"Oh! Good, sir." But now Flint scowled at the boy, very much like Severus himself must have, before he'd taken the Brat to the Infirmary. Before he'd seen him fly.
"Do not think I am condoning your risky behavior, Mr. Potter," Severus cautioned, using a very quiet voice he brought out when special circumstances warranted, and was gratified to see wariness flare in the boy's eyes again. "You very nearly found yourself in Madam Pomfrey's care again. I suggest you learn a modicum of restraint before you get yourself killed. And I plan to send this message home--"
The jerk was unmistakable this time. "To the Dursleys?" Potter squawked. "Please don't!"
"Do NOT interrupt me, Potter," Severus growled, remembering he still had not heard from either of the blasted owls he'd sent to Surrey. "As I was saying, this lesson will be driven home, one hopes, with the detentions you will serve this next week. You will have a new appreciation by the end of the week of the serious consequences for breaking rules, especially those designed for your protection. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you." The boy's face, which had lost color when he thought Severus was sending a note home, now looked flushed, and he dropped his gaze.
"You are dismissed. I believe you have an hour before dinner . . ."
Potter nodded, and looked at Flint, who glared back.
Severus cleared his throat. "Mr. Flint, if you would be so kind . . . the pitch awaits."
"Oh, yes, sir. Come on, Potter." With that, the large boy led the Brat out of the dungeon, and Severus let his heart finally settle back in his chest, from where it had lodged, at about the time he'd seen the Brat Who Lived to Make Everyone Fear for His Life hurtling through the air like a javelin aimed at the castle.
Then he sent a notice to the caretaker, Filch, to let him know to expect Draco Malfoy for detention. Perhaps a week scrubbing the mud from the Entrance Hall floor and combing the fleas out of Mrs. Norris' coat would teach him some humility. Or at least the value of not getting caught.
At dinner, after getting the report from Flint on the boy's exceptional talent, he had to gloat to Minerva. She was suitably annoyed . . . and jealous.
"Well it makes sense," she snapped. "After all, James was a very talented player."
The words froze the smile on his face, but he made himself respond anyway. "Ah, yes, and I can just imagine his pride, showing up for Quidditch games and cheering for Slytherin, waving a green and silver flag, holding--"
"That's quite enough, Severus," she interrupted. "You've made your point."
He smirked. "And it's worth a hundred and fifty, let's not forget."
She rolled her eyes. "As if you'd let me. Pass the potatoes, if you would."
He did so, and took the opportunity to look over his Snakes, who were behaving themselves, for the most part. When he caught a glimpse of the Potter Brat speaking animatedly with Draco Malfoy, both of them sporting frowns, he wondered if they were discussing the information he'd given each of them to hold over the other. The son of Lucius Malfoy would have little trouble making use of such information, he knew, but he was looking forward to seeing what use the Brat would put it to.
Well, he supposed he'd find out, one way or the other.
That night, he set the Brat the task of chopping half keg of flobberworms. As before, Potter didn't complain or even look put out by the request, just went right to work. Severus watched as the boy's confidence grew at the task after a few mistarts. It was obvious he had never touched a flobberworm before, but just as obviously, he knew his way around a knife. The first was unsurprising, the latter . . .
As Potter cut one flobberworm lengthwise, then turned it to dice smoothly up the length, Severus stepped up behind him. "Were you a chef in another life?"
Potter's shoulders twitched, but his knife did not pause. "Something like that, sir."
"Explain."
Severus did not mistake the tightening of the boy's grip on the knife, and the way his shoulders were now hitched a bit higher. There was a long pause, in which Severus had to keep a firm hold on his temper, but he knew the boy was gathering his courage, and so he waited. He was rewarded with, "I cooked. For them, from when I was little."
"This would be the same them who starved you."
"I wasn't starved." The knife came down hard on a poor, unsuspecting flobberworm and reduced it to mush.
"Ah."
"I wasn't. Sir." The boy took the few moments of Severus' silence to recapture his equilibrium and quiet his breaths. But there were still spots of color on the boy's cheeks, and the knife was held too tightly for fine work. "Why'd you have to go and say that in front of Malfoy anyway?"
Severus smiled to himself. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"You told him I was injured. You told him I needed to be put back together. Now he knows stuff he that, that he has no right to!"
"I did no such thing."
"Well, you yelled it in front of him. Same difference."
"Mr. Potter. I do not appreciate your tone of voice."
Another twitch, and the shoulders hitched higher. Then a soft, "I'm sorry, sir."
Severus stared at the boy's back for several long minutes, letting the boy get his breathing under control again. Then, in an equally quiet voice, he said, "Draco Malfoy will use any weapons at his disposal in his interactions with others. You would do well to remember that, and that I did not play favorites."
The silence went on far longer this time, and the boy's shoulders relaxed, only to twitch again as Severus moved back a few paces. His startle reflex was rather well honed, for someone who was only terrorized at school as he claimed. There was quite a lot more to this situation, and Severus planned to get to the bottom of it.
Despite his careful scrutiny, and what he thought the silence meant, he was very surprised when the Brat said, almost too quietly to hear, "But I wouldn't use a weapon like that against him."
Severus took a moment to recover from this admission, then sneered at the Brat Who Lived to Confound Expectations. "Then he will always have you at a disadvantage, Potter."
When the boy sighed and made as if to turn around at last, Severus growled, "Get to work! Those flobberworms won't cut themselves."
Later, he had to admit – though he was sorely tempted not to – that he hadn't seen worms diced so well by a student in years.
The next day was the first Potions class with the Brat and the rest of the first year Slytherins. Severus was prepared for anything. Every year, against Severus' explicit requests, Albus grouped the Gryffindors and Slytherins together. It was all he could do not to howl in frustration. The combined Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class was, frankly, dull by comparison.
But this group . . . he had to watch them more closely than any other class. Untrained and prone to taunts and tricks, they were forty times more likely to blow up his classroom. He swept in, scowling, and set the tone immediately, his voice pitched so they could only hear him if they were perfectly still, with a hint of wonder, and a hint of madness, in it.
They all watched him, enraptured, as he went through his introduction, promised them glory, beauty, a stopper for death, if only they would apply themselves . . . all of them watching and waiting, eager young dunderheads that they were.
Abruptly, he began taking roll. He paused only once, at, "Harry Potter," letting the syllables linger in the air. "Our new . . . celebrity," he intoned, watching the Brat's expression carefully. Potter's head came up, eyes narrowed. Beside him, to Severus' surprise, Theodore Nott stiffened, his own gaze piercing. Severus suppressed a smile. Seemed Potter had a fan club already. Time to find out for certain, who he could count on.