A/N: This was an idea that I've been working on as a break from my other stories. Don't know where it's going, how long it might be, or if it will be continued. If you like it, give me a shout! Also, it's not terribly original or anything, so be forewarned. Just another Occlumency-makes-Snape-see-who-Harry-really-is type story, probably headed in the mentor/adoption direction. Also, I do not have my copy of OOTP around and so I've probably committed many egregious errors in regards to canon details and timeline. Thanks in advance to anyone who spots an issue; I promise it will be corrected. Cheers!

Harry slumped back to the ground, his brow covered in sweat and his stomach once again nearly in dry heaves. He couldn't keep doing this, he thought. Night after night, with Snape towering above him, torturing him, ripping through his memories, taunting him and criticizing him and insulting him at every turn. He couldn't take another moment.

Snape stood in front of his desk, wand drawn, his natural menace only enhanced by the contents of his office. The glass jars of the shelves behind him glimmered ominously in the dim torchlight of the man's office, and sometimes Harry swore that the creatures in those jars were winking at him.

"Concentrate, Potter!" Snape spat, disgusted. "How many weeks have we been at this? How many hours of my precious time have you wasted? And still—still!—you have been unable to push me from your mind. Not even a feeble shove, not a shred of resistance—"

"I'm trying!" Harry cried, fighting back the frustrated tears brimming in his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong—"

"Apparently everything, since you have yet to do one thing right!" he snapped. "Have you even been practicing?"

"Yes," Harry exclaimed, though he knew that was not true.

"Liar," Snape hissed, lowering his wand at last. "Lazy, arrogant… just like your father! I don't know why I expected any differently. No one could expect the sainted James Potter to have to work for a skill, no, that would be beneath him! And who would expect any differently for the great Harry Potter? He could not be expected to learn, no, not anything that doesn't come to him naturally!"

Harry struggled to his feet. "Stop talking about my father—"

"I will do no such thing," Snape sneered. "Not when you are so proud to see yourself in him. Here is the truth, Potter, and listen well. Your father was a swine, inconceivably entitled, incapable of seeing past the tip of his nose, and you are no different—"

"I AM NOT MY FATHER!" Harry roared, feeling a sudden surge of power rising in him like a tidal wave. He could feel it, whatever it was, in his veins and against his skin. It thrummed, it pulsed, seemingly to the rhythm of his racing heart.

The torches began to flicker, and all the jars began to clatter against each other.

"Potter," Snape growled, his tone deadly, his eyes flashing. "You do not speak to me in that insolent—"

The power radiating out from Harry only seemed to intensify at that. It felt to Harry as if the walls themselves were shaking.

"Potter, calm yourself." Now the anger had faded somewhat, and Snape's tone had turned stony and imperious.

But there was no stopping this flood. Harry could feel it rushing forth from the core of his being, his magic mingling with his charged emotions until the two were pouring out of him, inseparably intertwined. The force of it knocked Snape back so that he was caught leaning against his desk, bracing himself by his palms, his pale face absolutely white with rage.

The man opened his mouth to speak again, but no sound came out.

Which was fine. Because Harry had a lot to say.

"That's all I've ever heard from you, from day one! Just like your father, just like your father, parroted over and over! Is that all you have to say? Do you like blinding yourself? Because how the bloody hell can I be just like my father when I never even knew the man?

"Oh, no, but it doesn't matter, bad blood will out—isn't that right, Snape? Just like my cow of an aunt said! Oh, you'd love the woman! You could go on and on about how my parents were bloody laze-about drunks, how they got themselves killed through their own stupidity, about how I'm such a burden! You could spend all day comparing my poor manners to the nasty little puppies she breeds! But don't mention Hogwarts, mind, she thinks I go to St. Brutus'—for incurably criminal boys, you know, exactly where I belong! That's where they tell everyone I go! Go on, Snape, have a laugh! Famous Harry Potter, and his relatives lie and say he goes to a special school for young felons! Bet you wish they'd really shipped me off there!

"Yes, I'm just like my father, a bloody criminal bastard who doesn't care about anyone but himself! I'm so full of myself, I strut around Hogwarts, I flout every rule for no reason other than to satisfy my own desires! Mind, you don't have a single damned piece of evidence that would let you draw such extreme conclusions, but hell, why should you be rational? Might as well be like everyone else! While you're at it, get paid for your opinions! Write a bloody article for the Prophet, an exclusive from the Boy Who Lies' favorite professor! Tell them all about how I'm a menace and a pathological liar! Tell them all about how I'm constantly making up stories for more attention, because Merlin knows I don't get enough of it!

"I loved it my first year, when I went from living in a bloody cupboard under the stairs to having every damned person I met know my name and my life story! Oh, that was grand! One minute I'm smacked upside the head anytime the neighbors get a whiff of my existence, the next I have people fawning all over me because my parents were slaughtered and I just happened to survive. God, it's just great having people thank you for being an orphan. Like having salt rubbed in that wound every single damned day—and thanks for that, too, Professor, for comparing me to the father I'll never know all the time! Thanks for drawing more attention to the poor, orphaned Boy Who Bloody Lived! Made sure to do that on the very first day, didn't you?

"Yeah, it must have felt great to humiliate the little kid who'd just learned magic existed a month prior! It wasn't like it was overwhelming or anything, learning about all that and trying to convince my goddamned relatives to let me even come to this school! It's not like they tried to hide from all the bloody owls delivering our mail on a deserted island in the middle of the godforsaken sea or anything! It's not like I was raised in a home where the m-word got me locked up without meals! Oh, that's right, I didn't even know magic was real, and they still didn't let me say it! Excuse me, Professor, I should have spent that precious month memorizing the ingredients for the Draught of Living Death, or looking up what useful things might be hidden in goat stomachs, or swallowing the entire bloody text on magical herbs so I'd know all the possible names of plants we'd be using! How remiss of me!"

Harry wasn't done. The magic was still pouring out of him, steady as ever. The jars chattered against each other on their shelves, and Snape still seemed to be frozen against his desk, silenced by Harry's power. The man didn't even seem capable of drawing his wand. But his face was no longer contorted in rage; now it was blanched, drawn, inscrutable, his dark eyes locked on Harry.

Harry didn't care. He could feel his blood coursing in him still, wild, and could hear the thud of his heart against his ribcage. And all he cared about was letting all this out. The words seemed to be streaming out from some pit inside him, a place where they'd gathered and festered for five long years, and now he was ready to purge himself of their poison.

"Oh, but let me guess, Professor," Harry continued caustically, "you don't believe a damned word coming out of my mouth! No, poor Potter is just making up stories again, wallowing in self-pity, trying to make his mean Potions professor feel bad for him. Well, I don't give a damn what you think! No self-respecting person should! You're so miserable and bitter that the only way you can keep going is by tormenting others and spreading the misery, so that everyone's just as unhappy as you are. But I'm done. I'm not letting you unload on me anymore. You can find yourself another outlet.

"Here's the truth, sir. You call me arrogant. You call me lazy. You might as well be talking to yourself! You think you have any right to judge my father, however he acted, when all you do is humiliate me and insult me, day after day? You think you're better than him? He'd have to be Voldemort himself for that to be true!

"And I'm lazy? I didn't prepare? There was nothing to prepare! You're here to instruct me, and all you have for me is three useless, meaningless words! Clear your mind. Oh, and control your emotions. Just as good as cast this spell or brew this potion. At least in class you bother to write the damned instructions out! At least I have a text to make up for your piss-poor teaching skills!

"You know how important these lessons are. You know I'm having visions, that he can hurt me, that I'm a vulnerability to all of us right now, and you're still arrogant enough to sit down here, night after night, attacking me, pawing through my mind, and then blame me when I can't do whatever the hell it is I'm supposed to do! Not taking the time to figure out another goddamn way of teaching is the definition of arrogance and laziness!

"Well, don't worry, sir, I think we're done here. I'd have better luck teaching myself at this rate, and I won't be wasting your precious time anymore. And who knows, in the meantime maybe you'll get lucky! Maybe Voldemort'll figure out how to get into my mind and destroy it from the inside out! Maybe I'll end up in a ward at St. Mungo's, and you'll never have to worry about the bloody Boy Who Lived ever again! Better yet, maybe he'll figure out how to kill me from a distance! You'd just love that, wouldn't you?"

Snape actually seemed to flinch at that.

"Keep your fingers crossed, sir," Harry finished coldly, his hands clenched into fists beside him. "Maybe you'll never have to see me again."

The jars at last stopped shaking.

And with those words, Harry spun on heel, snatching up his bag, and ran out of the office, his heart still hammering in his chest.

XXXXX

It took Snape several minutes to draw himself out of the stupor that he'd been in since Potter had ended his little rant.

The Potions Master's mind was whirling with everything that had just happened.

Part of him was furious. What Potter had done was beyond the pale. Accidental magic or not, he'd still held Snape against his will in his own office and yelled at him for a good twenty-five minutes. The whelp had spoken so disrespectfully that Snape could still feel his blood boiling. The worthless child should be strapped, he thought, for having dared to take such a tone. The nerve of that brat, silencing him and screaming at him like an insufferable twit, proving that he was every inch what he had just shouted he was not, his beastly father's son. Yes, Potter's son through and through, thinking he knew everything, that he was in any position to judge his professor, to call his teaching piss poor….

Oh, the boy was crude and vulgar and so full of himself. And he'd just thrown a tantrum that would make the likes of even Albus Dumbledore blush to the tip of his toes. Yes, here was their precious little warrior in all his glory, pitching a fit like a three-year-old, shouting himself hoarse because he was incapable of taking some initiative and put in any actual work. Likely he thought he could go cry to Dumbledore with that sob story he'd spewed and find a sympathetic ear, and then Dumbledore would call Severus up and insist that it was his fault after all, that he wasn't making enough of an effort to teach the temperamental little ingrate. Yes, Severus would be faulted for failing to coddle their precious boy, and Potter would never be reprimanded for his disgusting outburst . They would let the little whelp continue on like this, unchecked, undisciplined….

No, he would see to it that the boy paid for his behavior. Every last bit of it. He would refuse to do a damned thing for the Order until he received a proper apology, until the boy groveled at his feet and begged forgiveness for his absolute insolence. And then he would see to it that the boy was punished to the fullest extent possible. A Quidditch ban, detentions every day, lines to be written in his spare time…. Yes, he would make sure that Potter never dared to raise his voice to his Potions Master again. In fact, by the time he was through with him, the boy would blanch at the mere thought of even looking at him wrong.

But beneath all that anger festered uncertainty and disbelief and—even if he could not consciously admit it—shame. Yes, Potter had cut strips off of him with his words. He hadn't stooped to petty name-calling or incoherent rage. Everything had been in response to what Severus had said, what Severus had accused him of. Most stinging was the criticism of his teaching skills.

Because damn it, the boy was right. What had he given Potter to work with? Severus had picked up the skill of Occlumency out of necessity. He'd had a few texts to point him in the early days, while he was still at Hogwarts. He'd always valued his privacy, and as soon as he'd heard of the existence of Legilimency and pictured how devastating such a skill could be in the hands of Potter and his ilk, he'd set out to protect himself. He'd only been a fledgling Occlumens in those days, never having had to really test his skills out.

Not until he'd met the Dark Lord. Not until the man had felt his feeble resistance when he'd first looked into Severus' mind, and found yet another way to draw Snape in. Perhaps even then the Dark Lord had been thinking to groom him as a spy. Even so, it was an excuse for the Dark Lord to peer into his very soul night after night, to teach him to protect himself, to hide himself. It had been an opportunity to craft the trap of servitude to appeal precisely to Severus' weaknesses and fears.

That had been the teaching method he'd been using with Potter. Attack and defend. Learn by experience. Severus had already had a foundation, and he'd been eager to prove himself to his would-be Master, so he'd applied himself with vigor to their lessons, and his skills had developed rapidly.

After he'd turned, Albus had, of course, given him more lessons—practice, mostly, against a skilled opponent. Snape himself had been charged with polishing his skills. Albus had offered little by way of specific guidance. Then again, Snape had been accomplished enough to effectively take charge of his own advancement. Dumbledore had effectively served as a sparring partner, someone against whom he could strengthen his reflexes and tighten the gaps in his mental shield as well as work on the sophistication of his false memories.

Potter did not need a sparring partner; he needed base instruction. He could have given the boy the texts he'd used, Severus thought, or mentioned the titles. Anything to give him a grounding in the subject. Instead, he'd done just as the boy had said, tortured him mercilessly night after night with barely three words of guidance. Yes, some of the onus was on him; Potter may have been a poor pupil, but he was equally at fault for not recognizing the boy's need for more guidance.

Not that his own shortcomings even remotely excused Potter's behavior, he thought bitterly, rounding his desk and seating himself in his chair. He would take a moment to recover, and then he would be paying the headmaster a visit to discuss his darling protégé. He would list his demands, and he would see to it that Potter paid thoroughly for his utter lack of respect.

Snape lazily waved his wand at his kettle, deciding that a cup of tea would be good to settle his nerves. After all, his dealings with Albus Dumbledore left him with little doubt of how this was to be handled. He could not be remotely emotional. He would wait until every last trickle of the white-hot fury he felt was gone, until there was nothing left but cold rage, something he could control, something that would allow him to speak softly and reasonably. He had to maintain the upper hand here, or Albus would scold him for letting his emotions run rampant.

No, he had to come across as the soul of reason, the offended party seeking restitution. The long-suffering, aggrieved professor who had tolerated more than his job description demanded, who now expected justice for the offense committed against him.

The kettle whistled and, with another flick of his wand, Snape had his teacup floating out of the cupboard, a bag of his favorite herbal blend not far behind. Minutes later, his long fingers were laced tightly around the cup and he was inhaling the fragrant scent of the brew, willing his thudding heart to slow.

Something else was niggling at his mind. The other confessions that Potter had hurled, comparing him to the boy's aunt. He assumed he hadn't meant Petunia, given that he couldn't imagine the girl he'd known ever taking up dog-breeding. And what was that rot about some school for criminals? The things Potter dreamed up….

Though his instincts were screaming that there was no lie there. Why would the boy lie, after all? It was an embarrassing detail if it was true. And given Petunia's hatred of all things magical, he supposed it might not be a stretch for her to invent such a horrible lie to cover for Potter's absence during the school year.

Which would mean that Potter's home life was less than ideal, he continued to argue with himself. Hadn't the boy mentioned being locked up without meals? And something about a cupboard?

No, exaggerations, likely. The boy was a pathological liar. In all likelihood, he'd invented everything. No different than all the ridiculous articles they'd run about him in the press the last year, the endless pieces regaling his adoring public of every last detail of all things Potter. And that was all his impromptu "confessions" had been, after all, just a continuation of those desperate ploys for attention. The boy's head had swollen enormously after the Tri-Wizard mess, and now Potter could not fathom that there was a soul in the wizarding world uncharmed by his exploits and tragic backstory.

Yes, the boy had been trying to garner sympathy for some foolish reason, and he'd let his mouth run ahead of him. Severus was a fool for even considering those blatant falsehoods might be truth.

I don't give a damn what you think! No self-respecting person should!

Snape flinched as those words entered his mind, unbidden. No, those were not the words of someone desperate for pity, were they?

Well, Snape thought bitterly, maybe Potter was just all over the charts, unhinged by his little temper tantrum. Maybe he couldn't keep his sights on one clear goal. He had, after all, said some rather nasty things to Severus, things that would keep the man from feeling even remotely sympathetic.

Snape sipped his tea, forcing his thoughts back to his upcoming meeting with the headmaster. Albus would not be pleased with him. He would see it as the potions master's antagonism run rampant yet again. Not that he didn't have every right to be hostile, Snape thought, having Potter foisted onto him in addition to his spying and teaching duties, not to mention all the brewing he was doing for both sides of this damned war. And it wasn't as if it was stressful knowing that, should the Dark Lord peer into Potter's mind and judged him to be just a bit too helpful, just a bit too convincing in his supposed role as Dumbledore's pet, he might be called to the snake bastard's side for a nice long torture session, followed by death.

He would have to keep his temper in check. Especially with Albus. He could not let a hint of vindictiveness show. He would have to present himself as eminently reasonable, open to continuing instruction so long as the boy was properly chastised and punished for his actions.

Snape checked the clock in the corner of his desk. Just past eight. Doubtless the headmaster would still be up. He drained the dregs of his cup, stood up, and drew himself up to his full height. Whatever the headmaster's criticisms of Snape's own shortcomings in this, he would not yield. He had been disrespected and his authority flouted. Potter was in the wrong, and deeply so, and he would not give an inch on that.

He drew one more calming breath before reaching for the inlaid wood box of floo powder that he kept on the mantle. He thrust a pinch into the hearth and announced coolly, "Headmaster's office!"

He strode through the flames, already forming the words of his complaint in his mind.

XXXXX

Harry had really blown it this time. His fury had long since faded. In fact, by the time he'd climbed the first set of stairs, all that anger and rage had burned out completely, leaving him with nothing but cold terror and utter mortification.

Snape was going to kill him. And not just kill him, he thought. No, the man was going to slaughter him. Demand he be burned at the stake. Or flogged in public, at the very least. Maybe he could just run outside of Hogwarts and call for Voldemort. Dying at the hands of the crazed madman had to be better than facing whatever Snape had in mind.

Harry ran up the stairs, navigating the shifting staircases, his mind on a singular purpose. He needed to hide. He needed to find somewhere safe where he could gather his thoughts and figure out how to clean up his bloody mess. Because he'd be summoned to the headmaster's office any minute now, called to face the music, and he just couldn't deal with that. He couldn't deal with the disappointment he would see in the old man's eyes, or the loathing in Snape's. Or the stern disapproval of McGonagall, who would also undoubtedly be dragged into this. Hell, Umbridge would likely butt in too, maybe even try to insist that he be turned over to the Ministry for discipline, and that would be a problem that no one needed to deal with.

He just needed a little time to figure out how to salvage this, if it could be salvaged.

Well, he thought, there was one place he could hide. Even if it was just for the night.

He reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, ashen-faced and out of breath.

"Well, I say," the woman declared. "You look as if you've seen Death himself, my dear boy."

"Mimbulus Mimbletonia," Harry snapped, in no mood to converse with the woman.

The Fat Lady rolled her eyes, but swung wide to permit him entry.

There were only a few students still milling about in the common room, thankfully. Most were still making their way back to the Tower before curfew. Neville sat in one corner with Seamus and Dean, working on what appeared to be a Herbology. Fred, George and Lee Jordan were playing Exploding Snap in the corner, with a small throng of younger students watching them.

"Now see, an ordinary game would only produce a small, harmless explosion," one of the twins was explaining, "but with a Weasley Wizarding Wheezes special deck—oy, Harry, who died?"

Ron and Hermione rose instantly from where they'd been waiting for Harry on the couch before the fire. They both winced in sympathy; obviously his face gave a little too much away.

"That bad, mate?" Ron asked quietly.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I'll be right back," he said, before dashing up to their dormitory. He could feel the questioning looks following him, and heard the murmuring starting amongst the students, but he wasn't in any mood to try to address them. Instead, he headed straight to his trunk and drew out his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map. He tucked both into his bag and dashed back down the stairs.

"Harry," Hermione began, "what happened? You look awful—"

Harry grabbed her and Ron by the arms and started dragging them toward the portrait hole. "I need to talk to you alone," he said quietly, still pulling them along.

"It's almost curfew," Hermione protested.

"I have my cloak," Harry murmured softly, so only she and Ron had a chance of hearing.

They followed him out into the hall and into a deserted corridor, where Harry drew out the Marauder's Map and muttered a quick "I solemnly swear I am up to no good".

"Was it another vision?" Hermione prompted. "If it was, you have to go to Dumbledore—"

"It wasn't a vision," Harry insisted quietly, his eyes scanning the corridor where the Room of Requirement was located. Deserted. Good.

"What'd Snape do?" Ron hissed. "What'd that slimy bastard—"

"Sh," Harry hushed him. "I'll tell you everything, I promise, but not here."

Ron and Hermione looked skeptical, but they followed swiftly after Harry, who navigated the familiar route up to the seventh floor with ease.

Standing in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Harry wracked his brain. Well, what did he require right now? A way out of this fiasco he'd created? Even the Room of Requirement wasn't that powerful, he thought.

With Hermione and Ron watching, Harry drew a deep breath and began pacing.

I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide.

To his great relief, the door appeared. Harry yanked it open and, with a jerk of his head, indicated for Ron and Hermione to follow him.

Inside, the room had shaped itself into a lovely sitting room. Against the left wall was a massive hearth with a fire already roaring, surrounded by three massive, overstuffed armchairs. A teapot and cups were set out on a low coffee table, just waiting to be used. The Room had transformed the back wall into a giant, wide window—likely enchanted—that looked over the grounds of Hogwarts, letting in a fair amount of moonlight.

Harry closed the door tightly behind them and promptly threw himself down in one of the chairs. He closed his eyes. His body ached from the tension he'd been carrying, and he would like nothing more, he thought, than to curl up in his bed and never wake up.

"All right, mate, spill it," Ron commanded.

Harry cracked his eyes open slightly to see Ron and Hermione take up residence in the two empty chairs. Hermione was biting her lip nervously, and Ron looked pale, almost green with worry.

"I went off on Snape."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

Ron snorted. "Is that all? Harry—"

"No, you don't understand," Harry cut him off, "I mean, I really lost it. I lost control of my magic—"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione gasped.

"And I—I somehow pinned him down and silenced him, and then I just… oh God. You have no idea. I said so many stupid things." Harry slammed his head back against the high-backed chair, closing his eyes again. "I said he was a piss-poor teacher and a miserable bastard—"

"Well, that's the truth. Don't see how he can fault you for that."

Hermione swatted at Ron, and Harry cracked a small grin in spite of himself. But that grin vanished in the next second.

"I ruined everything," Harry continued more quietly. "I—I basically assaulted him, then ran out on him. I should've turned back and apologized, but I just couldn't face it…. Ugh, he could have me expelled."

"Dumbledore would never allow it," Hermione reassured him, scooting forward so that she could rest a comforting hand on his knee.

"So it's going to be worse than expulsion!" Harry growled, burying his face in his hands. "I need the bloody git. I need to learn how to shield my mind. And no, before you ask, I haven't been trying as hard as I should. Yeah, I'm terrible. I tried to pin that all on him, too. I called him arrogant and lazy and said I'd have better luck teaching myself. Ugh, he's going to have me in detention every day… between Umbridge and Filch…."

"Look, Harry," Hermione began gently, "it can't be that bad. You just lost your temper. You can't tell me you weren't provoked."

Harry grinned crookedly, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Every time that man opens his mouth to speak to me, it's a provocation. So yeah, I was, but you know he doesn't care."

Memories of everything he'd said—more than just the insults—came swimming back to him. He groaned.

"Oh no. I just gave him a lifetime's worth of taunts…."

"Why don't you tell us the whole story," Ron suggested. "Start from the beginning."

And so Harry did. He told them about the awful lesson, about Snape's insults, about the feeling of something just snapping in him. He told them about all the stupid things he'd said, stumbling a bit over the shameful details about the Dursleys. He'd let things slip to Snape that he'd never told his friends, and that made him feel just awful.

He'd always feared their pity. That was why he'd never really explained how bad things got during the summer. Sure, Ron had to have some inkling of it—all the Weasleys, in fact, given that he'd been rescued during his second year via flying car, and during that escapade they'd had to nick his stuff from downstairs and pry the bars off his window. That, and Mrs. Weasley always made sure to send him food during the summer months.

But Harry suspected they didn't know how bad it really was. Maybe they just figured that it was a strained relationship, and that the Dursleys didn't realize or care that he was a growing boy who needed a bit more to eat. They probably didn't realize that he went without meals, sometimes for days at a time—though things had been better over the last year or so. Ever since he'd dropped hints about his vengeful godfather, a wizard convict on the run….

Not that being left mostly alone and not locked up or starved made up for the awful lies they told about him.

"Incurably Criminal Boys?" Ron seethed when Harry started, falteringly, to explain about his Aunt Marge. "What are they playing at? Merlin, Harry, why didn't you tell someone how awful they really are? I mean, I always knew they were a bunch of louts, especially that fat lummox of a cousin—"

"Because it doesn't matter," Harry snapped hotly. "It's just how it is. I need to stay there because of the blood wards, and it's never been pleasant, but it's not that bad either."

"Harry, they lie about you and pretend you don't exist!" Hermione cried. "That's textbook neglect and emotional abuse—"

Harry squirmed uncomfortably and stood up from his seat. "It really doesn't matter. Honestly, I'm only there for a few months out of the year. And complaining about it now isn't going to change the past, and I'm old enough now to cope with it."

"But you weren't old enough then…. They locked you in a cupboard?"

Harry sighed. He didn't want to talk about this—not in detail. He was more interested in figuring out how to deal with Snape, now that the man had enough personal information to land some really low blows. He could see his future in his mind; Trelawney would have been proud.

Ingredients are in the cupboard—and Potter, don't even think about moving in. This is not your relatives' home.

Now, Potter, if you could just do us all a favor and pretend not to exist…. I know you had plenty of practice at home, so it shouldn't be too difficult, and it would be a nice reprieve for everyone….

Chin up, Potter. When you fail your O.W.L.s, at least your relatives have a contingency plan. And in all honesty, St. Brutus' is likely a sounder choice for you than Hogwarts ever was.

He hated the man. Loathed him with every inch of his being.

"You should tell Dumbledore," Hermione continued. "He never would have left you there if he knew—"

"Yes he would have!" Harry cried, losing it. "He had to keep me alive, and the blood wards were the surest way of doing that. And besides, it's nothing. Plenty of people have had it worse—"

"God, that's not the point," Hermione cut him off, fuming. "If I'd known—"

"You didn't. And I can't talk about this right now. I have bigger—"

Hermione shot him a withering look that had Harry backtracking.

"More immediate problems," he amended.

"I'm having Fred and George send them a special package tomorrow morning," Ron muttered. "With lots of special candies for that cousin of yours—"

"He already almost had his soul sucked out by Dementors," Harry muttered, "and I don't think the Ministry will look to kindly on any more incidents at Privet Drive. Really, they're not worth the effort. Two more years and I'll be of age. And I have Sirius now—"

"Yes, so talk to him about all this!" Hermione cried, clearly still distressed. "Don't you have enough to deal with?" She pushed herself to her feet and suddenly enveloped Harry in a tight hug.

Harry relaxed into it, realizing that he was dangerously close to tears. He wasn't in this alone. He didn't have to try to shoulder this burden himself.

"Well… Voldemort's just seemed like the bigger issue. You know, him being resurrected seemed like a bigger deal than my aunt and uncle being such gits…."

"You're important too, Harry," Hermione whispered to him, squeezing him harder. "All this… it only seems insignificant because you've had to save the wizarding world again and again ever since you learned you were a wizard. You really need to talk about how terrible they were—"

"I will," Harry mumbled, "but—"

"Swear it," Hermione commanded, pushing back from him to level a fearsome glare at him. "Swear it on your magic. Promise you'll talk to Ron and me, or Sirius, or Dumbledore—"

"I already talked to Snape," Harry joked weakly. "Doesn't that count?"

"Snape's barely human," Ron replied, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder, "so no, I'd say he doesn't count."

Harry flashed a tiny smile at his friend.

"Really, mate," Ron continued, his tone growing serious again, "how they treated you… how they treat you…. It's not right. You know that, don't' you?"

"Yeah," Harry croaked. "I will talk about it." He tore his watery gaze back to Hermione. "I swear it, 'Mione. On my magic and all, okay?"

She stared at him for a moment longer, before nodding her head sharply.

"But right now," Harry continued, making his way back to his chair, "I need to figure out what to do about this… this big mess I've made." He heaved a sigh.

Ron and Hermione sat back down too. Hermione had a faraway look in her eyes, and Harry could practically hear the gears turning in her mind.

"It was accidental magic," Ron said after a while, his tone helpful. "They can't really blame you—"

"I'm fifteen, Ron," Harry grumbled. "Not five. I should've controlled my temper. And even if Dumbledore sees it that way, Snape won't. And Snape's going to be the one I have to convince, considering he's the one giving me lessons. Dumbledore can't force him to actually teach me, even if he makes us sit in a room together every night. Snape'll just keep digging through my mind, looking for humiliating memories…. No, I'm going to have to really apologize."

"And offer him your firstborn child," Ron added, deadpan.

"That's not helpful, Ronald," Hermione frowned. "But… he's kind of right. It's not fair at all, but it's like you said. You need Snape—and not a grudging Snape, either. You need him willing, otherwise…."

"Otherwise I'll never learn to shut Voldemort out. And I'll keep having visions… and everyone'll be in danger. I'll be a liability. So yeah, I've already figured it out. I'll probably have to get down on my knees and beg and make a complete fool of myself. And I'll have to agree to a thousand hours of scrubbing cauldrons and pickling newt eyes and whatever else he dreams up. Oh, and he'll probably want my broom for kindling, and a thousand points from Gryffindor for good measure…."

"You'll probably have to agree to Filch stringing you up in the dungeon and flogging you for a few nights," Ron continued thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "No more than a week, though, I'd guess. Even Snape's not that cruel. Probably."

"Ugh," Harry moaned, burying his face again. "I don't know how I'm going to do this. I'm going to melt right through the floor the second I see him. And then he's going to light into me, and I won't be able to get a word in edgewise. And knowing me, I'll probably blow up again…."

"You've got to have a little more faith in yourself," Ron told him.

"Ron's right," Hermione agreed, a small, encouraging smile on her lips. "I think you just need a little… practice."

Harry peered through his fingers at her, puzzled. "Practice?"

Ron's eyes fell on something behind him. He snorted. "Bloody brilliant… I love this room."

Harry twisted around, dropping his hands, to find that the Room had produced a kind of cloak rack, hung with several dark, billowing things. A bemused smile spread across his lips. "No way…."

Hermione leapt up to examine the thing that had appeared. She plucked one of the cloaks down, only to find it was a set of dark, billowing teaching robes—the kind Snape preferred. She grinned impishly. "See, even the Room thinks you just need some practice."

Ron shoved himself to his feet. "Me first," he declared, rushing over to the rack and pulling the robes on. He drew himself up to his full height and assumed a disdainful air, wrinkling his nose and folding his arms behind his back. "Now I just need a little grease to do the hair properly—"

"Oh, hush, Ron," Hermione interrupted, her cheeks reddening. "There're plenty of better things to criticize…."

"Miss Granger, fifty points from Gryffindor for insinuating that my personal hygiene isn't offensive," Ron declared haughtily, stalking back to the fire in a passable imitation of Snape's gait. "Ooh, these do billow nicely… I can see why the giant bat wears them all the time." Ron turned to face Harry, screwing his face back up. He cleared his throat and drawled, "Mr. Potter. You had something to say to me?"

Harry had to fight to keep from laughing. "Uh—yeah. I'm—uh—I'm sorry about yelling at you—"

"Quite alright, Mr. Potter," Ron-as-Snape declared. "I'm rather dense, and I'd guess that screaming at me was the only way to get your message across."

Harry snorted. "Well, while we're at it, I'm sorry I was born, I'm sorry I look like my father, I'm sorry I'm in Gryffindor…." He ticked offenses off on his fingers. "I'm sorry that arsehole Voldemort can somehow get into my head. I'm sorry Hermione's so brilliant that it threatens you, so you lash out with ridiculous insults…."

Hermione flashed him a bright smile.

"And I'm sorry you're a miserable old bastard with no one and nothing to live for. There. Feels good to get that off my chest."

"Well, Mr. Potter," Ron-as-Snape declared, "seeing as you are so sincere in your, er, apology, I guess I have no choice but to forgive you. Why don't you come down for tea and biscuits?"

Hermione burst into fits of giggles, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Ron's antics.

"Spot on," Harry applauded, just as Ron took a bow.

"See, Harry, nothing to worry about," Ron declared as he shrugged out of the robes. "Though you might want to run that through with Hermione a few more times. You know, just to be safe."

Harry sobered a little. "I really do need to practice, or I'm just going to end up making a bigger fool of myself. So… Hermione, would you?"

The initial silliness seemed to die down after that. Hermione slipped into a set of black robes and went to consult with Ron, who offered to give her "stage directions". After they discussed things for a good fifteen minutes, Hermione settled back into her armchair, sitting rather primly with her back arched.

Harry drew a bracing breath and turned himself to face Hermione. "I need you to be as mean as possible, so don't hold anything back," he warned.

"Don't worry, Potter, I don't intend to," Hermione replied darkly, mimicking Snape's sardonic drawl.

Harry smirked.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face," Hermione-as-Snape snapped. "You're wasting my time, Potter. Spit it out."

All in all, it turned out that Hermione was dab hand at imitating Snape. And she kept her promise to be hard on Harry.

"Sir, I wanted to apologize for the other night," Harry began, choosing to stare at the floor. He tried to imagine Snape's sallow face and his deep baritone.

"I hardly see the point," Hermione-as-Snape sniffed. "Your behavior was crass and inexcusable."

"I know, but hear me out. I shouldn't have lost my temper, but—"

"No, Potter, no 'but'. You assaulted me, you yelled in my face, and then you ran away instead of owning up to your pathetic behavior."

Ron sucked his breath in sharply. Harry winced. Hermione was almost too good at this.

"Geez, lay off him," Ron muttered.

"This doesn't concern you, Weasley," Hermione-as-Snape growled.

"Sorry, sir," Ron grumbled.

Harry tried to gather his thoughts. It was good that Hermione was throwing all this at him now, he thought. It would be a million times worse having to face it down from Snape. "I'm sorry, sir, I just panicked," he tried. "I just felt too upset to even try to say anything, and I thought it would be better to go and cool off."

Hermione-as-Snape snorted derisively. "A likely story. You were hiding from the consequences of your actions, as usual—"

"Damn, Hermione," Ron exclaimed, "really—"

"If you interrupt again, Weasley, it will be detention," Hermione warned sternly, though her mouth broke into a playful grin as she delivered the rebuke. She quickly fought it down, though, and returned her glare to Harry. "Well?"

Harry took a deep breath. "No, sir, I'm fully prepared to accept the consequences of my actions."

"That was good," Ron remarked. "Someone should be writing…." Ron trailed off. Harry followed the redhead's gaze, which had fallen on a stack of parchment and a quill that had appeared on the little table between the armchairs. "Hang on, gimme a second here….."

A minute later Ron had started scratching down notes. Harry continued to flounder his way through his apology.

Hermione had to think for a moment after that interruption. Finally she remembered her place. "Are you? Does the Famous Harry Potter even realize what he's done wrong?"

"I shouldn't have lost control like that. I shouldn't have trapped you and silenced you. You—you were right. I have to learn to control my emotions. And I shouldn't have said those things."

"What things?" Hermione-as-Snape prompted, though Hermione had dropped the edge, and now she just sounded like she was trying to give him a helpful hint.

"Er… let's see. I, uh, I shouldn't have called you lazy and arrogant. And I shouldn't have said that you were an awful teacher. That was out of line. And… hmm…. Probably shouldn't have called you a miserable bastard, either. Oh, and I shouldn't have whined on and on about my life and all. I do give a damn about what you think, and I do need your help, because I can't teach myself. So… I really hope you can take me back as a student. And I promise that nothing like this will ever happen again, and that I'll be perfectly respectful from here on out."

Hermione leaned back, thoughtful. "Hmm… not bad, for a start. I think this is something we can work with. You should probably get into specifics—you know, the more you apologize for, the more it'll be apparent that you've thought this through and really regret how things played out. You'll probably have to notch up the self-flagellation, too…."

Ron and Harry exchanged a puzzled glance.

"You'll have to call yourself stupid and reckless and all," she clarified. "You know, beat up on yourself."

"Oh, yeah," Harry agreed readily. "Snape'll like that."

"Just don't lay it on too thick," Ron advised, setting the quill down. "Snape'll probably smell insincerity from a mile away, and then he'll start right back in with the whole 'Potter is so bloody arrogant' spiel."

Harry sighed. "Well… I do actually feel bad. I mean, Snape was awful, but I know I shouldn't have blown up like that."

"Right. So we'll just work with that," Hermione stated confidently. "Now, let's go again."

Hermione drew herself up stiffly again. Ron picked up his quill. And they were off.

XXXXX

Snape emerged from the Pensieve, his breathing slightly harsh from all the emotion in the scene he'd just watched again. Beside him, Dumbledore shuffled back a few steps, his weathered face inscrutable.

Without waiting for an invitation, Severus paced over to the chairs before the headmaster's desk and slumped into one. He raised his fingers to his temples and began massaging, trying to alleviate the throbbing sensation that had started up there.

When he'd arrived in the headmaster's office to explain Potter's fit, he hadn't even remotely expected that the headmaster would demand to view the scene himself. In fact, Snape had counted on giving a cool, detailed account of Potter's words before bringing up the matter of discipline. As soon as he'd mentioned that the boy had loosed accidental magic—the kind powerful enough to render Severus helpless—Dumbledore had declared that they would both review the incident in his Pensieve.

Of course, the implication that hung in the air was that Severus had done something unforgivable to push the precious Potter to such an extreme. Not that Dumbledore would ever say as much. But Snape was used to reading between the lines when it came to the headmaster.

Watching and listening to Potter's rant a second time, this time more or less as a bystander, was not as easy or as gratifying as he might have thought. Unfortunately, without the blind rage to adulterate the boy's words, it was fairly apparent that, with the exception of a handful of comments, the boy's critiques were not baseless, or delivered in an excessively disrespectful manner. Oh, the boy was certainly upset, and his language was a bit coarse at times, but much better than it could have been.

Even more unfortunately, the memory he drew from his mind began shortly before he called James Potter a swine. And he knew he didn't have a prayer of defending the sheer venom he spewed at the boy there, especially not to Albus Dumbledore. And as he stood beside the old man in the Pensieve—his mentor, he reminded himself bitterly, the one man he'd ever truly admired—he felt as if he were two inches tall. He was humiliated at his own conduct.

If only Potter had called him a greasy bastard or any of the other nasty names students liked to whisper behind his back. But no, the boy had babbled about his less-than-ideal childhood and a nasty relative, he'd thrown Severus' critiques back in his face, and he'd made a few valid points about how ineffective his teaching had been. Apart from the accidental magic and his raised voice, it was nothing so inexcusable.

Because yes, even Severus could admit that the boy was under a lot of pressure and was bound to explode at some point.

Infuriatingly, Dumbledore had said nothing as he watched the whole thing unfold beside Snape. Even his face had been entirely placid, his eyes completely neutral, as he took everything in. If he had just sighed in disappointment, or glanced over at Snape reprovingly, anything…. Waiting for the man to pass judgment was agony.

Snape glanced up wearily as Dumbledore ambled back over to his chair behind his desk.

Once he'd settled comfortably into the high-backed chair, he spoke. "You should not have provoked him so," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet and still utterly neutral.

"No," Snape agreed, his eyes wandering over to the instruments lining Dumbledore's shelves. After so many years he was intimately acquainted with the configuration of the headmaster's office; so now, to distract himself from the emotions roiling in his stomach, he began listing their names in his head.

"It also seems to me," Dumbledore continued, still using that curiously gentle tone he liked to take sometimes, "that Harry's accidental magic—the force you describe as having held you prisoner—is closely linked to a desire to be heard. Would I be correct in assuming that lines of communication between the two of you have been somewhat… restricted… during these exercises?"

Snape gritted his teeth. He gave a curt nod, still not meeting the man's eye.

"It is rather remarkable that young Harry appears not to have damaged a single item in your office. Much to your immense relief, I'm certain; I know how valuable your collection is."

"Yes," he growled. "Remarkable."

Dumbledore sighed and waved his hand, summoning a porcelain teapot decorated with pink and purple sugar pea blossoms, and along with it two delicate white cups with gilt handles. He poured them both full of steaming tea, and passed one across the desk to Severus.

Snape let it sit there. He was not about to sip tea for a few silent moments while the headmaster lost himself in thought. He respected the man immensely, but he had very little patience for these games the man liked to play. There was no reason to stretch this out any longer than necessary.

"Attacking a teacher, under any circumstances, is unacceptable," Dumbledore said at last. "You've every reason to lodge a complaint. Harry could have seriously injured you or himself." He lifted his teacup back to his lips.

Snape could hear the caveat before the older wizard even lowered his cup again.

"However, Severus, it seems to me that young Harry has a few complaints that could be addressed, however inelegantly he has worded them. These comparisons to his father, for example. I know the boy bears a striking resemblance to James, but it seems to be a rather touchy subject for the both of you. Perhaps in the future you could refrain from bringing the man up."

Diplomatic as ever, Snape thought bitterly. No blunt, "Severus, stop bringing up the boy's dead father and insulting the two of them." No, Dumbledore was always decorous, even when delivering rebukes.

Severus dipped his head in acknowledgment.

"I know I have already imposed on you in requesting you give these lessons," Dumbledore continued peaceably, his blue eyes solemn. "But I would also ask that you change tack with Harry and see if another method of instruction is more… fruitful. It is in all of our interest that Harry learn to shield his mind as quickly as possible, and so any efforts you could make toward that end would be most appreciated."

Yes, Severus certainly felt like a chastised teen receiving a gentle lecture from his grandfather. He tried to keep his composure and dignity, but it was difficult to maintain his poise while being scolded.

He swallowed. Nods and monosyllabic answers were not becoming of him, he knew. He would not tolerate it in his students, and he would hold himself to a higher standard now. "I will see what can be arranged," he replied faintly.

"Excellent. I will have a word with Harry as well, and perhaps we can all reconvene tomorrow in order to straighten out the details of this little mishap. I trust you believe that we can, indeed, work past this and continue with Harry's Occlumency lessons?"

Phrased so reasonably, Snape thought, it was nearly impossible to refuse. Still, Snape couldn't help but stir the cauldron; his bruised ego demanded it. "There is the matter of the boy's disrespect—"

"I will speak to Harry about that as well. Though the Quaffle goes both ways, as they say."

Snape's nostrils flared and his lips pressed into a thin line. "I will take it under advisement," he replied tightly. "Though I have to insist that the boy be punished—"

"Certainly," Dumbledore agreed breezily. "We can determine consequences after we've had it all out. And I am certain you will be judicious in determining what is an appropriate chastisement for Harry's behavior."

Snape bristled at the subtle accusation buried in those words. "Sometimes a firm hand is needed, Headmaster," Snape defended himself quietly.

"Yes, quite," Dumbledore nodded, his tone just as light. "Firm, but not cruel. A fine line to walk, a fine line indeed." The headmaster stood and made his way over to the fireplace. "I will speak to Harry tomorrow, at his earliest convenience. I think a quiet night of reflection will do him good."

Snape snorted softly to himself.

Dumbledore threw a pinch of floo powder into the hearth and called, "Minerva?"

A moment later the Transfiguration professor replied. "Yes, Albus?"

"Would you know if young Harry has returned to his dormitory?"

"A moment."

Snape and Dumbledore waited in perfect silence for a few minutes before the witch returned; this time her head emerged in the fireplace, wreathed in green flames.

Her expression was drawn, her mouth slightly pursed. "The boy's bed is empty—as are Granger's and Weasley's. I'm told the boy made a brief appearance an hour ago before dashing straight back out. What is going on, Albus?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Ah. Yes, I remember the Common Room always tended to be so crowded, and full of prying eyes," the headmaster mused to himself. Then he continued aloud, "Minnie, my dear, there is no cause for alarm. Harry has had an eventful evening and likely is in need of privacy this evening, as well as the support of his friends. I trust his discretion."

Minerva's brow furrowed. "If he does not return by curfew—"

"Minerva, I believe we have all found ourselves spending a quiet night elsewhere in the castle in our youth. I do not begrudge Harry his privacy at the moment. If he does not turn up by breakfast, then I think it will be appropriate to conduct a search."

Snape could tell that McGonagall did not entirely agree with the headmaster's assessment of the situation, but she appeared to be deferring to his judgment.

"If you are certain," she conceded, her eyes flashing. "If that was all?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Minerva."

"Goodnight," she returned, and the fire disappeared.

"The boy could be anywhere on the grounds," Severus burst out the instant she disappeared. "He runs amuck as if he's never heard the word 'forbidden' or 'out-of-bounds'. For all we know he's out frolicking with the werewolves in the forest—"

"I doubt that, Severus," Dumbledore replied evenly. "I've an idea of where Harry is, and I've no intention of disturbing him. As I said, one night away from his bed is hardly the worst offense one can commit."

"If the daft boy's done something drastic, like snuck into Hogsmeade, the Dark Lord—"

"I've every faith in Harry," Dumbledore cut the Potions Master off. "You are welcome to look for him, of course, if you are truly concerned."

Snape ground his teeth but did not press the matter further. Let Potter dig himself a deeper grave, he decided.

He forced himself to draw a deep breath. "Was there anything else you needed, headmaster?"

Dumbledore seemed to age decades in just seconds. His whole posture slumped slightly, and his blue eyes suddenly seemed haunted by pain. "Yes…." He returned to his seat, and this time his bright eyes did not pierce Severus, but rather gazed at the wall, looking far beyond the confines of the office. "Normally, I would not ask, given the nature of the subject, but some of the things that Harry has told you have greatly perturbed me, and I must know…."

Snape's gut clenched. He did not know where this was going, but it could not be good, he thought. "What is it?" he demanded quietly.

Dumbledore sighed and closed his eyes lightly. "You must understand first that Petunia did not want to take the boy in. She was dead-set against it, even; she knew he had no other family and that he would be sent to an orphanage. I convinced her that he was in grave danger, and that he needed the protection of the blood wards—you know of these, of Lily's sacrifice…. It was under that pretext, that refusing the boy was tantamount to throwing him to the wolves, that she finally accepted.

Severus could tell that this was quickly becoming Famous Harry Potter's sob backstory, and he had no desire to hear any more, because he already had a feeling for where things were going. But he was not about to be so childish as to walk out on Dumbledore, so he sat rigidly, his jaw aching from tension, as he forced himself to remain silent.

"Knowing this, I assumed that Harry would have a… a difficult childhood. I knew that his relatives would never love him as their own, but I assumed that they would shelter him and nurture him and come to care for him in their own way. They are rather repulsed by magic, and they were averse to having visitors from our world, so I never had a chance to check…. But I cannot in good conscience neglect my responsibility now.

"So I must ask, Severus, during your lessons with Harry, did you catch glimpses of this… this cupboard he was purportedly shut in? Did you see the level of neglect he claims?"

"Glimpses, yes," Severus murmured. "Though it is possible that it is a gross exaggeration—"

"Harry has many faults, Severus, but he does not lie. He does not fabricate." Dumbledore's words were no longer gentle. They were steel, entirely implacable.

Snape dipped his head solemnly to show he understood.

Dumbledore was nodding to himself. He laced his hands together and leaned forward slightly, his eyes on his desk before him, seemingly lost in thought.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore murmured at last, his words absent. It was a clear dismissal.

Snape cleared his throat lightly. "Is everything alright?"

Dumbledore waved a hand lazily at him, as if shooing him away. "Go on, Severus. I shouldn't keep you, and I have… matters to see to."

"Matters?" Snape pressed. He could not help it. He had rarely seen Albus Dumbledore so… discombobulated. It was rather alarming.

"Nothing concerning you." Dumbledore pushed himself to his feet and ambled back over to the floo. Another pinch and he was calling McGonagall yet again. "Minerva?"

"Albus?" she responded, a note of worry in her voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine, Minerva, fine. I just have an unexpected errand to run. You can see to the school for a few hours?"

"Certainly," Minerva replied, though her tone was anything but. "Is it the Ministry?"

"Personal business, I'm afraid," Dumbledore replied evasively. "Must be seen to tonight."

"Of course," Minerva murmured. "I'll inform the Heads of House that you'll be away. Where can you be reached?"

"Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," Dumbledore replied swiftly. "You have my gratitude, Minerva."

The witch nodded briskly in the fireplace. "I am only doing my duty. Call again when you return?"

"Of course."

The green fire faded once again.

Dumbledore turned back slightly to Severus, who was lingering awkwardly at the back of his previously-occupied chair. The headmaster seemed surprised to see that Snape had not yet left. "Severus, my boy, it's been a long night. You should get some rest."

Snape did not budge. "Surrey?" he questioned. "What personal business could you possibly have in Surrey?"

Dumbledore heaved an agitated sigh. "I've a mind to pay Harry's aunt and uncle a visit. As I said, it is a personal matter, nothing to concern yourself over."

"Surely the boy would have said something by now if things had been serious," Snape protested. But the words felt foolish and clumsy on his lips. He knew better, he of all people.

Dumbledore cast him a withering glare, one that Snape knew was well-deserved. "Harry does not like to complain, whatever you may think of him." Dumbledore paused, his gaze drifting back to the fire. "I ask that you mention this to no one."

Snape wanted to cry out in indignation at that ridiculous request. As if he were so immature as to go shouting such personal business through the corridors…. He felt a flush color his cheeks. But instead of shouting angrily at the man, he replied, perhaps a touch frostily, "Of course not, headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded once, mostly to himself. Then he took another pinch of floo powder, called out, "Arabella Figg's house!" and vanished in a flash of green.