Harry walked with a bit of a bounce back towards Snape's house, pulling the grocery buggy behind him and knocking his fingers on leaves dripping with the morning's rain.  Sun was peaking through breaks in the clouds, though the town was still rather wet.  Harry felt great.  It was Saturday, he had pizza for lunch, he had a brilliant new tattoo, he was away from the Dursleys, and Snape hadn't even given him too much trouble for being piss drunk on Thursday night.

Life was grand.  Harry waved hello to a lady who was watching him suspiciously from her spot on the bench by the bus stop. Her gaze moved towards the thin white bandage on his arm, and Harry felt stupidly proud for a moment.  In a few hours he could unwrap the tattoo and let other people actually see...oh holy hell.  Snape was going to murder him.  Harry slowed his walk right down and nearly clipped the grocery buggy on a garbage can on the corner of Caroline way. 

Harry cursed under his breath and stared at the wrapping.  No, definitely not able to hide the tattoo.  Maybe he could tell Snape that he'd fallen on the way back, and gone to the pharmacy to get a bandage. That could explain why he was late too.  But then, that was rather stupid - Snape was a wizard, and from the company he kept, probably very adept at healing spells.  He'd make Harry unwrap his arm in order to heal it. This was probably why Snape kept mocking him for being a Gryffindor, for rushing out and doing things without much thought to all of the consequences. 

Maybe if Dumbledore forced Harry to go along with Snape's task he'd get the chance to study Snape and learn some more Slytherin tactics for dealing with life. Who better to learn from than the head of Slytherin himself?  Besides, it would be dead useful training for the upcoming war. 

Harry turned onto Snape's street and took a deep breath. Now was the time for him to act like the Gryffindor he was, and face his potions master.  He could do this. He would be sixteen in two weeks, for Merlin's sake. He'd faced down a basilisk when he was twelve.  Maybe Snape wouldn't care that he was half an hour late, and wouldn't care too much about the tattoo.

Snape, as it turned out, cared a lot.  As soon as Harry had opened the door, Snape had been waiting in the little vestibule and yanked him inside.  He ordered Harry to put the food away, and watched Harry like a hawk, seething as he stood at the doorway.  And judging from the annoyance emanating from him, Snape knew exactly what was under the inadequately thin bandage.

"Sit!"  Snape barked after the last can had been put away, maneuvering Harry into the kitchen chair. 

Harry roughly sat down, keeping his arm held softly to his side. He glared at Snape, before slouching in his seat.  Better to keep the upper hand here, Harry thought.  He wasn't a timid eleven year old anymore; he was a man with a tattoo.

"What have I done now?"

"Watch your tone, Potter, lest you wish to taste soap."  Snape was searching through the tall kitchen cabinet, where Harry knew a small first aid kit was located. He'd seen it on his punishment the day before, while cleaning out the cupboards.

Snape turned around and regarded Harry, who was dressed in scruffy jeans, an old t-shirt, black sneakers, and had put some sort of muggle gel in his hair to make it look messier than normal. The oversized jacket had been draped over the grocery buggy. He was slumped in the chair, legs sticking out and his unbandaged arm was slung over the back of the chair. Harry was watching him with narrow eyes, looking the picture of defiant teenager.  Snape wanted to smack the look right off his face.

It did not go unnoticed that the tattoo was in the exact same spot that the Dark Mark usually went.  Snape brought the bag down and stalked across the small kitchen towards Harry, who sat up a little straighter and seemed less sure of himself.  Maybe acting arrogant like a Malfoy was not the best idea.

"Unwrap it."

It was a command, and though Harry knew he should obey, some stubborn and demented part of his mind refused.

"No. I'm to leave the bandage on for a few more hours, sir."  He held his head up, but instead of meeting Snape's eye, trained his gaze beyond the man.

"What's wrong, Potter? Afraid of showing off your brilliant masterpiece?"  Snape sneered, pulling out a fresh bundle of gauze.

"Don't want to ruin the design." Harry smarted right back.  Snape was much more gratifying than Vernon to antagonize.

 "Just unwrap the damn thing so I can heal it faster."  Snape was losing his patience, and Harry noted that a small vein above Snape's eye was starting to twitch a little.  It was almost imperceptible, and Harry wondered if the same thing happened when Snape was annoyed in class.

Harry glared at Snape and then at the gauze.  The tattoo artist told him the tattoo would be itchy for a good week, and to be perfectly honest with himself, Harry would rather Snape healed it.  After taking a calming breath, Harry picked carefully at the medical tape holding the bandage on and started slowly unpeeling the covering. Snape waited, tapping his foot slightly, but not saying anything as Harry took his time.

Finally after two minutes of careful unrolling, the tattoo was fully revealed. Harry forgot that Snape was in the room and smiled as he stared at his arm.  The inner arm was mostly white still, though the edges around the tattoo were slightly swollen red and there was a tiny bit of dried blood around the lines of ink.   The feather looked very realistic, better than Harry had imagined.  He removed Hedwig's feather from his pocked and held it up to his arm, quite impressed by the resemblance.

"You have a feather." Snape said pointedly, staring at the design.  "That's not a phoenix feather though - your owl?"  Snape seemed openly curious, and Harry took a breather from the lack of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah, Hedwig's.  She was my first birthday gift and during the summers she's my only friend."  Harry was mumbling, and then looked up with a mortified blush when he realized what he'd said. 

"So you decided to immortalize one of her moltings on your arm. How very poetic of you, Potter."  Snape stated, ignoring what Harry had said and drawing his wand out from his sleeve.  He seemed to have put his mask back on. "The Pure Golden Boy who Lived now marked with a tattoo, like a petulant rebellious teenager."

"At least I picked my own design for my tattoo." Harry shot back, before his brain gave himself the mental feeling of smashing his head onto a desk repeatedly.  Harry stupidly kept Snape's gaze, and was impressed at the sheer look of utter loathing that he saw. Harry had thought over his past five years at Hogwarts that he'd seen all of Snape's angry facial expressions. Clearly the man had been holding back.

Snape's face turned white with anger as he glared at Harry, and sucked back air through his teeth.  Harry was stuttering and slowly shrinking away to the corner of the kitchen, as Snape looked like he was trying to resist strangling Harry or slapping him.  Harry's body was on edge, in fight or flight mode at the sense of danger.  There was a sudden loud crack as all the picture frames in the room splintered as if they'd had a fist slammed against them.  Harry looked nervously at his teacher, trying to gauge his chances of survival.

"That..that was a stupid thing to say."  Harry didn't make a move to run yet, but he was considering his options.

When Snape opened his mouth to yell, he finally registered that Harry was standing timidly next to the wall in the corner, messy black hair mostly obscuring frightened eyes.  He wasn't crying, Snape noticed Harry rarely cried, but his skittish and submissive body language struck painfully at Snape's memories.  Snape had been there. He'd stood in that very corner.  An iron grip clenched at Snape's stomach, and he suddenly felt like a monster.

"Be quiet." Snape said in a very quiet voice.  Snape was turned to face the sink, arms resting heavily on the counter.  His head was dipped a little, and Harry thought the man looked a bit...broken.

Harry scratched his good arm nervously, thinking about what he'd said.  He definitely had not meant to blurt anything out about the dark mark, but Harry had always had that bad habit of thinking before speaking.  Snape's shoulders straightened as he spun back toward the room - Harry saw out of the corner of his eye - and Harry braced himself for Snape's lecture. Fortunately, there were no jarred potion ingredients within reach now as Snape looked like he'd composed himself again.  

"Give me your arm." It was whispered very softly, and Harry instinctively cradled his arm to his chest, shaking his head no.

 "Do you want the arm healed or not?"  Snape's face thankfully wasn't red with anger, but Harry wasn't sure if deathly pale was a better variant.

"You'll take it off."  Harry said uncertainly, meaning both his arm and his tattoo.

"That is something I would do, isn't it, Potter?"  Snape upturned his lips into a sardonic smile, and Harry's eyes widened. He didn't get the chance to say anything else though, as Snape's arm had shot out and grabbed his own, pulling it out straight.  The black wand that Harry now noted was elegantly carved in a design at the handle was waved over the wound, and a soft incantation spoken.

Harry closed his eyes as he felt the magic wash over his arm, listening to Snape's deep voice speaking the Latin almost poetically.  Then the words stopped, but the tight grip did not lesson.  Harry opened his eyes quickly to note that the tattoo was perfectly healed and cleaned, lines of the feather fine in their detail and not one spot of ink out of place.    Snape then took the gauze he had retrieved from the first aid kit and began to methodically wrap the tattoo again.

"Are you alright, sir?"  Harry said softly, his eyes refusing to look up and meet Snape's. He received no response, but Snape's arm stiffened slightly for a moment.  Harry took it to mean that the topic was not up for discussion. After a minute the tattoo was fully covered and the wrapping secured, then Snape said one final spell over the whole job.

"It's water proof now, Potter." Snape said by way of explanation, banishing the first aid supplies back to their spot in the cupboard.

"Er, thanks?" Harry questioned, glad that his arm was no longer itching. 

Snape stuck Harry to the chair again and moved about the kitchen, fetching a spoon and a bright yellow jar of something. It was placed on the table, and Harry strained to read the label as Snape pulled his chair out to sit very close to Harry's.  This was definitely not good.

"Professor?"

"We're going to have a little chat, Mr. Potter."  Harry's eyes were riveted to Snape's hands, watching as he slowly undid the jar.

"About what, sir?"  Harry was suddenly very nervous.  When his aunt and uncle were mad, it was rather easy to predict how they'd react.  Snape had a deadly calm about him that terrorized Harry inside.

"I have been rather lenient with you this weekend, Potter.  But as it appears I may be forced to drag you along for this mission, there are certain behaviours of yours we need to remedy."  Harry watched as Snape summoned a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.  Snape took a sip, and continued.

"You lied to me, Potter.  You have been lying to me for quite a few years now."  Snape said this with a very sure and even voice, which unnerved Harry even more. He had no idea where the guilt he was feeling was coming from, but it was a damn inconvenient time for it.

"I did look at clothes! I wasn't lying about that." A silver spoon was dipped into the jar and Harry finally saw the label.  Colman's English Mustard, the old fashioned yellow paste.

"You went explicitly for the tattoo, and that's why you requested money from the bank."  Snape sounded very sure of himself, and tipped two drops of clear liquid into the jar, from a bottle he extracted from his pocket.  The mixture was stirred, and then he pulled out a spoonful of mustard.

"Yeah, but I wanted clothes too. It wasn't exactly a lie."  Harry eyed Snape's hand suspiciously. It was edging closer to him.

"Open up, Potter."  Snape was staring straight at Harry, face muted in determination.

"What? You want me to eat mustard?"  Harry forgot to be defensive as he tried to figure out what on Earth Snape was doing.

"Not quite. You won't swallow it."  The spoon was rather close to Harry's mouth and his nose was filed with the strong musky scent.  Harry opened his mouth to say something else, and Snape shoved the spoonful in faster than a snitch out maneuvering a seeker. He dumped the mustard right on Harry's tongue, and pulled the spoon out.

"Keep it there." Snape commanded, as Harry sputtered.

"Wha thu hell?" Harry managed, scrunching his face up in disgust at the taste.

"While it would be no great loss to set fire to those ridiculously oversized and worn out trousers of yours, or pants if you wish to use the American term, I do believe this will be a firm step in learning your lesson."

"Set fire to my pants?" Harry was tempted to spit the revolting mess back out at Snape, were it not for the fierce glare he was receiving and the knowledge that whatever might happen after would be so much worse.

Snape pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and glanced at it, before leaning in towards Harry and speaking in a very low voice.

"Liar, liar."

Harry stared at him, fighting the urge to swallow the disgusting mustard.  The man was absolutely crazy.  First he does the onion trick while Harry was drunk, and now putting hot mustard on his tongue? Harry's mouth was starting to water, and not in a good way.

"You not seious."  Harry mouthed, trying to talk without making a mess.

Snape rolled his eyes.

"The burning should make itself known soon enough, and you'll know how serious I am."  Snape slowly put the lid back on the jar, watching Harry's face with a twisted smile.

The burning on his tongue had already made itself known, but Harry refused to admit that.

Snape, however, noticed that Harry's eyes were beginning to water. 

"Three more minutes should do, I think. In the meantime, now is a good time to talk about your abhorrent impulse control."

Harry squirmed in his seat and kept his eyes trained on the glass of water, which Snape saw.  Harry wanted to curse the man when he took a leisurely sip of it. 

"Your drinking escapade on Thursday night was ridiculously immature and ill thought out. A death eater found you, Potter. And what did you do? You staggered after me like a puppy and threw up for twenty minutes."  Snape glared at Harry's fidgeting, and held his hand up when Harry went to say something.

"Don't bother, Potter. I listen to your pathetic excuses enough during the school year. I have a very good idea as to why you were drunk. You are also fifteen, and every stupid teenager tries a drinking binge once. Bearing that in mind," Snape leaned even closer towards Harry, lowering his tone to a soft almost whisper,  "if I ever catch you drinking like that again, or hear of it, you can be sure you won't just be smelling onions. You'll be tasting them as well, for the entire time I have you scrubbing cauldrons as punishment. And if you try to lie about it..."

Harry's face scrunched in an ugly look as he imagined the taste and smell of onions and mustard together. He'd never be able to eat a hotdog again. 

"I not supid."  Harry managed, holding his hand under his mouth.  The burning on his tongue was becoming unbearable.

"Two minutes left.  And so you've said before, however stupid and teenager are not mutually exclusive."  Snape sat back in his chair again, a sneer on his face.

Beads of sweat broke out under Harry's bangs, and he determined that Snape was some sort of food sadist. His shoulders slumped a little and he started counting in his head. This would be the longest two minutes ever.

Snape continued after watching Harry squirm for a bit.

"As for your lying, you will not lie to me. You are currently at my house, under my watch, and while you are here you will not lie.  I don't care if you lie to your relatives, your friends, the general public - while I am entrusted with your safety, you will not lie to me."

"You don care?"  Harry snatched a serviette from the table and wiped the corner of his mouth. His eyes were leaking small tears now, but he didn't care that Snape saw.  He was strangely reminded of the night in fourth year, when Snape had pulled him into the supply closet and accused him of stealing potion ingredients.

"Potter, I expect you to lie, cheat, steal, do whatever is necessary to defeat the Dark Lord. But not to me. I need to know what stupid ideas are running through that ridiculous little head of yours to protect you from yourself."

 Snape was giving him a funny look, and Harry should have been more insulted by that comment.

"Crabbe and Goyle senior were at the house today, two very active and very stupid death eaters. I expected you to be where I told you to go while they were here. And were you?"

Harry shook his head glumly. Just what he wanted, a burning tongue and guilt.  Snape had a bloody point, of course.  Hanging around Little Whinging for the summer was one thing, and he'd been attacked by dementors even there.  But Stockport was different; Harry didn't know the place at all and had no idea if other witches or wizards lived in town.

The watch on the table clicked, and Snape waved him to the sink to spit out the mustard.

Snape waited patiently as Harry rinsed his mouth out several times.

"You're not going to give my anything for my tongue, are you?"  Harry finally asked, taking a tentative breath of air.  His tongue felt slightly swollen and still burned.  Snape merely raised his eyebrow.

"Thought not." Harry mumbled.  "I get your point though. Stop lying."

Snape snorted in scorn. "Oh, you'll lie to me again, Potter. Of that I have no doubt. But perhaps the burning tongue memory will give you pause to think about whether the lie is worth it or not."

Harry eyed him tiredly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Right. All for my personal safety."  Harry said, rather bitterly.  Snape said nothing, but gave him a strange look, like he was a potion that wasn't turning out just the right shade. Harry suddenly thought of something and figured now was the best time to ask.  Surely Snape wouldn't punish him again so soon after the mustard.

"Why d'you let me keep my wand? It's summer, and I'm not of age."  Harry leaned back against the counter, running his tongue gingerly along his teeth. Maybe by bedtime it would be back to normal.

"And your forged identification card?"  Snape finished his water and stood up, putting his chair back at its regular spot.

"Yeah, that - how do you know about that?"  Harry's hand immediately went to his back pocket, where he knew his wallet was.

"How else would you be able to buy beer, Potter? You look twelve."  Snape asked smoothly, putting his glass in the sink.  "I also inspected your bag while you were indisposed in the washroom, your first night here."

Harry didn't have it in him to be genuinely outraged, but he managed indignant. "That's my personal property, sir."

"They are. And you still have them."  Snape took a strong grip on Harry's arm and started to walk him out to the library, to the door that led to the front hall.

"I...why haven't you taken them away? You were so set on confiscating my invisibility cloak before."

Snape pushed Harry into the front office, a room Harry had never been in before.

"This is not school, Mr. Potter. In the real world, anything you can use to your advantage is not something to be taken away due to some silly age rule."

Harry regarded him curiously and with no hidden surprise. Snape was right; having those objects would help if Harry ever got caught in a tight spot. Though maybe he should change the name on the ID card.

"I believe this room could do with your impressive cleaning skills, Potter." 

It was his This-Is-Your-Detention-Task tone, and Harry looked around at the room, cobwebs in the corners, a layer of dust on most of the shelves, stained coffee rings on the side tables, and foot prints scuffed on the dull hardwood floor.  There was an impressive stack of paperwork on the desk.

"Bugger." Harry murmured, as a bucket, mop, and box of cleaning supplies appeared.

"Indeed. Any more comments about my tattoo and this task will seem like a walk in the park."   Snape glared at him, black eyes glittering.

"Wait." Harry said, looking up with confusion as Snape made to leave the room. "You're really not mad about the tattoo itself?"

"Paint yourself pink, for all I care.  I have never had any illusions of your pure innocence for you to break.  Though I do draw the line at the tattoo, Merlin knows how ridiculous you'd look if you took a nail gun to your face." Snape rolled his eyes, pointing to the bucket.  "I do look forward to watching you squirm when Molly Weasley finds out about the tattoo.  And your relatives on Monday."

Harry's face blanched, and Snape left the room with a smirk.  Harry took a deep breath and stared around at the office that was once a sitting room. He'd only glanced into it a few times since his arrival at the house, and it was as dreary as the rest of the place.  A small but sturdy wooden desk was against the wall that was shared with the library, two or three lamps were strategically placed around it, and a wooden librarian's chair on wheels was set at the desk. An older chesterfield sat under the two front windows, and even though the fabric was faded, Harry could tell that the sofa hadn't been sat in much, as the edges still looked stiff enough to provide strong support to whomever perched on it.

He gazed at the fireplace, the ornate carvings around the edges of it blending in with the simple wood patterning on the molding of the room.  The wallpaper was faded blue, with a darker blue damask pattern that wasn't too overpowering.  Harry actually liked the room, as it was strong and held a quiet character to it, unlike the overly cheery flower patterns of the living room at Privet Drive.

Kicking the bucket beside him, Harry decided to work from the ceiling down, and so picked up the mop to start pulling at cobwebs.  He was rather grateful that Snape had decided to remain in the kitchen, because he could focus solely on scrubbing and not having to listen to any disparaging comments.  Harry paused as he swept down the walls, thinking about Snape. He'd been surprisingly nice for Snape over the past two days and Harry was taken back at that.  He had definitely not expected Snape to give him a place to stay while drunk, nor had he expected to be allowed to stay the next day. 

Snape was acting in a much different manner than he normally did at school - sure he was still short-tempered with Harry, but not overly malicious.  He hadn't even tried to get Harry expelled the year before. Harry puzzled over this, and the lecture he'd been given about lying.  It wasn't that Snape cared about Harry, he just cared enough to make sure Harry stayed alive long enough to defeat Voldemort.  As he wiped around the fireplace, Harry wondered idly if Snape had heard the prophecy. That would definitely explain his lack of interest in outright killing Harry.

Harry supposed that the reappearance of Voldemort would put anyone's petty childhood grudge on the backburner, especially to someone who walked a very tight line in Voldemort's camp.

And then there was that conversation with Dumbledore.

The headmaster had seemed very tired during the floo visit, and while Harry hadn't expected him to drop everything to help Harry out, he hadn't expected the manipulation of Snape either.  Harry hated feeling like he was a kid that someone always had to be taking care of, but at least at Snape's place he wasn't being treated like a child.  When he wasn't grounded and having to scrub down one of the rooms, that was.

Harry removed the hurricane glass covers from the candle lamps and placed them on the floor next to the bucket of cleaning water.  He stared at them for a moment, before leaving the room and venturing into the library.  Snape wasn't at his favourite chair, as expected, but was instead seemed to be rearranging his books, or searching for a few. 

Harry was going to cough to get Snape's attention, but as usual the man seemed to know he was there.

"You can't be done already, Potter."  Snape's tone wasn't as angry as it usually was when Harry had detention, so Harry took that for a good sign.

"No, sir. But I need a large bucket, to fill with hot water."  Snape gave him an odd look, but Harry just stammered on. "About the size of a thick pillow, to wash the lamp covers."

Snape nodded at this and conjured a suitable bucket, before returning to his books. Harry slipped out of the room and upstairs to the tub, where he knew he could fill the bucket faster. He started daydreaming as he waited for the bucket to fill, thinking about how pleasantly quiet the house was.

Harry returned downstairs and put the hurricane lamps in the soapy water to soak away the dust and grime.  The drapes came down with relative ease, and Harry used the doxy killer spray to rid them from the curtains, spraying it around as if he were Indiana Jones battling a chamber full of snakes.  The theme song for Indiana Jones started playing in his head, and Harry sang the beats aloud as he started scrubbing the windows.  They were dirty from the outside as well, but Harry figured he'd wait till he got in trouble again before cleaning them.  As there were only two windows, it didn't take long for them to be sparkling, and he then tackled the window frames and baseboards. 

Harry gingerly wiped the baseboards in invisible patterns, as if he were avoiding a certain spot that would trigger poisonous darts to shoot out at him, just like Indy had faced in the movie.  This was good honest work and Harry finally felt relaxed.  He wasn't thinking about Sirius, he wasn't thinking about Cedric, he wasn't even thinking of his aunt and uncle.  He was just in this small little room he inexplicably felt comfortable in, rejuvenating it, and not needing to worry about where he was going to sleep that night or if he'd be sent to bed without any food.  Speaking of food, Harry's nose twitched at the smell of basil and garlic that filled the air.  He didn't consciously note it however, but instead turned around to check on the hurricane lamps, tripping over the bucket of cleaning supplies.

Tucking himself into a roll, Harry landed on his butt near the door of the room, where Snape was leaning against the doorframe with an amused look on his face.  Harry blushed and shook his head as he finally realized what the delicious smell was.

"Dinner is ready, Dr. Jones."

Snape gave the tiniest hint of a smile and walked off towards the kitchen, while Harry blushed.  Snape must have heard him humming while he was cleaning.  He may have heard the fake whip sounds effects Harry had made while shaking out the drapes as well but Harry was going to deny that had ever happened.

He brushed himself off while walking through the kitchen to wash his hands in the bathroom at the back of the house, something he knew Snape would demand so he did it first to spare the lecture.  The kitchen smelled wonderful and there were two large plates of pasta on the table with a fresh loaf of garlic bread in between.

Harry slid into his seat and closed his eyes, savouring the smell. He waited for Snape to start eating before tentatively picking up his fork.

"Eat it. I'll not send you back starved."  Snape ordered, swirling his own pasta round his fork.  He noted the instant blush that appeared at the word starved, but did not comment on it.

"You've seen Indiana Jones?" Harry asked, carefully taking a bite of the spaghetti. His tongue was still tender, but it was alright to eat with.

"Of course. Though large liberties were taken with the accuracy of the film."  Snape had wine with his pasta, but Harry was fine with the milk that had appeared at his spot. He'd had enough drinking for a while.

"Accuracy? It's Hollywood, they always go a little beyond realistic." Steam was rising from the garlic bread, and Harry couldn't resist any longer.

"Potter, how can you be so ignorant of your own world?"  Snape sounded exasperated, but not fully annoyed.

Harry thought for a minute, debating with himself how much to tell Snape.  He didn't want to make himself the victim, but Snape's idea of Harry's home life was so twisted that Harry couldn't help but mention something.  Then he got the idea for the perfect comparison.

"Malfoy." Harry stated, swallowing a mouthful of pasta and ignoring Snape's raised questioning eyebrow.

"That family absolutely despises muggle-borns and probably half bloods too. I'm sure Mr. Malfoy has caused some physical harm to muggles, just because they're not wizards, and Draco is a little prat towards non-pure wizards."

Snape nodded for Harry to continue, not contesting Harry's blunt accusations.  Maybe he didn't like the Malfoys nearly as much as he seemed to in school. Harry filed that away for future reference.

"Switch Mr. Malfoy for Vernon Dursley, Draco Malfoy for Dudley Dursley, and muggle borns for any relation to the Wizarding world whatsoever."

Harry was quite satisfied that his answer didn't give too much away about life at the Dursleys.  While the Weasleys knew more about what Harry went through, Dumbledore had ignored his pleadings to spend his summers elsewhere and Harry definitely did not want to give Snape any idea of how much that hurt. 

"Someone else is going to have to explain away Petunia Dursley however, as I've never met Mrs. Malfoy."

Snape chuckled at this, and Harry looked at him with a shocked expression. He'd seen Snape smile before, but it was always an evil smile, a sardonic grin, or a smirk that meant that Harry was about to pay for something or had just done something remarkably stupid.  He could honestly say he'd never heard Snape laugh before.

"If she's anything like how she was as a child, the comparison to Narcissa Malfoy would be accurate." Snape sat back in his chair and took another sip of his wine.

"So you did know Mum when she lived here." Harry said, breaking off another piece of bread.

"Yes." Snape answered simply, not adding anything more.

"Could you tell me about her, sir?"  Harry knew he was taking a risk, especially after the scene he'd stumbled into in the pensieve. Snape's eyes narrowed at him, and Harry blushed.

"Everyone talks about Dad, but most people only tell me I have Mum's eyes."  Harry had his eyes trained on his plate, not wanting to look up, even though he knew that Snape knew Harry was at a disadvantage.   From the silence, Harry supposed Snape was thinking about his mum and their time together when they were kids.

Finally Snape put his wine glass on the table with a little more force than necessary.

"For all you've done for your friends at school - go look in a bloody mirror, Potter." Snape gruffed, eating the rest of his meal in silence.

--

Harry stared out the window of the small bedroom, over the labyrinth of slanted roofs and old brick chimneys. Stockport was not a very pretty town, but Harry felt rather comfortable there. There were no pretences, no having to dress oneself up properly to show class. It was a working town, and work was valued more than fashionable clothing or custom.

Harry thought it must have been a nice place for his mum to grow up in, a regular run of the mill normal town that wasn't too big that you could lose yourself.

Snape knocked on the door and startled Harry out of his musings. "Come in."

"It's late." Snape stated, fixing Harry with a look.   Snape walked into the room and moved to the wardrobe, opening the door and peering at something on the top shelf.

"Er. Are you giving me a bedtime, sir?" Harry suddenly felt rather uncomfortable in the room. It wasn't his, but Snape had knocked on the door respectfully, unlike his own relatives.

"No." Snape turned around and gave him a withering look.  "I merely wish to inform you that there will be no wandering throughout the night, no snooping through anything, and no making loud noises. Refrain from being your normal self at school."

Harry looked away and absently scratched his forehead. "Sorry for the nightmare last night. I didn't mean to wake you."

Snape studied him as he put the small bundles of paper he'd taken from the closet into his robe pocket. The boy looked rather tired, almost dejected.  There was no anger in his eyes either, nothing like what Snape was used to seeing in class. Instead, Harry just looked worn.

"What's wrong with you?"  The question wasn't nearly as mean as Snape could have made it sound, but Harry's head snapped up anyway and Snape saw a spark of black annoyance along the green. That was better.

"Lots, apparently."  Harry huffed, flopping down on the bed and turning on his side to face the wall. "I won't leave the room."

Snape was suspicious that the boy was so easily...agreeable.  He would ponder about the response to his question later.

"Don't be stupid, you may use the lavatory if you need." 

Potter nodded at him, and continued to stare at the wall, his green eyes slightly unfocused without the glasses.

"Potter. Daydream."  Snape looked uncomfortable with the word daydream, and Harry blushed for needing to be told that.  Tit for tat, Snape smirked as he left the room and closed the door.

Harry stretched back out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't too late, only 11 pm, but he supposed that sleep wouldn't be a bad idea at that point.  He had no idea what to day dream about tonight, though.  The conversation in the library yesterday had been unsettling, and it wasn't really the part where Dumbledore had suggested Harry play Snape's son that had bothered him all that much.  That at least would be a fun challenge, and he'd get to go somewhere, from the sounds of it.

What was bothering him was the fact that this was his last night at Snape's house, and he actually felt bad about that.  Snape had been his rather strict self over the weekend, though actually a bit less so when Harry thought about it, and Harry would actually miss staying here.

It was a very bizarre feeling.

Harry stared at the ceiling above, and noticed now that there were tiny scorch marks there, most likely made when the younger Snape had been shooting down flies during the summer.  This was a good room to think in.  Maybe in the morning Harry would leave his own tiny mark, write his name under the bed or something.  Harry smiled and turned out the lamp by the bed, digging under the covers. He made a mental note to ask Snape how he'd gotten around the underage decree as a child, to shoot down flies of all things, and slipped off to another world.

 This night, Harry dreamt about winning some money in the lotto, and redecorating the bedroom in dark blues and reds, with as many books and electronics as he could get.