Even with the past laid bare, some barriers remain—unspoken, unbroken.

The moment Harry stepped into the dimly lit room where they practiced Occlumency, he knew something was wrong.

The air was still, undisturbed. No sneering remark, no sharp glare from across the room. No sign of Snape at all.

His eyes flicked instinctively to the usual corner, where the Pensieve had been waiting for him the past two lessons. Empty. No stone basin engraved with runes, no swirling silver memories, no silent invitation—or was it a challenge?—to see more of the past. Nothing.

For a long moment, Harry stood frozen. Then the shock gave way to something hotter, something sharper. Snape hadn't left a note. Hadn't sent word. Hadn't even bothered to cancel.

Had it all been for nothing?

After everything—after dragging Harry through memories that tore apart everything he thought he knew, after forcing him to see the truth Snape had buried for years—he had just disappeared. Left him alone to deal with it.

Harry clenched his fists.

Before tonight, he hadn't even been sure he was ready to face Snape. His talk with Sirius and Remus had only left him with more questions, not answers. He still didn't know how to feel about the man who had despised him for years—the man who had begged for his mother's life but condemned his father and him to death in the same breath. The man who had spent his life atoning in silence.

But now, Harry knew exactly what he felt.

Rage.

Because after all of that, Snape had just left.

Was this some kind of twisted test?

Had Snape been waiting to see what he would do with the truth? Watching from the shadows, expecting him to lash out, to reject it all, to prove that he was still James Potter's son—reckless, brash, blind to anything outside his father's grudge?

Or worse—had Snape regretted letting him see it?

Something tightened in Harry's chest.

For years, they had despised each other, even though Harry believed things had slowly begun to shift. But now… now it wasn't so simple. Snape had given him something—pieces of himself that no one else had seen. The boy who had loved his mother. The young man who had lost her. The spy who had lived with that loss, day after day, until it became the foundation of his every move.

And Snape had given those memories willingly—before Harry had even thought to ask, before he'd even realized there were questions to ask.

And now Snape was gone.

The fury burned hotter.

Harry slammed his bag onto the nearest desk. The sound cracked through the empty room, sharp and hollow. His breath came short, uneven. He felt like he was standing at the edge of something, but he didn't know what.

Fine.

If Snape wanted to disappear like a coward, then Harry would find him.

Because he still had questions, and he wasn't leaving until he got answers.

Snape could run from Grimmauld Place, but Harry could wait. And when school started again—where Snape couldn't possibly escape his own classroom—Harry would demand the truth then.

The firelight flickered across the walls of Harry's bedroom at Grimmauld Place, casting restless shadows. He sat on the edge of his bed, fists clenched, eyes fixed on the floor as if willing it to yield the answers he still couldn't find. His thoughts churned, tangled in knots of frustration and unanswered questions.

He was going to have words with Snape. And Dumbledore. How much had the old man known? How much had he chosen to keep from Harry, stringing him along with half-truths and cryptic wisdom, letting him stumble through the dark while holding all the answers?

Harry raked a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He had spent days turning it over in his mind, trying to decide what he would say when he saw Snape next. He'd storm into their lesson, demand an explanation, force Snape to answer for—

A sharp pop shattered the silence, making Harry jump.

Kreacher had appeared in the room, muttering furiously under his breath.

"Filthy half-blood demanding the presence of another filthy half-blood, disgracing the house of Black," he croaked, his wrinkled face twisted in irritation. "Master Regulus's half-blooded friend thinks he can summon Kreacher, ordering Kreacher around—what would Mistress think? But kind Master Regulus liked the grumpy half-blood, yes he did…"

Harry's heart stuttered. He shot to his feet, barely listening as Kreacher continued grumbling. There was only one person Kreacher could mean.

Ignoring the elf's complaints, Harry spun on his heel and bolted from the room, his footsteps echoing through the old house as he ran toward the space where his Occlumency lessons were held.

He skidded to a stop in the doorway, breathless.

Snape stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, looking as though he'd been waiting for hours. His expression was unreadable—until irritation flickered across it.

"You are late," he said flatly.

Harry's shock evaporated instantly, replaced by a surge of anger.

"I am late?" he repeated, incredulous. "You weren't even here last time!"

Snape arched a single brow, voice dripping with mock surprise. "Ah. And you were prepared to attend the lesson as a civilized person last time, Potter? Was your minuscule brain not still struggling to process your overabundant emotions?"

Harry's hands curled into fists. The sheer audacity—

"I was ready," he shot back, stepping further into the room. "You are the one who disappeared after dumping all of that on me! You don't get to act like I'm the problem here!"

Snape's lips thinned. "Dumping it on you?" he repeated silkily. "You are the one who chose to look. You are the one who keeps demanding to know more."

"That's because everyone keeps lying to me!" Harry exploded. "Dumbledore, Sirius, you—"

Snape's expression remained unreadable, but something in his posture shifted—the slightest tensing of his shoulders. "And yet," he said, voice low and sharp, "it is I who gave you the truth, isn't it?"

Harry opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He hadn't thought about it that way. Snape, of all people, was the only one who hadn't hidden things from him—not when it truly mattered.

He swallowed hard. His anger didn't fade, but it cooled slightly, twisting into something more complicated.

Snape regarded him for a long, measured moment before speaking, his voice sharp and clipped. "Since you're so desperate for answers—so convinced of your own maturity—" his lip curled slightly, "why don't you find out for yourself?"

Harry hesitated for only a second before the realization settled in. Snape was inviting him—challenging him—to use Legilimency on him.

It wasn't what he'd expected. He had imagined arguments, accusations, perhaps even another scathing lecture about his reckless emotions and inability to think before he acted. But this—this was different. Snape was giving him a chance to take the answers he wanted instead of waiting for them to be handed over.

Harry met Snape's gaze, dark eyes unyielding, daring him to act. His heart pounded. He had never truly attempted Legilimency before, had never thought to try, but that didn't stop him from lifting his wand. His grip tightened. Fine. If Snape wanted him to see, then he would.

"Legilimens."

The word barely left his lips before he felt it—a sharp, jarring resistance, like slamming into a stone wall. His vision remained stubbornly his own; his mind was still his own. No memories, no flickers of thought, not even the briefest impression of emotion. Just an impenetrable barrier, cold and unyielding, forcing him back as though he had run headfirst into a locked door.

He staggered slightly, disoriented, and gritted his teeth. Again.

"Legilimens."

Nothing. The same barrier, the same absolute block. Not even a glimpse of Snape's thoughts. He may as well have tried reading the mind of a solid rock.

Snape's expression remained impassive. He wasn't smirking, wasn't taunting, wasn't mocking him like he had so many times before. He just stood there, watching, waiting.

Harry's frustration flared. "You said I should find out for myself."

"I did," Snape said evenly.

"Then let me see!"

"I am letting you," Snape said, his voice cold and clipped. "Standing here, refraining from retaliating."

Harry clenched his jaw. His heart still pounded with the remnants of his fury from earlier. So many things to say, so many things he had stewed over for days, and now Snape was just—just standing there, unreadable as ever. Offering answers but not really. Letting him try, knowing full well that he would fail.

It was infuriating.

"Legilimens," he said again, low and forceful.

Nothing.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "This is a joke," he spat.

For the first time, something flickered across Snape's face—subtle, almost imperceptible, but Harry caught it. It wasn't amusement. Nor was it derision.

It was disappointment.

"You think this is a joke?" Snape said softly. He took a step closer, eyes dark and steady. "You think knowledge should be given to you? Handed over without effort, without understanding?"

Harry scowled. "You're the one who told me to find out for myself!"

"And yet you're surprised when you find it difficult." Snape's voice was dangerously quiet. "Do you truly think the mind is so easy to break into? Do you imagine that if you dig hard enough, you will simply pluck what you want from my thoughts?"

Harry's jaw tightened. He didn't like where this was going.

"This isn't about waving a wand and expecting results," Snape continued. "You want answers, Potter? Then earn them."

Harry bristled. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that if you won't let me in?"

Snape arched a brow. "You presume I should make it easy for you?"

"You presume I can just learn this overnight?"

Snape's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk. "And yet, I learned. The Dark Lord learned. Without anyone holding his hand. And yet, he is one of the strongest Legilimens out there."

Harry hated the comparison. And he hated the hint of admiration still hidden under Snape's statement.

His stomach twisted. His grip on his wand faltered slightly.

Snape continued mercilessly. "Legilimency requires skill. Patience. A mind that is sharp enough to perceive and flexible enough to slip through the cracks. You are—what was it Black always said?—so much like your father?"

Harry's anger flared again, hot and immediate. "Shut up," he snapped.

Snape's expression didn't waver. "Then prove me wrong."

Harry glared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. He wanted to argue, to shout that it wasn't fair—that Snape had spent years learning this, that of course he wasn't good at it yet, that this wasn't about his father or about proving anything.

But that wasn't entirely true, was it?

Snape turned slightly, his robes shifting around him. "If you want to know what is in my mind, then learn to break through." He flicked his wand, and the door to the classroom swung open. "Otherwise, do not waste my time."

And with that, Snape strode past him, leaving Harry standing there, fists clenched at his sides, the weight of the challenge settling heavily in his chest.

Notes:

Yep, they're not actually going to talk about it or bond over it. They are dysfunctional like that.