The minute Harry barged into the Gryffindor common room after Noxing his ignited wand with a jostled flick of his wrist and stating the password as loudly as he dared, Hermione leapt up from one of the armchairs facing the fireplace and attacked him.

“Harry, where have you been?” the girl nearly screeched as she closed in on the boy briskly.  Hermione was clad in pajamas as well, her curly hair plaited into thick braids on either side of her cheeks.  A few stray pieces of hair had escaped the knotted ends, most likely in her distress over the past hour, and were now floating amidst the bushy braids as she spoke. 

Immense worry creased Hermione’s face as she stood near Harry and waited for an answer.

Harry was sweaty from running up the stairs.  His pajamas bottoms and oversized sweatshirt felt hot and smothering, and Harry’s throat was so dry that his tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth when he attempted to swallow.  He breathed heavily, ignoring Hermione’s question and commencing his own interrogation.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry gasped as he turned and placed his wand on a nearby table before gripping the ledge with both hands, tightening his stomach muscles in order to control his breathing.

Hermione looked confused, “What do you mean, Harry, I thought he was with you.”

Turning slightly from the table, Harry placed one hand on his hip, still inhaling more deeply than normal through is nose.

“He was.” 

“And…” Hermione prompted sounding increasingly panicked. 

“And I was almost in the common room when I heard some sort of clanging noise—like metal—from down the corridor where he was standing,” Harry explained, panting every fourth or fifth word, “I was going to go check on him but my cloak got stuck and I—“

“Did you get it out?” Hermione interrupted, apparently too stricken to guess the obvious.

Harry looked up at her strangely and swallowed dryly, “Well…yeah, Hermione, I’m here, aren’t I?”

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head, “Yes, of course,” she muttered to herself.  She walked over closer to Harry and put a hand on his rapidly rising and falling shoulder as she leaned over and peered into this clammy face, squinting.  “Forget about Ron for the moment.  What about you…are you all right, Harry?”

Harry glanced up sharply.

“Huh?  I’m fine,” the boy said, as if she’d posed the most ridiculous inquiry on the planet, “And what do you mean, ‘forget about Ron’?  He should have been back here by now, Hermione,” Harry continued, trying to appear collected on the surface when on the inside, the concern he felt for his friend was icily eating away the previous, yet short-lived, appetite for chocolate frogs that had been gurgling in his empty stomach. 

“Your eyes are all red,” Hermione noted quietly, leaning in even closer, “What happened, Harry—“

But at that precise moment, before Harry could even begin to ponder over whether to tell her the truth or to conjure up an excuse, the portrait swung open fiercely, almost slamming into the wall.  Ron stepped in looking absolutely furious.  Two identical spots of dark pink burned high on the boy’s cheeks. 

Harry and Hermione simultaneously whipped around to face their ginger-haired friend who looked more enraged than they had ever seen him before. 

“There you are!” Harry exclaimed, relieved.  But he quickly suppressed the urge to move forward and clap Ron on the back as Harry stared, a bit confounded, at the mutinous expression on his friend’s usually good-natured face.  “You okay, mate?” Harry asked tentatively. 

“Oh so now look who cares…Perfect timing!” Ron retorted coldly as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“What’s your problem?” Harry questioned, more surprised than angry at his friend’s harsh demeanor, “What happened?”

Hermione was looking back and forth between the two boys, utterly lost among the inconspicuous conflict that seemed to be brewing. 

“What happened? Ron repeated, incredulously, “What HAPPENED?”  The redhead looked over at Hermione, “He wants to know what happened!” Ron scoffed, pointing at Harry.

But the girl was not taking sides so easily. 

“So what?  It’s obvious something happened, Ronald, so tell us,” Hermione said, not bothering to keep the slight disgust from her voice. 

Ron huffed indignantly, “You were supposed to come back and get me!”  He directed his statement at Harry, who was standing with his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his pajama pants.  The boy nervously curled the toes of his left foot inside his sock as he stood, figuring out the best explanation he could offer Ron. 

“I know…But I didn’t have a chance,” Harry began, his ears burning, mostly in embarrassed recognition of Hermione’s discovery of his red, puffy eyes.  Harry hadn’t planned on ever telling anyone about getting a smacking in Snape’s office and blubbering all over his shoulder.  But now that Hermione could tell he’d been crying, Harry was basically doomed. 

Why didn’t I stop off in the loo to wash? Harry thought miserably, scorning himself for his carelessness. 

“Yeah, and I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell after you left me behind that suit of armor without the invisibility cloak!” Ron all but shouted.

At this, Hermione stepped in.

“Be quiet, Ron!” she whispered fiercely, “It’s late.”

Ron continued to scowl but lowered his voice, “You just left me there…” 

Harry was beginning to get irritated.

“I didn’t leave you there,” Harry replied in agitation, “You were the one who had to go and make all that noise…”

“Mrs. Norris was standing right by the sodding armor!” Ron cried, raising his voice.

“That still doesn’t mean you had to squirm around like some sort of idiot and try to get caught!” Harry yelled.

“Shhhh!” Hermione shushed, looking around wildly at both sets of adjacent staircases, but Harry and Ron barely heard her.

“YEAH, WELL I DID GET CAUGHT, YOU GIT, AND NOW I’VE GOT DETENTION TOMORROW NIGHT…CLEANING OUT BEDPANS IN THE INFIRMARY…AGAIN!” Ron shouted, his arms flailing angrily. 

“Ron, shut up!” Hermione squealed, her palms covering her face.  She’d buried her head at the exact second that Ron’s shout of “bedpans” echoed off of the common room walls. 

“Why should I?” the redhead continued his tirade sourly, “I was supposed to have a game of Wizard’s Chess with Fred tomorrow night…”

Harry clenched his jaw and fists equally hard.  His face stung as if it had been slapped and Harry’s feet felt cemented to the floor.  Now, he didn’t care about trying to smooth it over or pretending like everything was okay.  He was tired.  And sick to death of being the martyr among his friends without recognition.  Harry didn’t expect a bloody parade, but he didn’t need this either. 

Breathing heavily, the boy’s rigid stance served as a poor deterrence, for Harry, without thinking, suddenly moved forward, placed both of his hands on Ron’s shoulder’s, and shoved him as hard as he could. 

Ron stumbled backward, tripping over his own long legs and fell back on his hip, barely catching himself with his hands.  He sat on the ground, stunned, his mouth open as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.

For Harry, watching the plethora of emotions flash across his best friend’s face was as satisfying as it was painful.  Ron’s surprise had quickly shifted to anger, his eyes darkening, but finding no words to support this, Ron’s fury seemed to melt into silent hurt that penetrated right through Harry.

It took all of the strength Harry had to fight down the guilt that threatened to bubble up in his stomach.  His breath came in shallow gulps.

“Harry…” Hermione began, but he ignored her. 

“You’re not the only one who has detention,” Harry croaked, staring down pointedly at Ron, “and you’re not the only one who got caught tonight.”

 He heard a gasp from Hermione, but Harry didn’t turn around to witness her expression. 

“So now we’re both punished,” Harry continued, trying desperately to control the tremor in his voice, “And I know…detention’s rubbish.  Believe me, I’ve had it all week…”

Ron remained silent, staring at Harry with a look that they boy couldn’t decipher. 

“But I’m not going to apologize,” Harry said firmly—more steadily than he felt, “You wanted to do this too, Ron.  We all did.  And we tried, but it didn’t work.”

Ron gazed down at the floor.  After a while, so did Harry. 

“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” Harry finally mumbled, “I’m going to bed.”  He reached over and picked up his wand that was still resting on the table.  It was still warm, radiating with heat from the recent incantation.  Harry clutched it with his sweaty hand as he made his way towards the stairs, deliberately avoiding eye contact with both of his friends. 

*******************

Lying on his side, the covers draped tightly over his left shoulder, Harry rested, but his eyes remained wide open.  He’d been in bed for what seemed like fifteen minutes.  And during that time, Harry had closed his eyes, forcing his mind to focus on nothing but the blackness behind his lids. 

It was obvious that Seamus and Dean had leapt into bed when they heard Harry pad up the steps, but Harry didn’t pay them any mind.  He simply placed his wand on his night table, taking care that it wouldn’t roll off, and slipped under his sheets, pulling the curtains closed on all four sides. 

Ron and Hermione were most likely talking about him down in the common room.  But Harry didn’t care about that either.  If Ron wanted to stay mad at Harry, that was his problem—not Harry’s. 

However, a few minutes later, Harry heard light, slow footsteps on the stairs.  And he knew it was Ron.  But he didn’t open his curtains or even acknowledge the fact by turning over. 

A brief silence, and then Harry heard the distinct scraping of metal on metal from above him. 

“Harry?  You awake?” Ron whispered shortly. 

For a split second, Harry considered just pretending to be asleep, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good.  And it certainly wouldn’t make him feel any better.

“Yeah,” Harry answered softly, without turning around. 

Harry heard and felt the slow crunch and dip of bedsprings as Ron took a seat on the end of the bed.  This unfamiliar gesture was enough to make Harry shift to lie on his back. 

Ron was sitting awkwardly, one leg dangling off of the bed.  Harry waited for his friend to speak first.  It felt odd to be lying down while Ron sat perched on the edge of the mattress as if he were going to tell Harry a bedtime story.  Harry almost laughed at the idea.

“I’m not—“ Ron’s voice squeaked, and clearing his throat, he tried again, “I’m not saying this just because Hermione told me to—“

Harry rolled his eyes.

“No, really, mate, she didn’t,” Ron explained, a note of pleading in his voice, “But I guess what I’m trying to say is…sorry, Harry.  I acted like a prat down there.”

Not really knowing how to respond, Harry simply chewed on the insides of his cheeks. 

“I know it wasn’t your fault I got caught,” Ron continued, but then he fell silent too. 

Sighing, Harry pushed himself up on his elbows.  He couldn’t believe Ron had actually apologized.  Harry supposed it was his turn now.

“Sorry I shoved you,” Harry said quietly, glancing toward the dark crimson curtains before tilting his head towards his friend.  “It just hit me the wrong way, you know?”

Ron smiled a little, his expression falling somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. 

“Yeah, that surprised me…I didn’t think you had it in you, mate.” 

“And who knew your voice went up so high when you yell,” Harry replied jokingly, laughing when Ron suddenly leapt forward and pretended to smother Harry with the blanket. 

Unexpectedly, Neville snorted in his sleep and sat up abruptly.  Harry and Ron froze mid-wrestle. 

Neville mumbled a few incoherencies thickly—something about putting his clothes in the wash—rubbed his eyes, and fell heavily back on the pillow. 

Harry and Ron, who were listening intently to Neville’s mutterings behind the velvet curtains, looked at each other meaningfully before erupting in silent laughter. 

Finally, Ron sat up and bounced off of Harry’s bed.  He kicked off his slippers and slid beneath the covers of his own four-poster. 

“What time do you have to go to detention tomorrow?” Ron whispered, turning over on his side.

“Ten,” Harry answered with a yawn as he snuggled beneath his comforter, “Infirmary?”

“Seven,” Ron replied, “…at night, that is…”

Harry nodded into the pillow, “I’ll wait up for you, okay?  We can play chess or something.” 

“Brilliant,” Ron said sleepily, “Night, Harry.”

“Night.” 

Harry rolled over, the cool, smooth surface of the pillow felt comforting as he rubbed his face deep into the feathers.  He was almost positive that Hermione had talked Ron into leaving the Heir of Slytherin matter alone—at least for now.  Usually, Harry would have been a little offended at such blatant patronization.  He also would have also been jumping to come up with another plan. 

But not tonight.

Perhaps Snape’s reasoning had stuck with Harry more than he thought.  Or maybe he was just tired.  But miraculously, Ron wasn’t angry anymore, and his lack of mentioning tonight’s disaster was probably for the best. 

And for Harry, it felt nice to fall asleep with nothing on his mind for once, except the promise of a game of chess tomorrow night. 

********************

Harry slept until almost nine o’clock.  The morning light was dim and without glancing at the window, Harry could sense that it was considerably cloudy outside.  Harry was warm and comfy under his covers, but he kicked them off anyway.  He was hungry and wanted to grab something for breakfast before heading to Snape’s classroom for his final detention. 

Freedom from a week of tedious detentions was tangibly close, and Harry felt a thrill run through his veins at the prospect of eventually being able to play with his friends after dinner instead of continuously plodding to the dungeons.

Harry swung his legs over the mattress and put on his glasses.  Ron and Neville were gone, but Dean and Seamus were still breathing deep and evenly, lying on their stomachs, so Harry moved quietly about the room so he wouldn’t wake them.

Kneeling down in front of his trunk, Harry carefully opened the lid and peered inside.

Something old…Harry thought, as he began sorting through the small pile of clothes that lay folded at the bottom. 

He had Mrs. Weasley’s sweater from last Christmas, but Harry didn’t consider that to be old.  He still wore it on the weekends. 

Harry also had spotted two small, white school shirts from last year that were a bit short at the sleeves, but they were still quite nice.  Who knew what kind of grime Harry would be plunging into this morning… 

Finally, Harry reached the very bottom where he kept a few of his—or rather Dudley’s—old, large t-shirts and a pair of over-sized, grass-stained jeans that Harry had worn almost every other day last year at Privet Drive. 

Was that what Snape meant by old?

Harry pulled them out, wrinkling his nose at the rather grungy state.  His jeans smelled like the dirt from Aunt Petunia’s garden. 

Harry didn’t want to wear these. 

In fact, he never wanted to look at them again; however, when the Weasleys had rescued him from behind bars this summer, he didn’t have a chance to organize his trunk as Fred and George dragged it up the stairs from the cupboard and shoved it in the old car. 

So the hand-me-downs remained. 

But the boy still didn’t want to put them on.  Nevertheless, Harry cared enough for his decent things not to ruin them.  Although he had his small fortune in the wizarding world, Harry was basically a pauper in the other. 

Setting the jeans aside for the moment, Harry leaned over deeper into his trunk to find his old belt that he always wore with these jeans to keep them up.  He didn’t need one with his school trousers, as they fit perfectly. 

Harry continued to search, but he couldn’t find it. 

“Bloody hell,” the boy whispered in frustration as he moved his hands wildly along the bottom. 

It was nine-fifteen.  And Ron was probably waiting for him in the common room with Hermione to go down to breakfast. 

With a tremendous huff, Harry stood up and shucked his pajama bottoms, making a face as he stepped into the loathsome jeans.  They were so baggy that he didn’t even need to unbutton them to get them on. 

Harry thought about just wearing his sweatshirt to detention but decided that he didn’t want to destroy it either…

Sighing, Harry removed his sweatshirt and chose the least-dingy looking t-shirt he could find.  The short-sleeves still hung past his elbows and the hem of the faded blue shirt fell mid-thigh, but at least there were no holes in it. 

However, Harry couldn’t wear these jeans without a belt.  He was dangerously close to wearing a pair of his nicer khakis when he noticed something gleaming in the bottom of his trunk. 

It looked like a large safety pin. 

As Harry bent down to examine it, his suspicions were confirmed.  Funny how those things just seemed to end up in trunks, drawers, and the like…

Holding onto the hem of his jeans, Harry picked it up with his forefinger and thumb.  He folded the hem over so it was snug against his belly and clumsily inserted the pin into the thick material.  After a few tries, Harry finally succeeded.  Yanking his t-shirt down to hide the evidence, Harry didn’t even attempt to look at himself in the mirror. 

He knew he looked wretched.

Pulling on his trainers, Harry grabbed his robes, put his arms into the sleeves, and fastened the front all the way down to his middle.  After all, some students—mostly Slytherins and Ravenclaws—still wore them on the weekends.   

The long, dark material would hide his grubby clothes—for now, at least. 

Feeling rather disgusted, Harry closed his trunk and grabbed his wand off of the night table before making his way down to the common room.

********************

A half-hour later, pleasantly full of toast and scrambled eggs, Harry entered Snape’s classroom in much better emotional condition than he had been in over the past week. 

He’d explained his state of dress to Ron and Hermione, and thankfully, they seemed to understand. 

However, Harry would soon have to remove his robes if he didn’t want to get them dirty.  But Harry didn’t care much.  Besides, Snape was the one who told him to wear something old, didn’t he?

As Harry walked into the classroom, he could already tell that Snape was in another room off to the side, not just by the noises, but rather by the lack of billowing robes.  Glancing around, Harry noticed that the door behind Snape’s desk was propped open—the same room that Snape had been rifling in during Harry’s first detention. 

“In here, Potter,” Snape voice echoed from inside the room. 

As Harry stepped inside, he could see that several lanterns had been lit, considerably brightening the windowless haven. 

Harry’s eyes fixed on the abundance of boxes first.  But before he could begin to wonder what was inside, Snape continued speaking. 

“You will find a pair of suitable gloves over there in the corner,” Snape informed, pointing to Harry’s right without turning around, “Put them on, and then wait for my instructions.”  As Harry removed his robes and draped them over a nearby box, he walked over to the corner and donned the thick, rubber gloves, watching as Snape peered into and stacked several boxes. 

Harry flexed his fingers inside the smothering gloves.  They were very much like the ones he wore to wash dishes at the Dursleys, except those were yellow. 

Studying the smudged, black rubber, Harry didn’t notice that Snape had turned around, or that he’d been staring at the boy for several seconds. 

“Potter, what on earth are you wearing?”

Harry snapped his head up, giving Snape a questioning look before glancing down at his t-shirt.

“You…er…told me to wear these, sir,” Harry explained, blushing as he surveyed the strange look on Snape’s face—as if he the man were gazing at something particularly hideous. 

“I instructed you to where something old, Mr. Potter, not decrepit,” Snape stated, his brows deeply furrowed.  He walked towards Harry.  “Where did you get those clothes?”

Damn…Harry thought, I didn’t think that were that bad…

After all, Harry had worn them all last year and no one in Surrey seemed to care one way or the other...

“I…they’re…erm…just play clothes, professor,” Harry lied, stepping back a few paces from Snape. 

“They’re huge, Potter,” Snape scoffed, bending down a bit to get a better look, “You will undoubtedly get them caught on something…

Harry was growing angry.  He felt stupid for believing that Snape would just leave his clothes alone. 

“Here…” Snape began, reaching out to grasp a handful of Harry’s shirt. 

The boy wasn’t sure what his professor was meaning to do, but in Harry’s embarrassed anger, he jerked back.

“Don’t!” Harry cried, annoyed at how childish Snape made him feel sometimes. 

But the potions master only straightened up and grasped Harry’s shoulders. 

“Drop the theatrics, Potter, I am in no mood this morning,” Snape spat, giving Harry a brief shake, “Now hold still.”

“Leave me alone!” Harry nearly yelled and continued wriggling.

Suddenly, the boy felt a stabbing pain in his stomach, causing him to jump violently. 

“Ow!” Harry groaned, pushing away from Snape. 

And without warning, Harry’s jeans began to slip from his hips.  The safety pin scraped painfully across his thigh as the boy caught a handful of his trousers by the button before they fell. 

Harry was humiliated. 

“Here…Potter…” Snape began, crouching down.

“Get AWAY FROM ME!” Harry shouted and tried to pull back, but Snape had his left arm in a strong grasp. 

On instinct, Snape raised his hand over Harry’s underwear-clad rear end, preparing to swat the boy firmly for his disrespect, but Snape caught himself at the last second. 

Potter had flinched as if he knew what to expect, and Severus noticed. 

The moment of hesitancy allowed the man to peruse the ridiculous scene: Potter hunched over and clutching his jeans for dear life, the sharp point of the pin dangerously erect, and Severus—his open hand poised in mid-air. 

Utterly ridiculous. 

Snape relaxed his hand and instead of reprimanding, he grabbed the wayward waistband of the boy’s trousers and hoisted them back up.  With the other hand, he gingerly pulled the safety pin out from the dense fabric and tossed it on top of a nearby box. 

“Hold your trousers up, Potter—both hands” Snape commanded. 

Harry, red-faced and confused, slowly obeyed.  Standing up, Snape pulled his wand out from inside of his robes.  He grasped the hem of the back of Harry’s t-shirt and lifted it up, tucking the end into the boy’s collar.  Harry stood with both hands on either side of his waist clutching handfuls of denim. 

Snape pointed his wand at Harry, “Tell me when.”  Muttering a quiet incantation, the boy’s jeans immediately began to shrink. 

Harry looked down at his belly-button, watching as the waistband slowly contracted.  He glanced up at Snape.

“Watch, Potter.” 

And Harry complied.  When the waistband was comfortably snug, Harry looked up once more, “That’s good,” he whispered. 

Snape nodded and withdrew his wand with a flick of his wrist.  In one swift movement, Snape untucked Harry’s t-shirt from the collar and let it hang loosely. 

“Arms out,” Snape instructed woodenly, and once again, Harry obeyed. 

The professor repeated the same process until Harry’s t-shirt fit him perfectly.  Dropping his hands to his sides, Harry looked down at his clothes.  They were still faded and dirty, but they fit. 

Harry suddenly felt a finger lifting his chin. 

“Do not speak to me like that again, Potter.  Do you understand?” Snape demanded quietly, yet sternly.

Harry swallowed convulsively and nodded.

Snape withdrew his hold.

“Now, Potter, I believe you are actually wearing play clothes at present…not swimming in them like before,” the man exclaimed with a smirk. 

Harry bit his lip, still embarrassed. “Thanks.” 

“Come,” Snape ordered, leading Harry over to the boxes he was organizing with a sweep of his robes.

This can’t be the end of it…Harry told himself as he sauntered forward, a bit stunned at how easily Snape had dropped the matter. 

“You will spend the morning discarding the contents of each one of these vials,” Snape said as he held up a glass container full of a black, congealed liquid. 

Okay…maybe it is the end…

Harry made a face, “What is that?”

“An expired blood-replenishing potion,” Snape replied simply, “created several years ago by one of my N.E.W.T.S pupils.” 

“Newts?”

“A seventh-year,” Snape elaborated. 

Harry moved forward to get a better look inside the box.  It was filled to the top.  The boy’s heart sank.

“Professor?”

“Potter,” Snape absently answered as he searched for another vial. 

“If it’s useless, why can’t you just chuck the whole bottle?” Harry wondered.

Snape sighed, “The potion is useless, silly boy; however, the vial has not been harmed in the least.”  He paused and glanced up at Harry, “A shame to waste perfectly good glass, wouldn’t you agree, Potter?”

Harry grimaced.

“Not really…”

“Regardless,” Snape replied firmly, “This is your task for the morning, and you will work diligently.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry barely mumbled, plunging his hands into his back pockets, but finding them clad in rubber, dropped them to his sides with a miserable sigh. 

“When I hand you five vials, Potter, I would like you to take them over to the basin and dump the contents of each vial down the drain.  Rinse it out quickly, and then leave it to dry on the counter,” Snape continued, “We will wash them thoroughly later.”

We?

“You’re staying in here with me?” Harry asked, taking a thick, oily blue potion from Snape’s extended hand.

“I am.” 

Harry paused in thought, “Oh,” the boy said simply. 

“Thrilling, I am sure, Potter,” Snape said dryly without looking up. 

Harry shrugged, “No, it’s all right.”

Snape brushed back a few strands of black hair as he looked up at Harry.  Several seconds of silence passed while Snape stared at the boy oddly. 

“I see,” Snape said finally before holding out a large vial filled with a chalky, orange substance.

Wordlessly, Harry reached out and took it.