jharad17 - Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

"Excellent. We'll have you work on that then, dear, and learning other letters today, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good, good." She placed a piece of parchment, which was finer and smoother than any paper, in front of him, along with a small, stoppered bottle of ink and a feathery quill. She did the same for Ginny and Ron, giving them instructions on what they were supposed to write, and then went to the twins' table. They were fiddling with something that vanished in a flash of green and gold when she reached their table.

Harry watched as first one boy then the other grew red about the neck as Mrs. Weasley leaned over to speak to them quietly, and he wondered if she was scolding them. He thought maybe she was, when both of them said, "Sorry, Mum," at the same time, before she handed them parchment, too. "You two will write an essay about the potions ingredients you learned about today. Half a foot. Each. Let me know if you need books to do added research."

"Yes, Mum," said George.

"Whatever you say," added Fred.

"I'm sure," Mrs. Weasley said with a fond smile. "Now get started. The sooner you're done, the sooner we can all go back outside." She glanced at the second table, and Ron and Ginny, and then Harry, who had yet to open his ink bottle.

"Harry dear," she said. "Do you need help?"

What should he say? Father had told him a few times that he was there to help Harry, but Father wasn't here now. And in school, teachers were meant to help the students, weren't they? But the teachers at Harry's old school had not really helped him. They had called him uncooperative, and easily distractible, and Aunt Petunia said he was just stupid and lazy, and didn't deserve help.

"No, ma'am," he lied. "I'm fine."

"But you have not started yet. Do you want me to open the ink bottle for you?"

If he said yes, and then she refused, he would feel even stupider. But if he said no, he would have to open it himself, and the last time he'd done so, he had spilled the ink everywhere. Father had made the mess disappear in a trice, but would Mrs. Weasley do the same, or would she make Harry clean it? And he would still be stupid. Hesitantly, he said, "Yes, please, ma'am."

Beside him, Ron made a soft laughing sound, and Harry felt his face get hot. He should have said no, and then just done the cleaning afterwards. But Mrs. Weasley didn't laugh, or tell him, "tough luck," like Uncle Vernon would have, and she removed the stopper easily, without spilling a drop.

"There you are, dear. Now, put your name on the top of the sheet, if you would, and then we'll see what other letters you know."

Harry nodded, and slid the bottle closer, so it was within easier reach. "Yes, ma'am." He picked up the quill, and dipped it in the bottle, then, when drawing it out, scraped it lightly across the top of the bottle like Father had shown him, ending with a tiny tap. He brought the quill over to parchment, and tried writing his name, but the ink dropped in large, black blobs, and he ran out of ink to actually write with halfway through his "H". He repeated the dip, scrape, tap and brought the quill back to the parchment, but had the same trouble again.

Frustrated, he left off the tap at the end of his third try, but this time he dripped ink on the table as well as the parchment. He knew better than to ask for help, though, and so just tried again. And again. And again.

Now he had a parchment covered with black splotches, making it look like a spotted dog, and his hands were wet with smeared ink, and all he had written was H-A-R and half of a second R. His throat was aching, and his eyes were burning, but he would not cry . Tears never helped anything.

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley's voice came from right beside him, and he jumped, almost oversetting the ink bottle. "Please let me help you."

Throat tight, he managed to nod, and just hoped she wouldn't laugh at him or call him stupid. She didn't, and though he could not look her in the face like he did with Father, since she had not given him permission, he could feel her gaze, and it didn't feel like she was angry. "First let's clean up your hands, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said softly, and she waved her wand and made the ink disappear, just like Father had. It didn't even feel sticky anymore. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're welcome, dear. Now, let's try something else—" Then she was leaning over his shoulder and reaching for his arm . . . and suddenly Aunt Petunia was grabbing for him because he had dropped the forks while setting the table, and she would smash his hand onto the hot stove burner and he could smell the meat of his hand burning and oh, god it hurt . . . and the jolt from the memory was so fierce that the boy scrambled away from the grasping hands, darted under the table and was running, running, till he reached the door, scrabbled at the knob, and was gone.

Before anyone else could move, a streak of white followed him through the door and disappeared, too.

TBC . . .

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A/N: I very much appreciate all your kind words of encouragement as I continue to have to work at the day job, leaving me precious little time to actually, you know, write , as I'm meant to. Hopefully, it will not go on for too much longer.

Yeah, a little bit of angst at the end of this chapter, 'cause, well, it can't be all fluffy bunnies and bakus. In the meantime, Treacle purrs for everyone!

*Chapter 11*: Chapter 11

Whelp II -- The Wrath of Snape

By jharad17

Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer:None of this is mine. Honest. She's rich, blond and British. I'm not.

A/N:I'm terribly sorry there's been such a delay getting this new chapter out, but with my work schedule of late . . . and several medical problems, it's been a challenge getting the time and energy to write. I will continue to try for at least one chapter a week, but please forgive me if I cannot maintain that schedule for a wee bit. Hopefully, circumstances will improve soon, and I can go back to my two-three updates a week routine. I enjoy that as much as I imagine my faithful readers do. :-)

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Previously:

" You're welcome, dear. Now, let's try something else—" Then she was leaning over his shoulder and reaching for his arm . . . and suddenly Aunt Petunia was grabbing for him because he had dropped the forks while setting the table, and she would smash his hand onto the hot stove burner and he could smell the meat of his hand burning and oh, god it hurt . . . and the jolt from the memory was so fierce that the boy scrambled away from the grasping hands, darted under the table and was running, running, till he reached the door, scrabbled at the knob, and was gone.

Before anyone else could move, a streak of white followed him through the door and disappeared, too.

Blindly, the boy raced through the castle. He barely noticed the classroom door behind him slamming open against the wall and Mrs. Weasley's plaintive, "Harry, come back!" He barely heard the voice of Filch as he stumbled past the man, and his growled, "Running in the halls, are we?" All he knew was he had to get away, and he had plenty of room to run, far more than one short hallway that led to a cupboard. Far more than the length of the backyard or a leash.

The sun glared in the boy's eyes as he reached outdoors, and kept running, racing all the way down the hill, and toward the trees, where he could get lost, and lose those who wanted to hurt him. He was The Boy, the Freak, and he would be punished if he did not escape.

His breaths were coming hard, and his lungs hurt and his hand, too, with remembered pain. His flight slowed as he neared the trees, and he realized how dark, how forbidding they looked. He had enough energy to jump and yelp, however, when a dog barked from just behind him.