Harry Potter and the Great Old Ones

Chapter 655 Snape's Wrath

After the first Black Magic class after Christmas, it was another delightful weekend—

This is true, at least for most students.

Although Hogwarts' curriculum has become increasingly interesting under Tyrell's repeated educational reforms, students are still students, especially a group of teenagers aged eleven, twelve, three, four, five, six, or seven. After all, not everyone is Hermione, and not everyone can spend weekends, or even the entire Christmas holiday, studying like Hermione does.

Therefore, despite having just enjoyed a joyful Christmas holiday, the young wizards of Hogwarts were eager to welcome another cheerful weekend—

However, this weekend wasn't so cheerful for Harry—

“Stand up, Potter!” Snape said sternly.

On the first Saturday night after Christmas, Harry knelt on the floor of Snape's office again, trying to clear his mind.

He had just been forced to relive a string of childhood memories he didn't even know he still had, mostly the humiliations Dudley and his gang had inflicted on him in elementary school.

"What was your last memory?" Snape asked as he slowly walked over.

“I…I don’t know,” Harry said, standing up wearily, finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish the images and sounds Snape kept bringing up. “Is it the one my cousin wanted me to stand in the toilet for?”

“No,” Snape said softly, “it was a man kneeling in the middle of a dark room?”

"That's nothing.

Snape's dark eyes pierced Harry's. Remembering how crucial eye contact was for Legilimency, Harry blinked and looked away.

"How did that person and that room get into your head, Potter?" Snape said.

“That—” Harry avoided his gaze, “That—was just a dream I had.”

"A dream?" Snape said.

A moment of silence followed as Harry stared at a dead frog submerged in purple liquid.

“Do you know what we’re doing here, Potter?” Snape asked in a menacing low voice. “Do you know why I’m giving up my relaxing evenings to do this awful job?”

“I know,” Harry said curtly.

“Tell me what we’re doing here, Potter.”

“Teach me Occlumency,” Harry said, his eyes darting around the room, staring aimlessly at a dead eel.

"Yes, Potter is right, even if you're stupid."

Harry glared back at Snape, looking at him with hatred.

"I thought you'd made some progress after two months of classes. How many more dreams about the Dark Lord have you had?"

“Just this one,” Harry lied.

“Perhaps,” Snape’s cold black eyes narrowed, “perhaps you enjoy these hallucinations and nightmares, Potter. Perhaps they make you feel special—important?”

“No.” Harry gritted his teeth, his fingers gripping the wand handle tightly.

“That’s good, Potter,” Snape said coldly, “because you’re neither special nor important, and you don’t need to find out what the Dark Lord said to his Death Eaters.”

“Yes—that’s your job, isn’t it?” Harry yelled at him.

He hadn't meant to say that; it just slipped out in the heat of the moment.

For a long time they stared at each other, and Harry felt he had gone too far.

But Snape's face showed a strange, almost satisfied expression.

“Yes, Potter,” his eyes gleamed, “that’s my job. Now, are you ready, shall we do it again?”

Snape raised his wand again: "One—two—three—Leetstone!" A hundred Dementors lunged at Harry from the lake. His face contorted with tension. They drew closer and closer; he saw the black hole beneath the hood, but at the same time, he saw Snape standing before him, staring at his face, muttering incantations. For some reason, Snape became clearer, and the Dementors faded. Harry raised his wand—

"Armor protection!"

Snape stumbled, his wand flying upwards and away from Harry—

Suddenly, Harry's mind was filled with unfamiliar memories—

A man with a hooked nose is yelling at a cowering woman; a little boy with dark hair is crying in a corner; a greasy-haired teenager sits alone in a dark bedroom, swatting flies at the ceiling with his wand; a skinny boy tries to ride a wildly bouncing broom, and a girl laughs at him beside him—

"Enough!" Harry felt a shove in his chest, and he staggered back a few steps, crashing into a shelf against the wall, where something shattered with a crack.

Snape was trembling slightly, his face ashen.

Harry's robes were wet at the back; he had just broken a bottle, and inside was a sticky substance swirling in the slowly draining potion.

"Restored to its original state!" Snape hissed, and the bottle closed again.

“Ah, Potter. That’s progress.” Snape, slightly out of breath, straightened the Pensieve, as if checking if the thoughts he had stored in it before class were still there. “I don’t remember telling you to use the Ironclad Charm. But it was undoubtedly effective.”

Harry didn't speak; he felt that saying anything would be dangerous. He knew he had just stumbled into Snape's memories and seen scenes from Snape's childhood.

This made Harry very uncomfortable, thinking that the little boy who cried while watching his parents argue was now standing in front of him with such intense hatred in his eyes.

“How about one more time?” Snape said viciously.

Harry felt a surge of fear, because he guessed he would have to pay the price for what he had just done.

The two stood across the table, and Harry felt that clearing his mind this time would be much more difficult.

"Count to three," Snape said, raising his wand again, "one—two—"

Before Harry could even clear his mind, Snape had already shouted, "Leechness of Mind!"

He felt as if he were back in the midst of that night's great battle at the Ministry of Magic, running through the narrow corridors of the Department of Mysteries, stone walls and torches flashing past on either side—

They had finally shaken off the Death Eaters chasing them, they had finally run into an elevator, they had finally arrived at the Ministry of Magic's reception hall, and just a few more steps to reach the safety of Hogwarts via the Floo Network, but—

A figure stood beside the magic fountain. The figure was tall and thin, wearing a black mask. His face, as terrifying as a snake, was pale and haggard, and his scarlet eyes, with pupils as narrow as slits, were staring intently at him.

“Ah, Harry,” Voldemort chuckled maliciously, “I was wondering when you’d be coming up here.”

"Potter!"

Harry opened his eyes; he was lying on the ground again, but he couldn't remember how he had fallen. He was panting heavily, as if he really had run for that long.

"Explain yourself!" Snape stood in front of him, his anger barely contained.

“I don’t know what happened,” Harry said honestly, standing up with a bump on the back of his head and feeling like he had a fever.

"You're not trying hard enough!"

For some reason, Snape seemed angrier than he had been two minutes earlier when Harry had seen his memories.

"You're lazy and careless, Potter, no wonder the Dark Lord—"

“Could you explain this, sir?” Harry snapped again. “Why do you call Voldemort the Dark Lord? I’ve only ever heard the Death Eaters call him that—”

Snape opened his mouth, and the roar was about to burst out—

"Knock Knock Knock-"

But a series of even knocks interrupted Snape's angry roar that was about to escape his lips.

(End of this chapter)