After having relayed in nearly excruciating detail every important dream he’d had since the beginning of summer, Harry counted himself fortunate to not have a single dream the entire night following that conversation – not even an ordinary nightmare.

Of course, that could have to do with the fact that he was unable to sleep for more than an hour or so at a stretch. Honestly, if waking up in the middle of the night nearly nose to nose with Dobby before the little house-elf had Disapparated hadn’t given Harry a heart attack, the swift popping of house-elf Apparition every subsequent time he opened his eyes was nearly enough to send him into a state of paranoia.

“Dobby!” Harry called out the fourth time such an incident happened, and sure enough, the wide-eyed house-elf appeared with an immediate pop. Harry turned on a light near his bed in the mostly-dark room.

“Harry Potter called for Dobby, sir?” Dobby gave a little hop to show his willingness to be of service, and Harry almost caught himself reaching forward to stop the tower of hats from falling to the ground. Amazingly though, every last hat landed perfectly in place on top of the little house-elf’s head.

Harry sat up on his bed, annoyance chasing away his amusement. “Dobby, what in Merlin’s name have you been doing popping in and out of my room all night?”

Dobby had been eagerly bouncing on the heels of his feet, but at Harry’s exasperated tone, he promptly stopped, eyes opening wide. “Is…is Harry Potter angry with Dobby, sir?”

Harry was tempted to say yes, except for Dobby’s huge earnest eyes staring up at him. Harry sighed. Dobby would probably throw himself out the window or give himself a concussion on the bedpost if Harry wasn’t careful.

“No, Dobby, I’m not angry. I just want to know what’s going on. Did you need me for something? You could have just woken me, you know.”

Dobby stared at him in dismay. “Dobby is not to wake Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is to check on Harry Potter every night, sir, but he is being ordered not to wake you!”

“Check on me?” Harry wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘check on me’?”

“Professor Snape is ordering Dobby to tell him immediately if Harry Potter is having bad dreams!”

“Professor Snape?” Ah. The visions. Snape probably wanted to make certain Harry was telling him whenever he had one. Well, that figured. Snape didn’t trust Harry, so of course he’d send in a spy. Now Harry was really annoyed. “Well, um…he can’t have meant standing constant vigil, can he, Dobby?”

“Dobby did not ask, sir! Dobby will ask him right now!”

“No!” Harry held out his hand to stop the house-elf from leaving. “No, Dobby, don’t. I’m, um…sure he must still be sleeping.” Harry didn’t want to have anything to do with Snape losing sleep.

“Professor Snape is not sleeping, sir. He woke several minutes ago. Dobby knows; Dobby made Professor Snape breakfast, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Oh.” Come to think of it, breakfast sounded good… Looking out his window, he could see that it was still dark. Remembering Snape’s rule about wandering the house at night, he wondered if he was even allowed. He wasn’t willing to chance a turn at cleaning leeches to find out.

He took in Dobby’s helpful stance appraisingly.

“Dobby, if I ask you to relay a message to Professor Snape, do you think you can remember it? Word for word?”

Dobby puffed out his little chest, eager to prove himself. “Dobby can remember hundreds of words if they be for Harry Potter, sir!”

“Okay, I need you to tell Professor Snape that, out of respect for his authority and the rules he has set for me this summer, I’ve sent you to ask him if I can leave my room before sunrise. Oh, and tell him I sounded really respectful when I asked.”

Dobby looked slightly confused when he popped out to deliver the message, but pop out he did.

Harry only had to wait a few minutes for Dobby to return, but he wasted no time changing clothes and freshening up a bit. He hadn’t eaten any of the food Dumbledore had laid out last night, and he was absolutely starving now. Images of eggs and bacon and toast and muffins and every other breakfast food imaginable were floating through his head, and by the time Dobby reappeared, he figured he could have eaten an entire table full of food.

“Well?” Harry asked the house-elf eagerly.

Dobby squinted his too-large eyes in an attempt to not mix anything up. “Professor Snape is sending Dobby to ‘inform Mr. Potter that his respect will come in handy when Professor Snape tells him to read ten chapters in his Occlo…Occulmenancy book as soon as he is finished eating.’”

Harry stared, dread and annoyance fighting for equal consideration within him. That book again? That big, fat, boring book was all he had to look forward to for the rest of holiday?

He licked his lips, fighting off his hunger. “Tell the professor that I’ve decided to stay in my room for a bit longer, to…er, work on those Occlumency techniques from chapter five.”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby exclaimed as he quickly disappeared to relay his newest message.

Dobby was gone little more than a minute this time. When he reappeared, his face was hidden behind a book nearly half his own size. His muffled voice drifted to Harry, “Dobby is bringing your book, Harry Potter, sir. Professor Snape is saying that Harry Potter will need it, as ‘chapter five is not nudged in between chapters one and two.’ And Professor Snape is telling Dobby to tell Harry Potter that he will be quizzed on his efforts over breakfast, sir.”

“Great,” Harry muttered, wishing he’d never started this whole thing. And thinking of a few choice words he’d really like to have Dobby relay for him…only, he’d never say those particular words to Dobby.

“Thanks, Dobby,” he muttered and lifted the book out of the hands of the grateful, tired house-elf. “Tell Professor Snape I can’t wait.”

“Yes, Harry Potter!” Dobby called tiredly before popping out to relay the message. Snape apparently deemed that last message not worthy of a response, as Dobby didn’t return.

Harry lay on his bed, turning the pages in the book directly to chapter five without so much as peering at chapter four. If he was to be quizzed that very morning, he wasn’t about to waste his time on the boring, useless stuff before he got to what he really needed to know.

Chapter Five: Non-Magical Techniques for Clearing One’s Mind

Strengthening one’s mind through practical exercises in mental discipline is a prerequisite to developing a proficiency in one of the mental arts. The first step in acquiring a disciplined mind is to perfect the skill of clearing one’s mind from outside influences. While the way by which this may be achieved is not universal for each witch or wizard, the following exercises…

By the time Harry finished the introductory page and read through the first three exercises, he was starting to feel a bit better about this whole Occlumency thing. The book was still fairly annoying, but the exercises it mentioned didn’t sound so bad. In fact, they were downright simple.

Exercise One recommended laying on one’s back, breathing in and out, counting to 100 with each breath. It would force him to focus his mind on one thing, the book said, pushing everything else out of his mind. Well, he shrugged. Why not?

So he lay back, nestling comfortably onto his unmade bed.

In…one.

Out…two.

In...three. This wasn’t so hard!

Out…four. Simple, in fact. Why hadn’t he just tried this earlier?

In…five.

Out…six. His leg felt itchy.

In…seven. Was he allowed to scratch it or did he have to keep going?

Out…eight.

In…nine. How long did he have to do this?

Out…wait. Was this nine or ten?

In…he’d lost count. How was he supposed to clear his mind if he lost count? Harry opened his eyes. Somehow he didn’t think this was what mental discipline was supposed to feel like.

After trying it once again with similar results, he promptly gave up. It was a stupid exercise, he decided.

Exercise Two said to focus on a pleasant thought or memory, then to make his surroundings as close to that thought as he could. For instance, if he thought of a moonlit night, turn off all lights save one high in the room. Then he was supposed to close his eyes and imagine everything about that place – sights, sounds, smells – and imagine himself so deeply in that thought or memory that he forgot all thought of the here and now.

Sounded pretty weird, Harry thought, but he figured he had better try. So he thought…and thought. It was pretty pleasant to be on a broom, he knew, but how would he set up his room so that he felt like he was flying? He couldn’t very well bring up a Muggle fan to blow in his face. He discarded several more thoughts before he settled on the memory of his cupboard. It shouldn’t be pleasant, he knew, and he had been locked in against his will so many times that it really wasn’t, but…a lot of times it was also his safe place, a place where he could hide away from the Dursleys.

And it was pleasant, in a way, Harry reflected, because it was the only place in the whole of his childhood that he could claim as his own.

So he threw all but one sheet and a pillow away from him and lay on his side, curling his knees up to his chest like he’d done so many times in his cupboard. He reached over to turn off the bedside light, and there was just enough light in the room that Harry knew the sun was about to start its ascent in the sky. Thankfully, it was still almost completely dark, though still not as dark as the cupboard could get sometimes.

He closed his eyes, imagining the musty smell of the small room under the stairs. He imagined the spiders and the old sheets and his broken, second-hand toys. He reveled in the memory that even if they were all second-hand, they were his. His broken toys, his hole-filled sheets, and his tiny, musty cupboard. He felt the small glow inside that he had felt when he was only five years old, laying his inner claim on the things that Dudley didn’t want anymore, while at the same time being careful not to show his pleasure at the ratty old things, for fear that Dudley might see his happiness and decide he wanted the things back...

Dudley, the spoiled son of the people who should have loved Harry, too…

Why couldn’t they have shown Harry love? Or even just treated him better than a mangy stray they’d been forced to keep around? It wasn’t that they weren’t capable of love; they were certainly capable of loving Dudley. Wasn’t Harry worthy of their love?

Yes. Yes, he was worthy of love. His parents had loved him. Sirius had loved him.

But did they count? They were all dead. Would they still have loved him if they’d stuck around to see him grow up? Nobody else did. No adult, that is. Well, maybe the Weasleys. Not the same way they loved their own kids though. Mrs. Weasley might deny that, but Harry knew they had enough to be going on with for their own seven children to be filling in for Harry’s missing parents. Then there was Remus. Remus cared about him. Harry knew he did…but it wasn’t like it was with Sirius. With Remus, the caring was mixed with obligation, maybe even guilt, like…almost like Remus thought he should love Harry more than he actually did.

Harry instantly felt a deep pang of self-reproach at the thought. The kind man had done so much for Harry. He was a good teacher, a good friend. But…on the other hand, if Remus really cared about Harry, then why had he knowingly put Harry’s life at risk for most of third year rather than tell Dumbledore about Sirius being an Animagus? Why hadn’t he bothered telling Harry that he was a friend of his dad’s until he’d had to? He hadn’t even offered to tutor Harry; Harry had had to beg him. He probably wouldn’t have even said good-bye before leaving at the end of term, except that Harry had rushed to intercept him. It was Sirius, not Remus, who offered him a new home and was willing to help him during the Triwizard Tournament. For all that Harry truly liked and respected his former DADA professor, he simply couldn’t ferret out whether anything Remus did do for him was out of genuine affection…or because he was a decent person who felt an obligation to be nice to James Potter’s son.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath at the direction of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d had pent up inside him about Remus until the thoughts had all come rushing to the front of his mind. He forcefully pushed the horrible thoughts away and opened his eyes, deciding that he didn’t want to be in his cupboard any longer.

And anyway, what was Harry thinking? He wasn’t a five-year old in a musty old cupboard, craving parental love. He was older now; he knew better. And anyway, he didn’t need it anymore…not like he did back then.

A glance at Exercise Three didn’t excite him in his present state of mind, so he committed the exercise to memory, closed the book, and busied himself with throwing the discarded sheets back onto his bed.

Light was beginning to seep in through his window now. It was still too dark to chance leaving his room, but it was enough to remind Harry of his annoyance at Snape for always outsmarting him. It was also enough to remind his growling stomach of the food awaiting him at breakfast.

Food. That reminded him… Ugh. Well, no time like the present to toss out that old container of Mrs. Weasley’s dessert from his trunk. He just hoped he hadn’t left anything else in there that might start to grow something gross.

As soon as he opened his trunk, he realized if there was anything else in there, it would take quite a while to find it. His trunk was a mess of old and new school supplies, clothes, and miscellaneous wizarding gadgets he’d accumulated from birthday gifts and treks to Hogsmeade. At least it wasn’t as messy as it had been a few days ago: half of his trunk’s earlier contents were by now strewn across his Grimmauld Place room.

It only took a moment for him to locate the container of uneaten pudding, which was thankfully still sealed, and toss it. It was on top of the Advanced Defense Techniques book that Hermione had given him for his birthday. On a whim, he pulled out the book and placed it on his bedside table to flip through later. After that horrible book Snape and Dumbledore were making him read, he could use something a bit more interesting to read when he had the time.

He moved to close the lid to his trunk, when the rising light through his window caused something in the bottom of his trunk to glitter out at him. Curiosity won out as he reached his hand in to grab hold of whatever it was, but he immediately hissed in pain as he felt his hand slice against something ragged and sharp. He yanked back, cutting his hand still further on the ragged edge, and balled it into a fist. He blinked back tears.

He stood for another moment before cautiously reaching his other hand to discover what had cut him…and he pulled out a large, broken shard of glass. It was a piece of the mirror he’d thrown in the bottom of his school trunk at the end of last year, after Sirius had died.

He put it carefully back into his trunk and shut the lid, not really caring about the possibility of it cutting him again. He couldn’t throw it out.

His hand was bleeding and throbbing. He tried to uncurl his fist but curled it right back up again. Moving his fist hurt worse than clenching it. That much blood was normal, wasn’t it…?

Forcing himself finally to uncurl his fist a small bit, he quickly wrapped an old thin shirt of Dudley’s around it. The bleeding would stop soon enough; it always did when he hurt himself at the Dursleys. No Madam Pomfrey there, and he’d always been fine.

So he settled back on his bed in wait for the sun to completely rise, not planning for his eyes to slowly droop…or for them to close altogether, drawing him back into a peaceful sleep.

He woke from his unplanned nap to a pop, a squeak, and another pop. Dobby was the only explanation, he knew from the entire past night of pops in and out, but looking around, he could see that the house-elf was nowhere in his room.

That was odd, he mused tiredly as he rolled over, pulling a blanket over him as he did. He hadn’t woken up in time for Dobby to be leaving on account of being caught.

Before he could dwell on that thought for very long, his bedroom door swung open with such force that it slammed against the wall behind it, startling Harry. He caught himself from falling off the bed just in time to sit up in his mess of sheets and watch Professor Snape storm into the room, a wailing Dobby close on his heels.

Snape stopped just inside the room at Harry’s wide-eyed stare, and Harry was sure in that moment that he detected a bit of panic in the professor’s face, which quickly turned to relief, followed swiftly by a more familiar look: that of burgeoning rage.

Harry pulled the blanket up to his chin as a shield.

“Pray tell me, Mr. Potter,” Snape hissed, his eyebrows lowering so that his eyes were mere slits, “why, after your show of begging to be awake before the crack of dawn, you decided to have a lie in rather than performing a task so grueling as studying to preserve your own dubious sanity? And when you are through with that explanation, perhaps you will then enlighten me as to why, moments ago, I was hailed by a panicked house-elf lamenting your sudden and untimely demise?”

“D-demise?” Harry questioned, sleepy and confused. “I’m not dead.”

“So I unfortunately see,” Snape sneered. “Get out of bed this instant, Potter. You have wasted enough of the day with your irresponsible behavior.”

Harry was too confused still to argue; he threw off his blanket and swung his feet around to the side of the bed, but before he could land them on the floor, he was halted by a sharp intake of breath. Snape had gone paler than usual, and he was staring at Harry.

“What?” Harry asked self-consciously, even as with one downward glance, he answered his own question. His hand. The blood from his cut hand had soaked through the threadbare shirt he had wrapped around it, and the shirt he was wearing was likewise streaked with blood. Soaked, in a few spots.

It looked worse than it felt, although now that Harry thought about it, his hand was throbbing pretty badly.

Overcoming his shock, Snape was upon him in an instant, ordering Dobby to his quarters to retrieve potions for pain and blood-replenishing.

“What did you do, Potter?” Snape pulled Harry’s hand from against his stomach, where he had been holding it, and unwrapped Harry’s makeshift bandage with angry, jerky movements. “What mischief could you possibly have gotten into in your own bloody bedroom?”

Harry winced and pulled his hand from his professor’s grasp.

“Give it here, Potter!” Snape ordered.

“No!” Harry inched back on his bed until he was square against the headboard. He clutched his fist to his chest. “Why should I give you my hand when you’re only aiming to make it worse? In case you hadn’t realized, it hurts enough without you yanking at it!”

Snape sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, and Harry was amazed that the man actually seemed to be trying to calm himself. Since when did he bother to calm himself in Harry’s presence rather than just acting on his worst impulses?

“Give me your hand, Potter,” Snape repeated, only slightly calmer, holding out his own hand. “You are in need of medical attention, and I, unfortunately for us both, am the only one able to give it to you at the moment.”

Snape held out his hand until Harry was satisfied that he wasn’t planning to pounce on Harry to force him into submission. Throbbing hand finally getting the best of him, Harry cautiously inched forward, pausing another moment before begrudgingly holding out his clenched fist to Snape.

He let out a pained hiss as Snape pried his fingers open, though at least the professor did so gently this time. Harry looked along with Snape at his bloody hand and the cut that extended all the way from the underside of his middle finger to the contour of his hand, and down to the outside of his wrist. Harry almost forgot the pain for a moment, so surprised was he that he had cut his hand so far from one shard of broken mirror. No wonder there was so much blood.

“How did you do this?” Snape asked as he pulled out his wand to spell away enough blood so that he could properly assess the wound. The professor seemed less urgent, at least, now that he could see that this was no life threatening injury.

“Um, broken mirror. In my trunk. Cut myself,” Harry answered disjointedly through the pain of Snape’s gentle prodding. And this being so close to Snape was weird. It was bringing back the memories from when he’d woken up to Snape holding him after his nightmare at the Dursleys. Between the pain in his hand and Harry’s torn emotions from the total comfort he’d felt moments before he’d woken that time and the utter humiliation he’d felt in the moment after…well, it was all making him feel rather jumbled up.

He leaned back, eager to get away from being in quite so close proximity to Snape.

Dobby reappeared, with potions in hand, and Snape immediately sent him back for more supplies.

“Drink this,” Snape ordered as he held out a potion. At Harry’s questioning glance, he explained, “Blood-Replenishing Potion. Drink this one also for the pain.”

Harry did so quickly, not wanting to taste either potion.

Dobby reappeared with a small case, which Snape accepted before dismissing the house-elf. Dobby gave Harry one last wide-eyed, worry-filled gaze before disappearing.

“Are you injured anywhere else?” Snape asked, sorting through a collection of small vials and jars.

“No.”

Snape removed a small jar from the case and unscrewed the lid before scooping up a moderate amount of some sort of paste with two of his fingers. Replacing the lid on the jar, he reached again for Harry’s hand, spreading the paste over his long cut.

Harry hissed, though it was starting not to hurt so much, probably due to the potion he had been given for pain. But it still hurt when Snape pushed directly on the wound. It was all Harry could do not to pull his hand away again. At least the professor was spreading the paste over the cut gently, without his earlier angry movements.

“What reason did the Sorting Hat give for its desire to place you into Slytherin, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly as he finished spreading the paste over Harry’s hand and reached for a roll of bandages.

Harry was so baffled by the unexpected question that he took a moment to register it. “Wha…Is – is this your question, professor? The one I still owe you?”

“No,” Snape answered simply as he picked up his wand. With a flick of his wrist, bandages from the case started to wind themselves around Harry’s hand and wrist. “This is an ordinary, run of the mill, I-ask-you-and-you-answer-me question.”

“Oh. Well…” Harry ran over the list of attributes the Sorting Hat had told him he possessed, sifting through them for anything embarrassing or incriminating. He still remembered that pretty well, even if it had been nearly five years ago. It had meant the world to him to have been accepted by the Sorting Hat after being so worried that he’d been sent to Hogwarts by mistake, so yes, of course he remembered what it had said to him.

The bandage was finished wrapping around his hand, and Snape sat still on the edge of Harry’s bed, waiting for his response.

“It, um…said I could be great, and that Slytherin would help me on my way to greatness.”

“And did you not want to be great?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You distinctly told me that you chose not to be in Slytherin. Why ever not, if the Sorting Hat told you that being a Slytherin would help you to become great?”

“It wasn’t the only house I fit, you know. It said I had courage and a good mind, and talent, too. And a thirst to prove myself.”

“If you truly had a thirst to prove yourself, you would have chosen Slytherin,” Snape stated unequivocally.

“But I didn’t want to prove myself in that way,” Harry argued. “I didn’t want to go bad, and it just sounded like all the bad wizards came from Slytherin. And I didn’t want to be a bully, either. I had enough of being on the other end of things with Dudley and his gang.”

“Slytherin does not equal ‘bully,’ Potter.”

“Well, it did in my eleven-year old mind, okay?” Harry shot back, defensive. “And it’s not so far from the truth, now I’m older and still see Slytherin students and professors,” he emphasized pointedly, “bullying anybody younger or weaker.”

“I am prepared to ask my due question,” Snape announced, abruptly changing the topic and effectively ending Harry’s tirade.

“Oh…okay.” Better to just get this over with. Snape looked too serious, and not at all mocking, which was actually kind of worrisome. Harry braced himself for the question.

“You are an abused child, Mr. Potter.”

“Erm…” Harry didn’t like where this could be going, but he felt powerless to stop it.

“You have been demeaned, starved, beaten –”

“They never actually beat me –”

Snape ignored him, “– imprisoned, deprived, and lied to about yourself and about your parents on a consistent basis.”

Harry’s face was growing hotter by the second.

“What I want to know, however, pertains to our typical school-year exchanges.” Snape paused. “Taking advantage of any and all opportunities to see you writhe is admittedly one of my favorite teaching-related activities.”

“No kidding,” Harry managed to mutter through his rising trepidation.

“Why, in five years of comments and jabs at your spoiled, pampered existence, did you never once correct me?”

Harry gaped. That had not been the question he’d been expecting. “You…you are kidding this time, right?”

“I do not ‘kid.’” Snape actually looked affronted.

“Well, for one, you never would have believed me! And don’t bother denying it – you didn’t even believe me after you saw my room. It took Uncle Vernon –” Harry stopped, not really wanting to go there. “And anyway, I hardly wanted my crummy childhood to be Slytherin common room gossip.” Harry could actually feel the blood leaving his face then, as his mind latched onto that thought. “Um…is it?”

“Is what?”

“As soon as school starts, is everything you learned about me going to become Slytherin common room gossip?” Harry hated how vulnerable he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never even told his closest friends the whole truth. The idea of the whole school knowing…well, darn right he was feeling kind of vulnerable. The feeling only worsened when Snape didn’t answer right away. Oh, no…he was going to spread it around school – Harry just knew it. Vulnerability be hanged; Harry felt downright ill. “I’ll deny it, you know! Not even my Gryffindor friends know about it – well, not about the worst bits, anyway. As soon as they know it was you who started the rumor, no one will believe it. They all know how much you hate me – they’ll just figure you’re doing it out of spite!”

“What do you think it means to be a Slytherin, Potter?”

“Wha– huh?” Harry was starting to feel dizzy from all the conversational trails Snape was leading him down.

“Surely you have some preconceived notions of the basic characteristics one must possess in order to be sorted into the most infamous of houses.”

“Well, everyone knows there wasn’t a witch or wizard went bad wasn’t in –”

“Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor. Try again.”

“Um…the Sorting Hat said cunning, right? And…it did say I had a thirst to prove myself…”

“Correct. Slytherins are sorted as such because they have cunning and ambition. Just as Gryffindors are hailed for courage, Ravenclaws for intelligence, and Hufflepuffs for loyalty, Slytherins are sorted for their positive attributes, not because their eleven-year old minds have hatched evil, diabolical plans to take over the world as the next generation of Dark Lords.”

“…okay…”

“Due to their personal ambitions and capabilities for cunning, some Slytherins by default do tend more in general toward the self-serving attitudes you seem only too eager to see at the expense of other observations.”

“Sir? No offense and all…I mean, this is interesting…but what does this have to do with whether you’re going to tell –”

“You claim to have been almost sorted into Slytherin, Potter. As unlikely as I have always thought the idea to be, the Sorting Hat does not lie. Far fetched or no, it appears that you may, after all, possess some modicum of cunning in that thick head of yours. It is time you learned how to use it.”

“What, and you’ve decided you’re going to teach me?” Harry didn’t know whether to scowl or laugh.

Snape merely inclined his head. “Your first exercise is to dissect the motivations I may have in revealing your history of familial neglect to your schoolmates.”

Harry stared at him. “You’re actually using my horrible childhood as an exercise in being Slytherin?”

“Yes. Now, go on.”

“Um…” Harry couldn’t believe he was actually about to play along with this. “Alright, well, you hate me.”

“That is an emotion, not a motivation. You will limit your answers to what spreading rumors about your abusive childhood would gain me.”

“You like to see me squirm, you love to see me angry, embarrassed, or humiliated, and you probably reach a state of euphoria at the prospect of seeing me cry.”

Snape, of course, didn’t deny any of that. “Now, Potter, consider the circumstances. Knowing, as I now do, that I am in possession of more information about your home life than the whole of Gryffindor Tower, would I, in fact, gain all that you have listed by sharing that information?”

Harry didn’t want to answer. What if Shape was just scoping out the situation to make sure he would, in fact, be inflicting the most amount of damage? But he answered anyway, maybe because this conversation was just so strange. “Yes. Of course you would.”

“Perhaps. At first, yes. However, I would speculate that once your throes of angst were at an end, quite the opposite would occur. As you stated, those with no reason to value my Death Eater word higher than that of the noble savior of the wizarding world would never truly believe it. Those with reason to see the truth – those closest to you, no doubt, along with certain members of the Hogwarts staff – would more likely gravitate to either pity or coddling.

“Given that presupposition, and your statement of my motivations, would I truly choose to subject myself to witnessing a litany of coddling professors, hero-worshiping prats, and reporters with nothing better to do with their time than to hail the great Harry Potter, overcomer of yet more adversity?”

It took Harry a moment to even be able to say, “Wow. Um, wow…you put all that thought into every petty thing you do?”

Snape crossed his arms, apparently waiting for Harry to say something of actual substance.

“Okay, so…you’re not going to tell?”

Snape stood abruptly, throwing his hands in the air. “Bloody Gryffindor! Did you hear a word of what I just said, Potter?”

“Of course I did!” Harry defended automatically. “But you know, if you really want to put so much thought into figuring out how to destroy my life, you’re forgetting something about me. I hate that stuff, all that attention – probably more than you hate to see me getting it. So it would be a torture for me more than it would for you! You’d have won, anyway. So your little ‘exercise in cunning,’ it’s not even based on who I really am! It’s based on who you think I am, which just means your own sneakiness could use some more work!”

“Perhaps,” Snape murmured, watching Harry shrewdly.

“Perhaps? What does that mean? I didn’t want a lesson in Slytherin-speak, professor! I just want to know if you’re going to tell.”

Snape snorted. “Fine thing, Potter, for it would take more than this one lesson for you to comprehend the fine art of cunning. One of which is to not hand your enemies weapons. Weaknesses are weapons, Potter, and you just gave me one more of yours.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry countered fiercely. “You only think I did because you’ve been assuming things about me for the past five years! If you paid any real attention to me or talked to anyone who even kind of knows me, you’d already know that I hate all that horrible attention! I didn’t hand you a weapon – your own assumptions just prevented you from figuring it out before!”

“Damn you, Potter!” Snape yelled suddenly, his eyes flashing in anger. “You were supposed to be arrogant!”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You were supposed to be a spoiled, arrogant, dim-witted, attention-seeking brat! You were supposed to make it effortless for me to hate you! Five years, Potter! Five years! I’ve never had any trouble seeing your father in you! Why choose now to destroy my comfortable illusions?” Snape was seething, his fists clenched at his sides, and Harry was so taken aback that he couldn’t think of a reply. Was Snape saying he’d been wrong about Harry? The words kind of sounded like it, but the pure, absolutely angry way they were said sure didn’t.

After a moment, he decided that maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all. The situation seemed a bit precarious.

Snape’s eyes were shooting daggers at Harry until he finally spun on his heel toward the door. He turned back around almost immediately with a muttered curse, and to Harry’s confusion, stalked over to Harry’s school trunk and lifted the lid. He carefully drew out the long shard of mirror glass from on top of Harry’s belongings and resumed his march toward the door.

Harry couldn’t keep his silence, then. “Wait! What are you doing with that?”

Snape didn’t turn around, nor did he stop. “Disposing of it! At least there is some sense still left in this world, Potter, as you foolishly did not stop to think about the expedience of such an action right away.”

Harry ran to catch up with Snape, following close on his heels as the man reached the stairs and descended them at a rapid pace. “It’s mine! I don’t want to throw it out. Give it back!”

“So that you may puncture a vital organ next time? I think not.”

“But it’s mine!” Harry repeated again, starting to feel real panic. Snape couldn’t destroy it – he just couldn’t!

Snape didn’t stop until they had reached the kitchen, and Harry was by then terrified that he would never see the shard again. Not stopping to think of the folly of it, as soon as Snape stopped, Harry rushed at him, grabbing for the shard. He’d caught Snape off guard, he could tell, the professor’s shock apparent on his face. Snape immediately lifted the piece of glass above Harry’s reach and shoved him away with one firm, surprisingly strong arm.

Harry struggled, desperate to claim the shard.

“Potter! What in Merlin’s– Get a hold of yourself, boy!” And when that didn’t work, “POTTER, STOP THIS INSTANT!”

“Don’t throw it away! It’s mine!” was all Harry could manage as made one final effort to jump for it.

“Why I should not toss a broken, hazardous piece of worthless junk, I have no idea!” Snape shoved him toward the kitchen table, irritation in every syllable. “Stop attempting to cut your other hand on it, however, and I will desist in disposing of it until after you have explained yourself!”

At that promise, Harry warily backed away from Snape, eyes trained on the arm holding the largest piece of Sirius’ mirror. His body was tight, ready to pounce again at the slightest indication that Snape was lying about not tossing it out yet.

“Sit,” Snape commanded. His tone brooked no argument.

Harry sat at the nearest end of the table, eyes still focused on the mirror shard as he watched Snape’s hand lay it down on the other end of the table, beyond Harry’s reach.

Snape sat stiffly next to Harry. “Explain yourself,” he commanded.

“It’s mine,” Harry repeated. “It’s mine, and you’ve no right to destroy it without asking me.”

“I have every right, Potter, as the professor who nearly had a heart attack this morning when Dobby the house-elf came to me with a story of your dead body strewn in a bloody heap on your own bed. What would possess you to want to keep a worthless, broken –”

“Sirius gave it to me,” Harry rushed to explain, not bothering to evade the issue any longer. It was what it was, right? Either Snape would let him have it back, or he wouldn’t. It may as well be based on the truth.

Harry didn’t bother to look at Snape, but the man didn’t immediately shut him down, so he explained, “Sirius gave me a mirror to communicate with him. He kept the other one, and I was supposed to call him with it if I ever needed him. I forgot about his present, see? I forgot about it before the Department of Mysteries, and after he…after the veil, I broke it – the mirror, I mean. I know…I know you hated him, but he was my godfather, and I barely even got to know him, and it’s one of the few things I have that he – that Sirius ever gave me, and…you can’t throw it out. You can’t…” His voice cracked, and he fought back a humiliating rush of indefinable emotions. He swallowed, hard, and hoped that Snape would answer soon, because he wasn’t so sure that he would be able to speak for a few minutes – at least, not without even more embarrassing memories between himself and the professor.

Snape was silent also, and the charged silence was nearly enough to make Harry run for the door…with a brief stop to grab for Sirius’ mirror, of course.

Snape finally stood and walked over to the sharp, jagged piece of broken mirror. He stood there for a moment, and Harry finally tore his eyes away from the object to meet his gaze. Snape was staring at him, something indefinable in his eyes, and he reached for his wand, bringing it around to point at the mirror. Harry watched with rising dread. Snape was going to destroy it. He was going to destroy it, and Harry would never again see the precious gift that Sirius had given him.

“Please,” Harry managed to whisper, not even caring how pathetic he probably sounded. “Don’t…”

But as Harry watched, Snape pointed his wand at the piece of mirror, speaking an incantation so quietly that Harry almost mistook it for a silent spell. An orange smoke lifted from the table, and Harry lowered his head. All that humiliation in front of Snape, and for nothing. Now he’d lost both the mirror and his pride. In a moment, he’d be angry. Right now, he had to get a hold of himself. He wouldn’t let himself break down after all he’d already done and said.

Before he could think beyond that, a hand set the familiar shard of mirror on the table in front of Harry. Harry reached out to touch it, hardly daring to believe that Snape hadn’t destroyed it. He carefully ran one finger down the edge of the mirror, where it had formerly been sharp and cutting. Snape’s spell had smoothed the broken edges without destroying its shape.

Harry felt closer to tears than he had when he’d thought it destroyed. He swallowed against the childish urge to cry, instead grasping the mirror with his good hand and bringing it close to hug against his chest.

He heard Snape move toward the door, and he thought for a moment before he allowed himself to do something he’d sworn only days before that he would never do.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, head still bowed. He heard Snape pause. “For this, and…for, um, for letting me come with you. From the Dursleys. Thank you for not leaving me there.”

He didn’t hear anything for a long moment, but he didn’t bother to look up to check if Snape was still there or to see how he had taken his thanks.

After a moment, Snape’s movements resumed as he opened the kitchen door in his retreat. Before the door swung closed to leave Harry alone with his precious mirror, he heard, in the voice of his most hated Hogwarts professor, one sentence he’d thought he’d be more unlikely to hear than his own expressing his thanks:

“You are welcome, Mr. Potter.”