Snape coughs, a weak rasping sound that makes Harry uneasy.

“I need to sit up,” Snape heaves.

Harry gathers up his little remaining strength and pushes himself to his feet. He locks his arms around Snape’s torso, drags the man over to the wall, and props Snape into a sitting position against it. He slides to the ground next to Snape, gasping for breath. Their black heads, inches away from each other, stand in stark contrast to the limestone.

Snape coughs again.

“Need water?”

“Don’t you dare do magic.”

“But do you need water?”

“You need to rest after Healing.”

The echoes of another conversation reverberate in Harry’s head. He looks at Snape without moving his neck. His teacher is creepily pale, blood caked onto his nose. He still can’t believe Snape isn’t dead. “You don’t look so good.”

“Neither do you.” Snape shifts slightly, a frown sinking into his features as he takes his first good look at Harry. “You look terrible.”

Harry shrugs, looking down at his mud-caked sneakers.

“What has happened to you? Why have you returned?”

Harry doesn’t want to tell Snape about the Pensieve. It’s too private. “The poisoned air. I was afraid it would get you.”

“It did.”

A wave of guilt crashes over Harry. “I should have come back sooner.”

Snape snorts. “I didn’t expect you to come back at all.”

Harry ducks his head. “You said I was the first.”

“Did I?” Snape murmurs. He closes his eyes. “I remember falling to the ground. I heard music…and someone calling my name. I think it was my mother.” Snape pauses. “I was either dead or intoxicated by the fumes.”

Harry cannot stop a shiver from racing down his back. “I vote the fumes.”

“Either way,” Snape says softly. “You saved my life.”

“So?” Harry mutters. “You’ve saved mine.”

“Yes,” Snape acknowledges. “And because you Healed me, your life debt to me is hereby cancelled.”

For some reason, this really annoys Harry. “I don’t care about life debts.”

“Nonetheless.” Snape looks at Harry. “It is one less burden for you to bear. Allow me to remove it.”

“Okay,” Harry says uncomfortably.

Snape relaxes the tiniest bit. “I must know,” he says next. “Where does the tunnel lead?”

“Dumbledore’s office.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “Did you speak with him?”

“No. I didn’t go inside.”

“You came back for me instead.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the fumes.”

“Yes.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “You aren’t telling me the whole story.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Snape frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t owe you anything!” Harry snaps. “Didn’t we just cover that?”

Snape acknowledges this with a small nod. “But I owe you something,” he says, managing to make the words into a threat. “You left before I could… apologize.”

“You weren’t looking to apologize when I left,” Harry says angrily. “You were looking to hurt me.”

“I was looking to get you to safety,” Snape says through gritted teeth. “And I succeeded. Or, I would have, if you hadn’t come back!”

“The tunnel isn’t going anywhere,” Harry argues. “I can use it again.” He takes out his wand. “And this time, I’m taking you with me.” He hopes he managed to make that sound like a threat, because, well, it sort of is.

“The Hat did not re-sort me in your absence,” Snape retorts. “Gryffindor’s Tunnel will not admit me, wand or no wand.”

“Leave that to me,” Harry seethes.

“You think you can outwit the headmaster?”

“I think I outwitted him by coming back for you,” Harry says grimly.

Snape’s eyes take on a calculating gleam. “Is that so?”

Harry shrugs. Let Snape work that one out. It will keep him from apologizing, at any rate. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Not yet,” Snape says firmly. “You will be at full strength when you face Dumbledore.”

Harry clenches his fists, welcoming the anger that pumps into him at the sound of Dumbledore’s name. Oh, he cannot WAIT for that confrontation. Dumbledore is going to pay. He’s going to pay for making Harry relive his parents’ deaths. He’s going to pay for everything.

“And don’t change the subject,” Snape adds, glaring at Harry. “I want to apologize to you about the role I played in the death of your parents.”

“No you don’t,” Harry says curtly.

“Yes, I do,” Snape says, looking angrier by the second. “So be quiet and let me.”

“If you really wanted to make amends,” Harry explodes, “you would have done so years ago! You wouldn’t have been such a git to me all this time. You would have come clean, on your own terms, when it would have actually meant something!” He returns Snape’s glare with interest. “You’re just pissed because your secret’s been found out.”

Snape looks away. He takes out his handkerchief and begins to carefully wipe away the blood around his nose. His hands are shaking. “Are you so sure of that?”

“I’m through with thinking the best of people,” Harry says grimly.

Snape pauses in his ministrations. He gives Harry a long, close look. “And why is that?”

“Because they never have my best interests in mind,” Harry snarls.

“But that’s why I didn’t tell you sooner,” Snape says, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “It wasn’t in your best interest to know. Why would I hurt you like that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Harry demands. “It’s never stopped you before! What’s different now?”

“I am,” Snape says, emotion thickening his voice. “And you are. Don’t you dare deny it.”

Harry bows his head. Snape is right. This Room has changed him, changed both of them, irrevocably.

He didn’t want to be changed.

But, as usual, the decision was taken out of his hands.

“I wasn’t talking about you, anyways,” Harry mumbles.

“Other people do not have your best interests at heart, certainly,” Snape muses. “The Dark Lord comes to mind.”

Harry does not smile. “I meant the headmaster.”

Snape flings down the bloodied handkerchief. “Finally come around to my point of view, have you?”

“I hate him.”

Snape lifts up a bony hand. He makes to grab Harry’s chin, but then thinks better of it, and instead points the finger in his face. “You are not allowed to hate the headmaster.”

Harry looks up at him, surprised. “I thought you’d be thrilled. You’ve been trying to convince me that he’s evil for ages.”

“I’d rather you believed in him, apparently,” Snape replies, looking disgusted with himself.

“Why?” Harry says in disbelief.

“Because your eyes don’t look like your mother’s anymore,” Snape says in a rush, voice hitching. “Ever since you came out of that tunnel, something about you has been different. And it’s your eyes.”

“They’re still green, aren’t they?” Harry says sharply, wishing he had a mirror.

“Oh yes,” Snape breathes. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “But your mother never had that look in her eyes.”

“Maybe you put it there,” Harry says viciously. “Maybe you put it there when you told me what you did to my parents.”

Snape flinches as from a blow.

Harry purses his lips, torn between guilt and anger. He sighs and takes out his wand. “Episkey.” Snape’s crooked nose straightens out, and the rest of the blood vanishes.

“I told you not to do magic!” Snape says sharply.

“You’re welcome,” Harry returns, fighting an insane urge to laugh. Instead he wipes at the tear tracks on his face, wondering at his professor for not mentioning them. “Snape?”

“What.”

“You don’t really think I brought you back from the dead, do you?”

“I would think you, of all people, would welcome such a power.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Harry says, resting his head against the stone. That spell took a lot from him. “It’s the last thing I’d want. Because then I really could’ve saved Cedric, and his death really is my fault.” Harry swallows. He couldn’t have saved his parents, right? He was just a little tiny baby. Right?

Snape says nothing for a long time. Finally he sighs. “I must have been dizzy from the fumes, then.” He carefully stretches out his legs, groaning as he loosens his limbs. “Something happened in the tunnel, didn’t it?”

Harry shrugs.

“Fine,” Snape says wearily. “Keep your secrets. At least one person in here should be accorded the privilege.”

For some reason, this sets Harry off. “What are we doing here, Snape?” he demands. “What is this conversation? Are we friends now? Are we not? What happens when we talk to Dumbledore? And after that? Do we just go on, pretending that nothing has changed? Or does something else happen?”

Snape does not meet his eyes. “What…what would you like to happen?”

“I asked you first!”

Snape’s brow furrows in thought. When he finally speaks, his words are slow and methodical. “Whether we are on good terms or not is entirely up to you. You know who I am now and what I have done. I understand if you despise me for it. If you choose not to hate me, however—and you are allowed to hate me, Potter, make no mistake about it—then I am…not opposed to a different relationship with you.”

Harry considers this. “So it’s my decision, huh?”

“Yes. In this I must follow your lead. It would be despicable for me to do otherwise.”

Harry frowns, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t want it to be my decision.”

“Then I ask you again,” Snape says softly. “What would you like to happen?”

Snape looks like he will give him anything he asks. Merlin, but guilt does strange things to people. Guilt made him heal a broken nose. It probably made Dumbledore return a memory best left forgotten. And it made Snape…change.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. His words do not come quickly, but perhaps that is to be expected. He’s never been this honest with Snape before. “It seems like people want me to make all the decisions, or they want to make all the decisions for me. It’s like I have to fend for myself, or I’m a puppet for others to control.” He takes a deep breath. “And I don’t like it. Because either way, there’s nobody for me to depend on.” Harry stops short, terrified at what he’s let slip.

“I see,” Snape says quietly. “You want someone to depend on.” He looks at Harry, his expression frighteningly open. “I’m not sure I can be that person, Potter.”

Harry laughs, a ragged sound that perhaps is also a sob. “Who said I meant you?”

Snape just looks at him, and Harry does his best to hold himself together. He bows his head, a stupid, cowardly lump in his throat, wondering how he can feel abandoned by this man. How can someone leave you when they were never even there in the first place?

“I meant,” Snape says quietly, something like understanding illuminating his features, “that I don’t know if you can depend on me. I’m a weak man, Potter. Surely you understand that by now.”

“It’s not that hard,” Harry says, and this time it really is a sob. “Why does everyone think it’s so hard?” He draws his knees up to chest and buries his head in his arms. “I don’t need someone strong,” he says, words muffled. “Dumbledore is strong. Voldemort is strong. I’ve had enough of strong.”

A long silence greets this. But then a hand settles onto Harry’s head. The hand doesn’t do anything, just sits there, a solid heavy weight on top of his mess of black hair. Harry doesn’t do anything, he doesn’t move at all, in fact, and still the hand doesn’t go away.

“Harry.”

Harry doesn’t look up. “What?”

“Look at me, Harry.”

Harry frowns into his jeans. “Don’t call me that. You’re trying to manipulate me by calling me that.”

Harry can hear the smirk in Snape’s voice. “Dumbledore always said you’d like me better if I called you by your first name.”

“Well, he was wrong,” Harry says hotly. “He was wrong about a lot.”

“Alright,” Snape says dryly. “Potter, then. Look at me.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I told you my secret,” he whispers instead. “And now you’re going to throw it back in my face.”

“Not everybody is the headmaster,” Snape says softly. “And your secret isn’t much of one, Potter.”

The hand closes around Harry’s hair, gently tugging upward on it. Harry allows his head to be pulled up, and looks at Snape. The man’s eyes are bright with emotion. “You can depend on me,” he says in a strange voice. “Although I don’t know why you would want to.”

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Okay,” he says quietly, unable to find words for more than that. “Um, thanks.”

Snape smiles at him, something like affection in his eyes, and gives Harry’s hair a final tug before letting him go.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry says, suddenly fidgety. “Enough talk.” He jumps to his feet. “I’ve rested, I’ve got my strength back. Have you?”

Snape gets to his feet, looking amused by something private. “I have strength enough for this.”

Harry conjures two goblets and fills them both with water. He hands one to Snape and quaffs the other himself. Snape raises an eyebrow, lifting his goblet as if in a toast, before doing the same.

“Now,” Harry says, circling the tunnel opening. “See if you can enter.”

Snape tries to crawl into the tunnel, but he’s pushed backwards before he even gets close. Harry takes out his wand and tries several spells to no avail. Then he takes out Gryffindor’s sword and changes it back to its normal size. “I wonder,” he muses, “if you have to do something brave.”

Snape snorts. “Something else, you mean?”

Harry shrugs. “Feel up to killing a snake?”

Snape smirks.

-----

One dead snake later, and Snape and Harry are well on their way. They left the Room without a backward glance. Snape’s been muttering the whole time about Dumbledore’s ethics and standards for bravery and the sheer idiocy of Gryffindors in general. Harry, thankfully, has only heard snippets, because the Bubblehead Charm tends to muffle most sound. He doesn’t see any of the ominous black clouds, but, well, better safe than sorry.

Finally, they arrive at the door to the Pensieve Room. Harry puts his hand on the knob.

Snape stops him. “Wait,” he mouths. Harry waves his wand, canceling the Bubbleheads so they can talk freely. “Do you wish to discuss anything more before we confront Dumbledore?”

“Oh,” Harry says, somewhat sheepishly. “This doesn’t lead to his office. One more room to go.”

Snape frowns at him, but allows Harry to open the door. Harry shuts the door firmly behind them, glad to be done with the stupid tunnel once and for all. He sneaks a look at Snape. His professor is standing, arms folded, a tiny smile on his lips. Then the smile fades as his eyes find the Pensieve. He walks over to it, studying its contents. Finally, he looks up at Harry. “There is no memory in here.”

Harry joins him, staring into the clear liquid. “So?”

Snape glares, but does not pursue it. “Do you wish to discuss our upcoming meeting with the headmaster or not?”

“Not,” Harry says firmly. “I know exactly what I want to say to him.”

“Promise me one thing,” Snape says calmly. “Promise me that you will not raise your wand to him.”

Harry hesitates. “Promise me the same.”

“No.”

Harry snorts. “Then why should I?”

“Because,” Snape says softly. “It is in your best interest to do so.”

Perhaps this argument will not always work on him, but, right now, it basically wrecks any defense he has. “Okay,” Harry agrees quietly. “I promise.”

Snape puts his hand on the door, but the knob will not budge. The two look at each other, perplexed.

“The knob turned before,” Harry says faintly.

Snape looks thoughtful. “Did you view a memory before you tried the door?”

Harry hesitates.

“You need not describe it. I merely wonder if the door has been Charmed to remain locked until a memory has been viewed.”

“Yes,” Harry sighs. “There was a memory.”

“Where is it now, I wonder?” Snape says shrewdly, looking right at Harry.

Harry shrugs. He just doesn’t want to talk about this with Snape. Not right now, and maybe not ever.

“Well,” Snape says, taking out his wand. “I rather think another memory must be viewed before we can pass.”

He lifts his wand to his ear, murmuring to himself, and a thick glossy strand soon appears.

“Hey!” Harry says, delighted. “Your magic is back!”

“Yes,” Snape says gleefully, not bothering to mask his happiness. “I felt it as soon as we left the tunnel.” He drops his memory into the Pensieve, and it rises to the surface, silver and dewy. “Go on,” he gestures to Harry, his movements full of a new confidence and grace. “Look at it.”

Harry takes a step back. “No way.”

Snape walks to the door, tries to unlock it with magic, and then walks back to Harry. “Still locked,” he announces, practically bouncing with energy. The return of his magic has transformed him, and Harry’s not sure whether he should laugh or run away screaming. “Go on.”

“Let’s both watch it.”

“That would make me ill,” Snape says lightly. At the look on Harry’s face, he adds, “It’s nothing bad, Potter, I promise.”

Harry looks at him uneasily. But, really, it can’t be worse than the other memory, can it? And would Snape really show him something awful? Especially now?

“Alright,” Harry says reluctantly. He dips his hand into the memory, and quickly whirls away before he can catch the expression on Snape’s face.

It is a quick trip. Merely a snowy day in Hogsmeade. Snape backing out of a shop, catching sight of James and his infant son. James throwing Harry up in the air, cuddling him. Playfully butting his head into the baby’ stomach. Calling him something. Calling him Fawn.

That’s all.

Harry is back before he knows it, stumbling backwards from the Pensieve. He would have fallen, but a hand grasps him, steadying him.

“Sickening, wasn’t it?” comes a dry voice from behind him.

Harry does not answer, his heart pounding as he tries to swap this memory for the other one. This is how he wants to remember his father. With red cheeks and snowflakes on his glasses.

Snape does not seem to expect a reply. He strides to the door.

“Don’t you want your memory back?” Harry asks in a small voice.

“What memory?” Snape throws over his shoulder. He puts his hand on the knob, and this time, the knob turns.

The door to Dumbledore’s office swings open.

"Prepare yourself,” Snape growls. He marches through the door. Harry hesitates. He slips his wand up his sleeve and then follows Snape.