“Again,” growled Snape fiercely. He aimed his wand at the young wizard before him, who was slowly rising on trembling legs. Without waiting for his student to recover himself he snarled, “Legilimens.”

Harry was back on his knees instantly, trying his utmost to thwart the Potions Masters invasion of his mind. Images of the Dursleys flashed to the forefront. His uncle grabbing him by the hair and tossing him into his cupboard under the stairs. Aunt Petunia screeching at him for missing a weed in her garden. Dudley and his hostile assemblage of antagonising friends chasing him through Magnolia Crescent, catching him, and beating him.

An abrupt pulling sensation and then the halt of the images signalled the end of Snape's rummaging. Harry peered up at the Head of Slytherin from his position on the floor, panting heavily.

He hated this. Hated every second of it. It was torture, a slow and painful way of driving him mad. He couldn't bare the thought that Snape knew all of the shameful secrets concerning his home life. That he saw and knew the worst of Harry's history. For that, he hated him. Harry hadn't asked for this, it was no one else's fault except Snape. Who had asked him to watch everything? Who had asked him to pay particular attention to those memories? No one.

The evil ponce, Harry raged internally. Snape watched him impatiently.

“Get up,” he commanded coldly, “the Dark Lord will not allow you a reprieve. On your feet, Potter.”

Harry glared at him furiously. He was breathing heavily, but not from the remnants of the Legilimency.

“No.”

“Excuse me?” asked Snape dangerously. His tone was venomously quiet, his eyes narrowed, his hands balled into fists. He was practically crushing the delicate wand clutched in his right hand.

“I said 'no',” said Harry flatly, although his eyes blazed with fury. His cheeks were tinged with a red hue, as was his vision. He'd had enough.

“You will get up Potter, unless you'd like Gryffindor to still be in the minuses when your grandchildren attend,” growled Snape darkly.

Harry leered at the floor from his kneeling position.

“Grandchildren – sir?” he added as an afterthought, “I'll be lucky to reach my seventh year.”

“Always the martyr,” said Snape scathingly. “I won't tell you again, Potter. Get. Up.”

“No,” Harry all but whispered. Snape stalk towards him threateningly, but he remained frozen. He'd nearly reached an unmoving Harry, who didn't even look at him as he advanced, and reached out one frigid, white hand. He snatched hold the front of Harry's robes, and with the other, held fast onto his wand.

Click.

Harry glanced up. Snape froze. The noise had come from behind them. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder, which was rather difficult with the uncomfortably tight collar pulling at his skin. He looked towards the office door. His best friend from this side of the room. It was his freedom.

Snape let go of his hold, forcefully shoving Harry aside. He quickly made his way towards the door and turned the handle. The door didn't even concede to its usual rattle. Snape pushed against it. Nothing happened. Harry stayed where he was and watched, his eyes wide.

“There's no need, Severus,” said a slightly muffled voice from the other side of the door. It was Dumbledore. Snape glared through the wood so fiercely Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the door burst into flames. “I have locked the door.”

“Headmaster, what is the meaning of this?” Snape barked angrily.

“Now, Severus, I think it would be best to inform you when you appear to be somewhat calmer,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.

“I am calm!” snarled Snape at the door.

“Of course, the perfect picture of tranquillity,” said Dumbledore good-naturedly. Harry could practically see the twinkle through the smouldering wood. Snape growled menacingly. Harry was quite enjoying the spectacle.

... Wait ... He was stuck there too!

“Professor?” Harry said uncertainly, referring to the Headmaster. He was still sitting on the floor.

“Ah, Harry, my boy. How is Occlumency?” asked Dumbledore curiously, as though he were inquiring about the weather during afternoon tea.

“Erm ... well -” said Harry insecurely. He was afraid to go on with a seething Snape standing but a few feet from him. His previous exhausted determination had dwindled, now replaced with common sense and the instinct of self-preservation. He simply wanted to go to his dormitory and sleep, forgetting any of this had happened.

“I thought as much,” Dumbledore said, although there was no rebuke in his tone. In fact, he sounded positively cheerful. “And the reason why the two of you are in this situation, I'm afraid.”

“Which situation?” Snape demanded.

“It has been decided that you will be incarcerated until further notice,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.

“Incarcerated?” Snape and Harry cried in unison.

“Quite,” said the Headmaster, “until such a time when you are both able to see past your differences.”

“What!?” Snape yelled ferociously. He had pressed himself against the door, as though he could sink through the solid wood and emerge on the other side.

“Severus, I am doing this only because it is absolutely necessary,” said Dumbledore reassuringly. “You must learn to accept that Harry is not his father. Only then will you be able to teach him Occlumency appropriately. It is of too great an importance not to. If Voldemort selects the correct memory he will learn of your position. He will kill you.”

“But -” Harry interjected incredulously.

“And Harry, you must leave this hate you have harboured for Professor Snape behind. Although he hasn't given you much reason to, I assure you, you will both benefit from this. I do not need to press upon you the importance that you learn Occlumency, do I, Harry?” asked Dumbledore firmly, but not unkindly.

“No, sir,” muttered Harry miserably. Trapped – with Snape! He glared at the door, the friend that had betrayed him.

“Albus, you cannot do this!” Snape shouted, his fist hitting the door once.

“I'm afraid I must, Severus,” said Dumbledore regretfully. He voice sounded slightly further away. “I have placed wards on the door. It is now impenetrable, unbreakable and I will place a silencing charm around the room as soon as I leave. You will be utterly alone, with only one another for company.”

Snape looked horrified. Never had Harry seen him quite as discomposed.

“No, Albus!” He called desperately after the Headmaster. “What will we do for food and -”

“There's nothing to worry about, Severus. It has all been arranged,” Dumbledore said kindly. “Good evening to you both.”

With that they heard the mumbled silencing spell and then nothing.

*-*-*

It had been two hours, thirty seven minutes and twenty-two seconds since Professor Dumbledore's departure according to Harry's watch, which he had been studiously watching. He was no longer sitting on the floor but on one of the numerous chairs in the room. Snape, on the other hand, hadn't moved from his vigil by the door. He was crouched on the floor with his back leaning against it, his knees pulled up and his arms resting upon them. He was twirling his wand in one hand distractedly. Otherwise, he hadn't moved for the full two hours, thirty seven minutes and fifty eight seconds.

Harry couldn't see his face, it was hidden by a curtain of Snape's black, greasy hair but he was sure he was glaring fiercely at the floor and cursing Dumbledore to the sixth circle of Hell. He sighed heavily and began drumming his fingers subconsciously on the desk he was sitting behind, listening to the constant drip, drop, drip of water from an unknown source that seemed always to be present in the dungeons.

This isn't so bad, Harry mused, as long as I don't have to speak to him.

How long could the Headmaster possibly keep them locked in? Surely there was a law against such things. It could be considered as kidnap, he thought or perhaps a hostage situation. An image of Dumbledore on his summer holiday, wearing Muggle swimming gear, snorkel and all, being dragged into a court and insisting that he'd done it “for their own good” came into Harry's head.

He grinned to himself.

“Must you?”

Harry jumped. He'd nearly forgotten he wasn't the only occupant in the room. Really, how could he forget? It was Snape. He looked towards the Professor questioningly. Snape still hadn't moved. The twirling wand was the only indication that he was still alive.

“Must I what?” Harry asked, with a bit more bite than he had intended. He mentally berated himself. If they were going to get out of there any time before July he'd have to tone down the venom.

“Continue that insufferable rhythm?” Snape snarled back, a flash of raging obsidian meeting Harry's emerald. He stopped drumming his fingers.

“Oh,” he said feebly, and turned fully in his chair to face the desk. He leaned back and crossed his arms before his chest.

They were plunged back into the silence.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

Snape stopped twirling his wand. Harry glanced in his direction from the corner of his eye.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

“Sectumsempra!” Snape bellowed. BANG! Harry jumped from his chair in panic. The desk and chair two rows in front of him seemed to explode before clattering loudly to the floor in pathetic shreds. It looked as though Grawp had gotten a hold of them.

Harry tried to calm his desperate breathing before he brought his attention to Snape, who sighed heavily and then returned to twirling his wand. Harry stared at him.

“What the bloody hell was that?” He asked, astounded.

“A spell,” muttered Snape from his position by the door. “One which you are not to know of.”

“So, what, you've decided sanity isn't in fashion this spring?” Harry cried angrily.

“Do not test my patience, Potter,” he said warningly. Harry huffed and threw himself back into his chair, arms crossed and restraining himself from pouting.

“Or what? You'll cut me up into a few hundred pieces?” mumbled Harry quietly to himself.

“You should be so lucky,” said Snape without a trace of humour in his voice. Harry's eyes widened slightly and he gazed suspiciously at the Potions Master.

Drip. Drop. Drip.

Harry yawned tiredly. It was nearing two in the morning and Snape hadn't said another word to him.Snape had barely even moved. Harry wanted to sleep. No, he needed to sleep. A nightmare had plagued him the night before, the same one he'd been having since the summer. Simply, he was exhausted.

The plan had been to allow the Potions Master to make the first move. He'd expected Snape to say at sometime around midnight that they should go to bed. He hadn't. Now what? Harry didn't know what they were going to do about sleeping arrangements. Push a couple of chairs together to make a bed or something? He yawned again.

“Professor?” he asked cautiously. He hoped Snape's anger had receded slightly since he demolished the desk. He didn't relish the thought of meeting a similar, albeit bloodier, end. The Potions Master didn't move. “Professor?” Harry called more insistently. No answer.

He stood up, slowly stretching his stiff back and arms. Hogwarts needs better furniture, Harry mused. Cautiously, he made his way towards Snape. He was within a foot from the Potions Master, and began examining him, attempting to find any trace of life. Was he asleep? Surely, it wasn't very comfortable being propped up against a door, sitting on a cold stone floor.

The wand Snape had been twirling was held loosely in one slender hand. He seemed quite incapacitated. Harry reached a hand slowly towards him, intending to shake him awake. He placed one hand on his shoulder and froze.

Snape's eyes snapped onto him, his wand raised and pushed firmly against Harry's throat. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes darted around the room erratically. They came to rest on Harry once again and the delirium faded slightly. Recognition took its place but he didn't remove his wand. Harry carefully lifted his hand from one heaving shoulder. He swallowed nervously, which caused the wand to move in accordance with his Adams apple.

“Professor?” he whispered quietly, as though afraid to startle an unruly animal. Snape removed his wand and quickly stood, Harry took a quick step back and straightened. He glared angrily at his teacher. “Is neurosis a secret you don't know you're keeping or something?”

Snape nodded distractedly and slipped his wand into his robes, much to Harry's relief. What if Snape had used that spell? Harry would be able to join the Headless Hunt, which was more than he could say for Nearly Headless Nick.

“What time is it, Potter?” asked Snape with a little less loathing than usual as he surveyed their room.

“Five to two,” Harry answered. “Sir, are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes, Potter! Desist your mother superior disposition. It is unbecoming of you,” sneered the Potions Master.

There's the Snape we all know and hate, Harry thought wryly.

“Just asking,” he muttered moodily.

“Va-t'en,” Snape sighed irritably. Harry glared suspiciously at him for a moment.

“What does that mean?” he asked warily. Snape ignored him this time and proceeded to the far corner of the room without any indication that he'd heard Harry. Harry stomped back to the chair he now loathed as much as Snape loathed him. He could feel the Potions Master's eyes on his back as he retreated. He slumped in the now uncomfortable chair and began the game he'd been playing earlier, counting how many stains were on the tables within eyesight. He'd reached six hundred and nine.

Harry watched curiously as Snape brought two chairs together. That's ironic, Harry thought. He brought his wand out once again and mumbled a spell Harry didn't catch. The two chairs transfigured and slowly formed what appeared to be a comfortable bed. It was no where near asextravagant as the four poster in his dormitory but he wasn't fussy. He grew up with the Dursleys after all. In addition, Snape conjured blankets and pillows and placed them neatly on the new divan.

That finished, he turned back and walked towards the door. As he passed a carefully watching Harry, he waved lazily towards the cot, indicating that he should sleep there. Harry nodded, stood gratefully and went towards it. He sank down on the mattress and resisted the urge to jump up and down on it. He glanced towards Snape who had resumed his previous position by the door, wand in hand.

Harry opened his mouth to ask why he wasn't going to transfigure a bed for himself but thought better of it. He didn't want Snape snapping at him again. The light in the room dimmed slightly so that a comfortable, warm orange glow akin to the street light at Privet Drive coated the room. Harry wondered about this for a moment among other minor thoughts before drifting to sleep.

--

His loyal Death Eaters were gathered around him, each kneeling obediently at his feet.

“Wormtail,” he called coldly. One of the identical figures rose and stepped forward, removing his dark hood and revealing the whimpering little rat. “Wormtail, you have good news, I hope. For your sake.”

The balding man knelt at Harry's feet and kissed the hem of his robes desperately.

“Please, my Lord, please,” he begged pitifully.

“Wormtail, you disappoint me,” Harry said regretfully. He removed his wand and gripped it in his thin, skeletal fingers. He said simply, almost happily, “fortunately, not for much longer.”

“N-no!” Wormtail screamed pathetically. He grasped Harry's robes and clawed at them. “Pl-please, m-my Lord, I-I won't -”

“No, Wormtail, you won't fail me again. I can assure you,” the grin widened. “I've thought of another use for you.”

Harry's other hand shot quickly out of his robes and clutched Wormtail by what little of the greying hair he still had. Wormtail cried out in pain and began whimpering. Harry held tighter. He lowered his face to Wormtail's ear and whispered dangerously, each word enunciated perfectly, “you will never fail me again. If ever you do, do not return. I would much rather enjoy hunting your mangled corpse and feeding it to the wolves. I will find you Wormtail. Make no mistake about that.”

Tossing the cowering man aside, Harry straightened and allowed him to return to the ranks of the other Death Eaters.

“Where is Severus this evening?” he asked, a hint of concern lacing the poisonous words. There was no answer. “Hmm, Wormtail, you will go to Hogwarts. You will find Severus. You will discover the reason he feels so sure of himself not to depart when he is called. Am I clear?”

Wormtail nodded hastily, and quickly backed out of the circle. He prepared himself to Apparate from the area.

“Oh, and Wormtail,” Harry said offhandedly. The rat turned to him fearfully. He pointed his wand at him lazily. He whispered lethargically, “Crucio.”

The man screamed and writhed on the ground, his body seemingly tearing at the seams at the excruciating pain. The enjoyment Harry felt at tormenting Wormtail overwhelmed him. He smiled cruelly and after a full minute of torture removed the curse. “Do not. Disappoint me. Again.”

--

“Potter!” A harsh voice called to him from a distance. “Potter! Wake up!” Harry felt something icy and wet hit him like a thousand penetrating knives before he shot up in bed. He groped at his body and stared around the room, making sure that it was indeed his own.

He was completely soaked. Harry searched the room again, wondering what on Earth had happened when he noticed Snape hovering nearby ... holding what appeared to be a large, empty jug. Harry glared at him half-heartedly for a moment before peeling away the sopping blankets and heaving himself out of the now frigidly cold bed. Not that it made a difference. His robes were completely drenched and they were the only ones he had while he was trapped there with Snape.

Brilliant, he thought sardonically. Snape came closer as Harry began to shiver, both from the full jug of freezing water and the aftermath of the nightmare.

“And what was wrong with conjuring an alarm clock or something that didn't result in hypothermia?” Harry asked sarcastically. Snape ignored him again, much to Harry's frustration. He deposited the jug on a desk and began drying the bed covers. He pointed his wand at Harry, who stiffened slightly, and dried his robes, much to Harry's relief.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered grudgingly. Snape ignored this but nodded, and gestured towards the now warmed bed, prompting Harry to sit.

“The Dark Lord?” Snape asked. Harry nodded tiredly.

“H-he was ... upset - with Pettigrew,” said Harry hesitantly. Snape looked him directly in the eyes, beckoning him to continue. “I don't know why. He'd failed to find something out, I think. I'm not sure. Voldemort -” Snape flinched at the name, “Voldemort,” Harry persisted, “wasn't happy about it. He was going to kill him.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at that. He looked away, and seemed to be in deep thought.

“And -” Harry continued. Snape returned his attention to him attentively, “he wants to know where you were. He's sent Wormtail here to find out. If he doesn't Vold – oh, all right – You-Know-Who's going to kill him. It's his last chance.”

Harry swallowed. He didn't want to talk about this, least of all with him. It was like meeting the cow going to the slaughter and already planning to eat it. Snape stood and began pacing from the door to the desk, and back again. Harry watched him without actually seeing him, he was too lost in his own thoughts.

The monotonous click, click, click of Snape's heels halted as he stopped pacing. He glanced towards one of the cabinets at the other side of the room. He strode towards them and began rummaging through the contents. He pulled out one vial after the other, glancing at each of them before depositing them on a desk.

Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for; a small vial. It contained a clear potion Harry knew only too well. He began walking back to Harry, vial in hand.

“What are you going to do, sir? If Wormtail finds out we're being imprisoned together, I mean?” asked Harry worriedly. Not that he was particularly concerned about the Potions Master personally. He'd be equally worried if it was a complete stranger, it was simply the right thing to do.

“Don't concern yourself, Potter,” said Snape shortly. He handed Harry the Dreamless Sleep potion and began backing away.

“But if he finds out you're working for the Order -”

“Potter, I said enough,” Snape growled menacingly.

“Fine! It's your funeral,” said Harry angrily, before throwing himself back into the bed, facing away from the Potions Master.

“Aide-toi, le ciel t'aidera. God helps those who help themselves,” said Snape surprisingly subdued.

Harry looked over his shoulder at him and noticed Snape clutching his left arm, grimacing slightly as he turned to walk away from him back to continue his vigil by the door. His scar twinged, but he ignored the feeling. He was far too accustomed to it by now. Suddenly, something occurred to him.

“Why would he send Wormtail here, Professor? Why not someone he trusts?” Harry inquired curiously, turning over on the bed to face the Potions Master.

“He's an Animagus, he can get into the grounds without risk of detection,” Snape said slowly as though explaining it to someone extremely dense. He settled himself against the door and continued. “The Dark Lord is probably secretly hoping he'll get himself killed. He doesn't take to doing his dirty work himself.”

“So, he's the one God wouldn't help, Professor?” asked Harry quietly. Snape grinned sourly.

“Indeed.”

Harry nodded and quickly downed the potion. He was asleep within seconds.

Harry awoke the next morning wondering what time it was and why Ron hadn't woken him as he usually did when Harry was late. There were no sounds of the other occupants of his dormitory – in fact, there was no sound at all. He cracked open one, heavy eye lid and –

“Aah!” He scrambled out of bed, promptly fell out on the other side with his legs in the air, tied in a jumble of bedclothes. He groaned, “ow.”

“Is Harry Potter wanting breakfast, sir?” Dobby asked elatedly, and Harry was suddenly confronted by brilliant upside-down orbs beneath the bed, peering at him from the opposite side.

“Morning, Dobby,” Harry mumbled tiredly. He grabbed the pillow that had tumbled with him, placed it under his head, and closed his eyes. I'm not moving until I wake up from this nightmare, he whined internally. Until he heard the ominous click of heels on the frigid stone floor coming towards him. Ugh, not now. Not when I'm still half-asleep.

“Potter? Why on Earth are you floundering in your own limbs?” Professor Snape asked irritably. Harry mumbled something into his pillow that the Potions Master didn't catch. Snape sighed impatiently. “Speak only when you are not in the process of smothering yourself.”

Harry lifted his head slightly, using his elbows for support.

“Don't let my suicide concern you, Professor,” he said in a would-be cheerful tone. He then flopped back down into the pillow and attempted to ignore the hovering Professor. Snape had apparently had his fill of him for that day and stalked away.

“Harry Potter, sir?” A voice squeaked uncertainly. What have I done to deserve this? That's right. Existed.

“Whazit, Dobby?” Harry asked irritably from within the folds of the pillow.

“Is Harry Potter wanting breakfast, sir?”

Harry sighed.

“Yeah, please,” he raised his head and lowered his legs from the bed. Dobby was in front of him now, wearing an assortment of the oddest clothes Harry had ever seen, including what appeared to be a multi-coloured, striped Muggle mini-skirt, which came past his knees (slightly resembling a rainbow kilt) and a bright purple, too-large halter top that he was wearing as an apron over an otherwise bare chest. On his head there was a knobbly bobble hat in a bright yellow with one large, green badge that had the words “Happy St. Patrick's Day” written in large, over-bearing orange writing.

The House-Elf was also holding a silver-plated tray in the shape of the Hogwarts emblem, full to bursting with various breakfast cuisines. Bacon, eggs, toast, cereal, porridge; everything Harry would have been able to eat in the Great Hall. At least he wasn't denied the simple pleasure of breakfast, even if he was being denided his freedom. He supposed he could live with that ... for a certain amount of time.

Dobby set the tray down on the floor in front of him. Harry quietly began eating his breakfast, ignoring the other occupant of their prison and listening with half an ear to Dobby's incessant chatter. He spoke of Winky, how he enjoyed his days off and so on. If this had been a lesson and Harry was expected to complete an exam on this general trivia he would have received nothing above a T.

“And Winky is saying that Dobby is a bad elf, but Dobby is knowing better, sir. Winky is not liking freedom, sir, but Dobby is stopping her drinking. Winky is getting better now, Harry Potter. But Winky is still not understanding that Mr Crouch is sacking her, sir. Winky is still believing that she is Mr Crouch's elf. Dobby is telling Winky that she is being Professor Dumbledore's house-elf now -”

He chattered away as Harry ate and nodded appropriately at the correct prompts, unwittingly ignoring the other occupant of the room.

“Dobby is buying new socks with his wages, sir, and he is having two days off next month. And -”

Dobby disappeared with a crack without even finishing his next sentence or even an adoring, 'goodbye Harry Potter, sir!' He'd just gone. Harry glanced towards Snape and glimpsed a thin wand disappearing up his right sleeve. He'd banished Dobby from the room.

“That's hardly fair!” exclaimed Harry indignantly. When did I morph into Hermione? He wondered vaguely. Snape just glared at him, and Harry was getting sick and tired of it. Ignoring him wasn't going to get Snape anywhere. “He wasn't doing any harm, was he? And he wasn't going to stay for very long -”

The Potions Master was quick to stride up to him. He furiously grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and forced him roughly against the side of the bed. Snape's usually stony gaze was burning with a rage Harry had never witnessed. It was glaring into his very soul, charring it as obsidian as the eyes achieving the deed.

“I have had just about enough of you, Potter,” hissed Snape viperously, tightening the brutish grip he had around Harry's throat. “I have had enough of you for a lifetime.”

Harry attempted a reply but his slowly diminishing breathing wouldn't allow it. He tried to concentrate on getting oxygen into his lungs instead of the greasy, overly-large nose that was mere inches from his own, and ignored the deadly, dilated eyes boring into him. The room seemed to freeze as the two stared at one another, paralysed.

As quickly as Snape's anger came, it receded and he frowned slightly in apparent confusion, though he hastily hid it. He sharply spun on his heel and turned his back to Harry, but didn't stride away as he usually did. The tension in his shoulders didn't lessen but something about his demeanour changed, or so it seemed to Harry.

Harry glimpsed a wand in Snape's right hand. He stiffened. That's it. Snape is off his rocker. I've decided. He edged along the bed, attempting to creep away from Snape to find a more defensible position. As it was, he wouldn't have a hope of blocking an attack.

But then ... Snape started laughing. A low, nearly unheard snip of humourless mirth. Harry could only stare, wide-eyed, as Snape turned swiftly back to him, wand in hand, a small grin of vile resentment on his sallow face. He announced bitterly, “it appears, Mr Potter, that we have been had.”

Harry could only blink dumbly at him.

“Had?” asked Harry suspiciously, still poised for something unexpected. What it was, he wasn't entirely sure. It was just going to happen.

“Indeed,” sneered Snape, the grin vanishing. “It would seem the Headmaster felt the situation deserved a correct direction in which to travel. He has placed another charm on the room, a charm he apparently did not feel was worth mentioning. Senex Senis.”

At Harry's blank look, he continued scathingly with an irritable sigh, “really, do you not learn anything in any of your other lessons either? And here I believed that Potions was a special exception. The Senex Charm – as it is more commonly known - is a spell that, when cast correctly, heightens the feelings and the very personality of the person it is placed upon. A spell that essentially works in the same way as Veritaserum, it makes it extremely difficult for the bewitched to hide his emotions from others. It is most often used by Medi-witches and wizards in the field of psychology.” Snape sneered loathingly at that. It was all Harry could do not to imitate him.

How dare Dumbledore! How dare he! As though locking the two of them in wasn't bad enough, now he'd placed a spell on the room that was driving the two of them completely mental! Harry opened and closed his mouth angrily for a moment, beside himself.

“How could he – barmy, old – how dare -” He couldn't string a sentence together. He stomped away from Snape and towards the sealed classroom door and kicked it furiously, hurting his toe in the process. But he didn't care, the pain barely registered. Snape merely watched him silently, studying him. Harry gave the door one last thud for good measure before turning away and leaning against it, arms crossed and thoroughly sulking.

“I suppose this -” Snape gestured impatiently to Harry, “is one of the effects of the spell. Though it wouldn't surprise me if it were otherwise,” he scathingly added. Harry flushed slightly, suddenly feeling rather foolish. Now that he thought about it, that wasn't like him – not usually, at any rate. He didn't go around the school picking fights with inanimate objects.

“So that's why -” said Harry feebly, gesturing towards Snape and rather afraid to continue. The Potions Master simply cocked an eyebrow at him.

“So it would seem,” Snape said icily. “I had wondered as to the cause of your bolder retorts last night.” Harry grinned sheepishly at that.

“They usually stay in my head,” he said with a shrug, as he went to sit on the bed.

“As they should,” said Snape warningly. “The moment we are released I will hold you entirely responsible for any and all of your actions. My leniency thus far will not last, I can assure you.”

Harry nodded mutely. This was progress, he supposed, despite Snape's threat. And the more progress they made the sooner they'd be able to escape their prison and finally returning to comfortably loathing each other. That is how they dealt.

“So, when I was saying that you're completely mental, technically I was right?” Harry inquired curiously. Snape glared at him. I was! He thought incredulously. He quickly changed the subject before Snape went off on a tangent. “Erm – about this spell. Isn't there a counter curse or something?”

“No,” said the Potions Master angrily. He seemed frustrated with himself. “The general rule is that nought but the caster may remove it using the same wand and the Novus incantation. It makes it an extremely difficult spell to break, unless you are a wizard of supreme power. The Dark Lord, perhaps, may be the only being powerful enough to break a charm of the Headmasters.”

Harry deflated slightly. Now they were going to be stuck like this? They were both emotional wrecks! As things were, Harry guessed they wouldn't be released for the next three months. Something occurred to him then.

“Do you usually feel like killing me, then?” Harry asked nonchalantly, trying to appear unconcerned. Snape shrugged slightly, but didn't say anything. “So, it's not the spell?”

“I don't like children, Mr Potter. At one time or another I always want to kill someone,” scowled Snape. “The charm is emphasising it. It's making me pursue the impulse.”

“Once a Death Eater ...” sighed Harry. The Potions Master sent him a venomous glare and he quickly retreated to study a row of shelves. He didn't particularly desire to encourage Snape's more murderous emotions towards him.

He suddenly felt as though he were in one of those Muggle horror films he'd glimpsed when Dudley bought a new video unbeknownst to his mother. Harry was the victim, trapped in a house (or in this case, room) with Snape, the mad axe-murderer. And there would be no one to hear him scream or help him if the Potions Master chose to give in to his impulses. Harry promised himself then, if he died he was going to haunt Dumbledore for the remainder of the old wizard's life. If he didn't, he was going to give him and whoever decided that this was a way of “resolving their issues” an earful and perhaps give in to some of his own impulses.

Evening was laboriously slow to arrive for Harry. He'd done nothing all day except read, think, and stare at the wall whilst having mute and mindless conversations with the inanimate objects in the room. What else was there to do? Dobby had been and gone with lunch and a promise to come back later with dinner. The poor House Elf couldn't have escaped swifter as he hastily exited the room before Snape had had a chance to curse him.

Believe it or not, Harry could see the bright side of the circumstance Dumbledore had impressed upon him; he was being fed. The Dursleys had never been too generous when it came to regular meals. That was just about the only bright side. The rest was a dull, dark oblivion – not unlike his fate in this room. The Headmaster might one day feel the urge to visit them and find Harry's mangled corpse stored in sections in the many glass jars on the shelves among the other pickled items of the room, whilst Snape, having gone mad with cabin fever, gnawed on one of Harry's pickled toes.

Perhaps not quite what Dumbledore had in mind for this little venture.

He sighed as he skimmed through the pages of a tattered, old novella that had been lingering on one of the rotting shelves for (or so it appeared) centuries before Harry's birth. It was entitled, 'A Midnight to Remember – The sordid tale of Merlin Thistlefoot and Cavillera the Betrayer' by Francesco Logshack. He was sure Ginny would have been in her glory with such a story – not Hermione. It was far too fictional for her taste. And Ron didn't read. Nevertheless, Ginny would adore it.

He had arrived at the part of the tale where Merlin (unrelated to the Merlin) had discovered a book of the Dark Arts in Cavillera's travel pack as they journeyed to Stonehenge for an ancient gathering of magical folk. Quite the scandal really, Harry thought, Cavillera had told Merlin that she was more or less a Squib.

The book wasn't really Harry's taste, but he'd ran out of things to say to his old, second-hand Mickey Mouse watch and the potion vial on the desk next to him. As he read, something occurred to him. What was he going to do if he wanted to have a shower, or go to the bathroom? Harry's stomach seemed to clench at the thought of actually having to ask Snape. Bloody Dumbledore had to bloody meddle in everyone else's bloody life! Harry cursed to himself.

How would Snape react if he asked? The would-be murderer might have a coronary, or could simply curse Harry into next week. Either way, it would not be a pleasant experience. Harry glanced at the Potions Master currently sitting by the door, as though it would suddenly unlock itself if he continued to intimidate it. Harry guessed that Snape had passed the stage of anger, and was currently wallowing in denial.

Bloody Dumbledore, as Harry had become accustomed to calling him, hadn't specified the length of their sentence. What if they were here for a month? That was an awfully long time without a toilet. And without a shower? The thought was enough to make Harry physically blanch. It strengthened his resolve, if nothing else – he had to ask Snape. The image came to him again of Snape gnawing at his toe and Harry was left a little more hesitant. Maybe...maybe he should ask the potions vial for advice first?

“Professor?” Don't do it! He could practically hear Mickey shouting at him.

Snape leered in Harry's direction for a moment as though the Gryffindor had disturbed him whilst he was discussing tactics with an important member of the Order, when in reality he was discussing tactics with a door. The Potions Master quickly returned his gaze to said object. Harry interpreted this to mean that he should continue, according to the Slytherin-Gryffindor translation dictionary.

“Erm ...-” Oh, suck it up, Potter! “Where's the bathroom?”

Harry cringed, waiting for either the annoyed explosion, made ten times worse thanks to bloody Dumbledore, or the scathing look that made him feel like an imbecile. Blessedly, neither was distributed.

The Potions Master didn't so much as move. He didn't blink, and didn't seem to be breathing at all. Odd, Harry thought. But then, under Harry's scrutiny, Snape did move. He closed his eyes. Ah, Harry realised. Containing predicted explosion. Well, Harry couldn't fault Snape at least attempting to spare him. Harry actually thought the the Potions Master had taken Dumbledore's spell as a personal challenge, and was therefore doing his utmost to act rationally. Well, as rational as a Snape could be.

“Professor?” Harry insisted, throwing caution to the wind. Snape was containing himself after all, why shouldn't Harry attempt to get an answer?

“Is it urgent?” asked Snape through horribly clenched, yellow teeth. Harry could practically hear the grinding noise.

“Well, no -” began Harry but Snape swiftly cut in before he could get another syllable out.

“Then for the moment, I don't know.”

“You don't know?” repeated Harry blankly. Snape didn't grace him with a reply. “But what if -”

“You said it wasn't urgent, Mr Potter,” snapped Snape irritably. Honestly, didn't the man have any other emotion? Harry wondered angrily.

“Yeah, but what if it was?” Harry continued.

“Then I would suggest you make good use of the many vials in the room,” said Snape icily. Harry gawked at him a moment, a look of pinched disgust on his face.

“Pee in a bottle? Are you serious?” inquired Harry sceptically.

“Quite serious, Potter,” replied the Potions Master, who was now wringing the sleeve of his robe in one hand.

“There is no way -” began Harry desperately but an angry Snape interrupted yet again.

“Of course not, Master Potter,” sneered Snape sarcastically. “We wouldn't want the great Harry Potter to do something remotely unpleasant in a situation he has neither a choice nor control over.”

Harry couldn't help himself.

“Is that sarcasm, Professor?” he asked, as he feigned affront. Snape growled at him furiously. “Did you know that's the lowest form of wit?”

Snape crossed his arms over his chest, as though immobilising them will stop them from doing something particularly gruesome to the teen currently baiting him. He was glaring fiercely and seemed to be debating in his head what to do, much to Harry's annoyance. The Gryffindor didn't really know what he wanted, simply a reaction. Something that made the Potions Master less than an authority figure or a Death Eater. Something that made him human.

A human was something Harry could deal with in this situation. A Snape on the other hand ...

Snape turned away from him, his hands gripping the fabric tightly in each white fist. He was beyond furious now, having had enough of Harry's antics over the last two days. Harry guessed he hadn't been around a singular person for such length a time in his life without a moment to himself. It must've been quite maddening, Harry thought, with or without the Senex Charm.

The Potions Master wasn't the only one who'd had enough of his companion. Harry needed people. Despite his fame he was a relatively social creature, especially with Ron and Hermione as his two best friends. He had become accustomed to companionship, to someone he could talk to. The Dursleys were another matter entirely. Harry could live with them because he knew it wasn't permanent. Dumbledore had had no idea what he was forcing upon him.

Harry was about to discover just how human Snape could be.

“Legilimens.”

He had whipped out his wand with numb fingers and aimed it at Snape's back. Without a thought he'd muttered the spell and it rushed towards the Potions Master, uncontrolled and unrestrained. The primitive, raw energy collided with its ignorant target and before either of them knew it, Harry had broken through Snape's nearly adamantine defences.

Waves of pictures and undistinguishable sounds that didn't belong to him soared through Harry's thoughts, an indistinct blur of tumultuous colour. He concentrated all of his efforts upon the images and exposed one from the infinite chaos. It was like being absorbed into a Muggle film, where the edges of reality faded to black and nothing but the footage on the screen had your undivided attention.

Harry watched, entranced as a room came into focus. A poorly decorated, deprived hovel. A sickly woman stood by a sink, wiping at an already shining plate. Her pallid son sat at a rickety, dilapidated table, furiously writing. There was a thunderous rumble from an adjacent room before a man entered, drunk, disorderly and frenetic.

He roughly grabbed the woman by the shoulder and screamed at her furiously. She did nothing. Only what she dared to. She begged him in French. The young boy had ran from the table and huddled in the corner furthest away from the lanky haired man.

Before Harry could full register the rest of the events he felt himself being roughly wrenched from the memory and being hurtled out of Snape's mind. He hit the floor and couldn't comprehend any further. An oblivion much as he'd feared encompassed him.

---

Harry was suddenly slithering on the ground, finally free of his master for a time. The tall grass hid him well as he languidly wormed his way through the forest of vegetation, following the tantalizing rat that teased him as he followed. He wanted nothing more than to rupture the vermin's soft underbelly with his toxic fangs whilst indulging in its' delectable insides as they spewed from the mortal mutilation.

But no, he had orders from his master. He was to pursue him only, “keep a sharp watch”. They were his instructions. And so he did, as silent as the gloom of the approaching evening. The rat knew he was near-by of course, but where? That remained a mystery to his quarry, much to Harry's delight. It made the hunt that more enjoyable.

They were close to Hogwarts now. Harry could feel the vibration of the many humans stomping around the castle from here. Soon his freedom would be over and he'd have to return. The gates of Hogwarts loomed over him, a frigid black in comparison to the cool blue of the dusk. Further in front was the slightly illuminated orange of Wormtail, passing swiftly along the castle's many defences without a hint of detection.

The rat crawled without hesitation as only a rat could towards the brightly lit castle. It was as though he knew exactly where to go and how to get there without alerting anyone to his presence. Harry glared suspiciously at his prey. The rat reached the out wall of the castle and began to twitch and scratch at the soft, slightly damp ground.

Harry watched him thoughtfully for a moment before vibrations through the ground alerted him to another presence. He glanced over the grass and saw the warm red of a human striding quietly and swiftly towards the rat. He knew this scent; Albus Dumbledore. Harry cautiously kept silent and hidden in the foliage of the castle grounds.

“Stupefy.” The frantic burning of the spell soared too quickly for Harry to see in the direction of the rat and hit its' target without fail. Wormtail instantly stilled, unconscious and helpless upon the ground. The headmaster quickly conjured a cage of sorts and placed the Stupified rat within it.

Another came out of the castle. McGonagall, Harry recognised. She joined Dumbledore and peered at his newly achieved captive, Harry could do nothing but watch. How he wanted to pierce their flesh with the deadly knife-like fangs in his mouth. Nothing but the blood in his mouth could be sweeter.

“You have him then,” McGonagall commented dryly.

“So it would seem,” said Dumbledore. He didn't sound any more pleased then she.

“Surely He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will know of his capture?” she inquired warningly.

“Of course, sooner than we could anticipate, I imagine,” the Headmaster remarked. “It's all in hand, Minerva.”

“Perhaps, but what of Potter? Surely you don't intend to keep him trapped in the dungeons further? You've gained what you needed -”

“Yes, Minerva, I have. But Severus and Harry have not, and they will be kept in such a state until they do. Achievement is the path to success,” twinkled the old wizard.

“Not if it kills them first,” scoffed McGonagall sternly. “It isn't humane, Albus.”

“We must all make a choice, Professor, between what is right and what is easy. I believe that this is correct way of dealing with their issues.”

“Unless it all goes horribly wrong. The two can't stand each other! They'd sooner chew of their own limbs,” said Professor McGonagall angrily.

“Did you not say yourself the two would benefit -”

“Yes, but not by such harsh means! Any connection between your reality and mine is purely coincidental!” she scolded in a harsh whisper. Dumbledore could only chuckle.

“My dear Minerva, one would think you didn't trust me,” the Headmaster jested patiently. The Gryffindor Head of House huffed impatiently and stalked away. She turned and called back to him;

“The fact that no one understands you doesn't make you an artist, Albus. Do try to restrain yourself from painting the destinies of those who may actually be beyond your control.”

The picture faded and Nagini turned away from the two humans and slithered back the way she came.

---

A penetrating fog seemed to swirl around Harry's brain as he was trapped between unconsciousness and awakening. Two forces were pulling in opposite directions in his mind, one towards a perpetual nirvana, the other in the direction of concious soul. Slowly, he struggled and swam towards the latter despite his misgivings. The current of cognizance tugged him faster and with more haste before he was finally thrown back into reality.

Harry blinked an opened his eyes, at least he tried to. Small led weights were upon his eyelids, keeping them shut as he struggled meekly against them. He heard someone call his name, and he could only groan in response.

“Potter?”

The voice called again, one that was all too familiar. Harry still couldn't place it, and so he gave in to the desperate sleep his body was forcing upon him.

---

Harry didn't know how much time had passed before he finally woke up and felt more like himself again. Once again, he wrestled with his uncooperative eyelids and managed to pry them open a minuscule slit. He turned his slightly throbbing head that beat in rhythm with his heart and was met by the penetrating glare of the Potions Master.

Harry jumped slightly at their intensity but didn't lower his gaze, he couldn't have lowered them any further if he'd tried. Neither of them said anything for a moment as Harry collected his memories.

“'m sorry,” he muttered feebly, to which Snape sneered.

“A simple apology won't fix the damage you've done,” barked the Potions Master. Harry flinched more at the loud tone then the scathing remarks and managed to shut his eyes against both. He didn't know what to say, his brain didn't seem to want to make the rest of his body work and so he said the only thing he could.

“'m sorry,” he repeated again, more insistently. Snape sighed but didn't press the matter further. Harry was sure he'd be hearing a lot about it later, anyway.

“How are you feeling?” Snape inquired seriously, though some of his animosity still shone through despite the nearly caring words. Harry's mind still wasn't responding as it should have, he could only glance up at Snape in confusion.

“Y- you soun' reasonable,” mumbled Harry tiredly. “Time for your medication?”

Snape glared at him impatiently.

“Must you be so immature? This is no a laughing matter. Do you not realise the danger you placed the both of us in?” Snape scowled sternly at the teenager.

“S'rry. It sounds li'e English, but I can't un'erstan' a word you're sayin',” slurred Harry toilsomely. The Potions Master sighed irritably at this.

“Fine, Potter. Rest. I'll deal with you in the morning,” Snape bit warningly. Harry muttered an affirmative before he was swiftly claimed by a most natural sleep for once in a very long year.

“What in Merlin's name were you thinking?” Snape growled quietly, his arms crossed as he threw himself gracefully into the nearest chair. Harry could do nothing but sit where he was on his transfigured bed in a similar position, leaning against the cool wooden headboard with his head bowed and his legs crossed.

It had nearly been noon when an exhausted Harry had finally awoken, except for a brief semi-conciousness during which he took Snape's earlier advice and put the empty potion vials to good use. He felt drained, as though he had spent most of yesterday in an activity akin to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, when in reality he knew he had spent no more then a quarter of a minute within Snape's head. That thought alone was disturbing in and of itself.

Snape hadn't taken the venture inside his cranium too well either and had refused to acknowledge Harry for yet another hour and a half after the Gryffindor's re-emergence into the land of the living. Ironically, Harry was now the one doing the ignoring.

“You knew nothing of the risks, of the damage you could have done,” spat Snape angrily as he stood up and began to desperately pace the room. “Yet you were still so confident of your own abilities that you had no qualms with performing a spell you had no control over,” Snape turned and sneered at him, “...nor even the slightest knowledge of what it might entail, on someone,” Snape turned back around and continued to pace, “...who was completely unaware and without their consent!”

“It wasn't like that,” Harry muttered into his arms as he shifted position, uncrossing his legs as he brought his knees up and leant upon them. Harry wasn't even annoyed that he was being lectured in such a manner by the likes of the Potions Master. He knew he deserved it. Snape instantly stopped pacing and stared darkly at him. He hunched slightly where he stood, attempting to catch Harry's eye.

“You will tell no one of what you saw,” he all but whispered dangerously. “Not one. Living. Soul, Potter.” Harry nodded into his arms without hesitation. “Or you may find yourself begging to be taken to the Dark Lord so that he may give you a swift and merciful death.”

Harry met Snape's narrowed, glittering eyes then, his own eyes wide. The Potions Master looked deadly serious. “Do I make myself clear, Potter?” Harry nodded quickly but Snape continued insistently. “Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Harry quietly. He quickly broke away from the leering gaze and focused on the fabric of his sleeves. Neither of them moved for a tense moment, until Snape lowered himself into his chair again.

“What was it like?” Snape asked quietly. Harry glanced towards him uncertainly. “You presume to tell me that my analysis of the situation is incorrect. Do put me in my place and tell me exactly how it actually was.” Despite any situation, Harry was sure Snape would find some way of using sarcasm to belittle everyone else. This wasn't to be an exception, it seemed. “This is your one and only opportunity to put the git of a Potions Master right, Potter. I expect you'll take full advantage of it.”

Harry shook his head. He wasn't going to allow Snape to bait him like this. “Is that a no? Then you prove me correct,” goaded Snape, and Harry could do nothing other then note the irony of the situation.

“I never meant -”

“But you did,” Snape cut across harshly. “Don't even dare attempt to stage this as an accident. You removed your wand. You cast the spell. No one else.”

“Having pronoun problems?” shouted Harry angrily. “You're emphasising them too much.”

“Believe me, Potter, this has everything to do with pronouns and the emphasis thereof!” barked Snape furiously.

“It's 'Harry'!” yelled the equally enraged Gryffindor. “My name is Harry!”

This didn't seem to be what Snape had expected. He glared at Harry a moment, Snape's dark eyes ironically burning him as much as the midday sun. The Potions Master's expression darkened even further as he glowered at him.

“You will never be anything more than a Potter,” he muttered harshly as his hands began to spasm anxiously.

“How would you like it if everyone compared you to your father, Snape?” Harry inquired just as coldly. He no longer cared that this was one of his Professors, or even someone that could easily hand him over to Voldemort. Hell, he didn't care that Snape was a powerful wizard capable of besting him in a duel without much effort. All Harry wanted was for him to know exactly what it was like to have people misjudge you.

“Don't you even dare use what you learned yesterday -”

“Against you? I don't see why not you bloody hypocrite! You use what you know about me every flipping lesson!” Harry screamed, all of the frustration in every one of his Potions lessons seeming to be released in this one moment. “You never gave a damn about using it! As long as you had your fun!”

“Don't presume to -”

“All because you thought it was a way of getting revenge on my dad! At least he learned from his mistakes! You're just repeating the cycle. I don't know what he did to you when you were kids but, you know what? I'm glad! I wish it'd been worse! I wish you'd bloody died!”

Harry sat panting for a moment as his mind tried to recall what had just escaped his mouth unchecked. He didn't know what else to say as they sat facing each other in a silent battle, both seeming unsure as to the next move. The Gryffindor couldn't help but feel as though he'd just played dirty in this game of wits, he wanted nothing more then to take most of it, not all, back. Some of it, Harry thought, was something Snape needed to hear. Though the death wish might have been a tad overboard.

Just a tad, Harry mused forebodingly. He was watching Snape carefully for a response but the man seemed to be miraculously containing himself, either that or thinking of the best possible hex to curse Harry with.

“Are you quite finished, Potter?” Snape asked, dangerously quiet. Harry could do nothing other then nod his head meekly, but couldn't help but notice the threatening flexing of Snape's hands. The Potions Master must have been itching to grip his wand. “Make no mistake, you impudent brat, if that door was unlocked you would be out on your ear in a heartbeat. As the case may be, I will not hesitate to cast something particularly unpleasant upon you. One more word, Potter, and I swear, if you give me reason to, I will break you.”

“Dumbledore wouldn't -”

“The Headmaster is neither here nor watching. I can do as I please, Potter, or have you only now noticed that you are beyond his protection during the entirety of this situation?” Snape sneered at Harry as though he were a complete imbecile.

A heavy weight seemed to have fallen into the pit of Harry's stomach, cold and unnatural. It wasn't fear. It was something else, something alien. It was something that he shouldn't have been feeling. The uncomfortable pressure seemed to claw from his stomach, forcing out all of Snape's words as it grew steadily more powerful. Harry could feel the heat drain from his body as something far beyond pain started to creep through his limbs, a poisonous venom that was deliberately coursing through him and damaging him from the inside out. If only he'd known how right he was.

Harry's body seemed frozen, he couldn't move and even breathing was becoming painful. With each minuscule twitch of a finger or rising of his chest a burning jolt quivered through his veins. As suddenly as the cold set in it receded, granting him a moment of relief. That was all he was given. That one, singular moment.

The rest was a burning hell as his insides ignited, licking at the underside of his pasty, clammy skin. His lungs seemed to be inhaling a thick black smoke, which was slowly smothering him. His heart beat desperately to an all too quick tempo, one he couldn't keep up with as it sought the blood his body needed so, but was unable to find. The blood seemed to have evaporated with the heat and his mind along with it. Organs crumbled within him, his blood disappeared and his own body being eating away at him from the inside. Conciousness quickly gave up the battle as his body fought in an entirely different war. His vision faded to black as it grasped hold of his only means of escape.

Throughout it, he was unaware of the Potions Master trying to regulate his breathing and Snape's attempts to save him.

---

Harry had had quite enough of waking after being forced into unconsciousness, and had experienced enough of it to last a life time. Another thing he'd had enough of was having Snape glaring at him while sitting at his bedside when he awoke. Leering eyes and a lecture at the ready was not what he needed when he was drowsy, disorientated and generally feeling as though he'd fallen off his broom from a height of one hundred meters.

“W-what happened?” Harry asked groggily, ignoring the freezing glare of Snape that could have turned his own feverish body to ice.

“I was bitten by an adder as a child. You experienced what it is like to have your body dismembered by a hemotoxic venom,” said Snape stoically, without granting Harry the mercy of removing or softening his even-worse-than-usual loathsome glare.

“What-o-toxic ven -?” Harry began to asked, completely flummoxed.

“Hemotoxic,” Snape cut in impatiently. “It destroys red bloods cells, causes organ degeneration and general tissue damage. Simply, your organs were slowly collapsing as the venom ate away at your body from the inside out.”

“Why did it happen? It's not like I've been outside -” Harry stopped what he was saying and turned his head to glare suspiciously at Snape.

“Don't look at me like that, Potter. I had nothing to do with it. After effects of the spell, I imagine,” snapped Snape accusingly.

“Thought it had nothing to do with you?” asked Harry defensively.

“It didn't. I wasn't the one who cast it, now was I?”

Harry glared at him a moment, not having forgotten the earlier argument. “Would it kill you to have a bit of sympathy?”

“Possibly,” Snape snapped back.. He sighed before continuing, “there was no physical venom within your body, you were simply reliving my memory of the pain.”

“Was that all?” Harry inquired sarcastically. “And here I was worried that something bad might have happened!”

“You truly have no idea how lucky you are, Potter,” Snape argued irritably. “That's all it was, luck. You seem perpetually blessed with it for some ungodly reason. Anyone else would have been killed or worse.”

“What could possibly be worse?” Harry challenged incredulously.

“Being trapped within your own mentality for eternity whilst your decaying body sits, rots and awaits the mind's return. Medi-wizards insist on keeping the body alive for as long as possible for this purpose, without realising the torture they could be inflicting. The body cannot live without the mind, Potter, or vice versa,” Snape was gazing at Harry intently as he spoke, as though urging him to understand.

“You think death is mercy?” asked Harry dubiously.

Snape's expression didn't change but there was a glint of something within his usually fearsome eyes. A touch of remorse, of ... longing? Harry wondered for a moment before the harsh lilt of the Potions Master's voice tore into his thoughts, and that one glint of darkness that was more then simply black disappeared.

“Yes, never fear death, Potter, it is inevitable. The Dark Lord fears it beyond anything else on this Earth. He has tried his utmost to escape it and has thus far succeeded. Become Death, embrace it and you will find the means to defeat him,” said Snape quietly and as surely as though it were something as simple as two plus two equals four.

“H-how does someone become Death? It's not possible,” asked Harry hesitantly. The thought alone, that someone would declare themselves something akin to the Grim Reaper was disturbing, but he asked anyway. Call it morbid curiosity, Harry thought to himself.

“If you make yourself more then a man, you will become something else entirely. Do not learn how not to be seen, learn to be invisible. Do not learn the most powerful spells available to you, learn to go beyond them. Do not learn how to fall gracefully, learn how to fly. Master this and you can become anything you wish to portray, even Death itself,” Snape muttered softly, as though cherishing those words, a wisdom that rivalled Dumbledore's in his fathomless eyes.

“More then a man?” Harry asked, enthralled by the possible idea.

“Yes, Potter. You are the hope of the Wizarding world, you can lead our people to freedom. Become the symbol you were born to be, strike fear into the hearts of mortal men and conquer all. Have no fear and you will become immortal. That is his weakness, his fears. He fears the Headmaster, and therefore cannot defeat him. He fears death and therefore will not defeat it. Become what the Dark Lord is terrified of, and he will not defeat you. Ask yourself this, how do you become his fears?”

Harry shrugged. He really had no clue where Snape was going with this. What unnerved him more than anything was that Snape asked the question as though they were in Potions, albeit less belligerently. How could a Death Eater treat something like Voldemort in such a trivial manner? Should he not be quaking at the very thought of him?

“By not fearing him,” Snape answered his own question. “That is how he gained his power in the first place. He used the fears of those around him to fuel his energy and his influence upon them. Do not let him create that same feeling within you. Do not think of him as the Dark Lord, as someone above you. He is a lesser being. Barely even human at this point.” The Potions Master sounded utterly disgusted at the thought.

“And with Unforgivable's at the ready,” Harry said dubiously.

“It's thoughts like that that gave him the power he has. Do not allow him to hold sway over you. He is nothing more than a vile narcissistic egomaniac. He has nothing. He is nothing.”

“I'm only fifteen -”

“That doesn't matter, Potter. Age, gender, power and riches matter not. They mean nothing. Surely, you have learned that during your time here. What truly matters is strength and wisdom and the courage to do what is necessary. As for learning, Potter, I have tried. Occlumency I have not been doing for pure enjoyment, I promise you that. It is nothing more then a necessity,” said Snape slightly irritably. Memories of their last disastrous Occlumency lesson still on his mind, Harry guessed.

“That's where you courage came in handy, Professor?” inquired Harry with a grin. Snape glared at him sourly.

“No more jokes, Potter. It is time for you to grow up.” Snape paused, and sighed, “Though.. as much as I loath to admit it, we're quite similar, you and I.”

“How so?” Harry asked defensively, insulted by the very idea of being anything like Snape.

“We are both agents in this war that rightly should have nothing to do with us. We are both manipulated by the people we trust so that they may use us to their advantage. We are both pawns,” said Snape tiredly, staring emptily at something over Harry's shoulder.

“Not quite peas in a pod though.” Harry said sardonically.

“I said similar, not family.”

Harry decided not to comment and went down a different road, one that had been raising questions in his mind for some time.

“Why did you decide to teach me Occlumency, sir?” inquired Harry curiously.

“It is my payment,” muttered Snape darkly. “I ensure that you survive this war by any means necessary, and my debt will be settled.”

“With who?”

“Your father.”

Well, there's a conversation stopper for you, Harry thought wryly as his already perplexed mind attempted to wrap itself around the utterly bewildering concept. Snape had an unsettled debt with his father? The very possibility seemed altogether ... wrong. How could the Potions Master even consider the likelihood that James Potter would collect on such a seemingly trivial due? Harry wasn't sure if he should be insulted on his behalf or not ...

“So ... you and he ...” for once during this entirely too long ordeal Harry didn't know what on Earth to say. What did someone say to something like that? A Death Eater telling him that said servant of You-Know-Who had pledged to his dead father the protection of one unborn son, and as dire consequence and fateful cock-up would have it Harry was left to reap the 'rewards' of the ridiculous promise ... now, if that's not completely mental Harry didn't know what was. It was only then that Harry realised he had been gaping for nearly a full minute before he snapped his jaw shut. Swallowing any bewilderment that might find its' way into his voice, he tried again. “W-what exactly does that ... mean?”

Snape sighed impatiently and began taking up his familiar pacing from one side of the room to the other. “It means, Potter, that until the Dark Lord is thoroughly defeated, it is my unfortunate,” a pause in which he took in a deep, unnecessary breath and swapped his scowl for a well-practised grimace, “duty to stop you from partaking in any imbecilic or suicidal behaviour.”

“How kind.”

Snape glared angrily at him. “If you had been left to your own devices, I can assure you, you would have been as deceased as Cedric Diggory midway through your first year.”

Somewhere deep inside him, Harry felt the burn of a raw pain. He had caused it, the death of a fellow student, a young prospect with such potential yet to be honed and unleashed upon the world, and now unable to fulfil it ... Harry didn't want to consider it any longer.

Glaring darkly, the young wizard looked away to conceal the misty storm of shame that raged in his mind, so sure it reflected in his eyes. Filled with that bitter ache, he dropped his gaze to his hands, only partially visible from the folds of his rough robe, expecting to see the tell-tale stains of his crime there, but was surprised to see their pristine black hue instead.

Guilty, nevertheless.

“It wasn't his fault,” muttered Harry morosely, a melancholy that seemed too heavy in his voice. “He hadn't known. He was chosen,” a bitter laugh escaped him, “I chose him. I insisted.”

“No, Potter,” Snape's viciously steeled tone brought Harry's deeply green eyes to his own, so much like the lifelong evergreen meeting the darkest of winter during a biting frost. “He chose his own fate. Each of you were informed of the ramifications should you be chosen as a Champion.”

“No one said that Voldemort would be one of those 'ramifications',” argued Harry venomously, levelling Snape with a glare to rival one of his Professor.

“It happened regardless. Surely you had your suspicions? Diggory knew what was expected of him, whether the Dark Lord was involved or not did nothing to lessen the danger of the Tournament ...” He trailed off as Harry leered fiercely at him, giving his student a challenging look.

A flaming heat seemed to erupt in Harry's cheeks at the casual, almost accusing mention of the cruelly murdered Hufflepuff. It wasn't even a year after his horrific death, not even a bloody year! And yet Snape could stand there and talk about him so coldly, as though his life hadn't mattered one iota.

“Don't you dare. Don't you dare talk about Cedric like it was his own fault,” Harry spat furiously, his suddenly numb fingers clenching. “He hadn't wanted to die! He hadn't known!”

“Do try and restrain that temper of yours, Potter,” sneered Snape derisively, though his eyes had narrowed in an infinitely frozen warning. “You didn't know the boy.”

“Like that matters! He's still dead isn't he? He was still murdered by that vile bastard you call your Lord!” Harry punctuated angrily, flashes of the disastrous night of the Third Task surfacing in his mind. Cedric and he grasping the Triwizard Cup together. The ominous graveyard, the hooded figure. A spark of that horrifying green light. Cedric's lifeless body staring blankly at him. The cauldron. Voldemort. Cedric's ghost. “He's dead!”

“People die every single day,” Snape intoned monotonously in a silent challenge. “It's a fact of life, Potter.”

“And how would a 'fact of life' help Cedric?” growled Harry.

“It doesn't,” ... Snape. “But it might help you.” Harry opened his mouth to retort until exactly what Snape had said registered.

“It - ... excuse me?” Harry's anger seemed to have been cut off at its' source, ebbing away as quickly as it had come, only to be replaced by an increasingly infuriating confusion. Snape was standing with his back to the door now, leaning against it with his arms crossed and held tightly to himself. Harry took a hesitant step towards him. Glancing through the curtain of slightly matted, and forever oily obsidian hair, he gave Harry an obscurely cryptic glower.

“You couldn't have been less angry with me if you tried, Potter,” Snape began in way of explanation, causing Harry to furrow his brow in confusion. “You're angry with yourself. You think you could have prevented his death.”

Harry sputtered in furious indignation for a moment, coming up with nothing beyond babbling monosyllabic nonsense. Raising one hideously dark eyebrow, Snape continued, “in fact, you're blaming yourself not only for his death, but for that of your parents, the old man and Bertha Jorkins. Are you not responsible for every single person whose fate was met by the end of the Dark Lord's wand? And those whom you saw in the graveyard that night? Are you not personally at fault for every last one of those murders? You tell me, Potter.”

There was a moment of endless silence between them with Harry gazing down at his own feet in contemplation. Never before had he realised the heavy weight of guilt on his conscience was not caused only by Cedric's death, but by his own survival. The cool, harsh reality of Snape's next words seemed to be coming from his own thoughts.

“Why should you survive the Dark Lord's wrath on countless occasions when so many others have mercilessly perished at his feet?”

The messy head of hair raised to meet Snape's hauntingly dark eyes, so perceptive in their cruelty, and for the briefest of moments a spark of kinship rippled within the turbulent waters, no longer spitefully calm to hide the fit of rage lingering beneath the surface. But as swiftly as it appeared it drowned, once again, into the desperately bottomless ocean of night, leaving only the icy waves of despair and determination.

“I don't know,” was Harry's eventual reply after the longest second of silence he had ever endured seemed to gain pace with the rest of the world. A crease of inquiry appeared between Snape's brow as he surveyed his student.

“You fear him,” he hissed with certainty, sounding utterly disgusted at the prospect, as though Harry had committed a personal wrong against him. “Every time you encounter him it may be the last. Either for you, or someone you hold dear. He has you in his control, as he does the rest of us.”

A nod was his only answer. “You fear his manipulation, that he can instil such feelings of guilt and despair within your very soul. You ... long for death. For a reprieve, an outlet of the misery you're slowly drowning yourself in.” Wide-eyed and hesitant, Harry backed away towards his bed, as far from the Potions Master as possible. He knew too much, leaving Harry exposed to his fathomless eyes, allowing them peel away the remaining layers that would surely leave him naked for all the world to see. He needed protection, even if it came only in the reassuring stone surrounding the bed.

“I won't allow it.”

It was said with such certainty and utter determination that it startled Harry out of the daze he hadn't realised he'd slipped into.

“You won't?” asked Harry, unsure, despising the desperate reassurance he required.

“A promise was made, and I fully intend to keep it. Did I not say I was to stop you from suicidal behaviour?” There was a dry smirk in replacement of the scowl. “That doesn't only include running headlong into certain death.”

Something suddenly occurred to Harry. “How did you end up making such a promise?”

“You're father saved my life once,” Snape sneered at the thought. “No matter how much I detest the fact. The repayment didn't come full circle as it should have. There in lies the mistake that cost him his life, and it was then I vowed to ensure the survival of his son, if I could.”

“You blame yourself?” asked Harry, not having the time to appreciate the irony of the question. A pained smirk was offered to him.

“I was the informant that gave the Dark Lord word of a threat to him and his power. Only too late did I realise that he traced that threat to the Potters, and inevitably, to you,” the heavy note of anger in his voice was not directed at Harry, and he had redirected his gaze to the suddenly interesting stone of the floor beneath his feet. No face could be distinguished between the strands of greasy black that hung limply at his shoulders. “I owe him his life and my own. The father that is owed to you, however, is something else entirely. That cannot be repaid.”

Staring at him in bewilderment, Harry asked, “why're you telling me all of this?”

“You asked,” answered Snape wryly. “And it is time for you to realise that the death of those around you are not of your doing. They're mine. It began and ended with the Potters, and now it continues until the Dark Lord has the whole of the Wizarding world at his mercy.” A sigh. “They will receive none.”

“Not if we defeat him. The Order -”

Snape scoffed. “The Order has no power over him or his followers. There are measures being made to sustain the society we've toiled to rebuild, yes, but that will soon fall into anarchy when his hoards make themselves known. A panic will ensue and the world will tear itself apart through its' fear. All we're doing is delaying the inevitable ...”

“Unless we overcome our fears and fight against him,” muttered Harry to himself, Snape's words of inducing terror into the Dark Lord suddenly coming back to him, clearer and more precise then they had been.

“Precisely.”

Their eyes met in that instant, forging an almost palpable understanding between them and for the briefest of moments Harry no longer saw the Potions Master as either a teacher or a spy, simply a man. They were all men, one and the same, each brought into the world by whatever deity people chose to believe and given the opportunity to live. Life was so supremely precious. So fabulously fickle. Yet, wholly insignificant. Within those charred eyes of darkness, inevitable death seemed to be glaring back, welcoming with scythe outstretched and Harry realised that he was no longer afraid. The fear was just an image they wanted him to believe, to manipulate his behaviour. The skeletal, clawing grasp was neither feared nor welcomed, simply accepted.

As was Snape. Harry could accept him now as his reluctant saviour. A protector, charged with his safety and survival, and for all it was worth, he could foresee it. His survival. He would, when the inevitable end finally arrived, emerge victorious. However deeply he may be scarred, however horrendously difficult life became he would live it. He would cherish the moments in darkness and be all the stronger for it. Snape was in the middle of that darkness now, still toiling through its' depths, but he too would survive. Battered and bruised, but alive nonetheless.

“We're powerless in this war.”

It came with such a bitingly grim conviction Harry was abruptly startled from his thoughts. Frowning in contemplation, he gazed at the stone by the Potions Master's feet.

“Yes,” he agreed matter-of-factly, causing Snape to glance at him dubiously. “But Voldemort -” Snape still flinched at the name, and Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes at his Professor. For all he preached about one's fears, he sure as Hell didn't seem to practice them. “- has his weaknesses. I don't know how to counter them and I definitely don't have a plan of action but I'm sure when the time comes I'll know what I have to do.”

At the cocked eyebrow Harry received, he added, “I work best under pressure.”

“Really?” asked Snape sarcastically, his tone dry. Harry grinned slightly.

“Oh yeah, you should see me in Divination. Thinking on my feet has become my speciality,” Harry gave him a pointed look and couldn't help but smile at the thought of his and Ron's many essays involving their 'predictions' of life-threatening disasters to occur each day of their week. Rather then a derisive comment on his arrogance or that of his father Snape smirked slightly, and Harry somehow knew it was at the thought of Trelawny's many insights into the deaths of certain individuals. He must have hated her as much as the rest of the student body. “They should change the course to Applied Nonsense.”

“Already taken,” said Snape wryly, seeming completely serious despite the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Officially taught by the most competent,” he sneered, “Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Laughing, Harry grinned at the thought of the horrendous teacher from his second year.

“Competent and Lockhart in the same sentence? Must be a first.”

“I wouldn't doubt it.”

Click.

... Harry's eyes widened at the quiet, nearly inaudible noise, anything he was about to say about Gilderoy and his pixies dying on his lips. It wasn't possible, was it? How many times had he imagined he'd heard that noise during the expanse of their imprisonment over Mickey's sarcastic chatter? Snape had taken a hasty step away from the door, glanced at Harry over his shoulder before nearly leaping for the handle, forcing the wooden door open with such force he nearly toppled on top of the occupant in the corridor. It wasn't who Harry had expected in the least.

Rather than the aged Headmaster standing on the other side of the door, twisting the end of his beard in amusement and that tell-tale twinkle sparkling infuriatingly, it was Hermione. Her luxuriously brown eyes were wide in surprise, a bloom of persistent humour shining within them at the sight of the dishevelled Potions Master that had desperately leapt at her from behind the door.

They froze in that stance for a long moment, Snape apparently as surprised to see her as Harry was. She graced the both of them with an uncharacteristically confident smile.

“Professor?” She inquired lightly, before shifting her imploring gaze to Harry, who still hovered near the bed at the other side of the room. Straightening hastily, Snape finally addressed her.

“Where -” he growled angrily. “- is Dumbledore?”

Hermione's smile faltered slightly, and she looked towards the stairs she had previously descended.

“In his office, Professor,” she told him quickly, giving Harry an uncertain glance before Snape stormed up the stairs as though the very hounds of Hell were on his heels. Harry didn't blame him. He, on the other hand, was still inside his cell watching Hermione watch him. “Well?” She asked him expectantly. “Are you coming out or would you rather I locked you back in?”

That lit a fire beneath him as he hastily strode out of the room and was promptly bombarded by a lap full of Hermione.

“Ooft! Er – H-Hermione? Can't breathe,” he choked out, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Oh,” she released her death grip slightly, and said sheepishly, “sorry. How was it? Was it awful? Ron was absolutely furious when Dumbledore told us what he'd done, and so was I to begin with. I do hope you got something out of the experience, I don't want to give Ron the opportunity to gloat. He didn't try to hurt you, did he?”

“Alright, no, I did and yes,” he told her with a grin as she finally paused for breath.

“Good, at least - ... what? He did?” she asked in horror, and if possible, her eyes widened. “Oh, my God, Harry, are you alright? What did he do?”

“I'll tell you and Ron about it later,” he told her as he began to walk down the corridor and towards the stairs leading out of the dungeons. How he wanted to see the light of day. As she began to quickly follow him she continued.

“Well, it mustn't have been too horrible then,” said Hermione thoughtfully, though surreptitiously scanning Harry for signs of anything fatal. “But Professor Dumbledore wanted you to go see him first.”

Harry groaned.

“Like he hasn't done enough,” he mumbled irritably. Leaning towards him as though to share a secret, Hermione all but whispered;

“Think of it this way, you'll see him being put in his place by Professor Snape...”

“When you say it like that -” He gave her one of the few genuine smiles he'd been able to give anyone for awhile, and came to a slightly reluctant halt before the statue that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. He glanced to Hermione with a pointed look.

“Chocolate buttons,” she sighed, smiling at him before making her way past Harry and towards the marble staircase as the statue sprung to life to allow him to pass, revealing a set of stone stairs leading upwards. Always a joy, he thought wryly.

Trudging up the stairs with slow, laborious steps he reached the door to the office and paused a moment. He frowned in confusion. There were no sounds of breaking furniture, raised voices or potentially deadly spells, simply the low murmuring of serious conversation. He knocked and waited admittance. And waited. And waited.

For a moment he thought they hadn't heard him and raised a fist to knock again when the door swung open and Snape clambered out, paler than he had been and nearly bowled Harry over in his attempt to get away from the office and Dumbledore.

“Watch where you're going, Potter,” he growled menacingly, practically shoving Harry aside as he strode down the stairs and out of sight. So much for a breakthrough, sighed Harry mentally.

“Harry, do come in,” said the smiling Headmaster from behind his desk, shuffling and keeping paper work within one of the mahogany's many drawers. As he reluctantly walked into the room and sat in the chair the Headmaster had indicated he waited impatiently for an explanation. Unfortunately, he didn't receive the correct one. “I'm afraid you'll have to excuse Severus. There was some rather unfortunate news.”

Harry nodded once, urging him to continue. “I trust everything went well?”

Was he joking? He was not asking Harry how everything in a plan he had designed had turned out? He sighed shortly, wondering if perhaps there was still some remnants of Snape in him before he ventured an answer.

“Alright,” said Harry bitingly, turning up his palms in lieu of a shrug. He left the sentence open, as though to say 'it could've been worse'. Dumbledore nodded in understanding, the persistent gleam of knowing glaringly bright in his eyes.

“And I also hope to trust that you will not be informing the Daily Prophet of your treatment?” asked the wizened wizard laughingly, though his meaning was clear. 'Don't go around telling every Tom, Dick and Harry'. “Though, Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have already been informed of the situation.”

“No, sir,” muttered Harry, suddenly anxious to leave. He hadn't realised exactly how he'd missed the company of his friends, of the occupants in Gryffindor Tower. By some miracle of God, his wish was granted.

“Then I'll leave you to get back to your dormitory,” said Dumbledore, standing and leading his eager student to the door. “I think you'll find that Hedwig has missed you terribly during your short absence.”

“Hedwig's back?” asked Harry in surprise. He had sent her to Sirius two days before his incarceration and hadn't expected her back for at least another three. Perhaps Sirius had changed his location and was closer? The Order might have allowed him out of his house? More anxious then ever to get to the common room Harry resisted the urge to bounce impatiently on the balls of his feet.

“Indeed, she arrived yesterday,” smiled the Headmaster wisely. “And apparently she's been quite busy. I'd go see to her as soon as possible. She might be feeling quite peckish.”

Pun wholly intended, Harry thought wryly as he imagined his soon to be bloodied digits. That owl could have a strange way of showing that she cared sometimes.

“Thank you, sir,” called Harry quickly as he ran down the stairs at a quick jog, nearly tripping over a hissing Mrs Norris at the bottom and then disappearing around the corner as a wheezing Filch arrived soon after. Freedom.

Watching his retreat to Gryffindor tower with a relived smile was Professor McGonagall, shaking her head at his haste before ascending the stairs to the Headmaster's office from which Harry had vacated only minutes before. Dumbledore was now sitting comfortably behind his desk, one hand lightly stroking a chirping Fawkes and gazing thoughtfully at something only he seemed able to see.

“Headmaster?” McGonagall called hesitantly from the doorway before striding into the office when he offered her a satisfied smile. “Everything went according to plan I take it?”

The aged wizard sighed softly.

“It did indeed, though I dare say Severus is quite upset with me,” he said gently, smiling ruefully at the thought.

“Can you honestly say that you blame him?” asked Minerva wryly. “And what of his situation with Potter?”

“They seem to have collaborated in a crusade against me,” Dumbledore informed her cheerily, seeming incredibly pleased by the fact.

“Why am I not surprised?” McGonagall intoned dryly. “Might I be the first to say 'I told you so'?”

“I do wish you wouldn't, Minerva. Allow an old man his delusions,” he was grinning knowingly at her now. She shook her head in dismay, about the only thing she could do at this point. “I'm afraid they are all this old man has left.”

“Surely not, Albus. You've still your most loyal friends, though if you continue to incarcerate them you won't have many of them left either.”

He chuckled softly at that.

“How true, Minerva, how true.”

---

Meanwhile, Harry was reacquainting himself with the comforting warmth of Gryffindor Tower, savouring the gentle glow of the crackling hearth and the familiar chatter of the few occupants in the room. He was sitting in his pyjamas (a convenience he hadn't realised he had missed) in one of the overstuffed chairs near the fireplace with Hermione sitting on the arm and Ron on a stool next to him.

Sitting across from him was Fred, with George perched on one of the arms, mirroring Hermione, whilst Ginny sat at Fred's feet entertaining an eager Crookshanks. Harry watched as she rolled a wooden spool across the floor for the feline to chase, soothed by the repeated rhythm of her movements. She and Fred were talking animatedly, but too secure and edging on sleep was Harry to pay much attention.

“Oh please,” sighed George sceptically.

“The man thinks monogamy is some kind of wood,” Fred added, earning himself a swat on the leg from Ginny as she defended her new beau.

“You're just as dense,” she replied indignantly.

“As him?”

“As wood!” she squealed laughingly, quickly rising from her cross-legged position on the floor to grab the cushion she had been sitting on and hurl it at her brother. Fred inevitably retaliated, recruiting the help of his twin to overpower her and pin her to the invitingly fluffy rug on the floor

How Harry had missed evenings like this, the total relaxation of the moment without a worry for the opinion of others. The three days spent in isolation with Snape had taught him that much at least. The Professor didn't seem capable of such ease, he was constantly on edge, always awaiting the unexpected, always analysing his surroundings and the people within it. Constant vigilance, as Moody would bellow.

It seemed like they had been forced into each other's company for weeks, and that Harry had had incite into the Potions Master's behaviour, as though he had received some clarification as to why Snape acted the way he did. He understood him somewhat, could grasp the idea that his bitter anger and cold demeanour were the results of a cruel childhood, the ramifications of being a spy but most importantly a means of defence, of ensuring his own survival.

That's all Severus Snape seemed to do day by day. He survived.