“Detention, Potter,” Professor Snape said softly as he vanished what was almost a correct shrinking solution from thirteen-year-old Harry Potter’s pewter cauldron.

Ron Weasley opened his mouth to protest, but quickly snapped it shut at Hermione Granger’s kick to his shin. “Don’t push him, Ron,” she scolded under her breath, “he’s been taking points away and handing out detentions all afternoon.”

Harry, meanwhile, sighed discouragingly and began to clean up his potions ingredients. “Why does he have to be such a git?” he wondered. “It’s not like my potion was any worse than Neville’s.” Said boy’s potion was currently emitting horrendously loud shrieks, much like the socks Harry, Ron, and Hermione had given Dobby the previous year.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” said Snape icily, “for ruining a potion in the most abominable way possible.” Neville looked down at his shoes, tears threatening to spill from his round eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, the lesson ended in a flurry of bottling potions, collecting rolls of parchment, and packing up potions supplies. “Potter!” Snape called over the din of students, “Stay after to arrange your detention.” Harry groaned and slumped down in his seat once more.

“Go on to dinner, guys,” he said, waving a hand at Ron and Hermione, both of whom were idling at the classroom door. Ron needed no more encouragement and bolted out the door, anxious to be away from Snape. Hermione shot Harry one last glance before following Ron, albeit at a much more sedate pace.

Harry waited silently for Snape, not evening looking up as the man neatly stacked the class’ essays on his desk and brought the bottled potions to his office, snorting all the while at his students’ pathetic attempts. Snape swept ominously back into his classroom and stood before Harry. The boy reluctantly tore his eyes away from his hands and looked up at his most hated professor.

“I expect more from you, Potter,” Snape began menacingly. “Any dunderhead should be able to brew a shrinking solution without problem, but you have managed to fail spectacularly.” Snape paused in his tirade to observe the effects his harsh words had on the small boy in front of him. “Imagine, the boy-who-lived failing third year potions because he is too thick to understand simple instructions.”

At this, Harry stood up and looked straight into his teacher’s eyes, green met black, both glinting with emotion - one with rage and anger, the other with loathing and the vindictive pleasure of torture. “Don’t bother attempting to form a retort,” Snape said lazily before Harry had a chance to speak, “your small brain is under too much stress as it is, what with the standing and breathing simultaneously.”

Snape briefly brought a halt to his insults to watch the emotions of his worst enemy’s son flit across his face. He was pleased to see anger and hatred dance heatedly around Harry’s brow. “Detention tomorrow night at eight o’clock,” Snape said in a clipped tone. “Do not be late.” With those words he turned on his heel and stalked into his office, leaving a fuming Harry in the empty classroom.

Harry, completely forgetting about dinner, slowly made his way to Gryffindor Tower, letting his anger simmer as his feet led him on the familiar path. “Why does Snape always have to single me out? It’s not as if I did anything to him! And what’s this garbage about my potion being utterly wrong? Ron’s was exactly like mine, and Neville’s was worse! I bet he just wants me in detention so he can insult me without anyone else around to hear him. I hate him! I wish he would just die and leave us all in peace! We’d all be much happier without the bastard,” he finished savagely.

()()()()()()

Eight o’clock the next night came much too soon for Harry’s liking. “I wouldn’t put it past Snape to bewitch the clocks so the day passes quicker, then he’ll change it so the hours crawl by in detention,” thought Harry dejectedly as he dragged his feet down to the dungeons. He looked up to find himself standing outside of Snape’s classroom. Heaving a small sigh, he knocked three times on the wood door.

“Enter,” a voice inside drawled as soon as his last knock ended. Harry pushed open the door and shuffled inside.

“Pick up your feet, boy,” snarled Snape from the front of the room. “How can anyone with your small amount of talent on the quidditch pitch be so slow and ungraceful on the ground?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Was that a backhanded compliment?” he wondered. “No, Snape’s just being a git as usual.”

“You are to organise my supply cabinet, Potter,” Snape said, interrupting Harry’s musings. “I want them arranged by property, and within each property, by colour. If an ingredient is kept in a jar, go by the colour of the contents, not the colour of the jar. Your detention will end once you have finished and the task is completed to my standards. Begin.”

Harry stared at him for a moment. “I always knew Snape was mad, but organising a supply cabinet by colour?” He shook his head slightly and settled down to begin his task.

()()()()()()

Two and a half hours later, a very tired Harry straightened up and stretched his sore back. “I’ve finished, sir,” he called to Snape. Snape didn’t look up from the essays he was viciously grading. Harry cleared his throat nervously. “Er, sir? I’m done.”

“I heard you the first time,” Snape barked, “for I am not daft like you.” Harry’s blood began to boil. “Let’s see how badly you’ve arranged my things.”

Snape stalked over to his cabinet, wrenched the doors open, and peered inside. “Acidic ingredients, basic ingredients, neutralizers…” he muttered as he examined Harry’s work. Snape shut the cabinet doors with a snap and turned to Harry. “Very well, Potter, your task is complete, though the quality is only acceptable at best.”

Harry was about to respond, but Snape smoothly cut him off, “But what else should I expect from the Gryffindor golden boy? He is, of course, above such petty things as potions, and far too dim to understand the subtle art of brewing and the delicate properties of even the most basic and common ingredients.”

All the while, Harry’s temper had risen. Snape was going too far.

“…and arrogant enough to believe that his defeat of the Dark Lord would be sufficient in earning him top marks and a place in auror training after he leaves school. Is that what you think, Potter?” Snape spat fiercely. “Are you conceited in such quantities that you believe your fame is enough to get you everything you want? Do you assume you are better than everyone else?”

“SHUT UP!” Harry screamed as his temper finally got the best of him. “I’m not ANY of those things! You’re the one who goads me, you say all these nasty things about me without any evidence at all! You’re the one who judges me, you think you’re superior to me! I’ve never started anything with you or your stinking Slytherins! Haven’t you noticed, Professor, that I’m never the instigator? Never, not once have I said something to start a fight. It’s always your slimy house that makes a move!

“ And I’m not my father! But you, with your stupid, petty grudge against him for something that happened years ago, you see me as a means of revenge on my dad! You’re blind, Snape,” Harry’s voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, “blinded by your hatred of my dad, blinded by your own prejudices. You can’t even see me.

“To you I’m just James Potter’s son, the son of a dead man whom you are so set on getting revenge upon. I’m a stupid, obtuse Gryffindor, incapable of even the easiest task, or so you believe. If you had looked closely, you would see that I know just as much as anyone else, but you never look. I know what I can do, even if you belittle me and insult me at every chance you get.”

The only sound was Harry’s ragged breathing. He knew he had blown up at Snape, he knew Snape would punish him for it, and he knew it felt wonderful to get every spiteful feeling regarding the potions master off his chest.

Silence filled the dungeon as Harry’s breathing returned to normal. Snape was staring at him, his face a mask of indifference even when his emotions were going haywire. “Fifty points from Gryffindor,” Snape muttered finally. “You will never raise your voice to me again. Now get out of my sight!”

Harry practically flew out the door in his haste to flee the presence of a very enraged man. He was lucky to escape with only fifty points lost, never mind his life.

Snape watched the boy run out of his classroom before sitting heavily at his desk. “I do see you, Harry,” he murmured brokenly to his hands. “I do know who you are, and what you are able to do.”

The spy stood up once more and to the empty classroom whispered, “I’m sorry, Harry, but these are the roles we play.”