“Snape,” Harry seethed, glaring at the man who now stood erect in the doorway, arms crossed, his face a mask of anger and loathing. The man’s nostrils were flared and his eyes were obsidian beads of fury.

“Potter,” he spat, as if Harry’s name tasted of acid. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Beats me,” Harry said, thrusting the manila envelope at Snape.

“What is this?”

“No idea,” Harry replied. “My aunt told me to give it to whoever opened the door.”

“Your aunt,” Snape spit, still not taking the envelope. “Petunia Dursley.”

“You know her?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Unfortunately,” Snape drawled, pulling the envelope from Harry’s fingers and tearing it open.

Harry watched as the man’s eyes scanned the page, his face paling more and more the further he read.

“What in Merlin’s name was she thinking?” he hissed.

“Who?” Harry asked. “My aunt?”

“Never mind,” Snape rejoined, hastily stuffing the letter back into the envelope. “Get inside and shut the door behind me. Touch nothing.”

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, as Snape swept past him.

“To get your belongings. Now do as I say.”

Harry stepped inside and shut the door. He pulled the faded green curtain aside in time to see Snape reach his pile of belongings. Snape hastily grabbed the empty cage and rubbish bag in one hand. With his other hand, Snape dragged Harry’s trunk up the walk, a scowl firmly in place. Harry stepped back as Snape burst through the door.

Setting Harry’s things on the floor, Snape locked the front door, and then looked Harry over. Snape’s scowl deepened.

Harry looked down to see his baggy, dirty clothes and his mud-caked trainers. He studied his hands, which were equally filthy. Compared to Snape’s pressed black trousers, dark green button down shirt, and black polished boots, Harry felt out of place.

“Explain yourself,” Snape said through gritted teeth. “Why are you here?”

Harry stiffened. “I… You…” Harry clenched his fists. “If you could just lend me a few knuts, I’ll take the Knight Bus to the Burrow. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get to Hogwarts.”

“I think not, Potter,” Snape said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door. “Now explain to me how you came to be here.”

Harry had the insane urge to shove Snape aside, grab his belongings, and storm out the door. Instead, he looked daggers at his professor and said: “For your information, I was doing chores in the backyard. My uncle came out and told me we were going somewhere and that I was to get into the car. The next thing I knew, we were nearing this neighbourhood, my aunt handed me an envelope, and my uncle tossed me and my belongings out on the street.”

“And what reason would they have to treat you like this?”

Harry glared at Snape. He didn’t care what the man thought of him; he just wanted to get out of here. His right hand twitched at his side. He felt at a definite disadvantage without his wand, and he hoped beyond hope that his aunt had packed it for him.

Snape heaved a deep, frustrated sigh. “Very well, Potter. Take your things upstairs, first door on your right. Get yourself cleaned up. Then we’ll discuss your predicament.”

“Sir, if you’d just see me to the Burrow, I’m sure that the Weasleys…”

 “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so. Now go, before you track more dirt into my house.”

Harry froze. “This is your house?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Potter replied. “I just thought…”

“You just thought what, Potter?” Snape mocked. “That everyone is as wealthy and spoiled as you are?”

“I’m not…” Harry protested.

Snape gestured upward. “You are trying my patience, Potter. Now go!”

“Fine,” Harry snapped.

“And take off those filthy shoes before you step foot on my rug.”

Harry toed off his shoes, grabbed his things, and stomped into the small sitting room which had a modest grouping of furniture consisting of a threadbare sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table. Overhead, a lamp hung from a tarnished brass chain, three of its four candles burned almost to their nubs. Books of all shapes and sizes covered three of the four walls from floor to ceiling. An old wooden ladder skidded along on rails to make the higher books accessible. Newspapers and magazines littered the floor in tottering stacks and piles. A large fireplace, which Harry presumed was connected to the floo network, dominated the remaining wall. Harry stood, stymied, and wondered if Snape was trying to trick him.

Snape made an impatient sound and stepped past him, pulling out a large, leather-bound volume on a bookshelf behind the arm chair. The bookcase sprang aside to reveal a narrow, winding staircase. Snape held the door open while Harry made his way through it and onto the rickety stairs.

“Sir,” Harry asked. “What about Hedwig, my owl?”

“She’ll find her way here, I am sure,” Snape replied before letting go of the concealed door, which promptly swung back into place, leaving Harry alone on the staircase.

Annoyed, Harry made his way to the top of the stairs, each step creaking ominously under his weight. Of all places to live, Harry would never have guessed that Snape, The Great Git of the Dungeons, lived in a place as cramped and decrepit as this. Although he hadn’t thought about it before, if he had, he would have envisioned a high class, ritzy neighbourhood with servants, or house elves at the very least. He would not have imagined a small, shabby dwelling greatly in need of a new coat of paint among other things.

As he reached the landing, he found a narrow hallway illuminated only by a single grimy window at the end of the hall. There were two doors on the right, and only one on the left. He reached for the first door on the right and found it unlocked. It opened into a small, Spartan bedroom, furnished with a single bed against one wall, a wardrobe against the other, and a desk with a window above it in-between. The room was painted pale green and looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in years as a thick layer of dust coated every surface.

Harry left his trunk right inside the door, and placed Hedwig’s cage atop the wardrobe. Then he dumped the rubbish bag upside down on the bed. A cloud of dust rose from the coverlet, prompting him to sneeze several times. When his sinuses finally cleared and his eyes stopped watering, he was relieved to find his wand among the various articles of ragged clothing that had once belonged to his cousin. He also discovered a box of Hedwig’s favourite owl treats, the copies of The Daily Prophet that had been on his bed, a few spare quills and pieces of parchment, the letter he’d started to Ron but hadn’t finished, a folder full of childhood drawings from his primary school days that he had saved, a Ziplok bag containing his toothbrush, comb, razor, and deodorant, and last but certainly not least, his Firebolt. A quick look in his trunk showed him that everything was in order there as well. Harry sighed with relief; at least they’d packed all of his belongings.

He rummaged among Dudley’s old clothing looking for something that didn’t have stains, tears, or holes in it. Finally, he found a grey drawstring pair of sweats, a light blue polo shirt, and a badly faded black T-shirt with a rock band insignia on it that hung nearly to his knees. Then he grabbed his bag of toiletries and headed back into the hallway. Since there was only one door on the left, he guessed that to be the master bedroom. He tried the second door on the right, next to his room, and found it to be a small bathroom, complete with a toilet, sink, and a claw foot bathtub. A shower head and curtain had been installed at some later date, which Harry was thankful for. He locked the door behind him and set his toiletries on the sink.

“My, my, aren’t we a mess?” said the mirror over the sink. Looking up, Harry was startled by his reflection. He was covered with dirt, there were sweat tracks running through the grime on his face, and a fine red line of dried blood marked his left cheek where a branch had scraped him earlier that morning. His neck was equally dirty, though luckily the dirt hid the bruises there. His T-shirt was splattered with dried mud and he had sweat stains under the arms. A quick sniff had him recoiling. He was amazed that Snape hadn’t commented more on his abhorrent appearance.

Quickly he stripped, leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Then he turned on the hot water, and stepped inside the tub, pulling the curtain closed. The steaming water beat on his skin, washing away the dirt and grime, though it did make the open cuts on his back sting something fierce. Working bent over in the garden was always a sure-fire way to reopen those wounds, hence why’d he’d been sure to wear dark colours. Still, he basked in the ability to shower without a time limit. He didn’t think Snape would barge in on him and berate him for using too much hot water. Then again, this was Severus Snape. He found some soap and lathered himself up, then borrowed the shampoo as well to wash his hair. As he turned off the water, he realized that he didn’t have a towel.

Frowning, he peered around the modest bathroom. The walls were white and without decoration. The countertops held piles of books, newspapers, and periodicals. Stepping out one-footed onto his pile of dirty clothes, he opened a cabinet under the sink, relieved to find a stack of freshly laundered towels. He dried himself with the towel then wrapped it loosely around his waist. In the drawers he found toothpaste and shaving gel, as well as a plethora of glass vials containing a variety of coloured liquids and gels that only Snape would know the purpose of. He also found some Muggle hair gel. Harry laughed aloud, and then quickly snapped his mouth shut. No wonder Snape had greasy hair if he used stuff like this! Suppressing a smile so as not to cut himself, he lathered on shaving gel and shaved, then brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. He pulled on clean clothes, dropped the dirty ones in the rubbish bag that Aunt Petunia had used for his belongings, and headed downstairs.

Pushing through the hidden door, he found Snape kneeling in front of the fireplace, head firmly implanted in shimmering green flames, speaking to someone Harry couldn’t see. As he waited for Snape to finish the conversation, he spotted the manila envelope on the small, rickety table. He picked it up and slid the yellowing parchment out from inside. A faint floral scent wafted into the air as he unfolded the parchment. It was vaguely familiar, reminding him of summer and something he couldn’t quite place. Carefully, he unfolded the letter to reveal a graceful, feminine script. As he read the first line, his eyes widened in shock. His legs buckled and he sat down clumsily on the threadbare couch, his head swimming once again.