Things did not get better for Harry over that first week of the new term, and the next two potions classes he attended were much like the first.

He had, thus far, managed to avoid anything more than passing the time of day with the potions master, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to deflect the questions from his concerned friends.

That Monday, he had woken up extra early in a bid to ensure he was the only student in the Great Hall for breakfast. He didn’t much feel like talking to Ron about the Quidditch match they’d lost to Hufflepuff at the weekend, and he couldn’t face any more of the worried glances Hermione insisted on throwing his way constantly.

Fortunately, his plan worked, and he found himself to be the only student at the Gryffindor table.

Unfortunately, not long after he had taken his seat, he realised that Professor Snape was amongst the handful of teachers already at the top table.

Put off, Harry pushed his food around his plate for ten minutes or so, hoping for a suitable moment to slip away.

It didn’t come.

At least, not before he found the dour professor standing right behind him.

 “Mr Potter, is there a problem with the food?” he asked silkily.

 “Huh?” Harry asked, still trying to recover from the shock.

 “As intelligent as ever, I see. This is the third morning in a row that you have chosen to eat less than an adequate amount of food for a boy of your age, and I would like to know if there is a problem with what is being served,” Snape told him.

 “’M’just not hungry,” Harry mumbled, turning his back on the potions master.

If he had hoped his response would get rid of Snape, he was to be sorely disappointed.

Instead, the professor leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

 “Given that you are clearly going through some form of troubling time at the moment, I shall overlook your poor attitude and lack of respect on this occasion. I will not, however, allow you to starve yourself,” he said, in a voice so calm yet so dangerous that Harry felt a chill run down his spine. “I expect you to eat at least half of the food on your plate before you leave the table.”

 “You can’t make me,” Harry told him, feeling anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

 “I assure you, Mr Potter, that if I were so inclined, I could simply spell that food into your stomach this moment,” Snape told him. “However, as you are not 5 years old, I will give you one more chance to see reason.”

Finally reaching boiling point, Harry slammed down his fork.

 “What do you care?!” he snapped, turning to look at Snape again. “You don’t! So why should I?!”

 “I would not be standing here if I did not,” the professor told him.

 “That’s a bloody lie!” Harry cried, pushing the wooden bench back with some force and standing up, sending his wand rolling onto the floor. “You don’t care, and you can’t make me eat! You’re not my family, you don’t get to tell me what to do!”

With that, he scrambled out from the table, picking his wand up as he went. 

 “Detention Potter, 7 o’clock tomorrow evening, my office!” Snape told him.

 “Can’t wait!” Harry called over his shoulder as he made for the door, wondering if he was brave or just plain stupid.

As he reached the entrance to the Great Hall, he met Ron and Hermione, on their way in for breakfast.

 “You alright mate?” Ron frowned, as Harry pushed past them.

Harry didn’t respond – he was already half way down the corridor.

 “What the bloody hell’s wrong with him?!” the red head cried, watching his friend go.

Hermione nudged him with her elbow, gesturing across the hall as Professor Snape stalked back towards the teacher’s table.

 “Git,” Ron muttered. “You never did tell me how that went. Did you talk to him? Snape, I mean.”

Hermione just nodded.

 “And?” he pressed.

 “Don’t ask,” the girl sighed.

Ron snorted. “Let me guess, he told you to keep your beak out?”

Huffing, Hermione moved past him and went to find a seat at the Gryffindor table.

OOOOOOO

Harry had had a rotten day.

Scratch that – he had had a rotten weekend and a rotten start to the new week.

Not only had Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff during Saturday’s Quidditch match, he was also behind with his DADA and Herbology homework and to top it all off, he had a detention with Snape to look forward to the following day.

Exhaling deeply, he sat down on the cold stone floor in front of the mirror, looking up at the now-familiar reflections of his parents.

His mother was smiling at him.

She always smiled at him, but tonight, Harry didn’t much feel like smiling back.

His father gave him a look that was almost questioning.

Harry shook it off. “Just one of those days, I guess.”

Silence.

He glanced up at his mother again. “I wish I could hear your voices. I wish I could talk to you.”

She nodded her head, almost encouragingly.

What did he have to lose at this point?

 “I’ve got detention tomorrow…. Snape. I was pretty rude to him but…”  Harry stole another glance in his father’s direction. “I… I hope you don’t mind, Dad. I just… I thought he was different. I thought he cared. He is strict, and he doesn’t smile very often but… he was kind to me, in his own way. And after the dreams… well… well, it doesn’t matter anyway – I was wrong.”

His mother was watching him intently, a sad look in her eyes. 

 “It sounds stupid but when he was around, I didn’t feel like I was all alone,” he said softly, before shaking his head bitterly. “But he doesn’t want me around, not really. Why would he?”

 “Back again, Harry?” a voice behind him.

Startled, Harry jumped up, spinning around to find Professor Dumbledore standing behind him.

 “I see that you, like so many before you, have discovered the delights of The Mirror of Erised,” the headmaster said, coming to stand in front of him. “I trust by now you realise what it does? Let me give you a clue… the happiest man on earth would look into the mirror and see only himself, exactly as he is.”

 “So then… it shows us what we want?” Harry guessed. “Whatever we want?”

 “Yes… and no,” Dumbledore replied, as cryptic as ever. “It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest and most desperate desires of our hearts. Now you, Harry, who have never known your family… you see them standing beside you. But remember this Harry – this mirror gives us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away in front of it, even gone mad. That is why tomorrow, it’ll be moved to a new home. And I must ask you not to go looking for it again. It does not do to dwell on dreams Harry, and forget to live.”

Feeling disheartened but knowing the headmaster was right, Harry looked back into the mirror again.

 “Speaking of which… is there something you would like to talk to me about?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry frowned, turning  to look at the older wizard again. “Sir?”

 “Forgive an old man for eavesdropping Harry… I couldn’t help but overhear some of the things you said just now. Am I to understand there have been some… difficulties between yourself and Professor Snape?” he asked, gently.

Harry sighed. “Not really sir… it’s just… I think I did exactly what you just said. I got so mixed up about my dreams that I… I think I forgot they weren’t really real.”

 “How so?”

Harry hesitated for a moment before speaking again, feeling a little foolish.

 “Ever since I was little, I’ve been having these… dreams…” he began. “There was a man. Whenever I was sick, or scared, or having a really bad time… I used to dream about him.”

 “And what happened in these dreams?” Dumbledore asked.

 “Not much. The man just took care of me,” he explained. “I guess it was just my imagination, I don’t know… it made me feel better or something.”

 “A source of comfort,” the headmaster concluded, thoughtfully.

Harry nodded. “Except… when I got to Hogwarts… the first time I saw Professor Snape… I thought he reminded me an awful lot of the man in my dreams.”

If Dumbledore was surprised by this revelation, he did not show it.

 “Hence why you were drawn to him,” was all he said in response.

Harry nodded again. “It was silly, really. But it’s like you said – I was thinking too much about my dreams. I expected him to be just like the man in my dreams… expected him to care… but it’s not real.”

 “On the contrary. Although not the most demonstrative of men, I believe that Professor Snape cares a great deal about you,” Dumbledore told him.

He shook his head this time. “I don’t think so. It’s okay, sir. He was kind to me, anyway. But he doesn’t have to care about me. I’m not even in his house. I’m not… anything to him.”

For a moment, the headmaster watched him silently, a twinkle in his eye.

Harry felt mildly irritated – what could he have possibly said to amuse the older man?

 “Funny things, dreams,” he said, eventually. “Sometimes they can seem so very, very real, can’t they?”

He didn’t respond, instead allowing the headmaster to put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of the abandoned classroom and back towards the Gryffindor tower.

 “On other occasions, dreams are so strange that we know they simply can’t be real, even whilst we are in our deepest sleep,” Dumbledore continued.

 “Yeah,” was all Harry said – because he didn’t know what else to say.

When they finally reached the Fat Lady, Dumbledore stopped.

 “I shall leave you to the rest of your evening now Harry,” he said kindly. “But do remember what I said, in regards to the mirror.”

 “Yes sir,” he nodded, turning to the portrait.

 “Oh, and Harry?”

Stopping, he glanced back over his shoulder.

 “Don’t forget this,” Dumbledore said, passing him his neatly folded invisibility cloak.

Harry took it, mumbling the password for the Gryffindor common room. “Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

When Harry finally went to bed and opened his trunk to store the cloak away, something fell out from between the layers of fabric.

Bending down to pick it up, Harry realised it was a piece of parchment, not dissimilar to the one that had come with the cloak when he had first received it.

Straightening it out, Harry frowned at the words, which didn’t appear to be English at all.

In somnis veritas.

OOOOOOO