Snape had had quite a shock when he looked into the going rates for racing brooms after talking to James. Fortunately, nobody at the party batted an eye at loaning him one for the matches, and the refereeing had been a handy way for him to work out his mild annoyance with the world.
Still, he was glad to get off the thing and hand it back to its owner. It was as galling as ever, to have to pretend to need a grotesquely overpriced stick to fly. Still, James had been right: it was that or be the centre of a feeding frenzy of Weasleys bent on badgering the secret out of him.
He spelled his windblown hair back into some semblance of order, and went looking for a glass of something acceptably alcoholic.