“You’re seriously letting me come with you?” Harry asked quietly, his dark brows sneaking beneath the matching fringe.

Snape relaxed the fingers that he’d clamped around Harry’s elbows and rolled his eyes briefly before nodding to the stone staircase to his right. “Sit,” he commanded tersely.

Immediately, Harry took a few steps backwards, throwing an arm behind him to guide himself into a sitting position on the low, cold stone. He gazed up at his professor inquisitively, but Snape’s stare was raw and intense. And Harry found that he couldn’t look at him. So many unnatural things had happened in the past three minutes that the boy was uncertain of the man’s imminent reaction. Harry didn’t think he was in for it, but knowing Snape, anything was possible.

Threading his fingers together, Harry crossed one thumb over the other and squeezed his hands into a flushed knot, resting them lightly against his lap.

Maybe I shouldn’t have called him an idiot, the boy piteously ruminated. At least he wasn’t being dragged off for the dreaded soap…yet.

After a moment of staring awkwardly at his knees, Harry sensed Snape billowing toward him. Shifting his eyes to his left, Harry watched as the man crouched down on the step directly above his.

Snape had established the height discrepancy on purpose, and Harry knew it.

But if he was quick enough, he would be able to determine the general proximity. Using the heels of his shoes, Harry scraped his seat along the stone, squirming until his shoulder blades rested against the vertical encasement. The tips of his wildest pieces of hair were still centimeters from brushing against the aged, wooden banister, solidifying his lack of stature. But at least he wouldn’t be forced to strain his neck, goggling up at Snape like some doe-eyed toddler.

When he did chance a glance at his professor, however, the lines around the black eyes had gathered and fanned out at the corners. Snape appeared almost…curious. And for a small instant, a wave of self-consciousness flowed over Harry. Drawing up his knees slightly, Harry crossed his arms over his belly and settled the back of his head against the wall, eyes flickering over Snape’s drawn and pale features. If it weren’t for the man’s eyes, the immobility of the rest of his face could have almost merged with the stone behind it, unnoticed.

“Have you any memories of your mother, Potter?” Snape asked quietly, pinning Harry with the same odd, solid expression.

Harry’s feet tingled in his shoes and became clammy at the unexpected mentioning of his mother. He and his mum had the same eye color, and she looked really pretty in her pictures, with long, ginger hair, parted directly in the middle and the smallest of gaps between her teeth, barely noticeable. Harry had memorized image after grinning image of his mum. However, a sea of boiling shame flared up and squirmed through his insides when Harry suddenly realized that he remembered nothing. The photo album that Hagrid had given him was filled with blissful, preserved moments in time, and Harry had made up stories about each and every one. But those stories had been developed from his imagination. They didn’t exist.

The realization that gripped him as he huddled on the steps was sickening. He peered over at Snape. Last year it would have been so easy to glare into those frosty, sneering eyes and tell their owner to bugger off. But now, the thought of such a thing provided not even a sliver of comfort.

Tightening his arms across his stomach, Harry shook his weighted and buzzing head against the stone.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Snape agreed, his features stationary but not cruel. “We retain little to nothing of our memories from the first year of our lives. You are no different than the majority.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He had no idea why in the hell Snape had brought up his mum. What did she have to do with anything? She was dead. And Harry couldn’t even remember what her voice sounded like. He felt pathetic.

Pressing his teeth together, the boy stared at his professor, waiting.

“Your mother…” Snape hesitated, blinking slowly and said, “Your mother and father died to protect you. I suppose you know this.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together instantly. “Yeah,” he muttered, lazily clacking his head against the stone. “Hagrid told me last year.”

Why are we even talking about my parents? Harry wanted to scream at him.

“Indeed you are aware,” Snape affirmed. “However, I doubt that you truly understand the sacrifice…” He had spoken in a soft, careful voice. But Harry’s face stung as if he had been slapped.

He stilled his head, his breath quickening. “What are you talking about?” Harry all but spat, livid with himself for clinging to this man only five minutes ago in his clouded desperation. “You don’t even—“

“This is not an attack, Potter,” Snape interrupted firmly, though his tone remained rather flat, as though he’d been preparing for a rebuttal. “And my intention is not to insult your intelligence.”

Harry opened his mouth, but the man only shook his head once, erecting a single, silencing finger. Exhaling and pursing his lips, Harry settled back against the wall, ignoring the tiny, sharp pain that zinged through his scalp as his head banged against a protruding stone. His negligence to the sore spot sent tingles down his neck.

“It is difficult for you, or any other child for that matter, to appreciate or comprehend the vast measures taken by those in authority to keep you safe,” Snape began, studying the boy’s wrinkled brow and tensed jaw with interest. “All you know of your parents is that they left you alone to survive a less-than-satisfactory life with your relatives. Am I correct?”

Parting his lips but saying nothing, Harry gazed meticulously at Snape, his cheeks prickling in revelation. That couldn’t be all he knew about his parents…could it?

Without waiting for a response, Snape barely nodded before continuing, “You know of your parents’ fate, and in that aspect you feel connected with them. You are alive, and they are not. Yet it is still impossible for you to cherish that sacrifice as you feel you should. You are but a child, Mr. Potter. And for nearly ten years, you knew nothing of your parents, except that they no longer existed.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He didn’t have to listen to this; he didn’t need Snape’s help in making him feel wretched. Harry knew he could spring off of the staircase and back to the Great Hall in a flash. But his body felt numb and heavy. And nothing but morbid fascination was keeping him cemented to that step. If there was anything or anyone that Harry didn’t understand, it was Snape. One minute they were speaking of the locket and the Chamber, and the next, Snape was going on about his parents’ sacrifice.

“My parents loved me,” the boy whispered in a peculiar, cracked voice.

“Yes,” Snape agreed. His Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed. “More than life itself, obviously…”

Drawing his knees close to his body and stemming the urge to kick the Potions Master in the shin, Harry glared. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Professor…”

“Precisely my point, Potter,” Snape countered, leaning forward. Several strands of thin, twisted ebony drifted along the man’s pallid cheekbones. “As a child of twelve, you do not always understand the actions of adults. Aside from your parents, I would wager that you have deemed your professors pitiless at times. Perhaps you consider your punishments unjust and unreasonable…or believe those in authority to be apathetic…indifferent of your concerns-”

Vigorously shaking his head, Harry pushed his back against the wall in order to sit up straighter. “That’s not true!” he claimed. “I know that sometimes I’ve deserved my punishments, and I don’t think that way about every adult…”

“Only the ones who attempt to set strict boundaries in regard to your safety-”

“I’ve come to you for nearly everything this year!” the boy argued, gesticulating with splayed palms before slapping them down into a frustrated heap on his lap. “I even showed you all of Ginny’s letters, and now she’s probably gonna hate me for it. And I’ve been trying to help with other things, but you won’t let me… I don’t know what else you want from me.”

Clenching his teeth, his jaws swelling from the pressure, Snape reached out and grasped a handful of the child’s lapels, dragging him forward. Eyes widening in surprise, Harry encircled both hands around the man’s wrist as he was pulled forward, his denim trousers chafing along the stone as he slid.

“What I want, Mr. Potter, is for you to cease playing the martyr and use your common sense,” Snape rasped through gritted teeth. “The portkey I gave you wasn’t for decoration…”

“Well, no, you made it invisible,” Harry pointed out, his voice breathy and rigid as he continued to clutch Snape’s wrist.

The man’s eyes constricted to black gashes, and Harry stiffened his neck to keep from wincing. “I am well aware of what was done to it,” Snape asserted as he released the bunched material. “But you haven’t a single notion of its importance.” Resting an elbow on his knee, Snape sighed deeply, cradling his forehead against his fingers. The man’s lank hair swept forward, nearly concealing his face. “You’ve no idea,” Snape repeated gruffly, quietly. He gaze penetrated the landing below.

Harry stared at him, the pulse in his chest and temples dense and quick. “No idea of what, Professor?” Harry asked gingerly. He inched forward slightly, caught off-guard by the man’s sudden receding temper. Harry could handle Snape’s sporadic severity. But the following deflation made him uneasy. And this was the second time he’d witnessed such a thing.

Clearing his throat softly, Harry twisted one of the buttons of his coat between his thumb and forefinger while he fished for words. “I really do understand,” the boy admitted, glancing up at the empty staircase and back to his fingertips, anywhere but toward the wilted picture of humanity that was his dour Potions Master. “I know you gave me the portkey to keep me safe. And I shouldn’t have ripped it off just because I was angry. That was stupid…”

Snape glanced over, brushing back the fallen strands. His forehead had creased once again, though the deep black of his eyes had mellowed considerably. Two fingers remained pressed against his temple.

Peeking up from his button, Harry caught Snape’s eye and nearly smiled at the familiarity of the single, raised brow but didn’t. “It’s just…” he continued, stretching his leg across several edges of steps. “You haven’t even given it a chance…the searching, I mean. And I know you probably want to just fix everything so we don’t all have to stay at home for the rest of the year, but…” Harry paused, palming back his fringe, his hairline dotted with perspiration. He looked away again. “I dunno.”

“Look at me, Potter,” Snape instructed, straightening his back and cocking his head when the boy glanced his way. “First of all, remove your overcoat before you smother.”

Harry’s chin almost tapped his chest as he quickly looked down at his snugly-buttoned jacket. “Oh,” the boy commented, worrying the buttons and shrugging the thick material off of his shoulders. Draping his coat across his lap, Harry tucked a hand into an opened cuff as he reveled in the refreshing, lukewarm air that drifted across his back.

“Now that I have you are coherent and attentive,” Snape pressed on. “I expect you to remain as such for the duration of what I am about to say.” Hands fisted at either side of his robes, Snape leveled the wool about his torso with a brisk tug, lifting his chin with renewed stamina.

“I’m listening,” Harry assured him, wondering what had caused his professor’s resurgence.

Puckering his brows, Snape leaned forward a bit. But this time, Harry didn’t shy away. “You must know,” he said evenly, “that I do not base my decisions on hastily discovered facts or assumptions. As much as you loathe accepting it, I am an adult, and I have obviously been alive longer than you. I have made several mistakes and have learned from them…attempted to improve from them. My actions have motive. That said, I do not restrict you from certain things to simply make you miserable—“

“I know.”

“No, Mr. Potter,” Snape insisted in a brusque voice, extending a forefinger toward the child’s chest. “You do not know, for if you did, you would obey without question.”

Harry frowned. “But why am I not allowed to question things?” he argued. “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I have to keep my mouth shut. I can have an opinion, can’t I?”

“Even if I said otherwise, you would anyway,” Snape followed up with the hint of a weary smirk.

“Not necessarily…” Harry mumbled. “You just never explain anything to me.”

“On the contrary, you do not listen.”

“I-’

The boy stopped, fingers tangled and stilled within the jacket’s lining. “Yeah I do. I mean…don’t I?” Harry asked, rather uncertainly. The lines in his forehead stitched together in thought.

Snape’s smirk pronounced itself in victory. “Rarely…”

“Well,” Harry began, scratching at his wrinkled brow. “I’m listening to you now, aren’t I? It’s not like you’ve ever told me that I-”

“Potter…“ Snape broke in through clenched teeth, closing his eyes for a second.

“All right, all right,” Harry sighed, squirming on his step and staring at his jacket. “I get it.”

Damn, he thought. Snape had a point.

The fragile lids ascended like curtains over the coffee-brown orbs. “You…get it,” the man repeated.

“Yeah…” Harry muttered, his eyes flicking up for an instant. “I mean, yes, sir,” Harry corrected himself, “I understand.”

Silence wracked the air for a lingering moment until Harry finally lifted his chin, gazing into Snape’s face. The muscles around Snape’s lips relaxed slightly before his professor tipped his head once, retaining eye-contact.

“You would have proved a weak thread in the stature of Slytherin House, child,” Snape informed him, a strange, dull gleam around his pupils.

“What do you mean?” Harry wondered, folding up his outstretched leg once again and nesting his chin in the crook of his elbow that he’d rested across his knee. If he’d had his guard up, Harry would have taken Snape’s comment as an insult. But his professor had never addressed him as child, before. And that alone seemed to tenderize the sinewy intent.

“Acceptance of one’s faults is a Slytherin’s scarcest trait,” Snape explained briefly, tugging at the cuffs of his starched sleeves in a bored manner.

“What faults?”

But Snape only rolled his eyes, smirking softly as he rotated his wrist in the black cuff, giving it a final pinch and pull.

“Shall we discuss tomorrow,” Snape began, inclining his head. “Or did you wish to insert another brilliant exclamation before we proceed?”

Still analyzing Snape’s diluted praise, Harry sat up suddenly, passively ignoring the insult as his brain clouded with a new thought. “Professor?”

“Potter.”

“What’s wrong with Malfoy?” Harry asked with as much concern as he could muster. To be honest, he was more curious that fretful over the Slytherin’s condition. But he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Malfoy had owned up to something after all. Or maybe he’d tried to tell Snape something but was brushed aside… That always made Harry the angriest.

“Why do you ask?” Snape opposed the inquiry with one of his own, lowering his chin slightly in preparation of the sudden examination. “Has he said something to you?”

Harry watched as Snape’s eyes narrowed again, but he only shook his head quickly and shrugged. “Well, no,” the boy admitted. “He just seemed really angry when he left your office that day, and before he got on the carriage—“

“We have established Mr. Malfoy’s lack of knowledge concerning current events, Potter,” Snape promptly interrupted, his tone dim and edged with warning. “You are well aware of this.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” Harry agreed, anchoring his palms behind him and shifting eagerly on his step until Snape allayed his squirming by offhandedly pressing a flattened palm against the knobby shoulder. “I was just wondering…”

Snape took his time ogling the boy with an evaluative eye before speaking. “Mr. Malfoy is spending the holidays with an elderly uncle, as his mother and father are detained.”

“Did he not want to go or something?” Harry probed, rolling up the edge of his coat sleeve in a deliberately casual manner.

“Unfortunately, the rules set for this holiday season extend even to Mr. Malfoy,” the man replied quietly, running a thumb across the knuckles of his balled fist. He surveyed his own movement with unnecessary care, exhaling briskly.

Even though Snape wasn’t looking elsewhere, Harry was mesmerized by the faraway expression. Draco had wanted to stay for the holidays, and he’d been denied. His own Head of House had sent him away for Christmas. But Snape had kept Harry. And if the man had planned on using the portkey to enter the Chamber, then he hadn’t originally wagered on Harry’s aid in seeking out the basilisk.

His holiday at Hogwarts was intended to be just that. And now Harry knew that Snape had seen to it.

He at least understood that much.

Guiltily clamping his lips together, Harry clutched handfuls of his coat, drawing it close to his stomach. “Thanks, Professor,” Harry mumbled lamely.

Better late than never, he supposed.

Snape glanced up, arching his eyebrows as if he’d just taken notice of the bespecled, and rather subdued boy beside him. “Whatever for?”

Lifting his eyes warily, Harry focused on his professor’s chin. “…for keeping me here.” He shrugged, suddenly feeling rather shy and ungrateful. “And for letting me help you find the entrance to the Chamber… I really didn’t mean to freak out on you before.”

Snape’s throat muscles rippled as he cleared his throat lightly. “Eyes up, Potter.”

Suppressing a flinch, Harry gave him a heavy-lidded flicker of acknowledgment. He waited for Snape to say something, but the man only studied the freckled, emerald eyes for a time before bowing his head once in an idle nod. Wordlessly, Snape delved into the cavernous pocket of his robes and extracted the clasped locket that Harry had discarded. Separating the chains with his fingertips, the man simply leaned forward and slipped it over the boy’s head for the second time.

Harry glanced down at his chest, watching as the charm bobbed against his heavy-knitted jumper.

“I will not be receiving this back. Do you understand, young man?”

Delicately thumbing the engraved metal disk, Harry curled up one side of his mouth into a half-smile. “Mmmhmm,” he slurred in agreement, flicking his fingernail against the tiny clasp of the sealed locket once more before raising his eyes. “I do.”

Face glazed over in warm solemnity, Snape placed his hand over the smaller, adjacent shoulder and squeezed. And this time, Harry made no move to pull away.

“Good boy, Harry,” the man approved, nodding once again.

“See…” Harry began with a one-armed shrug, stretching the other half of his lips into a true, impish smile this time. “I can listen after all, can’t I…”

Removing his hand, Snape contorted his mouth into his own malicious smirk. “How good of you to remind me of tomorrow’s rules.”

Harry’s face fell instantly. “Say what?” he muttered a bit sourly.

“The rules,” Snape repeated, pursing his lips and sobering his expression.

“Oh…”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter,” the man continued, rising from his step in a single, swift movement. He peered down at the boy. “I trust you are familiar with the concept?”

Craning his neck upwards, Harry wriggled his glasses in place with a scrunch of his nose. Surprisingly, Snape extended a palm to the squinting boy. Harry hesitated only a second before placing his hand in Snape’s and allowing himself to be hoisted up.

“How could I not be…” he nearly snorted, as he dusted off the seat of his trousers with his released hand. Adjusting his coat over his right arm, Harry continued following his professor down the final flight of stairs as if the small hiatus had never occurred.