Sweat dripped down Harry's brow as he rose higher and scanned the pitch. Below, in the plane favored by Chasers, a heated and largely one-sided battle was taking place between the starting lineup of Puddlemere United and his all-celebrity team Phoenix.

"Polanski passes to Griffiths," the commentator said, "back to Polanski, who ducks a Bludger—marvelous Hawkshead Attack Formation there—Griffiths again, will she pass or—she takes the shot and sinks it! Wagtail's too slow to the left hoop, ladies and gentlemen, and that means Puddlemere is now leading Phoenix by one hundred and forty points!"

Myron Wagtail tossed back his ridiculously long hair, causing the spectators on his end of the stadium to squeal and wave their Weird Sisters banners as if he had just made a spectacular block. Team Phoenix's Chasers led by Celestina Warbeck's daughter, Amanda, fumbled for the falling Quaffle and regrouped to mount their own attack.

A glint of gold against green near the middle of the pitch caught his eye, and turning his broom, he zoomed toward it. His gaze darted around as he lost the flitting Snitch, then glimpsed it again by the thick beams holding up the stands.

In a streak of navy-blue, Cedric rocketed in from above a dozen yards ahead. Harry flattened himself against his Firebolt to eke out every last bit of speed but knew he wouldn't make it.

"Stop him!" he yelled against the wind.

The Golden Snitch darted side to side, then plummeted toward the ground and zoomed off, almost skimming the grass. Cedric used the momentum of his dive to accelerate straight toward it while Harry cut a corner to intercept him ahead.

A dull thunk resounded, and a Bludger hurtled at Cedric's back. Harry grinned savagely, only to gape when Cedric performed a Sloth Grip Roll, his hair almost brushing the ground, and the Bludger whooshed by inches above his broom.

At least the maneuver slowed him down. Harry sought out the Snitch flitting above the field and gave chase. His and Cedric's flight paths converged until they were bumping elbows. Harry kept sending him wary side-glances, yet Cedric's gaze remained fixated on the Snitch.

It was only because he kept an eye on him that he noticed him tugging his broom to the side. Harry instinctively mimicked the action, widening the gap between them by a few yards.

A Bludger whizzed through the space they had just vacated and smashed into the ground, tearing up the turf. Harry resisted the urge to glance back. How the hell had Cedric known?

Cedric yanked up his broom to follow the Snitch that had abruptly soared skyward; Harry followed a split-second later, the delay leaving him a broomstick's length behind. Now in a steep climb, Cedric stretched his hand toward the still-rising Snitch. Desperate, Harry lurched forward along his Firebolt and grabbed the tail of his broom.

The rough twigs scraped his palm as he braked hard, causing him and Cedric to spin and careen off into opposite directions. He righted his broom and flinched as a shrill whistle resounded through the pitch. Damn, they had never been this loud at Hogwarts.

"And Potter blags Diggory!" the commentator exclaimed amid the jeers of spectators. "That's two penalty shots for Puddlemere—the point difference isn't looking good for Phoenix right now!"

Harry pressed his bleeding palm to his jersey and flew closer to Cedric. "No hard feelings, eh?"

Cedric jerked and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Huh? Oh. Right." Rubbing his forehead, he took off toward his team.

Harry watched him retreat with a frown, then flew off to take up position beside his teammates above their goalposts. Below, Myron was doing a theatrical warm-up routine to the audible delight of his fans, while in the middle of the pitch, Puddlemere's veteran Griffiths tossed the Quaffle from one hand to the other.

The judge blew his whistle, and Griffiths blasted off. Harry's hands tightened on his Firebolt as his gaze darted from her to Myron. Come on, you buffoon.

Halfway to the goalposts, Griffiths entered a dizzying corkscrew and launched the Quaffle from an upside-down position. Myron dashed to defend the left hoop, but the Quaffle curved to sink cleanly through the middle one.

Harry's groan joined a chorus of others. Had this bloke really played a Keeper in his Hogwarts days?

"Just like that, the score is one hundred and seventy to twenty!" the commentator cried. "Is this the end of the line for Phoenix?"

"Sorry," Amanda said from his side. "Their Chasers run such a tight defense, most of the time we don't even get to shoot."

Harry sent her a surprised glance. "No worries. We're only here to look good and raise money for St. Mungo's, right?"

"I know," she said. "It's just that you seemed really upset."

"I did?" He chuckled sheepishly. "Well, even in a friendly game like this, you can't help but want to win."

Bagman, red-faced and puffing like a steam train, maneuvered his glossy Nimbus closer. "Exactly right! It might be a decade since I was on the pitch, but I still feel like showing these youngsters that there's life in this old dog yet."

Harry watched Griffiths retrieve the Quaffle and return to the starting position for her second shot. His eyes widened as he spied a golden glint by Puddlemere's goalposts. Their team was huddling in the middle of the pitch and didn't notice. A corner of his mouth quirked up.

"We might just have a chance, but you need to score," he said in an undertone. "If Griffiths sinks this one, we'll be down a hundred and sixty."

Amanda's eyes brightened as she drifted closer. "Get that wanker Polanski out of my way, and I'll score if it kills me."

Bagman chuckled and waved to their other Beater. "You up for some Dopplebeater action, old chum?"

"I'll distract Polanski," Harry muttered, not looking away from the far end of the pitch. There was that gleam of gold again. Stay right there, you little shit. "It's do or die."

Griffiths charged straight at the goalposts. Myron smacked his fist into his Keeper glove and narrowed his eyes. Still she kept gathering speed. Getting much closer to the hoops than the previous time, she hooked her foot behind the shaft of her broomstick and sprang upright to heave the Quaffle. Myron lunged for it and even brushed it with the tip of his glove, but the Quaffle flew with such force that it bent his hand back and sank through the hoop nevertheless.

"Go!" Harry barked, launching himself at the enemy team.

Puddlemere's Chasers were still in the middle of assuming a defensive formation by the time he covered half the distance between them. Leaning over the broom, he set it on a collision course with Polanski. The bloke scowled and stood his ground, perhaps thinking it a bluff. Harry tried not to grin when among the whoosh of wind he heard a dual thud of bats impacting a Bludger behind him.

Polanski finally dipped lower, and Harry immediately followed suit. His back prickled as he imagined the Bludger racing toward him. The Firebolt vibrated as he pushed it to its limits.

Polanski swore and swerved out of the way. Flying too fast to adjust his course, Harry zipped past so closely that his shoulder pad grazed Polanski's broomstick. As he hurtled onward without slowing, he heard a heavy thump and a scream behind.

Whooping, he scanned the rapidly approaching end of the pitch. His heart plummeted when he couldn't see the Snitch—for one second, then two—until he spied it spiraling languidly around the base of the right goalpost.

A roar rose from the crowd. The commentator was yelling, but Harry's pulse was too loud in his ears to make out the words. He dived.

A shadow flitted above as Cedric swooped toward the goalpost. Where Harry went directly for the Snitch, Cedric approached the goalpost from above before nosediving. The Snitch shot up as if to meet him, then wavered and circled the goalpost like a stupid fly.

Grunting with effort, Harry leveled out of his dive at the bottom of the goalpost. His damp palms almost slipped off the handle as he yanked it up until he was flying skyward. Cedric plunged head-on at him, weaving around the goalpost with dexterity Harry could only envy to mimic the erratic fluttering of the Snitch halfway between them.

Harry's eyes watered from the wind as he stared at the Snitch with unblinking intensity. When Cedric extended his hand, he did the same. He was behind. Cedric would catch it, and they would collide—

He screamed his frustration and fear.

Cedric flinched as if waking up and corkscrewed away. Delicate metal wings brushed Harry's palm, and he grabbed on tight, feeling them flutter between his fingers.

Wrestling his broom into a horizontal position with one hand, he stared at the other. The Golden Snitch lay limp in his hold. He lifted his gaze and looked around in disbelief, just now becoming aware that the noise in the stadium had surged to almost unbearable levels.

"Team Phoenix ties Puddlemere United at one hundred eighty to one hundred eighty!" roared the commentator. "What a bold last-minute play! Listening to the audience cheer, you'd think Phoenix had won—and they certainly made a statement! What happened to Diggory back there, I wonder?"

Harry glanced around for Cedric, wondering that himself, but then his teammates mobbed him in a cheering sweaty pile. He sputtered and squirmed as Bagman slung a meaty arm around his shoulders, but stopped resisting when Amanda squeezed him in a tight hug. They descended to the pitch in a tangle of limbs, shouting over one another.

"I scored!" Amanda yelled, pink-cheeked. "Right before you caught the Snitch!"

"Brilliant!" he said, grinning ear to ear.

"Told you I could do it if Polanski was out! You should've seen his face!"

Landing on the pitch, Bagman tapped his scuffed bat against his shoulder. He looked knackered, but his eyes were gleaming. "Not much left of it after that Bludger."

Amanda laughed and slapped his shoulder. "That's not funny!"

Myron wedged into their circle and clapped Harry's back. "Spiffing job up there."

Harry sized him up before grinning and returning the gesture. "You too, mate."

"Well done, everyone—I couldn't have asked for a better team to relive my youth with." Bagman swayed on his feet and clutched Myron's shoulder for support, then waved off Amanda's exclamation of concern. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just haven't had this much exercise in a long time, if you can tell." He laughed and patted his potbelly.

They exchanged handshakes with their downcast opponents, waved to the cheering spectators, and trooped off into the locker rooms under the tune of Amanda's hit song that was chosen as their team's anthem. Some players went to have their scrapes and bruises treated, while Harry headed for the showers and luxuriated under the hot water and fragrant bubbles until what felt like a couple of bottles' worth of sweat was washed away.

Refreshed, he donned his casual robes, tucked his pointy hat under his armpit, and exited the locker rooms, only to stumble into a small crowd of reporters. Fielding their questions were Bagman, who still sounded like he was out of breath, as well as a few key players from Puddlemere United, including Cedric. Harry tried to catch his eye but was promptly blinded by the flashes of cameras. The reporters' voices blended into a din as everyone clamored for his attention.

Trying not to squint, he forced a smile. The sacrifices one had to make to look good on the papers. "One at a time, please! Everyone'll get their turn." As the flashes died down, he scanned the crowd. His smile became genuine when his gaze landed on Luna, and he gestured at her. "You, miss with the plum earrings."

"Luna Lovegood of The Quibbler," she chirped. "Mr. Potter, in light of your incredible catch today, many of our readers will be dying to know: do you prefer tomato sauce or brown sauce on your full English?"

"Er..." Harry furrowed his brows as he gave the question the consideration it deserved. "I'm going to have to go with brown sauce. There's already tomatoes in there, you know?"

"A compelling argument," Luna murmured, scribbling into her notebook. "Thank you very much."

Some reporters exchanged baffled glances. One asked, "What does that have to do with Quidditch?"

Luna looked up. "Everything."

"Yeah, man, get with the times," Harry said, snickering. He pointed at a busty brunette, who was waving her hand and bouncing in place. "Go ahead, lady with the big—um, notepad."

"Anita Castellano of Seeker Weekly," the woman said in lightly accented English. "Mr. Potter, you defeated a Dark Lord and slew a demon. What's next? Do you see yourself as playing Quidditch professionally?"

"Gee, I dunno," he said, failing to suppress a smug grin. "Do you think I have a shot?"

Anita nodded. "After your performance today, I believe more than one team would be happy to sign you as their Seeker."

He preened. "That's flattering, but I reckon I'll leave Quidditch to the professionals. Cedric's a friend, you see, and I wouldn't want to steal his spot on the national team."

His ribbing was met with polite laughter. Anita turned to Cedric. "And what do you say to that, Mr. Diggory?"

Cedric smiled wanly. "If Harry does take my spot, England will have a top-notch Seeker."

The press pounced on him like sharks who had caught a whiff of blood, all speaking one over another.

"Mr. Potter has no formal training. Do you still see him as—"

"Don't you think it reflects badly on Puddlemere—"

"Your results toward the end of the season have been inconsistent, even calling into question—"

"He was the stronger player today," Cedric said loudly, raising his palms. "That's all." He sidled past the crowd and toward Puddlemere's locker room.

The reporters bombarded him with questions all the way until he slammed the door in their faces. Then, as one, they all turned to Harry. It was unsettling, how they seemed to function as a single organism.

"Mr. Diggory is a friend of yours," one said. "Do you believe he went easy on you since it was an exhibition match?"

"No way, I won that fair and square," Harry scoffed. He glanced in the direction Cedric had run off in. He had, hadn't he? "That'll be all. Excuse me."

Wincing at the ensuing outcry, he eyed a spot in the hallway behind the crowd, Apparated over, and scurried to Puddlemere's locker room. The door was locked, but he let himself in with a silent Alohomora and sealed it shut again before anyone else could barge in.

Cedric sat on a bench and stared down at his trembling hands while a couple of his teammates hovered nearby. The subdued atmosphere was a far call from the one in Phoenix's locker room.

A burly Beater whose name Harry couldn't recall scowled and came up to meet him. "Are you lost, Potter?"

"Nah, but thanks for asking." Harry strode past the bloke and settled down beside Cedric, who barely spared him a glance. "Don't take it too hard, mate. Few Seekers can keep up with me."

Cedric snorted mirthlessly. "Yeah."

Harry frowned. "C'mon, you know I'm kidding, right? The same when I talked to that cute reporter, I didn't—"

"It's not that!" Cedric glanced at his teammates and dropped his voice. "I've been meaning to ask—can I talk to you in private? It would be best if Sirius Black was there too."

"Sirius? What do you need him for?"

"Please," Cedric said, looking him in the eye.

"Um, alright," he said, taken aback. "I was about to look for him, anyway; he was watching the game with Su and Malfoy." He chuckled. "Oh man, I can't wait to see Malfoy's face. He didn't even get close with that fifty point handicap."

Cedric cracked a perfunctory smile. "Lead the way."

The reporters still lurked outside the door, but Cedric's teammates came to the rescue and bodily held them back so they could escape. Walking down the wide hallway and out of the stadium, Harry shielded his eyes from the sun and looked around. Clumps of people lingered in the grassy fields outside, discussing the match animatedly, but Su and the rest were nowhere in sight.

The people nearby sent him and Cedric curious looks; some exclaimed and started toward them. Before they could intercept them, Harry grabbed Cedric's sleeve and Apparated them to the main entrance, around which a much larger crowd was congregating. Putting on his pointy hat low over his face, he strode past the edge of the crowd. Cedric followed without a word, looking lost in thought.

"Why'd you flinch?" Harry blurted out, unable to contain his curiosity.

Cedric glanced at him, then faced forward and gnawed on his lip. "That's... a long story. It's part of why I wanted to talk with you."

Harry dearly wanted to tell him to stop pussyfooting around and explain already, but Cedric hadn't even bothered to change out of his jersey, so they were turning heads. It was only a matter of time before they got mobbed. Harry stood on tiptoes and quickly scanned the clusters of red-and-gold amid the sea of navy-blue. Sirius and Su had worn Phoenix's colors, but they were nowhere to be seen.

"We agreed to meet by the exit," he said grumpily. "Are there more?"

"Just one," Cedric said. "Over on the other side."

He groaned. "Bloody wizarding architecture. Alright, let's check there first. If we can't find them, we'll pop to Grimmauld Place and wait for Sirius to return."

Giving the crowd a wide berth, they trekked around the oval of the stadium. It was when they rounded its south end and entered the shade cast by the towering wooden walls that a crack resounded nearby.

Startled, Harry looked around. They had left the crowd far behind and he could see no one else in the vicinity. Then a squat, grey-robed figure coalesced from the shadows by the wall, and he recoiled with a gasp.

"Mr. Potter," the Unspeakable said in a voice of indeterminate gender, "there's been a development."

"A what?" He patted his pockets for his wand. "Who are you?"

The Unspeakable stepped closer. "My identity is of least importance right now. Fennec has encountered some serious difficulties and requires your assistance."

He scowled. "I thought she was watching me play! What have you lot gotten her into?"

"We're pressed for time." The Unspeakable produced a small orb and threw it stiffly to him. "All will be answered after you take this Portkey."

Catching it reflexively, Harry turned it over in his palm. The engraved orb was rather more elaborate than the inconspicuous rubbish wizards preferred to use for one-time Portkeys. Frowning, he opened his mouth, but the engravings flared blindingly, and his body lost all strength. The last thing he recalled as he slumped to the ground was a flash of crimson from the wand in the Unspeakable's gloved hand.