Harry James Potter stomped down the corridors of Chudley Cannons Inc. looking particularly grim. One might even say that he was pissed off, except that one would be dead wrong. Dealing with a murderous Dark Lord for seven straight years had pissed Harry off. Losing the World Cup to Puddlemere United on the other hand, made him fucking furious. Plus, it didn't help that he was being doggedly pursued by the last person he wanted to see under any circumstances- unless a casket and shovel was involved.

"So Potter, any comment on your devastating loss to Puddlemere United? The readers would love to know how you plan to stage a comeback from this shocking fall from grace."

"Go away, Rita."

"Are you planning on switching teams? Mind you, I'm talking about Quidditch here but while we're on that subject, word has it that you've been cruising around town with a string of new boy toys. We'd love to put names to those cute faces."

Harry stopped short and gaped incredulously at the infuriating woman. "How have you not been lynched yet?" It was a sincere question - hell, he'd do it for a Sugar Quill.

"Talent, Potter," Skeeter replied smugly as she adjusted her spectacles and wielded that damned Quick Notes Quill of hers. "Something you're probably not all that familiar with considering the Cannons' dismal performance this season. Do you blame your captain? Your teammates? Perhaps a new lover is a cause for distraction? How about …"

Harry couldn't take any more. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He turned around to face the infuriating reporter and promptly groaned.

"Damn it," he snapped, gesturing exasperatedly at something behind her. "Who told the shirtless male models to show up today for the new campaign?" Rita squeaked and whirled around at once, giving Harry just enough time to turn tail and bolt for the nearest door. He slammed it shut and put up eight different locking charms before pressing himself against it for good measure.

"Alone at last," he sighed in relief.

"Yeah, not quite," a voice replied promptly. Harry yelped and cast a frantic Lumos, immediately sagging against the door again when he caught a glance of his cubby buddy. "Oliver," he greeted his morose team captain. "What the hell are you doing in a broom closet?"

Oliver Wood sighed tragically. "What am I doing in a broom closet, he asks. What does anyone do in broom closets, Harry?"

"Erm…"

"I am - as is customary in broom closets - reflecting on my shattered dreams, my broken hopes, the tragic comedy my life has become," Oliver informed him tonelessly.

"Oh," Harry felt obliged to say. "That."

"Plus that Skeeter woman's out there and she scares me."

"Join the club," Harry muttered, flopping down beside him. They sat together in the companionable silence that only blazing victories or grim defeat ever seem to inspire. The only noise came from Skeeter who was still banging up and down the corridors, looking for another hapless victim. Oliver sighed. So did Harry.

"We lost the Cup," Oliver mumbled.

"I'm aware of that," Harry retorted dryly. He was still feeling rather touchy about the whole thing.

"You caught the Snitch," Oliver continued undeterred. "And we still lost the sodding Cup."

Harry bristled. "I hear that can happen when your Chaser decides to host an impromptu rendition of Swan Lake mid pitch."

"Hey, it's not Heidi's fault her broom spun out of control," Oliver said sagely. "Poor kid's riding a Nimbus, for Merlin's sake. And ease up on the dance cracks, yeah? Last I heard she gave Andrew a black eye for running his mouth."

Training for the ballet, Potter?

"Yeah, I can see how that could be annoying," Harry admitted. "Still sucks though. You know what hurts the most? We have the talent, the best sodding players in the game and we lost because of a busted broomstick."

"You're telling me," Oliver grumbled. "Sponsors are fucking bastards is what the problem is. They take one look at the score sheet and they run. It's always the same. The Cannons haven't won a game in a century, they say. Why haven't we won a game in a century, you ask? Because we have lousy fucking brooms, that's why!"

Harry scowled at a rusty bucket, mentally willing it to turn into a pile of galleons. "How much do we need anyway? For new equipment and all that?"

Oliver raised an eyebrow and pulled out his wand, scribbling in thin air. Harry swallowed at the golden number shimmering in front of him. "That's a lot of zeros," he said finally.

"And that's just new equipment," Oliver muttered bitterly. "If we can't even cover that, it's goodbye Cannons." He shook his head and got up, dusting himself off. "Well don't let it bother you, Harry. Head in the game, yeah? Something will work out. Always does, in my experience."

Harry nodded reluctantly. Frankly, he didn't feel all that positive. And he was sick of losing, justbecause. But there was no point arguing with Oliver about it. So he said goodbye to his captain and decided to head out into civilization again. A night out was in order to forget this hellish day. Maybe that place with the cute blond bartender... Harry grinned. Life was starting to look a little better.

"Potter, Potter, Potter. Coming out of the closet again? You do make a habit of things."

So much for the day looking better.

Harry found himself scowling at a very familiar, very annoying set of features. "Right," he drawled. "Because this is a broom closet and I'm coming out of it. Hysterical, Zabini. You slay me. Now go away before I return the favour."

Zabini - arse that he was - took this as an invitation to walk alongside him, chortling all the way. Harry despaired. It was just that sort of day. "Who let you in here anyway?" he grumbled. "This is a strictly Puddlemere Prat free zone."

"I was in the neighbourhood," Zabini replied blithely. "Thought I'd stop by and say hello. Also,we won and you lost. Neener neener and all that."

"Very original," Harry replied dryly, raising an eyebrow at the Puddlemere chaser. "At least Malfoy's insults always rhymed."

Zabini raised an eyebrow of his own. "He had a lot of practice. Funny you should mention him out of the blue."

"He tends to pop into my head when I come across something particularly unpleasant," Harry retorted, giving the Italian chaser a pointed look. Zabini didn't retort. He was looking thoughtfully at Harry, almost as if he was... analyzing him. Harry could think of few prospects less pleasant than being analyzed by a former Slytherin. "That's your cue to go away," he added helpfully.

Zabini started slightly, then shook himself and smirked. "Because I'm just dying for your company, Potter. Believe me, I have better things to do. People to see. Trophies to polish."

"Don't let me keep you." Harry smirked back. "Have fun 'polishing your trophy'. And when you're done with that, try a cleaning charm on the Cup."

Blaise chuckled, caught somewhere between amusement and surprise. "I always liked you, Potter."

"Likewise. Oh and just so you know Zabini, if you want that Cup next season, you're going to have to fight for it. Because I'm going after it with everything I've got."

Zabini's grin widened. "I'll hold you to that, Potter."

Harry grinned. "Say hi to Malfoy for me." And then he was gone.

Blaise watched Potter's retreating back, making a mental note of his confident stride and quiet intensity. There was something about the man that appealed to his inner Slytherin. A fire smouldering beneath all that sweetness-and-light shite.

Interesting.

Blaise's smirk made a reappearance as he made for the nearest fireplace.

Seconds later, Lucius' irritable scowl flickered in the flames. "This better be good, Blaise," the older man snapped. "I was in the middle of something imp..."

"It is," Blaise cut in smoothly. He grinned as Lucius' eyes flickered with mild interest. "I found him."

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