Harry watched as Snape scrubbed at a slightly stained vial with a wire brush. Leaning over the basin, the damp edge pressed against the boy’s stomach soaking his t-shirt with water, Harry unconsciously scrunched his fingers inside the externally slick rubber gloves, unaware of the steady squeaking he was producing.

The potions-master paused mid-scrub. And barely shifting his head, the man looked over at the growing nuisance beside him.

“Do you mind, Potter?” Snape said dryly.

Immediately catching on to the unfriendly delivery of the rhetorical question, Harry slowly unclenched his fingers, the wet gloves emitting one last forlorn squeak. This time, the noise was magnified in Harry’s ears.

Yeah, I guess that is kind of annoying…

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, dropping his hands and leaning over further as he rested his elbows on the edge of the basin.

Snape simply rolled his eyes as he returned to his work.

“I would advise you not to get too comfortable, Mr. Potter, as I am almost finished with this vial,” Snape informed as he held the small glass container up to the rather dim lantern light to inspect it, “You may rinse these and set them to dry in a minute,” the man continued, gesturing with his chin to the dozen and a half wet vials that sat compacted at the bottom of the basin.

Brilliant…Harry thought sarcastically, making a face that he knew his professor couldn’t see. But the boy kept his voice void of any over-emotion.

“All right,” Harry answered, rocking back and forth slightly as he absently tried to balance on his stomach.

“Stop, Potter” Snape commanded quietly without averting his gaze from the stubborn stain.

And sensing his professor’s growing irritation, Harry straightened up. With a sigh, the boy, instead, leaned against the edge on his side and waited.

For the past half-hour, Harry had walked carefully back and forth between the extra storeroom and the basin in the classroom, emptying and depositing vials on one of the tables behind the sink so that they could be washed. Snape had spoken little to Harry, mainly giving instructions with the occasional warning for Harry to walk slowly and to hold them with both hands, foolish child!

However, Harry discovered that the time was passing in contented silence for the most part, and he had to remind himself several times that…yes, this indeed was his detention. But watching the dense, multicolored liquids swirl and drain into the basin was strangely satisfying and a bit…interesting. Harry never knew there were so many types of potions.

“Professor?”

“Mmmm…” Snape replied with a non-committal grunt, still not making eye-contact.

“How come that potion is so hard to scrub off of the glass?” Harry genuinely wondered, figuring that he might as well ask a question instead of slouching in bored silence for the next five minutes.

Lowering and stunting his occupied hands for a moment, Snape shook back a curtain of dark hair and glanced over at Harry who gazed up expectantly while attempting to scratch the side of his forehead with his upper arm since his gloved hands were still wet with a variety of expired substances.

“The ingredients used in the potion are rather opaque,” Snape exclaimed after a brief moment of watching the twelve-year-old scratch in the most awkward manner, “What are you doing, Potter?” the man continued with a furrowed brow.

“What’s opaque mean?”

“Heavy,” Snape answered automatically, “Now answer my question. You look quite the fool, you realize…”

“My forehead itches!” Harry replied with a huff, his glasses slipping crookedly on the bridge of his nose as he attempted to tilt his head toward his shoulder.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake…” Snape mumbled, rolling his eyes once more but turning towards the basin, placing the vial and wire brush gingerly in the bottom.

Snape held out his hand.

Harry paused.

“What?...” the boy asked.

“Give me your hand, Potter! What else?” Snape growled, his patience waning.

And jerking slightly from the abrupt harsh tone, Harry lowered his shoulder and slowly held out his hand, palm up, as he gave Snape a funny look, not completely sure of the man’s intent.

However, Snape only grabbed the fingertips of the black glove and briskly slipped it off of Harry’s hand, tossing it down on top of the nearby table with a flop.

“Scratch,” Snape stated imperiously, turning his attention away from Harry.

I guess I could have done that…Harry thought, feeling rather stupid at the prospect of being de-gloved like a four-year-old and ignoring such a simple solution.

Harry chewed on his lower lip but scratched at his head lustily. He reached out for the glove, but to Harry’s embarrassment, Snape got there first. And shaking out the glove, the man held up the open end.

“The potions are not dangerous but may be irritating against bare skin,” Snape explained as he sensed—and witnessed—the color rise in the boy’s cheeks, “You would have to tuck your thumb inside the glove to get this back on.”

Harry nodded and quickly slipped his hand inside the glove, feeling like an infant and hating the logic of Snape’s explanation. But his professor had a point.

“Begin rinsing,” Snape ordered, “And take care not to break anything, Mr. Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Set them to dry on the towel when you’ve finished,” Snape continued, moving to the side of the basin to make room for Harry, “And if you roll your eyes at me again, I will pluck them out and preserve them…”

Widening his eyes in anxious uncertainty, Harry moved forward leaning over the basin, and choosing a small vial, he obediently plunged it underneath the light stream of warm water.

*****************

Another half-hour passed.

And finally, Harry took a step back from the basin, the soaked front of his t-shirt clinging to his skin, and allowed his eyes to drift over the dozens of gleaming, upturned vials still drying in the cool dungeons.

Snape had been standing behind Harry for the past fifteen minutes, sorting through a mantra of acceptable potions that the man had separated from the aged ones only an hour before. Again, the two had spoken little in the midst of the morning chores; however, for the first time since he’d been put to task, Harry noticed that, oddly, Snape’s presence wasn’t smothering. It was actually sort of…nice to work along side someone.

Vigilantly, Harry took a few steps closer to his professor, who was shaking a filled and corked vial back and forth, watching the pinkish solution eddy in swirling clouds.

“Professor…”

Snape’s eyes remained glued on the contained whirlpool, “What is it, Potter?” he replied rather neutrally.

And finding little trace of exasperation in Snape’s voice, Harry persisted.

“I’m finished…” the boy notified softly, “…with rinsing, I mean.”

“So I hear,” Snape commented, finally setting down the vial and turning towards Harry.

Harry picked at the clingy material against his belly as he squinted at his professor in a questioning manner, “Hear what?”

The potions master snorted in a way that almost spoke of amusement but also retained its usual condescendence, “Nothing, Potter…that’s the point.”

“Oh…”

Another grunt from the dark-haired professor, and Snape turned back to his work, but instead of resuming his shaking and sorting, the man gathered two combined handfuls of approximately eight vials and moved towards Harry.

“Can you get your hands around these?” Snape inquired, giving the boy short nod.

Harry lifted his hands and carefully stretched his gloved fingers around the glass. “Yeah, I think so,” the boy replied after a few seconds of testing the traction.

And making sure that Potter was holding on securely, Snape released the vials, but kept his hands corralled about Harry’s wrists for a moment longer.

“You are certain, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked again for clarification in a grave tone that required nothing more than absolute assurance from the boy.

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered with a nod, keeping his grip firm.

“Very well,” Snape said as he dropped one of his hands and reached into his robes with the other. And pulling out his wand, the professor gestured toward the ajar entrance of the large storage room, “Return those to the empty box where I retrieved them.”

But as Snape spun back around to face the table, he casually, yet swiftly, pointed his wand toward Harry’s torso, and with a subtle jerk of the wrist, he cast a silent spell that instantly dried the sopping wet cotton of Harry’s shirt. In a flash, the man tucked his wand back into his robes and picked up a remaining vial, giving the hazy green potion a sound shake before holding it a few inches away from his face and scrutinizing the solution with black eyes.

Harry glanced down at his stomach—the warm material now soft and comfortable against his skin.

“Enough gawking, Potter… Move,” Snape demanded, still hunched over the glass.

And Harry snapped to; however, he couldn’t help shaking his head at Snape’s ridiculous way of disregarding his own small acts of consideration. Harry was sure that if asked, the dour professor would deny them to the grave.

As Harry sauntered into the dreary storage room, he knew exactly where the empty box lay, and he moved as quickly as he dared to the back of the room. Kneeling gently as not to jolt suddenly and drop any vials, Harry nudged open the flap of the empty box with his elbow and placed the cluster of potions into a far corner of the box, taking care not to clink them together too much.

Potions returned, Harry made to stand up. But the boy paused and crouched down once more when he noticed a similar, but sealed box only a couple feet away.

Looking over his shoulder once, Harry grabbed the edge of the box and scooted it towards him. Finding the flimsy container heavy with items, the boy gingerly untucked and lifted a corner of the box.

Its contents were beyond dusty.

However, Harry’s eyes immediately fixed upon the grimy gold lettering of Defeating the Darkness—A Study in Complex Defense. The pages were liberally bookmarked, but the edges were surprisingly unmarred.

At that moment, Harry remembered Percy Weasley’s words about the potions master on Harry’s very first night at Hogwarts during the welcoming feast: …Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape…

But maybe Percy wasn’t completely right. Maybe Snape knew just as much about fighting against them. Besides, Harry had to admit that each moment spent in Snape’s presence seemed to be weakening his own conviction against the man.

Harry’s fingers tickled with a strong desire to look through that book. It would be the first interesting read on defending the Dark Arts that Harry had gotten a hold of all year…

He reached for the volume.

“Potter!” Snape snapped from the other side of the classroom, causing Harry to jump and jerk his arm back as if he’d just touched a hot stove, “Quit playing around in there!” the man called out sternly, “What are you getting into?”

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief, realizing that Snape hadn’t seen him delve into the nearby box.

“Nothing…” Harry responded quickly, “I’m coming.”

Pushing himself up from the ground, Harry brushed the dust and grit off of his black gloves and half-jogged back into the other room.

The boy avoided Snape’s glare as best as he could as he reentered the classroom. Snape was standing with an armful of glass vials—about five or six more than Harry was able to carry. Harry stood at a safe distance, resting his back against the edge of the counter top near the basin.

After glowering down at the boy for quite a long moment, Snape nodded toward a nearby stool, “Sit,” he ordered as he swept toward the store room that Harry had recently vacated, “I will be back in a moment. Do not move,” the professor threw over his shoulder as an afterthought.

Where in the sodding hell would I go? Harry reflected with a scowl, climbing up on to the stool. He sat quietly, plucking at the rubber gloves, longing to remove them. The skin of his hands felt hot and stifled, and at this point, Harry was ready to risk the possible irritation caused by moldy old potions.

But he kept them on and simply rested his hands in his lap.

Snape wasn’t in the storage room for very long, but when he returned, he swept toward Harry with a determined look in his eyes, and the boy barely kept from shrinking back from the penetrating gaze. However, the professor said nothing. Instead, he took Harry’s previously occupied place against the sink, and continued to look at Harry in a probing way.

Feeling a bit nervous, knowing that nothing spectacular had erupted from a one-on-one with Snape as of yet, Harry desperately tried to remember if he had given himself away by leaving a flap of the box open. But surely Snape wouldn’t lecture Harry about that, would he? It’s not like he’d taken anything…

But the man didn’t seem angry. Rather, he appeared deep in thought, as if he were choosing his next words carefully.

“You can most likely imagine how thoroughly I loathe a liar, Mr. Potter,” Snape began, a bit too calmly, Harry thought, as he shifted stiffly, perched on his stool.

“I haven’t lied about anything…” Harry retorted, struggling to keep the defensiveness out of his tone. But honestly, sometimes Snape made Harry feel like he’d committed some sort of terrible transgression when the boy was quite certain he hadn’t done anything.

“And I did not imply that you had,” Snape said simply, “I am merely informing you of something that needs to be said.”

Harry frowned. He was completely lost.

“As such, Potter, if I ask you a question, naturally, I expect you to answer truthfully,” Snape proceeded, leaning back on his elbow as he spoke.

Not knowing how to respond, Harry just looked at Snape, his heart beginning to beat thickly. Any minute now, Snape was going to accuse Harry of snooping around in his things. Finally, unwillingly, Harry nodded feebly.

“Have you worn those clothes simply for play, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly, yet the slight brashness in his tone didn’t seem directed at Harry necessarily, the boy noted.

Still, Harry internally cringed.

“The truth,” Snape continued demandingly.

No, not this…I thought this rubbish was over and done with…Bring up the box. Let’s talk about the Defense book. I’ll spill anything…

But Snape’s stare was unwavering, and Harry knew that saying nothing wouldn’t be tolerated.

“No, sir, not really,” Harry nearly whispered, feeling filthy and ashamed. He hated talking about the Dursleys. No one made him talk about the summer while he was at school—no one. Not even Dumbledore. Snape had no right.

“Explain, if you would,” Snape prompted yet remained composed. The man uncharacteristically kept his distance as well.

However, Harry passed swiftly over these subtle gentilities. He didn’t want Snape to know about his wearing dirty clothes or using the washing machine at three o’clock in the morning about twice a month if he was lucky. And he definitely didn’t want Snape to know about the bars on his window. Or the cold soup—and how the jagged edge of the tin can cut his finger and how Harry had to use a pair of torn underpants to stop the bleeding because his door was locked. Snape couldn’t know.

“There isn’t anything to explain,” Harry replied coldly, using the only defense-mechanism he knew how—avoidance.

“On the contrary, Mr. Potter, I believe there is much you are failing to tell me,” Snape continued, still adamant in his query, “And remaining silent is nearly as fallible as a bold-faced lie…”

“So what…” Harry interrupted rigidly, his face hot from frustration and disgrace, “…So what if I don’t say anything? Are you going to beat my arse if I don’t tell you about the stupid Dursleys? Fine…go ahead,” the boy said his voice suddenly high and wavering, “See if I bloody care…”

Severus gritted his teeth in aggravation at Potter’s stubborn defiance. However, the man knew very well that shouting or punishing the child would only make things worse. Cringing at the boy’s blatant disrespect, but using every ounce of control he possessed, Severus remained where he was standing, but he gave Potter a stern look.

“No, Potter, I will not,” Snape said matter-of-factly. Harry swallowed but still wouldn’t make eye contact. “However, I may put a piece of soap in your mouth if you continue to use such crude language, as well as that impertinent tone…”

Snape expected a cheeky retort at his delivery, but to his surprise, the boy only stared into his lap, the rubber gloves squeaking as he attempted to scratch absently at the top of his hand.

A moment of silence passed until it was broken by another rubbery squeak.

Sighing in agitation, not necessarily aimed at Harry, Snape moved forward and gently grasped the floppy fingers of both gloves, pulling them off simultaneously. Harry had almost yanked back his hands in anger. But he didn’t. Instead, at this intimation, Harry glanced up at his professor, but Snape wasn’t looking at him. He seemed to be staring at Harry’s hands. And following Snape’s eyes, Harry looked down at his own left hand, a bit splotchy from the scratching.

Unexpectedly, Harry watched as Snape held out his own hands, gesturing slightly with his fingers as the boy gaped in confusion. Awkwardly, and glancing up at his professor sporadically, Harry also put his hands out in front of him, palms up, quite oblivious to the whole ordeal.

Using just his forefingers and thumbs, Snape took hold of the boy’s wrists—to Harry’s astonishment—and turned the small hands over briefly as if to check for blighted skin. Discovering none, Severus flipped the palms face up once more and released him rapidly.

Balling his hands into loose fists, Harry glimpsed fleetingly into his professor’s eyes and for the first time, he noticed the tired lines around eyes that were as dark as the coffee he often had to brew for Uncle Vernon. But at the moment, they seemed to resemble rain-soaked mud.

And finally, Harry decided maybe he did owe Snape the truth—at least part of it. An adult that took enough care to check Harry’s hands for potion-irritation and shrink his clothing couldn’t be anymore shocked by the reason for his gigantic trousers…

Harry took a deep breath.

“They were my cousin’s,” Harry said softly, “He’s bigger than me…and he’s grown out of these…”

Hesitating for several seconds before leaning back against the basin, Snape offered Harry a curt nod, “And they’re not just for play, correct?”

Harry lowered his chin and shook his head.

Work…play…what’s the damn difference…

“Where is your uncle employed, Mr. Potter?” Snape continued, quietly probing.

“Grunnings Drills,” Harry mumbled, rubbing at a grass stain on his jeans.

“And your cousin…where does he attend school?”

Harry glanced up, looking at Snape strangely, unsure of what any of these questions had to do with his clothes.

“Smeltings…” Harry answered, “It’s a private school.”

Snape nodded, seeming to focus on something across the room. Briefly, Harry turned around in his stool to see what it was, but there was nothing except stone walls and a few desks.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” Snape exclaimed after a pensive moment.

Harry waited.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his face melting into an all-too familiar smirk, “One more question…”

Slumping in his chair, Harry threw back his head a little. He hated questions.

“What were you doing in the storage room when I asked you to return the vials?” Snape inquired, his voice taking on a more customary edge.

The boy closed his eyes, groaning inaudibly.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter,” Snape said silkily, standing with his arms encompassed in the black robes, “Just as I expected. Out with it.”

Swinging his feet, Harry opened his eyes, tilted his head and sighed, “I found something,” he began…carefully.

“Where?”

“Erm…” Harry stammered, “In a box…”

“I see,” Snape replied, “And did you have permission to go looking for anything other than what you were instructed to find?”

“No, sir,” Harry muttered, feeling a bit ashamed again.

“No, you did not,” the potions master agreed sternly, “Now…you will go into that storage room and show me precisely what you…discovered.”

Pressing his lips together, Harry slid down from the stool and walked ahead of Snape, looking back every few seconds at the positively smug professor who was following close behind. Slipping doubtfully into the storeroom, Harry dragged his feet over to the dismal-looking box, its flaps hanging wide open.

How did he know? Harry wondered.

“This box here,” the boy mumbled, kneeling down, gazing up into Snape’s indistinct façade, waiting for a reaction and still deciding whether or not the man was angry…

“Those are my things, Mr. Potter,” Snape said with a frown, “What could you have possibly found fascinating in that box…”

“A Defense Against the Dark Arts book,” Harry replied, relaxing back on his heels but cracking his knuckles in uncertainty.

A shadow suddenly passed across the man’s face, “Which book?” he demanded hotly.

Grimacing, Harry reached into the box and pulled out the requested volume.

“This one.”

Snatching up the offered book, Snape gave Harry another stern look before pulling it close and reading the title. He lowered it forebodingly.

“You are not to look through this book,” Snape scolded firmly, causing Harry’s stomach to clench at the childish rebuke, “This is not even appropriate for seventh-years…”

“I didn’t!” Harry cried, defending himself, “It was just on top of the pile!...”

“I would not have left his lying around so carelessly…”

“But you did, professor!” Harry insisted, rising up a bit on his knees, “I swear it…”

Snape squinted again at the title: Defeating the Darkness. Harry sank back on his heels, watching intently.

“What’s so bad about Defense?” Harry asked, a bit timidly, “It’s my favorite subject—well…it was until this year…”

“There is a difference between Defeat and Defense, foolish child,” the potions master snapped.

“Oh…”

But to Harry, the distinction wasn’t really that profound.

How would I know? Harry thought scornfully, You’d think I was taking dramatics with Lockhart this year instead of Defense…leaping around like an idiot on some sodding stage…

“You’re interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potter?” Snape questioned, dropping the book to his side, softening the stern demeanor the tiniest bit.

“Yeah…” Harry responded, “I was…”

Snape considered this for a moment, and then swept forward, crouching down and rummaging through the box. After a moment, Snape pulled out another book, less than half the width of the apparently off-limits version.

“Here,” Snape said, shoving the book into Harry’s hands.

“What’s this?”

“You can read,” Snape retorted, still crouched as if waiting for Harry to deliver the title.

However, Harry glanced over the mildly marred cover, reading the title himself before sharing.

Functional uses of Defensive Magic—Volume One

“What’s this for?” Harry wondered, staring up at Snape.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and shook his head, “You said you were interested in Defense, did you not?” The words were a bit muffled against the professor’s cupped palm.

“Well….yeah...But I have a lot of stuff to read for class, though,” Harry all but stammered.

“Now you’ve got one more.”

Unsure whether to feel elated or dejected, Harry flipped through the skinny volume with his thumb and immediately perked up.

“Hey, this has demonstrations in it!” Harry said excitedly, “Look at all those pictures…” His first-year text had been mostly explanatory.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Snape took Harry’s chin in his hand and forced him to lock eyes, nearly startling the boy out of his wits.

“Listen to me carefully, Mr. Potter,” Snape asserted very firmly, “Defense against dark magic is not something you do for fun. It is not a game. It is something you study. Something you practice. Something that may one day save your life or someone else’s.”

Harry was flabbergasted at Snape’s seriousness. The man definitely wasn’t playing around when it came to this stuff… The sudden shift in atmosphere sobered Harry right up.

“Yes, sir, I know,” Harry replied meekly.

“No, Potter, you don’t know,” Snape cried, giving the boy’s cheeks a squeeze, “However, you should have known the seriousness—the vitality—of this subject matter by your very first Defense lesson.”

Well, whose fault’s that? Harry inwardly scoffed, but didn’t feel like losing his cheeks, so he kept his mouth shut.

After several tense seconds, and most likely sensing the recoiling look in the boy’s eyes, Snape relaxed his hold, as well as the muscles in his face. Harry noticeably calmed down as well.

“Take the book, Potter. Read it,” Snape instructed, releasing Harry’s face, “Perhaps if you can concentrate and sit still in Potions on Tuesday, we’ll discuss some beginner’s tactics in Defensive magic at the end of the period.”

“Really?” Harry asked, brightening, “You’ll teach me?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you said…”

And receiving yet another cold glare, Harry wisely bit back his retort.

“Mr. Potter, look at me,” Snape commanded quietly. And Harry obeyed, “You are to read this volume. And that is all. If I find out that you have even attempted any of these defensive tactics without my permission, I will take you across my knee and give you the spanking of your life. Is that absolutely clear?”

The boy blushed and nearly groaned in mortification, but there was nothing to do but respond.

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Snape stood. And Harry followed. But the professor didn’t move. He continued to look meaningfully at Harry.

“Do not disappoint me, Potter.”

Harry could only stare. No one had ever said anything like that to him in his entire life. The boy shook his head, “No, I won’t.” And somehow, Harry knew he meant it.

Snape smirked, “We shall see, won’t we?”

But before Harry could answer, the man turned briskly, brushing his robes aside as he swept forward, leaving the boy standing alone in the storage room.

Nerves buzzing, Harry stared down at his book, not sure of what was feeling.

But after a few seconds, Harry simply tucked the treasure underneath his arm and hurried after his professor.