A/N: Thank you all for being patient with me. I'm going through life adjustments and a crashed computer. The good news is that I have a new computer. The next news is, I'm still adjusting to a new way of life. But it's all good. This is the kind of "endurance" challenge that made me hurry and finish the other fics. As this story welled up inside of me, I knew it was too good to pass up, no matter how long it takes to write. I just hate to leave readers hanging. I can't wait to show you what I see… I've been trying to show you why Ash thinks he has the right to ask Severus out on a date, but Draco and Harry insist their issues come first. Delicious!


The last thing the thirty-two people, scattered on the quidditch field, expected to see was a bespectacled, slight young man with an excellent athletic stride and form walking towards them. Never mind the spiky, erratic look in his eyes, or the fact that he'd obviously escaped from a hospital, bed hair and all. His famous smile was no where to be seen. It was his eyebrows that framed his humorless determination as he crossed the field towards them. In photos, the glasses provided a buffer. But in real life, his eyebrows were seriously out of control and hinted of just a little instability from unsuspected levels of testosterone. He walked, not in public persona mode, but in armor mode. He expected to have to defend himself. With trains, goblins, and dismembered parts jabbing at his concentration, screaming that Snape was still alive, those watching didn't realize they were seeing a fight to concentrate on doing what he was there to do. If he came across as a little grim and too serious, that would keep them out of his face until he got himself sorted. And it was better to be taken too seriously than not seriously at all.

He had spit out Rankar's pill, but worried that it's bitterness had been in his mouth long enough to effect his playing. Spit it out, but kept it for later.

Only fifteen onlookers were the team and captain. The team was comprised of seven star players and counter players for backup and practice. They watched his approach, helpless to find words for the sight of him. The rest were agents, assistants, spouses and girlfriends of the team. Only two journalists had been allowed to cover the event.

Harry's jeans still had the price tag on them. He'd had to stop for shoes. The hospital slippers were incompatible with his need to tear up the pavement. He grabbed pants and sneakers at the same store and left the old ones on the floor of the bathroom stall. He'd missed the hospital bracelet altogether, and walked up to the team captain still wearing it.

Flushed, he strained to get his point across before any of them could refuse his presence. "I'm sorry I'm late. Please don't ask me to leave. I know you've all seen the papers. This practice is the only thing that's keeping me sane right now. Politics aside, let's just play."

Their stunned silence gave him a moment to catch his breath. He tried to make eye contact with all of them, but especially the woman he knew to be in charge, Abria Stepanov, from the Republic of Russia.

What passed for a greeting of a smile, was filled with uneasiness. She headed him off, her dialect turning English into harsh and bold sounds. "I can't let you practice. You're not well." She stood two inches taller than him and fifteen pounds heavier. It gave her a stout frame and cushioned her plump face, making her ultra feminine lips extra full. She wore blue braids in the front of her dark hair, pinned back above pierced eyebrows. Hands on her hips displayed her stance. She wasn't going soft on him just because he wanted her to.

Harry aimed all desperate appeal to her. "Do not make a decision based on the media. I'm here. I'm well. If you must, get a medic out here to confirm it. But don't assume that anything you've read in the paper justifies making a professional decision when I'm standing before you ready to go."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. He had a point, but she didn't tell him that the Minister had been by as well, and recommended that she not let Harry play. Her assistant had also gotten the message from Draco Malfoy to keep Harry from playing. She'd been prepared to turn him away, but they were all under contractual sponsorship and things could go nasty if she violated his right to participate without proof of his incapacity. "Fair enough, Harry. I'll have the team specialist look you over. If he says you're out, you're out. Not for the season, just till next practice."

"Fine." It wasn't, but he wasn't about to risk his place on the team by arguing with her. On the ride over, he reminded himself that all he had to do was keep his head down, cooperate with the team, and stay out of trouble. Negative press was bad enough, he didn't need to have to defend himself to teammates who were committed to a cause that was getting families out of shelters and into real homes. He would not be accused of letting his fame eclipse his purpose. Celebrity Quidditch was supposed to be a fun way to raise money and to rebuild burned cultural bridges. He wasn't going to let any darkness in his life poison that intent.

After a tense moment, during which he felt like an arse for letting his new teammates stare at him without an introduction, Abria motioned, "Come with me."

He'd received a roster of his teammates and their background qualifications months ago. They all knew each others profiles, but the first practice was the first time most of them had met in person, and Harry had missed that meeting altogether. Abria's back was to him as she pulled out her phone and argued with someone about requiring a mediwizard. She led him to the locker rooms and motioned to the gear available to him, should he pass his physical exam. The mediwizard showed up fast.

It was torture holding still for him and summoning the patience not to rush the procedure. Abria must've made her wish for the fastest verification known. The wizard had him dressed and deemed fit for practice in twenty minutes. Harry returned to the field, broom in hand and suited up. His teammates were already in the air, practicing above him, when he approached Abria. She blew her whistle. Everyone in the sky turned, mid-flight, to the sound of it and landed in a group around her.

This was the part Harry dreaded, but knew it had to be gotten over with. When everyone was in earshot, she introduced him without preamble. He was grateful for the no frills, "Okay folks, this is your teammate, Harry Potter. He's been cleared to practice with us today."

What he didn't expect was the round of applause this announcement got. It brought his eyes up from the their shoes. Eight men, six women, including the coach, gave him relieved smiles along with solid, hand-slapping appreciation. He heard the words, "Awesome to meet you, Mr. Potter." His own relief stunned him.

"Call me Harry." He shook hands with each of them. He'd meant to play it hard, as if any resentment encountered from them, would only slide off indifferent shoulders. But acceptance felt good. Too good not to give in. As each one pumped his hand, he was reminded that this wasn't school anymore. Most of them were professional players, not immature kids who would hold his difficulties against him. They were famous in their own rights, in the quidditch industry, and maybe that's why they forgave him so easily.

Abria got to the point. "The thing is, Harry, we've called in a substitute. Your place on the team is secure, but your absence has allowed us to test for strong backup. We did a bracket, with Greg and Jasper coming in the strongest seekers. I've tested every member against the others to see what kind of talent I'm working with and how compatible you all are. I know this is just supposed to be for fun, but I like winning and this is a career move for some of us. So how 'bout running beater, keeper, and seeker against the most qualified here, just to make sure we've positioned you to our greatest advantage?"

He nodded. "That's fine." She could've told him he'd have to play all three positions simultaneously, blindfolded, and he would've agreed. After hospitals and finding pieces of himself, this was an opportunity to dive back into something close to what he knew. His reputation had escorted him past formal tryouts, even though he'd volunteered to do so after the news of making the team bolstered a shit storm of protests from league officials and serious quidditch fans. Sponsorship for the matches argued that the goal was charity, not sportsmanship, and his presence was there to raise money, not win games. Since the team had nothing to do with the professional industry, Harry's fame and school reputation were ruled as valid criteria for his selection. The argument had made him feel as if he'd bought his way onto the team, and he was eager to put fears of his incompetency to rest.

Everyone took to their brooms. They saw him transform. Once in the air, Harry had something to prove and his expression lost the open appeal of someone eager to belong. It grew tight with concentration as he filtered out everything that had nothing to do with mowing down the counter team's chasers. This was where he knew his midnight workouts, with Draco at the Ministry and Iece in her bed, would pay off. Insomnia was a bitch, and during the months when it had been at its worse, weights and jogging were the only way to leave the worrisome monologue in his head behind.

As he soared into position, he insisted that his body was ready for this, stroke or no stroke. Wizard doctors didn't know everything. His training was in sync with his magic. It bothered him that he hadn't felt sharp enough to apparate, but that was mental focus and he was all about summoning the strength in his body right now. If he felt a little off, he told himself he had every right to, and pushed it out of the way. The newspaper photo still left his stomach sour. He could always rest later. Besides, things he'd discovered in the past two days wouldn't let him sit still if he wanted to. Since there was nothing he could presently do about any of it, might as well run his energy wide open, no apologies. Quidditch was just the way to do it.

Players took the formation of an elliptical circle, with seekers positioned overhead. He did a quick study of the chasers he needed to keep up with. Abria blew the whistle and released the quaffle. The South African, Shanti Kotze, shot ahead, beating everyone to the jump. Harry recognized her from the brief bio in the pamphlet given to him when he signed on. He knew she was known for lethal speed, which meant his best move was to stay out of her way. But he had to defend her progress.

They played the run twice, first with Harry directing his blows at the best chaser deflections he'd ever seen. Since the objective was to test him, the other beaters hung back once they saw that he could actually stay with Jasper Torres, the friendly Spanish-American, who had been the first to shake Harry's hand. But Jasper couldn't keep up with Shanti. It took a triple block to cut her off, knocking the quaffle right out of her arm as she pivoted to stay on her broom. Harry abandoned Jasper in favor of positioning himself ahead of the trajectory of the bludger currently being aimed at a counter chaser. Jasper followed him. Both raced towards the opposite hoop, with Harry calculating his swing to send the bludger colliding into the chaser's broom, and Jasper making sure he got to the bludger before Harry had a chance.

The players worked their way from one end of the field to the other four times, with Harry managing to throw himself into defending Shanti, but ultimately being ineffective against Jasper and Greg's systematic way of braiding the bludger through the chaser's path. Greg Von Greneger was a German professional, close to Harry's age. Harry remembered that his name was one of the first to headline championships when interest in quidditch started to make a comeback after the war. He was built more like a junior wrestler, all shoulders and neck, but moved like a surfer through the sky on his broom. And Jasper and Greg played well together. They didn't even have to aim the bludger, just kept it on an endless pass and velocity that no other beater could catch up with.

For all his training, Harry didn't have the skill for such synchronized maneuvers. But he could still think on his feet. When knocking the bludger from their monopoly seemed impossible, he shot ten meters ahead of the ball's path and dove towards impact. This gave him an advantage of, instead of chasing the ball down or waiting for it to come to him, he met it head-on, all judging on his timing. The danger lay in a mistimed blow that could've sent him off his broom, or the bludger turning him into roadkill in the air. It was a stunt move, and it didn't work. Harry was able to knock the ball out of their control, but he sent it straight into Greg's broom, spinning the man one way and his broom another. Greg's bat splintered into a spray of exploding wooden shards that gashed both of them with superficial cuts.

Safety charms, set up before the game, stopped Greg's fall. He was left to hover in midair until his broom made its way back to him. But not before everyone stopped to take in what just happened. It would've been a penalization for excessive force in a professional game. Abria called him on it. "That's brilliant, Harry. But totally illegal. Nice to know you've got some balls."

Most of the team laughed. The way Greg glared at Harry, as he climbed back onto his broom, he might've thought they were laughing at him. Harry flew to him. "Are you all right?"

Greg's strained eyes peered at Harry from the shadow of a prominent brow ridge. Harry added, "You have to know that was an accident. I didn't mean to do that."

Greg looked at Harry as if he didn't know what he was talking about. The absence of any friendliness told a different story. Harry's apology was somehow embarrassing to him. Instead of answering, he looked Harry over, sneered, then flew off.

Harry nodded to himself. "That's about right," he congratulated himself for pissing his teammate off right away.

Abria changed her tactics. "Lets run the keeper drill. I've seen what I need to see."

Harry got back into formation, not minding that his new test as keeper would give him a minute to catch his breath.

He was wrong. Abria didn't bother staging any other plays around Harry's ability to keep the quaffle from getting past him. When he saw all the other players line up in front of him, he tensed. She might've told him he'd be facing a firing squad. It messed with him a bit. Were they all pissed at the bludger incident? Not twenty minutes ago, they'd cheered him on.

His confidence took a hit, but he hid it behind a mask of determination. They wanted to catch him showing fear, his logic soothed. So they could work around it before he embarrassed them all. Maybe they thought they had to toughen him up. At first they were fair enough to keep only one ball moving among them, giving everyone a chance to test him, not just Jasper and Greg. It was daunting at first, but by the time Harry had successfully blocked four attempts and lost two, he realized there was an element of fun to this. Direct challenge went head to head with triumph and that kept his blood hot with excitement.

Just when he thought he'd surpassed their expectations, they introduced two more balls. Instead of complaining of unfairness, he understood they needed to know how he performed under pressure. He held his own for as long as he could. As his success rate dropped, his frustration rose. The balls came at him at an unrealistic pace that would never happen in a real game. Even when missing them should've brought the trial to its logical conclusion, players were allowed to continue baiting him.

Abria hovered on the edge of the action, her eyes wide and delighted at the fervor of her players. Instead of crying mercy, Harry began to make his blocks meaningful. For every ball he blocked, he sent it back with twice the speed, and not just deflection, but aimed it at the thrower so that its direct return caught them by surprise. He knew that he couldn't keep it up, and that just as many were getting past him. But he also calculated which ball would be his last. If failing was the only way to end this pile-on of players, then he was going to fail spectacularly. The athlete in him knew that was really the spark they were antagonizing out of him. He gave it to them in the form of his hardest shot and retaliation.

Once again, hardcore power became the only reason for being, and his magic supported him. Players gasped to feel the blow push their brooms back ten meters. Harry didn't know what they felt, but he read the shock and delight in their exploding smiles as they mouthed the word 'wow' in the wake of his reaction. No one had to be telepathic to read what his magic relayed as it burnt itself up and faded in the air around them. They had sufficiently pissed him off.

A few of the players suffered mild tingling from the shock wave of Harry's magic. Two, Quay Brant and Mark Staggler, both US players, actually held their hands in front of their chests, commenting on the stinging. Jaws gaping, they took in Harry anew. One, who had thrown the ball and been the closest, looked down at the blisters forming on his hands, then back up at Harry. Harry met Greg's stare and took satisfaction in not apologizing this time.

In spite of the hard glare between them, the other players were impressed enough to start another round of applause. Traces of Harry's magic was still fading. But through it, he could feel how they now trusted his competence among them, and that had nothing to do with his famous name.

After a brief rest and refreshment, they were back in the air for the final test. Abria now knew that she'd waste his abilities if she ever attempted to use him as a keeper. Time to let him do his thing. On his way back to the field, Harry stopped to notice the team medic healing Greg's hands. Greg looked up from his seat on the bench. Harry made a point of lingering a second longer than necessary before striding off.

On the ground, he'd socialized just enough not to be rude. When he could, he kept his distance, knowing full well his position was still too new and precarious. There was at least one among them, who wasn't on board with accepting him, and could probably make things difficult. If an issue of loyalty came up, an old friend would win out over a new face any day. Harry had to stay in a mental place where that didn't matter and didn't faze him.

When Abria announced she'd narrowed it down to one seeker to play opposite Harry, his gut, along with the gleam in her eye, told him who it was. Greg. Their captain was sadistic. Harry kept his face blank as he took his position in the air. Below him, the rest of the players held formation, gripping their brooms and straining to gauge through the sunlight how he was fairing. Greg shot into position. Across from Harry, Greg's shoulders hunched forward. He aimed his entire body into a lean that put Harry in his direct path. His first mistake, Harry decided. The man was obviously making this personal. Harry could've been the better man and set an example of professionalism, but he got a better idea.

Greg's menacing expression at first confused Harry. How could a paid, famous quidditch player possibly feel threatened by his amateur rank among them? Instead of being intimidated by Greg, he could barely hide the corner twitch of his mouth as he found it funny. Suddenly, he was back at Hogwarts and took devilish pleasure in using the only ammunition he ever had against Draco. He smiled. But it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a baiting smile. Secret, subtle, but obvious to someone as caught up in hating him as Greg was demonstrating. It was a naughty smile, with the tiniest bit of tongue peeking through, and it worked. When the quaffle was released and the snitch revealed itself, Harry was off while Greg was startled.

The only real advantage to gaining a second on Greg, was pissing him off, hoping to further throw off his concentration. He was better than Harry in almost every aspect, speed, strength, accuracy. But Harry's smaller frame could contort itself against his broom in a way that aided aerodynamically. His turns were tighter, helping him to gain a split-second advantage whenever their speeds required turning on a point. Greg could not do ninety degree turns, and Harry drew attention to this by leaning into sharper turns. He used his torso as a counter weight and his broom adjusted to the direction. It was like turning his body into a wand and the broom followed his lead. With the force of the wind, it was tricky getting himself to bend at just the right angle, at just the right time, but much more feasible than the bulk that Greg had to manage through his wide turns. Greg was far from clumsy, but his graceful arch proved to be a weakness against Harry's leaner technique.

When Harry was able to keep the snitch in his sight, he lost track of what was happening below. The race to grab it, had him side by side with Greg. He felt the other wizard's magic, spraying downwind like the smell of sweat, pushing his broom to go faster than Harry's. The snitch turned, taking them on a trajectory through the players below. Greg edged his broom inches ahead of Harry's and extended his arm. His fingers were a stretch away from the snitch when Harry squinted, drawing an imaginary line from the tip of his broom to the ball, and forced his magic through it. He couldn't make the snitch come to him, but he could send a blast of energy through the core of the broom to send it out of Greg's reach. It did the trick, causing Greg to glance back at him with suspicion.

Harry wasn't breaking any rules. The game required magical command over one's broom and he was just demonstrating it. That's what he'd tell anyone if he had to answer for himself later. The snitch hovered in its new location for a second, before speeding past them, forcing them both to backtrack after it. Flipping at top speed, Greg tried to make his turn tighter than normal, causing the rear of his broom to hit Harry's. Stiff, almost solidly bound spikes of straw, broke off into pieces as both brooms made impact. Harry thought he saw sparks, but didn't wait to find out. He spun himself out of the stalemate and followed the snitch higher into the air. He got to it first, but Greg's broom scraped his just hard enough to throw off his reach.

There's a phenomenon in quidditch known as seeker's sway. It's the inexplicable way that a snitch's momentum and course changes in relationship to the seeker closest to grabbing it. The ball seems to react to how heated the desire is to catch it. Always excitable, it accelerates or decreases activity according to the focus upon it. It has a magical connection to the players concerned with it, but does not pick favorites. To sway the snitch, a player has to be consumed with catching it. And then, it only reveals their connection by speeding up as determination grows, or slowing down if disinterest sets in.

After losing his connection to Greg's brute force, Harry let him charge ahead and gain tremendous distance. Then he put everything he had into speeds that projected his body disastrously ahead of the snitch. This was tricky because he couldn't always be sure of where it would be from one second to the next. He reached for it just as Greg was about to grab it. Harry's fingers were close, but not close enough to touch it. His connection to the chase pulled the ball out of Greg's reach. The snitch had to speed up according to the determination of the wizard who got to it first. Harry counted on his desire for it, to compromise its momentum. This worked. He couldn't catch it, but when he leaned back on his broom and pulled away, neither could Greg. The snitch was swayed away from him.

Greg's curses were lost to the wind. Harry lost sight of the snitch and made a wide swoop. He noticed that the players below had mostly stopped to watch him and Greg. It wasn't a real game, so no one was worried about losing. All interest seemed to be on his competition with Greg. He chose a spot to keep his eyes fixed on. The center hoop at the far end. He'd reached the point that he knew his eyes weren't going to see the snitch by looking around for it. They were going to keep still until the snitch's glittering movement distracted them.

Whether Greg had ever learned this trick or not, he caught up with Harry as soon as Harry latched onto the hint of a blur that glistened one second and was gone the next. Greg had only to follow him. He caught up with Harry and their speeds tied. Reckless zeal had them shoulder to shoulder. Their brooms collided. Greg's foot levers entangled with Harry's, causing the brooms to lock together. Quickly, Greg tore loose, taking a chunk of Harry's lever with him. Harry's broom lurched as he twisted it away. A loud crack slapped in the wind and the rear of his broom disappeared, leaving him with only half a stick and gliding without power. He caught hold of Greg's tail twigs, which hung by thin slivers that wouldn't last in the wind. With nothing else to lose, Harry threw himself onto Greg's broom. Greg punched at his hands, but Harry held on. Deceleration took them down. Greg kept Harry's arms from wrapping around his broom, but not his legs. All Harry had to do, was throw one leg around the handle, to compromise the broom's ability to receive instruction. It now had two wizards telling it how to fly. Instead of plummeting, it began to jerk as each wizard fought for dominance.

The snitch flew around their heads, reminding them what they were their for. Both retained the presence of mind to reach for it. Both lurched as the broom obeyed their single desire for the ball. They instantly figured out that trying to knock each other off the broom was never going to get either of them to the snitch. Greg let Harry hang on, in favor of gaining speed toward his objective. Harry hung under the handle and used all his strength to keep his torso in alignment with where he wanted the broom to go. Together, they achieved a speed that got them to the snitch. But in the battle for control, neither saw how close they were to the stands, or calculated the distance needed to slow down. Only safety spells cushioned their acceleration as they slammed into the fabric of the boxseat awning. A canopy of covered seats broke their fall, collapsing the framework with it. It was a stand-alone set of seats, unattached to the main arena. It folded with them inside and sent the rest of the team to the ground running.

Abria barked instructions for the medic and players to dig their teammates out. When the last of the heavy, waterproof canvas had been thrown aside, Harry's head was the first to pop up through metal and wood supports. Disheveled and bruised, his lip was bleeding but he looked to be in one piece. A flash went off in his face. Abria and the other players grimaced at the photographer before shouting for Greg. They uncovered him, at first unconscious, but waking upon being carried to a levitating cot. Once the medic determined that his most serious injuries were bruised ribs and a cracked elbow, everyone breathed easier.

Abria released her verdict. "Shit, Harry. Hell of a match, now the team's going to have to vote on this."

Harry heard groans. He decided to spare them the agony of choosing between the new guy and their friend. He held up the snitch. "I thought this decided everything."

Abria looked surprised, as did all the others, but oozed a malicious smile onto her face. "Unbelievable. We have a seeker, then."

Before his shower, Harry accepted an invitation to join his team at a pub. Jasper was especially welcoming.

"Let us buy you a drink. I've never seen anyone commandeer another player's broom, especially not one as big as Greg."

Up close, Jasper's bronze blond waves were freed of their band and hung down his shoulders. His Spanish-American accent, along with his black roots, belied his beach head and tanned chest. The ends of his wavy hair were highlighted to match his thin, dyed goatee. He was shirtless, wearing only a towel and sandals. "Us small guys have to stick together."

At the use of the word 'small,' Harry noticed that Jasper's biceps made three of his.

Quay Brant and Mark Stagger were walking past just then. Quay, no doubt was on her way to the female locker rooms. She nosed in, "Don't make this about small guys, Jasper. You'll alienate the rest of us. Harry's on our team now, we're in it together."

Mark whooped, holding his fist out for a bump. She obliged. The sight amused Harry, who had never done a fist bump but knew it was an American show of bravado. "See ya at the bar," she grinned before leaving. She had a cropped, wedge-looking hair style, extremely dark skin, and muscular definition to her biceps, but she sauntered with rounded, feminine grace that had Mark pointing at her arse and making clawing hands behind her while the others laughed. Harry got the feeling they were a couple, or at least shagging.

"So, how 'bout it? Drinks?"

He wasn't about to turn Jasper down, no matter how tired he felt. Practice had given him exactly the work out he wanted, but now he was starting to feel the need to fall on his face. If he added alcohol to the mix, he knew he wouldn't stand a chance at staying on his feet. Doctor Rankar had already warned him that if he didn't want to have anymore weird dreams, he couldn't take the pills and drink while doing so. He promised himself to only have water, no matter what was being served around him. "Sure, where'd you have in mind?"

"My room."

Harry's eyebrows went up, but he pretended that wasn't inappropriate. "I thought she said you were going to a pub."

"She said bar, actually, that whole American thing. Well, they are. We made plans, but listen mate, if I can get you drinking in my room, that's my first choice. Am I right?" His grin told Harry how delightfully funny he sounded to himself.

Harry folded his arms. "I'm sorry? We've just met. What makes you think that's appropriate to say to me, your teammate?"

"Oh hell, I don't mean to offend you, but everyone's thinking it. I'm only saying it. You made headlines this morning." Jasper nodded at the newspaper folded on a bench behind Harry. "And I ain't talking about the fainting spell. We placed bets that there's a popup tent behind all those pixels. Everything else looks to be in perfect place. If you can kick Greg's arse midair, you're no dainty flower behind this. Rumor has it, you fuck like you play. Hard and fast. Some of us just want to know what kind of equipment you're working with. Drinks in my room will cut discovery time in half."

Harry blinked while he readjusted his impression of Jasper. He told himself the guy wasn't doing anything wrong. People hit on him all the time. But he had to stop it right there. "I'm in a relationship."

The words startled him as much as they startled Jasper. He had never relied on such an excuse before, but there was something about being expected to drop his pants so easily, especially if his whole team thought so, that made him dig in his heals. So he was basically a famous slut to them? "And even if I weren't, being invited to play with you all is a privilege I'd rather not fuck up by getting involved with my teammates. The people who published that photo, are just waiting on me to screw up. My mistakes are their livelihoods. I signed a contract to conduct myself professionally and I'm going to, so please don't make anymore advances towards me. I'll have drinks with you, but that's all. And by drinks, I mean water."

Instead of taking insult, Jasper leaned forward, bringing his face as close to Harry's as he could politely get away with. He touched the tip of his finger to Harry's nose and said, "I guess that will have to do. Pub's across the street from the stadium. Sevenish. See you there, Mr. Potter."

The highlighted tips of Jasper's hair, whirled past Harry and into the showers.

The pub turned out to be a seafood grill called Mackey's, with a dance floor and a full bar. Gogol Bordello's Start Wearing Purple, played in the background and the place smelled of fried shrimp and cologne. Harry found his team corralled into a nook where tables had been pushed together to make room for them. The layout was a series of split levels, railings and terrace seats. The team spotted him and raised their drinks. They shouted his name as if they'd known him his whole life and he had to swallow, moved by how good it felt.

He joined them and quickly noticed who wasn't there. He turned to Quay, who sat on Mark's lap. She held her beer in one hand and denied Mark his in her other hand.

"So, is Greg still sore? Do you think he needs an apology?" Only after it left his mouth, did he feel like he was betraying himself. That prat didn't deserve an apology. Judging by everyone's laughter, they knew it also.

Quay wiped at the froth on her mouth. "Every team's got an asshole, Harry. And Greg's ours. Let him mope a while, he'll come around."

Shanti, further down the table leaned in and told him, "He's sitting down there, pretending he doesn't want to be up here with us."

He looked to where she pointed. Greg was at the bar on the floor, looking unfazed and collected in a black tank that showed off his muscles. His eyes flicked up just as Harry tried to piece together what he must've been thinking to stoop to avoidance.

Shanti encouraged him, "Why don't you try buying him a drink? His inner diva will have to give you props for that."

Harry didn't want to, but it did seem like the sportsman thing to do. He stood, nodding his consent to give it a try. The team sent him away with supportive expletives.

Jasper grabbed his arm. "Hurry back, so I can be the one to buy you a drink."

"Water only," Harry reminded him, gently pulling from his grasp.

At the bar, he made no preamble about sinking onto the empty seat next to Greg, whose only response was a heavy and prophetic sigh. They both knew what Harry was there for and Harry wasn't going to pretend he wasn't. If Greg wanted to hold a grudge and sit here all night, that was perfectly fine. Harry just wanted to be able to say he made a gesture to fix things and that was that. He didn't care if it worked or not. It was never a good idea to force friendship. Let people come to you when and if they ever got ready. Besides, he knew how hurt pride felt and he hated it when well-meaning people tried to rush him through it. It had to spend itself.

He nearly jumped when a bottle of Beamish Stout splashed down in front of him. It was not his drink of choice and the laughter in the bartender's eyes assured him that he'd meant to startle Harry out of his inner monologue.
Harry looked from the glass to Greg, who held his own drink level with his temple and cocked an eyebrow. The toast was subtle.

"What's this for?" Harry asked.

"I beat you, that's all. Don't suppose you came down here to chit-chat."

Harry gave him that. Alright, maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all. "You played a good game. Rough, but good."

"So did you."

Wow, maturity. Another surprise. Was it too much to hope that this guy really didn't have anything against him? "So you're really not pissed at me for what happened today?"

"Oh, I'm pissed." Greg's lips sucked around the neck of his bottle. Harry watched the liquid guzzle into his working jaws before he finished his thought. "But if I'm going to lose my position to someone, I wouldn't have it any other way. Fuckin' loved it and hated it at the same time."

He spoke in a low, static voice that held an aggressive tone. Harry was careful not to let his guard down. After a moment, Greg asked, "So you don't like beer?"

This time, an apology was inherent in his head shake. "Uh, yes. I drink, but I have to avoid it for now. Medication." He kicked himself. He didn't have to tell this guy anything.

"Shit, what do you plan on doing for fun? You're headlining tomorrow, aren't you? Opening ceremonies and all? We all got tickets to your lecture. I personally want to know how all that Voldemort shit went down, but I can wait."

Harry nearly choked on the dryness in his mouth. He might not have been drinking, but he did need a beer. He asked the bartender for a water and resigned himself to leave if Greg wanted him to talk about anything to do with the war. He didn't know why he felt so offended by the use of Voldemort's name. He'd be using it tomorrow and he always had. It's just that Greg used it carelessly, without any clue to what the name came to mean to the people who feared it. And now Harry knew what all the grownups from his childhood were talking about whenever they shushed him over the use of the name. If you heard it spoken carelessly, it hit the ears in an obscene, nails-to-chalkboard kind of way. He made a mental note to be more respectful to others when using it. How it was used, revealed one's ignorance.

His silence, in the aftermath of hearing the name, brought awkwardness to the conversation. Greg's solution was to make it worse.

"So what are my chances? That Malfoy dude keep tabs on you, or what?"

Now Harry had to worry about spitting out his water.

"Word has it, he's some kind of baddass business wizard or something. A reformed Death Eater? So how'd he let that photograph happen? DMLE hit your hotel up for questioning after he showed up today. They're saying he tripped wards right in front of muggles."

Harry hadn't talked to Draco in two days, not since he delivered Snape's file. He couldn't think about him without thinking about Iece. Draco's insistence that he stay away from her for a week, was nothing but a wall of pain. There was no real reason to stay away from his daughter, but Draco was really reminding him that it was he who wanted time away from Harry. It didn't surprise him if Draco had reacted badly to the photo. It kinda felt good, that he would still step in and defend Harry if necessary.

Harry didn't know what to say, so he opted for condescension. "Done your research, have you?"

"I wouldn't' call keeping up with the news, research. I'd keep a better watch on you if you were mine."

Again, it took effort not to flush. And even more to come back with, "He could be watching us right now."

"Mind if I give him something to be concerned about?"

Harry put his water down and stared to gauge whether Greg was serious. He had yet to see Greg smile and as the first one slid onto his face, Harry understood that he was serious.

Greg sat up and leaned in. "Let's see if he'll come running."

Harry pulled away, hardly believing the large-boned, handsome features that drank him in through brown eyes. Greg obviously thought he had a chance. Before Harry could correct him, Greg's hand came up behind his head and pushed it forward, bringing Harry's mouth into a tight kiss. Lips, fuller than Harry's, scooped his between them and chewed to get him to open his. The movement was so fluid that Harry actually noted the taste of Greg's tongue before reacting to push him away.

It was only a second of heat, but it was enough to cause Harry to break into a sweat. He would've been less angry if he could've hid his flush, but he knew his cheeks weren't going to let him get away with it. He stood, knocking over his water. It splashed across the bar and onto his pants, gaining notice from the patrons around them. Panic over who might've seen them, burst and died in the same instant, in his chest. There was no apology on Greg's face. If anything, he saw an arrogant satisfaction. Was this some sort of payback? It was too forward and too inconsiderate for Harry to be flattered by it. Again, it made him feel like his reputation had others placing bets on who was going to have him first. He didn't have the stomach for those kinds of games anymore.

He noticed the bar had gone much quieter. Or it seemed that way to him. People were staring, but mostly went on with their conversations. Looking up, he saw his team at the next level, their eyes gaping. They all turned away from his gaze when he caught them staring. All except Jasper, who raised his beer with a grin, and toasted from afar.

Harry threw down his money. "Don't you ever do that again." He turned and left.


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