He’s the fastest Seeker in the history of Hogwarts. He hasn’t lost the Snitch once in the last four years - but a match… oh, matches are a whole other problem.
The lions usually wipe the pitch with badgers; Slytherins haven’t been a problem since Rory got himself banned and Barry’s team haven’t had to worry about burning Bludgers.
But somehow, they just can’t get past the Ravenclaw defenses. Barry doesn’t know if Snart keeps his team on the pitch every night, drilling the tiniest details of every play imaginable into their heads, but it sure seems like it when Barry thinks, during yet another match, that he has them figured out, that they have broken through the ironclad defenses- only for the Ravenclaws to turn around as one and perform some ridiculous maneuver that earns them thirty points by the time Gryffindor recovers from the shock and realizes what they are doing.
It’s completely maddening, is what it is - Snart is only a seventh-year student, and sure, he’s smart, but he’s also unbearably smug when he wins (which is really most of the time) and Barry just wants to win and show Snart that a victory can be accepted graciously and with humili-
Ah, who is he kidding, he wants to beat Snart so badly that he could rub the guy’s face in it for weeks.
Maybe that’s what possesses Barry to march up to Snart on Christmas Eve (Snart always stays at Hogwarts - Barry knows, because he always stays too) and challenge him to a match, one-on-one.
Snart gets a funny look on his face, but he shrugs and swings his long legs over the bench to get up.
Forty minutes later, Barry’s loud gloating gets rudely interrupted when Snart kisses him, right there on the frozen Quidditch pitch, ankle-deep in freshly fallen snow and he tastes like victory to Barry, victory and warmth and once his brain starts working again, a great deal of confusion.
“What-” he yelps, and Snart frowns, in that definitely-not-cute way where a deep line forms between his eyebrows and Barry just kinda wants to poke him in the forehead and feel that crease under his fingertips. Not that he would feel much, with his fingers frozen through his sub-par Warming charm.
“I thought that was the whole point of you asking me out,” Snart mutters and his hands, until then resting comfortably over Barry’s hips, start slipping off. Barry grabs Snart’s Quidditch cloak before he can think about why he doesn’t want the older boy to move even an inch further away.
“I just asked you for a match!” he sighs. “Why would you have thought that I was asking you out?”
“We ARE out,” Snart’s lips, still a bit red, from the frost or from Barry’s mouth, curl into a smirk, “and also, Barry… I’m a Keeper.”
