Harry sat on the bed, exhausted. His head throbbed and he felt dizzy and nauseous. He didn’t have the strength to change his shirt. He lay back on the sheets instead, glad they were dark green instead of white, and closed his eyes. He wondered vaguely if Snape would let the subject of his wardrobe drop. He’d rather die than tell Snape that he’d raided Hogwarts’ lost and found at the beginning of each school year to find dress clothes that he could wear under his school robes. Shielding his eyes with his good arm, he rolled onto his side. His lunch weighed heavily on his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he focused on his breathing. A moment later, he felt the tell-tale warning sign of heat racing just beneath his skin before he leaned over and vomited his lunch into the small garbage can wedged between the desk and the bed.

Feeling marginally better, he lay back down and drifted off to sleep to the sound and feel of his still too rapid heartbeat. He was only vaguely aware of someone stepping around him, cursing softly, touching his forehead, taking off his glasses, banishing the vomit, freshening the air, pulling the blankets up around him, and finally, the soft click of the door being shut before silence fell once again.

He awoke next to the sound of his door being opened and the aroma of something earthy.

“You need to eat,” Snape said, setting a tray of food on the desk. “But drink these first.”

Harry sat up, took the two proffered vials, and drained them. From their taste and colour, one was a blood replenishing potion, and the other was a stomach calming draught.

“Rinse your palette with this,” Snape said, handing him a mug of something hot and steaming.

Harry sipped at the tea, which was a refreshing blend of spices and mint and erased all traces of the aftertaste of vomit and the awful potions. “Thanks,” he murmured in surprise.

“I am not a potions master for nothing,” Snape replied, taking away the tea and exchanging it for the tray of food.

Harry rearranged his pillows and blankets and set the tray in his lap. There was barley soup, bread, and some sort of pudding. Harry felt his stomach rumble in appreciation.

“I expect you to eat your fill and then rest some more. I will stop back later this evening with the remainder of the potions you’ll need to take. There are some books in the wardrobe if you feel up to reading. Do not forget to reapply the salve to your hand one more time this evening.”

Harry nodded, grateful for the respite.

 Harry awoke the next morning to the sound of knocking. Then a deep baritone voice said: “Breakfast is in fifteen minutes.”

Harry stretched languidly, and then grimaced at the throbbing pain in his hand and his back. He found his glasses on the desk and slid them on. Then he undid the gauze and examined his wounds, turning his injured hand around and admiring Snape’s spell work. The once deep cuts were now pink lines which seemed to be fading even as he watched. He found fresh gauze and more scar salve on the desk and promptly reapplied it before making his way to the bathroom.

“Got into a bit of a scuffle, did we?”

Harry startled and looked up. “Who asked you?” he grumbled at the mirror, before taking in his own appearance. His hair was a mess and his glasses were askew, but that was nothing new. His hand was wrapped in fresh, clean gauze. His shirt, however, was rumpled and stained with dried blood. Snape had wanted him to change it the night before. Harry vowed to put on a clean one before presenting himself for breakfast, less Snape have yet another reason to comment on his inability to follow the simplest of instructions.

Snape looked up from the Daily Prophet as Potter entered the small kitchen. He noted that the boy’s cheeks were tinged with pink and that his bearing was stronger. There was no trace of the deathly pallor from the previous day’s blood loss, and the exhaustion that had been Potter’s constant shadow as of late seemed to have lessened some. The boy had finally changed his shirt as well. Nodding inwardly with approval, Snape merely said, “You have one last dose of blood replenishing potion to take, Potter.”

He saw the teen’s gaze shift to the seat opposite Snape where a place was set, and next to it, two glass vials.

“What is the other one?” Potter asked.

“Pepper Up potion,” Snape replied, “in case you needed it.”

“Oh,” Potter said. “I think I’m okay, thanks. I slept well last night.”

Snape snorted, but ignored the curious glance Potter shot him. Potter had slept like the dead, and Snape hadn’t even given him a sleeping draught. Snape had checked on him several times, changed the gauze and applied the scar salve twice in the night, checked for fever, and even made him drink a dose of blood replenishing potion, and still Potter hadn’t done more than moan groggily.

Snape served himself from a platter of poached eggs, ham, and toast with honey and then shook out the Daily Prophet, pretending to read as he covertly watched Potter eat. The teen ate with forced slowness, chewing each bite deliberately and washing it down with cold milk. Yet the boy’s body language screamed restraint, as if it took all of his will not to wolf down the food as if it might be taken away from him at any moment. That niggling sense of wrongness lingered, though he still couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“You may have seconds if you are still hungry,” Snape commented. Snape noticed the hollowness of the boy’s cheeks and wondered just how much food he got at his relative’s home.

“Er, thanks,” Potter said, tentatively filling his plate half full and proceeding to eat every last morsel.

Noticing Potter had finished, Snape said, “You may wait for me in the sitting room. I will join you in a moment.”

Potter piled his drinking glass and cutlery upon his plate and carried them to the sink.

“And Potter?”

The teen paused. “Yes?”

“Leave the dishes for me.” Snape thought he caught the barest hint of relief skitter across the boy’s face.

“Do you want me to help clear the food from the table?”

“Not today,” Snape said, watching as Potter nodded before hastily leaving the room. Snape drank his coffee and had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when there was a knock at the front door. He strode into the sitting room to find Potter sitting in the threadbare armchair, hands between his knees, looking anxious.

“Keep your hair over your scar, Potter,” Snape said. “And you are my nephew for today. Your name is Henry Prince.” He saw Potter grimace; he didn’t bother to add that Prince was his mother’s maiden name.

Harry stood as a flamboyantly dressed man stepped into the sitting room. His blond hair was styled into a spiky wave, a silver hoop earring dangling carelessly from one ear. He wore tight black jeans with large metal eyelets down the outsides of the legs, a shimmering lavender button down silk shirt, silver-tipped black heeled boots, and coal eyeliner. A black leather travel case hung at his side. Harry glanced between this man and Snape, unable to reconcile any sort of relationship between two men so clearly different from one another.

“Mr. Maclain, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Henry Prince.”

Harry reached out his good hand, speechless.

“Call me Les, as in less is more, the motto of the family business,” he said, clasping Harry’s hand in both of his and shaking it with gusto. “Mr. Maclain was my father, God rest his soul.”

Harry wondered what kind of business this man was in.

Les stepped back and took a good look at Harry. “Hmmm…” he murmured, stroking his chin. Then he glanced at Snape. “I see what you mean.” Snape merely nodded.

Harry watched the byplay with growing unease.

“Alright then, Henry. If you’ll just take off your shirt and trousers, I’ll get you all taken care of,” Les offered.

Harry took a step back. “What?”

“Les is my tailor,” Snape interjected coolly. “He is here to fit you for a new wardrobe.”

“A new war…” Harry spluttered. “But I don’t need a new wardrobe.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

Les stepped forward and pinched the thin, fraying fabric of Harry’s T-shirt, rubbing it briskly between his fingers. “Of course you do. These are but rags.” Shaking his head and tsking in disapproval, Les took a step back and unclipped the straps on his travelling case.

Momentarily distracted, Harry watched, mesmerized, as the case promptly unfolded itself into a portable tailoring station, complete with measuring tapes, pins, chalk, needles, thread, fabric samples, clothing catalogues, a sewing machine, and a small work table.

“Now, if you’ll just remove your shirt, we can get started,” Les said, picking up the measuring tape which curled and uncurled like a snake about to strike its next victim. “Then we can discuss colours, fabrics, cuts...”

“No,” Harry said, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and taking another step back. The room was so small he was nearly against the bookshelf.

“Henry…” Snape warned.

Harry felt the heat in his cheeks as his heart began to pound. He had that cornered feeling he always got when his uncle closed in on him, his face purple with rage, for failing at some unreasonable task or unjustly accusing him of something he hadn’t done. Unconsciously Harry raised his hands in front of him, warding them away.

Les looked confused and glanced at Snape for direction.

“Henry, stop this childish behaviour at once. As long as you are under my roof, you’ll follow my rules...”

The dam holding back Harry’s emotions broke. “I didn’t ask to come here!” he shouted. “I didn’t ask for new clothes and I don’t want your charity!” He shouldered his way between the two men, and made for the hidden staircase.

“Po... HENRY! Get back here this instance and apologize!”

“Go to hell!”

Snape took several deep breaths in an attempt to control his temper. If there was one thing he would not tolerate, it was being disrespected in his own house. He wanted to strangle Potter for making him look like a fool. Instead, he cleared his throat.

“My deepest apologies for my nephew’s behaviour, Mr. Maclain. His mother and father sent him here hoping that I could instil some reason into the boy. I am presently doubting the wisdom of that plan.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Kids at that age can be particularly difficult. I remember when I brought home my first boyfriend…” Les said with a wistful look on his face, “my parents didn’t know I was gay, see? Well, let’s just say that it didn’t go over so well.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. He’d always known Les was gay; if his parents hadn’t seen it, it was wilful ignorance on their part.

“Anyway, they came around, my parents did,” Les said as he expertly repacked his tailor’s case. “Give the lad some time to get settled in. He’ll be fine.”

Snape raised a doubtful brow but didn’t protest. His fists were still clenched at his sides.

“Oh, and here,” Les said, pulling a tape measure from his pocket, charming it, and handing it to Snape. “Just owl me the measurements and I’ll be happy to make or procure whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Snape replied, seeing Les to the door and locking it behind the wizard before stalking up the stairs to confront the ungrateful whelp that had arrived, unwelcome, on his doorstep.