A/N: I do not own Harry Potter

Written for the International Wizarding School Competition Summer Camp

Week 5 - Write about getting straight to the point on matters of the heart

Wordcount: 1941

This is supposed to be an alternate version to another fic of mine called 'Seeing Harry'. I thought I would look at how it might have gone if Harry had spoken to Snape after that first fateful lesson, but had a little extra information.

Flower Language

Harry Potter's first potions lesson had been — interesting. The professor, Snape, had shown a clear dislike of Harry, but there was an anomaly; one that Harry would be sure to figure out. He had checked his facts, and gone over the moment in his head many times. Now, he would confront the professor. Harry wanted to know why he hated him so much, he also wanted to know what the professor's secret was.

He still had to work himself up to the encounter, after all, Professor Snape was a scary guy. He made sure that his uniform was correct – no sense in losing more points than he had to, right – pulled his bag onto his shoulder, and grabbed his, now late, potions homework. He made his way out of Gryffindor Tower alone, and each step closer to the dungeons was more daunting than the last.

Harry stood in front of Professor Snape's office door for a few minutes before he plucked up the courage to knock. He told himself, 'You can just hand in the home work, and back out, like a coward.' Harry was not going to back out, he was no coward. He knocked and within seconds he heard the deep low rumble of Professor Snape's voice.

"Come in."

Harry paused, running through the details one last time before he took hold of the cold metal handle and twisted it, pushing the door open. The office was as dark as the potions classroom. The room held only a desk and walls lined with bookshelves, everything was neat and orderly. It was a small office, and dismal only being lit by a few candles and there were no windows.

Professor Snape sat behind his large ebony desk, his head was bowed over a pile of parchment and the long black quill in his hand was scratching furiously. He didn't look up as Harry approached the desk, and he didn't look up when the eerie silence was broken by the chair in front of his desk being pulled out. Harry sat down and waited as silence descended once more.

"Spit it out, Potter," Severus said, finally breaking the silence.

"I wanted to talk to you, Sir." Harry fumbled about in his bag, pulling out a very worn out piece of parchment. Clearing his throat, he continued, "I wanted to talk to you about something that you said in class." Once the words were spoken, silence reigned again. Professor Snape consituned to work.

"Were you planning on expanding on that thought?" he asked.

"You asked me a question, Sir," Harry began. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Giving me an answer now, after I told it to you, is not very impressive, Potter."

"I have a different answer, Professor," Harry said, gulping. He had neared the subject of this little heart to heart far quicker than he had intended.

"There is only one answer." Professor Snape looked up, his face was uncaring, cold even. "Now, if that was all, you may kindly hand in you late essay, and leave me to my work."

The dark professor then bowed his head once more, pulled out a fresh essay and his long black quill began scratching away once more. There was an air of finality in the room, but Harry was not going to give up.

"Did you know that an Asphodel is a type of Lily? It has a very specific meaning; 'My regrets follow you to the grave.' My mum was called Lily. Wormwood is a symbol of bitterness and sorrow, so if I were to combine those two things, you were saying 'I bitterly regret Lily's death.'"

Harry took a breath and watched as the dark man froze where he sat. He didn't say another thing, he waited patiently for the stoic man to respond, or move, but he didn't. Harry watched, the Hogwarts Potions Master was tense, his breathing was laboured and his head lowered, the dark, greasy locks hiding his face.

"This was basically the first thing you said to me," Harry continued, feeling just a little braver now. "I can tell you dislike me, I can tell by how angry you sound every time you talk to me. You were angry when you asked me that question, but it was different, so don't lie to me. You were angry, but behind that you couldn't bear to say the words, there was pain too."

The professor still didn't move, nor did he look up. Harry continued talking.

"I have been lied to all my life, so I can tell when it's happening. I watch people because my aunt wouldn't let them talk to me or me them. I have learnt to read people; I know you can lie and I know you are good at it. Please don't. I know you knew her–" Harry's voice cracked over the last word, the coiled emotion started to unwind, breaking through and causing tears to start falling.

"I know that you knew my mum," he tried again. "Please, I just want to know about her, maybe you have a picture of her? Can you believe I haven't seen my own mum?" Harry was almost begging at the end.

The dark professor finally moved. He looked up, and his face was stiff, angry, and unmoving. The expression frightened Harry, it told him that he wasn't going to get what he was looking for here.

"How dare you," he began. "You think you can come here and pry into my personal life? You are–"

"No!" Harry interrupted, shouting at the now shocked professor." "If you cared about her at all, you would tell her only son, the son she couldn't look after, you would tell me about her! That's what she would have done! If you miss her, if you are really sorry she's gone, you would do right! You would do right by her by telling me something, letting me see her, just once!" Harry bellowed, tears began running freely.

"I do not know where you got this insane idea from," he began, trying to adopt a far calmer demeanour, but Professor Snape was shaken.

"Don't lie! It's not a coincidence that that's what it means, or that you said it to me."

"And you are sure those are the actual meanings?" the professor asked, looking down at Harry.

"Yes, I spend far too much time in my cupboard with nothing to do my read my Aunt Petunia's gardening books," Harry said, his tone less angry and more resentful. "I went to the library and double checked," Harry spat.

Professor Snape looked far less angry now, more shocked. The shock passed and what came looked liked a resigned admission, but of what Harry didn't know.

"You did know her, didn't you?" Harry asked pleadingly.

"Yes," he replied, giving up the fight. "I do not want to talk about it."

"My aunt never told me anything about my parents, at least nothing good. Can you at least tell me what you remember, please?" Harry looked up at the professor, his eyes a more vibrant green than before, as tears collected, waiting to fall. "I just want to know what she was like."

The professor stood, and he towered over Harry and the desk, his voluminous black robes creating an intimidating silhouette. This time, however, he didn't lorde it over Harry, but simply dug around the large bookcase behind him until he pulled out an old battered wooden box.

"She never took no for an answer either," he replied in a quiet voice. It was a tone that Harry had never heard from the man before, gentle almost. "When I first sw you, in class, you were very defiant, like your father! Just so you know, that isn't a compliment. I do not like him, I refuse to speak about him."

He sat in front of Harry and took a deep breath as he opened the wooden box.

"Were you in love with her once? Is that why you don't like me or my dad?" Harry asked eagerly, almost forgetting who he was speaking to, his only concern being for the information that he craved.

"Me and your mother were friends for a long time. That is all you need to know. We were not friends when we left Hogwarts, we hadn't been for some time. I will say no more! You do not get to know about my life. I will tell you what she was like, Merlin knows Petunia will not tell you."

"You knew Aunt Petunia?" he asked aghast.

"She was a horrible spiteful child, and I am not surprised that she is horrible and spiteful to you. She was so jealous of your mother and her gift."

"Jealous? But Aunt Petunia hates magic! I got locked in my cupboard for a week because I accidentally did magic once. I mean, I didn't know it was magic, she never told me anything about it!"

"You keep mentioning a cupboard?" he asked as he sorted through the various pieces of parchment and photographs in his little box.

"Yeah, I don't have to stay in my cupboard now, not since the first Hogwarts letter arrived!" Harry grinned.

"You lived in an actual cupboard?" he clarified again, he now had a number of pictures in his hands. His focus was on the photographs, he held them so delicately, like they might spontaneously combust. There was a reluctance in his eyes, like he may never see them again if he handed them over, and that was possibly the worst thing that he could imagine.

"Yeah, now I have Dudley's second bedroom! There are more books in there, I am pretty sure Dudley can't read," Harry said, sniggering.

"Did you ever tell anyone that you lived in a cupboard? It's not something that the authorities, Muggle or Magical, generally allow."

"I tried, but somehow nothing ever happened. Loads of teachers promised, and then it would be like they didn't even remember? It was strange."

The professor frowned, and handed over a few small photographs. "She was the kindest person in the world. So very forgiving," he coked a little, disguising it by clearing his throat. "She was smart too, and very good at potions."

"Really? I was looking forward to potions more than anything."

"I ruined it, did I?" he asked, he sounded a little like he regretted it, but Harry couldn't imagine Professor Snape regretting anything.

"When you told me off…" Harry mumbled and then trailed off.

"You were making rather diligent notes," Professor Snape finished the sentence.

"Yeah, and then you made me feel stupid." He looked at the Potions Master, defiance in his eye. "That puts a kid off, you know."

"Yes. I know."

"You want to hate me, don't you?" Harry asked knowing the answer.

"Yes, it is far easier. If I were to associate you with your mother that would be very difficult for me. Associating you with your father is easier, hate is far less painful than regret."

Harry looked at him, confused. Regret, what could he possibly regret.

"You make it difficult," he continued. "Take the pictures, maybe we can speak about her another time."

Harry knew what that meant. This little heart to heart was over. He collected the pictures, handling them just as delicately as the professor had. He placed them in his potions textbook, and finally he placed the late homework on the desk.

As he made his way to the door, the professor spoke again, "You deserve far more than a cupboard, Harry."