“Harry!” Ron yells, bounding over to Harry. “Where’ve you been all day? We skived off History to look for you—I thought maybe you just ditched Defense, can’t say I blame you—but then after you missed Transfiguration as well—Hermione! I found him!”

And then a breathless Hermione is at his side as well. “Harry! There you are! Are you ill? Umbridge thought you were skiving off—but McGonagall said you were in the infirmary.”

“No,” Harry says slowly, straightening up. “I’m not ill.”

“Then where have you been all day?”

Harry frowns and looks around him. He is perched on a windowsill at the far end of the Owlery. The air is thick with rumbling hoots, but Hedwig is nowhere in sight. “Here? I guess?”

“What’s happened?” Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t know—I feel dull—and strange…” Harry’s voice trails off. He remembers talking to Dumbledore—and he remembers sitting on this windowsill and bowing his head. The rest is a haze.

“You need food,” Ron says wisely. “You weren’t at lunch. Come on, let’s go to dinner and feed you up. Then we’ll talk.”

Harry can think of no reason to disagree, so he gets up. His body feels so heavy. It never feels heavy when he’s flying. But he hasn’t flown for a very long time.

They are halfway to the Great Hall when a loud and unwelcome voice rings through the corridor. “There you are! You lot! Hold it right there!”

Hermione groans as a tell-tale jangling noise gets louder. “Ten to one she gives us detention—now we’ll never get to have a proper chat—”

“Good evening, children,” Umbridge calls, waddling determinedly towards them. She glares at Harry. “Mr. Potter. So you do exist.”

The three of them stay silent, waiting for the axe to fall. It does not take long.

“Someone has been neglecting to teach manners to Gryffindors,” Umbridge says in a sing-song voice. “Or didn’t you lot know it is impolite to skip a required engagement? My class was not optional this morning, Potter. The same goes for my detention last night, you two.” She glowers at them disapprovingly. “I’m starting to think the three of you are avoiding me. But of course that couldn’t be the case, now could it?”

Ron looks as though he wants to say something very rude, but Hermione elbows him in the side, and he grunts in surprise instead.

“I’m assigning you all detention,” Umbridge says, her piggy eyes darting between them. “You’d better serve it now so you won’t be tempted to skive off.”

And with that, Umbridge takes out her stubby wand and points it at them. “Come along, children.” When they do not move, she smiles and shifts her wand so it is pointing right at Harry’s scar. “Come along, I say.”

The threat is clear, and after a tense silence, they give in. Hermione stalks haughtily down the corridor, Ron loping at her side. Harry doesn’t really care what happens to him—the toad can’t hurt him worse than Dumbledore has—and so he lowers his head and follows his friends.

Once inside Umbridge’s meowing hellhole of an office, she points to three chairs and watches as the students settle themselves. They do not bother to get out quill or parchment.

“You will be writing, ‘I will not break the rules,’” Umbridge announces. “I believe you are familiar with the process.” She flicks her wand, and the instruments of torture whiz through the air and land with plops on their desks.

Harry automatically picks up the quill and starts to write. The pain barely feels like anything to him anymore. It is easy enough to remain silent, and to ignore the hisses and groans that escape from his friends every so often.

I will not break the rules.

I will not break the rules.

I will not break the rules.

Harry doesn’t know how many times he has written his sentence when Umbridge snaps her fat fingers in his face. “Mr. Potter! Hand!”

Harry just stares at her, and she impatiently grabs his bloody fist and examines it. “I don’t seem to be getting through to you tonight,” she hisses. “You are far too quiet. Very well. Continue writing with your other hand.”

Harry still can’t bring himself to care. He switches the quill to his left hand, and scrawls his sentence onto the parchment. It is rather an awkward process—of course he cannot write well this way—and the jagged, oversized letters cut sloppily into his skin. Harry, startled, takes a sharp breath and attempts another sentence. But in his clumsy hand, the quill slips and scratches a thick line down the page. An identical stripe slices into Harry’s arm, from his elbow to his wrist. This time, Harry cannot help but jump.

The room is absolutely silent while Harry attempts to mop up the blood with his sleeve. Umbridge watches him intently, an odd look on her face. “Did you need something, dear?”

“No,” Harry says shortly. The fog is starting to clear from his head—physical pain will do that to you—and a familiar anger is stirring within him. Merlin, how he hates this woman. She seems to sense it, too, because her smile gets even broader. “I don’t hear the sound of you writing, Mr. Potter.”

Harry grits his teeth, determined to stay silent. He picks up the quill, molds his clumsy fingers around it, and tries again. It is ten times worse this way—but he will manage. He will not cry out. Not ever.

I will not break the rules.

I will not break the rules.

I will not break the rules.

A million years later, someone knocks on the door, and Harry blearily looks up. His parchment is a mess, and so is his sliced-up arm. Both of his hands ache, and there is blood all over his desk.

But he hasn’t made a sound.

“Enter!” Umbridge says loudly.

Harry quickly pulls down his sleeves and shoves his arms under the table. He does not want anyone to see what Umbridge has done to him. And just in time, too, because the doorknob has turned—and there is Snape, grim and dark as usual.

“Severus,” Umbridge says sweetly. “What can I do for you?”

Snape looks around the room, taking in everything at a glance. Ron and Hermione have not hidden their hands—and the scent of blood is palpable enough anyway. Harry hunches over his desk, refusing to meet Snape’s eyes. He can feel the blood sticking to his sleeves.

“I wonder if I might borrow Mr. Potter,” Snape says, a notch colder than usual. “He was due to serve detention with me half an hour ago.”

Harry looks up, startled. He’d forgotten about that.

“I’m sorry,” Umbridge says. “But he is already serving detention with me.”

Snape points a finger at Harry. “When did I assign you detention?”

“This morning,” Harry says quickly.

“And Professor Umbridge?”

“Tonight.”

“Then I am afraid,” Snape says smoothly, “that my detention takes precedence.”

“I gave the girl and Weasley detention before you did,” Umbridge points out. “But where were they last night? Serving detention with you!” She sticks out her lower lip in a pout.

Snape spares a short glance for Harry’s friends. He does not seem terribly interested in their plight. “I assure you,” Snape says, “that they did not inform me of any prior commitment. Do feel free to assign them another detention to make up for it.”

Umbridge smiles nastily. Now she seems more open to whatever Snape might have to say.

“Come, Dolores, how much longer are you planning on keeping them?” Snape cajoles. “Mr. Filch tells me they have been here since before dinner. Surely you have better things to do with your time.”

Umbridge hesitates and glances at the clock. She looks at Harry, a funny look on her face. “If I release them, Potter will be serving detention with you?”

“For the remainder of the evening, yes.”

“How dreadful,” Umbridge says. “Perhaps that will teach you not to break the rules, Mr. Potter. Very well, the three of you are dismissed.”

Harry and his friends immediately get to their feet.

“Oh, and Severus?” Umbridge says cheerfully. “I’d have Potter scrub cauldrons—with that new Saline Soaping Solution.”

Harry winces at the idea of dipping his deeply scratched hands into anything salty. Umbridge catches him at it, and she actually winks at him. “Off you go, Potter.”

Harry doesn’t need a second invitation to get away from her. He gingerly slides his sticky hands into his pockets and heads for the door. Ron and Hermione are right behind him. On the way out, Ron surreptitiously aims his wand at one of the mewing kitten plates, and the hateful thing begins to hack up slugs.

Once a good distance from Umbridge’s office, Snape turns and addresses the three of them.

“Potter, come with me. You two—disperse.”

Harry hesitates. He doesn’t really think Snape is going to make him scrub cauldrons with his mangled hands. Right? This detention was sort of a joke, right? Ugh. Right.

“Was I unclear?” Snape repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“But, sir, what about Harry? You aren’t really going to make him scrub cauldrons, are you?” Hermione asks.

“That is entirely my prerogative,” Snape says in a frosty tone.

Hermione puts her hands on her hips. “He doesn’t need detention. He needs pickled murtlap.”

“Don’t talk back to me,” Snape says curtly. “Weasley, take her away from here before she earns herself another detention.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says, touched by Hermione’s protectiveness. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Then stop disappearing,” Hermione says quietly. She allows Ron to lead her down the hallway, and Harry stares after them, guilt stirring in his chest.

Snape whirls around and strides toward the dungeons without further comment. Harry sighs, his mind still on his friends, and follows him. Once they are both inside his tiny office, Snape points his wand at the door and fires off some spells.

“Sit.”

Harry chooses the chair facing the mottled teacher’s desk. Snape does not bother to sit down, but leans against his desk and stares at Harry. Harry ducks his head, glad his hands are safely in his pockets. He’d rather be in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione would already have the murtlap—and the compassion—ready.

“Show me your hand,” Snape says immediately, his voice devoid of sympathy.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Show me or scrub cauldrons.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to see?”

“Because I’m a sadist,” Snape snaps. “Come, Potter, you allowed me to assist you with your burns in the Room. Allow me to assist you with this.”

“You won’t laugh?”

“You expect me to do so?”

“Sometimes people laugh,” Harry mutters rebelliously.

“Like your uncle?”

“No.”

“Like your aunt then,” Snape says grimly. “Let me guess—once upon a time you sought her out—”

“Forget I said anything,” Harry cuts in quickly. “It’s not a—”

“Big deal, of course,” Snape says. “I can guess how it happened, you know. You asked her to wave her wand and make your bruises go away. But she didn’t—”

“She laughed at me—”

“And you never came to her again,” Snape finishes. “At least I never did.”

The two of them look at each other.

“Hell hath no fury like a childhood scorned,” Snape murmurs.

Harry considers this. He slides his hands out of the pockets and rolls up his sleeves. Then he holds out his bare arms for inspection.

Snape leans over, starting visibly at what he sees.

“I know it looks a mess.”

“Did she curse you? Why does your arm look like this? Did she curse you, Potter?”

“No. She made me write with my other hand.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“I was too quiet.”

“And—”

“And my quill kept slipping, alright?” Harry says, flushing.

Snape stares at him. “I see.” Then he stalks away and begins to rummage through his potions stores. “Don’t try to Heal yourself. Don’t do anything at all, in fact.”

Harry waits until Snape’s back is turned. Then he examines his arm. He wipes away some of the blood, and tries to tidy it up a bit. But it keeps bleeding.

Snape returns with a wooden bowl sloshing with liquid, and the familiar scent of pickled murtlap tentacles wafts around the room. Without waiting for an invitation to do so, Harry draws the bowl close to him and plunges in his arms up to the elbows.

“Merlin, you make it strong,” Harry gasps, skin tingling. “Stronger than Hermione.”

Snape waves this away and sits behind the desk. Harry relaxes his arms in the bowl, letting himself luxuriate like a cat. The removal of pain is truly a glorious thing. Five minutes go by—long enough for the worst of the sting to vanish—and Harry looks up at Snape, feeling more himself than he has all day.

“Thanks, Professor.”

“Why did she give you detention?” Snape asks swiftly, taking Harry’s words some sort of cue to begin.

“I skipped her class.”

“Where were you?”

Harry looks back down at the bowl, focusing on a piece of floating tentacle.

“Potter?”

“Ask me a different question,” Harry pleads. He is feeling grateful, and therefore more willing to answer questions, but he still doesn’t want to tell Snape the truth. The truth is that he was huddled on that windowsill like a baby all day. And just because of some words—nothing more than words.

“Very well,” Snape says slowly. “How long did your meeting with Dumbledore last?”

“About an hour.”

“Then why did you miss all your classes?”

Harry looks up. “You know I missed all of them?”

“Yes. I want to know why.”

Harry shrugs, feeling the heat rise up into his cheeks. “Is it really that hard to figure out, sir?”

Something changes in Snape’s expression. “What did Dumbledore do that upset you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I went to see him this afternoon—I wanted to know where you were—but his office was empty. So I went looking for him—and when I got back—you still hadn’t turned up.”

“I just didn’t feel like going to class, alright?”

“I should have gone with you to that meeting,” Snape says harshly. He glares at Harry. “Why didn’t you use the stone I gave you?”

“I don’t know. Dumbledore didn’t—he didn’t use magic on me. He didn’t even try.”

“You should have used the stone,” Snape hisses.

“I forgot about it,” Harry mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Snape says coldly. “Just tell me what Dumbledore said to you. It was upsetting enough to make you miss all your classes, correct?”

Harry swallows. “Correct.”

Snape taps a finger on the table. “Did you discuss the prophecy with him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’m the only one who can kill Voldemort. Either he kills me or I kill him.”

“I see,” Snape says. He does not look surprised.

“Dumbledore told me to hold off though,” Harry clarifies. “Some other stuff has to happen first.”

“And besides the prophecy?”

Harry shifts in his seat. He is starting to smell like pickled tentacles. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Snape purses his lips. Then he rummages in his desk, and comes up with a dusty, small mirror. He thrusts the mirror at Harry. “Look at your reflection, Potter. Then tell me that I should drop the subject and let you go on your way.”

Harry glances uneasily at the mirror. It seems to be non-magical—no talking or morphing into dead people.

“What do you see?” Snape asks.

Harry, ruled by his curiosity and a vague desire to please, studies his reflection. “I look sort of exhausted.”

“You look like a kicked dog,” Snape says sharply. “Those are the most dangerous ones in the pack.”

Harry scowls. “I do not.”

“Tell me what Dumbledore said.”

“I’d rather not.”

“What do you think will happen if you tell me?” Snape challenges. “I might be able to help.”

Harry has no good answer. Truth be told—he does sort of want to tell Snape. But—it’s hard. And—if he starts to talk about it—if he tries to name the things slamming around in his brain—then they might claw their way out. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to.”

“Fine,” Snape announces. “You have a right to your secrets, as I have said before. But I wonder what will become of you if keep this one.”

Harry chances another look at his reflection. The pale boy in the mirror clenches his jaw and looks away. Harry snatches the mirror and hurls it to the ground. It seems like the easiest solution at the moment. Shards of glass skitter across the stone like diamonds.

Snape says nothing. He merely looks at Harry, and something inside of Harry falters. He slumps back in his chair, grabs the bowl, and folds his arms back into the murtlap.

“They aren’t even my secrets to tell, you know,” Harry says. “They’re Dumbledore’s.”

“All the less reason to keep them, then.”

“You don’t understand,” Harry says sharply. “What Dumbledore told me—I can’t—I don’t even know how to talk about it. I just can’t.”

“Nonsense.”

Harry looks miserably at him. “It’s bad, Snape. It’s really bad.”

“It cannot be worse than what has come before.”

“What do you think he told me?” Harry asks.

“From the way you are behaving, I’m guessing someone has been killed. But Weasley and Granger are clearly still among the living. I checked with the Order and all the relevant persons are fine. And everyone else—”

“And everyone else is already dead,” Harry says shortly. “Well—you are right. He did tell me about someone who died.”

“Who?” Snape demands, leaning forward.

“Ariana Dumbledore,” Harry says, pronouncing each syllable slowly and carefully. “Ring a bell?”

“No,” Snape murmurs. “Can’t say that it does.”

“She died a long time ago,” Harry says. “Before you were born.”

“How is she related to Albus?”

“Sister.”

Snape drums his fingers on the desk. “I’m intrigued. Dumbledore has never spoken about his family to me.” Snape pauses. “Or to anyone, as far as I know.”

“Well, he told me,” Harry says darkly.

“And why did that upset you?”

Harry fidgets in his chair. “It just did.”

“Potter,” Snape growls. “I am trying my best to be patient. I cannot guarantee that will last much longer. So do us both a favor. Spit it out and allow me to—”

“I think Dumbledore would’ve raised me. I think Dumbledore would have taken me in—if his sister had lived.”

Snape cocks an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Is that what he told you?”

“That’s what he meant,” Harry says, glaring at Snape. “If his stupid sister hadn’t died—just like everyone, everyone important always dies—then Dumbledore wouldn’t have left me on that doorstep.”

Snape purses his lips, clearly trying to make sense of this puzzle. “I see.”

“She was young—and she died—and she was under his care—and it broke his heart,” Harry elaborates, unable to keep his voice from wobbling. “And Dumbledore said—he said he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk that pain again. He couldn’t risk me. So he left me behind.”

Snape winces. He leans across the desk, his dark eyes boring into Harry. “And what was his reason for telling you this?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says quietly. And then, Merlin knows why, his face crumples and he begins to cry. He takes his hands out of the murtlap, buries his head in his arms, and sobs. They might be the bitterest tears of his life. But they bring him no relief—there is no end to his bone-dry grief—no end to what Dumbledore has wrought—

So Harry stops crying. Instead he rests his head on the crook of his elbow and takes deep breaths. His arm hurts again—the salt from his tears has smeared into the cuts. Harry takes out a handkerchief and mops up his face. Then he looks up at Snape.

Snape is staring at him like he has three heads.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters.

“You worry me,” Snape says, looking bewildered. “I begin to think Dumbledore has proved his point when it comes to me—but you—when it comes to you—”

But Snape cannot finish his sentence. Instead he frowns and shoves the bowl of murtlap at Harry. “Here.”

Harry sticks his hands back into the liquid. “Do you still want to know why Dumbledore told me about Ariana?”

“I’m not sure,” Snape says, looking nervously at Harry as though he is a bomb liable to go off at any moment.

“I’ll tell you,” Harry says, hardening his voice. “I’ll tell you what he said, anyway. The rest is pretty fluid. Dumbledore said he wanted me to forgive him. Ariana’s death broke him—and he never recovered. Not enough to take me in. He wanted me to understand that. And I think he was trying to teach me something. He doesn’t want me to make his mistakes.”

“And so he pulled out a little sister,” Snape murmurs, straightening in his chair. He looks relieved that Harry seems to have mastered his emotions. “How convenient. Tell me, did Dumbledore offer any evidence of this person?”

“He had a photograph of her.”

“Those are easy enough to forge,” Snape points out. “I doubt this Ariana ever existed. Dumbledore was just trying to manipulate you with a sad story.”

“She existed,” Harry says, lifting up his head. “I know it.”

“How?”

“Because,” Harry says grimly. “I lit her photograph on fire. It was the only photograph he had of her, and I destroyed it. He looked destroyed when I left.”

“You destroyed his only keepsake of his dead sister?”

“Yes.”

“What a thing to do,” Snape breathes, looking almost in awe of Harry. “And it truly upset him? You said he was destroyed when you left?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Snape says viciously, an ugly look in his eyes. “I wish I had witnessed it.”

The two of them sit there silently, each of them stewing in their anger. Snape finally grimaces and shakes his head. “We should not be sitting here, gloating about how you tormented the headmaster.”

“He started it,” Harry mutters, not caring if he sounds childish. “I’m glad I got him back.”

“An eye for an eye?”

“He deserved it.”

“I’ll say this for Dumbledore, he really knows how to honor someone’s memory,” Snape drawls. “What a tribute—using a dead little girl to explain himself away.”

“He always explains himself away.”

“I know.”

“He knew all along what the Dursleys were like,” Harry says, voice cracking. “But he never came and got me.”

Snape does not react visibly to this second bombshell. Instead, he takes out his wand and runs his fingers along the back of it. “You should be honored he cared enough to at least inform himself on your condition. Most students do not get that privilege.”

“Most students meaning you.”

“Yes,” Snape says, eyes glittering. “Most students meaning me.”

Harry swishes his hands around in the bowl. His fingers look like prunes, but he is reluctant to remove them. He knows from experience the sting will come back almost immediately. “He’s the headmaster of a school. Isn’t there a law that says he has to do something if he sees a kid with a black eye?”

Snape rubs his hand over his face. “We’ll never know why he chose silence, Potter. Perhaps it is as he says. He lost his way after Ariana died, and nothing could ever put him straight.”

“It wasn’t just Ariana he lost,” Harry says, thinking of Grindelwald. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. It was confusing.”

“I imagine Dumbledore’s back-story would be,” Snape murmurs.

“But it doesn’t matter how many people he lost,” Harry says stubbornly. “Losing someone—that isn’t an excuse.”

“No? I used Lily’s death as one.”

“Yeah, Dumbledore said something about that.”

“Dumbledore spoke about me?” Snape says sharply, eyes bright with renewed interest. “What did he say?”

Harry looks uneasily at his professor. Somehow he doesn’t think Snape will take kindly to what Dumbledore said. About how the two of them were just alike. No, he can’t really see much good coming from that revelation.

“What did Dumbledore say about me, Potter?” Snape repeats, a hungry look in his eyes.

“Not much,” Harry says uncomfortably. “Nothing you’ll like, anyway.”

The two of them stare at each other, a tense silence stretching between them.

“Tell me,” Snape hisses.

“It was nothing,” Harry says awkwardly. “Really, Snape. Let it go.”

Snape slaps his fist onto the table, clearly annoyed. Then he slashes his wand through the air.

Harry waits, puzzled, but nothing seems to happen. But then a telltale sting slaps back into his hands, and Harry snatches his fingers out of the now-empty bowl. He looks away, heart thudding, waiting for the worst of this little surprise to pass. He doesn’t even notice that he’s curled his hands into fists.

“Tell me what Dumbledore said about me,” Snape repeats in a shaky voice. “And you can have it back.”

Harry says nothing, a cold feeling creeping through his veins. But before he can say or do anything, Snape curses, aims the wand at the bowl, and refills it. He grabs Harry’s fingers and shoves his hands back into the bowl. Murtlap juice splashes everywhere, but Snape doesn’t seem to notice. He sits back down behind his desk, looking flustered.

“Tell me what Dumbledore said—and I’ll let you off the Potions essay due tomorrow.”

“Really?” Harry asks, torn between skepticism and surprise.

“Really,” Snape affirms. He waits for Harry’s answer, clearly on edge.

“You’re bribing me?”

“You prefer my previous method of persuasion?”

Harry frowns. “Well, no.”

“Then do we have a deal?” Snape asks.

“Okay,” Harry says doubtfully. “Um—maybe it would be easier if I just showed you.”

“Fine,” Snape says quickly. Clearly he wants this knowledge first-hand. Before Harry can react, Snape has shouted “Legilimens!” and they are gone…swirling into a memory of an old man and a pale, tumble-haired teenager…the old man is saying something…and the boy is looking at him with wide green eyes…

“I am not so different from Professor Snape, Harry.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our stories share many elements. Colossal lapses in judgment. Love of someone who did not return the favor. Loss. And, Harry, we both gave up. We never tried again. I have the greatest of empathy for Professor Snape.”

“He thinks you don’t care about him.”

“He thinks he will always be an afterthought to me. But when I look at him, I see myself. I see a man who will not be missed by anyone when he dies. I can hardly bear to meet his eyes.”

“But you’ll never tell him that, will you?”

“I doubt it. I cannot believe I am even telling you.”

“Why are you telling me?

“I wish I had tried again. You have no idea how much. And I wouldn’t dare to presume for Professor Snape, but— solitude is never anyone’s first choice.”

“Are you saying—you put us in the Room—because you wanted Snape to try again?”

“When you were in the Room—and you said you wanted someone to depend on—well—everything changed. Everything was clarified. I want both of you to try again. I think you’ve given up on the idea of a family as well, Harry.”

A surge of grief surges through Harry at this and, quite unintentionally, he throws Snape out of his mind.

“Why did you Occlude?” Snape cries out, inches away from Harry’s face. “I want to know what else he said about me!”

“That’s it,” Harry says quickly, leaning away from Snape’s hooked nose. “I promise you, Snape, that’s all he said.”

Snape, panting now, grabs the front of Harry’s robes. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

Harry nods hurriedly. Snape glares at him for a second and then releases him. Then he begins to pace the tiny office, back and forth, in an obviously well-used circuit. Harry watches him, until he is distracted by a cold wetness seeping through his robes. The bowl is in pieces on the ground—who knows how that happened—and murtlap tentacles are scattered everywhere. Harry mutters a Drying charm and chances a look at his hands. They look better. They don’t hurt nearly as much either. But his arm—

“I am nothing like Dumbledore,” Snape bites out, thrusting a finger at Harry. “I am nothing like him, Potter!”

“I didn’t say you were,” Harry points out.

“How dare he,” Snape mutters. “How dare he!” And Snape picks up a bottle of something purple on a shelf, and flings it across the room.

Harry watched the trajectory of the bottle. It smashes onto the floor, joining the wooden splinters, limp tentacle ends and glass shards that are sprinkled across it. Snape resumes his angry pacing, crunching over the assorted objects without noticing. Harry sits back, hoping to remain overlooked. But then his stomach gives him away, grumbling noisily and echoing throughout the tiny space.

Snape stops his pacing. “You didn’t have dinner, did you?”

“No sir.”

“Did you have lunch?” Snape asks sharply.

“No sir.”

“Then don’t you think you should eat something?” Snape says impatiently.

“Probably.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Snape snaps. “Go! Eat!”

Harry blinks, surprised at the sudden dismissal. “Um, okay.” But as soon as he has gotten up, Snape is waving him back down.

“Never mind, never mind. I can get you a sandwich. I’m capable of that much.” He stalks over to the fire, throws some Floo powder in it, and murmurs something unintelligible into the grate. A moment later, a tray materializes above the flames. Snape takes it and plunks it down in front of Harry. “There. Eat.”

“Okay,” Harry repeats, a bit at a loss. He picks up the enormous ham and cheese sandwich and takes a bite. Snape sits and watches him without comment. Harry puts the sandwich down, unnerved by his silent audience.

“Well?” Snape demands. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “But it’s a bit creepy with you watching me like that.”

“Oh,” Snape mutters. “I didn’t realize.” He looks down at his hands.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, relaxing. “Thanks for the food. And the murtlap.”

Snape nods, still staring intently at the table, a tortured expression on his face.

Harry takes another bite. Then, unable to help himself, he asks, “What’s wrong now?”

“I hate children!” Snape explodes. “Do you think I wanted to be a teacher, Potter? It was expedient for being Dumbledore’s spy, that’s all! I am a terrible teacher! I have no patience for your needs or your insecurities or any of that rubbish! Why on earth did I think I could do better with you?”

Harry stares at Snape. “Um. Are you asking me?”

“I thought it would be easier once we were out of the Room! When it wasn’t so—concentrated, I don’t know! But I’m making a mess of things!”

“You’re doing okay.”

“Legilimizing you without your consent? Vanishing the murtlap? Was that being someone you can depend on?”

Harry doesn’t like his own words being flung back at him. He puts down the sandwich. He’s lost his appetite.

“And when you fall apart right in front of me—what do I do? I sit there and stare at you, Potter!”

Harry shifts uneasily in his chair. “That wasn’t falling apart.”

“One minute I’m yelling—the next I’m bribing you! I throw things, I threaten you, and half the time you are terrified of me! I even hit you, Potter! Go on—say it! It would be perfect justice, after what I’ve said to you these last five years!”

“Say what?”

“Tell me!” Snape says, his voice almost pleading. “Tell me I’m just like my father! I’m acting just like him—I am just like him!”

Now it is Harry’s turn to be surprised. An image of another man with a hooked nose flashes through his mind. And saying—what was it he said to Snape? Oh yes—

Well, that’s your problem, ain’t it?

“You aren’t like him,” Harry says. “He didn’t try at all.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re making an effort,” Harry says slowly, thinking about Dumbledore. “With me, I mean. That matters.”

“How do you know? How do you know I’m making an effort?” Snape asks, sounding undone.

“Because. You didn’t laugh at me.”

“That is so very little,” Snape whispers. “That is so very little a thing to get right, Potter. Any fool could have known that. It means nothing.”

“It means something,” Harry disagrees. “I would have given anything in the world—for her not to have laughed. So when people don’t—”

“But that’s just it,” Snape says swiftly. “By merely refraining from such atrocities—does that make me fit? I don’t know what I should be doing instead. Anything beyond a sandwich or murtlap is beyond me. Clearly.”

“A sandwich and murtlap count for a lot.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“But they do.”

“Don’t defend me,” Snape growls. “It is intolerable.”

“How do you expect me to act when you’ve been decent?”

“Ungrateful,” Snape says immediately. “Like your father. Unmoved. Like your mother.”

“Oh.”

“But you won’t, will you? Instead you’ll sit here and tell me that I’m not like my father.” And now Snape actually appears to be getting angry. “How dare you presume to know such a thing? You met him once for five minutes. I knew him—oh, Merlin, it feels like I knew him for a hundred years!”

“The Dursleys lasted centuries,” Harry says, his voice flattening into bitterness.

“Potter—”

“Don’t flatter yourself, okay? I’ve known you for the blink of an eye compared to them. You’ll never get the chance to screw me up as badly.”

“Dumbledore didn’t need long. He only needed an hour with you this morning.”

“Well,” Harry says, “You aren’t like him.”

Snape stares at Harry. “I’m nothing like Dumbledore, am I? And I’m not like my father either, is that it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Why are you attempting to appease me?” Snape demands. “Did Umbridge torture the brashness out of you? This morning you were anything but docile.”

“Dumbledore knocked me down a few pegs,” Harry says. “It only took an hour.”

A long silence stretches between the two of them. But this time it is Harry who breaks it. “This doesn’t have to be such a big deal, Snape. You did something decent for me tonight and I didn’t throw it back in your face. That’s all.”

“That’s not all and you know it,” Snape says roughly. “You still haven’t addressed my question—what am I meant to do for you beyond murtlap and sandwiches?”

“You seem to know how to—talk things out with me—sometimes.”

Snape barks a laugh. “Are you mad? How many times have I cut you to the quick with my forked tongue, Potter?”

Harry stays silent. That was a big admission for him, but Snape doesn’t seem to understand. Finally, he heaves a frustrated sigh. “You don’t need to go out of your way, alright? I’m not asking for much.”

“You certainly aren’t,” Snape says, looking annoyed. “How can I help—if you do not ask me for help? You have not sought me out once since our return, you know. It falls to me to track you down when you are bleeding all over the floor.”

“I wasn’t keeping score.”

“Well,” Snape says slowly. “I was. I always do.”

“Where would I even look for you?” Harry demands. “Here? This place holds such pleasant memories for me, you know.”

Snape frowns. He looks upwards, obviously thinking something out. “I suppose the Room of Requirement was, in its way, neutral.”

“Neutral? It took away your magic!”

“Nonetheless,” Snape murmurs. “I wonder, Potter. Perhaps there are one or two other things I can do for you besides murtlap.” He frowns. “Even though nobody has ever shown me how to.”

“You know what you are meant to do,” Harry argues. “You just have a hard time doing it. It’s easier not to.”

“Violence is easy,” Snape says in a strange voice. “My father knew that. He was a lazy man.”

“People shouldn’t give up because things are hard,” Harry says bitterly.

“Yes,” Snape says thoughtfully. “That’s so, isn’t it?” Then he considers Harry’s half-eaten sandwich at some length. “You should finish your dinner, Potter.”

Harry picks up the sandwich. He looks doubtfully at Snape, who looks ready to stare at him again. After a moment, Snape gets up and orders a second meal from the grate.

“Now what?” Harry asks, once they are both situated with their sandwiches.

“Now we eat.”

“And what about everything else?”

“I don’t know,” Snape says. “The rest is silence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you not tired of words, Potter?”

“I’m tired of Dumbledore’s words,” Harry says with feeling. “You know what? If I saw a boggart right now—I don’t think I’d see a dementor. I’d see Dumbledore.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Harry says miserably, “He told me too much. Who knows what he’ll tell me next time?”

“And what he told you—”

“I wish I had a Time Turner,” Harry says bitterly. “Do you ever wish that? Then I could go back in time—and I’d make Dumbledore take me in—I’d make him raise me—and then—”

“Then you’d probably be a very different person today.”

“And you never wished that?” Harry says wistfully. “To feel different things—to have different memories—“

“Ah,” Snape says. “But then I wouldn’t have memories of Lily.”

“Or maybe—if you’d grown up differently—Lily would have preferred you.”

“And where would that leave you?” Snape says dryly.

“I hate this,” Harry groans. “Before—when I used to hope that someone would rescue me—I never really believed it would happen. I mean, I wondered why Dumbledore didn’t take me in—but it seemed like a fantasy. Like the idea was too good to be true. You know?”

“I know.”

“And now I know how close I came—I came so close to escaping—he actually had a choice, he actually considered it—” Harry glares at his sandwich, unable to leave this topic behind. “Why did he tell me? I mean—I know what he said—but still. You don’t tell an owl that you almost picked him but decided to leave him at the store. It’s like rubbing salt in a wound.”

“Words make potent weapons,” Snape says, his eyes liquid black. He gestures at Harry’s arm. “Sometimes literally.”

“I don’t know if Dumbledore was trying to hurt me. But he did.”

“I find myself remembering something—something that helped me, once. Shall I tell you?”

“As long as it doesn’t scar me for life.” Harry gestures to his forehead. “Again, I mean.”

“I’ll do my best,” Snape says seriously. Then he launches into his story. “When I was a small boy, my mother’s mother stayed with us for a time. She liked me. One day she took me aside, cupped my face in her hands and looked me right in the eye. And what she said to me—I have never forgotten.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me that one day my father would be dead—and I would dance upon his grave.”

“Of course she did,” Harry says, bemused. “Hey—why didn’t Grandma take you to live with her?”

“You really do have a one track mind,” Snape drawls. “My grandmother was older than Merlin, Potter. And my point was this—after she did that—I felt better.”

“I don’t think dancing on Dumbledore’s grave will help. And I’m not sure he’s mortal.”

“You miss my point,” Snape says, looking annoyed. “Let’s just eat, shall we?”

And so they eat the sandwiches. When they are finished, Snape stands up. “I’ve kept you here long enough.”

Harry gets to his feet and carefully tugs his sleeves back down over his arms. And then Snape comes up to him and leans down and roughly cups Harry’s face in his hands. Harry freezes.

“Everything will be alright.” Snape says quietly. His hands have calluses—they are hard, rough, cold to the touch. They could probably crush Harry’s skull if they wanted to.

But they don’t want to.

Harry says nothing and does nothing. Snape looks affronted—and then his expression clears. He lets go of Harry and steps away.

“Have I made things worse?” Snape inquires.

“My friends found me tonight. And Ron wanted to get me food tonight and Hermione wanted to get me some murtlap. They knew where to find me.”

“And you say you don’t keep score,” Snape murmurs. “Yes—I have noticed that they are protective of you.”

“They’re good at stuff like that. They were the first people to do stuff like that for me. They were the first people to care.”

“I won’t make you choose, Potter.”

“Good,” Harry says, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. “Because without them—”

“There is nothing,” Snape says, eyes glittering. “I know, Potter. And I understand that while I was your only option in the Room, that is not the case here. Your first allegiance is to your friends. That is how it should be.”

Harry studies Snape, surprised that the man is willing to concede this. “Really?”

“Do you think I ever trusted an adult the way I trusted Lily?”

“Probably not.”

“But, Potter, I would also ask—as much as your friends mean to you—can you truthfully say there is nothing you lack?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, embarrassed. “I’m fifteen. It’s too late for a lot of things.”

“You are so young to me,” Snape says quietly. “You can’t possibly realize.”

“I don’t feel young.”

“I was fifteen—when everything went wrong. When I lost Lily.”

“When you called her a mudblood.”

“Yes, Potter.” A look of anguish flashes through Snape’s expression like quicksilver. “I was such an idiot at fifteen. I could have used any help that came my way. But none did. So you will forgive me if I treat you—”

“Like an idiot?”

“Like someone who still has a chance. Like someone whose wounds have not sealed over. Like someone who things can still be done for.”

Harry rocks back on his heels. “Oh.”

“How is your arm?” Snape says, too quickly.

“Better.”

“You should go back to your dormitory. It’s almost curfew.”

Harry nods, his mind feeling pulled in many directions. “Okay. Goodnight.” He turns to go, but then pauses. “I was in the Owlery. That’s where I went—after Dumbledore. If you wanted to find me.”

And he slips past Snape, who stands like a statue long after Harry has left.