"C'mon, Harry! It's Friday! Then the weekends here, then we're home!" Rolling his eyes, Harry turned to the potions classroom and sighed. Turning on the class, their delightful potions master proclaimed "Instructions are on the board. You will make a calming drought. I trust you are all literate? Get on with it, then!" Harry went for the ingredients, avoiding Malfoy's outstretched foot, while the water in his cauldron simmered. He was actually fairly competent at potions, but not a lesson went by when Malfoy didn't add something to his potion or switch the instructions so that everyone got it wrong. The greasy bat just turned a blind eye. This time, however, Malfoy's alteration was somewhat… explosive. Draco hadn't bothered to look at what he was about to toss in, and realised it was crushed beetle eyes. "Shit" the Malfoy heir muttered, and yelled "Duck, Harry!" With instincts ingrained from both war and the Dursley's abuse, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Tormented-By-Slytherins complied.
While the violently purple concoction settled on the desk, the potions master swept towards him with a billow of black robes. "Detention, Mr. Potter" he hissed, clearing the mess with a lazy twirl of his wand. Hermione began to protest, saying "But sir, it was Malfoy! He put" "I know what was added to the cauldron, miss Granger. I also believe that it was Mr. Potter's mistake. Unless you would like to incur a significant point loss for your house, I suggest you end your protesting." Every Gryffindor in the room glared at Snape. If looks could kill, the professor would have dropped dead instantly. Unfortunately for them, he didn't.

A short while later, Harry stalked angrily toward the dungeons. How would the first class git explain the detention this time? Everyone from Hogsmeade to kingdom come knew it was Malfoy's fault that the potion exploded, so why was he being punished? The dungeon door woke him from his reverie, and he knocked a little harder than strictly necessary. After an eternity or three, the silky voice he despised declared "Enter". He strode in with a defiant air and faced his professor.
Looking the bastard in the eye, he ground out "How many cauldrons this time, sir", lacing it with as much sarcasm as humanly possible. "I believe 15 should be sufficient, Mr. Potter, don't you?" was the smooth reply that the professor deigned to bestow upon the not so repentant Potter Brat. Spinning on his heel with a flair Snape himself would be proud of, The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Hate-Potions strode to the sink and began his task, tuning out the bat's steady stream of insults. He was used to the general theme of rants, and was also far too aware that by ignoring the insults, the volume of them would increase steadily until Severus snapped and either gave up or started examining the cauldrons in a desperate attempt to find fault and give the long suffering saviour yet another detention and some heavy point loss, much to Harry's chagrin.

Snape, however, was not putting his whole heart into his traditional lecture, not even registering that his rant was being steadfastly ignored.. He was instead, rather curious. Firstly, at how the child could replicate his mannerisms so accurately- That twirl had taken him years to perfect. However, Harry's obvious ease at the repulsive task also triggered some level of confusion. Why wasn't he flinching at the scalding water, the cauldrons, or the caustic cleaner? Most students put on gloves after they realised how strong the stuff was. He'd never noticed that the 14 year old never wore them, but upon reflection, the potions master realised that the little dunderhead hadn't done so once in all his time there. Moreover, how in the hell was the Potter Brat getting them done so efficiently? Nobody, not even the most seasoned detentionee, had managed 5 cauldrons spotless in 5 minutes. Severus decided that washing up must be the boy's only chore at home, pampered prince that he was. They obviously decided anything more strenuous was too much for their delicate little saviour, he concluded, refusing to even consider any alternative explanation for the dunderhead's familiarity with the the repulsive task he had been set.

By the tenth cauldron, Harry was a little bored. It was no more difficult than Aunt Petunia's usual pans, bar the lack of handle, and he had already performed the git's favourite detention task on numerous occasions. Even the cleaner wasn't as strong as the bleach Petunia made him use. So, Harry decided to listen to the insults, as they'd give him something to focus on other than his Aunt. He wasn't expecting "pampered little prince" though, and let out a harsh snort without realising. "Something amusing to you, Mr. Potter?" murmured Snape, dangerously. "I'm as far from pampered, Professor, as one can get" thought Harry, appreciating the sheer irony of the situation. But he remained silent, merely seething beneath an impassionate mask. "Honestly, boy, I enjoy a joke as much as the next twit. Care to inform me what was quite so droll about my speech?" Inwardly, Harry cringed at the use of the term "boy", as it was all too reminiscent of Uncle Vernon's speeches, leave alone feeling utterly demeaning. However, Harry merely quirked an eyebrow in a manner eerily reminiscent of Severus' own trademark expression, and turned back to his cauldrons, proud he hadn't flinched at Snape's obvious anger. It was the last day before the holidays, he thought. Not quite as reassuring a thought as it should be, but something to cling to none-the-less. If only he knew how interesting the holiday could, and would, turn out to be.