"Tell me, Harry," Dumbledore said, "Why are you quitting your Quidditch team?"

"Because it's a waste of my time, sir," He said through gritted teeth.

Couldn't they just leave him be? How much suffering did they want from him? Hadn't he done enough to pay for his part in Cedric's death?

Apparently he hadn't, because it was then that Professor Snape walked through the door.

"Headmaster? You wanted to see me?"

Harry quickly made it to his feet, his back abruptly straight; his face completely devoid of any obvious emotions.

He quietly found secret pleasure in seeing his head of house staring at him with open mouthed amazement, but he kept it to himself.

"Ah yes, Severus. Thank you for joining us," Dumbledore said, waving him to a seat in-between Harry and Professor McGonagall.

Harry remained standing until Professor Snape found his seat, and then he took his seat once more. He ignored the look of amusement on Dumbledore's face, the look of bewilderment on McGonagall's face, and the stiff look of indifference on Professor Snape's face.

Dumbledore laid out most of the issue for Professor Snape, with McGonagall cutting in every so often to add her two cents, while Professor Snape merely sat and listened, a sneer permanently affixed upon his pale face.

"And then he said—," McGonagall cut herself off, flustered as how to describe what Harry had said. She finally settled for stealing one of Dumbledore's quills and writing the offensive word down, before thrusting the scrap piece of paper at Professor Snape.

Harry watched the exchange carefully in quiet amusement, and thought he saw a brief look of something similar cross his surly looking professor's face.

"Why, Minerva," Professor Snape spoke with mock surprise, "I had no idea you even had heard of the word 'cocksucker.'"

Harry couldn't help it, he snorted at Professor Snape's words and his head of house's resulting angry expression.

"Do you have something to add to this monumental waste of my time as well, Mr Potter?" Professor Snape said icily, turning to look at him with an extremely unpleasant expression on his face.

"No sir," Harry answered swiftly, his eyes wide.

"I sincerely apologize, sir. It won't happen again sir."

He felt, more than heard, his professor let out a low grunt as he turned back around, causing him to miss the look that passed between his head of house and the headmaster.

Harry thought it a definite possibility that he might get expelled at some point that year, but he was ready for that if necessary. If that happened, he would just kill his uncle with muggle means instead of magic. It wasn't particularly an uplifting thought, but at least he was prepared for it.

"Why exactly have I been called in to help deal with one of your house problems, Minerva?" He dimly heard Professor Snape asking McGonagall, breaking him out of his darker thoughts.

"Oddly enough, I would not have believed it, given your histories, but for whatever reason, Mr. Potter seems to be only responding to you, Severus," Professor McGonagall said, clearly mystified.

"Only because he knows what will happen if he tries anything of the likes with me," Professor Snape said, with a dark growl.

Harry didn't visibly react, but he still got a chill down his spine with his professor's words. He honestly hadn't thought that Snape would be called in on for an inter-house situation with him, but he supposed that it was what he got for underestimating the tenacity of Professor Dumbledore's will.

"What do you suggest as a course of action for him, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, bringing Professor Snape's attention back to front.

"Punishment, of course," Professor Snape said matter-of-factly.

"Any specific suggestions?"

Professor Snape was quiet for a moment while contemplating the situation. Then he turned to glance at Harry briefly before turning his attention back to the headmaster's concerned visage.

"I'm sure I can think of something," He said with a grim expression.

"And his sleeping situation?" McGonagall asked tersely.

"Put him back in his dorm. If he won't stay, stick him to the bed. Honestly, Minerva," He snarled with an exasperated look at her.

HS

If it had been for any other student, Severus might have been inclined to be more amused than anything with the situation he had been dragged into. As it was, he was simply furious at both Minerva's ineptitude and also the headmaster's insipid attempts at disciplining the apathetic excuse for a boy. So when he left the office with one bedraggled looking waif in tow, he was not in any kind of mood for being interrupted or bothered.

Before him, students scattered and other professors simply avoided looking at him or his victim—er, student. He didn't care that it was lunchtime or that Potter likely had another class to attend, or that he was being asked to waste some of the precious few hours he had open amongst his overstuffed schedule.

All he cared about was the fact that those goody goody Gryffindors couldn't stomach dishing out harsh enough discipline, and instead had handed it off to him—the more or less ex-death eater Slytherin head of house.

Yes, because Slytherins are used to dealing with inexplicable evilness. He would have rolled his eyes at the utter absurdity of it all, but he hadn't wanted to spare the energy for such idiocy.

If they couldn't handle what needed to be done to put the boy in line, then he'd do it, and he'd do it in such a way that Potter would likely never forget.

They turned down the hallway leading to one of the private laboratories he had on hand for his 6th and 7th year students to work on for experiments. The air turned foul as soon as they were only a few steps down, but Severus didn't hear any kind of sound from Potter; something he hadn't thought possible before then.

Just wait, his mind thought with an almost gleeful maliciousness.

The particular laboratory that they were headed to was one that had suffered an explosion of incredibly smelly proportions. Furthermore, the purplish-brown gunk that his students had inadvertently created smelled inexplicably horrible; causing more than one student serving detention down there to accidentally lose the contents of their stomach—in turn, helping to further add to the smell.

As if that weren't bad enough in and of itself alone, the gunk was stuck hard to nearly every surface in there—ceilings, walls, you name it. Thus far they had only managed to remove the goo using physical means: scrapers and ice picks sharpened with magic that, in any other circumstances, would slice through nearly anything.

The goop seemed to have no end of nasty surprises associated with it. In addition to all of the other difficulties that it had created for Severus, it also was a serious danger, in that it was toxic to human skin; literally burning any flesh that it came in contact with. Unfortunately, the creators of the failed potion had learned that when the explosion had initially taken place. Luckily none of his Slytherins had been involved, but as it was, two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff had sustained injuries of excessively painful proportions—if the screams Severus had heard all the way from the other side of the dungeons had been any indication.

The extent and seriousness of those three students' injuries had forced Poppy to have them transferred to St. Mungos; where they had undergone several painful treatments in order to replace the skin—and some bone in one girl's case—that had literally melted away.

Severus, after several weeks of being awakened by nightmares in which those screams had played the grisly background soundtrack for, was now working for a way to remedy the situation; hopefully by discovering some kind of neutralizing agent with which to either vanquish the muck more safely, or at the very least, more easily.

It was that room to which Severus was taking the boy. Ever since the accident (which had occurred in the last month of the previous school year), he had been using the room for dealing with serious discipline problems. After all, having his students clean cauldrons simply didn't compare with the ghastliness of working on the goop.

HSHS

The room that his professor stopped in front of was unfortunately the one where the disgusting smell was emanating from. The smell was more than offensive; it was completely rank and horrible, reminding Harry a great deal of the way his bed had smelled at the end of the previous summer.

No, I will not think about that!

He swallowed his bile and stilled his insides, turning his face to the stone that he had presented his uncle with all summer long.

Nothing can touch me; I'm not real—I don't exist!

He was simply an observer to the horrors that went on unchecked around him. His experiences were merely punishment for accidentally having been the one to live when the hero had died. Fate had fucked up, and now he had to pay the price.

"Notice that there is no door for this room. It was taken off when I realized just how high the toxicity of the fumes could get with no ventilation," Professor Snape told him in a dangerously low voice.

"This is a failed experiment that some of my upper years managed to create by accident. It goes beyond any explosion of mere Longbottom proportions. The product created is extremely toxic to human skin; meaning that you should not, under any circumstances, touch the stuff with your bare hands. Do you understand me, Potter ?" The man asked him sharply; piercing through his thoughts with his voice, as well as the intensity of his eyes.

"Yes sir," He said seriously, looking intently back into his professor's face.

The man made him put on a pair of dragon hide gloves before handing him some kind of scraper and what looked like an ice pick.

"These have been sharpened using magic; so do not touch these unless you are wearing the gloves."

Last of all, the man flicked his wand and muttered something too low for Harry to pick out, but the effect was obvious, as Harry soon had a pair of tight fitting goggles and a face mask of some configuration now covering his nose and mouth.

"Do you see the space that is free of the potion here on the floor, Potter?"

He looked down where his professor was pointing and saw a space of approximately two feet by two and a half—roughly—scratched out on the floor directly next to the doorway.

"Yes sir," He said, his voice muffled by the mask.

"It took three students a total of two weeks, working in every spare moment of their schedules, to clear that much. Do you understand me Potter?" The man stated; a smirk appearing on his face as Harry realized the sheer enormity of the task before him.

"You have been excused from attending all of your classes, except mine, for the next two weeks. You will still be expected to keep up with your homework though," The man smirked snarkily at him.

"Let's see if you can't do any better, shall we?" Snape said, turning around and sauntering away.

"Oh, and if you decide not to work, I will know and you will regret it," He called out to him before he left the hallway completely.

Harry looked back to the dark violet creation that coated nearly every surface in the room and narrowed his eyes in stubbornness.

I'll show him what I can do, and he'll see.

He wondered if he could possibly figure out a way to help rid the room of the mess with some kind of potion. He and Blaise had been writing notes back and forth all summer to help beef up their knowledge of potions in hopes of doing better that year in Snape's class, which was rumored to be impossibly difficult.

He took a step forwards into the space cleared out by the previous victims of the impossible detention, and knelt down, determined to show his professor just how tough he really was.

HSHSHS

After not seeing Harry at either breakfast or lunch, Hermione had sucked up her courage and asked Professor McGonagall about him.

The look that came over her head of house's face was a cross between completely exasperated and furious, telling Hermione that her hunch was right in some way. Harry was in some kind of trouble.

Well, after what he was like in Transfiguration this morning, who can blame Professor McGonagall for getting angry?

"Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall said with a sharp emphasis on his name, "is currently indisposed, and will continue to be so for another few weeks."

"Is he okay?" Hermione asked anxiously.

Professor McGonagall shot her an undecipherable look before answering.

"More or less, I should think. He is in a lot of trouble and is currently serving out a series of detentions with Professor Snape," She said.

"May I ask as to what he did to get into trouble?" She pressed, knowing that she was likely annoying her professor, but not wanting to let it drop at just that.

"No, you may not," McGonagall retorted sharply, looking over her glasses at her.

And that was that. Hermione left her feeling a bit dejected, but still dedicated to finding out what was wrong with her friend.

That night she entered the common room to find Ron seated in one of the armchairs nearest the fire. The mornings and evenings had already turned crisp and cool, even though it was only the first week of school, promising what was likely to be a bitterly cold winter.

"Ron! I've been looking everywhere for you!" She exclaimed, running to his side.

"Well here I am," her boyfriend said with a crooked, yet tired smile.

"Where have you been all day?" She said, trying to pry him for details.

"Potter put me in the infirmary," He said; speaking blandly as though he were merely commenting on the weather.

In comparison, Hermione's reactionary shout was far over the top.

"He WHAT?" She screeched, causing the few people in the common room to all turn and stare at her in bewilderment.

"Don't worry. Madam Pomfrey has assured me that I will still be able to produce heirs," he said, still calmly smiling that odd half smile. "Weasleys are of course known for their hardy sperm."

"Oh my god!" She exclaimed, finally understanding what had happened.

"How do you feel?"

"Not much at the moment; she's got me somewhat numbed from about the waist down."

"What happened? Did it happen last night? Is that why neither of you were at breakfast?" She babbled anxiously at him, while absentmindedly stroking her hand over his chest.

"Potter wasn't at breakfast?" He asked, a frown coming over his face.

"No, he wasn't. He wasn't at lunch or dinner either," She said worriedly, speaking at a much lowered volume.

"Yeah, it happened last night. The fucker attacked me after I wouldn't let him just keep ignoring me. He came up behind me; can you believe that 'Mione?"

Actually she couldn't believe it, but she knew better than to say so.

"And then the git cast petrificus totalus on me, before proceeding to stomp on my boys," He growled angrily to her.

On his boys ? She thought somewhat hysterically in her mind, but kept that outburst to herself as well.

"Oh my poor Ron!" She gushed instead, pulling his face towards her and kissing him gently.

HSHSHSHS

The room was spinning in front of his eyes by the time a house elf finally brought him dinner. Harry was only able to eat a few bites before pushing the rest away, afraid he would puke the little he had managed to keep down. He put the bread in a pocket of his robes for later and drank all of his pumpkin juice; purposely not thinking about anything, just existing in a mindless state. Then he went back to the insanely difficult project that he had been given by Professor Snape, and tried to get back into the groove he had been in before stopping.

The crud—as he had finally decided on calling it in his mind—was simply awful in every way imaginable. It wasn't just dried on, it was stuck on. It didn't classify as being dried on because the stuff wasn't dry. It moved and gurgled, and every so often, it let out a belch of putrid smelling air. The first time that had happened, he had scrambled backwards in fear; irrationally—or perhaps simply cautiously—afraid that it was coming to life out of anger towards him and his meddling.

Nothing like that had happened, and he had ended up feeling somewhat foolish for his reaction, but he really couldn't help the fact that the crud's movement and actions were slightly more sentient than he would have preferred.

The work itself was one step below mindless, but not quite stimulating enough to be interesting. He had tried to keep his mind on at first, but the smell kept invading his senses, reminding him of that crusty old mattress that was probably still sitting in his room at the Dursleys, just waiting for his return so it could add to its own collection of gross injustices.

And since he was not thinking about that, and he couldn't seem to get his brain to think on any other subjects—certainly not with any kind of reliability—his only recourse was to simply drift away into the place he had gone, so to speak, during the time that he was pointedly not thinking of.

It was a horrible paradox to even consider, so he didn't, but he was afraid that his mind would try to analyze it later when it was functioning more or less correctly once more.

During the summer he had classified it as a state of mental bleakness; a wasteland of nothingness that had filled his mouth and ears with its inextricable pounding, buzzing despair over what was not and what could never be. He was barely even an observer, but felt himself more to be like a vessel of sensations—mostly pain, followed closely by shame for what was happening to him.

He was rather thankful that Snape hadn't allowed him a chance to eat lunch. He would have thrown it up within the first ten minutes, he felt certain.

Now he was bent over on the floor once more, prying, pulling and chiseling the crud out of the cracks of the cold stone; actions which reminded him of weeding in an odd sort of way. The crud, like the hard floor that was slowly reducing his knees to pulp, was frigid to the touch, even through the dragon hide gloves that Snape had given him to work in. It was a bit counterintuitive really, that the stuff was so flexible and yet so very, very cold too. Harry had never seen anything like it before, and he hoped to Merlin that he never did again either.

And if that weren’t already bad enough, he also had to be careful about the way he moved and positioned himself, since some of the contusions from the last weeks of summer had yet to fade from his back and thighs and chest. Every time he moved, whether it be inching forwards because of his minute progress, or sitting up to relieve a sudden muscle cramp, had to be done slowly and delicately, lest he further aggravate an already existing injury.

An hour after his so-called "dinner," he abruptly pulled off his gloves and mask, and hurriedly pushed himself into the hallway; all so that he could he could spit out the blood that had come suddenly come up from his stomach.

My so-called stomach, he thought tiredly as he vanished the mess with his wand.

At least it isn't mixed with anything white, he thought with a shudder.

Then he went back to where he had been and started it all up again.

HSHSHSHSHS

Snape didn't forget about the Potter boy, but he didn't feel the need to visit him either. The presence of his wards there in the room and the hallway meant that he didn't need to check up on him physically unless something went wrong. Besides, the smell of that room was truly rank, reminding him strongly of the way a room smelled following a Death Eaters' torture session of some innocent soul.

It was an odor that was tinged with the reminders of a victim's impinging death: the stench of the bowels as they released; the smell of old blood mixing with new; all combining with the dank chill of the room—cold sweat, rotting offal, moldy hunkered forms in the corner slowly decomposing—these were the images that the offensive odor of the goop in that room had managed to bring up for him.

In a way, the gunk was almost worse than the presence of a Dementor; at least when the Dementor went away, it was gone. But the goop was different, even after separating one's self from its all encompassing presence, the smell was still there, eliciting those same foul memories that he would have just as easily preferred never to have had experienced in the first place, let alone remember so many years after .

But what could he do? It was his way of atonement for inadvertently causing the death of his sweet Lily. It was a punishment that had to be borne by him and him alone.

He hadn't told Albus about the extent of the horrors that arose for him from that smell, but he knew that the old man understood some of how the room affected him regardless. Albus was simply annoying like that; one needed not to tell the man what was going on inside his or her own heart, but rather how his or her actions were going to be affected as a result of one's internal state of being.

With a sigh that he would only permit himself to give voice to in the privacy of his own quarters, Severus stood up and made his way out the door to collect the dratted Potter brat. He had only turned the corner of the hallway when he saw the latter half of Potter's flinch and then become still once more.

When he was within ten paces of the Gryffindor, the boy turned and looked at him calmly from where he was crouched on the floor.

"Good evening, professor," The lad nodded to him calmly.

The teenager's face was drawn and bloodless, but the boy's eyes were as clear as ever as they peered icily up at him.

He did not return the lad's pleasantries—but then again, why should he?

"It's time to adjourn for the evening. Leave your tools here. I shall escort you back to your dorm," He tersely informed the boy.

"Yes sir. Thank you for doing this, sir." Potter said, standing up after removing the protections from his hands and face, and putting them down next to where he had laid the tools, just outside the doorway proper.

"This?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Keeping me safe," Was the mystifying answer.

Severus didn't have a proper reply for that, so he merely said nothing. Thus they spent the entire walk to the Gryffindor tower in silence, with only one exception. Shortly before arriving at the Fat Lady's portrait, Potter turned to him and spoke.

"Sir, what time should I report to the room in the morning?" The teen asked in a serious tone.

"Nine o'clock."

His words were met with a mild look of confusion, but they were not questioned. Against his better judgment he decided to explain anyways.

"The hour was pushed back so that you would have a chance to work on your homework."

"Thank you sir," Potter said with a nod of his head.

It had not been his idea, but he nodded back regardless. If the boy wanted to thank him, he would let him. He would not dissuade gratitude, especially not from this boy.

Just before the boy had shut the portrait, he called out to him with an admonishment that he would see him at breakfast or else. The Gryffindor fifth year had nodded before wishing him a pleasant evening.

He could not help but snort at the ludicrousness of the idea. He waited until the portrait door was closed and then took his leave of the tower. He debated with himself about whether he should wait for the boy just to sneak out again, but he decided in the end to leave that particular battle to Minerva.