Author's Note: The motivation for this fic was writing a Snarry pairing for someone who hated Snarry. Expect a lot of subtlety.

Round 1: Not My OTP

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Keeper

NOTP written for Seeker: Harry/Severus

Word Count: 1850 excluding Author's Note

Like a Bludger

It was clear to me almost immediately that Potter was up to no good. Skulking through the corridors, peering around corners, lurking.

Perhaps my colleagues would have given him a pass, but not I. I didn't care that he was the saviour of the Wizarding World, the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. He could be Merlin himself reincarnated, and he would still be an annoying little twat.

An annoying little twat who had just ducked into a side stairwell that I knew only led down to the dungeons. It was completely unthinkable that Potter would have any legitimate business in the dungeons, which meant that, as usual, he was up to no good. Thankfully, I was there to catch him in the act.

I followed him carefully through the corridors, and I could feel my anger rising with every step. There was no mistaking it — the brat was headed towards my office. No doubt planning on breaking in and stealing more ingredients, or perhaps planting a nasty little trick for me to find later, just like his father.

Although in my recollection, I'd never seen James Potter look so hesitant and uncertain about something. Potter was standing outside my door, staring at it like it was his potions O.W.L. and he'd neglected to study. He paced back and forth in front of it a few times, raising his hand to knock, and then putting it back down.

What was he waiting for? Some signal from an accomplice?

Finally, he knocked on my door. Hesitantly, at first, and then when there was no answer, he knocked harder. A few silent moments passed as I failed to open the door. Potter looked… dejected, perhaps, although that couldn't be right. Instead of breaking into my office as I assumed he would upon finding me gone, he instead sank to the floor, leaning his back against my door and holding his head in his hands.

I walked up to him slowly, keeping my footsteps as quiet as possible. He didn't look up.

"Potter, what are you doing?" I said, my voice cutting through the silence.

The boy jerked suddenly, looking up at me in surprise. "I was, er, well, I was waiting for you."

I stared down at him.

"Sir," he added hastily, completely misinterpreting my expression.

"I can see that," I responded blankly. "One would wonder, however, why you were doing so."

"Er…" The boy was nothing if not eloquent.

I raised an eyebrow at him. He was still sitting on the floor, and I towered over him. I was standing just a few steps away from my door, with Potter on the ground in between, so he had to look almost straight up to make eye contact with me. I found I rather preferred him like this.

"Well, sir, I wanted to- to talk to you."

"Did you," I said, as noncommittally as possible. I couldn't imagine why. He wasn't in my potions class anymore, having finished his NEWTs last year before I had taken up my teaching post again. And of course, his work as assistant Defence professor shouldn't require any of my input, given that the current professor was more than qualified and already had all of my lesson plans.

"About- about-" Potter screwed up his face, and his seeming incoherency (somehow even worse than usual) almost inspired concern in me.

"Potter, get up and get inside," I told him. I swept past him as he stood, and opened my door with a flourish. Potter slunk into the chair in front of my desk, while I went about making a cup of tea.

"How do you take yours?" I asked him, and he looked at me as if I were the insane one.

"Sir?" he asked, his voice laden with bewilderment.

"Milk? Sugar?" I prompted, using my most condescending voice.

"Uh… Milk, no sugar," he said finally, and I gave him a sharp nod.

There was a long silence, until I finally set down his cup in front of him, and settled into my chair clutching my own: brewed extra strong, with lemon.

Fiddling with his mug gave Potter something to do, at least, and his nerves seemed to settle somewhat.

"Well?" I finally said, over my mug.

"Thanks," Potter muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the desk in front of him.

"I make tea for all my colleagues, Potter, regardless of how ill-suited they are for the position."

Potter winced, but he didn't say anything. How curious. I leaned forward slightly in my chair.

"No, not that," he said, still mumbling. "Thanks- for everything, I mean."

I didn't know how to respond to that. My usual vitriol had dried up in the face of the boy's expression — downcast, fearful, embarrassed, but also with what looked like a twinge of hope.

"There's no need to thank me," I finally settled on, and the words felt like ash coming out of my mouth. What was I supposed to say? What was he expecting from me?

"I did need to," Potter said, and the words started tumbling out of his mouth. "You've done so much, and we all thought- we all assumed the worst, and the whole time- and you- and I'm so glad you lived- and I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done," Potter ended softly, his voice drifting off into nothing.

It was astounding. Potter had managed to do the impossible — this conversation was, by far, the worst conversation I'd ever had with any Potter, ever. James Potter would be rolling in his grave, no doubt.

"I didn't do it for you," I finally said, the words carefully empty of any emotion. I hadn't meant it to be cruel, or to injure, but rather as a simple statement of fact.

"I know," Potter said, a strange grimace crossing his face. "My mother-" and he cut himself off, looking pained. Of course, the boy must hate the thought that I had been in love with his mother. Served him right, for bringing it up in front of the entire world. There was no reason killing a Dark Lord needed so much posturing and conversation. Although, granted, he had thought I was dead at the time.

"I didn't do it for your mother, either," I said, and felt a hollow sense of shame at what was now my darkest secret, coming to light. Potter's honesty must be catching, for me to reveal myself so carelessly. This whole thing was fucking bizarre, and I was quite ready to be done with it.

"What do you mean?" the boy said, blinking stupidly. "The memories-"

"I loved-" This was the last thing I wanted to be talking to Potter about. So why couldn't I stop myself? "I did love her," I confirmed. It should have cost me nothing, since practically the entire world already knew, but it still hurt. "When the Dark Lord killed her, I was furious. That's why I did it, Potter. Not for her, not for a dead woman who wouldn't have given me the time of day when she died. But for me. Revenge against the Dark Lord for murdering the only person who'd ever seen good in me, who believed I could be something more. And I protected you because I owed a debt. I wanted to die a free man, or at least die trying to become one. The ugly truth is that everything I did, I did for myself."

Thankfully, there was a long silence after my unfortunate impromptu speech. Potter was looking blankly down at the table, and he was clutching his tea so hard his knuckles were turning white. If I had known a bit of honesty was all it took to shut him up, perhaps I would have tried it years ago.

Then again, maybe not.

Finally, Potter broke the silence, gaze still fixed in front of him. "You said- you said you loved her. Past tense?"

Of all the things he could have taken away from what I'd said, why the hell had he chosen that? "Pardon?" I said carefully, hoping that perhaps I'd misheard him (unlikely) or that he'd be too embarrassed to repeat it and would change the subject (rather more likely).

He flushed, his entire face turning a bright red. "Er- you said you loved her. As if you don't anymore." Of course, I'd somehow forgotten that I was dealing with the epitome of Gryffindor stupidity.

"What does it matter?" I said wearily, finally setting my tea down on my desk with a loud thud, and leaned back in my chair. I rubbed my temples with my hands, trying to stave off the headache I could already feel building, and watched as Potter awkwardly fidgeted.

"It- it matters to me," he finally said, with a quick shrug.

I desperately did not want to know what that meant, but I could feel a horrible suspicion dawning on me. "Does it?" I asked.

"I, er, sir, I-"

I should have kicked him out immediately. He looked- Merlin, he looked almost exactly like my most hated schoolyard rival, only with the eyes of the woman I'd loved. What he was- It was quite possibly my worst nightmare come to life. And Potter was looking at me, wide-eyed and flushed. He was staring at me intently, and looked like he was almost ready to say whatever it was I absolutely did not want him to say.

"Potter," I said, cutting him off. "Perhaps it's for the best if you don't finish that thought." I rested a hand over my eyes, so that I didn't have to look at his expression. I'm sure it was mortifyingly crestfallen.

There was another round of silence, and I could hear the sounds of Potter drinking his tea. He was drinking it rather slowly for someone who no doubt wanted nothing more than to flee and never see me again. I finally gave in and peered at him through my fingers. He was staring off to the side, lost in thought. He looked less devastated and more like he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. Merlin, this couldn't be happening.

"Could I come by for tea again some time?" he finally asked me, and I abruptly dropped my hand, staring at him openly. I was stunned silent by his sheer audacity. And looking at him closely, while feeling an emotion that neither Lily, nor James, had ever, ever inspired in me, I realized that Potter didn't look quite so much like his parents after all. Without his glasses, he resembled James only on paper, with his dark messy hair. And of course, he'd never looked much like Lily at all, apart from sharing an eye color.

This startling realization was surely the only reason for the utter inanity that next came out of my mouth. I had simply been bankrupt of any insults, deprived of my usual wit, left destitute and empty and hollow and all that was left was-

"Yes."

His smile hit me like a bludger to the head.