The yard was pitiful. It was not large, which was perhaps its only positive trait, and the heavy wooden fence that surrounded it, boxing it away from the neighboring brick houses and the street (or alleyway) that lay beyond the far fence, imparted a sense of claustrophobia. It was far more fitting as a prison yard than anything residential.

There was hardly any point in weeding, Harry thought, since even the weeds were struggling to survive in this inhospitable little plot. And as if that weren't bad enough, there were bits of glass bottle and chip wrappers strewn about, as if the yard had become a public dumping ground of sorts. Likely, passersby had taken to chucking their rubbish over the fence.

Harry sighed to himself. God knew where Snape had even found this place. Maybe he'd bought the dump of a property especially for Harry, thinking that he could restore it and flip it for a profit. That would be the Slytherin thing to do—two birds with one stone. Assure Harry Potter's utter misery while raking in a tidy sum for himself.

There hadn't been any trash bags in the house; Harry had looked. So he resigned himself to gathering the filthy pieces of trash and piling them in one corner of the yard for the time being. He'd ask Snape later how he was supposed to dispose of it all.

At least it was not hot. If he were back at the Dursleys, he thought bitterly, this would be the day his aunt had him scouring the house. She would wait for a sweltering morning to send him out to the flower beds, where he would really suffer. Here, though, wherever it was, it was overcast and gray, and sliding into the cooler hours of the late afternoon.

Though, Harry thought as he collected muck-encrusted rubbish, he would have preferred to be tending the perfectly-maintained flowerbeds and manicured lawn of Number Four Privet Drive. Even his stint picking up trash along the Thames hadn't been so bad. Though that might have had more to do with the fact that he'd been allowed to work in peace. Even the other delinquents hadn't been as bad as his relatives, or Snape.

"Bloody hell!" The curse left his lips before he could think as a sharp pain pierced the skin between his left thumb and index. He dropped the broken liquor bottle he'd been picking up and shook the appendage out, even though he knew that hardly helped things.

As if to prove a point, a few drops of warm blood spattered against his hand and the bleak ground, while the red substance continued to well at the place where he'd cut it. Normally he would have just wrapped his hand in his shirt and changed clothes before his aunt saw him, but since he only had the clothes on his back and was not, under any circumstances, going to ask Snape about getting any others, he supposed he would have to come up with another solution.

Because God forbid he have a blood stain on his shirt, further proof of Gryffindor martyrdom. Snape would throw a fit.

A quick glance around the yard had him heading for the tiny, ramshackle shed at the far corner of the miniscule yard. One-handed, Harry managed to pry open the door. The hinges had rusted over, but thankfully that same rust had enfeebled the metal, making it a matter of yanking hard enough on the handle. Inside, like in the cupboards of the house, was a collection of odds and ends that had been left to molder over the years—oil cans, cylinders whose labels had long since washed out, a rusted heap of a push mower. Harry spied a crusted rag that was dirty enough that it would likely give him tetanus or some other unpleasant disease.

Well. He'd had worse over the years. And he'd clean the cut out better once he was inside. This was just to staunch the blood flow. He shook the rag out as best he could and wrapped it tightly around the cut, wincing at the feel of the gritty cloth. God, he hoped Snape had peroxide or rubbing alcohol or something.

"Potter!"

Harry startled. What now? What could the man possibly want? He daubed a few more times at his wound, then stuffed his hand into his pocket before turning back toward the house.

Snape was glowering at him from the doorway. His eyes drifted to Harry's injured hand, now resting idle in his pocket, and his lip curled further. "I sent you out here to work, not to laze about. Inside, now!"

Harry bit his tongue and complied, careful to keep his eyes on the wretched ground in front of him. Of course the man wouldn't notice any progress. Of course he'd just assume that Harry had been staring off into space.

Back in the kitchen, Harry saw that the table had not been set. In fact, Snape had laid out parchment, a quill, and ink, which did not bode well. Was Snape unimpressed with physical labor? Would Harry have to do lines as well to please the sadist?

"Go get yourself cleaned up, and report back here. You've a letter to write."

Harry didn't like the sound of that. But his hand was stinging, and his body ached, and he was in no mood to fight any more with Snape that day. So he trudged up the stairs yet again and into the bathroom, where he immediately withdrew his left hand and began cleaning it out under running water.

He wished desperately that he had his wand and his textbook. And that he was allowed to use magic in the summer. Not much, just enough for a simple little healing spell, something to knit the skin back together. Not that he'd really needed a spell when he'd been little. Sometimes he'd been able to get his scraped knees and blisters to disappear just by wishing them away.

A thought occurred to him. He yanked his hand back out of the water and stared fixedly down at the thin, deep gash that still dripped blood. How had he managed it when he'd been younger? Had he imagined it healing? Had he focused on making the pain go away? Had it been his anger at his aunt and uncle that had driven it? He closed his eyes, willing himself to somehow take hold of that power.

He felt a slight tingle, and a lessening of the sharp pain. He opened his eyes to find that, while not fully healed, his wound had closed. It looked several days old now rather than a few minutes old. And it wasn't completely sealed, but the blood flow seemed to have stemmed. That was something. He scrounged around in the cheap wooden medicine cabinet over the sink for a moment, thinking that some kind of antiseptic definitely wouldn't go amiss.

There was very little to work with—a rusted pair of tweezers, a few yellowed adhesive bandages, and a nearly-empty tube of something. Upon further examination, he found out it was an extremely outdated tube of antiseptic cream. He managed to coax out a tiny dollop to apply, then scrubbed at his face as best he could before finally forcing himself to trudge back downstairs to face Snape.

The man was hovering over a pot at the stove, wand trained beside him on a book that floated midair. Beside him sat a cutting board covered in chopped onions and carrots. He turned back briefly, his neutral expression instantly filling with scorn. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing imperiously with his wand to a seat at the table.

Harry resigned himself to whatever exercise in humiliation Snape had planned. There was no way out of it, he reminded himself. Not unless Dumbledore suddenly decided to actually look into matters for once, or Remus or his godfather or the Weasleys attempted to stage an intervention on his behalf. Idly, he wondered if any of them besides Dumbledore knew that he was stuck here.

"You will write a thoroughly contrite apology to the poor woman you victimized," Snape announced coldly, using the same tone he would in detentions to name off creatures to be pickled or disemboweled. "And you will write it to my standards. That is to say, Potter, that you will give a full accounting of your actions, a detailed summary of what your impact has been, an expression of remorse, and a plan to make amends. Is that clear?"

Harry's temper snapped. Lines he could handle. It was a repetitive, boring, and meaningless task, and he could simply lose himself in the mechanics of it. But this? Writing out a full apology for a crime he hadn't even committed, before his promised trial had even concluded? What had ever happened to the presumption of innocence?

Oh, not that Snape needed things as trivial as evidence and proof, not when it came to Harry Bloody Potter.

Well, it wasn't as though Snape had given him any breaks since he'd arrived—minus, perhaps, not literally putting him in chains. Still, Harry couldn't stomach the thought of sitting here quietly and scratching out a false confession of guilt under the man's watchful eye.

"And if I don't?" Harry gritted out, glaring at the man.

Snape smirked cruelly at him, his black eyes glittering. "Then I shall enjoy starting this evening's fire with these." He slipped a hand into his robes and withdrew a bundle of letters tied with twine. He tossed it down on the table beside Harry in challenge.

Harry could make out Sirius' scrawl on the outside of the top one. He started to reach for them, just to brush his fingers across the parchment—his post—but stopped himself in time. Snape might decide to burn one right then and there, just to punish him for his presumption.

God, Harry hated it, but he knew that he needed those letters more than anything. He needed sympathy, something to offset what a terrible summer it had been so far. Sirius would ask how he was holding up, and maybe offer a funny anecdote about Harry's father and Remus from their Hogwarts days, and then Harry could write back about how terrible things were, and about how he'd been falsely accused, and Sirius would get all indignant and come rushing in to save Harry from this miserable existence.

And maybe, Harry thought, he would get to go to the Weasleys for the rest of the summer now that he was away from the Dursleys. If Dumbledore had agreed to let Snape take him on, he figured it was just as likely that he'd be allowed to spend the remainder of his holiday elsewhere.

And for that, Harry decided, he could suffer through writing one letter that he didn't even mean. He knew he'd have to really invest in that letter, of course; Snape wasn't going to put up with anything half-assed. Still, Harry figured he could just pretend it was a creative writing exercise. What would he say to old Mrs. Applewhite if he were Dudley? Well, if he were a severely reformed Dudley….

As he took up the quill, Harry had the horrible thought that Snape was going to hold the letters over his head indefinitely, that even if Harry did write a letter just oozing with regret and remorse, the Potions Master would simply snatch the bundle back and tuck it away, claiming that Harry didn't deserve any sympathy from his band of merry minions.

But damn it, what else was he going to do? Demand that Snape give him his rightful property? That was likely to go over well…. Yeah, Snape wasn't likely to be any better than the Dursleys in that respect, was he? He'd enjoy tormenting Harry with the prospect of letters from friends every time he wanted Harry to do something. Hell, the man would probably read them right in front of Harry, smirking to himself, before feeding them page by page into the hearth.

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself. No use in getting worked up already, he told himself. He'd play along with Snape's game for now. It wasn't going to cost him anything to do as Snape had asked anyway, and letter-writing was a hell of a lot better than picking up trash from the yard in the approaching twilight.

So Harry wrote.

Dear Mrs. Applewhite,

Words cannot express how very sorry I am….

Harry wrote about how spoiled he'd been as a child, how he'd always had everything he'd ever wanted. He wrote about being young and stupid and susceptible to half-baked plans tossed out by friends. He wrote about not thinking about anyone but himself, and what was fun in the moment. He wrote about how terrified she must have been, and how it must have felt to be violated like that. He begged for her forgiveness, and promised that he would do everything he could to put her home to rights and make up for the wrong he'd inflicted.

By the time he was signing his name at the bottom, the kitchen was heady with the scent of stew, and Harry's stomach was rumbling.

"Finished, Potter?"

Harry gritted his teeth again, but he managed to bite his tongue for the most part. "Yes sir."

"Hmph." Snape swooped over to the table and snatched up the letter from beneath Harry's still-inked quill. Harry watched, eyes blazing defiance, as the Potions Master's beady black eyes scanned quickly over the drying lines.

After a minute the man's nose wrinkled in disgust, but he folded the parchment and tucked it away. Without another word, he returned to tending his pot.

That was it? No sneering? No, what is this drivel, Potter? No, inadequate, you cretin, start again?

"I highly doubt you mean a word of this," the Potions Master commented idly.

Ah, there it was.

"However, it will have to do for the moment. Perhaps returning her property to her tomorrow, and issuing a verbal apology, will be enough to cut through your arrogance."

Harry sighed internally. Of course… God, he hated the thought of staring into the elderly woman's disappointed eyes. Of all the people on Privet Drive, she'd been one of the kinder presences over the years. She reminded him very much of a milder version of Mrs. Figg, minus the cats. In fact, Harry was positive he'd seen the woman ambling over to Mrs. Figg's house around teatime on occasion.

Well. Nothing for it, he supposed. Snape wasn't going to listen to him, so Harry wasn't going to bother wasting his breath pleading his innocence again. And even if Snape let him read and reply to his post, it would take days for anything to come of that. Even if Sirius went straight to Dumbledore, or hell, tried to storm into Snape's house himself, it wouldn't get him out of being dragged back to Privet Drive the next morning.

Harry eyed the bundle of letters. Tentatively, he reached a hand out toward them, just waiting for Snape to whip around and bark at him not to touch them. The man didn't, though. Carefully, he slid the pile closer to himself, wondering if he could just sneak off with them and stash them somewhere that Snape couldn't find them and confiscate them again.

"Take them upstairs," Snape commanded brusquely without turning back around. "First bedroom on the right. You will deposit them and return right here to await further instruction. And if I see them again, I will pitch them straight into the fire, is that clear?"

Harry felt a rush of shock, then relief, at those words. Snape was letting him keep them? Well, hell, Harry wasn't going to hang around and wait for the man to change his mind. He was nearly to the decrepit sitting room when Snape's voice rang out again.

"And Potter?"

Harry froze. He had to swallow twice before he felt steady enough to reply. "Yes, sir?" There. That was pretty damned respectful, wasn't it?

"Recall that I am in no way obligated to allow you to reply. Keep that in mind before you decide to once again behave like an utter lout."

Harry ground his teeth together again. If things continued like this, he might have to talk to Hermione about a consultation with her parents—if there was anything left of his teeth for the Doctors Granger to see to. Yet again, he managed to force out a "yes sir", and left the room before Snape could test his forbearance with further insults.

The bedroom was not much better than the rest of the house. It was narrow and cramped, smaller than even his room at the Dursley's, with a skinny window that overlooked the depressing yard below. The bed was little more than a worn mattress on a rickety metal frame, and the only other piece of furniture in the room was a slightly-lopsided armoire that had seen better days. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust that, when disturbed, nearly sent Harry into a sneezing fit.

Trained from years at the Dursleys, Harry began searching for the most inconspicuous hiding place he could find. He had a gut feeling that Snape would get angry with him in short order and decide to take the letters back, and the last thing that Harry wanted to do was make that easier for the man. After a few moments he settled on tucking them behind the molding in the right corner of the room; the wooden strip had loosened just enough for the thick packet to be squirreled away. It had nothing on his loose floorboard, Harry decided, but it was certainly better than leaving them out in the open.

He hurried back downstairs, not eager to incur Snape's wrath for dawdling. Or, any more of the man's wrath, at least.

Snape was just removing the pot of what Harry assumed was stew from the stove by the time he returned. The man flashed Harry another of his derisive little glances before turning to the cupboard and summoning down two bowls. "Where did you stash your prizes, Potter?"

Harry frowned, trying to make sense of the question. "Er—prizes?"

"The money and jewelry you stole from your elderly neighbor," Snape clarified frostily. "It has not been returned to her, and the initial search of the area turned nothing up. So I will ask again: where did you put your loot? Because it will be returned to her tomorrow, boy, and by your hand. So cease playing the fool and answer me!"

Ha. So much for the tentative peace between them. Harry had no answer for that question, and Snape would never believe that Harry didn't know. And Harry wasn't stupid enough to lie about it just to placate Snape for the moment; the man would check soon enough, and then he would be even more livid upon finding out that Harry hadn't told the truth. So Harry braced himself for the Potions Master's wrath.

"I don't know, sir."

Snape froze, hands clenching tightly, before he spun to face Harry. His expression was taut with rage, though he spoke very quietly. "You.. don't know? Have I heard you correctly?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you think it is acceptable," Snape continued in that same deadly whisper, "to lie about such a thing? To draft an elaborate letter full of platitudes, then turn around and refuse to return this poor woman's rightful property? Tell me, Potter, morality aside, do you think such a decision wise?"

Harry couldn't stop himself. Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that flooded him, the rage at being thought so contemptible that he would act in such a manner. The complete lack of any possibility of defending himself, too, because in Snape's eyes he had never even been anything but a criminal, had he?

So he stared the Potions Master square in the eye and replied coolly, "Of course it isn't wise, sir."

And that seemed to push Snape over the precipice. He snared Harry by the collar and twisted it tight, closing it around the boy's neck like a noose—though mercifully without the force to cut off airflow, only just enough to be uncomfortable. Snape leaned down so that his hot breath was directly on Harry's face, so that Harry was sprayed with spittle with each of the man's harsh articulations. "You may think yourself above reproach, though Merlin knows how you can still believe that," Snape hissed coldly. "Let me assure you that I will personally stamp this unbelievable arrogance out of you. You will rectify this, you ungrateful little whelp. You will take that woman her possessions and beg on bended knee for her forgiveness. And then you will go to your relatives and you will beg their forgiveness for having been such a disgrace. And do you know why you will do this, boy?" Snape's hand twisted just a bit tighter, dragged Harry just a bit closer. "Because there are far better things for me to toss into my fireplace than mere letters."

Harry went cold. "You can't," he rasped, his thoughts flying to his personal effects. Snape had them, he was sure, likely locked away until he was ready to pull them out and incinerate them. Even the Dursleys had never been so cruel. His photo album—God, Snape would enjoy every moment of that, wouldn't he? He would probably do it one by one, sipping a cold drink as he slowly eliminated the last vestiges of James Potter from this earth. And then his cloak, Harry thought, and his broom from Sirius.

"Would you like to test that theory?"

Harry pulled himself out of Snape's grasp. Surprisingly, the man let him go. Unsurprisingly, he wiped the hand he'd used to hold Harry against his pants in disgust, as if he'd touched something unbelievably foul.

"Where?" Snape growled.

The words spilled from Harry's mouth, desperate and choked, before he could stop them. "I don't know," he insisted. "If I knew I'd tell you, but I don't—"

"I don't believe that for a second," Snape snarled. "You may be able to pull the wool over others' eyes, but not so with me. Answer my question, or you can go the night without supper. Perhaps contemplating over an empty stomach will help you see reason."

No supper. That seemed like the final ultimatum for the night, Harry decided. Snape would save destruction of his personal possessions (and no doubt the Potions Master would see poetic justice in that, given the presumed reason for Harry's punishment) for the next day, when he was really frustrated.

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, to kick at things. But none of that would do any good. The only thing he could do for himself now was muster the stoicism that had carried him through life so far. It was out of his hands, he reminded himself. He'd tried his best to follow instructions, to be obedient, to do what was asked of him. This was another case of getting punished for accidental magic, as far as he was concerned. There was nothing more that he could change about himself, and so he would just have to weather whatever consequences were imposed.

If his things burned, it wouldn't be because he'd outright defied Snape when he'd had the option not to do so. It would be because the man was blind and prejudiced and didn't care one whit for the truth, so long as the lies painted Harry Potter in a bad light.

"I'll go without supper." Harry was proud of how even the words came out. No sarcastic edge, no resentment, just acceptance.

Of course, that just further incensed Snape. "Playing the martyr card again, Potter?" he sneered. "You haven't missed a meal in your life. Don't think you'll move me to pity—"

That declaration was too much. "I don't," Harry reassured the man, his tone icy. "You're right, Professor. I don't know what hunger is. I'm certain I'll be in tears by ten this evening, pleading for you to not let me starve."

"Upstairs, Potter," Snape growled through clenched teeth. "I've had quite enough of you for this evening. And if you've any sense of self-preservation, you will make certain you are neither seen nor heard until I am prepared to deal with you."

As far as punishments went, Harry thought, that one was pretty standard. Really, it was scarcely a punishment—more a way of life in the Dursley home. Make no noise, pretend I don't exist. Got it. It would be a welcome relief to be out of Snape's presence too.

Harry darted away, trying to suppress his sudden sense of panic. His letters. Snape hadn't said one word about the letters. Maybe if he stayed infuriated, he would forget all about them, and wouldn't come stomping up the stairs, demanding Harry to hand them back over.

He'd have to read them fast, in case Snape remembered. Maybe just skim them for the important stuff. Not that there had been much by way of substance that summer, not even from Ron and Hermione. Their letters had been chock-full of trivialities and non-information, enough to make Harry start to suspect that their friendship was dissolving. And that, of course, led to bursts of irrational thoughts—maybe they blamed him for Cedric's death, maybe they hated him for helping to resurrect Voldemort, maybe they didn't really believe that Voldemort was back….

Even so, Harry was still desperate to hear from them.

He went straight to the molding to retrieve the bundle, then carried them all over to the window, where he could read by the dying light of the evening—since there didn't appear to be another light source in the room. He eased himself down against the hard floor, biting back a groan as his overused muscles protested.

He grinned bitterly to himself. Banished from Snape's sight meant the man wouldn't play slave driver and have him working into the wee hours of the morning. He almost laughed. He could lounge about on his bed all evening, turn in early and recover for the next day….

Yes, Snape was bound to be in an especially unpleasant mood in the morning, but that was hours and hours away.

Harry undid the twine from around the letters and picked up the first one—from Sirius. He glanced through the rest, briefly, and was surprised to find that he had a letter from Remus and Mrs. Weasley as well. Nothing from Ron and Hermione, though. He tried not to let that disappointment get to him. Three letters was great, he reminded himself. It was the most he'd gotten at once this summer.

He started with Sirius.

Harry, it read.

I think I might have given you the wrong impression when I was telling you about your father's escapades during our school years. And listen, I get that life with the Muggles must be boring. Unbearable, even. But that's no excuse for behaving as you did.

When James and I got into trouble, Harry, it was the harmless kind—

Harry scanned the rest of the letter quickly before flinging it across the room. Lecturing. Scolding. And from Sirius! What the hell? Didn't the man know Harry better? Where was the outraged defense of his godson? Where was the frantic question, you didn't really rob a woman, did you? No, Sirius had automatically assumed—like Snape—that Harry was capable of breaking into a woman's home and stealing her valuables. And for what reason? To alleviate his boredom? As if he would draw attention to himself after he'd just resurrected fucking Voldemort!

Hell, Dumbledore should have questioned things more closely! He'd known Harry for years now! It was almost forgivable with Sirius, since he really only knew the man through irregular letters. But Dumbledore… damn it, what had Harry done over the years to warrant such a lack of faith? Hadn't he always tried to do the right thing, regardless of personal cost? He'd fought a bloody basilisk, for Merlin's sake!

Harry took a deep breath. Fine, so his godfather thought just as highly of him as Snape. He could deal with that. Remus, though, had taught him for a year, and probably knew better than to believe that Harry had committed a felony just because he was bored.

And that was true, Harry found out. To an extent.

Harry, Remus had written.

I know that this past year must have been nearly unbearable for you. To face the challenges that you did, and then to watch a classmate die, and to have once again nearly died at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—I cannot imagine the stress. Too, I have gathered that your family is not as supportive as you might wish.

Harry snorted at that. Understatement of the century, he thought. Not that Remus would know, really. It wasn't as if he'd bothered to keep in touch with Harry. It wasn't as if he could have possibly known that Harry was competing in a risky tournament with a high possibility of death and might have needed moral support or something. Harry kept reading.

I want to emphasize that I do understand how much of a toll all that can take on you. I know that you cannot be held fully responsible for your actions, given everything you've gone through. But Harry, I wish that you had found a healthier outlet for your pain and frustration.

I know that what you did must have seemed like a great laugh at the time—

Remus' letter landed just to the side of Sirius'. Harry knew he was behaving like a child throwing a tantrum, but he really didn't care at this point.

At least he now knew why Snape hadn't confiscated the letters. The great bastard was probably having a laugh downstairs at Harry's expense—Harry, who'd so looked forward to any news from the wizarding world, any word from his surrogate family… only to have it come in the form of scolding and lecturing and disapproval. Snape probably thought that spoiled, pampered Harry Potter deserved no less than to finally be told off for his unacceptable behavior.

By then, he'd pretty much guessed what Mrs. Weasley's letter would say. Still, some part of him held out hope that his surrogate mother had buried words of encouragement in what she'd written to him.

As it turned out, he was lucky that he hadn't received it in Howler form. The relatively short missive was peppered with words like "ashamed" and "mortified" and "unbelievable". And it closed with the hope that, in the future, he would do his parents proud, rather than acting so disgracefully.

The tears did come then. Harry bent his head forward and curled his legs up tight against his body and let them fall into his filthy, ripped jeans. They fogged his glasses, and his shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. But he was quiet; he'd learned that skill long ago. Even Snape's bat-hearing wouldn't pick up these soft hiccups.

Harry cried for a long time, until his eyes ached as much as his temples and his thighs were drenched with his tears. The words on those scattered pieces of parchment seemed to make all the more real how very alone he was. It was like all those nights of being locked in his cupboard came flooding back at once, reminding him that he was unloved and unlovable, and that no matter how hard he tried, his family would still want to lock him away and forget about him. It was an aloneness he hadn't felt since before Hogwarts, and that seemed to make it bite all the more.

Maybe it was because here were three people who he'd thought were different, who knew the real him—not the hooligan Potter boy who went to St. Brutus', not resident celebrity Harry Potter. Maybe it wasn't them, though. Maybe it was Harry. Maybe he was arrogant and unbearable, and expected everyone to automatically like him.

Exhausted and head throbbing, Harry dragged himself off the floor and up onto the bare mattress of the bed. His clothes were filthy—hell, he was filthy. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to risk showering when Snape's room was just down the hall.

He'd sleep, he decided. As much as he could. And he'd set his internal clock for early in the morning, when the Potions Master was likely to be in his own bed. And then… well, if he washed up downstairs, Snape likely wouldn't be disturbed. He could scrub up quick with water from the sink in the kitchen, and then maybe scrub his clothes out as well. As long as there was a fire in the hearth, he could probably lay them out to dry. Sure, they wouldn't be perfectly dried out by morning, but it would be better than wearing the same crusty clothes for another day. He wouldn't be able to do his pants, because there was no way in hell he was standing around Snape's house starkers in the dead of night. He'd deal with that problem some other time, he decided.

Harry spent a few minutes beating out the mattress and trying his best not to sneeze at the clouds of dust that rose up from it. After a little bit he gave up. He shrugged out of his t-shirt, folded it up as best he could into a pillow shape, and tried to make himself comfortable in his new bed. The springs dug into his back, and it was unpleasant to lie there, stinking and shirtless, but it could have been worse, Harry supposed.

At least it wasn't a cupboard. Or the cellar.