The mediwitch thought about it for a moment, looking perplexed, before shaking her head. "Not that I can recall. He seemed perfectly normal in himself. Why? Is he unwell?"
"I am unsure. His behaviour towards me is strange, at best. He refuses to engage with me, and it is all he can do to make eye contact. He also appears… jittery in my presence," he told her.
"Well, he wouldn't be the first child, would he?" she chuckled.
Snape did not see the funny side, and simply stared at her, unimpressed.
"Oh come now, Severus. Don't look at me like that. I am a mediwitch with no children of my own, you've come to the wrong person for advice I'm afraid," she said.
"You spend every waking moment of your day with children," the potions master countered, as if trying to justify his choice.
"As do you," she pointed out.
A silence followed, before she spoke again.
"I'm sorry, Severus, but I can't claim to be an expert on the inner workings of the mind of a twelve year old boy. However, there is one remedial avenue that comes to mind."
"Yes?" he asked.
Leaning closer to him, Pomfrey gave him a sharp pat on the arm. "You might try talking to him."
Snatching his arm away, Snape simply glared at her, but before he could come up with any form of cutting response, there was a commotion behind him.
Turning around, he saw a group of three second year Hufflepuff boys had appeared at the entrance to the infirmary. The first, whom he recognised as Zacharias Smith, had blood pouring from his nose and was being held up by another boy, whose name escaped him. Behind them, Ernie Macmillan stood, holding onto the group's broomsticks.
"Madame Pomfrey!" the nameless boy cried.
"What on earth?" she demanded, pushing past Severus and gesturing to the nearest bed. "Get him on here. What happened?"
"We were at Quidditch practice," the boy explained, once Zacharias was slumped down on the bed. "He… he got into a fight, and he got hit, right in the nose!"
"So I can see," Pomfrey snapped, taking hold of Zacharias' head and pulling it upwards. "Keep it tilted backwards or it'll never stop bleeding. I take it you came off worse, Smith? Who was the assailant?"
There was a pause, in which the boy seemed reluctant to respond.
"Well?" Pomfrey demanded.
Suddenly, Ernie piped up – timid, but clear enough.
"It was Harry. Harry Potter."