Listening to Dumbledore prattle on about his responsibilities over Christmas holiday was become painful for Harry. Beside him, he felt Snape stiffen; whatever the Headmaster was saying was lost on the boy’s ears as he silently picked a hole in the carpet with his school shoes. He found it highly unlikely that anyone in their right mind would even consider visiting a bastard like Snape over holiday. He didn’t exactly make for pleasant tea-time conversation, did he?

‘…And, of course, we’ll need to – Harry, are you paying attention, my boy?’

The fog in his ears cleared ever so slightly.

‘Harry? Have you heard anything I’ve just said?’

Of course he had. Something about a tea party, wasn’t it?

‘Yes, sir.’

Snape snorted, waiting for Dumbledore to turn around before tearing off the edge of a fingernail and spitting it derisively at a brightly coloured tin that could only have held the Headmaster’s seemingly never-ending supply of sherbet lemons. The meeting had dragged on far longer than it was supposed to, and the two Slytherins fully blamed Dumbledore; the old man had more waffle in him than Eggo.

‘Beg pardon, Headmaster,’ Snape interrupted with the airs of a man who would rather swallow a Blast-Ended Skrewt than beg pardon from anyone, ‘but I have several volatile and rather valuable potions to pack still, and I am certain the boy’s tendency for sloth has no doubt slowed his own packing to an almost criminal rate, so if you would be so kind as to hurry this up….’

Dumbledore smiled. It was amazing, really, Harry thought, that a man could smile after such a monologue as though he had just been offered a lifetime supply of sherbet lemons.

‘Of course, Severus. You’ll have to forgive an old man’s rambling; I sometimes forget you are a grown man yourself, and more than capable of handling this.’ If it was meant to be a compliment, it certainly did nothing to help. If anything, Snape looked possibly more inclined to homicide than he had before. ‘I’ll just say goodbye then, shall I? Good luck, the both of you.’ He shook their hands, patting Harry on the back in a fatherly way. ‘Good luck, Harry, Severus.’

It was, perhaps, the first time Harry could ever recall being wished good luck for Christmas.

The moment they entered the corridor Snape turned, leering down his nose, and ordered, ‘Fetch your things, then, and don’t be all day with it. I plan on leaving here before breakfast.’ He strode off without another word, most likely to sulk in his quarters, Harry thought.

He followed slowly, his mind on other things. Maybe if he took long enough he could nip down for a bit of toast or something, anything to appease his queasy stomach. Packing should not take a horribly long time. Harry had never owned much. Some fresh shirts, trousers, maybe a pair of robes. Shoes he was wearing; a comb might help. His wand, a few books, socks, pants, parchment, and quills were a necessity. Snape had said to bring a toothbrush if he planned on keeping his mouth clean, and both his Invisibility Cloak and the map were in Lupin’s care for the time being. Not much packing to do at all, then.

‘Sang Pur,’ Harry mumbled. He shuffled into the common room where the unlucky few who had stayed for the holiday milled about tiredly, lounging on wing-backed armchairs and doing their best to look uninterested in one another. Fortunately, Malfoy and his bumbling lumps were gone, leaving Harry to enjoy the last moments of peace he would have before Christmas with Snape. Theodore Nott (who insisted on Harry calling him Theo) glanced up, nodded, and returned to his book.

The sixth year boy’s dormitory was empty, with the exception of Nott’s foul black cat. Harry opened his trunk, yanking out his Slytherin robes, ties, scarf, and jumper. He replaced the scarf under a pile of socks, clumsily folded one of his robes, a tie, and jumper to lie on top of the short pile of clothes already occupying trunk space. A few random books were tossed in, his writing supplies, and a bag of sweets mail-ordered from Honeydukes. His last addition was the potions book Snape had given him. It had saved him a total of four times in class so far, not to mention held a myriad useful spells. He would have been hard-pressed to leave that behind; it had become nearly as precious a resource as the Marauder’s Map.

‘That’s it, then.’ Theo’s cat yowled, and Harry shot it a grin. ‘Bet you’re well pleased to see me off, aren’t you, you nasty old –’

‘Domingart?’

He stopped dead, head whipping toward the door in time to see Nott enter.

‘Why are you talking to my cat?’

Harry shrugged, locking his trunk. ‘Your cat was talking to me.’

Theodore chuckled, lifting the beast into his arms. Everyone hated Nott’s cat, except for Nott himself. For reasons unknown to the rest he seemed to actually love the little monster, and no matter how many times Malfoy promised to give it a well-deserved skinning, Theodore simply smiled and laughed to himself, as though he was in on some secret joke. He sat on the edge of his bed, petting his cat and watching Harry struggled with his trunk. ‘You’re a bit odd, you know, Domingart,’ the boy informed.

‘You’ve got no idea, Nott,’ Harry snorted, waving a spare sock at the other. He took a last glance around the dormitory, realising with a sharp pang in his chest that this was the last time for at least a few weeks that he would be seeing the room. It had almost become a second Gryffindor to him, if one forgot the three beds occupied by Malfoy and his cronies. Nott was almost pleasant at times, and Zabini could be a pompous arse, but he kept to himself mostly, so that was all right. It had taken a bit to get used to the absence of Gryffindor scarlet and gold, though, and Ron’s snoring. And Crabbe had this disgusting habit of spitting his toenails onto Goyle’s bed at odd hours, and Malfoy tended to narrate his dreams as he was having them, so the entire room echoed with his annoying voice. But, besides all that….

He really did miss Gryffindor Tower.

‘Well, be seeing you then, Nott.’

Theodore smiled grimly, raising the cat’s paw in a sad little wave. ‘Happy Christmas, Domingart, impossible as it might be for you.’

‘Yeah, Happy Christmas to you as well.’ So saying, he turned away from Nott and his horrible cat, dragging the trunk behind him. The Slytherin common room seemed abnormally cold this morning.

‘Hurry up!’ Snape’s mood had gone from foul to fouler with every step they took down the dreary streets. No one else was around, and Harry couldn’t help but stare at the smoke-stained bricks on the building nearest him. His trunk was spattered in mud and Merlin knew what else from the long, tedious walk to wherever Snape lived. He could only hope the place was more attractive than, well, whatever this was.

‘Coming, sir.’

Snape gave no sign of having heard him as he struggled with his own things – a rather heavy-looking bag and a shabby wooden box. Harry hoped they were painfully heavy.

‘Keep up, boy! I’m not having you lagging behind –’ He swung around suddenly, watching Harry struggle with beady black eyes. The trunk became heavier as he sludged his way toward the unpleasant man, and he began to wonder just how angry Snape would be if he stopped for a rest. ‘For Salazar’s sake, boy, bring the trunk to me!’ But, Harry was not fast enough. Within seconds Snape was at his side, snatching the handle from his hands and pushing the box and bag into his arms. Harry started, but Snape was already on the move again, and the look on his face said clearly that the next time they stopped would be for the disposal of a Harry-sized body.

And so they trudged, man and boy; Snape appeared to have charmed his things, for they were weightless in Harry’s tired arms, a fact which he was grateful for, even if he never would vocalise it.

‘Stop.’ The command came unexpectedly. He stumbled backward on his feet, taking a moment to regain his balance before gaping up at the building. Snape was fitting a key into the lock, grumbling about “stupid, Muggle things” under his breath and casting dark looks at the neighbourhood every few seconds.

‘Sir?’ he heard himself ask quietly. Something about this lane screamed for silence.

Snape paid him no attention. The door swung open with a deafening creak, followed by Snape and the trunk (the latter of which was left unceremoniously by the entrance, turned on its side). Harry licked his lips nervously. Surely this could not be it. Surely Snape did not live in this … hovel. That was certainly the only word that could describe this place. A hovel, one of many, on a lane of similar little hovels, though Snape’s was by far the most run-down of the lot.

‘Well, what are you waiting for – Christmas?’ came the sharp scolding from within the house. A moment later Snape’s head appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the rest of him. He beckoned Harry with a crooked finger. ‘Not up to your standards, is it?’ the man sneered. It was harsh, but it broke the spell. Hurrying to the door, Harry pushed past Snape and set his things on the floor.

‘It’s small,’ he frowned. They were standing in a closet-sized entry hall, made smaller by bookshelves packed to capacity that adorned every wall. Snape snarled, kicking the trunk toward Harry with a jerk of his foot.

‘Upstairs with it,’ he ordered snidely. ‘It’s blocking up the hall.’

This really was getting a bit ridiculous.

‘Maybe if you’d had a proper hallway instead of this, this….’

‘Cupboard?’

It was Harry’s turn to kick something. He clenched his teeth as pain blossomed in his two front toes from their brief contact with the staircase. ‘Where am I sleeping?’

‘Where am I sleeping, sir, and if you’d shut your mouth for once in your pathetic life I could show you.’

They faced each other, Harry defiant, Snape looking slightly green. Harry felt he was being put through too much by this. Wasn’t it enough to have to stay with the greasy git for his holiday, without the house? It’s better than the Dursleys, said a traitorous little corner of his brain. Shut up.

Snape led the way up a flight of stairs. Harry nearly laughed as they reached the landing. It was, if possible, the smallest second-story of a house he had ever seen. There were three doors – one, he guessed, was the toilet, which left a room for Snape and one for Harry.

The first door was locked. Obviously, the room was not Harry’s. Without waiting for Snape’s invitation, he reached for the second.

‘What are you doing, Domingart?’ demanded Snape. Harry turned to glare at him, but the best he could do was sneeze.

‘My room,’ he said thickly, grasping for the handle again.

Snape stood, arms folded across his chest, watching. Just as Harry was turning the knob, he interjected, ‘I know you must be used to living in confined spaces, boy, but unless you plan on sleeping in the water closet, I would suggest the third door.’

Harry flushed, fully embarrassed, and growled, ‘You could have told me that before – ’

‘Before you rudely entered a room without being invited to? Oh, but I wouldn’t dare impose on the Boy-Who-Will-Not-Be-Alive-To-See-His-Seventeenth-Birthday-If-He-Does-Not-Wipe-That-Filthy-Glare-Off-His-Face.’

‘Show me, then,’ griped Harry, not half annoyed.

Snape seemed all-to happy to comply; he opened the third door with a flourish, kneeing the trunk in and smirking. Harry entered slowly, expecting the worst.

‘It’s,’ he began slowly, pausing to take in the room; Snape raised an eyebrow. ‘Not unbearable.’

It was small, of course - one could hardly expect otherwise after seeing the rest of the house - but Harry could do small. He’d lived in a cupboard for over half his life, hadn’t he? The room was grey, mostly, with a tatty blue blanket draped carefully over the bed and grimy curtains fluttering over grimier windows to face – surprise – a soot-covered brick wall. The bed, small enough on its own, took up most of the room, but there was enough space for a small wardrobe and a nightstand squeezed against the far wall.

‘Unpack,’ Snape commanded, waving vaguely at the trunk. ‘The kitchen is behind the door in the parlour. There ought to be something to eat for lunch.’

Harry grunted, surveying the postage stamp room again. He waited for Snape to leave before forcing his trunk under the bed. A thin layer of dust covered practically everything, and he coughed, feeling his eyes watering slightly. The place was obviously in need of a good cleaning; Aunt Petunia would have had a heart attack.

Unpacking was easy, as it consisted of him sitting on the bed and thinking mournfully of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory. This bed was narrow, long, and creaked when he moved. Harry felt the pillowcase, surprised to find that it was rather soft, and stretched his arms. He was not nearly as gangly as Ron, but the walls were close enough that he could brush them with his fingertips. His room was like the bed – long, narrow, and sad.

Snape came in just as Harry was about to sit down. He had wracked the cupboards, but the kitchen yielded nothing decent to eat. In a drawer he found a bottle of something, a stick of ordinary Muggle bubblegum, and a tin of sausages. The sausages had expired in 1979, by the label, but the gum and drink were as good as anything he reckoned he’d find in the house.

Almost as soon as he raised the bottle to his lips, however, Snape snatched it from his hands.

‘Hey!’ Harry cried, indignant. If Snape wanted something to drink he could find it for himself, the great git.

The man was unremorseful. Wrinkling his nose, he set the bottle on the cooker and set about searching the cupboard. Harry watched smugly, inching his way over to the cooker while Snape was preoccupied.

‘Touch it, and I promise you won’t be able to sit properly for a week.’

He shot back to his chair as though the cooker had threatened to bite his fingers off. Snape rounded on him, wearing an unreadable expression and holding the sausages Harry had discarded.

‘I’m thirsty,’ complained Harry. He knew he was being petulant and unhelpful, but Snape most certainly deserved it. How did he come off thinking he could just drag someone here, shove him into a cupboard-sized bedroom, and deny him the only drink in the house?

‘Drink from the tap,’ Snape replied as he gingerly pulled the lid off the tin.

Harry chewed his bubblegum with vigour. ‘I want that, er, sir. I found it first!’ It really wasn’t fair. Snape hadn’t even asked – just swept in with his great ugly face pulled into a scowl and took it. It was something Dudley would have done.

He caught the first whiff of sausage and coughed heavily, gagging over the table (albeit, a bit dramatically) and ignoring Snape’s Death Glare. ‘Bin it!’ Harry pleaded. It was as if a troll had decided to relieve itself in a pile of rotten eggs. The musty, old smell of death, mixed with something far worse – like decaying potion ingredients. Snape frowned at the tin, seemingly oblivious to the stench, and regarded it instead as he might a botched potion. He leaned forward to sniff it, and that was enough for Harry.

‘Aha!’ The man looked up just as he was having a triumphant swig from his bottle. Snape stood, and Harry backed away just as the liquid hit his throat. He choked; nearly dropping whatever it was and stumbled forward – into Snape.

‘Of, course, boy, it would be impossible for you to follow simple instruction. Don’t touch the bottle means don’t on your pathetic life touch the bloody bottle!’ He was furious, and he was advancing. Harry shoved away.

‘I didn’t know it was – what was that … sir?’ he asked weakly. Snape cleared his throat, claming himself a bit. He examined the bottle, peeling back the blackened label and sniffing the contents. Harry felt as if he might puke, just knowing that same disgusting, crooked nose was on his face….

‘Irish whisky,’ he announced. Harry sneezed. ‘Which would be why I had ordered you to keep out of it!’

Oh, dear. Harry could feel a lecture coming along. It would, of course, be more intelligent to keep his mouth shut and let Snape rant, but he was not in an intelligent sort of mood. He wanted to rant right back, and then see how the prat liked it. ‘I know, I know, it was wrong of me not to listen, and I’m so sorry, sir,’ he began, not sounding sorry in the least. ‘But, you could have at least told me what it was before I – urgh, what is that?’

‘I – ’ Snape smelled it too – the undeniable stench of a decaying corpse. They both turned instantly to the table, where the tin of sausages sat innocently, staring back at them.

‘Those – things – are disgusting, sir,’ informed Harry; he pinched his nose attempted to shove the tin off the table with the tip of his wand, but was stopped by Snape.

‘No,’ the man hissed. ‘They’ll spill on the floor.’ Harry could hardly argue with this logic, but the urge to say something stupid was strong in him. ‘We’re going shopping,’ Snape announced suddenly, striding out as though there was not a tin of twenty-eight year-old sausages on his kitchen table. ‘Come, Padriac.’

Harry followed wordlessly.

The trek to the nearest shopping centre was a long one. Harry felt as though he had been sent back a hundred years or so. The buildings were mostly red brick, stained from years of exposure to smoke from the industrial plants that dotted the town. He stopped when they reached a bridge to examine the sludgy water beneath it. The place was a mess, whatever it was called, and he could only hope Christmas would be over soon. Although, by the way things had been looking lately, the entire excursion would probably be extended due to Voldemort blowing some old woman’s tea party, or something.

‘Just up here,’ Snape said, more to himself than Harry.

‘Better be,’ he grumbled; his shoes now matched his trunk in the fact that they too were covered in greenish sludge. ‘What’s this place called, anyway?’

For a few minutes it seemed as though Snape had not heard him. That, or he was being a git and decided to ignore the question, but Harry liked to think of it the first way. They trudged up three more blocks before stopping in front of a sad parody of a gas station convenience shop, only it was in a brick building just as Snape’s house was, on a street that looked almost identical to the one they were holed up in.

‘Spinner’s End,’ Snape said, turning to glare down his nose at the boy.

‘Oh,’ said Harry, and it was a fair few seconds before he realised Snape had just answered his question. ‘What’s that?’

But, they were already entering the shop, and there was no time for a reply. The place smelt strongly of mustard, for some reason, with grey walls and faded signs that must have been vibrant at one time, though now they offered up bargains (bread – sixpence!) weakly, as though the walls had leaked grey into the aging paper. They were, Harry understood it, in a very Muggle town. A very ugly, poor Muggle town, but a Muggle town nonetheless. Silently vowing to himself never to agree to a plan before Dumbledore told him every painful detail, Harry shuffled past a rack of romance novels.

‘Touch nothing,’ warned Snape, and he was forcibly reminded of another shop, in an equally dingy and unwelcoming place, with Mr Malfoy grabbing at a twelve year-old Draco Malfoy’s arm to deliver the same command. He nodded and wandered toward a shelf of biscuits boasting more chocolate chips than before and a bright red package. They were something a young Dudley would have demanded to have immediately, but Harry was uninterested in biscuits and Mars Bars. Snape’s house needed basic necessities, and, besides that, he was hardly one to whine over sweets, especially not to Snape.

‘Severus Snape.’

They both spun around, Snape calculating and wary, Harry startled.

‘I thought you stayed at that school place through Christmas.’ A podgy old man in a green grocer’s apron was frowning thoughtfully from behind the counter, his watery brown eyes fixed on Snape.

The man took a deep breath, pulling Harry’s arm after him as he strode to the counter.

‘What’s this, then?’ The old man looked surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware you had a family, Snape!’

Harry almost opened his mouth to correct the man, but Snape beat him to it. With the airs of a Malfoy, he said loudly, ‘the boy is from the school I teach at, Slattery.’

‘Of cou – ah.’ And now the man was regarding him as though he was a mad murderer, or something similar. Harry wondered just what school Slattery thought Snape taught at. ‘One of them, is it? What’s he done, then?’ He continued to stare at Harry, his watery blue eyes roving over the pale face and parted lips, halting finally at incensed grey eyes.

‘He robbed a bank,’ Snape huffed, putting on a good show of being annoyed by the old man Slattery’s questions. Harry found himself feeling quite the same way, though he kept silent and coughed out his snort, his widening eyes swivelling to meet inky black. ‘And before you ask, Slattery, he is staying with me because he has nowhere else to go. His … relatives … are unwilling to take him, unfortunately.’

‘Oh,’ was all Slattery could manage. His eyes darted from Harry to Snape almost nervously. ‘Well, of course he – he’s safe, is he, Snape? Won’ be burglin’ off me come tonigh’?’

It was all Harry could to do to stop himself bursting that he had not robbed a bank, thank you very much, and that Snape was a filthy, lying bastard. It was difficult, though.

Surprisingly, Snape seemed to be thinking along the same lines (excepting the filthy, lying bastard bit). When he spoke it was in the low, threatening voice he always used when Harry was mouthing off in class. ‘Your shop is quite safe, Slattery. The boy could hardly manage to get inside the bank, let alone properly burglarise it. He can be,’ here he glanced at Harry, as though warning him to keep his mouth shut, ‘violent at times, of course, I assure you his time at Newgate has made him calmer. He should be very well-behaved.’

Harry nodded, deciding he rather liked his new role. It was far better than Snape’s apprentice/number one arse-kisser, he decided. ‘Yes, professor,’ he said softly, trying his best to look deranged. For a moment, Harry could have sworn Snape looked like he might laugh, but the man was back talking to Slattery, and he couldn’t be sure.

‘Where do you keep the milk?’ Snape demanded. Slattery immediately pointed out a set of fridges in the back, an oily smile plastered over his face. Just like Borgin with Malfoy’s dad, Harry thought. ‘Boy,’ Snape snapped his fingers – an order, Harry supposed, to fetch the milk.

He took his own sweet time, relishing in the sideways glances Slattery kept sending him and stopping to examine several shelves of fizzy drinks. On the way back to Snape he paused, milk in hand, to pick up a package of chocolate Buttons. Aunt Petunia used to like them, he remembered vaguely. She used to eat them on holidays and shopping excursions, always with a fizzy drink. It was her one guilty pleasure, she always said, and it made Harry laugh every time.

Slattery’s eyes narrowed, and Harry made his decision. He slipped behind a rack of health magazines and came out empty-handed, a small smirk on his lips. ‘Milk, sir.’

Snape rounded on him, staring suspiciously at the bulge in the pocket of his jumper. ‘Bread,’ he replied quickly, his voice clipped. Harry left the milk on the counter and shuffled off, humming to himself. He almost laughed, for he knew Slattery must have been watching, just as he knew the man had seen him slip the chocolates into his pocket. He had no intention of nicking them, of course, but watching the old man jump was too entertaining; Harry had a feeling he was going to seriously lack entertainment in Spinner’s End.

He took forever picking out a loaf, rather pleased to have the freedom to do so. Aunt Petunia always decided what they bought at the supermarket in Little Whinging, and he ate whatever Hogwarts gave him to eat. It was a small thing, but it made Harry feel that perhaps living with Snape might not be quite as horrible as Christmas with the Dursleys would have been.

While he was at it, he reckoned he ought to test his freedom here. He snatched up a bag of crisps and a fizzy drink, a box of biscuits, some tinned soup for good measure, sausages, bacon, eggs, sugary breakfast cereal, and cinnamon oatmeal. Snape raised his eyebrows and immediately began picking through the pile of food. He handed back the crisps, fizzy drink, and breakfast cereal, denouncing them as “unhealthy confections”, and ordered them put back immediately. Slattery, much to Harry’s amusement, jumped at them and offered to replace them himself. He eyed Harry warily now, but Snape scoffed and pushed them back into the boy’s arms. ‘Now,’ was all he said, but Harry knew by the glint in his eyes that he meant it.

‘Yes, sir,’ the response came without thought, snide and full of anger he didn’t feel. Slattery started and stared after him the entire way. When he returned, Snape was paying for the food with a small wad of Muggle bills.

‘Empty your pockets, Padriac,’ he snapped without looking up once. Harry protested, but pulled the pocket clear out of his trousers.

‘See, professor?’ he smirked. Slattery looked as though he was about to say something, but thought the better of it and began packing the food into a paper bag. ‘I told you I’d be good, sir. Nothing in my pockets.’

‘Your jumper is bulging. Empty the pocket.’

Harry’s hands moved to the wrong one. He was being a pain, he knew, and would probably pay for it later. Then again, it had been Snape that started the entire lie in the first place. ‘Professor, really,’ he pouted. It did nothing for him; before he could really register what was happening, Snape’s hand was pulling away from a round the head slap.

‘Padriac,’ he seethed.

‘Professor!’ Harry whined. Slattery chuckled, and Harry rounded on him. ‘Think it’s funny, you fat lump?’ He put on his best imitation of Malfoy, or, how Malfoy would have reacted had his father in public just hit him round the head. Even if public did only consist of a shabby little shop and an aging oaf of a man. It earned him another slap round the head, this one a bit harder. Slattery chuckled again.

‘They let you do that up at your school, Severus? That’s good. Boys like this, they need a good strong hand keepin’ ‘em in line, they do.’

Oh, but he would show the man a good, strong hand. With a swipe of his arm, the entire bag had emptied itself onto the floor, bread crushed under the carton of milk, which had exploded over Snape’s foot. ‘Oops,’ trilled Harry. He grinned like a champion, mentally patting himself on the back for his genius.

‘Clean it up!’ Snape’s voice was a deathly hiss. Harry stopped grinning very suddenly. He felt a bit stupid now, staring down at the mess on the floor – the mess he had made.

Almost painfully slowly, Harry dropped to his knees and began to pick up the salvageable goods. The milk and bread were utterly destroyed. He glanced around for a rag or something with which to sop up the mess and spotted a newspaper rack. He was in enough trouble as it was; this surely couldn’t hurt him much more.

Slattery protested loudly, and Snape looked ready to kill, but Harry paid them no heed as he folded the soggy bread and half-empty carton in the sports pages. He used the rest to dry the floor, and then set the entire sopping thing on the counter.

‘All cleaned, sir.’

They stared at him silently for a moment, and then Slattery began to type rapidly on a little machine. His watery eyes were wide, though he kept his head down. Harry bit his lip, doing his best to stay out of range of Snape’s hand. It was beginning to sink in now, and he felt himself swell at the injustice of it all. How did Snape get off hitting him? How? It just wasn’t fair. He was the one who started it all, for Merlin’s sake!

‘I can comp the milk and bread for you, er, Snape,’ Slattery piped up nervously. Both Harry and Snape looked up in surprise, but the man only smiled. ‘It’s not your fault the boy’s unmanageable, and it’s a good thing yer doin’ takin’ him in like that. Needs some discipline, I say.’

Harry almost thanked the man. Perhaps Slattery was not so awful, after all.

‘Nonsense,’ Snape breathed, nostrils flaring. He took a moment to glower at the side of Harry’s head.

Slattery shrugged. ‘Yer not payin’ fer it, anyway, Snape.’ He too glowered at Harry, but his glower turned back into the oily smile. Harry felt his stomach jerk. ‘Give him an hidin’, hm? Teach ‘em a lesson.’

No, Slattery really was just an awful, fat old man, and a sadistic one at that.

‘Of course.’ Snape looked as though he was being forced to swallow nails as he pushed Harry back toward the fridge once more. ‘Get them boy.’ The silent warning in his eyes said quite clearly that any “funny business” would earn another slap, or perhaps something worse. Harry stalked off, rubbing his head for good measure, though the slight sting of the slap had gone two seconds after being hit.

‘Sir.’ He returned quickly this time, and Slattery offered a mocking nod.

‘You’ll learn yer lessons well soon livin’ wi Snape, here, lad.’

They exited the shop quietly, Harry spurned on by Snape’s hand at his back. The walk back was silent. Snape, Harry guessed, was too angry to speak with him now. He felt relieved in a way. It was far easier to deal with the man this way than the lecturing, shouting Snape he normally got.

Fifteen minutes later and everything was beginning to look the same to Harry. Snape had walked far ahead of him, and he lost sight of the black-clad figure as it rounded each corner. Spinner’s End was not built, as most towns were, on an organised grid. It twisted and narrowed and fattened out on its own free will, it seemed. Some lanes were darker and thinner than others. Some were wide streets with cobblestones and a few people milled about, small children playing with balls in front of their respective houses while women of varying ages talked to one another from porches, through open windows, and over laundry-laden garden fences.

One child called out to him. ‘Hullo!’ He nodded back quickly, eager to catch up with Snape. ‘Hullo! What’s yer name!’ The boy was shooed inside by his mother, who nodded stiffly at Harry and followed him in.

And then the streets narrowed into lanes again, and he saw less and less people. More were older, around Snape’s age, maybe a bit younger. A tourist and his wife snapped photographs of the deteriorating houses.

Up ahead Snape appeared not to have noticed Harry was so far behind. He walked with a purpose, glaring at anyone who came too close or dared look his way before disappearing inside a crooked house at the end. Harry sighed. They were home.

The hall was dark when he shook out his shoes and stumbled in, dread filling the pit of his stomach. The sound of cupboard doors being slammed shut in the kitchen alerted Harry that Snape was putting away the groceries. He raced up the stairs; Snape could shout and lecture all he wanted, but Harry was going to have a nap before. He needed to be properly rested, anyway, if he was even going to give off the illusion that he was paying attention during the lecture that was sure to come.

In his room he tried to pace, but space was limited. He settled instead for lying on the bed. In no time Harry was sleep, the package of Buttons forgotten in his jumper pocket.

He was back in the grocer’s, and there was Slattery weighing out rat liver on a brass scale. Voldemort stood by in a hat topped by a stuffed vulture, a red handbag dangling from his arm.

‘No, no, foolish man, it’s two pounds rat liver!’

It was the same high-pitched voice, raspy and frightening, but Slattery only glared and pulled some liver from off the scale. A bell rang somewhere by the door.

‘Oh, not them again.’

Harry turned just in time to see Snape and Mr Malfoy enter; only, they were wearing red swimming trunks and stilts. Mrs Weasley stepped in on her stilts, pulling McGonagall in behind her. They approached Snape and Malfoy, giggling and blushing. To his surprise, the two men turned bright red, and the foursome broke into pairs – Snape with Mrs Weasley, Malfoy with McGonagall. They waltzed on their stilts while Voldemort scowled and ordered for more rat liver to be brought out and Slattery muttered to himself.

‘You’re an ace dancer,’ Mrs Weasley commented airily as Snape spun her. He smiled crookedly and dipped her down.

McGonagall draped her arms over Malfoy’s shoulders and he hummed the tune to the Avenger’s under his breath.

Harry closed his eyes, not believing what he saw, just as Snape was commenting on Mrs Weasley’s hair….

‘Wake up, boy.’

Harry shot up, the bed creaking beneath him, and took a deep breath. Snape was standing over him with a bowl of something, his lip turned into a sneer.

‘What you did in that shop,’ he began, and Harry braced himself for a lecture. ‘Was foolish and uncalled for.’

‘You hit me!’ He had tried to sound angry, but it only came out as a slight whine. Harry knew, very deep down, he had sort of deserved being slapped.

‘You sound surprised,’ Snape said dryly. He placed the bowl on the bedside table, and Harry could see now that it was soup. He eyed the chicken and vegetables hungrily, but Snape blocked it with his hand. ‘As I was saying, it was very, very foolish of you. We are not here to draw attention to ourselves, boy, and I expect better of you in the future.’

Harry blinked. That was it?

‘If not, you have already got a taste of just what I can do with my happy power as both master and – ahem – family. You will learn respect and self-control.’

No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop seeing the Snape with stilts, whispering to Mrs Weasley as he fondled her hair. He snorted.

It was, perhaps, not the most intelligent thing to do. Snape froze, his eyes narrowing in a very Uncle-Vernon-like way, and that was really too much for Harry, who’s snort became a full-blown snigger. He realised suddenly that they had both used the same lie – Snape and Vernon – about prison school.

‘Something funny?’

Harry shook his head, doing his best to put on a straight face, but it was difficult. He sniggered again.

‘Spit it out.’

‘It’s just,’ he convulsed, trying to bite back the sniggers as they came. ‘My uncle and y-you – you both,’ he shook his head, ‘You both said I went to a p-prison school, to cover up for the M-muggles.’

If Snape understood this logic, he shows no sign of it. Stepping away from the bed, he said softly, ‘Eat, boy. The Headmaster shall kill me if you come back as you do after summer holiday. Eat, be quiet, get some sleep, and for once in your life, keep yourself out of trouble.’

Harry stopped laughing and pulled the soup over, spooning it into his mouth clumsily. “…As you do after summer holiday….” He shook his head. Snape was cutting him down again, as usual, making a slight at the fact that he was always skinnier after summer holiday. He swallowed his soup and set the spoon back in the bowl. The funny thing was, Harry had never thought Snape noticed how he looked after summer holiday. He didn’t think Snape wanted to notice.

As he set the bowl back onto the nightstand, something caught his eye. In the very far corner, in black ink, was written a shaky-looking word. He craned his neck to have a better look and read aloud, ‘H…B…P.’ HBP? What was HBP?

He yawned. Whatever it was, it could wait until later. Turning onto his side, Harry whispered, ‘Her Boyfriend’s Potter.’ He didn’t know what brought the words to his mouth, but they seemed funny.

Snape came back to take the empty bowl and stopped for a moment to look at the boy’s silly grin. He shook the blanket out at the end of the bed and tossed – no – laid it gently over the teen’s scrawny shoulders. The tiny room could be horribly cold at night, he remembered, especially for a skinny boy who didn’t want to be there in the first place. He glanced again at the sleeping face, and, for the briefest moment, pictured Lily Evans as she slept the morning after. She had the same grin on her face – that was before she woke and realised who she was in bed with – and the same carefree expression.

He shook his head, telling himself silently, No. No, it was a mistake. It was all a horrid mistake.

He glanced again at the boy on the bed and scowled. ‘Her boyfriend was Potter.’

Harry laughed.

He sounded like his mother.