The weekend passed by in a pleasurable blur for Harry. He had actually finished his homework early and spent the rest of the time playing Wizard chess with Ron and sharing Hermione's stash of sweets from Hogsmeade. He shared what he had learned in Snape's lessons with his two friends. They were absolutely open-mouthed in horror over the pain lesson, though Hermione, after she had recovered from the shock, realized how valuable such an experience could be. Although they had certainly not planned to do any work over the weekend, the blocking and reflecting spells were actually quite useful, and they spent a lot of their time turning back the curses they flung at each other. Ron gave Harry a wolfish grin. The Slytherins had better watch out! Their very own Head of House had given the Gryffindors an excellent line of defense against their sneaky, underhanded tricks.

Harry caught himself almost looking forward to tonight's lesson. He had learned more about the Defense against the Dark Arts in two days than he had in his entire second year. Then again, Lockhart had never actually taught anything of use in that class. Perhaps the greasy Potions Master would actually be a good fit for the job….

He fidgeted through his classes, hardly interested in something as pointless as peering into a cloudy crystal ball or turning kittens into balls of string. What possible application could they have on the real world? He still dreaded Potions, of course, but at least it gave him a chance to see how Snape had fared on his “appointment”. As usual, at the precise moment the class began, Snape burst through the doors as if fired out of a cannon, stomping to the front of the room, and briskly scrawling the day's assignment on the board. It wasn't until he turned to face the class that Harry saw how badly things had gone. His heart stopped for one painful second as he took in the dark circles under the fathomless eyes and the shadows across the pale cheeks. Oh, Merlin…. However, Snape quickly proved that there was absolutely nothing wrong with his sharp tongue, promptly taking away ten points from Hermione for being ahead of her classmates in preparing the day's potion. He then reamed Ron for his sloppy handwriting on last week's report and threatened to make him write twice as much if the mistake was repeated. Neville managed to upset his cauldron fifteen minutes into the class, causing the Potions Master to harangue the red-faced boy mercilessly, cursing his entire lineage. Of course he reserved his best, most pointed barbs for Harry himself. In swift succession, his brain capacity was criticized, his parentage insulted, and his dismal future projected. Harry bit his lip fiercely, forcing back a furious reply. 'He's baiting you, looking for an excuse to give out detention…. This is probably a catharsis for him, just let him get it out….'

He nearly went limp with relief when the class finally ended, the snarling beast of a professor allowing them to report with a parting insult or two, and the usual mound of homework. He growled when Harry passed by, seemingly disappointed that the boy had not given him the satisfaction of punishment. “Eight o'clock, Potter!” he ground out as Harry tried to slink past him. “Don't even dream of being late!”

Of course, after that the time just seemed to melt away. In order to get as much of his Potions homework done as possible, Harry worked with his quill and parchment while shoving bites of food into his mouth over the dinner table. He darted quick glances at the teachers' table, but Snape never looked his way once. He did note that the sour Potions Master did not seem to have much of an appetite that night. He was not particularly surprised when the man excused himself from the table early into the meal, retreating in the direction of the dungeons.

Harry approached the classroom with trepidation, trying in vain to stifle the scowl written on his features. He was not wild about spending yet another hour cooped up with the bitter, sardonic professor, but he didn't really have much choice, did he? He was jolted out of his thoughts as he pressed against the door and found it wouldn't budge. “Wha…?” he muttered. Where was Snape? He should be here waiting for him! He had insisted that Harry be on time! What was going on? A quick glance underneath the door told him that the room was completely black. He was not in there, unless he was lurking in the blackness for some mysterious reason. Harry scratched his head. Was this some sort of twisted test of Snape's? He'd hardly put it past him, but this particular scenario didn't seem to be Snape's type. The man usually liked to push him to his limits and grind his nose in his shortcomings. If there was some sort of test to be passed, Snape would want to be visibly present.

'He can't be in his office… that's through the classroom, and I'd probably see the light. Even if he had closed the door in there, it doesn't make sense, unless he's avoiding me for some reason. But if he was, I'm sure he'd have no problem sending me away. Why ask me to come tonight and then not show up?' Harry began to pace up and down the corridor restlessly, unsure of what to do next.

Suddenly he saw a slightly stopped figure slink by. The man whirled to face him, suspicion written all over his face. “What are you doing here?” Filch growled.

Harry was actually somewhat glad to see the irritable caretaker for once in his life. “Looking for Professor Snape, Mister Filch,” he said as politely as possible.

“Detention?”

Harry didn't like the gleam that word brought to the man's eyes at all. “No, sir!” he said hastily, scrambling for an explanation that Filch would accept. Couldn't exactly tell him that Snape was schooling him in Death Eater DADA, could he? “The professor is giving me some private tutoring.”

Filch gave a snort of disbelief. “That'll be the day!” His expression then grew thoughtful, perhaps realizing that Snape had indeed been keeping Harry after hours in the classroom for the past several days. “Well, I suppose he's in his chambers. Can't think of anywhere else he'd be.” He gestured down a side corridor. “Third door on the left. You'll recognize it – it has the Slytherin crest engraved on it.” Harry ran off, a grateful look on his face, relieved both to have an idea of where to find Snape and to get away from Filch. True to his word, the door was exactly where it should be, a magnificent engraved snake marking Snape's living quarters. It wasn't until he had actually knocked that he had grave misgivings. What was he doing knocking on Snape's door? If the man was indeed inside, it was certain he didn't want to be disturbed. He couldn't imagine anything worse than a boiling-mad Snape bursting out of his room, armed with a week's worth of detentions. He braced himself, but after a moment the tension drained out of him. Snape wasn't here, pure and simple. Harry should be going before anyone caught him here…. Just as he turned to go, a low voice called out, “Who's there?”

Harry cringed and clenched his hands nervously. Damn! “It's Harry Potter, sir. Um, you requested me to meet you for our lesson…” his voice trailed off uncertainly.

Another excruciating silence. Then a series of muttered words, and the door swung open. Harry stepped forward as if underneath a spell, drawn forward by horrified fascination. He'd never seen the inside of Snape's chambers before. Come to think of it, he doubted very many people had. The interior was quite dark, the curtains pulled against whatever moonlight could filter through the windows. The only light in the room came from a brightly burning fire in the fireplace, throwing eerie shadows onto the walls. Harry shivered from nerves. It had been a rather chilly night, despite the time of year, and the fire looked welcoming. An eerie song played from an invisible source, and the boy realized with dread that it was a requiem. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to take in the entire room as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. The sitting room was decorated in Slytherin house colors (and black, of course), with a green and silver rug on the floor and similar tapestries on the walls. A large Slytherin banner covered a third of the far wall. He could spy several doorways that lead elsewhere, probably to the bedroom and bathroom. Several towering bookcases stretched all the way to the ceiling, laden with thick, heavy volumes. It was evident that the man who resided within was an avid scholar. There were several framed diplomas and awards on the walls as well, but it was too dark to make any of them out, except the one that proudly bore the Hogwarts crest – most likely his graduation diploma from the very school he now taught at. Harry's curiosity was most certainly piqued. A slight movement caught his eye, and he jumped, startled nearly out of his wits. Snape sat in a plush green chair, staring fixedly into the flickering flames. That cursed man had an incredible talent for blending into the shadows!

“Why are you here?” the voice was soft yet still threatening. Snape had not even bothered to turn his head.

“Th-the lesson, sir,” Harry stammered, surprised his mouth was still working. He noted with even greater shock that Snape was holding a nearly empty glass in his hand, which was no doubt related to the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table in front of him. This did not gel well at all with his vision of the vitriolic Potion Master. He knew that the Hogwarts teachers occasionally indulged – he'd seen them himself in Hogsmeade – but Snape had never been among them. Somehow the bottle of liquor before him just looked… wrong.

“Canceled.” The voice was flat and expressionless. Finally Snape turned his head to peer at Harry crossly. “Didn't you get my note?”

Harry did an admirable job of holding his ground, while all the while he wanted to dash out of the room screaming. At least Snape was fully attired, save his boots – his feet were encased in thick black slippers as protection against the icy floor. Harry wouldn't have been able to handle seeing the eternally bundled-up professor in something as “revealing” as a dressing gown. He should never have come here! “N-no, sir. I'm sorry, I didn't.”

Snape rose abruptly and crossed the room to a small desk, and this time Harry was unable to keep from jumping back. His nerves were totally frayed. The stern man growled as he picked up a piece of paper lying right on top. “Oh, nice one, Severus,” he griped. “You write the boy a note but forget to deliver it. Stupid git.” The boy couldn't help but wince at the cutting tone with which Snape addressed himself. Nice to know that the man got angry with himself, as well as the rest of the world, over mistakes.

Harry bit his lip, partly out of nervousness, and partly in an effort to hide a smile that threatened to burst across his face at his taciturn professor insulting himself. Snape fixed him with a glare, and Harry shrank back instinctively. “I am hardly up for teaching a lesson tonight. We will continue from where we left off tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” the boy murmured, moving backward until he impacted with a chair, cursing under his breath. At least Snape hadn't started to scream or breathe fire. He probably had the alcohol to thank for it – it seemed to have a calming effect on the temperamental man. “I'll just be going now….”

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. He absently caressed the Dark Mark on his arm, his eyes holding Harry's hostage. The boy felt as if he were drowning, suffocating, unable to extract himself. “Young people do foolish things, Potter. Make your choices carefully, for they will follow you for the rest of your life.”

Harry gaped. “Sir?”

The professor turned away, walking with measured steps back to his chair. He seated himself methodically, facing towards the flames once more. Seconds ticked away, and Harry feared that the man had forgotten all about him. Then the voice spoke, soft and filled with a bitter regret. “I was not much younger than you when I became a Death Eater. At first, I thought that all of my dreams had been answered. I had everything I ever wanted at my fingertips. But one day I awoke to the realization that my dream had become a nightmare. I have spent the rest of my life trying to atone for the sins of my youth. A moment of impetuousness can haunt for an eternity.”

The boy cleared his throat nervously, positive he shouldn't be hearing this. “And just what was it that drew you to Voldemort's side, if I may ask?”

The voice grew cold and harsh. “You may not. Please leave me now. We will not speak of this again.” It seems that whatever maudlin, reflective mood that had struck was gone.

“O-of course, Professor. Good night.” Harry fairly raced out of the room, pulling the door closed with a loud thud. He darted through the halls, not stopping until he was safely in his own bed, ignoring the stares of his roommates. Fortunately, they seemed to understand his need for solitude, a precious rarity. He had a lot to think about. Merlin, what a strange night.