Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay. OK, quick recap: Harry's just lost his first professional game of Quidditch.

Chapter Fourteen

A sliver of light penetrated the gap in the curtains, partially illuminating a framed jersey on the wall. Harry's surname was woven into the fabric in bright white letters; underneath was the number seven. Signatures were scrawled over the back of the jersey in black ink, courtesy of the Puddlemere squad. It was tradition for a player's debut game. A navy and white striped scarf was draped over the frame, with Harry's first professional Golden Snitch nestled on top, its wings now motionless.

A clap of thunder jolted Harry from his trance. The storm raging across England had woken him from an uneasy night's sleep some time ago, but he had yet to move from his bed. He was content to stay beneath the magically heated duvet and listen to the rain beating against his bedroom window. Monstrous winds rattled the structure of the ancient house, creating noises reminiscent of the ghoul's nightly jaunts in the Weasley's attic, but it didn't distract Harry from his traitorous thoughts.

The space in the bed next to him was cold. He felt hollow, desperately wanting someone there, next to him, who would listen to his worries and put things into perspective. Then again, he knew he probably wouldn't say a thing even if he did have company. After fearing for his life for so long, his latest doubts felt juvenile in comparison.

He had lost a match. He'd been beaten. Losing was a part of the game that every player experienced, no matter who you were. Harry knew that all too well, but he couldn't stop the questions forming in his mind. Was he good enough? Would he ever be good enough? Should he just pack it in now, before he was truly embarrassed by the game's elite?

As he lay there, his own subconscious taunted him. He could smell the dry grass and the sweat that permeated the changing room, as clearly as if he were there. Every time he closed his eyes his memory replayed the agonising moment he'd realised his mistake, and when Lennox Campbell had capitalised on the chance Harry had gifted him.

Harry was only just finding out how much he truly detested losing a game of Quidditch. The last time he'd lost had been in his third year at Hogwarts, against Cedric. Since then, he'd become so used to winning he'd almost forgotten that losing was even an option.

At least when it came to Quidditch, that was; when it came to other games, it was a different matter. Ron had always thoroughly defeated him in chess, and Seamus had always trounced him when they played Gobstones. But none of that mattered because it never really meant anything. Quidditch was different altogether. It wasn't just a game he played as a pastime anymore. It was now his job.

Sometime later, Harry forced himself to get out of bed and throw open the burgundy drapes. It was a gloomy day. Black clouds lay like a blanket low in the sky, pouring rain on London. The street in front of Number Twelve now looked as much like a river as a road. The drains overflowed, unable to cope with the sudden onslaught of water. Harry spotted a neighbour's rubbish bin floating on its side, and watched until it got lodged in another neighbour's half-closed front gate.

He turned away from the window and caught site of the framed jersey. His second match might have ended in defeat, but his first match had been a good one. It had been against the weakest opposition in the league, but at least he'd won.

Harry shuffled into his private bathroom. On the top shelf in the cabinet on the wall, a multitude of potions lay haphazardly, which he rummaged through. He pushed aside a Pepper-Up Potion and a Sleeping Draught, and eventually found a hangover remedy.

"Do you know the best cure for a hangover?" The mirror on the wall seemed to ripple in laughter. "Stay sober the night before!"

Harry had learned to ignore the damned thing, but he couldn't help agreeing with its words. A few strong drinks had chased away the sting of defeat, but it was now the morning after. According to Stewart Ackerley, the morning after was the worst part of losing, but Harry was determined to stop moping around like someone had died. Seamus wouldn't let him get away with it; the git hadn't stopped laughing all night.

The house was quiet as Harry made his way to the kitchen, excluding his footsteps on the creaking stairs and timeworn floorboards. He entered the kitchen and made himself a breakfast of toast and orange juice. A brown owl carrying the Daily Prophet arrived halfway through his first slice of toast, but he refused to read the newspaper. He caught a glimpse of himself on the front page, which was enough for him to consider throwing it straight out.

After his breakfast was cleared away, he pondered on the benefits of going back to bed. It was sure to be a miserable Sunday, but he knew it would just invite Seamus's special brand of mocking. Daphne's offer of a roast dinner popped into his head. It wasn't Daphne's cooking that was all that appealing, and it wasn't the reason he decided to take her up on the offer.

Feeling a little better, Harry left the kitchen with a spring in his step and an idea forming in his mind. He apparated to Hogsmeade a few minutes later, where the weather was even worse than it was in London. Instead of a downpour of rain, it was swirling wind and sleet. It drenched Harry within seconds, and he broke out into a run, slipping and sliding on the sopping grass, cursing all the way to Daphne cottage.

"Oh, hello," Daphne said, after she had opened the door. Dressed in only a crumpled vest and a pair of shorts, with her hair in a loose ponytail, she looked as though she hadn't long gotten out of bed. A sudden gust of wind made her gasp, and she hastily pulled Harry inside, slamming the door behind him.

"Sorry if I woke you," said Harry, shrugging out of his cloak.

"I was just being lazy," said Daphne, waving off his apology. She gestured for Harry to follow her into the lounge. "I just got out of the bath, actually. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Harry sank into the sofa's downy cushions. Next to him, Daphne curled her legs up beneath her. Harry noticed her exposed skin, from her toes to her shoulders, looked rather rosy. Her cheeks soon took on the same colour, once she'd noticed Harry's lingering gaze.

"A bit hot, was it?"

Any shyness Daphne felt soon disappeared. Her eyes narrowed slightly, although she was smiling in a teasing sort of way, and she gave her wand a small flick.

"That's for your impure thoughts," she explained.

Harry felt his tongue affix itself to the roof of his mouth, and was forced to retrieve his own wand to counter the Langlock Jinx.

"I never knew you were a Legilimens."

"I'm not," said Daphne, tucking her wand in the waistband of her shorts. "It was your eyes, Harry. They said it all."

There was a grandfather clock pressed up against the back wall, which hadn't been present the last time Harry was here. Chipped in various places and in need of a coat of varnish, it looked ancient and out of place in the relatively modern cottage. Maybe that was just Daphne's style, Harry thought. She'd only been living here for a few months and the place still looked bare.

"I really wasn't expecting you today," said Daphne, flicking her wand again, this time to summon two bottles of butterbeer from the kitchen. "I was thinking about popping over to Rosmerta's for some lunch, actually."

"I have an idea," said Harry. "Sirius has been nagging me for weeks to go this pub near our place. It does the best Sunday roast he's has ever tasted, apparently. Fancy it?"

"Sure," said Daphne, untangling her legs from beneath her. "In that case, I'd best get dressed."

"You'd hear no complaints from me if you went dressed like that," Harry said, making a show of looking at her bare legs, which no longer looked sunburned.

Daphne gave him a curious look. "You're very chipper this morning. I figured you'd be in hiding."

"Yeah … well." Harry shrugged. "It's a bit difficult to be stay miserable when you're dressed like that."

"Tell me the truth," said Daphne, laughing. "How depressed were you when you woke up?"

Harry grimaced. "My thoughts may have been a bit … overdramatic."

"Well, if you're ever in need of someone to cheer you up, you're welcome to use me anytime," said Daphne, a spark of something appearing in her eyes.

"You know," said Harry, failing to hide a wide smile, "I could take that completely the wrong way."

"How do you know which way I meant it?"

Harry faltered, his mouth having gone dry all of a sudden. His reaction prompted Daphne to start laughing.

"Now, stay here while get dressed," she said. She reached the middle of the staircase when she paused, turned around and added, "Oh, by the way – I think I won this round, don't you?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Harry floundered, his brain struggling to think up a response. He watched Daphne's legs disappear from view at the top of the stairs, feeling like a fourteen year-old again, blushing every time a pretty girl so much as smiled at him. It was a disconcerting feeling.

In Harry's experience, it could feel like a lifetime when waiting for a girl to get ready. For the next few minutes, as he settled in for a long wait, he willed himself to appear calm and collected. His heart was still beating twice as fast as normal, and before he could put the mask in place, the floorboards creaked.

Daphne reappeared on the top stair, her boots coming into view first. Harry recognised the forest green pullover, which Daphne had opted to wear under a leather jacket. Her hair was now loose and wavy, which Harry knew had been styled with a charm.

Harry apparated them both to number twelve's doorstep, leading Daphne inside and through to the kitchen. They were greeted by the smell of bacon, which Sirius had cooked and was eating at the table.

"Daphne – meet the infamous Sirius Black, my godfather," said Harry, pulling a chair out for Daphne and another for himself.

Daphne's lips twitched. Sirius was only wearing a pair of shorts, showing off his pale, hairy chest, although he didn't look in the least bit concerned or embarrassed.

"Lovely to meet you," he said, and turned to Harry, looking impressed. "Merlin, you don't hang about, do you? It's not even midday yet."

Harry stared at him for a moment, bemused. "Do you really think I just picked up a girl on a Sunday morning?"

"Well, how should I know?" Sirius said, spearing his sausage with a fork. "You're Harry Potter – heroic destroyer of Voldemort and world-famous Seeker. If you're not getting some action from that, you're doing something wrong, and I'm not doing my godfather duties like I should be."

Harry frowned. "Are you still drunk?"

"Probably," said Sirius.

Daphne leaned forward, grinning slyly, and whispered conspiratorially, "He transfigured a rose for me once."

"You're shitting me," Sirius said, turning to gaze disbelievingly at Harry. "You don't strike me as the type."

"That's because I did it as joke," Harry said, sighing as he poured himself a strong cup of coffee from the pot Sirius had made. "I was trying to prove a point, that's all."

"After that, you'll never guess what he told me," Daphne said to Sirius, who was failing to hide his amusement. "He said he wanted to get me drunk and take me home."

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Sirius said, shaking his head and sounding remarkably similar to Gilderoy Lockhart. "I think you and I need to have a little chat. You don't just tell a girl you want to get her drunk and sleep with her. It's bad form."

"She's twisting my words," Harry said.

Daphne patted him on the arm. "You keep telling yourself that," she said. She looked back to Sirius, her expression suddenly thoughtful. "You know, now that I think of it, he did end up in my house later on that night."

"Oh?" Sirius said, his fork hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. "How did he manage that?"

"He said he couldn't get home," Daphne said, and she and Sirius scoffed in unison. "Can you believe he went to all that trouble? He didn't even try anything!"

"Anything?" Sirius echoed, glancing fearfully at Harry. "Not even a kiss?"

"Nothing," Daphne confirmed.

"You make it sound like we'd met that very night," Harry said, and looked pointedly at Sirius. "We're friends, and no, not with benefits."

"Could've fooled me," Sirius muttered, going back to his breakfast.

Harry topped up his coffee and handed the pot to Daphne. Just then, the fireplace suddenly came to life. Red hair appeared in the green flames, and Ron Weasley's blue eyes blinked rapidly.

"Er – hello."

"Everything all right, Ron?"

Ron's eyes focused on Harry. "Yeah, mate. I just wondered if you fancied coming to watch the Cannons this afternoon. They've got next week off, so it's our last game before the Christmas break."

Harry tried not to grimace. Most stadiums used the Impervius Charm, but Chudley was one of the few that didn't. The only way to stay dry was by sitting in private box seats.

"Have you seen the weather today? We'd get soaked, mate."

"Aw, c'mon, Harry," Ron whined. "You know we can get the good seats."

"That's the only reason you're asking me, isn't it?"

Ron furiously shook his head. "Nah, mate. Honestly," he said, sounding sincere. "You're not the only famous bloke I know anymore. Fred and George can get the seats just as easy."

Harry looked around the table, eyebrow raised in question. Daphne shrugged and continued to sip her coffee, and Sirius nodded as he spooned baked beans into his mouth.

"All right, Ron," said Harry.

"Great!" Ron grinned broadly. "We're leaving at half one."

With those parting words, Ron pulled back and the fire disappeared in flash of green.

"Well, I guess I'm going to my first professional Quidditch match," said Daphne, earning a stunned look from Sirius.

Harry stepped out of the fireplace into the Burrow an hour later, just as an explosion of laughter shook the very foundations of the house. The Weasleys were crammed into the kitchen, Percy and Ginny the only members of the family not in attendance. Molly looked to be in her element as host, supplying butterbeer and biscuits. Apart from the sea of red hair, there was also an abundance of Chudley's eye-watering shade of orange jerseys on display.

Daphne was in the middle of a conversation with Hermione, just apart from the group. It was Hermione who spotted Harry first, and she engulfed him in a hug.

"Tell me," said Harry, accepting the butterbeer Molly shoved into his hands as she patrolled the kitchen. "Why are they all wearing Chudley jerseys? Ron's the only one who supports them."

"They all went to the pub last night," said Hermione, shaking her head in what looked like exasperation. "A Muggle pub, might I add, where they ended up hosting a darts tournament. Ron won, and somehow this is happening."

Bill announced it was time to leave, and they all gathered around the Portkey. Harry was forced to close his eyes as they were yanked out of the kitchen, as the blur of Chudley orange made him quite queasy. Daphne and Hermione were on either side of him, hips bumping against his, and then, mercifully, the journey was over.

They landed on unsteady feet. It took a moment for Harry to get his bearings, and when he did he realised they were in a waterlogged field. His shoes were already soaked through and caked in mud. They started moving their way across the field, manoeuvring around the throng of supporters, all of whom seemed wholly upbeat despite Chudley's horrendous record.

A few minutes later, they arrived at a wooden hut. There were four doors, one on each side, all of which were manned by security guards. Harry, being the most famous and thus the most likely to acquire the best seats, was pushed forward. He came face to face with a shaven-headed security guard, who had an inscrutable look on his face.

"Harry Potter," he said, after a moment. "Got yer ticket, lad?"

"Ah – I was hoping to get them now," said Harry.

The guard beckoned Harry closer, and in a low voice said, "What's three Puddlemere boys doing at a Chudley game?"

"A friend of mine is a fan," said Harry, equally as quietly.

"It's a bloody good job I'm a big fan of Puddlemere then, innit?" said the guard, his upper lip twitching. "Let's 'ave a look at what I can give yer." He looked down at his clipboard, flipping through the pages until he landed on the one he was looking for. "Ah, 'ere we are. There's a couple of private VIP seats going. 'Ere, show this to the guard at the gates."

"Perfect," said Harry, putting the ticket in his inside pocket. He pulled out a bag of coins, but the security guard waved him away.

"No need for tha'," he said. "Jus', while I've you lads 'ere … any chance of an autograph?" He dug around inside his robes, eventually producing a crumpled piece of parchment and a self-inking quill.

Harry, Fred and George signed the parchment, thanked the delighted security guard, and made their way into the hut. The group shuffled inside, making it quite cramped. The guard gave them a toothy smile and shut the door behind Charlie, leaving them in pure darkness.

"What's happening?" asked Daphne.

"This is a new security measure put in place after the war," Hermione answered immediately. "It's now mandatory for every team in Britain, if I remember correctly."

"You do," said Harry. "Trying to bypass the security charms would take you hours, by which time you'd be found. Not that it's stopped people from trying to sneak into games, of course."

The magical darkness only lasted a few more seconds, until the door clicked open and allowed light to enter the hut once again. They stepped out, not on to a field, but a long, cobbled street. There was a distinctive smell of greasy food polluting the air, emanating from the legion of fast food stalls. Restaurants, bars, pubs and shops lined both sides of the street. Fred and George stopped in a grubby little shop selling Chudley paraphernalia, returning a minute later wearing matching jester hats.

There was another security guard at the gates to the stadium, who directed them to the second tier. Because they were VIP guests, he allowed them to keep their wands. A third guard was standing outside a door at the top of the first flight of stairs, and behind the door the stone floor gave way to a carpeted hallway.

The private room was spacious and sparsely decorated, but it did have a fully stocked bar, which instantly caught Sirius's attention. Sliding double doors led to a balcony overlooking the centre of the pitch. Unlike the cheap, plastic seats that filled most of the stadium, the balcony was furnished with leather recliners.

Harry took his seat, listening to the commentator reading out the official line-ups. Falmouth Falcons, Chudley's opponents today, would be coming to Puddlemere next week, so Harry thought he'd take the opportunity to do some reconnaissance. He retrieved his notebook, the same one he had used in the World Cup Final, and jotted down: Falmouth – infamous for their hard brand of play.

It was Falmouth who entered first, their iron grey robes flapping in the wind as they flew a lap of the pitch. They were the most hated team in the league. Chudley's supporters didn't hold back their jeers.

"The Broadmoor twins," Fred muttered darkly. He had a pair of omnioculars pressed firmly against his eyes.

"Fred and George played every game in the World Cup, but were dropped for the final in favour of the Broadmoor's," Harry explained to a clueless Daphne. "It wasn't a popular decision."

Charlie stepped on to the balcony carrying a tray overladen with beers.

"Is Reitch playing, Harry? I heard he took a fall a few weeks ago."

"He's playing, all right," said Harry, taking a pint of beer. "Nothing short of unconsciousness keeps him out."

"I've heard a lot about the bloke, but never watched him play before," said Charlie, dropping into the recliner next to Harry's.

"If you're picked, watch out for him," said Fred, lowering his omnioculars to give Harry an unusually serious look. "He's a master at making fouls look like accidents."

"He cracked Ackerley's broom last season," said George. "Flew straight into him. Lucky we were on hand to catch him."

"The ref missed it, of course," said Fred. "Still, as much as Reitch gets away with, he does get caught sometimes. He conceded more fouls than any other Seeker last season."

"And the season before that," said George.

Harry wrote it all down in his notebook. Seekers wanting to knock his head off wasn't a novel concept – Malfoy had tried it during every game they'd played each other at Hogwarts. Reitch was a far better player than Malfoy, but Harry highly doubted he'd have quite the same amount of venom.

Chudley flew out to thunderous applause, and all around the stadium fans stood up to sing the club's unofficial anthem. Ron, arguably the loudest of them all, bellowed along.

Chudley is the name, orange is the colour,

We haven't won a game since 1964

Our glory days are long since over,

And now we struggle just to score!

We'll always wear the badge with pride,

Because we're Chudley 'til we die!

Cannons! Cannons! Cannons!

The last line of the chorus was accompanied by a thousand people stamping their feet in unison, making it sound as if there really was a cannon firing. Harry could only imagine what it had used to sound like back in the days when wands were permitted inside the stadium.

"It hasn't really been that long since they last won a game, has it?" Daphne asked, as the fans started singing another verse.

"No," said Harry. "That's just the year the song was written, but it's updated all the time."

Gudgeon is his name, orange is his colour,

He hasn't caught the Snitch since 1994

But we love him 'cause he's one of us,

So hear us now as we all roar!

We'll always wear the badge with pride,

Because we're Chudley 'til we die!

Cannons! Cannons! Cannons!

Even as the game started and Falmouth took an early lead, the home crowd continued their relentless singing. Ron was on the edge of his seat, living every moment of the game. He cried out for what he perceived as fouls the referee didn't notice, groaned every time Chudley came close but ultimately missed a scoring opportunity – whooped when they actually did score – and swore loudly at Reitch when the Seeker flew close to their balcony.

Twenty minutes into the game, Harry noticed a pattern. Falmouth's Beaters would efficiently break through Chudley's shaky defence, but the Falcon's Chasers weren't capitalising. It allowed Chudley to counter-attack, but they, like Falmouth, weren't making the most of the other team's mistakes.

"This game's coming down to the Seekers," said Charlie, swigging the dregs of his beer. "I swear my old Gryffindor team could give this lot a run for their money. I've never seen such awful play from professional Chasers."

"Reitch will win it," said Harry confidently.

"Probably." Charlie's eyes were glued to the game. "It'd be nice to see Chudley win, though. I can't stand Falmouth."

Ron leapt to his feet as Chudley went through on goal, cheering as the Quaffle bounced off the inside of the ring and went in. The game was now all tied at fifty apiece. Immediately after the game restarted, Reitch made a silly foul and gave away a penalty, and suddenly Chudley was winning by ten.

"This just got interesting," Charlie muttered.

Falmouth continued to make needless fouls, and three successful penalties from five later, Chudley looked the better team. They scored again, and then there was an intake of breath around the stadium. Harry spotted why: Gudgeon had spotted the Snitch. Chudley's Seeker was an orange blur as he sped past the balcony, but Harry looked towards the other Seeker. Reitch's teeth were bared in a snarl as he gave chase, his straggly black hair whipping along behind him.

Charlie whistled through his teeth. "He might be a prick, Harry, but he's a fast one."

"He also has weaknesses," said Harry. "When his anger gets the best of him, his spatial awareness is shit. Look!"

Charlie winced as Reitch collided with Perry, Chudley's ginger Chaser. By the time Reitch managed to untangle his limbs from Perry, Gudgeon was all the way across the other side of the stadium, a thousand voices roaring him on.

"He's done it!" cried Ron.

The moment Gudgeon touched down, his teammates were all over him, engulfing him in a seven-man hug. Harry watched for a moment, oddly pleased for the bloke. On the other side of the pitch, Reitch was tearing his hair out. His broom was snapped in half, after he had stamped on it, and he was now hurling insults at the referee.

"What a prat," said a delighted Ron.

The partying started the moment everyone left the stadium. There was very little room to move on the street, as fans crowded inside every restaurant and bar, but there was one pub, at the very end of the street, that wasn't yet wholly jam-packed. Inside, diehard fans singing club songs made for a lively atmosphere. The walls couldn't be seen through a myriad of signed posters, flags, scarves, and countless other bits and pieces of memorabilia.

As soon as Harry had taken his seat, the table expanding to fit them all, a waitress with a name tag reading 'Felicity' bounced up to them. Her hair was bright Chudley orange, and her smile looked unnaturally wide, as though her lips had been cursed that way.

"Welcome to Gudgeon's!"

"Gudgeon's?" asked Harry, nonplussed.

"Yep!" Felicity nodded vigorously, her orange bob bouncing to the beat of the music playing over the speakers. "We rename this place every time the team gets a new Seeker."

"Oh," said Harry, turning to Fred and George. "Maybe we should think about starting the same tradition at Puddlemere."

"Why do that when you can just sign for us instead?" said Ron.

"Wait," said the waitress, now gazing in awe at Harry. "Are you saying that you're Harry Potter?"

"Yeah …" said Harry, pointedly ignoring the sniggering from around the table.

"Oh my …" Felicity started fanning herself with her hand, appearing to be on the verge of a panic attack. This, of course, turned everyone's sniggers into full-blown laughter. It took Harry a lot of patience and a discreet charm before Felicity calmed down enough to take their order. When she returned, levitating a dozen pints of ale and lager, Harry was pleased to see his charm seemed to have worked.

"Thank you, Felicity," said Harry, holding out the money, but she refused to take it.

"Oh no," she said, in a horrified sort of way, as though Harry had just offered to kill her pet cat. "These are on the house. Boss's orders."

"Jesus, Potter," said Seamus, the moment Felicity had left. "When's the last time you paid for anything?"

Harry hated to think of himself as a celebrity, but there were advantages that came with being famous, even though it was often a little embarrassing. Despite not being overly averse to taking advantage of his fame when it suited him, he decided he would leave some money on the table before they left.

Felicity brought out baskets of hot and spicy chicken wings, hot dogs slathered in mustard and ketchup, burgers bursting out of their buns, and curly fries smothered in melted cheese. There was a lull in the conversation as the food was devoured, although Harry, Fred and George refrained from eating anything, wary of having to burn it all off in training the next week. Harry already felt a bit guilty for drinking alcohol two nights in a row.

"I still can't believe Gudgeon caught the Snitch," said Ron.

"Nor can I," Harry muttered, rubbing his nose, which Gudgeon had broken a few weeks ago.

"There's no need to be jealous," said Daphne, her eyes sparkling. "Just because he has a pub named after him …"

Even as the late afternoon drifted into evening, the topic of conversation stayed on Chudley's surprise win. Despite her relationship with Ron, Hermione looked a bit bored by it all. At least this time she had Daphne to keep her company.

"Chudley are everyone's second team," Harry tried explaining to them. Hermione had been surrounded by Quidditch fanatics long enough, so it was more for Daphne's benefit. "They'll never be a threat to us, so we always want them to beat our rivals."

"They average about two wins a season," said Sirius, who was always up for educating newcomers to the game. "I remember, back in seventy-eight, Puddlemere and Montrose were neck and neck going into the last game of the season. Everyone thought Montrose would win the title, because they had Chudley, while Puddlemere had Ballycastle. But Chudley pulled off the impossible and Puddlemere won the league. It inspired us to go on and win the Quidditch Cup in our last year at Hogwarts."

"I'm sure it was all down to your superb Chasing skills," said Harry.

"No – your father was more talented than me," said Sirius, smiling fondly. "He scored twelve goals in forty minutes."

Harry was momentarily lost for words. Sirius had a knack of coming out with bits of information that Harry had never known about his parents.

"It's a pity our Seeker was so shit, to be honest," Sirius continued. "Still, with James and me in the team, we built up enough of a lead so it didn't matter."

Harry steadily became quite drunk as the hours flew by. When last call was announced, to the general displeasure of everyone, Seamus bought another round for everyone. They were all stumbling as they left Gudgeon's pub, laughing at another of Sirius's awful jokes, and stopped in the middle of the street. The cobbles were covered in a thin layer of snow.

"We should do this again sometime," said Ron.

Fred and George, who were leaning on each other for support, nodded in unison.

"Next time we're off, count us in," said George.

After a round of hugs from Hermione, and dodging Charlie, who was trying to give everyone a kiss, Hermione and the Weasleys disapparated.

"I'll take Daphne home," Harry said to Sirius, and left without waiting to hear what Seamus was about to say.

Daphne's grip on Harry's elbow tightened as they stumbled on landing. The snow was much thicker this far north, and it crunched underfoot as they walked up the path to Daphne's cottage.

"So, you can apparate when you're drunk?" Daphne laughed.

"I was far worse last week," said Harry.

Daphne fumbled with the lock a few times. The moment they were inside, she shrugged off her jacket, kicked off her boots, and aimed her wand in the direction of the hearth. A fire started crackling, bathing the lounge in a warm orange glow.

"So …" said Harry, standing awkwardly between the sofa and the door. "I'd best be getting home."

"You can stay," said Daphne, looking at Harry intently. "If you want."

Harry swallowed, his mouth having gone dry for the second time that day, and said, "I can stay."

A wide smile split Daphne's face. Then, before Harry really knew what was happening, Daphne's body was pressed up against his, trapping him against the wall, and she was kissing him furiously. In his drunken haze, it took a second for Harry's brain to spring into life.

"Wait – wait!" he gasped.

"What's wrong?"

"Is this … should we be doing this?"

"Can you think of any reason why we shouldn't be?"

"Not at this very moment."

They were kissing again the moment Harry's sentence left his lips. Daphne's fingers were very nimble, he soon discovered, after she had stripped him of his cloak and shirt. They made it to the bottom of the stairs, but rather than attempt to climb them, Harry decided it was simply easier to pick Daphne up and deposit her on the sofa.

There weren't many things in the world better than Quidditch, Harry thought as Daphne's bra was thrown across the lounge, but this was certainly one of them.