Harry was exhausted. The past week had seemed overly long to him, and he couldn't wait to collapse into his four-poster bed. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to do so for hours yet. He had only had his morning classes so far, the herbology class being physically strenuous as they quite literally tackled the grumpy sunflowers that Sprout had recently gained. They were exceedingly snobbish and refused to have anyone touch them, so the first-years had to wrestle them down while they tried to repot and water them.
The charms class after that had also been more tiring than usual, with Flitwick announcing cheerfully to the bedraggled class that he thought that they should be tested on their charm for swirling water. Harry hadn't any idea why he should have to learn something so useless, and had been finding it very difficult to get the water in his bowl to move even a little. On one occasion he had resorted to stirring it with his finger so that Hermione Granger didn't offer to show him how to do it in her bossy fashion. Even Ron had managed to get it to move. Professor Flitwick had looked at Harry with such a disappointed look that Harry felt his stomach drop a little and had lowered his head so not to meet the diminutive man's eyes. He was the only one in the class not to have gotten any result by the end of the period.
And now, he was at lunch, trying to keep his eyes open while on one side Dean chatted with Seamus and on his other Ron ate with his usual speed. Hermione Granger's voice drifted down the table from where she was waxing on to an uncaring Lavender Brown about the virtues of charming potions to mix clockwise versus physically stirring them, and Harry's head ached from the piercing nature of her voice. He wished that she would just shut up, and could understand why none of the other Gryffindor first years could stand her. He felt a tiny sliver of remorse at that thought, being one of those excluded during his primary school years because of Dudley and his gang, but it soon disappeared because of the pain in his head and his exhaustion.
Harry just had to wait until after dinner until he could relax on his bed- he had homework but it could wait, and he needed the rest…
"Harry!"
A sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs.
Harry straightened up abruptly from his stupor, scowling at Ron.
"What was that for? That hurt!"
Ron rolled his eyes at him. "Harry, they're staring at you! I thought you might like to know." He shovelled a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth. "'Nape looks like he's got it out for you."
Suddenly more awake, Harry's eyes shot towards the staff table. There, glowering at the world in general and Harry in particular, Snape sat. He was looking like he would like to murder someone, preferably Harry.
Seeing that Harry had noticed him, Snape's eyes flashed murderously but he continued to stare coldly at the young boy.
Harry swallowed nervously and turned to Ron, black eyes burning into the back of his head.
"Ron, I haven't done anything. Have I?"
His mind spun frantically, trying to remember what apparent offense he had committed. He hadn't had Potions yet this week, and he hadn't run into the man that he knew of.
Ron snorted, clattering his fork against his now-empty plate. "Harry, he doesn't need a reason to look that way for you, remember?"
Harry silently agreed that Snape always seemed to have a distinct dislike for him, but this seemed to be more than that.
"Yes, but - I don't know- it seems more intense than usual, Ron. Wait..."
Ron obligingly didn't say anything, tracing circles on his plate with his fork.
"You said they. Who else is staring at me?"
"Mate, it's McGonagall. Course, she doesn't look quite so ready to kill."
Harry looked, and indeed McGonagall was watching him steadily with a pensive look on her face.
Trying not to shrink down, Harry attempted to ask unobtrusively, "Why are they watching me?"
Ron's reply was less than helpful. "Dunno."
Then he snorted again. "It's like a bloody love triangle."
Harry's face turned a brilliant red, and he squeaked out a "Ron", in admonishment. He couldn't find any words in him to rebut.
Ron was chortling away, laughing soundlessly to Harry's unspoken thanks. If any of the others heard…
After his indignant speechlessness had passed, Harry crossed his arms defensively and said, "Well, I don't think that's the reason. Shut up."
Ron managed to calm himself, and forcibly maintained a straight face.
"Harry, we've got potions next. We might find out. He'll confess his undying love for you in front of the class, then get you to scrub out fifty cauldrons if you protest."
Then he sobered a little. "He'll probably just sneer at you like he always does and take more points than usual."
Harry could only agree. He just wanted to crawl into bed and fall asleep, only to wake up without anyone to bother him, but he forced himself to stand with Ron and walk out of the Great Hall. He would worry about the staring later.
Severus Snape was furious.
He hadn't had any time whatsoever in the past week or so to relax. Albus bloody Dumbledore had kept pestering him with increasingly inane tasks, ones that could be postponed indefinitely but he felt "ought to be done now, my dear boy. Toodle-oo".
The chatter of the students had grown incrementally each day as Halloween approached, and he dreaded the hyperactivity of his Slytherins as they would bounce around his common room for days after the feast. Halloween had never been a good time for him, what with all the memories associated with the day. The advent of excited students and orange-and-black themed decorations always threatened to do his head in. This year, it seemed worse than ever.
The feast itself gave him a headache, and Albus' chatter did not help, as he pointed out how much the students enjoyed the date. At least Minerva had refrained from talking to him, sensing and understanding his mood. She had sent him a sympathetic smile, and he was grateful for her silence.
His headache had peaked when Quirrel had entered the hall, and now, as he limped out of the forbidden corridor towards the commotion he heard in the floor below, he cursed Hagrid and his bloody dog. Three heads, indeed. His contribution had at least been subtle, and demanded something that not anyone could just walk past. Any fool could research how to get past a Cerberus.
His thoughts on fools were only magnified when the shrieking became louder. And then suddenly stopped.
He hardly spared a glance at Minerva, who had appeared at his side, as they rushed towards where the noise had been coming from.
Severus panted heavily, despising his weakness. That fool dog… He rounded a corner and stopped short.
There, standing dumfounded just inside a girl's bathroom, was Potter.
Severus didn't spend long taking in the scene, noting only the presence of two other first years, the bushy-haired know-it-all and the red-head that ate a ridiculous amount of food. And an unconscious mountain troll on the floor.
Potter seemed to be fine, with no apparent injuries, except a scratch or two. He was swaying a little, but Severus put that down to causes other than blood loss.
Damn fool of a boy…
His robes were falling off him, and the baggy and worn clothes underneath were extremely dirty.
Wait. Clothes.
Minerva… that woman was right. The boy's clothes were hardly fit for a tramp.
Then again, it was probably just a passing fad. The boy was just like his father, always falling into some new and ridiculous style.
Of course, the Weasley boy's clothes, along with the Granger girl's, didn't seem in danger of falling off. But he pushed that thought away.
Focus, Severus.
"… But Harry and Ron saved me, I didn't realise that they were so dangerous, I thought I could deal with it…"
What was that girl saying? That couldn't possibly be true. The girl hadn't even been at the feast to begin with.
Severus held his tongue, watching silently as the two boys agreed with her story. Of course, it was patently false, but he didn't think Minerva would see that. Or Quirrel.
Quirrel? Severus narrowed his eyes. What was he doing there? The man must have appeared behind him and Minerva as they took in the devastation wrought by the troll.
It was no matter. Quirrel obviously hadn't succeeded in his mission. The stone was safe, Harry Potter was safe, albeit receiving points for acting like a reckless idiot. But then that was the kind of thing that Minerva would do, occasionally, just to reassure herself that she was a Gryffindor.
He glared at the boy one last time before vanishing to his rooms. He was ready for bed, though he knew he wouldn't sleep, not after the dog bite and Harry Potter and the troll.
Foolish child.