Suicide Pact by RhiannanT

“Enter,” Harry heard in response to his knock. Welcoming, he thought, opening the door and walking inside.

“Potter,” Snape said, “if it was unclear at the time, by 'get out' I meant, 'leave my office and remain out.' Leave.”

“You said 'enter',” Harry said.

“That-” Snape cut off, shaking his head. “Just get out.”

“I need to speak with you,” Harry said, closing the door behind him. “Is it safe, here?”

“It is my office and potions store, I am a Death Eater spy, and this is a school, Potter,” Snape drawled disdainfully. “Yes, I typically keep it warded.”

“I need your help,” Harry said, too distracted to be bothered by Snape's mocking. How am I going to word this? Like a rash idiot with delusions of grandeur, of course. “I want you to help me leave the school,” he said. “I want to take Voldemort by surprise. Bring the battle to him.”

For a moment, Snape just stared. When he spoke, it was with the greatest disdain, and Harry found himself bothered. He hadn't realized that he had achieved any respect from the man, but apparently Snape had seen him as something more than an insect, before, since now he clearly didn't. “You want me to...” he seemed to need a moment to process, again. “...to help you to leave the protections of the school so that you can launch a frontal assault on the Dark Lord entirely on your own.”

“Yes,” Harry said resolutely.

“No,” Snape said. At first he thought Snape was simply refusing his request, but then the man continued. “No, even you aren't quite that stupid, Potter.” He'd lost the disdainful tone, and studied Harry intently. “Perhaps it is that you think I am,” he reflected. Abruptly, he leaned forward over his desk, speaking quickly and intensely. “Do you really think me so idiotic as to expose myself in such a way to Dumbledore's simplest flunkies, if I were, in fact, loyal to the Dark Lord, Potter? Do you honestly believe that I would be alive this long, if I could be fooled by the trickery of a sixteen-year-old boy?”

Maybe not, Harry realized, tempted to lean away from the man but resisting it. This might not work. Still, the man hadn't actually correctly guessed his intentions.

Damn it, I can't act, he thought, frustrated. Remembering his tantrum in Dumbledore's office, he tried to duplicate it. “He killed my parents,” he said, trying to feel the emotion behind his farce, the desperation and anger. “He killed Cedric, too. Everyone who comes near me dies!” He bit his lip, purposefully calming. “He has to die,” he said forcefully. “I have to kill him. He's just going to keep killing, until I do.”

This time, Snape watched his face, studying him, and stayed silent for a bit after he fell silent. “No,” he said finally. “That's not it. Or at least not all of it. Try again.” He sounded coldly interested, like someone studying a machine, not a person.

Damnit. But he could tell him the half of the prophesy that Voldemort already knew. The fact that the prophesy existed, and that Harry knew about it, would probably not be news to Snape, and even if it was it wasn't new to Voldemort. The risk was minimal. And if the prophesy was correct, then nobody but Voldemort could kill Harry. He had nothing to fear.

“The prophesy,” he said, still pretending to be just barely in control of his emotions. “I'm supposed to be able to kill him.”

“True,” Snape said, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “But try again.”

“It's the truth!” Harry exclaimed, truly frustrated. “Why won't you believe me?!”

“Oh, I believe you that you want me to sneak you out of the school, Potter,” Snape said. “You've certainly done it before. It's why you need my help that is confusing me. And even if I believed that you simply wanted to get yourself killed attacking the Dark Lord I wouldn't be so idiotic as to help you. Give me a better reason.”

“But that's the truth,” Harry insisted again. Worded that way, it was. What if he's too loyal to Dumbledore, too? Strange thought. He'd figured maybe Snape was a Death Eater, but he hadn't thought too far on what happened if Snape was as loyal to Dumbledore as the other Order members were.

“And if you'd tried this twenty-four hours ago, I may have believed you, but now I know that in addition to exceptional arrogance and foolhardiness, you also possess enough intelligence to know that you would be simply killed attacking the Dark Lord that way. Try again.”

Shit. Now was not the time for Snape to admit that Harry wasn't entirely useless. He thought quickly, but apparently not quickly enough.

“The truth wouldn't take that much thinking,” Snape pointed out. “Even from you.”

Damnit, why did the man have to be such an ass? “I want to get myself killed attacking the Dark Lord,” Harry finally said. “That's the truth.”

Snape actually looked taken aback, and it was a moment before he spoke. “Am I to report to Dumbledore that you are suicidal, Potter?”

Shit. That time, the man did believe him. “No,” Harry said quickly. “Hear me out.”

Snape snorted lightly. “You certainly don't need to convince me that the world would be a better place without you in it, Potter. I fail to see why you feel that way, however.”

“I-” Harry started, before cutting off, frustrated. “Look, what do you know of the prophesy?”

“More than the Dark Lord does, if that's what you mean,” Snape answered. “Dumbledore trusts me that far, at least.”

“So you know the whole thing?” Harry insisted. “One at the hands of the other?”

Snape just nodded, listening.

“Well, either must die at the hands of the other. Either. You agreed with me that I'm not going to be able to kill him. I want you to “capture” me out of Hogwarts so that he can kill me. Then the prophesy would be fulfilled, and Dumbledore or someone else could kill him.”

Once again, Snape sat back to stare at him. “And that is the truth,” he said without revealing anything.

“So was all the rest,” Harry pointed out.

“Hardly,” Snape drawled. “'I have to kill him,' Potter?”

“Indirectly,” Harry amended.

“Indeed,” Snape said coldly. “In the future, I would suggest you use a more 'direct' approach to the truth, if you wish to make an ally of me.”

“I don't need you as an ally,” Harry said. “I need you to get me killed.”

“But you do need me,” Snape said. “And while I have not said that I will go along with this so-called 'plan' of yours, I certainly will not if you continue to lie to me. You either trust me or you don't, Potter. You cannot have it both ways.”

“If you're actually loyal to Voldemort, you could warn him,” Harry said.

“I could,” Snape acknowledged. “But then you chose to tell me eventually.”

“You already knew the other half of the prophesy, so I haven't really told you anything other than a different interpretation,” Harry said.

“I told you that I knew the other half, that is true,” the man said. “But have you considered what happens now, if I am a Death Eater, and I lied?”

Harry paused, closing his eyes for a moment. Then you go back and tell Voldemort my plan, and he captures me and keeps me in a box for the next few centuries, he thought. “That would be bad,” Harry admitted.

Snape sneered. “Careless as ever, Potter. If you do not trust someone, then lie to them. If you trust them, tell the truth. But it is idiotic to tell the truth to someone you distrust, only because they push you.”

There wasn't much he could say to argue that, but - “I have to trust you,” Harry said. “If you were a Death Eater, I have to think that I'd already be dead.”

“And what makes you think that if I'm loyal to Dumbledore, I won't simply tell him?” Snape asked next.

That was exactly what he was worried about. “If...if you're really a spy,” Harry said, thinking it through. “then you probably want Voldemort dead more than you want to tell Dumbledore the truth.” Or than you want me alive, he didn't say.

“Probably,” Snape countered.

“That's better than the 100% that Lupin or the Weasleys would tell him,” Harry countered.

“Moody,” Snape countered.

“Knew my parents,” Harry explained. “And warned the Dursleys off, last spring.”

Once again, that stare. “He cares for you,” Snape said finally. “Nobody you could easily access would be so cold as to sacrifice a sixteen-year-old to the cause. Particularly a late friend's son. Other than me.”

“Exactly,” Harry said grimly. Hey, Remus? Could you do me a favor and get me killed on purpose? I swear Mom and Dad won't be mad.

Snape smirked. “I am rather perfect, aren't I?” he said, sitting back in his chair. “From your perspective, anyway.”

“Only if you're not actually a Death Eater,” Harry admitted.

“I never said that I was not,” Snape said, shaking his head. “And you've pointed out multiple times that you have no real evidence that I am not, other than Dumbledore's word. Are you so trusting?”

Harry felt his heart beating hard. This might be a huge mistake. But then, why would Snape be telling him not to trust him, if he was truly not to be trusted? But then, it had worked to actually make him trust Snape more, so maybe he could have planned that? “Doesn't matter,” Harry said, interrupting his own stupid thoughts. “I need you.”

Snape gave a sadistic smile. “Indeed, you do,” he said, clearly enjoying that. “I will consider your proposal, Potter. Now once again, get out.”

Harry stared at him. “Consider-” The man was going to make him wait?

Snape smirked. “What, Potter?” he asked cruelly, “afraid you'll lose your nerve?”

Harry threw his chin up to glare at Snape. “You're a complete...git, Snape, but I have to work with you,” he said, frustrated. “The least you could do is work with me.”

“And once again you credit me with benevolence on your behalf,” Snape retorted.

“Actually, no,” Harry retorted. “I credit you with the desire to get me killed in the shortest amount of time possible. You need my cooperation.”

“You came to me, Potter,” Snape reminded him. “Have you changed your mind so quickly?”

Harry snorted. “Too late now.”

“Exactly, Potter,” Snape said, obviously satisfied. “And as such, it is my cooperation that is in doubt, and not yours.”

Touché. Defeated, Harry shut up for a moment to think. God, Snape was going to make him wait?

And the man was studying him, again. “What?” he demanded irritably.

“Are you suicidal, Potter?” Snape asked him.

“Does it matter?” Harry asked, irritated by the question. “Want to or not, I'm going to die.”

“Answer the question, Potter,” Snape demanded impatiently.

“The prophesy-” Harry started.

“No, Potter. Not the prophesy, your obligations, your need to play the hero, you. Your life. It is not a complicated question. Do you want to die? Yes or no.”

Harry stared at him. That was exactly what he was not thinking about. Why did Snape even want to know? Or was he just tormenting him? At any rate, he was not answering. He just stared back, defiantly, but Snape was unmoving, continuing to stare, and Harry couldn't not think about it.

“Yes,” Harry said finally, certain. “I want to die before my friends do.”

“Obligations, again,” Snape scoffed.

“No,” Harry said, angrily. “Realism. I would rather die than see my friends die first, and those are my choices. Either way I die eventually.” Now will you leave it alone?

Finally Snape nodded. “I dismissed you, Potter,” he said. “Leave.”

Thank you. This time, Harry just nodded and left. Asshole.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Damn you, Snape. He'd tried very hard, not to have time to think, and now he did. Did he want to live? No, damnit, don't think about that. All that mattered was what he told Snape – he wanted to die before his friends did. He couldn't go to classes, hang out with his friends, play stupid Quiddich, while people fought and died to give him the opportunity to do so. He was going to die anyway, the only question was how many people he let die on his account in the meantime. Dumbledore would no doubt tell him that it wasn't his fault, but Dumbledore, by his own admission, loved too much. He couldn't bear it for Harry to know the truth.

Only Sirius had actually died because of something Harry did, but people were still dying because of him. His parents, Cedric, various others who would die later because Voldemort was trying to get to him – it wasn't Harry's fault that they would die, but he could still prevent it. And didn't that mean, then, that if he didn't prevent it, then it was sort of his fault?

And there was no way you could interpret it that didn't make Sirius' death at least somewhat his fault. Yet again, the man had died trying to rescue him, after Harry had yet again made the decision to play the hero. This time, he needed to make damned sure that nobody tried to rescue him. Nobody must know about it this time. Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, the Weasleys, Lupin – nobody could know except Snape.

Please, Snape, he thought desperately. Soon, please. Nobody could afford for him to lose his nerve.

So just don't think about it. What now, though? What did one do with one's time, while waiting to die? Don't think about that. His homework had all been trivially easy after the studies over the summer, and he'd finished it before his detention with Snape. It was nearly ten o'clock, and he had class early in the morning, but certainly sleeping now wasn't going to work.

Normally, he'd study, but he was too agitated for that to distract him sufficiently, and he was at Hogwarts, now, with all the resources Hogwarts had to provide.

Room of Requirement, it is, then. He'd used it all the previous year for the DA. Maybe if he tired himself out enough, he'd be able to sleep.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Give me something to fight, Harry thought fiercely, walking back and forth. I need something to fight.

The doors opened on a dueler's platform, one with nobody else on it. As soon as he stepped onto his side, though, a dummy appeared, and Harry grinned. The dummy had a superficial resemblance to Draco Malfoy, but was fake enough that he wouldn't be worried about actually 'killing' it. Perfect.

Giving a wizards' salute, and receiving one in return, Harry cast his first spell. “Expelliarmus!”

The thing dodged and cast back silently. Harry tried to dodge, but was hit anyway. And it hurt. “Ahh!” he shouted angrily, simultaneously casting back with a blasting curse. The dummy was thrown, but it was up fast and casting. This time Harry managed to dodge, but he didn't manage to cast back before the thing cast again, a spell that Harry recognized as the same stinging curse that Snape had used. Off balance from his previous dodge, once again Harry failed to avoid the attack, and yelled again in pain and fury as he responded with a blur of attacks. But the thing was faster than he was, and only one actually connected. And once again it was casting, and Harry had to interrupt his attack to shield.

By the time fifteen minutes was up, Harry was exhausted and beat to hell. Still he fought, as he did worse and worse against the thing and picked up more bruises. Finally, though, he lost his wand, and was reduced to dodging. Quickly after that he was driven out of the circle, and the thing stopped, giving another wizard's salute. Harry just lay back where he'd fallen, breathing hard and covered with sweat. Finally, though, he realized he needed to not fall asleep there, and rolled to a sit before dragging himself to standing and finding his wand.

“Thanks,” he said, saluting the thing.

And, wonderfully, a shower and bed were all that occupied his mind as he headed back for his dorm.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next morning was hell. It started when Ron woke him up, concerned because Harry had not heard his alarm. He tried to roll over, and promptly found the result of his activity the night before.

Ow. He knew the dummy hadn't hit his face, but he was grateful that his pajamas had long sleeves, or Ron would've surely said something – he was sure he was bruised from head to toe. Still, he knew from experience that a shower would help loosen him up, and he'd feel better.

He dragged himself painfully out of bed and carried his clothing with him to the showers, not undressing until he was behind the curtain.

Sure enough, the shower loosened him up enough that he could move, and he discovered that the bruises weren't actually too bad – apparently stinging hexes just hurt, without bruising. The ones he had appeared to be from where he hit the ground dodging.

Breakfast was alright, but his first class of the morning was Defense, and Snape was even more unpleasant than usual. He threw spells at Harry at random intervals, and Harry was forced to block, and block, and block, until finally he snapped.

“I can block when I want to, Snape,” he said. A sudden thought brought a defiant expression to his face. “Or would you prefer I not?”

Snape seemed almost startled, before a sneer blocked the expression. “I am fully capable of casting too fast for you to block, Potter,” he said stiffly.

“I know that, actually,” Harry told him. “Still doesn't explain why you're trying to hit me.”

“It explains that I am not!” Snape said, suddenly angry. “I intend for you to block, Potter!”

“I am blocking,” Harry said blandly. Why was Snape bringing that up, now? Surely that hardly mattered, giving everything else that had gone on the night before?

Snape only seemed to get angrier. “Detention, Potter!” he exclaimed. “You will not talk back to me!”

“Apparently, I will,” Harry said, before belatedly remembering that he needed the man's help. Still, he wasn't going to apologize to Snape. And anyway, the man was probably not petty enough to make a decision like that based on the fact that he didn't like Harry. And if he did make it based on that, he'd be more likely to help him die if he hated him, wouldn't he?

“Tonight, Potter,” Snape repeated, seeming to calm. “And five points from Gryffindor.”

“For blocking?” Harry asked him.

“For disrespect,” the man said, enunciating each syllable through clenched teeth.

Harry just smiled at him. I'm worried. He'd show up for the detention, if only to see if Snape would give him a damned answer, but he could just leave if the man wasn't going to. Yes or no, Snape? Do I live or do I die?

He gave himself a mental shake. You die, you idiot. Of course, you die.

The rest of his classes went a bit easier – immediately after Defense, he had his morning break, which he used to do his just-assigned Defense homework. It felt a little pointless doing it when it was likely that he wouldn't live to get it back, but he had to do something.

And then was History of Magic, and his homework was already done. He'd've just walked out – if his Defense homework had felt useless, this class felt retarded – but he was continuing the charade that all was normal. Instead, he worked on his wordless spells, picking up a piece of chalk and quietly drawing a simple pale blue flower on the board behind Binns' head. It drew a few snickers from his classmates, but his wand was under the desk and so nobody noticed that it was him.

After a bit, though, somebody started helping, picking up a piece of chalk and transfiguring it green before giving Harry's flower a stem and leaves, then starting the stem and leaves for what might turn into a tulip. Harry put a blue head on the tulip just as someone else commenced work on clouds with a piece of white.

Someone else promptly started work on a yellow sun, and Harry took a quick look around before starting coloring the sky with his blue.

Everyone in the class was grinning at the board. Everybody except for two that he noticed – Hermione met his eyes with a small smile, and Neville Longbottom held his lower lip between his teeth as he concentrated.

Go Neville, Harry thought, surprised. He'd know the other boy could cast after his actions the previous spring, but it was impressive to see that he'd mastered wordless magic so quickly, especially under Snape's tutelage. Damn the man, he thought once again, a stab of anxiety cutting through his gut. Why couldn't he just make up his mind?

After History was Potions, and he managed to bury himself in the work for long enough to get through. And then was lunch, and as before, he forced himself to linger over the meal, smiling and chatting like everybody else. The topic was the drawing in History of Magic, as everyone shared with the other Gryffindors what had happened and wondered loudly about who had perpetrated it.

Neville and Hermione both blushed, and Hermione once again gave him a small smile, but they seemed as reluctant as he was to share.

“I can't do it,” Dean said. “Neither could Seamus, I think.”

“Hermione could,” Ginny said, looking at her. Hermione just smiled, but didn't confirm anything.

“So could Harry,” Dean said.

“You said that there were four people, though, right?” Ginny asked. “Four colors going at once? That's only two, even if it was them.”

True, Harry realized. Who had been their fourth person? He already knew Ron couldn't do wordless magic yet, Dean had just said it couldn't be either him or Seamus, and he was pretty sure that it wouldn't have been Parvati Patil or Lavender Brown, either. Had one of the Slytherins been taking part? Strange thought. He could just picture snotty Malfoy or proud Zabini picking up a chalk to draw the sunshine while he, Hermione, and Neville worked on the flowers and clouds.

His last class of the day was Charms, and Flitwick gave Gryffindor fifteen points without saying why. To Harry's surprise, Hermione promptly raised a hand.

“Yes, Ms. Granger,” Flitwick said, sounding as surprised as Harry.

“One of the Slytherins should get points, too,” she said, apparently having come to the same conclusion as Harry had.

“Oh,” Flitwick said. “Thank you. Five points to Slytherin, then. And five more points to Gryffindor, for fair play, Ms. Granger.”

Go Hermione, Harry thought.

The rest of the class was dedicated to the Aguamenti spell, which Harry had already mastered over the summer. Hermione had, too, he realized, watching her cast it. She was talented, sure, but he'd discovered that summer that the reason she always got things the first time around was because she'd always practiced them before they were even introduced in class. Fortunately, Flitwick was quick enough to realize that the two of them got it, and allowed them to do homework if they wanted to. Harry's Defense homework was finished, but he got started on his Potions. Once again, it was something to do.

Finally, his classes were over for the day, and almost immediately Harry wished they weren't. He had a long wait until his detention. He'd talked to Katie Bell the night before, just before his detention, but Quiddich tryouts weren't until the next day. He had all the time in the world.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Practice, just practice, he told the room this time. The same room appeared, but this time the dummy looked a bit like Alastor Moody, eye and all, and it didn't go at him quite as hard as the 'Draco' dummy had. Its spells, when they did hit, didn't hurt as bad, either. It was less satisfying, but he could keep going for longer, and so it was better. He stopped once for dinner, then came back until it was time for his second detention of the week.

It's a new record, he thought irrelevantly as he knocked on Snape's door.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Snape was sitting behind his desk, the desk where Harry had sat before flush with his. “Lines, Potter,” he said as soon as Harry had entered the office. “They are on the desk.”

Harry stared at him for a moment. What?

Snape just kept doing whatever he was doing, clearly fully expecting to be obeyed. But was Harry really going to do lines? Why would he? “No,” he said finally.

“I assure you, they are, Potter,” Snape said without looking up. “I put them there myself.”

“No,” Harry said, “I meant-” he cut off. Of course Snape knew what he meant. “I'm not here to write lines,” he said instead.

“And once again I assure you, Potter, that that is exactly what you are here to do,” Snape answered, still not looking up from his work.

“I need your answer,” Harry said impatiently.

“No,” Snape said, finally looking up. “You want my answer. And so you are going to sit down and write your lines.”

Once again Harry stared, frustrated beyond words, before finally dropping into his seat.

It was the same lines - “I will be polite and respectful to my betters.” This time, though, he was to write it 750 times. He stared at the paper in shock as Snape spoke again.

“One word misspelled, Potter, and you will do them all again.”

“I'll be at it all night!” Harry protested.

Snape just sneered at him. “I was under the impression that your time wasn't worth much to you, Potter,” he said, tone just slightly mocking.

And again, Harry was struck dumb for a moment, staring at Snape as the man stared back, waiting for his reaction.

How was he supposed to react to that? Any protest would only be met by scorn. And he could hardly hope to appeal to the man's better nature.

Finally he just dropped his eyes and started in on the damned lines, humiliatingly aware that he'd lost. Snape had something to hold over him, now, and there was really nothing he could do against that.

1. I will be polite and respectful to my betters.

He stared at it for a moment, grimacing. No, damnit. He was not going jump through hoops, obeying Snape's every wish when it looked increasingly likely that the man wouldn't help him anyway. He wasn't going to just sit there, wasting his time and thinking, when the man was just stringing him along because he enjoyed watching Harry squirm. He'd have to find a way to do it himself.

Slamming the pen down, he grabbed his bag and headed out. He was gone before Snape even said anything.

Outside in the hall, he walked quickly away for a few minutes, headed for nowhere, before suddenly stopping. Damnit. He needed Snape. He really did. He knew that. The man was the only way that he was going to make his easy delivery to Voldemort's doorstep look real.

Which meant that he had to go back in and play Snape's game to the end. Admit that he'd lost.

Sitting down against the wall, Harry frustratedly tapped the back of his head on the stone, surprised when even the soft tap hurt. But it didn't hurt enough, and the next time he tapped a little harder, pulling his head from the wall to tap it back more firmly. That time it hurt, blanking his mind for an instant. That was better, and he did it again, tapping carefully on the hard stone.

His agitation faded quickly that way, leaving him with a sort of relaxed clearheadedness. Much better, he realized. Having to deal with Snape's nastiness was still galling, but no longer felt impossible.

He walked back to Snape's office, debated knocking for a moment, and finally walked right in. Snape was where he'd left him, and looked up when Harry came in. Harry thought he could read a certain satisfaction in his eyes, but he didn't comment, and Harry sat back down to his lines without further harassment.

He was roughly two and a half hours and 400 lines in when Snape finally looked up. Harry saw him move, and looked up too to find the man just watching him, that same subtle satisfaction in his gaze.

“Better, Potter,” he said. “It would appear you can learn.” The slight emphasis on can indicated clearly that he hadn't been sure.

Harry gave him a cold stare. Are you going to tell me, or not?

Snape sneered. “Very well, Potter. I'll give you your answer. No.”

He just stopped talking, and Harry was confused until he realized that that was all the answer he was going to get.

“No,” he repeated. Just, no? “Why? It could work!”

“It could,” Snape agreed. “And you are quite correct that I am the best and perhaps only option to help you to achieve it. However, as usual you rushed into things, and you made a very serious miscalculation.”

A miscalculation. Harry's brain worked fast, trying to figure it out. Maybe Snape was a Death Eater? He'd hardly tell him that – he'd just take him to Voldemort. Perhaps it was that Snape was too loyal to Dumbledore?

“You agreed with me that no one you knew would be so cold as to sacrifice their their late friend's sixteen-year-old son to the cause,” Snape said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. Where was the man going with this?

Snape watched him silently before finally speaking. “That includes me, Potter,” he said, saying it slowly, like Harry wouldn't get it otherwise.

He really didn't get it anyway, and frowned in confusion. “You hated my father,” he said finally.

Snape snorted softly. “Everyone does forget about your mother, don't they?” he said, tone once again full of contempt. “No surprise that you do, too, I suppose.”

The comment hurt, as he was sure Snape had intended, but it was so surprising that Snape would even mention his mother that once again he was reduced to staring. Snape just sneered further. “Don't tell me that you managed to forget the memory you stole from me,” he commented.

Of course he remembered. It just hadn't occurred to him. He'd been too focused on his father's actions to think much on his mother. She'd defended Snape, hadn't she? But was that really so important to Snape?

“Your mother was a friend of mine, Potter. Did no one tell you?”

No. They missed that, somehow. Snape felt enough loyalty to his mother for it to be relevant fifteen years after her death? But wait, Snape had been friends with his mother?

Oh, this could be a problem, he thought, looking up at Snape to try to read his face. But the man didn't look any different – he just stared at Harry over his desk, as usual, like Harry was some sort of unpleasant insect and he was grateful that the desk kept him at a distance.

“Get it now, do you, Potter?” Snape said, finally. “As I said, you badly miscalculated. Far from convincing me to kill you, you have just explicitly made it my job to keep you alive. Believe me, I am no more thrilled than you are.”

So he did feel that sort of loyalty. Weird. And Snape expected him to have predicted this? “My parents died in the war,” he said, trying to sound calm. “They were hardly expecting that I wouldn't, especially after the damned prophesy.”

“Lily died protecting you, Potter,” Snape said. “Not 'in the war'. I will hardly be the one to reverse her work.”

“You hate me,” Harry reminded him, starting to get angry. Now what was he going to do?

“Ironic, I know,” Snape drawled, once again mocking.

Again at a loss for words, Harry stopped for a moment to think. “I am sixteen years old. My mother is dead. Voldemort needs to be. What else would you have me do?”

“Kill him,” Snape answered, staring intensely into Harry's eyes.

“I can't,” Harry told him.

“Not yet, you can't,” Snape snapped. “But then you have not been trying.”

“Take me to Voldemort, and I'll go down fighting,” Harry said.

“No,” Snape answered.

“Why not?” Harry asked, frustrated. “I just said I'll try to kill him!”

“You'll be killed,” Snape said.

Harry nearly rolled his eyes. Of course he'd be killed. Wasn't that the point? “So now you don't want me to try.”

“No,” Snape said. “I want you to actually try. I want you to train, and when you are ready, I want you to kill him.”

“And meanwhile I watch more of my friends die,” Harry said. “No.”

Unexpectedly, Snape glared at him, anger covering his features. “Coward,” he snapped.

“What?” Harry asked, startled.

“You are a coward, Potter,” Snape repeated, furious. “Do you think that you are the only one who doesn't want to watch your loved ones die? Do you imagine, somehow, that you are the only one who would prefer to die rather than face that pain? Did you think nobody would be hurt, that you would die so willingly, when they have tried so hard to keep you living? That the people who die protecting you do so because they are under some sort of compulsion? They do it because they love their lives but they love you more. Would you so easily make their sacrifice mean nothing?”

“Enough people have died for me!” Harry snapped back savagely. “This way they'll stop!”

“And if your plan doesn't work, Potter? If you die, and still no one manages to destroy the Dark Lord?” Snape continued relentlessly. “Stupid boy. You think others aren't reading that prophesy, studying it, trying for a way to make this work? People die, Potter. You may die. But you will die fighting, or you will live. You will not simply go to the Dark Lord and spread your arms in some pathetic, misguided caricature of the crucifixion.”

“Stop me,” Harry told him, too furious to pay real attention to what Snape was saying. “Stop me.”

“Oh, I will, Potter,” Snape said, just as intense. “You're going to live, and I don't care whether that is what you want or not. I will have Dumbledore put you on suicide watch. I will ensure that everyone around you knows what you will attempt. I will personally follow you everywhere you go. And you. will. live.”

Harry stared at him, feeling his heart pounding in his chest and watching Snape's chest rise and fall in huge, rapid breaths. “I hate you,” he told the man, literally shaking in fury. “God, I hate you.”

“Good,” Snape said, just as intense but suddenly not as angry. “Now sit, and finish your lines. You're not going anywhere.”

“Like hell I'm not,” Harry said. Once again, he turned and left. Snape wasn't going to help him. That was all that mattered.