Detention. Harry hated that word. Especially when uttered by the greasy haired 'professor' Snape. Those were always so very pleasant. Yes, about as pleasant as that boil on Aunt Marge's bum, Harry thought bitterly. His hands were burning from having to sort out unidentified parts of dead animals into three separate bins. One for rotten, one for useable, and one for the ones he was unsure of. Thankfully, he was nearly finished.
Glancing around himself, he cursed the dark dungeons under his breath. He truly detested them. Looking up, his green eyes settled on the Potion's Master, who sat at his desk with a quill in hand. It seemed to Harry he was grading papers; he could see little splotches of red ink flying at how fast the quill was swirling across each page. Eager to wash his hands of the foul, sticky, burning liquid that stuck to his hands, he cleared his throat. The man didn't look up at him, but he spoke anyway.
"I'm done now, Professor. Can I go now?" He waited, watching the man who continued to ignore him, reading the next essay in his pile, drops of red ink flying as he graded it. Pressing his lips together in annoyance, he glanced around himself again, searching for the time. Finding no clock to read such from, he turned his gaze back to the man in front of him. "Professor?" he called again, a little louder. When the man still did not look up, he growled under his breath and exclaimed louder, "Professor!"
Finally, the man slowly looked up at him, his dark eyes seeming to be swirling in anger, though it did nothing to frighten the boy. Setting his quill down, he slowly rose from his chair to make his way over to Harry, with the same deliberate slowness he used when ignoring the boy. He could basically feel the boy's anger rolling off of him in waves, and made the mistake of looking up into his eyes. As soon as they made eyes contact, it wasn't Harry that sat before him in his dungeon; instead, it was his mother, glaring up at him with anger swirling in her brilliant green eyes, her mouth turned down in frustration.
Tearing his eyes away, he took a deep breath while looking around his dungeon again. Glancing back over, he eyed the teen up and down, but did not meet his gaze. Yes, most definitely it was Harry, not Lily that sat before him. Never would he ever forget the scent she always carried, like a gentle breeze on the wind. Even when they were surrounded by the heavy scent of numerous potions, he could always make out her gentle scent. The boy that sat before him was undoubtably her child; he could still smell him, even over the potions. While it was not an unpleasant scent, it was not what he seeked.
Looking down at the bins, he scowled. "Mr. Potter?" The boy looked up at him with a quirked eyebrow, a scowl dancing at his lips. Gesturing to the third bin, he said, "Why is there hearts, toes, and livers in this bin?" Following his gaze, the teen peered into the bin before looking up at him with a look that clearly insulted his intelligence.
"You told me to put the ones I wasn't sure of into that bin," the tone he used was similar to that used on an especially slow student, and grated on the Potion Master's nerves.
"Yes, but only for the time being. You were to go back and reexamine them, then properly sort them." The teen openly scowled at him, his emerald eyes narrowing into a glare.
"How the bloody hell am I supposed to tell when I couldn't tell the first time?" he deamnded, fury building at the back of his throat.
Giving a condescending smirk, the man sneered at him, "Smell them again, obviously." With that, he whirled away, he robes following him with a light 'woosh' sound. Growling under his breath, Harry began to smell the organs again, grimacing each time the smell hit his nose, especially as he had to continue to smell them; he wasn't quite sure about any of them. Eventually he just decided which it smelt closest to and threw them into the buckets.
Returning to his desk, Snape regarded the boy carefully, tilting his head so Harry wouldn't be able to tell Snape was watching him. There was something different, something off about the boy. Not only was he treating his friends differently, but he was holding himself different. He still had the Gryffindor pride shining through his being, but there seemed to be... dare he say it... Slytherin spark in his eyes? He wasn't as loud, as boisterous, and seemed to be hiding something. He had been hissing under his breath the entire time, not as though he was speaking to someone, but as though using the snake language had become so natural for him he talked to himself in the tongue.
