A month flew by swiftly with nothing much to speak of taking place. Ron was still in a tiff and refusing to speak with Harry no matter what, not that Harry wanted to speak with the self-righteous prat. Hermione tried playing peacemaker several times, but since in the end she always sided with Ron more than Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't too keen on her at the moment either. He still wasn't sure just what their problem was (yes, he'd blown them off a bit on Christmas, but he'd had a legitimate reason), but if they wanted to act like that, let them. It's not like he really cared.

There were no more attacks on students during that time, and the Mandrake plants were almost ready to be used. Harry was glad for that, simply because every time he thought of seeing Colin Creevey's Petrified form that night in the Hospital Wing, his stomach rolled. Also, if they woke up, maybe Colin and Justin could tell everyone it hadn't been Harry who attacked them. All this time, and people still hadn't stopped their glares and whispers. In fact, now that he was alone more often than not, it seemed like it had only gotten worse; or maybe he just noticed it more without anyone to distract him.

Whatever, people were stupid and prone to hysteria. Their suspicious looks and hateful words didn't bother him anymore. Not only was he proud to be a Parselmouth (why not? Snakes seemed to be better conversationalists than most of the students at Hogwarts.), but he had someone who would always stand by him, no matter what. He didn't need anything more.

Waking later than usual one morning in mid-February, he was in no particular hurry to get down to breakfast; his appetite had been a rather fleeting thing lately. When Harry finally did make it to the Great Hall after carefully doing his hair (Profess— Roger liked it better when it looked as though he'd just rolled out of bed. And unlike his previous attempts at making it lie flat, manipulating his locks into a spiky mess was something he could do with ease.) about half the time allotted for the meal was already gone. Stifling a yawn as he opened the doors, paying no attention to the first years that rushed past, he lowered his hand and opened his eyes; only to immediately worry he had just done permanent damage to his retinas. Pink. Pink bloody everywhere. The walls, the tables, confetti falling from the blasted ceiling. What in the hell had Dumbledore gotten it into his crazy old mind to do now? He knew the Headmaster was eccentric, but really...

One glance at the Head Table and the most horrid pair of fuchsia robes he'd ever seen, and immediately everything became perfectly clear. "Oh." That idiot. Again. At least the boy was gratified to see the other teachers, even Pro— Roger, dammit, looked as though someone had spit in their food. All except Dumbledore, of course. The Headmaster just continued to smile pleasantly, eyes twinkling away like a pair of Christmas lights. He wasn't exactly sure why, but the more Harry saw that look, that look like everything in the world was just so bloody peachy, the angrier he got. There had been times lately where he had to restrain himself from physically punching the look off the old man's face; that wasn't like him. He'd never been violent before, he didn't know why he was feeling that way so often now.

Nibbling on a few pieces of bacon (who could really stomach more than that after listening to Lockhart's Valentine speech?), Harry dragged himself through the day, sometimes amused, sometimes annoyed by the little dwarfs constantly bursting in and out of classrooms to deliver valentines. After all, it was hilarious when they did it to Snape who looked livid or Binns who was oblivious; it wasn't nearly so funny when they did it to Sprout who looked dejected or Lockhart who was just plain annoying about it. It wasn't until one approached Harry, though, that he started feeling positively mortified; he hadn't been expecting to be singled out for once, not for that.

*"Oy, you! 'Arry Potter!" shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry.

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line of first years, which happened to include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape. The dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by kicking people's shins, and reached him before he'd gone two paces.*

"I've got a message to deliver to 'Arry Potter in person."

Harry briefly contemplated lying about his name and trying to make a run for it (as small as he was, his legs were still longer than the dwarf's), when a thought made him pause. A valentine... What if it was from Pr— Roger. He knew they were supposed to be careful, avoid drawing any attention to their relationship, but the man could have sent it anonymously. In fact, it must be from him, right? Who else would send him one, especially now that he was a psychopath bent on the destruction of all Muggleborns? No one, that's who.

Standing up a bit straighter and trying to will away the blush that threatened to spread (there was nothing wrong with receiving a valentine; it was very adult in fact), he looked down at the dwarf patiently, waiting, simultaneously causing a bit of a holdup in the narrow corridor from all the onlookers who had stopped to watch in interest.

*"What's going on here?" came the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy.*

Harry pointedly ignored him, and Percy as well when he started to go all 'prefect' on everybody. He was getting his valentine.

"'Ere we are then," the dwarf said with a twang of his harp. "Your singing valentine."

Harry had only a moment to blink and begin to panic. Singing? Roger would never send him a singing—

*"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."*

For a moment all Harry could do was stare, stunned. Oh, that most definitely was not from Roger.

The sound of hysterical laughter assaulted his ears, making them burn with embarrassment. Bugger, he should have made a run for it after all. Now everyone was staring at him, laughing at him, and for a moment he instinctively glanced over his shoulder to seek out his friends; only to find himself very much alone. With Ron and Hermione gone there was no one there to have his back. It was just like primary all over...

He took a deep breath.

No. No, it wasn't like primary, not at all. They weren't really laughing at him, his ragged clothing, his broken glasses, not this time, they were falling over with mirth from that ridiculous valentine. In fact... maybe...

Squaring his shoulders and plastering a huge grin on his face, he chuckled down at the sour-looking dwarf. Summoning all his courage and pretending he was one of the Weasley twins (because really, he had never seen them embarrassed since he met them, even when they should be) he said in good humor, "Catchy. Think I could hear it again?"

Another wave of laughter followed his statement, making him feel light as a cloud. Even stuck-up Percy cracked a wry smile before trying to herd everyone on their way. Sucking in a breath, nerves evaporating into thin air, Harry's smile turned more real. It had worked. Laughing at himself in that sort of situation really had turned it totally in his favor. He wondered if in primary... but no, Dudley still would have beat the snot out of anyone who talked to him back then. Regardless, it had worked now. Everyone was smiling at him, no one looked angry or afraid or hateful with the exception of a glaring Malfoy, even Ron looked like he wanted to grin. Everything was okay.

Giving the dwarf a friendly nod of thanks and taking a grand total of three steps towards Flitwick's class, he stopped cold when he heard the loud scathing yell, "Looks like he didn't think too much of your valentine!"

Whipping around, it was easy to spot the furious Malfoy staring straight at a horrified Ginny Weasley. Furious because the blond was angry Harry had just managed to garner so much positive attention. Horrified because... well, it was obvious wasn't it? The redhead first year had just been utterly humiliated in front of a hallway still very full of people. People who were all turning to stare at her as her face slowly began to match the color of her hair. People who were starting to snicker nastily, some of whom were even starting to point while Malfoy stood there looking superior and smug with his perfect hair and expensive robes. Sneering down his nose at a little first year while tears began to form in the embarrassed girl's eyes. Laughing like the disgusting bully he really was.

Harry lost it.

Dropping his bag to the floor, not caring when half the contents began to spill out, the tiny boy flung himself at the unsuspecting blond, a vicious satisfaction flowing through him like liquid adrenaline when his knuckles impacted soundly with the side of his pointed, pale face. Feeling like everything was going in slow motion, he watched as the blond positively flew through the air to land hard on the ground with an audible, "Oof!" Barely pausing, Harry jumped on his prey, little fists beating down with inexperience on any part of the slimy prat he could reach. He wanted to hurt him! He wanted to beat the arrogance straight out of him! The lousy, vane, selfish, narcissistic, pig-headed, high-bred, haughty, conceited, smug, self-assured little TWIT!

"Harry, stop!"

Hermione's call sounded as though it came from a million miles away through glass, all of his focus and energy on pounding the shit out of Draco Malfoy once and for all. He fought like a man possessed when big hands grabbed him forcefully from behind, yanking him off of and away from his target, trying to keep him subdued. He would get Malfoy; not just for Ginny, but for everything the little sod had ever done to him. He would pay!

"Sweet Merlin, Potter!" a deep voice hissed roughly in his ear. "Give it a rest! He's already down!"

Harry refused to listen until he finally ran out of steam, the arms pinning him tightly against a hard chest much stronger than he could hope to be. Panting, taking in huge gulps of air to try and fill his suddenly starved lungs, the world came slowly back into focus, his surroundings becoming clearer, full awareness creeping back in. He took notice to the people all staring at him in open, blatant horror; the way the three professors currently present, Flitwick, Snape, and one of the teachers for the older students, Professor B-something, were all staring in absolute shock, too surprised to move; the way Malfoy laid on the ground, not too badly beaten but certainly looking worse for wear, coughing and groaning softly, spitting up little bits of blood. Oh... Fuck.

As though waking from a trance, Snape snapped into action, striding over to Malfoy in quick, jerky steps, barking at the students to get to class. Now.

No one dared disobey. With an eerie silence they drifted off, looking to the disjointed Harry like dandelion seeds blowing on the wind; there one moment and the next, gone, floating away out of reach... What on earth was wrong with him, thinking strange things like this? Now was not the time to be thinking up odd analogies. He had to... okay, he didn't know what he had to do really, but he had to do something. Apologize or hit Malfoy again or run and hide. Something.

Snape knelt by the fallen blond and scanned him briefly with both eyes and wand. Harry could have sworn a look of relief crossed the angry man's face, but if it had, it was gone within the blink of an eye. He watched numbly as Snape got his hands under Malfoy's armpits and hauled the boy into a standing position, supporting him for a moment as he swayed. The man drawled a slightly sarcastic, "I believe you'll live, Mr. Malfoy," before silence engulfed the small group once more. Heavy, thick silence, the kind that suffocated, that choked. Was Harry choking?

Still needing to do something though still not knowing what to do, Harry wriggled gently against his captor's grip, trying to get to his bag, his spilled things. The gruff voice by his ear huffed a quiet, "Relax, Potter," but Harry knew he couldn't. He'd made a mess, after all, he needed to clean it up. Filch would be furious if Harry left more work for him, especially after he'd tried to kill his cat. Definitely a situation to avoid. What if Filch got him expelled this time?

Making a small noise of distress when he couldn't reach his bloody books, Harry was surprised to feel the arms around him loosen their hold, though a thick hand did descend heavily on his shoulder. Keeping a hold on him unless he attacked someone else, no doubt; but he wouldn't do that. No, he'd never attack anyone like that other than Malfoy. And maybe Snape. Yeah, probably Snape. As long as he was being a git that day, that is, and, of course, the bat was a git most days so—

"Miss Weasley. If you would be so kind as to return to your class as well. I assure you, everything here is being dealt with accordingly."

Harry flinched at the sound of that oily voice, as though the man was able to read the thoughts he'd just been having. Looking up stupidly, Charms book in one hand, Riddle's diary in the other, he saw Ginny still standing in the same spot against the wall. Staring at him with wide, brown eyes. Pale. Terrified.

Oh. He must have scared her. He hadn't meant to do that.

"Miss Weasley," Snape repeated, though Harry noted vaguely that his voice wasn't nearly as biting as it usually was. It was a bit... softer maybe? More patient? Maybe Snape wasn't being such a git today after all.

Ginny scurried to comply, shooting one last frightened glance back at where Harry knelt before slipping into her classroom. Harry thought maybe he should have tried smiling at her, make her feel a bit better, but it was really hard to move his face that way. Hard to move at all, as a matter of fact. Felt a bit dizzy, really.

"Potter, sit down," that voice behind him ordered, the hand giving his small shoulder a squeeze. Not a painful one, though, like when Uncle Vernon grabbed him. Interesting. Why would someone squeeze his shoulder if they didn't want to hurt him? "Sit, Potter."

Oh, sit, right. Well, his books were all back in his bag, Filch would be immensely pleased, so perhaps taking a seat wasn't such a bad idea.

He let himself fall gracelessly back on his ass, blinking up at the owner of the voice like a confused puppy who wasn't sure he'd gotten the command just right. It was Marcus Flint. Well, that was interesting. Why did Flint want him to sit? For that matter, why was Flint giving him that look, that look that Slytherins seemed to like to give him, like he was an especially complicated puzzle, the same one Snape gave him a lot recently; in fact, the same one Snape was giving him now. Why weren't Snape and Flint angry or something? They were both normally very protective of the younger Slytherins, and he'd just attacked Malfoy, who was, actually, a younger Slytherin. Shouldn't Snape be sneering or yelling or deducting points? Shouldn't Flint be hitting him the way he'd hit Malfoy?

"Mr. Flint," Snape said, never taking his eyes off Harry. "If you would please escort Mr. Malfoy to the Hospital Wing. I'll be up to join you shortly."

Oh, so that was it. Snape didn't want any witnesses. Well, Harry couldn't really blame him for that, it was actually very clever of him. Even if the other two people in the hall were Slytherins, that was no guarantee they wouldn't turn on him at some point. Yes, very smart indeed.

"Potter."

Hm? Harry looked up at the dark man towering above him, wondering why the image was swimming just a little bit. Like there were one and a half Snapes. Just one was plenty, thank you very much.

He watched in bemusement as Snape dropped lightly to one knee, long-fingered hands reaching for his neck. He had a feeling he should jerk away from the man who was about to strangle him, but really, the effort seemed a bit much right then. Might as well let the man get on with it. He didn't know what to think when those hands loosened his tie and popped the top two buttons of his shirt open. That was a little weird.

"Potter, look at me."

Wasn't he already? Oh, whoops, no he wasn't. Well, that had been awfully rude of him.

"Potter, take deep breaths."

Huh. That was an odd request.

"Deep, slow breaths, Potter."

Well, if that was what the man really wanted.

"That's better. Continue just like that."

Yes, he could see why the bat had wanted that now. His breathing had been pretty shallow there.

"Keep going, Potter. Deep and slow."

Harry's tongue darted out to lick his horribly dry lips as he complied, the world in front of him continuing to spin just slightly. He didn't like it. It wasn't quite nauseating but... "Professor... I feel dizzy." Was he shaking? It felt like his whole body was shaking.

"I'm sure you do, Potter. Just keep breathing."

Oh yes, he was most definitely shaking. Badly. Why was he shaking? "Professor—"

"You're all right, Potter."

How had the man known that was what he was going to ask? Furthermore, how could he sound so sure of that? Harry certainly didn't feel all right, far from it. Weak and sick and a little bit tired, yes, but most definitely not all right. A feeling that was continuously increasing rather than getting better.

"No, Potter, keep breathing," Snape ordered sharply. "You're just coming out of it, that's all."

Coming out of what?

Harry started violently when a figure swept down on him from seemingly nowhere, and when he recognized said figure as the school mediwitch, he wasn't really sure whether or not to be relieved. What was she doing there anyway? Shouldn't she be taking care of Malfoy?

"Poppy," Snape greeted stiffly, though something about his voice was still off. Too... nice almost. Well, not nice, far from it, but just not mean enough.

"Severus," the woman answered back, waving her wand to cast diagnostics over the small, still wheezing boy. With a nod, to herself most likely, she reached into a pocket and withdrew a vial, holding it up to the child's lips. "Here you are, Mr. Potter. If you'd drink this please."

Harry's clouded mind slowly registered the command, and after one last deep breath, he did as told. The odd combination of mint and soot hit his tongue, making him think he'd taken this potion once before; not that he had any real memory of what it was.

"Really, Severus, I'm surprised you of all people don't carry a Calming Drought on you at all times," the witch was saying lightly as her wand continued to run diagnostics.

Ah, Harry thought dimly, a Calming Drought... What for?

"An error I shall have to remedy at once it would seem," Snape replied dryly. His dark eyes were still on Harry, never looking away. The boy couldn't figure out for the life of him what the man was looking for.

A classroom door down the hall a little ways popped open, Professor Flitwick's tiny head poking around to look out. "Severus?" he squeaked after surveying the trio, eyes oddly wide and eyebrows raised high.

"Everything's fine, Filius," the Potions Master assured, and by now his voice was actually starting to sound a little tired. Harry looked from him to Flitwick then to Pomfrey and back, still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. This wasn't... He had just attacked another student in the corridor. Why wasn't anyone angry and yelling? Why was the school nurse with him rather than the boy he'd beaten up? Most of all, why was he still trembling lightly when he'd had no reason to be shaking in the first place? What the hell was going on?

The boy eeped in surprise when his Potions professor bent down and grabbed him beneath the arms, hoisting him to his feet in the same manner he had Malfoy earlier. He tried not to flinch when one of those hands stayed lightly curled around his bicep, though he unintentionally stiffened, waiting for it to hurt. Why was Snape acting so weird?

"Mr. Potter, if you'd be so kind as to follow us to the Hospital Wing," Madame Pomfrey said briskly as she began walking in that very direction.

Harry could only stare after her, stunned for a moment before that hand gave his arm a small tug and he forced his feet to move, though they felt heavy and bulky. Why was he going to the Hospital Wing? He knew he'd be in trouble for what happened earlier, but didn't that mean he should be taken to McGonagall or something? Did they want him to apologize directly to Malfoy first? Because he wouldn't. He couldn't and wouldn't apologize to Malfoy when he wasn't sorry in the least. The bastard had had that coming for ages now, and he'd finally gotten what he deserved. Harry might be sorry he was in trouble, maybe even felt a little sorry for causing a scene in the hallway, but he was not sorry he'd kicked Malfoy's ass. Plain and simple.

Walking into the familiar room with its sterile smells and stark white walls, he saw Malfoy was indeed there, sitting on one of the beds, still looking rather busted up and glaring death at him with Flint standing stony-faced by his side like an overgrown guard dog. Harry stared back unmoved and unblinking. There were plenty of things that could intimidate him, sure; a pissy Malfoy was not one of them.

"I'll be with you in just a moment, Mr. Malfoy," the mediwitch said offhandedly as she bustled about, gathering a few things together. "Mr. Potter, if you'd get into this bed here please."

Harry blinked, not moving to obey, mind clearing rapidly by the second it felt; which only made him that much more confused. What was going on? Getting into a bed at all didn't make any sense, but he definitely couldn't understand why Madame Pomfrey was fussing over him before she even bothered to heal Malfoy's rapidly swelling eye. Harry wasn't hurt, he wasn't sick; but Pomfrey was treating him like he was. Even Snape had been oddly gentle with him, like he was breakable, made of glass, and needed to be handled delicately. Was he missing something, or had all the adults decided to go and hit their heads at the same time?

"Potter, do as Madame Pomfrey says," Snape snapped, but again something was off. The usual malice in the Potions Master's voice (at least when he spoke to or of Harry) was suspiciously absent. Harry didn't like it when something so axiomatic suddenly changed for no apparent reason. He'd attacked a Slytherin. Snape should have more reason to hate him now than ever!

Sighing when Harry continued to stare with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, Snape again said, "Do as she says, Potter," but the weariness that had invaded those silky tones earlier was beginning to creep back.

Never taking his eyes off the older man, distrust and doubt painted blatantly across his face, the boy clambered up to sit on the bed, fumbling to untie his shoes when the mediwitch briskly ordered it. What was going on?

"There we are," Madame Pomfrey said in satisfaction, practically shoving the small child under the covers; tucking him in like a little kid. "You have a rest, Mr. Potter. I'll make sure you're up and about in time for dinner."

Harry stared owlishly, wrapped up like a pig in a blanket, as his glasses were plucked from his face and set safely down on the bedside table. Sleep? She wanted him to sleep?

"Er, Madame Pomfrey, I—"

"Good night, Mr. Potter."

The last thing Harry saw before the curtains around his bed were pulled shut was the very blurry, very dark figure of Snape, still standing there, still scowling; still staring.