He just could not win.
"Harry?"
"S'okay," Harry said. His eyes stung, and his nose felt like he was about to sneeze. He clenched his jaw till the feeling passed. "I'm used to it."
The Bloody Baron sent another glare at the doorway, but the professor was gone already. Harry had sensed him leaving a few minutes before. Didn't matter anyway.
Just didn't matter at all.
"Come, child." The Baron's voice was gentle as he gestured to the shrinking pile of still intact rats. "You're almost there."
Harry nodded, drew a deep breath to banish the sudden ache in his chest, and reached for the next one.
He was late for Quidditch practice.
That in and of itself would not have been a big deal, if Captain Flint had not laid in to him the minute he did arrive.
"Where the hell were you, Potter?" he yelled. "We've been waiting for almost ten minutes. Couldn't you be bothered to be a team player?"
"I was in the Library, sir," Harry said, scrambling into his uniform. He didn't admit he had fallen asleep over his books, only to be woken by Hermione, who he'd mentioned the practice to during their lunchtime study. Thank Merlin she had remembered.
"Study on your own time, Potter," Flint growled. "Not on mine."
Well, he would if he could, but since his time was pretty damned limited these days . . .
But Flint wasn't done. "I've half a mind to bench you for our first game, let Malfoy be Seeker. He was here on time. He didn't keep the rest of us waiting for him like some bloody celebrity."
Harry saw red, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth ground together noisily. "It won't happen again, Captain Flint," he promised.
"Yeah, we'll see. Get the hell up there, boy."
Harry gave a jerky nod and mounted his broom, angling the school-issue Cleansweep toward the sky in as sharp a climb as he could. Hunched low over the broom, Harry cut through the air like an arrow, letting the wind tear at his robes, his eyes, let it tear the scream of rage from his throat.
He had done everything! Everything they asked. Everything they wanted from him. Was it so much to have this one thing for himself? This ONE DAMNED THING??
So caught up in the feel of the wind and his raging thoughts, Harry almost didn't seen the Bludger. The heavy ball zoomed by him as he reached the apex of his flight and made him screech to a stop. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a snarl. No bloody Bludger was going to ruin this bloody day for him. Not now. Not 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.