"All right, everybody, move in!"

I flew down to the ground and hopped off my broom, my wind-tousled hair looking pretty damn sexy. There was nothing like an early morning quidditch practice. In my fifteen years with Puddlemere united, we'd had six tournament victories, so I felt pretty sure about our game this afternoon.

"Good practice, everybody. Our first game of the tournament starts tonight, so go home, get some rest, and thank me for all the 5 AM practices I've put you through.

Exhausted and sweating, but secretly thanking me, the team broke up and headed back to the locker room.

"Hey, Wood!"

I turned around. My beaters, Dunham and Brickett, were standing in the middle of the field, They had those mischievous smiles that reminded me a bit too much of Weasley and Weasley form Hogwarts, but I figured it would do no harm to see what they were up to.

"Dunham's bent a twig," Brickett explained. "Think you could take a look?"

I bent down and picked it up. "Bon voyage!" Dunham shouted, but before I had time to think about what he said, I was gone."

"So…who's ready for VEGAS?"

Michael burst out of his office in a red sequined tuxedo. I wasn't sure where it came from, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Pam rolled her eyes. "Michael, you can't wear that."

"This is Vegas, Pam, it's what people do," he replied, exasperated at her apparent lack of knowledge.

"Not on the plane."

This threw him off for a second. "I will tell them…that I work for Lady Gaga." He looked to me for help. "Oscar can join me."

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "No."

"But haven't you always wanted to work for Lady Gaga? Isn't that every gay kid's dream, growing up in Mexico?"
"Michael, I'm going to choose not to be offended. Just take off the tux."

"When did all you people stop being fun?"

Maybe I should explain. This weekend was Michael's 30th birthday.

Maybe I should explain again. Every few years, Michael turns 30. He tells the whole office and hopes for a big celebration, so Pam puts sprinkles on his cake and we go out for drinks. We've stepped it up more lately. A chocolate fountain, an Elvis impersonator. A small parade. But more often than not, it ends in some sort of tantrum.

So this year, the party planning committee decided we had to do something really big to shut him up for good. One thing led to another, and now we were going to Vegas.

It was going to be an interesting weekend.

I felt a crash and a thud, and then the uncomfortable feeling of broken glass in places where broken glass should never be. A portkey. Fuck those beaters, they're nothing but trouble. I rolled over and felt splinters, also intruding in places they really don't belong. The portkey had broken, and I had no way back from…where exactly was I?

I felt the pulse of music before I heard it, loud and obnoxious and perfect for my headache. People rushed by, shouting and chattering, and, from the sound of it, vomiting. Finally, my head spinning, I opened my eyes.

And I saw an angel.

He was a fairly ordinary-looking muggle, with confused and concerned dark eyes, and wearing a suit appropriate for the upscale nightclub it looked like I must have been in. For a moment I thought how I must look to him in my quidditch robes. Then he spoke, and I couldn't focus on anything else.

"Are you okay?" His voice was strong and sharp, but gentle at the same time. He offered a hand and helped me up. By this time, a whole crowd of muggles had come over to see what was going on.

I offered him my hand, this time to shake. "W—Wood," I managed to get out.

"No, that's a roll of quarters in his pocket," slurred a man in a red tuxedo.

"No—Wood, that's my name, Oliver Wood."

"Oscar Martinez." He shook my hand. "And that, um, that is a roll of quarters." He pulled it out of his pocket to prove it. "So, do you want to come back and have a drink with us?"

"Wait, what time is it?"

"About midnight."

I knew what time it was, back home at least. 8 AM. Which meant I had to be in America, and western America at that. Basically, as far as I could possibly be from my quidditch match. Which started in a few hours. Brilliant.

"I, er, have to go. Nice to meet you, Oscar."

Once I'd run outside, I realized I had no bloody clue what I was doing. The portkey was somewhere back there among the mess, in pieces and useless. Apparating was out of the question; transcontinental apparition more often than not ended with bits of you at the bottom of the ocean somewhere. Floo powder might have done the trick if I could find some, but I had no idea where to look.

And I wasn't so sure I wanted to go back.

I tried to push the thought out of my head. It was completely mental, putting this stranger above my team. But I kept going back to his eyes, and his voice, and the way he looked when he blushed—fuck it, it's useless anyway. I figured it would do no harm to sit down and have a drink somewhere.

I went back inside and sat at the bar, still not entirely sure what I was doing. The bartender, a pretty blonde muggle, leaned over the table when she saw me, doing her best to expose the contents of her low-cut top. It may have been a nice sight had I not had other things on my mine.

"What can I get you, sir?"

"Er…firewhiskey, please?"

"Well, I'm afraid we've only got regular whiskey."

"That's fine."

"But if you're looking for a little bit of fire…"

She leaned farther over the table. I crossed my fingers and hoped nothing would fall out.

"Hey, um, Oliver." I turned around, and Oscar was behind me. He looked flustered, but in a strangely sxy way.

"You want to go somewhere else?"

We weren't sure where to go at first, so we just walked down the strip and enjoyed the sights. Oliver looked around, bewildered. He was a little bit of an enigma to me. He had to be from around here, judging by the way he was dressed. But you would think he'd never seen a limo, or even neon lights. I passed it off as him being really, really drunk, and got back to looking at his eyes.

We found ourselves in a relatively quiet bar a few blocks out of the way. Even when we'd sat down, Oliver kept fidgeting and checking his watch, like he had an important meeting at 1 AM.

"You need to be somewhere?" I asked him after a minute.

"Well, yeah, but I don't know how to get there. See, it's not exactly close to here. Muggle trans—regular transportation wouldn't cut it."

Not quite sure what he meant by that. There was a bit of an awkward pause. He alternated between staring at me intensely and looking away nervously.

"So where is it you need to be?" I asked him.

"I have a match. I'm an athlete."

"What kind of athlete?"

He looked at me with sudden seriousness. "Oscar, can I trust you with a secret?"

At this point, I was wondering whether to get out of there. Any kind of sport that has to be kept secret is probably not good news. I hadn't seen it at first, but when I looked at him again, he had a heaviness in his face that made me a little uneasy. And a bruise on his arm that could have easily been explained by a fight club. But I stayed, because there was something about his eyes that pulled me in. And because I'm an idiot.

"Oscar, I'm a wizard."

I was not expecting that one.

"No, I swear. I have a magic wand and everything. A pretty powerful one at that. I can show you, if you'd like."

He reached down into his robe. "No thanks," I almost shouted.

"Okay," he continued. He took another sip of his beer, and I did the same. In retrospect, coffee might have been a better idea. Or water. Water's always good.

After a minute, the intense gaze died down, and he spoke slower and more carefully. "You want to hear about my sport?"

"Sure." I figured it wouldn't hurt, as long as he didn't offer to pull out his powerful magic wand again.

"The object is to get balls into hoops, while riding…well…"

"Riding what?"

He paused. "I'm not sure you're ready to hear that part."

"Oliver, you seem nice, but if this is some weird sex thing—"

"No!" he interrupted. His eyes were almost pleading, like he needed me to hear what he had to say. If this wasn't a weird sex thing, he had to have been either really drunk or really crazy. Or both.

"My job," he said slowly, "is to catch the balls."

I raised an eyebrow.

"We could try it sometime if you like. You'd make a decent player."

"Goodbye, Oliver."

So it didn't work out with Oscar. I found a wizard working as a street magician (less uncommon than you would think), made a few solemn oaths I'd rather not discuss, and found my way back home. As for Oscar, he walked out of the bar and back to his hotel. He wasn't ready to know about what we were.

We had a moment, yes, and we could have been, but at the end of the day, we were from different worlds. Still, I'll always remember those eyes, that voice, the way he looked when he blushed. Just as my mother used to tell me, a few hours in Vegas stay with you for the rest of your life.