When Harry barged into his office, only the fact that Al was with him stopped Snape from screaming at him - or actually cursing.
Just like the worst times of the last two wars, he was grateful for the concealing drape of his sleeves. It hid the way his hands curled into shaking fists, in a last-ditch effort to stop himself from going for his wand. Or simply going for the man's throat, with his bare hands.
He couldn't even trust the meticulously-honed weapon of his voice, replying only with a nod to Harry's question: as if there was any chance that he hadn't heard about the latest fucking disaster.
Al was now in terrible danger, for no other reason than because Harry and Ginny hadn't trusted Snape.
He watched in silence as Al placed the memories of those halfwitted therapy sessions in the Pensieve; in response to a distracted wave of his hand, three chairs arranged themselves around the small end table on which the Pensieve stood. He stalked around the desk and seated himself in one of the chairs and, without further ado, dove in.
Perhaps the virtual world of the Pensieve would be a safe place for him to express himself.