Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter, all characters belong to JK Rowling :)
Chapter warnings: none :)
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Harry jolted awake with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes darted around the dark room, the shadows of the furniture shifting like phantoms in his panic. He pressed a trembling hand to his clammy forehead, taking deep breaths in and out. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin unpleasantly, the bedsheets damp beneath him. After a cursory glance out of the window, and at the sun beginning to peep over the horizon, Harry decided against going back to sleep, since he had to be up soon anyway. Instead, he padded quietly across the dorm and into the bathroom.
Harry flinched at the cold spray of the shower hitting his back. He washed quickly, desperate to get rid of the clamminess that clung to his skin. Once he finally felt clean, Harry turned the temperature up as high as it would go. He leant his head against the wall, letting the scalding hot water beat down on his back. It stung deliciously, his skin growing red and raw. To Harry, the burning sensation served as a distraction - if he was concentrating on the pain, he couldn't be thinking about anything else. Now that his back had healed, though, the pain wasn't quite as intense.
He liked to test himself, to see how much pain he could take before he gave in and turned the heat back down. It gave him a sick sense of self-satisfaction, as though being able to handle pain was an achievement, something to be proud of. When the stinging finally became too much, Harry quickly turned the shower off, wincing as he straightened up. He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, trying to avoid his upper back and shoulders, which were still stinging fiercely. Once he was dry, Harry soaked the towel with cold water from the sink and lay it over his shoulders. It was an instant relief, the coolness soothing his burning skin.
Harry sat on the bathroom floor, the damp towel draped over his shoulders, listening to the steady drip of the tap, for well over fifteen minutes. It wasn't until he heard someone stirring, and the creak of floorboards underfoot, that he finally discarded the (now slightly warm) towel, put his pyjamas back on to cover up and left the bathroom to get ready for the day.
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Harry arrived for his detention that evening in a foul mood. As he was leaving the common room than morning, he had been approached by a nervous first year who had handed him a rolled piece of parchment, muttering something about "Pr'fssr Snape said to give this to you…" before quickly scuttling off through the portrait hole. Written on the parchment was the date and time of his detention, ending with a terse 'do not be late.'
His mood was worsened by his abysmal performance in lessons that day. He felt weak and sluggish, and was struggling to concentrate on anything. This resulted in a mortifying incident during charms, in which Harry accidentally levitated poor Professor Flitwick above the ground whilst they were supposed to be making feathers hover in the air. As soon as Harry realised his mistake he quickly broke the spell, resulting in Flitwick landing in a heap on the floor. The rest of the class found the whole thing incredibly amusing - Harry, however, did not, and apologised profusely. Professor Flitwick was quick to reassure him that no harm had been done; he did, however, remind Harry to always pay attention when casting.
As if that hadn't been enough, he had managed to spill a full goblet of pumpkin juice down his front during lunch, which the whole of the Gryffindor table found hilarious. Having decided to try and eat something following his lapse of concentration in charms, he settled on half a ham sandwich and an apple. Whether as a result of lack of food, anxiety about eating or a mixture of both, Harry's hands had trembled so much as he lifted his goblet to drink that it had slipped out of his grasp, covering him in the sticky, orange liquid.
By the time seven o'clock rolled around and it was time for him to head down to the dungeons for his detention, all Harry wanted was his blade. He briefly considered running back up to his dorm and just doing a brief session; however, not wanting to incur Snape's wrath by being late, he reluctantly made his way to the potions classroom, where he was greeted by a towering pile of slime-encrusted cauldrons.
Years of doing chores for the Dursley's had at least led to Harry being oddly good at cleaning. He didn't particularly mind the task Snape had set him; in all honesty, he often found cleaning to be strangely therapeutic. As he scrubbed cauldron after cauldron, Snape marked essays at his desk. He barely spared a glance at Harry the whole hour, having apparently decided to ignore him altogether.
Once Harry had finished, he stood awkwardly for a minute, not sure how best to get Snape's attention and not wanting to annoy the man any further. Snape looked up at the sound of him clearing his throat. "Finished already?" He drawled, eyeing the stack of cauldrons dubiously. He sauntered over to the sink and briefly inspected the cauldrons, slightly surprised to find them all spotlessly clean. He glanced at Harry, noticing that his jumper was damp. Severus eyed the wet sleeves with distaste, wondering vaguely why the boy didn't just roll up his sleeves to avoid getting them dirty in the first place. "Very well, you may leave." He said, walking back to his desk to continue with his marking.
Harry didn't need telling twice. He quickly threw his bag over his shoulder and left the room without a backwards glance. He had been half expecting Snape to bring up the glamour again - or rather, what he saw underneath it. Harry wasn't complaining though - he had absolutely no desire to discuss it further, and was more than happy to just pretend it hadn't happened.
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