Quidditch, Remus mused, was really a rather exciting sport, if you allowed yourself to get absorbed in the game. Remus often didn't, of course–he thought, on the whole, that the game was too brutal, and unpredictable to be of much entertainment value. Generally, Remus thought that sports should be bound by rules, since that way, there wouldn't be unforeseen dangers, such as explosions fifty feet in the air.

Today, however, Remus found himself rather more engaged by the sport than he typically did. Perhaps it was because his good friend James had been, at one point, in extreme danger of having his head knocked off. It could have been the fact that Gryffindor had been playing Slytherin.

Or maybe it was just that Sirius had been playing today.

It was an odd setup. One of the Gryffindor beaters, Herbert Muckle, had been caught in a sudden meteor shower by the edge of the lake a few hours before the game. By an odd quirk of fate, such a meteor shower could only occur on the seventeenth of March, in a leap year, on a balmy day. Perhaps the Fates had decided that, at this particular match, Sirius Black needed to be poor Herbert Muckle's substitute as beater.

Well, for whatever reason, thought Remus, leaning up against the wall of the Gryffindor changing room (Sirius had begged him to wait–he wasn't used to these bizarre uniforms, he said), he'd been on the edge of his seat for the entire game.

And it looked as though he was up for some more excitement.

"Psst, Moony," came a voice from his left. Remus turned his head and spotted the object of his thoughts–or rather, the object of his thoughts' eye, which was the only thing visible beyond the cracked door of the Quidditch changing room. Remus was the only one left in the general vicinity.

"What?"

"Get over here."

Remus quirked an eyebrow in polite confusion.

"Look, will you just get over here, there's a bloody draft," Sirius swore, obviously referring to the open door.

Complying with his friend's wishes, even if he didn't understand them, Remus ducked inside the Quidditch locker room.

And promptly averted his eyes.

"Padfoot!"

"I know, I know."

"You're starkers!"

"I told you there was a draft."

"Well–why?!"

"Best I can reason," said a rather indignant Padfoot, hiding behind a locker door, "someone got angry at me standing in for Herbert, and decided to play a prank."

"You're telling me you don't have any clothes?"

"Yeah. And all the lockers are password-protected."

"What happened to your Quidditch outfit–I mean, Herbert's Quidditch outfit?"

"Put it in the laundry compartment."

"Can't you fetch it?"

"It's magically sealed."

"Where's your wand?"

"Didn't think I'd bloody need it today, did I?"

"Or–a towel?"

"Down the laundry compartment as well."

"That wasn't pretty stupid, wasn't it, Padfoot."

"Shut up."

"So what do you want me to do?"

Sirius blushed. "Could you be my cover back to Gryffindor tower?"

"What? Why don't I just go get you some clothes and you wait here?"

"McGonagall'll be along any minute to lock the changing room. What do you think she'd say if she saw me–you know..."

After a few seconds of thought, Remus said, "All right, fine. Fine, I'll do it."

"Moony, you're a pip!"

"But don't say I never did anything for you."

It took a few moments of awkward orientation, but, luckily, Remus had worn an extra-large black cloak today. Unluckily, it left Remus shivering without it.

"You look like a Dementor," Remus pointed out as they ducked into the castle. He'd seen a few pictures of the Azkaban guards in books.

"Yeah, shut up."

"Why is it always me that winds up covering your ass?"

"Literally, this time."

"You're washing that cloak out, I hope you know."