“Having… fun?” hissed Snape, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it shouted volumes; the roaring inside Harry’s ears blocking out everything but the man’s frightening voice. “Having a right enjoyable time there, are we, Potter?!”

Harry’s voice was locked away in his absolute fear. The man was downright terrifying at that moment. He tried to stammer his protests, how he hated everything about that memory, how he now understood where Snape had been coming from all these years, and how Harry now fully and completely agreed with him – all this he wanted to say and more. And now, he also wanted to apologize for his father’s terrible actions against Snape.

No one deserved that treatment, not even Malfoy.

But somehow, Harry’s voice couldn’t say any of it. No matter how much he wanted to, it just would not come out.

So, as Harry was pulled out of the depths of the Pensive, he remained morbidly silent through it all. He was frightened out of his wits, yet he couldn’t say anything in his defense. Although, more than likely, anything that he could say would only condemn him further. There was nothing to say in defense of this, both of his own actions and the actions of his awful father.

In fact, he just wanted to cry about this. A lot of people had failed him throughout his life, but to have his dead parents fail him in a final death – well, it was like he had just experienced their deaths for the first time.

They were never coming back.

All anger that Harry had felt through the year was now suddenly and completely gone – vanished away in a single breath. Instead, his chest was filled with utter loss. Nothing mattered any more. Who cared, honestly? Have at him, Voldie. Harry honestly didn’t care any more. Maybe if he gave himself up, then no one else would have to die. He’d been alone all his life, anyway. It didn’t really matter.

Because of the intense amount of emotion that had poured through his chest, Harry didn’t really realize how bad of a situation he was currently in – but that was okay, since he would soon find out, anyway. His ears were barely registering what Snape was furiously muttering darkly. If he had, he might’ve been alarmed.

Once back in Snape’s office, the dark, dull blue colors filling Harry’s eyesight, the man holding his arm didn’t let go. The numb, sorrowing inside Harry’s chest didn’t let up either. He winced, however, when Snape shook him slightly; forcing Harry to look up at the enraged man.

“How dare you go through my things!” hissed Snape, his fierce calm more terrifying than ever. He grabbed Harry by the other shoulder and shook him once more. “And through something you knew was never meant for your eyes.”

Finally, Harry’s voice opened.

“I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You have no respect for any adult, Potter,” spat Snape, his low voice quavering in his anger. “I have watched you flout every rule in the book here in your stay at Hogwarts. I warned the Headmaster. He would never listen and now this is the result of it!”

He seemed to be talking to himself, almost; as if these were words for Dumbledore to hear and not Harry.

“Due to his lax attitude about keeping you in line, it is my things that get violated,” continued Snape, obviously not noticing that he was ranting. Then, he released one of Harry’s shoulders, but he maintained his vice like grip on Harry’s underarm.

Harry felt suddenly nervous by the dark glint inside Snape’s eyes.

“This ends now, however,” said Snape forebodingly, his dark eyes flaring in his fury. “You will learn some respect tonight if it is the last thing I do!”

And before Harry could question its meaning, he was dragged away. Snape threw the door to his office open – the door crashing into the wall with a loud bang – and entered the hallway. Without looking back at the prisoner in his hand – meaning a very confused and nervous Harry – the man dragged him down the corridor, ranting furiously.

“No discipline whatsoever—” Snape was saying in his temper. “—nosy, no boundaries for personal space, no respect for authority, disobedient, over emotional, lazy, foolish—”

Harry felt his ears go red. Some of those, he had to admit, were true. He had gone through Snape’s Pensive without regard for his space. He never dreamed that he would’ve found something so personal. He’d been expecting some secrets that were being kept from him. If he’d known it was to be otherwise, he would never had gone into the Pensive. But even then, Harry knew that he shouldn’t have gone, no matter what – even if he had learned about what was going on with the adults.

And his years with the Dursleys hadn’t exactly helped his feelings towards authority. The only authority over his life had been Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. There was no way that Harry had any respect for them. They hated him and told him in every way possible.

When Snape had shown him that same kind of hate, Harry couldn’t help but show the man the same curtsey that he did for the Dursleys – or, in reality, the same curtsey he wished he could show them without retribution.

“Albus has no say in this now,” muttered Snape, still ever furious, but this sounded more like a statement to himself. “I’m nipping this nonsense immediately. It’s that old coot’s fault that the boy has run rampant throughout the castle like a hooligan; flouting rules, getting into trouble, nearly getting himself killed every time – enough to cause heart failure. If he’d been in Slytherin…”

The man trailed off, still muttering underneath his breath. Harry’s eyes widened. He was shocked by what he had heard in Snape’s furious mutterings. Was Snape really saying all that? His mind whirled with the meanings of Snape’s unaware ranting. ‘Heart failure’ and ‘Slytherin’? Was Snape actually worried about Harry when he got into scrapes? Did that mean Snape actually cared about Harry’s welfare? Did Snape wish that Harry had been in Slytherin to better protect him?

Would it have been better than way? Would everything have been different? Would Snape not have hated Harry on the first day, simply because he was in Slytherin, instead of in Gryffindor – like his father?

Harry had to push back the sob that had suddenly built up in his throat at such a thought. He wanted to go back. He wanted to change everything. He wanted to let the Sorting Hat place him where he belonged. The hat always said he would’ve been great in Slytherin. Was this what that old hat meant? Harry should’ve listened to him. Maybe things could’ve been different. Then, maybe… Maybe Cedric would’ve never died.

One choice. Could simply one choice have led to an entirely different destiny?

Harry’s thoughts never calmed as he was pulled into the darkness of the dungeons. The regret was eating him alive. And all the while, Snape was leading him into a part of the castle he’d never been in before. They descended into deeper depths, until Snape sharply turned down another corridor and came to a stop.

Harry nearly bumped into the man, but he stopped just in time luckily. When he tore his gaze away from the dark man, he looked up to see that they were standing in front of a life size painting. An aged man sat comfortably in a soft, large armchair. The coils of a very large snake could be seen behind him – Harry instantly realized that it had to be the size of a Basilisk.

“Oi, Sev! Got yaself another wayward brat there, have ya?” asked a man in green robes; a Scottish brogue heavy in his accent. Harry squinted slightly, trying to get a good view of the man. He was sharp looking and held a regal posture as he sat in his armchair.

“Shut up, Salazar! Not in the mood,” barked Snape, waving a hand over the portrait. It began to move and slowly swung open. The sharp man, who apparently – to Harry’s surprise – was Salazar Slytherin himself, gave him a wink and an almost pitying glance.

“Good luck there, laddie. Ya’re gonna need it.”

“Huh—?”

Harry didn’t have time to contemplate that statement as he was dragged through the portrait hole. A chill went down Harry’s spine at that moment. There was only one explanation for where he was currently. He was in Professor Snape’s own personal quarters. There was no other explanation for it.

Well, that was it. Harry was dead. Snape was going to cut him up and toss him into a potion. He’d probably make all the Gryffindors drink it in their next class, too – just for the sick thrill of it. If Harry was terrified before, it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Snape was going to do something to him, there was no doubt about it and there was no one to rescue Harry. 

Not that he felt he deserved any rescue.