked, breathing hard. A leaf was stuck in her hair, and a smudge of dirt streaked one cheek.

Harry shook his head, eyes narrowed as he searched. This was the real test of a Seeker—not just the chase, but finding the Snitch when it disappeared. He circled slowly, methodically scanning each section of sky, each cluster of trees, each patch of garden.

Ginny adopted a different approach, flying in tight spirals that gradually expanded outward from their position. It was a good technique—one he'd taught her, in fact—and Harry felt another surge of pride at how quickly she'd absorbed his lessons.

"THE SNITCH HAS PULLED THE CLASSIC 'NOW YOU SEE ME, NOW YOU DON'T' MANEUVER! OUR SEEKERS LOOK CONFUSED, BEWILDERED, AND DARE I SAY, SLIGHTLY CONSTIPATED WITH CONCENTRATION!"

"George!" Molly's admonishment carried even without a Sonorus charm.

"APOLOGIES TO THE SENSITIVE EARS IN THE AUDIENCE! OUR SEEKERS LOOK DEEPLY THOUGHTFUL AND INTELLECTUAL! MUCH LIKE PERCY DURING HIS THRILLING LECTURE ON CAULDRON BOTTOM THICKNESS REGULATIONS LAST CHRISTMAS!"

Percy's ears turned red, but to Harry's surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Even Percy seemed to be enjoying himself today.

Harry tuned out the commentary, focusing entirely on finding the Snitch. Where would it hide? If it were a living thing, with a mind for strategy...

There! A glint of gold near the roots of an old oak tree, partially hidden by tall grass. The Snitch was hovering just above the ground, almost motionless except for the subtle flutter of its wings. It reminded Harry of a cat preparing to pounce, gathering itself before its next burst of energy.

Harry glanced at Ginny, who was searching in the opposite direction. He had a clear advantage—she hadn't seen it, and he could dive directly toward it. Victory was within his grasp.

But something made him hesitate. Not because he wanted to let her win—that would be insulting to her skill and determination. But because this moment, this competition between them, was about more than winning or losing. It was about respect. About seeing Ginny as his equal, not someone to be protected or indulged.

"Check the base of the oak!" he called, pointing.

Ginny's head whipped around, her eyes following his gesture. The moment she spotted the Snitch, understanding flickered across her face—she knew he'd seen it first, knew he'd chosen to make it a fair contest rather than seize the advantage.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—a silent acknowledgment passing between them—and then they both dove.

"THEY'VE SPOTTED IT! BOTH SEEKERS IN A VERTICAL DIVE THAT WOULD MAKE THEIR MOTHERS FAINT! SORRY, MUM, BUT IT'S TRUE! IT'S LIKE WATCHING TWO FALCONS DIVING FOR THE SAME UNFORTUNATE MOUSE!"

The ground rushed toward them at alarming speed. Harry was vaguely aware of gasps from the spectators, of Molly burying her face in Arthur's shoulder, of Fleur clutching Bill's arm so tightly her knuckles turned white. But his focus was entirely on the Snitch and on Ginny beside him. The Nimbus's superior speed gave her an edge, but Harry's experience with dives allowed him to maintain perfect control of the Cleansweep, keeping pace despite the older broom's limitations.

The Cleansweep vibrated beneath him, old wood protesting. The ground grew closer - individual blades of grass, a beetle scurrying for cover, gnome holes dotting the earth. Beside him, Ginny formed a perfect line with her broom, her face set with determination.

At the last possible moment, they both pulled out of the dive, skimming the grass, hands outstretched toward the golden ball that hovered just beyond their fingertips. Harry could feel the wind from Ginny's broom beside him, could hear her determined exhale as she leaned forward those crucial extra inches.

The Snitch, seemingly aware of their approach, darted sideways. Without hesitation, Ginny executed a perfect Sloth Grip Roll—rolling upside down while maintaining her course, her hand sweeping through the grass where the Snitch had fled.

In that moment, as he watched her perform the very maneuver he'd taught her with flawless precision, Harry felt something shift inside his chest. A certainty, a recognition of something that had been building for weeks, perhaps years.

"SHE'S DONE IT! GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! THE STUDENT BECOMES THE MASTER! THE APPRENTICE BECOMES THE... OTHER THING! THE UNDERDOG BECOMES THE OVERDOG!"

"WE GET IT, GEORGE!" the entire family chorused, though they were all smiling.

"FINE, FINE! BUT LET THE RECORD SHOW THAT MY SISTER HAS JUST OUTFLOWN THE CHOSEN ONE, THE BOY WHO LIVED, THE VANQUISHER OF VOLDEMORT!"

"OH SHUT IT, GEORGE!" This time it was Ginny herself who shouted, though she was laughing as she did.

She righted herself on the broom, the Snitch clutched triumphantly in her hand. Her face was flushed, her hair wild from the wind, her eyes bright with victory. Grass stains marked her jeans where she'd skimmed too close to the ground, and a small scratch on her cheek bled slightly where a twig had caught her. She looked, Harry thought, absolutely radiant.

He brought his broom alongside hers as they touched down on the grass, the family rushing toward them with cheers and applause.

"Well played," he said sincerely. "That was a perfect Sloth Grip Roll."

"You showed me exactly how to shift my weight," she replied, her smile making his heart stutter. "Made all the difference."

Before he could respond, they were surrounded by Weasleys, all talking at once. Molly engulfed Ginny in a crushing hug, her eyes suspiciously bright. "That was terrifying and wonderful, dear! Please never do it again!"

Ron clapped Harry on the back with a sympathetic "Tough luck, mate," while Percy informed them both that they'd broken at least fourteen safety regulations, "But I'll overlook it this once."

Arthur was beaming with fatherly pride, his arm around Ginny's shoulders as soon as Molly released her. "That's my girl! Did you see that, everyone? My daughter, the Seeker!"

Charlie was insisting that Ginny would make an excellent dragon wrangler with reflexes like that, while Bill just grinned and handed Fleur what appeared to be several Galleons—apparently, she'd bet on Ginny to win.

But it was George who surprised them all, pushing through the crowd to lift Ginny onto his shoulders like they'd won the Quidditch World Cup.

"THE CHAMPION!" he announced, spinning her around as she laughed, still clutching the Snitch. "THE NEW SEEKER SUPREME OF THE BURROW! THE GIRL WHO OUT-FLEW THE CHOSEN ONE!"

"I WILL hex you, George!" Ginny threatened, though she was still laughing.

"FAIR ENOUGH!" he conceded, letting her slide down to the ground. But there was a light in his eyes that had been missing since Fred's death—a spark of the old George that made everyone's hearts lift. "Though I expect a full repeat performance at Hogwarts this year. The returning students deserve a show."

"I'll do my best," Ginny promised, glancing at Harry with a smile.

"And you," George turned to Harry, "I never thought I'd see the day when Harry Potter voluntarily gave up being Seeker."

"Times change," Harry shrugged. "Besides, after everything we've been through, I think we all deserve to try new things."

"I'll drink to that," Charlie agreed, raising his glass of mead. "To new beginnings. Harry the Chaser, Ginny the Seeker, and the first normal year at Hogwarts in... well, ever."

In that moment of celebration, surrounded by the people who had become his family, Harry felt no disappointment at losing. Only joy at being part of this—part of them. And as his eyes met Ginny's over the crowd, he saw in her smile that she understood exactly how he felt.

As they settled onto blankets beneath the apple trees, Harry watched the transformation in the Weasley family with a warmth spreading through his chest. This was the first time since the battle that they'd all been together without the oppressive weight of grief as the centerpiece.

George collapsed onto the blanket beside him, a half-empty bottle of butterbeer in his hand. "That was brilliant," he said, his voice quiet enough that only Harry could hear. "Haven't seen Mum smile like that in weeks."

Harry followed his gaze to where Molly was arranging food on plates, her movements lighter than they'd been in months, her laughter genuine as Arthur attempted to pour mead and missed the glass entirely.

"Fred would've put his money on Ginny," George continued, staring into his bottle. "He always said she'd outfly us all someday. Little pest with wings, he called her." His voice caught slightly, but he pushed through. "He was right."

Harry wasn't sure what to say, so he just nodded. George seemed to appreciate the silence, clinking his bottle against Harry's in a silent toast before rejoining the group.

Across the blankets, Percy had somehow been roped into demonstrating proper wand technique for a regulatory inspection spell. "The angle must be precise," he insisted, as Charlie deliberately performed the motion incorrectly, resulting in his mead turning into a flock of miniature paper birds that flew up his nose.

"Charlie Weasley!" Molly scolded, but her eyes were bright with suppressed laughter. "That is not how we treat Percy's expertise!"

"You're right, Mum," Charlie said solemnly. "Percy, please continue explaining the fascinating world of interdepartmental memo routing protocols."

Percy puffed up importantly, missing the collective eye-roll from his siblings, and launched into what promised to be a fifteen-minute dissertation before Bill mercifully interrupted with a question about Romanian dragons.

As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, the family gradually dispersed. Bill and Fleur were the first to leave, with promises to return soon for Sunday dinner. Percy had Ministry work to finish—"The cauldron bottoms wait for no man," he said with surprising self-awareness—and Charlie wanted to write to his colleagues about some dragon theory the match had inspired.

George retreated to his room, but not before giving Ginny another hug and whispering something in her ear that made her smile softly and squeeze his hand. He actually winked at Harry before heading inside, a gesture so reminiscent of the old George that Harry felt a lump form in his throat.

Ron and Hermione disappeared on a "walk" that fooled absolutely no one, and Arthur dozed in his chair while Molly busied herself with clearing away the remains of their feast.

Which left Harry and Ginny sitting side by side on the garden wall, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and pink. The Snitch, now dormant, sat between them on the wall, its wings folded against its golden body.

"So," Harry said finally, breaking the comfortable silence between them. "You won."

Ginny turned the Snitch over in her hands, her fingers tracing the delicate etchings on its surface. "I did."

"That means you get to ask for something." He tried to keep his voice casual, though his heart was beating faster than it had during their dive.

"Hmm." She tossed the Snitch into the air and caught it again, the gold catching the light of the setting sun. "I'm still deciding."

"Really? I thought you'd have something in mind already."

Ginny glanced at him sideways, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I did, but now I'm reconsidering."

"Why's that?"

"Because..." She hesitated, rolling the Snitch between her palms. "Because I saw your face when I caught the Snitch."

Harry frowned, confused. "My face?"

"You weren't disappointed," she said simply. "You were proud."

The observation caught him off guard. "Of course I was. That was brilliant flying."

"Most people wouldn't be happy about losing," she pointed out. "Especially not to someone they've been teaching."

Harry shrugged, unsure how to explain the tangle of emotions he'd felt in that moment. "It wasn't about winning or losing. It was about seeing you fly—really fly, the way I knew you could."

Ginny was quiet for a long moment, still turning the Snitch between her fingers. Then, so softly he had to lean closer to hear, she said, "I was going to throw the match."

"What?" Harry stared at her. "Why?"

"I thought it'd be easier," she admitted, eyes fixed on the horizon. "If you won, everything could stay the same." She drew a breath. "But then I saw your face during that dive—how you wanted me to win—and I couldn't do it."

Harry felt a surge of warmth at her words. "I never want you to hold back. Not for me, not for anyone."

"I know." She smiled, finally looking at him. The sunset turned her eyes to amber. "That's why I love you."

The words hung in the air between them, simple and profound. Harry felt his breath catch, his heart skipping like a stone across water.

"Ginny—"

"That's what I want," she said before he could continue. "My prize for winning. I want to know how you feel. Not as Ron's sister or your student. As me."

Harry swallowed hard, suddenly nervous in a way that facing Voldemort had never made him. This was different—not a battle for survival, but for happiness. For a future he'd never been certain he would have.

"I'm not good with words," he said finally. "Not like you."

"Try," she urged gently. "Please."

He looked out at the sunset, gathering his thoughts. The sky was a canvas of pink and gold and deepening blue, the first stars just beginning to appear.

"When I was in the forest," he began roughly, "walking to meet Voldemort... I thought about you."

Ginny went still.

"Not just then. Throughout that year. When things were worst, I'd take out the Map and find your name. Just to know you were alive. That somewhere, you were breathing and being Ginny."

He paused, searching for the right words. A distant owl hooted, the sound carrying across the darkening fields.

"I used to imagine what you were doing. In classes, at meals. Whether you were giving McGonagall that look—you know the one, where you're trying not to smile but your eyes give you away. Or sneaking food to the first years when the Carrows were being particularly cruel. Or flying, just like today, fearless and brilliant."

He turned to face her, finding courage in the warmth of her eyes. "And after it was all over, after Voldemort was gone, do you know what scared me the most?"

She shook her head slightly.

"That you'd moved on. That you'd found someone who deserved you—someone whole and undamaged and normal. Someone who could give you a life without darkness shadowing every corner."

"Harry—" she began, but he gently placed a finger against her lips.

"Let me finish. Please." When she nodded, he continued, "But then I came back to the Burrow, and you were here. And instead of treating me like I was broken, or special, or different... you treated me like Harry. Just Harry. You joked with me, you challenged me, you saw me." His voice caught. "And these past weeks, teaching you to fly... it's been the happiest I can remember being. Ever."

Ginny's eyes shone with unshed tears, but her smile was radiant. "Is that your way of saying you fancy me, Potter?"

Harry laughed, the tension breaking. "It's my way of saying I care about you, Weasley. Deeply. Have done for ages, I think."

She reached out, her hand finding his on the wall between them. "Even though I beat you at Quidditch?"

"Especially because you beat me at Quidditch," he corrected, turning his hand to interlace their fingers. "It means you listened. You learned. You took what I had to give and made it your own."

"Then there's just one more thing I want for winning," Ginny said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she leaned closer.

"What's that?"

"This."

Her lips found his, soft and sweet and tasting faintly of the strawberries they'd had for dessert. Harry's free hand moved to cup her cheek, drawing her closer as the kiss deepened, becoming something more than he'd imagined in all those lonely nights in the tent. More real, more perfect, more them.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and blues. Above them, the first stars were appearing, bright points of light in the gathering darkness.

"We should have made wagers sooner," Harry murmured, his forehead resting against hers.

Ginny laughed, the sound warming him from the inside out. "Next time, I'll let you win."

"No, you won't."

"No," she agreed, smiling against his lips. "I won't."

As twilight settled around them, Harry pulled back slightly, struck by a sudden thought. "You know, there's still a month before term starts."

"Mmm?" Ginny raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Plenty of time for more training," he explained. "Now that you've mastered the basics, we can work on advanced Seeker techniques. The Wronski Feint, for starters."

Her eyes lit up at the challenge. "You think I'm ready for that?"

"I think you're ready for anything," he said honestly. "And I'd like to be there to see it."

Ginny's smile softened into something more serious, more tender. "For how long?"

The question hung between them, weighted with possibility. Harry thought about all they'd been through, all they might face in the future. The rebuilding of their world, the return to Hogwarts, the careers and lives that stretched before them.

"As long as you'll have me," he answered simply.

She pulled him close for another kiss, this one a promise sealed between them. "Better be prepared for a long flight, then," she whispered against his lips. "Because I'm not letting go."

And as the stars emerged one by one above the Burrow, Harry found that the future—once so uncertain, so frightening—now stretched before him like an open sky, limitless and bright with possibility.