Walk the Shadows

and claimed my father was driving drunk and got them in an accident that killed them, instead of anyone finding out the truth. I didn't even know the truth till Hagrid told me on my 11th birthday.'

Snape nodded, and gestured for him to continue.

Harry glared, his rage rising again. 'What else do you want to know? That they thought making me live in a cupboard for ten years would crush the freakiness out of me? That they gave me Dudley's second bedroom after my Hogwarts letter arrived, just 'cause they thought someone was finally watching what they did to me? Or that they worked me like a house elf, and only let me eat their left-overs, when they weren't withholding food outright?' He put a hand to his head and closed his eyes, trying to soothe the ache. 'They hated me. That's all.'

'I can see,' Snape said, his voice neutral and slow, as if he were picking his words very carefully, 'how distressing it must have been for you to have your . . . pampered lifestyle brought up for ridicule. By those who knew no better.'

'Like you?' Harry asked, bringing his head up.

Snape inclined his head. His eyes hid his true thoughts rather well, and Harry didn't like it, not knowing if Snape was actually apologizing, or what. 'So,' the professor continued, 'tell me about this cupboard.'

This time, Harry put his head down on his arms, on the table and groaned audibly. 'I don't want—'

Snape only had to lift his eyebrows to cut him off. 'You brought it up.'

'Fine! My cupboard, under the stairs. It was my bedroom, I guess, until after I got the letter.' He blew out a sharp breath and raised his head, looking Snape in the eye. 'But you should already know that, or . . . who writes out the Hogwarts letters?'

'They're sent with an automatic quill. Why?'

'Mine was addressed to the Cupboard Under the Stairs. That's why they moved me, after. Couldn't have anyone know they were as mental as me. But I always figured Dumbledore knew all this stuff, since my letter went there.'

Snape shook his head. 'I doubt he knew his Golden Boy was being so maltreated.'

'Whatever.' Harry took another sip of tea. It was quite good, with a hint of cinnamon and orange. The thinnest of smiles touched his lips. 'I didn't really know they were mental, you know. Not until I was older, at primary school at least. I thought all freaky cousins lived in closets.'

Snape's answering half-quirked smile showed he knew Harry was joking. Mostly. 'What kind of work does a house elf do in Surrey?'

Harry shrugged again. He was becoming quite good at it, and Snape let him get away with it, sometimes. Sometimes, not. When Snape lifted his eyebrows, Harry sighed. This was a not. 'You know, gardening, weeding, pruning hedges and trees, mowing the lawn. Um, dusting, vacuuming, cooking, cleaning bathrooms and bedrooms, sweeping. You know, housework.'

With an unreadable expression, Snape said, 'You did all those jobs?'

'Well, yeah. I started out with little things, like the dusting and stuff. But I could cook by the time I was four or five, and after I started primary school, I was doing most of the outside work, too. Why?' Harry smirked over his cuppa. 'Did you think I was lazing around on my fat arse over the hols?'

Since that was probably exactly what the professor thought of him, at least he didn't dignify the remark with a denial. 'And the lack of proper nutrition, I assume, is responsible for your coming back after each summer looking scrawnier than when you left?'

'I'm not scrawny!'

'Whatever,' Snape murmured into his tea and took a long swallow, his expression bland, except for the tiny glint in his eyes.

Harry wrested his indignation under control and tried to answer the question. But scrawny! Ironic from a skinny, batlike, greasy . . .

'Potter!'

Blowing out a breath, Harry glared some more. 'Well, Uncle Vernon liked yelling, didn't he, when I'd bollocks things up. But Aunt Petunia was the one who mostly made me go without food. I usually got to eat every day, though.'

'Usually?'

'Sometimes I didn't. If I'd made a real mess of something. Could be a couple days in the cupboard with nothing.'

'How old were you? When they sent you to your . . . cupboard?'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'I told you. Until I was eleven.'

'Locked in?'

'Er, yeah.'

'Bathroom breaks?'

'What!?' He was not going to discuss that with Snape. Never! No way!

'I will use small words, if that will help. Did they let you out to go to toilet?'

'No! I had to piss in a bucket! Happy now?'

Snape had put down his teacup and lifted his wand, almost surreptitiously, as if expecting to need to Reparo something soon. But his voice was mild as he said, 'Surely you do not think even I am so great a sadist as to find pleasure in that?'

Through clenched teeth, Harry admitted, 'No, sir.'