At breakfast, Potter received a broomstick. Well, technically, it was a long parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“Don’t draw attention, and by no means open the parcel in front of everyone,” read McGonagall’s note in her handwriting. “Inside is your new broom, a Nimbus 2000, but we don’t want the other first years demanding one as well.”

I almost sprayed my juice into my goblet laughing—six enormous owls carried the parcel across the entire hall during peak breakfast hours, dropping it on the table with a loud clang, smashing a couple of plates of bacon and tipping over a pitcher of juice… Yes, Harry, it’s a great secret—keep it safe. Where’s the logic in wizards, I ask you?

“Ron, Hermione, let’s take it up to the dorm and have a look. I can’t wait till the last lesson!” Harry said, practically bursting with excitement. He grabbed the parcel and nearly ran for the exit, giving us a hopeful look. Dean and Seamus followed, and then the twins exchanged glances and joined in too. Hermione and I both put down our plates, sighed, and hurried after them.

“Boys,” Hermione huffed dismissively, urging me on by nudging my back, “come on, Ron, or we’ll be late for our first class. Don’t worry, I’ve grabbed us some apples and pastries.”

“Thanks,” I replied with a grateful smile. I could tell she was curious to see what a high-speed broom looked like, even if she wouldn’t admit it out loud—didn’t want to look like the rest of us, I suppose.

But in the entrance hall, a crowd of students blocked our way. Malfoy intercepted Harry at the staircase and loudly declared that first years weren’t allowed broomsticks and that Potter would be expelled for this. Naive.

He didn’t throw any insults around, though. It was just him and his sidekicks against our whole group, and we had the twins with us too. He didn’t make it personal and wisely kept his mouth shut. But he wouldn’t let Harry pass, clutching the broom, waiting for a professor to come and sort it out.

Instead of McGonagall, though, it was Flitwick who came by and congratulated Harry on being made Seeker. That left Malfoy utterly gobsmacked—Wood had kept Harry’s appointment a secret as part of some grand strategy.

So, Malfoy slunk off to the dungeons, looking humiliated, and the rest of us trooped off to admire the broom.

It was a beauty—speed and power were obvious in the sleek lines of the mahogany handle. Each bristle was perfectly aligned, polished to a shine with a faint scent of lacquer and polish, and fitted with elegant silver stirrups. A masterpiece, screaming speed and prestige. How on earth did McGonagall scrape up enough Galleons for it? Then again, Potter’s vault key was still missing, wasn’t it?

We’d have kept passing it reverently around forever, endlessly praising its features, but Hermione reminded us it was time for class.

Needless to say, Harry was on pins and needles all day. After our lessons, he grabbed his broom and ran off to the Quidditch pitch, dragging us along.

I’m not that much of a Quidditch fan, and neither is Hermione, so we headed to the stands, pulled out our books, and settled down with our homework, swapping reference guides here and there while munching on apples and keeping an eye on the field. Wood was putting Harry through the paces.

I’m naturally a bit lazy, and if I’m not interested, good luck getting me to do it. Harry, on the other hand, could be forced into things, as his aunt always managed. But here, no one was looking over anyone else’s shoulder, and Potter let himself slack off a bit.

He genuinely enjoyed Charms and Transfiguration, got stuck into them willingly, and always finished his homework. Astronomy, though, he found dull, even though you only needed basic math to plot charts, which he was decent at. But drawing up all those graphs bored him stiff, so he’d leave it till the last minute and slap it together half-heartedly, just like he did with his Potions essays.

In the library, he’d never read guides or textbooks but preferred books on charms written in a light, story-like style. Even then, he’d soon get bored, start to fidget, and try to talk me into a wander around the castle rather than sit there gathering dust.

I usually didn’t give him advice or lectures like Hermione loved to do, but I couldn’t allow myself to slack off as much. Harry’s parents had sorted his future for him, but I had to think about mine on my own. So, I’d already started weighing my options, leafing through career pamphlets and considering professions.

At first, the library amazed me. Row upon row of shelves taller than I was, thousands of books on every topic. But it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

To find anything useful, you had to know what you were looking for. Usually, the teachers pointed us in the right direction—recommending books and reference materials. But that didn’t start until second year, as they were still sizing us up.

Sure, you could read everything like industrious Hermione, but that way you’d wade through mountains of information for just a few nuggets of gold.

And there wasn’t much clear explanation. There were pamphlets on jinxes or joke charms with straightforward lists, but serious books were mostly filled with fluff—pages on the spell creator, their life story, the moment they were inspired, the awards they got for it, and so on. It was more like memoirs than textbooks. But that was expected, I suppose—most of the ancient volumes were hand-written by wizards from private family collections gifted to the school.

So, I took a chance and approached Flitwick, asking him for recommendations. He looked at me for a moment, hid a smile in his beard, then jotted down a couple of authors’ names. Those are what I’m working through now.

McGonagall, when I asked her for extra reading, told me not to clutter my mind with rubbish I wouldn’t understand anyway and that I’d be better off focusing on practice. According to her, as long as I knew practical magic, I’d get into the Auror training program. Why she thought I’d go there, I have no idea.

The lads didn’t wrap up their training until twilight, with Wood babbling excitedly the whole way back that we’d definitely take the Cup this time—Harry caught every snitch. Harry was well pleased too. No matter what he says, he’s not a quiet lad, and he likes a bit of fame and attention. He was already subtly vying for the lead, trying to get me to go along with his plans and follow his lead. Not that he’d managed that before—he’d always been in my shadow. But I took it all philosophically—the main thing was that he didn’t drag me into any of his wild adventures.

Malfoy couldn’t handle it, of course. Not a week later, he blocked our path and challenged Potter to a duel.

“That’s not fair, Potter,” he spat angrily. “When the school favors its little pets. I’ve got a broom too, but they wouldn’t let me bring it to school, and you’re only supposed to make the team from second year. But of course, you’re special.”

“Exactly,” I cut in, hoping he’d drop it faster, “so don’t forget it. Tell us if you want a scrap. We’ll be there.”

“Twelve o’clock, in the Trophy Room,” Draco sneered, then strode off, giving Hermione, who had just arrived, a disdainful look.

“What’d I miss?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes, glancing from my annoyed face to Harry’s confused one.

“Malfoy challenged me to a duel, midnight in the Trophy Room,” Harry told her, throwing me a quick look as we hurried on to Herbology.

“A duel?” Hermione practically shrieked, loud enough to make people turn their heads. “You’re both mad,” she added in a fierce whisper. “We’ll be in trouble for wandering the halls after curfew. Can’t leave you two alone for a second without you getting into some mess. Do you want to be expelled?”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Calm down, Granger,” I replied curtly, frowning. I always call her by her surname when her bossy tone winds me up. “We’re not actually going.”

“But isn’t that cowardly?” Harry asked, a bit uncertain.

“Not at all,” I smirked. “I’ll bet Malfoy won’t show up either. Just think about his head of house; no one in their right mind would risk getting on his bad side.”

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly, probably imagining a furious Snape.

The next morning, that smug blond git was thoroughly disappointed to see us all sauntering in late to breakfast—we’d overslept. Bet he’d been thinking we’d already packed our bags.

“What, chickened out, did you, Draco?” I taunted cheerfully, grinning at his confused face as we passed him on the way to Charms. “Or did your mum not let you out? Next time, remember to ask permission before trying to set up an ‘adult’ duel. We were waiting ages, you know, hoping you’d put on a real show… but all we got was Filch. Did you think we’d confuse you two?” I laughed openly as he chewed his lip in annoyance.

“Shut up, Weasley,” he finally hissed, looking away. “Filch is more than enough for the likes of you—a blood traitor and a half-blood.”

“Oh, and you didn’t have the guts to say it to my face?” I replied casually, grinning wide. “Alright then, Draco the Coward, we’ll know not to take your word seriously from now on.”

We strode past him, leaving him fuming red-faced, and went into the classroom.

“Ron, but we didn’t show up either, so doesn’t that make us cowards too?” Harry whispered, sounding a bit guilty as we sat down, with Hermione staring at me intently, expecting an answer.

“I knew they wouldn’t come, Harry,” I reassured him. “Slytherins never play fair. Malfoy wouldn’t risk himself; he’d just have tipped off Filch to try and get us expelled. And he doesn’t know we weren’t there, which means now we’re free to make him squirm.” I gave him a conspiratorial wink.

“Well, it’s not exactly fair,” Hermione said uncertainly.

“Maybe, but he was the one who started cheating first,” I countered, just as Flitwick walked in.

Early November brought the first snowfall, covering the hills in gray instead of green. And Harry was gearing up for his first Quidditch match, so nervous that it took both me and Hermione to keep him calm. She even found the time to check and correct his homework. She’s actually pretty decent when she’s not bossing everyone around, and she really helped Harry out, even lending him Quidditch Through the Ages. The stuff about dodges and feints helped him focus a bit. And later, when Harry mentioned McGonagall had told him about his dad’s Quidditch days, she even went and found his dad’s trophies and a commemorative plaque in the Trophy Room. It cheered Harry up a bit.

The rumours were starting to get to him, though. Wood made sure no one saw Harry in practice, but whispers were already spreading around. Half of Gryffindor thought he’d make a mess of it, the other half were cheering him on in advance. And, of course, old fans of the “Boy Who Lived” were suddenly keen to admire the “youngest Seeker in a century.”

Malfoy, of course, was loudly proclaiming how badly Harry would muck it up, and poor Harry was hardly eating or sleeping, terrified he’d let the team down.

Snape wasn’t making things any easier. Two days before the match, he had a run-in with Harry in the corridor. Poor bloke tripped and accidentally bumped into Snape, and his bag even fell open, with a textbook smacking the professor on the leg so hard he actually started limping. Long story short, Snape docked Gryffindor five points and kept Harry’s book for himself.

The morning before the match was clear but freezing. Harry fretted and finally decided to try and get his book back—it calmed him, he said. I wasn’t there—Flitwick had given me a task to write a report using some books he recommended, so I went to turn it in. It’d decide if he’d suggest any more reading for me and whether I could get extra lessons in Charms. McGonagall had given Hermione the same assignment, and I wanted to get better at Charms than her so she wouldn’t keep lording it over me. So, I only heard about it all after the fact.

“Can you believe it,” Harry whispered, dragging us away from the castle. “He wasn’t limping because of the book. Snape’s got a massive tear on his leg, like something took a chunk out of him. And then he was muttering to Filch about some creature—I only caught the bit about it having three heads. I decided to get out of there quick, but he saw me and went white as a sheet, yanked his cloak over his leg, and then started yelling, ‘Out! Get out!’ and chucked the book right at me. Thought he’d jump up and chase me down.”

“So, you got your book back?” Hermione asked sternly, clearly unimpressed by his disregard for the printed word.

“Book? What book, Hermione?” Harry shot back, looking scandalized. “I barely got a word in, and then I completely forgot everything except getting out of there. Snape’s such a git,” he added, slamming his fist into his other hand. “I didn’t do anything, but he still made me feel like I had. How does he do that?”

"Natural talent and a born knack for being a git," I said, shivering as the cold wind cut through me. "What? Tell me I'm wrong?" I added, catching Hermione's disapproving glare—she couldn’t stand when I used that sort of language.

"And how are we supposed to return the book now?" Hermione asked desperately, looking at us with a glimmer of hope. "I only borrowed it for a week; if I don’t return it, Madam Pince will never trust me again."

"Don’t worry about it, Hermione," I replied. "We’ll tell Percy—he’s a prefect, so he can fetch it. Hardly worth the fuss. Oh, by the way, Flitwick said he might let me join the club next year. He gave me a whole list of books to read, look," I grinned, showing her the scroll but not letting her take it.

"That's not fair," she huffed, turning away as we made our way back to the castle. "I asked him too, but he said I had too much on my plate already. It’s infuriating when everyone acts like they know more about your life than you do."

"Well, you’re the one who wants to be top of everything," I teased. "Teachers love it when you shower their subjects with attention, and you’ve taken on everything. At least you didn’t try Snape."

"I did," she said with a scoff, and we all stared at her, gobsmacked. "He very politely pointed me to the door."

"You’re a bold one, aren’t you?" Harry whistled. "I don’t get why you two are always studying. Ron, we haven’t even explored the whole castle yet. The journey’s way more fun than your endless cramming."

"Potter," I growled, but it was too late.

"The journey?" Hermione latched onto it. "What’s that? Are you two hiding something from me? And you call yourselves friends..."

"Ron, can I?" Harry asked, practically begging. "She’s one of us. Let’s tell her?"

"Fine," I nodded. "Might as well, seeing as you’ve let it slip."

The rest of the way, Harry explained how we spent our free time. Hermione kept peppering him with questions.

"Sounds like a load of nonsense," she concluded with a skeptical look, "but I’d like to see for myself."

We agreed on the first Sunday after the match.

The day of the match, Harry looked pale—like he might faint any second.

"Come on, mate," I encouraged him. "All you’ve got to do is catch the little ball, that’s it. You’ve done it loads of times. Don’t worry about the rest; the lads will have your back while you do your bit."

"After all, it’s just a game, not end-of-year exams," Hermione chimed in, piling sausages onto his plate and shooing Seamus away. Seamus had his own way of showing concern, going on about how Seekers were tiny and easy to knock off their brooms, so Harry needed to eat up.

The hour passed, we wished Harry luck, and went to find our seats in the stands.

The match was intense. It’s one thing watching a game when you don’t know the players and another when it’s your brothers and best mate out there. Percy nearly chewed his tie to bits from nerves.

Our side managed a goal, just as Katie Bell took a Bludger to the back of her head.

"Oi, up there, shift over a bit, or I’ll end up squashing someone," Hagrid’s booming voice sounded behind us. "Came to see our Harry, didn’t I?" he said, settling onto the bench and raising his binoculars. "Looks like Harry’s seen the Snitch. Go on, Harry!" he bellowed at full volume.

Without binoculars, it was hard for me to see—the players were so high up. But Hagrid kept up a running commentary, occasionally muttering some colorful words about Slytherin’s dirty tactics.

"Something’s not right," Hagrid suddenly said, sitting bolt upright. "Ron, have a look, what’s going on with Harry?"

Harry’s broom had thrown him and was now shaking violently as he clung on with one hand, desperately trying to grab the handle with the other.

"Maybe the broom broke when Flint crashed into him?" Seamus suggested anxiously. "Why aren’t the professors doing anything?"

"No, that broom’s got powerful enchantments," Hagrid said, shaking his head. "Only Dark Magic could do this."

"Exactly," Hermione said, eyes lighting up as she snatched my binoculars. "Look, it’s Snape, he’s jinxing the broom. I’m going."

"Hermione, wait," I called after her, but she’d already bolted.

I grabbed Hagrid’s binoculars and squinted at the teachers’ stand. I saw her knock into Professor Quirrell and set Snape’s robe on fire. Chaos erupted.

"Neville, open your eyes," Dean’s voice came from behind me. "Harry’s got control of his broom again."

I switched my gaze to Harry, who was now flying confidently, as if he hadn’t been dangling moments away from death a minute ago.

Suddenly, Harry dove and slid off his broom just before hitting the ground. He stood up, raised his hand to his mouth, and showed everyone the Snitch.

"He’s caught it," Seamus whispered reverently. "Harry caught the Snitch!" he yelled, leaning so far over the railing I thought he might topple over. "Gryffindor wins!"

The stands erupted, and for the first time all game, I felt like I could finally breathe.