Harry Potter now had two things that he needed to learn, and as quickly as possible. Occulumency and Legimency. To find out about these rare arts, he would have to face the dreaded Library, home of fierce books and snappy librarians. Harry Potter was actually looking forward to it, although he realized that he'd have to be at the library at the crack of dawn, to have a hope to find the books he needed and be back abed to be woken by Ron (who actually thought Harry slept late often).
The library, Harry soon discovered, was full of books on all sorts of fascinating subjects. However, he didn't see much method or organization to the whole thing, so he turned to the librarian, whose nametag proclaimed her Madame Pince. "Excuse me," Harry Potter said, letting his eyes go big and round, "I am having trouble finding some books..."
Madame Pince looked down her nose at him, "And why is that, young man?"
"Erm." Harry Potter said, doing his best Ron Is TongueTied impression, "Because I'm new here, and you haven't given me any instruction?"
Madame Pince said, "Indeed. And why do you think I ought to give you instruction?"
"Because otherwise I'll just be always asking you where the books are." Harry Potter said promptly - in a hopefully Gryffindor level of promptness.
"Expect to need so many, do we now, lad?" Madame Pince said, relaxing slightly, "Most boys just read their schoolbooks, and never set foot in the library."
"I've never been like most boys," Harry Potter said gently, "And I don't plan to start now." he rapped out.
"What are you looking for, then?"
"First, some organization. Where can I find things in general." Harry Potter said, and then thought for a moment, "And where the books on Occulumency and Legimency are."
Madame Pince nearly dropped her glasses, she was so startled. "Those are rare books, and not ones that a first year has ever asked for. You'll need a permission slip to even catch sight of one, no doubt."
"Who gives those out?" Harry Potter asked, hoping quickly that it was her, and not the Headmaster.
"Your teachers, of course." Madame Pince said, "Provided you can impress one of them."
Harry Potter felt like cursing, and - a discrete distance from the library, as he ascended to Gryff Tower, he began to curse silently and fluently, in as many colors and languages as he could think of. Unremarkable Harry Potter hadn't a hope in hell of getting a teacher to give a permission slip.
It was Tuesday, and Harry Potter was in a good mood. This would have surprised most people around him, certainly, as he had just finished his classes, and he was heading down to detention with the most disliked professor in the school. Harry was in a good mood because he felt like he had been managing to fit in. To do just enough in class, and to copy homework (mostly styling) from Ron Weasley. Well, it appeared that Ron didn't do homework except in a slapdash fashion the night before. Harry Potter was certain that if he applied himself, he could learn this style (and half fail the courses at the same time, but so long as he wasn't actually failing, he'd worry about that later. Fitting in was important, after all, and being unremarkable and indistinguishable was even better).
Harry Potter wondered exactly what detention would mean. Most teachers, after all, seemed to simply take points off kids if they didn't like how they were doing, trusting to their peers disapproval to provide better guidance than mere detention.
Harry Potter arrived a split second after when he was supposed to be at detention, rapping quickly on the door. "Enter," Snape's gloomy voice said coldly from inside. Harry Potter was inside in an instant, shutting the door carefully behind him, while keeping his eyes on the professor at all times.
"Potter, you're late." Snape said unnecessarily, "The pots are in the sink at the back of the classroom. Get scrubbing." Snape said, his head still bent over the parchment. From the red ink he was wielding, Potter thought that it was probably homework markings.
Remembering Aunt Petunia's pots, from the few times she had cooked, Harry Potter got to work, scrubbing each pot firmly and methodically. He didn't want this detention to be over with, so much as he just wanted it to be done well. These pots were full of noxious, sticky chemicals (Harry supposed that was why they were for detention, and not regular cleaning. Come to think of it, he'd never cleaned a cauldron in class - did Snape clean all the cauldrons himself? A quick glance forward showed the man's skinny arms - if so, he must naturally be a rail!). Harry Potter spent the scrubbing time thinking about the theory of Charms - he had been lucky enough to find the second year book this morning, and had busied himself cramming the material in between the first year book (which he knew thoroughly) and the third year book, which he had skimmed three times (apparently the twins were prone to forgetting their books, as they often shared and shared alike).
It seemed only minutes later (Harry Potter knew it was later, the amount of red ink gone was an indicator of that) when Harry Potter finished the last of the cauldrons. He methodically looked at each one over again - he didn't want to be called out in case he'd missed a spot. Harry Potter approached the front of the room, standing at the teacher's desk, and waiting for Snape to noticed him.
Minutes passed, and Harry Potter concluded that if he didn't say something, Snape wasn't going to notice him. Feeling a bit silly at the wait, Harry Potter cleared his throat. "Yes, Potter?" Snape drawled. "Having a bit of a problem with the work, Potter?" Harry could hear something dark, and sinuous in Snape's voice.
"You could say that sir," Harry Potter said, fighting back a smile, "I'm done with the pots, sir."
Severus Snape's head snapped up, as he looked Harry Potter straight in the eyes.
[a/n: Next chapter we're switching to Snape's view. Briefly.
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