Better Be Slytherin!

'Nonsense,' he scoffed, and took a sip of tea.

'I notice you've had Mr. Potter in detention nearly every day since the start of term. Is he really so unmanageable?'

Tempted to tell her yes, that the Boy Who Had Even the Bloody Baron Wrapped Around His Littlest Finger was as arrogant and impertinent as his father had been, Severus resisted the impulse. Instead, he murmured noncommittally, 'He needs a close eye kept on him.'

'That wouldn't have anything to do with him ending up in the hospital wing his first weekend at school, would it?'

'Perhaps,' Severus allowed. He took another sip of tea, and forbore telling Minerva to butt out of Slytherin business.

'It's not my place to say as much,' Minerva started, and Severus knew she would anyway, 'but I think you're being too hard on the boy.'

'You're right,' Severus said with a scowl, and rose, throwing his serviette on the table with a little too much force, so it landed in the remainders of his too-runny eggs. 'It's not your place.'

Her mouth was pursed as she watched him leave, but as long as she did not stop him or attempt to scold him further, he did not care a whit.

Why was it that everyone sought to tell him his duty?

For the period just after lunch – another meal which Potter did not attend, damn him; how was the boy to put on weight if he didn't eat? – when Potter was due for his make up detention, Severus laid out several dozen rats to be sectioned and harvested for spleens, hearts, livers and tails. The boy should be able to get through them in an hour without trouble.

Potter arrived right on time, with the Bloody Baron floating silently in his wake, looking censorious but otherwise not acknowledging his existence. Severus pointed toward his classroom, and told Potter to begin. The boy said nothing beyond his customary, 'Yes, sir,' and went right to work.

This time, however, Severus followed him. He watched the boy roll up his sleeves, and check the written instructions before starting to section the rats. Potter seemed not to be squeamish at all, which some children were, he knew, especially those who were Muggleborn or raised. But then, the boy hadn't balked at any of the other tasks set for him the last couple weeks either.

The Bloody Baron hovered next to him, and the two seemed to be conversing . . . or, rather, the Baron was speaking in a low voice, and Potter was responding with occasional shrugs or shakes of his head. The boy's shoulders were slumped more than Severus had seen them previously, but he did not appear to be in any actual pain. His scar was not inflamed, Severus had noted when Potter first came in, so he didn't bother asking about nightmares or occasions of proximity to Quirrell. Once more, however, the Baron sent frequent glares at Severus, but Severus ignored them.

Deciding he had seen – and been glared at – enough, Severus returned to his office and his own work.

The day seemed to be going swimmingly, in fact, until Marcus Flint appeared in his office at half nine that night, glowering more than usual.

'Something I can do for you, Mr. Flint?' Severus asked, not looking up from his marking.

'Just thought you should know, sir,' the Prefect said in an angry growl, 'that the Potter kid's in the Infirmary.'

'What?' Severus was on his feet in a heartbeat. 'What happened?'

Flint shook his head. 'Had a bit of a meltdown, he did, and tried to act the Beater. Without a bat. Took on a couple Bludgers, but broke his arm, and couple of ribs, most like. Lucky he stayed on his broom.'

Severus sighed and took his seat again. Of all the . . . 'Very well, Mr. Flint. If that will be all?'

Flint glared and stood his ground. 'Sir . . . they're saying . . .' His broad face screwed up with the attempt to think or put excess words in order.

'Spit it out, Flint, I haven't got all night.'

'Yes, sir. Well . . . they're saying you've got it in for him. That Potter's up all hours doing his homework, and even has to skip meals to get it done, seeing as how he's in detention every night, and even on his free periods. They're saying you've done him wrong.'

Severus pressed his lips together, and his hands clenched into fists. 'Potter went whinging to you, did he?'

'No, sir.' Flint shook his head. 'Not at all. Kid hasn't said a word. He's made of stone, that one. His mates say he even told 'em to lay off coming to me about him. But they – the other Firsties – they're worried about him not getting enough sleep or regular meals or anything. They pester me about every day, asking what I can do to help him, and they saw he was gonna break, before I did. I even had a pack of Third Years ask me why he's never at meals when he's so scrawny.

'Never heard a word of complaint from Potter, though, like I said, so I figured he could handle it fine.' A brief, toothy grin. 'Till practice today, anyway. Never seen anyone so mad. Right ripped he was. Wouldn't've stopped, neither, even after the Bludgers got him, if I hadn't made him hit the deck. Looked like he wanted to go another round. It's like he feels no pain or something.'

Flint's barrage of words took a few minutes to sink in, and when they did, they broke through some kind of . . . mental barrier that Severus realized he had erected in his dealings with Potter. He peered at the Prefect for a long moment before nodding slowly. The wall he had placed the boy – the son of the hated James Potter – behind now crumbled, and he saw his recent actions far more clearly. Severus Snape had become the bully. The unreasonable ogre. The uncompromising autocrat in the boy's life, and the replacement for his unfeeling and abusive relatives.

He had neglected what he knew the boy needed – someone to watch out for him and make sure he was fitting in, and dealing with the effects of an abusive home – in favor of taking perverse pleasure in ordering him about like he was a miniature James, or worse, a mere pawn in the war . . . just as Albus would have. He would not have treated any of his other Snakes like this. He could no longer pretend otherwise. Nor could he pretend, based on Flint's report – plus, he had to admit, the Bloody Baron's, and even McGonagall's – that what he was doing was for the boy's own good, to build him up stronger and more resilient than before.