Whenever he saw Potter suddenly or in dim light, all he wanted to do was run and hide, hide from the inevitable hexing, hide from the taunting about things he could not help or change and hide from the shameful, humiliating pranks. And then he would remember that this was Harry Potter, not his father, and be absolutely mortified and furious, with himself, with Potter, with the whole, indifferent world. He'd lash out, then, releasing years of pent-up rage on the helpless boy before him. And he justified it to himself; he'd been completely helpless once too, and that had not stopped one bit, one iota of the abuse, or drawn a single teacher to his aid. So why should the fame of this one child, son of his tormentor, entitle him to be spared a taste of his father's actions? It made him want to shriek, to wail, to despair of there being any justice in the world. Once he was in private, he could throw things and be as destructive as he pleased, but in public, the only things he was allowed to damage were the students' psyches, just as his had been damaged, so many years ago.