"He really is going to kill me."

It was a last-ditch effort, pathetic at best. Harry could hear his own voice trembling as he tried to make his case to the bailiff seated at the desk. Not ten feet away, Snape was filling out boxes, signing acknowledgments, wading through the red tape that would make Harry a free man (boy?) once more.

"Now, son," the bailiff began placatingly, "I doubt—"

"No, listen. He's not really my father. He's just saying that so he can get me out of here. My parents died when I was little. They were killed by this—uh, this madman, see—and the madman never gave up. I've been in hiding, but that madman is still trying to get me, and Snape is going to turn me over to him first chance he gets—"

"Harry."

By God, it was still awful to hear Snape utter his name like that. His spine stiffened automatically. He felt a large hand close painfully around the back of his neck.

"What stories have you been telling now?" The words were a parody of fatherly exasperation. Harry cringed. "I apologize. The boy is a pathological liar, always spinning tall tales to get out of scrapes. I'm afraid his relatives have been far too indulgent with him thus far." The hand tightened further, until Harry was certain he would have a bruise later. "An oversight I will be certain to address. As Harry well knows, attempting to wheedle out of a punishment will only make it worse."

Harry's knee-jerk response to that threat was to try to tear away from Snape's grip. The man only tightened his hold, however, one thumb digging painfully into the side of Harry's neck in warning.

The bailiff offered Snape a tight smile. "Boy's just scared," he explained easily. "We see this a lot. This is the first big offense. First time they cross a line like that most of 'em panic, get all riled up, can't stand to face their parents. 'E'll calm down quick enough."

"I'm certain." Snape passed over a thick packed of papers, all filled out in his own cramped hand. "I believe everything there is in order."

The bailiff accepted the stack. Harry watched apprehensively, too terrified of what Snape might do to him to speak up again. Instead, he opted to silently pray to whatever deity or deities might be listening for a small mercy—a hitch in this paperwork, say.

No such luck. The bailiff glanced through quickly and nodded briefly in approval. "Everything seems to be in order. Court date's set for a month from now. We'll see you both then, Mr. Potter."

When Harry turned to Snape, he caught the barest hint of distaste curling the man's lip. Other than that, his expression remained smooth and unperturbed. "Of course. Have a pleasant day."

And with that Snape jerked Harry around and started marching him out of the station. Harry's stomach clenched with dread.

As soon as they were out on the street, Snape bent down so that his lips were next to Harry's ear. He spoke in an even whisper, but somehow that iron control terrified Harry more than all of Vernon's blustery yelling.

"You should know, Potter, that the headmaster's only stipulation when he agreed to this was that you should be returned at the end of the summer in one piece. I've no qualms whatsoever about taking you apart in the meantime, especially considering that you are so very resistant to normal disciplinary measures. We can begin that here and now, if you so choose; you could pitch a royal fit, as you are wont to do, and I, in turn, could transfigure you into something more manageable—a pup with a leash, let us say. Or you can choose to begin your transformation now by following my every directive, thereby showing me that perhaps you recognize, on some level, how idiotic and inexcusable your behavior has been. Which will it be?"

Snape would do it, Harry knew. The man would turn him into a dog and drag him all over Britain to God knew where, kicking at him and snapping orders all the while, yanking at his leash. It would be humiliating and awful, just up Snape's alley. Hell, the man might even leave him in canine form for a few days. Or weeks. Or months.

Harry repressed a shudder. No. Sirius might be able to stand living like that, but at least Sirius was (mostly) free. Harry was fairly certain that death would be a better option than life as Snape's dog, however short that span might be. There was absolutely no way Harry was going to do anything to encourage Snape to follow through with that threat.

So it was back to his meek Dursley voice. He even hunched his posture a little for good measure. "I'll behave, sir." The words tasted like bile on his tongue.

Harry could practically feel Snape's lips curling into a sneer. "We shall see."

XXXXX

Snape Apparated them to London, and from there they made their way to King's Cross. Harry found the experience severely unsettling, and could scarcely keep himself from vomiting all over the potions master's shoes. The man had watched impassively, nostrils flared, a disparaging glint in his eyes. He'd said nothing, but Harry could feel the weight of the man's judgment bearing down on him.

So Harry had picked himself up and willed his stomach to stop contorting so painfully. And once he'd steadied himself, Snape had caught him by the arm once more and off they went.

Snape kept a glamor cast over himself from the moment they arrived in a back alley; it was a subtle change, but enough to render the man unrecognizable at a glance. Harry assumed one had been cast over him as well, as he'd felt a trickle of cool magic all the way down his spine. Frightening, Harry thought, that Snape could manage a spell like that both wordlessly and wandlessly.

From King's Cross, they caught a train. A Muggle train, which Harry thought was odd. Why couldn't they just Apparate directly to wherever it was Snape was taking him?

Of course, Harry had enough sense not to ask Snape that question. Or any question. Or look him in the eyes, sit too defiantly, breathe too loudly, or do anything that might in any way stoke the man's already volatile temper.

Even with all of Harry's careful attention to his behavior, he could still feel the tension growing between them with every passing second. It hadn't been so palpable out in the train station, where the throngs of people and general hubbub had detracted from the strain between the two of them.

Once they entered into the train, Snape having purchased their tickets without a word to Harry, and found a compartment, that tension grew tenfold.

Harry settled into his seat across from Snape, eyes on his lap, hands folded tightly and rested lightly against his thighs. He could feel Snape glowering at him, and the disdain roiling out from him in waves. Harry thought that it would have been more comfortable to share the space with an angry Hungarian Horntail. At least he could have fought the dragon.

It was nearly impossible for Harry to keep his thoughts calm. He was sure he would get no sympathy from Snape if he had a panic attack in public. Likely the professor would believe him to be doing it for sympathy and attention, and would add on to whatever horrendous punishment he already had in mind. So he tried not to think about his trunk, or his wand, or Hedwig, who had at least been out prior to this latest debacle, delivering a letter to Ron. And he tried not to think about how miserable his existence would be for the next two months.

Instead, he concentrated on grounding himself in the moment. It was a useful technique, one that had gotten him through too many long stretches with the Dursleys. After he'd loosed that snake at the zoo… well, two weeks in his cupboard hadn't been so bad when he'd let himself think only of what he was doing in the moment. Now I will play with my soldiers, now I will close my eyes and imagine, now I will reread Oliver Twist (the only battered book he'd managed to salvage from his cousin), now I will watch my spiders. One minute at a time, he'd gotten himself through that unpleasant two weeks.

This would be more of the same. Parcel it out into minutes and he would manage to find the moments of respite, and appreciate them.

So here, mired in that tense silence, Harry decided to turn his attention completely to the countryside unfolding outside his window. He watched the hills and trees and farms, and noted the livestock grazing out in the pastures. When they reached towns—stops along the way—Harry noted the architecture, especially the old churches, whose steeples rose so beautifully into the sky. He'd always had a fondness for those tall structures.

And so it was that Harry managed to make it through that long ride without thinking once of wizards or Hogwarts or Snape, even though the man's menacing presence radiated throughout their entire compartment.

It grew harder to ignore as time passed. Snape's anger and Harry's discomfort combined into a malevolent energy that seemed to rest suspended between them, crackling like static, building with each passing minute toward an inevitable explosion.

Snape rose to his feet when Cokeworth Mills was announced. Harry stood too, still doing his best to appear completely cowed. Roll over, play dead, hope that Snape's not as much of a sadistic bastard as he's always seemed to be.

The man seized Harry by the upper arm once more (Harry was sure he would have a sizeable bruise there the next day after all of this manhandling) and steered him out into the corridor and toward the nearest exit. The train lurched to a halt, the attendant opened the door, and within seconds Snape was hustling Harry none too gently out onto the platform.

Harry looked around, desperate for any clues as to where he might be. Where did Snape live, anyway? He'd always assumed that the professor just kept to his dungeon at Hogwarts, bent over his cauldrons all summer, only emerging occasionally for a breath or two of fresh air. Where they were currently hardly fit into his impressions of the man. A dingy little town with rows upon rows of soot-stained brick buildings, permeated by an air of severe neglect. In the distance, twin stacks of what appeared to be an abandoned factory rose into the sky, looming over the shell of a town like malevolent guardians.

It was too… Muggle. Too sad, too pathetic, for the bitter, overly-confident wizard currently escorting Harry.

Harry longed to ask where they were, but yet again, he was far too intelligent to provoke his potions master like that. The man was clearly in no mood, and Harry figured that knowing the name of this godawful place would not make it any less miserable or oppressive.

They made their way down the town's main street, past those lifeless brick facades, past litter and debris. The streets were dead, hardly a soul in sight, and the whole place had the feeling of a graveyard hanging over it.

Finally they turned right, onto a street called Spinner's End, and a few buildings down Snape abruptly jerked them up a cracking walk. A muttered spell opened the door, and Harry found himself thrust unceremoniously inside.

The dust and mustiness of the house was choking. Beyond choking. Harry instinctively drew an arm up to his mouth to guard against the thick clouds that rose in the wake of their violent entry. He looked around, doing his best to assess the dingy interior. The place looked to be abandoned, though a few signs of the previous inhabitants remained. There were two tattered coats hung on hooks in the entryway, and Harry could make out shelves upon shelves of books in the sitting room around the corner.

What the hell were they doing here?

Snape slammed the door shut behind them. "You, Potter, disgust me." The words lashed out like a whip.

Harry cringed back from the sheer amount of venom present in those four words.

"Countless sacrifices have been made for your safety. Your parents gave their lives so that you might survive them, and how do you repay them? By turning into a thug. By robbing a helpless Muggle woman. And for what? Oh, certainly not the money, you've plenty of that. For the thrill of it alone, for the sheer pleasure of defiance. Did it make you feel like a big man, Potter, when you were violating the sanctity of that woman's home? Did it assuage your boredom?"

Harry clamped down hard on his temper, which was threatening to boil over. He wanted to shout in Snape's face that he was wrong, that he knew nothing, that he hadn't even bothered to ask if Harry had really committed the crime he'd been accused of.

But there was no point in that, he knew. Snape's mind was made, and in absence of irrefutable evidence to the contrary, nothing would sway him in his conviction that Harry was guilty. So he grit his teeth instead and contented himself with glaring mutinously at the man.

Snape glared right back, every line of his face announcing his utter loathing for Harry. "Well?" he demanded, his tongue curling hard on the L of the word, stretching it out into two syllables. "I asked a question. I require an answer."

Harry lost himself in a flash of white-hot anger. "Sod off!"

Snape had his wand out in an instant, the length of dark wood leveled at Harry's breast. The look on his face was frightening, close to unhinged, the same look he'd worn upon stumbling into the Shrieking Shack to confront Lupin and Sirius just years ago. "I would tread very carefully, Potter," he warned quietly, "were I you. It would be my pleasure to put you in your place, and I've very few constraints as to how I go about that. I can make your next two months a veritable hell."

Like you won't regardless, Harry thought bitterly. But he recognized the situation—Snape, wand leveled at him, and him wandless. And Snape was an accomplished wizard; Harry could admit at least that. He had no wish to see what the man might choose to do to him.

"When an unruly child behaves unacceptably, Potter, they are required to issue an apology to the party they have offended."

Swallowing back his pride, Harry muttered, "I'm sorry." The words were hollow and insincere.

Snape scoffed. "Pathetic. But I suppose that it will have to do." He lowered his wand a fraction. "Now. Answer my question. Why did you do it?"

Ha. How could he possibly answer that question? He supposed a shrug of the shoulders or a petulant "because I felt like it" wouldn't get him very far. Truth be told, he couldn't figure out why Dudley and company had done it either. It wasn't like any of those kids wanted for anything in their lives. It was likely just as Snape had said, from sheer boredom and for the pleasure of defiance.

Well, he could answer as truthfully as possible. "I don't know. Sir." His tone was still noticeably sullen. He hoped the man wouldn't demand that he correct that as well.

It was the wrong answer. "You don't know," Snape mocked viciously, his words heated. "You don't know. Well, allow me to enlighten you on a few points. You have done much more than embarrass yourself and your family, more than mock the sacrifices made for you. Your little stunt has put you in grave danger. Imagine that the headmaster had not received word of your predicament. Imagine that, instead, some of my associates had gotten wind of it. Do you imagine you would have lived through the night? You have put everything at risk, and for what? A spot of fun?

"I admit, boy, even I thought you above such delinquency. I was certain that your participation in the resurrection of the Dark Lord last spring would have made an impression on you, that you would have realized what he was capable of and learned to tread carefully, but no! Not for the great Harry Potter, Triwizard Champion! Not forf the famous Boy Who Lived! You're untouchable, aren't you? Well? Speak up!"

Resurrection of the Dark Lord. Harry felt a wave of nausea rip through him. He had, hadn't he? If not for him, if not for his blood…. He should have fought harder. He should have grabbed the Cup straight away, as soon as he'd realized what was going on. Foolish of him, so very foolish.

"I…." He had no words. If only he'd grabbed Cedric, if only he'd snatched the Cup again. They'd both be alive right now, and Voldemort would still be a fragile bundle of flesh and bones, helpless as an infant.

"You… what?" Snape sneered. "You didn't realize? You didn't think? I'm shocked."

"I should have…."

"Yes, you should have thought of someone other than yourself for once," Snape agreed icily. "You will pay for your selfishness, you will pay for your lack of control, and most of all you will pay for the mockery you have made of the protection and care you have received thus far. I will see to it." Without warning, Snape seized him by the collar and dragged him down the hallway into a small, dilapidated kitchen.

Snape released him, shoving him forward a few steps. Harry stumbled, just barely managing to keep himself from crashing into the kitchen table.

"I'm afraid your accommodations from here on out will disappoint," Snape began, his voice back to that too-calm, too-even tone. "But I thought this residence would do nicely for what I have in mind. You, Potter, will be restoring it by hand for the next two months. You will clean, organize, repair, and update every inch of this place. You will work from dawn until dusk, seven days a week, until you are tired and aching and miserable, as penance for your actions. And, Merlin willing, this lesson will perhaps instill a modicum of humility into you, enough to keep you from repeating your actions and descending any further into degeneracy."

Harry stifled his desire to groan aloud. It was no worse than what his aunt and uncle would have him do, he told himself. And Snape was a bully, of that there was no doubt, but at least he would likely limit himself to verbal taunts. Not like Dudley et al.

Well. If the man was setting him to household chores, it was unlikely that he planned to turn Harry over to Voldemort. Right? At least, he hoped that was the case. Maybe Snape was just torturing him prior to handing him over, or lulling him into a false sense of security.

But that didn't explain the excessive lecturing. So, perhaps he was at least safe now. And that was better than where he'd been earlier that day, because Snape was right on that account at least. He didn't want to wait for a couple of Death Eaters to turn up and murder him in a Muggle jail.

"You'll start here. Scrub the floor and counters, organize the cupboards, clear out the pest infestations, inventory the pantry. You will do the work to my satisfaction, and I am sure you know by now that my standard is exacting." Snape paused, turning a cold, assessing stare on Harry. His voice dropped lower still when he spoke his next words. "And you will apply yourself to your tasks, boy. You will work until I have determined your task finished, even if it takes you all night. I will not tolerate your laziness, not here. Clear?"

Calm, Harry ordered himself. It's no different than the Dursleys. Just pretend you're back there, and it's Aunt Petunia, not Snape. She would say the same exact things. And you know how to answer her to keep the peace.

"Yes, sir." He'd lapsed back into the safe, dull monotone that he liked to hide behind during his summers. There was no defiance in it, no anger, but no true deference either. It was the best compromise he could come up with. He started toward the cupboard beneath the sink, thinking that was as likely a place as any to find the cleaning supplies he would need.

"One more thing, Potter."

Harry froze, spine going rigid. He could hear the vindictiveness in those words without having to really listen, and instantly his mind was flying, trying to put meaning to that tone. What more would Snape do to him? More importantly, why was he so surprised? Had he really believed that he would get off with a little manual labor? No, that was far too easy, and Snape loathed him far too much for that.

"So you don't get any bright ideas about running off on your own…."

Harry whipped around, visions of chains and manacles rising in his head. The bastard was going to tie him up, wasn't he? He was going to have a little shackle staked to the ground, and he'd be allowed to hobble around the radius of the kitchen but no further. He would have to beg for a chance to use the facilities, and likely that would be contingent on how much work he'd completed. And Snape wasn't very likely to be impressed regardless of how well Harry did, that he knew.

He watched, gut clenched tightly, as Snape popped a button off the top of his shirt and, with a wave of his wand, transformed it into a ring.

A plain silver ring. Not a dog collar, not a manacle. Harry didn't understand. What was the man about to do with that?

"Contrendus," Snape uttered, tapping his wand to the thick band. It glowed white hot briefly, then faded to its original color. "Come here, Potter."

Harry shuffled forward, one heavy, lumbering step at a time.

Snape snatched his hand up by the wrist, roughly and without ceremony, and jammed the ring onto his middle finger. The band tightened immediately and started to glow once more, blinding white at first, then blue, before fading once more.

Snape dropped Harry's wrist as if it were a vivisected flobberworm. "That will not come off, so do not waste your energy trying to remove it. It will prevent you from leaving the property, and the wards will signal to me if you make such an attempt. The results of such foolishness, boy, will not be favorable, I promise you."

Snape paused, lips pursing unpleasantly, before he snatched the wrist once more. He expertly touched the tip of his wand to the band and muttered another spell; this one settled over it like a shimmering net, and sent chills down Harry's spine. "That," Snape added, dropping the wrist once more and even going so far as to wipe the tainted hand against his robe, "will allow you to alert me should something happen. Emergencies, Potter, meaning life-or-death situations. Touch it and say 'help' to activate it. Abuse it and I will charm that ring to burn like hot coals every time you slack off. Do we understand one another?"

Carefully, Harry eased his opposite hand over so that he could run a curious finger along the metal band. It felt warm to the touch. Harry felt something else clench in his stomach, something that was potent and uncomfortable, but not dread.

The man had not been intentionally cruel. He had free reign to inflict anything on his most hated student, and here he'd restrained himself to something unobtrusive. Something that could also function to protect Harry.

Harry didn't kid himself. He knew the man had likely only included the distress signal in order to better protect his charge for Dumbledore's sake. It was duty, nothing more. Still, it was better than the Dursleys had ever done. So maybe a completely irate Snape would be marginally better than his loving family and their standard of care.

"Potter?" Snape repeated, the single word laden with menace.

"Yes, sir." Genuinely contrite this time, the only thanks he would ever give the man for his restraint.

"Then get to it." And with those snarled words, the professor stalked away.