Adjusting a Gryffindor badge that she had pinned onto her robes, Minerva scooped up her wand from its spot on the desk. It was the first Quidditch match of the season and she was eager to get the pitch. She locked her office door behind herself and hurried down the stairs, following a flood of students, most adorned in Gryffindor red and gold. The crowd reached the stadium and split up, racing for the best seats they could find. Minerva's path took her up to the announcer's booth, her normal seat. Lee Jordan was already waiting, playing with a spare Quaffle he had found somewhere.

"Hey, Professor," he said cheerfully, spinning in his chair. She nodded to him and took the seat to his left, focusing out the window onto the pitch, where both teams were standing, awaiting instruction. For the sake of surprise, she'd purposely avoided watching her team practice, especially Potter. Excepting, of course, the first time he'd flown his Nimbus.

"Welcome to the first game of the season, Slytherin vs Gryffindor!" Lee roared, shocking her into attention. And then they were off. Her eyes followed Harry into the sky, his broom far outstripping all the others. Then she tuned back in to the announcements Lee was making.

"-and quite pretty, too!" he quipped.

"Jordan!" she yelled, furious. He threw her an apologetic grin and she rolled her eyes. Looking out the window, she noticed Harry spiraling far above the crowd, obviously looking for the Snitch and trying to get out of Bludger range. Focused on him, she didn't notice the game's score until Lee shouted it in her ear.

"And it's now sixty-ten to Gryffindor!"

That's when her heart nearly stopped. Harry's broomstick started shaking in the air, the eyes of the crowd turning to him. He was flipped so he was hanging like a sloth, then slipped so he was hanging by only one hand. He kept trying to regain his seat but he couldn't manage it. Slytherin kept scoring but she ignored it, focused on Harry with bated breath. How she wanted to go out there and save him, but she knew she shouldn't, he'd be fine, if his father was anything to judge by.

There it was again. His father. Oh, why did he have to be so much like him? A reflection, in everything but mannerisms. She roused herself from her thoughts and glanced upwards once more. Then the broom stopped shaking. Minerva let out a sigh of barely disguised relief as the crowd cheered and Harry dove downwards, obviously having seen something. The Slytherin Seeker chased after him but couldn't catch him. He was so close, so close, and her nails were biting holes into her palms as she completely ignored Lee's commentary and the rest of the game. He stretched out a hand to the fluttering golden ball, nearly standing up on his broom as he inched closer. Almost, almost.

WHAM! Harry hit the ground and she nearly cried out in fear, fear for this child that had touched her heart for some unfathomable reason. He rolled across the green for several feet before stopping and ending up on his hands and knees, choking. She found herself praying to some unknown deity that she wasn't the cause of his death or injury because she bought him that broomstick, encouraged him to play this dangerous sport. Then he coughed one final time, cupping his hand to his mouth, and triumphantly held up a small, golden ball. He'd caught the Snitch and she couldn't believe it. Minerva wanted so badly to rush into the field to congratulate him like everyone else but she held herself back, instead making her way downstairs and back into the castle, hands shaking.

Because she was not ready to watch Harry Potter be hurt in any way, shape, or form. Not after the last Potter that she'd somehow loved like a mother, despite all his faults. But ready or not, he was here to stay and she had no idea what to do.

She had no idea.