Harry shook his head and scoffed. "All due respect, Sir, but you wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit you in the --"

"Be very careful with the next words that come out of your mouth, Potter," Snape hissed, wand wavering just an inch from Harry's scowling face.

"Or, what, Sir?" Harry countered, hands curled into fists, wand momentarily forgotten. He was so angry that he practically vibrated with the emotion.

"You'll hex me? Like my father and Sirius hexed you? Like Malfoy hexes me every chance that he gets?"

"That's enough, Potter!" Snape said. "You were the one who transgressed here. You cannot hide behind your father and godfather, and you will not assign blame for your actions to someone else. I won't stand here and listen to you badmouth others."

There was a vein popping in Snape's forehead. It reminded Harry of his Uncle Vernon. Harry almost welcomed the palpable anger. Almost dared Snape to strike him as his uncle often had, because at least then he'd know where he stood with the man, and maybe it would take away the sick feeling that had been churning in the pit of his stomach after what he'd seen.

In one of their earlier Occlumency lessons, Harry had witnessed, quite by accident, Snape as a child, cowering from raised fists and voices, and he'd couldn't help but think that, if those memories had seeped through their connection, then the Professor certainly had worse ones. Memories that the Professor, like he, kept so deeply entrenched within the recesses of his mind that, not even someone as good at all of this as Snape was could retrieve them.

Tonight, though, when he'd looked into the Professor's Pensieve, hoping to see what the Order was up to, Harry had witnessed something that he'd thought he'd never see. He'd watched, unable to lift a hand to help, as Snape was tormented by his schoolmates, by Harry's own father and godfather. It had made him sick to his stomach, had made his head spin, because of the irony of it all -- he was more like Snape than he was his own father, the father that Snape had accused him of being like on more than one occasion.

He'd only seen a portion of the memory, and Harry's mind tormented him with the portion of the memory that he hadn't seen. Harry wondered what else had happened to Snape, what his own arrogant father, and taunting godfather had done to the skinny, greasy-haired teenager who'd been unpopular.

If the Professor hadn't dragged him out of the Pensieve with bruising force and thrown him to the floor, then what else would Harry have seen within the Pensieve? Had his father pantsed the teenaged Snape as he'd threatened to do? And why was his mother involved in all of it? Why had she cared? And how on earth had she ended up with his father when he'd been like that?

"I'm not like them, you know," Potter muttered through clenched teeth.

He ran a hand over his hair in an effort to make it look a little less like his father's had, hand stilling as he realized that his mother had accused his father of doing the same thing to show off. He wasn't a showoff, no matter what Snape, or anyone else, thought.

"I hate what they did to you," Harry said, eyes smarting.

Snape snorted, and shook his head. "You're just like them, Potter. Like your father and Black, and don't forget Lupin and Pettigrew, the sycophants, willing to sacrifice someone else to keep in Potter's and Black's good graces."

"I'm nothing like them," Harry ground out, moving forward until his nose met with the tip of Snape's wand, which did not waver.

"Nothing," he insisted, insides twisting as he recalled the images he'd seen from Snape's past, images he'd been so certain were being kept from him by Dumbledore. Order business, or something important about his role in the upcoming war, a war that Harry felt, in many ways, had already started.

"So you say," Snape sneered, laughing darkly. "And yet, here you are, digging through my memories like they're so much fodder. Don't you dare tell me, Potter," Snape ground the tip of his wand into Harry's nose, "that you weren't planning on scurrying off to your buddies in Gryffindor Tower and telling them all about how weak and despised as their most hated professor was as a child. That you weren't planning on giving them every detail and laughing at my expense."

Harry swallowed. Words of denial got stuck on the tip of his tongue. He'd planned on doing nothing of the sort; the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. What he wanted to do, needed to do, was get to Sirius and demand the truth of what he'd seen. The truth of how his father and the man that he'd come, in such a short time, to love, could be so cruel.

Harry shook his head, because the words wouldn’t come, and he could feel the threat of tears building behind his eyes. He really didn’t want to cry in front of Snape. The wizard already thought that Harry was a spoiled brat, he didn’t need to give Snape any more ammunition than he’d already gotten from his mind during their Occlumency lessons.

Though, judging by Snape’s heated reaction to finding that he'd looked into the Pensieve, Harry doubted that Snape had noticed a damn thing about his life during their lessons. If he had, then he’d know that Harry would never make fun of him for what he’d seen, and that he was nothing like the James Potter of Snape’s memories.

"I'm nothing like him," Harry denied, feeling like he was stuck on repeat, and that he could say the words over and over again, but Snape wouldn't hear them. Snape would never hear him, not when he couldn't even see him properly.

"Not from where I stand," Snape said, thin lips twisted in an angry scowl, wand now digging into Harry's cheek as it slipped from his nose. "You are every bit as spoiled, and self-aggrandizing as your father ever was. You and Black, you're both alike, flaunting your family's wealth, and your popularity in the face of those less fortunate than you are."

Harry's stomach churned, and he let out a bitter half laugh. He was far from spoiled, and Snape should know that by now. Surely the images that had flooded through his mind Occlumency lesson after Occlumency lesson, had shown Snape that much, because Harry sure as hell was unable to block Snape's mind whammies, no matter how hard he tried to 'clear his mind’, ‘let go of all emotion,' and push Snape out.

Snape had free access into Harry’s own private hell night after night, and still, the man couldn’t see what Harry had been trying to get someone to see since he’d come to Hogwarts -- that the Dursleys hated him; that he didn’t see himself as the boy who lived, but rather plain, old, ordinary Harry; and that he desperately wanted someone to care about him. And maybe that was selfish, him wanting someone to care about him, not because of what he could do for them, but simply because they cared.

"Get out." Snape emphasized the command by digging the wand deeper into Harry's cheek. "Get out before I --"

"Before you, what?" Harry asked, throwing his hands in the air. "Before you throw a jar of beetles at my head? Oh, wait, you've already done that. Before you throw me to the floor? Oh yeah, done that too. Oh wait, I know..."

Harry was no longer in control of his words, as his anger boiled over. He'd been kept in the dark for so long. Ignored by Dumbledore, mind-wiped by Snape, tortured by Umbridge, he could only take so much, and this, apparently, was his breaking point.

He started pacing, turning his back on his Professor though he knew that it was stupid to do so when the wizard was so angry with him. He'd learned never to turn his back on potential danger when he'd been a toddler. The Dursleys had taught him well, and yet he was too far gone in his anger to take any of their heavy-handed training into consideration as he started to vent, words pouring from his mouth like lava from a volcano.

"You want to do to me what my father did to you all those years ago." Harry spun on his heel, advancing on Snape, hands held out.

"Well," Harry goaded, "here's your chance, go for it. No one's here. We're all alone, and who am I going to tell? Umbridge?" he scoffed.

"She'll just make me write more lines. Dumbledore? He's disappeared. Ron and Hermione? They're too busy trying to decide whether or not they like each other. Go ahead Professor Snape, do what you've always wanted to do and best James Potter. No one's here to stop you."

When he finished speaking, Harry was only a few inches from Snape, the jars on the shelves were rattling, and his chest was heaving.

"Give it your best shot, Sir," Harry ground out, remembering the term of respect that the Professor insist he use when addressing him.

"Just pretend that I'm him. Pretend that I'm James Potter. It shouldn't be too hard for you, you already think I'm him after all, you and Sirius. Here's your chance, take it. Get your revenge, and then leave me the hell alone."

Snape's lips curled, and he grabbed a fistful of Harry's robes, pulled him in until their noses were nearly touching. Harry could smell Snape's breath, for some reason he was reminded of his aunt's herb garden. It wasn't exactly minty fresh, but oddly it wasn't completely awful. He swallowed at the sudden lump that had formed in his throat, mouth dry, palms sweaty, heart beating like the wings of a caged bird.

He'd overstepped his bounds. That vein in Snape's forehead was throbbing now. Harry flashed to a time when he was three, maybe four years old. He'd been crying for some reason, the reason didn't matter, he'd stopped giving into tears when he'd gotten older.

Sitting in his cupboard beneath the stairs, he'd tried to muffle the sounds of his crying, because he knew that if Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia heard, he'd be in a 'world of hurt'. He hadn't really understood what those words meant until later, after he'd been visited time and again by a 'world of hurt'.

He'd been heard anyway, and no amount of wiping his eyes with the back of his hands could hide the redness of his eyes or the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Instead of focusing on his uncle's meaty fists, Harry had locked his eyes on the vein throbbing in his uncle's temple.

It was hard to breathe, and, for a moment, Harry couldn't remember where he was. In the blink of an eye, Snape's vein became Uncle Vernon's and Harry was suddenly three years old again, cowering on the thin mattress in his room beneath the stairs, trying to wipe away the evidence of his tears before Uncle Vernon could see them.

Harry moved his arms up, to shield his head and face. A desperate move, and one that he knew, even at such a young age, would not work. His uncle always managed to find purchase on him, always managed to break through his defenses and grab hold of his hair, or his neck.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you Potter? Ammunition to use against me. Something to blackmail me with," Snape's voice filtered through Harry's memory, merged with Uncle Vernon's calling him a good for nothing cry baby who would be better off dead rather than taking up space in the home of good people.

It was dizzying, and the room was spinning, both of them -- the room from his memory and Snape's office with jars filled with all sorts of dead things that rattled and shook on their shelves. The only thing holding him up were fists. Wasn't it always fists? Holding him up, keeping him down, showing him that there was more to cry about than Dudley breaking his crayon.

"No." Harry shook his head. "No." He shoved at Snape, at the memory of his Uncle Vernon, at the fists that held him into place and kept him from forgetting.

"I'll not give you the satisfaction," Snape continued on as though Harry hadn't said anything, shaking him as he spoke. It was absurd, yet Harry couldn't find it in him to laugh at the situation.

"You won't give me the satisfaction of humiliating me like my father humiliated you?" Harry's voice sounded hollow, the words rang in his ears, and his vision kept wavering. He had to get out of Snape's office, out of the cupboard, out of the hold of fists that could do more damage than a wand.

Without warning he was released, the fists and Snape's herbal breath simply gone. He managed to stand on his own for a second, and then he was falling, and not even his own hands could catch him. He landed on his knees, hard, and then he fell to his face, the stone floor cold beneath his cheek.

He felt nothing other than a numbing cold seeping into his bones, and a suspicious wetness on his cheeks. His breathing was ragged, his chest tight like the time he'd had pneumonia. His glasses were askew, but he could see Snape's boots, the black earth that stuck to the worn leather.

Snape's robes billowed. Harry kept his eyes on the wizard's boots which paced in front of him. His vision swam, and, if he had the energy, he'd have wiped away the tears as he had so many years ago. Not that it had done any good then, and it wouldn't do him any good now, not after his outburst, not with what little Snape already thought of him.

"I'm sorry," Harry wheezed, squeezing the words out of lips that felt like ice. "Sorry for crying. Sorry, won't happen again." Harry didn't even know what he was apologizing for or who he was apologizing to, Snape or his uncle. Didn't matter, neither one would accept his apology.

He drew in a shuddering breath, tried to push himself up off the floor, but his arms didn't seem to want to work. Now that his anger was spent, there was nothing left. Nothing but emptiness and an ache in his gut that he doubted talking to Sirius would ever assuage, no matter what his godfather said about what he'd witnessed in Snape's Pensieve.

His father had been every bit as cruel as Snape had hinted at him being, every bit as mean as Uncle Vernon and Dudley, every bit as underhanded as Malfoy. His father had been a bully, and a spoiled, self-serving, pompous ass.

And Snape, Snape had been like Harry. He'd been mistreated by his family, bullied by those who were stronger and better off than him. Backed into a corner where the only way out was to strike out in return, lest he be beaten down and not be able to get up.

It was ironic, and though there was nothing funny about any of this, Harry found himself laughing through his tears, the sound coming from him wheezy and hysterical. The sound of Snape's boots clacking against the stone floor ceased, the robes billowed, and Harry choked on a sob.

He felt hands on him, but there was no fight left in him. There was nothing, but the cold, hard truth of what he'd seen. The truth about his father, about Snape, about himself.

"Potter." Snape's voice was quiet, strained, and Harry saw the man's robes, like black curtains, in front of him. "Come on, up off the floor with you."

Snape's hands were not gentle as he helped Harry up into a seated position, but they were solid and firm. Snape handed him a handkerchief, and then stood and took a step away. Harry could see Snape watching him. The man was breathing every bit as hard as he was, dark eyes glittering in the candlelit room.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry said, meaning the words, doubting that Snape would believe him.

Snape placed his hands in front of his lips, as though he was praying, and pierced Harry with a look that made him shiver even more than he already was. Harry wiped at his traitorous eyes and blew his nose, grimacing at the sound, and feeling like a baby. This time he was the transgressor, and, once more, Snape was the victim.

"I thought that...I didn't realize they were personal memories," Harry explained in a small voice. "For what it's worth, Sir, I'm sorry for what my father and Sirius did to you."

After several tense seconds, the only sounds that of breathing, and a nearby clock ticking away the time, Snape crouched in front of Harry, eyes searching his. Jaw working as though what he was about to say pained him, he took a deep breath and let it out. Harry felt the warmth of the breath across his cheek, the scent of it hit him, bringing with it an odd sort of comfort.

Snape shook his head and took another deep breath. Harry felt as though he was being judged, and it made his insides feel like ice as he awaited Snape's proclamation. Would he be deemed innocent of his father's transgressions, or would Snape find him guilty, and sentence him to more of the same: Occlumency lessons filled with acrimony, snide remarks in class, and blatant hatred?

"I really am sorry, Sir," Harry said through chattering teeth.

Sighing, Snape nodded, and pulled something from his robes. Harry flinched, and then blushed when the Professor handed him a vial filled with a golden potion.

"It'll warm you up." Snape motioned for Harry to take the potion.

Eying the vial carefully, with only a moment's hesitation, Harry drank the potion within it. A sudden, welcome warmth engulfed him.

"Thank you, Sir." Harry smiled and handed the empty vial back to Snape who pocketed it.

Snape inclined his head.

"I'm so--"

Snape held his hand up to forestall Harry's next apology. "I've heard those words enough to last a lifetime, Potter," he said, warily. "I suspect you've heard them too."

Harry nodded and righted his glasses. "I'm sorry my father was an --"

"Language, Potter," Snape cautioned, the hint of a smile on his lips, and then his lips formed the familiar scowl that Harry was used to. "You're not responsible for your father's actions," he said through gritted teeth. "And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry, too."

Harry got the impression that he was not to speak a word of this to anyone, even before Snape swore him to secrecy and sent him on his way back to Gryffindor Tower with instructions on how to clear his mind, and a journal to write in if he had another dream. Maybe he’d see Sirius tomorrow, and get his take on what had happened, but no matter what his godfather said, Harry knew that he wouldn’t ever excuse his father’s behavior toward Snape, regardless of how Snape treated him in the future.

Harry still didn’t have the answers that he’d wanted when he’d looked into Snape’s Pensieve, and he doubted that he’d get them any time soon, but for now, he had enough of memories, and enough of truth to last him for the foreseeable future.