With a finger to his lips, he studied the borrowed broom in the corner. It was a Cleansweep, much like the prototype he'd once owned, though it probably cornered better. His old broom had been fast, nimble in its own way, and unpredictable, and he had loved it dearly, as he had loved few things.

The first time he'd approached a broom, he'd been afraid of failure and thrilled by possibility. He felt exactly the same way now. With maturity's perspective, he was aware that failure now was far more awful a prospect, but never mind that; to his eleven-year-old self, the fear had been precisely as great. His own stubbornness had saved him then, and would now. He had once loved to fly, and might again. And he'd been an excellent flier -- fifteen years ago.

The time for self-doubt had been when he had offered, volunteered, argued, and outright bullied his way into this mess. He couldn't stalk out now and hand over the broom, and all its associated responsibilities, to the rightful owner. The levels of speculation on why he'd wanted the thing were quite high enough, and unflattering enough; he couldn't double or triple the gossip by backing down, when the guesses would be painfully accurate.

Remember the first flight. The first, not the last.

It was time. He stalked to the Quidditch field, trying to become accustomed to the combination of a broom, a whistle, and authority. He knew the ritual of starting the game; he'd been here for it quite enough times. Away went the Snitch; up went the Quaffle and Bludgers, and players in scarlet and yellow robes scattered after. His broom lifted obediently enough, and he settled into a spot where he could see the field and enough of the stands. The shorter the game, the lower the chance of mishaps. It was a perfect day for flying, not too hot, wet, or bright.

He dodged a Bludger that was absolutely not to have been aimed at the referee and awarded a penalty to Hufflepuff. The manoeuvre that had sent this broom a few feet to the left would have put his old one into a wild loop -- in gaining manageability, Cleansweep had lost all the pepper. That loop would have made him hard to hit and given him a good view of the whole field. Knowing he couldn't do it now made him feel horribly vulnerable out here, and he doubted again whether he shouldn't have stayed in the stands -- or, better yet, indoors. The Headmaster's presence made him entirely irrelevant.

He awarded another penalty to Hufflepuff, not because they had earned it in any way, but just to pressure the Seekers. Diggory was too decent and Potter too competitive to let the game go on unfairly if they could possibly prevent it. One or the other would soon get this whole mess over with.

And where was the blasted boy? A fine thing, losing track of what he'd put himself out here to watch. A faint metallic-feather whir sounded by his ear, and he quelled the well-schooled impulse to grab for it. The Snitch was someone else's problem now...

A flash of scarlet shot past him, moving far too fast and straight down, too close. An instant of panic blinded him.

The wall of the announcers' tower, too close and closer still, and a flash of scarlet suddenly filling the only escape his hardmouthed nag of a broom would take...

He opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the Gryffindor Seeker broken on the grass, and his own efforts to have gone for nothing in that instant when he should have acted. Somehow the boy had pulled out of the dive. The brat was scrambling to his feet some distance away on the field, holding a small golden thing aloft. The game was, mercifully, over. He could blow the whistle, land, and see the Bludgers imprisoned in their box.

Once his feet were on the ground, he was absolutely positively not going to shake. He planned that very carefully. No student would be able to gloat behind his back and smirk to his face. He made a good, smooth, capable landing, and spat away the acid taste in his throat.

He had made himself a promise last time, in hospital, forgotten by the Slytherin team: he would never again mount a broom when the reward for sacrifice was ingratitude. He had since made another promise that he'd grown to regret as much. The first promise had labelled him coward; the second would probably bear no better fruit.

The cause of today's mess was trying to slip away unnoticed. Severus thrust the broom into Madam Hooch's surprised hands and seized the turban-wearing idiot by the arm. "Quirrell, we need to speak privately."

Quirrell could fall to pieces, or be goaded into another attempt on the Stone, or show an unexpected turn of strength and hex Severus to ashes. It didn't matter. He, Severus Snape, could not watch over Harry Potter through another damned Quidditch match.