Boy. That was the most common one by far, boy, but there were always others. Whelp. Burden. Brat. Freak. The list was longer, to be sure, but sometimes it was difficult to remember them all; and that was just the nouns, the adjectives had a whole nother, longer list of their own (because yes, he did know the difference between the two parts of speech). These were the names one Harry James Potter had grown up with, had listened to, heard himself called day in and day out for the past eleven years. No, strike that, ten years. Because his first year of life had been with his parents, hadn't it? And surely... surely they hadn't called him such names... had they?

No, surely not. Most parents didn't say such things. His were likely no exception.

Regardless, that didn't change the fact that his parents were no longer around. Gone... Dead. The only family he had left were the Dursleys, and they did call him such names, often, every day. When he was younger he could remember being confused, unsure which one was his real name, eventually deciding on 'boy' since that was the one used most. It made sense. Then Uncle had gotten angry when he had introduced himself as such to a nice old lady on the street. Apparently, boy was not his name, neither were any of the others. He was Harry, Harry Potter, and when outside of the house that was always to be his name. It was only inside Number 4 Privet Drive where this name was not good enough. Where the other names came out. He began to understand more as he grew older, began to truly realize the insults for what they were, rather than simply gather their meaning from the menacing tone in which they were said. And when he was old enough to fully understand, he couldn't lie and say he was surprised. A kind word was the one thing he never received from the Dursleys.

Well really, there were quite a number of things he never received from the Dursleys. A room of his own, for one (because as he grew older, he refused to consider his cupboard a proper bedroom). Toys, books, games, all the number of lovely things they'd bought for Dudley were never meant for him. Clothes purchased with him specifically in mind were never seen, forcing him into Dudley's oversized castoffs. A real meal... that was one he craved without doubt. To be able to sit down at the table with the rest of the family, to eat his fill the way Dudley always did, to not have this gnawing, aching feeling attack his belly several times a week if not more because he'd been 'bad', and bad boys didn't need to eat...

Harry supposed there were many things he wanted, though he knew he would never receive them. There had been many times during his youth where he had tried. Tried to be good, to follow his uncle's orders, to do exactly as his aunt told him, to not do anything freakish. Tried to gain their attention, their affection, even a fraction of what they always gave to Dudley. Except he was never successful. Because the Dursleys wanted Dudley. The Dursleys loved Dudley. Harry wasn't even worthy of a proper name to them.

Sometimes thinking on it too much still managed to make him sad. That was why he shoved such things from his mind and instead let it wander freely. It really could take him to such amazing places, places where he never felt sad or lonely again. Places where his parents were still alive, where he had a real family, where he never again had to set foot in the Dursleys' home. Places where someone wanted and loved him, though that was really pushing it; so maybe instead, just somewhere where he was given a few kind words. Yes. That would be nice. He wished for it so badly, even if he knew wishes never came true. For a place where his name really was 'Harry'.

Then on the day of his eleventh birthday, a giant man blew down the door of the rickety shack his uncle had dragged them to in a fit of madness. And everything began to change.

-Twisted-

Well, look on the bright side. At least no one had died.

Of course, Harry was forced admit that it was rather difficult to look on the bright side anytime you were forced within ten feet of the man known as Severus Snape, let alone when you were standing in said man's office, filled to breaking with any number of odd, disgusting things floating lifelessly in different sized jars. It was especially difficult when said man was standing with palms flat on his desk, leaning over the furniture menacingly, smiling at you where you sat. Because Professor Severus Snape did not have a pleasant smile.

And he only smiled at the students when they were in some serious trouble. Say, for instance, when they stole a flying car from their father and best friend's father respectively, then used aforementioned, somewhat illegal piece of enchanted machinery to fly to school, consequently being spotted by several Muggles along the way; and that was only before crashing into an apparently valuable, violent tree located on school grounds. Harry had known they were in trouble the minute the Potions professor had swooped up behind them like an overgrown bat.

“Well, Potter?” the man sneered, black eyes boring into the small boy before them. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Harry decided it was best in this situation to just keep silent. He and Ron had already tried to explain about the barrier, not that Snape had much cared. That and... well, maybe it had been a bit of a stupid thing to do... possibly... no need to dwell on that. Then Snape swept out of the office in that way he always did and returned with an extremely irate McGonagall, leaving the savior of the wizarding world wondering if he wouldn't rather take his chances with the Head of Slytherin house instead. At least an angry Snape he was used to, had learned how to deal with. An angry McGonagall had the ability to make his stomach twist in knots, almost like he would be sick all over the floor. Especially when she was so blatantly disappointed in him and brought up a very valid point.

“Why didn’t you wait for the Weasleys to return and send us a letter about the situation?” She gave Harry in particular a pointed look. “Don't you have an owl, Mr. Potter?”

Okay, so it had indeed been a very stupid thing to do. “We weren't really thinking, Professor—”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, that much is becoming increasingly obvious.”

By this time both Harry and Ron were sure this would be the last they would ever see of the castle that for at least one of them had over the last year become the definition of home. A small shiver ran down the raven-haired boy's spine at the thought of showing up on the Dursleys' doorstep expelled from school, especially after what had happened the last time he'd seen them. He had to swallow convulsively several times or he really would lose his lunch. Maybe he could go and live with the Weasleys instead. He had enough gold to pay them for a room at the Burrow until he could find a job of some sort. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

He had just set his mind to the task of trying to figure out what sort of occupation a twelve year old could possibly get in the wizarding world when Dumbledore entered; and while, like the other professors the Headmaster was most definitely not happy with recent events, he also had no intention of expelling them. Harry felt like a huge weight lifted off his chest as he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. “Thank you, sir.”

Snape, on the other hand, was hardly pleased. He listed the reasons Ron and Harry should be expelled, making Harry feel even dumber by the second when they were all genuinely valid. Though he nearly had to laugh at the way the Headmaster just brushed the Potions professor off. It was rather apparent Dumbledore wouldn't be sending Harry anywhere anytime soon.

Still hesitant to believe his good fortune, Harry nearly took a step back at the look of pure loathing Snape shot his way, his sallow face twisted in an expression of malice, making his appearance even uglier than usual. Even if he had grown accustomed to it, it still sometimes took Harry by surprise just how much his teacher truly hated him. He sighed lightly once the man was gone, trying not to be too bothered by the disappointed, thin-lipped look McGonagall was still aiming towards him.

Just another wonderful start to a new school year at Hogwarts for the Boy-Who-Lived. Why couldn't anything ever be normal?

-Deformed-

Children, despite what most people were inclined to think, were not the bane of Severus Snape's existence. In fact, if you ever truly got to know Snape, something very few ever did, you'd be surprised to discover he actually somewhat liked children at times. He hated teaching them, oh yes, but he rarely hated them themselves. Even the Gryffindors.

Snape was, laughable as it sounded, particularly fond of the first and second years. Again, trying to keep them from blowing themselves and each other to pieces in class was a downright nightmare, but when they were out of class, when he would have the occasional conversation with his snakes or he would somehow get into a discussion about potions theory with an exceptionally curious Ravenclaw, he really did like them. There was something about them at that age, still young enough to undoubtedly be called children but old enough, for the most part, to look after themselves so he didn't always feel as though he were babysitting.

Then they would go away for the summer after second year and come back as –shudder– third years. Third and fourth years were undoubtedly the hardest students in the school to handle simply because most of their actions didn't even logically make sense. They would be calm, mature little things one moment, and the next they were doing something absolutely ridiculous like –he got a glimpse of the Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table– like throwing your arms around your identical brother and pretending to snog him into oblivion simply because it made all the older girls sitting around you watch and giggle at the display.

Yes, third and fourth years really grated on his patience at times. Yet, he was surprisingly patient with them, more than you might think he would be, simply because he could still remember all too clearly what it was like to be that age and have your hormones start pulling you in about ten thousand different directions at once. How your arms and legs suddenly grew faster than the rest of your body so you were constantly tripping over your own feet like a bumbling idiot while there always seemed to be those token few (Potter and Black) who never looked uncomfortable or out of sorts in their own skin. How the girl you'd been best friends with for years, had thought of as a sister of sorts, suddenly looked entirely different almost overnight and the feelings you had most definitely were not of the familial type...

He shook himself as soon as he became in danger of slipping too far into the past. Dwelling on old feelings and pondering over what could have been if you hadn't been a teenage fool was never a good idea. Not without copious amounts of firewhiskey on hand at least.

Raising an eyebrow as the eldest Weasley currently attending school stormed over, chest puffed out pompously, to get his brothers back under control, Severus decided he'd had more than enough of Gryffindor watching for the day. His dark eyes swerved back towards more familiar territory, perusing his new batch of Slytherins once more. He'd seen the sorting, of course, but hadn't gotten the chance to properly examine his new snakes, being too busy detaining a certain pair of miscreants...

Watching the first years' interactions carefully, a small crease appeared between his brows when he noticed one girl was exceptionally quiet while the others talked around her and one boy was dressed in a particularly ragged pair of second-hand robes (a rarity these days in the now mostly pureblood Slytherin). He'd have to keep an especially careful eye on both of them, seeing as how they'd stick out like sore thumbs to an experienced bully bent on making someone's life miserable. Much the same way he had.

What was even more distressing, though, was that only slightly further down the table, second year Theodore Nott picked listlessly at his food, not eating nor talking with his yearmates, despite Blaise Zabini's best attempts to draw him into conversation. Seeing as how it was only the first evening back and the boy couldn't possibly be homesick yet (not that Nott had ever gotten homesick before), it was far more likely he'd gotten into yet another row with his father before boarding the train. Something that, after many long, painstaking meetings with the quiet, dark boy the previous year, Severus had learned was a rather common occurrence. He would give the boy a day or two to sort himself out, but if he didn't appear to be improving, he'd speak with him. It would hardly do to let the boy starve himself over his father's hurtful words; someone like Theo, a well-behaved, polite, studious young man, didn't deserve that. Why had fate tossed a boy like Theo into the Nott family and not the more deserving Potter boy instead?

Immediately after thinking it, Snape felt the smallest twinge of remorse in his gut. He didn't truly wish ill of any child, not even the Potter brat, but...

Remembering the events of only a few minutes earlier, he felt his appetite leave him completely. Potter. Harry sodding Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Make-his-Life-Miserable. His breath left him in a huff. He'd been so sure he had the little brat this time. The boy had stolen and flown a bloody car to school for goodness sake, he'd been seen by Muggles! But did he get in trouble for his reckless, juvenile, downright dangerous actions? No, of course not; the Gryffindor Golden Boy didn't get punished for anything. Rules meant nothing to the wizarding world's precious little prince. No wonder the little blighter was such a menace; if you continually let a child get away with everything, how were they ever supposed to learn? They were children, they were stupid, and they needed consequences!

Dark eyes narrowed to slits and a rather sadistic smirk crossed the Potions Master's face. Fine. Everyone else wanted to wait hand and foot on Potter, let them. He'd just have to do his... sacred duty as a teacher and put Potter in his place himself. It was his job to educate and guide his students after all, was it not? He very nearly chuckled aloud. This year. This year he would make sure—

“Ah, Severus, have you tried the custard tart?”

Why did Albus always insist on interrupting his plotting? “I'm sure you're aware by now, Headmaster, that I detest such sweets.”

“Well, you could always change your mind.” Blue eyes sparkled mischievously as he himself took a large bite of the dessert. “I've been meaning to ask; you did finish your lesson plans for this term incorporating the new curriculum the Board of Governors insisted on?”

A wry face was made at the reminder of such information. Like those idiots on the Board knew better than he did about the proper way to teach a Potions class. “Of course.”

“Good, good! How do you think lessons will fair?”

Snape sneered. “I'm quite sure the level of incompetence I'm usually presented with hasn't deteriorated unfortunately.”

“Now, Severus, you know the students try their best.”

If he had been anyone else, Snape would have rolled his eyes at that one. The day his students actually tried their best in class was the day he willingly wore red and gold. “As I've already said, Albus, I've no doubt it will be the same as any other year. Another group of hopeless dunderheads working with dangerous substances and injuring themselves with their own inability to follow simple instructions.”

“Good to hear!”

Snape felt his left eye begin to twitch.

“Oh my, look at the time.” Pushing his chair back to stand, the Headmaster clapped twice and a hushed silence slowly fell over the Great Hall, students waiting patiently for the announcement. “I shall endeavor to be brief,” Dumbledore called, his voice raised but far from a shout. “Firstly, I am delighted inform you all that Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy Department has been invited to engage in some very special research and will therefore be taking a leave of absence from teaching this year. Filling in for her during this time will be Professor Jenkins. I do expect you to all be on your best behavior and make him feel especially welcome here at Hogwarts.”

Down the table aways a brunette man stood a bit hesitantly, giving the crowd of students a smile and a nod to scattered applause.

Snape frowned at the newcomer, vaguely recalling the man was a Hufflepuff a few years ahead of him in school. From the looks of things, the brats would chew him up and spit him out within a few days. Then again, Pomona looked that way as well, and she had held her own in that school far longer than he had. Never judge a book by its cover, Severus. Surely he had learned that much by now.

Of course, that may not always be true, he mused as the new Defense professor was introduced and Gilderoy Lockhart stood up in robes that somehow managed to outdo even the Headmaster's. There was just no way that man was anything more than an over-confident, narcissistic fool. This was already looking to be one hell of a year.

-Perverted-

Harry let out a soft, contented sigh as he plopped himself down on the familiar bench at the Gryffindor table between his two friends, all too ready for lunch. He smiled as the platters appeared and helped himself to a sandwich, sticking the end into his mouth and simultaneously pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice from the nearest pitcher. He was glad he'd been able to spend some time with the Weasleys before coming back to school this year, consequently building his appetite back up. Last year, after eating his fill at breakfast, he'd been so full for the rest of the day even dinner he could only pick at. His stomach had eventually expanded to accept the normal amount of nourishment an eleven year old consumed, but it had taken awhile to get there. This year, though, he'd already gone through that awkward and at times painful period before coming back to Hogwarts... even if it had been unnerving the way Mrs. Weasley had watched him like a hawk, carefully committing to memory everything he did and didn't eat, and then making that face she always did. The one where her lips pursed and her cheeks got red, like she wanted to hex something but was forcibly holding back. He hadn't yet been able to figure out just what that look meant.

It was after lunch in the courtyard when he was approached by a nervous looking little first year, one of the few actually smaller than Harry himself, even if only by a centimeter or so. The child introduced himself in shy tones as Colin Creevey, asked for a picture, and went on to gush about Hogwarts and all its oddities in a breathless tone of wonder. Harry took all of this in slightly amused stride... all up until the boy asked him to sign a photo that was. Then he bit back a curse, trying but failing to not look as annoyed as he felt. Why did people always do this? Treat him so special like this? Like he was some sort of bloody celebrity. The savior of the wizarding world.

It nearly made him laugh every time he heard it. Because really, how could he be anyone's hero? Him, the shortest boy in his entire year, the skinny little kid with the broken glasses and messy hair who constantly got the snot beat out of him by his bully of a Muggle cousin. He wasn't anything special. He was... just Harry.

But no, he wasn't, not here. One thing at school hadn't changed from his time with the Dursleys, and that was the fact that he still had a litany of names.

The Boy-Who-Lived. That was now the new most common one, along with a number of similar variations. There were some that sounded even worse, things like The Golden Boy and (shudder) The Chosen One. It was all quite ridiculous in his opinion. Yes, he understood how people were grateful he had defeated some megalomaniac dark wizard when he was a baby, but that was just it. He had been a baby. Besides the occasional nightmare with a flash of green light (even that was incredibly fuzzy and vague), he had absolutely no recollection of the event that got everyone so excited. It seemed a bit silly to all but worship him over it.

Even the teachers acted differently with him. Most of them treated him normally for the most part, but there was always a little something there. He still remembered back to first year when he'd shown up at school. Professor Flitwick was the perfect example, the way during first roll call he'd squeaked in that particularly excited way of his and toppled out of sight. Even McGonagall, stern as she was, had said his name with a certain soft inflection to her voice. It was the little things like that, things that let him know he was different, special. He supposed he should be thrilled, so many people were always being not just kind to him but actually seemed to like him... Except he wasn't.

All right, at first he had been, he admitted that much. When he and Hagrid had entered The Leaky Cauldron on his eleventh birthday and everyone had stared in open-mouthed shock, people had clamored to be able to shake his hand... it had felt good. Really good. Then, even after he learned why he was known, even when he felt oddly torn because his fame had come about the night of his parents' deaths, it still felt good. It also made him feel a bit guilty because it still felt good, but... it's just that after growing up with the Dursleys, without any sort of praise at all...

Though it quickly became clear to him that he still wasn't receiving any. All those people, the ones who smiled his way, who sent him well-wishes, who shook his hand, none of that was actually for him. It was all for the Boy-Who-Lived. Even Ron, he had a feeling, had become friends with the defeater of You Know Who before he ever became friends with him. No one ever really spared a thought for Harry.

Not that he was complaining; he really wasn't! Hogwarts was amazing, and he loved it there. It was loads better than anything at the Dursleys could hope to be. Some of his wishes from when he'd been smaller had even come true. Hot meals three times a day, as much as he could eat, no Aunt Petunia to screech at him and work him like a slave, no Uncle Vernon to yell about some imagined wrong or other and terrify him with just a look, a real bedroom of his own (even if he did share it with four others) with a wonderfully soft bed and always clean sheets, a school uniform bought specifically with him in mind that fit him like a glove, and even Ron and Hermione, true friends for the first time ever and no bullying cousins to scare them off. Harry had never been happier in his life, and he knew how selfish it was to wish for anything more.

“Look, Colin, I really don't—”

“What's this? Potter's giving out signed photos?”

Harry winced as Malfoy's voice carried loudly to everyone within earshot. Why was the blond bastard always there at the absolute worst times? “Malfoy—”

“Line up, everyone! Potter's giving away signed photos!”

“I am not, Malfoy,” Harry hissed in irritation, wishing he could physically shut the pompous brat up. “Knock it off!”

Mind you, it was far too late by then. Lockhart, of all the people who could have heard the blond prat's taunting, it had been Gilderoy Lockhart who swept his way through the crowd, somehow forcing a very unwilling Harry into taking a photo with him before the poor boy knew what was going on. Then he swept back up towards the castle, dragging Harry along with him, prattling on all the while about fame and publicity and all manner of other things the twelve year old couldn't care less about. Just as he was contemplating how much trouble he'd get in for kicking a professor in the shins and running, green eyes spotted the dark figure lurking in the doorway of the castle and felt his stomach bottom out.

Oh no, not him. Anyone but him.

“Ah, Severus, good to see you again!” Lockhart called congenially, obviously not registering the particularly nasty sneer the Potions Master wore. Harry wanted to sink into the ground and never come back up. Why did Snape have to see that whole mess with the photo? Absolutely anyone else would have been preferable. What was the bat doing out of his dungeons anyway, it was still daylight. Wouldn't he burst into flame or something?

“Lockhart,” the man spat, managing to make his colleague's name sound like a particularly infectious disease. “I would advise you to encourage neither Potter nor his adoring fans here at the castle.” He stared down his nose at the wide-eyed, red flushed boy. “The attention tends to... go to his head.”

Harry glared back defiantly, refusing to be cowed by the irritable man in front of him. He was used to Snape's insults and nasty taunts by now, and he would love to say they just rolled off him like water off a duck... only for some reason, they still didn't. Not really.

Shaking his head a bit to clear the odd thoughts that had begun to pop up, the bespectacled boy was met with the sight of Snape still glowering down at him while Lockhart's inane chatter washed over the both of them. Swallowing a bit, the boy once more considered running when he looked into those black eyes. Snape... looked really pissed about something.

“Detention, Potter,” the man suddenly said, his soft hiss effectively cutting through Lockhart's rambling with ease. “Tonight, my office at seven sharp. Don't be late.”

Harry was stunned speechless for a moment. Blinking bright green in bewilderment, he managed to choke, “Detention for what, sir?”

Snape smirked. “For disrupting the peace of the courtyard for the other students of course.”

Pure, unadulterated fury flashed through the boy. What crap. He'd had nothing to do with the damn photo-taking in the first place, Colin had approached him. Furthermore, the one who'd escalated the situation and disrupted the damn peace was Malfoy, the same as it always was. He wasn't surprised Snape was trying to pin all the blame on him, but how dare the git actually give him a detention over it. Nothing had even really happened!

“Now, Severus, I don't think—”

Lockhart's attempt to come to Harry's defense was cut immediately short with one look from the Hogwarts Potions Master. Apparently Lockhart did have half a brain in that inflated blond head of his after all.

And Harry was stuck spending his first evening after classes in the dungeons. He glared daggers into the back of Snape's greasy head as the man turned and billowed away, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Harry was clever enough to read between the lines. This meant war.

The dungeons were freezing. Not that this surprised Harry, since he'd had Potions class in those same dungeons for a year now, but one would think that it would be just a little bit warmer, seeing as how it was only the beginning of September and had been a bright, sunny day; but no, they were still cold enough to make him shiver. This in turn annoyed him, because he had opted to only wear his school shirt, removing his robes and jumper before coming down to detention. He was annoyed with himself and his lack of foresight.

Or maybe he was just annoyed with the two hundred lines he was currently scrawling angrily across a defenseless piece of unlucky parchment. I am no better than any other student at this school and will not make elaborate attempts to draw attention to myself. What a load of tripe.

Glancing heatedly up from where he'd just misspelled 'elaborate', he examined the familiar head of greasy hair, currently bent over whatever the man was reading on his desk. Snape really had been even more vindictive than usual, not only in assigning this detention in the first place but the way he'd sneered at Harry when he arrived, ordering the boy to write the lengthy line over and over, smirking nastily when just what he had to write sunk in for the child. Delighting in the glare he received in turn, knowing he had hit a nerve. Harry huffed silently. Git must really have been in a foul mood that day. Either that or over the summer he'd gone from simply loathing Harry's existence to actually harboring murderous intentions towards him. Maybe he should watch his back a bit more carefully.

Sick of both the lines and the way the snarky professor was treating him, Harry was suddenly remembering all too clearly his first, disastrous Potions lesson. And it was still quite easy to recall, having only been a year ago it happened.

He had still been getting used to the castle and all the new, strange things magic brought at the time, and despite learning that many of the other children came from Muggle homes and didn't know any more about magic than he did, he still had recurring nightmares about being kicked out because he just wasn't good enough. That was one of the main reasons he was so excited for Potions. After skimming through all his books, he'd decided Potions seemed rather a lot like cooking, and he'd had more than enough experience with that. Hell, compared to the other chores the Dursleys normally gave him, the boy enjoyed cooking, or at least he would have had he then been allowed to eat some of what he took the time to prepare.

Regardless, when it came time for their first Potions lesson, Harry was excited, despite the fact the professor made him nervous. *At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong. Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity.”

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands*, though to be honest, Harry very nearly did the same, even with the rather cutting tone the word had been said in. At least someone else saw how dumb all the fuss over him really was. Biting back a smile, he actually, for a brief moment, had hope that this man was someone he could well and truly get on with.

*“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,” he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word — like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”*

Next to him, Harry saw Ron raise his eyebrows and shared the look with him quickly. While he did admit the speech was a bit over the top, inside he was feeling more like Hermione looked, hanging on the edge of her seat, enraptured. Yes, maybe he could really come to enjoy this class.

*“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what?* It was then that the nice, content feeling he had settled into slowly began to fade. Less than two minutes later, any and all hopes the boy had held were dashed. Not only did it seem like this class would be downright miserable, but Snape was going to treat him differently, just like everybody else. Except rather than be like the rest of the professors, he was choosing to be more like the Dursleys. To him, Harry wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived, he was just boy.

A boy who couldn't even lie to himself and say he wasn't disappointed.

Then that very afternoon had proven once more how much Snape truly did hate him. And if the bastard was going to dole out detentions for something as small as the incident (if one could really even call it that) in the courtyard, then Harry would likely be stuck in detention with the tosser until he was fifty. There really had been absolutely no reason to—

A thought struck Harry rather abruptly, as they oft tended to, and he looked once more at the lines he'd been writing. Ah, now he saw. This detention had nothing to do with the courtyard incident, none whatsoever. This was all about the flying car. It was Snape's own little way of getting his revenge for not being able to expel him and Ron, seeing as he couldn't give Harry a detention for it specifically after he was already punished by McGonagall. So instead, the man made up something ridiculous and was able to get away with it because no one would dare question him. It was very... well, Slytherin. Of course, didn't that make Harry's own mind being a bit Slytherin as well, being able to figure it all out? Then again, the Hat had said— No! No, I said I wasn't going to think on that ever again.

“Mr. Potter,” the oily voice drawled even as the dark head never raised from its current task, “unless you'd like to spend the rest of the evening in each other's company, I suggest you continue writing. Surely even Gryffindor's golden boy hasn't managed to complete two hundred lines already.”

Harry pressed his lips together so hard they went white, doing everything in his power to curb his temper and not issue a sharp retort. That's exactly what the bastard wanted, for him to snap back and dig himself in deeper. Well, Snape wouldn't win this one. If Harry had managed to hold his tongue around Uncle Vernon over the years, surely he could do the same with his vile Potions professor. It was just that he tended to let his guard down when he was at Hogwarts. He needed to keep reminding himself the dungeons were a special case. Snape would not best him this year.

“Problem, Potter?”

The man was clearly enjoying this. Too much, in fact, for Harry's liking, so forcing out a falsely sincere, “Not at all, sir,” he returned to his lines, refusing to let the git see how angry he really was. He would win.

It was nearly three hours later when he was finally released from his temporary prison, hand aching dully. He was currently trying very hard not to pout like a child (he was twelve now), and he was trying even harder not to think about Snape's stupid smirk, nor his parting jab of, “Until next time, Potter. I'm quite sure you'll be back here soon enough once more, seeing as how history has an unpleasant way of repeating itself.” Which Harry took to mean the man would be watching him like a hawk this year. Just wonderful.

Rounding a corner, mind still abuzz with the injustice of it all, Harry's face suddenly met with a very solid brick wall, hard enough to make the slight boy stagger backwards, rubbing a palm against his stinging nose. What on— oh!

“Sorry,” he hastily apologized, trying to fix the glasses that had once more gone askew. “M'sorry, I didn't see you—” The pair of spectacles refused to stay over one ear and he belatedly realized it was because they had broken once more, at the temple this time, the arm hanging limply on the left side. Great, just what he needed. He'd had to use Reparo on his glasses so often they were beginning to become immune to the spell's effects. You could only fix something so many times before it refused to be fixed again. He dreaded the day the spell no longer held any potency at all and he'd be forced to mend them with a roll of Muggle tape like he had during his primary school days. Malfoy would love it.

“It's quite all right, you're hardly the only one at fault here. Ah, let me.” A hand much bigger than his own plucked the glasses from his weak grip and a softly muttered Reparo had them set to rights again, though Harry winced seeing as that had to be the twentieth time now the spell was used. Still, the eyewear that was placed back in his hold was sturdy and strong, the spell obviously having worked better than when he or even Hermione used it. Though that really wasn't surprising seeing as how this was an... adult...

He blinked, and looked up at the man curiously. He was indeed an adult. One the boy had never seen before, which begged the question... who was he and why was he in the castle at nearly curfew wandering the dungeons? A professor? Harry frowned at that thought. He knew all the professors though, at least by sight, even the ones who taught the elective courses for the older students. He had never seen this man before.

“There you are, all better.” The man's voice was light and his smile was warm, forcing the small boy to smile back unwittingly.

“Yes, thank you.” Vision no longer blurry he could clearly see the man's features, light brown hair and eyes to match, care lines creeping in around the corners of his face, and a happy little tilt to his lips, as if he went around smiling cheerfully most of the time, something Harry had very little trouble believing. Who was this man?

“Better run along now, nearly curfew,” the man went on in a friendly tone, as he smoothed down the front of his robes where Harry had bodily impacted with him. “Wouldn't want to get caught out by Filch. Harry, isn't it?”

“Yes, I'm...” The implications of the man's words slammed into him, making him feel a bit breathless. Like he'd just been smashed by the Whomping Willow in a particularly foul mood. This man knew exactly who he was.

“Are you all right?” a concerned voice asked to match the speaker's expression.

“Fine.” Harry sucked in a large gulp of air and willed himself to calm down. “I'm fine.” This man knew who he was... and he had called him 'Harry'.

“Are you sure? You're looking a bit pale; perhaps a visit to the hospital wing—”

“No, no, everything's fine, really.” This man knew exactly who he was, and he had still proceeded to call him just 'Harry'. No Potter added on the end. Nothing special in the tone of voice. No eyes surreptitiously sweeping his brow for a hint of the infamous lightening bolt scar. For once, someone he had only just met, made his name sound as plain and boring as it really was. It wasn't even just that. The man had asked if that was his name, the way you would with normal people. People who weren't internationally known for something they couldn't remember doing.

That had never happened before. Not in the wizarding world.

“Well, if you're sure...”

“Really, everything's brilliant,” the boy insisted, not having to fake the overly happy smile that spread across his lips of its own devices, despite knowing he must look like a fool. “I'm just a bit tired.”

The smile the man aimed at him was so friendly and understanding. “Happens to the best of us, I'm afraid. Stayed up too late last night with your dormmates?”

Harry grinned ruefully. Despite the fact that he was actually wide awake, that was still true enough. “Maybe a bit.”

“I remember those days.” A wistful look stole over the man. “The first night back in the castle was always the best.” He pinned the boy with eyes of mock sternness. “Of course, nothing's more important than a proper night's sleep. You always need to be at your sharpest for class.”

The pre-teen attempted to wipe away his grin and look equally serious. “Yes, sir. Of course.” It did occur to him that he was standing in the middle of Slytherin territory, joking playfully with a man he had never met nor even knew the name of, but at the moment he really couldn't care less. His bad mood and temper left over from Snape had already dissipated to nearly nothing, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a friendly conversation with an adult.

Besides... this man had called him Harry.

“Off you go then.”

“Right.” The boy nodded jerkily, taking several hurried steps in the direction of Gryffindor common room. Pausing a moment to wave over his shoulder, he called back, “G'night, sir.”

“Good night, Harry.”

Chest swelling and cheeks reddening a bit just at the sound of his name, the boy scurried along feeling light as a feather. He hadn't felt quite this good in some time.

-Contorted-

Add three dried porcupine quills, stir counter-clockwise six and a half times, then let simmer for five minutes before bottling.

Teeth sneaking out to worry a reddened bottom lip, Harry carefully followed the instructions, words playing over and over in his mind like a tuneless song. Porcupine quills now ensconced in the viscous liquid of his cauldron, he began to stir, six— no six and a half times counter-clockwise, green eyes following his slightly clumsy movements vigilantly. There, all done. Now all he had to do was wait for five minutes until it turned —he referenced his book once more— lime green in color. He wasn't entirely sure, but maybe, just maybe he'd gotten it entirely right this time. A perfect potion. Or one worthy of an E at the very least.

Grinning a little with the satisfaction of a job well done, he turned a grimace towards his best friend's cauldron beside his, wincing a bit at the... well, even he wasn't foolish enough to call the horrid mess Ron had created a potion. He eyed the lumpy gray substance that now adorned his friend's work station rather warily, half expecting it to come alive and attempt to eat them at any moment. Ron, finally seeming to realize himself that it was a lost cause, gave up on his vigorous, desperate stirring and shot Harry a slightly pleading look. “Dunno what I did wrong this time.”

Harry wisely kept to himself that he didn't know what Ron had done right.

Thinking maybe he should try to cheer up his friend... somehow, the smaller boy opened his mouth to speak when a flash out of the corner of his eye caught his full attention. Whipping around, he was just in time to make out the extra ingredient sailing with well-aimed precision straight for his simmering brew. His perfect (or at least E-worthy) potion.

No! With all the reflexes of an experienced seeker, the boy flung himself forward, arm outstretched to catch whatever was coming and save his masterpiece. All but throwing himself over the desk in his attempt, he had a brief, wonderful moment of triumph when his fingers closed around the projectile... until it was ruined by a very large clanging noise and hot liquid sloshing down the front of his robes, soaking his shoes and scalding his thighs. In his rather exuberant attempt to stop the ingredient (which had worked, he tried to placate himself), he had managed to upset his cauldron and spill his perfect potion all over. Ruined.

“Well, Mr. Potter, I'm impressed,” that hated voice hissed, coming up behind him in his misery. “Even Longbottom has of yet to simply knock over his own cauldron. Would you mind enlightening us as to what exactly you were doing to achieve such an end.”

Harry considered telling the truth, that someone had attempted to sabotage his work and he'd only tried to keep it safe. That it was an accident, but really it wasn't his fault. Not entirely, at least. That he really hadn't meant to make such a mess of Snape's classroom, and while it still wasn't his fault, he was sorry about that; but then, why bother? Snape would never listen to him anyway. So instead he just shrugged with a muttered, “Dunno, sir. Accident, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Snape's black eyes glittered suspiciously as he stared down his rather prominent nose at the small boy in front of him, quite aware not all was as it seemed. Ah, there. “What, may I ask, is that you have in your hand, Potter?”

In his hand? Harry actually paused a moment to blink stupidly in the Professor's direction before he remembered the projectile that had caused this whole debacle in the first place. Hesitantly, a bit uncertain at just what he might find, the boy uncurled his closed fist, staring in puzzlement at the harmless little shell that sat there. A snail's shell maybe? Did it really matter?

One look at Snape's livid face told him yes, it did indeed matter, quite a lot. Damn, what now?

“Why you arrogant little—” Snape abruptly cut himself off, appearing to need a moment to get ahold of his temper. The very thought that the normally calm, collected man was so upset he had trouble containing it made Harry shiver a little in apprehension, green eyes darting questioningly about. Why was the man so angry? What was so special about a tiny shell? He glanced in Ron's direction, but it was obvious the redhead was just as lost as he was, probably even more.

“Attempting to cause an explosion, Potter?” Snape's usual, icy voice was back to normal. “Plotting to make a mess of my class?”

“An explo—” Oh, of course! The shell must be volatile when put with the other ingredients of the potion. Quite volatile to make Snape so mad. Oh. “No, sir, I—”

“And I suppose,” the man went on through slightly clenched teeth, “you thought nothing of the others around you, hm? Didn't bother to think of your classmates.”

“Sir, it's not mine!” Harry gasped out in a rush. “Someone— someone threw it at my cauldron.”

Snape sneered at the boy's disgusting attempt to worm his way out of trouble when caught red-handed. Just like them. “Not yours, Potter? Well then,” he smirked, “why didn't you say so in the first place?”

The boy's mouth worked silently, doing a rather accurate impression of a fish on land. Bugger. Apparently he should have tried to explain it all to begin with. Whatever small chance there was the man would have believed him was long gone now.

“I believe a month's worth of detention and fifty points from Gryffindor is an appropriate punishment.”

“Fifty—” Harry began to protest, but one genuine glare from those coal dark eyes had him shutting right up. The lousy, greasy—

“Tomorrow night, Potter, seven o'clock. I trust you'll be on time.”

The boy had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep from exploding like his potion nearly had. “Yes, sir,” he forced out harshly. “I will.”

The silence in the classroom absolute, Snape waved his wand in what Harry thought was an overly showy movement, cleaning up the spill on the floor. The Potions Master shot Harry one final scowl, took one look at Ron's concoction, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then just banished the brew instead with something half way between a sneer and an expression of incredulity, stalking away towards his Slytherins. He was well aware of the twelve year old brat willing him to drop over dead as he went. 

"I can't stand that nasty, greasy— argh!" Harry slammed his books down onto the low table in a fit of rage, earning him a few curious glances from some nearby sixth years but otherwise going ignored. Plopping down heavily into a waiting armchair, inwardly glad the common room was so empty, Harry, as usual, took his ire out by picking angrily at the red, raw skin around his nails, trying not to think about just what all he'd like to do to Snape given the chance. He really might just hate the man enough to—

"Well, it's really no surprise, is it?" Hermione's voice cut through his inner tantrum as she primly took the seat next to him, Ron standing warily off to the side. "I mean, he caught you with a preserved snail's shell while we were making a Hair-Raising potion."

The boys stared.

"Oh for goodness sake, don't you two study at all?" She glared at them, absently reaching for her Charms book and flipping it open to begin her homework. "Think about the properties of the ingredients used in a Hair-Raising potion and then add a snail's shell of all things to it."

Ron still looked confused, but something niggled at the back of Harry's mind, making him snatch up his Potions text and flip through until he found what he wanted. Letting his eyes scan the passage, he rapidly paled. "Blimey."

"Exactly," Hermione agreed, digging through her bag for a quill. "The explosion would have been monstrous, and a lot of people could have been hurt." Here she frowned, looking at him in perplexity. "Including you, Harry. What were you—"

"I already said it wasn't mine!" He closed the book with a snap, anger returning in full force. "S'not my fault the bat didn't believe me."

"Well," Hermione paused, carefully mulling over her words, "I suppose he was rather unfair, not giving you a proper chance to explain and all. However, assuming the shell had been yours, the punishment he gave out really couldn't be considered too harsh for once. It was really dangerous."

"But it wasn't mine." The boy collapsed back into the comfy cushions of the chair, arms crossed over his chest and perfect pout in place. "Snape just really hates me."

Ron let out something similar to a snigger, raising his eyebrows in his friend's direction. "Well yeah, mate, we've always known that."

Not that that made it any better. "Now I've got detention for a month starting tomorrow... why tomorrow?" Why not that very night?

Hermione peered at him over the top of her book, giving Harry that look that made him feel about as smart as Dudley. "We have Astronomy tonight, remember? You know Professor Snape never holds detention on Astronomy nights."

Ron snorted uncouthly. "Yeah, because if he did he would only be able to keep you there until twelve."

"He doesn't normally keep you longer than that, if even that long," the girl fired right back, instincts making her stand up for a teacher, even if it was Snape. "I'm sure he just doesn't want you exhausted for class." She didn't mention how Snape seemed to have the Astronomy schedule memorized because he handed out so many detentions.

"Sure, Hermione." Ron rolled his eyes Harry's way. "Whatever you say."

"Don't patronize me, Ronald Weasley!"

"Don't... what?"

"Let's just go down to dinner," Harry quickly cut in before they could really get going. He didn't know anyone who could bicker back and forth the way his two best friends could.

"It's still a bit early," Hermione started, only to realize that Ron, the human garbage disposal, was already up and headed for the portrait hole, making anything she said completely obsolete. You didn't get between a Weasley and food.

Harry picked listlessly at the pile on his plate all through the meal, not hungry in the least. The overwhelming rage he'd been feeling had faded by then, leaving a rather empty sensation in his gut, like someone had taken a large spoon and hollowed him out. It wasn't the first time he'd ever felt like this, but it wasn't exactly a common occurrence either; and he had no idea why he was letting Snape get to him like this. Hadn't he vowed just the other day he wouldn't let the Potions Master win this year?

"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asked in concern, eyeing the untouched food with obvious worry.

"Fine, Hermione," he insisted, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."

Weary in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion, the boy left his friends in the common room after dinner, slowly climbing the stairs to his dorm where he collapsed heavily onto his four poster bed, doing his best to just not think. It wasn't all that surprising he dozed off, only to have Ron shake him awake several hours later. "Astronomy, mate, remember?"

Unfortunately, he did. With a long groan, wishing he could just curl up under the warm covers and sleep for a year, the child pulled himself from his bed, running a hand absently over his messy raven mop in a futile attempt to smooth it down. His head had taken on a dull throbbing while he slept, and the last thing he wanted was to drag himself up to the cold Astronomy tower and endure Professor Sinistra's glare while he tried and failed to find Jupiter. Sinistra may not be anything as bad as Snape, but she was still far from the most pleasant teacher.

Of course, Harry's sluggish movements as he stuffed his feet inside his shoes and went about trying to smooth down his now wrinkled uniform meant that he and Ron could be found dashing desperately through the halls, attempting to reach the school's tallest tower in time. "Sorry, Professor," he gasped out the moment the duo burst through the doors. He leant forward, resting his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. "Sorry we're late."

He was expecting Sinistra's low, rather monotone voice to order them coldly to their stations, maybe if she was in a bad mood take five points from Gryffindor. He was most certainly not expecting the cheerful and definitely masculine, "Quite all right, boys. A minute or two won't hurt anything, just try not to make it a habit."

Dark head snapping up in surprise, Harry found himself blinking rather stupidly at the same man he'd quite literally run into the other day. What was going on? Was he their new professor?

A tug on his sleeve from Ron had him moving numbly towards the unoccupied telescope next to a frowning Hermione who told them waspishly that they were supposed to find Orion's belt ("Something you would already know had you gotten here on time. You're lucky he didn't take points!"), and he proceeded to adjust his lens on autopilot. After less than a minute, curiosity caught up with him, and he hissed as softly as he could, "Say, Hermione... who is that man? Where's Sinistra?"

She sent him a glare for interrupting her work but answered all the same. "Professor Sinistra is ill, remember? Professor Dumbledore told us Professor Jenkins would be filling in for her at the Welcoming Feast." She made as if to turn back to her telescope before her eyes widened in a way Harry had become familiar with. It was the proverbial light bulb going on above her head. "Oh! Sorry, I forgot you weren't there, of course you didn't know." Rather redundantly, she said again, "That's Professor Jenkins, Professor Sinistra's substitute." The frown began returning rather quickly. "Though he has been sitting at the high table every meal so far, so you think you might have noticed him there before."

Ron, who had of course been listening in, looked once more at the new professor who was at the moment patiently (very patiently) helping Neville. "He seems nice."

Hermione added an endorsement of her own for the man, but Harry stayed silent, just watching. He felt... odd. He honestly didn't know how to describe it, though his stomach definitely felt a bit warm. All he knew was that when Professor Jenkins looked up from Neville's telescope and sent a gentle smile his way... He was glad the man would be around for a while, that was all. He was looking forward to being called Harry again.

-Disfigured-

The sheer audacity of the little brat was truly astounding. Mind-boggling even, completely incomprehensible. Then again, this was James Potter's spawn he was referring to, so maybe it wasn't all that surprising after all. This was just like something the Marauders, as they called themselves, would pull. A harmless prank, cause an explosion in Snivellus' class, make a mess, have a laugh. Never mind the numerous injuries that were caused to the people around them, because hey, why should they ever care for anyone but themselves. As long as they had a good time, everyone else could go jump in the lake. And it was obvious Potter truly had inherited more than just his father's bad eyesight and unruly hair.

Glowering darkly at the object of his ire, who was currently scrubbing a rather large stack of cauldrons, all Snape could see was his childhood nemesis reincarnated to make him miserable once more. Whether or not he should have seen this coming, the fact was, he hadn't. Especially not after Potter's last detention only days prior, the lines he'd been made to write. Snape had thought the punishment had gotten the message across, that he would not tolerate any of the boy's Gryffindor antics this year. He had even suspected Potter had worked out what it was he was truly being punished for, because, loathe as he was to admit it, the brat wasn't completely stupid. He could actually be considered quite clever whenever he bothered to apply himself; which just made it all the more infuriating that instead of accepting his comeuppance and taking Snape's warning to heart, he'd apparently seen it as a cause for even further rebellion. Hence the near disaster in class.

Well, Potter could attempt to rebel all he wanted, he would not get away with it. Snape would not have it. The child would learn his place, even if it meant keeping him in detention until the little monster graduated. He would not allow another James Potter to strut about unchecked; and he didn't even want to remember the somewhat personal insult he'd felt when he noticed the potion the boy had ruined and attempted to blow up was damn near perfect, would have gotten him excellent marks. Obviously that didn't matter to the Boy-Who-Lived so long as it was his greasy Potions professor's class.

Still genuinely furious about it all, Snape didn't bother to feel the least bit guilty in assigning the boy a batch of cauldrons he normally reserved for fifth year and above, the older, stronger students. He actually took some mild amusement in watching Potter attempt to scrub out the largest pewter one, which he could easily climb inside of and hide in. The boy really was minuscule, scrawny. He should eat more.

It was just as the child was attempting to balance his stomach on the edge of the cauldron so he could lean in and clean the bottom, that there was a soft knock against the Potions Master's classroom door. Snape frowned, knowing he didn't have any appointments and not recognizing the knock as a frequent visitor. A student? His snakes knew his door was always open to them, and even the older students from other houses finally learned he would always civilly answer questions about homework or Potions in general, so long as the questions weren't utterly inane. "Enter."

He was a little startled when the person who came in turned out to be Hogwarts' newest professor, not that any of his emotions showed on his carefully neutral face. The man just came in quietly, giving him that pleasant smile he seemed to grace everyone with and which had already managed to earn him the devotion of most of the students. Snape sneered in return. "Jenkins. To what do I owe the pleasure."

If the man caught the sarcasm in his colleague's voice, he certainly didn't let on. "Good evening, Severus. I just ran into Minerva, and she mentioned having to deliver this to you. I told her I didn't mind bringing it down for her; she's so busy with her duties as Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor, even taking the time to use the floo—"

Snape snatched the proffered parchment from the man's hand, thankfully cutting off his pointless rambling. He should have known this man would be the kind who always felt the need to make friendly smalltalk. Even if the other person was him.

Flicking dark eyes down the missive in front of him, he gave the slightly older man a curt nod, the only thanks he would get, and with another smile Jenkins turned to leave— only to pause at the rather humorous sight of Potter only visible from the waist down, upper half inside the cauldron, his feet flailing about as he tried to scrub and keep his balance at the same time. Snape tried not to smile.

Sending a glance the Potions professor's way, Jenkins cleared his throat lightly. "Harry?"

Snape took a moment to ponder how Jenkins had figured out which student he was looking at, before realizing there weren't many children, boys especially, as small as Potter in the entire school, not to mention that anytime the boy wasn't in uniform, he wore a particularly ratty pair of old trainers at least two sizes too big for him which most of the students wouldn't be caught dead in. The same shoes which were now on blatant display, dangling in the air for all to see. Obviously Jenkins was more observant than the ex-spy would have given him credit for, a fact Snape carefully filed away for possible use later.

At the sound of his name, Potter attempted to surface from his work and face the speaker. It was all Snape could do not to chuckle when the boy found himself stuck, unable to push himself upward enough to get out of the cauldron, feet kicking helplessly as though it would do any good and nearly sending those over-sized monsters flying. Priceless.

He scowled a touch when Jenkins quickly moved forward and, reaching into the cauldron, grabbed Potter beneath his arms, bodily lifting the small boy to safety. Once the child had been gently set back on his feet, Jenkins' one hand moved to his shoulder in a friendly gesture, smile firmly back in place. "All right there, Harry?"

"Yes." The boy hastily adjusted his glasses and ran a hand back through his sweaty hair, making it stick nearly straight up in the process and reminding Snape uncomfortably of the way James Potter would purposely do the same. "Thank you, sir. For—" he gestured towards the cauldron with a mild blush.

"Not at all," the professor said with a wave of his hand, brown eyes straying towards the cauldrons and landing on the already decently large pile of carefully cleaned ones. "Did you do all of those tonight, Harry?"

For some reason that Snape couldn't fathom, the boy was positively beaming. "Yes, sir. Well, all except the big one. I haven't finished..." He shrugged.

"I see." Jenkins' brow scrunched a bit as he contemplated the pile once more. "Well, I'm sure Professor Snape would agree that you've done plenty for one night's work."

Harry blinked in surprise before shooting a glance at the Potions professor. It didn't look like Snape agreed with that at all; but then Professor Jenkins looked at Snape too and raised his eyebrows just a little. "After all, you are still only a second year."

Snape, who had been doing his best to make the Astronomy professor spontaneously combust with just his eyes (how dare the man interfere when he was disciplining a student), actually felt a small twinge at Jenkins' next words, though he refused to let his glare lessen. Potter may have deserved punishment, but he was still only twelve. It was possible (only possible, mind you) that Snape had been abusing his power just the tiniest bit; and the boy had, confessedly, worked hard all night without complaint. Very well, Snape knew when he'd toed the line. He'd never admit it, but he still knew.

"I suppose, taking into account Potter's astonishing level of incompetence, that this is indeed the best I will receive from him this evening." His dark gaze snapped from the slightly older man to the small child by his side wearing over-sized clothes that made him look as though he were playing dress-up. "Same time tomorrow, Potter. Now leave, before your ineptness begins to infect my classroom."

Harry was momentarily torn between thanking Snape for the unexpected early reprieve and snapping back at him with a few witty insults of his own. It took a total of two and a half seconds before he wisely decided to just not say anything and instead scurried from the room, not daring to look back over his shoulder, Gryffindor or not.

Snape, who had returned to his marking the moment he'd finished dismissing the boy, heard the door thud shut behind him, though he was all too aware of the other presence still in the room. Without bothering to look up, he drawled, "Something you need, Jenkins?" If the man thought he would discuss what had just happened or why he'd decided to go along with his suggestion, he was sorely mistaken.

When the other man didn't answer right away, he reluctantly allowed his eyes to flicker up, only to find himself being studied by the man, as if he were some sort of interesting new specimen to be looked at beneath a microscope. Oh, he still wore that friendly smile, yes, but his eyes had become rather shrewd, as though he were trying very hard to determine something. After a short pause it seemed he found whatever he was looking for, and the brown eyes softened once more, posture relaxing into a more defenseless position. "Nothing at the moment, Severus. Be sure to look over that document from Minerva; she seemed a tad frazzled by it. You have a lovely evening."

Snape was disinclined to reply, but he carefully watched the man as he left, mind already whirring with bits and pieces of new information. Jenkins was likely harmless, yes, but there was definitely more there than a soft-hearted, soft-headed Hufflepuff. He would have to keep an eye on him... to assuage his own curiosity if for nothing else. He smirked. It should be fun.

Meanwhile, Jenkins softly shut the door of the Potions classroom behind him, turning to head back up out of the dungeons and nearly bowling over the small figure blocking his path. "Harry! You're still here? Is something wrong?"

Harry smiled happily (if not a bit shyly) up at the man, warmth blossoming in his chest. "Er, no, sir, nothing's wrong. S'just... I wanted to say thank you. For getting me out of detention early. Snape would never have let me leave otherwise." Once he'd finished speaking he realized exactly what it was he'd said and waited for the soft admonishment for forgetting to use Snape's proper title. It never came, which made him strangely glad.

"Yes, I had a feeling that was the case." The professor studied the boy kindly and his smile got even more affable, if that was possible. "Don't mind Professor Snape, Harry. I know he seems harsh, but his bark is worse than his bite..." The smile turned a bit sly. "Probably."

Harry snorted, admiring the man all the more for not only standing up to Snape for him but also being unafraid of harmlessly joking about the bat. It was clear he wasn't doing it to be mean, nothing malicious about it, but knowing Snape, he'd probably attempt to turn him into potions' ingredients if he heard. The git had absolutely no sense of humor.

Jenkins made a sudden movement, reaching out a hand towards him, and his first instinct was to duck away before he could be cuffed about the head. Managing to keep his reactions to only a minute flinch, the boy stiffened when the hand did indeed touch his head, falling lightly to rest on his bird's nest of dark locks.

Staring rather blankly at the man, he felt more movement and wondered idly if the professor was trying to mess up his hair; because, really, it didn't need the help. Though it did feel good...

And then he became aware of just what it was the man was actually doing. He was 'ruffling Harry's hair'. Causing it to become even more untidy than usual, yes, but that was because he was running his fingers through it, massaging them against the boy's scalp. Letting his eyes fall shut, it wasn't lost on Harry that this was the first time an adult had ever done this for him. In fact, with the exception of Mrs. Weasley's hugs, this was the first time an adult had ever done more than put a friendly hand on his shoulder. It was nice.

-Mutilated-

Giggling was the first thing Harry heard as he climbed the familiar stairs to the second-year boys' dorm, making him roll his eyes lightly behind smudged glass. He often wondered why it was girls who were pinned down as the giggly ones, when he knew for a fact he and his friends (some more than others) indulged in that particular type of laughter quite often. Maybe it was just because they were often loathe to do it in public? It wasn't very manly, after all, and with them being twelve, some of them thirteen already, it would hardly do to go around making the same noises as, say, Lavender Brown. The very thought made him cringe.

Pushing the door open and stepping through, he found all of his roommates huddled together around Seamus' bed, the Irish boy and Dean looking oddly delighted, Ron very shifty-eyed and pink-eared, and Neville... well, Neville's face was so red, Harry was afraid all the blood in his head might make the rounder boy pass out right there. Curiously, he stepped over, standing on tip-toes to see properly over his best friend's shoulder, wondering out loud, "What have you got this time?"

The pitch of his laughter (giggles) rising significantly, Seamus brandished the magazine in his hands in Harry's direction, gleefully informing him, "Me cousin sent it. Most popular in all of Wizarding Britain."

Harry frowned in perplexity and craned his neck for a better angle. Most popular what?

The moment his eyes landed on a naked pair of breasts— moving naked breasts, he realized why Neville looked the way he did. Fuck all, it was a bloody porn magazine and —sparing one more quick glance at the vigorously active photo— fuck was indeed the correct word. This wasn't the typical Muggle Playboy he'd seen Dudley and his friends drooling over once or twice before, this was a full-out picture of a couple, a male and female together having... doing that. It was— fuck, what was the woman— oh piss, did women really do that?

Sharing a wide-eyed look with Neville, the only other boy there besides himself who seemed uncomfortable, Harry quickly squeaked out, "Gotta go. Detention," and positively fled from the room and then Gryffindor Tower altogether.

Walking down to the dungeons (he hadn't lied; he really did have a detention, after all, it just wasn't for another half an hour yet) the Boy-Who-Lived attempted to slow his breathing and tried to get his outrageous blush back under control. Why did Seamus have something like that? Were he and Dean and even Ron really interested in that already? Was there something wrong with him because he wasn't?

Not that he wasn't curious, to a degree. He knew about sex, all the mechanics of it and everything, that people did it for babies and pleasure, what part went where... And, of course, he'd gotten... erections. Plenty of them, all at what he swore were the absolute most inopportune times. He'd even... touched himself before, when he was able to find some privacy, he understood it was all a perfectly normal part of being a teenage boy... but that magazine had been a bit much. He wasn't— he didn't— ugh, what was wrong with him? Were the others really that much more mature than him?

No, no, Neville had looked just as awkward as he had. So that meant... he was just as mature... as Neville...

Stopping with a sigh and turning to face the wall, letting his still too-hot forehead fall forward to rest against the cold stone, Harry cursed himself, his stupid reaction to what was apparently supposed to excite him, and his obvious childishness. It was blatant he would need to work harder to act more adult, to catch up with the other boys. He wasn't even really interested in dating girls yet. While the others were starting to look at them that way, he still considered them as nuisances or friends. He really needed to get his act together, and quickly.

He'd spent too many years, being the odd, nerdy kid who had his head shoved in toilets and was always picked last. He didn't ever want to be that kid again. Never.

Hogwarts was never boring, especially if you were the famed Boy-Who-Lived, but the rest of September and October was just chalk full of surprises for Harry, making him wish more than ever that he could just be normal. Lockhart's complete and utter incompetence in the classroom really wasn't all that stunning, but the fact that Harry actually preferred a month's worth of detention in the dungeons with Snape, scrubbing cauldrons and chopping frogs' livers (which had finally ended, thank Merlin) over just one night's detention with the pompous arse signing his fan mail was. Not that Snape, of course, wasn't pompous in his own way, but hell, at least the man was good at what he taught. A thought which immediately made Harry feel like he'd just tasted something unpleasant, actually respecting Snape above another professor. It was madness.

Then there was the quite big shock in finding Malfoy had bought his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team (well, maybe that part wasn't too surprising), by purchasing every member a Nimbus 2001. An event that very nearly caused Oliver Wood to go into cardiac arrest, and which Harry had to admit made him feel a bit apprehensive. He knew his Seeker abilities could outstrip Malfoy's any day, but supposedly those new Nimbuses were really something special...

He'd also never expected boring, pointless Astronomy to become his favorite class.

And just because there hadn't been enough excitement packed into those past two months, October really had to go out with a bang. Which was why, after attending a rather miserable deathday party for the Gryffindor house ghost, Harry found himself standing dumbly in the hallway, staring at a very dead-looking Mrs. Norris while what looked like the entire rest of the student body stared at him. Why did these things keep happening?

Feeling rather numb and out of sorts, Harry and friends followed Dumbledore to Lockhart's office with Filch, Lockhart unsurprisingly following along with McGonagall, Snape, and Jenkins. Normally the sight of Lockhart's numerous portraits trying to hide the fact they were in hair rollers, ducking out of sight so as not to be seen, would have amused him greatly. Glancing once more at the much hated cat, he just felt a bit sick.

*"It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her…"*

Harry noticed Hermione mouthing the spell to herself and Ron roll his eyes at the Defense professor's prattling and wondered how they could be so nonchalant when they were likely in serious trouble. Weren't they worried? What if they were expelled? If Dumbledore believed Filch and not them, they were sure to be.

Harry was so busy concentrating on controlling his breathing to keep from hyperventilating and passing out on Lockhart's floor, he all but missed Dumbledore's announcement that Mrs. Norris wasn't dead but petrified (what did that mean?) instead. That same horrible, gut-wrenching feeling he'd had at the beginning of the year was back with a vengeance, making him extremely glad he'd missed the Halloween feast. If they really were expelled... No, no, he'd thought this out before. He had some plans just in case; and he had his parents' inheritance at his disposal, he would be all right. He would never have to go back to living fulltime at the Dursleys. No matter what. Still, that didn't mean that just because he would never have to return there he wanted to leave Hogwarts either...

*"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found — in my office — he knows I'm a — I'm a —" Filch's face worked horribly. "He knows I'm a Squib!" he finished.*

Well, that certainly managed to break through his haze of panic. *"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. "And I don't even know what a Squib is."

"Rubbish!" snarled Filch. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"*

Harry fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tight just to block everything out, choosing to clench said appendages into fists by his side instead, because anger was always better than hiding. It was getting harder to breathe again, and he wasn't even entirely sure why he was getting so worked up. Hadn't Dumbledore said something about second years being unable to do this anyway?

*"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, and Harry's sense of foreboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good.

"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"

Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the deathday party. "… there were hundreds of ghosts, they'll tell you we were there —"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.

"Because — because —" Harry said, his heart thumping very fast; something told him it would sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear, "because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," he said.

"Without any supper?" said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."

"We weren't hungry," said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape's nasty smile widened.

"I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful," he said. "It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."*

Harry had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting. I'll just bet you do, you slimy git. Now that the threat of expulsion didn't seem to be hanging over his head, Harry found it very easy to fall back into his usual behavior. That is, he found it very easy to focus once more on his intense hatred for the Hogwarts Potions Master rather than that horrible sense of underlying panic. At least it was normal.

McGonagall had just opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, and nothing too nice either by the look on her face, when Jenkins' light-hearted voice said evenly, "Now, Severus, there's really no reason for all that, is there? Even if these three aren't being entirely truthful, Professor Dumbledore already pointed out that there's no way any of them could be responsible; they're only twelve." He smiled kindly down at the wide-eyed Gryffindors. "And being they're only twelve, I'm sure there are some secrets that aren't meant to be shared with a lot of old duffers like us, right?" He gave them a wink, forcing a shy smile from each. "Since they haven't committed any crime, they don't have to tell us why they were there if they don't want to. As you said, they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

*Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

Snape looked furious.*

Harry felt like a crushing weight had just been lifted off him.

There was a bit more hub-bub about it all. Filch was still furious and vehemently demanding someone be hanged for the crime, Dumbledore did his best to placate the man, assuring him his cat could be returned to normal (Ron swore softly in disappointment under his breath and Hermione elbowed him sharply) using those ghastly Mandrake plants in a potion.

*"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —"

"Excuse me," said Snape icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.* Harry held his breath, silently praying the overgrown bat would hex Lockhart into next week (and maybe get himself sacked in the process). Honestly, who in their right mind was stupid enough to get between Snape and his precious potions?

Dumbledore dismissed them then and they all but dashed away, ducking into an empty classroom a floor up from Lockhart's office. Harry was personally feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline now that they were safely in the clear. *"D'you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?"

"No," said Ron, without hesitation. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."*

That... managed in one sentence to deflate Harry's happiness, much like the abrupt popping of a balloon. Hearing voices no one else could hear... He swallowed thickly and tried not to dwell on it too much. *"What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened… What's that supposed to mean?"*

When they left the classroom about five minutes later, planning on hurrying up to the Gryffindor common room before Snape could slink out of the shadows and give them detention or take points or whatever else the git felt like doing that particular night, they were surprised to see a teacher was indeed standing in the hall, though luckily it wasn't Snape. Professor Jenkins stood there, eyebrows slightly raised, and from his position of leaning comfortably against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest, Harry had the feeling the man had known they were in there. Known and waited for them to come out. He bit his lip nervously, wondering if they were in trouble again.

But, of course, Jenkins just smiled, straightening up and walking towards them in a completely non-threatening manner. He certainly didn't look angry. In fact, he seemed just as cheerful as always. "Sorry to bother you lot again, but I was hoping to speak with Harry for a few minutes." His expression immediately grew a bit more sober. "Unless, of course, you're too tired. It is late, and after everything that happened..." He looked down at the smallest child, obviously waiting for his verdict.

Harry felt like Christmas had come early. “Tired? Me? Not at all.” He opened his eyes extra wide, just in case the professor got it in his head to argue. “You guys go on back,” he added absently to his friends. “I'll see you in a bit.”

The other two Gryffindors stared at him in obvious surprise. “Harry—” Hermione began, probably about to tell him it was late and they had to get up early for classes the next day and all in all try and talk him out of his decision for whatever reasons she had to disapprove. He blatantly ignored her, trotting obediently after the professor instead, never sparing a backwards glance.

The man led him silently up several staircases, and Harry easily recognized it as the way to the Astronomy tower. Once they'd neared it, Jenkins took a sharp right down a little-used corridor, letting a hand fall carelessly on the boy's thin shoulder and steering him into the third door on the left. “Here we are.”

Stepping in, Harry felt his mouth make an 'o' at the room, eyes darting to and fro to take everything in. Astronomy had never been of much interest for him, but he had to admit the messy room he'd just stepped into with its paintings of the night sky and starcharts covering the walls, not to mention all the odd little gadgets and gizmos littered about was pretty wicked. Looking up, he caught his breath at the large, moving model of the solar system hovering above them. “Your office, professor?”

“Yes.” The man was studying his face with obvious amusement. “Do you like it?”

“It's brilliant!” he said truthfully, gaze still on the ceiling. It was certainly better than McGonagall's fairly boring one with nothing of real interest in it and Snape's really creepy one with all the preserved dead things floating in jars. “Is all this yours?”

“Yes and no. Some of the things here were left by Professor Sinistra, some are from my personal collection.” He made his way to a cluttered desk, navigating through the organized chaos of the room with familiar ease. “Do have a seat, Harry,” he said softly, motioning to the rickety wooden chair in front of the desk. “Would you be amenable to a spot of tea?”

“Tea?” Harry blinked, coming back to himself. “Ah, yes, sir, tea would be great.” He sat and shifted around a bit, the chair creaking as he did so. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable of seats.

“As Severus— pardon me, Professor Snape already mentioned, deathday parties rarely have any food fit for a growing young boy.” A tray ladened with two steaming cups and a large plate of biscuits popped into existence from nowhere, teetering dangerously on the stacks of papers it had landed on. Jenkins carelessly levitated it to a safer spot and busied himself with spoiling one of the cups. “Milk, sugar?”

“Yes, please. A lot.” Harry immediately flushed after the words, berating himself for behaving like such a child, but the professor just smiled and added copious amounts of each.

“There you are,” he said, handing the cup over to the boy's much smaller hands. “Please, help yourself. No need to be shy.”

Taking a chocolate biscuit (Ron wasn't the only one who was hungry after missing dinner) he very nearly swallowed it whole, immediately reaching for another one. “Thank you, sir.”

“Really, it's nothing.” The man watched as Harry stuffed himself with baked goods for a few minutes before softly asking, “Are you all right, Harry? After what happened?”

The boy paused, cookie halfway in his mouth. All right? “Why wouldn't I be, sir?” It wasn't like much of anything had really happened, after all. He and his friends hadn't gotten in any trouble, and as for being accused of something they didn't do... well, nothing new there. Harry in particular was constantly accused of things he didn't do.

Like, say, attempting to add a snail's shell to a Hair-Raising potion in Potions class.

The man shrugged idly, as though he were merely curious and not at all concerned. “You just seemed awfully upset, that's all.” His eyes fixed back on the boy, and despite his light tone they were very serious. “I hope you didn't take Professor Snape's accusations to heart.”

Harry blinked. Snape? The professor thought he'd been worried over Snape? “Oh, no, sir, not me. Snape's always saying things like that about me. He hates me.” Like before, the lack of Snape's title went completely ignored. The boy stuffed a ginger biscuit into his mouth, trying to look adult and nonchalant, only to find it had been bigger than anticipated and could barely all fit properly, making his cheeks puff out like a squirrel's. Shifting awkwardly to bring a hand up and half-cover his mouth, he chewed like mad, hoping the professor hadn't noticed, all the while blushing steadily redder.

“Well now, Harry, I'm not sure I'd say Severus hates you.” Jenkins frowned thoughtfully before giving Harry a quick once over, brow creased in worry. “Though I must say, he does seem to give you a hard time rather often. It would almost appear he's always watching you specifically, waiting for you to... well, slip up, I suppose.”

Harry sat up straight at the edge of his seat, forcing the massive lump of food down his throat and nearly choking himself, all the while waving his arms excitedly. “Right, right? He does, doesn't he?” Roughly brushing away the moisture that had sprung to his eyes when he nearly became the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Suffocate-on-an-Overly-Sweetened-Dessert, he flashed the Astronomy professor a hearty grin, barely able to believe what he was hearing. Everyone knew Snape had it out for him, but never, never before had an adult admitted it. “He's always trying to get me in trouble, professor. He says I'm a spoiled brat and all I ever do is break the rules.” He made a face. “I do not always break the rules, and the few times I have, I had to. I mean, last year when I broke the rules I stopped Voldemort from coming back to life! He's really unfair about it all.”

Once his tirade was done, Harry felt a bit foolish, thinking it had been awfully overzealous of him to all but yell his woes out like that. Very immature; but Jenkins was surveying him with understanding in his eyes, making him feel warm and happy all over.

“I hardly think you're a brat, Harry. Rather, quite the opposite.” He drained his tea, giving the boy another long, searching look, the smallest of frowns marring his features. “I'd say compared to most children your age, you're decidedly not bratty. I may not have known you for very long, but I often wonder if you truly realize the extent of your own self-worth.”

Harry held his breath, not sure whether or not he was comfortable with where this conversation was going. A teacher in primary school just a few years back had once said something similar, had then gotten too close to things Harry never wanted to talk about, was terrified to ever even consider talking about. He'd had to start acting up in class, had to act like a real brat, like Dudley, in order to throw her off the scent. In order to make her dislike him, or at the very least, not like him as much as she had.

It was something he never wanted to have to do again. He could still remember how sick it had made him feel.

“Well, it's getting quite late, isn't it?” Jenkins said suddenly, his tone much lighter once again. Setting his cup down carefully and watching as dishes were whisked away again, he stood, Harry quickly scrambling to do the same. “Come on, Harry, I'll walk you back to your common room. Wouldn't do for you to get in trouble for being out past curfew after everything that happened earlier.”

No, it certainly wouldn't.

The walk back was silent, Jenkins' face maintaining that carefree, happily neutral expression he generally wore, making it look like he was always somewhere half in a daydream. He left Harry at the portrait of the Fat Lady with a pat on the shoulder and a very genuine, “Any time you want to talk about anything, Harry, anything at all, my door's always open to you. I truly enjoyed our little chat tonight.”

Harry watched him go feeling like he was floating on clouds. His only regret was that the man hadn't ruffled his hair this time.

It was just plain bad luck, really, that Harry had double Potions the very next morning. At least this time, though, he was thoroughly prepared to face Snape's particularly intense wrath and didn't need to wonder over why the man seemed even more vindictive than usual. He was furthermore prepared to be given detention, whether he deserved one or not. That's why...

“Mr. Potter, tell me. When you get up every morning, do you go out of your way to make yourself into such an eyesore or is it an ingrained constituent of genetics that makes you such an affront to those of us with a modicum of respectability.”

The rest of the class watched on in blank silence, only Hermione narrowing her eyes sharply at the completely sudden and seemingly unnecessary comment. Harry, meanwhile, debated whether or not he should pretend he had understood it at all. Based on his friend's reaction, he had rather obviously just been insulted (not that that surprised him), likely for something trivial, and Snape was just being a bastard to bring it up at all. He could pretend to be righteously angry and therefore might manage to fool the man; but he really didn't feel up to putting in such effort. “Er...”

The professor rolled dark eyes at the boy's obvious confusion. “You look like a vagrant, Potter. Do you even own a comb?”

Harry completely ignored the snickers that comment brought about from the Slytherins in the room, still trying to convince himself he had indeed heard correctly. His hair? Snape was making fun of his hair? He knew it was always a bird's nest, but still... The oily snake had no right to pick at anyone's hair until he learned the meaning of shampoo! “As a matter of fact, sir, yes, I do own a comb. I even know how to use it.” It really wasn't his fault his hair was such a perpetual mess, nothing he tried could ever make it behave. The only way his hair would ever lay flat is if he took half a bottle of wax to it every morning and made himself look like Malfoy, and that was just... ewww!

“Indeed. I'm quite sure, Mr. Potter, that we're all duly impressed.”

The Gryffindor did his best to ignore the blond shaking in near silent laughter across the room.

“I believe since you are apparently incapable of presenting yourself like the proper young wizard you supposedly are, you can join me in the evenings here. For a week, shall we say?”

Malfoy was now vibrating so hard he looked like he was having a seizure, and from his right Harry heard Ron's not so soft exclamation of, “What! He can't do that!” He, for his part, didn't bat an eyelash. He knew everyone in the room, including the Potions Master himself, expected him to scream and throw and fit and then pout for the rest of the class when he inevitably didn't get his way... and up until quite recently he would have done just that. Except now, Harry knew that was exactly what Snape wanted. He wanted Harry to act like the spoiled little brat he always said he was, and Harry wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

Besides, these detentions didn't have a damn thing to do with his hair or even with Snape just being a hateful git. This was Snape's way of punishing him for not telling the truth about why he and his friends were in the hallway with Mrs. Norris last night. And while, in his opinion, they still hadn't been doing anything wrong, he knew Snape certainly thought they had. It was a little easier to calmly accept a detention when he had actually done something to earn it; not that he was happy about it, of course, because it still wasn't bloody fair.

Turned out he had bigger things to worry about anyway besides Snape and his stupid grudge or whatever it was. Later that very day at lunch Justin Finch-Fletchley all but ran from him when he was just trying to say hello.

*“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot,” said Ron*, but Harry did care. And though Justin hadn't necessarily seemed to be the brightest crayon in the box, 'idiot' was an awfully strong word. Harry personally would have gone with something more like 'naïve'. Besides, he had been really friendly.

Then, of course, things just got worse from there after Binns told their class about the Chamber of Secrets. Because, apparently, Harry was the heir of Slytherin bent on destroying all Muggleborns. Never mind the fact that Hermione, one of his best friends, was Muggleborn, let alone his own mother. It did make him feel a little uneasy, though, recalling how the hat had nearly put him in Slytherin. Because only bad wizards and witches came from Slytherin, right? What did that make him?

He also had the unfortunate pleasure that day of seeing the inside of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

By the time he had finished the day at eight o'clock, having scrubbed desks for his first detention with Snape, Harry was exhausted, both physically and mentally. He also knew he had a Transfiguration essay due the next day that wasn't quite done and a reading assignment in Charms he should do unless he wanted to be lost in class, but at that moment, the thought of returning to the Gryffindor common room was just too much. He wanted to be somewhere quiet, somewhere where he could just relax and properly organize his thoughts. Somewhere where no one would bother him about this ruddy Chamber stuff and he could feel secure.

His feet led him, without command, up numerous flights of stairs until he stood for the second time in as many days in front of a very plain-looking oak door. Tentatively, he knocked.

“Harry!”

“H'lo, professor.” The boy shifted awkwardly, feeling foolish for coming. Yes, the man had extended an open invitation the night before, but still. It wasn't like anything was actually wrong; Harry shouldn't need to seek out his Astronomy professor.

Then again, though there was plenty of surprise there, the man's face looked utterly delighted as well. Maybe he really had meant it last night when he said he enjoyed talking with Harry. He definitely didn't seem upset at least.

“I'm glad you came.” The man's eyes were kind and sincere, forcing the boy to relax even further. “Please, come in.”

Harry did so eagerly, almost instinctively going to sit in the same chair he'd occupied the previous night. He did his best not to wince when his sore back (lousy Snape) hit the hard wood. “Sorry to bother you again, sir,” he said softly, truly meaning every word of it. The last thing he wanted to do was become a burden to one of the few people who seemed to honestly like him.

Jenkins looked absolutely scandalized. “Harry, you're never a bother. If you were, I wouldn't have invited you back.”

Trusting the man in a way he rarely did with adults, Harry let himself become fully unguarded. He was normally much more diligent with his defenses but... well, he rarely felt so wanted as he did then. “Thank you, sir.”

The professor took up the seat behind his desk and leaned forward to fold his hands together, eyes showing some clear concern. “Are you all right, Harry? Happy as I am to see you, I wasn't expecting it to be so soon. Did something happen?”

“No— yes— well, sorta.” Harry scratched the back of his head awkwardly, wishing he were smarter, or at least more eloquent. “Nothing happened really, s'just... Snape really pisses me off, sir.”

Rather than a rebuke as every other professor would give him, Jenkins' lips twitched in amusement. “Yes, I gathered that much from before. What did he do now?”

“He gave me detention,” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest sullenly. “For my hair.”

Professor Jenkins listened politely and attentively while he vented, surreptitiously ordering tea for the both of them. Harry's chest felt warm when the man made his tea for him just the way he liked it, and even warmer when he noticed the biscuits on the plate were only the kinds he had eaten last night, his favorites. He smiled. Jenkins had noticed.

“Well, Harry, that certainly wasn't very fair of him,” the man agreed easily once the boy was done. “However, I must admit I suspect a greater plot in the works.”

Harry snorted uncouthly, watching as the excess air rippled across the top of his tea. “Well yeah, I figured that out the first time, when I had detention for 'disturbing the peace of the courtyard'. Every time I do something he doesn't like he gives me detention for something else. You know, because he can't give me detention for what he really wants to.” He ran a hand up through his hair agitatedly, not really paying attention to the odd look Jenkins got in his eyes when he did so. “It's like, he hates me, so he's turned it into a game.”

The professor cleared his throat harshly. “Yes well... Slytherins do like their games, Harry.”

Harry thought about that, about the way Malfoy always seemed to be playing with his victims before going in for the kill (except for him, of course, then the blond went right for the jugular), and decided Jenkins was right. Slytherins did like their games, and he was the latest piece for Snape to play with and move about the board as he pleased. Frustrated with it all, he sagged heavily back in his chair, flinching upright again almost immediately afterwards.

“Oh dear, that silly old thing. Can't be very comfortable.” Jenkins eyed the rickety little seat of wood critically before mumbling, “Well I was never very good at Transfiguration, but...”

A wave of his wand and an unrecognizable spell later, and Harry was seated on a very comfortable, excessively cushioned armchair, complete with red and gold stripes. He grinned. “Wow, thanks.”

The older man waved him off. “Enough about Severus, Harry, tell me about the rest of your day. Surely that went a bit better?”

The laugh that sounded from his mouth startled even him with its bitterness as he sank back gratefully into the upholstery. “Not quite.”

They talked for at least an hour more, before the professor gently told him he'd better leave. “Don't want to be keeping you up too late. And you said you had homework to finish?”

“Er...”

The man smiled softly. “Bring it with you next time. I'm sure I can be of some assistance.”

Professor Jenkins declined walking Harry back to his common room this time, saying there was still plenty of time until curfew and, “I'm sure you wouldn't want to be seen walking about with your old professor now.”

Harry frantically shook his head. “No, sir. I mean— I wouldn't mind being seen with you, sir.”

Jenkins' smile changed a little at his words, but Harry couldn't quite place his finger on it. Not that he really cared, since it was still wholly pleasant. “Thank you, Harry, that's very kind of you. You're such a good boy.”

Harry blinked stupidly, not quite understanding. Good boy? His face got very hot. No one had ever called him anything like that. Not ever. He was always the freak, the burden, the hero, the savior, but he was never... He swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Jenkins reached out and ran his fingers through the boy's hair, chuckling lightly when Harry leaned appreciatively into the touch. “Don't listen to Severus, Harry. Your hair's quite all right just the way it is. In fact...”

Harry felt the man then purposely manipulate his dark locks around, made them stick up even further, made them more messy than usual.

“There we are. That ought to drive Severus up the wall, eh?”

Oh yeah. This man was definitely, without a doubt, the most brilliant adult Harry had ever met.

-Mangled-

Severus tried, he really did, but he couldn't help but frown at the somber, dark-haired boy sitting in front of his desk with arms crossed moodily over his chest. He'd been trying, for the better part of an hour, to get the child to open up. Both because it was his job as the boy's Head of house and because he had once been there himself. He knew what it was like to tear yourself apart over the actions of your father; so likewise, he knew talking about it, being able to get everything off your chest in a safe environment was the best medicine you could hope for and just about the only plausible cure.

The problem was that no matter what he said or did, Theo Nott remained silent and sullen. It was rather apparent to Severus that the boy simply didn't find him trustworthy enough to share his secrets with, and he knew he shouldn't be surprised. He knew how hard it was to take that first step and say those first words. A part of him just really wished he could be of more help to one of his favorite little snakes.

“Very well, Theo, you may go. Please remember that my door is always open should you wish to speak with me. About anything.”

The boy scowled at him before offering only a curt nod and making a hasty yet dignified exit, neither fully acknowledging the offer nor even the familiar way in which he'd been addressed. Turning left out the door he quickly stepped out of sight, forcing Severus' frown into new proportions.

That wasn't the direction of the Slytherin common room. Mind there was still an hour until the boy's ten o'clock curfew, but where was the child disappearing to for an hour? The library? Or perhaps (hopefully) the hunger of perpetually skipping meals had finally caught up with him and he was slipping away to the kitchens for a bit. Curiosity getting the better of him, Severus Disillusioned himself and stealthily followed.

His intrigue grew as the boy went to neither of the previously assumed locations, instead taking Severus on a long walk from the dungeons all the way up towards the towers. Just where on earth did Theo think he was going? And... was that Potter?

Sure enough, another, even smaller raven-haired boy was rapidly approaching from the other direction. Potter paused when he caught sight of Theo and his green eyes darted about for a moment, obviously scouting the area for other, more hostile green and silver ties. Finding none, he relaxed and continued on as normal, surprising the Potions professor by actually nodding congenially in Theo's direction. An action the taller, pale boy reciprocated after only a moment's hesitation. Interesting.

It was as Potter passed directly by him that the boy stopped dead in his tracks, face scrunching in confusion as his eyes once again examined his surroundings. Severus smirked. So the brat could sense him but still couldn't see through the charm. It must be nearly maddening to know someone was there, watching you, but being helpless as to determine who or what they were.

After a moment, Potter shrugged and kept on his way, making Severus hesitate as to which boy he should follow. He was curious as to Theo's destination, yes, but at the same time he wanted to know just what Potter was up to, walking around with that stupid smile on his face and... had the boy purposely made even more a mess of his hair?! Horrid little brat. He was clearly up to something. Deciding it was more important to catch Potter in the act than invade young Nott's privacy, Severus changed directions and followed after the Gryffindor, smirking at the way the boy would occasionally glance searchingly over his shoulder. Oh yes, Potter could feel he was being followed all right.

The man was disappointed when Potter led him nowhere but the Gryffindor common room, cursing his decision and wishing he had indeed followed Theo instead. Regardless, he now knew Potter was plotting something. He must be, wandering around nearly uninhabited parts of the castle at night, grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary. Yes, Potter had some sort of mischief in the works; and Severus would be sure to stop him in the act. He'd wipe that smile from the boy's face easily enough. He looked forward to it.

-Warped-

“Harry!” Hermione called brightly the moment he stepped through the portrait hole, bringing the boy hero's thoughts forcefully away from the presence he knew had been following him. Looking around, he spotted her and Ron tucked tightly in the corner— far away from Percy and any other possible prying eyes. Hastening over, he gave them both a cheery grin. “Hullo.”

“Where you been, mate?” Ron demanded irritably. “We've been looking all over for you. I thought that greasy git normally only keeps you an hour.”

Harry nodded absently, taking his bag from Hermione's side and digging through it to find his Transfiguration homework. “Yeah, he did.” Okay, so the essay was about three quarters of the way done. If he stuffed in a paragraph that went into detail about the more vague subjects earlier on and then wrote a lengthy conclusion that should be enough to—

“So then where've you been?”

Blinking stupidly, Harry glanced up, wondering what Ron was on about. “Excuse me?”

Rolling his eyes, Ron repeated once more, “Where've you been? Y'know, if you weren't with Snape?”

Unaccountably, the smaller boy found himself getting quickly annoyed, mostly by his friend's tone. It was as if Ron thought he was entitled to know where Harry was every second of every day. Which he most certainly wasn't, best mates or not. Harry was the one entitled to some normal privacy, something he rarely got in the castle and often got too much of at the Dursleys. Wasn't he allowed to have a few secrets not meant for the public eye? “I just took a walk, Ron. Cleared my head.”

The ginger pulled a face. “Why?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because I just spent the whole day with everyone staring and whispering behind my back?” Was Ron being thick on purpose or was he really so oblivious that he hadn't noticed the increasing attention being heaped on his friend?

Luckily, Hermione was quick to catch onto Harry's growing anger and believed a distraction was in order. “That's what we wanted to tell you,” she hissed excitedly, looking over her shoulder to be sure they were definitely alone. “We think we know who the real heir of Slytherin is.”

Now she had Harry's full attention. Sitting up straighter, he looked to her expectantly, hopeful. If they could catch the real culprit, it would mean people would stop blaming him. Less stares, less whispers, and no one would run from him again.

“We went over the possible candidates, and only one really makes sense.”

Harry barely needed to think on that. “Malfoy.”

“Exactly.” Hermione's smile turned a bit predatory, making the raven-haired boy shiver, glad he wasn't the one she was after. “And best of all, we know how we can prove it.” 

When Snape opened his eyes the next morning, he was immediately in a good mood. It took him a moment to remember why, true, but when he did... Chuckling as he made his way to the shower, anticipation roiled in his gut, like a small child on Christmas Eve. There was a Quidditch match today. Not just any Quidditch match, though, oh no. This match would be the one where he finally saw James Potter's precious son beaten at his own game. Where the lions would once more lose to the snakes, and he could once more rub the delicious victory in Minerva's distraught, wrinkled face.

As the warm water hit his back he laughed again, already imagining the sweetness of it all. Lucius had been near desperate to get his own spoiled brat on the team, and while Draco was a fair flier, Flint had confided to Snape that he wasn't the top choice for Seeker. Maybe in a year or two, sure, but at the moment he was still too young and inexperienced; and he didn't quite possess the natural talent the Potter brat seemed to have. Of course, Marcus Flint was a true Slytherin, through and through. When Draco had failed to make the team on his own merit and written home crying to daddy, Lucius had immediately come through, 'donating' a whole set of new brooms to the Slytherin team. Flint knew the drill, and even the original Seeker, fifth year Darren White understood and stepped aside with a decent amount of grace. They knew how the game was played, and those with the money had the power. It was a lesson nearly all of his little snakes learned early on.

Of course, what this all meant for Severus himself was a near guaranteed path straight to the Quidditch cup. Even if the thought of getting there on Lucius Malfoy's dime left a bitter taste in his mouth... well, seeing James Potter's crestfallen face would be more than enough to make up for it. Besides, there was hardly anything he could do about it. He knew how the game was played as well.

Waking at six and being clean, dressed, and ready for the day by six-thirty, Severus still had an hour and a half until he headed up to the Great Hall, seeing as how breakfast on weekends didn't start until eight; so naturally, he spent that small portion of the morning in his lab, brewing. Which was why he entered the Hall at approximately eight o'clock with his freshly washed hair now hanging in stringy, oily strands about his face, scowl naturally put into place. No wonder the children thought he had such terrible hygiene.

The rest of the morning was spent grading essays until eleven, when he, like everyone else, headed down towards the Quidditch pitch, a definite spring in his step. This would be perfect, what he'd been waiting for since last year when the little brat first showed himself as his father's bloody clone. Glancing at the somewhat overcast sky, he just hoped it didn't rain. He wanted a clear view of both Potter's and Minerva's faces when they tasted defeat.

Taking his seat up high in the teacher's stands, he fought the urge to fidget impatiently as they slowly began to fill with spectators. After what felt like positively forever (clearly he'd regressed back to mental age of ten at some point during the night), the players flew out and took their positions, Slytherin in handsome green, Gryffindor in garish red. Really, such bright colors were much too flashy and foolhardy to boot; it made the whole lion team such excellent targets. Then they wondered why the got fouled so often.

His ears were suddenly assaulted by the sound of Lee Jordan crowing into his wand about the players, amplified far more than need be (really, wasn't the boy irritating enough in class?), and not for the first time he wondered how Gryffindor got away with using an announcer from their own house when it was their team who was playing. Shouldn't they, perhaps, switch off in order to be fair? They were the noble ones, after all.

Ignoring the over-enthusiastic Professor Vector behind him and the pleasantly smiling Jenkins on his left, Severus forced his full attention towards the match, noting how those new brooms really did wonders for most of his team. Most of them. Young Malfoy appeared to be more interested in showing off his superior speed to Potter than doing his job and searching for the Snitch. To make matters worse, Severus could tell even from where he was sitting that Potter wasn't taking the bait but rather continued to diligently scour the sky. It did not please him when a Gryffindor was more focused and determined than one of his own, and should they lose the game due to Malfoy's ridiculous posturing...

A shot of black went streaking at full speed towards Potter's disheveled head, and Severus didn't think on it much except to wonder which of his Beaters had executed such a fine shot. Then when one of the twin Weasels whacked it away and it came careening straight back, an odd little niggling started in the back of his mind. When it happened again, Severus was fully prepared to admit something was wrong. The Bludger had obviously been fixed to go after bespectacled boy heroes, and that didn't bode well for the tiny second year who, after that last pass, just barely managed to cling to his broom.

"Say, isn't that a bit odd?" Jenkins mumbled next to him, his smile finally gone for once.

"It's been tampered with," Vector agreed, though Snape ignored the both of them entirely, his dark eyes affixed on a certain old man sitting across the field in the visitor stands (likely attempting to keep a close eye on Lucius Malfoy, if Severus wagered a guess). The Weasleys had enough of a brain between the two of them to call a time-out, but surely they weren't intending for the game to go on? He was well-versed in the rules of how absolutely nothing interrupted a Quidditch match, but these were unusual circumstances. Not only was this not a professional match (this was a school and these were still children last he'd checked), but someone had clearly tampered with the game's equipment. If that didn't call for a delay, what did?

Yet somehow, he wasn't surprised when Dumbledore just sat there calmly, eyes most likely twinkling as though all was right with the world. Barmy old coot. Fine. Surely Minerva would... One glance down towards the announcer's stand where Lee Jordan continued to prattle on endlessly and he knew no, Minerva wouldn't do anything to stop it. Because much like him, she had looked towards Albus first; and unlike him, she had a nasty habit of revering Albus' word as law. Meaning when she saw how Albus thought everything was just fine and dandy, she forced herself to agree, never mind one of her little lion cubs was in danger.

Cursing the stupidity of reckless, foolhardy Gryffindors, Severus was actually tempted for a brief moment to stop the match himself. As the Slytherin Head of House, he was the only other party capable of doing it (even Madame Hooch as the referee wasn't able to actually stop a match), but why should he? If those two idiots wanted Potter to get hurt, fine, let the brat get hurt. Albus likely saw it as some sort of character building exercise, Minerva was too blind to see anything Albus didn't, and it wasn't his responsibility to take care of a boy who wasn't even in his house. Besides, it was highly unlikely the Bludger would kill him. This might actually be entertaining to watch.

When the time-out ended and the player's returned to their positions once more, Jenkins literally jerked in his seat, eyes positively huge. "Surely they're not... How can they just keep playing? The Bludger..."

Severus' lips quirked at the man's distress. He'd noticed after that interrupted detention how fond Jenkins was of the little brat (another member of his fan club, no doubt), and it was highly amusing to see how worried the man looked now. Even if he did, to a degree, share his sentiments.

At first he was right, it was incredibly entertaining to watch James Potter's son run away from an angry Bludger, looking positively ridiculous in some of the maneuvers he used to avoid the damn thing; but as the rain started to come down and Potter continuously avoided getting his head smashed in where most others would have failed, it became less captivating and more irritating. Because the longer the boy managed to keep his seat and all of his limbs intact, the more impressive the whole display became. Many of the students, still laughing and jeering might not recognize that, but he unfortunately did. He would not be impressed by anyone with the name Potter.

Jenkins positively jumped when the boy held still a moment too long and the furious black ball smashed hard into his arm. Even Severus internally winced, knowing how bone and Bludger did not mix. Well, no harm done. Now Gryffindor would have to call in a reserve Seeker (if they even had one) and Potter would have to— What the devil was the boy doing?

Feeling as though he must be in some sort of horrible, awful nightmare, Severus watched Potter nose-dive at a familiar head of blond hair, the owner of said hair scrambling to get out of the way before they collided. He watched the boy, dominant arm dangling uselessly by his side, grip the slippery broom with his knees and reach out his remaining arm to close his fingers tightly around the elusive golden ball before falling to the muddy ground with a splat. Harry Potter had just caught the Snitch, the Snitch which had been sitting right above his Seeker's head, with a rogue Bludger after him and a broken arm.

Severus felt as though his stomach had just dropped down to his feet. He was impressed by a Potter.

-Twisted-

When Harry felt something wet splashing against his face followed only shortly by a stabbing pain in his arm, his first thought was that Ripper had finally caught more than just his ankle. The mad dog had clearly used his arm as a chew toy and was now in the process of drooling all over his conquest. Amazing how much like Dudley an animal could be. Or was it technically the other way around?

"Harry!"

Oh, and Hermione was here. That... wasn't right.

Forcing his eyes open, he was immediately accosted by a set of very white teeth which could only possibly belong to one person. *"Oh, no, not you," he moaned.

"Doesn't know what he's saying," said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. "Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm."*

Oh no, the boy thought, terrified. Someone help me. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape. Someone please help me.

He should have known better, of course. No one ever came to his rescue, no matter what the situation. Why should this be any different? That was why he suddenly found himself lying on the ground with absolutely no bones to speak of in his right arm. Just wonderful.

"Here now, what's the hold up? Why hasn't this boy been taken to the Hospital Wing?"

Turning hopeful eyes towards the sound, Harry squinted at the sea of legs to see them parting, making way for someone. When Professor Jenkins stepped fully into view, Harry was happy enough to kiss him, thinking that for once, even if they were late, someone had come for him. Jenkins would save him from Lockhart now, right? Then again... Jenkins was a really nice person. He might not want a confrontation—

"What in Merlin's name?" The Astronomy professor dropped down to his knees, shouldering Lockhart rather forcibly out of the way as he gently reached forward and took Harry's boneless arm into his hands. Harry had to look away to keep from being sick at the sight. "How on earth— Harry, what happened? The Bludger hit you, so I'd assumed you'd maybe broken..." The man trailed off when he saw green eyes focused on Lockhart's stupidly grinning face and the kind expression of concern he wore tightened. "Oh."

"My fault, that," Lockhart quipped brightly, as though removing someone's bones was an everyday sort of mistake. "A simple side-effect of the spell I used— not a common one, of course, but it does occasionally—"

"Why didn't you just send him up to the Hospital Wing in the first place?"

There was a very prominent silence after that, everyone present going quiet in shock. None of the students had ever heard Professor Jenkins interrupt someone before, let alone speak in such cold tones; but he'd done it now to Lockhart. On Harry's behalf.

"Ah, yes, well— best he does that now, eh? Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger if you'd—"

"I've got it under control," Jenkins cut him off again, moving to slip his arm beneath Harry's shoulder blades and help him stand. The boy wobbled a bit on his feet once he was up, but the strong arm that wrapped itself around him and pulled him safely into his professor's side kept him on his feet. It also made his stomach flutter and his chest feel warm. "Perhaps next time, Gilderoy, you'll leave the healing work up to the professionals."

Everyone watched on in astonishment as Jenkins helped Harry up to the Hospital Wing, his arm never leaving the boy even when he was clearly all right. Once away from prying eyes and open ears Harry dared to lean a bit more against the older man's coat, sending a shy smile his way. "Thank you, sir. For helping me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. It's my job to look after my students."

Harry nodded in agreement, it was true, but he somehow just knew the easygoing man wouldn't have told Lockhart off so thoroughly for just any of his students. Was he wrong, or was he really something special to the Astronomy teacher? "Thanks anyway."

When they reached the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey wasn't happy. "If you'd come straight to me, I could have had it mended in a heartbeat. As it is now—"

"You can fix it, can't you?" Harry asked worriedly, vaguely registering the pat on the shoulder he got from Jenkins.

"Oh, I can fix it, all right; but it will be painful. I can't believe you allowed this to happen, Roger."

Blinking rather stupidly (who was Roger?), it was only after seeing Professor Jenkins' flushed embarrassment that Harry realized she'd called the man by his first name; and he was oddly excited that he now knew something else about his favorite professor.

"I'm afraid I didn't arrive until after the damage was done, Madame," Professor Jenkins murmured softly, head bowed like a scolded child. "Gilderoy was—"

"Oh. Him." With a disdainful snort, the mediwitch tossed a pair of pajamas onto the bed, turning to leave as she went on, "You'll need to stay the night. Change into those, Mr. Potter, you know the drill."

Grimacing, the boy sat up, reaching his one good arm down to untie his muddy Quidditch shoes, biting his tongue in annoyance when he saw they were rather thickly knotted and nearly impossible to undo without two hands.

"Ah, here, Harry, let me." The man bent and gently brushed his hand away, fumbling with the laces himself while Harry sat there and tried not to smile. This was nice. He'd never had an adult help him when he was hurt before. Aunt Petunia had always just screeched at him to get cleaned up before he got blood on her floor, Uncle Vernon had thrown him out of sight into his cupboard, and thus far, the only adult at Hogwarts that had helped him a bit when he got injured was Madame Pomfrey because that was her job. None of the other professors had ever done anything like this for him before; not even Professor McGonagall and she was his Head of House.

"Thank you, sir."

Jenkins slipped the first shoe off and started on the other, shooting the boy a glance and a sigh. "Really, Harry, you have to stop all this thanking business. Save it for when it's really necessary, hm?"

Harry blushed and ducked his head. It wasn't necessary right now? "Right. Sorry." He'd just wanted the professor to know how much he appreciated the help, that was all.

Jenkins dropped the other shoe, another heavier sigh following. "You're awfully sensitive over some issues, aren't you?"

The smaller male stared, unsure how to answer or even if he was expected to. "Er..."

"Never mind." The professor reached out and ruffled the boy's hair, smiling at how Harry still leaned into the touch like a happy cat. "Let's get the rest of these dirty things off."

Before Harry could protest, the man was stripping away his filthy uniform, tossing it uncaringly to the floor. He tried not to blush when before too long he was in just his pants, but he wasn't used to being seen in so little despite living in a dorm and it was embarrassing. Though he figured since he and Professor Jenkins were both men it didn't really matter...

Fidgeting and waiting for the man to help him into his pajamas next, Harry wondered what the hold up was. Peeking up from beneath his fringe, he was a bit startled to see the professor... staring. Just staring, with an odd look on his face, one he didn't recognize. The boy quickly looked down at himself, wondering if he was injured or had something on him, but there was nothing there. Just his skinny, pale body clad in only a pair of pants that thankfully weren't too huge and worn. Confused he looked back up, raising his eyebrows the older man's way. What was wrong? "Er... sir?"

As though waking from a trance, Jenkins started and then turned rather red himself before giving the boy a kind smile. "Sorry, Harry, got lost there for a moment. Let's get your clothes on before you catch cold."

Smiling back, completely unconcerned, Harry reached for the pajama bottoms, only to have the man take them from him and put them on the boy himself. Besides the fact that Jenkins seemed to be moving awfully slow, Harry didn't mind, unable to recall a time where someone had helped him dress.

"There we are," Jenkins said cheerfully, reaching for the pajama top as well before pausing. Leaning forward, the man startled Harry when he wrapped his hands around the boy's chest, frowning at how far he could reach. "You should really eat more, Harry, you're far too thin. Look at how clearly your ribs show."

Harry scowled, not ever liking it when comments were made about his weight. It really wasn't his fault his relatives never fed him; or at least it wasn't something he could control. There was nothing he could do about being magical.

The professor moved his thumb just a fraction against his sensitive skin, and before he knew it, Harry was giggling like a little girl. Damn.

"Oh?" Jenkins looked incredibly amused. "What's this?"

"It's— it's nothing, sir. I'm just a little ticklish."

"Oh really?"

Oh shit, Harry thought right before he was being mercilessly suffocated with laughter as the man ran his fingers along his ribcage. Doubling over and attempting to bat the hands away, he gasped out, "S-stop... c'mon, I... ahaha!"

Chuckling happily himself, Jenkins finally relented, though he didn't release the boy from his grasp. Calming down and managing to catch his breath, Harry wondered what the professor was doing, running his hands over him like that. Was he... petting him? That's sort of what it felt like, and it was rather odd. The tickling he understood, but what exactly were these stroking motions about? "Sir?"

"Hm?"

"Er... what—"

Jenkins' smile was friendly, warm; affectionate. "You're such a good boy, Harry."

Fully laying back, any awkwardness long gone, Harry smiled too. He was a good boy.

-Deformed-

*Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.

"Get off!" he said loudly, and then, "Dobby!"

The house-elf's goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

"Harry Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably. "Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?"

"What're you doing here?" he said. "And how did you know I missed the train?"* No... he knew exactly how the elf had known. Just like the letters earlier that summer. "You blocked the barrier. You made us miss the train. Do you have any idea how much trouble we got in for that?"

"Dobby is most sorry, sir; but Harry Potter should have gone home. Evil things are happening at Hogwarts... and there is even more danger here than Dobby first thought. It is not safe for Harry Potter here, not safe at all."

"What evil things?" Harry sat up as quickly as he could when he was so off-balance due to his arm. "Does this have to do with the writing on the wall? Mrs. Norris?"

Nodding his head while his ears flapped about wildly Dobby agreed, "That is part of it, yes, sir; but there is more. More danger towards Harry Potter that Dobby did not foresee. Harry Potter must go home and get away from that man!"

Blinking bewildered, Harry tried to follow along with the near hysterical little house-elf's chatter. Man? What man? Was... it like last year? When Quirrel had Voldemort fused to the back of his head and tried to kill him? If he was in danger from a professor, his first guess would be Snape but... Snape was mean, not really dangerous... "What do you mean, Dobby? What man? Who's after me?" The unsaid 'this time' hung thickly in the air, and Harry was pretty sure even a generally oblivious creature like Dobby could sense it.

Dobby made an odd gesture towards his mouth, like he couldn't speak, before seeming to change his mind. Obviously this wasn't like the previous situation earlier in the summer where his 'family' had forbidden him to discuss the subject, leaving the house-elf to bang his head off random bits of furniture in penance. This was something else entirely, and Dobby was free to speak of it as he pleased. "The man who was with Harry Potter before. The man who helped Harry Potter after he was hit by Dobby's Bludger."

The man who helped... Did Dobby really consider Lockhart's folly as help? Surely even he wasn't that daft. Unless... unless he meant Professor Jenkins; but that was just absurd. "Professor Jenkins isn't after me. He's nice, and he always helps me out, and he really listens, and... hang on. Did you just say it was your Bludger that did this?"

He got his answer when the house-elf looked sheepishly away.

"Dobby—"

A sudden noise made both of the pair start in surprise. Dobby turned frantically towards the angry boy, squeaking desperately, "Listen! Harry Potter must go home! If he stays here—"

"Don't you get it?" Harry snapped, fed up with all this nonsensical talk of danger and doom and running away. "I can't go home because this is my home. Hogwarts is where I belong, and I'm not about to leave it; no matter what danger might be here."

Dobby's whole frame seemed to quiver, but a second, louder noise alerted him to the fact that he was out of time. "Then Harry Potter must at least promise Dobby to stay away from that man. He is dangerous. He will hurt Harry Potter."

"What, like your Bludger did?" The anger was bubbling up in Harry's gut as the elf's words played over and over in his head. "Don't you dare talk about Professor Jenkins like that. Don't you say a word about him! I won't let you—"

The Hospital Wing doors finally opened with a small bang, and Dobby instantly disappeared in a puff of smoke while Harry threw himself back into a lying position on the bed. Pretending to be asleep and peeking out through a small slit in mostly closed eyes, he felt his stomach get sick as his gaze fell on the Petrified form of little Colin Creevey.

The next morning Harry's arm was back to normal, even if a bit stiff, and Madame Pomfrey released him after nearly forcing an unwanted bowl of porridge down his throat. Harry dutifully swallowed the thick, bland goop as quickly as he could, his stomach roiling all the while and his eyes darting consistently towards the bed he knew Colin was lying on, stiff as a statue and dead to the world... maybe. Probably. Petrified people couldn't hear, could they? Certainly couldn't see, right? Honestly, how could anyone think about eating after seeing that? It had been bad enough when the victim was Mrs. Norris, but a person...

Nearly running to the common room, he was greatly disappointed when neither Ron nor Hermione were there. He'd thought they'd be interested to know whether or not his bones had grown back properly, but apparently something was more important. Now he had to wait to tell them about Colin and Dobby.

Turning to leave (why bother staying when the people he wanted weren't there), Harry took a moment to pause and think, wondering if he should even mention seeing Dobby at all. He wanted to let them know it was the little elf who had fixed the Bludger, yes, but at the same time, he didn't want them to know what the crazy thing had said about Professor Jenkins. It seemed terribly wrong to sully the man's good name when Dobby had obviously been confused or just plain insane. Anyone with a brain could tell the professor was a genuinely kind, good man.

Much like previous times before, Harry was standing in front of said man's office door almost before he realized his feet had taken him somewhere. Not hesitating this time, the boy reached up to knock, hearing the cheerful, "Come in," only seconds later. Another minute and he was comfortably slouched in his personalized red and gold armchair, prattling on endlessly to the smiling man about everything and yet nothing important. Finally, he tentatively admitted to having spotted Colin in the Hospital Wing last night. Jenkins concerned frown didn't surprise him, and after hashing it all out with the older man he felt much better about it all. It was horrible, yes, but Colin wasn't dead. Being Petrified meant he could be revived with time, and with Professor Sprout working on the Mandrakes, there was no doubt Colin would be right as rain soon enough.

Sighing softly and truly feeling like an odd weight had lifted off his chest, Harry said, "Thanks, professor. Guess I needed to talk with someone more than I thought."

Jenkins waved him off benignly. "Once again, Harry, it's never any trouble talking with you."

The boy understood the words, of course, but he had trouble truly coming to terms with them in his mind. He'd spent his whole childhood being told he was a burden, so to have someone now show such interest in his mundane worries and problems was almost too much to comprehend. No one just did something for him and expected nothing in return; especially adults. "I just wish there was something I could do for you, professor. After everything you've been doing for me."

The man's eyes lit up, his smile morphed to something a bit more... triumphant, and he swallowed thickly, Harry watching the bobbing of his throat with interest and a bit of apprehension. "Now, Harry, you know that really isn't necessary. You hardly owe me for doing my duty as a professor... However, you're such a good boy, extending such an offer. I'll keep it in mind, all right?"

Grinning stupidly after the praise and congratulating himself for doing something right, Harry nodded vigorously in agreement. "All right. Anything you want, sir, really, and I'll do it for you. Just ask."

Jenkins laughed lightly, though it sounded different than usual. Huskier, deeper. "Oh, don't worry, Harry. I will."

-Perverted-

The brat was positively incorrigible! He was a menace, a blight on society, an absolute scoundrel of a child. How dare he throw anything, let alone an explosive into a cauldron in Snape's classroom; and after he'd already been caught with that snail's shell earlier in the year. He doubted even James Potter would have the gall to pull such a stunt as a second year.

Still seething, Severus sunk down into his office chair, truly unsure of what he should do. He couldn't prove it had been the horrid little brat, so he therefore couldn't get the boy in any real trouble like he deserved. He could, of course, give him detention again, but loathe as he was to admit it, that no longer seemed to be working. Really he suspected the boy just needed a few good hidings, and he'd gladly be the one to administer them if Albus wouldn't kill him for it. Not because he'd struck the golden boy, of course, but because the manipulative old man liked Potter just the way he was and would be quite upset with anything threatening to change him. As far as he could see, the child was turning into the perfect tool to defeat the Dark Lord; brave, reckless, and malleable enough to be open to the Headmaster's every 'suggestion'. Severus was personally rather disinclined to agree (it would take knowledge and cunning to defeat such an evil wizard, not just noble intentions and blind obedience), but it's not as if his opinion really mattered for anything; and that was really the biggest obstacle, wasn't it? How much could he alone truly make Potter change when every other adult around him was intent on keeping him as he already was? He knew he had more influence over the brat than the child would ever like to admit, but he was not that powerful. If things remained the way they were, Potter would forever remain his father's clone... no matter what efforts he made towards the opposite.

The very thought grated harshly on the man's nerves. Loathe as he was to admit it, Potter actually had some potential. With a bit of effort, he could easily turn out to be a decent human being; but instead he was a troublemaker, a perpetual thorn in Severus' side. It was unfortunately beginning to look as though that was the way things would always be. He had set out at the beginning of the year to change Potter into something at least mildly better, more tolerable, and here it was not even Christmas and he'd failed. He didn't know why this was so important to him, but it was, maybe because a small part of him both knew and acknowledged that the child was Lily's as well James'. Maybe in a way it was almost like failing her all over again. Maybe it would be easier to simply go back to blindly hating the brat instead.

That was why a week later, at that ridiculous excuse of a Dueling Club, putting up with Lockhart's egotistical posturing and Jenkins kindly smiling at children trying to hex the shite out of each other, he had absolutely no qualms over telling Draco to set that snake on the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Disappoint. He'd only intended to scare the brat, a little payback for all his efforts the past few months going to waste. Had he known about Potter's unusual talent, he may very well have done things a bit differently.

In fact, when Jenkins stepped forward to hurry the boy from the Hall, the dark whispers and glares following as he went, Severus was surprised to find himself actually feeling a bit guilty over it all.

Just a bit, of course.

-Contorted-

"Professor." Harry panted a bit as he attempted to keep up with Jenkins' long strides, the man's hand still clamped firmly onto the back of his robes. "Professor, what—"

"Don't worry, Harry, everything will be just fine," the man assured him, not even looking down as he spoke but still moving rapidly upwards in the castle. "We'll get this all sorted out in no time, just relax."

That was the problem, Harry didn't know what it was that needed sorted. He didn't understand what all the fuss was about; and he certainly didn't understand why Justin had run from him again. Malfoy had been the one to conjure that snake up, not him. All he'd done was help him, didn't they see that?

Harry didn't need to be fully aware of his surroundings to know he was being taken once again up to the Astronomy professor's office high in one of the castle towers. For a brief moment he actually felt relieved when he was ushered inside and pushed to sit down on his armchair. The feeling only lasted a moment, however, before, rather than rounding his desk as usual, Jenkins sat on the edge of his desk, leaning forward so he could grip Harry's shoulders tightly with both hands. The boy was startled to see how downright worried the man looked.

"Harry," he started out in a low voice, "why did you do that in front of everyone like that? Was it an accident?"

Frustration and confusion welling up in him like a geyser about to explode, he all but yelled, "Do what? What did I do that was so wrong? Malfoy made the stupid snake, not me, I just told it to leave off Justin so—"

"Yes yes, Harry, I know," the man placated quickly, giving the thin shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not saying you did anything wrong, lad, but you really did give everyone quite a shock. Why did you let them all know you were a Parselmouth? Were you that concerned about your friend?"

Harry blinked, still not quite understanding, but at least they were getting somewhere now. "Sorry, a Parsel-what?"

"Parselmouth," Jenkins repeated slowly, his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. "Oh dear, you don't have the faintest idea what I'm talking about. Poor boy, no wonder you're so confused... Harry," he leaned closer to peer directly into the boy's eyes, "you can talk to snakes."

Oh, Harry thought, that. "Well yeah, I know. I accidentally let one loose on my cousin and his friend at the zoo once— Once," he added hastily, seeing the man's obvious distress. "He didn't hurt them or anything, they were just being a pair of gits and the Boa was talking about how it wanted to see Brazil, then the glass on its tank just sort of—"

"Harry," the man interrupted hastily, smile in place even if it was a bit shaky. Like he found Harry's rambling positively endearing, not childish and stupid. "I'm hardly worried over a bit of accidental magic."

Harry let out a small sigh of relief, wishing the Dursleys had been so understanding back when it had actually happened.

"The point of all this is that you, my boy, have the rare ability to talk to snakes."

Nodding absently, the pre-teen casually went on, "Yeah, they're actually not so bad to talk to. I mean, I only had one real conversation with one once though, this past summer actually when I was weeding the garden. I thought I heard a voice, but no one was around, then I saw this little... green..." Two and two finally decided to make four in the young boy's mind. "That's why everyone was upset in the Hall, wasn't it? Because I'm a Parsel-thing."

"Parselmouth. Yes, Harry, that's why everyone got so upset."

The boy nodded dismally, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He'd never really paid much attention to his snake-speaking abilities, once he found out he had magic he'd just assumed it was... well, part of his magic. He didn't realize it was rare, that most people couldn't do it the way he could. Just something else to make him a freak, no matter which world he was in. "Sir... why does it bother everyone so much? I mean, it's not like it hurts anything so..."

"Ah." Jenkins had finally leaned back a bit and now fiddled distractedly with the pocket of his robes, obviously buying for time. "Well you see, Harry, people often have prejudices against certain things, and quite often they're completely unfounded really. You shouldn't worry over..." The man trailed off, gave Harry a long, searching look, then seemed to deflate, all false enthusiasm leaving his figure at once. "Harry, do you know why the symbol of Slytherin house is a snake?"

The boy made a face at that, brows drawn low over green eyes. He'd never given much thought over why any of the houses had their particular animals. That seemed more like something Hermione would one day get curious about and ponder over. "Well, it sort of makes sense, doesn't it, sir? Especially with people like Snape and Malfoy there... Though," now that he thought back a year, "when I first heard the traits for Slytherin, I sort of thought it sounded like a fox. You know, cunning, resourceful... even ambitious really. I guess snakes are like that too but..." He shrugged. Okay, so maybe he had given it a bit of unconscious thought after all.

"Indeed, I'd have to agree with you on that one," Jenkins said cheerfully, nodding all the while. "A fox is quite descriptive of most of the true Slytherins I've met. However... there is a specific reason their animal is a snake, Harry."

How did he know this wasn't going to be good.

"You see, Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth. He also had the ability to speak to snakes. Ran in his family from what I recall."

Harry let his eyes fall shut in pure horror. Of course. Salazar Slytherin, as in the founder of Slytherin House, as in the person who supposedly built the Chamber of Secrets, as in... "Everyone's going to think I'm his descendant now, aren't they?"

The man laughed, though it sounded a bit strained. "Harry, he lived over a thousand years ago. I could be his descendant for all I know... but yes. That is most likely the rumor that will start to circulate."

With an angry snort, Harry let himself fall bonelessly back into his chair, lips a thin, white line. "It's already been circulating. Now it'll just get worse."

A comforting hand fell on his head to card softly through his hair. "They're all just rumors, Harry. You shouldn't pay them any attention."

Frowning and lowering his eyes as he picked idly at the skin around his thumbnail, Harry tried to simply accept the professor's words and ignore this whole mess until it blew over. There was no reason to worry about it... only... *"Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—"* He still remembered those words whispered in his ear as though it were only yesterday. They had actually bothered him ever since he first heard them, and now that awful, nagging feeling only got worse. What if... "Professor... do you think all Slytherins are bad?"

Jenkins paused, the hand in the boy's hair tightening just a little to tilt the dark head back, allowing him to look directly into worried green eyes. "Bad, dear?"

Completely missing the term of endearment, Harry rushed on breathlessly, "Yeah, bad. Y'know, dark. Like—" Like Voldemort.

Still looking a bit perplexed, the older man took a long moment to study Harry carefully, eyes sharper than the boy had ever seen them. Like he was internally debating over something before they softened as he came to a conclusion. "Well, Harry, that certainly is the stereotype, isn't it? And stereotypes do typically come into existence with a grain of truth." His eyes looked the boy up and down once more. "The problem with stereotypes is that they have this nasty habit of lumping an entire group of people together and acting as if they're all of one mind; which I hope you've learned by now, is absolutely impossible. Not everyone adheres to the typical behaviors of their peers, and not any two people are exactly the same. Why, I'm sure even your friends the Weasley twins have their slight differences."

Harry smiled a bit at the thought of Fred and George, how they were identical in nearly every way until you got to know them. Then you realized Fred's voice was just ever so slightly higher than his brother's and George had a habit of biting his nails that his twin had never indulged in, that Fred's favorite color was actually blue while George's was green... things like that. "So you're saying..."

Jenkins smiled softly. "Let me put it this way, Harry; I'm well aware of the stereotypes surrounding all the houses, so I'm quite well-versed in the fact that Hufflepuffs are seen as weak, dim-witted poofs. Correct?"

The boy blushed pink, having heard those same things himself more than once. A lot more. "I never thought that, sir. Really."

"Ah, perhaps not, but I'm sure plenty of your Gryffindor friends have. Mr. Weasley, perhaps?"

Pink quickly became deep red. Oh yeah, Ron had said that plenty of times after a Puff had done something that seemed particularly daft or overly sensitive. As much as the red-head tended to act with animosity toward Slytherin, he tended to look down his nose at the badgers. It was a trait Harry neither shared nor encouraged. "S'pose so."

"Now now, child, don't fret, it's nothing I didn't already know. I myself was in Hufflepuff, so I'm well-aware of why this particular stereotype came about. It can quite often be at least partially true."

Harry choked trying to hold back a snort.

"However," the man continued, eyes alight with laughter, "there are always exceptions to the rules. For instance, throughout all seven years of my schooling here, I had the great privilege of claiming the top marks of my year, every time, beating out every other house including Ravenclaw. I assure you, it caused quite the stir, me being from the 'slow' house and all. Much like how I'm sure most people first reacted to your friend Miss Granger's breaking the 'more brawn than brains' stereotype typically associated with Gryffindor."

Inner-Harry let out a long, slow whistle. Impressive. He'd had no idea Professor Jenkins was so smart. "Except being Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor, you were much more modest about it, of course," the boy answered cheekily, earning himself a fond smile.

"Of course; and I'll furthermore have you know, that just because someone prefers to avoid a fight rather than engage in it, doesn't mean they can't give their fair share of blows when the time comes. Today's Auror program is filled with graduates of Hufflepuff house, second only to you brave Gryffindors, obviously, and the current head of the Aurors was a Hufflepuff herself."

Harry nodded, truly not needing anymore examples to know where the man was going with all of this, though from the look on the professor's face, he had an entire list. "Saying all Slytherins are dark is really stupid, isn't it, Professor? Saying all anyone is anything is stupid." Meaning that just because he could have been a snake didn't make him in any way a bad person. It really had been a rather daft thing to think. Just because people like Snape and Malfoy were gits didn't mean everyone in silver and green was. That Daphne Greengrass girl seemed downright pleasant most of the time. And Theo Nott was all right, so long as none of the other Slytherin boys were around. He'd even seen that mini-troll Marcus Flint protecting some of the little Slytherin first years in his status as a prefect, so if nothing else, they seemed to at least often take care of each other. With the looks some of the Gryffindors had been giving him lately, he'd really appreciate a little house loyalty like that. "Thank you, sir."

The hand still resting comfortably atop the pile of messy hair gave it one last pat before falling to the man's side. "Not a problem, my boy. These house rivalries seem harmless enough, but I often wonder if its truly healthy to foster so much unrest between the students. Especially when it follows them on into adulthood."

Harry got a sudden flash of Goyle attempting to share office space with Ron twenty years in the future where his red-headed friend throws a fit because the walls are painted green, accusing a very confused Goyle of being biased. The whole picture sent him into a rather hysterical fit of giggles. "Y-yes, sir. I see what you mean." And on a more serious note, he did. He remembered the way Mr. Weasley and Lucius Malfoy had acted towards each other— though that likely had to do with quite a bit more than mere 'house rivalries'.

"As for Slytherin, I can see why you would be wary of them, and I do understand. Besides your known... animosity with several of its current members, it is true that it produces more dark witches and wizards than any other house. Any guesses as to why that might be?"

Harry stared stupidly. There was a reason? Immediately after thinking that, he felt like whacking himself on the head; of course there was a reason, there was a reason for everything, wasn't there? Now Slytherin... a lot of them came from dark families, didn't they, like Malfoy? That would certainly count against them because children emulated their authority figures, like Dudley with Uncle Vernon; but then that would just mean those particular traits had been passed down from generation to generation, and there had to be a reason it'd all started in the first place. So what was it about Slytherins that made them turn dark to start with?

"Ambition." Not knowing where exactly the answer had come from but dead sure he was right, Harry looked confidently towards the professor, smiling a little at what he deemed a sudden bout of cleverness. "Slytherins are known for their ambition. When you're ambitious, you'll often do anything to get what you want; and if turning dark will get you further faster..." It all made sense with a sudden, startling clarity. The characteristics of what made up a Slytherin, ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness left them especially vulnerable to turning dark; but... "That doesn't mean ambition's always bad, though. If you don't have any, it's not likely you'll get very far in life, definitely won't get to the top. It only becomes bad when you let it get too far out of hand." Slytherins weren't born dark, they simply chose to let the darkness overtake them in a bid for power and success; an easy trap to fall into. Harry could easily be part Slytherin and still be good. It all depended on what he chose to do. "I understand now."

Jenkins was looking both startled and immensely pleased. "Yes, Harry, I really think you do. Forgive me for saying this, but that alone breaks house stereotypes right there. Gryffindors are often known for being too stubborn and set in their own ways to truly see things from a different point of view so clearly." His smile turned sly. "Must have a bit of Hufflepuff in you, eh?"

Knowing he was being given a compliment (the man had already said he'd been a badger himself), Harry flushed and looked down at his lap with a goofy grin. He really liked it when he made the professor happy... though his smile faded when he remembered once again why he was even there. "When I go back they're all going to stare at me. Talk behind my back. Even some of the other Gryffindors."

Jenkins faced crumpled with empathy, and Harry was surprised to find himself suddenly engulfed by a pair of deceptively strong arms, held tight against a broad chest while one hand came up to stroke through his hair. "Oh, Harry, really, don't you pay them any mind. They don't have any idea what they're talking about, you know that."

Harry had frozen the moment the man went to touch him. What was going on? He was... being hugged? But that couldn't be right, people, adults didn't hug him, only Mrs. Weasley, and that hadn't been anything like this. This type of contact was reserved for other children, normal children, not him. No one had ever... It... it was really nice. It might just be the nicest thing he'd ever experienced before.

"If anyone bothers you, you just come straight up to me," the man went on, pulling the boy tighter against him. "It doesn't matter what anyone says, I know you, Harry. You're my good boy, aren't you?"

Harry melted into the professor's arms, tears actually stinging the back of his eyes like hot coals, though he didn't know why. It just felt like his chest was swelling up too big and might burst out through his ribs, up through his throat. He was warm all over. "Yes, sir."

He'd do anything in order to stay Professor Jenkins' good boy. He'd do anything if he kept getting more hugs like this.

-Disfigured-

Interestingly enough, Professor Jenkins' words on how Hufflepuffs could indeed be quite dim-witted at times were proven more than true just the very next day. Harry had gotten himself so worked up over the incident with Justin, Hermione had finally thrown him out of the common room during a canceled Herbology lesson, ordering him to find the other boy and explain everything properly. When he saw the group of second-year Hufflepuffs sitting at the back of the library and had approached them to ask after their missing friend, the distinct sound of his own name caught his attention, forcing him to duck behind the bookshelves and eavesdrop shamelessly. He knew it was a bad habit and all that, but years of surviving at the Dursleys had taught him that sometimes it was better to be rude and safe than polite and hurt... something he was pretty sure was a Slytherin attribute; except that knowledge no longer bothered him as it did before.

So pretending to read over the spines of old, leather-bound tomes and fixing his eyes distantly on the peeling gold letters of Pesky Pixies and Other Winged Pests, he listened to Ernie Macmillan give a long-winded speech about just why Harry was a Dark wizard in the making while the other Puffs ate it up as though it were the gospel truth. Confronting the lot of them did absolutely no good, of course, and clenching both fists and teeth, Harry stormed from the library, pausing in the hall to furiously pace back and forth, not sure what to do. Idiots, the lot of them, especially Macmillan. Why couldn't the damn snake have gone after him last night rather than Justin, because at least Finch-Fletchley wasn't so bloody full of himself.

**"He's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes?"**

That wasn't true. Being a Parselmouth just usually ran within the Slytherin line, and Slytherins were more likely to go bad than others; but being Slytherin itself didn't make you bad. Being a Parselmouth didn't make you bad.

Harry was not going to turn into a Dark wizard.

Taking a half a dozen steps towards the common room, the boy stopped and abruptly headed in the opposite direction. He really couldn't stand to be around Ron and Hermione right now, Ron with his stuffed-up bravado and "Who cares what a bunch of pansy Puffs say" attitude and Hermione with her constant needling and demanding to know exactly what Harry was thinking when it was something he couldn't put into words even if he tried. No, being around them right then would only serve to drive him mad. He needed to be around someone who instinctively understood, who demanded no explanations, just offered a friendly ear and a safe place to relax.

Ten minutes later he was comfortably slouched in his chair, sipping a cup of calming peppermint tea, relaying the whole story as close to verbatim as he could manage, earning a soft smile and kind eyes the entire time. It wasn't until he rushed down to his next class (Potions, unfortunately) and made it just in time to avoid lost points and a probable detention with the bat that he heard about Justin and Nearly Headless Nick.

Staring agape at his friends, Harry barely even noticed the stares he was getting from nearly everybody in the room. "Petrified? Both of them?"

"Yeah, mate," Ron went on softly, while Hermione just nodded her bushy head next to him. "They were found in the corridor by a bunch of other Puffs. Finch-Fletchley was on the floor'n Nick was... just sorta floating there, I guess."

"Poor Hannah Abbot nearly had a breakdown when she saw it," Hermione whispered, looking mildly horrified herself. "This is really bad. I mean, what happened with Mrs. Norris in the first place was bad enough, but with Colin and now Justin that makes two students who have been attacked. Students." She couldn't seem to wrap her mind around a school where the students weren't properly protected from an obvious threat, and Harry could easily see where she was coming from. Had this been the Muggle world, he'd no doubt the school would have been at least temporarily closed by now until something could be properly done; the wizarding world just seemed to have a different view on what was considered too dangerous and what was acceptable risk. Maybe because magic had an inherent air of danger about it to begin with?

"It's awful," he agreed softly. Still deep in thought, angry and upset he'd never even been able to find Justin and apologize for the scare he'd given him, let the other boy know there had been no ill will behind his actions, he completely missed it when his two best friends shared a look with one another.

"Harry," Hermione started gently, "we should probably tell you... you see—"

"That git Macmillan told everyone how he was just so sure you were the one behind the attack," Ron interjected with a growl, clenching a pale fist on the table. "Said you were looking for Finch-Fletchley right before it happened, then threatened the lot of them in the library."

Brows drawing low over green eyes in a V, Harry bit out, "I was looking for Justin, you know that; and I didn't threaten anyone."

"Well yeah, Harry, we know," the redhead said, looking a little startled at Harry's defensiveness.

"We told everyone we could already," Hermione picked up for him. "It's just some people," here she shot Lavender and Parvati a contemptuous look across the room, "thought it was a bit suspicious you were nowhere to be found."

"Yeah, where'd you go anyway?"

Irrational annoyance set in overtop of the ire he was already feeling, making Harry snap waspishly, "It's none of your business where I was, Ron. I'll go where I please when I please, sorry if that bothers you." Immediately after saying the words, Harry wished he could take them back. Not only because Ron really hadn't deserved that kind of hostility, but also because Snape had chosen that very moment to walk in, making the whole class fall silent and making his petty words stand out loud as a shout. All eyes on him, the Gryffindor flushed, sinking down slightly in his seat and wishing he had his Invisibility Cloak to hide under. Even Snape hadn't taken points, was just observing Harry coolly, much in the same way he had the night before at the Dueling Club. Like Harry was an attraction at a sideshow. The Freak-Who-Lived.

With the way things had been going lately, he was really starting to feel like it.

This whole damn year was turning out to be even crazier than the last. Students being petrified left and right, a Potter who was a Parselmouth, and now, with the holidays approaching, Severus was stuck sitting at his desk and looking down his rather formidable nose at the list of those Slytherins staying at school during the break. A nearly bi-polar seventh year, the most bitchy fifth year girl Severus had ever encountered in all his years of teaching, and Malfoy junior with his two pet gorillas. What a happy Christmas it would be.

With a longing look towards the cabinet that held his firewhiskey, the Potions Master fought the urge, instead pulling a random stack of essays toward him, just hoping to give his mind something to do. He noticed young Nott had chosen not to stay for the holidays, but that may or may not have been the boy's personal choice. If he recalled correctly, the child had wanted almost desperately to stay last year until he got a rather scathing owl from his father, demanding he come home. Purebloods were often expected at certain functions during the Yule season, after all, and Theodore Nott was the heir to the entire Nott family; but then again, Theo had also seemed to be doing better lately. His depression had, if not improved exactly, at least leveled out. He was eating at almost every meal, the dark circles beneath his eyes had lessened dramatically, and he'd damn near shocked Severus out of his chair when he smiled openly at Zabini in the Great Hall the other day. Though unsure of what had brought about such a change (it certainly hadn't been his efforts, seeing as how the boy still refused to say more than a few words whenever they met), Severus wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. It's not as though the reasons for his progression were important so much as the result.

There were other interesting developments throughout the student body as well. For instance, ever since the attack on the Finch-Fletchley boy, more and more of the students had been continuously treating Potter as a leper. It was extremely satisfying to see the tiny, messy-haired thing walk down the hall to class only to have people scramble to get out of the way, some of them going so far as to flatten themselves against the walls, duck into the nearest classroom... at first. Then it started to become more annoying than anything else. By now, it was just pathetic. Severus damn near pitied the brat, and he certainly never wanted to pity a Potter.

What the dour man found most interesting about Potter's relationships, however, was the slowly changing climate between himself and the other two/thirds of the Golden Trio. Unless they were headed to meals or to class, it was becoming more common to see Weasley and Granger together as a pair with Potter wandering around somewhere off on his own. Most recently, Severus had even caught the other two giving Potter looks, curious, speculating looks, the kind Severus recognized as damn near suspicious. Like they were wondering if they hadn't been wrong about their friend all along. Surely they weren't actually buying into all this Heir of Slytherin rubbish themselves?

-Mutilated-

"The Polyjuice will be ready any day now. We can use it over the break. It will be perfect, there are only a few Slytherins staying, so the common room will be nearly if not completely empty no matter what time of day. We just need to figure out how to properly distract Crabbe and Goyle so we... Harry, are you listening?"

"Hm?" Dragging his eyes away from the fire, Harry let them rest on his only real female friend, making it rather obvious that no, he hadn't been listening at all. "Sorry, Hermione, I'm just distracted today. Actually, I've got some things to do... I'll see you later, all right?"

Ron began sputtering, red-faced and clearly angry, while Hermione just scrunched her forehead in a concerned gesture. Biting her lip and darting a quick look around, she gently caught her friend by the wrist, stalling his departure. "Harry..." She shot Ron another glance before bravely pressing on, "Harry, you're really starting to worry us."

Hearing those words, the boy hero paused, blinking down at the girl in genuine surprise. Worry them? "What? Why?" What could he possibly have done now? Last he checked, he hadn't set anymore snakes on people lately. In fact, "I've barely even seen you two the past week."

"Exactly!" Slapping a hand over her mouth when she realized just how loud her voice had come out, Hermione looked over her shoulder to be sure their private conversation was indeed still private before going on in a whispered tone, "We've barely seen you at all, Harry. Every day you disappear somewhere, alone, and we have no idea where you've gone or what you're doing." Her brown eyes sought his out beseechingly, the hours she'd spent worrying blatantly clear if you looked into them. He chose to look away instead. "Harry, what's going on? You know you can tell us anything, don't you? Please?"

"I know that, 'Mione," the boy mumbled, still keeping his eyes carefully averted from her face. "There are just some things... I don't want to tell you. I want some privacy, that's all." Couldn't they understand?

Looking dejected, Hermione released his wrist while Ron glared daggers at him from her side. Maybe they didn't understand the way he'd like them to. Maybe they couldn't. "I'll see you later." He left the common room at a dead run and didn't stop once until he'd finally reached the Astronomy Tower.

-Mangled-

The planets circled slowly round the sun, in a sluggish dance of monotony that was actually quite calming to watch. Nearly hypnotizing, really. Though, the chamomile tea definitely helped with that, having natural relaxants in it already. Blinking sleep heavy eyes, Harry lifted his head from its tilted position when he heard the familiar voice say softly, "You're awfully quiet today, Harry. Anything on your mind?"

Studying the man, Harry took another swig of steaming tea, debating on how to answer that particular query. There was quite a bit on his mind, certain matters more pressing than others, but he didn't know how much of it he really wanted to share. Finally, "Sir, it's almost Christmas."

Chuckling, Jenkins nodded his agreement. "It is indeed. I noticed you're staying at the castle this year."

"Yes, sir." The boy made sure to keep his answer short and blunt there. No reason to bring up the Dursleys and ruin the whole afternoon. "Are you staying as well, sir?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

Though he had a feeling he should be sad for the man that he didn't have any family to go home to either, Harry was positively delighted by this revelation. He wouldn't have to spend the whole holiday now missing the professor and their shared talks. Feeling brave, he decided to bring up one of the things that had been plaguing him recently. "Professor, I... want to get you a gift. Please. I just have absolutely no idea what you'd like, and I don't know who else I could ask; so... is there anything you'd like?"

The man seemed to have frozen at the boy's words, the only discernible movement the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was staring so intently at some papers on his desk, Harry thought for a moment maybe he was, in fact, reading them, until he looked up suddenly, eyes boring holes into green. Serious, intense, and not at all like the soft brown eyes Harry had become so accustomed to. "Yes, actually. There's something I would love to have from you, dear."

Missing the overly informal endearment for the second time now, Harry excitedly cried, "Great! Just let me know what it is, and I'll get it. It doesn't matter how much it costs either; I'm... well, I'm loaded, to be honest."

Chuckling lightly at that, familiar smile back in place, Jenkins assured him, "Oh, this is hardly an expensive gift, Harry. In fact, it won't cost you a single knut."

Harry blinked, baffled. The professor wanted something that was free?

Laughing again at the boy's blatant confusion, Jenkins reached out to pat his much smaller hand gently. "Just come spend the day with me on Christmas, Harry. Your presence is really all I ask for."

Bright jade widened substantially before, "Oh but, sir, really—"

"No no, I insist. Come on Christmas, spend some time here... I even think there's something else you can do for me if you're amenable. We'll discuss it then."

Letting himself sit back again in his seat Harry cautiously muttered, "Well, if you're sure..."

"I am, Harry, really." His smile took on that odd shape again, the one the boy still couldn't quite recognize the meaning behind. "Trust me, your... company is more than enough of a gift to me."

-Warped-

Christmas. The most miserable time of the year. True there were very few brats still around to bother him, no classes to teach, but it was small compensation really for all the horrid, blasted emotions and memories the holiday inevitably brought back each and every winter. All the reminders of how very little he truly had when he woke up cold and alone on December 25th only to find the space under his tree (yes, for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom, he always had a bloody tree) incredibly empty and bare. Usually four or five packages at most, a few obligatory cards. That was all. That was what his disconsolate, lonely life had become; and it was never more spectacularly clear than that one awful day.

After opening his gifts with dread rather than excitement, noticing how not one, not even Albus' truly had a personal touch, he banished away the wrapping paper, skipped breakfast after finding his appetite absent, and spent the rest of the day in his lab, brewing the most complicated, attention-consuming potions he could think of, noting how he'd now have more than enough of the complex arthritis balm he always kept stocked for the old and often stiff Professor Kettleburn. At least something good had come from the miserable day.

Cursing himself and everything around him, the man stormed his way up the stairs to dinner in the Great Hall, wishing more than anything Albus didn't make the damn meal mandatory every year. In fact, he thought being given permission to skip it would be just about the best present he could possibly receive from the Headmaster, but that would mean he'd actually gotten something he wanted. He wasn't foolish enough to think that would ever happen.

Making his usual entrance, black robes billowing, sour scowl in place, mood brightening just a little as he passed a nearly quaking first year Ravenclaw, he took a seat stiffly next to Minerva at the staff table, ignoring the smirk she sent in his direction and the, "Couldn't wear something just a bit more festive for the holiday, Severus?" He decided that was a rhetorical question and didn't deserve an answer, not even of the scathing variety.

Dark eyes scanning over the tables, he noted all of his Slytherins were properly present. He also couldn't help but notice a conspicuously absent Potter despite the fact Weasley and Granger were already at their seats. Just where was the little brat and what had he gotten up to now that had him separated yet again from his two shadows? Surely, despite the tension he'd seen between them lately, they'd be together on Christmas.

His questions were resolved when the doors opened and a laughing pair of males stepped through, the smaller of them with a generous amount of snow dusting his dark, messy hair. So that's where Potter had been, he'd toddled off to follow Jenkins around like a lost puppy, apparently taking a walk around the grounds with him if his appearance was anything to go by. He tried not to get sick from the adoring looks the rest of his colleagues sent the pair, the new professor taking a special interest in the fatherless orphan on Christmas. Pathetic.

Ignoring Jenkins when he took a seat on his left, Severus stoically and methodically ate his dinner, not joining in on the happy conversation, eyeing the clearly arguing Golden Trio with vague interest, and wishing the whole time the day would end so he could just crawl into his bed, go to sleep, and wake up when this disgusting festival was officially over; which, of course, meant that after the meal, Albus literally forced him to accompany the old man to his office for a "pleasant holiday chat".

By the time he finally managed to escape nearly two hours later, Severus was about ten seconds away from ripping his own hair out in frustration and just plain old irrational anger. Storming through the corridors towards his dungeon, he opened his mouth to verbally eviscerate the child when a student came rounding the corner and barreled into him at full-speed. Unfortunately his voice caught in his throat the moment he took in said child's countenance.

"Potter. What's wrong?" Because something was clearly wrong. Not only was the boy extremely pale, worryingly so, but if he didn't know any better he'd say the child was terrified— just not in the usual 'there's a monster under the bed' type of way. This was something different, something deeper, and yet something certainly no less disturbing. Severus hesitated a moment, wondering if he should take the child up to see Poppy, a frown marring his features when his question went unanswered and he noted just how glassy the normally vibrant green eyes were. "Potter?"

Slowly reaching out a hand (the Hospital Wing was definitely looking like a good idea now), he planned to feel the child's forehead, check if he was feverish or contrarily in a cold shock, but the boy jerked violently away before he could make contact, eyes wide and breathing fast. Severus stared, unwilling to make any sudden moves. Again, slowly and evenly, "Potter?"

"Sorry," the boy choked softly, taking a quick step back. He resembled a trapped animal, panicked and afraid of his own shadow. "Sorry, Professor, sir. I'm sorry."

Severus actually had to fight to keep his expression neutral. Whoever this boy was, it wasn't Potter. Where was the stroppy little brat he was used to, the cheeky, defiant lion cub? This was all wrong. "Potter, what happened?"

"No!" The boy's howl resounded off the stone walls, echoing down the corridor. "Nothing happened, nothing! It— I— I'm sorry!"

Before Severus could even think to respond again, the boy had spun on the spot and taken off like he was being chased by the Dark Lord himself, leaving the Potions Master to stand there in stunned silence as he listened to the fading sound of the twelve-year-old's frantic footsteps. What the hell had just happened? What had the brat managed to get himself into now to cause that kind of reaction?

He must have stood there for a full minute, just staring at the spot the boy had previously occupied, mind running through a number of scenarios, each more unlikely than the next. Whatever had happened, he certainly couldn't figure it out. He debated going after the boy, making sure he'd at least made it back to his common room all right, possibly inform Minerva that something may be wrong; but really, why bother? It was likely nothing in the end, just Potter being his usual, melodramatic self. It was his job to care for his students, yes, but the child had been uninjured, hadn't seemed sick, and definitely hadn't looked suicidal. In other words, whatever was bothering the brat was not his problem; he certainly wasn't about to go above and beyond the call of duty for a Potter.

Frowning anew, he turned with a sweep of robes and made his way to his dungeon quarters, downing firewhiskey like it was water and putting Potter and the entire deplorable day out of his mind. By the time he literally passed out on his couch about an hour later, he really had nearly forgotten the whole odd encounter, too busy instead staring through teary eyes at the pictures that decorated his shelves of a jubilant fiery redhead and a tired but pleasantly smiling older woman with long, lank dark hair; just like every other year.

Happy fucking Christmas.

-Twisted-

The day after Christmas had always felt a bit melancholy, but waking up this year with a pounding headache and eyes that were red and raw was absolutely terrible. Even worse was the flood of thoughts that accompanied them, though Harry was doing his absolute best not to actually pay attention to those. They were all jumbled and confused and made his poor head hurt more; they also just plain weren't very pleasant. Why worry himself over it? Everything was going to be fine, the professor had said so himself. Nothing was wrong.

Climbing reluctantly from underneath his cocoon of warm covers to stand on slightly shaky legs, the boy made his way to the showers, dousing himself leisurely in hot water for nearly half an hour before shoving himself into an over-large pair of denims and a Weasley jumper, descending the stairs with his hair sticking in all directions and immediately making a beeline towards his two friends in the otherwise empty common room. "G'morning," he said as cheerfully as he could muster, watching in amusement as they jumped upon his arrival. "What's going on?"

Harry may not have been the brightest boy in school, but he couldn't possibly miss the shared look the two sent one another before Hermione forced a smile and a falsely lighthearted, "Oh, nothing really. Just the usual."

Smiling as though he wasn't aware of something being amiss, Harry took a seat, wondering exactly what time it was and whether or not he'd slept through breakfast. Not that he was particularly hungry anyway. "Listen, I was thinking maybe we ought to— er, put our plan into action tonight. After dinner maybe?" He knew by the way both of them turned red and gave another look something was definitely up. "What's wrong?"

"Malfoy isn't the heir of Slytherin," Ron grunted in clearly disappointed tones. "He barely knew anything about it, other than it was opened fifty years ago and someone died."

Horrified, Harry managed to squeak, "Someone died?" before the implications of what he was being told started to strike him. "Hang on... how do you know this?" Had they found another way to question Malfoy while he was out?

"How do you think we know?" the redhead chortled. "We went ahead with it last night. 'Cept I was Crabbe and Hermione was Goyle, 'stead of Millicent Bullstrode."

Blinking stupidly, Harry turned his gaze on the female of the group, asking in slight bemusement, "You were Goyle? Doesn't that mean you turned into a boy?"

"Polyjuice Potion is not only for same gender transformations," she answered primly.

"Well yeah, but if you were Goyle, doesn't that mean you had—"

"I didn't look, Harry!" the scandalized girl cried, all the excess blood in her body rushing to her face.

For a moment, Harry was genuinely amused by her reaction. Then everything they'd told him truly began to sink in and he could only stare, stunned. Surely he hadn't heard correctly. They would never... "You two used the Polyjuice without me."

Hermione looked quickly, guiltily away. "Well..."

"How could you do it without me?!" He was so angry and hurt right then he didn't care that his voice came out in a shout. He also missed the way Hermione positively flinched, as though half expecting him to strike out physically and the way Ron very purposefully moved closer to her. How could they possibly— They were supposed to be friends, they'd come up with the plan together, since the troll incident last year they'd always done these things together. Didn't Harry take them with him when he went after the Sorcerer's Stone? How could they suddenly up and leave him behind?

Glaring daggers, Ron jumped to his feet, towering over the smaller boy still in his chair. "We didn't want to do it without you, stupid. We tried to get you to come back with us after dinner last night. You're the one who was too busy with something else to be bothered with us."

Getting up himself, yet still only reaching around the redhead's shoulder, he snapped, "I was busy last night, Ron! Why didn't you just wait?"

"Why should we? If we're not even important enough to be told what you're doing, why should we wait around and put things off until it's convenient for you?"

"Ron," Hermione urged softly, warningly, but the brash boy pushed on.

"I don't know what you think you're playing at, mate, but we don't follow your orders. If you want some brainless minions, go steal Crabbe and Goyle from Malfoy; or maybe you can just wait until that Creevey kid wakes up. I'm sure he'd be happy as hell to serve the precious Boy-Who-Lived. Don't expect us to fall at your feet like everyone else."

The fury was so palpable by then, Harry was literally seeing spots of red. "Everyone else?" he bit out through clenched teeth. "Just who the hell is everyone else, Ron? The Slytherins who try and curse me in the corridors? The Ravenclaws who look at me like a science experiment, the Hufflepuffs who're afraid of me? Or maybe the Gryffindors who can't even be bothered to have my back when the rest of the school is busy spreading nasty rumors about my heritage. Please, Ron, tell me... just who do you think everyone else is?"

Ron snorted nastily and sneered, in a way much reminiscent of their Potions professor, "Save the sob story for someone who'll buy it, Harry. I'm not that thick."

Tears stung the back of Harry's green eyes, threatening dangerously to fall as he valiantly fought them off. It wasn't a 'sob story' and he wasn't saying it for pity, it was just the truth. Ron was supposed to understand that. How was this happening? "I thought you were my best mate."

The Weasley scoffed. "Yeah, sure, your best mate who you keep secrets from and can't be bothered to spend time with. Y'know, Harry, it's no wonder you never had any friends before me. You make a pretty lousy one."

It literally felt as though he'd just been slapped in the face. That... that wasn't fair. Ron knew about Dudley, Harry had finally worked up the courage to tell him more about life at the Dursleys that past summer, he knew what things had been like for him before Hogwarts. How could he... How could Ron take what he'd told him in confidence, use it against him? If this is what people did when you finally spilled your guts to them, was it any wonder he wanted to keep some secrets?

Taking a deep, shaky breath, refusing to cry in front of them, he managed to choke out, "You're a real prat, Ron. You know that? Just sod off," before turning to flee, trying not to listen to Ron's irate call of "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" that followed him as he went.

Fine. Ron didn't want to be his friend anymore, fine. He had someone else now anyway, someone more important, more reliable... Someone who liked him as more than just a friend. Rapping his knuckles frantically on the door until they stung, he all but threw himself at the man who wrenched it open, barely noting the disheveled state of his hair and clothes, uncaring he had woken him. Thin arms coming up to wrap around the taller man's waist, Harry gasped desperately from where his face was buried, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry about last night."

Shooting a careful look up and down the corridor, relieved to see they were indeed alone, Jenkins brought an arm up around the distraught child's shoulders, drawing him into his private quarters to shut the door, away from prying eyes. That really could have ended badly. "Here now," he said softly, letting a hand rest gently atop the messy head, "what's all this then?"

"I'm sorry," the boy repeated earnestly, looking up with big, pleading green eyes. "Last night I shouldn't've... I'm sorry I left like that. I do like you, I... Please... please don't hate me."

The floored look that crossed the professor's face was quickly replaced with compassion and the hand began to stroke softly through the dark locks. "Of course not, dear, I could never hate you; regardless of your answer. We'll still always be friends."

The words shook Harry down to his very core, coming out physically in the near frantic shaking of his head. Friends... friends left you, could leave you at any moment, turn their back on you... But if they were more than friends... "No, no I want to do it. Like you said last night. Really."

Jenkins made a small noise in his throat, inquiring softly, "You're sure about this, Harry? You know it will require a lot of effort on both our parts."

"I know." The boy lifted his face beseechingly once more, eyes shining with unshed tears now. "I'll make the effort, really; and I'll be really careful. Just... please. I— you said— please—"

"Alright, alright, no need to get so worked up," the teacher gently assured. "I never meant to make you cry, sweetheart."

"I know." Rubbing a fist impatiently over his left eye (he was twelve and he was a boy, not a Hufflepuff girl), he went on softly, "I just don't..." I don't want you to leave me too.

Continuing to pet the boy, Jenkins looked down and implored seriously, "And this is definitely what you want, Harry? If we get caught, I'll be in a lot of trouble. People wouldn't understand."

"I know," the boy insisted for the third time, Gryffindor determination and stubbornness shining through. "We'll just keep it a secret. No one will know... I want to."

Smiling brightly, happily, Jenkins pulled the boy tight into his chest. "That's good to hear," he breathed, leaning down to bury his face in the raven mop. "Very good."

Nodding slightly, though he could barely move in his current position, Harry forced himself to hesitantly agree despite the lingering reservations still stirring in the back of his mind. He just needed to trust the older, more experienced professor because he was still too immature about these things. Everything would turn out fine.

Who really needed friends anyway? He'd survived most of his life without them. He could do it again.

The rest of Christmas holiday seemed to drag on forever. Even if he did spend the majority of the break up in the Astronomy Tower, working on assignments, chatting with the professor, and doing other things, Harry still seemed to have loads of time alone in the library or the common room, making the distance between himself and his former best friends all the more noticeable; and notice people did.

He supposed it was rather hard not to, when that very first day at dinner, he came down ahead of the other two, alone. That in itself wasn't all that unusual, especially as of late, but when Ron and Hermione did arrive... Well, Ron's habit of instinctively plopping down to sit beside him started to kick in, before the redhead realized what he was doing. Then the taller boy stopped, crossed his arms petulantly over his chest, and glared at Harry for all he was worth, before stomping to a seat quite far away at the nearly empty table, Hermione dithering for a moment before following. Harry just rolled his eyes and concentrated on eating one bite at a time, ignoring the stares he was now receiving from almost everyone present. Prat. Though it was likely a good thing Ron had been the one to make a fool of himself. If he had actually sat next to him as tradition called for, Harry may very well have childishly gotten up and moved. It was much better that Ron look like he was the one having a temper-tantrum. Besides... Harry was in the right here. He knew he was.

Fending off the twins' rapid questions and Percy's strange looks with the simple snapped explanation of, "Your brother's being a right git." which all three older boys seemed to accept well enough, he started up a soft conversation with Ginny who had shyly sat across from him when she noticed him alone. Though she blushed quite a bit (apparently her crush was sill going strong) she seemed to be getting more comfortable around him. They talked for a while about how she liked her different classes so far and which professors she preferred, both pointedly ignoring the way Ron seemed furious at their being together. Harry, for his part, was glad the girl was talking at all. He'd kept half an eye on her since the start of the year, seeing as how she was his bes— former best mate's little sister, and lately she'd been looking rather... peaky. Sick and tired and constantly alone. Seeing her actually get a bit animated when she did a fair impression of Professor Flitwick was most definitely a welcome sight.

Of course, Harry wasn't surprised when that night, upon his return to the Tower, Professor Jenkins demanded an explanation. A real one. Harry dutifully told the truth, leaving out all the details, mind you. There was really no reason to let anyone know they'd been brewing Polyjuice Potion in a girls' toilet.

"Well now, Harry, I think you handled that very well," the older man praised, running a comforting hand down his taut spine to relax him. Just thinking about it, got him worked up all over again. "You are, of course, entitled to your privacy, and I'm sure young Mr. Weasley knows that as well. He'll come 'round eventually, don't you worry. Until then, best to just let him be, eh?"

Harry agreed fully, but that still made for a rather lonely holiday a lot of the time.

He was greatly relieved when the rest of the students returned, though after a few days he didn't have the faintest clue why. Even if he managed to occasionally (and that was most certainly the word, since they were such a solid pair of two) hang out with Dean and Seamus or sit quietly and do some homework with Neville, he still ended up being on his own most of the time. And though the whispers and stares may have died down a bit over the break, it seemed that most of the student body was still avoiding him; just not as blatantly this time around.

Even worse, with classes starting up again, it meant less time he had to spend up in the Tower. It seemed that every two out of three times lately, either he was busy or the professor was. When Jenkins begged off his company for the third night in a row, this time saying he had to tutor a student who was starting to fall a bit behind... well, Harry knew it was stupid and juvenile, but he threw a small fit. After yelling a bunch of angry nonsense and storming out of the surprised man's office, he stomped his way down through the school, no idea where he was going, just needing to cool off a bit.

After several flights of stairs and more corridors than he could count, he managed to do just that. Wincing at how ridiculous he'd just been, he let himself slump against the wall with a sigh, noting rather disinterestedly that, like earlier that year, there was a trail of spiders making their way hastily out a slightly cracked window. Good for them. How often lately had he wished he could do the very same thing?

*"— even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore —"*

Ah, so Filch was in a good mood that night as well. Poking his head around the corner, Harry watched the man leave in a huff, noting he had managed to make his way to the spot of the first attack; which, of course, just so happened to be right outside of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. One glance at the floor let him know what had Filch's knickers in a bunch. The entire floor was soaked in water— water which appeared to still be leaking out from the particular loo in question.

Taking a quick look around to be sure no one was watching, Harry sloshed his way through the small lake that had begun to form and slipped inside, ears immediately assaulted by the sound of Myrtle's low, keening sobs. Not the dramatic kind he was used to hearing from the ever-gloomy ghost, but something more genuine. Like she was really upset this time, not just playing a part.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for anything, Harry went further in, casting a Lumos so he could see properly in the dark bathroom. *"What's up, Myrtle?"

"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?"

Harry waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw something at you?"

"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me. . . ."*

For one very brief moment, Harry was tempted to point out that, as a ghost, nothing thrown at Myrtle could possibly hurt her, so it didn't really matter. Almost immediately, he realized how incredibly insensitive that sounded and cursed himself for hanging around Ron and some of the other Gryffindor boys too much. The Harry from just two years ago would never have even thought something like that. That would be like saying it was okay when the kids in primary threw things at him and missed. He knew better than anyone that even if it didn't hurt you physically, it would still always hurt your feelings.

Even if you were a ghost. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

Myrtle went deathly (no pun intended) still at the question and eyed Harry in a manner that was both wary and as if he'd suddenly grown an extra head. Looking away from her startlingly penetrating gaze, Harry felt his brow furrow in annoyance. Hadn't anyone ever asked after her well-being before? He knew she was dead and all, and that she was— well, quite frankly, she was annoying most of the time, but still. It just seemed wrong that she was so shocked someone might show her a modicum of concern, even if only to be polite.

Shaking away those thoughts and where they might lead him, he decided to focus on the matter at hand. *"Who threw it at you, anyway?"

"I don't know. . . . I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head."*

Trying not to dwell on just how disturbing that statement would be (on several levels) were the girl not dead, Harry brightened a bit and said, "Well, if you were in the U-bend... Myrtle, I don't think anyone actually threw it at you. I think they were just trying to get rid of it or something. They just forgot you were there."

Oh, bad choice of words. Almost immediately the teenage ghost teared up again, wailing about how no one ever remembered poor, moping, Moaning Myrtle, though the cries were different this time. They were back to being the overly-loud, theatrical noises he'd heard before, and he was quite relieved. At least she was back to normal. "Myrtle, where is this book now?"

Sniffing a bit and managing to get herself somewhat under control, she pointed one transparent finger towards the sinks. *"It's over there, it got washed out. . . ."*

Sloshing his way towards where she directed, Harry let his mind take in the facts. Someone (most likely a girl since it was a girls' toilet) had tried to flush a book. In the Muggle world that would have been impossible, but Harry had noticed since coming to Hogwarts that magical toilets were just that. Magical. They could flush things of quite significant size, just about anything as big as a baby in fact—

Ew, creepy example, definitely too much time with Seamus and Lee Jordan. Regardless, the point was that something about this book must be special if someone went out of their way to come into the normally avoided bathroom and flush it down the loo. If nothing else, maybe it would keep him from feeling so lonely and bored for a little while.

Raising his wand a bit higher, he quickly spotted his prize sitting innocently beneath a rather dilapidated sink. A regular-looking book, black cover, small and thin. Scooping it up, it was quickly apparent the book was actually a diary, one marked to be fifty years old. Impressive. Hastily pushing the front cover open (this could definitely end up being quite entertaining), he was just able to decipher the perfectly looped script of smudged ink. T. M. Riddle.

"Riddle," Harry mumbled to himself, eyes scanning over the name again and again. It seemed... familiar somehow. Like something from a memory long lost, though he hadn't the faintest idea why. Maybe this boy had grown up to be some big-shot and he'd read about him in a book or something, sort of like Flamel last year.

More excited than ever, he quickly turned to the next page... only to frown in disappointment when he found it completely blank. "Bugger." Flipping through the wet, sticky pages as fast as he could, Harry's annoyance continued to grow. "Bugger... bugger... bugger! He never wrote in the damn thing."

Only... that didn't make sense. If it was nothing more than an empty diary... why would someone try and throw it away? More than just throw it away, flush it away, like getting rid of all incriminating evidence.

Worrying his bottom lip, the boy closed the diary once more turning it over in his hands to examine it from all angles. A stamp in the bottom left corner of the back caught his eye, and he furrowed his brow, bringing it closer to his face to read properly. "Vauxhall Road... Probably Muggleborn then." Not that there was anything particularly extraordinary about that. Right now, for all appearances, someone had attempted to dispose of a completely blank, Muggle diary from fifty years ago. He didn't need to have a little Slytherin in him to know there was something fishy about that.

Figuring he'd go and scrounge around the library (maybe he could find something on Riddle there), a sudden thought hit him, making him pause. It would likely lead to naught, but... "Myrtle? You wouldn't happen to know who T. M. Riddle is, would you?" He had no idea how long ago it had been that Myrtle had died, but given the old-fashioned uniform and very out of style glasses, he figured it could have been about fifty years ago. It was worth asking, right?

"Riddle." Myrtle slowly floated down from where she'd been hovering to get closer to Harry's level. Her eyes were scrunched up tight, brow knitted in the middle, and her tongue was beginning to creep out the side of her mouth. She looked quite ridiculous actually, but Harry knew she was thinking hard. "Riddle," she repeated, and her head began to slowly shake back and forth. "I think so, yes. He was in school with me. Very good-looking."

Harry fought hard to keep from rolling his eyes. Of course that's what a girl would remember.

"I think he was a prefect or something... Everything's just so fuzzy."

That peaked Harry's curiosity. "Fuzzy?"

Coming out of her trance-like state, the ghost fixed him with a surprisingly serious look, eyes wide and solemn beneath her ugly glasses. "Fuzzy's the only way I can describe it. Whenever I try to remember details from my life... I haven't forgotten exactly; it's just that everything I can remember feels more like a dream than an actual memory... Except for a few select things, of course." Two twin splotches of— well, grey darkened on her pale cheeks. "I still remember that awful Olive Hornby and her awful teasing like it was just yesterday."

The boy let his mind slowly digest all that, surprised. "Is it like that for all ghosts?"

Blinking slowly, Myrtle nodded. "Yes, from what I've heard."

Wow. He'd never known that at all. Though he supposed in a way it made sense. Ghosts were dead, only a part of the life that had once been. They retained their memories of that life, but the only ones that really stood out clearly were whatever had been most prominent, most emotional to them at the time they died. Myrtle had been made miserable by that Olive girl, who knew for how long, so she remembered that perfectly well. Painful memories were always harder to forget than happy ones.

"Well, thanks for your help, Myrtle."

The ghost looked startled again, making Harry's mood darken even further. Really, was absolutely no one nice to her but him? Feeling his ingrained Gryffindor sense of justice rear its head, along with a bit of Hufflepuff sympathy, he said rather harshly, "I'll be round to visit you again, all right?" Not that he really wanted to speak with her again, it was just... he felt bad. Besides, it's not like he had anyone else to talk to. "See you later."

He didn't wait for a reply and nearly missed her soft, "Yes. Bye, Harry." as he made a hasty exit from the damp, dark room, diary still firmly in hand.

Getting to the library was no problem. Ignoring the whispers and stares that plagued him wherever he went was equally simple. Asking Madame Pince for old school records so he could look through the long list of former prefects was a bit more difficult. Not the act itself, of course, it was just... well, Madame Pince was hardly the friendliest of people. She glared at him overtop her glasses suspiciously, lips pursed as though physically restraining herself from asking what he wanted the records for. He just stared innocently back, waiting. He had no reason to explain himself seeing as how he'd done nothing wrong, and he had the same rights as every other student in the school. He could look at the public records whenever he pleased, regardless of what he planned on doing with the information.

He found himself rather impressed by what he found. He'd had no idea before just how well kept the records at Hogwarts were. Full lists of every student from every year dating back at least a hundred years along with what house they were in, written out neatly in chronological and then alphabetical order. Lists of prefects, Head Boys, Head Girls. Unfortunately, he was unable to find anything other than Tom Riddle had been both prefect and Head Boy, not to mention a member of Slytherin. He had also received a Medal for Magical Merit (something he knew for a fact Hermione had her eye firmly set on) and an award for Special Services to the School, but no matter how hard Harry looked, he couldn't find what the latter was for.

A bit dejected by the lack of information (just because it had been more than he was expecting didn't mean he didn't want even more still), he was about to return the records to Madame Pince when a sudden idea crossed his mind. It was likely stupid and childish, not to mention it would be utterly pointless in the end but...

A deep warmth flared in his chest when he saw Evans, Lily printed in neat, tiny script, listed as both a Gryffindor prefect and Head Girl. Everyone always talked about his father, how Harry should be proud to have inherited his flying abilities, how James had been so good at Transfiguration, how he'd been one of the most popular boys in school. Why had no one ever told him of his mother's obvious achievements? Did they not think he'd be just as impressed by those? They always compared him to James, was he really nothing at all like Lily except in the eyes? Or was that just how they wanted him to be?

Tracing his fingers lightly over the name one last time, cursing himself for becoming so sentimental over something so trivial, he returned the records to the snippy librarian, making his way slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, mind a thousand miles away. What he wouldn't give for just one chance...

He was so lost in thought, he nearly walked straight into a harried Neville climbing through the portrait hole. Giving his rotund friend an apologetic smile, wondering just how many more daft things he could pull off before bedtime, he asked politely, "All right there, Neville?"

"Yes, sorry, Harry." The bigger boy gave him a sheepish smile and rubbed the back of his reddening neck. "I didn't even see you there— running late and all— don't want to keep Professor Jenkins waiting."

At the sound of his professor's name, Harry perked up visibly, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "Professor Jenkins?"

"Yeah, he offered me some extra tutoring," the boy said with a bright smile. "Ruddy good of him, really. He knows I need to keep a good grade in Herbology and Astronomy to help balance out Potions. Herbology's no problem, but... dunno, lately my Astronomy marks have been dropping. The stars all start to look alike, I guess; and if I don't keep an O in there, my whole average will drop. They might even make me repeat a year, all because I can't get higher than a bloody T in Snape's class..." Letting his voice trail off, his face the same hue as a tomato by this point, Neville looked down to study his feet, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, yeah. Best be off."

Harry watched him go, both amused by his friend's antics and at the same time... well, he wasn't sure exactly. There was this odd burning feeling in his stomach, a sense of anger (the kind he'd never really felt towards anyone but Dudley before), and it was all directed at Neville. Which was positively ridiculous because... well, why should he ever feel such hateful things toward Neville of all people? He was harmless, always nice, and never once since this whole Heir of Slytherin bollocks started had he looked at Harry with anything other than friendship and trust. Where was this irrational ire coming from?

Shaking himself, literally, Harry climbed through the portrait hole, intent on finishing his Charms homework and turning in early. Hopefully after a good sleep, he'd be back to feeling normal again. After all, things always looked better in the morning.

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.