“So,” Professor Snape sneered, “I have been encumbered by the Boy-Who-Lived. Our own little...celebrity.” Harry really didn't like the way he said that, as if it was something bothersome, irksome...a distasteful thing that left a bad taste in the mouth. “I am sure our standards here are not satisfactory after the...worship and luxury I am sure you are used to.”

Harry flushed, then, and looked away. “This is better, sir,” he whispered. He had a bed here, and he quietly told Professor Snape that. He bit his lip. Hogwarts was definitely better. Or at least he hoped it would be. No one picked on him the way Dudley and his friends had. The way Piers had. But...no one liked him, either. Draco had made sure of that. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned the expression went, but Harry felt ready to add Malfoys to that list. Sure, he was polite and courteous, but always in a mocking, insincere way that made Harry feel stupid and humiliated. The rest of the First Years had decided to follow him there, and as long as it remained that way Harry didn't think he'd care. But if the older students decided that he really was an abomination...

Nothing seemed impossible with magic.

The other Houses...Harry nibbled on his bottom lip, frowning softly. Ravenclaws stared disdainfully down their noses at him. Like one of the Prefects in Gryffindor, while the rest of them seemed to take it as a personal affront that Harry'd had the audacity to be raised in any other way than one that would guarantee impeccable Gryffindor mannerisms. The Hufflepuffs seemed to be the only ones so far that didn't care one way or the other.

“Is there a problem, Potter?” Harry mutely shook his head and reflexively raised a hand to press his shaggy fringe down to make sure his scar wasn't visible. “I should think,” the man silkily continued, close enough that all it took was to reach out with his wand and he could easily move Harry's hair out of the way, exposing the ugly scar. Professor Snape glared angrily. And a bruise. “That you would want to flaunt it.” The wand moved to press against the yellowing bruise. “What happened?”

“Forgot to duck, sir,” Harry mumbled, avoiding the black eyes. “Dudley threw a racket, and I forgot to duck.”

“And why would Dudley do that?”

“'Cause I broke it.”

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do elaborate, Potter.”

And Harry fell silent. Then he hesitantly continued, “I made the broken net stick back on.”

“And to thank you for this...wondrous task, he threw it at your face?” Harry shrugged, and Professor Snape snapped, “Mind your manners, boy! Do not shrug at me and speak up!”

Instantly, Harry sat up straighter, a blush of shame on his cheeks. “Yes, sir! I'm sorry. I...I...Aunt Petunia…and my Uncle… They don't like magic.”

Somehow, Harry wasn't sure how it was even possible, the man's black eyes darkened. “Your guardians do not tolerate magic?” Harry shook his head. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow silently, and Harry stuttered,

“Um, no, no, sir. They...don't.”

“I see,” Professor Snape murmured, using his wand to gently cover the scar with the messy fringe.

Harry didn't see, though, but he was too afraid to ask.