The pantry did take all day. Whoever had lived in the house before Snape inherited had obviously not been very careful; there were old spills stuck to the floor and several broken glass jars, fragments scattered over the floor. Harry was just grateful Snape had already removed the mouldy food.

Harry scrubbed clean every surface, fixed several wobbly shelves, replaced the couple which were so rotten they wouldn’t hold anything, and made the whole thing suitable for storing food again. Once he was done, Snape had him unpack his cool box and put everything away.

“The rest of the kitchen can be tomorrow’s job,” Snape said, looking around at the dusty work surfaces.

“Okay, sir,” Harry said faintly.

Once Snape had dismissed him, he Flooed back to Mrs Figg’s and hurried back to Privet Drive. His working day still wasn’t over.

“Aunt Petunia,” he said as he hurried into the house, “do you think you could save me some dinner tonight?”

“Why, what are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

Harry thought about saying “Oh, Mr Ferrero asked if I would walk his dogs”, but he didn’t want Petunia to ask him about it and be told he was paying him.

“I’m going for a walk; need some fresh air.”

“You just came back from one!”

“No, I came back from Mrs Figg’s,” Harry said truthfully. “I’ve been in her house all day. I’ll be back around seven.”

“Fine, fine. Go and walk, then, I’ll save you some damn dinner.”

“Thanks.”

Harry took a quick shower and put on his best clothes, then left for Mr Ferrero’s house. He took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

It was opened by a man in about his sixties, with greying hair. He had three tiny dogs in his arms.

“Hello, Mr Ferrero.”

“I know you … You’re the Dursleys’ nephew, aren’t you?” he said, sounding wary. His arms tightened protectively around the dogs.

“I am,” Harry said, realising with disappointment that he might have counted his chickens before they hatched. “Look, I promise, whatever my aunt and uncle have told you about my criminal tendencies, is complete rubbish. They lie about me and my parents all the time; it’s an old family grudge.”

Mr Ferrero hesitated.

“I promise, sir, your dogs are in safe hands. Animals like me. And I’m studying Care of—I mean, animal care at school.”

“Well … all right,” he said slowly, putting them down. “But I swear, if anything happens to them on your watch …”

“It won’t, I swear,” Harry assured him.

After being introduced to the Pomeranian called Vanilla, the Chihuahua called Ziggy and the Dachshund called Tess, and given a long list of what they did and didn’t like and where their favourite spots were, as well as other miscellaneous advice, Mr Ferrero finally handed Harry the leads.

“You’re not getting a penny till you’ve returned them safe and sound,” he promised, and knelt down to say goodbye, cuddling each dog close and telling them to be good.

When Harry finally left the house, he took the dogs to the park, which was on the list of their favourite spots. Vanilla and Tess seemed well-behaved enough, but Ziggy was a bit of a handful, pulling on the lead this way and that as he stuck his nose in everything from a drainpipe to a passing pedestrian’s trouser leg.

Dogs were allowed off their leads on the green, though not in the playground. Harry let the dogs off and threw their toys for them to fetch, which they seemed to like, though he had to herd Ziggy away from the playground a dozen times. He grimaced when Vanilla did her business by the fence post, but dutifully cleared it up.

When they looked like they were getting tired, Harry whistled them back, put the leads back on (after a short tug-of-war with Ziggy) and took them home.

Mr Ferraro fussed over them, checking every inch and asking hundreds of questions.

“They’re fine, Mr Ferraro, see? I would never hurt your dogs.”

“Well … thank you.” He stood up, and watched Tess worry playfully at Harry’s shoelace. Harry leaned down and stroked her. “You understand I was worried—”

“Yes, I do. So you’re still happy for me to look after them on Friday?”

“Yes, yes. Here you are; you’ve earned it.”

Harry left Mr Ferrero’s house relieved, exhausted, and a couple of quid richer. He returned home, hid his earnings for the day under the loose floorboard in his bedroom, then headed to the kitchen in the hope of finally being able to eat a proper meal.

He couldn’t find any plates of food about, nor could he find anything stored in the fridge. He went in search of his aunt, and found her in the living-room watching television with Vernon.

“Aunt Petunia? Did you leave me any dinner? I can’t find anything.”

“Hmm?” she said, not tearing her eyes away from the game show.

Harry sighed, and stationed himself in front of the television. Both of them protested.

“Aunt Petunia,” he repeated. She and Vernon were trying to peer around him. He picked up the remote and turned the television off completely. “Did you leave me any dinner?”

“What? Oh—no, I forgot.”

Harry stared at her. No dinner again?

“Stop whinging and put the telly back on, boy,” Vernon grumbled.

Harry tossed the control into his aunt’s lap, not very gently, and returned to the kitchen. Since Dudley had been put on his diet, the Dursleys didn’t keep much in the kitchen at once to stop him having midnight raids, only buying what they needed for that day each morning. His choice was bread, milk, cereal or fruit, and there wasn’t much of any of them left. If Harry used up the bread, milk or cereal, he’d be in trouble in the morning for not leaving any for breakfast. So he helped himself to the last banana and orange.

-

The next morning, Harry borrowed Dudley’s old Mickey Mouse lunchbox he’d taken to school, in the hope none of the Dursleys would notice it gone. It wasn’t as if he ever used it nowadays, but all the same, it was still ‘his’, and that meant he didn’t want Harry to touch it. Harry couldn’t use his own lunchbox because Dudley had broken it early into his school life, and since Petunia had refused to buy another one, from then on Harry had been forced to take his sandwiches to school loose in his bag. It had made for some very messy homework.

The jam sandwich and banana didn’t fill the lunchbox by any means (it had, after all, been Dudley’s), but he didn’t dare take any more food. He was relying on Mrs Figg to offer him cake again for his breakfast as it was. Still, at least, he should be able to eat a proper meal tonight—he got back from Snape’s just after five and wasn’t due anywhere else till eight.

Harry completed his paper round in good time, and headed to Mrs Figg’s.

“Hello again, dear,” she said cheerfully. “Tea?”

“Oh, yes please,” Harry said, though a nasty thought had occurred to him. “Um … do you have any cake today?”

“Afraid not, Harry. I have a few biscuits left, though.”

Harry drank his tea and ate the two stale shortbread that Mrs Figg offered him, too polite to ask for more. He thanked her, and moved onto Snape’s, hoping his stomach’s growls weren’t audible to anyone else but him.

“Morning, Potter.”

“Morning, Professor,” Harry replied. His stomach gave a huge gurgle, and he felt himself go bright red as Snape looked at him, frowning.

“Potter, tell me you weren’t stupid enough to skip breakfast this morning. You need the energy for manual labour.”

“I had breakfast,” Harry insisted, thinking quickly. “I think it just disagreed with me. I’m not hungry.” His stomach gurgled again, and he wished he could silence it.

“Good.”

Harry spent the day cleaning the kitchen, making it suitable for actually preparing food in. Every inch of it was scrubbed (even the ceiling) until it was spotless. The whole time, he thought longingly of his dinner that night, and spent the morning resisting the urge to eat his lunch early.

It was almost time for him to leave, when he heard a voice calling from the living-room. It wasn’t Snape’s. Harry entered curiously, and saw Dumbledore’s head sitting in the fire.

“Hello, Harry,” he said pleasantly, apparently not surprised at all to see him there. “Is Severus around?”

“He’s on the roof,” Harry said. “Do you want me to call him?”

“That would be very helpful, thank you.”

“Okay, back in a minute.”

Harry left the house through the back door, which Snape had taken earlier. It was the first time he had stepped outside the house. He had seen out of the windows, and knew they were on the top of a cliff in the middle of nowhere, but he hadn’t been able to hear the sea much inside. Now, the noise almost deafened him.

He called Snape from the bottom of the ladder and got no reply, so he climbed it up to the roof.

The roof didn’t look very stable, but Snape had told him that the house was being held together by magic until he’d finished magically sealing the materials back together. Still, he climbed very gingerly up the tiles.

“Professor Snape?” he called again.

Snape was on his knees on the topmost point, wand in hand. When he saw Harry, he was so startled he dropped it. “What are you doing up here? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

“Professor Dumbledore wants to talk to you, he’s in the fire.”

“Oh.” Snape got carefully to his feet. A particularly strong gust of wind made them both stagger, and Harry’s foot stepped on Snape’s wand.

It snapped, and he slipped.

“AAHHH!” Harry tumbled sideways down the tiles. A hand grasped his arm, almost yanking it from his shoulder, and he saw Snape had caught him—but he was still dangling off the roof.

He looked down, and his stomach turned. This side of the house was right on the cliff edge. It was a long, sheer drop down to some very jagged rocks.

“Potter—” Snape gasped. He was clinging onto Harry’s arm with both of his, his legs wrapped around the chimney to stop him from falling too. “Climb—up—quick—”

Harry scrabbled around for footholds, but couldn’t find any big enough to lever himself up. “C-can’t you just pull me up?”

Snape grunted, his face soaked with sweat. “No!”

Their hands were slipping. Harry cried out as he fell from Snape’s grasp. He heard Snape yelling his name in panic as the wind whistled through his ears. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the rocks racing up towards him.