Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y6 ~ Cuts Straight to the Heart

The entire castle was abuzz with Quidditch fever. Everywhere Y/N turned, students were discussing tryouts, debating strategies, and placing friendly bets on who would make the team. The Gryffindor common room was particularly loud, filled with hopefuls talking tactics, veterans boasting about past victories, and first-years watching in awe. Even she had caught the excitement, though she hadn't initially considered herself the competitive type.

She had taken her Firebolt out for a few rides recently, and there was something intoxicating about the wind whipping through her hair as she soared over the Hogwarts grounds. The speed, the thrill—it was unlike anything else. There was a freedom in flying that nothing else could match, not even the solitude she once found in books or the comfort of Hagrid's hut. It was a rush, an unshakable sense of power and weightlessness all at once.

Neville had once remarked, "For someone who's never played Quidditch before, your flying is—well—kind of insane, Y/N. If I wasn't as clumsy or uncoordinated as I am now, I would kill to have your talent." His eyes had sparkled with amusement, and she'd laughed it off, assuming he was exaggerating.

Her passion had always been magical creatures. Hagrid constantly told her, with a warm, prideful grin, "Yer a natural, Y/N! Could be a magizoologist, easy-peasy!" And she'd believed that was where her talents lay. That was her path. But as tryouts approached, she felt an itch, a need to prove—maybe to herself—that she could be more than just the girl that used to burry herseld in books and creatures before meeting Harry, Ron and Hermione.

Today was the day.

The sky was overcast, thick gray clouds rolling in like a restless sea. The autumn wind carried a sharp bite, rustling through the trees and sweeping fallen leaves across the Quidditch pitch. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, mingling with the distant chatter of students gathering on the stands.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself briefly before stepping onto the field. The crowd of about two dozen Gryffindors stood in the middle of the pitch, clutching their broomsticks and talking animatedly. The atmosphere buzzed with nervous excitement. She spotted familiar faces—Cormac McLaggen, Demelza Robins, Ginny, Katie Bell, Dennis Creevey, Romilda Vane, and Ron. Some looked eager, others downright terrified.

Ron, in particular, looked as though he might be sick. His freckled face was unusually pale, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. He shifted his broom from one sweaty palm to the other, jaw tight with nerves.

"Y/N!"

She turned just in time to see Harry jogging toward her, his Quidditch robes billowing slightly in the wind. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his unruly hair messier than usual, and his grin—warm, almost too warm—sent an uncomfortable flicker of guilt through her. She had Draco, yet she couldn't ignore how good Harry looked in his uniform. And judging by the way his gaze lingered on her, he wasn't oblivious to how she looked either.

"You made it," he said, slightly breathless.

"Wouldn't miss it." She grinned, brushing her windswept hair out of her face.

"You nervous?"

"Not at all." Y/N smirked. "I mean, how hard can it be?"

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "I like the confidence," he said with a grin.

Behind him, Y/N caught movement—Ginny, standing stiffly with her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed in her direction. The intensity of the redhead's gaze was sharp, calculating, as if trying to decipher something she didn't like.

Y/N didn't flinch. Instead, she held her expression steady, her face unreadable.

Harry, noticing Y/N's attention had shifted, turned slightly, following her gaze. But just as his eyes landed on Ginny, she abruptly averted her gaze, her features smoothing into indifference as if nothing had happened. Without missing a beat, she turned to Demelza Robins, striking up a conversation as if she hadn't just been glaring daggers a moment ago.