Hogwarts, Room of Requirement

Late Christmas 1997

Harry hated the comfortable warmth enveloping his mind. He knew that much – but whenever he tried to escape the foggy coziness, some outer stronger will forced him back to peaceful meaninglessness. After a while, he let himself happily drown in it, time after time. It always took him many long moments to become aware that the peace he felt was unnatural, and more time after that before he finally started to fight it. But the end of the story was always the same – Harry would fight his way to half-awareness, and in the moment he accomplished it, some other will forced him back beneath the surface.

The alternating periods of awareness and peaceful dozing might have lasted only minutes as easily as an hour or two. Harry, in his more lucid moments, had to admit that even days might have gone by without him noticing. Some part of his mind remembered that he should be angry. Yet another part of his consciousness provided a picture of a greasy-haired man he vaguely recalled hating– but none of it held any importance now. Harry was confident, and for now felt safe. The outside will never released him from the comfortable prison of his Imperiused mind, where he was strangely satisfied to dwell.

Then, the outer will that had overpowered Harry so easily slowly let go off the grip that it had over his mind. Harry felt it gently probing on the edges of his consciousness. Legilimens, Harry felt more than heard and the gentle probing grew into an intrusion he remembered all too well from his disastrous lessons with... the greasy man... how was he called? ... he searched for the answer for a moment, unthinkingly forcing the intruder away from him so that his mind could clear... and finally found the answer: Snape.

The very same man sneered at him the moment his eyes blinked to complete his rise to consciousness. As Harry saw Snape's hand with a bared wand and vividly feeling his own paralyzed body, he understood what had transpired and cried with all the hate he could muster, “You bastard! YOU GREASY, UGLY BASTARD!”

Snape toyed with his wand, smirking in some twisted satisfaction under his beard. “Complaining, Mr. Potter?”he asked, shaking his head in pretended disbelief. “My, my, aren't we ungrateful! And there I thought, you might rather like to see at last that even the Golden boy is able to Occlude. If, certainly – since nothing is ever easy with you – given the right prompt.”

Harry stared at the man, anger and overwhelming hatred flaring from his eyes. “I. HATE. YOU,” the boy said, boiling on the inside.

“SNIVELLUS!” Harry spit out, his eyes rebellious and strongly reminding Snape once more of James Potter than Lily. “SNIVELLUS!” Harry repeated and madly laughed, suddenly thinking that whatever Snape would do to him would be hundred percent better than any torture Voldemort could think of. And die he would, now that the Death Eater bastard had him as a prisoner.

“Snivellus.” Harry tasted the name and loved the sweetness of it on his tongue. “Snivellus.” Kill me, you bloody bastard! What are you waiting for?

Harry felt Gryffindor bravado, with all the folly of it, rising in him. He good-naturedly smirked. If I have to die, I will do it properly. I won’t die pleading for my life... I won’t give that to the son of bitch here, nor to Voldemort... The thought of pleading for his life brought to mind the sight of Dumbledore's crumpled figure, pleading with the very same man that stood here in front of him in – and Harry once again felt hatred overwhelming him.

“Come on, Snivellus!” he cried, “If you can kill a defenseless old man who – you damn, damn, damn bastard! – trusted you until the very end – why don't you raise your wand on a disarmed former student whom you hate anyway? Say it – say it, do you hear me? You won't hear me plead for my life! No, you will not. SNIVELLUS!”

Snape was clearly growing angry – but for some reason, he halted his wand before it could touch Harry's chest. “No,” he announced clearly, “you will not have it this easy. I am not your dear godfather, Potter, in case you have forgotten. Some stupid teasing with a childhood nickname your father, and apparently you, thought amusing will not make me cast an Avada Kedavra on you. Sorry to disappoint you... Chosen One.”

It was Harry who boiled with rage now – and Snape had clearly known that the name would have this effect on him since the man only smirked at the boy's reaction. The man spoke again. “You, on the other hand, seem to have inherited your godfather's manners. ... Should I repeat to you what happens to the fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves before the Dark Lord? ... I think yes – since you never listened to what I had to say before... But then – what purpose would that serve? The Dark Lord will gladly teach you this little lesson himself.”

Snape paused and chuckled unpleasantly. “I have my own lesson to teach you, Potter,” he cleared then. “And I assure you that you will enjoy it as much as the Dark Lord's torture. Only, I am fond of slightly different methods than he is.”

Harry couldn't help it and eyed the man with dread he couldn't suppress fast enough. Snape gave an affirmative nod: “Oh yes, Potter, it will hurt you. But young men that don't listen to their elders don't deserve anything else, don't you think? ... Whatever you may believe, Potter, I have – for the moment, anyway – no desire to see you dead – but I hate you being one of my failures. Before I deliver you to the Dark Lord, hence, Mr. Potter, you will learn the skill I tried to hammer into your thick skull already once. Although this time you will not leave here unless you actually learn something. You will give me that satisfaction… or I can assure you I have other means to have fun with Dumbledore’s golden boys.”

Noticing Harry's rebellious glance that had appeared sometimes around the middle of his speech, Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. “And think twice before you say aloud what is on your mind now. Even the best instructor cannot teach a dunderhead who refuses to learn... But I promise you I have my ways to ensure your cooperation this time around.”

Wordlessly, Snape pointed his long white finger at the teacher's desk (even in the past, the Room still looked the same spartan equipped classroom). As if bewitched, Harry turned as much as the laming hex allowed him and saw a familiar ceramic bowl. The boy immediately shuddered at its sight. Pensieve. Dumbledore's Pensieve. So Snape wanted his revenge for that incident... Harry wondered only how harshly the man planned to punish him. Will I leave the room with my mind still intact? Cold sweat bathed his body – and Harry gave up the thought of preferring Snape's tortures to Voldemort's.

ooooo