His first private potions lesson with Snape did not go as bad as he'd expected, though he did feel rather humiliated that the other had him doing first year potions after he'd managed to successfully brew a polyjuice potion recently. Then again Snape wasn't supposed to know that.
"Do not look so miserable, Potter. It annoys me." Snape said, not looking up from the essay he was grading.
"And what doesn't?" He mumbled.
"What was that?"
"Nothing." He said with a smile and a happy tone as fake as he could muster. Snape narrowed his eyes and glared in his direction. Only after making eye-contact did Harry feel satisfied enough to turn his attention back to his forgetfulness potion, victory in his chest that now the potions master was suffering with him.
"These potions, Potter, are easy, and have few steps with relatively cheap ingredients. It will help you improve your technique and accuracy."
It made sense but it was still… boring. Before he knew it he was day dreaming, not really watching on what he put in or stirred. A light smack to the back of the head jolted him out of it. "What?" He mumbled as he turned to the flask he'd been filling.
"Never doze off like that when you're brewing." Snape reprimanded.
Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not like any of these ingredients are explosive, and the copper cauldron stops it from melting even if I overheat it." He put a cork on the top of the flask. "Besides, these are all perfect. I'm bored Snape, can't we do something more… interesting?"
"Oh? You think my class is boring?" He asked.
"No… just… this potion is boring. I've done like twenty already and I could probably do it with my eyes closed by now." He shrugged.
"Yes, and your speed has improved, as well as your disastrous stirring technique." Harry blinked and looked back at the cauldron. Snape had told him to focus on his stirring at the start but he rather forgot about it by the tenth potion. Was he… really stirring differently? Now that he focused, he realised that his later potions had a better colour than the first. "I suppose I could give you something new to do."
Harry looked up at that. Snape went to his desk to retrieve a small scroll from a neatly arranged pile in his drawer. This one had a number two in the crest. "What is it?"
"It is a potion from second year." Harry almost groaned. "At least as easy as a second year potion, but you have not done it before. With this one, I want you to practice the timing of introducing in the ingredients." He once more offered Harry the scroll.
Harry opened it and read the tittle. "Burn salve?"
"As the name suggest, it should have a pretty thick consistency that will harden slightly once cooled. The perfection of its consistency depends on how accurate your timing is. A good consistency will be more effective in soothing and healing burns."
He went on explaining for a couple of minutes about why that was. Harry felt a warmth spreading in his chest because he understood. Also, because this was the first time a teacher bothered about his grades enough to give him private tutoring. But would McGonagall offering the same have made him this… he didn't want to use the word 'happy'.
He knew here in Hogwarts she probably would give him a way to improve his grades but still… it didn't give him the satisfaction that this potions lesson was giving him. When he was in primary school the teachers didn't question when he always got borderline grades. They didn't question why he would fail an exam straight after his cousin also failed one. They never cared. Oh they pointed it out several times. One or two teachers were quite brutal when criticizing him and anyone else who didn't seem to be trying in their class but no teacher ever looked at 'quiet Harry' more than necessary.
Then again Snape never did either. There was only one reason he was changing and it was Harry's secret, mingled with pity. Although it had bothered Harry at the start… now he ignored that little voice that told him that the professor still didn't give a damn. He ignored it because he didn't care anymore. Maybe he did enjoy being the centre of attention, like Snape used to say. He certainly enjoyed feeling… special. It wasn't like Snape was offering anyone else two afternoons of his week to help them improve. It wasn't like Snape was going out of his way for anyone else to get them the healing potions they needed.
Another whack. "Ow!" Harry complained rubbing the back of his head.
"Do not day-dream when you're brewing, Potter." He repeated.
"Yes, sir." He grumbled. He was annoyed… but the warm feeling never left him.
oOoOoOo oOoOoOo oOoOoOo
However, as luck would have it…
Harry scoffed. His luck was limited this year.
"There you are Mr. Potter." A sugary voice said as a pudgy manicured hand grabbed him by the shoulder, nails digging into his skin through the robes.
"I was heading to my common-room, there's still time before curfew, Professor." Harry said, trying not to show the horrid woman the anger and revulsion he felt just by having her talk to him.
"Oh, well, I would like to have a word with you if that's alright." She said simply.
"Curfew is in a few minutes, Professor, I really should…" The Gryffindor portrait was so close, just up the stairs. She simply giggled as the bell tolled announcing that curfew had started… and that Harry was out.
"Mr. Potter. It seems that you are out after curfew, if you could follow me." She said sweetly. Harry watched the woman walk away and scratched the back of his hand desperately as he followed her, taking a deep breath to calm down.
He would not answer back, but he would not give her what she wants. He would not give her what she wants. She was nothing compared to Voldemort. She was…
"Have a seat Mr. Potter." Harry stared at the black quill that made his stomach lurch, but also at the copy of the Quibbler sitting just next to the parchment. He followed her command. He knew she would come after him for the article at some point.
"The same as always?" Harry asked.
"Not quite…" She said grabbing the opened Quibbler, glancing over the interview. "I must admit Mr. Potter that you have quite the flare for storytelling." She said in a fake tone of admiration. "This story must be immortalised." She said and slammed it down in front of him. He jumped but tried not to look away from the twisted expression of hate she had in her face. "You will start with 'I must not tell lies' followed by 'yet I tell them anyway, here is my biggest lie yet:' and I want you to copy out the entire article. Every word, every punctuation mark, everything." She hissed. Harry couldn't tell if he had gone pale, but she seemed satisfied at whatever expression he was showing. He couldn't find his voice to reply. He couldn't manage an argument. "Begin." She demanded.
Harry stared at the article and the quill. All he had to do was admit it. Admit it to the woman that he was lying. But he couldn't. He refused. It was the truth and it was pride that made him grab that quill and start writing.
He wrote and wrote. He tried to think of something else as he wrote, but with each sentence the words wrapped around his hand and curled neatly around his arm, going up and up. The cuts ended after his elbow and did not heal the first time round. He waited for it to, but it didn't. He looked up at her and she was smiling as she had her tea.
"Oh, clearly the message wasn't sinking in. So I amended the quill a little." She said smiling. "Go on… again." Harry could barely feel his arm as it throbbed and… leaked. He started again, feeling numb inside. Then anger swelled inside him. If he had parents they truly would be enraged about this.
"My aunt will be angry about this." He hissed the second time he had gone over the article. She giggled then and he looked up. He was about to tell a whole lie about his family but the confidence and… amusement in her face stopped him.
"Your aunt, I see… did you know I wrote to your aunt? I wanted to know if she understood what a lying little retch you were. It seems she agrees." She said taking out a letter. "Now listen here, I already said I don't want any of you freaks writing to me or my family. That waste of space is yours until the summer. Yes he is a liar, he always has been. A rotten little attention seeker. A freak like the rest of you…"
Harry looked back down and started writing again, the pain blocking the words in a way. He didn't care what his aunt had to say. He didn't give a damn what any of them had to say.
"Ever since that boy could speak he's been nothing but a liar and a troublemaker. Do not ask me about that freak again. I like to enjoy pretending I don't have to take care of him until July. Rotten little thing he always was! After attacking my precious son..."
"Stop it..." It wasn't hearing those words that upset him. It was knowing that Umbridge now knew. She knew he had no one. That was why she had changed the spell. That was why he now had to cut the entire article into his skin. Why did Pettigrew have to escape? Why couldn't Sirius get acquitted? Why was life so bloody unfair!
"Are you sure? She describes you so colourfully in the following lines." She said and stood coming to sit in front of him. "I see now, why growing with these sort of… muggles would make you want to… feel special. You want the attention, positive attention, they never gave you." She said sweetly and Harry found his breath catching at the back of his throat.
"I do not. I don't care about anything they have to-" Harry felt the words catch in his throat. He refused to look at this monster, his arm burning as his blood trickled slowly down to the floor.
"Dumbledore failed you by sending you to these people. You would have been so loved and admired by a good wizarding family." She said gently, the mock empathy burned harsher than the pain. "You can-"
"Voldemort is back. And he will take your half-blood body to the depths of hell, pink cardigan and all." Harry spat out. He didn't think about the consequences as the adrenaline running through his blood made him grin. He felt the urge to laugh and he managed to chuckle as he saw her shocked and angry face. "The best part is… you will be the one person I'll enjoy seeing him torture." He hissed, feeling the anger slithering at the back of his mind. He didn't notice the rattling of the plates against the wall, or the screech of the cats as their homes fell and shattered on the ground. She gasped horrified taking out her wand to try and rescue her things but Harry's magic was stronger and in seconds, as his power burst out, every pink tea set, every cat picture, every doily got torn to pieces.
She slapped him hard knocking his magic back into place. Her nails reached for his torn arm and dug in making him cry out louder. Soon she seemed to realise what she was doing and gasped letting him go. Harry cradled his arm close to his chest and shivered where he had fallen to the ground.
"You will go to your dorm. And if you tell anyone about your detention… your family's sentiments about you will be the next major news story about the famous boy-who-lived." She said that with so much glee that Harry knew she had recovered from the anger of her destroyed office. He grabbed his things and got out as fast as he could.
He could not believe he'd said something so horrible. Something a deatheater would have said.
He rushed to his destination, going down the stairs as fast as he…
Harry stopped. Why was he going down the stairs? Was he going to Snape? And what would he say? Would he tell on Umbridge like a pathetic child? Snape couldn't do anything, and there was no reason why Snape should have to put up with Harry's whining. Snape was already doing more than he needed to do. Harry couldn't get cocky. Snape wouldn't be there forever. Severus Snape was not his parent. He had no obligation to even give him the time of day. Harry already had more than he deserved and he was grateful.
He turned and made his way up to Gryffindor tower. He would nurse this wound himself, just as he had for most of the injuries he'd had from the age of eighteen months until the age of eleven.
