The house smelled overwhelmingly like fish. Combined with the damp heat seeping in from outside, Severus felt like he wanted to die, just a little bit.

After the shopping trip had ended, they'd lugged their groceries through town (aided by a discreet Featherlight charm), heading back to Spinner's End. He'd left the boy to sort through them and put them away in lieu of charming some of the dishes that had piled up over the last week or so, and then gathering up all of the rubbish in the house to set outside for pickup as the sink slowly emptied itself out.

Much of the day had been spent in relative silence; the boy had set to his Transfiguration homework with a reluctant determination until it was time to prepare dinner, and then he'd shuffled the contents of the refrigerator around to make room for a thawing salmon, brought out the entire contents of Severus's spice cabinet, and gotten to cooking. Not wanting to be slipped some kind of poison, he backed out into the sitting room, and set up camp at the very end of his sofa in a prime spot for spying and trying to read.

Potter seemed to be having a grand old time. He'd dragged out more pots and pans than Severus realized he owned, and was puttering about over a large pan, adding apparently random odds and ends he'd found while sorting through their groceries. He hadn't, Severus grudgingly decided, been lying about being a "decent hand" in the kitchen. If the trade-off for a good, hot meal was having a smelly house and vaguely suicidal inclinations…

Well, he could live with that.

The book he was reading wasn't holding enough of his attention. He kept peeking up to check on the boy, for accidents and potential poisonings. Whenever he did manage to focus on the page in front of him, rather than just pretending to read at a leisurely pace, something would inevitably draw him back up into spying on Potter.

After their not-quite-a-disaster of a grocery trip, he'd found himself…floundering a little, for something to do that wouldn't make him feel awkward or out of place. Usually when he was home for the holiday, Severus let himself cut loose a little. He'd sleep on the couch for eleven hours straight, eat his weight in toast, drink enough coffee to send someone into cardiac arrest, and stew in self-loathing until September rolled in and he could hate everyone else, instead. He couldn't properly do that with the boy here. Instead, he had to keep up his Hogwarts personality. He had to sleep in that abhorrent room upstairs.

This wasn't going to work. It wasn't. They were going to end up murdering each other by the end of the week. If he couldn't even manage a trip to the supermarket without teetering dangerously on the edge of a meltdown, Severus had no idea how he was going to survive three weeks—twenty-one days—five hundred and four hours —

Taking in Potter was one thing. He'd known that would happen. Being too uncomfortable to even read a damn book in his sitting room was another. It was only the second day, but Severus's temper was rising by the hour. This simply was not going to work.

"Will I be with the rest of the Order in time for my hearing?"

"What?" Severus's attention on his book broke entirely. Looking up to find the boy carefully turning the empty burner on his stove to high, he asked again, "What did you say?"

"My hearing. It's on the twelfth of August. Will I be in headquarters by then? I need to get some dress clothes for it, because my ones from fourth year don't fit anymore. Professor Lupin might take me, right? Or I could borrow something of Ron's…" The boy trailed off and leaned against the counter, hair a mess, clothes rumpled. The dark circles under his eyes suddenly seemed more prominent than they had earlier.

Neither Albus nor the wolf had said anything about a hearing. "What the hell do you have a hearing for?" he demanded, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded harsher than it normally did. "What did you do?"

The boy's face went red and sullen. "I don't—"

"What did you do?" The book was on the floor now, pages askew, but he paid it no mind.

"I don't know that Dumbledore wants me to tell anyone," Potter said, very obviously faking his calm, innocent tone and expression.

"You are in my house, under my rules, under my protection." Severus could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. Every time he breathed in, he felt like he was dragging fire into his body, through his veins. "What. Did. You. Do."

"It wasn't my—"

"What did you do?"

"It was underage magic." Potter's fists were clenched at his sides, eyes bright and jaw set. "I cast the Patronus because of the Dementors. It was in front of Dudley—"

"Your cousin?"

"—and I saved him. Yeah, my cousin. He knows about magic already…even though he pretends he doesn't," came the unnecessary addition. Or…maybe not so necessary after all all. Even though he pretended he didn't? "So now I have a hearing, for 'improper use of underage magic.' I was originally expelled—"

The arm of Severus's chair creaked alarmingly; he let go of it like he'd been burned. "I doubt you'll be here by the time your…hearing takes place," he said. He was Occluding so fiercely, his voice sounded as though it were coming from the end of a very long tunnel. Had no one thought to mention this? He was going to string the werewolf up by his fucking innards during tomorrow's visit. Better yet, he'd firecall the Headmaster. It wasn't likely to do much, but the promise of yelling at somebody until his throat was hoarse was too great to pass up. "Put no stock into the Ministry. If that"— pile of rancid shit —"dunderhead Cornelius Fudge continues going as he is, the entire system won't be round much longer. Focus on staying in school, and getting through your hearing. What is the date and time?"

Potter was eyeing him suspiciously, but told him without further argument. August twelfth…He had a little over a month to prepare the boy. "Tell me about that night," he ordered, "because your wonderful Headmaster seems to have done more than spare me the grisly details. How many were there? Was there anybody accompanying them? Were—"

"Don't talk about Dumbledore like that," the boy spat, anger clouding his face.

"Says the child who won't even use his proper title," he shot back in a tone as snide and condescending as he could manage. The anger was more like a raging thunderstorm now, rather than a cloud; Severus relished the sight of it. "Just like your father…He was always so perfect, so above faults…Step one toe out of line, and he would be all over you for months, crowing over your mistakes—but apparently it was fine, as long as he and his precious little friends were doing it. Are we to hear of a name change from Harry to James anytime soon?"

"Don't talk about my father. James Potter was a great man," Potter forced out through gritted teeth.

"Your father was a disgusting swine incapable of basic morality." James Potter, a great man…The very thought of that bastard sent a wave of hatred churning through him. That great man had been dead for fourteen years, but it had been too much to ask, would always be too much to ask, for his bitterness to have died with him. "We're done here. Go back to cooking, or let me take over and go back to doing your homework."

"I'm—"

"I said we're done here." The fire spreading through his veins was more of an inferno now. There was a sharp ache in his jaw from how hard he was clenching his teeth together. "Homework or cooking? Decide now."

There was a long pause, punctured only by the sizzling of the fish in the background. Then:

Potter turned back to the stove, shoulders a tense line. "I'll cook," he said tersely, and as much as Severus had told him they were done, he knew the boy was nowhere near finished. Lily had been the same way.

We're done here, he told himself forcibly, before any of the years-old grief could creep back in and officially ruin his night. Severus stood up and slotted his book back onto the shelf. "Stay in the kitchen," he snapped at the boy, heading for his fireplace. Lighting the wood, he took a handful of Floo powder, tossing it inside and waiting impatiently for the few seconds it took for the fire to turn green. Then, dropping to his knees, he thrust his head into the fire and barked, "Dumbledore's office."

—

There was no possible way Harry could take three weeks of this.

Three weeks of interrogations about who what when why how, three weeks of hearing insults and potshots at his intelligence…He'd almost managed to forget, during the shopping trip earlier, who he was with and why. Bringing up the hearing had been a mistake; surely he'd be long gone by the time it came around. He could've just borrowed Ron's old school robes and been done with it, rather than asking Snape, of all people.

"Stay in the kitchen," he'd said, but the fish was doing fine and Snape had his head stuck inside of a fireplace.

The problem with Floo (ash-coated clothing notwithstanding), Harry thought, was that you couldn't quite make out what the other person was saying when their face was being sucked into a different room. That…and all the soot that was probably in Snape's mouth right now. That wasn't much help either. His shoulders were a tense line, knuckles white from his crushing grip on the frame. Harry didn't envy Dumbledore right now; he'd been on the receiving end of Snape's vitriol himself, and knew how vexing it could be. And if the muffled shouting coming out of the fireplace was any indication…

Well.

Harry flipped the fish with a quick flick of his wrist, leaning back before any hot oil could hit his skin. The sizzling was loud enough to nearly smother Snape's angry voice. It wasn't loud enough, however, to cover up the sound of something shattering; he retreated from the stove and risked a peek into the prison-cell sitting room to find his Potions professor hurling another ceramic pot to the floor, where it burst upon impact and scattered into a thousand pieces. Snape grasped at the roots of his oily hair in a fury so great he apparently couldn't even speak.

"I thought I told you to stay in the kitchen," the man ground out eventually, hands pressing against his face to hide whatever expression might have been on it.

"I'm still in it," Harry protested without thinking, and winced.

"Your head isn't. Don't argue with me, Potter."

"What did Dumbledore say? Did he mention anything about moving me to Headquarters soon? What about Sirius? What's going on?" he continued, even though he knew it likely wouldn't end well, with Snape in such a right state. He was so bloody tired of being kept in the dark about everything, and nobody was telling him a thing, just 'you'll see soon, Harry,' and 'it's a security risk'…Even the knowledge that he was goading his nastiest professor wasn't going to stop him. "Has Voldemort made a mo—"

"Into the kitchen. I won't say it again," said Snape in his most dangerous voice. "Get going. Move. Scat. You chose to cook, and cook you will."

"What did Dumbledore say?" Harry repeated. "What about Occlu—thing?"

"The Headmaster is a busy man. Far too busy to be—"

"Did he mention the hearing?"

"Do not interrupt me, Potter," Snape said sharply, hands finally back at his sides. "As I was saying…The Headmaster has more on his plate than his most precious Gryffindor. You aren't special. Your only talent lies in the fact that criticism simply bounces right off of you. Whatever has brought you up to this moment in time can be attributed to dumb luck. Now, before the salmon can burn, return to the kitchen."

There was a pause, likely so his professor could savor the simple pleasure insulting him had brought. Harry spared a glance at the fish still sizzling away merrily in the pan. It was probably finished cooking by now. "Fine…sir." Turning sharply on his heel, he stormed over to the stove, turning off the heat hard enough to nearly pull the knob off.

Dinner was an awkward affair. Neither of them spoke, eating with their heads bowed. Harry could barely bring himself to eat; his hands shook each time he picked up his fork. He'd made a mistake, earlier, in allowing himself to be riled up. Snape, at least, seemed to like the food; he'd polished off half of his plate in under ten minutes, and was currently busying himself with mopping up whatever remained of the vegetables Harry had pan-fried with a slice of bread he'd gotten up to grab.

"Is—" He cut himself off, closed his mouth, and then tried again. "Is the food all right?"

Snape paused for the briefest moment before he continued chewing, eyes lowered towards his plate. "It's not terrible," he eventually said, before forking in another mouthful of salmon and effectively ending what could have hardly counted as a conversation.

That was better than nothing, Harry supposed.

Would Snape snap at him if he were to get some bread? It was just one slice, but…it was Snape. Weighing his options, he rubbed the fork in his hands between his pointer finger and thumb, scraping off old water stains with his nail. There was no harm in it, really—it was just some bread. It wasn't expensive.

He reached across the table without a second thought, fingers inches from the bread—and Snape snatched his hand off the table like Harry had been about to stab a knife through it. The sound of his chair screeching back against the linoleum was deafening in the silence. Neither of them moved until Harry managed to work up the courage to finish reaching for the bread; he swallowed hard as he pulled a single slice out and slowly retreated to his plate. Beneath the cover of his eyelashes, he watched Snape settle down quickly and return to eating.

Dinner ended shortly after that. Without a word, Snape stood up, scraped the remains of his food into the rubbish bin by the back door, and disappeared into the bathroom. Harry prayed he wasn't going to promptly sick up everything he'd just eaten, and was relieved beyond words when he heard the shower start up. Not vomiting, then. Good. Thank God.

Getting up, he washed the dishes in lukewarm water so as not to disturb Snape's shower (and wouldn't Ron like to hear about that). Then, without further ado, Harry headed out into the living room to find out how that staircase worked. Which book had his professor pulled out to make the bookshelf spring aside like that? It had been a large, heavy-looking one—but that could be any of them. It was astounding that Snape and Hermione didn't get along; they both had the same taste in light reading material.

The shower shut off with a bang that rattled through the floorboards, just as Harry had finished removing half of the shelf eye-level to him. Scrambling to replace the books, he'd only just replaced the last one and scuttled over to the sofa to sit down when Snape stalked into the room in a right temper. He was wearing the same Muggle clothes as before, hair damp but just as oily as it had been ten minutes before. Harry could see him shiver, ever so slightly, as he raised his wand and jerkily cast a cooling charm.

"Work on your summer assignments until we begin our first Occlumency lesson," Snape spat at him before yanking a book out of the shelf—which one was it? He couldn't quite see, Snape was blocking the view—and storming up the stairs without another word. The bookshelf slid shut seconds later. He was alone.

—

The cold shower hadn't helped the heat at all. Heaving a sigh, Severus sat heavily onto his bed and cringed a little at the sound of squealing springs. (God, but he hated the damn thing.) He reached for his cigarettes and lit one, taking a drag as he leaned back against the iron headboard. It dug painfully into his shoulder blade. He took another drag and ignored it.

Potter had been going through the shelves. He'd noticed it immediately; and even if he hadn't caught sight of the sudden disorganization, he'd have known it the moment he saw the boy's shifty look and steadfast avoidance of the bookshelves.

A sneak…just like his father.

His cigarette was gone far too soon. Severus lit another and closed his eyes.

Occlumency tonight. There was no more avoiding it. He'd put off starting immediately after the boy's arrival, but if he procrastinated any longer, he'd lose his nerve and they would never even begin. He hadn't fully removed his Occlumency shields in years; but to teach the boy, he was going to have to. There was no conceivable way he could teach Potter to defend his mind if his shields were too hard for their minds to meld properly.

Occlumency tonight, and Lupin tomorrow. This was truly a summer of hell.

Severus stubbed out the butt of the second cigarette and gazed up at the old scorch marks marks on his ceiling, from where he'd missed the flies he'd once spent an hour blasting at. Then, reaching for his wand, he aimed carefully and shot it at a fly buzzing near his window. It dropped to the floor, twitching weakly. He stood up, Vanished the remnants of his smoke break. The fly stopped moving as he clicked off the light and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

—

"Sit down, Potter."

The boy took his seat at the table without a word, but from his expression, he was feeling decidedly as though he'd just locked his own shackles into place. Severus watched impassively as his knee began to bounce, and as his hands gripped the edge of the chair tight enough that he could nearly hear the joints in Potter's fingers creak. He'll have arthritis by the time he reaches fifty, he thought idly, turning to retrieve Dumbledore's Pensieve from the cabinet above the fridge. He could feel those greedy, curious eyes following its every movement as it drifted down to settle on the counter.

"Well, you know why we're here," he said flatly. "The headmaster has asked me to teach you Occlumency. I can only hope that you prove more adept at it than Potions."

"Right," said Potter tersely, and then dragged his hands into his lap to wring them together. His eyes were still fixed on the Pensieve.

"This may not be an ordinary class, Potter,"he continued, eyes narrowed, "but I am still your teacher and you will therefore call me 'sir' or 'Professor' at all times."

His jaw was clenched now. Prising his teeth apart, the boy replied, "Yes… sir. "

"Now, Occlumency. No doubt you're ignorant on the subject. Did Lupin attempt to explain to you what it is? Or was he content to leave you in the dark and gift me the unpleasant task of trying to push some semblance of learning into your brain?"

"He said it was mind-reading. Sir."

Typical. "A two-year-old could have said it better. As always, Lupin never fails to disappoint. Occlumency is a branch of complex magic that seals the mind against magical intrusion and influence."

"Why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it, sir?" he demanded, shifting forward in his seat as Severus settled himself across into the chair across from him. The boy made eye contact—possibly the last time he ever would willingly.

Shaking his head, he spat contemptuously, "Surely even you could have worked that out by now, Potter. The Dark Lord is highly skilled at Legilimency—"

"What's that? Sir?"

"It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person's mind—"

"So he can read minds?" There was a look of terror on Potter's face, but it gave the fury rising up in him pause for only a brief second, before the anger took over again. Severus held his breath and began reciting the recipe to Wolfsbane in his head. "How far is his reach? Could he be reading my mind right now?"

"You have no subtlety, Potter," he said in a voice that was sure to sound waspish. Six measures of monkshood, and a teaspoon of powered moonstone… "You don't understand the fine distinctions. It's one of the shortcomings that makes you such a lamentable potion-maker."

He couldn't help but pause to revel in the simple pleasures of insulting James Potter's insipid brat. "Only Muggles talk of 'mind reading.' The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing…or at least, most minds are." The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk before dropping away again. "It is true, however, that those who have mastered Legilimency are able, under certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and memories that contradict the lie, and so utter falsehoods in his presence without detection."

Potter was frowning now. Confused already? Severus barely suppressed a sigh.

"So—so wait," the boy stuttered, and Snape pierced him with a steely look. "Doesn't that—doesn't that mean he could see this memory? And know I'm staying with you?"

"If you do as I say and study for once in your life, it will not be a problem, Potter," he snapped. "As of right now, the Dark Lord is preoccupied with…other plans."

"Other plans?"

"The Dark Lord is, either way, a considerable distance from my house," Severus went on, more than content to pretend he hadn't heard a word of what Potter had said. "Time and space matter in magic. Eye contact is often essential to Legilimency."

"Why do I have to learn Occlumency, then?"

Severus eyed him, leaning back in his groaning chair and tracing his mouth with one long, thin finger. "The usual rules don't seem to apply to you, Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have forged some kind of connection between you and the Dark Lord. The evidence suggests that at times, when your mind is most relaxed and vulnerable—when you're asleep, for instance—you are sharing the Dark Lord's thoughts and emotions. The headmaster thinks it inadvisable for this to continue. He wishes me to teach you how to close your mind to the Dark Lord."

The telltale sound of stuffing being plucked out of the seat cushion reached his ears. Potter swallowed hard, face blanched white in the dim light of the kitchen, and looked at the Pensieve again. "But why does Professor Dumbledore want to stop it?" he demanded. "I don't like it much, but it could be useful, couldn't it?"

He traced his upper lip before beginning to gnaw at his thumb nail. Drawing his hand away from his face, Severus began speaking, slowly, deliberating each and every word. "It appears that the Dark Lord is unaware of the connection. You are experiencing his emotions and sharing his thoughts without his being any the wiser. However…there's no telling how long that will last. He may become aware of it at any given moment."

"What happens if Vol—" The boy stopped in his tracks, glanced sharply at him, and went on, "… he finds out?"

"He may attempt to plant a false memory, to lure you into his grasp." Severus's voice sounded bored to his own ears, but he was anything but. He felt unbalanced by the nervous energy rattling his body. Drawing a quiet breath, he said, "He may—"

"A false memory? Like what?"

"Do not," he hissed, shoulders a tense line, "interrupt me."

Then, in a voice even more dangerous than the last: "And I told you to call me 'sir.'"

"Yes, sir," Potter said impatiently, edging forward until he was nearly out of his chair, "but what sort of—"

"We are wasting time sitting here. The important point is closing the connection between you and the Dark Lord. Which brings us back to Occlumency."

The chair across from him screeched against the linoleum. Severus cast the idiot a withering look before he raised the tip of his wand to the roots of his oily hair and began drawing out memories. First of Lily…memories of James Potter and his cronies…ah, and his time of service to the Dark Lord…

He extracted shameful memory after shameful memory, until the basin was nearly full. It wasn't enough—would never be enough—but this was…a start. Later, he would have to convince himself to stick them back in again. Potter's eyes followed his every move, nearly glinting in their curiosity. He would need to change the Pensieve's hiding place once they were finished. Four years of spying on the boy had only confirmed his suspicions that he was a carbon copy of his father in regards to respecting the privacy of others.

"Now," Severus said quietly, turning to face the boy fully. His hands were shaking a little. "Stand up, Potter, and take out your wand so we can begin."