“NO! I’D RATHER STAY WITH THE DURSLEYS!”

  Harry roared in fury at Dumbledore’s explanations and was about to unleash a torrent of vehement objections, but a sharp pain in his abdomen made him go white, double over, and clench his teeth to stifle a groan.

  “Harry, where does it hurt?” Dumbledore said, turning back. “Severus!”

  Snape had bolted from the room the moment Harry doubled over and returned instantly with a vial of pre-mixed potion. He uncorked it, Dumbledore pulled Harry upright, holding his struggling body firmly as Snape tipped the vial into Harry’s mouth. As the potion slid down his throat and into his system, Harry felt the pain in his abdomen gradually subside. He gasped for breath, his forehead damp with sweat.

  “I am hardly thrilled about this arrangement either, Potter,” Snape sneered down at him. “And I assure you, were it not for ensuring the continued existence of your remarkably fragile life, I would sooner endure the company of a troll than have you sully my private sanctuary.”

  Throwing Snape a glare, Harry pushed Dumbledore away, staggered off the bed, grabbed his trunk and broom, and made to leave the room. But Dumbledore stepped in front of him.

  “Get out of my way,” Harry said coldly.

  “No,” Dumbledore replied calmly.

  “I’D RATHER DIE THAN STAY WITH HIM!” he yelled, pointing at Snape. “HE’S THE REASON SIRIUS IS DEAD! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!”

  “Harry, please calm down…”

  “I BET HE’LL BE THRILLED TO HAVE THE CHANCE TO TORTURE ME WITHOUT YOU WATCHING!”

  “HARRY POTTER!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed, and the boy before him fell silent. The Headmaster looked weary and years older than the last time they had spoken in his office. “I know you are not comfortable, and I wish there were another solution, but this is the best way to keep you alive. Professor Snape may not like you, but he will not seek to harm you, Harry. On my life, I swear this. When you are fully recovered, I will take you to the Burrow immediately. I promise.”

  “When?” Harry scoffed. “Dumbledore, you’re reminding me of how you left me at Privet Drive last summer.”

  “Harry,” Dumbledore said, almost pleading, “I apologize to you, again, for what happened, but this time, I am compelled to send you here for your own safety. Please trust me in this, won’t you?”

  “If you leave, there is no one else I trust with the necessary expertise in poisons and the Dark Arts to treat you, and you will die,” Dumbledore looked deeply into Harry’s eyes. “Your mother sacrificed herself so that you might live until now; please value your life, won’t you?”

  Seeing the shift in Harry’s gaze, Dumbledore knew he had struck a chord. The boy swallowed hard, his face contorted, but he didn’t object.

  “It will be alright, Harry, I will visit you,” Dumbledore put his arms around his student and turned to Snape, his expression stern, mouthing the words.

  I will not forgive you if you mistreat him, Severus.

  Professor Snape gave a weary nod, privately thinking the Headmaster was being overly dramatic. He might dislike Potter, that was certain, but he wouldn’t take advantage of the boy’s dependence to be cruel. No, he hated children, especially James Potter’s son, but he would never repeat his own father’s mistakes.

  Snape had no idea that, just a few weeks later, the confidence he felt at that moment would be utterly shattered.

  Harry watched Dumbledore walk out of the narrow alleyway and Disapparate with a sinking feeling of anger and frustration. Even in his worst nightmares, he had never imagined ending up in this situation. Summer vacation with Snape? It was beyond awful. Resentment churned in Harry’s stomach. Why did he have to be stuck in this creepy house with the teacher who had indirectly caused his only remaining family member’s death?

  “I have taken all your belongings to your bedroom,” Snape’s voice echoed from behind Harry. “Everything, except your broom, wand, and Invisibility Cloak, which will be stored away for safety. You are not to use them while you reside here, except in specific circumstances I permit.”

  “Why are you confiscating my wand?” Harry spun around, snapping.

  “To prevent you from using magic outside of school, naturally,” Snape’s black eyes gleamed. “Do not concern yourself with security. With me here, no one will touch you. Regardless of how accustomed you are to living with your relatives or at Grimmauld, once you step foot in this house, you will abide by my rules, is that clear?”

  “Fine,” Harry said curtly, a knot of distrust tightening in his stomach.

  Snape’s eyes narrowed. “We may not be at Hogwarts, but you will still maintain a modicum of politeness. I expect your usual deference; that is the first rule of living here.”

  Throwing Snape a resentful look, Harry gritted his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

  “You will reside in the second bedroom on the right along the upstairs corridor, adjacent to my own chambers, with the bathroom at the end of the hall. If you encounter any issues, speak up. If you are unable to speak, press the bell on the bedside table. I will attend to you immediately.”

  “You are not required to perform any housework; your sole task is to rest. Books are available in the sitting room; you may read them, but remember to return them to their proper place. I typically take my meals at eight-thirty in the morning, eleven-thirty in the afternoon, and seven in the evening. If your health permits, you will join me in the kitchen. If you do not appear, I will come to check on you. You may move freely throughout the house, with the exception of my potions laboratory at the end of that corridor,” Snape pointed towards a dark brown wooden door at the very end of a long, shadowy hallway, which reminded Harry of the Department of Mysteries door that had haunted him for months during the past school year. “If you sneak in and tamper with anything, do not blame me for the consequences.”

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  As if I’d want to mess with that old bat’s stuff after getting detention for accidentally seeing his memories,Harry thought sourly.

  “I have spent the past week researching the curse afflicting you and have devised a treatment plan. I will administer potions to neutralize the poison in your system—the very thing causing your bouts of pain—and whenever you vomit blood, you must summon me immediately for the antidote. Excessive blood loss will be extremely dangerous…”

  “Why can’t you just leave the potion in my room?” Harry interrupted.

  “Each instance of vomiting blood with this affliction signifies a significant depletion of magical energy, leaving the body severely weakened,” Snape’s lips curled. “Even a robust and healthy individual would struggle to stand, let alone a mere boy. Although your grasp of Potions is lamentably abysmal, you should at least comprehend this basic principle, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Harry looked as if he was restraining a strong urge to punch Snape in the face.

  “I will check on your condition every evening before you retire. Full recovery will take at least a month, that is the most optimistic estimate. Until that glorious day arrives, remember to conduct yourself appropriately,” Snape leaned down, his face close to Harry’s, emphasizing his final words with a sharp edge.

  “Yes, Professor,” Harry replied curtly and brushed past the Potions Master, heading upstairs.

  “Potter.”

  Harry turned back. Snape seemed to weigh each word before speaking. “If anyone comes here—I will inform you—you are to remain in your room and pretend you are not present, is that clear?”

  This sentence reminded Harry of the summer four years ago when he had to pretend to be invisible while the Dursleys entertained important guests. A surge of anger rose within him, and he retorted, “Back to being furniture, am I? Or would you prefer me under the bed for convenience?”

  “Civility, Potter!” Snape snapped, recalling Narcissa and Bellatrix’s visit a few days prior. It was fortunate the brat hadn’t arrived yet, but who knew if they would return. “If you were under the bed, at least I wouldn’t have to endure your insolent tone every day. While you reside here, my word is law. Heed it seriously!”

  The way Snape looked at him, as if he were a persistent stain on the wall, infuriated Harry. The atmosphere in the sitting room thickened. However, he suppressed his urge to retaliate. Snape was right; he was dependent on him, and it would be unwise to provoke him. Who knew when Snape’s temper might flare, and he’d poison him to death? Well, perhaps Snape wouldn’t dare harm him while under Dumbledore’s responsibility for his treatment, but if he drove the man mad, Harry had no idea what might happen to him. His life had been saved by his parents; he had to value it.

  Harry turned and headed straight up the stairs to the second floor. As he pushed open the bedroom door, a loud hoot echoed.

  “Hedwig!” Harry exclaimed with relief, rushing to the owl cage at the end of the bed, opening the door to hug his snow-white owl and stroke her feathers. “Thank goodness! You’re the only friend I have here.”

  The bedroom Snape had arranged for him seemed to have once been a room for two, judging by the size of the dark double bed against the window with its heavy green curtains drawn shut. Harry’s trunk was placed at the foot of the bed. There was a wooden desk with an inkpot and several rolls of parchment, and a bedside table with gaping empty drawers. The walls were painted grey, the plaster slightly peeling, a clock hung crookedly, and there were signs of recent cleaning, but it still felt like the room had been neglected for quite some time. Everything was functional—clean, simple, without any frills, devoid of emotion.

  Harry wondered who had stayed here before? And then, looking out the window, seeing a nearby factory, it suddenly dawned on him.

  This was a Muggle neighborhood. Of course, probably his parents’ old house. Surely at least one of them was a non-magical person, most likely his father. Harry remembered the young Severus Snape trembling and hiding under the bed while his parents roared at each other in the sitting room, a memory he had accidentally accessed during one of his Occlumency lessons.

  A child who grew up in a violent home, living in a rundown, uneducated neighborhood—judging by the rubbish-filled river a short distance away—had grown up to become a cruel demon, tormenting students because of an old school rivalry with his father. How very interesting.

  Muttering a curse at Snape, Harry opened his trunk to check its contents. His belongings were all there. He stood up and went to the desk, dipped his quill into the inkpot, and began to write on the parchment. Although he didn’t explicitly state that he was at Snape’s house—in case the letter fell into Death Eater hands—Harry made sure his friends understood how he felt on his first day as a reluctant guest in the Potions Master’s gloomy abode. Snape probably wouldn’t be bored enough to allow Ron and Hermione to visit.

  Harry thought of Luna again. If she were here, he would surely feel more at ease. Luna always saw things positively much more easily than most people. At this moment, he suddenly realized she had truly occupied an important place in his heart, quite different from the beginning of the school year—when he had silently labeled Luna as a nonsensical loony.

  Thinking so, Harry wrote another letter. Once finished, he rolled it up and took it to Hedwig’s cage.

  “Listen, I want you to take these two letters to different places. One is the Burrow, and the other is Luna’s house in Devon.”

  She blinked her large yellow eyes at Harry and hooted loudly.

  “Thanks a lot, remember to fly carefully, don’t run into any Death Eaters.”

  Harry watched the bird soar into the night sky. By the time the darkness swallowed the owl, he felt a profound loneliness.

  After showering and lying on the bed for a while, wallowing in his sorrow, Harry looked at the clock and realized it was almost seven in the evening. His stomach began to rumble loudly, and he reluctantly went downstairs to the kitchen, despite his reluctance to eat with Snape.

  The kitchen had dark brown tiled floors, rough grey stone walls, with a slightly smoke-stained area around the stove. An old-fashioned fireplace with a wrought-iron kettle stand stood beside an ancient cast-iron stove, designed for traditional wood-burning or magical heating. Dark wooden cabinets with plain grey crockery behind glass doors, knives and chopping boards neatly arranged. No tablecloth, no flower vase, no biscuits hidden in a tin like Mrs. Weasley’s. The kitchen resembled a rest stop—a place where one refueled in precise portions and then left—not a place to live and laugh.

  Snape was sitting at a long wooden table against a small window, with an empty chair opposite him. Harry approached; there were two place settings on the table. In front of him was a bowl of vegetable soup with shredded beef, toast and cheese, and a glass of cow’s milk. He noticed Snape was drinking herbal tea.

  They ate in silence, the only sound the clinking of spoons against bowls. Snape didn’t ask any questions, and Harry didn’t initiate any conversation. Taking his first spoonful of soup, he paused slightly, surprised by the unexpected richness of the flavor. He had braced himself for the most unpleasant taste imaginable, considering Snape didn’t exactly look like someone skilled in culinary arts.

  However, someone living alone for a long time, no matter how clumsy or ignorant, would eventually learn how to take care of themselves.

  Harry ate quickly, even faster than Snape. He just wanted to return to his room, to escape this dreadful, awkward atmosphere. However, as he put down his spoon, Snape looked up and said, “Next time, eat more slowly. At that pace, I daresay I will need to brew additional stomach-soothing draughts to cater to your inevitable indigestion.”

  Harry looked up, his eyes narrowed as if the words were a subtle jab to the face. However, he said nothing, neatly stacking his bowl and spoon, taking them to the sink, pushing his chair back into place, and heading straight upstairs.