Harry figured it was the early hours of the morning when he woke. It was still dark outside his window, with the quarter-moon casting a pale sliver of light down on the bare floor. Harry still felt groggy and miserable, of course. He'd barely slept, and tossed and turned the whole time through fitful dreams and half-nightmares. He was a little hungry from missing dinner, but that was nothing compared to what the ache could be, he knew. It wouldn't really start to bother him for another day or so, and even then….

Harry was resolute in his decision. He wasn't going to touch a scrap of food until the man fully understood that Harry was no pampered brat, that he could go hungry without complaining—that he was used to it even.

Even so, the satisfaction he felt at the prospect of proving Snape wrong did little to make him feel physically better.

With a groan, Harry dragged himself off of the mattress, running his hands over his bare arms in an effort to generate a little heat. He was surprisingly chilled, and wasn't looking forward to going without his shirt or trousers until morning.

But he couldn't stand the thought of another day in those filthy clothes—the same clothes he'd worn when they'd taken him to be booked, in fact. And he sure as hell wasn't going to ask Snape if anyone had bothered to pick up his things, or even for a simple cleaning charm. He'd rather give Voldemort a bear hug. In fact, embracing the evil son-of-a-bitch seemed a lot less daunting than broaching any topic with Snape.

Suppressing a groan, Harry collected his shirt and crept as quietly as he could out of his room, pausing at the threshold of his door to listen. Nothing. The house was quiet. A quick glance down the stairs told him that Snape was likely in bed, given how dark it was down there. Fortunately, the hearth still seemed to be burning. Snape hadn't banked it, it seemed, judging by the glow and faint crackle that Harry could make out as he slipped down the stairs.

Harry kept his eyes sharp and his ears pricked for any slight creak or sign of movement. He knew he didn't want Snape to catch him out of bed at this hour; there would be hell to pay.

Everything seemed quiet and still, so Harry carefully crossed through the sitting room, dirty shirt clutched against his chest. Once he was in the kitchen, though, he cursed himself. It was dark, almost pitch-black, with just a little moonlight—hardly enough to see by. Well, he thought, he'd have to muddle through. He cast one last glance back toward the stairs before shimmying out of his jeans and taking everything to the sink.

At the Dursleys', he'd usually be able to sneak a quick load through the washer in the basement. Here, though, he knew he'd have to make do with an inferior hand-wash, and no soap.

Well, he thought, it was mostly to get the sweat and stink out of the fabric. It wasn't like he was taking tea with the Queen.

Harry ran the water for a solid three or so minutes, but it soon became apparent that it wasn't going to get the least bit hot, or lose any more of its evil-smelling tinge. So without further ado Harry dumped shirt and jeans into the sink and took to scrubbing them as vigorously as he could under the frigid water, with nothing but his hand. After a minute, he reluctantly bent down and peeled off his socks as well, though that put his bare feet into contact with the wood floor. As if he needed any more discomfort, currently standing practically bare in Snape's kitchen, of all places.

Harry scrubbed at his sopping clothes for a good ten minutes, but he was too tired and cold to make much of an effort. Eventually he just gave up. He barely had the energy to wring out each item as thoroughly as possible over the sink. They still stank, he thought, and he certainly hadn't done much for the accumulated filth from the day's work (and the lawncare he'd done for the Dursleys before his arrest). But they were marginally better, he decided as he trudged into the sitting room. There he laid them out carefully before the hearth, not daring to hang even his socks from the mantel. The less he disturbed Snape's home, he thought, the better. Besides, the warm stone hearth might be better for drying them anyway.

In the meantime, Harry decided to try to wash up a bit. He'd see about having a shower in the morning (though he wasn't about to count on that, not with Snape's mood the previous night). But for now, he knew he'd sleep a little better if he felt cleaner. And he knew he could make do with a sink, after all the times Petunia had decided to punish Harry for some infraction or another by cutting off his access to their shower. She'd told him in no uncertain terms that for the duration he was to use the garden hose or nothing, but she, like her husband and son, was a sound sleeper. And though Harry hadn't dared slip into the bathroom in the middle of the night, he'd made free use of the kitchen sink and dish soap.

No dish soap now, he thought bitterly, but that wasn't to be helped. Bloody wizards and their bloody wands… no need for electricity, no need for soap, no need for cleaning supplies.

He flinched at the first splash of cold water against his skin. He tried to be careful as he used cupped hands to transfer it from the faucet, so as not to spill anything. He had no towels whatsoever, and he doubted Snape would be pleased to find his kitchen floor dripping wet the next morning. It was slow, unpleasant work, scrubbing down that way. By the time Harry had hit all the essential areas, he was damp and covered in gooseflesh.

Why the hell hadn't he grabbed a towel from the bathroom? Sure, he didn't want to risk using the facilities and waking Snape, but surely he could have snatched a towel, at the very least.

He rubbed his hands over his bare arms once more, knowing from before that it would scarcely do any good. He couldn't go to bed like this, he thought. He'd better sit in front of the fire for a bit—better that way, anyway. If he went back upstairs to grab a towel, there was more chance that a loose floorboard would wake Snape, and he was in no state to bring the man's wrath down on his head. He could kip a bit by the hearth, and plan on waking after a few hours, at which point he could take his (hopefully mostly dried) clothing and slip back upstairs, leaving no evidence behind of his nocturnal activities. The last thing he needed was for Snape to come down the next morning, see his clothes, and throw some kind of fit. Or decide that Harry had notched up his attention-seeking behavior.

He was just about to head back to the sitting room when he heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Instinctively, he searched for a place to hide. The shadowed space to the other side of the fridge seemed like his best option, though it hardly provided any cover. Still, Harry wedged himself far enough back and held still enough that he thought he might pass unnoticed if it came to it.

Harry held his breath and listened carefully as the footsteps paused, presumably at the landing of the stairs. He caught a muttered oath of some sort—though the words were indistinguishable. Great. Well, Snape was bound to be even more pissed in the morning for whatever reason. Harry's nasty clothes laying out? His utter lack of respect, leaving his things all over the house? His sneaking around in the dead of night? Oh, Harry couldn't wait to find out.

The footsteps resumed, creaking across the wooden floor of the sitting room, slowly growing louder and louder.

Harry closed his eyes and started praying that Snape would just go back to bed.

No such luck. Harry went absolutely rigid as Snape's figure loomed into sight, his wand before him casting a blue-white glow into the kitchen. The man walked forward at an even pace, scanning the room, even glancing under the table, before the wandlight moved far enough to the right to fall on Harry.

Surprisingly enough, Snape just stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck, one brow arched in confusion, as if he could not possibly comprehend the scene before him.

Self-consciously, Harry wrapped his arms over his torso. He wanted to say something, anything, to explain away the situation, but he knew that those words didn't exist. So he kept quiet and waited.

Finally, Snape spoke, his voice low and harsh—though, surprisingly, more bewildered than angry. "What the hell are you doing, Potter?"

Harry swallowed thickly and did his best to square his shoulders. "Washing up, sir."

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his wand still glowing and leveled at Harry's chest. "You are aware of the modern marvel the shower, yes?" he demanded at last, the words snide.

"Pipes are loud," Harry muttered, averting his gaze to the ground.

"So avail yourself of the facilities at a reasonable hour, not at two in the morning!" Snape raged, brandishing his wand a little to accentuate his words. "Or are you so stupid as to believe that I actually enjoy having a filthy teenager stinking up my home?"

Harry couldn't stop his skin from flushing at that. How was he to know that Snape wouldn't go ballistic if he'd tried to take a shower after being dismissed and told to keep out of sight?

"Or maybe," Snape continued, voice pitching toward something of a snarl, "you merely decided that you were hungry after all, and thought to fix yourself something in the middle of the night?"

Harry stared flatly at the man, willing his temper to abate. He really wanted to just shout at the man that he was a perfect idiot, that here Harry was, cold and wet and half-naked, and not a speck of food in sight. He was pretty certain Snape got off somehow on believing the worst of Harry at all times.

Polite. That would piss Snape off more than anything, he reminded himself. Harry Bloody Potter not acting like an entitled little bastard would be the surest way to dig at the Potions Master. "No, sir. I was sent to bed without supper."

Snape's mouth tightened, but not with fury, as Harry had expected. Rather, it was as though he knew that Harry hadn't helped himself to anything—ha, probably had alarm spells set up just for that purpose.

Before Harry could register the motion, Snape flicked his wand at Harry once, contemptuously. A gust of warm air seemed to engulf him, warming his skin and evaporating the last traces of water.

"Idiot," Snape growled. "It is a miracle you are capable of dressing yourself in the morning."

Harry knew better than to attempt to respond to that. Instead he waited as patiently as he could, eyes on the ground in front of him, as Snape continued to stare at him.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you are up because of a guilty conscience, and have decided to divulge where you have stashed your neighbor's property?"

Harry went stiff as a corpse. He was supposed to have until morning to work this all out, before Snape started making good on his threats. God, what if he started now? What if he pulled out the photo album and started pitching photos into the fire, one by one, in hopes of getting Harry to fess up?

No, the man didn't even have Harry's trunk here, did he? So maybe he had a little more time. Maybe Snape would try other tactics first and build up to destroying Harry's most prized possessions as a grand finale.

But hell, what could Harry possibly say? Denying his guilt would just whip Snape back into a froth, and that was the last thing he needed right now. It was probably best that he play meek and cowed right now, he decided. "No, sir," he mumbled.

Snape stared at him long and hard for a moment, as if he could get Harry to confess by force of his glare alone. Finally, Snape lowered his wand and stepped back, a growl of displeasure in his throat. "Get back to bed," he commanded coldly. "Clean up the mess you left in the sitting room as well. And Merlin help you if I catch you creeping about at this hour again." Snape whipped around and stalked off, his dressing gown flagging behind him.

Harry watched him go, waiting until the man had tromped back up the stairs before he allowed himself to sag back with relief. Whatever he'd been expecting, a glare and a few stern words—if you could even call them that—had not been it. Maybe Snape was just tired and wanted to go back to bed. Maybe he didn't care to deal with Harry just yet.

Whatever it was, Harry was certainly counting his blessings.

Harry gathered his drying clothes from in front of the hearth. Miraculously, they were dry. For a moment, Harry suspected that Snape had cast a Drying Charm on them as well, but immediately dismissed that idea as ridiculous. Because yes, Severus Snape would wander down in the middle of the night to find Harry's filthy, damp clothing everywhere, and his reaction to that would be to dry it. It was a miracle the man hadn't incinerated it on sight.

Well. Enough tempting fate for one night, Harry decided, and slipped up the stairs and back into the bedroom. He was struggling into the then-dry (and surprisingly clean) jeans when a loud pop emanated throughout the room, followed by a dull thud at the end of his bed.

Harry blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. It was—his trunk? He knelt down in front of it, ran his hand over the front. No padlock. He unlatched the lid and peered inside, and there, lo and behold, were all of his things—his Dursley clothing, his robes, a pile of last year's school books, a myriad of quills. He cast it all aside, one thing on his mind. He dug and dug until he hit the corner where he knew it should be, and when his fingers brushed the cover he sighed in deep relief.

Carefully, lovingly, he lifted the album out of the trunk and flipped it open. They were all there, every last photo of his mum and dad smiling at him. Every precious piece of them that he had left. Harry brushed a finger over one of his parents on their wedding day. His mother's eyes shone bright with happiness; his father's were crinkled around the edges, and he seemed unable to pry them away from his bride. Occasionally, his father would pull his mother into a quick kiss, as if he just couldn't help himself.

He had to hide this. Not tonight, but tomorrow sometime. He had to put it where Snape wouldn't think to find it, and where it couldn't be summoned—or, at least, not easily. Nowhere in this room, or even in the house. Maybe Snape didn't know it existed yet. Harry would have to hope that was the case for the next day. Probably Snape would start with his broomstick, thinking of Harry's love of Quidditch.

The shed. Snape wouldn't think to look there, would he? Harry could smuggle the album out, and find a way to bury it beneath a few heavy objects so that a Summoning Charm would be all but useless. And that would do until he could access Hedwig again—if he ever could. But if Hedwig found him somehow, then he could package the album up and send it to Ron or Hermione for safe-keeping, until he was no longer in Snape's care.

Harry closed the album and hugged it briefly to his chest. He didn't like having to wait, but it was just too risky to try to sneak the thing out tonight. He would do it the next day, as soon as he could. For the moment… he replaced the album in his trunk and buried it all the way at the bottom, where it would hopefully remain unnoticed.

Harry pulled out a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, grateful to have something a bit more comfortable to wear. He was too tired to even question why Snape had given him his trunk after that little scene downstairs. Maybe so that Harry couldn't complain about being deprived of clothing? Not that he had, after all….

Harry piled clothing onto the mattress and curled up, his eyes already slipping back shut. Yeah, definitely too tired to puzzle Snape out. He'd contemplate it all in the morning.

XXXXX

Morning came too quickly. The first crack of sunlight into the narrow bedroom pierced through Harry's eyelids like a volley of needles, and had him flopping over and groaning deeply into his makeshift pillow, one of his Weasley jumpers.

He wanted to just close his eyes and forget about everything—about Snape, about his upcoming hearing for a felony he hadn't committed, about the letters that were still strewn across the ground. But he knew that if he didn't manage to drag himself out of bed, and quickly, Snape would likely turn up and rouse him the most unpleasant way possible. Harry imagined an aguamenti would be the least of his worries.

So, with the same discipline Harry had used to survive summers and early life at the Dursleys, Harry forced himself to sit up and stretch his stiff, sore body. It wasn't going to be a good day. But he'd soldier through; at least he had experience with that.

Harry rubbed at his aching, sleep-crusted eyes, concentrating all his willpower on keeping himself conscious. Another monumental effort of will and he managed to drag himself to his feet, and then to pull on an oversized, fraying jumper from Dudley and a pair of hand-me-down, loose-fitting jeans. He would take a shower if he had time (he doubted he would). Likely Snape was already up and preparing to ream out the Boy Who Lived's sorry arse.

Harry padded down the stairs, a strange feeling surging up in him as he passed the now-banked fireplace. How had his clothes gotten dry last night? And why in the hell had Snape sent him his trunk after their row, not to mention him catching Harry creeping about like a thief in the night? If his aunt or uncle had ever caught him like that (and they had, Harry remembered vividly), they would have wasted no time at all teaching him not to be a sneaking bastard.

Harry shook his head to himself. It didn't matter. It changed nothing.

The kitchen was empty when Harry reached it. A quick glance down the stairs that led to the cellar proved that to be equally unoccupied. Curious, Harry headed back up the stairs, making certain to keep his footsteps light. The door at the end of the hall was shut firmly; Harry presumed it was Snape's bedroom, given the apparent lack of other rooms in the house.

A spike of adrenaline surged through Harry. Now—now might be his chance. If he was quick and stealthy…. He hurried back into the room he'd been given and retrieved the album from his trunk, tossing out every item burying it haphazardly and leaving them to lie on the ground. He wasted no time in tucking it beneath his jumper.

A furtive glance out into the hall found it empty, and thankfully devoid of any signs of Snape. Harry rushed straight down the stairs, through the sitting room and kitchen, and out the back door, praying fervently that his luck would hold.

Upon reaching the shed, he immediately set to clearing a place to stash the album. As he moved rusted-out paint cans and rusted tools with half-rotted handles, he made a mental note to ask for Hermione's help spelling his album with protections upon returning to school. Things to keep water and spills off of it, things to keep it from being burned by fire… Hermione would know. She was clever like that.

After a few minutes Harry had successfully ensconced the album beneath a prison of paint cans, rusted hunks of rusted, unidentifiable metal, and a ripped tarp for good measure. Now he would just have to hope that no pests got to it, and that the yard wouldn't flood or the shed leak too badly during a rainstorm.

Harry's stomach rumbled again, drawing his attention back to the dull, uncomfortable ache. Part of him wanted to just go in and sneak a bit of breakfast, just as he would at the Dursleys. But he knew that if he did that, Snape would find out, and that would make the man smug as hell. And Harry's pride, what little of it there was left, could not stand that thought.

So Harry decided on his alternate course of action. He would shower, dress, and then… then he would find something productive to distract him. Likely the yard, since that seemed to be his next "project".

The shower was, once again, lukewarm at best. But at least there was soap, enough that Harry felt cleaner once he stepped out to dry off. And changing into fresh clothes after that was practically heaven.

He still felt the dull ache of a sleepless night behind his eyes, but that was something that he'd certainly managed to fight off before. Especially when his aunt seemed to be in a particularly sadistic mood and had a long list of chores for him to complete, with most tasks needing to be redone two or three times until the woman was satisfied with his work. Eventually he would catch up and everything would even out, Harry knew. He just had to stick it out until then.

So he trudged down the stairs and out in to the damp, chilly morning air of the yard, where he started dragging plants out of the ground one by one, alternating pulling weeds with collecting stray bits of rubbish. After a while he managed to settle into the comfortable monotony of the task.

It was some time after that that Harry heard the back door creak open behind him. He pretended that he hadn't. Maybe, he thought, Snape would allow him a few more precious moments before tearing into him. Before…. Harry had to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. It was just a broom, he told himself. And the cloak… the cloak meant a lot to him, yeah, but he'd hidden his album. His only memories of his parents were safe, and that was what counted.

"Potter."

Harry flinched a little at the sharp address. So much for a little more time. He turned, being certain to keep his posture as respectful as possible. "Sir?" he inquired neutrally, which came out dull and monotone.

Snape was dressed in his usual teaching robes, his arms folded tightly over his chest. "What are you doing?"

Harry fought the urge to close his eyes and block the man out. "Yardwork, sir."

"I take it you helped yourself to breakfast?"

Harry almost smirked. So Snape wanted to know if he'd caved, did he? "No, sir."

"I sincerely hope that you are not waiting for me to fix you something," Snape snarled.

Harry once again reached for that dull monotone. "No, sir."

Snape's mouth opened briefly, then snapped shut, as though he'd been about to say something but had thought better of it. "Have you decided to stop acting like a spoilt, petulant child and return that woman's possessions?"

Here it came. Harry averted his gaze to the ground and murmured a far more deferential, "No, sir." Not that he thought his tone would make one lick of difference in what was to follow.

"Something you wish to tell me, Potter?"

Yes, but your head's stuck to far up your arse for me to hope you'd listen. Harry shook his head instead.

Snape sighed heavily. "I suppose maturity and a sense of responsibility are a bit much to ask of you. Very well."

Harry tried to brace himself. He would buy a new broomstick, he told himself. He had enough money, probably. Not for a Firebolt, but he could still get a decent model. And he still had his pictures. They were hidden and safe, and there was no guarantee that Snape even knew about that album. And if he burned the Map… well, it had never been his to begin with. And Snape would be far more likely to keep that for himself, anyway. Right? Though it was debatable whether forfeiting it to Snape would be any better than seeing it burned.

"Until you can have the decency to fess up, you will be working on the most arduous, unpleasant tasks I can possibly dream up. You will have a list each day, displayed on the fridge, of chores to complete. If you fail to get through them, or you fail to do them properly, the consequences will be dire. I will allow you a more reasonable schedule as soon as you've had a change of heart. Clear, boy?"

Harry bit back a relieved laugh. More chores? He could handle that. Hell, he'd expected that. "Yes, sir," he agreed, hoping that he did not sound too eager.

Snape's lip curled into a snarl, which likely meant that Harry had sounded just a little too pleased. "You can start with the gutters. There should be a ladder in the shed. And once you have finished that, you can start on the project of redoing the roof. And don't worry, Potter, I will be certain to provide adequate instruction, though I doubt you will be able to follow—"

"I've done a roof before, sir," Harry couldn't help but snap, anger washing through him before he could get ahold of himself. He thought of all the time he'd spent sweating up on the Dursley's roof, of how many times he'd managed to slam his own fingers in the sweltering sun. Of his dear family telling all the neighbors that he was learning the trade, that it was perfectly all right for such a young boy to be undertaking such a thing, that he really needed the experience because even hoping that he might acquire some kind of trade skill was almost laughable, because their poor nephew was so very inept.

So inept that he'd been loaned out to the neighbor to help the professional roofers with the job, so that the neighbors could pay the Dursleys a tidy sum for Harry's help. And the stupid neighbor woman had patted Harry on the head when the job was finished and instructed him not to spend his earnings "all in one place".

Snape merely rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt it. The ladder is in the shed. Hop to it." And with that the man disappeared with a swirl of his robes.

Harry sighed. It could have been worse, he reminded himself. Much, much worse. Still, he was not looking forward to the gutters or the roof or whatever other horrendous tasks Snape could dream up for him. As it was, this… this was nothing out of the ordinary.