"Where. Is. He?"

Remus had never looked so angry, Albus decided. Not when Sirius tried to use him for a prank that almost killed Severus in their fifth year. Not when Sirius' innocence couldn't be proven, once Peter Pettigrew escaped again, in Harry's third year. And not even when he'd learned it was Delores Umbridge who had set Dementors on Harry last summer. But now, here, it looked like he was fully capable of losing control of his wolf, and Albus, for the first time since meeting Remus as a boy of a mere eleven years, was afraid of him.

A bit.

"He is well, Remus," he said, knowing that was both more and less than the truth.

"That tells me nothing! It has been more than three weeks. Three weeks since he disappeared, that we know of, and all you tell me is he's well? Is he still in You-Know-Who's grasp? Tell me that, at least."

"He is free of the prison, at least, Remus." He offered the man - who'd burst in here moments ago, already shouting - a boiled sweet. Remus didn't even deign to look at it. Albus popped the lemon drop in his mouth and sucked on it as he considered what exactly to say. "He was rescued a week ago, but it wasn't until very recently that we could be sure of the extent of his injuries. Until we knew, we couldn't tell anyone. Too much danger of the wrong word getting out, you know."

"Who is this ‘we'?" Remus' glare was nothing on Severus', but it was growing more impressive by the minute. "Obviously, you could tell someone."

"Madam Pomfrey. Myself. Severus, of course." He left off the two rescuers, seeing no purpose for either of them to have to deal with Remus' ire.

"Why ‘of course'?" Remus paced in front of Albus' desk. "Was he really with Harry all that time?"

"He was. And before you ask," Albus said, holding up a hand, "he is not at any fault for what happened to Harry. He has given me a comprehensive report of all that transpired during Harry's capture, and captivity, his own, too."

A low growl sounded from Remus' throat. "I want to see him."

"Impossible."

"Albus! I'm as good as legally his godfather now. You have no right-"

"I have every right!" Albus took a measured breath, watching the werewolf closely, to see how much his outburst had impacted the young man. Remus looked startled, but not suspicious. Good. "We still don't know how much influence Voldemort has managed to get past Harry's defenses. He could still be in danger . . . and not just to himself."

Remus had already opened his mouth again, but closed it with a snap. His golden-tinged eyes were still narrowed. "How are you gauging the level of influence, then? Does Harry have pain through his scar still? Is it worse?"

"I'm sorry, Remus, I can't tell you any more. When his condition improves to the point where he can have visitors, I will let you know."

Though he looked like he wanted to argue further, Remus contented himself with shaking his head angrily. "If you let him come to further harm, I will never forgive you."

As Remus stormed out, Albus seconded the vow. He wasn't sure if he could ever forgive himself, already.

---

Below stairs, in the potions master's chambers, three days after casting Voldemort out of his mind, Harry Potter was, to put it mildly, pitching a fit.

He was absolutely fed up with potions. He hated the taste and smell and texture and everything about them. And he hated being cooped up indoors, in windowless rooms, in a dungeon, without his wand or any wand, with none of his friends, and without any clothes besides what had been shrunk for him from Snape's personal collection of black shirts, black trousers, and maybe a black jumper for variety.

He hated black.

And he hated Severus Stupid Slimy Sneering Snape.

Right now he hated Snape because the git kept trying to make him take potions he didn't want, and wouldn't get out of his bloody face for five freaking minutes without reminding him of something or asking him something or telling him something else! He'd already thrown one nutrition potion against the wall and another was about to go the way of all meat.

"That's enough!" Snape roared, and used his wand to Accio the second potion mid-flight. Grabbing it out of the air, he glared at Harry like Harry was some species of bug he'd never seen before.

Harry glared right back, hands balled into fists. "Leave me alone!"

"I would like nothing better, Mr. Potter, but that notion, as pleasing as it might be to both of us, is completely beyond my control."

"I. Don't. Want. Any. Damn. Potions!"

"And I don't want my walls festooned with your handiwork. But life is all about not getting what you want."

He could say that again.

"What was that, Mr. Potter? Is it too much to trouble you to speak--"

"I said you could say that again! If I ever got what I wanted, I'd be living with Sirius, instead of stupid people who bloody well abandoned me, or better, with my Mum and Dad! I'd be fucking normal, instead of some stupid, arrogant, spoiled, little freak!" He pounded his hand on the table and threw some of Snape's own words at him, glad to see the man wince - almost - at hearing them shouted. The rest were courtesy of Uncle Vernon, and he'd heard them often enough he was pretty sure they were true, too. "I wouldn't have to drink nasty, slimy, horrible potions to counteract bloody Cruciatus spells and stupid nightmares, or . . . or eat vegetables, or go to bed at a reasonable hour or do my homework or anything!"

He was shrieking by the end of his tirade, and it took some moments to get his breath back. His head hurt, again, as it always did if he got too "worked up," as Snape called it. And his eyes, too.

"Are you quite done?"

Harry couldn't have said more - or screeched more - if he tried. So he nodded instead.

"Mm." Snape prowled closer. "Not bad this time. Under ten minutes. No personal possessions destroyed. No cuts, I assume? Bruising at all?"

Harry shook his head, his gaze on his hands. He'd worked up a sweat, and as he cooled down, he shivered a little in the dungeon air.

"Blanket?" Snape asked.

With a nod, Harry accepted that the "fight" was done, that he was done. For the moment. Snape brought him a quilt from his room and draped it over his shoulders. "Look at me," he said, and Harry complied. His professor stared into each of his eyes, first one, then the other, scrutinizing him, then finally nodded. "Any pain?"

"No, sir. Well. Not much."

"Elaborate."

"They just ache. Not stinging."

"Very well." He sighed. "Listen Potter . . . Harry, I know-"

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said, beating him to the lecture. "That I lost my temper." Again.

"You are very angry, about a lot of things. It makes sense you'd want to rant a bit." Snape paused, then, "But I notice in your rant that although you bemoan the potions that help with the tremors from Cruciatus, you didn't actually rail against the curse itself. For instance."

Not this again. . . . "Professor, I don't want to talk about it."

"No. I imagine you don't. But what did I say in my rant? About life and wants?"

Harry sighed. "Can I . . . Can I have some tea or something first?"

Snape nodded and went into his small kitchen, where he filled a pot and set it on the hob, then spooned a generous helping of leaves in. Whilst he was busy, Harry bit at one of his thumbnails, and the skin surrounding it, nibbling off layers until he drew blood. The tiny wound stung in the open air, and Harry put his hands in his lap as Snape returned with two cups, hovering a pitcher of cream and a small bowl of sugar to the table before him. Harry stirred a little sugar into his tea and blew over the top of the cup until it cooled enough to sip.

Snape waited, with his own unaltered cup in hand, and watched him.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Harry told him, after a while.

"Start with something easy, perhaps. For instance, why did your relatives leave you behind when they fled from Surrey?"

"Oh, that's an easy one?" Harry grumbled.

Snape gave an eloquent shrug, which Harry took to mean that he could certainly think of much harder questions to ask. And Harry knew that was true, but still. He didn't have to like it.

"Fine. They left me behind because they hated me."

"You've said that before. In what ways did it manifest?"

It was Harry's turn to shrug. "I don't know."

"Potter . . ."

"Okay! They hate everything to do with magic, and that means me, too. They thought my parents were freaks, and claimed my father was driving drunk and got them in an accident that killed them, instead of anyone finding out the truth. I didn't even know the truth till Hagrid told me on my 11th birthday."

Snape nodded, and gestured for him to continue.

Harry glared, his rage rising again. "What else do you want to know? That they thought making me live in a cupboard for ten years would crush the freakiness out of me? That they gave me Dudley's second bedroom after my Hogwarts letter arrived, just ‘cause they thought someone was finally watching what they did to me? Or that they worked me like a house elf, and only let me eat their left-overs, when they weren't withholding food outright?" He put a hand to his head and closed his eyes, trying to soothe the ache. "They hated me. That's all."

"I can see," Snape said, his voice neutral and slow, as if he were picking his words very carefully, "how distressing it must have been for you to have your . . . pampered lifestyle brought up for ridicule. By those who knew no better."

"Like you?" Harry asked, bringing his head up.

Snape inclined his head. His eyes hid his true thoughts rather well, and Harry didn't like it, not knowing if Snape was actually apologizing, or what. "So," the professor continued, "tell me about this cupboard."

This time, Harry put his head down on his arms, on the table and groaned audibly. "I don't want-"

Snape only had to lift his eyebrows to cut him off. "You brought it up."

"Fine! My cupboard, under the stairs. It was my bedroom, I guess, until after I got the letter." He blew out a sharp breath and raised his head, looking Snape in the eye. "But you should already know that, or . . . who writes out the Hogwarts letters?"

"They're sent with an automatic quill. Why?"

"Mine was addressed to the Cupboard Under the Stairs. That's why they moved me, after. Couldn't have anyone know they were as mental as me. But I always figured Dumbledore knew all this stuff, since my letter went there."

Snape shook his head. "I doubt he knew his Golden Boy was being so maltreated."

"Whatever." Harry took another sip of tea. It was quite good, with a hint of cinnamon and orange. The thinnest of smiles touched his lips. "I didn't really know they were mental, you know. Not until I was older, at primary school at least. I thought all freaky cousins lived in closets."

Snape's answering half-quirked smile showed he knew Harry was joking. Mostly. "What kind of work does a house elf do in Surrey?"

Harry shrugged again. He was becoming quite good at it, and Snape let him get away with it, sometimes. Sometimes, not. When Snape lifted his eyebrows, Harry sighed. This was a not. "You know, gardening, weeding, pruning hedges and trees, mowing the lawn. Um, dusting, vacuuming, cooking, cleaning bathrooms and bedrooms, sweeping. You know, housework."

With an unreadable expression, Snape said, "You did all those jobs?"

"Well, yeah. I started out with little things, like the dusting and stuff. But I could cook by the time I was four or five, and after I started primary school, I was doing most of the outside work, too. Why?" Harry smirked over his cuppa. "Did you think I was lazing around on my fat arse over the hols?"

Since that was probably exactly what the professor thought of him, at least he didn't dignify the remark with a denial. "And the lack of proper nutrition, I assume, is responsible for your coming back after each summer looking scrawnier than when you left?"

"I'm not scrawny!"

"Whatever," Snape murmured into his tea and took a long swallow, his expression bland, except for the tiny glint in his eyes.

Harry wrested his indignation under control and tried to answer the question. But scrawny! Ironic from a skinny, batlike, greasy . . .

"Potter!"

Blowing out a breath, Harry glared some more. "Well, Uncle Vernon liked yelling, didn't he, when I'd bollocks things up. But Aunt Petunia was the one who mostly made me go without food. I usually got to eat every day, though."

"Usually?"

"Sometimes I didn't. If I'd made a real mess of something. Could be a couple days in the cupboard with nothing."

"How old were you? When they sent you to your . . . cupboard?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I told you. Until I was eleven."

"Locked in?"

"Er, yeah."

"Bathroom breaks?"

"What!?" He was not going to discuss that with Snape. Never! No way!

"I will use small words, if that will help. Did they let you out to go to toilet?"

"No! I had to piss in a bucket! Happy now?"

Snape had put down his teacup and lifted his wand, almost surreptitiously, as if expecting to need to Reparo something soon. But his voice was mild as he said, "Surely you do not think even I am so great a sadist as to find pleasure in that?"

Through clenched teeth, Harry admitted, "No, sir."

Silence for a long moment, while both of them waited to see if Harry could unclench his jaw all by himself. When it became clear he couldn't, Snape said, "Do you wish to break the cup, Harry?"

His fingers tightened on it, of their own accord. He could imagine, quite clearly, hurling the stupid piece of stupid pottery right at the wall and seeing it shatter into a million stupid, sodding, sharp, glorious pieces. It would be brilliant. "Yes, sir."

"Very well." Snape gave an almost inaudible sigh. "But finish the tea, first, if you would."