One potion was for pain-relief to be applied directly to his scar, and Harry hated it with a passion. Ron, Riddle ... either way around ... then this fucking despised, but essentially necessary potion. It went in that order in the bitter parts of Harry's mind. He found a fresh pippet in the drawer, and began pinging droplets of the potion over his face and into the hollow of his empty, dark-with-dried blood eye-socket, thrashing and hissing as each drop seared against his tender flesh. The pain was sheer enough to send a single tear trickling from his good eye.