As usual, Snape landed flat on his back, choking on the ash from the floo. Potter was already dusting himself off onto the headmaster's rug, but froze when a tall woman, her hair as dark as her face was pale, strode into view. Then he started to squirm like a toddler when the woman began to dust off his back.
Snape didn't bother getting to his feet. The strange, tall woman bore enough of a resemblance to Potter that he could safely assume that she was Mrs. Potter, his new mistress. Accordingly, he rolled to his knees, let his forehead rest on the carpet and did his best not to sneeze as the ash from Potter's robe found its way up his rather overlong nose.
The sounds of patting, sneezing and Potter's plaintive whines, "But Mum!" ended abruptly. He could feel their eyes on him, prickling his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck and making him that much more desperate to sneeze.
"You must be Severus," said a low-pitched woman's voice. "James mentioned you had a bad habit of doing that." Doing what? thought Snape. Don't sneeze!
"Why don't you get your nose out of the carpet and come sit in the chair?"
Snape slowly picked himself off the floor. About half way to his feet he lost the battle with his nose and sneezed into his arm -- which was also, unfortunately, covered in ash -- but he managed to keep his expression neutral as he sat in the chair farthest from the Headmaster's desk.
A moment later the fireplace flared again, and a grey tabby tumbled out, rolling nimbly to her feet and flowing into the stiff-backed, angular form of Professor McGonagall. Miraculously dust-free, she strode to stand behind the headmaster. Snape gulped when he realized that there wasn't a person in this room he hadn't disobeyed or disappointed.
A cup of tea floated from the Headmaster's desk to his hands and he clutched at it. Keeping his gaze pointed downward, he watched Potter's mother out of the corner of his eye. He might technically belong to James, but all of James' property belonged to his parents until he came of age. It was her he would need to make a case to, if he managed to come up with a case at all.
"To start off," she said, her eyes catching Snape's, despite his attempt to avoid that, "are you all right?"
Snape nodded, giving up and looking her in the eye. "Yes, Mistress."
"Mrs. Potter will do fine," she corrected. "You look like you have some bruises on your knuckles."
Snape sucked in his lip.
"Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Because he'd rather keep the skin on his back firmly attached. But they were going to find out the truth one way or another -- he might as well tell his side now that they were playing nice.
He told as close to the truth as he dared, only skipping over his intention to nick potion supplies, and trying to paint his actions against the shop owner as defense of the Potter's property.
Mrs. Potter nodded at the appropriate places, but her face was unreadable. Snape didn't know if she was listening or if she was imagining what the Headmaster would look like with his robes off until she asked, her voice deliberately mild, "Why did you hit Lucius Malfoy?"
Snape's mind skittered to a halt. He hadn't planned this out. He'd been panicked, exhausted and had expected to be punished first and interrogated after. He couldn't twist the answer to suite himself if he didn't know what the truth was. He couldn't say he didn't know because then they would think he was unstable and unsafe. He couldn't say he had done it out of anger or vengeance because they would still think he was unstable and unsafe. And he couldn't say that he had done it all out of fear because when they forced the Veritaserum on him, he would admit that he had lied.
The first punch had been at least partly terror. But afterwards...
Four sets of eyes were watching him intently; Snape felt naked and cornered. He should be able to talk his way out of it, he had to, but it was as if his mind had simply frozen, locked up. He wasn't sure he could even open his mouth and speak, let alone think of something to say.
Something flickered behind Mrs. Potter's eyes. "Do you know why you did it?"
Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, Snape slowly shook his head. Would she decide he was too dangerous to keep at Hogwarts? Would she decide he was too dangerous to keep at all? Oh Merlin, what if she sent him back to the Malfoys with her apologies?
He didn't want to die that way.
But Mrs. Potter merely nodded at him and turned to the headmaster and the professor. "As he was in the care of a Hogwarts professor at the time of both incidents, I see this primarily as a school matter. If any complaints are filed through the ministry because of Mr. Snape's status, I'll handle them. I would prefer he be treated as a regular student."
Snape sat stunned by her generosity -- and a tiny bit resentful at being called just a regular student.
McGonagall studied him, arms crossed over her chest and eyes peering over her glasses. "I do seem to recall asking you to refrain from wandering off. Though I -- mistakenly, I now see -- assumed that your own good judgment would keep you from doing something so foolish as attacking your fellow shoppers."
Snape ducked his head and pulled at the frayed edges of his sleeve.
"However, I should not have left you to fend for yourself, considering your state of mind. You may report tomorrow morning for what will be the first of what I assure you will be a long month of detentions."
Snape's head jerked up. A month? That was it? He swiveled to look at Mrs. Potter who was nodding in agreement. "That sounds fair, Professor. But I don't want his punishment to interfere with his catching up to his classmates; I know he started the year quite late."
"That's fine. I'm sure Mr. Snape will find adequate time to keep up with his studies -- it might even keep him out of trouble."
"Speaking of trouble," Mrs. Potter said, giving James a cool glare, "I believe my son managed to make some of his own?"
"And managed to drag a young lady into it with him."
"Yes, that does sound likely."
James cleared his throat. "Before you ground me for the rest of the century, you might want to come up with a way for Snape to finish getting his school stuff. I don't think those robes will hold out until another Hogsmeade weekend, even if he were allowed in Diagon Alley anymore."
"That's manageable," Mrs. Potter said, looking at Snape. "I'm taking a portkey out of Britain for some shopping tomorrow. You may accompany me if Professor McGonagall wouldn't mind starting your detention a day late."
"Of course," the professor agreed. "James and Lily will be providing more than enough free labor tomorrow to have the school sparkling in time for Monday classes."
"Severus," said the headmaster, "Why don't you go tell Lily that she can come in now, and then check in with Madam Pomfrey?"
---
Madam Pomfrey spotted the bruises on his fist with a rather disturbing quickness. She raised an eyebrow while reaching for the Bruise-Be-Gone.
Snape shrugged. "I didn't realize that hitting someone could hurt you."
"It does take a bit of practice." She dabbed a bit of the cream on each hand, letting him rub it in.
And the extraordinarily kind school nurse knew this how? Snape tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
"Brothers -- a whole bundle of them." She flicked her wand, starting a series of diagnostic spells. "And a bit of advice: aim for the soft parts. If you hit them in the diaphragm or the delicate bits, I promise that it will hurt them more than it hurts you. And there's the added bonus of leaving no evidence."
"I know. I don't think there's a patch of me that hasn't been punched or kicked or stepped on at some point. Though I think I understand now why Lucius usually avoided punching me in the face." He flexed his injured hand to emphasize the point.
"Of course, he wouldn't want to get his own knuckles bloody."
Snape was a little surprised at the simmering anger that leaked out of Madam Pomfrey's usual calm professionalism. He knew it wasn't directed at him, but the thought that it might be for him was...extraordinary.
Warmed by the hospital wing and reassured by Madam Pomfrey's presence, Snape felt the fear and dread that had been keeping him upright seep out of him. By the time Pomfrey was done checking him over, Snape's eyes were drooping and his body slanting towards the bed.
"You could stay here tonight, if you think you'd sleep better."
Snape shook his head and stood up, knowing that if he stayed sitting, he would be unconscious in minutes. "I can't have Potter thinking that I'm using the hospital wing to avoid him. He's been generous so far about letting me come here, and I don't want to give him a reason to stop."
Madam Pomfrey adjusted the collar of his robe for him -- a gesture that he'd gotten so used to that he didn't even flinch anymore. "Did James talk to you at all? About what he expects from you?"
Snape gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. And if he hadn't been lying through his teeth I might have considered feeling grateful."
"Lying?" Madam Pomfrey prompted. Her voice had that controlled, even tone that meant she was 'managing' him. But he couldn't think of a sufficiently sarcastic retort -- another indication of how exhausted he was. He simply answered, "He said something that couldn't be true, which makes me believe that none of it is."
"What did he say?"
Snape hesitated. Madam Pomfrey obviously had little concept of the continual degradation and pain that was inevitable for slaves. And, honestly, he didn't want her to.
"Snape, what did he say?"
"That he wouldn't hurt me, physically. That he wouldn't let anyone have me or use my body. And I was so desperate that I almost believed him."
"Why didn't you believe him?" she asked, her voice neutral.
"Because! I'm a slave, he's my master. I'm not anyone's idea of a good pleasure slave, and I'll believe that I'm not Potter's cup of tea, but there are plenty of people foolish enough to pay in cash or favors for what they couldn't get otherwise. Especially because slaves can't protest and usually don't fight back." Unconsciously he raised his wrists as if they were bound.
"That doesn't mean James is going to rent you out to them."
"Of course it does! I'm his slave, there's no reason for him to turn down a profit from my suffering -- it's what he must have dreamed of since he first dangled me upside down by the lake."
"Snape -- check your premise." Madam Pomfrey began packing away the supplies she used to treat him. "You want to be a scholar; part of that is only drawing conclusions when you have the evidence to back it up, and constantly rechecking your theories. You're failing on both counts here."
Snape had one foot in the direction of the door, but now his feathers were ruffled and he turned to challenge Madam Pomfrey. "What are you talking about?"
"James. You're operating on the assumption that he still hates you and wishes you ill. But look at the evidence objectively, and try to understand Potter's behavior, both before and after he found out you were a slave."
Snape opened his mouth, but Madam Pomfrey cut him off. "Don't react emotionally; think." She made a shooing motion towards the door. "And don't stand here and argue with me. Get some to sleep and try to get some rest. Merlin knows you'll never listen to what I have to say until you've figured most of it out for yourself."
---
James arrived for his detention in the trophy room twenty minutes early, nearly shocking Filch into spilling the bucket of cleaning supplies all over his desk. He collected the bucket of polish and rags and then set about securing the corridor with a chime that would tinkle softly when anyone approached.
He lowered the lights and opened his pockets to let the fairies take their positions around the room, preening and posing. He set up Moony's modified record player to play something soft and smooth. The scratchy sound of the record added a strange huskiness to the music, which Sirius had assured him was romantic.
Lily, as was her style, arrived almost five minutes late with her own bucket of polish and rags. James heard the chime and threw open the trophy room door.
"Lily Evans!" He gave a deep bow, the tips of his tufts brushing the polished stone. "My gratitude for joining me on our second date. I welcome you to my humble palace -- humble, though it is gilded in gold."
"Yeah, gilded in gold we have to clean...did you say 'our second date'?" Lily's ever incredulous eyebrow rose up in an attempt to meet her hairline.
"Of course. What else would we be doing in such an elegant suite?"
"Being punished for our first date?"
"No," James gasped in his most appalling French accent, "do not say! Punished? By spending time with the handsome and charming Monsieur Prongs? By being gifted with the responsibility of examining and restoring priceless artifacts from another era?" He spread his arms around to indicate the old, bronze trophies and metal, their gold leaf chipping off with age.
Lily was still not impressed. "Potter, aren't you a little too old to be playing make believe?"
James quirked an eyebrow. "We live in a magic castle and one of our teachers turns into a cat just by thinking about it. For all you know, this room is lined with gold, and only spelled to look like a forgotten trophy room. Do you really think we'll ever be too old for make believe?"
Lily paused in the act of adding polish to her rag. "James, that was almost existential."
"Exi-what?" James shook his head. "Never mind, was that a compliment?"
"Maybe. But you made a good point," Lily admitted, "I give you permission to make believe this is a second date."
"I appreciate it," James said, mock bowing with a grin. "So what do you think we should do for our third date?"
---
Snape stumbled bleary-eyed into the dorm. He was relieved to find it empty. He didn't have to bow and wait for Potter to punish him or use him or tell him that the sale was all a joke and send him back to Lucius for another round of torture and near-starvation and ruined hopes.
Something told him that he wasn't going to be allowed much sleep tonight, so he was glad to crawl under the covers and bury his head beneath a pillow. He didn't think being asleep when Potter wanted him would increase his punishment, and he might as well be hung for a Phoenix as a Snidget.
He breathed deeply and prayed for sleep.
---
Snape opened his eyes with a sudden gasp and the feeling that he had rammed full-tilt into consciousness. He couldn't remember anything about the dream he'd just escaped, but his sheets were soaked through and he could hear his pulse pounding like tribal drums in his ears.
He was still trying to shake off the feeling of dread and confusion when Colby popped onto the foot of the bed. Snape nearly hit him with his pillow. The house elf merely bowed and offered him a glass of water.
Snape took the water, but it wasn't until he croaked, "what time is it?" that he realized how dry his throat was. The water felt good, washing away the sour taste on his tongue.
"The time was three-thirty in the morning when Colby left the kitchen."
"What?" Snape peered through the curtains on his bed and verified that, indeed, there were four other motionless lumps in the beds around him. But why hadn't Potter woken him up?
Madam Pomfrey's advice niggled at his brain, but he refused to think about it right now. Instead, he got up and snuck out of the room for a shower, rinsing away the sweat and the dirt and the fear of the previous day—though not, unfortunately, the stubborn, greasy oil that clung to his hair. That was more effort than it was worth.
He felt tingly and awake after using most of Gryffindor's hot water supply, probably because he'd slept for almost ten hours with only one nightmare. If hitting Lucius was all it took for a peaceful sleep, maybe he should have done it sooner. He probably would have, if the Gaius hadn't stopped him.
Still, there wasn't much to do at four in the morning, with both the library and the hospital wing closed and his new books buried in a squeaky-hinged trunk that was surrounded by people who were probably dreaming of new ways to torture him.
Frankly, he was bored. It wasn't a feeling he was used to -- fear and dread tended to drown out any other emotions, and it had been awhile since he'd had time to himself without several conflicting demands and the constant threat of violence if he failed. Potter might still punish him for yesterday, but it couldn't be that bad if he had to be ready to go shopping today, and be in classes tomorrow.
He wondered the halls for a few hours, poking his head into the nooks and crannies of the castle he had never had time to explore before. In the early morning, Hogwarts was cool and quiet, and the faint, glowing light of the approaching dawn gave it a peaceful, settled atmosphere. Which clashed mightily with the room full of jewel-encrusted chamber pots, but that was Hogwarts.
He gave up exploring, his muscles a little too stiff from their panic-fueled exercise the day before to appreciate wandering around with no apparent aim.
He headed down the tower to the Gargoyle that guarded Headmaster's office. He could give the Gargoyle the password and the guardian would let him up when Dumbledore came down to his office.
To his surprise, the Gargoyle let him up immediately, and a moment later he found himself standing in front of the broad, untidy desk. Dumbledore peered at him over his glasses and through the steam of whatever was in his mug. The mug, Snape noticed, depicted oddly shaped pillars being knocked down by a large, black ball.
"Good space morning, Severus. You're up rather early." Snape could have sworn he heard just a hint of grumpiness in that eternally cheerful voice. "What can I do for you?"
Snape shrugged. "I couldn't sleep anymore. I'm supposed to meet Mrs. Potter here in a few hours anyway."
"I see."
Snape hesitated returning the question, but Dumbledore usually didn't mind if he was a bit forward. "If I may ask, what are you doing in your office so early?"
Dumbledore gestured to the mess of parchment scattered across his desk. "Students aren't the only ones who have to stay up all night writing reports that they put off while doing more useful things."
Snape had no trouble imagining that. Dumbledore had the kind of quirky genius that took delight in ignoring social expectations and ruffling the feathers of pompous oafs. Snape, for one, enjoyed both habits, particularly when Dumbledore had cheerfully ignored any expectation that he should treat Snape as anything other than a particularly bright, if sometimes troublesome, student. It had ruffled Lucius' feathers for years.
"So, Severus, why couldn't you sleep?"
Snape frowned. "I fell asleep right after dinner. I woke up early and I didn't feel like waiting around for Potter to punish me for yesterday."
"You are quite convinced the worst is going to happen, aren't you?"
Snape sighed. He really wished people would stop trying to have this conversation with him. "That is what I usually assume, and I'm usually right."
"There is such a thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy."
"And there is such a thing as preparing for the worst."
"I believe that proverb ends with 'hope for the best,'" Dumbledore pointed out.
"I only remembered the important part."
Suddenly the headmaster broke out into a grin, showing teeth so white and perfect that they couldn't possibly be the originals. "You're rather insuppressibly perverse, aren't you?"
By the time Snape had decided to take that as a compliment, Dumbledore had summoned Snape's own potions text and a cup of tea into Snape's hands. "Now stop arguing with me -- it's pleasantly distracting, and I chose to work at this hour specifically to avoid such things."
Snape was about half way through his reading assignment, and the breakfast Dumbledore had summoned, when the office door grated open. A low, melodic voice asked, "Good morning, Headmaster. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Snape spun around. "Mistress!" He started to kneel, but a pointed throat clearing brought him back to his feet. He offered a deep bow instead of a full submission.
To his surprise, Mrs. Potter gave a nod of acknowledgement. "Good Morning, Snape...or do you prefer Severus?"
She was letting him choose? Snape suspiciously prodded the question for traps, finally deciding that this was probably a test of his submission. "Whatever pleases you, Mis--Mrs. Potter."
"It pleases me for you to state your preference when I ask it; I'm not fond of guessing games."
Snape paused, trying to feel out the trap in that question. He couldn't, so he answered honestly. "Snape, then, please. It's what I'm used to."
"Very well, Snape. Are you ready? Do you have a list of what you'll need?"
Snape nodded. "Yes."
"May I see it?"
"I have it memorized. But all I really need is a wand and potions supplies."
Mrs. Potter eyed him up and down. "What about robes?"
"I bought robes yesterday."
"Then why are you wearing that?" She poked a finger in the direction of his robes, making Snape flinch back, speechless. "We're not going shopping in a swamp, in case there was any misconception."
"Mrs. Potter," Snape admitted, face coloring, "these are my nice robes."
Mrs. Potter looked him over again, her eye even more critical. "Well, we'll just have to fix that. A wand, potions supplies and a wardrobe. Is there anything else you can think of?"
"No, Mistress."
"Then," she said, standing, "let us be off on our adventure. How is your Italian?"
---
Snape blinked as he stood up, releasing the feathered cat toy that had served as a Portkey. He was surprised to see himself surrounded by rolling hills and to have to squint at the too-bright sun. It was clearly an hour or so later than it was at Hogwarts -- Snape always found sudden time zone changes dizzying.
"Welcome to Italy," Mrs. Potter said. She pointed down the grassy hill they were standing on to a giant, green-covered lake. The surface was so thick with algae that, from this distance, it looked like it was covered in green marzipan. "That's Tortona, home of the best silk and sand-dollar seedlings money can buy."
Snape looked dubiously at the lake. He noticed a large Muggle sign posting by the lake that depicted a skull and crossbones. He wasn't sure how the meaning of such a symbol translated from Wizarding English to Muggle Italian, but he had an inkling that in most cultures, pictures of people's internal parts were not an invitation for a quick dip.
He didn't question his masters. Ever. It wasn't worth the pain. Although he wasn't sure if the pain of punishment would be worse than the pain of having his skin melt off or sprout feathers or any of the other horrible things that Muggle pollution was rumored to do.
He really hoped that this shopping trip was not a cover for some research project Potter -- any one of the Potters -- was conducting.
He'd nearly worried a hole in his lip when Mrs. Potter began walking down a set of crumbling stone steps set into the side of the hill. He followed out of training and obedience, but when she began to walk into the lake, her robe swirling elegantly around her, Snape was never more glad for the etiquette that required slaves to follow three steps behind their masters. He was hoping that if Mrs. Potter started to melt, his geas would refuse to let him get into the water.
She didn't melt, but simply walked deeper and deeper into the lake. Snape took a breath and followed, grimacing as the water rushed in through the holes in his boots, soaking his socks and trousers. He was hoping that this would be like the wall at King's cross, but instead it appeared that Potter's mother was, in fact, both insane and suicidal.
It wasn't until he was up to his neck in foul, green water that he realized that he wasn't floating. His skin was telling him rather emphatically that he was soaking in soiled water that was beginning to make it tingle unpleasantly, but his body didn't seem to weight any less.
Having lost sight of Mrs. Potter, he swallowed his panic, closed his eyes, and stepped off the ledge he could feel beneath his boots.
...and stumbled as his feet landed on hard cobblestones, and his skin registered a warm breeze through his dry robe.
His eyes flew open. Mrs. Potter was watching him, the hint of a smile on her face. Behind her was the end of the alcove they were standing in, which opened into a bustling main street.
"You're a brave boy. My own husband and son refused to follow me the first time."
Snape almost answered that he was the opposite of brave; he was more terrified of punishment than drowning. But he remembered who he was talking to in time, and kept his mouth shut.
"If you've got something to say, say it. If nothing else, remember that we're in Italy."
Snape was confused for a moment, but then the realization hit him with the force of an Unforgivable. He was in Italy, one of a handful of European states that had outlawed slavery centuries ago. He was, in the eyes of Italian law, free. Nobody could beat him or whip him or rape him as long as he was here. Granted he was still bound by magic, and Mrs. Potter could do whatever she wished for him once she got him out of the state, but for the next few hours he had all of the rights and protections of a free foreign citizen.
He should have felt elation, excitement, something. He should have at least felt different, but all he could feel was an all-encompassing emptiness, and a growing ball of hopelessness weighing in his belly.
He was in Italy, but he was still following at the heels of his master's mother, obedient as a well-trained puppy, terrified to offend. Slavery was ingrained in him deeper than the geas that bound him, ingrained in every moment of torture and humiliation and terror that had stripped him of any will to resist. He was a weak, cowardly slave, and a temporary change in legal status couldn't change that.
He dropped his eyes and blanked his face, shaking his head slightly. He could feel Mrs. Potter staring at him, and flinched internally at her sigh.
---
Mrs. Potter made him walk either next to her or in front of her. Snape wondered if this was her way of making sure he didn't run, although they both knew it wouldn't do him any good if he did.
The first stop was the wand shop. To Snape's relief, rail-thin man behind the counter spoke English, albeit with a strange accent.
"You here for a wand, boy?"
Snape looked up at Mrs. Potter to see if he should respond. She gave him a little nod and a push on the shoulder. "Yes, sir."
"Good." The man looked him over, black eyes cataloguing ever detail. He frowned. "You already have a wand."
Snape cocked his head, a little surprised and impressed. "It was...taken from me."
"You didn't hurt nobody with it."
Snape shook his head, although he got the feeling that the man was telling him, not asking.
"You've been kept on a tight leash and you're just now being let off, ya?"
"That's...a way of explaining it."
The man stroked the small, spiny cluster of black hair on his chin. "You're so used to pushing against something, that when there's nothing to push against, you fall on your face, is that right?"
Snape's hands twitched, resentment pushing at his throat. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, not with his mistress here, and not to his last chance of ever holding a wand again.
The man, infuriatingly, seemed to take his silence as agreement.
"What you need, boy, is a wand that will push back. I could make you a new one, but I think you need something a little tougher. You need a wand that would break rather than bend."
Snape breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. He wanted a wand. At this point, he almost didn't care if it had been pulled from the rectum of a wild boar. If it worked, and he could do magic with it, he would be satisfied.
The man pulled a dusty box from the bottom shelf. The wand he pulled out had seen better decades. Handle shiny from years of use, tip dry and in desperate need of a sanding and finish marred by a long scorch mark down the side, it looked the way Snape sometimes felt.
Unimpressed, Snape wondered if the man was trying to unload his discount merchandise. "When was this thing last used?"
"About a hundred and fifty years ago, when its owner ended up on the wrong side of a dragon. I think it will like you."
Snape picked it up, testing its weight. Battered as it looked, both the magical and physical balance was excellent. He pointed it, focusing on a cheap wooden chair in the corner of the room. His palm tingled as he cast the first spell that came to mind. The magic surged through him, flicking through the air with the force and speed of a dragon's tongue, snapping the chair cleanly in half with an earsplitting crack. The two sides of the chair teetered for a moment, before falling on top of each other.
Mrs. Potter gave a small nod. "I think that this one might do. But a hundred and fifty years on the shelf...I can't offer a Knut more than fifteen Galleons.
Snape stepped back, mildly impressed with Mrs. Potter sheer bluster in her bargaining. He was fairly certain that the man already knew she was going to buy the wand, but she hung on with the tenacity of a bulldog.
When they walked out of the story, Snape was happily testing the grip on the wand, and Mrs. Potter was nearly strutting.
Gathering potions ingredients from the free-standing stalls that dotted one section of the town was an adventure, and watching Mrs. Potter bargain with the vendors was a sight to see. What she lacked in tact, she made up in tenacity, fueled by genuine enjoyment. Surprisingly, the vendors seemed to enjoy it just as much, some of them even greeting her by name when they saw her.
When they entered a robe shop, the portly shop owner shouted delightedly in Italian. A moment later, he fought his way past two man-sized piles of fabric to bow before Mrs. Potter and place a kiss on her hand.
Mrs. Potter, seeming more amused than impressed, exchanged affectionate pleasantries in Italian. Snape was left to examine the shop. It looked nothing like the shop in Diagon Alley. Fabric was stacked against every available wall space, and against one window. Naked mannequins were braced against each stack, giving Snape the impression that they were all just moments away from being crushed by giant rolls of cloth.
He wondered what that would sound like in the Daily Prophet.
Before his mind could wander too far away from his body, Mrs. Potter called him over to the flat, round platform towards the back of the shop.
He wondered if he was supposed to help her up. Instead, Mrs. Potter waved him onto the platform. Snape glanced at the shop owner, who seemed to be petting a long roll of yellow measuring tape. He looked back at Mrs. Potter.
"Up," she said, shooing him in that direction. He stepped backwards, ending up on the platform. Instantly, the yellow measuring tape bolted out of the shop owner's hands and wrapped itself around his wrists. Before Snape could panic, it had moved on to his waist, his shoulders and the rest of his body.
He was being measured. Why? He was a slave; he didn't need fancy robes. Hell, Lucius had argued that he didn't need robes at all, although Calligulus had put his foot down on that issue.
Finally, the tape unwound itself from Snape's ankles and slithered over to the shop keeper's feet. The shop keeper was frowning at a black, leather notebook.
He grumbled in the general direction of Mrs. Potter, who gave him a sympathetic look and a long reply.
"He said he could have gotten the same measurements from a skeleton about your height," Mrs. Potter translated, "and that there was no point in buying you new robes if I intended to starve you to death."
Snape frowned, a little offended. He'd gained back nearly two stone from the time Calligulus had started preparing him for sale with a battery of healing, restorative and nutritive potions. They had made him constantly nauseous for ten days, but they'd pulled him back from the edge of death and plumped him up enough that he really didn't look like an animated skeleton.
"You were starved, weren't you?"
Snape opened his mouth to deny it, but then remembered who he was talking to. It would be stupid to lie. "Yes," he admitted.
"How much weight do you have to gain back? There really isn't any point in fitting you for a robe if you're just going to split the seams by the end of the term."
Snape looked down at his hands to examine the bones and knuckles that jutted out under his pale skin. "Not much more," he answered. "I don't -- I've always been...boney. But I might start a growth spurt soon."
"We'll just get you one fitted dress robe, then. The rest can come off the rack. How do you feel about silk?"
She must have seen his expression. "It won't ruin us to buy you a decent wardrobe," she told him gently.
Snape swallowed. It wouldn't have ruined the Malfoys, either, but that was hardly the point. He was a slave.
"Are you alright, Snape?"
He wasn't. He wasn't sure if she was really so impossibly nice or if she was just fitting in with the natives. Worse, he didn't know what to expect or how to act or if he was doing something wrong that he would be punished for later. He didn't even know how to answer her fucking question in a way that wouldn't get him into trouble.
He felt his heart start to pound and all he wanted was to get out of here now. He tried to keep his face neutral, but Mrs. Potter must have seen the panic under his skin.
"Let's go get you some air, all right?"
Three steps behind had never been harder. Snape managed to keep from bolting out of the shop, but it wasn't until he had the shop behind him that he felt his body start to settle down. He followed Mrs. Potter through a series of tiny side streets towards what looked to be the center of the town. There was a bench and a fountain. Mrs. Potter took his shoulders in her hands and guided him to sit down on the bench. She straightened her already straight robe and sat down next to him.
She let him sit in silence for awhile, which gave him the chance to breathe deeply and imagine that he was somewhere small and tight and hidden, instead of sitting next to his new master's mother on a park bench expecting the sky to fall on his head.
It worked until Mrs. Potter said, quietly, "We would send you to school here if we could, but the Italian schools won't accept foreign students."
Snape looked up at her, startled. "The geas..."
"Requires you to have contact with your master every two weeks, I know. But there's regular Portkey service in most cities; there's no reason you couldn't visit that often."
Snape shook his head, but Mrs. Potter kept talking.
"You can't stay here now, but when you've finished your apprenticeship I'm sure some of the research laboratories would be more than happy to accept you. If you already know Latin, Italian won't be difficult to learn." She smiled, gently. "You might have to get a tan, though."
Snape looked over the city. A young boy trying to skip rocks in the fountain paused to smile at him.
Snape started sobbing. Rough, wheezing sobs as snot and tears wet his face. He tried to hunch over, but Mrs. Potter put her arm across his shoulders and let him lean against her. He wanted to pull away, but he didn't want to lose the feeling of being pressed in, small and safe. The boy throwing rocks into the fountain stared at him wide-eyed, before running in the other direction.
For some reason, that hurt so badly that he felt his chest was caving in. He wanted to cover his face but he was afraid to move and afraid to turn his head, lest he get snot on Mrs. Potter's pretty blue robes. So he just sat there, crying and wishing that he could, just for a minute, know what it felt like to be free.
