My tenth birthday arrived with the usual suspects: neighborhood kids, aggressively cheerful streamers, and the scent of cinnamon cake Emma swore had "just a touch of something magical" (read: extra nutmeg and questionable amounts of sugar).
What I didn't expect, however, was Hannah.
She burst into the backyard like a rogue Bludger—dreadlocks bouncing, robes slightly singed at the hem, and that infuriatingly earnest grin stretched ear to ear. Her Hogwarts break had just begun, and somehow, she'd managed to show up just in time to barrel straight into me like a freight train with a House badge.
"Happy Birthday, Ren!" she shouted, throwing her arms around me in a tackle disguised as a hug.
My lungs gave out halfway through.
"When the hell did you get so strong?" I wheezed, flailing slightly.
"Language, young man!" came Emma's voice from the kitchen window, without missing a beat.
Hannah grinned like a kneazle in sunlight and gave my ear a cheerful tug. "I was always strong. You're just tiny. Or have you forgotten who let you win every wrestling match when we were little?"
"I won those fair and square," I gasped. "You used to let me bite your shoulder and still tapped out!"
"You bit everything, Renauld. It was like wrestling a feral owl. I have trauma."
I squinted at her. "I remember you crying when I pinched you behind the knees."
"I remember pretending to cry so you'd feel like a big man and leave my hair alone."
I blinked. "…you played me."
"Frequently. You were adorable."
"I was a menace."
"You still are."
From her satchel, she drew a small box—sky-blue parchment wrapped in a faintly enchanted golden ribbon. It pulsed gently with a charm I couldn't quite place, one meant to respond to intent. She handed it over like a sacred object.
Inside was a Golden Snitch.
But not a toy-store version. This one was bespoke—real Quidditch-grade, gleaming with deep gold, and charmed with custom enchantments. I could feel the pulse of its magic through my fingertips. It vibrated lightly, wings twitching in anticipation.
I turned it over, stunned.
Etched into the underside: a miniature FC Barcelona crest, small and seamless, tucked into the base like a private joke.
"…You didn't."
"I did. Found a charmwright who owed someone at Slug & Jiggers a favor. Told them you were a freak for Muggle football. They didn't get it, but I made them get it."
"Barça?"
"Thought it sounded like a spell."
I stared. It couldn't have been cheap—probably upwards of 150 galleons. She got five a week. It didn't add up.
"You broke several laws, didn't you?"
"Just some light contract fraud and two goblin bribes. Nothing serious."
The snitch fluttered against my palm.
It wasn't just a gift.
It was… something I hadn't let myself think about.
That maybe, despite my many crimes of childhood—scratching, biting, wrestling her onto the rug until Emma intervened with a mop—someone still thought I was worth the trouble.
It was annoying.
It was overwhelming.
It was—
"Thanks," I muttered.
"No need to get mushy." She ruffled my hair, hard enough to reset it into chaos. "We'll take it out later. You show me your Seeker instincts, I'll show you how to dodge a Bludger."
"And who'll be throwing it?"
She grinned wide. "Me, of course."
The hill behind the cottage had always been steep, sun-baked, and lined with the sort of stubborn grass that made you regret tumbling down it barefoot. Which was exactly why they loved it.
It was also where Hannah, against all better judgment, decided that today was a good day for Bludger practice.
Beth had brought the bat. A fucking cricket bat too. Hannah though had managed to enchant it survive quidditch equipment.
Renauld eyed the containment box warily as the sphere inside twitched like a restrained beast.
He wasn't worried. Not really.
In another life—a life of stadium seats and schoolyard debates—he'd once obsessed over the career of Lionel Messi, memorizing stats like holy scripture just to put smug Ronaldo fans in their place. He remembered watching matches on grainy streams late at night, heart in his throat as Messi danced past defenders like they were thoughts he didn't want to finish.
"Magia," the commentators used to call it.
Magic.
He didn't think he'd live long enough to feel that again.
And then he woke up in a world where magic wasn't metaphor—it was muscle memory waiting to be reclaimed.
And, oddly enough, he'd still found his way back to football. The real kind. Boots on turf. Breath in cold air. Somehow, improbably, he'd been scouted by a Liverpool academy scout last summer. He played forward now—quick, intelligent, difficult to track.
Maybe too quick.
"Ready?" Hannah called, raising her bat.
Beth grinned, already flipping open the box.
"No," Renauld said.
"Great!"
The Bludger rocketed skyward like a bullet made of spite.
He ducked left.
Too slow.
The sphere clipped his shoulder, sent him sprawling in the grass like a broken scarecrow.
Raucous laughter.
Hannah doubled over. Beth let out a gasp-snick hybrid that sounded like a hiccup and a squeal.
"I hate both of you," he wheezed.
"You'll live," Hannah called.
"Probably," added Beth, already taking aim for another round.
He stood up slowly, rubbing his ribs.
It wasn't the pain that bothered him.
It was the insult.
He remembered evading defenders twice his size, dribbling through walls of legs, hearing the gasp of a crowd as he did something impossible. It had taken years to develop that instinct the first time.
But this body... this life... it learns fast.
Too fast.
The Bludger screamed again.
This time, Renauld moved before he thought—a pivot, a roll, a sidestep so sharp it felt rehearsed.
He heard the wind split. Saw the curve of the Bludger's return. Waited—
Then twisted again, just beyond reach.
Twice more it came.
Twice more he slipped through it.
And then—
Flick.
Snap.
The Snitch Hannah had released earlier flashed in the corner of his eye.
He lunged, body low.
Caught it clean.
Dead silence.
The Bludger hissed and hovered, denied its target.
Renauld stood, panting lightly, golden wings fluttering against his closed fingers.
Beth's mouth dropped open.
Hannah looked stunned.
"…You should try out for Seeker when you get in," she said.
"I mean it," she added, more serious now. "Seriously."
He didn't say anything. Just stared at the Snitch.
It was happening again.
This sickening, terrifying ease. This ability that outpaced logic.
Like he'd been reborn with talent dialed up too high.
It made people watch him too closely.
Question him.
And it never quite let him eclipse his sister—not in power, not yet. But the gap felt thinner now. Like one more breath might tip the scales.
He glanced at Hannah.
She was smiling.
But her shoulders were tense.
"Cheer up, Hannah," Beth said, nudging her. "He'll be fine. I think."
They laughed, but not loudly.
The Bludger returned to its box with a sigh like thunder held back.