He was young…just a little boy…cowering in a corner of a small cramped bedroom, listening to the loud angry voices of his parents. They were fighting about money this time. Sometimes it was his father’s drinking or unemployment or the neighbors gossiping about his mother’s odd clothing or about magic or about anything at all, really. They never needed much of a reason. He only hoped they wouldn’t remember him. He was always an easy target for their fury…

He was a bit older, though still young. He was at the center of a crowd of children in the school playground, jeering and making fun. He wished he had a wand, that he was old enough to do magic. Then he would make them pay…all of them. But he wasn’t. He lifted his chin and yelled back defiantly, even though he knew it only made things worse. A bigger boy threw a rock and it grazed his cheek, leaving a bruise, though he scarcely noticed compared to the other litany of bruises and cuts inflicted both at home and here at his primary school. A teacher shouted and hurried over to intervene, though her lips tightened when she saw the crowd’s victim. She scowled at him even as she shooed the other children away. He wasn’t surprised; teachers never liked him. He was sullen and angry, oddly-dressed, always a loner. He never studied or did his homework. When was he supposed to do that? He spent his evenings doing chores or staying away from home. He ducked his head and went to sit on a bench at the edge of the playground. He spent the rest of the time sitting with his head down, ignoring the happy chatter and laughter of his classmates. He was never invited to play with them. Who would want to be friends with a freak like him? Well, he didn’t care, anyway. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.

His father, in a towering rage with his face twisted with hate, raised the belt again and again. His back was agony, criss-crossed with fiery welts. He bit down hard on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and hung on the sides of the table with white-knuckled intensity. But he would not cry. He never cried. And when his father finally flung the belt to the kitchen floor and staggered out, leaving his shirt in tatters and his back a bloody mess, his mother came to the doorway and met his eyes impassively. “You bring it on yourself, Severus.”

Harry woke with a jerk, his breath catching in his throat. He sat up and looked around wildly, completely disoriented for a moment as he realized that he was freed from his nightmares, but neither was he in the familiar dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.

As he stared at the darkened forest, Harry realized that he had hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the past few hours had been another crazy dream. But no, he was awake…he pinched his arm just to be sure…and it was real.

He was lying in a plush sleeping bag in a forest in the middle of the night, presumably a thousand years in the past. No, he reminded himself, only nine hundred and sixty-four. And Severus Snape lay sleeping just a few feet away.

Severus…

Harry stared at the professor’s silhouetted form. What had those nightmares been? Could he somehow have glimpsed Snape’s childhood memories? But how? Could Occlumency have something to do with it?

Harry didn’t know and he certainly couldn’t ask Snape so he supposed he’d never know. He sighed and shook his head to clear it. He was tired, more so than ever, and he ought to try to get back to sleep. He lay back down and closed his eyes, but when he’d fallen asleep once more, he fell back into nightmares.

This time he dreamed of Voldemort, but a Voldemort who seemed kindly and wise at first, promising him safety and acceptance, respect, even love…someone who cared for him, after all this time.

But then Voldemort changed. He was a monster instead of the caring father-figure. He delighted in hurting, maiming, destroying. Even his most loyal followers weren’t safe. There was no family, only suspicion and cruelties and pain. Death Eater meetings were only rallies to torment and kill innocent victims.

And then the images were truly horrible.

Harry’s eyes flew open. He was breathing as hard as if he’d been running all night instead of sleeping. He was dimly aware that the sky was grey now and the sun was rising. A new day was beginning. But he was too shaken by his dreams to really notice.

What in the world? Why was he being plagued with visions of Snape’s life…for he felt sure that that was what they were. Wasn’t his own life bad enough without borrowing someone else’s nightmares? But even as he thought it, Harry knew that as much as he’d suffered, Snape’s life had been even worse.

He glanced over at the professor with unaccustomed sympathy. As he watched, Snape stirred and slowly sat up. He glanced over at Harry and their eyes met. For once Snape’s gaze held no contempt or hostility. Instead the professor’s black eyes seemed uncertain, puzzled, and perhaps even a tiny bit sympathetic.

But surely Harry was just imagining that.

Snape abruptly looked away and climbed out of his sleeping bag. He pointed his wand at himself and at once his clothes were straight and his hair was neat. Without looking at Harry, he asked, “Would you care for a refreshing charm, Potter?”

His voice was unusually quiet and almost polite. Harry paused as he was clamboring out of his own bag to stare in amazement. After a moment he said, “Yes, sir” and his own voice was subdued.

Snape waved his wand at Harry and an instant later he felt a whoosh of cool air and he felt pleasantly clean again.

He took a deep breath. “Thank you, sir.”

Snape only nodded. He conjured bowls of porridge and toast for breakfast and once they’d eaten he vanished the sleeping bags and said briskly, “Let’s be off then.”

They set off through the woods again, carefully picking their way through the trees and keeping their wands in hand. Neither spoke and the next couple of hours passed in silence.

The sun rose in the sky and it became uncomfortably warm. Harry discovered that his thick jumper, perfect for keeping warm in the drafty castle in the winter, was not the ideal clothing for traipsing along on a summer’s day. Before he grew too hot and sweaty, he paused long enough to pull it over his head and cast a shrinking charm on it.

Snape turned back to see what was keeping him, but refrained from making a sarcastic comment. Harry stuffed the now-tiny jumper into his pocket and hurried to catch up.

Soon afterwards they heard the sound of running water and came upon a wide shallow stream.

“We’ll follow the creek,” Snape said, sounding pleased. “There’s likely to be a village or at least a house near water and we can ask if anyone can direct us towards Salazar Slytherin’s home. If we haven’t come across anything by lunch I’ll Apparate us back to the school and demand that those witches return us to our own time.”

They walked along, following the stream, and everything seemed peaceful…until the creek curved and as they came around the bend, Snape, who was a few steps ahead of Harry, froze and then aimed his wand. “Stupefy!”

Harry peered around him to see a huge panther-type creature ahead, drinking from the stream. It had chestnut-gold fur, sharp claws, and two horns growing from its forehead. Snape’s stunning spell hit it in the flank and it toppled heavily to the ground.

“What is it?” Harry asked in a low voice.

“A bicorn,” Snape replied. “It’s a dangerous animal, Potter, very territorial and aggressive, and its’ scratches and bites are poisonous. There are none left in Britain in our time, but it was different a thousand years ago.”

“Nine hundred and sixty-four,” Harry murmured.

Snape snorted. “Indeed. Well, I’ve read they often live in prides, like lions, so we must be extremely careful.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than they heard several deep growls and then a blood-curdling roar. Three bicorns sprang out of the woods close to their fallen comrade.

“Stupefy!”

Harry and Snape desperately cast spells at the creatures and they too collapsed harmlessly to the ground. But then there was another roar, much closer, and even as Harry spun around a bicorn dropped from a tree just behind him and pounced.

He felt a dozen stinging lashes across his back. The last thing he saw of was Snape’s face, looking uncharacteristically frightened. Then his vision blurred and mercifully, everything went dark.