NOTES: Written for the Slash_Challenge community on Livejournal.com, 6th week challenge:
Harry, at the age of twenty one, reads Severus an article from the Daily Prophet about
Quidditch in attempt to make Severus go flying with Harry one evening.
Reaching out to what ever may come
"Um, Snape?"
Irritation. Annoyance. Snarl.
"What is it, Professor Potter?"
"Have you read today's Daily Prophet yet?"
Boy. Long legs.
"No, I haven't had the pleasure, yet."
Did I just think that?
"Well, it has this really interesting article."
Green-green eyes.
"Is there a reason why I should care?"
"It's about Quidditch, see."
Raised eye-brows. Irritation.
"Erm, it says that players in a long losing-streak often suffer from chronic depression and will end
up making near-fatal mistakes in the pitch."
"I repeat my earlier question."
Snark. Good.
"Well, the Slytherin team hasn't been winning lately, have they?"
"Your concern is heart-warming, especially coming from someone who assured that particular
state of things so often."
"Well, I am the school's Quidditch coach, aren't I?! I can't have favourites anymore."
"You will soon discover that we each hold them regardless."
---
"You used to play, didn't you?"
"Not that it's any of your concern. Which it isn't."
"I'll just take that as a yes. Were you any good?"
Growl.
"Uh-huh. That good? No wonder you `re always so gloomy. If we played, maybe I could let you
win. You know, just to make sure a fellow faculty member doesn't just collapse or something."
Cruciatus.
"I'm touched."
"No, I'm serious, I really think we should go out, fly a few rounds."
Do shut up, Potter. And stop looking at me.
"I have better things to occupy my time with. Like dissecting earthworms."
"Come on."
"Absolutely not."
Triumph!
"I'll even take you out to dinner afterwards."
What? ...Confusion. Oh God.
"What is it that you're propositioning, Potter?"
"..."
"Potter?"
"...Oh, nothing. Much. Something."
---
Swish of robes.
"...Coming?"
Months Later
The gloating bastard would be impossible for weeks to come, Harry was sure of it.
Slytherin had won the House Cup for the first time since, well, since Harry himself had started attending Hogwarts, anyway.
His dearest colleague, rival Head of House, and most importantly (and unfortunately), lover, would never let this live down, he just knew it.
It was not as if the Cup had been Gryffindor's the last few years-everything being fair in love and war, House points had often been deducted and added during the most... private activities --- but at least up until now it hadn't gone to the wretched Slytherins, either.
So the feast came, and Harry pouted.
Leaning back on his chair at the High Table, with arms folded, he gritted his teeth and reviewed the green and silver banners, the Slytherins in their malicious delight, not chancing even a glance at Snape's direction -- all the while conjuring plans that involved withholding sex, if Snape started vaunting.
And it would work beautifully, too, if he hadn't wanted the man so damn much, even now.
Especially now.
But Harry was sure of one thing. The blasted Cup would not be sharing the bed with them that night.