Silence stretched between them like a taut wire—another brutally exhausting day drawing to its close. Harry still faced detention with Umbridge later, and he couldn't even summon the energy to trudge back to Gryffindor Tower to change clothes or dump his books. They were all hollow with hunger, dragging themselves toward the Great Hall's promise of sustenance, when Angelina Johnson materialized in their path like an avenging angel.
The moment her eyes locked onto Harry, she exploded:
"What are you still doing here? Are you planning to be fashionably late tonight?"
"What?" Harry blinked stupidly. "Oh bloody hell—Keeper tryouts!"
"NOW you remember!" Angelina's voice could have shattered glass. "Didn't I specifically tell you I wanted full team trials? To find someone who meshes with everyone's playing style? Didn't I mention I'd specially reserved the Quidditch pitch? And you just decided to blow it off!"
"I didn't decide anything!" Harry shot back, exhaustion making him snappish. "I've got detention with that pink nightmare because I had the audacity to tell her the truth about Voldemort's return!"
"Then ask for bloody time off!" Angelina snarled, her dark eyes blazing with captain's fury. "I don't care if you have to grovel, lie, or tell her You-Know-Who was a stress-induced hallucination—you WILL be there!"
She wheeled around and stormed toward the pitch, leaving Harry to trudge along in her wake, radiating resentment like heat from a forge.
"Can't you just ask Umbridge for a pass?" Ron ventured hopefully.
"About as likely as Snape giving me a Christmas present," Harry muttered, collapsing onto the bench and dragging a plate toward himself with the enthusiasm of someone facing execution.
Ron tilted his head back to study the enchanted ceiling, where storm clouds were gathering ominously. "Looks like rain's coming."
"What does weather have to do with Harry's detention?" Hermione asked, glancing up from her Arithmancy calculations.
"Nothing," Ron said too quickly, his ears flaming scarlet.
"Ron Weasley," Orli said with sudden delight, "you actually signed up for Keeper tryouts, didn't you?"
Harry's head whipped toward Ron so violently that Orli winced, certain he'd given himself whiplash. Even Hermione looked up with genuine interest.
"When are the trials? Orli and I could come support you—"
"NO!" Ron's reaction was so explosive that several first-years jumped. "Absolutely not! Don't even think about it!"
"Why on earth not?" Hermione looked genuinely bewildered.
"Just... don't," Ron mumbled, shoveling food into his mouth with desperate speed before grabbing his bag and practically sprinting from the Great Hall.
"What's gotten into him?" Hermione stared after his retreating figure.
"Nerves, probably," Orli said with barely contained amusement. "Terrified he'll make a fool of himself in front of you if he doesn't make the team."
Hermione's face went through several shades of red before she too grabbed her belongings and fled the hall, leaving Harry gaping like a landed fish.
"Is it... what I think it is?" he asked weakly.
"Probably what you think it is," Orli confirmed with a grin. "Though maybe they'll have an easier time of it than some people."
That evening, Orli waited in the common room until well past eleven, but Harry never returned. When she finally saw him the next morning, he looked like death warmed over—his detention had stretched until nearly dawn.
He couldn't even spare time for breakfast, frantically scribbling fabricated dreams at the dining table.
"Harry, you can't keep—" Hermione began.
"Don't start, Hermione," Harry snapped, his quill scratching desperately across parchment. "If I don't have time to sleep, how exactly am I supposed to dream?"
Orli caught a glimpse of his parchment: Dreamed I bought new shoes. They were black. Very comfortable. Woke up disappointed they weren't real.
Ron was equally busy inventing nocturnal fantasies, but his face practically glowed with suppressed triumph—clearly, something wonderful had happened on the Quidditch pitch.
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