Harry had never known that doing laundry could be so much work, but it was. That was part of his punishment chores, and just washing the few sets of clothes and the sheets using the old-fashioned ringer washing machine and the scrub board was exhausting. The clothes felt like they weighed over a hundred pounds when they were wet and trying to scrub stains off without some kind of stain remover was hell.

His back and arms ached from turning the crank on the washing machine and his hands were red from repeated immersion in the hot soapy water. And he would have to do this all over again a few days from now too. The young wizard groaned and vowed he'd never touch a drop of alcohol again. Never!

In addition to the laundry, Harry also dusted and polished, washed and swept the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, and vacuumed the carpet. Luckily, neither he or Severus was a pig, so he didn't have to straighten up all that much.

Then of course there was the blasted three-foot essay Snape was making him write. Harry detested writing essays, he never had good penmanship, writing with a quill was messy and he'd never quite mastered the art of it, having never really had someone show him how it was done. He didn't mind reading through the books Severus had recommended, most of them manuals from AA, and now he understood a little better why Severus had flipped out on him for getting drunk on summerdew. The descendants of known alcoholics had the pre-disposition to become alcoholics themselves, and that was not something Harry aspired to.

But between the essay, he only had a third of it done, and this blasted laundry, Harry felt as though the five days of his grounding lasted forever.

Little did he know that Severus had tampered with the timestream in order to give himself and his son more time to adjust to one another. The hourglass-shaped clock upon the mantle was more than just a clock that recorded the time passing between the two realms. It could also make time slow to a crawl in the manor, so that minutes passed like hours and days became weeks and weeks months. Severus could also alter time like a Timeturner, sending them back to the beginning of the summer in the real world, giving them three extra months in real time as well, with no chance of a paradox occurring, since neither he or Harry would be leaving the manor. The clock would automatically return them to the time Severus had first used the hourglass in, upon request, and it was totally accurate, so there was no chance of becoming lost in the timestream.

But such measures could only be used a finite number of times, the limit was twelve, and after that the clock would not perform those functions until a new heir ascended to rule the manor. It was a way the fae protected themselves from an unscrupulous human trying to tamper with time indefinitely, and though you could make time run backwards, you could not alter events within that timeline, so whatever had occurred already would happen again, over and over, and the heir could only observe events, not change them.

Slowed down and turned back, time in the manor was just what Severus wanted, giving him the necessary time to forge a relationship with his son that was not so antagonistic, that was normal, or at least as normal as Severus could make it. Much of the tension between the two had been the Potion Master's doing, for he had an irrational prejudice towards Harry because he was James's son, and he had treated the boy unfairly on a number of occasions at school. Once Severus knew the truth, however, and removed the charm upon Harry, seeing for himself that the boy was indeed his own son and not his rival's, it made accepting Harry much easier.

Severus had vowed long ago to never treat his children the way Tobias had treated him, back in the halcyon days after graduation, when Lily and he had discussed having a family together. "I never want any child of mine to be afraid of me, the way I was of my father." He had told Lily earnestly.

Yet that was exactly what he had done that morning, upon discovering his son drunk on the couch. He had made Harry cringe and shiver, terrifying him with his explosive temper. But no longer. He knew how to control his emotions, he had learned how years ago, when he had first become Dumbledore's agent, so he did not show the disgust and loathing he felt towards the Death Eaters and their practices. He resolved to reinstate that control, so Harry need not fear him. Time, he thought, would do the rest.

Harry had just finished ringing out the last shirt and setting it to dry outside on the clothesline he'd hung between two oak trees, when he looked up to find Severus regarding him.

"Sir?"

"Is the laundry done?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you finished reorganizing the pantry as well?"

"Done, sir."

"Your essay?"

Harry sighed. "I-I've started it. But it's not finished yet, sir."

"Why? I looked over the rough copy you had on Monday, and corrected what mistakes were in it. Today is Wednesday. What's taking you so long?"

Harry bit his lip. How could he admit to Severus that the reason he wasn't done was because he couldn't write legibly with a quill? The man already thought he was slightly stupid in potions, he would probably disown Harry for still not being able to write with a quill after three years. The truth was, he got Hermione to copy over most of his assignments in school.

"I'll finish it this evening, sir," he heard himself saying and then he wanted to smack himself in the head. Idiot! Tonight? How can you finish it by tonight? You can barely write one sentence without half a dozen ink blots. How can you finish a whole essay like that?

"I'll be waiting to read it, Harry," was all Severus said then. "Come inside when you're done here, lunch is on the table."

Harry acknowledged the command with a brief nod, then finished pinning up the shirts and towels in the basket. He was ravenous, but his hunger abated somewhat when he thought of the bloody essay he still had to finish, and now he had a deadline too.

But once he entered the large kitchen and saw the huge sandwich Severus had made for him, his appetite returned with a vengeance and he devoured every crumb. Thirteen years of living with the Dursleys had taught him to never pass up food when offered. He washed the sandwich down with a large glass of milk, Severus usually served him milk for at least one meal, claiming he needed the vitamins and calcium. He also made Harry drink a rather nasty-tasting Nutrient Potion each week, to replace the deficient amino acids and other essential minerals and vitamins he lacked after being half-starved for so many years.

"That's why you're small for your age, Harry. Because you were nutritionally deprived when you were a small child, it stunted your growth somewhat. But I can correct some of the damage with a few potions, though you probably won't ever be as tall as you should be."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that, except a quiet, "I understand, sir." He had suspected that the reason he hadn't gotten a growth spurt like Ron yet had something to do with the way Uncle Vernon starved him. But if Severus could reverse even a portion of the damage, Harry would be grateful. He hated being so short, sometimes people thought he was a first year, before they spotted the scar, of course.

So he finished his milk and thought about taking a shower before starting in on the accursed essay. He wished Hermione were here now, he'd pay her twenty Galleons to write his essay so Severus wouldn't see what awful penmanship he had. He'd written the rough draft in normal Muggle pen on paper, not parchment the way Severus told him he wanted the finished product.

Thus far he hadn't heard from either of his friends or Sirius, and he was beginning to think they'd forgotten him. Or perhaps Sirius was so disgusted with the fact that Harry was Severus's son that he didn't care to speak to Harry any more.

The teenager heaved a sigh and went towards the bathroom. He saw no sign of Severus, and he assumed Snape had gone to the lab again to brew up some more potions. He took a long hot shower, at least here he was allowed to have hot water to wash with, then he dressed in some of his more worn clothes and tried to write the blasted essay.

Finally, after several huge blots, a hole, and endless crossouts, Harry threw the crumpled parchment into the fireplace and swore softly. "This bloody sucks! I'm never going to finish this before tonight and then he'll get all snarky and pissed off and probably make me pick weeds with my teeth or something. I hate essays! Whoever invented them ought to die a slow and painful death. They're nothing but torture and my father is the ultimate torture master for making me write one."

He yanked a fresh piece of parchment out of his bag and re-dipped his quill, wishing this were over with.

Two hours later, a dozen parchment balls were crackling merrily in the fireplace and Harry's hands were stained with ink and he was about to punch a hole in the wall and howl. It was hopeless. There was no way he could finish the essay within the time frame. He threw down his quill and stomped about the room, wishing he were four and could have thrown himself on the floor and had a bloody temper tantrum the way Dudley used to, screaming and kicking like a possessed thing.

Ha! If Severus ever saw that, he'd have me committed.

"Harry! Supper is waiting!" he heard Severus's magically amplified voice calling him.

"Coming, sir!" he shouted back, since he didn't know that spell.

After dinner, which was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with a side of peas and pearl onions, Harry returned to his room for one last attempt. This one was marginally better than the last twelve copies, but he knew Severus would not be pleased. Still, it was the best he could do.

He found Severus reading in the den and handed him the essay. "I'm finished, sir."

Severus looked up, set down the magazine he was perusing, and examined the essay. Sure enough, the Potion Master's face clouded over and he said sharply, "I can barely read this, young man. What did you do, upset the inkwell?"

Harry's face burned. "No, sir. I . . .Never mind. I-I'll do it over."

"You have worse penmanship than a Healer," Severus continued, scanning the rest of the essay in disapproval. "And that's saying something."

Suddenly, Harry was fed up with the whole thing and he blurted, "Well, excuse me all to blazes if I never learned how to write with a damn quill, okay? I spent all afternoon trying to copy it over neatly and that's the best I could do, sir."

Horrified over what he'd said, Harry turned and ran out of the room. Me and my big fat mouth! Why did I have to say that? Why? He headed back to his room, not wanting to see the sneer on his father's face. He wished he could dig a hole and fall into it.

Five minutes later, he heard a tap on his door. "May I come in?"

Harry wondered what his father would do if he said no. Probably break the door down and come in uninvited. "Yes."

Severus entered and came to stand before his son, who was avoiding his gaze. "Look at me. I've told you before, I won't hold a conversation with the back of your head. Now, what do you mean, you never learned to write with a quill? You spent three years at Hogwarts where all we use are quills and parchment. How did you manage to complete your assignments if you could barely write?"

Harry bit his lip, then mumbled, "Hermione helped me."

"Excuse me? Speak up, and quit mumbling, you sound like you've got a frog stuck in your throat."

Harry repeated what he had said. "Hermione helped me, she copied all my assignments onto parchment with a quill herself, but she didn't write as neatly as she usually does, so no one ever guessed it wasn't me." 

"Miss Granger did all your assignments for you, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

Severus shook his head. "If you were having trouble, why didn't you go to a teacher for assistance, Harry?"

"Because. . .everyone else already knew how to write with quills. I . . .I was already famous for being the Boy Who Lived, I didn't want to be known as the Boy Who Couldn't Write too."

"Ah," Severus said in understanding. Adolescent pride. He could understand it, since he'd had more than his share of it. "You feared the taunts of your peers. Harry, many students who come to Hogwarts don't know how to write with quills when they arrive. That's why we organize a penmanship class for the Muggleborns. It works quite well, in my opinion. All the professors take turns teaching a class."

"Even you?"

"Yes. Now, where are you having trouble?"

"Part of it's my pen. It keeps dripping and splattering ink everywhere. And I can't make it write in small letters."

"Let me see your pen," Severus ordered.

Wordlessly, Harry handed it to him.

"No wonder you can't write with this. The nub is split and worn. Here, where's your quill trimmer?"

Harry handed him the small ultra sharp knife he was supposed to use for sharpening quills.

"See, you must trim the quill on an angle, like so." Severus demonstrated. "Then you must gently dip the quill inside the inkwell and tap off the excess ink. There, now try."

Harry took the newly trimmed quill and tried writing a sentence with it. It was much easier to write with now, but his letters wobbled and straggled across the parchment. He scowled down at the parchment, frustrated and humiliated. "It's no good. It looks like a sick chicken wrote it."

"True, but not bad for a first attempt. You need practice. Hours of it. Set this aside for now. You may return to it when you have gained the necessary skill to write legibly. For now, I want you to use this primer and these scraps."

Severus snapped his fingers and a small leather bound book appeared on the desk, along with various scraps of parchment. "Inside the primer you will find the alphabet. Copy it onto the scraps, twenty-five times per letter. In order to learn how to write properly, you must go back to basics."

"I feel like I'm back in primary school," Harry grumbled.

"In a way, you are, Mr. Snape. And none of this would be necessary now had you informed a teacher of your problem when you were a first year. Although, the Headmaster knew you were raised by Muggles, so why he did not see fit to inquire if you could use a quill is beyond me. Or Professor McGonagall, she should have asked, instead of being so preoccupied with finding a new Seeker for her House." Severus's mouth tightened with disapproval.

"It wasn't her fault! How was she supposed to know?"

"By giving her new students a writing test, like I do." Severus replied smoothly. "All my newly Sorted Slytherins are required to pass a writing exam. Those who fail I send to penmanship classes. But I suppose the Gryffindors are too good for such mundane things and get by on patronage alone."

Harry was about to retort to the professor's scathing tone, then shut his mouth. Because much as he hated to admit it, Severus was right. McGonagall should have known, she was aware of his background as well as anyone.

"No matter, it is something you can work on over the break. Perhaps by summer's end you will have managed to write legibly, if you practice as I've told you."

"You just want me to write the alphabet?"

"For three days, yes. Then I want you to write your name, also twenty-five times. Once I've examined them, you can start on some practice sentences." Severus declared briskly. "You may begin."

"Yes, sir," Harry groaned resentfully. This was typical of his life. Get rescued from the Dursleys and end up with a perfectionist professor who made him practice the alphabet until he fell asleep.

"Mind your tone, boy," his father warned. "This is for your own benefit, now quit acting like a spoiled brat and do what I told you."

"I wasn't!" his son exclaimed indignantly.

Severus eyed him sternly. "Don't contradict me. Start writing. That's the only way you'll improve."

Harry obeyed, not wanting to get Severus angry with him yet again and earn himself more punishments. He opened the primer to the first page and began to copy out the cursive alphabet onto a scrap.

Severus remained observing for a few minutes, before he plucked the quill from Harry's hand and said, "You're holding it wrong, boy. Like this, thumb here," he positioned Harry's finger. "And index finger here, and lean the quill slightly. There! You see what a tight line that makes?"

Harry nodded, then took back the quill and held it the way the professor showed him. It felt much better in his hand that way.

Severus watched him form a few A, B, C's before leaving Harry alone and returning to the den to read his magazine. He was still mightily annoyed that such blatant negligence had occurred right under the noses of Albus and Minerva. Had Harry been Sorted into Slytherin . . .there would be a different story to tell.

+ + ++ + + +

By the time Harry had served the full period of his grounding, he had gained a new respect for those who could write well with quills, housewives in the eighteen hundreds who did laundry by hand every week, and his penmanship had improved tenfold. Now he could actually read what he wrote, and though the lessons were boring, he kept doing them, because the skill was an important one to acquire.

In addition to practicing his penmanship, Harry was also working with his father in the lab, as Severus sought to instill in his stubborn son the proper methods and skills of potion making. Here, the Potions Master was his usual exacting perfectionist self, and he did not spare Harry the rough edge of his tongue when the boy made foolish mistakes.

But he also helped Harry correct those mistakes and showed him where he went wrong, so Harry learned by example. It was then that Harry discovered the reason why Severus was such a perfectionist as a teacher. Every potion ingredient must be precisely measured, chopped, ground, and stirred before being combined, otherwise the whole solution would be thrown off and all the time and effort ruined.

Severus set Harry to grinding several kinds of roots and leaves to powder before letting him near a cauldron, and then he made him go back to the very first potion they'd ever been assigned at Hogwarts-a Boil Cure-and make it from scratch.

Harry was a little insulted, he'd made lots more complicated potions than this, but he did as the Potions Master wished and made the solution. When the potion turned out correctly, Severus nodded and said only, "Very good, Mr. Snape. Now bottle it and start chopping up those pickled rat livers. I'm going to need them for a Beast Tongue Draft."

"A what?"

"A Beast Tongue Draft. It's a potion that gives you the ability to speak with all animals in their own language for three hours. Well? Quit dawdling, boy."

Harry quickly decanted his potion into a beaker and labeled it by name and date. Then he set in on the shelf in the potions storeroom and returned to the lab to get started on yet another disgusting assignment.

Still, he had to admit that Severus's methods did get good results. They made several potions over the next week and Harry was impressed in spite of himself at the way Severus could make three different drafts at once and never lose track of where he was in the process of each of them. He could brew from memory and usually did, only consulting a text if the potion were a particularly complicated one.

"Never hesitate to double check yourself, if you are uncertain about a measurement or an ingredient," he instructed one day. "Even the best potion makers can make mistakes."

"Including you?" Harry teased.

Severus nodded curtly. "You should be checking and re-checking your instructions before you ever put an ingredient into your cauldron, Mr. Snape. That way there's less chance of you making a mistake that could result in an explosion, like that nitwit Longbottom. He never checks anything, but relies on the ineptitude of his lab partner, Dean Thomas. Small wonder he's melted more cauldrons in my class than almost any student I've ever taught."

Harry felt compelled to defend his Housemate. "It's just because he's nervous, sir. That's why he makes such, uh, dumb mistakes."

"Humph! That is no excuse for shoddy potionmaking skills. If I'm the worst thing he has to fear, he's lucky. There are much darker things out there than me." Severus said grimly.

Harry couldn't argue with that, having seen for himself as a baby the most evil of all dark things. So he turned back to grinding lavender buds into a fine powder, wondering if he would ever hear from his friends again. Time here in the manor seemed to stand still, he wondered if he had aged a day since he came here.

But when he tried to ask Severus how long they had been here, the Potions Master answered only, "Time is different here, don't expect me to try and explain the way it runs, you would never understand it. We will return to the school when it is time, Harry. I won't let you miss your fourth year."

"Too bad," Harry muttered under his breath, for he wasn't really looking forward to going back this term, since he had no way to explain his sudden change of identity, nor his change of heart towards his professor, who was now father instead of stranger, and a person instead of the greasy dungeon bat.

Harry was even beginning to enjoy spending time with Severus, making potions, weeding the herb garden, or just sitting in the living room, reading quietly. They played chess, not Harry's best game, and Snape trounced him soundly. But then he showed Harry the moves he had used, so Harry could use them next time. Ron's going to be in for a shock when I play him again. Assuming he even wants to see me any more. Why does everything in my life have to be so damned complicated?

Severus was aware that Harry was fretting over not having heard from his friends in over three weeks, and decided to cancel the spell that turned time backwards, returning the manor and its occupants to the current timestream, one week before the beginning of the fourth year.

A few hours later, a large eagle owl soared through the Evermist and tapped upon the window of Severus's study. The Potions Master opened the window with a careless gesture, and the eagle owl flew in and landed upon his desk, chirruping agitatedly.

Severus blinked, for he recognized this owl. "Stormrider? What brings you here?" He took the small envelope from the owl and fed it a dead shrew he summoned. "This envelope has Draco's handwriting on it. I wonder what my godson wants to ask me now?"

Stormrider ruffled his feathers and looked askance at the tall man until Severus broke the blue seal on the envelope and drew out a letter written on badly cured parchment, not the Malfoys' usual expensive stationary. How odd, thought Severus. Narcissa would never allow such inferior parchment into her home, this wouldn't be considered fit to write a list of groceries on according to her standards.

He unfolded the parchment and read the following shocking missive:

Dear Uncle Sev,

I know you've gone into hiding somewhere, since my father came home one evening from a meeting threatening to roast your balls over a slow fire when you showed yourself again. But you know I've always liked you better than him, and now I can finally admit it, since Father's shadow doesn't smother me any more.

I'm writing this in the dormitory of the DWCSF (Department of Wizarding Children, Schools, and Families) where they place kids like me who have no immediate family any more. In other words, it's a bloody orphanage. I apologize for my language, but I've been here for three days and they've not allowed me to write anyone during that time, until I pitched a royal fit today and the matron decided to give me a quill and parchment.

To explain, the Aurors came to the manor and arrested both my parents on charges of consorting with known rebels and traitors to the Ministry and being supporters of Voldemort. They were sent to Azkaban and their trials are pending, but you and I both know they are guilty. Father used to scare me into obeying him when I was four by putting on his Death Eater mask and telling me if I didn't behave the Dark Lord would come and whip me raw.

I've always known where Father's loyalties lie, and Mother is his willing puppet.

I was starting to follow Father, in spite of your warnings, Uncle, but his words to Mother that night brought me quickly back to the right path. The things he said he would do to you . . .I can't bear to write of them here, but I'm sure you can guess what they were . . .I made a decision that night. I will not become like them, Uncle Sev. I don't want to become cold and hard and filled with such hate that I could kill a man who was once my best friend in the name of a dried up dead necromancer.

Do you remember when I was ten and I came to stay with you for the summer at your house in Spinner's End? I was full of myself, and I told you that you should get a house elf otherwise you weren't a proper wizard. And you told me that a proper wizard doesn't criticize his elders and made me clean the house as a punishment? I was so mad I called you something really rude and you spanked me and told me if I behaved like a spoiled brat you'd punish me like one. You said my attitude wasn't all my fault but the fault of my parents and I had a choice, to act like a high-and-mighty twit or to be a normal boy, and if I chose wrong I'd have to take the consequences.

It's funny, but when I was with you back then I felt like you were a better father to me than my real one, least you didn't tell me that I had to behave in a certain manner and not disgrace the family name or else you'd curse me unto the thirteenth generation. With you I wasn't the Malfoy heir, I was just Draco.

I want to be just Draco again, Uncle Sev. Please, help me. They told me if no relative comes to claim me in a day, they'll put me with a foster family, and I don't think I could take being a charity case.

One other thing. You know those Muggles Potter lived with? Well, some of Father's associates went and killed Potter's uncle the other night. Caught him when he had gone outside of the wards to go to some club. Potter's aunt and cousin were safe in the house, Father's friends couldn't get to them, and Dumbledore came and took them away somewhere safe. But Potter's gone missing, and Dumbledore fears he was kidnapped by the Death Eaters. He's searching high and low for the bloody savior of the wizarding world, but so far has found no trace of him.

I thought I'd be happy when I heard that news, but I really wasn't. If Potter is in their hands, he'd better pray for a swift death, because death will be a release from what they'll do to him for fun. If he's not with them, then maybe he's in a better situation than I am.

I hope you get this letter, Uncle Sev. I'm really counting on you, Godfather. Wherever you are, come and take me away, I'm begging you.

Love,

Your godson,

Draco

 

Severus read and re-read the letter several times before he finally came to a decision regarding his godson. Draco was family, they were related through distant Prince ancestors, and Severus knew he could not, in good conscience, turn his back on the boy. He had always known someday Lucius would end up on the wrong side of the law, and now it had happened. He had done his best to try and wean Draco away from Lucius's dark path, and it seemed as if he had succeeded . . .enough so his godson admitted that his father was wrong and he did not want to be like him.

No, he must bring Draco here as well, and somehow he had to make Harry and Draco get along, for Draco would be his ward now, once he signed the papers giving him guardianship. The Potions Master sighed, for that too would take time. But at least time was on his side, for once.

Lucius and Narcissa imprisoned and Vernon dead, Severus thought darkly. All of them had gotten what they deserved, and he wasn't very sorry at all. He wondered how Harry would take the news of his uncle's death, but at least Petunia and Dudley were safe, Albus had made sure of it. He laughed softly when he recalled Draco saying Dumbledore was certain Harry had been kidnapped and was searching all over for him. He was kidnapped, Old Meddler, just not by who you thought. And a good thing too, considering what almost happened to his relatives.

He tucked Draco's letter into a pocket of his robes and went to find his son and tell him of the unexpected tidings he had just received and inform him that Draco would now be a permanent member of Prince Manor.