Harry allowed himself to lean against the kitchen counter, a brief respite. He'd been laboring for a solid two or three hours now, and much of the kitchen now reflected that. The floor, though still dull with age and marred by several permanent stains, was clean enough to eat off of (to Aunt Petunia's standard, which was saying something). The counters were polished as well. He was rather proud of the work, considering the meager cleaning supplies he had to work with. He'd found a few half-emptied bottles of Muggle products, most so old that the labels had begun to fade, and a handful of crusty rags, but little else. Thankfully there had been a bucket and soap too, otherwise he doubted he would have been able to do much.

In addition to cleaning the surfaces in the kitchen, Harry had managed to sort through all of the cupboards. Most of the food had gone off, though there were a good number of tinned items that appeared to be viable still. Too, he'd dragged out all of the cookery, china, and other various odds and ends and organized them. Some had been chipped, so he'd set those aside.

Once the cupboards had been cleared, he'd had to dig into the task of clearing out the evidence of the mice that had moved in over the years. This part of his chore was, admittedly, less than pleasant, and he had less experience with it due to Petunia's obsession with cleanliness. His aunt would faint if she ever saw the condition of these cupboards, he was certain.

Still, he kept his mind focused on the minutia of his task, forcing all thoughts and fears and irritations away from his mind. In a way he was grateful for the overwhelming amount of work. Sure, he'd had his chores at the Dursleys, but there was far from enough work to keep him occupied every hour of the day. In fact, if he'd been kept busy around the house and yard, perhaps he never would have gone down to the park, and perhaps Dudley and friends never would have been able to pin this latest crime on him.

Ah, well. No use in dwelling on what may have been.

Now, though, his body was starting to protest the strain. It had been a good number of hours since Snape had directed him to begin, and he'd seen neither hide nor hair of the man since then. Harry figured he couldn't have gone far because, Monitoring Charm or no, the Potions Master wouldn't trust Harry any further than he could throw him. Harry figured he was just skulking in the basement, working at converting it into a lab.

He didn't care, really. In fact, he was thrilled to have been left alone for so long.

And now, he decided he would take his well-earned break. He rinsed out an old coffee mug (there were no drinking glasses left in the assortment of dishes left behind) and filled it with tap water, hoping in the back of his mind that the stuff was potable. He was fairly certain Snape wouldn't appreciate Harry accidentally poisoning himself.

He'd settled at the table in one of the mostly-stable chairs when he heard the telltale click of boots against the floorboards.

Snape appeared in the entryway into the kitchen, a sour look on his face, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Harry leapt up automatically, nearly toppling his chair as he did so. But it was too late. Snape had seen him, and now Harry would have to face whatever consequences the man set for his "slacking". Aunt Petunia would ream him out and use the laziness as an excuse to lock Harry in his room after he'd finished his chores, which mean that he'd get only a meager dinner that night too. Something tinned, likely.

Snape, Harry feared, would be much more creative.

But Harry tried not to show his fear. Instead, he stood with his shoulders back, his chin up, as he waited for the man to launch into things. He would not give Snape the satisfaction of seeing him cower or despair, that much he vowed.

Snape's cold black eyes swept over the room quickly. His lip curled slightly in displeasure. "So you can work effectively," he commented contemptuously. "One wonders what you might achieve should you apply this… focus… to other aspects of your life. Surely it could eradicate at least some of your mediocrity."

Harry blinked stupidly at the man for a moment. He was certain that there was a compliment buried in there. Somewhere. Wrapped deep beneath all the layers of insults.

So he did what seemed most natural—or, at least, most sensible—in the moment. Strange twist of logic though it was. "Thank you."

The Potions Master's brow crept so high it disappeared. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry couldn't stop an embarrassed flush from creeping over his cheeks. He dropped his gaze down to the table, deciding to focus all his visual attention on the patterns in the woodgrain. "It doesn't sound like you're going to make me redo this." He gestured to the room with a little sweep of his hand. "So… so that must mean you think it's okay."

Snape scoffed. "It's cleaning, Potter. Menial labor. Either you've removed the mess or you have not. The fact that you have, for once, managed to do as you were instructed should not be a point of pride for you."

Harry balled his fists tightly, willing himself not to snap back at the man. "I just meant," he ground out, "that I'm glad my work meets with your approval. Sir." God knew Petunia was never this silent after he'd completed a task.

In the next minute Snape had him by the front of his shirt and he was twisting the collar tightly, causing the fabric to cut into Harry. "I do not know who you think to fool with this little act," he hissed coldly. Harry could feel the spray of the man's spittle, the byproduct of his violent diction. "You can play the contrite little houseboy all you want, but we both know what you are. You will need a great deal more finesse if you hope to manipulate me, Potter." Snape released him, shoving him back slightly as he did so, the man's wrist jerking sharply and the fingers spreading as if flicking away an irksome fly.

Harry's fury overrode his chagrin then. He lifted his eyes to meet the man's gaze squarely. "I'm not trying to manipulate you, you idiot! Why would I even bother, for one? I know by now that you can't see past the end of your giant nose when it comes to me—"

Snape had his wand out and the charm fired off so quickly that for a moment Harry had no idea what had happened. His lips continued to move, but the sound of his voice suddenly vanished.

Snape's lips quirked in a vicious little smirk. "What was that, Potter? I'm afraid I can't hear you."

Harry tried to scream his frustration. He could feel the force of his efforts grating in his throat, wearing it raw, but it all amounted to nothing.

"If you cannot speak respectfully, boy, then you will not be privileged with speaking." He slid his wand back up his sleeve. "Go wash up. And while you do so, contemplate just how wise it is to continue with this blatant insolence."

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath. He wanted to scream at the man. But it would do him no good, he knew, just make more trouble for himself. And he had enough trouble as it was. So instead he reeled in his temper. Really, had he expected anything less? Snape despised him; the man thought the very worst of him. Likely that would never change, so why twist himself in knots over it?

Painful though it was, he forced himself to give a little polite nod to Snape. Humility, he knew, could work wonders in soothing frayed tempers. It had been a regular necessary evil in the Dursley household. All he needed to do to make this situation work, really, was accept that his dignity was now moot with Snape as well as his relatives. If he could make peace with that, he could fall into his regular summer routine with Snape and perhaps survive, even, to the beginning of the school year.

And if Snape gossiped to the Slytherins about the reformed delinquent Harry Potter, well, so what? It wasn't as if that crowd didn't snicker about him anyway. At least this latest choice piece of the rumor mill wouldn't catch him off guard.

It occurred to Harry as he left the kitchen that he had no clue where the lavatory was in this decrepit dung-heap. For a moment he contemplated turning back and playing charades with the man in an attempt to get directions, but decided immediately against that. He'd been lucky so far in avoiding the worst Snape might choose to inflict, and he'd just lost control of his tongue. No need to tempt fate.

The loo, as it turned out, was on the second floor. And unfortunately, it was in the same sorry condition as the rest of the house. The sink was grotty, the mirror cracked, and the shower looked as if it might be growing things. A lone ratty towel hung on the rack on the back wall.

Harry smiled grimly to himself. He had no doubt that he would be scrubbing every inch of this room before the summer was out, likely with a toothbrush. His own toothbrush, if Snape's current foul mood held.

Doubtless Snape was expecting complaints, something to feed his vitriol for Poor Prince Potter. Well, Harry wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

He showered quickly. Apart from the disgusting state of the floor and walls, it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. Sure, the water was lukewarm at best, and there hadn't been any shampoo, but he was used to showers at the Dursleys. He was allowed maybe a minute of water, and most of the time he was expected to make do with cold water so he didn't steam up the room and run up the utility bill. On the rare occasions when he'd dared to use hot water, he'd usually had to suffer Dudley coming in and flushing the toilet or running the taps, which would make the water temperature fluctuate drastically. That was worse, Harry had decided, than cold water alone.

He'd even managed to scrounge up a bar of soap from beneath the sink here. Snape was insane, but Harry doubted he would snap at Harry for helping himself to basic toiletries.

Showered, dried, and dressed back in his stinking clothes (he'd already determined there was nothing to be done about his lack of fresh clothing), Harry descended the stairs, bracing himself for this next confrontation with the man.

Snape was seated at the table, a sandwich in front of him along with a glass of ice water. He was reading from a thin volume, held aloft in his left hand.

Harry sighed internally, seeing no other place setting. Back to snitching food, he thought glumly. But he knew better than to glare or otherwise give any indication that he was upset.

Instead, he squared his shoulders, ignored the man as thoroughly as he was being ignored, and strode directly over to the cupboards where he'd been working, intending to continue scouring the shelves. He knelt, biting back a groan (not that it would have been heard with the silencing charm) as his full weight returned to his already-aching knees. He found the rag he'd been using along with one of the cleaning products.

"Potter." The word came out as a snarl, and seconds later Harry found himself being hauled to his feet by his collar and spun to face a newly-furious Severus Snape. "Did I not just tell you that your poor-me act will get you nowhere?"

What now? Harry thought wearily. Maybe he fancies that he can read my thoughts. He did his level best to stare evenly at the professor, fighting down the useless rage that was churning in his stomach.

Snape sneered at him. "Ah, that's right. If I let you speak again, do you think you can keep that vile tongue of yours in check?"

Harry couldn't control the enraged flush that colored his cheeks. But he managed to nod sharply, knowing that Snape would not release him until he'd had at least that satisfaction.

"Somehow I doubt it. But we shall try this again." Snape drew his wand and, with a contemptuous flick, freed Harry's voice. "Now, I will ask you again. Were you not told to drop this pathetic bid for sympathy?"

Harry forced himself to take three deep, calming breaths before responding. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Really, Potter?" Snape loomed closer, the proximity of his tall frame causing Harry to back up a few steps automatically. "Conspicuously foregoing lunch in favor of working your poor fingers to the bone? Did you think that my hard heart would break at the thought of you missing a meal?"

Harry listed offensive spells to himself in an effort to keep any sharp retorts from forming. Stupefy, petrificus totalus, rictumsempra, tantellegra, impedimenta…. Two more deep breaths and he felt capable of replying. "I didn't know if I was permitted to eat. Sir."

Snape's hand caught Harry's collar again and dragged him close. "I doubt you've missed a meal in your life, Potter. Don't pretend. Just because you did not receive an engraved invitation—"

"I didn't receive an invitation at all! Or anything! If you had just bothered to tell me—"

"I will not wait on you hand and foot," Snape cut him off, his words sharp and biting. "I will not cater to you in any way, boy. If you want to eat, there are cold cuts in the fridge. Make yourself something—or don't. I couldn't care less." He released Harry's collar and turned sharply. "I expect you'll have the kitchen finished by this evening," he threw over his shoulder. "If not, the consequences will not be pleasant." Seconds later he was gone, the kitchen table cleared of any trace of the man.

Harry tried to count his blessings as he helped himself to the food in the fridge. Yes, Snape was being a royal git, and yes, the man was still ridiculously paranoid about Harry's behavior, as if Harry could not possibly have decent motives for doing his work without complaint. But there was nothing that could be done about that, and for the moment he was allowed to shower and eat, and Snape wasn't hovering over him like some sarcastic, arrogant Dementor. So there was that.

Harry made himself a turkey and cheese sandwich. There wasn't much by way of food; Harry idly wondered if Snape had made a grocery run, or if a House Elf had been sent with it from Hogwarts. Still, it was better than nothing. There was no water set aside, though, and mistrustful though he was of the house's plumbing, he was dying of thirst. So he let the faucet run for a few minutes, long enough for it to lose its evil rusty tinge, then filled himself a glass. The color was still questionable, but not nearly as bad as it had been, and besides, he was desperate.

He wolfed down the sandwich rather quickly. He'd missed breakfast, and Snape hadn't offered him anything once they'd arrived at the house. On top of that, he'd really applied a good deal of elbow grease since his arrival, and had worked up quite an appetite.

He washed it down with the water, which had a funny metallic aftertaste to it. Not much worse than drinking out of the garden hose, Harry decided.

Then it was back to work. Once again, Harry found himself grateful for the menial labor. It helped him keep his mind off of too many things, including his new keeper's impossible attitude.

But God was the man a pill. He'd been upset with Harry for acting too compliant, of all things! What was Harry supposed to do? Walk a fine line between quiet resentment and outright defiance? Practice seeming utterly miserable but too sensible to complain about it? Ah, but likely the man would find fault with that as well!

The anger simmered in him, but at least now, without Snape's presence, Harry was free to mutter to himself. He ground the rag into the filthy little cubbyholes all around the kitchen with particular vigor, enough that his arm began to ache quite distinctly. But he didn't mind, really. The pain was another distraction from this fresh hell he'd fallen into.

Maybe, he thought bitterly, he'd died in that graveyard, and this really was hell. Snape and Vernon could give the devil a run for his money, that was for certain. Snape especially. He tried to picture the man with horns and a tail, wielding a pitchfork; the image caused him to snort with a grim sort of amusement.

If only he weren't actually stuck here with his own tailor-made tormenter, he thought, then he could have laughed at the whole situation. Scrubbing cranky old Snape's kitchen during his summer holiday. Maybe, before the graveyard that spring, he would have said that this was the worst fate possible.

Well, now he knew better. There were awful things in the world, and he'd just helped to resurrect one—

No. He wouldn't think of that. Anything but that. He would drive himself mad if he kept driving that stake into his own heart.

He refocused all his energy and attention on the kitchen. There was still plenty to do, and Snape's threat hanging over him to keep him moving along. He wouldn't give the man a single thing to complain about, he decided. This whole damned room would be as perfect as he could make it. Well, considering his limited arsenal of supplies….

He wasn't about to ask Snape for anything. Even cleaning supplies. He would just make do with what he had to hand.

Heaving a bone-deep sigh, Harry resigned himself to continuing to scrub the cupboards. It was going to be a long afternoon.

XXXXX

Harry slumped down in the wooden kitchen chair, moaning in pleasure as he felt the load of his weight leave his feet. He'd overdone it. It had happened more than a few times at the Dursleys, so he knew the sensation well. He'd spent too long kneeling on the floor, had scrubbed too hard with his hands (there were blisters on his palms now), and in general had overextended himself, all in hopes of keeping Snape from upping his punishment.

He slipped his glasses off his face. They were grimy from poking around under the sink, where decades of filth had collected. Why he thought Snape would care how clean it was under there was beyond him, but he'd decided to scrub it out anyway. He sighed and began cleaning the lenses with the inside of his shirt.

It had to be getting late, he thought. It was still light as ever outside, but that meant nothing in the middle of summer in Britain. His stomach was growling, and he hadn't seen Snape since lunch—not even a glimpse of the man's greasy hair.

Harry cast a surreptitious glance back at the fridge. He could make himself another sandwich, he thought. Snape seemed to expect him to feed himself. What was the worst the man could do to him? Bark at him that he wasn't to help himself to things whenever he fancied it? And not eating would be twisted—somehow—into another bid for sympathy. Though Harry still had a hard time wrapping his head around that logic.

"Finished, Potter?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. He toppled the chair he'd been sitting in when he leapt to his feet, startled, to find Snape standing in the entryway to the kitchen, arms folded over his chest, face pinched in a sneer.

Harry jammed his glasses back onto his face and quickly tried to marshal his thoughts. "Uh—yeah. Yes, sir, I mean," he corrected himself hastily when he saw Snape's lip lift in an unpromising snarl. Dursley meek, he chanted to himself. You're listing off chores you completed to Aunt Petunia. You're explaining to Vernon how careful you were when you washed his car. "There are a couple of cupboards that are a little loose on their hinges. I didn't find a tool kit. And most of the appliances didn't work. I did get the blender working again after tinkering—"

"What are you blathering on about?" Snape interrupted sharply, his dark eyes flashing. "You wasted your time on the appliances? Are you daft, boy?"

Harry gritted his teeth. God, the man had to be trying to provoke him. There was no other explanation for it. "I didn't know, sir. I did my best to get everything into working order—"

"Come now, Potter," Snape scoffed. "I know your brain is not your most prominent asset, but even a halfwit could come to the proper conclusion. How much use has a wizard for Muggle appliances?"

Don't let him win, Harry told himself. He wants you to react. So don't. "I don't know, sir."

Snape drew out his wand, and Harry watched, biting down hard on his tongue, as the man banished the toaster, blender, mixer, and handful of other small kitchen appliances that he had painstakingly sorted through. "There is your answer, since you are incapable of reasoning it out yourself."

Harry's hands balled into fists of their own volition. "Perhaps if I'd had some instruction, sir—"

"Consider your wasted efforts further punishment for your lack of mental discipline." Snape's gaze swept over the rest of the room, sharp and intense, clearly searching for more to criticize. "Hmph. Well, as I do not trust you not to poison us with your culinary ineptitude, you can go start on weeding the yard while I prepare our dinner."

Since Snape had no scathing comments, Harry guessed that his work was, mercifully, still satisfactory. And Snape was going to cook, and he'd said our dinner, which took all the guesswork out of things concerning the evening meal.

If the Dursleys had taught him anything, it was to look for silver linings. And a clear directive like that certainly was one. The fact that Snape hadn't loomed over him all day, as Harry had feared he would, was another.

And Harry was smart enough not to provoke the man for any reason, not when things thus far had been so unbelievably smooth. Really, it was a miracle they hadn't killed each other yet.

So Harry murmured a dutiful "yes, sir" and scurried out the door, before Snape could take it into his mind to discipline Harry for acting humble to score points.