Harry sat on the edge of his new bed, running his fingers along the wooden frame.
It was smooth, well-maintained.
Still, it was strange.
He was in Snape's house.
The thought alone was enough to make his head spin.
With a sigh, he stood and crossed the room, setting his trunk beside the wardrobe. His books were all packed inside, along with his spare robes and a few quills and ink bottles. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
The quiet pressed down on him.
Hogwarts was never silent, there was always something happening. The murmur of students in the corridors, the flicker of candlelight against the high stone walls, the occasional ghost swooping by, muttering to themselves. Even the common rooms had their own distinct sounds.
Ravenclaws debating theories, the crackling fireplace, the faint rustle of pages turning as someone read deep into the night.
But here, in this small house in a quiet wizarding town, there was nothing but stillness.
He wandered to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. The alley below was empty, the buildings standing in solemn silence. He could see the tops of rooftops in the distance, gray against the dull morning sky.
His stomach gave an uncomfortable twist, not quite hunger, but something close. A mix of uncertainty, restlessness, and something else he couldn't name.
His mind kept circling the same question.
Why had Snape done this?
Not just the taking him in part, that was a mystery in itself, but the way he was acting. It wasn't warm, obviously, but it wasn't outright hostile either. No sneering remarks about his father. No unnecessary cruelty.
Just… strict rules. Expectations. A sharp gaze that lingered but never quite cut.
It was unsettling.
And yet, compared to the Dursleys… it wasn't bad.
Harry pushed away from the window, rubbing his arms. He supposed he'd find out soon enough what staying here would really be like.
By the time the smell of something savory drifted through the house, Harry realized just how long it had been since he'd last eaten. The tightness in his stomach was no longer just nerves.
Still, when he hesitated at the doorway, his instincts kicking in with old habits.
Wait to be called, don't be seen unless necessary.
Snape's kitchen was not what Harry expected.
It was small, tucked in the back of the house, with a sturdy wooden table and a fireplace that gave off a low, flickering glow. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with neatly labeled jars. Ingredients for potions, some he even recognized, but the scent of simmering stew made it clear that this wasn't a laboratory.
Snape sat at the table, a book propped open beside his plate. He didn't look up as Harry entered.
"Sit," he said simply.
Harry hesitated, then did as he was told.
Two plates were set out, one for Snape, one for him. The food was simple.
Stew with thick chunks of meat and vegetables, a loaf of dark bread on the side.
Snape closed his book with a quiet thump. "You will eat at designated times," he said, tone even. "If you are late, you do not eat."
Harry nodded, already knowing better than to push back.
They ate in silence.
Harry kept his head down, unsure of what to say. The food was good, but every bite felt heavy under the weight of Snape's presence across from him.
"We will continue your Occlumency training after dinner," Snape said suddenly. His voice was low but firm.
Harry swallowed a piece of bread and glanced up. "Alright."
"You are improving," Snape admitted, as if the words were difficult to say. "But your mind is still too unguarded. You leave yourself open without realizing it."
Harry frowned. "I've been practicing on my own."
Snape's gaze sharpened. "Not enough."
A pause.
Harry scowled at his bowl. "I'm trying."
Snape didn't argue, but the silence that followed felt like an unspoken challenge.
"Lessons will be every third day," Snape continued after a moment. "In between, you are expected to practice on your own."
Harry exhaled slowly. "Right."
He wasn't looking forward to that. His mind always felt raw after their sessions, like he'd just run a mental marathon with no rest in between.
Still, he had improved.
He wasn't about to let Snape see just how much those words of acknowledgment meant to him.
That night, Harry lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint creaks of the house settling.
It was strange to think that Snape was just downstairs. That this wasn't some temporary stay in the hospital wing, or a detour before heading back to Privet Drive.
For the first time in years, he wasn't in a place where he had to watch every movement, every breath, for fear of setting someone off.
That didn't mean he trusted Snape. Not yet.
A step forward, maybe.
He rolled onto his side, letting his thoughts drift.
Eventually, sleep took him.
The routine settled quickly.
Harry woke early, not because he wanted to, but because Snape's house expected it. The walls were thin, and he could hear the faint sounds of movement downstairs as Snape started his day.
Breakfast was at seven sharp. Snape never waited.
Harry spent most of his time either reading in his room or sitting in the small study downstairs. The books here were older than the ones in Hogwarts' library, their spines cracked with age, the ink slightly faded. Some were on potions, others on magical theory. One, to his surprise, was about dream magic. He made a mental note to look at that one later.
Occlumency lessons were just as brutal as ever.
Snape attacked without warning and at random times during the day, forcing Harry to defend himself at a moment's notice. The first few times, he failed...
Spectacularly.
Memories spilled out against his will, flashes of his childhood, of Hogwarts, of moments he wanted no one to see.
But then… he started pushing back.
Not every time. Not perfectly.
But enough that Snape would pause for a brief moment before continuing.
Enough that, by the end of one day, Snape muttered, "Adequate," while they were eating dinner.
And coming from Snape, that felt like an entire speech of praise.
As the days passed, Harry started to notice things.
Snape had a strict routine. He brewed potions in the afternoons, vanishing into what Harry assumed was a private laboratory. When he wasn't brewing, he was reading, books filled with scrawled notes in the margins, some in languages Harry didn't recognize.
The house itself was neat. Not immaculate, but maintained with a level of care that suggested Snape was the only one who lived here.
Harry also noticed that Snape, despite all his strictness, wasn't cruel.
Sharp, yes. Unforgiving, definitely. But there were no unnecessary punishments. No unfair jabs.
It was… confusing.
But Harry wasn't about to question it.