Snape saved Harry’s detention until the middle of February, the evening before the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match, which Harry thought was dreadfully unfair, and told Snape exactly that. Snape must have been feeling particularly indulgent though, because he just smiled spitefully instead of giving him another detention. Harry’s birthday present to him sat unobtrusively on his desk. When he had picked it out, Harry had realized that apart from being nasty to his students, he didn’t know what Snape liked. In the end, he had remembered his tirade on Roman names and bought him a book about the later Roman emperors. Snape hadn’t said a word about it, and he wasn’t reading it, but Harry took its mere presence as a good sign.

The enchantments on Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum that made the bubbles hang around for hours also prevented magical cleanup of gum stuck to the undersides of desks. Most teachers didn’t notice the gum much, because they didn’t sit in the class desks, and Harry didn’t think the desks in the Defense classroom had been cleaned underneath since Snape had gone to school, or possibly McGonagall. He stoically set to work using a scraper to pry loose the gum and Mrs. Scower’s Magical Mess Remover to clean under it. He supposed there were fewer disgusting detentions available to Defense Against the Dark Arts professors than there were to Potions professors.

Halfway through the desks, Harry stopped and brought up something Hermione had hissed in his ear when he had already been trying not to think about it. “It really isn’t fair giving me a detention right before the match,” he informed Snape tersely for the second time.

Snape glared sideways at him over a leather notebook. “Did I ever give you any indication that I care whether or not you think I am fair, Potter?”

“No,” Harry acknowledged, but he plowed on. “But I did think you wanted to keep your identity secret. Somebody’s bound to guess that you’re you if you do things like give the Gryffindor team captain a detention the night before the match against Slytherin.”

Snape turned a page in his journal. “The most observant of the students has already guessed. Potter, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Yeah, and the whole school will guess if you keep acting like a biased git!”

“I’m beginning to think you might actually like detention,” he spat, deliberately keeping his eyes on his journal, his concentration slipping.

Harry went back to cleaning the desks, a glower on his face that would have made Snape proud. “Just thought I’d give you the opportunity to spend time with your father.”

Snape stared at the journal, so startled that he dropped it and he had to retrieve it. He read something in it again, growled, and leapt from his chair, his journal clutched so hard that his nails dug half moons into the leather, and stalked out of the room. Harry kept his triumphant smile to himself for a moment, before a cold queasiness spilled into him. He cleaned the rest of the desks in peace, unwilling to give Snape an excuse to reassign the detention.

~*~

Severus paced furiously in front of the gargoyle, trying to decide whether or not he should burst into Minerva’s office and show her the incontrovertible evidence of Belby’s Lockheartian style trickery. He gnashed his teeth as his ire climbed, his thumb holding his old potions journal open to, of all Belby’s stolen achievements, Wolfsbane potion.

Of course, he supposed someone had to have invented it.

The sheer magnitude of the theft warred in his consciousness with the idea that he had invented the Wolfsbane potion. All of Belby’s fame, his prestige wasn’t built on the invention of some anonymous fellow brewer, an abstract victim, but from him. It was his work, his long hours hunched over a cauldron fiddling with proportions, and he deserved the credit for it!

Yet he didn’t want Wolfsbane connected to him. He didn’t want to be the one to have invented it. He had no altruistic motive, and not much of a financial one either, to have invented it. Likely he had done it in an extended fit of phobic self indulgence.

He stomped peevishly across the carpeted hallway and back again, scowling at the gargoyle while a little dissenting voice of reason told him that Minerva had probably already gone to bed for the night. He unclenched his hands forcefully, straightening out cramped fingers. In truth, he couldn’t really claim the potion anyway, even if he really wanted to, without losing what cover he had left. Besides, he wanted to see the man suffer, and he wouldn’t be able to watch if Belby were to rot in Azkaban for fraud.

He was pettily and ineffectively justifying his wish not to rush to Minerva like a sulking child, but he didn’t care. When she strode out of her office and saw him, she asked him if anything was the matter. “No,” he said shortly, and walked off. On his way to his quarters, he passed his classroom and leaned in. “Get out,” he growled at the boy inside, who fled, two desks still to be cleaned.

~*~

Half of the Gryffindor Quidditch team woke up with colds on the day of the match, but to Harry’s delight, so did the entire Slytherin team. Steam billowed out of their ears at breakfast from the liberal doses of Pepperup potion Madam Pomfrey had encouraged them to drink.

The Gryffindor team sat facing the Slytherin table, already in their Quidditch gear, their brooms propped up next to the chairs. They weren’t taking any chances that the Slytherin team might attempt a little sabotage.

Harry draped a protective hand on top of his own broom. Firebolts were still the best brooms in the world after eight years running, and Harry ran a finger over his broomstick with a sort of proprietary pride, but without the affection he had held for the broom’s identical predecessor. He almost hadn’t wanted to get another firebolt after the war, but he hadn’t wanted to get another owl either, and yet he had both the broomstick and the owl.

They made their way together out onto the pitch. Outside, snow was falling, the big wet clumpy kind that didn’t stick, but melted, turning the pitch into icy mud. A fierce wind blew through them. If the weather were warmer, it might have been called a breeze, but it seemed to find all the gaps in their clothing and blow cold air and slush right into them.

Ron’s head looked like a campfire with the steam curling around it, and Ginny had stuffed so many jackets and jumpers on under her Quidditch robes that her top half had taken on a globe shape. Harry shivered.

Just before the mach was set to begin, Harry waved his team over and they clustered around him. “Alright,” Harry tried to say decisively. “We can’t just win out there; we have to win by a lot, because Slytherin’s way ahead of us in the running for the cup.” The morning of the Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match, Branstone had tripped and fallen, walking alone down a staircase and had broken her arm. Harry hadn’t been able to bring himself to feel to sad about it after what she had done to his team, but then, she also hadn’t been around to do the same thing to the Slytherin team, who had won and won well. Besides, Branstone had told Madam Pomfrey that she was sure someone had hexed her, but she didn’t know who. Blatant Slytherin cheating, the school had whispered.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Ginny said confidently, spreading her arms. “It’s not like they’re any good.”

“We have to win by at least ninety points, which means we have to keep the Quaffle out of our hoops long enough for me to catch the Snitch,” Harry continued. Ron sneezed. He remembered how Fred and George used to make fun of Oliver Wood’s speeches and how annoying he had found them. At least Oliver hadn’t sounded like an idiot.

Ron sneezed again. “I’m up to it,” he reassured them, his nose bright red. Richie Coote nodded, conjuring himself a handkerchief and blowing his own nose. “Goyle and Bulstrode are too thick to figure out which part of the bat to hold,” he assured the team. “We can keep the Bludgers from bothering anyone this time.”

“Captain, shake hands,” Madam Hooch boomed. Since Urquhart’s graduation at the end of Harry’s sixth year, Malfoy had become team captain, but word was, no one on the team really listened to him. They eyed each other darkly as they grabbed each other’s hands, jerked them up and down once, and yanked their hands back as quickly as possible.

Harry nodded his team sharply, swallowing nervously as they mounted their brooms. When Madam Hooch gave the signal, they squelched into the air. Harry sped into the air high above the pitch to keep an eye out for the snitch. He supposed Seeker was the best position for the captain to play, because he could see everything.

He spotted Malfoy‘s narrowed eyes from across the pitch, and he doubted he would watch the game at all and instead watch Harry. Sometimes Harry wondered if Slytherins relied on sheer meanness to win.

“Slytherin’s put together a radically difficult lineup this year,” Zacharias Smith drawled, “making Harper, the reserve seeker, a chaser and adding two girls, at long last, their Keeper Davis, and their Beater, Bulstrode.” Harry didn’t think the lineup was that different, really, except that Davis could fly. Millicent Bulstrode was exactly like Crabbe only a girl. “However, some people feel the Gryffindor lineup is becoming stale. They only have one new member this year, and he was a substitute before. It’s said that the mark of a poor captain is his inability to know when to shake up his team.” Harry gripped his broom handle that much harder.

“Vaisey has the Quaffle and he’s heading for the hoops, but Robins blocked him, but look, he passed it to Harper, who’s streaking for the hoops, and Weasley catch- fumbles it, it’s in, ten points to Slytherin!” Harry swore softly, his eyes darting around the pitch for the Snitch as Malfoy waved his arms and made a small happy loop-de-loop.

“Vaisey’s flying for the hoops, but I don’t see the Quaffle, what is he doing?” Zacharias announced as Ron tried to block him, but he flew behind Ron. “I don’t believe it, he was hiding it under his robes, and he scored! Ten more points to Slytherin.” But Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out. “And a penalty shot, of course, for Gryffindor.”

Ron sent the Slytherin Chaser a rude gesture and he just grinned as he flew back to his side of the pitch. “Weasley’s in possession, she passes it to Robins. Thomas and Weasley are flanking her, she passes to Thomas, who passes back to Weasley, she throws, and scores! twenty to ten in Slytherin’s favor.”

Harry waved to Ginny, and she winked. He grinned. “Thomas is in possession. He’s flying straight for Davis, what is he doing?” He tosses it above her, it falls, but Robins catches it, she was behind Davis! She shoots, she scores! And the score is Twenty to Twenty.”

Take that, Zacharias, he thought. His lineup was stale, was it? He circled the pitch while Malfoy’s narrowed eyes watched him lazily. Even with his gloves, his hands had gone numb holding onto his broom. A flash of gold winked in the corner of his eye, and he turned sharply after it. Malfoy caught sight of it and raced after it too, a smirk on his face because he started closer to it. Harry accelerated, trying to catch up with him. “It looks like the Seekers have seen the Snitch!” Exclaimed Zacharias eagerly. “Malfoy’s in the lead.” But Harry was gaining. He sped up to be even with Malfoy, who elbowed him hard in the ribs. Harry swerved, but pulled himself back to dive after the Snitch. Yet, as both Seekers dove, the Snitch darted up and out of their reach and out of sight. Harry pulled himself out of the dive, and Malfoy trailed off to the side of the field. The whistle blast echoed over the pitch. “That’s the penalty to Gryffindor for one Seeker fouling another, neither of whom managed to catch the Snitch.”

“Robins has the Quaffle,” came Zacharias’ voice, and she dodges a Bludger, and Vaisey, but Davis blocks, no, she passed it to Thomas, and he throws, yes, it went though the far hoop, twenty to thirty to Gryffindor!” Harry drove his fist into the air as the Gryffindor stands roared with cheers.

“Vaisey in possession.” Harry flew around the edge of the pitch, hoping for a glimpse of the Snitch. A trail of melting snowflakes dripped down into his robes, and he shivered, taking his hands off his broom to blow warm air into them. “He shoots, aww, but Weasley blocks it!” Harry mouthed “good job” to Ron, but he didn’t think he saw it. Even if he had been looking, Harry didn’t think anyone could see what he had been saying from across the pitch.

“Thomas is back in possession,” Zacharias boomed, but no one paid any attention. Harry had seen the snitch, and he dove after it. Malfoy dove after it too, but he was too far away, there was no way he could catch up. The whole pitch had stopped to watch as he and Malfoy raced through the air, and Harry felt everyone take a breath as his hand closed around the struggling golden ball. “Potter has caught the Snitch!” The announcement was almost drowned out with the cheers from Gryffindor and the boos from Slytherin. The Hufflepuffs stayed mute, and Harry, had he thought about it, would have said they were sulking. Gryffindor’s victory had taken them out of the running for the cup. “That would make it one hundred eighty to, no wait, one hundred ninety to twenty, Gryffindor!” While Davis had been busy gaping at Malfoy and Harry and no one else had been paying any attention to him, Dean had scored.

~*~

Severus recalled his first flying lesson with some distaste as he watched Potter fly after the Snitch. Misfortune and Madam Richthofen’s carelessness had conspired to give him a school broom that was not only old, but on its last legs as well, the anti-jinx charms breaking down. As soon as Richthofen’s back had turned, Black had whispered, “Watch this,” to his friends and a hex at the broom in Snape’s hand. It had shuddered and begun to twitch and buck as soon as he had tried to mount it. His fellow first years had roared with laughter as he tried to fly with the hexed broomstick until he had thrown it aside and stormed off, saying he never really wanted to learn to fly anyway. Richthofen naturally assumed he was a horrible flyer. He had proved her wrong at the remedial lesson she had inflicted upon him in lieu of detention. It was then that she had called him a natural.

The very thought that he might have natural affinity for flying because James Potter had a natural affinity for flying made him all the gladder that he had never been fond of playing Quidditch. In his first year when Richthofen had begged him to try out for his house teem when he was old enough had driven him into a rage, and he had told her that if his performance was adequate, then he was leaving. Suddenly he had to stop himself from wondering why if he had never wanted to play he felt so fiercely glad that he could have if he wanted to.

A bushy haired girl plopped herself down on the bench next to him as he watched the Snitch foil both Seekers. “Hello, professor,” she mumbled.

“Go away, Miss Granger.”

“I, I,” Hermione nodded to herself almost unnoticeably. “I just wanted to say that I know who you are, Sir.”

“Are you in your own clumsy adolescent way trying to threaten me?” he hissed.

“No!” she cried, startled, “No, I…”

“Go away, then.”

“What I meant was I’m not going to tell anyone!” she insisted. “I’m going to keep your secret.”

“Why should I have any faith in your discretion,” he asked rhetorically, “when you had so recently set yourself to ferreting out my secrets?”

“It wasn’t as if I was spying,” she mumbled defensively. “I was using information from the library that anyone could access.”

“That does not change the fact that you went looking for it in the first place, Miss Granger,” he bit out. “Get out of my sight.” Hermione stood up, threw him one last dirty look, and walked away to sit three benches above him. He clenched his teeth together, feeling her eyes on the back of his neck until Potter caught the Snitch and she descended to congratulate the victorious team.

~*~

The cold treatment Ginny had been receiving from many of the seventh years in Gryffindor house for blowing up Prince’s desk and thus forcing them to redo their essays disappeared that evening with the victory party. After all, they had already written the essays once, so it wasn’t too hard to write them again. It was certainly nothing worth shunning one of the winning Quidditch team’s members over.

Ginny, a Quidditch banner tied around her neck like a cape, handed Harry a butterbeer, throwing a hand around his waist. “So, captain, we’re in the lead for the cup.”

“Yeah.”

“Comfortably so.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just between us and Ravenclaw now.”

“Well, if Slytherin did really really well against Ravenclaw next month…”

Ginny laughed. “Let me savor the victory for a little while.”

“They’d have to do really really well.”

“That’s better. Besides, did you see Malfoy’s face? He looked like you made him swallow a lemon, whole.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” Harry tried very hard not to smile, but it was a loosing battle.

“Maybe he’ll sulk for a little while and hide in a corner.”

“Or he could decide to challenge me to a duel.”

“Yeah, that really does sound more like Malfoy, doesn’t it?”

Harry snorted, glancing around at the food covered table in front of the fireplace. “Did you bring this all up from the kitchens by yourself?”

“I snuck it in from Hogsmeade,” she smiled. “And speaking of Hogsmeade,” she began and smiled at him again.

“What about it?”

“Next weekend’s a Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Yeah, I know. Ron was talking about it.”

“It’s Valentines day Sunday.”

“Yeah.”

Ginny glared at him. “Would you like to go with me?”

“Err… yeah, yeah of course.”

“By the way, I broke up a few acid pups and put them inside the éclairs, so you might want to stay away from them.”

“But Ron’s got an éclair right now.”

“Yeah, he likes them.”

“Acid pops?”

“No.”