Ten minutes, Harry thought, numbly, later that afternoon. Ten minutes had been all it had taken for the Headmaster to ‘decide’ what was to be done with him; Snape had obviously already been made aware of his part.

Harry was sitting on the single bed in the room he’d been given the night before. His room now, for the next few weeks, at least. He’d begged, pleaded, to be allowed to stay with Ron and his family, only for the Headmaster to inform him that the Weasleys’ had enough on their plate with their own children, and besides, it would really be best if Harry remained safely out of the Wizarding world for the summer.

Neville, Harry had tried. Neville didn’t have any other siblings for his grandmother and uncle to look after! Ah, Dumbledore had said, but that was the very problem – both Mrs Longbottom and Neville’s uncle were rather elderly, and he suspected that looking after two energetic boys might prove too much for them.

Stricken, Harry had gaped at Dumbledore for a moment – had the Headmaster just implied that allowing him to stay with Neville for a few weeks would kill the rest of Neville’s family?! – before remembering Hermione.

Alas, the Headmaster had said, still twinkling, they would have no protection. There had been blood wards at the Dursleys’, based on the love Harry’s mother had had for him, and now that he didn’t have those to protect him from any stray Death Eaters, then a guardian who could protect him was really for the best, wouldn’t Severus agree?

Snape apparently did not agree, judging by the low, wordless growl he gave at that point. But Dumbledore had just beamed merrily at the both of them, said he’d see them both in September, and then disappeared with a crack!

Snape had stared at the place where Dumbledore had been for a second with an expression that mingled rage with betrayal, and then his eyes shot to Harry, and his face went back to the scowl he’d been wearing before, and then, with a movement that looked like he was trying to snap teaching robes he wasn’t wearing, Snape was striding for the kitchen and the back door, tossing a “Don’t touch anything, Mr Potter!” over his shoulder as he went. The back door was slammed shut so hard, Harry was surprised it didn’t just fall straight off its hinges.

Harry stood for a moment in the living room, staring blankly at the front window. Loud crashes coming from the end of the yard snapped him out of it. He peered cautiously out of the kitchen window, craning his neck to examine the yard, but either Snape was in a blind spot, or he was ensconced in the other side of the shed.

Wondering miserably if this summer was going to end up being worse than living with the Dursleys’, Harry trudged his way upstairs, Snape’s admonition still ringing in his ears. With the Dursleys’, that particular instruction had always meant Go somewhere that’s out of our sight and pretend you don’t exist. At least, that’s what it had meant when there was somebody else around to hear them.

So here he was, sitting on the bed, his hands lying limply in his lap, wondering just how many chores he’d be given this summer.

Severus cast a reparo, and then proceeded to shatter everything in his makeshift lab for the third time. Not that it really mattered, he supposed, since it didn’t appear he was going to have any time to brew for the next few weeks, since Albus had seen fit to stick him with babysitting duties. And Potter, of all people!

Oh, but of course looking after the Gryffindor Golden Boy was much more important than any little experiment he might have wanted to do. What did it matter that it had been five years since Severus had really stretched his potion skills and created anything new? Never mind that Severus had been looking forward to getting away from the moody little horrors that were laughingly called students.

Another three vials exploded all at once.

And what was Severus supposed to do with the Boy Wonder, he wondered? Well, he knew one thing he wouldn’t be doing – he would not be doing the brat’s homework for him! Actually, he knew two things he wouldn’t be doing, because he wouldn’t be running around after Potter, either. The boy was old enough; surely he could manage to entertain himself.

Finally, after a fifth round of destruction, Severus stopped raging and leant against his lab wall. Hopefully now that he’d gotten his own tantrum out of the way, he’d be better able to cope with Potter’s, since he doubted the boy would be any more thrilled than he himself was.

When he entered the kitchen, however, the house was silent. Despite himself, Severus felt a cold finger of panic go down his spine. Had the brat run off? Albus would kill him if he’d gone and lost the Saviour.

Then a hoot came from the other room, and Severus discovered Potter’s snowy owl perched on the back of the armchair. His shoulders sagged in relief. The boy wouldn’t have left his owl here if he’d left. Which meant he was still here somewhere.

If he’s sulking, at least he’s doing it quietly, Severus thought. He thought about going upstairs to make sure the boy hadn’t done anything to his old room, but then considered the books that were around him. Quite a few of them were anything but suitable for a boy of Potter’s age – or, indeed, for anyone who didn’t want to become ensnared by the Dark Arts. They’d have to be warded, or moved, before Potter tried to read one of them and ended up losing a limb. Some of these books weren’t friendly to people who shouldn’t be touching them.

It took him another half an hour to ensure the dangerous books were safe, and almost cost him a finger. Shaking his hand and glaring at the book that had tried to bite him, Severus finally crossed to open the hidden door, reflecting that he’d have to show Potter how that worked, and that Potter had really been too quiet for too long.

“Potter!” he called up the stairs. There was a muffled thump from upstairs, and then the boy was hurrying down the stairs fast enough to break his neck, or put a foot through a stair and then break his neck. Severus folded his arms and scowled.

“Sir?” queried Potter, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

“Since it appears that we have no choice about the company we keep over the next few weeks, here are the basic ground rules,” Severus began. He unfolded his arms, and raised a finger. “One, you shall spend the morning hours doing your summer homework. Once that is completed, to my satisfaction, then you shall spend your mornings reviewing the material you should have learnt during the previous year, and, once the book list arrives and you have gained your new books, reading the first two chapters in all of said books, to prepare you for next year. Is that clear so far, Potter?”

“Yessir,” the boy whispered, his gaze falling to his feet.

Severus raised another finger. “Two, you shall spend your afternoons doing something quiet,” he stressed, firmly. “You shall not go wandering, or flying, off unless I give you permission. Understood?”

“Yessir,” Potter repeated. He was biting his lower lip now.

“Three.” Severus raised a third finger. “You will keep the room you’re sleeping in tidy and presentable. You will not disturb any book or object in that room in any way whatsoever.”

“No, sir,” Potter agreed, listlessly.

“Four, you will be in charge of cleaning the kitchen and the living room. Five, you will be in charge of getting breakfast and lunch, especially if I happen to be in my lab. I will deal with dinner.”

“Yessir,” the boy said again.

Severus changed hands to continue counting off his points. “Six, you will, under no circumstances, EVER enter my lab. That side of the shed is completely off-limits to you, boy, under pain of death, and I do not mean . . . Fluffy,” he drawled, disdainfully.

“Yessir,” mouthed Potter, almost soundlessly.

“If there are any other rules that crop up, we will address them at that time,” Severus finished, and just barely caught the little flinch that Potter gave at those words. No doubt horrified at the idea of more rules for him to follow, Severus thought with an inward snort. “I will be in my lab; since it is—” he flicked a quick glance at the old clock that sat in one of the bookcases. “—now afternoon, you will find something quiet to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Potter said, dolefully, and turned to make his way upstairs again.

Deciding he had no time to be coddling spoilt, sulky brats, Severus turned as well, and retreated to the sanctuary of his lab. He still had some repairing to do.

Resignedly, Harry sat down on the bed again. Something “quiet”, he mused. Schoolwork was for mornings, he wasn’t allowed to touch anything that wasn’t his except the bed in this room, cleaning the kitchen didn’t really count as quiet, and neither did wizarding chess or gobstones – one of which ended up with pieces destroyed, and the other with a foul, slimy substance spat everywhere. He hadn’t noticed any reading books on the shelves downstairs, so Harry supposed that left him with the choice of writing to his friends, or sitting there twiddling his thumbs for hours.

Letters it is, then, Harry thought, letting out a heavy sigh. Gathering spare parchment, ink and a quill from his trunk, he settled back on the bed, his History of Magic textbook used as a writing desk.

Dear Ron was as far as he got before he had to pause. Was he even allowed to tell his friends where he was spending the summer now? Harry frowned as he considered this. He’d given his friends his aunt’s address – would any owls they sent come and find him here, or would they return the mail undelivered? Or would they just not leave in the first place?

After deciding that he’d have to wait until he returned to Hogwarts to research that, Harry suddenly smacked himself on the forehead. I can just ask Hermione! he thought, jubilantly. Then his smile faded as he realised that the same problem could occur with Hermione as with Ron.

Tapping the end of his quill thoughtfully against the parchment, Harry eventually decided to go ahead and write the letters without mentioning exactly where he was. Then he’d see if he could catch Professor Snape in a generous mood and ask. He could always add in the proper address at the end.

Dear Ron,

I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me this quick, but I have some news. I know I gave you my aunt’s address to send letters to, but I’m not spending the summer there after all. Turns out my relatives moved in December.

Professor Dumbledore has arranged for me to stay somewhere else, but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you exactly where, so let’s just say I’m in a town south of Berwick. (Yeah, I have no idea where that is, either, Ron, but apparently it’s closer to Hogwarts than London, so it must be near Scotland.)

I hope this will be better than staying with my relatives was, but (an inkblot dotted the page as Harry tried to figure out whether he should mention Snape at all – Ron might blow a gasket) the person looking after me isn’t exactly fond of children – of any age – so we’ll see.

Let me know how your summer goes.

Harry

Laying the parchment aside to let the ink dry, Harry considered his letter to Hermione. He was fairly sure that although Ron wouldn’t realise he’d essentially been abandoned by his family, Hermione would. She would also no doubt be able to tell him exactly where Berwick was, to the nearest mile, as well as the history of Berwick and the surrounding area, in excruciating detail.

Dear Hermione, he wrote, finally.

I have a question for you. If someone has an address for someone else, but that someone else isn’t staying there anymore but hasn’t told the first person, if that first person sends an owl, what will the owl do with the letter?

If you’re able to find that out over the summer and let me know, that’d be great. Except – I’m not spending the summer with the Dursleys after all. It seems they moved in December. (Harry decided he really wasn’t going to say anything else about that, because as much as he hadn’t liked the Dursleys, and as much as they apparently had liked him even less, the thought that they could just up and leave without him still hurt.) Instead, Professor Dumbledore has arranged for me to stay with Pro somewhere else. It’s a town south of Berwick (I’m sure you know where that is, right?).

I really hope that the Headmaster can sort something else out. Apparently your family isn’t protected enough, and Ron’s family is big enough, and Neville’s family is too old.

But still, I suppose anything’s better than the Dursleys, right?

Anyway, this place doesn’t have a phone, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with writing letters. I’ve told Hedwig to wait for a response from you, so you can send any reply back with her.

Harry  

Setting aside that letter too, Harry checked his watch. It had been a birthday present for Dudley, when he’d turned ten – for entering double digits, Uncle Vernon had said, proudly. Aunt Petunia had just sobbed something about ‘her baby growing up so fast’ – but it was large, and old-fashioned looking, and so it had ended up thrown away in the bin less than a week later.

Harry had fished it out early in the morning, before any of his relatives had stirred. The watch ran perfectly, and if any of the Dursleys had ever seen it on him, they’d never said anything – no doubt because with a watch of his own, Harry could be held more accountable for doing his chores in a timely manner.

Surprisingly, it had taken Harry longer to write the letters to his friends than he’d thought. Approaching early evening, Harry wondered just what sort of time Snape counted as “dinner time”, since he’d heard no sound to indicate that the professor had come out of his lab.

Remembering Snape’s admonishment about keeping the room tidy and presentable, Harry made sure to put the ink, quill and remaining parchment back in his trunk before making his way downstairs. Unsurprisingly, the hidden doorway had closed itself again hours before, and Harry had to grope in semi-darkness for what seemed like a long time before he finally discovered the catch just above his head on the right wall.

As a result of having to stretch for it, he was off balance when the door started to swing inwards. Attempting to jump backwards out of the way, Harry stumbled on the bottom stair, and landed awkwardly, half sitting and half lying, on the staircase. He gave a yelp as a sharp pain shot across his back, and then immediately winced in chagrin. He knew better than to make any noise when he was hurt.

Clambering to his feet, Harry limped out into the living room. There was still no sign of Snape. Hedwig, however, was perched on the back of the armchair, her beak buried deeply under her wing. Harry crossed over to her and gently stroked her back. She gave a soft murrrrring noise, but didn’t wake.

After another ten minutes, Harry’s stomach gave a soft growl, and he flushed in embarrassment, even though there was no-one apart from Hedwig to hear. He’d gotten used to regular meals while at Hogwarts, and his body wasn’t keen to go back to the semi-starvation of the Dursleys’ quite so soon.

Perhaps Professor Snape’s forgotten he’s supposed to be making dinner, Harry thought. And then, glumly, or perhaps he’s just forgotten me!

Making his way into the kitchen, still limping slightly, Harry began rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator, trying to decide what would be simple, quick and easy to make. He was so involved in this, he failed to hear the sounds of someone approaching the house, or the back door opening.