"This isn't the infirmary," Harry says as Dumbledore pushes him gently by the shoulder toward the door marked STAFF ROOM in brass letters.
"Very astute of you, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says brightly, and pushes the door open. "Minerva!" McGonagall, who is seated beside an open window and idly paging through a glossy book, glances up when she sees Harry, jumps slightly in her chair, then seems to realize he isn't James, and relaxes slightly.
"Albus," she says slowly. "Who is this?"
"This," Dumbledore says, with a flourish, "is our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."
Harry feels himself balk. "What? No, no, no—"
"We have a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," McGonagall says, cutting through Harry's protestations and speaking in the most even tone imaginable – the tone of somebody very well-used to Albus Dumbledore. "Professor Sylvester."
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore agrees. "But is it or is it not true, Minerva, that Gertrude was complaining about the amount of work such a position would be? That she was uncertain about marking essays, hm, whilst pursuing her own experimentation? Harry here will be her assistant."
"Have you graduated from your own education, Harry?" McGonagall asks, her tone chill.
"In a manner of speaking," Harry says.
"That's encouraging. Are you a Potter?"
"I—"
"Minerva, that was actually what I wished to discuss with you," Dumbledore says, slowly pushing the door shut behind him. "You see, Mr Potter here is a person of interest. We can't allow for him to be linked back to his family at all."
"Are you indeed?" McGonagall asks.
"Apparently," Harry says, through gritted teeth.
"What manner of Transfiguration might be done, do you think, to disguise his features? To make him look less like the other Potters, I mean?"
"Albus," McGonagall says, very slowly. "What is going on?"
"Minerva, trust me."
"I do trust you. I do not, however, understand why—"
"Professor McGonagall," Harry says, breaking through. "I— I know that, um, that Professor Dumbledore, as usual, has kind of sprung something insane on you, but… This isn't for some kind of weird scheme he has going with the Flamels or some other friend of his,"
"The Flamels?" Dumbledore repeats from behind him, but Harry ignores it.
"It's for the war. It's to do with Lord V— You-Know-Who." McGonagall looks him up and down, her jaw set, her slightly wide eyes the only indication that she's taking in what he's saying. "It'll just be a year, and then I'll be out of everybody's hair. I'll duel you, if you want me to prove it – I don't think I could beat you or Professor Flitwick, but I can hold my own. And not with Dark Magic," he adds hurriedly, when he sees the shadow pass over her face. "I don't need it."
"He's confident," McGonagall says acidly.
"Professor McGonagall," Harry says quietly, doing his best to make his tone as serious as he can, "I don't want to come across as arrogant, it's just—" McGonagall puts up one hand, and Harry lets his mouth fall shut as she examines him with a critical expression on her face.
"He's the spitting image of young James Potter. Shorter, of course, and with that scar… What's that scar from?" McGonagall's tone is abruptly businesslike, and Harry stands very still as she comes forward, examining him with a critical eye.
"It's a Curse scar," Harry murmurs. "Blemish charms won't work on it, nor will most creams. And the hair won't—"
"The hair won't be charmed into neatness, I know," McGonagall mutters. "It's a Potter trait – not even Sleekeazy will keep it in check."
"I didn't know that," Harry murmurs, feeling abruptly stupid. It's a Potter trait – that's not the same as Your father's hair was just like it. No one's ever said that to him before, not like that. It's a Potter trait, that's familial, that's… Harry thinks back to the vision he'd once seen in the Mirror of Erised, of all his family, people with the same knees, the same chins, the same hair…
"We can change the colour, though," McGonagall murmurs. "A magical dye will be easy enough to procure – a sandy colour would work, or red…" Not red, Harry wants to say. He thinks of the photographs of his mother, of the way her red hair will catch in front of her eyes in the photographs, of… Not red. "It's mostly your face we'll want to change. The chin. The cheekbones. That will probably be enough, with the dyed hair."
"Will that transfiguration need to be ongoing?" Harry asks, quietly. "I mean, will I have to retransfigure it every day, or…?"
"No," McGonagall murmurs, shaking her head. "No, I can transfigure it initially, and you can take a setting potion each morning to retain it."
"And Professor Sn—" Harry stops himself, aware of the way that McGonagall is looking at him, suspicion plain on her face. "Professor Slughorn," he corrects, slowly. "Would he brew that for me?"
"For a price, perhaps," McGonagall mutters, prompting Dumbledore to tut his disapproval, and Harry feels himself snigger.
"Yeah, I know Professor Slughorn's deal."
"A setting potion isn't complicated," McGonagall murmurs. "You can probably brew it yourself. Albus, may I have a word?"
"I'll go to the infirmary, shall I?" Harry says, already stepping back and reaching for the door, and Dumbledore glances at him, then at McGonagall. He doesn't wait for Dumbledore to answer, and instead moves out into the corridor, moving quickly along.
ϟ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~ ϟ
Severus sits with his legs crossed neatly beneath him, his book open in his lap, and unread. Outside, he can see Lucius crouching on the ground, stroking his fingers over the side of a bird's neck – this is a peacock, Severus thinks, but instead of being vibrant blues and greens, it's white, with the markings on its tail feathers a stark black. The animals are beautiful, and it's plain that they like Lucius, because they all flock around him and press their heads into his palms, let him touch them, lift them off the ground, drag his fingers through their feathers.
The doves look fragile in Lucius' hands, small and plump and delicate where they rest in his big palms, but the peacocks seem ridiculously big, much bigger than birds have any right to be, as far as Severus is concerned.
He does like them, though.
He likes watching them prance back and forth, loves to see them dance over the grass and call to one another, and even fight with one another, although one of the geese will usually break them apart, if they start.
"I could watch him for hours," Narcissa says from behind him, and Severus turns to glance at her, taking his attention away from the great bay windows. "I keep wondering if the children will have his dab hand with animals."
"It's not genetic," Severus says. "You just have to learn to be respectful of their space, and to let them come to you… To study what they do. You're not one of them, that's true enough, but that's no reason you can't learn their rules."
"You sound so much better when you don't think too much about it," Narcissa says, and the sofa cushion shifts slightly as she sits at the other end, gracefully laying her folded hands on her leant-together knees, her chin raised, her back against the cushions. "You do sound awfully stunted, when you make yourself anxious over whether what you're saying is aristocratic enough."
Severus bites the inside of his lip to keep from snapping some nasty reply, gathering his robe skirt under one hand and tightening his fist.
"Very good," Narcissa murmurs, shooting him an appraising glance. "What do you think of, to keep yourself calm?"
"Don't know what you mean."
"Is it the pain?" Narcissa asks smoothly. "Are you biting your tongue, digging your fingernails into your arm, or into your thigh?"
Severus stares at her, finding himself surprised, utterly taken aback. Hesitating for a long moment, he mulls over exactly how he wants to respond, but he's sure that his answer must show in his features even if he doesn't lend it voice, and that's frustrating, because he wishes he could take up a neutral expression like Narcisssa seems to have on… "Yeah," he says, finally. "I mean, yes. But I can't do it like you, or like Lucius does. I can't freeze my face entirely."
"That is a matter only of practice," Narcissa replies, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. Severus follows her gaze to Lucius, who has come away from the peacocks now (although they trail after him about ten feet back) and is walking in the direction of the stables. Severus glances at the clock on the wall, which declares it to be some time past nine. "Feeding the hunting dogs," Narcissa says.
"He doesn't hunt."
"He doesn't."
"He keeps game fowl, and has deer on the land, and he has hunting dogs and horses, even knows how to use a crossbow and to make up little nooses and traps with rope… And he doesn't hunt." Severus knows he doesn't, and he's fairly certain Lucius has never killed an animal in his life, except to put an ill one down, despite his big talk about the importance of nature's law. He'd probably intervene if he thought a deer might die, let alone watch a chicken or a cow go to slaughter.
(But Muggles are different, aren't they? What does he do to them, when he's "abroad with the cabal"? Would he really treat a Muggle so much worse than a dog?)
"Nor does Abraxas," Narcissa says. "Although for him, it's sheer laziness."
"He's soft," Severus says, unable to keep the acid and ill-taste from his voice, but if Narcissa notices, she doesn't show it.
"Lucius? At home, yes. Are you ready to begin?"
"Do we have to start today?"
"The sooner, the better."
"Don't— I don't want anybody else in my head."
"No," Narcissa agrees immediately, shaking her head slightly and meeting Severus' gaze. "Legilimency, Severus, is a magic used to invade the mind, to plunder its secrets… When done properly, no one but an Occlumens should ever realise its use. The Legilimens simply dips into the person's upper layer of thoughts, reads what he might, all while maintaining an outward neutrality, that no one should suspect his behaviours. Later in the summer, if you wish, I or Lucius might test your abilities with Legilimency, if you ask us, but the important thing is for you to be able to create a clarity of your own. This is to organise your own thoughts, to better your self-control. Were our primary goal to defend you from Legilimency, you're right, we'd start there, but as it stands…"
Severus digests this information, turning it over in his head. Distantly, he can hear the howls and yips of the fox hounds as they're released from the kennels, and the different pitch of the greyhounds' barks as they join in the noise.
Every morning, Lucius does various exercises to keep himself in shape, but every evening, he goes for long walks on the manor's grounds, sometimes at a leisurely pace, sometimes running. Now and then, Severus knows, he rides. The dogs go with him, falling over themselves to walk with the pack, and it occurs to Severus that for the first time, he might actually be able to see Lucius coming over a hill with his crest of dogs around his ankles, instead of just imagining it painted in oils.
"We have to go somewhere else?" he asks, and at Narcissa's marginal head tilt, he corrects himself. "Do we have to go somewhere else?"
"No," Narcissa murmurs, flicking her wand at window and murmuring a few words: the noises from outside peter off into silence, leaving just the two of them in the quiet of the room. "No, we can stay right here. Turn to face me, Severus, and make yourself comfortable – sit with your legs crossed or folded underneath you, whatever's best."
Slowly, Severus shifts his position, sitting cross-legged with his chin raised, his hands on his knees.
"Alright," Narcissa murmurs, her gaze meeting Severus', and he can see the turquoise colour of her eyes. He sees the aristocratic curve of her sharp chin, her prim, pointed nose, her high cheekbones, the soft pink of her lips. She's meant to be very pretty.
Severus has heard other people talking about Narcissa, especially since her and Lucius got married in '74, just before Christmas. Severus had been allowed to go, had seen Narcissa in her flowing white robes and her laced bodice and her carefully braided hair, and he had seen Lucius in his vibrantly green dress robes, silver woven across his vest and shining in the braids of his own hair, complimenting the gold in Narcissa's outfit… Everyone had said how beautiful she was, repeatedly, again, and again.
Isn't she radiant? Merlin, she's heavenly.
And the boys in his year have certainly sung her praises, have talked about how lovely she is, wondered what she's like under her robes… She's meant to be very pretty.
"Close your eyes," Narcissa instructs, her hands on her own knees as she sits cross-legged like he does, and Severus obeys. "Be aware of your breathing. You don't need to breathe to a certain rhythm or anything: just be conscious of it, the movement of your lungs, your nose, your mouth."
He's… aware. He feels his breathing slow down as he concentrates on it, as he takes in one breath and then exhales. He can feel his chest expand as his lungs inflate, feel the air rush quietly past his nostrils on every exhalation.
"Very good," Narcissa murmurs. "Now, clear your mind."
"Clear it?" Severus repeats.
"Empty it of every thought. You're a potioneer, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then consider. A dark cauldron, filled with a base of water, brought to a simmer. Imagine the rippling on the water's surface, unbroken but shifting, the heat contained beneath… You are the simmer, Severus. Imagine the brim of the cauldron, its black lip, your complete immersion in hot water: you are naught but water." Narcissa's voice is quietly hypnotic, and the picture she paints is vivid: Severus can just imgine it, submerged beneath the surface of the water, blackness on every side—
How had she known he was much for potions? How much, Severus wonders, has Lucius actually told her about him? Does Narcissa know as much about him as Lucius does, does he tell her everything?
He doesn't want anybody knowing about him, not really – Lucius has managed to insinuate himself in the most irritating way possible, but that's different, that's Lucius, Lucius isn't Narcissa.
Severus opens his eyes.
"It takes time," Narcissa murmurs. "Once you clear your mind, you become taken with other thoughts, follow those trains wherever they may lead."
Severus sets his jaw, but before he is required to reply, the door clicks open, and Lucius appears in the doorway, his hand loosely settled on the door handle. There is a slight flush on his cheeks, a pinkness showing beneath the marble white.
"Shall you to Diagon Alley with us, Narcissa?" he asks, and Narcissa smiles.
"I think so, yes," she says, with a delicate inclination of her head.
ϟ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~ ϟ
"You're back," Pomfrey says.
"Yes," Harry agrees. There's a second that passes between them, as they each get the measure of one another: Pomfrey examines Harry very critically, as if looking for some sign of further injury that she can have a go at, and he returns her attention, hoping she won't find anything.
"Cup of tea?" Pomfrey asks, finally.
"Oh, I'd love one," Harry says. "Thank you."
"How old are you?" Pomfrey asks as she gestures for him to follow her, leading him into her office. He's never been inside before, despite all the nights he's spent in the infirmary, and he takes in the desk and the cot at the edge of the room, the anatomical diagrams animated upon the walls. He doesn't know how people manage it, to get work done with posters moving at the corner of your vision all the time. "Twenty-three, twenty-four?"
"Is that how old I look?" Harry asks quietly. Pomfrey turns to glance at him, her eyebrows raising. "Uh, eighteen. Just turned, yesterday."
"Oh, I see," Pomfrey says, seeming surprised, and Harry turns to look at himself in the mirror, at the dark bags under his eyes, at the exaggerated shadow under his cheekbones… He's thin, he supposes. That's why his jawline looks so exaggerated, and his eyes so serious.
"That's the war for you," Harry murmurs. "Six years in, aren't we? Thereabouts."
"You don't mean to tell me you were fighting as a child," Pomfrey says, and the horror shines through in her voice, which quavers slightly. She doesn't look at Harry, and instead focuses on the kettle and cups.
"Just milk, please," Harry says as she pours the tea.
"Ah, you're here," Dumbledore says from the doorway.
"Yes," Harry says. "I said I would come here."
"Albus," Pomfrey says. "This young man—"
"Yes," Dumbledore says, and he gestures for McGonagall to step into the room before he pulls the door shut with a quiet click.
The conversation happens kind of over Harry's head. He could probably involve himself, if he really wanted to, but he finds he lacks the wherewithal, the energy, to interrupt anybody as they talk about him – he's a stranger to all three of them, and yet already Pomfrey acts as if he's something to be taken care of. She's a good woman, Poppy Pomfrey. She always was… would be? Is.
Harry takes a long sip of his tea as he hears McGonagall ask if Pomfrey has any setting potion to hand, and Pomfrey says that she has a little.
"Is she a member of the Order?" Harry asks Dumbledore when Pomfrey leaves the room for a second. McGonagall stares at him, her mouth falling open, and then she glares at Dumbledore, indignation and anger showing on her face.
"She isn't," Dumbledore says quietly.
"She should be."
"Is there anyone that shouldn't be?" Dumbledore asks.
"There's one threat I can think of," Harry says. "But I wouldn't worry about him yet. He's still in Hogwarts."
"Albus," McGonagall says. "Who is this boy?"
Almost automatically, Harry turns his cup over, and he swirls it three times in a circle over the saucer. McGonagall stares down at his hands as he lets the excess liquid drain from the cup.
The door opens up again, and Pomfrey steps inside.
"What do you want me to say?" Harry asks quietly. "That I want to Scoil Eala Dubh, or to Beauxbatons? That's gonna fall down quickly, isn't it? Because I don't speak Irish, and I don't speak French. I did my O.W.L.s."
"And your N.E.W.T.s?" McGonagall asks.
"For the past year," Harry says, choosing his words very carefully, "Lord Voldemort has been doing his level best to kill me. I had to go on the run, and I wasn't able to sit my N.E.W.T.s. Just sat my sixth year."
"And why, pray, would he want to kill you?" McGonagall asks.
"Well," Harry says. "He killed my parents. He's the kind of guy that likes collecting things… He'd like the whole set, I think. That's why I had private tutelage, from—" Inventing it isn't difficult. There are half-truths available to him, easy not-quite-lies that present themselves for his approval, that he can just sweep out of the air. He feels a little ill. "My godfather, and some friends of my mum and dad. But they're all dead now, too. My friends. My teachers. Everybody I could trust, except for Professor Dumbledore, is gone. Dead, or vanished into the ether. I didn't mean to come here, Professor McGonagall. Circumstances just… lead to it."
"What does your cup say?" McGonagall asks: she asks it in the same way that most people would level an accusation, or a threat. Harry feels himself smile.
"You don't care for divination, Professor McGonagall. To be honest, I don't either. I guess I'm just hoping that I'm gonna turn this cup over and see a sign of good fortune." Exhaling, Harry picks up the cup, and he turns it, settling it with a quiet click on the saucer.
Surveying the contents, he sees several mountains on the left side of the cup – that means powerful enemies. "Yeah, thanks for that, cup," Harry wants to say. "Tell me something I don't know." He sees a little smudge of leaves that might be a fish – good news from abroad – but that Harry is sure, with a sickly feeling, is not a fish, and is in fact, a shark – a symbol of death. Wiggly lines – a difficult journey. A cross: trouble, problems, or… death.
In the very corner, made up of just a tiny bit of leaves, however, Harry sees a little L shape. The foot is too thick for it to be an L, though.
"You see that, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asks, pointing it with his fingernail. "That's an axe. It means problems overcome."
"What else is in the cup?" Pomfrey asks.
"It doesn't matter," Harry says. "The best way to pursue prophecy is to reach for the bits you like, and desperately ignore the ones you don't."
"That's very honest of you," McGonagall says. "Are you ready for this?" McGonagall's wand is in her hand, and Harry slowly pulls himself up to his feet, raising his chin and steeling himself. "Are you going to keep the name?"
"Harry, yeah. Are there many Evanses at Hogwarts this year?"
"Two," Dumbledore says mildly. "Both Muggleborn, unrelated." And one of them's my Mum.
"Evans it is, then," Harry says.
"Evans," McGonagall repeats, looking sceptical.
"Well, what do you think I should use? Weasley?" Harry asks, and he shakes his head. "Better people think I'm a Muggleborn."
"I'll alter your face," McGonagall murmurs. "Albus and I discussed it, and I will change your jaw and your cheekbones somewhat, slightly change the shape of your lips and your nose. For now, we'll leave your hair as it is. You'll hardly be the only member of the Hogwarts staff that orders hair dye, so I shouldn't worry about that…"
"Will it hurt?" Harry asks.
"It will be uncomfortable," McGonagall murmurs. "And it will take some getting used to. But I had to use transfigurations like these a great deal, when I was training to become an Animagus."
"As if it was your transfiguration skill I was worried about," Harry mutters, and he raises his chin, looking up at her. "Okay. Do— Do what needs doing, I guess. Thank you."
"We do as we must, Mr Evans," McGonagall murmurs, her voice still stiff: he doesn't miss the way she glances to Dumbledore as she says it. But that doesn't matter. She doesn't need to like him, or to trust him. None of that matters.
ϟ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~ ϟ
"You like the buttons on the chest, then?" Madam Malkin asks mildly, and Severus nods his head as he shifts slightly on his feet. He'd never stepped onto the tailor's stool before Lucius had brought him in the year before, and he's almost grateful that she had never met him as an eleven-year-old. There is a way that some people look at him now that he's adjusted the way that he speaks, the way that he holds himself, even if the transformation isn't quite complete.
They hated him before, when he was lower class, and brittle. They hate him even more now that he's trying to be something he's not.
"Yes," Severus says. "I wasn't sure initially, when Lucius mentioned the buttons on the sleeves, but now I see them, I really like them. They look very smart." In the mirror, he sees Madam Malkin's lips shift slightly into a smile, and Severus looks at his own figure in the mirror, at the stiff set of his shoulders. The buttons run from the Chinese collar all the way down to the ankle-height hem of the stiff fabric, and now more buttons are pinned in place from the elbow to the wrist. "Thank you, Madam Malkin."
"They do look very smart," Malkin murmurs, giving an approving nod of her head. "And you're certain you wouldn't want anything with a little more give in it? This fabric is so coarse: it can't possibly be comfortable."
"The underpiece is softer, and besides that, I like how stiff it is," Severus murmurs. "It reminds me to keep my posture."
"You don't seem like a young man who needs reminding of such things," Malkin says, and Severus feels himself stiffen slightly, but there's a slight smile on her face even still – she's teasing, that's all. "Very well, Mr Snape – if you want to hop down, I'll tailor those two new casual sets, and I'll add the sleeve buttons to the dress robes you brought with you. You ought be able to take those home tomorrow afternoon, after you finish at work. I can do the sleeve alteration on the robes you were wearing today whenever is convenient, perhaps later in the week. Are you certain you won't need any more underpieces?"
"I think I'm alright for now," Severus murmurs, stepping down. "Thank you very much, Mrs Malkin."
"It's always a pleasure to tailor for you, Mr Snape," Malkin says absentmindedly as she hands back his regular robe for him to put back on. "You don't fidget like the other boys do."
"Oh," Severus says. He is aware, distantly, that he isn't supposed to respond to things with sounds like "oh" or "um" or anything along those lines, but it tumbles out before he has the chance to think of anything else. "Thank you, Madam Malkin." This seems stunted, and like it isn't the correct thing to say, but he isn't sure what else would be appropriate. He likes to have a script for things, likes to be able to rehearse exactly how a conversation will go, and this— This is unexpected.
"Mr Malfoy," Malkin says warmly as they step back into the main room, just as Severus is buttoning up the last part of his collar. He can do this very fast now, although he usually likes to take his time, make a meditative exercise of it. "You'll be handling Mr Snape's account?"
"Merely a loan on my part, until he receives his first payslip," Lucius says, with no small amount of pride in his voice, and Severus awkwardly holds his hands in front of his belly, glancing toward the window. He doesn't know what to do, when Lucius makes a fuss over him to shopkeeps or the like – no one ever seems to raise an eyebrow, or say anything snide, but he can't help but feel uncertain about it. People seem to think it's the most natural thing in the world, for Lucius to have "taken an interest" in him, but he can't help but wonder sometimes if they make something salacious of it, or something… odd.
"How kind," Malkin says, taking down the details.
It's a warm day, the air slightly heavy with humidity, and Severus can feel the cobbles of the stone beneath his boots. The dragonhide boots, he'd bought himself, and they're very good, but he wouldn't mind having a spare pair…
"We'll go into Gringotts and set up an account for you," Lucius says mildly. "Fifteen is the age whereupon one might pursue his own banking, and then Mr Mulpepper can pay your wages directly into your account."
"Yes," Severus says, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the very idea of it, of having his own vault at the bank, where one might charge things to one's account… His mother hasn't got an account, to Severus' awareness. She usually just has her money to hand. It'd be inconvenient, for her to have an account at Gringotts – Dad always used to get upset if she went off anywhere on the Knight Bus, before he walked out.
"There you are," Narcissa says as she comes forward, and Severus feels himself freeze as she reaches forward, tapping her neatly manicured fingers against the side of his cheek in a gesture of easy affection. For a second, Severus is struck by the picture they must make, Severus a blot of ink between Lucius and Narcissa both, each of them tall and blond and handsome, Narcissa's hand on his cheek, Lucius at Severus's shoulder.
They are too young, both of them, to be his parents. Lucius is scarcely six years his senior – Narcissa is barely even four.
(But you like it, don't you?
When they fuss over you at home, in private, that's one thing, but when they do it in the street, where people can see, that makes it so legitimate. There's no secrecy in it, no hiding it from passers by – it's sanctified, in a way, by the onlooking gaze of other people.
Bet you like that. Somebody acting like they love you.)
"Both of you are ridiculous," Severus says, wriggling away from Narcissa's hand, and both of them laugh as Narcissa leans in toward Lucius' shoulder, linking their arms together.
As they walk toward the bank, Narcissa holding her shopping bag loosely at her side, Severus walks beside them, a little distance between him and Narcissa. They both look at him as they move, both smiling, and Severus feels his skin prickle.
"What?" he demands. "Am I walking wrong?"
"No," Narcissa says.
"A little twitchy, perhaps," Lucius says. "And your gait could be smoother."
"Shut up, Lucius," Narcissa chides him, pushing on his chest. "It's just nice to see you so relaxed, Severus. You always look so dour."
Severus sets his jaw, feeling somewhat put upon by the comment, but it is proffered very softly, and with no small amount of warmth from either of them, so he feels he cannot politely avoid it, nor retort. At least, not in Narcissa's company – he says what he likes to Lucius, manners be damned.
"We'll eat somewhere together," Lucius suggests mildly. "Go to a restaurant."
"Ah, do not be fooled," Narcissa says. "He just wants an excuse to quiz you on your table manners, see that your knowledge of salad forks and dining etiquette meets his exacting standards."
"I wasn't fooled," Severus says, and Narcissa laughs. Lucius smiles at him over her head, and Severus looks away, over the street.
"We will crystalise your transformation yet, Severus," Lucius says. "The more practice you have, the easier the habits will set."
"Yes, Lucius," Severus says dutifully, as he has a thousand times before, and he ignores Lucius' quiet chuckle behind him.
ϟ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~ ϟ
Harry looks at himself in the mirror of Madam Pomfrey's office, taking in his face. He doesn't look like himself. Of course, he still sees his scar and the colour of his eyes, and the shape of his brow, but everything else is different. Especially with the slightly different shape of the glasses, too—
The jaw is harder, squarer, than his, and there's a slight cleft in his chin. The cheek bones are a little less round, and she's managed to make his face a slightly different shape too – instead of a vague heart shape, it's squarer. His nose is a little bigger.
It's even weirder than Polyjuice, and he shifts his jaw experimentally, feeling the difference…
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall," Harry murmurs, staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror. "Do you really think I need to do the hair as well?"
"A Potter trait," McGonagall reminds him.
"Yeah," Harry murmurs, reaching up and drawing a hand through his hair. "Yeah, no, uh. You're right."
New name, new face, new mission.
Harry puts his hand over his mouth, and he feels a sense of nausea heavy in his stomach, but he concentrates on not gagging. It's not just nerves, he doesn't think. He feels a little sick. Jet lag, he supposes. Or something like it.
Just jet lag, for the average time traveller.