Severus groaned in torment, longing for the blessed escape of death. He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to be captured in this fashion. He should have known better. He did know better. But somehow he’d been distracted, let down his guard, and this was the result.

Severus had survived the tortures of his father, his Housemates, the Marauders, and Voldemort. He had suffered under the Cruciatus more times than he wanted to remember, to say nothing of the lesser – but still excruciating – Dark curses, humiliating and painful hexes, and of course, the Muggles’ favorite, brute force. He probably had endured more punishment than any other living Wizard (except for those who enjoyed that sort of thing), and his pain tolerance was remarkably high. But not high enough. Not for this.

He bit back a whimper of anguish. He would not beg. He would not scream aloud. He would not give his tormentor that satisfaction. Even when he had writhed under Voldemort’s wand, he had not wept for mercy, and he would not start now. Surely he would slip from consciousness soon…

The only thing that remained for him now was vengeance. It was what kept him clinging to life, what prevented him from actively seeking the release of suicide. This was all the fault of that wretched brat Potter, and if it was the last thing he did on this earth, Severus vowed to exact bloody retribution from the little fiend.

He saw his torturer approaching, an eager gleam in his eye, and he prayed for deliverance. Please, please no more. Please – a portkey. A massive aneurysm. The return of the Dark Lord. Anything to rescue me from this agony.

“Severus!” Albus Dumbledore exclaimed happily. “Look! They have a version of Wizards’ Chess, only with Quidditch! Harry will love it! Do you want to give it a try?”

Severus still couldn’t believe he hadn’t been smart enough to lie when the Headmaster had noticed him leaving the castle that morning and asked where he was going. He should have known that Dumbledore would insist on accompanying him on the shopping expedition to outfit Harry’s new room, and he should have expected that the crazy old coot would turn what should have been a brief, efficient mission into endless, hellish hours.

No store was omitted. Why Dumbledore thought they needed to examine kitchenware had entirely escaped Snape. Did he imagine Potter was going to participate in the 83rd Annual Super(natural) Sweets Bake-Off? They had actually spent over an hour in a bloody linens store, debating whether Harry would prefer animated dragons or hippogriffs on his bedsheets. Or rather, Albus debated about the sheets and Severus debated bludgeoning himself unconscious. And after the dotty old man had finally decided on hippogriffs, then they had to start all over again on the color of the draperies. Severus had pointed out – with the last threads of his self-control – that he lived in a dungeon. A windowless dungeon, but that had only deflected Albus from draperies to carpeting.

At the Magical Body Shoppe, Snape had at first thought it might sell some kind of wizarding pornography and he had been about to argue with Albus that while Harry might be a growing boy with a natural, healthy curiosity, Snape was not about to encourage that sort of thing. But then he had realized – to his infinitely greater horror – that it was a sort of fancy toiletry shop in which no self-respecting man, wizard or Muggle, should be caught dead. Amidst what appeared to be a million different soaps, lotions, shampoos, creams, powders, and cosmetics (not to mention vaguely obscene-looking gadgets whose function Severus did not want to think about) Albus began a lengthy dialogue with the witch behind the counter. Severus hid as best he could amongst the cluttered, aromatic merchandise – the store made Ollivander’s look empty – and hoped for an attack by Death Eaters.

While Severus endured the curious stares of the other customers (all female, of course), Albus discussed proper skin care for pre-teens with more concentration than he normally brought to meetings of the Wizengamot. After the headmaster had purchased a bagful of products that the witch insisted would guarantee Harry a spot-free adolescence, Severus made a beeline for the door, only to be dragged back by Albus’ magic.

Mortified beyond words – that spell was used by mothers on wayward toddlers! – Snape had opened his mouth to tell the Headmaster just what he thought of his behavior, but he’d been shocked into speechlessness by the realization that Albus and the shopwitch were now discussing hair care. Specifically, the care of his hair! All of his protests, shouts, arguments, and fuming were blithely ignored, and he was kept at the counter – under threat of a sticking hex – as his scalp and hair were meticulously examined. To his intense dismay, several of the customers joined in the resultant discussion, offering their own remedies and advice, and it was a good twenty minutes before he was finally allowed to escape, with an even larger bag of supplies than the one intended for Harry.

His afternoon had gone downhill from there. In the clothing store, he had actually threatened to Avada Dumbledore if he didn’t stop selecting the most extreme examples of psychedelic clothing. At the bookstore, Albus was only prevented from purchasing Harry a private library equal to Snape’s and Dumbedore’s combined volumes by urgent reminders that Madame Pince would surely take such an action as a personal insult and retire to the stacks in tears. At the pet store, the headmaster had wanted to purchase Harry a familiar, but Snape managed to persuade him that Hedwig was unlikely to welcome the intrusion of a kneazle or crup.

But it was at the toy store – predictably – that Albus had gone insane, and now Severus was rapidly following. “No. More. Toys. Albus,” Snape managed to snarl between clenched teeth. The pile of toys at the counter was already more appropriate for a new satellite shop location than the small bedroom of a single wizarding child.

The Headmaster’s face fell. “Oh, but Severus, they have – “

“No. No more.” Seeing the older wizard was about to argue, Severus turned crafty. “What will you get him for Christmas if you buy out the store now?” he asked, refusing to imagine what Christmas with the brat would be like. All tinsel and ho-ho-ho’ing and enough holiday cheer to make Snape nauseous for a month.

“Hmmm. You do have a point,” Albus finally agreed, and Snape wasted no time in hustling him out of the shop.

“Ooh – wait! Quidditch!” Albus said, pointing, as Snape tried to drag him along to the apparition point.

“While you were busy dithering over the best material for Potter’s dress robes, I went to the Quidditch shop,” Snape informed him, callously ignoring Dumbledore’s disappointed expression.

“Maybe you forgot something?” he suggested hopefully.

“Christmas, Albus. It’s only a few months away,” Severus retorted, not easing his pull on the older man’s arm

Dumbledore sighed, then brightened. “I can’t wait to see the look on Harry’s face when –“

“No, Albus. You are not going to turn this into an excuse for a surprise party. I will not have my private quarters invaded by half of Gryffindor Tower, to say nothing of assorted moronic faculty members like Trelawny.”

“Perhaps just a few of Harry’s closest friends…”Albus began.

“Can you imagine the havoc Hagrid would wreak if he stumbled into my potion supplies? No.”

The headmaster sighed in defeat. “Very well, my boy. But I may require you to show me Harry’s expression via Penseive.”

“The brat is still working through his punishment for the flying incident,” Snape said coldly. “I have not yet decided when he might be allowed one or two of the smaller items.”

Dumbledore sighed again. “You shouldn’t be so strict, Severus. Was it not you who emphasized the importance of positive reinforcement?”

Snape glared. “If you do not like the job I am doing you should not have forced it upon me. I would remind you that this was not my idea.” It was intensely gratifying to see Albus’ meek nod, though the sensation lasted only until Albus’ next words.

“Very true, my boy. So it is all the more satisfying to see you embracing it with such dedication. I understand from Molly and Arthur that they were impressed with your handling of Harry over dinner last night. They said you were quite a natural,” Albus smirked.

Severus gnashed his teeth. Bloody, overtalkative Gryffindors!

He managed to get some of his own back by refusing to allow Albus help him arrange Harry’s new room, though in retrospect he wished it had been the headmaster who had to deal with the house elves. When they learned the new room was intended for Master Harry Potter Sir, the little creatures went mad with excitement and about thirty popped into existence, dashing about the room and readying it for its new occupant. Snape had to intercede in innumerable arguments amongst the high-strung little creatures and it took all his Slytherin cunning to prevent them from carrying out mass self-punishments when they decided a piece of furniture would look better on the other side of the room after all. By the time the room met with their unanimous satisfaction, he was convinced that it would have been easier by far to do it himself the Muggle way.

When he’d roused the boy that morning from where he had slumbered on Snape’s couch, Harry had been alternately embarrassed and delighted to find he’d been allowed to stay in the professor’s private quarters. “Um, thanks for letting me sleep here,” he mumbled, pink. He propped himself up on one elbow and scrubbed at his eyes. Wow – the professor had let him sleep on his good couch and everything!

“Yes, well, it was very late and I had better things to do than walk you all the way back to the Tower,” Snape sniffed. He tugged the boy up by his ear, lest the brat think he was getting soft. “Get washed and dressed, or you will miss your breakfast,’ he threatened darkly, though he had no intention of releasing the too-skinny brat without a full, nutritious meal in his stomach. “The house elves are waiting to send it up.”

“That’s okay,” Harry assured the professor, even as he obediently headed down the corridor to the bathroom. He didn’t want the man to go to any trouble on his behalf. “I c’n just grab a sweet roll and eat it on the way to class – eep!” He broke off as the professor’s strong fingers closed again on his ear and dragged him around him to face the man.

He blinked in surprise. The grip on his ear didn’t hurt exactly, but Harry knew better than to resist it.

“Potter, if I see you stuffing your face with unhealthy sugary treats, I will order the house elves to spoon feed you your meals for the next month,” Snape threatened furiously. “I expect you to eat three balanced meals a day, and to limit your intake of sweets. How do you expect to add muscle and height to your scrawny frame if you don’t eat properly? Chocolate frogs and sweet rolls and three helpings of pudding are going to make you as wide as your whale of a cousin. Do you understand?”

Wide eyed, Harry nodded. His relatives barely gave him enough food, let alone cared if it was nutritionally balanced or not.

“We shall discuss this in greater length later,” Snape promised sternly. “For now, though, you should get in the habit of following Miss Granger. She appears to eat quite sensibly.”

Harry wrinked his nose. “She always takes lots of vegetables and green stuff,” he protested. “She eats like a girl.”

“And Mr Weasley eats like a bottomless pit, and you, young man, are well on your way to a spotty and unhealthy adolescence. Now do as I say or you will regret it.” He sent the boy towards the bathroom with a glare. Really! Such insolence – and so early in the morning too!

Harry hurried to the bathroom and performed his morning ablutions. His heart was singing. Merlin, Professor Snape worried about him! It wasn’t enough for him that Harry ate, he insisted that Harry ate the right foods. And he was even going to teach him what they were, just so Harry would grow up to be strong and healthy. Harry grinned at his reflection. He guessed that if the professor had anything to say about it, Harry would be taller than Ron by the end of the school year. It would be a nice change from always being the runt of the class.

Scrubbed pink, Harry slid into his seat at the small table in Snape’s kitchen, under the professor’s stern glance. “G’morning, sir,” Harry said, remembering his manners a bit belatedly.

“Good morning,” the professor replied. A plate of eggs, toast, and fruit appeared with a pop, and Harry smiled happily. “You will be sure to finish your milk, Mr Potter, and this vial of dietary supplementation as well. It will make up for some of the…nutritional inadequacies of your previous life.”

Harry gave the potion a dubious look, but he figured it was safer not to protest. He remembered how Mr Weasley had given him extra vegetables last night, and he decided it was a dad thing.

“You will take a daily dose of this potion,” Snape continued, pleased that Harry was too busy forking eggs into his mouth to protest, “until Madame Pomfrey informs me that you have caught up to your age group on the growth charts.”

“Does it taste awful?” Harry inquired with a sigh.

“Undoubtedly.” Snape smirked as the boy groaned. This was quite fun. It wasn’t even his first class and he had already tormented a child. “As I am certain you have not so much as begun the lines you owe me –“ Harry’s guilty blush confirmed his suspicions “- you will report for detention with me this afternoon, immediately after your last class.”

“Awwww,” Harry protested. “It’s Friday!”

“And you have detention,” Snape informed him heartlessly. “Would you care to try for Saturday detention as well?”

Harry grumped and stabbed moodily at his fruit.

“And just what thrilling plans did you have for the afternoon?” Snape sneered, irritated at the boy’s sulking.

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. I just figured Ron an’ me would –“

“Idiot. Have you forgotten that Mr Weasley and his brothers are being summoned to the Burrow immediately after classes?”

“Oh.” Harry thought for a moment. If Ron weren’t around, there really wasn’t much to do. Granger would probably try to convince him to study with her, and though Dean and Seamus might include him in their plans, it was just as likely that they wouldn’t.

He really did need to work on the lines, and it would be better to do it here where he could get the professor’s help with his handwriting than back in the Common Room where everyone would see he was being punished. Given Ron’s absence, the professor was right: this really was the best time to do the assigned lines, when he wouldn’t be missing out on anything else.

Harry glanced over at the professor. Here the man had selected the perfect opportunity for Harry to get his punishment over with, when he wouldn’t have to forego other, more enjoyable activities, and Harry was whining at him. What’s more, Professor Snape had been awfully nice about his not finishing the lines quickly. Plenty of other teachers would have gotten cross if he hadn’t handed them in the very next day. “’M sorry,” he mumbled guiltily.

“Hmf.” Snape, still scowling, didn’t even look up from where he was perusing a potions journal as he sipped his morning coffee.

Harry drooped in his chair. Now the professor was mad at him, and properly so. He poked at the last of his fruit, his appetite abruptly gone.

“Finish your breakfast, you horrible brat,” Snape ordered sharply. “Classes will start shortly.” He reached over and fixed the little monster’s collar where it was twisted at the back. Honestly, couldn’t he even dress himself?

Harry looked up hopefully through his fringe. Maybe the professor wasn’t all that mad if he were fixing Harry’s shirt?

“I said, eat!” Snape gave the defiant child a cuff on the side of the head. It was definitely a cuff, not a pat. And certainly not a tousle of the brat’s wild hair. It wasn’t his fault if his fingers got caught in the rat’s nest.

Reassured, Harry grinned and demolished the rest of his breakfast. “Y’ssir,” he mumbled around the last of his milk.

“And don’t talk with your mouth full!” Snape snapped, but the rebuke went unnoticed as the brat slipped from his chair and, snatching up his bookbag, ran for the door.

“See you this afternoon, Pr’fessor!” Harry shouted over his shoulder.

“It’s a detention, Potter!” Snape yelled angrily. “Not a party!” Ooh, he seethed, he’d teach that little wretch to fear his detentions. Chirp a happy farewell, would he? When facing an afternoon of punishment? He’d have that brat writing lines until his fingers fell off, and then he’d really make him suffer…

By the time classes ended, Snape had regained his good humor by reducing four NEWTS students to tears and awarding Oliver Wood a detention guaranteed to have the boy begging for mercy. By the time he was done bending over to scrub a decade’s worth of potion splatters off the legs of Snape’s classroom desks, Wood’s back would be in spasm for days. Or at least until he managed to limp up to the infirmary.

The Gryffindor Quidditch captain had apologized and groveled while Snape verbally flayed him for not showing Harry proper warm up and cool down exercises before the tryout, but what had really made his eyes fill with horrified tears was Snape’s threat to switch the boy to the Slytherin team if the Gryffindor team didn’t take proper care of its players. Wood had gabbled out panicked promises and offered to let Snape take any further injuries that Harry suffered out of his own hide. “Why, Mr Wood,” Snape had silkily replied, “I was already planning to do so.”

After all the threats, the actual punishment was a welcome relief to the twitching Wood, and Snape left him scrubbing away as Harry entered the room.

“H’lo, sir,” Harry said politely, quickly stuffing the chocolate frog he’d been munching into a robe pocket.

Snape took his chin in a firm grip and, taking out a clean white handkerchief, he scrubbed the urchin’s face. “Hmmm?” he asked menacingly, showing the brat the smears of chocolate that had, until a moment ago, decorated his countenance.

“Erm… It’s the Patil twins’ birthday,” Harry explained pleadingly. “They were giving frogs to everyone. It would’ve been rude to refuse.”

“No dessert tonight.” Snape pronounced in tones that brooked no argument.

Harry sighed. “Y’sir. C’n I at least finish my frog then?” he asked hopefully.

“No.” Snape extended his palm, and Harry mournfully deposited the half-eaten frog upon it. It was rather linty after its stay in his pocket, he admitted to himself. Snape regarded it with loathing and Vanished the treat. He took Harry by the shoulder and moved him briskly down the aisle to a seat in the front row.

“Hi, Oliver,” Harry said as he was dragged past the older Gryffindor.

“Hullo, kid,” Wood grinned up at him from where he was bent over the tall desk, scouring the legs with a stiff-bristled brush.

“This is not a tea party, Potter,” Snape snapped. “Sit down and begin your lines.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said obediently, drawing parchment and quill out of his bag. He’d been assigned the lines about his relatives first, but it would be easier to finish the ones about the flying incident, since there were only 200 of them. He decided that it would be better to finish at least one part of his punishment as quickly as possible and determined to work on the 200 line assignment.

His stomach gave a rumble and he thought longingly of the frog before focusing his attention on the work before him. Now what was it that Snape had told him to write…? Oh, right – Harry bent to his task.

He jumped in amazement as a glass of milk and plate of sliced apples appeared on the desk in front of him.

Looking up at the professor, he saw Snape glaring at him. “Get to work, you lazy brat!”

“Sir!” Wood protested from the back of the room, and Harry twisted around in surprise. “You shouldn’t call him that!”

“Mind your own business, Mr Wood, or would you care to clean the chairs as well as the desks?” Snape threatened.

Wood ducked back to work, muttering rebelliously, while Harry nibbled an apple slice and wondered what all the fuss was about.

He’d finished most of the apple and all of his milk when Snape dragged up a chair beside him. “How do you expect me to read this chicken scratch?” the professor scolded, glancing over the dozen or so lines Harry had written.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said meekly.

“Look here. This is the proper way to hold a quill, and – where did you get such a pathetic excuse for a quill, Mr Potter?”

“Erm, they were on sale in Diagon Alley, sir…”

“Obviously priced that way because otherwise no one would be foolish enough to purchase such appallingly poor quality items,” Snape sniffed contemptuously. “Here. This is a self-inking leakproof quill. I will have no more of your whining excuses about your quill being the cause of your atrocious handwriting.”

Harry was going to point out he hadn’t offered any excuses, whiny or otherwise, but he figured that it would be rude to argue when he’d just been given a present. “Thank you, sir!”

Snape scowled horribly. “Stop chattering and try again! No, no – hold it like so.” By the end of fifteen minutes, Harry’s penmanship was markedly improved, and Snape returned to his own desk. “And if you don’t have fifty lines done by the next time I check, Potter, you will find yourself hexed to that chair until curfew!”

“Bloody bat,” came floating from the back of the room.

“Did you say something, Mr Wood?” Snape purred.

“No, sir,” Oliver replied meekly.

“Straighten up and face me when you address me, Mr Wood!”

The whimpers that Oliver emitted as he painfully stood brought a smirk of pure pleasure to Snape’s face. Wood groaned pitifully as his back agonizingly protested the previous two hours.

“Dear, dear, Mr Wood. I suppose I should have let you stretch out a bit before setting you to scrub the undersides of all those desks,” Snape said happily. “Your back muscles must be in knots.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver winced. He had to admit, sore as he was, that there was some poetic justice to this detention. He sent an apologetic look over to where Harry was sneaking a peek over his shoulder. He really hadn’t meant to overwork the little kid like that, but it was just so exciting to see him dart in and grab the snitch time after time after time.

“There is still an hour and a half until dinner,” Snape mused, enjoying the way the Gryffindor captain paled at the thought of another ninety minutes of such back-breaking labor.

“Please sir,” Wood tried, “the tryouts were only two hours.”

“And you are older, stronger, and – allegedly – wiser than an eleven year old, Mr Wood!”

He sighed. “Yes sir.” Wood started to bend over again, but was halted by the Potion Master’s cold tones.

“You may spend the remainder of the afternoon considering the lesson you have just learned.”

Wood looked uncertainly at Professor Snape. What did that mean? Was he about to be sent to a corner like a four year old? The greasy git was capable of almost anything, so long as it was humiliating, painful, and likely to make grown men weep.

Snape rolled his eyes. Little words – Gryffindors need little words and clear directions, he reminded himself. “I assume you can contemplate your actions without being engaged in manual labor, Mr Wood?”

“Oh! Erm - yes, sir,” Oliver nodded quickly, scenting a reprieve.

“Then you are dismissed. I expect two feet on the responsibilities of leadership on my desk by Monday, along with another twelve inches on the prevention of back injuries.” He smirked. “I imagine you can interview Madame Pomfrey on the latter topic while you are consulting her professionally. If both essays do not meet with my approval, you will provide another two feet on sports injury incidence and prevention. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes, sir,” Wood agreed miserably. Two extra essays! So much for his plans to practice his flying this weekend. And if he knew Snape, he’d probably end up doing the third essay as well. Wood’s shoulders slumped in dejection, and he immediately flinched at the hot, knife-like pain that the movement caused. At least Snape had pretty much just given him permission to see the medi-witch. He had expected to have been prohibited from using any kind of magical pain relief, and it was a pleasant surprise to realize that not even Snape was that evil.

Besides, it could have been much worse. The git might have made good on his threat to turn Potter into a flying snake! He winked at Potter, and the kid grinned back.

Wood felt a little bad leaving the First Year alone, at the mercy of the Evil Bat, but on the other hand, it wasn’t as if his presence had been much help to the kid. Snape had still snapped and snarked at him the whole time, coming down on him for his handwriting, for Merlin’s sake! What business of his was it if the kid’s handwriting was awful? You wouldn’t catch Professor McGonagall sticking her nose in like that. She respected her students and didn’t treat them like a bunch of babies. Wood had heard that Snape even assigned bedtimes to his Slytherin first years – Merlin! What was the point of being away at school if you couldn’t stay up late when you felt like it?

Wood waved at Harry and turned to go. “Thank you, professor,” he called out, figuring it was a lot safer to be polite.

“What part of ‘dismissed’ was unclear to you, Mr Wood?” the professor’s snarky retort floated back to him as he escaped through the door.