Harry awoke the next morning to a blinding sunlight. Yawning he sat up and stretched his arms and legs. He stood up and went to look out the window. While he had been sleeping the ground had gotten a light cover of snow, making it look a little more like Christmas. The only sign of life were three owls circling gracefully above the forest.

Harry thought of Ron, Ginny and Hermione together at the Burrow. Right now they were probably having Mrs Wesley's delicious pancakes with jam and whipped cream, or playing a game of exploding snap, all thoughts of Voldemort gone. Like the war had never taken place. He couldn't understand how his friends managed to suppress the truth of what had happened. So many people had paid the price with their lives. Was he the only one having problems processing?

Harry dressed and then reluctantly shuffled off toward the dungeons. The breakfast table in the great hall was probably set with all kinds of Christmas delicacies, but he had no desire for food what so ever.

The sunlight seeped in through the windows, but as he was going to spend the entire day in the dungeons he wouldn't be able to enjoy any of it. Harry took an intentional detour as to stay on ground level for as long as possible. As he turned a corner he found himself standing in front of a familiar statue. He felt a sudden stinging sensation in his heart as he looked up at the stone gargoyle. Once it had been guarding the entrance of Dumbledore's office. He tried with all his might not to think of how disappointed he was in the former headmaster. Dumbledore had proved to be an entirely different person. Harry felt like he hadn't known him at all. At the same time he missed him immensely. Sorrow welled up inside him.

"For the greater good" Harry said as he bitterly looked at the statue. "All the manipulating and the people you let down. I wish that you would have told us more."

Harry almost expected the statue to reply, but it remained firmly quiet. With a last glance at the statue he turned to head for the dungeons.

Harry's footsteps echoed loudly in the empty corridors. The light began to fade and the air became chillier the closer he got. He stopped abruptly when he realised that he had almost passed the door to the potions classroom. He walked up to the door and came to a halt in front of it. This room had once been Snape's classroom. Memories of tormenting and sardonic comments thrown at him surfaced. He thought about the horrific occlumency lessons he had had with Snape. The man had seen so many of the embarrassments Harry had been subjected too in his life. He probably knew more about Harry than anyone in the castle. Yet he had kept harbouring contempt for him, determinedly as ever.

He will penetrate you mind with absurd ease Potter! Snape's menacing words rang in his head. They had certainly never done anything to evoke progress. If anything it had been the other way around. He suddenly remembered something else that Snape had said. Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories, they stand no chance against his powers. A dawning realisation struck him. Snape had, however intentionally or unintentionally been talking about himself. Strangely amongst all the feelings Harry harboured for Snape were also pity and more recently, a growing feeling of respect.

Harry took a deep breath and opened the heavy wooden door. He almost expected to see Snape there; raving about how late Harry was and how many points it would cost Gryffindor if he would be stupid enough to make the same mistake again. Harry left the door slightly ajar in hopes of feeling a little less imprisoned in the poorly lit, chilly classroom.

He began to unload his heavy school bag. Sighing he threw the ingredients and books unceremoniously on the desk in front of him. The first potion he had been assigned to make was as Harry suspected, a rather complicated one. He skimmed through the instructions. It was called Sharnogs draught and had no less than 29 ingredients! He had no idea of what it was good for. He let his head fall against the desk with a thud. As he feared, he would be sitting in the dungeons in this exact position until he rotted.

He thought to himself. Harry Potter, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord can't even make a simple newt-level potion. The simplicity of the potion could however be debated. He flipped through his copy of Advanced Potion Making and reluctantly began to chop the newt tails.

One hour later and Harry was convinced that he would never become an Auror. It was hopeless. By now his potion should have turned a shade of deep red, but all he got from his cauldron were yellow steams. Harry groaned out loud. What would Slughorn think? His favourite potions student is suddenly incapable of making even the simplest of potions. He felt ashamed. In his bag remained still one book. Harry took out yet another copy of Advanced Potion Making. He hadn't told anyone, but he had managed to save the Half-blood Prince's old book from the flames in the room of requirement. Snape's book, he had to remind himself again. He didn't know why he had done it.

Harry reached out a hand to open the book, but stopped in mid air. He couldn't bring himself to turn as much as a page. He still couldn't believe that Snape had been the reason for his new found talents in potions. Snape, of all people! With resentment he shoved the book back in his school bag. He had no right to keep that book. It was time to return it to its rightful owner. The only question was how. Harry pondered. He was so distracted that he didn't take any notice of the black-robed figure, silently watching him through the crack of the door.

Once again Harry heaved a sigh and continued with his potion, trying to figure out where he went wrong, but it was to no avail.

"This is worse than disaster!" Harry's exasperated voice echoed loudly in the stone walled room.

The black-robed figure sneered smugly and then left silently.