His fist connected with the soft cartilage of Dudley's nose, and Harry could feel it breaking, as if he was watching it from very afar. He knew exactly when the third knuckle of his right hand slammed into Dudley's face, could sense how the soft bone melded to the shape of his hand and felt repulsed when the blood started to pour. A high-pitched whimper reached his ears, and it was not, as he had first thought, Dudley's, but his own.

Harry felt triumphant, jubilant and extraordinarily happy, but at the same time, sickness threatened to migrate his lunch from his stomach to the ground.

He didn't enjoy hurting others. Even if it was Dudley. But why should he care if Dudley, who had cause Harry so much pain, was in pain himself? It was nothing more than he deserved, wasn't it?

Dudley had fallen to the ground, fingers clutching at his face, tears mixing with the blood on his face, until he was covered in a light sheen of pink. Harry passively reflected that those were some of the few real tears he had ever seen Dudley shed.

His cousin seemed too shocked and in too much pain to do much, other than to cry and wail. Harry, who was feeling slightly nauseous from pain himself, flexed his muscles to decide where he was hurt. His tummy was sore, and he could feel several colorful bruises forming on his arms. He knew those would have to be hidden somehow, to avoid people asking questions.

Questions... What would everyone say, when not only had he hit Dudley, but also tripped a professor? What would his aunt and uncle say?

That no one would believe his side of the story was something Harry took for granted. Ever since pre-school and the kind Mrs. Blake's inquiries, no one had believed Harry. It was just one of those facts one had to accept and learn to live with.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. Dinner. That would mean it was six o'clock. Harry doubted he would be in any condition to eat, anyhow, but that left only an hour until he had to be at detention? The nausea wanted to overwhelm Harry and he swallowed it down, trying to stay focused. Trying not to think of whatever punishment was waiting for him.

Slowly, Harry dragged himself back to the castle, leaving Dudley sniveling on the ground by the lake. He walked past the giant man who had taken them to the boats on the day he arrived. The huge man smiled and waved his huge hands in Harry's direction, but Harry only managed to lift his arm in something that with some squinting might have resembled a wave. The enormous man didn't seem to notice, however, and just smiled even broader.

When Harry finally got all the way to the Gryffindor tower, he barely had time to change his bloodstained shirt to a clean one, and explain that he had been out thinking to Ron, before he had to run to the dungeons.

He was sweating and panting, but he somehow made in to his detention on time. Harry knocked on the uninviting oak door, and waited.

”Enter,” a cool voice snapped. Harry hesitated for a second, then obeyed.

Snape was sitting at his desk, neat piles of paper in front of him. He didn't rise when Harry came into the room, but remained seated, with his eyes trailing Harry. Unsure of what to do, Harry stopped, but when Snape's eyebrows snapped together he hurried to stand in front of the desk. He clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking. Pressing his nails into his palms, he fixed his eyes on the floor and waited.

”I see, Mr. Potter, that your ability to follow rules has not improved since you first arrived here,” Snape said, his low voice echoing off the stone walls. ”I've found that this is mostly due to lack of discipline in a student's life. I'm not surprised to see it from the wizarding world's hero.”

Snape paused, rearranging a pile of what looked like newly graded tests (massive amounts of red ink had been used to correct them).

”I will not tolerate behavior like this.. You are lucky you are not on your way to the Headmaster's office right this minute. In not expelling you, I am doing you a great favor. Do you understand, Mr. Potter?” he continued.

Harry nodded.

”Manners, Mr. Potter. Have you not been taught that?” Snape drawled lazily.

”Yes, sir. I have.” Harry closed his eyes briefly and imagined his mind like a gentle pool of water. calm and still, like the surface of a mirror. No matter what anyone said, it would glance off him.

”Do not think I didn't consider throwing you out with your head first, Potter. I assure you that the punishment I will hand you will seem a thousand times worse than expulsion. You might wish I had had you expelled.” A pause. ”Pity. You will suffer.”

Harry felt a sharp pain as his nails broke through the skin of his palms.

”Do you have any experience in the area of cleaning, Potter?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply.

”Don't bother to answer. The boy-who-lived, doing actual work? I highly doubt it. The Prophet would have announced it on their first page long ago.” Snape sneered, and Harry struggled to keep his eyes off the Professor's yellow teeth.

Nothing happened for a few seconds.

”What are you waiting for?! They won't get clean by themselves, Potter,” Snape pointed a finger towards the back of the room, where every cauldron, container and pot in the entire castle (or so it seemed to Harry) stood. They were all incredibly dirty, and Harry estimated just cleaning one of them with proper supplies would take a good ten minutes. Sighing, he walked over to them, found soap and a brush and got on with it.

The room was quiet. The only sound was the sound of scratching from Snape's quill and the hard brush scrubbing against metal. Harry was feeling every bruise Dudley had given him, and his muscles were sore and aching. It appeared almost as if Snape has spelled the dirt to be extra-resistant, because even though he tried his hardest, it took him longer than he'd ever expected. He heard a clock chime eight, nine, ten in the background, and by now he was tired enough to collapse on the ground. Harry could hardly believe that only this morning he'd helped Neville remove jam stains.

A lot of good that had done him.