For Harry, morning came quickly. He sat up, for he had slipped onto the dirt floor in the night, having moved from his previous position of leaning up against the wall. The first thing he heard was the soft patter of raindrops on the stone outside. Harry rubbed his blurry eyes and put his glasses on after brushing the dirt off them with his dingy sleeve. The first thing he saw was Snape, leaning up against the damp wall opposite him, eyes unmoving, dead even. A spasm of fear fluttered through Harry.

     "Sir?" Harry asked uncertainly.

    "What?" Snape said heavily after a moment, sounding as though it were a burdensome task to speak.

    "Nothing, I just thought you were ..." Harry mumbled, heart still hammering painfully.

    Snape's eyes made to meet Harry's, but they fell short, and went back to focusing on the damp, dirt floor. Harry waited for a reply to his statement, a reaction even, but realised that Snape was not going to speak. It occurred to Harry that Snape didn't seem to care. He looked like he wished nothing more than to melt into the cold stone wall behind him, into oblivion. It was a way that Harry felt from time to time; often in fact. It was the feeling of a blanket pressing in on your senses, pressing in until everything went numb. Until you felt as though the world could fall in around you, and even then you could not bring yourself to move. He remembered a nurse sending a note home to Aunt Petunia back when he was about nine because the nurse had noticed he was acting strangely. The note said it was because he was depressed, and that Aunt Petunia should take him for counselling. She hadn't, and he was perfectly fine with that. But as he looked at his Professor, he couldn't help but wonder if he was seeing in Snape what the nurse had seen in him. Come to think of it, he'd seen Snape this way before sometimes, just not so intense. There had been a few days in class where Snape stayed at his desk a little more, simply staring at papers, quill forgotten. On those days he didn't take many points, or award a lot either; he just walked around the classroom a little and made sparse, generic comments. Harry wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Maybe Snape was a little more like him than he thought.

      "When did t-they say they were going to ..." Harry began, needing to know for some reason, "well, you know."

     "I do not know," muttered Snape, voice almost inaudible. It rang strangely through the desolate jail.

     And after that nobody spoke, for neither Harry nor Snape was able to part the grim, knowing silence between them. It was inevitable, what lay ahead. Tears were not far from Harry's eyes, for being only at the age of eleven, the realization that he could die hadn't fully sunk in. It was starting to, slowly. He could see that Snape fully understood just what death meant; it was in his eyes, and unlike Harry he was able to believe it. Know that it wasn't a dream, that it wasn't just a horrible nightmare he could wake up from. This was real. This was almost tangible, and it hurt Harry's heart to feel what the future was to bring. He thought it hurt Snape's heart too, however isolated and probably cold it was. Sometimes Harry thought that there had to be a heart, beating, waiting, somewhere beneath the black folds of his Professor's cloak. And if there wasn't, and his Professor's heart really was of stone as the students said, then Harry knew not what could have caused Snape to cry out for his lost best friend. A girl named Lily, whom Harry was almost sure was the very same Lily that he had inherited his eyes from. But he did not dare bring it up to see if he was right.

    How long he sat there, Harry was not sure. The rain, which had ceased for the moment, had made the jail dim and damp, and it was difficult to tell the time of day due to the thick layer of clouds in the grey sky. It appeared that someone in the square had decided to make use of the absence of rain. The sound of hammers and saws rang gaily through the muggy air, along with the voices of cheerful men. The sound held no joy for Harry however, as he had a feeling that whatever was being built was for them. His suspicions were confirmed shortly after they were made, when Earl came in to give them their daily allotment of bread and water.

     "Hear that?" he said, wheezy voice making Harry feel sick. "They're finally building a proper platform so more people don't go on hangin' forever before they die. Just a quick snap and they're done!" With a slight chuckle at the look on Harry's face, Earl slammed the metal door on the cell, turned his back and strode back to the office, keys jangling merrily as though they were mocking the prisoners.

     The food lay untouched.

     By the end of the day they knew when the execution was to take place, and Harry was almost glad they hadn't had any more notice. Early morning, was when the bell would toll for them. Snape had barely moved his head when McTavish came in to tell them, continuing in his state of apathy. The rain had come and gone a few times throughout the evening, and seemed to have decided it wanted to come down again at the moment. Though the air was thick and warm outside, the stone jail was cold, and the rain only helped in making a seemingly eternal chill settle into Harry's bones. But this was all well, for Harry was glad for the distraction, an ache besides the one that had settled in his stomach.

      "Harry, are you there child?" said a soft voice, coming from the grate. Harry scrambled from his position by the window, down along the wall and over to grate in the dividing wall.

     "Hello Jean," Harry said quietly. Snape looked up in interest.                     

     "How are you feeling?" Jean asked, concerned.

     Harry stared at her pale, bony hands upon the grate. "My stomach hurts," he whispered truthfully, hating how shaky his voice sounded.

     "Yes, I imagine it does," she said with a sigh.

     "I wish it would stop raining," Harry told her, taking a glance to his side to see water dripping down from the window, which was really just a hole with bars.

     "It will stop in time."

      "I just hope I get to see the sun before t-they ..."

      "I know," Jean whispered back. "You will."

     "But what if I don't?"

     "When people believe, beautiful things happen. Don't lose hope, for fearing what might happen, only makes you look harder for those things."

      Harry thought for  a moment upon this and said, "Jean?"

     "Yes?"

     "Will I see you again?"

     "There is a possibility I will be seeing you again soon Harry," she completed with difficulty due to a long fit of coughing. When she stopped, she said rather breathlessly, "I hope that that is not to be due to the circumstances, but should McTavish's plans go well, then I think I will meet you where I am going."

     "What do you mean?" Harry asked, a little confused.

     "I am very sick Harry," she supplied gently. "My fate is decided, but yours,"- she coughed once more- "yours remains a mystery."

     "But, I'm supposed to be ... tomorrow morning they're going to ..." Harry spluttered, not fully understanding what she was saying.

     "I am no seer, but something inside me says you are different. Forgive me, if I am giving you false hope, but something, something little ..." she left the sentence dangling in the air, but Harry did not need to hear it completed, for her words warmed him. The knot in his stomach untwisted briefly, just to know that someone believed that he had a chance still. It was comforting, and seemed to diminish some of the chill that had settled into the rooms of the small jail.

      "Whatever should happen," she said, having returned from wandering through her thoughts, "I will never forget you."

      "I won't forget you either," Harry assured her, almost frantically. "I promise that if I escape I'll come back for you!"

      "That is very noble of you," said Jean. For some reason, she sounded sad, as though she knew something Harry didn't. She went into another coughing fit, this time more violent. Her hand shuddered on the grate, and Harry took it to steady her.

     "Maybe you should rest," Harry suggested once she had regained her breath.

    "Yes," she muttered wearily. "Until we meet again Harry."

     "Bye," Harry called softly to her as the noises of her shuffling across the damp floor drifted through the air. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her, even if he knew he had to say goodbye so soon. He hoped so very much she would be alright, but in these times, nothing was certain. 

     Harry stood up and moved closer to the bars at the front of the cell. There it was less damp, for the pool of water did not extend so far from the window at the back. Snape seemed to study him a moment, possibly wondering why Harry had moved closer to him. After a minute he seemed to decide it was to escape the dampness, and returned his gaze to the floor. It took Harry a few seconds to realise that his professor was drawing something in the dirt with his finger. He thought it was rather peculiar, and wondered what would possess someone like Snape to do such a thing. He shuffled a little closer, taking pains not to be seen as he moved ever so slowly with his back against the metal bars to see what Snape was drawing.

      It was a deer. A doe in fact, and a decent drawing too.

      "What, Potter?" Snape said tonelessly, continuing to shade in the ears of the doe as Harry peered in interest at what he was doing.

       "Why are you drawing that?" Harry asked, curiosity sparked and worries temporarily forgotten.

      Snape paused in drawing and opened his mouth, but closed it after a second, looking puzzled for an answer. "Because I want to," he said finally, clearly deciding he didn't want to share.

      "Oh come on, it's not like I can go telling everyone what you say now," Harry said scornfully before he could stop himself, thinking of what was to happen tomorrow.

       Something flashed behind Snape's eyes, and whether it was anger or fear Harry was not sure.

      "Do not let me catch you talking that way again," Snape growled.

     This infuriated Harry, and before he knew it he was on his feet.

      "Well it's true!" he cried, having reached the end of his rope. "You haven't been able to us out of here anyway, so I don't see why I can't say it like it is. This is all your fault! If you hadn't made me go down to that stupid dungeon we would never have been here!"

      Harry didn't expect the look on Snape's face. He didn't expect to see so much pain, so much hurt in such dark eyes. All Snape could do was look at the drawing at his feet, both shocking Harry and making him angrier. Snape was supposed to fight back, not just sit there.

     "Yes Potter," Snape muttered softly, taking a hand and erasing his picture from the dirt as Harry gaped at him. "It is my fault ... it always has been."

   And with that Snape got up and walked across the cell, to the cold corner by the window and sank down to the ground, eyes gazing blankly at the dripping water. The look on his face was strange; it was not a look of anger, fear or sadness, and neither of these could possibly have struck as much fear into Harry's belly as what he now saw. The look in Snape's eyes he was very much familiar with, as he had seen it in his own after Dudley stole something from him yet again or when he had been in his cupboard for far too long. It was a look of grim acquiescence, and of defeat. And quite frankly it scared Harry to death to see it on the face of someone as determined and brave as Snape

       Snape's empty eyes made Harry feel hollow, like his insides had disappeared and been left with nothing but a cold, sick feeling. He felt as though he was to blame for it, though he hadn't meant what he said. He never did when he snapped like that. Just words ... nothing more. But they were not just words to Snape; this was quite evident, and it seemed he thought them true. Harry would have given anything for him to fight back, yell at him, take points or give him detention. Not sit there, in the cold, staring so languidly at the rain running down the stones under the window ... looking as though he was ready to walk into the arms of death, welcome them even.

    Harry tried to say that he didn't mean those hurtful words, but his throat closed up for the reason of which they had been said ... what was to be tomorrow morning. And he too sat down, cold, tired, afraid. Maybe Snape didn't have much to live for, but Harry did. Their faces swam before his face; Ron, Hermione. They were his reason to believe. And as he sat there, it occurred that maybe, just maybe, Lily had been Snape's reason.

      ***

   That night dragged on, and yet time seemed to pass extraordinarily quickly, and Harry was powerless to stop it. The rain had tapered off toward the evening, but more clouds rolled it, bringing a sick, hot wind. By what Harry assumed to be midnight, a storm began. Of course, Harry and Snape's real storm began that night in the hospital wing, and it seemed as though the two storms had finally colided in a crash of wind and rain. The thunder shook the ground beneath them, and the lightning illuminated the now unrestrained fear in not only Harry's eyes, but Snape's as well. Sitting across from each other, backs to opposite walls and the window to their sides, Harry saw with each flash the deep brown of Snape's eyes. So uncertain, so different from the cold, closed blackness in which Harry had known back in the classroom. This was not the Snape Harry knew, but he realised that the Snape he knew, was long gone. This one was human, aggressive, and yet strangely protective; gone was the man he did not understand in the least, and here in front of him, in the crashing symphony of the storm, was someone he knew didn't hate him ... but hated the memories in which he brought back. That was the difference that changed Snape in Harry's eyes ever so slightly. He was sure the Potter Snape had talked about in his delirium had been his father. He was positive, for it only made sense, with Snape's ramblings about not knowing what Lily was thinking coupled with what else he had said in his fury.

      A growl of thunder resonated through Harry's chest, highlighting the ever growing pressure within him. Rain splashed angrily over the stones by the window, the wind picking it up and spraying Harry and Snape in the darkness. A howl could be heard in the distance, but not of wolves, or of anything living. It was the wind, screaming in agony much like what Harry's lungs longed to do. The grating noise of the trees near the edge of the square rubbing creaking and groaning in the wind made Harry's teeth ache, and by the pained expression on Snape's face Harry assumed he was experiencing the same thing.

      "Why won't it stop?" Harry said when the thunder had calmed to a low rumble and the wind had taken a break. He couldn't keep his voice from cracking.

     "It will be over by morning," Snape said wearily. "Not comforting in the least of course ..."

     Harry just nodded, knowing what he meant.

      "I'm sorry what I said earlier," Harry said, finally having the nerve to address just what he had said. "I didn't mean it."

      "It still is my fault," Snape replied tonelessly. "You would not know why ... but I am at fault for, for everything."

      "Tell me," pleaded Harry. "I want to know."

      "No. You are too young."

     "What's the point? I'm going to be dead tomorrow!" Harry cried loudly, not caring that he was saying what he had feared to utter. The crashing roar of the storm suddenly made him feel so alive, brave.

       Another flash of lightning illuminated his professor, and he was looking straight at Harry, an odd look on his face Harry couldn't identify. Pain perhaps? Regret?

      "Potter ..." Snape began with a sudden intensity. "Do you know why the Dark Lord went after your parents?"

      "Er ..."

      "He felt threatened," Snape said after a moment, sounding as though he were carefully choosing his words.

     "Oh," muttered Harry, not sure where Snape was going. "Why?"

     "He was given a piece of information," Snape said. "He thought it meant your family ... he thought it meant you were dangerous and might be the one to defeat him when you grew up."

     "Why?"

     "Listen, Potter," Snape said irritably.

     "Yes sir, go on."

    "The person who told him the information ..." Snape sounded very worried all of a sudden, but he cleared his throat and his voice returned to its flat, emotionless tone. "He, he was ... young, reckless ..."-Snape shook his hair out of his face, lightning revealing dark shadows under his eyes-"scared I suppose. Though he wouldn't admit it then. He overheard the information, not really knowing what it meant. The Dark Lord was ecstatic, and then furious ... but not at him. The young man tried to change the Dark Lord's mind, but ..." Snape sounded completely out of his element, and could not keep his voice from faltering slightly. "-but he wasn't much more than a boy, you see ... foolish, and in too deep."

    "Who was it?" Harry said, clueless.

     Harry heard Snape groan slightly.

     "Potter, the man who passed the piece of information that, that killed your mother, and father ... is currently wearing my cloak and shoes and talking to a dimwitted eleven year old who has every right to hate him! Don't you understand now?" His voice had grown louder, and he was almost yelling. "It doesn't matter if I changed sides, it doesn't matter what I've done since because I still did that horrible, stupid thing, and for that ... for that I deserve death! And you ..." His voice softened, but still retained every bit of its bitterness. "you do not. And yet I landed you here in the first place. That, is why I am at fault. That day decided a lot of things, my path as well as yours."

      Harry sat in stunned silence, not knowing what to think. Snape just turned away from him, eyes closed. Anger welled up in Harry, but much of the intensity was gone as quickly as it had come. Snape hadn't know what the information meant. He didn't want his parents dead. For some reason, Harry couldn't help but feel almost sorry for Snape, almost. Harry frowned and opened his mouth, though he wasn't sure what he wanted to say for he was so conflicted.

     "Hate me," Snape croaked. "Go ahead ... I am the reason you don't have parents. My stupid mouth and curiosity; it is all my fault. I lost everything that night Potter, just like you. But I deserved it."

      Lightning ripped through the air as the thunder crashed around them, wind howling, rain hammering upon the ground. And the insides of Harry were very much the same.