Harry had been in Snape's quarters for six days when he approached Dumbledore.

"Sir, it's Christmas next Tuesday."

"It is indeed, Harry."

"I was just wondering sir... if I could... well, if I could go to Hogsmeade."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and gave him a grave look. Dumbledore was good at that. It created a gap in the silence that the other person felt obliged to fill.

"Well, I wanted to see if I could find some things for Hermione, Ron, Ginny..."

Harry let himself trail off lamely. Dumbledore appeared to be giving it some grave thought. He spoke at last.

"I would have to ask that you would be accompanied."

"Of course," Harry said immediately. Half of him accepted this without complaint; it was only fair, with a hoard of Death Eaters after him. His mind could be quite useful to them. The rest, of course, would have been disposed of. On the other hand...

"Who would accompany me, sir?" he asked quietly. Dumbledore didn't need to say anything, and Harry felt his shoulders slump.

"I can't see him as the Christmas shopping type," said Harry with a grin he didn't feel.

"On the contrary," Dumbledore replied, "He can simply wait for you. As long as he is in the village." Harry shrugged, but he'd already begun to feel slightly better about it. As long as the man wasn't constantly invading his privacy, he'd be okay.

Harry nodded, feeling a little bit better despite the fact it would be Snape going with him.

llllllllll

Harry pulled his coat on and reflected on the bitterly cold weather outside. There was a harsh wind blowing, and having experienced it on a broom (of all places) he knew that the wind would be like little knife blades, prying into his clothing and attacking his body. On a broom, and especially for the male of the human species this was somewhat... unpleasant.

He put his scarf on. Hesitantly, he took it off again. It wasn't that he didn't feel like he needed it, it was just that he enjoyed the play of cool air across his skin... it helped him realise he was actually alive, it was all real. He needed that; he needed the reassurance. What would have completed it nicely was human compassion, but he wasn't exactly going to get it from Snape, nor McGonagall, and besides, Dumbledore was far too busy to spend at least three hours listening to the ranting of a viciously hormonal teenage boy. Feeling slightly saddened, he headed down to the Entrance Hall to wait for Snape.

He didn't have long to wait. Snape strode across the cold stone floor, the very angry look in his eyes betraying the battle he had lost to Dumbledore.

"Get on with it, Potter," he spat venomously. "I don't intend to baby-sit you all day."

This put Harry in a worse mood.

"I didn't ask you to come along," he ground out, beginning to feel his hackles rise. He didn¹t ask for this. He had tried to reasonable with the man, tried to be mature, had fucking given up his dignity for this arsehole who had the effrontery to be angry with him. He visibly watched Snape bristle with indignation.

"Be careful of your words, Potter," he snarled.

Harry had had enough.

It was time to strike back. He felt his personal space, his shield thinning, and weakening. He wasn't sure how much longer it could hold out. Time to let off some steam before he exploded. It was risky. Hell, it was suicide, but it would be worth it, just to see the look on Snape face before he himself was blasted into millions of slimy pieces. Thinking of this, he made sure he knew where his wand was.

"You listen to me, sonny jim. I have tried to be reasonable, I have tried to be logical, but you insist of grinding on my nerves like wet sandpaper. I have given up everything for Dumbledore's sake and the least I would expect of your miserable ass is that you pay him the same respect! Had it ever occurred to you that maybe Dumbledore hasn't confided all his plans in you? That maybe you don't know more than he does? So maybe there is a good reason for me staying with you, even if it has momentarily slipped your all-knowing intelligence and you can bloody well get out of my face and out of my life!" Harry's voice had grown louder, up to a shout.

Snape seemed to grow taller. The air grew colder. Harry saw Snape's black eyes shine like twin dark pools, and saw the rage unfold like a monstrous black bat. Harry had never seen Snape this angry, and he knew he hadn't even stepped over the line yet. That, however, could wait. His sheer rage would not give him the vitriol to support another argument; he could feel apathy draining back into his body. Snape, however was only just starting. Harry knew what he had to do.

"Potter," he began in a in icy whisper. "You have no idea how I have tried for Dumbledore. The fact that you do not know what it was does not mean that what happened did not exist. The only way you will ever understand is if you get your tiny little mind out from whatever bodily crevice it has been stuck in and get yourself to wake up -­"

"That's exactly what I have done, and the dream was better. You have no idea, Severus Snape, how absolutely bloody lucky you are. Have you ever had your sanity pushed to the limit?"

Snape growled, and was about to reply, when Harry held up both hands in a strangely submissive gesture that managed to stun Snape into silence for a few seconds. Harry used the time he had.

"At least I have something to be grateful for. I never turned out to be like you." Harry saw the point ram itself home, and he turned on his heel and walked out of the castle.

He was about halfway down the drive when he realised Snape wasn't following, and he allowed himself a wry smile. It would be nice to have a bit of time to himself; forbidden time, so much the better.

He took his time walking down the rickety road that was the drive up to Hogwarts. He enjoyed the chill of the numb wind caressing his throat and so he stopped, and turned to face into the wind. He put his glasses into his pocket, close his eyes and tipped his face into the breeze.

llllllllll

Snape leaned back into his chair, and the leather creaked comfortably. He stared at the faded red leather fondly; this chair had been something he'd bought, when he came to teach at the school all those years ago. This chair had seen him through every emotion possible.

That brought his situation sharply back to life. He was well aware of Potter's age, but the eyes that had stared at him, filled with so much pure rage, were much older than Potter's sixteen years and it had shaken him. He knew that he himself was bitter and unforgiving ­- they had been a couple of his more loveable characteristics, he remembered someone saying. Oh, wait a minute, it had been himself.

He massaged his temples with one hand, and gazed tiredly at the fire. Potter had been right; he had had absolutely no reason to treat the boy as he did, but whenever he saw Potter's face he couldn't help himself. Not only was it a way of siphoning off his own frustrations, but Potter ­-Potter just infuriated him, and he had no idea why. He assumed it was a throwback from James, that the boy should get under his skin so much, but...

His rage was inexplicable. He had tried, once or twice, to start over. He had tried, once or twice, to try and understand Potter's position, Potter's stance in life. Sometimes forcibly, sometimes accidentally... but the rage refused to be subdued. And since when had Potter had such an enquiring mind? When you vanish stuff, where does it go...?

That was a question he himself had studied exhaustively once, but he had received no answer. And it didn't make sense.

Snape tried to think back to the last time he'd looked at Potter, just before the anger kicked in. He was surprised no-one else saw what he saw, in the precious seconds before the pain.

He saw a boy. A young, god-exhausted, world-weary, frustrated and frightened teen. He saw a child

(a sacrificial lamb)

who was struggling through life because there was nothing else to do. He was suffering... suffering quietly, no, silently. When others cast a golden glow over Potter, the glow blocked out the truth; remove the aspirations, and the praise, you saw a simple child with his props removed from under him, dangerously unstable. Take away the light and you're left with a boy barely able to stand on his own. A kid. Just a kid.

It should have been obvious to the most dimwitted, that, from the beginning of the year, Potter had been taking the mutt's death harshly. Surely... surely Potter didn't blame himself?

No... not even he would be that stupid.

Snape smirked to himself. He had ended up psychoanalysing the Golden Boy, in his own spare time.

God help us all. Dumbledore's rubbing off on me.

I'm sorry I can't reply to everyone here, but my time is limited. If I haven't replied to you, know that I've red your review and love you more than words can express!

ravin mad: Leigh is a friend of mine, who has inspired me to keep writing. Bet you didn't know that, didya, Leigh?

unregistered person: yes, hello there. Pleasse keep reviewing. I love you so much in a non-gay way.

leggylover3: hey, review what you want. I'm not fussed. It may take another few cvhapters for Snape to get his head out of his ass. Rest assured it WILL happen.

texasjeannette: hmm, you've been doing a lot of thinking, haven't you? It's nice to see someone out there who at least uses the brains they were born with.

Bekquai: neato. Indeed. My inspiration for the idea of the repeating italics came from Stephen King. He is a groovy author.

Vaughn: belive me when I say it is music to my ears.

Foureyedsnail: Harry's not suicidal, he's not that stupid. However, Snape his going to have an interesting time battling his conscience, which he never realised had so much power...