By midday Harry had finished with the gutters and started to tear the shingles off the roof. He'd found a suitable implement in the shed, some kind of metal bar that also functioned to pry up the old nails. He had no idea where he would get the rest of the materials required for the job, nor did he care. Snape could figure that out. He would just keep his mind busy with his task, and focus on not slipping down the slant of the roof to the ground below.

It was hard labor, just as hard as Harry had remembered. At least this time there was no Uncle Vernon looming below, shouting instructions and criticisms every few minutes. Snape, he knew, would have been much worse than Vernon. The man could strip hide with his verbal barbs.

By midday he was hot and aching, drenched in sweat and dirtied from the tar shingles. His head throbbed from a lack of water and sleep both, and his stomach positively throbbed from the conspicuous absence of food. He had just eased himself into a position where he could rest his head slightly against his arms, a small but blessed reprieve, when he heard Snape's harsh voice.

"Potter!"

He stiffened, feeling the price of that reaction in his already-sore muscles. Slowly, carefully, he turned around to face the man, who was standing at the base of the house, arms folded over his chest.

"Sir?" he called down as politely as he could through his gritted teeth.

"I believe I ordered you to do the gutters first—"

"I did do the gutters, sir," Harry hissed, fighting once again to maintain control over his sheer rage. "You're welcome to inspect them. Thought I might as well get started up here, before you decide I'm moving too slowly—"

"Watch your tone, boy!" the man spat. "It's time for lunch. Get down here, and do try not to break your neck while climbing down from there."

And with that he disappeared into the house once more.

Harry sighed in genuine relief. He would need some water if he were to continue with his work into the afternoon. At least it would be a touch cooler in the house, and out of the glaring sun, and off of the heat-absorbing black tar tiles.

The kitchen was empty when Harry reached it. Once again, he briefly contemplated ending his self-imposed fast and sneaking a bit of food. But the thought of Snape winning—of him gloating, in fact, about Prince Potter's weakness—had him once steeling his resolve. He settled for a few glasses of the murky tap water, sipped slowly as to not upset his empty stomach. He sat quietly at the table, judging the time as he always had at the Dursleys, using his own gut instincts to measure how long he could possibly skive before Snape swept back in and started barking insults and threats at him.

Thirty minutes later and he was climbing back up onto the roof, his thoughts forcibly focused on the vast majority of de-shingling that he had yet to do. Idly, he wondered how long Snape would give him to complete this task. The man had seemed genuinely surprised that Harry had already managed the filthy gutters. He'd found an old, blunted spade in the shed, half rusted but suitable for scooping out the detritus. There had even been a sorry-looking garden hose attached to the back of the house, and after some finagling had managed to flush the gutters out. He doubted Snape could find a real complaint with the job he'd done (though he was certain the man would invent half a dozen).

But Snape hadn't even checked his work. Harry shrugged internally. That was fine by him.

XXXXX

Snape called Harry down again in the later half of the afternoon. Harry was certain it was for the man to yell about the mess Harry had left on his lawn. Not that he didn't fully intend to gather up all of the discarded shingles and dispose of them. Besides, it wasn't like there was anywhere else to throw them. But Harry still remembered vividly how much Vernon had hated that part of the job, how he'd hounded Harry to keep picked up after himself so that the yard wouldn't be seen in such a disarray. That had translated into frequent trips up and down from the roof in order to continually clear away the accumulation of debris.

Well. Harry was sore and exhausted enough that he could simply retreat into himself and weather out whatever lecture or screaming Snape had prepared.

Snape, however, did not look to be preparing to deliver a lecture. His face was strangely blank as he stared Harry down, arms folded over his chest once more. "Well?" he demanded tiredly, the single syllable declaring how very tedious he found Harry.

Harry swallowed thickly, willing what little was left of his congealed saliva to grant him the power of speech. Even so, his voice came out hoarse and scratchy. "I planned on tidying up after I've taken everything off, sir—"

"No, you stupid boy—I mean, have you decided to come clean?"

Harry averted his eyes to the ground. "No, sir."

Snape did not even deign to make a scathing comment. "Perhaps you would care to explain to me why you are refusing?"

Harry's head snapped up at the level inquiry. There was no accusation there, no hidden insult, just genuine curiosity. He opened his mouth to say that he didn't know, because he hadn't actually committed the crime, but closed it again right quick. His brain was sun-baked, he decided, if he believed on any level that Severus Snape would consider him genuine for even a moment. So instead he muttered sullenly, "No, sir."

Snape made a growling sound, one of irritation, one that had Harry instinctively bracing himself for some kind of punishment. But once again the man surprised him. He did not accuse Harry of putting on some act, or of being selfish or deluded or imbecilic. Instead, he merely announced tightly, "Dinner is on the stove."

"Yes, sir." Harry waited for Snape to retreat once more, but the Potions Master merely gestured for Harry to precede him into the house.

Harry retrieved another glass of water from the sink. He plonked himself down in one of the hard kitchen chairs and went back to nursing the water as he had before, allowing himself little sips only, in spite of his burning thirst. He tried to ignore the scent of stew that permeated the whole kitchen, as well as the pot and ladle and loaf of bread sat out on the counter.

Instead, he focused on tracing the pattern of the wood grain on the table before him.

He flinched at the sound of chair legs scraping against the wooden floor, and then at the hard clunk of dinnerware settling onto the table. Why in the hell was Snape joining him? Didn't the man have better things to do?

"Is my cooking not good enough for you, Potter?" the man sneered.

Harry forced himself to draw a calming breath. Polite, he reminded himself. Even if holding back all the screaming and insults seemed to require a herculean effort. "I'm certain it's fine, sir." And he took a small sip of water just after that for good measure.

"And yet you are not eating, though you've received the invitation you've insisted upon."

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus on the sense of your lungs expanding and collapsing, your shoulders rising and falling…. Remarkable, how much that snippet of some yoga program had gotten Harry through over the years. Something that had been on the telly in the early hours of the morning once. He'd managed to watch about ten minutes or so before Aunt Petunia had caught wind of "that foreign nonsense" and switched programs. And then rounded on Harry to berate him for his laziness.

Another deep breath and Harry felt composed once more. "I thought, sir, that you couldn't care less whether I ate or not."

Ha. That certainly provoked the Potions Master. Harry swore a vein popped in the man's neck even as he noted a jaw muscle ticking. "I don't know what you hope to gain by this pathetic little show of yours, Potter, but believe me when I say I've no tolerance for this childishness. If you wish to starve yourself, fine—"

"I would hardly call a missed meal 'starvation', sir," Harry interjected softly, a deep sense of satisfaction blossoming in the pit of his stomach. It was almost enough to dissipate the very real hunger. Almost.

"A missed meal? Oh, no, this is going on four—"

"I didn't think that you would notice, Professor," Harry interrupted again, managing to keep his voice level and reasonable. "Or care, for that matter."

"What do you hope to gain, hm? Do you think that the headmaster will blame me for your foolish stunt?"

Mention of Dumbledore had Harry's hackles up immediately. He raised his eyes to meet Snape's gaze squarely, his hand tightening around his glass. His voice went cold and dead. "The headmaster isn't going to trouble himself over my health, sir. As long as I'm alive at the end of the summer I'm certain he'll be satisfied. Now, may I be excused? I've work to do."

Harry swore he saw something other than contempt in Snape's black eyes—but it was just a flash, there and gone in an instant. Likely imagined.

"Oh, you're excused, but you will go to your room to consider this attitude. You may come out as soon as you've decided to stop behaving like a sulking toddler and eat your dinner."

Harry needed no further invitation. In fact, he barely managed to repress an amused snort. Last night he'd been sent to bed without dinner as punishment. Now he was being sent to bed until he ate dinner. Well, he wouldn't let it concern him. He would be all too happy to turn in early for the night.

Though with his luck Snape would change his mind after a few hours and haul him back downstairs to continue work on the roof. Though at least working in the evening would be far more pleasant. Less hot, for one, and the stars would be out. That would be almost peaceful, Harry decided.

Deciding to rub just a bit more salt in the wound, Harry summoned up the most subdued tone he could muster to reply, "Yes, sir." He rose, intending to hurry up the stairs as fast as he could while maintaining his dignity, but Snape's cold, scathing voice cut him off.

"Shower before you go anywhere near my bed linens."

Harry stumbled. That sounded—was Snape purposely informing him that he had permission to shower, despite being confined to his room? But… no, that was ludicrous. The remark could likely be taken at face value, especially given the man's earlier comments about Harry's stench.

Though really, Snape could have just told him to stay on the floor. Aunt Petunia would have done just that.

Well, perhaps Snape was just a touch more decent than Harry's aunt. Not that Petunia set the bar very high.

One quick shower later, Harry was lying on top of the bare mattress, chortling to himself bitterly. He'd spread out one of his school robes to use as a blanket, and his old Weasley jumper was still wadded behind his head. He should have asked Snape what bed linens he was referring to, since he hadn't been allowed so much as a blanket.

Well, it didn't matter. He was comfortable enough, and Snape hadn't taken his trunk away yet, and even better, the Potions Master had not even hinted at burning his broom as punishment for his defiance. And even bare, the mattress beneath him was comfortable, a blessed relief for his aching body.

It was not long before Harry sank into the welcoming embrace of sleep.

XXXXX

Harry was up long before dawn. After sitting quietly on his bed for some time, debating the state of Snape's temper in his mind, he decided that he'd do better to risk it by going out and continuing his list of tasks than by lazing around any longer. So after dressing in fresh clothes (such a luxury after that first miserable night) he crept down the stairs and into the kitchen.

No sign of Snape. No lingering scent of breakfast or coffee or tea, no sign that anyone had disturbed the room in the last twelve hours. So Harry dared to hope that Snape was still sleeping. The sun wouldn't rise for another hour or so, he judged.

He fetched himself a glass of water, once again ignoring the dull ache of his stomach. He would hold out as long as he possibly could, he decided, and show Snape just how delicate and pampered he was. At least it seemed to be irking the man. It would have been so much harder to keep himself from caving if the Potions Master hadn't been bothered in the least. And really, there were so few ways that he was willing to nettle Snape. He had to make the most of this.

Because really, what was the man going to do to punish him for not eating? Threaten more chores? It wasn't as if Snape was going to lay a hand on him, not if he was concerned that Dumbledore would take issue with Harry merely being a little underfed.

Well, Harry amended, the man wouldn't lay hands on him for that because it would come off as unjustifiable. Other offenses might easily be excused if Harry genuinely provoked the man, which he had sworn to himself he would not do.

Harry fetched himself a glass of water and once again forced himself to sip it slowly. He could tell that he was more than a little dehydrated from the lingering throbbing headache that was just shy of skull-splitting. The water would help. He would take an hour to rehydrate, and then he would see about starting on his assigned chores. The list was likely still up from the previous day.

After all, it wouldn't do to give Snape a ready-made excuse to mete out further punishment.

As he sipped his second glass of water, Harry scanned down the parchment he'd found affixed to the refrigerator. He very nearly snorted to himself as he scanned over Snape's cramped scrawl. Gutters, redo roof, plant and fertilize garden beds, sort flobberworms…. No cruel and unusual punishment, just his typical summer, though this time contending with Snape's ire rather than his aunt and uncle's loathing and his cousin's bullying. Hell, this was nearly an improvement, since there was no chance of Dudley and friends interrupting him or injuring him or purposely sabotaging his work.

And here he'd thought that Snape would somehow dredge up some truly awful tasks. Apparently the man was all bark and no bite.

Harry replaced the list on the fridge and headed out to the roof, deciding that it would be best if he could pry up as much as possible before the hottest hours of the day. If he could push himself in the mornings, then he could take things at a slower pace during the hours that the sun was at its peak. He wished he knew how long Snape was giving him before instating the afore-mentioned "dire consequences".

But Harry knew from years of experience that having a deadline would do him no good. He would just push himself as much as he could stand and pray that it was, by some miracle, fast enough for the powers that be.

He'd managed two more rows of shingles by the time he heard the door to the back open.

"Potter!"

Harry sighed to himself. "Yes, sir?" he inquired evenly. Here it came. Snape had decided that Harry was not allowed out of his room without permission, and now he was about to lay into the Boy Who Lived's sorry hide.

There was a pause, then Snape's cold, even voice demanding, "Have you had breakfast?"

Harry smiled grimly to himself, only because Snape could not possibly see him. "Of course, sir." He hoped that Snape could hear the blatant lie in those words.

"No, you have not," the man retorted sharply. "Get down here at once and stop playing this foolish game. You'll get no sympathy from me, and I will not have you fainting because you are too stupid to feed yourself—"

"Oh, I won't faint, sir," Harry replied, forcing as much false cheer into his voice that he could. "Not as long as I drink enough water, and I have been, don't worry."

"Potter! That was not a request, it was an order! Get down here now, before I levitate you!"

God, why was it so much fun goading Snape? More importantly, why was the man so hung up on this issue? Harry had honestly expected him to grudgingly see that Harry was no stranger to lean times, but never actually… well, nearly panic about things.

"Yes, sir." Harry complied, carefully making his way down the ladder and turning to face a livid Snape.

The man's visage was nearly taut and blanched with rage. "I have had it with your insolence," he hissed. "You will go and eat a reasonable meal this instant—"

"Or?" Harry couldn't help but inquire. Stupid, he chided himself, but it was still too much fun, seeing Snape this out-of-sorts. But really, what could the man do? Harry was guilty and unrepentant in his eyes, and nothing that Harry did could possibly change that. And Harry was still banking that Snape would not want to explain to Dumbledore that he'd beaten Harry for not eating.

"Or you will suffer the consequences—"

"More chores?" Harry scoffed. "Or—hm, bed without a meal? Though I suppose that would defeat the purpose. Maybe you'll just send me to my room again, though I wouldn't think that rewarding me by letting me get out of work would be the way to go either."

"Potter, you are treading on thin ice—"

"No," Harry interrupted, "I'm not. I've already fallen through. You hate me, you're disgusted by me, and you're going to punish me as thoroughly as you possibly can regardless of what I do or don't do. So just let me get back to it, will you? Unless you think you've found something worse than baking in the sun up there all day—"

"You do your tasks without complaint," Snape began suddenly, his voice losing its edge. Now he sounded more like a detective listing off puzzling evidence. "And you do them well, I admit. You do not slack, you do not whine, you do not complain. You write a letter expressing genuine remorse. Yet you refuse, outright, to surrender that woman's possessions. Yet you are deliberately starving yourself, an action that hurts no one but you. So tell me, Potter, what am I missing? What is the purpose behind this all? Why behave at all if you are going to defy me in this?"

Harry opened his mouth to launch into a scathing retort, one about being guilty until proven innocent amongst other things. But he snapped it shut again. He wasn't going to bother. Snape wouldn't believe him, and had already declared as much, so it would be a waste of breath and energy, energy he desperately needed for later. Instead, he replied bitingly, "I don't know, sir. This is the first time in my life I've missed a meal, after all. Maybe it's scrambled my brain."

Harry watched as Snape's face tightened further. But he didn't think it was with rage. It was—strange. Almost… almost fear? Or something like fear. Harry couldn't quite place it.

And then Snape spoke quietly. "Go eat breakfast, Potter."

Harry matched the man's tone and volume. "No thank you, sir. May I continue with my work?"

Snape stared at him for a long moment after that. His gaze flickered, briefly, up to the roof. "No. If you will not eat and will not explain yourself to me, you can return to your room until you've decided to be sensible."

Harry snorted. "So as long as I disobey you, I don't have to do any work?"

"Fine," the Potions Master snapped, his dark eyes flashing. "Go on, go punish yourself further. Starve—"

"Muggles can go for three weeks without food, sir," Harry offered calmly. "I'm a wizard, and it hasn't even been two days. Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Very well, continue with this self-imposed misery. Continue to deprive yourself for no other reason than to bolster your own sense of moral superiority. You are proving nothing, Potter, but by all means, do continue to play the suffering martyr."

Harry nearly laughed. Clearly he was proving something, if Snape felt the need to go off on him like this. The man was positively flustered. "Thank you, sir." And without another word Harry climbed back up onto the roof.

Yes, he was definitely suffering, but it all seemed worthwhile to have discomfited the complete arse of a Potions Master.