Albus had made a terrible mistake in judgement by leaving the boy out of the current events. As much as Severus hated Harry Potter, the boy had never been this sullen, this angry—this prone to raging outbursts. The most he'd ever truly done…as loathe he was to admit it…was show some cheek when provoked, and go exploring after curfew. Severus had never heard rumors of the boy's pranks. He'd not been treated to complaints of bullying by anyone other than Draco Malfoy. Potter wasn't his kindhearted mother, but…Well. This newfound attitude, on the other hand, was right up James Potter's alley. That infuriated him beyond all else.

The boy was asleep. There hadn't been a sound from downstairs for more than an hour now, when before he'd heard the faint sound of shuffling, and the groaning of his ancient sofa. Now there was silence. And Severus found himself unable to drop off. Perhaps it was lack of familiarity; he often kipped down on the sofa, rather than attempting to wrestle his bed into submission. He'd nearly forgotten, by forceful repression most likely, how deeply it sunk in the center, and how painful the bedsprings were. Not even Cushioning Charms had helped much. While the couch was perfectly serviceable—and he missed it dearly, all of a sudden—his childhood bed left much to be desired.

Maybe if he took the empty bedframe from his parents' room…He'd savaged the mattress years ago, ripped it apart until it more resembled a snowman than a mattress, but the bedframe was in decent enough shape. His father had at least slept soundly on it. He could Banish half the contents of that room, empty out the rest…Then Potter would be free to occupy that space, and he would have his couch back.

They needed to buy food, Severus remembered, pressing his palms hard against his eyes, until bright spots of color burst out through the darkness, and then he let his arms drop back to his sides with a long sigh. It would have to be tomorrow. He couldn't so much as remember the last time he'd bought a jar of fucking peanut butter, let alone anything edible. The ingredients for last night's salad had been a (relief) surprise.

It was raining for the first time in over a week; the sound of the river rushing past was almost soothing. The fact that the yard was most certainly going to be flooded come tomorrow couldn't bother him. Maybe…just maybe…he'd be able to get some sleep after all…

Or not. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, unable to find a comfortable position. The springs dug into his back; his shoulder sank deep when he laid on his side; his spine ached when he tried to roll onto his stomach. Nothing was working. Did he have an extra Dreamless Sleep lying around…? No, even if he did, it would be useless now. A full eight hours was recommended for those. It was already late now; he didn't fancy waking up in the afternoon, well rested or not. Maybe if he only took a spoonful…

Potter's presence in his house was a hyperawareness fixed into his head. Severus could barely focus on anything else, knowing the boy lay downstairs. Not even his double-warded door, the hidden entrance to the stairs that he was sure Potter hadn't figured out, or the fact that he was asleep could ease Severus's anxieties—or his slowly building fury at the situation. How could Albus have talked him into this? It—it was—ridiculous, maddening even. But the anger…the so-familiar disappointment in Dumbledore's eyes, had been…

Too much to bear.

It was somewhere near dawn when he finally dropped off, but his dreams were twisted and his sleep was shallow at best. Severus had just begun to slip into a deeper rest when there was a scraping sound from somewhere in the house. He was halfway out of bed when he realized Potter must have been awake; the bathroom door squealed below as it opened and shut. Breathing hard, Severus eased back down and dragged his fraying quilt tightly round himself. It had been a very long time, nearly twenty years, even, since anyone had so much as stayed the night at his house. Having somebody else here was…alarming. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about it.

He could hear the pipes shuddering as the shower turned on with a roar. Severus rolled over onto his side, ignoring the way his shoulder sunk deep into the mattress, and shoved his head under his pillow in an attempt to drown out the noise. (Had he remembered to tell the boy where the towels were?)

What time was it? Fumbling for his wand on his rickety nightstand, Severus cast a hoarse tempus and rubbed at his eyes in disbelief. Six in the morning? What kind of teenager willingly woke up at six in the morning? God.

Well, he was awake now, at any rate. Stretching as best he could, Severus turned onto his back again and fumbled at his bedside for his cigarettes. He scratched at his bony hip and closed his eyes. They would have to do the shopping early, before the grocery became too busy. Sunday was the worst day to do the shopping. That meant breakfast—and now.

He could only hope Potter wasn't the type to eat him out of house and home. He couldn't afford to be spending £200 a week; Severus could barely afford to buy new clothes for himself. For such a bad area, Spinner's End was shockingly expensive. It was the main reason why there were so few of them left on the street. Most of the figures of his childhood had moved on or died. His mother had been part of the former, and his father the latter. And with the way he, himself, was going…

Well. Severus would be right in with his father's group by the end of the war. The apple never did fall far from the tree, did it?

Breakfast can wait, he thought sourly, knocking one of his cigarettes out against his palm and lighting up with a snap of his fingers. His throat stung from the sudden assault, so early in the morning, but the rest of him relaxed, sinking ever deeper into the mattress. They could be a few extra minutes late to get to the grocery. Breakfast could wait. Potter's bath would be a while longer. What did fifteen-year-old boys like for breakfast? he wondered, taking another drag of his cigarette and flicking the ashes onto the floor. The better question was whether he was actually thinking about making insufferable prat James Potter's son breakfast.

His cigarette was gone too soon. Hauling himself to his feet, Severus stumbled into his clothes, Vanished the cinders and broken stub on his nightstand, and braved the stairs to begin making something to eat.

—

Er—good morning." Potter's voice was dull; there was an unhealthy pallor to his face, and dark shadows under his eyes, like bruises. Apparently the boy had a reason to be up early. He was having nightmares.

Well, unless he needed something to rile the boy up about, it was none of Severus's business. He grunted shortly in reply, pushing an egg round his scratched frying pan. The ancient stove spluttered out for the fifth time in a matter of minutes. Severus resisted the urge to smash something.

Casting a careful incendio—quelling the impulse to set his entire house ablaze—he relit the stove. The egg finally began to brown. "I'd ask you how many you wanted," he said, "but I refuse to cook another."

"It's okay." Potter slumped at the rickety table and began picking at the chair's stuffing. "C-could I make some toast, maybe?"

"You'll have to butter it yourself."

The boy got up again and hesitantly rummaged through the fridge. "D'you have a toaster?" he asked, taking a peek round the room, and studying Severus in a way he probably thought was discreet. If he hadn't been spying on Potter right back, he might have missed it. But that was ridiculous: Severus was always spying.

"In the corner, by the Potions journals. Don't make a mess," he said shortly, flipping the egg over and gritting his teeth when the stove flickered again.

Potter shuffled the decaying newspapers and Potions journals away from the decrepit toaster his mother had once bought at a yard sale. The boy seemed much more subdued this morning than he had last night, Severus thought idly. In fact, he would almost dare to say he seemed more like his usual charming self than he had since the whole Goblet of Fire fiasco. Sullenness didn't suit this one. Arrogance, yes, of course-but the enraged little monster he'd seen arrive to his house the day previous had been as much of a stranger as someone he might have passed by on the street yesterday.

"The couch was fine."

"What?" he muttered, sliding the egg onto a plate and depositing it at Potter's new favorite chair, which wasn't going to look at all like a chair soon if he continued picking at the damn thing. Maybe reparo would work on it. "If you wish to retain your rights to speak in my house at all, you had better speak up, or forever hold your silence."

"The couch," Potter repeated, carefully enunciating every word, "was fine . Sir."

The toaster popped up, startling them both. "Did you find butter?"

"Yeah."

"The knives are in the drawer to the right of the sink. Eat before your breakfast gets cold, and drink your potions." Content to now ignore the boy, Severus began measuring coffee grounds into his coffeemaker. It was quite possibly the newest thing in his house, barring his more recent book purchases. He caught Potter snatching a glance at the coffeemaker, and said snidely, "I think your growth is stunted enough, without the added benefit of caffeine to stunt it further."

Silence. Then, softly, the sound of butter being spread on toast. It was probably best that he kept his own silence, at this point, Severus thought, but then he'd never been able to resist goading James Potter's terrible son. "We'll be needing a cover story for when we go out today. I refuse to call you my child, as abhorrent as you are, so you'll just have to be my nephew. Perhaps your parents sent their wayward son to me as to instill some obedience in him?"

"I'm not calling you uncle," Potter said sullenly, through a mouthful of egg. Severus regarded him dispassionately. "Cousin, maybe? We look too different to be brothers."

God forbid. "And the cover story?"

"Why not just your son? It would be more believable," the boy went on. It was almost as if he hadn't spoken at all. "You're the right age, aren't you? Professor Lupin and Sirius said you were in the same year. They're, what, in their thirties? Forties? We even look a little similar."

God forbid. "We do not look similar," he said, "and you will never say that again. Eat your breakfast and get ready to leave. I want to be at the grocery store by eight. We need food for the week, because nothing in this house is currently fit for human consumption."

The boy swallowed his last mouthful of toast and continued on his egg. "Why isn't there any food? Even if you didn't know I was coming, it's not as though you don't need to eat. Unless the vampire rumors are true."

"I've been abroad," Severus lied glibly. "Mind your own business. Are you quite finished?"

Potter finished scraping his plate clean and nodded, standing up to take the plate to the sink, and—begin to scrub it? "I'll go find my shoes," he said, setting the clean dishes on the clearest spot of counter he could see. Then, pausing in the doorway, he floundered a little and then stammered, "Er…thank you for cooking. It was good," before vanishing.

—

"Thirty minutes," he said in a low voice, seizing a trolley and wheeling it out in front of them. "I won't be in here any longer. Too much risk of somebody recognizing you."

"Why bring me at all, then?" Potter huffed, adding a belated and undoubtedly half-hearted 'sir' at the end. "I could've just stayed at the house. I wouldn't blow it up, or anything."

The boy sounded incredibly bitter, for whatever reason. Severus decided to just ignore it; who knew why adolescents chose such strangely specific things to sulk over? "I'm not worried about you bringing the roof down on our heads," he said, tossing a box of cereal into the cart. Adolescent boys liked cereal. "What do you think would happen, Potter, if Lucius Malfoy decided to visit? What about Narcissa? Would you like to be alone at Spinner's End when a Death Eater invited himself over for a spot of tea?"

Potter spluttered for a moment before settling down. Severus watched as he fiddled with a box of rice. "Yeah, okay," the boy finally mumbled. "Sorry."

Watching him mess with the rice was beginning to piss Snape off. "Do you want it, or not?" he asked—or, well, snapped—as he began moving towards the dairy section. "Make up your mind. What kind of milk do you want?"

"What?"

They were standing in front of the refrigerated cases now; the rice had been placed gently into the trolley. "Milk, Harry," he forced out, intent on keeping up their cover. He was already more than fed up with this place. All he wanted to do was go home and read for two hours. "What sort of milk do you drink? Skim? Whole? Chocolate? Pick one."

"Er…just the regular, I s'pose," he said, pointing weakly at the half-gallon Severus had already grabbed. "I don't mind much. What kind do you usually buy?"

Jesus, but this was tedious. He could only imagine the sort of ridiculousness they'd encounter once they got to the crisps. Sighing, he ran a hand through his limp hair and glanced round to make sure nobody was paying too close attention to them. There was an old man a few feet away that was making him anxious. "I can't drink milk. Choose one and get on with it. We need to hurry."

The boy eyed him strangely before shrugging. "This is fine, then. Where to next?"

"Eggs and butter. Hurry it up."

As they moved on from the dairy section, Severus snagged a few more staples, like pasta fixings and canned beans. (They only spent a minute or two arguing over whether kidney beans or chickpeas were a better option.) Upon reaching the thankfully small crisp section, he grabbed the biggest big of whatever he saw first and tossed it into the trolley. "You can pick out one other kind. Just one."

Of course that just one was something disgusting. Salt and vinegar? What a terrible combination. "What?" the boy said defensively, settling it into the trolley. "It's better than chickpeas, at least."

"Shut your mouth and find the biscuits." Sneering at the idiot's retreating back, he pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time. Ten after—they needed to be checking out soon, and they weren't even halfway done. Severus looked round again. Spending so much time out in public was murder on his nerves; he was going to be a paranoid wreck for days. This was exactly why he tended to hole himself up in his house during the hols. Teaching practically killed him every day during the school year. He didn't need it during his time off, too. "Make it quick, we don't have all day!"

"Sorry, sorry. There were a lot of kinds to choose from." Potter dumped a package of Oreos into the now overflowing trolley, along with peanut butter and biscuits. "Can we get some fruit, maybe? And some vegetables. Do you eat meat? I can make a pork loin tonight if you'd like. I'm a decent hand at cooking."

Was he really going to let James Potter's son cook for him? Really? "I can't eat pork. Do you know how to grill salmon? Fish is far healthier than any of those fatty meats you ingest at school. What vegetables were you thinking of?"

"Asparagus, maybe, and broccoli, if that's all right. It would go well with fish…Do you have any herbs or seasonings at your house?" Potter was looking oddly excited. Excited to poison me, maybe. What teenager liked to cook? He'd met only a few who genuinely liked to, in all the years he'd spent breathing the same air as the little pustules.

Well…perhaps he'd be surprised. (And he had a fully stocked cabinet full of self-brewed antidotes in case he was really surprised.) "I have rosemary and basil. Maybe dill and tarragon."

Potter nodded. "I can make those work. Let's see if they have zucchini, or spaghetti squash. I could make a pasta with salmon on the side."

"Find them, then, and quickly. I want to be back outside in eight minutes."

As the boy raced about trying to gather everything, Severus suspiciously eyed a pregnant woman next to the oranges and gnawed at his thumbnail, aching for a cigarette. His nerves were completely shot; he'd be an anxious mess all night. He should have known going to the store was only going to fuck him over.

"Done," Potter announced, arms laden with fresh produce and a salmon as long as Severus's arm. "Is that all, then?"

"No. You need a toothbrush," he remembered, resigning himself to at least a few more minutes in the store. "Soft bristles. Hard are bad for your teeth. Run and fetch it, before my patience officially wears thin and I decide my work benefits at Hogwarts are not worth my time and I become a mass murderer."

Checking out was unnecessarily tense, after that.