Harry drags his feet as he reluctantly shuffles toward the dungeons. He's spent most of Sunday alternating between doing homework and getting more and more annoyed about this detention with Snape. His friends have advised him to just go, do his time, and leave without kicking up a fuss. But Harry has so many objections to this punishment--and everything that it stands for--that he's not sure if he can go quietly into that good night. He wants to rage at Snape, but that will probably do more harm than good.

In the end, he compromises with himself. He'll serve the stupid detention, but afterward, he's going to give Snape a piece of his mind. Politely, if at all possible. He can't help but wonder how evil Snape is going to be. The man said he wasn't going to be vicious...but that still leaves a lot of possibilities. He just hopes he survives the evening in one piece. Or without falling to pieces.

Harry finally pushes open the oak door, feeling a blush of humiliation creep up his neck. Snape is going to enjoy this.

They always do.

The professor in question is settled behind his ink-stained desk, a stack of parchments in front of him. He looks up and fixes Harry with his beady black eyes.

"Sir," Harry says frostily.

"Potter," Snape returns levelly. After a slightly too-long pause, he gestures toward the dirty cauldrons piled onto one of the tables. "You will be cleaning cauldrons tonight, without magic."

Harry nods silently. He lopes over to the cauldrons and examines them with an experienced eye. They are caked with all sorts of mysterious and strong-smelling substances. Harry slips off his robes so he won't get them dirty and rolls up his shirt-sleeves, eying the pile with distaste. Then, with an inward sigh, he picks up the scrubbing brush and tackles the first one. He studiously ignores Snape, focusing completely on the cauldrons. He's glad Snape has given him such a physical task; at the moment, this suits him better than doing lines.

Harry is an old hand at cleaning, and he's certainly had his share of scrubbing cauldrons. He works quickly and efficiently, trying to ignore the growing ache in his arms and back. His neck hurts, too, from bending over the table. After a long while, he glances at the clock. Two hours have passed. How much longer is Snape planning on drawing this out? Is Snape going to make him do something else too? Will Snape get mad if Harry stops for a moment? He darts an uncertain look at his professor, but Snape has his long nose buried in a textbook. So Harry quietly puts down the scrubbing brush and noiselessly stretches out, rolling his neck to get out the kinks. He'd like a drink of water, too, but he knows better than to ask for that.

Snape suddenly looks up from his book, seeming to notice the prolonged silence. Harry quickly bends back over the cauldrons, his heartbeat quickening. He doesn't like being caught when he's resting; it usually doesn't lead anywhere good. He gets through three more cauldrons without stopping, gritting his teeth as his blood-quilled arm protests against this unusual exertion. The raw, fresh scars look a little more raised too, like they've become irritated from the constant contact with the harsh cleaning supplies. Nothing that he would ever complain about to Snape, however.

After what seems like a good long time, Snape looks up from his grading. "That will do."

Finally. Harry relaxes his quivering muscles and starts to tidy up. He stacks up the cleaned cauldrons and places them in their proper spot in the back. Then he quickly washes the rags and supplies, leaving them to dry in the sink, and wipes down the table. When everything is done, he looks up at Snape, unsure if anything else is in store for him. "Am I dismissed, sir?"

"Yes." Snape immediately looks back down at his papers, his tone just as frosty as Harry's.

Harry pulls his robes back on, trying to gather his courage. He certainly doesn't want to land himself another detention. But he knows he will not be able to relax until he's had this out with Snape.

Well, he's not a Gryffindor for nothing. "Snape?" he asks tentatively.

Something in Snape's face loosens. "Yes, Potter?"

"Can I say something?"

Snape comes out from behind his desk and leans in front of it. "Yes."

Harry thrusts his hands in his pockets, trying to figure out how to put this. "Okay. See, the thing is, I know I was rude to you yesterday. But I really don't think it was fair for you to say we were in Switzerland--where everything is supposed to be neutral--and then slap me with detention." He peers up at Snape. "It's like you said that to get my guard down, and as soon as I relaxed, you changed the rules. You tricked me."

Snape considers this, crossing his long arms over his chest. "I was not trying to trick you."

"Well," Harry says, struggling, "that's what it felt like. You made me think that the old rules didn't apply. And then they did."

"I see," Snape says, frowning. Now he seems to be the one choosing his words with great care. "Well, Potter, even in Switzerland, I would think civility matters. You do not insult your friends, do you?"

"Yeah, but you aren't my friend," Harry points out. "You made that quite clear last night."

"Hmm," Snape says, the noise imbued with significance. "Let me put it this way, then. Even in Switzerland, you are to treat me with respect."

"Then it isn't Switzerland," Harry mutters. "And I don't insult my friends, but I do tell them the truth."

"So you think it's the truth that I'm stunted and twisted, do you?"

"Stop twisting my words around," Harry says sharply. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying that I don't sugarcoat stuff for my mates."

"Well. I'm not one of your mates."

"Yeah," Harry says darkly. "They can't give me detention."

"Only your mediocre teachers do that."

Harry says nothing, but Snape's words sting more than he would like.

"Why it so hard for you to give up calling me names?" Snape inquires. "Forgive me, Potter, but I was starting to believe you actually did respect me."

"I do," Harry starts. Then he frowns. That isn't quite right. "I did. I respected you in the Room. After a while. But I don't know if I respect you...out here."

"I don't understand."

"In the Room," Harry says slowly, "by the end of it, you were treating me differently. So I treated you differently." He squints up at Snape. "But what reason do I have to like you in this room?"

"In my classroom, you mean," Snape says. "Where my skills leave something to be desired. Isn't that right?"

Harry bites his lip, unsure how he should respond. "Why are you still mad at me? I served the detention, didn't I?"

His words seem to punch a hole in Snape. "Yes," he says in a much different voice. "You did."

"So can you stop needling me about it?"

"You were the one who wanted to talk about this."

"Yeah," Harry says. "Talk. Not...argue."

"Alright," Snape says quietly. "Let's talk, then."

"Can you see my side of it all?" Harry asks. "Why should I respect you when you've done nothing but treat me unfairly from the moment I stepped into your classroom? You've done nothing to earn my respect here."

"And yet I earned your respect in the Room?"

"Well, yeah."

"When, if I may ask?"

Harry blushes. "Um, when you wanted me to give you the Veritaserum."

"I remember."

"So I let you have the vial."

"And?"

"And…you were nice to me."

"I was?" Snape frowns, trying to remember.

"Yeah," Harry says, ducking his head, deeply embarrassed. "You called me a good boy."

"And that made you respect me?" Snape says, clearly puzzled.

"No...but it made me like you, a little bit. And then after that it was easier."

Snape still looks like he doesn't understand, so Harry tries again. "When have you ever praised me in Potions, Snape? When did you do anything but yell and punish me for things that weren't my fault and make my friends so upset that they cried?" He pauses. "I mean, even after we got out the Room, in that one lesson, you were awful to me."

"I know I've been beastly to you, Potter. Last night, you didn't tell me anything I didn't already know."

"But you got so mad," Harry murmurs.

"I don't like being called names," Snape says. "I don't like my skills being called into question."

"Even though you've done the same to me," Harry points out. "Which I think is worse. You're the adult, Snape, but you never acted like one."

"I fail to recall asking your opinion on the matter."

Harry just looks at him.

"I have to maintain a certain attitude toward you in class," Snape adds, sounding very much as though he is trying to rationalize something. "Word must not get back to the Dark Lord that I have gone soft on Harry Potter."

"That's not why you treated me badly. You did that because you wanted to."

"I know," Snape admits in a low voice. "And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed tormenting you."

"But nobody punished you," Harry mutters, not able to let it go.

"My existence has been punishment enough," Snape says heavily.

"No, you can't do that." Harry snaps. "It's not the same thing at all. I'm not talking about some deep soul haunting thing. I'm talking about you doing every petty thing possible to make my daily life miserable."

"I told you before I was a weak man," Snape says. "At one point that seemed to suit you well enough."

"I'm not saying this to cut you down to size," Harry says. "I'm just saying...why I have a problem with you giving me detention."

"Why did you not bring this up before, Potter, and save yourself an evening of scrubbing cauldrons?"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "You would've let me off?"

Snape shrugs. "I don't know. You've given me something to think about. At the very least, I understand why last night was confusing for you. I should not have declared my rooms neutral territory and then punished you when you forgot to treat me like a teacher."

Harry rocks on his heels, pleased.

"At the same time," Snape continues, "I am not sorry I assigned you this detention."

"Why?" Harry asks, less pleased.

"Because, Potter, you acted last night as though a punishment from me would be the end of the world. And it isn't, truly, as I hope you have discovered for yourself."

Harry just shakes his head, unconvinced, memories roiling through his head.

"What is making you hesitate?"

"I dunno..." Harry struggles to articulate the intense images flashing through his mind. "I just remember being thrown in that cupboard--their favorite punishment--and it felt like the end of the world when they shut the door. Literally, Snape. There was no light, no water, no sounds, no people--just...nothing." He closes his eyes, remembering. "And I couldn't just sit there and take it...I'd get hungry, or thirsty, or need to use the toilet...and I'd yell and scream and bang on the door for them to let me out...because I wasn't just going to let them kill me..."

Snape holds up a hand. "One moment. You wouldn't allow them to kill you, and yet you occasionally took out a gun and considered shooting yourself?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you do not see a certain inconsistency in that?"

"If I'm going to die, I want it to be on my own terms."

Snape shakes his head. "I've gone back to my prior opinion of you. The gun threw me off, I admit, and made me wonder if you were really self-destructive. But I don't think you are."

"No," Harry says. "The gun was never about taking the easy way out. It was about taking my way out."

"You are a strange boy," Snape murmurs.

Harry flinches, for the words touch a tender chord in him, because his mum once told him the same thing. His very own mum, back when she was alive, back when she was a child, back when she laughed with him under the trees...

Harry clenches his hands, refusing to dwell there, in that memory, in the land of Sir Gawain...

"And then," he says instead, determined to finish his story, "The Dursleys would open the door--and the way they would look at me, Snape..." Harry scowls. "Everything was just so extreme. Always."

"How did they look at you?"

"Like you used to," Harry says. "Like they hated me."

Snape flinches but recovers. "Dursleys aside, I'm certain you have weathered your share of punishments here at Hogwarts without it going to such extremes."

"Yeah, but Umbridge?" Harry points out. "And you--"

"What did I ever do to you that was so horrible in detention?" Snape interrupts, sounding put out. "I certainly never withheld food or water. I certainly never hit you."

"I know," Harry agrees. "But you always seemed so angry. And after it was over, you seemed even angrier. Like today. Also, I could never be certain, you know, that you weren't going to go crazy. You seemed dangerous. Like they did."

Snape looks at him for a long second, his eyes filled with some conflicted emotion. "I don't think I realized," he says heavily, "how easy I have made it for you to draw the line from the Dursleys to myself."

"It's not a straight line," Harry says quietly. "I mean, usually its people I hate who punish me. I expect that. But people I like usually don't. So this is...different."

"I usually only punish students I can't stand," Snape says. "So for me, as well, this is a bit different."

It is certainly a roundabout way of saying he likes Harry, but whatever, Harry will take it. The warm-tea feeling fills his chest again.

So," Snape drawls, walking back over to his desk and gathering his papers together. "Was I vicious?"

"No," Harry admits. The worst part, really, was how Snape kept needling him about it after. He squints at his professor, and says what he probably should have said last night. "Can we compromise about the name-calling thing, Snape? If I try to mind my manners a bit more--can you let stuff slide in Switzerland sometimes?"

"That seems fair enough," Snape says softly.

"And," Harry says, pressing his luck, "do you think you could be nicer to me in class?"

"What do I get in return?" Snape says, a small smile on his lips.

"Nothing," Harry says flatly. "You should do it because it's the right thing to do."

Snape stops smiling.

"I thought you wanted to be nicer to me," Harry mumbles, staring at the floor.

"There is the issue of the Dark Lord to consider."

"There always is."

"What I can do, Potter, is ignore you in class and let it be known that Dumbledore has forced me to leave you alone. I cannot promise more without arousing the Dark Lord's suspicions. Will that do?"

"Yes."

Snape sticks out his hand. "Shall we shake on it?"

And, very solemnly, they do. Harry flinches a little, the movement irritating his poor sore arm. Snape, who misses nothing, raises an eyebrow, almost as if he is daring Harry to complain. Harry lifts up his chin, admitting nothing.

"So," Harry says, trying to disguise his need for reassurance. "You're...not mad anymore?"

"No," Snape says quietly. "My anger dissipated the moment you pointed it out." He pauses. "Dumbledore would tell me that I had no business being angry in the first place."

Harry doesn't want to talk about Dumbledore. Something twists in his heart, the part that used to be reserved for Dumbledore. It feels like an ache.

But if something is empty, then it shouldn't be able to ache.

"Why don't you go back to the dormitory," Snape suggests. "You still have an hour until curfew."

"Okay."

"Goodnight, Potter."

"Goodnight, sir."

And Harry slips out, still in one piece, but not altogether whole.