Two hours have passed but Harry hadn’t moved from the room. He sat on the orange armchair and stared at the flames, now turned back to their ordinary color. An ancient clock that looked like it belonged to Victorian times ticked away the seconds. Its sharp sound loud and clear in the room where only the occasional hiss of the flames made any sound. The sharp point of the minute hand moved with little jerks around the pale face of the clock. Everything else was completely still. In a house large enough to hold dozens of families, the absence of life felt like a heavy blow. Outside, empty rooms and empty hallways waited only for him. Harry didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to go away from the warmth of the fire and the place where two hours ago his friends had stood.

The silence was too much to bare. It occurred to him how many people took sounds completely for granted. Sounds were everywhere. Even when someone thought that there was nothing to be heard, it wasn’t entirely true. There was the rustle of leaves outside the window, the rush of cars on the road or even the muffled conversations of the neighbors that penetrated the thick walls of most houses. When all else failed, there was at least the wind to kept one company. But here, it was not so. The silence was absolute as if this place existed in a parallel universe away from the rest of humanity. At least in this room there was the crackling of the flames and the tick tock of the clock. If he took one step outside, even that would disappear.

Harry wondered who had lived in this house before Snape had come to bring further gloom to its halls. He knew that this wasn’t originally Snape’s house. It had been assigned to him long ago by Dumbledore to use as a hideout from both the death eaters and the Order of the Phoenix. To whom has this house once belonged? Surely it was too big to belong to a single family. Perhaps once, long ago, this has been a hotel crowded with people going in and out of the dozens of doors. Perhaps sounds of laugher and the tap of children’s shoes as they ran along the corridor had filled the entire estate. Somehow, Harry doubted it very much. This house shrouded entirely in black and grey could never have been the place of laughter. The banister, the floors, the walls and even the carpets were the same polished black or dark grey, with no trace of color anywhere. That could simply have been Snape’s choice of decorations but the banisters carved with the heads of fierce creatures, the rooftop ending in a sharp spike and the small windows carved deep into the walls suggested that this place had always been gloomy and frightening. The very walls seemed to be impregnated by memories filled with sadness and anger. Whatever history surrounded this place was surely not a pleasant one.

Harry sighed and plunged his hands deep into the pocket of his robes. Right now, this house seemed more ominous than ever. Maybe that was because he couldn’t stop thinking about Hermione’s words. Murder. That was a very heavy word, something Harry couldn’t quite get his mind around. Maybe Snape was really innocent of most of these crimes but maybe not. He had chosen the dark mark after all, knowing well what he would be expected to do. They killed. They tortured. They hurt those who were weaker than them. Surely Snape, who had once been a member of this sadistic group, had committed such heinous crimes. And even if he was now working for the light side, it didn’t alter his dark past.

Can a murderer really change? Can such crimes ever be forgiven? What about the people whose lives have been cut short? What about their families and loved ones who have to carry the weight of their lose for the rest of their lives? Maybe there were children like him out there whose parents had died at Snape’s hands. If Lily and James Potter had died because of Snape, would Harry have considered simply forgiving him? Harry felt really tired and confused. He could feel the start of a headache pounding at the back of his head. Why did everything involving Snape have to be so damn complicated? Harry wished once more that he hadn’t been put into this situation. He would’ve had such a simple summer full of laughter with nothing but his homework to worry about if he had only stayed at the Burrow. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were such simple but wonderful people whose goodness could never be doubted. If only he was with them.

Harry sighed and got up. It was getting late. He didn’t really feel like eating so he supposed he could go directly to his bed. If he stayed down here, there was a bigger changed of running into Snape and that was about the last thing Harry wanted right now. He didn’t know what to say to the man. He had never been very good at hiding his feelings. Harry buttoned up his jacket and threw the hood over his head, ready to fight the chill of the corridors. He went out of the living room, closing the door slowly behind him but the sound still echoed loudly in the still house. He hummed a tune to himself as he walked forward along the hallway guarded by a double flank of doors. A few off key notes hung in the air before being absorbed by the silence around him. He thought his soft humming might defeat the silence but it did not. His voice died down into nothing and he walked on quietly, wishing his friends were here.

Some part of him even wanted Snape to be here and talk to him the way he had this morning, his words of biting truth a relief after a flood of lies and word games. He remembered the way his lips twitched upwards in a smile that he didn’t quiet manage to smooth away. He remembered Snape offering to bring stuff for him and his attempts to ease the discomfort between them. Professor Sprout was right, all through last year, Snape had gone out of his way to save Harry. Was that person really capable of murder? Harry didn’t know.

Harry had nearly passed that particular door when he suddenly remembered his argument with Snape. The way he had stopped Harry from opening that door with nothing but his sharp words. Harry stood still and looked again at the silver handle he hadn’t had the courage to open. He pricked his ears and tried to listen but not a single sound could be heard. Whatever might have been there was quiet now. Before he could overthink it, Harry extended his hand and turned the handle. With a single shove he opened the door wide, letting it bang against the wall. An empty bedroom that had fallen into disarray met his eyes. Harry peeped inside, his eyes scanning every corner of the room for any sign of movement. No one was there. Whatever had caused that noise had moved onto a better hiding place. Still, Harry wanted to be completely sure.

He stepped into the room and looked around. He lifted the bedsheets and glanced under the bed. Nothing. He looked for any other hiding place but the room was strangely empty. No cupboards, no chairs or tables. Only the usual dull grey walls. Something white at the base of the wall caught Harry’s eye. He bent down and saw a series of lines cut into the cement with a very shape object. There were vertical scratches with a diagonal line cutting across a group of them. Numbers. Someone had crouched there, once, and carved these perfectly straight and vertical lines, each one parallel to the next and always evenly spaced. Slowly, they had been counting. The scratches went around the entire perimeter of the room twice. Harry didn’t try to count them. It would’ve taken him far too long. He wondered how long it had taken to carve these and what purpose they had. Un unpleasant suspicion was creeping into his mind but he shook his head and looked up, away from that bizarre decoration. More lines met his eyes. These were at the base of the small barred window.

When he moved closer Harry saw that the lines by the window were different. While the others had been straight lines cut with a certain precision and steadfast purpose, these were scattered all over the place with unevenly jumbling together to form a desperate mess. These were deep scratches as if someone had stood there, exactly were Harry was now standing, and tried desperately to claw his way out of that minuscule window. They had failed. The solid iron bars on the window remained strong as ever, completely unaffected by the pathetic attempt at escape. The suspicion he had tried to banish resurfaced and this time, it would not be banished. Someone had been locked up in this very room, desperately seeking a way out. Harry gulped, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into. Had Snape held someone prisoner in this place or had these marks existed before he even stepped foot on these premises. Were they a part of the dark history surrounding this building?

He walked out quickly, closed the door with a snap and made his way back to his room without any more interruptions. He didn’t even glance at the other doors as he strode past them. He went straight down the corridor until he came across the entrance hall and the flights of stairs that led directly into his bedroom. He took the steps two at a time, wanting badly to lock himself up in his room and stay there. When he finally reached the safety of his bedroom he was panting hard. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door, his head lightly hitting the wooden surface. Who was it? Who had been trapped in that room? Why? Was it Snape’s doing? The headache was now in full swing. It throbbed at his temple and Harry reached out a weary hand to massage his forehead. Could Hermione and Ron have been right all along?

He sighed and decided that he would think about that later. Perhaps when this infernal headache allowed him some space to think. He remembered stuffing some aspirin into his school trunk some time ago, a few tablets nicked from the Dursley’s bathroom cupboard. He opened his eyes and made to reach his trunk but he stopped dead in the middle of the room. Right in the center of his bed stood a large black chest, nearly as big as Harry’s school trunk. A complex pattern of red vines crept along the borders of the chest, giving the impression that it was bleeding. Harry had once read the story “the Warlock’s Hairy Heart” and this looked exactly like the kind of container used to trap that warped and twisted mockery of a heart.

For a moment Harry considered simply leaving it there. Who knows what could lay inside it? But then he realized how ridiculous he was being. If Snape wanted to harm him, he could just hex him at any moment or even poison his food, a much more practical way to attack him than to place a suspicious looking chest on his bed and wait for Harry to open it. That wasn’t exactly a comforting thought but at least it made the chest look a lot less suspicious.

He sighed and cautiously made his way to the bed. He spent a moment eyeing the container wearily and his distorted reflection looked back at him from the polished surface of the chest. He took out his wand and gripped it tight. He didn’t really know any spells to counter any form of attack but the feel of the wood under his fingertips was comforting all the same. He placed his hands on either side of the chest and taking a deep breathe, opened it with a single push, his muscles tensed to run at the slightest sign of trouble. But he needn’t have worried so much. The chest contained a navy blue cloth folded up neatly to cover what lay under it. On top of the cloth sat a faded yellow envelope with neat and elegant words written on it. “To Mr. Harry Potter.” It read.

Well, that is certainly odd. Who could have written him a letter and placed it inside a huge chest? It couldn’t have been Snape. If he wanted to talk to Harry he could just walk upstairs and knock on his door. What possible reason would he have to write to Harry? Still, no one else could have come into his room without noticing. Harry broke the seal on the envelope and took out the letter and with growing curiosity he began to read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

I am writing this letter in an attempt to explain myself to you. I’m not a man given to explaining my emotions neither in writing nor in speaking, but I do believe that writing is the lesser of the two evils. You are now my ward and I have vowed that I shall try my best to get along with you. At breakfast today, it seemed that everything was working out. I felt more at ease in your presence that I can ever remember being but it ended in a different note. I admit that it is my fault for snapping at you for no particular reason and I apologize. I do not consider you worthless or silly. You are a reasonably bright child for your age. Not, of course, as bright as Miss Granger but much more intelligent than Mr. Weasley. Granted, that is not much of a compliment given that not many people are less adapted to intellectual pursuits than him, but it is as much as I’m willing to give. I’m sure that by now you realize that I rarely compliment anyone. I know that this makes me a dull companion but a man cannot change his nature.

I have told you this before and I tell you this again. I do not hate you. Your father and I were school enemies much like Draco and yourself. You just look so much like your father that, at times, I feel brief flashes of anger. I know that this is not your fault and that I am being unfair but I just cannot seem to help myself. There were past events involving your father that I am unable to simply overlook. I cannot tell you what they are but suffice to say that anything related to Gryffindor house reminds me of these unfortunate events. That is the reason why I did not greet your idea of painting Gryffindor lions on the wall with any enthusiasm. You are a Gryffindor; therefore, it is only natural that you should wish to show your support for your house. If lions is what you wish to paint, then so be it; however, I do ask you to limit any such decorations to the interior of your room.

I am well aware of what you and the other students think of me. I am an unpleasant teacher. Although this is in part due to my position as a spy, I cannot deny that I am a demanding teacher with a tendency to be harsh with those incapable of brewing the most basic potions or of completing an acceptable homework assignment. I am far from perfect. Unlike most of the people you know, I am not a good man. I am distrustful, bitter, solitary, vengeful and impatient. I was once a death eater. That should give you a clue as to my real character. I have a dark heart, child, and the one thing I cannot be is a father.

But I think that maybe I am not completely dark. There might be a light side of me hidden somewhere that has led me to become a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I want so hard to try and give you want you deserve. If not a father, I hope that in time I can be a fair teacher, someone you can talk to when you are in trouble. I am improving slowly but it will take time. Sometimes I will fail and get angry with you for no particular reason. I ask you to be patient and not take my sharp words too much to heart. I do not mean them. I am aware that this is too much to ask from an eleven year old child. I am the adult, the one who is supposed to be fair and patient. I am sorry, child, that I cannot be that person. Have patience and everything will be alright. Give me until at most the end of this summer and I promise you that I will show you I am not all dark. Despite my past, I will do my best to take care of you.

Yours Sincerely,

Professor Snape

P.S. Should you be in need of anything do not hesitate to ask. If I find it a reasonable request, I shall endeavor to grant it.

To say that Harry was shocked is an understatement. Snape has apologized for snapping at him. That is certainly something he never thought would happen. He sank down to sit on the edge of the bed and read the letter over again, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts in his head. Twice, thrice he read it but he was still confused. What evil deeds has this man committed? Arson. Torture. Murder. How could these things just be forgotten. “I am not a good man,” he admits, almost as if in direct response to Harry’s thoughts. What was he supposed to do with that? How could Harry be patient and try to get along with an evil man? “Maybe I am not completely dark.” Could that be true? Would it be enough? Somehow, Harry wanted it to be. Despite everything that he had learned, Harry wanted to like Snape and trust him and that thought scared him more than anything. This letter was really not helping his headache any. Where was Hermione when you needed her? She was the expert when it comes to moral dilemmas and emotional problems. He smiled slightly at the thought of Hermione but one glance at the letter made all the confusion resurface.

He couldn’t deal with this now. He folded the letter and placed it carefully back in its envelope. Then, he stuffed it into his school truck and moved back to the chest, wondering what else was inside. He took out the navy blue cloth which turned out to be a pretty snug hoodie with a white dragon painted in the middle. For me? Harry thought incredulously. It turns out that today is just jam packed with surprises. Under the hoodie, he found other cloths, both muggle and wizard. With careful hands, Harry took out one item of clothing after another, staring at each and every one in complete awe. There were so many items in the chest that by the time he had taken everything out, his bed was strewn with brand new cloths in all types and colors. Among other things he found robes, jeans, shirts and pajamas. There were even a pair of trainers that were a perfect fit. Harry felt a strange lump in his throat as he put them on, tying the white laces with fumbling fingers. Nobody had ever given him this much.

He almost missed the last gift, the large wooden box sitting quietly at the bottom of the trunk. It was made of a dark brown wood that blended perfectly with the interior of the chest, making it nearly invisible. Harry reached down slowly and took it out into the light. It was simple but elegant box with black designs crawling along the borders and a golden leaf shaped clasp on the front. It was bigger than Harry had first thought, nearly half the size of the chest. It must be magical to have held this box along with all these cloths, packed and folded neatly just for Harry. Its golden latch clicked as he slowly opened it, feeling as if he had landed in an alternate reality.

Inside, there were tubes of paint in every color imaginable. There were the simple primary colors but alongside them were the metallic colors, glistening brightly through the half transparent tubes. There was gold and silver and so many more. Paintbrushes sat in a separate compartment together with a wooden pallet. There were also curious tubes filled with translucent liquids each with different labels. Harry bent down to read a few. “Invisibility inducing”, “glow in the dark”, “shifting color” were printed over three tubes with liquids swaying gently on the inside. It was fantastic, more than Harry had ever imagined. He could paint anything with these. They looked incredibly expensive and Snape hadn’t even taken his key. He had simply gone out and bought these things just for Harry. Nobody had ever done that. He had never received cloths bought especially for him, not to mention such an expensive gift as this.

What had Harry done to deserve this? Nothing. At the Dursleys, he had worked all day long and done everything he was asked to do only to be hated and ignored. Here he had done nothing but think ill of his professor and make plans to spy into his personal life and he gets such splendid gifts. He felt so incredibly guilty. Snape really was trying to get along with him and make amends for his snappish tone. It was Harry who was trying to ruin everything this time. He should just let Snape’s past rest undisturbed and focus on the present. Snape was not evil now, that is all that mattered. And yet, the image of the husband and wife burning while their bodies were weak from torture simply would not leave his mind. Maybe Dumbledore was right. Maybe Snape really was innocent and it was he that was being the fool. Just like the time he suspected Snape of trying to steal the philosopher’s stone. What did he know of such matters? Surely Dumbledore was wiser than him and knew who to trust.

Harry slipped into his new pajamas. The woolen cloth was warm and comfortable against his skin, much more than his old worn out pair. Snape can’t just be plain evil. If only there was a way for him to find out if he really did kill that family. If only he knew that these gifts were not just a way to alley his suspicions and make him feel secure, another move with an ulterior motive. He just wanted the plain truth. Was that too much to ask?

He needed to do something. If this was anyone else but Snape, he would just walk right up to them and tell him exactly what he felt. He wished so badly that he could just talk to the man but Snape was just so bloody unpredictable. Then, a sudden idea came to him. He could take a page out of Snape’s book and write a letter, explaining everything. A perfect solution. Quickly, he took out a quill and parchment out of his trunk and sitting on his table, started to write his response to Snape’s letter.

Dear Professor Snape,

I don’t understand you. From the first moment I saw you, you were this incredibly mean teacher who I thought was out to get me. I saw the way you looked at me. Hatred was written so plainly on your face that it was impossible to miss. You didn’t even know me but you already hated me. That was completely unfair. I didn’t do anything to deserve your intense dislike. I am not the smartest or the mort respectful kid but I’m not so bad, unlike a lot of other students in your class. Still, you hated me worse than everybody else just because I was alive. After the first potions class, I thought you were just like the Dursleys. In fact, I remember thinking that you and my Aunt Petunia would make a wonderful team.

All through the year the three of us kept an eye on you, thinking that you were trying to steal the stone. After all, it made sense. You were the most unpleasant and unfair teacher in the entire school, favoring your students even when they were clearly at fault. It made sense for you to be the bad guy and then I learn you were just trying to keep me alive. That made no sense at all. I asked Dumbledore about it and he gave me an explanation but it just did not feel like the right one. There was more to it than that. When I was in that chamber, listening to Quirrel’s explanations, I realized that I did not know you at all.

And now here I am. I have lived in your house for weeks but I still do not understand you. You say that you do not hate me, only my father. In some ways, that is even worse. I can’t understand how anyone can hate my father, the hero. I know that I have many faults but James Potter was not like me, he was better. He was smart and a great flyer. (I know this is true since I’ve checked his school records. He had amazing grades, much better than mine.) He was so brave, sacrificing himself for his family and standing up to Voldemort even though he knew it would put his life in danger. So many people have known and loved him. What could possibly make you hate him so much? He is a hero. In some ways, the complete opposite of you. You followed Voldemort, you make people hate you, you look just plain frightening. Is that why you hate him so much? Because he was a better man than you? Is that true? Maybe that isn’t true. Maybe something bad did happen, something that would justify all this hatred, a hatred so deep that you can’t even look at his son without anger. Tell me what happened. How can I be patient and just brush off all your anger when I don’t even why it’s there in the first place? Tell me the truth, professor. I deserve to know. What is it about my father that you hate so much?

I shouldn’t like you. I respect my parents and I hate it when people insult them. It is the one thing I can’t stand. You hate my father so I should be loyal to him and hate you too. But the thing is, I don’t. You saved my life and I liked the man I saw for just a little while this morning. Now, you send me this letter of apology and give me fantastic gifts that just make me like you even more. But the thing is, I shouldn’t. You’re a death eater. I know people say that you aren’t one now but is that really true? If a murderer kills people and then one day decides to stop, does he stop being a murderer? Will he not be guilty for the people he already killed? Does a man ever stop being a death eater.

Today I found out something about you. You went on trial for torturing a man and wife and then burning them alive. Is it true? Dumbledore thinks it isn’t so maybe it’s not. Then what about the man you were accused of poisoning with so much evidence against you? Did you do that or are you innocent of that too? I found a room in this house where it looks like someone was held prisoner for a very long time. Did you do that? Is that what my so called guardian is capable of? No wonder you hate my father. An evil man can’t stand a good one. It’s as simple as that. Everything fits perfectly if not for this letter you wrote me and the gifts you bought and the way you are trying so hard to like me. These things do not fit into the whole evil murderer concept. What am I supposed to do with these acts of kindness you show me? How can I like a criminal? You said it yourself, “I am not a good man.” How can you expect me to care for an evil man? It just doesn’t make any sense. You don’t make any sense. I wish you’d just be honest with me and tell me about your past. Did you hurt people? Why did you do it? If I knew the truth, then maybe I could understand and know for certain if I should give you a chance. Maybe you’ll think that this is none of my business but how can it not be? I live under your roof, isn’t it my right to know if I’m being adopted by a criminal? You asked me to come to you if I needed anything. I can’t do that, I can’t trust you until I know what you are capable of.

And the worst part is that even now when I have so many doubts in my mind and I know I shouldn’t, I have grown to like you. I hope so much that you really are innocent of all those crimes. I want us to get along, I want you to take care of me as if I was your own student. I hate that I’m so needy and pathetic. One civil word and a few gifts are all it took to make me think well of you. If I were truly my father’s son, good to the very bone, then I shouldn’t even want to excuse a death eater’s behavior. This is how I know that I will never be as good as James Potter.

Unwillingly yours,

Harry Potter

Harry finished scribbling his name at the end of his letter and sat back on his chair, stunned. A drop of ink dripped onto the corner of the page, a small black spot appeared just where he had signed his name. He twirled the golden tip of his quill as he reread his letter, not noticing when black ink smudged his fingers and seeped into the edge of his nails. His eyebrows were draw together as he read, surprised at his own words. He hadn’t meant to write all this. In truth, when he had taken out the quill and ink, he hadn’t really known what he’d write, only that he had to do something. Now, there they were, all this doubts and feelings written out plainly on a sheet of paper.

This is what bothered him, the fact that he had started to like Snape when he knew he shouldn’t. Harry passed a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture, trying to get his unruly locks to stay neat. It did feel good to vent his feelings in some way. Of course, he knew that he couldn’t send this letter to Snape. Forget about getting angry, the man would kill him, death eater or not. Harry was brave and sometimes he was honest to a fault but he was not that stupid. This letter could never be sent. He folded the letter and stuffed it into one of the thick books sitting on the table. He put the chest on the ground and flopped back onto the bed feeling utterly exhausted. It has been a long and weird day and his mind felt heavy with the weight of everything he had learned.