When Severus and Harry returned to Uroborus, Severus told Harry to go upstairs and hang up his new clothes in the wardrobe whilst Severus made them lunch.

Whilst Harry was out of the room, Severus opened the box that Harry had bought him at Honeydukes.

Humbugs.

In the future, when Severus looked back on Harry’s first term at Hogwarts, he would be surprised that it had taken him until this moment, this one, shining moment of clarity, to realise what had been happening during these last few weeks. According to Harry’s friends, Harry had become depressed in the second week of term, around September 10th, just before the wretched house-elves started serving up fish. The worse Harry’s depression became, the more fish arrived at the table. Big, juicy hunks of fresh fish, just like his father used to prepare for supper every evening. The very smell brought back memories; his father holding him, his father laughing, his father telling him that he, Severus, was the most precious gift. Memories sharp and vicious as knives of what he would never again experience; pure, unconditional, all-encompassing love.

When Harry’s depression reached dangerous levels, Severus had started to notice students whistling his father’s ‘fish cooking’ song, the one Tobias had always hummed to himself as he fried their kippers for breakfast, as he doused cod in egg and breadcrumbs, as he shelled prawns to make his famous shellfish stew. As he lovingly cooked a little dover sole for his precious son. The whistling had taken Severus right back to when he was with his father and he felt safe and loved. It had nearly driven him mad.

And, finally, when Harry needed immediate help, Severus had dreamt about his father for the first time in over twenty years.

And now this. These humbugs. It was a one in two hundred chance that Harry would choose these sweets, the very sweets that his father had given Severus on the day he died.

Severus wondered why he hadn’t realised that these things, these strange occurances were more than mere coincidence before now. It was obvious that someone had been warning him. Warning him that Harry, a boy whose history- now he came to think of it- was so similar to his own, might be in danger. Severus had simply been too wrapped up in his own work, his duties for the order, to realise that these annoyances were something more significant.

The thought made him feel sick. As if it wasn’t enough that he had missed the signs that Harry was unhappy, Severus had ignored- wilfully ignored- what he could now see as explicit warnings that the darkness was coming for Harry, the child he was sworn to protect!

And, it seemed, Harry was still in danger.

Severus strode into the study, a beautiful absinthe green room, far taller than it was wide or long, with a huge ebony partner’s desk and long bookcases which reached all the way up to the skylight in the ceiling.

The Potions Master bent down and extracted an exceptionally wide volume entitled “Poysnous Bugges, Funguses aynd Plantes”- all 20,000 pages of it- and reached into the little recess behind to drag out a large wooden box: inside was a smooth chrysoprase bowl and velvet lined rack, containing a number of crystal vials which dated back into antiquity. Inside each of these bottles were the memories of Basilisks, right back to Slytherin himself.

Severus picked up an empty glass vial and took a deep breath. He really didn’t want to do this and, indeed, had been making excuses to avoid it for some time. Severus was an intensely private man and he had told no one except Horace Slughorn about his childhood and, until now, Severus had had no intention of reliving his past with anyone else.

Memory after silver memory was decanted into that little crystal bottle, filling it to the brim. Severus knew that Harry must realise that abuse didn’t just happen to bad children, that it was the abusers themselves who were evil and twisted.

The darkness couldn’t be allowed to take Harry.

After replacing the book, Severus stood up and carried the box into the kitchen. This afternoon was going to be difficult but when Slughorn had done this for him, it had helped him realise what and, hopefully, it would help Harry too.

oOoOo

Lunch was a quiet affair. Severus and Harry ate their cheese and pickle sandwiches in near silence; Harry was curiously observing the beautiful green bowl, which looked like it was made out of opaque emerald, and the really pretty little cut crystal bottles. Unlike muggle crystal, the carved shapes moved around: flowers bloomed, vines coiled and curled their leaves and, on one very ancient bottle, a little snake blinked and flicked his tongue. Harry was so fascinated that, when Severus offered him a choice of tangerine, banana and apple, he had to ask the child twice.

Severus’s reflections were not so sanguine or pleasant. He knew that Harry was much too young to see this particular pensieve: the memories were very vivid and even the chrysoprase bowl, which would insulate against psychological damage, could not change the upsetting nature of the content. Severus, hardened sixteen year old as he thought he was, had cried in Slughorn’s arms after his first viewing.

However, it had been necessary; as Slughorn had dragged him through the pasts of Basilisks, Severus had realised that these children were innocent victims and, therefore, that he might be a victim too.

When Harry had finished his tangerine, Severus spoke;

“The bowl in front of you, Harry, is a pensieve. It is an heirloom from Salazar Slytherin himself and quite unique in that it is carved from a semi-precious stone, chrysoprase.”

“What’s a pensieve, Sir?” Harry asked shyly.

“It’s a storage bowl for memories; one simply decants the memory which one wishes to view into the pensieve and touches the surface.”

“Oh! But…” Harry blushed, dropped his gaze and fell silent.

“Yes, Harry?” Severus said kindly.

“Well, couldn’t you just remember in your head?”

“Ah, but, Harry, in a pensieve, you see everything as if you were watching a film of yourself. The human mind is quite amazing: we store so much in our subconscious, so many bits and pieces of information which have faded from our actual memories. The magic of the pensieve is that it accesses all of the memory, both the conscious and the subconscious and, therefore, we are able to see what really happened at any given event.” Severus smiled “You would be quite amazed at how different people’s perception of events are to the reality; in the heat of the moment, we often miss the significance of certain things. There is a muggle phrase ‘hindsight is 20/20’, which means that, when one looks back, one sees a situation quite differently then one did at the time. However, it does help if one has access to all the facts, which is where the pensieve is very useful.”

Harry thought for a moment, then bit his lip “Do you want, um, I mean are we going to be looking at my memories?” Harry asked tremulously, horror evident in his wide green eyes.

“No, Harry. Another very important quality of the pensieve is that one can view other people’s memories. Today, we are going to be looking at the memories of a few of the previous Basilisks.” Severus reassured him.

“Um… won’t they mind? I mean, I don’t want to be nosy.” Harry burbled.

Severus patted the child’s hand. “Calm down Harry. No, each of the people whose memories we will be seeing has donated them, for want of a better word, for future Basilisks to show to children. No one forced these people to do so; they gave their memories of their free will.”

“Why, Sir?” Harry asked.

“Sometimes children who have been treated cruelly believe that they deserve it,” said Severus quietly “children blame their abuser’s crimes on themselves for, oh, a dozen reasons: their mother died in childbirth, their father got hit by a car whilst going to the shops to buy them some sweets, they were not pretty enough, good enough, intelligent enough, magical enough…”

Harry looked up at his teacher with heartbreaking green eyes.

“It’s all lies, Harry; if one is responsible for a child, then one should protect, love and provide for that child. There are no excuses, no extenuating circumstances.” Severus took a deep breath “However, it is hard for some children to believe this. That is why I have this pensieve; to show you, if you are willing, some children who have suffered as you have. You will have to make up your own mind as to whether they deserved it.”

Harry looked a little unsure so Severus added “If you choose not to view the pensieve, there will be no repercussions; we will continue on as if this subject had never been mentioned.”

Harry sat and thought for a moment. These were the memories of the Heads of Slytherin House; respectable, learned wizards whose job-title clearly implied that they must also be good men because, if the Basilisks weren’t good, then they wouldn’t be allowed to teach children. The memories were probably just about them getting a smack on the bottom or being sent to bed without supper for some minor mischief. On the rare occasions when Uncle Vernon had denied Dudley a bag or sweets or a comic on the grounds that he had been naughty, Dudley had felt himself very hard done by: he’d screamed and kicked and made himself sick. Harry expected that this was because Dudley was a very good sort of boy, the sort who could be taught right or wrong by a little punishment, whereas Harry, a hardened delinquent, needed a big punishment or else he’d never learn. The Basilisks had probably all been good children, like Dudley Dursley.

“I would like to see the pensieve, please, Sir” said Harry.

“Very well, Harry.” Severus picked up the bottle with the tiny snake carving and Harry smiled to see how the glass serpent twisted around to flick his tongue under Professor Snape’s fingers.

Harry watched in fascination as Severus drained the silver, viscous liquid into the little, green basin: it swirled and a tiny figure rose out of the depths; he was a willowy, tall wizard, with a round, bald head, hollowed cheeks and large, mesmerising, slit-pupilled eyes. He smiled gently, revealing slightly longer canines than normal but the effect wasn’t scary due to the extraordinary kindness of the old man’s eyes. He held out a tiny hand to Harry who, enchanted, took it.

Suddenly, Harry was in Severus’s inner-office at Hogwarts; the room was the same shape, the location of the fire and the setting of the windows were all the same but the décor was very different; bare stone walls, hung with tapestries of serpents and unicorns, were lit by flickering candles in sconces. On the long, leather-padded bench, a young, fair-haired girl embroidered a tiny dragon, a teenage boy with a messy brown mane was writing at the table and, in a chair by the fire, a baby sat in the lap of a beautiful, blond woman, playing with her fingers. A wizard, clearly a younger version of the same man who had invited Harry into the pensieve, relaxed in a chair, smiling over his book at the little family gathering.

“Wæs me wyn to þon.”

Harry turned and saw the older snake-eyed Wizard standing beside him, smiling softly.

“I don’t understand” replied Harry anxiously.

“He’s just saying he was happy.” Severus had materialised on Harry’s other side “Don’t worry, Harry, he can’t actually hear you; Slytherin has simply superimposed a later memory over an earlier memory.” The Potions Master smiled “Well, I say simply; no one has any idea of how he actually did it.”

There was a swirl of silver and the setting abruptly changed. Tall, verdant trees surrounded them and, in the middle of a small clearing, a campfire flicked, revealing a slender, exceptionally handsome man and a beautiful, young woman with flaxen hair. A toddler, whose long, acorn brown locks and bright green, slit pupilled eyes showed him to clearly be the man’s son, was lying in front of the fire, evidently basking in the warmth. The man stood up and hoisted the child onto his shoulder, saying something in a language which sounded even more strange than Slytherin’s.

The child grinned in delight, revealing tiny fangs, and the father smiled at him, opening his mouth and showing long, needle fine canines. The child laughed and grabbed hold of one of the teeth and the man chuckled.

*“Ohh! Ssssnakelet hasss my tooff!”* he teased.

*“I not breaksss it, daddy”* said the child cheerfully, letting go. He patted his father’s long, brown hair.

*“Hunting birdiessss. Ssssupper for sssssnakelet and hatcher.”* the man said keenly.

*“Birdiesss! Yummy yum! Big, fat birdiessss.”* sang the child happily.

The man kissed the little boy on the forehead.

“Why does he call his child a ‘snakelet’ and what’s a ‘hatcher’?” asked Harry.

Severus’ dark eyes widened “You can understand them?”

“Er… yeah” relied Harry confused.

A parselmouth..? Severus schooled his expression into neutrality “Well, that man is a snake youkai, which means he is able to be a snake or a human. He is talking to his son in the language of snakes, which they both instinctively understand. Mother snakes lay eggs so I assume that the ‘hatcher’ is the child’s mother and his father calls him ‘snakelet’ because that is what snakes call their babies.”

“Oh! Does that mean I’m part snake youkai?” asked Harry

“It is possible” replied Severus carefully.

The world turned silver and the scene changed again. The child and his mother were huddled in the middle of a room, looking thin and careworn. The mother’s eyes had dark circles under them, like she hadn’t got enough sleep for many days, and the little boy’s eyes were red from crying. Some men who sort of resembled the woman were yelling at her and she was cringing away, holding the child close to her. One of the men, who was holding a whip, moved towards the woman as if to lay hands on her and the child jerked in front of his mother, baring his fangs with a furious hiss and raising his tiny clawed hands. The man struck the little boy so hard that he was thrown to the ground- causing Harry to jump in surprise- and raised his whip. The woman jumped in front of the child but the man hit her too and kicked her away.

Harry cringed as he watched the man raise the whip again but the scene abruptly changed. There was a tiny, dark room and the little boy, obviously a few years older now, sat in chains which had worn raw his tiny wrists, feet and neck. The child was eating a rat, tear-tracks running down his dirty face.

Harry shuddered “Where is his father?”

“Dead, Harry. Murdered by people who thought he was a monster.” said Severus sadly.

“But… he wasn’t a monster! He was normal!” Harry gasped, remembering how kind and gentle the brown haired man had been with his child.

“Yes but some people believe that a person has to look and speak and think the same as them” replied Severus “That is why they bricked this tiny child up here and left him to rot. His only crime was being different.”

“What happened to his mother?” Harry asked, aghast.

“She is locked up too. In a nicer room, perhaps, and with more to eat but that counts for little with her: she is pining away for her child.”

There was another wash of silver and Harry stood on a hill, watching a building burn. Behind a crowd of warriors, a tall, muscular man with a sword and shaggy, tawny hair knent beside the thin, ragged child and bandaged the child’s wounds with strips of cloth torn from his own shirt. Beside him a red-haired woman, sat holding an almost skeletal woman in her lap and gently feeding her broth.

“The Gryffindors, Godric Gryffindor’s father, Horsa, and Aunt, Hilda, rescued Salazar and his mother” Severus explained. “They were a Norfolk family, viking warriors whose prowess in battle was tempered by their unusually high-minded and idealistic values. They had heard of Slytherin's plight and decided to rescue him. As merciful as they were, however, when they discovered Slytherin and saw what state he was in, the Gryffindors killed those who had abused him without hesitation.”

Harry suddenly found himself outside the pensieve, standing in the kitchen of Uroborus. He felt sick with grief and horror and tears were running freely down his cheeks.

Severus removed a vial containing the Draught of Peace from his pocket and held it to Harry’s lips “Drink.”

Harry swallowed the potion with quivering lips and immediately felt a warmth stealing through his body. Harry’s heart rate slowed and the tightness in his chest loosen.

Severus led Harry over to the sofa by the fire and sat next to him.

“I felt as you do now, when I saw how badly you had been treated by your Aunt Petunia.” Severus confided quietly. “It feels awful, doesn’t it, to see a helpless, innocent child suffer so terribly at the hands of those who should have protected him.”

Harry swallowed “Bu…but Aunt Petunia didn’t lock me up and make me eat rats!”

“Salazar was a snake youkai, Harry. He could eat raw meat; a rat to him would have been no worse a daily meal than a bowl of tinned soup. And your cupboard was just as much a prison to you as Salazar’s cellar was to him.”

Harry bit his lip “At least she let me out sometimes.”

“To be her slave, Harry; your ‘chores’ were, in fact, more housework than a fully grown person could have comfortably achieved and your Aunt also physically abused you; I think it could be said that you had the worst situation.” Severus replied firmly.

“But I was a burden!”

“So was Slytherin; his mother couldn’t support him on her own. That is why she returned to her family.”

“But... I was bad” whispered Harry, curling up on himself.

“No, Harry. You were not bad.” Severus said, putting an arm around the sobbing child “You were just a little boy, like Slytherin was. Did he deserve to be beaten?”

“No, he was just protecting his mother” wept Harry.

“And you were just existing. That is why Petunia abused you; because she resented your mother’s magical ability and the fact that her parents preferred sweet-natured, kind Lily to her spiteful, petty self. Did you know that, when she was twelve, Petunia broke the neck of Lily’s beloved rabbit?”

Harry looked up, tearful eyes shining in horror.

“What had that little rabbit done to her to deserve that? He was the most tame, gentle, beautiful little creature; never bit, always scampered to the front of his cage, loved having his black fur stroked. Petunia killed him to spite Lily, just as she’s hurt you to spite her sister.”

“You were as much a victim as that rabbit, Harry. Petunia hurt you, a sweet, good, innocent little boy, because she is a sick, twisted individual.” Severus finished, his dark eyes flashing.

Harry breathed deeply, the after-effects of his sobs still wracking his body.

Keeping his arm around the boy’s shoulders, Severus reached down and pulled a chocolate bar out of the Honeydukes bag by his foot.

“Here, Harry. Chocolate with candied hearts-ease. Eat some, it will make you feel better.”

Trembling hands took the chocolate bar and Harry broke off a square and nibbled at it.

“Once upon a time, many years ago now, I sat where you’re sitting, eating a bar of chocolate. It was raspberry and mint, I recall” confided Severus “My Head of House, Professor Slughorn, had showed me that memory, among others, because I thought that I had deserved my Mother’s treatment of me. The beatings, being locked in my room, without food, for days as encouragement for me to ‘magic myself out’, being told that I was a wretched little disappointment and wholly responsible for my beloved father’s death.”

“It… happened to you, Sir?” asked Harry, scarcely believing his ears.

“Oh yes. My Mother killed my father when I was six. She was mentally unstable and somewhat violent. My father, who loved me very much, was a muggle and my mother didn’t think him worth much. When he saw that she had beaten me, he was furious with her: he told my mother what he thought of her and she murdered him without a second thought.”

“And she blamed you” Harry asked, incredulous.

“Yes, just as your Aunt Petunia blamed you for having magic when she didn’t.” Severus said sadly “Some people are insane, Harry. They may look and act normal enough to deceive people who don’t really know them but there is something wrong in their heads which means that they don’t understand that hurting another person is a bad thing to do.”

Harry sighed, resting his head against the side of Professor Snape’s chest. He couldn’t doubt that Professor Snape liked him and thought that he was a good boy, Professor Snape had said so many times and in words that couldn’t be interpreted to mean something else. However, Harry still felt that he must be bad in some ways. He’d still killed Voldemort as a baby, which must mean that at least a part of him was dark.

Severus hesitated then raised a hand to stroke Harry’s hair. “I know what you’ve seen today was upsetting, Harry, but Slytherin was, eventually, a very, very happy man. After he was rescued, Slytherin grew up among Hilda Gryffindor's family, who cared for him as much as any of their sons or brothers. His mother recovered and lived to see Slytherin found a school, marry a kind, adoring witch and have many children, who were raised to be proud of their mixed heritage."

Harry nodded “I saw.”

“You, too, will have a happy life, Harry” said Severus “but, to do this, you need to be firm with yourself and say that you did not deserve how your Aunt treated you. You have a great many friends, for example Mr. Malfoy, who genuinely like and respect you because you are a very good sort of person.”

Harry looked doubtful.

“It will take time, Harry, it always takes time to recover from such.” Severus said softly “And, if you need further examples to assure you that it is the adults, not the children, who are at fault, I have a whole rack of childhood memories.”

Harry shivered “No thanks, Sir.”

“Well,” said Severus standing up “I think it’s high time that we started on supper. How does chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes and buttered peas and sweet-corn sound?”

Harry returned his smile weakly “It sounds nice, Sir.”

“Come on, then. Let’s make some pastry.”

oOoOo

An hour later, when a smiling child proudly watched as his teacher pulled their round, golden, delicious-smelling pie from the oven, the tall shade of a man looked on, smiling softly to himself.

“Atta boy, our Sev.”