Harry stood outside Snape's office, hand shaking. He'd reached to knock on three separate occasions, but each time he'd dropped his fist as suddenly as he'd raised it, feeling a bubble of fear rising inside of him.
He breathed deeply, willing himself to forget the look of fury in Snape's eyes that morning, as he'd forced Harry and Malfoy apart.
Harry couldn't help but shiver, the memory of Snape's wrath merging with the look of ferocious rage on Uncle Vernon's face the night the Minister had returned Harry back to Privet Drive. Running a hand desperately through his hair, he tried to get rid of the shadow of Uncle Vernon which seemed to be hovering over him like a dark cloud. He could almost feel the hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until Harry started seeing black spots floating before his eyes.
He shivered again, admonishing himself as he did so. He was at Hogwarts. Uncle Vernon couldn't reach him here. And for all his threats, there was nothing that Snape could do bar giving him detentions and making his life miserable during potions. He was at Hogwarts, Harry reminded himself. He was safe.
He raised his hand to knock again, but the creaking door told Harry there was no longer any need.
Lifting his head, he stared up into the dark tunnels of Snape's eyes, feeling small and vulnerable as the Potions Master glared down at him.
"Ten minutes past the hour, Mr. Potter," he said in an icy voice, "I do believe you're late."
Harry remained silent.
"Although I suppose it's also possible you arrived here precisely on the hour, and spent the last ten minutes trying to work up that famed Gryffindor courage to knock on the door," Snape sneered at him contemptuously, and beckoned for Harry to enter his office.
Harry sat on the stool in front of Snape's desk, his eyes lowered to the ground.
"Mr. Potter," Harry glanced up, taking in the scornful expression on Snape's face, his mouth twisted as though he could smell something foul, "Do you have anything to say for your despicable behaviour earlier today?"
Harry opened his mouth, about to blame Malfoy for everything, but paused, letting his mouth snap shut. Snape wouldn't believe him, and he wouldn't care even if he did. A wave of tiredness coursed through Harry, antipathy replacing the righteous anger and indignation he'd felt earlier. Staring down his hands, he shook his head.
"A verbal answer, if you please," sneered Snape.
"No sir," Harry said listlessly, too tired even to be annoyed. He just wanted to get the evening over with. He waited for Snape to start yelling at him, to list off each and everyone one of Harry's flaws and threatened him with expulsion.
Instead, Snape sat there, staring at Harry like he was a potions ingredient waiting to be dissected.
Finally he spoke, his voice deceptively soft, "No?" Snape questioned. "The famous Harry Potter has nothing to say after he attacked, and injured, a fellow classmate."
Harry remained silent, suddenly unwilling to look Snape in the eye. Instead he stared around the office, his eyes falling on a small glass jar filled with floating eyeballs, which was nestled between several larger jars filled with bubotuber pus. Glancing further along the shelves, Harry tried to identify the next vial, which was filled with a bubbling purple liquid and let out dark puffs of smoke every few seconds.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the ingredients, aware that Snape was staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate. But Harry couldn't. He knew he shouldn't have hit Malfoy. He knew he should've ignored his schoolyard torments and walked away, scrubbed cauldrons for Snape that evening and let that be the end of the matter. But in that moment, Malfoy had reminded him so much of Dudley and Aunt Petunia, with his obnoxious manner and scathing comments about Harry's parents, and Harry had snapped.
Pushing his thoughts away, Harry continued to observe the purple vial, aware that Snape's ire was rising with every second that passed.
Finally Snape broke the silence, his icy voice so quiet Harry had to strain to hear it, "Look at me when I'm speaking to you, Potter. And answer my question."
Harry raised his eyes reluctantly to meet Snape's dour gaze, "I lost my temper," Harry admitted feebly.
"You lost your temper," Snape repeated back to him derisively, "Tell me Potter, how old are you?"
"Thirteen," Harry said, and then caught sight of the look on Snape's face, "Sir."
"And yet you have so little control over yourself, you had to resort to physical violence like a five year old," Snape shook his head in disdain, his lank hair waving as he did so. "You might be labouring under the delusion that your celebrity status will save you from the consequences of your actions, but let me assure you it doesn't matter how many times your picture appears in the papers or how many letters you get from your adoring fans, you will not get away with attacking other students. Not now, not ever." Snape was snarling by the end of diatribe.
Snape leant back in his chair, and Harry watched him wearily.
"I will be discussing this matter with your head of house," Snape continued silkily, "But know this Potter, I will not tolerate any more disobedience or disrespect from you this year. Is that clear?"
Harry nodded, and Snape's eyes narrowed menacingly.
"Yes, sir," Harry added quickly.
Snape's severe expression relaxed just a fraction. "Detention, Potter. Every day for the rest of this month. And that's in addition to whatever punishment Professor McGonagall hands out."
Harry grimaced, clenching his fist against his side. Wood was going to kill him. At least he wasn't banned from the match, he supposed dully, and half their practise sessions were in the morning anyway.
Forcing his attention away from quidditch, Harry suppressed a groan as he realised Snape was still lecturing at him, spittle flying from his mouth as he criticised Harry's character and work ethic.
"-Especially given your utterly appalling performance in potions this morning," Snape finished, glowering down his hooked-nose at the boy in front of him.
Harry tried to look contrite, not wanting to risk any further detentions by explaining how Malfoy had flung something into his cauldron. Snape wouldn't believe him anyway, Harry thought bitterly. He'd just accuse Harry of trying to blame someone else, the way he had that morning when Harry had tried to explain what Malfoy had said to provoke him.
Harry suppressed a sigh, looking down at the ground. He was tired. His body ached all over, and the hard stool he was currently sat on did nothing to help that. All he wanted to do was settle back into one of the armchairs by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, and listen to Hermione squabble with Ron over his study habits. But instead he was stuck sitting on a hard stool in the draughty potions classroom, waiting for Snape to give him some menial, time-consuming, no doubt disgusting task that would take the entire evening to complete.
He looked back up to find Snape staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. When Snape caught him looking, his face snapped back into its normal sneer.
"You'll be cleaning cauldrons this evening," Snape announced, motioning to the large stack of cauldrons piled up next to the sink.
Harry stifled a groan. There had to be at least twenty cauldrons, all covered in some sticky grey substance that didn't look like it had any intention of coming off the cauldrons easily. This was going to take him all evening. Doing his best to hide a wince as he got up from the stool, Harry made his way over to the sink and grabbed a scrubbing brush. Settling himself down with a wince, he reached for the first cauldron.
Harry glanced up from the final cauldron, eyes fixed on the clock which hung over the Potion Master's desk.
It was already twenty past ten. Harry stifled a yawn as his thought turned to the mountain of prep which lay waiting for him out on table in the Gryffindor common room. Harry just wanted to go to bed.
He'd slept poorly the previous night, his slumber repeatedly interrupted by sharp jolts of pain running up and down his right leg. Harry rubbed at it subconsciously. He was beginning to worry that it wasn't healing properly, for the pain only seemed to be getting worse, even as the rest of his body finally started to recover. The bruises which covered his arms and torso had turned yellow and green, and Harry reckoned they'd be gone within another week or two.
The light in the potions classrooms were dim, enough so that Harry was comfortable rolling up his sleeves while he worked, the shadows of the classroom masking the yellowing bruises on his arms. Indeed, the only light source other than the torches on the walls came from the ball of light Snape had created to hover over his desk, illuminating the essays he was currently marking. As if sensing Harry's gaze, Snape looked up from the essay he was marking, which was covered in red ink and scathing comments.
"I've finished sir," Harry said, staggering to his feet as his body complained rather vigorously at being forced into the same position for hours. Shaking out his arms, he neatly stacked the final cauldron up against sink, and stood in front of Snape's desk, waiting to be dismissed.
"Very well, Potter. You're dismissed-," Snape cut off suddenly, his eyes searching Harry's face intently, "Potter, is there any reason you're walking around with a broken nose?"
His question caught Harry off guard. Harry had completely forgotten it was there, and no one had pointed it out, for he'd avoided his friends during the day, and the dimly lit dungeon had hidden it from view entirely. It was only now, standing under the bright orb of light which hovered over Snape's desk, that his bruised face could be easily seen.
Tentatively, Harry poked at his nose, wincing as it twinged in protest. He thought he saw a flicker of surprise on Snape's face, but it was gone so quickly Harry was sure he must have imagined it.
"I suppose you think it's something to brag about to your legion of admirers," Snape sneered scornfully, "The war wounds of the heroic boy who lived. How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter. He too paraded any and all injuries around, unwilling to let them be healed until he'd shown them off to anyone who'd take a moments notice. You might think you look brave or strong, but you're deluded if you think you look like anything more than an arrogant child who considers rules to be beneath him." Snape paused for breath, his lip curling in disdain. "Go to the Hospital Wing first thing tomorrow, I won't have you in my classroom sporting a broken nose like a badge of honour."
Harry had no chance to defend himself, for Snape opened the door with a flick of his wand and dismissed Harry, reminding him only to return the next day at seven o'clock sharp.
Severus sat in his office after the brat had gone, mulling over the events of the day. Minerva was right, he was forced to admit (if only to himself), there was definitely something wrong with Potter.
Potter had seemed so lifeless, lacking the normal snide and arrogant remarks and Gryffindor bravado which Severus had come to expect from him. Normally, Severus would have said Potter was just subdued at being in detention, missing out on causing mayhem in the common room to scrub cauldrons in the presence of his hated professor. But Potter had seemed so weary, his eyes empty and dull as he stared at the potions professor.
Potter hadn't even defended his fight with Malfoy, when Severus knew perfectly well Potter had been provoked (he'd given Malfoy a fortnights worth of detention with Filch for roughhousing with a Gryffindor in the corridors), nor had the brat risen to his provocative comments about his broken nose. Come to think of it, Potter hadn't even seemed to notice his nose, which must have hurt like hell if the swelling was any indication.
The boy had flinched too, Severus recalled, when he'd banged his hand against the desk in the anger that morning. It hadn't been much, not enough for most people to have caught, but Severus had noticed, even if he'd ignored it at the time.
Frowning to himself, Severus silently cursed Potter for not being predictable. It was just like the brat to make everyone worry, he groused, aware that his heart wasn't really in it.
The solution hit him suddenly, like the nightbus skidding to a halt for an outstretched wand. He'd simply ask Poppy tomorrow. If Potter's trouble sleeping and failure to consume food were part of some greater problem, Poppy would catch it when the boy went to get his nose fixed the next day.
Content that he'd found a solution to his problem, Severus reached for the next essay on the pile and settled in to finish his marking.
Harry wondered through the dungeon and back towards the safety of the common room, mulling over the events of his detention.
He knew he ought to go to Madam Pomfrey and get his nose fixed, before anyone else noticed it. And Hermione would surely drag him there anyway tomorrow – she probably would've today if he hadn't hidden out of sight in the dorms during lunch and retreated to the library after lessons had finished.
For a brief few moments, Harry considered obeying Snape and going to the Hospital Wing the next morning. But he cast that thought aside in dismay, for he knew that Madam Pomfrey would notice his limp within seconds, or she'd see the bruises on his arms and around his throat and she'd start asking question which Harry really didn't want to answer.
Harry wasn't entirely sure why he was so adamant that no one knew about his summer, but the thought of it made him feel sick and shivery and wrong. It was embarrassing too, to have everyone know his relatives didn't like him much and knocked him around when he messed up on the cooking or the gardening or looked at Vernon the wrong way.
Harry frowned, trying desperately to think of a solution to the problem at hand. He needed someone to fix his nose, who wouldn't ask any questions or notice anything amiss.
Suddenly it hit him. He could ask Oliver Wood. Harry remembered how at practise a few days ago, George had managed to hit Oliver square in the face with a bludger. And Oliver had just pulled out his wand, muttered some sort of spell (it began with an e … epeskoy … no episkey, that was it) and his nose had healed good at new. Oliver hadn't even had to pause practice for a moment, which Fred muttered to George afterwards was probably why he'd bothered to learn the spell at all. It was a running joke in the Gryffindor quidditch team that Oliver never bothered to learn new spells outside of the curriculum unless they helped him with quidditch.
Smiling to himself, Harry muttered the password – 'fortuna major' – to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and entered the common room with a spring in his step. Tomorrow, after their early morning quidditch practice, he'd get Oliver to fix his nose. With his nose healed, and his bruises rapidly fading, no one would suspect a thing about his summer. He wouldn't have to risk Madam Pomfrey noticing something amiss, and as long as his nose was fixed before potions, Snape would be none the wiser.
He could feel a weight lifting off his shoulders, and for the first time that day, Harry felt relaxed. Content that he'd found a solution to his problem, Harry ignored the pile of work he'd left out on the table, and instead made his way up the spiral staircase and into his dorm, settling down onto his bed with a sigh of relief.