Neville Longbottom and The Boy Who Lived

Chapter 9: Quidditch

As November crept in, Hogwarts was blanketed in a shroud of winter's chill. The once vibrant surroundings of the castle now appeared cold and desolate, the mountains looming ominously in the distance like icy sentinels. The lake mirrored the steel-grey sky, its surface frozen over, reflecting the stark beauty of the season.

Each morning, Neville would wake to find the grounds coated in a delicate layer of frost, glistening in the early light. From the windows of Gryffindor Tower, he could see Hagrid trudging across the Quidditch pitch, his breath forming white puffs in the frigid air. Bundled up in a long mole-skin overcoat, rabbit-fur gloves, and enormous beaver-skin boots, Hagrid worked tirelessly to defrost the broomsticks in preparation for the upcoming Quidditch season.

Excitement buzzed through the corridors as students eagerly awaited the first game, eager to cheer on their house teams. For Gryffindor, this match held special significance as it would be Harry's debut as the new Seeker.
However, what was meant to be a well-kept secret somehow leaked out, spreading like wildfire throughout the school. Whispers and murmurs followed Harry wherever he went, the news of his role as Gryffindor's seeker circulating among the students.
Neville couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and concern for his friend. The revelation of Harry's position explained how he had acquired such a top-of-the-line broomstick, but it also meant that all eyes would be on him during the match.

The day of the first Quidditch match of the season dawned with a brilliant brightness that belied the cold bite in the air. Neville awoke to the soft light filtering through the windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, a sense of anticipation knotting in his stomach. The Great Hall was already bustling with activity, the aroma of sizzling sausages wafting through the air and mingling with the excited chatter of students eagerly awaiting the upcoming match.
Neville took his place at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Dean and Seamus, their faces reflecting the same mix of nerves and excitement that he felt. As Harry and Hermione joined them, Neville couldn't help but notice how tense Harry was with an anxious look in his eyes. It was the most nervous Neville had ever seen his friend, and it worried him.
"You've got to eat some breakfast, Harry," Hermione said, her voice gentle but firm, her concern evident in her eyes.
"I don't want anything," Harry replied, his voice strained.
"Just a bit of toast," Hermione insisted, her tone wheedling.
"I'm not hungry," Harry insisted, his gaze fixed on the tabletop.
"Harry, you need your strength," Seamus piped up, his Irish accent cutting through the tension. "Seekers are always the ones who get nobbled by the other team." Neville nearly choked on his pumpkin juice at Seamus's blunt assessment, shooting a concerned glance at Harry.
"Thanks, Seamus," Harry muttered, a faint ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he watched Seamus heap ketchup on his sausages.

By eleven o'clock, the Quidditch pitch was buzzing with excitement as the whole school poured into the stands. Neville found a spot among the sea of students, many of whom were armed with binoculars to catch every moment of the match.
As Neville settled in, he was joined by his friends Ron, Hermione, Seamus, and Dean. The group had a surprise in store for Harry. Together, they had worked on a large banner that was now proudly displayed for all to see. The banner read 'Potter for President,' a playful nod to Harry's leadership qualities, with Dean's skilled drawing of a majestic Gryffindor lion underneath. Hermione had also cast a spell on the banner so that the paint shimmered and flashed in an array of vibrant colours.

Excitement pulsed through Neville as he stood among the throngs of students eagerly anticipating the Quidditch match. The stands were filled with buzzing chatter and the occasional roar of excitement. Soon, both teams emerged onto the pitch, and Neville's gaze locked onto Harry as he followed Fred and George from the changing room.
Madam Hooch, the referee, stood confidently in the centre of the pitch, her broom in hand. Neville observed as she addressed the players, her voice firm yet fair, emphasizing the importance of a clean and honourable game. He couldn't help but notice the pointed look she directed at Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, a fifth-year known for his aggressive tactics.