CHAPTER THREE

THE COST OF A GOOD BOOK

It had been half a year since Harry had last seen Snape.

Near the end of summer break, the wizard's car had vanished.

From what Harry had gathered, the Dursleys had overheard that, with a new school semester starting soon, their peculiar neighbor's job as a professor required him to be away during the school year.

They were highly concerned about the possibility that he might rent out the place to someone even more dreadful.

To their great relief, however, the house remained vacant, save for a gardener and a maid service that arrived twice a month to keep the property tidy.

Harry had no desire to see the man again.

Snape was nearly as bad as the Dursleys.

Despite what Snape had said, Harry refused to believe his father had been so horrible. The way he had avoided speaking about his mother made Harry wonder if Snape had hated her as well.

It seemed to Harry that only someone who detested both his parents could have been so vile.

As for the Dursleys, Harry was furious. They had kept the truth from him all these years.

A part of him wanted to explode—to shout, to accuse them of hiding the truth, of shielding him from what he had a right to know.

But he knew better.

If he confronted them, they would only lock him in his cupboard—or worse.

His uncle might even smack him on the back of the head, hoping a good hit might knock the knowledge right out of him. As if that would erase everything Snape had told him.

So, for the rest of the year, Harry attended St. Grogory's Primary School, going about life as usual.

His days were spent in his cupboard, reading A History of Magic.

Several times, his aunt had stumbled upon him with the book. Though she seemed annoyed, she never questioned it deeply—always brushing it off as some comic book he'd found.

Dudley, too, had almost snatched the book once but quickly dismissed it, declaring it a copy of Hoovers Monthly.

Harry found this amazing. The book must have been enchanted, he thought, obscured by some kind of magic that made others see it as something dull and uninteresting.

During the Christmas holidays, however, Harry grew tired of the book. After reading it cover to cover six times, Bathilda Bagshot's writings lost their charm. What had once been thrilling now served as a sleep aid.

One night, Harry had fallen asleep on a page about the Goblin Rebellion of 1752.

To his horror, he woke to find he'd drooled on the page.

The memory of Snape's explicit threat about detention for a single crease resurfaced, and Harry quickly dabbed at the page with his shirt sleeve, hoping it wouldn't stain.

Shortly after, he realized he needed new reading material.

On Christmas night, Harry decided to take action.

Using a wad of taffy Dudley had carelessly left on the countertop, he managed to jam the lock on his cupboard. Thankfully, Uncle Vernon—deep into his eggnog—hadn't noticed.

Quietly, Harry crept out of bed and into the living room.

Dudley had spent the day whining to open three presents early and had somehow managed to open four: two new video games, a football, and an electric torch. Of these, Dudley showed no interest in the torch—except as a weapon to thump Harry on the head when no one else was looking.

Crossing the living room, Harry scowled at the mound of presents under the tree. Half the room was buried beneath them.

Ignoring the mountain of spoils his cousin would dive into come morning, Harry snatched Dudley's torch off the couch and slipped out the back door into the garden.

The night was cold, and Harry shivered as he made his way across the street to 11 Privet Drive.

While Harry was not a burglar, he didn't see anything wrong with a little mischief.

After all, he wasn't stealing, not really.

He was just going to borrow a few books.

Besides, after the way Snape had treated him that summer, Harry figured the man owed him something.

Harry's plan was simple.

He had noticed that one of the maids who came to dust Snape's house had a bad habit of smoking. More than once, he had seen her opening the second-floor window to lean out and take a puff.

So, all Harry needed to do was climb up and hope she had left it unlocked.

Tucking the torch into his pocket, Harry gripped the downspout on the side of the house and attempted to climb. It took several tries—more than once, he landed flat on his back—but eventually, he managed to get high enough to reach the window ledge.

With great effort, he pulled on the sill. It was stiff, but after a few tugs, it slid open.

Harry's heart pounded as he looked around, ensuring he was still alone, before slipping inside.

He landed on a carpeted floor, taking a moment to catch his breath. His arms ached from the climb, and his hands felt raw from gripping the cold metal spout, but he had done it.

Looking around, he realized he was in a spare bedroom, furnished with a small desk. It seemed Snape had been using it as a home office.

Pulling Dudley's torch from his pocket, Harry flicked it on and scanned the room for books on magic.

Instead, he was met with disappointment.

The books lying around seemed perfectly ordinary.

Determined, Harry crept downstairs, careful not to make a sound. He knew Snape wasn't home, but if a neighbor happened to spot him sneaking around, it would mean trouble. The Dursleys would love nothing more than to use this as an excuse to send him off to some boarding school for delinquents.

Casting the torchlight across the living room bookshelves, Harry felt another wave of frustration.

The books were all dull Muggle titles—from Churchill and the Battle of Britain to The Architectural Wonders of the Roman Empire.

Where was the magic?

Then it hit him.

Snape, like all wizards, was bound by the Statute of Secrecy. And since the maids were almost certainly Muggles, he had probably removed anything magical before leaving for Hogwarts.

Harry clenched his fists. After all that effort, he wouldn't find anything here.

Frustrated, he decided it was time to leave.

Just as Harry was about to start climbing the stairs, something gold flickered in the dim light. Frowning, he turned the torch toward it. There, beneath an old newspaper on a side table in the kitchen, he saw the gilded lettering of a book title.

Curious, Harry strode over and lifted the paper.

The Potion Master's Guide to Advanced Potion Brewing.

His breath caught. Harry didn't know the first thing about potions—but it was a book on magic. It must have been forgotten when Snape had hidden all of his other magical texts.

Whatever the case, Harry scooped up the book, tucking it close to his chest.

Without wasting another second, he rushed back up the stairs, slipped out the window, and carefully slid down the downspout before scurrying across the street.

His heart pounded as he reached 4 Privet Drive, but to his relief, the house was still dark and silent.

The Dursleys hadn't woken.

Slipping inside, Harry tiptoed back to his cupboard, shut the door quietly behind him, and settled onto his thin mattress.

Then, filled with excitement, he flipped open the first page of his new book.

The months leading up to the summer holiday were consumed by reading.

Harry quickly realized he understood very little from his new book. It was clearly written for readers who already had a foundation in potion brewing. Large portions of the text assumed the reader was familiar with basic concepts—concepts Harry had never even heard of.

Still, he read it front to back, over and over again. Occasionally, he would reopen A History of Magic, but only the parts he found interesting.

Unlike that book, however, The Potion Master's Guide to Advanced Potion Brewing didn't seem to have any magic concealing it. Harry had been lucky that Dudley had been the one to stumble upon it first. His cousin had taken one look and dismissed it. Even luckier, Harry had managed to keep it hidden well enough that Uncle Vernon never saw it.

Not that it mattered—he had been punished anyway.

Even for an undiscovered infraction, he had been made to scrub the entire house from top to bottom until Aunt Petunia was satisfied. It took the entire weekend before she finally declared it spotless.

So, despite how much he disliked Snape—second only to the Dursleys—Harry felt a rush of excitement when he saw the black Rover P6 back in the driveway of 11 Privet Drive.

He had grown desperate for more.

For months, he had been stuck reading the same two books over and over. It wasn't enough. He wanted something practical, something real. And even if it meant dealing with Snape, he would have given his left arm to learn more about the wizarding world.

At the first opportunity, he slipped across the street.

Uncle Vernon had left for work. Aunt Petunia was busy baking a cake for some event the Dursleys would be attending that evening.

Now was his chance.

Harry knocked firmly on the door, gripping both books tightly in his hands.

He was nervous, of course. He had spent hours debating whether or not to bring the Potions book with him. It was undeniable proof that he had broken into Snape's house while he was away.

But Snape probably already knew it was missing.

If he wanted any chance of learning more about potions or magic, lying to the man would only make things worse.

After all, what was the worst Snape could do?

Shout at him?

Harry was used to that.

The door to the house across the street swung open, and Snape glared down at Harry, his expression filled with displeasure.

"To what do I owe the misfortune of seeing you at my door, Potter?" Snape narrowed his eyes. "Ahhh… I see you have my book. No… books?"

Before Harry could utter a word, Snape snatched both texts from his grasp. His sharp eyes flicked over the titles, his frown deepening.

"If I recall correctly, Potter… I only gave you one book last summer," Snape hissed. "So imagine my surprise when I find one of my more valuable texts in your possession. Now… why might that be?"

Harry opened his mouth, but now that he was standing in front of Snape, every excuse he had practiced in his head over the past few days vanished.

"I… I…"

"I, I," Snape mimicked in a mocking tone. "You stole one of my books, didn't you, Potter?"

"No! I just borrowed it, that's all!" Harry said quickly, his heart pounding. "It was Christmas, and I'd already read A History of Magic a million times by then!"

Snape's dark eyes flashed. "I fail to see what the time of year has to do with the fact that you stole my property, Potter." He leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "I imagine you broke into my home like some common thief as well. You do realize, Potter, that Hogwarts does not accept criminals into its halls?"

Harry felt the color drain from his face.

Of all the things he had expected, he had never considered that his chance to go to Hogwarts—a place he had dreamed about since first reading A History of Magic—might be taken from him.

Regret hit him in waves.

He regretted speaking to Snape.

He regretted stealing the book.

He regretted all of it.

"Well, Potter," Snape said, stepping aside, "I suppose we must determine whether your burglary has had any unintended positive effects. After all, if you are determined to become like your worthless father, we might as well see if your actions have at least slightly improved your ignorance."

Harry hesitated, then stepped inside.

Snape's home looked just as it had the summer before. As he was marched toward the kitchen table, Harry's gaze flicked toward the bookshelves, scanning the titles as if he might find something useful for what was about to come.

Snape pulled out a chair.

"Sit, Potter," he ordered, sweeping around the table and leaning over him.

Harry obeyed immediately.

"Since you appear to be, at the very least, academically inclined, I will be giving you a test. Fail, and it will be my great pleasure to send an owl to the Headmaster at Hogwarts. One wrong answer, Potter, and you will be expelled from Hogwarts before you even set foot in it."

Harry swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

His heart pounded.

He had never been an exceptional student, and now, the prospect of a test with so much at stake made his blood run cold.

Snape's eyes gleamed.

"If I were to ask you to brew an Elixir to Induce Euphoria, how might one go about that, Potter?" he smirked.

Harry's stomach twisted as he racked his brain, flipping through the pages of memory, recalling the book he had read so many times.

It took a long moment.

Then—he had it.

"You would need... shrivelfig, porcupine quills, peppermint, Sopophorous beans, and… and… wormwood?"

Snape blinked.

Then frowned.

His arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"Correct," Snape muttered, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Now, what would I get if…"

For half an hour, Snape grilled Harry with questions, pressing him on potions, ingredients, and brewing techniques.

At last, he found one Harry couldn't recall.

"Invisibility Potion," Snape said, his eyes sharp. "List the ingredients."

Harry hesitated. He knew that potion hadn't been in the book. Snape must have picked something obscure just to trip him up.

Still, he searched his memory, flipping through every page he had studied, every list of ingredients he had memorized.

Nothing.

"I… I don't know," he admitted.

Snape exhaled through his nose, looking at him for a long moment before finally declaring, "Such a shame."

Harry felt his stomach sink.

For a moment, he was sure Snape would follow through on his threat, ensuring he would never set foot in Hogwarts.

He lowered his head, gripping his hands in his lap, his chest tight. He thought he might even tear up.

"Damn you, Potter," Snape muttered under his breath.

Harry barely had time to process that before Snape continued.

"I have decided not to recommend your expulsion," he said begrudgingly. "However, this blatant act of juvenile delinquency will cost you, Potter."

Snape's eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "If the entitled Harry Potter wishes to learn how to brew potions, who am I to deny him?"

Harry looked up warily.

Snape's expression had changed. A slow, twisted smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

Harry swallowed. "What do you mean exactly, Professor Snape?"

"You want to know more about magic? Very well," Snape said smoothly. "You will come here for the remainder of your summer. I have several tasks fit for a house-elf—and in this case, you will suffice."

Harry's mouth went dry.

"In exchange," Snape continued, voice silkily amused, "I will only give you a month's detention upon your arrival at Hogwarts next year."

"What about… the Dursleys?" Harry asked, hoping—just maybe—they could save him from whatever horrible tasks Snape had in mind.

Snape smirked. "Oh, I will take care of them, Potter."

With a flick of his wand, a stack of blank parchment floated onto the kitchen table, followed by a quill and a bottle of ink.

"For starters, you will sit at this table and fill every last page with the following sentence: 'I, Harry Potter, am a no-good thief. I will not steal again.' Twenty-five lines per page, legible."

The smirk on Snape's face widened. "When that is done, I will find another creative task for you."

Harry stared at the mountain of paper.

It would take weeks to get through it all.

But if he refused…

His stomach twisted.

If he refused, Snape would write to the Headmaster.

The pile of parchment suddenly seemed far more appealing.

Harry swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

So Harry picked up the first page and began to write.

True to his word, Snape had somehow convinced the Dursleys that Harry visiting their new neighbor was perfectly normal.

Harry suspected magic had been involved—there was no other way to explain such a miracle.

It took him three days to finish the mountain of parchment Snape had piled on the table. By the end of it, his hand was so cramped he wondered if he'd ever regain feeling in it.

Once that was done, Snape wasted no time finding new tasks.

A collection of cauldrons appeared, all needing to be scrubbed.

Then scales that needed polishing.

Then dozens of empty glass bottles to be washed.

Harry scrubbed, polished, and washed until his fingers were raw.

When he thought he had finally finished, Snape led him down to the cellar, where shelves upon shelves of potions ingredients awaited sorting.

Days passed in this endless cycle of chores.

Harry had hoped that after the first few mundane tasks, Snape might actually teach him something. But Snape seemed far too amused watching him do household labor to bother with anything remotely magical.

It was July 31st—Harry's birthday—when he finally mustered up the courage to confront Snape about his lack of lessons.

Snape was seated in the corner of the cellar, reading a newspaper called The Daily Prophet. The headline read: Gringotts to Increase Vault Fees for First Time in 25 Years.

The first time Harry had seen a moving picture, he had been utterly astonished. Even now, the sight of moving photographs on the newspaper's pages never failed to amaze him.

But he pushed aside his fascination.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to ask the question that had been gnawing at him for weeks.

"Professor," Harry said hesitantly, crushing snake fangs with a mortar and pestle, "Might I ask… when will I get to… learn? I was hoping… since it's my birthday… maybe I could brew something?"

Snape lowered his paper just enough to glare at him.

"Tell me, Potter, are you dense, or simply pretending to be stupid?"

Harry felt a flash of anger but forced himself to suppress it.

"I don't take your meaning, sir," he said as evenly as he could.

Snape folded the newspaper and set it aside, his eyes cold.

"Tell me, Potter, what exactly are you doing at this very moment?" His voice was slow and deliberate, as though he assumed Harry might understand him better if he spelled it out.

Harry glanced down at the mortar.

"Crushing snake fangs."

"Incorrect, Potter," Snape said firmly.

Harry frowned. "But I am crushing snake fangs."

Snape smirked. "I can already tell you will not be sorted into Ravenclaw, given your lack of mental aptitude, Potter. You are only half correct, which, as far as I am concerned, is the same as being wrong."

Harry clenched his jaw.

"You are, at this very moment, learning the valuable skill of ingredient preparation."

Harry muttered under his breath, frustration rising.

What was the point of preparing ingredients for something Snape had no intention of letting him brew?

Snape's eyes flashed.

"If you have something to say, Potter, say it," he hissed. "Otherwise, be grateful that I trust you with such a simple task."

"Well, how long do I have to crush snake fangs before I can actually brew something?!" Harry snapped, his frustration boiling over.

Snape was on his feet in an instant, towering over him, his black eyes boring into Harry like cold steel.

"I am only teaching you the most basic of skills, Potter, because you show the most basic aptitude for potion brewing," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Test my patience, and you won't have a book to read. And the next time you break into my house, you won't be leaving intact."

Harry swallowed hard, quickly shrinking back.

He nodded hastily.

He couldn't risk going back to life with the Dursleys as it had been before—not when this was better, even if it meant scrubbing cauldrons, grinding up snake fangs, and crushing strange beetles for hours on end.

"Good," Snape said, straightening. "Now, go juice some of the leeches into a bottle, Potter."

By the evening, Harry was exhausted.

Several leeches had latched onto him while he worked—Snape had seemed to find that particularly amusing.

Still, as birthdays went, it had been better than most.

Not that the Dursleys had noticed. As far as they were concerned, July 31st was just another day.

As Harry was about to leave, Snape stopped him.

He looked at Harry for a long moment before crossing the room.

Without a word, he returned and thrust a book into Harry's hands.

"This," Snape said briskly, "is an old copy of the first-year Potions textbook. You will study it. You may know about ingredients for advanced potions, but you still lack a proper understanding of the basics, Potter. I do not need this old copy—doubtless, you would only drool on a fresh one."

Harry blinked at the book, somewhat bewildered.

Snape was… giving him a book?

"T-thanks," Harry muttered.

Snape flinched, looking as though the very words had physically pained him.

"Do not thank me, Potter," he snapped. "I expect you to read it, so you are less useless in the future. Now—get out."

Before Harry could respond, Snape gave him a firm shove out the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Harry stood there for a moment, staring down at the book.

It was possibly the first time he could remember getting anything for his birthday.

Though, he highly doubted Snape had given that fact a single thought.

It was, after all, just a dusty old book.