Harry slid into his seat in Defence, his face burning with embarrassment at arriving to class nearly fifteen minutes late, and judging by the looks on Teddy, Blaise and Hermione’s faces, they felt the same way. Fortunately, Professor Quirrell took relatively no notice to their late absence, as he was currently stuttering over an answer to Terry Boot, one of Hermione’s housemates, over what they would be learning this term.

“We s-shall begin with a d-discussion what the d-dark arts are and why we m-must defend against them.” Quirrell spoke as he slowly walked around the classroom, avoiding eye contact with any of the students.

Harry had been really interested to learn about defence, but after a few moments of Quirrell’s stuttering he found himself bored and daydreaming about the flying lessons he had heard would take place at the end of the week. He imagined himself flying through the air on one of those racing brooms he had seen in Diagon Alley, the sun warm against his face and the wind blowing his hair.

A sharp kick to the shin brought his attention back to the lesson, and a glance to his right revealed Hermione looking quite irritated that Harry was not paying attention or taking notes.

“Focus.” She hissed quietly, jabbing her quill in the direction of the professor.

A look down at her parchment showed Hermione had already taken more notes in ten minutes than he normally took in a week, and he sighed and looked back at the professor. At that moment, Quirrell’s eyes met Harry’s and Harry felt a sharp stab of pain sear through his scar. Dropping his quill, Harry clutched his forehead with a light gasp.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked worriedly, lowering her own quill and looking at Harry in concern, “Harry?”

Harry groaned, rubbing his scar and wondering what could possibly be happening. His old scar had never hurt before, nor had he ever heard of a scar suddenly beginning to hurt years and years after it was acquired. “My head hurts.” Harry whispered softly, “Where that old scar is.”

“Hurts how? Do you need to go to the infirmary to get checked over?” Hermione fretted, reminding Harry very much of their mother. Before he could answer, Hermione’s hand had shot into the air, and once called upon she said anxiously, “Harry is not well, he needs to go to the hospital wing to be evaluated.”

“I’m fine, ‘Mione.” Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead once more and looking down as his cheeks turned dark pink with embarrassment over Hermione’s statement. The sharp pain was fading, and he certainly didn’t want people to be staring at him like they were.

Professor Quirrell looked at Harry again, and the pain surged once more, causing Harry to groan in response. Seeing his discomfort, Professor Quirrell nodded and stuttered, “Y-yes, Miss G-Granger. Please escort him a-at once.”

Hermione looked a bit put out at the thought of missing class, although she relaxed when she walked by Blaise and he whispered that he’d copy his notes for the two of them. It wasn’t as if she needed to take notes anyway, since she had already memorized the first four chapters of their textbook. She held the door open for Harry, who looked as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

“That was humiliating and completely unnecessary.” Harry complained once they were alone in the hallway, “Did you see the way everyone was looking at me?”

Hermione shook her head, placing a hand on Harry’s forehead in a manner similar to their mother, “You know you’re supposed to ask for help when you need it, not just suffer in silence. How many times has Mum said that? Besides, the nurse here uses magic to heal you, potions and spell works, so if you can get rid of your headache right away, why wouldn’t you want to?”

“It’s not a big deal, it’s already going away.” Harry responded, pushing her hand away and beginning to walk towards the staircase, “I don’t like people staring at me.”

Hermione remained silent as they both walked up the stairs in the direction of the hospital wing. Harry knew she was thinking that he still had some issues from when he lived with his other family, even though it had been years since he had been near them. She was correct, to an extent, there were a few habits he had been unable to easily change. One was his inability, or unwillingness, to ask for help when something was wrong. It had taken nearly two years for him to be comfortable asking for food or a drink when he felt hungry or thirsty, and another before he worked up the courage to tell his parents when he wanted to do things such as going outside to play, going to the zoo, or going out for an ice cream. He still had trouble asking for someone to care for him when he was injured or unwell, though, and nothing their parents did seemed to reassure him.

They had just reached the second landing on the staircase when a voice stopped them in their tracks.

“Did I not send you to Defence class a mere twenty minutes ago?”

Both Harry and Hermione stopped in their tracks and turned around, fear etched on their faces at they gazed into the stern glare of the potions professor.

“Harry is ill, Professor Quirrell wished for me to escort him to the infirmary.” Hermione said defensively, though she kept her voice even and polite, “We were just on our way there.”

“Is that so?” Snape asked in a quiet voice that caused Harry to shiver, “And what seems to be troubling Mr. Granger?”

Harry rubbed his forehead absentmindedly at the question, and once his bangs were moved he unknowingly revealed his scar, bright red and looking fresh against his pale face, “It was strange, sir, I was fine one moment, and then my scar began to burn badly.”

“Your scar?” Professor Snape questioned, studying Harry carefully as if trying to decide whether the boy was being truthful or not, “Did something trigger this occurrence? Has it bothered you before?”

Harry shook his head, feeling sluggish and tired now that his head felt completely pain free, “No sir, it has never hurt before. Professor Quirrell looked at me and it just started hurting. It got better after we left class, and now it doesn’t hurt at all anymore. I just feel…odd.”

“Odd?” Professor Snape questioned, a curious expression on his normally guarded face, “In what way?”

Harry shrugged, his pale cheeks turning pink in embarrassment, “I don’t know, really. Just different than I did before. Tired, a little disoriented, achy.”

“He’s not feverish.” Hermione supplied, clearly trying to be helpful and hoping they wouldn’t be reprimanded for being out of class even though they had another Professor’s permission.

Snape looked at Hermione, as if just now remembering the girl was there, and stated curtly, “Return to class, I can take it from here Miss Granger.”

Hermione wasted no time complying to his clear dismissal. With a quick, “Feel better, Harry.” she turned and fled back towards the Defence classroom.

Once alone, Snape studied Harry intensely for a moment before stating in a tone that warned Harry not to argue, “Follow me, Mr. Granger.”

Harry sluggishly followed, wanting nothing more than to return to his dormitory for a long nap. He wasn’t sure why he felt so exhausted all of a sudden, since he had slept well the previous night and he hadn’t overtaxed himself in any way. He was too out-of-sorts to question why they were no longer heading in the direction of the hospital wing, but instead the more familiar pathway to the dungeons, although he did give the Professor a puzzled look as they stopped at the entrance to Snape’s office.

“Have a seat.” the professor told the bleary-eyed boy, handing him a potion, “Drink this, it will help.”

Harry did as he was told and was surprised to find that just a few short moments later he felt remarkably better and more like himself. “Thank you.” he said politely, having resisted the urge to pull a face at the taste of the blue liquid, “May I ask, sir, why you have brought me to your office? Am I in trouble?”

“Have you broken any rules?” Snape countered. Waiting for the boy to confirm that he hadn’t, the professor continued, “I would like to speak to you more in-depth over what happened in your Defence class this afternoon. Do you think you could tell me once again what happened, this time with as many details as possible?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to remember as many details as possible. He spoke slowly, clearly trying to assemble his thoughts in a presentable manner, and replied, “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when I first arrived in Defence Against the Dark Arts, other than Professor Quirrell can’t speak without stuttering, but it was really hard to follow what he was saying because he doesn’t speak clearly, and I guess I lost focus of the lesson. That, and his classroom smells absolutely terrible and we had just eaten lunch, it was rather unpleasant.”

Harry blushed, feeling awkward and embarrassed admitting that he wasn’t quite paying attention in a class to his formidable head of house, but when Snape didn’t scold him, Harry continued, “My sister, Hermione, told me to pay attention, and when I looked back to Professor Quirrell, he looked at me at the same time. I felt a really sharp pain in my scar and I could have sworn I heard a hissing or a voice that sounded like hissing. Hermione noticed and told Professor Quirrell I wasn’t well, and then he sent us off to the infirmary, and then you found us.”

Harry was silent for a few moments, trying to think if he had forgotten anything, and then quietly concluded, “And that is all, sir.”

Snape looked at Harry pensively for a moment, and Harry sat rigidly, his eyes on the professor at all times. After a brief silence, Snape penned a note on a sheet of parchment and handed it to Harry, “This is a note that will excuse you from any class or activity. If your scar hurts you at all, especially if it is in the presence of Professor Quirrell, I want you to use this to come and find me immediately. No delays whatsoever, understood?”

Harry took the parchment, politely thanking the professor before standing and approaching the door. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, or why it was seemingly important that his scar hurt, but he had confidence that if he set Hermione to the task of finding out, he’d likely have an answer for that by curfew with the way she did research. Absorbed by this thought, he barely registered that the fireplace in Professor Snape’s office roared to life as he shut the door, nor did he wonder why the professor was calling for the headmaster’s office.