“Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?”

But whether James really did take off Snape’s pants, Harry never found out. A hand had closed tight over his upper arm, closed with a pincer-like grip. Wincing, Harry looked round to see who had hold of him, and saw, with a thrill of horror, a fully grown, adult-sized Snape standing right beside him, white with rage.

“Having fun?”

Harry felt himself rising into the air; the summer's day evaporated around him; he was floating upwards through icy blackness, Snape's hand still tight upon his upper arm.

Then, with a swooping feeling as though he had turned head-over-heels in midair, his feet hit the stone floor of Snape's dungeon and he was standing again beside the Pensieve on Snape's desk in the shadowy, present-day Potion masters study.

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry's arm so tightly Harry's hand was starting to feel numb. “So, been enjoying yourself, Potter?”

“'N-no,” said Harry, trying to free his arm. It was scary: Snape's lips were shaking, his face was white, his teeth were bared.

“Amusing man, your father, wasn't he?” said Snape, shaking Harry so hard his glasses slipped down his nose.

“I - didn't –“

Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard on to the dungeon floor.

“You will not repeat what you saw to anybody!” Snape bellowed.

“No,” said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape as he could. “No, of course I w-“

Harry’s words were cut off in a flash of blinding pain as Snape’s fist connected with his jaw.

“Oi!” Harry shouted, raising his arms in a futile attempt to block the blows that started raining down on him. He heard the cartilage of his nose snap as pain thundered mercilessly through his head. Snape was muttering something about Potter and Black and righteous, arrogant purebloods thinking they were better than everyone else. Through rapidly swelling eyes, Harry could see that Snape had taken complete leave of his senses. He looked demented and deranged as he continued to blindly vent his anger.

“Stop,” Harry hissed. Another forceful punch knocked Harry’s teeth loose. He began to choke as blood poured down the back of his throat from his broken nose and teeth. He rolled to his side, trying to get away from the vicious blows.

“Please, stop,” Harry pleaded, as his vision began to blur. He curled in on himself, coughing up blood and gasping for breath.

With the next blow, he felt his head bounce off the cold stone floor of the dungeon. There was an ominous ringing in his ears which blocked out Snape’s continued crazed ramblings. Then, everything went dark.

Snape pummeled Potter for all he was worth, venting years of pent up anger at his tormentor. He wondered vaguely where Black was and why he wasn’t defending his best friend. He knew that Lupin and Pettigrew were too cowardly to intervene; likely they’d run off to get a teacher.

Each punch felt like vindication for all of the cruel jokes that Potter and Black had played on him since he’d arrived at Hogwarts. Potter didn’t look so big and strong anymore. His glasses hung broken off his face as blood ran from his nose and mouth.

“Stop …”

“Why, Potter? You and Black never stopped.” Another blow. And another. “How does it feel to be on the receiving end for once?” He felt cartilage snap and bone breaking beneath his fist. “This will show you to pick on students you perceive as weaker than yourself.”

“Please, stop …”

The pathetic pleading grated on his nerves, driving Snape to punch his nemesis even harder. Potter had rolled onto his side, and the next blow drove the boy’s head into the cold stone floor.

The sound of Potter’s skull cracking ricocheted in Snape’s mind, jiggling loose some small strand of reason. Snape froze with his arm raised in mid air, ready to deliver the next blow.

In a haze of utter horror, the curtains of Snape’s rage parted to reveal not his childhood nemesis James Potter, but his wayward son Harry, lying bloodied and unconscious on the dungeon floor. The child’s face was swollen, bruises blossoming beneath the pale skin. Blood ran from his nose and mouth, from a gash on his forehead, and most ominously, it trickled from his ears. A rasping, gurgling sound came from the boy’s mouth as he struggled to breathe through the blood that was clogging his throat.

As Severus stared in shocked realization of what he’d done—his skin breaking out in an icy sweat as a metallic taste flooded his mouth—the boy started to convulse on the floor, gagging while he seized. Spurred into action, Severus scooped the boy into his arms and ran for the floo. He threw more than a pinch of green powder into the hearth as he shouted for the hospital wing.

“Poppy!” he bellowed as he came through, struggling to hold the convulsing teen in his arms.

“Merlin, Severus,” Poppy said in alarm. “What happened?”

“He’s having trouble breathing,” Snape stated, ignoring her question.  He placed Potter on the nearest bed. “Can you stop the seizure?”

“Wizards don’t have seizures,” Madam Pompfrey snapped, “unless there’s been severe head trauma.” She spoke quickly as she positioned the boy’s head in an attempt to free up his airways.

Severus pulled out his wand, meaning to help in some way, when Poppy shouted, “No!” She smacked his wand away, before adding, “Magic cannot be used on a wizard who is seizing. It could kill him.”

“Kill him?” Snape uttered. “How?”

“Never mind that now,” she said. “Go to my office and get the case labeled ‘Muggle Healing Kit.’ It’s in the wooden cabinet, on the right. Hurry!”

Snape did as he was told, and watched in astonishment as Pomfrey pulled a rather archaic looking device from the kit which she used to suction fluids from Potter’s airways. The boy’s rasping eased somewhat.

Next she pulled a Muggle penlight from the kit and checked the dilation of the boy’s pupils. The sound of distress she made caused Snape’s heart rate to increase a notch.

 “What is it?” Snape asked.

Hastily, Madam Pomfrey wrapped the gash across the boy's forehead with gauze. “I suspect he has bleeding on the brain. We need to get him to St. Mungo’s.”

Snape’s eyes widened, meeting Poppy’s gaze for the first time. Then he glanced at the boy on the bed who, finally, was lying still. The odd way his limbs twisted in on themselves, however, boded ill. Snape felt bile rise in his throat and fought the wave of nausea that washed over him.

“How did this happen?” Madam Pomfrey asked again.

Snape pressed his lips into a thin line.

Huffing with impatience, the mediwitch demanded: “Tell me who he is.”

Severus glanced between the unrecognizable form on the bed and the agitated mediwitch. As his hands balled into fists, he noticed her gaze drop, and quickly clasped his fingers behind his back. Too late, he knew, as he saw the realization dawn on her face at his bruised and bloodied knuckles.

 Resigned to his fate, he forced himself to choke out the two words he dreaded most: “Harry Potter.”