Ron rolled over sleepily and wondered why Harry was up so early. He hadn’t come back to the room until really, really late last night. Ron and Hermione had tried to wait for him, but eventually even they had given up. Ron had managed to crack one eyelid and mumble something when Harry finally came in, but Harry had just mumbled in response and so Ron had quickly fallen back to sleep.

Poor Harry. It wasn’t bad enough that he had to spend practically every waking moment with the Black Bat of the Dungeons, but now Dumbledore had gone barking mad and decided that Snape should be allowed to wallop Harry. Making Harry scrub cauldrons and prepare disgusting potion ingredients apparently wasn’t enough for the greasy git. He wanted to be able to belt his most hated student as well. Ron rolled his eyes.

If he had been in Harry’s shoes, he was sure that his parents would have raised holy hell. His mum would have sent Snape a howler just for proposing that he should be allowed to swat students and his dad would have made sure that the Ministry looked into when exactly the Headmaster had gone barmy. But Harry didn’t have anyone to look out for him like that. Ron knew his parents were mad keen on Harry, but it wasn’t like they had any legal authority to speak up on his behalf. All they could do was to keep repeating their invitations to adopt Harry, despite Dumbledore’s persistent, polite refusals.

Ron still didn’t understand why Dumbledore insisted on sending Harry back to the Muggles who treated him so badly. Sure there were the blood wards, but The Burrow was warded too, and there Harry didn’t have to worry about his relatives locking him in the cupboard or playing Harry-hunting or starving him or… Ron sighed. He worried about Harry; he really did. There was no one to look out for him, and Harry was way too willing to just accept it and keep quiet when other people treated him badly.

Look how he had refused to tell anyone about the Dursleys until it was practically too late? And those visions of his? He had refused to talk about them at all, just apologized for screaming so loud he’d woken his roommates. He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, worrying that he’d be laughed at or disbelieved or maybe just that no one would care. It had been Neville, incredibly enough, who had forced him to tell Professor McGonagall. Neville’s parents had been driven mad by the Dark Lord’s followers, and he wasn’t about to let anyone else be tortured in front of him.

At first it had seemed like telling the professors had been a good thing. Snape had agreed to tutor Harry, and he’d actually seemed to be getting a little nicer. Harry swore that he was treating him fine, though Ron found that hard to believe. Ron still worried a bit, but he’d been relieved when Harry had explained that most of the time, Snape didn’t do anything but scold him or give the usual detention punishments and even when he went really spare, he just smacked Harry on the bum a couple of times.

Ron had kept a close eye on his friend, knowing how much Harry hated to ask for help. He wasn’t sure if Harry hated feeling weak or if he felt that he actually deserved it when bad things happened to him, but either way, it meant that Harry was almost insanely reticent. It was even hard to get him to seek treatment for his quidditch injuries, though now that the rest of the team had figured it out, they always made sure someone took Harry to the infirmary. He had to admit, though, he hadn’t seen anything that worried him about Snape’s treatment of Harry. Yet.

He thought that Harry’s claim about the tea and shortbread were a little far-fetched, but Harry had sworn it was true. He’d also sworn that Snape only used the palm of his hand on him, never a belt or cane or even a hairbrush, and that he only whacked his backside, never his face or back or hands. Ron guessed that was okay. Even his own mum had been known to wave around a wooden spoon threateningly, though Ron had noticed that she was awfully careful not to actually connect with it. Well, except for the time that the twins smuggled one of Charlie’s baby dragons home and hid it under Percy’s bed…

Ron sat up and stretched. Everyone else was still fast asleep, but he decided he’d better check on Harry. After all, he had been pretty worried yesterday. Ron and Harry had been fooling around on the quidditch pitch, and admittedly Harry had been a little reckless in using his broom to demonstrate muggle surfing, but was it really necessary for Snape to materialize like that, yelling about brainless children and dragging Harry off by the scruff of the neck? He’d paused only long enough to assign Ron a two foot essay on injury prevention before disappearing into the dungeons with Harry in tow.

Ron ambled over to the showers, planning to ask what essay topic the greasy git had assigned Harry, when he caught sight of his friend. Harry was in the shower, his back to Ron as he leaned under the running water oblivious to everything but the comforting warmth. For a long moment, Ron could only gape in horror, but then Harry moved to turn off the water, and Ron ducked into the bedroom before Harry noticed him.

Ron reeled over to his bed and all but fell upon it. He was shaking and felt sick. Harry’s back was a mass of bruises. From the tops of his shoulders to halfway down his legs, Harry’s pale skin was mottled with angry scrapes and darkening bruises. Ron had noticed more bruises on Harry’s arms, too. What the hell had Snape done to him?

Neville started to stir, and that galvanized Ron into action. Whatever slim chance he had of getting Harry to talk to him vanished to nothing if the other boys were present. He threw on some clothes and darted out to await Harry in the common room. For once, he even beat Hermione down and he used the time to plan his strategy. He knew his temper often got the best of him, but as livid as he was with Snape, he also knew that if he started yelling, Harry would just shut down. Ron knew that, temper aside, he was good at chess, and he forced himself to think of this situation as he would a difficult chess problem. By the time Harry emerged into the common room fifteen minutes later, Ron was able to muster a convincingly casual greeting.

“Hey, mate – we missed you last night. Was Snape really mad about the flying thing?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He went mental. It’s not like I even fell off or anything. What am I, two years old?”

Ron grinned back at his friend, but he noticed how slowly and carefully Harry was moving. There were no marks on his face – either Harry had used a healing spell or Snape had carefully avoided hitting him where it would show. Ron felt his temper rising and forced it down. “So, what did Snape do to you? Do you have to write an essay too?”

“No, but he took away my broomstick privileges for a week – except for class and practice – and said if I do anything even slightly dangerous during those, then I’ll lose it completely for another two weeks.” Harry shook his head. “I can’t believe him.”

“You got off really lightly, then,” Ron said, deliberately sounding annoyed. “I wasn’t even in the air, and I’ve got to write an essay.”

As he’d predicted, Harry looked guilty. “Well,” he admitted, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear, “I didn’t get off that easily. Snape – well, he whacked me.”

Ron forced himself not to react. “Was it bad?”

Harry shook his head, looking rueful. “No worse than before, really. It mostly stopped hurting even before I left his quarters. When he was swatting me, though, I was sure he was using a blowtorch!” he grinned, inviting Ron to share the joke.

“So just a few smacks on the bum, huh?” Ron pressed. “No real damage?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ron, you sound like ‘Mione. I told you, I’m fine. I don’t know how he manages to make it sting so much but for only a short time. I dunno, maybe he uses a charm or something. Is it the same when your folks whack you?”

Ron ignored the question and picked up his robe. Obviously Harry had been lying to him about Snape right from the start, and if he didn’t change the subject soon, Ron would lose his temper completely and call Harry on it, and that wouldn’t help anything. He paused – one more chance to see if Harry would admit something was up. “Hey, aren’t you going to be hot like that? Why don’t you go change into a short sleeved shirt? We’ve got time before breakfast.”

“Er, no – I’m fine,” Harry stammered. “I don’t want to bother. If I’m too hot I can just roll up my sleeves.”

“Okay.” Ron led the way to the Great Hall for breakfast while Harry started talking about the quidditch team, but he barely heard a word his friend had said. Harry had – as usual –lied through his teeth rather than admit he’d been hurt. Well, fine. If that’s how he wanted it to be, then Ron would just take matters into his own hands. Snape might have been able to frighten Harry into silence, but Ron wasn’t cowed by the greasy git. He would make sure that Snape learned how very dangerous it was to mess with the Boy Who Lived.

By the time breakfast was over, he had a plan worked out. He needed to do some research first though. He had toyed with the idea of asking Hermione, who would either know the answer right off or could find it in three seconds, but he knew that it would be safer if he were the only one involved. That way, if things went wrong – or even if they went the way he expected – Hermione would still be around to help Harry.

He glanced over to where his two best friends were eating breakfast, or rather where Harry was eating and Hermione was explaining the reading for this morning’s Transfigurations class. “Hey, guys,” he said, with an exaggerated groan, “I don’t feel that great. I think I’m going to go see Madame Pomfrey.”

They both stared at him. This sort of behavior was unprecedented. Ron? Willing to go to the infirmary? “Do you want us to come?” Hermione asked, worried. “Do you need help?”

“What is it?” Harry’s eyes were dark with concern, and Ron suppressed an exasperated sigh. If only Harry could muster some of that worry on his own behalf.

‘I’ll be fine,” he promised. “See you later.”

On his way out, he stopped by the staff table and explained where he was going to Professor McGonagall. Like his friends, she was surprised and concerned and immediately told him not to worry about class. Ron mused pleasantly that virtue was indeed rewarded. If he had ever before tried to skip class by feigning illness, getting away with this would never have been so easy.

He went up to see Madame Pomfrey, knowing he needed to establish an alibi. She too was alarmed at his presence, so at odds with his normal behavior. In fact, she was so convinced that only imminent death would lure him to the infirmary that she actually apologized when her diagnostic scans were negative. “Don’t worry, Mr Weasley,” she comforted. “The scans aren’t infallible. The good news is that they would have caught anything seriously amiss, so with luck this headache of yours will soon pass. Let me get you a pain relieving potion, and then you can lie down.”

“Please, Madame, can I go back to my dorm?” Ron asked plaintively. “It’s so much more comfortable, and I promise I’ll return if I feel worse.”

She frowned, but then nodded. “You showed good judgment in coming here when you felt ill, Mr Weasley, so I believe you can be trusted to come back if you need to.” Her compliment made him feel rather guilty, but he reminded himself that his actions were necessary.

Moments later, he was on his way back down the stairs, grimacing at the aftertaste of potion in his mouth. He didn’t go to his dorm but rather took advantage of the fact that everyone else was in classes to go to the library. Once there, he settled into the potions section and, to his surprise, was able to find what he needed relatively quickly.

It’s really not that hard to do research, he realized with a start. You just have to care about the answers. Hermione must have more curiosity than a dozen cats. Feeling that, for the first time, he had some insight into his best female friend’s mind, he went ahead with his plans.

Happily, because he had been excused from Transfigurations, it was easy to get to Potions early and be the first one in the classroom. It took less than a minute to do what he needed, and then he was back at his seat, waiting patiently for the others.

“Ron!” Hermione cried as she entered the classroom. “Are you feeling better? What did Madame Pomfrey say? Does she know you’re up?”

“Give him a chance, ‘Mione,” Harry chided. He too looked delighted to see Ron, but Ron could see how pinched and drawn his features were. Harry was obviously in a lot of pain and finding it hard to hide it. A wave of righteous anger surged over Ron and any doubts he might have harbored about his plan were swept away.

“I’m fine, guys, and yes, Hermione, Madame Pomfrey said I could come to class if I felt better.”

“What a shame,” Draco Malfoy sneered. “I thought we might have had yet another Weasley-free class.”

To his annoyance, the Golden Trio ignored his barb.

Harry shot a glare at Draco, but felt too awful to do anything else. Besides, he was still wondering who would want both him and Draco removed from Hogwarts. Hermione was busy setting out her parchment and quill, and Ron was oddly focused at the front of the room.

Harry stared at his friend quizzically. What was up with Ron today? He’d seemed distracted all morning. Not that it was a bad thing – Ron could be distressingly sharp eyed when it came to Harry’s physical condition, and unlike Hermione he was never distracted by classes. Maybe it had to do with the strange headache of his? Well, at least he seemed better now.

Snape swept into the room, slamming the classroom door behind him and making the students jump. “Eyes up, mouths shut, quills ready!” he commanded, sweeping to the front of the room and standing in front of his demonstration table. He glared at the class, daring anyone to so much as breathe. No one did.

“Today you will be making Far Seeing Potion, which enhances vision remarkably. It is particularly valuable when you wish to observe without being physically present,” Snape lectured.

“Guess we know why a former spy likes it,” Harry whispered to Ron, with a nudge. To his surprise, Ron didn’t respond. For once, he seemed completely focused on Snape.

Snape continued to lecture about the uses and ingredients of the potion as the class busily took notes. He was a little disconcerted by Weasley’s close attention. Usually the redhead was too busy daydreaming or exchanging insults with Malfoy to pay any mind to demonstrations. Was there something about this potion that was of particular interest to him?

If this were the twins, Snape would have felt much more concern, as their predilection for pranks as well as their talent for adapting potions to non-standard uses usually meant that an expression of interest on their part meant trouble on the horizon. But even Snape had to admit that the youngest Weasely brother had never seemed particularly interested in pranks and mischief, or at least no more than any other 12 year old. He shrugged, dismissing the issue. Who could hope – or want – to understand what went through children’s minds?

Ron’s attention focused sharply as Snape moved to add the next to last ingredient. “While you continue to stir counter-clockwise, you slowly drip in the pureed lizard tongue,” Snape explained, sternly eyeing the class to be sure they were writing it down. “Do not cease stirring until –“

“SIR!” It was that idiot Longbottom, standing up and making choking noises of distress.

“What is it, Longbottom?” Snape snapped, not stopping his stirring. What could be wrong? “Stop gobbling and speak!”

“Sir, your potion!” Now Granger was on her feet, eyes wide.

Snape looked down. To his astonishment, the potion, which should have been a lovely aquamarine at this stage, was an angry purple-black. As he looked, it began to boil and the cauldron twitched ominously. He opened his mouth to vanish the brew, but it was already too late. He heard the Weasley boy yell, “Protego!” just as the cauldron exploded.

The force of the blast threw Snape backwards to slam sickeningly against the wall. He slid bonelessly to the ground, unconscious. Ron’s shout had erected a shield across the front of the class, protecting the students from the force of the explosion as well as the unknown effects of the potion.

For a moment, all was deathly still. None of the students could believe their eyes. Had Snape actually messed up a potion? It was Neville who finally broke the stillness with a whimper, “Is he dead?”

That did it;. Screams, crying, and chaos ensued until Hermione shouted everyone down. “Neville, Blaise! Go to the Hospital and get Madame Pomfrey. Harry – fetch the Headmaster. Ron, Millie, go find the nearest teachers and bring them here. Draco, come help me with the professor.”

Her careful assignments of Slytherins with Gryffindors ensured that the tasks were carried out quickly. She hurried to the professor’s side, a suspicious Draco a step behind her. “What are you doing?” he demanded. The rest of his House stood on their desks to see what Granger and Malfoy were doing to their Head.

“I’m making sure he’s breathing,” she snapped. “Help me wipe some of this potion off him. I don’t know what it will do to him.”

Grudgingly, Draco acknowledged the sense of her words, and snatched some rags from the desktop.

“Here!” Nott warned, fetching them dragonhide gloves. “Don’t get it on yourselves either.”

“Typical Gryffindor, always rushing in to play the hero without any thought of their own safety,” Malfoy jeered, but it was a feeble attempt. He was too worried about his Head of House to waste much effort on insults. Besides, only Granger seemed to know what to do.

Neville and Blaise arrived with Pomfrey at the same instant Harry came back with Dumbledore. By then, Ron and Millie had fetched Professor Flitwick, so the earlier panic had been replaced by wide eyed whispers.

Dumbledore took control while Pomfrey and Flitwick levitated the still unconscious Snape off to the infirmary. After quizzing the confused students on what they had witnessed, he dismissed the class, pausing only to award each House 10 points for working together in a crisis and 20 points to Hermione for thinking clearly and getting help for Professor Snape. That led to an unusual détente between Slytherin and Gryffindor as the students left the dungeons.

The Slytherins headed to their Common Room to await news of the Head of House, but when the Gryffindors headed to their own tower, Ron called them back. “Hey, we’ve got some unexpected free time. Who’s up for flying?”

“Really, Ron!” Hermione scolded. “Isn’t that a bit heartless? Taking advantage of Professor Snape’s accident to go flying? Besides, I think we should use the time to study.”

Unsurprisingly, this was a minority view, and in no time, everyone was heading to the empty quidditch pitch. Ron had even managed to persuade Neville to come along. “You’ll never improve if you don’t practice, mate,” he coaxed. “And Harry and I will help, honest.”

Flattered by the attention, Neville quickly agreed, and soon practically everyone was on their brooms. Even Hermione came along, unwilling to be the odd man out. Harry, earthbound both by Snape’s punishment and his own injuries, used the former to hide the latter and devoted himself to coaching Neville.

Neville was indeed improving. This time, it took him nearly an hour before he fell off, and he was low enough so that the fall only knocked the wind out of him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were instantly at his side.

“Damn!” Ron swore. “I’ll get Madame Pomfrey!”

“Actually, I think he’s okay,” Harry said, eyeing Neville carefully. The blonde boy couldn’t talk yet, but he managed to nod his head.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Hermione asked worriedly, once again falling into first aid mode.

“It’s all my fault he got hurt,” Ron declared. “I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be back with Pomfrey!”

He took off for Hogwarts at a dead run. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan. He had known that as soon as you put Neville within ten paces of a broom, Madame Pomfrey’s services would eventually be required. He felt guilty at taking advantage of the boy’s good nature and using Neville’s clumsiness as a means of getting to the infirmary, but he firmly squashed such regrets. It wasn’t like Neville would ever know he had been used, and Ron had been able to help him with his flying.

He burst through the infirmary doors, flushed and panting from the long run up. “Madame! Neville – quidditch pitch – broomstick – fell!” he panted. His heaving chest and gasping explanation made things seem much worse than they were… just as he had planned.

“Oh, Merlin!” Poppy exclaimed. She snatched up her emergency kit and ran out, pausing only long enough to caution Ron to catch his breath before coming back.

That was just what he had planned. He glanced cautiously around the infirmary. The earlier excitement had obviously calmed down. The other teachers had long since left, and the only other person present was Professor Snape, lying quietly in a bed off to one side.

Once he was sure the two of them were alone, Ron took out his wand and concealed it behind him. “Professor?” he said softly, approaching the man’s bedside. “Are you awake?”

Snape growled deep in his throat. “Well, I am now, Weasley,” he snapped, opening his eyes and glaring at the boy. “Have you satisfied your curiosity enough to leave me al – ack!”

As soon as it was clear that Snape was awake and alert, Ron snapped his wand forward. “Petrificus totalis!” An instant later, and he had set up a silencing charm over their section of the infirmary so that even if someone arrived, seeking the medi-witch, they wouldn’t overhear what Ron was about to say.

Ron stepped forward, making sure his wand was clearly visible. Snape was, of course, paralyzed, but his eyes were alight with shock and fury. “Well, Professor,” Ron sneered, making the title an insult, “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on. Have you figured out how you managed to explode a cauldron? Everyone’s saying that even Neville hasn’t managed to make that big a mess yet.” Ron grinned at the chagrin and rage in the man’s eyes. “I bet it’ll be Hermione who figures out that there must have been some adder venom in the cauldron in order for it to blow up that violently.” Snape’s eyes clouded with confusion then calculation. Ron watched him working it out. “Yes, Professor, that would explain the events, wouldn’t it? Have you also figured out how the venom got there? No? Well, that would be me.” He snorted at Snape’s expression. “Okay, I know I’m not the best potions student, but really, it was easy to figure out how to sabotage your demonstration. I mean, all the textbooks describe what not to do and they give such graphic descriptions of how things can go wrong that it’s really pretty easy to make those things happen deliberately.

“All I had to do was to get to class a little early and coat your stirring rod with the venom. It was dry in less than a minute, and you didn’t notice a thing. Then it was just a question of time before the venom dissolved back into the solution as you stirred it, and … boom!” He smiled at Snape, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. “I bet your back must be hurting a lot. You really hit the wall hard. If it wasn’t stone, I bet you’d have gone straight through the wall into the next classroom.”

Snape’s mind was working furiously. Had someone possessed the boy? How could this dunderheaded Gryffindor have come up with such a positively Slytherin plan, let alone carried it out so flawlessly? An Imperious curse wouldn’t work for such a complex series of actions unless imposed by someone like Voldemort himself, but nothing – nothing – in the boy’s past had suggested that he would be able to do something like this, let alone want to do so. And now, why on earth was he here, gloating and explaining things like some ridiculous villain in a Muggle movie? A true Slytherin would never have disclosed his methods, and a true Gryffindor would never have embraced such a brilliantly sneaky plan in the first place.

It was true that Weasley had always made his dislike for Snape abundantly clear, but to be fair, most of his loathing stemmed from Snape’s treatment of Harry. Now that Snape was being kinder – well, less awful – to Harry, Ron’s sudden attack was all the more inexplicable.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Ron said suddenly, eyeing the professor with utter disgust. He’d been watching the man think and had followed his thoughts with unexpected perception.  “You still don’t have any idea why. It was such a little thing to you, you can’t even be bothered to remember.”

Now Snape was really confused. What could possibly have set Weasley off? He obviously wasn’t talking about anything that happened in class today – by his own admission, Ron had set up the attack before class even began. But before that … He scrambled to think of the last time he’d seen Weasley.

Oh, yes – he had been with Potter at the quidditch pitch. But being assigned a two foot essay was hardly reason to attempt to murder your professor, and Snape hadn’t even browbeaten the boy, so Weasley could hardly be referring to some off-handed insult that had unintentionally cut too deep.

“I should have used more venom and made sure you were really hurt,” Ron hissed. Snape was startled at the growing hatred in his eyes. “You utter bastard, you don’t even care how much you hurt him. He’s just beneath your notice, isn’t he?”

What? Who? Who could Weasley be talking about? He’d said “him”, so it couldn’t be Granger – not that Snape (or any other professor) had ever had too negative an encounter with the Gryffindor know-it-all. Snape knew Potter was fine when he left last night, so whom did that leave? One of Weasley’s brothers? Longbottom?

“Well, Professor, it’s clear that you couldn’t care less how much you hurt Harry, and now that Dumbledore has lost his mind and said it’s okay for you to hit him, I guess you feel pretty safe using Harry as a punching bag. Is this all some elaborate way to get you back in with You-Know-Who? Is that why Dumbledore decided it was okay for you to beat up Harry? So that you can go back to being a spy? Or is this whole thing You-Know-Who’s idea and you’ve managed to fool Dumbledore? I knew someone like you would never really work for the Light!”

Ron visibly restrained himself. “But you know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you’re doing this for Dumbledore, or for You-Know-Who, or just because you’re a sick arsehole who likes to punch kids who can’t fight back. You know Harry won’t do anything to mess up his training – he knows that everyone’s depending on him to defeat You-Know-Who, and so he just keeps his mouth shut and takes it rather than risk not learning the one thing that would help him defeat the Dark. Well, I’ve got news for you. Dumbledore and the others may not care, but Harry’s got a lot of friends who do. And Potions is a very, very dangerous class. Isn’t that what you’re always telling us?

“So listen up, Professor. The next time you lay a finger on Harry, something else will blow up. And you won’t be so lucky the next time. Don’t you need both hands to be a Potions Master?” Snape was taken aback by the boy’s low, menacing hiss – it was an unconscious copy of his own, and he had to admit it was quite effective. Who would have thought the youngest Weasley boy had so much Slytherin in him?

“And don’t think that getting rid of me will stop it. I meant what I said, Harry has a lot of friends here, and they’re not just in Gryffindor. Kids in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff – even a few of your snakes, believe it or not. So even if you have me expelled, you’ll never again be able to feel safe in your classroom or your dungeon.  No one knows I’m here, Professor, especially not Harry, but I promise you, before I leave school, I will make sure that everyone knows about you and how you treat Harry, and he will be protected from you. So the choice is yours, Professor. Is beating up Harry worth blowing up?” Ron got to his feet with one last threatening glare. “Right now this matter is between you and me, Professor. It’s up to you whether it stays that way.”

Ron headed to the door, but paused for one final shot, “You’re always telling us how dumb we are and how smart you are,” he said to Snape. “I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, though.” And with a smirk that would have been right at home on the Potion Master’s face, he exited, leaving Snape frozen on the bed.

Snape didn’t waste any energy fuming at the indignity of what had just happened. He knew that eventually the spell confining him would wear off or Poppy would come back and figure out something was amiss. He was too busy trying to decipher the Weasley boy’s words. The threat was clear – he would face more sabotage and more attacks if Potter came to any harm. He just couldn’t understand what had motivated such a threat.

Yes, he had dragged Potter away under the Weasley boy’s nose, and yes, he had punished him once he got him back to the dungeons, but to claim he had used him as a punching bag was absurd. He hadn’t even verbally slapped around the little brat – he had long since learned that Potter only became angry and defiant when he was belittled. By contrast, if the “more in sorrow than in anger” approach was used, he promptly dissolved into a repentant puddle of snot and tears.

Snape was Slytherin enough to use whatever worked best, and he had laid it on thick last night, pointing out that Harry was looked up to by the other children, that the first years might emulate his dangerous stunts, that putting himself in harm’s way was a slap in the face to the people who were working so hard to keep him safe, that he, Severus, was very disappointed in him, that it would have frightened Minerva and Hermione if they had seen him, that the Weasleys would have been devastated if Ron, trying to keep up with the better flyer, had mimicked Harry and hurt himself…

By the end of the lecture, Snape was feeling nauseous at all the sentimentality and Harry was dripping with tears and remorse. Administering a half-dozen brisk swats after that was practically overkill. He had been done it as much to safeguard his own reputation for severity as to drive the point home for Harry.

But “beat him up”? By no stretch of the imagination could anyone seriously consider that smacking a brutal punishment. Oh, Potter had yelped his way through it, but Snape had, over his years as a Death Eater, become quite the connoisseur of screams. He was well able to distinguish between screams of terror, pain, anguish, agony, and fear, and he knew perfectly well when a child was howling because he was being punished, as opposed to howling because of the punishment. In fact, Snape had been rather pleased by the boy’s loud yelps. Harry had had plenty of experience keeping silent in the face of truly vicious treatment from his disgusting relatives. The fact that he would carry on so was a sign that he was coming to terms with the fact that those Muggles were the aberrant freaks, not him, and that he had every right to complain when something unpleasant was done to him. He was allowed to express himself, to object to someone’s treatment of him, and to expect a certain amount of consideration.

Besides, the fact that the brat had demolished an entire plateful of shortbread barely five minutes after the spanking suggested that neither his backside nor his pride had been that seriously wounded.

While there had been plenty of tears and whimpers and yips, there was not a single sob. Snape had no intention of physically punishing Harry until he broke down. That was the last thing the boy needed. Limits, yes. Consequences, yes. But the infliction of pain until he completely lost his composure? Hardly. Besides, if Snape wasn’t able to reduce Potter to tears with a few reproving words, he was unfit to be the Head of Slytherin. It was hard to imagine a boy more starved for affection and eager to please than Potter, and while snide insults were counterproductive – he’d been too exposed to those by the Muggles – sorrowful reproaches worked like a charm. Why would Snape waste effort and hurt his own hand when there was no need?

Had Potter been upset last night? Definitely. Humiliated? Slightly. Repentant? Highly. Indignant? Mildly. Sore? Briefly. Resentful? No. On that, Snape would have taken his oath, yet what other excuse could there be for Weasley’s behavior? Potter, that thrice-damned little brat, must have decided to spin a fantastic tale for the benefit of his gullible little friends, painting Snape as the evil, hard-fisted tyrant and himself as the poor stalwart Gryffindor subjugated by the wicked Slytherin. Obviously, admitting that he had been reduced to tears by a stern scolding and a few sharp smacks on the bum was unacceptable to The Boy Who Lived. Like that idiot Lockhart, he had to embellish the truth and ensure that his reputation was untarnished by the actions of a snarky professor. It was much better to be the innocent victim of a vicious Death Eater’s brutal assault than a small boy with a stinging bottom who had whimpered through a richly deserved spanking.

Snape set the issue of Weasley’s attack to the side for the moment. It was Potter, that little wretch, whom he would deal with first. Snape took a deep breath, feeling Weasley’s spell begin to fade, and began plotting his revenge.