Quidditch practice was amazing. Absolutely, mind-blowingly amazing. It didn't hurt that a great deal of it involved flying about on broomsticks and Harry loved the feeling of that, the sensation of wind tearing through his hair, reddening his cheeks and numbing his fingers as they clutched at the broomstick between his knees. Flying was the only thing in the Wizarding world that required no thought on his part; it was all just instinct, and glory and FUN!

The Slytherin team captain, Flint, was a harsh taskmaster, but then, Harry had known that the day Flint ran him in circles to see if he would be a good enough Seeker for the team. He treated everyone the same, though, which Harry was very glad of. He was tired of people either being all gaga over his scar, asking to see it, asking if he really vanquished You Know Who -- as if he had any idea either, beyond what he had read in books -- or else being utter prats, just because he'd been sorted into Slytherin or because he wasn't a pureblood like Zabini.

Not once, during the entire practice, did Harry think of the detention he was missing. No, he raced his broom -- from the school broom shed -- and chased the snitch, and reveled in the wondrousness of being able to do something he was good at, with no one telling him he was a freak for doing so. He loved it.

After showering in the changing room near the pitch, he walked back to the castle with Draco, who chatted excitedly about maneuvers Flint had the Chasers and Beaters running through, while Harry nodded and smiled. Draco seemed really easy to please, actually, once Harry realized that what the blond wanted was a little recognition that he did things well, too, and also a chance to have fun. They were getting on pretty well these days, in fact.

Once in the castle, he looked sidelong at Harry as they crossed the Entrance Hall. "We missed dinner. You want to come with me to the kitchens and grab something?"

Years of filching food from the Dursleys kitchen after hours had primed Harry for the job. "Sure. Do you know where it is?"

Draco nodded. "From here it's easy. We go down the Puffies corridor, and then follow our noses."

Harry snickered and followed the other boy as they wended their way down to the level of the dungeons, but a ways removed from the Potions classroom and Snape's office. They arrived at a portrait of a very alive looking bowl of fruit, and Draco reached up to tickle his fingers along the side of a juicy looking pear. The portrait door swung open, welcoming them in.

"How'd you know this was here?" Harry asked as they ducked into the kitchen.

"My Father told me. He knew I might get hungry after practice and whatnot."

Draco didn't mention his father very often, and then usually with this sort of calm flippancy, but Harry was reminded of the "talk" they'd both been subject to, in Snape's office, a week ago. He didn't say anything about it now, though, but looked around the kitchen, to see dozens of long, wooden tables, with dozens of short, bulbous eyed creatures with long, floppy ears working at them on various kinds of pastries, breads, soups and pies. It all smelled wonderful. Almost as one, the creatures turned to see who had entered their realm.

"We would like something to eat," Draco announced cheerily. "That is, Harry Potter and I."

A murmur of voices started through the kitchen and wended its way back and forth like a cyclone. Harry could hear his name being whispered, over and over, on the tip of every tongue in sight. He sighed. "Did you have to do that?" he whispered to Draco.

Draco smirked and nodded, as a half dozen of the creatures came forward with trays of sandwiches and puddings and one even had a whole roast chicken surrounded by tiny carrots and braised potatoes.

"Harry Potter has come to the Hogwarts kitchen!" one of the little creatures exclaimed, its voice squeaky and kind of irritating, actually.

"Harry Potter wants food!" another called.

Harry Potter felt his face growing very red, and vowed to get back at Draco, somehow. Later. Now, though, he was hungry. "Er, yeah. I, er, we are really hungry. We just had Quidditch, you know?"

"Harry Potter plays Quidditch!" went up the call throughout the kitchen.

Bloody hell.

Dozens of trays, now, were being shoved in his face, and Draco was taking things from them with abandon, loading up his arms with meat and buns and cakes, so Harry followed suit, and soon they both had their arms full and were backing from the room.

"Harry Potter must return soon!"

"Er, okay. I'll be sure and do that," Harry said hastily, as he and Draco made good their escape.

Once back in the hallway, Draco tore a bite off a chicken leg and led him away from the kitchen by a different corridor, and soon Harry could see where they were, in relation to the Slytherin dorms.

"What the hell was that all about?" Harry asked, his voice muffled around a bite of pasty.

"You're a bloody hero, Harry Potter," Draco said, making Harry's name sound like the creatures had said it, sort of sing-songy. "Even the House-elves love you."

"House-elves? Is that what those things were?"

Draco stopped and stared. "You've never seen a House-elf?"

Harry rolled his eyes and swallowed the pumpkin treat. "Muggle raised, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I forget sometimes. You seem so normal."

Not knowing whether to be insulted or complimented, Harry chose not to respond to the observation at all. Instead he shrugged and started down the hall again. Draco trotted to catch up, and the two of them entered the Slytherin common room together.

They brought all their pilfered booty over to the table their study group met at, and offered to share it around, as there was too much for the two boys to eat on their own. Millicent, who was still struggling with Transfiguration homework, sighed gratefully and took a handful of chocolate biscuits, which she nibbled on, humming happily around the snacks. Even Blaise Zabini accepted some of their largesse, and didn't even make any cutting remarks about it.

Once he'd taken the edge off his hunger, Harry was ready to start his homework, so he went back to his dorm to get his books. There was only another hour or so before bedtime, but he figured he could get a start on his History of Magic essay before then. If he rose early again, he could finish it up before class tomorrow morning. When he got to his bed, though, he found a folded over note stuck to the top of his trunk.

Inside, the writing was tight and neat, and the script was one he recognized. Unfortunately.

Potter,

Come see me. NOW

With a sigh, Harry tucked the note in his pocket and went back out to the common room, but angled toward the portrait door, instead of going back to his study group. He'd known this would happen, really. He'd just hoped it wouldn't catch up to him until, well, at least tomorrow.

"Hey, Harry!" Millie called. "Where're you going?"

He shook his head, frowning, but then figured, what the hell; they'd find out sooner or later. "Detention."

"Again?" Zabini stared at him, open mouthed, and even a couple others in the common room looked over at him, making his shuffle his feet a bit. Bloody Zabini. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, what the hell is wrong with you? You've been in detention every night since we got here!"

Harry grimaced, and though part of him wanted to just Zabini to shut it, another part wondered if Zabini was on to something. Maybe there was something wrong with him. But all he said was, "Snape's a bastard, okay? Just leave me alone." He slipped out the door and down the corridor toward Snape's office without listening to Millie's commiserations, or Zabini's outrage on behalf of their Head of House, or any of it. He was tired of this crap, really. When was he going to catch a break?

Drawing a deep breath, once he reached Snape's office door, Harry drew up his courage, too. It wasn't as if the man could make him feel worse, really. No matter what he said. He had to let it just roll off him, like when Uncle Vernon got a good head of steam going. Just nod, smile a little, with just the right about of respect, and then go on about his business. No problem. He knocked on the door lightly.

His hope that maybe Snape had already retired to his quarters was dashed a moment later by the command, "Enter."

Harry obeyed, opening the door far enough to slip through, and easing it closed it behind him. Snape was at his desk, as usual, correcting papers. He did not look up. Harry stood perfectly still, hands by his sides, for kind of a long time, by his reckoning, and still Snape did not look up. His legs got tired, actually, standing there, though some of that was probably due to a few hours of flying madly, too.

Harry had just opened his mouth to say something snotty, along the lines of, "I have better things to do that stand here, if you don't mind," when he was saved by the utter idiocy of that action by Snape's head snapping up, his coal black eyes glittering malevolently.

"You will kindly tell me, Mr. Potter, what you were thinking to miss your appointment with me this evening." His voice was no louder than a whisper, but the tight anger it so obviously held in check was all the more frightening for it. Harry had heard that tone of voice a number of times in his life, and he never liked what followed.

He swallowed, hard, then brought his chin up, just a fraction. No weakness. Show no weakness. "I had Quidditch practice."

The black eyes narrowed. "And yet, you had a previous engagement here, with a crate of dead toads. They will not debone themselves."

He couldn't help but make a face, though really, it was only a little twist of his lips. Really. Dead toads? As if the murtlap tentacles hadn't been bad enough. Then he recalled the conversation he had had with Snape the night of tentacle pickling, the night he had also handed over the written account of what rules he would and would not follow and why. "I'm sorry, sir. I was . . . since it was our first practice, I didn't want to miss it. I thought you'd rather Captain Flint not kick me off the Slytherin team." He didn't add, 'since it was your idea to put me on it,' as it wasn't necessary.

Snape's mouth pursed, and his gaze grew sharper, as if he knew Harry was trying to play him. "You are insolent and impertinent. You have no respect for me or my limited time. You could have come to me today and requested a chance of time for your detention."

Harry frowned, and allowed a bit of daring. "And you would have agreed, sir?"

The man sneered. "We will never find out now, will we?" He gestured imperiously to his classroom, beyond the connecting door. "There is a crate of toads next to your worktable, along with the instructions for their rendering. Get to work."

Harry glared. He wasn't going to even get a chance to start his homework tonight, and if this job took as long as some of the others, he'd be getting to bed well after midnight. Again. Damnit. But he deserved it, really, for ditching. After taking a slow breath, Harry nodded tightly and turned on his heel, to head into the classroom.

"Oh, and Potter?"

Harry didn't turn around, but said, quietly, knowing if he growled at the man, he would probably face his mockery along with everything else. "Yes, sir?"

"That's another week of detention. For your disrespect."

At that, Harry did turn, mouth agape. "Sir!"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?" The Professor's face was hard, unyielding.

Harry bit his lip. The assignment was unfair, and quite possibly unjustified, and both of them knew it. But the only thing Harry would get out of an argument would be more time deboning or otherwise taking apart once-living potion ingredients. He knew how that went. More chores on top of the ones he already had, for his cheek. So he clenched his teeth instead, determined to get through yet another bloody week of detention, without getting any more time added, even if it killed him.

But what about Quidditch? He softened his expression, showing a proper amount of respect, but not lowering his gaze. "Yes, sir. I understand." Boy, did he ever. "But, I . . . I mean, would it be all right to change the time for detention on the nights of Quidditch practice?"

Snape gave him a thin smile. "It seems you can learn, after all, Mr. Potter. We shall see about changing the times. If I am satisfied with your other work, perhaps."

Making himself nod again, Harry wanted to yell at the man, but he knew better than that, even if he hated being condescended to, especially in that sneering tone. But he knew from years of experience that yelling at the ones who had power over him very rarely earned him anything good. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

"The toads await, Mr. Potter."

"Yes, sir." Harry sighed heavily and went to work, cursing Snape with every cut and slice and bit of toad gut or liver or heart that squished through his fingers. The man was a bastard. A complete and utter bastard. How in the hell was he ever going to catch up in his classes, when his every evening was spent in this godforsaken classroom, cutting up godforsaken creatures and being glared at by a godforsaken, goddamned git of a professor?

Unaccountably, he felt the hot pinprick of tears in his eyes, and he hurriedly blinked them back. He would not cry. Not because of Snape, and not for his missed bloody homework or more detentions or any of it. He breathed through his mouth for a few minutes, the better to control his emotions. He hadn't cried for years, not since he was like four or five, so why would he start now, anyway? The Dursleys were much worse than this. Here, at least, he got to play Quidditch, and he could eat whenever he wanted, really, and no one -- except some murderous Parselmouth freak in the dungeon -- was hurting him, certainly not beating him up every day or chasing him up trees. He had friends. People who seemed to actually like him. And no one called him freak all the time or ever locked him in a cupboard.

So what if he had to stay up late to do his homework? He'd always had to do his homework twice or more at the Dursleys, since Dudley would often swipe his and either try and turn it in as his own, or else destroy it by flushing it down the toilet or something. And so what if Snape hated him? It wasn't like he wanted the man to like him or anything, especially not after he'd tried to rifle through Harry's memories the other night. He certainly didn't expect the man to care about him or anything, not even after he'd said he believed Harry about the Dursleys and their stupid, stupid rules.

"A little less pique," came a smooth voice behind him, making his jump slightly. "The hearts are meant to remain intact."

"Sorry, sir," Harry muttered, and loosened his grip on the offending organ, dropping it whole into the bowl that was a quarter full of them now. The liver and spleen followed, into their respective bowls. Then he made three quick slices with the sharp knife to expose the rear leg bones, and removed them with minimal effort, dropping them in the pile of waste to the right. The skull cracked open with a double tap of the knife handle, and Harry removed the brain, dropping it in its own bowl. He continued working, the knife almost moving of its own accord, as he wondered why the Potions Master felt the need to watch every little stupid thing he did.

"Your scar is inflamed."

Harry jumped again, and the knife skittered across the chest muscles of the toad, but missed his fingers, fortunately. Though Snape's words weren't a question, he seemed to waiting for a reply. Well, what he want? A medal for noticing? Setting his jaw, Harry said, "Yes, sir."

"Why?"

Almost wishing the man would move to the other side of the table, so Harry could see his expression, Harry shrugged. "It was hurting."

There was a long pause before Snape said, "Have you had another nightmare then?"

Harry wanted to say, 'Only when I get a chance to sleep, which isn't often, you great git!' but didn't, as it would hardly be productive. He dropped another toad liver in the bowl. And there was no sense in lying about it, not really, especially since he had considered telling Snape about it anyway, except for him being such a memory stealing, mind-looking into, detention giving arse. Besides, it was stupid to try and hide this information when it might help to find the one who'd tried to murder him. He knew that, but he was just so angry at the professor lately. With a small sigh, he said, "No, sir. It started hurting in Defense class, yesterday."

Another long pause. "Why did you not inform me immediately?"

Oh, yeah, right, Harry thought. 'Cause you're so bloody approachable. "It stopped hurting right after I left class. Teddy went with me to see Madam Pomfrey," he left off the part about needing to be convinced to go, "and she gave me a pain reliever for it. So it was fine."

"It ceased bothering you right after you left class?" Snape asked, and he finally moved into Harry line of sight. His face was paler than usual, if that were possible.

"Yeah. Sorry. I mean, yes, sir. But I wasn't trying to get out of class or anything. It really did stop. Like the only reason it was hurting was because of Quirrell's stuttering."

Snape's head came up sharply and his dark eyes were piercing. "Has your scar ever hurt while in Professor Quirrell's presence previously?"

"I, er . . ." Harry had to think about it for a minute, while he continued sectioning a toad and disposed of the leg bones. Finally, he nodded. "I think so, sir. I mean, I don't know if it's his presence, actually, or just when he stares at me sometimes. It happened at breakfast once."

Snape nodded thoughtfully, lips pursed again as he watched Harry work.

Harry hesitated, knife slowing, then, "Do you think he's the one who tried to kill me?"

"It is . . . possible, Mr. Potter. But I will determine what threat he poses. And I will ask you to be very cautious to never be alone with him, do you understand me? "

"Yes, sir." He looked down at the worktable again, and finished the last few cuts on that toad, tossing the waste into one pile, the organs and skin into their own piles.

As he reached for the next toad, Snape said, "That will be all, Mr. Potter. You are dismissed."

Knowing better than to argue -- the last time he'd tried, he'd almost been slapped with more detention -- Harry quickly said, "Yes, sir. Thank you," and cleaned up after his work, putting the tools away when he was done.

Snape watched him the whole time, not angrily anymore, but with that blank face that meant he was surprised or upset. Harry didn't dare ask him what more was wrong, but left quickly, and was back to the common room soon enough that he even had a little time to address his homework before bed.

Maybe Snape wasn't such an enormous bastard after all.