To his deep surprise, the boy obeyed without a word, practically running into the classroom. Severus scowled; he'd been hoping for an argument where he could assign another detention. Well, he would get it, he was sure, when the Brat started whining about how much there was to clean, or how hard it was to do, or how he never had to lift a finger before in his life, so why should he start now?
But minutes passed, as Severus continued to grade essays, and he heard nothing but the occasional running tap, and the more frequent sound of actual scrubbing. Minutes turned into hours, and when it was nearing ten o'clock, and he had finished with the second year essays and was most of the way through the third years, he rose and stretched out his aching back before going to check on the boy's progress. He would sleep well tonight, that was certain.
From where he stood in the classroom doorway, he could see ten perfectly cleaned cauldrons, some of them gleaming as much now as when he had first purchased them for the school, almost twelve years ago. To say he was surprised was an understatement. Of the last two, he knew that certain of the stains would never come out, not with magic, not with bleach, not with a sledgehammer. But the boy was still scrubbing at one of them, his hands red and blistered from the friction. He had an array of cleaning supplies lined up along the table and it seemed he was trying each one of them in turn on these last two cauldrons.
Severus watched him for long minutes, taking in the slightly hunched shoulders, the grim determination in the angle of his head, the obvious fatigue in his arms, which he was starting to shake out, frequently, as well as the stiffness on his legs from standing in one place for hours. Despite himself, Severus was impressed with the boy's stamina if nothing else.
He moved up behind the boy and watched him more closely still. The Brat was bony, his wrists small enough Severus could wrap index finger and thumb around one with room to spare. His little neck was scrawnier than a chicken's, and . . . was that a bruise on his inner arm, near the elbow? Likely from where he had grabbed the Brat early this morning. He felt a sharp pang of guilt, quickly suppressed; he did not believe in corporal punishment, having too often felt a heavy hand in his own youth, and he should not have let his emotions take him so completely by control this morning. Alas, there was little he could do for it now. It was probably just a residue of summer Bratly roughhousing, anyway. He sneered.
"That's enough. Dismissed."
The Brat spun around to find him only a foot or two away, and looked up, fear in his expressive green eyes. "But, sir, I wasn't able-"
"Are you still having trouble with simple instructions?" Severus snapped. Ah! The cheek, at last. He schooled his expression to keep his glee from showing. "I can give you another detention, if that's the case."
"No, sir. Sorry, sir." Once more, to Severus' surprise, the Brat quickly put away his cleaning supplies and hurried to the door
Severus watched him go, suddenly feeling his world go a little off kilter.
Instead of considering it further, however, he put the cauldrons away and went to finish the third year essays before returning to his own quarters. There he left the firewhiskey alone and settled down with a book. Still tired, though, he retired soon after. Though leaving the same monitoring charms up as the night before, he tightened the ones around the first year boys' dorm, as he expected to be roused by another Potter excursion, and wanted to know the minute the Brat was awake.
An alarm went off at five in the morning - at least the Brat had learned some decorum! - but he realized in moments that it was from the girls' dorm. He swore, got up and dressed, and sought out Miss Torrence to deal with it.
Afterwards, he decided he may have come down on the new Prefect a little hard, but that only meant that she, in turn, would make sure the miscreant in question thought twice before disturbing her Prefect's rest again. Before sending Torrence off to catch the culprit, he told her to assign a detention on his behalf for that evening.
He had just returned to his quarters when another damned alarm went off. First year boys! Potter! Growling not quite inaudibly, he spun on his heel and stalked back to the Snake Den to cut off the newest infraction at the nub. But Potter did not come out into the common room. Five minutes passed, then ten, and Severus was livid. How dare the Brat make him come down here again!
Filled with righteous indignation on behalf of his interrupted sleep, he strode into the boys' dorm and scanned the contents. Six sets of drawn curtains, and five beds where there was little to no movement. The last, however . . . had to be Potter's. He heard a muffled sound from behind that last set. What was the boy doing?
Almost afraid to find out, Severus crossed to that bed and wrenched back the curtains, to find a Brat curled up in a ball, with one hand pressed to his forehead and mumbling incoherencies. He was wearing only an overlarge worn and faded Muggle t-shirt, which covered him almost completely.
"What is the meaning of this?" Severus hissed, keeping his voice low for the benefit of those the Brat had not already woken.
The Brat's eyes flicked open, filled with palpable fear, and he shook his head. "Sorry, sir. I . . . I didn't mean to wake you, I'm sorry." His fingers pressed into the skin around where Severus was sure the famous scar lay, and Severus frowned at the livid piece of flesh, now standing out sharply on the boy's otherwise rather pale skin. Was it . . . bleeding?
"You've injured yourself," he said. "Move your hand."
"Sorry, sir," the Brat whispered as he complied, but he squeezed his eyes shut as if the lack of pressure on the scar increased the pain.
Severus peered at it clinically. It looked almost infected. But the blasted thing was ten years old! "Have you been picking at it, Potter?"
"No, sir. I, er . . ." The boy swallowed audibly. "I had a dream."
"A dream. You've mangled your forehead because of a dream?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, I didn't mangle it," the Brat amended. If anything, he looked even more terrified now. And miserable. But shouldn't he be pleased, that he was getting some attention? Isn't that what he wanted? The Brat continued in a whisper, not meeting his eyes anymore. "But it was a dream. And when I woke up, my scar already hurt."
Severus nodded, though he was certain the boy was lying. Well. There would be time enough to learn why exactly. "Detention tonight at 7, Potter. For lack of regulation pajamas."
The look of consternation upon the Brat's face carried him cheerfully through breakfast.