"Harry Potter is back at Hogwarts!" Something small and energetic had taken up residence in his bed and was now jumping up and down. Harry opened his eyes and his glasses were thrown on his face before he had them fully open. No, wait…his glasses were still on the bedside table. Strange. He looked around, finding out for the first time what true clarity was really like.
He made a note to ask Dumbledore if this was some weird part of wizard puberty and dressed quickly. He threw on a deep blue cotton robe he found in the armoire and made his way to the Great Hall.
Dobby followed him all the way, pestering him with questions and compliments. Finally, they arrived, and Harry entered sheepishly. The Great Hall seemed so much bigger when it wasn't packed full of students. Even some of the teachers were missing, and as Harry surveyed the Head Table, he saw only the Headmaster and McGonagall. Dumbledore smiled at him and beckoned him up to the Head Table.
"Come, Mr. Potter, no need for you to sit all alone at the Gryffindor table. You may take the empty Defense Against the Dark Arts position." Dumbledore laughed at his own pun, and Harry smiled weakly. "Where are your glasses?"
He shrugged, "I don't need them anymore. Is that some wizard puberty thing?" He sat down next to Professor McGonagall and his breakfast soon popped up in front of him, making him forget his question completely. The two professors watched in awe as the young boy ate more than they thought his stomach could hold, then asked guiltily for more.
"No wonder you always look so thin at the beginning of the school year, Mr. Potter. They probably don't feed you but once a day." McGonagall took on that tone that told even the rashest Slytherin to back off.
Harry snorted sarcastically, "If I'm lucky." He quickly covered it up by shoveling food into his mouth.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, I didn't catch that."
"He said, they fed him once a day if he was lucky." The calculated, silky voice that Harry had, until recently, come to dread cut through the silence. He looked up to see the potions master almost-limping up to his place at the Head Table. Harry then realized that his seat was next to Professor Snape's. He shot a glance at Dumbledore, who was just humming away, oblivious. Snape seemed to notice also, but made no mention of it. McGonagall was still fuming over the last comment.
"Honestly, I don't know why you didn't tell us of your maltreatment earlier. You would have stayed the summers here or with the Weasleys."
"Ah, Minerva, that is where you are wrong." Three pairs of eyes turned to the Headmaster. "You see, Number 4 Privet Drive is covered in wards and spells, so that dark wizards and witches cannot reach young Harry easily. The Burrow has no such protection and –"
"And I don't want to put them in that kind of danger," Harry finished for him. He quickly excused himself from the conversation and made his way out of the Great Hall. Minerva shook her head.
"Sometimes I feel that he's too hard on himself." The Headmaster nodded gravely.
"Yes, Minerva, but it is only because the world asks so much of him. Put yourself in his position. He was raised with no knowledge of our world, no inkling that we even existed. Then one day, he's suddenly forced out of a life of near-servitude into a life of fame. A fame for something he doesn't even remember." The Headmaster broke his gaze from the door and turned to the two professors. "He told me after the Quidditch Final his third year exactly what he hears when a Dementor comes near him. For a boy to have to live through hearing his mother's last screams over and over is ludicrous. But we ask this of Harry, not because he is Harry, but because he is Harry Potter." Minerva swallowed, near tears, and Severus' face remained as stoic as ever. Dumbledore smiled.
"So, Severus, dear boy, how are you feeling?"
"Like I was hit by a bear," he stated flatly. He stood, and without a word, exited as quickly as he had come. The Headmaster merely smiled after him.
Snape made his way down the halls to the dungeons. As he passed the guest room, he noticed the door was slightly ajar, and a high-pitched voice was rambling a mile a minute. He peeked in so as not to disturb its occupants, and found Potter sitting on the floor, polishing a broom. Wait, that was his broom. The annoying house elf, Dobby, was jumping up and down on the bed and telling the boy of all of his adventures in the kitchens. Snape grimaced and turned his attention back to Potter.
He was carefully smoothing the surface of the handle, treating it with care and patience. He also noticed the boy's melancholy expression as he worked meticulously on the broom. Of course, Snape thought, his would have been burned with the rest of his things. Deciding on an easier approach than being caught eavesdropping, he stepped back and knocked on the door.
"Come in," it was apparent by the boy's tone that he was not expecting visitors, least of all Snape. The potions master entered with purpose and raised his eyebrows at the boy's task. Harry scrambled to his feet and smiled sheepishly at being caught.
"I, uh, kinda threw it in the mud when we got here. Well, I mean, it wasn't really my first concern at the moment, and I thought I'd clean it up before returning it to you." He held out the broom, which Snape took and inspected. It was surprisingly clean and he nodded his thanks.
"Mr. Potter, if you would just apply as much patience and care into your potion-making, you would not be so lowly ranked in the class." And with that, he left, leaving the Gryffindor dumbfounded. Had Snape just complimented him? It was hard to tell with Snape, he always sounded so demeaning when he talked. Harry shrugged and looked around, realizing that Dobby had stopped his rant mid-sentence when Snape walked in, but picked up right where he left off as the Slytherin exited.
Harry sighed, realizing that he had nothing to do; not even polish his broom. Well, his former broom. It was a pile of ashes now. Maybe Dumbledore would allow him a trip to Diagon Alley. Then again, maybe not, with the recent occurrences. He finally decided on the library; if he couldn't do anything, he might as well get a start for next year. The OWLS were, after all, only 11 months away. He smiled at this rather Hermione-like thought and trekked up to the library, resigned to his fate.
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Merry Christmas everyone! As I'm working Midnight Mass (yes, that's what I get for working in a military chapel), I thought I'd give my present to the fanfiction world this early morn. Happy Holidays! ~ Rickman's Girl