Harry puts down his quill. He skims the parchment with one eye and keeps the other one on his professor.

No change.

Snape is still slumped in the corner, nursing a drink. He’s been nursing the same drink for hours. He won’t look up, not even when Harry stands in front of him and yells, which happened about thirty minutes in. He just stares into the drink, robe draped around him like a shield.

And this worries Harry, worries him more than the screaming and the banging did. Silence is often the prelude to something bad, and Harry doesn’t relish discovering what fresh hell is in store for him next. And he can’t shake the feeling that Snape has given up.

And so Harry keeps one eye on his professor and the other on his parchment. So far it reads:

A Place For Warriors

Tap Your Weapons

Desire Is A Battle

United Are The Victors

Stay In The Present

Now, what that lot means, Harry can’t say. But it seems reasonable to keep a record of all of Dumbledore’s cryptic messages. And since apparently Harry is the only reasonable one left in this Room, it is up to him to update the list.

Harry sighs gustily, hoping to annoy Snape into doing something. He supposes he could stir Snape up with a little magic, but he really, really doesn’t want to go there. As long as Snape doesn’t look crazy—and he doesn’t, he just looks sad—then Harry will let the man be.

But the silence is becoming unbearable. So Harry employs another little cupboard trick—he’s got loads of them—and begins to hum softly to himself. It’s tuneless, really, but it does the job.

And then another voice joins in.

Harry looks sharply over at Snape, but his professor’s lips are still clamped shut against any more slips of the tongue.

Harry stops humming, but the other voice continues. It’s high pitched but not feminine. He whirls around in a circle, heart pounding, wondering whether he is starting to hear voices.

“Up here, silly boy.”

Harry cranes his head up, and something black and flimsy falls onto his face. Harry snatches it off with a yell and hurls it across the Room.

The Sorting Hat chuckles.

“You!” Harry says furiously. “What do you want?”

The Hat clears its throat importantly and breaks into song:

There’s nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can’t see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

“I know where I ought to be,” Harry says crossly. “And, I’ll give you a hint: it’s not in this stupid Room. Listen, Hat, can you get us out of here?” He points at Snape, who has not looked up once during this conversation. “Snape here is going a little, er, stir crazy.”

“There’s nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can’t see,” repeats the Hat. “Why don’t you put me on your friend there, eh? I’ll tell you if he’s gone mad.”

“My friend?” Harry says blankly. “You mean Professor Snape?

The Hat laughs again and croons a couple of oddly familiar lines to Harry:

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffindor?

“I really wish you would stop speaking in riddles,” Harry says, annoyed. “We’ve had quite enough of them.”

The Hat smiles pleasantly, immediately reminding Harry of Dumbledore. Bowing to the inevitable, Harry sighs and crosses his arms. “So do you have a message from Dumbledore or something?”

“Put me on your head and find out,” the Hat chirps.

“Oh, fine,” Harry grumbles. He lopes over to the Hat and stuffs it over his messy hair.

“I can get you out of here,” the Hat whispers in an entirely different, urgent voice, right in Harry’s ear. “But you need the sword.”

Harry’s whole body stiffens. “The sword? The sword of Godric Gryffindor?”

“Yes.”

Harry licks his lips, trying to stop himself from getting too excited. “Can you give it to me?”

“Only in times of true need will I produce the sword,” the Hat reminds Harry.

“But…you gave it to me before; doesn’t that mean I can get it again?” Harry pleads. “Come on, I know there isn’t a basilisk in here trying to kill me, but—but we really want to get out of here!”

“Exactly,” the Hat says mournfully. “You want to leave. You do not need to leave. I cannot aid you unless the situation becomes truly desperate.”

“I thought you were going to help!” Harry says furiously, almost stomping his foot in frustration. “How desperate does it have to get in here?! Snape is going nutters and I’m not far behind!”

“But you are not in life-threatening danger,” the Hat says apologetically.

“That’s all that matters to Dumbledore, isn’t it?” Harry growls, clenching and unclenching his fists so he doesn’t tear up the Hat. “As long as nobody kills me, then there isn’t a problem!”

“Why don’t you create a problem?” the Hat hisses. “Create some danger. You are good at it, aren’t you? Every year you come into the headmaster’s office, nearly dead from something or other!”

Before Harry can respond to this shocking bit of advice, the Hat sighs, sending a cool trickle of air down Harry’s neck. “In any case, I’m meant to tell you the following:

The sun is a ball of fire

We need fire in times of war

Choices are made when times are dire

And war is dire, so the sun closed a door.

The sun is a star with many beams

But the rays never seek without hope

The heat is worse than it seems

And together you will learn to cope.

A long silence follows this declaration. Riddles have never been Harry’s forte, particularly, but this one seems fairly straightforward. Harry takes the Hat off and strides over to the window. The dazzling, ever-present sunlight makes him squint. He yanks the curtains shut, and darkness envelops him.

“So what do you think?” The Hat calls, sounding very pleased with itself.

“I think Dumbledore’s ego has gotten a little puffed up,” Harry answers shortly.

“Anything else?”

Harry turns tired eyes on the Hat. “You aren’t a bloody Sphinx. Unless you can give me the sword, then you should just go back to the headmaster.”

“I think your friend should put me on.”

“He’s not my…” Harry’s voice trails off. “Well, it’s really up to him, isn’t it?”

Harry picks up the Hat and walks over to Snape. He kneels down so he is eye-level with his professor. “Professor? Do you want to put on the Hat?”

Snape stares into his mug. Gently, Harry pries his fingers away from the glass and sets it on the floor. The drink is almost full. Bereft of his distraction, Snape looks up at last and meets Harry’s eyes.

“Professor?” Harry tries again. “I don’t, um, know if you were listening to any of that, but I think it might be a good idea for you to put on the Hat.”

“No.”

This is the first word Harry’s gotten out of the man in hours, but somehow he is not overjoyed. “No?”

“No.”

“The Hat wants you to,” Harry pleads. “I think Dumbledore sent the Hat. Maybe if we do what he wants—”

“That hasn’t worked so far,” Snape says quietly. “I will not debase myself by trying yet again.”

“I think Dumbledore’s feeling guilty,” Harry confides, changing tactics. “That’s basically what the Hat’s riddle meant.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

Snape shrugs. “I don’t want to play anymore, Potter. I’m through with Dumbledore’s games and his riddles and his bloody meddling. I don’t care what he feels, or what messages he sends, or any of the rest of it. I’m through.”

“Oh.” Harry sits back on his heels, considering. “So that’s a no to the Hat, then?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs. He’ll just have to take care of this himself, like everything else. A stupid, possibly brilliant plan is already forming in his head. He retreats to the other end of the Room, steeling himself. Create some danger, eh? He can do that. He always does that without even trying.

Harry takes a big breath. If nothing else, this should shake Snape out of his stupor. He places the Hat on his head as if were a helmet.

“Oooh,” whispers the Hat. “You’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Just be ready with the sword,” Harry growls.

Harry pulls out his wand. Ugh, this is a big risk. Well choices must be made when times are dire and all that. He takes care to point the wand well away from Snape, and then yells “Serpentsortia!”

A huge adder shoots out the end of his wand. Harry clamps his mouth shut so he will not be tempted to use Parseltongue. This snake is a lot bigger than the one Draco conjured their second year. He flings his wand away from him, not even looking to see where it lands. There. He’s recreated the Chamber of Secrets as much as he can, and now he wants the damn sword.

“Potter!” Snape yells, staggering to his feet. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing?”

Harry shakes his head, not trusting himself to say anything that’s not in Parseltongue. He beckons the adder towards him, and the great snake slithers towards him, mouth wide open in a fanged grin. The snake circles Harry lazily, and Snape freezes out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t move!” Snape yells. “Any sudden movement and it might attack!”

So Harry moves suddenly, praying for the sword over and over again as the snake lunges.

Something hits him with a thump, and Harry jumps away from the adder, grabs the sword, and slices the snake’s head off. The horrible thing begins to bleed everywhere, and Harry turns away, sickened, images of the graveyard flashing through his mind.

But he has the sword, and that’s the important thing.

Snape is gaping at Harry. He points an accusatory finger at him. “Explain yourself!”

Harry shrugs. “The Hat said the sword would help us get out of here. So I got us the sword.”

“You nearly got yourself killed,” Snape hisses. “That was a stupid risk to take.”

“Well no harm done,” Harry says crossly. “And you weren’t being much help, were you?”

The stiffness goes out of Snape’s body. “Well, no,” he admits. “I…I do not know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says uncomfortably.

Snape frowns, but, thankfully, changes topics. “The sword will get us out of here? How?”

Harry plops the Hat back on his head. “Well?” he demands of it. “I’ve got the sword, now what?”

“Well done,” the Hat titters. “Now all you have to do is plunge the sword into that trunk over there.”

Harry yells with triumph and runs over to the magic trunk.

“Careful,” Snape cautions. “It may lead to nothing…or to another torture chamber devised by the headmaster.”

“Or it might be the way out,” Harry says gleefully. He really, really wants to get away from the bleeding snake corpse.

“Try it,” Snape says doubtfully. He has fresh lines around his eyes, and Harry wonders if they are the price of his melancholy fit.

Harry flips open the lid to the magic trunk and plunges the sword deep into it. For a moment, nothing happens. And then the sword springs out of Harry’s hand, as thought it has been filled with magic, and hurtles towards one of the walls. The sword smashes into the stone, and, amazingly, begins to gouge a hole into it. It disappears from view, clearly digging some sort of tunnel. Harry puts his hands over his ears, witnessing this destruction in silence. It seems fitting, somehow, that the sword isn’t simply unlocking the door.

Nothing about this experience has been simple.

The scraping and gouging goes on forever. Finally the clanging noises stop, and they hear the sword drop with a clatter.

The sword has dug them a way out.

“I wonder where it leads to,” Harry breathes, poking his head into the tunnel. In his eagerness, he notices neither the drawing above the entrance, nor the tiny words scribbled below it. “You don’t think its going to make us time travel again, do you?” He withdraws from the tunnel, turning back to look at Snape, but the man is frozen, a funny expression on his face.

“Well?” Harry says. “Let’s get our stuff and get the hell out of here!”

Snape throws back his head and laughs.

“What’s wrong?” Harry demands.

“You do not see?” Snape asks, shaking his head. He cups his hands over his mouth and yells in the direction of the tunnel. “WELL DONE, ALBUS!”

“What’s wrong?” Harry repeats nervously.

Snape sobers and turns to Harry, a sad smile on his lips. He points at something drawn above the tunnel. Harry looks at Snape and then looks at the drawing. It is an image of the Gryffindor crest.

“So?” Harry demands. “I’m not a Slytherin but I still got into the Chamber of Secrets.”

Snape snorts. Without further ado, he strides towards the tunnel. However, once he gets within several feet of it, he smashes into an invisible barrier. He slams his hands on it, shoving against it with all his might, but he cannot pass the barrier.

“Try again,” Harry whispers, struggling against the implications of this. “Try thinking like, um, a Gryffindor.”

Snape purses his lips. “The Sorting Hat had no trouble sorting me, Potter.” Nonetheless, he begins patting his hands against the invisible barrier once more, his eyebrows narrowing. But nothing happens. He cannot reach the tunnel.

“You should have put the Hat on,” Harry sighs. “That’s why it won’t let you in!”

“It won’t let me in,” Snape says dryly, “Because I am not a Gryffindor.”

“Well put the Hat on now!” Harry wheels around frantically, looking for the patched thing, but it seems to have disappeared into thin air. Harry curses.

“Language,” Snape says mildly. “Have a good journey, Potter. Do owl me a postcard.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” Harry says flatly. “Hang on. Let me get my wand. Maybe I can Blast through the barrier.” He fishes into his pocket, but his wand isn’t there.

“My wand’s gone!” He looks up at Snape, eyes wide, before he remembers—he threw it away from the snake.

Harry races around the Room, giving the snake corpse a wide berth, heart in his throat. But he cannot find his wand anywhere. “Accio wand!” he says finally, at a loss, berating himself for tossing it away.

“It’s gone,” Snape says quietly. “I heard the pop when it disappeared. You were beheading the snake.”

“What?” Harry squawks, unable to process this. “My wand’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, Potter,” Snape says, real empathy in his eyes.

“Let me use yours!” Harry says furiously, blinking back a sudden urge to cry. “Or you use it!”

Snape pulls out the thestral wand, but it refuses to do any spells for him. Harry snatches it out of his hand and tries a few of his own, but the stupid thing is…no more than a stick of wood. Harry runs over to the magic trunk, thinking he can somehow fill up the wand with magic like he did with the sword. But—

“The trunk’s gone!” Harry yells, flabbergasted. “How can it be gone?” His wand arm falls uselessly to his side. Desperately, he tries to channel his magic enough so he can do some wandless magic, but he’s never learned how to and anyhow he can feel the Room blocking him.

Snape gently pries his wand out of Harry’s clenched fist. “This is rather curious.”

“Curious?” Harry snaps. “Our food is gone!”

“No matter. You are leaving.”

“I’m not leaving you in here,” Harry returns. “Especially not without food.”

“Have you forgotten the washroom?” Snape says mildly. “I still have water.”

“Look again,” Harry growls, no longer surprised by anything. Snape turns, a knowing look already in his eyes.

“Ah,” Snape says softly. “That’s gone too.”

“Room!” Harry bellows, panic bubbling within him. “I need you to stop disappearing! I need you to bring back the food and water!” He pauses, gulping in a breath, senses taut as he waits for something to happen. “Okay, then I need you to let Snape past the barrier and into the Gryffindor Tunnel! Or can you at least bring the Sorting Hat back? Please?” But the Room has turned a deaf ear to him, and Harry can’t help but feel betrayed. “Room!” Harry urges, voice cracking. “Come on!”

But nothing happens. In fact, in front of Harry’s very eyes, the hammocks fade out of existence. And now they are right back to where they started. The Room looks just as it did when they first entered—empty, useless, desolate.

Well, not completely empty—the window is still there. The stupid window is still piping sunlight into the Room. Harry distinctly remembers closing the curtains, but of course the curtains are gone now too. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and Harry sinks to his knees. “It’s all gone,” he says, bewildered. “I listened to the Hat, and now everything is gone.” He pounds his fist onto the ground. “That Hat tricked me! I can’t believe I fell for it! What good is it, giving us an escape route we can’t both use?”

“Dumbledore tricked you,” Snape softly corrects. “And it was masterfully done, if I do say so myself.”

“Masterfully done?” Harry says furiously. “It’s evil, that’s what it is! Evil and cruel! How can you say it’s masterfully done?”

“Because,” Snape says mildly, “The headmaster has forced my hand. You will see why, soon enough. Now, come on, off you go. I hope, for your sake, that the tunnel does not lead anywhere nefarious.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.”

“Yes, you are,” Snape disagrees. “I’ll manage, Potter. I’m not completely useless.”

Harry looks at him doubtfully. This from the man who has spent the last twenty fours going around the bend? “Without food? Without water? Without company?”

Snape folds his arms across his chest. “Do you really think so little of me? If you could manage all that as a small child, for days on end, then I assure you I can do the same.” He smirks. “And this cupboard is rather roomier than yours, don’t you think?”

“It’s different when you’re alone,” Harry whispers, taking a step forward. “It was always the worst—for me—when they stuffed me in there and then drove away.”

“There are many kinds of isolation,” Snape says dryly. “And, I assure you, I’ve experienced them all. Now come on, get out of here.”

“I can’t,” Harry says firmly. “It’s too big of a risk. You might die in here. Who knows how long it will take me fetch help? Or what if I can’t get back? We’ll find another way.”

Snape does not look terribly surprised. “You really are a Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

Harry shrugs. “Would you leave me in here?”

Snape traces his jaw with his finger. “No.”

“Well, then,” Harry says. “It’s settled.”

“No,” Snape says calmly. “We will not waste away here waiting for someone to rescue us. You are the Gryffindor, Potter. Act like it.”

“I got the sword, didn’t I?” Harry snaps.

“Come on, Potter,” Snape says impatiently. “I would think you couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

A faint blush pinks Harry’s cheeks. “You haven’t been…so bad.”

Snape smiles at him, one of his rare genuine smiles, and his voice is husky when he responds. “I wish I could say the same about you.”

Harry ducks his head.

“That is why,” Snape says quietly, “I regret what I am about to do.” He looks at Harry shrewdly. “This is your last chance, Potter. Leave of your own free will, or I will make you.”

“With magic?” Harry retorts, before remembering their Muggle-like state. “Oh. You mean by force.”

Snape snorts. “I would if I could. But I rather think the barrier is preventing me from shoving you into the tunnel.”

“Then you can’t make me leave,” Harry says sharply.

Snape takes a deep breath. “Yes, I can.”

Snape squares his shoulders and schools his expression into something cold and flinty. Harry actually takes a step backward, chilled by the transformation. This is the Snape who makes Hermione and Neville cry.

Snape looks right into Harry’s eyes. “Fourteen years ago, in my duties as a Death Eater, I overhead part of a prophecy made by Sibyll Trelawney. A real prophecy, not her normal nonsense. She said ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’ At this point, my presence was detected and I was thrown from the building, so I did not hear the rest of the prophecy. I still do not know it. Dumbledore has not seen fit to share it with me.”

“How does Dumbledore know the rest of it?” Harry asks, dread forming a knot inside of him.

“Trelawney made the prophecy to him. I, in turn, informed the Dark Lord of my discovery. He decided that the prophecy applied to you or to Neville Longbottom. He chose to kill you first. At this point I realized my terrible mistake in telling him what I heard. He meant to kill you—kill your parents. He agreed to spare Lily as long as you were dead. And I agreed.” Snape pauses, ice in his eyes. “I did not try and stop him from killing you, Potter. Just her.” He waits for that to sink in before continuing. “But I did not trust the Dark Lord to keep his word, and so I appealed to Dumbledore, asking him to hide her. Only her. He said he would keep you all safe, and I in return told him I would do anything for him.” Ugly anger flashes across his face for a minute, before the cold mask returns. “That was the moment, Potter, that my allegiances changed. But—it was all in vain. Wormtail betrayed the location of your house. The Dark Lord killed your father. He killed your mother. And he tried to kill you.” Snape points a finger at Harry. “It is because of me that you have no parents, Potter. I led them to their deaths when I told the Dark Lord of the prophecy.”

Harry puts a hand to his forehead. He must have a fever, because everything is oddly sharp and vivid, and there is a thick ringing in his ears, and he’s dizzy. But his forehead is cold and bloodless, even his lightning scar. His fingers brush over its familiar raised edges.

Snape isn’t done yet. His voice turns low and malicious. “You told me that your uncle once left you at the dump. Too bad your parents were dead, eh? They would have saved you from all that.”

“You—you were under Veritaserum when I told you that,” Harry whispers.

“No,” Snape says viciously. “I was not. I tricked you.”

And now Harry feels the first sting of betrayal. Odd, he thinks dully, that this small thing would hurt so much more than the other. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“No?” Snape replies. “You gave me so many useful pieces of information, I am afraid I am going to have to disagree.” Snape raises an eyebrow. “And now I am returning the favor, Potter, and giving you information. Why are you not thanking me?”

Harry just stares at him.

“Were it not for me, Potter, the Dark Lord would never have had the slightest inclination to seek out your family.” Snape spreads his arms wide. “Now do you really want to be in the same room with me? Is that what your parents would want you to do? Stay in the room with their killer? Is that what you want, Potter?”

“I want—” Harry begins, but then he shuts his mouth. What does he want? He wants the buzzing in his ears to stop. He wants—

Oh, hell.

He never gets what he wants.

Snape smiles, a cold mirthless sneer that reminds Harry of the adder. “Do you remember when you asked me to tell you something nice about your father? When I was meant to be under Veritaserum?”

Harry nods, unable, apparently, to speak.

“Do you remember what I told you? I told you that James used to call you Fawn. Fawn was his special name for you.” Snape pretends to look sympathetic. “But you don’t remember him calling you that, do you? Pity. If the Dark Lord had waited just a bit longer, you might have some real memory of it—”

The rest of his sentence is lost, because Harry punches him right in the nose. Snape staggers back, taking the blow in silence. He makes no effort to mop up the blood streaming from his face.

Harry shakes off his bruised knuckles, watching impassively. Now, he thinks dully, now they have each broken the other’s nose.

But they aren’t even. Not unless Harry goes out and kills Snape’s parents.

And even then, they wouldn’t be even.

“I’m ready to leave now,” Harry says tightly, dredging the words up from deep inside himself.

Snape gestures towards the tunnel, hair lank against his face. “Go.”

Harry marches past Snape and climbs into the tunnel. Soon, he disappears from view.

Snape watches the boy leave. After a few minutes, the sound of him scrabbling through the tunnel fades away. Then there is absolute silence.

Snape stares at the words scribbled under the tunnel entrance:

Keep your eyes on the prize.

He turns away and looks out the window.