Better Be Slytherin!

ever.

Instead of avoiding the Bludger -- which he was perfectly capable of, even on this fairly tame broom -- he whipped around sharply, lined himself up, and punched it.

The crunch of bone and flesh and ball was very, very satisfying. As the Bludger fell away, so did Harry, chasing it. He angled his broom to intercept the damnable thing, swarming past, then in front of it, angled just so . . . and then he swung his arm around again and smacked the Bludger into next week.

Take that! 'I HATE YOU!' he screamed at the thing as it raced away from him again. 'I FUCKING HATE YOU!'

The chase was on, and if he didn't know better, he'd almost think the Bludger was afraid of him. Harry pursued it across the field. Blood roared in his ears. His breaths came as rasping pants. Somewhere, his arm throbbed, but he ignored it. Instead, he went after the Bludger like it was a rabbit to his hound. Tight turns and wide, steep climbs and shallow drops, speeds of over seventy miles an hour, eighty, ninety, and then almost instantaneous stops. He caught up to the thing again, a grim smile painted on his face, and let it slam into his chest and bounce off, before he smashed it again with his fist.

The Bludger fled, picking up speed, and Harry tore after it. 'COME BACK HERE!'

'POTTER!' Flint appeared suddenly in front of him, cutting off his race against the Bludger. 'Hit the deck!'

'Go to HELL!' Harry screamed, and tried to move around him. What did it matter anyway? Nothing fucking mattered.

'Get down NOW, Potter, or I swear to Merlin, I will bench you permanently.'

He didn't care, he didn't, and he was going to scream something else, like Get the FUCK out of my way! but before he got a chance, Flint surprised him. The Quidditch Captain, astride his broom, gripped the narrow shaft like it was the only thing real left in the world, and his face was pale with . . . fear? 'Harry. You're hurt. I don't want to lose my best player, okay? Hit the deck. Please.'

It was the please that got him. No one ever said please to Harry Potter, the useless freak and miscreant, the punching bag and easy target. The please made him hesitate. The moment he did, however, the throbbing in his arm became far more noticeable. He glanced at it, saw the purple and bloody forearm, the bone poking through the skin where it was broken. He felt suddenly ill. Trembling, his body coming over all dizzy, he nodded.

'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'Sorry, Captain Flint.'

'Just get down, all right? We've got a stretcher for the infirmary already.'

Harry just nodded again, and dropped quickly to the ground. His stomach lurched several times on the way down, and he found it hard to breathe. Once his feet hit the dirt, he vomited before dismounting. He vomited hard, violently. Bent over the broom and clutching his broken arm to his chest with his whole one, he puked till he saw stars.

'Come on,' he heard someone say, 'Get him on the stretcher. Harry, you'll be all right, lad. Come on . . .'

The moment he went horizontal, he passed out.

When Harry woke, it was dark and quiet. It took him a few minutes to remember where he was, and when he did, he groaned softly. Not that he was still hurting much -- though there was an ache in his chest which he chalked up to healing ribs -- but because he had no desire at all to deal with Madam Pomfrey again. She knew too many of his secrets already. And her kindnesses nearly undid him every time he came here.

He couldn't let her get to him.

He had to be strong.

'Mr. Potter,' a quiet voice said, one he recognized instantly, and he suppressed another groan, for an entirely different reason. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was asleep. Maybe if he was asleep, Snape would go away and leave him alone. Please leave me alone.

'Mr. Potter,' Snape said again, and there was a tremor in his voice this time, something Harry had never heard before. 'I know you are awake. I would like . . . I want to speak with you.'

It was inevitable, wasn't it. Harry steeled himself for the latest dressing down and opened his eyes again. The Professor was perched on a narrow chair just next to his bed, on the left hand side, and with his black robes and black hair, he had blended well enough into the darkness that Harry hadn't seen him at first. Snape's hands were folded in his lap, but the shadows of the night and the man's forehead and curtain of hair hid his eyes. Harry wished he could see the man's eyes, even though he was pretty sure he knew what he would see in them.

'Yes, sir?' Harry said flatly, too tired to put any feeling into it. If he had to be in the infirmary, he would have liked to just sleep, instead of being lit into again. He just wasn't up for this.

'Potter . . . I would like . . .' Snape ducked his head briefly, and when it came up, he leaned forward, closer to the bed than was comfortable for Harry, and his hands reached for the edge of the bed, to clutch at the blanket there as if he were nervous.

What the hell? 'Sir?'

'I want to apologize,' Snape said quickly, as if he could only get the words out if he rushed them. His face was even closer now, and Harry's mouth opened in shock as the professor and bane of his existence continued, 'I've treated you badly, and I'm sorry.'

If his chest didn't hurt so bad, Harry would have laughed.

TBC . . .

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful reviews and support on this story! In fact, this week, Better Be Slytherin! has been listed as Featured Story at the Potions & Snitches site by readers. Supercoolness.

Alas, I am still engaged in work related program activities at my day job (which is why I am writing on my day off, today), so updates won't be as frequent as I would like, but should still be once a week or so. I hope. Next thing I have to work on is a chappie for Walk the Shadows, though, since I left poor Sev with a coupla Gryffindors in his living room and no chance of egress. Till next time!