Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

“Fine,” she said coolly. “I won’t bother in future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you, Snivellus.”

“Apologise to Evans!” James roared at Snape, his wand pointed threateningly at him.

“I don’t want you to make him apologise,” Lily shouted, rounding on James. “You’re as bad as he is.”

“What?” yelped James. I’d NEVER call you a—you-know-what!”

“Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can—I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.”

She turned on her heel and hurried away.

“Evans!” James shouted after her. “Hey, EVANS!”

But she didn’t look back.

“What is it with her?” said James, trying and failing to look as though this was a throwaway question of no real importance to him.

“Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re a bit conceited, mate,” said Sirius.

“Right,” said James, who looked furious now, “right—”

There was another flash of light, and Snape was once again hanging upside-down in the air.

“Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?”

But whether James really did take off Snapes pants, Harry never found out. A hand had closed tight over his upper arm, closed with a pincer-like grip. Wincing, Harry looked round to see who had hold of him, and saw, with a thrill of horror, a fully grown, adult-sized Snape standing right beside him, white with rage.

“Having fun?”

Harry felt himself rising into the air; the summer’s day evaporated around him; he was floating upwards through icy blackness, Snape’s hand still tight upon his upper arm. Then, with a swooping feeling as though he had turned head-over-heels in midair, his feet hit the stone floor of Snape’s dungeon and he was standing again beside the Pensieve on Snape’s desk in the shadowy, present-day Potion masters study.

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb. “So… been enjoying yourself, Potter?”

“N-no,” said Harry, trying to free his arm.

It was scary: Snape’s lips were shaking, his face was white, his teeth were bared.

“Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?” said Snape, shaking Harry so hard his glasses slipped down his nose.

“I—didn’t—”

Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard on to the dungeon floor.

“You will not repeat what you saw to anybody!” Snape bellowed.

“No,” said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape as he could. “No, of course I w—”

“Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you in this office ever again!”

And as Harry hurtled towards the door, a jar of dead cockroaches exploded over his head. He wrenched the door open and flew along the corridor, stopping only when he had put three floors between himself and Snape. There he leaned against the wall, panting, and rubbing his bruised arm.

He had no desire at all to return to Gryffindor Tower so early, nor to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just seen. What was making Harry feel so horrified and unhappy was not being shouted at or having jars thrown at him; it was that he knew how it felt to be humiliated in the middle of a circle of onlookers, knew exactly how Snape had felt as his father had taunted him, and that judging from what he had just seen, his father had been every bit as arrogant as Snape had always told him.

29. CAREERS ADVICE

“But why haven’t you got Occlumency lessons any more?” said Hermione, frowning.

“I’ve told you,” Harry muttered. “Snape reckons I can carry on by myself now I’ve got the basics.”

“So you’ve stopped having funny dreams?” said Hermione sceptically.

“Pretty much,” said Harry, not looking at her.

“Well, I don’t think Snape should stop until you’re absolutely sure you can control them!” said Hermione indignantly. “Harry, I think you should go back to him and ask—”

“No,” said Harry forcefully. “Just drop it, Hermione, OK?”

It was the first day of the Easter holidays and Hermione, as was her custom, had spent a large part of the day drawing up revision timetables for the three of them. Harry and Ron had let her do it; it was easier than arguing with her and, in any case, they might come in useful.

Ron had been startled to discover there were only six weeks left until their exams.

“How can that come as a shock?” Hermione demanded, as she tapped each little square on Ron’s timetable with her wand so that it flashed a different colour according to its subject.

“I dunno,” said Ron, “there’s been a lot going on.”

“Well, there you are,” she said, handing him his timetable, “if you follow that you should do fine.”

Ron looked down it gloomily, but then brightened.

“You’ve given me an evening off every week!”

“That’s for Quidditch practice,” said Hermione.

The smile faded from Ron’s face.

“What’s the point?” he said dully. “We’ve got about as much chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as Dad’s got of becoming Minister for Magic.”