Harry awoke on Monday morning with a renewed sense of energy.

The week hadn’t been to horrible, with the exception, of course, of Occlumency lessons with Snape, but not even those could put a damper on his mood. He had no homework, Quidditch practice (the second match against Slytherin was coming up in two weeks), and Ron and Hermione hadn’t bickered once since Saturday. That, Harry thought, was quite an accomplishment.

"Blimey, what time is it?"

From across the room, Ron stirred in his bed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Six," Harry answered simply, rummaging through his trunk for fresh trousers and a clean shirt. "And hurry up. I’m starved."

"It’s about time." Hermione was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips. "I’ve been up for ages. Parvati’s mum sent post that her cat drowned, so she’s been sobbing all night, and I don’t think she’ll let up for a while . . . ."

Harry sighed contentedly, walking between Ron and Hermione, not really listening to her. He had Occlumency again, and Snape was in worse mood than ever after their last visit together. It seemed he really didn’t appreciate being called a coward, for every paper Harry turned in since had been emblazoned with a spiky, black ‘D’, with the words ‘seeing as how I do not care who dies, I suppose I also don’t mind who fails’, scrawled across the top.

"Oh look!" Hermione gasped, pointing at something across the Great Hall. Harry and Ron turned in unison, mouths dropping open wordlessly.

Lupin was sitting at the end of the table, his face freshly marred with scratches, engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Snape. But that wasn’t the cause of all the commotion.

Behind them, a shame-faced Draco Malfoy was standing with his head bowed, obviously trying to hide something on his face. It was all Harry could do to keep from bursting into laughter at the sight of Malfoy’s face covered with bright red pimples.

"Finally got what he deserved, has he?" Ron sniffed approvingly, helping himself to kippers and toast.

"I wonder what happened to his face." Hermione glanced anxiously at the Staff Table, frowning before adding hurriedly, "it’s not like that, Harry! It’s just curious. He didn’t look like that yesterday."

Harry glared at his toast, stabbing the butter knife through it with such force that it clinked against his plate, leaving a sizable dent. What did it matter if Malfoy got uglier? He tore into his eggs, chewing furiously. The feeling of euphoria he’d had waking up was gone, leaving him with a cold, gnawing anger that refused to subside. What was Malfoy doing that he got his whole face marked up? It was not likely to be a mistake of his own.

"Transfiguration today," Hermione remarked, studying her time-table.

"Bully," said Harry and Ron simultaneously.

Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to her oatmeal, deeply immersed in an essay she’d written for Arithmancy.

"Morning."

Ginny dropped onto the bench between Harry and Ron, glumly pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice.

"What’s wrong with you?" Ron asked, not really paying attention. Harry found his heart was beating at least twice normal speed. What was wrong with him? It was just Ginny.

"Potions," she bit out, grimacing, as though it explained everything.

Ron nodded knowingly, looking pleased. "Glad I’m not taking it anymore, dunno if I could have lasted another year with that greasy git."

This time, Harry knew it was not Ginny Weasley making his stomach lurch.

O O O

"Come in, Harry."

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, looking grave. He peered at Harry from over steepled fingers, frowning thoughtfully. "Please, have a seat. Thee is much I wish to discuss with you."

"About Voldemort?" Harry asked, sitting. His green eyes were wide and curious.

"No, not tonight," Dumbledore sighed. "Professor Snape tells me you are not making much progress in Occlumency."

Brilliant. Not only did he have to slave through the bloody lessons, but now he was going to be lectured on it as well. What was Snape playing at telling Dumbledore? Did he somehow think it would inspire Harry’s worn-out brain to actually hold on to something?

"No, sir," he said evenly, staring at his knees.

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. "I was almost certain that after last year you would understand the importance of these lessons, Harry. I was certain you would try."

Harry could feel a monster growing in his chest, filled with stress form the past weeks. He hadn’t asked for any of this, had he?

"I can’t learn anything if Snape doesn’t teach me," he blurted out, flushed. "He’s always shouting. I mean, how can I clear my head when he’s telling me what an idiot I am?"

The room was silent, broken only by a small coo from Fawkes. "Professor Snape, Harry," corrected Dumbledore; his blue eyes had lost their twinkle. "I need you to promise me that you will practice Occlumency outside of your lessons with Professor Snape; it is of the utmost importance. I have many things to show you, about your mother, and everything that happened, but it would not be wise to share such valuable and dangerous information with a vulnerable mind."

"Well, if Snape (he could be a bloody janitor for all I care, professor) would actually teach me something, I’d—"

"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted, waving a hand for silence. Harry fell quiet, his lips thin. "There is a wise saying I was told by my brother Aberforth once (I think he read it on the back of a fortune cookie . . .); it said not to spite those who do better than us, but to set them as an example, and to strive for the same level of excellence that they do.—No, before you interrupt—Professor Snape takes Occlumency very seriously. He has to, for the sake of his life and everyone around him. He expects the same respect for his subject from you, and, it is my belief, that he is sorely disappointed by your lack of concern."

"He’s sorely disappointed that I’m his enemy’s son," Harry pointed out bluntly, and, in response to Dumbledore’s knowing look, added, "It’s taking a while to let on, you know, the whole blood thing."

Dumbledore tapped his chin, regarding Harry for a moment. "Christmas holidays are coming closer, Harry."

"I know."

"And you will be spending them with Professor Snape at his home."

"I know."

"Perhaps it would be prudent for you to at least try to pretend to respect him. I don’t expect you two to suddenly create a loving relationship, but feigned respect can take you a long way."

"You want me to like Snape," Harry repeated, his eyebrows knitted.

"Professor Snape, Harry, and I am asking nothing of the sort. I am old, but my mind is still intact." He smiled, popping a lemon drop into his mouth. "But blatant disrespect makes it difficult for Professor Snape to teach you anything. All I expect of you is to be respectful and polite, as you are to everyone else. Put hatred aside for a moment, if only to learn."

"I will if he does," Harry countered, defiant as always.

The Headmaster sighed. "If you can prove to me that by the end of the Christmas holidays, you have mastered enough Occlumency to satisfy both me and Professor Snape, then I will show you something very important, something that will answer a lot of your questions."

"You said you told me everything last year," accused Harry.

"I did. I told you everything you needed to know about Lord Voldemort and the prophecy, however, there are other details that I promised your mother I would wait to share. I will, but you must first try your hardest to learn Occlumency. Do you understand, Harry?"

"Alright," he agreed, reluctantly. "But make him respect me as well."

For the first time that night, Dumbledore allowed himself a full grin.

"Done."

O O O

"Enter."

Snape glanced up from a large stack of papers, his quill poised over an essay on sleeping droughts.

"Sit down, Potter. We will begin in a moment."

Harry dropped unceremoniously into a hard-backed chair, his hair flopping. Try as he might, Dumbledore hadn’t been able to fully restore the electric energy that kept Harry’s hair sticking straight up. As a result, his hair was limper, needed to be washed more often, but all-together likable. Quite a few girls seemed to have noticed as well, for they flocked around him more than ever now.

"Pitiful," Snape murmured. "Potter, did you even read the assigned chapter on unicorn horns?"

There it was again, that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Dumbledore’s agreement and fought back a smart answer. "No, er, sir." Sweet Merlin, this was harder than he thought it would be.

"Clearly," Snape scoffed. "Stand up, Potter, and let’s begin."

There was a mad glint in his eye that Harry didn’t like at all.

"Let’s see if you practice Occlumency half as much as you study for my class—Legilimens!"

A four year-old Harry was watching as Dudley opened a new train set, Aunt Marge gushing about how much she knew ‘Diddykins’ would love it.

Eight year-old Harry was being locked in the cupboard, Uncle Vernon hissing about abnormal people.

Aunt Marge was calling his father a drunk, and he was blowing her up . . . .

"POTTER!"

Harry found himself on his knees, the cold stone floor grinding against his bones.

"Sorry, sorry, got distracted," he said hastily, brushing himself off.

Snape looked livid.

"There will be no room for distractions when you are facing the Dark Lord, Potter!"

"I know."

"You don’t know!"

"Look, can we just—"

"LEGILIMENS!"

Uncle Vernon finished off the last bar on Harry’s window, giving a satisfied grunt.

Clear your mind, Harry.

Dudley was screaming from inside the python’s massive tank.

Clear your mind.

I can’t.

Yes, you can, you fool. You’re not trying nearly as hard as you ought to.

Screwing up his face, Harry pushed back with all his might, concentrating hard on getting Snape ought of his mind.

Ron nodded knowingly, looking pleased. "Glad I’m not taking it anymore, dunno if I could have lasted another year with that greasy git."

His stomach lurched again.

Hurry up, you can do it! It’s like Imperius, and Moody made you throw that one off enough, didn’t he?

He pushed harder, focusing only on Snape, only on getting Snape out.

"It’s Snape! Snape’s after the Philosopher’s Stone!" Hermione paced, her eyes wild.

"Potter!"

Harry stood yet again, the feeling of fatigue and failure permeating his body doing nothing to lift his spirits.

"Do you celebrate Christmas, Potter?"

Well, that was certainly unexpected.

"Er, I s’pose so." Harry thought despondently of Uncle Vernon’s old socks and the tissues and coat hanger the Dursleys gave him. Did Snape even celebrate Christmas?

Snape’s face was dark, his black eyes narrowed, focused only on Harry. "If you do not show signs of improving, I will personally make sure that Christmas does not find its way into my home, Potter, and that would include all gifts and post from your precious fan club."

Harry gaped. Snape couldn’t do that, could he? He couldn’t take away Christmas. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him. Surely Dumbledore would have something to say about this.

But Dumbledore took Snape’s side, didn’t he?

"B-but . . ."

"No buts. I will personally ensure that you have the very worst Christmas of your life, Potter."

Harry’s eyes were wide, but angry and indigent at the same time. "That’ll be pretty hard to do, sir. I’ve had some really rotten ones."

"Don’t doubt me, boy."

And he didn’t. Not in the slightest.

"At least he didn’t chuck you out this time, mate." Ron gave him what he obviously meant to be a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"Wish he had," Harry grumbled, mounting his broomstick.

It felt good to be flying again. He felt comfortable flying, like he belonged there. It was the one thing that no one could take away from him, the feeling he got from flying. Not Dumbledore, or Snape, or his mum, or even his dad could ever take this. This was where he could let off all the steam he wanted and not care about rules or being tied down. From on his broomstick, he could look down, and the world seemed tiny, insignificant. Even Voldemort would only be a speck on the grass.

"Here they come!" Ron called, pointing down.

Harry looked, sighing as he lowered his broom the greet the team. "We’re playing a scrimmage today," he addressed them, swinging his leg over the broom handle. Ginny smiled from behind Katie, casting a pointed glare at the two beaters, a third year named Derrick Blaine, and fourth year named Jimmy Green.

"Katie and Dean on one team, Ginny on the other. The rest of you can, well, split yourselves up."

Dean snickered, giving Harry a light punch on the shoulder.

"Setting me against my girlfriend, Harry?"

Something in Harry wanted desperately to punch him, as hard as he could, square in the jaw, but he restrained, content by the annoyed look that passed over Ginny’s face.

"So, er, let’s begin?"

The game started off with Dean scoring on Ron, who missed the Quaffle by nearly six feet, while Ginny dodged a few bludgers, narrowly missing Katie, and shot over to the opposite goal, depositing the Quaffle neatly through the hoop.

"It’s alright, Ron! Keep at it!" Harry called, watching anxiously as Ron charged furiously after the Quaffle, swearing loudly as it flew through his outstretched fingers.

"Come on, Ron, you can do it!" Ginny darted past a bludger, and was just about to make another comment when she stopped dead, not noticing the bludger that narrowly missed the back of her head.

"Ginny, what are you playing at! That was a bludg—" Harry stopped, his green eyes round.

"What’s he doing here?" Ron whispered, flying up next to Harry.

"POTTER!"

The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team gathered protectively around their captain.

"POTTER, GET DOWN HERE, NOW!"

Harry gulped, lowering himself slowly. He would give anything for time to slow down. Ron hit the ground first, followed by Jimmy, Ginny, Dean, Katie, Derrick, and, lastly, Harry.

"Professor," Harry choked, clutching his Firebolt in white-knuckled grip.

"Come with me, Potter. Practice is over."

"You can’t do that!"

"Come on, professor!"

"But that’s not fair!"

The entire team followed Harry, grumbling, as they entered the castle.

"Go on, all of you."

They left, but not before Ginny could shoot Harry a concerned glance. His heart skipped a beat, and he would have been ecstatic, had the mood not been so serious.

Professor McGonagall was white-faced, her lips thin. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen her so angry before, not even when him and Ron had run Mr. Weasley’s flying car into the Whomping Willow in second year. Her hands trembled as they grasped his upper arm, the fabric of his robes tightening.

"Prefessor? What happened? I—"

"Silence, Potter." McGonagall steered him down the hall, her grip strong, cutting the circulation out of his arm.

They proceeded with silence, down the steps of the dungeon, and finally stopping in front of a door that Harry knew only too well.

"Severus, I’ve got him."

The door was pulled open, and Harry was dragged inside, swallowing hard as he was thrust bodily into the office, landing right in front of a furious Severus Snape.

"Potter," Snape greeted, his black eyes cold and empty. There was no order to sit down. The room remained silence, and the atmosphere was so thick, Harry swore he could have cut it with a knife.

"Tea, Severus?" McGonagall offered Snape a paperweight, transfiguring it into a steaming teapot. Snape shook his head, the manic look back in his eyes. She seemed unfazed, pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting at Snape’s desk.

Harry fought the urge to ask what the hell was going on, biting his lip so hard it broke the skin and started to bleed. No one else noticed.

Sipping her tea, McGonagall cast a disproving glare around the room, her eyes settling on a jar of pickled slugs. "I’ve told you, Severus, you really ought to redecorate. How you even work with those things floating around . . . ."

Snape dismissed her with a wave of his hand, his eyes boring into Harry.

"Mr. Potter," he said icily, and his eyes seemed to be on fire. "Do you know why you have been brought here?"

Harry shook his head, trying to fight the nervousness that threatened to take over his body. He shuddered, watching McGonagall out of the corner of his eye and wishing desperately to be in her place, sipping at a cup of tea and looking quite unfazed by it all. What was going on? Was he in trouble? For once, he couldn’t think of a single reason why. Harry had actually managed to stay out of mischief lately, as he was trying to stay on Dumbledore’s best side.

"You don’t, Potter? Are you positive? I am not foolish enough to tell you to use your brain, however," Snape paused, a smug look stealing his features. If anything, it made him even more unattractive than before.

Harry looked to McGonagall. Surely she would step in? He was in her house, after all. Wasn’t she supposed to stick up for him?

But she didn’t move. She sat, drinking tea, and staring, fixated, at a jar of crushed mice skulls. Harry wanted to chuck the jar at her, or Snape. He didn’t know which one was being more infuriating at the moment.

"Minerva, if you would," said Snape, nodding to the door. Taking the hint, McGonagall stood and strode out.

Harry watched, horrified, as the only witness he would have to what was looking t become a horrible scene walked out.

"Professor, wait! What’s all this—"

"Silence, Potter."

Snape waved his wand absently, and the door snapped shut behind them.

"We need no witnesses to this. It wouldn’t be safe."

Harry gulped. Here it was. He was going to be force-fed Throat-Constricting potion, or hexed, or splinched, or something equally as unpleasant, and probably all for breaching some ridiculous rule he hadn’t even known existed.

"Professor, I—"

"Did I not tell you to be silent?" Snape demanded, glancing at the fireplace. "They should be here at any moment," he muttered to himself.

Harry gave him a curious look, but leapt back, when, a moment later, Dumbledore and Lupin stepped out of the fireplace. They straightened, brushing soot from their robes, before moving toward Snape and Harry, looking grave.

"Harry," Lupin offered a small nod, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, Harry, it appears we must act quicker than I thought," Dumbledore said, looking slightly disconcerted.

Harry gaped at him, not sure what to make of it all. Why were they standing around Snape’s office, looking grim? Why wasn’t anyone telling him what was going on?

"Professor, I—" he began again, but was cut off by Snape.

"I said silence, Potter!" The man hissed.

"Now, now, Severus, Harry is merely curious, and he has every right to be," Dumbledore chastised. Harry nodded in agreement, pleased to see that snape had paled.

"I know this has all been very confusing for you, Harry," Lupin began, placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.

He pulled away.

"I want to know what’s going on."

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes regaining their twinkle for a brief moment. "And so you shall, Harry, and so you shall."

"Wha—"

"Severus."

Snape glanced disdainfully at the Gryffindor boy, still clad in his bright red and gold Gryffindor Quidditch robes. Harry felt as though he was shrinking under the man’s frosty gaze, and it wasn’t pleasant.

The room was absolutely silent.

To his left, Harry could plainly see a pair of shrunken heads, their faces contorted in agony. For some strange reason, they reminded him of Snape’s face on the night Harry called him a coward.

"It seems, Potter," he aid softly, stroking the wood of his wand with his thumb. Harry shuddered involuntarily, his body suddenly cold. The room was getting smaller. He fought to keep hold of it, trying to focus on Snape. Lupin’s hand was icy, feeling more like a claw than a fatherly splay of affection and comfort.

"It seems, Potter, that Christmas has come early."