Similarities (or: Colder Than They See)

I walk down the stairs, blinking tiredly at the rich, dark wood surroundings. Having finally, after almost six months without, been able to drink fresh water rather than the brackish water of the swamps, and having had a chance to sleep deeply on a soft warm bed - the mattress is goose-feather interspersed with phoenix-feathers to keep it warm, an expensive and worthwhile investment - I feel a lot more myself. Though perhaps being a cynical close-minded middle-aged fugitive is not such a good state of mind; I don't mind, I'm used to it.

Finally I can look with a clear mind at the sarcastically-named Chimera Manor. It is very pretty, really; all dark woods and mahogany and streaky black marble, giving it a sort of gothique feel, but it's very obviously unfinished. Either this house is made from scratch or it's being redecorated with far too much enthusiasm.

He looks up tiredly from a small, temporary-dining-room table. His eyes look rather duller than usual, not to mention bloodshot, and there are decidedly dark circles of puffy skin around his eyes. He looks a total wreck, and even now his eyes have a slight chilliness to them which worries me - so much for the Gryffindor Golden Boy; it appears he dropped all that since I last saw him - but he gestures calmly to the seat opposite himself.

"Coffee?" he asks quietly, hunched over the table, and I start towards the kitchen. Immediately he clears his throat and gestures to the table. "That was an offer, rather than a request." And I note with the tiniest hint of embarrassment that there is indeed a small percolator sitting on the wood. "How do you take your coffee?" he asks quietly, and rather more vehemently than intended I reply, "Strong!" He laughs, and stirs two teaspoons of brown sugar into the cup.

He has some odd quirks to his character - there is a small white ceramic jug of milk on the table, though there is no milk in his coffee or mine, and in the not uncomfortable silence he stares pensively at it. I decide that I will have my coffee black, even if he has sweetened it unnecessarily. He's very delberate, now, so I assume that it's done as a deliberate slight.

Suddenly his head snaps up and he seems infused with that manic energy I've always associated with Gryffindors. "Did you sleep well?" he asks in that brittle-cheer voice which says without a doubt that something is wrong. I nod mutely, with a slight smile. "And yourself?" I enquire quietly in a low, almost-solemn voice, and he gives a harsh bark of humourless laughter. "Not a bloody wink. Too busy. Sleep is for the weak!" And he laughs again, but the sound is angry and bitter and it makes me feel ill. He stands suddenly, sharply; for a moment I think I've upset him and I tense for a fight, but he stalks rather jerkily into the kitchen.

I stare around for a little while, vaguely, wondering how much of my recollection of my Capture - for it is capitalised in my mind as a truly important occasion - was real, and how much was imagined... or possibly fantasised. I smile off into space vaguely, my eyes half-focussing on the carved oak bannisters. I drum my long fingers against the table; Potter - Harry, possibly? - storms back in only an instant later, and plunks a large tumbler of water -blessed water! - in front of me and a plate of buttered toast in the middle of the table. "Eat up," he says with that unnerving coldness, "you're going to need your energy fairly soon and you're malnourished." Even the mild smell of toast appears to make him nauseous, and that makes him grumpy, apparently. He stands quickly, jerkily, and begins pacing. I watch, vaguely amused but mostly disdainful; I fight off the urge to sneer at his anxious movements.

I snap back to reality as he murmurs, apparently oblivious to me, the words, "In situ extremis in re personam Severus perpetuum in camera bound in esse re Harry."

I choke as I translate in my head - he probably wasn't expecting me to know Latin, though his is disgustingly garbled - for what he has just said is, I think, meant to translate as 'in its natural state of desperate circumstance, in regards to Severus, eternally and privately bound in actual existence to Harry.' He's making it a spell? I fume. "That's hardly fair!" I snap. He turns to me, eyes icy, and replies smoothly, "So I'm a tad vulpine. Your lucky I didn't add anything about a necessity for bound in flagrante delicto." I flushed dully, shocked by his bluntness. "You wouldn't," I hissed, "you've no interes-"

He laughs again, darkly, and snarls, "You've no proof either way, Snivellus-" and suddenly he slaps his hand over his mouth, flushing in an ugly, ashamed way. I flinch away. Bastard.

"I'm so sorry - I didn't mean to - I swear it wasn't meant to - " To my shock, he falls to hands and knees and crawls over. I sneer at him, my anger not subdued, but he looks at the ground and presses his face against my outer thigh. I gape, and he continues to cower, nuzzling terrified against my robes, until, still confused, I run my hand in slight awe through his hair. He presses his face gratefully against my outer thigh for a moment longer, and then stumbles away.

What in the name of the four Founders was that? And suddenly the spell is broken and he shoots to his feet with a snarl of, "God damn Lucius fucking Malfoy!" and rushes to leave the room. I won't stop him; he's upset and I'm confused and - did he just say Lucius Malfoy?

"Gods, what a bloody headache of a place. I should have kept running rather than follow this undisiplined little twit. This place will be the death of me."

I never was the most optimistic person.