Harry awoke to find himself lying on something black and fuzzy, his legs tangled up in a light piece of cloth. His first foolish thought was that he had been captured by Death Eaters and thrown into a containment cell somewhere. He twitched, struggling fruitlessly with the cloth that was currently constraining his legs.

“Get up at once, boy, before you damage the blanket.”

Oh, no. He knew that voice. Shaking the sleep from his head, Harry thought privately that he would rather have dealt with one hundred fuzzy Rug-Monsters than a single Severus Snape.

Snape’s eyes were bloodshot, his sallow face paler than usual. His bony hand reached out, grasping Harry’s arm in a painfully tight grip and pulling him off the hard floor, where he was thrown rather rudely onto the sofa.

“Clean up this mess and get ready for school,” snapped Snape, waving his wand around like a maestro. “The bathroom is the second door to the right of the fireplace, and don’t take long. You still have to be introduced to the Slytherin House, and I would prefer to be at the breakfast table on time.”

“Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll clean up and be really quick. No need to be such a—”

Before he had the time to react, Snape’s hand was at his throat, clutching his collar threateningly.

“Manners, Potter! How easily you forget that I have your entire being at my disposal. You will treat me with the utmost respect, or so help me youwill be sorry.”

Gulping, Harry jerked away, his eyes wide. He couldn’t help but think that Snape was overreacting a bit, but it was most likely better not to argue. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he somehow managed to make himself stand and fold the blanket to a standard that even Aunt Petunia would be forced to accept. Snape stalked off, muttering about incompetence. He sighed, rubbing a lump that seemed to have formed on his head sometime during the night and shuffled off to the bathroom.

Compared to all of the other bathrooms Harry had ever been in, Snape’s was something of a marvel to Harry. It didn’t appear to be any more interesting than the water closet back in Privet Drive, but the minute he stepped up to the looking glass it barked, “Comb your hair, you little snot!” in such a menacing voice that he sprang backward and nearly fell into the porcelain tub.

“I met a mirror like you in the Leaky Cauldron,” he said cautiously, picking himself up. “Only that one was loads nicer, but then, you’re Snape’s, so I reckon I ought to have expected that one.”

There was no response. Wondering if he might be a bit mad, Harry approached the mirror again, and nearly died of shock.

His face was . . . He couldn’t even begin to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Gone was the round nose he’d grown accustomed to, replaced instead by a larger, crooked thing that leered at him from the reflection. His face had become thinner and paler, with more angles and sharp, jutting cheek bones. Even his scar seemed to have faded into his unhealthy, bloodless skin, leaving behind little more than a minuscule slash in the centre of his forehead. But what shocked Harry the most about his new appearance was not his abnormally large nose, or his pale, gaunt face. In fact, those things seemed trivial in comparison. No, what worried and surprised him more than anything else was the fact that he no longer had his mother’s eyes.

“Hurry up, Potter!” Snape could be heard slamming something heavy around from the main room, grumbling at the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.

“No need to be vain, you ugly little sod! Stop staring at yourself before you go blind and wash your bloody face!”

Resisting the urge to toss a bar of soap at the rude bit of glass, Harry splashed some water on to his face distractedly, his eyes glued to their gray reflection. Gray. What in heavens name would he want gray eyes for? He wanted his mother’s green eyes, and James Potter’s handsome face, and his grandfather’s knobbly knees. This new Harry was unattractive and altogether unlikable–looking, and he couldn’t help but think of the awkward fifteen year-old Severus Snape in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.

“Potter!”

Speak of the Devil . . . .

Drying his face with a slender, long-fingered hand, Harry shuffled out to meet the irate Potions Master.

“Sit on the floor. Don’t move, don’t speak.”

Snape was bent over a very large book, his brows knitted in concentration as he turned the yellowed pages. He reached up once or twice to massage his temples before finishing up with whatever he had been doing and replacing the book on a heavy-looking oak bookcase. He coughed delicately, turned to Harry, and snapped, “From now on, every time you enter my living space, you will not sit, stand, lie down, or even so much as breathe on anything other than the floor. Is that understood?”

Harry shook his head, confused. “But, sir, why—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Potter,” Snape continued, waving his hand. “You tore the blanket this morning with your theatrics, and I doubt I even want to see what’s left my bathroom. (Harry opened his mouth to reply, but thought the better of it and bit his tongue.) You have been nothing but disrespectful to me, and this must cease at once. This is a serious matter. You will be playing the part of my apprentice. Mine, Potter. There is no room for mistakes.

“When you address me privately, you will begin or end every sentence with “sir”. When you address me outside of class, it will be “Master”, and when inside of class I am “Professor Snape.” I will not tolerate being called by any other name, and I assure you, boy, you will like me even less if I have to punish you.”

Harry blinked, trying desperately to make sense of the harsh words that were being spewed at him. His bleary mind was working furiously at the task, and it was beginning to give him quite a headache.

“I expect you to rise promptly at five o’clock every morning—no exceptions. You will be dressed and ready at five after five, and I expect you to be sitting in here by exactly ten after. Tardiness will be met with quick and severe punishment, such as a missed meal. You will wait to accompany me to the classroom, where we will prepare for the day by lighting the fires and organizing ingredients. You will then go to breakfast, followed immediately by your next class. You are not allowed to socialize in between classes, as I find it a meaningless distraction that will no doubt pull your mind from work.”

Harry didn’t bother trying to explain that he wouldn’t have much of a social life anyway, seeing as he had no friends. He would probably only get in trouble for being cheeky, just as if he was with the Dursleys all over again.

“For the time being, you will assist me in class to cover your obvious lack of talent in the subject of Potions. No one will question you; it would be unlikely that my apprentice would not already have sufficient understanding of the subject matter we cover in the classroom. You are forbidden from assisting your friends, or even from conversing with them. You are a Slytherin now, and I expect you to act as such. There will be no more late-night strolls around the castle. Insubordination will not be tolerated. You are also forbidden from riding broomsticks for the time being—that is, until I deem you mature enough to sit astride one of those dangerous contraptions.” Snape droned on until Harry found that he couldn’t even force himself to pay attention any longer.

“Sir?” he asked, his voice slurred with sleepiness.

Snape’s head snapped up.

“What is it, Potter?” Snape obviously wasn’t in the mood for his questions.

Swallowed hard, Harry asked quizzically, “Did something happen today? You seem a bit---I dunno---did something come up again?”

“You need to take this seriously, Potter. This is a dangerous act, and I can see no other way to impress that upon you. It will be of the utmost importance for you to respect me, and for us to be able to communicate, which you are not capable of under the best circumstances.”

Something about the man’s snappish reply didn’t ring true to Harry. He knew this was important. They’d been telling him that from the off, hadn’t they? Why was he having rubbish about communication and behaviour spewed at him when he already knew it? Snape droned on, and Harry couldn’t help but notice he was clutching his left forearm throughout the entire lecture.

“Remember, you are a Pureblood. You must be confidant in who you are, and don’t hesitate to be a bit arrogant. Confidence is key in this.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry nodded, following the Potions Master out of his quarters and down a dimly lit corridor, his newly acquired Slytherin robes fluttering gently behind him. Fluttering. How pathetic was that? What sort of a Slytherin had fluttery robes? He gave a hopeful little kick with his foot, turning his attention back to the corridor in disappointment.

It felt like someone had dropped a bucket of ice down his throat, and it was stuck, refusing to melt, in his chest. He would be meeting his new house today, for the very first time. The thought of it made him want to be sick. It was like the first time playing Quidditch, only about six thousand times more unpleasant. These were the Slytherins. Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. He just didn’t know how to be a Slytherin, or so he thought.

“Cruor Blanc,” Snape hissed, breaking him out of his daydream. They entered the common room, Harry taking one last gulp of air before they stepped over the threshold.

The first thing he noticed about the Slytherin common room was the change in demeanor of every student upon his and Snape’s entrance. Their backs stiffened, jaws clenched. A few of the older and braver students managed small nods or a respectful, “good morning, sir”, from where they were sitting. Several first years ducked their heads, faces pale; the rest stared on in stony silence.

If they were curious about him, they didn’t show it. Nor did they have any reaction when Snape cleared his throat, gaining the attention of a towheaded fourth year as he tried to make his escape through a handsome wooden door.

“We have a new student,” Snape announced, pausing to allow his black eyes to flicker over each and every one of their faces. They regarded him with cool indifference. “His name is Padriac Domingart, and he will be my new apprentice.”

Somewhere to his left, Harry could have sworn he heard a disgusted grunt, followed by a deep guffaw, and Malfoy’s unpleasant face leered at him from a winged armchair.

“He was a student at Accademia di Puro-Sangue, so you may put your hand down, Pritchard.”

A third year Harry vaguely recognised as Graham Pritchard sunk lower in his seat, looking flustered. Snape, acting as though he hadn’t noticed, cast a stern glare around the room before ending his announcement with, “If there are any problems---and you can trust me to know about them---they will be dealt with swiftly and severely. I will not tolerate the mistreatment of Mr. Domingart in any way, so it would be in all of your best interest to treat him with respect, and, in the very least, indifference.”

There was no reaction from the group, but Harry could feel several sets of cold eyes boring into his forehead. He stared at the fireplace, recalling sadly the many nights spent in the Gryffindor common room, relaxing in a squashy armchair while enjoying the warmth of the merrily crackling fire. No such thing seemed to exist in this common room. The fire burned feebly in the grate, casting a dull, flickering light on the heavily-upholstered armchairs that were neatly arranged around it.

“On that note, we will adjourn to the Great Hall.”

Harry stepped uncertainly into the back of the queue. The rest were chatting quietly amongst themselves, leaving him alone. The first years in front of him were carrying on an animated conversation about the Tutshill Tornadoes, their little bodies jumping up and down with excitement. The first child, a boy with red hair and piercing blue eyes, was boasting about his uncle being manager for the team, and how he was going to a game over the Christmas holiday. The second, a boy with thick brown hair and freckles, stared at his feet for a moment before countering with a tale of his aunt, who used to play for the HolyHead Harpies. They continued for a while, the stories growing wilder as each relation gained in importance and celebrity status, until the first boy, whose name appeared to be Alec, called the second boy---Zachary---a Halfblood Bastard. Zachary immediately blushed, his freckled cheeks bright red as he bowed his head, Alec grinning like man who has just won a contest.

All things considered, Harry thought it an extremely immature and disgusting way to win, and debated telling them that, but decided it would be far too Gryffindor of him to stand up for the rights of first years. Zachary would have to sort out his own problems.

He watched, interested, as Alec told Zachary what his father thought of Halfbloods.

“And you’re a bastard,” sneered the boy, his blue eyes cold. “Nobody likes you, not even your mother. I heard my mother telling Father that. You haven’t even got an aunt. Your mother’s brother is my cousin’s husband, and he’s her only sibling. No one knows who your real father is, liar.”

Zachary frowned, rubbing a shiny, white patch of skin on his wrist. “How do you know I’m Halfblood? My father was Pureblood. I know he was. Mother told me.”

“Because, half-wit, my mother knows more than your slut of a mother, and my mother told me you were Halfblood. Besides, only legally born children can be Pureblood, so you’re Halfblood either way.”

“The Dark Lord is a Halfblood,” said Harry, cutting in. He didn’t think he could stand to listen to such a dreadful conversation much longer. His mind flashed to Hermione. She was more clever than both these boys put together when she was a first year, and she was Muggleborn. He clenched his fists, restraining himself. If Harry could have his way, Alec wouldn’t have a tongue to speak with, let alone insult Zachary, who was doing his best not to look upset and failing miserably at it.

Alec sneered at him, puffing up his chest proudly. “How would you know? I bet you’ve never even seen the Dark Lord. I bet---”

“I bet it’s time you shut your mouth, you little snot.”

A rabbity-looking boy of about Harry’s age had arrived, fidgeting nervously as he regarded Harry. Alec clamped his lips together, kicking Zachary in the shin, then struck up a conversation with the speckled boy about the next Quidditch captain for the English National Team, all arguments forgotten.

“Theodore Nott,” said the boy stiffly.

It was clear to Harry that Theodore didn’t know quite what to make of him. They were supposed to be cousins, meeting at a very awkward time. Harry blushed, realizing he’s just been arguing with an eleven year-old.

“Padriac Domingart.”

They shook hands. Theodore jerked slightly, his scrawny body tense.

“We’re cousins,” he said bluntly.

This was the reason Nott had come to seek him out, was it? He wanted to meet his cousin. Harry nodded, indifferent. He wasn’t really related to the boy, so what did it matter?

“Yeah---Yes. I guess we are, aren’t we?”

Shooting him a last, wayward glance, Nott scurried off to the front of the queue, where he struck up a furious-looking conversation with Draco Malfoy. Harry followed them from a distance. He was already growing tired of Slytherin. Why couldn’t they have surprised him by turning out to be really nice?

He frowned, taking a seat at the end of the table, as far away from Malfoy as possible. If anything, the boy seemed to have grown even more loathsome since the day before. He complained loudly about the school food while serving himself a rather generous helping of kippers and eggs, then went on to insult the students that were unlucky enough to be seated near him. Harry finally understood why no one ever visited the Slytherin table at mealtime. They were such a loud, whiny lot. Who in their right mind wanted to put up with that?

Shoving a piece of toast into his mouth, Harry glanced around the Hall. Snape was sitting next to McGonagall, glaring in his direction and muttering something that looked suspiciously like ‘manners’. He shrugged, watching in fascination as Flitwick picked his nose, then wiped it on the sleeve of an unsuspecting Hagrid. No one else seemed to have noticed. Professor Trelawney, surprisingly, had decided to grace them with her presence. She was chatting amiably with a dark-looking man Harry didn’t know. He moved to the end of the table, his gray eyes scanning the three people that were left. They were uninteresting, so Harry turned his attention back to Dumbledore, who was now standing and smiling around pleasantly.

“Now that we are fed, I have a small announcement to make.”

The hall grew silent, all eyes on Dumbledore. Even Malfoy had frozen, his blue eyes fixed coldly on Harry.

“We have a new student in our midst---Padriac Domingart. Padriac has come from Accademia di Puro-Sangue in Italy. You may have read the story in the Prophet. If not, I must ask you to leave it for another time. Mr. Domingart will be joining us as a Slytherin, and also,” Dumbledore grew serious, his eyes stern from behind half-moon spectacles, “as Professor Snape’s new apprentice.”

The response to that was explosive. Harry fought the urge to duck as nine-hundred heads craned to have a good look at him. Why couldn’t he have been a nobody like Graham Pritchard? Couldn’t Dumbledore have made him someone no one would really care about, someone no one noticed? He would have liked that, for once.

“I expect you will all welcome Mr. Domingart with the warmth and kindness I know each and every one of you to be capable of.”

When at last everyone had returned to their seats, Harry chanced a glance at Ron and Hermione. They were sitting between Ginny and Lupin, staring across the hall in his direction. Hermione looked interested and a little confused, but it was Ron’s face that drew Harry’s attention. His best friend was glaring daggers, face suffused with a deep-set loathing. Ron’s blue eyes shone with hostility as he raised his arm to perform a rather rude hand gesture. Remus, taking advantage of the moment, gulped something discreetly from a silver thermos before replacing it in his bag and end engaging Ron in what appeared to be a very loud, angry conversation.

“I won’t hold you any longer,” Dumbledore smiled, raising his hand in dismissal.

Eager to leave, Harry sprang to his feet, pushing his way through the jostling crowd. He had just reached the stairs to the dungeon when something very solid and painful rammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the wall.

“Oi, watch it will you?”

The ice was back in his chest, spreading slowly to his stomach at that horribly familiar voice. He turned slowly, wand drawn, to find Ron’s hate-filled blue eyes glaring back.

“You were behind me,” Harry countered. He could hardly believe Ron would be such a prat. After all they’d been through! One might think he’d have learned by then not to judge people before he met them.

Ron’s ears were a brilliant shade of pink. He had his own wand out, pointed clumsily at Harry’s chest. Right on cue, Remus cut in, gently pushing Ron to the side. His wand was pointed straight at Harry’s throat. His wand! The wand in Remus’s hand was Harry’s! But then what was the one he was holding? Afraid of what he would find, Harry slowly dropped his eyes. The wand in his hand was indeed not his own. It was about an inch longer, black, and noticeably slimmer. How come he hadn’t felt a change with this wand? Would he even be able to perform magic with it?

Remus winked, nearing Harry, and whispered softly, “they’ve been transfigured.” Oh.

“Leave Ron alone. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

Harry sneered at them, regaining confidence.

“Your nasty little friend started it, Potter. Maybe you should teach him to respect his superiors.”

For his first attempt at being Slytherin, Harry didn’t think it was that bad. He squirmed, an uncomfortable tightness forming in his chest. It was difficult to be unkind to his friends, although Ron was beginning to make it considerably easier.

“Just let it go, Ron,” pleaded Hermione, laying a hand on his shoulder. Her wide eyes darted from Harry to Ron and back again. “Let it go. You don’t want to get in trouble.”

Yes, thought Harry. Don’t be a prat, Ron. Let it go before someone else comes along.

For a moment, Ron looked as though he might take her advice. His wand dropped a fraction, the glare softening as he looked at Hermione. Harry coughed, praying he wouldn’t change his mind.

“I don’t have time to waste on wannabe Death Eaters, anyway.”

Good boy. Leave the mean Death Eater and go. I’m not worth your time.

“Is there a problem here?”

Harry groaned. The last person he needed intervening at a moment like this was Severus Snape.

Pulling Ron and Lupin by the necks of their robes, Hermione said quickly, “No, professor. We were just leaving---weren’t we, Ronald?” Before Snape had a chance to reply, she marched off, a red-eared Ron in tow. He could hear Ron boasting about what he would have done if Snape hadn’t come and poked his ugly face in. Mentally stopping himself clamping his hands over his ears to block out the ringing laughter, Harry returned his attention to the silently fuming man beside him.

“Pro---erm---Master, I---”

“Two points from Slytherin,” Snape snapped derisively, his eyebrows raised. “And the next time, Mr. Domingart, you will remember the correct form of address for one’s master.”

They descended into the dungeons silently. Harry drew up a mental image of his timetable, allowing anxiety to get the better of him for only a moment. His first class was potions. This shouldn’t be too difficult considering he wouldn’t have to do any work. All he had to do was monitor, make a few snide comments, and pretend he didn’t like any of his friends.

“Behave,” Snape hissed in warning. A strong shove in the small of his back sent him flying into the room.

The rest of the class was already seated by the time Harry and Snape arrived. Only Hermione was late, pink-faced and panting as she took her seat next to Neville.

“Today,” began Snape silkily, hovering over Dean Thomas’s table, “we will be creating the Tincture of Amaranth. It is a difficult potion that will test both your skill and your patience. The ingredients,” he flicked his wand lazily, “are on the board. You may begin.”

The class set to their potions immediately, preparing ingredients and fiddling with the fires under their cauldrons, lest they suffer retribution for idleness in Snape’s class. Harry stalked up and down the aisles, sneering at them in his best Snape impression (which still wasn’t very good, even after six years of knowing the man).

“Stir, Malfoy! It’s not a glass of tea, you prat! Put some force behind it!” Smirking at the blond-haired boy, he moved on to the next table.

“Start again, Crabbe. That useless mess looks like sewage.”

“Did you even read the directions? It says (he paused to glance at the board) an infusion of mugwort! You’ll have to start it again, as well.”

“No, no, no, you foolish Gryffindor, it’s aconite! Aconite!”

Half of what Harry said made absolutely no sense, but the feverishly working class didn’t appear to notice. They jumped at his insults, adding more ingredients and vanishing their “useless” potions to begin again. He glowered contemptuously at Hermione’s almost perfect Tincture, passing Neville Longbottom without so much as a glance, and moved on to criticise Parvati Patil, who was sweating profusely as she laboured over something that closely resembled clotted cream.

“What do you call that? It looks like sour milk. Pathe---” Harry stopped mid-sentence as something (or someone) caught his robes. As it was happening in slow motion, Harry could feel himself falling forward, mouth agape. The entire class froze, eyes wide, as he went tumbling into Parvati’s cauldron, dousing her in scalding white goo.

“Dear me,” trilled Malfoy from behind him, a satisfied smirk plastered on his pale face. “You should be more careful around dangerous things like that, Domingart.” He sniffed disdainfully at Parvati, who was silently crying, his cold eyes glinting. “Someone might get hurt.”

Before Harry had the chance to reply, Snape swooped down on them, his wand out, vanishing the spilt tincture. Parvati whimpered, holding out her hand, which had turned scaly and red from the heat.

“To the hospital wing, Patil,” said Snape curtly, checking to make sure the potion hadn’t spread anywhere else. “Don’t bother coming back.”

Rounding on Harry and Malfoy, he snarled, “Back to your seat, Draco. Padriac, return to your monitoring and keep in mind that I will not tolerate another mishap!”

“Yes, sir.” Malfoy stalked off, looking murderous.

Harry opened his mouth, prepared to defend himself. Why was he being shouted it? It was Malfoy’s stupid fault. If he hadn’t of---

“Padriac!”

Oh, yeah. He had a job to do.

“He’s such a---”

“---nasty git. Wish I could---”

“---but did you see his face---”

“---when he fell into the cauldron---”

“---hope Parvati’s alright---”

“---like a miniature Snape---”

Harry sighed, staring at his shoes. They already hated him. He knew they probably wouldn’t like him. It would have been foolish to hope for total popularity, but still, it might have been nice to have at least one person on his side. All of his old friends, the entire Slytherin house, and the one man he had to spend the most time with hated him. More than that, they loathed him. Was it stupid, he thought, to have hoped to just have one friend? This was already difficult enough on its own, but did he have to lose everything else as well?

“You have Defense Against the Dark next,” drawled Snape from his desk, where he was arranging potions samples from their class. “Come.”

“Wands away, books to page five hundred and six.”

From his seat in the back corner, Harry watched the rest of the class groan, grumbling to themselves, as they reached for their thick textbooks. He flipped to page five hundred and six, his eyes unfocused. Defense Against the Dark Arts was Harry’s favorite subject. He glared at his textbook, tearing the corner off of page two hundred and tossing it at Malfoy’s silvery-blond head. Sirius said one of the reasons Snape got picked on so much in school was his knowledge of the Dark Arts. Would Harry be branded with the same label as the young Severus Snape had for showing an interest in class? He knew things about Voldemort and the Dark Magic he’d seen the man do that would certainly arouse suspicion. They’d hate him even more, maybe even take to bullying him like James and Sirius had taken to bullying ‘Snivellus’.

“Which one of you mindless dolts can tell me what a corporeal Patronus is?”

No one answered. Harry looked around in amazement. Most of these people were members of the D.A. Some of them were even able to produce Patronuses properly. His eyes darted over to where Hermione and Ron were sitting. Hermione looked stricken, her eyes shining. Ron appeared to be apologizing profusely over something. Remus was staring hard at his book, obviously waiting it out to see who could answer properly and trying to ignore Snape’s look of utter triumph.

“No one?”

Harry knew that look. That was Snape’s ‘answer-my-question-or-die’ glare. He smirked, pleased. Everyone in the room deserved a nice, fat essay and a long detention with Filch for treating him badly, and for not remembering everything he’d worked so hard to teach them at D.A. meetings. Had that been a joke to them? He thought they took it seriously enough.

“P-profe-essor.” Neville’s hand trembled in the air, twitching with each stuttered syllable he uttered. Snape looked like he was ready to drown a cat.

“Stop stammering, Longbottom,” he ordered, the vein in his temple working double-time. “You are wasting my time.”

The rest of the class watched, dumbstruck, as Neville said quietly, “We---Harry taught us last year---”

“Get on with it, boy!”

The class straightened in their chairs, enthralled by the scene. Harry bit his lip, hoping Neville got it right. Someone needed to answer properly or Snape would never let Remus forget it.

“He . . . he said---a Corporeal Patronus---it’s a fully-formed Patronus, p-professor. It has a dis-distinct sh-shape and . . . well, that’s what we l-learned.”

How Neville could bravely stand up to the woman who tortured his parents into insanity but cowered in the presence of Severus Snape Harry would never understand. He puffed his chest out a bit, proud that at least one of his friends was able to give a suitable answer. He wasn’t a complete failure as a teacher, then.

“What is significant about the shape a Patronus takes for its Caster?” Snape questioned, pacing. Once again, the room was still. No one knew the answer to that one. Remus looked crestfallen. Determined not to let down his only remaining loyal friend, Harry hesitantly stuck his fist in the air, his gray eyes never leaving Snape’s face.

“Mr. Domingart? Show these worthless dunderheads what intelligence looks like.”

Doing his best to ignore their muttered insults and threats, Harry said slowly, “A Patronus is sort of . . . a reflection of the Caster, I guess. It’s an animal form when properly performed. Sometimes (he wracked his brain, trying to remember what Hermione said about Patronuses changing form) really emotional things, like tragedy or---falling in love---can change the form of a Patronus.”

It was a shot in the dark, but by Remus’s small, hardly noticeable smile, Harry was almost certain he’d been right. Almost.

“Ten points to Slytherin for proving human-kind still has hope left,” sneered Snape, glowering at them down his nose. “For tonight’s homework, I want five feet on the proper way to cast a corporeal Patronus, the improper way, and the results of both . . . .”

Harry spent the remainder of the class with his head in his hands, trying to block out the whispers and sideways glances that were floating his way. Already they were making theories about him, most of them unpleasant.

“---wonder where he learned about Patronuses---”

“---bet he can’t even cast one properly---”

“---just trying to show how much better he is---”

“---heard he was a Dark Wizard---”

“---see what he did to Parvati---”

“---best mates with Malfoy---”

“---heard he was a Death Eater---”

“---saw his mark---”

“---thinks he can be the next Dark Lord---”

“---pur-lease—”

Even Remus was adding to it, telling his own wild account of how Harry tried to cast Cruciatus on Ron and him in front of the Great Hall because Ron tripped and bumped into him. He shook his head, disgusted. What did it all matter anyway? He’d never ever hinted at being Dark and they were already making their assumptions of him. On his first day!

“Padriac.” A cold hand rested on his shoulder. Harry shifted his gaze upward, not half surprised to find Snape staring hard at him, his lank hair falling about his face. “Do you know where the toilet is?”

Of course he knew where the toilet was! He’d been going there for six years, after all. But he shouldn’t know, should he? Padriac Domingart wouldn’t have known where the boy’s toilet was.

“I’ll send someone with you.” Snape glanced around, scanning the room. His stead gaze rested on Remus’s untidy black head. Loathe as he was to admit it, the bloody werewolf was the only one who could set Potter right for the rest of the day. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, tapping a random desk with his knuckles.

“You’ve been chatting long enough in my classroom, Potter. Show Domingart to the boy’s room.”

The wretched werewolf scoffed at him, rising reluctantly from his chair and kicking it aside in a perfect impression of Potter. Snape scowled. That Quidditch accident couldn’t come soon enough.

Dazed and confused, Harry followed Remus into the hall. Why was Snape sending him with Lupin? Why not someone he trusted, someone Harry didn’t like?

“It’s down the corridor here,” said Remus stiffly, pointing at a door some ways off.

“I know where the blooming---er---thanks,” Harry stumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. He shuffled toward the toilet, feeling even more alone with Remus than he had during the entire class.

“I’m casting a silencing charm on the biggest stall,” Remus hissed, flicking his wand. The door glowed violet for a moment as Harry was dragged inside. Taking a seat on the toilet, Remus grinned nervously.

“How are you taking this? I know it’s been difficult on you, but it was better than having you locked up in Grimmauld Place all year. You’re like Sirius, Harry. You wouldn’t have been able to last in there. I told Dumbledore he wasn’t locking you up.” He shrugged, smiling sadly. “This was my idea, and I hope I won’t have to regret it. I’m sorry you had to go through this, though. Really.”

Harry nodded, unable to speak. It felt like a thick fog was filling his throat, and the ice in his chest was starting to melt, sending rivulets of chilly water dripping down his arms and legs. He shivered, dropping to the tile floor.

“I just---I didn’t know that---I mean, I knew but---” he choked, pushing his knuckles into his eyes to stop them trying to leak.

“You didn’t know they would be so hostile,” Remus finished softly, dropping his head. He looked so sad, sitting there on the toilet, his eyes squeezed shut. Harry couldn’t help but forget about his own problems for a moment. He never really thought about how hard this must be for Remus. Remus lost all three of his best friends, and now he was sitting in the boy’s toilet, disguised as Harry Potter and spending his time surrounded by immature sixteen year-olds. At least Harry had the summer to mull things over and accept everything. Remus was busy working with the Order all summer, and planning for Harry to have a safe return to Hogwarts.

“I’m sorry, you know,” whispered Harry, his voice cracking. Why was he being such an idiot over this? This shouldn’t be so hard. “About Sirius. I’m sorry I didn’t listen or wait for anybody. I just---he was on the ground, and Voldemort---and the Cruciatus---”

“Sirius wanted out, Harry. That wasn’t your fault. Has Snape been telling you---”

“No! I just---well, I thought that---” It felt nice, mused Harry, to have someone tell him that. The Dursleys hadn’t been much help about anything over his holiday. “When we get back,” he grinned, standing, “tell them I’m planning on starting my own Dark regiment, and if any of them want to join, they can be really important henchman and help me develop an evil plot to take over the world, but if they don’t I’ll give them each a bottle of Snape’s shampoo.”

Remus laughed, ruffling Harry’s hair and taking a swig from his thermos, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

“And that you’ve got a pack of ravenous nifflers in your trunk. Will do.”

Sniggering, they pushed open the stall door. Just as they were passing the cracked mirrors, the door to the toilet began to open slowly. Harry stopped dead, holding his arm out to catch Lupin in the chest.

“Shh. We hate each other,” he hissed, eyes glued to the door. Remus nodded, drawing his wand. Soft footsteps padded by, the door creaking as it swung at a snail’s pace.

One . . . two . . . three . . . .

“POTTER!”