I'd just landed from another lap when I noticed a flicker of movement at the castle's edge.
Professor McGonagall, standing at a window, her stern gaze fixed on the training field. Arms crossed. Lips pressed thin. Watching.
Well… there goes my quiet semester.
I turned my broom, guiding it through a slow, perfect spiral descent, landing without even a wobble.
Most kids crash landed like they were exiting roller coasters; me? Smooth as butter.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed, but not in disapproval. Calculating.
When Madam Hooch dismissed us, telling us to "practice balance and control or spend your first Quidditch match eating dirt," I hung back slightly, pretending to adjust my broom.
Sure enough, the moment the others trailed off toward the castle, McGonagall was waiting.
"Mr. Potter," she said briskly. "A word."
Ron froze, whispering, "You're dead. She's gonna expel you."
I sighed. "Relax, Weasley. If she wanted me gone, she'd already be holding the paperwork."
McGonagall's eyes flicked to Ron. "Back to the common room, Mr. Weasley."
Ron scurried.
McGonagall led me across the courtyard in silence, her robes snapping with every step. At last, she stopped outside her office.
"You flew today," she said flatly.
"Yes, Professor. Everyone did."
"Don't play coy." Her eyes pinned me. "Your control, Potter. Your precision. That was no clumsy child wobbling about. That was a flier with instincts."
I tilted my head. Well, she's not wrong.
"Do you know," she continued, voice softening just a fraction, "your father was an exceptional Quidditch player. And now… I find myself wondering if talent runs in the family."
I considered my words carefully, then smiled faintly. "Maybe it does. Or maybe I just don't like losing to gravity."
For the first time, the corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"Very well. I'll Report to Oliver Wood this evening. He's Gryffindor's Quidditch captain. You'll be trying out as Seeker."
-----------------------------------------
An owl delivered the summons at lunch.
"Mr. Potter, the Headmaster requests your presence this evening."
Ron went pale. "That's it. You're done. Expelled. Knew it."
I sighed. "Weasley, if I was getting expelled, they wouldn't bother feeding me dessert first."
Hermione frowned, whispering, "Just be respectful. Don't… do whatever it is you usually do."
"Define 'usually,'" I said, earning a glare.
The stone gargoyle leapt aside at the password ("Sherbet Lemon," of course), and the spiral staircase carried me upward.
Dumbledore's office was exactly as I remembered it from canon: shelves groaning with books, curious silver instruments whirring softly,
Fawkes perched proud and radiant by the desk.
And behind the desk, Albus Dumbledore, twinkle in his eye, hands steepled.
"Harry," he said warmly. "Please, sit. Lemon drop?"
I dropped into the chair, eyeing the sweets. "Is this a test? If I say yes, do I wake up in another universe?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Merely a sweet, I assure you."
"I've heard much about your first week," Dumbledore began. "Transfiguration. Charms. Potions. Even… flying."
He studied me over his half-moon spectacles. "You have shown remarkable control for one so young. More than I expected."
I met his gaze calmly. "I read. I practice. That's all."
"Indeed?" His tone was mild, but probing. "And yet, when I watch you, I sense… experience. As though you are not merely learning, but remembering."
I shrugged lightly. "Maybe I'm just old at heart."
His eyes twinkled brighter. "Perhaps. But tell me, Harry, what do you want from Hogwarts?"
The question hung in the air.
Careful, Potter. This is where canon Harry would mumble something about 'belonging.' But me? I need to keep the mask in place.
I smiled faintly. "To learn. To grow strong enough that no one can put me in a cupboard again."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Dumbledore's expression softened, beard hiding his frown. "A wise answer. And a sad one."
He leaned back. "Power is a curious thing, Harry. It tests those who wield it, and those who fear it. Be cautious not to let your gifts isolate you."
"Noted," I said. "Though honestly, I don't plan on monologuing about ruling the world any time soon."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Good. That saves us both a great deal of trouble."
He rose, his robes flowing like water. "You may return to your dormitory. And Harry—"
"Yes, sir?"
"McGonagall was right. You are… not quite what I expected. But perhaps exactly what you need to be."
As I left, the gargoyle grinding shut behind me, I muttered under my breath: "Cool. Vague mentor talk. Achievement unlocked."
A passing suit of armor creaked, as if laughing with me.
-----------------------------------------
McGonagall wasted no time.
That very evening, she intercepted me in the common room and marched me to the Quidditch pitch, where Oliver Wood was already waiting with a crate at his feet.
"Potter," she said crisply, "this is Oliver Wood, Gryffindor's Quidditch captain. Wood, this is your new Seeker. Do not waste him."
Wood blinked. "Wait—this is him? First-year Potter?"
McGonagall's lips twitched like she'd swallowed a lemon. "You'll see." She swept away, leaving us under the setting sun.
Wood eyed me critically. "So. You've flown before?"
"A bit," I said, mounting my broom.
"A bit," he repeated flatly. "Right. Let's see then."
He tossed a golf ball sized walnut high into the air. "Catch that before it hits the ground."
The ball barely left his hand before I shot upward, leaning into the broom like it was second nature.
Wind whipped past, the horizon blurring. The walnut spun downward, I angled my dive, hand snapping out, and snagged it inches from the grass.
I landed smoothly, flipping the nut toward him. "Want me to juggle next?"
Wood gawked. "Merlin's beard. You're… you're better than Charlie Weasley was, and he could've gone pro!"
"Cool," I said casually. "Guess I'll start updating my LinkedIn."
"…Your what?"
"Never mind."
Wood snapped open the crate. Inside: four balls. A red Quaffle, two black Bludgers straining against their straps, and a small golden sphere that quivered faintly.
"This," Wood said reverently, lifting the Quaffle, "is the Quaffle. The Chasers score with it. Bludgers well, they'll try to knock you off your broom. That's why we've got Beaters. And then…"
He opened his hand. The Snitch fluttered its wings.
Gold glimmered in the fading light.
"This is what you'll be after. The Seeker's job is to catch it before the other team's Seeker does. Worth one hundred and fifty points. Usually ends the game."
I leaned closer, watching the wings beat. Canon confirmed. Timeline still locked in.
Wood grinned suddenly. "We're going to train you up. If you're this good already, you'll win us the Cup. I'll talk to the team. First practice tomorrow."
As he packed the balls away, I mounted my broom again, hovering lazily above the pitch.
So. Canon Quidditch arc unlocked. Only difference? This time, I'm not playing desperate underdog. This time, I'm a weapon with finesse.
I smirked down at the pitch. Let's see how Slytherin likes losing their crown.
-----------------------------------------
The next evening, I found myself back on the Quidditch pitch. The whole Gryffindor team was gathered:
Fred and George Weasley, already grinning like I was their new favorite prank target.
Angelina Johnson, tall, confident, arms crossed with a "prove yourself" look.
Alicia Spinnet, already tossing the Quaffle in lazy arcs.
Katie Bell, younger but bright-eyed, practically vibrating with energy.
And of course, Wood, looking like he'd just been handed Excalibur.
"This is Harry Potter," Wood announced. "Our new Seeker."
Fred whistled. "First year?"
George elbowed him. "Bet he's here 'cause McGonagall's got a soft spot."
"Soft spot, nothing," I said dryly. "She saw me fly. Ask Malfoy how that went."
That shut them up for two seconds before the twins burst out laughing. "Oh, we like him."
Wood released the Snitch. "Let's see what you've got, Potter. Don't lose it."
The ball zipped off, golden wings a blur.
I leaned forward, broom kicking into gear. The world blurred, wind biting, heart pounding, instincts sharp.
I didn't chase blindly. I tracked shadows, flickers, the way dust stirred where it darted.
Within minutes, I dove into a sharp roll, hand snapping out. The Snitch trembled in my fist.
The team went dead silent.
I landed smoothly, tossing the Snitch back to Wood. "So… when do I get paid?"
Fred howled with laughter. "Oh, he's perfect."
Angelina smirked. "Fine. You're good. But don't think you'll coast on talent. Quidditch is a team game."
"Fair," I said. "But admit it, I look damn good doing the solo parts."
Katie giggled. Wood just beamed like Christmas had come early.
-----------------------------------------
Life at Hogwarts settled into rhythm.
Transfiguration: McGonagall pushed us into turning beetles into buttons. Mine came out perfectly shaped, sharp edged, while Ron's scuttled across the desk.
Charms: Flitwick lectured on wand control. I dialed my Lumos brighter and dimmer like a dimmer switch, earning another squeak of delight.
Herbology: Sprout had us repotting Screechsnap. Mine didn't scream. Ron's bit him.
Potions: Snape's hatred persisted, but my potions stayed flawless. It was a war of attrition I fully intended to win.
After classes, while others loafed, I built my routines:
Library hours, combing through spell theory, Arithmancy charts, and magical linguistics.
Journaling late into the night, experimenting with layering charms and shields.
Parseltongue practice whispered under my breath, useless for now but still mine to wield.
Sometimes, I slipped up with slang. I muttered "big W" after a clean spellcast, and Hermione blinked at me like I'd invented a new incantation.
So in short.
Classes? Easy. Training? Progressing. Quidditch? I'll crush it. The Boy-Who-Lived? More like the Boy-Who-Grinds.
I smirked to myself in the library's candlelight. Canon Harry stumbled through this year like a baby deer.
Me? I'm speedrunning with style.
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OKAY OKAY NO MORE SURPRICES.
I.AM.DONE.FOR.TODAY
Those who are wondoring did i delete the ch? yes. why? stupid mistake i did which never updated L webnovel.
SAYONARA!!
-Nine11P2