Today was not a good day.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, angry, worried, and feeling so utterly guilty he wanted to rip his own heart out, Harry shuffled into the dank Potions classroom, threw down his shoulder bag, and sat down at the table in the far back corner.

Alone.

Because Ron and Hermione were still in the hospital wing, healing, still in pain while he had been deemed perfectly healthy days ago by the school matron. At the time, it had felt like a sharp slap to the face -- that he was the one at fault and also the one who was hurt the least by it. Relatively speaking, of course.

The guilty ache he felt in his stomach for his friends -- friends who had only wanted to help him -- that certainly hurt. The gaping hole in his chest that was for his godfather, well that was agony.

He was frustrated, grieving, and feeling more lonely than he had ever felt before.

The other Gryffindors gave him a motley of sympathetic, curious, and almost frightened glances. A few gave him cautious smiles, silent reassurances. The Slytherins either sneered back at him or glared, depending on who their fathers were and whether or not he had gotten them arrested four days ago. None of it mattered, not really, he knew, but today it irked him in a way he couldn’t explain. He just wanted them all to go away.

“Silence!” Snape strode into the classroom at a clipped pace, billowing ropes flowing behind him dramatically. The call was unnecessary as every conversation had died the moment Snape threw open the door.

“Today you will be brewing a common healing balm meant particularly for bruises and burns, seeing as Madam Pomfrey’s stock is running low as of late.” Snape’s lip curled in a sneer as his dark eyes found Harry’s and held for the briefest of moments. Harry’s blood boiled beneath his skin.

“We may be nearing the end of term, but slackers will not be tolerated. The instructions are in your books, page 272. Begin.”

There was a flurry of shuffling chairs as the entire class shifted towards the supplies cabinet, clinking bottles as they gathered the necessary ingredients.

Harry let out a gusty sigh and followed, unnerved still by the absence of his friends while he stood in line, arms crossed, head down.

Back at his own (empty) table, Harry fell onto his stool and began silently reading the text, brow furrowed in concentration. There was no Hermione there to help him, after all. It looked simple enough, but they had done healing solutions before and Harry knew from experience that they were always more difficult than they appeared. It required a lot of concentration, precise measurements, and a good deal of time. Harry reached over and began the slow process of chopping the first ingredient, exactly 1 centimeter between each cut as instructed.

The hour passed by slowly, painfully. Towards the end of it, Snape paused during his rounds to sneer down at Harry’s cauldron and the gurgling, sludgy substance within.

“Tell me, Potter, what exactly are you brewing here?”

Harry glanced up from his cauldron, putting forth a supreme effort to keep his face impassive and blank.

“A Healing Balm for bruises, sir.” he said quietly, voice quivering with his silent fuming as he fought for control over his roiling emotions.

Snape’s eyes glittered maliciously as he stared down his hooked nose at the boy, vicious amusement written plainly across his face. “Are you sure about that, Potter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you should look again?”

Harry’s eyes shot down to his potion and an electric shock ran up his spine. It had turned a sickly brown and had congealed at the bottom of the cauldron, a bubble bursting occasionally on the surface. So that’s what happens when you stop stirring… Harry mused absentmindedly.

But, wait, that wasn’t right… he’d completed the counterclockwise turns and was in the process of letting it simmer for the appropriated five minutes. This shouldn’t have happened.

Then Harry caught a glimpse of something creamy white poking out from his ruined potion: a rat’s bone had been tossed into his cauldron. But who…?

Malfoy was watching him, snickering as he whispered in Goyle’s ear. The fat lump’s pudgy face split into a grin and he guffawed stupidly along with the other Slytherins. Harry’s face flushed in anger.

“Another zero then, Mr. Potter.” said Snape already moving towards the next student’s cauldron after vanishing Harry’s potion with a flick of his wand.

Harry’s hands fisted at his sides and he felt sorely tempted to pick up his book and chuck at the back of the man’s head. A single word passed his lips.

“No.”

Snape paused, then turned back, eyes narrowed to slits. “No?” he hissed, “I do not believe that this particular decision is open for debate, Potter, nor has it ever been for any student in my classroom.” Snape swept back towards him until he stood looming over the boy. “No exceptions, not even for the Chosen One.”

Harry felt the heat rising in his face, but he refused to back down on this.

“You saw them throw something in my cauldron. You knew.”

“I saw nothing of the sort. It‘s on your own head if you can‘t protect the things you care about.” The Slytherins cackled gleefully at this; they all knew why Ron, Hermione, and Neville weren’t in class. Harry’s fingernails were digging crescent shaped cuts in the palms of his hands, and he breathed heavily through his nose in an effort to calm himself.

It didn’t work.

Harry’s hand darted into the folds of his robes, his wand drawn faster than the eye could blink and pointing straight at Snape’s face.

The man didn’t even flinch.

“Put that away, Potter, before you hurt yourself.” he said derisively.

Harry didn’t move. Snape’s ghastly mockery of a grin widened.

“Impulsive, brash, insubordinate… Following right in that dog’s footsteps, aren’t you, boy?”

“Just shut up!” Harry shouted. He’d had more than enough of this.

“Eloquent as well,”

Harry glared, considering which curse would be best suited for the occasion.

“Go right ahead, Potter. I’d be glad for such an excellent chance to expel Dumbledore’s golden boy. Not so golden anymore, are you?”

He heard the Slytherins muttering amongst themselves, sniggering and some even outright laughing at him, while the Gryffindors remained silent, riveted as they were by the rare altercation.

Professor Snape was as smug as Harry had ever seen him, and he lowered his eyes to the grimy floor, wand hanging loosely at his side, barely holding onto the thin stick of wood with numb fingers.

“You’re just like him, Potter, all talk. Nothing but an arrogant figurehead, just as cowardly as your father when it comes down to it.”

Harry growled deep in his throat as his eyes snapped up, blazing. “My father wasn’t a coward!”

“Really boy, you think so? Think he was a good man, the embodiment of courage and greatness, the epitome of valor? Do you?”

A horrible crack split the air followed by a grunt of pain.

The next thing Harry knew, Snape was leaning against one of the work tables clutching his crooked, bleeding nose, and his own hand was suddenly aching fit to burst, his knuckles split open and smeared with blood -- whether it was his or Snape‘s, he had no idea. The room was completely silent.

“Why you little --” Snape growled in a deadly quiet tone. But Harry was having none of it, not anymore.

“I’ve had enough. Whatever problem you had with my dad is over now, he’s dead, and it‘s rather pathetic of you to try and keep it going, don‘t you think?” Harry tucked his wand back in his pocket and gathered his things, his strange calm unsettling. “You’ve been a right bastard from the beginning of classes, and to be honest, you’re completely wretched at teaching.”

Harry swung his bag over his shoulder and turned towards the exit.

“Get back here, Potter!”

The door slammed shut behind him and the sound reverberated off the dungeon walls satisfyingly, triumphantly. When the last echoes had died away, Harry was already on his way up the steps leading towards the entrance hall, the light and warmth already raising his spirits, if only just a little.

Finally, some peace and quiet.