Harry's career at Hogwarts was off to a really crummy start. Not only did he have this stupid nightmare and the sore scar to deal with, but now he had another detention, on just the second day, too! When was he going to have time for homework? He'd already fallen behind in reading for his History of Magic class. Aside from all that, he'd have to do something about his pajamas before tonight. His owl order would take two to three days, according to the information about the Gladrags shop in Hogsmeade, and then he'd have the right kinds of clothes. But he really hadn't thought anyone would see his tatty old shirt he used for bed. Just his luck. Probably Snape was hovering in the common room all night, just to catch him out.
In the meantime, he needed to shower and dress before any of the other boys caught him out. But if Snape was really keeping such close tabs on him, to make sure he didn't violate the schedule, how was he going to do it? Curling into his usual position, knees drawn to his chest, he forced the pain of his scar into the background. He'd gotten really good at making pain all but vanish; it was the only way he could get up, some mornings.
Once he'd pushed the ache away enough to be able to think, he realized it was still early, and he had time to do his reading for class. Creeping carefully to the end of his bed, he glanced at his dorm mates' curtains, to make sure they were all still sleeping. His book bag was on top of his trunk, and he eased out his History of Magic text, as well as the one for Transfiguration. Might as well start on the essay for that class if he had the chance. After closing his own bed curtains, he settled back on his pillows and started to read.
Not until he heard the other boys moving around in the room did he look up from his books again, or even try and figure out how he was going to shower without them all finding out about him. But now he had no choice. Swallowing hard, he closed his Transfiguration text and eased apart his curtains. Teddy had the bed right next to his, and he was bent over his trunk, gathering supplies for the shower.
Now or never, Harry thought, and almost decided on never. Instead, he slid off his bed and grabbed one of his school robes, hurriedly donning it before Teddy turned around. When he did, Harry was already snatching up his shower bag and clean clothes and heading for the door.
"Potter," Teddy hissed. "Harry."
Dread curled in his stomach like moldy sausage. He considered making a break for it, but turned around instead. Teddy was standing not a pace away, his head cocked to the side slightly.
"Yeah?" Harry said.
"What're you doing?" He kept his voice low, as there were still two beds with drawn curtains. The schedule gave each student a half hour in their respective bathrooms, but some - like Crabbe and Goyle, according to Draco - put off their use of it till the very last second, if possible.
"Going to the showers," Harry answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Teddy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but why are you wearing that?"
"Er . . . it'll save me time. If I dress all the way in there. I, er, still have work to finish for McGonagall."
"Because of your detention? He kept you until almost curfew last night."
Harry was surprised that Teddy had noticed. "Yeah. I'm behind already."
Teddy wrinkled his nose a little, then shook his head. "Well, come on, then. I have to finish the reading for Binns, too."
They headed to the showers, and though Harry tried to be discreet, he could feel Teddy's gaze seeking him out as he drew the shower curtain closed before taking off the robe and slinging it over the top of the stall. Once more, he took the minimum amount of time possible to wash, and then dressed so quickly he realized only when dragging on his uniform trousers against the friction of water, that he'd neglected to towel off his legs. No matter, he'd done it, with no one the wiser.
Barely in time, too, as Draco entered the shower room along with Zabini, just as he was lacing up his trainers. Zabini glowered at him, and Harry pretended not to see, but gathered up the rest of his things, including the old t-shirt which he'd rolled up into a tight ball, and ducked past them.
The common room was quiet, still, though a couple tables had small groups of students at them, going over homework. Maybe Harry - and Teddy - weren't the only ones already lagging behind. Harry was supposed to be in a study group with Teddy, Zabini, and Millicent Bullstrode but he'd missed the first one, last night, due to detention. And he would miss tonight, too. For now, though, he could work more on his essay until it was time to go to breakfast.
Teddy joined him a quarter hour later, giving him another odd look, but he didn't say anything except to double check what chapters they were to read for Binns' class. They worked together in silence until 7:20, when Marcus Flint - Firsties were required to call him "Prefect Flint" - called the room to order and started lining them up to go to breakfast. Since first years were in front, Harry hurried to put his books away and made his way over toward the door.
Draco was first in line, with Pansy Parkinson just behind him, and then Harry. He hadn't had much chance to speak to any of the first year girls, and wouldn't know what to say to them, even if he had, so he avoided her eyes when she turned to peer at him, and barely managed to not offer to show her his lightning bolt scar. It was why most people looked at him like that, after all. He'd had twelve separate requests yesterday alone, never mind the ones on the Hogwarts Express. He hated it, really. It was far harder to hide when everyone stared.
After a moment, Parkinson sniffed disdainfully and faced front again, and Harry let out a breath he'd been holding.
"All right, you lot. Get a move on," said Prefect Flint and they started for the Great Hall. Just on the other side of the portrait, though, Flint put a hand on Harry's chest, making him flinch back before he could stop himself. Flint gave him a mocking smile and leaned in to whisper, "Mind your manners at breakfast, Potter. Try not to make a spectacle of yourself." He jerked a chin at Draco and continued, "Watch that one, if you don't know how to eat proper." And then his hand was gone, and he gave Harry a bit of a shove to catch up with the others.
Harry's face burned. He stared at his shoes the rest of the walk up to the Great Hall, and tried not to think about the fact that Teddy had been right behind him and had probably heard Flint's orders. But like he'd been told, once seated for breakfast, he kept an eye on Draco and followed his lead when it came to using utensils and taking food from the platters. His stomach, however, kept doing flip flops and he had little appetite.
He managed some pumpkin juice - some of the best stuff he'd ever tasted, really! - and a half slice of plain toast, though, and was just deciding whether to pour more juice, or just sit and wait for the other first years to finish, when the sound of flapping wings drew his attention. The "ceiling" of the Great Hall showed a sunny, bright day, but what was really astonishing was the number of owls suddenly swooping in through windows high above. Each of them carried something attached to their legs, or in their talons - letters, small packages and the like.
Harry grinned at the sight. Owl post was so cool! He was very surprised, however, when a dark brown owl with a wingspan wider than Harry was tall, dropped a letter on his plate, then swooped up again and out of the Hall. The parchment, which was folded over once, had his name on the outside, so it was certainly for him. But who would send him a letter? Not the Dursleys, certainly, not after Uncle Vernon's reaction to owl post when the school was trying to send him his acceptance letter.
He broke the thin, green seal - two snakes intertwined - and opened it. The note was very short, with no proper greeting:
Go to the infirmary when you finish breakfast this morning, and have your forehead inspected. I expect to hear what treatment has been applied during your detention this evening. I will accept no excuses.
Professor Snape
Harry frowned over the letter so hard that Draco asked him what was wrong. "Oh, nothing," he lied easily. "I have to go, though. Snape's orders."
Draco's pale brows rose. "See you in the Charms, then."
"Yeah." Harry got up and strode to the end of the table where the Slytherin Prefects were. "I've been told to go to the infirmary," he told Flint, holding up his letter, and got a curt nod in return.
As he made his way up the wide set of marble stairs in the Entrance Hall, he wondered about Snape's directive. Why should his Head of House care if his forehead hurt? This morning, he'd asked if Harry had picked at it, but he'd been scowling, and Harry was pretty sure Snape thought he was lying about the nightmare.
With a sigh, and no closer to understanding the professor, Harry entered the Infirmary. A long row of beds lined both of the side walls, while the wall straight ahead was almost all windows and looked out onto the grounds. The room was very bright, with all the white linens and white walls, especially compared to the Slytherin rooms. A middle aged witch stood near a cabinet at the far end of the room, going through bottles one by one and marking a list in front of her.
"Madam Pomfrey?" Harry said as he went a few steps into the room and let the door close behind him.
The woman looked up and smiled. "Yes." She put down the most recent bottle and wiped her hands on a cloth sticking out of her pocket. "Have you had an accident, dear?"
"Um, no. Not really." He moved forward, though he had to admit a bit of anxiety about seeing a nurse of any kind. "My, er . . . my Head of House wanted me to get my forehead looked at."
The woman frowned and closed the distance between them. "Let's have a look then," she said as she drew her wand and motioned him towards one of the beds.
Harry sat on the very edge of the bed, not wanting to mess up the linens, just for his forehead. He lifted his hair away from the scar and Madam Pomfrey gasped. Still holding up his fringe, Harry gazed at his other hand, in his lap. Stupid scar.
The medi-witch stood right in front of him, and her voice was all business as she said, "It's very red, yes. I don't believe it's infected, though. Let's see . . ." A tingle rippled along Harry's head starting from the scar. The sensation didn't hurt, really, but he still pulled back from her rather sharply. "All right, it's all right, Mr. Potter. There's no infection. I'm going to give you a salve for it, though, which has a topical pain reliever in it. I'll apply the first dose, and I want you to use it three times a day for the next week. That should reduce the swelling and give you some relief. Understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She bustled off to get the salve, and Harry let go of his hair. The jar she returned with was blue glass, the salve itself a light blue cream that smelt of oranges and cloves. "Fringe up again, Mr. Potter, that's it." Her fingers were gentle on his skin as they smoothed the salve into the skin around the scar. The aching eased almost at once, and the burning pain subsided. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard, almost undone by this simple kindness.
"There. Not too bad, was it?" Madam Pomfrey said, as she capped the jar and handed it to him.
"No, ma'am," he said and slid off the bed, avoiding her eyes.
"Three times a day, remember. And come and see me again if the pain gets worse, or if the ointment doesn't help." A pause. "Or for any other reason whatsoever," she added. She made it sound like an order, so he nodded his understanding as he made his way to the door.
Classes that day were much the same as the first, except he had a free period right after lunch and Charms instead of Transfiguration. He'd gotten his feather to fly using the Wingardium Leviosa on maybe his sixth try. Not as fast at Teddy or Zabini, but far better than Draco's two goons.
In Herbology, he once again tried to say hello to Ron Weasley, and the boys he was near, but once again, the red head turned his back with an ugly sneer. Harry pushed the hurt back away from him, like he did with most pain, and shrugged as he returned to the table he shared with Draco, Goyle and Crabbe.
"Waste of space, that one," Draco muttered. "I don't see why you bother."
Harry shrugged again, keeping his face as blank as possible. "He was nice to me on the train. But I guess he doesn't like Slytherin."
Draco snorted. "Of course he doesn't. No one does. That's why we have the first rule."
With a nod, but wishing he didn't understand, Harry turned his attention to Professor Sprout, a short woman with dirt crusted under her nails as if she did nothing besides garden. Recalling a few of his summers at the Dursleys, Harry could relate.
The rest of the day passed easily enough, he even got his Transfiguration essay finished during his free period, and started on the reading for Charms. After supper he went back to Snape's office, dread slowing his steps, but not actually stopping him until he reached the door. Drawing all of his courage, he knocked lightly and waited for the command to "Enter."
Snape was sitting over a pile of parchment, just as he had been last night. And like last night, he did not look up from whatever he was doing. "Cutting it a little close, weren't you?" he asked coldly.
He hadn't been late, he was sure, but almost a minute early. Still, better to agree than disagree; he'd learned that lesson early on. "Yes, sir. Sorry."
Pointing his quill at a chair in front of his desk, he said, "Sit."
Harry obeyed, but wondered what he was going to do for detention tonight, and why Snape hadn't just told him, like he'd done before. Knowing better than to fidget, Harry sat as still as possible, gaze on his hands, clasped together in his lap. Time passed, he couldn't say how much, before his Head of House put down his quill and settled his gaze on Harry. He could feel the dark eyes on him, boring into his head, but he did not dare look the man in the eyes.
"You went to the infirmary." It was not a question.
"Yes, sir."
"And?" A hint - well, more than a hint - of impatience.
"Madam Pomfrey said the scar's not infected, sir. She gave me a salve for it."
"Let me see it."
Harry lifted his head at last, and brushed back the hair from his forehead.
Snape sneered at him. "Not the scar, I know what that looks like. The salve."
Flushing, Harry rummaged in his book bag and handed over the blue jar. Snape pulled off the lid and sniffed the contents before nodding and returning it to Harry. "Very well. See that you use it as prescribed."
"Yes, sir."
After another minute of Snape staring at him while he studied the stone floor and tried to keep still, the professor moved some papers around on his desk and said in a perfectly toneless voice, "I have an additional list of rules for you. You're behavior at meal times has not gone unnoticed, even by those of other Houses. I require all Slytherins to maintain proper decorum, especially when in such a milieu."
Harry's stomach tightened with the implications. People talked about him all the time, as if something he'd done as a baby, and which he had no memory of was worthy of discussion, when he knew it wasn't. But if they were discussing his table manners instead . . . he felt sick. With the Dursleys as his only role models, and by proxy at that, as they rarely allowed him to sit with them for meals, how was he supposed to know what to do?
The pause was so long this time, that Harry realized he was supposed to reply, but it hadn't really been a question. He set his jaw and raised his head. "Yes, sir. Prefect Flint mentioned the problem to me earlier."
"Good. See that you incorporate these rules, effective immediately." Snape handed over the parchment, and Harry was annoyed to find his hand shaking.
"Yes, sir."
Snape's lip curled slightly. "You have not read them as yet, Potter. Do so now, that I may answer any questions you have."
Harry had been hoping to tuck the list away and read it somewhere private, later, but it seemed he was doomed to be humiliated again. Fine. He scanned the sheet, noting how many of the items were "don'ts" as opposed to "do's" and the number of times the word "appalling" came into play. Sweat was running down his back, and his hands shook horribly by the time he finished. Dimly, around the rush of blood in his ears, he realized his jaw was clenched, and he tried to loosen it before he cracked any teeth.
"Do I need to explain any of these rules to you, Potter?"
Briefly squeezing his eyes shut, he forced his face in a blank mask. This professor would not win, would not shame him further by seeing him lose control. Once he could speak without his voice cracking, he looked Snape in the eyes. "No, sir. They are quite clear."
The Professor's face was as blank as his own, no hint of a sneer now, no humor at his expense. Nothing. The tableau held for the space of a heartbeat, or an hour, before Snape gave him a tiny nod. "Very well. Dismissed."
Gathering his things quickly, Harry fled to the relative safety of the dorms.
TBC . . .