A/N: Heck yes it's the Quidditch AU nobody asked for! This chapter is mostly set up and backstory, but I swear we'll be seeing some action real soon.

All the disclaimers!

Harry had methodically worked through the assorted detritus and debris associated with the bunks and living areas of thirty-nine Quidditch trainees, but when he caught sight of the last bunk, bunk #40 on the far wall, he had to put down his trash-bag and wand, lean against bunk #39, and groan.

Apparently "water boy" had a lot of meanings. Far from just sitting at the sidelines and providing the players with water at practices and games, as Harry had imagined he'd be doing when he'd agreed to the job, he and the others had a variety of tasks. Everything from broom and ball maintenance, to delivering messages, running errands for the coaches and managers, serving as punching bags to the beaters, and even cleaning the barracks where the prospective players stayed during the four-month Harpies training boot camp, was apparently fair game to ask of the "water boys."

It was this last task that Harry was currently engaged in, having been the first to lose a game of exploding snap to the other four boys and therefore saddled with what they had collectively agreed was the least desirable task. Harry didn't mind it all that much, though. He was used to this kind of work from the Dursleys; and the girls—with a few notable exceptions—were relatively neat.

The owner of the particular bunk that was the cause of Harry's current consternation—one "Ginevra Weasley" according to the name emblazoned on the scarlet jersey thrown carelessly over the bed— was one of the notable exceptions. Her corner was a veritable pig sty.

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. Was that an apple core under the pillowcase? He tentatively reached out to pick it up by the stem with two fingers, when something furry, pink, and definitely alive scurried out from under the pillow. Harry yelped and scrambled back, startled, and soundly banged the back of his head against the metal bed-frame behind him.

He yelped again, this time in pain, and barely had time to pray that the barracks were deserted and no one had seen that when an undisguised snort to his left immediately crushed his hopes. A pair of tanned, freckled hands gathered up the little ball of pink fluff from the bedspread as their owner laughed freely at him.

His face on fire, Harry deliberately did not turn to face the newcomer, instead dropping the apple core in his trash bag, and then bending to pick warily through the clothes and wrappers strewn across the floor.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, you can just leave it," the girl said, bending to deposit the fluffy pink animal in a small wire cage underneath the bed and clicking it shut.

Harry hesitated. "Um. It's my job," he explained awkwardly, continuing to sift through the chaos on the floor for trash. It was his job. And, whatever its cons—fluffy rats and messy bunk-beds—it was a job he desperately needed to keep.

He saw a flash of shiny carrot-red hair in his peripheral vision as she straightened and turned to look at him, interestedly. "You're a water boy. Henry, right? I'm Ginny."

Harry stilled, holding a candy wrapper in one hand, not looking at her. He wasn't sure if he was actually allowed to talk to the trainees. The boys had been given strict instructions: Under no circumstances was there to be any "hanky-panky" with the girls. Harry wasn't sure exactly what "hanky-panky" entailed. When he'd asked the other boys they'd all just laughed and jeered at him, giving him a pretty good idea of at least one type of interaction that was covered under "hanky-panky." But how much interaction, exactly, did it encompass? Did flirting count? Harry didn't really know how to flirt, but one time at the supermarket a few years ago he'd politely asked a lady what time it was and she had told Aunt Petunia that he'd been flirting with her, and Aunt Petunia had made him apologize and then dragged him home and into his cupboard by his ear.

But this girl had initiated the conversation. Surely if he answered it wouldn't be flirting? Surely a conversation, initiated by her, was allowed. He had to be allowed to talk to people, right? Then again, the Dursleys hadn't exactly encouraged conversation when he did chores around the house…or ever really.

Making up his mind, he turned to face her, then blinked, his face rapidly regaining the flush he'd just managed to lose as he cringed away from her expectant expression. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, automatically trying to flatten it—smooth, Harry, real smooth—because well crap, she was kind of pretty.

"Helloooo, Earth to Henry!" She called, sounding amused.

"Er," Harry tried, cringing mentally at how stupid he was acting, "It's Harry, actually."

She brightened immediately. "Harry, you say? I love that name!" And then she grabbed his wrist—her grip was surprisingly strong—and dragged a wide-eyed, spluttering Harry towards her bed. Harry stumbled after her, hearing Gwenog Jones's stern voice repeating over and over in his head "No hanky-panky!"

Harry wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when Ginny dropped his hand and hopped on her bed, hastily tossing a pile of laundry and junk out of the way, and gesturing for him to look at something she apparently had pinned up on the now newly visible wall.

He bent over to look, craning his neck so that he didn't have to brace himself on her bed. It was a large, glossy poster, depicting two grinning Quidditch players. A tall woman with dark red hair beamed up at him in keeper's pads and Ballycastle black and red, alternately cooing down at a bundle in her arms and throwing her head back in laughter. Beside her, a bespectacled man in a yellow Wasps jersey had a broom slung around his shoulders and an arm slung around the woman. He wasn't looking at the camera at all, instead his head was slightly bent. He appeared to whisper something in his companion's ear, and afterwards looked decidedly pleased with himself when she laughed.

Harry watched the two animations interact, and inexplicably, felt an odd sort of upwelling of emotion in his throat. He coughed, tearing his eyes away from the laughing Quidditch couple, and turned to the girl next to him. "What am I looking at?"

"You don't know?" She asked, her eyes wide, looking almost offended; "That there is Quidditch royalty." She reached out to the poster almost reverently, and stroked the bundle in the woman's arms with a single finger.

Harry peered at it closely, and saw the small slightly chubby face of an infant. As he watched, feeling vaguely unsettled for no apparent reason, a pair of electric green eyes blinked sleepily up at him from the glossy paper. "What, the baby?" he asked, perplexed. He'd figured the two adults, both obviously professional Quidditch players, were the main draw of the poster.

"Yes," Ginny said slowly, as if he were stupid. "That's Lily Evans," she indicated the laughing woman, "she was recruited right out of Hogwarts, starting Keeper for the Ballycastle Bats for five years. She's twenty-two in this picture, but she had the highest saving average in the League. She played five games in her final season, and in those five games not a single point was scored on her. She saved every shot! Some figured if she hadn't had to take time off to have the baby, she would've been the first keeper in the League to finish a season with a 100% saving percentage."

She looked at him seriously, as if to ensure that he was listening, then pointed to the man: "That's James Potter."

Harry jolted, his brain suddenly frozen, and Ginny looked back and nodded in approval at his wide eyes, "Ah, so him you've heard of. That's good. At least you're not hopeless."

And then she launched into a list of James Potter's Quidditch achievements. Apparently he had played left-wing chaser, the position that Ginny herself played, but as she rattled off statistics and names of plays and maneuvers, Harry was not really listening. His mind was racing.

Lily Evans. His mum's name had been Lily. He didn't know what Aunt Petunia's maiden name was, he'd never thought to ask. It'd never occurred to him that that would've been his mother's name as well! He supposed that he'd always simply thought of her as Lily Potter. But- but- James Potter. There was no mistaking that. That was his father's name. He felt his palms go clammy. Crazy as it was, he'd never actually seen a picture of his parents, together. Petunia had a couple photos of Lily and her together, but the most recent was one of the two girls at about age eleven. And he'd never seen a photo of his father.

Harry's eyes went once more to the photo. But…that would mean that the baby in the picture was—

"Harry Potter!" Ginny announced.

Harry flinched, but she was pointing at the infant on the poster, not at him.

"It's why I like the name Harry. Isn't he perfect?"

Harry flushed, knowing that she wasn't talking about him, not really, but feeling flustered all the same.

"He's famous, you know, this kid. The Chosen One."

Harry started. Famous? That was news to him. Vaguely he wondered if this was someone's idea of a funny joke, convincing the naiive orphan that he and his dead parents were famous. Was this one of those prank shows Uncle Vernon liked to watch? They literally could've even used any old picture, Harry reflected, because pathetically enough, he had no clue what his parents had actually looked like.

But something in Ginny's earnest face, and in the aching familiarity of the people on the poster, made him trust her. He found himself leaning in to examine the picture again, intrigued, despite himself. "Because of his parents?" He asked, "Because he's the son of two great Quidditch players?"

"That's part of it," Ginny said seriously. "But not all of it. As if being the offspring of two of the world's most incredible Quidditch players weren't enough." She traced the laughing face of Lily Evans, sadly, her gaze turning distant. "When Harry was one, something terrible happened."

Harry felt all the blood drain from his face. "What happened?" He whispered. Aunt Petunia had never told him anything about how his parents had died, only that there had been a car accident.

"In the late seventies up 'til 1981, that's the year it happened, there was this huge string of high profile murders—celebrities, politicians, athletes— by this psychopathic serial killer and his criminal gang."

Harry didn't breathe as we waited for Ginny to continue.

"I was just a baby so I don't know what it was like or anything, but Mum tells me it was horrible. Everyone was terrified. Law enforcement had no clue who was doing them and no one knew who would be next. Dad was pretty high up in the administration at the time and Mum was terrified they'd come after him or one of my brothers, so Dad had to leave his job at the ministry. He confessed to me that at one point he was sure they'd never be caught, that the murders would just…continue." Ginny shuddered visibly.

"Anyway, the keeper on the English national team got injured, so Evans was flagged as a last-minute replacement," Ginny explained. "It takes at least a week to get a portkey authorized, and she was needed right away, so they decided to take a private aeroplane—that's like a flying muggle contraption. So Evans, Potter, and baby Harry traveled by aeroplane with their friend Peter Pettigrew, an auror, for protection. Albus Dumbledore—you do know who he is, right? Right—well, after they'd already departed, he got an anonymous tip or something saying that Evans and Potter were going to be the next ones targeted."

Harry's blood ran cold. He stared intently at Ginny.

"He rushed to find them," she said sadly, "but it was too late. Pettigrew had been in cahoots with the Death Eaters—that's what they called themselves, the criminal gang—all along. He was their inside man in the auror department, and he led Evans and Potter straight into an ambush, midair!"

She leaned forward, her brows knit in consternation, and Harry unconsciously mirrored her, thoroughly engrossed.

"James told Lily to take Harry with her and escape on her broom while he tried to hold them off, but the broom was in the back, with the luggage. Lily ran to the back with the baby to get her broom, but before she could get on it, she was blasted back. It was Tom Riddle, the leader of the Death Eaters. James had been killed, and Riddle had come to finish her off as well."

Harry, having long since forgotten his resolution not to touch her bed, was white-knuckled, clenching her bed frame in a death grip.

Ginny looked at him, noticing his obvious distress. She put a freckled hand over one of his fists and squeezed sympathetically. "I'm sorry, I know it's awful," she grimaced. "I can stop if you want."

"No," Harry ground out with no little difficulty. "No, I'm okay, what happened next?"

Ginny scrutinized him for a moment, and then nodded, patting his hand before removing her own. "So Lily," Ginny continued, "she put Harry on the broom and drew her wand to duel; I guess she'd hoped she'd be able to win and then get on the broom behind Harry, but the rest of the gang quickly joined their master and she was outnumbered."

Harry gripped the bedframe tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Just before she was hit by the Killing Curse, she managed to shove the broom out the window," Ginny said, her voice suddenly much quieter, "And Harry went soaring away. At first the broom must've shot straight out, away from the wreckage of the aeroplane, but I s'pose it must've encountered rough winds and, with no one to properly steer it, the broom went hurtling downwards."

Harry felt his mouth drop. He stared, open-mouthed, at Ginny, but she plowed ahead. "There were hundreds of witnesses, they even caught it on tape in the back of a Muggle broadcast: Harry Potter, a toddler, falling from the sky, plummeting towards the earth at an unthinkable speed! The broom was falling rapidly, and no one had the sense to do anything but gape, it was all happening so fast, but before he could hit the ground, suddenly he'd jerked the broom sharply upwards, just barely missing his death!"

She looked at Harry intently as if to check that he had properly absorbed the magnitude of what she was saying. "He executed a perfect Wronski feint!" She cried, throwing up her hands. "A toddler! Rubeus Hagrid—he works at my school, he was there—he said that he just about had a heart attack, but Harry was just sitting happily on his broom, hovering, none the worse for wear! The youngest person ever to do a Wronski Feint and live to tell the tale—you understand, people have died from botched Wronski Feints—and all he had to show for it was a cut on his forehead! A cut—though I reckon it scarred—in the shape of a lightning bolt, from where a twig from the broom flew off and cut him as he fell. They call him The-Boy-Who-Lived."

"What happened," Harry whispered, absolutely transfixed. "What happened to the killers?"

"Albus Dumbledore and the Head Auror, a bloke named Mad-eye Moody, arrived on the scene with reinforcements before the ambushers had the chance to depart, and they were able to apprehend all of them. Pettigrew was killed in the duel with the aurors, and Tom Riddle, the leader, was apprehended by Dumbledore himself, and then Kissed by the dementors in Azkaban later that same month. Dumbledore's anonymous source also apparently tipped the aurors off again, leading them straight to the Death Eaters' hideout. They were all rounded up and carted off to Azkaban."

"And what happened to… to the kid?"

Ginny's eyes were far away. "No one knows." And then she snapped her gaze back to Harry, her eyes keen. "By the way, what was your full name again?"

"Dursley," Harry said quickly, the name rolling awkwardly off his tongue. "Harry Dursley."

Ginny scrunched up her nose exaggeratedly. "Pity," she sighed. "Imagine how amazing it'd be if I'd just accidentally discovered the lost—"

"WEASLEY!" A voice bellowed from the doorway. Harry straightened immediately, narrowly avoiding banging his head again in his haste to put as much distance between himself and Ginny as possible— "ENOUGH LOLLYGAGGING!"

"Coming!" Ginny called, hopping off her bed and digging a lone arm guard out of the disaster on the floor.

She struggled to strap it on her left forearm one-handedly, and before he knew what he was doing Harry stepped forward to hold her arm, saying "Here, let me."

She appraised him under critical eyebrows as he laced and strapped up the bracer expertly, his face heating up under her gaze. "Do you play?" she asked.

"Some," he admitted.

"What pos—"

"WEASLEY!"

"Coming!" Ginny shouted again. She hurriedly nodded her thanks to Harry, tugging her arm gently back. As she jogged away, she called back over her shoulder, gesturing with her chin to the chaos he still stood, knee-deep in— "Don't bother with the mess, you hear me?"

Harry just nodded back dumbly, watching her go, feeling as if the lid had just been blasted off his world.

As always, would love to hear from you! ~OrangeScript