When Snape knocked on his door later that evening, it was a lot softer and more polite than it had been the time before, just three short raps to announce his presence.

Harry rubbed at his itching eyes for a moment. Too much dry history, he thought. But he'd made an effort to go back through the text and review all that he'd completely missed in Binns' class—which was nearly everything, since the ghost's droning tones were more potent than a sleeping draught. If nothing else, the text had helped to keep his mind from straying down too many painful paths.

Now he struggled not to allow his anger at Snape to come rushing back. He still loathed the man, and his stomach churned at the prospect of spending any time in his presence. But that was not to be helped for the time being, so Harry shoved that all down, just as he'd done so many times before.

"Yes, sir?" he called, almost managing to sound as though he weren't grinding his teeth together.

The door cracked open, enough for Snape to speak through the gap at Harry. "Supper is on the table."

The last thing Harry felt like doing was sharing a meal with Snape, but he knew that he had no real choice in the matter. "Coming, sir."

Snape lingered at the door, his eyes assessing Harry critically. "There is proper furniture downstairs," he noted, his tone just a touch cutting.

Harry had to bite his tongue hard to keep from snipping back immediately. "You told me to stay out of your sight, sir—"

"I said no such thing," Snape growled, swinging the door just a bit wider. "I told you to go rest, which sparked your Great Inquisition, if you recall. Had you simply done as you were told the first time, you might not have misconstrued my remark to mean that I expected you to stay in your room."

Harry pressed his balled fists hard into his sides, willing them to behave. "I don't mind staying in here," he replied coolly. "I never implied that I did. You're the one who assumed I had a problem with it, like I was sitting on the floor to get sympathy from you or some other insane thing. I didn't even know you were coming up here!"

Snape's jaw clenched tight, and Harry swore he could see a muscle ticking there. "I merely meant to say," the man ground out, "that you are welcome to make use of the parlor downstairs, and that you might find the sofa more comfortable than the hardwood floor. I've no interest in hearing you complain about a preventable backache—"

"Well, I won't complain, sir," Harry snapped, "ever. So problem solved."

"Again, Potter, there is no point in self-imposed suffering just to prove a point—"

"Listen, I didn't—oh, for God's sake, why am I bothering? You're going to keep inventing things to yell at me about. So you're right. I'm stupid and melodramatic and stubborn, and an inconvenience, and disobedient, and I whine constantly. Have I missed anything?"

"Enough!" Snape exploded, the word just a harsh hiss through his teeth. "I only meant to say that you needn't sit on the floor if you don't wish."

Well, why in the hell didn't you just say that? Harry thought to himself. Then, aloud, he replied as calmly as he could, "All right, sir." He stared at Snape, waiting for a reaction. Likely he would snap at Harry for being sarcastic or insincere or something.

Snape actually looked away, and if Harry squinted hard enough, it almost looked as though the man's cheeks were a touch pinker. "Just—come eat."

Harry sighed to himself. Maybe, he thought, he should make a point of acting out more. Then Snape could punish him for real crimes, rather than invented ones. Maybe that would make him less… well, unstable.

But he wasn't about to test out that theory. So he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the lingering stiffness in his joints, and reluctantly followed Snape back down to the kitchen.

Two places had already been set at the table. That struck Harry as absurd—him and Snape, sitting down for a civil meal. Probably only because Snape didn't trust him to keep his word about regular meals.

At least the man didn't seem irate. Or even too irritable, for that matter. He'd barely responded to Harry's outburst. But really, why couldn't Snape just mellow out a bit? Why did he have to find fault with everything, right down to Harry's choice of seating?

Harry took his place at the table while Snape went to pull things off the stove. From the smell of things, there would be mushrooms in something—and that was all Harry could really tell. At least Snape wasn't a bad cook, though Harry supposed that, after the complexity of brewing potions, something like a stew had to be a snap.

Snape did not allow Harry to serve himself. Instead, he brought each pot over to the table and portioned servings out directly onto Harry's plate. Mushroom rice first, followed by boiled peas (Harry did his best not to gag), and finally a roasted chicken breast from the oven. There was far too much on his plate by the time Snape was finished, but Harry knew better than to comment on that.

He would just have to find a way to manage, because God knew Snape wasn't about to budge an inch on anything.

They ate in awkward silence, Harry slowly in an effort to keep from overstuffing himself, and Snape with the slow precision that seemed to characterize most of his behaviors. Tense though the silence was, Harry was glad that Snape was not taking this opportunity to further berate or humiliate him. He would take the breaks where he could get them.

Harry couldn't bring himself to eat the peas. He tried his best to choke them down, but two forkfuls was all he could stand. And so they sat on his plate in a messy heap, shriveled and unpleasant. Idly, Harry wondered how long he had before Snape forced him to choke them down. Likely accompanied by a lecture on wasted food, or Harry's pigheadedness.

A glance at Snape's plate told him that the man was nearly finished; he was down to a few small bites of chicken and a forkful or two of rice.

Harry sighed to himself. He really did want these last few days with Snape to go as smoothly as possible, especially during his trial, and fighting over trivial things (even if it was Snape who was so damned unreasonable and quarrelsome) would make the rest of this week anything but. So Harry steeled himself to choke down the rest of that unpleasant little heap. He shoveled one spoonful in—God, the taste was positively nauseating!

And then the remains vanished from his plate.

Harry's head snapped up to Snape, who'd withdrawn his wand and had apparently vanished the peas with a wordless spell. Harry just stared, dumbstruck, as Snape slipped the wand back into his sleeve, his gaze nowhere near Harry's

"I will not force you to eat things you detest." Snape stood and collected their dishes.

"I didn't say—"

"You didn't need to." Snape said nothing more as he piled dishes in the sink.

Harry watched as Snape filled the sink with water, then withdrew what appeared to be a new bottle of dish soap from the cupboard below. Harry couldn't figure out why the man would possibly be doing them by hand—

Oh. Because he expected Harry to do them. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. He supposed he'd had a restful enough afternoon that a little labor now would not be so terrible. Even if it was completely unnecessary, since Snape could tidy things up with a wave or two of his wand.

He hovered behind Snape uncertainly, waiting for the man to step aside so that he could get to things.

Snape did not move, though. He merely started washing the plates with methodical precision.

Harry searched around for a dishtowel, and spied one on the counter beside the stove. When he made to grab the rinsed plate that Snape had set to the side of the sink, though, the Potions Master turned to him and gave a small but unmistakable shake of his head.

"Leave it."

Again. Harry's stomach gave a little flip. He actually would have preferred for Snape to have turned the whole task over to him, he realized. Because that would have been normal. That would have been understandable.

But this? Snape telling him to rest, and inviting Harry to use his parlor, and all but refusing to allow Harry to help with the dishes? This terrified him. He felt like Alice after she'd tripped into the rabbit hole.

"What do you want me to do then? Sir?"

Snape paused in his washing. He did not turn to look at Harry, or snap or glare at him. In fact, his hands seemed to be gripping the plate he was washing unnaturally tightly. "Whatever you wish. I prefer that you are in bed no later than midnight."

Prefer. What did Snape mean, prefer? Why didn't he just say what he really meant? Potter, if you are not out of sight by midnight, if I here so much as a peep out of you after that, you will wish you'd never been born.

And that whatever you wish. What was he playing at?

Harry just stared at Snape's back, trying to make sense of things. If Snape had wanted to torture him—or just make him mildly miserable—he would have Harry working again. He wouldn't have banished the peas, or healed Harry's hands, or given him the letter from Mrs. Applewhite. He wouldn't have stated Harry's bedtime as a preference.

Maybe Snape was feeling guilty now for pushing Harry so far the other day. Likely it was all just pity. Snape felt sorry for poor Potter now, since all the other adults had thought the worst of him too, and clearly that had hurt Harry's feelings….

Well, Harry wasn't going to stand for that. He'd rather have Snape furious with him than feeling sorry for him. "Whatever I wish. Right." His thoughts immediately returned to Snape's reaction earlier upon finding him up on the roof, and he smiled grimly to himself. Yes, he'd just be a good boy and finish that little project up. And if it made Snape angry (though he still couldn't fathom why the man's reaction should be so extreme, since he knew how accidental magic worked, and how durable wizarding kids were compared to Muggles), well, that would just be icing on the cake.

And up on the roof, prying off shingles, was where Snape found him not half an hour later.

"POTTER!"

Harry sighed theatrically, as if he'd been interrupted in the middle of an important task. "Yes, sir?"

"Down—now!"

"Coming, sir." Harry made a show of dusting off his hands, then slowly working his way toward the ladder. He took the descent one rung at a time, pausing between each, before finally reaching the ground. He expected Snape to seize him by the collar, just as he'd done before—but not this time. Though Harry could feel the man's intense gaze boring straight into him.

Harry turned slowly, pushing down the nervousness he suddenly felt. This had been a stupid idea. What had he been thinking? So what if Snape pitied him. At least he'd been less of a bastard. Now….

"Your hand, Potter," Snape demanded through gritted teeth, extending his own hand palm-up expectantly. "Now."

Harry hesitated before extending one, not sure of what was about to happen.

"The other, you imbecile!" Snape ground out impatiently. "The one with the ring."

Harry obeyed, wincing at the acute pressure of Snape's fingers closing around his wrist. The man tapped his wand to the ring he'd transfigured and uttered a low incantation too muddled for Harry to make out.

Oh. The threatened grounding spell. Now he remembered. Harry snatched his hand back immediately and glowered up at Snape. "So where am I confined to?"

Snape's heavy scowl twisted into a sneer. "What are you talking about?"

"Grounding spell—you said… am I stuck inside the house now?"

"It is a grounding spell, Potter, not a modification of the restriction spell. The only difference now is that your feet are not allowed more than two feet up from the floor, since you obviously cannot be trusted to exercise common sense."

Harry just glared at the man at that. "Oh yeah, go ahead and pretend to be concerned about my safety. Pretend this isn't about—about—"

"About what?" Snape inquired silkily, stepping in close so that he towered over Harry. Harry took an automatic step back. "What else could this possibly be about?"

"Controlling me—"

"Yes, you're right," Snape agreed, dripping sarcasm, "I obviously desire nothing more than to control you. I've given you so many instructions this evening, haven't I? It's a wonder you found time to climb up onto the damned roof at all."

Harry's cheeks warmed. "What I do doesn't concern you—"

"No, Potter, on the contrary. Whilst I am acting as your guardian, your behavior and activities very much concern me. You slipping off of the roof and breaking your neck just to spite me, for example."

"I'm not going to break my neck, for God's sake! It's not even that far up! You're just—"

"And how would you possibly know that you would not break your neck?" Snape interrupted sharply. "Or otherwise seriously injure yourself? Hm?"

"Because I was fine when—" Harry clammed right up then. Damn it, he'd been a breath away from giving Snape even more ammunition on his abysmal childhood. This time voluntarily. He was an idiot.

"When?" Snape prompted, his voice turning needle-sharp.

Excited at the depraved details, Harry thought angrily. Snape couldn't wait to hear more. "Never mind," he muttered.

"Regardless," Snape continued, his voice more tightly controlled than it had been, "for the time being, your feet will remain firmly planted on the ground."

"Fine. Sir." Harry made to shoulder past Snape, deciding that he would at least pick up the yard, which was littered with detritus from his work on the roof.

Snape caught him by the upper arm, though. "We are not through," he spat. "You will explain to me this instant what you thought you were doing, going up there in direct defiance of my orders."

Harry shrugged weakly. Truth be told, his reasoning seemed flimsy and petty now.

"No, Potter, that is not an acceptable response. Try again."

"Because I'm arrogant and aggravating and thought it would be fun to disobey you."

Snape's hand tightened on his arm. "If you do not straighten up and give me an honest answer this instant, boy, you can spend the rest of your evening with your nose in a corner like the recalcitrant child you are proving to be!"

"I did give you an honest answer!" Harry cried, trying to twist out of Snape's grip. "What more do you want me to say? I wanted to make you angry, so I did exactly what you told me not to do! And I'm not sorry for it, so go ahead! Stick me in a corner, or do whatever else it is you want to do to punish me! I don't care!"

"Why did you want me angry?" Snape asked, his voice suddenly intense and far too level to be natural.

"Spite, like you said—"

"No, that's not it. What did you really intend?"

Harry tried once more to pull himself out of Snape's grasp, but Snape had his arm in a vice grip, and this time when Harry started struggling the Potions Master hauled him back so that his back was against the wall of the house, trapped there by Snape's body. "I hate you and I wanted to set you off! There's nothing more than that—"

"There is," Snape cut him off once more. "Tell me."

"It's not some big mystery! For God's sake—"

"We can do this all night, Potter. Why did you deliberately seek to anger me?"

"Because I know how to deal with you when you're angry, all right?" Harry burst out at last. "Because I know what to expect. Because if you're actively hating me, then you won't waste any more time on pitying me."

Snape released him suddenly, snatching his hand back as if Harry's arm had suddenly become red-hot metal. "I don't pity you—"

"The hell you don't! I don't need you being nice just because you feel sorry for me, all right? No more walking on tenterhooks, telling me to rest and thinking I'm so fragile that I can't put up with a vegetable I don't like. You just go back to being a vicious, vindictive bastard and we'll get through however much longer I have to stay here, all right?"

"I do not think that you are fragile, Potter—"

"You think I'm going to crumble to dust from missing a few meals! That I'm going to kill myself just by doing a few household chores! I can't believe this, but I actually preferred it when you were a cold-hearted bastard. So go back to that, all right? It'll be easier on the both of us, and you won't have to strain yourself anymore pretending to care about me."

Snape watched him silently for a few moments, expression impassive once again, thought this time with a much greater intensity of focus. Harry shifted uneasily beneath the weight of it.

Eventually the waiting became too much to bear. "Well?" Harry demanded at last.

"Well?" Snape echoed, tilting his head slightly and arching one brow.

"What's my punishment?"

"A shower and an early bed time. Go. You may read in your room, but I want you in bed as soon as you've finished bathing."

Harry couldn't help but gape at the man. "I told you I'm not fragile—"

"Mr. Potter, you have already severely displeased me this evening. If you cannot follow my very simple instructions, I will escort you upstairs and see to it that you do as you are told for once. I somehow doubt that you want it to come to that."

Harry continued to glare bitterly at Snape. "Yes, sir."

It occurred to Harry that Snape was still not being much of a bastard. And that just made Harry all the angrier.