The sound of Snape's strides echoed in the small, dank room. Harry eyed a particularly delicate jar of cockroach eyes, which wobbled with every step. Long ago, Harry learnt to classify this mood; pacing back and fro, quiet, pondering. It was the Snape which ignored his presence in the class, allowing him to brew not-such-abysmal potions.

However, it was one of the worst moods Snape could have as a teacher, causing him to lecture endlessly, probably in effort to contain himself from musing about whatever dilemma he was facing

It took a few minutes for the Professor to acknowledge him and Harry waited patiently. "Potter," Snape began, caustically. What had he done? "Your evasive tendencies will not be tolerated in this classroom. You have neglected to answer my question."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together and a small crease formed under the famous lightning scar. "Which question? Sir?" He added the title quickly. There was little point in giving his Potions Professor an additional reason to be mad, besides for being himself.

Snape, muscles rigid, leaned forward; his lanky body hid most of the window, which was one of the two light sources in the room. From a sliver of window visible to Harry in his current position, the lake rippled and frothed with wind. Snape leaned forward some more and the room darkened another shade. 

Squinting, Harry turned to the second source of light, a small stone bowl with silvery ropes slithering inside, peeking shyly out of a half-closed closet. It appeared rather familiar, and for a moment, he strained his memory until it provided him with an image of Igor Karkaroff bound to a chair. That was queer. Why did Snape need Dumbledore's memories?

Snape snapped his finger, clearly noticing Harry's eyes. A thwack was heard and the grey-silver dim light was gone from the room. Harry risked a look at Snape; he didn't look mad to Harry, but rather amused, his obsidian eyes studying Harry's face above the hooked nose of his. The shoulder-length hair shone, greasier than usual, probably due to the hair-raising draught he had used after their adventure at the Dursleys. The boy noted that most of the typical oil was gone in his Prince persona.

The Professor kept scrutinizing Harry in silence, until he could not take it any longer.

"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about!" Harry exclaimed, rising to his feet. "Would it hurt you to explain, Professor? I thought we were over this – " a sweaty hand tried to flatten a mop of messy black hair, while the other indicated both of the persons in the room in an irritated sweep.

Snape merely glared at him and the only sign of his previous outburst were the slightly tightened lips. "Sit down, Potter," he ordered. Harry stared at him, but the pacing-mood-Snape was not one to be angered easily, unbothered by the need to hold a staring contest. He was not one to give Harry the emotional comeback he was looking for, nor a fight.

Harry lowered himself on the dark-green ottoman in defeat. Dimly, he wondered whether he could use his plan to extract information about the Half Blood Prince from the unresponsive mannequin in front of him.

"I must ask you to deliver my condolences to Miss Granger for her daily dealing with your primitive Hippocampus." 

What was the Hippocampus? Harry tried to retrieve the information about the familiar name from his first Occlumency lesson, but for some reason all he could remember was the magical Hippocampus beast, which Hagrid taught them about last year in May. Hagrid had really outdone himself; the dives into the cool, clear water of the lake and the sight of the magical half-horse half-fish (and all this without the pressure of bringing Ron to the surface) left Harry and the rest of the class in awe. Even Malfoy hadn't taunted the half-giant that lesson.

Harry sent a yearning glaze towards the visible part of the window, a small smile floating on his face. Snape seemed to interpret it as a defiant gesture.

"I'm talking about the scar, boy,” Snape hissed. “Stop pretending, I can recognize the aftermath of a Blood Quill blindfolded." Oh, right. Harry couldn't help but hope that in the few days which passed since the visit to the Dursleys, Snape forgot to question the nature of his scar. He himself had definitely forgotten.

Emerald eyes followed as the long, white fingers reached his left knuckle, cupping it. "It is a matter of life and death for you, you fool," he admonished.

The fool blinked and flinched away, but the Professor gripped his left palm tightly, scrutinizing it. He felt stupid standing in this position. "Didn't know you care, Professor," he shot back, almost immediately second guessing himself. After all, who had helped him to escape his own mind when he was trapped in the horrors of his childhood? Who, despite his hatred and probable support of corporal punishment, was the first grown up to ever stand between Harry and his uncle's cane?

The comment seemed to take Snape aback too and the gentle sound of waves hitting glass echoed between the silent walls.  

"I don't," he remarked dryly, finally letting go of Harry's hand. "However, I do care about your respect – or should I say, blunt lack of respect, towards figures of authority, such as myself. So, Mr. Potter, you will answer my question; no more dodging or elusive responses. I demand a comprehensive elucidation at this very moment, and it will be given to me, willingly or not."   

Harry raised his eyes to the black pair of the person before him, trying to catch his bluff, when he felt the familiar brush of another mind seeping into his own. "I was going to tell you anyway! Sir!" he blurted, a heavy feeling establishing itself inside his stomach. He wriggled on the tip of his chair. This meeting was now miles away from his original goal. There was probably no way now to turn it around and blindside Snape with new knowledge about his fifth-year self.

It was a simple, yet genius scheme – to lure Snape into his mind, then 'accidently' allow him to hear what Harry heard every time that a Dementor came near enough. After his abysmal performance in the second lesson – the one which hadn't included a tipsy Snape – it was believable.

Snape surely would be deeply affected from the memory, hopefully enough for Harry to break into his mind. And Harry didn't care if Snape threw him out, or beat him, or anything, really. Just a flash of his mother's red hair, her hearty laugh, the faint aroma of her perfume would be worth it all… And when he would realize how much Harry wanted to know Lily, maybe he'd –

Stop. Don't get your hopes up.

Perhaps playing along would sooth Snape, and the man would allow him to lead the lesson as planned.

The Gryffindor smirked. Cunning and devious plan, indeed. Perhaps the Sorting Hat had a point about going to Slytherin.

But was a nearly-sorted-to-Slytherin, combined with his Gryffindor friends' minds and strategies, enough to beat the Head of the Slytherin House – with nearly a fifteen- year tenure – at his own game?

"So, it all began in DADA first class…"

Severus endeavored not to criticize the child's vocabulary and inarticulate description of his meetings with Umbridge. Once, a well-known detective in the Muggle world – Benedict Cumberbatch – had pointed out to Johnathan Prince that extra questions or comments might cause a tendentious statement.

Thus, he waited patiently, nodding curtly when Potter raised his eyes to make sure he was still listening, watching as the boy embellished his story with vivid hand gestures. The report included many insipid details, which Severus' mind filtered out as soon as they entered. When the boy finished, the Potions Master closed his eyes and pinched his nose bridge. A pattern drew itself clearly inside his mind, using a piece of rather useless information which he’d acquired more than twenty years ago on the science of Muggle genetics, specifically one mutation.

The only question that was left was how the Dark Lord knew…

Severus opened his eyes. "Potter, stay here and don't move an inch." He rose from his seat, ready to go to Albus' office. Then, he remembered the Pensieve which was lurking in the cabinet and changed his mind. With a flick of his wand, the hearth lit itself.

"Headmaster's Office!" he called, and a pinch of Floo powder sprouted green in the heat of the orange flames. "Albus, stop decorating your Christmas present and come to my office!" He didn’t bother to kneel and gaze into the fire. His rear end would not be displayed like a clay pigeon in the presence of a Potter.

Severus glanced to his right, anticipating a gaping Potter at the concept of him taking part in the tradition of the Christmas present exchange. He was not disappointed. He smirked.

And speaking of smirks…

It was obvious that the young Potter was hiding something. The so-familiar wiggle of body, very alike both his mother and Dumbledore gave it away, in addition to a smirk which was Potter's original ornament.

He tried not to think about the time when Lily organized him a 'surprise party' in the kitchens ("Well, I did invite myself, and I even prepared a cupcake with a normal candle that I especially asked Mom to send me – a candle, Sev! So, you see, it counts as a surprise party!"), and almost fell out of her chair due to wild wiggling when he tried to interrogate her about it in the Charms lesson before.

He certainly did not think about that disastrous, half ruined, blue (no one besides her and his mother ever knew his favorite color) garnished cupcake right now.

Albus Dumbledore came out of the fire, his robes matching the now-turquoise fire. He brushed the ash off him, walking forward as he spoke. "Why, Severus, your gift was absolutely demanding a – "

The Headmaster stopped dead in his tracks as he saw Potter. Severus' perceptive eyes immediately sailed to Potter's face, and he was surprised to find the boy pale as a paper sheet. The most disturbing thing about his appearance was the red flash which crossed his eyes as a reckoning and cold expression bloomed on his face.

Severus stood very still as he observed the face he had never seen on anybody other than the Dark Lord, let alone in one sporting Lily's eyes.

And just like that, he understood why the Headmaster had demanded him to take over the child's education and safety. Why Dumbledore left the Infirmary merely minutes before the boy awakened. And the urgent need for Occlumency learning. It was so much more than a whim, a concern about Potter and himself that the Dark Lord would discover the mental link between them. No, it was much worse – Albus knew that the Dark Lord was already aware.

Once again, the noble and old Gryffindor caused a mess that only his sly Slytherin spy could neaten.

"Potter." The head turned towards him. "You think you are above greeting the Headmaster of the school? Such a typical behavior. I have always told Albus that your conduct must be the result of bad upbringing. It's a shame that your arrogant father spent only a year and a half in your delightful company, yet managed to rub off so much on you. Your pompousness, the way you dawdle around the school as if you are the lessor of the grounds.  

"Since the moment your toe stepped into my class, I have demanded that you be treated exactly like every student. No special privileges nor prerogatives for celebrities. Nonetheless, your own House head emboldened such behaviors, giving you a brand-new broom as a gift for your very first breach of the rules. Should I remind you what you have done, Potter?" He paused to assess. 

Inciting anger was not working.

He thought for a minute and continued silkily, retrieving the relevant information from the back of his mind.

Just before the two of them departed to Surrey, they had a short discussion about occluding. Potter told Severus that he was able to occlude only by filling his mind with memories, not draining them. Severus had ignored the remark and stuffed the information someplace in his brain for later usage.

Well, now was later.

Even as a child who was raised with the knowledge about the Magical World, Severus always remembered the sentiment that escorted him the first time he had flown on a broomstick. His mother taught him a few minor spells before school, which he remembered as making him feel grownup, but when he flew, the magic was tangible. For a moment, he had finally achieved liberty – freedom from the Gryffindors, Slytherins, his father, the taunts, free from the world –

And then Sirius Black shot a Jelly-Fingers jinx at him, causing Severus to lose his hold on the broom and fall a few feet through the air, which resulted in a traumatic Holstein–Lewis fracture. That moment marked the end of Severus' affairs with flying and the beginning of his long relationship with medicine and experimenting in Potions.

Yet, that feeling never left him; the one moment of freedom, magical for the child from a broken Muggle household.

"You leapt onto the broom and pushed the ground, hovering. For a moment, you thought that was it, but as soon as you leaned forward and let your instincts take over, you knew you could make it; you were a natural. The wind roared inside your ears as you pursued Mr. Malfoy, but you didn't care; why should you? It was an addiction from the very first moment. Flying in the blue skies, feeling the warm sun roasting your nape as you dove towards the earth. And just like that, you thought you could skive off every responsibility; take the broom and fly away."

Severus' monotonous voice became slower as he spoke, and the dim red color and the cold expression respectively disappeared. Albus took advantage of the situation and casted a disillusionment on himself, a deep grey swallowing him into the wall which he rested upon.

The child blinked and in contrast to the previously calculating facial expression, piercing emerald eyes tried to assess his surroundings as a bemused look crossed his face.

"Where's Dumbledore?" He asked in suspicion and Severus cleared his throat when he caught a glimpse of his chair being absorbed into the wall.

"Professor Dumbledore is not here. Meditate, Potter. I will tell you when you are ready to practise. Close your eyes." The teacher crossed his arms over his chest, sitting on the edge of his table. He had a few urgent discoveries to report.

Potter didn't look very happy, but closed his eyes and settled on the floor. Severus continued to stare at him. After a minute, an emerald eye peered back at him.

"Close your eyes!" he snapped. Potter did as he was ordered.

After a few minutes, when Severus was sure that the recalcitrant child was following the command, he flicked his wrist and wordlessly casted Muffliato on the room, ensuring that his and Albus' upcoming conversation wouldn't be interrupted.

"As I began to say, Severus – " Albus began, long familiar with the useful spell, but Severus raised his hand silently.

Someone was trying to muddle with the wordless counter-spell for Muffliato. Someone who knew about the wordless spell and the charm, yet never practically tried it. If he had, he would've learned that the Half Blood Prince hadn't bothered to write down the silent counter-spell which worked from the outside, as he felt it was unnecessary and quite damaging in his original goals of precluding eavesdropping.

Instead, all the written prototype counter-spell did was to notify the caster about the fact that somebody was trying to pry into the conversation.

When they figured out that the prototype for the counter-spell didn’t work, the Marauders were given an illusion of safety, which led Severus towards a few interesting discoveries.

Really, there was only one way that Potter could encounter this specific spell, since it hadn't made any comeback over Hogwarts. And what were the chances that Black or Lupin would teach him a spell made by their archenemy?

It must be the book.

"Stop." He ordered Albus, as the tap-dancing men on his temples made an encore with full force.

Severus Snape glared at Harry Potter, the son of Lily and James Potter, uttering one deadly word in a low voice.

"You."

"Me." The boy echoed in confirmation, dumbly.

"Me." Harry confirmed, dumbfounded.

Shit.