“Potter, I need to run a few errands. Do you need anything while I am out?”

Harry looked up from perusing The Daily Prophet that Snape had finished with earlier that day. There was a witch missing in Norwich that was drawing some attention, and there had been an attack on a Muggle family that was likely the work of Death Eaters.

“Er, nothing I can think of.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You have five minutes to tell me if think of something.”

Snape left the room, and Harry returned to his perusal of the Wizarding newspaper. When Snape returned, he was dressed in casual Muggle attire, his robe draped over one arm. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, studying Harry carefully.

“You are not to leave this house while I am gone. Is that clear, Potter?”

Gazing up at the older wizard’s unyielding expression, Harry nodded.

“Do I need to ward the premises against any escape attempts?”

“No, sir, I’ll stay put,” Harry answered, though he guessed that Snape would ward the place anyway.

“I have your word?”

“Yes, sir,” Potter said, feeling as if his every response were being precisely weighed and measured.

“Trust, Potter. Do not forget it.”

“Right.”

Nodding with what Harry could only guess was acceptance, or perhaps resignation, Snape slid Harry’s wand from his sleeve and held it out to him. “I do not anticipate that you will need this, Potter, but if this house should come under attack, or if your life is endangered in any way, you have my permission to use whatever means necessary to defend yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, rolling his newly returned wand reverently along his palm. When he looked up, Snape was gazing at him in a disconcertingly direct manner as if trying to determine the degree to which he could trust both Harry and Harry’s decision making abilities.

“If you must retreat for your own safety, you are to use the floo. It is connected to my quarters at Hogwarts.” Snape extracted his wand and waved it in the air. A small square of parchment popped into existence, glowing brightly for a moment. Snape snatched it and handed it to Harry. “This is the password to my quarters. Memorize it.”

“Nux Myristica,” Harry read as he took the note, committing the rare potions ingredient, which was etched in black ink in Snape’s spiky handwriting, to memory, before sliding it into his pocket.

“Furthermore,” Snape continued, “You are not to answer the door or enter my bedroom under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may eat if you are hungry. Also, if you could start dinner, I would appreciate it. There is chicken in the refrigerator, as well as rice and vegetables. You may use any ingredients you find.” Snape paused a moment, considering. “Do you require further instruction?”

“No,” Harry responded. “I’m used to cooking the meals.”

Snape looked at him oddly, but only nodded. “Very well. Do keep yourself out of trouble, Mr. Potter. I will be back before dinner.”

Harry watched as Snape let himself out the front door, locking it behind him. The fact that Snape had left him alone, and for several hours, stunned him. He wasn’t sure if the situation had been reversed, if he’d have done the same. After all, it had only been yesterday that he’d run off on the wizard.

Surprised by his good fortune of having the house to himself for the afternoon, Harry idly wondered what errands Snape needed to do. He doubted Snape would have told him even if he had asked. Harry guessed they must have been important for Snape to have risked leaving him alone so soon. Even so, he’d bet all the gold in Gringott’s that Snape had warded the property several times over to prevent Harry from leaving and to notify him immediately if Harry tried. As Harry considered the situation, he came to the conclusion that this was some sort of test. Snape wanted to know how good Harry’s word was and to what extent he could trust Harry.

That idea did not bring him comfort, but he couldn’t say that he blamed Snape, not after the way Harry had acted during the brief time he’d been in the older wizard’s care. Feeling resigned, he got off the couch and wandered into the small kitchen to see about dinner.

Four hours later, Harry was just pulling the chicken casserole out of the oven when Snape returned. Snape looked both aloof and oddly satisfied.

“I see you did not burn the house down while I was gone,” Snape said in recognition of the heady scents that filled the small kitchen.

“I see you made it home in time for dinner,” Harry replied cheekily.

Snape cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. He hung his robe up on a hook on the kitchen wall and proceeded to set the table with plates, cups, and silverware. Seemingly out of nowhere, Snape produced a bottle of something Harry didn’t recognize, and two small silver boxes. Snape set a box next to each of their plates without comment, and then poured a couple inches of a smoking burgundy liquid into a set of wine glasses.

Meanwhile, Harry set the casserole on a cooling stone on the table, and then uncovered a loaf of steaming hot bread he’d just taken out of the oven. He placed salt, pepper, and butter on the table as well. Then he poured himself a glass of milk, and sat at his place at the table, waiting for Snape to join him.

Snape sat and served himself a portion of the casserole Harry made. Harry was amazed to find that he was actually nervous about Snape’s reaction. Harry had been anxious before about his cooking, but in an entirely different context. With the Dursleys, he’d had to face their wrath if the meals weren’t precisely to their liking. But with Snape, Harry sincerely wanted the potions master to like his cooking. He wanted to prove to the man that he was capable of doing something right. For once, Harry wanted to be “good enough” in Snape’s eyes, something he’d never managed to achieve before.

“I hope you like it,” Harry rambled, uncomfortable with the silence. “It’s just chicken and rice, with a few vegetables, but...”

Deadpan, Snape replied, “Am I to infer that you are not actually trying to poison me?”

Harry felt momentarily taken aback, before he realized that Snape was mocking him. “Very funny, professor.”

Snape raised an eyebrow and then took a tentative bite of the steaming casserole. Savouring the morsel of food, he chewed slowly. “Pepper, sage, thyme, and...” Snape frowned. He chewed some more, carefully cataloguing the feedback from his taste buds. “Anise?”

Potter nodded. “You were out of fennel,” he added, in defence of his use of the more unusual spice.

“Very interesting.” Snape took another bite. “I’ll have to try that it in my own recipes. It has a distinctive, yet pleasing, flavour.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Snape’s words were the closest he’d likely ever get to a compliment from the taciturn wizard. As Snape continued to eat, Harry felt an unanticipated warmth spread through him. He was proud of the meal he’d cooked and happy that Snape seemed to be enjoying it.

Harry sliced the loaf of fresh bread, the scent of rosemary wafting into the air. He spread a fair amount of butter on his piece and took a bite with eager anticipation.

“You look like the cat who has swallowed the canary,” Snape observed.

Harry nearly moaned with delight. “This is my favourite kind of bread.”

“So I see,” Snape commented, taking a piece for himself. After a taste, he remarked, “It is indeed quite good. I will have to make you my grandmother’s Five Seasons loaf. I am sure you would enjoy it.”

Harry felt a pang of something small and desperate flutter against heart. This dinner, this conversation, was remarkably close to what he’d imagined having a meal with a parent, or at least relative who loved you and enjoyed your company, must be like. He put down his bread, his appetite wavering in the midst of feelings of loss and regret.

When he looked up, he saw the older wizard not only enjoying the meal that Harry had cooked for him, but relishing it. The Dursleys had eaten the food he’d prepared, demanded it even, but not once had they ever expressed appreciation for his efforts. Nor was he invited to eat at the table with them. He was but a servant there, and cooking the meals was one of his many expected duties. Here, though, he was beginning to feel a small bit welcome, like an unexpected but reluctantly accepted house guest.

“I will have to have you cook more often,” Snape said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.

Harry grinned. Coming from Snape, that was a huge compliment. “I make a wicked steak and kidney pie.”

“Perhaps we should have a contest, then. My steak and kidney pie is legendary,” Snape challenged.

“Ah, but I have a secret ingredient,” Harry replied, intrigued by this new and different side of Snape. Harry wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all; he couldn’t believe he was actually bantering with the man.

Snape reached out and raised the wine glass with the frothing red liquid in it: “To culinary delights.”

Harry raised his own glass in response: “To gastronomic pleasure.”

Snape looked at him strangely, and then snorted with amusement, before taking a sip of the wine.

Harry smiled. He sniffed the bubbly liquid and then sipped tentatively. It was fruity and rich, a little sweet, but tart also. He’d never tasted anything like it before. “What is this?” he asked, taking another sip.

“Red currant rum.”

“I like it,” Harry responded. “It’s very good.”

“Don’t drink it too fast,” Snape warned. “It will go straight to your head.”

“And if it does?”

“You’ll be too drunk to stand up and you’ll start singing lullabies to boot.”

“You’re joking!”

“Ask the Weasley twins,” Snape said. “I had them both in detention their fifth year for a raucous rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot at the Halloween Feast.”

“I’d have loved to see that,” Harry said with a smirk. He could just imagine their baritone voices belting out the well-known lyrics.

Snape looked amused.

They continued eating in silence, Harry reminiscing fondly about the Weasley twins and their antics. When they’d finished dinner, Harry pointed to the sliver box beside his plate and asked, “What is this?”

“Dessert,” Snape replied, slipping the cover off of his own box to reveal four chocolate truffles.

“Oh,” Harry said. “I made an apple torte as well.”

“Good,” Snape responded. “We can have it for a bedtime snack.”  Snape popped a truffle into his mouth, clearly enjoying it. Then, his expression turned serious. Swallowing, he said, “I paid a visit to your relatives this afternoon.”

Harry paused in mid-motion, his hand raised halfway to his mouth, his second chocolate truffle clutched between his fingers. “Why?”

“I wanted to hear their side of the story.”

Harry set down his truffle, his stomach churning with sudden anxiety. “And?”

 “It was as pathetic and cowardly as I had expected.”

Harry watched a myriad of emotions cross Snape’s face—disgust, anger, loathing, impatience—before Snape’s expression became impassive once again. Harry felt a wave of shame go through him at the thought of what else Snape had discovered about his pitiful existence in the home of his aunt and uncle.

“Have no fear, Potter,” Snape said. “You will not be returning to that disgraceful excuse of a home.”

“Until Dumbledore intervenes,” Potter muttered, looking away.

“Choices, Potter. You have them,” Snape said. “And, incidentally, since I am legally your guardian, the headmaster cannot overrule my decision with regard to your placement.”

Harry looked dubious.

“Furthermore,” Snape continued, “As your guardian, I am required to provide you with a suitable place to live.”

Harry felt a measure of uncertainty mixed with anxiety. “What are you saying?”

“In simpler words, Potter, you are welcome to spend your summers and holidays here if you wish.”

“Here? In this house? With you?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Snape asked, his black eyes boring into Potter’s.

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Potter stammered. “I just thought...”

When Harry didn’t continue, Snape prodded, “You thought what, Potter?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me here. I mean, this arrangement is just temporary, until Dumbledore finds someplace else to put me.”

Snape scowled. “You are not a pawn, Potter. I will not allow the headmaster to shuffle you around to suit his needs. Nor treat you like a lost dog in need of foster family. You need a stable environment.”

Harry stared at his potions master, stunned. Since when did Snape care one way or the other what happened to him?

“Okay,” Harry replied, feeling as if the earth had just shifted beneath his feet. It was one thing for Snape to make that obvious statement, it was another thing altogether for Snape to offer his home as the stable environment.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to think about living with Snape long term. The last few days had been an emotional maelstrom, and though tonight had been tolerable, even comfortable in some respects, Harry didn’t know if they could truly be in one another’s company for more than a couple of hours, much less days, without everything falling to pieces.

“You needn’t decide anything this instant,” Snape said, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. “There is something else I had in mind for this evening, though I am not sure of the wisdom of this endeavour.”

Intrigued, Potter watched as Snape produced a tiny box, which he enlarged with a wave of his wand. A battered and dusty shoebox appeared. Carefully, Snape pulled off the lid to reveal an untidy stack of letters and cards. An envelope on the top of the pile was address to Petunia Dursley, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Confused, Harry looked up at Snape. “What are these?”

“Letters,” Snape replied. “From your mother.”