Harry knows when to admit defeat.

He doesn't even reach for his picture. His arms are heavy, and he heaves himself over, wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball. He scoots slowly over to the desk and slumps against the smooth wood, curling himself into it. He's fought hard today, he's fought up and down, but he's lost and he doesn't know what Snape is going to do, and he doesn't even feel scared or confused or wary, and he doesn't even feel defeated, he just feels dead, like lifting his head or breathing is just too much effort.

Pale, slender fingers grasp his picture and pick it up softly, and then there's a crinkle as it unfolds. Harry brings his knees up and stuffs his face into them, unwilling to see the gloating on Snape's face.

But there's no gloating, and there's no relishing words, and Harry peeks up. Snape's eyes have widened imperceptibly – he looks almost shocked, and then floored, and his arms tremble for a minute. Snape's eyes dart to Harry, who looks quickly back at the floor.

"Potter."

Snape's voice is almost a whisper, and he's staring at the picture, fumbles backward, hands grasping for his chair as he falls into it.

“You… this…"

The words drop into the air, hanging, and Harry's not sure what to do with them – not sure what Snape expects him to do with them, so he doesn't do anything. He just accepts them, quiet as they thump unwilling in the space between.

"Potter! Up here, now!"

Those words, he knows what to do with. Sort of. Except they seem to take a long time to fight all the way through to his brain.

Sluggishly, Harry rises, and he pulls back his chair, and sits, but he still has this strange instinct that wants him to coil into himself until he's as small as he feels, and then stuff himself…somewhere. A large pile of blankets. Under a bed with the dust particles clinging to his hair. In someone's arms…

Ha. No, better stick with realism. And the reality it, that Snape…Snape has all the trumps cards, and Harry has nothing. He has nothing but his painful little shreds of determination, and they're dragging, littered behind him somewhere. Harry has nothing but the stale scent of his cupboard and the bitterness of a contempt that tastes almost like blood, and a distant memory of love slipping around in the back of his mind.

Snape opens a little drawer in his desk and tucks the picture in to it, letting the book thump, forgotten, onto the top. The drawer closes with a snick.

"That's mine,” Harry means to snap it, but the words come out all limp and pleading.

"That, Potter, unless I'm mistaken, is a page unjustifiably ripped from Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, probably a library copy?" The man succinctly enunciates the last two words.

A pause.

"Probably." Harry says.

The thought flits through him that this probably means harsher punishment, too, and he wonders when he stopped caring. Tendrils of resentment wiggle through the fog. But he's not going to apologize, he's not. Not for this, not for stealing a little piece of his parents to carry around.

He won't apologize, and he's not sorry.

Snape's voice is even as he starts speaking. "I expect an explanation for this, Potter. Vandalizing a copy of a public library book. I want to know," Snape leans forward, "why."

"I wanted the picture." Harry says dully.

"Yes, that's quite obvious, Mr. Potter." Snape taps his finger on the edge of his desk and Harry's eyes follow it. Tap. Tap. "My question remains. Do you enjoy such acts of destruction? Why?"

"Why?" Harry echoes, incredulous. "I just wanted to see them."

The silence is startled and sharp.

"Speak plainly, Potter!" Snape bites after a moment.

Harry doesn't know what Snape wants, he's not sure he ever did.

He swallows.

"They're my parents!"

"Get ahold of yourself, Potter, I believe that's a well known fact.”

Harry's words are dazed, his eyelids feel thick when he blinks them.

"I just…I saw them, and once I knew… I couldn't just–I wanted to have. Something. To, you know, remember…"

Snape snarls, frustrated, and Harry trails off.

"What about your myriad of other pictures? They simply don't count?"

Harry squints at him. Yep, he's aggravated. And something, somewhere in his brain, is screaming at him that this is a very bad thing. But he can't quite get a handle on just what Snape is talking about, and to be honest, he's rather annoyed himself. He eyes the man.

"What other pictures?"

"Your pictures of your parents, Potter, don't try to-!"

But Harry gives a snort and shakes his head, and Snape stops.

"Are you telling me, Potter," he says, so very, very softly, "that this is the first picture that you've had of your parents?"

Harry nods. "Erm. Had; seen. I didn't want to forget what they looked like.”

Like I forgot how they felt.

Sometimes he still dreams about being held.

"You've never…known…what they looked like."

Snape's disbelief grates on Harry. Harry's lied about lots of things, but he'd never lie about this.

"Like Aunt Petunia would ever take time out of her day to show me pictures!" He laughs tiredly. "Of my parents? I'd be surprised if she hadn't burned them. I'd be surprised if she had any at all."

“Potter," Snape's head it tilted a little as he studies Harry, and Harry fights the urge not to laugh again. “Potter–"

"My mum had red hair. Did you know?" Harry says suddenly. "I already knew that - Hagrid told me that…that I have her eyes."

"Hagrid told you,” Snape says blankly, and then his jaw tightens.

And suddenly, Harry is just very, very tired. He's tired of being afraid and he's tired of waiting and he doesn't have the energy to hope or want, he just wants this over.

"Are you going to punish me now?" Harry says wearily.

He's starting to hate that uncomprehending stare on the man's face. It looks slightly wrong.

"First I will assure you, again, Mr. Potter," Snape sounds annoyed. "That my punishments will not be in keeping with what your… relatives see fit to dole out."

Harry wasn't really expecting it to be, but he relaxes anyway, minutely, before panicking. "Not expulsion–“

"Potter!"

That shuts Harry up.

"You have detention with me for the next week. You will take the book back to Madame Pince and apologize, then pay for a replacement–“

"Does that mean I get to keep the picture?" Harry questions. "Because if I pay for the book, and then it becomes mine, it makes sense that-"

"I am trying to give you consequences, Potter, and you will sit and be quiet and not interrupt me!"

"But, Sir–“

"Potter, I can assure you that I will be keeping an eye on your flying classes from now on, and the instant I see anything worth reporting, you and your school career will be the worse for it, I will give the details of your discipline at a later time, and right now I will thank you to get out of my office!"

"But I–“ Harry starts again.

"Potter, out."

Harry lets his head fall into his hands as he tries to gather himself, his fingers curled into hard, helpless fists. Still steaming, he yanks up from his chair, glares at the man, and whirls, ready to leave that stupid chair, that stupid desk, that stupid man behind him. The only thing he's not ready to leave is his picture, but he promises himself he'll figure it out. He'll get a plan together, break into that drawer sometime, steal it back. He will. Sometime. But right now… right now, he just wants to lay down.




He's back in the dorm and it's quiet and he heads for the bed but then there's a rustling in the closet.

Blaise backs out from it and swings around to face him.

"Found it– oh, hey, Potter."

Blaise scrunches his eyebrows mischievously.

"That was some stunt you pulled. How'd it go with the Head?"

"Blaise," Harry chokes a little on the other boy's name coming out, and Blaise looks at him sharply, and then sidles closer.

"Somethin' happen?"

Harry turns away. "No. No, I just…I just need a minute."

"Looks like you need more than one, Potter,” and Blaise slips over to Harry bed and then falls back on the pillows, hands locked behind his head, all spread out, and Harry isn't sure what to do but he can't think, he doesn't want to make decisions right now. What is Blaise doing?

“Zabini–“

Blaise grins. "Ah, a minute ago it was Blaise, but now–“

"Blaise."

Harry takes a breath, and realizes distantly that this is the first time he's used the other boy's first name to his face. And then he falls onto the bed and shoves his face into his pillow. His head hurts. Snape is going to kill him, he's going to kill him, why hasn't Snape killed him already, and he needs that picture, Snape's going to murder him…

"Hey, I know the Professor's a pretty dark character, but if you ask me, going homicidal on a first year is probably a little below his aspirations.”

“What," says Harry blankly.

"You were muttering."

Why is Blaise still here? It's not that Harry doesn't want him here, he just doesn't understand what the boy's doing. And isn't it...

"Isn't it lunch time?"

Blaise stretches and slips off the bed. "Good point. Food will help you face your problems. Let's go."

"No, I meant," Harry pauses, bewildered. "I'm not really hungry, but if you haven't eaten, you should go."

"Is that a hint, Potter?" Blaise raises his eyebrows mockingly. "Don't you want me around?"

"No!" Harry says, words stumbling over each other. "I mean, yes, I do! It's…it's not a hint."

"Well, good, because I wouldn't have taken it,” Blaise says lightly, eyeing him as if he's insulted by the mere thought. "I'll tell you what, how's about I go down, sneak some snacks out for both of us and then we'll feast up here like kings."

"Is that allowed?"

"Not really,” Blaise says airily. "Neither is racing sixty feet into the air with no adult supervision in a show-down with another student."

Harry grimaces and concedes the point with silence.

Blaise flashes him a grin and strides smoothly from the room, and it gives Harry a chance to take stock of himself. He no longer feels like drowning himself in the darkness and warmth of those incredible fuzzy blankets for the rest of the year, which is good. And, Harry is surprised to notice, he actually feels a little better for chatting with Blaise.

He's glad he left him alone a moment; but he's glad Blaise is coming back, too. In fact, laughing on that velvet green bed with Blaise, munching on whatever items Blaise will smuggle down to him, and talking about the day, sounds just like something Harry's always wished for; something he’s never pictured himself having.

When Blaise comes down though, he's not alone. Harry stifles his reaction because he's doesn't know what to say about seeing Theodore Nott standing next to Blaise.

"Harry!" Blaise starts unloading pastries and fruit from his bag.

Harry can't decide whether Nott looks more amused or irritated. He glares at Harry, then turns back to Blaise, who's slouched, fussing with his plunder.

"Blaise, what-"

"Oh c'mon, I got tired of watching you make goo goo eyes at Daphne Greengrass over the length of table, have I told you these treacle tarts are supreme?"

"I was not," Nott says indignantly, "making goo goo-"

He whirls to face Harry.

"I wasn't doing that,” he denies, and Harry feels a smile creeping up his lips.

"And anyway," Nott snaps, "I don't see that this is really a better option, whatever…this is."

"Do you want to sit down?" Harry wants to ask, but he's tired, and everything seems just a little ridiculous right now, and it comes tumbling out of his mouth like, "Sit down."

Nott blinks at him.

"Don't tell me what to do, Potter." He says, and then sits on the bed. "What are you two doing up here?"

"Harry was just telling me how it went with Professor Snape."

Nott's face darkens, as if he just remembered. "Of all the idiotic, irresponsible things to do, Potter! I can't believe you – you could have died!"

Nott sniffs.

"Well, I-I didn't get expelled." Harry's not quite sure why that's the most important thing to vocally affirm right now, but something tugging at his mind is insisting that it's a big deal. And also probably the only thing good that happened in the whole situation.

Oh, yeah, besides not getting whipped with a belt in the Hospital Wing, but Harry's doesn't know what to think about that yet.

"Oh, is that all you were worried about?" Blaise says.

Nott eyes Harry and lifts his brow dismissively.

"Don't be absurd, Potter. The Headmaster wouldn't expel you for flying your broom unsupervised! Even if it was against a teacher's orders."

Well, that's funny. Because Harry distinctly remembers being threatened with expulsion. His mouth flattens wryly. So adults lie. Big deal.

Besides, Nott could be wrong. Snape's a teacher, he would know the Headmaster personally, and he might know better than Nott. Or perhaps Harry could only get expelled with Snape's supportive influence.

Harry looks up again to find Blaise and Nott exchanging glances.

"Was that really your first time on a broom?" Blaise says casually, inquiring.

"Yes." Harry mumbles.

Nott looks grudging. "Not bad, Potter."

Harry looks up, wary. "You mean…you mean, I was good?"

Blaise laughs, light and warm. "You didn't think any ol' first year could pick up a broom and handle it like that? You're going to be brill at Quidditch next year. You practically gave Malfoy a run for his money!"

"Ugh, don't talk to me about Malfoy," Harry groans.

"Treacle tart." Blaise sympathetically shoves the flaky thing into Harry's hand.

Harry absently bites into it, and then glances at it in surprise. Wow, that was good.

Nott crosses his arms. "I don't even know what I'm doing here."

"So what did the good Professor do?"

"Well, he, um-" Harry pauses, answers flying through his mind. He took Harry to the Hospital Wing? He got mad, he left, he took Harry's picture? "Detention. For a week, and, er-"

Snape, whipping out his wand, it's smooth, dark point aimed straight at him, shivering with power. "I'll show you 'get hurt', Potter!" "I'd like to see you try, sir." Harry crumpled on the floor next to the desk, and aching. Feeling his heart close as surely as that drawer did, with his picture inside, sinking, sinking…

"Points. He took twenty points each from me and Malfoy, I think."

"A full seven days of detention, though, in just your first week!" Blaise sympathizes.

Harry shrugs.

"I'll have to help you with homework."

Harry looks at Blaise sharply. "You…will?"

"How else will you get it all done, ninny?" Blaise laughs.

"That's right, Zabini,” Nott drawls. "Insult the guy. He'll be sure to accept your generous offer."

Harry's lips curl up and break into a short, surprised laugh, and Blaise joins him, shaking Nott's commentary off.

"You know, Nott? You're just too uptight. Here, try one of these, they sure seemed to loosen Harry up–“ Blaise shoves a treacle tart at Nott, who breaks his expression to reel back with a shriek, but then Blaise is on him, shoving the tart into his mouth, and Harry is laughing gleefully without even thinking about it, as the poor pastry becomes scattered, sticky crumbles all over the bed. He watches, and he laughs, and he thinks, yeah. This is just as good as he imagined.

He doesn't dare jump into the fray too hard, after just getting all fixed up by Madame Pomphrey and with still tender bruises, but he does grab another treacle tart from the pile (Blaise must be fond of them, he really brought a ridiculous amount), and saunters over to the wrestling two, commenting with a impish grin. "I think maybe Blaise needs a taste of his own medicine."

He falls asleep that night with the thought of Snape and the visceral taste of fear a distant memory.



Severus Snape is not falling asleep so easily. He paces in the dimmed light of his office, back, forth. He knew two seconds after his eyes scanned that parchment paper in the Hospital Wing that Harry Potter was abused. An ugly word, and there was no other one for it. By the time he dealt with Draco, his patience was running short, and when Harry Potter sat down in that chair, all excuses and explanations and angry interruptions, the events at the Hospital Wing had gotten shoved from Snape's mind.

Perhaps they shouldn't have been. Because there's no denying the fact that Severus lost his temper with the boy. His temper's always been easily lit, and he's never apologized for it. He walks slowly over to his desk, and slides open a small drawer in the front. He thought he had it all figured out, thought he had a grip on exactly what happened in the sky that morning, and exactly what motivations were behind it. His hand grips a rumpled piece of paper that still smells like library book, fingers smoothing one edge.

And every time he thinks he has Potter pegged, the boy has to go do…something, that shatters his nice pre-planned reality.

"I wanted the picture."

He knows he threatened the boy - since when hasn't he enjoyed putting some well-earned fear into certain little delinquents? He knows he frightened him too, could see Potter's eyes go wide and his body go still as he flinched defensively away from Snape's wand, arms flying up to cover his face.

He was angry at the boy earlier, but he's not angry at him, now. Irritated, yes. Potter barely seems able to understand or answer a straight question, he's smart-mouthed, and –

"What other pictures?" "I didn't want to forget what they looked liked."

Severus skids his hand over the glossy bordered photo of James Potter and Lily. They looked happy. His fingers tighten.

"She had red hair, did you know?" The boy's eyes look achingly lost.

Did he know…merlin, as if he could ever forget! Severus leans over his desk, propped up on both arms, and squeezes his own eyes shut. And Hagrid had to tell the boy...

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he'll go to Albus.