“Well, well, well,” Snape seethed aloud, his gaze settling on the sixth year Gryffindor in the back of the room. “If it isn’t our local celebrity, asleep in my class.”

Snape grinned inwardly as he saw Granger and Weasley frantically exchange glances. Granger made a move to wake Potter, but Snape stilled her with one murderous glance.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor and one months detention.” Snape’s voice was both silky and deadly as he stalked toward the back of the room. The boy had not moved. His elbows rested on the desk, his chin balanced on his fists. His black hair fell in a messy mop over his lopsided glasses.

“POTTER,” he yelled, slamming his fist on the boy’s desk.

Snape watched with satisfaction as Harry jolted awake, jumping off his stool and barely landing on his feet, a look of wild panic etched clearly across his features.

“So, Mr. Potter,” Snape sneered, leaning towards the boy, “We are only two weeks into the term. You’ve had all summer to rest and recuperate. And yet you seem to think that you are require privileges above and beyond the mere mortals in this class.” Snape spun on his heel, addressing the class. “The Great Harry Potter.” The Slytherins at the front of the room snickered.

Harry’s mouth was tight, his eyes emerald pricks of hatred.

“Why is it, Potter,” Snape said, turning back to face the boy, “that you deign to sleep in my class?” Snape placed his arms on the desk and leaned in. “Answer me,” he demanded.

Harry’s gaze hardened. Snape could feel the waves of anger and hatred radiating off the boy. He knew Harry’s control was about to snap.

“Enough of this,” Snape breathed, and in an instant, he brushed the surface of Harry’s mind. He felt a sense of power as Harry’s eyes dilated wide in astonishment. But before Snape could congratulate himself, disturbing images flashed before him, ensnaring him in a web of horrified fascination at the ever changing scenes. Of all things he might have expected to find in the forefront of Potter’s mind, that wasn’t it.

Suddenly Snape found himself forcefully shoved out of the boy’s head. He stumbled backwards, maintaining his balance only by grabbing onto the corner of Potter’s desk. Both he and the boy were breathing hard, eyes still locked, ready for a fight.

“Get out! Now!” Snape seethed, pointing towards the door.

Harry did not hesitate. He had his bag in hand and was gone before Snape had time to turn around.

As Snape made his way back up to the front of the classroom, he wondered if Potter would make it to a bathroom in time to vomit.

He managed to get through the rest of his Defense Against the Dark Arts lecture on effective spells against inferi before flooing the headmaster to take over the last hour of his class for the practical portion.

When Dumbledore entered, Snape noticed the direction of the headmaster’s gaze as he took in Potter’s absence. Snape scoffed inwardly at the surely noble notion that Dumbledore had of Snape’s intentions.

As he stalked from the classroom, he leaned down to whisper in Granger’s ear: “Perhaps you should consider being a better friend to Mr. Potter.”

Her stunned expression gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.

Infuriated by Potter’s insubordination, and built upon six years of mutual loathing, Snape searched the castle for the insufferable Gryffindor. Had he not seen what was in Potter’s mind, he surely wouldn’t have wasted his time. As it was, he was still not sure he wanted to get involved. He’d just as soon hand the boy over to the headmaster, but he knew that the headmaster would hand him right back, claiming Snape the most capable person to handle the situation.

“Potter, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath. Classes were in session and Potter was not anywhere in Gryffindor tower, nor the library, the Great Hall, or any other reasonable place. He couldn’t imagine the boy crying in a bathroom stall somewhere either.

A sinking sensation settled in the pit of his stomach as he considered where he himself would have retreated to at that age. He didn’t want to consider even the remotest possibility that he had anything in common with the boy. After exhausting all other possibilities, he made his way to his boyhood haven, the North Tower. It was the most desolate and out of the way area of the castle, least frequented by students and teachers alike. Reaching the staircase, he knew he’d found the right place.

He waved his wand through the feeble wards as if they are no more than a fly buzzing around his head. Had the boy learned nothing in all his time here?

He reached the top of the steps to find Potter’s back to him, his hands on the railing, looking out over the leaf-strewn grounds of Hogwarts.

“Thinking about jumping?” he drawled.

He watched with something akin to satisfaction as Potter’s body went rigid, his hands clenching the railing. “You had no right.”

Snape leaned casually against the tower wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “I had every right.”

Harry turned around. He looked even more angry and dangerous than he did in class.

Snape scoffed. “It is my sworn job as a teacher in this school to look out for the safety and welfare of the students.”

Potter gaped at him in disbelief. “My safety was not at issue when you broke into my mind!”

“Was it not, Potter?” Snape inquired as he pushed off the wall and stalked towards Harry. “Do you really think, that you, of all people, you—the chosen one, are not watched beyond measure by every single teacher in this school? Did you really think that no one would notice that you weren’t sleeping or eating? That you’d came back to school looking like you’d been attacked by Dementors?”

Potter’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

“The unfortunate part,” Snape continued, “is that I was the one to discover your secret, Potter.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Harry challenged, clearly ready to disagree with whatever Snape might suggest.

Snape’s only response was a raised eyebrow. He paced back towards the entrance to the tower, turning around as he placed his hand on the cold stone archway that lead to the stairwell. He stopped then, and faced Potter. “Since you were napping at the time, I came here to remind you that your one month of detentions will begin this evening. You will come to my office at 6pm. With your traveling cloak. Don’t be late.”

Snape smiled coldly at the look of surprise followed by indignation that washed over Potter’s face.

“Oh, and by the way, Potter, in case you were planning to gain extra attention and notoriety by jumping, I should tell you that the castle is protected by enchantments and charms that impede students from harming themselves. So unless your goal is an in-depth interview with the headmaster, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The knock on his door came at 6:06pm.

“You’re late,” Snape said.

Potter met his gaze with an angry one of his own.

“Your defiance is useless, Potter,” Snape murmured, leaning forward over his desk, “unless you wish to gain more detentions, in which case, be my guest. I have several potions that are nearing their expiration date and need testing to see if they are still potent.”

Snape flicked his wand and shut the door behind Potter, effectively locking out the world beyond his office. He watched as the boy stood rigid before him, traveling cloak in hand, awaiting instruction.

Snape studied him a moment, before deciding that a direct course of action would be best. “I’m going to give you three choices, Potter. You will choose one. You will NOT interrupt me. Is that understood?”

He waited for the boy’s slight nod of acknowledgement before continuing.

“Your first option,” Snape said, “is to accompany me, in disguise, to St. Mungo’s, where you will be fully examined by a… “

“I don’t need…”

“Do. Not. Interrupt.” Snape glared at Harry, who was suddenly looking panicky.

“Where you will be fully examined by a healer,” Snape continued. “Your second option is to be examined by Madam Pomfrey.”

When Snape did not continue, Harry asked in a strained voice, “And my third option?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your third option is to be examined by me.”

Harry startled at that, and Snape smirked coldly at him.

“What will it be, Potter?”

Harry hesitated. “What did you mean about St. Mungo’s when you said I’d be ‘in disguise’ ?”

“Your appearance will be altered and your name will be withheld,” Snape replied. “In other words, Potter, your precious privacy will be guarded at all costs.”

When Harry did not respond, Snape said, “Am I to assume, then, that you prefer the first option?”

Harry met the professor’s gaze, one of several arguments brewing in those bright green eyes.

Snape almost flinched. It was an expression he’d seen in Lily’s eyes so many times… But then Potter closed his eyes, and the image was gone.

Harry nodded once.

The choice had been made.

Harry’s mind raced. He hated Snape even more for forcing him to do this. The thought of anyone examining him after what had happened was beyond humiliating. Snape’s words cut across his bitter thoughts.

“Take this to the Owlery,” Snape said, holding out a piece of parchment. “Send it to the attention of Healer Thompson, St. Mungo’s. Then return here.” Snape paused. “No detours, Potter.”

Harry wended his way through the castle in search of an alcove where he could hide long enough to steal a peak at the missive that Snape had penned before taking it to the Owlery.

Healer Thompson:

At approximately 7pm this evening, I will be bringing a Hogwarts student to you for evaluation. He has been the unfortunate recipient of indecent attentions from a group of Muggle teenagers over the summer. Due to the delicate nature of this matter, I request that you refrain from asking him any unnecessary questions.

S. Snape

Harry let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the tremble in his hands lessening slightly.

“Find a suitable substitute for your appearance,” Snape said, throwing a magazine on the desk in front of Harry. 

Harry looked at the unmoving picture of a teenage girl on the front cover—a Muggle magazine, then. Gingerly, he picked it up, thumbing through it quickly in search of a teen about his age. He chose the first one he could find, a scowling young man with blond hair and dark eyes, holding a sword and shield, and dressed for some cinematic medieval battle.

Harry watched as Snape tapped the picture once and waved his wand while repeating an indecipherable incantation. Harry felt the air around him thicken and his vision distort momentarily. Then all was calm. Harry reached up tentatively and touched his scar—it was still there. Panicked, he looked at Snape.

“Certainly you know the difference between charms and potions, Potter,” Snape drawled. “Unlike polyjuice potion, a charm does not alter your physical appearance. It merely makes others see something that is not real.”

With a look of impatience, Snape conjured a mirror. Harry saw the face of the brooding Muggle actor from the magazine looking back at him. Relief swept through him.

Harry stepped out of the fireplace, followed promptly by Snape, into a private sitting room. In mere moments, a tall, portly wizard arrived. His gray hair was long and wavy, his face lined with age, a gold hoop dangling carelessly from one oversized earlobe. Yet for all of that, the man exuded a self-assuredness and competency that was both comforting and reassuring.

“Professor Snape,” the man said with an Australian accent.

“Healer Thompson,” Snape replied with a nod.

Harry stilled as Snape turned his gaze to him, raking him with a sardonic look. “I will wait here for you.”

At that, Harry followed the Healer through a door he hadn’t noticed before. Attached to the sitting room was another room. The furnishings were sparse; a desk, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and a window pane charmed to portray a starry night.

Harry looked around, distinctly uncomfortable and unsure of what would happen next.

“Have a seat, mate,” the healer said, a gentle smile on his face. Instead of sitting across from Harry at the desk, the healer chose the chair next to him. “I hear you’ve fallen into a bit of scuffle,” he remarked.

Harry nodded.

“Well, I must say, this isn’t the first time your head of house has brought students in your situation to my attention.”

Harry’s awareness sharpened. Beyond the fact that the healer thought he belonged to Slytherin house, Harry found it disturbing, and oddly comforting, that he was not alone in his predicament.

“So, here’s what we’ll do,” the Healer continued. “We can either get on with the examination straight away, or I can give you a potion we call Twilight Sleep.” The healer leaned forward, his expression open. “Am I correct in assuming that if you fell afoul of some Muggles, that you have some Muggle background?”

Harry nodded.

“Then you might compare this potion to one in which those Muggle dentists use when Muggles get their teeth pulled. You’ll still be awake, though groggy, and you’ll be able to follow basic directions, but you won’t remember any of it. Some people find that a comfort.”

Harry gnawed his lower lip. He had been dreading the examination since the moment Snape brought it up. The chance to avoid the degradation and humiliation of it was a huge weight off his chest.

“I’ll take the potion.”

“Good choice, mate.” The healer’s kind smile and knowing eyes put Harry at ease. He drank the proffered potion in one long swallow and waited for oblivion to claim his senses.

Harry paced the dormitory as he watched the clock tick slowly towards impending doom. His fellow Gryffindors were at dinner. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he was hungry. The only thing he could feel was the gnawing sensation of acid eating at the lining of his stomach, and the edginess and unease that accompanied the prospect of his second detention with Snape.

As he walked towards Snape’s office, he recalled the looming silence that had hung between himself and Snape when Harry came out of the healer’s examination room. The indecipherable look in Snape’s eyes chilled him, and yet he couldn’t quite identify what it was. Not anger, not loathing; more like cool calculation mixed with determination. Whatever the case, Snape made no comment to Harry, merely escorted him back to Hogwarts and dismissed him.

Arriving back at Gryffindor tower, he had forestalled Ron and Hermione’s questions by saying that he’d been to St. Mungo’s to clean bed pans. That had earned him a remark of disgust from Ron. Hermione, however, had given him a disconcertingly penetrating glance which made him feel edgy and nervous, like she knew more than he’d told her. He had waved off further conversation with the excuse of being exhausted and had headed to bed. Much to his surprise, a warm dinner of rolls, turkey, and pudding had been awaiting his return. And although he hadn’t eaten much of it, the little food he had consumed had helped him to fall asleep faster than he’d done in weeks.

Now, though, as he arrived at Snape’s office, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. Yesterday had been a reprieve, and he presumed that Snape had now fully cleared his conscience of knowledge of the boy’s ordeal by having seen to his treatment. The fact that Harry was no longer in constant pain was something he supposed he should thank the man for, but that thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

At 6pm, and not a moment sooner, Harry knocked on the door to Snape’s office. The door sprang open revealing a moody looking Snape sitting behind his desk. Harry braced himself for the wizard’s snide remarks.

Snape threw a black, leather bound book with well-thumbed, dirty-edged pages on the desk in front of him. “Do you know what that is, Potter?”

“A book,” Harry retorted, unable to help himself. He felt edgy and ready for a fight.

“Your impertinence does not impress me, Potter. Ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek.”

Harry gritted his teeth and felt the loathing for Snape well inside of him.

“Incidentally, Potter, this is not just any book. It is enchanted to be opened and read by me, and me alone. It happens to contain some highly confidential information, which is of no concern to you.” Snape cleared his throat before continuing. “This book,” he said, reaching for an identical one next to it, only brown instead of black, “is new. It has not yet been bound to an owner.”

Harry watched as Snape set the book on the desk nearest to where Harry stood.

“Place your hand atop of it,” Snape commanded.

Harry didn’t move.

“Now, Potter, I haven’t got all day.”

Reluctantly, Harry placed his hand, palm down, on the book’s leather cover.

With a complicated wave of Snape’s wand, and yet another indecipherable incantation, Harry felt the brown leather heat beneath his skin. Golden light emanated from the cover, encasing his hand. It was like sitting in the sun too long on a hot summer’s day. Slowly the golden light receded and Harry knew, without being told, that this book was unequivocally and irrevocable his, and his alone.

“The book is to remain in your possession at all times and accompany you to your detentions with me until I say otherwise, understood?”

Harry nodded, picking the book up from the desk and holding it in both hands. He felt both connected to it and drawn to it as he had no other worldly possession. The nearest thing to it was his Firebolt which felt like an extension of his body, but in a different way than the book.

“The text you write will remain visible until you’ve finished writing on that page, or until you tap the page twice with your finger, in which case it will promptly disappear. Drag a finger over any page and it will show you the text line by line. Tap the page three times and it will show you the whole page.” Snape paused. “Do you think you can remember all that, Potter?”

Harry gritted his teeth. He hated being talked down to. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, then follow me.”

Harry followed Snape into an antechamber attached to Snape’s office that Harry had never seen before. The room was spacious, though bare, and at the moment, contained a single desk and chair, quill and ink, and a decanter of water with a crystal goblet. The walls were bare, there were no windows, and there was nothing to look at. The only way into the room was through Snape’s office. Harry feeling of foreboding increased ten-fold.

“You will spend tonight’s detention, Potter, writing in your book. You will record the events that I witnessed in your mind in complete and excruciating detail.” Harry felt Snape’s eyes bore into his, though he did not try and enter his mind. “Leave. Nothing. Out.”

Harry felt sick to his stomach. What did Snape intend to do with this essay?

As if reading his mind, Snape continued. “As long as you do precisely as I ask, the essay will remain your own. Defy me, and I will make you read it aloud to me.”

Harry swallowed, studying the malice in Snape’s expression. “How many…” Harry’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How many pages does it have to be?”

“As many as it takes,” Snape snapped. He whirled around, his robes billowing behind him. “I have important work to attend to. You are to stay in this room until you are finished. You may bolt the door behind me if you wish.”

The door shut firmly behind Snape, and Harry noticed the old-fashioned locking mechanism on the back for the door. Out of spite and a desperate need for some control over the situation, he threw the bolt in place, and then spelled the door shut for extra measure. Then he paced the room angrily.

What the hell did Snape mean by making him write down what had happened to him? Snape had already seen it all in his mind anyway. Harry cringed at that memory and felt the familiar sensation of rage and nausea well up inside of him before he forced it back down. He wanted to throw the crystal goblet at the stone wall, followed by the decanter and the ink well. He wanted to hear them shatter, see their remnants scattered across the floor. But none of those things would get him out of this detention any sooner. He’d have rather done lines than this, though the memory of Umbridge’s I will not tell lies sent a faint shudder down his spine, and had him rubbing his scarred hand unconsciously.

He flopped down in the chair and pulled the book towards him. Just touching it made him relax. It filled him with a sense of calmness that was akin to stroking a beloved pet. Dipping the quill in the ink well, he held it over the page and waited. How was he supposed to begin? Perhaps he should title it first.

Dudley’s Going Away Present he scrawled across the top. Shaking his head, he scratched that out. Miraculously, though, every time he tried to scribble over the words, the book spit the ink back at him, leaving his original title in place.

“Fine,” he said, dipping the quill back in the ink well, “be that way.”

The Summer Before My 6th Year At Hogwarts

He doubted he’d ever forget when it had happened, but adding the time reference allowed him to put off the inevitable a little longer. He clenched his hand around the quill and forced himself to buckle down to the task at hand.

It was nearing 9pm on Friday and I was at the park. Sitting on a swing. The only one that Dudley’s gang hadn’t yet managed to break. I was wondering who was assigned to guard duty that night, and where they were likely camped out, underneath an invisibility cloak, watching me.

Harry stilled, wondering not for the first time, what had happened to the witch or wizard who was supposed to be watching out for him. Surely if they had been there, they would have intervened. Was it Mundungus again, shirking his duty for some pressing business deal? Or maybe it was his squib neighbor, Mrs. Figg, who couldn’t perform magic and was too old to intervene on her own. But surely she had some means to call for help.

I should have been suspicious when Dudley came up to me, alone, in the park. He was never without his gang. And he seemed particularly cocky. Like he wasn’t afraid of me and my wand for once. I was so stupid for not realizing he was setting me up.

Harry seethed, wanting to snap the quill in two, but then he’d have to ask for another from Snape, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

We took that damn shortcut through the woods between Magnolia Crescent and Privet Drive. I should have seen it coming. I was such an idiot.

Harry rubbed his temple. What time was it anyway? He looked around the room for a clock. There wasn’t one. It didn’t really matter. Snape would not let him leave until he finished, even if it took him all night. He sighed loudly, and rewet his quill, though it was not yet low on ink.

We were in the clearing near the big oak tree when it happened. I was keeping Dudley a step ahead of me so I had time to react if he decided to start a fight with me. But all at once…

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the images in his mind. He didn’t want to put this in writing. He wanted to forget. He wanted to erase it from his mind forever.

Dudley’s gang jumped me from behind. They had been hiding in the shadow of the big oak tree. I should have known they’d be there. I should have looked. I should have…

Harry felt the anger swell within him. He wanted to kill Dudley. With his bare hands. He scratched the parchment using the quill with more force than was necessary.

If it had just been Dudley, or even Dudley and one of his friends, I could have taken them. I could have gotten my wand and hexed them six ways to Sunday. But there were five of them.

Harry’s hand was shaking and his heart was pounding. Cold sweat clung to him like morning dew on a piece of grass.

One of them had me by the hair and some others grabbed my arms. They pushed me to the ground, onto my stomach. The one holding me by the hair smashed my face into the dirt. Another one did a knee drop onto my kidneys. I felt the air burst from me like a popped balloon. I couldn’t breath.

Harry blinked, trying to clear his swimming vision.

I tried to curl into a ball, but they grabbed my legs and held me outstretched. The other two still had my arms and I couldn’t move at all. Then one of them stripped me of my shoes and pants.

Harry cringed and found it hard to breath.

And skivvies.

Harry trembled as he kept writing, kept remembering: the way they’d held him down, the taunts they’d yelled at him, the hot tears of pain and rage and humiliation that had streamed down his face. Nausea swelled within him at the memory of how they’d taken turns, using him. The echo of his screams reverberated in his mind, screams of confusion, then rage, then fear and pain, then of begging for mercy.

Sweating and bleeding and writhing from the pain, they’d let him go, but only for an instant. In the next second, blows rained down on him from all directions. Kicks to his head and back and legs. Their malicious cackling and insults reverberated in the night. Harry had curled in on himself in a ball, mewling like a newborn kitten, while the abuse continued.

I didn’t even reach for my wand. What kind of idiot doesn’t reach for his wand?

He remembered waking up and studying the sticks and stones and leaves that lay amidst the dirt in front of his face. The way the moonlight filtered through the clouds and reflected off the tree branches. The pain in every part of his body. The humiliation of everything that had happened. And the burning, endless desire of wanting nothing more than to die, right then and there, alone on the forest floor.

Severus Snape sat in his office studying the missive before him. It had arrived ten minutes after he’d set Potter up in the antechamber. He’d read it as many times since then.

Professor Snape,

With regards to the student you brought to my attention last evening, the injuries he suffered were consistent with the description of events you gave me earlier in the day. It seems he attempted some remedial healing spells on himself which, while not fully treating his injuries, at least kept them from worsening.

In the course of my examination I found the following: two cracked ribs on the right side and three on the left, severe bruising to the left lung and to the right and left kidneys, hairline fractures on his left cheekbones, cranial contusions, torn cartilage and swelling in his right knee, cartilage damage from a dislocation of his right shoulder (which he managed to pop back into place of his own accord), and tissue damage (tears) accompanied by intermittent bleeding in the expected location.

I am pleased to inform you that I was able to remedy all of the aforementioned ailments. I imagine he will be much more comfortable overall, and since elimination will be less painful, I anticipate his eating habits will improve. In addition, per your request, he is now cleared to play Quidditch. You didn’t mention if he’d attended any practices prior to your visit, but I imagine it would have been exceedingly painful to ride a broom in the condition he was in.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if there is anything further I can do for you.

Sincerely,

Marcus Thompson, Healer,

St. Mungo’s Trauma Division

Snape tapped his fingers restlessly on the desk and checked the clock once more. Potter had been in the antechamber for over an hour. Snape wished, not for the first time, that he was not the one to discover Potter’s secret. As selfish and self-serving as that might be, he did not care to examine the memories and feelings that the images in Potter’s mind brought to the forefront, involuntarily dredging up Snape’s own beleaguered past.

The door to the antechamber opened slowly. Potter walked in with a resigned expression on his face. Discreetly, Snape checked the clock. The boy had been locked in that room for nearly two hours.

“I’m finished, sir,” Potter said, his fists clenched tightly around the leather bound book as if in fear that Snape might take it from him.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow and studied him, assessing the honesty of that statement. When he was satisfied he nodded once. “I expect you to see you tomorrow evening promptly at 6pm,” he said, dismissing the boy.

“One more thing,” Snape breathed, and watched as Harry stopped and waited, turning around very slowly.

Snape rolled a stoppered bottle of clear, aquamarine liquid in his fingers and met Harry’s eyes. “How have you been sleeping?”

Potter’s green eyes lit with suspicion and his lips compressed. “Fine, sir.”

“I think you’re lying,” Snape said.

“What’s it to you anyway?” Potter retorted. Snape watched as Potter thought better of the remark, and then added “sir” as an afterthought.

“Unless you want to spend the rest of the term in detention with me,” Snape replied, “I suggest you sleep in the evenings like your classmates.”

Harry said nothing.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Take this,” he said, holding the vial out to the boy.

Reluctantly, Harry reached for it.

“It’s dreamless sleep potion. Take it 30 minutes before bed. There’s enough to last you two weeks.”

When Potter’s gaze met Snape’s, Snape noted that the boy’s eyes were glassy. Snape quickly dismissed the aberration as exhaustion rather than emotion.

Activities in the Gryffindor common room were still in full swing when Harry returned near 8pm. Harry felt even more exhausted than he had the night before. He waved Hermione and Ron off, claiming that he had a headache.

“No wonder, mate. Snape’s enough to give anyone a headache,” Ron commented.

Harry merely nodded, again ignoring the troubled look Hermione gave him. “See you at breakfast,” he said, turning away to climb the stairs to the dormitory.

Once again he found a spread of food awaiting him; roasted chicken and potatoes, kidney pie, and lemon cookies. The smell of them raised his appetite. He had mentioned the food to Ron the night before, but Ron claimed he’d had nothing to do with it.

“Dobby?” Harry called around a mouthful of kidney pie.

A crack heralded the arrival of Harry’s favorite house-elf.

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir. You called, sir.”

“Dobby, did you bring this food for me?”

“Yes, sir, Harry Potter. Harry Potter needs to eat more, sir.”

“Yes, thank you Dobby. It’s very good. And I really appreciate it.”

Dobby swayed with pleasure at Harry’s compliment.

“Dobby, did someone ask you to bring me this food?”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir. It was Professor Snape, sir. He says you not be eating enough. He says you need feeding up. He says I should bring you some food each night if you don’t eat your dinner, sir.”

Harry sat their completely gob smacked for a moment. “Thanks, Dobby.”

He was still at a loss when he finally finished eating. The dreamless sleep potion glittered on the nightstand beside him, and he tipped it down his throat, feeling like the world as he knew it was turning on end. As he waited for the potion to take effect, he read his Transfiguration text. The next thing he knew, Ron was shaking him awake.

“Harry, you alive over there? You’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t hurry.”

Harry stretched and signed. It was his first solid night’s sleep in well over a month.

The third night’s detention was much the same as the second’s. Only this time, Snape had assigned him to write about his feelings in that damnable book. After locking himself into the desolate antechamber, he studied the texture of the stone walls, looking for anything of interest. He found nothing, not even a bug scrabbling about or a spider building a web.

Feelings. What the hell did Snape know about feelings, and what kind of assignment was that? The only expansion Snape had made, other than once again requiring that Harry be both complete and honest in his writing lest Snape would make Harry read it aloud to him, was that if he didn’t know what to write, he should start with “I feel…”

I feel like I hate you, Snape.

That was a bad idea, he realized. What if Snape made him read that aloud? Well, it would serve him right.

You are a right git. Where do you get off making me do this? I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t even want your help. Who the hell are you to be talking about feelings? As Hermione once said of Ron, you have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. Probably even less than that.

Harry angrily dipped the quill in the ink well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

You had no right to enter my mind in the first place. I hate you, you miserable old bat. And after everything you saw in my mind, you…

What had Snape done, Harry thought, and felt his stomach turn over. Snape may have been his cruel, usual self, but Harry would have to be an idiot not to notice that Snape had not chastised him for what had happened, had not even teased or goaded or insulted him. Instead he’d forced him to visit a healer. Harry had to admit that for the first time in a month, he wasn’t in constant pain of one form or another. What these writing assignments were about, though, Harry had no idea.

Fine, okay, so in your own deranged way, I think maybe you are trying to help me. I still didn’t ask for it though.

Harry took a deep breath and studied the page before him.

You wanted me to write about what I feel about that night. Well how would you feel? Harry wrote with a spurt of anger. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and continued.

I feel… humiliated, angry, stupid. I felt like a fool for falling for Dudley’s trap. I felt sick for letting them do that to me. I felt weak for, I don’t know, not ‘taking it like a man,’ I guess.

Harry squirmed with the emotions that swamped him. He didn’t want to keep writing, but he knew he had to.

I screamed like a girl, dammit! I screamed for them to stop. Not at first. At first I screamed in rage, and I fought them for all I was worth. But they where holding me down and I couldn’t reach my wand. I felt so damn helpless. Why the hell hadn’t I practiced non-verbal spells? I tried to use them, screamed spells in my mind, but then…

Harry paused to blink back the tears.

Then I was in too much pain to think straight. Then I just begged them to stop. I couldn’t think of anything else.

Harry hunched his shoulders and hung his head in shame.

I was such a fool.

The nausea had returned. He swallowed hard and tried to think of something else, anything else. His skin prickled and burned. He swallowed again.

And now Snape knows. Of all people to find out, why him? He already hates me, and now he must think I’m weak on top of being stupid.

Just the thought of Snape actually seeing what had happened to him had him wanting to howl in embarrassment. Damn you, Snape, for prying into my mind!

The flash of rage washed through him with surprising strength, obliterating the tears.

I just want to kill them. All of them. I want to tear them to pieces with my bare hands. I want them to go through what I did, only I wouldn’t be the one to do it. Maybe I could magic it to happen to them, or at least how it *feels*. Let them know what it’s like to be held down and…

He couldn’t write the word. He couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t commit it to paper for all eternity. Some corner of his mind warned that he blamed himself for what had happened, for not seeing it coming, for not being strong enough to fight it, to get away.

He scrunched his eyes shut, willing the pain and humiliation to vanish. He wanted to bolt for the door and run as far away as he could. But where could he go? And if he didn’t finish, Snape would know, and Snape would humiliate him even further by making him read his meager words aloud.

And so he bent to the task, forced himself to finish what he’d started. Words flowed from him in halting waves, crashing against the barriers of his internal resistance.

I felt like I wanted to die.

Harry arrived for his fourth night of detention with less reservations than he had in the past. Although writing in the book wasn’t pleasant, it was not as bad as many of the tasks Snape had assigned him in detentions in years past. Snape seemed to have a cruel streak when it came to Harry, and Harry knew it. Yet these last three nights, Snape had seemed subdued. He still insulted Harry’s intelligence whenever possible, but he was less vicious overall. And he’d made no reference to the attack on Harry, which must have taken considerable restraint on Snape’s part, Harry thought.

At 6pm, he knocked on Snape’s office door, book in hand, waiting for his next writing assignment. Snape, he noticed, was dressed in black trousers and a white button-down shirt. He was not wearing robes. The casual attire struck Harry as both odd and out of place.

With a flick of his wand, Snape locked and warded his office door behind Potter. Then Snape stood and addressed him directly. “You won’t be needing your book or wand tonight, Potter. You can leave them on my desk.”

Harry stiffened, a sick feeling of fear dwelling in his gut. Leave his book on Snape’s desk? With all his inner most thoughts? And his wand? Would that give Snape access to his book? “Sir?” Harry croaked.

Snape slid his own wand out and set it atop his desk. “I will be working with you in the antechamber.” He eyed Harry narrowly. “You won’t need your wand.”

Tremulously, Harry removed his wand and set it beside Snape’s on the desk. He laid his book next to it. He felt naked without them. And worse, he felt like he was walking into a trap like the one Dudley had set for him one month ago.

Snape lead a reluctant Potter into the antechamber, which, to the uninitiated, looked entirely empty, save the wall sconces. Not wanting to be overheard, he’d cast silencing charms on the rooms before Potter had even arrived. Once they were both inside, he’d thrown the bolt by hand, effectively locking them in, their wands on the other side of the door. Even if the boy went for his wand, Snape would be able to intercept him.

Potter was watching him for direction, but Snape just leaned casually against the bolted wooden door, his arms crossed over his chest. After a couple of minutes of silence, which he observed smugly made Potter quite jumpy, Snape finally spoke.

“You know, Potter, I’ve been thinking about what I saw in your mind the other day. I think I’ve been too easy on you.”

“Too easy?” Potter whispered, his face a wash of stunned disbelief.

“You don’t think so?” Snape inquired. “How hard is it, Potter, to write in a book?”

“Erm…” Harry said, shuffling his feet in discomfort as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“You know what I think,” Snape said, studying the nails of his right hand for a moment before looking back up at Potter. “I think you deserved what happened to you.” Snape’s eyes were as cold and hard as his words.

Potter gaped at him.

Snape pushed off the wall. “I think you wanted it to happen.”

He watched Harry’s face go a crimson red and his hands ball into fists.

Snape took a step closer, menace lacing his voice, “I think you’ve been fantasizing about it.”

Snape watched as a look of utter betrayal, followed by righteous anger, swelled inside of the boy. Snape leaned in and whispered, “I think you liked it.”

The first blow hit Snape square in the jaw, hard and fast.

“I’ve always thought you preferred boys,” Snape sneered.

The next punch hit Snape in the solar plexus.

"Tell me, Potter, did you beg for more?”

At that, Potter lost it. He came after Snape with a vengeance, pummeling him for all he was worth.

“You bastard!” Potter roared.

More and more punches rained down on Snape.

“I hate you!”

A blow just below his solar plexus knocked the wind out of Snape.

“You had no right!”

Snape raised his arms to block his face, inadvertently allowing Potter free access to his mid-section. The next punch was so powerful that it knocked Snape to the floor.

Hissing from lack of breath, Snape taunted, staring up at Harry, “Is that all you’ve got, Potter? No wonder you let those boys hurt you.”

Harry roared, lashing out at Snape with all his strength. The sounds Harry made were a mixture of fury and pain, anger and misery.

“I. Didn’t. Let. Them. Hurt. Me.” Each angry word was punctuated with a kick.

Snape recoiled as he felt the blows to his stomach, his legs, anywhere the boy could reach. Yet the boy kept going, venting his anger for all he was worth.

“I didn’t,” Harry repeated in a broken voice.

Snape could tell from the strength of the kicks and the keening of the boy’s breath that he was slowing down.

“I didn’t...” Harry breathed, bending over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His face streaked with sweat and tears. “I didn’t want them to do that to me. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t my fault.”

The words had come out in a whisper, but Snape heard them nonetheless. “Don’t forget that, Potter.” Snape said, still panting himself. “Now sit down before you fall over.”

Harry sat. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face.

Snape leaned against the wall behind him and watched the boy regain his composure.

Without looking up, Harry said, still breathing hard, “You set me up.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Are you going to expel me now?” Harry said, finally looking up.

“I am sure that if I tried, Potter, the headmaster would only overrule me” Snape replied, his face a dispassionate mask.

Harry nodded once then said, “I thought Dumbledore had assigned someone to watch over me at all times while I was staying with my aunt and uncle.” Potter adjusted the laces of one of his shoes, before asking in a small voice, “Where were they? Why didn’t they stop it from... from happening?”

Snape took a deep breath before answering. “I do not know, Potter. I am guessing there was a gap in coverage. I can try and find out why, but to do so would raise questions as to why I’m so interested in that particular date and time.”

“In other words,” Harry said, “you’d have to tell Dumbledore what happened.”

“Precisely,” replied Snape.

Harry shook his head. “Don’t bother.” He got to his feet and dusted himself off. Then he reached out his hand to Snape to help him up.

The unconscious gesture made both of them freeze.

Harry made his way slowly back to the Gryffindor common room, both physically and emotionally drained. The image of himself offering his hand to his most dreaded Professor, and even more shocking, his professor eventually taking it to pull himself up, had left Harry feeling dazed and confused. The whole evening had his mind spinning.

He arrived in the common room to find Hermione sitting on the couch with Neville by the fire place. Ron was nowhere in sight. Both of them looked up to see Harry, and as if on cue, Neville departed, leaving the seat next to Hermione open.

She looked anxious and desperate to talk to him. “Harry?”

With a sign of resignation, he came to sit beside her. Leaning back on the couch, he stretched his legs and arms, before returning to a normal sitting position, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed.

“Harry,” Hermione inquired tentatively, “Are you okay?”

Harry turned his head and looked at her through his fringe of hair. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Ron says your sleeping better, and you seem to be eating again,” Hermione observed.

Harry watched her bite her lip nervously.

“The thing is,” she continued, “we’ve been worried about you.”

Harry wanted to say Don’t worry, I’m fine. But instead he said, “Thanks.”

“How did it go with Professor Snape?”

Harry laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Hermione.”

“Why?” she asked, but Harry just shook his head.

Harry stared into the fire, watching the sparks dance. Not for the first time, he wished that Sirius’s head would pop into the flames—that he could once again talk to his Godfather.

As if reading his mind, Hermione said, “Is it Sirius, Harry? I mean, I know it’s been really hard on you this summer but I was just wondering, well, if there was something else as well?” When Harry didn’t immediately answer, Hermione continued, “I mean, I know your whole life has been really hard, what with Lord Voldemort and your uncle and...”

Harry put a hand on Hermione’s knee to still her words. When he looked up at her, he was surprised to that her eyes were glassy.

“It’s just that,” she said, desperately trying to blink back the tears, “Professor Snape, he said something to me, the day he kicked you out of class…”

Harry’s attention sharpened. “What did he say?”

“He said,” Hermione wiped away an escaping tear, “He said ‘Perhaps you should be a better friend to Mr. Potter.”

Harry listened, stunned, before replying, “Hermione, you are already the best friend a person could have. I can’t imagine any better friends than you and Ron.”

“I am too old for this nonsense,” Snape grumbled as he released the protection wards and silencing charms on his office and the antechamber. With another wave of his wand, he undid the cushioning charms he’d placed on both himself and the room. By the grace of those alone, he’d suffered no more than having the wind knocked out of him a couple of times. Punches and kicks felt like displaced air, the push of a strong wind, if done correctly. It was a sign of Harry’s mental state that he hadn’t even noticed that Snape suffered no obvious damage from the assault that Snape provoked from the boy.

The fifth day of detention, Harry arrived promptly at 6pm. He was feeling distinctly uneasy, not quite sure what to expect anymore from Snape. At Snape’s prompting, he set his book bag down in Snape’s office and followed him into the antechamber. Like the day before, the desk and chair had been removed, revealing a large, cavernous room lit only by wall sconces. Harry noted that Snape had neither asked for Harry’s wand, nor locked the closed door of the antechamber.

Harry followed Snape as far as the center of the room and then waited for instruction.

Snape continued to the far end of the room before turning around to face him. “I am surprised, Potter, that Dumbledore has not made it his top priority to show you how to protect yourself.”

Harry said nothing. He would have liked to argue, but his own failings danced before him.

“If I were to find myself in your situation,” Snape continued, “I would have done this.”

Harry watched as Snape raised his hand, palm outward, to the center of his chest and pushed his hand toward Harry in a rapid, fluid motion. In the next instant, Harry felt a tremendous blow to his stomach. As the air in his lungs was forcefully expelled, he felt himself being thrown into the air and crashing hard against the wall ten feet behind him. Oddly, hitting the wall didn’t hurt. The stone floor, which he knew should be cold and damp, was pleasantly warm as well. But his insides ached desperately as he fought to breath. He lay doubled up on the floor, his arms wrapped protectively around his middle, rasping for breath.

In a haze of pain, he saw the tips of Snape’s boots approach. He would have flinched if he could have mustered the presence of mind. He saw the tip of Snape’s wand descend, along with a few murmured words he didn’t recognize. He closed his eyes tightly in anticipation of whatever horrible thing would happen next. Instead, all the pain of having the wind knocked out of him disappeared. “What the...” Harry began, noticing that his breath came easily.

“If you can do that,” Snape said, offering his hand to Harry and pulling him to his feet, “you needn’t worry about being bullied by those Muggles again.”

Harry stood on wobbly legs. “But I haven’t learned how to do non-verbal spells yet,” Harry said. “Not to mention what happens if they somehow get my wand away from me.” Harry shut his mouth, fearing he’d said to much. He waited for Snape to make some remark about careless wizards losing their wands in the face of foes.

“And what exactly do you think you are here tonight for, Potter?” Snape snapped. Without waiting for a response, he continued. “Incidentally, you can still perform this magic even if you don’t have your wand. Assuming that is, that it’s within about 25 feet of you.”

Snape began to pace and Harry waited for him to still.

“I will endeavor, Potter, to teach you this bit of magic over the next several evenings. Do try your best not to try my patience.”

Harry nodded, barely concealing a grin.

“Then let’s begin.”

Harry spent the next two hours trying his hardest to push Snape around with his mind. At one point, Snape got so frustrated that he stormed out of the room, grabbed his Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson plans, and proceeded to busy himself while Potter tried, red-faced and unsuccessful, to move the air in the room.

“You will continue to serve detention with me every night, Potter, until you get this right.”

“But what about Quidditch practice, sir?” Harry asked.

Snape sneered. “Quidditch will keep. And perhaps it will give you the motivation you need to learn this spell.”

“He’s trying to teach me the Aero Mobulus spell,” Harry said when he arrived back in the common room.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“Ooohhh, that’s a really advanced piece of magic, Harry.” Hermione said at the same time. “It’s not even in the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7.”

“But what is it?” Ron asked again.

“It’s a non-verbal spell that can only be done by really skilled wizards. It’s one of the Four Primal Element spells.” Hermione said.

“Four Primal Element spells?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Hermione breathed. “Earth, air, water, and fire. The Aero Mobulus spell is an air moving spell that can incapacitate anyone or anything in the immediate vicinity.”

“Well,” Harry said, “Snape says I can’t go back to playing Quidditch until I’ve learned it.”

“No way!” Ron protested. “Our first game against Slytherin is in three weeks!”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Harry, if Professor Snape wants you to learn that spell, he must have a really good reason.”

“Yeah,” Ron grumbled, “Like losing our match against Slytherin.”

Harry shrugged, wondering dejectedly how he could possibly master such an advanced spell before their match against Slytherin.

Harry continued meeting Snape every night at 6pm for what he’d started to think of as Potter-bashing advanced-magic lessons rather than detention. Snape never missed an opportunity to criticize Harry’s magical prowess, or lack thereof, but Harry was actually quite pleased with his progress. Every free moment he had, he worked with Hermione on the spell. He was able to push small objects and books all the way across the room though, as Hermione had warned, it was a lot harder to push an actual person.

It took Harry over a week to be able to push Snape backwards two feet. After he’d gotten the hang of it, though, it came easily, and soon he was gleefully throwing his former Potions master across the cushion-charmed antechamber.

Harry arrived one evening at Snape’s office particularly smug about his progress. Perhaps tonight Snape would release him from detentions and he could start practicing Quidditch with the rest of his team. Much to Harry’s disappointment, though, Snape appeared to be in a particularly foul mood.

“You’re late,” Snape snarled.

Harry looked at the clock. It was 6:02pm. “I’m sorry. Professor McGon…”

“No excuses, Potter, I’ve wasted enough of my time with you. And your progress in non-verbal spells is rather disappointing.”

Harry cursed inwardly. If Hermione hadn’t told Harry how advanced the Aero Mobulus spell actually was, he might have believed Snape. As it was, he knew Snape well enough by now to know that he just happened to be the most convenient target for Snape’s sour mood.

Gritting his teeth, he said, “I’ll try harder, sir.”

Harry followed Snape into the antechamber. For the first time, Snape did not cast the cushioning charm, and Harry wondered if he should remind the Professor. One look at Snape’s face, though, told Harry that wouldn’t only be foolish, it would be downright dangerous.

“Tonight, Potter, I’m going to show you one of the two other important characteristics of this spell that you must learn.”

Harry groaned inwardly. There was no way he’d learn all of this before their first Quidditch game. Sighing, he watched as Snape conjured a semicircular row of 5 wooden chairs. Harry stepped back away from the chairs as Snape stowed his wand.

Then Snape swept his hand in a wide, purposeful arc that was almost violent in its intentions. To Harry’s amazement, the five chairs flew into the air and smashed, simultaneously, into the stone wall, wood splintering, and shards flying in all directions.

“That,” Snape said, “is step one.”

Snape stepped past Harry and waved his wand to restore the chairs to their original condition and position. “I’ll be in my office, Potter. When you’ve wrapped your feeble mind around this step, I’ll show you step two.”

Harry swallowed. What was step two?

It took another four days for Harry to master the sweeping arm motion matched with the non-verbal incantation that would smash any number of chairs or other objects against the stone wall of the antechamber. Hermione would have been proud, but all Harry could think about was the fact that he still had to master step two and the match against Slytherin was now less than two weeks away.

“Take out your wand, Potter,” Snape commanded as the two of them stood, once again, in the antechamber.

Harry complied, feeling nervous. Snape seemed to enjoy showing Harry things first and explaining after, with the end result being that Harry often ended up in some kind of pain to prove Snape’s point.

“Expelliarmus!”

Snape cast the disarming spell before Harry even knew what hit him. His wand clattered to the floor at Snape’s feet. Harry stood with a mixture of apprehension and annoyance spreading over him in equal measure.

“Pathetic, Potter. How will you fight the Dark Lord if you can’t even defend yourself against a first year spell?”

Harry said nothing. He knew he’d just been bested. He bent to reach for his wand, but a guttural noise from Snape stopped him.

“We will have to work with what we have, Potter. You’ve just lost your wand.”

Snape proceeded to throw his aside. It clattered on the floor next to Potter’s.

“And now an attacker is coming at you,” Snape said in a menacingly soft voice as he stalked toward Harry.

Instinctively, Harry reacted, the Aero Mobulus spell radiating from the palm of his hand. He watched, dumbfounded, as Snape flew backwards and landed on his arse.

Snape’s look of surprise almost made Harry laugh, except that he’d realized that neither of them had cast cushioning charms and Snape had landed rather hard on the stone floor. Serves him right for having such a low opinion of my abilities,Harry thought bitterly

“Well, well, Potter...”

“I know, I know,” Harry waved a hand dismissively. “It was a feeble effort.

Snape gazed at Harry with an unreadable expression.

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said quickly, “I was just trying to save you the trouble of taking me down a notch.”

Snape averted his face but Harry could have sworn he saw the start of grin there.

Step two wasn’t nearly as hard as Harry had feared, or so he thought, until the next night.

“Focus, Potter,” Snape said, as Harry failed, for the tenth time, to move Snape more than a couple of feet.

“I’m trying,” Potter retorted.

“No, you’re not. Your problem is that you know your wand is sitting on my desk in the other room and you feel insecure about it.”

“I’m not feeing insecure!”

“Then prove it!” Snape yelled.

By the end of the week, Harry was able to successfully do the spell on any number of people or objects, even if his wand was out of sight entirely. He should have felt elated. Instead, he felt utterly drained.

“Professor?” Harry asked tentatively. “About Quidditch practice, our first match is a week away and…”

“I have not yet released you for Quidditch,” replied Professor Snape.

“But professor…"

“Out, Potter,” Snape snarled. “I’ll see you for detention tomorrow at 6pm.”

Harry stomped out of the office. Snape was going to hold Harry in detention until the first Quidditch match, at which point, it would be too late for the Gryffindor team to recover. He’d assigned Ginny to play seeker in his absence, and she was really quite good, but her replacement, a 5th year by the name of Simon Cod, ran hot and cold and did especially poorly under pressure.

Snape was silent when Harry arrived the next evening at 6pm. Harry thought about asking about Quidditch one more time, but one look at Snape’s face had him shutting his mouth. Snape would release him from detention when he was good and ready—and not a moment sooner.

“Do you have your book with you, Potter?”

Surprised, Harry nodded.

Snape opened the antechamber to reveal the desk that had been there when Harry first started coming to detentions.

In a cool, clipped voice, Snape said, “You will rewrite the account of what happened to you in Little Whinging, but this time, you will incorporate what you’ve learned to defend yourself.” Snape paused, “In other words, Potter, you will thwart the attack.”

“Okay,” Harry said, not sure he saw the point of this whole exercise. He stepped past Snape into the antechamber.

“Furthermore,” Snape added, “you will write four additional scenarios, including not only attacks by Muggles, but by Witches and Wizards, and Death Eaters, in various locations.”

The door closed firmly behind him as he sat at the desk. Harry didn’t bother to lock it.

Harry had just finished his classes for the day and went up to his room to change out of his school robes and into something more comfortable. The sun shone in through the dormitory window. A light breeze ruffled the trees. It was the perfect day for Quidditch. Sitting on the bed and lacing up his trainers, he swore under his breath, knowing he’d miss yet another night of practice. The match was in three days time, and Gryffindor didn’t stand a chance.

Sighing, he pushed off the bed, just as Neville came in.

“Message for you, Harry,” he panted, clearly out of breath.

Harry took the rolled up piece of parchment Neville extended to him.

“Who’s it from?” Harry asked as he began to unroll it.

“Dunno,” Neville replied. “A first year came in with it and I said I’d bring it to you.”

“Thanks, Neville,” Harry said, but he was already lost in the missive.

Sinking down on his bed, he began to read.

Mr. Potter,

I have reached the limits of both my capabilities and my patience for your insufferable presence. I pray that you do not earn yourself any more disciplinary actions in my class.

In other words, Potter, you are hereby released from your detentions.

I trust that your sleep habits have improved and that I will not catch you napping in my class again. If this is not the case, I advise you to see myself or Madam Pomfrey for an appropriate remedy before you incur any more detentions.

If you require any further assistance, Marcus Thompson has expressed his willingness and availability, as well as one Shawna Smith, whom I hear has a remarkable wealth of knowledge regarding certain recent events. Furthermore, I suggest you keep your book with you in case you have need of it.

Professor S. Snape

P.S. The Gryffindor match against Slytherin has been rescheduled. Slytherin will be playing Hufflepuff this Saturday.

Harry threw down the letter and grinned.