Disclaimer: I still do not own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Hey everyone, and thank you so much for your insprational reviews. I'm so glad you all like where the story is going.

I'm glad I decided to take this route as far as the Triwizard Tournament is concerned. Harry's suspicions about the so-called "Moody" certainly drove him to act differently. To think that such tiny changes have such dramatic consequences - that's when a butterfly flaps its wings. I always find stories like this fascinating to read, and so I wanted to add my own to the mix by elaborating on my ideas. The fact of the matter is, because Harry didn't laugh at Draco's humiliation, he's now not going to participate in the Triwizard Tournament. Weird, huh?

Have any of you ever seen the movie "Sliding Doors"? It's one of the most intriguing movies I've ever seen. I won't spoil it for you, but suffice it to say that there are two realities described in the movie, both hingeing on whether the main character does something as insignificant as missing a train. The movie goes back and forth, showing both realities in depth. I highly recommend the movie if you haven't seen it. It's one of those I can't ever forget about.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.

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With a great effort, Harry struggled back to consciousness. His mind was foggy, and his eyes were heavy as he awoke. He was momentarily confused, not hearing any noises of his roommates snoring around him. Usually, if he didn't hear that, he could tell that they were getting ready for the new day. But none of the normal sounds were present, and Harry's brain was sluggish in remembering exactly what was going on.

But once the memories started to slowly trickle into his mind, it all began to come back to him. He was suddenly wide awake, everything jolting into place. Last night hadn't been a nightmare, after all. Here he was, waking up in the quarters of a man he loathed, a man who certainly hated him in return. Despair attempted to take Harry into its stranglehold, almost stealing his breath. He tried valiantly to push the feeling down - why, after all, should he be surprised? He was nothing more than everyone's punching bag; it seemed as though he was currently being tested to see how much he could take before he broke.

Well, it happened, didn't it? Harry thought bitterly as he rolled out of the surprisingly comfortable bed. He had reached his breaking point last night. And of all people to find him, it had been Snape. Fate always seemed to regard him as nothing more than a kicked puppy, and it kept heaping more on him even when he was down.

For so many years, as he lay in his wretched cupboard under the stairs and heard the sounds of a so-called "normal" family above him, he'd wished that some secret relative would steal him away, taking him to a place where he could have a better life. And four years ago, it seemed to have happened. No, Hogwarts wasn't a secret relative, but he was able to discover a world he never knew existed. He had made friends for the first time; nothing could compare to when Ron had approached him on the train, and there was no Dudley or any members of his gang to chase the redhead away.

But it wasn't long before Harry began experiencing the downsides of the wizarding world. Even amongst them, he wasn't considered normal. He was as much of an "unnatural freak" in the wizarding world as he was in the Muggle one. The huge difference was that most people thought of his "freakishness" as awe-inspiring rather than disgusting. He had survived a Killing Curse cast by the most evil wizard in a century, who'd succeeded in taking the lives of countless people, Muggles and magicals alike. He'd defied the very laws of magic itself; no one was supposed to survive that curse.

And trouble always seemed to find him, he reflected. He hadn't had a peaceful year at Hogwarts yet. True, there had been no confrontation with Voldemort the year before, but he'd still been in the same room as a mass murderer. Peter Pettigrew had framed Sirius for a crime he didn't commit, and learning that he had been Ron's pet for three years had been a shock to the system. And to have a godfather, that secret relative Harry had always fantasized about ... it had been a beautiful dream, going to live with him. No sooner had Harry started to feel real hope than it was snatched away in the greedy jaws of despair once again. Count your blessings, Harry had told himself sternly as Sirius and Buckbeak had disappeared into the distance. He's not being sent back to Azkaban, and he hasn't been destroyed by the Dementors. Just be patient - there still may be hope.

But the past summer he'd spent with the Dursleys was worse than ever, because Harry couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to that surge of hope he'd felt during those precious minutes before Professor Lupin transformed and all hell had broken loose. Now that he'd had a taste of what pure, true happiness felt like, going back to the status quo seemed to sting all the more.

But now he was back at Hogwarts, and he hadn't even made it through the first bloody week without something going wrong. And currently, he was in the last place he could have ever imagined: in Severus Snape's living room, feeling as though he'd finally hit rock bottom.

Realizing he desperately needed to use the loo, Harry slowly made his way out of the living room and to the bathroom he'd used last night. Snape's quarters looked very plain to him - there seemed to be no personal touches to them, nothing that gave Harry any clue as to who the man was outside of class. There were no pictures on the walls that held sentimental value, and everything appeared to be in dark colors. This matched Snape's personality completely - after all, when had Harry ever seen him wear anything other than black? Well, never, he thought as he disappeared into the bathroom.

As he went through his morning routine, he couldn't help but analyze Snape's behavior. It had all been very strange, hadn't it? For once, Snape had actually spoken to him like he was a real human being. Harry couldn't make sense of any of it, but truthfully, he didn't have it in him to care. Life had thrown too many curveballs at him, and if Snape was yet another person who wanted to confuse him ... well, what could Harry do about it? Let Snape do whatever he wants, he thought morosely. He was too tired to give a damn. He was sick of fighting, sick of trying to solve mysteries, tired of attempting to discern people's motives. What did it matter? It wasn't like he could stop a man like Snape anyway. He was a mere child, while Snape was yet another adult in this Godforsaken school who'd let him down.

It had been no surprise to him to learn Snape had been a Death Eater. But Crouch had screamed that he was a traitor, hadn't he? The man seemed to be nothing but a contradiction. He'd saved Harry's life in first year, but never lost an opportunity to show him exactly how much of a spoiled little shit he thought he was. Yet last night, Harry had come out of some kind of odd trance to find him kneeling by his side. Harry recalled a particularly weird taste in his mouth, and he'd blurted out things without his mind even registering it. When he thought back on it, he was surprised that the first thing out of his mouth hadn't been, "You're a Death Eater." Selfish prat, he told himself furiously. He'd been more concerned about the way he'd been let down by the man than the fact that he had probably participated in the cold-blooded murder of innocent people. Maybe he was just as spoiled and entitled as Snape had always accused him of being. He was shocked Snape hadn't spat verbal venom when Harry had accused him of wanting to poison him.

Harry began to feel dizzy with all the thoughts churning around in his mind. He didn't think he'd ever experienced nausea more than in the week that had just passed. Thank Merlin it's Saturday, he thought fleetingly. He'd have been no good for any classes today.

As soon as he was ready, he made his way back to the living room. Would Snape come in and check on him, or should Harry attempt to leave his quarters without the Potions Master knowing? Maybe if he did that, none of this ever would have happened. Deluded fool, he snarled to himself. Hadn't entertaining these stupid notions landed him in trouble countless times? Hadn't trying to pretend something didn't exist backfired on him in the worst ways possible?

Before he could start stewing in his own self-pity again, Harry heard quiet footsteps, and the sound of a door opening. Harry felt his stomach sink as Snape, dressed in his usual black, walked into the room. Just like last night, there was no sneer on his face; it was fixed in a neutral expression that only made Harry's teeth more on edge.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," he said, deliberately not meeting Harry's eyes. "I assume you slept well?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, urging his mind to go blank. Don't show emotion. Don't reveal anything that this man will be able to use against you. Answer his questions as simply as you can. Do not let him gain your trust.

Because, experiencing what he had, the only conclusion he could come to was that Snape was trying to do to him what Barty Crouch, Jr. had been trying to do to Neville. Harry almost snorted when he realized how transparent this all was. Did Snape really think that years of constant snide put-downs, terrible grades in Potions when Harry had been trying his best, and taunts about his celebrity status could all be erased because of this strange, civil attitude he had adopted? Just because he'd decided to turn 180 degrees didn't mean Harry had to, did it? Do not, under any circumstances, show him how much you're hurting, he repeated to himself like a mantra.

"That's good to hear." Snape cleared his throat, looking as though he was struggling to figure out what else to say. Finally, he murmured, "I apologize for not transfiguring any pajamas for you last night."

Harry almost laughed. Pajamas? Ruddy PAJAMAS? What kind of alternate universe had he landed himself in? Maybe Harry was running a fever that made him delirious. Since when did Snape have conversations with him that concerned pajamas?

"Uh ..." Harry realized he was gaping, and he instantly composed his face into that expressionless mask he'd been perfecting ever since he was a small child. "That's okay."

There were several moments of silence, the tension between teacher and student thick in the air. "Follow me to the kitchen," Snape then said quietly. "I will have a house-elf prepare breakfast for you."

An image of a furious-looking Hermione welded itself into Harry's mind. Had it only been several days ago that Ron was trying to tempt her with the delicious desserts at their House table, attempting to convince her that the house-elves liked what they were doing? It seemed like an entire lifetime since then. "It's slavery, Ronald," Hermione had barked at him. "It's just plain wrong."

"Yes, sir," Harry said in the same flat tone he had used before. Knowing he didn't have a choice, he proceeded to follow Snape into a small kitchen. The professor sat down at the table, and Harry reluctantly sat at the opposite end.

"Pimsy," Snape called, and within seconds, a house-elf appeared at his side. "Yes, Master Severus?" he squeaked. "What can Pimsy be doing for Master Severus today?" He then caught sight of Harry, and his mouth opened in wonder. "Pimsy is wondering ... is that Harry Potter?"

Harry withdrew further into his mind. Of course. Round glasses, green eyes, messy black hair, and that stupid, bloody scar. He couldn't go for one moment without being recognized, could he? And Snape thought he liked his fame. Bastard.

"Yes, it is," said Snape, maintaining his oddly civil tone. There were no snide comments, no sneers, no insults about the boy's big ego and swelled head. For an instant, Harry wished for nothing more than for things to go back to how they used to be. It was easier to hate Snape than to try and come to terms with how everything had changed in the span of one evening.

Harry missed the rest of what was said, because the next thing he knew, there was a plate of eggs, bacon, and crispy potatoes in front of him. Just looking at the heaping plate made Harry feel ill, but who cared? What was the use of having a pointless argument about it?

So he dutifully picked up his fork, and tried to eat as much as possible. He usually loved these breakfasts; they were forever being served in the Great Hall, but today the food tasted of ashes. Even the orange juice he was washing it down with left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Potter," Snape finally said, and each subsequent word was spoken very carefully, in a measured tone that made Harry's skin prickle. "You are not doing yourself any favors by simply picking at your food."

Harry said nothing in response, because what could he possibly answer with? He just continued to eat his crispy potatoes, feeling as though they were lumps of coal that were getting stuck in his digestive tract.

"Potter," Snape tried again.

"What, sir?" Harry finally looked up from his plate, directly into those fathomless black eyes.

"I realize these are not ideal circumstances." Snape was still using that careful tone that made every cell in Harry's body tingle. "This is as much unchartered territory for myself as it is for you."

The heat of familiar anger burned away some of the numbness in Harry's mind, and the boy latched onto it like a lifeline. Anger. He had always worn it like a warrior would protect himself with armor. It felt better to backtalk someone like Uncle Vernon than to focus on the fact that the livid, purple-faced man thought of him as nothing more than a worthless freak. It was better to lose himself in glowering at Snape through every Potions class than to lose himself in the confusion and devastation of realizing a teacher despised him because he had the unmitigated gall to look like his father, a dead man he could barely even remember.

Therefore, Harry found a strange sort of comfort in releasing that anger towards Snape now. "Not ideal?" he snorted, glaring fiercely. "Is that what you call it?"

He had expected Snape to snarl back at him; this had always been the way of things in the past. But Snape didn't, and it only made Harry angrier. "Mr. Potter," he said quietly. "I sincerely ..."

Harry's glare only intensified, his heart racing wildly. "Can't you act normal?" The words spewed out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Why don't you just call me a spoiled, pathetic imbecile and be done with it already? You hate me. You've always hated me. Do you honestly think that giving me some potion, letting me sleep in your quarters, spouting some bullshit about pajamas, talking to me about eating properly ... do you think that's going to change anything? Are you trying to pull the same stunt on me that Crouch tried to pull on Neville?"

Snape's only answer to this diatribe was to speak in a low voice that still held no malice. "No, Mr. Potter, I am pulling no kind of stunt. And no, I don't expect you to suddenly trust me. I'd be a fool if I expected anything of the sort."

Harry jumped up out of his seat, almost blinded by the rage coursing through him now. His eyes burned with unshed tears, and furiously, he held them back. "Good." His voice came out constricted. "I'm leaving."

As Harry ran back towards the living room, Snape's voice made its way to him. "I suspect that Mr. Longbottom is in the hospital wing," he said. "He also had a difficult time with last night's events. I am sure you would like to check on him. And come back to my office at eight this evening. Your detention has been rescheduled for then."

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed. "Yes, sir," he drawled in a tone eerily like Snape's. "You'll have the distinct pleasure of seeing my face again then."

And with that, he wrenched the door open, and went through it to find himself back in Snape's office. He stood there for a couple of minutes, trying to catch his breath and to put his mask of neutrality back on.

Masks. If one thing was for certain, wearing masks had become a way of life for him. He truly didn't know any other way of being. It was the only possible way he could cope with the hand that he'd been dealt.

As he finally composed himself enough to start making his way towards the hospital wing to check if Neville was indeed there, he refused to entertain any stray thoughts that tried to enter his mind, especially because most of them concerned the man he had just left behind.

But as hard as he tried, there was one thought that refused to leave him no matter how much distance he put between himself and the Potions Master's quarters.

Maybe Snape knows quite a bit about wearing masks, too. Maybe he's more like you than you know.

And the prospect of that, Harry thought as he finally arrived at the hospital wing, was truly terrifying.