Harry winced and threw his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sudden onslaught of light. A pair of hands roughly grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out into the blinding brightness of the room beyond.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing? Playing hide and seek, Potter?"

Snape's voice sounded furious and he released Harry's collar so abruptly the boy stumbled back against the wall.

"What were you trying to do?" Snape roared. "I knew you were an attention-seeking brat, Potter, but this was just idiocy! Hiding in a closet like a five-year-old simply because we had a minor dispute--"

"That's not what I was doing, sir--"

"What a miserable existence you must have, to enjoy panicking a beleaguered house-elf--"

Harry didn't think he'd only panicked a house-elf...

"I didn't mean to, okay? Calm down, already!"

Harry regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He cringed as the hands returned, hauling him up from his defensive position and depositing him unceremoniously onto the bed. Harry recoiled from Snape and pressed himself back into the headboard, away from his Professor, who by now only looked disdainful and mildly disgusted rather than furious.

Essentially, like quintessential Snape.

"Explain yourself!" Snape growled, folding the black arms of his robe over his chest and glaring down at Harry from the foot of the bed.

"My scar was hurting," Harry said, and rubbed it unconsciously. "It's not so bad, now, sir. I just needed somewhere quiet."

"And your chambers were unsuitable?" Snape snarled.

"Yes!"

Harry didn't care to elaborate. Snape glared at him. Harry swallowed hard and looked intently at the bedspread, avoiding Snape's eyes, unable to forget the sheer malice he'd seen in them last time he looked.

* * *

Just an hour earlier Snape had been brewing another glamour-breaking potion, an effort purely fueled by spite. That same bitter emotion which had moved him to inflict upon Potter the knowledge of their terrible shared lineage, made him suddenly and desperately want to force the boy to endure whatever natural facial features he'd received from Snape's blood. He prayed the boy would look like him, would share the greasy hair, the overlarge nose. Never mind that it would only be temporary, that he'd have to restore the glamour before sending the boy back to Hogwarts. As long as Potter looked at this greasy git professor he hated and knew he was hating something that was a part of himself... That would be worth the effort.

As he worked, his fury at Potter's attempt to violate his memories throbbed like a tangible force beneath his skin. He couldn't help but remember the last person who'd cast that spell upon him.

" I don't trust you to be objective in this matter."

Snape was grinding his teeth so hard his jaw throbbed. Didn't trust him to be objective... Bullshit! It had never been Dumbledore's decision, choosing whether or not Severus could take custody of his own son. He'd trusted the man. With his life. With his loyalty. With everything.

Dumbledore had been the only one to earn his confidence. He'd arrived at Hogwarts tainted with the bitter poison of a cruel childhood, and it seemed for a while that Dumbledore could relieve him of it. The Headmaster had looked at him with something soft in his eyes, when all Snape had known before that was scorn, dislike, contempt. He had listened to Severus's words as though something valuable was being issued from his lips. He had been the first to treat Severus like a human being.

And then he betrayed him for the Marauders.

Those four bastard bullies... Their torments, their murder attempt, paled next to Dumbledore so casually disregarding their attempt on his life. He hadn't expelled the boys, had barely punished them. Potter-- bloody Potter -- had even gone on to become Head Boy. Severus's world had crumpled for the first time when the Headmaster showed him just how weak its foundations were. Snape learned then that he had never been anything more to the Headmaster than a mere student, another one of his charges.

That was never the case with James Potter and the golden Gryffindors. He realized that, eventually. They meant more. They were something important. Severus Snape was a shadow, and the Marauders were a flame. A crisp, golden light that inspired affection and admiration, and the Headmaster's eyes twinkled with pride when he looked at them.

Just like they twinkled when he looked on Harry Potter, whom he loved perhaps more than any of them. Could that be why he'd taken him from Snape, why he'd concealed the boy's identity all these years? He loved the boy too much to inflict him with Snivellus?

Yes, of course that was why. A man as wretched and worthless as Snivellus Snape, after all, could never be the father of the Boy Who Lived!

Oh, how he hated Dumbledore. His hands shook with the hatred as he stirred in the bobotuber pus. He could remember how he'd sought in the circle of the Dark Lord the acceptance and recognition he'd never received elsewhere, and the days where he slowly realized that inclusion was as empty as Dumbledore's affection. He remembered how he'd crawled back to the Headmaster, wary and penitent. Above all, lost. Completely and utterly lost. He'd had nothing. He'd sworn never to be lulled by false hope again; he would never again bend to the gentle sway of false affection, nor would he hope for anything better than a desolate, lonely existence.

Yet he'd done it, somehow. He had been fooled again. Why had he fallen for the same trick a second time?

Somehow, somewhere, he'd begun to trust in Dumbledore again. And again the man had abused his trust and betrayed him. But this time, this time it was a malignant, horrendous betrayal. When he thought of it, he wanted to be sick at the sheer magnitude of Dumbledore's contempt for him. The man had refused to let Snape even taint his new golden boy with his presence. He had violated Snape's mind before letting Snape soil something as pure and wonderful as this boy. He believed Severus so wretched that he was unworthy of taking care of his own son.

He hated Dumbledore for it. And he hated the boy for it.

As he added the final ingredients to the potion, the brunt of his anger turned back to the latter. Oh yes, he hated that boy. He hated that boy for being too good for him. For being the one Dumbledore actually loved. For being the darling of the wizarding world and the scion of the Marauders. And above all, at this moment, for attempting exactly what Dumbledore had done to him just a few months earlier.

How DARE he!

Damn it, even that insolent brat would know how dangerous that spell was. Potter had watched Gilderoy Lockhart destroy his own mind; he knew full well what could happen with a memory charm gone wrong. Pinpointing the exact memory to destroy, sifting through another's psyche... That required skill and experience, otherwise one could easily obliterate a person's entire memory.

The boy had attempted it with such a careless disregard for Snape's well-being that he had to wonder if the boy truly hated him that much. It had to be malice, genuine malice. Otherwise, the arrogant recklessnessof it...

Ah, but he was the Boy Who Lived. He was Harry Potter. Dumbledore's favorite. Of course he felt entitled to endanger everyone around him. The boy was accustomed to having the whole world at his feet, after all. Why stop hurting his privileged victims now?

Snape eventually completed the potion and bottled it, still lost in his dark thoughts. He had been cleaning his cauldron when suddenly Minky burst in, crying hysterically, claiming the young master had disappeared.

Snape had a few precious moments of unease. The boy had no shields on his mind. If he'd somehow managed to break the wards and escape, he'd be entirely vulnerable to the Dark Lord's machinations.

Yet within moments a simple point-me spell quickly resolved the situation. He followed its direction until he arrived, incredulous, at the closet in the boy's room.

The grand and elaborate escape he'd envisioned for Potter had turned out to be a trek of several feet across the bedroom. He noticed then that the comforter had been removed from the bed, that a tiny corner was wedged under the door. Minky apologized profusely for being unobservant and ran off crying, perhaps to iron her feet somewhere.

Snape just glared at the closed door, irritated.

Hiding in a closet, indeed! The insolent brat was clearly trying to make him feel guilty. He'd probably hoped Snape would feel wretched upon finding the Boy Who Lived cowering like an infant in a hidden corner.

He moved forward to yank open the door. Yes, this had to be some attempt at manipulation. He knew Potter; the boy was too much of a prideful fool to indulge in cowardice even when it was warranted.

Snape welcomed the renewed irritation he felt when he pulled the boy out into the light.

The boy winced at the brightness, contorting his bruised face into a cringe. Something unpleasant clenched in Snape's gut at the visible evidence of his earlier brutality. The boy's face was swollen. His eye was ringed with a deep, purple bruise that stood starkly against the pale skin. His throat was covered in scratch marks. His eyes lingered on the last. For a moment, he was overcome with déjà vu so powerful that it was as though he himself couldn't breathe.

Potter stared at him blearily, seemingly unsteady on his feet and somewhat dazed. Snape remembered only now the glassy look he'd seen in the boys eyes, how confused and disoriented he'd looked earlier when he ordered the boy from the room after their confrontation.

There was an odd and unsettling lack of expression on his face then, and there still was now. The bruising dulled his green eyes, and they followed Snape's every movement with that intent and unwavering focus born of anxiety. Snape felt mounting irritation at the boy's clear unease, and shoved him over onto the bed so he could interrogate the brat without being confronted by the spectacle of Potter collapsing on his face in a fit of nerves.

It was only when the boy flattened himself against the far wall that Snape admitted to himself he'd perhaps been unnecessarily harsh earlier.

He was talented at potions and defense. He was even more talented at the dark arts. But verbally rending an opponent to shreds... That had always been his unique skill. Weaknesses were so very easy to pinpoint. And after the stupid, imbecilic, idiot boy had dared to try that spell on him, he'd attacked exactly where he knew it would hurt.

They were fresh from an Occlumency lesson, and images of an unconscious Granger, an incoherent Weasley, and a dying Black had still flittered through his thoughts. It was simple to attack the boy where it would sting.

His friends. His Muggle relatives. His Godfather.

Oh, but especially that last one. That one brought a flinch in even the most benign circumstances. That one hurt.

Sometimes in recent days when he said something particularly blistering, something that hit Potter where it really stung, he'd seen the boy flinch and on some level relished that he could hurt the Headmaster through this boy. Dumbledore's heart ached along with that of Severus's misbegotten son. More than anything he wanted Dumbledore to suffer from the same pain he himself was experiencing.

It wasn't just the boy he'd lashed out at, after the brat had tried the memory charm. It was Dumbledore. Dumbledore suffering for that damn spell. For everything he'd done to Snape. Merlin, how he wished he'd had a chance to hurt the old man before the man had obliviated him. If he'd simply reacted quickly enough, if he hadn't indulged in one stunned moment, providing the older wizard with an opening...

But... perhaps he'd overreacted. Yes, he'd hurt the boy. He'd given him that black eye. Self-defense. Potter would have finished that spell, otherwise.

But the constrictive spell... Severus looked again at the wound where the boy had clawed at his own throat, and couldn't help but feel uneasy. He still remembered that powerless feeling as it clamped around his neck, crushed his chest, helpless as his father, his own father--

Damn this stupid, stupid boy.

Potter was watching him warily. He'd pulled out the scar-in-pain excuse for his infantile behavior. Snape was glowering at him, searching the boy's eyes for the lie.

You were just trying to manipulate me, and you know it, you insolent brat!

It took Snape a moment to realize that he saw nothing in Potter's eyes. He leaned closer and delved more furiously into the boy's surface thoughts. Or tried to.

He encountered only a blank fog.

"Potter!" he barked.

Potter jumped, and flattened himself against the wall, his entire body wrought with tension; Snape cursed himself for his fleeting sensation of remorse.

"Yes, sir?"

Snape considered him a moment. Could the boy actually have done it? Was it possible...?

"Does your scar still hurt?"

That was clearly not the question the boy had anticipated. His shoulders sagged as he visibly relaxed. "No, sir. I told you, it's fine now."

Snape raised an eyebrow; it didn't escape his notice that the boy was addressing him as 'sir'. He usually had to force that appellation out of the boy.

"And this..." Snape gestured vaguely to the still-open closet. Was the boy to be believed? "Going in there made the pain stop?"

Potter shot the closet a wary glance. "Yes, sir."

"Why?"

The boy thought about it a long moment. "I don't know, sir. It's dark and quiet. I feel sa--well, relaxed. Peaceful. It's like I don't have to worry about anything anymore. It worked this summer, too. With the cupboard. Er... I'm not exactly sure why."

He eyed the boy speculatively. Did the boy even realize what he'd done?

"Potter," Snape said slowly, wondering just how the boy could be so daft. "What do you think Occlumency is?"

Potter looked confused, and Snape felt irritated. All those months he'd spent instructing the boy and he still hadn't acquired a basic comprehension of what Occlumency entailed?

"You clear your thoughts," Snape explained, speaking with as much patience as he could force into his voice. "You calm yourself and let go of the emotions that allow intruders access to your mind."

Snape turned away from the boy, gazing at the closet again with some disbelief.

"I wouldn't have thought to supplement your training with a..." he eyed the narrow darkness distastefully. "...prop of any kind, but it appears to have worked for you." He looked back at the boy, and saw that the young imbecile still wasn't grasping his meaning. He sighed impatiently. "You've been performing Occlumency for months! You demonstrate nothing but complete ineptitude in our sessions, yet you've found a way to shut your mind off to the Dark Lord on your own."

Potter blinked, then looked cautiously pleased. "Oh... Wow. I hadn't considered--I didn't realize--"

"Of course you didn't realize it, you daft boy," Snape said impatiently. "Hence why I'm explaining it to you."

The look of pride deserted Potter's face.

Snape narrowed his eyes, surveying the boy clinically. Somehow Potter had accomplished it. Now, to harness those abilities in practical situations...

"We'll need to work at applying your Occlumency skills in the real world, now, Potter," Snape said. "We need to pinpoint what it is about sequestering yourself in this space that helps you to clear your mind, and duplicate that effect."

"Right," Potter said tersely, eyes flashing with determination. The black ring of bruises around one of them somehow muted the effect.

Snape rolled his eyes. "I suppose you'll need a healing spell first."

The boy's expression clouded in confusion for the briefest moment. "What do you... Oh, this? Uh, it's no problem. I guess I deserved it."

Snape felt an odd, unpleasant sensation at the words, instinctively knowing there was something very wrong with the boy's response, but his voice when he spoke remained cold and heartless. "You did. You should never have attempted that spell."

The boy had the grace to look ashamed.

Snape relented. For some reason, he simply didn't feel like pursuing the conversation to its proper conclusion--namely a beaten and humiliated Harry Potter. "But I regret striking you. And my... subsequent behavior."

Oh, but those words had been hard to say.

Snape was alarmed to see tears suddenly glimmer in Potter's eyes. He was just about to recoil from the spectacle, when the boy just as quickly blinked them away, his face again impassive and neutral.

"You were only telling the truth," Potter said dully. "I'm glad someone finally did."

I do not think you're at fault for Black's death. He nearly said so, but clamped down upon the words. He was still angry, furious with the little brat. Memory Charms, indeed. Let the boy's heart bleed for awhile. It was the least of what he deserved.

With an angry swipe of his wand, Snape healed Potter's black eye. With more precision and a darker feeling churning inside him, he also healed the scratch marks on the boy's throat. When he lowered his wand, he found Potter's gaze resting on him again. This time green eyes glinted with cold anger.

"I take it you reported Tonks."

Snape smirked sadistically. If the boy had any functioning neural activity, he'd realize that Snape had no grounds to report that depraved woman's actions. He could hardly tell the Ministry he'd come by his knowledge in an Occlumency lesson. And he wasn't about to lose for the Order a valuable auror.

No, he had not reported her, but let the boy think so. He needed to impress upon the brat the repercussions of his actions. "Oh, but of course," he said silkily. "The ministry was most distressed to hear one of their own had fallen into such sordid practices. It can only be Azkaban for that one."

Potter's eyes were burning with fury and hatred. "You look so pleased with yourself. Just like the day Professor Meeran was killed, and you stood there, gloating. Does it make you happy to destroy people's lives? To watch them suffer?"

Snape's anger flared back to life. His voice was a deadly quiet whisper. "Nymphadora Tonks is reaping the consequences of her actions."

"You were a Death Eater! You weren't always a spy," Potter accused. "Did you ever reap the consequences of that? You murdered people, I bet, but here you are, walking free and teaching us Potions!"

Snape was about to point out that hammering knowledge into the brains of dunderheads like Potter was as horrendous as any stay in Azkaban, but the boy wasn't finished.

"Tonks didn't even hurt anyone," Potter said hoarsely. "She was... she was there for me. She was the only one who gave a damn. I think..." The boy looked away for a long moment, as though realizing something for the first time. "I think I'm in love with her." His eyes flew back to Snape's. "How could that be so wrong?"

"Oh, you're in love with her," Snape drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll go firecall the ministry right now and demand they revoke the charges. Nymphadora Tonks, after all, has rescued the Boy Who Lived from the torment of his teenage hormones!"

The boy's expression darkened. "You'll never understand. I bet you've never loved anyone."

Well, no. No, he hadn't. And he'd been none the worse for it.

"Stop wallowing in self-pity, Potter. You'll get none from me."

"I hate you!" Potter rasped.

Snape gazed at him silently a long moment, a hundred stinging retorts leaping to his lips. But really, there were only two words that seemed appropriate. For some reason he felt no need to say them out loud.

I know.