Chapter 14

"He's a bloody lunatic." Harry stroked a hand over Hedwig's head, smiling a little to himself as the snowy owl closed her eyes, seemingly relishing the touch. "He doesn't even want me here, but he's making me stay. And he went and… and basically assaulted the Dursleys, can you believe that? Read their bloody minds…."

Hedwig just continued to lean into his careful finger, shuffling a bit on the ledge of the window to reposition herself.

Harry sighed and withdrew his hand so that he could reposition himself. He'd been sitting on the floor for some time now, long enough that his body had cramped up from the hard wood. Probably for a few hours now, he figured, since he'd been waiting for Hedwig to arrive since he'd wolfed down the food Snape had left for him and climbed the stairs.

"He told me I could do magic too. Bloody madman, playing mind games probably." Harry crawled back up onto his bed, fingering the wand in his pocket as he did so.

Hedwig hooted softly in reply. Harry chose to imagine it was in agreement.

"Practically poisoned me with truth serum, too, and does he feel bad about that? Not one bit. Doesn't say a word about it the next day either, as if it's normal to use illegal potions on your ward. And then he has to go an interrogate our neighbor… bastard. And he's not telling me things too, did I tell you that? None of them are. Not that that's any different than usual."

Harry glanced at the stack of letters he'd dropped carelessly onto the worn wooden desk in the room. For just a moment he'd been tempted to read them—even just the ones from Ron and Hermione, which he'd found near the top of the pile.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. His mind wandered straight back to the Third Task and Cedric, and the horrified expressions on everyone's faces when they realized that he'd returned with a body and tall tales of Voldemort in a graveyard. And if they blamed him, or didn't believe him….

Harry tore his gaze away from Hermione's neatly-addressed envelope. None of it mattered. He didn't need them. Look at how Ron had turned his back on Harry just the year before! He wouldn't go through that again. He was sick of relying on people only to have them flake out or turn on him viciously.

Still, the loneliness clawed at him. Hedwig was all well and good, but she was no substitute for a human friend. Maybe….

Harry gave in and snatched up Hermione's letter, his heart thudding harder and harder in his chest with each passing second. If she was as bad as the others, he could just stop reading, that simple.

Carefully, he slipped a finger beneath the edge of the envelope and broke the seal before sliding the letter out.

Harry, it read,

Please answer our letters. We are worried for you. I know we haven't been able to tell you much, but we couldn't. We've been told that it's too dangerous to say certain things in these messages because there is no telling who might be able to read them.

I know where you're staying. No one would tell us at first, but finally Mr. Weasley let it slip. I don't think he meant to. Harry, I know it must be awful for you. I hope that you've been treated well and that things have not been as bad as they have been previously. I hope you won't have to stay much longer. Ron has been pressuring his parents into talking to Dumbledore about taking you in, and I've already written to my parents as well to see if we could host you. We don't have a very grand house or anything but it would certainly be better than your current situation. I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be happy to have you at the Burrow too.

I've just gotten our supply list for the year. It seems like our O.W.L. year will be exhausting. I've already started a list of supplemental reading. I wrote it on the back for you just in case. I hope we can all go to Diagon Alley together to get our things.

I hope you've been talking to someone about what happened this summer. I worry very much about you, and you've hardly said anything in the two replies you've sent (though Ron reminded me that you had to send Hedwig to the Burrow because of your uncle, so I suppose that's understandable). You need someone to help you process all you've been through.

I hope you answer soon. Please take care of yourself.

With love,

Hermione.

Harry clutched the missive to his chest desperately, fighting the sudden tightness in his throat. He hadn't expected that. But why not? Hermione loved him, he knew. It was stupid to think that she'd hate him, or believe the lies the Ministry was spreading about him. She'd stood by him for years through thick and thin, always doing what she thought was best for him no matter what the cost.

A small smile twisted his lips when he thought of his Firebolt, which she'd reported to McGonagall in their third year. And then the smile twisted into a grimace when he remembered how poorly he and Ron had treated her after she'd done that, when clearly she'd only been thinking of Harry nearly being bucked from his broom during his first year.

And now she was concerned for him. She knew he was with Snape, though she'd been afraid to say as much in writing, given her concerns about how he was being treated.

With trembling hands, Harry set her letter aside and found the second letter he'd decided to read, the one from Ron.

Harry, it began.

I am SO sorry. I tried to tell Mum but she wouldn't listen. I know you didn't do anything like they said you did, and Hermione too, and we tried to tell them that it was your nasty cousin, and I even tried to get dad to remember the time we picked you up before the Quidditch Cup (though that didn't help because it only made him think of Fred and George and what they did to your cousin). And honestly I think that's what Mum's thinking of too. She's used to yelling at them and she's upset and scared for you, so please don't take anything she sends you to heart. She keeps talking about the letter she wrote you, and I keep trying to tell her that she doesn't even know the whole story, and she just comes back with "Ronald Weasley you stay OUT of this". So guess what I'm trying to say is: sorry, mate.

Harry couldn't stop the grin from curling over his lips. Scratched in next to those bolstering words in the margin was an addendum from Ron: "Hermione read this over and says I'm being redundant, so ignore the last line (though I tried to tell her it was a letter not an essay)".

Harry continued with the body of the letter.

I hope what Hermione thinks about where you're at isn't true. She's clever and all, cleverest witch at Hogwarts, but I can't believe they'd dump you with that grease stain. I know Dumbledore was upset but I can't believe he'd just leave you with you-know-who (not You-Know-Who, of course, but you probably know who I'm talking about, the one who would likely get off on expelling us). Hermione keeps reminding me not to give names "just in case", so sorry for all the round-about talk here.

Anyway, if you are there, I hope the git's not at his git-iest (though I bet he is), and that you're making his life just as miserable. Maybe they'll get you out of there soon, hopefully before Hermione drives me 'round the bend with all her talk of O.W.L.s.

Please write soon. Hermione's really worried. And me too.

Ron

Harry took a deep breath and very gently placed Ron's letter with Hermione's. He tried to tell himself he wasn't crying. That he hadn't believed any of the stupid thoughts running through his head about the two of them hating him now. Of course they didn't. How much had the three of them been through together?

He tried to tell himself that he was just tired. That he definitely wasn't exhausted from anxiety, or light-headed now with relief.

Harry cast a glance over at his other letters, briefly contemplating reading them just to see what would be said. Had anyone bothered to let them know that he'd officially been cleared in a Muggle court? That Snape had interrogated him with illegal truth serum and cleared him privately as well?

Ha. Probably not. He tried to imagine a brooding Snape inviting Sirius and Lupin for tea.

I just wanted to inform you that Mr. Potter was framed, and that you have treated him very badly. You might wish to write to him to apologize.

Unlikely. He was more likely to dance a can-can with Voldemort at their next Death Eater meeting. Most likely he'd tried to keep to himself, doing whatever they did at those secretive meetings, perhaps discussing Harry's plight with the Headmaster so that he could figure out when the Boy Who Lived to Plague Him would be out of his house. Likely then he'd been "accosted", as Snape had put it, by Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, and Sirius with letters demanding that Harry give some kind of response to indicate he'd learned his lesson. And Snape had probably taken them with a sneer and a command to stop pestering him.

Harry shoved his three unopened letters into the top drawer of the desk, and stashed the ones from Ron and Hermione away in the space behind the molding where he'd initially hidden the first batch of letters. Then he set to fishing out quill, ink, and parchment from his trunk, so that he could write at least two replies.

Since he was writing to Ron, Harry thought, he might as well send the Marauder's Map back with Hedwig, just so Snape wouldn't get any bright ideas should Harry overstep some line.

And then a thought hit him like a Bludger from behind. His album. His pulse began to thrum, his heart thudding harder, as his thoughts shifted to that most precious possession. It was still locked up in the shed, possibly moldering away or destroyed by pests….

He had to get it. He had to send it to Ron as soon as possible. And he couldn't let Snape know.

Oh, simple, he laughed to himself bitterly. Sneak your way around the mind-reading spy who already believes you're constantly up to no good, who's watching you like a hawk. What could be easier?

If only he had a certain cloak. But no, that was more than likely stored by Snape for "safekeeping".

Harry threw himself onto his bed, fighting the strong urge to give in to despair even as another thought hit him.

He'd never made tea at five. He'd slept through it.

Great. Another black mark on his record in Snape's eyes. Though at least the man had had the decency not to mention anything. Merlin, the least onerous of all the chores he could possibly be assigned and he'd managed to neglect it.

Tomorrow, he told himself. He wouldn't forget tomorrow. And tonight he would figure out some means of retrieving his album from the shed without letting Snape know of its existence.

XXXXX

Snape was still up. What in the hell was the man doing still awake past midnight?

Harry had stayed up himself, barely daring to breathe as he pressed into the hallway, the hard length of his wand still secured in his waistband. He'd stepped slowly, carefully down the stairs, feeling out each floorboard before placing his foot.

He'd paused halfway down when he'd been able to peer into the sitting room, and found the potions professor there, ensconced in an armchair with a book propped open on his knee.

Harry's breath caught when the man's eyes flickered up to him.

"Did you need something?"

Harry swallowed thickly, even as his mind blanked. "No," he answered, too quickly.

Snape quirked a disbelieving brow at him. "Very well." He paused for a moment, then added, just the slightest bit snidely, "You do not need to sneak about, Potter. You have not been confined to your room."

Harry could not help but flush at those words. "Right."

"You had enough to eat for supper?" Snape asked suddenly, the question sharp.

"Yeah," he snapped. Obsessive prat. As if Harry couldn't be trusted to feed himself properly. He'd proven his point to Snape; he certainly wasn't going to continue to deprive himself now.

Snape continued to stare him down, that single brow arched still in challenge. "Oh?"

"I did! Want to feed me truth serum again to make sure I'm not lying?"

Snape's lips thinned at Harry's reply, but at least it was enough to get him to turn his attention back to his book. "You're welcome to anything in the house, should you ever desire it."

Harry mentally shoved those words aside. They meant nothing, he reminded himself. Snape was just still worried about Dumbledore thinking Harry was too scrawny. That was it.

"I assume there is a reason for you to be up at this hour?" Snape continued, not bothering to lift his eyes from the page now.

A lie, Harry thought, and quick. One that wouldn't have Snape too suspicious. "Thought I heard something."

One quick, derisive glance from the professor told Harry all he'd needed to know. He wasn't believed. "Well, whatever you are doing, finish it up quickly. It's late enough as it is. We are leaving early tomorrow, and I'd rather not deal with an irritable, sleep-deprived teen."

Harry forced his temper back, reminding himself that snapping in response to Snape's jibes had never gone favorably for him. "Yes, sir," he ground out instead. And with that he retreated up the stairs, but not before hearing Snape's heavy, exasperated sigh.

Harry threw himself back into his blankets, his blood boiling still boiling. Right, he thought to himself, because he'd been the irritable one. Snape, of course, was always pleasant as a bed of roses, clearly.

How many days were left in the summer? Harry started to count, but he lost track quickly as his over-tired, over-extended mind succumbed to sleep.

XXXXX

Harry was up the next morning before Snape even had a chance to rap on his door. He forced himself out of bed before the sun rose and shuffled into the bathroom to attend to his morning needs, then combed his hair and washed his face for good measure, before heading downstairs to grab his own breakfast.

He was hungry, after all, and he doubted Snape would leave him be if he decided for whatever reason to skip it. He settled for some bread and jam with a glass of milk to wash it all down.

It was just as he was cleaning up his plate in the sink that Snape finally turned up. Harry heard the groan of one of the old wooden floorboards, and swung around to see what was going on.

Harry nearly let his plate clatter into the metal sink when he saw Snape. The man had, for the first time in Harry's memory, opted for clothing that was not black. Instead he'd pulled on a dark grey jumper and dark slacks—nothing too wildly different from his usual somber tones. But the fact that he'd opted for casual garb was no small thing, and the effect was transformative. Instantly the man seemed… more vulnerable. Human.

Snape wasted no time commenting on Harry's wide eyes. Instead, his own shrewd gaze fell immediately to the sink. "Did you wish for something more substantive? Eggs, bacon?"

"No, sir—"

"Are you certain?" Now that critical gaze swept to him. "I realize that you are… uncomfortable here. But I meant what I said last night: you are welcome to whatever you wish. If you have preferences, let me know so that I can accommodate them the next time I'm out purchasing groceries."

Harry tried to swallow past his suddenly parched throat. He turned his attention back to washing his already-clean plate, desperate for any distraction from the man. "I'm not too particular, sir. Just about anything will do." There. Now Snape wouldn't think he had to do Harry any favors in this.

"Hm." Snape did not sound disbelieving, just, strangely enough, dissatisfied. "I would still imagine that you have preferences, though, as I said. Things you enjoy eating."

Harry heaved a deep breath and transferred his plate to the wire drying rack beside the sink. "I said I'd do three meals a day and I haven't gone back on my word. You don't need to act like you're going to have to coax me to the table."

"That is not why I am asking."

Harry clenched his fists to himself and closed his eyes. He counted to three. And when he felt he had a reign on his temper again, he demanded, "Why, then? You're—you won't drop this."

"No. I won't. You are not used to having your wishes taken into account, but that will not be true here, especially not for inconsequential things such as groceries." Snape moved forward, his dark eyes watchful, until he was just feet away from Harry at the kitchen counter. He then occupied himself with pulling out a French press and a bag of ground coffee, and set to preparing that. "Likewise, I imagine you have some preferences when it comes to your toiletries. Last time I was out I merely grabbed a few standard things for you, but if there is anything you would like specifically—"

"Toiletries?" Harry cut him off, his voice faint with shock. Snape—what? Had bought him shampoo and such? When had that been?

"Personal care products," Snape clarified impatiently.

"I know what the word means!" Harry bit out. How stupid did his professor believe him to be? "I just mean that you never told me—"

"I left them on the counter in your bathroom." Snape deftly measured an amount of coffee out with a plastic tablespoon and dumped it into the press, then moved over to the sink to fill it with water. "I did not think I could make it more obvious."

Your bathroom, the man had said. First he'd come downstairs in a jumper, and now he was referring to Harry's bathroom. What was the world coming to?

"I thought those were yours—"

"I have my own bathroom adjoining my room." Snape set the press on the counter and withdrew his wand to tap it against the glass. "What have you been using to wash then? Surely you haven't been going without. I would have doubtless noticed the lapse in personal hygiene."

Harry blushed fiercely at that comment. It wasn't an insult, per se, but it was also none of Snape's goddamn business. It was on the tip of his tongue to snipe back at the man, something about having definitely noticed the complete absence of hygiene in the potions master, but he managed to restrain himself.

After all, they were going out in public together in a short while. It was best to keep their relations as amicable as possible.

"Well. You know to make free use of those things now. Go look through them to see if we'll need to pick anything else up while we're out today. And make a list of casual clothing you'll need as well. We'll see to your robes in Diagon, and grab the rest from Muggle London."

"I'm sure it's all fine," Harry mumbled, feeling his blush deepen. This was… weird. Beyond weird. He figured that Snape would more or less drag him to a few essential stores before rushing him home. This thoroughness… it was discomfiting. Like he was actually invested in doing this properly.

Probably because he felt so sorry for Harry, having never had proper guardians to take him. Which Harry didn't care about in the least.

"Go check," Snape insisted, drawing out a mug for himself. "You'll need a list for clothes shopping regardless."

"I know what I need," Harry countered.

"Recite it for me, then." Snape moved then to the bread box, everything about his carriage relaxed and unconcerned. Harry hated how at ease the man was, such a sharp contrast to the way he was feeling.

Constantly out of place and off-kilter. Snape could at least have the courtesy to be a little put-out by the fact that his most hated student had taken up residence in his summer home. Or the dump he'd decided to renovate for the summer. Whatever this place was.

"I don't need to… it's not any of your business what I'm going to buy for myself!"

"You are under my care. Therefore, provisioning you for the schoolyear falls within my purview."

"I'll have clothes. That should be more than enough for you—"

"Very well, I will make a list for you." Snape drew his wand and with a wave he'd summoned a pen and a spiral notebook from one of the kitchen drawers. Both hovered in the air, as if poised to take notes. Harry grimaced in distaste, reminded of Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill. "I will assume that we will discard everything you have accumulated from your relatives over the years. So, starting fresh, we will need two dozen pairs of socks, a half a dozen undershirts, a dozen… hm, no, better to say a dozen and a half… boxers or briefs, Potter?"

Harry had had enough by then. Angrily he snatched the list and pen from the air, fighting to keep his temper in check. Snape liked humiliating him, he reminded himself. The more he reacted, the more he would be playing into Snape's hands.

"I'll make the damned list, then."

"As you wish." Snape glanced over his shoulder back at Harry. "Do you drink coffee?"

Harry just glared for a moment at the man, who gazed steadily at him, one hand resting on the bag of bread he'd pulled out. When Snape's questioning expression did not waver, Harry finally decided it was best to just answer.

"Never tried it."

"You're welcome to a cup, should you wish." And with that Snape turned back to his breakfast, withdrawing his wand to make his toast.

Instead, Harry retreated upstairs, his head still spinning.

Once safely inside his room (Snape's guest room, he reminded himself fiercely), he at last allowed himself to contemplate what had just gone on downstairs. This was more than neutrality. This was… well, downright kindness, if he was being honest.

Well, apart from that little power trip with his shopping list. But even then, Snape had seemed to derive no sadistic pleasure from interrogating Harry about something as embarrassing as his pants. Rather, his inventorying had seemed perfunctory at best, brusque and business-like. As if he'd truly only been making a list for their outing and not tormenting Harry.

Snape was committed to fulfilling his duty now. That was all Harry could make out. Obnoxiously committed, even. That explained why he'd pried so much into Harry's home life, and why he was being so thorough now, seeing that Harry was fed and clothed and all. Whatever his other faults, and however much of a bastard he was, the potions master would see to his basic needs, at least.

And stupid as it was, he was actually a little relieved about what Snape had said about helping himself to food. He'd known as much, especially after all the times Snape had harped on him about eating properly. Still, it was nice after having lived with the Dursleys, who'd begrudged him every crumb, to know that he wouldn't get himself into trouble for making a sandwich in the afternoon. It was honestly more than he'd expected from Snape.

But the man had said more, too. That Harry could request foods. That his preferences would be taken into account. Harry didn't know how much he believed that, if he was honest with himself. But then, part of him argued, Snape wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it. The man was many things, but he was not inconsistent.

Harry wished for a moment that Hedwig was here still, rather than off delivering his replies to Hermione and Ron. Already he felt bereft of her familiar presence.

His eyes strayed to the desk, where the three unopened letters still sat. Snape hadn't said anything about them, either, even though he'd been so adamant just the last night about Harry replying to them.

He frowned to himself. He would see to them later, he decided. This afternoon, maybe. He didn't want to, but he knew that Snape would be after him again. And he really didn't want to argue with the man. If anything, he wanted to continue to make himself as scarce as possible to minimize their interactions, especially now that he knew for certain that he was stuck with the professor for the foreseeable future.

With a final sigh, Harry thrust open his trunk and set to deciding what he could salvage from it.

XXXXX

Diagon Alley was just as breathtaking as Harry had always remembered it to be. That hadn't changed one bit, despite the fact that he was now being escorted around by a Polyjuiced Snape, with Harry himself heavily glamored so that he would not be recognized.

Snape was parading around as someone Harry did not recognize at all, a random Muggle if the Potions Master was to be believed. A slightly shorter, sturdier man, older by Snape himself by at least a decade, with a grim countenance and unkempt sandy-blond hair. Snape had opted for a tailored, long-tailed woolen coat rather than his usual flowing teaching robes, which, along with the man's perpetually dour expression, made him look like an SS officer (or so Harry secretly thought). All he was missing was the red swastika armband.

Even Snape's foreboding presence couldn't entirely mute the sheer euphoria that had swept over Harry the moment they'd rounded the corner from the alleyway they'd Apparated into. The whole of the wizarding street was abuzz with activity that morning, shoppers hurrying to and fro with their bizarre purchases. One man Harry spied, a stocky fellow in a shimmering emerald cloak, appeared to be carrying a very large stack of hats that swayed dramatically with every few steps, yet never seemed to fall.

Another woman just around the corner, a plump witch with flyaway straw-gold hair, was chasing after three small children, all of whom seemed to be hurling fireworks after each other, the kind that burst into multicolored showers of sparks. They were giggling and squealing as she chased after them, screaming that they were going to put each other's eyes out.

On yet another corner was a gaily dressed wizard in patchwork robes using his wand to create elaborate bubbles for a crowd of small children. He was just finishing up two dragons as Harry's attention turned to them. Harry watched in awe for a moment as the two transparent creatures beat their wings, flying up a few feet and circling each other warily before diving in at each other.

"Come along, Henry," Snape muttered in his unrecognizable voice. "We've no time to dawdle."

Harry managed to tear his gaze away from the spectacle. "Yes, sir."

"Books first, then robes. Then we will head to the Muggle part of town for your clothing. We will pick our wizarding purchases on our way out, before we catch the train."

Harry frowned to himself. He didn't understand why the man had insisted on taking the train into London, then Apparating from there to the Apparition point in the Alley. It had been a long ride, and Snape had had to keep quaffing his disgusting potion in order to remain disguised. Harry's only conclusion was that the man was beyond paranoid.

But perhaps with good reason.

Flourish and Blott's was first. The summer crowd was thick as ever, with gaggles of the lower forms massing in the textbook section. Their raucous laughter and squeals occasionally split the air, punctuated more often than not by parental reprimands. Harry recognized a fair number of them—by face, if not by name.

For a moment he wished he wasn't disguised. It had seemed like ages since he'd been at Hogwarts. The last time….

And then the flood of memories of the Third Task hit him, quashing all desire to be seen as Harry Potter, the boy who'd dragged Cedric Diggory's lifeless body back to Hogwarts. The boy who thought he'd seen Voldemort. The liar, the cheat, the fraud. The boy who'd let Cedric die.

"Your list." Snape's Polyjuiced voice drew him out of his morose thoughts. The man was offering out a folded piece of parchment. "I will be browsing near the front. Find me when you have everything."

"Okay." Harry took the parchment and started to look it over. There weren't too many titles, at least. "Um, when I go to pay—"

"I will take care of matters."

"I thought you said that you and the Headmaster had made arrangements—"

"We have," Snape growled impatiently, shooting a mild glare at Harry. "In the interest of preserving anonymity for the both of us, I will be handling payments for you today. You need not concern yourself any further with it."

"You have access to my vault then?" Harry asked faintly, feeling a bit queasy. Not that Snape would empty it or anything, but… well, Harry couldn't quite place it. Maybe… maybe it was the way that vault had always represented security to him. Independence. It meant he could provide for himself, that he didn't need to ask anyone else for anything.

"I am currently acting as your guardian. Do not tell me you believe I will abuse any privileges that might grant me—"

"No," Harry replied quickly, wincing at the irritation in Snape's voice. "I just… I'm not used to… to having someone else…." Harry swallowed thickly. God, he sounded pathetic. Like a sniveling orphan. "Never mind. I'll just… yeah."

With that Harry turned to gather his books.

XXXXX

The rest of the shopping was… not terrible, Harry had to admit. Snape had mostly let Harry take care of things, only stepping in to arrange for payment at the very end. Harry wished he had a little more control over that end of things—it was his money, after all. But he knew better than to challenge Snape on the matter a second time.

The only time things had been less than pleasant had been just before the Muggle portion of the trip. Snape had just finished checking over Harry's list. He'd appeared to ponder it carefully for a few unbearably long minutes before making some minor corrections. He added a Muggle winter coat and spring jacket, new trainers and hiking boots, two button-up shirts, casual clothing, three good belts, and a few other odds and ends that, Harry had to begrudgingly admit, made a great deal of sense.

Slippers and a night robe, for example. Harry never would have thought of those things on his own, but he'd longed for something of the sort when he'd awoken in the dorm over the years and needed to make the trip to the loo. Or just wanted to spend a lazy weekend morning lounging before the fire.

Yes, Harry could admit that all the corrections Snape had made were sound, but it was the way that the man had done it. He'd not suggested them at all. He'd announced them, as if Harry were completely incapable of managing things on his own, as if he hadn't shifted for himself all his life. That alone was enough to put him in a sour mood.

But then Snape had refused to answer even simple questions about how his money was being handled.

"I get that you were able to arrange things with Gringotts for the—the, uh, other stuff we got," Harry began as they'd headed down to the bus stop nearest to the Leaky Cauldron. He was mindful not to mention wizarding things directly, just in case. "But for the rest of it—"

"What did I tell you earlier?" Snape had demanded irritably, casting a dark look back at Harry.

"Nothing! You explained nothing. You just said it was handled—"

"And that you were not to concern yourself with it. Arrangements have been made."

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, folding his arms over his chest. He wasn't going to put up with this. Snape had no right. He was going to have his answers, even if he had to throw a Dudley-level tantrum to get them.

Snape made it about twenty paces ahead before he realized that Harry was no longer following him. Harry could hear the man snarl as he whipped around on the sidewalk and stalked back to tower over his charge.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" he hissed, his teeth clenched and bared.

"I want to know what these arrangements are, because I'm the one who has to budget for another three years at least—"

"You've plenty of gold, believe me," Snape retorted, the words bitter. "I will inform you if you risk going over budget, though I believe that is extremely unlikely—"

"I don't know what my budget is! I still have to figure it out! It's not up to you to decide—"

"It is not something you need to concern yourself with, as I have already said. Now drop this matter and come along."

"It's my money! It's my responsibility! I've handled it for four years already, haven't I? I don't need you to come in here and hold my hand—"

"I am not holding your hand, I am alleviating an unnecessary worry. One would think you would be at least a little grateful—"

"I never asked you to do a damned thing for me, so don't act like a martyr!"

Snape glared at him silently for a moment, then finally raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, just as he'd done the previous night, as if Harry was simply too much for him to bear. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet—tight, restrained, laced with tension. "Everything has already been arranged for. You are welcome to request an accounting of your vault from the goblins as soon as we return home for the day, but that will not change the fact that you have more than enough money to see to your basic needs today. Our intention when making these arrangements was to give you a break from, as you have put it, having to shift for yourself. Now, I would rather simply finish this trip without further unnecessary complications. Might we proceed?"

Harry was still bristling at the man's words. He didn't want to simply proceed, and he doubted that Snape had done anything with consideration for him. Likely the man thought Harry too incompetent to see to his own finances. But Harry doubted that Snape would ever admit that.

"Fine." Harry knew he sounded petulant, but he didn't care.

"Cut the attitude," Snape warned quietly, his voice turning deadly calm. "Or I shall make your purchases for you and end this trip early."

Harry knew his cheeks were warm. He wished that they weren't. "I just—look, will you take me to return things if it turns out—"

"Merciful Merlin, boy, do you have any clue as to how much money was left to you?" Snape growled in exasperation, dropping his hand. "You could comfortably purchase an entire department store! Have you never glanced at an account statement in your life?"

Harry clamped his mouth shut, hoping that Snape would just drop the whole topic and insist they get on with their business. He was far too embarrassed to admit to the man that he didn't know how to do any such thing. And he knew better than to open himself up to so much ridicule.

But, as it turned out, Snape did not need Harry to respond vocally in order to surmise the answer to his question.

The surprising thing was what the man chose to do with his conclusion. "I will show you sometime this week how to request and read such things." Now his voice was soft and even, no trace of judgment in it. "I assumed…." But he allowed those words to trail off. "Come. Let's finish this." Snape paused long enough to slip a small flask from his belt and take the necessary swig to renew the Polyjuice, before turning away from Harry and continuing along the street.

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath and exhale before he followed after the man.

XXXXX

Harry started preparing tea at quarter to five. He could not dredge up even a trace of resentment for the task, not after Snape had been… well, more than decent. Harry had expected the man to lurk in a corner while he finished up all of his clothes shopping, but he'd done better than that.

Snape had stayed out of the way for the most part, remaining close enough that Harry felt safe (not that too many Death Eaters would be wandering into Marks and Spencer). Still, his professor's presence had certainly been—well, perhaps comforting was overstating the matter. Reassuring, maybe.

But not only had Snape remained close but unobtrusive, the few times he'd ventured to make comments he'd been incredibly useful. He'd offhandedly mentioned that the zip-up Harry had chosen didn't look well-made, and that there had been a nicer rack of them a few feet back. Once he'd remarked on a jumper Harry had grabbed that had a snag that Harry had overlooked. And when Harry had been quietly agonizing over two pairs of trainers, Snape had suggested that he simply buy both, since he was likely to wear through a single pair quickly enough with Quidditch.

When they'd been in Madame Malkin's in Diagon, Snape hadn't said a thing, instead letting the witch assisting him make all the wardrobe suggestions, most of which Harry had reluctantly agreed to. But as soon as they'd hit London proper, with its massive department stores and dearth of knowledgeable salespeople, Snape had stepped in with his surprisingly astute bits of advice.

And so, Harry told himself, it was only natural that he feel a bit… well, grateful, to the man. Grateful enough that this small, menial task he'd been assigned didn't seem so terrible.

For a moment he was tempted to use a Heating Charm to spell the water hot, but he decided against it at the last moment. He was less convinced that Snape was trying to get him into trouble by suggesting he flout the Decree, but he was still disinclined to take the risk.

He couldn't help but reflect on the last two days as he measured out the tea for the pot and think that Snape really had been… decent. That was the word for it. It had been good, actually, to have the man along.

Oh, there was no doubt in Harry's mind that Snape still despised him—or, at the very least, disliked him. But he hadn't allowed that to show much today, really. He'd been useful, and protective, but not overbearingly so. Once, Harry had even caught himself wondering if this was what it was like to have….

And he'd stopped that thought dead, just as he stopped it now by allowing the back of his knuckles to brush against the hot steel of the kettle as he grabbed it from the stove. Snape was not anything to him, even if he was currently in charge of Harry. Even if he was taking those duties seriously. He was just making sure that Harry was fed and clothed and had school supplies, nothing more. What any decent person would do in the same situation. And Snape was decent in that way at least. Decent only, though. Nothing more.

Harry nearly slammed the kettle onto one of the unlit burners before hurrying through the sitting room and up the stairs. He didn't want to see Snape. He didn't want to face the man down.

Damn it. Harry hated himself for the thought that had flitted through his head just then. One day of shopping, was that really all it took for him to turn utterly pathetic?

There was no denying it though. For just a moment he'd wondered what it would be like for Snape to be more. To be able to go to the man for advice on stupid, silly, trivial things. To be able to borrow ties from him when he needed them (though he had two of his own now, one red and one silver).

Hell, where had that even come from? He certainly didn't even like Snape. And the man certainly didn't like Harry. So what sick, twisted part of him had jumped to that little fantasy?

He was going stir-crazy, he concluded. He'd been stuck with the man for too long, and now he was developing that psychological condition—what was it? Stockholm Syndrome, that was it. He was just spending too much time around the man, that was all.

God, Snape would laugh himself sick if he ever found out what Harry had just been thinking. Or just growl in disgust. He was only letting Harry stay because… well, Harry didn't exactly know. Probably because Dumbledore insisted.

Probably because no one else really wanted him, too, he thought as his eyes fell on the unopened letters on his desk. Snape was just stuck with him. No one else was willing to put up with him and all his problems.

Except his friends. A small, feeble smile curled over Harry's lips as he retrieved the letters they'd written him from the baseboard. He'd have their answers soon, he reckoned. And Hedwig would be back.

And as long as he stayed out of Snape's way—and ate—the man would probably ignore him. And, Harry vowed, he would stay out of Snape's way. He'd make tea for him, since that wasn't really much of a chore at all. But apart from meals, he would keep to himself. And summer would pass, and then he'd be back at Hogwarts, back with his friends.

A stab of remorse lanced through him. Hogwarts. Cedric. The graveyard. Voldemort. Cedric was still dead, and Voldemort was back….

And there was nothing he could do, he reminded himself fiercely, before the panic could overwhelm him. Not right now, at least. Once he got back, once he could talk with his friends, they could plan.

At least that was one good thing about this hellish stretch with Snape. Their constant fighting hadn't left much room for him to think about the Tournament, or the graveyard, or all the other problems that came with Voldemort's return. He'd been too busy fixating on how much he hated Snape.

But now… well, that had mostly subsided. So he supposed that it was only natural that other things start to creep back in. Maybe he should pick a fight with the potions master….

No. He shook his head to himself and returned to re-reading his letters. He would find other ways to distract himself. He would give Snape no cause to pay him any more mind before the end of the summer. He would be a ghost in the man's house. The Dursleys had, if nothing else, prepared him well for that.

A/N: One reviewer has kindly suggested I stop apologizing so much in these notes. So instead I'll say thanks, all, for your congratulations. They warm my heart. The new job is going well, even if it still manages to be overwhelming at times. I work at a psych hospital, so our good and bad days tend to be extreme. But working where I do is a blessing for me, and I'm happy to be more involved through my new position. Said reviewer also asked that I ask for suggestions regarding the direction of the story. I am, however, a cranky, narrow-minded sort of writer, and am pretty controlling when it comes to where this thing is headed. So instead I would like to offer these facts about goats: Goats were one of the first, if not the first animal to be domesticated. Goat milk is naturally homogenized and more easily digestible for the lactose intolerant. Abraham Lincoln kept two goats at t he White House, Nanny and Nanko. Ethiopian lore credits goats with the discovery of coffee. Now that you've been enlightened, I'd like to thank all of you again for your kind words and thoughtful responses to my writing. I am continually humbled by the reviews, and I'd like to thank each and every one of you. I know I'm terrible at responding individually (I pour that time into writing, if it makes you feel better!) But I do read all the reviews, and I cherish each one. Have a Happy January, everyone. May it not be as cold and miserable as it could be. Cheers! ~Mel