Harry woke sometime in the middle of the night to the sound of muffled angry voices. It took him longer than usual to rouse himself from sleep, but once he'd managed, he noted that they seemed to be carrying up the stairs from the sitting room. And it was just one voice, actually: Snape's.

Of course the man was upset, Harry thought bitterly. If he couldn't justify punishing his least favorite student, he certainly didn't want him hanging around any longer than necessary. Probably he was making arrangements for Harry to be out the very next morning. Which was fine, really. Harry would be happy to be away from the professor and this miserable little house.

Harry dropped his head back onto his pillow.

Wait. Pillow?

Harry bolted straight up, instantly regretting the decision as he felt all the muscles in his strained back scream in agony. But he ignored that in favor of trying to figure out just where in the hell he was. Same room, but he wasn't on the floor. No, he was up on the bed, which was now fully made up, entangled in the blankets, a comfortable pillow cradling his head. He didn't even have his glasses on anymore.

For just a hair's breadth of a second, he contemplated the possibility that Snape had come up here and put him to bed. Then immediately discarded it, because who the hell was he kidding?

No, this had to be the remnants of his accidental magic. It had happened once or twice that the strange outbursts hadn't taken violent forms. When he'd been cold in his cupboard one winter, for example, because the heat had gone out and the Dursleys hadn't bothered getting him an electric space heater like they'd been using. He'd wished so hard for a blanket, and fallen into a miserable half-sleep, only to wake up fully covered in a lovely blue comforter that radiated a heat of its own.

Petunia had discovered it the next day, of course, and identified it as one of the spares for Dudley's bedroom. She'd known that Harry had magicked it down to himself somehow, and thus had burned it to keep the taint from infecting her home and her son.

Well, at least it had been good for something this time other than just breaking Snape's things and royally pissing the man off. Harry imagined he'd still have to pay the price for his behavior that evening before he was allowed to leave.

He sighed and carefully lowered himself back down onto the mattress, his ears straining to make out the conversation downstairs. Harry wondered who Snape was talking to. Dumbledore, most likely. Probably complaining that Harry was an utter cretin who'd destroyed his home. Maybe he thought Dumbledore could get Harry to pay restitution or something for the damage.

Determining that he wasn't going to make out anything useful anyway, Harry let his eyes drift shut and tuned out Snape's muffled shouting. Memories of everything he'd told Snape were starting to drift back to him—all about his childhood, and how much his relatives hated him, and how badly they'd treated him.

A dull flare of anger burned through Harry then as the injustice of it all hit him. He'd done nothing wrong and he'd still been treated like a criminal. No one, not even Dumbledore, would stand up to Snape's abuse of power and authority, and now the man knew everything. Now he could hone his insults so that they really hit home, and arm his Slytherins with the necessary information to do the same.

Next year was going to be hell.

Harry tried his best to keep the tears in, but as soon as the first slipped down his cheek a cascade followed. He buried his head so that the fresh pillow would absorb them as well as the sounds of his choked sobs.

How many times had he dreamed of someone finding out all about the Dursleys, and then doing everything in their power to take him out of there? How many times had he imagined foster families for himself, with a mother and a father who would be happy to see him, who would enjoy spending time with him? With siblings who would want to befriend him rather than cause him as much pain and misery as possible for their own twisted amusement?

And now the universe had decided to fuck him over yet again. He'd spilled his guts to Snape, the person on the planet most likely to laugh at him and poke fun and simply enjoy the fact that Harry was an unloved, sad little orphan and a pathetic wizard who couldn't even defend himself from his Muggle family. Well, maybe the second most likely to torment him. Draco Malfoy was probably at the head of that line, perhaps right beside his father.

There was nothing for it, he tried to console himself. It was done and over, and he would just have to deal with things. Ron and Hermione would help him through it. And if he needed to, he could always just spend as much time as possible in the common room, or maybe down visiting Hagrid. And besides, it wasn't like he was six years old. So what if they taunted him? So what if they knew all about his home life? He could learn to ignore them. He'd been through that before.

But that wasn't much comfort to him. He tossed and turned for a while, his emotional distress mirroring his physical discomfort. It was a long time before he managed to drift back into an uneasy sleep.

XXXXX

Harry glared at the note, hands trembling at his sides. He'd woken to find the folded parchment on top of his trunk, emanating some kind of faint magic that seemed to attract his attention. Likely Snape's doing.

Harry had woken from his fitful sleep feeling groggy and out of sorts. His head throbbed, likely from the tears he'd shed the night before, and his stomach had clenched almost immediately into a sickeningly tight ball as he realized that he would, at some point, have to face Snape.

And cursing at the man and shattering more of his personal possessions and furniture likely wouldn't go over well, no matter how deserved it was.

The rage had swelled up in him again at that, and without thinking he slammed his fist against the wall, nearly crying out at the intensity of the pain that radiated through the bones on making contact. Even that was not nearly enough to distract him from the raging vortex of his emotions—vicious, burning hatred for Snape; self-loathing for spewing all that pathetic nonsense and for being so damned weak; hatred of his godfather and Lupin and the Weasleys for doing nothing, nothing to help him out of this situation; disgust for Dumbledore for simply sitting back and allowing things to unfold, just as he always had.

And then he'd seen that damned note, and felt the tug of magic, and he'd had to restrain himself from simply ripping the thing to shreds and hurling the fragments out the window.

He'd forced himself to draw several deep breaths as he cradled his hand against his chest, waiting for the throbbing to subside.

And even now he still didn't trust himself to pick up the note. He couldn't even guess what it said. Maybe Snape was sick of him after the previous night and this was to explain that he'd locked Harry in the room so he wouldn't have to deal with him.

He drew one more deep breath and finally picked up the parchment and unfolded.

Mr. Potter, it read,

I have a number of errands to run this morning and will be gone until the afternoon. See the reverse for your schedule, which I expect you will follow to the letter in my absence. Note that meals are included, and thus not optional. I will be inquiring about your eating habits as well as your activities upon my return, so do not think to simply ignore my instructions and do as you please. ~S.S.

Fury boiled up in Harry, and before he could restrain himself he felt his magic pouring out through his hands, igniting the parchment. Harry cursed and dropped the note just as the flames licked against his hands, scorching them. The parchment crumbled to ash and fell to the ground.

Harry hissed out a low curse and dashed to the bathroom, his mind still whirling. He worked once again at controlling his breathing as he ran cold water over his hands. Not that he minded Snape being gone for a few extra hours, of course, but the man's high-handed instructions…. And after last night, too, he thought viciously, fighting the urge to curl his hands into fists.

But what had he expected? Severus Snape to cut him some slack, to recognize on some level that he'd been wrong about Harry and treated him unfairly?

No, of course not. He would just give Harry another damned list, as if he hadn't gotten a good look at the previous one, and then hurry off to see about getting rid of his unwanted charge as quickly as possible. The only thing that was surprising was that there was no reference to the tantrum Harry had thrown the previous night.

Well, Snape's anger was probably implied with Harry's new list of chores, not that he had a hope of piecing that together now. And too, the sadistic bastard probably wanted to scream at Harry once Harry was good and tired and miserable rather than before.

Harry sighed and shut off the water. There was nothing he could do about it now, he decided. And nothing to be gained by refusing meals. Snape knew everything. He tried to push that from his mind, but it was no use. Snape's knowing sneer seemed branded in his mind, the man's disdain and cruel amusement continuing to haunt Harry even in his physical absence.

Just a bit longer, Harry reminded himself. Maybe by the end of the day Snape would have arranged things. The Dursleys hated him, true, but at least they would never know the full extent of his misery. He would never have to spill any of his intimate thoughts to them in a drug-induced stupor. And he would only have to endure a few more weeks in their care before he could forget all about their existence. That always made it more bearable somehow.

Snape, though, couldn't be cut from his life, much as he wanted to break off all contact with the man. The Potions Professor was tied far too tightly to Hogwarts, and Harry couldn't leave there. The castle was his home, his only anchor. There was no choice but to weather out the torment and hope that Snape would eventually grow bored of him and seek out another target.

Ha. Fat chance of that. It had been what, four years now? Likely Harry would be the man's favorite target until the day he graduated, and maybe even after that.

Harry leaned hard against the porcelain of the sink. It was doing him no good to dwell on all this. He just had to pull himself together and last for a day or two more. He could put up with anything for that long, couldn't he?

He sighed and splashed a bit of water over his face. Breakfast, he decided, and then he'd just get back to doing the roof. He couldn't imagine that Snape had modified his list all that much. Besides, that was a project that needed to be finished and quickly.

He found a loaf of bread and some jam, which made a respectable breakfast. He washed it down with a glass of milk from the fridge, washed his dishes, and then, with yet another heavy sigh pushed himself to his feet and headed out to the back yard. There he retrieved the improvised tool he'd been using to pry up shingles and mounted the ladder.

Idly, he wondered at the fact that Snape had opted to leave him alone in the house. Maybe he figured that he had enough blackmail material now that Harry wouldn't dare to misbehave. Even though Harry had caused such a mess the previous night, and cursed and spat at the man….

Huh. That damage had all been repaired, hadn't it? And Snape hadn't put any snarky warnings about Harry controlling himself in that note. Odd.

Though maybe the man was so out-of-sorts and so ready to be rid of Harry that he'd completely neglected to warn off his unwanted house guest. It was Snape, so who really knew?

Harry had to work more slowly all day. His hands were still tender from the slight burn they'd received, and his right hand was sore from being slammed into the wall. But he was used to working around injuries, thankfully, and so his productivity did not drop too much.

Thankfully it was an overcast day. The heat remained mostly bearable, even through the worst hours of the late morning. Harry found himself lost in his task, a blessed reprieve from thinking about all that had happened in the last few weeks, not to mention all the uncertainties he had yet to face down. He even ignored the faint ache in his stomach as the day stretched on, deciding that he'd rather not climb down just yet. He would wait until he was truly hungry, or better yet, until dinner.

It was just as his hunger had started to grow too demanding to be ignored that Harry heard the back door to the house fly open, and with considerably more force than it ever had before. The metallic groan of the handle being turned was immediately followed by the reverberating thud of the door itself being slammed against the house's brick siding.

"Potter!"

Harry sighed. The peace and quiet had been nice while it had lasted.

"Get down here this instant!"

The man sounded as though he had a serious bug up his arse. Great. Probably wanted to yell at Harry now for the previous night, even though he'd essentially forced Harry to give up his most jealously guarded secrets after promising to do no such thing.

Harry drew in a deep, calming breath. Showing how angry he was with Snape wasn't going to do him any good, just make things more unpleasant. The more he seemed bothered by all that had occurred the previous night, the more Snape would use it against him. Best to just feign indifference as well as he could and pray that Snape was about to order him to pack his things and prepare to Floo out.

As soon as Harry reached the foot of the ladder, he felt his collar being seized. Snape hauled him backwards, spun him around, and seized him by the front of his shirt, his grip tight as it twisted the fabric.

Harry forced himself to meet Snape's gaze. The man looked livid, mouth pressed into a tight line, eyes blazing with anger. But too, Harry couldn't help but note, the man looked tired. The faint dark rings were impossible to miss, as was the slight glint of—well, Harry wasn't sure what it was. Something wild. Panic?

No, why in the hell would Snape be panicked? He was imagining things.

"Just what in the hell do you think you were doing?" he spat, shaking Harry as he belted out the question.

Harry felt his mind go blank. What was the man talking about? "Sir?" he asked questioningly. "I—I don't understand—"

"You could have fallen and broken your fool neck! What possessed you to climb up there? I did not think I would have to specifically forbid it, but Merlin, I will be more thorough in the future!" He shook Harry a few more times, the motion enough to rattle Harry's teeth.

Harry had to tamp down his own reaction to those senseless words. What, Snape was pretending to care now? What was the man playing at? "Funny, sir, you didn't seem to have a problem sending me up there before—"

"When I was present and able to cast a Cushioning Charm!" Snape roared, his hands tightening further in Harry's shirt. "When I had already warded the premises against such accidents! One slip, Potter, might have ended you! Do you even understand the gravity of that?"

Harry felt an angry flush come over his skin. "I do understand gravity, thanks. I'm not so stupid—"

"Gravity—the seriousness of it, you dunce!"

The blush grew hot enough to feel as though it was singeing his skin. "I've fallen further before, sir. Trust me, I bounce." And with that he wrenched himself free from Snape's grip and made to climb back up the ladder.

"Damn it all," he heard Snape mutter, and then his shoulder was caught in the man's iron grip. "Inside. Wait for me at the table. And since it appears I must spell everything out, you are now forbidden from climbing up onto the roof. Defy me again and I will add a grounding spell to that ring, am I clear?"

Harry was seething then. He knew he shouldn't goad Snape, but he couldn't help himself. It appeared that he was damned regardless of what he did, so why should he bother restraining himself? "Of course, sir. Except if I can't go up there, I can't finish the job I was given, can I? But I'm sure you'll be glad to punish me for that—"

"I did not list finishing the roof in your schedule for a reason, Potter!" Snape interrupted, his words sharp. "You are done with that. In the future, you would do well to simply follow instructions, rather than trying to decipher nonexistent mysteries concerning what I really meant. I take it you did not have enough to occupy your time today?"

Damn, damn, damn. Harry felt his stomach condense into a tight, painful know. Why had Snape actually changed things up? Why couldn't he just let Harry continue with his course? Well, Christ, it wasn't like the man couldn't find fault when there was none. He would have found something to criticize, some reason to resume tormenting Harry. So what if he had an actual justification this once?

"I… uh…." God, he didn't want to say it. He didn't want to find out what Snape would do to him now for blatantly disregarding instructions.

"Did you look at the schedule?" Snape demanded snidely. "Or did you simply assume what I would assign you to do?"

Harry fixed his gaze on his shoes. "I would have, but—look, I didn't get a chance to, okay? I—I lost my temper, and…."

"And?" Snape prompted impatiently.

"More accidental magic, okay? It burnt up before I got a chance to look, so I figured I would just keep doing what I'd been doing. It's not like I just—just lazed around or snooped through your things or anything, is it?"

"Your magic caused my note to spontaneously combust?" Snape inquired in a surprisingly level tone.

Harry didn't know what to make of that. He nodded to the ground.

"While you were holding it?" Snape continued, his tone remaining just as level.

"Yeah, and I got burned too, so don't think I did it on purpose—"

"Let me see your hands," Snape demanded suddenly, his voice sharp once again.

Of course the git didn't believe him. Of course he believed Harry to be exaggerating still, even after learning that Harry wasn't actually a felon. Harry presented them both, relieved that turning them, palms up, was enough for the man to release his hold on Harry's shirt.

He heard Snape's hissed intake of breath, and almost smiled to himself. That's right, Harry thought, I wasn't lying about this either, you prick. So there.

His momentary satisfaction morphed back into confusion, and then fear, though, when Snape whipped out his wand. Harry stumbled a step backward, wondering if running would do any good when Snape had a mind to hex him.

But Snape snared his wrist, effectively ending that dilemma for him, and leveled his wand tip at the burned, slightly blistered skin and muttered a nearly inaudible spell. The redness immediately faded from the area, along with the residual sting. Snape wasted no time in repeating the treatment on Harry's other hand.

When Snape had finished, Harry didn't know what to do. He shuffled backward a foot, feeling awkward and self-conscious and ill at ease. Because this had to be just the prelude to something awful, right? Snape wasn't obligated to tend to his little cuts and bruises and such, so this had to be part of some greater scheme, though Harry couldn't fathom just what. Or maybe Snape was just obliterating the evidence that he'd been wrong yet again, even if that meant easing Precious Potter's discomfort.

"Inside," he repeated quietly, no hint of his previous ire in his tone. For a fleeting moment Harry imagined a kind of defeat in the man's bearing, as if all the anger had been burnt out of him. But he immediately dismissed that assessment as absurd. Snape was storing it all up, so he could unleash it on Harry in a torrent. That was all.

"Sit at the kitchen table. I will not be long."

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath. It felt as if his lungs had shrunken, though, and the air seemed to fill them to an uncomfortable capacity. He wanted Snape to yell, he realized. He wanted it all out and on the table so that he knew what to expect. But Snape probably knew that, and was restraining himself on purpose.

But as before, there was no purpose in disobeying Snape. So Harry did as he was told, wrapping one arm over his stomach as he went. Just a few more days and things would go back to normal, he reminded himself.

Snape had said that he wouldn't be long, but the wait still seemed to stretch out indefinitely. There was nothing in the kitchen to distract Harry, so inevitably his thoughts relentlessly circled around what was about to happen.

It only seemed too terrible to contemplate, he thought, because Snape had not defined what he would do. Once Harry knew what he was dealing with, he would be able to get himself through it. That was all it was. Still, it was harder than it should have been to keep his breathing even, and he had to keep wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans.

At last Snape returned from some other part of the house, his face yet again an unreadable mask. Surprisingly, he did not opt to tower menacingly over Harry; he pulled a chair out instead and sat across from him, his posture stiff and formal.

"You should be aware," he began quietly, "that your hearing has been rescheduled for this Friday. You should also be aware that Mrs. Mathilda Applewhite gave testimony yesterday implicating your cousin and exonerating you."

Harry had to bite down on his tongue to stifle his retort. What, so he was supposed to be grateful that Snape had—well, gone out and "arranged" things so that the poor old woman would say Dudley had done it? Even though Harry was actually innocent and had already more than paid for the crimes he'd never committed?

Snape withdrew a thin envelope from his robes. White paper, not parchment, meaning that it was Muggle. He slid it across the table toward Harry. "In fact…." Snape's gaze drifted to the side as he spoke. "She was… rather appalled that I had forced you to write an apology for something you had not done. Apparently she was hiding in the home during the incident, and those incompetent morons neglected to search for her. Instead they assumed she was on holiday and sent a letter to her through the post. Had they sought her out, this might have been cleared up a great deal sooner."

Harry merely blinked at the envelope. So… so Snape hadn't "fixed" anyone's memory. And Mrs. Applewhite had written to him? That was odd. Sure, he'd always gotten on with her, more than the Dursley's other neighbors, but it wasn't as if they were close or anything. Maybe it was just because she was friends with Mrs. Figg.

"In any case, you should be prepared to leave for the courthouse at ten that day. We will be continuing the ruse that I am your father." Snape's mouth curled a little in distaste as he spoke those words.

Harry nearly snapped that he didn't much like the idea either, but he managed to restrain himself. "Yes, sir." He waited for the litany of threats that was sure to follow. You will behave yourself, Potter, and you will not disgrace me in any way, or so help me….

"You spent the entire day working on the roof?"

Hm. Maybe Snape was saving all the threats for tomorrow, or later that night. Harry shrugged to himself internally. No use in looking a gift horse in the mouth. "Yes, sir." A good, safe response.

"What did you have for breakfast?"

"Bread and jam, and some milk."

"Mm. And lunch?"

"Nothing yet—"

"It is nearly three in the afternoon, Potter! Did I not warn you that you would not be skipping any more meals?" Snape's voice regained its edge and its coldness, and that alone was enough to cause Harry to shrink back slightly.

"I didn't skip it," he protested feebly. "I just hadn't gotten around to—"

"You did not prioritize following my instructions." Harry winced. "Apparently, you need your hand held." Snape pushed himself to his feet violently and stalked over to the fridge. "You will eat now, and you will have a respectable portion at dinner. If we have any trouble over this again, you will be punished accordingly. Is that clear?"

Harry thought that it wasn't very clear at all, really. Wasn't he going to be punished now? Wasn't there already plenty to punish him for in Snape's eyes? But he wasn't about to say that, of course. "Yes, sir. I'll just—I'll make myself—"

"Stay where you are," Snape commanded coolly. Harry watched apprehensively as the Potions Master swept over to the fridge.

"Sir—let me get it. Please—"

"It is no trouble."

Harry strained to hear the sarcasm in those words, but found none. "I'd rather make it myself. I don't want you—" Harry shut himself up, but not before seeing Snape's form stiffen.

Snape turned slowly to face him, his expression dark and unpromising. "You don't want me what?" he hissed softly. "To poison you, is that right? You honestly believe I would do such a thing?"

Harry squared his jaw and stared back at the man as unflinchingly as he could manage. "No, sir. Not poison. Not the deadly kind, at least. But you once told me how easy it would be for your hand to slip—"

"For pity's sake!" Snape snarled. "I thought you might like to rest, but fine, be my guest!" He stepped back and gestured grandly to the rest of the kitchen. "Prepare it yourself, so that you can be assured that it isn't adulterated in any way. Adulterated, Potter, means altered—"

"I figured that out, thanks," Harry retorted, standing up himself. "Sir," he added belatedly, hating the tiny quaver that worked its way into his voice.

Snape sighed and his body slackened slightly. He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I understand that you are a bit… wary… of my intentions. But if I wished to force anything on you—which I do not, most assuredly—I could simply force it on you, either physically or magically. Surely you realize this. Now, you will give up this irrational fear or I will prove my point by force-feeding you this meal. Which will it be?"

Harry tried to stare Snape down, to pretend that he wasn't afraid, but of course Snape was right. The Potions Master was stronger than him, and a fully-fledged wizard to boot. And no one really cared what he did to Harry, did they? So long as he didn't go too far. So if Snape wanted to give him more Veritaserum, or something even worse…. Harry repressed a shudder.

He would only engender more ill will by resisting, he figured. "Fine," he mumbled sullenly.

" 'Fine' meaning…?"

"I'll cooperate."

Snape gave a curt nod of acknowledgment and then began sifting through the fridge again.

In the end, if Snape had slipped something into the food he'd been very clever about hiding it. He fixed Harry a grilled cheese and heated up tomato soup from a tin—which Harry found a touch ridiculous. He could have, after all, easily prepared the meal himself and saved Snape the trouble, though Snape probably thought that allowing Harry to so much as touch the stove would lead to his entire house burning down.

Harry didn't protest. He muttered a grudging thanks before tucking into the meal, belatedly realizing just how hungry he was.

Snape watched the whole time. It was unnerving. He just stood there, leaning against the countertop beside the sink, his eyes trained on Harry's like a bird of prey on a mouse, waiting for the rodent to make the mistake of leaving cover. Harry expected the man to swoop over at any moment and begin yelling at him for some fabrication or another.

He didn't. He said nothing, in fact, just continued to watch. When Harry had finished and moved to wash his dishes in the sink, Snape commanded quietly, "Leave them. Go rest for a while."

Go rest for a while? What in the hell was the man playing at? "Why? What would you care—"

"Because I said so. Do not fight me on this."

"I'm not tired—"

"I did not say you had to sleep. Go occupy yourself with something that is not physically strenuous, Potter. Is that enough of a clarification?"

Harry didn't know why he was arguing. It seemed natural, though, especially when Snape was telling him to rest—nothing good could come from that… that feigned concern. That weak attempt to be decent, even. No, Harry was going to figure out what was going on. "Why do you want me to rest?"

Harry could see Snape's jaw tightening, and at last a familiar venom returned to the man's words. "Must you be so difficult? Is there some reason that you must fight me every damned step? Or is it just a pleasure to be so contrarian?"

"I'll stop acting contrarian just as soon as you stop pretending to care whether I'm tired or not, or fed, or anything! I know you don't, and I don't know what you think you'll get from me by getting me to believe otherwise—"

"You absolute idiot! There is no scheme here! But if being less civil will get things through your thick skull, very well! Get yourself out of my sight for a while, and Merlin help you if you wear yourself out further! Is that better? Will you obey now?"

Harry felt his face flush hot. There was magic building in him again, but this afternoon was not nearly as fracturing as the previous night. But the memory of losing control like that was still fresh and painful. Truly, it was a miracle that Snape was choosing to ignore the destruction entirely.

He wanted to snap at the Potions Master that of course yelling got through to him better, hadn't he learned anything about Harry's psyche the previous night? Hadn't he as good as confessed that his relatives hated him and were likely glad to be shut of him, and that they rarely communicated with him other than by shouting?

Picking at that wound would not end favorably for Harry, though. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. "Fine, sir," he replied instead. "What do you want me to do?"

All at once Snape looked exhausted again, the sneer fading from his features. "Read. Reply to your letter." He waved a loose hand at the white envelope on the table. "I don't care, so long as it does not involve taxing physical labor."

Harry swallowed his pride and replied quietly, "Yes, sir," before slipping from the room. He made certain to grab Mrs. Applewhite's letter before retreating from the room.

Once he was alone in his—ha, no, Snape's guest bedroom, he corrected himself—he found his fingers hesitating over the envelope's seal. What if this just contained more scolding? What if Snape knew that and had handed it to him, just as he'd given over the letters from Remus and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley? What if he was laughing, even now, at the thought of Harry reading once again about how terrible and thoughtless he was?

Well, he thought, he had to know. He settled himself on the floor before the window, so that his body was mostly blocked from view from the door by the bed. He didn't know why the position should make him feel so at ease; it wasn't as if it had ever stopped Vernon from finding him and chewing him out. Maybe it was something to do with having a physical barrier between him and whatever was on the other side of that door.

Harry drew a deep, calming breath and slid a finger beneath the letter's flap, slitting it open, before carefully extracting the thin piece of paper folded within. Mrs. Applewhite had written on a flowery piece of stationary, one with morning glories curling over the corners. Her handwriting was thin and elegant, the kind that spoke of endless drilling known only to the older generations. Even Harry's classmates, who regularly practiced their penmanship, lacked the sheer elegance displayed here.

Dear Harry, it began,

I hope this finds you well. I cannot imagine what dreadful business it must have been to be so mistreated by those buffoons at the station, and then to be doubted by your own father! I am appalled that he would leave you with such vile people rather than take responsibility and care for you properly.

When he came by to deliver that letter you'd written I told him what a good boy you were, always offering to help me with my groceries and such. And I told him shame on him for ever doubting you. He asked if I wanted him to deliver a message today, and I hope to God that he reads this over, because it bears repeating: there is a difference, Harry, between a father and a sperm donor. And I told him that I bet he knows what he is in my eyes, leaving you like he did without ever visiting, and letting those Dursleys treat you so horribly. I told him that he's a lout, and more shame on him for not realizing what a fine boy he has.

I suspect he's been listening to Petunia too much, though, like half this neighborhood. They're all chattering old birds, Harry, don't pay them mind. I've done my best to shut them up over the years, but I suppose I never ran in the right circles.

In any case, I hope he's properly ashamed of himself now and plans on doing better by you. I've tried not to stick my nose into things too much over the years, but now it's become apparent just how utterly worthless those people are and how much you've paid for it. Well, I won't keep my mouth shut any longer. And I hope you won't either, dear. You demand better from your father, and you tell him he'll answer to me if he can't get his act together.

You keep strong, Harry, and you let me know if I can do anything for you. It's past time I offered as much.

Sincerely, Tillie

Harry read the letter through three times, and each time his heart seemed to swell a little more. Old Mrs. Applewhite had told Snape off? He couldn't help but smile imagining that exchange. And she'd stuck up for him, too. She thought the Dursleys were just as horrible.

True, she'd always been kinder than most Privet Drive residents, but Harry hadn't thought much of it. And when he'd gone to help her out, it hadn't been because he was trying to get her good opinion or anything. Once she'd just had a passel of groceries and he'd been out for a walk anyway, and after that he'd just made a habit of seeking her out Tuesday afternoons whenever he could. She'd started inviting him for tea afterward, which he figured was just her way of repaying him. He never imagined she'd noticed anything about his home life.

But here she'd written a letter more sympathetic than any he'd gotten from the people who'd known him for so much longer. She'd offered to be there for him—hell, she'd braved Snape's wrath for him. And whether she knew a thing at all about Snape or not, her bravery in that was something astounding. Snape was frightful and intimidating and downright vicious with his words. And this kindly old lady—Tillie, Harry thought with a soft smile—had called the man a lout to his face and criticized his "parenting".

Harry clutched the letter to his chest. His immediate impulse was to tuck it into his album, where he kept Sirius' old letters (not that he particularly cared for those anymore, after his godfather's utter lack of faith) and his correspondence with his friends. But that album was hidden in the shed, and he definitely did not want to risk discovery.

Harry glanced toward the corner of the room, where he'd initially stashed the first stack of letters Snape had given him. It was also, coincidentally, the same area where he'd flung those half-read letters, which were nowhere to be seen.

Maybe Snape had seen them lying on the ground and binned them, or burnt them, without even perusing them, to teach Harry to keep things neat. Though it was odd that he hadn't mentioned as much. Then again, Snape had seemed puzzled when Harry had declared he didn't want to answer them. Maybe the Potions Master had gathered them up to read through at his leisure.

Harry shrugged to himself, a wave of resentment rising up in his breast. He was glad to be rid of them, in any case. Let Snape laugh over them. Harry had already decided that he was done with Lupin, done with Sirius, and done with the Weasleys—or, Mrs. Weasley, at least. And maybe Mr. Weasley as well, depending on how much he agreed with his wife on things. He didn't need them. And if Ron and Hermione weren't interested in staying friends, he didn't need them either. After all, if they'd really cared, they would have sent him more letters, and real ones—not the vapid things he'd been getting lately that hardly discussed anything more interesting than the weather and the next year's reading list.

In fact, the less he expected from them, the less he could be disappointed, right? So wasn't it better to just set it in his mind that they were drifting apart, and probably wouldn't want to hang out much the next year?

And he couldn't blame them, really. Things had happened. He'd shown back up with Cedric's dead body, and there had to be questions in their minds about that. Even if they believed his story about the graveyard, they were probably thinking that he'd turned out pretty weak and cowardly after all, since he'd let himself get captured, and he hadn't even been able to attempt to save Cedric. It was probably just too much for them. Easier to break things off, and get away from Harry and his media attention and all the danger he courted.

Harry swiped a sleeve over his eyes. They'd grown damp in the last few minutes. Probably agitated by all the dust in this dingy little room, he thought.

Well, at least Mrs. Applewhite liked him. Not that her support could mean much for him in the end. She knew nothing about who Harry really was, and probably never could know. And if she did find out, she might change her mind and decide that Harry's relatives had been right after all. She'd probably shake her head and tut like the rest of them, and ooze sympathy to Petunia about how much of a handful her strange nephew must be.

Harry pushed those thoughts away. No, none of that mattered, he told himself firmly. Mrs. Applewhite had seen right through the Dursleys and all their pretenses, and she knew better than to believe Harry was a hooligan. Dudley was the hooligan, after all, and had pretty much proved it here.

Deciding that he needed a new distraction, Harry crawled over to his school trunk and began digging out his old textbooks. It was as good a time as any, he decided, to start on his summer assignments.