Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Snape and all related characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury books, and some other people. Not us. Go sue someone else. The plot and stuff are ours, however.

Authors' note: Yes, it has been a long time since we last updated. We've had homework and viruses to contend with (that's illness, not computer problems) so sorry!

As a lot of people have been saying that they check every day, and some have asked us to email them when we update, we have decided that we will start an updates list. If you want us to e-mail you when SnapeSummer is updated, leave your e-mail address in your review and psychicpikachu will e-mail you when we update.

Thank you, as always, for reading! Please review!

Chapter 11 – Someone else's memories.

Harry woke the next day to a shaft of sunlight, cautiously streaming in over his floor. He felt in a rather good mood this morning, considering he was living with the most horrible teacher ever to draw breath. Phrases from the howler kept flitting through his mind, making him smile and laugh, and it was hard to feel miserable.

Looking through his trunk, he found that the only clean clothes he had were some of Dudley's more recent cast-offs, that had been passed down to Harry as he lost weigh on the diet. Consequently, they were about ten sizes too big, and had to be rolled back at least four times in the sleeve and the leg. He would have made do with something he'd worn once, but was slightly smaller, but the house-elf had taken all his laundry away yesterday morning. It was nearly nine o'clock, and sure enough, just as he had finished dressing, a house-elf tiptoed round the door and said it was time for breakfast.

Walking into the breakfast room, Harry saw Snape was already sitting there, eating fried eggs and toast. If possible, he looked even surlier than usual. Harry felt his happy mood disintegrate under the ill-natured gaze of the Potions teacher.

"Is it some sort of Muggle fashion to wear clothes ten sizes too big for you, Potter?" asked Snape, in a sarcastic tone of voice.

Harry was already pretty irate with Snape. After all, he had locked Harry in his room with no good reason, on top of being a venomous irritant that Harry was unfortunately forced to live with.

"It's not my fault they're so big," he said walking to the table and sitting down.

"Don't your Muggle relatives even see that you're decently dressed?"

"No." said Harry shortly, picking up some toast.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow at this comment, and went back to eating. The meal continued in a charged silence, Snape's irritated anger could almost be felt in the air.

It was not till the end of breakfast that he spoke again. Looking at Harry's messy hair, which was falling about all over the place, Snape said "Do you actually know how to use a comb, Potter?"

Harry ignored this question, although inside he felt a surge of anger. He didn't see how Snape could criticize his hair, when Snape's hair had more grease in it than a well-used saucepan. Resisting the urge to snap something along the lines of 'Do you actually know that you're meant to wash your hair with shampoo, not grease?' he left the room, glad to be free of the tense atmosphere, and ran upstairs.

Entering his room, he was greeted by a welcome sight; Ron's owl, Pig, was fluttering near the ceiling. Hedwig, who was sitting in her cage, watched him irately. A letter lay on the bed. Harry picked it up and read,

Dear Harry,

I can't believe that Hermione's gone to stay with that Krum. What does she see in him? Bet she only likes him because he's famous. And he gave her that owl! Also, they're playing Quidditch. Famous Viktor Krum teaching her to play Quidditch. Hope they have a really horrible time.

She told me that Snape locked you in. Does he really think you're suicidal? He must be off his nut. Has he let you out yet?

Write back soon,

-Ron.

Harry read the part about Snape being off his nut with a smile, personally, he agreed. He also wondered what Ron had against Hermione staying with Krum – now the Triwizard Tournament was over, and he wasn't competing against Krum, why was Ron still acting so weird about him? It didn't make sense.

He took two pieces of parchment from the desk. First, he had to write a thank-you letter to Sirius.

Dear Sirius,

Thank you for sending that Howler! It did the trick; he let me out, although now he's in a foul mood. It was hilarious to listen to it, and where did you get all those threats? I wish I'd seen his face when he opened it, but I was upstairs. I think he's pretty angry with you. But then he never liked either of us anyway.

Write soon,

-Harry

He attached the letter to Hedwig's leg, and sent her off out the window. Pig hooted enquiringly, turning his head on one side and giving Harry a sad, questioning look, as if to say, 'Don't I get a letter too?'

Harry took the second piece of parchment and wrote;

Dear Ron,

Sirius sent Snape a Howler! It was really funny; I almost split my sides laughing. Among other things, he threatened 'LET HARRY OUT NOW OR I WILL DISEMBOWEL YOU WITH A SHARPENED STICK AND HANG YOUR DEAD BODY IN THE OWLERY AT HOGWARTS FOR THE BIRDS TO EAT!!!' So Snape let me out. I don't think he likes the idea of being bird food.

What's so wrong with Hermione going to visit Krum? I seem to remember you asking him for his autograph at the end of last term.

Write back soon,

-Harry.

He attached the letter to an overexcited Pig's leg, and watched the owl fly out of the window.

Feeling slightly bored, and not really having anything to do in his room, Harry was struck with a sudden idea. Why not go downstairs and see if Snape's diary was still there? True, it was a lot more dangerous with Snape in the house, but the temptation was pretty great, and he soon found himself tiptoeing down the stairs.

He reached the room without encountering Snape, although he had heard his footsteps from nearby the kitchen, so he had to be quiet or he would hear. He cautiously walked over to the sofa, afraid that Snape would suddenly burst round the door, and quickly felt down the back of the seat.

There was nothing there.

Harry felt a mixture of annoyance and relief. Slowly and carefully, he tiptoed out of the room, and made his way quietly up the stairs, when suddenly…

"SHIT!"

Harry started, and then suddenly broke into laughter, which he hastily muffled by clapping his hands over his mouth. His curiosity aroused, he quickly but silently hurried to where he had heard the shout.

Looking around the kitchen, he noticed a door he hadn't seen before. It stood at the far end of the kitchen, and was made of a darkish wood. It was also slightly ajar. Harry crept up to it and peered through the crack.

Inside was what was obviously a sophisticated Potions workshop, looking like something straight out of a Muggle horror movie. Glass tubes contained mysterious coloured substances, and bubbling potions sat in cauldrons with bright flickering fires under them. Snape was rummaging in a cupboard at one side of the room, muttering under his breath. By one side were some half chopped ingredients and a rather sharp knife. It looked like Snape had cut himself.

Harry crept back upstairs, afraid Snape would notice him. Cautiously he tiptoed back into his room, inwardly laughing about Snape's use of language.

Lunchtime came soon, and with it, another length of time shut in a room that he really would rather not be in. Not that he wanted to be at Snape Manor at all, but it was preferable to be away from Snape rather than sitting in a tension filled room.

Lunch that day was creamy tomato soup. Harry bolted down his food quickly, trying to finish fast so he could get out of the room. He was consciously aware of Snape's piercing glare on the top of his head whenever he looked down. Snape's finger had indeed been cut, and Harry thought he must be the only person in the world who had managed to find black plasters. How morbid could Snape get?

Eating his soup as fast as possible was bound to have some messy side effects, and sure enough, soon there was soup spilled on the table. Snape looked at him irately.

"Don't you even know how to use a spoon now, Potter? Are you totally stupid or just pretending?"

Harry refused to show that he was annoyed. "I'm not stupid." he said, and continued eating, ignoring Snape.

But it seemed that the Howler from Sirius had angered Snape beyond his usual meanness. "Potter," he said, "you have three brain cells. One to eat. One to be bigheaded. And one to remember which does which."

Harry was rendered speechless with anger, and before he could think of a reply, Snape had left the room.

Harry left the dining room, and fairly stormed up the stairs, inwardly fuming. Why was he stuck here with Snape? It wasn't fair. For the first time in his life, Harry found himself longing for the Dursleys. At least they wouldn't be so bad. Snape was probably the worst person he could spend summer with, they hated each other. What had Dumbledore been thinking? He angrily threw himself down on the bed.

The rest of the afternoon dragged past, every hour seeming to last an eternity. Harry couldn't be bothered to do his homework, so he lay, bored out of his wits, on the bed. He didn't go down for dinner, thinking to himself, 'I am not going down there to be insulted by Snape again.' The time continued to crawl by until finally, it was night, and Harry decided to sleep.

He was standing in the graveyard, and Voldemort was around somewhere, he knew it. It was dark, and Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. He tensed, and walked quietly, keeping an ear out for any noises.

The mist up ahead seemed to be thickening. But as Harry got closer, he saw that it was two foggy shapes, two human-like shapes. And surely they were familiar, he recognized them…

"Mum?" he said. "Dad?"

"Harry." smiled Lily. These were the echoes of his parents that had come from Voldemort's wand. He tried to move towards them, but found he couldn't, as though his feet were stuck in cement.

"Harry, we can't stay." said the ghost of James. "We have to go."

"No! Please, stay…" Harry was frightened. He didn't want to be alone in a graveyard where Voldemort could appear at anytime… he wanted to stay with his parents…

"No, Harry, we have to go." said Lily, and her words sounded as though they were coming from a long way away. "Goodbye Harry…"

The two misty shapes smiled sadly, and faded away.

And then the graveyard was slowly disappearing, but he was still afraid, and he shouted, "No, wait! Come back! Please, come back!" but then he was fading too, and there was nothing but blackness…

Harry awoke with a start. The room was pitch black. "Lumos." he whispered to his wand, and a pale light was cast over the room. Flopping onto the cushions, he suddenly felt very lonely. The only person in the house was Snape, who hated him. All his friends were miles away, reachable only by owl. His godfather was on the run, and he probably wouldn't see him for months. And his parents… were dead.

Why did they have to be dead? Why his parents who were killed? Why did he have to be the one who stopped Voldemort? Why couldn't it have been someone else? Most of the wizarding world wanted his fame, his scar, his past – Ron for instance. But all Harry wanted was his parents.

He couldn't even remember them. All he had were their voices, remembered and relived every time a Dementor approached. He had a memory of what their echoes had said to him, as he fought Voldemort. And he had a book full of photos. However much he tried to remember, tried to imagine a red-haired woman smiling at him, or a dark-haired man laughing kindly, he could never remember what it had been like. Of course he wouldn't. He'd only been one, a baby, too young to remember anything.

He pulled out the book of wizarding photos. Every picture waved at him, smiling, but somehow these didn't make him feel any better. These pictures were taken before he was born, and none of these things were what he remembered. All he had were his parents voices, a few seconds of terrifying memory, all he had left.

A few hours later, the winter moon rose, and its light tentatively slid through the window. It lit upon the figure of a young boy, sleeping, and by his side was a book full of someone else's memories.

Authors' Note: Thank you for reading! Please review