Know The Stakes

By Contrarian

Rated: K+ (for language and cruel treatment of a defenseless magazine)

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Anything and anyone recognizable is the property of J. K. Rowling.

Notes: Just something lighthearted that nagged at me until I wrote it. It was a surprisingly persistent little bugger. It's set, as mentioned in the summary, during Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone, before the first Quidditch match. Enjoy!

There were few things more annoying, Minerva McGonagall reflected, than an especially irascible Severus Snape.

He had swept into the staff room with his usual flourish, casting a withering sneer at the clusters of chairs and tables. Usually when he looked this irritated, some ill-fortuned House was on the verge of losing a spectacular amount of points, but apparently he hadn't run into any errant students on his way to the room or his scowl wouldn't be quite so pronounced.

He had taken the chair across from her, somehow managing to look as though he had been forced to claim this most unfavorable of seats even though he could just as easily have taken a chair on the opposite side of the room. His decision not to do so could only mean that he intended to torment her in lieu of a cowering first-year. Oh, goody.

"Severus," she'd greeted him evenly, and he had jerked his head at her irritably in response. It was as close to a polite nod as he was capable of coming, she supposed.

They had been sitting for a while in not-so-companionable silence, her sipping composedly from her teacup and reading the latest issue of Transfiguration Today, him drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. After a while the sound became more forceful and insistent. There was even a deliberate sort of rhythm to it, which increased in tempo until she could no longer properly concentrate on Sedgwick Simpkin's article about Switching Spells. She glanced up over her square-rimmed spectacles, quirking an eyebrow. Satisfied that he had her attention, and much to her dismay, Snape opened his mouth and spoke.

"So," he said in a silky, dangerous tone that indicated she was in for a very long evening, "not only does Potter shower his graces upon the wizarding world at large, he also brings his dubious talents to the Quidditch pitch. How very…fortunate for Gryffindor."

Minerva had to grudgingly admire the man's uncanny ability to time his pauses as effectively as possible. It was no surprise that he managed to control his classroom with little more than a raised eyebrow and an accompanying sarcastic remark.

Without looking up from the magazine, she responded mildly, "The boy has definite potential."

"I do hope you're correct. It would be a shame if, after all your assistance," his sneer was actually audible, "he demonstrated no actual talent."

Rolling her eyes perhaps dignified that remark too much, but she did it anyway. Of course, the bloody broomstick again. If he somehow failed to utter a snide comment about her so-called "blatant favoritism" at every conceivable opportunity, she would have to wonder if he were in his right mind.

"Especially," Snape added, "since it would mean your delightful House's failure to obtain the Quidditch cup." He paused. "For the sixth year running."

Minerva's grip tightened involuntarily on her magazine, crinkling the pages, and he smirked. Loathe as she was to admit it, Snape knew precisely how to get under her skin; Quidditch, or, more specifically, her House's consistent failure to succeed at Quidditch, was a particularly sore point.

"Has it been six years?" she asked lightly, her casual tone rather offset by her white-knuckled grip on the pages of the unfortunate magazine. "I wasn't aware."

"Lost count, no doubt," Snape said, attempting to sound sympathetic and failing miserably. "It has been a while; I can imagine all the years have begun to blend together."

Simpkin's article was hopelessly crumpled now. She tried to smooth it out surreptitiously.

"Mmm," she said unconcernedly. "I suppose I've been preoccupied with other things."

"Indeed."

Damn him. She put the magazine aside before it could suffer further abuse and decided to cut the conversation short; she had known Snape long enough to be aware that he could carry on this sort of exchange for as long as it suited him, and she was in no mood to indulge him.

"Thank you for that thoughtful reminder," she said tersely. "I do hope Potter knows the stakes."

Which actually meant I hope he catches the Snitch within thirty seconds of the starting whistle and puts an end to your insufferable arrogance, you great sod.

But of course she'd never say such a thing aloud. One of them had to maintain at least a semblance of professionalism, after all.

"Care to wager on the first match?" he asked, raising an eyebrow provokingly.

"No," she retorted curtly, turning to leave, "I do not."

She banged the door closed behind her in a manner that was not very professional.

-

Understandably, Severus Snape was in a foul mood after the controversial end of the year's first Quidditch match. While his aura of barely-restrained violence had sent several students squealing out of his path, it had no discernable effect on Minerva McGonagall, who had of course taken the first opportunity to rub her long-awaited victory in his face.

"I suppose you're glad I didn't take you up on your wager," she had commented lightly enough, although there was no mistaking the vindictive glee in her broad grin. Subtle.

Infuriating woman, he thought bitterly. As if he hadn't seen that particular remark coming from a mile off. His responding sneer had been weak, but he'd compensated with a rather impressive billow of robes as he departed, which was a small comfort.

Very small.

Leave it to Potter to deem it beneath him to catch the Snitch like an ordinary mortal. Exactly why a desperate imitation of a tree frog warranted such sensation was absolutely beyond him.

He was sitting behind his desk massaging his temples when an all-too familiar cackle rent the air. His eye twitched slightly. Peeves currently vied with McGonagall for the position of second most irritating presence in his life at the moment. This was due to the decidedly inane song he had composed as a tribute to Potter's success. Which he felt compelled to perform repeatedly.

Outside his office.

With an accompanying and extremely offensive dance routine.

Predictably enough, the poltergeist inhaled dramatically and began to sing.

Someone. Was going. To die. It might even be him; he was mulling over the benefits of Avada Kedavra-ing himself when the poltergeist's nerve-rending falsetto penetrated the walls, belting out the end of the absolutely loathsome final verse.

"…And when Gryffindor's in a tight pinch,

They can count on Potter to swallow the Snitch!"

Snape's hand tightened convulsively around the nearest jar of pickled rat brains, thoroughly prepared to hurl it against the wall. He would not be in the least bit surprised if it turned out McGonagall was putting the little bugger up to this. It was exactly the kind of underhanded thing she would do.

"Peeves," she would say imperiously from behind her desk, probably not even bothering to look up from whatever sorry stack of essays she happened to be grading, "Depart at once to Snape's office and see that he is driven to suicide."

And of course she would get away with it, because after all she'd managed to procure a Nimbus Bloody-Two-Thousand for the Potter brat completely against the regulations she professed to enforce.

Damn her.

Peeves reached the end of the last chorus, took another loud breath, and launched into the song once more with renewed gusto. The jar of rat brains shattered against the wall with a satisfying crack.