The bathroom was clean. Harry couldn't help but stare into the transformed space for a good while immediately after mounting the stairs. Snape had not only magicked it clean, but he'd stocked it with new matching towels, and even gone so far as to set out a small collection of toiletries on the counter.

Harry figured the man had gotten sick of the state of the room and, since Harry no longer needed to be punished, had tidied it up.

He'd even fixed the plumbing, Harry discovered, after nearly scalding himself by cranking up the hot water as far as it would go. He'd known better than to make free with Snape's actual toiletries, of course; these were not some holdovers from previous residents, and were likely not meant for the precious Boy-Who-Lived, even if they were set out invitingly on the counter. Ha, Snape had likely done it deliberately, just so he could have something to yell about later. So he stuck to the remnants of the old bar of soap, which wasn't so bad. It was better than nothing.

But there were no other towels available, so Harry luxuriated in the overlarge seafoam bath towel that he found hanging on the rack. Small comfort, but Harry knew he could use more than a few of those, given how pear-shaped everything was going lately.

He dried off quickly, still doing his damnedest to keep all his whirling thoughts safely dammed behind a wall in his mind. Snape's utterly incomprehensible behavior. This… "punishment". His leniency in light of that awful interrogation….

Fuck Snape. Fuck the man's—whatever. Pity, even if Snape denied it. It was pity, after all, because what else would have Snape, the hell-born terror of Slytherin House, tiptoeing around poor Harry Potter, sending him for a shower and an early bedtime after being so blatantly disrespected? Christ, Snape hadn't even seemed mad. Irritated, yes, but if Harry had stood before him any other time and had the stones to tell him, to his face, that he'd done something just because he hated Snape, just to piss the man off, Snape would have buried him. A million points for disrespect, detention until he was thirty.

Not a bath and reading in bed.

Harry dressed himself quickly, once again forcing all those thoughts away. A few more days. Today was Wednesday, the trial was Friday. Friday afternoon he'd be headed back to his lovely relatives where he would be openly disdained. Where he would know exactly what to expect.

There, he would not make the mistake of spending too much time out of the house again. He would remain locked in his room as much as possible, even if it drove him absolutely mad. And he would work at scrubbing all memory of time spent with his hated professor from his mind.

He returned to his room, dredged up a textbook from his trunk (Herbology tonight) and settled back onto the bed. The heaviness of the bedclothes was a strange comfort after having had to make do with a mish-mash of clothing. There were even multiple pillows for him to fluff up and prop himself against, a luxury he'd never been afforded at the Dursley's.

He tried to reread the textbook. Tried to lose himself in the chapters and illustrations of fantastical magical plants (though Herbology had never been his favorite subject, per se). Tried to take interest in the magical cave fungi that glowed and gave off spores that would send most full-grown adults into a blood-frenzy, tearing at any moving creature in sight with their bare hands until the proper antidote was administered.

But all he could think about was the way Snape had shaken his head, all but forbidding Harry from doing the dishes. The way he'd ordered Harry down from the roof, livid, snarling about Harry falling and breaking his neck. The way he didn't seem to understand that Harry rode around at unfathomable speeds on a skinny stick chasing after a little golden ball, often going as far as thirty times as high as that damned roof, above ground that certainly had not been covered with Cushioning Charms.

Maybe the man really was worried about how Dumbledore would react. Ha, of course he was, because Harry was the precious, spoilt little savior, right? And the way his relatives had treated him had just been overlooked up until this point. Snape feared that if he repeated the treatment, Dumbledore would rake him over the coals.

Snape still didn't get what Harry had told him, then. That Dumbledore wouldn't care so long as Harry was alive at the end of the summer. And he would be. The Dursleys were horrible, but they weren't that horrible.

Pity and fear of Dumbledore. That was all this was.

Harry gave up reading, letting his Herbology text thunk carelessly to the ground beside his bed. He was tired after the morning anyway, and wasn't that pathetic? He'd worked full days at the Dursleys without feeling this exhausted. Or maybe he had been this exhausted, but hadn't had the chance to really notice, seeing as he was expected to muddle through and complete his chores without complaint.

He fell into an uneasy sleep late that night after hours of staring at the wall, wondering why Snape had ordered him down from the roof instead of recasting those oh-so-important Cushioning Charms.

XXXXX

Thursday passed uneventfully, with Snape ignoring Harry (except to issue stern reminders at mealtimes). Harry busied himself with cleaning up the backyard, but that didn't take much time, and as soon as that chore had been completed he found himself at a loss for what to do. Snape had disappeared into his lab, which Harry had confirmed was in the cellar, and Harry knew better than to disturb the man's work.

So the hours dragged on as Harry tried to amuse himself with his textbooks, which he read on the sofa in the parlor so that Snape could not come up for a random inspection and find fault with Harry's choice of seating.

His textbooks didn't do much to hold his attention. Harry almost wished for Snape to come back and start sniping at him, because that, at least, would make for a decent distraction. God, he would love to yell at the man some more. Though he wasn't stupid enough to start bellowing at the Professor out of the blue like some lunatic. Not yet, at least.

He was bored enough to risk browsing through Snape's bookshelves (though not brave enough, certainly, to touch any of the tomes). It was as odd a collection, he thought, as it was extensive. And not nearly as neglected as the rest of the house. There was not even a thin layer of dust on the shelves, which contained everything from Muggle literature to expensive-looking tomes on magical theory. Nothing on the Dark Arts, though Harry guessed that Snape wouldn't leave anything like that just lying around.

Actually, there were a few well-worn volumes on Defense that he thought he might not mind perusing. Not that he was suicidal enough to touch Snape's personal property. The man would skin him alive.

So Harry contented himself with re-reading his own books, even Potions (though the material from that quarter was dry enough to nearly put him to sleep). He was reviewing Transfigurations, thinking about how pleased McGonagall would be, when Snape swept into the parlor that evening.

"Dinner," he announced in the same cool, impersonal tone he'd adopted for the day.

Harry did not meet the man's stare. He carefully closed his book and set it on the coffee table, on top of the others he'd brought down. His body was stiff again beneath him, the muscles taut, as he waited for the inevitable confrontation. He'd been waiting the whole day, in fact.

Because surely Snape had plenty to say to him regarding his behavior the previous day. Surely he'd decided, after the appropriate seething, to take Harry up on the offer to return to the role of vicious tormentor. Surely he'd had enough time by now to have adequately formulated a plan to strip Harry down and reduce him to a sniveling mess.

But still Snape showed no indication that he even disliked Harry. Every fiber of his being seemed to project utter indifference.

Harry found he cared for this new attitude as much as he cared for the pity. At least the man's loathing was genuine; there was something to be said for honesty, after all.

Then again, maybe Snape had decided he was done wasting time on Harry Bloody Potter. Maybe he'd decided to do his best to ignore his unwanted house guest for the short time they had left in each other's company.

It didn't matter, Harry reminded himself. They'd weather the hearing tomorrow, and then he could count on not seeing Severus Bloody Snape again until the farce Hogwarts liked to label "Potions Class". So he grit his teeth, pushed himself to his feet, and trudged into the kitchen for what he hoped would be the second-to-last obligatory meal at the man's table.

Snape still did not let Harry serve himself, instead snatching Harry's plate and portioning out servings just as he'd done ever since returning from his mysterious errands the other day. Harry dug into the meal, knowing full well that he wouldn't be allowed to leave until he'd cleaned his plate. He'd found out the other day that Snape had surreptitiously cast some kind of Sticking Charm on his chair that would not release him until it deemed he'd consumed an appropriate amount. Stupid bastard.

"Your family will be at the hearing tomorrow," he informed the boy, "your cousin as a witness. I suspect the case will not be thrown out as quickly as one might hope, so I would prepare for a longer affair, possibly lasting into the afternoon."

Harry didn't know what to make of those words. A warning from Snape, then? Was he being told in advance so that he wouldn't lose himself and attack his cousin like some kind of deranged animal? "I can control myself, sir," he muttered coldly, using his fork to decimate his steamed carrots.

"Hm." A neutral sound, one of neither confidence nor doubt. Harry wanted to stab the man with his butter knife for it. "You may be called as a witness to a later hearing, once they've begun to try your cousin and his friends. It may be wise to prepare you with a Calming Draught—"

"I said I can control myself," Harry spat, digging his fork down so hard that the tines scraped into the porcelain and the metal started to give way. "Sir." He tried to push himself up from the table but the Sticking Charm was holding him fast. He growled in frustration, his hands both clenching into bloodless fists.

"It is not a question of control," Snape replied calmly. "You are bound to be affected by seeing your relatives, and in a combative setting where they will likely be doing their level best to prove you guilty—"

"Let me up," Harry interrupted, attempting to stand and taking the chair with him. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to you—"

"Mr. Potter, you will sit down and finish your meal." Snape's voice turned steely and sharp, leaving no room for disobedience. "This. Instant."

Harry had the sudden violent urge to knock his whole plate to the ground. To hell with decorum! To hell with not pissing Snape off! He'd already tried and failed yesterday, hadn't he? Maybe he'd get lucky today, end this strange mood, whatever it was.

Instead, he bit out, "I'm not hungry—"

"You are being childish, and if you do not cease these histrionics immediately I will remedy the situation myself by force-feeding you and sending you to bed. Is that clear?"

Ah. Humiliation. Because physical labor hadn't worked to break Harry, Snape was moving on to treating Harry like a child. That was what he'd done last night, wasn't it? Maybe he'd thought Harry to be a great deal more mortified than he actually was. Maybe he'd imagined that Harry had fumed all night at the sheer indignity of being sent to bed early.

"Fine," he agreed, meeting Snape's narrowed black eyes in challenge. "Go ahead. But I'm not going to sit here and listen to you go on about how much of a head case I am. I won't!"

"No one said anything of the sort. Now sit down"—this Snape reinforced with a burst of wandless magic that Harry had only previously seen from Dumbledore—"and do as you are told."

Now the chair itself was glued to the floor, rendering Harry entirely immobile. It appeared that Snape had not even made the amateur mistake of applying the Sticking Charm to Harry's clothes, which was a shame, because in that moment Harry would have gladly doffed his trousers just to be free of the bastard's presence.

Being trapped at the table, though, staring down an irate Snape, did not preclude Harry from fighting back, at least on some level. He folded his arms over his chest and stared the man down, his chest heaving with the force of his breathing. He glared steadily at Snape, daring the man to carry through with his threat.

Snape stared right back, but none of the disgusted fury that Harry had expected showed itself in his expression. Instead, his answering glare seemed entirely composed of frustration—exasperation, even. Whatever it was, it was too benign for Harry to trust.

After a few moments the man stood and swept out of the room. Harry was about to scream after him—was about ready to flip over the whole damned table, even—when Snape returned, a vial in hand. He set it on the table before Harry and commanded curtly, "Drink."

Harry shoved the vial away. "You're mad if you think I'm going to let you dose me with some—"

"It is a Calming Draught," Snape cut him off, "and clearly you need it if you are unable to even discuss tomorrow's proceedings without devolving into hysterics—"

"There's nothing to discuss, and there's nothing about tomorrow that is causing me to be hysterical! You think my aunt and uncle telling everyone I'm a criminal is something new? Do you know what they say about me when I'm away at Hogwarts, what they tell the neighbors? That I'm in a secure institute for Incurably Criminal boys. Why the hell do you think all of them just accepted that I'd committed a felony?"

"Potter—"

"I'm not hysterical, I'm pissed that I have to sit here and listen to you go on about how unstable I am when you don't know a damned thing. Honestly, I'd rather go back to jail and take my chances with the Death Eaters than deal with another second of you bullying me just because you can—"

"Potter!" Snape interrupted, raising his voice. The volume, and the dangerous note in it—the one that said that Snape was close to snapping—froze Harry's words in his throat and had him averting his gaze to the table. "Do not—ever—make flippant comments about your life, including ones concerning the many forces that could easily end it, in my presence. I will not countenance you making a mockery of the sacrifices made for you thus far. Is. That. Clear?"

That rebuke managed to touch Harry. Much as he hated Snape, much as he wished to pretend the bastard was always wrong, he knew the truth there. Knew it every time the Dementors approached, knew it from that agonized scream that he could not purge from his memory no matter how hard he tried. His mother, and his father, had given everything they possessed for him. The least he could do was show that he respected that. Even in front of Snape.

"Yes, sir," he replied quietly.

For a moment the room was silent, save for Snape's angry breathing, which gradually calmed with each passing second. Then at last the Professor continued. "I never remotely implied that you are unstable. You are about to face something of an ordeal tomorrow, one that I can imagine would unnerve any fully-fledged adult, not to mention a… young man… of your particular history."

Harry heard the hesitation, and was certain that Snape had just barely restrained himself from calling Harry a child, as if such a thing might set him off again. Which it probably would have.

"I merely thought to offer you a means of relief. An emotional dampening agent for the stress of tomorrow."

The words were even and… respectful. Harry's tongue felt stuck in his throat. He wanted to doubt Snape's sincerity, but it was hard to do so in face of this—a complete absence of any belittling comments or scathing retorts. And it was true, too, that he hadn't even said anything that offensive earlier—just offered the Calming Draught, and warned Harry about the Dursleys. And Harry had flown off the handle.

Damn it. No wonder Snape had brought him the Draught. Harry forced himself to take a few deep breaths, then replied as contritely as he could manage, "I'm sorry, sir. I… I didn't understand."

Three heartbeats of unbearable silence, and then Snape replied, his tone equally calm, "It is no matter. We will put it behind us."

Positively magnanimous, coming from Snape. Unbelievably so. But Harry knew the saying about gift horses.

Harry heard the soft chink of glass against wood, and lifted his head to find that Snape had slid the Calming Draught back toward him. So he wasn't about to let this go. Well, fine. Harry snatched it up, uncorked it, and downed it as quickly as he could. At least it was one of the chalkier brews rather than the bitter, unpleasant ones.

It did not take long, just seconds, for the blanket-like sensation of the draught to settle over him. His lingering anger faded to a bare prickling of irritation, and even that did not seem terribly important.

"Finish your meal."

Harry vaguely resented the high-handed way Snape passed off that order, but again, it was not enough to provoke a response. And with the fury in his stomach soothed by the potion he was able to fully recognize how hungry he was.

So he dragged his plate back in front of him, shot an irritated glare at Snape, and did as he was bade.

Snape settled back into his own chair, his dark eyes never leaving Harry. "We will leave at ten tomorrow so that we may arrive at the Apparition Point with time to spare. I expect you will be ready by that time, dressed in appropriate clothing for the hearing."

Harry's fogged mind began to mentally sift through the contents of his trunk. Yeah, he had a decent pair of trousers, and an old dress shirt of Dudley's that was a few years old, and therefore not horrendously oversized on him. He hoped that would meet Snape's exacting standards.

There was a pause, one that hung awkwardly over them for a moment, before Snape continued in that same level tone, "Do you have any concerns or questions?"

Harry poked at his green beans unenthusiastically as he tried to formulate a response. "I suppose I should have my things packed?" he mumbled at last. His thoughts strayed to the album in the shed. An unpleasant tingle of panic broke through the calm. He would have to find a way to retrieve it, preferably without Snape ever knowing…. Damn it, why hadn't this occurred to him sooner?

"For what?" Snape questioned, setting his own fork down rather suddenly.

Harry scraped his tines against the plate slightly. "To leave tomorrow. After…."

"And just where do you believe you will be going?"

Harry gripped the fork tightly enough that the hard edge of the metal bit into his hand. "Back to the Dursley's, since you said I'll be cleared—"

"You will not ever be returning to those wastes of flesh," Snape retorted quickly, his words harsh and decisive. "What makes you believe that you would be allowed after their disgraceful behavior?"

Harry sighed. "They really believe I'm a criminal, you know. It's ridiculous, but they're afraid of magic. I think if someone talks to them they won't make the mistake of letting me rot away in a detention facility again—"

"I am not referring to this most recent incident, Potter. Your relatives have been abusive and neglectful—"

The Calming Draught was definitely failing. Harry's voice notched up of its own accord, to a point that it blistered the flesh of his throat. "Don't you talk as if you know a damned thing! You forced all of that out of me, and you have it all twisted up!"

"There is no twisting those bare facts," Snape replied, his voice still soft and unperturbed. "But we are not going to argue this. You will not be returning to your relatives, not tomorrow, and not ever."

A touch of hope wormed its way into Harry's chest. "Where will I go, then? To the Burrow?" It was so early in the summer. He'd never expected that this would be an option, even.

Though that thought was immediately followed by the memory of the letter Mrs. Weasley had sent. And maybe it was petty and childish, but he didn't think he could bear to be in her care, not if that maternal front she put up was nothing after all. Not if she could turn and think the worst of him at the drop of a hat.

Snape did not respond immediately, and it was that delay that gave Harry his answer. But then the man spelled it out for him anyway. "No. You will not be going anywhere; you will remain here until we have decided such an arrangement is no longer in your best interests."

Harry dropped his fork and drew his arms back to himself. He wanted to wrap them around himself but he knew that Snape would scoff at him for that show of weakness. So he contented himself with clenching his fists in his lap.

"There—there has to be something else—"

"There is nothing. It is too much of a risk to place you with others while the Dark Lord is active—"

"You're pretending to serve him! How is having me stay here, right under his nose practically, not a risk?"

Snape sighed as one might when exasperated with a stubborn child. "It is precisely for that reason that remaining here with me is your best option. I will know before the others what he might be planning, or if we are called, in which case you will be removed to a safe location—"

"Why can't I just stay in this 'safe location' then? Because it's Hogwarts and students aren't allowed? This is my life we're talking about—"

"Yes, Potter, we are all well aware. And you are in no position to understand the complex factors that we must consider when making these decisions. We will just have to learn to bear each other's company for a little longer."

Harry clenched his fists more tightly, so that his short nails dug into his palms. "I'm not a child. You might try actually explaining things to me before deciding that they're too horribly complex for my little brain to comprehend. Except we all know what you think of my brain, so why am I even bothering—"

"You will not bait me into a screaming match, Mr. Potter. Finish eating."

"No!" Harry retorted without thinking. "Not until you explain to me why I have to stay here. There has to be something else. I could stay with Hermione, maybe, or—or Remus." Though he remembered as soon as he said it that he actually didn't want to stay with Remus. Or speak to him at all, for that matter. Never mind that Remus was a werewolf and therefore legally incapable of acting as his guardian. "Maybe Neville—"

"I have explained," Snape interrupted, "but you have not deigned to listen. The danger is too great; the protection measures are inadequate. Lupin is not legally allowed to look after you. Your godfather is a wanted fugitive. The Weasley home and the Granger residence are far too vulnerable, not to mention prime targets for Death Eater raids. I have already agreed to house and protect you for the remainder of the summer—"

"Well, I haven't agreed, not that it means a damned thing to any of you! The Dursleys already agreed to take me on too, so just dump me back there. I'll stay in the house, okay? I won't go beyond the yard. You can even do your fancy little spell to keep me there if you want. I'm not staying here—"

"You are," Snape hissed, bringing his hand down hard on the table, causing Harry to flinch. "That is final, not open to discussion or negotiation. Bring it up again, Potter, and I will have you writing lines on respecting the judgment of your elders until your hand cramps. Have I made myself clear?"

Harry forced himself to stare down at his lap. Seeing Snape's sneer would just drive him further into a frenzy at this point, and that was the last thing they needed. So he forced out instead, through clenched teeth, "Crystal, sir."

"I have work to see to. You will finish your meal and retire for the night. The hex will release once you have cleaned your plate. Do not test me, Potter, not on this." With that Snape swept out of the room, a gliding mass of seething shadows.

Harry longed to fling the whole damned plate across the room, to hear it shatter against the wall. He wanted to scream after Snape that he was an ass, that he wouldn't be forced to live out the rest of his summer here, the only place on the face of the planet that was worse than the Dursley's . He wanted to bend his silverware back just to alleviate some of the indescribable rage that was coursing through him.

He did none of those things, though. He slowly counted to ten, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He let his nails continue to dig deep into the flesh of the palms so that the pain would ground him. And then, after several long moments, when he finally felt that he was calm, he picked up his fork and resumed eating. He wasn't about to provoke Snape and see what the man would do to have his way.

And as he chewed methodically, barely tasting the food, he revised his inner mantra. One more day became two more months. Eight more weeks. Sixty more days.

But no matter how he tried to reformulate it, the rest of summer spent in this dingy little house with Snape sounded like a sentence that would last for something just short of an eternity.

A/N: Dear readers, thank you all for the lovely responses. This, unfortunately, is the end of all that I have pre-written up until this point, but there will be more chapters soon (I hope!). Because I forgot to put it in the initial description, this story is in response to a Potions and Snitches challenge by nnjjj entitled "But He's Going to Kill Me". You can find the full description by searching in your preferred search engine with that info if you so desire. As always, I deeply appreciate all my readers, especially those of you who take the time to leave a comment. Y'all make my day! Cheers, ~Mel