“I have graded your essays on the use of lacewing flies in potions to OWL standards. As you will see, your work is not nearly good enough,” Snape said as he walked around the classroom, returning scrolls of parchment. “I expect much better from fifth-year students.”

Ron and Harry accepted their scrolls, but Hermione, Harry noticed, received two scrolls. Intrigued, he watched as Hermione eagerly opened them. The one that was her essay she set aside with barely a glance. The other, she looked at carefully, her eyes scanning furiously. Then she looked up.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Don’t you have…” she tilted her head toward Snape and wiggled her eyebrows, “tonight?”

“Yeah, six o’clock,” Harry responded.

Nodding, Hermione slid the scroll into her robes. She put the essay into her bag.

Harry just stared at her.

“Later,” Hermione mouthed.

Later turned out to be Harry’s 6 pm Occlumency lesson with Snape, which Hermione accompanied him to.

“I wrote to him about my theory. The one I worked out in the library.”

“The one you wouldn’t tell us about,” Harry said.

“Well, I wanted to see what Professor Snape thought first, to make sure I was on the right track.”

“And?” Harry asked.

“He just wrote ‘six pm tonight’ on it. So I assume he wants to discuss it with us both.”

They arrived at Snape’s office—a little early at Hermione’s insistence—and were bidden to enter. They took their seats and waited as Snape organized some papers on his desk.

Finally looking up, Snape said, “I have read your report, Miss Granger. Your logic is sound.”

Hermione beamed.

“There is an old binding spell, and one that may work.”

“Er,” Harry said, “can someone please explain to me what we are talking about?”

Hermione spoke up. “Well, when we were in the library, it occurred to me that if you couldn’t understand Parseltongue, you wouldn’t be able to follow You-Know-Who’s instructions, right?”

“True,” Harry said.

“And then I thought, how could you temporarily forget a language you know? And you can’t. At least I couldn’t think of a way. But,” Hermione said, looking transcendent on the track of new knowledge, “maybe you needn’t forget it, per se, you’d just need to lock it away while you slept. So, if we could bind it somehow… it would sort of be like Occluding by parts, just in a different way.”

Harry shook his head, thoroughly confused.

“Suffice it to say,” Snape continued, “if we can bind your knowledge of Parseltongue to an object, then we could lock away your use of that skill. And the Dark Lord would be prevented from directing you in your dreams.”

“Is that possible?” Harry asked.

“We are about to find out,” Snape replied. “First we need a sample of Parseltongue to test the theory.”

Snape pushed over what looked to be an ordinary rock. He tapped it twice with his wand. “Speak some Parseltongue into this, and it will be recorded.”

“You want me to speak Parseltongue now?” Harry asked.

Snape nodded. Hermione was balancing on the edge of her chair, looking excited.

“Er,” Harry said. It wasn’t like speaking in just another language. While one could chose to start speaking in German or French, Parseltongue wasn’t quite like that. It didn’t have the easy sibilance of conversation. Parseltongue was a language of means. It was used to command, not converse.

Still, he was in the office of the Head of Slytherin House. He’d just need to find a snake to command, and surely there would be plenty. He found an embroidered snake on Snape’s robes, over the man’s heart, and, squinting, focused on it. He instructed the snake to uncoil, to move.

Beside him, Hermione gasped and pointed. Snape looked down in time to see the snake on his robe’s Slytherin crest slither out from the edges of the badge and travel up his robe to unspool around his collar. Now, instead of being encased in the crest, the snake wrapped around his neck like a stole.

“Harry,” Snape said, breaking the spell of the hissing language.   

Harry glanced up.

“I think that will do,” Snape said. 

Harry frowned. “Oh,” he said, recognizing what he’d done. “Er, sorry about that, sir. I didn’t mean to ruin your robes.”

Snape looked unnerved. “It is fine,” he said. “Let us continue.”

Harry nodded.

“Now, the binding spell needs something alike to adhere to. Parseltongue is considered to be of the dark arts. And your scar,” Snape said, prompting Harry to touch the lightning bolt mark on his forehead, “is also dark magic.”

“Ohh,” Hermione breathed. Harry glanced at her.

“Typically one would try to bind to something in the physical realm. However, since you don’t own any dark objects…”

Harry shook his head.

“…and I don’t recommend that you do so, we are left with your scar,” Snape finished.

“Okay,” Harry said uncertainly, not sure he understood, and not sure that he liked what he did understand. “Will it work?”

“We’ll soon find out. If it does,” Snape continued, “you shall use it every night before you go to sleep, and release it each morning. Understood?”

Harry nodded. Snape raised his wand and Harry tensed, waiting for he wasn’t sure what.

“Incarcerous encantio,” Snape began. A string of more Latin words followed, along with a complicated wand movement.

Then a burst of discomfort snapped at his scar, as if someone had released a taut rubber band there.

“Ouch,” Harry said, rubbing at the offending lightning bolt.

 Snape lowered his wand. “How does it feel?” Snape asked.

Harry lowered his hand. “It’s okay now. It hurt for a second. Now it just feels kind of…” Harry searched for the right word. “Full.” He grimaced. “That probably doesn’t make any sense, but it feels a bit different. Heavier.”

Snape nodded. “All right, let’s see if you can understand what you said before.” Snape tapped the rock before them and an ominous hissing filled the room.

Harry stilled. He’d never heard Parseltongue as an outsider before. To him, the strange hissing sounds automatically translated into words in his mind. But here, now, before him, the sounds escaping the rock seemed truly frightening.

“I did that?” Harry gasped.

“You did,” Hermione said.

“That’s a bit scary,” Harry said. “I never knew it sounded like that.”

“So you do not understand it?” Snape clarified.

Harry shook his head. “Plus,” he said, “that’s just scary enough that it, in and of itself, might wake me out of the dream.”

“The trigger,” Hermione stated.

Harry nodded.

Snape flicked his wand and released the spell. Then he again tapped the rock, which began to hiss and sputter.

Instantly Harry felt the draw of the sibilance. He was sucked in, entranced, as the strange sounds translated into words which directed the snake to uncoil, to be free, to move.

“I understand it,” he said, feeling awed.

“We have our answer, then,” Snape said.

“I never knew. That’s just creepy,” Harry said. “It draws you in,” he continued. “It’s like… like the kid’s cartoons of snake charmers. It’s mesmerizing.”

Snape looked discomfited again, and so did Hermione.

“It’s dangerous,” Hermione said.

“It is indeed,” Snape affirmed. “Now, Mr. Potter, let’s teach you this spell and hopefully we can all sleep better at night.”

Harry enjoyed several dream-free days and had begun to relax in the evenings without the worry of being tempted in his sleep. So it came as a bit of a surprise to Harry when the vision struck him mid-day. It took only moments to impart, leaving Harry’s mind abuzz with terror. Sirius was being tortured in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries by Voldemort and he, Harry, was the only one who knew. He paced anxiously, waiting for the exam to finish so he could speak to Ron and Hermione. He needed to work out what to do but he was panicking and couldn’t think straight.

Voldemort was going to kill Sirius. Over something in the Department of Mysteries, something that Voldemort had been trying to show Harry for months, but that Dumbledore hadn’t wanted him to see. ‘Close your mind,’ Snape’s voice echoed. ’Well,’ Harry thought, ’if I had been able to close my mind, I’d never have known that Sirius was in trouble.’

Harry looked at the enchanted exam timer, TWO MINUTES LEFT flashed in bright red. ‘Come on,’ he moaned. ’Sirius is being tortured NOW.’ And what was he, Harry, going to do about it? ‘Close your mind,’ Snape’s voice said again.

“Shut up!” Harry said, rubbing at his scar. “You hate him anyway,” Harry muttered, thinking of Snape’s loathing for his godfather, and pushing away the thought of how justified that loathing was.

Finally, the buzzer rang and Harry stood aside as the students streamed out, grabbing onto a worried-looking Hermione and Ron when they came out of the Great Hall.

“Harry!” Hermione squealed. “Are you alright?”

“You look white as a sheet,” Ron observed.

“Over here,” Harry said, pulling them into an alcove.

Harry relayed what he’d seen. Ron looked as sick as Harry felt, but Hermione looked skeptical.

“Harry,” Hermione intoned, “are you sure this is real? You know Vol…” she took a deep breath, “Voldemort,” she whispered, “has been planting images in your head. Maybe this is just another one.”

“I know it’s real!” Harry declared angrily. “It’s just like what happened with Mr. Weasley. Sirius is being tortured!”

Hermione looked a bit frightened at Harry’s declaration but he saw her gather her courage. “Alright, Harry. Let’s… let’s just be sure, ok? Let’s go ask Dumbledore.”

“He’s not here,” Ron said. “We saw him leaving earlier, remember? Said something about taking care of something at the Ministry.”

“Maybe he’s gone to save Sirius,” Harry said, before he could think better of it.

“I don’t know, mate,” Ron said. “It’s the middle of the day. Be awfully risky for You-Know-Who to enter the Ministry in the middle of the day, with all the workers and people there.” Hermione nodded and Ron continued, “I mean, last time, when you saw my dad, it was at night, right? No one was there then.”

Harry felt incredulous. “Don’t you understand?” he roared. “Sirius is being tortured right NOW!”

Hermione was urgently trying to quiet him down but Harry didn’t care. He began tearing at his hair. “We have to help him.”

“Okay,” Hermione said. “We could go to McGonagall.”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “She never tells us anything and when we’ve gone to her in the past, like with the Philosopher’s Stone, she didn’t take us seriously.”

Harry was getting impatient. “We’re wasting time,” he declared.

“Just, just let’s check, please Harry? Before we rush into something?” Hermione asked, her voice pleading.

Harry opened his mouth, but Ron interrupted.

“What about Snape?”

“What about him?” Harry demanded.

“Well, he‘s in the Order, right?”

“He hates Sirius,” Harry observed. “He’d probably like to see him killed.”

“Harry,” Hermione scolded. “Ron’s right. And his office is closest.”

Grudgingly, Harry agreed and the three of them raced to the dungeons. When they reached Snape’s office door, there was no answer and it was locked.

“Now what?” Ron said.

“We could check the teachers’ lounge,” Hermione suggested.

Harry was starting to panic again. They were running out of time. Instinctively, he placed his palm on the door. With a loud click, the door unlocked and swung open. Hermione and Ron looked astonished.

“How did you do that?” Ron asked.

“Never mind that,” Harry said. “We need to find Snape.” He rushed to the door to the man’s private quarters and knocked loudly, calling, “Professor!”

He felt a momentary rush of relief when it opened but it was quickly replaced by disappointment.

“Harry, tis nice ta see ye. An’ Ron an’ Hermione,” Covey said, before her smile began to slip. “What is it, Harry? What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Snape?” he demanded, too upset to be polite. “We need to see him. It’s urgent.”

Covey’s face fell. “I’m not sure, actually. I just got here, aye? I havena seen him yet today.”

Harry cursed. His scar ached, his breathing and heart rate were rapid, and his mind was beginning to cloud with terror. If he had a panic attack now, he’d be useless to Sirius.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on shoulder.

“Breathe, Harry, it’ll be alright, ye ken?” Covey soothed.

“No, it won’t be,” Harry declared, stepping back out of Covey‘s reach. “I need Snape.” Harry’s breath hitched. “Now.”

Covey tilted her head. “Didn’t he give ye a necklace ta reach him in emergencies?”

Harry jumped. He’d totally forgotten about that. He reached into his shirt and grabbed the old-fashioned skeleton key and rubbed at it furiously.

“Come on,” he muttered. His focus had narrowed to just the old-fashioned key; Covey, Ron, and Hermione a very distant thought. They were talking, he realized, but it all sounded like so much noise to him.

“Harry,” Covey was saying, “come inside an' have a seat.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was waiting for some sign that Snape had got his message. Hermione was pulling at his arm, but Harry was rooted to the spot.

Then, the skeleton key burned and vibrated in his stiff fingers—Snape had gotten the message. Sighing in relief, Harry allowed himself be led to the sofa in front of the fireplace in Snape’s sitting room.

Snape would be arriving any minute now; that was all that mattered.

“Let me get ye all some tea, aye?”

“Is he coming?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded, his throat thick with nerves.

“This is scary,” Ron said, “sitting here in Snape’s private quarters.”

Covey came back and handed out cups of tea. Harry accepted his, but set it down on the table.

Then, in an instant of black glory, Snape swept into the room, looking stressed. “What is it, Harry? What’s happened?”

Harry jumped to his feet. “Voldemort’s got Sirius,” Harry blurted out. “In the Department of Mysteries. He wants Sirius to take something and Sirius won’t do it. He’s torturing him,” Harry said, feeling his panic rising again.

Harry watched as Snape’s face clouded over with annoyance and anger.

“Mr. Potter,” he snarled, “how many times do I have to tell you to CLOSE YOUR MIND!”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have seen Sirius being tortured, and Voldemort would kill him! WILL kill him if we don’t do something!”

Snape shook his head as if Harry was a complete idiot.

Harry felt the sudden urge to hit Snape. “Just because you hate Sirius…”

“Stop right there,” Snape said. “I know more than you do. The whole reason we have been trying to teach you Occlumency is so that the Dark Lord couldn’t plant false visions in your mind!”

“But it’s not false!” Harry shouted, pulling at his hair in agitation. “It was real. It was just like Mr. Weasley. I saw it. I saw Voldemort torturing him!”

“And were you in the Dark Lord’s mind when you saw this? Were you torturing Black?”

“I…”

“Didn’t you tell the headmaster that you saw through the snake’s eyes when Mr. Weasley was attacked? That you were the snake?”

“Well, yes, I…”

“So I ask you again. Were you seeing Black through the Dark Lord’s eyes? Were you torturing him?”

Harry hesitated. “No… but I could see him being tortured, and I…”

“You were seeing what the Dark Lord wanted you to see,” Snape said, his voice dismissive.

Harry felt angry and confused.

“Please, sir,” Hermione interjected. “I think it would help if Harry could talk to Sirius.”

Hermione glanced over at Harry and Harry hated seeing the pity in her eyes.

“I don’t think he’s going to believe Sirius is okay otherwise,” Hermione added.

Snape rolled his eyes. “You want me to get the mutt.”

“Please, sir,” Hermione repeated.

“Very well,” Snape said. Then he glared at Harry. “Stay here. You are not to leave my quarters. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded numbly and felt Covey’s hand on his shoulder once more. She was murmuring comforting words to him but he couldn’t focus on them. The world swirled around him. Was Snape right? Was Voldemort trying to lure him out of the castle on false pretenses so he could capture Harry? As much as he didn’t like to admit it, Harry knew it was a possibility.

The fireplace flashed bright green as Snape stepped through it and Harry felt a dizzying sense of despair wash through him.