Harry hardly noticed as Fred and George pulled him through the corridors, ducking into classrooms and behind tapestries to avoid the teachers and prefects on patrol. His limbs felt slow and heavy and he kept falling behind the other two boys. They'd made it about half-way when Fred gave a frustrated sigh and pulled him through a tapestry and into a hidden passageway where they stopped. Fred and George were whispering furiously back and forth, shooting him worried glances across the dark room. Vague snippets floated across.

"Almost back at the Common Room…"

"-What are we going to do when we get there…"

"-We can't leave him like this-"

"-What else can we do-"

Harry knew they were talking about him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His mind was consumed by memories of screaming and begging and flashes of green light. It was too much and too loud and he could barely breathe anymore. Whatever elation he'd felt earlier when he'd mastered the shielding charm had been snatched away. The dementor – boggart, he reminded himself – had left behind a cloud of fog that separated him from the twins and the castle. It had left him alone with his not-quite memories and a strange chill that seemed to permeate to the bone.

"Harry?" A hand shook his shoulder. His eyes blinked open again and he stared blankly at the twins, "On the train, when the dementors came, did Lupin give you anything afterwards?"

Harry gave a slight shrug. That train journey seemed so long ago. It was hard to imagine a time before his mother's screams, before Black and Snape and Quidditch bans and check-ups with Madam Pomfrey. It hadn't been like that on the train, Lupin hadn't pressed and probed and asked questions that he didn't want to answer. He'd just handed Harry a bar of, "Chocolate".

"Are you sure?" George asked doubtfully.

Harry nodded, leaning back against the wall. Above him, an icy draft was blowing through a lose windowpane; extinguishing the torches and bringing in a bitter chill. Harry was almost glad for it, at least he could pretend he was shaking from the cold. He closed his eyes and hoped the howling wind would drown out his mother's screams.

The twins' whispering started up again, louder this time and more persistent.

"Look at him, we can't just give a bar of chocolate and leave him-"

"Lupin's still in his office-"

"And tell him what? That we were sneaking around-"

"We don't have to say anything. He'll be more concerned about Harry-"

"-Can't bring him here…"

"Another classroom maybe?..."

The whispering cut off and Harry was dimly aware of the twins moving around him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Fred's worried face.

"Here, quickly," said Fred, leading him out of the secret passageway and back into the brightly lit corridor. Despite the warmth from the flaming torches, Harry was desperately cold. His teeth chattering, he followed Fred down a flight of stone steps and into another classroom, where Fred pushed him into the nearest seat and gestured for him to stay quiet.

He was glad to be sitting down; even the short walk between hiding spots had exhausted him. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf him; he leant back in his chair and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. His hands were still trembling against his chest and his joints seemed to ache from the icy chill that only existed inside him.

Sometime later, the patter of footsteps broke the silence. There was a soft knock on the door and, to Fred's clear relief, George walked in, followed closely by Professor Lupin.

Lupin headed straight over to him. "How are you feeling?" he asked, pushing back Harry's hair and feeling his forehead, "George said you had a run in with a boggart."

"I'm fine," said Harry, forcing his eyes open and trying to focus on the Professor.

Lupin nodded absently and reached for Harry's wrist to take his pulse. Harry wished he could sink through the floor. At least Lupin didn't acknowledge his shaking hands, which no amount of willpower could still.

At last Lupin stepped away, giving him one more critical look before turning to the twins.

"It's just the after-effects of dementor exposure," he said calmly, "Nothing to worry about. I'll stay with him for a bit longer but you two can head back to your dormitory. Here, I'll give you both permission slips in case you run into another Professor on your way back."

Lupin reached into his pocket and pulled out two slips of parchment. Pausing for a moment, he made a couple of amendments before passing them over, his lip twitching. Fred's face fell slightly when he took it, but he quickly recovered, smirking at George with an expression Harry recognised from the Quidditch pitch. Whatever Lupin had written, Fred had taken it as a challenge. With a couple of quick 'goodnights' and 'feel better soons', the twins headed off.

Harry stared after them, humiliation gnawing at him through the cold. He wished they hadn't seen him so pathetic. So weak. Maybe they'd tell the rest of the Quidditch team too and they'd decide that even if Madam Pomfrey cleared him, it would be better to have someone less fragile on the team.

A loud rustling dragged him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Professor Lupin unwrapping an enormous slab of chocolate. With a snap, he broke it into several pieces and passed the largest over to Harry.

"You'll need to eat the whole bar," he explained, handing over another piece, "Dementor exposure tends to get worse the longer it goes without treatment."

"But it wasn't a real dementor, it was just a boggart."

"Boggarts are clever like that. They're shape-shifters in the literal sense which means they imbue the properties of whatever creature they've chosen to replicate, although their abilities are weaker than the real thing. Some wizards have even theorised that a boggart in the form of a dementor could give the Kiss," he cut himself off suddenly, "Of course, boggarts seek only to feed on your fear; they'd gain nothing from physically harming their victims and leaving themselves without a meal."

Harry winced. Somehow, Lupin's explanation made him feel even worse. If this was his reaction to a boggart, what would happen if he came across a real dementor again. Memories of his mother's screams echoed through his head. He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he was so full of chocolate.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face; Lupin cast him a worried glance and pulled another bar of chocolate from his pocket.

"Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?" he asked.

Harry shook his head quickly. That was the only thing that could make his evening worse. At Lupin's urging, he took another piece of chocolate. It tasted like sandpaper.

"Are you still feeling cold?" Lupin's worried eyes were fixed on Harry's still trembling hands, "The chocolate ought to have warmed you up."

"I'm warm enough," Harry admitted, feeling thoroughly humiliated, "I just still feel a bit-" He shrugged, unwilling to give a word to the strange hollow feeling that consumed him.

"A bit?" Lupin let the silence linger for a moment but when he spoke again, his voice was firmer, "This is important, Harry. How exactly do you feel?"

Harry shrugged tiredly. "Just a bit exhausted," he lied.

"That's not terribly surprising," said Lupin, banishing a couple of crumbled wrappers and pulling yet another large bar of chocolate from his pocket, "Dementors tend to have that effect. Especially with the way you react to them- well, it's no wonder you're feeling drained."

"Why do they affect me like this?" Harry asked quietly, "No else seems to have the same problem. It's only me whose-"

"Dementors cause you to remember the very worst experiences of your life," said Lupin softly, "It's hardly surprising that they affect you worse than your classmates. There are horrors in your past that no child should ever face."

Harry winced. This felt uncomfortably close to his recent conversations with Snape. It didn't matter that Lupin was referring to his parents' deaths, all Harry could hear was Snape's snide comments about the Dursleys.

The room seemed to grow smaller. Harry was done with this conversation; all he wanted now was to be on his own. Reluctantly, he crammed the last bit of chocolate into his mouth and forced himself to swallow. Although the chocolate had cured the worst of it, he still felt weak and shivery, like he was recovering from a bad bout of the flu.

"I'm honestly feeling much better, Professor," he insisted, pushing himself out of his chair, "I'm just tired. Really, I think I just need to sleep for a bit."

"If you're certain," said Lupin, looking unconvinced, "I'll walk you back to your common room. However, if you're still feeling at all strange tomorrow morning, I must insist that you get checked out by Madam Pomfrey."

Harry agreed, even though he had no intention of doing so and made his way out the door, Lupin following behind him.

For the most part, they walked in an uneasy silence. Lupin kept shooting him strange looks, like he was on the verge of saying something but at the last moment thought better of it. Harry was glad for it; the whole day had been draining and he was desperate to finally be left alone. At least in the silence of his dorm, he might be able to forget the whole mortifying experience. Hopefully Lupin would let the matter rest. The last thing he wanted was for Lupin to join the growing list of concerned adults who seemed intent on watching his every move. Not that adults were the only problem now; Fred and George were sure to tell Ron what had happened that evening. No doubt Ron would tell Hermione, then Harry would be subjected to even more worried glances and whispered conversations that died suddenly when he came close. He ran his fingers through his untidy hair and sighed loudly.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Lupin asked worriedly, "I can still send for-"

"I'm sure- Really, I'm fine."

"There's no shame in accepting help," said Lupin mildly, slowing his stride to match Harry's, "Adults with far less reason than you have struggled when they encounter their boggarts."

"Maybe," said Harry, shrugging into the darkness.

Lupin was rambling on but Harry could hardly hear him. How could he possibly know how Harry felt, when all his boggart had to change into was a crystal ball. He didn't hear his mother's screams. He didn't live every day with the knowledge that his parents had died for him, had died afraid and begging not for their own lives but for their son's. What could Lupin know about boggarts compared to that?

The question lingered long after Lupin had dropped him off at the Portrait Hole. It lingered until he fell into an uneasy sleep, his dreams fragmented by an eerie green light.

Even Severus sighed as he watched the rain pelt down against the enchanted ceiling the following morning. There had been little respite from the dismal weather since term started and they'd all grown tired of the howling winds and driving rain.

It was particularly frustrating at the weekend, when the miscreants were stuck indoors with no lessons to occupy their time. Especially when they were all cooped up in their respective common rooms. Breakfast wasn't even halfway through and Severus had already been forced to break-up two arguments on the cusp of turning into duels. At least Filch would be happy. With the number of detentions Severus had been handing out recently, the trophy room would be spotless for weeks.

He turned his attention back to his own House table. The second years looked unusually glum, unsurprising given the day Minerva had in store for them. None of them seemed enthused about going out into the bitter cold to muck out the Hippogriff Stalls. Good! Perhaps that would teach them not to engage in a House-wide feud with the Gryffindors. Hopefully they would be sufficiently downtrodden from the experience that Severus's meeting with them on Tuesday would be an easy one.

Further up the table, some of the fourth years were squabbling. Severus gave them only a cursory glance; that group was well-known for their histrionics and he'd found over the years that it nearly always blew over within a day or two. At the end of the table Marcus Flint was holding court for the Quidditch team, no doubt discussing the upcoming match. Whatever tactics they were considering had clearly caused a stir among the team. Derrick and Bole were arguing heatedly with their Captain, gesturing repeatedly at the sky with such vigour that they sent one of the tureens of porridge flying.

Severus fixed them with a sharp glare. For a moment, he entertained himself by imaging all the unpleasant detentions he could assign if they forced him to break-up a third argument that morning. Perhaps an evening spent cleaning the third floor toilets under Filch's watchful eyes would be suitable. Or confined to the library copying out several chapters of Magical Me – that had been his favoured punishment last year whenever his Slytherins stepped out of line.

Fortunately for his Quidditch team, Warrington spotted his grim expression and hurriedly calmed them down, jerking his head in Severus's direction. With a final glower, Severus turned back to his breakfast, his thoughts turning to his day's brewing.

Providing everything went smoothly, he was confident that he could prepare all the potions he'd for his lessons that week in a single morning. It would take a fair bit of multitasking, but that didn't bother him in the slightest. In fact, he was looking forward to it. Brewing always helped him to clear his mind. After the week he'd had, it was nice to do a task that was routine with a fixed endpoint. There was no complexity when it came to brewing; it was either done or it wasn't.

By the time he'd finished his scrambled eggs and gulped down the last of his coffee, he'd formed a clear operational plan for exactly how the order of his brewing would go. He'd already sent a note to his prefects, informing them that he was brewing that morning and not to bother him with House-related matters unless it was suitably urgent.

They clearly hadn't passed on the memo though, because Marcus Flint rushed to catch up with him as he was leaving the Great Hall, a determined glint in his eye.

"Sir, do you have a moment?"

"Is it urgent?' Severus drawled, not bothering to slow his pace as he stalked through the dungeons.

"It's about our next match, sir. I've had an idea – a really good one – but it's got to be sorted this weekend. I've checked all the guidelines and Madam Hooch needs at least two weeks' notice apparently but otherwise we might lose our next match."

It took Severus great self-restraint not to roll his eyes. Of course Flint deemed Quidditch practise urgent. For a moment, he considered sending the boy away but the thought of the endless whinging until he finally heard him out stopped him. Better to get it over with now. At least then he wouldn't be interrupted again later. Scowling, Severus ushered Flint into his office, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.

Several hours later, Severus scooped the final portion of his potion into a flask, corked it, and labelled it clearly before setting it neatly away in his desk draw alongside the other various antidotes. Then he set about clearing away his supplies; he banished the cauldrons to the sink in preparation for Potter's detention tomorrow and doused the fire. A quick glance at the clock told him he still had almost an hour until he was due to meet with Albus. Enough time to finally read that week's edition of The Practical Potioneer.

He was halfway through an article on the merits of substituting out bat spleen to improve the shelf life of Pepper-Up Potions when he was interrupted by a sharp knock on his door.

"Come in," he called, tucking his magazine away. If it was one of his prefects knocking for him, the problem better be urgent. Otherwise he'd have them copying out the dictionary definition all evening until they understood the meaning of the word.

To his surprise, Professor McGonagall marched in, a severe expression on her face that was usually reserved for the study of Divination and Sybill Trelawney. Her lips were pursed so tightly they'd turned white; Severus hadn't seen her this angry since she'd caught Otto Cresswell teaching the Giant Squid volleyball using some unsuspecting first year and a series of levitation spells. He was about to ask what was wrong when he spotted five of his second years cowering behind her, drenched by the storm and covered in Hippogriff dung.

"I'm afraid there was another incident in their detention today," said Minerva, with cold fury in her voice, "I have several members of my own house waiting in my office in a similar state."

They exchanged a dark look; Severus waved her into his office and slammed the door shut, barking orders at the second years to wait outside.

"What happened this time?" he growled.

It took Minerva several minutes to recount the latest debacle between their two houses. It seemed that an argument had broken out over who exactly was responsible for them having detention, culminating in Rookwood shoving Proudfoot into a pile of Hippogriff dung. Severus's eyebrows climbed higher up his face as she recounted the specific details; he almost couldn't believe the audacity of the second years. Not for the first time, he cursed Dumbledore for passing off the Potter problem to him; he had enough on his plate as it was with his own unruly charges without adding Potter into the mix.

"I'll be writing to their families tonight but beyond that I'll leave the task of determining a suitable punishment up to you," said Minerva in a clipped voice.

"Something more memorable than the usual deterrents," he agreed.

She nodded grimly, "I should take my leave now. I have my own house members waiting in my office. They ought to be feeling sufficiently cowed by now."

He inclined his head, then, remembering his earlier conversation with Flint, asked abruptly, "Do you have some time this evening, Flint came to me to me about the next Quidditch match and it gave me an idea?"

Minerva raised an eyebrow, "I'll be working quite late in my office, you're welcome to come by any time after dinner." With that, she strode off towards the door.

"Thank you," he said, settling behind his desk and adopting his customary scowl, "If you could send them in on your way out."

He waited for the students to file in and arrange themselves in front of his desk. Then, slamming the door shut with a flick of his wand, he turned to address his charges.

"Never have I been so disappointed in a group of second years," he snarled at the trembling students in front of him, "I had hoped that your time mucking out the Hippogriff stalls might give you time to reflect on the error of your ways but it appears I was mistaken." He leaned forwards, lacing his words with venom, "It seems I made the grave error of assuming, given Hogwarts only admits students from the ages of eleven upwards, that you would be capable of behaving with a level of maturity beyond that of a poorly behaved toddler." He glared at each of them in turn, his eyes linger on Gordian Rookwood for a long moment. "However, this foolish nonsense ends now. Should I receive another complaint from Professor McGonagall concerning your behaviour, I will not hesitate to advocate for your immediate suspension. As it stands, Professor McGonagall will be informing your guardians of this incident. I have no doubt that they will be most unimpressed by your behaviour.

"Sir, please-"

"Silence," he hissed, "Unfortunately, I have a meeting with the Headmaster to attend this evening. However, do not think for a moment that this matter has been put to rest; we will be discussing it further at great lengths in our meeting on Tuesday. As for your punishment for today's display, until you prove yourself capable of proper conduct, you will not be allowed to leave the Common Room unsupervised. That means that you'll be confined to the common room outside of lessons and mealtimes. Should you wish to go to the library, you must be escorted by one of the prefects after you have obtain permission from myself. Furthermore, you will spend the remainder of this evening copying out the first five chapters of Madam Theobold's History of Etiquette and Politeness. I expect them handed to me at our meeting tomorrow. Is that understood?"

Their muttered groans were stifled by another dark glare.

"You would do well to remember that I am being extremely lenient here. Do not make me regret that. Do you have any questions?" When none of them dared to speak, he dismissed them with a curt, "Back to the common room then, all of you."

As they hurried out, Severus sank back into his chair, fingers pressed against his temples. Confining them to the common room would, he hoped, keep further incidents at bay. He wasn't sure he could face dealing with anymore; his patience was already stretched to its limits. The next student sent to his office would be cleaning all the boys' toilet seats with their toothbrush for a month.

His hand twitched towards his magazine again, but there was no time. According to the clock above his desk, he had mere minutes until he was due in Albus's office. All house matters would have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, his sole concern was Potter

The rain was still hammering down when Monday arrived. The sky was a black above the charmed ceiling; Harry was dreading leaving the castle. Although Care of Magical Creatures had been relocated to a free classroom on the second floor, there was no escaping the storm-swept grounds for Herbology that afternoon. By the time they reached the greenhouses, they were soaked to the skin, their feet squelching with every step through the flooded vegetable patch.

The howling winds and driving rain only got worse throughout the double period. Harry and Ron spent most the lesson in a whispered debate over the quickest way back to the castle. Not that their shortcuts helped much, Raindrops the size of bullets thundered down on them as they made their frantic dash through the storm. The wind was bitter and unforgiving against their sodden robes. There was a desperate rush to the fireplace when they finally got back to the common room, all of them jostling to get closer to the hearth to thaw their frozen hands.

"Blimey," said Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, "I'm soaked. Good thing we don't have Astronomy this evening, can you imagine sitting out in that for an hour trying to find map out Jupiter's moons? 'Sides, I think I've earnt an evening off after trekking through that. Anyone up for a bit of chess?"

Hermione shook her head, "I can't take a night off, I've still got three hundred and twenty-one pages to read for Muggle Studies, and we've got that project on Flitterbloom due on Wednesday, which I've barely even had time to research and Professor Babbling set me forty lines of rune translation this morning-" She was starting to sound slightly hysterical, and not for the first time, Harry wondered if she'd bitten off more than she could chew with her electives.

"Harry?" Ron asked, cutting Hermione off before she could spiral into a full-blown panic.

Harry considered refusing; he still had a mountain of homework he needed to get through and between detention and his trips to the cloisters, it was unlikely he'd have a chance to do it later that evening. But Ron looked so eager that he found himself agreeing anyway.

They were almost through their third game when the Quidditch team returned to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. It didn't look like it had been a happy practise session; Fred was making rude hand-signs at Oliver's retreating form while George sniggered. The new seeker seemed particularly sombre. She pushed past the twins and rushed up the stairs to her dormitory, Katie following closely behind her.

Fred spotted Harry watching her and made his way over, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind.

"Wood's in a foul mood," said Fred gloomily, flopping down beside him, "That git McLaggen turned up at practise today – he's bitter that Viv got picked over him as the back-up seeker. Spent the whole session pointing out all her mistakes until Angelina had enough and hexed him. It didn't help Viv's confidence though; she's not used to playing in these conditions anyway and after that…" he shrugged miserably, "Wood looked like he might cry by the end of it."

"You know he went to harass Pomfrey again about clearing you to play," George added, looking equally disheartened, "Camped outside her office for an hour. He got an earful when she finally came out; apparently, she wasn't too impressed at him taking initiative." The last two words were said in a good imitation of Wood's Scottish burr.

"Way he tells it, she was practically blowing steam by the end of it. He's had to reschedule tomorrow's practice because he's off cleaning bedpans for her." That seemed to cheer Fred up a bit, he grinned impishly and carried on, "Although I reckon that was a mistake on her part. Now she'll have to deal with him badgering her all evening as well."

"You should watch out, he still wants you to come to all the morning strategy meetings, even if you can't play. Say you've got to be ready to dive straight back in." he lowered his voice, "Really, I reckon that upset Viv more than any of McLaggen's comments."

Harry was saved from having to respond by Percy, who came marching over to demand the twins stop dripping mud all over the place. After a brief argument, they headed up to change, somehow managing to shower Percy in mud and rainwater as they left.

Ron waited until Percy was out of earshot then asked, "Has Pomfrey said anything about Quidditch?"

Harry shook his head, "I've got a meeting with her next weekend. You know what she's like though – if she had it her way none of us would be allowed on broomsticks again," he said gloomily.

"Mum's the same; she pitched a fit the first-time Dad brought us a proper bludger. Honestly, I don't know why she's so upset, it only takes a second to mend broken bones." He looked back down at the chess board, studying it intensely. It wasn't until he'd order his pawn to move forward that he returned to their conversation, "You can always go to McGonagall if she doesn't let you back. You know she's mad about Quidditch."

"Maybe," Harry said. For the first time, it occurred to him that McGonagall must know about his Quidditch ban, even if she hadn't said anything. Had Pomfrey told her about his examination? The thought made Harry feel nauseous. "It doesn't matter anyway. Even if she does clear me, I'll still miss the first match of the season. There's no way Wood'll let me play over the new seeker." He looked down at the chessboard glumly, just in time to see one of Ron's bishops chase his pawn of its square.

"You've got a couple of weeks until the match. And your detentions with Snape will be done, so you'll have loads of time to practise."

"Yeah, I guess," said Harry glumly, looking away. While he was looking forward to being detention-free, he was dreading trying to find an excuse for constantly disappearing with Neville. The last thing he wanted was for Ron and Hermione to find out about the cloisters or his half-formed plans for revenge.

"It'll be fine," Ron promised, as his bishop wrestled Harry's knight of his horse and dragged him off the board, leaving his path to the King free. "Checkmate."

The week wore on. Before he knew it, Friday had arrived and he was making his way to his final detention. Harry was relieved to get them over with; he was sick of trudging down to Snape's office every evening to complete some new revolting task. More importantly, he was desperate to be free from Snape's questions and the eerie dancing light of the Pensieve.

He made his way through the dungeons with plenty of time to spare; he wasn't going to risk giving Snape any reason to extend his detentions. The corridors seemed very quiet even for a Friday evening. Everyone must still be at dinner; it always seemed to go on later at the weekend. Probably because no one felt the need to run off and frantically finish their homework, not when they had the whole weekend ahead of them. Or rather, no one except Hermione did.

At last he reached Snape's office. He loitered in the hallway outside, unwilling to knock when he still had a few minutes before his detention started. As he waited, he started to plan how he'd spend his evening in the cloisters. Now that he'd finally mastered the Shield Charm, he was focussing all his energy on spells which might help him when he finally confronted Black. He'd been working on the Blasting Curse last night, while Neville, who still hadn't quite gotten the hang of the Shield Charm, trawled through borrowed defence textbooks for more ideas.

Learning the blasting curse had made him feel more peaceful than he had in weeks. It felt good to destroy something, to watch the old pillars shatter into a thousand pieces across the room and know that something else was as broken as he was. The memories the dementor (boggart, just a boggart) had evoked haunted him. Echoes of his mother's desperate pleas ran through his mind during the day and not even the noise and bustle of the castle could drown them out. It was even worse at night. His dreams had rarely ever been peaceful, but now his sleep was plagued by nightmares. They were rarely the same, cycling between terrible images real and imagined, but there was one constant; they always ended with his mother's final screams.

He knew, deep in his bones, that he would never be okay again. Not until Black was dead, until he had paid the price for his mother's screams and Uncle Vernon's fists and the huge, suffocating ball of misery that sat in his chest.

Anger welled up in him. The familiar urge to destroy something was so strong, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. The last thing he needed was to lose it in front of Snape. Just a few more hours and he could escape to the safety of the cloisters. One more evening and he'd be done.

Somewhere in the dungeon a clock chimed seven. He raised his hand to the door and knocked three times.

Severus watched Potter scrubbing away at his final cauldron. He was acutely aware that the detention was almost over. Not long now and he would be forced to admit defeat. All those years working as a spy and still, in a full month's worth of detentions, he had failed to get Potter to speak about his relatives. Once that evening was over, there would be few chances. Severus had neither the reason nor the desire to spend any more time in Potter's company, but there were still so many unanswered questions.

Severus considered the boy for a moment. He was unusually pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He needed help, help which Severus was unable to provide. To set any of Albus's plans into motion, he needed more information, preferably in the form of a formal report. If only Potter was willing to give one.

Severus had one final gambit up his sleeve; if that failed, he'd have to admit defeat and allow Poppy to administer truth serum.

He waited for Potter to stack the final cauldron against the wall and then beckoned the boy to him. Potter trudged over, his hands shoved into his pockets. He stood in front of the desk, a familiar defiant look on his face.

"You may be saddened to note, Mr Potter, that this is our final evening together," Severus began, "I hope over the course of the month you've reflected on the consequences of your poor impulse control."

Potter said nothing. He glared at Severus, his strikingly green eyes brimming with resentment.

"While I am overjoyed to be relieved of the burden of supervising you every evening, there remains one outstanding issue to discuss." His eyes drifted to the Pensieve sitting out on his desk and back to Potter.

Potter's gaze followed his; his fists clenched tightly when he realised what was being asked of him. For a moment, Severus wondered if Potter was going to lose his temper again. He'd been on the verge of it every night that week, so much so that Severus had taken particular care not to push the boy too far.

"As I recognise that this is a particularly difficult situation for you, I am prepared to offer you a deal," he ignored the shocked look on Potter's face and continued softly, "I understand that Professor McGonagall assigned you and Mr Malfoy a Saturday detention on the first Hogsmeade weekend of term. While I cannot override the wishes of another Professor, I would be willing to personally oversee your detention, while Malfoy would remain in the purview of Mr Filch. Given my time is in short supply, your detention would last no more than a couple of hours with me."

Potter looked at him suspiciously; Severus could almost hear his thought process. No matter how much Potter despised him, spending two hours in his company was nothing compared to a full day with Filch and Malfoy. He was tempted, that much was obvious. Now all that was left to do was reveal the catch.

"In return for this, you would be expected to serve your detention by providing a formal statement, which could be submitted either in the form of memories or through a written document."

His reaction was immediate. He took a step back, his hands trembling. Magic crackled around the room; the potions on the shelves started to shake. If Potter was a potion, Severus would be frantically adding a neutralising ingredient lest it start to explode.

"No, absolutely not. I've already told you to keep your giant beak out of it-"

"Watch yourself, Potter," Severus hissed furiously. How he loathed the boy's blatant disrespect, so like his father, plummy accent and all, "I will not remind you again."

"No, I won't- you can't," Potter was paler than ever; he looked on the brink of collapsing.

"I won't force you," Severus agreed, hoping he wouldn't have to send for Poppy, "The choice is yours – either you serve your detention alongside Mr Malfoy with Mr Filch, no doubt undertaking some menial task, or you serve it under my supervision."

Potter looked like he was between Scylla and Charybdis. His eyes scanned frantically back and forth. It was obvious he didn't want to serve his detention with Malfoy yet was unwilling to meet Severus's demands. There was a long silence; Severus waited patiently for Potter to make his decision.

At last, Potter ground out, "I'll serve it with Filch."

Severus suppressed a sigh. There it was; his last gambit had failed. Potter would rather spend the day scrubbing the castle alongside his nemesis than reveal his memories to Severus.

"If you're quite certain…" he let the question linger but Potter's jaw was set, "Very well. Dismissed."

A/N Sorry it's not the Halloween chapter, I realised at the last minute there were a couple of crucial scenes that had to come before it. I had a moment where I worried that Snape and Harry's relationship was moving too quickly, but then I looked at my word count and reminded myself that almost 70,000 words in, they still hadn't managed a civil conversation. Don't worry though, the next chapter should show the first signs of a thaw in their animosity. As always, thank you for all the reviews, I really appreciate every single one of them!