Okay, okay, I resolved the 'cliff-hanger.' I actually only ended up covering about half the plot progression I had intended to in this chapter—I'm good at misjudging lengths—but I figured I'd separate it into two separate chapters once it got this long. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up just as quickly as I've gotten these last three, but I'm exiting the 'heaps of free time' part of summer and entering the 'oh no, I've got stuff to do before school starts up again!' mode.

Nightshade – Thank you! Snape is definitely my favorite character in the series, and I'm doing my best to keep him in character. It will be interesting to see how his and Harry's forced relationship progresses, for sure!

Harry quickly followed Snape down the hall, not wanting to be left with Adrian. He tailed the professor just far enough behind to be out of reach if the man should abruptly stop, but not far enough back that if Adrian caught up he would be a danger. It was an uncomfortable distance, but somehow Harry felt Snape didn't want him in sight, even if he had rescued the first year from Adrian.

They descended a stairway and Harry found himself recognizing the hall as one on the way to the Slytherin common room. They did not, however turn to approach the wall that served as a hidden doorway to the room, but rather continued further down, descending another flight of stairs. They were headed, Harry realized, towards the room where Harry had Potions for the first time just that morning.

Instead, however, Snape cut the trip short, turning off the hallway into a small room. As they stepped inside, the hanging lantern flickered to life, allowing for the dim illumination of a desk and chairs in the center, as well as several bookcases and cupboards lining the walls. Harry realized this must be the professor's office. The man shut the door and silently took his place behind the desk, leaving Harry standing awkwardly between the two chairs.

It was Harry's first trip into a professor's office; he wondered if they were all so small. In the meager lighting, the room felt even smaller. On the left hand wall was a sturdy wooden door; Harry couldn't see any sign of where it led. He peered into the windowed cabinets, but the glass was so dirty and the lighting so poor he couldn't make out the objects inside. The books on the shelves had cracked, worn spines. One of the few with a visible title, a large, black, leather-bound book, had in large, gold lettering, "A History of Lethal Potions: Magical Poisoning Through the Ages by Percival Prince" running down the spine. Harry shivered, not caring to find out what Snape's other reading selections were. They were probably equally horrible, he figured.

The man was fixedly glaring at Harry. He scanned the boy's uncombed hair and glasses. During one of Harry's falls they had bent, so they were now askew, and his tie had come loose. Snape looked over his clothing disapprovingly, at last settling his scrutinizing gaze on the burnt sleeve of Harry's shirt and the red swellings on his hand.

"I have seen many odd behaviors in new students, Potter," he said quite softly, at last breaking the silence. "But never have I seen a student so keen on destroying his own wardrobe."

Harry blinked, unsure of how to respond. It was an odd thing for anyone to say, let alone the professor who had treated him so coldly. Was the man mocking him? With the flatness of his quiet voice, it was hard to tell if Snape's tone was sarcastic or merely bored. Harry opened his mouth to protest—the slobbery of his appearance wasn't on purpose, after all—but Snape spoke before he could say a word.

"Show me your hand."

Harry hesitated, but could think of no reason to protest and stepped forward, reluctantly stretching his arm across the desk. Snape seemed equally unenthused, but gingerly lifted the hand and turned it over so he could see the full extent of the damage. His expression turned to one of disgust, as though he were handling a road kill carcass. His hands were cold and clammy, and Harry had to fight back the urge not to pull his arm away. After a moment, the professor pulled out his wand, pressing the tip into Harry's palm, where the burns were the worst.

Suddenly Harry's hand burned, feeling almost as hot as it did when Adrian had injured it. He yelped and tried to pull back, but Snape only tightened his grip on the boy's wrist. Harry cringed as pain flared up his arm, but then from Snape's wand seemed to seep a new sensation, one of coolness that eased the pain as it spread. As Harry stared with disturbed fascination, the burn seems to retract into Snape's wand.

At last, the professor let go and sat back in his chair, tucking his wand away. Harry's hand was still red, but the swelling and most of the pain was gone. He pulled it back, poking the mark with his other hand. It hurt, but not nearly as badly.

Harry looked up at the Potions Master, conflicted. On one hand, this was the man who'd gone out of his way in class to comment on the boy's faults, who'd openly mocked him in front of his classmates even though he was rumored to favor Slytherins. On the other, he'd just rescued Harry—intentionally or no—from a potentially disastrous run-in with the most feared student in the whole school, and on top of that fixed his hand. No, Harry's eleven-year-old brain could not figure out what to make of the man.

"Thank you, Professor," he said at last, hating to be stuck in an awkward silence.

Snape sighed and waved to the two chairs. "Sit, Potter," he ordered. The boy settled uncomfortably into one of the seats, feeling much too small for the chair. He waited, but the professor took a moment before speaking again. "Explain what happened."

Harry looked down at his hand. He'd wanted to escape the silence, but he'd hoped it would be more in the form of leaving the room. "I ran into Adrian going around the corner. He told me to be careful and offered me a hand up, but then said some spell that made his hand hot, then used some spell to throw me down the hall. I ran, and used nox on lights, but then ran into you, Professor."

Snape stirred for a moment. "You used nox on the lights?" he asked. Harry nodded.

"I only know three spells, sir, and turning him into a needle didn't seem possible."

The professor stared at him for a moment. His mouth twitched, but only to be followed by a frown. "Let me make this clear, Potter," he said slowly. "I would imagine that Miss Hawthorne has already warned you not to travel on your own in the hallways near the dungeon. Mr. LaConner will always be there when you are, as he has a particular gift for finding those who are vulnerable. Seeing as you've already made it clear you will not be following Miss Hawthorne's advice, I would strongly suggest that if you can wrap your mind around it, you should learn a shielding charm." He paused, but then added, "After seeing your performance in Potions today, I would imagine you'd want to start on that sooner rather than later so you might have enough time to understand what the directions mean before you run into Mr. LaConner again."

Harry started, catching the insult. "Professor, I—" he retorted, but the man cut him off.

"And in the future, Potter," he continued, "I will not be rescuing you, or bandaging your scrapes and healing your bruises. If you would pay attention in my class, I am sure you will find yourself able to make burn-cure salves for yourself. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry glared at the man, but nodded. "Yes." Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry muttered, "Yes, sir."

"On that note, I have heard from the other teachers about your less than exemplary performance in their classes."

"My what?"

"Now, if you were a Hufflepuff, this would not be a problem. As it were you have been, unfortunately, sorted into Slytherin House. In Slytherin, Potter, less than exemplary is not acceptable." Snape stared, unblinking, into the boy's stunned glare, and for a moment seemed to stumble on his words, but caught up the thought again in a heartbeat. "As one of your fame, Potter, you will undoubtedly be looked at as an example of all Slytherin. No matter how the rest of the House performs, your actions will reflects on your peers. As Head of Slytherin, I will not tolerate having a House known for its idiocy." Snape paused, letting his words sink in. "Therefore, Potter," he continued, "If at any time in the year I hear a teacher commenting on your poor performance, you will receive detention with Mr. Filch. Understood?"

"But Professor!" Harry exclaimed. "That's not fair!"

Snape's face twisted into a contorted sneer. "Life isn't fair, Potter. Not that a boy of your fame will ever understand." He waved his hand, and the door creaked open. "Out."

Harry stared at the man, contemplating how to best retort, but instead stood and stormed out of the office, down the hall towards the common room. As he came around the corner, he ran straight into someone—Blaise. The boy blinked at him.

"Hello, Harry," he said. "I thought you went back to the common room ages ago."

Harry shook his head. "You wouldn't believe what just—" He was cut off by the echoing of a door slamming shut behind him. Blaise stepped out and peered down the hall.

"Blimey, someone's in a mood."

"Come on," said Harry, stalking towards the common room. "I don't want to run into Adrian again; I don't think he'd much care that there's two of us."

"You mean Adrian LaConner?" said Blaise incredulously. "But you don't look so bad."

"Yeah, I ran into Professor Snape, too—Salazar," he ordered a wall crossly, and the bricks shifted aside to reveal a doorway. The boys opened it and headed into the Slytherin common room. The walls were glowing with the pale green light that lit the room; beyond the marble slabs was the lake. They crossed the dark room quickly, not lingering to admire the elegant architecture or black-leather furniture. "He saved me from Adrian, but had to fix my hand up," Harry continued, leading them up one of the four stairways on the wall opposite the main entrance. "Adrian got it pretty bad. And then he started lecturing me about—what the…?"

The boys had entered the first-year dormitory, a long, rectangular room with walls of the same thin marble as the main common room and two skylight windows looking up into the lake. Harry and Blaise had taken the two beds at the far end of the room, leaving the others for Draco Malfoy, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, and Theodore Nott, the other first-year boys. At the beginning of the week, their beds had been neatly made and lined with black silk curtains, their trunks at the end of their beds, and their robes neatly hung in the closets and other clothes folded and in the dressers beside their beds. Now, Blaise's was still in that condition, bed kept perfectly in order by housekeeping.

Harry's things, however, had been carefully removed from storage and thrown about the room. His curtains had been ripped from the bed and, from the looks of it, lit on fire. Next to the upturned trunk, a bottle of ink had been smashed.

The boys stared at the mess in shock, but suddenly Blaise laughed. "Who'd you annoy, Harry?" he asked, throwing his book bag onto his bed. "Come on, let's get this cleaned up."

Harry did not budge. "Who would do this?" he asked quietly. He doubted Adrian would have targeted him singularly, and he could not remember getting into fights with anyone else.

"Oh, I imagine some of the upperclassmen just wanted to give you a proper greeting. But look." Blaise pulled out his wand and waved it at a pair of trousers that had somehow ended up on top of the bedposts. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The pants lurched into the air, wobbling, and Blaise conducted them towards the dresser. For some reason he couldn't quite get them into the open drawer, so he settled for leaving them in a heap on the floor beside it.

"How'd you do that?" Harry demanded. "You saw me in class! The only time my feather moved was when I poked it."

"You're probably just saying it wrong or something," said Blaise uncertainly. "I could barely hear you over everyone else. Let's see it, then."

Harry took out his wand and pointed it at a pair of socks. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The socks wobbled pathetically.

"Of course! You've got to line up the wand movements with the words, Harry!" Blaise urged. He looked excited to have figured it out. "Flick it on the 'o,' not the 'levi' part."

Harry shrugged and tried again. "Wingardium Levi—oops. Wingardium Leviosa!"

The socks rose into the air, jerking violently, but Harry was ecstatic. "I'm doing it!" he shouted. "Blaise, it's working!"

"Well, it's not that hard," his friend replied, levitating a shirt on top of the pants. Harry finally got bored of making the socks fly back and forth across the room and settled them down on Blaise's pile.

"It's just," he said, turning to Blaise, "I was beginning to think this was all a big mistake, you know. Being here at Hogwarts. I haven't been able to do anything right all week—even Potions!"

"It's not like they'd invite you to Hogwarts if you weren't a wizard, Harry," Blaise reassured. "They never invite squibs, no matter how famous you are. My brother said there's always a ton of Hufflepuffs who can't work a single spell for months, but even they get it eventually."

Harry frowned, apparently not comforted by the words, but was distracted by his spare cloak, which was wrapped around the lantern between his and Blaise's beds. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

They continued piling the clothes until they ran out, then turned over the trunk and levitated Harry's books back inside. Harry was struggling with getting A History of Magic to fit inside when a shrill voice rang out, "What is this mess, Potter?"

The boys spun around, half expecting Professor McGonagall to sweep in and lecture them about vandalizing school property, but it was not a professor. Blaise laughed. "It's just you, Rose," he said as she stalked towards him. "I thought you were—well."

"I was who?" Rose demanded. She suddenly glared at Harry, suggesting, "Professor Snape?"

Harry shook his head furiously. "When we got back, my things were all over the place," he explained, quickly changing the subject. Rose raised an eyebrow, making such a Snape-like expression Harry nearly laughed.

"They still are all over the place," she commented, pulling out her wand. She pointed it at the mess, and with a flourish, ordered, "Pack!" The clothes rose up into the air, folded themselves, and slid neatly into the drawers. The books straightened themselves out, arranging themselves by size. Potions ingredients slid back into their cases, and his quills replaced themselves in the boxes Harry had bought them in. Rose frowned at the shattered ink jar. "Reparo!" she commanded, and it reformed completely. "Tergeo!"

Harry watched in fascination as the ink slid up and into the bottle, and with another flick of her wrist, Rose made it fly to settle on the stack of quills in his trunk. Rose stepped over to the bed, ignoring the awed expressions of the first years faces, inspected the torn curtains. At last, she poked them with her wand. "Scourgify. Reparo."

The curtains returned to their original position, for all intensive purposes as good as new. Allowing for a satisfied smile, she replaced her wand in her cloak and turned back to the boys. "That's better, then."

Harry noticed he was gawking and quickly shut his mouth, but Blaise, as usual, had a word or two to spare. "Bravo!" he said excitedly. "You are truly the queen of—"

"Oh, shut your trap, Zabini," she snapped in the most un-ladylike manner. Harry was startled by her change in tone, but he could swear he saw a blush in her cheeks. "Now, Potter," she continued. "Explain."

Harry shrugged. "Really, Rose, I don't know what happened," he insisted. "We haven't been back since just after Potions."

"Well, unless the house elves misunderstood their orders for your case alone, you must have annoyed someone."

Harry shook his head. "I mean—I did run into Adrian, and Snape just got through with lecturing me—but neither of them would—"

"Really, Rose," said Blaise, cutting him off. "It was probably just a warm welcome from some of our upperclassmen. You know, 'welcome to the house; now deal with this.'" Rose gave him a look, but said nothing. Harry spoke again, distracted by what he himself had just said.

"Rose," he said quietly, "Professor Snape just got done with lecturing me about how whatever I do is going to reflect on the whole house. This couldn't have anything to do with that, would it?"

"What do you mean?" the prefect asked, confused.

Harry shrugged helplessly. "He just said that everyone else in Slytherin is going to have to deal with any mistakes I make, because… well because I'm me, I guess."

Rose studied the boy carefully and pursed her lips. "I think that's just Professor Snape's way of saying he wants you to do well, Potter."

Harry shook his head. "He said if he heard anything about me doing poorly he'd give me detention!" he insisted.

"Professor Snape is a very complicated man."

Blaise cut in. "Never mind that, he's also a genius of a wizard, I've heard. You must have picked some of that up from him, Rose—my brother always said you spend too much time around him and Adrian."

"Your brother doesn't know what he's talking about," Rose said, but rather than snap at Blaise she just sighed. "Him and my brother both."

Harry studied her carefully. "If you're not related to Professor Snape, Rose, are you related to Adrian?"

Rose sighed. "That again, Potter? Listen: I don't have any cousins at Hogwarts, and my family line's pretty small, anyways. Professor Snape was a friend of my parents, back in the day, but that is it. As for Adrian… well, I don't even know; he never met his father, but as far as I know I'm no more related to him than I am to any other wizard you pluck off the streets."

Harry frowned. "But you are related to them?"

Rose laughed. "My parents were purebloods, just like Zabini's, and your father and Professor Snape's mother."

"So?"

"So the wizarding world isn't that big, Harry," said Blaise. "Most of us are related—loosely, of course. Think about it. There's only about forty of us in our year, right? This is all of the wizards in Britain. We're one of the bigger schools in Europe, too."

"I still don't get it," said Harry. "You mean us three and… and Professor Snape are all related? And—and Draco and Crabbe and Goyle, too? They're purebloods, right?"

Rose sighed. "Distantly, you're related to half the school, Harry," she said. "And that's only considering traceable relations."

"I don't see why it's still bothering you, Harry," said Blaise. "If you think about it, there's really not that many options. Most wizards hardly ever meet muggles, and so there's not really that many half bloods. Muggle-borns are even rarer. Even when they're born, they might not be found, or their parents might not let them come."

"The wizarding world doesn't expand altogether quickly," rose agreed. "And the pureblood lines are even tighter, because so many refuse to marry beyond them."

"But why not?" asked Harry. "My parents married."

"Well, your father's family was always quite small," said Rose. "In any case, I'd hardly consider Adrian my relative, any more than I would you. And Professor Snape is nothing more than a friend of the family."

Harry was startled. "Professor Snape has friends?"

Rose shook her head and crossed her arms. "For being so famous, Potter, you really are quite small-minded." She shot a glance at Blaise and started to leave, but halted, turning back to Harry. "It was Professor Snape who fixed your hand, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Like I said, Professor Snape is a complicated man." She turned and swept out of the room, ascending the stairs towards the first-year girls' dorms.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, turning back to Blaise, but his friend was not listening.

"Did Professor Snape really say he'd give you detention?"

Harry glumly sat on his trunk, which had snapped smartly shut after Rose's charms. "Yeah," he said. "He said the other teachers said I'd given a 'less than exemplary performance' in their classed, whatever that means, and he said if he heard that again he'd—well."

Blaise shook his head. "That's a load of bollocks," he replied. "You saw that Gryffindor Finnegan in Charms—his feather exploded! And Longbottom didn't get so much as a shine to his toothpick."

"But I just barely made mine look silver! Yours already had an eye and all."

"Well, there's an obvious solution to all of this."

Harry looked up, amazed. "There is?"

"Of course!" Blaise laughed. "We just have to get better at all our classes than everyone else."

"You don't mean…"

"Yes I do. Studying. Come on, Harry," said Blaise. "We've got all weekend to get our needles right, and maybe if we read ahead a bit in our charms book we can figure out why out levitations aren't steady."

Harry moaned, but relented. "I supposed you're right," he grumbled, "But we've got all our homework to do first. We've got Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. And—wait, what time is it?"

Blaise checked his watch. "Three twenty." He paused, and looked up to Harry. "Three twenty!"

"We've got flying in ten minutes!" Harry shouted, and the pair ran out of the room.