AN: Sorry for the delay in this chapter, this is always a crazy time of year. I also enjoyed a very nice holiday with no wifi prior to school starting. As for this chapter, I'm trying really hard to keep this in Harry's perspective for a 13 year old, let me know how you think I'm doing.

At the end of the next day, Harry pulled out his notebook and sat in his bed, his body more sore than he could ever remember. He had managed to avoid the strap the entire day, though it had been threatened several times, but the chores – oh, the chores. He wasn't the type of kid that was pampered and waited on, he had been expected to help with all manner of things and had regular chores growing up. But while Professor Snape had expected a few hours of weeding or him helping tie up some plants, he had never set him a chore list like the one the Dursleys had set him. The chore list was punishing in and of itself – and he found himself doing chores he had never thought a child his age would be doing.

Harry had started out weeding garden beds – well and good, he had done that before. It had seemed strange that Dudley wasn't joining in, but shrugged and figured this was also one of those ways that they treated Dudley different than they treated him. By midmorning the flowerbeds were done, and Harry had a sense of pride looking at their neat appearance, and hoped he could get some down time. But Aunt Petunia had other thoughts entirely, and set him to work on scraping and sanding the old paint off of the garden shed so he could repaint it. The paint was loose and there were loose nails as well, so Harry labored under the hot sun trying to scrape the paint as best he could as well as nail the nails back down, hoping that was what he was supposed to do. He had never painted anything nor scraped old paint, so he hoped what he was doing was alright.

"I thought you would be done with that by now," he heard his Aunt's voice behind him.

"Am I doing it right?" he asked. "I'm not sure if I'm nailing the nails down right."

"As long as it looks good when it's done I don't care," she answered. "You'll drop if you don't eat anything, I brought you a sandwich."

"Thank you," Harry told her, though he saw there was very little to thank her for. She had given him a single piece of plain bread for breakfast with a cup of weak, plain tea and now for lunch it looked like a small sandwich with two slices of bread with a slice of cheese and a glass of water.

But right now he was too hungry not to take any food offered, so he put down his scraper and accepted the plate and cup. She watched with distaste as he quickly ate his sandwich and drank the lukewarm water, happy to be at least partially filling his stomach with something.

"I will need to use the toilet, Aunt," he told her as politely as he could. "Would now be a good time?"

"I suppose so," she told him, accepting back the empty dishes. "But be quick about it."

Harry then did use the hallway toilet, and took long drinks of cool water from the faucet. Working in the heat had made him sweat, and that one glass of water wasn't enough. These "chores" were beginning to feel like torture.

And so the day went, with him getting the occasional toilet break where he would drink as much as he could, but mostly him scraping and repairing the garden shed. His stomach rumbled, his skin burned with the heat from the sun, and his muscles ached at the repetitive action they were forced to take. Eventually he could smell dinner cooking, and hoped that he would be allowed to have some.

Harry felt his whole body tense when he realized his uncle was coming out to inspect his work. When he had first met the man he had thought him ridiculous, and would never normally be scared of him. But that was before the beating – before the strap. Even though he could be healed afterwards, the strap still hurt; he sure didn't want that again. Harry eyed the man warily, anxiety blossoming in the pit of his stomach. He found his muscles tensing, almost as if he were in a quidditch game and on alert for the snitch.

"You didn't get as much done as I expected," his Uncle told him, inspecting the shed. "I thought you'd be done with the sanding today."

"There were a lot of nails sticking out," Harry told him. "I couldn't do the sanding properly until I'd nailed them all back in all the way. They're all in now, there's just some sanding left."

"I suppose this is the first time you've done anything practical," his Uncle told him with a nasty tone, as if he'd been coddled most of his life.

"It's the first time I've scraped paint off a shed," Harry acknowledged, being careful to agree but not agree that he'd never done anything practical. He found his pride prickling a bit here, but forced himself not to object. No cheek, he reminded himself, no cheek.

"Go to your room, you can take your supper there," Vernon gruffly told him.

"Thank you, sir," he found himself answering, though the words felt strange on his tongue. He had known that was what his Uncle had wanted to hear, and he had thought it would be hard to say, but when it came down to it, saying those words and calling his uncle "sir" hadn't been hard at all – it had felt all too easy in fact.

Feeling strangely like he was getting away with something because he hadn't finished the sanding, and having a strange feeling of gratefulness that he wasn't being punished for it, Harry made his way up to his room after a final stop by the bathroom. What was this feeling coming from? He had just been so sure the day was going to involve the strap that he sighed a breath of relief that it didn't.

Harry sat back in his room, resting his weary muscles and wondering about the new cat-flap installed in the door of his room. His supper had been served under that cat-flap, and a meager supper it had been. It had done barely more than tempt the hunger he had worked up working in the yard all day, he found himself very grateful for the food that Snape had sent with him in stasis. Getting out a packet of the food and the notebook, he settled down to chat with his father.

Are you well? His father's query was waiting for him.

Mostly, he responded, biting the food bar and chewing. It wasn't the tastiest thing, but filling. Perhaps he could talk his father into sending some sweets at some point. No punishments today. They just had me working outside on this garden shed. They fed me a little too, though I would have been hungry without the bars.

Are you sore from the work?

Yeah, a bit, Harry admitted.

Make sure you do the stretches, his father told him. And if it hurts enough you have trouble sleeping you can take the pain reducing potion.

I should be fine, Harry assured him. But there's something weirder than that that I'm not sure how to put into words.

Do the Occlumency exercises for a moment and then see if it's clearer, his father instructed him.

Harry did as instructed, sat in a comfortable position, and focused his mind as his father had taught him to do since an early age. This exercise had always helped when he'd felt confused and uncertain. He thought about the events of the last few days, of the punishment he'd received, and then the chores he'd been forced to do today. He thought about the paltry food servings, the cat flap, and the permission to use the bathroom. And then he thought of what brought him the most shame – the flare of gratefulness to his Uncle that he had been allowed to go upstairs to his bedroom and rest and there had been no punishment when he hadn't done as much work on the shed as his Uncle had expected. He examined that moment from an objective point of view, as his father had taught him to do, and tried to ignore the rising shame when he saw himself as grateful to that monster that had beaten him the day before.

But why grateful? And why to his Uncle? He couldn't find the source of the emotion, but at least he could identify it now, and it felt good to name it at least. And he also felt a tug of something us – was it vulnerability? This was the first time in his life he could remember where his father couldn't really protect him. I mean sure, there had been the encounters with Voldemort – but Dumbledore or his father had always been there in some capacity at some point. He may have gone after Quirrell through all the tests set up by the Hogwarts professors, but he knew that he could call his father at any time he needed him. And, admittedly he probably should have when he realized Quirrell was Voldemort – as his father was very clear to point out when he was scolding him later. But that was just it – any lapse of protection had been his fault. It was his fault he followed Quirrell, his fault he took the flying car, and it was his fault that Ron and him went to rescue Hermione from the Mountain Troll. Those lapses of protection from his father had been short-lived and in some cases soundly scolded and punished by his father. But his father had always been there. Now, he was feeling vulnerable and helpless and, through no fault of his own, he was now without his father's protection and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sure, he had some potion he could try and sneak into their food. Sure, he could go and get patched up if his Uncle hurt him. But at the core of it he was living by his wits and the skills his father had taught him – and that scared him. No longer was there a formidable Professor Snape with a glare that could crack marble facing down all enemies saying that nobody could hurt him; even Voldemort didn't look so frightening with Snape on his side. Now, Snape was saying their best chance of survival was cunning, subterfuge, and playing along. And Harry was grateful – grateful! – the horrible lump of an Uncle hadn't beaten him for not working fast enough.

Harry felt his anger rise, and tried to use Occlumency to recognize that in the same way. He knew that anger was an indulgence that he couldn't have right at that moment, and tried to not let it take over his body. Anger would only cloud his thinking, he told himself, and grinned wryly as he knew where that particular sentiment came from. He had heard it enough from his dad. Breathing deeply, he reminded himself that anger would get him nothing but misery in this situation.

I'm having some emotions that are difficult, Harry wrote in the notebook a few minutes later. It's embarrassing, but I think I'm feeling grateful to them for not beating me today. And then I feel angry that you're not here.

That's normal, Snape wrote back. But there are also ways to magically enhance Stockholm's Syndrome. Have you been given any potions or has your food tasted odd?

Nothing so far, Harry wrote. I had a slice of bread and weak tea for breakfast, a small cheese sandwich and water for lunch, and a small bowl of canned soup for dinner.

The only possibility is the soup, and I assume the feelings happened before dinner, Snape surmised. Keep a watch out for food that tastes odd, and don't eat it.

What's Stockholm's Syndrome?

It's a type of trauma bond that can happen to victims of kidnapping, Snape explained. It usually takes a little while to develop, but basically the victim develops attachment and concern for the kidnappers. Being grateful for not being hurt or killed can be the first step.

I hate them! Harry wrote.

I know, Snape acknowledged. But that's part of the trauma bond. I don't think you really will develop Stockholm's without a potion, so please watch what you're eating and drinking. If we have to, we can go to you just eating the food we gave you and water from the sink.

Some potions are tasteless, though not the ones you normally give me, Harry grumped.

The tea, Snape guessed. If she's just giving you the bare essentials why give you tea instead of water? Don't drink the tea tomorrow, find a way to pour it out without them seeing and let's see if that helps. If it's the potion I think it might be, it has to be administered daily and it's a subtle one that builds up over time. Of course, you need to keep acting like it's working.

I want out of here, Harry wrote, and found himself near tears. I just want to come home. Why can't I just come home?

There was a pause then, and Harry knew that his father was trying to answer what he wrote. There is nothing I would like more than to have you tucked up safely in your bed here and to have this whole situation behind us like the nightmare it is, Snape wrote. But we both know that this will not disappear just because we both wish it. It is trials like this that both build and reveal character, and I believe we are both up for the challenge. This might be the hardest thing we ever do – harder than fighting V perhaps. But to survive this – to fight, to live, and to live with your soul intact, well, that is the challenge before us. I would give everything I owned down to my very life to save you from this challenge, but for now I have not found a way to keep you from it. I am sorry.

Harry, tears stinging his eyes as he read his father's words, had never felt more alone then he did at that moment. His father was basically telling him that this was going to be the hardest thing they had ever done, and he wasn't sure how to save them.

Lupin will be there in a few minutes, his father wrote. We can't risk removing you unless we have to, but it sounds like you could use a friend.

Thank you, Harry wrote, wiping his eyes and preparing for the werewolf's visit. His father was right, he could use a friend right now, even if it was only for a quick chat.

I wish it could be me, his father wrote. But remember, Hogwarts is not far away. Four weeks and we shall be together every day.

Harry blinked. Four weeks, from his perspective right now, seemed like an eternity.