To his surprise, Teddy followed him out a few minutes later, with Millie and Draco, Pansy, Vince and Greg, and all the rest of the First Years. Even Zabini! They found him in the courtyard where he had opened his text already, sitting along one of the low walls with his knees drawn to his chest to prop up the book.
And then Millie was yelling, her hands balled into fists and her face bright red, saying that they should go the Headmaster! Or the Board! "My Uncle Sebastion is on the Board, you know," she told them, "And he'll see to it that Snape is run right out for what he's doing to one of us Slytherins!"
"All right, Millie, all right," Draco said. "My father is on the Board, too, but I don't know if they can really do anything . . . I mean, Snape's not really going against school rules—"
"Rule One!" Millie howled, and the others shushed her; the gathering, for all it had a dozen participants, was quiet and covert as anything else Slytherins did together. "Slytherins are the House, remember? You assist your housemates when they need assistance! He told us himself! And now he's picking on Harry and bringing all of us down. It's disgusting!"
For his part, Harry tried to ignore their conversation as it eddied around him, and tried desperately to get through the Transfiguration chapter. It was no good, though, especially when the pain in his head flared to almost mythic proportions and he had to pinch his nose, hard, to keep from blacking out.
"Harry?" Teddy said softly, at his elbow. "You all right?"
Harry made himself nod. "Just tired," he said. "It'll be fine; I've just a couple more days."
"If you're sure," Teddy started, but over his voice was Pansy Parkinson's, "Millie's right, though. I say we go to Flint again. He's got to put a word in."
"What?" Harry yelped. This was the first he'd heard of anyone talking to their Prefect, of all things. "What're you going to Flint for?"
"'Cause it's not right, Harry," Greg said. "We all know it. He's being a right bastard to you, and it's like he doesn't even care about Rule One."
"I don't care," Harry told them. "About him, I mean. I don't. I can handle it. Don't go carrying on to Flint; he'll think I'm a right prat."
"He won't," Teddy said. "He knows already. Said even some Third Years asked him about all the meals you've missed."
"Look," said Harry, and let go of his nose, since pinching it so hard was making his fingers ache. "Really, it's just a couple days. I'm not gonna give the bastard any reason to lump me with more detention, all right?"
"Harry," Teddy said quietly while some of the others stared at him like he'd grown extra limbs, as if they had never even considered the possibility that Snape might actually assign him more time, when it was almost all Harry thought about these days. As they erupted into another argument about what the best thing to do was, Teddy continued, in a low voice so no one else could hear, "I know you haven't been sleeping either."
"It's okay, I just don't--"
Teddy shook his head. "It's not. I know you've been putting up a Silencing Charm. You've been having nightmares, and--"
"Have you been spying on me?"
"No," Teddy said quickly. "I woke up one night and saw you screaming, but I couldn't hear anything. You should see Madam Pomfrey, so she can give you something. There are potions that can stop you from dreaming."
"I don't think it'll help," Harry said, in an almost whisper.
"Why not?"
"I don't think they're regular dreams," he admitted. He considered it more, and decided to tell Teddy the truth. Teddy had been nothing but a friend to him since the moment they met, and he would not lie to his first real friend. "I think . . . I think they're memories." He paused and worked up his courage, and added, "Of Voldemort."
Teddy's face drained of color so quickly that Harry thought for a moment that he might faint, but then the thin boy shook his head, his eyes wide. "H-h-how can you tell?"
"I dunno, it's just--" They were interrupted by the warning bell, and Harry sighed. Now he'd have to race through the work at lunchtime. "Later. I'll tell you later."
The Slytherins, some of them still shooting looks at Harry, collected themselves and made their way to class as a group.
Despite his intentions, Harry didn't have a chance to talk any more to Teddy during the day, which was probably just as well. During lunch, he studied in an out of the way place he had discovered in the library, where he was extremely unlikely to be disturbed. Over the last week or so, interestingly enough, he often found himself sharing table space with Hermione Granger from Gryffindor, the girl who had spoken up for him the day he caught Longbottom's Remembrall. She was studious, too, and very quiet, although every once in a while, she would ask him what he thought about a reading, and they would discuss it. It was . . . nice, to talk to someone who wasn't constantly trying to figure him out, and to get a different perspective on their classes than he got from the rest of the Slytherins.
Then, right after lunch, he had detention. This time, he had to dissect rats and remove their organs, tails and other nasty bits.
Merlin's pants.
Fortunately, Snape gave him just enough work to fill the hour, as opposed to making him miss class or needing to come back after Quidditch practice, but it was disgusting work, and slow going until he got into the rhythm of it.
The Bloody Baron hovered next to him, offering tips here and there, and shooting glares over Harry's shoulder. Even with his back to Snape's office door, Harry knew the man was staring at him, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and shove this boning knife into the bloody git's guts. It would feel soooo good.
Briefly.
A boy could dream, couldn't he?
"Just two more days, Harry," the Baron murmured as he finished scooping out the organs of his seventh rat, depositing the last of the waste in the bucket beside the worktable. "You're doing fine."
Harry sighed and nodded. The muscles were bunched in his back and arms, and he felt an itch between his shoulder blades, where Snape was obviously staring. Why couldn't he just go away? Why did he need to pick, pick, pick? Harry was getting really close to just screaming at the man, but he knew from experience that screaming at one's tormentor never led anywhere good. Better to just acquiesce, let it all flow over him like a calm river, and wait for it to end. Better to ignore the feel of injustice, the ache of weariness, and just let go.
"I spoke with him before," the Baron admitted. "Like your friends did with Flint."
Harry's head came up and he glared. Before he could ask, Why, for pity's sake, the Baron continued, "You are Slytherin, and therefore one of my own. I will protect you, even if from your Head of House."
Harry shook his head a little and wanted to say, Don't bother. It'll just make him angrier, but he was too tired to argue.
"He is quite unreasonable when it comes to you."
Harry snorted softly. He knew that, had known it since the morning he had been yanked out of the shower and shaken like a rag doll. He sliced through the tendons on the rat's back legs, then twisted and wrenched them from the sockets, tossing them into the "leg" pile. "Why, though? I don't get it."
The Bloody Baron floated closer still, and when Harry glanced at him, he could have sworn the expression on the ghost was sad. "Severus Snape has a history of . . . difficulty with Potters," he said at last.
Harry frowned, head cocked to the side. "My Dad?"
The ghost nodded. "Alas, the two were enemies when they were in school, and I fear your professor might not have left the past to lie as he should."
Harry's shoulders slumped even further as he sliced the ragged ends of arteries off the rat's heart and plopped the thing in a bowl. He should have known it was something like that. His aunt and uncle, who were meant to care for him when he was growing up, had hated him, because they hated magic, and hated his mother. Professor Snape, who was meant to be looking out for him at Hogwarts, according to his own words and rules, hated him because of his father, a man Harry had no memories of at all, except in dreams.