Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters and plot-lines are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this work of fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.
The Referee
"Someone has to keep an eye on him Severus."
Someone means me.
Potter bloody wonder-child. Only in his first year, and already he's a Quidditch star. A perfect little hero, just like his father. None of Lily in him, naturally, not even her looks, and especially not her talent for Potions. Just his father's talent for Quidditch.
For some reason I have to be referee.
"In his last match Quirrel attempted to kill him, Severus. Surely you haven't forgotten."
Good for Quirrel. I'd congratulate him myself, except there's something dodgy going on there. Attempting to steal the Philosophers stone is one thing, killing random students is another. Quirrel has no reason to hate Harry, no reason to want him dead…
Which means that the night before the Quidditch match I'm not brooding in my office, or getting some well-earned rest. Instead, I'm thumbing frantically through one of Lucius's old Quidditch books, trying desperately to remember what the rules of the wretched game are. I've borrowed a broomstick as well, and it's propped up against my caldron, looking smug and uncomfortable.
Potter (the father, not the son) would no doubt find all this terribly amusing. Hopeless little Snivellus, staying up till God-knows-when trying to understand Quidditch in order to act as a bodyguard for his son.
By midnight I've decided that the game would be a lot simpler without the Chasers. They're the ones that seem to get the most penalties, and to be honest they don't actually do that much, just act as a sort of sideshow until the boy-who-bloody-well-survived can swoop in and save the day.
Potter never defeated the Dark Lord. It was her. Lily. Her love, her protection.
By three am my notes are a seething mass of complicated diagrams and forgettable terms. Cobbling. What on earth is cobbling? Something to do with the elbows I think, unless it's the one about not scoring too close to the goalpost.
Why do people fill their heads with this rubbish?
And how on earth am I going to bluff my way through it. Damn Albus, why me? I know next to nothing about Quidditch.
I manage to get some sleep in the end, but I'm still in a fairly foul mood when I get onto the pitch. Strange, but I've never actually been on a Quidditch pitch before. I've watched from the stands more times than I can count, but never have I actually been standing on the grass, surrounded by stands full of people cheering.
Albus is here watching, which is a more than slight comfort. Quirrel won't dare try anything with him watching.
And here he is. Potter. Flying out on his Nimbus whatever-it-is, and I've yet to get a straight answer when I ask where that came from.
It's quite spooky actually, just how much he looks like James. Call it sentimental if you will, but when he first arrived I was rather hoping for just something of Lily to be present in him. But no. It's always about Potter. Seeing him sitting at the Gryffindor table that first day brought back a lot of memories.
It makes Dumbledore frown, but there is something very satisfying in seeing James's face looking hurt or angry. And, best of all, I'm safe this time, he can't retaliate, he hasn't got a friend knotting my arms behind my back.
Dear God and this is only his first year. How am I going to survive seven more years of this without either going mad or strangling the little brat. He's probably been spoilt as well, if the stories I've heard from Minerva about that family he lives with are true.
The whistle blows, I kick off. The broom isn't bad actually, and I'd forgotten how nice flying feels once you've got the hang of it. It's a wonderful feeling, watching your problems and worries dropping away beneath you, the horizon dropping behind you…
Wham.
Where the hell did that Bludger come from? Courtesy of Mr Weasley I presume. I'm fairly sure hitting Bludgers at the referee is against the rules, the referee is supposed to be safe! A penalty for Hufflepuff won't go amiss either, Potter has to learn how to loose at some point and I do rather like that Quidditch cup in my office. It goes well with the house cup, aesthetically pleasing.
It's the only bright thing in the dungeon.
The Weasleys are glaring twin daggers at me now. They remind me a little of Black and Potter, the sort of people who aren't happy until they see someone they don't like smashed into a bloody pulp on the floor.
I'm not exaggerating here; I've seen what a Bludger can do to someone's face. It's not pretty. I'm starting to sweat a little now, because up in the air there's no protection and if the Weasley twins forgot about the game and concentrated properly, they could probably leave me half dead and claim it was an accident. And I can't watch out for them, I'm supposed to be watching Harry.
Time to start concentrating then. Potter's safe, Hufflepuff still haven't scored. (They seem to have a worse than usual team this year). They can have another penalty then. Why? Because I'm the referee! Anyway, it's a pretty fair bet Gryffindor were doing something wrong. From what I remember of the rules it's pretty much impossible not to unless you stay completely still and don't breath. Even then you're probably guilty of loitering or something.
Besides, until the Chasers score 150 they hardly matter. Ten points here or there is hardly going to make a difference.
It's quite cold up here; I'm trying to remember how long Quidditch games last. Wasn't there something about one game lasting several days? If Albus expects me to stay up here for more than three hours he's got another think coming…
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As usual it turns out I needed have bothered worrying. It's all over in five minutes, more than enough time for Potter the wonder-boy to save the day. It's sickening, how much fuss everybody makes of him, especially when he's not yet done a thing to deserve it.
Looks like I'll end up having to dust that cup down after all.