Harry watched Snape examine his soup as if it might come alive. The professor cautiously took a bite and promptly gagged.

“Are you trying to poison me, Potter?” he demanded, pushing aside the bowl of canned soup and slice of bread Harry had managed to secure from Aunt Petunia. Harry wished Snape would just eat it. He didn’t always get this lucky. The Dursleys weren’t exactly starving him, but he still didn’t know from day to day how much food he was going to get, and now with two mouths to feed…

“I’ll need clothes.” Snape abruptly abandoned the topic of food and appraised Harry’s thin frame, decked out in some of Ron’s old hand-me-downs. “Perhaps those of your uncle?”

Harry smirked. “You’ve never met Uncle Vernon, have you?”

Snape stared at him, his features impassive.

Harry erased his smirk. “Never mind. His clothes wouldn’t fit you, is all. Some of Dudley’s old clothes will have to do. They won’t be your fashion of choice, but…well, they’re clothes.” He rummaged around in his wardrobe for something that wouldn’t set Snape to sneering straight off. He settled on a button-down shirt that was a few years old so shouldn’t be excessively baggy on Snape’s adult frame, and a pair of trousers that would need to be held up with a belt but were still in pretty good shape. He handed both to Snape, along with a belt and some socks for good measure, then checked to make sure the coast was clear.

“Aunt Petunia will be downstairs for a while. I don’t know how long Dudley’s new stuff will keep him occupied. You can use the loo to clean up and change. Just…um, try to hurry.”

Snape gingerly limped to the loo and closed the door behind him without a word.

A few hours later, Harry stood in the kitchen watching water boil – not out of boredom, but with interest at the way it sort of mirrored real life.  The way the bubbles started out so small, clinging to the edge of the pot, then rising and getting larger and more furious every second…well, it bore a striking resemblance to the growing rage he’d seen on Uncle Vernon’s face before Aunt Petunia had pulled him out of the kitchen to calm him down.

Only a few bits of their conversation drifted back through the kitchen, but it was enough to reveal that Aunt Petunia was trying to talk her husband out of dishing some punishment out on Harry.  Not for the sake of “the boy,” of course.  No, of course not.  It was because “those freaks” might find out.

Harry felt a familiar rise of resentment toward the Dursleys.  Would it have been so horrible for them to at least pretend to like having him around these past fifteen years?  It seemed the least they could do for Petunia’s only sister’s only son.  But instead they had to lock him up in a cupboard for ten years and literally behind bars the last five.  Not to mention the chores and the bullying.  The more he dwelt on it, the more awful memories he recalled.

The hum of the boiling water pulled him from his thoughts, and Harry welcomed the distraction of finishing dinner for the Dursleys.  The methodical adding of ingredients – a little of this, a little of that, not so measured as in Potions – helped him to clear his mind, something he sorely needed in this house.

Dinner was not a chore that he was usually made to do. Aunt Petunia actually prided herself on cooking elaborate dinners for her dear, darling Dudley. But he’d seen the opportunity to avoid his room’s current occupant and, despite Petunia’s suspicious glances, had hastily volunteered to help.

Not that he was apparently expected to entertain the man.  After getting the necessary conversation out of the way, the professor had ignored Harry for the rest of the afternoon.  Silent Snape was better than Snarky Snape, but still…if Harry had a say in the matter, he’d have voted for No Snape.

Of course, Harry’s reaction to the picture his professor made in his temporary outfit probably hadn’t helped matters.  The shirt wasn’t so bad, if you didn’t count how worn it was, but the trousers were baggy - as Harry had suspected they would be - and they were far too short for the professor.  He had looked so…un-Snape-ish.  Harry hadn’t hidden his snicker, despite Snape’s narrowed eyes.

In retrospect, Harry thought with mounting dread, perhaps he should have been a mite more careful in upsetting the man.  Unless a miracle happened, he’d be sharing sleeping quarters with him for the next two nights. All sorts of sobering thoughts entered his mind about things that Snape could to do him in his sleep. Maybe the Potions master was at this very moment hatching some elaborate plan to pay him back for every small infraction over the years.

Now completely filled with dread, he threw himself into having dinner on the table by the time a pale-faced Petunia and a purple-faced Vernon reentered the kitchen. Fast on their heels was Dudley, who plunked down at the table and without further ado, shoveled in his food as fast as possible so he could get back to his interrupted video game. Oblivious as usual, he didn’t have a clue that anything was amiss with the other three around the table.

Harry felt the tension but couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Vernon and Petunia may be angry with him for potentially bringing wizards into the neighborhood, but as long as they were feeding him and staying a reasonable distance away from him, things would be fine. Their hatred was nothing new.

Snape was the one he was worried about at the moment. The Potions professor hated him and was intelligent enough to do more harm than mere physical intimidation or empty threats would accomplish. Unlike the Dursleys, who were more talk than action, he knew from personal experience that Snape, if properly provoked, wouldn’t feel obligated to warn before striking.

By the time he was sent back upstairs, he’d imagined dozens of possible ways for Snape to exact revenge tonight, each one more horrid than the last. For the first time in years, Harry wished he could stay downstairs with his aunt and uncle.

Pausing outside his room, he took a deep breath, listened for any movement, and opened the door. The room was dark, but the outline of Snape’s motionless form could be seen on the bed.

Not willing to chance that he really had gone straight to bed, Harry pulled a flashlight from his desk drawer and inspected the floor – for what, he wasn’t sure. He felt like when he was five years old and one of Dudley’s friends had told him stories about a monster that lived in closets. Harry had, of course, slept in a dark cupboard for years by then and was really quite accustomed to it, but the idea had scared him so that for weeks he had nightmares of sharing the darkness with all sorts of terrible creatures. He’d foolishly hoped one time that going to Aunt Petunia would help. He’d learned long before then that he wasn’t loved like Dudley was, but he’d seen her soothe her own son from bad dreams, and he was still young enough to believe that things might change…that one day he would wake up and the Dursleys would love him, give him hugs, and maybe even buy him presents.

Aunt Petunia had yelled at him for waking her in the middle of the night and locked him in his cupboard for the better part of three days “to help him get over his fears.”

Harry mentally shook himself from the memory.  No use dwelling on the past, something he found himself doing a lot nowadays, ever since Sirius – NO.  He stopped himself from going there.  Of all the things he shouldn’t think about right then, his godfather topped the list.

He forced his mind back to the inspection of his room, not allowing it to wander past finding anything harmful Snape might have planted for him.  Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he pulled out a few old shirts from the wardrobe to spread on the floor for a make-shift bed.

Not used to turning in this early, he was nonetheless exhausted by the day’s events.  Before he could even start to clear his mind, he felt himself drifting into a restful sleep and the precarious world of dreams.

The sky was clear above the Quidditch pitch, and Harry felt free, basking in the sun in mid-air. He was so relaxed, it took him a moment to remember he was in the middle of a Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. Players flew in a maddening frenzy below him, and he pulled his broom higher so that they looked like bees furiously flying around their hive. He wondered absently if bees ever had wars like people did.

A cheer rang out from the crowd as Gryffindor scored, and his thoughts shifted back to the game. Harry raised his arm in a silent cheer for his teammates and scanned over the pitch for the tiny, golden snitch. It sometimes took hours to locate the elusive snitch, but this time it took Harry only minutes to see a shimmering dot slightly lower in the sky than he was. He dove straight for it and reached out his hand…

“Potter.”

Harry stopped in mid-reach. He looked around. No one was there.

“Potter!”

He looked closely at the snitch, which hadn’t moved. It hovered in front of him like it wanted Harry to catch it. “Hello?” he tentatively asked the fluttering object.

“Potter, wake up!” Harry recognized the voice now as Professor Snape’s. Why on earth would a snitch be talking to him in Snape’s voice?

Harry reached out his hand once more for the snitch. Something unbelievably strong was compelling him to catch it. Something important would happen if he did, he just knew it.

“Potter!” Harry was practically jolted off his broom. No, wait. The broom was trying to buck him off. He held on for dear life. He had to. He had to catch the snitch!

“Oow!” A sudden burst of pain in his shoulder jolted Harry awake. Snape was sitting over him, shaking him. He stopped when he saw Harry’s eyes open.

Harry let out another yelp, this time in surprise, and scooted back toward the wall. The last remnants of his dream faded away. What in Merlin’s name was Snape doing hovering over him as he slept? What was he doing here in the first place? Why wasn’t he at Hogwarts?

It came back to him, then. He hadn’t quite adjusted to being awake, but he remembered with some vagueness the events of the day before.

“Now that you’ve decided to join the waking,” Snape snarled, “You may go to your own room.”

“Huh?” Harry’s brain was still fuzzy from sleep. What was Snape going on about?

“Your own room, Potter,” Snape spoke to him like he was a child, incapable of understanding simple details. “I do not need, nor do I desire, a nursemaid.”

With that, he pulled Harry up and shoved him out of the room in one smooth motion. Harry heard the click of the door behind him as he stood in the hall, still muddled from sleep and gently swaying on his feet.

My own room? Didn’t Snape know –

Ah.

Harry wasn’t sure whether to feel indignant or embarrassed. Of course Snape wouldn’t have realized that was Harry’s room – he’d never actually told him, had he? And to think – Snape had thought he’d slept on the floor – for what – to keep an eye on him? To keep an eye out for him? Harry felt his face flush.

Well, whatever the reason, Harry’s embarrassment would be compounded tomorrow if he didn’t straighten this out right now. But more importantly, where else was he going to sleep? The Dursleys would have heart attacks if they woke up and found him sleeping in the hallway, or worse, on the freshly cleaned sofa.

Feeling a strong sense of déjà vu, Harry took a deep breath, rapped softly on the door, and opened it without waiting for a response. He closed the door quickly behind him – no sense waking the Dursleys – and took a small step inside.

Murder was written on Snape’s face as he sat up on the bed, and Harry gulped. His room had never before felt quite as small as it did right then.

“Do you have a hearing problem, Potter?” It was amazing, Harry thought, how such a quiet growl could seem so loud.

“No, sir. I…uh…” Putting thoughts together was pretty hard when one was talking to Snape while half asleep, Harry realized.

“Your eloquence astounds me, as usual.” The man rose to tower over Harry. His height alone actually wasn’t as threatening as Harry remembered. Harry may be small for his age, but he was now tall enough that he didn’t have to tilt his head too far back to meet his professor’s furious eyes. Black eyes, filled with hatred and violence… Those eyes were more threatening than anything else about the man. “Need I detail for you, Mr. Potter,” he spat, “just what I am capable of doing to your miserable existence if you persist in tormenting me with your presence?”

“No.” Harry’s ire was rising, and he clenched his teeth to stop himself from saying something that would put him in an early grave for sure. “I think I get the picture, sir.”

Snape’s eyes flashed fire. “Good. Get out.”

Harry braced himself for war, if it came to that. “This is my room. You get out.”

“I am not laughing, Potter. And I am in no mood for whatever adolescent prank you’ve concocted. I will have you know I came here to save your miserable self – a fact which I already sorely regret. Now,” he grabbed Harry roughly by the arm, “Get out!”

But his last two words didn’t have exactly the intended effect, for as soon as Harry’s arm was jerked, he let out an involuntary howl of pain. He quickly, firmly, clamped a hand over his own mouth to keep himself from making more noise and forced himself to listen for the sound of footfalls in the house.

Harry hadn’t realized just how stiff yesterday’s sore shoulder had gotten after his night on the hard floor. Snape had jarred it earlier, but now… It hurt like hell, and Harry couldn’t think of anything save the excruciating jabs of pain running through his shoulder and down his arm. He slumped against the nearest wall, holding his arm tightly against his stomach. He willed himself not to cry. Not in front of Snape.

For a long moment, Harry tried to get his ragged breathing under control. His eyes were shut tight, even as the pain slightly subsided. Snape had stopped talking, and Harry wasn’t eager to see the man’s reaction to his display. No doubt he was deciding on the best comment to make at Harry’s expense. Something about poor delicate Potter or his propensity for attracting trouble, at the very least.

Harry finally regained his composure and stood, forcing his arm back to his side, though it still throbbed. His eyes searched for something to focus on other than Snape.

Trying to draw attention from what had just happened, Harry continued the conversation. “I’m not lying.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. “This is my room. Look, there’s Hedwig’s cage, see? And my school trunk. And here…” He shuffled over to the desk and used his good arm to pull a small book from the drawer. “Hermione gave me this. It has pictures in it of me and my friends.”

Snape didn’t respond, and Harry chanced a swift glance his way.  The older man was watching Harry with narrowed eyes. Just watching him, nothing else. Or more like studying him, actually…like one might study an insect. Harry shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“So…uh, you see, I can’t leave – I don’t have another place to sleep. And I don’t have any other place where you’ll be hidden from my relatives. So…like it or not, we’re stuck sharing this room until Hedwig gets back.” He tried to sound forceful, and he cringed as his voice came out more pitiful than intended.

Snape finally spoke, but it wasn’t to acknowledge Harry’s short speech. “Your shoulder is injured,” he stated simply. His tone wasn’t harsh, but nor was it gentle. He was simply stating a fact.

Harry blinked. It wasn’t like Snape to point out the obvious.

“It’s fine,” Harry rasped out after a moment and ducked his head, his facing flushing again. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Snape’s biting tone was back, and he finally moved from his spot to step closer to Harry. “I couldn’t have the slightest concern for you or what caused this injury. My concern, such as it is, has to do with being berated by the Headmaster for harming his precious golden boy. It would not benefit me to have him reach the assumption that I either injured you or knew about it and did nothing.”

Harry stared back at him, embarrassment fading, before blurting out, “I find it really hard to believe that would keep you awake at night.”

Snape scowled. “I would rather not be kept awake all night by your antics, Potter. Take off your shirt.”

“What?” Harry backed up, arms wrapped around his middle. “No! I don’t need your help, and I’m sure as hell not letting you prod and probe me!”

“Just do it, Potter! The sooner you comply, the sooner we both can get back to sleep.”

Snape made a move for him, which Harry managed to dodge, ducking to the opposite side of the room. Snape tried once more and caught Harry by the back of his shirt, attempting to force it from his back. Harry squirmed, trying to get away from his professor’s grasp, and kicked out his legs. One of them connected with something hard, and he heard Snape gasp before Harry was shoved to the floor without warning.

“You don’t want my help – so be it! It will be entirely my pleasure to see you suffer!” Snape stalked over to the bed and lay on his side with his back to Harry, snapping the sheet over his shoulder before lying still.

Harry rubbed his bum where he had clumsily landed. For someone who was supposedly concerned with seeing to his injury, he fumed, Snape certainly didn’t seem to mind causing another.

Seething and not about to turn his back to the man, Harry lay back down on his pile of shirts and glared at the professor’s back, imagining the use of every harmful and torturous curse about which he’d ever heard.

He hated Snape. That was the one thing in his life he knew with absolute certainty would never change.

Ever.