The next day, Potter did not immediately sit on the couch to await his lesson. Instead, he stood gazing up at the high window in the sitting room—the only window in the safe house—and said, "Looks like rain."
"It matters not—that window is enchanted," Snape informed him.
Potter seemed surprised to hear this. "How do you know?"
"Can you not feel it? We are far underground."
"No, I had no idea," Potter murmured, still watching the clouds through the window.
"Do you intend to stand there gaping all day, or shall we begin?"
"Sorry, sir," Potter answered, making his was over to the sofa. "I'm ready now."
"Legillimens." Snape saw several flashes of memories that felt as if they were being flung at him. Potter sitting in History of Magic about to nod off, lying in the grass near the Black Lake, being congratulated after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament…then things seemed to get hazy for a moment and he saw a hulking shape in a dark room, pinning someone to the wall. The large man moved slightly and Snape saw Potter, his face shoved into the wall as the man—his uncle, Snape thought—reached around to unbutton the boy's trousers.
This time the noise that startled Snape out of Potter's mind was his own soft gasp. Potter, he saw, had turned and buried his face in the couch. Snape had no idea what to say.
So he opted to ignore it, for the time being. "As I said in our last lesson, you have the idea, but the persona you project still feels very forced. You must practice." He waited for the boy to remove his face from the couch cushion, but it seemed he was content to stay where he was.
"My turn, I believe," Snape said. "What would you wish to be doing now, were you not confined to this place?"
Potter was obviously grateful for the change in subject. He immediately answered, "Fly, I'd want to fly. Play Quidditch, maybe, but definitely fly. Did you ever play Quidditch when you were at school?"
"In my sixth year. I was Slytherin's last resort for a Keeper. Luckily, someone better came along the next year and I was relieved of my position," Snape replied. "Whom do you miss the most of your many little friends and adoring fans, as you are stuck down here all alone?"
Potter considered for a moment. "This is going to sound ridiculous, but I miss Hedwig. Dumbledore took her to the owlery at school. Of course, I miss Ron and Hermione too, but I know they've got each other."
That made some sort of sense to Snape. He nodded.
The boy opened his mouth to ask a question, but hesitated. After a moment, he asked, "Sir, what was your mum like?"
Snape thought about it for a minute. "She was kind, but timid. She had a good heart, but would never stand up for herself or the things she held dear. I know she must have been an amazing witch in her youth, but as I knew her she was…meek."
"From what little you know of them, do you think yourself more like your mother or your father?" Snape asked.
Potter looked down. "My father, I'm sure." Snape waited, but he did not elaborate.
"Did you—do you—hate my dad? And Sirius, too. I mean, do you really hate them?" he asked, with a trace of his old anger and defiance.
"No," was all Snape said.
Potter scoffed. "I don't believe you."
"I can do nothing but assure you of my honesty."
"Whatever, I still don't believe you." Potter turned away and seemed prepared to sulk for a while. Snape had little tolerance for sulking teenagers.
"One moment, Mr. Potter," Snape said and walked to his room. He grabbed a small vial of clear liquid and went back out to the sitting room.
"Do you know what this is?" He held the vial out so the boy could inspect it.
"I have a guess," he answered. "Veritaserum?"
"Correct, Mr. Potter. Can you recall the correct dosage?"
He though about it. "Two drops?"
"Three. Will you agree to believe me if I give my answer under the influence of this potion?"
"I guess I'd have to, wouldn't I?"
"It would be wise." Snape removed the lid and let three drops fall onto his tongue. "Repeat your question."
"Do you hate my dad and Sirius?"
"No. Long ago, I wanted to. I certainly did not like them, but try as I might, I did not hate them. They were popular, good-looking, confident. I was too overcome with jealousy to really hate them." Even Snape could not believe the frankness of his answer. He quickly moved on.
"Why did Dumbledore feel it necessary to remove you from your muggle family?" He knew he was asking a lot, but it only seemed fair after what he'd just been forced to admit.
Potter seemed to panicking slightly. "Well, I don't, I mean I don't know if I can…I try not to think about it."
"Do you require assistance in your answer?" Snape asked, holding out the vial of Veritaserum.
"No, it's just not something I've ever said out loud." That seemed to give him an idea. "Can I just show you instead? I'm not sure I can get through saying it."
"If you wish. Bring the memory to the front of your mind. Legillimens." A memory slowly presented itself, almost as if against its will. Potter lay face down on a bed in a dark room while Vernon Dursley pounded into him mercilessly. The large man came moments later and collapsed on top of the boy. As soon as he was recovered, he stood and said, "Get dressed, you disgusting boy!" Snape could see blood. Potter's pants were around his ankles, and he was soon fully clothed. Snape saw no expression on his face whatsoever. He seemed entirely disconnected.
Just as Dursley reached for the knob, the door opened to reveal Arthur Weasley. "Hello there, Harry. Came to check on you," he said cheerfully, and then his face fell. He walked closer to the boy. "What's this Harry?" he asked, indicated a red, rapidly swelling area on his jaw.
"Keep your mouth shut, you ungrateful whelp!" Dursley warned.
Arthur's eyebrows shot up. "Did he do this to you, Harry? Did he hit you?" Potter didn't answer, but his expression seemed to be enough for Mr. Weasley.
"Merlin, he did. Grab your trunk, we're leaving this instant."
And the memory faded to black.
Potter was curled into a ball in the corner of the sofa with his face buried under his arm. Snape tried to wait for him to recover, but he seemed in no hurry to move.
"Did Mr. Weasley know about…what happened before?" Snape asked, trying to keep his voice gentle, and managing to not sound hostile.
"You've had your question answered," Potter answered from behind his arm, his voice slightly muffled.
"Mr. Potter…" Snape started, but he was cut off.
"It's not your turn anymore!" Potter yelled, finally sitting up. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"What's your worst memory, Professor? Will you show it to me?"
Snape, still under the influence of Veritaserum, could not ignore the question. He stiffened, but said, "Very well, Mr. Potter, whenever you are ready."
Potter raised his wand and cried, "Legillimens!" and Snape relived an event he would rather never have to remember again.
He saw himself at age ten, setting up a cheap beginner's potions kit his mother had given him. He could remember the excitement he had felt, and the sense of dread when he heard someone enter the room.
"What are you doing, you useless lump? I thought I told you to get that kitchen cleaned up!" the man roared.
"I…I did, Father. It-it's clean now, sir," said the young Snape, who began to tremble.
"Well, it's not clean enough! And now I find you in here playing around with your ridiculous toys! Where did that come from anyway, boy?" Snape did not have many possessions, so the new addition stood out. Even so, he dared not answer.
"I know where you got it, you ungrateful lump!" he father sneered, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him from the room.
"Eileen! Eileen, where are you!" he called.
Young Snape tried in vain to twist out of his grasp. "No, sir, please! It's not her fault!" he begged.
"I'll decide where blame gets placed in this house, and don't you ever talk back to me!" he screamed and slapped the boy hard. Tears sprang into his eyes.
"Eileen! There you are. Get over here, you lazy lump!"
Snape could see the fear in his mother's eyes as she slowly crept toward his father. Forgotten for the moment, his hair was released and he ran to the side of the room to try to stay out of the way. He watched helplessly as his father began slamming his mother's head against the wall with so much rage that on the fourth crack, she suddenly stopped moving and crumpled to the floor.
"No!" he cried out, and ran to his mother's side. "Mother, mother, wake up, you have to wake up!" he pleaded between his shuddering sobs. She wasn't moving.
"Stop crying, boy. I'll have no more crying in this house." He came toward his son very threateningly, but as young Snape backed away in terror, he gently pushed Potter out of his mind.