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Harry pushed off the ground and into the air, flying out into packed stadium like a bullet. He spun in circles through the air, feinting to the left before taking a right turn and looping around the stadium. Fans reached out to him from the bleachers and the sound of the stadium grew louder and louder. His vision was a blur of colors, flying as fast as he was, but he could feel the reverberations through the air.

“Potter! Potter! Potter!” yelled the crowd. Fans of Puddlemere United drowned out most of the noise from the Wimbourne Wasps supporters.

Quidditch had done more to cure Harry of his dislike of being singled out than defeating the Dark Lord ever had; there was something electrifying about the honest glee that much of the stadium chanted his name with. And even the booing from the other team’s supporters was in the clean spirit of quidditch rivalry. This wasn’t about darkness or rumors or who said what in an interview. It was about the sport that had captured his attention in his first year and would hold it for the rest of his life.

Harry did a barrel turn near the announcer’s box, which got him compliments from Lee Jordan, who added, “It’s almost like being back at Hogwarts again. There he goes! Harry, tell us, do you miss the red and gold?”

“Yes,” Harry yelled into the air.

His shout was swallowed up by the noise of the stadium almost instantly, but Lee grinned at him, and Harry knew he was understood. Of course he missed the red and gold; every Gryffindor graduate of Hogwarts did. His Puddlemere uniform was too close to Ravenclaw colors for Harry’s liking, but such was life.

He swung around to the other side of the stadium. Wind blew his blew through his hair and against his goggles. Harry reached out, touching the fingertips of several fans as he searched for his target.

Not the snitch. Not yet.

Soon the small gold ball would capture his attention for hours—hopefully not days, one days-long game was enough for a lifetime, even as quidditch mad as he was—but for now it was one of the stadium boxes that caught his eye.

Harry aimed his broom up in the direction of the box, grinning from ear to ear as he approached it. Sirius was the only one of the members of the box that Harry had eyes for, though he also recognized some of the other members of the Puddlemere fan club joining Sirius.

“Kiss for luck?” Harry asked, leaning over the edge of the box.

“You don’t need any luck,” Sirius said. “Knock ‘em dead, Harry.”

Sirius kissed him anyway, planting a kiss against Harry’s lips that slowed time to a halt, driving away the noise of the stadium and the excitement for the game to come.

It was only broken by Oliver, who yelled, “Stop flirting and get playing,” as he sped past.

Oliver went as far as believing that players drew strength from the support of their partners, but not so far that those partners should have an active role before or during the game. Harry couldn’t agree less. He loved the way that Sirius came to all his games. Harry always eagerly looked for him in the stadium, whether Sirius was in a box or in the stands or once, memorably, as one of the mascots cheering for the team. It was almost a game; if Harry couldn’t find him in the stands, then he couldn’t begin with a kiss. Sirius gave him a challenge sometimes, wearing a hat and blending in with the ground crowd, but today he had opted to make it easy for Harry.

Harry grinned at Sirius and reluctantly sped off, blowing a kiss in his direction halfway through the field. 

The rest of their team had joined him in the air, making their own laps around the stadium and visiting the pockets of fans with banners of their names. With Sirius’ kiss on his lips, Harry joined them.

From there, it was all quidditch for Harry. He had trained for months for this quidditch season and for years to play in the professional league. Nor was he playing with an inferior team; between Oliver, the team’s keeper, and the rest of the men and women on the team, they were one of the favorites to win the cup this year.

The Wimbourne Wasps could buzz all they wanted. Puddlemere won in three hours, bringing them closer to all out victory. The roar of the stadium rose to a greater pitch than before; cheering overtook booing, exhilaration overtook desolation. Harry lost track of Sirius in the post-game madness that always followed. There were showers and interviews and handshakes with the other team, and there were greets with fans and a signed snitch to give away and—

And finally Harry looked around and found himself without anyone trying to get his attention. He swung his quidditch bag over his shoulder and took a seat on his broom, escaping with a goodbye to the team and the manager. He took the shortcut to the stadium’s boxes, going not by the stairs, but once more through the skies.

Sirius’ box was empty except for Sirius himself. Harry’s feet barely hit the ground in between going from his broom to Sirius’ lap.

“Hiya,” Harry said, draping his arms over Sirius’ shoulders. “What did you think?”

“You were brilliant. Two-ten to forty. I’ve never seen the Stingers buzz so sadly before. I could see how much you’ve been practicing the Windsworth maneuverer.” His gray eyes were light with pride. Harry adored the way he looked at him after a game; Sirius looked at him with love and pride in other contexts, but after a winning game, Harry always knew he’d fully earned it.

More than the cheering, more than the fans, it was Sirius whose attention Harry wanted. And whose attention he got, day after day, in ways that Harry would never grow tired of. He was giddy with adrenaline, with happiness, with love, and he trailed his fingers through Sirius’ face.

“Take me home, Sirius,” Harry said, and laughed as Sirius apparated them both to their bedroom. It was a rush, to go from the pitch to their room, walls closing in around them in a way that only made him feel safe. The pitch had its allure and its uses, but so did their home, where Sirius looked at him with such a gaze that would get them kicked out of any establishment.

“I haven’t congratulated you properly yet,” Sirius said, spreading his hands over Harry’s uniform. “You did so good, Harry, winning the game for your team.”

Harry had to protest, “I wasn’t the only player.”

“You’re the only player I watched,” Sirius replied. “Call me biased.”

“You are biased,” Harry said, breathless, tugging at Sirius’ robes. He had too many layers on by far. The rest of the wizarding world could learn a thing or two from quidditch uniforms, which were far easier to take off then bulky black robes.

“I am,” Sirius agreed. “None of the others hold a candle to you in my eyes.”

Harry couldn’t stand not to kiss him, so he did, letting Sirius walk him backward toward and onto the bed. In a matter of moments, Sirius spelled their clothes off with impatience, not that there was much of Harry’s uniform left on him by then.

“I want to see you,” Sirius said, hands on bare skin.

“You saw me on the field. You should touch me instead.”

“Is that so,” Sirius replied. He stroked Harry’s cock, and Harry arched into his touch, sighing with arousal and delight. All that adrenaline has to go somewhere and now it was burning through his veins.

“More?”

“Always.”

The murmur of a lubrication spell was excitingly familiar, as was the press of Sirius inside him. Harry could spend the rest of his life like this: riding the high of the game and of his lover, taking everything Sirius had to give him. It was the presence of Sirius in him, on him, all around him, from their house to tattoo Sirius inked on his back with Harry’s very enthusiastic agreement. It was the sounds their bodies made, the sounds of their breaths, the noise Sirius made as he came. After both of them found their relief and the mess was washed away, Harry curled around Sirius like an octopus, tired and satisfied down to his very bones. He’d won the match and gone home with the person he loved most; if there was a better day than this, Harry couldn’t think of it right now.

Sirius brushed the mess of hair from Harry’s face. “I get all the perks as president of the Puddlemere fan club.”

“You’re not the president of my fan club.”

“I should be,” Sirius replied, all indignant, “but they won’t let me join. I think they’re jealous.”

Harry laughed, ducking his head against Sirius’ chest. Sirius never believed him, but Harry was convinced that it was he who had lucked out the most.