1.

The swelling roar could be heard at great distances all around the Quidditch stadium. The 198th League Cup finals had its winner – the Puddlemere United by fifty points after a trying three hours against well-matched opponents, Falmouth Falcons. The harsh sun and almost still air did nothing to dampen the spirits of the enormous crowd who had shrieked and shouted through the nail biting match. Tears were shed, punches were exchanged, and happy songs erupted from each quadrant.

The winning team circled the field in triumph, whooping and celebrating joyously despite their screaming muscles and dehydration. Fans begged for any sort of memorabilia and many of the players obliged, throwing their gloves into the air and causing a mad scramble in the stands. The Falcons were already on the ground, obviously dejected by the closeness of the game. Their brooms dragged behind them, some of them half-broken as frustration caused a few members of the team to snap. While they made their way to the locker room, away from the public eye, the Puddlemere United made their descent onto the green grass. Officials and Quidditch League representatives were already on the field, surrounded by sports reporters whose cameras went off without pause. Volunteers had already placed a small stage in the middle of the field where the Head of the Quidditch League stood holding the long awaited Quidditch Cup. As he lifted it upwards, the crowd went wild. No sooner had the players touched the ground than the reporters swarmed around them.

Puddlemere United had had a tough season with many close calls that nearly forced them out of the playoffs. This comeback story was going down in history – their first win in twenty years. The coach and manager, Brock Lightmead, had sprouted a whole head of grey hair over the course of twelve months. He wouldn't change it for a thing at that moment. He hugged his players with wild abandon, thumping their backs and shouting into their ears.

"And so ends the 198th League Cup Championship!" the announcers exalted into the microphones in unison. A band started playing on cue, jubilant song pouring into the stadium from all sides. "Puddlemere United!" The audience cheered with their voices, stamping feet, bugles, and many improvised instruments. It wasn't long before Brock was pushed onto the stage despite his mild protests. The team wanted him to be the first to hold the Cup.

The Head of the Quidditch League moved his wand to his throat and cleared it, causing the audience to quiet down a smidgen. "Thank you," he boomed, his words echoing through the stands. "Thank you for this wonderful afternoon. You have all made it magical beyond belief." The fans crowed for a moment. "Thank you to all the volunteers and sponsors. We wouldn't be here without you!" He paused for effect. "I am proud to announce… this year's British and Irish League Champion – PUDDLEMERE UNITED!"

Deafening noise followed as Brock accepted the trophy. He gripped it against his sweaty fingers, a fierce smile making his face ache. He took a breath, keeping this moment in mind as something he could look back on for the rest of his life. His first League Cup Championship. He lifted the heavy golden cup above his head, his gaze locked on his wife's teary face. She blew him a kiss from between the reporters and pressed a hand to her heart. She had put up with so much. At that moment, all Brock wanted to do was be in her arms.

He turned to his left and held the Quidditch Cup out firmly, pushing it into Harry Potter's hands. "You earned this, Captain," he said. He thumped the Seeker's back once and, with a proud nod, stepped aside to let his team get the spotlight.

Harry looked down at the trophy as reality sunk in. He could see himself against the gold, a warped reflection of his flushed cheeks, mussed black hair that stuck to his face from the sweat, and his plainly visible scar that he no longer bothered hiding. It had all be worth it. The blood and tears had amounted to this.

He glanced over at Riley Varus who was beaming at him cheekily. "Yeah, yeah," he drawled as he started walking down the line of players to give them a chance at holding their prize. "Ever the optimist."

"I told you so," Riley laughed before planting a big wet kiss on the Cup. "Have some faith."

"Always," Harry winked at the Keeper.

He then moved to the two Beaters – Hank Prow and West Lee. They had seen better days. Despite their black eyes and split lips, they were jumping from foot to foot, their hands itching to hold their winnings. They grabbed for the Cup together as fans in the stands screamed themselves hoarse to show their appreciation for the duo that had taken quite a lot of beatings through the game. Falmouth Falcons hardly played fair. But the two had held their own. They too kissed their prize with exuberance. All those nights of bruises and training had paid off. They had gotten stronger, faster, and so much braver.

Harry leaned in as they handed the Cup back. "The next ten rounds on me," he promised them. They barked in unison.

Brent Quibley, the substitute player and jack-of-all-trades, was next in line. He grinned at Harry without saying a word and savored the heft of the trophy as well as the energy from the crowd.

The Chasers were patient, at the end of the queue. First there was Mallory Fink who hugged the Cup against her. She was the only female player in the front lines. The stories she could tell about Quidditch camp… She turned her cheek as Harry brushed his lips against them. "Thank you," he said with utmost sincerity. She shook her head and swatted his arm. He was always sweetly awkward around her.

Then there was Hector O'Reilly, affectionately called Big Heck for his bulk. He contemplated the Quidditch Cup for a full minute without showing emotion on his face. Savoring the feeling? Perhaps. Harry nodded once at him and received a nod back.

Finally there was Draco Malfoy.

He kept his head down as he read the plaque at the bottom of the Cup. It had been engraved the moment the Snitch had been caught. His name was on there. His name. His fists tightened around the warm handles of the trophy. The biggest part was nearly as wide as his shoulders. It was smudged by the rest of the team, the gleam hidden by sweat and fingerprints. That didn't matter. He had been part of something good for once… It felt good.

As he passed the Cup back to his captain, he looked up with tears in his eyes.

"Ah," Harry breathed out in defeat. He blindly thrust the Quidditch World Cup trophy at Hector so he could grab Draco by the nape of the neck and kiss him with all his might.

The sudden squeals and sharp yelps followed by panicked flashbulbs going off suggested that the reporters weren't asleep on the job.

Draco froze in shock, tears falling when his eyes widened.

Harry ended the liplock with a deliberate smack, his brilliant grin growing as he wound his arm around Draco. Their foreheads were pressed together and he tilted his head. "We did it," he whispered. "You did it."

Draco faltered for a second before sliding his hands over Harry's waist.

The captain laughed without care. This was the best day of his life. His first win. He couldn't ask for a more perfect moment.