Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J. K. Rowling [270]
“Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?”
But whether James really did take off Snape’s pants, Harry never found out. A hand had closed tight over his upper arm, closed with a pincerlike grip. Wincing, Harry looked around 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 upward 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 Potions master’s 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 that his glasses slipped down his nose.
“I — didn’t —”
Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard onto the dungeon floor.
“You will not tell anybody what you saw!” 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 toward the door, a jar of dead cockroaches exploded over his head. He wrenched the door open and flew away up 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.
Career Advice
“But why haven’t you got Occlumency lessons anymore?” 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 skeptically.
“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, okay?”
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 study schedules 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 that 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 schedule with her wand so that it flashed a different color according to its subject.
“I dunno …” said Ron, “there’s been a lot going on. …”
“Well, there you are,” she said, handing him his schedule, “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. “We’ve got about as much chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as Dad’s got of becoming Minister of Magic. …”
Hermione said nothing. She was looking at Harry, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall of the common room while Crookshanks pawed at his hand, trying to get his ears scratched.
“What’s