Jupiter | Harry Potter

post-war ; working the pitch

August, 2002

"Where's your helmet?"

Harry didn't look up as he pulled his Quidditch robes over his head. "Don't need it. It throws off my peripheral."

"You do need it," Jupiter snapped from across the room. "Your peripheral isn't going to matter if you get knocked out of the sky and land on your neck."

"It's fine," he said breezily, though he winced slightly when she crossed the room with the purposeful stride of someone who had every anatomical chart of the human body memorized and was prepared to list every bone he could shatter at any moment.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said sharply, picking up the discarded helmet from the sofa and shoving it into his hands. "It is the farthest thing from fine."

Harry took the helmet, but made no move to put it on. "You used to like Quidditch. You were a Beater."

"Exactly," Jupiter said, throwing her hands up. "I used to knock people off brooms for fun. I know exactly how easy it is to aim for a seeker's spine."

"You're making it sound like I forced you onto the team."

"You did force me onto the team!"

Harry grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "Worked out though, didn't it?"

Jupiter narrowed her eyes at him, snatching his elbow to tug his arm straight so she could examine it. "Honestly, Harry, just because you somehow didn't die in the war doesn't mean you're invincible now."

"I'm not—" he started, but she cut him off with a glare so severe that it shut him up instantly.

"You nearly got your arm taken off by a Bludger last match against Chudley."

"It was just a graze—"

"Your graze required half a vial of Murtlap."

"And I still caught the Snitch," he shrugged, pulling his arm out of her grip and pushing his sleeve back down. "You're dramatic."

"You're reckless," she said, grabbing his broom from its resting place on the wall. She shoved it at his chest hard enough that he had to fumble to catch it. "And you're not as charming as you think you are. If you crash today, I'm not dragging your smug corpse off the pitch."

Harry slung the broom over his shoulder, unfazed. "You wouldn't have to. The medics love me."

"I am the medics."

"That's what I meant."

Jupiter rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. Without waiting for him to follow, she turned on the spot and Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Harry landed a second later beside her on the gravel path just behind Puddlemere's locker room, the pitch stretching out in front of them like a vast sea of green and gold. The early morning sun gleamed off the stands, already filling with blue-robed fans. The scent of damp grass and wood polish hit immediately—familiar, electric, and heavy with the weight of expectation.

"Ten minutes till warm-up," Jupiter muttered, leading the way toward the medi-room entrance tucked into the side of the locker building. She didn't look back. "You're going to be late."

"Ah, they can't kick me off anyways," Harry said easily, jogging a few steps to catch up. "I'm the favourite."

"I'll bench you," she warned without turning around. "And I mean it this time."

He snorted. "You say that every week."

They stepped inside the medi-room, and the sounds of the pitch fell away—muffled by the enchanted glass that gave a perfect, unobstructed view of the stadium. The room was bright and clean, stocked with cabinets of supplies and a row of narrow cots lining one wall. A door on the far end opened straight onto the field for quick access, already propped ajar to let the morning air in.