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Chapter Text

Harry hadn’t meant to end up here. Truthfully, he hadn’t meant to end up anywhere in particular. He had just wanted to get away from his horrible family and his own mistakes.

By this point, he had been walking for a couple days. He’d taken one turn after another, and before long he’d escaped Little Whinging and made his way through adjacent towns. He’d slept wherever he could, under bus stops, in doorways, until the towns began to blur together. This particular town was not his favourite. Neat rows of muggle houses had given way to narrow, uneven streets that seemed to twist back on themselves. The lamps here burned too low, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and something sharp, like metal or factory fumes. His feet ached, and the dull throb in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten properly since the incident with Aunt Marge. He was grateful, at least, that no one here cared enough to stare.

The small street he found himself on was strange and a bit scary. The windows were dim and cluttered with things he couldn’t quite make out, and everyone passing him was pointedly refusing to make eye contact. He’d looked down a couple of side streets trying to find a way out but every turn had seemed less appealing. Down one lane he could see a rowdy nightclub, another had a few men lingering and loudly arguing with each other. His exhaustion was getting the better of him yet again and so he sank down onto a cold stone step outside a narrow café, wrapping his arms tight around himself.

To add insult to injury, his trunk was long gone. He’d lost it within hours of leaving the Dursley’s. He had found a low curb a few streets away from Privet Drive and sank onto it, pulling his knees close to his chest. Uncertain about what he should be doing at that point, he rested for a few minutes, considering his situation. Hogwarts would surely be in contact soon to initiate his expulsion. He knew that Ron was not currently in the country, so the Burrow was out of reach. Hermione could maybe have helped him, but he didn’t actually know her address.

For a long time, nothing happened, Harry just sat lost in his thoughts. Then, from the far end of the street, came a sound, a soft padding against the pavement. Harry looked up. A large black dog was standing under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, watching him.

Its eyes caught the light oddly. It didn’t move, just stared.

Harry’s heart began to pound. There was something wrong about it… too still, too silent. Dogs should be barking, playing, wagging their tails. He scrambled to his feet, glancing at the empty road around him. “Go on,” he said shakily, waving one hand. “Shoo!”

The dog took a slow step forward.

Harry stepped back. His heel caught the edge of the curb, and he stumbled. The dog gave a low, rumbling sound that might have been a growl- or might have been something else entirely- but Harry didn’t wait to find out. Panic burst through him, sharp and cold, and he turned and ran.

He didn’t stop running for quite some time. When he finally collapsed against a wall, gasping for breath, his trunk was gone. He swore loudly in disbelief at himself for forgetting such an important thing. The whole evening was catching up to him, each and every mistake he had made, and he felt like such an idiot.

After a moment’s search, Harry found a shop doorway with enough shelter to protect him for a night’s sleep. He curled up on the floor and allowed himself to break into sobs. Already his trunk was lost and soon, when the letter arrived, he would lose Hogwarts too.

The following morning, Harry had set off on foot with the goal of getting far away from Privet Drive. He hoped that by laying low the owl carrying his expulsion letter from Hogwarts would be slower to find him, giving him more time to think about what to do. That had been two nights ago. Since then, the streets had long become unfamiliar. But as he sat outside the narrow cafe down the creepy street, he was far too exhausted, far too hungry, to make any lifesaving plans. He just sat and watched the world go by.

He was so busy staring at the strange bottle-filled window opposite that he didn’t notice the woman until she spoke.

“Merlin’s beard, child, you’re pale as parchment,” she said. Her voice was rough and low, the kind of voice that sounded like it had spent years shouting over cauldrons.

Harry looked up, startled by the non-muggle language. The woman was older, her hair dark and streaked with silver, tied under a green scarf that had seen better days. She carried a basket of dried roots and bundles wrapped in brown paper that had such strong scents it was even overwhelming to Harry sat a few feet away.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, instinctively flattening his fringe with his palm, trying to cover his forehead. “Just resting.”

“Resting,” she repeated, eyeing him with a sort of dry amusement. “In this part of town? You’ve got nerve, boy. Or no sense at all.”

Harry frowned but didn’t answer. He pulled Dudley’s overshirt tighter around him.

Her eyes lingered on his face a moment longer, then softened. “Don’t think I don’t know who you are boy.”

The way she said boy made Harry uneasy. She smiled faintly at his expression. “Don’t look so worried. I don’t bite. But you shouldn’t be sitting out here alone, especially not now.”

“Thanks for worrying but I’ll be fine.”

The witch ignored him, muttering quietly to herself. “I can’t go to the ministry- no- they wouldn’t listen to me, they’d just want to talk about my fines…but what to do with him? Hm.” She paused, put a finger to her lips, and then let out a brief, joyful, cackle.

“Aha!” The witch pushed her basket into Harry’s unwilling arms. “Wait here.” She turned, slipped between two crooked doorways, and vanished from sight.

Harry stayed seated, heart now pounding with panic, the witch’s wicker basket clutched awkwardly to his chest. The street had grown quieter, colder, and he’d started to wonder if he should risk running again when a loud crack made him flinch violently.  A dark shape materialised at the end of the alley, robes billowing like smoke. Harry’s stomach dropped. Snape.

The witch from earlier lingered beside him, arms folded, expression smug in a way that made Harry’s ears burn with shame. Why did she have to fetch him out of all people?

“There he is, Severus. Told you I’d seen him, didn’t I?” she said, voice rasping. Perhaps she was a potioneer like Snape, her voice roughened by too many toxic fumes.

Snape’s gaze snapped to Harry, sharp and assessing. “Indeed, you did,” he replied curtly, not sparing her another glance. His attention fixed on Harry with an unsettling determination. “Potter. Of course it would be you causing a stir.”

Harry gaped up at the pair, clutching the basket tighter. “I wasn’t causing anything! I was just sat here!” Trust Snape to show up and immediately make things worse.

“Sat here after running away, I presume?” Snape cut in, voice low and dangerous. “Do you have any idea how many people are searching for you right now? The headmaster included. Give Ms. Bickle her basket back.”

Harry rose to his feet, wobbling like a newborn fawn. He handed the odd lady (apparently Ms Bickle but he didn’t really care) her basket, a scowl on her face. She looked at him expectantly, as if he should thank her. Harry did no such thing.

Snape’s expression tightened at his rudeness. “We are leaving,” he said shortly.

Harry hesitated. “Leaving? No thank you, I’m okay here.”

Snape ignored him, catching Harry’s arm in a firm grip. “Take hold of my sleeve, Potter, and don’t let go.”

Harry frowned. “Why?”

“Just do as you’re told,” Snape snapped, “I will apparate us in 3…2…1…”

Harry barely had time to grab the coarse fabric before the world yanked itself inside out. The cobblestones vanished, and Ms. Bickle’s nasty smile was swallowed by black.

Harry stumbled away from Snape, letting go of the arm he’d been commanded to latch himself to. He felt so terrible, he knew the only thing stopping him from throwing up was the fact there was nothing in him to throw up. That thought tickled him a little bit, but the gravity of the situation quickly weighed him down again. He’d let Snape- the most vile, slimy, nasty git he’d ever known- ‘apparate’ him to God knows where.

Perhaps he should’ve enquired further when the professor announced that they would be ‘apparating’ together. It wasn’t a concept he was so familiar with; he’d been able to guess that it was some sort of magical transportation, but he never would have predicted the way it twisted his stomach into tight knots. Trust Snape to utilise the most painful method of transportation available to a wizard.

The world stopped spinning, dumping Harry onto the dirty floor.

“Pull yourself together boy,” Snape snarled before turning away with a dramatic swish of his cape, storming towards the exit of the dead-end street they had appeared in. Harry climbed back up and let his feet carry him after the man.

Looking around, Harry tried to gather some intel on where he might be. The street they walked out onto could belong to any town in any county in England. Not that he was particularly well travelled, but he had enough life experience to Frankenstein together what an average town looks like. Corner shops with dirty posters pasted to windows, burger bars, chip shops, rowdy but nondescript pubs with drunk men spilling out the doors. Nothing gave away their specific location to the boy.

“Sir,” Harry tried to catch his professor’s attention, almost jogging to keep up with the man’s powerful stride, “where are we?”

He didn’t receive any response but could swear he heard an annoyed huff protrude from Snape’s perma-frown. Taking the hint not to push his luck, Harry allowed himself to fall a few steps behind. Although Snape had never physically hurt him before, he didn’t quite trust that such courtesy would be granted to him off campus, away from Dumbledore’s eyes. Harry didn’t want to poke the bear.

He trailed like a duckling behind his professor for a tense few minutes. Each street they turned down seemed to get grottier and grottier, building a sense of unease deep in the pit of Harry’s gut. Finally, Snape came to an abrupt halt in front of a tattered brick building. Harry held his breath- he could sense this building wasn’t quite like the others on the street. When he really focused on it, there was some sort of glimmering shield blanketed over it. Did the local muggles not notice this at all?

“Stand back Potter.”

Muttering a spell that Harry did not recognise, Snape used his wand to contort the close to invisible barrier surrounding the building to create a Harry-sized gap. When the gap encircled Harry it was as if the building before him came to life. It was still fairly run-down, but the brickwork shifted into a darker shade and the barren front lawn sprouted a few plants Harry was sure he recognised from the Hogwarts greenhouses. Most noticeably, a metallic snake slithered across the front door and lifted its little head in Snape’s direction.

The professor strode towards the serpent and whispered to it hurriedly. The door thudded open.

“In. Now.”

Harry gulped and followed his teacher into the house.

The decor was drab at best and ugly at worst. Harry came to a stop in a thin entrance chamber, caked in peeling paint. Clung to one wall was a coat rack, housing one lone cape which Harry recognised as the one Snape wore this evening. He’d somehow lost track of where his professor had stormed off to in the house. He supposed he had been a bit distracted, a bit hesitant. The house wasn’t exactly inviting.

“What are you doing boy?” Snape’s bitter utterance pulled him from his thoughts, “do not just loiter in my hallway.” The man beckoned Harry closer to where he was standing in the furthest doorway, a grim smirk slowly pulling at his lips, “it is time for you to face the consequences of your own dim-witted actions.”

Harry’s legs moved without thought, as if they were mechanised entirely by fear rather than sense. The panic rising in him was begging him to turn and run, make a swift exit through the snake-guarded door before Snape could unleash whatever cruelty he had in store, but he was just so tired. He was so tired, and so hungry, and he didn’t feel as if he had any fight left in him. So, he followed Snape into what was apparently a living room (that ironically looked as if nobody had lived in it for years).

“Sit.” Snape pointed to the leather sofa. Continuing to do as he was told, Harry perched on the edge of the tattered seat, hearing it squeak as he did so.

He watched as Snape busied himself at the fireplace, fiddling with a ornate container before throwing what appeared to be ashes or soot into the sparks. Floo powder, Harry thought. If Snape had floo powder all along then why did he force them to apparate? Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit bitter. He would’ve much rather have travelled by floo.

In his experience with the Floo Network, Harry had seen witches and wizards step into fireplaces and command their whole body be transported to another hearth linked to the system. He had never witnessed a man stick only his face into the coal and kindling- until this moment at least.

Snape spoke into the sparks in an urgent manner and although Harry was too stunned to catch exactly what the man was saying, he knew it was about him. After a few moments, Snape pulled his now sooty face away from his floo conversation and twisted to look back at Harry’s perch.

“The headmaster will be here to speak with you momentarily,” he growled.

Harry gulped. “Is he angry?”

“What reason could he have to be angry?” Snape drawled sarcastically, dropping into an armchair with grubby leather matching Harry’s sofa. “You only assaulted a defenceless muggle, fled the scene without remedying your actions and have been on the run from the law for days,” he paused and allowed a nasty grin to spread on his face, “on second thought, I predict he’s furious.”

Harry was terrified. If Dumbledore expelled him… it didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps the Dursleys would actually send Harry to St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys… or perhaps without the threat of magic over their heads, they would lock him in the cupboard and finally finish the job, starving him to an early grave.

As promised, Dumbledore was soon stepping out of the hearth, brushing soot off his purple robes. Harry searched his face for a furious ferocity to match Snape’s own but found nothing of the sort. Instead, the headmaster wore a serene expression, staring into Harry’s eyes with a gentleness that made the guilt rise in his gut once again.

“Hello Harry, it’s relieving to see you safe at last,” Dumbledore said.

Harry couldn’t find the words to respond. He rather embarrassingly couldn’t even find the heart to smile. His headmaster didn’t seem put off by this, and quickly made himself comfortable on the sofa, settling on the leather easily in stark contrast to Harry’s tense perch.

“So Harry, Professor Snape has updated me to the conclusion of your adventure-“

“I’m sorry!” Harry butted in urgently, “I really am sorry Professor-“

“Ah yes- I’m very sure you’re sorry now- now that you have been caught red handed!” Snape snapped, glaring at Harry ferociously, “Albus, do not fall for his well-practiced performance of victimhood, this- boy- has become an entitled, arrogant brat just as I predicted years ago. You cannot keep permitting this sloppy rule breaking in this manner,” Snape spat, leaning forward in his chair, “if this was any other student from our esteemed school-“

“Severus, there is no need for such harshness,” Dumbledore spoke softly, not at all agitated by Snape’s attack, “lets allow Harry a chance to explain himself.”

All eyes turned to Harry expectantly, not without an annoyed huff from Snape first of course. Avoiding eye contact with both professors, Harry launched himself into a shaky apology.

“I’m so sorry. It was a mistake blowing Aunt Marge up, she was just saying things about my dad, and I got carried away. Please don’t expel me from Hogwarts, please, I’ll do 100 detentions to make for it- no 200-“

“My dear boy!” Dumbledore interrupted, “I fear we are misunderstanding each other. Why do you believe me to be upset with you?”

Harry finally returned Dumbledore’s eye contact, confused by the man, “because I blew up my aunt like a helium balloon?”

With a hand on his chest, Dumbledore chuckled softly, “yes, I see now, we are not yet on the same page. Harry, the incident with your aunt is but water under the bridge. She has been restored to her original size and her memory of the event has been altered, although I must admit, the memory charms may not have been quite strong enough. She seems to have a lasting distaste for you, but ah, this should of course have faded by next summer.”

Harry blinked. “I’m not in trouble for blowing her up?”

“No, my boy, you are not.”

What? Both Harry and Snape began spluttering like twin fish in surprise at the headmaster’s proclamation. Harry couldn’t believe it- they’d been able to fix his aunt, and he wasn’t in any trouble about it. What Dumbledore had claimed about her not liking him much was neither here nor there, she’d always loathed him, that definitely was not a lasting effect of the memory charm but instead a lasting effect of her vile personality.

“Headmaster this insolent little boy has disrespected the sanctity of our magic-“ Snape tried to plead against Dumbledore’s ruling but was silenced by the older man’s raised hand. After a moment of contemplative silence, Dumbledore continued.

“No, Harry you are not in any trouble. Nor will you be expelled from Hogwarts. I must however express my concern surrounding your departure from your aunt and uncle’s care,” he said gently, “it is not safe for you Harry, or any child for that matter but especially you at the present time, to be living on the streets. You should have sought assistance, if not from your teachers, then from your friends. Do you understand me?”

Harry felt immense guilt once again. “Yes Sir, I understand.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing curiously, “but sir, why isn’t it safe for me in particular at the moment? Has something happened with Voldemort?”

“Not at all my boy,” Dumbledore soothed, “how to explain this to you I wonder… have you heard of one Sirius Black?”

In his peripheral, Harry noticed Snape tense jerkily at the name drop. He nodded his head, eyeing Snape suspiciously, and replied to his headmaster, “yes sir, he escaped from prison. I heard it on the muggle news.”

“Yes, that’s the man. Except there are a few key details that the muggle news does not know to share. Most importantly, that he is a wizard.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. If Sirius Black was a wizard, then why do the muggles know about him at all? Was he in muggle prison or Azkaban? As Harry did not vocalise these questions, the headmaster continued his explanation uninterrupted.

“He is a murderer, of both magic and muggle people. He is a man, you must understand Harry, with an unrelenting loyalty to Voldemort. Can you imagine why he might set his sights on you in particular now that he’s free?”

Harry gulped, “because I defeated his master.”

“Precisely that. I trust that now we see eye to eye that you will not seek to be alone, unprotected on the streets again before his recapture?”

“Of course, not sir,” Harry quickly agreed.

“Thank you, Harry. Now we must address a more delicate matter, that of your housing for the remaining weeks of summer-“

“Please don’t send me back to the Dursleys! Can’t I stay at Hogwarts, just this once seen as though a murderer is after me, or the Burrow perhaps?”

Snape sneered. “Predictable. He does not want to return to face the natural consequences of his actions. Afraid they will no longer wait on you hand and foot, Potter?”

“No, no, I just-“ Harry struggled to express himself, “I just would rather stay elsewhere, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry Harry, but neither Hogwarts nor the Burrow are viable options at the moment. There is no staff present at Hogwarts currently to manage your care, as all your professors are enjoying their own summer breaks. The Weasley’s, as I’m sure you know, are still holidaying in Egypt.” Dumbledore smiled sadly at Harry, softly squashing his hope.

“What about… what about Hermione?” Harry was clutching at straws, he had never really interacted with Hermione’s parents, but he hoped that if he was really desperate enough they would consider taking him in for a few weeks.

“I’m afraid not, my boy. Their home is muggle and therefore lacking in the wards most suitable for protecting you against Black. Of course, the wards at your family home are the most effective due to their blood nature-”

“Aha,” Snape scoffed, “seems as if you will not be able to escape your family’s punishment after all then Potter.”

“-Actually, Severus,” it was Dumbledore’s turn to interrupt this time, “I do have to deliver some unfortunate news. Your aunt and uncle, Harry, were a touch averse to you returning to their house this summer. Do not fret though, as they have consented to your return next year, they just feel that a little time separate is necessary for wounds to heal.”

Snape was practically gleaming at this admission. “See Potter,” he started nastily, “people will not always put up with your disrespect. You must start to learn to act with more consideration of the rules, with more politeness, with more thoughtfulness-“

“Yes, Severus,” Dumbledore turned his body towards Snape quite suddenly, his posture straightened, looking positively attentive, “perhaps you can suggest a guardian for Harry’s remaining summer who would be able to provide such lessons, as well as have an aptitude for defence against the dark arts in case of Black breaking in, in a secure, well-warded environment, far away from Black’s most recent sighting in the south.”

“No,” Snape had gone still, as if he had turned to stone, “no such guardian comes to mind.”

“Are you certain, Severus?”

“Quite certain, Albus.”

Harry looked between the two men, completely confused. What were they implying? Who was this mystery guardian, if they existed at all? Would he have to go to a children’s home for the next few weeks? Could he stay with Dumbledore? Does Dumbledore even have a house?

“Hm,” Dumbledore’s faux contemplative hum broke Harry from his thoughts, “it has been years since I looked around this house. Severus remind me, how many bedrooms are there?”

No.

“Two.” Grunted Snape.

No.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Three weeks is all I ask Severus.”

Absolutely not. Surely, despite all his mistakes, Harry did not deserve this.

Dumbledore continued his case. “Remember your promise, Severus. Now more than ever.”

What promise? It didn’t matter; Harry was certain Snape would not consent. He heard the man suck in a deep breath, hopefully to reject the headmaster’s proposal with a flurry of insults-

“If you insist, Headmaster.”

No.

Snape had spoken those last words with gritted teeth. Harry had been doomed to a summer with someone who couldn’t even hide his hatred for him.

“Fantastic. Well, if that’s settled,” Dumbledore stood and made his way back to the fireplace. Surely, he wouldn’t leave Harry here.

“Oh and Severus,” Dumbledore turned one last time towards them, “perhaps a spot of supper is in order for young Harry here. I doubt he has been having three square meals a day whilst on his adventure. Harry, I hope the rest of your summer passes happily.”

Harry jumped to his feet. “Professor, please, don’t leave me-” but Dumbledore had disappeared in a flurry of sparks before he’d had a chance to hear Harry’s pleas.

A tense silence quickly enveloped the duo left deserted by Professor Dumbledore. Harry threw himself backward onto the sofa again, staring blankly at the empty space left at the hearth. Snape, showing a similar discomfort, dropped his head to his hands and sighed dramatically, Harry felt annoyed at his professor’s show of dislike for the situation. It wasn’t as if Harry had asked to be there, he hadn’t contacted Snape at all. If Harry had it his way, he would never see Snape again! Yet under the pressure of Snape’s furious stare, he couldn’t help but feel an underserved blame being placed on his shoulders.

“I can owl Neville Longbottom,” an idea sprung to Harry’s mind, “he’s from a wizarding family! Bet he has wards and all that. Maybe I can stay with him and his grandmother…”

Snape replied with a bored drawl “do you really expect, Mr Potter, that I would directly disobey an order from my superior?”

“Well, no,” Harry was clutching at straws, “but Dumbledore didn’t exactly consider every option. He was barely here 5 minutes…”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very busy and important man; he cannot be at a teenager’s beck and call. Although I suppose that must surprise you, Mr Potter, as used to special treatment as you are.” Snape paused before continuing grimly, “no, you will stay here for the next three weeks. And don’t make the mistake of assuming that our esteemed headmaster’s lack of punishment for you will translate to your life under my care. I will not tolerate disrespectful children, and I will not ignore the crimes you have already committed this summer!”

Snape swiftly rose from his chair and flounced out of the door, leaving Harry to consider his parting words. Perhaps staying with the Dursleys would’ve been better, Harry thought sombrely. At least he was used to the punishments they inflicted upon him, the starvation, the occasional swat at the back of his head. Harry had no clue what punishments Snape could have in store for him outside of Hogwarts territory- it wasn’t as if there were dozens of cauldrons for him to be scrubbing in his modest home.

If manual labour continued to be the professor’s preferred punishment even out of school, then a series of tedious chores could well be heading Harry’s way. That wasn’t too scary, but he couldn’t squash the idea that in the privacy of his own home Snape might push things a bit further.

Harry shuddered. Best to not push his luck here, he decided.

“Potter!” Snape’s sharp exclamation sliced through Harry’s thoughts, “what have I said about loitering?”

“Sorry sir,” Harry called back, hurrying out of the living room. He hadn’t been paying attention to where Snape headed, but the sound of shuffling in the room opposite gave away his location. It was a small kitchen with just enough room for the two of them to move about in without bumping elbows. Harry spotted some muggle technology- a microwave, an electric kettle. He had never before considered Snape’s blood status, but perhaps there was some muggle in him? Knowing how Snape was at school this seemed unlikely. He catered to the pureblood Slytherin students in a way that would suggest some alignment to their way of life, but Harry knew that other pureblood Slytherins (the detestable Malfoy for example) would rather have hives than muggle paraphernalia.

“What are you gawking at boy?”

“Nothing sir, sorry,” Harry stuck his eyes to the floor. His head felt floaty and he had forgotten to school his face and hide his surprise at Snape’s kitchen.

“Hm,” Snape was busying himself with something on the counter, but what? Harry wasn’t sure. He could only see the man in his peripheral. Perhaps a poison to force down Harry’s throat-

A plate full of food was shoved under Harry’s nose.

“Do not be expecting fine dining here Potter,” Snape gnashed, “you will eat what I give you and you will be grateful for it,” he handed the plate of pie and mash over, “this is what is available tonight. Take it or leave it.”

“Thank you very much professor, thank you,” Harry’s nerves were the only things stopping him from jumping with joy at the warm plate of food just being given to him. There was a small serving of pie- he wasn’t sure what sort yet- and a modest dollop of mash. He assumed it was left over from Snape’s own dinner, which also reminded Harry of how late it was getting.

If Dudley had been handed a portion of this small size he would have thrown a fit, but for Harry it was perfect. Especially because after two days of eating nothing (except discarded half eaten portion of chips he’d found on top of a bin) and weeks at the Dursleys receiving the bare minimum to survive, he knew that if he had a big portion of rich food he would just be sick. He’d learnt that lesson the hard way at the Burrow the previous year.

Snape sat at the table first, watching Harry suspiciously as he hesitated to follow. Harry was somewhat surprised to be allowed to eat at the same table his professor was sat at, he had half expectedd to be sent to a different room to have his meal. However, seeing how Snape refused to look away from him as he tucked into his plate, it started to make a bit more sense. Snape clearly didn’t trust him enough to leave him unsupervised.

It took Harry quite some time to get even halfway through the meal. It tasted good, as anything does when one is so ridiculously starved, but his gut was disagreeing with the unfamiliar intrusion of food. Still, he powered on through, determined to finish the whole meal. Dumbledore had demanded Snape feed him tonight but there was no guarantee Snape would reliably do so in the old man’s absence. No, Harry decided he was going to eat the whole thing and fill himself up whilst he had the chance.

“Not quite to your taste, eh Potter?” After a tense few minutes, Snape broke the silence that had settled between them as Harry ate.

“Not at all sir- I mean I like it, professor, thank you,” Harry forced down a forkful of mash one arm wrapped around his sore stomach.

“Yes. Your tortured expression and snail’s pace are really showing me how much you love my cooking,” Snape sighed, “Potter, you look as if you are hurting yourself. I think that is enough for tonight.” Suddenly the remaining food had disappeared, and the plate (now sparkling clean) floated serenely into an open cupboard.

“Hey!” exclaimed Harry, “my food!”

“Did you imagine your little performance would get you a better meal?” Snape’s tone was dry, bordering on disdain. “My duty is only to keep you safe from Black for three weeks, not to indulge your every whim. If you were waiting for coddling, you’ll find no such thing here.”

He turned away, the faintest flick of his wand snuffing out the candlelight above the table. “Eat faster next time. I will not put up with your kicked puppy act. Your options are what I serve you or nothing at all.”

Harry felt devastated. The joy that had rushed through him when he was handed the meal had turned into a putrid disappointment. He made sure to note for the future that he had to eat quick with Snape or risk losing the food altogether, however, he wasn’t sure how this would work with his delicate stomach.

“Follow me, boy, let me show you to your… quarters.” Snape said the last word so sarcastically Harry half expected to be led to a doghouse, or perhaps a hole in the ground, or even worse a cupboard. Instead, he trailed behind his professor up the stairs and into the first room on the left.

The room was small, modest by any measure, but to Harry it might as well have been a suite at the Ritz. A narrow bed sat neatly against the wall, its blankets tucked so tightly they looked professionally done. There was a real wardrobe, an actual desk with drawers, and a single lamp casting a warm glow over everything. The window was clean, with patterned green curtains and thankfully, no bars.

It smelled faintly of some sort of cleaning solvent, the sort of scent that clung to every corner of the uptight professor’s house. The floorboards were bare except for a small rug near the bed, but there was space to move, space to breathe. There was no sign that anyone else had ever used the room except for a lack of continuity in the paint on the wall. Some rectangular areas were a shade darker than the rest of the walls, suggesting that for a time period something had hung, protecting certain parts from sun bleach.

“You will be staying here,” Snape spoke formally, “I expect you to keep the room in good condition.” Harry nodded affirmatively. “Good. Additionally, the bathroom is the room at the end of this corridor,” Snape gestured in the general direction he was referring to, “and my own room is opposite. You are not to enter my quarters unless there is an emergency. If I find out you have betrayed this order, you will not like what happens next. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, Snape sighed.

“Boy, at least offer me the respect of providing verbal answers.”

Harry spoke at once, rectifying his mistake. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm,” of course Snape didn’t praise Harry’s obedience. The professor was mid-exit from the room when something clicked on his face, as if he remembered something. “Potter. Where are your belongings?”

Harry gulped. He had forgotten himself until this point, swept away in the absurdity of being brought to Snapes house. “I- I’m sorry sir, but I don’t know.” Snape threw his head back in frustration with Harry’s answer, so to stop the impending lecture Harry jumped into an explanation. “I left my aunt and uncle’s and then I was sat on a curb, but then a dog- massive dog, huge dog- came out of nowhere and was stalking towards me really weirdly. Sir, the dog was huge! So I sort of…” he began to trail off a bit, “I sort of ran away. And forgot my trunk and my owl’s cage- she wasn’t in it though. Sir? Will my owl be able to find me here?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, pausing to gather himself before responding. “Yes, Potter you imbecile, your owl will find you here as that is the purpose of an owl. As for your things, you will have to make do as you are tonight. I will see what I can do tomorrow.”

With that, Snape turned and flounced out of the room, the door slamming itself shut after him.

After moments pause, Harry shook off his trousers and climbed into the small bed. Even after defeating Voldemort three times previously, he was certain that it had been the strangest day of his life. To think that morning he’d woken up in some random muggle town, certain that he was to be expelled from Hogwarts. Although he’d avoided such a dire fate, he sadly didn’t feel that happy considering what the next few weeks had in store for him. But he’d survived the Dursleys for ten years prior to Hogwarts- how bad could three weeks with Snape be?

When the light from the hallway finally went out, Harry curled tighter under the blanket. His stomach growled quietly, but he pressed his arm against it, as if he could silence the noise before Snape heard. It was stupid to feel hungry after being given real food for once. It was his own fault for not eating fast enough. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend the hollowness was just nerves and not the familiar ache of going to bed empty again.

Slowly, exhaustion won out. His stomach still ached, but the promise of sleep was too strong to fight. For now, at least, beneath the fresh, warm sheets, he could pretend he was safe.

Chapter Text

Hoot hoot.

Harry woke to the gentle sounds of an owl somewhere nearby his window. His first thought was to let Hedwig in after her night’s hunt, but as he scrambled to look out of his window, he saw it was just some other owl swooping into the building. Dropping his head back to his pillow, Harry considered himself for a moment.

His eyes felt sticky and his head heavy from the kind of sleep that came only after sheer exhaustion. For a long moment he lay still, staring up at the low ceiling, blinking slowly. Then, all at once, the night before came back to him along with a horrible lurching sensation. The alleyway, Snape, Apparition and Dumbledore. Spinner’s End.

For all his inner turmoil surrounding Snape’s home, he’d actually had a decent night’s sleep. The bed was comfortable and the room warm, and he had been undisturbed throughout the night. Even better, nobody had come banging on his door at 6 a.m. demanding he cook bacon and eggs.

Thinking of food poked that ever present hollow feeling in Harry’s gut. From the looks of the bright light creeping through his new green curtains, the day had long since started and Harry was at risk of upsetting Snape’s food schedule yet again, for the second time in twenty-four hours. Groaning, Harry pushed himself up and out from under his covers. Hopefully Snape would allow him just a bit of breakfast despite his late start.

His feet had just made contact with the rug lying under his bed when Harry realised something: there was a trunk in the room. Specifically, his trunk! He scrambled forward, half expecting it to be a trick, but when his fingers brushed the familiar worn leather all he felt was relief. Popping the case open he checked everything was as he left it.

He never thought he’d be relieved to see his Dudley hand-me-downs but after a few days in the same clothes he was ecstatic to see those parachutes of fabric. He stripped himself and redressed in the baggy but clean garments. For a second, a ghastly thought popped into Harry’s head. The trunk hadn’t just appeared in Harry’s room, surely. Someone must’ve put it there. But the only other person who was aware of his missing trunk was Snape.

Snape. The most vile man Harry had ever encountered (bar Voldemort of course, Harry still had some sense).

There was no way that Snape would have gone out either late at night or early in the morning to hunt for Harry’s missing belongings out of the kindness of his heart. It was literally impossible as Snape had no kindness in his heart. Which could only mean he’d done it for some darker reason. Panic bubbled in Harry’s chest. He yanked the clothes back out of the trunk and started shaking them, half expecting a puff of poisonous powder to rise from the folds. After several minutes of frantic shaking, Harry stopped, breathing hard. A flash of reason returned. Snape wasn’t a prankster. He wouldn’t waste his time hexing Harry’s socks. That wasn’t his style. No, if Snape had fetched the trunk, it was for something worse.

He’d use it as proof. Proof that Saint Potter was as ungrateful and spoiled as Snape always claimed. Snape would be waiting, waiting like a snake in the grass, for Harry to act like he didn’t appreciate it, so he could sneer and tell Dumbledore how impossible the boy was. It fit too perfectly with everything Snape already thought about him.

Harry swallowed and made up his mind. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction. He’d be grateful… overly grateful, if he had to be. Polite, respectful, obedient, even if the thought of Snape standing in his room at night made him shiver and want to gag. If Snape wanted proof he was an ungrateful brat, Harry would make sure he got the opposite. He’d be the picture of good behaviour, no matter how much it made his stomach turn.

With this newfound determination, Harry marched through the bedroom door.

His bravery only got him so far, however. Harry lingered at the top of the stairs, clutching the stair rail and listening. The house was silent except for the faint sound of pages turning somewhere below. He had no idea if he was meant to go down or wait to be summoned. At the Dursleys, going downstairs too late was a surefire way to get extra chores. He was expected to be up with the sun, cooking breakfast. If his alarm clock failed, his aunt would be tap tap tap-ing at his door before long. With Snape, he couldn’t be sure what the right course of action was at this point. Maybe not being summoned down for breakfast was part of his punishment.

After a long minute of indecision, Harry crept down the steps as quietly as he could manage. The wood groaned under his foot halfway down, and he winced, freezing on the spot.

“Potter,” came the unmistakable drawl from the kitchen, “if you are going to sneak about, at least do it properly. I could hear your footwork from the kitchen.”

Harry flinched. So much for quiet. He stepped into the doorway, trying to make himself look small. Snape was seated at the table, a mug of coffee in one hand (or Harry presumed it was coffee from the vile smell) and the day’s Daily Prophet spread neatly before him. His black eyes flicked up briefly.

“You are remarkably late to rise,” Snape said, turning a page with force. “I had begun to wonder if you intended to sleep through the entire day.”

Harry swallowed. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what time-”

Snape cut him off with a raised hand. “Excuses are unnecessary. You are awake now.”

That seemed to be the end of it. Harry lingered by the doorway, unsure whether he was dismissed or allowed to sit. His hope for some breakfast was still simmering inside, his stomach twisting painfully.

“Don’t just stand there, Potter. If you are hungry, there is bread in the rack and butter on the table. Help yourself to a slice, I will play house elf for you.”

Harry moved quickly, almost tripping over a chair leg in his hurry. He found a few slices of bread by the toaster and slid one in, watching the coils glow. The ordinary, muggle domestic sound felt so strange in Snape’s house. Harry’s curiosity about the man’s relationship with muggles piqued once again. He was fairly certain he hadn’t seen a toaster at the Burrow- the only other wizarding house he’d stayed at- and the Weasleys were pro-muggle.

When the toast popped up, he spread it thinly with butter and sat opposite the professor, trying not to scrape his knife too loudly. Snape did not look up, eyes fixed on the newspaper. The only sounds were the crackle of paper and Harry’s cautious chewing. The toast disappeared slowly, but Harry was able to eat the whole thing without interruption. His stomach growled, loud enough that he feared Snape might hear. He wanted another slice desperately but had no idea if that would be allowed. At Privet Drive, asking for seconds had earned him nothing but sneers. With Snape, the risk felt even worse, and the man had specified that he was allowed to help himself to a slice not multiple.

Snape folded his paper with a soft rustle. “Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said at once.

“Good. You are an impossibly slow eater, Potter. Try to keep to a reasonable hour tomorrow. I will not have the entire morning wasted on your breakfast.” Snape stood, carried his mug to the sink, and vanished through the doorway without another word.

Harry remained where he was, the echo of the man’s footsteps fading down the hall. In this moment of privacy, Harry collected the crumbs from his plate on his index finger and pushed them into his mouth. It wasn’t much of a breakfast, but at least it had been something. He decided it was best not to push his luck.

Harry had just finished rinsing his plate when footsteps returned in the hallway. Snape entered the kitchen again, a roll of parchment and a couple of quills tucked under one arm.

“Since you are well-rested, fed and watered,” Snape said, setting the materials on the table, “you will  begin your first task. Sit.”

Harry obeyed quickly, lowering himself into the same chair he had used for breakfast.

Snape unfurled the parchment, the edges curling back toward themselves as if trying to escape his grasp. “You will write a foot-long essay explaining what you did to your aunt, what spells you used, where you found such spells and why it was wrong. When you are finished, you will alert me so I can review it. I expect legible handwriting and coherent thought. You are capable of at least that, I hope.”

Harry stared at him, stomach twisting again. “You want me to write about Aunt Marge?”

Snape’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is there another aunt you assaulted this summer?”

“No, sir. I just,” Harry hesitated. “I don’t really know what happened.”

Snape’s expression didn’t shift. “So you claim. Regardless, you will reflect on the incident and what it reveals about your lack of discipline. If your answers are not adequate, you will write it again and again until I feel you are being truly honest. Begin.”

Harry’s stomach twisted tighter. He had no idea what counted as ‘adequate’ in Snape’s book, but he was sure it involved misery on his part.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He thought back to that evening. Although he was definitely angry, he couldn’t recall making the decision to blow his aunt up like a giant pufferfish. He wasn’t sure what spell that could even be. Maybe an engorgio? But she hadn’t just gotten bigger and remained proportional, her torso had swollen up with air while her hands and feet stuck out (still tiny) at odd angles. Maybe it didn’t matter whether he’d meant it or not. He had lost control. He’d let his anger take over and look what had happened.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered, lowering his gaze.

“Good.” Snape turned toward the door, but paused as Harry blurted, “Professor?”

Snape stopped, one hand resting on the doorframe. “What now?”

Harry had decided now was a good a time as any to show off his good behaviour and gratitude. “I just wanted to… thank you. For getting my trunk back.”

A small silence stretched between them. Snape’s face remained impassive.

“It was a matter of practicality,” he said curtly. “You’ll need your things if you’re to stay here. Don’t mistake necessity for kindness.”

He swept from the room without another word.

Harry stared after him for a long moment before turning to the blank parchment. The quill in his hand felt heavy. What was there to say? That his aunt had insulted his parents until he couldn’t stand it? That he’d gotten angry and something inside him had snapped? None of that sounded like an adequate justification. It just made him sound cruel or even dangerous. But… that was precisely what Snape wanted wasn’t it? To prove Harry’s cruelty. Snape had said that Harry would be there until he’d provided what the professor believed to be a suitable answer. In reality, the man wanted proof that he was a spoiled, arrogant brat and if that was what it took to get through this punishment faster, Harry would give it to him.

Harry put quill to parchment and began writing. He wrote about how vile he had acted to his aunt and even her dogs. How he hadn’t even been kind enough to let Ripper use him as a chew toy, and how he had so rudely dismissed all of Aunt Marge’s concerns about his schooling and behaviour at home. Then he wrote about how Aunt Marge had spoken badly about Harry’s parents, equated Lily Potter to one of her bulldog bitches, but how he still should not have blown her up! Harry knew that Snape would love to speak badly about his father and felt that using such bad-mouthing as grounds for assault would not go down well with the professor.

Despite all his admissions of guilt, Harry was still unable to meet Snape’s criteria of explaining what spell he used on Aunt Marge and how he learnt it. He really had no idea. He wrote his engorgio theory and hoped that would do.

After an hour or so, Snape returned to the kitchen to look over the essay.

Snape closed the door behind him with a soft thud and crossed the room. His expression was unreadable. Without a word, he extended one pale hand, and Harry quickly passed the parchment over.

Snape read in silence.

The quiet stretched on, broken only by the faint scratch of parchment as he turned the sheet. Harry tried not to fidget, but his knee bounced under the table anyway. Every few seconds he caught himself wanting to speak, to explain that he’d done his best, that he had tried, but each time the look on Snape’s face kept him silent.

When Snape finally lowered the essay, his brows were drawn together in that particular frown Harry had come to dread during Potions lessons. “Engorgio,” he repeated, voice low.

Harry stammered, terrified. “I-I think so, sir. I mean, I don’t know any other spell that would make someone… you know… swell like that.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You think so.”

Harry’s throat felt tight. “I’m sorry, sir. I just don’t remember doing it. I was angry, really angry, and then it just… happened.”

“That,” Snape said sharply, placing the parchment flat on the table, “is not an acceptable answer. Spells do not simply happen. You cast them.”

Harry’s face burned scarlet. He stared down at his hands, wishing he could disappear. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “Sorry.”

Snape’s tone grew colder and his expression stonier. “Do not apologise. Instead seek to understand properly. You will learn nothing from vague remorse. You claim you cannot recall what incantation you used- fine. Then perhaps you can tell me where you learned such a spell.”

“I didn’t learn it anywhere,” Harry said quickly. “I mean, I’ve never used engorgio before. I thought maybe… it slipped out.”

Snape gave a short, humourless bark of a laugh. “Slipped out. As though you keep an arsenal of hexes rattling about in your otherwise empty head, ready to fly off at the slightest prod of your temper.”

Harry winced. He wanted to protest that it wasn’t like that, that he didn’t mean for it to happen, but the words tangled up in his throat. Every excuse sounded weak and childish, and he wasn’t prepared to present himself as such to Snape. He took a deep breath and remembered his resolution of good behaviour.  “I’ll try to remember better next time,” he spoke clearly, looking directly at his professor.

“See that you do.” Snape tapped the parchment once with his wand and the essay combusted into a flurry of black ash. “Your reflections are serviceable at best, though I suspect your honesty is superficial. Your remorse appears to stem from being caught, not from understanding the gravity of your actions.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “I am sorry,” he said again, but it came out smaller than he meant it to. He cleared his throat quickly, trying to pass off his meekness as a tickle in his throat.

“Be that as it may, I will expect a revision tomorrow. One foot again. This time, attempt to think before you write. You may have convinced your little admirers at school that you are above consequence, but that attitude will not serve you here.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I will shift my approach with you post-lunch seeing as though you are so far incapable of expressing a true examination of your actions and motives. Perhaps a session of newt eye slicing will create the right atmosphere for you to engage in some deeper self-reflection. Wash your hands and clear the table.”

The mention of food startled Harry; he had been able to put hunger from his mind, ignoring the pain until that moment. “Lunch, sir?”

Snape gave him a flat look. “You cannot work properly if you faint from hunger. Do as I have asked.”

Harry scrambled to wash his hands, keeping a suspicious eye on his professor. Snape flicked his wand, and a loaf of bread and a packet of thinly sliced ham floated from a cupboard and landed neatly on the counter. He moved with the same brisk precision he used in the classroom, each movement purposeful without so much as a glance at Harry.

Apprehensive, Harry stood awkwardly by the table, watching as the professor assembled two sandwiches.

“Sit,” Snape ordered shortly, setting a plate in front of him. He poured himself a cup of tea and took the seat opposite. “Eat.”

Harry quickly obeyed. The first few bites were blissful, but he still knew he had to pace himself if he didn’t want to upset his stomach. He slowed down, chewing carefully. Snape’s eyes flicked up once, assessing.

“I assume, Mister Potter, from our meals together thus far, that you are unfortunately an unnaturally slow eater,” he said dryly, turning a page in the book that had appeared beside his plate.

Harry nodded, continuing to nibble at the sandwich.

“Hm. Strange how I have never noticed you have such a trait whilst at Hogwarts.”

“I have to keep up with my friends,” Harry justified. Truthfully, even though his stomach quickly became accustomed to Hogwarts serving sizes, Harry always had a difficult time allowing his stomach to adjust after weeks suffering starvation at the Dursleys. It was easier the previous year as he’d been at the Burrow prior to returning to school so his struggle hadn’t been so public, but first year he had eaten himself sick a few times within the first few weeks.

Snape finished his whole meal before Harry had managed to have half. As his professor rose to his feet, Harry instinctively wrapped his arm in front of his plate with his remaining sandwich and tightened his grip on the one he was holding.

Snape raised his eyebrows, looking at him quizzically for a second before resetting his well-practiced expression of stone. “At this rate, Potter, you will still be here come dinner,” he said dryly, wiping his hands and magicking his plate clean. “I have tasks to attend to in the garden shed. Do not touch anything that does not belong to you. When you are finished, wash your plate and remain here until I return.”

“Yes, sir.”

The kitchen door closed behind him, and silence settled again. Harry glanced down at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate, grateful that Snape hadn’t vanished it away this time. His stomach still churned faintly, but for Harry hunger was a reliable thing: it always came back sooner or later.

What if Snape decided he didn’t deserve dinner tonight? Or he got bored of Harry’s slow pace and vanished half his meal again? What if writing the essay wrong meant no food at all? The thought made his chest tighten with anxiety. He knew already from the night before that Snape had no issue taking food. He couldn’t trust the man to keep the steady meals that he’d been allowed so far coming.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry wrapped the remaining half of his sandwich in a napkin, slid it into his pocket, and rose quietly. His footsteps on the stairs sounded deafening in the still house, but Snape didn’t call out. He crept into his room, pulled open his trunk, and tucked the sandwich deep beneath his folded Dudley-sized T-shirts.

Just in case.

It was a shame he had to leave the food store he’d built at Privet Drive behind during his escape. He’d built a collection of non-perishables, much more helpful than half a sandwich which would go off by the next day. Harry vowed to start building his stock again wherever he could. At least he knew he would be having something to eat that night even if dinner was withheld.

A quick flush of the toilet and a brief spell running the bathroom tap created an alibi suitable to justify Harry’s departure from the kitchen. When he came back downstairs, Snape was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Good. Then we will continue your education elsewhere.” Snape gestured toward the back door. Harry could see a shed-like building in the back garden. Snape continued, his tone low and smooth. “To my potions laboratory. Perhaps a few hours of real work will encourage some honesty.”

Harry had been at it for nearly half an hour, and the sight before him was nothing short of grotesque. A shallow tray of cloudy liquid sat under his nose, filled with pale newt eyes that quivered every time he moved his knife. The smell was sharp and fishy, and his own reflection wobbled faintly in the surface like something trapped underwater. Across the shed, Snape was bent over his own cauldron, stirring with slow precision. A low simmering sound filled the small space, mingling with the faint buzz of summer insects outside. The shelves were lined with jars of preserved roots, collections of bezoars, and things Harry didn’t care to identify.

“Make sure you are being careful with the membranes,” Snape said without looking up. “If you rupture them, they’re useless.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered. His knife slipped again, slicing too deep. The liquid in his tray went slightly milky. He winced.

Snape sighed. “I do hope your inability to follow basic instruction isn’t contagious.”

Harry bit back a retort. He was struggling a bit to focus on the tiny newt eyes; they had a circumference of what must’ve been just a few millimetres and Harry’s poor vision didn’t allow him the clarity needed to slice them precisely.  Everything close to him blurred slightly, forcing him to squint. His eyes ached from the strain. Blinking heavily, Harry looked away from his work, trying to get his eyes to focus on something farther away to ease the strain. He looked at his professor, suddenly curious.

“Professor,” he began, “what potion are you making?”

“Do not try to spark conversation with me to avoid your own work.” The man spoke coolly. Harry grimaced and turned back to his tray, deciding to work through the ache. After a moment, Snape spoke again, voice indifferent. “The hospital wing requires much action from the school’s potion master, currently being myself.” He tapped the rim of his cauldron with his wand, sending a faint shimmer across the potion’s surface. “Madam Pomfrey’s stores must be replenished before September. I am not, contrary to the luxury some of your other teachers are allowed, free to spend my summers basking in idleness.”

Harry glanced up from his tray. Snape wasn’t looking at him, but the words still made something twist in Harry’s chest. He hadn’t thought about what Snape did over the summer. In fact, he hadn’t really imagined him existing outside Hogwarts at all. And now here he was, interrupting all that work, taking up his time.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

“For what?” Snape asked, still not looking up.

“For… keeping you from your work.”

The professor froze for just a fraction of a second, then resumed stirring. “If I considered you an inconvenience, Potter, I would not have agreed to this arrangement. Part of my work is also safeguarding my students. Now stop trying to distract yourself and focus on your task.”

Harry nodded quickly, though his vision was blurring worse now. He tried to blink it clear, but the newt eyes wobbled like pale beads under his knife. Another one burst with a faint pop.

“That’s the fifth in a row,” Snape snapped, abandoning his own work and striding over. “Are you attempting to puree them?”

“No, sir! I’m trying, it’s just-”

“Just what?” Snape leaned down, eyes narrowing. Harry instinctively hunched over the tray. “Is the concept of precision beyond your grasp, or are you truly this inept?”

“I can’t tell what I’m doing wrong!”

“You’re bursting them, that’s what you’re doing wrong,” Snape sassed Harry, pointing out the obvious. Harry frowned, hating being treated like such a fool. His professor ignored him and continued. “Show me how you are cutting them and perhaps I can identify the issue.”

Starting on the next eye, Harry fumbled around not even able to accurately pinch it to hold it in place. Squinting, he finally aimed his knife at what he hoped wasn’t the membrane but pop- the eye burst again. Harry looked up at Snape helplessly, eyes watering slightly from the strain.

Snape paused, studying him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Harry fought the urge to look away.

“Your vision has worsened,” Snape said at last, more an observation than question.

Worsened, Harry snarked in his head, as if it had ever been fine to begin with. Not wanting to kick up a fuss, Harry nodded a bit in confirmation before reaching for the next eye. Snape raised his hand to halt him mid-act.

The man exhaled slowly through his nose. “Of course it has.” He straightened. “Put down the scalpel before you blind yourself as well. You can prepare the flobberworm mucus instead. Larger samples, and less delicate. Even you should manage that.”

With a flick of Snape’s wand, ingredients began to rearrange themselves around the room. Harry moved to the new task without protest, relieved to see that the pale flobberworm strips in the next tray were, in fact, much easier to make out. After a brief explanation about what to do from his teacher, Harry got to work removing the mucus. As gross as it was, Harry was pleased with his new job. It was much easier and he immediately found success, proudly holding his work up for Snape to inspect. Snape gave him a single clipped nod of approval.

“Finally, it seems we have found a way to make you useful,” the professor confirmed his success causing Harry to smile up at him for a second before remembering himself. As Harry continued separating the rubbery pieces, Snape spoke again, tone clipped but quieter. “We will arrange a visit to a Muggle optician. I assume you have a muggle prescription currently?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Er… yes, sir. The Dursleys took me when I was younger.” Harry remembered the day well. Aunt Petunia had finally decided to get him glasses following one too many smashed pieces of crockery. The pair of circular glasses Harry still sported were the cheapest available, Aunt Petunia fully ignored the store clerk’s attempt to upsell, but he loved them, nonetheless. At first, they had made the world as clear as anything again, but that was years ago and now- well they were still better than nothing, but Harry was struggling as much as anything again.

“Good.” Snape turned back to his cauldron. “Then I will make the call. It would hardly do to have you ruining my ingredients for the rest of the summer.”

Harry wasn’t sure if it was an insult or something else entirely, so he just nodded and returned to his work, feeling oddly lighter for the first time that day.

Following another two hours of careful measuring and stirring, Harry’s back ached and his eyes burned. Snape had said little after the incident with the newt eyes, though Harry could feel his presence nearby, quiet, watchful, occasionally muttering under his breath as he labelled vials.

At long last, Snape set down his ladle and said, “That will do for now. You may return to your room and complete some schoolwork before dinner. Is it too much to expect that you have already made a start on them?”

“I have started my History of Magic, Potions and Transfiguration work, sir,” Harry said matter-of-factly, proud to prove his teachers view of him as lazy wrong.

“Hm.” Snape refused to properly acknowledge Harry positively, as per usual. “I will be downstairs making dinner whilst you work, so I will be available if you have any queries.” He opened the door to the shed that housed his potion lab, motioning for Harry to leave along with him. “Considering you’re staying in a potions master’s home, I expect your potion work to not only be completed above your regular abysmal standard but in fact, to a superior standard than any of your other classmates. Do you understand me, Potter?”

Harry gulped, following his teacher out of the room. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes. Off you go then.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. His shoulders sagged with relief as he slipped back into the house, scrubbing his hands clean at the sink before heading upstairs. His room felt almost cosy now compared to the shed: the air cooler, the sheets on the bed still faintly smelling of detergent. He sat at the desk with his pile of textbooks, tugging one toward him at random. A History of Magic. The words blurred almost instantly.

He rubbed his eyes and sighed. It wasn’t just the small print, it was even worse than normal because of the earlier strain. His glasses really were too weak now. If Snape managed to get him an appointment with a Muggle optician, that would help, but then…

How would he even pay for it?

He had a small pouch of wizarding coins tucked at the bottom of his trunk. Harry scrambled to check what remained in it, hoping for a fair amount considering he hadn’t spent a lot of what he’d gathered from his vault the previous year. In his pouch were a fair few Galleons, some Sickles- but they’d be useless in a Muggle shop. Maybe Snape could exchange them for him? Or maybe Snape would pay for it and let Harry repay him somehow later. Though that idea made his stomach twist uncomfortably. Snape didn’t seem like the forgiving type when it came to debts. And Harry was already in so much debt to Snape. The professor had given him food and boarding even though he despised Harry. Sure, it was part of his job, and his boss had told him too, but Harry could only expect so much of the man.

Harry slumped back to his desk and his messy, half-done essay. His quill hovered over his parchment, unmoving. The longer he thought about it, the more foolish the whole thing felt. Of course, Snape wouldn’t go to a Muggle optician out of kindness. It would be practical, like he’d said. And if Harry couldn’t pay, Snape would probably find some way to make him earn it on top of the punishment Harry was already due. At this rate, Harry would be stuck in Snape’s potion lab shed removing mucus until he came of age!

From downstairs came the faint sound of a pan clattering, followed by the rich scent of something cooking. It should have been comforting, but it only made Harry’s chest tighten. At least he was probably getting dinner that night. With the sandwich in his trunk, he was quite liking his chances of going to bed full. He wouldn’t enquire about the money that night, no, he didn’t want to upset his professor into disallowing dinner. He would also make more of an effort to eat quicker so his meal wasn’t vanished.

He pressed his quill to the parchment, trying to focus on the essay in front of him, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could think of was the uneasy truth that no matter how polite he tried to be, no matter how hard he worked, he was still at Snape’s mercy. He was living in his house, eating his food, depending on him for things as simple as seeing straight. Sooner or later, that kind of debt always came due.

The next morning brought soft light through the curtains and more hooting as an owl delivered Snape’s prophet. Perhaps this was to be routine now. Harry blinked himself awake, still groggy, his thoughts half tangled in dreams.

The night before had passed quite easily. Snape hadn’t forced anymore punishment onto Harry and had only prodded him about what spell he used on his aunt once more. Truthfully, Harry felt that so far, he had been let off quite easily. No physical punishment, just detention style essays and potion prep. Not too bad at all.

Dinner had been a quiet affair. A single bowl of food, Snape sitting opposite him, yet again reading while Harry ate. There hadn’t been any scolding, no snide remarks about table manners or wasted food. Snape had simply waited. That, somehow, had been worse. Harry had tried to pick up his pace a little but was still much slower than his professor, who had finished two bowls of stew to his one. He had been careful not to make a sound, and even when the food was gone, he hadn’t dared to ask for more.

At least he’d had the sandwich.

He’d eaten the ham before bed, sitting cross-legged on his floor in the dark, and carefully wrapped the leftover bread back in its napkin. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Bread didn’t go off too fast if you kept it cool and dry, and his trunk seemed as good a place as any for that. Harry had actually gone to bed without hunger pains, feeling quite satisfied.

Breakfast was much the same. Toast, tea, silence. Snape sat with his newspaper, turning the pages sharply whenever Harry risked a glance up. After finishing his slice, Harry stood and moved to the counter, moving behind Snape’s back. He’d decided to take a small risk. Turning the tap on, he hoped that Snape would assume he was just rinsing his plate but as the water ran Harry quietly slipped an extra slice of toast from the rack and folded it into the pocket of his oversized jeans.

By the time they’d moved on to that day’s essay, Harry already knew he wasn’t going to get it right. He’d decided, after thinking it through, that maybe Aunt Marge hadn’t inflated at all. Maybe she’d floated away because of a Wingardium Leviosa. It made as much sense as anything else. He’d done that spell to feathers plenty of times, even that troll’s club once. Aunt Marge had certainly floated. That had to count for something.

Snape disagreed.

After one look at Harry’s parchment, he turned to Harry with a long-suffering sigh. “You are clearly incapable of meaningful reflection again today, Potter.”

“Do you not think it could be Wingardium Leviosa, sir?”

“No, Potter. Considering how your aunt swelled up with air I believe it to be very unlikely. Perhaps we need to schedule some Charms revision for this afternoon if you have so easily forgotten all effects of the simplest of first year spells.”

Harry’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper, but he nodded anyway. Snape continued to stare at the essay for a minute longer before setting the quill down and fixing Harry with a long, measuring stare.

“Potter,” he said slowly, “I cannot help but notice a recurring theme in your writing.”

Harry looked up, confused. “Sir?”

“These so-called reflections of yours seem to feature a great deal of… provocation.” Snape tapped the parchment with one long finger. “Both times you have written for me, you mention your aunt allowing her dog to attack you, followed by a particularly charming comparison between your late mother and one of her bulldogs.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “She was… she could be a bit mean, I guess,” he said cautiously, failing to mention just how much he despised that woman. “But I know I still should’ve controlled myself.”

Snape regarded him in silence for a moment longer. Something unreadable flickered across his face before his usual coldness reasserted itself.

“Perhaps,” he said finally, “but the world will not always offer you fairness, Potter. Your name will only get you so far if your temper pushes you further. Wizards have gone to Azkaban for less. You will have to learn to maintain composure regardless of circumstance- especially when others might be eager to exploit your temper.”

Harry nodded faintly. Snape was making a good enough point, but he wasn’t sure how he could’ve stopped his reaction. He hadn’t been excused by the Dursleys so he had to sit there and listen as his aunt struck deeper and deeper with her digs. He hadn’t even had his wand in his hand at the time and yet magic had still happened. How could he have avoided that?

“Sir?” He started to put his question to his teacher. “How should I work on my temper? I was trying to ignore her at the time but I couldn’t…” he trailed off, feeling a bit ashamed.

“There are methods that some- more emotional- wizards utilise to help shield their sense from their feelings. Perhaps you feel you could benefit from a few lessons in these techniques?”

Harry was shocked his professor was offering such a thing. “Yes, please, sir. I’d love to learn that!”

Snape hummed. “We can start revising such things this afternoon, if time allows. For now though, would I be too optimistic in wondering whether your admission of fault here tempts you to share the specific spell work used on your aunt?”

Harry was starting to get a bit grumpy with this question. “No, professor,” he said scowling, “I still can’t remember.”

Snape exhaled softly, clearly dissatisfied. “I see we are no closer to honesty than before,” he said at last. “Very well. We will shift our focus.” He stood, gathering the parchment into a neat stack before sweeping it aside. “Today, I need to make a trip into town to gather more supplies for my work. Sadly, you will not be able to join me due to the ongoing threat of one Sirius Black.” Snape stilled and looked intently at Harry. “You will not leave this house in my absence. Do you understand?” Harry nodded, eyes wide. “Good. Tomorrow, we will venture into the muggle town centre here for your optician’s appointment but for now it is wise for you to stay away from wizarding territory altogether and muggle areas without me present. While I’m out you will polish the living room furniture until it gleams and think more about how you magically assaulted your aunt. I will not have fingerprints or dust left on anything. Understood?”

Harry nodded, biting back a sigh of his own. He obviously knew how to polish furniture, in fact he could probably do it in his sleep by now. But he held his tongue as Snape led him to the living room and demonstrated his technique with exaggerated precision, explaining the importance of circular motions and proper pressure like Harry had never held a cloth before.

“I’ve got it, sir,” Harry muttered when Snape finally handed him the polish tin.

“Good.” Snape said, straightening up. “I will only be gone for an hour or two but that should be enough time for you to make sufficient progress.”

Harry nodded and then remembered something. Snape was just stepping into the fireplace to floo away when Harry exclaimed, “Sir, wait!”

“What is it boy?” Snape looked agitated at the interruption.

“One second.” Harry sprinted out the room and up the stairs, scrambling for his money pouch. He took a few galleons from the pouch and ran back downstairs to where his teacher was waiting, head tipped back, eyes closed in annoyance.

“I, um, was wondering if you could maybe change some wizard money into Muggle money for me? I’ve only got a couple of Galleons, but…” He held them out in his palm, awkwardly, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

Snape regarded the coins for a long, silent moment before taking them between his fingers. “Very well. I can have that exchanged,” he said at last, tone unreadable. “If you insist on having pocket money, I hope you will buy yourself some new and more presentable clothes tomorrow in the town centre. I do not understand you children’s obsession with having everything so baggy, but there are limits to acceptable fashion, Potter.”

Harry blinked, startled. “I don’t like baggy-”

But Snape had already turned toward the hearth, black robes sweeping behind him. “Do not make a mess while I am out,” he said, and was gone.

Harry stood there for a long moment, staring at the small ash cloud left in place of Snape, then slowly exhaled. That had gone… better than expected, really.

He bent down to pick up the polish tin and couldn’t quite stop the small, cautious smile tugging at his mouth. If Snape was willing to change the money for him, then that meant he’d soon have enough for new glasses. No more squinting at tiny handwriting or smudged potion labels. Maybe things were finally starting to go right. He set to work on the coffee table, rubbing small, careful circles into the wood until it shone all the while imagining a clearer, brighter world through new lenses. As practiced as he was, polishing the furniture took Harry no longer than 45 minutes.

He wasn’t useless at this, at least. If he worked hard enough, maybe Snape would see that. Maybe that would make things easier. Harry wandered into the kitchen and surveyed the counters. There were streaks where something gross had dried, a fine film of dust on the windowsill, and the floors, he had noticed previously, were a bit sticky in places. It wasn’t too dirty, but Harry had been trained to Petunia standards. Snape hadn’t said to clean in here, but surely he wouldn’t mind if Harry went that extra mile.

He found a bottle of cleaning spray and a cloth beneath the sink and got to work, scrubbing at the countertop until it shone. The sharp scent of the solvent filled his nose, stinging his eyes a little, but he didn’t stop. His hands began to itch and sting faintly (the cleaner was as harsh as the ones Aunt Petunia had used) but gloves had never been an option at the Dursleys’, and he didn’t even think to look for any now.

As he wiped down the last cupboard door, Harry smiled faintly to himself. It felt good, doing something right for once. Snape would see he wasn’t lazy or ungrateful. Maybe he’d even be impressed or at least, not angry.  Harry rinsed the cloth in the sink and glanced at his reddened hands. They smarted when the water hit them, but he didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for doing well.

He set everything neatly back under the sink, rubbing at his hands absently as he looked around the tidy kitchen. That had only taken him another 45 minutes. Harry didn’t know what to do next. He briefly hunted for a hoover to sort out the floors a bit more, but found nothing. Hoping he’d done enough to impress already, he fetched his History of Magic essay down to the kitchen table and began working on it again, uncertain whether he was allowed to stay in his room at this time of day.

Snape returned just as Harry was finishing up a paragraph comparing the death tolls in two goblin wars. The sound of the floo network crackling into the fireplace made him straighten up, and before he could stop himself, he hurried into the room. Snape was setting a brown paper bag down on the table, his expression as unreadable as ever as he looked inquisitively around his living room.

“I trust you managed your chores without catastrophe.”

“I did, sir,” Harry said quickly, and then continued, fishing a bit, “is it all looking alright?”

Scanning the gleaming furniture, Snape murmured, “you appear to have produced a tolerable result.”

Harry brightened. “Come and see the kitchen, sir, I did some work in there too- it’s even better!”

Harry rushed ahead into the kitchen before coming to a stop, teetering on his heels. It was completely clean, except for the history essay on the table. Snape followed him through the doorway, but the moment his eyes swept over the spotless counters, his expression darkened again. The air in the room seemed to cool.

“Remarkable,” he said softly, “far too remarkable.”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

Snape turned to him, arms folding. “You were instructed to polish furniture. Not to practice unsupervised magic. I am not in the habit of rewarding recklessness, Potter.”

Harry couldn’t believe it. He’d done a perfect job (even Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be able to find fault) and yet he still was somehow the bad guy in his professor’s eyes.

“I didn’t.” Harry’s chest tightened, he could feel a familiar anger simmering. “I didn’t use magic!”

“Really.” Snape’s tone was sharp as glass. “Then perhaps the kitchen scrubbed itself while you were polishing the table?”

“I used the cleaner under the sink!” Harry protested, heat rising in his face. “And a cloth! You can even check. I bet the cloth’s still damp.”

“Mr Potter, do not insult my intelligence! I was gone for not even two hours, and forgive me but I do not believe a boy of barely 13 years would be able to complete such a professional level of cleaning during that time.”

Harry scowled, sucking in a deep breath, about to argue his case yet again, but Snape interrupted.

Snape snapped. “If you expect me to believe that this level of cleanliness was achieved by hand, you are more deluded than I thought. Your wand. Now.”

Harry froze. “What?”

“Your wand, Potter,” Snape said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ll verify the last spells cast on it. Unless, of course, you’ve something to hide.”

“I told you, I didn’t—” But the words broke off, tangled in his throat.

Snape just held out his hand. The gesture and the sheer disbelief in his eyes made something in Harry twist painfully. His professor spoke again. “Perhaps I should’ve taken this course of action from the minute you refused to tell me what spell you used on your victim of an aunt. I was wrong to believe you would have to selflessness to admit such information independently. Even worse that I thought you would be repentant enough to not use underage magic again!”

Not listening to another word, Harry spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs. His heartbeat roared in his ears. The unfairness of it all, the fact that Snape always assumed the worst, burned hotter than the sting in his palms.

He yanked open his trunk, grabbed his wand, and hurled it down the hallway toward Snape, who had followed him partway up the stairs.

“Here!” Harry shouted, voice cracking. “Check it if you want! I don’t care if you believe me or not!”

The wand clattered against the floorboards, spinning to a stop near Snape’s boots.

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Harry looked down to his palms.

“See!” He said, holding his red and angry hands in the direction of his teacher. “I wouldn’t have rubbed my hands raw with just a couple spells, would I?” He sneered at the man whose face remained stony and marched back into his bedroom.

Then Harry’s door slammed shut behind him with a violent bang that rattled the hinges.

Harry froze, breath catching. He stared at the door, heart pounding in his throat. He hadn’t touched it. It shut on its own. His temper must have caused more magic again.

Harry sank onto his bed, burying his face in his hands. His palms still burned faintly from the cleaner, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

He hated Snape. He hated how Snape never believed him.

And worse, he hated the prickling fear in his gut that this latest burst of accidental magic would only make things worse.