Vita Labyrinthae Similis In Quo Umbrae Vagamus

CHAPTER 3

I went down to rescue you

--Hole--

Day dawned grey and blustery. Nastasya rolled out of bed two hours before it was necessary, and spent some little time being violently ill; she had known it would happen, but the little oblivion she'd bought with the whiskey had certainly been worth it. Feeling light and empty, she washed out her mouth and conjured up a cup of extremely hot coffee, and sat down in front of the fire to think what the hell she was going to do.

By the time she had to leave for the first period class, she had a few ideas. The headache had receded under the barrage of aspirin, and her stomach had more or less stopped doing acrobatics, but she had certainly felt better than she did as she watched the Gryffindors and Slytherins file into the classroom. There were noticeably fewer of them than there had been the day before—Harry Potter was absent, for one, and she was unsurprised to hear the chorus of coughs that echoed in the stone-walled room. "We're going to do something a little different today," she said. "How many of you know anything about possession?" A few hands were raised, Hermione Granger's among them. "Very good. What about ghost sickness?"

Fewer hands. Granger, of course, and a Slytherin she didn't know very well. "Eileen?"

Eileen Tsosie looked surprised at being called on. "Um," she said. "It's part of the Navajo Indian myth-magic history. The idea is that ghosts can really hurt the living, that you want to avoid anything to do with them as much as possible. When someone dies, you have to go through certain rituals to give closure and to ensure that the ghost of the dead person doesn't stick around and make you sick. You can't use their belongings or live in their hogan."

Heads turned to look at her. Nastasya nodded. "I don't know enough about the Native American magicks to really add anything to that. Today's assignment is to go to the library and find out as much as you can about possession and ghost sickness, as well as ghost-laying and the Ending Rituals. I'll expect a roll of parchment on the subject in my office by dinnertime. Off you go."

That's cheating, she thought. I know that's cheating, using students to do your research for you. But they will learn, and they might find out something I can use. If not me, then Dumbledore.

She raised an eyebrow at the chaos in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey was clearly overwhelmed; nearly every bed in the ward was occupied, and some of the kids looked really ill. "Merlin's eyes, Poppy," she said, closing the door behind her. "It looks like the Sebastopol field hospital in here." She noticed Potter lying curled up in one of the beds at the far end, looking rather young in the depths of sleep.

"I'm no Florrie Nightingale," sighed the nurse, tucking wayward strands of hair behind her ears. "They just keep coming in, Nastasya, and I'm running out of even Pepperup Potion."

"Anything else you're low on?"

"The basic analgesics, antipyretics, antitussives. Mostly I need the Pepperup, and the worst cases need Vitaris Tincture."

"I'll see what I can do," she said briskly. "I don't think the Headmaster would mind if I use some of the school's ingredients."

"He'd thank you on bended knee," said Poppy, bending over yet another fevered brow. Nastasya let herself out. She hurried down to Snape's dungeon, aware that her priorities were somewhat skewed, but justifying it by thinking of all the vital ingredients Snape hoarded in his quarters. She unlocked his door with a spell again.

He lay as she had left him, in the narrow bed, his hair tumbled over his forehead and slipping down the pillows like black rain. His fever had gone down, for which she was suitably thankful, and he wasn't as restive as he'd been, but she didn't like the harsh gasping quality of his breathing at all. How long did you lie there on the freezing floor? she wondered. How long had you been feeling bad, without telling anyone?

Oh, possibly just about as long as Radu's been dead, she thought acidly. I'm a moron. I should have seen this before. Should have known. I did papers on ghost-possession, for crying out loud.

She sat down on the edge of Severus's bed, smoothed away the damp hair from his face. Pulling her wand out of her sleeve, she made a complicated series of gestures over her shoulder and muttered under her breath. A cauldron jumped across the room to land in the hearth over a suddenly blazing fire, and a selection of bottles and jars danced through the air to dispense their contents into the cauldron. She remained where she was, as if transfixed, staring down at the pale, closed face of the man who had been her tormentor for most of her life. All the time she had known him, he had never, ever been helpless, never needed aid, especially not hers. Is this a dream come true? she wondered. Or is this just the last possible straw for him? What is he going to do if he wakes and finds me here, and his mind is clear enough for him to understand?

As if in answer, Snape's lashes shivered and parted, and his black eyes met her grey ones, and knew them.

"It is you," he croaked. She made as if to rise, but a hot, thin hand closed over her wrist—the wrist the Death Eater had slashed—and held her firmly. "I thought I'd dreamed you."

"I'll go," she said quietly. "Just let me finish making your medicine, and I'll go."

"No you won't," he told her. His voice was a whispery ruin, but it still held shreds of the silk and steel that had made her listen to his every word, all those years ago. "You'll tell me who he is, and why he's in my head."

She regarded him evenly. "His name is Radu Niakov, and he would have been my husband."

Snape choked, began to cough so hard he couldn't breathe. She cursed under her breath and set the tip of her wand against his chest, whispered something. Abruptly the spasm ended, and he collapsed back against the pillows, gasping, hands pressing the spot where her wand had touched him. She got up, went over to the fireplace, returned with a glass of clear pale-gold liquid. "Don't talk," she told him, and was proud that her voice only shook a very little. "Drink this."

He did as he was told, which was surprising and rather gratifying, and looked up at her with hooded, unreadable eyes. "Your husband," he muttered.

"I said he would have been. He's dead. And he's in your head because for some unknowable reason he's jealous of you." She turned away, folding her arms.

"Nadezhda," he said quietly, and she jumped as if stung. "What happened to your arm?"

She turned back, a strange desire to hurt him, to see hurt in those inscrutable black eyes, rising in her. "This?" She pulled away the sleeve, letting him see the ropy twisting scar. "Oh, this was where a Death Eater tried to kill me. Go to sleep, Snape. You need your rest."

He began to cough again, softly this time, helplessly. She tried to stop herself caring, but the sound wrenched at her guts, and she found herself returning to the bedside and taking him in her arms and holding him calmly as the fit shook him, lending him her strength, for he had none.

Tears pricked behind her eyes. As soon as the fit passed, she let him go and stood up again. "Madame Pomfrey needs some more potions. May I use your stock of ingredients?"

"Of course," he said hoarsely. "Nadezhda?"

"It's Nastasya," she said, looking at the floor.

"Nadezhda," he repeated, ignoring her, "I'm sorry."

Her head came up. He was lying limply in the bed, looking younger and more vulnerable than she had ever seen him, and she didn't know what she wanted to do; strangle him was one option, and hold him tight and never let him go was another. "Sorry for what?"

"Your fiance's death."

She found that she could laugh. "Oh, no," she said. "No, Severus, he broke off the engagement years ago, when I chose to train as an Auror. He married my best friend." She turned on her heel, before she could see what expression that brought to his face—she was not at all sure she could take that—and left.

Nastasya returned to her office that evening, red-faced and frizz-haired from bending over steaming cauldrons all day, and found the pile of parchment rolls from her sixth-years placed neatly in a box in front of the door. She smiled; in her student days, it would have been an amazing occurrence if she'd actually done an assignment of this sort, let alone delivered it on time to the professor's office. Students have clearly improved since I was one of them. Moreover, the essays they'd written were more than a little helpful, and several of them gave her ideas.

She met with Dumbledore that evening, after dinner. The meal itself had been rather a sorry affair; at least half the teachers were out of commission, and the student body had shrunk enormously. She, Lupin, McGonagall and Dumbledore had the table mostly to themselves. At a warning look from the Headmaster, Nastasya had avoided telling the others anything more than they already knew, but as she and Dumbledore ascended the spiral staircase to his office, she filled him in on what she'd learned. "Radu never forgave me for my decision," she said, "which isn't exactly fair, since he was the one to dump me, and I had to forgive him for that. But he was never the sort to let something go, and I think that now he's dead he took the opportunity to find the one living person besides me who knows my true-name, my secret name, and inflict some misery on him for knowing that name."

"I see," said Dumbledore. They had reached his office; he opened the door with a word and ushered her in. Fawkes the phoenix swooped down from his perch in the corner and settled himself comfortably on her shoulder.

"Good evening, sir," she greeted him courteously. Fawkes nibbled at her ear. She found that, despite feeling extremely old and scarred and ill-used, she could smile.

"He has very good taste in ears," said Dumbledore mildly. "My dear, you've been crying."

"Is it that obvious? I'd rather hoped I'd fixed the damage. I've been taking care of Severus, Headmaster. He's very sick."

"I thought he might be," said Dumbledore, regarding the tabletop inscrutably. "I had hoped he wasn't. He approached me before this grew so bad, and said that he was being attacked mentally; this would be three days ago now. He said someone or something was trying to get into his mind. He required time and energy to deal with it on his own."

"He's as proud as Lucifer," she said bitterly. "He'd never ask for help. He'd die cheerfully before asking for help."

"I know," sighed Dumbledore. "It's not exactly a helpful trait in these circumstances. How is he?"

"He'll do. I found him yesterday afternoon, after our discussion, collapsed on the floor of his quarters. He was clearly feverish, and I've no idea how long he'd been lying there in that frigid dungeon of his before I found him. He'll recover, but I think he might be in for pneumonia before he does."

Dumbledore massaged the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Severus," he murmured. "What a pity you're so brave."

"Stupid, more like," Nastasya said levelly, and was astonished at the flash of blue ice from the Headmaster's eyes.

"Nastasya, I know that you and Severus have your differences. He is not an easy man to like, and you are right about his pride. But I will not have you call him stupid, or insult him in any way. Do you understand me?"

"You're right," she said tonelessly, already feeling the tears start. "He isn't easy to like, Albus. I don't like him. I love him."

Fawkes gave a soft cry in the sudden dead silence, and nestled his soft, brilliant head against her neck. She had to use every ounce of willpower and training not to let the tears fall, and after a few difficult moments the threat receded to a dull ache behind her eyes. Dumbledore drew a long breath.

"I see," he said. He got up, came around the desk, set his hands on her shoulders. "My dear child. My dear, dear child, I am so sorry. I have misjudged you."

"Don't," she said bitterly. "Please don't. I've been through this with myself enough times to know there isn't a happy ending. I've loved Severus Snape since I came here for the first time, and I will likely love him until I die, but I don't and won't expect anything except misery ever to come of it. He doesn't love me. He doesn't love anything, except perhaps perfection and exactitude."

Dumbledore's hands tightened briefly on her shoulders, as if he would have spoken, but he merely sighed. She looked up at him, back at Fawkes, who blinked slowly at her. "Very well," said the Headmaster after a long moment. "We will not speak of this. What about the illness? What have you found out?"

Nastasya drew a shaky breath, glad for the change of subject. "I think it might have something to do with the theory of ghost sickness," she began, mentally thanking her students for finding out these tidbits for her. "The epidemic might have started as an ordinary viral infection, but I think the malevolent influence of the ghost on not only Snape but the entire school must have weakened us enough to make it really bad, or otherwise the virus itself was made more dangerous than it originally had been. In either case, the somatic effects are made worse and the body and mind are more vulnerable."

"So in order to speed recovery we need to remove the influence of the ghost," remarked Dumbledore.

"More importantly, we need to get him out of Snape's head."

"Well put, Nastasya," said her employer with a hint of a twinkle. "Now, you look exhausted. I suggest we all get a good night's sleep."

"A fine idea," she said, rising. Fawkes fluttered back to his perch with the faintest hint of reproach in his bearing. She managed a bit of a smile. Eventually this would all be over. Eventually.

I was right. She hated me.

Classes the next day were a bad joke. Only eight of the thirty students on the roster showed up to her ten o'clock DaDA class, and fewer still made it to her one o'clock. Snape's Potions class, third period, was almost deserted. She ended up amusing the remaining students, and herself, by teaching them how to brew a Euphoria Potion; even though only two of them succeeded in creating the complete effect, the attempts of the rest of the class had enough power to cheer them all up considerably. She regarded them with a sort of affection from behind Severus's high desk, and it had nothing to do with the warming effect of the potion fumes.

"Do any of you like Potions?" she asked, before realizing she was about to.

All five of the students looked up at her, in unison. "Sorry," she said. "That's irrelevant."

"No," said Ron Weasley, who had so far managed to survive the onslaught of the Ghost Flu. "I like Potions," he added, "actually, and I'd like to be better at it. But Professor Snape doesn't make it easy to like."

She sighed. "I know."

Neville Longbottom, whose father Nastasya had idolized in her Auror training days, piped up. "I'm awful at it," he said, happily, his misery gone under the sweet effect of the Euphoria Potion. "Absolutely hopeless."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "No you're not," she said, rising and coming around to his desk, staring at the dark red contents of his cauldron. "You've created a textbook Euphoria. In fact—" she broke off and inspected the four other cauldrons currently in use, "you've done the best out of everyone here."

"Really?" Longbottom's face was shining. She felt a tug at her heart, which was feeling particularly old and scarred and cynical. "You think so?"

"I know so," she said, scowling as best she could. "I took top of my class at Durmstrang three years running, and I know a perfect Euphoria Potion when I see one."

"But Professor Snape says I'm hopeless," Neville pointed out. Weasley nodded.

"Yeah, Snape's always picking on him. He was going to poison Trevor, his toad—would have, if Hermione hadn't helped out."

"I know Professor Snape's not an easy teacher," said Nastasya thoughtfully. "Neville, what's your best subject?"

"Herbology," he said quickly. "Professor Sprout says I'm rather good at it."

"I don't doubt that," said Nastasya. "What is it about Potions that scares you?"

"Snape," he said, easily and simply and truthfully. Nastasya sighed, passed a hand over her face.

"How would you like some extra tutoring in Potions?" she asked. "You're not hopeless, Neville, despite what Snape might say. Were you frightened you wouldn't be able to make the Euphoria Potion?"

"No," said Neville, confused. "Why?"

"Because that's why you do badly in Snape's classes," she said, realizing it. "Because you're afraid of failing."

"Hey, so am I," Weasley interjected, and the four other students in the room chorused their unanimity.

Nastasya looked at them. "Potions is very straightforward," she said, evenly. "All you need to do, if you want to succeed, is to follow the recipes carefully and not pay too much attention to Snape when he's being insufferable."

There was a surprised silence. Weasley looked at her, red eyebrows raised. "Professor? Did I just hear what I thought I did?"

"Yes," said Nastasya unhappily. "Although you're not going to share this with anyone. If any of you decide you want extra Potions help, just come to me. I'll be happy to sort you out."

The lesson dispersed with smiles all round, which she realized was probably a first for a Potions class during Snape's time as teacher. She hoped, suddenly, that she could keep her promise; that if Longbottom or any of the others came to her for help, she would be able to help them. She had said nothing more than the truth: Potions was a fairly simple subject, if you removed politics and intimidation from the classroom. It just required patience and concentration, which all Hogwarts students would have been forced to learn from day one.

When classes were over, she made her way down to Snape's dungeon once more, this time fairly confident that she could keep herself under control. Part of her mind was screaming the entire time she was close to him, but she was used to that; it was, again, her Auror training that helped her to control it. Snape was barely conscious when she came into the room, his breath coming in great painful ragged gasps.

Pneumonia, she thought. I'm not surprised. This makes it more difficult, of course.

She debated speaking to Dumbledore, trying to have Severus moved to St Mungo's or somewhere else with more experience dealing with serious illness, but she knew Madame Pomfrey was as good a healer as any St. Mungo's mediwizard, and it would exhaust the patient to move him. She settled for brewing a strong Vitaris Tincture and conjuring up some very hot soup, and sending the more susceptible parts of her mind away while she did for him what any trained nurse would, and no more. He came up far enough through the levels of consciousness to swallow what she fed him, but lapsed back into fever-dreams almost immediately, plucking at the covers and muttering about green eyes and unfairness. Nastasya would have left quickly, but his burning hand found hers, and clung so tightly she couldn't bring herself to pry his fingers loose. She sat there with him, her own hand closed over his, until the drugs she'd given him began to take effect and he slid away again into sleep.

And, suddenly, she knew what she had to do.

"Headmaster?"

Dumbledore looked up from the drift of papers on his desk."Nastasya, my dear. How are you?"

"I've been better. I think I know how to stop Radu picking at us. How to free us, and give him peace."

The blue eyes didn't change, but she knew he was listening very, very carefully. "Yes?"

"You've got to put me into a deep trance. Dangerously deep. I need to be almost entirely free of my body."

Dumbledore rose, came around the desk to her. "That's risky."

"So's Snape's condition. He's got pneumonia, Albus, he's really ill. And the students. Have you been in the infirmary recently? I can't let this keep going."

He regarded her steadily. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I think it's the only way, now. It's me Radu wants, anyway. He's only hurting Severus because he knows my name, and I believe he's jealous of that knowledge. If he thinks he can have me, or at least hurt me, then he might let the rest of you go."

The Headmaster's eyes narrowed, widened again. There was a very pregnant pause.

"Very well, Nastasya," he said. "Although I require you to be under Madame Pomfrey's care during the, ah, experiment, and I reserve the right to pull you out of it whenever I see fit."

She sighed. "As you wish, Headmaster. Let's go. I want to do this as soon as possible."

Nastasya lay down on a couch that had been hastily carried into Snape's dungeon quarters, and felt Poppy place the cold crystal amulet of the spirit-tracer on her forehead. The nurse and the Headmaster were the only ones present, besides her and Snape. She hadn't wanted to publicize this any more than necessary, and she knew Dumbledore agreed. Eyes closed, she heard Dumbledore begin to mutter the words of the trance-spell, and the world began to recede from her. It was an interesting experience. She lost feeling in her extremities first, as if she was suffering from frostbite; then her limbs went numb, and her entire body ceased to exist for her. There was nothing more than the darkness in which she found herself, and even the dark words she had heard were silenced. She floated in the blackness of utter sensory deprivation, and suddenly began to fall.

She was nothing more than a tiny spark in a sea of blackness, and the sea had no shores; it went on forever. In the blackness she was vaguely aware of another presence, wrapped in on itself, showing almost nothing to her searching gaze. She probed at the other presence, drew back at the sudden snarling stab of pain, and understood; the presence was Severus, as miserable as she had ever known him, trying desperately to hold on to his identity in the bewildering black. Almost, the rush of sympathy and sorrow overwhelmed her. Almost.

She drew back in time, and floated. She knew Radu would come to her. He had no choice.

--Nadezhda,-- said a voice in her mind. A familiar voice, which she had loved once; a voice which had meant the world to her. She had thought she meant the world to him, and she had been wrong. -Nadezhda. You left me.—

I didn't leave you, she said. I would have loved you.

Well, she retorted, getting angry, you left me, and you married Lucire. Do you think I liked that? Do you think I liked losing you to her?

--You never loved me,-- said Radu in her skull, the echoing voice of an old grievance. -You gave your true-name to another long before you met me. You never loved me.—

I did love you, she said. I loved him first, and I love him still, but I love him the way I loved the sound of the ice cracking in the high glaciers, or the kestrel's cry on the spring wind. I loved him, but he never loved me, and I grew used to it.

--You did not,-- said the voice. -You went back to him. After the Death Eater. You went back to him.—

I went back to teach, she cried. To teach. I did not know he was there. I would not have returned if I had known I would have to see him again. I would not travel to Moldavia, for I feared I would see you, and I could not bear to see the man who had thrown me away and married my friend.

--Ah,-- he sighed. -Then you did care.—

Of course I cared. She paused, thinking; it hurt. What do you want, Radu? Why are you not at peace? Why have you come here, to hurt us?

--Your name,-- he howled. -Your true-name. I thought it was my gift alone.—

She floated, curled in misery. It is not yours to hold.

And suddenly Nastasya had had enough, and even through the calming void of trance she felt the anger and the sorrow rise and crest. You cannot have my name, Radu. But you can know why.

And she let down all her shields, one by one, until she hung in the blackness like a hawk on an updraft, and she let him understand. Memory after repressed memory poured out of her, images and tears and laughter and lost innocence. Her entire childhood, before ever she had come to Durmstrang and met his apple-green eyes with her storm-grey ones; all of the days and nights filled with Nabokov smiles, too young to know what she felt, too old to deny it; all the times she had cried into the green velvet of her Slytherin pillow, transfixed even in solitude by the power of his black-ice eyes and his silken voice, all the misery and the joy and the self-hatred and the ambition and the learning that had been her youthful acquaintance with Severus Snape, all of it came rushing out of her like water from a broken dam, leaving her high and dry

and very much alone. There was silence in the blackness for the space of a dying heartbeat.

Don't you like what you see? she asked, her bitterness surprising even herself. Don't you like how lovable I am? How magnificent my experience with him was? Are you not jealous of my supreme happiness with him?

Radu was quiet.

Do you still want my name? she snapped. Or will you be satisfied with the name of your loving wife, who wanted you before ever I grew to love you, and gave you more of herself than I ever could? Don't you owe Lucire that much, to stop pursuing me, even in death?

--Did you weep for me?—he demanded.

I have had no chance to weep for you. I have had to save lives from your influence. I have had to do my job, Radu. I will do my weeping on my own. I think I have wept enough already for two lifetimes.

Yes. I love you. That was true. He knew it was; she had let that, too, show, when she revealed herself to him. But I cannot stop living because of it.

More silence, and she was beginning to feel less anger from that voice. -What of him?—

--No,-- said Radu. -I don't think you were.—

Please, she begged. Please leave him alone. Him, and the rest of us. If it's me you want, then take me, do as you will. Just do not hurt the others any more.

And now the anger was gone, surprise and sorrow filling the void where it had been.

--I would never hurt you, Nadezhda.—

Then leave them alone. She was very weary, and the tears were threatening her again; sorrow was rising in her like bile. Let them be.

She was weeping when she woke, hot tears almost imperceptible on her flushed cheeks. Madame Pomfrey would have spoken to her, but Dumbledore set a hand on her shoulder and guided her out of the room. "Be easy, Nastasya," he murmured over his shoulder as they left. "Rest."

She only cried the harder. There were no words for this. There never had been.

After what seemed like hours, she felt the world receding again, into the more pleasant nothingness of sleep.

"For the last time, Poppy, I am fine!"

"You're not fine," she heard the nurse retort. "You can scarcely sit up on your own. Now behave and drink your horrible medicine, or I will be forced to Stupefy you and pour it down your throat by force."

"I don't need any medicine," said the first voice, petulantly, but it was a hoarse petulance, and the speaker went off into a fit of painful coughing.

"You haven't changed, you know. You said the same thing that day when you had to leave the NEWTs, and you were wrong then too. I don't know why I bother."

Nastasya rolled over, feeling sore all over, as if she'd gone ten rounds with Hagrid. Her skull felt rather as if someone had lined it with spikes, and her skin was very aware of the thread count in the sheets she lay under. Blearily, she opened her eyes, and found herself lying in the hospital wing. The slanted light of late afternoon threw luminous bars over her bed. Poppy was down at the other end of the ward, bending over another bed, muttering. She probed apprehensively at her memory, and found out that she didn't really want to remember what had recently happened; it was like a sore tooth she was wary of antagonizing. She curled up on her side, and felt sleep overtake her again, covering her like a pleasantly warm blanket.

Harry woke up, and was surprised to find that he felt a great deal better. The ward was quieter around him, and as he sat up and looked around he realized that almost everyone was gone. Whatever the epidemic was, it clearly hadn't lasted very long. He reached out for his glasses, and the fuzzy shapes of the world sprang into clear focus.

Malfoy was still occupying one of the beds close to the office, his pale hair only a few shades darker than the pillows it spread over, his face pale and closed and looking rather young. For a moment Harry saw him as merely a boy, not the mortal enemy he had always been.

He shook away the thought. Hermione was asleep in the bed to his immediate right, and farther down the row he thought he could make out a dark-red head of hair that was strangely familiar. Professor Serenskaya?

He thought he could remember hearing another teacher's voice, while he lay in the half-doze of the fever. A silky voice, raised in petulant argument.

Shit, he thought. Snape was in here? He must be human after all. That's five Galleons I owe Lee Jordan.

But there was no triumph in the thought of Snape suffering, for some reason. A lot seemed to have changed while he was off in fever-dreams. He sighed, stretched. He was hungry.

Harry slid out of bed, padding across the infirmary floor in his nightshirt, and found Madame Pomfrey writing notes in her office. She looked up as he knocked on the open door.

"Harry," she said, smiling. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he said truthfully. "Can I go? I'm hungry."

She rose, came around the desk, and laid the back of her hand on his forehead, frowning thoughtfully. "Your temperature's normal," she told him. "I suppose so. Take it easy for a few days, Harry. You don't want a relapse."

"I will," he promised. "What about Hermione? How's she?"

"She'll do. She came in the morning after you did, Harry. I expect she'll be fine by tomorrow."

He threw a glance back over his shoulder towards Malfoy, but didn't say anything. Madame Pomfrey saw the glance. "He'll be fine, too. He had a much more severe case than you did, Harry."

He shrugged. "I'll be going, then."

"Off you go. Take care."