Taking Care of Business

I hit cold tile with a sickening crack, feeling my breath pushed from my lungs as approximately 140 lbs. of Potter slump on top of me. I lay there for a long moment, trying to get my bearings, and glance around dazedly. The room is dark, save for a few weak rays of hazy sunlight peeking in between the slats of the window blinds. The heap of boy atop me shifts, and I wince as a bony elbow presses sharply into my stomach.

"Mr. Potter," I say as calmly as possible. "Would you mind terribly getting the bloody hell off me?"

The boy rolls off obligingly, and lays beside me, panting. I wonder that he's managed to keep his mouth shut this long, and glance over at him worriedly. His eyes are pressed shut behind skewed glasses, mouth open in a tiny o of surprise or fear or some other nameless emotion. I put a hand on his shoulder, and he groans.

"Potter? What is it? Have you hurt yourself?" I curse myself for sounding so concerned, but the words have already been said, and I can't take them back now. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and cracks one eye until I see a tiny sliver of green.

"God, I hate portkeys," he whispers vehemently, and I feel a tug of sympathy. I too hate the blasted things - hate the feeling of giving up all control once they've been activated.

"Well, it's over and done with now," I say, sitting up and closing my eyes until my head stops spinning. "We're both in one piece, from what I can tell, so I suppose we ought to be grateful."

Potter snorts, and opens his eyes fully. He struggles into a sitting position and squints through the dim light. We appear to be in a kitchen, though it is quite different from any kitchen I've ever known. The tiled floor, counter tops, and walls are all a blinding white, and several large stainless steel contraptions gleam around the room.

I rise to my feet, wincing as every muscle in my body protests, and attempt a stretch. A sharp pain shoots down my back, and I stifle a cry. Damned old age. Or damned death eater lifestyle, I suppose. Not even forty yet, and I feel like I've got two feet and several limbs in the grave.

"Perhaps we ought to take a look around," I say, ignoring the burning crick in my neck. "See where the devil we are."

Potter nods and stands up, and I feel a vague sense of satisfaction when he cringes and rubs the back of his neck. He gives me a strange look, but says nothing and turns to leave the room. I follow him through the kitchen door and into what seems to be a living room, complete with an oversized but tasteful grey sofa, two black armchairs, and a glass-top coffee table. In front of the low table sits an enormous box with a myriad of buttons across the bottom front. I stare at it curiously for a moment, until Potter brushes past me and moves beside it.

"Oh, wow, a telly!" he says with obvious glee. "And it's huge! I guess this must be a Muggle house, eh Professor?"

"Brilliant deduction, Potter," I say sarcastically. Inside, I am fuming. I can't believe Albus would be cruel enough to stick me in a Muggle house, of all the godforsaken places, with Potter, for Merlin only knows how long. I scowl, watching the telly-thing warily. I've heard that they're tricky contraptions, feeding Muggles all sorts of subliminal information and diminishing their brain cells significantly. It looks rather benign now, but I do not trust it. I brandish my wand at it menacingly, hoping it feels sufficiently threatened.

"Professor, what are you doing?" Potter asks, and I tuck my wand away quickly.

"Nothing," I say, looking around nonchalantly.

"Really," he says with a small grin, "because it looked to me like you were threatening the telly."

"That is utterly ridiculous."

"Mm," Potter says, the same infuriating grin plastered on his face. He glances around for a moment, and then moves toward a squat thing shaped like a large pot with a cone atop it sitting on a nearby table. He reaches a hand underneath the cone and I hear a faint click as the room is suddenly bathed in light.

I slap a hand over my eyes and utter a loud curse. "What are you trying to do, Potter - blind me?"

"Sorry sir," he replies, sounding anything but.

I crack my fingers and peer out between them, hoping he catches my glare. The grin slips from his face, and I smirk, satisfied.

"Professor," he says, his brows furrowing together in concentration. His hand goes to the side of his face, and he tugs at an earlobe. "Isn't it awfully... well... convenient that the wards were breached just as we completed the secret-keeper ceremony?"

I look at him, surprised. The thought had occurred to me as well, but I hadn't had a chance to contemplate it. I am slightly impressed, as well as annoyed, at his observation.

"Yes, Potter, it was rather convenient. And while it certainly wasn't welcome, it wasn't entirely unexpected either."

"You mean you expected Voldemort to attack the second we received our portkeys?" he asks, sounding flabbergasted. "And you acted like it was no big deal!" I open my mouth to tell him that I had in no way treated the ceremony as 'no big deal,' but he goes on before I can say anything. "Didn't you think maybe you ought to warn me? That I might appreciate knowing I would be kidnapped and taken to god only knows where before I even had a chance to say goodbye to my friends?"

"Mr. Potter," I say warningly, "I had no way of knowing for certain that Voldemort would choose that precise moment to infiltrate the school. I had suspected that he was surveying the school for some time, keeping track of your activity. Lupin and I agreed that he would assume we were at our weakest just after Albus's passing, and may attempt something in the week following. My guess is that he was monitoring any significant magical activity surrounding you. A ceremony like the one we took part in gives off a good amount of magical energy. It is likely he had some way of measuring this energy, and chose that moment to act, thinking he could reach you before you could enter into some sort of pledge and be removed from the school. That is why I was ultimately convinced to allow you to participate in the pledge - so you would be nearby in case I needed to get you away quickly."

"Thank you," he says quietly, and I look at him, surprised.

"Whatever for?"

He looks uncomfortable, and in the light from the strange Muggle contraption I can see that his cheeks have gone a bit pink.

"For allowing me to be a part of the ceremony, for one thing. And for... well... nevermind."

"What?"

He stares down at his dirty trainers, refusing to meet my gaze. "For holding onto me when we activated the portkeys," he says softly. "I... I really, really hate them, and it was nice to know there was someone going through it with me. That I... that I wasn't alone." His voice is almost a whisper now. "That meant a lot."

I stare at him, unsure how to deal with this new, humbled Potter. I clear my throat and glance around, thinking it has suddenly gotten quite warm in the room. "Nonsense, Potter," I say finally, though my voice lacks its normal hard edge. "It was only a precautionary measure, to make sure we both ended up in the same location. Nothing more."

He nods, and I see his adam's apple bob. I look away, very uncomfortable, and wonder where the loo is in this damnable place. A slight draft skitters up my legs, and I look down, annoyed. Annoyance turns to abject horror when I see that I am still wearing the paisley-print hospital gown Pomfrey forced on me.

"Oh, sweet Merlin," I mutter, wishing I could sink into the floor and disappear. Potter looks up and catches the direction of the my horrified gaze. I look at him in time to see his frown quirk upward into a barely-suppressed smile, and I give him a scowl that would make the toughest death eater cringe.

Much to my dismay, he does not. I continue to glower at him, until finally he opens his mouth. My hand goes immediately to my wand, and I am fully prepared to hex him six ways to Sunday if he so much as cracks one single joke.

He notices my movement, and his mouth twists in a smirk that would rival one of my own. "Perhaps," he says, a bit smugly, "we ought to go upstairs and check out the bedrooms. There may be some clothing in the closets."

Damn. It's a good idea. I wave him toward the stairs, thinking of how I would love to wring Dumbledore's neck, if only he were around for me to do so.

Potter gives me one of his blasted smiles and says, "After you sir, I insist."

I narrow my eyes, and curse myself when my hand reaches back self-consciously to hold the gown closed. With my other hand, I point my wand squarely between his eyes and snarl viciously. "Stairs, Potter. Now."

With a nervous gulp, he moves past me and ascends the stairs. I follow behind, muttering the whole way. He ducks into the first bedroom and immediately closes the door. I make a childish gesture at his back and go to the next door, which opens on a moderately-sized bedroom, done in tasteful dark-blue decor. I nod, thinking it will do. A large walnut armoire sits in one corner, and I walk to it, praying there will be robes inside.

Fortunately, there is clothing inside; unfortunately, it is all Muggle. I pull out several pieces and note that it will fit, though the style leaves something to be desired. I quickly pull on a pair of grey wool trousers and a black jumper. The attire is at least well-made, and I grudgingly admit to myself that it is rather comfortable.

I see another door directly across from the large four-poster bed, and walk over curiously, peeking inside. I sigh with relief when I see the bathroom, and immediately make use of it. When I emerge, I find Potter standing in the doorway of the room, looking shyly at the ground. I see that he too has changed, exchanging his baggy jeans and ratty t-shirt for khaki trousers and a navy blue jumper.

"Well, Potter," I say with a snarl, "I see you've learned your manners from the headmaster. Or did you assume you didn't need to knock?"

The boy squirms, looking even younger for the more adult clothing. "Sorry, sir," he says to the ground. "But the door was open a crack, and I just wanted to ask... well, I know I'm a bit hungry, and... I thought I might... cook dinner, if you are too."

I look at him for a long moment, wondering whether or not he's serious. I can't imagine why the boy would be offering to work like a house elf, just to satiate my hunger.

"Oh," he says, plucking at the jumper, "I know these are a bit big too, but at least they're a darn sight smaller than Dudley's old clothes." I wonder why on earth he's going on about his clothing, until I realize I've been staring at him for a solid minute.

"Who's Dudley?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

"My cousin," he replies, face twisting in a grimace. "Really awful bloke, and fat too. Growing up I always had to wear his castoffs. Still do, actually. I've never bothered much with clothes, and I figured I'd grow into them eventually." He shrugs almost apologetically. "Reckon I never did."

"As fascinating as this is," I say, thinking I ought to make some sort of scathing remark, "I am rather hungry. I would appreciate it if you could show me how to use the Muggle appliances."

Well, that was unexpected.

Potter looks up at me, green eyes gleaming. "Sure Professor," he says with more enthusiasm than he ever showed for his potions work. He turns and walks out the door, leaving me to follow. Which I do, to my own dismay. We reenter the kitchen and he goes immediately to the largest appliance - a stainless steel monstrosity with two doors, a square hole recessed into one of them. He opens one of the doors, and a wave of cold air blasts me in the face. I shiver in spite of the warm jumper, and feel my eyes widen.

"Oh good, the fridge is stocked," he says, nodding in approval.

"The fridge?"

"Refrigerator," he says, pointing at the beast. "Muggle contraption that keeps food from spoiling. This side is the actual refrigerator, and the other side is the freezer."

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at the recess.

"Oh, that's where you get ice and water."

I look skeptically at the refrigerator, and then turn my attention to the other appliances. "What does that one do?" I ask, gesturing at a stainless steel box, half the size of the 'fridge,' with a glass panel set in the front.

"That's an oven. Used for baking. And on top is the stove, where you heat things up. And that over there is the dishwasher. Pretty self-explanatory." I nod, feeling a bit overwhelmed, and sit heavily in a wrought iron chair at the kitchen table.

"So..." I say, looking around with a definite lack of enthusiasm. I have not cooked an actual meal for myself in nearly twenty years, and even then it was a matter of wand waving and muttering incantations.

"So," Potter says, rubbing his hands together. "What do you like? Shepherd's pie? Ham and potatoes?"

I blink at him, now fully overwhelmed. I remember seeing a carton of eggs in the fridge-thing. "Erm... just an omelette, perhaps. That would be fine. Er... thank you."

Potter smiles and nods, and begins to bustle about the kitchen like an overexcited housewife. I sit silently and watch as he beats the eggs, chops up vegetables, and grates cheese for the omelettes. Ten minutes later, he presents a steaming plate to me, not without a bit of a flourish.

"Thank you," I say again, and I think that's the most I've used that phrase in decades.

"Welcome," Potter replies, sitting across from me and devouring his food with gusto. He cleans his plate and immediately begins to clear up.

"Leave it," I say, feeling unusually generous. "I'll get it later."

"No, I don't mind," he says, running hot, soapy water in the sink. "I used to do this every night at the Dursley's. It's actually quite relaxing."

I want to ask him about his life with the Muggles, but I don't want to seem too interested. I'm not, not really. Only faintly curious. I've heard the rumors, that he was forced to sleep in a cupboard, that they worked him like a house elf, that his cousin and his wretched little friends used him as a punching bag, but I never believed they were true.

"Better than scrubbing the toilet," he says, almost cheerfully. I look up at him in time to see his nose wrinkle. "With my own toothbrush. Heh. This one time, I used Dudley's instead. Don't know how he found out, but he did. Was almost worth the hell I caught for it."

I frown, feeling slightly uncomfortable at his unprovoked chattiness. Not that I mind it, really. It just seems... odd. That he and I should settle so quickly into something resembling normalcy. Well, normalcy for people who are... normal. Not for us. Normal for us would involve bitter remarks, heated insults, and a good probability of physical and/or magical assault.

"You all right, Professor?" Potter asks, attempting to push up his glasses with the back of his wrist. He succeeds only in leaving a heap of sudsy bubbles on the tip of his nose.

I force myself to look away, irritated by the fact that there is some part of me that wants to keep looking. "I'm fine," I mutter, looking back to see that he has wiped the bubbles from his nose, only to leave a small trail of suds glistening along the arch of his cheekbone. I swallow with some amount of difficulty. "Just... thinking."

"'Bout what?"

"That, Mr. Potter," I say, managing some of my typical hostility, "is none of your bloody business."

His expression grows shuttered, and something within me withers. I feel an urge to apologize, and I nearly allow the dreadful words to slip out of my mouth. What on earth has come over me? I grit my teeth to keep from saying something I'll surely regret, and turn my attention to the shining appliance next to the sink.

"Why didn't you just use the washer-thing?" I say, nodding at it. If Potter is surprised by the sudden change of subject, he does not show it. His face relaxes somewhat, but his eyes are still guarded. "Isn't it easier?"

He shrugs, rinsing off the last plate and taking up a towel to begin drying. My body, seemingly of its own accord (as I would never consciously allow it to do such a thing), rises from the table and goes to help him. He does look surprised now, but surrenders the towel when I tug it from his hand.

"Sit," I say, nodding at the table. "I'll finish up." I cringe inwardly. I am not, nor will I ever be, a domestic person. I loathe housework in all its forms; in fact, I can hardly be bothered to pick up after myself on the rare occasion the house elves go on holiday. So why now am I stooping to menial labor, just for this dratted boy? Is this what you had in mind when you said, "take care of him," Albus? Doing his chores?

I scowl, taking up the frying pan and applying towel to Teflon with a vengeance, wondering in the back of my mind what the hell 'Teflon' even means.

"Professor?" Potter says meekly behind me.

"What." It is not a question, or an invitation.

"Erm, well... we're supposed to be training while we're here, right?"

"Tomorrow, Potter," I say tersely, leaving no room for argument. "I assume that god-wolf of yours will floo us some supplies; we can't begin until they arrive."

"Oh," he says, and if I hadn't known better, I'd think he's disappointed. "Right. Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll go on up to bed. I'm pretty knackered."

I nod slightly and begin opening cupboards, replacing the now-sparkling dishes. Potter mutters "good night, Professor," but the words are swallowed up by an enormous yawn. I do not turn around, afraid he'll see the grin quirking my lips, but I say, "good night, Mr. Potter." I'm not sure I spoke loud enough to be heard, but I will not repeat myself. A moment later I hear him pad out of the room, and let out my breath in a relieved sigh, though I'm not sure why.

I remain in the kitchen for some time, staring out the window over the sink as the moon rises higher and higher. It is growing colder daily, and soon the snow will begin to fall. I think to myself that it is cruel to keep a young boy like Potter cooped up in this place with his mean old potions master for company over Christmas, but I doubt there's anything that can be done for it. I wonder why I care, and then decide I'd rather not think about it just yet. If ever.

I look around half-heartedly for some sort of liquor, but, finding none, I give up and decide to go to bed myself. I pass through the living room, stopping to give the telly-thing a suspicious glare. It crouches, stealthily, sneakily (I think anyway), glinting maliciously in the pale wash of moonlight. I give it a final warning wave with my wand and retreat up the stairs, glancing back occasionally over my shoulder. It does not move. Tricky bastard.

My steps slow as I pass Potter's door, and much to my own chagrin and bitter self-loathing, I pause, ironically wishing for a pair of those cursed extendable ears. Leaning cautiously toward the door, I can make out Potter's breathing, heavy and even. Strangely satisfied by this, I move away, only to be stopped cold when I hear his ragged gasp.

I freeze, not sure whether to go or stay. He could be having a nightmare. If that is the case, perhaps I should wake him. My hand turns to stone on the door handle when I hear an unmistakable moan. Perhaps not. Not a nightmare then, at any rate.

Half-disgusted, half-curious, and fully annoyed with myself for giving a damn, I lean a bit closer, straining my ears. Would be interesting to know what fantasies the boy-who-lived wanks to, anyway. Purely a matter of academic curiosity.

"Ss...usss..." he hisses, and a wave of burning cold sears my nerves. It couldn't be... could it? That little trollop. Another moan drifts toward me, and I catch my breath. Trembling, I lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door and exhale shakily. I want so badly to walk away, go into the other bedroom, burrow beneath the covers, and forget the boy-who-masturbated was ever born.

But my feet won't move, and I can't forget.

Potter is murmuring again, and I struggle to make out the words.

"Mmm... yesss.... please... Remus..."

I jerk away as though the door has suddenly caught fire. The sneer falls into place before any other expression can win out, and I berate myself for my complete, utter stupidity. How charming, I think. Ickle Harry has a crush on the very same man who used to fuck his godfather. Visions of blackmail dance in my head, and the sneer broadens.

I make my way slowly toward my room, plotting a million ways to use my newfound knowledge of Potter's infatuation to humiliate the little wretch. I settle in my bed, praying for sleep to come quickly, but it does not. It hovers somewhere just beyond reach, taunting me. I toss and turn for what seems like hours, and eventually give up. I stride into the bathroom, thinking I'll simply take matters into my own hands, so to speak, and then finally have some peace.

I've no more than untied the drawstring pajama bottoms when a sharp, biting pain races down my left arm.

"Damn," I mutter, reluctantly pushing up the sleeve of my nightshirt. The skin, as I assumed, is red and inflamed. It burns like wildfire, and I clench my teeth, telling myself that I've survived cruciatus more than any other death eater under Voldemort's reign - I can certainly withstand an average Call.

But this Call is anything but average. I clutch my arm against my chest, hissing at the unimaginable pain. It must have something to do with Potter's disappearance, for it to be this awful. I stagger into the bedroom and somehow manage to transfigure the Muggle clothes into a passable black robe. I throw it on and lurch into the hall, gasping as spots dance before my eyes.

The wards around the house won't allow me to Apparate, but there is a floo downstairs. I think I'll just slip by Potter's room quietly, without waking him. Voldemort won't keep me past morning, and hopefully he'll never have to know about it.

The plan almost works, until an excruciating pain lances through my entire left side, and I drop to my knees. I look up, vision swimming, and notice that I have fallen right in front of Potter's door.

"Oh... hell..." I mutter, and then the world around me fades to black.