A/N: So here's Chapter 27! I know it's a bit short, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

One quick announcement before you start reading: One of my amazing, wonderful readers, SevLiLyHarry, has offered to translate this story into French. She has already posted the first few chapters under the title "Un millier de mots" for anyone who may be interested in checking that out. I have posted a link on my profile page as well.

Okay, now onto the story.

There wasn't a single student stupid enough not to step out of the way as Severus Snape stormed through the castle corridors, dragging a young Gryffindor boy along behind him by the collar of his shirt.

"But sir, I didn't! I wasn't—" Harry tried to protest, ignoring the sympathetic looks on the faces of a group of Hufflepuffs who quickly darted out of the way of the potions master's path.

"Silence!" the man hissed, rounding a corner and throwing open the door of an unused classroom.

He then pulled the boy towards the door. "Inside," he growled dangerously.

Harry had no choice then but to stumble through the doorway ahead of Snape, who followed close behind and closed the door with a snap as soon as they had both crossed the threshold.

The man watched the child eying him warily for a moment as he attempted to compose himself. He suddenly found himself wishing once more that he had simply dropped the boy off with his head of house. This was her problem, wasn't it? He had his own students to worry about.

"Please, sir—" Harry suddenly whispered.

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak, Mr. Potter," the professor spat then, cutting the boy off.

And Harry immediately clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to make things worse for himself than they already were.

"Now," the man said quietly, in that silky smooth voice that ran chills up and down Harry's spine. "Let me first tell you what I observed upon arriving at the quidditch pitch a few minutes ago."

Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking out in protest. He knew what the man had seen. But the professor had it all wrong! If he could just be allowed to explain—

"What I saw, Mr. Potter," Snape continued, fixing his student with a deadly glare, "was an out-of-control quidditch practice that had somehow morphed into a racing competition."

The man paused for just a moment to give off a sneer, and Harry instinctively took a step back and ducked his head.

"Now you may, perhaps, be able to imagine my surprise when I discovered, in the middle of it all, a certain young Gryffindor. A young Gryffindor who has been expressly forbidden from flying. A young Gryffindor standing on the field with a broomstick in his hand, preparing to join in on all the fun." Snape continued menacingly.

There was a much longer pause this time. But Harry didn't dare speak without permission.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" the potions master finally asked.

And almost immediately, the words were tumbling out of Harry's mouth.

"I wasn't going to fly, professor. Honest. Someone just handed me a broom. That's all."

"Someone just… handed you a broom," Snape repeated softly, his tone reflecting nothing but disbelief.

"Yes, sir. It's true," Harry continued hurriedly. "I'm not sure who exactly gave it to me. Things got a bit… chaotic after the first few minutes of practice. But Malfoy had been bragging about how no one could beat him and his new broom in a race, and then someone was shoving a school broom in my hand. I didn't even have a chance to refuse! And then you showed up, and—"

"I find it quite fascinating, Mr. Potter, how all of your troubles seem to somehow trace back to Mr. Malfoy."

"It's not my fault that we always end up in the same place at the same time!" Harry answered.

"Really?" Snape countered. "Because I was under the impression that you had no business being down at the quidditch pitch at all this morning."

"I just wanted to watch—"

"Madam Pomfrey sent you a message, did she not?" Snape interrupted.

At that, Harry fell silent, and he began nervously twisting his hands together in front of him. Of course Snape would know all about that.

"Well, Mr. Potter?" the potions master prompted.

"I was going to go," Harry answered at last, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"But you got lost?" Snape asked scathingly. "Took a wrong turn, perhaps?"

"Well, the message just said to go to the hospital wing after breakfast," Harry argued. "It didn't say that I needed to go directly after breakfast."

"Do you really want to play the interpretation game with me, Potter?" Snape practically growled. "You knew exactly what the message meant, didn't you?"

Harry swallowed hard. He knew that there would be no getting out of this now. "Yes, sir," he eventually whispered.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," Snape announced then. "And believe me, Potter. The next time you deliberately miss an appointment with Madam Pomfrey, or I catch you with a broom, I won't be so lenient. I don't care if you are simply holding it, and not flying it."

In the next moment then, the classroom door was swinging open, and Snape was steering Harry out into the corridor, one hand clamped down firmly on the boy's shoulder.

By the time they arrived at the hospital wing, Harry's stomach was so twisted in knots that he was beginning to feel ill. What was going to happen now? Were his secrets about to be discovered? How was he going to talk his way out of it if they were?

He was only partially aware when the potions master deposited him on the edge of the nearest hospital bed and stalked off towards Madam Pomfrey's office to alert the mediwitch to their arrival.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice brisk as she bustled out of her office a minute or so later. It had been long enough, Harry thought, that Snape had likely already explained the entire story to her.

"Hello, ma'am," Harry said politely, putting all of his effort into trying to sound calm.

"Now every Saturday for the next few weeks, Mr. Potter, I expect you to report here as soon as breakfast is over," the woman began without preamble.

There could be no doubt now, Harry thought. Snape had definitely told her.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered softly.

"This won't take long," Madam Pomfrey assured him then. "I just want to ensure that the nutrient potions are doing their work. It'll just be a simple scan."

Harry felt himself relax ever so slightly at those words. It didn't sound like Madam Pomfrey was about to perform anything too revealing, anyway.

"I'll be on my way, then," Snape spoke up, keeping his narrowed eyes focused on Harry. "But as soon as you are done here, Mr. Potter, I will require your presence in the dungeons for detention."

Harry frowned as he looked up at his professor. "But it's too early for detention, sir."

"Oh?" Snape asked, a thin smile spreading across his lips. "I recall assigning you two weeks' worth of detentions, Mr. Potter. But I do not recall stating that they would all take place in the evening hours. You must have… misinterpreted my words."

And with that Snape swept out of the hospital wing, leaving Harry in a stunned silence behind him.

It was with an equal measure of relief and annoyance that Harry made his way down to the potions classroom several minutes later.

Relief because the scan Madam Pomfrey had performed on him really had been as simple and easy as she had promised it would be. And his most closely guarded secrets about his life with the Dursleys were still safe.

But he couldn't help but to also be annoyed that the greasy bat of the dungeons was making him serve one of his detentions on a Saturday morning, when he would usually be hanging out with his friends and relaxing after a long week of classes.

A few moments later, as Harry finally reached his destination, the door to the potions classroom swung open before Harry even had the chance to knock.

"Come in, Mr. Potter," Snape spoke silkily. "I already have your station set up for you."

Station? Harry wondered, as he stepped into the room.

And then he spotted the potions master, standing over a cauldron at a work station on the far side of the room. And a few feet away, there was another station set up. A prep station.

Snape pointed to where the various potions ingredients had been lined up on the counter. "Your task today, Mr. Potter, will be to assist me in preparing ingredients for several batches of calming draught Madam Pomfrey has asked me to prepare."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, walking over to the counter. Well, at least he didn't have to write another essay.

"Use the pestle and mortar to grind those herbs into a fine powder," the man commanded, barely looking away from his cauldron as he spoke.

Harry had to suppress a sigh, then. There were a lot of herbs.

"Now, Mr. Potter," Snape said forcefully.

"Yes, sir," was the quiet response.

It was strange, Harry thought. But after a while, he almost had to admit that prepping ingredients for Snape wasn't all that bad.

In fact, he may even go so far as to say that it was actually kind of… relaxing.

It was quiet in the potions classroom. Far quieter than it ever was in class. And there was no Malfoy around to try to sabotage him while he worked.

Sure, Snape barked instructions at him from time to time. And criticized him when he failed to grind the herbs into a fine powder. But overall, the man left him alone. And it gave Harry time to think.

Of course with thoughts came questions. And quite suddenly, after nearly an hour of working in silence alongside the professor, Harry began speaking before he even had the chance to stop himself.

"My mother liked the color blue, didn't she?"

Snape paused in his stirring of the cauldron, completely taken off guard by the random question.

"I mean, in at least half of the pictures you gave me, she was wearing something blue," Harry explained. "Was it her favorite color?"

Snape took a moment to look towards the ceiling and let out a small sigh. What would it take to get this child to stop asking these questions?

And then he turned to face the boy, saw the look of determination in those bright, familiar green eyes, and the realization suddenly hit him.

He was never going to stop asking.

It was silent for nearly a full minute after that. And then—

"Yes," the man finally replied, turning back to his cauldron to give it another stir. "I always suggested to her that she would be far better suited to Ravenclaw than Gryffindor. She wasn't nearly so fond of red."

"But she was brave," Harry replied. "Like a Gryffindor."

"She was also highly intelligent," the man countered. "Like a Ravenclaw."

Harry smiled then, as he presented yet another full mortar of powdered herbs to the professor for approval.

The man nodded once. "Decent enough," he commented. "Now the next part of the process is the most difficult, Mr. Potter, and I will require absolute silence while I work."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered quickly, his eyes falling on the now bubbling cauldron.

He then watched in fascination as the potions master went about his work, expertly adding ingredients and stirring the brew, with scarcely a single glance at the instructions.

A few minutes passed. And then the man suddenly looked over and met the young boy's gaze. And a strange feeling once again took up residence in Harry's chest.

And despite everything that had happened that morning with his hated potions professor, Harry couldn't help but to smile up at the man.

And then in the next moment, he had to work extra hard to suppress a laugh at the completely stunned expression on the potions master's face.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

-Ailee17