The clothing proved to be somewhat of an obstacle. Severus slithered into the pants with much difficulty, the raw, unrefined material quite confining. He hated the way it made him look; just like every other person he had seen traipsing past. He longed for the billowy freedom of his former robes.


I'll be able to wear them soon enough.


His voice rumbled through the floor, and he felt vibrations in the thin boards. But he bit his tongue as he said this, knowing that faith and hope were cruelly erratic companions.


He stepped gruffly into the kitchen, feeling like an overwound puppet in jerky denim strings. He sat down slowly, easing himself into the nearest chair.


She nodded absently at him, brown hair suddenly muted beneath the dim lights. He tapped his finger on the table, smoothing over the precious wood. He longed to perform a stripping spell, just to see what magic had been used to form it, but without ingredients or wand, he was helpless.


Damn them all.


She gave him a surprised look, eyebrows lifting almost to the tip of her forehead. She had obviously mistaken him for a man faultlessly composed.


.


The question was asked shyly, for both were aware that the answer was not appropriate for anyone elses' ears but his own. He looked at her again, trying to see past the delicate skin of her forehead, past her oddly darkened eyes which bore the banners of pain and anger freshly, and her small, versatile mouth.


The man who sent me here.


Severus felt a twinge of guilt for speaking ill of Dumbledore, but he found that having absolutely no contact, nor any sign of being able to return was eating at him. His mind was wavering, potions ingredients and recpies becoming hazy and interchangeable.


Who's that?.


She asked the question in an almost obligatory manner, trying not sound as if she were parroting what she had said before.


He was my headmaster, probably the most powerful wiz....


He stopped himself, knowing how ridiculous his formerly respectable title would sound in so utterly a muggle surrounding. The word almost sounded alien on his tongue now, and he knew that his magic was growing weaker. He balled his fists and placed them against his face, not knowing how to release this heady, disconcertingly foreign stream of emotions.


What did you teach, at your old school? I've known that you were some kind of chemist or apothecary, but I hardly think that you worked at so dull a position.


Her eyes were wide, bright, and curious; he turned away from her gaze because of its overeagerness. He remembered being her age once, and could only curse her for the mistakes that she would never make.


I am a potions master. A brewer of illicit things, somewhat of an apothecary, only there is some degree of magic involved, and I am quite certain no apothecary has heard of the ingredients that I am required to use.


There was a certain darkly humor to this, and his mouth suddenly relaxed. The tension between them was gone, and there was only the tenacity of her interest that was left.


Could you teach me about potions?.


The question left her mouth before she could consider it, and she clapped her hand over her lips, eyes closing in regret and dread. Severus wondered if she had ever been witness to his wrathful classes, and if this was why she could miraculously sense his impatience.


I reiterate: the ingredients are un-findable in this society.


But suddenly, his fingers and brain hummed with a certain need to brew, to simmer, stew, slice, grind. He could practically smell his old classroom again, and his stomach did a small loop of need.


But couldn't there be some place....


She trailed, and stopped, eyes wandering to another tangent, another place. She could discern where his impatience ended and where his absolutely consuming pining began.


Severus swallowed, as if in pain, and began to shake his head. He heard the dry pops of several stiff bones in his neck, and his chalky fingers briefly touched his nape. He noticed that she narrowed her eyes at him, disbelieving, mouth still set in a skeptical line, and eyebrows threaded in a suspicious manner.


You might have even made Slytherin.


He said this in such an earnestly exhausted way, that the almost elderly tone surprised and disgusted him. Damned if he was going to turn into an old man in this place.


Your house?.


He didn't even notice with what familiarity she spoke of this, or how her eyes had very discreetly flashed in anger. In fact, he was almost too tired to rise from the table; he had to place his hands so he would not lurch.


I have to sleep.


He shuffled past her, heavily shooed feet clodding in painful collision with the malleable floor. His pants were unsuitable, and his cheap shirt contained none of the magical finesse that his now forbidden clothes held.


He flicked the light on in the bathroom, dull flourescent showering with a very unflattering blue spectrum. He grimaced at what he saw, an old and bitter man with two glittering marbles for eyes and limp hair.


This place, he choked, running fingers over the crude glass, is killing me.





A/N: Sorry I haven't been around lately, but I've been terribly busy. Anyways, just for warning in future chapters, I'm completely disregarding the rule that muggles can't actually see Diagon Alley. Yeah, so that's a bit of a lemon, but just so you won't all pelt me with flames and/or rotten tomatoes.