Harry cannot wipe the broad smile off of his face. This is the third time he’s thrown Snape out of his mind, and somehow this victory is the sweetest of them all.

“I should have known, Potter,” Snape says snidely. “You, who cannot do anything normally—of course you would not do this in the accustomed way.”

“What do you mean?” Harry inquires.

“I mean, Potter,” Snape says, savoring the taste of his success, “I mean that now I know how to teach you Occlumency. You simply need to do the opposite of what you were doing before.”

Harry ducks his head and sheepishly asks, “What was I doing before?”

“Before,” Snape says, with surprising lightness, “Before, I instructed you to clear your mind of emotions, to try and feel nothing at all. Which you found--”

“Impossible,” Harry interrupts.

“Precisely,” Snape drawls. “But what threw me out of your head just now?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Harry answers. “You tell me. Sir.”

“The force of your emotion,” Snape says, pointing his wand at Harry to emphasize the point. “That is what threw me out of your mind. That is what will throw the Dark Lord out. Not your lack of feeling, but the terrible immensity of it.”

Harry shivers as an aftershock of that immensity streaks through him. “So I have to be desperately unhappy in order to chuck him out? Great.”

“I see no reason why a positive emotion would not suffice. What you have to do is think—no, not think, feel--your chosen emotion to the exclusion of all else. Dumbledore is always going on about the power of your emotion—here is your chance to prove it.”

Harry looks at Snape doubtfully. It sort of sounds like Snape wants him to conjure a Patronus.

“I am going to attack your mind again, Potter, and this time I want you to focus on an emotion—try a positive one first—to the exclusion of all else. Let that emotion fill your mind, Potter. Let it wash over you like an ocean.”

Harry snorts. “You want me to go googly-eyed with feeling, sir?”

“Yes. In fact, I demand you to do so. I want you to be an emotive, effusive little Gryffindor as hard and as long as you can stand it. Or,” he adds dryly, “as long as I can stand it.”

Harry dances on his toes, a familiar look of determination settling over his features. “Okay. Hit me with your worst.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Snape says darkly.

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s just an expression.”

Harry focuses all of his attention on the feeling of happiness. He lets pleasurable memories roll over him—the day the school nurse slipped him his first pair of glasses, the moment he first rode a broom—and the lines in his forehead smooth out.

“Legilimens!” Snape barks, flourishing his wand.

Harry struggles against the intrusion, and discovers that this is, in fact, quite different than conjuring a Patronus. This is like trying to conjure a Patronus while someone is yelling in your ear and somebody else is slapping your face and somebody else is trying to yank your wand away from you.

Impossible.

He hears a disappointed huff, and then Snape pulls out of his head.

“What happened?” he demands. “You offered no resistance.”

“I did,” Harry protests. “But it was really hard. I couldn’t hold on to feeling happy.”

“Were you focusing on a single memory? More than one? Or were you concentrating on what would bring you happiness? Or perhaps the physical sensation of the emotion?”

“I…I don’t know,” Harry says, annoyed. Trust Snape to want to dissect this.

“When you threw me out last time, what were you feeling? Specifically?”

Harry shrugs.

“It’s important, Potter. I know what I saw in your mind, but I need to know your interpretation.”

Harry sighs, embarrassed, and looks determinedly at the ceiling. “I—I was feeling unhappy. The last bit, the bit where I threw you out—well, I had just been thinking about that stupid Ms. Johnson, and how she didn’t believe me when I told her about—about my bruises. Okay?”

“So, it was a single memory,” Snape says thoughtfully. “A single memory connected with great sentiment.”

Harry nods.

“Focus on a single memory, then.”

“A happy one?” Harry says skeptically. “It’s not like conjuring a Patronus, Professor.”

“Try a different emotion if you wish. I merely suggested happiness, Potter, because it is unfamiliar to the Dark Lord.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “I’m not sure if familiarity makes a difference.”

“Then pick another feeling,” Snape says impatiently. “I care not. But stick with a single memory.”

Harry decides to try anger this time. He focuses all his being on the memory of Umbridge forcing him to write I must not tell lies with his own blood. Rage pumps through him, so that he does not even hear Snape cast the spell. He does not feel Snape enter his mind, or leave it for that matter. Shards of white light blur his vision, and all the strength whooshes out of Harry.

“Potter?”

Harry blearily opens his eyes. He is on the ground for some reason, so he staggers to his feet.

Snape thrusts something into his hand. Harry sniffs it and takes a gulp, and shudders as the brandy sloshes down his throat. “Strong,” he croaks.

“Good,” Snape says sharply. “You need it.”

Snape waits until Harry has finished the drink and puts down the flask. Then, quick as a flash, he grabs Harry’s hand and examines it. Without comment, he runs the pad of his thumb over the thin white scars. Harry flinches and yanks his hand away.

“Don’t touch my scars without asking,” Harry snarls. “Remember?”

Snape acknowledges this with a sardonic little bow. Harry considers him, lips pursed, cradling his hand to his chest protectively.

“Angry?” Snape shoots at him from under his curtains of hair.

“About my hand?” Harry snaps. “Of course. I hate that bloody woman.”

“Language,” Snape sneers before clarifying. “You used anger that time for your emotion?”

“Yes.”

Snape cocks his head. “You did throw me out of your mind, but it cost you a great deal to do so. And I would not advise using rage around the Dark Lord. He will feed off it like a vampire feeds off a tasty young lady.”

Harry groans. “So you want me to try a third emotion?”

“Correct.”

“Alright, Goldilocks,” Harry says, making a face at his professor. “Give me a minute to think of one.”

“I should hope you have more than two emotions in your repertoire,” comes the dry reply. “But perhaps not.” A long pause, and then Snape’s eyebrow goes up. “What did you just call me?”

Harry smirks beneath his closed eyes as he contemplates his next emotion. Joy? Peace? Merriment? No, those things have little to do with him. Hate? Fury? Voldemort knows those emotions like the back of his hand.

Harry wiggles his own hand and considers how well he too knows those feelings, especially lately, thanks to that toad of a professor. No, what he really needs is something altogether different.

“Ready?” Snape says impatiently. “Good grief, Potter, surely you’ve thought of an emotion by now.”

Ah. And Harry has. The answer is so obvious, he wonders that he did not think of it before. He nods and straightens. Snape gives him a long, close look and frowns. In the end, though, he shrugs and incants. “Legilimens!”

Harry focuses on the physical sensation of grief. He cannot bear to pick out a memory from the tangle of his parents, and Cedric, and—and other things too—that comprise his list of things to mourn. Instead, he calls forth the pressure in his throat, the tightness behind his sinuses, the involuntary clenching of his jaw, and his brain, and his heart—all of the sensations, in short, that he associates with grief. Because grief, unlike other emotions, is actually physical—he can feel his heart rate rise, feel the tears building, and, most of all, he can feel the ache clawing out of him.

And, in a moment, Snape claws out of him, too.

Harry tenses, but, amazingly, and unlike his professor, he is still upright. He feels tired, but not in a bad way. More like he has just finished a long training session.

Snape pants from the stone floor, hands massaging a bruised elbow. “We have a winner,” he groans, making no move to stand. “What in Merlin’s beard was that, Potter?”

Harry rolls his neck, relishing this strange new sensation of peaceful fatigue following an Occlumency lesson. He strides over to Snape and offers him a hand. Snape grunts but takes it, and it takes all of Harry’s remaining strength to heave the larger man onto his feet.

“So,” Snape repeats, brushing himself off. “What did you use? It was not a single memory or a collection of memories.”

“I used grief,” Harry admits, wondering how Snape will like this.

“Hm.” Snape taps his tapered fingers against his wand as he studies Harry. “You focused on the physical sensation, I presume? I experienced it as a wall of blue flame.”

Something in that image rings a bell, deep in Harry’s chest, and he nods thoughtfully.

“You do not look to be suffering any ill effects,” Snape observes. “And I doubt the Dark Lord has ever grieved for anyone in his life, which should work in your favor. But tell me, Potter, are you prepared to dip into the strength of your sorrow whenever someone invades your mind?”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Harry says. “I’m pretty sure I can’t do a circle of blue flame with anything else, Professor.”

Snape looks pained but does not deny this.

“How do you Occlude?” Harry asks, astonished that he has never thought to ask this question before.

Snape snorts. “I do it the proper way, Potter. No emotion.”

There is something sharp underlying Snape’s words. Harry frowns. “You don’t like me using grief, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Snape says, and now his voice is so sharp it could stab someone, preferably Harry. “I find it disturbing, frankly, that you are more comfortable using that emotion over all others.”

“Well, I think it’s weird that you find it so easy to feel nothing at all,” Harry shoots back.

“And here I thought Occlumency was helping us discover our similarities,” Snape says dryly. “Very well, Oliver Twist. Use grief. It’s certainly strong enough.”

“I will, thanks,” Harry says, stretching the kinks out of his neck. He stuffs his wand into his pocket. “Wait, what did you just call me?”

But Snape is already onto other things. “Incendio!” he roars, flinging his wand dramatically at the wall. When nothing bursts into flame, he frowns. “Alright then,” he mutters. “Lumos!”

Harry watches the proceedings with interest as Snape runs through an extensive litany of spells. He feels kind of bad for his professor; none of the spells do anything at all. At the same time, he can’t help but feel relieved. The two of them seem to be getting along alright at the moment, but Harry has a feeling that will all change when Snape gets his magic back. Part of him wonders if Snape is being nice because he wants to mollify the person with the most power, which happens to be Harry at the moment. He remembers the instinct well from his days with the Dursleys.

Snape finally gives it up with a sigh. He wheels on Harry, who takes a step back instinctively. Snape without magic is still no laughing matter. “Well, Potter,” Snape drawls. “It appears the Room has allowed me the use of only a single spell.”

“It’s a move in the right direction,” Harry reminds him. “More magic might come with time. That’s what happened to me, remember?” An idea occurs to Harry. “Professor, can I borrow your wand?”

“Certainly not,” Snape says, cradling his wand protectively, much in the same way Harry protected his hand earlier.

“I wonder if your wand will work for me,” Harry says. “Maybe I can, I dunno, use two wands at once to blast our way out of here.”

Snape snorts. “Magic doesn’t work like that, Potter. You can’t use two wands simultaneously.”

“Magic works differently in here,” Harry argues. “Come on, Professor. Maybe it will lead to something. What have we got to lose?”

Snape says nothing for a long time. “If I say no, will you Disarm me anyways?” he inquires, his black eyes unreadable.

“What do you think?”

Snape considers him. “Give me your word,” he says abruptly. “Give me your word that you will not use my wand against me.”

“I give you my word as a Gryffindor,” Harry says solemnly.

“Wonderful,” Snape mutters. He glances at the scars on Harry’s hand, winces, and thrusts the wand out. Harry reaches out and takes it as quickly as possible.

Harry and Snape look warily at each other. Something has changed between them now, and the air buzzes with tension.

Snape’s wand feels entirely foreign to Harry. There is magic in it, certainly, but nothing like his own phoenix-feather wand. Snape’s wand pulses something darker, something stonier, and Harry snatches a fleeting impression of smoke swirling within the wand’s core. A surge of protectiveness goes through Harry, and he vows to himself that he will not harm this man’s wand. The man, maybe, but not the wand.

“Well?” Snape says sharply. “What are you waiting for?”

Harry incants a Blasting Curse at the wall, focusing his energy on aiming the spell out of both wands. It is a very odd sensation. Something like white lava shoots out of the wands and splatters on the wall. Harry gapes at the goo, puzzled at this unexpected result, when suddenly agonizing pain shoots up his hands. Harry drops the suddenly savage wands, gasping as he tears his sizzling flesh away from the white-hot wood.

Snape’s eyes follow his precious wand to the ground. In two steps, he has snatched both wands up with a half-strangled yell of triumph.

Harry yelps as the fierce pain burns through his hands. He knows, from agonizing experience with Muggle kitchens, that he has been burned, somehow, and burned badly.

Snape is still staring at both of the wands as though he can barely believe his luck. Then, with a grim smile, he pockets them both.

Harry sinks to the ground, his face drained of all color, but nothing more escapes his lips. Finally, Snape notices him, and rushes to his side. “Potter! What is it?”

“Burned,” Harry gasps. “The wands burned me.”

Snape curses. He aims a Healing Charm at Harry, first with his own wand, and then with Harry’s, but nothing happens.

“Can you hold a wand to Charm yourself?” Snape demands.

“No,” Harry says between gritted teeth.

Snape rushes over to the magic trunk. He sticks his head far into it and screams that he needs Healing Potions. Harry dimly hears him, but all his attention is on his hands. They are blistering from the tip of his fingers to his wrists. Second degree burns.

“Anything?” Harry moans.

Snape rushes over to him, pale as death, and Harry has his answer.

Harry’s eyes close, but Snape lightly slaps his face. “Potter! Stay with me! We are going to have to solve this the Muggle way.”

“Okay,” Harry says, steeling himself. “I know what to do.”

“As do I,” snaps Snape. “Show me your burns.”

“NO!” Harry snarls, backing away from Snape. He pants, an animal look in his eyes. “How many times?”

“What?”

“HOW MANY TIMES,” Harry yells, dizzy with pain, “HOW MANY TIMES have you done this the Muggle way?”

“Twice.”

“I win,” Harry snarls. “Now you listen to me or I’m going to do it myself. Go get a T-shirt from my trunk, one with thin fabric. Dampen it with cool water, not cold.”

Snape curses but rushes away. Harry pulls himself up to a sitting position and leans against the wall. It will be harder to lose consciousness if he is upright. He holds his hands out in front of him, loath to let them touch anything but air. He moves his fingers apart, to stop the skin from sticking together, and a low hiss escapes him.

Snape returns to his side, dampened shirt clutched in one fist.

“Okay,” Harry says, as lancing pain shoots through his hands. “That stone over there? Drag it over here. I’m going to rest my hands burned side up on it. Then you cover my burns with the shirt. Gently. Don’t break the blisters.”

Snape’s eyes widen, but he brings the block of stone over, and Harry puts his hands on it, palms up. Snape gently covers them with the damp shirt. Harry cannot help it, he groans with pain, a great animal sound he did not know he was capable of making.

“Now get a blanket and wrap it around me.”

Snape does not question this, but returns quickly with the blanket. He wraps it around Harry, very careful not to jostle his hands. The warmth feels good to Harry, and he takes a great gulping breath. “Thanks. I’ve never done this with help before. Makes it a lot easier.”

Snape looks at Harry sharply, his dark eyes calculating.

“Okay,” Harry continues. “Keep me talking. I shouldn’t lose consciousness. In a bit, I should be able to Heal myself. But not until the pain lessens.”

“Very well,” Snape says, in rather a lower voice than usual. “What is your favorite subject?” He puts a hand on Harry’s forehead, and then on his neck, as though he is checking his temperature and pulse. Harry submits to this in silence. Snape sits back on his heels and repeats the question. “Potter! Favorite subject!”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Even with Umbridge?”

“Lupin—fake Moody—they were good teachers. This year—Magical Creatures. Or Charms.”

“And where does Potions fit in?”

“Where do you think?”

Snape seems to fish around for a less dangerous subject. “Are you prepared for your O.W.L.S.?”

“No,” Harry says, grimacing. ”But Hermione will help me study, I’m not fussed. Except for Potions.”

“You wish to do well in my class?” Snape says, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“Well enough to be an Auror.”

“Perhaps you ought to consider Healing instead,” Snape says darkly. “You are planning to Heal yourself how?”

“Don’t know how it works,” Harry says, sweat trickling down his forehead. The pain is swelling to a crescendo, and red dots speckle his vision. He arches his back, panting. “But it always does.”

“You learned to Heal yourself?” Snape prods. “When?” He eyes Harry’s sweat as though it is of concern.

“In the kitchen,” Harry moans, past caring that he is revealing something private. The important thing is to stay awake. “As punishment.”

Snape leans forward intently. “What do you mean, as punishment?”

“Hands. To the stove. When I misbehaved.” Harry purses his lips to stop from moaning out. “That’s how I learned.”

A look of disgust flits over Snape’s features. “That’s how you learned,” he echoes. He squints at Harry. “I wonder what else those Muggles taught you.”

Harry shudders, and then relaxes imperceptibly. The worst is over. The pain has become manageable. “I can Heal myself now, Professor.”

“How do you know?” Snape demands.

“I just do,” Harry answers, his voice regaining in strength. “Take off the shirt. Carefully!”

With the deft hands of a Potions Master, Snape plucks the shirt off of Harry’s hands in one clean motion. Harry brings his hands up to his face. An oddly serene expression settles across his features, and he mutters quietly to himself. The blisters on his hands shrink back into his flesh, and then the flesh itself reddens before returning to the correct color. The whole thing takes thirty seconds. Harry drops his healed hands to his lap, immensely relieved.

“Haven’t had to do that in years,” Harry jokes weakly. “I guess it’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget.”

Snape stands up, sweeps to the washroom, and returns with a glass of water. “Can you hold this?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, now rubbing his hands together briskly to get the blood flowing. “Really, I’m fine now. The hard part is managing the pain so I have enough strength to focus. The Healing itself is easy.” He takes the glass and drinks thirstily. “Thanks.” He makes to stand up, but Snape immediately looms over him, stopping him.

“You will rest,” Snape says grimly.

“But I’m fine,” Harry says, insulted. “I’ve done this loads of times before, Professor, and--”

Snape whips both wands out of his pocket and points them at Harry. “I have your wand. You will do as I say. Rest.”

Harry frowns. Grasping the wall for support, he heaves himself to his feet. He sways once, and then seems to get a grip on himself. “Give me my wand, Professor.”

“No. You need to rest after Healing. All wizards do, even Dumbledore. Healing is very draining.”

“Not for me,” Harry says shortly. “I didn’t have time to be drained, did I? I had to get Dudders his pancakes.” He grimaces. “Just give me my wand, will you?”

Snape throws it at him. Harry easily catches it, puzzled by the ugly look on Snape’s face. “Thanks,” he says slowly. “Professor, what’s your wand core?”

Snape seems unfazed by this rapid change of subject. “Why?”

“I want to know why our wands behaved so oddly.”

“My wand is phoenix-free, I’m happy to say,” Snape sneers, side-stepping the question.

“Then do you know why the spell backfired and the wands burned me?” Harry presses. “And what was that white gooey stuff?”

“No idea,” Snape says, his eyes widening oddly as he peers over Harry’s shoulder. “But there’s more ‘white gooey stuff’ on the wall behind you, should you care to investigate.”

Harry turns around and gasps. The white goo is forming itself into slimy words, bubbling and popping as it spreads over the stone.

“United…are…the…victors,” Harry and Snape say in unison, reading along. As if on cue, a great rumbling noise fills the Room, and then a large oak door appears in the wall.

Snape gets there first, and puts his hand to the knob. Slowly, as if coaxing a tricky potion, he turns the knob and pulls. The door opens a smidge. Snape turns to Harry, an unreadable expression on his face.

Harry whoops with delight. Snape grandly pushes the door open all the way, and the two of them disappear through it.

The empty Room seems to hold itself still for a moment. And then, it relaxes, as Snape’s howl of fury reverberates within it.