Chapter 17

After lunch (warm shepherd's pie, reheated with a flick of Snape's wand), Snape called up the goblins at Gringotts through the fireplace for Harry. He'd already prepared the envelope of photos for Harry's vault.

The wrinkled, sour-faced goblin who answered introduced himself as Gruknot, and did not look at all pleased to be answering a private Floo call. He offered no opening salvos; he merely stared grimly at Harry, his disembodied head flickering with strange shadows from the Floo fire.

Snape stood just behind Harry, to his left, and seemed content to watch Harry flounder his way through this mess. And Harry himself didn't have the foggiest idea of what he might say.

"Um—I wanted to deposit something—"

"Name and vault number," Gruknot cut him off sharply, each word positively dripping contempt.

"Harry Potter, Vault—uh—"

"Six eighty-seven," Snape supplied smoothly.

"Right." Harry did his best not to let his blush spread too far over his face.

Gruknot looked utterly disgusted then. "Item description?"

Harry had to swallow to remoisten his throat and mouth. "A packet of photographs—"

"The number of photographs," the goblin demanded. At least the "you imbecile" part of the statement was left unspoken.

Harry looked helplessly to Snape, who replied easily, "Forty-seven."

The goblin nodded sharply. "Packet of forty-seven photographs. The vault inventory list will be updated. Floo the item through directly." And then Gruknot made to withdraw from the Floo.

"Wait!" Harry pleaded.

The goblin paused, lip start to lift in what looked to be a snarl.

"I'd also like an accounting. Of—of my—er, monetary assets. My galleons. And recent withdrawals."

The goblin just stared blankly at Harry, one bushy brow arched in question. "A statement?"

"Yes—"

"Very well," Gruknot grumbled, as if Harry had asked him to personally count each and every knut in the Potter vault. "Expect an owl within the week."

"Thank you," Harry began, but by the time he'd forced out the first syllable the goblin had already disappeared from the Floo.

Snape wasted no time in moving on to his next order of business. "Have you begun work on any of your summer assignments?" he inquired, drawing his dark wand and flicking at the rack next to the hearth, which housed a collection of fire tending implements. The brush and scoop disentangled themselves and began sweeping up the leftover ashes from the floo call from the stonework in front of the fire.

"No, sir—"

"I prefer Severus." There was no rebuke in those words. They were stated plainly, no demand in them either.

Harry ignored him and hoped he didn't anger the man in doing so. "I've only had the textbooks for a few days—"

"July is nearly half over, and the rest of the holiday will swiftly follow."

Harry nodded in feeble agreement. It wasn't like he had much else to do. He sure couldn't reread his old textbooks again, and since Snape wasn't about to let him climb back on the roof… though he almost wished his professor would let him finish that project. He missed the distraction of the hard labor, and, strangely enough, the deep satisfaction of finishing a job that he'd started.

"You can work on your assignments for an hour this afternoon. That should make for an adequate start."

Harry nodded again, surprised at how reasonable Snape's command had been. Uncomfortably surprised, even, because he was forced to recognize that the man wasn't actually coddling him or pitying him, as he'd once thought. If that had been the case, Snape never would have brought up homework, right? He would have just left Harry alone, too afraid of upsetting him or overwhelming him. Instead he was setting a feasible amount of work for Harry.

Though part of him still wished that the man would load him down with chores again, because if Harry had to keep himself entertained for one more afternoon on his own he was certain he would go mad.

"Bring it down here so I can help you if need be."

Harry nearly snorted at that. As if he would ever willingly ask Snape for help. Sure, Snape might be… might be decent, now, but that certainly didn't mean that he wouldn't revert to the awful professor he'd always been as soon as anything remotely academic was brought up.

So he chose his Charms assignment, which consisted of a few chapters of reading and a short essay, and settled into the couch in the sitting room, while Snape took his usual place in his armchair, a thick, complicated-looking book splayed over one knee.

It was strange to share space with Snape. Strange enough that it was distracting, Harry found. He could scarcely concentrate on the text in front of him, instead finding himself compelled to glance over at Snape every few minutes, thoughts straying back to the album upstairs and the photos now safely stored in his vault, and the feeling he'd tried to pretend didn't exist in his stomach every time the man stared at him with those not-quite-cold eyes and insisted he eat.

After what felt much longer than an hour, Snape finally turned back to Harry, who was still struggling through the very first pages of his text, and announced, "Enough of that. You can resume tomorrow. Unless you have questions?"

"No, sir." Harry closed his text, his mind already leaping to what he might do now. Write to Hermione and Ron, maybe, though that would be largely pointless since he would see them tomorrow. If Snape kept his word, that was, which Harry believed he would.

"Very well." Snape seemed to hesitate then, and for once his perpetually-composed features betrayed a bit of uncertainty. The man lightly cleared his throat, then snapped his book closed and declared suddenly, "I imagine it has been difficult for you to be confined to this house for so long."

Harry just stared at Snape, trying to figure out where in the hell that statement was going. Maybe he was going to be offered a chance to go for a walk around the neighborhood? Or the backyard, at least? "Be nice to get out," he agreed, wishing his words wouldn't tremble so much.

"Well. While I'm sure you can guess what I might have to say about voicing your needs…." Snape stood from his chair and moved to re-shelve his book. "I suppose the point is moot now." His hand lingered on the spines of the uppermost shelf, where he'd replaced his oldest volume. Then he turned back to Harry abruptly, though the motion was not nearly so striking as when the man was wearing his full teaching ensemble. In the loose jumper it just looked odd. Less intimidating, more like a nervous habit. "I have… well, it has occurred to me that you have had little recreation since arriving here."

Harry continued to stare. Was the man… stumbling? Though Severus Snape stumbling over his words was really not much, just the slightest bit of hesitation marring the smooth and confident tone and cadence. Harry suspected it was only so obvious because he'd spent so much recent time in the man's company. A glance at the man's face exposed nothing but the same placid, unrevealing expression that he wore most days now (still an improvement over the constant scowl, Harry decided).

"I have spent a great deal of time contemplating this, and I believe… I believe you can be trusted not to abuse this privilege." Then, as if the words were layered with barbed hooks that made them difficult to expel, Snape added, "You have shown a great deal of maturity under trying circumstances, and I believe that you will treat this opportunity with all due caution."

Harry was on the verge of screaming out what opportunity? What privilege? What in the bloody hell are you hinting at here?

But Snape wasted no time. He turned to the small closet that served as storage space beneath the stairs, tapped the tarnished handle once with his wand, and drew a broom out of it.

Not just any broom. Harry's broom. His Firebolt. And it was then that Harry knew Snape was utterly, stark barking mad.

"Sir—"

"I will need to modify your ring," Snape continued as he moved to carefully lean the broom against his armchair. "To extend the range as well as add precautionary spells. I think a mile in each direction will do for radius…. I will have a tracking charm on it, of course. And I will charm it to function as an emergency portkey as well. And even then I will have to insist on your being out for no more than an hour at a time, given last year's events."

Harry fidgeted nervously at the unwelcome reminder, and the emotions that threatened to resurge. But he shoved the niggling memories aside, as he always did, and continued, "Sir, are you sure—"

Snape's dark, intense eyes met Harry's, and there was a fierceness there that made him squirm a bit in his seat. "Yes. As I said, I have given this a great deal of thought. The risk should be minimal, and you could do with time out of the house."

Out of the house. Flying. Harry could not seem to wrap his mind around the prospect. Some part of him still believed that Snape would, at any moment, pull a sneer and demand how it was possible that Harry could be so stupid. But that part now seemed small and irrational to Harry.

Snape had, after all, had ample opportunity just that day to truly hurt Harry, and he hadn't. That had to be worth something.

But trust was a terrifying thing, Harry found. It was so much easier to just believe the worst of Snape and operate based on those assumptions.

"Your hand, Mr.—Harry?"

Harry winced again. He did not like how intentional Snape was being with this name thing. But he obeyed the request all the same, tentatively extending the hand with the ring to Snape, who touched the tip of his wand gently to the surface of the metal. A few long incantations later and Snape pronounced it "adequately modified."

And then he offered Harry the Firebolt.

"I can't just—just go flying around a neighborhood of Muggles!" Harry blurted out, his heartbeat hastening. Such an obvious, stupid flaw—Snape had been taunting, him, hadn't he? And now he would roll his eyes and laugh at Harry for not realizing such a glaring issue earlier, for actually believing—

"I will cast a Disillusionment Charm over you, of course. It will endure for the hour and shield you from prying eyes."

Oh.

"I have a few rules, however," Snape continued, his tone growing severe and his eyes taking on that special, fail-this-potion-and-you-will-have-detention-with-Filch gleam that Harry recognized too easily. "No foolhardy stunts whatsoever, is that absolutely clear? No dives, corkscrews, barrel rolls, sharp banks, side-saddle, wind-surfing, hanging ten—"

"What's hanging ten?" Harry realized after the fact that he probably should have done more to damper the raw, excited curiosity in his tone, judging by the ferocity of Snape's glare.

"Five hundred points from Gryffindor and a month of cauldron duty if I even suspect you've attempted it," Snape shot back.

Harry nodded solemnly, though he filed the term away for future examination. He wondered what other broom tricks had been lost between generations. Maybe he could ask—

No. No, he would not ask his so-called godfather. Likely the man would decide Harry was only asking to learn new techniques for robbing Gringotts the next month.

"You will fly sensibly," Snape continued, oblivious to Harry's shifting thoughts. "You will not perch on precarious, high places and risk falling. You will remain seated on your broom at all times, flying at a reasonable speed, exercising all due caution, and if there is even a hint—a hint, Potter—of you disregarding these limits, I will gladly put that broom back in the closet until September. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed solemnly, finding that he could meet Snape's dark, insistent eyes in this instant. He really had no intentions of getting himself killed out there. He knew that he wasn't nearly as stupid as Snape liked to make him out to be.

Harry could see the reluctance plain as day written across Snape's face, and for a moment his gut clenched, thinking that Snape would change his mind. Not to be intentionally cruel, but because the man was too concerned about Harry getting himself injured to give up his control over the situation. Harry braced himself for the retraction.

Snape drew a deep breath, one that caused his shoulders to rise significantly and hold for a moment before falling again. "The key word is 'domum'. If you speak it you will be taken to a safe location, and someone will be along to see to you shortly after that. There is a tracking charm on it, but if you are injured at all you will use the portkey. If you are in trouble, you will use the portkey. If you think you are in trouble, you will—"

"Use the portkey," Harry murmured. "Yes, sir."

"Touching the band and saying 'help' will still alert me trouble, but I prefer to have you out of harm's way as quickly as possible." Snape took the broom and, with a slight nod of his head indicated that Harry should follow him out through the kitchen and into the backyard. Harry trailed after him, his stomach still churning with the fear that Snape would change his mind.

"Here."

As soon as they reached the backyard, Snape passed the broom over to him. As with his wand, the shaft of the broom seemed to positively glow as soon as Harry's fingers. Harry could not deny the way his heart fluttered, nor the warmth that flowed through him at the anticipated joy of flight. The sudden urge to throw a leg over the broom and kick off was overwhelming.

Snape drew his wand and leveled it at Harry. At one time, Harry thought, such a gesture would have had him ducking for cover, tucking and rolling away from what was sure to be a hex. Now… now Harry just stood, waiting.

The spell hit him like a bucket of cold water, trickling down his skull and neck and raising goosebumps over every inch of his skin. The sensation faded rapidly, though, and when he glanced down he could only see a faint distortion of the air, like heat rising off of black tar on a hot summer day.

"The ring will warm when you begin to stray too far afield, and it will hum when it is time for you to return." If Harry didn't know better, he would say that there was genuine anguish in the man's face. "Do not do anything too foolish."

Harry was beyond grateful that the man could not see the blush on his cheeks this once. "I won't, sir. I—"

"I prefer Severus."

Harry knew he should concede and just repeat the name back to the professor, just this once, just to thank him for this opportunity. But he couldn't; it was wrong, and it still felt to him like a baited trap, even if he knew on a logical level that Snape wouldn't punish him for calling him by his given name as he'd requested numerous times now.

"Right," he offered instead, rather lamely. "I promise I'll be careful."

Snape nodded curtly, his expression more guarded now than neutral.

Harry forced himself to swallow past the tightness in his throat, and he added in as soft and sincere a voice as he could manage, "Thank you."

Snape nodded again, and Harry could have sworn that something like warmth sparked in his dark eyes, if only for a moment.

Harry swung a leg over the broom, going by feel more than anything, leant into the handle, and kicked off. And then he was soaring.

Up, away from Cokesworth, away from the dingy little two-story house and the depressing back yard and the half-finished roof. He continued to climb toward the sky and the lazy white clouds drifting above them, leaving behind the dirty rows of houses and the twin factory smokestacks and everything about the neighborhood below him that felt no better than the juvenile detention facility.

And he was flying away, too, from the gnawing worry that never seemed to leave him. From the unopened letters and the anger at everyone in his life that he'd once trusted. Away from the uncertainty and the fear for the future, away from Voldemort's plans and the war looming on the horizon. He was melting into the sky itself, dissipating into the wind, until he was nothing more than that roar of air whistling past his ears and rushing through his clothes and the exhilarating warmth of acceleration and flight.

He could breathe. He was free.

XXXXX

Scotch. That was what Snape had smelled like.

The revelation hit Harry as he was twirling the noodles of his alfredo, the second helping Snape had insisted upon when Harry had tried to excuse himself only to find himself glued to his seat.

Snape had been very adamant about the second helping. Just as he'd been very adamant about looking Harry over as soon as he'd touched down. Harry still had no idea how the man had seen him before canceling the Disillusionment Charm. But he had been waiting in the back yard, wand out, and had descended on Harry immediately, hands clamping Harry into place for a thorough looking-over. He'd asked a few basic questions—had Harry encountered any trouble, had Harry been hurt? He'd visually scanned Harry a few times before seemingly finding satisfaction and releasing the boy.

Harry chalked it up to his fear of angering Dumbledore. The man still thought he'd get into trouble for minor scrapes and things. It wasn't as if Snape wouldn't know if he had Death Eaters skulking around in his own backyard. And really, what was there outside of that to cause Harry much trouble? It wasn't like he was stupid enough to fly into an airplane or something.

It had been odd, though, because there had been an extra scent clinging to Snape. Usually the man smelled vaguely medicinal (not that Harry was close enough often enough to learn the man's scent), and maybe once or twice Harry had caught a faint whiff of aftershave or something. But this time there had been that unmistakable peaty, sharp scent that was familiar to him but unplaceable.

And finally, after nearly an hour of ruminating over it, it had clicked. Snape smelled like Vernon after he'd been into the scotch.

And wasn't that an unfathomable thought? Harry couldn't imagine someone as self-disciplined and prim as Snape ever unbuttoning enough to drink. But he had, apparently.

Harry cast a wary eye at Snape, who was fastidiously cutting a neat bite off of his chicken breast. When Vernon drank… well, Harry just knew to stay clear of the man. Mostly he just hurled more verbal abuse, but occasionally he seemed to get into a mood where he wanted to shake Harry around a bit. Snape seemed no different than usual, but who knew what Snape was like under the influence?

"Is there some reason you are staring at me?" Snape did not even look up from his plate.

Harry flushed and hastily averted his eyes. "No."

Now Snape did turn his head, one brow arched critically. "You are a poor liar, Potter."

Harry's hand tightened around his fork. "Sorry," he breathed, his mind racing. He needed to finish eating fast, and then get back to his room. Snape's room. The room he was using in Snape's house. And if he stayed there, there was no way—

Shit, Snape was upset. From the corner of his eye, he could see the man rubbing at his temples as though he had a migraine. "I swear I am going to cast a Geas on that word."

Exasperation, but also… hell, Snape sounded defeated somehow. "A—a Geas?"

"A magical prohibition, because if I hear another unnecessary apology from you I may just be nauseated to the point of vomiting."

"You can do that?"

Snape cast a somewhat derisive glance toward Harry, his large nose slightly wrinkled. "Unlikely. It requires a powerful wizard to cast it and make it stick."

Harry pushed his noodles some more, twirling them slightly into a small, peaked hill on his plate. "I didn't mean to stare—"

"What on earth has gotten into you? When have I ever punished you for looking at me?"

"I didn't think you would," Harry mumbled. "I just didn't want you to think that I was trying to provoke you or anything, sir—"

"Potter." Snape spoke his name, then waited. Reluctantly, Harry dragged his gaze back up to the Professor's. "I requested we be finished with the honorifics."

"I know, I just—"

"You never had an issue omitting them whilst at Hogwarts." The barest touch of resentment reemerged there, undergirding the man's simple statement.

"It was different then." And then, because he felt oddly compelled to be honest, Harry added, "I wasn't always under your direct authority then, see? If I didn't live with my aunt and uncle, I'd probably never bother addressing them respectfully either."

A flash of something passed through Snape's eyes. Pain? "You do not need to tiptoe around me to avoid my wrath."

"I know."

"On an intellectual level, perhaps, but I doubt even in that sense you are sure." Snape sighed. "No more apologies."

Harry nodded jerkily in acquiescence and returned his full attention to his plate.

"Have you found time to reply to your letters?"

The sudden change of subject caught Harry entirely off guard. "No."

"You can do so after you finish here." Snape polished off the last bit of his chicken before rising with his plate and taking it over to the sink.

"I don't really want—"

"You will. You have neglected your post for long enough."

Harry's irritation flared to life. "You can't make me write back if I don't want to!"

Snape just cocked a brow at him. "I think you'll find I can." He flicked his wand at the sink to begin the process of washing up. A few empty pots lifted up from the stove, and the scrub brush set in, the sound of bristles against steel becoming a faint, constant murmur in the background. "At the very least, I can have you sit here until you see reason and give in. Accio letters."

The unopened envelopes came sailing from up the stairs, directly into Snape's hand.

Harry grit his teeth. Fine. Another writing exercise. He could get through this. And after, hopefully he would never forget again how much of a domineering bastard Snape could be.

Snape set the stack of letters to the side of Harry's water glass. "It will be good for you."

Harry bit back a scathing retort to that, instead stabbing fiercely at the few remaining noodles on his plate and shoveling them into his mouth.

"You need closure, and you have been ignoring your conflicts with your support figures for too long—"

"They're not 'supports'," Harry muttered. "But if you want me to spell that out to them, fine, I will." Harry finished the last piece of broccoli sitting on his plate and felt the Sticking Charm release. Briefly he toyed with the idea of fleeing to his bedroom and refusing to come out for the rest of the day, but he figured that would end poorly and only result in further conflict with Snape.

Harry rose to drop his plate in the sink, doing his best not to look directly at Snape. He knew his shoulders were tense and that his stance had to be pretty hostile, and that didn't set well with him after Snape had gone out of his way to make sure Harry could go flying, and had charmed his album and duplicated his pictures, and taken him shopping, and gotten him through the trial.

But the man could be so bloody irritating! Why did he have to be so involved in Harry's affairs? Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? After all, what did it matter to him whether he replied to Mrs. Weasley or Sirius or Remus? He hated all of them! Well, not Mrs. Weasley, maybe, but he probably wasn't great friends with her or anything. It shouldn't matter to him one whit whether Harry made nice or not.

Maybe he could send out form responses. Something along the lines of, "I'm sorry and I won't do it again".

When he turned back to the table, Snape had already laid out parchment and an inkwell, along with a quill. He must have conjured it all. Harry forced himself to take a deep breath and sat back down. The sooner he got through this, the sooner he could get on with his night. He dipped the quill in the inkpot and began scratching out a basic salutation at the top of his blank parchment.

"I was under the impression that one had to actually read the letters one was replying to." Snape's words remained surprisingly light, a veiled admonishment rather than an implication that Harry's brain was the size of a gnat's.

Not in the mood to argue, Harry very deliberately set the quill aside. So he would have to read the bloody letters. Fine. Then he would know for sure exactly what his beloved "support figures" had to say about him. He tore into Sirius' answer first.

It was surprisingly short. Harry, it read,

Please write back so that I know you're okay. Snape says he delivered my last letter but I doubt it. I'll keep harassing him until he does. I know it's got to be awful staying with him. And now I hear you didn't even do anything wrong. I'm trying to get you cleared to stay here. I'll talk to Dumbledore again. Love, Snuffles

Harry fought the urge to ball the whole thing up and fling it across the room. Under Snape's watchful eye, he didn't dare. He didn't know where "here" was, but he doubted his godfather was sane if he thought that Harry could live in a squat with him while on the lam. And then he'd heard Harry had been falsely accused, but hadn't bothered to write an apology? Harry shook his head to himself in disgust, and moved on to the next letter. Mrs. Weasley.

Harry,

Severus is most insistent that you are being provided for and that you have everything you need, and I know he is a Head of House, but I worry that he does not know how to properly care for a young boy. We are hoping to have Albus agree to have you at the Burrow for the rest of the holiday. I know that my boys and Ginny would love to have you here. We would have to bunk you with Ron, so it might be a bit cozy, but we'll make do. Hopefully we can have you here shortly.

I am so sorry to hear about the mess they've put you through this summer, what with that burglary nonsense. I've only heard the basic details about how the whole affair was handled, but I understand that those Muggles have been useless for straightening anything out. I'm glad to hear that Albus had Severus step in for you.

I do hope to hear back from you. I understand you've been busy with the hearing and all, and I realize that Hedwig has been with us. Hopefully now you'll have time to jot off a quick response to us to let us know if you'd like to come to stay.

Love, Molly

Harry flipped the letter over beside him with a great deal more force than was necessary. Didn't she remember what she'd written him before? Didn't she have words about how wrong she'd been and how she shouldn't have leapt to conclusions?

And as for staying at the Burrow…. He'd begged Snape for that option, and he doubted that the man would budge on his position, but even so, he really didn't want to be there. He would love to spend time with Ron and the others, sure, but he felt sick even imagining having Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in charge of him. They'd fawn over him and treat him as if he could do no wrong, as they always had, until they suspected him of wrongdoing, and then they'd turn on him. Just like the others when he'd tried to tell them Voldemort was back.

At least with Snape he knew where he stood. Mostly. The man wasn't usually nice or anything, and he definitely didn't coddle Harry, but he did take his duties as a guardian seriously. And he dedicated a lot of time to Harry specifically. Even that hour he'd sat with Harry in the parlor while Harry worked on his homework… Harry had never had an adult tell him to do school work before. The Dursleys hadn't cared, and the Weasleys had never been very directly involved in Harry's care. He'd always been a friend staying over, and the Boy Who Lived to boot. But Snape would make sure he ate and had proper clothes, and didn't put his summer assignments off until the last minute. He wasn't Famous Harry Potter here; he was just Harry, Snape's ward.

Hell. He actually preferred staying with Snape to the Weasleys. Not that he'd ever tell the man.

He stole a glance at Snape, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Harry impassively. Harry wondered if he'd stay the whole time, or just long enough to ensure that Harry read his letters.

Harry sighed internally and took up the last one, from Lupin. And he read.

Harry,

Severus let us know that we were misinformed about what had happened. I apologize for a rather pointless rant, though my concerns remain unchanged. How are you bearing up after everything? I know that Severus cannot be easy to live with, especially given your particular history. I have been speaking with Sirius and trying to determine what we could do to convince Albus to bring you here (I cannot say where, but I suspect you will understand soon enough).

I have heard from Ron and Hermione that they have received replies from you. I am glad to hear from them that you seem to be doing well, despite your difficult situation. I hope to hear back from you soon as well. You can always come to me if you need to talk about anything.

Remus

Harry's hand was crumpling the parchment hard by the time he finished reading the letter. Oh, there was such a generous apology in this one. Sorry I wasted my time scolding you. Not "I'm sorry I wrongly assumed you could ever do something so awful". And then the little guilt trip about not having received a reply, as if Harry owed it to him to write him back as soon as possible. And talking to Remus about anything… well, he'd like to start with a nice, easy question. Maybe, "where the hell were you when I was competing in the Triwizard Tournament?" Or, "why are you suddenly interested in checking in on me now? Why not before, when the Dursleys were treating me like shite all those years?"

Vaguely, it bothered him that all three of them seemed to think that Snape was terrible to him. Yeah, the professor hadn't been a ray of sunshine from the beginning, and he could still be a complete arse when it suited him, but he was really a very decent guardian. Especially now that he seemed to have gotten over his misconceptions about Harry. It was dumb of any of them to assume that they were better.

Severus let us know… that phrase stood out in Harry's mind. Snape had told them about Harry being framed? When had he done that? And how had that gone over? They had to have been pestering him or something, and he'd snapped at them and accidentally told them the truth. Or maybe he'd informed Dumbledore, and Dumbledore had ordered him to tell the others. Who knew.

He sighed and, shoving the letters away, pulled a clean sheet of parchment toward him and began painstakingly to write. Snape watched him for a few more moments before he slid out, apparently satisfied with Harry's commitment.

Perhaps the Potions Master should have stayed. As soon as he was out of sight, the very composed, formal reply Harry had started to his godfather started to devolve into insults and accusations and angry, illegible slashes on the parchment that were more effective at translating Harry's anger than any combination of letters ever could be. Finishing Sirius', Harry shoved the letter aside and started in on Mrs. Weasley's answer, and then Remus'. He snapped his quill twice, and once he dragged the side of his hand through an ink blob, blackening it and making an even greater mess of the already butchered parchment. But the words that had been festering in his mind for days now seemed to break through their dam and poured forth uncontrollably, spilling over the parchment in a litany of ugly, sharp questions and statements that he never would have uttered aloud. The flood continued for an immeasurable amount of time, with Harry lost to all sense of place, consumed by the emotions tearing through him. His hand started to cramp and ache, but he ignored it, needing to finish this.

Do you think so little of me that you'd believe I'd rob someone without even questioning it? Do you even know what my home life is like? Would you even care if I told you that I have nightmares every night about what happened in that graveyard? How would you feel if I told you that Snape knows more about me and has supported me more than any of you ever have?

When he at last set the quill down, he was horrified to find that there were hot tears welling up in his eyes. He swiped a sleeve over them, angrily scrubbing them away, and went to was the ink off his hands, his heart racing in his breast even as his fury faded and turned to shame.

He remembered what Snape had said to him earlier about his selfishness. About how these people had concerns other than his well-being, and that it was rather egotistical of him to believe that they could orient their lives around his needs. That they cared, that they were asking after him, should be enough. It didn't feel like it could be enough, but then again, maybe his expectations were unrealistic.

He dried his hands on the dish towel hung over the stove handle, and then went to snatch all of his writing up and pitched it straight in the rubbish bin. He forced himself to take a few more calming breaths, then took his place back at the table and began again, his answers this time far more restrained.

All of his replies were the same in substance. He apologized for not writing sooner, lying and saying that he'd forgotten to after all the hubbub surrounding the trial died down. He told them that he'd like to stay with them, but he'd already discussed the matter with Snape, who said it would be best for him to remain where he was for the safety of everyone, including himself. Finally, he reassured them all that he was fine, and that he was still pretty upset from everything that had happened in the graveyard, but that he was coping as best he could and he would reach out if he needed help. The replies were bland and insincere, but Harry couldn't be arsed to care much beyond the fact that they were finished.

He was just composing the last bit of Lupin's answer when Snape returned, carrying, of all things, a basket of laundry. The sight was so bizarre that Harry just stopped and stared, his brain finding it difficult to process the scene before him.

"Have you finished?"

Harry managed to restart his brain and mumbled, "Nearly."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as the verbose type."

"I had to start over. The first ones were… no good."

Snape set his laundry basket down on the kitchen counter. "'No good' how, exactly?"

Harry flinched slightly at the memory of what he'd written. "Not civil."

Snape's lips twitched just slightly. Likely imagining what he'd written to Sirius initially. "I never demanded you write civil responses."

That caught Harry off guard. Of course the man would have cared, though, if Harry had sent those initial answers off. They'd all turn around and complain that Harry was rude and ungrateful and had no manners, and that would reflect poorly on Snape, which the man would not stand.

"I said too much in them. I didn't want them read."

This time when Snape's lips twitched, the corners of his mouth remained upturned in an amused little smirk. "I never said you had to write replies fit for me to deliver, either."

Harry was sick of these games. "Then what the hell was the point of answering my letters at all? Why'd you make me—"

"To force you to deal with your emotions. Allowing them to ferment within you has only done you harm. Do you feel better having written those angry replies?"

If he thought about it… yes. He felt a bit lighter, even knowing that none of those people would ever know what he truly thought on the matter. But he wasn't about to just admit that to Snape. "I'm tired and my hand hurts."

The look in Snape's eye suggested that he knew just how much this exercise had helped Harry. "Do you wish me to deliver those?" He indicated the two partially-folded answers on the table.

"Are you going to make me talk to them if I don't give them a written reply?" Harry demanded.

Snape shook his head slowly, turning back to retrieve his laundry basket. "Certainly not."

The knot that had begun to form in Harry's stomach dissipated. "Can I be done then?"

"Yes. Clean that up, and then bring me any clothing you need washed."

Harry stared in disbelief for a moment before realizing that Snape had been serious. "I can do my own clothes—"

"Nonsense. I only have a small load here. There is no sense in creating extra work."

A blush began to creep its way up Harry's neck. "I'll do my own. Besides, I'm sure you don't want anything to do with my dirty pants—"

Snape arched both brows at him in question. "I will be throwing them in the wash, Potter, not inspecting them in detail. Bring them down."

"Seriously, I can do my own laundry. I've been doing it for years—"

"And I commend that capability in a boy your age. I do not, however, require a demonstration of that skill. Really, Potter, they're brand new. I know that you're a teenaged boy, but I doubt you could have ruined them in so short a period of time."

Harry's blush flared to life and he ducked his head down. He did not want to be having this conversation.

"Have you?"

"No!" Harry snapped, and glared up at Snape, only to realize that the professor was openly smirking at him, clearly enjoying embarrassing Harry.

"Good. Bring your clothes downstairs. If it puts your mind at ease, I promise not to look at your soiled undergarments—"

"I'm going," Harry interrupted, wishing he knew what to say to wipe the smirk from Snape's face. What was his issue, anyway? Sadistic bastard.

"Strip your sheets as well. They need to be changed."

Harry paused on his way out of the dining room. "You know, you'd feel the same way if you had someone else handling your smalls."

"You have a strange obsession with soiled undergarments, Mr. Potter," Snape remarked conversationally.

"No, I'm just being practical! Some things are just private."

Snape heaved a very theatrical sigh, and for a fleeting moment Harry believed he'd won. But then the professor twirled his wand in a broad circle and incanted, "Accio Harry's dirty laundry."

To Harry's horror, the spell drew a whole parade of crumpled clothes from the upstairs bedroom. Most streamed into the laundry basket, directed by Snape's wand, but the potions professor managed to snatch a single pair of boxers from the line of clothes and held them up to scrutinize.

"What are you doing?" Harry cried, moving to snatch them back from the man.

Snape did not let Harry, holding them well out of the boy's reach. "Trying to determine what has you so mortified. Is it related to a possible medical issue?"

"No, I don't have a medical issue! It's just my underwear, you…." And it was then that Harry realized that Snape was not looking at the garment he held in his hands, but pointedly at Harry. "What are you doing?"

"Teaching you that it is sometimes better to simply walk away." Snape was still smiling that self-satisfied smirk. "Unless I need to look over your sheets as well? Perhaps see if they need to be changed more frequently?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort to that, before realizing that Snape had all but admitted that he was simply taunting Harry because he could. So Harry took the man's advice and slipped up to the bedroom without another word, his face still burning.

Because he'd let himself be embarrassed. Was that what Snape had meant? That he'd given over power to the man by staying there and arguing? It was still just plain embarrassing to have his professor handling his dirty laundry….

But Snape didn't care, he realized. Hell, the man had been bantering with him. Teasing Harry. Since when did Severus Snape tease anyone? Cut them to ribbons with his tongue, yes. Verbally abuse them, yes. But something as light and amicable as teasing?

Harry remembered the Scotch from earlier. Had the man been drunk? Or tipsy? What was Snape even like under the influence? Probably just like this, poking light fun at Harry about his dirty laundry, and making incoherent jokes about his sheets. What had Snape been talking about, needing to change them more frequently? He'd made that odd comment about teenaged boys, and then….

Oh. Harry snatched his pillow and buried his face in it, even though he was alone in the room and there was no one to witness his mortification. Snape had meant that.

God, he didn't even do that, not outside of the shower.

He really, really hoped the man was drunk. So drunk that he wouldn't remember how easy it was to embarrass Harry.

But… Snape hadn't been malicious about the whole thing. There had been a strange fondness to it. Like when Aunt Petunia would threaten to show pictures of her precious "Diddykins" in the bath to all of Dudley's friends.

Snape wasn't exactly fond of Harry, though, was he? That was something of an overstatement. He was just comfortable around his ward now, and probably bored. And he'd already said that he no longer outright hated Harry. So it was only natural that the man should start to relax a bit and behave more naturally. Wearing his casual clothes, and doing household chores and all. And yes, amusing himself by latching onto Harry's discomfort with having his clothes laundered by his professor.

All very natural, Harry decided. And he would just pretend that Snape had never gotten to him with his comments. Next time, he would take the man's advice and walk away sooner.

A/N: As always, I am overwhelmed and warmed to my core by all of your kind comments. Please keep them coming! I apologize for not getting back to all of you. I've been busy typing away, trying to finish this fic up so that I can get back to some older fics. I'm so pleased with the positive response to my little interlude, and I will happily include more, as requested. I do, however, have a request for you in turn. I'm cranky (as previously mentioned) and very married to my own vision of this fic, but I would love to hear from you what scenes you would like to see from Severus' perspective. I make no promises as to what will get written, but I'd love to be able to fulfill a few requests :)

Thank you to all of you for reading and enjoying Crime and Punishment. It is an honor to have so many folks following this! I hope I can do you all proud as we near the home stretch (relatively speaking...) of this work. (TBH I will probably continue to string us all along for another 50k, since that seems to be my style...) Happy belated Easter! And woohoo, we've hit 100k+!

Cheers,

~Mel