“This is odd, even for Dumbledore,” Ron said flatly.

“I know,” Harry agreed grimly.

“Best do as the note says, Harry,” urged Hermione, sensible as usual.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry sighed. He shrugged and picked up his book bag. “See you guys later.” He slipped out of the portrait hole, and walked to the familiar corridor on the seventh floor. He quickly strode three times past the tapestry of the dancing trolls, thinking the odd words Dumbledore had set him. The door magically appeared, and Harry pushed his way inside.

Harry stared doubtfully around the room. It didn’t look like promising. The room was completely empty. No windows, no furniture. Odd. Harry walked further into the room, his footsteps echoing loudly. “Professor Dumbledore?” he called tentatively.

The door, as if in reply, banged open to announce Snape striding into the room. His glittering eyes took in first Harry, and then the barren room.

“Professor Dumbledore gave me a note telling me to come here,” Harry blurted out before Snape could accuse him of something.

“I received a similar note,” Snape allowed stiffly. A long pause ensued.

“Did…did your note sound a little…odd?” Harry ventured after a bit.

Snape said nothing. Instead he folded his arms and stared at him impassively, no emotion in his eyes. They waited for the good part of fifteen minutes, Harry shuffling his feet while Snape stood ram-rod straight.

Harry was starting to get seriously creeped out. Perhaps he had misread the note? Harry took it out and scrutinized it.

Harry,

Please come to the Room of Requirement immediately upon receiving this note.

Yours,

Albus Dumbledore

PS. You need a place for warriors.

Harry had taken that postscript to be the password, but maybe Dumbledore was just being weirder than usual. Maybe he was supposed to meet the professor outside…the note hadn’t explicitly told him to come inside the room, after all.

Harry walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Snape demanded.

“I’m going to make sure that Professor Dumbledore isn’t waiting outside or anything,” Harry said, and then quickly grabbed the door knob before Snape could stop him.

The door wouldn’t open.

Frowning, Harry took his wand out and did an unlocking charm. When that failed, he tried several others. Then he shoved the door again.

Harry turned back. “It won’t open,” he explained unnecessarily.

Snape, again, said nothing, but strode over to the door. “Move aside, Potter” he said imperiously, and began his own series of unlocking spells.

Snape, to Harry’s satisfaction, couldn’t open the door either. The professor pursed his lips alarmingly and glared at the door as though it were Neville Longbottom. Then he whirled around and advanced on Harry.

“Show me the note the headmaster gave you,” Snape demanded.

Harry hesitated, but couldn’t see what harm it would do at this point, and gave him the scroll. Snape pulled out his own parchment and compared the two. Then, wordlessly, he returned Harry’s parchment to him.

“Well, do they say the same thing?” Harry asked, annoyed.

Snape nodded once, curtly. Then he ordered Harry, “Tell me everything you know about this room.”

Harry tensed. Did Snape know about the D.A.?

“Today, Potter!” Snape said, moving a step closer to Harry.

“Well,” Harry began doubtfully. “Dumbledore first told me about it last year. The Room of Requirement will be whatever you need it to be. If you need to, erm, use the toilet, it will fill with chamberpots. If you need a place to hide, it will give you a broom closet. That sort of thing. The house-elves call it the Come and Go room.”

“Is there any way to alter the room once you enter it?”

Harry thought back. He remembered once really needing a whistle during D.A., and then finding one the next second. But he couldn’t be sure if the whistle had suddenly appeared, or if it had been there all along.

“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted. Then, cocking his head, he looked at the door and fiercely thought I need the door to unlock. He hopefully tried the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. Okay…I need something to unlock the door. Nothing. I need the door to unlock for warriors. Nope. Harry shrugged and looked at Snape, who looked back at him with narrowed eyes.

“How many times have you been in this room, Potter?” was Snape’s next question.

Harry calculated in his head. “About a dozen times, sir. And,” he added, hoping this information would satisfy Snape, “one time I needed a book and suddenly I saw the one I needed nearby. So maybe you can change the room, but we just don’t know how to. I used to come here to, er, study.”

“You are a terrible liar, Potter” Snape sneered. “If you think I don’t know about your little defense meetings with your friends, you are sadly mistaken.”

At this, Harry stiffened, panic shooting through him.

“I will not inform Professor Umbridge, and you in return will do something for me,” Snape continued evenly.

“What? Sir?” Harry asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Snape merely smirked. Then he pointed to a corner. “For now, sit there and don’t bother me. I need to think.”

Harry strongly doubted that was the end of it, but he walked to the corner and settled himself into a corner. The stone walls and floor were cold and rough. He pulled out his Charms homework, for lack of any better idea. But he found himself ruminating over Dumbledore’s note, instead. A place for warriors? What did that mean? Harry and Snape were both part of the war against Voldemort. Well, Harry was, in any case. Harry felt rather pleased, if Dumbledore meant to call Harry a warrior. Better that than being thought of as a child, a child Dumbledore had been studiously ignoring this year.

But it didn’t seem like Dumbledore, to lock Harry and Snape in a room together, if that is what he had done. Dumbledore was usually not that pushy. Did he mean for his warriors to fight each other to the death? Harry sniggered inwardly at that. Probably not. Was this some kind of a test? Was Dumbledore going to send some horrid creature for the two of them to kill? No, Harry decided, the mostly likely explanation was that this was a way to keep the two of them safe from some unknown danger.

Harry’s heart sank as he pursued that line of thought. It seemed much similar to the way Dumbledore always stuck him at the Dursleys for his own good. Did that mean Hogwarts was in danger? Was he going to open the door to find that he and Snape were the last two wizards alive?

Harry jumped up, his heart in his throat. Snape turned his unfriendly black gaze onto him. Harry flushed and looked away, willing his madly beating heart to calm down. Dumbledore wouldn’t leave Hogwarts unprotected. He had to trust in the headmaster, and trust that he had good motives for sticking him in here with Snape.

In the meantime, he might as well do his stupid homework. Harry sat back down. Ugh, the stone was uncomfortable. He could feel Snape watching him with those dark eyes, watching him without sympathy. Harry ground his quill into his parchment. I need Snape to stop staring at me.

To Harry’s surprise, Snape did.

Maybe you could change things in this room, after all.

Snape began waving his wand and muttering. It looked to Harry that he was trying to conjure something without success. Harry left him to it and lost himself in the world of water charms.

Several hours later, Harry had done all the homework possible with the books in his bag. His stomach grumbled rather audibly. The dinner hour had come and gone, and there had not been a word from Dumbledore.

Harry stuffed his books back in his bag and stood up, stretching. Snape had, sometime during Harry’s impromptu study hall, apparently settled himself into another corner, deep in thought.

Snape, too, stood up and cocked his head, as though hit by an idea. “Give me a book from your bag,” he growled.

“Why?” Harry demanded, his hunger making him rather aggressive. He wished Dumbledore had sent his stupid note after lunch, rather than before it. Of course, Harry was used to hunger from his time with the Dursleys. But still. It must be eight or nine at night, and he’d only had breakfast all day.

“Because I told you to, you stupid boy!” Snape said, sounding rather cranky himself.

Lips pursed, Harry pulled out a book and thrust it at his professor. Snape snatched it from him and immediately attempted to transfigure it into a key. Harry decided it was a rather good idea, well worth the sacrifice of his Divinations text. But it didn’t work, and the book stubbornly remained a book.

“The magic in this room defies all logic!” Snape finally erupted. He threw Harry’s book at him, and Harry, Quidditch instincts well-honed, dove and caught it. This was perhaps not the wisest thing to do, because Snape threw him an absolutely filthy look before asking “You have done magic in this room before, haven’t you Potter?”

“Yes, loads of times,” Harry said carelessly, not seeing the flash of something that ripped across Snape’s face. Harry pointed his wand at his book. I need you to become something a warrior would need. To his amazement, the book turned into a blank piece of parchment.

Harry looked up at Snape. To his great satisfaction, the professor looked unnerved, something raw flickering in his black gaze for a moment before he schooled his features.

“What did you do, Potter?” Snape demanded, loathing etched into the planes of his face.

Harry ignored him, thinking hard. Why would a warrior need a blank piece of parchment? Was this a way to communicate with Dumbledore? Was it something like Tom Riddle’s diary, a magical artifact that would somehow transport him out of this place? Or was it something else?

“POTTER!” Snape roared, all patience apparently gone. “Answer me now, or it will be detention!”

“I think I’m already in detention,” Harry shot back.

Snape, in answer, seized Harry by his arm and roughly pulled him closer. He leaned down, inches from Harry’s face, and said in a very soft voice “There’s no witnesses here, Potter. Nobody to stop me from doing as I like with you. So I strongly suggest you ANSWER THE QUESTION!”

Harry wrenched his arm out of Snape’s grasp and stepped away, a bit unnerved. Once out of striking range, and eying his professor in a different light, he said tightly “I thought to myself ‘I need the book to become something a warrior would need.’”

Snape digested this. Then he said in an equally tense voice “Fetch me another of your books.”

Harry gave Snape a wide berth and pulled another book from his bag. He offered it to Snape, unconsciously adopting the stance he took when serving Uncle Vernon breakfast. Rather as one would offer meat to a lion. Snape took his Astrology text without a word, and immediately focused on the book. Harry would have bet his Firebolt that he was thinking the same words Harry had.

But the book didn’t change for Snape. The potions master stared at the book for a long time, an ugly look flushing his pallid face. Then, with a roar, he threw the heavy book at Harry. This time, however, Harry wasn’t quick enough, and the book smacked him sharply in the nose.

Harry grunted and staggered back as he felt blood drip down his face. He gingerly touched his nose. Well, it didn’t feel broken. Would his magic work on it? I need my nose to heal. No. I need a healed nose like the kind a warrior would need. Yeah, right. Harry tried several other variations, to no avail. He just needed a hankerchief. Dursley and Uncle Vernon had both broken his nose on multiple occasions, so Harry wasn’t too fussed about it. But, still, it really hurt.

Harry chanced a look at Snape. His professor was staring at him, an ashen look on his pale face.

Harry pursed his lips, determined not to show Snape any signs of weakness. He marched back to his corner and, for the third time, rifled through his book bag. No handkerchief. Harry finally pulled out an old candy wrapper. I need you to turn into a handkerchief. With a pop, Harry found himself holding a perfectly serviceable one. Why did his magic work sometimes, but not others?

Harry carefully mopped up his blood-spattered face, and then expertly pinched his nose and tilted his head up, waiting for the blood to stop.

He could feel Snape’s eyes on him the whole time.

“Tibby,” Snape commanded imperiously. A small pause. “Febby, then.” A longer pause. “Teela! Show yourself!”

Harry considered his professor. Had Snape gone barking mad?

“Winky then,” Snape sighed, something remarkably like defeat seeping into his voice. And then, wincing “Dobby, I command you to come here!”

Oh. Summoning house elves. Good idea, but then everything in this room seemed absolutely determined to ignore Snape.

Harry wondered if he should try, or if Snape would hurl another book at him. He winced, gingerly touching the bridge of his nose. It was still really tender, but he would live. Harry wished he had a mirror so he could assess the damage.

A small pocket mirror appeared with a snap directly over Snape’s head. It fell harmlessly with a tinkle against Snape’s robes. Snape picked it up, brows deeply furrowed at this new mystery.

Thanks, Harry thought crossly. But next time, you should aim towards me.

Another mirror, identical to the first, appeared in Harry’s lap. He picked it up, slightly bemused, and examined himself in the mirror. The handkerchief had done a fairly good job, but he still looked rather a mess.

Snape sighed as if disappointed, and then addressed Harry for the first time since the nose incident. “Did you conjure both mirrors, or just the second one?”

“Both of them,” Harry admitted.

Snape fiddled with his mirror, turning the thing over in his hands. Then, grimacing, he said quietly “Perhaps you could conjure us food instead of mirrors.”

“Okay,” Harry said awkwardly. He looked thoughtfully at the mirrors. I need you to turn into sandwiches, please.

The mirrors immediately transformed into a pile of thick, juicy ham sandwiches. Snape examined one critically, and then briskly began to eat. Harry set to his food with gusto.

“And now some water would be lovely,” Harry decided out loud. Two glasses of water appeared, before he had even properly turned it into a thought, or said anything about warriors. But, actually, Harry thought to himself, the last few requests had been much easier and simpler. Odd. It was almost like the room was adjusting to his magic. Or maybe it was more that the room was beginning to like him.

Snape seemed to be realizing the same thing, for his lips thinned and he didn’t say another word until the food and water had been consumed. He clearly could not be on good terms with a room that liked Harry Potter. He marched back to his corner, tossing behind him “If you would be so good as to vanish the rubbish, Potter” as he went.

Harry tried his best to ignore this and asked the rubbish to please vanish. The room seemed to respond better to politeness. Then he turned towards the door and, hoping against hope, tried everything he could think of to get the door to open. But no amount of cajoling or trickery would work, and Harry stopped before long, anxious not to offend the room.

Snape smirked and seemed slightly restored by this failure. Harry decided he had more pressing things to worry about. Namely, he really, REALLY needed to use the toilet. So did Snape, probably. Perhaps all that water had not been a good idea. He tried to get the room to conjure him a bathroom (quietly, so Snape wouldn’t hear) but it didn’t work. Maybe the room really was offended by Harry attempting to break out of it, he mused.

Harry considered peeing into a corner, but he wanted to avoid that as long as possible. And that might really, er, piss off the room. Instead he pulled out the parchment formerly known as his divination textbook, and studied it, desperate for a distraction. This parchment had to be good for something, right? A warrior would need it, after all. Harry settled back into his corner and pulled his quill out of his bag.

Hello he scribbled. His words disappeared almost immediately, to be replaced by a Hi written in a strangely familiar scrawl. Harry’s heartbeat quickened. Was he talking to Tom Riddle again? Was this like the diary? Who are you? He wrote. I hate the Dursleys was his response. Harry straightened and realized why the handwriting was so familiar. It was his own.

“Potter? What are you doing?” came Snape’s voice, a hint of urgency to it. “That scroll could be some kind of trick!”

Harry considered his options. But, in the end, he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. Take me to you he scribbled on the paper. Uncle Vernon hit me today flashed quickly on the parchment, and then Harry felt the familiar sensation of being wrenched into a memory. The last thing he heard was Snape’s panicked “Potter!” behind him.

And, then, he was at Number 4, Privet Drive, a smaller version of himself staring owlishly back at him. His younger version looked to be about six or seven. “Hullo,” the child said, undisturbed. “Go on, then, I’ve got to get to the dishes.” He turned away and seemed to fade into the scenery, if that were possible. Harry made to grab at him, but his hand went right through him as little Harry walked into the kitchen.

Well. This was unexpected. Then, a glorious, magnificent, beautiful realization came to Harry.

He could use the toilet here.

Harry scampered upstairs with glee, and did so. Apparently one could use the toilet in one’s own memory. Stranger and stranger. Harry walked into the hallway, curious about why the parchment had led him here. The upstairs seemed deserted, so Harry continued downstairs.

Uncle Vernon and Dudley were lolling about on the sofa, watching television. Aunt Petunia was tidying up behind them, her little eyes darting around as usual. It seemed to be a lazy summer afternoon. Harry saw Dudley’s new dinosaur lying discarded on the ground. Oh, God, how he had lusted after that toy. But he never had gotten to so much as touch it. It had disappeared mysteriously one afternoon, and Harry had never seen it again. But he had been punished for its disappearance. It had been quite a scene, Harry remembered, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Without really thinking about it, Harry picked the dinosaur up. It was smaller than he had remembered, but just as lovely as he could have hoped. Harry stuck it in his pocket, some ancient hurt vibrating within him. Then he went into the kitchen to see what little Harry was up to. If this was like the Riddle diary, then he had to watch something or do something or talk to someone before he would be spit back into the present. Harry firmly refused to dwell on the idea that his impulsiveness would trap him here. He was just as trapped in the Room, wasn’t he?

Little Harry was just finishing up with the dishes. He didn’t seem to notice his older counterpart at all. Just then, a howl erupted from the living room. Dudley had discovered that his dinosaur was missing.

Harry froze. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t just go picking things up in another dimension and change the past! He hurriedly took the little figurine out and ran into the living room. He tried to put the toy on the table, but it simply went through the wood. Harry sucked in his breath. Was it part of his dimension now? He spent a panicked couple of minutes trying to put the dinosaur somewhere, anywhere, but this world seemed to refuse to accept it.

Harry looked up, heart racing as his younger version was dragged into the living room by Aunt Petunia. Oh, now he remembered this day. Now he remembered it perfectly.

“I didn’t take his dinosaur, honest!” the younger Harry was insisting. Aunt Petunia gave him a smack for his efforts. “Don’t lie, you!” she returned, shaking him. Dudley and Uncle Vernon watched this exchange with interest. Usually Petunia left the violence to them. “Now, you give him his dinosaur, or no food for a week!”

Little Harry had no answer for this, but instead schooled his features and began to grimly look for the dinosaur. Harry watched him, a feeling of dread in his stomach. He really didn’t want to watch the rest of this, but something told him he wouldn’t be able to leave until he did.

“Well, boy?” barked Uncle Vernon. “Have you got it or not?”

“No,” Harry admitted. But, in a rare show of defiance, he added “But I didn’t take it. Dudley must have lost it.”

Well, this was unheard of, blaming Dudley in the Dursley household. Dudley began to sob, big fat crocodile tears running down his face. He stuck his tongue at Harry between wails. Aunt Petunia began to shake Harry again, hard. “Don’t you say that about Dudley!” She spat. Then she shoved Harry towards his uncle. “Make him see sense, Vernon!”

Vernon seemed slightly reluctant to get off the comforts of the couch. “Give me the dinosaur, and then its into your cupboard for you,” he said gruffly. Little Harry looked desperately around, somehow knowing that this was his last chance. He wished with all his heart for a dinosaur, and suddenly a little creature appeared with a pop in the living room.

It was a dinosaur toy, but not the Muggle kind. It emitted a tiny roar and began to graze on the carpet.

The Dursleys stared at it, open-mouthed. Then, as one, they swiveled their heads at Harry. And, then, chaos. His aunt and uncle started to scream, and Dudley, frightened for real, began to sob afresh.

“Make it go away, freak!” roared Uncle Vernon, his fat body wobbling in fear. “NOW!” The whole family jumped on the furniture, making sure they were well away from the sleepy little brontosaurus, who was now stretching his neck.

The younger Harry swallowed, panic threatening to overwhelm him. He had done it again. And they were going to kill him if he couldn’t make it go away. He got really close to the little dinosaur and hovered over it, almost afraid to touch it. “Go away,” he whispered. “Please.” The dinosaur began to scratch itself. “Please,” Harry begged, nearly at the end of his rope. The dinosaur toy, in response, stood up on its hind feet and attempted to nuzzle Harry’s leg. The Dursleys gasped in horror, and Vernon, from the couch, leaned over to give Harry an almighty smack on his shoulder. Harry grimaced, thrown forward by the blow. “NOW, FREAK!”

“GO AWAY!” Harry yelled at the little toy, voice cracking. Finally, in desperation, he threw the animal against the wall. It emitted a pained yowl. And then it went still. And then it disappeared.

Several things happened at once. Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by his mop of hair. Dudley stopped crying. And Aunt Petunia started to screech about the mark the toy had left on the wall. Uncle Vernon slapped Harry across the face, hard, with his free hand. Blood immediately started spurting from the boy’s nose. And then he threw him in his cupboard, roaring that Harry would stay there for the rest of the summer and no meals for the next two weeks.

The older Harry felt a tug behind his navel, and he tumbled away from the memory, still clutching the Muggle toy in his hand.

Snape must have been studying the parchment, because Harry was returned right on top of him. The two of them were a mess of limbs, thrashing about, until Harry could extricate himself properly. Out of breath, he scrambled away from the professor on all fours until he bumped up against the wall. Snape stood up, towering over him. Harry’s eyes darted to the parchment lying between them. Take me to Potter was scribbled on it in Snape’s handwriting. Then Take me to Harry Potter. And, then, below that, Help Me.

But the parchment had not answered Snape. He saw Harry looking at the crumpled piece of paper, and viciously kicked it out of his line of vision. “So,” he sneered, as Harry stared fixedly at the ground. “So.”

Only Snape could inject that much malice into two words, Harry thought. He craned his neck up at last. Snape’s nose looked even more hawk-like than usual from this angle.

“Get up, Potter,” Snape growled, hauling Harry to his feet as he did so. Only then did Harry smell an acrid sent in the room. Harry flushed, and felt the tiniest bit sorry for Snape. He silently asked the Room to vanish it, and the smell immediately disappeared.

Two identical spots of color appeared in Snape’s pale cheeks. “You will explain yourself now,” he said stiffly.

Harry shifted from foot to foot. He didn’t really want to go into it, but he doubted Snape would accept that. He wondered if Snape could use Legilimency in here. He looked into Snape’s eyes, allowing all thoughts of the Toy Trauma to drift to the forefront of his mind.

Snape stared back, brows furrowed as if in confusion. Something seemed to shudder through him as he realized what Potter was after.

“Verbally,” he clarified stiffly. “The other is not at my disposal.”

Geez. Harry felt even sorrier for Snape. This room had turned him into a Muggle. His thoughts must have been written across his face, because Snape growled “Do not pity me, Potter, or I will give you something to feel sorry about.”

Harry frowned and decided it would be best to change the subject. “The parchment took me to a memory. A memory of mine,” he clarified, seeing the question on Snape’s face. “It took me to the Dursley home in Surrey.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “And you did what there?”

Harry grimaced but figured there was nothing for it. “I used the loo, and talked briefly to myself at six, and watched the Dursleys, um, interact with…the other Harry.”

“I see,” Snape said, hands folded under his chin as he considered this. “Was there anything extraordinary about this memory?”

Yes, Harry thought. I think that was the first time I thought they were going to kill me.

“No sir,” Harry replied.

Snape pursed his lips. “I do not believe you,” he pronounced. “And I fail to see how this childhood memory of yours is going to get us out of here. But perhaps you do?”

Harry gaped at his professor. Was Snape asking him for help? He carefully considered the question, sticking his hands in his pockets. Ah. The dinosaur was still there.

“Well,” Harry said hesitantly. Was Snape going to kill him over this? “I took something from the memory.”

“You took something from the memory,” Snape echoed in disbelief, his voice going up an octave. “Did anybody notice that this object was missing? And what did you remove?”

“I—I took one of my cousin’s toys,” Harry admitted. “And, yes, they noticed it was missing.”

This seemed to unleash something in Snape. “And WHAT phenomenally idiotic reason did you have for doing THAT? You stupid child, do you have ANY idea how dangerous it is to fool with time?”

“Yes, actually,” Harry shot back. “I probably have more of an idea than you do!”

“That’s misdirection worthy of a Slytherin,” Snape sneered. “But let us focus on the present crisis. You have removed an object from the past, and its absence was noted by at least three people besides yourself! Your actions could have far-reaching consequences! But, then, you never think of others, do you, when you go off on one of your hair-brained misadventures? What were you thinking, interacting with an unknown magic artifact? Who knows where it could have taken you!”

“Well, it couldn’t be worse than Tom Riddle, could it?” Harry said defensively. “And that turned out alright, didn’t it?”

“You are even more arrogant than your father was!” Snape erupted, spittle flying from his mouth. “At least he never thought lightly of the Dark Lord! Or maybe he did, using that weakling Pettigrew for a Secret-Keeper! No wonder he ended up dead, the fool! And you! An even bigger fool--”

“You shut up!” Harry yelled, fury bubbling within him. “You shut UP, Snape, or I’ll—“

“You’ll what?” Snape sneered, looming over Harry. He had at least a foot and fifty pounds on him. “Be quiet before you make a fool of yourself, Potter!”

“Or I’ll tell the room to hurt you,” Harry said quietly. “Don’t you ever mention my father’s death to me again, Snape.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” whispered Snape. “I’d have you expelled so quickly your head would spin.”

“Yes, why don’t you run off to Umbridge right now,” scoffed Harry. “You seem to believe we are still in Hogwarts, Professor. But we aren’t, not really. And I have the power here.”

“Yes,” Snape whispered, eyes glittering. “You do. And the question remains, Potter: What will you do with that power?”

At that, Harry deflated. He swallowed. He didn’t want to be a bully. He looked up at Snape from underneath his fringe. “What do you think I should do?”

The answer seemed to please Snape. “I think you should enter the memory, return the toy, and hope for the best.”

Harry cocked his head. “But that’s just it, Professor. I’m not sure I changed the past or not. Because, you see, I do have a memory of a toy--” He fished the dinosaur out of his pocket and showed it to Snape “of this toy disappearing mysteriously one afternoon. Nothing in my memory seemed…different. It happened just like I remembered.”

Snape tapped the fingers of his left hand against his side. “I see,” he said, brow furrowed. Then, exasperated, he threw his arms in the air. “Then I fail to see the point of any of this!”

“I know, Harry admitted. “I don’t get it, either.” He hesitated. “And, I tried to, um, replace the dinosaur already. But I couldn’t, not once I had picked it up. I really don’t think I changed anything, Professor.”

“So,” Snape mused. “Perhaps this is all happening as it should, then. By going back into the memory and altering it, it has now happened just as you remembered.”

Harry nodded. That had almost made sense to him. “So, what now?” he asked Snape.

The question seemed to surprise Snape. “I confess myself at a loss. Why don’t you inquire of the Room?”

“Okay,” Harry said agreeably. “Erm, Room, what do we require now?”

And suddenly Harry felt himself whirling back, back into another time and place. Little Harry was staring up at him owlishly. “Hullo,” the child said, undisturbed. “Go on, then, I’ve got to get to the dishes.” As before, he turned away and walked into the kitchen.

“You certainly were a runty little thing, weren’t you?” Snape drawled. “Is this the memory you were in before, Potter?”

Wordlessly, Harry nodded.

The first thing Snape did was mutter a Lumos.  When nothing happened, Snape’s expression soured and he shoved his wand into his robes.

“So,” he barked, looking around the hallway.  “This is the place I’m forced to visit during Remedial Potions, is it?”  Without waiting for an answer, he started up the stairs.  Harry followed him, pleased to be putting distance between Snape and the Dursleys.  Snape paused at the top of the hall, staring at the enormous portrait of a piggy-eyed Dudley that greeted all visitors to the second floor.

“I do hope it doesn’t talk,” Snape said distastefully.  With a sniff, he opened the first door to his right.  Dudley’s bedroom, filled to the brim with toys and electronics.  “This must be your room,” Snape sneered, closing the door firmly behind him.   “Where’s the washroom, Potter?”

Harry pointed, and Snape disappeared into the loo.  “Wait here.”

Harry barely heard him, already taking two stairs at a time and racing into the living room.  He took the dinosaur out of his pocket and flung it on the ground, wishing with all his might that the toy would decide to rejoin this universe.  He didn’t care if he was messing with the past, all he cared about was ensuring that Snape did not witness his nearing humiliation.  To his surprise, the toy landed with a soft thump by Dudley’s feet.  With any luck, Harry thought, all Snape would witness would be his younger self cleaning up the kitchen.  Harry heard the loo flush, and dashed back upstairs, heart thumping.  He skidded to a stop outside the bathroom and ran a hand through his hair, trying to look nonchalant.

Snape looked at him suspiciously as he came out.  Harry took a couple of deep breaths, forcing his pulse to slow.  “What are you up to, Potter?”  Snape began, but they were interrupted by a howl downstairs.

“MUMMY!  Where’s my dinosaur?  HARRY TOOK MY DINOSAUR!” Dudley screamed at the top of his lungs.  Harry stiffened, trying not to look alarmed.  How could this be?  Even Dudley wasn’t stupid enough to overlook a toy sitting right at his feet.

“Let’s see you wriggle out of this one, Potter!” Snape said gleefully.  He glided past Harry down the stairs, towards the living room.  “No!” Harry said without thinking, grabbing Snape’s arm as he walked past.

Snape froze, staring at his forearm where the boy had hold of it, and then looked back at Harry.  Harry stared determinedly into Snape’s eyes, far preferring that Snape look at him rather than his younger version in the living room.  For a moment he thought he had done it, for a moment it looked as though Snape would do nothing but stare at him with a puzzled expression on his face.  But then a yell rang through the air, and the spell was broken.  Snape shook Harry off wordlessly and quickened his pace down the stairs, almost tripping in his hurry to get away from him.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry said in desperation, jumping the last two stairs once more and aiming a wild spell at Snape.  Nothing happened, except Snape turning around, an absolutely murderous look in his eyes.  “You’ll pay for that, Potter,” he spit, about to continue when escalating noises from the living room interrupted him.  Snape gave Harry one more warning look before disappearing into the den. 

Harry didn’t follow.  He knew what would happen next.  He leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.  Soon enough, Uncle Vernon ran right past him, dragging little Harry behind him.  The child was silent, a grim, hard set to his jaw as blood dripped down his face.  Snape was right behind them.  He shot a look at Harry—a dark, unfathomable look, before turning back to the uncle and nephew.  Uncle Vernon finished berating Harry, opened the door to the cupboard, and threw him inside.  He locked the door with a satisfied click and stomped away.

Harry stilled, waiting for the memory to end as it had before.  Instead, Dudley waddled into the hallway.  He glanced slyly around him, before scurrying to Harry’s cupboard. 

“Hey, Potter,” Dudley whispered.  He leaned right up to the door. “I found the dinosaur under the couch.  Oops.”  He sniggered, wiggling the toy about, although of course Harry couldn’t see it.

The older Harry closed his eyes.  Oh, yes.  He’d forgotten that Dudley had come to taunt him afterwards.  Well, he always did that, there was nothing terribly memorable about it.  Or maybe now that he had altered the past, his memory was reflecting it.  Either way, it seemed this afternoon was doomed, no matter what Harry did.  Maybe, Harry thought, he was just destined to have the Dursleys despise him.  When he opened his eyes, Snape was staring at him.  He looked old, Harry thought.  Old and tired.  Then his features began to melt.  Snape reached his arm out, a blurred, smeared hand with dissolving edges, and briefly touched Harry’s shoulder.  His arm and Harry’s shoulder pooled together, a long inky pool of black, until the memory bled away and they were thrown back into the Room.

Harry scrambled to his feet, putting as much distance between himself and Snape as was possible.  The Room had changed in their absence.  A trunk was sitting in the middle of the room.  The ceiling was higher.  And there was a new door—

Harry lunged for it, desperate to get away from Snape, Snape who knew about the Dursleys, Snape who knew about everything now.  He gasped aloud in disappointment when he realized the door only led to a bathroom.  Nonetheless, Harry rushed inside and locked the door behind him.  It was a rather nice washroom, he thought distractedly, with a big marble tub and a sink with a dragon spigot.  Harry leaned over the sink and splashed some water on his face.  He startled at his reflection when he looked up.  His nose was badly bruised and there was caked blood near his upper lip.  He was ashen, and his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

He didn’t look much like a warrior.

Harry sank down onto lip of the tub, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob.  Why was he crying?  He never cried.  Harry swatted the tears away, bewildered.  He fished into his pocket, looking for a handkerchief, and came up empty.  The dinosaur was gone from his pocket too, he thought dully.  Dudley had it now.  Well, he’d probably chucked it ages ago.  Harry put his head in his hands, and took great gulping breaths, desperate to stop the tears he felt welling up in him again.  Tears over a stupid toy.  Stop it, Harry ordered himself.  Stop being such a big baby.  You never had any toys.  Finally, with a shudder, the urge to cry passed.

Harry scrubbed his face until all trace of blood and tears were gone.  He gazed at himself in the mirror again.  Buck up, you, he thought.  Or else you’ll never get through this.  His reflection gazed back at him, something like ice entering his eyes.  Good, Harry thought, and opened the door.

Snape was sitting on the closed trunk in the middle of the room, looking rather like a black island in a sea of stone.  Harry walked up to him, his head high.  He waited for Snape to say something, determined not to give anything away before he had to.  Finally Snape obliged him. 

“Do you know, Potter,” Snape greeted him, a distant look in his eyes, “how to brew Strength Serum?”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it, thrown.  “No, I don’t,” he replied.

Snape went on almost as if he hadn’t heard Harry.  “It requires a high level of skill.  Powdered dragon scale, very fine.  The saliva of a hippogriff.  Mermaid scales.  A bit of honeysuckle.  The eye of a unicorn.  Very difficult to procure the ingredients, of course.  Even more difficult to prepare.  It has to stew for long time.  Months.  And, even if you do prepare it properly, it doesn’t always work.”

“What does it do?” Harry asked sharply.

“Just what it sounds like,” Snape said absently.  “It makes you strong.  Strong of body, strong of mind.  Strong of character.  Superhuman, really.  Temporary, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoed, puzzled.  “Will we learn to brew it this year?”

“No,” Snape said, one finger tracing his jaw.  “It’s outlawed by the Ministry.  The fumes are fatal about half of the time.  It’s quite a risk.”

Harry nodded, thinking that such a potion would be useful in the fight against Voldemort.  “Yeah, sounds like it.  Does Dumbledore know about this potion?  Something like that could be helpful for the Order—“

“Yes, the headmaster knows about it!” Snape snarled, the venom in his voice so potent it made Harry take a step back.  Snape grimaced, and exhaled loudly as he looked at Harry properly.  “I would say Dumbledore has been making a Strength Serum out of you, Potter.”

Harry clenched his fists.  “Huh?”

“Tell me, Potter,” Snape said in clipped tones, tension gathering in his eyes.  “What do you think strength consists of?”  He had snapped into full professorial mode, now, and looked down his nose at his pupil expectantly.

Harry relaxed marginally at the emergence of this familiar persona.  “Well,” he said thoughtfully, images of Umbridge and the Daily Prophet flashing through his head. “I think it’s a matter of guts, really.  If you have the guts to do the right thing, no matter what, then you aren’t weak.”

“Inarticulate,” Snape said, “But sufficient.  Now, Potter, what would you say separates strength from heroism?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair.  “Well.”  He paused.  “I suppose a hero is a strong person who helps others, isn’t he?  No matter what others do to him.”

“No matter what others do to him,” Snape echoed, nodding with satisfaction as though this were a particularly clever answer.  “Rather the risky addition, wasn’t it?  Dumbledore could have exploded his cauldron.”

Harry crinkled his brow and looked at Snape.  “What?”

“Dumbledore left you to stew there for years,” Snape continued.  “And the fumes from those Muggles could have broken you, or worse, in the end.  But they didn’t.  Quite the opposite, really.”

“What are you going on about?” Harry said sharply.  “I’m not a bloody potion!”

“Oh, yes you are,” Snape retorted.  “The headmaster’s finest serum.  He saw your potential that night in Godric’s Hollow, didn’t he?  And he saw the future, he saw you becoming a stupid coddled prince like that cousin of yours, the useless joy of the wizarding world--”

“Which is what you’ve always thought of me!” Harry interrupted, every muscle in his body taut as if for flight.

“And so,” Snape relentlessly continued, like a freight train bearing down on Harry, “Dumbledore decided to season you, to strengthen you, by adding to the mix a miserable childhood!  The mystery ingredient that would keep you humble, keep you hungry, keep you sharp!”

“That’s not fair!” Harry yelled, not caring that he was defending the wizard who had ignored him most of the year.  “Dumbledore is the best man I know!”

“Oh, me as well,” Snape breathed, his words coming faster and faster.  “But then, you and I don’t know many good men, do we?  What about your uncle?  Is he a good man?”

Harry felt something clench inside of his chest.  “No,” he said, his voice going up an octave.  “He isn’t.”  And, at Snape’s smug nod, he added sharply “And nor was your father, was he?”

Snape smiled nastily, something like fire in his icy eyes.  “He never locked me in a cupboard.”

“What is it you want from me?” Harry cried out, all at once at the end of his rope. 

Snape jumped to his feet, his face inches from Harry’s.  “I want you to go away,” he hissed.  “I want you to go away so I don’t have to alter my beliefs to include a merciless Dumbledore and a bullied Potter!  I want this room to give me back my magic!  BUT THOSE DON’T SEEM TO BE OPTIONS, DO THEY?”  Snape stalked towards Harry, his words becoming deadly soft as he moved closer with feline grace.  “I want you to tell me the truth for once in your miserable life.  I want to know if you try to save everyone, Potter, because nobody ever saved you.  I want to know if there was chamberpot in that cupboard--”

Harry could actually feel all the color leaving his face as he backed away from Snape.  “Shut up,” he said hoarsely.  “You just shut up right now.  Or I’ll have the Room hurt you.  And,” he added, a snarl, or a sob, catching in his throat, “I won’t save you.”

“I dare say you will,” Snape said calmly, sitting back down on the trunk.  “Because you know what its like to be powerless, Potter.  I know you do.  And you can’t bear it when the strong torment the weak.  And here,” he said, the familiar smirk of a maneuvering Slytherin entering his eye, “I’m no more than a Muggle.  You wouldn’t dare hurt me.”

“You were powerless with your father,” Harry gasped, barely holding on to the thread of the conversation.  “I know.  I saw.  And you don’t seem to have any problems hurting the weak, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Snape said, looking rather more relaxed than Harry thought he had any right to be.  “That’s why I marvel at the risk Dumbledore took, leaving you with those people.  Because you could have turned out like me.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Harry spit out, clutching to the anger he could throw back at Snape.

Snape actually chuckled, the sound so low as to be nearly inaudible.  “Now I finally know why Dumbledore has indulged you so much since you came to Hogwarts.  He’s giving you the world after taking it away from you, isn’t he?”  A note of bitterness entered Snape’s voice.  “He never gave me the same courtesy.  Perhaps that is why you turned into a hero and I turned into--”

“A stupid Death Eater who won’t shut up?” Harry yelled, too far gone to care if that sounded childish.

“Yes,” Snape said.  “Ten points from Gryffindor for cheek.  Now, go on.  I believe you were going to order the Room to torment me, weren’t you?”  Snape’s black eyes sparked with interest as he leaned forward, the dare written all over his face.

Harry stared at him, heart pounding.  “Alright,” he snarled.  “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?  Alright.” Harry flung his arms to the ceiling.  “Room!  I need you to give Snape exactly what he deserves!”

The Room shuddered violently, and the floor began to shake and crack beneath Harry’s feet. Harry had time to gasp, once, before the crack widened to alarming proportions. Cold water drenched Harry, and he heard odd noises—almost like violins, almost like thunder—and then lights, purple lights, and the sound of crickets, and the smell of mud—and then with a roar, the earth opened up. Harry found himself weightless, found the ground gone, and the ceiling, and only Snape left staring at him.

Snape howled—and this sound, too, was unearthly-- and lunged for the boy, but by then they were both falling, falling with ungodly speed and grace into whatever lay beyond. Snape met the boy’s eyes and wondered if his own expression held the same savage determination that he saw in Potter’s. When stripped of all else, Snape thought mid-flight, that was what remained of Potter.

And then, with a thump that was weirdly, eerily silent, they fell to the ground. They were in a kind of clearing, with thick leafy plants forming a natural fence around them. There was nothing, save an enormous rock to one side, to mar the vivid, swampy greenness of the place. The air was hotter than a sauna, and just as humid.

“So I deserve to die of heat stroke, do I?” Snape panted, getting to his feet. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Potter, even I didn’t think--”

“Quiet!” hissed Harry, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. He and Snape stiffened, both having realized the same thing at the same moment. They immediately dove behind the enormous rock, Snape in his hurry for cover smashing them both painfully into the stone.

Voldemort walked into the clearing, looking oddly snakelike in this lush environment. He had a supple look to him, looking healthier than Harry wanted him to, and his beady eyes were an odd pink color. He was waiting for someone, but his wait was short-lived.

With a pop, someone apparated into the clearing. Harry’s jaw dropped as he realized it was Snape. Snape, looking the same as the one crouched next to him with one hand firmly clasped on the back of his neck. Harry snuck a look at his Snape, and saw that, although his face was pale, his eyes were cold and calculating. The hand on his neck tightened, then, until Harry knew it would leave a bruise.

“Severus,” Voldemort was saying to the other Snape. “How good of you to join me.”

“My lord,” Snape said, kneeling to kiss the hem of Voldemort’s robes.

“You deserve a fate worse than death,” Voldemort said conversationally, his hand caressing Snape’s greasy head. “I know all your secrets now, my little traitor.”

“Do you?” Snape said blandly, his face muffled by the curtain of hair around his face.

“I wish I had time to punish you properly, but my time is preciousss these days,” Voldemort said, rolling his supple neck about. “Give Lily Potter my best, won’t you?” And then, with a chuckle, he yelled the Killing Curse at Snape, who immediately crumpled to the ground.

Harry gasped from behind the rock, and tried to stand up. Was this the future? Had he just seen the future? Snape’s hold on his neck was painfully firm, however, and Harry moaned in exasperation. Snape coolly clamped his other hand over the boy’s mouth, his eyes never straying from the scene in front of him. He looked oddly unaffected by his apparent death. His hands, Harry noted in a detached way, were cold.

The odd, wild violin music swept the air again and filled Harry with dread, as if it were the opposite of phoenix song. The whole world shook, like in a snow globe, and then everything stilled once more. The dead Snape was gone, and Voldemort was waiting again, in the exact same luxurious pose. As before, Snape apparated before him, but this time Voldemort’s welcome was much more affectionate.

“Congratulations, Severus,” Voldemort was purring. “You deserve a reward for this. You had me doubting your loyalties, you know, until you killed him.” A deep snicker rumbled in Voldemort’s throat, and, to Harry’s disgust, Snape joined in, their laughter booming through the sticky air. Harry wriggled under Snape’s iron hold to no avail, and, in extreme annoyance, finally nipped the hand that was covering his mouth.

Snape let go with an audible yelp, glaring daggers at Harry. Voldemort and the other Snape kept talking, totally oblivious. Harry darted a glance at his Snape, who seemed to be turning colder and more like granite as each second passed. Was this the future, then? No offense to Snape, but he sort of preferred the previous version.

Harry stood up slowly, ignoring Snape as he furiously gestured for Harry to get back down. Harry cautiously walked out from behind the rock, deftly avoiding Snape’s grab at him, and walked over to the creepily happy Death Eater and his master. No sign of recognition from either. Harry reached out a hand to touch Voldemort and the other to touch Snape, and exhaled loudly when his hand went right through both figures.

At this, his Snape straightened from behind the rock, his expression thunderous. “You,” he hissed, “Your stupidity astounds me. Now come here before I do something you will regret.” He pointed one finger savagely to the spot next to him.

But there was no need for Harry to obey, or disobey, because the unearthly music spilled into Harry’s ears again, and this time it seemed faster and tinged with panic. A loud flash blinded him, and they were quite suddenly in Dumbledore’s office. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, his expression hard as he contemplated the man sitting in the armchair across from him.

It was the other Snape, of course, the Snape who had so far been killed and been rewarded by Voldemort. Harry felt, rather than heard, his Snape’s breathing quicken beside him, but when Harry looked up, Snape’s eyes were devoid of emotion as he stared at the scene.

Dumbledore had a cold look in his eyes, the same look he’d worn all year around Harry. “Severus,” he was saying slowly. “You don’t deserve my protection any longer. It appears I’ve misjudged you.”

The Snape in the chair said nothing, while the flesh and blood Snape sagged against the wall, his indifference undone by this declaration.

“I foolishly gave you a second chance once before,” Dumbledore continued. He looked up, the twinkle in his eyes completely gone. “But it would appear you didn’t deserve that chance. And I’m not inclined to give you another one.” Dumbledore stroked his beard as he delivered the final blow. “Minerva will escort you from the grounds.”

The Snape in the chair stood up and swished out of the office without another word. Harry’s Snape staggered towards Dumbledore, staring at him as though he had never seen him before. “Albus, please--” he said, his voice cracking on the second word, as he reached out his arms beseechingly towards the headmaster.

Dumbledore stretched out his arm, and for a moment it looked as though he had seen Snape and was going to embrace him. But then Fawkes the phoenix flew down and perched on his arm. Dumbledore caressed the bird, his face troubled. “Fawkes,” he said quietly. “I do believe we’ve lost him forever. I only hope he hasn’t told all of Harry’s secrets to Voldemort.”

The phoenix threw back his head and sang, as Snape threw Harry a look of undisguised hatred. Harry looked away, his heart thudding. Just as Harry’s past seemed destined to misery, so too did Snape’s future. If this was really the future. Harry suddenly felt an inexplicable pang of deep, heart-tugging loneliness, the kind that filled the back of his throat with a desperate ache. He swallowed and wished, oddly, for Dobby.

The music, the most horrible music in the world, filled the air again, twisting and perverting Fawke’s trilling song until Harry felt that he was listening to the howl of a Dementor. He hoped with all his heart that they were done here, but to his dismay he found himself and Snape back in the headmaster’s office.

“Severus,” Dumbledore was saying softly, a much twinklier look in his eyes this time. “You deserve my most heartfelt thanks. And, my boy, I think I owe you an apology.”

Dumbledore’s Snape tensed as if for waiting for something else. Finally, he prompted the headmaster with a slightly desperate “Is there anything else you feel I deserve, Headmaster?”

With a casualness that seemed out of place, Dumbledore took a lemon drop from the tray beside him and popped it into his mouth. “Only my utter gratitude for all you have done for Harry, my boy.” Dumbledore smiled serenely across the table at his potions master, obviously not feeling the need to elaborate. The Snape in the vision finally swallowed, and nodded, staring at the ground.

Harry’s Snape, in contrast, froze for a long second and then wheeled around to face Harry. “I will never forgive you this,” he whispered, a wild fire dancing in his eyes. To Harry’s utter bewilderment, Snape reared back a hand to slap him. But Harry, reflexes sharp by years of dodging his fat uncle, ducked and evaded the blow. This seemed to further infuriate Snape, who grabbed him by the shoulders and ground out “You—will—take—what—you—deserve!” between shaking Harry until his teeth chattered.

The music began to swell, and rage, and churn, until Snape’s expression melted into a sickening mask. Snape dropped Harry like he was on fire. To Harry’s relief, Dumbledore was gone, and Snape and Harry were whirled into what Harry could only presume was Snape’s quarters.

This Snape was sipping brandy and staring into the fire. He looked entirely too calm for a man who had been both rewarded and punished by Voldemort and Dumbledore in the space of an hour. But this Snape, Harry noted, looked different than all the others.

Snape looked at peace, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth as he stared into the flickering flames. His expression, always so shuttered in Harry’s experience, was transparently open and calm. He sipped his brandy, the silence serene around him, and began to hum to himself.

Harry, feeling like the whole world had gone mad, choked back a horrible urge to laugh. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as he stared at his decidedly non-humming Snape.

Snape, to his relief, merely said “Yes, it is laughable,” the bite in his voice somewhat more exhausted than usual.

The ground rumbled, and Harry clamped his hands over his ears, determined never to hear that horrid music ever again. Snape looked at him oddly, and then Harry forgot about everything as the music split him open. Harry screamed in agony. He would never get out of here, he would never find out which future was the right one for Snape, the sound was going to kill him…

And then they were back in the Room of Requirement, looking as it had before, but with the candles fluttering and rubble everywhere. There was a crack, and then the music stopped, the candles blew out, and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. The Room gave a couple of almighty gasps, and shuddered like a Muggle machine about to die. With one last jolt, the Room stilled. Harry gasped as he sprawled onto the ground, unable to do anything but catch his breath, his whole body aching.

I’ve broken the Room, he thought, and then the rest was silence.

Harry opened his eyes some time later, a vague sense of uneasiness sweeping through him. There was an emptiness around him, a hallow kind of deadness that hung thickly over the Room. Harry struggled to sit up, but realized immediately that this was not an option. Exhaustion pervaded every pore in his body, and he could do nothing more than shift to a comfortable position in the rubble and ponder the unhealthy, invisible weight that pervaded the air. It felt almost like the magic had been sucked out of the Room, but that couldn’t be right. Harry certainly didn’t feel this same kind of empty malevolence when he was around Muggles.

Well, around most Muggles.

“S-S-Snape,” Harry croaked out, his vocal chords rubbing against each other like sandpaper. “Do you f-feel it?” He tried again to turn his head, but the sluggishness was so complete that he gave up quickly. Instead he waited, too tired to worry about the long ensuing silence and what it might mean.

Finally, Snape replied, just as strung out as Harry. “Yes, I feel it.” His voice sounded close by, and Harry turned his head infinitesimally to the side and saw Snape lying a few feet away.

“Good,” Harry rasped, which didn’t follow Snape’s response, but he didn’t really care. “Professor?”

“What?”

“Do you think I broke the Room?”

“Yes,” Snape said, a little more strength in his voice. “I think you did.” A long pause, then, as Harry digested this. “And,” Snape finally resumed, groaning as he shifted position, “if I had…the energy…I’d go over there and…express my displeasure.” This long speech seemed to wind him, and he fell silent.

“Crap,” Harry groaned, familiar prickles of guilt behind his eyes. Weakly, he added, “You goaded me into it.”

“Yes,” Snape snapped, tendrils of anger curling his syllables. “It’s never the Gryffindor’s fault, is it?”
Harry could think of no reply to this, an odd twisting feeling in his gut. In a tight voice, he said “Maybe the Room will recharge if left alone for awhile.”

“Which means,” Snape said, not bothering to hide the satisfaction in his voice, “No more magic for you.”

Harry scowled at this but could not deny the logic. He had pushed the Room too far, it seemed, and now he could practically feel the Room pulsing waves of distrust at him. He gritted his teeth, more frightened then he wanted to admit at the idea of being defenseless in a locked room with Snape. Well, he couldn’t just wait here like a sitting duck, that much was certain. Harry gathered all of his strength together and, with a phenomenal force of will, sat up. Dizziness immediately assaulted him, and he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, pursing his lips to stop the groan trying to escape.

“You should be conserving your strength,” Snape said from the floor, a hint of malice behind his words. “If something attacked now, you’d be powerless to stop it.”

Harry stared at him, wondering if that was a veiled threat. He certainly wouldn’t put it past Snape to fake exhaustion while he waited for Harry to weaken himself. And then, what would Snape do to him? Harry felt rather bad, actually, about making Snape watch all that stuff. Snape had goaded him into it, but still. One thing Harry didn’t understand, though, was why Snape had flown off the handle at that one vision, the one where Dumbledore was being perfectly nice to him.

Actually, two things made no sense. He still didn’t really know what Snape deserved. And neither, it seemed, did the Room.

Harry did a little recharging himself, too worn out to do anything but sit against the wall like a lump. But eventually he needed a drink of water. Well, since he couldn’t conjure water right now, he would have to drink from the tap in the washroom. That was no problem, Harry had done so loads of times in Surrey. A garden hose, a faucet, the neighbor’s dog bowl…he wasn’t picky. Water was water, and the Dursleys had been stingy with it as well as everything else. Now. Did he have the strength to stand up? And why were he and Snape so bloody exhausted, anyways? Maybe the Room’s weariness was contagious.

Harry staggered to his feet and scanned the route he would have to take to avoid most of the rubble. He knew for a fact he wasn’t up to climbing over or moving anything heavy. Ugh, he was going to have to go right by Snape. Harry picked his way over slowly, carefully. Should he offer to get Snape some water? No, best to let sleeping Snapes lie. He let himself stare down at Snape for a moment, knowing he was unlikely to ever tower over his professor again.

Suddenly a hand shot out, grabbed Harry’s ankle, and pulled. Harry squawked, alarmed, and lost his balance. He fell with a painful thump on the stone ground. “What did you do that for?” Harry yelped, backside throbbing.

“That’s the last time you try and sneak up on me,” Snape said grimly, cracking open his eyes to stare at his student. “I must say, your father was better at stealth then you are. And he was never alone, which is rather more impressive.”

“I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you!” Harry protested. “I just wanted a drink of water!”

“A likely story,” sneered Snape, sitting up with a grunt. “You’ve given me no reason to trust your word, not after that stunt you just pulled.”

“I didn’t want the Room to hurt you,” Harry said, exasperated. “You were daring me to, weren’t you? All I did was tell it to give you what you deserve.”

“You are not the Wizengamot,” Snape said sourly. “You are not my judge. You are not my jury. You had no right!”

“I didn’t mean—“

“You never mean anything! But time and time again, other people get hurt because of you and your foolish decisions! Never you, always it is others who suffer!”

An image of Uncle Vernon punching him flashed unbidden through Harry’s mind. Eyes blazing, he lifted up his chin and stared at Snape.

Snape jerked his head and looked away, as though to concede the point.

Harry struggled to his feet, sucking in a breath as he realized afresh how much of him hurt. His side ached from being crushed into the rock. The back of his neck was alarmingly tender. His shoulders and teeth hurt from being shaken. He had a splitting headache. And now his bum really hurt, too. Most of these injuries were directly attributable to Snape, so Harry gifted him with a supremely irritated glare. When on earth was Dumbledore going to relent and let them out of here?

“Problem?” Snape demanded, eager for a fight.

“No,” Harry muttered. He wasn’t particular anxious for another round. He got quite enough of this kind of treatment from the Dursleys. “I just wonder if this is what Dumbledore meant to happen when he locked us in here.”

“Don’t worry, Potter. Dumbledore won’t let you rot in here,” Snape said flatly, a mask descending over his features.

“He won’t let you rot in here either, you know,” Harry sighed.

Snape snorted. “Sure about that, are you, Potter?”

“Yes!” Harry said firmly. “I know you think Dumbledore’s made me into some kind of wounded hero machine, but he’s not evil or anything! Surely you know that!”

Harry had the distinct impression he’d hit a nerve, because Snape suddenly looked at him with a flash of something so raw and vulnerable that it took Harry’s breath away.

“No, Potter, he’s not evil,” Snape finally answered, drawing out his syllables disdainfully. “He’s apologetic and grateful.”

Ah. Something clicked into place for Harry, then. Something about why Snape had tried to slap him. “He’s more than that, Professor.”

“Yes,” Snape hissed. “To your father. To your werewolf. To your godfather. And to you!”

“To me?” Harry said coolly. “You can’t have it both ways, Professor. Either Dumbledore treated me right or he tossed me to the Muggles. Which is it?”

Snape spread his arms out, an innocent look on his face. “I think that’s a question only you can answer, Potter.”

Harry didn’t like that answer all. If he couldn’t trust Dumbledore, he couldn’t trust anyone. And, really, the Dursleys hadn’t killed him or anything, right? “Fine, then,” Harry said stoutly. “Dumbledore did right by me.”

“Even though he hasn’t looked at you all year? My, Potter, you really are sickeningly forgiving, aren’t you?” Snape’s voice softened to a purr. “I bet you’ve even forgiven those Muggles.”

Harry hated Snape mentioning the Dursleys, and Snape seemed to know it. He pressed his advantage, continuing in a whisper, “Have you forgiven them for the dinosaur, Potter?”

Harry swallowed and, against his will, shook his head. Snape smiled triumphantly.

Harry cleared his throat and tried to regroup. “I didn’t say Dumbledore was perfect. He’s made mistakes.”

“And what would those mistakes consist of?” Snape said quietly, his eyes so intense that Harry felt everything, absolutely everything, was at stake here. Harry stared at Snape, at his ugly smile, and thought it was the most hallow smile he’d ever seen. It was a smile that lacked something.

“Dumbledore should give you more than gratitude,” Harry said softly. Almost against his will, he added, “He should have given you the, um, world.”

A long silence greeted this statement. A flurry of emotions raced across Snape’s face—anger, distrust, impatience, fear—before something rigid settled across his brow. “Shut up, Potter.”

“Everybody deserves the world,” Harry muttered, thinking about what the Dursleys should have given him. What Dumbledore should have given Snape.

What his parents, he knew, had given him.

Maybe, Harry thought to himself as he looked at the lines on Snape’s face, maybe being a warrior could really screw you up.

After Harry had drunk his fill, he found he had no desire to leave the washroom. Harry looked at the inviting marble tub and thought how very nice the hot water would feel on his aching body. He immediately disrobed and spent a soothing amount of time in the tub. He never took nice hot water for granted.

Eventually, Harry got out of the tub, feeling much refreshed but also very ready for bed. He had lost all sense of time, but thought rather feverishly that he had been awake for quite a long time. Harry surveyed the sink. There were two toothbrushes and some toothpaste. There was also a cabinet below the sink that he hadn’t noticed before. Harry brushed his teeth and then squatted so he could see what was in it. A pair of pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and some rather fluffy blue socks.

Harry shook the clothes out, bemused but not altogether surprised to find that they were in his size. Harry peered back into the cabinet, but there was nothing in there for Snape. Oh well, Harry thought rather gleefully, that was Snape’s problem. Harry changed into the nightclothes, even the fluffy socks. If Snape decided to have a go at him, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Harry padded out of the washroom, his black mop even unrulier than usual. Water seemed to give it more bounce. Snape was up and about, shifting rubble away from something in the center of the Room. He stopped immediately, however, when he saw Harry.

“I told you no magic!” Snape accused, pointing at Harry’s clothing. “Did you conjure those clothes?”

“No,” Harry said wearily. “They were in a cabinet under the sink.”

Snape pursed his lips. “Make yourself useful. Unearth the trunk.” He stalked off to the washroom without another word, making sure to give Harry a wide berth.

Harry had forgotten about the trunk that had appeared in the Room right after the dinosaur memory. Snape had already dug most of it out. In fact, all Harry had to do was give it one good yank, and it was free.

Harry examined the trunk. He quickly discovered two important things: it was locked, and it wasn’t his. Harry slid his eyes over to washroom. Sounded like Snape was taking a shower. He probably wouldn’t hear one tiny little Alohoroma, right?

But did Harry really want to risk the Room’s wrath? Or, for that matter, Snape’s? The Room still didn’t feel right, and Harry finally decided with a sigh to be a good little boy and not do anything. He sat down, leaned his head against the trunk, and closed his eyes.

Snape exited the washroom, grudgingly attired in the black pajamas and dressing grown he’d found underneath the sink. He stalked over to the trunk and snorted. Potter was slumped against one side, sound asleep. Snape peered around him, trying to get a good look at the trunk. It was locked, but there appeared to be some tiny writing next to the keyhole. Unfortunately, the boy’s absurd mop of hair was obscuring his view. Snape considered his options. He could either bodily move Potter, or let the trunk’s mystery remain until the boy got all of his beauty rest.

“Potter! Wake up!” Snape said loudly.

Harry startled and opened his eyes. “Erm?” he said helpfully.

“Move, Potter,” Snape said impatiently. Harry blinked blearily, still half-asleep. Finally he staggered to his feet, yawning hugely. “Whazzit?”

Snape ignored him and studied the writing. TAP YOUR WEAPONS was written in tiny block print. He frowned, not recognizing the handwriting. Well, at least the message was clear enough. “Potter! Is your wand on you?” he asked imperiously.

Harry, still looking like a ruffled owl, nodded.

Snape took out his own wand. “Now,” he instructed. “Tap your wand when I do against the trunk.”

Harry agreeably got out his wand.

“My,” Snape sneered. “You certainly do become more obedient with sleep deprivation, don’t you? Useful information, Potter.”

Harry proved his point by merely yawning until Snape could see his molars.

“On my count. One, two, three!” Both of them tapped their wands on the proscribed point. The lock clicked open, and Snape nodded, pleased.

Snape peered inside the trunk. There were various foodstuffs, and two squashy purple sleeping bags. They looked suspiciously like the ones Dumbledore had conjured in the Great Hall during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Snape gave one a retaliatory poke.

Both of the sleeping bags flew out of the trunk. One merrily bounced up to Potter and patted him on the cheek. To Snape’s great disgust, the sleeping bag started cooing at Potter, and reached out a flap to stroke his hair. The boy just stood there and took it, eyes closed, a tiny smile on his face. Sickening.

The sleeping bag finally rose several feet into the air and arranged itself into a very inviting hammock, complete with blanket and pillow. Without a glance at him, Potter sleepily climbed into it, curled up, and was asleep in seconds. The hammock began to rock gently back and forth. What treacle.

The other sleeping bag floated respectfully in front of Snape. “Oh, go on then,” Snape sighed. The sleeping bag floated away until it was right next to the boy’s hammock.

“No,” Snape said firmly. “Further away.” The sleeping bag hovered stubbornly. “Shoo!” Snape repeated, motioning with his arms. “Not next to his! Over there!” But the sleeping bag merely converted itself into another hammock. Snape growled but got into it. He could hear the boy’s even breathing, and if he had wanted to, he could have reached out and touched him.

The hammock began to rock.

“Stop that or I’ll use you for toilet paper,” Snape hissed.

To his great satisfaction, his hammock stilled immediately.

***

Harry’s eyes snapped open. His heart was thudding, and he was covered in sweat and tangled in blankets. His scar was throbbing something awful. It felt like seconds since he had tumbled into the bed, but something told him it had been far longer.

Harry scrubbed at his face, his nightmare still pulsing through him. The look in Cedric’s eyes when he died. The sound Wormtail’s knife had made when it sawed against his bone. The agony of the Cruciatus Curse. And then it had turned into something else. Voldemort was unhappy about something…he was punishing someone…

He’d had the same nightmare for months now. And, for whatever reason, they were usually followed by a painful vision from Voldemort. Dudley had heard him moaning in his sleep over the summer and teased him mercilessly about it. Since then, Harry had made a nightly practice of casting a Silencing Charm on his bed before he slept.

But he hadn’t cast one last night.

Harry rolled over onto his side, kneading the blanket between his fingers. “It’s okay,” he whispered to himself. “It’s okay.” Harry’s voice caught in his throat when he found himself inches from Snape’s face. Snape was staring at him from his hammock, a slight sneer on his face, his black eyes barely separate from the darkness. They looked at each other a long moment, the only sound the swishing noise of Harry’s sleeping bag.

Finally, Snape spoke. “It’s no wonder you’re such a dunce at Occlumency.”

Harry winced, stung, and pushed the sweat-plastered hair off of his forehead. His scar glowed red in the darkness, casting an eerie pallor on Harry’s face. Snape stared, oddly transfixed by the jagged, ugly scar that had given him ten years of freedom. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to touch it. Snape reached out his hand, a strange eager look in his eyes.

Harry shook his head, a horrified look on his face. “What do you think you’re doing, Snape?” he whispered, dread crawling up his backbone. “Please. I’m asking you. Don’t.” He leaned away, understanding suddenly how this man could have become a Death Eater.

Snape ignored him. He felt like he had the first time he had seen the Dark Lord. Enchanted. Intrigued. Bold. He let his long, stained finger brush gently against the inflamed scar.

Harry arched his back and screamed. Snape snatched his throbbing finger back, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood. The pain was excruciating, Snape thought clinically, as he examined the tip of his finger. It was covered in blisters, as though recovering from a particularly nasty burn.

The boy was still screaming.

“Potter!” Snape yelled, snapping back to himself. “Calm yourself!”

This, predictably, had little effect. Snape awkwardly got out his hammock, ran to the washroom, and soaked a towel in cold water. Then he ran back to Potter and slapped the cold towel over his face.

The boy bucked a few more times, then shuddered and was still. Great rasping breaths tore out of him. Snape hovered by his side, the lines in his forehead more pronounced then ever.

“Potter?” Snape finally said haltingly.

Harry made no reply, but sat up and yanked the towel off his face. His scar was bleeding. With a roar, Harry threw the towel as hard as he could at Snape. It hit him full in the face, and Snape stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and fell awkwardly to the ground.

Snape painfully picked himself up. The boy was glaring at him, little rivers of blood streaming down his face and leaving tracks like tears.

Snape didn’t like the look of that bleeding scar. “Potter,” he said quietly, gentling his voice as much as he knew how. “I need to look at your scar.”

“I don’t care what you want! Don’t touch me!” Harry gasped, shaking his head from side to side as a dog would to rid itself of water. He tumbled out of his hammock, looking wildly around him. “I mean it, Snape, touch me again and I’ll-”

Snape took a step closer.

“Room!” Harry yelled wildly. “I need you to keep Snape away from me!”

Nothing happened except a slight rumble. Snape took another step closer.

Harry fumbled and took out his wand. “Petrificus Totalus!” he incanted.

Not even a rumble from the Room.

Snape closed the distance between the two of them. Harry moaned and did the only other thing he could think of.

He closed his eyes and swung.

Snape staggered backwards, his eyes wide open in surprise. His lip immediately began to spurt blood from where Harry had clipped him. Snape wiped the blood off. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he growled, and stalked towards Harry again.

Harry offered no resistance this time. He closed his eyes, a weary feeling of resignation washing over him. Snape would do as he liked. Without magic, Harry had little power here.

Snape put both hands on Harry’s shoulders and stared intently at his scar. The raw redness had faded, and the blood was now coagulating. Snape pulled away, satisfied. Then he firmly pressed the cold towel against the boy’s forehead. “No lasting damage,” Snape pronounced. “Hold the towel against it for the next hour.”

Harry violently shrugged Snape off, but clapped the towel to his forehead just the same.

“Now,” Snape said brusquely. “Has your scar ever bled before?”

“No,” Harry snapped, anger washing over him afresh at Snape’s gall in asking such a question. “But nobody’s ever had the bloody nerve to TOUCH IT BEFORE, EITHER!”

Harry took a deep breath and tried to make his voice steadier. Perhaps he did have one weapon left here. “You know, I wasn’t sure what you deserved before tonight. And the Room certainly didn’t clarify matters, did it?”

Snape began to interrupt, but Harry stopped him. “The options,” he announced, ticking them off with his fingers. “One, Voldemort kills you, but you’re good so it’s alright. Two, Voldemort likes you and you’re evil. Three, Dumbledore throws you out for being a bad guy. And four—” Harry stopped, eyes glittering as he went in for the kill. “Four, Dumbledore is grateful but doesn’t love you, right?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Careful, Potter.”

“And five,” Harry continued, voice satisfied at the palpable hit. “Well, I can’t imagine you ever sitting in a chair humming to yourself. So, was one of the five showing us the future? Your end at the hands of either Voldemort or Dumbledore? Or maybe… maybe the Room just meant that neither one of them trusts you.”

Snape said nothing, but something about his expression let Harry know that these were not unfamiliar worries to Snape.

“Nobody seems to be very sure where your loyalties lie, Snape. But let me tell you something. Not even Voldemort has ever dared to touch my scar.” Harry leaned in closer. “So that either makes you stupider or braver than him.” His voice got just as waspish as Snape’s. “Or it makes you worse than him. Tell me, Snape, which one do you think it is?”

A muscle in Snape’s face twitched. “Go to bed,” he said in a low, cold voice. “And we’ll speak no more of this.”

Harry glared at the man. “You can’t even apologize, can you? I suppose I have my answer.” He got back into his hammock and closed his eyes. Snape really was a bastard.

****

Harry ignored Snape the next morning. He made breakfast for himself out of the stuff he found in the trunk, and then set about trying to find his schoolbag. Finally, he found it buried in a corner under some rubble, and settled into his hammock, rereading his DADA text. Whenever he wanted a break, he tried to get the Room to let him perform some magic, but nothing ever happened.

But then something did happen. Harry was lazily waving his wand, studiously ignoring Snape, when all of a sudden two tiny vials popped into existence and hovered halfway across the room. Was his magic coming back?!

Harry jumped up, excited. So did Snape. His professor, perhaps out of habit, yelled “Accio bottles!” at the exact same moment Harry did.

The bottles didn’t respond to either of them. Well, that answered that question about his magic. Harry yelled “Room! I need those bottles!” but quickly gave it up and ran full out towards the hovering vials, determined to beat Snape there. Luckily, he had youth and agility on his side, and easily reached the bottles before Snape did.

Panting, Harry examined the bottles, darting well away from Snape. The little things were identical and filled with a clear liquid. Harry took the top off of one and sniffed it. Odorless. Harry’s heart sank. Did that mean that they contained—

“Veritaserum,” Snape said in disbelief, catching up to Harry.

Harry wanted nothing to do with Veritaserum, especially not around Snape. He hastily screwed the top back on and stuffed both vials into his pocket. “Could just be water.” But he doubted it.

“I suggest you drink it and find out,” Snape sneered.

“Why don’t you drink it and find out?”

Snape cocked his head. “Give it to me and I will verify that it contains Veritaserum.”

Harry looked at him suspiciously. That almost sounded polite. And did he really think Snape was going to hold him down and force the liquid down his throat?

Well, he might. After last night, Snape had proven that he was, if nothing else, unpredictable.

“That’s okay,” Harry said awkwardly. “I’ll just keep them safe in my pocket here.”

Snape scowled. He glanced at Harry’s scar, which was still rather red, and swiftly changed tactics. “Then I believe the time has come for you to keep your part of our agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“That I will not inform Professor Umbridge of your illegal defense meetings, and you in turn will do something for me.”

Harry nervously touched the vials in his pocket. He could see how much Snape wanted to get his hands on the Veritaserum. And he appreciated, he really did, that Snape wasn’t immediately flying off the handle and bullying him into it. But he also knew, without a doubt, that he did not want Snape to use the Truth Serum on him.

“Sorry,” Harry said out loud. “Tell Umbridge, then.”

“Is your Gryffindor honor really worth so little to you? Not to mention the hides of all your little friends? And your own hide?”

Harry had never really trusted Snape to keep his word about not telling Umbridge, so he wasn’t too fussed about that. Besides, first he had to get out of here. Then he would worry about that old toad.

“No deal,” Harry said, faking a carelessness he did not feel.

Snape was not out of tactics yet. Not by a long shot. “What if we need to drink those vials in order to be released from this Room? Ever think of that, Potter? What if, by disobeying an implied command from the Room, you are dooming us to spend eternity in here?”

“Oh, Dumbledore won’t let me rot in here,” Harry said airily. “You told me that, Professor.”

Snape wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing. Only a certain tenseness in his shoulders betrayed his growing sense of frustration. “Give me the Veritaserum, Potter,” he breathed. “I believe it may be of critical importance to getting us out of this place. You have my word that I will not use it on you.”

Harry, for the first time, answered truthfully. “Sorry, Professor. I don’t trust your word.”

Snape cocked his head. “And there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise, is that it?”

“No,” Harry said, surprised by the question. “I mean, maybe if you drank the Veritaserum and let me question you. But if I give it to you, something tells me you won’t want to use it on yourself.”

“And if I apologize…for last night?”

Harry looked at Snape incredulously. “An apology doesn’t count if its leverage for something. And, besides, you wouldn’t mean it.”

“You are sure of that?” Snape said quietly, his black eyes somber.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

Snape looked at him shrewdly before changing the subject. “There are two vials. What if we each drank at the same time?”

Harry shook his head. “No. You’d just pretend to drink it.”

Snape threw up his hands, letting irritation cut through his voice. “You really don’t trust me at all, do you, you little whelp?”

Harry shook his head, a feeling of doom coming over him. This wasn’t going to end well. He suddenly felt an intense wave of sympathy for Dumbledore. It was sometimes really, really hard to deal with Snape.

Snape tried again, forcing his words to be slow and even. “You owe me, Potter. You owe me for those little visions with the Dark Lord and the headmaster. Give me the vials, and we will call it even. I won’t report you for hitting a professor. And I won’t assign you any additional punishment once we get out of here.”

Harry swallowed, knowing that Snape wasn’t going to like what he said next. “Did you really think that you could touch my scar and not suffer any consequences for it, Professor? I’m sorry, but it’s the same answer as before. I don’t trust you to keep your word. Not after last night. Sorry.”

Snape’s fingers began to tap ominously against his side. “Give me the Veritaserum, Potter, or I tell my Slytherins about the dinosaur.”

Oho. Now they were getting down to it. “Tell them, then,” Harry said bravely. “I never thought you wouldn’t.” Snape already knew about the Dursleys. Any other Slytherin was small potatoes compared to that.

Snape’s hands stilled, which for some reason worried Harry more than his fidgeting had. “Do you really want to do this the hard way, Potter?” Snape asked quietly. “Do you really want me to take the Veritaserum from you by force?”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry said, hoping to Merlin it was true. “Oh, not out of any concern for me. You proved that last night. But because the vials might break.”

“That is a risk I’m willing to take.” Snape looked Harry over. “Make your decision, Potter. Give the vials to me or I take them from you. The choice is yours.”

Harry stared at Snape. His professor looked back at him, his black eyes resolute.

Harry felt backed into a corner, and he didn’t like it. “What was all that stuff, then, about me not abusing my power when I had my magic and you didn’t?” he cried. “You didn’t mean any of that, did you? Now that the tables are turned?”

Snape curled his lip. “I never said I wasn’t a bully, Potter. It’s better to bully then to be bullied, don’t you think? Your father taught me that.”

“You’re no better than the Dursleys!” Harry said bitterly.

Snape folded his arms. “I doubt your relatives gave you a choice beforehand.” He paused, and then his low voice became even deeper. “I do not wish to take the Veritaserum by force, Potter, but I will if I have to. Those vials might be the key to our release from this place. Don’t be an idiot.”

Snape stood at his full height, patient now as he waited for the boy’s decision.

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t want Snape to wrestle the Veritaserum from him. He was used to violence thanks to the Dursleys, but that didn’t meant he liked it. And, oddly, more than that, Harry discovered that he really didn’t want to punch Snape again. And he would, he knew he would, if Snape came at him again.

Harry slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the vials. He deposited both of them into Snape’s waiting hand.

“Good boy,” Snape said softly, something like relief in his voice.

Harry looked at him, wide-eyed, more shaken by that than anything else Snape had said.

Snape did not need long to verify that the bottles did indeed contain Truth Serum. He merely stuck his hooked nose in the vial and inhaled deeply.

“Alright, Potter,” Snape announced briskly, seemingly back to his normal self after his brief insanity in praising the boy. “It is Veritaserum.”

Harry, relieved to be back on safer ground, cocked his head. “How can you tell? I thought Veritaserum was supposed to be odorless?”

“I have my ways,” Snape said repressively.

Harry shrugged, willing to take his word for it. It didn’t make much sense, anyways, for Dumbledore or the Room to give them two vials of water.

“So,” Snape said slowly. “The question becomes, what do we do with it?” He settled against an overturned bit of granite, and cocked his head in a way that meant Harry should join him.

Harry sat across from his professor and waited.

Snape examined the two vials. “What do you think, Potter?”

“You are asking me?” Harry said, surprised. He hesitated. They were meant to drink it, which is why he had been so reluctant to part with the vials in the first place. His thoughts must have been written over his face, because Snape smirked.

“So you think we should drink it?” Harry ventured.

“Yes,” Snape said. “And, let me assure you, your unwillingness to do so is by no means unique. Nonetheless, I feel that we should not deny the Room.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a groan, finally reconciling himself to the idea. “I agree.” He looked at Snape uncertainly. “So, how do you want to do this? Should we each drink it at the same time, or one at a time?” An idea occurred to Harry. “But if we drink it at the same time, will we even be capable of questioning each other?”

Snape rolled his eyes and looked prepared to say something very nasty. Then, he seemed to change his mind. “Potter, do you have your Potions text in your bag?”

Harry nodded.

“Go and fetch it. I already lectured about Veritaserum once this year in class, and I have no intention of repeating myself.”

Slightly chagrined, Harry jogged over to his bag and fished out the requested text. He flipped through the pages as he walked back, finally finding the right section.

“Read it aloud,” Snape said in a long-suffering tone.

“A person under Veritaserum is physically characterized by a slack, unfocused gaze and a flat, expressionless voice. He or she cannot ask questions, but only respond to them. The victim will not remember anything about the experience afterwards.”

“Thus it would be pointless for us to drink the potion at the same time and then try to question the other. Meaning—“

“We have to do it in turns,” Harry said, heart sinking. “But, Professor, that doesn’t seem fair. There are—rumors, you know, that you are immune to Veritaserum.”

Snape stared at him a long moment, considering him. Finally, just as Harry was losing hope of him ever answering, Snape replied heavily “That particular rumor is false.”

Harry knew they were getting into murky territory, but he plunged forward anyways. “So he’s never used Veritaserum on you?”

“He has,” Snape allowed. “Once.” He looked at Potter slyly. “But he, unlike I, cannot tell water from Veritaserum. And as I am responsible for stocking his potions…”

“You tricked him?” Harry said incredulously. “Cool.”

Snape seemed rather pleased by Harry’s reaction, and allowed a small smile to shade his features. His next words, however, were gruff. “Furthermore, if you ever paid attention in my class, Potter, you would know there is an antidote to Veritaserum. Something I never forget when I am in the company of the Dark Lord.”

“You don’t have the antidote now, do you?”

“We would not be having this conversation then, would we?”

Harry shook his head in defeat. “Okay, okay. So do you want to drink it first or shall I?”

“Not so fast,” Snape drawled. “I am not about to let you ask me anything you like. That would be supremely dangerous, Potter, given your connection to the Dark Lord. It could be devastating to the war effort.”

“You mean if he found out you were a spy?” Harry asked.

Snape cocked his head. “Among other things. The Dark Lord can currently sift through your mind at will, you know. There are a number of topics that he cannot find in your brain. That is final.”

Harry nodded reluctantly at Snape’s logic. “So what is off-limits?”

Snape tapped a long finger against his jaw. “Go fetch a quill and some parchment…if you would.”

Harry got up immediately. As he jogged away, the unwelcome thought flashed through Snape’s mind that sleep deprivation was, apparently, not the only thing that made Potter more obedient. He also seemed to respond better to a slightly less… authoritarian approach.

Harry flopped to the floor, materials in hand, and looked up expectantly.

“I think,” Snape said, “That you and I should have a written agreement about this little truth-telling exercise. Parameters are very important.”

“So,” Harry said, grinning for the first time. “I get to set parameters, too?”

Snape nodded.

After quite a bit of haggling, Harry finally put down his quill, slightly disappointed at the results.

“I, Harry James Potter, do solemnly swear not to ask Professor Snape anything about the Order of the Phoenix, the Death Eaters, Voldemort, Dumbledore, his loyalties to any of the above, or really anything that has to do with the war effort whatsoever, while he is under Veritaserum. I also swear to never tell anybody anything that I find out during my questioning. I understand that failure to keep this agreement would be incredibly dangerous.”

“And especially dangerous to your own health,” Snape growled. “And not because of the Dark Lord. Do you understand me?”

Harry swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Snape cleared his throat. “I, Severus Snape, do solemnly swear never to tell anybody anything that I find out during my questioning of Harry Potter under Veritaserum. I also swear never to use any knowledge gained against Potter. I also swear not to punish Potter, or anybody else, based on anything incriminating I may find out during questioning. I also solemnly swear not to ask Potter anything about his romantic life.”

Here Snape paused. “Are you sure you don’t want to add anything about your…home life, Potter?”

Harry shrugged. Snape already knew the worst about the Dursleys. “You didn’t add a disclaimer about your childhood. I won’t either.”

“Very well.” Snape paused. “Shall we get this over with, then?”

“I have one more question,” Harry said. “Um, I won’t really know if you break the agreement, will I?”

“And neither will I,” Snape allowed. “I believe, Mr. Potter, that we are supposed to trust each other.”

Harry scowled. “Great.”

With a flourish, Snape pulled a vial out of his pocket. “Why don’t you drink it now before I change my mind on signing such an agreement?”

“Okay,” Harry said hastily, grabbing the vial.

“Go ahead,” Snape said, something glimmering in his eyes. “Three drops ought to do it.”

Harry squeezed three drops on his tongue. “Cheers, then.”

Snape watched as the boy’s expression glazed over and he slumped against the wall. Once verifying that he was good and truly dosed, Snape leisurely walked into the washroom and took the other vial of Veritaserum out of his pocket. He poured the contents down the sink, washed the vial out thoroughly, and refilled it with water. Really, it was for the boy’s own protection. Potter simply could not have too much knowledge about Snape inside his head. Not when he was so horrible at Occlumency.

Snape strolled out of the washroom, trying to ignore the fact that he was now using the same trick on Potter that he had used on the Dark Lord. The boy was too trusting for his own good. One of his Slytherins might have seen this coming. And, even if he was going against the Room’s wishes, Snape found he did not particularly care. Other things were more important.

His secrets were more important.

Snape stuck the now harmless vial back in his pocket, and turned his attention to the boy in front of him. Potter. At his mercy. All of his thoughts laid bare.

Snape smiled wolfishly.

“So, Potter,” he began, starting with the most delicious question. “Who stole the boomslang skin and the gillyweed from my stores? And for what purpose?”

Potter said flatly, eyes rolled back, “Hermione stole the boomslang for the Polyjuice Potion. We wanted to impersonate Slytherins and get Malfoy to tell us what he knew about the Chamber of Secrets. Dobby stole the gillyweed on the morning of the Second Task so I wouldn’t drown.”

Snape frowned, slightly disappointed. He longed to nail Potter for something, anything, even if he couldn’t punish him for it afterwards. This did not suffice.

“Explain how you helped Black escape from the dementors.”
“Hermione had a time-turner that McGonogall had given her. Dumbledore told us to use it to save Sirius. We went back in time, saved Buckbeak, and then I held off all the dementors with my Patronus. Then we flew Buckbeak up to Sirius and helped him escape. We got back into the hospital wing just in time.”

Snape’s mouth fell open. What on earth had Dumbledore been thinking, entrusting a time-turner to two thirteen-year-olds? The idea was incredible! Absurd! No wonder Potter had been so nonchalant about changing his own past at the Dursleys! And what was this about Potter holding off so many dementors? Impossible!

Snape growled, displeased at this apparent evidence of Potter’s magical talent. “Have you ever told anyone about what you saw in my Pensieve?”

“Remus and Sirius.”

“Why?” Snape said sharply. “Wanted to have a laugh with them about me, did you?”

“No. I wanted to know if my dad was really such a git. They said he was an idiot but grew out of it.”

“That would be a matter of opinion,” Snape said sourly, but his venom was lost on the slack-jawed boy in front of him. “You told nobody else?”

“No.”

Snape felt something in him loosen. The boy hadn’t told his little friends, then. He had kept his word.

So like a Gryffindor, to pass up good blackmail information like that.

Snape racked his brain for other instances of wrong-doing he wanted confirmed. “Was that you with the egg in your invisibility cloak during the Triwizard Tournament?”

“Yes.”

“And it was you, wasn’t it, who put something in Goyle’s cauldron that led to everyone getting splashed with Swelling Solution?”

“Yes. So Hermione could steal the—“

“Boomslang skin, I know,” Snape said, irritated. “And when Draco saw your head in Hogsmeade? How did you manage that?”

“There’s a tunnel by that statue of the One-Eyed Witch. I used my Invisibility Cloak.”

Snape nodded, allowing a vision of catching wayward Weasley twins to flit across his mind. Satisfied with this accounting of the boy’s petty misdeeds, he turned his attention to weightier matters. “You never really wanted to learn Occlumency, did you? Why?”

“The link has been useful to me. It saved Mr. Weasley’s life. And I really, really want to know what is behind the door at the Department of Mysteries. Also, you were a bad teacher. I couldn’t learn Occlumency from you. ”

“Well! You are ungrateful!” said Snape, startled by candor about his teaching skills. He leaned forward, thirsty for revenge. “Tell me your worst memory of the Dursleys.”

Harry obediently responded. “When I was really little, around four, I saw something on the telly about making Christmas cards for your parents. The parents in the advert gave their son a cuddle when they saw the card. So I decided to make a really nice Christmas card for the Dursleys. I wanted it to work like it did on the telly. Nothing else had worked on them. So on Christmas morning, after Dudley had opened all of his presents, I gave them my card. Uncle Vernon started to laugh, and Aunt Petunia tore it up and told me to never do such a thing again.”

“That’s it?” Snape said incredulously, after it became clear that this was the end of the story. “It can’t be. Potter, didn’t the Dursleys hit you?”

“Yes.”

“And starve you?”

“Yes.”

“And lock you up in a cupboard?”

“Yes.”

“And your aunt tearing up a card you made, that’s your worst memory?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Snape said, unconsciously slapping his hand against his thigh as he did when he was particular impatient with a student.

“Because,” Harry said unemotionally, “That’s when I realized they didn’t love me, and that I was alone.”

Snape averted his eyes, not liking this answer. He would have preferred something about a particularly nasty beating. This…this was different.

“And your best memory of the Muggles?”

“The day Hagrid took me away from them,” the boy replied instantly.

“What do you really think of me, Potter?” Snape asked next, determined to do the thing thoroughly, no matter how unpleasant the response.

“I think you are a bully. I know my father was a git to you, but it was nothing to do with me. I think you are an awful teacher. You’re horrible to my friends, but you saved my life. Dumbledore trusts you, and I don’t know why. I don’t like you. I don’t understand you.”

“Are you scared of me?”

“Sometimes.”

This pleased Snape. He had one more question, or maybe he had had just one question all along. “Potter. What do you remember of your mother?”

“The night she died. The dementors show me the night she died.”

“Tell me,” Snape said quietly.

“When she saw Voldemort, she put me in the crib behind her and threw her arms wide to shield me. She kept saying ‘Not Harry, not Harry, oh please not Harry!’ and he told her to stand aside. He called her a silly girl. She begged him, told her she would do anything, and he kept telling her to stand aside. But she didn’t. And so he killed her. She died to protect me. She kept me safe from him.”

Snape closed his eyes, unable to look at the boy.

“What else do you know of her?”

“She was very good at Charms. She was beautiful, with pale skin and dark red hair. And green eyes. I have her eyes. She was in Gryffindor, and in the Order. She defended you. She used to hate my dad, but something changed, I don’t know what. I don’t know why she loved him. She looks happy in the pictures I have of her. I don’t think she got along with my Aunt Petunia.”

“That’s all?” Snape croaked. “Do you have any keepsakes from her? Has nobody ever told you stories about her?”

“No.”

Snape took out his wand. He ran his hand gently over the tip of it, his thoughts far away. He was done with his interrogation.

-----

Harry fuzzily opened his eyes. Snape was sitting across from him, staring off into space. Harry grunted, and Snape fixed his black eyes on him.

“How…how did it go?” Harry asked, sitting up and rolling his shoulders. “Learn anything interesting?”

“From you? Not once in five years,” Snape said snidely.

Harry was still too out of it to fully register this insult. “Has it been five? Feels more...like five hundred.”

Snape snorted, watching as the boy came back to himself. He was not looking forward, particularly, to his upcoming deception. One more in a long line of deceptions, really. But, as always, it was for the greater good. It would be very useful to know what questions Potter wanted to ask him. He also admitted a certain curiosity as to whether the boy would keep his word about the off-limits questions. That had been the whole point about creating the agreement, so that he could see how trustworthy the boy really was.

Harry walked around the room, feeling a bit as though he had overdosed on butterbeer. After a few laps, though, he felt back to normal and ready for the far more exciting part of this little procedure.

“Alright, Professor,” Harry said gleefully, sitting back down and pulling his knees up. “Your turn!”

Snape gave him a glare for his impertinence, and then took out the other vial. “Remember, Potter,” he said silkily. “Nothing about the war.”

“Got it,” Harry said confidently. “Three drops then, off you go.”

Snape daintily stuck out his tongue and shook three drops out of the vial. Potter had seen Crouch under Veritaserum, so he knew what the results looked like. That wasn’t a problem. He had faked the effects before. Snape immediately slumped against the wall, allowing his features to slacken and his gaze to become uncoordinated.

“Wow!” Harry said, impressed. “Brilliant. Okay. What did you find out from questioning me under Veritaserum?”

A clever opening gambit, Snape thought. “How you helped Black escape from the dementors. How your friends stole things for you from my stores. How you managed to get in and out of Hogsmeade undetected. How you told two people about what you saw in my Pensieve against my express wishes. How you used your Invisibility Cloak to sneak out after curfew. How you deliberately ignored my instructions in Occlumency.”

“Oh, dear,” Harry murmured, half amused and half aghast. “Did you ask me anything about the Dursleys?”

“Yes. I asked you what your worst memory was with them.”

“And what was that?” Harry asked, wincing as he wondered how talkative his drugged self had been.

“The Christmas when you were four. Your aunt tore up the card you made for her.”

Harry lurched as though Snape had slapped him.

Then he said, so quietly Snape had to strain his ears to catch it, “Oh.”

Harry scratched his chin and looked at Snape, needing to verify that the man was well and truly out of it. He wouldn’t remember any of this, right?

“Interesting what your mind comes up with, huh, Snape?” Harry mused. “I dunno, the day Uncle Vernon drove me to the dump and left me there, that…that was pretty bad too. But, yeah, I think that Christmas was worse.”

With effort, Snape kept his features loose and relaxed. An unwelcome image of a hook-nosed man, arm raised, flashed through his mind.

“So,” Harry said, heaving a ragged breath as he changed the subject. “Ron will kill me if I don’t ask this one. Why is your hair always so greasy?”

Of all the impertinent questions! Snape wasn’t a Death-Eater for nothing, though, so he merely said flatly, “It is genetic.”

“Like your nose,” Harry said, his thoughts swinging transparently to other matters. Snape, seeing this, silently cursed to himself for leading the boy to his family tree.

“So, Snape, your childhood was pretty rough, huh?”

“Yes.”

“What did they do to you?” Harry inched forward, keen to hear the answer, although his tone was solemn.

Snape considered lying, but he doubted the boy would accept it. He had seen the memories, after all. Perhaps a partial answer was prudent.

“They were unhappily married,” Snape said, careful to keep voice even. “And a child inconvenienced them. I was not a priority.”

“I know how that feels,” Harry said sympathetically. To Snape’s surprise, Potter did not continue this painful line of questioning. “Professor? What do you really think of me?”

Now this was a question he could answer, Snape thought with relish. “You are a mediocre student with a knack for getting in and out of terrible trouble. You are impertinent, arrogant, cocky like your father. Your disrespect is terrible: you never call me ‘sir’ or ‘professor.’ You are a terrible potions maker. Your risk-taking is foolish, your so-called bravery misplaced. You’ve done nothing to deserve your fame, and you expect that none of the rules apply to you. You are weak and cannot conceal your emotions. Moreover--”

“Okay, okay,” Harry said hastily. “Is there anything you do like about me? Professor Snape?” he added pointedly.

Slightly mollified by this token of respect, Snape decided to be generous. “You are not as spoiled or as pampered as your father was.”

“Gee,” Harry said sarcastically. “Thanks.”

Then Harry suddenly leaned forward, Snape’s response turning a switch in his head. “Can you tell me something nice about my mum, Professor?”

Something in Snape’s chest clenched. It took an enormous amount of willpower to not tense his muscles.

Oh, Merlin, why did Potter have to ask that question?

Perhaps it was inevitable. The boy had just admitted he had no stories about her. Of course he would want to know. And he, Snape, could say anything, anything about her at all, and Potter wouldn’t know if it were true.

But he would.

“Lily Evans was a good woman,” Snape said, hoping Potter wouldn’t notice the waver in his voice. “She deserved far better than James Potter. Something nice about her was her laugh. She had a lovely laugh. Like bells.”

And she had a lovely smile, and lovely eyes, and the way she smelled was lovely, and the way she said Severus was especially lovely. Everything about her was lovely, except for the man she married, and the son she produced.

Potter seemed satisfied with this answer. “Like bells,” he repeated slowly, and then something awful, a raw horrible desperate yearning, crossed his face, and Snape knew he was trying, and failing, to remember that laugh.

The boy hunched his shoulders, and asked nothing else for a long while. Then, finally, he started again, his voice almost as flat as his victim’s.

“I don’t know what else to ask you. I can’t ask you about all those war things. But I don’t know if I’ll ever get a straight answer otherwise.” The boy seemed to be talking himself into something. “I know the agreement said I’m not to ask you about your loyalties. But I really, really need to know the answer. It would make everything so much easier.” Various emotions struggled across the boy’s face. The desire for the truth was practically radiating off of him. Transparent! Why was Potter always so transparent!

Harry groaned, working his way aloud through his dilemma. “If I break our agreement, does that mean the Room won’t let us out of here? That seems like the kind of thing Dumbledore would do.” Harry drummed his fingers against his leg. To Snape’s practiced eye, it was obvious that the boy’s irrepressible curiosity was going to win out.

Harry finally succumbed to the inevitable. “I’m sorry, Professor,” he muttered, casting his eyes upwards. “Professor Snape, where do your loyalties lie?”

The little sneak! Snape felt rage simmering inside of him at this evidence of the boy’s dishonesty. His own betrayal felt like nothing now, because clearly it had been justified, absolutely justified. Snape nearly got up and ended the whole charade when it came to him that Potter’s apology was not intended for him. But he mastered himself, and continued to loll about stupidly like a ghoul.

“Never mind!” Harry yelped suddenly, waving his hands wildly in a STOP motion. “Never mind, I don’t want to know! Voldemort can’t know the answer from me, he can’t.” Harry shuddered, terrified at what he had almost done. He had to remain ignorant of Snape’s true loyalties. Anything else was much too dangerous.

Harry jumped up, nervous. He wanted to ask Snape so many things. He wanted Snape to tell him what the weapon was that Voldemort was after. He wanted to know why everyone was so keen to keep him away from the Department of Mysteries. He wanted, no, he needed to know if Snape was truly on Dumbledore’s side.

But, more than that, he wanted to stay alive, and he wanted to keep those he loved alive.

“Why didn’t I learn Occlumency?” Harry groaned, berating himself. “Then I could ask you this stuff and not worry about Voldemort finding out.”

“You didn’t learn Occlumency because you are an arrogant little twit,” Snape couldn’t help adding in his flat voice, still very much annoyed, and still finding it quite easy to rationalize his own betrayal while despising Potter for his slip.

“Shut up,” Harry said nastily. “Just because I’ve decided not to ask you those questions doesn’t mean I can’t ask you something awful.” He ran his hand through his untidy hair, racking his brains for something so satisfying that it would make up for all those other questions he knew he could never ask.

Ah. There it was. “Tell me something nice about my dad.”

Snape wished, for the first time in his life, that he really was under Veritaserum. He cursed himself for his deception, cursed James Potter, cursed Harry Potter, and cursed the whole lot of Gryffindor for a good measure. How, exactly, had he come to find himself in the position of having to compliment that arrogant toerag?

Harry began to grow impatient. “Well? You’re supposed to answer straight off, aren’t you?”

Snape opened his mouth, inspiration coming in the form of a bland Quidditch compliment. But no words came out.

Potter looked at him, clearly on tenterhooks, eyes deeply and richly green with his desire for something new about his father. And suddenly, Snape couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the loophole, as he had done with the Veritaserum, in order to spare himself pain.

“Your father,” Snape said, “took you to Hogsmeade when you were six months old. I don’t know why. I was coming out of Borgin & Berkes when I spotted the pair of you. He was tossing you up in the air, and you were laughing. And then he called you Fawn. That was his nickname for you. Fawn.”

Harry closed his eyes and ears, closed his mind, forgot that Snape was in the Room, forgot everything, as he tried desperately to remember his father, to remember Prongs, calling him Fawn.

But it was no use.

Harry sank to his knees, overcome by the strength of his emotions. It was unbearable to know and not to remember. His mother’s laugh, his father’s nickname for him…all of it.

None of it.

Harry looked miserably about him, desperate for something, anything to dull the sharp grief that had possessed him. His eyes landed on Snape.

“Snape,” he whispered. “Please--”

It was not a question, strictly speaking, so Snape was under no obligation to answer it under Veritaserum.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the ragged gulps from the boy next to him.

But they were hard to ignore.

Harry’s magic was back.

This was good news, of course, but somehow Harry couldn’t bring himself to care very much. He had felt the magic zooming into his wand, quite suddenly, and then warmth flooded into his body. He had done several cursory charms, just to test it, and then tried to open the door. The door had remained firmly shut, and the Room failed to yield to any of Harry’s requests to release them.

After that, Harry had lost interest. Perhaps the Room was rewarding him for allowing himself to be dosed with Veritaserum, perhaps not. What did it matter, really, if he still couldn’t get out of here?

Harry twirled his wand in his hands, and stared broodingly into space. His mother’s laugh. His father’s nickname. He repeated this miraculous information to himself, over and over again, as though he were trying to make it a part of himself. Bells. Fawn. Bells. Fawn.

“Learn anything interesting?”

Harry craned his neck at these familiar sounding words. Snape had rejoined the land of the living, it seemed. Well, as much as he ever did. Harry shrugged.

Snape was studying him intensely. “Your magic is back.”

“Yep.”

Snape wondered if this meant his was back as well. Somehow, he doubted it. He had not upheld his end of the Veritaserum bargain after all. Snape cast a Hover Charm and verified his suspicion. Damn. Snape slid his eyes over to Harry, wanting to see the boy’s reaction to his humiliation. But Harry was not paying attention to him in the slightest.

“You kept to your part of the agreement?” Snape probed, ignoring the boy’s clear reluctance to talk.

“Yes,” Harry said, adding, “I almost broke it, but I didn’t.”

Snape waited for Harry to throw the question back at him. Instead, Harry began Banishing the rubble away from the Room. His wandwork was jerky, and the results rather more violent than was strictly necessary. Snape said nothing, deciding it was in his best interest to drop the subject altogether. Instead, he tracked Harry with his eyes as the boy cleaned, a fierce expression on his thin face.

He had wasted a lot of time and energy, Snape thought to himself with no little bemusement. Here he had spent five years insulting the father to the son, with little effect. Clearly, the real way to wound the boy was by giving him memories of parents he would never remember.

And yet, Snape felt no pressing need to utilize this new weapon. He instead felt a shameful surge of empathy for this boy, who after all was the only other person in the world who missed Lily as much as he did. Maybe more.

Harry paused in his mad cleaning frenzy, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The Room looked pretty good now. Snape was looking at him, Harry noticed, with a surprisingly neutral expression. When Snape spoke, his words were unexpected.

“I propose a different drink is in order,” Snape said, fishing two firewhiskies out of the troublesomely magical trunk. “What do you say, Mr. Potter?”

Harry didn’t need asking twice. He snatched the offered drink and gulped it down. The amber liquid burned marvelously, so much so that it stung. Harry welcomed the sensation.

Snape raised his bottle in a sort of salute, and then drank the whiskey, his movements practiced.

The fierce edge of the alcohol relaxed Harry, and he felt the tense, strange mood that had enveloped him loosen.

“Better,” Snape said, looking at the boy appraisingly. “Now stop acting like a house-elf.”

This made little sense to Harry, who certainly didn’t expect Snape to care about his mental state. But the profound nature of his afternoon—Merlin, his father had called him Fawn—left him feeling drained and rather unable to mount his usual defenses.

“Have you ever had firewhisky before?” Snape continued.

“No.”

“It has a medicinal effect after Veritaserum,” Snape lectured, effortlessly falling into his teaching mode. “Much like chocolate combats Dementors, so Firewhisky neutralizes the effects of Veritaserum.”

Harry accepted this with a nod of his head. His churning emotions had less to do with taking Truth Serum and more to do with administering it, but that was alright. The liquor was welcome.

Snape cleared his throat. “I am pleased that your magic is back.”

Harry’s green eyes narrowed, and he looked at Snape closely as the implications of that hit him. “Why isn’t yours back? You took the Veritaserum too.”

“I do not think this Room intends to ever allow me access to magic,” Snape said after a pause. “Nonetheless, it is promising that your magic has been returned to you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, unable to stir up much emotion about it either way. “I hope we get out of here soon. I don’t want to fall behind in my classes.”

“That’s never bothered you before,” Snape snapped. He tapped his long fingers against the empty firewhisky bottle, considering something. “There is no reason I cannot tutor you, Potter. It would help pass the time at least.”

“Really?” Harry said doubtfully.

“Yes,” Snape said, firmness entering into his tone as he solidified the decision in his own head. It would help pass the time, and it would probably also pacify the Room after the Veritaserum fiasco.

“Okay,” Harry said, his mind still more on his parents than his potions professor.

“We’ll start with Potions,” Snape said briskly. “Go fetch your books and parchment.”

“Now?” Harry said, surprised.

“Yes. I imagine the alcohol will remove the manual dexterity required for one of us to kill the other.”

Harry nearly cracked a smile at that as he gathered up his materials.

“Now,” Snape said. “Transfigure something into a desk.”

Harry flicked his wand and transfigured his empty bottle into a quite serviceable desk and chair. Perhaps his break from magic had been good for him, Harry mused. He felt a little more…powerful now.

“Sit.”

Harry rolled his eyes but did so.

“Today we will be covering the class of potions that works on House Elves as well as on witches and wizards,” Snape said, his voice confident and clear as it rang through the room. “This type of potion is known as a Cross Species Substance. Now, Potter, tell me what law these potions break.”

“Err….”

“Look it up,” Snape commanded. “You should know this.”

Harry paged through his text. “Oh, the Law of Better Blood.” Harry snorted. “Hermione is going to have kittens when she reads that.”

“We covered that law your third year,” Snape said snidely. “So undoubtedly Ms. Granger is already familiar with it. You, however…”

Harry tried his best to look abashed.

“House-elves and wizards share the ability to do magic, but this magic manifests itself in different ways. It is not unsurprising, then, that only a few of our potions work on them. Potter, tell me two ways that house elves’ magic differs from ours.”

Harry brightened. “They can Apparate into places we can’t, like Hogwarts. And they don’t carry wands, and we do.”

Harry’s knowledge of house-elves, via Dobby, carried him through most of the lesson. Snape continued to pepper him with questions, never praising him when he got one right, but always ready with a snide comment when Harry didn’t know the answer. The alcohol kept Harry from losing his head, however, and he allowed most of the insults to slide off of him.

Snape began to wrap things up. “…And that is why house-elves have such a strong reaction to butterbeer. Any questions, Potter?”

Harry shook his head. He had actually understood everything, a rare and momentous moment in his Potions career.

“For next class, one foot comparing Cross Species Substances and Multi-Use Salves. Dismissed.”

Harry snorted. “I wish.” He did not stand up, however, oddly comforted by this familiar version of Snape looming over him with his arms crossed. Snape, too, looked more relaxed after giving a class and setting an essay.

Or maybe it was just the alcohol.

----

Harry, driven by boredom, had started in on his homework right away. Snape had let this pass without comment, and was prowling around the Room rather like a bloodhound looking for a dropped scent.

Snape was bent over, inspecting the sealant between the floor and walls, when a cry from Harry startled him. Snape whirled around, pulling out his wand out of sheer habit. His eyes widened slightly at what he saw.

“Potter,” Snape said harshly, crossing the Room in one stride. “Did you conjure this?”

“No,” Harry said. His parchment and quill slid to the ground unnoticed as he jumped to his feet and joined Snape.

The mirror looked a bit smaller to Harry. Well, it had been four years since he had seen it last. The same incomprehensible writing was swirled around the edges in delicate ink, and the same golden claws supported it. Before Harry could even begin to deal with the return of this rogue mirror, the glass began to shake.

There was a sputter, and then a pop, and then something flew out of the mirror, smacking Harry on the nose. He uncurled the piece of parchment, heart thumping. Dumbledore’s slanted writing stared back at him, and Harry felt a stab of dread.

“What does it say?” Snape demanded.

“Desire is a battle,” Harry said, frowning.

“That’s all?” Snape snatched the parchment away and studied it for himself. He growled and threw the paper to the ground, annoyed. “I do not like this.”

Harry was annoyed, too. “Why can’t he at least show his face?” he complained. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“A place for warriors,” was Snape’s reply. “Tap your weapons. Desire is a battle.”

Harry looked at him blankly. Then his gaze hardened. “When I started Dumbledore’s Army, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Snape eyed the mirror warily. “I do not know what the headmaster has in mind, either, leaving the Mirror of Erised here. It seems a type of torture.”

“It’s odd,” Harry agreed, careful not to look into the glass. If he looked at it once, he wasn’t sure he would ever look away. “Dumbledore told me that men have gone mad before this thing. And we can’t really escape from it, can we?”

“Perhaps it is another test,” Snape said, his nose crinkling at the mere suggestion. He had not recovered from the Veritaserum, and the boy had not either. It was cruel of Dumbledore to present them with another emotionally fraught task so soon after the last one.

“Do you think we are supposed to look in it or not?”

Snape shrugged with the air of someone who has little to lose and strode up to the mirror. Snape’s demeanor changed completely once he gazed into it. The tension left his body, leaving him unguarded. And—it happened so quickly, but Harry could never after shake this impression—Snape looked for a moment like he knew somebody loved him. A small, secret smile stole over his features, as though he had a lovely secret, for once, instead of a horrible one. Then, impossibly, Snape’s flinty black eyes began to look darker, as though they had been smeared with something wet. He put his hand up to the mirror. Harry suddenly felt as if he were intruding on something very private, and looked at his feet.

Harry thought that Snape would remain there for quite awhile—he certainly had his first year-- but to his surprise Snape broke away seconds later with the dazed air of someone who has gotten too close to chaos. He stumbled away, a man lost in a dream.

Harry spared his professor only a glance before he walked up to the mirror, feeling its siren call tugging at his spirit. He would only look for a second, he told himself. Just to see if his heart’s desire had changed.

It had not. Harry stared at his mum and dad, looking the same as they had the last time, immensely proud but sad as well. The love in their eyes was profound, radiant even. Harry thought he heard a faint tinkling in his ears. Like bells. His father looked at him, the adoration clear in his face, and Harry thought how fiercely this man had both loved and left him.

Harry echoed his professor and put his hand up to the glass. His parents put theirs up as well, and for a moment it was like they were all touching each other. But the glass was cold, and hard, and unyielding, and after a second Harry let his hand fall to his side. Father and son shoved their hands into their pockets in the exact same way. Lily kept hers up in a kind of wave. Harry rocked back on his heels, feeling with sudden clarity how little he knew about her. He looked like his dad; he shared gestures and quirks with his dad. But Lily? She was a mystery, mostly.

A mum shouldn’t be a mystery.

Harry understood now why Snape had not lingered. This mirror showed intensely private things, and it didn’t feel right to have such an experience in front of another. Harry broke away, promising to himself that he would return when Snape was asleep.

Snape was a few feet to the side of the mirror, head bowed, as though he couldn’t bear to part with it. Harry studied him, and felt something niggling at the back of his mind. Harry grabbed onto it, feeling unable to cope with his parents and desperate for a distraction.

“First year,” Harry said, and then stopped, surprised at how weak his voice was. He cleared his throat. “First year, this mirror showed me the Sorcerer’s Stone. I wonder if it would show us a key or the way out of here.”

“If that is what your heart desires the most right now,” Snape said, his voice hallow. “I am not certain mine does.”

“Let’s both look,” Harry urged. “I bet Dumbledore would want us to work together. Let’s both look and think of how badly we want to get out of here.”

Snape nodded carelessly, his sharp edges dulled by whatever he had seen in the mirror.

Harry faced the mirror once again, and felt that Dumbledore’s stupid note wasn’t far off the mark. Desire was a battle. At the moment, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about getting out of here. He didn’t want to get away from this mirror and away from his parents. Especially, at this moment, from his mum.

Lily swam into view, alone this time. Harry felt a sharp intake of breath behind him, and felt, rather than saw, that Snape had joined him. Lily seemed to see them both. She looked at Severus, her eyes filled with love and what looked like forgiveness to Harry.

“Oh, Lily,” Snape said, pain and regret wrenching his voice into knots as he saw her again.

This mirror had never shown him anything but her.

Then Lily looked at Harry. Something in her eyes changed. Harry still saw love there, so much that it hurt, but he also saw, not forgiveness, but a sort of apology in her eyes. Almost as though she were asking for forgiveness this time, rather than granting it.

“It’s okay, Mum,” Harry said softly. “I know you didn’t want to leave me.”

Lily stood there, dark red hair around her pale face, looking at both of them. Harry and Snape remained as they were, utterly entranced by her. Snape broke away first. “Come,” he said to Harry in the gentlest voice he had ever used with him. Harry didn’t know he was capable of such a tone. “We shouldn’t linger, lest we fall into madness.”

Harry didn’t move. Snape lightly touched the boy’s shoulder, as though Harry were made of glass and not the mirror, and turned him around. Harry looked up at Snape, the same sort of aching plea in his eyes that had tumbled out of his mouth earlier.

This time, Snape did something about it. It wasn’t much, but it was all he knew how to do. He squeezed the boy’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and left his hand there in what he hoped was a bracing sort of way.

It wasn’t much, but for Harry it was enough. He had nobody else here, and nobody outside of the mirror, and Snape would just have to damn well suffice. Harry allowed the hand to remain on his shoulder, and for Snape that was enough, too.

The rest of the night passes in a blur for Harry. He remembers breaking away from Snape, and Snape gruffly telling him to go to bed, and then falling into his hammock. After the day he’d had, mindgames courtesy of the headmaster, his sleep is deep and undisturbed. He dreams only about his mother smiling at him. It is a nice dream.

When Harry opens his eyes the next morning, Lily is still gazing at him. She’s standing in the Mirror, Harry realizes with a pang as he puts on his glasses, as though she has been keeping vigil all night.

The idea bothers Harry. He waves his wand and casts a Covering Charm on the Mirror. A curtain of red and gold falls over Lily, obscuring her from sight. “Sorry, Mum.” Harry mutters. He gets up and begins to take breakfast items from the trunk.

Snape sweeps out of the washroom, robes billowing as usual. He stops with a start when he sees the curtains over the Mirror. Eyebrows raised, he joins Harry in what is quickly becoming the breakfast nook. He surveys Harry over his tea, cool black eyes calculating.

“So,” Harry says without preamble, as though answering a question Snape has just posed. “You saw my mum in the mirror.”

Snape merely nods, expression shuttered.

“Why did you see her?” Harry prompts.

“Why do you think?” Snape snaps. He puts down his tea with a clatter.

“You loved her?” Harry asks, unconsciously squaring his shoulders as though preparing for a blow.

His instinct is correct. Snape wordlessly hurls his cup to the ground, and shards of porcelain scatter at their feet. A puddle of hot tea inches towards Harry’s robes. Harry takes out his wand, but Snape puts out his hand.

“Leave it,” Snape says, curtains of hair obscuring his expression. “I will clean it up.”

Snape begins to pick up the shards. Harry watches him, acutely embarrassed for his professor, crawling around like a Muggle after the broken glass. Harry sees himself at six, cutting his ear after Aunt Marge threw a wine glass at his head.

Harry flicks his wand, Banishing the mess.

“I TOLD YOU TO LET IT ALONE!” Snape roars, all control gone, straightening like a shot. “BUT YOU NEVER DO, DO YOU?”

“I want to know about my mother!” Harry answers between clenched teeth. “I deserve to know what you did with her!”

Snape’s voice goes dangerously cold, sending a shiver through Harry. “I did not do anything with Lily Evans. And if you ever refer to her with such disrespect again, Potter, I will teach you a lesson you will not enjoy.”

“Well, it won’t involve magic,” Harry retorts. “And that’s not what I meant.” He takes a deep breath, trying to force his voice into politeness. “I want to know if you loved her, and if she loved you. That’s all.”

“As though that were nothing!” Snape spits, eyes flashing. “I am not the rest of the wizarding world, Potter, ready and willing to comply with your every request. You would do well to remember that. Let. It. Alone.”

Harry has been let alone himself too often to take this advice. “My mum would want you to tell me.”

“You don’t know what your mother would want,” Snape says viciously. “You never knew her.”

This cuts Harry like a knife. It probably would have shut him up, too, had they been anywhere else. But here, he has magic and Snape doesn’t, and it is this more than anything else that lets him stand his ground.

“I bet my mum never looked twice at you,” Harry taunts, determined to get a response out of Snape. “I bet she felt sorry for you, and she was nice to you because she was a good person. But she never wanted you. She wanted my dad, always, and I bet he knew it too, and they would all laugh at you behind your back—“

“SILENCE!” Snape roars. “As always, Potter, you are completely wrong!”

“Tell me the truth then,” Harry says at once. “Go on, you always wanted to rub my face in it, I know you did. Here’s your chance.”

Snape points a long bony finger at him. “Sit down,” he thunders. “Sit down, and be quiet. Perhaps you will learn something for once in your life.”

Harry immediately slides into the chair that had been used yesterday for the potions lesson. He looks up keenly, giving Snape far more attention than he ever gives him in class.

“Your mother and I met as children,” Snape says, managing to make even that sound like a threat. He plants his hands on the desk, leaning forward so their faces are a foot away. “I introduced her to magic. I told her she was a witch. I was her best friend, her first link to the wizarding world. And once we got to Hogwarts, it was no different. She hated your father from the first time she saw him on the train. She used to complain to me about how awful he was. And it was me who she studied with, me who she talked to. She told me, first year, that she’d rather be in Slytherin with me than in Gryffindor with him.”

Spit is flying onto Harry’s cheeks, but he doesn’t wipe it away. He sits stock still, afraid that any movement will break Snape’s concentration.

“Your mother and I spent every summer together after that. We played tricks on that awful sister of hers. We plotted how to put James Potter in his place, and we made potion after potion together in her attic. She was a marvel at Potions.” Snape shakes his head, sidetracked. “I am astounded that you did not inherit even one drop of her talent.”

Harry privately thinks this is up for debate. He might not be pants at Potions if Snape had ever given him a proper chance.

“And then,” Snape says, voice cracking, “then it went to pieces that day by the lake. I don’t have to tell you the one I mean. She wanted nothing to do with me after that, even though I apologized.”

Oh. So his father had been, at best, tangential to the real hurt of that day.

“She started to spend more time with James,” Snape says relentlessly, “and I became a Death Eater. Without her there was no reason not to. She never tried to stop me. Maybe she had expected me to go Dark. Everybody else did.” Snape leans even closer to Harry, so that their noses are almost touching. “But you remember this, Potter. She cared for me before she ever set eyes on your father. She loathed him. And you are him in miniature.”

Harry wipes the spit off his face, and it is almost like he wiping away tears. “Well,” he manages. “Not completely. I have her eyes.”

“I’ve never said you weren’t lucky,” Snape sneers, standing back and folding his arms. “Lucky you do have her eyes, or I wouldn’t have bothered protecting you all this time.”

Harry doubts that as he looks closely at his professor. Snape is the same age as Lupin, but has always seemed far older. Harry had attributed this to the trials of being a Death Eater, but it now seems far more likely that his mum is responsible for the lines around Snape’s eyes.

“So you have been protecting me?” Harry asks, almost shyly, looking at Snape through his fringe. “For her? And…you can’t be working for Voldemort, then. Not if you loved her. Not if you are protecting me.”

Snape says nothing, but his silence is evidence enough for Harry. Well. So the git is on his side after all.

“You apologized for calling her that,” Harry says, an unpleasant feeling settling in his gut. “And she never forgave you? She didn’t try to stop you from becoming a Death Eater? Ever?”

“DON’T YOU SAY A WORD AGAINST LILY!” Snape yells, slamming his hand against the desk. Harry flinches, and then flushes, embarrassed.

Snape doesn’t care. He thumps his hand down, again, seemingly for the pleasure of seeing Harry jump and jerk away.

“She died to protect you,” Snape hisses. “Don’t you ever forget that. You dare say a word against her? Do it again, Potter. Just try it.”

Harry glares at the desk mutinously.

“If not for your mother,” Snape continues, “I would have been the only 11-year old Death Eater ever to join Voldemort’s ranks. She was my--” Snape stops, voice catching. “I do not blame her for preferring a popular Quidditch hero to me in the end. And you will not blame her either.”

“So blame my dad instead?” Harry asks. “That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? And blaming me because I look like him?”

Snape does not deny this. “I despised your father for many reasons, as well you know.”

“She still should have gone after you,” Harry says stubbornly. “Just because you lost your temper once and called her a Mud--”

“DO NOT SAY THAT WORD TO ME!” Snape shrieks, grabbing the front of Harry’s shirt and yanking Harry so hard that he rises halfway out of his seat. “And do not presume, boy, to talk of things you know nothing about!”

Snape lets Harry go, a disgusted expression on his face, and Harry falls backwards, landing heavily in the chair.

Harry smoothes his rumpled front, taking a couple of fortifying breaths. He reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out his wand. Something registers in Snape’s eyes then, and his lip curls unpleasantly. Harry clutches the wand, comforted by the cool wood.

“Well,” Harry says, still rearranging his shirt, even though the wrinkles are gone. “Well. You still haven’t said it, but I have the answer to my question. You did love her, and she—she cared for you, once. That’s—that’s all I wanted to know.”

“It was more complicated than that,” Snape says coldly. “But of course, such complexities are beyond you.”

“Love isn’t complicated,” Harry says. “Hate is, but not love.” He starts to say something else, but then his eyes dart to the covered Mirror. He gets up and heads for the washroom.

“I knew you couldn’t handle the truth,” Snape tosses over his shoulder, hands still planted on the desk as though scolding an invisible student.

“A lot of people think that,” Harry says shortly. “But they’re wrong.”

He strides into the washroom, slamming the door behind him.

Snape flinches.
----
Harry sits on the edge of the bathtub, head in his hands. Merlin, he needs to talk to Ron and Hermione. He can just see Ron’s freckly hand slapping him on the back, and Hermione tossing her bushy hair and assuring him they’ll get him through this. The thought of his friends puts a lump in Harry’s throat. Are they worried about him? Has Dumbledore told them not to interfere? Are they ignoring the headmaster and trying to get him the hell out of here?

He can’t imagine allowing one of them to become a Death Eater. Ever. He’d die before he let it happen. And yet Lily hadn’t stopped Snape. She must have seen what was happening to him, she must have known the influence she wielded over him. And yet she just let him turn Dark! What kind of friend was she?

Harry stands and looks in the mirror. He sees his father’s hair and his mother’s eyes. These familiarities have been a source of comfort to him for a long time. But now he is only confused, not the least because he now feels a sort of kinship with Snape rather than with his parents.

After all, Lily and James had been normal. They had been normal kids with loving families. They had been normal kids with loving families who had chosen each other over a difficult, weird outsider.

Harry hates them for it.

Sometimes hatred is simple, too.
---
Snape thinks about going after the boy. But, really, what more can he say to him? He’d wanted the truth, and Snape gave it to him. If Potter wants to pout and wallow in his misery, well, that is his business.

But when Potter marches out of the washroom some time later, his green eyes are snapping like fireworks.

“Done sulking, Potter?” Snape says, covering his surprise.

“How are we going to fix this?” Potter demands.

“If your mind cannot handle the thought of your mother preferring me over your father--when we were children, Potter--then you are even weaker than I presumed.”

“Not that,” the boy says impatiently. “How are we going to stop Voldemort from finding out that you love my mum and have been protecting me? And that you really aren’t on his side?”

Snape adjusts his expectations for this conversation. “I’m certainly not planning on telling him, Potter. I am an Occlumens.”

“Well, I’m not,” Potter says. “But you’re going to teach me to be one, for real this time. I have no intention of giving Voldemort a reason to kill you.”

“How touching, Potter, but I assure you that I can fend for myself.”

“It has nothing to do with you. I just don’t want to feel guilty for another death. So are you going to teach me or not?”

Snape files away the guilt comment for future use. “Only you would think that is an adequate way to ask a professor to give you lessons, Potter.”

Potter scowls. “Excuse me, sir, but I would be much obliged if you would give me lessons so that I can prevent your death.”

“I’m not interested in your hero complex, Potter. Save it for The Prophet. I don’t need saving, especially not by you.”

“Someone’s got to do it,” the boy says harshly. “We both know what will happen if he finds out from reading my mind. He’ll kill you once we get out of here.”

“And how, exactly, do you propose I teach you Occlumency?” Snape points out. “I cannot Legilimize you here.”

“Try it.”

“Try it, what?” Snape growls.

“Try it, sir.”

Snape takes out his wand. It feels warm to the touch, and a jolt of hope surges through him. He points his wand, but instead of Legilimizing the boy, he attempts to send a Blasting Curse at the closed door. Nothing happens, and Snape frowns. The magic is in his wand. Pulsing. He can feel it. But how to unlock it?

Snape turns to the boy and meets his stony eyes. He raises his wand. “Legilimens!”

Snape staggers at the force of emotion he finds within Potter. Rage, hurt, sadness, disappointment. The last puzzles Snape, so he delves further. As usual, the boy puts up no resistance. Snape finds an image of himself and Lily as teenagers. Lily has her nose up in the air as Snape, a bruised and bewildered Snape with oddly untidy hair, pleads with her. But this never happened, not in this way, and so Snape prods the thought, demanding it to explain.

The teenaged Snape appears again in Harry’s mind, and people are jeering at him. He flails on the ground, alone, friendless, neglected. Lily watches him silently and turns away. The younger Snape watches her leave, and it seems his last hope is going with her. An arm with a Dark Mark on it appears, and Snape takes it, heaving himself to his feet. He seems resigned.

The child Snape is replaced by a child Harry, pleading with his teacher to believe him about his black eye. The teacher, who has dark red hair, tells him not to make up stories about his family. Harry watches her leave, and it seems his last hope is going with her. He looks out the window and Dudley waves at him, grinning wickedly. Harry resigns himself and trudges outside.

And then a roar of hurt overcomes Snape, pain so strong Snape cannot stand it. He stumbles back, thrown out of Potter’s head by the force of the emotion. He pants, staring at Potter, at this stupid, stupid boy who has gotten it all wrong once again.

Potter is clutching his head, groaning in distress.

“Mum,” the boy is croaking. “You shouldn’t…he needed…you were all he had…not decent…”

“Stop it!” Snape says, aghast at what he sees, and understands. “Potter, look at me.” The boy continues to writhe, so Snape strides over to him, and roughly lifts the boy’s chin up so they are looking at each other. The panic slowly recedes out of the boy’s green eyes, but the anguish remains.

“Correct me if I am mistaken,” Snape says, “but you appear to be laboring under the misapprehension that your situation and mine are similar.”

The boy looks at him miserably.

“Just to clarify,” Snape continues. “You were a child and all the adults around you failed you. And, in the same fashion, you think Lily failed me?”

“Yes,” the boy mutters, but he seems unwilling to elaborate. Perhaps unsurprising, given Snape’s earlier reaction.

“She was not responsible for my choices,” Snape says firmly. “I was almost an adult. She was not my keeper, and she did not fail me. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“She could have stopped you,” the boy says, terrible in his sadness. “I would have. If you had been my best friend, I would have stopped you. I would have at least tried.”

“Sometimes, Potter,” Snape says quietly, “sometimes I wish she had tried, too.” Snape looks furtively at the Mirror as the shame of this admission washes over him.

This, if anything, only makes Potter more agitated. “I would do anything for Ron and Hermione,” he says, almost panting with angry sincerity. “And she just didn’t bother with you anymore because you were too difficult.”

“Just as your teacher didn’t bother with you?” Snape prods. He realizes something else, then, and pales at the implications. “Your parents didn’t fail you, Potter. They died to save your life.”

“They left me with them,” Potter says heatedly, and then blinks in surprise, as though he has never voiced this hurt before. He casts his eyes downward.

Snape taps him under the chin again, making him look up. “I never thought I would see the day, Potter, that you would find similarities between us.”

“Well, what did I ever have in common with my parents?” Potter asks furiously. “They had happy homes—loving parents—and me—I had—“

“Nothing,” Snape finishes. They look grimly at each other.

The boy shoves his hands in his pockets. Snape, amazingly, smiles. “Congratulations, Mr. Potter.”

Potter looks at him blankly. “Huh?”

“You threw me out of your mind.”

A crooked grin washes over the boy’s face.

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.

Alright, so the door doesn’t lead to anywhere Harry recognizes. That’s disheartening, certainly, but nothing to kick up such a fuss about.

“Will you be quiet?” Harry hisses to Snape. “What if someone hears us?”

Harry peers anxiously around him, noting the details of this new place--a bedroom--as he searches out escape routes. The door back to the Room has faded back into the wall, so that only leaves the door that presumably goes to the rest of the house. There is also a grimy window and Harry strides over to it and looks outside. Disheveled little houses are packed like sardines on either side of a muddy river. Large smokestacks dot the landscape, all of them pumping foul smoke into the sky. If he has to, Harry decides, he can jump out the window to safety. A fat clump of bushes, just under the window, will cushion his fall nicely.

There doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger, so Harry turns back to the room and takes a closer look. He’d guess it was an attic garret from the sloped ceiling and the stuffy, slow-moving air. The walls are bare, and the only furniture is a desk, dresser and a grim little bed. Does a boy or a girl live here? A wizard or a Muggle? Hard to tell. There aren’t any hints of personalization, nothing that would give away the occupant.

“Do you know where we are?” Harry asks Snape. His professor has stopped his yowling, at least, and is sitting on the bed, head in his hands. Snape doesn’t answer, which is weird. Harry steps closer and realized that Snape is shaking, actually shaking, beneath his curtains of hair.

“Professor?” Harry asks cautiously. “Are you alright?”

Further discussion is postponed by the soft patter of footsteps just outside the door. Harry dives behind the shabby dresser and pulls out his wand. “Snape!” he whispers urgently. “What are you doing? Hide!”

Too late. The door opens soundlessly, and a small boy steps inside, closing the door neatly behind him. The child stops dead when he sees Snape sitting on his bed.

“Hullo,” the boy says blankly. “Who are you?”

At this, Snape finally looks up. His face looks oddly haggard to Harry, and his eyes are registering profound shock. He seems incapable of speech, and just stares at the child.

The boy begins to look nervous. “What are you doing here?” he asks, still in the same soft voice. “Who are you?”

Harry shoots an encouraging look at his professor, but the man remains as still—and useless—as a statue. Harry stands up, slowly, and clears his throat.

The child whirls around, and Harry gets his first good look at him. He is wearing a closed black trench coat, ragged jeans, and bright red trainers. His long dark hair is unkempt, and there are smears of dirt on his face and hands. He makes an odd, yet somehow dashing little figure, and Harry can’t help but grin.

“Hi,” he says nicely, crouching back down so he is eye-level with the boy. “My name’s Harry. What’s yours?”

“Severus,” the boy says. His eyes dart back and forth between Snape and Harry. “I’m 9. How old are you?”

“Why are you here?” The boy asks. He crosses his arms over his thin chest and looks coolly at Harry. He has obviously decided Harry is the lesser of the two threats.

“My teacher and I got…lost,” Harry says lamely. “We’re sorry to, um, intrude like this.”

The little boy frowns. “Well, you’ll just have to leave. Dad won’t like it if he finds you here.”

As if on cue, heavy steps sound on the landing. The tiny Snape flinches, and, at the same exact moment, so does the larger one on the bed. The adult Snape stands up abruptly, but once again he is not quick enough to hide.

The door opens, and Tobias Snape strolls inside. The hooked nose is clearly a family tradition.

Snape and Harry, both in full view, freeze. But Tobias only addresses his small son. “Where’s your mum?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Severus mutters. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

“When you see her, tell her to get her fat arse to the kitchen and cook me some dinner.” Tobias bangs back out, and both Snapes sag with relief.

“He can’t see us!” Harry exclaims. “Wow. This keeps getting weirder and weirder.”

“I bet I know why I can see you and Dad can’t!” the boy says, a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s because Dad’s a…” His voice trails away, and he looks suspiciously at his visitors.

“It’s alright,” Harry assures him. “We’re wizards too.”

“Oh. Well, Dad is a Muggle. I bet that’s why he can’t see you.”

“Maybe,” Harry says doubtfully. He looks pointedly at Snape. “What do you think, Professor?”

In answer, Snape strides to the wall and begins running his hands over it, as though trying to find the outlines of the door to the Room. “Revelio!” he snarls, but nothing happens. “Potter! Find the door!”

Harry smiles at the boy apologetically, and then does everything he can think of to find the door. A lot of pops and sparks, but nothing else. “Well. It looks like we might be here for a while, Severus.”

“You can stay,” the child decrees grandly, pointing at Harry. “But I’m not so sure about him.”

“I don’t blame you,” Harry says dryly, darkly amused that little Snape doesn’t seem to like his future self. Then the grin falls off his face. Actually, who can blame the kid? He doesn’t have a whole lot to look forward to.

“This is madness,” Snape growls, pocketing his still-useless wand. He strides over to the child. “Do you know who I am?” he demands.

“No sir,” the boy says quickly.

“I’m a relative,” Snape says firmly. “Now, then--”

“SEVERUS!”

Both Snapes cringe again. Without a word, the small Snape glides toward the door and his steps quickly fade away. As he leaves, an invisible force pulls Harry forward. He bangs into the door and falls backwards into Snape, who is right behind him.

“I think we have to stay near him,” Harry pants, remembering how he had to stay close to Snape in the pensieve. Indeed, Harry can think of nothing else but getting little Severus back in his line of vision, and blindly stumbles to the door. He rushes downstairs, barely taking in his surroundings, Snape at his heels.

The pull ceases the second Harry sees the child again.

“Give this to Joe,” Tobias is telling Severus, stuffing some Muggle money into his son’s hand.

“He’s going to want more than this,” Severus says flatly, counting the bills.

“Well that’s your problem, aint it?”

Resentment flashes in the child’s eyes, but he pockets the money and marches out the door. Harry and Snape are bound to follow, and so they do. Harry is pleased to leave the grimy, depressing little house behind. He hasn’t been outside in ages, and the smoky wind feels wonderful against his cheek.

Snape doesn’t seem to be enjoying it at all. He glances about, hatred in his eyes, as they pass shabby house after shabby house. It’s the same look Harry has, he’s pretty sure, whenever he’s forced to return to Privet Drive.

“This looks like a Muggle town,” Harry observes, as an old tramp looks right through him. “And I think Severus is the only one who can see us.”

“Why has Dumbledore brought us here?” Snape returns, voice on edge.

“Now you know how I felt when you saw the dinosaur,” Harry reminds him.

“That was different,” Snape hisses. “That was a memory.”

“And this isn’t?”

“I would remember meeting my older self, Potter!” Snape snaps back, clearly at the end of some sort of tether. Harry shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets.

They have reached a nondescript gray building next to a dumpster. A poster of a scantily clad woman adorns the door. Severus slips inside, and Harry and Snape follow. The little boy has clearly been here before, even though this is obviously no place for children. He winds his way to the basement, where three dangerous-looking men are playing poker on an old folding table. The child marches up to one of them. “Here, Joe. Here’s what my dad owes you.”

The bald, fat man reminds Harry of Uncle Vernon, and he can’t help but admire the proud, fierce look in the little boy’s eyes. He chances a look at Snape, and is surprised by the ugly look of rage he finds there.

“This all?” Joe grunts. “He owes me twice this.” He looks coldly down at the child, and slaps him across the face with a meaty paw. Severus stumbles backwards but manages not to fall over. The other men roar with laughter.

“You tell your dad there’s more of that coming,” Joe sneers. “I want my money.” The little boy turns and flees, and Harry has to flat-out run to keep up.

Once outside, Severus breaks into a dash. The neighborhood blurs by Harry, and stays that way until the child skids to a stop. They are inside a sun-dappled grove of trees. The river, now a proper blue, tinkles merrily by, and the air is cool and fresh. The child flops the ground, hand over his red cheek. This is an excellent hiding spot, Harry thinks approvingly. They are well removed from civilization, and there is something comforting about the sturdiness of the trees.

Snape strides over to the child, sinks to the ground, and unceremoniously takes the boy’s hand away from his cheek. It’s bleeding.

“I hate it when Joe wears a ring,” The child says wearily.

“I know,” Snape replies quietly. He dips his hand into the river and washes the blood away. He leaves his hand on the boy’s face longer than is strictly necessary, and then moves his hand to the child’s long, unkempt hair. He cards his fingers through it, once.

Severus looks up at the man, and Harry’s heart clenches as he sees the familiar ache in both pairs of dark eyes. “You look a lot like me.”

Snape seems to sense where this is going. “I’m not your father.”

Severus frowns and pulls away. An uncomfortable silence fills the thicket. Harry keeps his eyes down, feeling, again, that he is intruding on something private. He’d known that Snape had had a crummy childhood. But seeing it in the flesh makes it a lot more vivid.

“Severus!” squeals a new voice, and Harry looks around for the source.

A small red-headed girl bounces into view. She is wearing a pair of crisp jeans and a pretty blue jumper. Her bright green eyes are sparkling with curiosity as she takes in the two visitors. “Who’s this, then?”

“You can see them too?” Severus says excitedly. He jumps to his feet, slap forgotten.

“Of course,” the girl says haughtily.

“I think only magic people can see them,” Severus informs her. He immediately fumbles in his pocket and draws out some black licorice. “Want some?”

“Alright then.” She delicately takes a strand and begins to nibble on it as she considers the newcomers. “So you two are magic, are you?”

Harry swallows and nods at his nine-year-old mother. He sinks to the ground so he can look at her properly. They really do have the exact same eyes. “Magic,” he repeats, feeling dazed.

“I’m Lily,” she says, bemused by his reaction. “What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“Oh, I’ve always loved that name,” Lily says happily. All the color drains out of Harry’s face, and she looks away, discomfited. “Who are you?” she asks Snape.

A wide smile breaks over the professor’s face, utterly transforming him. It is the first time Harry has ever seen him really smile. He kneels in front of Lily and kisses her hand gallantly. “I am Sir Gawain, madam, and I am at your service.”

This is so unexpected that Harry can only ogle at Snape. Lily, however, giggles and snatches her hand away. “Are you then? Lovely. Severus, you can be the Green Knight.”

The little boy scowls and shoots Snape the precursor of the infamous Snape glare. “Why can’t I be Gawain?”

Lily puts her hands on her hips. “Because he called it. Now you be the Green Knight.”

“Fine,” Severus grumbles. He straightens up, muttering to himself, eyes firmly closed. “Now!” he says fiercely, and his skin turns bright green. He opens his eyes, looking pleased, and shoots a darkly triumphant look at Snape.

“Oh, brilliant!” Lily says, clapping her hands. “Well done Severus!”

And now some pink mixes with the green. Harry can’t help but snort. Severus greatly resembles a miniature version of the Wicked Witch of the West.

“I never get to play with other magic people!” Lily says, fluttering around them. “Well except for Severus of course,” she adds, shooting a sly glance at her bright green companion. “Now,” she continues bossily. “Harry can be the Lord and I’ll be his wife the Lady.”

Both Snapes glare at Harry, who at this point is so confused that he can only shrug. He’s never heard of Sir Gawain, but like the Snapes he is more than willing to do anything Lily likes. He looks back at his professor, and a silent agreement passes between them to let the rest of the world go hang.

Lily’s reign is supreme.

“So first Gawain beheads the Green Knight,” Lily says imperiously.

Obligingly, Snape picks up a twig. Harry surreptitiously shoots a spell at it, wondering if it will work, and is pleasantly surprised when it transforms into a fake axe. Lily squeals and claps her hands. “Oh, well done!”

Smirking, the adult Snape bows and then pretends to behead a reluctant Severus. Lily directs the three of them for the next half-hour, and the little grove fairly pops with magic as Gawain meets the Lord and Lady. Finally Gawain, wearing the Lady’s green girdle, is restored to Camelot.

Lily shoves some transformed props away and plops to the grass. She leans over to the river and drinks thirstily. Then she lies on her back, looking dreamily up at the trees. “I never liked how that story ended.”

Harry and a slightly green Severus flop on either side of her. Snape leans against a tree across from them, a small smile on his lips. For once, his lack of magic seems to have slipped his mind, and he looks more at ease here than Harry has ever seen him. “Why not, Lily?”

“I always wanted Gawain and the Lady to end up married, but he goes off to Camelot and leaves her alone.”

The smile falls off Snape’s face. “I assure you,” he says quietly, “that Camelot was overrated.”

“Besides,” Harry interrupts, feeling annoyed for some reason. “The Lady was already married to the Lord. So Gawain couldn’t have married her.”

“That’s true,” Lily says thoughtfully. “And they seemed quite happy together, didn’t they?”

“They were happy together,” Harry says fiercely. “I know they were.”

“Well, whatever,” Lily says, losing interest. “I still think it would have been more romantic for Sir Gawain to dash off with her.”

Snape smirks triumphantly.

“You know what I never liked about Sir Gawain?” Severus says, twiddling a blade of grass between his fingers. “The Green Knight doesn’t die after he gets beheaded. He ought to die, but he doesn’t. And then later why doesn’t he kill Gawain? They made a deal, but he lets Gawain off with a scratch instead of beheading him.”

“Ew!” Lily says. “You’d rather the lot of them died? That’s gross, Severus.”

The child shrugs sullenly, but offers no further protest.

Lily looks back over at Snape. “You never said your real name,” she says accusingly. “Who are you really?”

“He’s my teacher,” Harry quickly supplies.

“At Hogwarts?” Lily says, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Er, yes,” Harry says. “He was teaching me to Apparate, you know—and I made rather a muddle of it, and we ended up in Severus’s bedroom.”

“He’s a relative of mine,” Severus says, eying Snape beadily. “He said.”

“A distant relative,” Snape says firmly. “You may call me Professor. Do not concern yourself beyond that.” He looks sternly down his nose at the pair of them. “Understand?”

“Yes sir,” the children answer in unison. And, just like that, the spell of the forest has broken, and they are no longer playfellows. Severus and Lily look at each other uneasily, as though they are just now realizing how cheeky they have been with a future Hogwarts master.

Lily turns toward Harry, clearly determined to pump him for information before the professor whisks him away. “What house are you in? Do you like Hogwarts? Are you Muggle-born or not? Is it true what Severus says, that it doesn’t matter?”

Harry shoots a look at Snape, who is staring fixedly at the ground, brow wrinkled. “I’m in Gryffindor,” he answers. “And I love Hogwarts.”

“And your parents?” Lily demands. “Muggles or what?”

This is possibly the hardest question Harry has ever had to answer. He swallows, and looks straight into her familiar green eyes. “My dad was a pureblood and my mum was a Muggle.”

“So you’re a half-blood like me,” Severus pipes up. “And that’s not a problem, right?” he asks Harry uncertainly. “People don’t tease you about that?”

“Not about that, no,” Harry says quietly.

“Good,” Severus breathes, just as softly.

“My parents are Muggles,” Lily interrupts crossly, clearly wanting to regain the center of attention. “Sev’s grandmother told me they kill Muggle-borns at Hogwarts, but she was just trying to scare me, wasn’t she?”

Harry nods vigorously.

“Nasty old woman,” Lily continues scornfully. “Well good, I didn’t fancy going off to school only to get killed.”

Absolute silence greets these words. Then Harry sits up and grabs his mother’s shoulders. She looks back at him, startled, her eyes wide.

“Listen, Lily,” Harry says urgently, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Don’t make Pettigrew your Secret-Keeper, okay? Use Remus or Sirius.”

“POTTER!” Snape roars. He jumps to his feet and grabs Harry by the collar. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Harry bellows back. “IF YOU THINK I’M JUST GOING TO SIT BACK AND LET HER DIE--”

“What?” interrupts Lily, sounding close to tears. “I’m not going to die! What are you talking about?” Young Severus is at her side at once, and there is a glint of warning in his eyes as he silently watches the confrontation.

“You once told me you didn’t have any stories of your mother,” Snape says, nose to nose with Harry, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Allow me to share one. Once upon a time, someone warned Lily Potter to change her Secret Keeper. She did, and the Dark Lord never found out where she lived with her husband and child. So the Dark Lord rose in power, unchecked, because the Potters were in hiding. And the Dark Lord killed Muggles and Muggle-borns and blood traitors, because there was nobody to stop him. The Grangers, certainly. The Weasleys, probably. And little Harry Potter never even had the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, because his mother did not die to protect him!”

“I don’t care,” Harry says wildly. “Who says that is what will happen? You aren’t a Seer!”

“Are you really so selfish, Potter?”

“Why can’t I take what I need?” Harry demands. “And it’s not so bloody selfish for a kid to want his parents!”

“Changing the past is exceedingly dangerous, you foolish boy! Taking that dinosaur was risky enough, but this is pure stupidity. You have already altered things so much that you may have changed, or even erased, your own existence.” Snape’s voice goes up a notch. “Does that not concern you?”

Harry frowns deeply. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

“You must remain alive!” Snape hisses. “Lily and James must produce you, and you must remain alive to vanquish the Dark Lord! You are the only one with the power to do so!”

“Someone else can do it, surely!” Harry nearly stomps in frustration. He is so close to telling Lily everything, to fixing everything, if Snape would just shut up and leave him alone!

“You are the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord,” Snape repeats, almost as if he is quoting something. He points a bony finger at Harry. “You have to let her die, Potter, so she can give you the protection that will destroy the Dark Lord!”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to see Lily again? A fully-grown Lily?”

“Stop it, Potter!” Snape says huskily. “Do not tempt me! You must not tempt me!”

“You could have another chance with her,” Harry whispers, an odd gleam in his eyes. “We both could.”

A look of bitter longing sweeps over Snape.

“That’s right,” Harry says softly. “Sometimes you have to take risks, Snape. What if this is why Dumbledore sent us back here? To stop her death from happening?”

“STOP IT!” Snape cries. He shoves Harry violently away from him, and Harry tumbles to the ground.

“Leave him alone!” Lily shouts, and she throws her small body over Harry’s, arms thrust wide to protect him. Severus, meanwhile, runs at Snape, kicking him sharply in the shins. “Don’t hit him!” he yells fiercely, baring his sharp little teeth. “I thought you were different, but you’re just like all the rest! Now get out of here!”

Snape flinches under the onslaught and picks Severus up. He holds him at arm’s length, waiting in silence until Severus tires himself out. It takes quite awhile. “I will leave,” Snape promises quietly. He looks past the boy, locking eyes with Harry. “I will leave after Harry does what is right.”

And not what is easy, Harry thinks dully to himself. He can feel Lily’s heartbeat thudding on top of him. She feels like a hummingbird—just as small, just as fast. Just as fragile.

“It’s okay, Lily,” Harry says heavily. “He’s not going to hurt me. You can get up.”

Harry’s once and future protector disentangles herself and runs over to Snape. “Put Severus down,” she demands. Snape does so and squats down to address his younger self. “Remember this,” he says in his rumbling voice. “Remember that you deserve better.” The boy says nothing, but reaches a hand out to Lily, and the children huddle together uncertainly.

“Lily, Severus, come here please,” Harry says softly, hating himself for what he is about to do. They exchange glances, but do as they are told. Harry looks first at Severus, at this pale neglected moth doomed to flutter into the night. He wants to hug him, but knows the boy won’t appreciate it. He offers a hand instead, and the child solemnly shakes it.

Then Harry turns to his mother. Here he cannot help himself, and he envelops her in a hug, burying his head in her long red hair. For a moment he allows himself to forget the future, and just remember the smell of her hair and the intake of her breath. She is alive, now, and that is as good as it is going to get. “I love you,” he says, her hair muffling his words. He breaks away, and her green eyes are wet. “You are a strange boy,” she whispers.

“I know,” Harry whispers back. He takes out his wand before he can lose his nerve, pointing it at the pair of them. He opens his mouth to deliver the crucial, horrible word:

“Obliviate!”

And then he and Snape are whirling away, Merlin only knows where, maybe to their deaths. Does it matter?

The last thing he hears is Lily’s voice, saying something about it being time for tea, and then a sob catches in Harry’s throat, and he is howling into nothingness as he spins.

Somebody has been decorating the Room in Harry and Snape’s absence. A shiny banner of red and gold letters spelling STAY IN THE PRESENT has been hung from the ceiling, and a large window is now pumping warm sunlight everywhere. Something else is different, too, but Harry can’t put his finger on it. He’s not sure if he cares. He’s not sure what he feels, actually. Relief that they aren’t visiting the Dursleys. Horror that he Obliviated his mum. Exhaustion. He yawns hugely in spite of himself.

“Potter,” says Snape, and his voice is just as weary as Harry feels. “See if you can open the window, will you?” He doesn’t ever bother trying his own magic, which for some reason disturbs Harry.

Harry stumps over to the latest addition and peers through it. The Whomping Willow looks menacingly back at him. He tries Blasting and Cursing the window, but it remains stubbornly closed.

“Try Finite Incantatem,” suggests Snape. “It may be an Atmospheric Charm.”

Harry does so, and the Whomping Willow disappears as though he has turned off a television set. He stares stupidly at the red curtains now framing nothing. Snape huffs in disappointment. “A Charmed view. I should have known.”

“I’ll put it back up,” Harry says. “Dumbledore must have a reason for it.” And besides, the sunlight makes the place less claustrophobic.

The window dealt with, Harry and Snape move as one to the headmaster’s latest cryptic message. They rip the banner down. Silently but efficiently, they tear the letters into tinier and tinier pieces. They do not stop until the banner is confetti.

Then Harry slumps into his hammock, sunlight be damned. He doesn’t know, anyway, whether it is day or night outside. He’s lost all track of time. All he knows is that he has slept in this hammock twice before. He can’t have been here longer than a week. It feels four times that.

Harry falls asleep instantly. He dreams about his mum, the same thing over and over again. Lily keeps coming up to him and asking him round for tea, but she cannot remember his name, and eventually Harry dumps the tea everywhere. And yet it doesn’t feel like a nightmare, and when he wakes the next morning, he feels well-rested.

After showering and breakfasting, Harry and Snape re-examine the perpetually sunny window. There are no students outside of it, ever, and finally they concede that it is merely a decoration put there to torture them.

“Well,” Harry says heavily. “Now what?”

“Now we plot revenge against the headmaster.”

Harry barely cracks a smile. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets. “The Mirror of Erised disappeared. Did you notice?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad it’s gone,” Harry says stoutly, eyes on the floor.

“So am I.”

Harry looks up sharply. “No you aren’t. And neither am I.”

Snape snorts but does not correct him. Harry moodily walks back to his hammock, and is only a little surprised when Snape follows him. They stare at each other, swinging slightly in their stupid purple hammocks, until finally Harry breaks the silence.

“Everything’s different now, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Now we have something in common.”

“Now we have Lily in common,” Snape corrects stiffly.

“We always had Lily in common,” Harry murmurs, looking up at Snape from under his fringe. “I just didn’t know it.”

“I’m not sure I did either,” Snape says with a huff. “But now I have seen that she is your Achilles heel just as much as she is mine.” Snape pauses thoughtfully. “Lily is our greatest weakness, Potter. We must be careful of Dumbledore exploiting it again.”

“I wouldn’t say Lily’s our greatest weakness,” Harry says, surprised. “Some might call her our greatest strength.”

“Spare me Dumbledore’s platitudes,” Snape growls. “What do you believe we have in common now, if not Lily?”

“Severus.”

Snape flinches and then almost comically rolls his eyes. “Rita Skeeter would have a field day with this mess. Can you imagine the headlines?”

“Adversaries Share Troubled Childhoods,” Harry suggests.

“Potter and the Potions Master: Putting their Pathetic Pasts Behind Them.”

Harry laughs in spite of himself. “Or Are They?” He mocks, tacking on Rita’s favorite expression.

Snape sighs. “Well, that really is the question, isn’t it.” He looks properly at Harry now, and there is something like an apology in his eyes. “We always had Severus in common too, Potter. I just didn’t know it.”

Harry offers him a sad little smile. “I’m beginning to think, Professor, that what we don’t know could fill a book.”

“A book written by Dumbledore,” Snape adds sourly. Then he scowls. “Whatever our shared background, however, I must add that I have little in common with Severus now.”

Harry cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“Severus is dead, Potter. I killed him the day I became a Death Eater.”

Harry can think of no good response to this. “Oh.”

“And I wasn’t sad to see him go, either,” Snape adds, eyes faraway. “Because he didn’t have any power. And now I did. I vowed to myself that I would never be powerless again. And that meant—well, I would say my first act as a Death Eater was to throw Severus into an unmarked grave.”

“Oh,” Harry says again. He drags his toe along the floor, thinking. He can’t help but picture Snape—a big, bullying, terrifying Potions Master Snape—drawing his wand on a grubby, frightened little boy with bright red trainers. “Was it worth it?”

“I put him out of his misery,” Snape mutters. “Some would call that mercy.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry answers. His scuffed shoe finds the red and gold remains of the banner, and he idly pushes the pieces as he thinks. Could he pull the same trick and distance himself forever from the little boy thrown in a cupboard? Would he even want to?

“You know, it’s funny,” Harry says slowly. “The part of yourself that you say you killed? I think that’s the bit of me Dumbledore prizes most.” He pauses. “Like you said before.”

“Did I?”

“‘The mystery ingredient that would keep me humble, keep me hungry, keep me sharp,’” Harry quotes. “Harry Potter as Strength Serum, remember?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Less than a week,” Harry says heavily. “I counted last night.”

Snape hunches over, and his long hair falls into his face. “I don’t think either of us got it right, Potter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I tried to cut my past out of myself. But that leaves a scar.” Snape sweeps the hair out of his face and stares right at Harry. “And Dumbledore has scarred you as well, and I don’t mean with a lighting bolt. He’s carving your past into you…to ensure you become champion of the downtrodden. Thus he sends you back to the Dursleys, summer after summer. He doesn’t want you to forget them. Ever.”

“I think the Dursleys scarred me more than Dumbledore,” Harry points out, alarmed at the bitterness in Snape’s voice. Dumbledore isn’t perfect, by any means, but Harry still isn’t sure he believes Snape’s interpretation of events.

“Dumbledore has no use for a normal child,” Snape snarls. “He needs a warrior, and those don’t usually come from houses with picket fences, now do they?”

“The Dursleys had a picket fence.”

“You know what I mean.”

Harry massages his brow. “Can we not talk about Dumbledore?”

“You brought him up,” Snape snaps. “The point I was trying to make, Potter, is that we both deserved different childhoods.” And then Snape comes out and says it, and Harry knows for sure how much things have changed between them. “Someone should have kept both of us safe from the abuse and from the neglect. Severus should have never existed in the first place. For either of us.”

Harry reluctantly lets the truth of this inside him. He doesn’t want to think about…that. He learned a long time ago that nobody was ever going to come and save him. “Well, what’s done is done, I guess.”

“For me, at least,” Snape concedes, an odd gleam in his eye.

Harry frowns, wondering what the hell that means. But he cannot bring himself to ask, so instead he tackles another subject. “You seemed awfully sure, in the forest, that I was the only one who could defeat Voldemort. And it kind of sounded like you meant now. Not just when I was a baby.”

Snape merely looks at him.

“Why so quiet?” Harry snaps. Snape maintains his silence, however, and part of Harry is relieved. He has his suspicions about why Dumbledore would need a warrior in the first place. Sometimes, the way Dumbledore looks at him—or used to look at him, anyways—it’s like Harry is his prize dragon that he must train up for battle. And Harry can imagine only one war, and one enemy, that Dumbledore would be interested in defeating.

Maybe it’s better not to know for sure.

But Harry doesn’t feel like telling Snape that. “I bet you don’t know,” he can’t help but taunt. “I bet Dumbledore hasn’t told you anything about my role in the war.”

A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitches and Harry waits on tenterhooks for his professor to respond. Is Snape going to tell him that he’s the only one who can kill Voldemort? Or is he going to tell Harry to stop being such an arrogant Gryffindor?

Snape does neither. Instead he stands up, face impassive, and begins to rummage in the trunk for tea things.

“Fine,” Harry mutters. “Don’t tell me.” But to his dismay, this comes out more like a plea than anything else. He clamps his disloyal mouth shut and folds his arms over his chest.

Finally, Snape speaks. It is not the great revelation Harry has been dreading, however. “Tea?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry sighs. He lopes over to Snape and takes the offered cup. “Thanks.”

Snape takes a sip and surveys Harry over the rim. “Let me see your Potions homework.”

Harry goggles at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve had more than enough time to complete it.”

Harry snorts. “Oh, yes, between the Mirror of Erised, Occlumency lessons, getting burned by your wand, and, oh yeah, time-traveling, I’ve had loads of spare time.”

Snape raises a threatening eyebrow. “Are you implying that your homework is incomplete?”

Harry cannot even remember. “Hold on,” he says, flustered. “Let me go find it.” He puts his cup down with a clatter and rifles around the Room until he discovers the forgotten parchment underneath his hammock. A nice black footprint is stamped right across the title, Cross Species Substances and Multi-Use Salves. Harry Banishes the footprint and flips through the essay.

“Well?” says Snape sternly. “Is it done or not?”

“Not.”

“Finish it.”

“Now?”

“Pray do not make me repeat myself.”

Harry looks at his professor in astonishment. Here they are talking about Voldemort and the war and important things and Snape wants him to work on some dumb essay?

“What are you waiting for?” Snape demands. “If it’s not done in an hour, I’m assigning you lines.”

Harry plants his hands on his hips. “You think I care about lines?”

“The clock is ticking.”

Harry cannot help but laugh at this whole stupid situation. Just when he thinks he has Snape figured out, he does something weird like this. “Fine,” he says, deciding to play along. “But there isn’t any clock in here.”

Nevertheless, Harry works quickly on the essay, knowing that Snape can decide time is up any old time he likes. And, despite what he said earlier, Harry has no desire to do lines…or to fight with Snape over doing lines. So instead he scribbles away about Cross Species Substances and the Troll Exception and the fifth use of dragon’s blood. He has just given it a final once-over when Snape softly clears his throat.

Harry blinks, coming back to himself. He hasn’t thought about his mum, or Voldemort, or even about Snape for the last hour. Just about potions. And, though he’ll never tell his professor this, the break was kind of great. He’d forgotten, held prisoner in this Room, that there is another side to him out in the real world. A less interesting side, probably. One that is mostly concerned with friends and Quidditch and homework and girls.

He gets up and gives Snape the essay. While Snape marks it, Harry can’t help but brood over this schoolboy part of himself. He has been chasing this bit of boring normalcy ever since he came to Hogwarts, but it has proven a most elusive Snitch. Dumbledore probably doesn’t care about this side to Harry at all—he has no use for a normal child—but to Harry, in some ways it is the most crucial bit of all.

“You forgot thestral saliva. It can be used in potions made for both humans and goblins.”

“Huh?” Harry jumps slightly, startled out of his reverie. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Other than that, this is…acceptable.”

Harry perks up. “You’re giving me an A?”

“You are pleased with the lowest pass grade?”

“You never pass me,” Harry says dryly, taking the essay back. “I’m keeping this one as evidence.” He skims the essay, reading Snape’s spiky black corrections. There are many of them. “I don’t remember reading anything about thestral saliva in the book.”

“You are meant to apply things you’ve learned from other classes, Potter. I know Hagrid has covered thestrals with you.”

“Yeah, well, Umbridge was inspecting that lesson,” Harry grumbles. “And you know what she’s like, she went on about how the Ministry thinks thestrals are dangerous. They did look like they wanted to take a bite out of her, but I don’t think she could even see them, so she didn’t have much of a point, really.”

Snape looks closely at Harry. “You see the thestrals?”

“Yes,” Harry says, puzzled. “And they aren’t dangerous, not for Hagrid.”

“Have you always been able to see them?”

This is rather a personal question, but Harry can sort of understand why Snape wants to know. “No. Only this year. After, um, the graveyard.”

“I see.”

“That was an odd lesson all around,” Harry says uncomfortably, eager to change the subject. “I got mad at Hermione afterwards because she said she wished she could see the thestrals.”

Snape snorts. “That girl’s thirst for knowledge is insatiable. I wouldn’t put it past her to poison someone in the name of raising her average.”

Harry scowls. “That’s not funny.” He glares at Snape. “I know you can see them.”

“Of course,” Snape says sardonically. “I would venture that I can see thestrals better than most.”

“Because you’ve seen so many people die?” Harry snaps, still seething over the jibe at Hermione.

Snape does not rise to the bait. “No. Because my wand core is thestral hair.”

“It is?”

“Fitting, isn’t it.”

Harry grins. “Yeah, a great skeletal black horse hair seems kind of perfect for you.”

Snape does not smile. “My mother thought so as well. She told me outside Ollivander’s that thestrals were unlucky and so was I.”

The grin slides off Harry’s face. “That’s not what I meant, Professor.”

“No? I assure you, you would not be the first to think so. Most wizards equate seeing a thestral with seeing the Grim.”

“I don’t believe any of that stuff,” Harry says hotly, feeling a familiar surge of irritation at anything remotely connected to Divination.

Snape goes on as though he has not heard Harry. “Your dear father, for one, liked to tell people I had to become a Death Eater because of my wand. My ‘death stick’ he liked to call it.”

Harry stifles another surge of irritation. As the days go by, he finds less and less to admire about his father. “Hagrid says thestrals are dead useful and clever, and I’d believe him over Trelawney any day. Besides, who says you have to have anything in common with your wand core? I don’t.”

“Phoenixes are known for their ability to carry great burdens.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m the only one who can kill Voldemort?” Harry snaps.

“There is more than one kind of burden, Potter.”

“Well, thestrals can carry heavy things too,” Harry says sourly. “So that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Except, perhaps, that we are both burdened by something.”

This philosophical crap is starting to annoy Harry. “Thestrals are supposed to have a great sense of direction, but I don’t see you leading the way out of this Room.”

“No,” Snape says quietly. “If I had had a better sense of direction, I would never have become a Death Eater.”

“Stop speaking in riddles!” Harry orders. “You sound like Dumbledore.”

“Merlin forbid.”

“Voldemort has Fawke’s other feather for his wand core,” Harry argues, determined to make his point. “And he’s nothing like a phoenix.”

“Many would say he came back from the dead.”

“Well, I haven’t!”

“No.” Snape cocks his head. “But you can Heal yourself just as well as a phoenix tear.”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Harry demands. “So maybe we are like our wands. Big deal!” He sizes up Snape, and a light goes on inside his head. “And, anyways, Professor, I don’t think you can blame becoming a Death Eater on a thestral hair.”

“Be careful, Potter,” Snape warns, his voice a tight knot.

“This is really a sore spot for you, isn’t it?” Harry says, amazed. “Here I am, going around with Voldemort’s brother-wand, and YOU are worried about what your wand core says about you? Until I exhibit tendencies to become the next Dark Lord…shut up about it.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.” The professor balls up his fists, and Harry is oddly reminded of a much younger Snape.

Harry looks at him unsympathetically. “You aren’t the Grim Reaper because your wand has thestral hair in it, Professor. You just aren’t.”

“I have killed many,” Snape snarls. “I have led many to their deaths. I have led the only—”

Snape breaks off, and all the fight seems to go out of him. “The wand chooses the wizard, Potter,” he says finally. “Allow me the delusion that I can blame…certain events…on things beyond my control.”

“No,” Harry protests. “You are making it sound like you had no choice but to go Dark. That’s not right.”

Snape curls a lip. “I wouldn’t expect a Gryffindor to understand.”

Harry huffs in frustration. “You had a choice to join Voldemort. That’s what you said to me before. It has nothing to do with your stupid wand. You chose to—”

“I KNOW WHAT I CHOSE TO DO, POTTER!” Snape roars. “I KNOW WHAT I’VE DONE—WHAT I CAN NEVER MAKE RIGHT—” He stops, struggling for breath, agony lining his face. “And I know, Potter, that my mother was right. I am unlucky.”

“Cedric was unlucky,” Harry returns fiercely. “You were a Death Eater.”

Snape bows his head.

“You also chose to turn spy,” Harry softly points out. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

Harry throws up his hands. “I don’t understand you!”

Snape stands up and takes a step towards Harry. His voice is quiet, soft, even. “Leave it alone, Potter. There are things—things you do not want me to tell you. And—if in the darkest hour of the night, I tell myself that it couldn’t be helped, that my wand was cursed, that I was doomed from the start—then it is none of your business.”

“Fine,” Harry growls. “I don’t think that’s right, but fine. I suppose this is one of those things we don’t have in common. I’ll add it to the list.” Despite his words, however, Harry cannot just let the subject drop. He takes out his wand and thrusts it toward Snape. Before he can make his point, though, Snape reaches out and knocks it to the ground.

“I wasn’t going to curse you!” Harry says furiously, snatching the wand back up. Again, he holds out his wand. “Look at it. It’s just a piece of wood, Professor. That was my point.”

“You hold the most important wand in the world out to me, and insist it is just a piece of wood?”

“You are determined to have this your way, aren’t you?”

Snape shrugs.

“I’ll give you this,” Harry allows, struggling to find common ground. “I bet this is why I couldn’t use both of our wands at once. Phoenixes and thestrals are opposites, when you think about it. Like…seeing a thestral means you’ve seen death. And watching a phoenix means you’ve watched the cycle of life.”

“You couldn’t use two wands at once because magic doesn’t work that way,” Snape snarls. “And, Potter, when you watch a phoenix, you watch the cycle of death.”

“Aren’t we morbid,” Harry mutters, pocketing The Most Important Wand In The World. “So do you think a phoenix actually watches itself die?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“I was wondering if phoenixes can see thestrals.”

Snape looks at Harry for a long beat, and then throws back his head and barks with laughter. He doubles over, roaring, until he is gasping from the effort. “I—I am going mad in here.” Still bent over, he stumbles towards Harry and pokes him in the chest. “And so are you.”

“No we aren’t,” Harry says uncomfortably.

“Well, I am,” gasps Snape, still laughing. “Imprisoned in here—reliving my past—reliving my sins—with you as my jury—with Lily’s son as my jury—I cannot endure it.” He pokes his finger in Harry’s chest, harder this time, all levity gone. “You are not be endured. With your eyes—and your questions—you ask so many questions that I do not want to answer—and your bloody Gryffindor perfection—you cannot understand a sinner like me. You cannot!”

“I understand some things,” Harry replies, looking uncertainly at his professor. “I mean, I think I understand why you wanted me to Obliviate Lily.”

“Stop it!” Snape yells. “Stop being so bloody understanding! You should hate me—for what I’ve done to you, for what I’ve done to-to-people you care about!” He strides to the door and begins to bang on it. “The password is Acid Pops—Cockroach Cluster—Fizzing Whizbees—Basilisk Fang—OPEN! WHY WON’T YOU OPEN?!” He glares at the door, panting heavily, and throws himself against it. “OPEN THIS DOOR, DUMBLEDORE! YOU CANNOT IMPRISON ME!”

Snape scrabbles at the wall with his fingers, prying at any little hold. His voice turns soft, petulant, like a child’s. “Headmaster? Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t I done as you asked?” He leans his cheek against the heavy wood, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You--you are no better than the Dark Lord.” And then he gives the door a hard kick, rage suffusing his face. “I cannot stay here—this cannot be borne—I am going mad!”

Harry has had enough.

“Close your eyes,” he orders Snape. The professor only twitches, his feet shuffling in agitation. Harry strides closer, and pokes him hard in the chest. “Close your eyes! I’m going to help you.”

Snape gives a ragged gasp and closes his eyes.

Harry takes this opening. “Imagine you are on a hill. It’s not any place in particular—just the countryside—but the sky is blue and crisp and windy. It’s just turning into autumn. The grass is tickling your calves. You can hear chimes in the distance—it’s a high, clear sound, and it’s clean like water. Take a deep breath. Feel how nice it is?” Harry pauses, eyeing Snape. He is calmer now, but by no means still. “You start to swing your arms in the air, just to hear the whooshing sound it makes. But your hands meet resistance. It’s like the air is thicker around you—sort of solid—sort of like a block of fog. You bounce up into the air a bit, and then you shove the rubbery air again. And now you are in the air—now you are flying—flapping your arms really hard—and then it gets easier because you catch the current of the wind. You spread your arms out and glide along the countryside.”

Snape turns his face upwards.

“Good, yes, that’s it. Now you are flying through the clouds—they are warm and squashy like balloons. But they taste like snow. You dip lower until you are level with the ground, and then you drop your arm down so your fingers skim the grass. The grass feels like a cat’s tongue on your skin.” Harry closes his own eyes, lost in the picture he is conjuring. “The sun is warm on your back. You shoot up like an arrow, getting closer and closer to the sun until it snaps and pops like fire in your eyes. Then you shoot back down and you glide into a pond to cool off. The water is cold and sparkly. Then you dart back out and do loops in the sunshine to dry off. Everything is good. Everything is quiet. Everything is yours.”

A long silence falls, but to Harry it is a comfortable one. He lies on the ground, hands behind his head, and flies. Snape sinks to the floor next to him, rolling his neck and shoulders, the wildness slowly draining out of him.

A minute—or an hour—later, Snape speaks. His voice is hoarse.

“You need a broom to fly, Potter.”

Harry doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “I didn’t know that when I was five, did I?”

Snape doesn’t reply, and Harry lets the silence lull him into a doze. But then his professor jerks him out of it again. “You made this up when you were locked in your cupboard.”

Harry rolls onto his side, propping his head up with his elbow. “Yeah.”

“To pass the time?”

“So I wouldn’t go mad.”

Snape sighs in a long-suffering sort of way. “I see.”

“Flying is the best thing in the world,” Harry says dreamily. “With or without a broom.”

“When we get out of this prison,” Snape drawls, “And after we kill Dumbledore, the first thing I’m doing is going flying.”

“I can give you lessons if you like,” Harry says cockily.

Snape looks at him with something almost like affection, or maybe gratitude, in his eyes. “Sure of that, are you, Evans?”

Harry sits up, suddenly wide awake. “What did you just call me?”

“Potter!” Snape snaps, looking half-amused, half-disgusted with himself. “I called you Potter!”

Harry shakes his head. “You’ve gone mad. It’s official.”

Snape does not disagree.

Harry puts down his quill. He skims the parchment with one eye and keeps the other one on his professor.

No change.

Snape is still slumped in the corner, nursing a drink. He’s been nursing the same drink for hours. He won’t look up, not even when Harry stands in front of him and yells, which happened about thirty minutes in. He just stares into the drink, robe draped around him like a shield.

And this worries Harry, worries him more than the screaming and the banging did. Silence is often the prelude to something bad, and Harry doesn’t relish discovering what fresh hell is in store for him next. And he can’t shake the feeling that Snape has given up.

And so Harry keeps one eye on his professor and the other on his parchment. So far it reads:

A Place For Warriors

Tap Your Weapons

Desire Is A Battle

United Are The Victors

Stay In The Present

Now, what that lot means, Harry can’t say. But it seems reasonable to keep a record of all of Dumbledore’s cryptic messages. And since apparently Harry is the only reasonable one left in this Room, it is up to him to update the list.

Harry sighs gustily, hoping to annoy Snape into doing something. He supposes he could stir Snape up with a little magic, but he really, really doesn’t want to go there. As long as Snape doesn’t look crazy—and he doesn’t, he just looks sad—then Harry will let the man be.

But the silence is becoming unbearable. So Harry employs another little cupboard trick—he’s got loads of them—and begins to hum softly to himself. It’s tuneless, really, but it does the job.

And then another voice joins in.

Harry looks sharply over at Snape, but his professor’s lips are still clamped shut against any more slips of the tongue.

Harry stops humming, but the other voice continues. It’s high pitched but not feminine. He whirls around in a circle, heart pounding, wondering whether he is starting to hear voices.

“Up here, silly boy.”

Harry cranes his head up, and something black and flimsy falls onto his face. Harry snatches it off with a yell and hurls it across the Room.

The Sorting Hat chuckles.

“You!” Harry says furiously. “What do you want?”

The Hat clears its throat importantly and breaks into song:

There’s nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can’t see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

“I know where I ought to be,” Harry says crossly. “And, I’ll give you a hint: it’s not in this stupid Room. Listen, Hat, can you get us out of here?” He points at Snape, who has not looked up once during this conversation. “Snape here is going a little, er, stir crazy.”

“There’s nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can’t see,” repeats the Hat. “Why don’t you put me on your friend there, eh? I’ll tell you if he’s gone mad.”

“My friend?” Harry says blankly. “You mean Professor Snape?

The Hat laughs again and croons a couple of oddly familiar lines to Harry:

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffindor?

“I really wish you would stop speaking in riddles,” Harry says, annoyed. “We’ve had quite enough of them.”

The Hat smiles pleasantly, immediately reminding Harry of Dumbledore. Bowing to the inevitable, Harry sighs and crosses his arms. “So do you have a message from Dumbledore or something?”

“Put me on your head and find out,” the Hat chirps.

“Oh, fine,” Harry grumbles. He lopes over to the Hat and stuffs it over his messy hair.

“I can get you out of here,” the Hat whispers in an entirely different, urgent voice, right in Harry’s ear. “But you need the sword.”

Harry’s whole body stiffens. “The sword? The sword of Godric Gryffindor?”

“Yes.”

Harry licks his lips, trying to stop himself from getting too excited. “Can you give it to me?”

“Only in times of true need will I produce the sword,” the Hat reminds Harry.

“But…you gave it to me before; doesn’t that mean I can get it again?” Harry pleads. “Come on, I know there isn’t a basilisk in here trying to kill me, but—but we really want to get out of here!”

“Exactly,” the Hat says mournfully. “You want to leave. You do not need to leave. I cannot aid you unless the situation becomes truly desperate.”

“I thought you were going to help!” Harry says furiously, almost stomping his foot in frustration. “How desperate does it have to get in here?! Snape is going nutters and I’m not far behind!”

“But you are not in life-threatening danger,” the Hat says apologetically.

“That’s all that matters to Dumbledore, isn’t it?” Harry growls, clenching and unclenching his fists so he doesn’t tear up the Hat. “As long as nobody kills me, then there isn’t a problem!”

“Why don’t you create a problem?” the Hat hisses. “Create some danger. You are good at it, aren’t you? Every year you come into the headmaster’s office, nearly dead from something or other!”

Before Harry can respond to this shocking bit of advice, the Hat sighs, sending a cool trickle of air down Harry’s neck. “In any case, I’m meant to tell you the following:

The sun is a ball of fire

We need fire in times of war

Choices are made when times are dire

And war is dire, so the sun closed a door.

The sun is a star with many beams

But the rays never seek without hope

The heat is worse than it seems

And together you will learn to cope.

A long silence follows this declaration. Riddles have never been Harry’s forte, particularly, but this one seems fairly straightforward. Harry takes the Hat off and strides over to the window. The dazzling, ever-present sunlight makes him squint. He yanks the curtains shut, and darkness envelops him.

“So what do you think?” The Hat calls, sounding very pleased with itself.

“I think Dumbledore’s ego has gotten a little puffed up,” Harry answers shortly.

“Anything else?”

Harry turns tired eyes on the Hat. “You aren’t a bloody Sphinx. Unless you can give me the sword, then you should just go back to the headmaster.”

“I think your friend should put me on.”

“He’s not my…” Harry’s voice trails off. “Well, it’s really up to him, isn’t it?”

Harry picks up the Hat and walks over to Snape. He kneels down so he is eye-level with his professor. “Professor? Do you want to put on the Hat?”

Snape stares into his mug. Gently, Harry pries his fingers away from the glass and sets it on the floor. The drink is almost full. Bereft of his distraction, Snape looks up at last and meets Harry’s eyes.

“Professor?” Harry tries again. “I don’t, um, know if you were listening to any of that, but I think it might be a good idea for you to put on the Hat.”

“No.”

This is the first word Harry’s gotten out of the man in hours, but somehow he is not overjoyed. “No?”

“No.”

“The Hat wants you to,” Harry pleads. “I think Dumbledore sent the Hat. Maybe if we do what he wants—”

“That hasn’t worked so far,” Snape says quietly. “I will not debase myself by trying yet again.”

“I think Dumbledore’s feeling guilty,” Harry confides, changing tactics. “That’s basically what the Hat’s riddle meant.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

Snape shrugs. “I don’t want to play anymore, Potter. I’m through with Dumbledore’s games and his riddles and his bloody meddling. I don’t care what he feels, or what messages he sends, or any of the rest of it. I’m through.”

“Oh.” Harry sits back on his heels, considering. “So that’s a no to the Hat, then?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs. He’ll just have to take care of this himself, like everything else. A stupid, possibly brilliant plan is already forming in his head. He retreats to the other end of the Room, steeling himself. Create some danger, eh? He can do that. He always does that without even trying.

Harry takes a big breath. If nothing else, this should shake Snape out of his stupor. He places the Hat on his head as if were a helmet.

“Oooh,” whispers the Hat. “You’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Just be ready with the sword,” Harry growls.

Harry pulls out his wand. Ugh, this is a big risk. Well choices must be made when times are dire and all that. He takes care to point the wand well away from Snape, and then yells “Serpentsortia!”

A huge adder shoots out the end of his wand. Harry clamps his mouth shut so he will not be tempted to use Parseltongue. This snake is a lot bigger than the one Draco conjured their second year. He flings his wand away from him, not even looking to see where it lands. There. He’s recreated the Chamber of Secrets as much as he can, and now he wants the damn sword.

“Potter!” Snape yells, staggering to his feet. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing?”

Harry shakes his head, not trusting himself to say anything that’s not in Parseltongue. He beckons the adder towards him, and the great snake slithers towards him, mouth wide open in a fanged grin. The snake circles Harry lazily, and Snape freezes out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t move!” Snape yells. “Any sudden movement and it might attack!”

So Harry moves suddenly, praying for the sword over and over again as the snake lunges.

Something hits him with a thump, and Harry jumps away from the adder, grabs the sword, and slices the snake’s head off. The horrible thing begins to bleed everywhere, and Harry turns away, sickened, images of the graveyard flashing through his mind.

But he has the sword, and that’s the important thing.

Snape is gaping at Harry. He points an accusatory finger at him. “Explain yourself!”

Harry shrugs. “The Hat said the sword would help us get out of here. So I got us the sword.”

“You nearly got yourself killed,” Snape hisses. “That was a stupid risk to take.”

“Well no harm done,” Harry says crossly. “And you weren’t being much help, were you?”

The stiffness goes out of Snape’s body. “Well, no,” he admits. “I…I do not know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says uncomfortably.

Snape frowns, but, thankfully, changes topics. “The sword will get us out of here? How?”

Harry plops the Hat back on his head. “Well?” he demands of it. “I’ve got the sword, now what?”

“Well done,” the Hat titters. “Now all you have to do is plunge the sword into that trunk over there.”

Harry yells with triumph and runs over to the magic trunk.

“Careful,” Snape cautions. “It may lead to nothing…or to another torture chamber devised by the headmaster.”

“Or it might be the way out,” Harry says gleefully. He really, really wants to get away from the bleeding snake corpse.

“Try it,” Snape says doubtfully. He has fresh lines around his eyes, and Harry wonders if they are the price of his melancholy fit.

Harry flips open the lid to the magic trunk and plunges the sword deep into it. For a moment, nothing happens. And then the sword springs out of Harry’s hand, as thought it has been filled with magic, and hurtles towards one of the walls. The sword smashes into the stone, and, amazingly, begins to gouge a hole into it. It disappears from view, clearly digging some sort of tunnel. Harry puts his hands over his ears, witnessing this destruction in silence. It seems fitting, somehow, that the sword isn’t simply unlocking the door.

Nothing about this experience has been simple.

The scraping and gouging goes on forever. Finally the clanging noises stop, and they hear the sword drop with a clatter.

The sword has dug them a way out.

“I wonder where it leads to,” Harry breathes, poking his head into the tunnel. In his eagerness, he notices neither the drawing above the entrance, nor the tiny words scribbled below it. “You don’t think its going to make us time travel again, do you?” He withdraws from the tunnel, turning back to look at Snape, but the man is frozen, a funny expression on his face.

“Well?” Harry says. “Let’s get our stuff and get the hell out of here!”

Snape throws back his head and laughs.

“What’s wrong?” Harry demands.

“You do not see?” Snape asks, shaking his head. He cups his hands over his mouth and yells in the direction of the tunnel. “WELL DONE, ALBUS!”

“What’s wrong?” Harry repeats nervously.

Snape sobers and turns to Harry, a sad smile on his lips. He points at something drawn above the tunnel. Harry looks at Snape and then looks at the drawing. It is an image of the Gryffindor crest.

“So?” Harry demands. “I’m not a Slytherin but I still got into the Chamber of Secrets.”

Snape snorts. Without further ado, he strides towards the tunnel. However, once he gets within several feet of it, he smashes into an invisible barrier. He slams his hands on it, shoving against it with all his might, but he cannot pass the barrier.

“Try again,” Harry whispers, struggling against the implications of this. “Try thinking like, um, a Gryffindor.”

Snape purses his lips. “The Sorting Hat had no trouble sorting me, Potter.” Nonetheless, he begins patting his hands against the invisible barrier once more, his eyebrows narrowing. But nothing happens. He cannot reach the tunnel.

“You should have put the Hat on,” Harry sighs. “That’s why it won’t let you in!”

“It won’t let me in,” Snape says dryly, “Because I am not a Gryffindor.”

“Well put the Hat on now!” Harry wheels around frantically, looking for the patched thing, but it seems to have disappeared into thin air. Harry curses.

“Language,” Snape says mildly. “Have a good journey, Potter. Do owl me a postcard.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” Harry says flatly. “Hang on. Let me get my wand. Maybe I can Blast through the barrier.” He fishes into his pocket, but his wand isn’t there.

“My wand’s gone!” He looks up at Snape, eyes wide, before he remembers—he threw it away from the snake.

Harry races around the Room, giving the snake corpse a wide berth, heart in his throat. But he cannot find his wand anywhere. “Accio wand!” he says finally, at a loss, berating himself for tossing it away.

“It’s gone,” Snape says quietly. “I heard the pop when it disappeared. You were beheading the snake.”

“What?” Harry squawks, unable to process this. “My wand’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, Potter,” Snape says, real empathy in his eyes.

“Let me use yours!” Harry says furiously, blinking back a sudden urge to cry. “Or you use it!”

Snape pulls out the thestral wand, but it refuses to do any spells for him. Harry snatches it out of his hand and tries a few of his own, but the stupid thing is…no more than a stick of wood. Harry runs over to the magic trunk, thinking he can somehow fill up the wand with magic like he did with the sword. But—

“The trunk’s gone!” Harry yells, flabbergasted. “How can it be gone?” His wand arm falls uselessly to his side. Desperately, he tries to channel his magic enough so he can do some wandless magic, but he’s never learned how to and anyhow he can feel the Room blocking him.

Snape gently pries his wand out of Harry’s clenched fist. “This is rather curious.”

“Curious?” Harry snaps. “Our food is gone!”

“No matter. You are leaving.”

“I’m not leaving you in here,” Harry returns. “Especially not without food.”

“Have you forgotten the washroom?” Snape says mildly. “I still have water.”

“Look again,” Harry growls, no longer surprised by anything. Snape turns, a knowing look already in his eyes.

“Ah,” Snape says softly. “That’s gone too.”

“Room!” Harry bellows, panic bubbling within him. “I need you to stop disappearing! I need you to bring back the food and water!” He pauses, gulping in a breath, senses taut as he waits for something to happen. “Okay, then I need you to let Snape past the barrier and into the Gryffindor Tunnel! Or can you at least bring the Sorting Hat back? Please?” But the Room has turned a deaf ear to him, and Harry can’t help but feel betrayed. “Room!” Harry urges, voice cracking. “Come on!”

But nothing happens. In fact, in front of Harry’s very eyes, the hammocks fade out of existence. And now they are right back to where they started. The Room looks just as it did when they first entered—empty, useless, desolate.

Well, not completely empty—the window is still there. The stupid window is still piping sunlight into the Room. Harry distinctly remembers closing the curtains, but of course the curtains are gone now too. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and Harry sinks to his knees. “It’s all gone,” he says, bewildered. “I listened to the Hat, and now everything is gone.” He pounds his fist onto the ground. “That Hat tricked me! I can’t believe I fell for it! What good is it, giving us an escape route we can’t both use?”

“Dumbledore tricked you,” Snape softly corrects. “And it was masterfully done, if I do say so myself.”

“Masterfully done?” Harry says furiously. “It’s evil, that’s what it is! Evil and cruel! How can you say it’s masterfully done?”

“Because,” Snape says mildly, “The headmaster has forced my hand. You will see why, soon enough. Now, come on, off you go. I hope, for your sake, that the tunnel does not lead anywhere nefarious.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.”

“Yes, you are,” Snape disagrees. “I’ll manage, Potter. I’m not completely useless.”

Harry looks at him doubtfully. This from the man who has spent the last twenty fours going around the bend? “Without food? Without water? Without company?”

Snape folds his arms across his chest. “Do you really think so little of me? If you could manage all that as a small child, for days on end, then I assure you I can do the same.” He smirks. “And this cupboard is rather roomier than yours, don’t you think?”

“It’s different when you’re alone,” Harry whispers, taking a step forward. “It was always the worst—for me—when they stuffed me in there and then drove away.”

“There are many kinds of isolation,” Snape says dryly. “And, I assure you, I’ve experienced them all. Now come on, get out of here.”

“I can’t,” Harry says firmly. “It’s too big of a risk. You might die in here. Who knows how long it will take me fetch help? Or what if I can’t get back? We’ll find another way.”

Snape does not look terribly surprised. “You really are a Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

Harry shrugs. “Would you leave me in here?”

Snape traces his jaw with his finger. “No.”

“Well, then,” Harry says. “It’s settled.”

“No,” Snape says calmly. “We will not waste away here waiting for someone to rescue us. You are the Gryffindor, Potter. Act like it.”

“I got the sword, didn’t I?” Harry snaps.

“Come on, Potter,” Snape says impatiently. “I would think you couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

A faint blush pinks Harry’s cheeks. “You haven’t been…so bad.”

Snape smiles at him, one of his rare genuine smiles, and his voice is husky when he responds. “I wish I could say the same about you.”

Harry ducks his head.

“That is why,” Snape says quietly, “I regret what I am about to do.” He looks at Harry shrewdly. “This is your last chance, Potter. Leave of your own free will, or I will make you.”

“With magic?” Harry retorts, before remembering their Muggle-like state. “Oh. You mean by force.”

Snape snorts. “I would if I could. But I rather think the barrier is preventing me from shoving you into the tunnel.”

“Then you can’t make me leave,” Harry says sharply.

Snape takes a deep breath. “Yes, I can.”

Snape squares his shoulders and schools his expression into something cold and flinty. Harry actually takes a step backward, chilled by the transformation. This is the Snape who makes Hermione and Neville cry.

Snape looks right into Harry’s eyes. “Fourteen years ago, in my duties as a Death Eater, I overhead part of a prophecy made by Sibyll Trelawney. A real prophecy, not her normal nonsense. She said ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’ At this point, my presence was detected and I was thrown from the building, so I did not hear the rest of the prophecy. I still do not know it. Dumbledore has not seen fit to share it with me.”

“How does Dumbledore know the rest of it?” Harry asks, dread forming a knot inside of him.

“Trelawney made the prophecy to him. I, in turn, informed the Dark Lord of my discovery. He decided that the prophecy applied to you or to Neville Longbottom. He chose to kill you first. At this point I realized my terrible mistake in telling him what I heard. He meant to kill you—kill your parents. He agreed to spare Lily as long as you were dead. And I agreed.” Snape pauses, ice in his eyes. “I did not try and stop him from killing you, Potter. Just her.” He waits for that to sink in before continuing. “But I did not trust the Dark Lord to keep his word, and so I appealed to Dumbledore, asking him to hide her. Only her. He said he would keep you all safe, and I in return told him I would do anything for him.” Ugly anger flashes across his face for a minute, before the cold mask returns. “That was the moment, Potter, that my allegiances changed. But—it was all in vain. Wormtail betrayed the location of your house. The Dark Lord killed your father. He killed your mother. And he tried to kill you.” Snape points a finger at Harry. “It is because of me that you have no parents, Potter. I led them to their deaths when I told the Dark Lord of the prophecy.”

Harry puts a hand to his forehead. He must have a fever, because everything is oddly sharp and vivid, and there is a thick ringing in his ears, and he’s dizzy. But his forehead is cold and bloodless, even his lightning scar. His fingers brush over its familiar raised edges.

Snape isn’t done yet. His voice turns low and malicious. “You told me that your uncle once left you at the dump. Too bad your parents were dead, eh? They would have saved you from all that.”

“You—you were under Veritaserum when I told you that,” Harry whispers.

“No,” Snape says viciously. “I was not. I tricked you.”

And now Harry feels the first sting of betrayal. Odd, he thinks dully, that this small thing would hurt so much more than the other. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“No?” Snape replies. “You gave me so many useful pieces of information, I am afraid I am going to have to disagree.” Snape raises an eyebrow. “And now I am returning the favor, Potter, and giving you information. Why are you not thanking me?”

Harry just stares at him.

“Were it not for me, Potter, the Dark Lord would never have had the slightest inclination to seek out your family.” Snape spreads his arms wide. “Now do you really want to be in the same room with me? Is that what your parents would want you to do? Stay in the room with their killer? Is that what you want, Potter?”

“I want—” Harry begins, but then he shuts his mouth. What does he want? He wants the buzzing in his ears to stop. He wants—

Oh, hell.

He never gets what he wants.

Snape smiles, a cold mirthless sneer that reminds Harry of the adder. “Do you remember when you asked me to tell you something nice about your father? When I was meant to be under Veritaserum?”

Harry nods, unable, apparently, to speak.

“Do you remember what I told you? I told you that James used to call you Fawn. Fawn was his special name for you.” Snape pretends to look sympathetic. “But you don’t remember him calling you that, do you? Pity. If the Dark Lord had waited just a bit longer, you might have some real memory of it—”

The rest of his sentence is lost, because Harry punches him right in the nose. Snape staggers back, taking the blow in silence. He makes no effort to mop up the blood streaming from his face.

Harry shakes off his bruised knuckles, watching impassively. Now, he thinks dully, now they have each broken the other’s nose.

But they aren’t even. Not unless Harry goes out and kills Snape’s parents.

And even then, they wouldn’t be even.

“I’m ready to leave now,” Harry says tightly, dredging the words up from deep inside himself.

Snape gestures towards the tunnel, hair lank against his face. “Go.”

Harry marches past Snape and climbs into the tunnel. Soon, he disappears from view.

Snape watches the boy leave. After a few minutes, the sound of him scrabbling through the tunnel fades away. Then there is absolute silence.

Snape stares at the words scribbled under the tunnel entrance:

Keep your eyes on the prize.

He turns away and looks out the window.

Harry pushes his way into the tunnel. It isn’t very spacious, so he must squeeze through on his belly. He wriggles forward like a snake, muck and grime wetly sticking to him. The only sound is his panting, ragged breath, and he focuses on it, blocking everything else out so he doesn’t become claustrophobic in this muddy tube. To his relief, the tunnel gradually becomes wider, and Harry gets on his hands and knees. He awkwardly lumbers forwards, the stone scraping his shins, dust swirling around him. The air in here is disgusting, and soon Harry’s eyes are watering. Finally he stops, tears a strip off his shirt, and wraps it around his nose and mouth like a bandanna. It’s no Bubblehead Charm, but it will have to do.

Harry closes his red-rimmed eyes—they aren’t much use here anyways—and blindly gropes his way onwards. He goes on like this for awhile, until gradually his head stops scraping the ceiling. He pauses, wiping the sweat off his brow, and squints upwards. The tunnel has gotten considerably larger, and Harry gets to his feet, stretching his aching back. He feels like he’s just undergone evolution.

Harry stops long enough only to loosen the kinks in his muscles. He has to keep moving, fast as he can, or else his thoughts will catch up with him. And they cannot catch up with him, because when they do, Harry knows he will break into a thousand pieces. So he breaks into a run, skidding on the damp stone and bumping into the walls.

A rat bangs into Harry’s leg, and Harry yelps in surprise, which in turn leads to a coughing fit. He slows down, wheezing, watching the rat waddle off. Hedwig loves rats. Well, she loves eating them, which is not quite the same thing. Harry’s eyes water again, and he wipes away the wetness, telling himself sternly that it is only the foul air. He doesn’t miss Hedwig that badly, and he certainly isn’t wishing he could bury his head into her feathers right now. Really.

Finally a door swims into his view. Harry quickens his pace even more, stopping only when he spies the sword of Gryffindor. Harry picks it up and uses the sword to push the door open. To his utter relief, it easily swings open.

Harry darts inside, slamming the door behind him. He takes several deep, refreshing breaths. The air in here is much cleaner, and his poor red eyes are practically singing in relief. He rubs at them and then squints blurrily around the room. He’s in a small, circular sort of place. The ceiling is very high and everything is made of stone. No windows or anything. He certainly hasn’t been here before, but he supposes he could be inside one of the small towers. The room is empty except for a big stone basin set on a sturdy pedestal. Harry frowns, searching for the way out, before his eyes land on a small door hidden in the shadows. Excellent.

Harry strides across the room, determined to ignore whatever is inside the basin. He doesn’t want to play Dumbledore’s games any more, either. He has that in common with Snape.

But he’s not going to think about Snape. Or about the prophecy. He’s not going to think about any of it.

Harry sees something familiar out of the corner of his eye, though, and slows down in front of the basin. “My wand!” he exclaims, sticking his hand into the water before he can stop himself. His fingers slide comfortingly over the wood, and he tries to pull his wand out of the water. The basin has other ideas, however, and Harry’s entire body plunges into the liquid, the tower room spinning away into darkness.

Oh, hell.

He’s really starting to hate Pensieves.

Harry lands with an uncomfortable thump. He wearily gets to his feet, wondering in whose memory he has landed. He certainly doesn’t recognize the room. It’s a cozy nursery, empty of inhabitants except for a chubby cat snoring in the corner. There are voices coming from the hallway, though, so Harry pokes his head out of the doorway.

James and Lily are sitting on their sofa, a red and gold quilt draped over their legs, playing with a sturdy toddler. He has a mop of black hair and deep green eyes.

Harry stops short, his breath catching in his throat. His parents both have soppy looks of adoration on their faces, gasping and exclaiming as the baby sticks his hand in his mouth and drools. It’s probably the same look every parent—every good parent—has for his child, but to Harry it is a rare thing, exquisite to behold. Remember this, he tells himself sternly. Remember that they adored you.

He gets closer, kneeling so he can look his baby self in the eye. It’s incredibly weird to see his forehead without the scar on it. Man, he’s glad Snape isn’t here for this particular trip down memory lane. He’d never hear the end of how stupidly besotted James Potter was with his little clone.

But he’s not thinking about Snape.

“That’s enough,” Lily says, poking James in the ribs. “Stop making faces at him. The idea is to make him sleepy, remember?”

“Read him one of your sister’s letters,” James replies, waggling his eyebrows and puffing out his cheeks. “That ought to do the trick.”

His dad’s voice is much deeper than Harry remembers from the other memory. Will his own voice sound the same one day?

Lily laughs. “Her letters aren’t that bad.”

“Oh, yes they are,” James retorts, aiming a red puff of smoke out of his wand. It erupts in the baby’s face, and he giggles hysterically, swatting at the already fading wisps.

His father doesn’t look like a jerk.

A door creaks behind them, and Lily carelessly looks up.

Oh.

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”

Lily scoops the baby up and bolts up the stairs. Harry runs after her. She plops the baby in the crib and starts to shove the dresser against the door. Harry hears a laugh from downstairs and darts to the hallway. Voldemort is laughing, actually laughing, at his father.

Voldemort sneers and aims his wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

And, just like that, Harry’s father is dead. James crumples to the ground. His glasses fall off, and Harry watches them fall to the ground and shatter. His eyes close, and the lines in his face smooth out. James suddenly looks much younger, like a teenager.

Is this what Harry will look like when he dies?

Harry blinks, shaking his head back and forth, desperate to forget the look in his father’s eyes before they closed for the last time. Terror—that’s what it was. Haunted, desperate, animal terror.

Voldemort sweeps past him, and Harry shrinks back, disgusted. Part of him wants to stay in the hallway—but another part wants to bear witness to what comes next. This is the reason, right here, that his life is so effed up.

Voldemort tries to keep his promise to Snape. He tells Lily once, twice, three times to get out the way, but she refuses, her hair a wild halo around her face. She turns her back on Voldemort, draping herself over her child, comforting him. And Voldemort, coward that he is, aims his wand at her back. “Avada Kadavra!”

Lily freezes, exchanging one horrified look of despair with her green-eyed son as she dies. She starts to fall to the ground, and the baby grabs at her red hair. But the strands slide through his grasp just as easily as smoke from his dad’s wand.

And, really, that’s what had happened. His parents had slid through his fingers like water.

The baby plants his hands on the bars of the crib, looking wearily at Voldemort. Harry has to stop himself from lunging in front of the child, to try and protect him from the wand pointing at his face.

“Avadra Kedavra!” Voldemort says for a third time, the slightest trace of fear in his voice.

But this time it doesn’t work. There is a huge, fiery explosion, Voldemort is thrown backwards, and a rip of red appears on the baby’s forehead. The child starts to howl like an animal, banging his fists against the crib, staring at his dead mother. Finally, his gasps slow to a hiccup, and the child is silent.

Everything is quiet now. Voldemort is gone. The house has stopped shuddering, most of the flames have died out, and everything seems frozen in time, waiting for something to happen.

That’s when Hagrid arrives, his great roaring motorbike smashing through the silence. He’s sobbing when he scoops the baby up, sobbing when he puts him in the motorbike, sobbing as they fly away. The baby has finished his sobbing, though. He stopped crying when the flames began to lick at Lily’s body.

Now they are flying through the starry night, Hagrid whispering broken words of comfort to the wide-eyed child. Harry cranes his head downwards, looking at the remains of the house at Godric’s Hallow. The ruin is flecked with gold as the last embers of the explosion fade away.

They land with a screech in front of Number 4, Privet Drive. McGonagall and Dumbledore are both there, the former talking worriedly to the latter. They stop abruptly when they see Hagrid and his tiny charge. Dumbledore gently takes the baby from Hagrid, and the big man collapses into McGonagall’s arms.

Dumbledore peers sorrowfully at the baby over his glasses. He nods once to himself. “Yes,” he murmurs, “I believe it would be prudent.” He takes out his wand and conjures a little goblet. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Dumbledore lifts his wand to the child’s ear and mutters a long, soft incantation of syllables. A silvery thread attaches itself to the wand, and the headmaster draws it away from the child’s ear. The baby reaches out his fist, scrunching up his face as the strand is pulled out. And now the memory is beginning to flicker in and out, in and out, in and out…

The last thing Harry sees is Dumbledore, pocketing the goblet and winking at the toddler.

Harry tumbles to the ground, still clutching his wand. For a moment he just sits there, stunned. Shakily, he gets to his feet.

Then the anger hits.

Harry staggers to the basin. The silver strand of memory floats gently on top of the liquid. Harry whips his wand out, but before he can say any words, the thread shoots out of the water, immediately and forcefully attaching itself to Harry’s wand. Harry raises his wand, opens his mouth and swallows the memory like a bird does a worm. The memory tastes like apple cider and honey and slides oddly down his throat, almost eagerly, like it is anxious to be home. Harry gasps, hunching over, as a flame of agony rips through his stomach.

Perhaps memories aren’t meant to be eaten.

Harry groans, sinking to the ground, writhing. He clamps his hands over his mouth, determined to keep his memory inside of his body, where it should have been all along! Gradually, the urge to vomit passes, and Harry dizzily sits up. The images of his parents dying swirl in his head, finding places to land, where Harry knows they will remain forever.

The Dementors were wrong. They didn’t show him everything.

The Dementors didn’t show him how his father died with a frown on his face. They didn’t show him the sound of Lily’s last breath, or the way Voldemort’s tongue slithered over his teeth as he killed them, or the smell of their burning flesh.

It must be different when you take memories from a baby. Because, apparently, something has remained with Harry—flashes of green light, his mother’s plea for mercy—even after Dumbledore removed the memory.

Some things are engrained too deeply.

Harry blinks back tears. He has so many questions for the headmaster. Why did he remove the memory? Why is he giving it back now? What is he supposed to do with this?

What would Snape think?

Harry sighs and stands up. He picks up the sword and walks wearily to the door. He feels about a thousand years old.

He knows who he will dream about tonight.

And, for a change, it won’t be Cedric who dies.

Harry puts his ear against the door. Soft voices mutter to each other, and he can just pick out the high, reedy voice of Phineas Nigellus. “Be quiet, Fawkes,” the man snaps. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Harry freezes. So. This door leads to Dumbledore’s office.

Harry takes his hand off the knob.

Dumbledore probably expects Harry to walk in, all shaken up over the memory, burning with renewed desire to kill Voldemort. He’ll probably give Harry a very good explanation for everything, and tell him about the prophecy, and maybe even apologize. The headmaster will have Harry all to himself, without any bitter potions professor to interrupt or interfere.

Is this why Dumbledore maneuvered Snape into telling Harry about the prophecy? So he could get Harry alone, right when he’s feeling so raw and shaky?

Harry looks back at the tunnel. He’s got his wand now. He could go back and get Snape. If he wanted to. They could face Dumbledore together.

He’d thought, staggering out of the Room, that what Snape had done was unforgivable.

He’d thought he’d never speak to Snape again. He’d thought he could never overlook the man’s stupid, stupid mistake of blurting out the prophecy to the first dark lord he ran across. Or the fact that Snape had been just fine with Voldemort killing his baby self. Or the fact that Snape has been such a git to him, all these years, even knowing the part he played in orphaning him.

Harry steps away from the door. The fumes from that tunnel must be getting to him, because what he’s about to do makes no sense. Snape is the one who got his parents killed. Not Dumbledore. Snape is the Death Eater, the bully, the selfish man who has only cared about one person his whole stupid life. Not Dumbledore.

And yet.

His parents flash through his mind again—eyes round with anguish, the cat sniffing at their corpses—and something shifts inside of Harry.

He didn’t need to see that memory. That was supposed to have been the one advantage of being so young when his parents died—he was too young to remember their deaths. And now Dumbledore has removed even this paltry consolation.

Harry didn’t need that memory taken from him, and he didn’t need it returned to him.

And now it will haunt him until his dying day.

He cannot forgive Dumbledore this.

Harry mutters the incantation for a Bubblehead Charm.

---

Going through the tunnel is a whole lot easier now that he has his wand. Harry enlarges the tunnel as he goes, and shrinks the sword of Gryffindor so it fits in his pocket. He’s not letting the weapon out of his sight again.

Sooner than he would have liked, he reaches the other end of the tunnel. Harry takes a deep breath of nice, clean air within his fishbowl, and braces himself for another confrontation with Snape. He ducks his head and crawls out of the hole.

Silence.

Snape is curled up on the middle of the floor, his black robes pooled around him. The sunlight from the window eerily illuminates him, casting a halo-like glow around his body. He is clearly unconscious. Harry races over to him, dropping to the ground. Snape has torn off strips of his robes and tied them around his mouth and nose. Just like Harry did to combat the fumes in the tunnel…

Harry looks up. Ominous clouds of muddy black haze have drifted to the ceiling of the Room, bumping languidly into each other. “Evanesco!” Harry shouts, aiming his wand at a batch of them. The clouds disappear, and so Harry Vanishes the rest of them, berating himself for not coming back sooner. How thick could he get? Of course the foul tunnel air was going to drift into the Room! It’s not like there was a door to the tunnel on this end! Just a big hole! And Snape was just stuck in here without any help! And who knows how long he has been breathing the poisoned air?

Harry Vanishes the last of the haze. Then he rounds on the tunnel, sticks his head in, and yells the spell over and over until he is hoarse. He takes the Bubblehead Charm off and sniffs the air around him. It feels much cleaner

Then Harry races back to the still unconscious Snape. The man is pale as death, and just as still. Harry puts his head to the man’s chest, but he does not hear a heartbeat.

“Come on!” he yells frantically at Snape. “Wake up!” Fumbling his wand, he finally points it at Snape’s face. “Aguamenti!” Water spurts out of the wand, drenching Snape, but it does not revive him.

And now Harry grips Snape by his shoulders and shakes him in earnest, finally doing what he couldn’t do in the Pensieve. “Don’t die!” he screams, and he’s not sure who he’s talking about, they all die, it doesn’t matter, they all leave him alone. Harry puts his head on the man’s chest. “Don’t die!” he screams again. “Don’t die!”

The sobs wrench out of Harry’s body. He’s never cried this hard in his life. Finally his sobs peter out, and it helps, somehow to be able to hold the body. He couldn’t touch his parents in the memory, and he would have liked to. His father died alone, and his mother died staring into her baby’s eyes. He’s not sure which way was worse.

Harry cradles Snape’s head in his lap, not caring that his tears are dripping into the man’s hair. Nobody will destroy this corpse. He won’t let any rats near it, and if the Room tries to explode, he will throw his body over Snape’s and protect it from the flames. This body, like Cedric’s, will remain whole.

Then the body groans.

“Professor!” Harry gasps, shocked to his core. Nobody ever comes back! They never come back! No matter how hard he wishes it!

Snape seems to be trying to say something, and Harry leans his ear in close. “Heal…me.”

“How?” Harry squawks. He’s not a medi-wizard! And now Snape is going to die like everybody else, and it will be all Harry’s fault!

“Burned…hands.”

Harry stares dumbly at Snape before something clicks. He’s never thought to Heal anyone else before. He places his hands on Snape’s chest and focuses all his energy on imagining the bad air leaving Snape’s lungs. He usually imagines blisters shrinking, but this seems to do the trick, because in a few minutes Snape begins to breathe easier. Harry keeps his hands on his chest until finally Snape nods and motions for him to stop.

Harry takes a deep breath, exhausted. He’s never Healed for this long before, and it definitely takes more energy with someone else. He slumps forward, too tired to even sit up straight.

Snape blearily looks up at him, surprise etched in every line of his face. “You came back,” he whispers. “You came back for me.”

“I know.”

“You’re the first,” Snape whispers, closing his eyes.

Snape coughs, a weak rasping sound that makes Harry uneasy.

“I need to sit up,” Snape heaves.

Harry gathers up his little remaining strength and pushes himself to his feet. He locks his arms around Snape’s torso, drags the man over to the wall, and props Snape into a sitting position against it. He slides to the ground next to Snape, gasping for breath. Their black heads, inches away from each other, stand in stark contrast to the limestone.

Snape coughs again.

“Need water?”

“Don’t you dare do magic.”

“But do you need water?”

“You need to rest after Healing.”

The echoes of another conversation reverberate in Harry’s head. He looks at Snape without moving his neck. His teacher is creepily pale, blood caked onto his nose. He still can’t believe Snape isn’t dead. “You don’t look so good.”

“Neither do you.” Snape shifts slightly, a frown sinking into his features as he takes his first good look at Harry. “You look terrible.”

Harry shrugs, looking down at his mud-caked sneakers.

“What has happened to you? Why have you returned?”

Harry doesn’t want to tell Snape about the Pensieve. It’s too private. “The poisoned air. I was afraid it would get you.”

“It did.”

A wave of guilt crashes over Harry. “I should have come back sooner.”

Snape snorts. “I didn’t expect you to come back at all.”

Harry ducks his head. “You said I was the first.”

“Did I?” Snape murmurs. He closes his eyes. “I remember falling to the ground. I heard music…and someone calling my name. I think it was my mother.” Snape pauses. “I was either dead or intoxicated by the fumes.”

Harry cannot stop a shiver from racing down his back. “I vote the fumes.”

“Either way,” Snape says softly. “You saved my life.”

“So?” Harry mutters. “You’ve saved mine.”

“Yes,” Snape acknowledges. “And because you Healed me, your life debt to me is hereby cancelled.”

For some reason, this really annoys Harry. “I don’t care about life debts.”

“Nonetheless.” Snape looks at Harry. “It is one less burden for you to bear. Allow me to remove it.”

“Okay,” Harry says uncomfortably.

Snape relaxes the tiniest bit. “I must know,” he says next. “Where does the tunnel lead?”

“Dumbledore’s office.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “Did you speak with him?”

“No. I didn’t go inside.”

“You came back for me instead.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the fumes.”

“Yes.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “You aren’t telling me the whole story.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Snape frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t owe you anything!” Harry snaps. “Didn’t we just cover that?”

Snape acknowledges this with a small nod. “But I owe you something,” he says, managing to make the words into a threat. “You left before I could… apologize.”

“You weren’t looking to apologize when I left,” Harry says angrily. “You were looking to hurt me.”

“I was looking to get you to safety,” Snape says through gritted teeth. “And I succeeded. Or, I would have, if you hadn’t come back!”

“The tunnel isn’t going anywhere,” Harry argues. “I can use it again.” He takes out his wand. “And this time, I’m taking you with me.” He hopes he managed to make that sound like a threat, because, well, it sort of is.

“The Hat did not re-sort me in your absence,” Snape retorts. “Gryffindor’s Tunnel will not admit me, wand or no wand.”

“Leave that to me,” Harry seethes.

“You think you can outwit the headmaster?”

“I think I outwitted him by coming back for you,” Harry says grimly.

Snape’s eyes take on a calculating gleam. “Is that so?”

Harry shrugs. Let Snape work that one out. It will keep him from apologizing, at any rate. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Not yet,” Snape says firmly. “You will be at full strength when you face Dumbledore.”

Harry clenches his fists, welcoming the anger that pumps into him at the sound of Dumbledore’s name. Oh, he cannot WAIT for that confrontation. Dumbledore is going to pay. He’s going to pay for making Harry relive his parents’ deaths. He’s going to pay for everything.

“And don’t change the subject,” Snape adds, glaring at Harry. “I want to apologize to you about the role I played in the death of your parents.”

“No you don’t,” Harry says curtly.

“Yes, I do,” Snape says, looking angrier by the second. “So be quiet and let me.”

“If you really wanted to make amends,” Harry explodes, “you would have done so years ago! You wouldn’t have been such a git to me all this time. You would have come clean, on your own terms, when it would have actually meant something!” He returns Snape’s glare with interest. “You’re just pissed because your secret’s been found out.”

Snape looks away. He takes out his handkerchief and begins to carefully wipe away the blood around his nose. His hands are shaking. “Are you so sure of that?”

“I’m through with thinking the best of people,” Harry says grimly.

Snape pauses in his ministrations. He gives Harry a long, close look. “And why is that?”

“Because they never have my best interests in mind,” Harry snarls.

“But that’s why I didn’t tell you sooner,” Snape says, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “It wasn’t in your best interest to know. Why would I hurt you like that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Harry demands. “It’s never stopped you before! What’s different now?”

“I am,” Snape says, emotion thickening his voice. “And you are. Don’t you dare deny it.”

Harry bows his head. Snape is right. This Room has changed him, changed both of them, irrevocably.

He didn’t want to be changed.

But, as usual, the decision was taken out of his hands.

“I wasn’t talking about you, anyways,” Harry mumbles.

“Other people do not have your best interests at heart, certainly,” Snape muses. “The Dark Lord comes to mind.”

Harry does not smile. “I meant the headmaster.”

Snape flings down the bloodied handkerchief. “Finally come around to my point of view, have you?”

“I hate him.”

Snape lifts up a bony hand. He makes to grab Harry’s chin, but then thinks better of it, and instead points the finger in his face. “You are not allowed to hate the headmaster.”

Harry looks up at him, surprised. “I thought you’d be thrilled. You’ve been trying to convince me that he’s evil for ages.”

“I’d rather you believed in him, apparently,” Snape replies, looking disgusted with himself.

“Why?” Harry says in disbelief.

“Because your eyes don’t look like your mother’s anymore,” Snape says in a rush, voice hitching. “Ever since you came out of that tunnel, something about you has been different. And it’s your eyes.”

“They’re still green, aren’t they?” Harry says sharply, wishing he had a mirror.

“Oh yes,” Snape breathes. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “But your mother never had that look in her eyes.”

“Maybe you put it there,” Harry says viciously. “Maybe you put it there when you told me what you did to my parents.”

Snape flinches as from a blow.

Harry purses his lips, torn between guilt and anger. He sighs and takes out his wand. “Episkey.” Snape’s crooked nose straightens out, and the rest of the blood vanishes.

“I told you not to do magic!” Snape says sharply.

“You’re welcome,” Harry returns, fighting an insane urge to laugh. Instead he wipes at the tear tracks on his face, wondering at his professor for not mentioning them. “Snape?”

“What.”

“You don’t really think I brought you back from the dead, do you?”

“I would think you, of all people, would welcome such a power.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Harry says, resting his head against the stone. That spell took a lot from him. “It’s the last thing I’d want. Because then I really could’ve saved Cedric, and his death really is my fault.” Harry swallows. He couldn’t have saved his parents, right? He was just a little tiny baby. Right?

Snape says nothing for a long time. Finally he sighs. “I must have been dizzy from the fumes, then.” He carefully stretches out his legs, groaning as he loosens his limbs. “Something happened in the tunnel, didn’t it?”

Harry shrugs.

“Fine,” Snape says wearily. “Keep your secrets. At least one person in here should be accorded the privilege.”

For some reason, this sets Harry off. “What are we doing here, Snape?” he demands. “What is this conversation? Are we friends now? Are we not? What happens when we talk to Dumbledore? And after that? Do we just go on, pretending that nothing has changed? Or does something else happen?”

Snape does not meet his eyes. “What…what would you like to happen?”

“I asked you first!”

Snape’s brow furrows in thought. When he finally speaks, his words are slow and methodical. “Whether we are on good terms or not is entirely up to you. You know who I am now and what I have done. I understand if you despise me for it. If you choose not to hate me, however—and you are allowed to hate me, Potter, make no mistake about it—then I am…not opposed to a different relationship with you.”

Harry considers this. “So it’s my decision, huh?”

“Yes. In this I must follow your lead. It would be despicable for me to do otherwise.”

Harry frowns, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t want it to be my decision.”

“Then I ask you again,” Snape says softly. “What would you like to happen?”

Snape looks like he will give him anything he asks. Merlin, but guilt does strange things to people. Guilt made him heal a broken nose. It probably made Dumbledore return a memory best left forgotten. And it made Snape…change.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. His words do not come quickly, but perhaps that is to be expected. He’s never been this honest with Snape before. “It seems like people want me to make all the decisions, or they want to make all the decisions for me. It’s like I have to fend for myself, or I’m a puppet for others to control.” He takes a deep breath. “And I don’t like it. Because either way, there’s nobody for me to depend on.” Harry stops short, terrified at what he’s let slip.

“I see,” Snape says quietly. “You want someone to depend on.” He looks at Harry, his expression frighteningly open. “I’m not sure I can be that person, Potter.”

Harry laughs, a ragged sound that perhaps is also a sob. “Who said I meant you?”

Snape just looks at him, and Harry does his best to hold himself together. He bows his head, a stupid, cowardly lump in his throat, wondering how he can feel abandoned by this man. How can someone leave you when they were never even there in the first place?

“I meant,” Snape says quietly, something like understanding illuminating his features, “that I don’t know if you can depend on me. I’m a weak man, Potter. Surely you understand that by now.”

“It’s not that hard,” Harry says, and this time it really is a sob. “Why does everyone think it’s so hard?” He draws his knees up to chest and buries his head in his arms. “I don’t need someone strong,” he says, words muffled. “Dumbledore is strong. Voldemort is strong. I’ve had enough of strong.”

A long silence greets this. But then a hand settles onto Harry’s head. The hand doesn’t do anything, just sits there, a solid heavy weight on top of his mess of black hair. Harry doesn’t do anything, he doesn’t move at all, in fact, and still the hand doesn’t go away.

“Harry.”

Harry doesn’t look up. “What?”

“Look at me, Harry.”

Harry frowns into his jeans. “Don’t call me that. You’re trying to manipulate me by calling me that.”

Harry can hear the smirk in Snape’s voice. “Dumbledore always said you’d like me better if I called you by your first name.”

“Well, he was wrong,” Harry says hotly. “He was wrong about a lot.”

“Alright,” Snape says dryly. “Potter, then. Look at me.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I told you my secret,” he whispers instead. “And now you’re going to throw it back in my face.”

“Not everybody is the headmaster,” Snape says softly. “And your secret isn’t much of one, Potter.”

The hand closes around Harry’s hair, gently tugging upward on it. Harry allows his head to be pulled up, and looks at Snape. The man’s eyes are bright with emotion. “You can depend on me,” he says in a strange voice. “Although I don’t know why you would want to.”

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Okay,” he says quietly, unable to find words for more than that. “Um, thanks.”

Snape smiles at him, something like affection in his eyes, and gives Harry’s hair a final tug before letting him go.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry says, suddenly fidgety. “Enough talk.” He jumps to his feet. “I’ve rested, I’ve got my strength back. Have you?”

Snape gets to his feet, looking amused by something private. “I have strength enough for this.”

Harry conjures two goblets and fills them both with water. He hands one to Snape and quaffs the other himself. Snape raises an eyebrow, lifting his goblet as if in a toast, before doing the same.

“Now,” Harry says, circling the tunnel opening. “See if you can enter.”

Snape tries to crawl into the tunnel, but he’s pushed backwards before he even gets close. Harry takes out his wand and tries several spells to no avail. Then he takes out Gryffindor’s sword and changes it back to its normal size. “I wonder,” he muses, “if you have to do something brave.”

Snape snorts. “Something else, you mean?”

Harry shrugs. “Feel up to killing a snake?”

Snape smirks.

-----

One dead snake later, and Snape and Harry are well on their way. They left the Room without a backward glance. Snape’s been muttering the whole time about Dumbledore’s ethics and standards for bravery and the sheer idiocy of Gryffindors in general. Harry, thankfully, has only heard snippets, because the Bubblehead Charm tends to muffle most sound. He doesn’t see any of the ominous black clouds, but, well, better safe than sorry.

Finally, they arrive at the door to the Pensieve Room. Harry puts his hand on the knob.

Snape stops him. “Wait,” he mouths. Harry waves his wand, canceling the Bubbleheads so they can talk freely. “Do you wish to discuss anything more before we confront Dumbledore?”

“Oh,” Harry says, somewhat sheepishly. “This doesn’t lead to his office. One more room to go.”

Snape frowns at him, but allows Harry to open the door. Harry shuts the door firmly behind them, glad to be done with the stupid tunnel once and for all. He sneaks a look at Snape. His professor is standing, arms folded, a tiny smile on his lips. Then the smile fades as his eyes find the Pensieve. He walks over to it, studying its contents. Finally, he looks up at Harry. “There is no memory in here.”

Harry joins him, staring into the clear liquid. “So?”

Snape glares, but does not pursue it. “Do you wish to discuss our upcoming meeting with the headmaster or not?”

“Not,” Harry says firmly. “I know exactly what I want to say to him.”

“Promise me one thing,” Snape says calmly. “Promise me that you will not raise your wand to him.”

Harry hesitates. “Promise me the same.”

“No.”

Harry snorts. “Then why should I?”

“Because,” Snape says softly. “It is in your best interest to do so.”

Perhaps this argument will not always work on him, but, right now, it basically wrecks any defense he has. “Okay,” Harry agrees quietly. “I promise.”

Snape puts his hand on the door, but the knob will not budge. The two look at each other, perplexed.

“The knob turned before,” Harry says faintly.

Snape looks thoughtful. “Did you view a memory before you tried the door?”

Harry hesitates.

“You need not describe it. I merely wonder if the door has been Charmed to remain locked until a memory has been viewed.”

“Yes,” Harry sighs. “There was a memory.”

“Where is it now, I wonder?” Snape says shrewdly, looking right at Harry.

Harry shrugs. He just doesn’t want to talk about this with Snape. Not right now, and maybe not ever.

“Well,” Snape says, taking out his wand. “I rather think another memory must be viewed before we can pass.”

He lifts his wand to his ear, murmuring to himself, and a thick glossy strand soon appears.

“Hey!” Harry says, delighted. “Your magic is back!”

“Yes,” Snape says gleefully, not bothering to mask his happiness. “I felt it as soon as we left the tunnel.” He drops his memory into the Pensieve, and it rises to the surface, silver and dewy. “Go on,” he gestures to Harry, his movements full of a new confidence and grace. “Look at it.”

Harry takes a step back. “No way.”

Snape walks to the door, tries to unlock it with magic, and then walks back to Harry. “Still locked,” he announces, practically bouncing with energy. The return of his magic has transformed him, and Harry’s not sure whether he should laugh or run away screaming. “Go on.”

“Let’s both watch it.”

“That would make me ill,” Snape says lightly. At the look on Harry’s face, he adds, “It’s nothing bad, Potter, I promise.”

Harry looks at him uneasily. But, really, it can’t be worse than the other memory, can it? And would Snape really show him something awful? Especially now?

“Alright,” Harry says reluctantly. He dips his hand into the memory, and quickly whirls away before he can catch the expression on Snape’s face.

It is a quick trip. Merely a snowy day in Hogsmeade. Snape backing out of a shop, catching sight of James and his infant son. James throwing Harry up in the air, cuddling him. Playfully butting his head into the baby’ stomach. Calling him something. Calling him Fawn.

That’s all.

Harry is back before he knows it, stumbling backwards from the Pensieve. He would have fallen, but a hand grasps him, steadying him.

“Sickening, wasn’t it?” comes a dry voice from behind him.

Harry does not answer, his heart pounding as he tries to swap this memory for the other one. This is how he wants to remember his father. With red cheeks and snowflakes on his glasses.

Snape does not seem to expect a reply. He strides to the door.

“Don’t you want your memory back?” Harry asks in a small voice.

“What memory?” Snape throws over his shoulder. He puts his hand on the knob, and this time, the knob turns.

The door to Dumbledore’s office swings open.

"Prepare yourself,” Snape growls. He marches through the door. Harry hesitates. He slips his wand up his sleeve and then follows Snape.

Harry and Snape rush into Dumbledore’s office, jostling each other in their shared desperation to confront the headmaster. The office is silent and appears to be empty. Snape and Harry look uneasily at each other, wondering if this is another trick, when a soft rustling noise comes from the corner. Dumbledore materializes out of the shadows. He looks fine. He looks pleasant. He looks the same.

“Gentlemen,” Dumbledore says grandly, nodding to each of them in turn. “Welcome back.”

Harry whips out his wand. He forgets his promise to Snape, forgets that he could be expelled for this, and remembers only the names of painful curses. Unforgivable Curses.

“Stupid boy!” Snape says sharply. “Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s wand flies through the air and Snape snatches and pockets it. Snape rounds on Dumbledore, his own wand aimed at the headmaster’s heart. Dumbledore looks back at him innocently.

“What are you going to do, Severus?” Dumbledore asks lightly. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Not yet,” Snape breathes. “First I’m going to hurt you.”

“I must warn you,” Dumbledore continues pleasantly, “that I plan on defending myself. I’m more useful alive than dead, you see.”

“I won’t duel you,” Snape sneers. “You’re not worth it.”

“You mean I will best you,” Dumbledore corrects. “As I always have before.”

“Not if it’s two on one,” Harry growls. “Give me back my wand, Snape.”

Snape eyes the headmaster, ignoring Harry. “I have other weapons, Albus.” To Harry’s great uneasiness, Snape swivels around to focus on him. “I could hurt Potter,” he says sweetly. He aims his wand right at Harry’s scar. “That might wound you, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore cocks his head as though his curiosity has been aroused. He makes no move, however, to stop his Potions Master from killing his student.

Fawkes flies from his perch and settles onto Harry’s shoulder. The warm, thick weight makes Harry feel better. Fawkes nuzzles at his cheek. He is missing some feathers and looks close to burning. Something about his temporary ugliness touches Harry. He has, at least, one ally here.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks Snape. “Don’t be stupid, Professor.”

“Be quiet, Potter!” Snape yells, an ugly sneer on his face. Harry blanches, searching his cold eyes for some sign of the man from the Room. The man whose life he saved not an hour ago. But that person seems to have disappeared. Was he ever there at all?

“You are bluffing,” Dumbledore announces. “You would not hurt Harry.”

“How do you know that?” Snape demands. “You do not know what I have been driven to. Why shouldn’t I curse him? It’s the only thing I can think of that might actually affect you.” He tosses a glare back at Dumbledore, still keeping his wand trained on Harry’s scar. “Not because the boy means anything to you. But his death would still be a blow, would it not?”

“You would not harm Harry,” Dumbledore repeats. “I have watched you, Severus, more closely than you can imagine. I know exactly what went on in the Room of Requirement. I know how far the two of you have come. You are not capable of harming Harry. Not now.”

This seems to enrage Snape further. “DO NOT TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CANNOT DO!” he yells. “Despite your best efforts, Headmaster, I still have free will! Do you need me to demonstrate?”

Snape turns back to Harry, an odd look in his eyes. Harry stands rooted to the spot, acutely aware that he is without his wand. Snape mouths the words, and still Harry cannot believe it, still he does not jump out of the way. He just lets Snape cast an Unforgivable on him.

Harry waits for the surge of pain, waits for Snape’s betrayal to become physical, but nothing happens. Just a sharp prick in his shoulder. And then something feathery bangs into him, and Harry realizes that Snape must have cast the Cruciatus on Fawkes. The bird screeches in pain, and Harry does too, because Fawkes in his distress has worked his claws into Harry’s shoulder. Snape does not lift the curse and stares right at Dumbledore, drinking in the man’s horrified expression.

Harry grimaces and gently wraps his hands around the agonized phoenix. He girds himself and yanks the embedded claws out of his shoulder. There is a sickening ripping sound, and then the bird is free. Harry clenches his teeth as a wave of white pain pumps through his arm. He dizzily places the shaking bird on Dumbledore’s desk. Fawkes twitches a couple of times, clearly suffering, and then stills. Harry stares, horrified, as the bird shrivels away into a pile of ashes. But before he can make sense of this latest death, a tiny head emerges from the dust.

The infant Fawkes peeps insistently and Harry obeys some deep instinct to hold out his arm. The blood from his shoulder has dripped into the crook of his elbow, and it dribbles unnoticed to the ground. Fawkes scrabbles up his arm, slipping on the blood, and bends his bulging eyes over the deep gouges in Harry’s shoulder. The baby bird begins to sob, and Harry’s shoulder is soon mended. As if in a dream, Harry puts the tiny phoenix on his perch, and Fawkes instantly burrows out of sight and hopefully out of harm’s way.

Harry stares in utter bewilderment at his professors. “How could you curse Fawkes?” he asks, voice cracking as he addresses each of them in turn. “How could you let him curse Fawkes?”

“I do not need to duel you, Albus,” Snape says calmly. “There are other ways of inflicting pain. Psychological torture, you might call it. I picked up several of your techniques during my imprisonment.”

“How could you curse Fawkes?” Harry repeats loudly.

“I had a point to make,” Snape says, ice in his voice and eyes. “Have I made it?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says roughly, not bothering to hide his distress. “You’ve made yourself quite clear, at the expense of a defenseless animal.”

“I thought so,” Snape sneers. “It’s so nice to know, Headmaster, that you are still capable of feeling pain. I had my doubts.”

“Why didn’t you stop Snape?” Harry demands of Dumbledore. “Didn’t you see how he was hurting Fawkes?”

“I wanted to see how far Professor Snape would go.”

“And has your curiosity been satisfied?” Harry snarls.

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore breathes. “Rest assured, Harry, I will not make such a mistake again.” The threat in his voice is clear, and Harry wonders at Snape’s total non-reaction. Instead his professor shrugs, as if the torture of Dumbledore’s pet is of small importance, and taps a finger against his jaw.

“Now that pleasantries are out of the way,” Snape says silkily, “perhaps we could settle down to business?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore answers, still darting glances at Fawkes. Snape hungrily follows these looks, a sadistic gleam in his eyes.

“Please, sit down, both of you.” Dumbledore tears his attention away from the phoenix and gestures to the two chairs opposite his desk.

“I’ll stand,” Snape snarls.

“And you, Harry?”

“He’ll stand too,” Snape snaps before Harry can reply.

“Very well,” Dumbledore says. “But you’ll pardon an old man for resting his bones.” He slides into his chair, effectively placing the large desk between himself and his visitors. “I assume by business you mean the Room of Requirement?”

“I have certain questions,” Snape begins. “You will answer them. Unless you would like another example of my free will?”

“There is no need to resort to threats,” Dumbledore says firmly. Nonetheless, he reaches up and cradles the tiny Fawkes protectively in his hands. “I will answer your questions freely.”

“How do I know you will answer honestly?”

“You have my word.”

“Your word no longer suffices,” Snape announces. “I know you have Veritaserum on hand, Professor. I suggest we make use of it.”

“That will not be necessary,” Dumbledore answers. “You will not lower yourself to the same tactics employed by Dolores Umbridge. You have my word, Severus, and that will have to do.”

Snape smiles wolfishly. “Take the Unbreakable Vow. That will do.”

Dumbledore considers him. “I would prefer the Veritaserum.”

“Too late,” Snape snarls. “That offer is off the table. Take the Unbreakable Vow or you will never see me again.” He smiles. “Do you see why I do not need to duel you? It’s so much simpler just to play on your emotions. But of course you are familiar with the tactic.”

Dumbledore looks at Harry. “And you, Harry? Is my word good enough for you?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t trust you anymore. Do what Snape says.”

“And if I die as a result of this vow?” Dumbledore asks steadily.

“Be it on your head,” Snape growls. “Your death no longer concerns me.”

If this hurts Dumbledore, he hides it well. “Very well. Harry, will you consent to being our Bonder?”

Harry looks nervously at the pair of them. He doesn’t know what an Unbreakable Vow is, but it doesn’t sound pretty. On the other hand—he really needs the truth from Dumbledore, and this may be the only way to ensure it. “Okay.”

Snape gives Harry back his wand with a warning look. “You merely need to touch the tip to our hands, Potter. Can you manage that?”

Harry shoots him a dark look but nods. His wand is humming strangely, almost as if it senses that Fawkes is close by.

Dumbledore gently replaces Fawkes on his perch, stands and offers his hand to Snape. Snape clasps it with a sneer and gestures at Harry. Harry gulps and places his wand on their linked hands.

“Will you, Albus Dumbledore, swear to tell Harry Potter and myself the truth?”

Dumbledore breaks away. “I require a time limit. I will not be struck down for a slip of the tongue three years from now.”

“Should you be so lucky,” Snape breathes. He grabs Dumbledore’s hand again and Harry replaces his wand. “Will you, Albus Dumbledore, swear to tell Harry Potter and myself the truth and nothing but the truth—for the next hour?”

“I will.”

A thin rope of hot flame spits out the end of Harry’s wand and twines itself around their clasped hands.

“Very well,” Snape sneers, dropping the headmaster’s hand as though it is something dirty. “Let us hope, for your sake, that you can manage not to lie for sixty minutes.” And now he does take a seat, and jerks his head at Harry to do the same.

Harry hesitates but slides into the other chair. He cannot help tensing when Snape begins to fire off questions. “You have already raised my first point, Headmaster, but let us review. You did, in fact, witness our suffering?”

“I monitored both of you while inside the Room, yes.”

“So you are aware, then, of what went on?” Snape continues. “You are aware that we went without food, without water, without as much as a chamber pot at times?”

“I am.”

“You are aware of the violence that occurred? You are aware of the blood? The burns? The number of times your student threw a punch at me?”

“Twice, if I’m not mistaken.” Dumbledore leans back in his chair, clearly settling in for the long haul. “And you threw a book at him, Severus.”

“You are aware that we broke the law while time-traveling?”

“With a dinosaur and a memory charm,” Dumbledore answers, eyes cast upward.

“So you admit that you put me through considerable discomfort and danger? You admit that you contributed to the delinquency of a student? That you essentially tortured an underage wizard?”

“Not just any student,” Dumbledore says, and strangely, something clears in his expression. “It was Harry. Will you not say his name?”

Snape smirks, but there is no amusement in his eyes. “You admit that you put your precious Potter in peril, Professor?”

“Potentially,” Dumbledore says, his eyes in contrast growing more affectionate. “But I would have stepped in immediately had the danger become life-threatening.”

“What about the fumes?” Snape demands, his faked humor vanishing on a dime. “You left me to die!”

“Harry came back for you.”

“And if he hadn’t?” Snape says hotly. “Would you have intervened then?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says clearly. “And, in the interest of full discretion, I must add that I left you an escape route, Severus. I don’t know why you didn’t use it.”

“You mean an escape route besides the tunnel?” Harry prods.

“Of course,” Dumbledore says pleasantly. “I left Severus the window.”

Harry and Snape both stare at the headmaster. “The window?”

Dumbledore nods. He flicks his wand, and a series of words appear in the air:

A Place for Warriors

Tap your Weapons

Desire is a Battle

United are the Victors

Stay in the Present

Keep your Eyes on the Prize

“At dusk,” Dumbledore explains. “Do you not see?” He looks at Harry. “I thought at least one of you would figure it out. It is the password to open the window.”

Harry and Snape look at each other. “I never saw the last phrase,” Harry says finally. “Where was it?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore nods. “That explains why you did not tell Professor Snape. It was underneath the tunnel entrance.”

“You left my survival up to that?” Snape whispers. “A series of riddles? I must mean even less to you than I thought.”

“You mean a great deal to me,” Dumbledore sighs. “And for once, you must believe me when I say so.” He pauses. “I would have intervened, Severus. Truly I would have.”

Snape clears his throat, obviously unsettled. “How long were we inside the Room?”

“A week.”

“Who has been covering my classes?”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore says lightly. “I believe you and Harry are both laid up in the hospital wing with highly contagious cases of spattergroit.”

“Hermione and Ron knew I was in the Room,” Harry says immediately.

“They did,” Dumbledore allows. “And they certainly ask a lot of questions, don’t they? Your friends have been very concerned about you.”

“Good,” Harry huffs, a secret warmth spreading through him. Hermione and Ron haven’t forgotten him.

Snape narrows his eyes. “How long have you been planning this little escapade?”

“Since you stopped teaching Harry Occlumency.”

Snape leans back in his chair. “You planned the Veritaserum? The Mirror of Erised? The Sorting Hat?”

“And everything else,” Dumbledore says soberly. “Yes, Severus. I do not deny any of it.”

Harry drums his hand on the chair. He’s reluctant to get into this with Dumbledore, especially next to this torture-happy version of Snape, but he really needs the answer. “You meant for us to talk about my mum? You meant for Snape to tell me about his past?”

“I meant for all your secrets to be brought to light, my boy.”

“And did everything go according to your plan?” Harry grates out, latching onto his anger. “Were we your perfect little puppet from start to finish?”

“My main objective was realized,” Dumbledore says carefully. “But the two of you did surprise me along the way.” He cocks his head. “I believe it is known as free will, Severus?”

“How did we surprise you?” Harry cuts in before Snape can respond.

Dumbledore peers at Harry. “I must admit that I did not expect you to learn Occlumency. Forgive me for underestimating you.”

“No,” Harry says shortly. “Keep going.”

“I expected your professor to drink the Veritaserum,” Dumbledore says thoughtfully. “I suppose I underestimated him as well.”

“Anything else?” Snape growls.

Dumbledore hesitates. “I did not expect Harry to react as he did to the memory he found in the Pensieve.”

“Ah,” Snape says softly. “I was wondering when we would come back to that.” He looks at Harry. “Willing to tell me yet, Potter?”

Harry shakes his head and Snape smirks but does not pursue it. Instead he leans back into his chair, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. “What was this main objective of yours, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore takes his time in answering. “My goal,” he finally says, “was simple. I wanted to help you resolve your differences. I wanted something better for each of you—”

“And I wanted something better for Fawkes,” Snape interrupts. “He was looking so decrepit; really it was a mercy to kill him. I’m sure you understand, Professor.”

Dumbledore and Harry both glare at Snape. He returns the look with interest as he asks his next question. “Why did you not come to me first, Headmaster? I deserved at least that slight courtesy before being imprisoned against my will.”

“You wouldn’t have listened to me,” Dumbledore replies with a shrug. “Harry is your blind spot, Severus, and he always has been. And I did give the two of you one more chance before I resorted to the Room. But frankly you both made a mess of it.”

“What chance?” Harry asks indignantly.

“Remedial Potions,” Snape sneers in reply. “Honestly, Professor, if I had known that was my last chance before incarceration, perhaps I would have made better use of it!”

Dumbledore merely looks at Snape over his glasses. “To avoid an unpleasant consequence, yes, you might have acted differently. But you did not wish to truly make amends with Harry. Let us not kid ourselves.”

Snape purses his lips but does not deny it. “Potter didn’t try either.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Dumbledore says calmly. “Why would he? Thus, you see, I had to take extreme measures. You weren’t going to change on your own.”

“And your extreme measures are somehow more justified than my extreme measures?”

“I have yet to cast an Unforgivable on you,” Dumbledore says quietly.

“Yes,” Snape says silkily. “Things are always so black and white with you, aren’t they?”

The two men stare at each other. Harry folds his arms across his chest, feeling they are getting slightly off topic. “Who says we needed to change, Headmaster? I was okay with the way things were. I could have handled Snape for another two years.”

“And I would have had little contact with Potter after his O.W.L.S,” Snape interjects. “The situation was not as dire as you make it out to be.”

“I might make an O in Potions,” Harry points out.

“And I might be a Gryffindor.”

“Gentlemen,” Dumbledore interrupts, “Avoiding each other would not have solved anything. Your growing discord was unacceptable. I decided to take action before the two of you killed each other.”

“It’s a pleasure to know you think so highly of me,” Snape says sarcastically. “Is that why you took away my magic inside the Room, Headmaster? You assumed I would harm the boy?”

“It was a precautionary measure.” Dumbledore looks at his phoenix’s perch meaningfully. “I do not think it was unwarranted.”

“Were you worried that Potter would harm me?” Snape asks in a low, low voice.

“I didn’t do anything that bad to you,” Harry mutters.

Snape whirls around in his chair, daggers in his eyes. “Let’s see what Snape deserves,” he mocks. “Or have you forgotten?”

“Well I didn’t curse you to smithereens,” Harry says fiercely. “And that’s what you would have done to me.”

“I have never cursed you,” Snape says through gritted teeth. “Despite immense provocation.” He looks with heavy-lidded eyes at Harry and Dumbledore. “But it appears the two of you have forgotten that piece of trivia.”

“You cursed Fawkes,” Harry says hotly.

“Which has nothing to do with you,” Snape sneers. “Just because you have his feather in your wand—I didn’t curse you, Potter. And your precious bird is still alive, isn’t he?”

Harry scowls. “You’re missing the point.”

Snape clearly doesn’t care, and continues with his line of questioning. “I am curious how our so-called reconciliation figures into your strategy for the upcoming war.”

Dumbledore clasps his hands. “What is your question, precisely?”

“Choices are made when times are dire,” Harry chimes in, quoting the Sorting Hat. “And war is dire, so the sun closed a door.” He swallows and asks the question that has been haunting him. “Why did you want us to resolve our differences, Professor? Did you want us to become friendly, or did you want us to become allies for your war?”

“It is not my war. Voldemort’s defeat is a task for all of us.”

“Save us the rousing pep talk,” Snape says angrily. “And answer honestly lest your vow be broken!”

“I wanted both to occur,” Dumbledore replies. “I wanted you strong, united, and ready to face this war together. I also hoped you would become friendly. More than friendly.”

“More than friendly,” Snape repeats dangerously. “Explain.”

Dumbledore spreads his hands out in front of him. “It was not entirely clear to me, to be honest, until I overheard something Harry said in the Room. He said he wanted someone to depend on.”

Harry winces. “You heard that?”

“Yes.”

Snape hesitates, a rarity for him, before pursuing his line of thought. When he speaks, his words are so low that Harry can barely make them out. “You would entrust Potter to me? To me, Headmaster?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says softly.

“Why?” Snape asks, staring at the headmaster with a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Snape repeats. “There are a dozen reasons why not! One of which I demonstrated not ten minutes ago! There are a dozen reasons, Headmaster!”

“Are there?”

Snape and Dumbledore look at each other. Harry tenses, waiting for Dumbledore to keel over, because these certainly don’t seem like good answers to him. Nothing happens, though, except Snape actually relaxes. Harry looks between them, feeling as though he’s missed something. But nobody says anything.

Well, Harry’s not done with the subject, even if Snape is. “I think you wanted us as warriors first and friends second. I think you wanted to toughen me up, and that the rest was just a bonus.”

“What is your question, Harry?” Dumbledore asks maddeningly.

“What was all that stuff about?” Harry demands. “All your stupid riddles about weapons and battles and victors? You were trying to make me into your big bad soldier for Voldemort!” He pauses. “Weren’t you?”

“I was trying to prepare you, yes,” Dumbledore replies. “You are going to be very important in this war, Harry. Professor Snape has told you part of the prophecy, and I can tell you the rest. Your survival is crucial. I am going to need you. The wizarding world is going to need you. And you are much stronger with Snape as an ally than as an enemy.” He sighs. “I was killing two birds with one stone, Harry, when I locked you inside the Room.”

“But which bird do you think is more important?” Harry insists. He’s not sure why he wants to know so badly. “Do you want me alive or do you want me happy?”

“I want you alive.”

“Oh.” Harry can’t think of anything else to say. He’s got his answer. Dumbledore doesn’t care if Harry’s messed up. He doesn’t care if he’s the one who’s messed Harry up. He just cares about Harry’s heartbeat. Not his heart—his heartbeat. There’s a difference, and now Harry knows what it is. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Harry says slowly. “But I am.”

“I need you alive, Harry, so that you can be happy,” Dumbledore explains. “The dead, I believe, are a rather dour lot.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Harry yells, jumping to his feet. “That’s crap. That’s crap. You don’t care if I’m happy. You don’t. If you did, then you wouldn’t have shown me that memory!”

Snape looks alertly between the two of them. “Will someone please tell me about the blasted Pensieve?”

“He showed me the night my parents died!” Harry shouts, crouching down so he’s right in Snape’s face. “Did you know Mum had tears in her eyes when she died, Snape? I didn’t know a person could cry so fast. She only had a second between Voldemort cursing her, and then she turned around and looked at me, and she had tears in her eyes!”

The color drains from Snape’s face. “Look at me!” Harry demands, grabbing the man’s collar. “You said my eyes looked different after I came out of the tunnel. You said Mum never looked like that. Well, this is the reason why!” Harry can barely talk, he’s so angry. “And guess what else,” he hisses. “You’re wrong. The look in Mum’s eyes? It was worse.” He releases Snape, breathing heavily, trying to master himself.

Snape stands up slowly. “Whose memory was this?”

Dumbledore opens his mouth, but Harry beats him to the punch. “It was mine,” he says fiercely. “It was my memory, and Dumbledore took it away from me. He had no right!”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Snape asks, creepily calm, his eyes blank as he studies the headmaster.

“Because he’s a bastard!” Harry shouts, cutting in before Dumbledore can respond. “Because he doesn’t care about me! He had no right to take my memory away! He shouldn’t have done that!” A sob builds inside of him, but Harry does not allow it voice. He slams his fist into the back of his chair. “And you shouldn’t have given it back, Dumbledore!”

“Why did you do this?” Snape asks Dumbledore again. He holds up his hand to stop Harry from speaking. “I would like to hear from Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Potter.”

“I was trying to spare Harry pain by removing his memory of that night,” Dumbledore says heavily. “And I wished to see what it could tell me about Harry and about Voldemort. Two birds with one stone.” He raises his head and looks at Harry. “I never meant to keep your memory forever. I thought it was high time it was returned.”

“You returned it,” Harry yells, “so I’d want to kill Voldemort! You returned it to make me hate him even more, but guess what, Dumbledore? It backfired!” His fingers itch for his wand, but he does not reach for it. He will not resort to cursing anyone, or anything, no matter how much they deserve it. “I hate you! Okay? I hate you!”

“I can only say, Harry, that I did what I thought was best. When would you have preferred the memory back? When you were six? Twelve? Eighteen?” Dumbledore sighs. “I had to return it. It would have been wrong not to.”

“It wasn’t right to take it in the first place,” Harry snarls. “It wasn’t right to leave me with the Dursleys, and it wasn’t right to lock me up in that Room.” Snape opens his mouth to speak, but Harry waves his hand, stopping him. “It wasn’t right to let my dad bully Snape, Professor. It wasn’t right to let him go to Spinners End each summer. It wasn’t right for you to use our love for Mum against us.” Harry clenches his wand, but still he does not take it out. “You don’t even know what love is, do you? If you did, you wouldn’t have hurt us!”

Dumbledore says nothing for a long time, and Harry all at once loses his patience. “Answer me!”

“I know what love is,” Dumbledore says sharply. “You’d be surprised, gentlemen, at what we have common. You two act as though you are the only people in the world to have ever loved and lost somebody. You are mistaken. I have been where you have been. I have—”

Dumbledore abruptly stops and turns his back on his visitors. He lifts Fawkes from his perch. The infant phoenix sings softly, but for once, the song means nothing to Harry. It seems made only for the headmaster.

In any case, when Fawkes stops singing, the heat seems to have died out of Dumbledore. He faces his visitors once more, cradling the phoenix in his hand, looking older than Harry has ever seen him. “Do you have any more questions?” Dumbledore asks. “I will tell you about the prophecy, Harry. You have my word. But, if I may be so bold, not right now.”

“I’m done,” Harry snarls. He turns on heel and marches out of the office.

Snape looks at Dumbledore. The silence stretches between them.

“You have been where I have been, Headmaster?”

“I have.”

“You are not lying?”

“I couldn’t lie right now if I wanted to, Severus.”

“It must be so unpleasant,” Snape drawls, “to be forced to reveal your secrets.”

And then he too is gone.

Dumbledore looks around his empty office. The portraits hurriedly begin to talk, and Fawkes begins to warble again, but somehow, their noise doesn’t fill the silence.

“Mr. Potter!”

The saccharine voice stops Harry in his tracks. He’s fifty feet to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and part of him considers just making a run for it. But this particular voice would never let him get away with it, and so he reconciles himself to yet another dose of misery and turns around.

“Feeling better, are we?” Professor Umbridge asks, a fake note of concern in her voice. She scans Harry with her piggy little eyes. “You still look rather flushed, dear. Perhaps Madam Pomfrey released you too soon?”

“I feel fine,” Harry answers stiffly. He totally forgot about this woman while inside the Room. It’s a comfort, in a way, to be reminded so forcefully of her insignificance. Once she leaves Hogwarts, or he does, he’ll never spare another thought for her. Perhaps Umbridge can sense this discovery, because she narrows her brows at him.

“I must say, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge says softly, “things were so much quieter while you were ill. It’s almost a shame, really.” She laughs delicately. “But I suppose all good things must come to an end. Spattergroit, wasn’t it? Nasty disease.” She peers at him expectantly. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, which type of spattergroit did you have, yellow or red? It was so difficult getting any details out of anyone.”

Oh, Merlin. Harry knows absolutely nothing about spattergroit, but he can still smell a trap. The old toad is definitely suspicious, or at the very least, too nosy. Dumbledore should haven taken care of her, but apparently he’s left the mess for Harry. Big surprise. “We had the yellow kind,” he finally answers. “I think. I could be wrong, though. I was kind of out of it whenever they updated me.” He pretends to look nauseated. “I think there was something else the matter with me. I kept vomiting all over the place and there were great chunks in it—”

“That will do,” Umbridge interrupts, wrinkling her nose. She quickly regains her equilibrium, though, and smiles sweetly at him. “At least you had Professor Snape for company. Still, it’s rather odd, don’t you think? The two of you falling ill at the same time, and with the same disease? The same highly contagious disease, I might add, that nobody else has caught?”

Harry silently curses out Dumbledore. What a stupid cover story. “It is strange,” he agrees honestly, and she purses her lips, thrown by his concurrence. “But I don’t really know the details. Most of the last week is kind of a blur.”

“You must have missed your friends,” Umbridge says, playing with the beads on one of her many bracelets. “Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley in particular. They both looked so lost without you. I’ve seen quite a bit of them this week, actually.” Umbridge chuckles again, a horrid tinkling sound that makes Harry cringe. “I’m afraid I had to give your friends detention. They were out after hours on the seventh floor. And they refused to explain why they were there.” She looks at him innocently. “You wouldn’t happen to know what they were up to, would you?”

“Not a clue,” Harry says quickly, his heart thumping inside his ribcage. His poor friends—his poor STUPID friends. Why on earth didn’t they use his invisibility cloak?

Umbridge studies him. “It’s a pity you aren’t in the hospital wing more often,” she says softly. “I’ve never spent a better week here. But perhaps another visit could be arranged.”

Harry’s blood freezes in his veins. She really is twisted. Maybe he should just stop expecting otherwise. Everybody over the age of 18 seems to be mad around here.

“Ah, Professor Snape,” Umbridge chirps, turning her smirking face away from Harry. “So good to see you up and about again.”

“Yes,” comes a very familiar, very dry voice. “The hospital wing is a tedious place.”

Snape sidles up to them, a languid and disinterested expression on his face. Harry darts a look at him and then looks firmly away. Snape had better not blow their cover story. Perhaps, just this once, things could go smoothly. Is that really too much to ask?

“Mr. Potter here was just telling me,” Umbridge says sweetly, “about his illness. You both had red spattergroit, I believe?”

Harry’s heart sinks. If Snape falls for this, they’re screwed. Umbridge will keep digging until she finds out what really happened. And then it’s game over, definitely for him and probably for Snape and Dumbledore too. They’ve all been flouting Ministry policy left and right, and Umbridge won’t have to look far to find a broken law. Harry tries to mask his unease and sticks his hands in his pockets. Snape looks at him briefly and his brows narrow ever so slightly. “No, it was yellow, Dolores.”

“I see,” Umbridge says, disappointed. “Well, I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do, Severus. I won’t keep you.” She smirks at Harry. “I hope you’ve caught up on your homework, Potter. It would be a pity for you to have to join your friends in detention.” Then, to Harry’s immense relief, she waddles away.

Snape makes no move to follow her, and Harry looks longingly at the portrait hole. He’s so close to freedom, he can taste it. “What do you want?”

“I need a word,” Snape replies in clipped tones. “Now.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry groans. “Come on, Snape. Can’t it wait?”

Snape eyes a first year Gryffindor climbing out of the portrait hole. The student takes one look at him and squeaks, tumbling roughly to the ground. He mouths something that looks suspiciously like “Snape’s back” to his friends, and they all begin to moan in dismay.

“It’s Professor Snape, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor. Now come with me.”

Snape turns on heel and marches away, robes billowing behind him. Harry makes no move to follow him. Snape senses this real fast and halts. He spins around, folding his arms across his chest. The other first-years have joined the squeaker and they are all watching the confrontation with terrified expressions. Harry feels like he’s in an Old West saloon. All he needs is a gun.

“Do not make me come back there, Potter.”

Harry clenches his fists. He considers refusing, but he really can’t see that ending well. “Yes sir,” he finally says, and follows Snape down the hallway.

He expects Snape to lead the way to his office in the dungeons, but instead Snape halts in front of one of the rarely used classrooms. He glides inside without looking back at Harry. Once inside, he aims a spell at the closed door and points to a chair. “Sit.”

Harry slumps in the seat, not bothering to argue. He rests his chin on his hand, exhausted. The scene with Dumbledore must be catching up with him. Snape considers him for a moment, and then pulls up another chair. He sits across from Harry. “We need to get our stories straight. What did you tell Umbridge?”

“I told her we had yellow spattergroit. And that most of the past week is a blur. And that I kept vomiting.”

“She seems suspicious.”

“I know.”

Snape begins to massage his brows. “Alright. We had yellow spattergroit. I’ll send a message to Dumbledore and Pomfrey and they can adjust their stories accordingly. If anybody asks you, the disease is characterized by painful yellow postules over the body, along with the inability to speak and a raging fever. Vomiting does sometimes occur, lucky for you. We both remember only bits and pieces of the week, which should provide adequate cover. Neither of us was able to keep up with any reading or other responsibilities. We had little interaction with each other.” Snape taps his hand against the desk. “Also, you served detention with me two nights before we fell ill. The toads I had you disembowel carried the virus. Got it?”

Harry nods.

“Good,” Snape breathes, relaxing slightly. “What else did Umbridge say?”

“She said she gave Ron and Hermione detention. She caught them after curfew.” He looks at Snape meaningfully. “She caught them on the seventh floor.”

“Of course she did,” Snape mutters. “Your friends are idiots! Of all the times not to use your blasted Cloak!”

“I know,” Harry says sourly. “And Dumbledore’s stupid cover story doesn’t help. She’s going to figure out something’s off.”

“I can handle Dolores Umbridge,” Snape says grimly. “I picked the right kind of spattergroit, didn’t I? Did she want anything else?”

Harry shrugs. The old bat threatened him, but that’s nothing to write home about. Besides, Snape isn’t the only one who can handle the old toad. “Not really.”

“You are sure?”

“Yup.”

Snape says nothing else, and Harry peers wearily at him. “Is that it? Can I go now?”

“No. Now that we are truly back at Hogwarts, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

Harry groans. “I thought after you killed Dumbledore you wanted to go flying. So go fly. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I can fly later. As can you—”

“Not on my Firebolt.”

“Do not interrupt me.”

Harry folds his arms on the desk and rests his head on them. This triple punch of Dumbledore, Umbridge, and now Snape is kind of crushing him. “Sorry.”

Snape sighs. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “I’m just as weary as you, Potter. This will not take long. I need to tell you that what happened to us must remain a secret. Do not tell anyone about the Room. I certainly will not.”

“I’m telling Ron and Hermione. I won’t tell anyone else but I’m telling them.”

“Granger and Weasley are children,” Snape says firmly. “And children, especially children too stupid to foil Dolores Umbridge, cannot know my true loyalties. Children cannot know about my history with your mother, or my real opinion of you.”

“They’re the same age as me. And I’m not a kid.”

“It is too dangerous for your friends to know. For them and for me. And, I might add, for you.”

“I’m not going to argue about this with you, Snape. They won’t tell.”

“Not even if the Dark Lord tortures it out of them?”

“Not even then.”

“I do not trust them,” Snape replies grimly. “You should not either.”

“Do you trust me?” Harry says crossly. He wants a sandwich. He wants his bed. He wants his friends. He does not want to debate something as simple as this.

A long pause follows this statement.

“Come on,” Harry groans. “Don’t make this a big deal. Do you trust me?”

“It is not as simple as that.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Alright,” Snape says, rolling his eyes. “For the sake of brevity, yes, I find myself trusting you in certain situations some of the time.” He pauses. “Against my better judgment.”

“I’m flattered,” Harry mutters. “So if you can’t trust them, trust me. I promise that Hermione and Ron won’t say anything.”

“If they prove unworthy, we will pay for it with our lives.”

“So we’ll be in slightly more danger than we are now.”

Snape shakes his head. “You raised your wand to Dumbledore today, after expressedly promising me you would not.”

“So take more points,” Harry says tiredly. “Didn’t take you long, did it?”

“I will continue to take points if and when you deserve it,” Snape growls. “And you miss my point. Your broke your pledge to me once already. Why should I believe your promise about your friends?”

Harry has no good answer for this. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “Dumbledore just made me so angry. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Your friends won’t be able to help themselves either.”

Harry sits up. “I need to tell them,” he says fiercely. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. If I don’t tell them I’ll go mad. It’s as simple as that.”

Snape scowls. “Your reliance on them is troubling.”

“Just because you never had any friends but Mum—”

“Don’t take that tone with me—”

They both stop abruptly and stare at each other. Surprisingly, it is Snape who breaks the silence. “I cannot allow this to happen,” he says slowly. “Ms. Granger can handle herself, but that Weasley boy is an idiot. I do not like to forbid you, but I can see no way around it.”

Harry wonders if he would obey such a stricture. Snape is probably thinking the same thing. It would be a big test, that’s for sure, and Harry’s not sure if their fledging relationship could handle it. And then, blessedly, the solution comes to him. “How about if we use the Fidelius Charm?”

A look of relief passes over Snape’s face. “Of course. I am surprised I did not think of it earlier.” He nods his head. “Alright, Potter, you may tell them. Then you will bring them to my office and I will perform the charm to ensure their silence.”

“Fine,” Harry says, equally relieved. A silence settles over them. “Is that it? Now can I go?”

“Careful, Potter, you’ll hurt my feelings,” Snape murmurs dryly. “One more thing. I want you to swear to me that you will never raise your wand to Albus Dumbledore. And I want you to mean it this time.”

“Why do you still care about that?” Harry grumbles. “And what if I lose my temper again? That’s a really hard promise for me to keep.”

“Nonetheless. Swear to me that you will not hurt the headmaster.”

“What about his pet?” Harry says sharply. “Can I hurt Fawkes?”

Snape smiles mirthlessly. “I was making a point, Potter.”

“It was a stupid point,” Harry mutters, slumping even further in his seat. “Stupid and unnecessary.”

“Will you do as I have asked?”

“I swear I won’t hurt Fawkes.”

Snape raises an eyebrow.

“Or his owner,” Harry adds, glowering.

“Swear on your mother’s memory. Then I know you will keep your word.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Dumbledore’s welfare really means so much to you?”

“It’s not his welfare that interests me,” Snape says quietly.

Harry looks at him skeptically. Then he shrugs. “I swear on Mum’s memory, then. I won’t touch a hair on Dumbledore’s head. Unless in self defense.”

“Good enough for me,” Snape murmurs. He eyes Harry. “We have much to discuss, Potter, but nothing else is pressing. You are dismissed.”

Harry heaves himself to his feet.

“Oh, and Potter?”

“Whaaaaaaaaat?” The whine escapes from Harry’s mouth before he can stop it. He blushes and looks away.

“You may have an extension on your Potions homework.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles.

“Dumbledore made me offer it.”

“Great. Thanks.”

And then, blessedly, they are done. Snape heads for who knows where, and Harry finally crawls into the portrait hole. He stumbles past a blur of faces greeting him. He sees neither red nor bushy hair, and so he doesn’t stop. Instead he finds his bed. He’s asleep within seconds.

----

Harry awakens just before dawn. The rosy fingers of the sunrise prod at his eyelids, and he opens them slowly, feeling wonderfully refreshed. He pulls the comforter around his shoulders and gets out of bed. The window beckons to him, and he pads over and opens it. Wonderful, real, brisk, fresh air wafts over him. It feels like heaven. Harry sits on the ledge, burrowed in his blanket, and gazes over the quiet lawns. He’d love to go flying, but only on his Firebolt, and Umbridge has taken care of that. But perhaps this is better. This way he can lean his head back, drink in the wind as though it is ambrosia, and wait for Ron to wake up.

It doesn’t take long. Someone claps him in the shoulder, and Harry turns around and grins at a certain freckled-face Weasley. Ron smiles back, but he looks concerned. Harry opens his mouth to greet him, but then thinks better of it, glancing at his sleeping suitemates. Ron nods and gestures toward the door. Harry stifles the need to do some kind of exuberant jig and happily follows Ron to the common room.

Hermione, beckoned by some sixth sense, is already there, setting out three cups of hot chocolate. She jumps up at the sight of Harry, scolding and hugging and patting him until she fairly knocks him over. Then she shoves him into a squashy couch, arranges herself and Ron on either side, and thrusts the cocoa at him.

Harry takes the cup and begins sipping it, feeling warmed by something else all together. Hermione nods briskly and casts several protective spells around them, even though the common room is deserted. “Now we can talk freely,” she says in an unnaturally high voice. She looks at Harry expectantly, but she’s always been quicker with words than he has, and soon her anxiety bubbles over:

“Oh, Harry! We’ve been so worried! That first day it was late and you hadn’t returned and so we went to Dumbledore and asked him to explain and he told us that he had everything under control and so we trusted him. But then it was the next day and you still were gone and so was Snape and then Dumbledore gave out this ridiculous story that you both had spattergroit and then we didn’t know what to think.” She pauses to take a breath. “We tried and tried to get into the Room but nothing worked and we tried pestering Dumbledore but he changed the password and stayed in his office, and, oh, Harry, we’re so glad you’re okay!”

“So what happened?” Ron asks worriedly. “Hermione worked out that Dumbledore put you and Snape in the Room of Requirement together, but we couldn’t figure out why.”

It is such a relief to tell his friends. The pleasure is so intense it feels almost like pain. “Dumbledore wanted Snape and me to get along,” Harry starts. “So he locked us up and basically forced us to work things out.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” Hermione says. “But, oh, Harry, I hoped that it wasn’t! Snape is just unhinged when it comes to you!”

“Did he hurt you?” Ron demands.

“Dumbledore made it so Snape couldn’t do magic in the Room,” Harry says. For the first time, he finds this slightly amusing, and a smile quirks at his lips.

“That was clever,” Hermione muses. “I just knew Dumbledore wouldn’t leave you in there unprotected.”

Harry scowls.

“So did it work?” Hermione wants to know next. “I can’t honestly see you getting along with Snape, but I don’t think you’d be here now if you hadn’t settled things. Unless you escaped from the Room? Or maybe Dumbledore gave up? Or—”

“Let him answer,” Ron growls. “Did you guys become friends or what?”

“I don’t think I’d call us friends,” Harry says slowly. “But I wouldn’t call us enemies either. I’m not sure what to call us. I learned some stuff in there that made me change my mind about him.”

“Like what?” Hermione demands.

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise to take the Fidelius Charm later. Some of this is really serious.”

“Of course,” Hermione says, nodding her head vigorously. “Whatever you like, Harry.”

Her easy agreement is so refreshing that Harry could hug her. He settles for smiling goofily into his cocoa. “You too, Ron?”

“No problem, mate.”

And that’s all it takes. No arguments, no questions, no second-guessing of his motivations. Merlin, he missed his friends. Harry gives into his exuberance at last and smacks Ron on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, mate.”

“So go on, Harry, what did you learn about Snape?” Hermione says impatiently.

“First that he’s on our side. That’s the most important bit. And, um, I found out that he was in love with my mum.”

Hermione and Ron both stare at him. “Excuse me?” Hermione finally says. “Er—Harry—you aren’t going to say—Snape’s not your dad, is he?”

Ron looks at Hermione in horror. “Sometimes the way your mind works is really terrifying.”

This hadn’t even occurred to Harry, and he finds himself laughing at the absurdity of it. “No,” he finally manages. “No, it was nothing like that. They never dated. But—er—they were neighbors when they were little kids. Best friends, actually. At Hogwarts too. But then he got too weird for her, and she went with my dad.”

Harry pauses. The story sounds so simple when summarized like that. He knows he hasn’t conveyed how terribly this hurt Snape, or how it basically wrecked his whole life. But perhaps he doesn’t need to tell his friends that part of it.

“Of course,” Hermione breathes. “That’s really why Snape hated you, isn’t it? Because you look just like your dad, and he lost Lily to James.”

“I think he hated me because I have Lily’s eyes, actually.”

Hermione gasps. Ron raises an eyebrow at her and shakes his head. “Hermione! You aren’t going soft on Snape, are you?”

“No,” she says, flustered. “But—it’s just—I think he must have loved her.”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “I think he did.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But that’s not all. Snape did something—something terrible. He’s never forgiven himself. I think—he despises himself for it and that hatred kind of—curdled him.”

“What did he do?” Ron asks.

“He sort of—caused my parents’ deaths.”

“WHAT?” Ron and Hermione yelp in unison.

This part is harder. Harry frowns, wondering how to put this. “Okay,” he says heavily. “Trelawney made this prophecy about a baby born in July who could defeat Voldemort. She made it to Dumbledore and Snape overheard. This is when Snape was still a Death Eater, so he ran to Voldemort and told him about the prophecy. Voldemort figured out that the baby was me or Neville.”

Twin gasps from his friends. “Yeah,” Harry snorts. “That’s kind of how I felt. So Snape realized that Voldemort was going to kill me. He made Voldemort promise not to kill my mum, but then he ran to Dumbledore and begged him for help. That’s basically when Snape switched sides. Dumbledore hid my parents, Voldemort killed them anyway, and Snape’s been trying to protect me ever since.”

“Or so Snape says,” Ron growls. “He really tipped You-Know-Who off about this prophecy? Well, this proves it, doesn’t it? Snape really is evil.” Ron glares at Harry and Hermione, as if daring them to disagree.

“Is that how you see it, Harry?” Hermione asks, a curiously soft look in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” Harry says quietly, rather undone by that look. Nobody has treated him with gentleness in a long time. It feels nice. “Maybe at first.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says again, putting down his cocoa. “I keep changing my mind.”

“I don’t blame you.” Hermione frowns into her cup. “What a horrible story. It ends badly for everyone. Snape and Dumbledore both did their best but your parents still died. No wonder they both feel so strongly about you. All of their greatest regrets and mistakes are tangled up with you.”

Harry nods slowly, considering this. He feels incapable of such a big-picture view of that fateful night. His wounds are still too raw. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“I don’t understand,” Ron sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “How can you—how can you learn all that about Snape and still think he’s on our side?”

“He convinced me.”

“How do you know he hasn’t tricked you?” Ron asks. “How do you know he isn’t just a really, really good actor?”

Harry is silent a long while. Finally he looks up, and he lets the weariness show in his face. “It’s not like Dumbledore just locked the door and left Snape and me to our own devices, Ron. He interfered. He put us through a lot. It was kind of like going through a war together. Something like that changes stuff. Snape’s on our side. Trust me.”

“How exactly did Dumbledore interfere?”

Harry shrugs, not sure how open he wants to be. “He made us relive some horrible memories. He stuck the Mirror of Erised in there. You know what that thing is like for me, Ron. And sometimes…sometimes we needed a Healer, but he left us to suffer. It was like he was trying to break us down, and before we could recover from one horrible test, he’d throw something else at us.” He scowls at the memory. “No matter how bad it got, Dumbledore wouldn’t unlock the door. Even when Snape was on his knees—even when he was banging on the door, begging like a baby—Dumbledore wouldn’t let us out.”

Harry studies Ron and Hermione. He doesn’t like revealing Snape’s humiliation like this, but it is the only way to get his friends to understand the severity of what happened. They look properly shocked, so maybe his gambit has paid off.

Ron is the first to recover. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s bad enough that you were hurt and Dumbledore didn’t help,” Ron says, aghast. “But it sounds like he played mind games with the pair of you. I mean, I always knew Dumbledore was the most brilliant wizard alive…but it’s not right for him to use his brains like that. It’s not fair.”

“The whole thing wasn’t fair,” Harry agrees. Merlin, but it feels good to be around Gryffindors again.

“This just doesn’t sound like Dumbledore,” Hermione says, propping her chin on her hands. “He never struck me as cruel before.”

“Well, he is,” Harry snarls. “Whether you believe me or not.”

“We believe you,” Ron says firmly. “If you say Dumbledore went too far, then he went too far.” He looks pointedly at Hermione. “Right?”

“Of course,” Hermione says, flustered. “I didn’t mean to minimize what happened to you, Harry. It just surprised me.”

“Yeah, it surprised me too,” Harry sighs. “I really hate that I can’t trust Dumbledore anymore. I haven’t even told you the worst bits of it yet.”

“No more trusting Dumbledore then,” Ron says firmly. “We’ll just have to look after ourselves a bit more, that’s all.” He juts out his jaw. “So tell me, Harry, is there anyone in your story who isn’t a complete git?”

Harry shrugs. He leans back into the sofa, wondering if any of them really fit that description. Dumbledore just looked so sad in his office. Like he really did have feelings, and like he really didn’t want to hurt Harry.

“You look like you’ve really been ill,” Hermione says softly. “You’re so pale, Harry.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron agrees. “You look like the Bloody Baron.”

“This past week has been horrible,” Harry says, and to his dismay, his voice comes out all wobbly. Ron and Hermione exchange glances. Harry is both pleased and annoyed by this. “I can handle it,” he adds hastily. “But…it was horrible.”

“Harry!” A voice calls from across the room. It’s Dean, looking very happy to see him. “Glad to have you back!”

The three of them turn around, and Hermione quickly cancels her protective spells. Dean comes over and grins at Harry. “Welcome back, mate. I’ve missed you…and the you-know-what.” He winks and strides toward the portrait hole.

Harry looks questioningly at his friends.

“The D.A.,” Hermione says quietly.

Harry frowns. “We ought to change the name.” He stands up. “I’m starving. Let’s get dressed and go to breakfast.”

Hermione and Ron exchange glances again, but Harry is already on his way to the showers.

---

Half an hour later, Harry returns to the common room. Hermione and Ron instantly materialize at his side, and the three of them climb out of the portrait hole. They are stopped periodically by well-wishers on their way to the Great Hall. Harry is a little surprised by how much he’s been missed. Apparently he’s viewed as something of a ringleader in the anti-Umbridge assault, and well, as Fred and George tell him, torturing the old toad just wasn’t the same without him.

Harry pushes the door to the Great Hall open, and a noisy barrage of voices assaults him. He winces, wondering when his peers got quite so noisy. Nobody really pays him much attention, though, which is nice. The spattergroit story does have the advantage of being wildly dull compared to some of his usual exploits. Malfoy, he notices, heaves a great sigh upon seeing him, but even he does not seem unduly concerned. Perhaps only Umbridge suspects that there’s more to his joint disappearance with Snape.

Harry slides into his seat. There really are quite a lot of people in this room. Too many. And all of them are far too loud. It makes him a little nervous. Harry squashes the feeling down and begins to load up his plate. The food smells heavenly, and he devotes himself entirely to his breakfast. Hermione and Ron keep a very close eye on him and urge a new dish on him whenever he shows signs of slowing. Harry does not refuse any of their requests, and even then he does not feel quite full. The food in the Room wasn’t bad, exactly. But they didn’t spend a lot of time eating.

All of these people are really starting to bug him. Harry puts down his fork, wondering if it’s possible to develop some kind of crowd thing in so short a time. He was only gone from the general population for a week, after all.

But it felt like a year.

Harry lets his eyes wander to the head table. Dumbledore’s chair is empty, which makes him feel weirdly unhappy. Umbridge is there, though, and her beady little eyes are glaring at her plate. Something has annoyed her, which never bodes well for him. And then there is Snape. He is also eating steadily away, nodding at random intervals to McGonagall, who looks to be filling him in on something. But she doesn’t have his full attention. Snape’s eyes are darting around, and he looks half-ready to bolt. This Harry appreciates. Her turns back to his breakfast, oddly comforted that Snape is finding the Great Hall a trial as well.

Then a sharp something nips at his ear, and a flurry of feathers lands on his shoulder. Here is a visitor he is very happy to see, and Harry spends the rest of breakfast catching up with Hedwig.

“Harry! Harry, wait!”

The clear, ringing voice makes Harry halt and turn around. He feels his ears redden as he spots Ginny flagging him down. He wishes she wouldn’t holler like that. More than a few faces in the Great Hall have turned in his direction, no doubt anticipating some new kind of drama from The Boy Who Lived.

“Yeah?” Harry says, trying to keep his voice neutral. He can’t help but notice that Snape is watching from the Head Table, his eyes cool as he looks at Ginny. Harry can’t quite decipher that look—but it doesn’t look friendly. Then again, Snape never looks friendly.

Ginny brushes back a strand of long red hair, panting as she trots up to him. “I’ve got a message for you,” she reports. “It’s from—”

“Stop,” Harry says quickly, gesturing for her to follow him. The Room has turned him totally paranoid, but he can’t help it. Nobody is going to learn his business unless he wants them to.

Ginny nods, a spark of pleasure in her eyes, and willingly follows Harry out of the hall. He pulls her into a deserted corner near the dungeons. “Okay, what is it?”

“I’m meant to pass along a message from Dumbledore. He wants you to meet him in his office tonight at eight. The password is butterbeer.”

“Great,” Harry mutters. Apparently it was too much to ask that Dumbledore could leave him alone for a day. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Ginny says. She doesn’t move, apparently eager to continue the conversation. “So when are we having a meeting of you-know-what, then?”

This seems to be the question on everybody’s lips. Harry shrugs. The mere thought of the D.A. fills him with anxiety now. It’s not like he wants to participate in something called Dumbledore’s Army now. It’s not like he EVER wants to step foot in the Room of Requirement again.

Ginny looks expectantly at him. “Can we do it soon, Harry? I think I just need one more meeting to get my Patronus working properly.”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies, his tone sharp. Something about Ginny is rubbing him the wrong way, and he really doesn’t want to stick around to let it explode. Ginny blinks at him in surprise and takes a step back.

“Look, Ginny, I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’ve got to get to Potions.”

Ginny puts her hands on her hips, a stubborn expression lighting up her eyes. “You aren’t giving up on the D.A., are you? Because that would be an absolutely rubbish thing to do.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What could be more important than the D.A.?” Ginny asks, her voice becoming unpleasantly shrill. “What could be more important than learning to defend ourselves with magic?”

Harry shrugs, feeling contrary. An image of himself, gagging down a memory, pops unbidden into his head. “Magic isn’t everything, Ginny. Sometimes it only makes things worse.”

“Well, you aren’t teaching us dark magic,” Ginny protests. “You aren’t turning us into Death Eaters.”

“I know that,” Harry says, irritated. He’s lost the thread of this argument. He closes his eyes, trying to regroup. “Look, Ginny. If I’m going to lead the D.A. again, then I’m going to have to make some changes.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m changing the name,” Harry says grimly. “And we can’t meet in the Room of Requirement anymore.” Harry raises his head, struck by something. “And we’re going to branch out a bit. I’m going to teach you other things besides magic.”

“Like what?” Ginny repeats.

“Like Muggle survival tactics.”

“But none of us are Muggles or Squibs, Harry—”

“That doesn’t mean your magic can’t be taken from you,” Harry retorts. He nods his head, getting into the spirit of things. “And I’m going to show you how to survive, um, psychological warfare.”

“How to survive what?” Ginny gasps.

“You’ll see,” Harry says, a small, unpleasant smile spreading over his face. “Yeah, I’ll let you lot know when I find a new meeting place.”

“What’s wrong with the Come and Go Room?”

“Umbridge knows about it,” Harry invents. The very thought of the Room makes him all nervous, and he wipes a hand over his brow.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Ginny says in a completely different tone of voice. She grabs one of his hands and stares at it. Harry looks too, trying to hide his surprise. There are billions of little white cracks running up and down his fingers. It’s not the sort of thing one would notice from a distance. But up close, it does look rather odd. How did he not see it before?

“I don’t know,” Harry says, perplexed. He flexes his fingers, but they feel fine. “Er, maybe it’s a side effect from the spattergroit.”

“Maybe,” Ginny says doubtfully. “You should see Pomfrey.”

“I’ll show Hermione,” Harry decides. “And if she doesn’t know what it is…”

Ginny takes this for agreement. “You’ll go to Pomfrey.”

She brushes her fingers over the strange vein-like cracks on his hands, fascinated by them. There is something maternal in her ministrations, and Harry, embarrassed but oddly pleased, lets her fuss. But, almost immediately, Ginny freezes, looking at something over Harry’s shoulder. She leans in to him, whispering “I’ll spread the word about the Nameless Army” into his ear, before releasing his hand.

Ginny fairly races down the hallway, and Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns around, bracing himself for whatever made her flee. Snape is glaring at him with undisguised resentment. The sheer force of the look startles Harry, and he unconsciously takes a step back. Exactly how much of that did Snape see?

“What are you waiting for?” Snape says in the silkiest of tones. “A personal invitation? Get inside.”

Harry sidles past his professor into the dungeons, uneasiness building inside of him. He finds Hermione and Ron in the back and sandwiches himself between the two of them.

Snape wastes no time. “Holidays are over,” he barks. “Let’s see if you dunderheads learnt anything while I was away. Potter!”

Harry tries to keep his voice neutral. “Yes, sir?”

“What would I get if I mixed bubotuber puss with billyweed stings and bulbadox powder?”

Harry blinks. “Er.”

“You don’t know? Let’s try again. What substance is created by mixing Doxy Eggs with oxidized ginger?”

Harry shifts in his seat, feeling unpleasantly like a first-year again. What’s Snape after, quizzing him on his first day back? What was all that rubbish about giving him an extension on his work? He aims for politeness, but there is a definite edge when he replies, “I don’t know, sir.”

Snape smirks at him. “Last chance, Potter. Jobberknoll feathers are used in what class of Serums?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m shocked. I suppose you were too lazy to crack a book in the hospital wing. I think detention would be appropriate.”

Harry frowns. He debates defending himself, but, of course, Hermione beats him to it.

“Excuse me, sir, but the Hogwarts Code of Conduct forbids penalizing a student on his first day back from an excused illness of more than three days.”

Ron lets out a snort before clamping his hands over his mouth.

Snape coolly looks at the three of them. “Weasley, Granger, you will join Potter in detention.” He lets that sink in, a dark look daring them to protest. Ron is revving up for it, Harry can tell, but he stops him with a warning glance.

“See me after class, you three,” Snape says coldly. Then he surveys the class at large. The Slytherins are sniggering and the Gryffindors are glaring. “I see nothing has changed in my absence. Today you will be creating a Babbling Beverage…”

The class drags on. Hermione makes her potion perfectly, and then patiently helps Ron, Harry and Neville whenever Snape is far enough away. Thankfully, the old bat ignores Harry and his delinquent friends until the class ends.

Harry marches up to Snape’s desk, Hermione and Ron trailing reluctantly behind him. Snape waits until the class has emptied before he addresses them, loathing written all over his face. Something inside Harry falters and retreats.

“Come to my office at eight tonight,” Snape says gruffly. He eyes Harry. “I’m sorry you can’t bring your girlfriend to detention, Potter. Perhaps next time.”

Harry stares at Snape. “What are you talking about?”

“Dismissed.”

This time it is Harry who is prepared to argue, and Ron who drags him away. Once safely outside, Ron releases Harry and looks at him. “What’s Snape on about?”

“How should I know?” Harry protests. “He saw me with Ginny just before class, but I don’t know how he went from that to girlfriend jokes.”

Hermione makes a distressed noise. “Ron, we’ve still got detention with Umbridge tonight.”

“And I’ve got a meeting with Dumbledore,” Harry adds.

“Aren’t we popular," Ron snorts.

“Well, there’s no way in hell I’m going to see Dumbledore. I’d rather do detention with Snape.”

“Me too,” Hermione says. “At least Snape won’t make us cut ourselves.”

“We think,” Ron adds, still looking disgruntled. He aims a kick at the dungeon door, and the three of them trudge off to Herbology.

The rest of the day is a blur of classes and concerned professors. Everybody seems to agree that Harry still looks a mess, and so they leave him alone and wave away half-hearted apologies about undone homework. Harry finds this treatment highly preferable to Snape’s, and so he is feeling somewhat refreshed by the time eight o’clock rolls around.

“Umbridge is going have us killed when we don’t show up,” Ron says mournfully.

“Too bad,” Hermione says briskly. “We have more important things to do to tonight.”

“I don’t think detention with Snape is that significant, actually,” Ron murmurs.

Hermione shoots him a look of disgust. “I’m not talking about detention. Harry, what did you tell Dumbledore?”

“I didn’t,” Harry says, letting his satisfaction show. He feels no compunction whatsoever over ignoring the wizard’s message.

“Lovely,” Hermione sighs. “Well, this ought to be an interesting evening.” She raises her hand and knocks on the door to Snape’s office.

“Enter.”

Snape is seated behind his massive oak desk. He points silently at three chairs placed in front of it. The three of them take their seats. Snape ignores them in favor of muttering a dark string of enchantments. Finally, he sets a flurry of fire at the closed, locked door. A shower of sparks outlines the door before fading away.

“Now we may talk freely,” Snape says silkily. “Potter, I presume you have told your friends why they are here?”

Harry looks blankly at his professor. “Er…detention?”

“No, you little idiot,” Snape says coldly. “The Fidelius Charm.” He smirks. “Clearly, you’ve forgotten. Well, young men in love have other priorities, do they not?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Harry says loudly. “I don’t have a bloody girlfriend!”

“Language, Mr. Potter,” Snape says, eyes dancing with ill-humor. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

“Harry has told us about everything,” Hermione interjects hurriedly. “And Ron and I both think it’s a good idea for us to take the Charm.”

“Well, since we have Ms. Granger’s blessing, I suppose it is safe to proceed,” Snape drawls. “Have either of you done the Fidelius charm before?”

Ron and Hermione shake their heads.

Snape settles into lecture mode. “The Fidelius Charm is difficult to pull off because it acts in near-sentient ways. In other words, the Charm can choose to reject our request.” Snape pauses to let that sink in. “The Charm has three groups of participants: the Secret Asker, which is I; the Secret Keepers, Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley; and the Secret Locker, Mr. Potter.”

“So Harry doesn’t have to keep the secret?” Ron says, surprised.

“No,” Snape says curtly. “He is here tonight in the capacity of Locker.”

“Why can’t you lock the secret?” Ron asks Snape sharply, looking protectively at Harry.

“Because the secret is about me,” Snape drawls. “And the Asker cannot also be the Locker.” He reaches into his desk and pulls something out of a drawer. Harry looks at it with distaste. “Yes, Potter, your favorite,” Snape says dryly. “The Pensieve is crucial to this Charm.” Snape pauses, surveying the three of them. “You lot will do exactly as I say, or there will be unpleasant consequences. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione says, speaking for Ron and Harry.

“Very well. Secret Keepers, I want you to think of the secret I want kept. Think of what Mr. Potter has told you about me…my loyalties, my history, my weaknesses, all what he learned inside the Room. Then place the tips of your wands together.”

Hermione and Ron, looking nervous, get out their wands. After a moment, a thick, blood-colored strand begins to coil out of each of their wand tips. Ron gasps and moves his wand away, giving the strand room to grow, until the secret hangs droopily between their wands.

“Now drop the secret into the Pensieve.”

Hermione and Ron do so, shaking their wands over the basin until the rusty strand detaches. The secret crouches defensively at the bottom on the Pensieve.

“Secret Keepers, each of you will now place a secret of your own into the Pensieve. Think of your secret, place your wand-tip to your ear, and draw out the strand.”

Ron gulps. “Why do we have to do that?”

“The Fidelius Charm demands payment in kind. To keep a secret, you must give a secret.”

“Wonderful,” Ron breathes. He looks sideways at Harry. “I’ll go first.” He puts his wand to his ear, and a golden swirl of something attaches to the tip. He drops his secret into the basin near the secret about Snape. The secret-strands circle each other warily, almost like dogs.

“Now you, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione nods. She removes a turquoise secret from her ear and drops it in the basin. Hermione’s secret darts around the others, faster and faster until it is only a blur.

“Now,” Snape says grimly, “the Secret Asker will add his payment. For a secret to be kept, a secret must be given.” He brings his wand to his ear and delivers a gray, amorphous blob to the basin. His secret coils into a tiny ball and begins to inch toward the corner of the Pensieve.

“Mr. Potter, you will now dip your wand into the Pensieve and say Surripio Solverum.”

Harry does so. The secrets stop moving and fall to the bottom of the Pensieve, all four of them in a row.

“The Keepers and Asker have offered payment,” Snape announces. “Now the Locker must lock the secret. To do so, Mr. Potter will place a secret of his own into the Pensieve. Then the four of us will watch this memory—”

“Watch my memory?” Harry interrupts. “Why do we have to watch mine? Why can’t I just put it in the Pensieve like the rest of you?”

“Because those are the rules of the Charm,” Snape snaps. “The Locker’s secret must be viewed by all the participants. The act of witnessing is powerful magic, Potter. We cannot do the Charm without it.”

“Is this why you wanted me to be the Locker?” Harry demands. “So I’d have to show you a secret and be humiliated?”

“I chose you to be Locker, Mr. Potter, because I have no other choice,” Snape growls. “I do not want anybody else to know why I am doing this Charm!”

“You’ve already seen loads of my memories in Occlumency,” Harry protests weakly. “And pretty much everything you saw was a secret!”

Snape seems to hesitate, his expression looking almost sympathetic for a moment. Then he schools his expression into something harder. “Weasley and Granger have not witnessed any of those incidents. And the four of us must watch your secret together, Potter. That’s the way the Charm works.”

Harry looks doubtfully at the Pensieve, racking his brains for something innocuous he can toss in there.

“After we view your secret, Potter, you will put your wand into the Pensieve and say Surripio Fidelius Finitum. If the Charm is satisfied, then the strands will transform into a harmless white stone, and the secret about me will be Untellable. If the Charm is not satisfied, no transformation will take place, and we will have to think of something else.”

Snape looks at Harry, a strange glint in his eye. “I should tell you, Potter, that the Fidelius Charm is rather sadistic. The darker your secret, the more likely the Charm is to be satisfied. It is up to the Secret Locker to convince the Charm to work. I wouldn’t offer up anything cheery. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Hold on,” Hermione says abruptly. “This is starting to sound like dark magic.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Snape says grimly.

“But Dumbledore used—”

“I assure you,” Snape interrupts Hermione, his voice like razors, “that your precious headmaster is more than capable of dark magic. Now let us continue.”

“But dark magic is illegal for students—”

“Do as I say, Ms. Granger,” Snape growls, slamming hand fist on the table, “or I will lose my temper. And you do not wish to see that.”

Hermione still wants to protest, but Harry cuts her off. “Come on,” he urges. “This is more important than some stupid rule.”

“Spoken like a Gryffindor,” Snape says snidely. “Now, Mr. Potter, your secret? And try to keep it clean. No fumbling in dark corners with any lady friends, if you would.”

Harry clenches his fists. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Have I touched a sore spot?” Snape says silkily. “You Potters are so sensitive about your red-headed paramours, it’s really difficult not to.”

“Don’t call my sister a paramour!” Ron squawks, his freckles all standing at attention on his pale face.

“I’m not going out with Ginny!” Harry says at the same moment. “And even if I were, it wouldn’t be any of your business!”

Snape just glares at him, two spots of color suffusing his pale cheeks.

A light clicks on in Harry’s head. “This is about my mum, isn’t it? You’re angry that I’m going out with another Lily, right? You’re upset because you think the Potter kid won the girl again!”

“DO NOT SAY HER NAME TO ME!” Snape yells, spittle flying across the desk.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry snarls. “You are being ridiculous.”

“That is the right of the scorned,” Snape growls. “Now put your secret in the Pensieve or get out of my office.”

Harry, itching with anger, yanks out his wand and puts it to his ear. He thinks for a long, hard minute. The room is absolutely silent. Finally, a thick strand slinks out of his ear, winding itself around his wand like a snake. The secret is jet black and shiny. Harry stares at it in repulsion, and then dumps it into the Pensieve. The liquid hisses and bubbles, churning violently. The other secrets begin to thrash as if in pain.

Harry looks at his friends, daring them to say anything. They are quiet, but Snape is still glaring at Harry. “Let’s get this over with,” Snape says gruffly. Snape gestures at his students, and they all duck their heads into the Pensieve.

The scene is already chaotic. Dudley is on the ground, straddling a much younger Harry, hitting him in the face, over and over again. The child is absolutely silent as he struggles with deadly intensity to get away.

“Why won’t you YELL!” Dudley demands in frustration. “Why don’t you ever YELL, Potter?”

The boy reaches up a mad hand and claws at Dudley’s face. Dudley rewards him with a slap to the mouth. “You’re going to pay for what you told Ms. Smith,” Dudley says, a sob catching in his throat. “She took away my recess for a week because of you, Potter!”

The child does not bother to reply. He just keeps trying to get away, but Dudley has a foot and fifty pounds on him. It will be another year or two before he learns to stop fighting back.

“I know what will make you yell,” Dudley says at last. Then he takes out a cigarette lighter—to this day Harry does not know where he got it—and flicks it on. The boy stares at the small flame in horror, but that does not stop Dudley from bringing it to his skin. A horrid sizzling noise fills the room.

The younger Harry swallows back a yell and bucks in agony, wildly kicking his legs. One of his trainers makes contact with the lighter, and it flies through the air. The horrid thing lands on the curtains, and the fabric immediately catches on fire.

“Daddy!” Dudley screeches, still sitting on the smaller boy’s chest so he cannot escape. “Look at what Harry’s done! Look at what the freak’s done!”

An obscenely fat man barges into the room. A thin, rat-faced woman is just behind him. They both stop and gasp at the sight of the now-blazing curtains.

The older Harry looks away from his younger self. Ron and Hermione have twin expressions of horror on their faces. Snape, oddly, isn’t watching the scene. He’s watching Harry.

Harry looks away.

“Get Dudders out of here!” Vernon screeches. Petunia swoops in, grabs her son, and hurries him outside. Vernon wheels on his nephew. “Turn it off! You turn off the fire right this minute, you freak!”

The younger Harry painfully scrambles to his feet. He looks miserably at the curtains. He can’t just summon this freak stuff at will. It usually happens when he least expects it, but he can’t tell his uncle that.

“What are you waiting for?” Vernon roars. “Do it now before I lose my temper!”

The boy looks around desperately. He grabs a cushion off the couch and begins to beat out the fire with it. The flames jump and spark, burning him afresh, but he doesn’t care. If he can just get the fire out, maybe his uncle won’t beat him…

“What are you doing?” Vernon yells. “Don’t destroy the house, boy!”

The boy, in a rare moment of disobedience, ignores his uncle. He knows he will really catch it if the house burns down. So he grabs cushion after cushion, beating back the fire until the curtains, along with most of the couch, are nothing but charred ashes at his feet.

Then he looks up at his uncle.

“LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” Vernon yells. “Look at the curtains! Look at the couch! Ruined! All ruined!”

“I’m sorry,” the child says dully. He’s learned that much already, at least.

“You’re paying for all of this,” Vernon thunders. “You’ll work it off, boy! And no food until you do! And you’ll go straight in the cupboard until Christmas!”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” the child says quietly, hoping against hope that his punishment will stop there. He did save the house from burning down…surely that’s got to count for something.

Vernon is rolling up his sleeves. “But first I’m going to make you scream, boy.”

When it is over, Vernon drops his nephew onto the bathroom floor. “Clean yourself up,” he orders, closing the door behind him. The car peals off a few minutes later.

The child Harry rests on the cold floor, his breath coming in great heaving gulps. His uncle didn’t kill him. So saving the house did count for something. A stab of white-hot pain jolts through him, and he lets out a low moan of pain.

Maybe he should have let the house burn.

Then he wouldn’t hurt any more.

The boy picks himself off the ground and washes the blood off of his face and hands. The older Harry hears someone suck in his breath. He’d forgotten his friends were watching, and he glances back at them. Ron looks like he’s going to be sick. Hermione is shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears. And Snape? Snape is coolly leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest.

Can we go now?” Hermione asks shakily.

“Not quite,” Harry says grimly. “We haven’t gotten to the secret yet.”

Harry turns away from them, concentrating on his younger self. This was before he learned how to Heal himself. Too bad. Those burns, especially, look like they hurt.

The little boy quickly and methodically takes several things out of the cabinet underneath the mirror. Bandages, gauze, and disinfectant. He surveys the items with distaste. Then, with a sigh, he takes off his shirt. He mops the blood off his chest and opens the tin of bandages. He pauses, catching sight of himself in the mirror. He’s already got bandages on him. One from just this morning. Two from the weekend. The boy snorts in amusement, but his smile quickly fades. He grabs the tin and throws it, hard, against the ground. He clenches and unclenches his hands, nostrils flaring and twitching like a bird. The whole thing just seems so stupid. He’ll just get beaten again tomorrow. What’s the point?

The child picks up the tin and the other supplies and stows them back under the sink. The he purposefully limps out of the bathroom and into his aunt and uncle’s bedroom. He clambers up onto the bed, sucking in a harsh breath as his body touches the fabric. He sits there for a long minute, his eyes fixed on the bedside table. Finally, he opens the drawer and takes out something black and metallic.

Hermione gasps audibly.

The child picks up the object, turning it over and over in his hands. After a moment, he raises it to his messy mop of hair.

“Harry, no!” Hermione yells. She lunges at the child, but her hand goes right through his chest, like a ghost. “Don’t do it! Don’t pull the trigger!”

“Don’t pull the what?” Ron squawks. “Hermione, what is that thing?”

“It’s a gun!” Hermione yells. “It’s how Muggles kill each other!”

At her words, Ron and Snape both snap into action. They, too, try to wrest the gun away from the child. But it is only a memory, and they can do nothing to alter the events. They give up all at once, as though the same thought has occurred to all of them. Clearly, Harry didn’t go through with it. The evidence is standing next to them, coolly watching his seven-year-old self try and work up the nerve to kill himself.

The child Harry sits for a long time with the gun to his head. Snape, Ron, and Hermione all watch with bated breath, the tension making their features taut. The seconds drag on forever, but finally the little boy puts down the gun. He puts the gun back into the drawer, a regretful sigh escaping his lips. He slides off the bed and pads downstairs, looking for food he can hide in his cupboard.

“That’s the secret,” Harry says harshly. And then the four of them are back in Snape’s office, blinking as though blinded by sunlight.

Harry dips his wand into the Pensieve so he doesn’t have to look at their expressions. “Surripio Fidelius Finitum.”

The secrets come together in a violent, frenzied dance. The blob twists and shudders, and then begins to shrink until only a small, white stone lies at the bottom of the basin.

The Charm is satisfied. Snape’s secrets are safe.

Harry puts his wand away and looks up at the others. Ron and Hermione, both quite pale, are staring at him. Snape just looks livid. He waves away Harry’s friends. “Leave us.”

“But Professor—”

“LEAVE US!”

“It’ll be fine,” Harry says quietly. “Go on, I’ll meet you in the Common Room.”

Hermione and Ron waver, but in the end, slip out the door. Snape fires more spells after them, violently, and then faces his student.

“You tried to kill yourself?” Snape says in his deadliest tone.

“Yes.”

Before Harry can move, Snape reaches out and slaps him across the face. The crack echoes throughout the room. Harry physically jerks from the impact, startled out of his wits. He’s never gotten used to being hit. It surprises the hell out of him, each and every time.

“Do you know how many people have tried to keep you alive, Potter? Do you know how many people have made sacrifices to keep you alive?” Snape yells.

Harry says nothing. He licks his lips, tasting something familiar and salty.

“People have died to keep you alive!” Snape continues. “Your mother—your blasted father—they died to keep you alive! Dumbledore has put Merlin-knows how many webs into place! All designed to keep you alive! You must stay alive, Potter! Haven’t I gotten that through your thick skull yet?”

Harry nods. He lets his eyes drift downward, and they focus on the large ring Snape wears on his finger. The stone is flecked with blood.

“I turned spy because of you! I’ve been tortured in the name of keeping you alive! I’ve tortured people in the name of keeping you alive! And—to think—it could have all—to think that you, even as a child, could have ruined all of our work, all of our hopes—”

Snape smacks the back of a stool. The muscles in his jaw are working overtime as he tries to articulate his frustration. He glides up to Harry, erasing the space that Harry has put between them. “Did you ever try it again?”

“Try what again?”

“Taking out a gun and blasting your brains out, Potter!”

Harry closes his eyes, bracing himself. “Yes.”

Snape staggers back a step, fifteen years worth of near-disasters assaulting him. “How many times?”

“Too many to count.”

Snape sinks into a chair, the anger draining out of him. He looks up at Harry. “I’ve seen many things—too many things—over the years, Potter. But you—with that gun, with that weapon, about to kill yourself—I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

Harry considers him. This puts things in rather a different light. He sits down across from Snape.

Snape groans. “I do not know how to do this.” He glances at Harry. “When was the last time you took out that gun?”

“Before I came to Hogwarts,” Harry replies. “You don’t have to worry, Snape. I’m not going to do anything stupid. It was just…harder…back then to deal with stuff.”

“I know what your childhood was like,” Snape says harshly. “I know exactly what your childhood was like, Potter! But I never tried to kill myself!”

“That’s because you had Lily,” Harry retorts. “Who did I have?”

Snape scowls.

“What would you have done?” Harry asks. “If it had been just been you and your parents, day after day after day?”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” Snape mutters under his breath. He shakes his head. “I do not know what I would have done, Potter. I rather think it is my fate to live when others do not. Your father once told me I was like a cockroach, you know. Impossible to kill.”

Harry has no good answer for this, and so he stays quiet.

“You are the most frustrating, alarming child I have ever come across,” Snape finally says, breaking the silence. “Why on earth did you pick that secret? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“You said make it dark,” Harry says grimly.

“Mission accomplished,” Snape mutters. “Merlin, Potter! All these years of trying to keep you safe, and not one of us ever thought you needed protecting from yourself!”

“I needed protecting from the Dursleys,” Harry snaps. “Let me ask you something, Snape. Why it is my fault that I thought suicide was a good idea when I was seven years old? Are you really going to pin that on me? What the hell did I know?”

“Language, Potter,” Snape says sourly. Then he sighs. “You knew nothing. But we knew less. That much is obvious.”

Harry shrugs, not pacified.

“I told you in the Room,” Snape adds, “but perhaps it bears repeating, that I knew nothing of your treatment at the Dursleys. Nobody did, except for Dumbledore, and I’m not sure even how much he knew.”

“You saw enough of my memories during Occlumency, didn’t you? You saw how skinny I was after every summer, didn’t you? And you never said anything to me or to Dumbledore or to anyone!”

“No,” Snape admits. “I thought you deserved whatever you got.” He makes a face. “But I certainly saw nothing as dark as this during Remedial Potions, Potter.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“So are you,” Snape says, annoyed. “You aren’t seven years old anymore. What has stopped you from telling someone at Hogwarts about the abuse?”

“Did you ever tell anyone?”

Snape frowns and sidesteps the question. “We aren’t talking about me.”

Harry is starting to find this conversation really uncomfortable. “I just—I don’t know, I never felt like saying anything about it.”

“Because you were frightened of the Dursleys’ reaction?”

Harry swallows and gives the tiniest of nods.

“And you felt ashamed,” Snape adds, his eyes far away. “And you didn’t trust any adult to help you. They’d all failed you in the past.”

Harry nods shakily, staring firmly at his hands.

“You never would have told,” Snape charges quietly. “Not if Dumbledore, or I, hadn’t forced you into it.”

Harry takes a ragged breath. “I only see the Dursleys once a year now. Does it really matter anymore what they did or didn’t do, or who I told or didn’t tell?”

Snape lifts his hands in a vague, helpless gesture. “I remember every blow, Potter, and it’s been twenty years. It matters.”

“Oh.”

“I told Lily some of what happened to me,” Snape murmurs. “And she guessed the rest. But I never told anyone who might actually have been able to help. Like an adult, for example. A bit stupid, really.” He meets Harry’s eyes. “I might be someone who could help, Potter.”

Harry says nothing. Seems a bit rich, coming from a man who slapped him not ten minutes ago.

“I will do nothing unless you wish me to do so,” Snape says heavily. “For now. But you might do well to confide in your friends.” He pauses. “Or your girlfriend.”

“Ginny isn’t my girlfriend,” Harry says for what feels like the fortieth time.

“I saw the pair of you whispering…and holding hands.”

“No,” Harry insists. “She was holding my hand. They’ve gone all funny, look.” Harry shows Snape his fingers. The cracks have multiplied just over the course of the day.

Snape’s expression changes entirely. He stands up, glides soundlessly into his Potions store, and comes back with a vial of something. “Drink this.”

Harry takes the vial. It looks like glue. But he drinks it anyway.

It tastes like glue, too.

Harry studies his hands. The white cracks are already gone. He looks curiously at Snape. “What was that about?”

Snape groans. “I should have seen this coming. I really am an idiot.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “But what about my hands?”

“When you Healed me…in the Room…you took in a bit of my magic at the same time. Through your fingers.” Snape pauses. “Wizards’ magics are not supposed to mix like that. Your hands are the result of your…meddling with my life.”

“I’m not sure I would have ever noticed the cracks,” Harry says doubtfully, flexing his fingers.

“You might have noticed when your hands started to disintegrate,” Snape says tiredly. “That’s what would have happened without the corrective potion. The cracks would have multiplied until your fingers began to fall apart like sand.”

“Oh, dear,” Harry murmurs. “Remind me to thank Ginny.”

“Do that,” Snape agrees. “It seems a pity now that I gave her so many lines today.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because, Potter, I’m an idiot,” Snape growls. “I was beside myself, remembering how I had poured my tale of woe out to you in the Room. All my stupid secrets about my unrequited love for Lily! And it was unbearable to think that the whole time, you were sitting there, in that smug Potter fashion, thinking to yourself that you had repeated your father’s success, and that you’d gotten the girl when your stupid professor never could!”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Woah. Um, okay.”

“If you had only seen yourself, Potter! With that girl with her red hair and her big green eyes, the pair of you looking just like Lily and James! It was sickening!”

A long pause follows this outburst. “You know, Snape,” Harry finally volunteers, “you are kind of more messed up than I thought.”

“So are you,” Snape scowls. “The Boy who Tried to Off Himself At Seven!”

“So,” Harry says slowly, “is this why you were such a git to me in class today?”

“Have you really not guessed the answer to that by now, Potter?”

Harry shrugs, and allows himself to relax a little. The worst seems to be over. And, most importantly, the Fidelius Charm worked. Snape’s secrets are safe. He stands up. “So, are we done here?”

Snape favors him with an odd look. “Is there nothing else you wish to ask me?”

“About Ginny?” Harry asks uncertainly. “Well, um, I think it’s really weird that my having a red-head for a girlfriend could freak you out so much. But, er, I suppose I understand a bit better now, and anyway, she’s not my girlfriend, so what’s the big deal?”

“Do you not care that I slapped you?”

“Oh.” Harry’s hand rises unbidden to his cheek. It’s got a slice in it, thanks to Snape’s ring. “Um, that.” He shrugs, attempting to make light of it. “It’s not like it’s never happened to me before, Professor.”

“I will not hit you again.”

Harry nods quickly. “Oh, yeah, I know.”

“You do not believe me.”

Harry sucks the air in through his teeth. He turns and gives Snape his full attention. “Exactly why should I, Professor?”

Snape sharply nods his head, as though he is unsurprised by the question. “I do not know.” He stands up, and for the second time that evening, disappears into his private stores. He comes back carrying a vial of something orange. “You should drink this, or your friends will pester you with questions.”

Harry takes the vial and gulps it down. It tastes like pineapple. He feels the gash heal over. “It’s a lot quicker than the Muggle way,” Harry says quietly, setting down the empty vial.

“I imagine so,” Snape murmurs, fiddling with the blood-flecked ring on his finger. After a moment, he takes it off and drops it into his pocket. Harry looks away, oddly unsettled by the gesture.

“Potter,” Snape says, hesitation written over his face, “I told you in the Room that I was a weak man. I said I didn’t understand why you would want to depend on me.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve…I’ve started rather on the wrong foot today. I would understand if you were having second thoughts. About depending on me, or trusting me, or wanting to be in the same room with me. Merlin only knows why you haven’t run screaming in the other direction yet.”

Harry sighs. He looks at Snape’s oddly bare fingers. “I haven’t left yet, have I?”

“No,” Snape says softly. “You haven’t.” He swallows. “Your mother left, you know. I understand why people leave. But…when they stay…” Snape’s voice trails off. “Why didn’t you ever pull the trigger, Potter?”

Harry shrugs. “For the same reason I haven’t run off screaming in the other direction, I guess.”

“Why?”

“I guess I can’t stop from hoping that things will get better.” He pauses. “Or maybe I’m just a coward.”

“I won’t hit you again, Potter.”

“Oh, I know. I believe you.”

The two of them sit there, each of them doubting their words, and wishing that they didn’t.

Harry quietly climbs through the portrait hole. If he’s lucky, nobody will notice him and he can sneak up to the dormitory. It’s not that he’s avoiding his friends, exactly—but Ron and Hermione will want to talk about the gun.  And Harry just doesn’t want to hash it out again. Not after the day he’s had. Not with his nice warm bed just around the corner…

But all ideas of sleep fly out of Harry’s head once he spots his friends. They aren’t hard to miss, as they are the only ones still left in the Common Room. Ron’s head is bowed and Hermione is slumped next to him, her usually flashing eyes dull. They both look shell-shocked. A great rush of affection goes through Harry, and he sits down across from them.

“Hey,” Ron says. There is no rebuke in his voice, nothing at all, in fact, except gentleness, and something about his expression allows Harry to relax. Okay. He can have this conversation again. At least they won’t hit him, right?

Harry waves a hand at them. “Something you two need to say?”

“Are you alright?” Ron asks, clearly concerned. “What happened after we left? Snape looked furious.”

“He asked me about the gun.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Oh…just details. The sorts of things an adult should ask, I suppose.”

“That was an awful memory,” Hermione declares, abruptly joining the conversation. “And I think you’ve plenty more like it, Harry.”

“I might,” Harry hedges, flushing a bit.

“Why didn’t you ever tell us it was that horrible?” Hermione demands. She sounds mad, and Harry braces himself. Anger seems to be an inevitable response to him.

“I tried to tell teachers a couple of times,” Harry says slowly. “They never did anything. I was a dirty little thing, Hermione. I didn’t inspire big gestures.”

“With Muggles,” Ron corrects. “But not with wizards. We wouldn’t have let you rot there. Not us, Harry!”

“Dumbledore’s a wizard,” Harry points out.

Hermione looks between the two boys. “Harry,” she says again. “Please answer me. Why didn’t you tell us about the Dursleys?”

“I told you two more than anyone else,” Harry says stubbornly. “You know they didn’t feed me. You know about the bars on the windows. You know a lot.”

“You left out a fair bit!” Hermione snaps. “You left out a LOT, Harry!”

“I don’t know even your parents’ first names!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Harry crosses his arms, not sure why he’s feeling so defensive. “Maybe you’re hiding something too. How come you spend so much time at the Weasleys? Something you aren’t telling us about the dentists?”

“Are you serious?” Ron asks incredulously. “Really, Harry!”

“Harry’s right,” Hermione says swiftly. “I don’t talk much about my family. What would you like to know?” She looks pointedly at him. “I’d be happy to tell you.”

Harry shrugs. He should have just snuck upstairs. “I don’t know. Nothing. That’s my point. You can keep your secrets if you like. I won’t trick them out of you.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Hermione says curtly. “But come on, Harry. You’ve been keeping a lot from us. And I don’t talk about my parents because I don’t want you to feel left out, alright?”

“You must think I’m really fragile if you think I can’t handle the dentists, Hermione.”

“I’ve seen how you look at the Weasleys. I know you’d give anything to be part of it. I just didn’t want to rub it in!”

“That’s not what I’ve been doing,” Ron says, offended. “Harry, is that what I’ve been doing? Rubbing your face in my family?”

“No,” Harry says firmly. “Hermione’s got it wrong. You know I love everyone at the Burrow.” He hesitates, thinking about what Snape said to him earlier. “But you’re right about something else, Hermione. I haven’t confided in you as much as I could have.”

“Yes,” Hermione says hotly. “Why not?”

“It’s not the easiest thing in the world to talk about,” Harry says tersely. “I don’t enjoy keeping things from you. It’s just—hard. I was embarrassed. I’d rather forget about the Dursleys.”

Hermione looks at him shrewdly. “That’s the only reason you didn’t tell us? You were embarrassed?”

“They don’t matter enough to talk about,” Harry snaps. “They are insignificant, okay? They aren’t my family.” Harry scowls, looking at his shoes. “They were never my family. Not once. Not ever.”

Ron looked surprised by his outburst. “Alright, Harry.”

“You two are my family,” Harry adds, needing to point that out.

Hermione sucks in her breath, looking touched. Then she says quietly, “If you had told us about the Dursleys—and I mean the full story, Harry, not these little details you toss out and then never mention again, then maybe—maybe we could have done something about it.”

“Nobody ever listened to me,” Harry says shortly. “Do you really think they would have listened to my little friends?”

“Well, I suppose we’ll never know, will we?” Hermione says, looking upset.

“What’s done is done,” Ron says grimly. “What I want to know is what you plan on doing about it now. You’ve still got to go back there this summer and the next.”

“They aren’t an issue anymore,” Harry says carefully, his heart clenching in his chest. “I can make myself scarce around Privet Drive. That was a skill I lacked at seven.”

“And is food still an issue?” Hermione asks, the edge creeping back into her voice. “Can we stop sending you emergency packages?”

Harry scowls. “If you like.”

Hermione glares right back at him. “And the gun? Is the gun still an issue, Harry?”

“No,” Harry snarls. “It’s been in the drawer since I turned 11, okay? That’s what I told Snape and that’s what I’m telling you.”

“I knew it,” Ron murmurs.

Hermione ignores him. “Harry? Do you they still hit you?”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He picks at a sofa cushion until a wad of stuffing comes out. The silence drags on and on until finally Harry reluctantly breaks it. “No. No, they don’t hit me anymore.”

“No?” Hermione says, sounding skeptical.

“No,” Harry repeats, a pink blush creeping up his neck. “I’m too quick for them now.”

“So would you say your conditions have changed from intolerable to acceptable?”

“Yes, Counselor,” Harry growls. “Conditions are adequate. Can we move on?”

“I’m so pleased you are willing to settle for adequate,” Hermione says coldly. “Let me know when you want to aim a little higher.”

Harry can’t help but flinch at her words. He cannot think of a single thing to say in return.

“Shut up!” Ron says loudly. “Why don’t you just shut up, Hermione!”

The tone is so unlike him that Harry and Hermione both freeze. “Don’t talk to Harry like that!” Ron continues, his face as red as his hair. “What were you doing at seven, Hermione? You were cuddled between the dentists, a teddy in one hand and a book in the other, weren’t you?”

Hermione just stares at him. Ron gestures jerkily at her, obviously expecting an answer. Finally Hermione nods.

“That’s what I thought,” Ron growls. “You know where I was? I was running around the strawberry patch wrestling with gnomes. I didn’t have a care in the world. Did you? Huh? Did you have a care in the world, Hermione?”

Hermione shakes her head.

“Then you just leave Harry alone,” Ron says fiercely. “Who are we to judge him?”

Hermione gulps and looks away. Harry hopes that is the end of it, but Hermione is not so easily quenched. She rummages around her bag and pulls something out of it. “Harry,” she says, a placating wobble in her voice, “Ron and I both found messages on our pillows when we came back. Would you like to read them?”

Harry doesn’t want to, but he nods anyway to keep the peace. He unfolds the first piece of parchment, instantly recognizing the spidery handwriting:

Hermione, please tell Harry to come to my office upon receipt of this message. He knows the password. AD

Ron wordlessly hands over the second parchment:

Tell him to come alone.

“Excellent,” Harry murmurs. “That’s just what I want to do. See Dumbledore.”

“Will you go?” Hermione asks. “You can’t avoid him forever, Harry.”

Harry scowls. He balls up the notes and hurls them onto the fire. The three of them watch the papers burn, Hermione with an uneasy expression on her face.

After that, there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. Harry takes his leave of the others and at long last goes to the dormitory. But his rest is fretful. In his dreams, Dumbledore keeps trying to give him a gun, over and over again. He’s done with sleep before the sun has risen.

***

Halfway through a large dish of pre-dawn scrambled eggs, a shadow falls across Harry’s plate. He looks up, rather surprised to see Snape. Harry glances, before he can stop himself, at the man’s hands. No ring.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape says in a neutral sort of voice. He glances around him as he speaks, but the Great Hall is empty at this ungodly hour.

“What do you want?”

Snape smirks at the unfriendly greeting and thrusts a piece of parchment at him.

Harry sets fire to the note without reading it.

Snape raises an eyebrow. “Too busy to read your fan mail?”

Harry sighs. “Did you read it?”

“It was not addressed to me.”

“But did you read it?”

“I delivered it, did I not?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “But did you read it?”

“No.”

Harry squashes some scrambled eggs with his fork. “He wants to see me, you know.”

“So I gathered. I do so enjoy, by the way, acting as your personal owl.” Snape uneasily glances around him again. Then with a graceful slither, he sits across from Harry. At the Gryffindor table. Voluntarily.

Harry narrows his eyes. What an odd turn of events. “Why do you think Dumbledore wants to see me?”

“I imagine he wants to tell you about the rest of the prophecy,” Snape replies. He looks distastefully at the Gryffindor banner hanging above him, and waves his wand. The lion in the fabric closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to know what it says.”

“You are not curious? Minerva says you are always curious.”

“Dumbledore’s going to tell me I have to murder Voldemort, isn’t he?”

Snape looks startled. “Well, yes, probably.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, looking as though he requires fortification.

“It just makes no sense,” Harry says plaintively. “Surely Dumbledore can kill him. Why does it have to be me?”

“You managed more than the rest of us put together as a baby, Potter.”

“So?” Harry demands. “That means I have to do it again?”

“This is why you are avoiding the headmaster? You wish to avoid his assignment?”

“He isn’t assigning me an essay, Snape! He wants me to murder someone.”

“He wants you to kill the man who murdered your parents and who tried to kill you.”

“You sound like you want me to kill him,” Harry grumbles.

“It would certainly be a load off my mind.”

“Why are you making light of this?”

Snape smirks into his coffee. “Things must be as they may.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Merely that some things are inevitable. If it is your fate to kill the Dark Lord, then so be it. Avoiding the headmaster will not change that.”

Harry pulls a plate of sausages towards his end of the table. He spears one savagely with his fork, and watched the juices dribble out the middle. “That’s right. I forgot. You believe in fate because you think your thestral wand is unlucky. Load of rubbish if you ask me.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “I do not recall asking you.”

“Why would I want my life to have been destined?” Harry continues. “I’d rather it was a big cosmic joke than some sort of master plan. A plan means someone is out to get me.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic,” Snape murmurs.

Harry scowls. “I’d rather believe in free will.” He glares at Snape. “Only an idiot would believe in Divination.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?”

“You are if you believe in that stuff,” Harry mutters.

Snape stirs his cup of coffee. “Duly noted.”

Harry takes a swig of pumpkin juice. This is weird. Snape is acting far too civil. “So you do believe in it? You think the prophecy has to be fulfilled?”

“I know a true prophecy when I see one,” Snape replies. “Or do you think I would have run off to the Dark Lord with anything less than utter certainty?”

Harry spears another sausage. “So you want the prophecy to be true. That’s interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the prophecy is true, you’re off the hook,” Harry says. “Well, not off the hook. But it might make it easier for you to sleep at night, if you thought that at least you gave Voldemort something valid.”

Snape puts down his mug too hard and coffee sloshes onto the table. “You assume too much.”

“I’m not assuming anything. I’m just saying, you know, that if this prophecy is nonsense, then it makes what you did even more foolish—”

“Be quiet,” Snape snaps. He takes a deep breath and Vanishes the excess coffee with deliberate, slow spell work. Then he says, more calmly, “You really ought to desist, Potter.”

Harry does not want to desist. He made that mistake last night, when he should have answered Snape’s blow in kind. Instead he’d jumped and startled and trembled like a two-day-old deer.

“I’d rather it were up to me whether I kill Voldemort,” Harry says curtly. “It’s not up to the damn stars. If you think that you are a fool. That’s all.”

“Have you forgotten that I am your professor?” Snape inquires. “You owe me at least the appearance of respect. You should not call me names.”

“So you think it was clever of you to go running off to Voldemort? With a stupid prophecy that can’t possibly be true? And you say Gryffindors are reckless!”

Snape, to Harry’s immense satisfaction, finally begins to look agitated. “Careful, Potter.”

“We never really discussed this,” Harry says, latching onto the man’s anger, letting it fuel his own. He wants Snape to get mad. He wants to redeem himself for last night’s humiliation. Just let Snape try slapping him again. “I punched you in the nose after you told me about the prophecy and walked out, remember? Did you think that was the end of it?”

“There is no end to this,” Snape hisses. “I have been living like a man waiting for the noose, Potter! Every morning when I wake up, I wonder—will this be the day? Will this be the day her child seeks me out for vengeance? Will this be the day my house of cards collapses?”

“You’re playing the victim,” Harry accuses, planting his hands on either side of his plate and leaning forward. “You brought this on yourself. Nobody forced you to tell Voldemort the prophecy. Nobody forced you to become a Death Eater. Nobody was holding a gun to your head!”

“No, that was you,” Snape says viciously. “You wish to talk about victimhood, Potter? Nobody forced you to show us that particular memory. Poor little suffering Harry! He’s blameless, of course! Always blameless!”

“It’s easy to be blameless when you never do anything,” Harry mutters.

“What do you mean?” Snape demands.

“All I ever do is sit there and take it,” Harry says bitterly. “With my uncle. Last night with you. Even with my friends sometimes.” He looks up at Snape. “Maybe if I fought back a little harder I wouldn’t be so blameless, eh?”

Snape gives Harry a strange look. “You think you don’t fight back? You, the child who regularly bests Voldemort?”

Harry shrugs.

“And you think my actions are comparable to your uncle’s?”

“He’s not blameless. Neither are you.”

Snape clutches his cup of coffee so hard that his knuckles begin to turn white. “And so the hangman prepares his noose.”

“I have every right to judge you,” Harry snaps. “As Lily’s child, I have that right!”

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Snape asks, his voice shaking. “I see the remains of what I blew up in that house. I see bits and pieces—all that was left of them, I’m sure—flying up in the air and landing on to you.” Snape leans forward, pointing at different parts of Harry, who flinches away, repulsed. “Here—your mother’s eyes. And there—there’s your father’s chin.” He stops at Harry’s scar. “And there—there’s your scar. But that one’s just your own, isn’t it?”

“Stop it,” Harry says hoarsely.

“I sent your parents to their Judgment Day,” Snape says, a dark glint in his eye. “And they left you to bring me to mine. Do you not see? You might as well be a ghost, for all you haunt me!”

“Shut up! Why don’t you just shut up, Snape!”

Snape stiffens, and then, strangely, relaxes. He takes a deep breath, the wildness leaving his expression. “And this is what happens I actually try to keep my temper. Very encouraging.”

“Go away,” Harry says miserably. “You aren’t wanted.”

Snape frowns. “Can’t you at least act like you respect me?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know,” Snape sighs. “I only meant that—oh, Merlin knows. Don’t you have a lesson to go to?”

“Don’t you have a lesson to teach?”

The two of them consider each other. Snape groans and pours himself another cup of coffee. “I do not think we are morning people, Potter.”

“You talk about me like I’m some kind of Frankenstein. Why did you say that?”

Snape winces. “I should not have done so.”

Harry scowls.

“You are no monster,” Snape says softly, a strange pleading look in his eyes. “You must know that.” He clears his throat. “I do not even know how we landed at this juncture. What on earth were we talking about?”

“The prophecy,” Harry says witheringly. “Touchy subject.”

“Apparently.”

“I don’t want the stupid thing to be true,” Harry mumbles.

“I am getting that distinct impression.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Harry whispers, finally admitting it. “And Voldemort’s going to destroy me before I even get out my wand.”

“Perhaps,” Snape says. “But perhaps not.”

“Since when are you such an optimist?”

“Do you really think I would waste my time protecting you if I did not think you were on the winning side?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are mistaken.”

“You’d protect me, no matter what, because of Mum,” Harry snaps, suddenly angry again. “I don’t think you even care about the war.”

“I care,” Snape says in his deep voice. “Only children do not care about their leaders, Potter.”

“So you say,” Harry replies. “But I think that if Lily were still alive, and willing, then you’d have no interest in war. You’d be interested in…other things.” He glares at Snape. “Other parts of my mum, I expect.”

Two spots of color suffuse Snape’s cheeks, and Harry wonders if he has finally gone too far. He braces himself for the inevitable explosion. But to his surprise, Snape visibly relaxes once more, and begins to sip at his coffee. “Why are you so insolent today, Potter?”

“I’m not,” Harry bristles. “I’m just being honest.”

“You lie,” Snape murmurs. “You have been trying to pick a fight and now I understand why.”

“Merlin, you really are paranoid.”

“You are testing me,” Snape pronounces. “You want to see if I will keep my promise from last night. Very adolescent of you.”

Harry turns his attention to his dish of cold, mangled sausages. They look disgusting, but he eats one anyway. “If I really wanted to provoke you, Snape, I think I’d know about it.”

“I’m not going to hit you again,” Snape continues. “No matter what you do. No matter what you tell me or how much you frighten me. Would you like me to swear on something? I will, you know.”

“What’s left for you to swear on?” Harry demands. “My mother’s life? Oh, wait…” He looks pointedly at Snape.

Snape, to Harry’s annoyance, does not take the bait. He merely looks back at Harry.

“I don’t care if you hit me,” Harry huffs, trying to recover his bravado. “I punched you in the Room.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Snape says calmly. “I wonder why you keep pointing that out? Something to do with your pride, perhaps?”

Harry scowls, breaking eye contact.

“I wasn’t much older than you when I first killed someone,” Snape says, mercifully changing the subject. “If I can do it, you can. But perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves. Visit the headmaster. See what he says about the prophecy. Then come and report to me.”

“Don’t give me marching orders,” Harry snaps. “I’ll come to you if I feel like it.”

Snape takes a roll from the table and butters it. He sounds almost amused when he says, “Certainly, Potter.”

“Why are you laughing at me?” Harry demands, feeling oddly put out.

“Would you rather I give you detention?” Snape says mildly.

“I’d rather you stop acting like I’m some moody teenager you’re indulging!”

“Very well,” Snape says, now definitely sounding amused. “Detention at eight tonight.” He smirks. “Don’t be late.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth. For once, he is at a loss for words. Then he slumps into his chair. Of all the idiots who roam the earth, he is certainly the biggest.

“So,” Snape says, clearing his throat, “do you wish for me to accompany you to the headmaster’s office?”

Harry sighs. Why is Snape being nice to him? Probably he still feels guilty about last night. “That’s okay. Do you, um, think Dumbledore will try something?”

Snape pulls something out of his pocket and shows it to Harry. “Take this with you, and the headmaster will not be able to ‘try’ anything.”

“What is it?” Harry asks curiously. Snape has given him a shiny black stone with a rough crater in the center.

“If he gives you any trouble, press your thumb into the indentation, say Auxilio Volnerum, and throw the stone at him.”

“What will that do?”

Snape smirks. “You’ll see.”

***

Harry steps off the moving staircase a few minutes later. He still can’t believe he’s willingly going into this man’s office. What must he be thinking?

Well. Maybe McGonagall was right. He’s curious.

Dumbledore is sitting in an armchair by the fire. He’s got a photograph in his hand, and is gazing at it with such intensity that Harry is embarrassed. He’s never known Dumbledore to look so transfixed by something. He clears his throat, and Dumbledore looks up sharply. His face relaxes when he sees who it is. “Harry. Please, join me.”

Dumbledore slips the photograph into his robes, and Harry, after a moment’s hesitation, joins him in the other chair by the fire. It’s oddly cozy with the flames cackling, and Fawkes snoozing in the corner. A pang goes through Harry. It’s like he’s with his grandfather, swapping stories after a lazy meal. That’s how it would look. To an outsider.

Dumbledore looks tired. He sips his tea and considers Harry. “Will you ever forgive me?”

Harry squints at the wizard. That was not the opening he was expecting. “Forgive you? For the Room?”

“Among other things, I am sure. You know, at our last meeting, I did not make use of the opportunity to apologize for what I must have put you through.”

Harry looks suspiciously at Dumbledore, while racking his own memory of that confrontation. He remembers Snape cursing Fawkes…and Dumbledore taking the Unbreakable Vow…and telling Snape about the memory inside the Pensieve. But…no, he doesn’t remember an apology. Nobody ever apologizes. What would be the point?

“You want to apologize to me,” Harry repeats flatly.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “Whatever my reasons, my methods were harsh. I do not know what I would have done, if someone had imprisoned me when I was fifteen. I doubt the results would have been pleasant. I do apologize for that.”

“Doesn’t Snape deserve an apology too?”

Dumbledore smiles. “You see, Harry? That is why I cannot wholly regret my actions. You never would have asked that before.”

Harry ignores this. “Answer the question.”

Dumbledore looks steadily at Harry. “Of course he will get an apology.”

“But I get one first,” Harry mutters. Sometimes Snape’s jealousy does not seem so misplaced. “You’re just being nice because you want something from me. You want me to kill Voldemort for you, right?” He tries to look taller, straightening in his chair. “That’s what the prophecy says, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore takes off his spectacles and polishes them. He looks like a mole without his glasses, his eyes squinting as though unused to the light. “You’ve figured that out? Very clever of you.”

Harry’s heart sinks. “So I’m right? That’s what the prophecy says? I’ve got to kill him?”

“It says one of you must kill the other.” Dumbledore twirls his wand, and the smoky face of Sybill Trelawney wafts out of it. She opens her mouth and issues her prophecy about the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. Her wavering voice echoes weirdly in the chamber, and Harry shivers. When she is done, Dumbledore waves her back into oblivion. And that’s that.

Dumbledore looks steadily at Harry. “Are you very angry with me?”

“Do you believe in prophecies?”

“As much as any man can believe the words of another.” Dumbledore says soberly. “You recall Professor Trelawney’s words about the servant rejoining his master? That prophecy came true. This one was given in much the same vein.”

“Divination is a load of crap,” Harry says, heart pounding. “Including this prophecy. I don’t care what Snape says, there’s no such thing as a real one.”

“Don’t let Sybill hear you say that,” Dumbledore says lightly. “But it happens I rather agree with you. Do not set too much store by prophecies, Harry. I tell you simply to arm you.”

“So that’s it?” Harry says, rattled. “Do you want me to kill him or not? I can’t tell.”

“I think not,” Dumbledore says calmly. “At least, not until some other matters have been resolved.” He peers over his glasses at Harry. “Let me resolve them, and then we will have this discussion again.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry protests. “You said you put me in the Room for a bunch of reasons, two birds and all that, but…I don’t know. I thought you put me in there to help prepare me for the war. You know, to make a warrior out of me. That’s what the password said. A place for warriors.” He stares at Dumbledore. “I’m not a warrior yet.”

“I did not put you in the Room to create something,” Dumbledore says quietly, “but to mend something.”

“Yes,” Harry says impatiently, “you didn’t want me to kill Snape. I got it. Into the Room we went. And now you don’t want me to kill Voldemort, either.” He feels his anger getting the best of him. “Is there anybody you do want me to kill? I’d rather gotten used to the idea!”

“I don’t want you to kill anyone,” Dumbledore says, a little edge to his voice. “Do you truly think I would willingly choose this fate for you? Have you misconstrued my wishes so badly?”

“How am I supposed to know what you want for me?” Harry demands. “How am I supposed to know what you want from me? You never tell me anything!”

“I have an idea,” Dumbledore announces. “Let us revisit the events of the Room. I am not under the constraints of the Unbreakable Vow now. I can speak much more freely.”

“You mean you can lie.”

“It is very difficult to speak of things that are not black and white when under such magic. Would you like me to tell you something, Harry? Let me tell you the gray.”

Harry swallows. Then, against his better judgment, he slowly nods. “Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and runs his fingers over the stone.

“Start at the beginning,” Dumbledore prompts. “Tell me what happened when you entered the Room.”

“It was empty,” Harry says haltingly. He swallows, clenching his fingers around the stone. He can do this. “Then Snape came in. We couldn’t get our magic to work, but for some reason I got mine sorted out. Snape got really frustrated and threw a book at me.” Harry frowns. “I think he broke my nose. But it was an accident. He didn’t mean to hit me that time.”

“Professor Snape does have quite the temper. But I’m sure that came as no surprise to you.”

“I’d say Snape got the first surprise,” Harry says, determined now to get the details right. He’ll show Dumbledore. He’s not afraid. “Snape saw my dinosaur memory and found out how the Dursleys treated me.” Harry pauses, and pointedly repeats, “That’s when he found out about what the Dursleys. I don’t know if the dinosaur came as a surprise to anyone else.”

Their eyes meet. For once, Dumbledore’s expression is open.

Oh.

No…no, the dinosaur wasn’t a surprise.

Harry glares at Dumbledore, hoping that Snape is right. He hopes his mother’s eyes are looking out from his patchwork face, damning Dumbledore to hell and back. For what he did to her child. For what he chose not to do.

Dumbledore looks away.

Harry leans back in his chair, trying to find solace in this tiny victory. He can find none, so instead he begins to talk. This is what he does with Dumbledore. He fills in the silences. “The dinosaur rattled Professor Snape and we got into a fight. He dared me to use my magic on him. I thought about it and told the Room to give him what he deserved.”

“Most men do not get what they deserve,” Dumbledore says very quietly. Then he clears his throat, and in a much different voice, adds “You chose to make him suffer. That experience shook Professor Snape badly.”

“I know what I did,” Harry says fiercely. “I’m not trying to deny that I hurt him.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flickers for a moment. His hand strays to his pockets, as though he wants to look at his photograph again. Instead he brushes imaginary crumbs off his robes. “You chose poorly that time, Harry. But you learned soon enough.”

Harry doesn’t even know where to begin with that. Dumbledore is accusing him of bad choices? Really? His hand finds the indentation in the stone. He can use it if he wants to. For some reason this calms him down enough to go on. “After that came the Veritaserum.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “Professor Snape learned plenty of your secrets. But you did not discover any of his.”

“Not until you brought in the Mirror of Erised,” Harry says grimly. “Then I found out everything.”

“Not everything,” Dumbledore corrects. “But Lily Potter stepped in from the shadows.”

Harry swallows, remembering how his mum had looked at both of them from the Mirror. She looked so sad, like she had done something wrong, and wanted Harry’s forgiveness. What did she want his forgiveness for?

“Then I learned Occlumency,” Harry says stonily. He will not talk about his mother with this man. “I threw Snape out of my head.”

“A marvelous accomplishment,” Dumbledore says warmly. As if everything was normal. “You should be proud of yourself.”

“We went to Spinners End next,” Harry grinds out, ignoring the praise. “I met the young Snape and my mum. I Obliviated them.”

“Once more, you had a difficult choice to make,” Dumbledore says. “But, like I said before, this time you chose better.” Dumbledore clears his throat. “And, I might add, you removed a memory of theirs.”

Harry doesn’t appreciate the comparison. “I had to modify their memories. I had to! It was the right thing to do. It was nothing like what you did to me!”

“I am merely pointing out a similarity,” Dumbledore says calmly. “Please continue.”

“I found out about Snape’s childhood,” Harry says bitterly, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I think that was the last straw for him. He started to go crazy in that Room. And you wouldn’t let him out. Even though he was humiliating himself. You wouldn’t let him out. You wouldn’t help him!”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, his voice brittle. “He still was keeping something from you. If he had only taken the Veritaserum, he might have spared himself that.”

“YOU MIGHT HAVE SPARED HIM FROM IT!” Harry roars. He jumps to his feet, trembling from the sheer force of his emotions. “BUT YOU DIDN’T!”

“No,” Dumbledore says quietly. “I didn’t spare anyone, did I? I only did that once, you know. And it didn’t help anything.”

This response is so wholly unsatisfactory that Harry can only stare at him.

“And besides,” Dumbledore continues, “Professor Snape still kept something from you. So of course I could not let him out.”

“Why? Why was that so bloody important?”

“The secrets were like poison with you two,” Dumbledore says, more confident than he has been all morning. “They stood in the way of anything ever being mended. You had to know, and he had to be the one to tell you.”

“And you had to be the one to orchestrate it,” Harry says furiously.

“Yes,” Dumbledore readily agrees. “Now, please continue. What happened next?”

“Like you don’t know,” Harry growls. He begins to pace in front of the fireplace. “The Sorting Hat came and I found the Tunnel of Gryffindor. Snape told me about how he got my parents killed and about the bloody prophecy. He told me just like you wanted him to, alright? And then I left.”

“But you came back,” Dumbledore says warmly, “as I realized you would. I knew you would go back for him, Harry! I knew you would make the right choice!”

Harry stops pacing. He stands in front of the snapping fireplace, staring at the flames until his vision begins to blur. “It wasn’t like that. I only went back because of the Pensieve. I hated you more than him at that moment. That’s all.”

“And saving his life?” Dumbledore asks. “You chose to Heal him simply because you hated me more? You could have left him to die, you know. He did as much to you.”

“There was no choice involved,” Harry says angrily. “Some things aren’t optional, Professor!”

Dumbledore says nothing. The silence fills the room.

“That’s the end of my story,” Harry says roughly. “You know what happened next.”

“It is a dreadful tale,” Dumbledore says, stirred out of his reverie. He actually sounds sympathetic. “But also an important one.”

““Why?” Harry demands. “Why is it so important to you? What did the Room have to do with preparing me for the war? It didn’t teach me how to kill Voldemort.”

“The Room taught you to make the right choice instead of the easy one.”

“The Room didn’t teach me anything!” Harry snarls. “And I think I knew right from wrong before you stuffed me in there!”

“I saw how the Room changed you,” Dumbledore says quietly. Harry stands there stiffly. He cannot deny this, and Dumbledore knows it.

“Choices are dire in times of war,” Harry mutters. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” Dumbledore agrees. “And you learned how to make the right choice, Harry.” He pierces Harry with his blue eyes. “You chose to save Professor Snape after he had hurt you dreadfully. You chose to Obliviate your mother even though you knew how much pain it would cause you. After that first vindictive mistake with Professor Snape, when you chose to punish him, you chose unselfishly time and again. I can ask no more of the man who will defeat Voldemort.”

“I don’t understand you,” Harry says, his voice hitching in his throat. He never understands this man. “How will being unselfish help me to kill him?”

“That will become clear when the time is right,” Dumbledore says cryptically. “But you will be victorious, my child. Of that I have no doubt.”

Harry looks helplessly at Dumbledore. “Don’t call me that.”

Dumbledore flinches. Then he clears his throat. “I do apologize. How presumptuous of me.”

All of a sudden Harry feels undone. He leans against the fireplace, something dark and deep curdling inside of him. Dumbledore raises his finger, crooking it toward Harry. “Now it is my turn to tell you a story. Please, Harry. Join me.”

Harry walks a few feet forward, limbs stiff, and then sinks to the ground. He can go no further. He sits cross-legged on the shaggy rug, head bowed, almost at the man’s feet. The fire rages behind him.

“You must succeed where I have failed,” Dumbledore says softly from somewhere above him. Then he stops and begins again. “My story, like yours, has a villain. But mine lacks a hero. I never killed my dark wizard, Harry. I never killed Grindelwald.”

Harry looks up at Dumbledore. The movement costs him something. “Grindelwald? The man on the Chocolate Frog card? It said you defeated him.”

“Oh, I defeated him,” Dumbledore says heavily, “after a fashion. But I did not kill him. I locked him up in a tower, and by doing so, I left the possibility of his return open. He lives there still.”

“Locking people up doesn’t work. Ever.”

Dumbledore sighs. “I could not bear to kill him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Harry says, anger nudging at him once more. “I didn’t want to let Snape die.”

“You gave a flawed man another chance,” Dumbledore corrects. “I let a monster live because of my own selfishness. I was not like you, Harry. I had not learned to make the right choice instead of the easy one. And so I spared him, and the world is a worse place because of it.”

“Do you want me to kill Grindelwald as well?” Harry asks, dread lining his insides. “Is that what this is about?”

Dumbledore looks torn between laughter and something else. “No, Harry. Age has not cured me of that particular foolishness. I would ask that you refrain from killing Grindelwald.”

“Good,” Harry mumbles, his head sagging back to his chest.

“I am a foolish man, you know,” Dumbledore says next. “I have let selfishness and fear cripple my life. That cannot befall you. I know the first will not happen. But as for the second—”

“What are you scared of?” Harry interrupts in disbelief. “You’re Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore hesitates. Then, murmuring to himself, he reaches into his robes. Harry tenses, putting his hand on the stone again, but Dumbledore merely brings out the photograph he’d been looking at earlier. “I’m afraid of her.”

Harry reaches up and takes the offered photo. A small girl with light blue eyes looks curiously back at him.

“She’s a child,” Harry says slowly. “Why are you scared of a child?”

“She was my little sister,” Dumbledore says quietly, his voice tripping over the last word, as though unaccustomed to it. “I loved her more than life itself. She was like my own child.” He takes another deep breath. “I was supposed to protect her. She died. It was my fault.”

Harry think of Cedric and his heart bangs painfully in his chest.

“I lost everything when I lost Ariana,” Dumbledore continues. “And I have never trusted myself with anyone of importance since.”

Harry stares at the little girl. Her eyes are watery. Her face looks piggy. He hates her.

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

“What do you mean?” Harry asks warily.

“Our stories share many elements,” Dumbledore explains. “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,” Harry says slowly.

“He thinks he will always be an afterthought to me,” Dumbledore corrects. “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?”

Dumbledore looks away, his eyes flashing with regret. “I doubt it. I cannot believe I am even telling you.”

“Why are you telling me?” Harry asks awkwardly.

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

A strange thought is beginning to creep into Harry’s mid. It is so terrifying that he can barely articulate his question. “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.” Dumbledore says slowly. “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.”

“Ron and Hermione are my family,” Harry says stiffly. “And Sirius. I don’t need anything more. I certainly don’t need a father. My father is dead.” After a pause, his heart twisting inside of him, he adds, “And if I did give up on a family, it’s your fault. You left me with the Muggles.”

“You terrified me,” Dumbledore says huskily. “You must understand that, Harry. If I took you in—if I lost you like I lost Ariana—I could not try again. I could not risk it.”

Harry’s insides freeze. His heart is a block of ice. He hopes it stays that way.

“That is why I must beg your pardon,” Dumbledore quietly continues. “I used blood ward magic as an excuse and I left you with those Muggles. How can you ever forgive me?”

“I’ve wondered ever since I met you,” Harry says, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. He cannot believe that they are actually talking about this. “Every time I see you—I ask myself why you didn’t take me in. Every single time, Dumbledore! But I never thought it was your fault you left me there. I thought it was mine!”

“I know,” Dumbledore says heavily. “And that is why I can never forgive myself.”

“You didn’t help me. You could have and you didn’t. You didn’t help me.”

“I know,” Dumbledore whispers. “You have every right to judge me. I know they hurt you. But they did not kill you. And so I have not failed you in the same way I failed my sister.” Dumbledore pauses. “Or so I tell myself at night.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” Harry says coldly. “Not ever.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore says weakly. “Please. Try again. Do not give up on a family because of me.”

“You flatter yourself,” Harry says roughly. He awkwardly gets to his feet and holds out the photograph of Dumbledore’s sister. “Take it.”

Dumbledore’s movements are much slower than usual. His hands are shaking.

“TAKE IT!” Harry screams. He leans over Dumbledore, shoving the photograph in his face. “You chose her over me, alright? So TAKE IT!”

Dumbledore winces, but still, he cannot bring himself to take the picture back. He seems frightened by it now.

“Fine,” Harry snarls. He takes out his wand. “Incendio.”

And once more Harry watches Dumbledore’s papers go up in flames. Fawkes coos in recognition and flies down to the pile of ashes. She begins to sift through the grit, almost as though she is looking for something.

“Why did you do that?” Dumbledore asks in a very low voice. “That was my favorite picture of her. That was my only picture of her.”

“YOU LEFT ME WITH THE DURSLEYS!” Harry cries with the voice of a much younger child. He hurls spell after spell at the pile of ashes, narrowly missing Fawkes, until there is nothing left but a fine layer of soot. Dumbledore flinches with every incantation.

“You know what?” Harry says, his breath ragged. “I’m sick of being blameless.”

“Ariana used to sit at my feet,” Dumbledore whispers. “I used to give her lemon drops and tell her stories.”

Harry jerks his wand and Vanishes the ashes.

Fawkes squawks at the sudden loss. She begins to cry, almost as though her mate has been taken from her. The tears drop to the floor, but there is nothing for them to heal.

“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.

“Thank Merlin it’s Saturday,” Ron says, heaping a final mound of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “I woke up and thought it was Monday, and I started panicking over all the homework I hadn’t done.”

“I noticed,” Harry says dryly. “I think the whole dormitory did.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees, completely unembarrassed. He stuffs the last bite into his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. “Feel like a round of chess, Harry?”

“I would think you’d feel like doing your homework,” Hermione says crisply, buttering a piece of toast. “I don’t put much store in Divination, as you well know, but I can see what happened today repeating tomorrow.”

“Well, it’s not Monday yet,” Ron says comfortably. “How about a game, Harry?”

Hermione rolls her eyes before going back to a long strip of parchment. She keeps scratching away at it while the Great Hall clears out and Ron takes out his chess board.

“This is the first normal thing I’ve done in ages,” Harry says happily, surveying the board.

Ron and Hermione exchange a small smile. Harry, preoccupied with setting up his pieces, doesn’t notice. Nor does he think to ask why Ron already had his chess set with him.

Harry loses the first game, and they declare the second game a draw. Ron stretches and yawns, craning his head to look at Hermione’s parchment. “Who’s this epic for, then? Not Krum?”

“No,” Hermione says, blushing faintly before snatching the paper away from him. “Today happens to be Dad’s birthday, and I’m sending him a note, if you don’t mind.” She bundles up the parchment and trots off to the Owlery.

“I’ve forgotten when Dad’s birthday is,” Ron murmurs absently, watching Hermione as she flounces off. “Someone’s always turning up a year older in my family.”

Harry says nothing, putting the chess pieces back into the box. The subject of fathers has nothing to do with him.

Ron has Quidditch practice, and despite his pestering Harry declines to come along. It would just be too depressing, and anyway, he really should start on his piles of homework. He gathers up his things and heads for the library, feeling unaccountably gloomy. As he turns the corner, he hears two voices, a high-pitched trembling one and a much lower drawl. Harry can’t hear what Snape is saying, but it must be poisonous, because the kid starts crying and still Snape hisses quietly into his ear. Finally the boy dashes off, wiping his eyes hastily as he spies Harry.

“What was that all about?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Snape straightens up, waving his hand indifferently. “Hufflepuff.”

“First year. Why was he crying?”

“It isn’t hard to do.” Snape strides toward Harry, not speaking again until he has cast a Silencing bubble around them.

"How is your arm today?"

"Okay. Hermione thinks it might scar."

"Does she need more murtlap?"

"No. Ron dug up a big mess of it."

"Fine," Snape says. He studies Harry with a guarded expression. “Is something wrong, Potter?”

“No,” Harry says, folding his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Something about your expression.”

Harry frowns. “I’m fine, and I have homework to do, so—”

“I’m sure you do, but I have a more interesting idea,” Snape drawls. “I’d like to show you something.”

Harry’s heartbeat quickens inside of him. He's learned to hate surprises. "What is it?"

"Let's call it Switzerland."

And with that strange reply, Snape sweeps past Harry, down several flights of stairs, and into the Potions classroom. Harry, nonplussed, follows, and watches as Snape fiddles with a jar on a shelf. He's handling it in such an odd way—the rows of bottled newt eyes disappear, and there is simply a deep, blank doorway. And then Snape dips into the chasm of darkness, his footsteps immediately disappearing.

Harry looks dumbly in front of him. But before he can properly make up his mind, the doorway starts to shrink. Harry jumps up and runs over to the dwindling opening, just squeezing through before it disappears. And then he is enshrouded in darkness that smells like candle wax. The darkness is so silent and complete that there is nothing to do but hold himself steady and wait for his eyes to adjust. Harry’s patience is rewarded as a doorway takes shape a few feet away, coming into focus like an inkblot dripping onto a page. The door opens of its own accord, and so Harry steps through it. There isn't much to see, just a couple of chairs, a table and a sofa.

Then things get brighter—someone has magically lit the smudged oil lamps that dot the room. Harry shivers as he looks around. There aren’t any windows, but now he does spot a couple of doors leading off from the main room.

"Can you guess where I have brought you, Potter?"

Harry turns around and faces his teacher, who has materialized out of nowhere, perhaps for effect. "I have an idea."

"These are my quarters."

“Oh.”

Snape rocks back and forth on his heels. "And have you sorted out why I have brought you here?"

"You said something about Switzerland."

"Switzerland tends to be neutral in times of war."

"And you think your rooms are neutral?"

"You and I have never spent any time here together.”

"So?"

"You were correct in stating that my office holds no pleasant recollections for you, Potter. After our conversation the other night, I got the idea of providing us a place without—without memories. I could think of no other feasible spot at Hogwarts."

"A place without memories," Harry repeats, turning the phrase over in his mouth.

"Yes," Snape says. A long pause follows. "You're free to leave, of course. I just thought it might be refreshing to fight with you under a different ceiling. Forgive my stupidity."

"Give me a second to get used to the idea," Harry says, flustered. "How would you like it if I brought you to the Gryffindor common room?"

"James already thought of that, years ago. He hexed the Fat Lady so I couldn't escape."

Harry winces. He hates hearing these things about his father.

“So,” Snape says, his voice curiously flat. “What do you think of my Switzerland?”

Harry shifts from foot to foot. He glances back at the door behind him. “What if someone finds us down here?”

“Meaning?”

"Is—is it against the rules for a professor to bring a student to his private rooms?" Harry ventures. "I mean, if someone saw us here alone—they might think it—improper."

Snape's eyebrows shoot up. He looks at Harry with no little surprise and strides across the room, moving faster than Harry would have thought possible. His voice is very low when he speaks.

"What exactly are you insinuating, Potter?"

"N-nothing," Harry says, fighting the urge to take a step backwards.

"I didn't bring you here to do anything improper," Snape says, placing heavy emphasis on the word. "What do you expect me to do that is improper?"

"I only meant," Harry starts, reasonably enough, "that if someone saw us alone together in your rooms, they might think you had—um—not the best of intentions. Murder, for example. Or—well. Other things.”

"Just because you have her eyes," Snape hisses, "does not mean that I cannot differentiate between the two of you."

Now Harry does take a step back, shaken by the intensity of Snape’s gaze. "I'm not—I'm not accusing you of anything— I'm just saying—”

"I know what you are saying," Snape growls, steamrolling over Harry. "James accused me of being improper too. He saw me alone with Lily our fourth year.” He glares at Harry, daring him to fill in the blanks.

“What exactly do youthink would happen if a professor saw me here?” Harry asks. “You think they'd throw you a parade? Or hex you before you hexed me?"

“Perhaps they would think you had snuck down here to attack me,” Snape snarls. “Or am I always to be cast as the villain?”

“If the shoe fits,” Harry snaps, not feeling charitable. “You have a reputation when it comes to me, Snape. For, like, evil doings.”

“Reputation is an idle and most false imposition.”

Harry heaves a frustrated sigh. “Never mind. Okay? Just forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

"It does matter,” Snape growls, looking more infuriated by the second. Then he takes several deliberate steps back from Harry. "I'm not planning anything improper.”

“Good,” Harry says flippantly. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up every which way.

Snape folds his arms over his chest. “You know,” he says in deadly tones, “sometimes you really do remind me of James.”

Harry feels something snap inside of him. “Do you think for ONE BLOODY DAY you could shut up about my dad?”

Snape’s eyebrows shoot so far back they almost disappear beneath his hair. The color rises into his pale cheeks, and he takes an angry step towards Harry. And of course, someone chooses that very moment to rap on the door leading to Snape’s quarters. Both of them freeze. A strange looks passes over Snape’s face—like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar—and then everything happens at once. The person knocks again—and Snape grabs Harry by the arm, drags him across the room, throws open one of the other doors, and shoves him inside. Then Snape’s footsteps fade away, and his low grumble of a voice greets the visitor, and Harry is left completely alone.

And so, of course, he immediately tries the door. It’s won’t open. Harry frowns, the lines etching into his face. He really does get locked up with alarming frequency.

Harry forces himself to step back from the door. He knows he can’t blast it open or use an unlocking charm—not while Snape has an unknown visitor. Instead he lights his wand, intent on examining his surroundings. He is in a tiny room chock to the brim with shelves of bottled potions. It smells astringent, like vinegar. Probably this is where Snape keeps the stuff he doesn’t want his students to touch.

There is, of course, no place to sit. This room—storage space—is not meant for inhabitation. So Harry carefully sits on the ground, clutching his wand so hard his knuckles turn white. If he were a little younger, being locked in here might terrify him. And if he were a little older, it might fill him with scorn. But Harry is neither young nor old, and so he just sits tensely, his heart thudding as he waits for Snape. He can hear the man speaking, and another, higher voice. After a few minutes, the door closes and the alien voice fades away.

Good. Now Snape will come get him.

But nobody comes and lets him out. Harry twists his wand, wondering if he dare use it. But what if Snape’s visitor comes back?

What if Snape has left him here to rot?

Just when Harry has reached the peak of his bewilderment—and perhaps the peak of his fury—the doorknob turns.

“I apologize for the accommodations,” Snape says quietly, sweeping open the door. “I know being in close proximity to so many potions must be your worst nightmare.”

Harry pushes past Snape and into the main room, which now seems positively cavernous by comparison.

“That was Professor McGonagall,” Snape announces. “She is one of the few people in Hogwarts who has access my quarters. Can you guess what she wished to speak to me about?”

“No.”

“You, of course,” Snape drawls. “She told me to stop giving you detention. Neither the first time nor the last we will have that conversation, to be sure.”

Harry says nothing.

“That was a fairly ridiculous reaction on my part,” Snape calmly adds. His anger from before seems to have dissipated. “You would have been just as safe hidden in one of the bedrooms, and rather more comfortable, I dare say.”

“You didn’t need to lock the door,” Harry says, barely containing his fury. “I would have stayed until you came and got me.”

“I know that,” Snape says. “The spell I cast was to keep others out.”

“The door wouldn’t open.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t have opened for anybody but me, that was the whole point of the spell, now wasn’t it? A simple precaution, Potter. Entirely unwarranted, since I strongly doubt Minerva wanted to hex you. Me, perhaps, but not you.”

It is a joke, but neither one of them smile.

“You were angry at me,” Harry hisses. “You were angry because of what I said about you being improper and you wanted to get back at me and so you locked me in there.”

“After the Room of Requirement, I would not wish imprisonment on anybody but my worst enemy, Potter.”

“You left me in there. Even after McGonagall went, you left me in there for ages.”

“It was not so very long.”

“Four minutes,” Harry says, voice rising. “Four minutes and thirty three seconds, you great stupid git.”

“Do not call me that!”

“I will if you act like one!”

“Did you not notice how angry I was?” Snape demands. “I was furious with your—your implications, even after Minerva left. So I left you where you were safe from me as well as the rest of the world for four bloody minutes and thirty three seconds. Apparently that’s how long it takes to get my temper under control.” He glares at Harry. “And it takes you less than a minute to make it flare up again.”

Harry glares right back at him. “And you couldn’t have let me out and then cooled off?”

“I do not trust my temper around you,” Snape hisses. “Haven’t you figured that out yet, Potter?”

“Then you’re useless,” Harry says fiercely. “You haul off and slap me once—and then you just give up? You think it’s better to leave me locked up then to deal with me?”

“For Merlin’s sake, I thought I was doing the right thing!” Snape explodes.

“Well, you were wrong,” Harry says heatedly. “I’d much rather be out here fighting with you than in there alone.”

At that Snape pauses. Then he sighs. “Point taken.”

“Now,” Harry says grumpily, sitting on the sofa. “What were we fighting about, anyway?”

“Your presence in my quarters,” Snape says dryly. “Congratulations, Potter, you’ve been proven right. Apparently it is rather dangerous for you to be here.” He narrows his eyes. “Minerva might have accused me of impropriety, after all.”

Harry squints up at his professor. “Actually I think I’m tired of fighting about that.”

“Fine,” Snape says in a hard voice. Then he takes a deep breath, and says, much more naturally, “Minerva also wanted to know if I had seen Dumbledore. He appears to have disappeared since your meeting with him.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Did I say it was?”

“That’s what you were thinking.”

“I beg to disagree.” Snape glides across the room, sitting in the armchair across from the sofa. He waves his wand and a cup of tea materializes in his left hand. He takes a sip, his dark eyes thoughtful.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry demands.

“I’m considering the implications of your previous accusation. You thought I locked you up to punish you.”

Harry should have expected this. “That’s not quite what I said.”

“You said I was angry and wanted to ‘get back’ at you and so I locked you up.”

“So?”

“I just find it interesting, Potter, that your assign me the same punitive motivations as your uncle.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry growls. “You’ve spent the last five years trying to find reasons to punish me. I don’t think Uncle Vernon has a lock on that.”

“I never punished you by doing that.”

“Well goody good for you,” Harry says fiercely. “You bullied me and my friends in a billion other ways.”

“So you are saying your words have nothing to do with your uncle? You really thought I would lock you up to hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry snaps. “What would you think if I shoved you in a closet and locked the door?” He pauses, going in for the kill. “You didn’t take well to imprisonment before. Remember?”

Snape flinches. Then he schools his expression and leans forward. “Explain this away, then. Why did you think I blamed you for Dumbledore’s disappearance?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Your uncle often blamed you when things went wrong, even when it had nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And,” Snape drawls, “I wonder why you thought I would blame you for Dumbledore’s disappearance, when that has nothing to do with you either.”

“Nothing to do with me? I destroyed his picture of Ariana!”

“Ah,” Snape says, cocking his head. “Interesting.”

“It isn’t,” Harry says. “And you used to blame me for things that weren’t my fault, you know. I’ve got about a hundred examples.”

Snape puts his cup of tea down with a clatter. “So, tell me, Potter, is there any way in which I do not resemble your uncle?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, studying the ground. “You don’t hate me.”

“No,” Snape says quietly. Then he sighs. “You know, sometimes I think I’ve only ever hated one person in my life.”

“Voldemort?”

“James.”

“Voldemort killed Lily, Snape!”

“Yes,” Snape says. “But James took her away from me.”

“He didn’t kill her!”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t monstrous,” Snape says, eyes hooded.

“He was a boy,” Harry argues, a lump in his throat. “You were just boys who didn’t get on.”

“Yes,” Snape says softly. “That’s all it was.”

“And you think I’m the one who can’t move past my childhood?”

“I think the child is the father of the man,” Snape says somberly. “And sometimes that child turns tyrant.”

“Well, I’m alright,” Harry says stonily. “Your potions closet reminded me of my cupboard, okay, but I’m not freaking out about it. I’m not huddled in a corner sobbing.”

“No,” Snape says. “You looked cranky more than anything when I opened the door.”

“And so what if it did upset me a little?” Harry continues. “Maybe I’ll always have a thing about small dark places that smell like cleaning solutions. So what? How often is that going to happen to me?”

“You mean besides today?”

“Yeah.”

“It is a weakness that could be exploited by the Dark Lord.”

“If Voldemort ever locks me in a cupboard, I think I’ll have worse things to worry about,” Harry says heavily. “And you have the same weakness, I think, for being locked up.”

“I know,” Snape says. “I have been thinking about the best way to combat that. I do not want the Dark Lord to realize I now dread imprisonment.”

“Any ideas?”

“Yes,” Snape says. “But none palatable or feasible.”

“Don’t lock yourself up,” Harry says suddenly. “It doesn’t help you get over it.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“I locked myself in once. Didn’t—didn’t work.” Harry takes a deep breath. “You just need a vision—like mine. Like the flying one that I showed you.”

“Did you use that today?”

“No,” Harry admits. “I was too busy counting the seconds until you let me out.”

“Alright,” Snape inclines his head. “I will try and think of a calming vision. It sounds rather like Occlumency.”

“No,” Harry says. “You don’t want to clear your mind. You want to fill it—fill it with something special.”

“I see. Thank you for the idea, Potter.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says, a trifle uneasily. He’s entirely unused to Snape thanking him.

“Something still seems amiss with you,” Snape says, tapping a long finger on the arm of his chair. “What is it?”

Harry shrugs.

“Is Umbridge giving you trouble?”

“No.”

“Are things alright with your friends?”

“Yes.”

“Are you worried about Dumbledore’s disappearance?”

“Not really.”

Snape huffs. “I’m not going to keep questioning you.”

“Good.”

Barely two seconds elapse before Snape asks another question. “What do you suppose lies at the other side of silence, Potter?”

“I don’t know.”

“George Eliot called it a roar.”

“Good for him.”

“Her.”

A long silence follows. Perhaps Snape is waiting for a roar, but Harry will have none of it. “You act like we have only two options,” Harry points out. “Either I say nothing at all and keep it all bottled up inside, or I start yelling and never stop, like some kind of nutcase. You always act like there’s no middle ground.”

“Perhaps you should prove me wrong, then.”

Harry glowers at Snape, feeling like he’s been tricked. “Fine, but you have to show me middle ground in return.”

Snape bows his head in agreement.

“It’s about my dad.”

Snape winces, ever so slightly. “I will do my best to produce an appropriate reaction.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Harry eyes him skeptically but plunges in anyway. “Today is Mr. Granger’s birthday and Hermione went off to mail him a card, and Ron said he sort of forgot when his dad’s birthday is, because he has the luxury of forgetting it, you know—and—and—and I don’t even know when my dad’s birthday is!”

Snape looks at him, his black eyes glittering. “I see.”

“Do you know when it was?” Harry asks, staring firmly at the table. “The date, I mean?”

“No.”

Harry tries not to feel disappointed. “Yeah. Why would you know? Forget it.”

“I’m sure Black and Lupin know.”

“I don’t care who tells me,” Harry mutters. “I just want to know.”

“Now?”

“Yes,” Harry says, the urge suddenly enormous. “Now, Snape. Find out now. Can you?”

“Yes.”

Snape gets up and snaps his fingers. Immediately, a small house-elf appears.

“Go to the library and fetch me the ledger of Hogwarts students from 1971. Quickly, Tappy. And you are forbidden to tell anyone you saw Potter here.”

The elf bows and pops away.

Harry stands up, suddenly filled with energy. He paces the room, a weird ball of nerves inside of him. The wait seems interminable until Tappy returns.

Snape takes the dusty ledger and dismisses the elf. He expertly pages through the book until he finds what he is looking for. “James was born on March 27, 1960.”

Harry sinks onto the sofa, absorbing this, already hoarding it like a precious gem.

“Why did you never ask anyone before, Potter? Surely someone would have told you.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I see.”

Harry is quiet, stolen into his own thoughts, when a small pop announces the return of Tappy.

“Please, sir,” the creature squeaks. “Madam Pince is wanting her book back.”

“Of course,” Snape drawls. He closes the ledger with a snap and hands it to the elf.

“Wait,” Harry says, panicked. “What about my mum’s birthday?”

“Oh,” Snape says quietly, “I don’t need to consult a book to tell you that.”

The elf bows and disappears with the ledger.

“So,” Harry says. “March 27, 1960.” He swallows. “Um, thanks.”

Snape ignores this. “It appears I am older than your father by about three months. Fascinating.”

“Now you’re fourteen years and three months older than him,” Harry says somberly, his mind flashing back to his young dead father, eyes wide open in shock.

Snape looks down, frowning. “That is an odd thought.”

Harry stores his father’s birthday away in his head, hidden until he can savor it by himself. “You know,” he says, casting about for a different subject, “you weren’t kidding about this place being neutral. There’s nothing out here, really, that hints this place belongs to you.”

“Oh,” Snape says, “that is because I keep all the important things hidden.” He smirks. “It will not surprise you to learn that I also have habits held over from childhood.”

Like hating my father, Harry thinks. Out loud, he says, “Like what?”

“What do you think an ill-tempered Muggle father does when he finds his child doing magic?”

“Oh,” Harry says, understanding now. “The same thing his uncle does, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Snape says, closing his eyes. “I learned to hide magic at an early age. And Lily—I kept Lily away from him too. Tobias never met her.”

“That was probably a good idea.”

“And you, Potter,” Snape says. “My first impulse today when Minerva rapped on the door was to hide you away.” He stares right at Harry. “Curious, that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Curious.”

And suddenly he doesn’t mind so much that Snape locked him up.

Harry takes a sip of his tea, using the movement as an excuse to study Snape. The man's hair is curtained over his face, hiding it from view. Everything about the man is hidden, really, Harry thinks. Not just the things he deems important. Which, apparently, includes Harry. A warm feeling spreads through Harry’s chest that has nothing to do with the tea. He doesn't stop the smile threatening his lips and wonders if Snape has noticed, as he is staring at Harry with an unnerving intensity.

"What?" Harry asks.

"Nothing," Snape murmurs. "It's just I rarely catch you looking so unguarded."

"Oh." Harry does feel rather relaxed, and looks askance at his professor. "You didn't drug me, did you?"

"No," Snape drawls. "But the tea does have chamomile in it, which is a calming agent."

"Oh." Harry stretches like a cat on the sofa, twisting his back until it pops. "That’s alright."

"I usually try and drink something of the sort before I begin to mark essays," Snape continues. "It stops me from ripping them up."

Harry can't tell if Snape is kidding. "Do you need to work? I can go."

"You need not leave on my account," Snape says. "Didn't you say you had homework to do?"

Harry glances at his lumpy book bag, tossed in the corner. "Yeah."

"Why not do it here?" Snape says. "I will not interfere unless you ask my assistance."

"Okay," Harry says, agreeable after the tea. He goes to the bag and sifts through his stuff. For a moment he feels overwhelmed. He has missed a week of classes, after all, and he's not quite sure on the best way to catch up. Finally he decides to tackle it subject by subject. He mentally rejects Potions as too fraught and Transfiguration as too taxing. Finally he settles on Charms, and takes his book and parchment back to the couch. But it's rather chilly, and anyway if he lies down he might fall asleep. So, as he tends to do in the Gryffindor common room, Harry sprawls on the rug in front of the fireplace. He props up his chin in his hands and begins to read up on the Charm to make a Wizarding photograph change from black and white to color.

For the next two hours, everything is quiet except for the sounds of pages turning and quills scrawling. Harry finds it easy to concentrate, filled with the drug-tea, as he has privately dubbed it. Snape does not say a word the whole time, which makes Harry rather uneasy about the marks those students must be receiving. He shifts to a sitting position and leans back against the couch, craning his head around until he catches Snape’s eye. "How's the grading coming?"

"Disgustingly slow.” Snape observes Harry over his long nose. "You've been quite diligent."

"You don't need to sound so surprised," Harry says. "My marks aren't bad."

"Your Potions work leaves something to be desired."

"Well, so do your teaching skills," Harry says, the words tripping out of his mouth before he can stop them. He regrets them instantly, even as he marvels at how quickly he can anger this man. Snape has gone from looking nice and calm to looking like he would enjoy eating Harry for breakfast.

"Even if that is true," Snape says after a tense silence, "It is not a student's place to criticize his teacher." He looks pointedly at Harry. “Especially a mediocre Potions student.”

Harry shuffles his papers together, trying to stop the objections boiling up inside of him.

"Did you hear me?" Snape says, an edge of sharpness to his tone.

"Yes, I heard you," Harry says. Then he sighs. The serenity of the afternoon has already been spoiled; he might as well say what’s on his mind. "But I don't understand. You told me you were a terrible teacher. Those were your words exactly. You said you didn’t have the patience for teaching. I happen to agree.”

"It is my prerogative to critique my teaching skills, Potter. Not yours."

Harry once again tries to quell the arguments rising up inside of him. Why does he find it so hard to shut up around Snape? You’d think after so long with the Dursleys, he would have developed some sense of self-preservation. But there’s something about Snape that makes Harry plow on, ignoring all the danger signs, all of the time. And so, he cannot help but point out, “I’ve called you far worse things and you haven’t batted an eye.”

”Perhaps you have the right to voice certain opinions to me as Lily's son,” Snape snaps, glaring at Harry as though he loathes making this admission. “But I fail to remember when you, as a student, earned the right to criticize me, a professor, to my face."

“You’ve criticized me loads of times. Just now you did!”

“I’ve earned the right as your professor.”

“And I’ve earned the right as your mediocre student,” Harry says loudly, clenching his fists.

“I have no qualms about giving you detention,” Snape says pleasantly, and, to Harry's way of thinking, completely without cause.

“When have you ever treated a student as badly as me?” Harry barks back, more stung than he would like by Snape’s threat. He’d sort of thought they were past all that. “If I don’t have the right to complain, then who does?”

”None of my students would ever dare to voice such an opinion,” Snape growls. “None but you.”

“Right,” Harry says. “And you would never bring a student to your quarters. None but me.”

“And so you think you deserve special treatment in all matters?” Snape demands. “There is a time when I would not have found that surprising in the least.”

“No,” Harry says, standing up in his agitation to make himself understood. “But you and I have been through enough together that it seems ridiculous to treat me like just any other student.”

“So you do wish for special treatment.”

“No, but I don’t see why you can call me mediocre and say my work stinks and I can’t say anything back to you!”

“It’s called respect, Potter,” Snape grinds out between his teeth. “Perhaps the concept is beyond you.”

"Or perhaps you really can't resist putting me in my place," Harry snaps. "Maybe you haven't changed at all, and you're still as stunted and twisted as ever!"

Snape flinches. Then his voice turns cold. "Very well. Detention, tomorrow at seven. Perhaps scrubbing cauldrons will curb your tongue."

"Fine!" Harry yells. To his horror, his voice cracks, and he spins toward the fireplace, trying to get himself under control.

A long pause follows this outburst. Then he senses Snape coming up behind him. “Potter, what on earth is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, sir,” Harry says stonily, still staring at the orange and blue flames flickering the grate.

“Harry…”

“Don’t call me that!” Harry whirls around now, his emotions re-engaged by the use of his first name. “I don’t understand you! I call you Snape to your face—would you ever let another student do that? I punched you in the Room—more than once. Would you really let another student get away with that?” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “I told you about the gun! Would another student ever come to you with something like that?”

“No,” Snape says softly. “All of my students hate me."

"All but me," Harry snarls.

"Yes," Snape repeats. "All but you."

”Then why can't you treat me like a normal person?” Harry says tightly. “I understand that you have to act one way when we are in class. But here? When there’s nobody around?”

Snape purses his lips. “I cannot treat you like a ‘normal person.’ You are fifteen.”

“But half of the time you talk to me like we are the same age,” Harry grinds out. “You tell me things I know for sure you would never tell another student.”

“That is not true,” Snape says, too quickly.

Harry leans forward, pressing his point. “Yes, it is. I know things about you. I know that you actually kind of hate yourself. I know that you carry around enough guilt for an army. I know about your father and about my mother and how much you loved her and how much you hated him.” Harry pauses. “And it isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. To me. You can’t just tell me all these things when you feel like it, when it makes you feel better. You can’t treat me like that and then give me detention the next second. You just can’t. You should treat me like a normal person.”

“I don't know what you mean by normal, Potter. Treat you as a peer? As a friend?"

“Yeah.”

“It is not for you to set the rules of our interactions.”

“So that’s it, then?” Harry asks. “When it’s convenient for you, or you don’t want to hear something from me, then you are just going to give me detention or take away points to shut me up?” He pauses. “You couldn’t do that in the Room. Is that the only reason you ever treated me differently at all?”

Snape folds his arms over his chest. He looks carved out of granite. “I am prepared to indulge you in some matters, Potter, but not in others. I’m afraid you will just have to learn to live with that and adjust your behavior accordingly."

"You got my parents killed," Harry says, in near disbelief. "What gives you the right to decide anything at all about how I should or shouldn't behave?"

"The one has nothing to do with the other," Snape says quietly. "If you think I'm going to pander to you because of my history, then you are deeply mistaken."

"You bullied me for five years because of your history with my parents," Harry growls. "You're saying you can't do the opposite now?"

"I have no desire to."

"Well, I have no desire for you to give me detention or yell at me!"

“Why are you so worked up about this?" Snape asks. "I seem to remember assigning you two detentions after the Room without it devolving into such histrionics."

“Those weren’t real detentions,” Harry grumbles. “I didn’t think you meant it either time. The first was really for the Unbreakable Vow and the second was to fix me up from Umbridge.”

“So you thought after the Room that I would never discipline you again?”

“I don’t know what I thought,” Harry says, embarrassed and frustrated. Snape makes him sound so stupid. “I guess I thought that because you liked me, we were friends now, and that any time you got all teacher-y it would just be for show.”

“I do like you now,” Snape says firmly. “But I do not think my role is to be your friend." He pauses. “You have Weasley and Granger. You do not need more friends.”

“Then what do I need?” Harry says, frustrated. “What are you, Snape?”

“I am neither father nor brother, neither sinner nor saint.”

“Are you quoting from something?”

Snape, infuriatingly, does not clarify. “You cannot bear the thought of an unequal relationship, can you?”

“We’re equal!” Harry says, feeling almost wild. “I saved your life! I taught you how to relax in the Room!” He thrusts a finger in Snape’s face. “If I’m mixed up, it’s your fault! You’re the one always trying to make me see how we’re the same! Miserable childhoods? Check! Lily as Achilles Heel? Check! Effed up over Dumbledore? Check effing check!”

”But I don’t think you are mixed up about this,” Snape says, his voice as smooth as silk. “You keep blustering, Potter, because you are terrified of any relationship that differs from a friendship or romance." He peers at Harry. "Anything, in fact, that resembles the sort of relationship you might have had with James."

"James would've been like Sirius," Harry says thickly, giving voice to a long-cherished notion. "He would have been my best friend."

"He would have been your father," Snape counters. He purses his lips. "But I can easily envision him spoiling you rotten."

“Friends are the only good things,” Harry says, inarticulate in the swell of his emotions. “If you aren’t a friend, Snape, then you are with them.”

“Them?”

“Them!” Harry growls. “Uncle Vernon! Aunt Petunia! Professor Dumbledore! Them!”

"People put in charge of you, you mean.”

Harry scowls.

“I’m not your friend,” Snape says. “But I am on your side.” He looks Harry straight in the eye. “You really feel that if I correct you in any way—if I stop you from doing anything—then I am against you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says miserably. “Everybody else was.”

“This is a new concept to you,” Snape observes.

“My friends,” Harry says haltingly, “were not just my friends. They were people who were not my enemies.”

“I understand,” Snape says quietly. “I also understand now that my behavior has been confusing to you. You are right. I have told you things I have never told another person, let alone a student.”

“Are you going to stop now?” Harry asks.

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “When you tell me things like that, it helps me to understand you.”

“I still cannot believe that you want to understand me,” Snape mutters.

“Like that,” Harry says suddenly. “That’s something you probably wouldn’t admit to Ron.”

“Heaven forbid,” Snape says, shuddering delicately. Then he shakes his head. “Listen to me, Potter. I want you to be honest with me as well. That helps me to understand you. But I reserve the right to—how shall I put this—squelch you when you warrant squelching.”

“So I just have to take my chances?” Harry demands.

"A detention is not the end of the world,” Snape says mildly. "You need to decide whether some adults can discipline you without that signifying the end of your relationship with them, that's all.”

This still feels like an utterly alien concept to Harry, and it shows plainly in his face. “I don’t know what to say to you now.”

“You need not act differently,” Snape says patiently. “We will talk, you will cross the line at times, and I will correct you. And then we will carry on. It is nothing extraordinary.”

Harry can’t help but feel a shiver go down his back at those words. He doesn’t like the idea at all of being corrected.

“I’m not going to torment you like your relatives,” Snape says, reading something in Harry’s face. “Nor am I going to treat you as I did before.” He lifts his chin haughtily. “I’m not going to be vicious, Potter.”

Harry takes a step back from Snape. He cannot help it. It has not been conscious—but he’s gradually come to think of Snape as a friend rather than as one of them. And now Snape is dismissing that. “I don’t know where the lines are with you,” Harry says warily. “You used to be my enemy, and you say you aren’t my friend. What else is there?”

“There is me,” Snape says simply.

“I don’t like the idea of being unequal.”

“I don’t blame you,” Snape says. “But do you think your friend Ron feels he is on equal footing with his parents? Don’t you think he would find it remarkably unsettling to be so?”

“You. Aren’t. My. Parent.” Harry grinds out. “You got them killed, remember?” He stares at Snape, daring him. “There, did I cross a line?”

“Probably.”

“Going to give me another detention?”

“I think one is sufficient."

Harry throws up his hands. “You are impossible to understand!”

“I apologize,” Snape says, and he sounds sincere. “I'm not doing a good job of explaining my position. Let me think on it and then we will revisit the subject."

"Yes, sir," Harry says, making his voice extra-polite on purpose.

Snape looks like he doesn't love that response, but, really, he can't have it both ways.

“What subject are you studying?” Snape asks, clearly determined to distract Harry.

“Charms, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Flitwick mentioned you were doing a unit on wizard photography.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape frowns. “Would you like a photograph to practice on?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says again, pleased that his Best Boy manners appear to be irritating Snape.

Snape considers him for a long moment, eyes hooded. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I will retrieve one for you. You will not be shocked to learn my photographs are hidden." He gets up and disappears through one of the doorways, coming back with a small wooden box.

It looks like a treasure chest to Harry. "Don't give me anything too important," he says quickly, his rigid politeness forgotten in his anxiety. "I might screw it up, I've never done the Charm before."

"I was going to make a copy and give you the duplicate to use."

"Oh," Harry says, relieved. He watches as Snape carefully sifts through the box, and wonders what kind of photographs a man like Snape would possess. He runs through the possibilities in his mind. Lily?

Finally, Snape selects one. He waves his wand over it, murmuring things, until a duplicate pops into view. He plucks it out of the air and hands it to Harry. "There you are."

Harry doesn't even pretend that he isn't giving the photo a close examination. To his surprise, it is not of his mother. Nor of Snape. In fact, Harry doesn't recognize either of the people in the photograph. It's an older couple, arms around each other, smiling wide, blinking in the strong sunshine.

Harry looks up. "Who are they, Snape?"

"You don't know?"

"No. Should I?"

"They are your grandparents. Lily's mother and father."

Harry leans forward, suddenly much more interested, almost more interested than he can bear. He doesn’t notice Snape smirking at the success of his plan to distract Harry. No, he is too busy staring at the Muggles, trying to remember if he saw them in the Mirror of Erised. He can't be sure, but as he studies the photograph, he begins to see similarities between Lily and her parents. Not the green eyes--but Lily's mum has red hair. The dad has the same tilt to Lily's chin, the same wide smile. Harry squints closer, searching for similarities to himself. There isn't anything obvious--he already knows he resembles James much more--but there is something about Lily's parents that resonates within him. The set of her jaw, the way he is standing. Something familiar.

"Didn't the Dursleys have pictures of them?" Snape inquires. "They were Petunia's parents too."

"No. Actually, I don't think my aunt had much fondness for her parents." Harry cocks his head, remembering. "After I got my Hogwarts letter, Aunt Petunia said something about when Lily got her letter--how proud they were to have a witch in the family. I don't think she had much use for Mum and Dad after that."

"I see."

"Besides, I think Petunia was mad at them for dying," Harry continues. "If they were alive, she could have foisted me off on them. How did they die, Snape? Do you know? Was it--"

"No, it wasn't Death Eaters," Snape says. "They died in a car crash."

Harry snorts, finding something darkly ironic in that. "At least someone did."

Snape cocks his head at the odd comment but does not pursue it. "They were very nice people, you know."

"What were their names?"

"To me, they were Mr. and Mrs. Evans."

"You knew them?"

"Yes. I went round there quite often, whenever I knew Petunia to be out. They welcomed me. They were fascinated with magic and they wanted their daughter to have playmates of her kind. They knew I was poor, but they never looked down on me. I always made an effort to look my best when I visited the Evans."

"They look like nice people," Harry decides, studying the photograph. "Hey, I didn't know Muggles could move in a Wizarding photograph. Look, he's waving!"

"If a wizard or witch takes the photograph, and develops it under certain conditions, then, yes, the Muggles will move just as Wizards would."

"I'm glad," Harry says. Mr. Evans is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, just like Harry does sometimes. Mrs. Evans stretches and leans to the side, and Harry can just glimpse the house behind them. It has a white picket fence in front of it, and a robust, unkempt garden. For some reason the wild, overflowing, untidy flowers give Harry a warm feeling of belonging. It's odd to think that Petunia was likely the odd one out in her family, just as Harry was at the Dursleys.

"So," Snape says. "Would you like assistance with the Charm?"

"Let me experiment for a bit first," Harry says, taking the hint that he has scrutinized Snape's photo long enough. He sort of wants to ask how this picture found its way into Snape's possession, but he doesn't want to pry. So instead he starts murmuring the incantation to make the photograph change colors. He turns the photo bright blue and gives it polka dots before he starts to get the idea. Finally, he manages it, and sits back on his heels, pleased. I wonder what I would have called them, he wonders. Granddad? Grandmum? Would they have spoiled Dudley? Maybe they would have spoiled me. Maybe they would have liked me more than Dudley.

"You may keep the copy if you wish," Snape says, interrupting Harry's musing. “To practice on.”

"Thank you, sir," Harry says formally, remembering his earlier plan to kill Snape with kindness, or at least politeness. He carefully slips the photograph into his bag. He can't help but glance at Snape's wooden box, curious what other treasures it might hold. But Snape stands up and puts the small chest away without looking at Harry. Clearly the mystery will have to remain for another day. When Snape returns, Harry is on his feet, putting his things away. "I think I need a break," Harry says. "Anyway, Ron's Quidditch practice is over by now, and..."

"You do not need to explain yourself," Snape says. "I hardly expect you to spend your entire Saturday here."

"Er, yeah," Harry says. He shuffles his feet on the floor, trying to get up the nerve to say something.

"What is it, Potter?"

"Did you mean it? About the detention tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," Harry offers, not expecting that to matter much.

Snape just looks at him, his expression unreadable.

Harry resumes shifting from foot to foot, but still makes no move to leave.

"Was there something else?"

"Um...if I ever wanted to come down here again...should I?” Harry mumbles, unable to stop his great uncertainty from coloring his tone.

"Yes," Snape says, almost too quickly. He clears his throat. "To access my quarters, you need to tap a certain bottle in the Potions classroom with your wand and murmur the incantation."

"Which bottle? What incantation?"

"The incantation is Abririum. And it's the fourth bottle on the third shelf. The one filled with lily leaves."

Harry nods. "Okay. I mean, yes, sir."

Snape purses his lips but says nothing. Harry fairly scampers out of his quarters, eager for company with someone who cannot threaten him with punishment. He quickly finds Ron in the Common Room, inhaling some Chocolate Frogs after his practice. Ron is still in no mood to work, and so the two of them spend quite a long time poring over Ron's new Quidditch magazine. To Harry, it is bliss.

"So," Ron says, finally setting the magazine aside, "Did I tell you Umbridge came and watched our practice? I don't know what she wanted, she just stood there watching with that horrible little smile on her face."

Harry represses a shudder. "I'm glad I didn't go watch. She would have found some reason to give me detention."

"Yes, and your arm still hasn't recovered from the last one," Hermione says, coming up from behind them. “Come on, Harry, let me fix you up before dinner.”

Harry does not much feel like arguing, and truth be told he could use a little sympathy right now. His arm is mostly healed from the blood quill, but it still rather twinges, and he makes no objection to Hermione's gentle ministrations.

Once he is settled, one arm dunked into murtlap essence, Hermione takes out her Charms book. "Have either of you started on the essay yet? It's a bit tricky."

"I finished it," Harry says, rather smug.

"Oh is that what you did today?" Hermione asks, surprised. "I must have missed you in the library."

"No," Harry says. He casts a Silencing bubble around them. "Actually, I was in Snape's quarters." He takes out the photograph of his grandparents. "And look what Snape gave me so I could practice the Charm."

Ron and Hermione both lean forward. Any mention of Snape these days, good or bad, tends to make them pay close attention.

"Who are they?" Hermione asks, examining the photo.

"My grandparents. Lily's mum and dad."

"He gave you that? That was decent of him," Ron says, sounding impressed. Then he pauses. "Wait, you were in Snape's quarters? Why did he bring you there?"

"I'm not really sure," Harry says. "I think he wanted a place we could talk without having to worry about someone overhearing."

"What are his rooms like?" Hermione asks.

"I only saw the living room. It was...I don't know, bare. No personality, just furniture."

"Snape does like to play things close to the vest, doesn't he?" Hermione asks.

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "He told me he likes to keep all the important stuff hidden." He pauses, not sure how to put this next part. "And then, he kind of said I'm important to him, too."

"Huh," Ron says. "I'm not sure I'd want to be important to Snape."

"Why?" Harry asks.

"I don't know," Ron says. "Lily was important to him, and look what happened to her."

"Well my parents were important to me, and they died." Harry points out, apparently feeling the need to defend Snape despite his presently mixed feelings about the man. "But you don't think I'm unlucky, do you?"

"The Boy Who Lived?" Ron snorts. "No, mate, you aren't unlucky."

"I'm glad Snape finally said something like that," Hermione muses. "I could tell he felt it from the way he was looking at you during that detention. He looked like he would kill anybody who tried to hurt you."

"Harry, he's not becoming obsessed with you or anything, is he?" Ron blurts out, as if he knows he's in dicey territory. "I mean, I'm glad Snape is being nicer to you, but...he's an odd one. He has dark edges. What if he decides he fancies you or something?"

"I said something like that to Snape, about how it might be improper to have me in his quarters. He got mad over that. He got really mad at me today, period.” He snorts. “But he doesn’t fancy me. Gross.”

“I think Snape feels rather paternal towards you,” Hermione says gently. “But I doubt he can admit it.”

This sounds unnervingly close to what Snape brought up earlier. "Maybe,” Harry says slowly. “I don’t know if I want to open that can of worms.”

“Would it be so bad?” Hermione presses.

“Hermione,” Harry says. “If he’s paternal towards me, then what am I to him?”

”Well, you aren’t his son,” Ron says bluntly.

“I know,” Harry says wearily. "I know that, believe me. He could never be that to me. My father is dead."

"But...?" Hermione prods.

"But," Harry admits, "I think he's acting fatherly more than anything else. He doesn't want to be, like, friends."

"Friends!" Ron snickers. "Imagine being friends with Snape!"

"I know it sounds stupid," Harry says sourly, "but what else was I supposed to think when he started being nicer and, you know, telling me stuff? I don't want him to start treating me like--I don't know, like a kid!"

"Harry," Hermione asks, "What brought all this on?"

"I don't know," Harry gripes. "We were talking, and he started needling me about my Potions marks, and I kind of told him he was a bad teacher. He got all mad and gave me detention."

"That sounds like the old Snape to me," Ron says, whistling. "You're braver than me, mate, telling Snape that to his face!"

"Well, Harry, that sounds more like Snape being a teacher than anything else," Harry says. "Why did his reaction surprise you?"

"I don't know," Harry grumbles. "I don't like it when he pulls rank on me." Harry snorts. "You know what it is? Snape doesn't think much of himself, most of the time. I think I forgot he still has his pride and I stomped all over it."

"And," Hermione says, "you don't like being reminded that he has power over you. Anybody else who has ever been in that position has abused that privilege, and you are worried he will do the same."

Harry scowls. Hermione, as usual, has hit the nail exactly on the head. "So what do I do about it?"

"Lie and say he's a good teacher," Ron advises.

"Just try not to put your foot in your mouth," Hermione says, sounding torn between exasperation and affection.

"Fine," Harry sighs. He looks at his friends, almost desperate for their reassurance. "But you think things will sort out, right?"

"I think you two are doing fine," Hermione pronounces, and her approval loosens something in Harry. "You and Snape are two sides of the same coin and it's better for you to hash things out than not."

"What about you, Ron?" Harry asks.

"I think," Ron says after a long pause, "that Dumbledore and Umbridge are higher on my list of gits right now. You don't come back scarred for life--literally or figuratively--after spending time with Snape, you know."

"Okay," Harry says. The subject appears to be settled, at least for now, so he moves on to another pressing topic. "Snape also said that Dumbledore has disappeared. I get the idea the staff doesn't know where he went."

"I'm sure he's fine," Hermione says softly. "Don't worry about him, Harry."

"Who said I was worried?" Harry snaps, going from zero to ten in a flash. "I'm not worried about him."

"Of course you are," Hermione says. "Why else would you get so touchy when his name comes up?"

"I don't," Harry say stiffly. "It's just, the last time I saw him, it was bad, and you know what I did."

"It wasn't half as bad as what Dumbledore did to you," Ron growls. "So what if he was scared of hurting you like his sister? He still should have taken you in instead of leaving you with those stupid Muggles."

"So why am I still worried about him?" Harry demands, staring at the ground. "Why can't I just be glad he's gone and hope he stays gone?"

"Because, Harry," Hermione says, "you're human. You aren't made of stone."

"Sometimes I am," Harry mutters. "I really did want to hurt Dumbledore when I tore up his photo. I wanted to do the very worst possible thing that I could do to him. What does that make me?"

"Human," Ron repeats.

"That as well?" Harry says skeptically.

"Two sides of the same coin," Hermione murmurs.

"It'd be easier if I just hated Dumbledore," Harry says wearily. "And you know, when I'm with Snape, sometimes it's easier to feel that way."

"Why?"

"Snape loathes Dumbledore. Loathes him."

"Yeah?"

"Well, maybe he feels a lot of different things," Harry elaborates, "but hatred is strongest on the list."

"That's too bad," Hermione says quietly. "But perhaps not surprising."

"Do you think Snape wants you to hate Dumbledore?" Ron asks.

"I'm not sure," Harry says. "He said once that I wasn't allowed to hate him."

"Easier said than done," Ron says dryly.

"I wish I wasn't allowed to feel bad about tearing up Dumbledore’s photo," Harry murmurs, considering a whole range of things all of a sudden. “I wouldn’t mind if Snape tried to stop me from feeling that.”

"You didn't cause Dumbledore's disappearance," Hermione says sharply. "All you did was tear up his photo."

"That's a lot."

Hermione frowns, not liking the look in Harry's eyes. She reaches over and takes the photo of Harry's grandparents. Then she rips it in two.

"Hermione!" Harry says, jumping to his feet, knocking over the bowl of murtlap essence in his hurry. He swoops down, snatching up the photo before the spilled liquid can find it. "What did you do that for? That was my only picture of them!"

"Feel like running away?" Hermione says levelly.

"No," Harry growls, "but I wouldn't mind if you did, right now." Then he taps his wand to the photo halves and murmurs a quick Reparo. The photo reseals itself, none the worse for the wear.

"I'm sorry, but do you get my point?" Hermione asks. "Dumbledore could have left for a million different reasons. And you didn't make him go. You didn't hold a wand to his head."

Harry cradles the photo protectively. Then he tucks it into his pocket, away from meddling friends.

"Harry?" Hermione says, more tentatively. "Are you terribly upset with me?”

"No," Harry says. "But it isn't the same, you know. I've got my photo safe. Dumbledore can never get the one of Ariana back."

"Maybe he doesn't deserve to."

Harry sighs. "I don't want to be in the position of deciding that."

"It's strange," Ron murmurs, sounding unsettled as he squints into the fire. "Things have changed so much."

"The important things haven't," Harry says. "You two are still my best friends.”

"Yeah," Ron muses. "But now we sort of like Snape and we sort of hate Dumbledore. You have to admit, that's a switch."

"Would you rather go back to the way things were?" Hermione asks.

"No," Harry says hotly, before Ron can answer. "There's no point in going back. Not ever."

Hermione looks thoughtfully at Harry. "Some things stay the same."

Ron still looks uncertain, so Harry decides now is a good time to tell his friends something that he has been meaning to bring up. “You know, Snape told me awhile ago that he wouldn't make me choose between you two and him. He said he understood that you come first."

"Maybe you should come first, Harry," Hermione murmurs. "Not Snape and not us. You."

"We come first?" Ron says tentatively. "He said that?"

"Yeah."

"As long as he knows his place," Ron says, sounding both immature and dangerous at the same time.

"Okay," Harry says. "Um, guys?"

"Yeah?"

"You know, if he made me choose, I'd choose--"

"Don't," Hermione interrupts, her hair bouncing behind her. "You don't need to."

"Okay," Harry says, feeling that same warm feeling from this morning steal through him. Maybe, he thinks, maybe there is room in his life for his friends…and for something different. Because Snape is right. He doesn’t need more friends. Snape could never be as good as Ron or Hermione, anyway.

Maybe Snape should be something else.

Harry drags his feet as he reluctantly shuffles toward the dungeons. He's spent most of Sunday alternating between doing homework and getting more and more annoyed about this detention with Snape. His friends have advised him to just go, do his time, and leave without kicking up a fuss. But Harry has so many objections to this punishment--and everything that it stands for--that he's not sure if he can go quietly into that good night. He wants to rage at Snape, but that will probably do more harm than good.

In the end, he compromises with himself. He'll serve the stupid detention, but afterward, he's going to give Snape a piece of his mind. Politely, if at all possible. He can't help but wonder how evil Snape is going to be. The man said he wasn't going to be vicious...but that still leaves a lot of possibilities. He just hopes he survives the evening in one piece. Or without falling to pieces.

Harry finally pushes open the oak door, feeling a blush of humiliation creep up his neck. Snape is going to enjoy this.

They always do.

The professor in question is settled behind his ink-stained desk, a stack of parchments in front of him. He looks up and fixes Harry with his beady black eyes.

"Sir," Harry says frostily.

"Potter," Snape returns levelly. After a slightly too-long pause, he gestures toward the dirty cauldrons piled onto one of the tables. "You will be cleaning cauldrons tonight, without magic."

Harry nods silently. He lopes over to the cauldrons and examines them with an experienced eye. They are caked with all sorts of mysterious and strong-smelling substances. Harry slips off his robes so he won't get them dirty and rolls up his shirt-sleeves, eying the pile with distaste. Then, with an inward sigh, he picks up the scrubbing brush and tackles the first one. He studiously ignores Snape, focusing completely on the cauldrons. He's glad Snape has given him such a physical task; at the moment, this suits him better than doing lines.

Harry is an old hand at cleaning, and he's certainly had his share of scrubbing cauldrons. He works quickly and efficiently, trying to ignore the growing ache in his arms and back. His neck hurts, too, from bending over the table. After a long while, he glances at the clock. Two hours have passed. How much longer is Snape planning on drawing this out? Is Snape going to make him do something else too? Will Snape get mad if Harry stops for a moment? He darts an uncertain look at his professor, but Snape has his long nose buried in a textbook. So Harry quietly puts down the scrubbing brush and noiselessly stretches out, rolling his neck to get out the kinks. He'd like a drink of water, too, but he knows better than to ask for that.

Snape suddenly looks up from his book, seeming to notice the prolonged silence. Harry quickly bends back over the cauldrons, his heartbeat quickening. He doesn't like being caught when he's resting; it usually doesn't lead anywhere good. He gets through three more cauldrons without stopping, gritting his teeth as his blood-quilled arm protests against this unusual exertion. The raw, fresh scars look a little more raised too, like they've become irritated from the constant contact with the harsh cleaning supplies. Nothing that he would ever complain about to Snape, however.

After what seems like a good long time, Snape looks up from his grading. "That will do."

Finally. Harry relaxes his quivering muscles and starts to tidy up. He stacks up the cleaned cauldrons and places them in their proper spot in the back. Then he quickly washes the rags and supplies, leaving them to dry in the sink, and wipes down the table. When everything is done, he looks up at Snape, unsure if anything else is in store for him. "Am I dismissed, sir?"

"Yes." Snape immediately looks back down at his papers, his tone just as frosty as Harry's.

Harry pulls his robes back on, trying to gather his courage. He certainly doesn't want to land himself another detention. But he knows he will not be able to relax until he's had this out with Snape.

Well, he's not a Gryffindor for nothing. "Snape?" he asks tentatively.

Something in Snape's face loosens. "Yes, Potter?"

"Can I say something?"

Snape comes out from behind his desk and leans in front of it. "Yes."

Harry thrusts his hands in his pockets, trying to figure out how to put this. "Okay. See, the thing is, I know I was rude to you yesterday. But I really don't think it was fair for you to say we were in Switzerland--where everything is supposed to be neutral--and then slap me with detention." He peers up at Snape. "It's like you said that to get my guard down, and as soon as I relaxed, you changed the rules. You tricked me."

Snape considers this, crossing his long arms over his chest. "I was not trying to trick you."

"Well," Harry says, struggling, "that's what it felt like. You made me think that the old rules didn't apply. And then they did."

"I see," Snape says, frowning. Now he seems to be the one choosing his words with great care. "Well, Potter, even in Switzerland, I would think civility matters. You do not insult your friends, do you?"

"Yeah, but you aren't my friend," Harry points out. "You made that quite clear last night."

"Hmm," Snape says, the noise imbued with significance. "Let me put it this way, then. Even in Switzerland, you are to treat me with respect."

"Then it isn't Switzerland," Harry mutters. "And I don't insult my friends, but I do tell them the truth."

"So you think it's the truth that I'm stunted and twisted, do you?"

"Stop twisting my words around," Harry says sharply. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying that I don't sugarcoat stuff for my mates."

"Well. I'm not one of your mates."

"Yeah," Harry says darkly. "They can't give me detention."

"Only your mediocre teachers do that."

Harry says nothing, but Snape's words sting more than he would like.

"Why it so hard for you to give up calling me names?" Snape inquires. "Forgive me, Potter, but I was starting to believe you actually did respect me."

"I do," Harry starts. Then he frowns. That isn't quite right. "I did. I respected you in the Room. After a while. But I don't know if I respect you...out here."

"I don't understand."

"In the Room," Harry says slowly, "by the end of it, you were treating me differently. So I treated you differently." He squints up at Snape. "But what reason do I have to like you in this room?"

"In my classroom, you mean," Snape says. "Where my skills leave something to be desired. Isn't that right?"

Harry bites his lip, unsure how he should respond. "Why are you still mad at me? I served the detention, didn't I?"

His words seem to punch a hole in Snape. "Yes," he says in a much different voice. "You did."

"So can you stop needling me about it?"

"You were the one who wanted to talk about this."

"Yeah," Harry says. "Talk. Not...argue."

"Alright," Snape says quietly. "Let's talk, then."

"Can you see my side of it all?" Harry asks. "Why should I respect you when you've done nothing but treat me unfairly from the moment I stepped into your classroom? You've done nothing to earn my respect here."

"And yet I earned your respect in the Room?"

"Well, yeah."

"When, if I may ask?"

Harry blushes. "Um, when you wanted me to give you the Veritaserum."

"I remember."

"So I let you have the vial."

"And?"

"And…you were nice to me."

"I was?" Snape frowns, trying to remember.

"Yeah," Harry says, ducking his head, deeply embarrassed. "You called me a good boy."

"And that made you respect me?" Snape says, clearly puzzled.

"No...but it made me like you, a little bit. And then after that it was easier."

Snape still looks like he doesn't understand, so Harry tries again. "When have you ever praised me in Potions, Snape? When did you do anything but yell and punish me for things that weren't my fault and make my friends so upset that they cried?" He pauses. "I mean, even after we got out the Room, in that one lesson, you were awful to me."

"I know I've been beastly to you, Potter. Last night, you didn't tell me anything I didn't already know."

"But you got so mad," Harry murmurs.

"I don't like being called names," Snape says. "I don't like my skills being called into question."

"Even though you've done the same to me," Harry points out. "Which I think is worse. You're the adult, Snape, but you never acted like one."

"I fail to recall asking your opinion on the matter."

Harry just looks at him.

"I have to maintain a certain attitude toward you in class," Snape adds, sounding very much as though he is trying to rationalize something. "Word must not get back to the Dark Lord that I have gone soft on Harry Potter."

"That's not why you treated me badly. You did that because you wanted to."

"I know," Snape admits in a low voice. "And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed tormenting you."

"But nobody punished you," Harry mutters, not able to let it go.

"My existence has been punishment enough," Snape says heavily.

"No, you can't do that." Harry snaps. "It's not the same thing at all. I'm not talking about some deep soul haunting thing. I'm talking about you doing every petty thing possible to make my daily life miserable."

"I told you before I was a weak man," Snape says. "At one point that seemed to suit you well enough."

"I'm not saying this to cut you down to size," Harry says. "I'm just saying...why I have a problem with you giving me detention."

"Why did you not bring this up before, Potter, and save yourself an evening of scrubbing cauldrons?"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "You would've let me off?"

Snape shrugs. "I don't know. You've given me something to think about. At the very least, I understand why last night was confusing for you. I should not have declared my rooms neutral territory and then punished you when you forgot to treat me like a teacher."

Harry rocks on his heels, pleased.

"At the same time," Snape continues, "I am not sorry I assigned you this detention."

"Why?" Harry asks, less pleased.

"Because, Potter, you acted last night as though a punishment from me would be the end of the world. And it isn't, truly, as I hope you have discovered for yourself."

Harry just shakes his head, unconvinced, memories roiling through his head.

"What is making you hesitate?"

"I dunno..." Harry struggles to articulate the intense images flashing through his mind. "I just remember being thrown in that cupboard--their favorite punishment--and it felt like the end of the world when they shut the door. Literally, Snape. There was no light, no water, no sounds, no people--just...nothing." He closes his eyes, remembering. "And I couldn't just sit there and take it...I'd get hungry, or thirsty, or need to use the toilet...and I'd yell and scream and bang on the door for them to let me out...because I wasn't just going to let them kill me..."

Snape holds up a hand. "One moment. You wouldn't allow them to kill you, and yet you occasionally took out a gun and considered shooting yourself?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you do not see a certain inconsistency in that?"

"If I'm going to die, I want it to be on my own terms."

Snape shakes his head. "I've gone back to my prior opinion of you. The gun threw me off, I admit, and made me wonder if you were really self-destructive. But I don't think you are."

"No," Harry says. "The gun was never about taking the easy way out. It was about taking my way out."

"You are a strange boy," Snape murmurs.

Harry flinches, for the words touch a tender chord in him, because his mum once told him the same thing. His very own mum, back when she was alive, back when she was a child, back when she laughed with him under the trees...

Harry clenches his hands, refusing to dwell there, in that memory, in the land of Sir Gawain...

"And then," he says instead, determined to finish his story, "The Dursleys would open the door--and the way they would look at me, Snape..." Harry scowls. "Everything was just so extreme. Always."

"How did they look at you?"

"Like you used to," Harry says. "Like they hated me."

Snape flinches but recovers. "Dursleys aside, I'm certain you have weathered your share of punishments here at Hogwarts without it going to such extremes."

"Yeah, but Umbridge?" Harry points out. "And you--"

"What did I ever do to you that was so horrible in detention?" Snape interrupts, sounding put out. "I certainly never withheld food or water. I certainly never hit you."

"I know," Harry agrees. "But you always seemed so angry. And after it was over, you seemed even angrier. Like today. Also, I could never be certain, you know, that you weren't going to go crazy. You seemed dangerous. Like they did."

Snape looks at him for a long second, his eyes filled with some conflicted emotion. "I don't think I realized," he says heavily, "how easy I have made it for you to draw the line from the Dursleys to myself."

"It's not a straight line," Harry says quietly. "I mean, usually its people I hate who punish me. I expect that. But people I like usually don't. So this is...different."

"I usually only punish students I can't stand," Snape says. "So for me, as well, this is a bit different."

It is certainly a roundabout way of saying he likes Harry, but whatever, Harry will take it. The warm-tea feeling fills his chest again.

So," Snape drawls, walking back over to his desk and gathering his papers together. "Was I vicious?"

"No," Harry admits. The worst part, really, was how Snape kept needling him about it after. He squints at his professor, and says what he probably should have said last night. "Can we compromise about the name-calling thing, Snape? If I try to mind my manners a bit more--can you let stuff slide in Switzerland sometimes?"

"That seems fair enough," Snape says softly.

"And," Harry says, pressing his luck, "do you think you could be nicer to me in class?"

"What do I get in return?" Snape says, a small smile on his lips.

"Nothing," Harry says flatly. "You should do it because it's the right thing to do."

Snape stops smiling.

"I thought you wanted to be nicer to me," Harry mumbles, staring at the floor.

"There is the issue of the Dark Lord to consider."

"There always is."

"What I can do, Potter, is ignore you in class and let it be known that Dumbledore has forced me to leave you alone. I cannot promise more without arousing the Dark Lord's suspicions. Will that do?"

"Yes."

Snape sticks out his hand. "Shall we shake on it?"

And, very solemnly, they do. Harry flinches a little, the movement irritating his poor sore arm. Snape, who misses nothing, raises an eyebrow, almost as if he is daring Harry to complain. Harry lifts up his chin, admitting nothing.

"So," Harry says, trying to disguise his need for reassurance. "You're...not mad anymore?"

"No," Snape says quietly. "My anger dissipated the moment you pointed it out." He pauses. "Dumbledore would tell me that I had no business being angry in the first place."

Harry doesn't want to talk about Dumbledore. Something twists in his heart, the part that used to be reserved for Dumbledore. It feels like an ache.

But if something is empty, then it shouldn't be able to ache.

"Why don't you go back to the dormitory," Snape suggests. "You still have an hour until curfew."

"Okay."

"Goodnight, Potter."

"Goodnight, sir."

And Harry slips out, still in one piece, but not altogether whole.

Harry curls onto his side and pulls the blankets over him. It is past midnight, but he cannot fall asleep. The other boys are dead to the world--Ron snoring, and Neville frowning slightly as he dreams--but Harry cannot find such respite tonight. His mind is on Dumbledore. It angers him that the headmaster can vanish into thin air--and nobody in the whole school seems to notice. And despite the fact that Dumbledore has put Harry through a lot…it still troubles him that the old man has disappeared.

Harry scrunches under the covers, trying to get comfortable. This is stupid. Snape doesn't seem to care that Dumbledore is gone. He'd probably lock Dumbledore up and throw away the key if he could.

Harry bolts up in bed, eyes wide, as something occurs to him. Something big. He scrambles off the bed and yanks on his Invisibility Cloak. Then he scribbles a note to Ron and Hermione, leaves it on Ron’s pillow, and dashes out of the silent dormitory.

It is simple enough to find the right jar in the Potions classroom--easier still to whisper the password--the hard part happens when he ends up outside Snape's door. Does he really have the nerve to do this? It is one thing to come down here invited--quite another to show up in the middle of the night unannounced. But still--he wants to tell Snape--it is more than that, he needs to tell Snape what he has figured out.

And so Harry shrugs off his Invisibility Cloak and knocks on the door. After a long minute, the door snaps open.

"Yes, Potter? What is it?" The words are delivered sharply, and Harry suddenly feels stupid. Here he is, in his pajamas and slippers, trotting off to Snape like a little kid who has had a bad dream. Snape is still fully dressed, and looks ready to duel or brew or do whatever it is Snapes do in the middle of the night. He peers down at Harry, his black eyes glittering.

"Are you alright?" This is delivered even more sharply.

"Yes, I'm fine," Harry manages. "Er...can I come in?"

"It's after midnight, Potter."

"I know."

Snape cocks his head, studying Harry. Then, without further comment, he opens the door, allowing Harry entry.

Harry immediately sits on the faded couch. He waits anxiously as Snape settles onto the armchair across from him.

"Now, what's this all about?"

"I know where Dumbledore is," Harry blurts out.

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Where?"

"The Room of Requirement."

Snape coolly sits back in his chair, considering this. "And you know this how?"

"I was in bed wondering where he'd got to, and then--I just knew."

"So this is based on instinct rather than any factual evidence?"

"I guess."

Snape steeples his hands together. "And what do you propose to do about this hunch of yours?"

"I want to get him out of there."

"If he is within."

”I know he is,” Harry says stubbornly.

"And why do you think he is there?"

"Because someone locked him in, or--"

"I did no such thing," Snape interrupts coldly.

"I didn't say you did," Harry protests. He hesitates. "But...you didn't?"

"No."

"And you don't think someone else did?"

"I don't think anyone locked him up, Potter. I don't think he's there at all."

"Let's go find out," Harry says, ready for action. "Let's go find out right now."

"We will do no such thing," Snape growls. "Potter, listen to sense. If Dumbledore is in the Room, he is there by his own hand. Nobody has the power to make the headmaster do anything he does not wish to do. Believe me."

"But why would Dumbledore hide away like that?" Harry demands. "Umbridge can do anything she likes now!"

"Dumbledore doesn't hide. Dumbledore waits to be found," Snape says quietly. "He is waiting for someone to find him." And then Snape's face hardens. "He's waiting for you to find him."

"Or you."

"Not me," Snape says flatly. "You."

"But why would he go to that much trouble?" Harry asks, bewildered. "If he wants to talk, all he has to do is find me."

"After your last conversation went so well?"

"Oh. True." Harry pauses. "I, um, wish I hadn't burned his photograph."

"You were allowed to react to Dumbledore's admission that he was too much of a coward to take you in, Potter."

"I still wish I hadn't done it," Harry says gloomily. "He looked so hurt, Snape, you've no idea."

"Stop torturing yourself over him," Snape says sharply. "It doesn't become you."

”I can’t help it,” Harry admits. “I just keep—worrying about him.”

“I cannot imagine such a thing.”

“You…you really hate him that much?” Harry asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"I can’t help but notice,” Harry says slowly, “that Dumbledore gave you what he refused me. He gave you a safe place to live. When you asked him for quarter from the Death Eaters—he trusted you. He gave you Hogwarts.”

"I wish he had turned me away," Snape murmurs. "When I came to him--when I told him what I had done to your parents--I wish he had left me to my miserable fate. But instead he told me how to atone. That knowledge was like an apple offered by a serpent, Potter."

”Dumbledore isn’t a serpent,” Harry says crossly, tired of Snape’s complicated analogies. They don’t go down well this late at night.

"You cannot honestly still feel affection for him."

”Affection?” Harry laughs. “I don’t feel safe around Dumbledore anymore—I don’t trust him—but what does that mean, really? Most people are dangerous to me. Dumbledore’s been added to the list, that’s all.”

"And you can satisfy yourself with mere disillusionment? After what he’s done to you?”

“Well, no,” Harry admits, a familiar ache twisting his gut. “But you’re missing the point here. This isn't really about Dumbledore, Snape. This is about me. It doesn't feel right to hate Dumbledore. I think I could hate him--if I wanted to. But I don't want to."

"And that," says Snape, "is the great difference between you and me."

"Yeah," Harry says. "I guess it is.”

“And may I ask,” Snape says after a pause, “exactly when you had this great change of heart regarding the headmaster?”

“Tonight.” Harry whispers. “When I figured out he might be in danger, I started to worry about him. And you can’t worry about people you hate, Snape.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Well, I can’t,” Harry announces. “So are you going to help me or not?”

"Gain entrance into the Room? No."

"Well. Okay, then." Harry stands up, sure the interview is over.

"No, not yet," Snape says. "Sit back down."

Harry looks skeptically at Snape, but lowers himself onto the couch.

"You are not to go back into the Room," Snape says quietly. "I don't care if you think Dumbledore is in there—or if you think Granger and Weasley or Merlin himself is inside. You stay out of there. Do you understand me?"

Harry jiggles his foot up and down. "But what if Dumbledore’s hurt, Snape? Don't you even want to check? We can't win this war without him."

"You aren't listening to me," Snape says. He leans forward, until his hooked nose is only inches away from Harry. "You are not to even walk past that corridor on the seventh floor, Potter. As far as you are concerned, the Room of Requirement is out-of-bounds."

"You are forbidding me?"

"I did not think such a stricture was necessary," Snape replies. "I thought you would give that place a wide berth for the rest of your life."
"I'm not scared to go in there again," Harry says, a trifle hotly. "And normally, yeah, I'd stay away. I've had my fill of it. But if Dumbledore is in there and he can't get out--"

"Dumbledore left us there to rot," Snape says grimly. "If he has gotten himself locked up, it might be good for him. Turnabout is fair play. You stay out of there."

"And if I don't?"

"If you disobey me in this," Snape says, quite coldly, "then the consequences will be severe."

"What does that mean?” Harry asks, trying to keep his voice even.

"Do you really want to find out?"

"Not especially."

"Then give me your word that you will not enter that Room," Snape says. "Do I have your word, Potter?"

Harry fiddles with a stray thread on his T-shirt. The silence lengthens between them.

"Why did you come down here?" Snape asks softly. "Why did you not proceed directly to the Room?"

"Because," Harry says. "I wanted your help."

"I'm giving it to you," Snape says. "Really, Potter, Dumbledore can fend for himself. I think he controls the magic in that Room. Not the other way around."

"Yeah, maybe…" Harry’s voice trails off.

"But?"

"But I, um, still want to check on Dumbledore."

"I see," Snape says. He stands up. "Then I only see one solution." He strides toward the door. "May I borrow your Invisibility Cloak?"

"Why?" Harry asks, surprised. "I mean, yes, you can borrow it, but why do you need it?"

"I do not want anyone to see me leave here."

"Where are you going?"

"To the corridor on the seventh floor, of course."

And then Snape is gone, leaving Harry alone with only the flickering flames from the fire to keep him company. He sits there without moving, shocked that Snape is going to take care of this for him. He knows how much Snape detests the Room of Requirement. And he really knows how much Snape dislikes Dumbledore. And yet--he left to seek both out, like it was no bother at all to do so.

Like he wanted to do so.

Harry smiles to himself, a private and shy expression that only few ever see. Stretching on the couch, he glances around, finally getting a proper look at Snape’s quarters. It’s much easier to satisfy his curiosity about this place when Snape isn’t two feet away, staring at him. Nothing terribly extraordinary—but then something catches Harry’s eye. A beautiful wooden box, perched on the corner of the kitchen table, that looks awfully familiar.

“Ah,” Harry murmurs. “So that’s what Snapes do in the middle of the night.” He stands up for a more thorough investigation. Yes, it’s definitely the same box that Snape was clutching before—the one that held the photograph of his grandparents. For a long time Harry simply stares at the little chest, wondering if he dares. He would bet anything there are photographs of his mum in there. The ache to see those photographs is a physical sensation—but so is the fear churning within him. Merlin, if Snape caught him going through his things…well, for some reason Harry bets the punishment for investigating the Room would pale in comparison.

Harry drums his fingers on the table, eying the box. He has no right to go through Snape’s possessions. And the box probably has lots of enchantments on it. He should just ask if he can look at the pictures. Snape gave him the one of his grandparents, after all. That was a pretty decent thing to do.

But despite all that…well, Harry’s curiosity has never particularly listened to reason before.

If only the box wasn’t in view, taunting him like this, right in front of him!

Harry snatches up the chest before he can reconsider and looks wildly for a place to stash it. There are cupboards lining the kitchen, so Harry flings one open at random and shoves the box inside. He closes the door with a bang, feeling instantly better now that he doesn’t have to stare at the thing.

It’s funny how his mind works, sometimes.

Harry resolutely sits back down on the couch, a little dizzy at his narrow escape from temptation. He’s only just gotten settled in when the door bangs open.

“I can’t get into the Room,” Snape announces without preamble, shrugging off the Cloak and tossing it at Harry. “I tried everything I could think of, but the damned thing simply does not want to allow me access. I suspect that you would have far better luck opening the door.”

“You mean if I used Parseltongue?” Harry asks, trying his best to look unruffled.

“Or something similar,” Snape says grimly. “Leave it to Dumbledore to create another Chamber of Secrets. But you still aren’t going near that place, Potter. I’m not about to let the old man outsmart me a second time. You will give me the courtesy of further reflection before you do anything. Can you promise me that?”

“I promise,” Harry says quickly.

Snape raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised that Harry has acquiesced so easily. “I’m relieved to hear it. Now, Potter, it’s rather late for all these misadventures, so perhaps you would be good enough to—” Snape stops mid-sentence. Then, to Harry’s horror, he strides over to the kitchen table. He stares at the empty surface for a long minute, his back to Harry. When he turns around, his fists are balled up, almost white with tension. “Where are my photographs, Harry?”

The use of his first name throws Harry for a loop. “I…I—"

“Did you look through them?” Snape asks, in the same spookily quiet voice. “Did you look through my photographs?”

“No-ooo…”

“WHERE ARE MY PHOTOGRAPHS?” Snape yells, slamming his fist on the table.

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry says, hearing himself plead and hating himself for it.

“DO NOT LIE TO ME!” Snape roars. He yanks Harry to him. “Tell me the truth, Potter! You gave them the Dumbledore treatment, didn’t you? Burnt to a crisp, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Harry gasps, nose to nose with Snape.

“You were angry with me!” Snape roars. “Dumbledore gave me the safe haven he never offered you! I heard you say it!”

“That’s ridiculous, sir—”

“THEN WHERE ARE MY PHOTOGRAPHS?”

Harry shakily points at the kitchen cabinets. Without releasing him, Snape takes two steps sideways and yanks one open.

There’s nothing inside but a few bowls and cups.

Harry stares at it blankly, failing to comprehend that Snape has merely opened the wrong cabinet. Snape takes his silence as an admission of something—and perhaps it is. He shoves Harry toward the kitchen table and roughly bends him over it. Harry scrabbles against the pitted wooden surface, trying to get away from Snape. But the man has a hand like a visor around Harry’s neck, and he cannot do more than hop awkwardly from foot to foot, folded in half like this. He scrunches his eyes shut, giving in to fate, both shocked and unsurprised that it has come to this. He waits for the first blow, heart beating in his throat, unable to say a word.

He waits a long time.

“Get up. For fuck’s sake, Potter, get up!”

Harry, thus released, immediately rights himself, eyes wide as he turns around and stares at Snape. The man looks undone. He holds his belt limply in one hand, face ashen, black hair sticking sweatily to his forehead.

“I didn’t look through your photographs,” Harry whispers. “I hid them so they wouldn’t tempt me. That’s all. I swear.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Snape says, voice so low Harry can barely catch it.

“It does,” Harry insists. He edges past the table, giving Snape a wide berth. He flings open several cabinets before he finds the right one. He points at the wooden box, too scared now to touch it. “See? There it is.”

With an almost animal groan, Snape snatches the box and cradles it to his chest. He runs his wand over it several times, obviously performing some kind of test. Then he whispers a long incantation and the box disappears. Harry wonders if he will ever see it again.

“I didn’t look inside,” Harry repeats. “Do you believe me?”

“I don’t need to believe you. The box is charmed to alert me if anyone opens it.”

“But…do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” Harry says. He wipes his sweaty palms against his flannel pants, relief washing over him now that the danger has passed. He sits down heavily in the armchair, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.

“Okay?” Snape says, his voice hoarse. “That’s all you have to say, after I almost whipped you?”

“You didn’t go through with it,” Harry points out. “You stopped.”

“And that makes it alright?”

“It’s a lot different than actually beating me.”

“No, it isn’t,” Snape groans, sinking onto the couch and putting his head in his hands. “Merlin, what on earth is wrong with me?”

Harry hugs a pillow to his chest. “Did you really think I would burn up your photos, Snape?”

“You did it to Dumbledore.”

“That doesn’t mean I would do it to you.”

“I know,” Snape says tightly. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Jesus,” Harry says, letting out a long, shaky breath. “You really freaked out.”

Snape purses his lips. He stands and returns to the ill-fated kitchen, rifling through cupboards and pointing his wand at various objects. He comes back with a mug in his hands. “Here.”

“I would never burn up photographs of my mum,” Harry says, accepting the cup of tea. “I mean, aside from everything else…I would never do that.”

“I know,” Snape repeats, sounding agitated. “I saw that the photographs were gone, Potter, and I lost my temper. I should have told you to leave that very minute.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You said last time, when I locked you in the Potions closet, that you would rather fight with me than be left alone,” Snape reminds him. Then he frowns. “No, that isn’t true. I’d forgotten all about that. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking at all. Clearly.”

“But you know I wouldn’t do that to you?” Harry repeats, needing reassurance on that point.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“And?” Snape prompts. “Is that all you have to say?”

Harry shrugs.

“Are you not upset that I was seconds away from beating you? For something you did not do?”

“It’s happened before,” Harry murmurs.

“I know,” Snape says. “I remember.” He pauses. “Or, rather, you remember.”

They are both thinking about the dinosaur, Harry knows. He doesn’t like dwelling on that memory.

“Potter,” Snape says slowly, eyes glittering, “This is not good. What happened here tonight can never happen again. I promised, after I slapped you, that I would never hit you again. And tonight I broke that promise.”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry says. “You didn’t actually hit me.” He pauses. “Do you know how often I wished Vernon would change his mind and let me off, Snape? But he never did. Not once.”

“You sound as if you are pleased with my behavior tonight,” Snape whispers, looking disturbed.

“Yeah, I’m pleased you didn’t beat me!” Harry says, setting down his tea. “I’m really pleased on that front, believe me!” He gestures to the thick leather belt, looped like a snake on the floor where Snape dropped it. “That would have hurt. A lot.”

“I know it would have hurt!” Snape says, frustrated. “That was the point of it! Harry, are you not angry with me for getting so close to—to doing that to you?”

Harry clutches the mug of tea with both hands. Mostly what he feels now is relief. The dizzy aftershock of a narrow escape…he’s familiar with the sensation. “I—I don’t know. Nobody’s ever felt bad…about doing that to me before. And you didn’t even do it.”

“Merlin, Potter! Is your frame of reference so defiled?”

Harry jerks back. “I’m not defiled.”

“Then stop rationalizing me standing over you with a belt. You can’t explain that away, not ever, so kindly desist. I find your behavior distasteful.”

“Fine,” Harry says, stung by Snape’s tone. “What do you want me to do? Am I supposed to run screaming from the room in terror? Because you shoved me against a table?”

Snape says nothing.

“What, then?” Harry demands, something stirring within him. “You want me to get angry and say hateful things and storm out of here? Would that be better?”

“There’s something to be said for routine,” Snape says, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair.

Harry stares at Snape. “What is wrong with you?”

Snape frowns but does not answer.

“I don’t understand,” Harry says, bewildered. This man has more mood swings than a pregnant woman. “Do you want me to go?”

Snape, again, says nothing.

“Fine,” Harry grinds out. He marches over to the door and twists the knob, loathe to leave things unresolved but unsure of what else he can do. He stops and looks over his shoulder at Snape. The tension has gone out of the man’s body. Snape seems oddly…relaxed, as though things have worked out neatly.

Harry purses his lips, something clicking into place for him. He quietly walks back into the room, picking up the fallen belt on the way, stopping right by Snape’s chair. Then he snaps the belt in the air. It cracks like a gunshot, and Snape visibly jumps, the whites of his eyes showing.

“You can’t make me leave,” Harry announces. “I’ve figured out what you’re up to.”

Snape stares at Harry for a long beat, the muscles in his jaw working hard. Then he leans over, yanks the belt out of Harry’s grasp, and throws it in the fire. The smell of acrid leather fills the room. Snape keeps his eyes on the flames rather than Harry. “And what exactly is that, Potter?”

“You were being a bastard so it would be easier for me to leave,” Harry says flatly. “That’s why you were acting so cold. You expect everyone to leave you, so you were just helping the process along.”

Snape frowns. “That is perhaps the most generous motivation anyone has ever subscribed to me."

“Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Snape says slowly. “I know that I’ve waited a long time for you to reach the end of your rope, Potter. But you don’t. You keep throwing me a line instead.” He looks up at Harry, a ravaged look transfiguring his expression. “Why don’t you just forget about me, Potter? Why don’t you leave? Everyone else does.”

“I carry my parents around with me every second of every day,” Harry says softly, “and I don’t even remember them. You think I can leave behind people I actually know?” He pauses. “Why do you think I can’t just forget about Dumbledore, Snape? It’s not in me to do that.”

“And it’s not in my nature to expect people to stay,” Snape says bitterly. “Not anymore.”

“Not after my mum, you mean.”

“Oh, who knows if it was Lily?” Snape says impatiently. “She certainly wasn’t the first person to tire of Severus Snape.” He snorts. “She was probably the last person I let matter, however. After her—I decided that it’s not so bad when people leave—if they don’t matter. Because then, you don’t even notice when they go…”

“I think they still mattered to you after that,” Harry says. “You just hid it better. You notice when people leave, Snape.”

Snape looks up, eyes glittering. “I notice more when they stay.”

“Well,” Harry says, sitting back down. “I’m staying. Even though it probably means I’m a freak.”

“You’re not a freak,” Snape says sharply. “And you certainly aren’t defiled. Quite the opposite. I don’t know how you have become the person who stands in front of me. By all rights you should resemble some...I don't know, rough beast slouching towards Bethlehem.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Yeats.”

“Oh.” Harry looks down, fiddling with the pillow. “I’m not a rough beast…I know that much…but I’m still kind of screwed up. Snape. I know most normal kids would hate you for—the belt. Because of the humiliation, if nothing else. But…I don’t know. You expect people to leave—and I expect violence. And this was nothing compared to…other stuff.” Snape makes a move to speak, but Harry holds up a hand to stop him. “And I know that it’s not particularly normal to want to try and make you feel better about losing control like that. But I don’t like to see people in pain, Snape. Not when I can do something about it.” He looks up under his lashes. “I know it’s a big deal that you almost thrashed me, Snape. Really, I do. But what you don’t seem to understand is—to me, it’s a bigger deal that you stopped yourself.”

Snape looks pained, but doesn’t say anything.

“And... this is the other thing,” Harry continues. “This is the part where you are going to know how messed up I really am. I don’t think you understand, Snape, that the belts and the fists and things… that was not the worst part of it for me. The worst part was knowing that they didn’t care. I mean, when I’d been in my cupboard for a long time… alone…I stopped caring about anything but being let out. I didn’t care if they hit me or yelled at me or what, as long as they let me out and talked to me.”

“You implied as much when you were under Veritaserum,” Snape says quietly. “You told me about how your aunt tore up the Christmas card you made her. You called it your worst memory with the Muggles.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Because that was when I realized that they didn’t love me—”

“—And that you were alone,” Snape finishes.

“Yeah.” Harry pauses. “Don’t get me wrong…I hated getting hit. Hated it. It was really, really scary and it hurt like hell. It’s just…there are things that hurt more. Things you could do that hurt more… that you haven’t done.” Harry stops, sure he is rambling.

“Perhaps beating you is not the very worst thing I could have done to you,” Snape allows. “But it’s still pretty damn bad, Potter.”

Harry cannot disagree. “I know. I just wanted to give you some…context. To make you feel better.”

“I wish I could make you feel better,” Snape says quietly. “Instead of all the rubbish things I do to you.” He lets out a shaky breath. "Merlin, Potter, I am so sorry for scaring you like that tonight. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

Harry glances up at Snape, surprised by the intensity he finds in the man’s gaze. Nobody has ever apologized for scaring him before. Nobody apologizes to him much at all.

“I have not yet told you,” Snape continues, his voice a low rumble, “how pleased I am that you resisted the urge to go through my belongings. I know the desire to see photographs of your mother must have been overwhelming. That was quite a test of character that you passed tonight.”

A brush creeps up Harry’s neck. And then Snape reaches out his hand and squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

And Harry feels better—enough so he can broach the subject that’s been nibbling at him all night. “Snape? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Snape says, still looking troubled. “Potter, after what I’ve done to you, or almost done, you can ask me anything at all.”

“What made you stop? Why didn’t you beat me?”

Snape frowns. “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s kind of an important one, don’t you think?”

Snape studies Harry, his black eyes awash in emotion. “I stopped because it seemed like such an absurd thing to do. That moment--when I was holding the belt-- I felt my father’s inheritance descend onto my shoulders. It slipped on so easily. It was such a marvelous fit. And you--you were dancing from foot to foot, so nervous. Your heart was beating so quickly. I could feel your pulse hammering and your breath coming in these little hard bursts. You--you reminded me of a fawn-- just a little gangly baby thing nobody in their right mind could hurt.” Snape clears his throat, breaking eye contact and looking embarrassed. “It just seemed like such an absurd thing to do.”

Harry swallows thickly. “Oh.”

“And I could not…I would not…do that to you.” Snape pauses. “Do you know what the worst part was, Potter? The way you looked at me afterwards. Like what I had done didn’t surprise you in the least.”

“You hit me before,” Harry murmurs. “And you weren’t the first.”

Snape leans forward. “Harry…I don’t want you to expect people to hurt you.”

“You’re calling me that a lot tonight.”

“I know,” Snape says. “It gets your attention.”

“Oh.” Harry pauses. “I was surprised when I heard you take off your belt, you know. Part of me was, anyway.”

“That’s not good enough,” Snape says hoarsely. “Do you know what my wish is for us, Potter? That if I ever threaten you with a belt again—that you laugh in my face, because the idea is so ridiculous to you.”

Harry considers this. “Belts aren’t funny. They hurt.”

“I know they hurt,” Snape says. “But you see my point?”

“That wouldn’t be very respectful, would it? Laughing at you?” He glares at Snape, anger flickering inside him. “You might give me detention then.”

Snape groans. “Why did I ever lecture you about that?” He points a finger at Harry. “If I ever come close to this idiocy again, you have permission to laugh at me, hex me, or do anything else that crosses your mind.” He looks thoughtfully at Harry. “I wonder if you are more upset over that detention than what happened here tonight.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. That detention bothered him for a host of reasons. He still feels sort of upset over it, especially when he remembers how Snape didn’t say a word to him for the whole stupid two hours.

“After you had served it,” Snape continues, “you said you respected me in the Room but not in the classroom, because I had earned your respect in the former but not in the latter.”

“I remember,” Harry says cautiously.

“Potter, if I’ve lost my temper to the extent that I’m waving a belt at you like a power-crazed two-year old—then I’ve done nothing to earn your respect. So this is the new rule for us: you show me respect only when I’ve done something to earn it. Otherwise—do what you like. Understand?”

Harry nods slowly, a little surprised by this turn of events. And a little skeptical.

“You should go back to your dormitory,” Snape says after a moment. “You look exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. It has been a trying evening. He gets up and unfolds his Cloak, but he doesn’t put it on. He rubs the pads of his thumb over the impossibly velvety material, thinking.

“Snape?”

“Yes, Potter?” Snape replies, sounding indulgent.

“I wonder if…maybe you passed a test of character tonight, too.”

Snape snorts. “Failed, you mean.”

“No,” Harry says. “You didn’t listen to the ghost of your father or whatever it was. You threw down the belt. That does mean something, Snape. To me, if not to you.”

“It is generous of you to say that, Potter.” Snape murmurs, sounding unconvinced.

“Can I ask—can I ask you one more thing?”

Snape nods.

“You--you haven’t decided to ditch me? Because you think I’d be safer?” Harry asks, keeping his eyes on the Cloak. “Because that would be one of the things...that would hurt more than a belt. If you just gave up on me.”

“I don’t leave people,” Snape says quietly. “They leave me.”

“Oh.”

“What is it?” Snape asks, seeing something in his expression.

“I’m just am curious whether…” Harry’s voice trails off. “Well, I wonder if part of the sequence that led to you standing over me with a belt—I wonder if that was your test for me. To see if I’d leave, after you did that.”

“And you didn’t leave.”

“Well,” Harry says. “You didn’t beat me.” He wraps the Cloak around himself, disappearing from sight. “Goodnight, Snape.”

“Goodnight, fawn,” Snape murmurs. He folds his arms and shivers, a cool blast of air whispering around him. His father’s ghost isn’t the only one around here tonight.

Somewhere, somehow, James Potter is laughing at him.

Harry yawns widely as he refills his glass of pumpkin juice. Perhaps breakfast today wasn’t the best of ideas. Right now, an extra hour of sleep sounds lovely.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione inquires, interrupting his reverie. “You look a bit of a mess.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, rousing himself from a mountain of pancakes. “Does it have anything to do with your note last night?"

“What note?” Hermione asks.

Ron hunts around his book bag and produces a rumpled piece of paper. He clears his throat and reads: “Had to go take care of something. Don’t worry, I’m alright.” He looks at Harry. “What did you have to take care of at two in the morning?”

Harry casts a powerful Privacy charm. He waits until he is quite sure nobody is paying attention to them, and then leans forward to clue in his friends. “I went down to see Snape, because I thought Dumbledore was trapped in the Room of Requirement.” He quickly explains his reasoning, and Snape’s ensuing decision to investigate the Room on his behalf.

“Good for Snape,” Ron says, impressed.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “But things didn’t quite work out like we’d hoped. He couldn’t get into the Room, so pretty soon he came back..."

“And then what happened?” Hermione prompts as the pause drags on, accurately guessing that there is more to the story.

“We kind of had an altercation,” Harry says slowly. “Snape got mad at me. It’s a long story. The details don’t matter. But he got really mad at me. He almost hit me.”

“Almost?” Ron interjects indignantly. “What do you mean, ‘almost’ hit you?”

“I mean,” Harry says, embarrassed, “that he was about to thrash me and then he changed his mind.”

“But that's awful!” Hermione says, her eyes round with shock.

“It was awful,” Harry says quietly. “But...he apologized. He felt really, really bad about it. He threw the, um, belt in the fire.”

"He didn’t actually hit you?” Ron verifies.

“No.”

“Merlin,” Ron exclaims. “It’s like Good Snape, Bad Snape with him. You never know which one you’re going to get.”

“He certainly isn’t very consistent,” Hermione adds. “It worries me, Harry, how close he gets to doing things he doesn’t want to do. What if he can’t control his temper one day?”

Harry pokes at his egg, saying nothing.

"Harry," Hermione says, an edge creeping into her voice, "this is the first time something like this has happened with Snape, isn't it?"

Harry reluctantly shakes his head.

"Tell us," Ron orders.

"After I showed you guys the memory with the gun and Snape made you leave, he asked me if I had tried to kill myself.” Harry hesitates. “I told him yes, and he slapped me."

Ron and Hermione exchange glances.

"Yeah, I know," Harry sighs. "I should've told you. But I was embarrassed. And it was just a slap. And he promised afterward that he would never hit me again. I wanted to believe him so badly."

"Technically, he hasn't broken his promise," Ron allows.

"He's gotten pretty damn close!" Hermione snaps.

Ron and Harry stare at her, identical shocked expressions on their faces. Hermione never curses.

"I don't like this," Hermione continues, clearly agitated. "Is this getting to be a pattern, Harry? Snape hits you, or almost hits you, and you just accept it as normal? Because it isn't, Harry. It isn't!"

"I know, Hermione."

She leans forward, poking a finger in his face. "There's no point in trading in your uncle for Snape if they are both going to hurt you."

"It's not that black and white,” Harry snaps back at her. “Can you please trust that I'm not an idiot?"

"I trust you," Hermione says. "That’s not the issue. It’s him I’m starting to doubt.”

"You tell Snape that we are keeping a close eye on him," Ron growls. "If he hurts you, he has us to answer to."

"You don't need to worry. I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"What does that mean?”

"Just that I'm not going to give him a reason to lose his temper."

"He's not much use to you, mate, if you have to walk on eggshells around him."

“I know,” Harry repeats, heavily.

"It won’t do you any good trying to be extra polite around Snape," Ron continues. "First of all, you aren't Percy. And second of all, you never know what's going to set him off. So what's the point of trying to guess?"

“No point,” Harry concedes. But privately, he thinks this is one of those things Ron simply cannot understand. Not with a childhood at the Burrow.

Ron frowns, perhaps reading this on Harry’s face, and switches to a different line of attack. "By the way, you haven’t told us what you did after Snape threw the belt in the fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you two scrap? Did you leave? What happened next?”

“We talked.”

“About what?"

"I told him there are worse things he can do to me than thrash me. Which is true. And that he’s the first person, ever, to stop himself or to feel bad about it. Which I know is true.”

"So you tried to make him feel better?" Hermione says, sounding incredulous.

“That's not what I was doing," Harry protests. He stops, reconsidering. "Is that what I was doing?"

"Sure sounds like it," Ron snorts.

"But why would I try and butter up Snape?" Harry demands.

Hermione looks right at him, her brown eyes soft. “Maybe so he wouldn’t hurt you.”

Harry frowns, struggling with this interpretation of events. "That's one way of looking at it.”

"It makes sense," Hermione says, ever-logical. "I'm guessing you used to do the same thing with your uncle, so you thought you'd try the same method with Snape."

"What 'method' exactly?"

"Placation.” At Harry’s blank stare, Hermione sighs and spells it out for him. “You buttered him up so he wouldn’t hit you."

"Maybe I was just being nice to him."

"Perhaps," Hermione says quietly.

Harry scowls, annoyed with Hermione. Now doubt is starting to pool inside him.

"What are you going to do now?" Ron asks, looking anxious.

"I don't know," Harry says grimly. "But I'd better decide quickly. We have Potions today."

***

Harry still doesn't know what he's going to do when they file into the dungeon later that afternoon. He unpacks his books, a tight knot in his stomach, wishing he were almost anywhere else.

A few minutes later, Snape glides into the room. Ron glares at him, Hermione considers him, and Harry watches him. Snape looks levelly at them, his gaze lingering a beat longer on Harry. Then he takes his place at the front of the classroom.

"Today," Snape says in his gravelly voice, "We begin our unit on Healing potions, specifically, an all-purpose Bruise Salve. Instructions are on the board. Begin."

Harry takes out his ingredients, keeping his head down. Snape strolls around the room, murmuring instructions but more often criticism, keeping his distance from Harry. The class creeps by without catastrophe. Harry doesn't look up the whole time, paying attention only to his cauldron and ingredients.

"That was the best Potions lesson ever," Ron says under his breath as they bottle up their potions for marking an hour later.

"Shhhh," Hermione hisses. "He's coming over."

Ron and Harry, as one, hunch over their cauldrons, trying to look insignificant and unworthy of notice.

Snape pauses behind them. Harry holds his breath, old unhappy feelings about Snape swirling within him. He can feel his professor’s eyes boring into the back of his neck. And then, without comment, Snape moves away.

But that's not the end of it--as they head for the door, Snape's low voice stops them.

"Potter. Come here for a moment."

Harry, flanked by his friends, goes up to the front of the classroom.

Snape studies the unfriendly expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces with a certain degree of interest. “Are your surnames Potter as well?”

“No, sir,” Ron mutters.

Harry gives his friends what he hopes is a reassuring look. “I’ll catch up, go on.”

Once the door has shut behind them, Snape flings a Privacy charm at the door. The he uncorks Hermione's pot of Bruise Salve, dips a brush into the paste and offers it to Harry.

"What’s this for?” Harry asks, caught off-guard.

"Your neck,” Snape says quietly. “It is bruised from where I grabbed you last night."

"It is?" Harry says, surprised. He rubs a hand against the back of his neck, and for the first time, notices how tender it is. "Oh. It is."

Snape continues to hold out the brush.

Harry takes a step back. “No thanks.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Snape says curtly. “Take it. It will make you feel better.”

“No,” Harry says. “It won’t.”

And he leaves before Snape can say another word.

***

Harry trudges up the winding stairs to the dormitory later that evening, tired after a tedious couple of hours spent in the library. He’s never going to catch up from the time he missed while trapped in the Room. Another thing to thank Dumbledore for.

He collapses on his bed, telling himself he's only going to rest for a minute. He's not going to think about anything--especially not this mess with Snape--he's just going to close his eyes and drift...

Almost immediately, something lands on his chest. It isn't often Hedwig perches there, and Harry delights in the sensation of her warm body on his. She gives a long, low hoot, and gently nips at his ear.

"What've you got for me?" Harry murmurs, opening his eyes and taking a scrap of parchment from her leg. Maybe it’s from Sirius. Or Dumbledore?

Harry unfolds the letter, and gives Hedwig a farewell pat before she departs for the Owlery. The letter has clearly been spelled to only open for him, and the words appear like inky footprints, one after the other.

Come to my quarters at 9 tonight, if you will.

It is unsigned, but Harry knows who it is from. And it isn't Sirius. Or Dumbledore.

He considers, glancing at the clock beside him. 9:30. Still plenty of time before curfew. Does he want to go? Does he have to go? It's not really an order, is it? More like a request...

Harry hugs his arms across his chest, wishing Hedwig was still with him. If he's honest, he has to acknowledge that he's glad Snape is still reaching out. But does he really have it in him for another go-round tonight? And what if Snape gets mad again?

Harry rubs the back of his neck in thought, an old gesture, and winces as he presses the bruise. Still, Snape had tried to fix things...

Surely talking to the man is better than carrying this knot of worry around inside of him.

***

A few minutes later, Harry slips outside the portrait hole. He is halfway down the corridor when he catches a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye.

“You there! Potter! Come here, I need someone to sharpen my quills!”

Without so much as a pause in his step, Harry wheels around, heading in the opposite direction as fast as he can.

“Potter! Did you hear me?”

Harry is two floors away before he deems it safe to slow down. Then he slips inside an empty classroom and pulls out the Marauders Map. Umbridge isn’t following him—thank goodness—she’s marching back to her office, followed by an inky pair of footprints that appear to be dragging their heels.

“Better than you me, mate,” Harry murmurs, watching the progress of the reluctant footprints.

The coast now appears to be clear, so Harry refolds the map and cautiously pokes his head outside.

Oh. Lovely.

Whether by coincidence or some greater need to disobey Snape, Harry has run straight to the forbidden seventh-floor corridor.

And, now that he is here, he can’t help it. He walks up to the familiar tapestry and leans his cheek up against it.

“Are you in there, Dumbledore?” Harry whispers. “Do you need my help?”

Nothing happens. And yet…there is something in the air. Magic—or power—or some greater force. Some greater emotion.

Harry shifts from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. Listen to Snape and stay the hell away from here? Ignore Snape—the man who almost thrashed him last night—and go fetch Dumbledore? All he has to do, he’s pretty sure, is walk three times up and down the hallway…

Harry turns away from the tapestry. Snape may have almost thrashed him—but he didn’t leave him with the Dursleys for all those years.

***

Not much later, Harry knocks on the door to Snape's quarters.

The door swings open with an ominous creak.

"Hi," Harry says awkwardly, slipping inside and nudging the door shut.

"I didn't think you were coming."

"I was in the library," Harry explains, seeing no need to tell Snape about his little foray into forbidden territory. "I didn't get your note until just now."

"Ah."

A long silence hangs in the air. It feels dangerous, thick with misunderstanding.

"Can we talk?" Harry asks hesitantly.

Snape gestures to the couch, and Harry perches on one end of it. He opens his mouth to begin, but Snape beats him to the punch.

"Are you angry with me?" Snape asks, sitting across from him. "I thought we'd reached an understanding last night."

"We did," Harry agrees. "But after talking to my friends today...well, Hermione thought my reaction to last night was odd. After…you know. Our fight.”

“As did I," Snape points out. "I told you to stop defending me. Of all things! And yet you persisted in saying kind things to me, words that I didn't deserve."

"And I meant them. But after talking to Hermione...I don’t know. Maybe I said those nice things because they were true--but also to calm you down so you wouldn't freak out again." Harry shifts in his seat. “Look, this is what I came down here to say. You scared me last night. I didn't even do anything wrong, and you went completely nuts. And then you confused me even more by being nice when I was leaving. You called me Fawn."

Now it is Snape's turn to look embarrassed. "I didn't know you heard that."

"Well, I did," Harry says. "And when I was falling asleep later, you know what I was thinking? That the belt was worth the nickname." He swallows. "And that's kind of sick, don't you think?"

"I think it's unsurprising, given your upbringing."

"Well, I don't like feeling humiliated," Harry says sharply. "And if I'm honest, that's what I've felt ever since you shoved me against that table. I don't think--I don't think I trust you not to do that again."

"Understood," Snape says quietly. "I know that trust is the most fragile of gifts, Potter. I wish to Merlin I hadn't trampled on yours."

"Me too."

"I'd like you to know that I trust you."

"But you accused me of burning--" Harry stops short, clamping his mouth shut.

"What were you going to say, Potter?"

"Nothing."

"You were going to disagree with me," Snape says sternly. "Weren't you?"

Harry looks carefully at Snape. "So what if I was?"

"My question exactly," Snape answers. "I certainly hope you aren't censoring yourself in an attempt to keep me in good humour. That would quickly prove tiresome."

"I don't mind."

"I meant tiresome for me," Snape replies. "I don't enjoy being surrounded by yes-men, you know. I get enough of that at Death Eater meetings."

"But if we disagree," Harry says, in a very small voice, "you might freak out again."

"So now I'm the savage lion that must be kept tame with nice bits of red meat, is that it?"

"I don't know," Harry says miserably.

“I don’t understand,” Snape says, sounding frustrated, “how you can be scared of me one day—and do nothing to defend yourself when I stand over you with belt—and yet on another day, do everything you can to push my buttons. For Merlin’s sake, you broke my nose.” He looks down at Harry, his eyes hooded. “I wasalways afraid of my father. I never fought back. Perhaps that simplified matters, in a way.”

“When I punched you in the Room, you’d just told me that you were the spy who informed Voldemort about the prophecy,” Harry reminds Snape. “That was different. You pushed me too far and I snapped. Usually I’m a lot more careful.”

“Did you ever…did you ever fight back against your uncle? When he came after you?”

Harry stiffens. Snape just looks at him, eyebrow raised.

“Do you really want to know?” Harry asks, a note of challenge in his voice.

Snape reads something in Harry’s expression that makes him suddenly look very somber. “No. I don’t think I do.” He pauses. “Let’s go back to what we were talking about before. What did I accuse you of burning?”

Harry looks wearily at Snape. “Your photographs. You accused me of burning your photographs. That means you don’t trust me. For you to say otherwise—well, it’s ridiculous.”

“Are you calling me ridiculous?”

“Guess so,” Harry says flatly.

“There,” Snape says in triumph. “You just stopped being ‘careful’ with me, Potter, and nothing terrible happened.”

“This time,” Harry corrects quietly. “Nothing terrible happened this time.”

Snape sighs. “Whether you believe me or not, Potter, I do trust you. And I am going to demonstrate that trust by giving you one of my photographs."

He waves his wand, and the little wooden chest, the source of so much trouble, comes floating into view. "There you are. Take a photograph. Any one you like."

"For keeps?” Harry asks, engaged in spite of himself. “Not a loan to practice my magic on?"

"Yes. And I never expected you to return the photograph of your grandparents."

Harry leans forward, moving to pluck the chest out of the air. But then, slowly, he withdraws his hand.

"What's wrong?" Snape asks.

"Is this a bribe?"

"A bribe? In exchange for what?"

"My trust."

"I do not bribe people."

"Well, then, are you trying to placate me?" Harry asks, echoing Hermione’s words from earlier.

Snape's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"You give me a photo, and I stop yelling at you."

"But you aren't yelling at me."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't think I do."

Harry looks away from the photographs. "I bet you don't want Dumbledore to know about the belt.”

Snape frowns. “I have no particular desire for him to find out, no. But I’m not trying to buy your silence, Potter.”

Harry looks skeptically at Snape.

"Can I not simply give you a gift?"

Harry broods over this. "I don't know. Can you?"

"Black gave you a very fine racing broom, did he not?"

Harry nods.

"And the Weasleys--they send you hand-knit sweaters every Christmas."

"I know."

"Then why can't I give you something?" Snape says softly, a plaintive edge to his voice.

"It's not a real gift if it comes after a fight," Harry says automatically. Then he blinks, surprised at himself.

"Where did you get that absurd idea?"

"I don't know." Harry pauses. "Yeah, I do. Aunt Petunia."

"What did she do to make you think that?"

"She used to try and buy me off. After fights. Those weren’t…they weren’t real gifts. She was just worried that I would tell a teacher or a neighbor about my bruises."

"And so?" Snape prompts. Then he hesitates. “You don’t have to discuss this with me if you don’t want to, Potter.”

“Now who’s being careful?” Harry asks with a small smile. “No, it’s okay. I can talk about—this.” He takes a deep breath. “When everyone else had left for the day, sometimes she'd help me. You know—when I was in bad shape. She’d feed me. Bandage me. Give me a toy she knew Dudley wouldn't miss."

"How generous of her,” Snape says sarcastically.

"They used to do the same thing to Dudley, you know. They'd keep him quiet with some kind of treat."

"What kind of treats would he get?"

"Oh, you know...a video game. An ice cream. A leather jacket."

"Not like your 'treats' at all."

"No," Harry says glumly. "God, I used to feel so relieved when she'd unlock the door. Then I'd hate myself afterward."

"Why?"

"She didn't like to touch me."

If Harry had been looking at Snape, he would have seen a strange, fierce emotion cross the man's face.

But he's not looking at Snape. He's studying his shoes, his voice low and cold, as he remembers.

"Everything would be all ready on the table, so she'd have to spend as little time with me as possible. She'd yank off my clothes and bandage me up. And while she was doing it--she'd crinkle her nose like I smelled. Which I did. Then she'd walk out, leaving me with the broken toys and the food.”

"And this...treat...was meant to ensure your silence?"

Harry nods. "And you know what the worst part was? She never said a word, ever, while she was mending me. Not once. I could spend hours in the cupboard without hearing a sound and be fine. But her not talking to me--when I was right next to her--it was just --" He looks up at Snape with a troubled expression. “Her doing that to me—that was one of the things that messed me up. More than when she hit me.”

"That woman," Snape says, venom lining his voice, "That bitch was born cruel."

"You hate her," Harry says, surprised.

"Don't you?"

"I--I don't know."

"When we were children, she did her best to keep Lily and me apart,” Snape says bitterly. “She tried to get me in trouble at every turn. That cow was to blame for many of my welts, I can tell you. Oh, yes, Potter. I hate Petunia Dursley."

"I don’t think it helps to hate people.”

Snape is silent for a long time. Then he sighs and looks at Harry. "No. It doesn’t.”

Harry feels suddenly shy. “I’ve never told anyone that before. About Petunia and her—treats.”

“She really was a terrible parent,” Snape drawls, apparently ignoring this confession. “She bribed you both, you and your cousin—and it didn’t work very well, did it?”

“Dudley didn’t seem to mind."

“Oh, I don’t know,” Snape murmurs. “I wonder if your cousin, underneath those layers of blubber, doesn’t loathe her for what she’s turned him into. I know I would.”

“Yeah, but you hate everybody,” Harry says bluntly.

Snape flinches, almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You aren’t far wrong.”

Harry chances a look at Snape. “But you don’t hate me, right?”

“Do you really not know that by now, Potter?”

Harry ducks his head. “Sometimes—it’s better to hear it.”

Snape says nothing for a long time.

“Never mind,” Harry says, embarrassed. “I’m not—I’m not fishing for a compliment. It’s just—”

Snape puts up a hand to stop him. “It’s just that you would like reassurance from me after last night. It’s quite understandable. I don’t hate you, Potter. Not anymore.”

Harry frowns, rather unsatisfied with this. “Forget it. I don’t know why I’m still here. I said what I needed to say.”

He gets to his feet. But he doesn’t leave. He just looks at Snape.

Snape considers Harry for a long moment. Then he waves his wand, and the chest of photographs disappears.

“What did you do that for?” Harry demands.

“The photographs will keep,” Snape says. “I’d rather give one to you when you trust that it isn’t a bribe.”

Harry’s frown deepens. “Oh.”

“Now, sit down,” Snape orders. He doesn’t wait to see if Harry obeys, but disappears into his potions store.

Harry sinks back onto the sofa, feeling distinctly annoyed with himself. All those photos of his mum—they were right there—and somehow he screwed it up.

Snape returns with a pot of something small in his hand. He sits down on the couch, rather closer than usual to Harry.

“I thought we’d try the Bruise Salve again,” Snape says briskly.

“Fine.” Harry, rather sullenly, holds out his hand for the brush.

Snape shakes his head. “I will do it.”

Harry, startled, looks up at him. “Really?”

“If you will allow me to,” Snape says, his voice filled with self-recrimination.

“If you want to,” Harry says uncertainly. "Okay."

Snape dips the brush into the paste, and then aims at Harry’s neck. But the position is awkward—and a great glob of it drips onto Harry’s forehead instead.

Harry jumps as the Bruise Salve drips onto his scar.

“Weird,” Harry breathes. “That feels like—I don’t know what that feels like. Weird.”

Snape offers him a handkerchief, and Harry wipes the paste off his scar.

“Does it look any different?” Harry asks, brushing his bangs to the side. “I’ve never tried putting Bruise Salve on it before.”

Snape squints closely at it. “No, it looks the same. This salve doesn’t work on curse scars.”

“They shouldn’t call it all-purpose then.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “You listened to my lecture in class today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm. Well, why don’t we try this again. Turn around, I think that will be easier.”

Harry shifts on the couch until he is facing the other direction, away from Snape. After a moment, he tilts his head toward his chest. It is an oddly vulnerable position, like offering his neck up to a vampire. And he can’t see what Snape is doing. He takes a deep breath, sternly telling himself to calm down. It’s fine. Snape certainly isn’t going to hit him now.

After a long moment, he feels something—not the slimy paste—but Snape’s hand, gently brushing the hair away from his nape.

Harry stiffens at this unexpected touch. But he doesn’t move away as Snape dabs the paste onto his neck.

After a minute or two, Snape sets down the brush, the job done.

Harry raises his head, but before he can turn around, he feels Snape’s hand on top of his hair. Harry freezes again. This day is just getting stranger and stranger. Now Snape is smoothing down his hair—over and over again—like one would a ruffled cat.

After a moment, Harry closes his eyes. This is a new sensation—a new experience. And yet it reminds him of something…something he used to have.

And Harry cannot help it. The gesture unarms him—defeats him. He doesn’t know it—but the muscle in his jaw unclenches—the angry lines disappear from his forehead—and he submits to Snape’s rough caress.

“My,” Snape says quietly from somewhere above him, still sleeking down Harry’s hair. “To think of all the time I’ve wasted—and this was the easiest way to win.”

His words rouse Harry. He jerks as if startled, and cranes his head around to look at Snape. “Win what?”

“Nothing.”

Harry turns back around so he is facing Snape. “Why—why did you do that?” He asks, too shaken to leave this question unasked.

“You needed Healing,” Snape says, raising an eyebrow.

Harry just looks at him, unsure of how to respond. Unsure if they are talking about Bruise Salve or about something else entirely. Something much more vulnerable. Something much more bruised.

“Not everyone is like your aunt, Potter,” Snape says quietly.

Harry says nothing. But his brow furrows again, and the muscle in his jaw clenches.

Not all bruises are healed in one night.

"Harry. Hey, HARRY!"

Harry, eyes shut against the sunshine, grunts in response.

"You awake?" Ron calls from the shores of the lake. "Look!"

Harry reluctantly rolls onto his side and squints sleepily at his friend. Ron waves at him with one hand, the other scratching one of the Great Squid's tentacles with a pointed stick. The animal, as if on cue, tosses its big squishy head in delight, almost exactly like a cat enjoying a good petting.

"Smashing, Ronald," Hermione says dryly. "Now can we please start revising? We've been out here an hour already."

Ron ignores her. Harry does, too, and instead nestles his book bag underneath him for a pillow.

Hermione rolls her eyes, but doesn't seem too bothered. It really is such a beautiful day. A few minutes more of doing nothing won't hurt.

"So," she says, turning her attention to Harry while Ron continues to tease the squid. "Are things alright now between you and Snape?"

Harry considers. "Yeah, I think we patched things up."

"Good."

"Something Snape said though...it made me think about the Dursleys."

"How so?"

Harry casts a Silencing charm. Without preamble, he launches into the explanation that has been simmering within him since last night. "I've always thought that my aunt was a bit worse than my uncle. Uncle Vernon was plenty dangerous, but he wasn't clever. She knew how to play mind games. You see what I mean?"

"I think so."

"I guess I'm just wondering what made her so horrid. I mean, was she born that way? Or did something make her go rotten?"

"That's an excellent question," Hermione says grimly. She picks up a blade of grass and tears it in two. She'd like to do the same to Harry's aunt.

"I've just been thinking about it. What makes people do awful things?"

"I think you have to assume there is more to the story. There must be something we don't know about Petunia that made her be so beastly to a child."

"But then I think about the people who were kind to me," Harry muses. "And I don't know why they went out of their way to be nice to me, either. Did you know that Mrs. Figg once gave me a stuffed owl? I've never forgotten that."

"People always have choices," Hermione says softly. "For good or for evil."

"I don't understand why more people don't tend towards good," Harry grumbles.

"I think they do," Hermione says earnestly. "Oh, Harry, they do!"

Harry raises an eyebrow, a little surprised at the passion in her voice. But before he can reply, one that tends toward evil waddles toward them, a determined expression in her puffy face.

“You ignored me last night!” Umbridge snaps, abruptly halting before them. Unbeknownst to her, a large black shadow also comes to a stop a few paces away. The shadow starts scolding a sleepy-looking Slytherin, but his ears are trained elsewhere.

"I specifically told you to come with me, and you disobeyed." Umbridge glares down at Harry. “And I know you heard me!”

Harry cannot deny this. “Sorry,” he offers, in what he hopes is a polite tone. “I was in a hurry.”

“What have I told you about lying?" Umbridge says coldly. “I’ve been told by the most trusted of sources that you were mooning about on the seventh floor corridor by that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy!”

Harry freezes. Snape would be within hearing distance, too. “Oh,” he croaks. “I was, um—”

“He was looking for my cat,” Hermione interrupts smoothly. “Crookshanks likes to hide behind tapestries and statues and things. Sorry, Professor, but we were all simply mad to find him before curfew. I’m sure Harry didn’t mean to ignore you.”

Harry nods his head vigorously. “Sorry, Professor. Really. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

To everybody’s surprise, Umbridge appears to buy this. “I’ll let you off this time, Potter, but don’t let it happen again. You know what awaits you.” And then she marches off, all the surrounding students instinctively shrinking away as she passes.

“I forgot she has a thing for cats,” Ron says, tossing away his stick and rejoining his friends. “She’d make a great match for Crookshanks, fat beastly thing.”

“I heard that!” Hermione objects, and they are off and arguing at top speed.

Only now does Harry look up. Snape appears to take this as a cue to finish telling off the second-year, because within seconds he is at Harry’s shoulder.

“Er,” Harry says, by way of greeting. It is very odd to see Snape in the sunlight--but that seems like an observation best kept to himself at the moment.

“Come to my office at 7 tonight.”

Harry nods glumly, supremely unsurprised by this order

***

Harry stands outside the door to Snape's office that evening, feeling more anxious than he would care to admit. There's no help for it, though, so finally he steels himself and knocks on the door.

"Enter."

Harry sidles inside, quietly closing the door behind him. Out of long-engrained habit, he goes to stand before Snape's desk.

"Have a seat."

Harry sits in the wooden chair opposite the desk. His professor ignores him for the moment, choosing instead to ward the doors with some rather forceful Privacy charms. He also casts a terribly powerful Silencing spell. Harry waits, queasily wondering why spells of such force are necessary tonight.

When Snape is finished, he sits behind his desk and surveys Harry with deeply hooded eyes.

Hary squirms in the hard chair. Oh, dear.

"So, Snape says at last. "Care to explain?"

Harry looks up, surprised at Snape's tone. The man doesn't sound particularly angry. Harry relaxes infinitesimally. "Yeah. Okay. Last night, when I was on my way to your office, Umbridge started yelling at me to come help her. She wanted me to sharpen her quills." Harry shudders. "I was pretty far away, so I turned and went in the other direction as fast as I could. She gave up and found someone else to do it. And, I dunno, I found myself outside the Room. But it was an accident, honest."

Snape simply looks at him over his long, hooked nose.

"I know you said that corridor was out-of-bounds. I didn't forget. But once I was there, I had to sort out what I wanted to do next. Go find Dumbledore or go see you. You know what I decided."

Snape continues to say nothing. His long silence begins to unnerve Harry.

"Are you going to punish me?"

"Do you think I should?"

Harry shakes his head with vigor.

"Remind me what I said, Potter, during our last conversation about the Room."

"You said that the consequences would be severe if I went poking after Dumbledore." He hesitates. "But I really didn't go after him, Snape. Not on purpose. And I resisted the temptation to go inside. I haven't really done anything wrong."

"Why did you not mention this last night?"

"I didn't want to get in trouble."

Snape says nothing. The silence stretches on like a rubber band, one yanked to the snapping point.

"Are you angry?"

Snape pins him with his inky black eyes. "Did you think I would be unreasonable when presented with this explanation?"

"Yes. I did."

The bluntness of Harry's response surprises both of them. Snape recovers first. "Potter, I understand your inclination to hide things from me. But don't you find this a bit depressing?"

"It isn't a big deal. Kids hide stuff from adults all the time. I would have done the same thing with McGonagall."

Snape still looks irritated.

"I'm not going to tell you every last little thing that happens to me. You don't really expect that, do you?"

"No. I do not."

"And so you aren't going to punish me?" Harry prompts.

"Your explanation of events satisfies me."

"Super."

Snape cocks his head, clearly revising his expectations for this conversation. "It appears you have overcome yesterday's meekness."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

Snape smirks. Then, as quickly as it came, the grin fades. "Your fortitude--or generosity, I'm not sure which--should no longer surprise me."

Harry studies his professor. Perhaps he can take advantage of this mood, whatever it is. "Can I ask you something?"

"Within reason."

"Have you thought about how we are going to get Dumbledore out of the Room?" Snape stiffens, but Harry rushes ahead before the man interrupts him. "Didn't you feel something when you were in that corridor, Snape? I did. I felt like he was there...just out of reach, but there. I felt him."

"Dumbledore is always out of reach," Snape murmurs.

"Come on," Harry urges, before Snape can retreat into brooding. "Do you have any ideas yet? Because I do."

"What, pray tell?"

"Well, I think we should go down there together. And then I can try to get him out of there."

"And what do you need me for?" Snape asks, too lightly.

"I need you to protect me."

"The Room likes you, Potter."

"Not from the Room." Harry pauses. "Why do you think I didn't go in there before? I didn't want to face him alone."

Snape inclines his head, acknowledging this.

Harry leans forward, pressing his advantage. "Come on, Snape. Humor me this once and I'll shut up about it. If we don't find him in there tonight, I'll drop it. I just...need to make sure he's alright."

"I have no desire to go in there again."

"Me neither. This isn't about what I want."

"You realize, Potter, that we are playing into Dumbledore's hands. He wants us to go down there."

"It won't be like last time. We can arm ourselves first."

"What possible magic could we hope to employ against the headmaster?"

"Are there any potions that make sure someone can't take your magic from you?"

"No."

Harry tries again. "Are there any potions that make sure you can get out of a locked room?"

"Yes," Snape says, quirking his lip. "It's called a portkey."

"Let's take one with us. And don't forget, we can use the Tunnel of Gryffindor to escape."

"You speak as though you assume Dumbledore won't have thought of all this. No, Potter, if we go down there, it is with the knowledge that Dumbledore will have the upper hand."

"But he won't," Harry argues. "It will be two against one."

"Unless he manages to disrupt that as well."

"He doesn't want to," Harry says firmly. "All of this was to get the two of us to work things out, remember?"

"Perhaps."

"Come on," Harry coaxes. "I won't be able to let this rest, Snape."

Snape purses his lips. "You are asking a great deal of me."

"I don't want to go back in there either. But I have to. I need to make sure he's alright. And...I need to decide something."

"What would that be?"

Harry squirms again in the chair. "I need to know if he's a good guy or not. I think I know the answer. But I have to make sure. And I can't do that unless I talk to him."
"A 'good guy'?" Snape mocks. "We are none of us superheroes, Potter."

"Please, Snape," Harry urges, putting all the heart he can behind those two words.

Snape looks at him a long moment, his black eyes pools of emotion. Harry blushes, unaccountably reminded of the gentle way Snape applied the Bruise Salve to his neck last night.

"Alright," Snape says quietly. “We will go to the Room.” He stands up. "Let me prepare a portkey first. And a stiff drink."

***

Too soon, they are standing outside the Room of Requirement. Snape looks at the tapestry with great distaste.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Potter?"

"Yep."

Without further ado, Harry begins to pace back and forth outside the Room. I need to check on Dumbledore. I need to check on Dumbledore. I need to check on Dumbledore.

The second he finishes the third circuit, an arched doorway appears, threaded in gold.

"Well," Snape says dryly. "That was easy."

Harry takes out his wand. "Ready?"

"Once more into the breach." Snape growls. "If we must."

"We must," Harry says firmly. He pushes past Snape into the Room.

And, just as he expected, there is Dumbledore.

And--just as Snape expected, no doubt--the doorway instantly fades away, leaving them sealed inside.

The Room looks uncomfortably familiar--devoid of furniture, devoid of windows. Harry sucks in a breath, already feeling slightly claustrophobic. He focuses on Dumbledore, who is sitting placidly on the floor, his robes pooling around him.

"Gentlemen," Dumbledore says, as thought they had just dropped in for tea. "How good of you to come."

Harry studies Dumbledore. The headmaster looks fine.

Relief mixed with anger is a powerful combination.

Harry takes a step forward. "Why are you in here?"

Dumbledore opens his mouth to answer, but before he can do so, a small vial appears with a loud snap before Harry's nose. Harry, cross-eyed, tries to focus on it, but the little bottle whizzes away and comes to a stop in front of Snape instead.

Snape swiftly sidesteps the bottle, but it tracks him like a puppy, hovering a foot from his nose.

"More games, Albus?" Snape asks, his eyes blank and expression neutral.

"You give me far too much credit, Severus."

Snape, with a practiced shrug, plucks the vial out of the air, unstoppers it, and inhales deeply. "Veritaserum," he announces to the room at large. He looks at Dumbledore with the same shuttered expression. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Headmaster, if you think I am going to play another round. This is a rescue mission only, at Potter's insistence."

As if to underline his point, Snape tips the bottle over, and the liquid splashes harmlessly to the ground. Snape takes a step toward Dumbledore, but his progress is halted by the sudden appearance of not one, but two bottles of Veritaserum, one on either side of his head.

"Potter," Snape says, irritated. "Be so good as to vanish these bottles."

"Why don't you do it, Severus?" Dumbledore asks.

An ugly look flashes across Snape's face. "You know why." But, with a nod too casual to be natural, he casts the spell. "As you wish. Evanesco."

Both bottles immediately disappear.

"Snape," Harry yelps, "Your magic works here!"

Snape says nothing for a long time, twirling his wand between his thumbs.

"Why does his magic work here now?" Harry asks, whirling around to Dumbledore.

Snape cuts in before Dumbledore can answer. "Because this Room has been spelled to take away the magic of the most powerful wizard within. I do not know why I did not see it before."

"Your magic doesn't work here?" Harry demands of Dumbledore. Then he answers his own question. "Yeah, why else would you be sitting on the floor?"

"Well," Snape says, a dark look pooling in his eyes. "This rather changes things."

But -- again -- further conversation is halted by the appearance of more Veritaserum bottles. Five of them, this time, all jostling each other in their quest to invade Snape's personal space.

A crease appears in Snape's brow. He aims his wand at the bottles, muttering something under his breath. Whatever he is doing to the bottles takes a long time. Finally he looks up, addressing himself only to Harry. "The Veritaserum within these bottles cannot be penetrated by hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up or siphoned away, nor Transfigured, Charmed or changed any way. It must be drunk, or the bottles will continue to multiply."

"I'll drink it," Harry volunteers swiftly, putting himself between Dumbledore and Snape. Before the two men can react, he plucks one of the bottles out of the air and uncorks it. Instantly, the liquid vanishes, leaving Harry opening and closing his mouth like a guppy. A dozen more vials pop into existence and zoom around Snape, nestling around his head like a strange halo.

"Weird," Harry says, trying to keep his calm. "Professor Dumbledore, why don't you give it a go."

"If you wish," Dumbledore says, sounding quite relaxed. He gracefully stands, since neither Snape nor Harry make a move to give him a bottle, and takes one for himself. But, as with Harry, the liquid vanishes the second Dumbledore uncorks it. Another dozen bottles appear, circling Snape with frightening speed. It is becoming difficult to see Snape behind them.

"What's going on?" Harry asks, watching the blur of bottles with wide eyes. "Are they just going to keep appearing until we drown in bottles?"

"Of course not," Snape says sharply. "We will depart before it comes to that." He turns toward the stone wall, impatiently batting away the bottles, and aims a Blasting spell at the wall of the Room. The Room shudders but remains intact. But then, almost as if in response to Snape's impertinence, the largest number of bottles yet appear, jostling and clanking loudly in their efforts to get near Snape.

"This is ridiculous," Snape says gruffly. He produces the portkey from a pocket in his robe and activates it with a flick of his wand. "I'm leaving. Whoever wishes to join me, do so now."

"Let's go," Harry says urgently to Dumbledore, his order sounding more like a request. Dumbledore nods, and Harry quickly looks away, reaching toward the old button in Snape's outstretched hand. He's more than a foot away when one of the Veritaserum bottles raps him sharply on the knuckles. Harry withdraws his hand, startled. "Ow!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Snape barks. He snatches at a bottle, and instantly all the other ones still. The sudden silence, and the floating layer of bottles, is unnerving.

Snape holds out the portkey in his free hand. Harry again attempts to touch it, and is again whacked on the hand for his efforts.

"Well, go without me," Harry says, nursing his reddened hand. "Bring back help."
"That is not an option," Snape says sharply. "There appears to be only one way to settle this." He uncorks a bottle. The Veritaserum does not disappear.

"Why must I drink you?" Snape demands of the vial, glaring at it as though it were a wayward student.

Harry looks at Dumbledore for an answer. After a moment, so does Snape.

"I have a theory," Dumbledore says slowly. "Only a theory, mind you."

"Are you or are you not controlling this magic?" Snape says impatiently.

Dumbledore shakes his head. "I came in here after an unsettling conversation with Harry. Perhaps the Room sensed my need to atone--because it shut me up and I have not been able to find a way out." He looks around. "It's quite peaceful here."

"I don't believe you," Snape snaps. "You came in here to manipulate the boy's emotions. You knew he would come for you. You knew he would forgive you."

Dumbledore says nothing, but his blue eyes flash with some strong emotion. Anger? Guilt? It's hard to tell.

"What's your theory?" Harry asks quickly, trying to defuse the tangible tension in the Room.

"I believe that the Room is taking care of a bit of unfinished business," Dumbledore says in low, clear voice. "Severus, you did not actually drink the Veritaserum the last time the Room presented it to you. Correct?"

Snape takes a step back, his face whitening. "I threw it down the sink."

"If I am not mistaken," Dumbledore says, folding his arms in front of him, "The Room took offense."

"So Snape pissed the Room off, and now we can’t do anything else until he drinks the Veritaserum?" Harry asks in disbelief. "And none of us can get out? What about the Gryffindor tunnel?"

Snape has a strange look on his face. "I believe the sword must be plunged into a certain trunk in order to create the tunnel. We lack both trunk and sword."

"Accio Sorting Hat!" Harry yells, flinging up his wand.

They wait for a good five minutes, in tense silence.

"Okay," Harry groans. "Anyone else have an idea?"

"I'm going to have to drink the Veritaserum," Snape says flatly.

"But I don't want you to," Harry says, trying to keep his voice firm. "What if you tell me something dangerous, and Voldemort finds it inside my head? Remember?"

"You know how to Occlude now,” Snape says. “And it’s either drink it or stay here.” He smirks. “Who was it who said the truth would set you free?”

This is not particularly comforting.

"Potter, I want you to consider something," Snape says, switching tactics. "What is the real danger of Veritaserum? Is it the potion? Or is it the questioner?"

A light goes off in Harry's head. "I could just ask you dumb questions that don't matter."

"And I trust that you would do so," Snape says quietly. "I cannot say the same, however, for the headmaster."

Two dark heads swivel to look at Dumbledore.

"Have I dropped so low in your estimation?" Dumbledore demands. For the first time since Harry has met him, the headmaster looks distinctly annoyed. "Judge not lest you be judged, gentlemen."

Harry angrily opens his mouth, ready to give Dumbledore a piece of his mind. But something else entirely tumbles out of his mouth. "I'm sorry I burned Adriana's picture."

"Don't apologize," Snape says sharply.

"I--I didn't mean to," Harry gasps, casting a guilty look at Snape. "It just came out."

"There is nothing to forgive," Dumbledore interjects. "It was just a photograph, Harry. And you were angry. With good reason."

"It wasn't just a picture," Harry insists, deciding to ignore Snape's expression of betrayal. "I saw the look in your eyes. You looked like I'd torn you in two."

"I haven't been whole in a long time," Dumbledore says softly. "You've done more to patch me back together than anyone else."

Harry holds up a hand, uncomfortable. "Don't. Please. I'm still angry. I still don't trust you. But I'm not going to hurt you again."

"I had my reasons," Dumbledore says earnestly. "They seemed like good reasons. What would you have done in my shoes, Harry? If you had killed your little sister, would you have taken in another child?"

"I thought that by hurting you I'd feel better about what you did to me," Harry says shakily, trying to sort it out. "But I was wrong. Pain plus pain just equals more pain. I don't think you get that. You were scared about what happened to Adriana. I understand fear, Professor. But when you got a chance to redeem yourself--with me--you let fear answer for you again. You didn't change. You just stayed...stuck." Harry looks at Snape. "Both of you did."

Snape darts a quick, uncomfortable look at Dumbledore. Then he deliberately turns his attention back to Harry. "And what about yourself, Potter? You were scared of the Dursleys hitting you. You were scared of me hitting you. Are you not 'stuck', too?"

"It's not the same," Harry says, feeling muddled. "I don't know why, but it isn't."

Snape raises an eyebrow. Then the shuttered expression returns. "Let us return to the matter at hand. Albus, I am going to request that you let the boy handle the questioning. That was how it was meant to happen the first time around. Potter, if Dumbledore tries something, you have my permission to use your wand to protect yourself. Or to protect me."

And then Snape drinks the Veritaserum. A look of infinite relief crosses his face. Then he slumps to the floor.

As if on cue, the rest of the bottles disappear with a loud pop.

"I can't believe he took it," Harry says, shocked.

"And I can't believe I'm about to do this," Dumbledore murmurs. "Forgive me, Harry." Then he pulls his wand out of his pocket and aims a Body-Binding Hex at Harry. Harry's arms snap to his side, and he crashes backwards into the wall. Unable to move or vocalize, he glares furiously at the headmaster. What the hell?

"You'll notice," Dumbledore says, a strange glint in his eye, "that I did not actually agree with Professor Snape's hypothesis about the magic in the Room. I'm sorry, Harry. But I need to ask Severus some questions. And I did not want to put you in the position of deciding whether to hex me."

And then Dumbledore crouches down by Snape, his attention entirely on the half-conscious man at his feet.

"At last, my boy," Dumbledore says softly, his voice almost a croon. "We are going to fix this."

Snape and Harry are locked into the Room of Requirement by Dumbledore.  Harry has his magic, but Snape does not.  The Room makes Harry witness a miserable childhood memory with the Dursleys.  To Harry’s horror, he is forced to witness the memory again, this time with Snape.  Once back in the Room, Snape goads Harry, who orders the Room to give Snape exactly what he deserves.  The two of them witness four possible fates for Snape.  The Room produces two bottles of Veritaserum.  Snape questions a dosed Harry, but then, when it his turn, replaces the truth serum with water and fakes Harry out.  The Room produces the Mirror of Erised, and through that, Harry discovers that Snape loved Lily.  Harry demands that Snape teach him to Occlude,  because Voldemort cannot know Snape’s true loyalties.  Harry learns to Occlude by using the power of his grief.  After a disastrous attempt to blast their way out of the Room, Harry heals his burned hands  

 The Room sends our duo to Snape’s childhood, where they meet the child Severus and the child Lily.  Harry attempts to warn his small mother of her future, and is forced to Obliviate both children.  The Sorting Hat appears, and Harry uses it to get the Sword of Gryffindor, which gouges a tunnel out of the Room.  Snape cannot use the tunnel, however, and Harry refuses to leave him.  Snape tells him that he was the one to tell Voldemort of the prophesy, correctly guessing that this knowledge will get Harry to leave.  Harry goes and finds a room with a pensieve.  He cannot unlock the door to Dumbledore’s office until he views the memory, so he does.  It is Harry’s memory--removed by Dumbledore--of the night his parents died.  Infuriated, Harry goes back to Snape rather than to Dumbledore.  Snape is in bad shape, so Harry heals him.  The two of them reach a new understanding, and, together, go back through the tunnel and face Dumbledore.

Snape and Harry make Dumbledore take an Unbreakable Vow to tell the truth and question him about everything that happened in the Room.  Harry updates Ron and Hermione. They agree to use the Fidelius Charm so that Voldemort cannot torture them about what Harry told them.  To do the charm, they must all view a dark secret of Harry’s, that he contemplated killing himself when he was a child. This infuriates Snape, who slaps Harry.  Angst ensues.  Dumbledore summons Harry, who reluctantly goes to see him.  Dumbledore tells him that he must kill Voldemort, and reveals that because of Ariana’s death, he decided not to take Harry in.  An upset Harry rips up Dumbledore’s photo of Ariana and leaves.  Umbridge gives Harry and his friends detention.  Afterward, Snape heals Harry and shows him his quarters, as a neutral place they can talk.  They fight, however, and Snape gives Harry detention.  Harry sulks, so Snape distracts him by pulling out a box of carefully guarded photographs, and shows Harry a picture of Lily’s parents.  Harry worries about Dumbledore’s apparent disappearance and tells Snape he believes Dumbledore is in the Room.  Snape goes to check, and when he returns,  he nearly beats Harry with a belt when he thinks Harry has destroyed his precious box of photographs.  This incident leaves both of them deeply shaken.

Harry again voices his worries about Dumbledore, and the two return to the Room.  This time, with Harry’s help, they are able to enter, and find Dumbledore.  Bottles of Veritaserum pop into existence and harrass Snape until he agrees to drink it--for real this time.  After he drinks it, Dumbledore puts Harry in a body-bind so he cannot interfere and prepares to question Snape...

Dumbledore conjures a pair of armchairs, seats himself, and waits for Snape to wake up.  Every now and then he glances over at Harry, who is helplessly propped like a statue against the wall.  When Snape opens his eyes, he is greeted by Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes and Harry’s panicked green ones.

“Please, Severus,” Dumbledore says, gesturing to the other armchair.  “Sit down.”

Snape groggily does so, his motions jerky.

Dumbledore begins without preamble.  “You are angry with me for a number of reasons.  I’m going to list them, and I want you to stay silent unless you disagree with me.  Understand?”

“Yes.”

Dumbledore begins to tick things off with his fingers. “I failed to remove you from your abusive father.  I failed to stop James Potter and Sirius Black from tormenting you during your schooldays.  You think I always put others needs and welfare above your own.”

Silence.

“I charged you with a near-impossible task that has made your adult life extremely difficult: protecting the son of the woman you loved and the man you despised.  At times you are angry with me for showing mercy instead of killing you that night.”

Silence.

“In short, I have interfered in your life when I had no right to—and failed to interfere when I should have interceded.  You think I see you as nothing more than a useful pawn.”

Silence.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Snape says, slightly slurring his words.  “Your treatment of Potter is abhorrent to me.”

“How do you think I treat Harry?”

“The same way you treated me.  You abandoned him when you should have saved him.  Charged him a near-impossible task—killing the Dark Lord— that will make his life hell.  You put the war effort above his well-being and you manipulate that well-being to an alarming degree.  But unlike me—”

Snape frowns and falls silent.

“Unlike you?  You think my treatment of the two of you has differed?”

“You love Harry,” Snape mutters.  “You do not love me.  I do not know which is worse: hurting someone you care about, or not caring about the one that you hurt.  You have done both.”

Dumbledore steeples his fingers together, apparently deep in thought.  He does not bother to defend himself from these charges, which is just as well, as Snape will remember none of this.

The headmaster does not seen inclined to restart the conversation, at least not yet, so Harry turns his attention inwards.  He can do little else, after all, cursed with a Petrificus Totalus. None of Snape’s answers, frankly, have surprised him so far. That doesn’t stop him from resenting Dumbledore for forcing these answers out of such an intensely private man, however.

“I have risked quite a bit in this gambit with you and Harry,” Dumbledore says abruptly, interrupting Harry’s line of thought.  “And part of me is still unsure if it was the right path to take. Tell me, Severus, how are you getting on with Harry?”

“We fight a fair amount,” Snape replies.  “I have an extremely short temper and he is a minefield of unexpected pain.  I do not know if I am helping him.”

“But you want to help him?”

“Badly.”

“And you no longer desire to hurt him in any way?”

“I do not wish to hurt him, but I seem to do so nonetheless.”

“That is still an improvement,” Dumbledore says, under his breath.  He pauses and looks at Snape from over his half-moon spectacles.  “Severus, forgive me.  I already knew, or could guess, the answers to most of these questions.  There is another question—one that I cannot seem to bring myself to ask.  Perhaps it is because I am terrified of your response.”  He sighs. “Nonetheless, here it is.  Can you ever forgive me for what I have done to you?”

Snape’s answer is quick and sharp.  “No.”

“Would it help if I explained my actions to you?  My motivations for all the crimes you have laid at my charge?”
“It is too late for that.”

“And if I apologized?”

“No.”

Dumbledore cocks his head.  “And if I pointed out that I am placing your welfare above Harry’s at this moment?”

Harry rather disagrees, but he is in no position to voice this.  In any case, Snape has the same answer as before.  “It is too late, Headmaster.  I cannot forgive you.  I have no desire to forgive you.”

Dumbledore leans forward.  “Let’s try this another way.  Did you ever think Harry would forgive you for your ill-treatment of him or for sending his parents to an early grave?”

“I never expected him to forgive me.”

“But has he?”

“I suspect he has, yes.”

“And what about me?  Do you think Harry has forgiven me for what I have done to him?”

“Potter has decided he cannot hate you,” Snape replies.  “I imagine he will forgive you soon enough, for his own sake if not your own.”

“So why can you not forgive me?”  Dumbledore demands.

“I am not like Harry,” Snape says simply.  “Alchemy only works on rocks, Albus.  You cannot turn base metal into gold.”

Dumbledore considers this for only a moment before switching tactics.  “Do you hate me, Severus?”

“Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated.”

“Even under Truth Serum, you speak in riddles,” Dumbledore says dryly.  “Do you mean that you both fear and hate me?”

“The first, yes; the second, no.  More the pity, as hating you would make my life easier.”

“And yet you told Harry that he was not allowed to hate me?  Why?”

“He was not made to hate.”

“You understand him well.”

Snape says nothing.

Dumbledore is starting to look frustrated.  He looks over at Harry.   “Do you understand why I’m doing this, Harry?  I decided it was neither fair nor right for me to urge you to try again if I could not do so myself.  But it appears I am doomed to failure once more.”  He flicks his wand at Harry.  “Perhaps you can help me, my boy.”

Harry, unprepared for this sudden release, tumbles to the ground.  He scrabbles to his feet and thrusts out his wand.

Dumbledore looks at him mildly.  “Am I going to regret removing the curse?”

Harry scowls but lowers his wand.  “I can’t believe you did that to Snape.”

Dumbledore offers no apology.  “I wanted to remove some of his pain, Harry.  It’s the least I owe him.  Can you think of anything I can try?”

Harry feels a small pang of jealousy ripple through him.  “So after I tore up your photo of Ariana, you decided Snape was the one most in need of help?”

“Forgive me for my presumption,” Dumbledore replies, “but I think I can salvage my relationship with you without resorting to these extreme measures. And I rather believe that helping Severus will go a long way towards improving your opinion of me.”

Harry considers the headmaster, unable to deny the truth in either of those statements.  “I think I know how you can help Snape.  But I want you to answer some questions first.”

“Certainly.”

“Did you know what would happen if we came back here?  About the Veritaserum attacking him, I mean?”

“I suspected it might be so.”

“And so this whole setup was for Snape?  He thought it was a trap for me.”

“That’s keeping in character for him, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugs, conceding the point.  “So you thought if you forced Snape to tell the truth, he would do what? Spill the secret for making him forgive you?”

“Something like that.”

“And this was for your benefit, or his?”

This gives Dumbledore pause.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Harry mutters.  He looks over at Snape, who is sitting quietly, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.  “Let me ask you this.  Have you forgiven me for tearing up your photo of Ariana?  I know you said there was nothing to forgive, but I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Why?”

Dumbledore looks thrown.  “How curious.  It appears to have happened without my notice.  I was angry and hurt before.  Now I am not.”  He pauses.  “Ah. I think I understand.”

“You can’t force forgiveness,” Harry says quietly.  “Not from other people and not from yourself.  No matter how badly you want to give or receive it.  It’s something that either happens or doesn’t.”

Dumbledore sounds ready to interrupt, but Harry holds up a hand to stop him.  “I know you think that Snape and I forgave each other because you threw us in the Room and forced the issue.  But I disagree.”

“Why?”
“Because it was only after the Room, back in my everyday life, that I really began to understand Snape.  I don’t think you can really know a person if all that binds you together is a crisis.  But I can’t--I can’t be angry at him now.  Not when he’s doing the boring stuff, like getting me a ham sandwich or helping me with my homework.  It’s just...different now.”

Dumbledore sighs. “So you think there is nothing I can do for Severus?”

“I think you need to leave him alone.”

“I cannot do that, not while Voldemort lives.”

“I don’t mean ignore him.”  Harry pauses, arranging his thoughts.  “I think you need to let good things fill up his life so that he doesn’t have the time or energy to despise you.”

“And would you be one of those good things?”

Harry avoids Dumbledore’s eyes.  “Well, I think time spent with me is time he would otherwise spend stewing in his anger at you.”

Dumbledore slowly nods.  “And what do you think I should do when he wakes up?  He will figure out, just like you did, that I arranged circumstances so he would be forced to be interrogated by me under Veritaserum.”

At this juncture, Snape groans.  Both heads swivel towards him.

“He’s coming out of it,” Harry breathes.

It doesn’t take long for Snape to return to his senses.  He blinks a few times and looks first at Dumbledore, then at Harry.  “Learn anything of interest?”

“Not from you,” Dumbledore responds, a trifle sharply.

Snape raises an eyebrow.  “I see.”  He unsteadily gets to his feet.  “I must admit, my desire to find out what I told you is outweighed by my desire to leave this place. Do you think the Room is satisfied with my payment?”

As if in response, a fat gold key materializes directly in front of Snape’s hooked nose.  

“Looks like it,” Harry says, his relief obvious.

Snape snatches the key and marches over to the door glimmering into existence.  “Then I am putting an end to this foolish endeavor.”  He turns the key to the lock with a satisfying click.  Then he turns around and looks at Harry.  “Coming, Potter?”

Harry nods.  Snape pushes open the door and leaves…or escapes…without another word.

And now it is just Harry and Dumbledore, alone in a Room that echoes with memories and regret.

“Go to him,” Dumbledore says softly.  He smiles, the look not reaching his eyes.  “Fill his time with something other than rage.”

Harry glances at the open door, and then back at Dumbledore.  He had not realized how important forgiveness was to this man.  He has a weapon, now, should he choose to use it.

But perhaps Dumbledore’s work has all gone to waste, because Harry throws down his weapon and instead puts out his hand for the headmaster to shake.

Dumbledore grabs his hand like it is a lifeline.  Perhaps it is.

And then Harry pulls his hand away, and leaves this place for warriors, once and for all.  He does not look back.

The Owlery is not one of Snape’s usual haunts, but in the end, that is where Harry finds him.

His teacher is sitting in one of the window alcoves, ignoring the soft hooting and swooping of the owls, his gaze far away.  Harry says nothing but slips onto the stone ledge across from him.

At this movement, Snape seems to come out of his reverie.  “How did you know where to find me?”

“This is a good place to come after unsettling scenes with Dumbledore.”

“So it is.”  Snape considers Harry.  “Alright, Potter, what happened?  The last thing I remember is Dumbledore hitting you with a body-bind curse.  Am I correct in assuming that Dumbledore did the questioning and not you?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” Snape murmurs.  “Let me guess: he wanted to verify my loyalties and uncover any machinations I might have in place against him.”

“Not exactly.”

“He did not ask about the war effort?”

“No.  He was, um, interested in more personal things.”

A look of fear flits across Snape’s face.  “What do you mean?”

“He wanted to know why you hate him and why you haven’t forgiven him.”

Snape’s eyebrows shoot upward.  “I see.  Pray tell, Potter, why haven’t I forgiven him?”

“Quite simply, you don’t want to,” Harry replies.  “Honestly, Snape, you didn’t say anything very surprising, the whole time you were out.”

Snape looks slightly insulted by this.  “Did he ask about you at all?”

“Only briefly.  I think this was about you, Snape.  Not me.”

“Or so the headmaster would have you believe,” Snape mutters.  “Very clever of him, really.  He knew how much he had fallen in your estimation, and so this was his attempt to show himself in a more sympathetic light.”

“So it still wasn’t about you,” Harry says.  “Right?  It was really about me.”

Snape glares at him.  “Dumbledore succeeded in manipulating you.”

“I’m not going to try to convince you that Dumbledore cares about you,” Harry says.  “It doesn’t really matter what I believe, anyway.  Not about that.  But you know what?  I’m glad he brought us back to the Room.”

“And why in Merlin’s name is that?”

“The Room failed him this time,” Harry explains.  “You didn’t forgive him.  And I think he realized that there are some things you can’t accomplish through magic or force.”  Harry leans forward.  “He’s done, Snape.  No more tricks.  He’s going to leave us alone.”

“You are a fool if you believe that.”

“Then I’m a fool,” Harry shrugs.  “Look, time will tell, right?  In the meantime, is there really anything more to say about Dumbledore?  Haven’t we exhausted the subject yet?”

Snape seems shocked by this.  “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we can either keep going over what Dumbledore has done to us—all the things he is responsible for, all the things we blame him for —or we can stop obsessing over him and get on with our lives.”

“You act as though I can banish him with a flick of a wand,” Snape says incredulously.  “After all he has done, Potter?  You are content to simply let it go?”

“Do you remember when I asked the Room to give you what you deserved?”

“Of course I do.” Snape says.  “And don’t try and change the subject.”

“I’m not,” Harry insists.  “But do you remember the last vision?  The one with you all peaceful while you looked at the fire?”

“I believe I called that vision ‘laughable.’”

“But that’s the fate you want,” Harry pushes.  “Right?”

“Out of the options the Room presented me, that was one was preferable,” Snape allows.

“Well, I don’t think you are going to get that fate by talking about how much you hate Dumbledore all the time.  That’s all I’m saying.”

Snape stares at Harry.  Then, amazingly, he starts to nod his head.  “I cannot deny the logic in that.

“So let’s talk about something else,” Harry says with a small smile.

Snape rolls his eyes.  “Such as?  The Dursleys?  My miserable childhood?  The mistakes I keep making with you?

“Um.  No?”

“So you and I are never going to discuss a painful topic again?  That’s absurd,” Snape snorts.
“That’s not exactly—”

“I do not want to go prancing off into the sunshine and rainbows with you, Potter, pretending that the world is all kittens and roses.”

“Merlin forbid,” Harry gasps, trying not to scream at laughter at the image.  “I’m sure we will talk about those things again.  I’m sure we’ll even talk about Dumbledore again.  But—honestly, don’t you think we deserve a break?  Can’t we, you know…do something fun?”

“Fun?” Snape says blankly.

“I know you are unfamiliar with the concept.”

“Very funny,” Snape says sourly.  “What would you suggest?”

Harry opens his mouth, and then closes it, stuck. Hm.  Is there anything they can do that won’t result in a fight or angst of some kind?

“Not as easy as it sounds, is it?”  Snape drawls.  Then a different expression flits over his face.  “But I have an idea.”

He waves his wand in a complicated gesture, and a little wooden box pops into appearance.

“There you are,” Snape says, as he said once before.  “Take a photograph.  Any one you like.”

“Really?”

“Do you trust that it isn’t a bribe, this time?”

“Yeah, actually I do.”

Snape gestures toward the box.  “Then pick one.  And I’ll tell you about it.”

Harry grins.  “Okay.”

He reaches into the box and picks one at random.  His eyes go wide as he looks at it.

“Snape,” he breathes.  “Look at it.  How can this be?”  He thrusts the photo at Snape, who studies it and then looks at Harry, an identical expression of shock on his face.

The photo is of four people in a forest.  A little girl with red hair lies on her back next to a sparkling brook, gazing at the trees above her.  Lying on one side of her is a ragged little boy with red trainers.  On the other side, a teenager with messy black hair.  They are both listening to the little girl as she chatters.  A man with a hooked nose leans against a tree, a small smile on his face as he watches the three children.