A sharp, precise rap sounded at Snape's door, and he slowly pulled himself up from his desk, where he'd spent the last several hours grading papers. He opened it and stared at Minerva, who wore the same pinched expression as always, and blinked when she told him to go see the Headmaster.

"The password," she said, lowering her voice, "is Mike and Ike." Severus couldn't help himself, and a small smile formed on his lips.

"Mike... and Ike?" Minerva straightened, her expression still fairly severe, but it softened enough to where he knew they'd shared a private joke.

"You know his fondness for Muggle candies," she said nonchalantly, as if there wasn't anything remotely humorous about the password. It amazed Severus some days, how stoic McGonagall was; even more so than himself, and how *difficult* it was for her to crack a smile.

Pot. Kettle....

Severus shook his head absently, to clear it, and assured her he'd leave immediately to see Dumbledore.

"I'll walk with you part of the way," she informed him crisply; nothing Minerva 'suggested' was ever an option to begin with. "I've got to go back to the Gryffindor dorms and remind Mr. Kovet of his detention tomorrow. He's likely to forget." They walked down the dungeon hallway, passing several laughing Slytherins on the way. Minerva gave them stern looks; it seemed her noxious dislike of Slytherins hadn't lessened any, and instead had increased to the point of offense if they so much as enjoyed themselves. Rather than being affronted, as Snape normally would have been, he found himself nearly grinning, and receiving a few odd looks from his companion. Good lord, he was losing his bloody mind.

"You've been acting rather strangely lately, Severus," Minerva began, and inwardly Snape cringed. Here was Minerva, starting in on him, when likely enough Albus was going to do the same thing as soon as he arrived.

It wasn't as if he could blame them, though. He *had* been a bit off the wall, lately, and sometimes wondered if he wasn't about to crack and run screaming off in the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps members of the faculty had noticed it, or students brought it to their attention when his usually forbidding discipline had gone lax. Either scenario was likely, for as much as Snape hated to admit it, he was under intense scrutiny; had been ever since he'd been outed as a Death Eater, but that was another matter entirely.

"Have I," he responded airily, two paces in front of her when they rounded the corner.

"You have," she affirmed, and Severus knew he wasn't going to get out of this diminutive lecture so easily. "Nearly everyone has noticed the change."

"Change?" She went on as if she hadn't heard him.

"Severus, I've known you for a long time, since you were a student here, and I know when something is the matter, as withdrawn from you as I may seem at times." Snape gave a very un-Snapeish grunt. "You're not the same, Severus Snape. I don't know who you've become, but you don't seem too happy with yourself. You can't concentrate. You don't sleep. You rarely eat. All symptoms of depression, Severus..."

"Minerva," he snapped, feeling a bit more like himself when he was angry, which was a welcome relief. "The mere fact that I don't scowl at the Gryffindors during supper is cause for all of this claptrap?" He gave a sigh. "I appreciate that you're concerned, really, but further than that you're just a nuisance." McGonagall didn't even appear to be taken aback.

"Very well." She rounded the corner and went in the direction of the Gryffindor tower without another word, and Severus gave a heaving sigh that was part relief and part frustration.

"Damnit."

He kept walking without a word, nodding to Hagrid as he passed with some gigantic beast on a leash, several paces in front of him, and forgot to glower at a few chatty Hufflepuffs who nearly smashed into him when they rounded a corner. Finally, after puffing up a few flights of stairs (Snape had done little in the way of physical activity lately) he arrived at the Headmaster's office.

"Mike and Ike," he muttered to the gargoyle, pushing his lank hair out of his face, before it swung out of his way. He did, he noted with some satisfaction, remember to give it an uncommitted glare before it disappeared from sight.

Severus cleared his throat when he noticed he was alone. "Albus?"

"Severus..." It came from behind him, and so Snape spun around, face blank. He knew what he was here for. It was better not to waste time in feigned unawareness.

"Can we got on with this," he said lamely. Albus didn't even offer him a piece of that damnable candy he always kept with him (at which Snape gave a mental chuckle; he must have really been imposing if Dumbledore skipped that routine) but instead gestured for him to sit down. He did, in the seat furthest from Fawkes. The last time he'd been in here, Fawkes had chosen that moment to explode and he'd been covered in fluff, and right about now, Fawkes wasn't looking too good.

"Severus." It seemed that whenever someone was trying to get a point across, they used his first name like some sort of reprimanding parental figure. He could picture Dumbledore bearing down on him, in his minds' eye, wagging a finger and scolding Severus for riding his broom too late after sunset, and Snape stifled a loud laugh. "We need to talk."

"I gathered that," Snape retorted, straightening his cuffs. It was a nervous gesture, and anyone who didn't know him would think it was insouciance. But Albus knew him. "You've been expecting this?" Snape didn't give a reply; he was far too smart for this game. "If you have," Albus continued, nonplussed, "you should know what we're worried for you."

"Who, might I inquire, is 'we'?"

"The staff. A few of the students. You're not yourself."

"Apparently," Snape shrugged. "Minerva chided me for the same thing after she summoned me."

"Ah, yes. I should have suspected as much." This seemed to amuse Albus. "Minerva has been one of the more vocal members of the staff. She's concerned."

"Why should she be? Am I endangering the students?"

"No, not at present, but I can see you becoming even more unwell, and possibly... not catching a simple mistake that could have serious repercussions."

"Unwell? I'm not ill, in the first place..."

"Depression, Severus, and a fairly advanced case of it."

"What," Snape started to sputter, completely unnerved. "You can't possibly ~"

"But I can, as the Headmaster of this school, decide when my staff is becoming unfit to teach and must retire temporarily."

"You're forcing me to stop teaching?!"

"Yes, but only until I'm convinced you can return to Hogwarts of ready and able mind."

"I'm perfectly sound of mind as it is! I can't believe..."

"What were you doing, before Minerva summoned you?" This gave Severus some pause, and he considered, racking his brain for any inkling. There was none, and he gave a heavy sigh...

"That doesn't mean..."

"Which houses did you teach today, Severus?"

"You expect me to remember something like that," he shot back desperately.

"No. That is, of course, if you usually have trouble remembering the same schedule you've had for the past twelve years." This caused Snape to frown. Albus leaned over, his elbows braced on the desk, and the sleeves of his robes slid down over his wrists and exposed quite a bit of aging skin. Snape was once again reminded of how *old* the Headmaster truly was. "You don't eat. You don't sleep. You can barely keep your eyes open during classes, and you're not even sounding like yourself theses days. What is *wrong*, Snape?"

"Absolutely nothing was the matter until you brought up this... obtuse accusation," Severus snarled, teeth clenched.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm simply stating the facts. You're not acting the same. Do you need a break? Is Voldemort-"

"Voldemort is dead," Snape hissed, "I'd have thought you'd have remembered that, as senile as you're becoming." Albus blinked at him, looking dumbfounded, and sat back while Severus mentally cursed himself.

"Hmm. Is that was this is about? Voldemort?"

"How could it be," Snape muttered. "He's dead."

"Yes, as you so.. erm, compellingly reminded me, he is. But so is Harry Potter." Snape winced.

"Potter isn't dead..."

"No. But he's gone, Snape, somewhere in Muggle London, living the life of someone who's never even heard of us and our world." He shook his head sadly. "Doesn't seem fair, does it, that we lose the one true hero we ever had?"

"He wasn't a hero to begin with. They weren't his powers."

"Oh, he was. Even you can't deny what a bright and interesting child he was, even if his powers came from a source that wasn't his own." There was an odd silence, but then Albus sighed. "Whatever the case, I'm sorry, but I have to send you on leave."

"What!? I thought we went through this-" Snape started heatedly, nearing yelling, but Albus cut him off.

"Severus, if these outbursts are examples of your controlled mental state, than I'm forced to inform you that you're sorely misguided." Snape was quiet at that. "I'm not going to keep you away long. Perhaps you simply need a good vacation? Who knows. But you're to go to London - nowhere else - so we can keep an eye on you-"

"Why? Its not as if I'm about to cut my wrists if I should venture to France." Albus gave him a look.

"You're staying in *London*, Snape. I'll check in with you periodically. For now, I suggest you pack your things, and bring along your Muggle clothing. Money will be provided." Snape scowled, and started to get up from his seat. He itched to protest, but there was no contradicting Albus when he was decided on something. "*Try* and enjoy yourself, Severus?"

Snape said nothing, but shut the door behind him when he left.

+

Harry stood under the harsh streetlamp, body on view but face in shadow. He liked it this way, it gave him some measure of anonymity in a profession that degraded uniformly. He spent most of his time waiting, waiting to be picked up. Hoping the next customer wouldn't want it too rough, or argue too much at the price, or want to talk too much. He hated to talk, didn't want counseling, didn't want to explain why he did what he did. Luckily, the talkers were few and far between. Mostly they just wanted his still-young body and the brief pleasure it could give them.

Sometimes, and those times were the worst, something about a customer or a night would remind him of someone from his other life, as he thought of his past. Not really connected to what he did now; another life, not his own. Mostly he could just forget, but sometimes he was forced to remember. Those nights were usually the ones that brought nightmares.

Funny; the person he thought of most these days was the one who he had once hated most. Severus Snape. He had been there that night, the night he had lost it all. He had been the one to bring Harry in. Harry could still remember those arms around him, surprisingly gentle. The funniest part of all was that during that last year, Harry had developed a crush on Professor Snape, of all people. Crush. What an idiotically childish word, to be in his mind, given what he was. But that was when Harry was still close to innocent, and that was what he had felt for Snape. Once he had hated the man, but as the time wore on, Harry had found that Snape was mostly misunderstood; a spy against the Death Eaters, he had endangered his own life many times over. Being on the side of good didn't make Snape a nice person, though; but Harry had been beginning to think there was an actual personality there, underneath the sneer. He had had naïve fantasies, of meeting up with Snape after he graduated from Hogwarts, forging some kind of bond once they were equals. Now Harry was no one's equal; even the lowest laborer toiled honestly and was above him. He had swept away such things with his old life; such fantasies held nothing for him save false hope. A waste of time.

+

He didn't know what he was looking for, really. Well, he did know, and it wasn't a what, it was a who. A him. Harry Potter.

Why he thought he would see, him, Snape wasn't sure. In a city of millions of Muggles, all going about their interminable business, how would he find one... no, he refused to refer to Harry, even in his mind, as a Muggle. He would never be, Snape refused to believe there was no natural magical talent in the boy, despite what he had said to Dumbledore. He had fought alongside him, felt the power of his magic, and it wasn't all from Voldemort. It couldn't be. He would have known. Or so he told himself.

Now here he was, banished to Muggle London, supposedly for a vacation. What a joke. As if being even closer to where Harry was would make his problems diminish. It only served to deepen the obsession, to make him imagine Harry around every corner, convinced that if he walked just a little farther, turned another corner, there he would be. What would happen if he found Harry, even Snape didn't know. So he walked. He took the underground sometimes, but the city proper really wasn't all that large, and he had plenty of time. Well, if nothing else, he was in much better shape than when he had slunk away from Hogwarts. Walking ten miles a day would do that for you.

A sneaking suspicion began to creep in his mind as he mentally berated Dumbledore for doing this to him. Perhaps the old man meant for him to look for Harry? He couldn't do it himself, so he chose the most efficient instrument for the task, thereby killing two birds with one stone? He wouldn't put it past the headmaster, now that he stopped to think of it. The man was nothing if not crafty and devious enough. All the while projecting the image of kindly benevolence as if he hadn't intended things to happen this way all along. Interesting. But it did get him no closer to his unspoken goal.

He tried to imagine what Harry would be doing, how he could support himself as a Muggle. It had been far too long since he had lived among them; his thought processes resisted. More useful perhaps to consider what Harry might do in his free time. If the rumors about him were true, and Snape was selfish enough to hope they were, perhaps the gay district might not be a bad place to check. He decided to check his guidebook and see where that might be these days.

+

The first client was always the hardest, or at least it was for Harry. He wasn't sure if it was the same for everyone else in his... industry, but he knew that whenever the first of the day would approach him, (leisurely crossing one foot in front of the other as if pondering over asking for directions or the time) his heart would start to race and his palms would sweat and he'd nearly dash away. He could picture himself running down the street, running so damn hard one of his shoes would fly off of his foot but he'd keep running.

It was a pleasant fantasy, but one never fulfilled. Harry needed money, and even if he hadn't, even if there was something like another job lined up, it was difficult to leave this profession. There were too many people who'd chase him if he ran. Too many people he owed favors to. Too many mistakes to go back and fix.

So here he was, smoking a fag, leaning against a wall with guarded eyes, surveying his clientele. It wasn't bad - the balding, overweight sycophants never approached Harry, for his nearly cosmopolitan features were too criticizing for someone of ordinary stature to deal with. He was too beautiful for the mundane, but he himself didn't believe that. Harry just thought he was lucky.

It happened. The man who'd been watching him (plain, leather sports jacket and shaggy brown hair) finally advanced, and Harry pushed himself off of the wall.

"Hello," he said huskily, throwing the butt of the cigarette away. It bounced along the wet concrete like a rock skipping over water.

"'Lo," the man muttered. He wore shady sunglasses and looked almost comically suspicious, but Harry figured it went along with the 'John' disposition.

"You live around here," Harry asked casually, dragging his tongue over the bottom lip in a way he knew to be very enticing.

"Mm, no. I'm vacationing here."

Harry grinned. Of course. No, they were *never* local, which is why they always ended up at *his* place.

"Its a shithole, but people seem to enjoy it," Harry stated, smirking. "Though I'll never guess why."

"You live here?" Duh. Harry nodded. "What do you do?"

At this, Harry knew his cue. His eyes drew down into a smoldering, intense stare, and he walked closer to his companion, who drew in two careful, shuddering breaths, and gently brushed a strand of his brown hair out of the man's face, smiling with feline knowledge as he gasped and whet his lips.

"You, honey."

"How much," he asked. Harry gently let his hand rest at the man's neck, right where shoulder met collar bone, and shrugged.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"What you want. Do you want me to fuck you, to suck you? Or do you want to watch your cock disappear slowly inside my tight little asshole? Its up to you, gorgeous, its what you want."

"If I want it, you'll do it?"

"Uhuh. Whatever you want." Harry smoothly, almost tenderly, played with the buttons on his jacket. "What's your name?"

The man hesitated for just a moment, but Harry acted as if he hadn't noticed.

"Ron."

Harry gave a smile, but inwardly, he winced; it would be hard to comply convincingly if Ron wanted his name repeated while they fucked.

"Well, Ron. Follow me. I know where we can converse in privacy." Grinning once again, Harry grabbed Ron's arm and guided him down the street and towards his apartment.