Snape stalked around the classroom like a ridiculed prince, his gait was conident, head held high, but there was also an uncertainty in his shoulders which anyone could see if they knew him good enough.
Well.
Harry knew, but it seemed like he was the only one who could tell. Everyone else staring at the potions professor just looked unnerved. He was actually a little put off by the fact that he probably knew Snape better than his own godson. What did that truly say about him?
...But, it did make a bit of sense. Harry was always good at spotting the moods of his abusers, so he could know how to deal with them.
He paled slightly.
Snape was an abuser?
He'd never truly thought about it like that. He supposed it was a bit true, in his mind. After all, he was constantly unfairly ridiculed, insulted, and had even been forced to drink possibly harmful potions. Not to forget that time Snape had done those mind raping classes.
Harry had found out later, from his own research, that Legilimency was not taught like that at all.
"Potter!"
Harry's eyes snapped up from his state, looking into onyx eyes that glared daggers at him.
"Sir?"
He said softly; today was not the day to upset the man, he looked upset and would probably take it out on Harry.
Unlike the rest of the class Snape was not surprised by Harry's tone, rather he breezed over it in favour of expressing his vindictive side.
"May I inform you that your potion is as sub-par as normal! How you even got into this class is a wonder, no doubt Granger is your only form of absolution in the field of brewing. ...Annoying she may be, perhaps Griffindors do serve a purpose."
Snape didn't seem to be as subtle in his favouritism as usual, down right admitting he despised a certain house.
"How would you like to prove yourself? I'm sure your arrogance knows no bounds."
Harry gulped slightly, noticing the challenge in the elder man's eyes. Malfoy sniggered slightly from across the room, seeming to be the only Slytherin that did not see something is wrong.
He shrunk in on himself only a bit as the potion professor's harsh voice grated against him, for that he felt the tiniest bit proud.
Snape strode towards his desk, holding a ladel and vial. He made a bit show of scooping it into a glass, inspecting it, before sneering in the way he always sneered. He handed it to Harry. The vial was cold to the touch, and as he looked at the murky grey liquid he couldn't held but feel the stirrings of trepidation.
Snape boomed, making Neville wince slightly, Harry wondered if they had more in common than just their orphan status,
"The Sweet Memories Potion, a potion when injested does provide the surrounding viewers to witness the person's greatest memories. It is meant to turn a brilliant silver, unlike Mr. Potter's here, and can have negative side effects (like any potion, you morons) when done incorrectly. Created in 1954, by Garilus Creed, it is often administered to Askaban guards, who are required to produce a Patronus for their training. The Sweet Memories Potion is highly expensive to make, and by special request of Dumbledore was the only reason we were able to today."
After Snape's small lecture he turned to Harry with a truly cruel smile,
"Now, to test Mr. Potter's effective brewing skills, we will see how it works on the subject. Drink."
Harry glanced warily at the ice cold vial clasped tightly in his grip. If he... If he just dropped it to the ground all of this could be over. So quickly. He looked nervously towards Ron and Hermione. Ron was looking no where near him, face blank; he had taken a turn away from their friendship after his break-up with Ginny. Hermione followed suit, looking quite insulted that Harry was challenging authority.
Harry looked over at Neville, looking over for support to his best friend. He simply smiled sadly, looking embarrassed and worried, and signalled for Harry to leave.
Snape sneered, scowling, before having enough of his student's impudence. Why couldn't the brat just do as he was told? He grabbed the vial harshly and poured it down Potter's throat.
For a moment the class simply sat in stilted silence, before they saw and heard Harry fall to the ground, the air pushed out of him as he landed harshly.
Snape whispered,
"Now, let's see what sweet memories our saviour has had."
He ignored the Lily like voice in his head which read out the side effects like a list, he was sick of her constant disapproval. Couldn't she see her son was worse than the other Potter?
A grey liquid seeped out of Harry's ears, slowly morphing into steam, before it formed up above the desk like a glorified thought bubble. It made the air sizzle with an uncomfortable feeling of pain and fear. The class shifted in their seats, watched to see what would play.
A boy, no older than six, sat out on the steps of the house. It was raining heavily, mist fogging up the view, and the surrounding environment was blurred extensively. He shivered to himself, only wearing thin rags that didn't fit him, and glasses they all recognised. He was small, thin, a collar bone poking out dangerously from the gap in his neckline, with unforgiving green eyes filled with sorrow and fear.
The boy huddled in on himself, looking frightened of the night around him, and continuously glanced back at the door. Sounds of drunken laughter and friendly chatter could be heard, but to the boy it didn't sound real.
He curled up tightly, eyes growing hollow and almost accepting as he looked out into the wind. He wiped imaginary tears away from his eyes, pulling away when he realised his hand was dry. A harsh wracking sob rang out, but still he could not cry.
"Where have my tears gone?"
He cried out, weeping dry raspy breaths.
"I have nothing but my tears, and have they left me too?"
The sound from inside had quieted down, and the boy stood, on wobbly legs, and walked away from the building before he was summoned. He knew what would happen if they found him out. The boy had been lucky that they didn't want the guests finding the cupboard if he made noise. But, the boy didn't truly understand, why would anyone care? He was only a freak.
He stumbled down the road, on tired legs, at the mercy of the biting night air. Lamp posts and the faint lights from inside houses illuminated his way, and he walked, lost, down the street and away from his captors.
He sat, down, in the middle of the road, understanding that a car could hit him at any time. He no longer cared for such things as life and death, only that he was cursed to live such an awful way. He looked down at his wrist, traced the faint blue bruises softly, and pulled his legs up to himself. He whispered quietly, aware that no one would ever hear him, that no one would ever want to.
"...And I am alone. For no one could ever love a freak like me. And that is how it will always be, even my drunkard parents left me. And until tonight I had thought that someone would come save me, but now I know. That no one would want to."
The boy's head fell down into his waiting hands, chest moving soundlessly, almost as if he were laughing, and he couldn't help the bitter smile that tilted his lips. Almost mad he was then, almost mad knowing what he knew.
The class was silent as the bubble popped and Harry was left, unconscious on the floor, in a dreamless sleep.
Snape could only stare, re-evaluating anything he had ever thought he knew about the boy.
"Harry?"
A whispered word from Neville, who understood his friend's plight all too well.
