It wasn't until after Charms class that Ron and Hermione managed to corner Harry. He'd spent most of Sunday hiding out in the library to avoid them, finishing Snape's lines and catching up on the rest of his homework, before meeting Neville in the cloisters to practise shielding charms. Neither of them had had much success, but Harry was determined to master the spell. After all, once he could block Neville's curses, he could get back to practising defensive magic without running the risk of more unexplained injuries; the last thing he wanted was to have to go back to the Hospital Wing. By the time he and Neville had snuck back up to the dorms, it had been long past curfew and Ron was fast asleep.
But there was no escaping his friends once morning classes started; Ron and Hermione had sat on either side of him, both seemingly intent on making sure he couldn't slip away at the end of the lesson.
"Why were you in the Hospital Wing?" Hermione burst out, the moment they'd left the classroom. "And don't pretend it was a Quidditch accident because I know you got put on the injured list last week."
"Who told you that?" asked Harry, that horrible tight feeling in his chest returning at the thought of people discussing his Quidditch ban.
"That git McLaggen was harping on at Oliver Wood about playing seeker for the next match, he said he'd spoken to you in the Hospital Wing and you didn't look like you'd be playing any time soon. Fred told him to piss off and that it was just a potions accident and you'd be back on a broom in no time but…" Ron trailed off, clearly expecting Harry to chime in with an explanation, but none came.
"But we know it wasn't a potions accident," Hermione continued when the silence lingered, "We've barely even brewed anything for the last couple of weeks. Please Harry, why won't you tell us what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just didn't want to make a big deal over a minor injury," said Harry, "I hurt my leg over the summer and it didn't heal right the muggle way so I went to Pomfrey to get it sorted out. That's all."
"Why didn't you tell us?" Hermione sounded upset and Harry felt horribly guilty for a moment.
He shrugged and looked down at the floor, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "It isn't a big deal. A few hours in the Hospital Wing and it's completely fine."
"If it's completely fine, how come you're still off Quidditch?" said Ron.
Harry started to shrug again but paused; perhaps a little bit of the truth would be better than any lie he could come up with. "Pomfrey reckons with the way my magic reacted to the injury, it'd be dangerous to get hurt again. It's just a precaution for a couple of weeks, to make sure I heal properly."
Ron nodded but Hermione looked unconvinced.
"But Harry… whatever happened must've been really serious. I've come across some of healing theory but my book said that only severe, untreated injuries could result in magical dependency… what happened, Harry?"
"I told you, I broke my leg and it just didn't heal right, it's not a big deal!" He could feel his temper rising. Why did nobody understand that he didn't want to talk about it? First Snape and now Hermione, asking questions they had no right to ask.
"Why won't you tell us the truth?" she stopped walking and grabbed his sleeve, "Harry, please, talk to us. You've been so distant lately. I feel like I hardly even see you anymore."
"It's not like I've been avoiding you. I've had detention with Snape every night!"
"It's not just that," said Hermione softly, "Even when we actually do spent time together, you've been quiet… and you're not eating properly, and with everything that's going on..." she trailed off, her voice sounding less confident than ever.
"We're worried about you," Ron finished for her, "You've been off all term and you've barely even talked to us since Hagrid told you about Black. And now you've ended up in the Hospital Wing and we're both worried you're going to do something stupid and you're not going to tell us when you do."
"We just want to help you," Hermione pleaded, "That's all we're trying to do."
"You want to help me? You can start by minding your own business and leaving me the hell alone." And with that, Harry turned away and marched off, leaving his friends staring wide-eyed after him.
Thwack.
The knife hit the chopping board with a satisfying thud, decapitating the horned slug and sending its body rolling along the desk.
"Is there a problem, Potter?"
Harry looked up, startled. Snape was glaring at him from behind his desk, his dark gaze flicking deliberately to the remains of the slug and back.
"No, sir," said Harry, bringing the knife down again.
"Really?" Snape stood up from his chair and walked around his desk to Harry, looming over him like a giant bat.
"How long have you been studying Potions?" he asked silkily.
"Three years."
"Indeed, yet you still seem to lack a basic understanding of preparing ingredients. I believed I asked you to dice the slugs, not mutilate them beyond recognition."
Harry flushed, glaring at Snape. Snape stared back coolly, his dark eyes assessing. Harry ducked his head back down, reaching into the barrel beside him for another specimen. No sooner had he dropped the slug onto his chopping board with a loud squelch than Snape flicked his wand and cleared the table, banishing the barrel of slugs onto a shelf in the far corner while the rest of his equipment floated over to the sink.
"Since you've proven yourself incapable of preparing ingredients to a reasonable standard, it seems prudent to have you complete a task more suitable for your skill-level," he gestured to the large sink in the corner of the room, next to which twenty cauldrons were piled high, each covered in a foul-smelling blue substance. "Perhaps spending the next hour cleaning up the results of someone else's inability to follow simple instructions will encourage you to reflect on your own such failures."
Harry shot another dark scowl at Snape before stomping over the sink where he set about filling the first cauldron with hot, soapy water. He scrubbed hard at the odorous blue stains, imagining it was Snape's stupid, sneering face beneath his sponge. Less than two weeks now, he reminded himself. Just a few more miserable evenings spent in Snape's company and then he'd be free. He'd be able to practise spells with Neville in the cloisters and still have time to lounge around in the Gryffindor Common Room with Ron and Hermione… Once he'd made up with them, at least.
His scowl deepened. He knew he'd have to apologise for his outburst soon, judging by the hurt looks Hermione had been shooting him across the room all day. The only problem was he didn't feel particularly apologetic. Hermione had no right to keep pushing him for details of his summer, and Harry felt bad that he'd yelled at her but not enough to regret it. Not if it made her finally leave the topic alone.
He took his irritation at Hermione's questioning out on the pile of cauldrons beside him, hardly noticing as it shrank steadily, the putrid smell of rotting eggs replaced by the soapy scent of Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. For a while, the only sounds that could be heard were the brushing of sponge against pewter and the gentle scratching of a quill on parchment.
It was only when Harry was finishing the final cauldron that the scratching noise stopped. Papers rustled as they were shuffled into a pile and a chair scraped against stone. Harry glanced up but Snape swept past him into his office, seemingly content to leave Harry to finish his task without supervision.
Once the final cauldron was spotless and neatly stacked in the corner, Harry looked over at the large clock ticking on the wall to gauge how long he had left. It was too early for Snape to release him, but the Professor was still in his office and Harry had no idea what he was supposed to do next. He was contemplating going to ask, when a familiar stone basin on Snape's desk caught his attention.
For a brief moment he felt entirely numb, disconnected from anything but the sound of his own breathing. Then, like water bursting through a dam, a torrent of emotions overcame him. Shock and anger and dread fought for dominance as he stepped towards the Pensieve. It's soft silver glow was dimmer than last time, and Harry knew instinctively that it had been left empty, waiting for his memories to fill it.
Not that that was ever going to happen. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would make him willingly share his most humiliating memories. Especially with Snape, who already knew far too many uncomfortable details about his home life without being handed the final, irrevocable proof that his own relatives despised him.
Why did it matter anyway? He was at Hogwarts now, and by the time he returned to Privet Drive next summer, Uncle Vernon should have mostly forgotten about the incident with Aunt Marge and everything would go back to normal. There was no need to dredge up those horrible moments when Uncle Vernon's control had slipped, not when it was unlikely to happen again.
He traced the odd markings around the rim with a gentleness that belied the storm of emotions still raging inside him. How dare Snape taunt him with the Pensieve, leaving it out as a constant reminder that he knew exactly how miserable Harry's life at Privet Drive was. If he knew as much as he claimed to, why did he need to keep on prying. Surely it was enough that it had happened, without Snape demanding to witness first-hand Harry's humiliation.
And it had been humiliating. However much it had hurt, worse still was that deep, gnawing sense of helplessness twisting inside him as he was forced to stay there and take it, night after night, while Uncle Vernon doled out each punishment. That complete powerlessness that came from being unable to fight back against the belt smacking against his skin, leaving bruises and blood and welts.
Sometimes, when it was too quiet, he was sure he could still hear the whistle of a belt as it cut through the air. It clung to him, like the phantom hands that wrapped around his neck whenever something reminded him of Privet Drive and made it impossible to draw breath. It was almost funny really, that Snape wanted those memories so badly when all Harry wanted was to be rid of them.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted then, when the door to Snape's office swung open. Snape swept back into the classroom, his gaze turning almost immediately to Harry, who was standing by Snape's desk with one hand still resting on the Pensieve.
An indiscernible look crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Then, in a dry tone, he said, "I take it you've finished cleaning all the cauldrons?"
"Yes, sir," said Harry, taking a step away from the Pensieve. He waited tensely for Snape to make some snide comment on him snooping around his desk or, worse still, bring up anything to do with viewing his memories.
"Very well," He glanced at the clock, "You may go for the evening."
"Really?" Harry said, before cursing himself. Why would he give Snape a chance to change his mind?
Snape arched an eyebrow, "I see no benefit in keeping you here for another half hour, however, I have some rat viscera that need to be pickled if you're truly desperate to prolong your detention."
"No, sir."
He hurried over to his desk to grab his book-bag and made for the door. It swung shut behind him with a bang, freeing him from Snape's watchful eyes
"Protego!" Harry shouted, as Neville aimed a Tickling Charm at him. But to his frustration, Neville's spell easily broke through his weak Shield Charm, catching him square in the chest. He doubled over, wheezing with silent laughter, while Neville attempted the counter-charm. It took him three attempts to end the charm, leaving Harry breathless and panting.
Gasping for air, Harry tried to compose himself. "Again," he insisted, as soon as he had caught his breath. But the next time was no different and, after several more failed attempts, Harry found himself growing increasingly frustrated.
"Maybe we should take a break," Neville suggested hesitantly, "We've been working on this for three days, and we're not getting any closer."
"We'll get there," Harry said firmly, "We just need to try harder. Besides, there's no point in practising any more curses until we can shield against them properly."
"Okay," said Neville, though he looked doubtful.
'We can't just give up," Harry insisted, "Look, let's go through some of the books again, maybe there's something about the wand movement that we're missing."
They sifted through the pile of textbooks they had brought down with them, scanning each page in search of anything new that might help them. But no matter how many times they reread the same passages, nothing more jumped out at them, and every new attempt at the spell ended in failure. As the evening wore on, Harry's frustration grew until, at last, he hurled his book across the room. With a muttered curse, he slumped down against one of the columns and tried to get control of his temper.
"It's fine if we don't get this one, it's an OWL level spell," said Neville, moving to sit beside him, "Maybe we should try something from the third year textbook instead?"
"I can't try something else, I need to be able to do this," Harry burst out, "I need to be able to defend myself rather than just dodging curses all the time."
"Because of Black?" The question seemed to escape Neville's lips before he could stop it. "S-Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I just- I meant…" He mumbled, trailing off awkwardly.
It occurred to Harry then that he'd never spoken to Neville about anything they'd overheard outside the Slytherin Common Room. Harry had sworn him to secrecy on the matter that night, and he hadn't broached the topic since. Even when he'd come down the following day with a half a dozen books on defensive magic and suggested they switch from practising schoolwork to learning to duel, Neville hadn't asked any questions and Harry hadn't made any effort to explain himself.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. He hadn't meant to say more but, after days of keeping secrets and lying and being pressed to speak about things that were best left forgotten, the words starting spilling out, "Black, he's- he's the reason my parents are dead. He betrayed them, and now he's out and I- I'm going to be ready to face him. I have to be."
He waited for Neville to warn him about going after Black or tell him that everything would be alright. But Neville did neither of those things. There was a strange look on his face, one that Harry had never seen before. It shone through the aura of nervousness that always clung to him, a sort of resolve that seemed out of place on his pudgy face.
"O-okay," said Neville, pushing himself to his feet. His hand was trembling slightly, but he gripped his wand tightly and stood ready, "Let's try again."
It had been an unusually dull Care of Magical Creatures class, even by Hagrid's post-Buckbeak standard. Although Harry had made up with Ron and Hermione after he'd returned from the cloisters the previous evening, the tension between them had lingered. They'd spent most of the lesson standing in silence, poking shredded lettuce down the flobberworms' throats while Harry pretended not to notice the concerned glances Hermione kept shooting him. He was almost relieved when Hagrid suggested he stay after class and have tea, if only to escape a lunchbreak surrounded by his friends, who were still offended and worried in equal measures.
"Come in, come in," said Hagrid, opening the front door and leading him inside. "Make yerself comfy," he gestured to the mismatched wooden chairs, busying himself with the copper kettle while Harry sat down.
Once Hagrid had poured the tea, and offered him a plate of Bath buns, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes.
"You all righ'?" he said gruffly.
"I'm fine," Harry said quickly, hoping that Hagrid wouldn't try to discuss anything to do with their last conversation.
"No yeh're not, course yeh're not. Hermione came by here in a righ' state, worryin' herself sick 'bout you goin' after Black or doin' somethin' stupid. Yeh mustn't do that, yeh hear me. I know yer used to meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh but this time yeh've got to leave it alone.
"I'm not going to do anything," Harry muttered, the spark of irritation he'd been feeling towards Hermione all day rekindling.
"Listen Harry, if I'd've had the chance, I'd've ripped the murderin' traitor limb from limb. But he's dangerous and yeh mustn't try anythin'."
"I'm not going to, I swear," Harry insisted, fighting down the stab of guilt at having to tell another lie. Somehow, lying to Hagrid wasn't like lying to everyone else. But the conversation had opened the floodgates and all the questions that had been consuming him since Hagrid had told him the truth came spilling out in a torrent, "I don't get it though. He was their friend, Hagrid. Like brothers you told me and he still sold my parents out Voldemort like it was nothing. I just don't get it, how could he do that? Why would my dad trust him?"
"It wasn't just yer dad, Harry, Black had everyon' fooled. Used'ta spend half me life chasin' yer dad and Black away from the forest, an' yer never saw one withou' the other, used to have 'em both round fer tea an' hear all of their adventures an' they had some good ones. An' if you'd've told me that Black would turn traitor, I'd've asked yeh what yeh were drinkin'. But the war changed people; they were dark times, and they forced people to make their own choices. Times like those, they bring out the very best o' people or the very worst. I don't whether Black was afraid, or just wanted a bit o' You Know Who's power, but the war changed him, 'cause I knew Black when he was yer age and yeh could never o' guessed what he'd turn out to be."
"But he's out there and he's free, and my parents are dead because of him. I don't care what drove him to it, I just want him to pay!"
"I know yer do, course yeh do. But Harry, this'll consume yeh if yeh let it. Don't let Black take more from yeh tha' he already has. Yeh've gotta leave it ter Dumbledore an' the Ministry to catch him, an' focus on yer friends and yer Quidditch."
Somehow, Harry could not muster the energy to argue the point. He had no idea how to explain that he was banned from Quidditch and fighting with his friends and that all those problems could be traced back to Black's betrayal. He was starting to wish he was alone again, and with the idea of hastening his departure he took several gulps of his tea, half emptying his mug.
"I'll leave it alone, I promise," Harry lied, hoping that would end the conversation.
"See that yeh do," Hagrid didn't look quite convinced but he let the topic drop. "An' how's the rest o' yer term bin goin'?"
And Harry told him. Or rather, Harry told him about detentions with Snape and left out the Pensieve sitting on his desk and what it was waiting to be filled with. He complained about Trelawney and her frequent death omens but skipped over the Grim that seemed to be stalking him. He laughed about Wood's all weather practises and didn't mention that he hadn't attended any for the better part of two weeks. By the time he'd finished filling Hagrid in on his term, the tale had been woven with so many half-truths and obfuscations that he wasn't entirely sure how much of it was real.
He left Hagrid's hut feeling exhausted and somewhat defeated. All he wanted was to be on his own for a while, but his lunchbreak was quickly come to an end and he didn't think Sprout would let him get away with skiving Herbology again. It wasn't worth risking the detention for, not when his evenings could be spent mastering more curses and practising defences until he was finally ready to face Black. By the time he made it to greenhouse three, his promise to Hagrid was already entirely forgotten.
Harry waited outside the greenhouses with the rest of the class for Professor Sprout. He felt faintly relieved to find that Ron and Hermione were running late, it was nice to have a few minutes to himself where he didn't have to fend off concerned looks or pretend everything was alright. Instead, he stood alone, slightly apart from the rest of his chattering classmates, and watched the dark clouds gather above him. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the sound of thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Vaguely, he wondered if Oliver would be forced to cancel practise again, before he remembered that it didn't concern him anymore. He didn't have time to follow that thought any further though, for Professor Sprout came striding into view across the lawn, unlocked the greenhouse door and ushered her class inside.
Ron and Hermione hurried through the glass door moments later. Ron spotted Harry first, and made directly for him, or as directly as he could while having to weave his way between tables, benches, and the giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. Hermione, however, dropped herself down next to Neville and a couple of the Hufflepuffs, leaving Harry and Ron to work on their puffapod alone. Harry scarcely had time to wonder what that was about before Ron sat down beside him and started filling him in.
"You won't believe what Hermione's cat did!" said Ron furiously, as they got to work stripping their puffapod of its large pink pods. "That thing's a bloody menace; he's got it out for Scabbers."
Harry listened to Ron's rant, relieved to find the tension between them had thawed in the wake of Ron's argument with Hermione. Privately, he was quite glad for the conflict between Scabbers and Crookshanks, if only because it would distract them and keep their attention off him for a few days.
"And then she had the nerve to tell me that all cats chase rats, but if you ask me-"
"Quite enough chat over here!" said Professor Sprout, bustling over and looking stern, "I expect you to be finished with your puffapod before the end of the period, else you'll have to come back and finish in your free time."
Harry and Ron murmured apologies and made a show of focusing on their work, diligently squeezing shining beans out of the pink pods until Sprout turned away.
"Anyway, Hermione's promised that she'll try keep Crookshanks away but I don't trust her cat at all. I'm going to try find some protective spells for him this evening if you want to help, or we could head over to Hagrid's and see if he's got any suggestions?"
"I can't, I've still got detention, remember?" he said, a hint of bitterness underlying his apologetic tone, "And knowing Snape, he'll keep me all evening."
Ron grimaced sympathetically, "You ought to complain to McGonagall about him, I swear he's kept you till curfew every night, you'd think he'd have gotten tired of it."
Harry flushed slightly. He wondered what Ron would say if he knew what Harry had really been up to till curfew each evening.
"Yeah, well, it's Snape. I think deciding which revolting task he's going to set me is the high point of his day," he shrugged, "I don't even care anymore. All I'm trying to do is not give him a reason to extend them further." That, at least, was the most truthful statement he had uttered in weeks.
"Yeah, don't let him get a rise out of you," said Ron, quite hypocritically given that he'd lost fifty points for Gryffindor just last week when he'd lost his temper and lobbed a crocodile heart at Malfoy's head, "It'd be nice to have you around again in the evenings."
"I'll try," Harry promised, ruthlessly suppressing his rising guilt. Already, he was trying to come up with excuses that would allow him to slip off to the cloisters without his friends worrying.
Luckily Ron didn't seem to notice anything amiss in his tone; he plucked another pod off the plant and said, "Oh, did you see, first Hogsmeade weekend's been announced for the end of October? Should be a good weekend, Hogsmeade then the Halloween Feast… have you sorted permission yet?" The last question was asked slightly tentatively, as though Ron didn't want to let the conversation drift towards permission slips and summers.
"Not yet," Harry shrugged, then sighed dejectedly, "It wouldn't matter anyway. McGonagall gave me and Malfoy detention for the first Hogsmeade weekend. Said if we can't behave like third years we don't deserve the privileges or something like that."
"That's so unfair!" said Ron, indignantly, "All that for punching Malfoy. They ought to give you another service to the school award for that, not pile you with a million detentions. And what's McGonagall doing giving you another detention on top of Snape's?"
Harry shrugged again, though he felt slightly heartened by Ron's outrage. "I'm guessing Snape made enough of a fuss that she had to do something. He's always like that with me. Especially when Malfoy's involved." He grabbed another pod and squeezed it so hard that the beans shot out, missing the pail entirely and scattering over the greenhouse floor.
Harry hadn't seen Malfoy since he'd overheard him that night outside the Slytherin common room, but every time he thought about him, he found himself shaking with rage. It had always been hard to keep his temper around Malfoy, but now it seemed like an impossible task. Ever since the revelation about Black, or maybe before then, maybe since last summer, he'd felt a little unstable. Like the earth beneath him was shifting too fast, and he couldn't quite catch his breath. For the last few days, he'd been bouncing between anger and apathy so quickly that he could hardly tell one from the other anymore. With every detention, he found his control slipping, and he knew, with a prescience that Trelawney would be proud of, that being in close proximity with Malfoy would only end in disaster.
"Greasy git. Do you remember last year, when he made me spend three hours sorting rotten flobberworms just because I threw a handful of scarab beetles at Malfoy?"
That wasn't quite how Harry remembered the incident; Malfoy had lobbed his shrivelfig into Ron's cauldron and Ron had retaliated by dropping a handful of scarab beetles down the back of his robes while quite loudly telling Malfoy exactly where he could stick his shrivelfig, at which point Snape had intervened, taking fifteen points and assigning Ron a detention.
"And Malfoy got off scot-free, even though he was the one who started it," Ron continued, his outrage at the year-old injustice written clearly across his face.
Ron carried on ranting about Snape for the rest of the period, only pausing briefly to groan when Sprout set them a complicated project about Flitterbloom. He was still going as they trudged back through the pouring rain and settled into their favourite comfy chairs in the Gryffindor Common Room. Harry felt almost cheerful. After weeks of detentions and snide comments, it was nice to be able to vent properly about Snape, their complaints interspersed with increasingly rude remarks about Snape's parentage and leisure activates, some of which Harry was fairly certain were anatomically impossible. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed that hard and the heavy weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten for a brief moment.
"Oi, Potter," said Angelina, appearing suddenly at his shoulder, covered in mud with her broomstick in hand. "I've got a message for you."
"From Wood?" asked Harry, sitting up hopefully.
"No… from Snape," said Angelina. Harry's heart sank. "He says he's bringing your detentions forward an hour to six every night this week and that you're to come to his office promptly and – er – bring your protective gloves."
"Right," said Harry grimly, "Thanks, Angelina."
She headed off, presumably to change out of her soaked Quidditch robes, leaving Harry staring morosely at the fireplace. It felt like a dementor had come by, leaving Harry feeling empty and tired. Why couldn't Snape ever give him a break? He'd been looking forward to having an actual dinner with Ron, without any of the awkwardness that had been lingering over them for the past few days, but it was already half five and he'd barely have time to scarf down some food before he was due at Snape's office, let alone have a proper meal.
"What a git," said Ron indignantly, "It's like he gets off on making everything as awful as possible."
Harry grimace. A dull pounding pain was developing over his right eye. With a heavy sigh, he pressed a hand against his temple. He wasn't ready to face Snape and the Pensieve he knew would be sitting waiting for him.
"I'll grab your gloves for you," said Ron, disappearing into the fray of the common room.
Harry glanced out of the rain-washed window at the dark grounds. The storm that had been brewing all day had arrived, shrouding the lake behind a thick curtain of rain. What few trees Harry could make up were swaying dangerously against the howling wind. As another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightening flashed across the sky. The last thing Harry wanted to do was leave the warmth of Gryffindor Tower and head down into the dungeons, which were already cold and damp enough without the raging storm. But there was nothing he could do, it wasn't like he could skip another detention, not without some consequence, and Harry wasn't prepared to risk it. He just wanted the whole thing done, so that he could go back to avoiding Snape at all costs, rather than being stuck in a room with him and his sneering face and stupid questions.
Ron remerged from the dorms moments later and passed Harry his protective gloves, which he took with murmured thanks.
"Don't let Snape get to you," said Ron as they strode along the empty corridors. "There's no point. Just keep your head down for a few more days and then you'll be done with it."
"Maybe," Harry shrugged, though he wasn't so sure.
They reached the Great Hall in silence, sat down at the end of the Gryffindor table, and piled their plates high with shepherd's pie. Harry glanced up; black and purple clouds were swirling across the dark ceiling. The Slytherin team normally had their practise around then, and Harry hoped that, if nothing else, Malfoy was getting drenched.
"I'm off," said Harry thickly, around a mouthful of roasted carrots. He rose to stand, promising to meet Ron afterwards to finish their Divination essays together, and headed down into the dungeons. Ron was right, he couldn't let Snape get to him; he couldn't give the slimy bat the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper.
And he tried. For four days, he managed to keep his temper. Through every foul task Snape set, Harry had bitten his tongue and not let Snape goad him into an argument. It hadn't been easy, not when Snape sat behind his desk making snide comments while Harry squeezed bubotuber puss into small glass jars or harvested rat spleens or crushed lion-fish spines into fine powder. He'd almost lost his cool on Thursday, when Snape had pointed at a barrel of flobberworms and instructed him to extract thirty vials worth of mucus, which smelt horrific and stained his robes and hands a revolting green colour which took four showers to properly wash off.
Throughout all of this, the Pensieve sat out on Snape's desk, its silvery light dancing against the dark, craggy walls. Snape had never acknowledged it, though Harry was sure he'd seen his eyes flicker towards it a couple of times, as though daring him to comment. Its eerie light tormented Harry, drawing his attention and forcing him to think about the one topic he wanted most to avoid. Worst of all was the silent reminder that Snape knew; that when he looked at Harry all he saw was someone too weak to defend himself, someone to be pitied and disdained in equal measures. A victim.
With every detention, his temper burned brighter. His nightmares got worse, which was hardly surprising given that he spent hours each day sorting ingredients while memories of that summer played through his head. In his dreams, Black laughed along with his relatives, encouraging them and bragging that he had condemned Harry to that life. He woke up shaking, a phantom pain running down his leg that none of Snape's potions seemed to take away.
It was Friday now, and Harry was desperately looking forward to the weekend, when he'd finally get a break from Snape and the stupid silver light. He'd barely slept the night before, and by the time he reached Snape's office, what little energy he'd had had been used up ignoring Malfoy's smug grin and whispered taunts in their afternoon Potion's class. He was tired and irritated and, despite his promise to himself, he saw the Pensieve sat out on the desk again, and he finally snapped.
"I'm not putting any of my memories in there," Harry blurted out, before Snape had the chance to speak.
Snape raised one eyebrow.
"I mean it," Harry carried on, the words spilling out when faced with Snape's silence, "I'm not going to do it, so you can just stop leaving that bloody thing out every day."
"Certainly," said Snape calmly, pushing the parchment on his desk to one side and giving Harry his full attention, "If you'd prefer to give a written statement rather than submit memories of the events, I can have that arranged for you."
"No! That's not what I mean, I mean that I'm not doing any of it. No memories, no statements, none of it. So you can just leave the whole idea alone and keep your nose out of my business."
Snape's lip curled, "Watch yourself, Potter."
"No! You can't just sit there and demand my memories. They're mine. I won't-"
Snape held up a hand to silence him. "Sit down, Potter."
Harry shook his head. "I don't-"
Snape narrowed his eyes. "Now!"
Harry sat down, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, and glared at Snape.
"This matter is not up for discussion," Snape said calmly. His face was carefully blank, and his hands were set on the desk in plain view, his fingertips steepled. "While I am aware of your feelings on the issue, there is no alternative to you engaging with the reporting process, whether that is by sharing your memories of the summer or through a written statement."
"And how are you going to make me?" Harry asked tightly. Something hot and twisting was building up in his stomach.
Snape stared at him for a long moment, his dark eyes glinting. "I will not make you," he said softly, his voice too controlled to be natural, 'Not by threat or by force. If you are truly unwilling to cooperate, it will become necessary to seek the assistance of external professionals who have experience in interviewing reticent patients, though they too cannot and will not physically compel you in any manner."
Harry flushed and looked away quickly, fiddling with the sleeve of his robe. He hated the strange undercurrent in Snape's voice, it was too calm, too reasonable and thoroughly unSnapelike.
Undeterred by his silence, Snape continued, "However, until you are willing to make a formal report on the matter, we will be unable to start the process of legally removing you from your relatives' care."
Harry's head shot up. "What do you mean removing me?"
"Potter, surely you don't think you'll be returning to your relatives again?"
"Why wouldn't I be? It's not like I have anywhere else to go."
"You realise, don't you, that your relatives' treatment of you was wrong," said Snape, in the same
contemptuous tone he usually reserved for particularly slow students. "After the state you arrived in at the start of this term, you cannot possibly think you would be allowed to return there."
"I told you, they're not normally like that," Harry insisted, "Everything would have been fine if Fudge hadn't taken me back. They just needed a bit of time to cool off, that's all."
"Time to cool off," Snape repeated scathingly, "Ah yes, so that they wouldn't lose control-"
"Shut up!" Harry felt a hot sick swoop of anger. He knew this would happen when Snape found out. There was no way he could resist mocking him, not when he was such an easy target. Especially now that he knew Harry would just sit there helplessly, too weak to defend himself.
"Potter, I didn't mean-" Snape started uneasily. He broke off, and seemed to take a moment to regain composure, "I apologise, I did not mean to make light of the abuse you endured, I merely wished to point out the absurdity of your statement."
Harry gaped at him. He didn't think he'd ever heard Snape apologise before, let alone to him. A second later, the rest of the conversation caught up with him, he opened his mouth to protest, again, that he hadn't been abused, but Snape held up a hand to silence him.
"However, I must ask that you desist in peddling the ridiculous idea that their ill-treatment of you was a singular incident. Regardless of whether the violence towards you escalated this past summer, it does not negate their continuous poor treatment of you throughout the years which, even with the limited evidence we currently possess, is sufficient to declare them unfit guardians."
"But where else would I go?" He had meant for it to sound flippant or defiant or anything that would make Snape glower and take points. But it came out scarcely louder than a whisper, in voice that sounded impossibly young even to his own ears.
"Professor Dumbledore is currently reviewing alternative living arrangements for you," said Snape. With one finger, he carefully traced the rim of the Pensieve. He seemed on the verge of saying something else but stopped himself at the last moment.
Harry felt a strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach. As much as he dreaded returning to his relatives, the thought of a new guardian was almost worse. At least he knew what to expect from the Dursleys. He'd spent the last twelve years learning when to stand his ground and when it was time to retreat back to his cupboard. He knew how to dodge blows and what might provoke them and exactly what the rules were. Somehow, the thought of being alone with a new guardian when he didn't know where the line was or how far he could push it was strangely terrifying.
"I don't need new living arrangements," he protested.
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "You are a child, Potter, and as such we have a duty of care towards you. We can't send you back to an unsafe environment."
"That's not what Fudge said last summer. Back then it was the safest place for me but now it's so impossibly unsafe you want to pawn me off to some random strangers."
"I assure you, the Headmaster will select your new guardians with the upmost care-"
"Right, just like he picked the Dursleys," A bubble of laughter burst through his lips, bitter and hysterical.
"He had his reasons for sending you to Aunt's care. At the time, it seemed like the best way to protect you against the Dark Lord's remaining followers, many of whom had nothing to lose after his downfall and wanting nothing more than revenge against the one who did it," he rubbed his right forearm, his black eyes flickering to Harry's scar, "Even then, he wouldn't have sent you there if he had any idea how you would be treated. The Headmaster's greatest strength is his capacity to love and it often shocks him that others lack that trait; I believe he thought that your Aunt would be overjoyed to take you in. That is not a mistake he will make twice; you can trust that he will make the decision over your new guardians very carefully indeed."
Harry shrugged and stared at the ground, his eyes tracing the cracks in the uneven stone floor. He didn't have the energy to argue anymore. Snape wanted him to trust that Dumbledore would make the right decision a second time, but how could he be sure? Dumbledore had trusted Aunt Petunia, just like his father had trusted Sirius Black and in both cases, that misplaced trust had cost Harry more than he could ever explain. Why should he make the same mistake and trust someone else, when it be safer not to trust anyone at all, except for himself and his own instincts?
He looked up to find Snape watching him closely, his slender fingers drumming against the table.
"Potter…" Snape started, but he hesitated again and fell silent.
Harry looked down at the ground again, desperate to escape his dark, assessing gaze. He could feel Snape's eyes boring into him, ready to dissect him as thoroughly as the rats he'd assigned to Harry a couple of days prior.
For another long moment, silence filled the room. Harry returned to counting the fissures in the stone floor. There was a scorch mark to the right of Snape's desk from last year, when Neville had dropped his flask on his way to hand it in and it had burst into flames when it hit the floor, leaving behind a putrid cloud of smoke that no spell could clear. Snape had been furious, Harry remembered, and had spent the last ten minutes of the lesson verbally tearing a quaking Neville to shreds. Harry almost wished Snape would react like that now, he'd take any number of taunts over Snape's deliberate calmness and strange, hesitant silences.
"Potter," Snape broke the silence again, "Is there anything else you wish to discuss, or are you ready to get on with your detention?"
Harry shook his head, his chair-legs scraping against the floor as he quickly got to his feet. He made for his usual work station, which was already set up with several jars of newt spleens but Snape stopped him and gestured instead at an empty table in front of his desk.
"You will copy-out chapters four through six," said Snape, summoning a copy of Asiatic Anti-Venoms and several sheets of parchment and placing them on the desk in front of Harry, "Your last essay highlighted a clear need to review the properties of lobalug venom and its effect in the Edurus Potion. Once you've finished, you may review the comments I gave you on your essay and correct any errors."
Harry rifled through his bag for a quill and turned the textbook open to the right page. He started to write but his eyes were once again drawn to the Pensieve, which was still sitting out on Snape's desk, its dancing silver light illuminating Snape's dour face.
"How long are you going to leave the Pensieve out for, sir?" Harry asked softly.
"It'll be here until you start talking," Snape said, leaning back and picking up his stack of essays again. "You're the one to decide how long, exactly, that will be."
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone still reading, it's lovely to see the comments and get notifications about new followers when I'm struggling with certain passages of the next chapters. This chapter ended up being much longer than planned, to the point I debated splitting it into two. In general, do readers prefer shorter chapters and more frequent updates, or longer chapters with longer waiting times? I'm excited to get onto the next chapter, I love writing in Snape's POV and it's been a while since I've gotten to write a long scene from his perspective. Thanks for reading and commenting, I love hearing people's thoughts on the chapter and my writing!