Harry laid down on his bed once again, but sleep this time was elusive. As hungry as he'd been, he'd only been able to eat a quarter of what was on his plate. He had carefully disposed of the balance of his food, because he didn't want Snape to reprimand him for wasting good food; Harry himself had a felt a twinge of guilt for doing just that. After all...at the Dursleys, he never knew when his next meal would be. Harry would hoard food under the floorboards, under his bed for when he'd be locked in his rooms for days at a time.

Despite his full stomach, Harry's mind swirled with tortured thoughts of revenge and grief, cutting into him like a knife. Harry hated feeling helpless and weak, and if he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity, he'd be useless to anyone. He was a tool after all; a tool to rid the world of Voldemort. Harry wasn't just any child, he was a soldier, to be trained and fine-tuned to be a killing machine. Neither could live while the other survived. Maybe he would actually be the one who lived; maybe he finally had a chance of survival, but to live a life alone, without anyone to care about him, was no life at all, in Harry's opinion.

----------

“I see that you found the plate of food that I left on the table last night?” Snape asked Harry, as the pale boy walked into the kitchen wearing crumpled clothes; his hair sticking up on end, and his eyes dull and red-rimmed. It was obvious the boy was still wearing his clothes from yesterday; he had never bothered changing into his pyjamas last night.

“Yes sir. Thank you,” Harry said softly, standing in the doorway, hesitantly.

“Sit down,” Snape ordered gruffly.

Harry obeyed, and picked up the fork, but only picked at the scrambled eggs on his place.

“You need to eat Mr. Potter,” Snape said coldly. “I will not be pleased if I have to peel you off the floor, because you keel over,” he sneered.

Harry glared at him, and began to take small forkfuls of food; it tasted like sawdust.

Snape's thin lips curled. “After breakfast, I highly suggest you go take a shower and change your clothes. You look like yesterday's trash.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He itched to throw the plate of eggs at Snape's ugly face, and watch him pick out pieces of egg from his greasy hair.

Harry's stomach churned, when he noticed that Snape was staring straight at him; his cold dark eyes, boring into his. By the cold, calculating look on the man's face, Harry strongly suspected that the man had been Leglimizing him.

“After you've showered and changed, we will have a little discussion about-” he dabbed at his thin lips with the napkin, and then leant in a little closer to Harry, “rules.” He bared his yellow teeth in a cruel smirk.

“I realise that rules are a novel concept for you, however-”

Harry could feel the blood rush to his head, and his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles throbbed. He hurriedly choked back the last forkful of food, and stood up abruptly. He had to get out of the room, before he said something he'd regret; Harry had a feeling that he'd be doing a lot of that over the coming year.

-----------

“And I expect you to keep your room presentable; as well, you will have some chores that I expect you to complete. I do have a cleaning lady that comes in twice a week.”

Harry looked up in surprise; a cleaning lady? He half expected the man to own a house elf. Of course, they were in a Muggle neighbourhood.

“She is a Muggle, so I expect that you will exercise extreme caution in her presence. Is that clear?”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He felt loads better after having had a shower and changing into clean clothes, but his eyes still stung from lack of sleep. He'd been listening to the man drone on for about half-an-hour now about rules and certain behaviour that he expected from his son; of course the man's lips had curled into a sneer at the mention of the word son.

Harry leant back into the couch, and watched dizzily as the man paced back and forth, wearing a hole in the threadbare carpet. Although Snape wore black trousers, with a dark green jumper, and had his long hair tied back, he still looked just as menacing, and if Harry closed his eyes, he could still imagine that he was sitting in class, with the stern man delivering his lecture in his cold, cruel Professor-like voice; his dark robes billowing behind him, like a giant bat.

“I do not expect that you will waste your days away doing nothing,” he said malevolently.

Of course not, Harry thought acerbically. It's only Summer. Why would he relax and just enjoy the holidays?

“You will work on your summer homework, complete the allotted chores, and if you achieve my expectations, you will have several hours of free time each day, however-” He pointed his long finger at Harry, “-that will be earned,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

Harry had a feeling that he would never live up to the man's expectations, therefore, the chances of him having any free time at all, was looking pretty dismal indeed.

“As per the Headmaster's wishes, you will also be studying Occlumency, however-” his obsidian eyes glinted like steel, “-I expect a better effort this time around Mr. Potter.”

Harry stifled the desire to retort that if the greasy git didn't rape his mind repeatedly, and refrained from his vicious, cruel taunts about how he was just as pathetic as his father, then maybe he would actually learn something worthwhile this time. But of course, he bit his tongue as usual. Being trapped in a remote village, in a isolated cottage, where no one knew where he was, with a angry, revengeful Snape, was not something that Harry relished, after all.

“We will also be studying Defence, and perhaps some extra tutelage in Potions, will improve your pathetic knowledge of the Discipline,” he sneered.

Harry wanted to scream at Snape that he could take his Potions, and shove them up his-

“You are expected to attend all meals, and bedtime is at ten o'clock, sharp.”

“Whoa,” Harry protested. “Bedtime? You've got to be kidding? I'm almost sixteen-years-old,” he grumbled. “I haven't had a bedtime since I was, well...I can't remember.”

“Well you do now,” Snape said coldly. “It's not up for negotiation. As I expect you up and at the breakfast table by seven, I think that an early bedtime is called for. As well, since your days will be occupied with extremely physical and mental activity, sufficient sleep and nourishment is essential for optimal performance, thus the necessity to attend all meals, and sleep at a reasonable hour. End of discussion.”

“What about when I return to Hogwarts?”

Snape folded his arms against his chest. “We will revisit the rules at that point. Obviously, with your penchant for flouting the rules, I will have to keep a close eye on you, once we return to Hogwarts,” he said silkily.

Harry groaned. Year six promised to be every bit as fun as year five had been; with Umbridge using his hand as a cutting board, and Voldemort using his mind as a playground, and Dumbledore treating him as if he didn't exist. Yes...year six was just going to be peachy!

--------

Surprisingly enough, in the days that followed, found Harry and Snape falling into a somewhat comfortable routine.

Harry was loathe to admit it, but the man was right about the need for an early bedtime. Between waking up at six each morning, in order to be showered, dressed and seated at the breakfast table for seven, and the exhausting routine of Occlumency, Defence lessons, chores, and the required two hours of studying and completing his summer homework, Harry fell into bed each night; exhaustion permeating his limbs, from head to toe.

Harry had to give it to the man; he had changed his tactics with regards to Occlumency, at least he'd tried to change his tactics, after the first several lessons had proven to be an exercise in torture for Harry, as well as Snape. Whether the effects of the blood adoption, or the potion were beginning to take effect, Harry noticed that the man had lost a little of his harsh edge to his tongue; of course the change was very subtle, and only Harry, who'd been subjected to the man's acid tongue for five years, would have noticed the difference.

While the man still held high standards for Harry to achieve, and was relentless in his expectations of perfection with regards to his studies, the man was also noticeably less sarcastic and scathing in his comments.

Harry glowed with pride, when the dark man had actually said, “Acceptable” on his latest potions assignment. For Snape of course, saying that anything that Harry Potter did was “Acceptable”, was akin to saying “Good job” to Malfoy.

“Sir, I was wondering,” Harry stammered, as he scuffed his trainer on the tiled kitchen floor, “If I could, uh-”

Severus was seated at the kitchen table, perusing the local daily Muggle newspaper for news about the Dark Lord's recent activities. Between natural disasters that couldn't be explained, kidnappings and strange weather patterns, it was obvious that the Dark Lord had been busy. Severus assumed that the reason he'd not been contacted as of yet, was because the Dark Lord wanted him to concentrate on the brewing of the potion. Oh yes...Severus had been busy with the preparations, but not in the way that the Dark Lord imagined.

The single dose for him and Potter had not taken long to brew, but this larger batch that was supposed to supply all of the Dark Lord's followers and their male heirs with the Semper Purus potion, had taken a bit longer to brew. Never mind that it lacked essential ingredients to give it the properties that the Dark Lord wished.

Severus' skin prickled as he thought of what would happen, when and if the Dark Lord realised that the Potion was a fake. Severus had no illusions that that time would come, and very quickly. The Dark Lord was no fool. It wouldn't be long before he realised that his Deatheaters and their male offspring were not as powerful or as invincible as he thought, and then Snape's life wouldn't be worth a galleon.

Severus choked down the bitter resentment that Albus had talked him into this half-baked plan of his. The truth of the matter was, that Severus couldn't have brewed the real potion, and one way or another, his days as a spy were limited. He just hoped that by the time that the Dark Lord realised that he'd been betrayed, that Potter's powers would be strong enough to defeat the Dark Lord, and that Severus himself would have extricated himself safely away from the folds of the Dark Lord's clutches. Severus realised though that the situation was extremely volatile and unpredictable. At any moment, Severus' loyalties could be discovered and then it was possible that Potter would be in danger as well.

Severus forced himself back to reality. “Spit it out Potter,” he snapped.

“I was wondering if I could go flying?” he asked hopefully.

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Yes you may, but you are not to go beyond the wards. No further than the edge of the property,” he elaborated.

“Yes sir,” Harry agreed gratefully, and Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, as the sounds of Potter's trainers thudded forcefully against the stairs. How can one scrawny fifteen-year-old make as much noise as a herd of Hippogriphs, he asked himself sardonically.

-----

Harry was soaring through the air; the wind whipped through his hair, and he turned his face up towards the warm sun. He hadn't felt this content since before Sirius died. Harry knew that it got easier with time, but right now, he felt as though he'd been socked in the gut every time he thought of Sirius.

Harry pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and allowed himself to simply enjoy the feeling of gliding with the wind. He dipped and whirled through the clouds and practiced a few of the more daredevil moves that had made him so talented as a seeker.

It was then that it happened. Harry's stomach clenched, and his eyes watered, as blinding pain scorched his scar. He clamped his fingers down tightly onto his broomstick, and fought down the rising nausea. Through a blur of pain and rising panic, Harry could feel the prickle of hairs rising on the back of his neck, and the sky illuminated, with the unmistakable sign of the Dark Mark, standing out starkly against the brilliant blue sky.

Harry could feel his vision tunneling, and tried to lower the front end of his broom, and reduce speed; cold terror seized him, as he realised that he was going to crash, but the trick was to attempt to minimize the damage to himself upon impact. Harry attempted to no avail, to pull up the front of the broom, as darkness overcame him.

---------

“Harry...Harry,” a soft voice broke through fog. Harry clenched his eyes shut as the bright light assaulted his eyes.

He felt callused fingers brush his fringe aside and he carefully opened his eyes. Harry squinted, and blinked at the blurry image hovering over him.

His glasses were shoved into his hands, and he slid them up the bridge of his nose. Soft brown eyes, came into focus, and Harry tried to smile but his swollen lip protested; not to mention his head felt as though someone had taken a sledge hammer to it.

“Remus?” Harry finally managed to spit out, and winced in pain.

He felt a gentle hand press against his chest to push him back down against the divan, when he attempted to sit up.

“Relax there cub. Take it easy,” Remus said gently. His eyes crinkled in concern.

“Where's Snape?”

“He was summoned, Harry.” Remus said as he pulled two phials from his robes' pocket. “But he insisted that I give you these.”

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. “He asked you to come here?”

Remus nodded. “You were still unconscious, and Voldemort was quite insistent that he come immediately. You couldn't be left alone.”

“And Snape called you?” Harry asked incredulously.

Remus' eyes twinkled. “Yes Harry he did. And if I didn't know better, I'd say that Severus seemed quite concerned about you actually.”

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief.

“I'm serious Harry. He was quite loath to leave you at all.”

“Yeah right,” Harry scoffed.

“He's probably just worried that Dumbledore is going to give him hell if something happens to me.”

“Harry, you are a very courageous, young, intelligent wizard, but sometimes you are blinded by your own obstinacy,” Remus said sternly.

Harry gaped at the man. Remus was defending Snape? The same man who sneered at him, looked his nose down at him, and the same man that had got him fired?

“Maybe,” Harry said grudgingly.

-----

“Severus, you have brought the potion?” Voldemort purred in a silky voice.

“Yes Master,” Snape murmured, as he motioned to the large cauldron, simmering on a low flame behind him.

Voldemort's red eyes glittered with calculating pleasure. “Well done Severus.”

Severus allowed his obsidian eyes to travel over the crowd of fellow Deatheaters and male children, ranging from swathed newly- born infants, to teenagers, and young adults.

Severus' outward appearance was cool and controlled, but inside he seethed with burning disgust and loathing . While he was not the sort of person that one would call sensitive or kind, it was beyond his comprehension that any parent would allow his child to be paraded before the Dark Lord like cattle at an auction.

Voldemort pointed a long bony finger towards the throng of Deatheaters' and their children. “You will help me administer the potion Severus,” he commanded.

“Yes Master.”

Severus and Voldemort spent the next hour administering the Potion to the Deatheaters and their offspring, and as the cue moved forward, Severus' breath hitched in his throat as he caught a glimpse of a blond head, and realised that it was Draco standing nervously beside Narcissa; twisting his long pale fingers in the folds of his robes.

It seemed that Voldemort also caught sight of the nervous boy, and the equally anxious Narcissa.

His eyes flashed dangerously, making even Severus, whose nerves were normally under iron-control, shudder with apprehension.

“Why are you here Narcissa? And why have you brought Draco along with you,” Voldemort demanded in his most dangerously-soft tone.

Narcissa blanched, and knelt before the dark folds of Voldemort's robes. “I beg your forgiveness Master, but I thought th-th-at perhaps if Draco were to receive this potion, I mean...I brought along a phial of Lucius' blood, and-”

Voldemort's thin lips curled in a cruel sneer. “You dare assume that I would want your incompetent husband's offspring to be welcomed into the folds of my most loyal, chosen followers?”

Narcissa's blood-drained lips trembled. “I'm sorry Master. I just thought that perhaps if Draco were to receive this potion,” She looked up at Voldemort's cruel face, through her dark lashes, “that he could serve you better.”

Voldemort shifted his gaze to Draco; strands of white-blond hair, clung to his moist brow.

“Draco has his orders, Narcissa. He knows what he has to do to regain my favour, as do you.”

Severus could see Draco's robes quiver, as the Dark Lord slithered over to stand before the quaking teen.

“Don't you Draco?”

“Yes Master,” Draco said softly.

He snapped his head around to pierce Narcissa with his glinting blood-red eyes.

“Then explain to me just why you are here?”

Before she had a chance to respond, Voldemort pointed his wand at the trembling Narcissa.

“Crucio.”

Blood-Curdling screams wrenched through the silent forest clearing.

Narcissa lay breathless and shaken, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

Draco stood by uncertainly, wanting to comfort his mother, but hesitant to further displease his Master.

Voldemort traced his mouth with his long claw-like nail. “Take your Mother home Draco, and-” his eyes glittered, as they drilled into Draco's pale grey ones, “and do not return until you have completed your task. Is that clear?”

“Yes Master.”

“Very well then...be off with you,” he said, turning his back on the relieved teen.

While Draco was horrified to see his mother endure such extreme torture and cruelty, he was pleased that he'd escaped his Master's wrath.

As Draco leant over Narcissa's still twitching body, while uttering soothing words to ease her suffering, he looked up to see the Dark Lord pointing his wand at him.

“Crucio,” he said coldly.

Severus' long fingers dug into the handle of his wand, as he watched his godson wreathe and scream under the Dark Lords curse. It took all his self-discipline not to intervene. It made him physically ill to see his Godson suffer so, but it would help no one, were he to reveal his loyalties—least of all Draco and Narcissa.

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord's mood darkened considerably after the incident with Draco and Narcissa, and no one was immune to his displays of temper. He had allowed the children to leave with their mothers, but his Deatheaters were to be punished for Lucius' sins.