Harry spent the morning in his room, trying his best to distract himself and failing miserably at it. Snape's words kept drifting back to him, and with them anxieties about all the things that Snape now knew but hadn't mentioned.

Sure, he'd gotten an earful about Harry's home life from Mrs. Applewhite, but that was nothing given what he'd likely gleaned directly from the Dursley's minds. The more he thought on that, on what had driven Snape to make declarations about emotional need and helping Harry and dealing with festering wounds, the tighter the knots in his stomach grew.

For a while, Harry managed to lose himself looking over pictures of his parents. It was easier to imagine them with something to go off of, and childish though it might have been, he needed to imagine them. Needed to immerse himself in the fantasy he'd had as a child of their home life, the place he'd retreated to deep in his own mind when life at Privet Drive had been too much. For a time he was able to stay there, lost in invented words of comfort and commiseration. His mother would hug him close and tell him that it was unfair, every last bit of this summer, and his father would urge him to stay strong.

Of course, that exercise in imagination invariably led him to think of the only real interaction he'd had with his parents, the few brief, utterly panicked moments when they'd come flying out of Voldemort's wand and offered to cover for him so that he could run away and not die.

The pain of contemplating that was enough to have him searching for anything to wrap the album in. Hedwig had watched in seeming curiosity as he'd torn through his trunk in search of anything that might work, only to give up, deciding that he'd just look downstairs sometime. Snape had to have something lying around that would do. And since the man had already vowed to help Harry however he could, he supposed that a bit of spare paper wouldn't be too much to ask for.

He'd just have to be careful enough to come up with a good lie if Snape decided to pry into what he might be sending off.

He ended up spending most of his time before lunch with Hedwig, chatting quietly with her, absently stroking her head. A few times he read through the replies he'd gotten from Ron and Hermione. Neither had been reassured when he'd carefully confirmed that he was with Snape, and both had promised to keep pushing to see him sooner rather than later. "Hopefully before your birthday," Ron had written, though both his friends' tones had been less than hopeful. They'd both apologized that they couldn't say more, citing how unsafe it was to say too much through letters.

Harry hated that, but he could respect it, too.

Sometime near midday he finally decided that he'd best go downstairs. He couldn't avoid Snape forever. Especially come lunchtime, when the man would likely come hunt him down and drag him to the table.

So he gathered all his dirty dishes onto the breakfast tray Snape had brought up and, after stroking Hedwig's feathered breast one last time, he forged head, bracing himself for whatever lay outside his door. He made it down to the kitchen without crossing the potions master, and seeing that the sink was clean, he decided to do the washing up for himself. Doing the dishes had never been something he'd minded too much. It was, in its own way, soothing.

He was just transferring the last of the dishes to the wire drying rack when he was startled nearly out of his skin.

"You should have left those for me."

Harry whipped around, pulse racing, to find Snape standing in the back of the room, arms folded tightly over his chest. He was still dressed in his casual clothes, his jumper today light gray spackled with black. He was frowning slightly, his eyes on the sink.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. "I don't mind doing them."

"I, however, do mind you doing them." Snape's frown grew slightly troubled. "You have already done enough chores for one lifetime, in my opinion."

Those words hit Harry right in the gut, taking the breath from his lungs. He didn't know what it was, exactly—the reference to his awful childhood that made it all the more real? The fact that Severus Snape, of all people, seemed inclined to coddle Harry now?

It took him a moment to recover enough to reply. "I like doing some things," he defended himself, skirting the issue of his homelife altogether. "It keeps me busy."

"Hm." Snape drifted closer to Harry, over to the dripping dishes. "If you insist on burdening yourself with unnecessary chores, I would suggest you at least use it as an opportunity to practice your spellwork."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, only to be cut short by Snape.

"I know you fear breaking the law, and I would like to reassure you yet again that you've nothing to fear from that quarter. I hardly believe causing more trouble for you with the Ministry would benefit anyone." Snape drew his own wand and twirled it at the dishes, which dried instantly and began lazily floating back toward their cupboards. "But you will do as you will."

"It's just not worth risking it," Harry mumbled evasively, avoiding Snape's piercing gaze as best he could.

Snape did not reply to that. Instead he made his way over to the fridge. "What do you fancy for lunch?"

Fancy? Had Snape really used that word? But the impatient glance he received from the man told him that yes, he probably had used that word.

"Doesn't matter—"

"Harry."

Again, the sound of his name rang out like a thunderclap, seemingly casting a spell over Harry. Harry reluctantly dragged his gaze back to Snape.

"Humor me."

A simple command. Not so simple, though, when Harry tried to force himself to obey. What did Snape even keep in the house? "Um… I meant it when I said I'd be fine with a sandwich—"

"What kind, then?" Snape prompted, an impatient undercurrent to the question.

"Why are you being so—so weird about this?" Harry burst out. "I said I don't care, that I'm not picky. Isn't that enough? Why do you have to—"

"Because, you foolish boy, I am trying to demonstrate that your needs and wants will be met, and as I can see you entrusting me with precious little else, your food preferences will have to suffice for the time being!"

Harry flinched back a little from the sheer irritation in Snape's tone. Suddenly he sensed that he'd opened a flood gate, and he was not sure at all about what would now come pouring out.

"You've yet to make even a basic inquiry about seeing your friends—and no, I do not count your pleading to be removed to their care as a request to see them. I'm certain you realize that your sleep disturbances can at least be alleviated by a potion, which I might have on hand, given my profession, yet you have not even hinted at a desire for a remedy. You could not even address your need for new clothing directly! You are fortunate I am able to read between the lines, Potter, because very few people are so skilled!"

For a moment Harry couldn't figure out what in the bloody hell Snape was talking about, seeing as he'd never so much as brought up a desire to shop for clothes. And then he remembered.

After the trial, when he'd tried to tactfully bring up paying Snape back, the man had regretfully told him that it wouldn't be possible that day. Had mentioned shopping for school supplies. And where had they gone the next day? And without Harry retrieving the money he needed to square up his debt, too.

Snape had thought Harry had been asking about clothes, likely his mind still on the over-sized shirt he'd fixed for Harry that morning, and the tie he'd lent him. Harry flushed a little remembering that whole scene—not only shrinking back from Snape, but also the humiliation of having the man fix his oversized hand-me-downs.

Snape hadn't finished with his rant, though, it seemed. "That, of course, is not even mentioning the fact that you slept in a pile of your own clothing for Merlin knows how many days, as if you were a common rat making a nest, rather than asking for something as basic as bedding."

That was too much for Harry to abide. "Well, I don't give a damn what you think of me! Didn't I make that clear? So go ahead, call me vermin—"

Harry didn't quite manage to duck back fast enough when Snape swooped in and seized him by the shoulders. "I am saying no such thing," he cut Harry off, his voice low and fervent. "I am saying the exact opposite. You are not an unwelcome burden—"

"I sure as hell was when you first brought me here! You hated me, and don't try to deny it!"

Snape sighed. "Even when I held you in contempt, Harry, even when I thought you to be an unrepentant felon… even then I would not have denied you food or bedding, or any basic comforts. I assumed you would simply make yourself at home… recall, I believed you to be quite arrogant. I was certain you would find everything you needed in the armoire, and I was not disposed to do you any favors like setting up your room for you. I have since… rectified my views, as I think you know."

Harry tried to free himself from Snape's grip, but the man didn't seem ready to release him.

"My point is that you have yet to ask for anything—"

"I don't need anything." Harry tried to make his interjection as calm and reasonable as possible. If he started shouting again, he'd just come across as defensive. "That's what I was trying to tell you this morning. I mean… listen, I'm pretty self-sufficient. And…." Damn it, he did not want to talk about any of this, especially not with Snape, but it was clear that the man wasn't going to drop it. He was going to go right on harping about neglect and emotional needs and all that rubbish. "Okay, I can admit that the way the Dursleys treated me wasn't great. But I know it, see? And I've hardly been with them over the past four years, just for the summers—and not even whole summers. So I've had plenty of time to get over it. I know you think it's really messed me up or something, but the only reason I, er, didn't ask you for stuff was… well, you've always hated me, and you were pretty peeved ever since you, uh, picked me up. I'm not like that with everyone."

There, that had been the most calm and reasonable thing he'd ever said to Snape, hadn't it? He was proud of himself.

That pride unraveled immediately, though, when Snape merely arched a brow. "No? Have you ever gone to an adult with an injury, Harry?"

Harry frowned, his brow knitting with confusion. He didn't understand where this was going. "Yeah, loads of times. Madame Pomfrey—"

"Madame Pomfrey is a medical professional. I am talking about going to an adult with whom you have a personal bond when you've been injured."

"Sure." Harry searched through his memories for an example, and was unpleasantly surprised to find out that it was much more difficult than he'd thought it would be. He had a "personal bond" with—well, Lupin, for sure. Not much outside of Patronus lessons, and the connection to his father, of course. There was that time with he Dementors on the train… but he supposed Snape wouldn't count that, since Harry hadn't been the one to do the approaching.

Dumbledore had always cared for him and looked after him. So there had to have been a time… well, but he was the Headmaster, and a powerful wizard, and a busy man besides. So it was no wonder that he'd never gone to the man with a scraped knee or something similar.

Hagrid! How had he forgotten Hagrid? There had to have been one time, at least, when Harry had gone to the gamekeeper with something. There had been that time in second year, the infamous slug incident… but that had been Ron, not Harry. Had he been injured their first year, after the Forbidden Forest detention?

Something twisted in Harry's stomach as he realized that Hagrid had never even checked in with Harry after that whole debacle. Hell, after encountering Quirrell-hosting-Voldemort drinking blood out in the forest, you would have thought that someone would want to make sure that Harry wasn't scarred or anything. Not that he had been, of course.

Still, it would have been nice if someone had checked.

"An example, Mr. Potter?" Snape prompted, releasing Harry's shoulders at last.

"I'm sure there was a time—"

"I severely doubt it." And then, before Harry could register what had happened, Snape had caught Harry's wrist in a vice grip and turned it palm-up for an examination. "You did not have that scar when I initially retrieved you from the detention facility."

Harry looked and saw what Snape was talking about—that faint reddish-pink scar from where he'd cut his hand on glass in the yard. "Oh, that's nothing—"

"It is a large, significant scar from an injury that I somehow missed." Snape sounded chagrined at that, as if he could scarcely stand that his skills of observation had failed him. "What happened?"

Harry affected an overly-casual shrug. "Oh, nothing much. Just a little nick. I didn't want you to think I was playing the martyr or anything. I took care of it—"

"How?" Now Snape's jaw was clenched tightly, Harry could tell. That single word emerged from between grinding teeth. Even the man's hand had tightened around his wrist so that the grip was borderline painful.

Harry tugged lightly at his hand, hoping that Snape would let him go. He didn't budge, though. "Standard stuff—washed it out and put some antibiotic stuff from the cupboard on it—"

"There was no such thing stocked in the house!"

Harry flinched a little. "I found some in the cupboard. Upstairs, in the bathroom. It might have gone off a bit, but it seemed to do the trick."

Snape was silent for an impossibly long moment, the only sound in the kitchen his heavy breaths. Finally he spoke. "I have been remiss in my care."

Harry started to shake his head, but he fell still when Snape's voice only grew sharper and more insistent.

"I have been inexcusably negligent of you, Mr. Potter, but that will not be the case going forward. I will be keeping a very close eye on you from here on out so that we have no repeats of this incident. And you will come to me immediately with any injury you acquire, no matter how small. I do not care if you nick your finger on a piece of parchment. You will still come to tell me so that I am aware. Am I understood?"

Harry was shaking his head before Snape had even finished talking. He could only imagine what that would be like—opening himself up to beratement and criticism for every small bump and scrape he acquired. "It wasn't a big deal—"

"How did you acquire it?" And then, without waiting for a response, Snape whipped out his wand and, leveling the tip at Harry's exposed palm, uttered, "Vulnus revelare." And with that a silvery mist shot out of his wand, coalescing into a ghostly, ethereal image of the very piece of broken glass that had cut Harry, the immaterial shard aligning so that it seemed embedded in his flesh once more. "How on earth did you get glass in your hand?"

Harry grit his teeth. "I don't know. I guess I must be stupid—"

"Don't start that with me. I asked a simple question and I expect an answer."

"Picking up the yard," Harry hissed, yanking himself violently out of Snape's grip. "I took care of it, though, and it's healed now—"

"I am not disputing your ability to care for yourself." Snape waved his wand and from some other part of the house summoned a small, squat jar that had been plugged with a large cork. Another flick of the man's wand had the jar open, revealing a thick, yellowish paste, which Snape scooped out with a single finger. "I am informing you that it is no longer necessary, nor will it be permitted. Now give me your hand."

"It's healed—"

"And scarred." Snape seized Harry's wrist again with surprising strength and smeared the salve across the scar in question, the firm pressure of his finger massaging the substance into the skin. "That should help it to fade significantly." Snape released Harry's wrist then. "I don't recall assigning you to pick up the yard."

Harry shrugged, shuffling back a few steps out of Snape's reach. The salve was warm and pleasant against his palm, not that he would ever admit such a thing, and now his mind was wandering down roads it shouldn't, imagining what might happen if he applied that salve to a different scar. But curse scars were likely different, incurable. "I was already weeding."

Snape closed his eyes lightly. "You concealed your injury when I called you into the house?"

"You would have thought I'd done it on purpose, and I didn't—"

"I might have," Snape agreed easily. Too easily. "I know better now, though. So you will not conceal anything again. You will come directly to me, and if I find you have withheld anything we will start doing nightly skin checks to ascertain that you are not hiding anything."

Harry couldn't hold back his mortification. "No, you can't—that's not fair—"

"I certainly can and will," Snape returned sharply, his dark eyes snapping open to glare at Harry. "If you cannot come to me when you are hurt—"

"You want me to trust you, but you don't trust me at all! I haven't done anything wrong and you still want to treat me like a criminal, with—with strip searches and everything! You don't see the irony in that?"

And all at once the irritation drained out of Snape. "I don't wish to treat you that way, no. Not at all, Harry. But I will if it means keeping you safe."

"From papercuts—"

"You would conceal much more than mere papercuts if I let you," Snape replied quietly, his tone intense. "And I want to be clear on one point: I will not let you, not any longer. And until I can believe that you will come to me without prompting, you will be expected to inform me of every last bump, scrape, and bruise."

"Fine," Harry mumbled sullenly, not at all looking forward to the lectures or the black irritation that would surround those occasions.

Snape sighed heavily. "It is for your own good."

"Right."

Snape looked as though he had a great deal more to say on the topic, but ended up merely shaking his head. "You have yet to say anything on the matter of seeing your friends."

Harry idly dragged a toe over the worn wooden floor. "Why would I? They've already asked about it and been told no."

"You think I have no power in the matter?"

Harry shot an irritated glare up at the man. "Of course you do. And I'm guessing there's some really good reason that I'll have to wait until September—"

"On the contrary, I believe I just told you I've merely been waiting for you to initiate the conversation on the matter."

Harry blinked a few times, feeling very stupid. "You—you'd let me see them?"

Snape made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. "Yes, Potter. Why else would I have brought it up?"

"To tell me 'no'," Harry shrugged.

"I know you believe I enjoy tormenting you, but I would not bring up the prospect merely to tell you 'no'," Snape informed him tightly. And then he waited, saying no more.

And it was then that Harry realized that the man was waiting for him to ask. To request something. And it was stupid of him, because by then it was pretty clear that Snape probably intended to grant that request. But there was a part of him that didn't want to ask, that didn't want to risk being disappointed. That didn't want to intimate any kind of faith in Snape, of all people.

Harry wanted to see Ron and Hermione, he really did. But it seemed that Snape was not about to offer, that he was intent on making Harry pose the question himself. It would be a simple thing to ask, wouldn't it? Nothing strenuous. He just had to put it out there and Snape would probably concede.

It was the 'probably' part, though, that was such a stumbling block. He did not trust Snape, plain and simple. And he wasn't going to set himself up for disappointment and ridicule.

Some part of him, though, some small part, wanted to be proved wrong. Some part of him believed that Snape didn't want him to be miserable, not anymore. And that part told him to take the risk, to ask, to be dependent on someone else for one small moment.

He opened his mouth to frame the question, and at once a surge of apprehension washed over him. Why ask? Why bother? Snape hated him, no matter what the man said—or at least disliked him. Look how irritated he'd been just moments before. Any kindnesses Harry had witnessed had been driven by pity, and that pity could run out at any moment.

"Can I make my own sandwich?" he asked instead, because he at least was sure of the answer to that question.

"Ask."

"I just did—"

"Ask," Snape repeated, the meaning of his demand unmistakable.

"You know what I want—"

"Perhaps," Snape agreed, pacing forward until he towered just a foot from Harry. "But I will still hear you say it. Because, Mr. Potter, you will learn to vocalize your needs before the end of this summer. We can do this dance every day, ten times a day, until it sinks into your thick skull. Or you can communicate with me. Now ask."

Harry gritted his teeth. "Can I see my friends?" he forced out, not sure why it was so damned painful. Maybe because Snape hadn't outright promised to say yes. Maybe because Harry figured now would be about the time that the bastard said something like, if you had inquired earlier or if you had not displayed such an attitude just now.

"Yes. I will arrange for something tomorrow."

Harry was floored. Simple—not snide at all. Straightforward and sincere. Part of him couldn't believe that Snape had agreed so easily, and part of him was desperately fighting off the wave of gratitude that was rising in him. Snape wasn't doing that much, he reminded himself.

But the man was. He was unyielding and dictatorial about it, sure, but he was actually looking after Harry. Healing his injuries, and insisting he eat, and asking for stupid, unnecessary things like Harry's preferences….

"Tomorrow?" Harry echoed, still not quite able to wrap his mind around the answer.

"Yes, tomorrow. Had you asked earlier something might have been arranged for this afternoon, but now it is too late, so you will merely have to wait."

Harry flushed deeply and returned his gaze to his socked feet. "You—you could have offered—"

"You are a teenager, not a toddler," Snape retorted sharply. "You are perfectly capable of communicating your own desires without prompting. And you will do so going forward."

"Or?" Harry couldn't help but whisper.

"Or I will be forced to treat you like a toddler, regimenting your meals, your bedtimes, your free time—"

"Why?" Harry cried. "We've been over this. I've been eating! I've done everything you've asked of me, haven't I? But you still want to punish me—"

"No, I do not wish to punish you! I wish to see you properly cared for, but you've no idea how to be cared for. And do not tell me again that you are self-sufficient, because I will not abide it. Now…." Snape turned sharply back to the fridge. "Lunch. You never told me what you would like."

Fuming still, Harry bit out, "Steak. A porterhouse steak. And fries."

Harry did not know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't Snape merely glancing back at him, quirking an eyebrow, then drawing out a wand and murmuring, "Accio jacket." A leather coat came flying out of one of the downstairs rooms; Snape caught it deftly and fished what appeared to be a worn wallet out of one of the pockets. "Are you prepared to go out?" he inquired levelly, tucking the wallet into a trouser pocket.

Harry just stared at the man dumbly. "What do you mean, 'out'?"

"To a restaurant, obviously. I certainly do not have steak in the house, and if we are going out to purchase some, we'd might as well have it prepared, too."

"I wasn't serious—" Harry began, but Snape did not let him finish.

"I do not care. Besides, you could do with a few meals out."

Harry did not know what to make of that statement. "I really have been eating. You know—"

"Yes, and that is not at all what I meant." Snape turned back to full face him, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his dark eyes sharp and intent. "Given your past with your relatives, and our own difficult history, I am inclined to indulge you as often as possible. It will do you good to see that your requests, even frivolous ones, will be seen to…." Snape's tone had turned musing at the end, and to Harry it sounded as though the man were ruminating over a potions problem rather than how to care for his erstwhile ward.

And Harry did not much care for that calculating attitude, nor to be taken out simply because Snape thought it would be emotionally fulfilling for him.

Which was stupid, because not too long ago he would have been ecstatic, wouldn't he, to have anyone—even Snape—take him out for lunch simply because he wanted to go. Now, though, it felt too much like pity. Hell, it was pity, wasn't it?

"It's too dangerous," he muttered. "And I don't want to leave the house."

Snape studied him for a too-long moment, lips pressed tightly together. "It might do you some good. You've been kept confined for far too long."

"I could always go play outside for a while," he offered sarcastically.

Snape ignored the comment entirely. "Come along. There's a pub that will do—"

"I said I don't want to leave the house!" Harry burst out. "And I don't need to be bribed, either! You—you can't buy my trust."

That, at least, got a reaction out of Snape. His face crumpled, and if Harry didn't know better he'd say the man actually looked perturbed. "I am doing no such thing—"

"I want to eat in my—up in the bedroom. Can I? Or is that forbidden?"

Snape's jaw went tight at that. "I prefer you remain down here."

"So it is forbidden?" Harry clarified, heart beating hard in his chest. He needed away, now. He couldn't describe what it was that was setting him so much on edge.

"I did not say that. If you wish, you are welcome to dine up there, though I strongly prefer that you do not—"

"What about making my own lunch? Is that forbidden?"

"No." This time the word was unmistakably a growl.

Before Snape could change his mind, Harry hurried over to the fridge and pulled out the leftover shepherd's pie from the previous night, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and turned to flee back up the stairs.

"Don't you want to heat it up?" he heard Snape call to him.

Harry paused briefly, just long enough to throw back over his shoulder, "It's fine." And with that he disappeared back into the bedroom, grateful once more for the space.

When he was on the floor again, wedged between bed and window, he was able to take full stock of just what it was that he was feeling. He set the plastic container and fork he'd grabbed down on the floor next to him and buried his head against his knees, willing the feelings to go away.

He was starting to believe that Snape cared about him. Of course he was. The man had said as much that morning, had gone on about how committed he was to Harry, how he would help him…. And now he was pulling stupid stunts like offering to take Harry out for a steak dinner just because Harry had sarcastically ordered up a porterhouse.

It wouldn't last. Harry knew that. Pity never did, especially not for someone like Snape. He felt bad now because he saw himself in Harry, but sooner or later the old animosity would come roaring back, and when it did…. Well, best not to leave Snape with too many examples of Harry taking advantage of him.

Harry reached for his album, which he'd stashed under his bed before going back downstairs. This, he knew, would have to be sent away for safekeeping. There was no getting around that. He closed his eyes lightly, trying to dredge up the willpower in himself.

If it stayed here, if Snape got fed up with him again… the man had already threatened once to pitch it into the fire. Harry didn't want to try his luck any longer. He pushed himself up from the floor and dug in his trunk until he found an old sweater from Dudley that would have to serve. It wasn't ideal by any means, but it would at least protect the album from the elements during transit.

Hedwig was dozing in her cage then. Harry always hated waking her, but this, he knew, couldn't wait another second. So after slipping the album into his sweater and binding the whole thing up with the sleeves he reached a careful hand into the cage and stroked the snowy owl's head until her yellow eyes blinked open and fixed on him.

"Hey, girl," Harry murmured. He retrieved his parcel from the floor. "Think you can deliver this to the Burrow straight away? It's really important."

Hedwig cocked her head at him, as if she didn't quite understand.

Harry held out the bundle to her. "Go on, girl. Take it to Ron for me, okay?"

Still the owl stared at him, unblinking. She did not even shuffle forward.

Frustrated, Harry pushed a corner of the package into her cage. "Just take it! Come on, Hedwig, it needs to get to the Burrow tonight!"

Hedwig hooted softly and flapped her wings a little, beating them against the metal of the cage. Harry could have sworn that she was disagreeing.

Harry sighed and, setting the album aside for a moment, made to reach into the owl's cage. He held out a hand for her to step onto, which she promptly did, just as always. Harry stared deeply into the owl's eyes, wondering if he could communicate to her this way just how important it was that she do what he asked.

Hedwig just stared back, stubborn and unrelenting.

Harry growled in frustration to himself and grabbed his wrapped album up again, and tried to shove it toward Hedwig. This time she hooted angrily at him and took off, fluttering over to the windowsill, and then proceeded to glare at him resentfully (or, it looked like a resentful glare to Harry, at least).

"Hedwig," he hissed, "what's gotten into you?" He charged toward the window with the album, but this time Hedwig actually screeched at him, loudly enough that Harry knew Snape would hear it downstairs. Then she flew up over his head and toward her cage, though in her frenzy she ended up knocking it over, causing it to clatter to the floor.

And it was then, of course, that Snape burst into the room, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, his mouth pursed in a dire frown. "What on earth is going on in here?" he demanded, his eyes sweeping quickly over the scene.

"Nothing—"

"No, Potter," Snape cut him off, the words nothing but a deep, throaty growl. "Do not tell me nothing. Explain. Now."

"I was just trying to send a package off, I swear," Harry stammered. He automatically clutched the album tighter to his chest, heart thudding. Snape wouldn't ask to see it, he promised himself. The man wouldn't care. "Hedwig won't take it, though, even though she always has before—"

"What were you trying to send?" Snape's lip curled contemptuously as it locked on the cloth-wrapped bundle. "Perhaps the issue is that it does not remotely resemble a package. Why did you not ask for paper?"

"It shouldn't matter what I wrapped it in," Harry protested, his voice trembling slightly.

"No? Perhaps the answer, then, is in what you were trying send. What is it?"

Harry cradled the album more tightly. "It's not important. I'll just—it can stay here. I'll try again later—"

"Give it here." Snape held out a hand imperiously.

"No! It's mine, and I didn't even do anything wrong—"

"Knowing you, it may be some dangerous thing you've no business possessing—"

"It's an album, okay?" Harry shouted, undoing the jumper to show Snape. Damn it, why did the man have to be so awful? There was no telling what he would do with it now. Or even later, once his strange desire to "help" Harry wore off. "Of my parents. It's all I have from them. It's not a Dark artifact or anything, so just calm down."

Snape's expression remained thoroughly suspicious. "Why were you trying to send it off? That strikes me as something you'd prefer to keep in your possession."

Harry opened his mouth to tell Snape that it was none of his sodding business, but the man didn't wait for his reply.

Instead, he continued to muse, as though unraveling some great mystery, "In fact, that may explain your owl's refusal to accept it. Familiars, owls in particular, are emotionally attuned to their masters. She likely senses your inner conflict."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. I'll just—uh work on sorting my feelings out, then, and try again later—"

"You still have not answered my question." Snape's stare grew clear and piercing again, leaving Harry with no illusions of getting out of this. "Why are you sending one of your dearest possessions off with your owl?"

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor. "Safekeeping," he mumbled evasively.

"What do you mean, 'safekeeping'? What do you imagine happening to it here? I would assume that whoever gave the album to you—Dumbledore, if I don't miss my mark—has enchanted it to withstand the more mundane forms of wear and tear, and likely other incidental damage—"

"It was from Hagrid, okay?" Harry snapped. "And his magic—well, you should know it's not his strong suit. It was good of him to get it together at all."

A quick glance up at Snape told Harry that the man was slightly troubled, his brow furrowed intensely. "You mean to tell me that Professor Dumbledore gave you nothing from your parents?"

Ah. A Slytherin feint, Harry thought, his anger burning even hotter. "I think you know what Professor Dumbledore passed to me from my father," he spat. "Because I don't believe for a second he let you leave something that valuable with my Muggle relatives—"

"Ah. Your cloak, yes. It is stored safely with your broom, and your—ah—spare bit of parchment. I'd meant to tell you… in fact, I rather assumed you would have enquired by now. But I was not referring to that. I meant more tokens or personal items… you truly have nothing?"

Now Harry raised his head to glare at the man. What, was he looking for more things to threaten? Did he think that he'd need to destroy something else after the album, that Harry would still misbehave or do something abhorrent?

Some part of him argued that he was being irrational, seeing as Snape had told Harry that his perception of him had changed. The professor hadn't really threatened him in a while—well, apart from his comment at lunch about treating Harry like a toddler. But that wasn't even much of a threat, was it?

The other, much louder part of Harry's mind was screaming that he had to do everything he could to protect his few possessions, because Snape wasn't trustworthy and would change his mind, and would go back to hating Harry the second he got sick of this new game he was playing.

Apparently the glare was answer enough for Snape. "Why do you believe your album must be sent elsewhere?" he continued, his attention solidly on the object in question. "Surely it would be fine in your trunk—"

"As long as I don't upset you," Harry muttered.

"What are you implying?" Snape demanded sharply. "You believe I would do something to it?"

Harry could hardly contain his fury any more. After all, what did Snape think he was doing, playing dumb like this? Pretending to be offended by the clear threat he'd once made? "Yeah, you told me you'd pitch it in the fire, didn't you, right after my personal letters—"

"Merlin's blood, boy, I returned your letters to you! And the rest—it was an empty threat, obviously, and even then only uttered because I believed you to be purposely withholding an elderly woman's possessions from her! I thought extreme measures were needed to persuade you to do the decent thing! And never once—not once—did I contemplate burning an album filled with your only memories of your parents. I did not even know you possessed the thing!"

"Sure," Harry hissed, "until you decide I'm arrogant again, or disrespectful, and you want to teach me a lesson—"

"Give it here."

The command was clear, the tone tight, and it dropped Harry's heart straight through the floor. He'd already been disrespectful, he now realized. He'd spoken to Snape contemptuously, and that wasn't even counting the way he'd acted that morning.

"Sir, please," he pleaded, at once contrite and terrified. "Please, I'll do anything, just don't—"

That only seemed to incense the man further. "I said give it here, Mr. Potter." He held his hand out expectantly. "Now!"

"What—what do you want with it?" Harry stuttered. "Look, I'm sorry, just don't… please, don't—"

"I am not going to tell you my intentions because you must learn. Hand it over or I will take it myself."

Harry briefly thought about trying to run-though Snape was blocking the doorway. He might be able to get out the window… but there was nowhere to go, and defying Snape like that might push the man over the edge. For the moment he might just be looking to confiscate it.

And Harry couldn't win this fight. He knew that. Snape was a fully-fledged wizard, and frighteningly competent. He would just Stupefy Harry and take the album if he had to.

So the only solution, really, was do as Snape said an pray the man had, as he insisted he did, a shred of human decency. Harry offered it out reluctantly, a steel vice grip clamped over his lungs. "Please," he repeated, the word a feeble croak.

Snape seized the album and immediately drew and leveled his wand at it.

"No!" Harry cried. He didn't dare try to snatch the album back, though every instinct in him was screaming to do so. "No, don't, professor, please—"

"Protegam igni," Snape uttered, and a silver, rippling flame erupted from his wand to enshroud the album. But the book did not dissolve into ash, as Harry had feared it would. Instead the shimmering flames seemed to sink straight into the album itself.

The man wasn't done, though. Snape incanted a few more spells after that, his wand moving swiftly and precisely. "Salva semper," he murmured, summoning forth a purplish jet of light, and after that, "Praesidium aquae", a marine bubble that enveloped the album and slowly shrank into it.

And then he set the album down on the desk and uttered, "Accio photos," which drew out every last picture Harry had kept stored in the album and extracted them into a stack, which Snape caught deftly in his free hand. And then, in answer to Harry's unasked question, he stated shortly, "Protective spells. I will ask Professor Dumbledore to augment my own, warding and charms not being my forte."

Something felt as though it twisted in Harry as he began to process those words. He slumped back onto the edge of the bed, exhausted, feeling too much all at once. Wards. For God's sake, Snape had cast wards on his album. Was going to ask Dumbledore to do more. Harry could not dredge up any words in that moment.

Snape proceeded to settle the stack of photos onto the desk beside the album before arcing his wand over them all. "Geminos omnes." And suddenly there were two stacks of photos. "There. Much better than your asinine plan to mail the entire thing off to Merlin knows where. Weasley, am I right?"

Harry felt a dull flush stain his skin at those words.

"The originals should be kept in your vault at Gringotts. I'll find an envelope so that you can Floo the goblins this afternoon and have them deposited. The duplicates will not last indefinitely—five years or so, before they start to deteriorate, at which point you will have to make new copies from the originals."

Harry merely nodded to his knees, too ashamed to lift his head. He'd assumed that Snape would incinerate the whole thing on sight, and instead the potions master had imbued them with protective spells and then gone on to expertly arrange for Harry to never have to worry about losing his most precious memories again. Or, almost never, since Voldemort had proven he could break into Gringotts… but likely not for something as insignificant as a handful of photographs.

"The album itself should provide ample protection for the copies. And Albus should be able to charm the whole thing to respond to your touch alone, should you wish." Snape waved his wand again, no incantation this time, the single arc over the duplicated photos causing them to fly up and gracefully reinsert themselves into the album, which opened itself as if in welcome. One final wave of his wand righted Hedwig's overturned cage.

"Thank you," Harry forced himself to say. Because he couldn't deny what Snape had done, or why he'd done it.

"Hmph." Snape didn't sound gracious, or even acknowledging, of Harry's thanks.

And then, because the guilt was still a tight, unrelenting ball in his stomach, Harry added, "I'm—I'm sorry that I didn't trust you… that I believed you'd… well." In an even smaller, fainter voice, he whispered, "I should have known better—"

"Please," Snape scoffed. "It's hardly surprising that you thought I was about to obliterate your most precious possession."

Harry flinched, not sure if Snape was calling him stupid or simply ungrateful.

Neither, as it turned out. "Oh, for pity's sake. I merely meant that I've treated you abominably and given you precious little reason to trust me." Snape heaved a deep sigh. "Potter—Harry. You've no reason to apologize. I only hope you realize I've no further intention of tormenting or hurting or humiliating you."

Harry nodded weakly into his lap, more in recognition of the statement than agreement with it.

Snape waited for a moment, perhaps for a further response. But when the silence began to stretch, Snape continued on, his voice much softer and smoother than Harry had ever heard it, "I would like you to join me downstairs for lunch." And when Harry did not respond immediately, he added the one word that Harry had been certain was not a part of Severus Snape's vocabulary—at least, not unless it was coated in a thick layer of sarcasm. "Please." Utterly sincere then.

And of course Harry couldn't deny that simple request, could he? Not after what Snape had just done for him. Not after all he'd already done, too, if Harry was being honest with himself. Taking him in when he needed it, even if he'd been unpleasant about it, and seeing to it that Harry was fed and clothed, and getting him through that dreadful hearing….

"Sure."

"Good. Do not forget your shepherd's pie." And with that Snape was withdrawing, leaving Harry to process once again.

A/N: For folks speculating about the album piece in this story, I hope this chapter has satisfied you. There is still plenty of angst to come. As of right now, I envision this story encompassing the summer, with a tentative sequel for the school year (I have lots of plans for Umbridge and the overdone Harry/Snape-secret-parental-relationship-at-Hogwarts trope). Eventually I need to go back to my other stories... as soon as I get over this angst fix, I promise, to any fans of my other works!

Thanks again for all of your wonderful comments. You all inspire me to keep going. Hope you're all having a good February (spring is on the way!). Also, over 500 follows! Woohoo! Thank you, awesome people, you flatter me beyond words. Until the next update! ~Mel