He turned to Harry with a smile. “Allow me to tell you a story of one such betrayal.”

Voldemort’s pleasant tone belied the ice in his eyes.

Harry shook his head, not sure what good that would do, but needing to do something to show his defiance and unable to articulate any words. The truth, the awful truth, was that Voldemort’s words had drawn him in. He was deeply curious about his guarded professor, and now that this crazy, evil wizard had started telling him bits and pieces of Snape’s past, Harry was hanging on to every word.

“It began in a tavern,” Voldemort began. “An old, filthy, rundown tavern.” Harry saw another small movement from Snape out of the corner of his eye. It was hardly more than a twitch, but it was enough to reinforce that Snape didn’t want this, whatever this was, said out loud. Even though Harry had no choice but to listen, he felt guilty knowing that he wanted to listen. “Albus Dumbledore is not often the patron of such establishments, but then he had been attempting to fill that Divination post for quite some time.”

Harry’s mind took a few seconds to catch up to Voldemort’s words, but as soon as it did, his blood turned to ice. He suddenly knew exactly where this was going, what Voldemort was going to tell him about Snape, because he already knew this story. The Hog’s Head. Dumbledore’s interview with Trelawney. That’s where she had given him the prophecy about Harry. It had been overheard in part, and that someone had relayed it to Voldemort. He’d been told all about a boy born at the end of July sixteen years ago who needed to die. But Harry didn’t die. His parents did. The parents he didn’t remember, except for a horrid Dementor-induced scream…

He shook his head, trying to stave off Voldemort’s next words.

“Ah, you have put it together, I see,” Voldemort smiled as if proud of his best student. “And Severus used to assure me of your stupidity. More lies, I gather.”

“You’re lying,” Harry said through numb lips.

“Lying?” Voldemort mocked. “Why, I have yet to tell you anything. You yourself came to an astute conclusion. You see, you may boast of trust and loyalty, but you understand quite well what your professor is capable of doing in his own self-interest.”

Harry clenched his lips together and avoided looking at Snape. He was starting to feel angry, and he didn’t even know who it was directed at. Voldemort? Snape? Himself? Maybe even Dumbledore, for not telling him the truth. Harry had been right before: this was a sick, twisted, game.

“Severus Snape told me of the prophecy.” Voldemort apparently couldn’t let it go without speaking the harsh truth out loud. “It was entirely due to his devotion and loyalty to me that I knew you must die. He was elated to do such a service for our cause.” He took a step closer, waiting until Harry looked him in the eyes. “I watched your father fall to my feet in death. He put up a pitiful fight. It was over quickly. You should be glad of that. Severus would have preferred a more excruciating death for him. He loathed your father, you know. He gloated at his part in leading me to the proud James Potter.”

Harry gave up on avoiding Snape’s eyes. He looked at him full in the face, and Snape was looking straight back at him. His face was white, but there was no apology in his eyes, only confirmation. What Voldemort said was true. Snape didn’t even try to deny it or hide it. He held his head up high, and Harry didn’t know if the man was daring Harry to do something or resigned to whatever happened next. All he knew was that the man was as much as telling him that it was true, that he had made a choice more than sixteen years ago that had ruined Harry’s life. And he had gloated about it.

No. He shook his head in denial, sending a pleading look Snape’s way. This had to be a sick joke. Any second now, the man would reassure him. Maybe he was playing along because it was part of some odd plan to get them out of here. Or maybe…maybe it wasn’t quite how it sounded. Maybe Snape didn’t know what he was doing, or there was something else going on, or…or at the very least, he hadn’t celebrated his part in orphaning Harry.

Because he was starting to feel sick at the thought of all he had shared with this man over the past month, about letting him into his head and how much he’d come to depend on him, if all along he had been keeping this big of a secret. He absently clutched at the fabric over his stomach. Who knew betrayal would feel so much like nausea?

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asked Snape, ignoring the wobble in his voice. Snape’s silence was fanning his anger. If any of what Voldemort said was true, the man had no right to not explain himself to Harry.

Snape’s lips were whiter than his face, Harry’s only clue that he felt anything at all, and still he stayed silent.

Harry took a step closer. “Say something,” he ordered, his anger giving strength to his voice.

Snape watched him for a few seconds before saying evenly, “What he says is true.” He clenched his lips shut and continued to hold Harry’s gaze, and Harry knew that was all he was going to get out of the man.

He was hardly aware of raising the wand, but once it was pointed at Snape, he couldn’t bring himself to lower it. It made him feel more in control of the situation. His body trembled with confusion and betrayal and anger. What’s more, he wanted to cry for what might have been. If only Snape hadn’t been at that tavern that night, or if he had chosen to keep what he’d heard to himself, Harry might still have parents today. He wouldn’t have had to live with the Dursleys, wouldn’t have had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs or search through a rubbish bin for scraps of food or learn how to hide bruises beneath his over-sized rags. He would have been loved.

Voldemort’s laugh should have been enough to bring him back from whatever hazy state of anger and grief that he was swimming in, but it wasn’t. He knew he was making the wizard happy, that he was letting him win by so much as pointing the wand at Snape - even if he had no idea of actually using it - but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not even when Snape continued to look at him with those horrible resigned eyes, that silent confirmation made worse by a lack of emotion. How dare he act all stoic! He ruined Harry’s life! He didn’t have the right to bury his emotions when Harry couldn’t bury his. He wanted to scream and rage at his professor, and the only thing stopping him was their audience of Voldemort and ten or so of his Death Eaters.

Voldemort stepped back, seemingly content to let matters take their course. Harry hardly noticed. He adjusted his grip on the wand, made difficult by the sticking charm. Nobody was actively seeking to harm him right now, so he was free to give himself over to the emotions coursing through him. The problem was that there were so many. He had always been bad at controlling his emotions, but now he felt so many, and they were warring for dominance. Confusion, grief, regret, anger, betrayal, disbelief. More confusion. And all of those emotions were compounded by his pounding headache and the aches and trembles running through his body from his recent ordeals. He knew he could very easily cry tears of grief and frustration, so he let more anger take hold to chase those away until later. He could give himself over to tears when he was alone. Right now he was pointing a wand at his professor, and he couldn’t bring himself to use it, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower it either. He was a statue. A shaking statue.

“Aw,” Bellatrix’s voice made him shudder, “Wee wittle baby Potter is going to cry!” She laughed, and others joined in.

Harry tore his eyes away from Snape to glance at their audience, and it didn’t help his anger to see how happy they were that his world was being torn apart. When he saw Lucius Malfoy, he remembered what the man had said when he’d visited Harry’s cell. I’ll wager you will be quite willing to turn over your precious professor. Is this what he had meant? Had he been biding his time, waiting for this moment so that he could watch his former friend be abandoned or murdered by the Boy Who Lived? Lucius’s eyes didn’t tell him anything. They only watched him steadily, a slight smirk and the lift of his chin the only sign that he knew Harry remembered his words. Harry had scoffed, said it would never happen, that he wouldn’t stop trusting Snape. Lucius hadn’t believed him.

Harry hadn’t known about this.

His inner turmoil must not have been exciting enough for Voldemort, as the wizard broke the silence to continue his tale, rubbing more salt into the wound. “Your mother’s death was less quick. She begged for me to spare your life. Stupid woman. She should have taken the chance to live. Instead, she died with a scream on her lips.”

Harry flinched at the memory of those screams. He almost missed Snape’s mirroring flinch, but he looked back in time to see it. He also didn’t miss the way Snape shifted his gaze to the left, no longer looking Harry in the eyes, or the way that the professor’s face blanched with an indefinable emotion.

“I enjoyed those screams,” Voldemort said gleefully. “I enjoyed killing your mother, and I owe thanks to Severus Snape for that pleasure.”

Harry’s eyes never left Snape’s face. It had visibly paled, his lips even whiter than before. The man had less control over his features than Harry had ever seen, except perhaps for the times when he had been exceptionally angry at Harry. It gave him something to focus on besides the words that threatened to tear apart his composure. He didn’t want to hear about his parents’ deaths. He didn’t want the details, or to know what enjoyment their murderer had gotten from it. And- and Snape didn’t want to hear it either. It helped to see the unmistakable glimmer of grief in the man’s face. It didn’t mute the betrayal Harry felt, but it shocked him out of his anger long enough to remember the intensity of drowning in Snape’s grief during Occlumency lessons. That memory soothed his anger long enough for him to think and to observe. Like the fact that it was specifically Lily’s murder that Snape didn’t want to hear about. It was the mention of Lily that had brought that grief to the surface. And that the grief Harry had experienced alongside his professor had been so deep and so overwhelming that it had almost been too much to bear.

On instinct, he reached his wand-free hand into the pocket that held his mum’s small stone. He’d never gotten up the courage to ask Snape about Lily. The man still didn’t know that Harry knew about their friendship. Voldemort didn’t know he knew either, if the wizard even knew that Snape had been friends with Lily in the first place. But Harry did know. He knew that once upon a time, Lily had cared about Snape, and Snape had cared about Lily. And if Snape had been his mum’s letter’s recipient, and Harry was pretty sure he was, then he cared enough about her to keep an old piece of paper and a small and worthless stone for over twenty years, for no other reason than that she had given them to him.

He took a step back, his wand hand wavering, as his mind went into overdrive. Snape couldn’t have known the prophecy referred to the Potters. Even Dumbledore didn’t know for sure. Voldemort himself took a stab in the dark when he went after Harry. He shouldn’t have done what he’d done, no matter who it referred to, but if he had known it referred to Lily Potter, would that have convinced him to hold his tongue? And did he regret it when he found out? Did he try to stop it?

He studied Snape. The man had made a decent attempt to hide his grief, but he couldn’t hide his pain. His eyes were haunted. Harry could tell even though they wouldn’t meet his, and he wondered at how deeply Snape must feel that pain to not be able to hide it.

“Revenge is yours, Harry Potter. Take it.” Voldemort’s voice was an odd mixture of impatience and glee.

Harry took a deep breath, then another. He was breathing heavily, trying to get enough air in his lungs. He still felt the anger bubbling inside him, but there was something else alongside it now too: a calm rationality. Maybe even hope. There was more to this story. He might not like it, and it might be far worse than what he imagined, but then again…it might be better. He knew with a sudden, absolute certainty that he needed to hear the whole truth, and he needed to hear it from Snape. He couldn’t rely on Voldemort’s account, couldn’t let the evil maniac win. Not here or now, at least. He didn’t know if he could accept what Snape had done or extend forgiveness or refrain from ranting or kicking the man’s shin again (this time on purpose), but he couldn’t let his anger take over until he knew that the entire truth of what had happened was laid bare before him.

Not that he would do anything as extreme as to kill Snape even if his anger did take over. He wasn’t like Voldemort. And he wouldn’t play Voldemort’s games.

He lowered the wand.

Voldemort’s smile faltered.

Snape barely narrowed his eyes, now openly watching Harry watch him. Harry was gratified to see confusion in the man’s lowered brow. Good. Let him be unsettled for once. Let him be in the dark as to what was going on in Harry’s head. Harry might not be as vindictive as Voldemort wanted him to be, but he wasn’t a saint. His anger was subdued but still bubbled underneath the surface, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed for enjoying the momentary discomfort of the man who had caused him such pain.

“Kill him!” Voldemort raged. The man’s face had morphed into a gruesome scowl. He brandished his own wand and pointed it at Harry. “You know you want revenge. Take it!”

Harry licked his dry lips as he considered the situation. His own emotions were still churning and his hands were shaking, but Voldemort’s directive to kill Snape was as ridiculous as it had been before. Harry didn’t know if Voldemort was that out of touch with what normal people were willing to do, or if this was simply more of his madness showing.

“Kill him,” the wizard screeched.

He was betting on madness.

“No.” Harry’s voice echoed through the room. He hadn’t meant to say it so loudly, but he was sick and tired of this whole thing. Sick of being here, sick of Voldemort’s twisted ideas of fun, sick of being tortured and of feeling sore and achy and hungry every single second. And despite being in the midst of a life and death situation, he was also tired of not knowing just where he stood with Snape, and now add to that his uncertainty about where Snape stood with him. He didn’t need this. He needed to get out of here and save Ron and save all of his friends from a horrible fate. The last thing he needed right now was angst over things that had happened before he’d been out of nappies. It had already waited fifteen years to be dealt with. It could wait for a little while longer.

Voldemort strode closer, his wand pointing between Harry’s eyes. “You can’t possibly still trust him,” he seethed, slitted eyes impossibly narrowed, his face twisted in anger.

Harry glanced beyond Voldemort at Snape. The man was still watching, eyes still haunted, also still confused. They were unfamiliar expressions to Harry, who had learned Snape’s looks so well over the summer, but alongside them was Snape’s familiar thinking face. The man was pulling himself back from the edge of grief, and he was puzzling through the situation. Whether he was thinking up a way out of this or trying to figure out what was going on in Harry’s head, Harry didn’t know. But if it was the latter, he’d have a hard time because Harry hardly knew what was going on in his own head. Did he still trust Snape? He’d so very recently come to trust him, but not too long ago, he’d reasoned out that he could decide to trust him. That Other Harry thought it was important enough to hinge the war on, and he didn’t know why, but he believed that too, and so he could trust Snape with his actions, even if he didn’t trust him with his whole heart. Voldemort had given him doubts. But a few things were still the same: Snape was Dumbledore’s man now. He was on the right side of the war now. And he had as much as sacrificed his own life to come here and save Harry. Certainly that was enough to earn him the right to explain himself before Harry gave up on him in front of Voldemort and his minions.

All of Harry’s other choices had been taken away at this point, but he was still in control of this one.

He took a deep breath and looked Voldemort full in the face. “I do trust him,” he said more quietly than before, but no less adamant. He might be condemning them both to a long evening of pain by being so obstinate, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. What Voldemort wanted was something that he wasn’t even remotely capable of doing. Not to mention…something deep inside him was urging that this was the right call. He even thought that deep part of himself might be connected to his Inner Eye, the Other Harry, who had been so adamant that he trust Snape, even though he hadn’t told him why. That part of himself was urging that he not only needed to trust Snape, but that Snape himself needed to know that Harry trusted him.

Even so, he didn’t look away from Voldemort to see how Snape reacted to Harry’s declaration. He was too afraid that his face would betray his turmoil and that Snape would interpret it as doubt.

Voldemort stalked closer to him. His rage was on full display. “Do you know what he asked of me when I informed him that you were to die, Harry Potter?” The wizard stopped so close that Harry was forced to step back. “He asked that I spare your mother. Only her. He was content to see you and your father die by my hands.”

Harry swallowed against another rise of emotions. But that information wasn’t as shocking to him as the rest. It made sense that Snape would have asked that. He’d cared about Lily, and he’d hated James. He didn’t know anything about Harry except that he was a Potter. It showed how thoughtless and cruel Snape had been to throw a harmless baby into the discard pile, but it wasn’t shocking.

It actually gave Harry an idea, and with it, another hope to cling to.

Snape had been loyal to Voldemort when the prophecy was overheard, there was no question about that. But Harry was certain that he had completely turned on Voldemort by the time the Potters were killed. He was Dumbledore’s man by then. That wasn’t a lot of time for a complete one-eighty. Something had triggered it, something big enough to convince Dumbledore to trust him. Kneader’d said Snape was broken after the war…which was right after Harry’s parents died… Could it have something to do with the death of his closest childhood friend? A death he felt responsible for, that he had asked Voldemort not to carry out? Or was Harry making stupid conjectures because he desperately wanted there to be something good, something redeemable about the man he’d started to look up to?

He shook his head to clear it. Voldemort was talking again, telling him more about the death of his parents, and he didn’t want to listen anymore. He looked at the wand in his hands and thought about snapping it in two just to release some of the pressure in his chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He almost barked a humorless laugh. Snape had destroyed his whole life, and he couldn’t bear to so much as break the man’s wand.

He suddenly, desperately, needed it out of his hand. He backed away from Voldemort and wrenched at it, frantically clawing at it to get it away. He didn’t care if he had to tear up his skin along with it. He needed the wand gone and he needed Voldemort to stop talking and he needed Snape and the Death Eaters to stop watching him and he needed to scream and cry and scream some more.

His frantic movements were stopped by a wand at his throat. “One last chance,” Voldemort hissed. “Kill the spy. If you do, then I will go easy on you tomorrow evening. If you do not, then I will not only kill him myself, I will make you watch and I will make you suffer before you do.”

Harry shut his eyes tight. He felt like when he was a little kid and he’d thought that if he shut his eyes so tight while he was hiding that he couldn’t see Dudley, then Dudley wouldn’t be able to see him. It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work now. Voldemort’s wand jabbed uncomfortably into the side of his throat, and he leaned as far away as he could.

“I won’t do it,” he whispered and braced himself. It was a good thing he did, for he had barely opened his eyes when a flash from Voldemort’s wand sent him hurtling across the room. He connected with the hard stone wall and he screamed as he heard something pop and then felt a searing pain in his shoulder and down his arm. He panted and held in a moan. This wasn’t worse than Cruciatus, he reminded himself. Nothing was worse than that, and he’d lived through that. If only this pain would end like a pain curse could be lifted.

“Take him below,” seethed Voldemort. “Leave all doors ajar save the one to his cell. Let him hear his trusted companion scream for mercy through the night.”

Harry gasped in pain as rough hands lifted him with intent to cause as much discomfort as possible. Nott. Of course it was Nott. The man was scowling, his eyes shooting daggers at Harry.

“Crucio!” Voldemort screamed, and Harry watched Snape fall to the ground and writhe under the force of the curse.

“No!” he tried to escape Nott’s hold but couldn’t. The man was too strong and he was too weak. He lifted the wand… No. There was no wand. Voldemort must have ripped it from his hands when he’d thrown him across the room. He felt like sobbing. “Professor!” he screamed as the rough hands manhandled him through the open doors. He caught a final glimpse of Snape’s agony-filled eyes meeting his before he was dragged down the stairs and through the hallway to his cell.

Nott threw him to the ground and Harry cried out as he half fell onto his bad arm. He twisted around just in time to see the boot before it connected with his side. Giving up on not crying now, he curled up as best he could and shielded his head with his good arm. Snape wouldn’t be coming to save him this time.

“Enough,” came a silky voice from the doorway.

Nott laughed humorlessly. “I’m just getting started.”

“You’ve had your fun. More than once. The boy is too weak to survive an ill-placed blow. May I remind you - again - that should that occur, neither of us will survive the Dark Lord’s wrath.”

Nott grumbled in disgust but obeyed. Mostly. He kicked Harry’s foot on the way out, and Harry flinched. That would leave a bruise, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder.

He uncurled slightly and looked up to meet Lucius Malfoy’s disinterested gaze. The man started to close the door, but Harry stopped him. “Do you believe me now?” He lifted his chin, trying to ignore his pain and tears. He tried his best to look fierce even though it was a losing battle.

Lucius paused to study him with a pair of calculating eyes. He didn’t need to ask what Harry was referring to. After a moment, he inclined his head and backed out of the cell, shutting Harry up into darkness.

He curled up, finally alone to deal with the misery the day had brought. He found himself glad for the pain in his arm, as it distracted from the pain in his heart. He could focus on the throbbing in his shoulder, his side, and his foot. He could focus on how the rest of his body still felt weak and shaky and how he wanted to throw up even though he hadn’t eaten anything in at least a day.

And before long, he had no choice but to focus on the faint screams sounding through the building from somewhere overhead.

It all hurt, and he cried far too much, but it was better than thinking about his mum and dad and their last night alive. It was better than dwelling on Snape and what he had done and whether he had meant to and if he regretted it and whether it mattered if he did and…

He choked on a sob and curled up tighter, willing himself to sleep. It was the only escape available to him. And before long, his exhausted body did just that.

Harry didn’t know how long he slept, but he was awake when Snape’s unconscious body was thrown into the cell. Whoever tossed the man in wasn’t gentle; Harry had to shift out of the way in order to not be his landing pad. He didn’t have time to see more than sweat and blood and the fact that Snape was dressed in only a blood-streaked undershirt and torn trousers before the door was shut behind him. Even his shoes were gone.

He sat against the wall and listened to the man’s labored breaths. What was he supposed to do? He could make the man comfortable, he supposed. He considered his jumper. It was the only thing he could use as a pillow. But he was cold. As if to illustrate his point, he shivered. And…did he even want to make the man comfortable?

He shut his eyes against the rush of emotion, though it did little good in the darkness. He battled with himself. He didn’t know what he thought about Snape, about all of what Voldemort had said. And he didn’t know if he even wanted to think about it. Couldn’t he shut it up into a little box in the corner of his mind and shove it behind a mental wall and fortify it with every Occlumency shield at his disposal? He probably should, at least until they got out of here. He could shout and rail at Snape after they escaped. Right?

Before he made up his mind, light from the doorway flooded the room again. He squinted up at Lucius Malfoy, too tired to move or to care that he was directly in the man’s path if he’d had a change of heart and decided to finish Nott’s job for him. The Death Eater dropped a magically lit lantern on the ground, along with a small bag and a pitcher of water. Harry looked up at him questioningly.

“You claim to still trust him?” Malfoy said with a sniff. “Let us see how he fares with his life in your hands.”

He closed the door before Harry could think what to say, but this time the room was lit up by the dim light of the lantern. Harry scrambled over to the bag, which he could see was made of a course material, like an old burlap flour sack. It was easier to ignore the pain of moving after he had been doing it for so many days, but still he hissed and let out a few ow ow ow’s when he tried to use his bad arm. He took a few sips of water from the pitcher first before opening the bag. Liquid on his parched throat felt so amazingly good.

He lifted a few items one by one from the sack. Two potions vials. He recognized one for pain right away, but the other held an unfamiliar silver-colored liquid. He cautiously removed the stopper with one hand and sniffed at it. No scent, which was kind of a relief. He was halfway expecting something vile. He replaced the stopper and set it aside. Next were two rags and a cream-colored ointment. Judging by the smell and his own experiences in the hospital wing, he was pretty sure it was to disinfect cuts.

He couldn’t imagine what Malfoy’s game was. Was he wanting to test Harry’s loyalty even further for some strange reason? Or was he actually concerned for his old friend? Or did Voldemort direct him to leave these supplies so that Harry could help Snape to be alive and well, ready to be tortured all over again and killed the next day?

Well. It didn’t really matter, did it? Snape needed help. No matter why this help was offered, it was up to Harry to give it to him.

He glanced at Snape, finally able to look him over for real. The man was covered head to toe in small cuts, probably from a nasty cutting curse. Small amounts of blood were crusted in places and freshly oozing in others. He thought there might be larger cuts on his chest and stomach, judging by the blood stains. Even though he was unconscious, his legs and arms kept twitching.

It felt almost as if no time had passed since their days trapped in his bedroom on Privet Drive, even while it seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet here they were again, trapped in a room together, Snape injured and unconscious, and Harry left to decide whether to help him.

He sighed. Who was he kidding? Of course he was going to help him. The same guilty conscience that had compelled him to help his Hogwarts tormentor back at the Dursleys’ wouldn’t allow him to ignore his rescuer now. Even though he might have played a role in orphaning him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the thought. No. He would try not to think about it. If he did dwell on it, he would only jump to conclusions and tear himself up inside over things that might not even be true. He needed to hear it from Snape first. And before he could do that, he needed to see to the man’s injuries.

But the minute he sat next to Snape’s battered body, rags and ointment in hand, he realized that everything had changed since the Dursleys. Harry cared now. Even knowing Snape’s horrible secret, Harry couldn’t shut that part of himself off. He didn’t want his teacher to die, and he didn’t want to see him in pain. Somewhere along the way, he had come to care about Snape as a person, and that made all the difference.

With a new resolve, he got to work. It was difficult with only one arm, and with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling from hunger and nerve damage, but he managed to wet the rags with a small amount of water and clean the cuts as best he could. He followed up with the salve, rubbing it over as many of the cuts as he could reach. He gave up on rolling the man over; he weighed more than Harry did, and Harry was too weak to do much even if he could have used both arms. But he did a decent job of treating the cuts that he could see, and the ones under the man’s shirt and on his lower legs. If Snape decided to be upset about the intrusion after he woke, he could bloody well deal with it. The chest and stomach cuts were deep, but if the rate at which the smaller cuts were healing was anything to go by, whatever magic the salve contained should heal those cuts as well, given rest and time.

He felt Snape’s scalp, for once not caring about the man’s greasy hair. All he cared about was that large bump that he didn’t know how to treat. He rubbed some salve on it in case it helped, though he didn’t imagine it would, and took a long hard look at the two potions. They would have to wait until Snape woke up, he decided. The man would need help with the pain when he was awake, not while he was unconscious. And maybe he would know what was in the silver vial.

Still, Snape would have a terrible crick in his neck to add to his other ailments if he slept like that all night. Looking around, Harry spied the small rough bag Malfoy had left and bunched it up. It was barely big enough to fit in his fist, much less use as a pillow. Uncomfortable, too. He tossed it in the corner.

“Well, just know that if you curse me, this time I’ll have a really good reason to curse right back, you got it?” he groused at the unconscious man. Inching between Snape and the wall, he carefully lifted the man’s head and adjusted his legs underneath so that Harry’s lap could serve as a pillow. That would have to do. He leaned against the wall and tried to sleep sitting upright.

Scratch that. He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon. He was still exhausted, but his nap had taken the edge off. Besides, he thought darkly, Voldemort planned to make him sleep for the rest of his life. He’d much prefer to be awake for his last day. And now that Snape was seen to as best he knew how, there was nothing to interfere with his mind running away with itself. He told himself again to wait for Snape to wake up, that dwelling on all he’d learned would only hurt more without knowing all the facts, but it was impossible. The main fact was undeniable: Snape had told Voldemort of the prophecy.

It was like a stack of dominoes, watching it all play out in his head. Snape told Voldemort. Voldemort decided Harry had to die. Snape didn’t care; he was fine with the idea of Harry and James dying. All he asked was for Lily to be spared. Voldemort even gave her a chance to live; he’d said so himself. She’d died anyway though, saving Harry. She’d saved him with her love. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, Snape had turned on Voldemort.

That was the part that Harry needed to hear. He didn’t even know if it would make a difference, but he needed to know why and when Snape had switched sides. Anger bottled up inside him, and it needed a release. He thought he might be able to keep more control over it if Snape regretted what he’d done, but he wasn’t sure.

A tear escaped and he swiped at his face, promising himself not to cry when he confronted Snape. Now wasn’t the time for weakness. He needed answers, and as soon as he awoke, Snape was going to give them to him. He owed him that much.

He bunched a hand in Snape’s shirt. Was he completely nutters to still feel a sense of safety with Snape here? Between all he’d done in Harry’s past, and his helpless state now, that was the last thing Harry should feel. Maybe there was something wrong with his brain. Or his heart. He didn’t know if he had ever felt so conflicted. Was it normal to cling to someone and want to push them away at the same time? To want to punch someone and at the same time want to spare them any more pain?

Was it normal to feel both respect and disgust or both love and hate?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore.

Except for one thing: he had made the choice to trust Snape with his life. Despite all that had happened and all that he now knew, he somehow didn’t feel at all conflicted about that.