By jharad17
Chapter Nine
Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Honest. She's rich, blond and British. I'm not.
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Severus hated leaving Harry behind for the day. Even if he was not leaving his son alone, but with the Weasleys, he still felt terrible about it, especially after yesterday debacle and Harry's rather obvious fears of being abandoned. He could not blame the child, not ever, for feeling like that, given what he had gone through for six years after his mother and James died. But Severus had been truthful about needing to work, either here or elsewhere, and at least here -- or at the Burrow -- Harry had more to do, and more children to play with than he would at Spinner's End.
Since he had taken breakfast with Harry in his rooms, and then waited for the Weasley clan to make their entrance, Severus was rushed in getting to his classroom to make sure all was readied for his first meeting with the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Fifth Years. He had just finished putting out tiny jars of dragon's blood for today's lesson when the students filed in. They were silent as they took their seats and set up their cauldrons.
Good. Seemed his reputation -- as a professor not to be trifled with -- was growing quickly. From the front of the classroom, he took roll then snapped out a few directions and watched the OWL preparatory class get started. In the previous couple days, he had found that Ravenclaws and Hufflepuff classes were far easier to manage than the others, if for no other reason than the Ravens just wanted to do their best on every assignment, and the Puffs would never dream of sabotaging any of their classmates' projects.
The Gryffindor-Slytherin combined classes . . . Well. That was a whole 'nother cauldron of mertlap. He would be more than grateful if he could manage to get those classes through the year without any of the students being blown up with their cauldrons. He had to watch them like a hawk.
This class was advanced enough -- and well-trained enough -- that he need only sweep through the room infrequently and not be beside the little blighters every second. He could even, occasionally, think about other things, like the last steps of the potion he was preparing for that bastard Filch -- and how he would approach Albus if the horrid man protested taking it -- or his son and how his day might be going with a passel of Weasleys surrounding him.
He supposed he would find out at lunch time.
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Mrs. Weasley led the children outside, and started down the slope of the hillside just beyond the steps leading to the Front Entrance. Harry let Treacle out of his arms as soon as they reached the steps, and she bounded down the hill, though she stayed fairly close to Harry. He watched her play, rolling in the grass and pouncing on stray leaves, while Ron kept chatting to him the whole time, about Quidditch mostly. Harry didn't really know enough about the sport except what he had heard others say, or what Father had read to him, for him to make any comments back. But that was okay. He was fine being quiet. He was used to that, really.
What he was not used to -- and probably never would be -- was people sneaking up behind him, grabbing him bodily, and throwing him into the air.
When that happened, when they were half way down the hill, Harry's breath seized in his chest, and he curled his body into a tiny ball, limbs in tight, arms protectively over his head as he went up, even if only an inch or two, and then came down. Expecting to hit the ground hard, like he would have if Dudders had been the one who grabbed him, Harry was startled to be caught again in strong pale arms, and to hear boyish laughter in his ears. With a gasp, when he was let go, Harry scrabbled away, all knees and elbows and sharp movements, until he was hiding behind a small outcropping of rock.
'Oi, Harry! Wassamatter?'
'George, you great prat!' Ron yelled. 'You're not meant to grab him!'
'Boys!' Mrs. Weasley called, turning around in time to see Treacle fling herself in front of Harry to defend against anyone who meant him harm. 'What's going on here?'
