Author's note: Hello, hello. After the length of the hiatus I went on, there's really no way make this AN not awkward. All I can say is I apologize for leaving the story hanging indefinitely and that they're not kidding when they tell you second year of undergraduate school is awful. Anyway. I hope that you enjoy this chapter. I will be posting another chapter shortly (it's almost complete as we speak). Please review!

Warnings: Swearing

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I referenced pages 224-230 of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban while writing this.

Vexations

Severus entered the headmaster's office, unannounced and without knocking, and went straight to the point: "I'd thought I could trust you to respect my privacy, but no, Merlin forbid you do something so simple as keep your mouth shut."

Dumbledore's quill froze in the air.

"On that note, I would greatly appreciate it if you did not make discussing my past with my least favourite student a regular pastime of yours. No doubt it is plenty of fun, but if you must go inflating Potter's ego with fantasies about the heroism of his dear departed dad, then at least leave me out of it."

"Severus-"

"You see, Dumbledore, telling stories often leads to questions, especially when said stories are being told to those who have a history of sticking their nose where it doesn't belong, and I don't fancy the idea of you telling the Potter spawn of the exact relation between myself and his father, or anything else he might want to know about me."

Severus stopped to glare at one of the portraits, which was staring at him with undisguised interest. It suddenly "fell asleep." Severus scowled. The portraits were probably the worst gossips in the castle.

Dumbledore stuck his quill back into the ink pot and moved his parchment to one side so he could put his elbows on the desk without getting ink on them. "Severus, my boy-"

"If I want my dirty laundry hung out to dry, I will hang it out myself!"

There was another pause.

"Sherbet lemon?"

"When will you get it into your sugar-addled skull that no, I do not want a bloody sherbet lemon!"

"Well, why don't you have a seat?"

"I'd rather stand."

"As you wish." Predictably, Dumbledore took a sweet for himself. "Tell me, what exactly triggered your vexation?"

Severus crossed his arms. It wasn't as though the headmaster had to ask; the answer was always Harry Potter. He swallowed the impulse to shout again.

"First of all, Potter has been wandering about Hogsmeade under that blasted invisibility cloak you thought it so wise to give him, which is even more dangerous than if he'd been there under supervision. I caught him sneaking back into the castle. Draco had just come to me with an interesting story about Potter's head appearing out of thin air.

"Then, when I made Potter turn out his pockets, I discovered a charming little relic from the past, courtesy of Potter Senior and Co., probably given to him by your werewolf charity case—who, by the way, showed up just in time to get Potter off the hook. I still think he's awfully suspicious."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and tilted his head up to look at the ceiling. There was a long-suffering expression on his face.

"What would you like me to do, Severus?" he asked, gaze returning to the man before him, in a tone that suggested he was humouring the potions master.

"Punish Potter and fire Lupin," answered Severus succinctly. "You know, I can guarantee that once you do the latter, Black will no longer have an 'in' to Hogwarts."

"You know I will not do either of those things," Dumbledore stated calmly.

Severus found it in himself to deepen his scowl.

"You can hardly blame either of them. Of course Harry wants to sneak into Hogsmeade, he's cooped up while his friends are out having fun; and your grudge against Lupin is long past its sell-by date. I trust Lupin completely."

"My grudges have no 'sell-by date,' and it's easy for you to talk. You're under no personal obligation to protect the miscreant. And your leniency is getting on my nerves."

That damn twinkle appeared in Dumbledore's eyes. "My boy, I find most things get on your nerves," he said, as though that were the only portion of Severus's complaint he'd heard.

"Now, I really must finish this letter. Do refrain from internally combusting." And with that, Dumbledore picked up his quill and began writing again.

Severus opened his mouth and closed it, trying and failing to find a suitable retort in the face of this clear dismissal. In the end, he shook his head furiously and left.

Damn Dumbledore for always getting the last word.

Between a letter he'd received from Lucius—the man was beyond smug, as he'd gotten an execution date set for Hagrid's hippogriff, and Severus didn't have the patience to deal with it—and ruminating on his conversations with Potter and Dumbledore, Severus's mood remained foul even through the Easter holiday.

The impending Quidditch match didn't help. It was Slytherin against Gryffindor again, and Severus thought the students would have had better things to do with their time than loiter in the corridors, chattering loudly about a sports match, but apparently not. The only silver lining was the Slytherins all trying to "accidentally" send Potter to the hospital wing by tripping him or knocking him over. While Potter in the hospital wing, excused from classes and surrounded by sympathetic admirers and not doing a good job of staying alive and in one piece, did not in itself bring Severus joy, the fact a throng of classmates began to escort him everywhere did. Severus got to take points for tardiness.

But if he thought the lead-up to the game was bad, the day of was worse. That morning, Potter and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall to enormous applause from their own house, as well as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. The Slytherin table opted for hissing loudly. The hubbub was ridiculous. Every real, pressing concern was abandoned for Quidditch, and he wasn't even sure why. The only part of Quidditch he liked was when his team won, and that had more to do with his fondness for winning than his fondness for the game.

The teams walked out onto the pitch to a tidal wave of noise. Three-quarters of the crowd were decked out in red and brandishing Gryffindor flags; the remaining quarter was in green, the silver serpent of Slytherin glittering on their flags. Severus had the displeasure of sitting in the very front row. He put on his grimmest smile for the occasion.

"Captains, shake hands!" said Rolanda, and the resulting handshake was so tight it looked as though each was trying to break the other's fingers. They probably were.

"Mount your brooms! Three… two… one…"

The sound of the whistle was lost as the spectators began shouting again.

Gryffindor quickly took the lead. Slytherin's response was to sabotage the other team by any means possible. Rolanda was enraged, as was Minerva, who even stopped trying to remove the megaphone from Lee Jordan's biased hands. After the third Gryffindor penalty, it became clear that the Slytherins were only shooting themselves in the foot. Apparently, they had eaten adrenaline for breakfast and accidentally left their brains on their bedside tables. Draco had even reached out and grabbed the end of Potter's broom mid-flight. Severus tried to imagine how the floo call with Lucius and Narcissa would go if he had to inform the Malfoys that their only child fell to his death during a game of Quidditch. Varsity sports didn't seem like a cause worth dying for.

"Slytherin in possession, Slytherin heading for goal—Montague scores, seventy-twenty to Gryffindor…"

To avoid a repeat performance of the broom-grabbing incident, Potter was now flying so closely to Draco that their knees knocked into each other. Draco kept trying to turn, and Potter kept blocking him.

"Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle for Gryffindor, come on Angelina, come on!"

Every single Slytherin player, apart from Draco, was streaking up the pitch to block Johnson—but they scattered as Potter barrelled straight towards the centre of their group.

"She scores! She scores! Gryffindor lead by eighty points to twenty!"

Potter skidded to a halt just before he crashed head-long into the stands.

Remind me what homicidal maniac thought this game was a good idea?

The thought had barely gone through Severus's head when Potter accelerated, took both hands off his broom—even more idiotic than what Draco had done, but then again, he was a Gryffindor—and knocked Malfoy's arm out of the way to catch the snitch.

If possible, the roar of the crowd grew even louder than before as the Gryffindor win was acknowledged. They'd not only won the match, but also the Quidditch Cup. Minerva was actually crying out of happiness. Severus rolled his eyes dramatically, allowing himself the indignity because he knew nobody was paying attention. At least now they could go back inside and recover from the insanity that the sport seemed to induce, and at least it wouldn't be his house making a ruckus in the common room, partying until five in the morning and coming to class hungover until next week.

Although he really did hate to lose.