Shoulder Pillow

Chapter 11: A Dance In The Rain

 Detention was, to say the least, getting on Harry's nerves. Snape had him doing the most menial tasks for hours on end: cleaning every nook and cranny of his classroom, sanitizing beakers, organizing the materials closets. That was only Monday. Tuesday had Harry scanning every classroom textbook and erasing any pencil marks students had left behind. Wednesday didn't bother him as much, Snape had told him to assist Professor Sprout—the botany professor—with repotting the plants that had outgrown their pots. If it weren't for the slightly irritating opera music Sprout insisted on listening to, he might've almost enjoyed himself.

Thursday and Friday afternoon had been washing the chalkboards in every classroom throughout the school. Every. Single. Classroom. Luckily for Harry, he'd worked quickly and Snape had let him go earlier than he'd previously said. However, Snape hadn't let him leave without spouting a few choice comments about Harry's father, the same as he had done every detention this week.

This had been a recurring thing throughout his entire life. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon—Harry's relatives that had raised him, with his cousin Dudley, for the first thirteen years of his life—had drilled into him how horrible James and Lily had been, how they were good-for-nothing wastes of space. Harry had always had to keep his doubts about this to himself. Any outward rebuttal of their judgments was not met kindly. His disbelief had been held in for so many years, it had become twisted and ferocious, a new concoction of rage and grief that drove him to tears at the thought of what his life might have been like if they'd lived to raise him themselves.

But then he'd come to Hogwarts, and everything was so much different. Everyone told Harry how amazing his parents had been; his father was a bit of a rebel, always living in the grey area and causing mischief in his wake. And then James had fallen for Lily, the straight-A student who was kind to everyone. He was told of how in love they were, how they were perfect for each other in every way. Professor McGonagall had told him that after they graduated, his father worked with the government, and his mother had been attending medical school to become a nurse—until they'd had Harry and she'd had to put her studies on hold to take care of him.

Only Professor Snape had ruined his sanctuary for learning about his parents. The first time Harry had entered his classroom, he'd been eleven and had left red-faced and thoroughly humiliated. Snape had practically drug James Potter's name through the mud, trashing whatever image of his father Harry had managed to create on such little information. He'd felt surer than ever that his aunt and uncle were right about his parents.

But that had been before Harry met his godfather, Sirius. The man had been falsely accused and convicted of Peter Pettigrew's murder and imprisoned for twelve years, depriving him of the chance to raise Harry as James and Lily had wanted. Pettigrew was found when Harry was thirteen, and his godfather had been released. Their first meeting had been full of tears and slightly awkward hugs and promises that Sirius would find a way to get Harry away from his aunt and uncle and into his custody—if that was what Harry wanted. Six months later, Harry had moved into Number 12 Grimmauld Place with Sirius. Almost immediately he'd started asking for stories about his parents, and he knew for certain that the horrible things Snape and his relatives said about his father weren't true.

But that didn't mean the words didn't make his blood boil. He hated them with everything he was worth. He hated that he couldn't know for sure what his parents were like, hated that he didn't have a single memory of them.

Now, Friday evening, Harry was finishing wrapping his hands in the weight room. The punching bag in the corner was looking particularly punchable. His vision was tinged red, his jaw clenched so tightly he was sure his teeth would crumble with the pressure. With every swing at the bag he let out a sharp breath, Snape's words repeated in his head, screaming and tearing at his insides.