Harry’s wand leveled itself at a point between Snape’s eyes, before either of them had blinked. “You!” Harry roared, seeing red.

“Me,” Snape agreed, unperturbed. He did not flinch, did not even move, save to deliberately raise the quill and point it admonishingly at Harry. Despite the bloody haze clouding his vision, Harry could see the tip of Snape’s wand against the man’s palm.

“You want to duel me, Snape?” he demanded. Despite the surety that he was no match for the man, as demonstrated the night of Dumbledore's demise, quite a large part of him desperately wanted an excuse, any excuse, to attack him, to rend him into a thousand pieces and toss them off a tower, to give outlet to the rage which by some heretofore unknown measure of will manifested only in a trembling of his wand and a few fizzling red sparks.

“I have no interest in dueling, at present. Or rather, no interest in dueling you, Mr. Potter.” Gesturing with the quill, he added, “You should put away the wand now, before you do yourself an injury.”

Harry’s subsequent snarl sounded much like that of an enraged carnivore. “What did you do to her, Snape?”

Snape did flinch, then, or seemed to, without moving, if it were possible. It was a long moment before he replied, voice like the grave, “What are you talking about, Potter?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Snape! McGonagall! What did you do to her?”

“Ah.” Some of the tension visibly lifted from Snape's shoulders; the glint in his eyes seemed to reveal amusement, undoubtedly at Harry's expense. “She and the rest of the Order – if you have yet to notice, we are alone in the castle – are currently participating in what will likely go down in history as The Battle of Privet Drive.”

Harry gasped as the full meaning of the pronouncement seeped through the anger pulsing in his temples. “The blood wards!” He lowered his wand – it was now aimed at approximately Snape's chest. “Voldemort's there, isn't he? And – and the Dursleys...” He narrowed his eyes as the thought struck him, and added, “Why aren't you there?”

“I have orders to the contrary.”

“Whose orders, eh?” Harry demanded. “Voldemort's! Not Dumbledore's – can't be, 'cause he isn't around to give orders anymore, is he? Is he?” By the end, his voice had cracked,  but he made up for it with a fierce glare.

“Actually, they are the same orders from both.”

“They – what? But he's dead!” Harry raised his wand again, releasing a hissing gout of steam. “You're lying!” he accused. “You're a filthy Slytherin liar, aren't you, and –”

“The headmaster was perfectly capable of leaving written instructions, as I am sure you are well aware.”

The man's tone of voice, more than anything, was what gave Harry pause. Written instructions... The haze of unadulterated rage retreated a little as he recalled Dumbledore's letter. A person you hate, he had written, and listen to what he has to say.

“Yeah,” he ground out, “I know what you're getting at. He was right. I hate you.” But Merlin, did it feel good to say it to the man's face!

“Shocking, of course.”

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I suppose you cannot be persuaded to take a seat, like a civilized person.”

“You're one to talk, murderer,” spat Harry, who did perch on the arm of the nearest armchair, but kept his wand trained on Snape.

“I will not deny that I killed him, but it was under duress, and by his own orders.”

“You’re telling me he wanted to die? Do you think I’m bloody blind, Snape? It was murder!”

“He preferred to think of it as ‘fulfillment of duties owed.’” There was a world of bitterness in Snape's voice. “I gave him my word. He asked me to do it.”

“He asked you not to do it – he begged you!” Harry's wand twitched in his hand as the memory of Dumbledore's last words sprang unbidden to mind. “I was there! I saw him! I saw it all!”

“His plea was… intentionally vague. Recall – for once in your life, use that miserable brain of yours – recall that he said 'please', but did not specify further. Has it occurred to you that it might have been deliberate? The Headmaster was quite a bit cleverer than you realize.”

“You Slytherins can twist any damned thing to your advantage, can't you? I guess you'll be telling me he's not really dead after all, or some rubbish like that! You expect me to believe you?”

“Not at all. Your current reaction is more in keeping with my expectations. The Headmaster, however, seemed to think you would be more easily swayed. Then again, he also seemed to think he'd be of more use dead than alive, the old fool.”

Harry bristled at that. “Don't talk about him that way! You've no right!”

At long last, Snape seemed to lose his façade of almost unnatural calm. “You are not the only one to mourn him, Potter,” he hissed, black eyes glittering like jet. “Your presumption thereof is offensive and childish.” He returned the quill, which he had begun rolling between thumb and forefinger, to its stand with rather unnecessary force. “To think that the Headmaster had such hopes for your coming of age... Fortunately for the continued survival of the Wizarding World, I have significantly less faith in your mental capacity.”

There it was, thought Harry, the word “faith” again. It bothered him more than he would admit, but he was glad he was not the only one in the room without Dumbledore's faith in the other. That, at least, felt familiar, in this room where everything now felt wrong.

He almost missed Snape's next words: “I insisted on preparing a Pensieve.”

“You can fake memories – I learned that last year.”

“Then you will be pleased to know that none of them are mine.” He stood abruptly and, keeping one eye on Harry, turned to the portrait behind his chair.

Harry had not noticed it before, so intent he had been on Snape, though the painting was larger than any of the others on the walls. Dumbledore was fast asleep within the frame; the image, canvas though it was, brought an uncomfortable lump to Harry's throat.

“Headmaster,” said Snape, “if you would be so kind, I have need of your Pensieve.”

The old man did not stir. “Headmaster, this charade has gone on long enough. Do not pretend you have not been eavesdropping the entire time – you do not deceive me.” Snape let some of the irritation he surely harbored creep into his tone of voice. Still, Dumbledore remained soundly asleep, and Snape drew his wand.

“Don't!” Harry shouted – though it was more a croak than anything – and sprang from his seat with wand in hand.

“I am hardly going to hex the portrait, Potter,” Snape said with a sneer. He tapped the frame with the tip of his wand, remarking to the portrait, “I don't suppose an Alohamora will work on you. Very well, I can guess the game you're playing, Albus.”

Portrait-Dumbledore did awaken then, and, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, asked brightly, “Did you call for me, Severus?”

Before Snape could so much as fit a word in edgewise, Harry was pressed forward against the headmaster's desk and managed to choke out the word “Professor” in greeting even as his throat and lungs rebelled. He mutely blinked away the impending tears, thinking, I won't cry in front of Snape. I won't give him the satisfaction.

“Oh, Harry,” said Dumbledore, breaking into a wide smile, “I'm so very pleased to see you. Happy birthday, my boy.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispered. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand unanswered questions, but in that moment, all of them were forgotten.

“I trust you haven't been giving Professor Snape a hard time, Harry?”

“Oh yes, he trusts me to the extent that we need Pensieve verification, Headmaster – he hasn't been difficult at all,” Snape said crossly.

“Call me Albus – I don't know why you insist on such formality, Severus. As for the Pensieve, you know that it is – ”

“ – a last resort,” Snape finished for him. “I am well aware of the fact, but surely you can see that we have not budged an inch since Potter's arrival. I should think this qualifies!”

Dumbledore sighed. “Very well,” he said. Harry imagined that he looked a tad disappointed as his portrait swung open.