Severus Snape was just sitting himself down to a relaxing night of reading when the door of his study burst open.

Sweet Merlin, it was Potter.

The last person on Earth he wanted to see, and there he was, hands on his hips, face livid. Nursing his glass of scotch, Snape stood.

“Another detention, Potter, and I expect a full explanation of just why you feel it necessary to burst into my office at seven o’clock at night.”

Potter’s answer caught him completely off-guard.

“How come your nose is so big?” The boy complained, scratching at his nose, which had indeed turned into something somewhat resembling Snape’s own, although without being hooked.

Raising an eyebrow, the man said silkily, “Sit down, Potter, and stop whinging like an over-grown child. You are sixteen.”

“I’m quite aware of my age, thanks,” Harry snarled, dropping into a chair opposite Snape.

“Ten points from Gryffindor. I expect you to show more respect toward a professor.” Toward your father. Snape shook the words from his head, downing the scotch in a single gulp. That felt a little better.

“Sorry, professor.” The boy bit his lip angrily, green eyes flashing with fury. He snapped his fingers simultaneously, frowning at the jars of slimy substances adorning the walls. “So what’s it like—your house, I mean. Some big, stuffy mansion?”

Snape coughed, setting the glass down on his desk. “Respect, Potter. That will be another, say, thirty points from Gryffindor, and what my house is like is irrelevant. You will be going there whether it is a “stuffy mansion” or a shack on the Thames.”

“And what if I decide not to?”

The boy was really testing his limits, wasn’t he? Fortunately, Snape had someone else to place the blame on tonight. “You will obey the headmaster, Potter. End of discussion.”

“If this is what it’s going to be like, then I’m out,” Harry said scornfully.

“If it’s going to be like what, may I ask?”

“Your...You know perfectly well what I mean! I won’t do it. I can forget everything. I’ll cast a memory charm on myself if I have to.”

“It would be my pleasure to cast it, I assure you,” Snape sneered. Ah, if only things were that simple. Pity.

“Fine.” The boy stood brashly, storming out of the room once again.

Impertinent fool. He would have to be broken of this running away habit. If Snape had ever walked out on his father with such blatant disrespect... “And don’t expect me to call you dad, or anything!” the boy called back. Reluctantly, Snape rose for his feet and went after Potter. That blasted boy would be his downfall one of these days.

“Potter!” With two deliberate strides, Snape planted himself right in front of Harry, grasping the boy’s robes in his outstretched fist and slamming him, none too gently, into the stone wall. Harry gasped. “You fool,” Snape hissed. “Do you really think it wise to run around the dungeons, around the entrance to the Slytherin common room, broadcasting this situation? Think, Potter! Who do you know in Slytherin that would go to any length to see your demise? Whose father is a known Death Eater? Who?”

Harry blinked, reality washing over him like a douse of ice cold water. “Malfoy,” he whispered, eyes darting around, as though expecting the blond boy to round the corner at any minute. “And get off me.”

“Into my office at once, boy,” Snape ordered, shoving Harry back down the hall. His eyes were glittering dangerously, nostrils flared. Indigent and stubborn as always, Harry did his best to slow them down, dragging his feet along the corridor until Snape snatched him up by the back of his robes and half-dragged, half-marched him back into the office. “It is time you and I had a little chat...”

It seemed to Harry that he had been sitting in Snape’s office for decades, listening to the man drone on about respect and prudence. Now he was asking about the Dursleys. Harry straightened in his chair, not wanting to give anything away, and said stiffly, “My relatives are irrelevant, sir.”

Gritting his teeth furiously, Snape allowed himself a single moment to fantasize tossing the retched boy out of the window. Quoting his own words, the nerve of that boy.

“How did you behave around your muggle relations, Potter?” He paced the space in front of Harry, wand held behind his back, greasy black hair swooping with each change in direction. Not waiting for the boy’s answer, he plowed on, “With the same lack of disrespect, I am sure. No doubt they pampered you, boy. You must have been the king of their universe, but let me share a little secret with you—I am not going to pamper you. I will treat you as I treat every other student here, regardless of...other circumstances. You have earned yourself a very low place in my esteem, Potter, and recent events will do absolutely nothing to change that fact. You are a reckless, impulsive, selfish fool, and I will most certainly not allow such behaviour from someone of my—the same rules that apply to the students in my house now apply to you, boy, and I expect you to follow them.”

“And what are they, sir?” Harry sat coolly in his chair, po faced, scratching his nose. It felt so big. Well, it least it wasn’t hooked.

“You will address me with the due respect! You will follow my direction without question! I happen to know just a tad more about life than you, Potter!” He took a moment to calm himself, not wanting the situation to get any more out of control than it already was. “I expect your grades in my classroom to be exemplary. Your behaviour in my classroom—in anywhere—should be beyond what it expected by everyone else. There will be no late-night strolls around the castle, no trips to the Forbidden Forest. I know you, Potter, and I know how your weak mind works. This is not the time for childish games and naïve shows of strength! You will follow the rules I set, or—”

“Or what?” Harry asked calmly, sounding far more collected than he felt. Snape’s glare was enough to make him reconsider what he was about to say, but he went on anyway. Impulsive fool! The words echoed around in his brain, taunting him. Everything was a lie. The man you believed in was a bully, his victim is your father! Where is James Potter now, Harry? Would he have even wanted you if he knew? Would he want Snivellus’s bastard? And what of Sirius? He saw only James in you. He wouldn’t have cared anymore. He wouldn’t have died for you. “Or what? Are you going to give me detention? What will you do, ground me?” It was almost laughable, but the heavy atmosphere of Snape’s office and the reality of what was really happened made it more serious. Snivellus’s bastard.

Snape’s hand appeared, it seemed, out of thin air, heading straight for Harry’s head.

He ducked, but it didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t being hit. The man was merely reaching for his bottle of scotch. Snape moved slowly, pouring himself a glass before replacing the bottle on the desk, then sipping it at a snail’s pace, as though searching for an answer. Finally, his mouth opened, expelling a single terrifying question, “Do you remember today’s lesson, Potter?”

Throat-Constricting potions. Harry’s mouth went bone dry. Snape was going to make him swallow a Throat-Constricting potion. He tried to say something, but his mind wasn’t making connection with his mouth. No! Snape wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

“Of course I’m not going to make you swallow a Throat-Constricting potion, you fool!” Relief. That was okay then. Certainly there wasn’t much the man could do. “Today’s lesson, Potter! Think, dammit! Use that blasted brain of yours for once.”

Today’s lesson...He couldn’t remember it. There was Colin coming in, Harry getting in trouble, Dumbledore’s news, running. He went to the Room of Requirement, finding solace in the cupboard under the stairs. But what had the bloody lesson been about?

“You don’t remember? Tut, tut. Not so great are we, Potter?” Snape was smirking, obviously enjoying himself. He leaned close to Harry’s face, black eyes boring into bright green. “Imagine,” he said loftily, stepping back, “having to look like me for the rest of your life.” There it was, that spark of fear in Potter’s eyes. Just the reaction he needed in order to knock some sense into the boy. “Oh, yes,” he drawled, flicking his wand at a row of vials lining the wall. A small, crystalline substance zoomed into his hand before being shoved under Harry’s nose. “I can make you immune to any glamourie. Your genetic will take full control, changing your appearance a bit more than would be comfortable.” Snape’s voice was dangerously low, a determined, hard look gleaming in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t,” Harry breathed, breaking the mood. “It would be too dangerous. People would recognize me right away.”

“You think so?” Snape shook his head. “What if Harry Potter was sent away to prepare for the war? What if he sent letters to his friends, backing up that story? I could arrange it quite nicely, you know. Harry Potter leaves. Padriac Snape arrives at a private school of magic in Italy. By law, I can send you to any school I wish. I can legally or illegally arrange for your name to be changed, your entire identity.”

“You’re a bastard. You’re such a sardonic bas—” Harry started, his voice finding some hidden inner strength.

“No,” Snape corrected. “By technicality, Potter, you are the bastard.” His words were biting and cold, yet truthful. Harry was, in every technical sense of the word, an illegitimate bastard. It was enough to make him want to rip off Snape’s smug, pale face.

Harry jumped to his feet, face pink, fists trembling. It was a battle not to take out his wand and curse every inch of Snape he could reach, a battle almost lost. He couldn’t help the mistakes other people made. The mistakes his parents made. Why the hell was Snape playing this off as if it was somehow Harry’s fault? Because Lilly wasn’t here to explain? Because the years of believing he was tormenting the son of his old enemy turned out to be lies? Filthy lies. The last time Harry had left this office, he was being chased out with jars of slimy things thrown at him. This scene now, devoid of any yelling or violence, with only a deadly serious potions master and a glass of scotch, seemed somehow surreal. He felt himself moving again, out the door, down the hall. Snape simply stood and watched. Stood stock-still and watched him walk away, that awful smirk still playing on his face.

O O O

The common room was mostly empty when Harry arrived. The Creevey brothers waved from a far corner where they had been working on defense spells. Hermione was sitting at a table with a pile of homework and a grumpy Ron, mouthing over and over again if he was okay. He ignored her, rushing past the piles of homework, pushing Ron out of the way.

You wouldn’t care if you knew. You wouldn’t even pretend to like me anymore, not for a minute. You wouldn’t want to be friends with Snivellus’s greasy bastard.

The dormitory was silent, a welcome sound to his buzzing ears. It was calm, almost serene. He dropped heavily onto his bead, pulling the curtains clothes.

Dean and Neville and Seamus slept on.

Inside his cocoon of blankets and pillows, Harry was lying on his side, his legs drawn up, forming a kind of demented “S”. He closed his eyes, focusing on regulating his breath. What had Remus been telling him all summer? “Focus on just breathing, Harry. Just breath, just be. In and out. Just keep breathing.” If only it were so easy. Harry’s throat felt as if it was slowly closing up. He thought back to the vial in Snape’s office and his breath went shaky again. Just breath, Harry. In and out, that’s it.

It was getting hot under the blankets, but he made no move to rearrange them. The sweltering heat was a relief to the numbness in his body. He tried to focus on sleeping, repeating the word over and over again. It was an old trick he’d invented to solve sleepless nights in the cupboard under the stairs. Sleep, Harry. Sleep and forget today. Give yourself a couple of hours to escape.

As he was beginning to drift of, Harry could have sworn he heard Dumbledore whispering, “Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it.”

And he really couldn’t give a damn.

O O O

The next few days seemed to Harry to be the longest he’d ever experienced. All of his professors seemed to have some vendetta against him. Snape’s classes, by far, were the worst. It took all of his energy to keep himself from launching off the desk and shoving his pestle down the greasy git’s throat. Unfortunately, such actions would probably land him in far more trouble than was wise, so he restrained himself, but barely.

“Your Dreamless-Sleep Elixirs should now be dark green,” Snape announced, regarding Harry’s cement-like concoction contemptuously. “Twenty points from Gryffindor, for failing to follow direction.”

“But that’s not fair!” Harry burst, his fists clenched. He watched Neville battling his own cauldron, which was spewing what appeared to be tar. Next to him, Hermione sneezed, tugging discreetly on his robes. He ignored her.

“Another twenty points,” Snape snarled, emptying Harry’s cauldron with a flick of his wand. Leaning in close so that only Harry could hear, he hissed venomously, “And the next time you wish to speak, you will raise your hand, Padriac.”

Harry spent the rest of the lesson gritting his teeth in suppressed rage.

“Can you believe the nerve him? I mean, where does he come off docking all those points off Gryffindor like that? Mine wasn’t the only bad potion,” Harry exploded, pushing past a group of second year girls that were ogling him.

“I know, Harry,” Hermione said, sounding tired. “But since when has Snape ever been fair?”

Adjusting the strap on his bag, Harry rounded the corner to the Great Hall, biting his lip. “Well, he never has to me, has he? But you’d think he’d lay off once in a while, especially considering...” He trailed off, quite aware of the fact that he had almost revealed the secret to Hermione in the middle of a crowded corridor.

“Considering what?” Oh, no. She sounded interested.

“Well, it was sort of his fault Sirius died, wasn’t it? Partly, anyway—Oh, look, it’s Ron!”

Ron had arrived just as Hermione was about to open herself, saving Harry from a possible row.

“How was potions?”

The trio quickly found seats at the Gryffindor table, eying the food ravenously.

“Horrible,” Harry expelled miserably, pushing his peas around. “Lost at least fifty points for us, haven’t I?”

“Excellent, excellent,” Ron said absently, stuffing his face with bread and chicken. “Free period all morning, and I haven’t got any homework to ruin it with!”

Hermione sputtered, dropping her goblet of pumpkin juice with a heavy “clunk”. “How come? You’ve got Transfiguration just the same as me and Harry, and McGonagall assigned a huge essay. You can’t mean to say you’ve already finished yours?” She stared hard at Ron’s face, scrutinizing him. It was obvious that Hermione believe Ron to be lying. Sadly, Harry found he had to agree with her.

“Not anymore, I haven’t,” Ron announced confidently, pushing away his plate to grab a massive chocolate chip cookie from one of the plates that had suddenly appeared in front of him.

“And how come?” Hermione sounded suspicious. Harry busied himself with his food.

Ron patted his prefect’s badge contentedly, finishing off the cookie and following with a gulp of pumpkin juice. Smacking his lips, he boasted, “Well, I’ll be off then. Lot’s of time to kill, you know. Think I might go see Seamus. His mum’s sent him a signed poster of the Chudley Cannons!”

Before he could leave, however, Hermione, with her eyes narrowed to slits, started forward, seizing him by the collar.

“Ron, you didn’t!”

“Erm, did what, exactly?” Ron was suddenly looking very interested in Lavender Brown’s new hat, which she was displaying loudly.

“You did, didn’t you? Oh, Ron.”

“Did what?” Harry and Ron asked at the same time.

Hermione glared at them each in turn before responding with a hissed, “Who’s writing it for you?”

Harry was still hopelessly lost, while Ron stared at the ground, his ears turning bright red.

“Oh, come on, Hermione, it’s not like it matters, anyway! When am I honestly going to have to know the twelve properties of furniture transfiguration?”

“Who?” Hermione demanded.

“ThisfourthyearRomildaVane,” Ron muttered, looking to Harry for support. Harry shrugged. He didn’t want to get involved in another row.

“Who?”

“Romilda Vane. I promised her I’d get Harry to write her a note—sorry, mate,” he added, nodding to Harry, who, once again, shrugged as though he didn’t care. He had to expect people would be curious about him still, and for some reason, a lot of girls suddenly seemed very interested in the boy who the Prophet was now calling the ‘Chosen One’.

“Ron!”

“What? Harry doesn’t mind, you saw!” Ron jeered back defensively, his hands clutched into fists. “And if you have such a problem with it, then you can stay away from me!”

“I only have a problem with it, because it’s an abuse of your power as a Prefect,” Hermione snarled, flipping her hair. “And you know it’s wrong, too, Ronald Weasley, so don’t act as if I’m the only one singling you out!”

“Fine!”

Harry sighed as the two stalked off, frowning. He thought they had solved the bickering last year. Figuring there was no use in sticking around when he wasn’t hungry, he stood and started to leave, but was distracted by Remus’s rather obvious absence, and the pointed glare that Snape was shooting his way. That could only mean one thing: Harry was in some kind of trouble for something he probably didn’t do, and Snape didn’t want him going anywhere. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he dropped back onto the bench. This had better be good.

After what seemed like ages, the Great Hall slowly began to empty. At Snape’s bidding, Harry remained where he was seated, waiting for the man to summon him. At long last, the Hall emptied, and Snape waved the boy up to the professor’s table, lazily sipping from a glass of what appeared to be white wine.

However, when he looked up, Snape was gone.

Cursing the man, Harry made his way off to Gryffindor tower to begin work on his essay.

“Snape! Hey, Snape!” It was Draco Malfoy. His blond hair shone under the bright sun above. “Snape!”

Harry glanced around, looking for the professor. He was nowhere to be found, so why was Malfoy still calling?

“Finally! I’ve only been calling you for the last six minutes,” the boy drawled, leveling with Harry.

Harry looked around, but there was no one behind him. In fact, him and Malfoy were the only ones in the hallway period. “I was in a hurry,” he heard his own voice snap, cold and indifferent. “What do you want?”

Malfoy smirked, pulling a newspaper clipping from his bag. Harry snatched it eagerly, scanning the page.

HARRY POTTER ABANDONS WIZARD-KIND?

It is believed that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, has left the people he was supposed to protect to save his own life, writes Rita Skeeter, a correspondent for the Daily Prophet. Potter mysteriously disappeared one night two weeks ago and has not been seen since. The headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, was not available for comment, but we did get this message from the school...

Harry stopped reading, his eyes wide in horror. Malfoy was laughing. “Pretty good, huh? I always knew Potter would run one day. Imagine thousands of people placing their lives in the hands of a stupid Gryffindor. It’s absurd.”

“And what about the Dark Lord? What is he planning now that Potter is gone?” He fought to keep the anxiety out of his voice. He couldn’t give himself away, not now. His life was at risk here. Malfoy could kill him. There was no one around, he thought, remembering the Voldemort from his vision last year. No one to hear you scream.

“I don’t know, but my father says it will change everything. With Potter safely out of the way, the tables are turned. We’re going to win the war.”

“The war?” Harry blinked. Malfoy was no longer standing before him. It was Dumbledore now, his blue eyes serious, their mystical twinkle having dimmed.

“Yes, Padriac, I’m afraid this will greatly affect the war. We need you back, as Harry.”

He could feel his chest tightening. Dumbledore’s gaze was intense, piercing. “No,” he said softly. “I can’t be Harry Potter again. Don’t you understand? I’m not James Potter’s son. I’m the bastard saviour of people who, up until my eleventh birthday, I had no idea even existed. My mother died for the wrong cause. I’m the Death Eater’s son, the double-crossing spy. People don’t want me anymore. They want Harry Potter, professor, and I can’t be him anymore. I can’t be anyone.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were misty. “I was afraid you would say that, Harry.”

Dumbledore’s beard began to shrink. Snape stood in his place, cold and calculating, his wand drawn and pointed at Harry.

“I told you to concentrate, boy! I told you to focus!” His eyes were hard and stormy, filled with disgust, with loathing for the sight before him. Harry bowed his head.

“I’m trying, sir! It’s a bit difficult when you’re screaming at me!”

His cheek was stinging as Snape’s open palm pulled away, the skin turned red from the impact. “Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you disrespected me again? Didn’t I tell you?”

Uncle Vernon was glaring down, a broomstick in his hand, mustache quivering with fury. His beet red face was trembling with suppressed rage. “I told you! Get out of my sight, boy! I can’t stand to look at your disgusting face a second longer!”

“Look a your face. You look just like him.” Sirius was glaring. “Why did you come here? I didn’t need your help. I could have done this all by myself.”

Ron’s ears were pink. His pale face stuck out, eerily white in the gathering darkness. “I didn’t need help from some greasy git! Get away from me!”

“Get away from me!” Remus was transforming, his face contorted with pain. “It hurts, Harry, I know it does, but you have to stand back! You can’t help this.”

His mother. She looked so sad. Her green eyes were dim and brimming with tears. “You couldn’t help this, Harry, dear. You couldn’t help any of it. It was a mistake.”

“A bloody mistake! That’s all you were.” James was pacing, his jaw tense. “You were supposed to have been mine!”

It was Voldemort, his red eyes flashing, bloody dripping from his mouth. His nostril slits widened. “You were my prize! You were mine!” Cedric and Mr. Crouch were floating behind Voldemort, watching the scene somberly. His parents and Sirius stood together in a small group. His mother’s eyes were so sad. And Dumbledore, his chin trembled ominously, the silent figure of Snape glaring from his side, and suddenly his scar was erupting in pain. It seared his skin, crimson blood falling in thick droplets on the clean white snow. Filch was screaming.

“YOU KILLED MY CAT! THAT BOY KILLED MY CAT! HE GOT MUD IN THE HALLWAYS, AND NOW THIS. BLOOD ON MY CLEAN SNOW. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK TO WHITEN THIS? BLOOD ON MY SNOW!”

His scar was splitting open. His visions doubled, tripled. No one moved to help him. They all watched. Somber. Stationary. It was like a show. Dudley and his friends poked through the zoo bars, laughing at the sign above his cage.

HARRY POTTER: THE BOY WHO LIVED Watch him scream. The saviour of the wizarding world, the illegitimate snake. Watch him die.

“It’s the serpent’s son!”

The were chasing him, laughing and screaming, wands outstretched. “Get him! Kill the serpent’s son!”

Harry Potter awoke, doused in a cold sweat, his Transfiguration essay sticking to his chin like SuperGlue. Frowning, he rubbed furiously at his scar. The pain had lessened, but there was still a dull throbbing in his forehead. He blinked furiously, packing up his essay and heading off to bed.

It was going to be a long year.