Author's note: I have a midterm for which I should study, so the obvious thing to do is procrastinate by writing fanfiction instead. (Trust me, I'm questioning that decision, too… and I was sorted into Ravenclaw on Pottermore, lol.) Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Please review!

Guest: That always bothered me, too, the Slytherin common rooms being in the dungeons, where he claimed the troll was. And you're right about the Quidditch Cup/House Cup thing. Not sure how I managed to get that one wrong. Thanks for catching the typos and for the review as always!

Warnings: Swearing

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I referenced pages 125-130 of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone while writing this.

Quidditch, Take One

Minerva had done a good job of turning Potter into a Quidditch fanatic—as if there weren't enough of those already; half the Quidditch fanatics could drop dead, as far as Severus was concerned, and there would still be too many.

He'd taken a Quidditch book from Potter the other day. Potter was hanging about the courtyard with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, the latter having obviously misplaced all common sense and the former possessing none to begin with, as was often the case with children. The trio was huddled together with identical expressions of guilt adorning their faces. Severus, on his way to chew out Hagrid for his mishap with the Cerberus, had made a detour.

Potter was clutching a well-thumbed copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, the Hogwarts Crest stamped on its spine. Severus assumed Miss Granger had procured it for him, since he doubted that Potter even knew what a library was, let alone where it was or how to use it.

He'd confiscated the tome, informing Potter that library books weren't allowed outside of the castle. Because library books weren't allowed outside of the castle grounds, it was only a slight bending of the truth. He enjoyed the expression on Potter's face, so filled with righteous indignation that it was almost comical. Weasley's angry face turned almost as red as his hair.

Then Severus had walked away, tucking the book into his cloak—it might have been on a pointless and violent sport, but he wasn't in the habit of damaging school property. Not only would Irma Pince have his hide, he appreciated books in general for more than their usefulness in making him a know-it-all.

The only downside to the incident was that the brat had later come looking for the book, which Severus had already returned to Madam Pince. When Potter had glanced into the staff room that evening, the Potions professor had been busy bandaging the leg mangled by Fluffy, with the assistance of Argus Filch, the universally-disliked caretaker.

Severus had immediately yelled at Potter to get out, and Potter, to his immense relief, had obeyed. It infuriated him that the boy had caught him in a vulnerable position. Potter had probably gone back to his cronies and had a good laugh over their Potion professor's misfortune. It was what his father would have done. Even shouting hadn't made Severus feel better, and it usually did. In fact, he was still fuming over it as he watched the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams speed around the pitch.

This was not good for his nerves. He hadn't been so stressed, he thought, since he was actively double-crossing the Dark Lord. It still irked him that Potter was allowed to play Quidditch, as if the boy's life wasn't already on the line by default. It was just another point to add to the list of major annoyances, which already included the fact that Potter was at Hogwarts and that Dumbledore had decided to keep the Philosopher's Stone in the castle—though Severus was rather pleased with his own contribution to the Stone's protections; a logic puzzle was more effective than one might think, for he found that witches and wizards often relied too much on their magic and too little on their brains.

Severus liked it when his House won the Hogwarts Quidditch matches: He liked to win, period. The game itself, however, could go to hell. The person who'd invented it had probably been homicidal.

Bludgers were large in circumference, heavy in weight, zoomed around the pitch awfully fast, and served the purpose of smashing in the players' faces; the snitch was tiny in circumference and zoomed around even faster than the bludgers, and until the accursed thing was caught, the spectators were held ransom in the stands; and, of course, the game was played in the air by flying-obsessed idiots who had no sense of self-preservation, attempting every reckless trick in existence. Even the Slytherins weren't exempt from this particular detail. Severus was positive that Quidditch was the reason he always had to restock the infirmary midway through the year.

Somebody had done up a banner that read, Potter for President, as though this were an election. Lee Jordan from Gryffindor was providing an extremely biased running commentary, insulting the opposing team while cheering on his own. Severus flinched internally whenever a bludger came into close quarters with Potter, and his students unknowingly made their Head's job harder, deliberately targeting the young Gryffindor Seeker. He wanted to win, yes, but he also wanted to keep Lily's son in one piece.

"So—after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating-"

"Jordan!" Unlike Severus, Minerva did not show favouritism to the children in her House.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul-"

"Jordan, I'm warning you-"

"All right, all right."

Severus unconsciously tightened his grip on his wand as another bludger missed Potter's head by mere centimetres; simultaneously, the boy's broomstick lurched forwards. He thought for a moment that the sudden movement was intentional, an ill-timed attempt to evade the speeding ball, but then he caught sight of Potter's shocked, fearful expression. Nobody else seemed to have noticed. Jordan was still busy commentating, and the crowds still had their eyes locked on the goalposts. Severus took a moment to run through his mental toolbox of spells, looking for one that seemed likely to be the cause. The one on which he settled was old, Dark magic.

Shit. He almost swore out loud. He knew it was a bad idea to let Potter play.

Not wasting further time on that thought, he began muttering the counter-curse, which, though it did lessen the broom's erratic behaviour, didn't stop it completely. Eyes locked on the small figure, he was vaguely aware that others had now noticed Potter's predicament. If the curse and counter-curse hadn't required eye contact with the subject, he would have scanned the stands for the caster. Quirrell seemed like the obvious suspect, as his motives were already under question—though Dumbledore never had said exactly why he thought they should keep an eye on Quirrell—but Severus couldn't risk breaking contact to look for the man. He wondered for how long he could keep chanting the incantation. Longer than the original jinx was in effect, with any luck.

As it turned out, he didn't need to wonder. He suddenly realized, letting out a yelp, that his robes were on fire. Teeth clenched, he turned to put out the flame with a silent Augmenti. There were a couple of cheers. Turning back, he saw that Potter had regained control of his broom and was hurrying to the ground, the stupid little-

Potter covered his mouth with one hand and coughed. There was a pause, and then—"I've got the snitch!" He held up the golden ball, which looked like it had seen better days. He'd accidentally swallowed it. Rolling his eyes, Severus's first thought was that Potter could have survived the cursed-broom debacle only to choke to death. He wasn't sure if that would make his life better—no Potter—or worse—dead Lily's son.

After much confusion, it was declared that Gryffindor had won the game, beating Slytherin by over a hundred points. In the aftermath of the announcement, Severus caught Minerva smirking at him. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team's Captain, started a loud argument with Rolanda Hooch over the verdict, insisting that "he didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it!" Severus had to order Flint back to the common room, where he proceeded to berate the fifth-year for lacking subtlety. Much to the irritation of those within earshot, Flint continued to whine for the rest of the day, along with Draco Malfoy. The Potions Master disappeared into his office and locked the door, not wishing to be subjected to Flint's howling, Minerva's gloating, or the rowdy celebration of Potter's many fans.

When Dumbledore had first claimed that Potter would need protecting, Severus had been skeptical. He believed it now. Still-at-large Death Eaters aside, it was already apparent that Potter both attracted trouble and had a penchant for finding it: the troll, the cursed broom, and Merlin only knew what would be next. The brat was going to give him a heart attack.

"Somebody tried to hex him off his broom, Albus! If I hadn't been muttering the counter-curse, your precious Wonder Boy would be in a body bag right now."

Dumbledore was as unflappable as always. "But thanks to your quick thinking, he is not."

"Don't patronize me!" Severus spat. "I told you I didn't want him playing. We need to-"

"-discus who was trying to hurt Harry. Tell me, how was Quirinus behaving?"

"As far as I could tell, no more strangely than usual; but we were on the same side of the pitch, and I couldn't monitor him as well as I would have liked." He paused. "You think it was him, I take it?"

"I do."

"Well fire him then! Merlin knows, you should have done that a long time ago." Dumbledore unwrapped a sherbet lemon and popped it into his mouth, looking politely at Severus. "Or if, for some bizarre reason, you are against firing him, let me confront him now, scare him out of trying anything."

"No, not yet. I believe it would be best to collect more evidence first."

"If Quirrell really does have his sights set on the Stone and on doing in Potter, it may be too late," Severus argued. "We should take pre-emptive measures. The sooner we eliminate the threat, the sooner we can stop fussing like mother hens." And the sooner he could return to ignoring ninety percent of the population, instead of scrutinizing and overanalyzing the behaviour of every person on whom he laid his eyes. It was like being a double-agent again.

"We do not know anything for certain," reasoned Dumbledore, as though he hadn't been the one wary of Quirrell in the first place. "Wait until we discover what he is planning."

"Fine," Severus huffed, with his trademark scowl, "but I want to referee the next Quidditch game. No such near-death experiences will be happening on my watch." He could also avoid having his robes set on fire again. When he found out who dared to do such a thing….

The twinkle came into Dumbledore's eyes. "You do realize that everyone else will merely think you trying to sabotage the Gryffindor team? I imagine you'll find yourself quite unpopular."

"Spare me," Severus drawled. "If you haven't noticed that I am already unpopular, then your observational skills are sorely lacking. Tell Hooch that I will be refereeing the next match." He stood. "I will see myself out."

If he was going to protect the brat, he reflected as he stormed back down to the dungeons, he was going to do it right. The Headmaster could disagree with firing or confronting Quirrell all he wanted, but that didn't mean they had to be unprepared for the next attack.