Snape returned to the yard several times over the course of the morning. Harry knew because he always heard the door open and shut, and then he would turn to find the man standing, arms crossed over his chest, in the middle of the yard, his frown as dour as ever. He never said anything, though, just watched in silence as Harry stripped shingle after shingle off of the roof.

Each time Harry would shrug to himself and return to his work, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious as he did so. He kept expecting to hear criticisms from below, but Snape never said anything, not even when Harry had to stop a few times to catch his breath and wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow.

Finally, near midday, Snape called to him again. "Potter, come down here."

Harry sighed to himself. He was grateful for the chance at a break, but he doubted this was going to be pleasant. For all he knew, Snape had spent the morning in contemplation and had finally dreamt up a suitable punishment for Harry's cheekiness and defiance earlier. Still, he saw no choice but to climb down the ladder and face Snape's wrath, such as it was.

"I have a proposal for you."

Harry just blinked at the man, trying to take in those strange words, along with Snape's perfectly neutral expression. A proposal? What in the bloody hell was this? Had Harry actually passed out from heatstroke and begun hallucinating?

"You will come in and have lunch, and then you will give me a full accounting of what occurred at Privet Drive prior to your arrest. In exchange, you will be allowed to spend the afternoon replying to your mail. Is that agreeable?"

It was more than agreeable, Harry thought. Or, it sounded that way, on its face. But he knew better. Far too good to be true, especially coming from Snape.

In actuality, he knew better than to agree to such a "deal". He would eat, and then Snape would claim a victory there, and mock poor Prince Potter for his weak resolve and need to be coddled. And then Harry would try to explain his side of the story, only to be shot down and berated by Snape for being an incorrigible liar. And his reward for subjecting himself to that ordeal would be, what, answering the deluge of letters from people he'd thought of as family, trying to explain that he wasn't actually a nasty little criminal who thought nothing of stealing from the elderly? Or better yet, simply accepting their recriminations and writing letters of apology and self-flagellation in hopes of earning back some of their esteem? How stupid did Snape believe him to be?

"No thank you, sir. May I return to my work now?" In truth, Harry desperately wanted to sit in the kitchen for just a little while with some water, but that did not seem like it would be a possibility. So he would just have to grit his teeth and bear it. The sun would be growing less hot from here on out, anyway, as the day dragged on and it continued steadily toward the horizon.

"Potter," Snape hissed, "do not be an idiot—"

"Oh, I'm not, sir," Harry interjected. "If you want to call me a liar, you don't have to wait for me to try to explain things. And besides, if you're trying to bribe me, you should choose a reward that I actually might want."

"Do not try to tell me that you have no desire to answer any of your letters—"

"I don't," Harry bit out. "But go ahead, tell me that of course I do. It's not going to change my answer. Now, can I just get on with the roof? Because I remember you had a whole damned list of things for me to do, and I don't want you to think I'm trying to get out of it."

"Go up to your room," Snape commanded, "now! And you can stay there until you have decided to cooperate!"

Harry knew he should just agree and get out of work for the afternoon, but there seemed to be a little imp whispering in his ear, telling him to push things just a bit further, just to see Snape react. "See, now you're rewarding me but calling it a punishment. Really, Professor, maybe I'd be more inclined to do as you asked if you could get this whole system straightened out—"

"Your room now!" Snape thundered, this time with enough force to cause Harry to cower back.

Harry wasted no more time goading Snape. He hurried in through the kitchen and up the stairs, heart hammering, vision swimming, as his panicked thoughts flashed to all the possible consequences of his recklessness just then. Too far, his brain screamed. You pushed him too far and now something terrible will happen. He'll come up here and really punish you, just like Vernon threatened all those times. And he's a wizard, so don't think your pathetic accidental magic is going to protect you all that much. He can probably counterspell it or something. You are screwed, screwed, screwed….

But Snape never came. There was no stomping up the steps, no cursing, no being beaten within an inch of his life. Just the silence of the house, broken only occasionally by the creak of floorboards and the clack of doors from the floor below.

Still, to be safe, Harry huddled in the far corner behind the bed, close enough to the window that he might even be able to slip out it in a pinch. He'd already pried it open a bit.

His heart thudded loudly in his ears as he sat the, legs drawn tight to his chest, head resting against his knees. He'd done this a few times at the Dursleys too, let his mouth run ahead of his brain. Stupid. It never ended well for him. But did he learn? Oh, no, of course not. He had to keep pushing things, just to see how far he could go, just to soothe his stupid, useless pride.

And he was starving too. At the Dursleys it was one thing to go without food when he was being denied. He knew then that trying to sneak something was risky, and that being caught came with a high price. Vernon's shaking him around, or being locked in his room so that he was really and truly at their mercy. But here? Snape was practically threatening him to get him to eat.

And so what if the Potions Master mocked Harry when he caved? Since when had the man's sharp tongue bothered him so much? It meant nothing. Snape knew nothing, anyway, so why should Harry even care what he thought? Yes, he'd skipped meals for nothing.

He knew he should just slink downstairs, tail tucked between his legs, and admit as much in order to end this standoff. Even if Snape was still furious and decided to teach Harry a lesson by denying him dinner, just to remind Harry who was in charge, he'd likely be past it by the next day. And then things could go back to—well, not normal, but as normal as they could be.

Until Snape finally truly exploded at Harry for keeping Mrs. Applewhite's possessions stashed away somewhere. And then things would get ugly again.

But Harry couldn't bring himself to do that much. To him it felt that he'd already come this far, and already sacrificed this much. He'd might as well see it through, for better or worse, and at least cherish the knowledge that, for a short time and in verbal sparring only, he'd had the upper hand on Snape.

The minutes stretched, and Harry's abused muscles began to cramp and ache. He shifted positions a few times but eventually gave up and lifted himself onto the bed, where he stretched out and let his eyes drift shut.

Some immeasurable time later he was roused violently from his dozing by a loud, impatient pounding on his door. Groggily, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position just in time to see Snape flinging the bedroom door open, his face set into grim lines.

His expression tightened further when his gaze fell on Harry, his lip lifting in the slightest of contemptuous curls. "Up," he commanded coolly, his stare pinning Harry. "Go sit at the table and wait for me."

Harry swiped his finger and thumb over his lids, trying to clear the last crusty bits of sleep away. As it was, he was still too out of it to feel snarky or belligerent. Mostly, he just felt utterly exhausted, as though he could sleep for years and years. "Yessir," he mumbled indistinctly.

Snape nodded curtly and swept out of the room.

Minutes later Harry was seated at the dining table, his hands laced tightly on his lap so they wouldn't fidget. He was feeling considerably more awake then, and was terrified that he was about to pay dearly for his earlier insolence.

Snape was looming in the doorway, arms once again over his chest and nearly concealed by the voluminous robes he wore. Harry could feel the Potions Master's eyes on him, tracking his every movement and likely missing nothing.

At last Snape spoke. "It seems to me that we are at an impasse, Potter. I have a hard time believing a word out of your mouth, and you seem to be equally mistrustful of my ability to recognize the truth. And as I refuse to waste another day waiting for you to offer some kind of explanation for your utterly idiotic behavior, I have a solution to propose."

Slowly, Snape strode into the room, his pace unhurried and utterly confident. He did not stop until he was standing before Harry, robes drawn over his chest, one hand reaching into a pocket. It reemerged with a tiny crystalline vial that Harry recognized even before Snape named it.

"Veritaserum." Snape set it down on the table, just feet from Harry. "I believe I have already educated you on the properties of this lovely little concoction."

It felt as though Harry's blood had run cold. Snape was going to force him to drink this? God, the man could ask him anything, and Harry had no doubt that the serum would be utterly effective. Whatever his other faults, Snape was flawless when it came to brewing.

"I want answers," Snape continued quietly, "and I suspect you've some to give me that will be… surprising. And since I likely will not take any of your words at face value unless I have some reassurance that they are true, it seems that this is one of our few options."

Harry forced himself to start breathing again. "You can't make me—"

"No," Snape agreed swiftly, his tone still level, "I cannot. And I will not. The choice is yours. And I will offer this in exchange: regardless of what you tell me under the influence of this potion, I will leave you undisturbed for the remainder of the night. Additionally, I will revisit your assigned chores and endeavor to make them more… bearable. Do we have an accord?"

Harry stared fixedly at the bottle, his breathing notching toward shallow again. An accord… God, was he really going to give Snape full reign to question him under the effects of a powerful truth serum? Snape, who'd had it in for Harry since laying eyes on him?

But he wanted so desperately to be believed. Even Snape couldn't doubt him if he was under the influence of such a potent potion. He could tell the man that he hadn't done a damned thing, that he'd been framed, and that would be the end of it. Snape would likely wash his hands of Harry and see to it that Dumbledore smoothed things over, and then it would be back to Privet Drive. Back to the misery and hiding and utter boredom, back to pretending that magic—hell, that Harry himself—didn't exist.

But it was a known evil, he reminded himself. Snape was still an unknown quantity, and seemed to loathe him a lot more actively than the Dursleys. Even if he hadn't been utterly unbearable in the past few days, there was no telling how he would start to act once he tired of having Harry underfoot all the time. He might become much, much worse than the Dursleys ever had been.

The surest way to get out, and to save his yet unburnt possessions, was to subject himself to the Veritaserum and let Snape question him.

"You—you'll just ask about the robbery, nothing else?" Harry stole a glance at Snape to judge his reaction.

The man's nose wrinkled in disdain. "I will ask only relevant questions. Rest assured, your precious dark secrets hold no interest for me."

Harry swallowed thickly. He sure as hell didn't trust Snape, but he wanted to prove his own innocence too badly. He wanted Snape speechless, unable to fling a single baseless accusation at him. "Okay," he agreed quietly, and reached for the bottle, which Snape promptly snatched back from his hand.

"You cannot take this on an empty stomach. It is highly toxic, and all you will end up doing his spewing bile all over the floor, wasting an expensive dosage and inducing dry heaving in the process."

A surge of anger washed through Harry. What was it with the man and his obsession with Harry's eating habits? "Fine," Harry snapped. "I'll make myself a sandwich—"

"You will eat dinner," Snape corrected him in a hard tone. "There is leftover stew on the stove. You will eat an acceptable portion, and finish two glasses of water, and then we will proceed. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered, pushing himself up. He was hungry. And this wasn't exactly caving, was it? It was more like acquiescing to a negotiation. Agreeing to Snape's terms. And no that he was going to count on it or anything, but he had been promised the rest of the evening off, which was certainly something. And a reduction in chores, though he certainly wasn't going to hold his breath on that particular promise amounting to anything.

There was already a bowl set out beside the stove, along with the same loaf of bread from the previous night. Harry grabbed a few slices of it, already determining that the bread would be the bulk of his meal, since his stomach likely wouldn't tolerate the rich stew all that well. Though he knew that Snape would see it as more defiance if he begged off of the stew completely, so he fished out a few chunks of potato and carrot from the dark brown substance before returning to the table.

Snape still watched him from his place looming over the table. After a moment he moved to the sink, then returned, surprisingly, with a glass of water, which he all but slammed onto the table before Harry.

Harry ignored him, choosing instead to continue his meal in silence.

Food was good. Harry had practically forgotten how good in the past few days. He relished every bite, though he tried not to be too obvious about it. Too, he made certain to take small, measured bites, even though he longed to shovel every last scrap into his face and lick the bowl afterwards. That would end badly, and Snape was likely already in a foul enough temper. Harry imagined that spewing all over the table because he'd eaten too quickly would only worsen things past the point of tolerability.

When he'd cleaned the bowl and finished his second glass of water, which Snape had fetched for him only a touch more graciously than the first, he sat back and dared to lift his eyes to meet the Potions Master's. And then he just glared, willing the man to get on with it.

Snape's face was blank as stone. He withdrew the vial once more, along with his wand, and refilled Harry's glass a quarter of the way before carefully unscrewing the crystalline vial. Harry watched as the man's steady hand tipped precisely three colorless drops into the water before recorking the vial and stashing it in a pocket. Then Snape very deliberately slid the glass toward Harry.

"The serum will prime you to answer questions," Snape warned quietly, his tone almost lecturing. "Do not fight it. Initially, you will feel disoriented, but you will regain clarity as your system acclimates to it."

Harry wanted to remark snidely that he appreciated the warning, but in reality, he was glad that Snape had offered him minimal information rather than letting him learn by experience alone. That, he surmised, would have been an entirely new level of unpleasant.

Harry steeled his courage and downed the concoction in one go, shuddering as it hit his tongue. Tasteless was right, but that just made it all the more sinister. At first he felt nothing—a vague haze, perhaps, but little more than that. But then the world seemed to grow distant; it was as if he'd retreated deep into himself and was watching his own consciousness from that deep, hidden place.

"What is your full name?"

"Harry James Potter." The words flowed effortlessly past his lips, the syllables barely meaning anything to Harry. All he knew was that they were precise, right, true.

"Do you truly have no desire to reply to your letters?" the deep voice asked him.

Again the words formed seamlessly, drawn together by a magnetic force, like a law of physics. They streamed out as if following a tug as strong and natural as gravity. "Yes."

"Why not?"

"Because I have nothing to say. Because they don't know me after all and won't listen to me. Because I'm sick of defending myself to people who should already have faith in me. Because they hurt me and answering will only open me to more hurt. Because they don't deserve to have my response. Because I probably don't deserve their support or love anyway."

This time the words came out in a confused jumble. There was no neat, singular answer to be given, just a tangle of things that he spewed out. He needed to say it all, to purge himself of all those thoughts.

"I suppose it is working properly, then."

Harry tried to make sense of that statement, but it seemed to him that it was senseless, just a string of sounds, because there was no asking in there. And it seemed to him that only the balance of asking and answering could possibly be meaningful.

"Did you conspire to rob Mathilda Applewhite?"

"No." Precise, definite again. That was a relief.

"Did you at any time impulsively decide to break into her home and steal her possessions?"

"No."

"Were you compelled or coerced into burgling her?"

"No."

There was a harsh noise, of air whistling somehow. But that sound was not an asking either, and so Harry ignored it.

"Did you participate in that robbery in any way, shape, or form?"

"No."

A low, angry string of words then. Harry caught a few of them, and something stirred in his mind, something beyond the asking and the answering. Snape. The potion. Snape was… was angry?

Harry blinked slowly, and then the meaning of those curses came to him, like light through tendrils of a heavy fog. Yes, Snape was angry because Harry Potter was not a felon, and here was the incontrovertible proof. Snape was angry because he could no longer punish Harry for that sin, and because his peaceful summer had been interrupted due to a misunderstanding only, not a dire need to reform the criminal Boy Who Lived.

"Who robbed her, then, and how in Merlin's name did you come to be so thoroughly implicated?"

The sound of the question snared Harry again, pulling him away from conscious thought and back into the flow of answering. "I don't know who robbed her. I was at the park when my cousin Dudley Dursley and his friend Piers Polkin and two other teenaged boys whom I do not know pointed me out to an officer as the burglar." Harry felt his own memories being aligned, like interlocking puzzle pieces, details snapping into place so that he could put them into words. So that he could make things clear and complete the balance. "I was not questioned or allowed to plead my own innocence. The word of my cousin and his friends was proof enough. Once at the detention center I believe they skipped proper protocol—"

"That is enough, Potter."

The curt words jarred Harry a bit, but they did relieve him of the need to keep speaking and explaining.

"Why did you not explain this to me when I first came to get you?"

"Because you'd already made up your mind about me and wouldn't have listened anyway. Because you told me not to tell you that I was innocent. Because you would send me back to the Dursleys if you found out that I was innocent. Because I was ashamed that I'd gotten myself into the situation by spending time at the park. Because I res—I—because—"

The next explanation that wanted to force its way out jarred Harry enough that he seemed to come to consciousness again within the haze. His vision focused slightly even as he realized the self-recriminating nonsense he'd been about to spew. And he fought with all his might to keep it contained.

But the potion was stronger. "Because I resurrected Vol—Volde—because—"

"Stop fighting the serum, you little idiot," Snape hissed, his hand clamping onto Harry's shoulder to shake him hard.

Harry jerked back, trying to escape the touch, even as he tried to bite down on his lip to muffle the words that seemed to pour out inexorably from his subconscious. "I resurrected Voldemort and—and k-killed Cedric, so I should be punished."

Bloody hell, he did not really think that. Did he? Maybe the Veritaserum was broken. Maybe it was making him shout out every stupid, irrational thought that had ever crossed his mind.

Snape was silent for a moment after that. Harry refused to meet his eyes, and instead channeled all his energy inward to get ahold of his wayward tongue. If not for the stranglehold of the potion, he would have immediately launched into an explanation of how utterly absurd that last answer had been.

As it was, the Veritaserum did not seem to allow for volunteered information, only information extracted by the inquiry of another.

"What kind of relationship do you have with your relatives?" Snape asked at last, his voice pitched low.

Once again, Harry tried to bite his lip to keep the words from pouring out. The anger that resonated through him seemed to help shake the potion's grip on his mind, if only for a moment. Where did Snape get off asking a thing like that? What in the hell was he hoping to hear?

"S-sod off—" he forced out, "you narcis—nar—nah—not good. They despise me and magic and believe that I am a freak, and hate even the sight of me." The pull was too strong, in the end. It was like swimming against a powerful current that was slowly swelling into a tidal wave. The wave won in the end, implacable and all-consuming.

"Have they ever physically abused you?"

Sick. Snape was sick, asking for details like that. It was a wonder the man wasn't rubbing his hands together in anticipation of such dirt on the famous Harry Potter. Harry opened his mouth to curse at the man, but this time the Veritaserum did not even allow him to form his own words. "My uncle has cuffed me a few times. My aunt tried to hit me with a frying pan once. My cousin has broken and fractured bones, concussed me, cut me, and caused other injuries."

"Were you taken to the hospital after those incidents?" Snape pressed, sounding very much invested in this particular question.

Harry tried to push himself to his feet, reasoning beneath the tug of the answering that if he removed himself from the room he might be able to break free of the influence. But it was no good; he couldn't seem to get his muscles to obey him.

"No," he spat, glad that he could at least infuse the answer with some degree of venom.

"Were you neglected by your relatives?"

"No—nah—I wasn't—y-yes—was—was not—" Harry spluttered. He suddenly felt so twisted, so entangled, internally, that his rage at Snape even faded for a moment. Yes—the answer was yes, but no, and he didn't understand what that meant or how he could possibly convey it.

Snape made an impatient noise. "It was really a simple question, but apparently you believe there is too much nuance to it. Very well. How often were you deprived of meals?"

"Every week. Every—every day." What the hell? Why did that answer feel right? "No—not—I—"

"Oh, good Lord," Snape hissed. "How can you possibly…? Fine. I will be explicit. How often were you allowed three meals a day?"

"Nev—" A memory surged, one of a time when he was eight and helping to set up for his aunt's book club. One of the neighbors had found out that her husband was cheating on her—a neighbor that Petunia had detested. So his aunt had been in a particularly good mood that day. He'd had breakfast, and the remains of their luncheon, and then he'd even been allowed dinner that night. Harry remembered how excited he'd been that day, how damned hopeful that things would start to be better from then on. Ha. He'd been so pathetically naïve. "Once."

"A week?" Snape prompted, his voice still saturated with impatience.

Harry found his head shaking before he could stop it. "Once."

Snape muttered some indistinct oath.

Maybe he'd taken bets with someone on the ugly truths about Harry's home life. Maybe he'd put money on Harry having it a lot better than he actually did, and now was out a fistful of galleons. That did seem like something Snape would do. Maybe he'd owled the elder Malfoy and had a good chuckle about it, and had proposed throwing together a betting pool. God, maybe he'd decided he would kill two birds with one stone and humiliate Harry while gaining stature with his fellow Death Eaters. Maybe they all had wagers on how twisted his childhood actually was.

"Were you ever locked away or denied other basic comforts—bedding, use of the facilities, and so on?"

"Yes." The words sounded as though they'd been wrenched from his gut. "Until I was eleven I was locked daily in my cupboard, where I had only an old blanket and pillow. I was allowed out for chores but not in the evening, and I was locked away sooner if they were expecting company."

"And after?" Snape cut in, his tone urgent. "What changed, Potter?"

Harry hissed as he once again battled to reign himself in. It was becoming a bit easier. The urge to speak seemed like a much smaller beast now, one he could tangle with and hope to subdue. For a moment he succeeded, until Snape refined his question.

"Why were you no longer kept in a—a cupboard—after turning eleven?"

The specificity seemed to give the Veritaserum power, and set Harry's lips moving once more against his will. "I received my Hogwarts letter addressed to the Cupboard Under the Stairs. They thought the wizards were watching them so I was moved to my cousin's second bedroom."

"Second—for Christ's sake."

Harry might have snorted at that very Mugglish oath if he hadn't been so furious and mortified by all the things that Snape was forcing him to admit.

All trace amusement vanished when Snape resumed his questioning. "Did they treat you better following that?"

"Sometimes. They put locks on the door and bars on the window, and the summer before second year they fed me through a cat flap while I was with them. This year they didn't bother me as long as I kept to myself and did my chores." Harry felt a belated heat rise in his cheeks. Snape knew about the cat flap now. He knew about how pathetic Harry really was, locked up by his own aunt and uncle…. God, he would never hear the end of this.

"Were you verbally abused by your aunt and uncle?"

Harry tried to shake his head in vehement denial, but his muscles went rigid and he only succeeded in straining one as he fought against the reaction. "Yes."

"What did they say to you, Harry?"

"They called me a freak. Said I should have died with my parents. Told me I was a leech and a burden. They—"

At last Harry felt something in him snap. No. He was not going to give Snape anything more. He was done, Veritaserum or no. He'd already given the man far too much, more than he'd ever agreed to. Ha, but Snape was a liar and a sadist. So was he really surprised?

He bit down on his lip hard, with enough force that he was certain he bit right through the skin. But at least that ended his potion-induced babbling. Damn it, but he wished he could only force himself to stand, to walk away, to scream at Snape that he'd had no right to ask these things.

"Potter, I said not to fight it!"

Harry just barely managed to shake his head furiously. Not in denial, but refusal.

Snape sighed heavily. "Tell me, do you believe the vitriol they spewed?"

Harry felt himself losing control again, his will bowing to the serum—too powerful in face of that direct question. And then his lips formed the words that he wished to God he could obliviate from Snape's memory. "Yes, some, though I tr-try—try not to think about it."

Mortification swept through him in a hot rush, and the force of it seemed to snap the last of the tendrils of the Veritaserum, freeing Harry from its insidious grip. The shame swelled, and crashed, only to be replaced by a larger, much more powerful wave—raw, unadulterated fury.

"You LIED to me!" he roared, his words accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. The drinking glasses, reduced to white powder. Harry felt a vague sense of satisfaction at that, his magic running rampant and causing such destruction. "How DARE you take advantage!" The table cracked in two, the violence of it causing Snape to leap back a good few feet. "How dare you pry—force me to—to—you said—"

The air of the room seemed to crackle with magic, like static gathering in the air before a storm.

"I said I would only ask relevant questions," Snape replied, his tone placating. "I assure you, everything I asked was—"

"Don't you even try to justify it, you absolute arse!" The magic flared, bright and hot, and lights above them shattered then. The shards of their remains rained down in a parody of snowfall, leaving them in quasi-darkness. "You knew I was innocent almost right away, so why keep going, huh? Oh, to dig into my life and scoop up every bit of dirt you can, so you can at least have all that to hold over me—"

"Potter, you're hysterical. Calm down—"

"Calm DOWN?" Harry screamed, and as he did he felt a great rush of energy leave him and collide with Snape. The Potions Master was pushed back another few feet, his tall frame thudding dully against the wall. "You've just violated me! Do you even get that? You had no right to ask those things! To make me talk—oh God, I hate you, Snape. I hate you so much." He whipped around to leave, his mind abuzz with too many emotions. The shame was resurfacing again, and along with it some degree of fear of how Snape would retaliate for the destruction Harry had wrought.

With curses, likely. Or another interrogation, this time pouring the Veritaserum down Harry's throat. Or maybe he'd just lock him up somewhere and laugh, because Harry ought to be used to it by now.

He made it all of two feet before stumbling and practically collapsing to his knees, a wave of dizziness coursing through him. He felt weak suddenly, like he might faint. Like he could scarcely drag himself out of the room.

"Easy," Snape commanded, and even had the nerve to make his way over to Harry. "Your system's just had a nasty shock—Veritaserum is not easy on the body, not to mention loosing that much magic. And you've scarcely eaten these past days. If you're not careful—"

"I'll trip and break my neck?" Harry hissed. "Good. That sounds great. And then you can explain to Dumbledore how you got his little Voldemort slayer killed. Oh, I'm sorry, I meant You-Know-Who slayer. Don't touch me!" Harry slapped at the hands that had actually started to tuck beneath his armpits, as if to lift him to his feet that way.

Snape frowned down at Harry, his mouth curling with displeasure. "I assume you intend to make it to your room, and since you've no hope of doing so on your own—"

"I'll manage, thanks," Harry spat, struggling again to right himself. He was panting hard by the time he'd managed to struggle to his feet. "Don't you fucking touch me again. If I fall, you can just leave me there, got it? I don't want you anywhere near me. Oh, but you promised that I'd have the evening to myself, so you'll probably want to torment me in person all night, right? Since you like to tell lies and then do the exact opposite of what you said, just to make me fucking miserable!"

Snape heaved a heavy sigh, but he did step back to lean against the dining room wall once more, as if he were trying to give Harry space. "I understand you are upset, but you require assistance—"

"Well, I'd rather call Voldemort than rely on you for that! So if you want to be useful, why don't you ring him up for me, hm? That big ugly fucking mark has to be useful for something!"

"Potter, watch your language," Snape hissed. "I have been tolerant, but—"

"But what? I make one more crack and you'll hit me? Go on! You've already done the worst—and besides, you heard me, only Dudley ever got a good shot in. Time to fix that, eh? Time to show the fucking Savior how to take real punch!"

Snape's face paled a bit, and not with anger. "I—Potter, I am not about to… to strike you. Just allow me to get you up the stairs—"

"Don't talk to me," Harry hissed. "Ever." And then, with an almighty marshaling of his energies, Harry forced himself to limp from the room.

He had to pause at the foot of the landing, his breathing labored again. He felt as though he'd just run three marathons and swum to the bottom of the Black Lake without gillyweed. He half expected to find Snape hovering behind him, a sneer on his face as he enjoyed the sight of a weak, broken Harry Potter trying to find a way to haul himself up one measly flight of stairs.

Snape stayed away though. Maybe he figured the next thing Harry's accidental magic would break would be his body. Smart of him, really. Harry instinctually felt that what he'd done to Marge before his third year would look like a party trick compared to what he would do to Snape.

One by one, laboriously, his progress painfully slow, Harry mounted the stairs. He couldn't catch his breath when he reached the top, and had to literally crawl into his bedroom, where he collapsed artlessly onto the floor.

Even the bare wood felt soft to him in his state. Vaguely, as he drifted off into the peaceful dark, he thought that he was really quite fucked, considering all the things he'd yelled at Snape.