Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space	By : SparklySprinkles Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Dudley/Harry Views: 10089 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Fictional story based on fictional characters. I own nothing of Harry Potter, and make no money.

Chapter List
- 1-chapter one
- 2-Chapter Two
- 3-Chapter Three
- 4-four
- 5-five
- 6-six
- 7-seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-nine
- 10-ten
- 11-eleven
- 12-twelve
- 13-thirteen
- 14-fourteen
- 15-fifteen
- 16-sixteen
- 17-seventeen
- 18-eighteen
- 19-nineteen
- 20-twenty
- 21-twenny one
- 22-twenny two
- 23-twenty three
- 24-twenty four
- 25-one more to go!
- 26-the end (26)
- 18
- 19
- 20
   Harry woke in stages. He felt his body, searching for pain, cold and thirst as he usually did, but this time it was different. There was thirst. Always. And sore muscles, like he'd run a marathon, but most likely, in this life of captivity he'd been living, it was from shakes.
   Then there were the smells. Or the absence of smells. It didn't stink. That was as new and different as the lacks of pain, and cold.
   Beside that was an odd solidness that was also new. Or old, older than he didn't know what, but now he could feel that he'd been paler than he should have been for a long time. Weak. He wasn't sure, but he felt like he could have gotten up and not been dizzy. That was the feeling.
   And his uncle was in an odd mood today. He wasn't asleep, Harry knew what that felt like, but the man was ... muted. Almost like sleeping, but there, thinking. Harry prodded at it experimentally, wondering what mood this was. There, underneath something, like a sheet of ice, thick enough to walk on, too dense to see through, there might have been deep angry waters. But it never fluctuated, just a stagnant well of it, only felt and that vaguely when he poked at it.
   Finally, he thought back, trying to place why these things would feel that way, or what had changed them, and remembered in bits, until he recalled his uncle, taken over by the Dark Lord. And the gunshot. And he bolted up, crying out, "Dudley!" His voice sounded fuzzy and hollow. He looked around, and saw everything was wrong. He wasn't in the Dursleys' home. He was somewhere else. And it had the vaguest feeling like he may have been here before, but he didn't think so.
   His uncle had died. And he was still feeling the presence; someone still owned him. But for a few seconds, that night, whatever night it had been, he'd been free.
   And he wasn't alone in this room. But it wasn't Dudley. It was a black blur, and it wasn't Riddle, either. "Hello?"
   "Potter."
   Oh god. That voice, and at the same time, it was That Voice. He should have been dead, and this was why he wasn't. He shot off the bed, hating the very idea, and found a wall ahead. He reached it, and wondered what now? He turned and tried to face him, but what could he do against The Voice?
   "Get back on the bed."
   "Yes, Master," he said without thinking. He would have to do a lot of that, he could see, as the Voice tolled in his head, sonorous and low, reverberating heavily. He'd been bonded by this man. He should have died.
   He walked forward until his knees hit the bed, and he sat on the edge, ready to run, but unable and knowing it.
   "So." And his master walked closer; Harry wanted to run again, and hunched his shoulders in useless defense. Where was Dudley? "You managed to turn the incredibly ordinary circumstances you were placed in into something deadly and life threatening. You have any idea," his voice bled scorn and disbelief at him, "what people are dying of these days, and you manage to get your bond holder killed by his son." Dudley. But that was all he would say on it. "And now I get the enviable task of keeping you. You made quite the impression on LeStrange, though."
   Harry looked up at him but quickly away again. LeStrange?
   "He came, trying to get to you before I could bond you, but he was too late."
   Harry stayed quiet, and wondered if he should be thankful. But of course he should. Aside from what the man would have done himself, LeStrange would have made him do things with Ron. And that would have been worse than anything. Anything.
   "I would like to perform another delve. Stay still."
   "Yes, Master." He didn't move, but for tiny breaths that he wished he could disguise as something else. Something less vulnerable. He coughed as Snape sat beside him, on the bed. On the bed with him. The only reason he didn't get up and bolt was because he'd been told to stay still. Then he felt Magic flow through him, on a complete level, pathing over every cell on its way through.
   "Better. I'll try something for the inner ear damage before we seek a professional." Harry wondered for a second why he could hear him just fine, but he answered that himself just as quick. His Master's Voice. Perhaps he'd been lucky Uncle Vernon hadn't just ordered him from Number Four to come home when he was hiding in Number Eight. Hadn't just opened a window and bellowed blindly into the night. "I suppose it would be from the gunshot. Unless they were beating you?" It had been a question, and Harry shook his head quick. He didn't need to anger this man. Unless he was absolutely sure Snape would kill him. Anything less wouldn't be worth it.
   "I will have Longbottom start up another brewing session for you. I'm sure he doesn't mind losing even more sleep on your behalf."
   "Neville?" He tried to ignore the bitter implications that he was costing Neville dearly, and ask if he was alright, and could he see him. Tried to ignore how everything he said sounded like fuzz. He frowned as he looked over the room, wishing he had his glasses, but he knew first of all that he was to ask for nothing. And he had so many questions.
   "And now I will give you a series of commands, first so I don't kill you myself, and second, so you don't manage the task." Harry backed away, as much as he could, which was a lean. "First, never try to anger me."
   "Yes, Master." A whisper. He wouldn't have done so. He didn't think so.
   "You have too much talent at that, and we don't need to test ourselves any more than life already deems fit to throw at us." Well, that was all true. "Second, never leave this home except on pain of your life."
   "Yes, Master."
   "As it is, you will have a hard time getting around it without a wand. So." He reached into his robes and pulled one out, pale and thin. "As basic as it could be." Harry looked at it, unmoving. "Take it."
   "Yes, Master." He reached out and with fingertips lifted it.
   "You will only use this for getting through this house."
   "Yes, Master."
   "Come with me, and I will show you how to do that."
   "Yes, Master." Use it? He rose and stopped, looking down at himself. He was clothed. In robes. When ... but questions would be a part of the very extensive list of what would anger this man. He followed, trying not to make too much of being so very well covered, and not having to hold anything up. His hand stayed close to his waist anyways, ready for what might fall, just out of habit. He was holding a wand. That had to mean more than being reliably clothed, right? He wasn't sure yet.
   They left the room, and Harry scanned as well as he could, a fuzzy narrow hallway, with two more doors. Then equally narrow steps leading down. There were doors on the way down, and he kept his mouth shut.
   "Here, tap the wand here, and it will open up."
   "Yes, Master," and he did. Magic flickered through him, electric sparks like life. Like magic. He'd just assumed he'd never feel that again. The wall opened, and a room was revealed. A sitting room, with books everywhere, and some chairs, with little tables beside them. And a fireplace.
   "And now. Potter. Get in here."
   "Yes, Master." He left the steps and entered the room.
   "And now, tap this brick here." He pointed behind him, to where they'd come from.
   "Yes, Master." He adjusted the wand in his hand, like it was an instrument. Like it was a wand, and he was about to use it, and tapped the brick by the doorway. And the wall closed back up, but Harry was still in the euphoria of having done that himself. He wiped his face quickly, in case Snape wouldn't like that, and turned about.
   "Now, over here, will be the way to the front door. And on the other side, is my study. You won't need to know that. But here is the book to tap to enter the kitchen. Where Longbottom is hopefully waiting with dinner."
   Harry jumped forward to use his wand again on the very fat, quite old-looking book, Penelope Prince's Nearly Perfect Collection of Pernicious and Poisonous Potions, and the wall opened, again. A funny home, but whatever. He had a wand. And he could use it. He lowered his hand near his waist and tried to let the robes swallow it all before it would be taken from him. Before Snape could think better of giving him something so ... wonderful.
   He followed into the dining room, that was attached to the kitchen. All very close, tiny spaces, and there was Neville, moving around the kitchen. He squeaked when he saw Snape, and almost dropped the frying pan. He set it down and looked around him at Harry. And Harry could remember then, seeing this boy before, but taken by the Dark Lord. He backed up without thinking, just as Neville's face lit up.
   "Alright, Harry." It was audible, but tinged with fuzz.
   He shook his head. He wasn't. This was all just another place to keep him until the Dark Lord grew bored enough of conquering the world to come for him. And he would do it here through Neville. Though why he wouldn't just use Snape was beyond Harry. But he accepted it, as one who could only accept, anyways.
   He turned around, and saw the wall was closed off. And Snape hadn't told him how to get through.
   "Potter. Sit."
   "Yes, Master." He looked around quickly and saw chairs around the table, and picked one, with its back to the wall they'd entered through. It had a view of the outside world. The back garden seemed massive. Or they were on the edge of town.
   Or all other homes had been torn down. That was always a possibility. Or it was a farm in the middle of nowhere. It struck him deep, finally, of how he had no idea whatsoever where he was. Even in this room of the house, in this house, he was lost.
   Snape made his slow way to the table, as though the last thing he wanted to do was sit with Harry, and Harry knew that was true. What a nightmare. He wanted his uncle back, and hid his hands under the table, digging into his palms around the wand he couldn't even use to leave that room.
   But his uncle was dead.
   And what was Dudley, now? Why hadn't Harry been given to him? That would have been the conventional way of slaves, right? Inheritance? And Dudley would have been holding him right then, keeping him warm and loved. But Dudley had killed his father, and they weren't the ones keeping Harry anymore. Did that mean their purpose had expired?
   It killed him, to volunteer words, to look in the man's direction, even. Who knew how much eye contact Snape even needed to see every sordid little thing that had happened?
   "Please," he couldn't think past Dudley and it was killing him. "Please," he said, hearing himself through the echoes in his head, weird and dim. "My family..."
   "Your family?" A sneer for them, or their sin of being Harry's family, he didn't know. "And what about them, Potter?"
   "Are they alright? Will they ..."
   "Be disposed of? I should imagine before the end of the day. And this one is almost over."
   "Please! Please, can you do anything?"
   "For your Dursleys?" He nodded, frantic. Disposed of? What an ugly word for it. "I'm shocked." But he didn't sound it. In fact, the bond hadn't fluctuated at all in any of that. Was he dead inside? Or was this not the same bond? No. That was too much to hope for. Snape was just dead inside. Harry was careful to not meet the man's eye, knowing it would be enough for him to see whatever he wanted. And why should he hide it, he asked himself. Hadn't this man been the main reason for most of it? Shouldn't he see what he'd caused? But he'd said it himself, Harry hadn't been through the worst, it could have been more than it was. It could have been Greyback, or Malfoy, right? "Surely they mean nothing to you?"
   Harry wasn't sure of the correct response. He shook his head slightly. "Really? They've done nothing but harm, to my knowledge." And Snape had some of that. Thanks to the horribly botched occlumency lessons, Snape had seen nothing but the humiliations his family had dealt him while perusing whatever he wished. Harry felt his face heat with both the memory, and his fear now, at how he might convince the man to save his family. Could he do it? Surely Dudley deserved that much? "Perhaps I've overlooked Petunia's many qualities as a ... decent human being?"
   "Please, Master. If anything is possible, please."
   "What do you think this is, a hotel?"
   "They have a home already, Master."
   "Yes, but they need to be in a wizard's custody to keep them alive. If they're as hopelessly useless as the Dursleys, that is." Well, that was news. "As it is, this ... home has two bedrooms, which is the sole reason you are currently in mine." The tone said Harry had come and stolen precious space. Had maliciously meant to, as well. Harry felt his moment of grace had come to an end. He fell silent and stared at the table, trying to build up the courage to beg.
   "Potter, look at me." It would be another dreaded moment of flipping through his memories, then. And with so much more to hide now. "Yes, Master," Harry had to say as his eyes rose to the man's chest. He threw himself from the chair to the floor at Snape's feet, careful not to touch him but close enough to press his earnestness on the other man. Snape himself withdrew slightly at the movements. "Please, Master. Please, don't. Please."
   Clashes of plateware rang out from the kitchen. "More plates, Longbottom? I'll need to go back to teaching soon if you continue to treat everything here as so disposable."
   "Yes, Sir!" More clattering followed, and Neville quietly cursed by the oven.
   "In the eyes, Potter."
   "Yes, Master." Bloody orders, bloody bond. He couldn't even fight it, and made eye contact.
   "Legilimens." It was the full spell, full powered, wand in hand. Harry felt the presence invade his mind, make itself at home, look around for what he wanted. He could only watch as Snape carded through memories, images, Voldemort and Uncle Vernon, giving him nothing but pain and degradation; those he flipped through and over. No hurry, just mostly indifferently looking through.
   Every now and then Harry felt second hand disgust, or surprise, but it was always behind that wall. Like it was all very contained and not experienced and he was shocked the man could feel so much. It hardly showed on his face. That stayed a mildly contemptuous stone from what Harry could make out beyond the mental storm of it all.
   Then Snape found what he seemed to be looking for, the moments where Dudley had touched him, stroked and been gentle, fed him, watered him, kept him alive, clothed him, and then loved him. Harry felt his shame compound in Snape's rising disgust and shock. He tried to pull back, tried to push him out, but it had always required the absence of emotions, or the control of them, or whatever. It was something Harry had never been able to do. He could only cringe away from it all, held in place and fully aware. Finally, an eternity or a second, and Snape was out. Harry gasped as his being was loosened from the hold, and he heard Snape set his wand back down on the table, then pick up a fork. Neville had brought plates of food to the table in all that.
   "Sit and eat, Potter.
   "Yes, Master." Would nothing be said about it? Harry kept his eyes down, terrified he would be punished for this, or something. Maybe Dudley would be considered worth even less for having been kind to him? He shoved a forkful in, hardly knowing he did.
   Snape took a few bites, tasting everything, then finally said, "and you want me to save them?"
   "If ... Yes, Master."
   "Save them to the end that they are taken care of and safe?"
   "Yes, Master." What kind of questions were these? Was he trying to make this as hard as possible? Most likely. That would be Snape.
   "Because they were so good to you."
   "Yes, Master. Please." Whatever he had to say, do. Whatever.
   Snape sighed, wearily, and set down his fork. "This is yet another perfectly tolerable meal, Longbottom. I can only hope some time aging on my dining table will improve it all." He rose, and Harry didn't dare move, didn't dare acknowledge the man's dripping sarcasm. Was he doing something for Dudley? He couldn't possibly, after all he'd seen. Harry risked a look halfway to Neville, but couldn't do more.
-/--/-

   Snape left the room nearly reeling from the visions he'd taken from Potter. And he'd known he would see most of it. He'd never intended for Potter to be bonded in such a way when he'd suggested he go to the Dursleys, but the Dark Lord, when he made up his mind, couldn't be turned. And Severus had known it would be no walk in the park for the boy. Still, Vernon Dursley was better than any Death Eater for him.
   But the ways in which the Dark Lord had found pleasure from him, and Severus had seen that pleasure, as well, through Harry. That was easily the most alarming. The boy was like a drug to the Dark Lord, putting Severus in an ever more precarious position. He told himself that was all normal enough for him, but it all compounded, and he would meet a sticky end with this nonsense. But he wasn't going to be a storehouse for the Dark Lord's habits, and he just had to hope he meant what he said about not being ready to take him for himself.
   Severus just didn't have what it took to share. He didn't have many failings, but one he would readily admit to was jealousy. Not that he wanted Potter. But the boy was his - until he could slough him off on McGonagall, of course.
   And then the Dursley boy, giving him bags of crisps and water and receiving worship for it. Coming at him while he was still shaking from yet another encounter with the Dark Lord, raping him quietly, gagging him with his hand. And Potter building mental structures about it, complex and winding, until it was a golden shining memory for him. That was interesting.
   Potter was so desperate for anything he could paint better in his mind, and everything was framed and held up on shaky foundations that should crumble under scrutiny, but it didn't seem Potter was one to scrutinize. Just build more and more on the trembling legs that held up false hopes.
   Potter was a mess.
   He went to the flu and called MacNair, who had a lot to do with the extermination of muggles; he'd moved up in the world recently, had enjoyed an evolutionary promotion to a new species.
   "Snape! What can I do for you?"
   "You've been tasked with any new jobs lately?"
   "Lots. Always. You got names? I get a new list everyday."
   "Yes. Dursley."
   The sound of pages ruffling, then he said, "yup, two of those on my list, probably get to them in a couple of days. Unless." Severus could hear the smile. "Any requests?"
   Severus smiled back, knowing MacNair was offering for specific deaths for Potter's family, not alternatives to the actual act. "Just the boy, moved up to the top. And one of those collars for the woman, perhaps."
   "Top of the list it is. And the woman .... a Petunia. Collared? You want the knuts?" Severus shook his head. It was nothing to him. He was receiving a favour here. "While we're at it ..."
   "Yes, of course." He knew. MacNair only ever had one price. It was something that less than twenty people on earth knew existed, something of Snape's own invention, and it had proven his worth over and over to that scant handful of very vital people.
   He summoned two bottles of a potion he made with papaver somniferum and artemisia that he now had Longbottom cultivating, and travelled quickly to MacNair's home, just to deliver the bottles. "Make sure you save these for after the job's done." He smirked as he left, not fully sure that Walden would do as commanded, but that filthy muggle would be dead before breakfast tomorrow either way.
   "Pleasure," MacNair called after him, and Snape was back home.
--/--/--
   Harry felt exposed and useless, waiting for news of his family. Neville cleared his throat, like he needed to excuse the event of him speaking. "You can still eat, Harry. He doesn't mean for us to wait for him. And you really should. Eat, that is. You look like death warmed over."
   "Yes, Sir." He took a tiny bite, just to show he was being good, and he wanted nothing more from him. If he was being good, Neville could just leave him alone.
   "And you don't have to call me sir, Harry. It was always just Neville."
   Harry was struck by the knowledge, which had temporarily gone somewhere, that Neville was, always had been, just the sweetest guy ever. He felt horrible for his treatment of him. What could Neville even think of it? "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be rude. But," but what? "But the Dark Lord will use you to come at me, and, and I don't want it to hurt any more than it has to. I'm so sorry." He definitely wouldn't be looking at him until then. Until he was forced to.
   "What does that mean, Harry?"
   "He possessed my uncle and attacked me. And when I first got here, he did the same to you. And he will again."
   "Did I ... hurt you?" It was said quietly, and Harry's ears turned it to a dim fuzz, but he heard the words beneath.
   "It wasn't you. But no, he didn't. But it wasn't you. And it won't be when he does. You can't feel bad about it. It won't be your fault. But it will happen."
   Harry wished again that he'd just gone to Dudley, like an elf would have. If Vernon had owned an house elf, it would have gone to Dudley on his death. It should have been so for Harry. He would have never asked anything of the universe ever again. And how foolish of him to want something like that when it was very possible Dudley was already dead?
   Neville went silent for a time, ate some, then again cleared his throat before he asked, "did he give you a wand, too?"
   Harry nodded and pulled it out and showed it to Neville.
   "Good. It came with commands, right? I mean, that's what he did with me." Neville pulled out an equally pale length of wood that Harry spared a flicker of a glance for. "Bog standard, mass made for property to use. Birch to help us accept our new lives, and garden gnome nail clippings to remind us of our place." He shrugged. "Not like we're 'magic stealers', just a step above. But it's still nice to be able to do things." Harry nodded. And he took another small bite, still under the command to eat. There was no way he could eat everything on his plate.
   It was killing him to sit there, do nothing but eat while Snape was hopefully saving his family. Hopefully wasn't too late. How long did it take to kill people? Not long, when the country was being run by death eaters. His insides hollowed at thoughts of his cousin and aunt left dead in their home, and the house abandoned to the wilderness that was encroaching upon Little Whinging.
   He had to dispel that one quickly, and studied the plate of food hard. He would do anything for Snape. Be the best, the grossest little slave he could be if the man would save them. He'd never make another sound again. He'd obey every order, but he already had no choice about that. And he would do it with a smile, but he knew Snape wouldn't want smiles. What could such a man want from him? Probably misery. But Harry could do that. For Dudley and Aunt Petunia's very lives? Absolutely.
   Snape's dinner was indeed cold when he got back, and Harry hardly breathed he was so afraid of what he would say. He didn't even have the right to think Snape had been doing or would do anything for him, ever. He wanted to ask if his family had been saved, but he couldn't make himself. He'd already spoken in an attempt to do something, and it had ended with Snape poking through his brain, and seeing things Harry would really, really rather he'd not seen.
   Snape stared at his dinner, as though he'd had some expectations about everything staying perfect, and the plate had fallen short of them. He picked up his fork and knife and ate deliberately anyways.
   After a ponderous bite that seemed to take an eternity to chew he said more in Harry's direction than to him, "Your family are being preserved. " Harry carefully held back elation, wondering what the hell that meant. In the magical world it could have meant they were being pickled.
   "They'll live?"
   "Yes." It was harder than with Uncle Vernon; this bond never told him any more than that there was dim anger under everything. It would have even helped if the anger ever fluctuated but it didn't. It just was. "And," his words were a miser's gold, minced out cheaply, reluctantly, when at all, "they were on the list to be disposed of."
   "Thank you, Master." And he meant it. Dudley could have been dead by then. And he wouldn't be. And Aunt Petunia. It was even a relief to think of her as saved. Snape snorted as though it was nothing to him to save two lives, and to a death eater, it probably wasn't. But Harry would never take this for granted.
   He ate as much as he could, and afterwards Snape left, but Neville stayed as he was. Harry hadn't received any orders otherwise, so he stayed as well, and just hoped he was supposed to. He really had no intention of angering Snape.
   Snape came back soon after, holding potions. Three. And he set them down in front of Harry, and sat back down. Harry reached out and took them. Were they the kind that LeStrange had kept? It didn't matter. Snape had saved Dudley and Aunt Petunia. Harry would drink whatever he was given. He reached out and took one, then downed it, not thinking.
   It coursed through his body with the immediacy of magic, and he felt it working whatever its purpose was in his guts. Or around there. He set the empty flask down and reached for another one, looking in Snape's direction for orders not to. But he'd been given three at once, so surely that meant he was supposed to drink them all right then. And so far he wasn't climbing Snape's or Neville's bones, so he knocked back the next one.
   This one went to his head; he felt it, and suspected as he heard a high pitched hum, then nothing. Or more, the sounds of the too quiet room. His own nervous breathing - he exhaled and listened to that. Too bad it did nothing for his vision. Although, now that he was looking for it, perhaps it was just a little bit better. But that wouldn't make much sense. If there was a potion for eye sight, someone probably would have given it to him years ago, right?
   He took the last and drank it, and it settled in his stomach and stayed there. He wasn't sure what that one did, much as the first, but what choice did he have? He still felt like himself, so they couldn't have been too evil.
   Snape gave the tiniest nod, and Harry went back to eating, still elated that his family would survive Vernon. And himself. He ate slowly and cautiously, afraid that everything he could do would be wrong. But within a few bites, he was nodding.
   "Go to bed, Potter. Let the potions run their course."
   "Yes, Master." He needed it. He had to be shown the way out, but he knew the rest of the way, and delighted once more in using a wand to make magic happen. He was a wizard again. No. Of course not. He was a plaything for a dark wizard. But he had a wand. And he was determined to stay high on it.
   He went right to the room where he'd woken, a little soured now that he knew it was Snape's bedroom. Snape's bed. And he would need to accept that. Quick. He probably already smelled of the man, just from being in his bed for a night. He laid down, following the order, and was asleep in moments.

   Harry woke there, to Snape himself moving. He pulled the blanket up tighter and avoided eye contact. Then he gave himself shit for that; he didn't want Snape to think he was resisting. It would give the man something to think he could tear down.
   Snape looked at him for a while, letting the silence hang heavy as though he was using it like a threat. Harry felt it surrounding him, choking him until he wanted to scream that this man didn't need any weapons. Why was he doing this? But he kept himself still aside from the odd shake in his hands, knotted in the blanket at his shoulders.
   And stayed silent. That had to be the least of what this man would want from him. The sun was up, shining through the window. Snape rose and left the room and was gone for some time before he came back and called Harry out for breakfast.
   He rose and followed, until Snape frowned at him, unmoving at the door. "You're just going to wear that every day, then?"
   He looked down. "This?" Bloody gormless thing to say.
   "That, yes." He was glared at for his ignorance for a long moment. "There are other robes for you, in that chest on." He sighed. "On that side of the bed." Snape nodded to the side Harry had been occupying. Harry quickly went over there, feeling, again, so much better than he had the day before. The faintness was completely gone, and he felt right hungry. Not the queasy kind of unsteady starving hollowness he was so used to.
   He opened the drawer, and saw piles of robes. He wanted to ask if they were all for him, but words would offend here. They were for him. Snape wouldn't store ... their clothes together.
   "It may also be that you need to be told to feel free to use the washroom." But he was a hopeless leech for needing to hear it, the tone said, "so help yourself, there, Potter. Come down when you're ready."
   "Yes, Master." Harry felt so stupid around this man, always. So less than what he'd been expecting. "Thank you," he said quickly as the door closed. Snape had been succeeding at making him feel that way for years, and now it was here, on tap for him. How the hell was he supposed to know there would be clothes? And the washroom? Snape was probably calling him filthy. Harry moved quickly, showered and put on fresh robes, absolutely reveling in the luxury. But he wouldn't let it show. If Snape knew he was enjoying these little things, he could take them away.
   And then another luxury of using his wand again to move through the home, open hidden passageways to get to the dining room and kitchen. He could live like this. No Dudley, no Aunt Petunia, but they were alive, and safe. And, poisoned angry words aside, Harry was clothed and clean. And he could be everyday.
   He entered the room and stood still.
   "Sit down, Potter."
   "Yes, Master," Harry answered in as dead a tone as he could muster, and obeyed, trying to avoid the man's eyes some more even as he was scowled at.
   "Morning, Harry."
   "Morning," Harry answered, renewing the walls between himself and what he wished could just be his friend.
   Neville paused as he sat down, but he allowed it to pass and lowered himself to his chair. Snape picked up his fork and took a bite, and Neville went to his own meal.
   An owl pecked at the window, and Snape traded a knut for a paper with it, and it flew off before he shut the window behind. He sat back down and flipped through it, handing the last half to Neville, who took it as though this happened all the time. Opinion, Puzzles and Kids Corner, Harry could make out in the large print. Neville shrugged and handed half of that to Harry, who took it, but had no idea where to go from there. Was he allowed to read it? He wouldn't intentionally assume anything here.
   He looked halfway to Snape, but he was engrossed in the pages he'd kept, and ignored them both. Harry thought it best to err on the side of caution and handed the bit back with a silent shake of his head. Snape sighed heavily and turned a page. Harry quickly took a bite, and chewed as little as possible.
   And he remembered that he was starving. For the first time there, the first time in a long time in fact, he looked at the food, recognized it for food, registered that there were eggs and sausage, toast and tomatoes. He paced himself, but really wanted to get to all of it.
   As it turned out he couldn't, but he did his best. He was given two more potions after, and drank them with as little reservation as before. They settled in his guts and stomach, just as before, and he felt the same heavy sleepiness again, so he was sent to bed. Again.

   He woke there, alone. The sun was still up, but he had no idea what time it could be. And he asked himself what that would matter, but it was nice to know little things like that. And there would have been a date on the Daily Prophet that morning. He could have known what day it was. He would look next time. He stared at the ceiling, putting away his deja vu over that, because he really had spent some time in his life doing it, and thought about how he might make Snape satisfied with him. He owed him.
   He owed him for the wand and the clothes, and the potions he was pretty sure were just healing potions. And he owed him two irreplaceable lives. Why Snape hadn't exercised his true ownership over Harry yet he didn't know, but maybe the man was just waiting for Harry to be better, or not sleep for every moment of the day and night. Maybe he was waiting for Harry to cross the bridge. Odd thought. But it had meant a lot to Uncle Vernon at times that Harry seemed into it. And there was no way Snape would be under the impression this was something Harry would ever want. A weak, but oddly encouraging thought he was reluctant to let go of.
   That led him to the feeling that if he could do it, just make that move, it might even look like he had a choice in this. To himself, it could look like that. Like perhaps he might feel better about it afterwards if he ... if he was the one who set it in motion. Whether that was all nonsense or not only time would tell.
   Snape came up some time later and Harry was led to the dinner table. Neville greeted him, like he had before. Harry managed a nod, but kept from looking at him. He knew what would happen there, it was only a matter of time. He needed none of the foreplay that Riddle was probably waiting for. He would no doubt get off more if Harry felt some betrayal through it all. He would give as little as possible.
   The meal was just as tasty and hearty as the breakfast had been, hot chicken, roasted potatoes with gravy and beans, and he packed away what he could. Just a little more than before. And he noticed that Neville had put a little less on his plate. He'd noted how little Harry could eat. Such a nice guy. It was tragic, really, that Harry couldn't just be happy to be with a friend, and be as good to Neville as he deserved. It couldn't have been the best of times here, with this pillar of hostility and ice for months on end.
   He was given the two potions afterwards again, and downed them agreeably. That was his word. Agreeable.
   He was sent to bed, and he took it, happy to leave the room. Happy to use his wand, as well, to open the ways there. But he wasn't as sleepy as he had been the other times. He didn't know what it meant, but if he was paying attention, and sometimes he was, he would have to admit that he hadn't felt this well in a very long time. Pains were gone that he hadn't even noticed were there, but now, in their absences, he could see it. His every moment had been in ignoring so much, back with his uncle.
   And he owed his new master for Dudley and Aunt Petunia. He hadn't forgotten that. And he had agreed already, if just to himself, that he would pay any price for his family's lives. Snape had slept beside him the night before. And he hadn't even known it. And he'd survived. He could do what he needed to, whatever it was. There was always worse. Worse than a man who gave him a safe family. A wand and health and clothing. He was building resolve up, doing everything in his power to work up the courage needed for it.
   He slept, because he really was still tired, bone tired on the very inside, especially after those potions; whatever they were doing to his innards, it was exhausting. He woke though, when Snape entered, later.
   The man stepped quietly, and laid down over the blanket. Harry kept his breaths small as possible so they would be quiet, but felt the same choking angry silence again. What was this man playing at? Probably nothing. He probably just lived this quietly - this quietly hostile. Harry should have expected as much.
   Harry looked over at the man, calling back the courage he'd beat into himself over the day, even though he still shook a little. Dudley and Aunt Petunia. They were safe. He owed this man more than he could say, no matter how small it had seemed to Snape. He rolled over in the bed, and put on his best face, the one Uncle Vernon would have wanted there, smooth, unruffled. Unbothered by whatever was about to come. He could do this. He'd done worse.
   He reached out, and touched Snape's leg, high up on the thigh, ignoring how much he shook about it.
   "What the hell are you doing?" Snape hissed, pulling his leg back.
   He pulled his hand back as quick, holding it in the other as though it might be solely to blame for this travesty. "I... I was trying."
   "Did you think I would want that?"
   "I don't know. I'm sorry." He stared at the ceiling, again, wishing he could disappear.
   "You think everyone wants you? The famous Harry Potter? You think I would be jumping at the chance to have you here?" He turned to him finally, spewing all the hatred Harry could feel finally, pulsing wildly through the bond at him, "In my bed?" That said like Harry was an earwig, infesting this man's home. What the hell had he been thinking? Harry shook his head quickly. "Don't ever touch me, Potter."
   "Yes, Master. I'm sorry." He rolled over and stared at the wall, not moving, feeling so stupid it burned.
   "Yes. You are." Snape rose and left, shut the door behind him and Harry could feel the anger then, pulsing its way through walls at him as the man paced his way wherever he was going.
   He wasn't with his uncle. Or Dudley, or LeStrange, or even the Dark Lord. He was with someone who wanted nothing to do with him. He had no idea what to do, and wished he'd just stopped thinking earlier, so he wouldn't have to try to now.
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I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space