Snape watched him the whole time, not seeming angry anymore, but with that blank face that meant he was surprised or upset. Harry didn't dare ask him what more was wrong, but left quickly, and was back to the common room soon enough that he even had a little time to address his homework before bed.

Maybe Snape wasn't such an enormous bastard after all.

Over the next few days, however, Harry decided that yes, yes he was.

The week dragged by.

Every evening in detention, he spent hours - four or even five sometimes, depending on how long it took to get through the job - preparing the most disgusting potions ingredients known to man. Squeezing a barrel of bundimuns was as revolting as the bobotubers had been, and there was far more of them, besides. And the bloody billywigs! Tiny little stingers that snagged under your fingernails like nettles if you weren't careful, and many times, even if you were. His hand was sore for days after, bad enough he could hardly hold his quill properly when doing his homework . . . which he had to skip meals to get done anyway since all his time was taken up with bloody detention.

Stupid Snape.

In addition, his scar ached almost constantly, and though he used the ointment that Madam Pomfrey had given him the first week of school, to keep it from looking nasty and infected, the balm did nothing for the sharp, burning pain he had in each Defense Against the Dark Arts class, or when he went to the Great Hall for meals and saw Professor Quirrell there. Not did it help the dull, throbbing ache he woke with every night and/or early morning when he had nightmares. It was getting so he didn't bother going to sleep if he could help it, since he wasn't going to get anything for his troubles except a pain in the head and visions of blood and death and horror.

He wondered what Snape was doing about Quirrell, if anything, and if they were ever going to dismiss the man who had tried to kill him, or hold him at all accountable. But he didn't want to ask that git for anything. He asked the Bloody Baron about it, though, since the ghost had taken to following Harry around, and talking with him sometimes, which was kind of nice, really, if a little weird.

On Monday night, the ghost said nothing more had been done about Quirrell, except that Snape had had an argument with him that morning, about something that was none of Harry's business. But the Baron agreed with Harry that yes, his Head of House was a right arse for assigning him additional detentions every night when he was tired and lagging behind in his classes already, and he stayed with Harry during each one, telling him it was okay, that he'd get through it. Just a bit longer, Harry, it'll be okay.

Teddy was a good friend, too, he and Millie, and when Harry had to beg off meals to do his homework, they brought him things smuggled out of the Great Hall in their robes - like toast and bangers and apples - to stave off the worst of his hunger. He didn't tell them he'd had much worse from his relatives, days of not eating anything, sometimes, and locked in a cupboard besides, but just said that he was grateful for their help. And once, when Harry had nothing to turn in for History of Magic, as he'd not had time to read the material never mind do a two foot essay, Teddy even offered to copy his own homework for him, but Harry told him absolutely not. He was not going to get Teddy in trouble for cheating, no way.

The only class he made absolutely sure not to shirk in was Potions. He was not to going to give Snape any excuse at all to assign more detentions. Harry read the material at least twice, and turned in every assignment on time, with essays rewritten as often as necessary, to make them perfect, occasionally with Teddy's input, or Draco's. In Potions class, though, he was too tired to do more than answer the Professor's questions perfunctorily, but at least Snape didn't take any points or mock him like he had that first time.

On Tuesday at breakfast, he was looking forward to his free period so much, figuring to get work done for his afternoon classes, plus have an actual lunch with his friends, that he almost burst into tears when he got the note from Snape saying he would serve his detention during that period instead of in the evening, because of Quidditch practice.

But he was not going to let Snape get to him. Never!

Instead, he swallowed his anger, gathered up his things, told Teddy he'd catch him later, and made his way out of the Great Hall so he could get the reading for Transfiguration done. Stupid, great, bloody GIT!

To his surprise, Teddy followed him out a few minutes later, with Millie and Draco, Pansy, Vince and Greg, and all the rest of the First Years. Even Zabini! They found him in the courtyard where he had opened his text already, sitting along one of the low walls with his knees drawn to his chest to prop up the book.

And then Millie was yelling, her hands balled into fists and her face bright red, saying that they should go the Headmaster! Or the Board! "My Uncle Sebastion is on the Board, you know," she told them, "And he'll see to it that Snape is run right out for what he's doing to one of us Slytherins!"

"All right, Millie, all right," Draco said. "My father is on the Board, too, but I don't know if they can really do anything . . . I mean, Snape's not really going against school rules-"

"Rule One!" Millie howled, and the others shushed her; the gathering, for all it had a dozen participants, was quiet and covert as anything else Slytherins did together. "Slytherins are the House, remember? You assist your housemates when they need assistance! He told us himself! And now he's picking on Harry and bringing all of us down. It's disgusting!"

For his part, Harry tried to ignore their conversation as it eddied around him, and tried desperately to get through the Transfiguration chapter. It was no good, though, especially when the pain in his head flared to almost mythic proportions and he had to pinch his nose, hard, to keep from blacking out.

"Harry?" Teddy said softly, at his elbow. "You all right?"

Harry made himself nod. "Just tired," he said. "It'll be fine; I've just a couple more days."

"If you're sure," Teddy started, but over his voice was Pansy Parkinson's, "Millie's right, though. I say we go to Flint again. He's got to put a word in."

"What?" Harry yelped. This was the first he'd heard of anyone talking to their Prefect, of all things. "What're you going to Flint for?"

"'Cause it's not right, Harry," Greg said. "We all know it. He's being a right bastard to you, and it's like he doesn't even care about Rule One."

"I don't care," Harry told them. "About him, I mean. I don't. I can handle it. Don't go carrying on to Flint; he'll think I'm a right prat."

"He won't," Teddy said. "He knows already. Said even some Third Years asked him about all the meals you've missed."

"Look," said Harry, and let go of his nose, since pinching it so hard was making his fingers ache. "Really, it's just a couple days. I'm not gonna give the bastard any reason to lump me with more detention, all right?"

"Harry," Teddy said quietly while some of the others stared at him like he'd grown extra limbs, as if they had never even considered the possibility that Snape might actually assign him more time, when it was almost all Harry thought about these days. As they erupted into another argument about what the best thing to do was, Teddy continued, in a low voice so no one else could hear, "I know you haven't been sleeping either."

"It's okay, I just don't--"

Teddy shook his head. "It's not. I know you've been putting up a Silencing Charm. You've been having nightmares, and--"

"Have you been spying on me?"

"No," Teddy said quickly. "I woke up one night and saw you screaming, but I couldn't hear anything. You should see Madam Pomfrey, so she can give you something. There are potions that can stop you from dreaming."

"I don't think it'll help," Harry said, in an almost whisper.

"Why not?"

"I don't think they're regular dreams," he admitted. He considered it more, and decided to tell Teddy the truth. Teddy had been nothing but a friend to him since the moment they met, and he would not lie to his first real friend. "I think . . . I think they're memories." He paused and worked up his courage, and added, "Of Voldemort."

Teddy's face drained of color so quickly that Harry thought for a moment that he might faint, but then the thin boy shook his head, his eyes wide. "H-h-how can you tell?"

"I dunno, it's just--" They were interrupted by the warning bell, and Harry sighed. Now he'd have to race through the work at lunchtime. "Later. I'll tell you later."

The Slytherins, some of them still shooting looks at Harry, collected themselves and made their way to class as a group.

Despite his intentions, Harry didn't have a chance to talk any more to Teddy during the day, which was probably just as well. During lunch, he studied in an out of the way place he had discovered in the library, where he was extremely unlikely to be disturbed. Over the last week or so, interestingly enough, he often found himself sharing table space with Hermione Granger from Gryffindor, the girl who had spoken up for him the day he caught Longbottom's Remembrall. She was studious, too, and very quiet, although every once in a while, she would ask him what he thought about a reading, and they would discuss it. It was . . . nice, to talk to someone who wasn't constantly trying to figure him out, and to get a different perspective on their classes than he got from the rest of the Slytherins.

Then, right after lunch, he had detention. This time, he had to dissect rats and remove their organs, tails and other nasty bits.

Merlin's pants.

Fortunately, Snape gave him just enough work to fill the hour, as opposed to making him miss class or needing to come back after Quidditch practice, but it was disgusting work, and slow going until he got into the rhythm of it.

The Bloody Baron hovered next to him, offering tips here and there, and shooting glares over Harry's shoulder. Even with his back to Snape's office door, Harry knew the man was staring at him, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and shove this boning knife into the bloody git's guts. It would feel soooo good.

Briefly.

A boy could dream, couldn't he?

"Just two more days, Harry," the Baron murmured as he finished scooping out the organs of his seventh rat, depositing the last of the waste in the bucket beside the worktable. "You're doing fine."

Harry sighed and nodded. The muscles were bunched in his back and arms, and he felt an itch between his shoulder blades, where Snape was obviously staring. Why couldn't he just go away? Why did he need to pick, pick, pick? Harry was getting really close to just screaming at the man, but he knew from experience that screaming at one's tormentor never led anywhere good. Better to just acquiesce, let it all flow over him like a calm river, and wait for it to end. Better to ignore the feel of injustice, the ache of weariness, and just let go.

"I spoke with him before," the Baron admitted. "Like your friends did with Flint."

Harry's head came up and he glared. Before he could ask, Why, for pity's sake, the Baron continued, "You are Slytherin, and therefore one of my own. I will protect you, even if from your Head of House."

Harry shook his head a little and wanted to say, Don't bother. It'll just make him angrier, but he was too tired to argue.

"He is quite unreasonable when it comes to you."

Harry snorted softly. He knew that, had known it since the morning he had been yanked out of the shower and shaken like a rag doll. He sliced through the tendons on the rat's back legs, then twisted and wrenched them from the sockets, tossing them into the "leg" pile. "Why, though? I don't get it."

The Bloody Baron floated closer still, and when Harry glanced at him, he could have sworn the expression on the ghost was sad. "Severus Snape has a history of . . . difficulty with Potters," he said at last.

Harry frowned, head cocked to the side. "My Dad?"

The ghost nodded. "Alas, the two were enemies when they were in school, and I fear your professor might not have left the past to lie as he should."

Harry's shoulders slumped even further as he sliced the ragged ends of arteries off the rat's heart and plopped the thing in a bowl. He should have known it was something like that. His aunt and uncle, who were meant to care for him when he was growing up, had hated him, because they hated magic, and hated his mother. Professor Snape, who was meant to be looking out for him at Hogwarts, according to his own words and rules, hated him because of his father, a man Harry had no memories of at all, except in dreams.

He just could not win.

"Harry?"

"S'okay," Harry said. His eyes stung, and his nose felt like he was about to sneeze. He clenched his jaw till the feeling passed. "I'm used to it."

The Bloody Baron sent another glare at the doorway, but the professor was gone already. Harry had sensed him leaving a few minutes before. Didn't matter anyway.

Just didn't matter at all.

"Come, child." The Baron's voice was gentle as he gestured to the shrinking pile of still intact rats. "You're almost there."

Harry nodded, drew a deep breath to banish the sudden ache in his chest, and reached for the next one.

---

He was late for Quidditch practice.

That in and of itself would not have been a big deal, if Captain Flint had not laid in to him the minute he did arrive.

"Where the hell were you, Potter?" he yelled. "We've been waiting for almost ten minutes. Couldn't you be bothered to be a team player?"

"I was in the Library, sir," Harry said, scrambling into his uniform. He didn't admit he had fallen asleep over his books, only to be woken by Hermione, who he'd mentioned the practice to during their lunchtime study. Thank Merlin she had remembered.

"Study on your own time, Potter," Flint growled. "Not on mine."

Well, he would if he could, but since his time was pretty damned limited these days . . .

But Flint wasn't done. "I've half a mind to bench you for our first game, let Malfoy be Seeker. He was here on time. He didn't keep the rest of us waiting for him like some bloody celebrity."

Harry saw red, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth ground together noisily. "It won't happen again, Captain Flint," he promised.

"Yeah, we'll see. Get the hell up there, boy."

Harry gave a jerky nod and mounted his broom, angling the school-issue Cleansweep toward the sky in as sharp a climb as he could. Hunched low over the broom, Harry cut through the air like an arrow, letting the wind tear at his robes, his eyes, let it tear the scream of rage from his throat.

He had done everything! Everything they asked. Everything they wanted from him. Was it so much to have this one thing for himself? This ONE DAMNED THING???

So caught up in the feel of the wind and his raging thoughts, Harry almost didn't seen the Bludger. The heavy ball zoomed by him as he reached the apex of his flight and made him screech to a stop. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a snarl. No bloody Bludger was going to ruin this bloody day for him. Not now. Not ever.

Instead of avoiding the Bludger -- which he was perfectly capable of, even on this fairly tame broom -- he whipped around sharply, lined himself up, and punched it.

The crunch of bone and flesh and ball was very, very satisfying. As the Bludger fell away, so did Harry, chasing it. He angled his broom to intercept the damnable thing, swarming past, then in front of it, angled just so . . . and then he swung his arm around again and smacked the Bludger into next week.

The chase was on, and if he didn't know better, he'd almost think the Bludger was afraid of him. Harry pursued it across the field. Blood roared in his ears. His breaths came as rasping pants. Somewhere, his arm throbbed, but he ignored it. Instead, he went after the Bludger like it was a rabbit to his hound. Tight turns and wide, steep climbs and shallow drops, speeds of over seventy miles an hour, eighty, ninety, and then almost instantaneous stops. He caught up to the thing again, a grim smile painted on his face, and let it slam into his chest and bounce off, before he smashed it again with his fist.

The Bludger fled, picking up speed, and Harry tore after it. "COME BACK HERE!"

"POTTER!" Flint appeared suddenly in front of him, cutting off his race against the Bludger. "Hit the deck!"

"Go to HELL!" Harry screamed, and tried to move around him. What did it matter anyway? Nothing fucking mattered.

"Get down NOW, Potter, or I swear to Merlin, I will bench you permanently."

He didn't care, he didn't, and he was going to scream something else, like Get the FUCK out of my way! but before he got a chance, Flint surprised him. The Quidditch Captain, astride his broom, gripped the narrow shaft like it was the only thing real left in the world, and his face was pale with . . . fear? "Harry. You're hurt. I don't want to lose my best player, okay? Hit the deck. Please."

It was the please that got him. No one ever said please to Harry Potter, the useless freak and miscreant, the punching bag and easy target. The please made him hesitate. The moment he did, however, the throbbing in his arm became far more noticeable. He glanced at it, saw the purple and bloody forearm, the bone poking through the skin where it was broken. He felt suddenly ill. Trembling, his body coming over all dizzy, he nodded.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry, Captain Flint."

"Just get down, all right? We've got a stretcher for the infirmary already."

Harry just nodded again, and dropped quickly to the ground. His stomach lurched several times on the way down, and he found it hard to breathe. Once his feet hit the dirt, he vomited before dismounting. He vomited hard, violently. Bent over the broom and clutching his broken arm to his chest with his whole one, he puked till he saw stars.

"Come on," he heard someone say, "Get him on the stretcher. Harry, you'll be all right, lad. Come on . . ."

The moment he went horizontal, he passed out.

---

When Harry woke, it was dark and quiet. It took him a few minutes to remember where he was, and when he did, he groaned softly. Not that he was still hurting much -- though there was an ache in his chest which he chalked up to healing ribs -- but because he had no desire at all to deal with Madam Pomfrey again. She knew too many of his secrets already. And her kindnesses nearly undid him every time he came here.

He couldn't let her get to him.

He had to be strong.

"Mr. Potter," a quiet voice said, one he recognized instantly, and he suppressed another groan, for an entirely different reason. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was asleep. Maybe if he was asleep, Snape would go away and leave him alone. Please leave me alone.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said again, and there was a tremor in his voice this time, something Harry had never heard before. "I know you are awake. I would like . . . I want to speak with you."

It was inevitable, wasn't it. Harry steeled himself for the latest dressing down and opened his eyes again. The Professor was perched on a narrow chair just next to his bed, on the left hand side, and with his black robes and black hair, he had blended well enough into the darkness that Harry hadn't seen him at first. Snape's hands were folded in his lap, but the shadows of the night and the man's forehead and curtain of hair hid his eyes. Harry wished he could see the man's eyes, even though he was pretty sure he knew what he would see in them.

"Yes, sir?" Harry said flatly, too tired to put any feeling into it. If he had to be in the infirmary, he would have liked to just sleep, instead of being lit into again. He just wasn't up for this.

"Potter . . . I would like . . ." Snape ducked his head briefly, and when it came up, he leaned forward, closer to the bed than was comfortable for Harry, and his hands reached for the edge of the bed, to clutch at the blanket there as if he were nervous.

"I want to apologize," Snape said quickly, as if he could only get the words out if he rushed them. His face was even closer now, and Harry's mouth opened in shock as the professor and bane of his existence continued, "I've treated you badly, and I'm sorry."

If his chest didn't hurt so bad, Harry would have laughed.