Bats fly.

It was such an obvious statement, such an easily accepted piece of common knowledge that he wondered at how it had slipped his mind. The small creatures seem to be entirely composed of their leathery wings, which dwarf the size of their bodies in comparison. They are renowned as the only mammals capable of maintaining true and sustained flight, and clouds of the animals taking to the sky hang as the backdrop for many a Muggle horror film. Not only are bats capable of flight, they are skilled at it; with their echolocation, they can maneuver about obstacles in ease even in total darkness.

It would only make sense then for Hogwarts' own dungeon bat to have these same skills.

Oh sure, he had seen the dour black-cloaked man on a broom before, refereeing his Quidditch match back when he was naught but a first year. He hadn't paid much heed of the man however; not only was he too encompassed by the task at hand of hunting down that elusive dancing golden orb, but some naïve part of him had hoped that by keeping the fierce Potions Master out of his attention, Harry would remain out of his in turn. What few glimpses he had caught of the old bat out in his peripheral vision, he had seemed irascible and ready to snap. At the time Harry had assumed it was because he felt uncomfortable up in the air; now, years of dealing with the man had him inclined to believe otherwise, that the older man had simply been stressed with being tasked to oversee the well-being of "dunderheads" such as himself whilst playing a dangerous sport. Anyone would look irritable in that scenario.

Even so, Harry would never have stretched out to the idea that the man enjoyed flight, let alone was skilled at it. Yes, while Harry never truly comprehended why Hermione held such distaste for flying, why anyone could not feel their joy soar alongside their broom, the could sooner visualize Ron 's marks surpassing Hermione's than the foul-tempered Potions Master being lost in the elation of flight.

And while the idea of Snape not being "adequately versed in the necessities of any subject area" was just as laughable, for Snape to be skilled on a broom simply didn't register with him. In Harry's mind, the realm of Snape's dungeon lair and the breathtaking joy of the Quidditch pitch were so far removed from each other that to connect any part of these two worlds was incomprehensible.

Which is why he still didn't understand how he had come to be in this situation, staring down one Professor Snape as they both held their respective brooms (Snape's being a surprisingly good Cleansweep Eleven and Harry clutching his Firebolt) as they stood out on the Quidditch pitch, with one Ronald Weasley waving about a filched Golden Snitch in hand. How on earth had he gone from grinding Bicorn horn in his mortar and pestle to challenging his most hated Professor to a battle of brooms? Thinking back on it though, Harry hadn't really been the one to dare Snape to a duel in the air. Really, Ron should be in his place now, considering how the fiery redhead had been the one to provoke Snape. Albeit, Snape had been trying to provoke Harry himself at the time, but it wasn't anything aside from the customary scorn he dished out preceding a Slytherin/Gryffindor match. Harry really didn't know why this time Ron had snapped, declaring Snape to be "jealous of Harry's skills on a broom" and denouncing the furious Potions Master as being "too scared to fly". Ron really was an idiot sometimes, and Harry wondered just at what had possessed his friend to not merely cross the line but bloody well desecrate it when he bet that Harry could "take Snape on any ol' day on a broom". Needless to say though, Harry hadn't been the only one shocked when Snape's livid scowl had contorted into a feral grin, stating that "today was as good a day as any" and promptly evanesco-ing the class's potions and leading them outside. For once, Hermione wasn't the only one furious with Ron and his big mouth.

Harry shook his thoughts away as Ron gave a shout, finally allowing the Golden Snitch to slip free of his fingers. The sneer twisting Snape's facial features held an air of determination along with the customary distain as he launched into the air alongside Harry. He couldn't help but note that Snape really did look like a bat then, with his customary black robes billowing out behind him in the air like massive leathery wings. That was all the time Harry could afford to distraction though as Snape veered sharply to his right, directly in front of Harry. Harry was forced to jerk upward to avoid collision, and even then the bristles of his Firebolt knocked into Snape's back. Harry twisted his body slightly to regain his balance, losing sight of the snitch as he did so.

Snape hadn't seemed to however, and Harry noted with a flash of anger that the bat was flying straight and true and in a completely different direction than he had swerved to. Harry urged his Firebolt after his professor, swiftly gaining ground. So the bloody bat had done so just to knock Harry off-course? How, well, how Slytherin of him! Harry ignored the voice telling himself that he used those same tactics all the time, that it was simple strategy. The circumstances were different. Harry wasn't a bastard.

Just as Harry's eyes focused on the faint glimmer of gold, the snitch jerked downward. He unflinchingly went into a nosedive, broom nearly perpendicular to the field below. To his surprise Snape dove alongside him, a dark shadow of fluttering robes. His greasy dark locks were blown away from his face, and Harry saw the fierce black eyes narrowed in determination. Even more surprising was the ebullient grin on Snape's face.

Snape was Grinning.

Professor Snape was Grinning.

Professor Severus Snape, greasy dungeon bat and dour Potions Master, sneering snarky savage sour Severus Snape, was Grinning.

Harry nearly fell off of his broom.

As it was, his shock jerked away his gaze from the snitch, and when he looked back, it was gone. Harry swerved upward from his near free-fall, twisting his broom to cut off Snape's path at the same time. His professor's gaze narrowed slightly as he was forced to do a near one-eighty, and as the Cleansweep Eleven's bristled scratched against Harry's arm, he told himself the circumstances were different. He, unlike Snape, wasn't a bastard.

And so the two of them became lost in this, lost in flight, lost in the harsh biting wind and the thrill of the chase. Harry soon forgot about Ron screaming cheers from the sidelines, about Hermione's worried gasps each time he and Snape twisted about each other and nearly collided, of Malfoy's jeers. He even forgot that this was Snape, Professor Snape, the man who despised him with less reason and more fervor than Voldemort himself. Because at the moment, he wasn't in the air with the dour Potions Master who doled out detentions like Flitwick doled out House points. No, right now the two of them were simply adrenaline, blood pounding in their ears; they were flight, encompassing all of its dangers and joys. They were competitors. They were companions, joined by one common and conflicting goal:

Catch the Golden Snitch.

And in the end, nearly an hour later, Harry could no longer say he was surprised when Snape's long, slender, potion-stained fingers closed around the fluttering golden orb. He could no longer say he was surprised at his professor's wind-blown black hair and sallow cheeks flushed with exertion and cold and joy. He could no longer say he was surprised at the grin that lit up the bat's features, even as it was quickly masked by a smug sneer riddled with superiority and contempt.

And even a week later, when he took his Firebolt out to the fields, he could no longer say he was surprised to see Snape waiting, his Cleansweep Eleven held lovingly by potion-stained fingers and a challenge glinting in his black gaze.

After all, bats love to fly.