The only question, every year, was who was fool enough to face his wrath.

As Severus collapsed back in bed, he decided that the least surprising thing about the encounter in the bathroom was that the Potter Brat was the one who'd decided to break the rules. Before he could consider any more of it, he had passed out again. He was getting to old for this.

In the true morning -- the Brat had forced him up at 4am. Four! He'd never had such an idiot in his House before -- he spent an inordinate amount of time under hot water in his shower, wondering, not for the first time, how he had ever got along without such things. As a child in Spinner's End, there had been few luxuries, and hot water that lasted for an entire shower was not one of them.

He scrubbed at his hair, despairing of it ever being free of the residue of potion fumes. For a brief month at summer, when he was not hunched over a steaming cauldron for fifteen hours a day, it hung far less limply. He wondered which student this year would be the first to work up the gall to call him "Greasy Git." Some years, he looked forward to the subsequent detentions he was able to give out as a result. Some years, like this one, since he was assuming it would be the Brat Who Lived who was arrogant to hold that dubious honor, he was positively aquiver with anticipation.

With a last rinse, he savored the memory of the few minutes when he had James' son quivering in fear in front of him. His own eyes had been gummy, and he was only half awake, but he was sure the boy was afraid; why else could he not answer a simple question? He was already planning his detention for the Brat Whose Arrogance Knew No Bounds. It would be sure to take him down a peg or three.

After another ten minutes of water hitting his face, he was awake enough to face his peers . . . Oh, god . . . and the students.

He detested the first day of class.

---

Breakfast was a quiet affair, at least for Severus. The Gryffindor table was, of course, loud and obnoxious, but his Slytherins behaved as well as could be expected on their first full day, especially considering how likely it was that they'd become used to slothful lazing around on their holidays and were, for the first time in months, up at a reasonable hour. He watched as Flint and Torrence kept an eye peeled for any transgressions, and the little rapturous upturned faces of the Firsties as they took in every word from their betters was beautiful to see. Although . . . Severus scowled to see Potter hunched over a piece of toast and nibbling on it.

Fortunately, Malfoy noted it, too, and gave Potter such a look of disgust it was all Severus could do not to award points then and there. Instead, he finished off the last of his coffee, gathered up the children's schedules, and left the high table. His robes flapped dangerously as he approached his Snakes, and he was the recipient of more than one appreciative look, especially from some of the tender-hearted Hufflepuffs nearby.

Along the way, he picked out various conversations from the rest of the students -- who had little to say of import at the best of times! -- and heard their exclamations over Potter, of all people. "Do you see that by, the one with the messy hair?" and "Have you seen it? The scar?" and "Do you really think he, you know, did that to You Know Who?" and "I can't believe he's a Slytherin."

Yes, well, neither could Severus.

By the time he reached his seventh years, he was furious, though carefully hiding his emotions behind a well-constructed mask. The Brat had been here no more than twelve hours, had broken rules already and still, he was a hero. It was obscene. Severus passed out schedules left and right, starting with the NEWT students, to give them more time to gather the appropriate books and equipment, and went on down to the first years. He saved Potter for last. Thrusting a schedule at the Brat Who Had To Be A Bloody Hero, he said nothing, not trusting himself to speak.

And Potter didn't even deign to look at him. The cheek!

He would have deducted points right there, if not for the fact it would have come from his own House, thus violating his long-standing policy. Other professors could take points from themselves if they wished, but Severus would not assist their road to the House Cup in such a fashion. His Snakes served more detentions for him than anyone else in the school . . . except for the Weasley twins, perhaps.

At last, he could leave the Great Hall and prepare for his first class -- third year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, oh joy. And since he rarely ate lunch in the Hall, he didn't need to even see the Brat again until supper.

If it weren't for the prospect of melted cauldrons and the anguish of beginning to correct summer assignments, it might be a good day after all.

---

"Mr. Flint," Severus said as the bell rang for the end of class. "Stay after."

The Prefect nodded with a "Yes, sir," and gathered his things, rather messily cramming them into his bag.

Severus sighed, but ignored the transgression for now; he had more important things to address. He waited until the rest of the fifth years had gone, and set a silencing ward on the closed door. "Potter is going to be a problem," he said without preamble.

Flint relaxed a fraction from his rigid stance, realizing, correctly, that he was not the one up for castigation. Instead, he nodded, rolling his eyes a little. "Yes, sir. I figured."

"At table . . ." Severus threw out the lead, and Flint took it up.

"His manners are hopeless, sir. I noticed." The boy shook his head ruefully. "He's like a monkey, grabbing at food. I keep expecting him to sniff it before jamming it in his mouth."

"Indeed." The very idea gave him shivers. "I am sorry to have to do this, Mr. Flint, but I am going to rely on you rather heavily to bring him back into line. I wouldn't have thought we needed to make basic table etiquette an item on the rules sheet, but perhaps a special list should be drawn up just for him. It will be difficult to get him to follow it at first, I expect. This morning, for instance, he violated the bathing schedule and was barely repentant when caught. It's obvious he has no regard for rules whatsoever."

"I understand, sir. I'll have Torrence start a new list, she's got better penmanship. And I'll keep a close watch on him. He won't know what hit him."

"Excellent. Bring me the list when you have it finished, and I will . . . explain it to him. That will be all, Mr. Flint."

"Thank you, sir." Flint departed, giving Severus the rest of the lunch hour to prepare for his first NEWT class of the year. He almost looked forward to the sixth and seventh year classes. They were populated by those students who had excelled in their first five years, and who really and truly wanted to be in Potions. He rarely had to intervene to halt an explosion, and the students were more quiet and focused than the rest of the dunderheads he usually had to put up with. This class was going to have Percy Weasley in it, though, and the boy was a supercilious brown noser. It made him ill, just thinking about it. Still, there were nine others in the class; that should balance him out.

At supper, later, Severus once more kept his eyes on the Slytherin table, making sure they were still as prompt and proper as this morning. The day hadn't been a total waste. He had made a Gryffindor second year cry.

He had also managed to send owls to the families of each of his new Snakes, to start setting appointments for a home visit. He found it was easiest to deal with any problems that arose from the inevitable homesickness and stretching of wings that came with being away from home for the first time, if he had a better idea of the kind of home they were used to enjoying. And it never hurt to have the parents on his side.

He had already heard back from Lucius Malfoy, of course, who had invited cordially him for dinner on Friday. That should be interesting. He hadn't been to Malfoy Manor in almost three years.

Though he was watchful of the Slytherins, he tried not to watch the Brat Who Had No Manners Whatsoever, not watching to spoil his own appetite at another meal if he could help it, at least until Flint brought him the new list. The visit to the Potter household was the one he dreaded most.

After dinner was through, Severus collected potion residue specimens and arranged a number of nastily -- and in some cases, hopelessly -- stained and crusted cauldrons in a heap on the back table of his classroom. One for each year of the Brat's miserable life, and one for sheer pique. Then he retreated to his office and started to correct second year summer essays. Mostly successfully, he tried to keep from weeping over their infantile efforts, as he waited for the Brat Who Would Sure Be Surprised at His Punishment.

A tentative knock came at 6:55. Alas, no chance for a dressing down there. "Enter," he called, and caught the determined expression on the boy as he came in, chin up again. Did he have a facial tic? Then the Brat's jaw dropped open, as if he had never seen potion ingredients before. Well, he had been raised by Muggles, hadn't he? And, according to Minerva, the worst sort of Muggles, which meant no potions, most likely.

Suppressing a smile, he didn't look at the Brat and said, "Close you mouth, Potter, before a Doleshinkle Weed makes a home of it," and was satisfied to hear the click of jaws slamming shut. Seemed he could obey when properly brought down to size.

Still not lifting his head from the current object of his ire -- Honestly! You'd think after a year of study, one of his students could tell the different between Murtlap Essence and Bicorn Horn! -- he suppressed a smirk and pointed a slim finger toward the door that led to his classroom. "You will find cauldrons in there. Clean them. Without a wand. Go now."

To his deep surprise, the boy obeyed without a word, practically running into the classroom. Severus scowled; he'd been hoping for an argument where he could assign another detention. Well, he would get it, he was sure, when the Brat started whining about how much there was to clean, or how hard it was to do, or how he never had to lift a finger before in his life, so why should he start now?

But minutes passed, as Severus continued to grade essays, and he heard nothing but the occasional running tap, and the more frequent sound of actual scrubbing. Minutes turned into hours, and when it was nearing ten o'clock, and he had finished with the second year essays and was most of the way through the third years, he rose and stretched out his aching back before going to check on the boy's progress. He would sleep well tonight, that was certain.

From where he stood in the classroom doorway, he could see ten perfectly cleaned cauldrons, some of them gleaming as much now as when he had first purchased them for the school, almost twelve years ago. To say he was surprised was an understatement. Of the last two, he knew that certain of the stains would never come out, not with magic, not with bleach, not with a sledgehammer. But the boy was still scrubbing at one of them, his hands red and blistered from the friction. He had an array of cleaning supplies lined up along the table and it seemed he was trying each one of them in turn on these last two cauldrons.

Severus watched him for long minutes, taking in the slightly hunched shoulders, the grim determination in the angle of his head, the obvious fatigue in his arms, which he was starting to shake out, frequently, as well as the stiffness on his legs from standing in one place for hours. Despite himself, Severus was impressed with the boy's stamina if nothing else.

He moved up behind the boy and watched him more closely still. The Brat was bony, his wrists small enough Severus could wrap index finger and thumb around one with room to spare. His little neck was scrawnier than a chicken's, and . . . was that a bruise on his inner arm, near the elbow? Likely from where he had grabbed the Brat early this morning. He felt a sharp pang of guilt, quickly suppressed; he did not believe in corporal punishment, having too often felt a heavy hand in his own youth, and he should not have let his emotions take him so completely by control this morning. Alas, there was little he could do for it now. It was probably just a residue of summer Bratly roughhousing, anyway. He sneered.

"That's enough. Dismissed."

The Brat spun around to find him only a foot or two away, and looked up, fear in his expressive green eyes. "But, sir, I wasn't able--"

"Are you still having trouble with simple instructions?" Severus snapped. Ah! The cheek, at last. He schooled his expression to keep his glee from showing. "I can give you another detention, if that's the case."

"No, sir. Sorry, sir." Once more, to Severus' surprise, the Brat quickly put away his cleaning supplies and hurried to the door

Severus watched him go, suddenly feeling his world go a little off kilter.

Instead of considering it further, however, he put the cauldrons away and went to finish the third year essays before returning to his own quarters. There he left the firewhiskey alone and settled down with a book. Still tired, though, he retired soon after. Though leaving the same monitoring charms up as the night before, he tightened the ones around the first year boys' dorm, as he expected to be roused by another Potter excursion, and wanted to know the minute the Brat was awake.

An alarm went off at five in the morning -- at least the Brat had learned some decorum! -- but he realized in moments that it was from the girls' dorm. He swore, got up and dressed, and sought out Miss Torrence to deal with it.

Afterwards, he decided he may have come down on the new Prefect a little hard, but that only meant that she, in turn, would make sure the miscreant in question thought twice before disturbing her Prefect's rest again. Before sending Torrence off to catch the culprit, he told her to assign a detention on his behalf for that evening.

He had just returned to his quarters when another damned alarm went off. First year boys! Potter! Growling not quite inaudibly, he spun on his heel and stalked back to the Snake Den to cut off the newest infraction at the nub. But Potter did not come out into the common room. Five minutes passed, then ten, and Severus was livid. How dare the Brat make him come down here again!

Filled with righteous indignation on behalf of his interrupted sleep, he strode into the boys' dorm and scanned the contents. Six sets of drawn curtains, and five beds where there was little to no movement. The last, however . . . had to be Potter's. He heard a muffled sound from behind that last set. What was the boy doing?

Almost afraid to find out, Severus crossed to that bed and wrenched back the curtains, to find a Brat curled up in a ball, with one hand pressed to his forehead and mumbling incoherencies. He was wearing only an overlarge worn and faded Muggle t-shirt, which covered him almost completely.

"What is the meaning of this?" Severus hissed, keeping his voice low for the benefit of those the Brat had not already woken.

The Brat's eyes flicked open, filled with palpable fear, and he shook his head. "Sorry, sir. I . . . I didn't mean to wake you, I'm sorry." His fingers pressed into the skin around where Severus was sure the famous scar lay, and Severus frowned at the livid piece of flesh, now standing out sharply on the boy's otherwise rather pale skin. Was it . . . bleeding?

"You've injured yourself," he said. "Move your hand."

"Sorry, sir," the Brat whispered as he complied, but he squeezed his eyes shut as if the lack of pressure on the scar increased the pain.

Severus peered at it clinically. It looked almost infected. But the blasted thing was ten years old! "Have you been picking at it, Potter?"

"No, sir. I, er . . ." The boy swallowed audibly. "I had a dream."

"A dream. You've mangled your forehead because of a dream?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, I didn't mangle it," the Brat amended. If anything, he looked even more terrified now. And miserable. But shouldn't he be pleased, that he was getting some attention? Isn't that what he wanted? The Brat continued in a whisper, not meeting his eyes anymore. "But it was a dream. And when I woke up, my scar already hurt."

Severus nodded, though he was certain the boy was lying. Well. There would be time enough to learn why exactly. "Detention tonight at 7, Potter. For lack of regulation pajamas."

The look of consternation upon the Brat's face carried him cheerfully through breakfast.