By now Harry knew when it was going to begin; everything that was bitter and hurtful that was exchanged between them followed a predictable pattern that made Harry’s chest tighten as he clenched his fists out of sight under the desk. It had always been this way; since Harry’s first day at Hogwarts he had known that the hatred he felt could only swell and grow to unfathomable proportions. He couldn’t even remember a single lesson when there hadn’t been a confrontation; every week it was the same. Harry would do something wrong, often minor to the taunting of Malfoy or the catastrophes of Neville; yet these could always be overlooked…it was only Harry who would attract the particular attention of the potions master.

As usual, things were not progressing well. Harry looked up at Ron who was starring helplessly down into his cauldron, and then mouthing something which distinctly looked like something Mrs Weasley would have been shocked to have heard. Harry grinned, yet was immediately distracted by a large bang to his right. Neville peered tentatively from over the top of his cauldron, his face covered in a thin film of blue slime.

“Mr Longbottom,” a cold voice from the front of the classroom caused Harry to close his eyes and bite down on his tongue hard, “If you could please refrain from destroying yet another cauldron with your completely avoidable accidents.”

Harry opened his eyes and stared at the potions master as he leaned over and peered into Pansy Parkinson’s cauldron, congratulating her on the exemplary consistency of her potion, and awarding ten points to Slytherin. If there was anyone on this earth that Harry hated more than Severus Snape, he was yet to meet them. Of course, there was Voldermort Harry thought. That was different. Voldermort never left him uncertain on whose side he was on. Harry knew that Voldermort hated him, feared him, longed to rid him of this world forever; but with Snape, Harry could never be sure. As if he had heard him thinking, Snape’s head flicked round as he eyed Harry with suspicion. Harry glared back.

“Pssst!” Harry heard Hermoine hiss across to him. Harry’s eyes were drawn from Snape’s as Hermoine pointed down at Harry’s cauldron. “You were supposed to stir it counter clockwise.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered dejected, gazing down at the potion which, instead of smouldering a deep red, had congealed into a thick green.

“Well, well Potter, I might have known that you would have managed to, once again, prove yourself incapable of following even the most basic of instructions.” Snape threw a brief smirk at the table of Slytherins before snapping, “Ten points from Gryffindor!”

Neville sighed, Ron’s face contorted into his familiar look of hurt injustice, Hermione’s eyes remained fixed on her cauldron in front of her. For a brief moment Harry debated answering back; telling Snape exactly what he could do with his instructions, but with a great amount of self control he suppressed the angry bubble that threatened to rise in his throat. He refused to give Snape the provocation to deduct more points from Gryffindor.

Harry raised his eyes to meet Snape’s black, empty stare. The potion master had laid his palms flat on Harry’s desk and was leaning close into him. Why wouldn’t he just piss off…go and torment someone else for a change? Why did it always have to be him?

“You know Potter,” Snape’s voice had adopted that dangerously taunting tone he had used so many times before to lure Harry into yet another detention, “If you spent more time concentrating on your potion rather than talking to Miss Granger here, then maybe, once in a while, you would get one right.”

For a moment, Harry said nothing but, after a few moments of silence, to Snape’s horror he said, “Sorry professor.”

Snape’s face contorted with displeasure before he turned his back on Harry quickly, his black robes swishing as he turned. Yet suddenly he thought better and, turning to face Harry once more, his lips curled into an unpleasant smile.

“I do not think it is at all appropriate for you and Miss Granger to conduct your personal affairs in my lesson Potter.”

Sneers from the Slytherins made Harry look over at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle who were kissing the air repulsively.

“She was only trying to tell me…”

Before he could finish, Snape had interrupted, “It is of no interest to me what you and Miss Granger choose to talk about in private, but while you are in my lesson, you will refrain from idle chit chat and sweet nothings.”

“Sweet nothings,” Ron scoffed, unable to remain silent any longer, Quickly, Snape’s eyes were upon him as he continued, “You don’t really think…I mean you can’t really assume…”

“Another ten points from Gryffindor!” Snape snapped savagely, his eyes once again turning to Harry, whose cheeks had begun to burn with that familiar, irrepressible rage. He felt his eyes lock fast onto Snape’s triumphant face, silently daring him to take another ten points.

“If you really don’t want people to believe what they write about you in the Daily Prophet, then maybe you should not relish in exposure so much.”

Harry heard the Slytherians snigger as Snape continued to taunt, “Oh yes Potter, even you are not guiltless of the crime of vanity. It is clearly visible in every Quidditch victory, in every smart remark you make, expecting yourself to go unpunished. I see it in you when others cannot…” Something sinister was concealed behind his words and Harry knew that Snape was talking about the Occulemency lessons he had given Harry last year, and of the memories of Harry’s he had invaded. “It is your supreme arrogance which makes you positively incompetent of following anyone else’s orders but your own.”

“But Professor, I was only telling Harry that…”

“Do you recall asking me for your opinion, Miss Granger?” Hermione sat back in her chair, her eyes avoiding Snape’s. “Another ten points from Gryffindor.” The Slytherins seemed to be on the verge of a cheer as he continued, glancing around rather manically at the Gryffindors, “And unless you would like to make it fifty, I suggest that no-one else speaks for the rest of the lesson, am I understood?”

For a moment Harry said nothing, watching Snape’s eyes dance with glee as he wrote down yet another “0” next to Neville’s name. But he had listened enough; he had held his tongue and both Hermione and Ron had tried to defend him instead.

“She was only trying to help me,” Harry snapped at Snape, after appearing to have gone temporarily deaf, asked Harry, “Excuse me?”

“I said that Hermione was only trying to help me with my potion.”

“Should have known that Potter would stand up for his dirty little mud-blood girlfriend,” Malfoy hissed, to be met with laughter from Crabbe and Goyle. Many of the Gryffindors gasped, Harry could feel his insides burn with anger as he looked up expectantly at Snape. Even he could not ignore Malfoy’s comment.

Indeed, Snape had turned to face Malfoy yet, after thinking for a moment, he began, “Mister Malfoy I suggest that you do not insult someone in future, unless you get the insult entirely right.” His eyes flashed pure hatred at first Hemione, and then Harry as he articulated bitterly, “Mister Weasley has already informed us that Miss Granger is not Mister Potter’s girlfriend.”

Malfoy looked confused for a moment, trying to work out whether Snape had just told him off or not. Yet Harry understood…he had understood Snape perfectly and as soon as Snape had turned his back to walk triumphantly back to his desk, Harry was on his feet.

“Don’t you dare call her that!”

Snape froze, turning coolly to face Harry directly, as he continued to fume, “Don’t you dare!”

“I do not recall calling Miss Granger anything.”

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle grinned. Hermione tried to whisper for Harry to stop, but this time it had gone far enough.

“Half the class heard what you said…half the class knows what you were suggesting…”

“The Daily Prophet was right, you truly are deranged.”

Snape turned his back on Harry, who swiftly pulled out his wand from his robes and pointed it at the back of Snape’s head. How long had he dreamt of blasting Snape into oblivion? He and Ron had discussed (at great length sometimes) what hexes they would perform on Snape if they ever got the chance.

“Apologise to her or I’ll…” But before Harry could finish his sentence, Snape had turned around, wand in his hand and with a yell of “Expelliarmus!” sent Harry’s wand flying.

“Threatening a teacher Potter, how very foolish…another thirty points from Gryffindor.” Snape paused, pocketing both his and Harry’s wand before continuing smoothly, “Until you can learn how to control yourself Potter, I shall be confiscating your wand. You may collect it from Professor McGonagall’s office at the end of the day.”

Harry sat back down, his eyes burning into the back of Snape’s head as he walked back to the front of the room. I hate him, he thought viciously, ignoring the jeers from Malfoy. I hate him.

“Oh yes…I almost forgot,” Snape turned, his black eyes fixed on Harry as he said without even a flicker of sympathy, “Detention.”

“You should have ignored him,” Hermione gushed, lifting her eyes from the text book she had previously been engrossed in.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Ron snapped defensively, “Harry was only trying to stick up for you, and you still manage to have a go…”

“I’m not having a go at anyone,” Hermione’s response was short and sharp, as she snapped the book she had been reading shut, and gave Ron a burning look, “I’m merely suggesting that if Harry had ignored Snape, then he wouldn’t find himself with a whole week’s worth of detentions…”

Harry, who was sitting in his favourite armchair in the Gryffindor Common room, directly in front of the fire, made a decided effort to not meet the eyes of either Ron or Hermione. He had been in the presence of their arguments before; and he now knew it was best to keep his mouth closed.

“You’re always just suggesting…” Ron mumbled, before he turned to Harry, “I don’t blame you…Snape was out of the order, the whole class heard what he was going to say…I know I would have hexed him given half the chance.”

Harry said nothing, but inside he smiled. There was no way on this earth that Ron would ever do that.

“Don’t be such an idiot Ron!” Hermione’s voice was impatient and Harry rolled his eyes. “What Harry’s done is very serious. Threatening a teacher, even Snape, is something that deserves…”

“Are you saying that Harry deserves a week’s worth of detentions with that slippery git?”

“Enough!” Harry’s voice silenced the argument; Ron folded his arms dramatically across his chest, while Hermione suddenly found the pattern on the carpet beneath her feet infinitely interesting. “Hermione is right Ron…” Harry began, as Ron’s mouth fell open in disbelief, “I should never have pulled my wand on Snape.”

“But he provoked you Harry…he was just waiting for an excuse to give you detention…” Even Hermione nodded in agreement as Ron continued, “The Gryffindor’s there would all vouch for you…we could go to McGonagall…explain to her…”

Harry shook his head slowly. “There wouldn’t be any proof…the Slytherins would side with Snape…I’ll just have to do it won’t I?”

Ron shrugged, defeated. Hermione, on the other hand, flashed one of her characteristically confident smiles and said, “Me and Ron will wait up for you. It will give us a chance to get started on our Transfiguration essays.”

“But we only got set them today,” Ron whined, shooting Harry a desperate glance that seemed to suggest he would rather be having the detention himself. Hermione tossed her head and said, “We’re N.E.W.T students now Ron. We can’t afford to fall behind…”

“When have you ever fallen behind?” Hermione rolled her eyes and once again opened her book.

Harry stood outside the door, letting his bag slide heavily from his shoulder and land with a thump on the floor. He looked at his watch; 8 o’clock, he wasn’t too early. Yet he had knocked at least four times now and had been met with nothing but silence. Maybe Snape had forgotten, Harry thought hopefully, maybe he’s given out so many detentions today that he’s forgotten that he gave me one too?

Fat chance. The idea that Snape would have forgotten him was almost too ridiculous for words. He had probably been looking forward to it all day; another opportunity to make snide comments, whilst he would have to perform some boring and monotonous task on Snape’s behalf…no…he wouldn’t have forgotten.

Maybe he was ill…or maybe he was dead? Harry grimly suppressed a smile as he envisioned Snape slumped over his desk, his black, greasy hair falling across his face, as the headline of the Daily Prophet read, “Death Eater found Dead at Hogwarts.”

Harry looked at his watch again; 8.15. That’s it Harry thought, I’m leaving. It was most likely Snape was attempting to humiliate him; ignoring his knocking as long as possible so he could accuse him of being late and deduct more points from Gryffindor. Harry picked up his bag and, turning round, walked straight into Snape who had approached almost silently from behind.

“Watch where you’re going Potter,” Snape said, dusting down his robes swiftly as if to rid himself of any traces of him. Harry noticed that he was trembling, fumbling with his keys as he opened the door to the classroom. Snape swept swiftly in and, with a flick of his wand, ignited the torches that lined the murky dungeon, sending flickering shadows across the wall. Harry hesitated in the doorway, watching as Snape sat down at the desk and, as if he had forgotten that Harry was there, muttered something under his breath impatiently, and buried his head in his hands.

Harry took a step forward and immediately Snape looked up, his eyes black and flashing with something that Harry had never seen in them before.

“Enlighten me; are you planning to hang around in my doorway all evening?” Harry said nothing, stepping inside the classroom, and closing the door behind him. Placing his bag down on one of the desks, Harry did not sit as he continued to watch Snape sitting at his desk. He seemed to have clamed himself now; his eyes had lost the…dare Harry think it…the sadness they possessed earlier; his body had regained its familiar rigidity.

“Find something interesting in my appearance?” Snape snapped, his eyebrows knitting together, his face as dark as a thundercloud. At once, Harry’s head was full of witty come backs…a million insults that Sirius himself would have been proud of. Suddenly, the smirk that had spread across Harry’s face died away as thoughts of Sirius filled his head. He did not want to think about his Godfather now; not in this room, not with this man.

“No sir,” Harry managed coolly. Snape suddenly stood up and, after picking up a cardboard box, he placed it down on the desk in front of Harry; bottles tinkling within.

“There are a hundred bottles here that need to be washed and scrubbed clean of their old labels…” The tips of Harry’s fingers already burnt with the prospect of peeling back so many labels. “The Muggle way…of course…”

Snape’s lips formed a cruel smile which Harry returned with interest.

“Of course…professor.”

For about the millionth time that evening, Harry checked his watch. 9.40…only twenty minutes to go and Harry would be free from detention. Looking down at his hands, which had spent most of the time submerged under the now freezing cold water, were pink and wrinkled from scrubbing the bottles clean. Black, sticky stuff had lodged itself under his finger nails where he had peeled back label after label; all the time doing so in absolute silence.

Harry raised his eyes to where Snape was seated behind his desk, glowering down at a number of parchments that were spread in front of him, each bearing a more abysmal grade than the last. Snape hadn’t said a word to him since he had told him what it was he had to do. Instead, he had sat behind his desk, tuting softly down at the essays he had been marking, yet smiling every time he was able to write a discouraging comment or two across them.

So this was it, Harry thought to himself, this was Severus Snape’s existence? Down in the dark depths of the dungeons, all alone, gaining pleasure from thwarting the ambitions of many a Hogwart’s student. My god, this man is pathetic Harry thought, eyeing the way he wrote another looping “0” at the end of an essay. As if he had heard Harry’s thoughts Snape looked up from the parchment from under his greasy hair.

“Is there something you would like to say Potter?” he hissed.

Harry’s eyes darkened as he poured water out of the very last bottle, placing it next to the others with the words, “Just that I’ve finished.”

Snape left his desk, quill still hovering in the air above the parchment, and walked over to inspect Harry’s work. Harry suppressed a grin; the years of washing up for the Dursleys had evidently paid off, and even Snape could not ignore the way the bottles glinted in the dimly lit chamber.

“Very well Potter,” Snape said quietly, flicking his wand in the direction of the box so that the bottles packed inside neatly, before skimming across the desks to rest against the wall.

Harry stood up, relieved that his detention was finally over, as he grabbed his bag from the floor. But Snape seemed to look at him like he was insane; his head cocked to one side, his hands resting languorously on his hips.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Snape asked.

Harry opened his mouth to answer but, thinking better of it; he glanced down at his watch. There was still ten minutes to go. Snape was just the kind of teacher to make a student stay the full two hours, regardless of whether the punishment was complete or not. Without saying a word, Harry sat back down, glaring at Snape who stood motionless, his eyes still fixed on Harry.

“I find it fascinating that after that little stunt you pulled in class this morning, you expect to be relinquished from your punishment early….” Snape shook his head slowly. “You seem to think that a two hour detention should be different for you, than for everyone else.”

“I didn’t see the time,” Harry replied through gritted teeth, attempting to ignore the way that Snape seemed to be mocking him with his eyes.

“And of course, it wouldn’t even cross your mind to wait to be dismissed.” Harry’s jaw seemed locked in place, not allowing him to snap back in the way he wanted to. Sensing the restraint he was employing Snape leant back against the desk opposite where Harry was sat, and folded his arms across his chest.

“This is not like you Potter…what has happened to your characteristic arrogance?”

“A characteristic you accuse me of…” It happened; the words had burst past his lips before he had time to think what he was doing. Snape’s lips curled satisfactorily at the corners.

“Ah yes…” he hissed softly, quietly, his eyes burning down into Harry’s, “There it is…that certain Potter charm…”

“And let me guess…” Harry’s tongue seemed to now be forming the words his brain was warning him not to speak, “just like my father?”

Snape’s eyes sparkled darkly with amusement as if he was on the verge of a sneer.

“You have finally come to accept the man your father really was I see?”

“If you mean the boy you remember than yes.”

Snape grimaced at Harry’s words. He knew only too well that Snape would not have forgotten what Harry had seen when he used the Pensieve to see into Snape’s past. He had been furious, shaking with rage as he commanded Harry to get out of the room at once. It was then that his Occulemency lessons from Snape had come to an end.

“Be under no illusions,” Snape began, his voice dark and dangerous as he took a step closer to where Harry was seated, “Your father was not the man you imagine him to be. He wasn’t the man that Dumbledore respects, or the man so fondly remembered by Remus…” Harry felt as if his skin was on fire as he remained focused on the look of loathing in Snape’s eyes. He took another step towards Harry, his face twisted and pale as he continued to articulate, “James Potter was a cruel, self obsessed bully who cared nothing for the feelings of anyone but himself.”

Harry was on his feet in a moment, quaking with anger, fists clenched tightly by his sides. His heart was pounding as his blood screamed hit him, hit him, hit him!

“My father was none of those things,” Harry’s voice was hot and wavering.

“But you never knew him did you?” Snape continued; his voice cold and rigid; only his eyes betrayed the fury that was bubbling within. “You wish to believe that your father was a man to be proud of, a man to aspire to be…and I can’t say I blame you…” Snape paused, his voice was low and full of hatred as he ended, “If I had had a father like him, I would probably do the same.”

Harry’s face was scarlet. Everything seemed to merge as he remained fixed on Snape’s face; his smirking, cold, contemptuous face. His mind was throbbing as he fought the desire to reach out and take Snape’s throat in his hand, and squeeze the smile from him. Yet suddenly the burning hatred Harry was feeling was replaced with something else, his heart pounding in his ears as his eyes stung dangerously close to tears. If Snape had been anyone else his face would have softened when he had seen those green eyes grow glossy; yet he did nothing but smile triumphantly as Harry forced a sob back down his throat. He would not let Snape upset him; he refused to let Snape see him cry.

“You know nothing about my father,” Harry managed to say, his voice full of the threat of tears before he grabbed his bag from the desk, and stormed out of the room.

Harry had virtually ran through the corridors back to Gryffindor Tower; not pausing to look back, nor to apologise as he inadvertently brushed past Ginny so hard that she fell to the floor. This was not the time for hesitated apologies. He needed to escape; to rid himself of the thought of Snape smiling as he pushed Harry dangerously close to tears. He bit down on his tongue hard before snapping at the Fat Lady, “Giggly Squits.”

The Fat Lady seemed to look as if she was debating commenting on Harry’s temper but, as if thinking better of it, she said nothing as she allowed him to climb inside. To Harry’s relief there was no sign of Ron or Hermione in the common room…in fact, the room was completely deserted except for Crookshanks, who threw Harry a disapproving look as he entered before stretching back out in front of the fire. No doubt Ron and Hermione had argued; she had made one too many “helpful” comments; Ron properly was not giving their Transfiguration essays his undivided attention, and they had gone to bed after many angry words, each storming there separate ways.

Dumping his bag down in the corner of the room Harry threw himself down into his favourite armchair in front of the fire, his face dark as thoughts of Snape filled his head. Was it usually this bad, he thought, his body rigid with hatred. Had Snape always been this way, or had something happened to make him appear worse than he usually was? Harry thought back to his first year at Hogwarts, when he, Ron and Hermione had been convinced that Snape was the one jinxing Harry…that he was the one who wanted the Philosophers Stone. Yet they had been wrong, hadn’t they? They had all been wrong and yet there was something about Snape; the way he ruthlessly provoked Harry at every opportunity…and how could Dumbledore just ignore the fact that Snape had been, and probably was still, a Death Eater. No, Harry thought digging his nails into the arms of the chair; he would never trust Snape…never.

A hot coal cracked in the flames and shot out into the carpet at Harry’s feet, sending Crookshanks hissing and spitting into the corner of the room. Harry jumped, startled out of his thoughts of Snape, and turned his attention to the dying ashes of the fire. Suddenly, it was as if something cold was slipping through Harry’s veins, tightening his heart in his chest as it froze beneath his skin. Harry’s eyes were fixed on the coals of the fire as painfully he remembered when Sirius’ face had appeared in these very flames. His eyes began to sting as he focused harder on the fire before him, the golds and reds merging before his eyes.

Be there he heard a voice inside his head willing as he glared into the flames; be there…be there…be there.

As if he was not expecting the impossible, Harry shot to his feet in anger, kicking the now cold coal hard into the fireplace, and shouting “Fine!” And with that, he picked up his bag and stormed up the stairs.

The room was filled with the soft sounds of sleep, occasionally broken by one of Ron’s rattling snores, as Harry sat down on his bed, the silvery moonlight filtering through the window and casting swimming shadows across the room. Harry sat almost motionless, his heart still a block of ice, tight and unmoving, as he stared at the sleeping shapes beneath the sheets.

Harry had hesitated before slowly dropping to his knees and reaching under his bed to find the badly wrapped package he had concealed there and attempted to forget about. Scurrying backwards with his back against the cold stone wall, Harry tucked his knees up under his chest before turning the package over in his hands.

His heart was pounding once more, sending hot surges of blood rushing round his body as he slipped off the brown paper and string to reveal the small, square, dirty mirror that was hidden within. Harry saw his own face stare back at him through the fragmented glass before he closed his eyes tightly; hearing the words of his notes ringing through his mind; so many times he had read them over and over:

This is a two-way mirror. I’ve got the other of the pair. If you need to speak to me, just say my name into it; you’ll appear in my mirror and I’ll be able to talk in yours. James and I used them when we were in separate detentions.
Harry opened his eyes and stared determined into the mirror, focusing on his multiple reflections before whispering softly, “Sirius”. A hot mist on glass, a moment of silence, and Harry found himself blinking down at no-one but him self.

“Sirius…” Harry’s voice wavered slightly this time, as he saw him self blinking blankly back up at him. He felt the hot, frustrated tears forming behind his eyes as he whispered, a little firmer than before, “Sirius.”

Nothing. Harry let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes screwed up as tight as he could in order to stop the water from leaking down his cheeks. It was no good though, as he closed his hand over the mirror, raising it to his face and pressing it against his cheek.

The sobs were choked, stifled within Harry’s throat as the tears came flowing…flowing as if they would never stop. The mirror was cold and hard against his cheek yet Harry hardly noticed, as his body trembled with half-silenced cries. There was nothing… there was nothing in the mirror but himself, shrouded in the darkness of the night. But Harry’s voice was strangled with a rage he couldn’t explain; anger at his godfather for leaving him alone, anger at his promise to always be there when he needed him, anger at his inability to stay alive; his voice, desperate and ragged with despair, seemed almost childlike as he cried the name softly to the mirror; “Sirius…Sirius…Sirius…”

“Wellifuadntbeenuchaossyboots” Ron spluttered at Hermione, his mouth full of mashed potato, as he waved his spoon threateningly in her direction. Harry glanced at Hermione; her face had flushed pink at Ron’s accusation, her bottom lip trembling.

“It’s got nothing to do with me and you know it!” Hermione let her knife and fork clatter to her plate, as she flicked her hair back, irritated, from her eyes. “If you hadn’t been so interested in trying to get Lavender Brown’s attention, then we wouldn’t have been banned from the library all week.”

“She says that as if it’s a big deal,” Ron directed at Harry, trying his best to ignore the way Hermione spluttered in absolute astonishment. Harry winced; preparing himself for the onslaught he knew was following.

“It is a big deal Ron! This year is so important and you don’t seem! I know that you may not feel that this is a big deal to you, but to me it is.” Hermione was on her feet, gathering her bag before she continued, “And if you knew me at all Ron, you would know that!”

Both Harry and Ron watched Hermione go, head held high, hair bouncing as she walked swiftly out of the hall. Harry said nothing, seeing the way Ron glared after her furiously, his brow furrowed with confusion.

“Mental…absolutely mental…” Harry grinned for the first time all day as Ron leant back on the bench, his stomach bulging over the top of what had previously been oversized trousers. Yet as Harry’s eyes left Ron and scanned the table at the front of the hall, all the humour in Ron’s comment seemed to be forgotten as he watched Snape slowly reach for the bottle in front of him, and begin to re-fill his glass.

“That bad was it?” Ron asked. Harry continued to glare at Snape, and without turning to face Ron he replied, “The things he said about my father…I think he actually enjoys it.”

“Course he does,” Ron said matter-of-factly, “Wouldn’t expect any less from that cold hearted git.”

“I try to ignore him…all the things that he says…but he just has this way of knowing how to get to me. I do try.”

“I’m not Hermione…I don’t expect you to ignore him. How can you when all he does is insult you? It’s not on Harry.”

As Ron said this, Snape lifted his eyes from the plate in front of him, his eyes locking firmly with Harry’s.

“I won’t let him do it again though,” Harry muttered, his eyes fixed on Snape, refusing to be the one who turned away first, “He won’t get that satisfaction tonight.” As if he had heard him Snape’s lips curled into a vindictive smile as he very slowly raised his glass in Harry’s direction, drained its contents, before leaving the Great Hall, his black robes whipping behind him.

This time there were no waiting games to be played; as Harry heard a voice call “Enter” from within the room shortly after his first knock. Harry pushed open the door, the dimly lit dungeon smouldering with the licking flames of the lamps which lined the room. Snape was not sitting behind his desk as he had expected, he was standing in front of it, arms folded across his chest, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he articulated, “Close the door behind you Potter.”

Harry did as he was told, the door closed with a dull thud that echoed about the dungeon. As he approached, he saw that Snape’s eyes were black with excitement, an amused smile playing about his lips as he watched Harry walk towards him. Something wasn’t right. Quickly, Harry’s eyes surveyed the scene; there was no laborious task laid out; no quill and parchment for lines. Where was Harry’s punishment?

“I see you are wondering what it is that you shall have to do,” Snape began, his face devoid of the humour that laced every word he spoke. Harry said nothing, but waited for him to continue.

“All you have to do Potter…is to tell me the truth…”

Snape’s eyes glinted mercilessly as the realisation swept through Harry, as he once again saw Snape raise his glass to him before drinking it down in one. He could see his pumpkin juice before him before he lifted it to his lips, toasting Snape in return, before he too had left the Great Hall. He hadn’t even realised what Snape had done.

“How…how could you have…?” Harry found it impossible to finish as he watched Snape slowly unfold his arms, his face dark with amusement as he began to slowly approach.

“This is not the time for your questions!” Snape paused, his voice quickly returning to cold, hard tones, before he continued, “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know Mister Potter. You’re going to answer every question I ask.”

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.”

Harry shivered as a thin, biting breeze blew its way through the owlery, pinching his cheeks into a ruddy red, as he pulled his coat tighter about him. Around him a hundred yellow eyes were watching, blinking at him expectantly as he read the letter back. He knew that the Veritaserum had been clinging to his veins as he had written; after he had left Snape pacing awkwardly in his dungeon, muttering under his breath. As Harry read it back to himself now, he knew that it was stupid to send a letter that no-one would read. Yet something about the way the ink had left the impression of his words, words of truth in the yellowing parchment, comforted him. As he read them over now, his heart seemed to drain of the pain of last night; the pain of remembering the night his parents had died. All that mattered was that this letter would be the first Harry had sent in a very long time. It was the act itself that was important.

Snape slipped some Veritaserum into my pumpkin juice at dinner last night before my detention with him. He asked me so many questions; things he should never have asked. He wanted to know about the night my mum and dad were murdered. I tried to fight it. I tried not to tell him. I just thought that maybe this is the kind of thing you should know. I know you’ll say I should tell Dumbledore, but I just needed to tell you first.

That was it, and as Harry folded the parchment and gestured to Hedwig to fly over, something made his stomach lurch as he whispered, “I want you to take this to Sirius.”

Hedwig blinked confused, nipping at one of Harry’s fingers as if to reassure him.

“I know Hedwig…” Harry’s voice was small in the wind that seemed to run its fingers through his hair, “I know that you can’t.” Hedwig’s eyes were wide as Harry held out the letter for her to take, “But please…”

If Hedwig had been just an ordinary owl Harry wouldn’t have even asked. But, knowing that she understood, without question, some of Harry’s strangest requests, he hadn’t even hesitated before waking her up. With a ruffle of her feathers Hedwig took the letter and, after stretching her wings out to test them, she swooped off of Harry’s arm and out into the air.

Harry tightened the red and gold scarf about his neck as he stood watching Hedwig fly off in the distance. Soon, all Harry could see was her graceful black outline etched against the sky, which was becoming rich with the golden sunlight that was slowly creeping over the top of the Forbidden Forest. He knew what he had asked had been impossible; he hardly expected Hedwig to understand. Yet he found comfort in watching Hedwig disappearing into the distance, carrying a letter that was addressed to Sirius; a letter with no destination.

“What do you think?” Ron asked, shaking out an overly sized moron jumper which had arrived for him first thing this morning. Harry had just entered the room in time to see Ron unwrap it and as he sat watching Ron holding up the jumper against his chest, he could still clearly see the impression of Hedwig against the early morning sun.

“It’s erm…” Harry wanted to say nice, although Ron would know this was a lie. “It’s…erm…interesting…”

“It’s blooming awful that’s what it is,” Ron said with a roll of his eyes as he let the jumper fall to the bed. Harry glanced at the clock that was projected on the ceiling; a present to Neville from his grandmother in a vain attempt to make sure he was always on time for classes. Harry had at least fifteen minutes before he had to get ready and, after throwing a well rehearsed sympathetic glance in Ron’s direction, he flopped back on the bed and opened a copy of “101 Illegal Quidditch Moves.”

“What do you think of Lavender?” Ron asked with a forced flippancy which caused Harry to stop reading and peer at him over the top of his glasses.

“I don’t know…I mean she’s alright I guess…quite pretty in an average kind of way.” Ron seemed to nod in agreement before responding, “Yeh, she is quite pretty, isn’t she?”

“And silly…” Harry offered, not sure he liked the way Ron was carrying on with this topic. Ron screwed up his nose as he said this, before replying, “Oh yeh…I guess she’s no Hermione is she? Taking everything dead seriously I mean.”

“I don’t think there is another girl at Hogwarts like Hermione.” Harry watched Ron very carefully as he said this, for any of the tell tale signs of something which Harry had long suspected. True to form, a subtle blush had spread across Ron’s cheeks; his eyes had grown distant and glazed all of a sudden.

“She’s alright though isn’t she?” Ron said, breathy and (dared Harry even think it) lovingly. Harry hesitated, forgetting the magazine he had opened by his side.

“Who…who are we talking about Ron?”

Ron blushed, his eyes once again clearly focused on Harry as he rapidly tried to save him self from any further embarrassment, “Lavender of course!” Harry smiled to offer Ron some kind support before turning his attention once more to the pictures of Quidditch players performing moves that Harry hadn’t even dreamt about. He was only giving the magazine half of his attention; his mind was full of unwanted images of his two best friends…together…and not in the kind of way that Harry could approve of. He had seen this coming along way off, although any suggestion he had ever made about this to either Ron or Hermione had always been met with scoffs of disbelief. Yet it wouldn’t be long before they stumbled onto the inevitable truth; probably by accident knowing them two; and then everything within their little, close knit group would change. Something would go wrong one day and Harry had already experienced what it was like to be the go between towards the two; if they broke up after going out it would be a hundred times worse.

Suddenly Harry was drawn out of this train of thought by someone almost falling into the room, attempting to steady them selves before stumbling over one of the many pairs of shoes that littered the floor.

“Neville!” Ron scooted over to the edge of his bed, holding out his hand to pull Neville to his feet. Harry threw his magazine aside and jumped to his feet just in time to see Neville, his face a deep red, appear from over the top of Ron’s bed.

“I…I…” Neville muttered, his eyes wide as he looked down at the pieces of parchment that had slipped out of his hands and had scattered across the bedroom floor. Harry and Ron began to help Neville pick them up and Ron, who had most of the pieces now in his arms, was screwing up his eyes as he tried to read what was written upside down.

“What is this?” As he said this however, Harry had seen the title page on the floor and had bent down to pick it up. “Discuss the importance of the Mandrias Balancing System in the construction of a successful potion.”

“It’s just Neville’s potion essay,” began Harry before noticing the mark which was written in a small circle in the corner of the page. Harry gulped in disbelief before turning to Ron and handing him the page. Harry waited for Ron to see what Harry had and, true to form; Ron reacted exactly as Harry had expected he would.

“Bloody hell Neville! You got full marks!”

When Ron told Hermione that lunchtime about Neville’s spectacular achievement in his potions essay, Hermione nearly choked on her sandwiches. After throwing Neville a congratulatory glance where he was sat further down the table, Hermione could barely contain her shock as she said, “I never helped him with his essay. It was the first time in ages that I hadn’t. I don’t know how he could have done it without me.”

“That’s why I like you Hermione, you’re just so modest.” Harry grinned; Ron added an affectionate dig of the elbow just for good measure, to be met with a look of complete contempt from Hermione.

“She’s got a point though Ron,” Harry offered in an attempt to prevent the argument from even starting, “When have you ever known Neville to get full marks? In anything?”

“Especially Potions…he’s hopeless!” Ron took a sharp intake of breath and even Harry was shocked at the bluntness of what Hermione had said. “Well it’s true! And let’s not forget who it was that marked that essay…”

Ron and Harry looked at each other. Snape. They had forgotten that rather large detail. Asides from Harry, Neville was Snape’s other favourite target for double potions on a Monday afternoon; and this was probably due to the fact the Neville was absolutely hopeless at it. No, hopeless was maybe a bit unfair. It was the presence of Snape that made it worse for Neville, who had revealed in the DADA class in the third year that Snape was the thing that frightened him most. It was therefore virtually impossible that he would ever achieve anything above half marks in his essays for Potions, let alone a perfect score.

“He’s lost it then,” Ron said, taking a swig of pumpkin juice before continuing, “Snape must have gone mad…or made a mistake. There is no way he’d ever give anyone full marks, let alone Neville.”

“What was he like in detention last night?” Harry, who had been silently contemplating things to himself, looked up at Hermione. For a moment he almost told them everything; about the Veritaserum, about the questions that he had asked, about his own reaction. But something inside him held him back. No…he couldn’t tell Ron and Hermione; not this time. This was something he knew he had to conquer on his own.

“Oh you know…he was his usual charming self.”

“But he didn’t do anything, did he? You didn’t notice anything…odd?” Something about the way Hermione asked this made Harry think that maybe she had seen him this morning, making his way across the grounds, the letter to Sirius in his hands. Maybe Hermione had already guessed that his detentions with Snape had not exactly been normal.

“Odder than normal?” Ron smirked, pushing his plate away from him and patting his stomach satisfactorily. Hermione struggled to suppress a smile. “Oh come on Hermione, you know Snape isn’t exactly…well…” Ron didn’t even need to finish his sentence. Both Harry and Hermione knew exactly what he meant.

“I just don’t understand it,” Hermione glanced at her watch before beginning to push her books back into her bag, “One minute Neville can hardly breathe straight in Potions, and the next he’s getting full marks.”

I don’t understand it either Harry thought to himself, trying to remember back to the night before last when he had seen Snape marking their essays.

“Ron, what are you doing?” Hermione snapped at Ron, who had leant across the table and was now in the process of taking yet another sandwich. “You haven’t got any time to sit and stuff your face. I thought you’d agreed to use this free period to work on your Transfiguration.”

“It’s not like we can go to the library.” Harry winced in expectation but, to his surprise, Hermione’s voice was completely cool as she replied, “I made enough notes when we where in there on Monday. We can work in the common room, no problem.”

Reluctantly Ron pushed out his stool, rising to his feet as slowly as possible in order to prolong his departure. Harry looked at him with sympathy; even if Ron did fancy Hermione it still didn’t make him any more enthusiastic about the prospect of studying with her.

“I guess I’ll see you later then,” Ron said as dejected as possible. Harry took a bite out of the sandwich which Ron had been forced to leave on his plate and smirked as he said, “Have fun.”