“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore called as he descended the stairs. “So nice to see you looking well. You were a bit peaky yesterday.”

Harry turned from the violent thunderstorm that had begun shortly after Snape had stormed out earlier that morning. He was heartened by the sudden appearance of the headmaster. Since his argument with Snape that morning, he had not seen anyone all day and he had been feeling particularly anxious. 

“Tea, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, conjuring up two light blue china cups.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, accepting the cup and feeling its warmth on his fingers, its fragrant aroma calming his nerves.

“How have you been holding up?” Dumbledore asked, surveying Harry discreetly over his own mug of tea.

“Alright,” Harry said, looking away. “Dobby brought me my summer homework first thing this morning and I’ve been thinking about my essay for transfiguration.”

“Have you then?” Dumbledore replied. “Considering transforming into an owl and flying away?”

Harry smiled. “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted. “But I don’t think I’d make a very good post owl.”

“It is a challenging endeavor, I must say. The weather they have to contend with…” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the storm outside.

Just then, a particularly strong bolt of lightening struck right beyond the pane, making Harry jump and causing him to slosh warm tea over his hands and shirt.

Dumbledore chuckled. “It must have been a rough morning.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, dabbing at the tea on his shirt.

Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the spilled tea vanished.

“Thanks,” Harry said, taking a sip of his drink.

“Care to tell me what you and Professor Snape argued about?”

Harry paused mid-sip. “How did you know we argued?”

Dumbledore motioned beyond the windows. Winds lashed the tall grasses, as rain battered the mountain. The dark skies boomed with thunder, lightening slashing out wherever it could reach. “Weather, Harry, is an interesting phenomenon. Especially when it’s charmed to reflect the mood of its master.”

As Harry was about to question that statement, Dumbledore continued.

“You know, Harry,” Dumbledore said, stepping away from the windows and taking a seat on one of the winged-back chairs, “I’ve never seen these rooms before. They are quite impressive, I must say.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore. “You haven’t? Snape said we were in Hogwarts…”

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore corrected, indicating that Harry should take a seat as well, “And indeed they are inside of Hogwarts. Did Professor Snape tell you where exactly?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Ah,” Dumbledore replied, rubbing his chin. “I thought not. Well, you see, a dear friend and colleague of mine built these rooms as an escape. A sanctuary you might say. He, and he alone, has ever set foot in them, though of course I knew that they existed. But I daresay I’d never been invited here. Before now that is.”

Just then, there was a whooshing sound in the grate and Snape stormed into the room. “If you are done with your temper tantrum, Potter, I could use your help preparing some potions.”

Harry stiffened. He was about to make a snide remark about Snape’s view of his potion making skills when he caught Dumbledore’s eyes and the slight shake of his head. Biting his tongue, Harry stood. Dumbledore rose as well.

“Severus,” Dumbledore greeted.

Snape nodded in return, his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for Harry.

“Well, Harry, it was a pleasure having tea with you,” Dumbledore said as he vanished both of their mugs. “I will be gone for a couple of days. Please do not hesitate to ask Professor Snape if you need anything.” Dumbledore stared pointedly at both of them in turn. “And do try to recall our conversation, won’t you Harry?” Dumbledore added as he walked towards the stairs.

Harry nodded, not sure exactly what the headmaster was referring to. Snape looked suspicious. As the wind and rain beat against the window panes, Harry grabbed his school robes from the sofa and pulled them over his head. For a moment, he forget his anger at the potions master, instead feeling a vague sense of anticipation at being allowed to see what lay at the top of the staircase.

Snape’s back was rigid as Harry followed him up the stairs and into a dark room. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a black leather couch and armchair sat opposite a fireplace, a golden canister of what Harry presumed to be floo powder resting atop the mantelpiece. A desk sat off to one side, potions books and journals scattered across the surface. Harry froze, rooted to the spot.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly, turning back to look at Potter.

“This is your study,” Harry breathed, struck by the realization.

Snape merely arched an eyebrow, then turned on his heel and continued forward.

Regaining his composure, Harry followed, looking around the room with interest. This must be Snape’s quarters, Harry thought. Snape lives here. Harry wasn’t sure why he found the thought as intriguing as he did disturbing, but it was likely due to the perception that Snape was a very private man and Harry never dreamed he’d see the inside of the wizard’s chambers.

Snape proceeded through a set of double doors. Harry was startled to realize they lead into the potions classroom. He wondered if that was truly the layout of the castle, or if Snape had charmed an entrance from his quarters to the dungeons.

Snape grimaced, flicking his left arm as if a mosquito were biting it. With a wave of Snape’s wand, two cauldrons appeared, side by side. Harry swallowed.

“Today, Potter, you’ll be brewing a calming draught.”

Another flick of Snape’s wand and the ingredient list and directions appeared on the blackboard.

“This is a third year potion. Surely you can manage it without assistance?”

Harry did not think Snape was actually expecting him to answer. Instead he looked toward the board, cataloging the ingredients he would need while conspicuously observing Snape from the corner of his eye. Snape was bent over his own cauldron, his greasy lanks of hair perilously close to the flames as he added ingredients to the now simmering concoction. Harry wondered what Snape was brewing, though he didn’t dare ask. As Harry watched, he was startled to see that the man’s hands trembled slightly. Harry had never seen Snape’s movements anything less than sure. Harry quickly went to gather his ingredients, feeling more off balance than ever.

He laid out the six ingredients before him, carefully putting them in the order in which he would add them. He did not remember making this potion his third year, though he guessed that Snape was right. As Harry prepared his workspace, he was acutely aware of the way the potions master ignored him. Instead of this offering him a modicum of peace to brew in, it made Harry nervous. He could tell that the professor was on edge. Was it because he, Harry, had invaded the man’s space? For he could no longer deny that the rooms in which he was staying were indeed Snape’s. It was no secret that Snape hated Harry—the feeling was mutual—so why was Harry not only staying in his quarters, but his sanctuary as Dumbledore had said? Harry shook his head, trying to focus on his potion.

He set the flames to low, distracted by the way Snape muttered under his breath. Harry wasn’t sure if they were incantations or curses, but he guessed the words were a bit of both. Pushing his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose, Harry poured in the base of daisy water and added two drops of dittany, watching as the tiny amber beads swirled feverishly in the base. Next, he added a measure of slippery elm and essence of rosewood. He stirred clockwise three times, and turned down the flames, waiting for the potion to turn a sky blue color. He jumped when Snape’s concoction sputtered and spit, but Snape did not seem to notice. Snape had his eyes closed, and though his lips moved, the wizard did not speak aloud. It was eerie to watch. When Snape paused, Harry quickly returned to his own potion, afraid to be caught observing his potions master so openly.

Harry looked stupidly at his potion, which was sliding rapidly from sky blue to deep blue. Realizing that his window of opportunity was closing, he grabbed for the heliotrope and tipped it over his cauldron.

“No!”

Harry felt the crystal vial he held go flying. It shattered against the stone wall of the dungeons, glass shards tinkling against the flagstones.

Mutinous, Harry looked up, ready to curse Snape for ruining his potion. Instead, he looked into the murderous eyes of his potions master and his mouth went dry.

“Just what did you think you were doing, Potter?” Snape demanded, dark eyes flashing.

“I was making my potion as you asked,” Harry retorted through gritted teeth.

“Were you?” Snape breathed. “Care to explain why you were adding heliotrope to a calming draught?”

“That’s the instructions you gave me,” Harry said. He glared at Snape, daring him to deny it.

“And here I thought I was dealing with someone lacking ability in potions. Now I find out the Boy Who Lived is not only incompetent, he can’t read,” Snape challenged.

“I can read just fine.”

“Really?” Snape hissed. “Then read me what it says on the board, starting with the ingredients.” Snape crossed his arms and waited.

“Daisy water, dittany, slippery elm, essence of rosewood, heliotrope, and willow bark.”

Snape snorted. “You are a waste of my time, Potter.”

Harry stared at Snape. “You are the one who insisted that I come here. I did what you asked. And you…”

“Did what I asked?” Snape said in a dangerous voice. “Look again at the fifth ingredient, Potter.”

Harry looked, seething with anger. He didn’t want to be here, much less listen to Snape’s insults. “Helio…” Harry squinted and felt his stomach drop.

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Glaring at Snape, Harry spat out: “Hellebore.”

Snape waved his wand and vanished Harry’s cauldron, replacing it with a scroll of parchment, quill, and ink. “You will write me an 18 inch essay detailing the difference between hellebore and heliotrope, their properties, and the potions each is used in. Furthermore, you will detail the deleterious effects of switching those two ingredients in potion making. And I expect it by first thing tomorrow morning. Is that clear, Potter?”

Harry stared daggers at his professor. “I didn’t ask to come here. I didn’t ask to help with your stupid potions. I didn’t…”

“Do you think I care what you want?” Snape seethed, leaning over the bench towards Harry. “If it weren’t for Dumbledore’s orders…”

“You wouldn’t be wasting your time with me,” Harry finished. “I know.” Harry grabbed the parchment, quill, and ink, and stormed out of the dungeon. “Don’t worry,” Harry threw over his shoulder, “I’ll save you the hassle.”

“Potter!” Snape called, but Harry kept walking. Behind him, he heard Snape’s potion make a loud popping sound, Snape’s curse echoing in response. Harry reached the fireplace in the study and grabbed a handful of floo powder. As he stepped into the green flames, he vaguely heard Snape yelling “Potter, get back here right now!”

 Harry stepped out of the large fireplace, yanked off his school robes, and threw them across the nearest armchair, sinking into the couch beside it. He propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Inciting Snape was a bad idea all the way around. What had he been thinking?

Harry jumped to his feet and began to pace. The Gryffindor common room was cold and eerily quiet. He’d never been in it before when school was out of session. Even during winter break, a few students stayed behind and the house elves kept a fire going at all times. Now the large room was cold and empty. The gray sky outside was as foreboding as the silence that surrounded him. He felt a chill echo down his spine and shivered.

His nerves jangling, he contemplated what to do next. He highly doubted he could floo back to Snape’s heavily warded quarters, not that he wanted to. And he’d been explicitly warned not to wander the halls of Hogwarts alone. To be more precise, he’d been told not to leave the sanctuary of Snape’s rooms at all.

He took a deep breath, chastising himself for his impulsiveness. Suddenly, he was dropped into complete darkness, a high pitch laugh echoing around him, an icy coldness closing in on him. Struggling desperately for something to hold onto, Harry reached for the red cube Snape had instructed him to keep with him at all times. Harry’s fingers closed around emptiness as he felt the air being sucked from his lungs.

 Snape swore loudly as he banished another failed attempt at the potion the Dark Lord had demanded and made his way back to his study. He knew it was mere days before he was called; the dark mark on his arm told him that. It had been burning for a week, reminding Snape of the Dark Lord’s displeasure. And here he was, chasing after idiot Potter, another potion ruined. He wanted to strangle the boy for his insolence.

“Potter, you have two seconds to show your face or I will hex you into next week,” Snape boomed. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. When Potter did not show, his ire went up a notch. Determined to wring the boy’s neck, he stomped down the stairs to his refuge, expecting to find Potter sitting on the couch having a good laugh. Potter was no where in sight, but a red glint beneath the painting of the woman caught his eye. Walking over to where the painting hung, he picked up the red cube and shook his head, slipping it into his pocket beside the one he carried with him. Never had he been cursed with protecting such an irresponsible, irksome brat.

He checked his private quarters, knowing that they were warded and alarmed and that he’d have known if Potter had invaded them. Yet where could the boy have gone? Staring around his study once more, he noticed the parchment, quill, and ink lying on the hearthstones. Looking more closely, he saw the sparkling green dust that had settled on the paper’s smooth surface. Cursing loudly, Snape grabbed a handful of floo powder and dove in after the wretched Gryffindor.  

 “Potter, I’m going to…” Snape spoke as he stumbled out of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room , the most likely place for the boy to have gone. The scene before him made the words die in his throat.

A body lay in the distance, arms outstretched, eyes open and staring.

Snape felt the blood drain from his face. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, stealing his nerves. When he walked toward the dead boy, it was with purpose. He barely felt the chilly mist that hung in the air around him.