Startled awake by the echo of a sudden, sharp snore, Harry emerged slowly and clumsily from a deep sleep that had comfortably smothered his consciousness for the past several hours. Hey lay motionlessly on his side, his eyes still closed, but Harry knew he was awake. The last vague traces of his strange dream flashed sporadically in his mind, but as each second passed, his memory became muddy, and the details of the dream rapidly slipped away until he had barely any recollection of it.

It didn’t matter. Harry rarely had pleasant dreams, and the quicker he forgot about them, the better.

Lazily, Harry rolled onto his back and finally opened his eyes. The lashes were a bit stuck together with sleep, but even through the delusion of an abrupt awakening, Harry could tell that it was very early. And Neville continued to snore soundly.

Slapping his hands against his face, Harry rubbed at his eyes deeply for a few seconds to alleviate the remaining daze and fatigue before allowing them to fall limply back onto the pillow, palms open, resting along either side of his head.

A light sniffle immediately transformed into a heavy yawn, and Harry involuntarily stretched his limbs, his hands balling into fists before he slipped them behind his head. His headache was gone, but his nose still felt stuffy. Harry suddenly realized that he felt well-rested and warm underneath his cozy blankets. He’d done what Snape had told him to and had gone to bed right after his detention. Well, actually, Harry had been planning on going to sleep early anyway, before Snape had gotten completely weird and began bossing him around as if he were six years old.

Harry sat up and glanced over at the clock on his night stand. Five-forty in the morning. He would go talk to Dumbledore a little before seven o’clock. That way, Harry would have plenty of time to go down to breakfast to talk to Ron and Hermione. He had to tell them today about the lost ingredients. Hermione had mentioned something about “the plan” in Herbology yesterday, but Harry had quickly changed the subject. But he couldn’t put it off any longer. Harry just hoped that his friends would be understanding and willing to try something else.

Knowing it didn’t take him very long to get ready, Harry allowed himself some time to lounge in his bed and think. However, he focused his attention on his upcoming conversation with Ron and Hermione rather than worry about what he would say to Dumbledore. Harry would figure that out on his trek over to the headmaster’s office. He may have thought different last night, but right now, maintaining the stability of friendship seemed to float to the top of his priorities.

Listening to Neville’s ragged breathing, Harry waited and watched absently while the deep blue shadows of early dawn lifted from the surrounding walls, and for the next twenty minutes, was lost in careful contemplation.

Harry stood outside of the headmaster’s office, repeatedly crumbling and releasing the edges of the long sleeves of his robes in his hands.

How in the sodding…

What was the password? Harry hadn’t ever been inside of Dumbledore’s office, but he had walked by it a few times, always staring at the stone gargoyles and sealed entrance, wondering what lay behind them.

“Well?” the gargoyle growled, causing Harry to start. Man, he was jumpy lately!

“Oh…I…er…” Harry stammered in surprise. This was just like talking to the Fat Lady, right? Maybe if Harry just told the ugly thing that he needed to see Dumbledore and it was urgent—okay, maybe not urgent—but important, nonetheless… “I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore, but I don’t know the password.”

The gargoyle laughed evilly, softly, “Then you may not enter.”

Damn. Harry fought the urge maim the stone mutant by a fierce kick to send it flying off its pedestal.

He sighed in frustration and stood fidgeting for another moment before turning on his heel.

“Oh, forget it,” Harry irritatingly exclaimed.

But just as he started down the long corridor, a loud grinding echoed from behind him. Harry snapped his head toward the pronounced scraping and watched as the door slowly rotated a few seconds before opening.

Perhaps it was because of the deep, billowing growl of the entryway that Harry was shocked and a bit amused when tiny Professor Flitwick toddled through the door. He’d expected someone more along the height and width of Hagrid to emerge from such an entrance.

“Harry!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed, delighted, “you’re up early this morning.” The petite man closed in on the boy.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied hastily, “is Professor Dumbledore still in his office?”

Stupid question, Harry thought, where would he have gone in the three seconds it took Flitwick to leave?

But Professor Flitwick only smiled and piped up, “Oh, of course. You’d best hurry before the entryway seals itself again,” he squeaked, pointing towards the stone that was beginning to grumble.

Harry strode toward the grinding noise quickly, barely remembering to call out a “thanks” over his shoulder. He slipped in, sweeping his robes out of the way just in time.

Standing in front of the smaller entrance to Dumbledore’s office, Harry cleared his throat and released the wrinkled edges of his robes that he had clutched in his fists. Lifting his hand to knock, the boy heard a faint, “Come in,” resound from the other side. Harry complied.

The boy inched his way through the vast, elaborate office, allowing his eyes to sweep over everything swiftly, but immediately taking in the grand bookshelves, telescope, and beautiful motley phoenix perched beside Dumbledore’s desk.

“Ah, Harry, dear boy,” the headmaster smiled softly, the tone of his voice light and clearly pleased, “my second visitor this morning. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry moved forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut him off, speaking gently.

“Can I interest you in an excellent piece of chewing gum?”

“Oh…no thank you,” Harry said politely, resisting the urge to bury his hands in his pockets.

Dumbledore gestured to one of the chairs across from his desk, and Harry sat down gingerly, but this time, he couldn’t fight the urge to tuck his hands underneath his thighs in his habitually, familiar position. If he didn’t, Harry knew he would soon begin to twiddle his thumbs or something as equally idiotic.

“Lemon drop?” the old man offered his favorite tin.

“Er…”

Oh, what the hell.

“Sure,” Harry exclaimed as he leaned forward and chose an imperfect, golden sweet, “Thanks, sir.”

“You are very welcome, Harry,” Dumbledore nodded. His soft eyes possessed their usual sparkle.

The man appeared, Harry noticed, as if he were a bit giddy at the unexpected delight of the boy seeking him out; however, the headmaster also had a gleam in his eyes that perhaps suggested that he knew that Harry was coming all along.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He definitely knows something I don’t…

“I assume, my boy,” Dumbledore began, “that since you have taken the trouble of rising so early to visit me in my office, there is something you wish to speak with me about.”

Harry shifted on his hands, noticed that they were beginning to tingle, but kept them there anyway.

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered but hesitated. The headmaster’s voice was calming, but Harry wasn’t sure how to put his concern into words.

Dumbledore nodded and waited patiently.

“Well…it’s about Professor Snape,” Harry stated, a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

“Ah, yes,” the headmaster smiled approvingly, “Tell me, what about Professor Snape concerns you, Harry?”

Harry narrowed his eyes a bit at the man’s cheerful demeanor and emphatic delivery of Snape’s title.

Okay…

“It’s just that he…erm…seems a little off…lately,” Harry attempted.

“Lately…” Dumbledore echoed as he schooled his expression a bit, steepled his fingers, and leaned forward.

“Yeah, I mean…the past two nights in detention—“ Harry paused and swallowed so thickly it felt as if a snitch was lodged in his throat. His face burned instantaneously. He didn’t know whether or not Dumbledore was aware of his week’s worth of detention.

Harry tread carefully, glancing up at the headmaster who seemed unhinged by the announcement that Harry had been in detention for two nights in a row. The boy felt a mild heartbeat pulsing in his hot cheeks, but Dumbledore’s soft expression gave Harry the courage to continue:

“He’s just been acting kind of weird,” Harry finished, knowing very well he hadn’t explained himself well enough.

But at that moment, Harry’s head swirled with thoughts from last night. Snape’s stern, rather than sneering expression—the look that made Harry feel ashamed for the first time in Snape’s presence—flashed through the boy’s mind. The intense lecture. The forced eye-contact. Threat of punishment. The lines. The sweater…

The potions…

And for the first time since he’d left the dungeons, Harry thought about how quickly Snape had sprung into action when he’d woken up from his feverish sleep. Before Harry could even register what was going on, Snape had shoved a sweater over his head and forced him to drink disgusting potions that…made him feel better.

Harry had been sick before—many times when he was younger. But Aunt Petunia never gave him any type of medicine to relieve his headache or stop his nose from dripping profusely. She only scowled at him, keeping Dudley as far away from germy Harry as possible, leaving the boy to shiver under his thin blankets in the cupboard and swipe repeatedly at his own nose with the back of his hand until it was red, sore, and stuffy.

But he’d learned to deal with it. What choice did he have?

Now that Harry thought about what Snape had done for him, he kind of felt like a prat for blowing off the situation and then for getting angry over being ordered to bed. He wasn’t used to anyone telling him what to do—not like this anyway. But the medicine thing…that was kind of…nice of him.

Whoah, Harry thought wildly, this is Snape we’re talking about. I need to focus on the fact that he somehow thinks he can beat me now… Okay…well not beat me, but…

“Harry, would you mind telling me what you have found so ‘weird’ about Professor Snape the past few nights?” Dumbledore inquired gently, startling Harry out of his thoughts.

“I…”

Just get it over with! Harry sighed.

“Well, he…he said he’d punish me from now on if he found out I did anything stupid or…disobedient or whatever…” Harry explained, the embarrassment returning, “and not with detention or house points, professor; he said he’d really punish me. He can’t do that, can he?”

Silence from the desk.

Oh no.

“Professor!” Harry cried, not caring that a small, panicked whine had crept into his tone, “that’s not fair! He can’t do that…” The boy had ripped his hands out from underneath his legs and was now gesturing madly.

“Now, now, Harry,” Dumbledore soothed, “if you will please calm down, I will try to explain.”

Harry swallowed, struggling to extinguish his flaring temper. He sat back heavily in his chair and gave a small nod.

“Thank you,” the headmaster smiled and cleared his throat, “You must know, Harry, that after last year’s…mishaps…”

The boy glared.

“…and the recent events of this year, Professor Snape has asked permission to keep a firm hand on you—“

“Why?” Harry interrupted bluntly, not bothering to add the sir, “I mean, why me? I’m not the only one who gets in trouble, you know…” He knew he was being rude, and if Snape were here...

No! Stop thinking like that. Who gives a damn what the man tolerates?

Dumbledore was no longer smiling, but his face was gentle.

“Professor Snape is just as adamant about keeping his Slytherins in line…” the man attempted once more.

“Yeah, right,” Harry retorted.

And the twinkle left the aged, blue eyes.

Harry cowered immediately, “Sorry,” he stared at his knees, “it’s just…he can’t really do that to me, can he, sir? Doesn’t he need some sort of permission…from my aunt and uncle or something?

Dumbledore sighed, but the ghost of a smile returned to the man’s eyes, and Harry relaxed a bit.

“You are correct on one thing, Harry, you are indeed a ward of the Dursleys…in the muggle world,” Dumbledore spoke slowly, but seriously, “However, eleven years ago, when I delivered you to your aunt and uncle as a mere infant, I retained the right to make decisions based on your well-being here in the wizarding world. The Dursleys may house you, but they virtually have little say in what goes on here at Hogwarts. I made sure of that.”

Harry was confused.

“So does that make you my…erm…” Harry searched for the correct word.

“Not exactly,” Dumbledore answered, sensing what Harry was asking, “I do not possess guardian rights; however, Harry, I care about your welfare very much, and that is precisely what prompted me to consent to Professor Snape’s request.”

Harry sat very still for a moment.

“So…you’re saying he can, then.” Harry stated and without waiting for affirmation, he continued, “but Snape hates me, sir. He’ll murder me!”

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly and held up his hand. Harry quieted.

The man gazed at Harry intently over his clasped hands.

“Do you trust me, Harry?” he spoke very softly.

“What?” Harry was minutely taken aback by such a question.

“Do you trust me?” Dumbledore repeated patiently.

“I…” Harry bit his lip and surveyed the man’s face. Professor Dumbledore was one of the only people in the world that Harry could count on, “Yes, sir, I do.”

The headmaster nodded, his eyes were twinkling more than ever, “Then believe me, Harry, when I say that you will not be murdered. In fact, you will remain very much alive. Professor Snape will see to that.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He felt defeated, yet oddly comforted by the man’s words.

The boy nodded, even though he still didn’t fully agree with the situation, “All right.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore stood up and offered the tin once more, “another lemon drop before you go?”

Harry shook his head and pushed himself up as well. Dumbledore rounded his desk and proceeded to walk Harry to the door.

“I am always here if you wish to speak, my boy,” the man assured him as they strolled to the exit.

Harry nodded, “Thanks, sir.” He stepped through the open door.

“Oh, and Harry,” Dumbledore added as a signature afterthought, “Remember, it’s Professor Snape.”

The boy didn’t respond to this; he couldn’t deter a strange look from creeping onto his face as he backed away from the man’s smile and small wave. Harry shook his head and sighed deeply as he turned and made his way down to breakfast.

“So let me get this straight,” Ron exclaimed, giving Harry an unbelieving look, “you accidentally brought the ingredients to detention, Snape caught you with them, he took them back, and you’re actually still alive to tell about it?”

Well, if that’s what Ron wanted to believe had happened, Harry wasn’t going to argue with him. Putting it that way made Harry feel like less of a git for voluntarily returning the stolen items.

“Well, yeah, I guess…” Harry answered, “I mean, I have to write lines now, but it’s not a big deal.”

That wasn’t exactly true either. Of course, Harry was writing lines, but he wasn’t sure that was a direct result of the boomslang skin incident; it seemed more like Snape’s way of reiterating that Harry was now on constant thin ice.

Ron swore under his breath, and Hermione shot him a piercing look that was so fierce it caused the redhead to lean back a little on his bench. Ron glanced at Harry in search of unspoken back-up that solidified the idea that girls were ridiculous. But Harry was staring at Hermione. She looked back at him very sadly.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione croaked, her voice thick with genuine remorse, “It’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry said firmly, “I’m the one who was dumb enough to leave the vials in my pocket.”

“But the polyjuice potion was my idea in the first place, and it failed…miserably,” she exclaimed before covering her face with her hands, “And now, you’re in so much trouble!” The words were muffled from behind her palms.

“No I’m not,” Harry reassured her, as he grabbed onto her wrists and lowered her hands to the table, “besides, I’ve got a new plan.”

And Harry proceeded to tell them about his idea with the invisibility cloak. To tell the truth, he wasn’t as enthusiastic about the whole ordeal as he’d been the other night, now that he knew what would happen to him if he were caught. But Hermione looked so dejected that Harry had to say something to cheer her up.

“But that’s all I’ve got so far,” Harry stated as he finished explaining.

Hermione looked interested now, “Well, I’ll think of something. Give me until the end of the day. We can talk about it tonight—when’s your detention, Harry?”

“I have to be there at five-thirty,” Harry groaned.

“Why does that sod keep switching the time?” Ron growled, irritated.

Harry shrugged, “Dunno. He let me out early last night. Maybe he’ll do the same tonight.”

“Speaking of early, mate, you were conked out when I came up to bed last night. I thought you were still in detention,” Ron exclaimed with a frown.

“Yeah, I was tired,” Harry explained, “I didn’t sleep well.” He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about the head-clearing potion or the sweater or even the handkerchief. And he definitely was not going to tell them about the fact that Snape dismissed him from detention only to send him to bed. Or anything else, for that matter.

How embarrassing.

“Anyway,” Hermione glared at Ron, sensing that the lanky boy wouldn’t let up on Harry about falling asleep so early unless someone actually made him shut up, “Don’t worry about it, Harry, I’ll come up with a definite plan, and Ronald will do what he does best: sit around with his mouth gaping open like a brainless fish…”

“Oi!” Ron sat up.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said quickly before the two actually starting quarreling for real. He downed his pumpkin juice.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea, Harry,” Hermione smiled at him as the stood up to leave, “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. It’s so simple.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron added, still glaring daggers at Hermione, “it’s real good.”

Harry smiled at both of them, feeling better than he had in days. He didn’t care at the moment about getting in trouble. The important thing was that Ron and Hermione weren’t mad at him.

Glancing at his pocket watch, Severus continued working on the lesson plans he had begun for next term. It had been about forty-five minutes since Potter arrived for his detention, and now the boy sat quietly, finishing his lines from the night before.

There were no dark circles under the boy’s eyes, and he didn’t look ill from what Snape could observe. He would not check Potter’s temperature when he was awake. Besides, the clumsy boy would most likely flail from surprise and destroy yet another fragile item in the classroom.

Snape looked up at Potter every so often, mostly scolding him when he noticed that the boy was daydreaming.

Potter was acting oddly again. Severus had noticed the boy and his little friends huddling together during breakfast, speaking quietly, no doubt brewing up some other mindless scheme. For what? Severus wasn’t sure. But he was certain that if Potter thought he’d get away with this one, he had another thing coming.

“What are you up to, Potter?” Snape asked suspiciously, causing Harry to snap his head up in surprise.

The boy frowned, “What do you mean?”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Sir?”

“I can tell when the wheels are turning in your head, Potter, as it rarely—if ever—happens in Potions,” Snape snarled, “What are you plotting?”

“What?! I’m not plotting anything!” Harry nearly shouted.

Snape threw down his quill and stalked over to the desk where Harry was finishing his lines. He placed a hand on either side of the parchment and leaned in closely.

“Mind your tone, Mr. Potter!” Snape ordered coldly, “You’ve been giving me insolent, shifty glares for the past hour, and I will not tolerate it.”

Harry immediately relaxed the glare that was currently etched on his face and swallowed. Without waiting to be told, Harry went back to his work, resting his forehead against his propped-up palm as he wrote. He sniffled. To Harry’s dismay, his head was feeling a bit clogged again—not nearly as severely as last night—but the boy could tell that the effects of the potions were wearing off. Actually, they had been for the past few hours, but Snape didn’t need to know that.

He sniffed again. And Harry could sense, without looking up, that Snape had once again sauntered over to his table. Although the boy ‘s vision was restricted to the parchment due to the hand over his forehead, a curtain of dark hair slowly came into view as Snape crouched very closely down to Harry’s level.

Wincing, Harry removed his hand and slowly glanced up.

Snape was definitely angry.

“What part confused you, Potter,” the man spat icily, “when I said that you were to go to the infirmary if you were feeling ill?”

Harry was stunned. He’d actually felt a lot better for most of the day. It was only recently that—

“Potter!”

“I felt fine all day, honest!” And seeing his professor’s eyes narrow even further, Harry added, “it’s just ever since I got here…”

“Well of course, idiot boy!” Snape exclaimed as he marched over to the potion-filled cabinet, throwing open the doors, “the potions only sustain you for sixteen hours, at the most…”

Snape sat the bottle and empty glass down heavily. He had taken out the dark-blue one. The sock potion.

“Oh no...” Harry groaned without thinking.

Slamming the cabinet door closed, Snape gathered up the items and walked back over to Harry with long strides.

“Drink.”

Harry grimaced, but accepted the glass, pinched his nose, and downed it in one gulp. He handed it back to Snape. Harry sighed contentedly as his head cleared in a rush. He risked a glance at his professor. Snape looked very stern. Harry chewed on a thumbnail as he waited in the uncomfortable silence.

“Disobey me again, Potter, and suffer the consequences,” the man snapped before strolling briskly back to his desk and sitting down heavily.

So much for the short-lived happiness caused by his friends’ approval. It was unbelievable how quickly Harry’s bliss could be snuffed by the condemnation of one sneering potions master.

Around seven-thirty, Snape collected Harry’s lines and ordered him to spend the last part of his detention immersed in a bucket of dead toads.

But At eight forty-five, to Harry’s pleasure, he was dismissed; he washed his hands vigorously in the sink. As he was gathering his things to leave, Snape called Harry over to his desk.

Great, what now? Harry complained to himself, but dragged his feet over anyway. He stood for perhaps two minutes while the man finished scribbling notes on a piece of parchment that was so filled with ink the edges were beginning to curl.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape began finally setting his quill down. He opened up a drawer and fished out a small bottle and held it up between his thumb and middle finger, “to be taken between three and five o’clock tomorrow, regardless if you think you need it. Is that clear?”

Harry looked at Snape silently for a few seconds. For some reason, an odd feeling bubbled at the base of his stomach.

But he simply took the indigo bottle and nodded. Harry was also nodding his thanks, but he knew Snape couldn’t see that. The boy hoisted his bag over his shoulder and turned to flee.

“Oh, and Potter,” Snape continued as he returned to his work, “if you dare come to my class tomorrow sniveling and snorting like some sort of imbecile, I’ll know you haven’t followed my orders. Do not test me.”

Bloody hell…Harry thought miserably, Potions! This has officially been the longest week of my life.

“No, sir,” the boy mumbled, “I won’t.”

“Indeed,” Snape retorted, more to himself than to Harry.

As Harry exited, he walked as quickly as he dared down the dark corridor. He was anxious to get to the common room to see what sort of plan Hermione had drawn up. Harry was also a bit nervous about the prospect of getting caught again. But this was different. They weren’t hurting anyone or stealing anything. He knew that in Snape’s little mantra of Harry’s misdeeds, he had included no wandering the corridors. But if Harry was extremely careful…

And besides, it was a much better plan than before. Loads safer. Someone had to at least give him credit for that.