Harry woke with a crick in his neck and, groaning, pulled his hand up to massage his sore muscles. He never thought he’d actually miss his hard, lumpy mattress, but it was a far sight better than the much harder floor.

The events of yesterday and the early morning had played over and over in his dreams, and he felt no better rested than he had several hours ago. A glance at the bed showed Snape still sleeping. Glad one of us is able to have a decent night’s sleep, he thought bitterly.

The rising sun outside Harry’s window gave him cause to get a start on the day. It was a weekday, after all, and Aunt Petunia would expect his help with breakfast before Uncle Vernon left for work. Best not to give either of them an excuse to come looking for him in his room. That thought alone propelled him out of his makeshift bed and to the toilet to get cleaned up.

Breakfast passed in a blur for Harry, distracted as he was by the night’s events. His hatred for his Potions professor had churned in his heart during the remainder of the night, and now his stomach felt like it was in knots, and there was an awful heaviness in his chest. It was a horrible feeling, one that Harry didn’t particularly like.

At some point during his and Petunia’s food preparation, Vernon and Dudley had entered the kitchen and were waiting to eat. Harry quickly put the rest of the food on the table and sat down in his usual place. They ignored him, of course, and Petunia was already going on about how proud she was of her “brave darling Dudders.” Harry had learned at the beginning of summer that because of his fluctuating size, Dudley’s school recommended that he be involved in more than one athletic program over the summer. Today that meant swimming in the morning and boxing in the afternoon. Harry found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Dudley actually did anything on those teams of his. He sure hadn’t slimmed down this summer.

The food didn’t hold any appeal for Harry just then, but he did manage to sneak his portions off his plate and into a plastic container he’d swiped from the kitchen drawer. Vernon and Petunia didn’t even notice, so focused were they on promising Dudley a new stereo system if he went to swim practice today, his least favorite activity. Harry held in a snicker at the image Dudley would make trying to stay afloat. He’d probably already scared some poor kid into thinking a real, live whale was roaming their swimming pool. That image alone lightened Harry’s mood considerably.

Finished and wanting to get a start on the after-meal cleaning, Harry moved to clear his dishes from the table. He was stopped by a hand on his wrist from the opposite side of the table, and an upward glance showed Vernon attached to that arm, a fierce gleam in his eyes.

“Not so fast, boy. We have a thing or two to discuss before I leave for work today.” Vernon’s voice was mostly calm, an unusual occurrence when talking to Harry. This might have worried Harry under normal circumstances, but today it only caused his already upset stomach to become slightly more unsettled.

Dudley left the table then to get his things for swim practice, and Petunia stood from her chair also, pausing only long enough to issue Vernon a brief warning glance before following her son from the kitchen.

Harry remained perfectly still. He didn’t know what to expect, and he sure wasn’t going to do anything that might provoke his uncle, especially if Petunia was about to leave them alone in the house together. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be grateful to his aunt for her recent role in keeping Vernon from dishing out his worst punishments…but he didn’t want her to stop, either.

“Now you listen here, boy,” Vernon started in what he probably considered his most intimidating voice. Harry couldn’t help but notice that compared to his early morning confrontation with Snape, a master in the art of fear and intimidation, Vernon came across sounding more like a sullen bully who hadn’t gotten his way. Not totally un-intimidating, but still…there were ways to get around mere bullies. Harry should know. He’d grown up with Dudley and his gang.

Vernon continued his lecture to Harry, his voice rising. “I don’t care what you’ve fooled Petunia into believing, and I don’t for one minute buy your story about more freaks in the neighborhood. I see right through your attempts to avoid your chores, and it is going to stop right now, you hear?” Vernon had half risen out of his chair during his speech, leaning forward with both hands on the table.

Harry recognized right away it might be better for him if he could keep his uncle’s temper from rising further. There was more at stake here than a few lousy chores, after all. He felt a chill go up his back at the thought of being forced outside by his uncle, only to be captured and killed by Death Eaters.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he forced himself to speak respectfully. “I’m sorry for worrying Aunt Petunia. I’ll do my chores.” He took a deep breath. It was easier figuring out how to word things just right when talking to his aunt than it was with his uncle. “Only, I was telling Aunt Petunia the truth. Sir.” He tacked on that last bit, just in case it helped. “There are...people…out there watching for me. You don’t have to worry, they’re not after you or anything…” Hmm. That was a thought Harry hadn’t considered before. They wouldn’t hurt the Dursleys to get to Harry, would they? He pushed that aside for later consideration and rushed on so Vernon wouldn’t have time to consider those implications. “But if they see me, I’m pretty sure they’ll make a scene.” No point in mentioning they most definitely would kill him, too. That would probably make Vernon all the more eager to send him outside.

Vernon didn’t look placated. If anything, he looked more angry. “That’s enough lies! You listen, and you listen well – If I get home and find those weeds have not been pulled, you’ll find out just what ‘a scene’ looks like!” Standing by now, Vernon glared furiously at Harry, clenching and unclenching his fists, but all he did was take one last swig of juice and head for the door.

He turned back once more before heading completely out the door, and looking Harry straight in the eyes, he put his best intimidation voice back on, yelled, “OR ELSE,” and stormed away, feet pounding on his way out of the house.

Harry sighed. That was about the extent of what he could do right then, he was so tired. Well, he dryly considered, I may as well invite Voldemort for a cup of tea. Why leave him out? Everybody else who despises my existence is already here. He dropped his head to the table and sat that way for several endless minutes while he considered his options.

He couldn’t go outside, that was for sure. He still didn’t know what Voldemort was planning, but he was certain from his vision and the crash that Snape was telling the truth.

Oh, yeah, the crash…

He hadn’t had a chance to think about the crash much, though he figured it was probably a setup to get him away from the house. But it puzzled Harry. Why go to all that trouble to stage an accident when Harry was already outside? And he’d been here all summer and they hadn’t tried to get to him yet. Why try now? Also – Harry thought with a shiver – how long had Voldemort known where he lived? It was no use convincing himself that he didn’t – it was obvious that he did. And if Snape knew that Voldemort knew, wouldn’t the Order? Where were they? Weren’t they guarding the house like they were last summer?

And what was the plan that had Voldemort feeling so triumphant? Most important to Harry, how did it involve him?

Harry felt like his head would explode with questions if he didn’t get some answers, and soon. Unfortunately, he had only one source of information…and he wasn’t too eager to tap into that source.

Weighing his options, however, there really was little contest. He hated the idea of being in the dreadful man’s presence, but he hated being kept in the dark even more. And he hadn’t forgotten his first Occlumency lesson with Snape last year. There had never been any love lost between them, but he still remembered that Snape had been the one to finally give him some amount of information when no one else had.

Hoping that a food offering would help loosen Snape’s lips, he brought a glass of water and the container of food back to his room. Cleaning up could wait. His relatives had left him alone in the house again, and Petunia and Dudley wouldn’t be back from swim practice for a couple hours.

When he opened his door he stopped short at the sight of a very awake Snape thoroughly examining Harry’s room. The wardrobe was wide open, both desk drawers were ajar, and even the mattress on the bed had been turned upside down.

Upon noticing Harry’s entrance into the room, Snape ceased his inspection of the window and, crossing his arms, stood up straight with a look of determination upon his face. Harry didn’t even have a chance to ask what was going on before Snape sharply demanded, “What is this, Potter? What are you trying to prove?”

Harry stood in the doorway, still holding the food and water, but now thoroughly puzzled. “Sir? I don’t understand – ”

“This, Potter!” Snape gestured all around them. “The room, the bars on the window – the locks! There is an entire line of locks on the door of this room, all latching from the outside, and a smaller door within the door, the purpose of which I can only deduce is for the passage of food!” Snape paced the floor, not looking at Harry any longer, eyes roaming over the entire contents of the room. “There is no need to explain the padlocked trunk. You never do your summer homework up to par, so it really is no surprise that you would lock your books away from sight while you idle away your summer. Or is there something other than books in that trunk?” He stopped his pacing to give Harry a piercing stare. “What are you trying to hide, Potter?”

“N-nothing!” Harry was taken aback. He’d been so focused on getting back to his room to question Snape that he hadn’t expected an interrogation going the other way. With everything else on his mind, he’d almost forgotten his worry over the man’s perception of the bare room.

Finding no more response forthcoming from a speechless Harry, Snape continued his tirade. “And the wardrobe!” He reached in, grabbing a handful of clothes and throwing them at Harry’s feet. “Not a decent pair of clothing amongst these rags – if that is even a proper description for these…things.” Snape’s face had twisted into a disgusted grimace, as he held one of Dudley’s old trousers far away from him before throwing it atop the pile of clothes on the floor.

He stalked over to Harry then and towered over him just as he had the night before. “Out with it, Potter! NOW! What do you hope to gain by passing this prison cell off as your bedroom?”

“I…” Harry didn’t know what to say, so he stuck with the truth. “This is my bedroom. I’m not making anything up, I swear.”

“And while we’re at it, might I remind you that, summer or no, I am still your professor. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘professor’ at all times. Is that understood?”

“Yes…sir.” Harry set his lips in a thin line.

“Good.” Snape’s eyes said he felt anything but truly satisfied. “Now tell me the truth, Potter!”

“I am telling you the truth. Sir.” Harry exploded, “I live here. This is my room. My room! It’s not much, but it’s mine, and thanks a whole heaping lot for messing it all up! It’s really –”

“Respect, Potter!” Snape interrupted, infuriated. “I expect for you to speak to me with respect, even when lying through your teeth!”

“Sorry. Thanks a whole heaping lot for messing up my room, sir.”

The two glared at each other across the small space. Harry knew Snape wasn’t going to back down, but he wasn’t about to let the greasy git win, either. The battle of wills turned into a battle of glares, and Harry gained a new appreciation for the old Muggle saying, ‘if looks could kill…’ He’d bet anything Snape’s glare had killed someone during his lifetime – probably some poor Hufflepuff first year.

Snape finally broke the charged silence with a low, angry hiss. “I do not appreciate being lied to, Potter. You will tell me the truth…now.” His quiet, menacing words were more frightening than any yell would have been.

Harry disliked a great many things, but being called a liar when he was telling the truth was one of the worst. He matched Snape’s quiet tone, though his lack of practice didn’t render him quite as intimidating. “I’ve already told you the truth, professor. My aunt and uncle put me in this room because they hate my guts, just like you do. They put the bars on the window. They put the locks on the door. And they padlocked my trunk so I wouldn’t be able to touch any of my magical things while under their roof! Those are my clothes, too – my cousin’s castoffs because I’m not important enough to them to buy new clothes for! Don’t you get it!? I’m not the spoiled, pampered prince you think I am! I’m just Harry – the burden my relatives never wanted!” He ended his tirade yelling at his professor.

Snape threw up his hands. “You’re delirious, Potter. I have no patience for these games or your pathetic teenage angst. If you insist on living like a pauper in your own self-pitying make-believe world, by all means, continue. You’ll get no sympathy from me.”

He noticed the food and water Harry still held. “I presume these are my rations?” Snape snatched both from a still-fuming Harry, sloshing water out of the glass in the process. “My sincerest gratitude,” he sneered insincerely and sat down at the desk to eat, his rigid back to Harry.

Well, it was just fine with Harry if Snape was done talking. Harry had had quite enough, thank you very much. His quest for answers forgotten, he left the room with the intent of getting as far away from Snape as possible. Again.

It was amazing, Harry reflected several hours later, how something as mundane as cleaning could calm one’s nerves. He’d been on edge for so long that it was kind of nice to pour his nervous energy into washing, dusting, and polishing. Upon discovering that it actually made him feel better for once, he had attacked his chores with vigor, and already those that didn’t require him to step foot outside were just about done.

He took a break to peer out the window for any suspicious activity. He hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary on the other half dozen occasions he’d looked, but that didn’t stop him from looking again.

The scene outside the window was so incredibly…ordinary. The sun was bright in the sky, and a light breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees, making it the perfect day for several of the neighbor children to play in their yards. Harry could see nothing menacing about the calm, happy scene – no Death Eaters lurking in the shadows, no enemies ready to pounce.

He had returned to cleaning by the time he heard the sound of Aunt Petunia’s car pulling up to the house, followed soon after by the bang of the opened front door. Glancing up, he saw Dudley pound up the stairs with a large package in his arms.

Harry continued working, knowing that his aunt liked him better when she could see him accomplishing something. Well, she didn’t like him better, really. If anything, it was maybe that she disliked him a little bit less.

By the time Petunia made it through the door with a bag of groceries in hand, Harry had finished the living room. She stood for a moment, looking at him, before moving toward the kitchen. “Come. Help me put the groceries away.”

Aunt Petunia wasn’t talkative, but she kept sneaking glances at Harry as they worked in the kitchen. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she still worried about there being wizards in the neighborhood? Or – Harry felt mounting dread – did she know something about Snape being here? Maybe she heard them last night. He guessed the only reason the Dursleys either hadn’t heard them in the night or hadn’t bothered to check on him was because they were used to his occasional nightmare. Vernon used to bang on his door every night he made a peep, but Harry supposed that once it started happening more and more often, the Dursleys learned to tune it out. That, or maybe Vernon finally realized that threatening Harry wasn’t doing any good.

Now he was worried. What if Petunia, the slightly less confrontational of the two, had heard them? She was also more observant than her husband – which admittedly wasn’t saying much – so if she heard, might she have realized there were two voices? Well, he sure couldn’t ask her. Whether she had or hadn’t heard, she obviously hadn’t said anything to Vernon. He’d have stormed right in there and demanded Snape out of his house. Harry wasn’t sure if the picture of Uncle Vernon trying to intimidate Snape with his “or else” bit was funny or frightening.

“You’re done here, boy.” Petunia’s neutral voice cut into his thoughts, startling him. “Go on to your room until dinner. I don’t need you underfoot all afternoon.” That said, she turned back to the pan she had taken out and began cutting ingredients for what looked to be the beginnings of a stew.

Harry’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and the smell of food made him realize just how much of an appetite he had worked up from cleaning all morning long.

“Er…Aunt Petunia?” He chanced cautiously.

She turned her head, eyes just the slightest bit narrowed.

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s almost noon. I was wondering if I might have a bit to eat.”

She only paused a moment before removing a jar from the pantry door. “Here. Now go.”

Harry examined his prize on his way up the stairs. It was a small jar of canned peaches. Not bad, but he doubted it would satisfy his hunger for long, either. He hoped Snape had enough in his stomach to last until after dinner, because he really, really didn’t want to have to share.

Snape was sitting up on the bed, seemingly deep in thought, when Harry reentered his bedroom. The man didn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge him, which was just fine with Harry.

The room was still in disarray. Snape hadn’t made a move to clean up any of the mess he had made earlier, and Harry figured that based on what he knew about the rigidly organized and structured Potions master, he’d probably left it that way just to spite Harry.

Settling down on the pile of shirts that had been his bed the night before, Harry got to work opening the jar. It took some doing, as it was sealed tight, but he finally unscrewed the lid and deeply breathed in the scent of peaches. He grinned in anticipation. Lacking any utensils, he picked out one slippery wedge with his fingers and popped it into his mouth, savoring every bite.

He continued this way for several minutes before he noticed Snape watching him with what could only be described as disgust. Harry looked down at himself. He hadn’t spilled anything. What was Snape’s problem? He wiped his sticky hand on a shirt nearby, and Snape grimaced.

So that was it. The devil inside Harry grinned. He stuck his fingers back in the jar, careful to get as much of the peach juice on his hand as possible, and slurped a wedge into his mouth. Making sure to slop it around a bit and open his mouth wide a few times between chews, he wiped his hand back on the shirt, then on his own for good measure.

Snape’s disgusted features had morphed into something akin to nausea.

Harry was fully enjoying himself by the time he finished his last bite and slurp, though Snape had looked away by then. No matter. He knew Snape could still hear him. Harry smacked his lips, loudly, one last time before setting aside the empty jar and settling in for what was sure to be one long afternoon.