The next morning he awoke to a summer shower. The sun was shining as brightly as ever, but rain fell in torrents from the clear blue sky.
For some reason the rain and the fresh, clean air irritated Harry. Additionally, he had left the window open the night before, and now he had to step over a puddle of water to slam the windowpane shut.
Not bothering to comb his hair, he went down to breakfast.
Snape didn't look up from the newspaper when Harry took his seat. Malfoy was already eating, but he looked up to glare at Harry.
Harry noticed that it wasn't just him. After every few bites Malfoy would look up and glare at Snape. Since he couldn't see Snape through the newspaper, he was actually glaring at a witch who was showing off new summer robes on the fashion spread.
Harry focused on his plate. He was feeling inexplicably irritable and angry, and was glad no one was speaking to him. He thought he might say something regrettable if provoked, and the last thing he wanted was to get into it with Snape first thing in the morning. If he ate fast, maybe he could get through the meal before Snape finished reading.
As if in direct answer to Harry's thoughts, Snape put down the paper and gave him a long look. Either he didn't like what he saw, or he, too, was feeling sour that morning.
"You will both begin your work in the east wing today," he said, looking from Harry to Malfoy as if challenging either one to disagree.
Harry had no idea what Snape was going on about. What work? He looked at Malfoy to see if Snape's words had meant anything to him.
Malfoy had wiped the scowl off his face, but he wasn't looking pleased, and it seemed to Harry that he didn't look confused either.
"Draco, explain to Potter what you will be doing."
Malfoy looked even less pleased by this order, but Snape had already stood up and was pulling on his cloak. "I will be back by dinner. I expect progress."
Then, with a loud crack, he was gone.
Harry stared at the spot where Snape had disappeared, feeling still more annoyed and confused. He turned to Malfoy. "What was that all about?"
Malfoy flung down a piece of toast and got up. "Come on, Potter."
Harry followed him. "Are you going to tell me, or...?"
"We're Snape's slaves now," Malfoy threw over his shoulder. "Get used to it."
At the end of a long, narrow hallway stood a pair of mops and a bucket of soapy water. Dust rags were in a pile against the wall.
Malfoy made an exaggerated motion to indicate the half dozen doors in front of them. "Where would you like to start?"
"I wouldn't," Harry said, catching on.
Malfoy shoved a mop at his chest, smirking. "Get used to it," he repeated.
Harry waited while Malfoy took up the remaining mop, the bucket, and a handful of rags, and followed him through the first doorway.
"This is wretched," he said, looking around the gloomy room. All the furniture was covered with sheets, and the dust was an inch thick. His trainers stuck to the floor with every step, like he was walking through mud.
Malfoy pulled the curtains from the window and choked on the cloud of dust. "Yes. I can't see why a house-elf can't do it."
"Are there house-elves?" Harry asked doubtfully. "Have you seen one?"
"Of course there are. Who else would light all the fires and make the food and draw our baths?"
Harry nodded vaguely. He was thinking perhaps the house-elves were too old, or too cantankerous, to do the sort of work Snape had assigned. Certainly the house looked neglected enough...
"Are you going to just stand there, staring?" Malfoy demanded, cutting into his thoughts. "I'm not going to do all the work here!"
Harry dipped his mop into the bucket and headed for the corner of the room. Looking back at Malfoy, he wondered why Malfoy had submitted to this. The spoiled brat; Harry would have expected him to throw a hellish tantrum over being made to do this sort of work. Harry, of course, had done much harder chores at the Dursleys, and was used to it, but he doubted Malfoy had ever held a mop in his life. There was something unnatural about the sight of Draco Malfoy trying to keep dirt off his boots as he dragged his mop uselessly over the floor in the center of the room.
"Start in the corner," Harry said, not because he was feeling particularly benevolent, but because at that rate they would never finish.
Malfoy looked up at him with annoyance. "Why?"
"So you don't keep walking over the part that's already clean."
Malfoy moved over to the corner opposite from where Harry was working.
At least, thought Harry, they had magic. The water in the bucket stayed clean no matter how many times he dipped in his dingy mop, and the mop itself had been spelled to wring itself out.
That, however, did not make him feel better. He couldn't get over his indignation over being forced to clean dirty floors in Snape's house over his summer holidays. He wondered if Dumbledore knew what was going on, and if not, what he would think when...
Harry caught himself just as he was imagining firing off an angry letter to Dumbledore, and shook his head. Of course he wouldn't. What was the matter with him? Hadn't he wanted to spend the summer with Snape?
He attacked the floor with new determination.
It took them two hours to finish, and for all their work there was very little effect. The floor didn't shine. The windows had grime coating them on the other side, where they couldn't reach. The drapes, though they had shaken the dust out of them, still looked dirty and discolored, and in addition they had not been able to hang them up completely straight.
Malfoy looked around the room, his shoulders slumped. "I think it's worse now than it was before we started."
Harry wiped his forehead with his sleeve and headed for the next room. "The floor needs to be waxed. Everything is old, stained, and faded. Dusting and mopping is about all we can do."
He sighed as he dipped his mop into the water and began again. This room looked even larger and dirtier than the previous.
When he didn't hear Malfoy working, he stopped and turned to see what he was doing.
Malfoy was standing in the center of the room, staring at his hands with an ugly scowl.
"What is it now?" Harry demanded.
Malfoy turned his palms outward, showing him the red blisters.
Harry refused to feel sorry for him. He was feeling sorry enough for himself. "Get used to it," he said nastily, turning back to his work.
After a long silence, he heard Malfoy pick up his mop and move to the opposite corner.
It felt like hours before Snape returned, and by then they were both tired, sweaty, grimy, and in wretched moods. Harry didn't even hear Snape come into the room; he was too busy being angry at Malfoy, who had left a trail of dirty footprints across the newly cleaned floor.
"My hands hurt," Malfoy began to whine as soon as he saw Snape in the doorway. "Look at them!"
To Harry's absolute disgust, Snape motioned for Malfoy to follow him out of the room. He could hear Malfoy complaining all the way down the hallway.
He threw down the mop and folded his hands across his chest. No way was he going to continue working while Malfoy got a reprieve. His hands were blistered too, but did anyone care?
Then he looked around and realized there was nothing left to do but dust the mantle and take the cleaning supplies out of the room. It wasn't worth an argument with Snape.
He trudged up to his room and went straight into the showed. He didn't care if he missed dinner altogether; all he cared about was getting clean again.
"Let me see your hands," Snape said, his tone not betraying any genuine concern, when Harry finally came downstairs, having thought about but decided against locking himself in his room to make a point.
Harry held out his hands, making sure the sores on his thumbs were in plain sight.
"Wash them with soap," Snape said after a quick glance.
Malfoy, Harry noted as he sat down at the table, no longer sported any blisters, judging by the easy manner with which he handled his knife and fork. His own hands were still stinging from the soap and hot water.
As soon as he finished eating, Harry gave in to his earlier impulse; he returned to his room, locked the door, and called Snape every swear he could think of.
It helped, though not by much.
He finally took out Lupin's letter again, thinking he would write a short, unemotional response; one that would neither encourage nor discourage further exchanges. He was starting to get the feeling that after a few more days with Snape and Malfoy, he might actually want to write to someone; not to complain, but to have a decent conversation.
Professor Lupin:
Thank you for your letter. I am well. I have my own room and am being fed.
It was only when he started to write that he realized his hands were no longer hurting. Examining them carefully, he couldn't find more than a trace of redness across his palms.
Feeling suddenly deflated, he stared at his own words on the parchment in front of him.
He hadn't been planning to complain about his situation, aside from making a few snide comments that couldn't return to bite him. Not only did he know perfectly well that Lupin could not help him, but he was also afraid Lupin might do something rash, like show up in person to give Snape a piece of his mind, which would likely leave Harry in a worse predicament than he was currently in. Still, the act of writing to someone on the outside would have been one of rebellion, no matter how minor, and now the necessary rage had been knocked out of him.
He sighed and put his quill deliberately on the paper and scratched out the last line.
There is no need for concern, I am getting along with Professor Snape.
He scratched that out too, after a bit of thought. It being a lie, Lupin might think Snape dictated the letter.
He bit the tip of his quill, not knowing what he could write. After a few minutes of frustration, he rolled the parchment up and returned it to the drawer, along with Lupin's letter. He hoped Lupin wasn't expecting a prompt answer.
He stretched out on the bed and folded his arms under his head.
The ceiling was stained. It disgusted him to look at the yellowish streaks, and he shut his eyes.
As he drifted off to asleep, there was a feeling in the back of his head that something had gone terribly astray with his vision of what summer with Snape would be like.
