It wasn't as if Harry had never been smacked before. Aunt Petunia was hardly a gentle woman, and her fuse was almost as short as his uncle's. When he was younger, especially in his toddler years, it was a common occurrence for his aunt to slap him. Mostly, though, she was loath to touch the 'freak,' preferring to banish him to his cupboard and out of her sight. Still, he was hardly a stranger to such treatment.

On the same token, Noddy's behaviour wasn't really much different than Dudley's. Dudley was always blaming Harry for everything – why, Harry could never be sure, because it wasn't as if Dudley ever got scolded for anything, anyway – and a large percentage of Harry's own punishments resulted from being falsely accused. Often, Dudley even went out of his way to get Harry in trouble. It had been that way as long as Harry could remember. His first conscious memory of his cousin, in fact, was Dudley screaming that Harry had stolen his toy truck . . . as Harry watched, bewildered, from clear across the parlour where he sat watching the telly, the item in question a good five metres from his chair.

Compared to being pummelled by Dudley and his friends, Snape's ten smacks hardly hurt at all. Even one or two of Aunt Petunia's hurt more than that. The sting faded almost immediately. By the time Harry had picked up his toothbrush with trembling hands, rinsed it off, and finished getting ready for bed, even the dull throbbing had dwindled dramatically. Still, he was a long time in falling asleep that night. While Harry didn't blub or anything, plenty of tears leaked out the sides of his eyes and dampened the pillow on either side of his head, and when he did finally drift into slumber, it was a fitful one filled with snatches of nightmares that had him waking in a cold sweat every time.

The Snape man scared him. Uncle Vernon could be intimidating, but mostly he was all bluster. Sometimes his rages were even a little funny, rather like a big, clumsy orangutan waving its arms around and shrieking its rage into the depths of the jungle. But Snape wasn't funny at all. He was so tall and . . . and menacing. And Harry hadn't known him long enough to be sure how his rages would end. There was just no telling what a man like that would do.

And Harry couldn't understand, either, what he'd done to make Noddy hate him so. There was simply no reason for it. He often made snide comments to Dudley, getting his own back in some small way. It wasn't clear who'd said what first, although Harry was fairly certain that the chicken-or-egg ambiguity made no real difference; Dudley would make his life miserable regardless. Noddy was a different story. Harry had had so little to do with Noddy before the lunchtime incident, and he felt he'd never been anything but nice to the little creature.

Harry meditated on this while he got ready for breakfast the next morning. His alarm had gone off promptly at half past six, but Harry may as well have never set it. He was already awake, after the night of short, fitful bouts of sleep. He kept seeing Noddy's smirk in each of his dreams while homework grew fangs and ate itself up and the Snape man ran after him with a huge, toothbrush-shaped stick.

Dressed in a pair of Dudley's old trousers and a cotton t-shirt with only two or three rips in it, Harry made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Snape was already at the table, glowering at Harry over the rim of his teacup. Harry kept his eyes lowered as he climbed up into his chair, and at first Snape said nothing at all as Harry began to eat.

And despite the tension in the air and Harry's twanging nerves, he knew he had best put away as much food as possible – there was no telling whether he'd get anything else today. Harry was well used to leaving the table still hungry, but at least he usually had a full meal at school every day. Aunt Petunia, who had originally packed bag lunches to save money, suddenly decided she didn't want to be bothered anymore, so she pre-purchased lunch tickets through the school each month. Harry, who prior to that had usually ended up with a cold cheese sandwich and a bruised apple, thought he must have died and gone to heaven, if heaven served tomato sauce on cardboard and called it pizza, with little squares of gelatin in a plastic dish topped with a climbing turret of whipped cream. But it was a hot meal, at least, and he usually felt full afterward.

It was much different on the weekends or during the hols, when Harry not only had no school lunch to look forward to, but was also more likely to annoy his aunt and uncle and get sent to his cupboard. Staying at Snape's was already shaping up to be something like a school holiday, except with quite a bit of school thrown in as well. Harry began to wonder just which celestial decision-maker he had offended so badly, and how he might go about appeasing that wrathful deity.

With every mouthful of porridge, Harry actually grew more and more hungry. It was such a relief to have something to eat that he began stuffing the contents of his bowl in his mouth eagerly, forgetting manners and appearances as he focused on gulping it down as quickly as possible.

"Stop it!" Harry jumped at the sudden bellow from Snape and lost his grip on the spoon, which rattled against his nearly-empty bowl for a moment before lying still. Harry's ears started to ring as he remembered the previous night, his toothbrush flying across the room as Snape grabbed him, and he grew suddenly afraid. Was he going to get smacked again? Harry stared at his bowl, hunching his shoulders slightly and hoping that Snape would leave him alone if he was quiet enough.

But Snape only sighed and grudgingly offered Harry the plate of toast. He hesitantly took a slice and began to nibble the edges, but the crumbs caught in his throat when Snape asked, quite sarcastically, "Can I have Noddy braise a bull for you? Or will this be enough?"

Harry wasn't sure what 'braze' meant or why anyone would eat a bull, but felt his ears growing hot at Snape's snide tone. He kept gnawing at the toast out of pure hunger, although he really didn't taste it. The slice of buttered bread was just so much sawdust as far as his tastebuds were concerned. It was shaping up to be another long, miserable day.

After breakfast, Snape ordered him into the library, where the same books, parchment, ink, and quills as yesterday were laid out on the desk waiting for him. "You will spend today making up the work that you should have completed yesterday," Snape growled at him. "There will be no playing outside for you today, Potter. When you've finished, you'll stay in your room the rest of the day. You may bring some books upstairs, just don't leave your room until I get back. And heaven help you if I come home to find you've disobeyed me again, young man. You'll think what you got last night was nothing." And then he was gone, and Harry was blessedly alone.

Harry sighed as he looked at the books piled on his desk. Well, this will at least be easier than yesterday, Harry thought. All I have to do is write everything I did over again. Only this time, he would be sure to carry the finished papers with him everywhere. Noddy would not be hiding them on him again.

It only took a couple of hours to finish the lessons. Harry found that it wasn't easy to remember exactly how he'd written his first essay, and it was irritating to be doing the same work a second time. But now, Harry was able to insert a few points he'd forgotten the first time around. Writing with a quill was hard work, and Harry was still trying to master the technique. Most sentences were still rife with smears and blots of ink, and it still got all over his fingers. But soon enough, Harry was able to cap the ink and blow on his final piece of parchment to dry it.

But what to do now? He didn't want to spend the whole day outside again. It was nice to be out in the fresh air, of course, but out there, Harry had no sense of time passing. Besides, hadn't Snape told him not to go outside? Right, he was to spend the day in his room . . . but he was allowed to take books with him, wasn't he? Harry chose three and, making sure to tuck his papers into the front cover of the largest book, retired to his room. He actually found that this was preferable to going outside. His room was like a cocoon where he could curl up and feel somewhat safe, even as Harry used the next few hours to sail for Lilliput, where he was subsequently convicted of high treason for falling out of favour with the King.

Promptly at noon, Harry's door crashed open without warning. Harry, who had not heard Noddy coming up the stairs, about jumped out of his skin at suddenly having the tiny creature barge into his room, carrying a tray of food. "Little Master's lunch is ready," Noddy spat at him, slamming the tray down on the blanket chest and glaring hatefully at Harry before leaving the room as noisily as he had arrived.

Harry didn't touch the tray for a long time, fearing some kind of trick on Noddy's part. Why would he suddenly serve Harry lunch after practically chasing him out of the kitchen the day before, then lying to Snape in order to get Harry punished? Finally, though, his stomach got the better of his fear, and Harry slipped out of his chair and crossed the room to the chest. The tray contained a shallow bowl of soup, a slice of plain bread, and a cup of tea. Harry nibbled around the edges of the bread, waiting for his insides to start clenching under the effects of some caustic poison. When several minutes had passed without him falling to the floor dead, Harry gave in and devoured his lunch, grateful for the two meals he'd had so far and wondering if he'd be pushing it to expect dinner, too.

Several hours later, Harry stood, uncertain, in the middle of his bedroom, wondering what he should do. His heart was crashing in his chest so rapidly that he could hardly think through the haze of pure panic.

Harry had been speechless when Snape . . . well, he didn't actually apologise, but as no one had ever cut Harry slack before, this was the next best thing. Of course, it hadn't lasted. Not five minutes had gone by before he was out of favour again, this time for 'lying' about the clothes he'd brought with him. Snape had been so angry . . . he wouldn't even listen while Harry tried to explain. And just how was Harry supposed to prove something like that?

Harry took a few deep breaths and tried to think. Snape had been gone about ten minutes already. Harry highly doubted that the impatient man would notice the cupboard under the stairs, open it, and recognise it as Harry's 'bedroom,' thus making it clear that his cousin had been the favourite – that was too much to hope for. But surely, when he saw that all the clothes upstairs were much too big for him . . . ?

Harry was still lost in thought when he heard voices downstairs. His heart started drumming in his chest, wondering if Snape was back already. Hesitantly, he crept into the hallway and peeked downstairs. He didn't see his guardian, but he did see Noddy speaking to an old man with long grey hair and a matching beard. When Mrs. Figg had told Harry that Snape was a wizard, Harry hadn't believed her – Snape looked more like a vampire, maybe Count Dracula. But this man . . . Harry was sure he must be a wizard. He looked exactly like every description Harry had ever read of Merlin, the most famous wizard of all time.

The man looked up just then, and Harry's eyes widened at being caught out of his room. But Merl – well, the old man didn't look angry. On the contrary, he seemed . . . amused. "Ah, young Harry Potter," he said, giving Harry a genuine smile. Harry couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked happy to see him, and he found himself instinctively smiling back.

"Yes, sir," he answered, not knowing what else to say. Feeling it to be rude, holding a conversation from this distance, Harry slowly walked down the stairs toward the visitor.

The man's eyes were twinkling as they looked at the approaching seven-year-old. "You look just like your father did," he told the little seven-year-old, whose face lit up when he heard those words.

"You knew my parents?" Harry asked eagerly, stopping only a couple of feet away.

"But of course. They went to Hogwarts, just as you will in a few years' time," Dumbledore answered. It must be Dumbledore, if he was from Hogwarts. "Both your father and mother were excellent students; Head Boy and Girl in their seventh year."

Harry's happy expression fell slightly, and he looked down at the floor. "I'm not so good at lessons," he whispered shamefully. "I'm always getting marks taken off."

The kindly old man shook his head, his pleasant expression never dimming in the slightest. "No matter, Harry. There was more to James and Lily than good grades, and I suspect you'll find magical studies far removed from what you are used to. If you knew that a certain spelling word, when spoken the right way, could turn water to wine, you could hardly forget it, now could you?"

"No, sir!" Harry shook his head emphatically. Why he would want to turn water into wine was anyone's guess, yet Harry felt a tug of excitement at the idea of being able to do magic. Any magic. And this man seemed to take it for granted that he could, even after Harry had admitted that he wasn't a great student.

"All we ask is that you try your hardest to learn all you can," Dumbledore continued. He suddenly reached out and touched Harry's cheek; Harry closed his eyes against the gentle caress. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him like this. "I know that you – "

Harry never got to hear the end of Dumbledore's thought, because just then, the fireplace in the next room whooshed and Snape stepped into the parlour. Harry's stomach clenched in terror at the sight of his guardian, particularly when he saw the angry expression on Snape's face. He ducked his head, heart pounding, hoping he wouldn't get shouted at for leaving his room.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore greeted him, rocking back on his heels. "You're back."

"Indeed, Albus. It's been, what, an hour since we saw each other last? We have so much to catch up on," Snape answered sarcastically, staring at Harry the whole time. "You will have to excuse my young charge's appearance this evening," he continued, finally letting Harry out from under his gaze and looking at the headmaster. "Apparently, he thought he would get new clothes if he left his others behind. I am in no position to provide him with a new wardrobe, and his old raiments have, unfortunately, already been given away to charity."

Dumbledore frowned at this, and Harry felt a sinking sensation at the sight of the headmaster's expression. He gave the kind man a pleading look, not wanting Dumbledore to hate him. "Severus," Dumbledore began softly.

Snape shook his head. "We'll discuss this after dinner," he replied, with a pointed look at Harry. Dumbledore looked back and forth between the two for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"All right, Severus. As you wish. After dinner, then."

It was the first time in several days that Harry had managed to get three square meals, but he found he had little appetite, only managing to eat as much as he did for fear he would be punished again and wanting to get as much food as possible into his stomach before that happened. Dumbledore still spoke kindly to him, although Harry could not ask the questions that burned in his throat, not with Snape there, glaring angrily at him. He wondered how long it would be before he could ask Dumbledore more about his parents. Surely Harry wouldn’t have to wait until he went away to that school? Not three years? He didn't think he could stand it.

After dinner, Snape ordered him to clear the table while he and Dumbledore adjourned to the parlour and conferred in low tones. Harry, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strained to hear their conversation as he washed dishes, standing on a chair in front of the huge sink. But despite the fact that the two adults were well within his sight, perhaps only five or so metres away, he could not hear a word they said.

Dumbledore had no sooner disappeared into the fireplace than Snape turned his cold gaze on Harry, who flinched at the menacing look in Snape's eyes. The dishes were wiped and put back in the cupboards, and Harry had returned his chair to the table. He played nervously with the edge of his shirt, waiting for the Snape man to speak.

Snape was absolutely livid, time having done nothing to soften his rage. "I knew you were lying to me, Potter – no one with half a brain would believe that those rags upstairs were all you had after six years in your aunt and uncle's care – but had I not seen the evidence with my own eyes, I wouldn't be able to believe just how blatantly deceitful you were."

"I – "

"I was there, Potter!" Snape shouted. "I stood in your bedroom, disgusting mess that it was, full of broken toys and fancy clothes with the tags still on them piled all around me."

"It isn't my b – "

"And on top of that, your aunt gave me quite the insider's view on just how much trouble your relatives had with you. Miss Dursley was incredibly relieved to learn that I had become your guardian, and I can see why," Snape said, his lip curling into a sneer. "Frankly, I don't even see that it's worth the effort to try and bring you up properly, but when I think of your mother's horror if she knew how you had turned out . . ." He snorted and shook his head. "Well. How lucky am I, then, having fallen heir to the boy who ran an entire family on his whim?"

Harry's eyes were beyond stinging; at the mention of his mother, the tears he had been trying so desperately to hold back suddenly began to fall, first one at a time, then finally slipping down his cheeks so fast that it was impossible to count how many there were. He took a deep, shuddering breath and hunched his shoulders, feeling as helpless listening to Snape's tirade as ever he had while his aunt and uncle bellowed at him over his latest offence.

Seeing his tears, Snape made a disgusted noise in his throat. "Don't even think for a second that you can get out of this by crying, Potter. I'll be giving you something to cry about in a moment, mark my words. Follow me." With that, he strode from the room. Harry felt the floorboards shaking with Snape's furious steps, and his chest constricted in nervous anticipation as he thought what the 'something to cry about' might be.

"Potter!"

"Sorry," Harry whimpered, even though he knew Snape wouldn't be able to hear him. He trotted after his guardian, following him upstairs to his own bedroom, where he stood awkwardly at the end of his bed, holding onto the bedpost as he watched Snape go through his drawers.

"Put these on. You’ll be going straight to bed after your punishment," Snape ordered, shoving Harry's night clothes into his hands. Harry was caught unprepared, and almost dropped the bundle of fabric. As Snape strode into his bathroom and began banging around in the medicine cabinet, Harry quickly changed into his worn pyjamas, folding his other clothes with shaking hands and putting them away in his bureau. He hovered outside the bathroom, wondering if he was supposed to get ready for bed, and what Snape could be doing in there. Seeing him in the doorway, Snape pointed to the wooden stool. "Step up," he ordered Harry.

Harry climbed warily onto the stool and balanced himself by gripping the cold, hard edges of the basin. His lower belly was pressed against the cold, also, making him shiver even before he saw the fresh bar of soap lying on its torn wax wrapper. He knew, then, what Snape had in mind; Aunt Petunia had punished Harry the same way on several occasions, the last being the time he'd called her that name he heard one year five girl call another on the playground. Harry's throat went dry at the thought of that bitter taste that seemed to linger days afterward, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth in between, or how many glasses of water he drank.

"Please," he started to protest, but Snape had already picked up the bar and turned on the tap. Harry watched as the soap began to glisten under the running water, then foam when Snape started to work at it with his fingers. His mouth puckered in anticipation of the vile substance that would soon fill it, and he trembled as he gripped the basin and tried not to cry. Finally, Snape turned off the water and ordered Harry to open his mouth. Harry obeyed mutely, though his body cringed, fearing what Snape would do to him if he disobeyed.

Snape's hands were rough as he worked the soap around the inside of Harry's mouth, leaving a thick film of the horrible stuff behind on his teeth, tongue, and the insides of his cheeks. Harry felt saliva flowing too fast into his mouth, and knew he'd have to be very careful not to swallow. It was probably less than a minute before Snape dropped the wet bar of soap on the wrapper and turned the tap back on, but to Harry it felt like hours as the wretched taste threatened to make him gag.

"Rinse," Snape ordered him, and Harry cupped his hands to hold as much water as he could before taking it into his mouth and swishing it around, trying to get as much soap out as he could. Too soon, though, Snape shut off the water and handed Harry a towel to dry his face with. As his guardian took his arm and dragged him over to the chair he'd sat reading in for the better part of the day, Harry's tongue still tasted plenty of soap as he ran it around the inside of his mouth. The taste was disgusting, but Harry quickly forgot that as Snape sat down and he realised, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, what was going to happen next.

Harry fought to control his panic as Snape, none too gently, maneuvered him over his lap. Neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground, and Snape's knees pressed uncomfortably into his stomach, effectively immobilising him. Harry whimpered as he felt two hard smacks across the seat of his sweats, and more followed quickly behind those as Snape began to lecture him. "The headmaster is not in favour of spanking, as a rule, Potter," Smack! Smack! Smack! "but even he agreed that deliberate lying is grounds for punishment." Smack! Smack! Smack!

Harry's teeth were clenched as he tried not to cry out, wondering how hard Snape would punish him this time. "I expect nothing less than the truth from you at all times, and you will obey the rules of this house whether you like it or not," Snape continued. Smack! Smack! Smack! "Neither of us has any choice about these living arrangements, but in my house, you will treat me with respect or suffer the consequences." Harry gave up and cried brokenly as Snape finished with several searing smacks that left Harry certain he wouldn't be able to sit down ever again. Finally, his punishment ended, and Snape unceremoniously deposited him on the high bed before switching off the lights, warning Harry to go straight to bed with no fussing, and slamming the bedroom door behind him as he left.

As Harry lay curled up under his blanket, tasting soap every time he sniffed back tears, he reflected on all the times he had wished for a new home, new guardians. He had never understood why his relatives hated him so much, and sometimes, when they were threatening to send him away to an orphanage where he couldn't sponge off their charity any longer, Harry had wanted to cry, "Then send me there! What are you waiting for?" It seemed to him that anywhere would be better than the cold, sterile house where he had spent the last six miserable years of his life.

Well, Harry had gotten his wish, hadn't he? Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley were gone – he would never see them again, not in this lifetime, anyway. The house on Privet Drive would be sold, and a new family would move in. But in place of his frigid aunt and blustering uncle, Harry had gotten an angry, frustrated Snape who seemed ready to smack him at the drop of a hat, and a house-elf whose cooking and cleaning duties took a backseat to torturing Harry.

Snape, unbeknownst to him, had realised Harry's worst fears for him that evening. Deep down, in that part of his soul that his mother and father had imprinted with their unconditional love and adoration, Harry had somehow kept on believing that his relatives' aversion to him was their issue, not his. However, the repeated rejection by his new guardian threw a wrench into that theory, unconscious as it was, and Harry was left to wonder if he really was bad, incapable of being loved by anyone – even his parents, had they still been alive.

At that moment, Harry felt he would have given everything he had – which, admittedly, was no more than a jumble of ratty clothing and a tattered duffel bag – just to be back in his cupboard under the stairs at Number Four.