Better Be Slytherin!

to get his books. There was only another hour or so before bedtime, but he figured he could get a start on his History of Magic essay before then. If he rose early again, he could finish it up before class tomorrow morning. When he got to his bed, though, he found a folded over note stuck to the top of his trunk.

Inside, the writing was tight and neat, and the script was one he recognized. Unfortunately.

Potter,

Come see me. NOW

S. Snape

With a sigh, Harry tucked the note in his pocket and went back out to the common room, but angled toward the portrait door, instead of going back to his study group. He'd known this would happen, really. He'd just hoped it wouldn't catch up to him until, well, at least tomorrow.

'Hey, Harry!' Millie called. 'Where're you going?'

He shook his head, frowning, but then figured, what the hell; they'd find out sooner or later. 'Detention.'

'Again?' Zabini stared at him, open mouthed, and even a couple others in the common room looked over at him, making his shuffle his feet a bit. Bloody Zabini. 'For Merlin's sake, Potter, what the hell is wrong with you? You've been in detention every night since we got here!'

Harry grimaced, and though part of him wanted to just Zabini to shut it, another part wondered if Zabini was on to something. Maybe there was something wrong with him. But all he said was, 'Snape's a bastard, okay? Just leave me alone.' He slipped out the door and down the corridor toward Snape's office without listening to Millie's commiserations, or Zabini's outrage on behalf of their Head of House, or any of it. He was tired of this crap, really. When was he going to catch a break?

Drawing a deep breath, once he reached Snape's office door, Harry drew up his courage, too. It wasn't as if the man could make him feel worse, really. No matter what he said. He had to let it just roll off him, like when Uncle Vernon got a good head of steam going. Just nod, smile a little, with just the right about of respect, and then go on about his business. No problem. He knocked on the door lightly.

His hope that maybe Snape had already retired to his quarters was dashed a moment later by the command, 'Enter.'

Harry obeyed, opening the door far enough to slip through, and easing it closed it behind him. Snape was at his desk, as usual, correcting papers. He did not look up. Harry stood perfectly still, hands by his sides, for kind of a long time, by his reckoning, and still Snape did not look up. His legs got tired, actually, standing there, though some of that was probably due to a few hours of flying madly, too.

Harry had just opened his mouth to say something snotty, along the lines of, 'I have better things to do that stand here, if you don't mind,' when he was saved by the utter idiocy of that action by Snape's head snapping up, his coal black eyes glittering malevolently.

'You will kindly tell me, Mr. Potter, what you were thinking to miss your appointment with me this evening.' His voice was no louder than a whisper, but the tight anger it so obviously held in check was all the more frightening for it. Harry had heard that tone of voice a number of times in his life, and he never liked what followed.

He swallowed, hard, then brought his chin up, just a fraction. No weakness. Show no weakness. 'I had Quidditch practice.'

The black eyes narrowed. 'And yet, you had a previous engagement here, with a crate of dead toads. They will not debone themselves.'

He couldn't help but make a face, though really, it was only a little twist of his lips. Really. Dead toads? As if the murtlap tentacles hadn't been bad enough. Then he recalled the conversation he had had with Snape the night of tentacle pickling, the night he had also handed over the written account of what rules he would and would not follow and why. 'I'm sorry, sir. I was . . . since it was our first practice, I didn't want to miss it. I thought you'd rather Captain Flint not kick me off the Slytherin team.' He didn't add, 'since it was your idea to put me on it,' as it wasn't necessary.

Snape's mouth pursed, and his gaze grew sharper, as if he knew Harry was trying to play him. 'You are insolent and impertinent. You have no respect for me or my limited time. You could have come to me today and requested a chance of time for your detention.'

Harry frowned, and allowed a bit of daring. 'And you would have agreed, sir?'

The man sneered. 'We will never find out now, will we?' He gestured imperiously to his classroom, beyond the connecting door. 'There is a crate of toads next to your worktable, along with the instructions for their rendering. Get to work.'

Harry glared. He wasn't going to even get a chance to start his homework tonight, and if this job took as long as some of the others, he'd be getting to bed well after midnight. Again. Damnit. But he deserved it, really, for ditching. After taking a slow breath, Harry nodded tightly and turned on his heel, to head into the classroom.

'Oh, and Potter?'

Harry didn't turn around, but said, quietly, knowing if he growled at the man, he would probably face his mockery along with everything else. 'Yes, sir?'

'That's another week of detention. For your disrespect.'

At that, Harry did turn, mouth agape. 'Sir!'

'Yes, Mr. Potter?' The Professor's face was hard, unyielding.

Harry bit his lip. The assignment was unfair, and quite possibly unjustified, and both of them knew it. But the only thing Harry would get out of an argument would be more time deboning or otherwise taking apart once-living potion ingredients. He knew how that went. More chores on top of the ones he already had, for his cheek. So he clenched his teeth instead, determined to get through yet another bloody week of detention, without getting any more time added, even if it killed him.

But what about Quidditch? He softened his expression, showing a proper amount of respect, but not lowering his gaze. 'Yes, sir. I understand.' Boy, did he ever. 'But, I . . . I mean, would it be all right to change the time for detention on the nights of Quidditch practice?'