Harry awoke the next morning wondering what time it was and why Ron hadn't woken him as he usually did when Harry was late. There were no sounds of the other occupants of his dormitory – in fact, there was no sound at all. He cracked open one, heavy eye lid and –

“Aah!” He scrambled out of bed, promptly fell out on the other side with his legs in the air, tied in a jumble of bedclothes. He groaned, “ow.”

“Is Harry Potter wanting breakfast, sir?” Dobby asked elatedly, and Harry was suddenly confronted by brilliant upside-down orbs beneath the bed, peering at him from the opposite side.

“Morning, Dobby,” Harry mumbled tiredly. He grabbed the pillow that had tumbled with him, placed it under his head, and closed his eyes. I'm not moving until I wake up from this nightmare, he whined internally. Until he heard the ominous click of heels on the frigid stone floor coming towards him. Ugh, not now. Not when I'm still half-asleep.

“Potter? Why on Earth are you floundering in your own limbs?” Professor Snape asked irritably. Harry mumbled something into his pillow that the Potions Master didn't catch. Snape sighed impatiently. “Speak only when you are not in the process of smothering yourself.”

Harry lifted his head slightly, using his elbows for support.

“Don't let my suicide concern you, Professor,” he said in a would-be cheerful tone. He then flopped back down into the pillow and attempted to ignore the hovering Professor. Snape had apparently had his fill of him for that day and stalked away.

“Harry Potter, sir?” A voice squeaked uncertainly. What have I done to deserve this? That's right. Existed.

“Whazit, Dobby?” Harry asked irritably from within the folds of the pillow.

“Is Harry Potter wanting breakfast, sir?”

Harry sighed.

“Yeah, please,” he raised his head and lowered his legs from the bed. Dobby was in front of him now, wearing an assortment of the oddest clothes Harry had ever seen, including what appeared to be a multi-coloured, striped Muggle mini-skirt, which came past his knees (slightly resembling a rainbow kilt) and a bright purple, too-large halter top that he was wearing as an apron over an otherwise bare chest. On his head there was a knobbly bobble hat in a bright yellow with one large, green badge that had the words “Happy St. Patrick's Day” written in large, over-bearing orange writing.

The House-Elf was also holding a silver-plated tray in the shape of the Hogwarts emblem, full to bursting with various breakfast cuisines. Bacon, eggs, toast, cereal, porridge; everything Harry would have been able to eat in the Great Hall. At least he wasn't denied the simple pleasure of breakfast, even if he was being denided his freedom. He supposed he could live with that ... for a certain amount of time.

Dobby set the tray down on the floor in front of him. Harry quietly began eating his breakfast, ignoring the other occupant of their prison and listening with half an ear to Dobby's incessant chatter. He spoke of Winky, how he enjoyed his days off and so on. If this had been a lesson and Harry was expected to complete an exam on this general trivia he would have received nothing above a T.

“And Winky is saying that Dobby is a bad elf, but Dobby is knowing better, sir. Winky is not liking freedom, sir, but Dobby is stopping her drinking. Winky is getting better now, Harry Potter. But Winky is still not understanding that Mr Crouch is sacking her, sir. Winky is still believing that she is Mr Crouch's elf. Dobby is telling Winky that she is being Professor Dumbledore's house-elf now -”

He chattered away as Harry ate and nodded appropriately at the correct prompts, unwittingly ignoring the other occupant of the room.

“Dobby is buying new socks with his wages, sir, and he is having two days off next month. And -”

Dobby disappeared with a crack without even finishing his next sentence or even an adoring, 'goodbye Harry Potter, sir!' He'd just gone. Harry glanced towards Snape and glimpsed a thin wand disappearing up his right sleeve. He'd banished Dobby from the room.

“That's hardly fair!” exclaimed Harry indignantly. When did I morph into Hermione? He wondered vaguely. Snape just glared at him, and Harry was getting sick and tired of it. Ignoring him wasn't going to get Snape anywhere. “He wasn't doing any harm, was he? And he wasn't going to stay for very long -”

The Potions Master was quick to stride up to him. He furiously grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and forced him roughly against the side of the bed. Snape's usually stony gaze was burning with a rage Harry had never witnessed. It was glaring into his very soul, charring it as obsidian as the eyes achieving the deed.

“I have had just about enough of you, Potter,” hissed Snape viperously, tightening the brutish grip he had around Harry's throat. “I have had enough of you for a lifetime.”

Harry attempted a reply but his slowly diminishing breathing wouldn't allow it. He tried to concentrate on getting oxygen into his lungs instead of the greasy, overly-large nose that was mere inches from his own, and ignored the deadly, dilated eyes boring into him. The room seemed to freeze as the two stared at one another, paralysed.

As quickly as Snape's anger came, it receded and he frowned slightly in apparent confusion, though he hastily hid it. He sharply spun on his heel and turned his back to Harry, but didn't stride away as he usually did. The tension in his shoulders didn't lessen but something about his demeanour changed, or so it seemed to Harry.

Harry glimpsed a wand in Snape's right hand. He stiffened. That's it. Snape is off his rocker. I've decided. He edged along the bed, attempting to creep away from Snape to find a more defensible position. As it was, he wouldn't have a hope of blocking an attack.

But then ... Snape started laughing. A low, nearly unheard snip of humourless mirth. Harry could only stare, wide-eyed, as Snape turned swiftly back to him, wand in hand, a small grin of vile resentment on his sallow face. He announced bitterly, “it appears, Mr Potter, that we have been had.”

Harry could only blink dumbly at him.

“Had?” asked Harry suspiciously, still poised for something unexpected. What it was, he wasn't entirely sure. It was just going to happen.

“Indeed,” sneered Snape, the grin vanishing. “It would seem the Headmaster felt the situation deserved a correct direction in which to travel. He has placed another charm on the room, a charm he apparently did not feel was worth mentioning. Senex Senis.”

At Harry's blank look, he continued scathingly with an irritable sigh, “really, do you not learn anything in any of your other lessons either? And here I believed that Potions was a special exception. The Senex Charm – as it is more commonly known - is a spell that, when cast correctly, heightens the feelings and the very personality of the person it is placed upon. A spell that essentially works in the same way as Veritaserum, it makes it extremely difficult for the bewitched to hide his emotions from others. It is most often used by Medi-witches and wizards in the field of psychology.” Snape sneered loathingly at that. It was all Harry could do not to imitate him.

How dare Dumbledore! How dare he! As though locking the two of them in wasn't bad enough, now he'd placed a spell on the room that was driving the two of them completely mental! Harry opened and closed his mouth angrily for a moment, beside himself.

“How could he – barmy, old – how dare -” He couldn't string a sentence together. He stomped away from Snape and towards the sealed classroom door and kicked it furiously, hurting his toe in the process. But he didn't care, the pain barely registered. Snape merely watched him silently, studying him. Harry gave the door one last thud for good measure before turning away and leaning against it, arms crossed and thoroughly sulking.

“I suppose this -” Snape gestured impatiently to Harry, “is one of the effects of the spell. Though it wouldn't surprise me if it were otherwise,” he scathingly added. Harry flushed slightly, suddenly feeling rather foolish. Now that he thought about it, that wasn't like him – not usually, at any rate. He didn't go around the school picking fights with inanimate objects.

“So that's why -” said Harry feebly, gesturing towards Snape and rather afraid to continue. The Potions Master simply cocked an eyebrow at him.

“So it would seem,” Snape said icily. “I had wondered as to the cause of your bolder retorts last night.” Harry grinned sheepishly at that.

“They usually stay in my head,” he said with a shrug, as he went to sit on the bed.

“As they should,” said Snape warningly. “The moment we are released I will hold you entirely responsible for any and all of your actions. My leniency thus far will not last, I can assure you.”

Harry nodded mutely. This was progress, he supposed, despite Snape's threat. And the more progress they made the sooner they'd be able to escape their prison and finally returning to comfortably loathing each other. That is how they dealt.

“So, when I was saying that you're completely mental, technically I was right?” Harry inquired curiously. Snape glared at him. I was! He thought incredulously. He quickly changed the subject before Snape went off on a tangent. “Erm – about this spell. Isn't there a counter curse or something?”

“No,” said the Potions Master angrily. He seemed frustrated with himself. “The general rule is that nought but the caster may remove it using the same wand and the Novus incantation. It makes it an extremely difficult spell to break, unless you are a wizard of supreme power. The Dark Lord, perhaps, may be the only being powerful enough to break a charm of the Headmasters.”

Harry deflated slightly. Now they were going to be stuck like this? They were both emotional wrecks! As things were, Harry guessed they wouldn't be released for the next three months. Something occurred to him then.

“Do you usually feel like killing me, then?” Harry asked nonchalantly, trying to appear unconcerned. Snape shrugged slightly, but didn't say anything. “So, it's not the spell?”

“I don't like children, Mr Potter. At one time or another I always want to kill someone,” scowled Snape. “The charm is emphasising it. It's making me pursue the impulse.”

“Once a Death Eater ...” sighed Harry. The Potions Master sent him a venomous glare and he quickly retreated to study a row of shelves. He didn't particularly desire to encourage Snape's more murderous emotions towards him.

He suddenly felt as though he were in one of those Muggle horror films he'd glimpsed when Dudley bought a new video unbeknownst to his mother. Harry was the victim, trapped in a house (or in this case, room) with Snape, the mad axe-murderer. And there would be no one to hear him scream or help him if the Potions Master chose to give in to his impulses. Harry promised himself then, if he died he was going to haunt Dumbledore for the remainder of the old wizard's life. If he didn't, he was going to give him and whoever decided that this was a way of “resolving their issues” an earful and perhaps give in to some of his own impulses.