Severus Evans and the Impudent Brat: Chapter Eleven
Year One: Severus Evans and the Impudent Brat

Chapter 11: Eminently Fair Evans




Teachers did not receive Howlers.

Severus' jaw dropped as he watched the red envelope fall to the table before him. In all of his years at Hogwarts he had never received a single Howler, save the one he'd sent himself back in sixth year. Had his father been more friendly towards things magical, no doubt they would have been a weekly occurrence, but both his parents were dead now. So who the--?

Only one way to find out. Gritting his teeth, Severus warily pried the envelope open with one long finger.

"YOU COULD HAVE BLOODY TOLD ME IT WAS YOUR BLOODY BIRTHDAY!"

Severus shot a dark look towards the Gryffindor table: The Weasleys, damn them, had burst into laughter and were slapping Harry on the back.

"I S'POSE YOU WANTED TO KEEP IT A GREAT SECRET AND ALL, PROFESSOR, YOU BEING A HERMITLY SORT AND ALL, BUT I KIND OF THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE ARSED TO AT LEAST TELL ME! SEEING AS YOU DIDN'T, YOU'LL HAVE TO DO WITH THIS BIRTHDAY CARD, AS I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO GO SHOPPING FOR A PRESENT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PROFESSOR EVANS! AN OLD MAN OF THIRTY-TWO!"

All of the students--and, damn them, the teachers--were laughing by now. As the Howler burst into flames they all burst into applause. Severus dearly wished it were possible to Disapparate on the grounds of Hogwarts.


"I don't recall Howlers being on the curriculum of first-year Charms," muttered Severus, catching up with Harry outside the Great Hall.

Harry grinned. "Ron told me about them, and Hermione helped me find out how to make one. I wanted something clever, something special--"

Severus looked away, pretending he had not noticed the reddening of Harry's face. "It certainly was memorable," he said, allowing the slightest of smiles to pull one corner of his mouth.

"I'd've done better, if you'd told me in time."

"It never crossed my mind." Severus shrugged. "It's not important."

"It's your birthday! Of course it's important!"

"I thought you were more occupied with James Potter."

"He's a Quidditch player! You're--different."

"I think we've already established that."


"Thank you ever so much for informing Harry of the date of my birth."

Dumbledore looked up from his reading. "He's your son, Severus."

"Awfully good of you to recognize that." Severus seated himself across from Dumbledore. "A decade late, but better late than never."

"Have you been monitoring Professor Quirrell, Severus?"

"No, I'm a bloody half-arsed fool blithely ignoring a blatant threat to the life of my son."

"Good. Good." Dumbledore reached for a lemon sherbet and slipped it into his mouth.

"I want to referee the next Quidditch match."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, looking up at Severus over the top of the journal he was reading. "Do you think that is advisable, Severus?"

"Yes. I want to be close at hand, to protect Harry."

"I see." Dumbledore nodded. "Understandable, but have you given thought to how it will look to... certain others?"

"I couldn't care less how it looks," spat Severus. "I want my son to live."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, Severus. I think you show prudence--only do be careful not to give the least hint of favoritism towards Gryffindor."

Severus snorted.


Dumbledore had promised to keep their plans quiet, which meant that by dinner the news had engulfed the school like wildfire.

"Evans? Quidditch?"

"Evans?"

"Quidditch?"

Severus pretended not to hear. A golden opportunity to take house points, all the way around, but he was rather more concerned with Harry's welfare than with the idle speculations of students--and faculty--about his sudden interest in the game of Quidditch.

It was with a sigh of relief that he slipped into his office to retrieve a stack of essays with which to distract himself for the evening.


Next morning, he hadn't taken three steps outside of his rooms before he was intercepted.

"Surely," intoned a sinuous voice, "there's been some kind of mistake?"

Must you inflict yourself upon me before breakfast?

"Draco is doing well enough in Potions," snapped Severus.

"I'm not talking about Potions," said Lucius Malfoy. "I'm talking about Quidditch."

"Quidditch," echoed Severus, raising an eyebrow.

"So now Daddy's refereeing his darling boy's matches?" declaimed Malfoy, arching an eyebrow in turn. "Can't Ickle Harry beat the big, bad Hufflepuffs without Daddy's help?"

"Piss off, Malfoy."

Malfoy clicked his tongue. "You'd have done better to associate with me, Evans. I'd have taught you some class."

Severus strode past Malfoy before he could be tempted to strangle the conceited git.

"Draco tells me everything," Malfoy called after him. "The least hint of favoring Gryffindor, and I shall call for your position to be reviewed."


Whispers. Night and day, wherever he went, in the days before the match Severus was surrounded by whispers.

Not even his own rooms offered a reprieve.

"He's a Slytherin, Harry. He can't help himself."

Weasley's whisper was quiet, but not quite quiet enough.

"I don't know, Ron."

"Ambition. Power. It's in the blood."

"But then it's in my blood, too."

"But you're a Gryffindor. You wouldn't."

"No. Come on. I mean, all right, he can't help being a Slytherin, but that doesn't mean..."

"Look. You said it yourself: He's not a rich man. And he's a total Potions boff. And a Slytherin. How can he possibly resist?"

"Because it's against the bloody rules, that's how. Eminently unfair."

Severus cast a sharp look over the top of his reading glasses. Harry and Ron stared back at him, and the whispering ceased as they turned back to their homework.


The morning of the match, Severus had to force himself out of bed. He hadn't slept well the past few nights; all he could think of was keeping Harry on his broom and away from Quirrell. He slapped cold water on his face as he shaved, trying to snap himself awake. He cast a quick look at Lily's picture before opening the door into the corridor.


"Right." Standing in the middle of the field, Severus surveyed the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs assembled around him. "Play fair, follow the rules, and no nasty business from any of you or I'll hex every one of you into the next century."

They believed him, bless their hearts.

"Mount your brooms."

As soon he blew the whistle to begin the match, Severus knew he'd made a mistake. Where he'd got the idea he could keep an eye on Quirrell or protect Harry while hovering in the midst of madly darting athletes hell-bent on victory--

He was nearly knocked off his broom by a bludger.

One of the damned Weasley twins, the fool. He would have no choice--

"Penalty to Hufflepuff!" He was answered by a chorus of protest from the sea of red and gold.

What did they expect? Did they really--

Damn. He definitely could not overlook that.

"And Eminently Fair Evans, in an exemplary display of applying the rules without partiality--"

"Jordan."

"--demonstrates yet again that he harbors no favoritism whatsoever--"

"Jordan--"

"--towards the Gryffindor team, even though his very own son is--"

"JORDAN!"

"Hufflepuff gets another penalty, scores handily, and retains possession."

Perhaps he was overcompensating.

He'd better give a nod to Gryffindor, if only Gryffindor would give him a reasonably credible--

A scarlet blur streaked past him, nearly toppling him from his broom.

"And Gryffindor takes the Snitch, and the game!"

It took him a minute to steady himself before he felt safely capable of drifting to the ground and dismounting. Severus' legs were shaking as he made his way across the field to where a crowd pressed around Harry.

"Nice--" A wave of vertigo swayed him.

Harry looked up and gasped. "You're pale as a ghost!"

Severus drew a ragged breath. "You nearly made me one."

But he was feeling only pride, a ridiculously exaggerated and not at all impartial pride, as he looked into Harry's eyes. Not even Lucius Malfoy could attribute this victory to nepotism.

"Congratulations," he said, grinning.

The sun seemed to rise on Harry's face as he shook Severus' hand. "Thanks, Professor."