Harry Potter and the Quidditch Pitch
The war was over.
Harry still had a hard time believing that to be true, though he had celebrated -- quietly and because he had to -- with the others the day before. He had spent the night in his own bed in the Gryffindor tower, and the next day had dawned as bright and beautiful as any a spring day at Hogwarts. The signs of change were all around him as Harry headed down to the grounds that morning. House elves scurried around, working side by side with Hogwarts staff and the residents of Hogsmeade to clear away the rubble and repair the wounded castle. A small cadre of reporters from the Daily Prophet had been dispatched and enchanted quills scribbled at parchment in mid-air as his fellow students were interviewed for first hand accounts. Ministry officials scurried around under the watchful eye of a bruised but still intimidating Minerva McGonagall. Everyone looked worn around the edges, tired and worse for wear, but happy. Smiling. A new day had dawned everywhere.
Under the protection of his Invisibility Cloak, Harry slipped down to the Quidditch pitch. He didn't want to talk to anyone or give interviews, especially not if what some people had mentioned in passing the night before were right. If this was all a dream, and they were going to wake up on the island again one day soon, Harry didn't want to get involved in this any more than he had to. There would be time, later, in real life, to deal with the fallout, the reorganization, and Harry's role in the new world. Even if this weren't a dream, there would be time for that later, too. They had all the time in the world now. And right now, Harry wanted some of that time for himself.
He cast off his cloak once he was safely under the shelter of the stands. They were empty, but still so tall that no one would notice him. Not yet, anyway. Once he started flying, anyone who bothered to look would have seen a boy on a broom zipping through the air. But he didn't fancy being disturbed before his feet had even left the ground.
The broom Harry had "borrowed" wasn't his Firebolt, but then, nothing was. He hadn't bothered with the school's collection of cheap Shooting Stars but went right for Filch's office, the old caretaker no where to be seen. Mrs. Norris was, miraculously, absent as well. Harry had no idea if they had both fled before the battle or were currently stalking around the castle, casting an evil eye on all the visitors, but it made life easier on him. He had found a Cleansweep Seven, probably confiscated from some poor Ravenclaw either during Umbridge's reign or Snape's. He would have preferred something newer, faster, but the broom was still in fairly good shape and had been nearly good enough to beat the Gryffindors in Harry's third year. It would fly and that was what mattered most.
The snitch had been easy to grab from storage. Harry probably didn't need it to have a good time, but it was nice to have it trapped in his pocket, to give him a challenge when he was done with loop-de-loops and speeding around the perimeter. This probably was all a dream, in which case he was going to make the most of it and spend it how he wanted: flying.
[Catch him doing goofing around or chasing the snitch liek a boss~.]
Harry still had a hard time believing that to be true, though he had celebrated -- quietly and because he had to -- with the others the day before. He had spent the night in his own bed in the Gryffindor tower, and the next day had dawned as bright and beautiful as any a spring day at Hogwarts. The signs of change were all around him as Harry headed down to the grounds that morning. House elves scurried around, working side by side with Hogwarts staff and the residents of Hogsmeade to clear away the rubble and repair the wounded castle. A small cadre of reporters from the Daily Prophet had been dispatched and enchanted quills scribbled at parchment in mid-air as his fellow students were interviewed for first hand accounts. Ministry officials scurried around under the watchful eye of a bruised but still intimidating Minerva McGonagall. Everyone looked worn around the edges, tired and worse for wear, but happy. Smiling. A new day had dawned everywhere.
Under the protection of his Invisibility Cloak, Harry slipped down to the Quidditch pitch. He didn't want to talk to anyone or give interviews, especially not if what some people had mentioned in passing the night before were right. If this was all a dream, and they were going to wake up on the island again one day soon, Harry didn't want to get involved in this any more than he had to. There would be time, later, in real life, to deal with the fallout, the reorganization, and Harry's role in the new world. Even if this weren't a dream, there would be time for that later, too. They had all the time in the world now. And right now, Harry wanted some of that time for himself.
He cast off his cloak once he was safely under the shelter of the stands. They were empty, but still so tall that no one would notice him. Not yet, anyway. Once he started flying, anyone who bothered to look would have seen a boy on a broom zipping through the air. But he didn't fancy being disturbed before his feet had even left the ground.
The broom Harry had "borrowed" wasn't his Firebolt, but then, nothing was. He hadn't bothered with the school's collection of cheap Shooting Stars but went right for Filch's office, the old caretaker no where to be seen. Mrs. Norris was, miraculously, absent as well. Harry had no idea if they had both fled before the battle or were currently stalking around the castle, casting an evil eye on all the visitors, but it made life easier on him. He had found a Cleansweep Seven, probably confiscated from some poor Ravenclaw either during Umbridge's reign or Snape's. He would have preferred something newer, faster, but the broom was still in fairly good shape and had been nearly good enough to beat the Gryffindors in Harry's third year. It would fly and that was what mattered most.
The snitch had been easy to grab from storage. Harry probably didn't need it to have a good time, but it was nice to have it trapped in his pocket, to give him a challenge when he was done with loop-de-loops and speeding around the perimeter. This probably was all a dream, in which case he was going to make the most of it and spend it how he wanted: flying.
[Catch him doing goofing around or chasing the snitch liek a boss~.]