It was the Pensieve incident all over again. Only this time he’s too angry even to yell at me, thought Harry in despair. Things had been going so well, too. He wished Hermione were there to give him some sensible, constructive advice; she’d know what to do. She’d say something practical like, ‘Have another cup of tea’, or ‘Go fly a broomstick’ or ‘Finish your homework’. What would she do in this situation? But Harry already knew; he could almost hear her saying it, ‘Go and talk to him, Harry.’ Why did women always want to talk about things? Who did Snape ever talk to? Dumbledore? Possibly. Quig? Braque?

From the garden came the noise of a sharp explosion. Well, that’s one photo that won’t be in the albums. Harry rather approved of Snape’s solution to the problem: blowing something up was infinitely more satisfactory, than discussing it. He was surprised, though, that the professor hadn’t simply tossed the offending picture into the fire. Perhaps he’s detonated some of his anger too; perhaps he was pretending it was me! Harry had an image of his minutely fragmented body parts dispersed throughout the estate, an appetising fresh snack for whatever gruesome, flesh-eating beasts Snape undoubtedly harboured in his grounds.

With a great deal of misgiving Harry prepared to go outside and meet his father. He could see him through the kitchen window, staring at the singed patch of grass where only a few charred flakes were all that remained of the photograph. People could be sensitive about the strangest things; Harry had considered it quite flattering. As an afterthought, he picked up Snape’s cloak from the back of the chair. Dumbledore would be proud of him.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Here…You should put this on.” Harry thrust the cloak at him, and rushed on with his apology before he bottled out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been looking at that book and I shouldn’t have taken the photo. It’s just that it looked so cool, riding a Horntail; and I wanted…” Harry hadn’t admitted this, even to himself; he hadn’t realised until now. “.. . I wanted a picture of you.”

Snape turned slowly to look him in the face.

“Of me? Why?”

Oh God, don’t make me spell it out. Don’t make me say it.

“Dunno, Sir.”

They were both embarrassed now. For once it was Snape who came to the rescue.

“From the crest of that hill one gets a view of Snape Manor, the river and the rest of the estate. Stand still, Potter.”

Harry tensed, assuming that Braque had returned for dessert. But there was no icy, darting tongue. Placing his fingers lightly on Harry’s head, Snape murmured the incantation ‘Repello morsum’.

“That will repel most biting creatures. There are numerous poisonous species out here, spiders, snakes, insects and so forth. The frogs are the worst, be wary of sematic pigmentation.”

He strode off through the long grass and Harry followed unhappily, his eyes searching for flashes of bright colour amidst the stalks.

“You’re really into all these poisonous things, aren’t you, Sir?” Harry hoped that a neutral subject might ease them towards his list of questions.

“My speciality is not, as you once so rightly pointed out, ‘Childcare’,” Snape replied, “but poisons.”

Go for the jugular, why don’t you? Harry had not been sure at the time that Snape had even heard his sarcastic comment. Were they heading straight for another fight? But the Professor continued, reasonably,

“Poisons and their antidotes. More specifically, poisonous organic compounds that can be extracted from natural sources - plants and animals. Some of them are exquisitely deadly. Magical poisons pale by comparison. Mycology alone yields fascinating insights into the nature of toxicity…” Then, observing Harry’s glazed expression, he exclaimed irritably, “Merlin’s beard! Hasn’t Sprout imparted the bare basics of botanical classification? Think, Potter, Mycology? Fungology? Or must I still refer to it as the study of mushrooms and toadstools, as though you were a first year student?

“As for the animals, I keep some species in my laboratory for the purposes of experimentation; the others live out here until required. If you are interested, I can demonstrate how to milk a Valera Viper - its fangs, you know, can grow up to two inches long….”

They had reached a high plateau near the top of the hill. In the valley below them and to their right was an imposing, Elizabethan brick and timber building - Snape Manor. It stood three stories tall, with mullioned windows and multiple gables. A round tower, made of stone and with a conical slate roof adjoined the east wing - it looked as though it dated from an earlier period. The formal gardens were largely overgrown - Harry could see a topiary avenue, now sprouting raggedly, the circular indentations of choked, weed-clogged lily ponds and terraces leading to parkland, pasture and trees. The low, languid curve of the river stretched across the fields and curled itself around the woods like a cat’s tail. In front of the house there was a cobblestone courtyard and a long driveway sweeping away to a set of distant gates. Harry was reminded of the other wrought-iron gate with its twisting initials.

“What was the name of the village again, Sir? Snape Somewhere?”

“Snape Delaford. It’s over in that direction, beyond those trees. About a mile and a half. The river used to be fordable there at one time.” Snape pointed.

“So did the Snape family control Delaford, or own it? Did they rename the whole village after themselves?” Harry asked. Get the arrogance of some of these old wizard families!

Harry’s innocent question had unwittingly touched a nerve.

“Sheer ignorance! Ignorance and folly! No respect for a beautiful language!” Snape muttered, with sudden feeling.

“What?” Where did that come from? Did he say ‘beautiful’?

“Hundreds of years ago,” Snape continued in a more carefully considered, explanatory tone, “the people in this part of the country were an uneducated, ignorant lot. They had little understanding of, or appreciation for, foreign words and customs. Such sophistications were beyond their experience.

“Because of its proximity to the coast - the sea is about five miles due south of here - there is a strong maritime influence in this area. Many Muggle settlers from across the channel travelled inland from the ports. At one time the French community was particularly influential. That is reflected in the etymology of some of the place names round here, such as Maisonfield or Champsea. Are you paying attention, Potter?”

Harry had managed to keep up with Snape’s linguistic lecture so far, but he hoped he wasn’t going to get too technical. The man was full of surprises: Harry would never have had him down as a Francophile; or was he just a complete and utter pedant - simply couldn’t help himself.

Snape looked back over his shoulder in the direction they had come, but the October afternoon was closing in and mist was already gathering in the valleys.

“The view is obstructed at the moment. Anyway,” he went on, “over the years, some names changed almost beyond recognition. Either they Anglicised the pronunciation to suit their pathetic parlance, transposed letters - examples of portmanteau and metathesis abound - or else they substituted a commonplace word to replace the less familiar French one. Sloppy, illiterate bastardisation of the language!”

Harry listened in silence, not knowing what to make of this man - the deep, unseen currents of thought, the unexpected, perplexing swirls and eddies of complex emotion.

“Buderton!” Snape exclaimed animatedly. “Any idea what that name comes from? No? ‘Boue de sang’ - mud of blood. From the red colour of the soil round here. And the name of the fishing village, Summerport, is derived from ‘sombre’ and ‘port’, the treacherous, ‘dark’ harbour where the French ships traditionally docked. And, similarly, Delaford is a corruption of Delacour.”

“Delacour?” Harry prompted.

“An old French wizard dynasty. Snape Delacour was founded and named to celebrate the union of two powerful Pureblood families. The river crossing I mentioned was for years known as ‘Delacour’s ford’, but the locals were too moronic and too lazy to say the words. With custom and usage the name became shortened to Delaford. The family connection still exists: over the years the two Houses have perpetuated the link through advantageous marriage alliances.” He paused briefly, then added, almost as an aside, “Delacour was my mother’s family name.”

Delacour? Harry knew he had heard that name somewhere before, in a completely different context. A vision of the long, blond hair and hypnotic beauty of Bill Weasley’s ex-girlfriend, Fleur Delacour, glided into his mind and, without thinking, he blurted out,

“Are you saying your mother was a Veela?”

Startled by the audacity of the lateral leap in Harry’s train of thought, Snape’s face registered shock. Then he blushed. It was worth it for that moment alone. A denial hovered on his lips, but it was too late.

“Astute, Potter. Very astute,” he muttered. Abruptly turning his back on Harry, he climbed the remaining yards to the very brow of the hill to confront his past alone, and stood there, braced against the wind, a bleak and solitary figure.

He stayed up there a long time. Harry, watching him, was unable even to guess at the conflicts raging within that tightly-reined exterior.

There was a damp chill in the air now, and Harry was getting cold. He finally went up and touched Snape on the sleeve,

“Can we keep walking, Sir? I’m freezing up here in this wind. It can’t be doing you any good either.”

Snape's hacking cough had been plaguing him all afternoon.

For a while they walked down in uneasy silence. Snape’s explanation, when it came, was well-rehearsed and impersonal:

“The Veela link to my mother’s branch of the family was remote. It did - does - nonetheless exist.”

“But, - and I’m honestly not trying to be rude, Sir, - I didn’t think Veela would be allowed in Pureblood families. Or have I got it all wrong?”

If anyone had asked Harry to predict how this conversation would go, he would have said, fatalistically: denial, outrage, rebuke, punishment. He definitely expected to end up in pretty serious trouble for daring to mention Snape’s family in the same breath as a Veela. But Snape seemed to be having enough trouble of his own, wrestling with his conscience, without having to cope with Harry’s concerns too.

“Customs change, Potter. Different nationalities have different ways of looking at these things. In 18th Century France to have Veela blood in the family was considered an honour.”

“And now, in this country?”

“It is - not - an - honour.” Snape got the words out with difficulty.

Harry surveyed him critically.

“Can’t you take a Potion for that cough, Sir? You’re not getting any better.”

Irrationally, he felt irritated with Snape for not bothering to take care of himself.

“Take a Potion! That’s everybody’s answer for everything, these days!” said Snape bitterly.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I just thought…”

“Well, don’t. Don’t think. Don’t tell me to take Potions. Potions have blighted my life.”

Harry sensed they were on the brink of a seismic shift in their relationship. But as the first shockwaves hit, he instinctively retreated into a defensive shelter of facetiousness. A callous quip about ‘Teaching Potions not being all that bad’ was dancing on his tongue. Don’t blow this. If you make some silly wise-crack now, just because you’re nervous, he’ll lock up like a Gringott’s vault. Please don’t say anything crass.

“Sir?”

“Potter…” In just one word Harry could hear Snape’s resolve struggling against a baying mob of doubt and uncertainty. Yet, against his better judgement, Snape had finally decided to trust him.

“I do not wish ill-informed rumours about my family to become fodder for prurient gossip-mongers. Professor Dumbledore has already ‘suggested’ that I provide you with some details about the Snape family. It was inevitable that these subjects would be raised at some point. Very well. Given that you have intuited certain facts, I am obliged to put them in context. Now would seem to be an appropriate moment.

“What I am about to tell you, Potter, is for your information only. It is not to be repeated. It is not for the entertainment of your classmates in the Gryffindor common-room. It is not even for the sympathetic ears of Miss Granger. Is that understood?”

His usual hectoring authority had been replaced by a tone altogether less self-assured. This was as much a request as an order.

“Of course, Sir.”

“You may not like what I am going to say, Potter. It may not be what you want to hear. It almost certainly will not be.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I know your questions primarily concern your parents. I will endeavour to answer them. In doing so I will have to refer to my own family - bear with me, Potter, there is a connection. Potter? - ”

Snape was looking at Harry with a grave intensity.

“Sir?”

“You may wish to return to Hogwarts after… …afterwards. You can Floo there directly from the cottage.”

“I’m sure that won’t be…” Harry tried to sound confident and positive, but his stomach was knotted with dread. He could well believe that Snape’s version of events would be unpalatable.

“No rash judgements until you are apprised of the facts, Potter,” Snape warned. Having got thus far he was now loath to begin. Harry had never seen him so diffident.

Evening was drawing down its grey blinds and a thick mist was tucking in the valleys for the night. Harry and Snape walked side by side. As if by mutual consent, they turned away from the path that led back to the cottage. The walking gave them an outlet for their tension; the darkness veiled their pain.

“I went to the Manor this morning because…” Snape started, then tailed off. “No, I must start further back. My mother, as you so accurately deduced, had Veela ancestors. It was not something our family wanted to publicise. The power was all but dormant in her branch of the family - none of the female offspring had manifested those attributes for generations. There was certainly nothing deemed significant enough to prevent my parents’ marriage. But my mother… She had a certain mesmeric quality. It was the Veela blood coming out in her. The Muggles have a term for it - a ‘recessive gene’, I believe. She was considered attractive, even provocative… It began to cause trouble, arouse suspicions… There were a lot of… ..arguments.”

The flat understatement spoke more poignantly to Harry about Snape’s home life than any graphic description. Minimising pain was something he could relate to. He knew what he had seen in the Pensieve. The Professor continued softly,

“I was always fascinated by Potions, even as a child. Their subtlety, their infinite variety. I started brewing when I was, oh, quite young. My father insisted that I prepare a special Potion for my mother. It suppressed the Veela in her. It also prevented her from performing magic - an unfortunate side-effect, but one which proved advantageous. The Potion enabled her to live a relatively normal life without all the problems and repercussions caused by the somewhat ‘tantalising’ nature of the Veela aura.

“But in time she became addicted to the Potion. Ultimately, it led to her death. Her death, and, indirectly, that of my father too.”

He rushed the last few sentences, turning his face away from Harry and breathing deeply.

Harry waited, wanting details now, but Snape was pursuing a new train of thought.

“You know, obviously, that I am - that I was - a Death Eater? You have seen the Mark?”

Harry shuddered at the memory of Snape’s blistered arm that day in the cellar, burning from within as the black ‘Skull and Snake’ seared through the flesh. Snape too was rubbing his forearm - maybe subconsciously, or maybe it still hurt. But he did not intend to dwell on that now.

“That photograph you found, Potter… It was taken not long after I left Hogwarts, when I had recently joined the Dark Lord. I was one of his newest recruits.” A defensive edge had cut into his voice.

“I am going to tell you this, Potter, though it shames me to do so. It is not a topic I would usually discuss, but, given your situation, you do have a right to know. The very memory is abhorrent to me now. The first thing you have to understand is that I joined the Dark Lord of my own volition. I was not coerced or bribed. It was my own free choice; I am not proud of it. It is a decision I have long regretted.”

He paused for a few moments, struggling to regulate the surge of unstoppered truths pouring into his mind, a Canute before a tide of confession. When he next spoke, the pompous, professorial barrage had been raised again to dam the flow.

“In retrospect, I can identify certain factors which led me to that choice, not that I wish to plead mitigating circumstances - one must take responsibility for one’s own actions.”

The temptation to digress into a debate on ethics and moral abstracts was seductive. Harry could tell that it went against Snape’s every instinct for self-preservation to discuss his personal life, and that he was finding this conversation unbelievably stressful. To Harry it was unimaginable that the tight-lipped, guarded Professor should have relaxed his defences so far. Dumbledore had been right: Snape was still not quite himself.

“You will have gathered that my home life at that time was far from ideal. It was…” and here Snape’s perfect self-control slipped a notch, “…it was unacceptable, Potter. Intolerable. My mother’s addiction was taking over all our lives. Her behaviour had been unpredictable and erratic for as long as I can remember - in my youth it was something of a joke that my father had been bewitched by an eccentric French siren. But later it became impossible.

“I spent weeks - months - reformulating the Potions, attempting to stabilise a less addictive alternative, but none was adequately effective; none was therapeutic. I didn’t have the experience, then. For Merlin’s sake, I’d only just finished my NEWTs! Neither was it practical to wean her off the Potion - the withdrawal symptoms were terrible: the moods, the depression. She could be violent sometimes, frightening…”

Again he paused, his jaw clenched, fighting back cruel memories.

“At that stage in my life, Potter, I had come to regard my family as a liability. I was young and bright and ambitious… I certainly didn’t envisage becoming a teacher for the rest of my life, I can tell you! I had an entreé into an influential milieu - Malfoy had adopted me as a kind of protégé - the last thing I needed right then was rumours of a deficient, less than Pureblood parent ruining my prospects. I couldn’t wait to get out.”

“What about your father? Didn’t he…?” Harry didn’t even finish the question before Snape slapped him down.

“My father? I have no wish to discuss my father! He was, how shall I put it, ‘unsupportive’…

“The thought of remaining at Snape Manor and being ‘groomed’ to take over the running of the estate, with possibly a little light Potions brewing on the side as an unofficial pass-time… and all the while maintaining the pretence that my mother’s - what shall I call it? - ‘unconventional’ behaviour was just some coquettish, continental quirk… it was stifling, Potter. There had to be something more; it was imperative that I should leave.

“And the Dark Lord offered an escape. In the beginning he was charismatic - he was full of confidence and enthusiasm for his cause, impassioned, dynamic. To hear him speak was stirring, infectious -”

“But couldn’t you see him for what he really was - just a power-hungry, unprincipled, crypto-fascist monster?” Harry protested angrily, outrage displacing his curiosity. Snape recoiled before the vehemence of Harry’s objection.

“His rhetoric had an enormous appeal - can you understand that at all, Potter? I was idealistic enough and desperate enough to swallow the idea that his philosophy promised some kind of a future - the purification, the ‘salvation’ of wizardry. We were going to save the Pureblood ‘houses’ from contamination.

“I know that sounds hypocritical after what I’ve just told you about my mother, but I was trying to distance myself from that side of my life. None of my associates knew, or even suspected. Had they found out I would have been ostracised; we might even have become targets ourselves. I know that, on the scale of half-breeds, there are worse things than Veela, but the Dark Lord was not exactly renowned for his tolerance.”

“But he of all people should have known what it was like…” argued Harry, thinking of Tom Riddle’s own background.

“The fanaticism of a convert is matched only by the zealotry of someone concealing a shameful secret,” replied Snape tersely.

“At the beginning it was like a noble Crusade - we didn’t analyse the methods we would have to use to achieve our ends. We didn’t realise we were embarking on Mudblood genocide - and by the time we did, we no longer cared.”

“You didn’t care? Not care about all the killing? How can you say that?”

“What was the Dark Lord supposed to do, Potter? Go round on a campaign bus, entertaining student rallies with a folk guitar and visiting baby clinics? Be realistic! Those were troubled times; we had to win by any means - and if there was a whiff of sulphur in the air… well…

“It must seem to you as though I am trying to justify the conduct of the Dark Lord. There may be an element of that - I have to believe that I had some valid reasons for joining him, otherwise I would begin to doubt my own sanity.

“At the time, the Dark Lord represented an alternative to the inertia and stagnation of my life. His regime was not - or so I then thought - evil, degenerate and morally corrupt. His followers had an inflated image of themselves as the upholders of traditional wizard values, protecting our heritage - defending all those same traditions that I was so anxious to disown. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Snape was becoming increasingly agitated. He began to quicken his pace as he walked, his cloak billowing behind him in the wind, like the black, unfurled sails of a pirate schooner. Harry was hard-pressed to keep up with him on the unfamiliar paths, lit only by stars, faint and diffused by misty darkness.

“As Death Eaters we were wild, Potter. As time went on we became uncontrollable. Most of us were young and bold and arrogant. We were thrill-seekers, hungry for excitement, ready to take almost any risk, just for the sheer hell of it. The whole thing was one big adventure.

“There were initiation tests too - insane, dangerous ordeals like the dragon-riding in the photograph. Merlin! I must have been mad to ride that beast! We would egg each other on to perform ever more extreme feats of daring, such as Freefall Broomstick Flying, or Potion Roulette. Once you embrace the Dark there are no limits: the sense of liberation is intoxicating! It was a select, anarchic club - and for the first time in my life I felt I truly belonged.

“And the women… I’m sorry, Potter, but the women were just another depraved, senseless game. There was no grand plan there. It was all about ego and bravado and impressing our peers.

“ We all had our own warped agenda too - in our own ways we were all searching for power or status or affirmation of some sort. Think about it, Potter, - what greater power is there, than that of Life or Death? Mors ultima ratio. It is exhilarating! You have experienced at first hand the thrill of inflicting pain - you can’t deny it. That in itself becomes an addiction. …the buzz you get from casting an Unforgivable - and with each Curse the corruption eats a little deeper into your soul. The raids and the torture and destruction became an end in themselves.

“After a while it became apparent to me - and possibly to some of the others, though we never openly acknowledged it - that the situation was getting out of hand. The raids were escalating, the violence unwarranted, often gratuitous. The Dark Lord was growing fanatical - even his most loyal followers could see that. But by then we were all too deeply involved: we had no choice but to support the Death Eaters or spend the rest of our lives in Azkaban.

“We used to psyche ourselves up for the raids, drinking and … how shall I put it? Let us just say that my services were in great demand to supply ‘recreational potions’. Sometimes when we went on a raid we were so high we hardly knew what we were doing…”

Snape was addressing the darkness, unable to meet the disgust and disillusion in Harry’s eyes.

“One day I was at the Manor, when I was summoned by the Mark. You know how that feels, Potter - isn’t it the same with your scar - when it burns so badly that all you can concentrate on is the pain..? I was in my laboratory working on a potion when the summons came. I Apparated at once to the Dark Lord’s side. He was planning another raid - Mudblood witches were to be the targets. I read your mother’s name on the list. The fact that I had known her at school was an irrelevance. All I could think of was that attacking your mother was a perfect way to get back at James Potter.

“You were correct that day in the cellar - she was, then, ‘just another Mudblood witch.’”

Harry felt repulsed and sickened. He spoke coldly:

“Why didn’t you tell me this in the cellar?”

“Would you have listened? You were far too angry then Potter. You would not have been able to handle it. I’m not sure if I could. The time in the cellar was all about you, Potter. This is about me.”

Harry tried to digest what the Professor had said. It was true - had he learned all this in the cellar, he would have executed Snape without compunction. As it was, it had been a borderline decision to Apparate with him to safety.

“But what had my mother ever done to you?” he cried.

“Nothing. Nothing at all, except marry James.”

“But you said that you and she weren’t… weren’t… So what did it matter to you who she married?”

“It mattered because I hated James Potter,” Snape answered icily.

“But WHY?”

“At Hogwarts we…” Snape began to reply, but Harry interrupted him unceremoniously.

“Yeah, I know. You had this feud thing going. But everybody gets teased or bullied at school. It doesn’t mean you go around bearing a grudge against them for ever and raping their wives!”

“Indeed. But James took bullying to unacceptable extremes. I was severely provoked. In the normal course of events I would not have involved your mother. The opportunity presented itself; I took advantage of it.”

“Just tell me what he could have possibly done that was so bad. Was it all about that argument over Sirius and Remus - er, Professor Lupin?” Harry demanded, his sympathies now totally alienated. Snape looked abashed; he hedged,

“It may not seem so serious to you…”

“Just tell me!”

Snape took a deep breath, then coughed, the damp air catching his lungs. He clearly regretted ever embarking on this conversation. At last he spoke reluctantly,

“It was in our fifth year. James stole a phial of Veritaserum and tricked me into taking it. He got Lily to give it to me in a drink. For years I thought she had been an accomplice, but I have since changed my mind. I don’t actually think she knew anything about it. He used her just as he used everybody else.

“Then he asked me questions. About everything. He interrogated me about absolutely everything. He asked about my family, my hopes, my ambitions, my worst fears, my secret fantasies - all my most private thoughts, Potter. Things I could never divulge to anyone. Things I had spent my whole life trying to conceal. He violated them, sneered at them. He derided my family…”

“And did he blackmail you?”

Harry was appalled. To a person like Snape, James’ behaviour was tantamount to assault.

“Not financially, no. What did money matter to someone like Potter? But it gave him a hold over me, that he could exploit any time he wanted. It made my position at school quite untenable. It had been bad enough before - I had never been the most… ..gregarious of students. Being brought up on my own at Snape Manor, I was accustomed to my own company; I found it difficult to break my solitary habits. I had no ‘confidant’. James was always so popular, and I was an isolated, ivory tower intellectual.

“Lily, I think, understood to some extent. I don’t know how much James told her, but he must have let a few details slip - she asked my advice a couple of times when she was working on the French module in Muggle Studies. But she was too wrapped up in Potter to take much notice of me.

“And to him it was just a prank. If he ever cornered me alone, he would taunt me with his knowledge, defying me to retaliate. That was how the feud started – as James’ sick joke; it escalated from there. Later there was all that business with Black and the Shrieking Shack, and it ceased to be humorous - it was a lot more serious. Potter never missed a chance to rub it in: he always made a point of referring to my mother in the most offensive terms - ‘Potion-head’ or ‘the exotic erotic’. On the day before the Death Eater raid I had encountered him in Diagon Alley and he had the blatant effrontery to ask after my mother’s health - and then he winked. The idiot winked at me.”

Snape was clearly upset. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing the damp strands away from his face, his fingers massaging his temples. Harry would never have dreamed that he would hear Snape speak so frankly, or in such personal terms. He viewed him uncertainly, not knowing whether to say anything, the loathing he had felt only moments ago now receding before Snape’s evident distress. Snape sighed and resumed his account,

“It was shortly before the raids were due to begin… I remembered that, in my haste to answer the Dark Lord’s summons, I had failed to re-set the protective passwords on my laboratory. I Apparated back to the Manor at once, but it was already too late. My mother had gained access. She had taken a lethal combination of potions - overdosed on them. For a short time she experienced a massive resurgence of her magical powers. It was all too much. She became deranged and used the Death Curse on my father. Then she turned it on herself. She was dead by the time I arrived home. They both were. Both lying on the floor in the banqueting hall. There was nothing I could do.”

“So what did you do?”

“Apparated straight back to take part in the raid. I had no choice. The Dark Lord expected total loyalty and commitment. One’s personal feelings came second to the glorious Cause.

“It seemed as though Fate were playing into my hands when I was one of the two Death Eaters allocated to Godric’s Hollow. I had to find some outlet for my grief - James presented himself as an ideal target. It was lucky that he was out at the time of the raid. Had he been there I should undoubtedly have killed him, ‘blood bond’ or not.”

That was one wizard custom Harry did know about: the debt of loyalty owed by one wizard to another who had saved his life. James had, at the last minute, prevented Snape from entering the Shrieking Shack; Snape, much as he hated it, had been indebted to him.

Snape continued bitterly,

“You can’t expect me to go into the details of what happened next - use your imagination. But it wasn’t a question of pleasure. I will not lie to you, Potter, or make excuses. It was a brutal, sordid business; it was bestial, demeaning for everyone involved. I hardly knew what I was doing - …not at my most rational…”

Snape’s narrative deteriorated into a series of ungrammatical phrases; he seemed to be talking to himself:

“…couldn’t tell anyone. …should have been more careful. …done something to prevent it… should never have left them …no passwords…”

Then, grasping at a lingering shred of objectivity,

“I was so angry, Potter. Angry with myself, with my parents, with James, with the whole god-forsaken world. I was impelled to retaliate. It was nothing to do with Lily, she was the victim in all this. I just knew that by abusing her I would be inflicting an even deeper wound on James’ male pride. It all comes down to pride. Such things were important to James. But really, the fact that I was there, and not at the house of some other witch, was co-incidental. I did not deliberately set out to hurt your mother.”

“What was the point?” Harry asked fiercely. “Why do it to them at all? What did you achieve? What had that got to do with your ‘noble Cause’?”

“No point. There was no point. It was pure, senseless intimidation. An exercise of power, wanton cruelty, debauchery, sadism - call it what you will. Another notch on a Death Eater’s wand. I’m not proud of it.

“I have lived with the spectres of that day for over sixteen years,” Snape ended very quietly, an admission of anguish whispered to the wind.

The poles of sympathy and censure tempered Harry’s heart:

“And you expect me to feel sorry for you?”

“I expect nothing from anyone. Nothing at all.”

And he walked off into the night, leaving Harry alone.