Certain Dark Things || Book Two

xxix. blackbird

The excitement ebbed and flowed around him, eddying higher and higher like the morning sun and the brisk November wind. All Severus could think about was his bed, a dram of Dreamless Sleep, and the allure of a Saturday lie-in.

He'd liked Quidditch well enough as a boy and still enjoyed betting on the sport with Minerva, if only to raise the cat's hackles, but the veneer had long since worn for Severus, leaving him tired and irritable as he climbed the steps into the staffing section, wishing he could cast something to deaden the sound about the space, but he assumed the rest of the professors would take exception to that. He slid into a seat on the far row and leaned back, out of the sun, letting his eyes slide shut.

Perhaps a minute later, the smell of Earl Grey filled his nose.

Severus cracked open his eyes to spy a thermos of tea hovering before him. Minerva, having come up the stairs as well, stood with her wand in hand, smirking.

"I prefer Breakfast blend in the morning," Severus grumbled as he folded his fingers about the thermos and it stopped floating, weight settling in his hand.

"Good thing it's not all for you, then, Severus."

The Potions Master conjured himself a cup and poured hot tea into it regardless of his preferred flavor, sending the thermos back to McGonagall. "Have you come to watch your precious Gryffindors lose?"

"If you mean win, then yes, of course." She perched on the edge of the bench next to him, tugging her tartan cloak tighter about her shoulder. "Och, it's cold in the shade. It's a wonder you don't freeze to death."

"One can only hope. Go sit in the sun if it bothers you."

"I will, once Jordan graces us with his presence," Minerva replied, a weary sigh leaving her lips.

"He's by far the worst commentator you've ever allowed up here."

"Oh, I don't think so. Do you remember the game Black commentated in your school days?" She let out a sound that was still incredulous all these years later. "Now that was the worst commentary I've ever heard."

Severus' fingers tightened on the cup, and in a single motion, he downed the remnants of his scalding tea and grimaced. He dismissed the cup without taking out his wand. "No, I don't remember. I was in the hospital wing that weekend." Having a particularly stubborn pair of antlers—courtesy of the Marauders—removed. Perhaps it was for the best, as it did spare him having to listen to whatever inane shite Sirius Black's had said.

"Have you seen your new Seeker play yet, Severus?"

"No."

Minerva pursed her lips, eyes moving across the pitch to the far side of the stadium, all decked in silver and green. "For my Gryffindors' sakes, I hope she doesn't have James' talent."

The muscles in his jaw jumped as Severus grit his teeth, reminded now of two of his least favorite people, and it was not yet noon. "A troll taped to a broom would have more talent than James Potter ever did."

Minerva went to argue, a flush of anger in her cheeks, but Jordan finally arrived, and the bitter cat moved on—treading on Severus' feet as she went, much to his displeasure. He was cleaning the scuffs off his boots when he caught a glimpse of something pale in his peripheral vision, and forced himself to swallow a groan.

"Severus," Lucius greeted, hair riled in the breeze, spilling like threads of platinum over his cheek and brow. That the wizard managed to look stately even at this Merlin-forsaken hour irritated Severus to no end, but his face remained placid, genial—or what passed for genial with the Potions Master.