Record

Severus Snape moved around the room, putting ingredients in their proper places while at the same time pulling down the supplies he would need that night. His lips curved into a small smirk, tinged with a twisted pleasure. Potter had stepped out of line again and this time, he had been given permission to oversee his detention. Placing an armful of ingredients on the large wooden work table, he moved a large knife next to it and then backed away, eyeing his selection critically. He had assembled a large assortment of the most revolting ingredients possible. He was planning on having Potter chopping and mixing until he was exhausted. It meant less work for him.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. Snape turned and saw Harry standing in the doorway, looking defiant and surly, as he usually did around the potions master. Snape's mouth curved into a cruel smirk once again.

"Potter. You're late."

"Sorry, sir," Harry said, not sounding sorry at all.

"I'm sure that you'd be more than willing to stay late to make it up. Get to work." He jerked his head in the direction of the table.

Harry brushed past him, defiance radiating from his body, but saying nothing. He picked up a jar of something foul and made a face.

"It won't kill you, Potter. Just roll up your sleeves and get to work," he snapped the words sharply. He moved across the work table from Harry, positioning himself in front of the caudron placed there.

Soon the only noises in the room were the sound of chopping and the bubbling of the cauldron. After adding the lacewing flies, Snape looked up to check on Harry's progress. Noting that the pieces that Harry was chopping were not small enough, he began to say as much when he stopped suddenly, his blood running cold.

Harry had rolled up the sleeves of his standard issue school uniform button-down. The sleeves bunched up just above his elbow, giving Snape a good view of his lower arms. A network of scars travelled the length of each limb. Some were the light white color of old scars. Still others had a pinkish tinge, betraying the fact they were newer. Low on his forearm, there was a series of bright red lines, neat and straight, lined up in almost perfect order. The scars glowed in the low light of the candles.

Snape made a strangled noise deep in his throat. The noise caused Harry to look up from his work and eye him strangely.

"Go. Just go!" was all he managed to choke out, his face tight and strained. Harry gave him another strange look, but sensed that this was no time to argue. Still keeping his eyes on Snape's face, he pushed his sleeves down, then turned and walked from the room.

Snape stood, rooted to the spot for a minute longer, and then sat slowly in a wooden chair near the table. Moving his hand underneath the long sleeves of his robes, his hands traced the long lines of scars hidden there. He closed his eyes, running his hands back and forth over the memories recorded there.