AN Note: JKR seems to be ramping up her transphobic bullshit again. I love this fandom and will always be part of the wizarding world, but I have long stopped supporting her. Transpeople deserve every right and protection as anyone else, and are not a subclass of people. There is NO LGB without the T, and fuck people who say otherwise.


Harry stuck by his desk, cleaning up his potion ingredients and wiping down his table as the other students left the room. Snape was standing at the front, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, staring at them both. After the door closed behind the last student, Snape swept up to his feet and loomed toward them.

"It is the first lesson of the year and you are already sabotaging each other's work," Snape started, silencing Harry with a quick glare as Harry tried to object to starting anything.

"Unacceptable," Snape snapped. "I will not have such volatility in my classroom. I don't care if you never speak to each other again in your lives – in fact, I would prefer it in this room. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, not looking away from Snape, but not challenging him either.

"Yes," Malfoy bit out. "Sir."

"Good," Snape said, after staring between them for a moment. He focused on Malfoy, and spoke quietly.

"Potter, I require six drams of beetle eyes and a pinch of erumpent horn powder from my storage room. Go fetch it."

"Uh, yes sir," said Harry. Malfoy and Snape didn't break their mutual glaring as Harry slipped out the door, breaking into an absolute run once the door was closed. The potions classroom door wasn't sound proofed, and Harry really wanted to hear what Snape had to say to Malfoy.

"You can put me in detention all you want. I don't care what you have to say. He is a traitor to our kind, and so are you," Malfoy spat out, as soon as the door had closed.

Snape raised his eyebrow at Malfoy but remained calm.

"And what exactly is your kind?" Snape asked, moving closer to Malfoy's desk.

"Purebloods," Malfoy said, his chin up. "Righteous wizards."

"Then I am not a traitor," Snape coldly said. "I am a half-blood, as I am sure your father has told you."

"Yes, he has," Malfoy seethed. "And he told me what you did."

"Good," Snape said, looming over Malfoy. "Finally, a truth."

"What do you mean finally?" Malfoy demanded. He stood as tall as he could against his side of the table, and didn't seemed to be cowed by Snape.

"You have been raised on lies and propaganda. Fed falsehoods on the superiority of blood status, through the very reason that many of those families are inbred. There is no superiority of blood, as evident by the status of the successors of your class and the failures of some others."

"I've been raised on tradition! We have a powerful reputation to uphold," Malfoy argued.

"But how much is it actually worth?" Snape pressed. "Your family name has been stained since the end of the first war, since you were born."

"It still carries weight at the Ministry," sneered Malfoy, crossing his arms.

"And suspicion. The Dark Lord is dead, Draco, never to return. You are at a pivotal point in your life in which you must choose how you will go forth. Follow generational delusions of grandeur and wizarding purity, or embrace the twentieth century and advancement of our kind, muggle born, half-blood, and pureblood alike. "

"They're not delusions," Malfoy immediately countered.

"Aren't they?" Snape pushed. "How many bribes has your father given to put you ahead of muggle born and half-bloods?" He waited, but Malfoy had no response to that. "I nominated you for prefect this year with this choice in mind. Apply yourself and research beyond your pureblood point of view. Choose wisely."

"Like you did?" Malfoy challenged. "Betrayed You know Who and ended up with Potter as a consolation prize?"

"That's correct," Snape said, his eyes narrowing. "I have no fairy tales to tell you, Draco. I remember what he was truly like, what terror, fear, and persecution he caused. The murders. The torture. If you believe that is what your fellow wizard kind deserves, then perhaps there is no hope for you after all."

Malfoy snapped his mouth shut, the angry response dying on his lips.

"Your assignment is to research the war. I want an essay on fifteen non-purebloods killed or tortured in the first war, and a list of what their contributions to the wizarding world were. Dismissed."

Malfoy turned and angrily snatched his cauldron and books, yanking the classroom door as he left.

Harry managed to dodge Malfoy just barely, carefully holding the erumpent powder steady so that it didn't create a small explosion. He walked into the room and found Snape using magic to erase the chalk board.

"Here's the powder and beetle eyes," Harry said, putting them carefully on the desk.

Snape nodded, and cast a spell to put the recipe of a new potion on the board.

"For subsequent classes you will sit on the opposite side of the room as Mr Malfoy," Snape said, turning around to face Harry.

"But he started it," Harry argued. "I was using the spell you taught me, and just bounced it back."

"Which caused an explosion," Snape immediately said.

"Just a small one. Why do I have –"

Snape snapped his fingers in annoyance, stopping Harry's tirade.

"Because I do not want you to be injured, Harry," said Snape.

"Oh," Harry said, the annoyance draining quickly from his tone.

"Mr Malfoy is aware of the events of the spring," Snape explained, waving his wand down his front and removing the chalk dust from his clothing. "You must be careful around him."

"I will be," Harry said, petulantly. "I always want to hex him though."

"I am aware," Snape dryly said.

Harry gathered up the rest of his stuff from his desk, noting that he only had twenty minutes to go to the toilets and then to class.

"Dad," Harry started, standing at the door with his bag. "What did he mean by 'you ended up with Potter as the prize'?"

Snape picked up a book from his desk and tapped the spine with his fingers.

"What do you think it means?"

Harry shook his head.

"No. No, don't do the turnaround and ask to see what I know. I'm your… I'm your son. I deserve the truth on this," Harry said, stubbornly standing tense but not backing down.

Snape gave a small smile.

"He believes that you are a burden," Snape explained. "He is incorrect."

Rain slammed on the windows and wind whipped the trees in the Islington park outside, splattering the early autumn leaves against the front sitting room panes and adding more gloom to the dreary day.

"What treasure hunt do you have for me now?" Sirius said, leading Dumbledore to the formal sitting room. "Kreacher!"

"One that is not sentient," Dumbledore said, settling into the armchair contentedly. "Though I have a curiosity. When you were in Azkaban, how easy was it for you to get the news?"

Sirius gave him a curious look, as he requested tea service and sandwiches from Kreacher.

"The news? Impossible, nearly. I received a paper, once, from Cornelius Fudge during a visit he made. The very paper that told me Wormtail was alive."

"How interesting," Dumbledore said. He pulled a Prophet out of his robes and gave it over to Sirius.

"UNREST AT AZKABAN," Sirius read out. "Several prominent Death Eaters causing riots and unruliness at Azkaban, though dementors have control and there is nothing to worry about."

He shook his head and tossed the paper to the table.

"There's not been anything printed in the news, of course," Dumbledore quietly said. "But they will have known that Voldemort was defeated."

"That won't have made them happy, so the dementors won't be any further interested in them," Sirius said. He sat back on the chesterfield, but perked up again when his fireplace made a roaring sound.

"Ah, I hope you don't mind, I have invited someone else to the meeting," Dumbledore said. Sirius waved his wand toward the fireplace and smiled as Molly Weasley stepped through.

"Hello Molly," Sirius said. Dumbledore nodded to her as she settled into the side of the couch nearest to the fire.

"Dreadful out," Molly said, shaking her head at the weather outside.

"It's perfect," Kreacher muttered, scowling as he poured another cup of tea out. Dumbledore politely waited until Kreacher had done an exaggerated bow and left the room.

"Molly will be helping with your searches," Dumbledore quietly said. Sirius had a small look of surprise on his face, but listened quietly.

"It's been a while since I've had a good research project," Molly said, unable to fully hide the eagerness in her voice.

Sirius looked like he was happy for her but did not share her enthusiasm for research.

"An employee from the Ministry is monitoring the school, so it is of utmost importance that we complete this search and destruction as quickly as possible," Dumbledore said. "I will provide information as I can, however, I believe we are at the stage where my actions are being watched."

"Are you safe?" Sirius asked. "Is Remus safe?"

"Remus is as safe as he can be," Dumbledore said. "He is tenured and protected by the staff as well."

"Except by Snape," Sirius muttered. He looked slightly contrite when he glanced at the disapproving look on Molly's face.

"Severus is brewing Wolfsbane potion for him monthly, Sirius," Dumbledore said, his stern reminder disguised by his mild tone.

Molly took advantage of the uncomfortable silence to pull a packet of papers out of her purse.

"I've studied a bit of what you've told me so far, Albus," Molly said. "And I agree that Voldemort will try to use meaningful wizarding artifacts for his horcruxes. Pureblood families place a lot of importance on status and rare items – no offense Sirius dear – and he likely would have wanted to emulate that."

"None taken," Sirius shrugged, gesturing around the stuffy room.

"Which would mean that we have had one item from his youth, the diary," Dumbledore said. "Helga Hufflepuff's goblet, Salazar Slytherin's locket, and now his familiar. Two items from two founders of Hogwarts."

"How do we know how many there are?" Sirius asked. "They're made by splitting one's soul, aren't they? Is there a limit?"

"There is not," Dumbledore said. "I would expect normally that the pain of splitting the soul would prevent multiple murders, but for some people this is not a strong enough deterrent."

"Seven is an important number in our world," Molly offered.

"Yes, I think this is likely," Dumbledore mused, his eyebrows narrowed and frown deepened in concentration. "Six intentional horcruxes plus himself."

"Which leaves two more," Molly said. She had a quill in her hand and was tapping one of the pieces of paper she'd brought, leaving neat little thought dots along the paper.

"One of Ravenclaw, one of Gryffindor," Sirius said. "Though I can't imagine he'd respect Gryffindor enough to want something of his."

"No, perhaps not," Dumbledore agreed. "I do think it will have some importance to him though. Young Tom Riddle was a collector of items in the orphanage, as he'd never had many of his own."

"Well, I see what my next research topic shall be," Molly said, scribbling something down.

"His family," she finished.

"Ravenclaw's most treasured possession," Sirius said.

Dumbledore smiled brightly and clasped his hands together.

"I believe you two will work very well together on this task."

…..

Harry couldn't help smiling when he walked into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on Friday. It was back to the room of curiosities, of empty cages in the corners, posters on the walls of dangerous beasts and warnings from the wizarding war when Harry was a baby. Professor Lupin was standing at the front of the room, holding his wand between his hands and looking very pleased to see the class again.

"Welcome again, to Defence Against the Dark Arts," Lupin said, once everyone had taken their seats. He looked in a bit better health than Harry last remembered seeing him, and he was wearing a newer looking suit with elbow patches that appeared to be there as part of the design, and not to cover worn fabric.

"I am professor Remus Lupin, for those of you who may not remember, and my office hours are in the evenings on Mondays and Thursdays, except when there is a full moon." He looked around to gauge their reactions, and appeared to be fighting a smile.

"Anyone familiar with Latin may recognise that my first name is related to the story of the founders of Rome: Romulus and Remus, twin boys who were abandoned and cared for by many, including a wolf. The second part of my name is a derivative of the Latin for, coincidentally, wolf. As for the note on office hours, I refer to you to the etymology lesson just covered."

Harry grinned and saw that his classmates were also sniggering a bit. The confirmation of Lupin being a werewolf had absolutely flown around Hogwarts at the end of third year, and for him to admit it was a novel thing for the students.

The door suddenly scraped open, killing the laughter, and all heads turned to see who interrupted the discussion.

"What a merry class," Umbridge said, the sweet tone of her voice not matching the pursed lips she sported. "I'm sure you won't mind if I join you all for this lesson."

She perched herself at the back of the room, sitting primly with a small pink notebook and pink quill, staring straight ahead at Lupin with an unnervingly calm look.

"Yes, of course," Lupin said, though some of the humour was gone from his voice. "As I was saying, my unfortunate departure was caused by some fear and misunderstanding. And I believe that fear of the unknown can be a cause of prejudice and violence, so today our topic shall be…"

Lupin tapped the blackboard behind him with a confident flick of his wand causing letters to quickly form.

"Lycanthropy."

Harry tried to maintain a supportive smile as Lupin rocked slightly on his feet, his expression calm. He'd been looking forward to his first Defence class with Lupin again, but having Umbridge at the back of the class had added a layer of uncertainty to the room.

"Werewolves," Hermione said, as everyone else in the room remained silent.

"Yes, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor," Lupin told her. He tapped the board again and an image of a man-like wolf appeared.

"Hem hem."

Harry and Ron glanced at each other in apprehension before turning to look behind them.

Umbridge had tilted her head up slightly to the side and had a little smile on her face.

"I might be mistaken, Professor, but are you meaning to infer to the children that you might be a werewolf?"

"Yes," Lupin said. "Thank you for following along."

Heads whipped back and forth and some students had wide eyes of surprise, but Umbridge just blinked rapidly and made a great show of flipping over her notebook to take notes. Harry knew that there was still a lot of prejudice in the wizarding world against werewolves, but Lupin's secret had been spilled years before and now that he had tenure, Harry suspected that Dumbledore would be a lot more outspoken in his protection of Lupin against any students or parents who would complain.

"As I was saying," Lupin continued, "we're going to learn about lycanthropy today. Werewolves are the sort of dangerous beast that you must keep very far away from during their transformation. There's not one certain spell to use against them, but you will find success using blasting spells around the werewolf, and with a well-aimed stupefy."

"Hem hem."

"Ms Umbridge," Lupin said, writing STUPEFY on the board and not turning around to look at her.

"Are you encouraging the students to cast these spells against you, Professor Lupin?"

He spun around and gave her a pained smile.

"Should the students ever encounter me as a werewolf, then yes, I fully condone them to defend themselves. And in fact, I shall consider myself a successful teacher if they do," he gave Harry's table a wink as he did so, causing Hermione to cough a little and try to hide her pleased smile.

Before giving Umbridge a chance to interrupt further, he continued with his lesson.

"Now, there are a lot of myths and stereotypes surrounding werewolves, so we're going to start there because if you believe a stereotype that isn't true it can get you in trouble quickly. Shout them out at me."

A few students looked nervously about; the Ravenclaws unsure if they should say anything at all. Harry finally spoke up.

"Uh, you don't get on with vampires."

"Excellent example Harry, ten points to Gryffindor," Lupin said. "Incorrect though. We do not care about vampires much, and our paths do not often cross. We do share a similarity in that both groups face prejudice."

Harry felt a little embarrassed that he'd been wrong, but at least he'd been able to get the conversation started.

"Silver bullets can kill you," a Ravenclaw offered.

"Also incorrect, though silver and dittany mixed together can seal a wound from a werewolf attack. Ten points to Ravenclaw."

"Wolfsbane helps when you are transforming," Dean said.

"Correct!" Lupin called out with a triumphant point of his finger. "Wolfsbane, though a very expensive and difficult potion to produce, enables the werewolf to retain their human mind and thoughts when transforming. Becoming harmless to those around him or her."

Dean looked chuffed that his answer was correct and Harry gave him a nod.

"People treat witches and wizards who are werewolves awfully even though they can't help what they are," Hermione quietly said.

"Half-breeds," Umbridge said, from the back.

Lupin gave her a very hard stare.

"That is an offensive term, Ms Umbridge," Lupin said. "And you are correct, Miss Granger."

The mood had turned sombre and Harry didn't think that Lupin would get any more suggestions.

"Now, one of the stereotypes that is true is that werewolves differ from regular wolves in that they are not afraid of people. But they are like wolves in the aspect that they are afraid of tigers and bears, both animals that are large enough to kill them. They are also afraid of fire. For this lesson, as I am short on tigers and bears, I will be teaching you how to create an impressive column of fire that can be used to scare off a werewolf, without setting your surroundings on fire."

"I hardly think that'll be necessary. After all, Professor Dumbledore has assured all the parents and the Ministry that you will be locked away during your transformation time, did he not?"

She gave him a hard look at that, and the disapproval in her tone was very evident.

"As I am certain the Ministry is well-aware of, there is more than just one werewolf in Great Britain," Lupin easily said. "I would prefer the students have practical knowledge of how to repel one."

"There is no need," Umbridge repeated, clearing her throat. "The students should not encounter any other werewolves, as said werewolves should have the good sense to stay away from wizard kind."

"Just like there are no dementors around?" Harry challenged, looking back over his shoulder. "And the Death Eaters pushing back at Azkaban, there's no way they'll ever escape?"

"Mr Potter," Umbridge sharply said. "The Ministry of Magic has two full divisions dedicated to the safety of its citizens and the enforcement of laws to protect those citizens. It does not need spotty teenagers fighting people or creatures they are unprepared to fight."

"Which is why they attend this class, Ms Umbridge," Lupin said, stepping closer to Harry as if to protect him.

"The Ministry needed me fourteen years ago," Harry evenly said, closing his notebook and ignoring the warning whisper that Hermione gave him.

"That will be a detention, Mr Potter," Umbridge said. "Professor Lupin, I suggest you control your class better, and await the Minister's decision on whether practical demonstrations will be allowed in class."

"It's bloody ridiculous that they won't let us practise spells," Ron said, flopping onto the bed. He was followed by the rest of the lads, Dean yawning as he closed the door behind them.

"Lupin's the best defence professor we've had, and now Umbridge is ... is... "

"Blocking him," Harry finished, dropping his books on his bed. They had a solid hour before supper was served, and Harry wanted to kick his shoes off for a bit. His detention was at half six, and it had killed his excitement for the weekend.

"Yeah," Ron muttered, pulling his tie loose.

"It's true about Azkaban. It's in the papers and it's not like no one has escaped from Azkaban recently," Seamus said. "You'd think she'd want us to practise."

He sprawled across his own bed, face down.

"That's why Snape adopted you, isn't it?" Neville asked Harry. "So you could prepare in case of stuff like this?"

"Maybe," Harry said. He was digging through his trunk for something, and finally unearthed it. He unfolded the Weasley sweater comfort blanket and tossed it on his bed, and he started to leaf through the book that had been wrapped within.

"Come on Potter, did he teach you stuff he hasn't taught us?" Seamus pushed.

"Well, yeah," Harry said. "I know some stuff that could get us in trouble."

"Like what?" Dean asked. Uniforms weren't required for Friday evening supper, and Dean was the quickest to change to muggle clothes.

"Just some defence stuff. He taught me what to look for and things," Harry nonchalantly said. "How to apparate."

The inside cover had familiar spidery writing on it, the copy still the old battered version of The Hobbit that Harry had first read over the summer in Lower Tarrow.

To John,

The time is now for you to control your own adventures.

Dad.

"You bastard, can you really?" Seamus said. "Show me."

"I can't here," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "There's anti-apparation wards around Hogwarts."

Ron gave him a suspicious look.

"Sounds like something someone who's read Hogwarts, A History would know…"

"Nice try, Weasley," Harry said. "Bet's still on."

"That's bollocks. You get to learn how to apparate, you get to do cool spells, you got to be a Hogwarts Champion," Seamus went on.

"My parents were killed and I grew up with a family that hated me," Harry interrupted. "And almost died in the Triwizard Cup."

"Yeah, fair," Dean shrugged, tossing a sock that had fallen off Seamus' bed back at him.

"What if we had a duelling club again?" Ron asked, chewing his thumb. "If we had a duelling club we could practise."

"Who's going to run that?" Dean scoffed. "Lockhart's gone."

"Snape probably would," Harry shrugged. "I think Flitwick's a champion too."

"Do you really call him Snape to his face?" Neville asked. He'd declined Harry's offer to visit over summer, but Harry hadn't pushed it. He figured Neville would need a bit more time to be comfortable with the idea of going to Snape's.

"No," Harry said, not explaining further. "But I reckon he'd do it, if we asked."

"Do you think Umbridge will allow it though?" Dean said. "If she won't even let Lupin teach us."

A knock sounded on the door and whoever it was waited on the outside until Harry yelled to come in. Hermione sheepishly walked in, a bag of cat treats in her hand.

"Anyone seen Crookshanks?"

Ron pointed toward the window cubby by his bed, where Crookshanks was curled up in an old blanket of Ron's.

"Why do you all look guilty?" she asked, as she tossed a few treats on the blanket.

Harry, who knew well enough to leave that question alone, continued thumbing through The Hobbit. There were some illustrations hidden within that Snape had animated and Harry used them to practise his occlumency.

"Why do you always assume we're guilty?" Ron asked, but he was grinning as he said it.

"How do you fancy joining a secret duelling club?" Seamus said, a half second later.

"When did it become a secret duelling club?" Harry asked, conjuring a bookmark out of a tissue from his bedside cabinet.

"Well, Dean's probably right," Ron said. "Umbridge doesn't seem the sort to condone violence."

"I'm not sure about that," Hermione said, sitting down on the end of Ron's bed. "Harry, she was at your court hearing, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "She seemed quite annoyed that I could cast a patronus and apparate."

"Well then lads, I think we have our next challenge. Harry can teach us," Seamus grinned, his head popping up through the jumper he'd put on.

"What," Harry said. "I barely know how to do it myself; I can't teach."

"Yeah, you can mate," Ron told him. "You taught me how to play Nintendo. You can teach us how to do a patronus."

Harry had vowed to never again speak of that experience, nor the resulting broken controller that had been mended by magic, and Ron didn't explain anything further either.

"No, this is mad," Harry said, closing his book. "Let's say I do decide to teach. We can't exactly do that in the Great Hall. Umbridge has been all over the school and knows where students hang out."

"I might know somewhere," Neville piped up.

Harry managed to make it through dinner without saying anything else to get himself in trouble with a professor. He was in a foul mood as he headed towards Umbridge's office on the ground floor, down a corridor that was not far from the Great Hall. He passed a sad first year holding a deflated dragon balloon, scurrying away from the direction of Umbridge.

"Mr Potter, almost late," Umbridge said, welcoming him into one of the ugliest rooms he'd ever seen. There was a startling amount of pink around the room on the carpet, the tapestries, the chair, and the odd collection of mewling kitten plates on the wall.

Harry said nothing but stayed standing at the door.

"Well, go sit," Umbridge said, pointing to the desk. At the desk was a parchment and sleek looking black quill.

Harry slid into the chair and dropped his bag to the floor, staring at the light pink parchment.

"I believe we've had a little misunderstanding that can be solved by some simple lines," Umbridge said. "I represent the Ministry and I will make decisions on what should be taught to students. Do you understand, Mr Potter?"

Harry looked up with as blank of a face as he could muster. Umbridge had a fancy pink tea set on her desk, and was making herself a cup of tea.

"Yes," Harry said.

"Yes ma'am," she said, giving him a stern look.

"Yes ma'am," Harry duly repeated.

"I have noticed your tendency to go toward histrionics, Mr Potter. The Boy Who Lived, always finding new enemies to fight. The Ministry is fully able to defend its own citizens, you understand. We will not have some rogue child super hero breaking the law as he pleases."

"I don't look for danger," Harry said. "I don't actually care about being the Boy Who Lived."

Umbridge narrowed her eyes at him.

"Do not lie to me," she said. A second later she harrumphed and nodded to the desk. "On that piece of parchment, I want you to write these lines."

She waved her surprisingly short wand at his desk and the first line filled in on the parchment.

I am not a hero.

Harry felt the urge to roll his eyes. He'd been intrigued at the status and wonder that being the Boy Who Lived had given him when he first joined the wizarding world, but now was too acutely aware of how much that name had cost him.

"I don't have any ink," Harry said, picking up the quill.

"You won't need any," she told him, sipping her tea with her pinkie out.

It only took three words before Harry started to feel an itch on his left hand. He scratched it and continued writing, but the itch persisted. After the fourth line the itch turned into a burn, and Harry saw redness appearing across the back of his hand.

"Something wrong?" Umbridge asked, watching him carefully.

"No," Harry denied, refusing to either look up at her or look at his hand. Umbridge seemed to have nothing else to do, and kept talking.

"Mr Potter, are you aware of a prophecy regarding yourself?"

Harry gritted his teeth as he continued writing. His left hand was burning and it looked like a tiny droplet of blood was pushing its way up through his skin.

"There's been many stories told about me, Professor."

"Yes," she said, her voice clipped. "And I'm sure you're very fond of hearing them."

"Not particularly," Harry said, finally looking up. "They all start with my parents being murdered."

"All of them?" she pushed, pouring herself more tea. "Or was there a story told about you before that?"

"I don't know," Harry lied, going back to doing the lines. There was definitely a bead of blood on his hand, and the burning feeling had turned into actual pain. Harry was determined not to show her that it bothered him, but he wondered if Dumbledore knew she was using whatever quill this was for student detentions. Then again, maybe with all the talk of chains and beatings from Filch, and sending students to the Forbidden Forest, this quill was not a concern.

He'd written nearly ten inches of lines, and he could see the same words forming on the back of his palm.

"SPT," Umbridge said, ten minutes later. Harry, who'd been thinking of hobbits and using occlumency to distract himself from the pain in his hand, looked up with a confused expression on his face.

"SPT," she repeated. "Who is that?"

"I've no idea," Harry said. He glanced up at the hourglass over Umbridge's desk and saw that it was nearly eight pm.

She studied him carefully and then put her teacup down.

"I believe the lesson has sunk in enough tonight. Perhaps you will have an easier time remembering tomorrow. Dismissed, Mr Potter."

….

Harry didn't remember ever grabbing his bag quicker and fleeing from an office. He could feel his eyes water a little as his mind focused more on the pain of his hand again and he blinked to make them stop as best he could. It didn't matter what she'd made him write. He was still a hero; he had been as a baby, and he had been again in the spring, even though almost no one knew of the latter.

Harry got to the grand staircase and stopped at the largest, waiting for it to settle and reveal its bannister type (and thus destination). He looked closer at his hand and saw his own penmanship, the strong I leading to a shakier and shakier am not. It hurt. More than just the pain of the injury, but the meaning, and the fact that it was him being called out yet again. Harry wanted to burrow in the safety of his bed, away from where Umbridge could ever reach him. He wanted to hide what she'd done, so that no one would know that she'd gotten to him a bit. Harry didn't regret standing up to her, and would do it again, but didn't want the others to see what it had cost him. To know he was being used as a warning.

Snape would probably want to know.

But did he want to go and tell him about such a small thing? Snape had certainly given Harry detentions in the past where he'd left with sore arms. Never bleeding though.

Harry kicked his shoe along the worn shiny stone at the base of the moving stairs. It was the first week of school, the first year of school where everyone knew he'd been adopted, and here he was already contemplating running to Snape after he'd been hurt a little bit. Harry had never been the kid to do that, never in muggle primary, never at Hogwarts. A little voice in his head reminded him that he'd never had parents to run to. Another reminder a second later that he'd asked Snape for help in the graveyard all those months ago, when he'd been cut and terrified.

Logically, he should probably go to the infirmary and see if Madame Pomfrey could heal it and if she would be able to prevent it from permanently scarring.

The staircase finally settled and Harry saw that it was one that would lead up to his dorm. He took one step, paused, and held his hand close to his chest. Shaking his head as the chime for curfew reminder sounded, Harry spun around and took the narrower staircase at the side of the hall, going down.

….

Snape didn't see surprised to see Harry come into the living room of the flat. He was sitting in his chair with reading glasses on and the Evening Prophet spread out on the table, a notepad to his left and a glass of water to his right.

"Why were you in detention this evening?"

Snape continued to look through the paper, circling things that he was reading.

"How did you know?" Harry asked, dropping his bag under the portrait of Spinner's End and kicking off his shoes. Snape must have heard something in his voice because he looked up at Harry and studied him.

"Heads of Houses receive a list of students who have received detention each day," Snape dismissively answered. "What happened?"

Harry sat down on the couch and pulled the blanket from under the coffee table into his lap. "Umbridge told us that we were only to do theory stuff for Defence class. No practical. She said the Ministry would handle any and all threats and we didn't need to learn how to defend ourselves. I disagreed."

Snape removed his glasses and tossed them to the coffee table.

"Whilst I am not at all surprised that you disagreed strongly enough to receive detention, I want to know what happened that you are guarding your hand close to yourself, Harry."

Harry looked down at his hand and reminded himself that he'd purposefully come to Snape's, that this wasn't his fault, and that he wouldn't be dismissed as just whinging.

"We had a discussion not that many months ago about trust and asking for help. I know you remember this, because you came here on a Friday night instead of relaxing with your dormmates," Snape prompted, when Harry still hadn't answered.

"She made me do lines," Harry said. He held out his hand and turned it, so Snape could see the redness and the dried blood. Harry flinched slightly as Snape popped up out of his seat, reaching over to grab Harry's hand.

"I am not a hero," he read. "What is this?"

His hand was warm, the skin dry and Harry could feel the callouses on Snape's fingertips from years of brewing and preparing ingredients.

"She had some dark black quill that didn't use ink. And when I wrote on the parchment for my lines, it did that."

Snape let go of his hand and muttered a curse under his breath.

"This is from a blood quill," Snape said. He held up his wand and called a name that Harry had never heard before. "And it is not approved for use on students."

A house elf appeared by the fireplace and gave them a little bow.

"I require the jar labelled #62953 from my private storage," Snape said. "And please tell Headmaster Dumbledore that his presence is required immediately."

"No, it's fine," Harry said, shaking his head. "I was arguing with her in class, in front of everyone. I know why I got the detention, I just–"

Snape narrowed his eyes.

"Deserving the detention and deserving a permanent physical scar are two entirely different things," said Snape, authoritatively.

The house elf returned with a small orange-coloured jar and carefully set it down on the coffee table.

"Headmaster Dumbledore will arrive momentarily," the elf said, before giving a slight nod and disappearing just as Snape thanked it.

Harry felt mollified that Snape was taking his complaint and feelings of unfairness seriously. He still felt like calling in Dumbledore was unnecessary, after all Dumbledore had allowed Umbridge to be there and to have the power to give detentions, but Snape had been the one to call him, so if it turned out to not be necessary at least It wasn't on Harry for making a fuss.

"You will use this once the headmaster leaves," Snape said, nodding at the jar. "I can't remove every scar, but that is the best iteration I have been able to produce after years of attempts."

A multitude of questions popped up in Harry's head, mostly wondering why Snape had been working on something like this for years, or why he had so many scars, and was it all from the Death Eaters or from something else, but the first thing that came out of his mouth was,

"Wait, I'm not in your house. How am I on your detention list?"

"I am also head of this house," Snape said, rolling his eyes as he gestured around the flat.


AN2:I haven't done the maths wrong on the horcrux number, and neither has Dumbledore. Wait and see. :)