"Dumbledore should just hire him for next year and be done with it," said a fifth-year sitting close to them, at one point.
"He can't. The job's probably cursed," said Harry. "That's why we never get anybody who lasts."
"Rotten luck . . ."
Ron was the one who asked what a lot of people were probably thinking. "Why can't he teach Potions like that, then? Let us work with anybody we want, and have enough time to get one thing down before we go on to the next, and . . . right?"
Harry shrugged. He'd been wondering that, too. "Well, I guess one reason he's stricter there is because Potions is really a lot more dangerous. And also . . ." He lowered his voice so only Ron and Hermione would hear. "He was trying to show Aran up, you know? Maybe competition--ha, not that Aran provides much of it, but still--brings out the best in him."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Hermione pushed her plate away and stood up. "I'm just going to go tell Draco how it went with Goyle. He's going to need a lot more help with his readings--"
Ron's eyes just about bugged out as he leapt to his feet. "You're going over to the Slytherin table? Not alone, you're not--"
"I can take care of myself, thank you," said Hermione pertly, walking quickly away.
"She can," said Harry. "And even if she couldn't, do you think Draco would let anything happen to her? With me watching?"
Ron sat back down, but turned his neck and watched Hermione the whole time as she talked to Draco and handed him what looked like a long list written on parchment.
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After dinner, Draco got Harry by himself and said that his Marsha session had been postponed. He asked Harry to come back to Slytherin to visit, but Harry really wanted to be alone. Out in Devon, he'd gotten used to having several needle-sessions throughout the day. Now, after a full day of being with people almost every instant, he felt sort of itchy inside.
It's the Dark Magic trying to come out, he reasoned. I need to work some more on conquering my fears.
"Sorry, I need to talk to some people in Gryffindor," said Harry. "I'll see you in class tomorrow."
Draco nodded and turned away.
Once he was up in the Tower, though, Harry told his friends that he was tired and was going to his dormitory to have an early night.
"But I have notes for you from the classes you missed!"
"I'll have a look at them later." Harry faked a yawn. He knew that keeping up with his studies was important, but so were other things. And Snape would have to agree, otherwise he'd never had let them have a holiday while classes were in session.
"It's pretty early," said Ron doubtfully.
"What, you think I can't get tired until midnight?" Harry was starting to feel even itchier. He needed to get on his own. Immediately! Why couldn't his friends just get out of his way?
"All I meant was that you might need a potion to drop off," said Ron. "Do you still have some?"
"Oh, yeah. I do," lied Harry. He was actually out, but that hardly mattered. Sleep was the last thing he wanted. "See you in the morning, then."
Once he was on his bed, curtains drawn, needle in hand, he started to feel better. He wouldn't trust a silencing charm, considering the way Ron and the others had spelled the room months and months ago. He wasn't sure if the enchantments had ever been removed. But he didn't need a silencing charm, anyway. He was getting stronger all the time. He could slide the needle in and out of his flesh without making any noise.
When he pushed up his left sleeve and stared at his arm, it was like he was looking at it through two completely different pairs of eyes. It looked alarming, and even slightly disgusting, covered as it was with red dots, some of them festering slightly, the flesh bruised in places. But at the same time, it looked good to him. Because these were battle scars, weren't they? Harry was fighting his fear, and winning. There was nothing to be ashamed of.
He pierced his arm a few times, gritting his teeth, but not hesitating. That was good. But of course, the people who wanted to hurt him, people like Voldemort, would make it as painful as possible, wouldn't they? Harry was just getting too good at stabbing himself. It didn't hurt like it really should.
Maybe left-handed, he thought, switching the needle into his other hand and rolling up his right sleeve. The flesh on the underside of that arm was soft and unmarked.
It looked incomplete, somehow, to Harry.
He set to work on it, thrusting the needle through again and again, fumbling with it since his left hand was so uncoordinated compared to his right. Harry ended up biting his lips against the pain, now. It was worse, on this side.
But somehow, worse was better.
He didn't transfigure his needle back into a match until much, much later when he heard his friends coming up to go to bed.
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The more times a day Harry could snatch a few moments to himself, the better he felt. Getting up early, he found, was a good way to get some time alone with his needle. Lingering in the loo worked too, though he knew he had to keep an eye out for ghosts. So far, none had appeared.
He also had to be careful about dressing and undressing, he soon discovered. He'd used some healing charms after his last few training sessions. They did help, some, but they also left a lot to be desired. Anyone who saw his bare arms would know that something odd was going on. Of course, they'd probably assume he'd caught some kind of pox, but he'd have a hard time avoiding Madame Pomfrey once word got out that he was ill.
It was too bad he didn't know anything about the Muggle remedies Severus had used on him after Samhain. Harry scowled. He might know about one or two if Aunt Petunia had ever bothered herself to treat his cuts and scrapes the way she'd fussed over Dudley's. But no, most of his had been caused by Dudley, which meant she'd ignored them completely, since her precious boy couldn't possibly have done any wrong--
Harry snapped himself out of that thought. It was over and done with. Aunt Petunia was dead, and the old Dudley might as well be, he was so changed. And none of that mattered now, anyway. He had another family, now. And plenty of friends, unlike when he was younger and Dudley drove them all away.
What mattered now was getting over his fears so he could protect that family, protect those friends, when the time came. So he made sure that nobody saw anything they could question. Once he put his mind to it, it wasn't that hard to arrange.
Defence continued to be nothing short of wonderful. Snape belittled Aran at every turn. That alone would have buoyed Harry's spirits. It was even better to see the other students coming to see Snape as a teacher instead of just some form of tormentor.
And then there was Potions class. Some forms had Sprout filling in for Snape; some had McGonagall. But Tuesdays and Fridays after lunch, the sixth-year Slytherins and Gryffindors had Albus Dumbledore come to instruct them.
He was teaching them to make sweets.
It reminded Harry of Snape's joke from a long time ago. And sure enough, sherbet lemons were the first thing the headmaster taught them how to make. It was almost like a party in there, everyone bent over glass pots instead of cauldrons, breathing in the smell of melting sugar and citrus juices boiling down and down and down. And then dribbling droplets onto paper they'd waxed themselves.