Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

4 | A Potter At Prince Manor

"No, I am not bitter, I am not hateful, and I am not unforgiving. I just don't like you."
C. Joybell C.

~~~

Harry collapsed on to his knees, choking against an sudden sense of vertigo. He felt as though every single atom in his body had been split apart and jumbled back together. He was fairly sure his stomach and liver had swapped places. And of course, that greasy git was smirking down at from his overly large hooked nose.

Bloody Apparition.

And bloody Snape with his natural gracefulness for just about everything.

Harry clutched his glasses to his face and remained on his knees until an insistent hand clamped onto his forearm. A set of fingers curled round his wrist to firmly pull him back to his feet. Harry swayed momentarily, before pulling away to absorb his surroundings with wide eyes, and scramble for his scattered possessions.

With an inpatient tut, the Potions Master walked on forward, un-Transfigured robes whipped by the wind in a ruthless pattern for Harry to follow.

The terrain was cruelly uneven, with stomach-churning dips that sent Harry to his knees, and mounds of dirt that left the youngest-seeker-in-a-century tripping over his own feet. And all the while Snape walked with that infuriating smoothness, indifferent to Harry's trials and tribulations with the topography.

In fact, the elder wizard seemed amused, judging by the shadow of a smirk Harry had seen when he'd managed to briefly catch up.

Merlin above, if someone gave him a Babbling Beverage right now, he'd probably end up with soap in his mouth for the rest of his life.

Bloody Snape and his bloody smirking —

Bloody ground and its bloody dips and pits—

Bloody mud and—oops— another dip had sent him to his knees—

Half an hour into their countryside jaunt, and Harry's knees were quite bruised, the pain worse in his right one from when Uncle Vernon had run into him with the car whilst he was watering the hydrangeas. Apparently Black & Decker's drill sales had been higher than Grunnings' last week, and that was all Harry's fault. Obviously.

He was at least blessed with small mercies, in the way the earth had finally flattened somewhat, and the violent winds had lessened to a lover-like zephyr, all soft and caressing as the sky was lit ablaze with the setting sun.

Only now he was walking almost right next to the Potions Master, and even a thunderstorm wouldn't have added much to the crackling awkwardness between them.

Well...seeing that only Voldemort could kill him, it wouldn't hurt much to try.

"Professor?"

Silence.

Well, that's wonderful.

But Harry wasn't known for being recklessly suicidal for nothing.

"Professor, where are we going?"

Snape sneered. "I'm afraid the Boy Who Lived will have to do without the privilege of knowing everything for the moment. Try again, Potter."

Would it kill Snape to go without insulting him for just one second? Probably.

"Is there anything you can tell me, Professor?" Respect wouldn't kill Harry, just make him wish someone would.