Sorry for the wait! Unfortunately, school is about to begin again, so my updates may become just as spread out as these past few have been. I have already begun work on the next few chapters, however, and am interested to see how you react to the next narrator.

To werecatninja: Thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy!

To Nightshade sidneylover150: I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Hopefully I can keep provoking your questions—and answer many of them soon!

With that, enjoy!

Snape generally liked the greenhouses, which was odd, because he'd never had much interest in herbology. The main reason he'd bothered paying attention back when he was in school, and perhaps the only reason he'd continued to follow the subject after graduating, was to continue in his mastery of potions. Overall he was not at all intrigued by the study of plants, and found that allergies were more than reason enough to avoid them. Yet still the professor would find himself wandering across the campus when he had too much time or something nagging on his mind to the greenhouses, where it was just the plants and he.

Herbology had always been to Snape a field of study like History of Magic. Plants were generally set in their ways already. While occasionally some new discovery would be made―who knew that mandrake leaves could be brewed into a tea that aided in recovering memories before Professor Sprout?―it was not like potions, where experimentation with ingredients led to the creation of cures for diseases that would long plague muggles, or spell casting, where with a knowledge of language and magical theory one could create their own spells, for better or worse. And plants, unlike spells and potions, were singular. For every curse there was a counter curse; every poison an antidote. But there was no anti-spinach or counter-mistletoe.

Plants were ingredients, to be used for potions and healing and dining. With the exception of cross-breeders, who had a great deal more patience and free time than Snape did, they were not an experiment.

Professor Snape had little patience for things he already knew about. He detested teaching beginning potions for that very reason―simple things like the boils-cure potion were a simple matter of gathering the proper ingredients and following directions. Even in his first year, Snape had found the standard curriculum exceptionally boring, and while the then-potions master Horace Slughorn wasn't looking he had begun modifying recipes. Sometimes he just improved the existing ones, perfecting the recipe beyond what Slughorn had thought possible. Sometimes he switched ingredients, trying to figure out how to reverse the effects. More often than not, he ignored the directions entirely, ignoring Slughorn's shock when his anti-itching salve came out instead as a cream that disguised scars.

On this particular occasion, Snape was looking for flitterbloom plants to trim leaves from for his calming draught. He also needed young hellebore blossoms, but Professor Sprout wouldn't be having those planted until October, so he had owled one of the apocatharies in Diagon Alley to order them. Snape much preferred to gather ingredients for himself, to know the environment they had been taken from so he could modify his potions accordingly, but he had a feeling that the year would require multiple brewings of calming draught, if it continued as it had begun.

At last finding the plant he was searching for, Snape pulled clippers from his robes. The tentacle-like vines pulled away from his touch, but Snape was faster: he grabbed one and promptly cut it just low enough that he had gotten five or six leaves on his clipping. Replacing the clippers within his cloak, he drew out a vial and caught the milky pus dripping from the wounded stem, and finally wrapped the tendril up in a thin brown paper. The whole process was a science―Snape was not one to waste ingredients and so gathered them with the utmost care. He replaced the vial and cutting into one of the inner pockets of his cloak and turned to return to the dungeons.

As he exited the greenhouse pathway, a figure nearly crashed into him, jumping away at the last moment. Snape glared, mouth half opened to take away points from whatever student wasn't paying attention to where he was walking, but found that the man before him was the skittering Professor Quirrel, who had gone white as a sheet and was backing away slowly.

"S—s—Severus," he stammered. "Didn't—s—see you th—there…"

Snape snorted in disgust. This… idiot was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? The old jealousy rose in his throat, but Snape pushed it aside. His eyes drifted, as always, to the hideous purple turban wrapped around the shaking man's shaking head. It was a ridiculous thing that smelled of garlic and—and something—and made the sliver of a man resemble a toxic mushroom. And yet…

His left hand reflexively clenched as the old itch rose up in his forearm. That was never a good sign. And Lily's son, at the feast in the great hall. He had touched his scar as he had gazed up at the head table. It wasn't some sort of nervous habit—he would have noticed it if the boy had repeated the action in his presence. And Albus had told him to keep an eye on the man…

"I—I'll just be—be g—going, th—then," Quirrel stuttered, backing away.

Snape raised an eyebrow and spun around. He stalked down the hallway. This was getting ridiculous—Snape was stingy with his trust, and he knew it, but this was downright paranoia. It was Potter's fault, stirring up memories of his school days, when he always had his wand at the ready…

Blood.

The smell like rust in Quirrel's turban. The stench he was trying to drown out with garlic cloves. Snape cursed; he should have recognized it from the start—he'd been all-too-familiar with the scent. Finding himself stopped in his tracks, Snape spun around, intending to chase the Professor down and demand an answer. Instead, he caught sight of the man turning sharply up the stairs between himself and the path to the greenhouses. Snape paused again, his eyes drifting out the windows lining the hallway, to where the stairs led.

Where Snape stood was part of the four open-air hallways surrounding a stone courtyard. His side connected to the astronomy tower, and led further to border another, longer space—a green—and beyond that to the central building of Hogwarts. The two paths perpendicular to his also bordered the courtyard. One, which he stood just past, led out towards the hillside where the first years were in their first flying lesson. On the other side of the courtyard, the path was much wider, with benches on either side, and the stairs Quirrel had just climbed led to a second floor that was all but empty. A dueling club had used the space for practice in better weather, though all but two of the members had graduated the year before and as far as Snape knew there was no designated purpose for it this year. Why Quirrel would go up there…

But Snape caught sight of the man through the windows, rushing across the room to look out over the field beyond. Snape squinted, trying to see what the man was doing—was he talking to himself?

It struck him, and Snape was whirling about once again. Snape never ran—it was undignified and an awkward movement in his billowing black robes—but here he was close to it. He sped down the hall closer to him, out towards the field.

A black shape came zooming towards him as Snape neared the archway leading to the field, making Snape leap back and press himself into the wall. It was followed shortly by another blur—a broom?—and Snape's blood ran cold. He sped back into the courtyard, craning his head to see Potter speeding nearly vertically up the face of the Astronomy tower before curving around it out of sight, the rider-less broom hot on his tail. Snape glared down to the window where Quirrel had been, but the man had vanished. Before Snape could find him, Potter came speeding back around the tower—down into the courtyard, getting so close to the ground Snape thought he was going to crash. But the boy lifted up at the last moment, rising up over the courtyard wall, and Snape remembered himself as the rogue broom chased after the boy. Drawing his wand, he stormed out of the stone hallway. Pointing angrily with little regard for the fact that a slight error in aim would blow the boy—not to mention any of the nineteen other children on the lawn—into unrecoverable pieces, Snape barked out in a bellowing voice—"CONFRINGO!"

As the boy flew forward onto the lawn, Snape spun about; racing back down to the main hall, but there was no sign of Quirrel. He sighed and tucked his wand away. There was little he could do but return out to the field, pushing aside the crowd of first years to get to Rolanda Hooch, who was crouching at the boy's feet.

The boy groaned and opened his eyes as Snape reached him. At the sight of those eyes, he had to stop himself from swooping down and grabbing the boy up in his arms.

"My glasses—" he was saying.

"Here they are!"

"Well give them here, then!" Hooch snapped, grabbing them away from Hermione Granger, who jumped back in fright, landing on Longbottom's foot. The silver-haired woman slammed the glasses back onto the boy's face, breaking the spell. Snape scowled. The brat was a Potter through and through.

"I'm fine," the boy whined, though as he struggled to sit up it was obvious that he wasn't. "I'm fine, really."

Hooch grabbed his arm roughly, and Snape found himself feeling a fresh wave of anger at Quirrel as he saw the harsh angle. "Broken wrist!" she exclaimed, as though it weren't obvious. "Don't worry; Madame Pomfrey will have you fixed up in no time—can you take him, Severus?"

Snape wanted nothing less than to rush off into the castle and hunt down Quirrel. With the school under tighter security than ever, what with the boy and Dumbledore's safe-guarded charge, the man's actions were nothing short of suspicious, and a simple priori incantum would prove the man's guilt. Anyone who attacked Lily's son—

No! Potter. Stupid Potter. Stupid weak Potter, who probably wouldn't be able to make it to the Hospital Wing without getting himself killed. Snape curled his lip further and snatched the brat's injury away from Hooch, pulling him to his feet. "In the mean time, Rolanda," he spat softly. "Perhaps it would be best if you called Professor Flitwick out to examine your broomsticks?" With a final glare he dragged Potter out of the swarm of children and into the castle, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of the nervous Quirrel.

They did not encounter the stuttering man, however, and reached the hospital ward without disturbance. The castle was oddly quite as Snape stormed into the room, dragging Potter in his wake. He released the boy, waving vaguely at one of the beds. "Sit," he ordered, and stormed into Madame Pomfrey's office.

The woman was sitting at her desk, casually reading a copy of the Daily Prophet. "Severus," she greeted as he entered. "Finished that new batch of calming draught yet?"

"No, it was… disturbed." He jerked his head back out the door. "Patient for you."

Alarmed, Madame Pomfrey stood. Usually when Snape brought students to the Hospital Wing himself it was after a run-in with LaConner on a bad day—or worse—so when she found Potter still standing where Snape had left him she looked quite relieved. "What seems to be the problem, dear?" she asked. Potter silently gripped his injured arm tighter, glancing quickly at Snape before staring pointedly at the floor.

Snape sneered, but was feeling equally displeased by the boy's presence. He glanced at the clock in one of the ghastly paintings beside the doorway—it was only four, and the headmaster wasn't leaving for the ministry until five. "I'll be back to deal with you in an hour," he told Potter, and added to Madame Pomfrey, "Make sure he doesn't leave." With that he swept out of the room.

Things were starting to make less and less sense at Hogwarts, and Snape didn't like it. As Head of Slytherin, he usually spent the beginning of the year dealing with problem students and assigning essays and detentions to those who would not listen. His standard encounters with dark arts were little more than LaConner's ever-growing repertoire of curses and the occasional item brought in from Borgin and Burke's. But a full on attack on a first-year? Snape didn't doubt that the broom would have kept chasing Potter until he caught up, and if it had…

But why Quirrel?

Snape had never liked the man. Quirrel had originally taught Muggle Studies, a subject Snape was less-than-interested in, but in that role he had kept to himself. He had seemed a smart enough, if drab teacher that did not particularly stand out for anything. When Dumbledore had announced that Quirrel would be taking over the spot of Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, Snape had been flabbergast. Although he had heard of the man's skills in the field, particularly in wordless and wandless magic, which Snape himself valued as largely important parts of the subject, he was disgusted that a man with such weak character would be teaching such an important subject. As far as he could see, Quirrel had little more than a dilettante knowledge of the Dark Arts, only backed by the sabbatical summer the man had taken to 'prepare' him for the job. What could a single summer's experience do to aid in teaching students to battle future conflict that was sure to come? As the Dark Arts were Snape's personal passion, he was insulted, at the least, by Dumbledore's choice in staffing.

As he approached the stone gargoyle at the base of the stairs leading to the Headmaster's office, Snape forced himself to calm down. He was not here to argue with the man about his desire for the Defense position; he was here to speak professionally about a threat to the school and to Lily's—no, to the famous Harry Potter, pride of Hogwarts. He was here to discuss the possibility of the need to take steps to keep a Slytherin student from harm, and to prompt investigation into the ridiculous Professor Quirrel.

No! Not ridiculous! Unusual. Unlikely. Uninteresting.

"Chocolate Frogs," he said impassively to the gargoyle, and ascended the stairs as they unfolded their way to the Headmaster's door.

"Ah, Severus," said Dumbledore. He stood behind his desk, exactly as Snape had left him just hours earlier. "Back so soon?"

Snape raised an eyebrow, but waved past Dumbledore to the balcony window deeper in the office. "Did you see?"

The man sighed. He tapped his wand on the stack of papers on his desk, which promptly stood on end and shuffled off the desk and into an open drawer, which slammed shut. "Professor Quirrel's papers," Dumbledore said, a resigned tone in his voice. "I had meant to discuss him with you earlier, but you departed rather abruptly."

"You've noticed it to, then?" insisted Severus.

"'It,' Severus? I have certainly noticed a particular oddness about the man since he has returned from his travels, but what precisely you define as 'it' escapes me."

Snape's face stiffened. He did not like being played by the man, but he kept up his dispassionately bored tone with expert ease. "I imagine you had eyes on the Potter boy during the opening feast, headmaster," he said coolly. "In which case you would have noticed a particular quirk—his scar seemed to pain him much in the same way…"

He paused. The connection somehow disgusted him, and only fed proof to Dumbledore's earlier theorizing. The man stood with a patient expression on his face, waiting for him to finish, so he did, quietly; "…as the dark mark may occasionally bother my arm."

Dumbledore nodded. He had a way of receiving all information as though he had already thought of it, a mannerism that irritated Snape to no end. "There has been no change, though?" he asked, but he was only asking to involve the Potion's Master in his thought process.

"Of course not. Nothing more than the occasional itch—particularly around Quirrel."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Then perhaps it is just a subconscious alert to the presence of one who would seek to abuse the Dark Arts as Lord Voldemort would?"

Snape stared in blank impatience. "Surely you would not compare such a man to the Dark Lord?"

"In terms of power, no—though you do greatly underestimate my choice in a Defense teacher, Severus. He is not so incompetent as you assume, although much too jumpy to properly teach, I regret. No, I refer to the way he would attack a mere eleven-year-old boy with an unforgiving hex. Lord Voldemort would not so much as consider the murder of a child, save perhaps to bask in what sick pleasure he draws from it." For a moment the headmaster was silent, his brow furrowed in some unmentioned thought, and then he turned away, summoning a bag from his chambers beyond. "No, Severus, Quirrel may not compare to the sheer cruelty of Lord Voldemort, but he has something that is more worrisome—an uncontrolled fear. There is no telling what depths a man will descend to when he is afraid."

"You plan to confront him, then?"

"Not I," said Dumbledore with a slight smile. "Though I imagine you will."

Severus shook his head. "To what end?" he asked slowly—carefully.

"Then what end would you seek?"

"He can do little damage," Snape said dismissively. They both knew it wasn't true, but he knew Dumbledore did not protest. "Personally, I would think it best to let him scramble about. Whatever his intentions, there must be a history to them, and a frightened man, as you say, will make mistakes."

"And the boy?"

"What about him?" asked Snape incredulously. "He has escaped major injury twice today alone, I doubt anything worse than a few broken limbs will affect him."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. Snape was quietly surprised by his allowance—of anyone, he would have expected Albus Dumbledore to protect Potter from any sort of harm, but the man was picking up his bag casually. Explanation came quickly. "I will leave Quirrel to you, Severus, but I also leave Harry. I trust that no 'major injury,' as you put it, will befall him while you satisfy your curiosity with this investigation. But should anything happen to him, I will direct the questioners from the Daily Prophet to your office." He drew up his arm, shaking away his cloak sleeves to reveal a wizard's watch. "And I am late, although the Minister can hardly complain. I will see you at lunch tomorrow."

The old wizard stepped into his fireplace and vanished abruptly, leaving Snape alone in the office. "You walked into that one," a sarcastic voice called from on the wall high above. Snape looked up into the sneering face of Phineas Nigellus Black, one of the many headmasters whose portraits lined the walls. With a cold glance, Snape left the office and hurried to the hospital wing to deal with Potter.

The boy was sitting on the end of a bed, and jumped about a foot in the air when Snape stormed in. Madame Pomfrey quickly hurried out to intercept the Professor. "Fixed up nicely," she said proudly. "His arm will be a bit weak for a few days, but—"

"Thank you, Poppy," Severus said coolly. Potter's recovery was not his concern. The nurse huffed, but got the message, stalking back to her office.

"Sir?" Potter asked after a minute. Snape realized he had been glaring at him thoughtlessly.

"You are once again lucky for my passing by, Potter," he said without hesitation. "However, I do not intend to be your personal watchdog. For your own safety, therefore, you will no longer attend flying lessons with your class."

Snape had to admit he got some satisfaction as he saw the boy's face fall. James Potter had always taken the ultimate satisfaction in his flying and Quidditch skills, and he could see that the boy was already developing the same attitude. "But Professor!" Potter exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "That's not fair!" The Potions Master raised a humorless eyebrow.

"Instead, you will use the time to study," he said coolly. This he hadn't planned, but the boy was annoying him. "If you don't study, then it will be detention. Do I make myself clear?"

Potter sank back onto the bed end. "Yes, sir," he mumbled. Satisfied, Snape turned to leave. That was one less time the boy was vulnerable, and once less hour of his time he had to waste watching the boy.

"Sir?" Potter called as Snape neared the doorway. The man was tempted to leave, but paused, allowing the question to be finished. "Why can't I fly?"

What was he supposed to tell the boy? You're being targeted by curses, your life is in danger, and your Defense Professor is using the Dark Arts against you. Right.

"Although some were left heaps of gold to spend as they will," Snape said at last, referring to the gold of the Potter family that the boy had inherited with his parents' death, "The school does not wish to pay for every broom that must be blown up to keep you from getting yourself killed." He left quickly, looking forward to an evening uninterrupted by Dumbledore's demand for his attendance at dinner.