"I d-d-don't know wh-wh-what you mean, S-s-severus."
"I mean, why on earth would you be in this corridor, at this time?"
"I-I-I thought I heard a n-n-noise?"
"Are asking me or telling me, Quirrell? I believe your next turn of duty here is not until Wednesday. I daresay you have better ways to spend your time until then."
"I-I-I th-th-thought I-I should ch-ch-check it out, Severus, the n-n-noise. It's v-v-very im-p-p-portant to k-k-keep the Phi-phi—"
"Shut up, you sorry nitwit! Do you think the Headmaster wants you to blather on mindlessly about what he is keeping hidden?"
"N-n-no, of c-c-c-c-c-course not." Quirrell gasped for breath, looking almost in tears.
"Of course not," Severus agreed. He eased up on the man's windpipe and moved back, allowing Quirrell to straighten his robes and pull himself together. Eyes still narrowed, Severus dropped his voice to a whisper. "I want to be quite sure you understand, Professor, that the Headmaster is keeping a very close eye on anyone he suspects of having . . . less than ideal loyalties to his way of thinking. Anyone. Is that clear enough for you?"
"Y-y-yes, Severus. I-I-I underst-st-stand."
"Good. I should not see you here again until Wednesday, should I?"
"N-n-no, Severus."
Severus let the man go, and watched to make sure he indeed left the third floor. Was Quirrell going to try and take the Philosopher's Stone? If so, there was quite a bit more at stake than he had previously considered. With a sigh, Severus went to see Dumbledore again, to share his latest concerns. And once more, Dumbledore nodded and gave assurances, and then left most of the work of keeping an eye on the annoying Professor Quirrell to Severus.
On Tuesday, the day of the next Slytherin Quidditch practice, Severus sent a note to Potter during breakfast, telling him he could come perform his detention during his free period instead of in the evening. Very kind of him, he thought. And understanding.
He watched the boy receive the note, saw Potter's momentary scowl morph into a look of resignation as the boy pushed his plate away and started to rise from the table. When he said something quietly to Theodore Nott, Nott read the note over his shoulder, then sent a glare at the Head Table, specifically at his Potions Professor. Severus lifted an eyebrow in return, and the boy looked away, but not before he murmured something to the Potter boy. Potter shrugged and grabbed up his book bag before heading out of the Hall.
Nott then spoke quickly and quietly to several of the other Firsties, heads bent together at their end of the table, and the lot of them rose and went after Potter.
Severus shook his head at their shenanigans, and applied himself to his meal.
Minerva leaned towards him. "A bit of dissention in your ranks, Severus?"
Severus swallowed a bite of toast with orange marmalade and lifted an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"
"Your Firsties look on the verge of rebellion, perhaps on behalf of a certain Mr. Potter."
"Nonsense," he scoffed, and took a sip of tea.
"I notice you've had Mr. Potter in detention nearly every day since the start of term. Is he really so unmanageable?"
Tempted to tell her yes, that the Boy Who Had Even the Bloody Baron Wrapped Around His Littlest Finger was as arrogant and impertinent as his father had been, Severus resisted the impulse. Instead, he murmured noncommittally, "He needs a close eye kept on him."
"That wouldn't have anything to do with him ending up in the hospital wing his first weekend at school, would it?"
"Perhaps," Severus allowed. He took another sip of tea, and forbore telling Minerva to butt out of Slytherin business.
"It's not my place to say as much," Minerva started, and Severus knew she would anyway, "but I think you're being too hard on the boy."
"You're right," Severus said with a scowl, and rose, throwing his serviette on the table with a little too much force, so it landed in the remainders of his too-runny eggs. "It's not your place."
Her mouth was pursed as she watched him leave, but as long as she did not stop him or attempt to scold him further, he did not care a whit.
Why was it that everyone sought to tell him his duty?
For the period just after lunch – another meal which Potter did not attend, damn him; how was the boy to put on weight if he didn't eat? – when Potter was due for his make up detention, Severus laid out several dozen rats to be sectioned and harvested for spleens, hearts, livers and tails. The boy should be able to get through them in an hour without trouble.
Potter arrived right on time, with the Bloody Baron floating silently in his wake, looking censorious but otherwise not acknowledging his existence. Severus pointed toward his classroom, and told Potter to begin. The boy said nothing beyond his customary, "Yes, sir," and went right to work.
This time, however, Severus followed him. He watched the boy roll up his sleeves, and check the written instructions before starting to section the rats. Potter seemed not to be squeamish at all, which some children were, he knew, especially those who were Muggleborn or raised. But then, the boy hadn't balked at any of the other tasks set for him the last couple weeks either.
The Bloody Baron hovered next to him, and the two seemed to be conversing . . . or, rather, the Baron was speaking in a low voice, and Potter was responding with occasional shrugs or shakes of his head. The boy's shoulders were slumped more than Severus had seen them previously, but he did not appear to be in any actual pain. His scar was not inflamed, Severus had noted when Potter first came in, so he didn't bother asking about nightmares or occasions of proximity to Quirrell. Once more, however, the Baron sent frequent glares at Severus, but Severus ignored them.
Deciding he had seen – and been glared at – enough, Severus returned to his office and his own work.
The day seemed to be going swimmingly, in fact, until Marcus Flint appeared in his office at half nine that night, glowering more than usual.
"Something I can do for you, Mr. Flint?" Severus asked, not looking up from his marking.
"Just thought you should know, sir," the Prefect said in an angry growl, "that the Potter kid's in the Infirmary."
"What?" Severus was on his feet in a heartbeat. "What happened?"
Flint shook his head. "Had a bit of a meltdown, he did, and tried to act the Beater. Without a bat. Took on a couple Bludgers, but broke his arm, and couple of ribs, most like. Lucky he stayed on his broom."
Severus sighed and took his seat again. Of all the . . . "Very well, Mr. Flint. If that will be all?"
Flint glared and stood his ground. "Sir . . . they're saying . . ." His broad face screwed up with the attempt to think or put excess words in order.
"Spit it out, Flint, I haven't got all night."
"Yes, sir. Well . . . they're saying you've got it in for him. That Potter's up all hours doing his homework, and even has to skip meals to get it done, seeing as how he's in detention every night, and even on his free periods. They're saying you've done him wrong."
Severus pressed his lips together, and his hands clenched into fists. "Potter went whinging to you, did he?"
"No, sir." Flint shook his head. "Not at all. Kid hasn't said a word. He's made of stone, that one. His mates say he even told 'em to lay off coming to me about him. But they – the other Firsties – they're worried about him not getting enough sleep or regular meals or anything. They pester me about every day, asking what I can do to help him, and they saw he was gonna break, before I did. I even had a pack of Third Years ask me why he's never at meals when he's so scrawny.