"Checkmate."

Harry slumped on the bench he was perched on in the Great Hall and gave Ron a friendly scowl. It was a little after ten thirty at night and the two boys had been playing chess for over an hour. After two games, both in which Ron had been the victor, Harry couldn’t help but smile. It was Saturday night, he had no more detentions with Snape, and for the first time in a week, Harry was able to eat his treacle tart in at dinner without any sort of impending doom hanging over his head.

No more sorting and scrubbing of vials. No more nightly prowls. Harry was almost giddy with relief. And besides, he was rubbish at chess for the most part and usually didn’t mind when Ron beat him. Sometimes Harry sensed that Ron felt second-best at everything. But not when it came to chess. And that fact alone made Harry’s chest swell with warmth for his best mate.

"Well done," Harry commented, leaning over the chessboard, absently fingering an undamaged pawn with his right hand. Harry usually would have made some sort of smart, joking remark about how cleaning bedpans must have really helped Ron to focus, but he left it alone.

Ron smiled his thanks.

"Do you want to go back to the common room and see what everyone’s doing?" Harry continued.

"Yeah…" Ron answered as he began to stand up, "You reckon Hermione’s still in the library?"

"No," Harry replied, watching as the chess pieces slowly repaired themselves and slid across the board, arranging themselves in the worn leather case in which Ron stored his chess set, "It’s kind of late. She’ll be coming back soon. The library closes at eleven on Saturday nights."

Ron nodded. "Can you imagine studying that much on a weekend?" the redhead wondered outloud as he snapped the lid closed and scraped his chess set across the gleaming wood of the table top and tucked it vertically against his side.

"Nope," Harry said as he stood up, "She is a bit mental when it comes to schoolwork…"

"Barking mad is more like it…"

Harry snickered under his breath as he shoved his jumper over his head, and then immediately jolted at the clear voice that emanated from across the table, the thick wool scratching against his cheeks as he tugged it down quickly.

Even with a face-full of dark gray jumper, Harry knew exactly who had craftily sneaked up behind Ron.

"Maybe if you two spent more time in the library studying rather than playing this ridiculous game, you’d be able to answer questions in class instead of sitting there all glassy-eyed and bored…" Hermione said haughtily, relishing in the ability to startle the both of them.

"Hermione! Where’d you come from?" Ron inquired, spinning around in surprise, "We were just…"

"…talking about me, I know," the girl finished, clutching two large books to her chest and blowing a piece of stray curly hair out of her eyes, "Very smooth, Ronald," she added softly with a smirk, using one of Ron’s popular catch phrases that he had thrown her way the day before.

Ron looked over helplessly at Harry. But Harry only stuffed his hands into his back pockets and shrugged, biting his lip and finding it very hard to keep the mirth out of his eyes and to fight down the twitch of laughter on his lips.

"Listen, Ron," Hermione began, shifting her pile of books to rest heavily in the crook of one arm, "I need to talk to Harry for a few minutes." And seeing that the boy was cooking up a hefty complaint, Hermione continued hastily, "And you should go over and talk to your sister. She looks a bit sad."

"Ginny?" Ron asked, whipping around and gazing inquisitively at his little sister who was staring vaguely at the table top, her usually shiny, ginger hair looking stringy and drab, a few pieces hanging in her face.

"Huh…" Ron remarked, "Has she been here this whole time?"

Again, Harry shrugged, but this time, he couldn’t help staring worriedly at Ginny. She’d never looked so dejected.

"Just go, Ron," Hermione commanded quietly, "This is only her first year…maybe she’s having a hard time adjusting."

"It’s been like three months…"

"Go!" Hermione said again, forcefully pointing towards the smallest Weasley.

"Fine," Ron huffed, "I’m going…"

Harry and Hermione could hear him muttering as he trudged between the rows.

"What do you think’s the matter with her?" Harry nearly whispered, still gazing at the very end of the long Gryffindor table.

"Oh, I’m sure she’s all right," Hermione replied, swinging a leg over one of the benches and taking a seat in Ron’s previously occupied spot at the table. And gesturing toward the opposite side of the table, Harry took a hint and plopped back down as well.

Hermione folded her hands on top of the table and took a deep breath before speaking, "Harry, if I ask you something, will you promise not to get angry?"

"Why would I get angry…"

"Well, you have to admit," Hermione interrupted, "you’ve been rather moody lately." She shifted a bit as she raised her eyebrows as if to emphasize her point, "Just promise, Harry."

"Okay," Harry said slowly, narrowing his eyebrows and scratching at his nose with the back of his hand, "I won’t."

Hermione grimaced in a funny way, and for some reason, Harry suddenly knew her intention. He felt his face grow warm and he rubbed at his nose again, even though, this time, the itch was gone.

She’s going to ask me about last night, Harry thought, knowing very well that sooner or later, he would have been nearly throttled by one of the girl’s inquisitions. Why does one of my best friend’s have to be a girl...they can tell everything…

"About last night, Harry…"

Damn, Harry thought as he clenched his fists underneath the table. He should have known that this was inevitable.

"What about it?" the boy asked, determinedly keeping the irritation out of his tone.

Hermione brushed her hair back and sighed without making any noise, "You were crying," she stated quietly after a while, "You never cry. And then you and Ron arguing…" Hermione trailed off, glancing down at her small, pale hands that were now clasped tightly together. "I’m worried about you, Harry."

Harry stared meaningfully at Hermione, who now looked as sad and confused as Ginny. And he knew he couldn’t lie to her. Not only would she peg him right away the minute he opened his mouth, but lying now would undoubtedly destroy something in their unspoken bond of friendship that, at the moment, meant more to Harry than his pride.

"Yeah, I was crying," Harry mumbled hoarsely, wishing his face didn’t warm so easily, "I tripped on my way back to find Ron….and Professor Snape was the one who caught me." Harry couldn’t look at Hermione, but he could certainly hear her small, sharp gasp.

"What did he do?" the girl asked breathlessly

Harry knew that this could be the moment where he unloaded every unjust thing Snape had put him through this past week—could complain about the smarting reprimand and concoct some sort of plan with Hermione to pay back Snape for what he’d done and demand that Dumbledore recant his decision to allow the potions master to deal with Harry as he saw fit.

But all Harry could think of was the fact that he would never have to safety pin his old jeans again. And try as he might, the boy couldn’t help but feel a small flutter of excitement in his stomach over the chance to learn Defense properly.

"He took me into his office and punished me," Harry explained quickly, his neck so hot he was sure it was emitting heat waves. And Harry hurried on to the next concern before Hermione could stop him, "I was kind of upset over a lot of—"

"Wait," Hermione interrupted.

Harry gritted his teeth.

"He punished you how?" the girl continued, squinting her eyes and tilting her head in a probing manner.

And wishing fervently that he could relate to his friend the misfortune of a brutal whipping or even a hexing from Snape to justify his tears, Harry blushed and gazed hard at a glossed-over nick in the wood surface, "I just got a few smacks is all…" Admitting it outloud suddenly made Harry feel like a miserable wimp.

"What?!" Hermione nearly screeched, causing Harry to jump on the bench, "He can’t do that! That’s….that’s…"

"That’s what I thought too," Harry muttered, not sure if he felt more embarrassed about the subject matter or Hermione’s passionate outburst, "But I talked to Dumbledore, and apparently…Snape can. Dumbledore gave him permission," the boy continued, chewing on a thumbnail as he waited for further reaction from the girl.

But Hermione only shook her head in a way, silently moving her mouth in a way that indicated that she was trying desperately to think of something to say. And for a brief moment, Harry felt like saying But he fixed my trousers just to break the awful, awkward silence that hung in the air, despite the mild tittering from around them, but he thankfully realized how stupid that would sound and simply clamped his lips shut, letting his hand drop back into his lap.

"I don’t understand," Hermione said thoughtfully after a while, "Why would Dumbledore give Snape permission to hurt you like that?..."

"He’s not hurting me," Harry immediately cut in without realizing the weight of his words, "I mean…he’s actually been kind of decent during detentions," the boy continued. Harry didn’t feel lie telling Hermione about his Defense book, so he pressed on, stammering an explanation, "I don’t really understand it either. But….I think it’s…erm…maybe because everybody knows who I am in the wizarding world…and Dumbledore doesn’t want me to look bad….or get into anymore trouble…or something…"

After a moment, Hermione nodded slowly, considering this, "Especially after the flying car."

"Yeah…maybe," Harry mumbled, a bit relieved that Hermione was taking this better than he thought she would, but also somewhat depressed that, perhaps, like Dumbledore and McGonagall, Hermione thought it was a good idea.

Hermione twisted a lock of hair around her fingertip as she glanced down the table at Ron who appeared to be trying to cheer Ginny up without much luck. She kept her eyes fixed on the two Weasleys as she spoke, "When are you going to tell Ron about this?" Harry blanched. He knew he couldn’t keep this from his best mate for much longer. But Ron was different than Hermione, and Harry was quite sure that it would take Ron much longer to accept it without swearing and ranting and threatening to put something lethal in Snape’s morning coffee. And he’d most certainly give Harry a hard time for putting up with it.

"Soon," Harry promised, gazing down the long table as well, "But let me tell him, okay?" He averted his gaze very solemnly toward Hermione, almost pleadingly, "It’s kind of embarrassing…"

The girl nodded and tried to smile at Harry, but still looked slightly put-out. "I think Ron’s just worried about you...after finding out that your aunt and uncle put bars on your window this summer," Hermione exclaimed softly, "I don’t think he means to be so aggressive sometimes, Harry. I bet he’d understand about Snape…eventually, anyway."

"Maybe," Harry answered, aware deep down that Hermione was probably right. But Harry wasn’t in the mood to risk the ridicule just yet.

"You swear Snape’s not being awful to you…"

"No, he’s really not," Harry said, as if he didn’t truly believe it himself. He gave the girl a half-smile, "I think that’s almost more disturbing than the fact that he can wallop me now.

Hermione laughed lightly through her nose. "Good point," she agreed as she glanced at the large clock that hung over the teachers’ table, "It’s almost curfew. Let’s go get Ron and go back to the common room. If he hasn’t cheered Ginny up by now, he’s more than likely driven her mad."

Harry laughed as he stood up, "No kidding."

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

Late Sunday morning after breakfast, Harry sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed flipping through the Defense Against the Dark Arts book that Snape had given him. He’d been gripping his wand feverishly and tapping it against his knee as he glanced at the elaborate drawings among the detailed descriptions of shield charms and reflective spells.

Harry was dying to try something—anything—in the book. Reading the first three chapters had been more interesting than he had originally thought, and the defensive spells seemed quite easy.

However, Harry knew better. And he wasn’t daft enough to deliberately land himself in trouble after he’d been given a clear warning, not to mention a penalty for disobeying.

Sighing heavily, Harry shut the book and tossed it toward the foot of his bed. And lifting his wand, he practiced igniting the end of his wand with the Lumos incantation over and over, until the soft blue light was so robust it was almost blinding.

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

Severus drummed his fingers in a steady rhythm against his desk during second-year Potions on Tuesday afternoon, glancing up every so often to monitor the students as they stirred and bottled their solutions that, if mixed properly, would heal very small surface cuts on the skin. Severus frowned. Something had been brewing between Malfoy and Potter ever since the two had entered the classroom.

He’d seen Draco pass a note to Potter as discreetly as possible, and Severus could tell from the gradually mutinous look on the boy’s face as he read its contents, that the note contained something particularly offensive. But instead of scribbling back a reply, Potter simply crumpled the note in his fist before Weasley, who had leaned over, could read it and stared at the back of Malfoy’s head, penetrating him with an icy glare. Potter’s face was crimson.

Instinctively, Severus wanted to snatch the note and cuff the Slytherin in the back of the head for interrupting his class. But the man rarely, if ever, reprimanded his Slytherins in public. They later paid dearly for their misconduct. Instead, Severus ignored them both and allowed the situation—whatever it was—to diminish on its own.

But as the bells chimed to indicate the end of the double period, Potter was clearly still fuming as he angrily stuffed his belongings into his satchel, and Malfoy was smirking in his customary superior way that often infuriated Severus.

He watched as the blonde swaggered out of the classroom, Crabbe and Goyle in tow, while Potter, shrugging off his own friends’ comments, bolted ahead of Granger and Weasley, obviously forgetting his appointment to discuss Defense with the potions master.

However, the boy’s eyes were hard, unfamiliar, and determined as he nearly threw open the door to the classroom.

Severus knew exactly where Potter was headed.

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

Harry pushed his way ahead of several meandering students, spotting the glowing blonde hair a short way down the corridor. Harry was so angry—so disgusted—he felt like his insides were bursting. The blood pulsed in his cheeks as he barreled forward.

Catching up with Malfoy, he grabbed a fistful of the Slytherin’s hood and jerked him backwards away from his cronies. Malfoy stumbled in surprise and looked up at Harry with a startled look that quickly melted into rage.

"What’s the idea, Potter?" Malfoy spat hatefully, holding both hands askew to stop his larger friends from mechanically charging forward, their meaty fists clenched.

"Harry, wait…" the boy heard Hermione say.

But Harry didn’t back down an inch. He breathed heavily, "I would worry about your own family, Malfoy, instead of making comments about people who are worth more than you and your fucking slimeball of a father will ever be!" the boy nearly shouted, shaking with fury.

For an instant, Malfoy looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him—his pale skin flushed instantly. However, the moment was fleeting, as Harry watched the blonde’s eyes grow wide with fear and he seemed to be glancing over Harry’s shoulder.

But the boy didn’t have a chance to even turn around as he was grabbed by the collar of his robes and wrenched around roughly. Harry stared into Professor Snape’s hard, furious face. The man glanced wildly around at the small crowd that had clustered around the potential conflict.

"Go!" Snape barked to the surrounding audience. They all dispersed quickly. Crabbe and Goyle scampered away nearly as hurriedly, but Ron and Hermione moved more slowly, especially Hermione, her face creased with worry.

"Malfoy, you will stay." But the Slytherin stood petrified. He hadn’t even attempted to move.

Snape glared coldly at the two Gryffindors until they rounded the corner anxiously. When all traces of adolescent witnesses were nowhere in sight, Snape pulled Harry a few feet down the corridor and stood him against the wall, pressing his nose up against the stone. The man bent down slightly as he spoke directly into Harry’s ear.

"Move an inch from this spot, Potter, and you will sorely regret it," Snape seethed in a whisper, causing shivers to cascade quickly up and down the boy’s spine.

Harry’s heart was pounding thickly, and he was having a difficult time gaining his breath—especially now, but he only closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the jagged stone.

Oh, no…Harry thought miserably…I’m dead…

He was still unbelievably angry at Malfoy for the unprovoked, low blow against the Weasleys—but now the rage that pulsed in his chest was accompanied by a sickening jolt of panic at Snape’s words.

Standing rigidly at his place against the wall, Harry could hear the professor’s low, stern mumbling several feet away where Malfoy stood.

"But professor…" Malfoy whined in a small voice, "That will take me all night!"

"Now!" Snape thundered. And Harry jumped, his forehead scraping against the wall. He cringed as he heard Malfoy’s footsteps grow faint down the corridor and Snape’s become increasingly louder. Suddenly, Harry felt a rough, warm hand on the back of his neck.

"Back to the classroom, Mr. Potter," Snape ordered tersely. Immediately, yet full of regret, Harry obeyed the pressure on his neck and moved forward, dreading whatever was to come.

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

When they entered the classroom, Harry started to tremble. He was going to get it for almost attacking Malfoy—a Slytherin; he just knew it. But Harry had to at least try and explain.

"Professor, I didn’t mean to…" Harry began weakly as he was marched over to the counter next to the basin.

"Quiet," Snape said shortly. Without a second thought, he turned Harry to face him before removing his hand from the boy’s neck. And then quickly, Snape lifted Potter from under the arms and dumped him on the counter top firmly. Harry’s shoes involuntarily bounced against the cabinet doors underneath him, but Snape didn’t notice. The man had crouched down and moved over a few cabinets, opening a door and reaching far into the back.

Harry’s hands were sweating profusely as he watched his professor. It didn’t take Snape long to find what he was searching for. Straightening up, Snape juggled the small, thin bar of cream-colored soap in his hand. Harry stiffened and pressed his damp hands against the counter as the potions master broke off a thumb’s length of the pale yellow bar. The boy nearly whimpered in horror when he realized that he wasn’t being punished for approaching Malfoy so viciously—he was going to get soap in his mouth for his language. Had he really yelled it that loud?

"I’ll never swear again," Harry attempted shakily, staring at the tiny, bitter fragment in Snape’s hand, not caring how stupid he sounded. He didn’t want that disgusting crap on his tongue.

"Oh, I am sure, Potter," Snape said mockingly as he rolled his eyes, "Open up."

Already wrinkling his nose and gazing pitifully at the soap, Harry opened his mouth as far as he dared. Reaching forward, Snape deposited the square on the boy’s tongue.

"Two minutes," the man informed as he pressed Harry’s mouth closed with his forefinger, "Teeth together." He reached into his robes to retrieve his pocket watch, and glancing down once at the gold face, Snape gestured with the watch as if to remind Harry that he was, indeed, keeping track of what would possibly be the longest one-hundred and twenty seconds of the boy’s life.

At first the soap tasted almost sweet, but after a few seconds, Harry felt his tongue begin to sting with a pungent tang.

Breathing powerfully through his nose, Harry chose a spot on the opposite wall on which to focus. He sat with his back arched, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tried to mentally count down the seconds.

Okay…you can do this Harry, the boy thought as he pep-talked his way through his first taste of soap.

"One minute," Snape called out from his desk. Harry wouldn’t look, but it sounded as if he were shuffling papers.

No, I can’t do it…the boy thought bleakly, trying not to shift the soap around on his tongue. But his eyes were beginning to stream, and Harry could feel the saliva pooling at his bottom row of teeth.  I’m gonna sick up…

Harry jiggled his foot in desperate impatience as he waited for Snape to announce that his final minute was up. Then finally, right when Harry felt like he might cry for real, he saw Snape in his peripheral vision rise from the desk and glance down at the pocket watch.

"That will do," the man said.

And without meaning to, Harry made an odd sound in the back of his throat—something between a whimper and a cry of relief—as he opened his mouth as wide as he could. Sticking out his tongue, Harry let the slimy soap drop into his professor’s outstretched hand. He had never had to spit so badly in his life.

Frowning at the glimmering bar in his hand, Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry before chucking the used bar in the sink with a dull thunk. And wiping his hand off on a nearby towel, Snape lifted Harry off of the countertop and placed him in front of the basin.

Without waiting for instruction, Harry emptied his mouth of soapy residue before turning the faucet on full blast and sticking his open mouth underneath the powerful stream, allowing the cold water run over his tongue.

However, all too soon, Snape shut off the water, to Harry’s disappointment, and handed the boy a towel. As Harry dried his face and the edge of his fringe that had accidentally gotten wet, he swore on everything he loved that he would never say ‘the f-word’ again in his life. Ever.

Snape leaned against a nearby table, waiting and looking very stern, and Harry knew that the moment he set down his towel, he was in for a scolding. Feeling properly chastised, Harry moved over to his stool, and pulling it out from underneath the table, he climbed up. He stared down at his dark trousers, dotted with small splashes of water from the basin.

"Eyes up, Potter," Snape commanded quietly, "Because it is important that you completely understand what I am about to say."

Slowly, Harry looked up, the taste of soap on his tongue just barely lingering but no longer bitter.

"Although your language is deplorable," Snape began, not a single trace of warmth in his tone or face, "The discipline you just received was not merely about watching your mouth."

Harry found it very difficult to look Snape in the eye when he was being scolded, but he did it anyway, hating his weakness—the way his face felt like it was made of putty. At times like these, Harry felt very juvenile at twelve years old.

"Rather, Mr. Potter, it is about learning self-control," Snape continued, his eye-contact purposefully penetrating, "About restraining yourself in uncontainable situations. And unless you learn to hold your tongue when necessary, for instance, you will never acquire the skills to learn Defense. You will not succeed in life."

Harry’s face grew warm in shame, but he retained his own eye-contact.

"As such, you will one day, eventually, be forced to make your own decisions regarding all things in your life—good and bad—and without proper discipline, Potter…Look at me…without control, you will fail."

Harry bit his lip. He knew that there was something important about Snape’s lecture. But he couldn’t help feeling that although he shouldn’t have sworn so viciously at Malfoy and berated his father, Harry was justified in standing up for the Weasleys. Malfoy had no right to call them dirty and scum and blood-traitors—whatever that meant. Obviously no one had taught him the benefit of self-restraint…

"Do you understand what I’m telling you?" Snape demanded solemnly, tilting his head as if he were trying to read Harry’s face.

The boy wanted to nod and offer a hearty yes, sir, but he could only squint as he struggled to find words.

"Listen carefully, Mr. Potter," Snape said with a sigh, trying a different approach, "You are young. And the correction you are receiving for poor decisions and uncouth behavior will deter you presently."

And finally, Harry nodded, trying hard to understand.

"However," Snape continued, softly and more slowly than before, "The aftertaste of soap in your mouth will fade and the pain left in your bottom after a sound smacking does not last. But the consequences of a poor decision, most especially when there is no one around to prevent you from making that choice may leave scars that cannot be repaired."

Harry stared.

"Therefore…you must begin practicing self-discipline now, Potter." Snape straightened up and looked carefully at the tousled child perched awkwardly on the stool in front of him, "Even at twelve years old, you are capable of control."

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered, his voice cracking on each word, as he found his tongue to be a bit dry, most likely from the soap, "But professor, how come you let Malfoy get away with saying whatever he likes?...You should hear what he calls the Weasleys…"

Snape closed his eyes, fighting back the frustration. He meant for his small soliloquy to have quite a different effect—a long lasting result—but alas, Potter was just a boy. Of course he’d find Malfoy’s escape versus his own punishment to be undoubtedly unfair. And that above all else, would be prioritized as most important.

"Potter," Snape said, more loudly this time with an air of his usual smirk, "Mr. Malfoy is currently in his dormitory completing seven hundred lines for me. Would you care to join him?"

And sitting up straight on his stool, Harry shook his head quickly, "No! No, sir. Nevermind."

"Mmmm," Snape commented absently, the corners of his mouth curling in his own amused way, "Very well, Potter, I trust you have the volume I gave you?"

"Yes, sir."

And with a sweep of his robes, Snape strode swiftly to the door of the classroom, holding it open and glaring at Harry who was sitting stock-still in his seat, "Must I put you under the Imperius curse to get you moving, foolish boy?"

"The what?"

"Get up, Potter," Snape instructed,

"Where are we going?" Harry asked slipping down and hoisting up his shoulder bag. He walked slowly toward his professor.

"Have you heard the noise among the walls at all since you last informed me of it?" Snape inquired, eyeing Harry as he moved forward.

"No," Harry shook his head, "I haven’t."

"Well then, Mr. Potter," Snape said with a slight jerk of his head, pressing his hand in the middle of Harry’s back to steer him out of the classroom, "Perhaps we may see a turn of events this afternoon."

"Huh?"

And allowing the door to swing shut, Snape narrowed his dark eyes at the boy’s inarticulate slang but paid no notice this time, "Welcome, Mr. Potter, to your first lesson in Defense."