21

"Legilimens," Snape hissed for the umpteenth time that evening. And just like every other time, Harry felt the probe entering his mind, pulling forth memory after memory. Being chased by Dudley and his gang. Being yelled at by his Uncle Vernon. Meeting Malfoy on the train in first year. Being kicked out of his aunt and uncle's home. And Harry tried and tried to push the unwanted probe away, but to no avail. Then the probe was gone and Harry came back to himself, panting as though he had been running a race.

"Clearly you are proud of your worst memories, Potter, as you are seem so keen on allowing me to see them," Snape said silkily, though a hint of frustration snuck its way into his voice. Harry glanced up from where he was slouched on the floor and chuckled darkly.

"Oh, trust me sir, those are far from my worst memories. I fucking wish they were my worst memories, but I'm Harry Bloody Potter, aren't I, and people just love throwing shit at me," Harry snarled. The constant attacks on his mind had made him irritable, not that any extra annoyance was needed to put him in a bad mood when Snape was in the room.

"If it's my worst memories you're after though, fucking have at it, sir!" Hauling himself to his feet, he faced his teacher and he bowed mockingly. Harry half expected Snape to throw him out of the classroom, but to his surprise the older man took his challenge.

"Legilimens," he whispered and Harry felt yet another probe entering his mind. This time though, the probe lingered in the front of his mind, as though waiting to be shown something. So Harry began throwing all of his worst memories at the unwanted presence, jumping slightly when they began playing in his mind. Being thrown into his cupboard as a child and left there for days. Meeting Voldemort in his first year and fighting Quirrell. Being locked in his room that summer and starved. Seeing Hermione petrified in second year, and then killing the basilisk. Thinking Ginny was dead. The dementors last year- how they made him hear his parent's deaths. Sirius being caught by the ministry. And lastly, his earliest memory- a flash of green light and a high, cold laugh.

Snape jerked back from the memories hurriedly, his usual sneer gone from his face, which had paled several shades. Harry smirked cruelly, serves the bastard right, he thought. Out loud he said nothing, waiting for his professor's reaction.

"Get out," Snape muttered, before turning and storming from the room in a billow of robes.

"Occlumency didn't go well then?" Ron asked when Harry entered the common room with his head in his hands.

"Was there ever a chance that it was going to go well, with that git teaching me?" he said, slumping into an armchair by the fire and rifling through his pockets for a cigarette. It was past midnight and Ron and Hermione were the only ones left in the common room, obviously having waited up for Harry to come back. Hermione was curled up on the sofa with a book in her hands, whilst Ron was stretched out on the floor in front of the dying fire.

"I know Professor Snape isn't the best of teachers, but surely you must have learned something?" Hermione tutted, looking up from her book to fix Harry with a stern glare which reminded him all too much of Professor McGonagall.

"I learnt how to piss him off," Harry grinned weakly, lighting his cigarette.

"You can't smoke in here, Harry! In fact, I still don't like you smoking at all! You'll end up with lung cancer like my Aunt Mary had!" Hermione snapped.

"Actually, wizards don't get cancer, 'Mione," Harry answered with a grin. He could always rely on her to be the one to worry about him.

"It's true, we don't," Ron piped up from the floor when he sensed that Hermione was going to argue, "Our magic wards off anything like that naturally- I don't think there's a single muggle disease that we can get. Well, aside from the common cold that is. That bastard gets everywhere."

"Language, Ronald!" Hermione scolded with a glare.

"But Harry always swears!" Ro whined, looking up at his friend in disbelief.

"Yes, and Harry's guardian lets him, for some reason. Your mother, however, wouldn't be too pleased to hear that word coming out of your mouth," she answered primly, closing her book and standing up, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed." Harry and Ron watched her go with bemused expressions.

"Mental, that one," Ron muttered fondly as he clambered off of the floor, "You coming, Harry?"

"Yeah, I'm just gonna call Sirius on the mirrors first."

"'Kay, night."

Elsewhere in the castle, another dark-haired man was sitting awake in his sitting room. He was sat in a grey, high backed arm chair with a glass of amber liquid in one hand. He stared into the dying embers of the fire, but his eyes were glazed over, his mind on something else.

The boy's experiences as a child... they were so like his own, and yet nothing like them at the same time. His father had been abusive, whereas Harry's relative's had simply neglected and ignored him. How was it that the Boy Who Lived, son of James and Lily Potter and saviour of the wizarding world had been allowed to live like that? Snape had assumed that his relatives treated him as their own child, lavishing him with love and affection, the kind of affection that Snape himself had never had.

That was why he had hated him, after all. He had assumed that the boy would just be another arrogant toe rag like his father, and so had taken it upon himself to bring him down a peg or two. But he had been wrong. Wrong to treat Harry so badly over the years, to yell and sneer and hate the boy so much.

This must have been what Albus had meant when he said they would find some common ground. But what could Severus do about it now? The damage had been done, and his pride would always stop him from apologising; it just wasn't in his nature. He had said sorry to two people in his life; Lily Evans and Albus Dumbledore. Did he really want to bring the son of his childhood enemy into that list?

He chuckled to himself, taking a sip from his glass, as he thought of the expression on the boy's face if the bat of the dungeon were to say sorry. Perhaps it would be worth the damage to his pride just for that alone.

"Occlumency," he whispered to himself suddenly, as the thought of the perfect apology leapt into his mind. If it could be called an apology, seeing as it didn't actually involve apologising. But no, it would have to do.

Plan in mind, he stood from his chair and crossed to his desk, where he scribbled off a quick letter.

"Tinky!" he called, and an elf popped into the room. She wore a long, clean pillowcase that had been fashioned into a toga and her eyes were bright blue- an unusual colour for a house elf.

"Yes, Master Severus, how cans I help you?" she squeaked, smiling up at her master.

"Can you please take this to the owlery and send it off immediately, Tinky," Snape asked, handing her the letter. Nodding vigorously, the elf popped out again and Snape retook his seat by the fire with a grim smile. His apology would arrive in the morning, and he would just have to pray that the boy was Slytherin enough to recognise it for what it was.