Neither of them spoke for a very long time; Harry, his face immobile with shock, had fallen into the chair in front of Snape’s desk, his head buried in his hands. Snape, who was still standing, hadn’t said a thing; and was instead enjoying himself by watching Harry’s reaction. Finally he moved, and, hearing the chair creak as Snape sat down, Harry finally raised his head to face him.

“I won’t…I won’t…” Harry’s voice was fraught, strained in the semi-darkness as he struggled to see away of avoiding what was to follow. Snape simply smiled.

“I’m afraid you haven’t much choice in the matter.” The dark light of the dungeon seemed to be shimmer, as Harry avoided Snape’s eyes. Maybe he could fight it he thought; didn’t these sorts of things need eye contact to work? No this was different Harry told himself, his eyes once again returning to Snape’s cold, black stare; there was nothing he could do.

“Why?” Harry asked, searching his face for the answer before his lips moved. Yet Snape’s face was frozen, strangely white and luminous in the darkness. “I haven’t done anything wrong; I haven’t stolen anything or been anywhere I shouldn’t…”

“You’re intellect is truly dazzling.” Snape’s voice was rich with sarcasm as he swept the greasy strands of hair that had fallen in front of his face, out of his eyes. “It would not even occur to you that this is your punishment.”

For a moment, Harry’s mind whirred with confusion, as he struggled to process just exactly what Snape was saying. Telling the truth was his punishment…telling the truth was his punishment…

“Now, why don’t we start with a few control questions.” Snape picked up a long, black quill and dipped it into a pot of violet ink. Harry bit down hard on his bottom lip as if it would physically stop him from answering. “Even someone as experienced as I can sometimes miscalculate the amount of Veritaserum required for absolute honesty.”

Harry tried to close off his ears, to not hear the question that Snape was about to ask. Yet something very close to relief washed over Harry as Snape asked, “Are you Harry Potter?”

With laughter repressed behind his voice, Harry’s green eyes sparkled as the fear of Snape and his Veritaserum left him.

“Yes,” Harry replied. He watched as Snape marked the parchment in front of him without taking his eyes off Harry. He seemed to be reading his reactions, making note of the humour he was feeling, and how this humour only increased when Snape asked, “And are you previously a resident of number four, Privet Drive?”

“Yes,” Harry answered without hesitation, momentarily confident that this was the worst Snape had in store. Yet, deep down inside, Harry knew that the worse was yet to come, as once again Snape scrawled something Harry couldn’t read across the parchment.

“Well it seems that enough Veritaserum has been administered.” Snape moved his hand, leaving the quill hovering in mid air, and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. Silently, Harry waited, his breath ragged with anticipation. In his mind Harry thought of all the questions that Snape would want to ask; of all the horribly private things he might try to uncover, yet his stomach lurched as Snape’s hard voice broke the quiet that had descended.

“Now Potter, I want you to tell me just exactly what you remember of the night your parents died.”

Inside, Harry was screaming. Snape’s face was perfectly still as he watched Harry shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the question that was ringing in his ears. His heart thudded beneath his rib cage, sending blood which was hot with hatred burning to his cheeks. Out of all the things Harry had expected Snape to ask, this had not been one of them. Yet suddenly, as Harry raised his eyes from the desk in front of him to meet Snape’s mocking gaze, the truth of the matter became horribly clear. This is what he had meant by the truth being his punishment. He was going to make Harry relive the horrors that he hardly remembered; telling him all of his darkest fears about what had happened to his parents that night.

For a moment, Snape looked disappointed, as he waited patiently for the Veritaserum to take affect. Harry could already feel it working, slipping through his veins, loosening his tongue. With narrowed eyes, he repeated his question, his voice dragging over every word, making it completely clear what was being asked.

“I can’t really remember anything.” It was almost as if Harry was outside his body, watching himself talking to Snape in another lifetime, a hundred years from now. Stop it! He willed himself to conquer it, to stop his head from swimming and his lips longing to form the words. Yet it was impossible, and as he dug his nails into the wood of the arm rest, he winced as he continued to speak. “I can only feel things…emotions…the way I felt that night…”

Snape’s lips barely moved as he asked, “And what was it you felt?”

“Fear,” Harry’s voice wavered, as his mind seemed to unhinge and embrace the very darkest feelings which had been hidden for so long. “I remember crying…or I heard crying…I…I think it was me.”

It was then Snape smiled, thin and malicious, before writing something rapidly across the page. “Tell me, what do you remember of your father?”

Harry hissed venomously at Snape’s question, his skin seemed on fire somewhere just beneath the surface. Yet his tongue was as light as a feather as he replied, “I don’t remember anything…well…” Harry’s hesitation caused Snape to lean forward in his chair, his hand leaving the quill once again motionless in the air. Harry tried to turn his face away, to hide the honesty for just a moment longer. Yet with a voice that was tight with emotion, Harry heard himself say, “I remember him shouting.” Harry closed his eyes tightly, shutting out Snape and the shimmering lights. “I hear him shouting up the stairs…shouting down from below…something was coming through the door.”

“Ah,” Snape exhaled almost lovingly. Harry winced, bringing his hand up to his forehead to caress his burning scar. He could hear a voice that was most likely his father’s shouting in the back of his mind, hollow and distant but full of power.

“He wasn’t afraid.” Harry’s eyes shot open and fixed determinedly on Snape. “I can hear him shouting, but he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid to…to…”Harry’s voice wavered slightly before he finished, “…to die.”

“No, fear would have been beyond him,” Snape’s voice was dark with resentment; his eyes flashing black, “Your father would have that felt fear was beneath him; even as he faced his death.”

Harry could feel the splinters of the chair digging into his finger tips; his jaw locked tight with anger. This was what Snape had wanted, he had wanted to see Harry like this; half furious, half close to tears.

“Yes…” Snape’s voice was quietly victorious, as he become absorbed within the memory that was not his own. “I can see it now…Your father before him…before the Dark Lord.”

“You wanted him to die didn’t you?” Harry was shocked by his sudden outburst; the Veritaserum, it seemed, didn’t stop him from snapping, Snape turned to face Harry, and, after a moment of silence, he replied, “It is your time for truth, not mine.”

“Why can’t you admit it?” Suddenly, Harry became acutely aware of the wand that was concealed within his robes. “Why can’t you admit that you wanted him dead?”

Snape looked down his nose at Harry, whose face was positively scarlet; his green eyes smouldering with hatred. With a wave of his wand, the parchment on which Snape had been writing rolled itself up and flew into a drawer on the opposite side of the room.

“What is that you wish me to confess to?” Snape had slowly risen to his feet, and had now moved over to the blackboard. With a wave of his hand, Snape had vanished the various potion ingredients that were listed there, before snapping his head back round to face Harry.

“Tell me about your mother.” Harry’s stomach lurched and, for a moment, he had forgotten his hatred towards the man in front of him, and released his grasp on the chair.

“What?”

“Your mother, Potter, your mother!” Snape had lost his icy exterior, and for a moment, Harry watched as he shook his head, sending his black hair falling in front of his eyes. Sighing deeply, Snape counted to five under his breath before in one, smooth gesture, he brushed the hair from out of his face. “I want you to tell me about your mother that night,” Snape’s voice almost cracked as he spoke, yet recovering quickly he continued, “I want you to tell me what you remember about your mother, the night she died.”

Harry!

That voice, that voice shrieking his name in fear echoed clearly in his mind. That same Dementor inspired voice that seemed to swell up inside and burst inside his heart. He had heard that voice in every nightmare since his third year at Hogwarts. That scream woke him up in the middle of the night; eyes wide, hair damp with sweat. That scream froze his heart, and brought the dangerous sting of tears to his eyes. He didn’t want to share this with anyone; especially if that someone was Snape.

But he had no choice…he couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to, but his voice was swollen with angry despair as he began, “I remember her screaming…that’s it…that’s all.”

It had to be a trick of the light, the way the shadows fell across Snape’s face that made it look soft and empathetic. He said nothing to Harry as he turned away from him, staring fixedly into the flames of one of the torches.

“That’s it?” Snape’s voice was unusually quiet; the rigidity of it lost completely. Harry nodded, yet Snape hardly saw as his eyes danced with the reflection of the fire. Then, to Harry’s horror, he saw a smile curling the corners of Snape’s mouth. Harry sat, frozen with disbelief, unable to move as he heard Snape speak quietly into the flames, “Little Lily Evans…I bet you died beautifully.”

All at once Harry was on his feet, mind whirring, heart pounding as he strode quickly over to where Snape was standing, still staring at the torch. With his mind full of nothing but his mother’s scream and Snape’s smile he found himself reaching out, grasping Snape firmly by the shoulders, before pushing him back against the wall.

“Smile again,” Harry’s voice was shaking with anger, his eyes wide with rage as held Snape pinned in place, “Smile again!”

“Is that a demand or a request?”

Harry said nothing, increasing the pressure on Snape’s shoulders, causing him to wince in pain. Harry hadn’t realised just how much he had grown over the summer; how much power he could exert when provoked. Quidditch had made him strong; Snape was no physical match. Yet instead of cowering back against the wall, Snape had pushed his chest outwards, and his face was inches from Harry’s as he said in a silvery whisper, “Your father always favoured physical intimidation. Don’t worry Potter, I am very well practiced!”

As he said this, Harry released him, stepping backwards shaking, attempting to steady his breathing once more. Yet he kept hearing that voice. Harry! That voice was always screaming. He kept hearing his father shouting something below, and then silence as someone came through the door.

“My mum died for me, and my dad died for both of us! How can you smile at that?”

Snape said nothing as he rearranged the cuffs on his robes as if nothing untoward had past between them. Stepping back, Harry watched as Snape’s face regained its characteristic scowl, every line etched with hatred as he turned his black eyes to Harry.

“Same time tomorrow Potter. Don’t be late.”