A/N: So this is sort of sad, for me anyways, but it was fun to write. This is pre-Hogwarts with a nine-year-old Harry. It was inspired by a song called 'Moment of glory' but I have no idea who the artist is.

I don't own Harry Potter.

Harry Potter and the Moment of Glory

Harry stared at the ceiling. That had been an excellent match. He didn't know much about rugby, but he knew that what had just happened was good.

Uncle Vernon had been so happy that he allowed Harry to stay up a bit later and even gave him a chocolate bar after dinner. Uncle Vernon had sang a song and danced with a scatter pillow when the team won.

Imagine if he, Harry, could make Uncle Vernon happy like that all the time. His uncle would see him in the same light as Dudley – he wouldn't have to live in the cupboard anymore. Harry knew that his uncle didn't really like him, but he was the only person Harry knew that was sort of like a dad.

Perhaps he would get better gifts too for Christmas, the green eyed boy didn't mind if they forgot his birthday then. He didn't really care about his aunt, but he wouldn't mind his uncle just paying a bit more attention to him. The good kind of attention.

Rugby wasn't that big a deal at school, but his uncle made it out to be a big one at home.

The nine-year old closed his eyes and a rare smile graced his thin lips. He would give almost anything for a moment like the one he had witnessed on the television.

He started to drift away from consciousness, away from his horrid existence under a staircase where he knows he will never be treated better.

Because he was convinced there was something wrong with him.

. . .

He skidded to the left and ran for the right, grabbing the ball the other boy had thrown at him. The other players were a blur around him, a blur of blue and white stripes. He was moving fast and he loved it, evident from the grin on his face.

This was it.

This was going to be his moment of glory.

Harry Potter ran as fast as his nine-year-old legs could carry him. He sent a few of the others to the floor as he side-stepped them easily. One boy almost had him tackled, but he danced away easily from the boy.

He passed the ball to a boy with red hair as he realised he wouldn't make it out of the next tackle in time. The small boy was slammed to the grass, but it didn't hurt much.

Seconds later… SCORE!

It was half time and their team was winning. And it was because of him! Because he had passed the ball and ran so fast!

When the team ran up to the field again the crowd's roar was deafening. The crowd was on their feet, their hands in the air as their voices screamed into the sky. He wasn't sure what they were saying, but he knew they were rooting for his team.

There was no turning back now.

The tension was building, he could feel it, and it was as if every eye was on him.

The coach called him. Harry was to kick the ball over the twin poles on the field when the time came. It was all up to him, this was, the coach told him. One kick and they win. Just one kick. But he had to do it perfectly. But, said the coach, he knew Harry could do it. He believed in Harry.

His team was waiting for him expectantly, their arms outstretched to him to include him in their team talk. He slung his thin arms around his teammates' necks and joined in on the school's battle cry.

"Let Harry kick." The coach said, looking almost every boy in the eyes, getting a confirming bod, before giving the raven haired boy a smile. The team shouted the school's battle cry and ran onto the field again.

It was time to attack.

This was going to be his moment of glory – a day he had been dreaming of forever. There he would be the best. He would show everyone. He was not useless and there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing.

Harry ran, skidded, tackled, caught and passed the ball with all his might. He wanted to show them all that there was nothing wrong with Harry James Potter.

He kept his eye on the clock, soon the siren would sound – the game was reaching the end. Time to attack.

It was all up to him now, wasn't it? They needed just one kick and they would win. It was something he would be proud to do, a team he would be very proud to defend.

Harry looked up at the sky, his heart was as loud as a drum. Doof doof doof doof…

The boy eyed the ball before surging forward and kicking with force. The ball slid over the poles perfectly in a spiral that was almost theatrical. It was beautiful.

The crowd cheered louder than they had before, they got on their feet as the announcement rang that Harry Potter had just kicked the winning ball of the rugby match. He was lifted onto the shoulders of other boys donning the same outfit as they chanted his name.

"Harry! Harry! Harry!"

It was his moment of glory, the day that he lived for, the game that he lived for and the day that he had dreamed of. He had played to win. He had done his very best…

"Harry! Harry, wake up!" A voice called, and a pair of green eyes snapped open, searching for the crowd and the ball and the teammates in blue and white… But he wasn't being carried. He was on a tiny bed with a warm blanket.

It was a dream, he realised, just a dream. He didn't do sport, he was too thin and he couldn't catch a ball to save his life.

"Come on, boy!"

There in his mind he was the best.

The dream was gone, and so was his brief moment of glory, but… there, in his heart, he sees it again.

His moment of glory lives on.

. . .

A/N: Well… how was it?