Chapter 1: The Championship Game

Harry Potter was on a roll.

In truth, he had been on some kind of streak all season long, but never more so than in these last few weeks especially, as he had nearly single-handedly led the once hapless Chudley Cannons (Ron had always insisted they were simply "not living up to their potential") to their first championship berth in too many years to count. Last year had been close--tantalizingly close. He had thought it was all within their reach at last, until a rogue bludger had unseated him from his broom at the last second of the qualifying game, a rare lapse in concentration on his part that cost him dearly, leaving him with a badly broken shoulder, in addition to the stinging loss.

Of course, the Cannons fans had not cared, at least not too much. After decades of pathetic play, being in a qualifying game to begin with was an unexpected feat in itself, and fans were just thrilled beyond belief for having snatched the world-famous Harry Potter, renowned Hogwarts Quidditch captain.

But this year, Harry intended to take them all the way. Beyond the qualifying game, beyond the championship game--he was going to win them the League Cup.

And no rogue bludger was going to get him this time.

"Potter has spotted the Snitch, and veers off in a new direction!"

Harry could hear the action being called in the background, though it was a distant sound as he honed in all of his awareness and focus on the bugger of a Snitch which seemed to be faster than he had ever seen it in his entire life. Perhaps, he thought, it knew how much this game meant to him, and was taunting him accordingly.

"Gavindale is close on Potter's tail, though, folks--it ain't over yet..."

Harry felt an unmistakable bump from behind, before the play-by-play had ever registered in his brain. He whipped his head around, only to find Aaron Gavindale, the Seeker for the Wimbourne Wasps, giving him a taunting smile, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was not about to let Harry run away with the championship without a fight.

He accelerated, guiding his Silver Bullet across the pitch, flying in perfect figure-eights around the goal-posts, in the hopes of losing Gavindale, but to no avail. Gavindale's Nimbus 3000 was not quite as fast, but it was fast enough to keep up with Harry.

The Snitch was flitting wildly in front of Harry's face. He reached out to grasp it, certain he'd get it this time, but at the last second, it whistled off, and Harry zig-zagged in a new direction to follow it. He had lost Gavindale momentarily, but the Seeker soon showed up at Harry's side, and was gaining momentum.

Time to pull out the big guns, Harry thought.

He could see the Snitch below him, teasing him with its proximity, but eluding him whenever he would reach for it. Gavindale seemed to be concentrating more on him than on the Snitch, which Harry felt could work to his advantage. Hoping Gavindale would indeed follow suit, Harry decided it was time he called upon one of his secret weapons: the Wronski Feint.

He looked over to Gavindale and gave him a Cheshire Cat grin, before he dove down at full speed. Sure enough, Gavindale followed close behind, not to be outdone. The Snitch, meanwhile, had zoomed off to his left, but Gavindale seemed to have missed it, because he was still shadowing Harry.

Nearing the pitch, Harry abruptly pulled up, giving Gavindale no chance to slow down his momentum, and the Wasp Seeker crashed onto the pitch, while Harry sped towards the Snitch. He could hear the roar of the crowd as they marveled at his move; adrenalin coursed through him and he extended his hand, closing his fingers around the Snitch.

He felt it fluttering in his palm, heard the deafening thunder of the crowd as the announcer screamed, "He's got it!! Potter's got it!! The Cannons have won the game!!!"

But then, before he could even absorb what was happening, something knocked into his broomstick, a force so mighty and unexpected that he fell over and hurtled onto the ground, landing with a sickening thud.

Suddenly, he became aware of the excruciating pain that tore into him as he tried to sit up, and Gavindale's twisted smile looking down on him. He heard the referee screaming something about unsportsmanlike conduct, and saw Gavindale being hauled away, laughing his head off and spouting profanities at Harry, and the entire stadium sat in stunned silence as a dozen wizards swarmed around him.

The last thing he remembered was the feel of the Snitch in his hand before the sleeping spell someone had conjured up for him took effect, and blackness overtook him.

"It's broken in three places."

Harry opened his eyes reluctantly; it had felt so wonderful to be asleep and free of the pain. Roger Franklin, the team doctor for the Cannons, the one who, Harry guessed, must have been who had given him the sleeping spell in order to spare him the pain of his broken shoulder, was sitting at his bedside. Next to him was Edmond Devon, who had bought the Cannons five years ago and had been the one to draft Harry out of Hogwarts.

He looked as if a vampire had drunk all his blood.

"It can be fixed, of course?" Devon asked, clearly hoping for a positive answer.

There was a pause before Franklin answered; Harry had a bad feeling about it.

"I've fixed the bones," he told Devon, who seemed satisfied with the answer. "If you'll excuse me, Edmond, I need to talk to Harry."

Devon nodded. "Oh yes, yes, of course..." He smiled down at Harry. "Splendid game, my boy--simply splendid! They'll be talking about this one for years to come... The Cannons will not be the joke of the league any longer-"

"Edmond..."

"Yes, I'm leaving, I am... You take care of yourself, Harry. We'll be needing you for years to come, indeed!!"

Franklin seemed to be waiting until Devon had left the tent. It was then that Harry realized he was lying in a cot, in a tent that had been put up at the side of the pitch, and when he tried to sit up, pain overtook him again, and he stopped, then let his head drop onto the pillow.

"It'll be sore for a while," Franklin told him.

"Yeah, I gathered," Harry said. He shut his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the pain to recede.

"Harry, we need to talk."

His voice was serious. Harry opened his eyes again, knowing by the look on Franklin's face that he would probably not want to hear what he had to say.

"What," he said, trying to make light of the situation, "no congratulations? I just won the Cannons their first championship in over a century-"

"This is serious, Harry."

But Harry didn't want to hear it. He had a feeling he already knew what Franklin was about to tell him.

"This is the fifth time you've broken that shoulder."

Harry nodded without saying anything.

"I can fix each break, but each time your bones and ligaments grow back, they are weaker than before..."

He swallowed, then looked up at Franklin.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

Franklin sighed. He did not seem to want to say what he had to say. And Harry knew why.

"Say it," he said flatly. When Franklin still didn't answer, he spat out, "Come on, just say it!"

"Harry, this injury... I'm afraid it's nothing like the others..."

"What... what d'you mean?"

"You need that shoulder movement to play. Without it, you won't be able to do the turns you need to, and-"

"So once this heals, I can go at it again, right?"

Franklin shook his head. "No," he said. "No, that's what I'm telling you. You can't..."

"What do you mean I can't?"

"Harry, you won't... be able to play anymore." He lowered his voice, as if genuinely sorry to be the bearer of this kind of news. "I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but... it's over. You can't play Quidditch anymore..."

Harry stared blankly at him, and the buzzing in his mind suddenly went dead. Suddenly, the world went dead.