Somebody has been decorating the Room in Harry and Snape’s absence. A shiny banner of red and gold letters spelling STAY IN THE PRESENT has been hung from the ceiling, and a large window is now pumping warm sunlight everywhere. Something else is different, too, but Harry can’t put his finger on it. He’s not sure if he cares. He’s not sure what he feels, actually. Relief that they aren’t visiting the Dursleys. Horror that he Obliviated his mum. Exhaustion. He yawns hugely in spite of himself.

“Potter,” says Snape, and his voice is just as weary as Harry feels. “See if you can open the window, will you?” He doesn’t ever bother trying his own magic, which for some reason disturbs Harry.

Harry stumps over to the latest addition and peers through it. The Whomping Willow looks menacingly back at him. He tries Blasting and Cursing the window, but it remains stubbornly closed.

“Try Finite Incantatem,” suggests Snape. “It may be an Atmospheric Charm.”

Harry does so, and the Whomping Willow disappears as though he has turned off a television set. He stares stupidly at the red curtains now framing nothing. Snape huffs in disappointment. “A Charmed view. I should have known.”

“I’ll put it back up,” Harry says. “Dumbledore must have a reason for it.” And besides, the sunlight makes the place less claustrophobic.

The window dealt with, Harry and Snape move as one to the headmaster’s latest cryptic message. They rip the banner down. Silently but efficiently, they tear the letters into tinier and tinier pieces. They do not stop until the banner is confetti.

Then Harry slumps into his hammock, sunlight be damned. He doesn’t know, anyway, whether it is day or night outside. He’s lost all track of time. All he knows is that he has slept in this hammock twice before. He can’t have been here longer than a week. It feels four times that.

Harry falls asleep instantly. He dreams about his mum, the same thing over and over again. Lily keeps coming up to him and asking him round for tea, but she cannot remember his name, and eventually Harry dumps the tea everywhere. And yet it doesn’t feel like a nightmare, and when he wakes the next morning, he feels well-rested.

After showering and breakfasting, Harry and Snape re-examine the perpetually sunny window. There are no students outside of it, ever, and finally they concede that it is merely a decoration put there to torture them.

“Well,” Harry says heavily. “Now what?”

“Now we plot revenge against the headmaster.”

Harry barely cracks a smile. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets. “The Mirror of Erised disappeared. Did you notice?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad it’s gone,” Harry says stoutly, eyes on the floor.

“So am I.”

Harry looks up sharply. “No you aren’t. And neither am I.”

Snape snorts but does not correct him. Harry moodily walks back to his hammock, and is only a little surprised when Snape follows him. They stare at each other, swinging slightly in their stupid purple hammocks, until finally Harry breaks the silence.

“Everything’s different now, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Now we have something in common.”

“Now we have Lily in common,” Snape corrects stiffly.

“We always had Lily in common,” Harry murmurs, looking up at Snape from under his fringe. “I just didn’t know it.”

“I’m not sure I did either,” Snape says with a huff. “But now I have seen that she is your Achilles heel just as much as she is mine.” Snape pauses thoughtfully. “Lily is our greatest weakness, Potter. We must be careful of Dumbledore exploiting it again.”

“I wouldn’t say Lily’s our greatest weakness,” Harry says, surprised. “Some might call her our greatest strength.”

“Spare me Dumbledore’s platitudes,” Snape growls. “What do you believe we have in common now, if not Lily?”

“Severus.”

Snape flinches and then almost comically rolls his eyes. “Rita Skeeter would have a field day with this mess. Can you imagine the headlines?”

“Adversaries Share Troubled Childhoods,” Harry suggests.

“Potter and the Potions Master: Putting their Pathetic Pasts Behind Them.”

Harry laughs in spite of himself. “Or Are They?” He mocks, tacking on Rita’s favorite expression.

Snape sighs. “Well, that really is the question, isn’t it.” He looks properly at Harry now, and there is something like an apology in his eyes. “We always had Severus in common too, Potter. I just didn’t know it.”

Harry offers him a sad little smile. “I’m beginning to think, Professor, that what we don’t know could fill a book.”

“A book written by Dumbledore,” Snape adds sourly. Then he scowls. “Whatever our shared background, however, I must add that I have little in common with Severus now.”

Harry cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“Severus is dead, Potter. I killed him the day I became a Death Eater.”

Harry can think of no good response to this. “Oh.”

“And I wasn’t sad to see him go, either,” Snape adds, eyes faraway. “Because he didn’t have any power. And now I did. I vowed to myself that I would never be powerless again. And that meant—well, I would say my first act as a Death Eater was to throw Severus into an unmarked grave.”

“Oh,” Harry says again. He drags his toe along the floor, thinking. He can’t help but picture Snape—a big, bullying, terrifying Potions Master Snape—drawing his wand on a grubby, frightened little boy with bright red trainers. “Was it worth it?”

“I put him out of his misery,” Snape mutters. “Some would call that mercy.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry answers. His scuffed shoe finds the red and gold remains of the banner, and he idly pushes the pieces as he thinks. Could he pull the same trick and distance himself forever from the little boy thrown in a cupboard? Would he even want to?

“You know, it’s funny,” Harry says slowly. “The part of yourself that you say you killed? I think that’s the bit of me Dumbledore prizes most.” He pauses. “Like you said before.”

“Did I?”

“‘The mystery ingredient that would keep me humble, keep me hungry, keep me sharp,’” Harry quotes. “Harry Potter as Strength Serum, remember?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Less than a week,” Harry says heavily. “I counted last night.”

Snape hunches over, and his long hair falls into his face. “I don’t think either of us got it right, Potter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I tried to cut my past out of myself. But that leaves a scar.” Snape sweeps the hair out of his face and stares right at Harry. “And Dumbledore has scarred you as well, and I don’t mean with a lighting bolt. He’s carving your past into you…to ensure you become champion of the downtrodden. Thus he sends you back to the Dursleys, summer after summer. He doesn’t want you to forget them. Ever.”

“I think the Dursleys scarred me more than Dumbledore,” Harry points out, alarmed at the bitterness in Snape’s voice. Dumbledore isn’t perfect, by any means, but Harry still isn’t sure he believes Snape’s interpretation of events.

“Dumbledore has no use for a normal child,” Snape snarls. “He needs a warrior, and those don’t usually come from houses with picket fences, now do they?”

“The Dursleys had a picket fence.”

“You know what I mean.”

Harry massages his brow. “Can we not talk about Dumbledore?”

“You brought him up,” Snape snaps. “The point I was trying to make, Potter, is that we both deserved different childhoods.” And then Snape comes out and says it, and Harry knows for sure how much things have changed between them. “Someone should have kept both of us safe from the abuse and from the neglect. Severus should have never existed in the first place. For either of us.”

Harry reluctantly lets the truth of this inside him. He doesn’t want to think about…that. He learned a long time ago that nobody was ever going to come and save him. “Well, what’s done is done, I guess.”

“For me, at least,” Snape concedes, an odd gleam in his eye.

Harry frowns, wondering what the hell that means. But he cannot bring himself to ask, so instead he tackles another subject. “You seemed awfully sure, in the forest, that I was the only one who could defeat Voldemort. And it kind of sounded like you meant now. Not just when I was a baby.”

Snape merely looks at him.

“Why so quiet?” Harry snaps. Snape maintains his silence, however, and part of Harry is relieved. He has his suspicions about why Dumbledore would need a warrior in the first place. Sometimes, the way Dumbledore looks at him—or used to look at him, anyways—it’s like Harry is his prize dragon that he must train up for battle. And Harry can imagine only one war, and one enemy, that Dumbledore would be interested in defeating.

Maybe it’s better not to know for sure.

But Harry doesn’t feel like telling Snape that. “I bet you don’t know,” he can’t help but taunt. “I bet Dumbledore hasn’t told you anything about my role in the war.”

A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitches and Harry waits on tenterhooks for his professor to respond. Is Snape going to tell him that he’s the only one who can kill Voldemort? Or is he going to tell Harry to stop being such an arrogant Gryffindor?

Snape does neither. Instead he stands up, face impassive, and begins to rummage in the trunk for tea things.

“Fine,” Harry mutters. “Don’t tell me.” But to his dismay, this comes out more like a plea than anything else. He clamps his disloyal mouth shut and folds his arms over his chest.

Finally, Snape speaks. It is not the great revelation Harry has been dreading, however. “Tea?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry sighs. He lopes over to Snape and takes the offered cup. “Thanks.”

Snape takes a sip and surveys Harry over the rim. “Let me see your Potions homework.”

Harry goggles at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve had more than enough time to complete it.”

Harry snorts. “Oh, yes, between the Mirror of Erised, Occlumency lessons, getting burned by your wand, and, oh yeah, time-traveling, I’ve had loads of spare time.”

Snape raises a threatening eyebrow. “Are you implying that your homework is incomplete?”

Harry cannot even remember. “Hold on,” he says, flustered. “Let me go find it.” He puts his cup down with a clatter and rifles around the Room until he discovers the forgotten parchment underneath his hammock. A nice black footprint is stamped right across the title, Cross Species Substances and Multi-Use Salves. Harry Banishes the footprint and flips through the essay.

“Well?” says Snape sternly. “Is it done or not?”

“Not.”

“Finish it.”

“Now?”

“Pray do not make me repeat myself.”

Harry looks at his professor in astonishment. Here they are talking about Voldemort and the war and important things and Snape wants him to work on some dumb essay?

“What are you waiting for?” Snape demands. “If it’s not done in an hour, I’m assigning you lines.”

Harry plants his hands on his hips. “You think I care about lines?”

“The clock is ticking.”

Harry cannot help but laugh at this whole stupid situation. Just when he thinks he has Snape figured out, he does something weird like this. “Fine,” he says, deciding to play along. “But there isn’t any clock in here.”

Nevertheless, Harry works quickly on the essay, knowing that Snape can decide time is up any old time he likes. And, despite what he said earlier, Harry has no desire to do lines…or to fight with Snape over doing lines. So instead he scribbles away about Cross Species Substances and the Troll Exception and the fifth use of dragon’s blood. He has just given it a final once-over when Snape softly clears his throat.

Harry blinks, coming back to himself. He hasn’t thought about his mum, or Voldemort, or even about Snape for the last hour. Just about potions. And, though he’ll never tell his professor this, the break was kind of great. He’d forgotten, held prisoner in this Room, that there is another side to him out in the real world. A less interesting side, probably. One that is mostly concerned with friends and Quidditch and homework and girls.

He gets up and gives Snape the essay. While Snape marks it, Harry can’t help but brood over this schoolboy part of himself. He has been chasing this bit of boring normalcy ever since he came to Hogwarts, but it has proven a most elusive Snitch. Dumbledore probably doesn’t care about this side to Harry at all—he has no use for a normal child—but to Harry, in some ways it is the most crucial bit of all.

“You forgot thestral saliva. It can be used in potions made for both humans and goblins.”

“Huh?” Harry jumps slightly, startled out of his reverie. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Other than that, this is…acceptable.”

Harry perks up. “You’re giving me an A?”

“You are pleased with the lowest pass grade?”

“You never pass me,” Harry says dryly, taking the essay back. “I’m keeping this one as evidence.” He skims the essay, reading Snape’s spiky black corrections. There are many of them. “I don’t remember reading anything about thestral saliva in the book.”

“You are meant to apply things you’ve learned from other classes, Potter. I know Hagrid has covered thestrals with you.”

“Yeah, well, Umbridge was inspecting that lesson,” Harry grumbles. “And you know what she’s like, she went on about how the Ministry thinks thestrals are dangerous. They did look like they wanted to take a bite out of her, but I don’t think she could even see them, so she didn’t have much of a point, really.”

Snape looks closely at Harry. “You see the thestrals?”

“Yes,” Harry says, puzzled. “And they aren’t dangerous, not for Hagrid.”

“Have you always been able to see them?”

This is rather a personal question, but Harry can sort of understand why Snape wants to know. “No. Only this year. After, um, the graveyard.”

“I see.”

“That was an odd lesson all around,” Harry says uncomfortably, eager to change the subject. “I got mad at Hermione afterwards because she said she wished she could see the thestrals.”

Snape snorts. “That girl’s thirst for knowledge is insatiable. I wouldn’t put it past her to poison someone in the name of raising her average.”

Harry scowls. “That’s not funny.” He glares at Snape. “I know you can see them.”

“Of course,” Snape says sardonically. “I would venture that I can see thestrals better than most.”

“Because you’ve seen so many people die?” Harry snaps, still seething over the jibe at Hermione.

Snape does not rise to the bait. “No. Because my wand core is thestral hair.”

“It is?”

“Fitting, isn’t it.”

Harry grins. “Yeah, a great skeletal black horse hair seems kind of perfect for you.”

Snape does not smile. “My mother thought so as well. She told me outside Ollivander’s that thestrals were unlucky and so was I.”

The grin slides off Harry’s face. “That’s not what I meant, Professor.”

“No? I assure you, you would not be the first to think so. Most wizards equate seeing a thestral with seeing the Grim.”

“I don’t believe any of that stuff,” Harry says hotly, feeling a familiar surge of irritation at anything remotely connected to Divination.

Snape goes on as though he has not heard Harry. “Your dear father, for one, liked to tell people I had to become a Death Eater because of my wand. My ‘death stick’ he liked to call it.”

Harry stifles another surge of irritation. As the days go by, he finds less and less to admire about his father. “Hagrid says thestrals are dead useful and clever, and I’d believe him over Trelawney any day. Besides, who says you have to have anything in common with your wand core? I don’t.”

“Phoenixes are known for their ability to carry great burdens.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m the only one who can kill Voldemort?” Harry snaps.

“There is more than one kind of burden, Potter.”

“Well, thestrals can carry heavy things too,” Harry says sourly. “So that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Except, perhaps, that we are both burdened by something.”

This philosophical crap is starting to annoy Harry. “Thestrals are supposed to have a great sense of direction, but I don’t see you leading the way out of this Room.”

“No,” Snape says quietly. “If I had had a better sense of direction, I would never have become a Death Eater.”

“Stop speaking in riddles!” Harry orders. “You sound like Dumbledore.”

“Merlin forbid.”

“Voldemort has Fawke’s other feather for his wand core,” Harry argues, determined to make his point. “And he’s nothing like a phoenix.”

“Many would say he came back from the dead.”

“Well, I haven’t!”

“No.” Snape cocks his head. “But you can Heal yourself just as well as a phoenix tear.”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Harry demands. “So maybe we are like our wands. Big deal!” He sizes up Snape, and a light goes on inside his head. “And, anyways, Professor, I don’t think you can blame becoming a Death Eater on a thestral hair.”

“Be careful, Potter,” Snape warns, his voice a tight knot.

“This is really a sore spot for you, isn’t it?” Harry says, amazed. “Here I am, going around with Voldemort’s brother-wand, and YOU are worried about what your wand core says about you? Until I exhibit tendencies to become the next Dark Lord…shut up about it.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.” The professor balls up his fists, and Harry is oddly reminded of a much younger Snape.

Harry looks at him unsympathetically. “You aren’t the Grim Reaper because your wand has thestral hair in it, Professor. You just aren’t.”

“I have killed many,” Snape snarls. “I have led many to their deaths. I have led the only—”

Snape breaks off, and all the fight seems to go out of him. “The wand chooses the wizard, Potter,” he says finally. “Allow me the delusion that I can blame…certain events…on things beyond my control.”

“No,” Harry protests. “You are making it sound like you had no choice but to go Dark. That’s not right.”

Snape curls a lip. “I wouldn’t expect a Gryffindor to understand.”

Harry huffs in frustration. “You had a choice to join Voldemort. That’s what you said to me before. It has nothing to do with your stupid wand. You chose to—”

“I KNOW WHAT I CHOSE TO DO, POTTER!” Snape roars. “I KNOW WHAT I’VE DONE—WHAT I CAN NEVER MAKE RIGHT—” He stops, struggling for breath, agony lining his face. “And I know, Potter, that my mother was right. I am unlucky.”

“Cedric was unlucky,” Harry returns fiercely. “You were a Death Eater.”

Snape bows his head.

“You also chose to turn spy,” Harry softly points out. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

Harry throws up his hands. “I don’t understand you!”

Snape stands up and takes a step towards Harry. His voice is quiet, soft, even. “Leave it alone, Potter. There are things—things you do not want me to tell you. And—if in the darkest hour of the night, I tell myself that it couldn’t be helped, that my wand was cursed, that I was doomed from the start—then it is none of your business.”

“Fine,” Harry growls. “I don’t think that’s right, but fine. I suppose this is one of those things we don’t have in common. I’ll add it to the list.” Despite his words, however, Harry cannot just let the subject drop. He takes out his wand and thrusts it toward Snape. Before he can make his point, though, Snape reaches out and knocks it to the ground.

“I wasn’t going to curse you!” Harry says furiously, snatching the wand back up. Again, he holds out his wand. “Look at it. It’s just a piece of wood, Professor. That was my point.”

“You hold the most important wand in the world out to me, and insist it is just a piece of wood?”

“You are determined to have this your way, aren’t you?”

Snape shrugs.

“I’ll give you this,” Harry allows, struggling to find common ground. “I bet this is why I couldn’t use both of our wands at once. Phoenixes and thestrals are opposites, when you think about it. Like…seeing a thestral means you’ve seen death. And watching a phoenix means you’ve watched the cycle of life.”

“You couldn’t use two wands at once because magic doesn’t work that way,” Snape snarls. “And, Potter, when you watch a phoenix, you watch the cycle of death.”

“Aren’t we morbid,” Harry mutters, pocketing The Most Important Wand In The World. “So do you think a phoenix actually watches itself die?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“I was wondering if phoenixes can see thestrals.”

Snape looks at Harry for a long beat, and then throws back his head and barks with laughter. He doubles over, roaring, until he is gasping from the effort. “I—I am going mad in here.” Still bent over, he stumbles towards Harry and pokes him in the chest. “And so are you.”

“No we aren’t,” Harry says uncomfortably.

“Well, I am,” gasps Snape, still laughing. “Imprisoned in here—reliving my past—reliving my sins—with you as my jury—with Lily’s son as my jury—I cannot endure it.” He pokes his finger in Harry’s chest, harder this time, all levity gone. “You are not be endured. With your eyes—and your questions—you ask so many questions that I do not want to answer—and your bloody Gryffindor perfection—you cannot understand a sinner like me. You cannot!”

“I understand some things,” Harry replies, looking uncertainly at his professor. “I mean, I think I understand why you wanted me to Obliviate Lily.”

“Stop it!” Snape yells. “Stop being so bloody understanding! You should hate me—for what I’ve done to you, for what I’ve done to-to-people you care about!” He strides to the door and begins to bang on it. “The password is Acid Pops—Cockroach Cluster—Fizzing Whizbees—Basilisk Fang—OPEN! WHY WON’T YOU OPEN?!” He glares at the door, panting heavily, and throws himself against it. “OPEN THIS DOOR, DUMBLEDORE! YOU CANNOT IMPRISON ME!”

Snape scrabbles at the wall with his fingers, prying at any little hold. His voice turns soft, petulant, like a child’s. “Headmaster? Why are you doing this to me? Haven’t I done as you asked?” He leans his cheek against the heavy wood, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You--you are no better than the Dark Lord.” And then he gives the door a hard kick, rage suffusing his face. “I cannot stay here—this cannot be borne—I am going mad!”

Harry has had enough.

“Close your eyes,” he orders Snape. The professor only twitches, his feet shuffling in agitation. Harry strides closer, and pokes him hard in the chest. “Close your eyes! I’m going to help you.”

Snape gives a ragged gasp and closes his eyes.

Harry takes this opening. “Imagine you are on a hill. It’s not any place in particular—just the countryside—but the sky is blue and crisp and windy. It’s just turning into autumn. The grass is tickling your calves. You can hear chimes in the distance—it’s a high, clear sound, and it’s clean like water. Take a deep breath. Feel how nice it is?” Harry pauses, eyeing Snape. He is calmer now, but by no means still. “You start to swing your arms in the air, just to hear the whooshing sound it makes. But your hands meet resistance. It’s like the air is thicker around you—sort of solid—sort of like a block of fog. You bounce up into the air a bit, and then you shove the rubbery air again. And now you are in the air—now you are flying—flapping your arms really hard—and then it gets easier because you catch the current of the wind. You spread your arms out and glide along the countryside.”

Snape turns his face upwards.

“Good, yes, that’s it. Now you are flying through the clouds—they are warm and squashy like balloons. But they taste like snow. You dip lower until you are level with the ground, and then you drop your arm down so your fingers skim the grass. The grass feels like a cat’s tongue on your skin.” Harry closes his own eyes, lost in the picture he is conjuring. “The sun is warm on your back. You shoot up like an arrow, getting closer and closer to the sun until it snaps and pops like fire in your eyes. Then you shoot back down and you glide into a pond to cool off. The water is cold and sparkly. Then you dart back out and do loops in the sunshine to dry off. Everything is good. Everything is quiet. Everything is yours.”

A long silence falls, but to Harry it is a comfortable one. He lies on the ground, hands behind his head, and flies. Snape sinks to the floor next to him, rolling his neck and shoulders, the wildness slowly draining out of him.

A minute—or an hour—later, Snape speaks. His voice is hoarse.

“You need a broom to fly, Potter.”

Harry doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “I didn’t know that when I was five, did I?”

Snape doesn’t reply, and Harry lets the silence lull him into a doze. But then his professor jerks him out of it again. “You made this up when you were locked in your cupboard.”

Harry rolls onto his side, propping his head up with his elbow. “Yeah.”

“To pass the time?”

“So I wouldn’t go mad.”

Snape sighs in a long-suffering sort of way. “I see.”

“Flying is the best thing in the world,” Harry says dreamily. “With or without a broom.”

“When we get out of this prison,” Snape drawls, “And after we kill Dumbledore, the first thing I’m doing is going flying.”

“I can give you lessons if you like,” Harry says cockily.

Snape looks at him with something almost like affection, or maybe gratitude, in his eyes. “Sure of that, are you, Evans?”

Harry sits up, suddenly wide awake. “What did you just call me?”

“Potter!” Snape snaps, looking half-amused, half-disgusted with himself. “I called you Potter!”

Harry shakes his head. “You’ve gone mad. It’s official.”

Snape does not disagree.