Harry's first impression of Cokeworth was one of familiarity, of cold tinned tomatoes on equally cold toast, and damp, musty bedsheets. He'd been here before, or at least—somewhere near to it, back before Hogwarts. They'd stayed at a hotel around the area when Uncle Vernon had taken them all on the run from his letters. Had Snape really been so close, all that time? Close enough that they might have run into each other at the corner store in town, or passed each other by on the street?

His second impression was one of vague concern. The section of Cokeworth Lupin had Apparated them to had been distinctly shabby in a way that Little Whinging had never been, but as they'd traveled further on, past the town and past the little houses and playgrounds, things seemed to go from 'shabby' to 'derelict.' The river seemed to be the dividing marker. It snaked by the outskirts of the neat little family homes Harry had caught a glimpse of, trash-logged and turned brown with filth. In the distance, he could see the top of an old factory chimney, looming high above the abandoned workers' two-up two-downs that made up the side of town he'd had the misfortune to find himself in.

Snape lived here?

"Harry," Lupin murmured, grazing his shoulder with a barely-there touch, "try to keep close. We still have a ways to go."

He didn't want to know how bad the state of the houses even further in were. Had Cokeworth somehow gone untouched by the slum clearance in the 1950's and 60's?

The windows of nearly every house they passed were either boarded, shattered, or both. Some buildings were missing their doors. Any house they passed by with lights on inside seemed hardly better than the rest; Harry felt as though he'd stepped into a frozen passage of time, a relic that had been forgotten by the rest of the world, and left to rot alone.

"Here we are." The words were so soft, Harry barely heard them. They'd come to a stop deep within the maze of narrow, cobbled streets, in front of a house that should have been demolished forty years prior. When Lupin raised a hand to rap on the door, Harry felt suddenly as though the hot, dirty air was suffocating him, filling his lungs until they became leaden. It was hard to breathe. Not wanting Professor Lupin to see the panic crushing his sternum, he fixed his eyes on his trainers, tracing the line where they were beginning to tear at the uppers.

The door opened. He felt his heart jolt at the sound of it.

"I don't suppose you might just be Muggles hoping to promote the Lord," Severus Snape said flatly, and Harry snatched the briefest glance of him from where he was leaning out the door before he locked his eyes back onto his shoelaces.

"Hello, Severus," Lupin said through his beard, glancing down the empty street.

"Well? Are you coming in?"

Harry stepped into the house before his courage could fail him. The rancid smell of the river didn't last through the doorway; Snape's house smelled old, dusty, with the lingering sharpness of stale cigarettes and black coffee. He took a deep breath to fortify himself and looked around.

The expected green-and-silver color scheme was nowhere to be seen; the living room looked like a prison cell, with bookshelves for cages, and the scant amount of furniture was ratty, with dull, threadbare fabrics that would have been considered old twenty years ago. The only source of light was a candle-filled lamp hanging from the ceiling. Harry had expected luxury, silks and satins, and a hoard of house-elves; wasn't Snape a rich pureblood? Wasn't there supposed to be a fine chaise lounge, instead of a sagging sofa? A leather armchair not unlike those in Slytherin's common room, to replace the ancient monstrosity by the hearth? He'd never paid close enough attention to his Potions Professor to truly study him, but hadn't he always won fine, if not drab, robes? Or had he simply not noticed the fraying sleeves and aged patches he now saw clearly as though they'd appeared out of nothingness?

The room itself seemed to be made up of books. They were everywhere—on shelves, in cases, stacked on the floor and footstool, and even piled in the tattered armchair. Snape had a miniature library in his house. It was the only part of this relic of a home that fit Harry's previously assumed impression of the man.

Then he remembered he didn't actually give a damn what his impressions of this place or its owner were, because fury had swiftly overtaken him at the dismissive look on Snape's face, and suddenly he was shouting.

—

"I'VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEY'S FOR A MONTH! AND I'VE HANDLED MORE THAN THE OTHERS EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT—WHO SAVED THE SORCERER'S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED RON AND HERMIONE'S SKINS FROM DEMENTORS? WHO—"

There was no wordly payment Dumbledore could ever have given him that would make any of this worth it. As Potter continued spewing what was likely a year's worth of adolescent frustrations, he retired to the kitchen to begin meal prep; the boy didn't even seem to notice he'd left the room. His temper likely wouldn't simmer down once he did notice. If somebody simply walked away while he was in the middle of a passionate rant, Severus would find himself none too pleased.

Then again…it wasn't as if he cared about Potter's fragile ego.

In the sitting room, the wolf was speaking in a low, soothing tone. The boy had stopped shouting, but Severus knew perfectly well it hadn't cured anything. Teenagers rarely expended all of their hurts in one go. To expect attitude during these hellish weeks would be an understatement.

And to think, he had to teach someone like this how to control their emotions. Someone so arrogant, so open and emotionally vulnerable, that wore their heart on their sleeve… just like his father.

Supper was ready to be prepared by the time Lupin led the boy into the kitchen. He cast a withering look at them both as they began to look around. They were studying the room closely, without even attempting to be discreet about it. Gryffindors. "Listen closely, Potter," he said, injecting as much sneer into the words as possible. "I am not made of money. Do not expect to be living in luxury during your stay here. I refuse to allow you to lounge about all day, throwing your weight round my house and expecting to be treated like royalty. There will be chores. You will be finishing your summer homework, to my satisfaction, and you will be studying all that I attempt to force into your miniscule brain."

There was a sullen silence from behind him. Then, softly, "All right."

"What was that?"

"Yes, sir."

Severus heard a faint sigh from somewhere to his left. Turning his head slightly to watch the wolf creep closer, he snapped, "Do you need something, Lupin?"

"I'd like to thank you for agreeing to take in Harry and teach him Occlumency. The Order is indebted to you, Severus," he said, for all the world seeming like he truly meant it. He was currently studying the broken handle on his silverware drawer, and the dishes in the sink, with an air of vague interest. The light on the ceiling flickered ominously; Severus shot a glare at it, daring it to go out during the inspection of his home.

"Your appreciation is neither wanted nor needed," he dismissed, mincing the remnants of the parsley he'd found in his fridge and reaching for a ziploc bag of diced white onion. Lupin hadn't stopped moving. He was uncomfortably close now. Goosebumps prickled along his arms at the proximity. "Why are you coming closer? Trying to make sure I don't poison the Boy-Who-Lived? Rest assured, werewolf—I'm currently fresh out of my quickest poisons. Even I would tire of watching Potter writhe on the floor as death slowly overtakes him."

"D'you want me to help with dinner?" Potter suddenly asked. The offer seemed surprisingly sincere, even though it was aimed towards his disgusting trainers. The boy's hands were twisting in his oversized shirt. Just as disrespectful as his father. "I'm a decent hand at cooking."

"No. Sit down and be quiet." His kitchen was too fucking tiny for this.

He could hear the telltale creak as the boy sat down in the chair closest to the back door, and then the sound of him plucking at the stuffing in the ragged seat cushion.

"What are you making?" Lupin asked mildly. "It looks quite healthy."

Ah…and now the questioning had begun.

"An Israeli salad." He diced two cucumbers with precision borne from years of cutting potions ingredients, and pushed the pile aside to make room for a tomato. It joined the growing pile of chopped vegetables in a matter of seconds. "Go ahead and begin the interrogation. No need to hide behind polite inquiries."

Lupin did just that, firing off questions without preamble. Severus tipped the vegetables on the cutting board into a chipped bowl and grabbed a spoon to toss it all together.

Was he going to keep the Chosen One fed? Was there a place for him to sleep? Was his house on the verge of condemnation, or was it clean? How safe was that potion bubbling away on his stove? How old were the dishes in the sink? Did he have an outhouse, or was there a more modern bathroom attached to the house itself? Was it reasonably lacking in mildew? Was the whole building this shabby—he twitched at that one—or was it just the sitting room and kitchen? Was the house itself safe? Were there any Dark objects of any kind?

Will it ever end? he found himself wondering after the nth question. The salad was long since finished, and Lupin still hadn't escorted himself out the door. Did he expect to be invited to eat? There wasn't nearly enough food for three of them; he'd only made enough for Potter, using whatever odds and ends he'd been able to find in the kitchen. There would be a visit to the local shopping centre in the very near future.

"Potter," Severus said, cutting Lupin off and turning to glare at the supposed Chosen One. The boy stared back defiantly, gripping the bottom of the chair so hard his knuckles had gone white. He was bouncing one of his legs as though ready to hex someone at a moment's notice. Those oversized clothes were beginning to piss him off, too; and those trainers would be going into the rubbish bin outside the minute he found a newer pair among the boy's belongings. "Lemon juice, olive oil, or tahini?"

"Er…" He stopped picking at the chair's stuffing long enough to scratch at his nose. "Tahini?"

"Are you asking, or saying?" he demanded.

"Saying…?" the boy said slowly, trying to look up at the salad on the counter without standing. Lupin was smiling wryly at him; clearly he found the boy's lack of decision-making skills endearing. Whyhe was the one being questioned for his ability to take care of a single teenager, he'd never understand. He'd been taking care of a couple hundred of the brats for over a decade now, and none of them had ever been seriously traumatized by him. The most he'd ever done was make a Hufflepuff or two cry, and that had been years ago, before he'd learned how to toe the line between deflating an ego and inducing fits of hysteria.

When he opened his refrigerator, Lupin was suddenly right there, silently studying the lack of food. "I will, of course, be going to the supermarket," said Severus with a curl of his lip. "I have no intentions of starving Potter."

"Glad to hear it," the wolf smiled. "Do you have the funds to keep a teenage boy fed?"

"I don't expect to be filing bankruptcy after he leaves for headquarters."

"Is that a yes?"

"Obviously. Are we finished here? I wouldn't want Potter's healthy meal to wilt, seeing as how you seem to be planning on staying until the end of time." Severus fixed a bland smile on his face, fully aware that it hadn't touched his eyes. "I believe you've overstayed your welcome. It's time for you to leave."

"You've never been one to mince words, Severus." Lupin's smile was equally bland. "But, unfortunately, my visit isn't quite finished. Would you allow me to inspect the upstairs?"

And for the first time, Severus felt an inkling of true discomfort. The upstairs? The kitchen and sitting room were one thing, but the upstairs—that was a place he allowed no one to set foot. "If you must," he said tonelessly, Occluding hard enough to make himself feel numb inside and out. "I can assure you, Potter will be spending minimal time upstairs. In fact, the only time he will be up there at all is if he has somehow injured himself and needs my assistance during the night."

Lupin paused and looked around. "Is there a bedroom on the ground floor that he'll be sleeping in?"

Potter had stopped eating, Severus noticed, with his mouth full of food and his head down. "The spare bedroom upstairs has been a storage room for some time now, and isn't currently fit for human consumption. Until I can find the time necessary to clear it out, the boy will be sleeping on the sofa. It is not uncomfortable. I will, of course, be adding copious Cushioning Charms to it, and blankets. It will be far from the beds he is no doubt used to, but it isn't a box on the side of the road."

"I'm glad to hear of it." The werewolf's expression was inscrutable, body language loose and relaxed from where he leaned lightly against the counter, illuminated in a halo by the grey light streaming in through the dirty window.

It infuriated him, really, that he couldn't use Legilimency on werewolves. He would love to be able to crack open that mild-mannered composure and see what sort of twistedness lay within the mind of Lupin. Reading body language wasn't difficult—it was easy, really; a talent developed early in life—but while James Potter and Sirius Black had always been open books, Remus Lupin had been another story entirely.

And Severus hated closed books.

"Come along, then," he snapped, sweeping out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance to ensure the werewolf was following. The sound of footsteps was enough indication. He crossed the sitting room in a few strides, pausing only long enough to pull out the book that would trigger the shelf to jump aside, before he began the ascent up the narrow staircase. It was barely a moment later that he realized Lupin wasn't going to be able to follow him up the deathtrap that posed as a flight of stairs. "Don't follow me, wolf. You'll break your worthless neck. I'll fetch you."

As loathe as he was to touch anyone, let alone this specific anyone, Severus knew Albus would string him up by his toes and flay him alive if he were to allow his precious werewolf to break his neck on his stairs. And so he grabbed the man roughly by the arm and marched them up to the second floor. He could feel the very cells in his body cringing away from the contact. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling.

"These stairs seem very dangerous," said Lupin. He seemed to be taking the rough treatment in stride, glancing about in a show of polite interest. They reached the top of the landing without incident. The moment he was certain the wolf wouldn't fall, Severus pulled away sharply and stepped to the side. "Is there not a banister, or a light?"

He'd broken his arm in the summer before his seventh year, falling down these stairs. "All stairs are dangerous, if you're an insufferable dunderhead who can't be arsed to follow basic safety procedures."

"A proper banister would most certainly follow basic safety procedures."

He'd forgotten what a vindictive cunt Remus Lupin could be when he felt like it. A mix of hatred and vague nostalgia swelled up within him, churning together to resemble something like indigestion. "Is this enough inspection, Lupin?" he hissed, wishing desperately to hex the man and be done with it. He swept an arm out in a parody of a showing, movement nearly lost in the darkness of the landing. "Or will you not be satisfied until you've taken notes to bring back to Black? Would you like a camera, as well?"

Just as he'd hoped, Lupin's composure finally cracked. There was a sharp crease between his eyebrows and his eyes seemed tight. Irritably, he said, "That's not my intention, Severus. I only wish to ensure Harry's safety and comfort during his stay. Making a fool of you is by no means the purpose of me coming here. Now—may I see these rooms?"

Severus was going to need a Calming Draught the minute this farce of a home inspection was complete. What was this, a raid on Malfoy Manor? Wrenching the door closest to the stairs open, he stepped back protectively in front of the room that was once his parent's and jerked his head at his own bedroom. "There," he snapped. " Do try to restrain yourself from disturbing anything."

It was times like these where he was rather glad he didn't own much in the way of furniture or clothing. His bedroom was bare to the point of looking almost entirely uninhabited—a guest room, void of personality and decoration. The bedstead was iron, with thin sheets coated in an even thinner layer of dust. One of the legs on the wardrobe was too short; it wobbled each time he opened it. His nightstand was chipped and worn, and the lamp on top was even dustier than his bedsheets.

"Is this not your room?" Lupin asked, glancing about. "It looks quite neglected."

"What an astute observation. One might think you do, after all, possess more than one brain cell. I've been away, if you must know, though I would love for you to enlighten me on how it is any of your business," he lied smoothly. The sofa was where he normally kipped down. Yet another thing Potter was going to ruin during his brief stint at Spinner's End. "Is that all? My patience is running very thin."

Lupin did not mention the other bedroom. Severus didn't make any attempt at reminding him of it. The returning trek down the stairs was slower than the first, because Severus knew from experience just how dangerous said trek could be, and by the end of it his fingers felt stiff from how tightly he'd clenched the other's shirt in his fist. They returned to the kitchen without a word.

Potter didn't move when they entered, but Severus could see his eyes dart up to scrutinize them before returning to the remnants of his dinner. The wolf looked round one more time and finally nodded a little. "Harry"—the boy's head shot up—"I'll be seeing you in two days, and you will have full access to the Floo network while here, in case of an…emergency. I'm sure Ron and Hermione are writing frantic letters to you as we speak. Do you need anything before I leave?"

"Er—no, I think I'm okay," the boy mumbled, shuffling upright in his chair from the slouch he'd sunk into. "Oh wait—could you unshrink my trunk, actually?"

Severus busied himself with preparing more potions ingredients so he wouldn't have to look directly at either of them. He could hear the wheels on Potter's trunk grate against his kitchen floor.

"Well, I'll be off, then." Lupin hesitantly placed a hand on Potter's shoulder, like he was afraid of spreading his werewolf, and briefly exchanged goodbyes. "I'll be here around Friday afternoon. Thank you again for this, Severus. Harry, I'll be seeing you soon. I'll go ahead and let myself out."

When the front door finally closed and Lupin was finally gone, Severus deigned himself to look at the boy. "Now that your favorite werewolf is finished poking his snout into places it doesn't belong, and you're quite finished, you can go find something quiet to do. You have a summer assignment in my class. I would suggest you use that as a method of staying out of my way."

Potter glowered at his fork and made no move to get up. "He's only trying to help. Sir."

"Be that as it may, Lupin can feel free to help elsewhere, and stay far away from my house." Preferably forever—but, he supposed, you couldn't always get what you wanted in life. If he could, the Marauders would have died many years ago, and he wouldn't have had the spawn of all of his least favorite classmates foisted upon him. But then, he'd likely still be with the Dark Lord if that were true, killing innocent people, making deadly poisons, and generally making a nuisance of himself in trying to impress his fellow Death Eaters. "Are you finished eating? As I said, you won't be throwing your weight round my house. Scrape your plate and place it in the sink."

"D-D'you want me to do the dishes, too? Sir?" His voice was sullen.

"No. We aren't Muggles."

Silence. Then, just as angrily, "It was good. Thank you for the food."

If he was going to insist on being like this all year, Severus was going to end up killing himself by November. Had he really agreed to this? Had Albus perhaps hit him with a subtle compulsion charm, or had he potentially been putting compliance potions into his coffee grounds for the last year? Maybe he'd been under the Imperius when he'd said yes.

He'd only just begun to open his mouth and fuck up whatever tentative truce they seemed to have formed, when the oven timer chimed. The Veritaserum was in its third stage. Jolting towards the stove, he rushed to begin chopping bitterroot, holding his breath to keep the rancid smell out; the boy made a gagging noise from behind him and demanded, "What the hell is that?"

"Bitterroot, as you should have known since second year. Cover your nose—I won't have you sicking up all over my table." It was all in, now, and he allowed himself the few seconds that it took to cast an air freshening spell before reaching for his supply of Jobberknoll feathers and dropping a single one into the brew and turning the heat on the highest setting. His stove let out a furious rumble and flickered ominously, but held steady. He'd chosen the good burner for a reason. "Summer assignment, Potter. I shan't repeat myself again."

Dropping a measure of moly into the potion, Severus stirred counterclockwise for twelve seconds before turning clockwise for another five, and then counter again until the potion turned neon green—the final stage before it became colorless and had to stew for a week. (He was not looking forward to the gas bill.) He mopped at his forehead with one hand and cast a cooling charm with the other before beginning to measure out a teaspoon of powdered moonstone.

"Have you begun to complete any of your summer assignments?" he asked as he stirred in alternating turns.

Potter didn't reply, but the split second's pause before he continued paging through his Potions book was enough of an answer.

"I shouldn't have expected anything less. So arrogant—you're approaching your fifth year and yet you are still expecting to glide your way through school on fame alone, rather than hard work. How will you ever hope to pass your OWLs? Will you dazzle them with your scar and ask for an O?" he went on, turning his stove down low as the green suddenly sapped away, leaving behind a concoction that resembled water. Finally…and now all he had to do was make sure the boy didn't touch it. "Now. We have some rules to be going over."

—

Harry had been waiting for the rules.

He was still seething by the time Snape finished the potion, and he knew full well that his temper was only going to become worse when the git would present him with what was sure to be a book as thick as his head, full of rules like "do not look at me when the hour is a number divisible by two," and "refrain from bringing garlic near the premise of my property, lest I disembowel you and use your innards in a potion to power the Dark Lord."

"Rules, sir?" he said, in a voice that he hoped to be reasonably calm, arranging his expression into something he thought might be politely quizzical. Snape pivoted on his heel and fixed him with a baleful look, but said nothing; there was an air about him that reminded Harry of the one that often radiated from him like an aura during Potions—the one that said he was such a miserable failure, there weren't even words to describe how much of a mistake his parents had made in conceiving him. Apparently, his politely quizzical face was just as bad as his innocent one.

"Yes, Potter," said Snape with relish. "Rules. You will follow them all, unless you'd like to scrub out my used cauldrons all summer. Do you enjoy the smell of week-old Polyjuice crustings?"

Polyjuice crustings? It had been three years since his adventure into the Slytherin common room, but the mere memory of cleaning that cauldron made him gag a little; or maybe that was the remnants of the nausea that had sprung up when Snape cut open the bitterroot.

"Would you like me to go fetch a quill, Professor?" Harry asked. "How long should my parchment be? Will twelve inches do?"

What little he could see of Snape's eyes behind that greasy hair looked hard and cold. "Are you offering to begin lines? Already planning on breaking rules, are you?"

That awful boy…

He swallowed. "No."

"No?"

"No, sir."

Those black eyes went even colder. "Spare me your lies." He moved suddenly, planting both hands down on the table so that he was staring down his considerable nose at Harry. "Rule one: you will not, for any reason, touch the cauldron on the stove. You will not add anything to it, you will not move it aside, you will not turn the stove off, you will not breathe on it…Do not touch the potion, and our weeks together will pass quite smoothly. Rule two: you will not enter either of the upstairs rooms, for any reason. I don't care if you have an excuse that would satisfy the Dark Lord himself. You will not enter those rooms. Rule three…"

He was wrong, Harry thought, as Snape prattled on and on. Twelve inches wouldn't be nearly enough to write all of this down.