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NEW BLOOD by Silverfish ~: I. "I hate him." Four figures sat slouched at their desks, entirely miserable to a) be forced to share this kind of boring space with one another, and b) to be forced to endure the droning litany of a Shakespearean ghost who wasn't about to let up on his lecture on iambic pentameter anytime soon. Harry Potter sighed and stretched, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling, wondering if there was some way he could make himself disappear up inside of it. Ron was snoring beside him, suffering a nightmare by the sound of it, his fingers frantically tearing at the edges of an unknown book and the words "No..No...Not Strunk and White!.." mumbling from his lips. Hermione was the only person busily scribbling, though it wasn't a homework assignment as one would expect--their schoolbooks had been confiscated. She'd found a piece of parchment and was busily drawing a fairly good rendition of the object of their hate with his head lopped off and blood spurting from the gaping wound. Draco Malfoy, who was sitting beside Harry and was the owner of the abrupt outburst, was busy sneering at the ghost, who by all accounts probably didn't even know they were there. Harry stopped his concentration on the ceiling and faced Draco. "Stating the obvious isn't going to get us out of detention, is it?" he said. He groaned, and slouched even more in his seat, staring all the while at the transparent 'instructor' before them. "They should have hired this guy," Harry said. "At least he knows what he's doing." "What is the point of sitting here bored for half an hour?" Draco snapped. He crossed his arms and glared at Harry as if they were about to turn to dust from years of erosion, and it was all bloody well his fault. Harry shrank a little under the glare because, after all, he *did* have a large amount of responsibility for their current situation. They'd all been warned that the new course added to their already burgeoning workloads was being taught by a Muggle. Harry still had the note he'd received by owl over the summer tucked away in his potions notebook. Since both things made him cringe it was a good resting place. On standard issue Hogwarts paper, in glittering silvery black ink the announcement had been neatly written: ATTENTION! ALL HOGWARTS STUDENTS! It has come to my attention, after perusing the rather sorry state of our most recent spellbooks, that there is a profound lack in the Hogwarts curriculum. It has been a not so well guarded secret among wizards that modern spells have become increasingly difficult to follow, using poorly constructed snippets of poetry, as well as outright plagiarism of Muggle works. There is a very real difference seen between those great old standby spells of yesteryear, their phrases leaping from the page as though visible and alive, and the wilted appearance of their progeny. Alas, most modern spells do not have the old, fiery potency, and as a result suffer not only in their effectiveness, but also in their execution. A poorly written spell is one that limps along, and is often misinterpreted through overly heavy diction. Thus, the board of directors at Hogwarts has decided that to rectify this problem will not be a matter of magic, but of practicality. We have now added to the school syllabus, a standard, non magic English course, and in keeping with the nature of the course, we welcome one of our few non magic members to the faculty of Hogwarts--Professor Daniel Deschamps. Mr. Deschamps has a great deal of experience in understanding the nuances of the English language, and I have been assured by many that his ideas are nothing short of 'unbelievable'. He has requested that I quickly note the books all students at Hogwarts shall be needing for this first sojourn into English instruction. They are as follows: A Clockwork Orange--Anthony Burgess Serial Killers And Their Kin --Psycho Press A Short History of Remarkable Crimes Macbeth--William Shakespeare Psychological Dystopia--A Primer on the After-effects of Law Enforcement Careers--published by Alkie press The Shining--Stephen King The Bell Jar--Sylvia Plath Grammar for 'O' levels--Oxford press All books will be available in Diagon Alley, although Mr. Deschamps has informed me that bonus marks will be awarded to any student who can make his 'CD player' work, and four coupons for butterbeer will be awarded to any student who can manage to bring in a crate of whiskey. I am not entirely sure what the significance of these things are, but I'm sure they have something to do with the exciting ideas he has for your lessons. As always, we, and I, wait impatiently for your return to Hogwarts. Carpe Deum! Albus Dumbledore If the note hadn't expressed it well enough, the current stale, laboratory type atmosphere of the classroom they were trapped in most certainly did. Every cough echoed plainly off of the stark white walls, until it petered off into absolute silence. This was no doubt an effect of the room being a dungeon dwelling, its oppressive nature further aggravated by the fact that Professor Deschamps shared a connecting door with Severus Snape's potions room. Harry had been willing to give the benefit of the doubt, however. At first glance, Daniel Deschamps himself was not a wholly unattractive or bad sort of man, as Hermione had astutely observed. After getting to know him just a little better, Professor Deschamps seemed as at ease in this uncomfortable, clinical atmosphere as a rat was to a dank, pitch black hole. That morning he had gathered all the senior year students into this classroom for a 'mass introduction'. The first years were leaving as the seniors piled in, a cross section of weeping, traumatized ten to fourteen year olds and puzzled fifteen to eighteen year olds moving like opposing currents to and from the room. Harry, Ron and Hermione had picked seats near the middle rows. The back of Harry's seat was immediately kicked. He'd turned to see Draco Malfoy sneering down at him, his cronies Crabbe and Goyle at his side. The white setting of the classroom made him even paler than usual. Harry had glared back and asked before Draco could spit out an insult. "What is it now?" "You should enjoy this class, Potter," Draco said. His lip curled in an evil smirk. "I'm sure all the Mudbloods will get deferential treatment, but then they aren't known for being especially bright are they?" Malfoy let out a laugh, "He could be under an Imperius curse for his entire life and never question it. I'm sure to manage all 'A's" "That would be a first," Hermione quipped. "The only class you can manage an A in is Potions, and that's only because Snape hates Harry so much." "I happen to be good at it," Draco said, narrowing grey eyes. "It's possible," Hermione admitted. "But it's far more likely you're just getting high marks in that class to make Harry look bad." She gave him a level, knowing look. "Emnity can create strange effects." "I wouldn't be so sure of yourself," Draco said to her. "Maybe the next time you drink a bit of your Muggle tea, it'll have more in it than some scummy dead leaves." Ron had given Hermione a despairing look of sympathy, and then turned, red faced to Draco Malfoy. "Keep it up, Draco, and I'll give you a curse worth knowing." "It's amazing," Draco said, looking down at Ron from his position two rows up. "Your transmorgation classes must be going exceptionally well lately. You're looking more like a real carrot every day." Ron made a move to leap from his seat to throttle the smirk off Draco's face, but both Harry and Hermione held him back. "He's just an idiot," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Did you hear that?" Draco said to Crabbe and Goyle. "Even his friends can't deny the truth of what he is!" "She was talking about you," Harry said, darkly. "Which goes to show how much of a moron *you* are if you can't figure that out." "It's just so obviously not the case, Potter," Draco said, and smiled nastily at him. But there had been no more room for trading insults. The class had settled down into a quiet hush that permeated all of existance. Harry, Ron and Hermione, and even Draco, became a part of it, the seconds expanding into minutes, the minutes into clumps of minutes, until they all began to realize they had simply been sitting in their seats quietly for a quarter of an hour, barely even breathing. Daniel Deschamps was behind his desk, he hadn't yet acknowledged the class. He seemed deeply lost in thought, and had been tapping his chin and frowning. Someone coughed, and he shot them a dirty look, which instantly made the pale boy in the third row shrink in fear. After sixteen minutes had passed, Draco audibly sighed, and Harry chanced a look over his shoulder to see Draco slouched in his seat, his arms crossed as well as his expression. He looked about ready to say something, but Deschamps looked up, and suddenly smiled at a girl in the second row to the left, and said: "My, my, if it isn't Donna McTeague." The girl blushed and then looked around at her small gaggle of friends with her for support. "I...I'm not Donna McTeague," she said, shyly. "I'm Alison Featherworthy." Deschamps smiled. The expression was odd on his face, like it knew more than it let on, and what it knew wasn't pleasant. Which of course was what was next revealed. "Oh, no, you wouldn't be Donna," he said. "Donna, unfortunately, is dead. But she looked just like you, right down to the way you wear your hair, it's almost uncanny. Poor girl." He frowned, just a little. "Though, of course...I can't be entirely sure if her brow was the same height as yours, considering the pictures before the murder weren't all that clear, and she had most of her skull shattered by the back of a hammer..." The young girl was mortified. "M...Murdered?" "Oh yes," Deschamps said, and was still smiling warmly. "Let it be a lesson to you, Alison Featherworthy." He shook his finger at her meaningfully, "Be very, very wary of jealous boyfriends." Deschamps left his desk and began pacing in front of it, a rather wistful expression on his face. Every now and then he would brush soft brown bangs from his forehead. "I had a hell of a time putting the pieces of bone back together, I can tell you. You'd be amazed at how fragile the human skull is with the right amount of force. Figuring out the trajectory wasn't so bad, though I had to be careful all the extra tissue had been properly boiled off, because it could have affected the outcome, not to mention all those tiny pieces. You see he'd used the nail removing section of the hammer, not the blunt end, and had essentially pried off the back of her..." The entire class had now descended into the kind of silence one finds when a forest greets a starving panther. Alison Featherworthy looked as though she'd just finished visiting her grave, and she was already laying in it. So, it was with some surprise, that it was Harry who found his voice, and blurted out: "Bloody hell!" "You said it," Ron immediately quipped. "This is *not* part of a standard English curriculum," Hermione pointed out. "Stupid Mudblood!" Draco shouted. Deschamps' eyes shot to Draco, and Harry looked back at his enemy. In this stark white setting he was pale enough to look as though he was in a morgue. Harry doubted detailed descriptions of Muggle murders was something Draco was familiar with, not with the way he was looking so positively sick. Dark blue eyes with a hint of steel honed in on each of them like a hawk to mice and without one whisper of hesitation Deschamps said: "You four! Detention! Three o'clock!" And now, here they were, bored out of their minds, and waiting for three thirty to finally arrive, where Harry and Draco would go into their Potions class through the adjoining door, and Hermione and Ron would be late for their classes on the top floors of Hogwarts. Ron was still twitching in his sleep, his leg kicking the leg of his chair as if he was running. "No..no...Deschamps..grammar...hammer...NO!!" He awoke in a dead sweat, nearly leaping out of his seat in horror. Hermione's hand made him settle back down into it, and Ron furtively searched the room for the dreaded English teacher, and was more than relieved to see a ghost at the lectern instead. Hermione studied the picture she had drawn, Draco begrudgingly agreeing with its rather violent sentiment. Hermione sighed, and carefully folded the picture into a precise square. "I lost my study break in the reference section of the library for this," she said, bitter. "It took me two days to book that half an hour in the Time Management And Travel department, and there's not even any way I can double up the hours, I'm already taking a Transfiguration class at the same time as my Arithmancy quiz." Draco slouched and kicked the back of her chair, and she shot him an evil look over her shoulder. "That's the spirit," he said, "but save it for that Mudblood the next time he comes into this room." "Where the hell *is* he?" Ron wondered aloud. He looked fearfully up at the roof of the stark white classroom, no doubt musing that Deschamps was like an evil presence that could simply be a part of the air. "The last I saw of him, he went through the potions door," Harry said. They all looked in the direction of the adjoining classroom door with matched expressions of dread. "You don't think he'd...Do something to Snape, do you?" Ron asked, hopeful. "If wishes were horses, I'd have a corral," Harry replied. Draco absently kicked at Hermione's chair again, taking some pleasure in the angry expression he was given again. "My father will be hearing about this, make no mistake. He'll be livid when he finds out a Muggle is teaching at Hogwarts. It makes it all the more obvious," Draco said. "Makes what obvious?" Harry asked. Draco made a distinctive 'tch' sound, and shook his head at Harry's apparent stupidity. "That Dumbledore's gone stark raving mad, of course." Harry opened his mouth as if to protest, but he couldn't quite articulate a good argument. The decision to hire Daniel Deschamps was a tad odd, even for the eccentric headmaster of Hogwarts. Though, upon further reflection, when he thought about it, perhaps Deschamps didn't seem odd to Dumbledore *because* of his strangely morbid personality. Hagrid's Monsters class was filled with 'harmless' creatures that would just as soon rip their heads off as be studied, Snape wasn't averse to a nearly deadly poisoning once in a while to get his point across, and Trelawny was an obvious charlatan whose 'expertise' was only thinly tolerated by everyone. Perhaps a Muggle with rather sociopathic tendencies fit in a lot better than any of them realized. "Are you sure he's got no magic?" Ron asked Hermione, doubt in every furrow of his freckled brow. "I've never experienced a half an hour this long!" He cast another glance at the adjoining door, fearful of it opening and at the same time curious. "What would someone like that Muggle talk with Snape about?" Draco wondered aloud. "He's been in there twenty minutes." "Ten minutes more," Ron yawned. "What an eternity!" "Maybe he's demonstrating some carpentry techniques," Hermione said. Deschamps' gruesome descriptions were still very clear in their minds. Both Harry and Draco shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Harry didn't have to use a mind reading spell to understand that Draco was thinking the same thing he was, and wasn't any more eager than Harry to find out if their Potions professor was laying in a puddle of mortal blood on the floor of their classroom. The ghost at the lectern coughed, pages rustling in his transparent grip. "...as we can see, the use of the semi colon in Strunk & White's example is a fascinating study in..." "Nine more minutes," Ron breathed as he stared, wide eyed, at the connecting door. "Nine minutes..." *** Snape's most coveted peace and quiet was a treasure of Hogwarts that he greedily took at every opportunity. Rarely did he mix with the other teachers of the school, and this arrangement had suited him fine for the years he had taught here. He could have spent the remainder of his days in this classroom, and in his potions office quite happily never interacting with another soul, save for a bitter remark here and there. He had long since learned that people were not of much use to him, nor to each other if he thought on it. Everyone wanted their own angle in every relationship, and since Severus Snape had seen some of the darker aspects of human 'friendship' when he played spy against He Who Must Not Be Named, well, there was no wonder why he avoided company. So, it was with suspicious surprise that he met Daniel Deschamps, who had wandered into his empty potions classroom, and then into his office, curious dark navy eyes inspecting the contents of his larger bottled creatures. "Ah, it all ends badly for us, doesn't it? We're alive and then...We're not," Daniel Deschamps said to a bottle of eyes. "What do you want?" Snape asked. One of the jarred creatures on his upper shelf was looking down at Daniel intently. It squished its huge, segmented eyes against the glass to get a better view, and Daniel caught its gaze. The two creatures stared at each other a long moment, and to Snape's horror Daniel even reached up and tapped the side of the glass with his fingernail. "Stop that!" Snape shouted. "That's a horn crested pickled centinewt! They are extremely rare and highly delicate, so unless you know how to dig your way into the bottom of a corspemarsh and can get past its poisonous nettle lined burrow to get another one, I suggest you stop teasing it!" The horn crested centinewt actually looked more curious than upset, but Daniel let his hand fall away to his side. He held it out, instead, to Snape, as a gesture of greeting. "I'm.." "Daniel Deschamps, the Muggle teacher. I'm fully aware of you," Snape said. He did not shake Daniel's hand, but instead sat down at his desk. He made a show of moving some papers about on the surface of it, as though he was doing something of great import--although truth be told, he had been looking forward to his daily half hour of solitude to do nothing at all. "What do you want?" he asked again, not looking up. "Coffee," Deschamps said. "Two floors up," Snape answered. His unwanted 'guest' shrugged, and then nervously scratched the back of his head. "I don't think I'll make it back in time for the next class if it's that far up. I'll settle for a tea, then." He looked around Snape's office hopefully. "You got any?" "I don't have anything," Snape shot back. "You're not a very personable sort of bloke, are you?" "How very perceptive of you. Close the door on your way out." Daniel looked thoroughly exasperated. He sighed, and put his hands in the pockets of his Muggle pants, and shrugged his shoulders again. "It's a been a horrible, long day," he said, clearly to himself since Snape had rebuffed his company. "One moment worse than the next, and I half wonder if that protective custody order wasn't more worthwhile a choice after all. I've done nothing but offend people all day, I can't blame you for being so against me. I suppose you got wind of that argument I had with that Haggis fellow?" Haggis? "You mean Hagrid," Snape clarified, now slightly curious. "Yes. He got into a terrible fit when I told him about how I'd eaten alligator when I did a brief visit to New Orleans," Daniel said. "I don't know why he got into such a state, we'd merely been talking about dragons before that, and he was wondering what kind of Muggle ones there were, and those were the closest cousins that I could think of. I haven't done well by that Treloony woman either, I suspect. She took one look at me and acted as though she'd just seen me gutted." "She thinks that of everybody," Snape replied. "Ah," Daniel said, and smiled warmly. "I knew a woman like that once. Trouble was, she was the one who did the gutting." He shook his head. "Cor...terrible mess that was." An uncomfortable silence followed those words as Snape tried to decipher just what it was Daniel was talking about. Though the light in his dungeon office was dim, he could still get a good look at this new addition to the Hogwarts staff. He hadn't made any attempt to meet him beforehand, and if McGonagall's overheard exclamation of "Horrid man!" earlier that day was any indication of his personality, he'd made the right choice. Still, he looked harmless enough. Large, dark navy eyes that had a lazy understanding within them, dark brown hair that was unkempt and yet had a certain degree of style to it. Such stupidity! What was he looking at his hair and eyes for? Snape allowed the silence that had descended between them to solidify, and become an impenetrable wall. The less he had to do with this new Hogwarts acquisition the better. "I suppose I should go in and make them suffer," Deschamps sighed. "Honestly, I don't think I'm a very good teacher already. Every time I look at his weasly little face I just can't help but be disgusted by him. I knew a lot of his sort when I was working in London, and God help me it pisses me off to have this attitude, but it's so ingrained I can't get rid of it, you know?" Snape was mildly curious. "Disgusted by who?" he asked. Daniel Deschamps crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the door connecting Snape's classroom to his. "That damn kid, and I'm sure he used a racial slur on me. What's his name...Harry Potter, I think." Snape's small, black eyes widened. He looked on Daniel with a renewed interest. "Sorry to have bothered you," Daniel said, and was about to leave. "Wait." He stopped. Snape kept his eyes on him and waved a hand in the direction of one of his middle shelves. "Tea," he said. "In that carafe." NEW BLOOD by Silverfish ~: II. "It's just a shame, is all," Daniel was saying as he sipped at the hot contents of his mug. "Nothing is like I know it should be." Severus Snape was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on the corner of his desk. If any of his fellow faculty members had seen him thus arranged, they'd probably drop dead on the spot of shock, and even their ghosts wouldn't be able to equate the vision of a very relaxed Snape having an indepth conversation with a simple non-magic Muggle. To be honest, Snape himself was quite surprised with the ease with which he and Daniel had hit it off, since most people in his life had been nothing but either irritants or dangerous bullies to ridicule him. Perhaps it was Daniel Deschamps' general personality, which was a mixture of patient calmness and a leaning towards the macabre for topics of conversation. More likely, however, it was the fact that the rest of the faculty wasn't too keen on him, a point with which Snape could most wholly relate to concerning himself. He'd never had any experience in his life with non magic Muggles, so Daniel was again a bit of an oddity in this respect, and Snape couldn't help but find his curiosity aroused, especially when Daniel dared to suggest that certain things in the Muggle world were better than in this Wizard universe. Things like coffee, which Daniel was bitterly missing and talking about now. "You see, the trouble with making a good brew is that it is a very exact science. You cannot use anything but well filtered water, to get rid of extra impurities and minerals which do affect the flavour. The grounds must be grown in good soil, in a sunny, warm climate--never damp--roasted twice before grinding, (however, the best ,of course, come from those beans which *haven't* been ground before hitting the store shelves) hand picked to ensure all beans with blight or improper maturation have been discarded..." Snape shook his head, disbelieving him. "I can't see how such an imperfect and dare I say, overly long and complicated method can make a better cup of coffee than what the house elves create here at Hogwarts." Daniel made a face and poured himself another cup of Snape's 'coffee' into a gnarled mug. The way he usually took it was automatically assigned, complete with milk and sugar and scorching hot. He'd been having this particular brew for the past few days now as he'd made Snape's acquaintance, and much as he wouldn't want to admit it, Snape was beginning to enjoy this imposition on what used to be his half an hour of solitude. He'd even gone through the trouble of visiting the house elves himself, and insisting on the brew's creation exactly as Daniel had described it the first time to him, but clearly new instructions would have to be given. His companion was not happy with Snape's dismissal of his concern. He put the mug down roughly on Snape's desk, sloshing a bit of its contents onto the wood. Snape frowned at it, and wondered if it would leave a ringed stain. Daniel got up and grabbed a large bottle off of one of Snape's shelves, a collection of lizard eyes that swirled around and got a good look at everything as Daniel slammed the bottle on the desk next to his cup of coffee. He leaned on his palms as he clutched the edge of the desk, glaring down all the while at Snape with navy eyes tinged with steel. "You're always telling me how potions is an exact science," Daniel said. "You have to measure out everything exactly as the potion instructs, am I right?" "Of course," Snape said, annoyed with Daniel's seeming anger. "Disaster could result if I didn't!" Daniel sighed and shrugged his right shoulder. He nodded at the jar of eyes. "So, it would be fair to say that if you needed something for your potion, something like a lizard's eye perhaps, all you would have to do is reach into this jar and take out an eye and toss it into a cauldron." Snape couldn't see the point of this argument. His feet left their comfortable propped up position on the edge of his desk and his posture was now significantly stiffer. He didn't look at Daniel, and he crossed his arms as he said, "Of course, if that's what the potion called for." "Aha!" Daniel shouted, nearly toppling Snape from his seat with the sudden outburst. He pushed the jar of eyes further onto Snape's desk, pointing out with a quill pen the various eyes swimming about within it. "Are they all the exact same size?" Snape scoffed, and pushed the jar away. "Of course not." Daniel pushed the jar forward again, pointing at the eyes with the tip of his quill. The eyes swam in circles and followed it in curiosity. "In my world," he said. "The size, the colour, the shape, the age, the familial line of lizards these eyes came from--all of these things would have to be taken into account to receive as accurate a result as possible. One one hundredth of a difference in any of those things could drastically affect the outcome of any experiment or finding." Daniel gave Snape a lopsided grin. "Seems to me, magic is the more imperfect method if such things aren't important. 'Exact science' indeed." "Your prejudices hardly explain why you feel the need to debase my career and my life over a cup of coffee," Snape angrily replied. "I'm not holding any prejudice at all," Daniel said. He picked up the jar a bit more carefully than before and placed it on the shelf he had found it. "I'm merely the stating the obvious facts." The eyes followed him as he sat down in his chair, some circling and dashing within the murky green liquid they lived in to get a better look. "The fact is, everything here doesn't taste right to me. It's like it's freezer burnt or plastic. It's got nothing to do with your life or Hogwarts at all, it's all to do with me, and what I'm used to, which is, I suppose, all those variables making a difference, which in the simpler machinations of magic don't apply." Snape was definitely perturbed now. Was this man really suggesting that simple Muggle lives completely devoid of magic had some more exacting content than what his world encompassed? He might try and make it all right by telling himself that this was simply the way the facts presented themselves, but as Snape saw it, Daniel was being a bigot. Muggle workings better than magic, indeed. The very concept was preposterous! "The examples of magic you have seen have been very limited, Daniel," Snape said, keeping his voice dark, and even. "I assure you, magic is far more reaching than making a cup of coffee appear for you out of air. Entire worlds can be made and destroyed, the physical properties of a place manipulated into whatever strikes the wizard's fancy, a person can be forced to perform acts they have no wish to do, incredible pain can be inflicted, and, worst of all, a person can be killed with magic." Daniel sighed, and sank into the chair opposite of Snape. His lazy, navy eyes were looking on him in what could only be interpreted as pity. "I'm afraid all of those things can be done without magic as well, Severus, in one way or another. I hate to be the first to tell you this, but you don't need a whit of magic to kill a person or cause them pain. I suppose in my world, it's just messier to clean up afterwards." "Look, if your type of Muggle magic..." "It's called 'science'," Daniel interrupted, and Snape narrowed his small, black eyes at him. "If your 'science' is so perfect, then why haven't Muggles discovered our world?" Snape steepled his fingers and pressed them just below his top lip, his eyes filled with victory as he looked on Daniel. He watched intently as Daniel blandly picked up his gnarled mug and sipped a bit of the hot brew within it. "We have," he said. "There is a theorization that all known outcomes can and do happen, and that we permanently live in a randomized universe, each layer of possibilities invisible to the next and yet affecting the outcome of each. My coworker at the lab, Amanda, she knows about this stuff better than I do. Quantam physics. Fascinating, really." He placed his mug on the surface of Snape's desk again. "It only stands to reason that if science says magic doesn't exist, then of course it *has* to exist in the realm of possibility simply because of its function as a variable." Snape's steepled fingers clasped together into a solid fist at his chin. "I'm getting a headache," he said, and frowned. "Granted, there is a lot of cross-disciplines involved," Daniel continued. "An overlay of philosophy meeting scientific thought, if you will..." He was saved by the opening of his classroom door, and several students noisily making their way in, iron cauldrons clanking against each other. Daniel was now loudly discussing the ramifications of this theory and the unused strands of RNA found even on invertebrates and how this suggests that though the need for the genetic information was forgotten, there is this ingrained need in the map of Life to keep prepared for any possibility--Or something to this effect, by this point Snape's head was ready to split open from a migraine, and right now the less he thought about Muggles and their overly complicated existence the better. "Daniel," Snape said to him, ignoring the odd looks both Potter and Malfoy were giving him, "you have an English class to teach." "Cor, nearly forgot about that!" Daniel said, and leapt from the chair and into Snape's classroom, where he then made his way through the connecting door to his own, sterile white post. He didn't close the door all the way, and its brightness was a large sliver of white that invaded Snape's rather dark and organic potions classroom. Snape had a few moments to think while his classroom settled down into their seats, his small black eyes nervously looking through the partially open door. Daniel's classroom was a sheer monstrosity to Snape, the sterile nature of it disconcerting. It seemed cruel to force the poor man to work in such an environment. Daniel obviously didn't know enough to complain--Perhaps a visit to Dumbledore on Daniel's behalf wouldn't be too terrible a thing to contemplate. Darker walls and a few hopefully non threatening plants would do wonders to make the place more amenable. As uncomfortable as the room made him, he left the door ajar, Daniel's voice wafting into the potions room at odd intervals, the words 'Quantum', 'Darwin's Theory', 'Paleolithic' twisting through the air like poetry. How strange, when what he talked about was confusing and impossible to understand, and yet Snape felt so drawn to it, regardless of how much of a headache it caused. The subjects themselves, Snape realized weren't what interested him so much as the way Daniel acted when he talked about them, his body animated, a spark of passion steely making its way through dark navy eyes. It was uncomfortable to think that it was this that interested Snape most about the man. Muggle magic, and Daniel too, had all the attraction of the forbidden. He was a moth and Daniel was a flame, and nothing he could tell himself would prevent him from being drawn to him, regardless of how dangerous such an association could be. Today's lesson required lizard eyes, and Snape got the large jar of swimming eyes that Daniel had used for his example of 'science' versus 'magic'. He drummed his fingers on the lid as he stared at it, the classroom silent and waiting for him to tell them how they were going to be used. He glanced up at his class, at their disgusted expressions as they watched the jar's contents, his mind full of what Daniel had told him. "You will need four eyes each, and you will reach into this jar and take them out one by one with your bare hands. Be careful, they are Trolling Lizard eyes, and they will bite." He cleared his throat and gave his class one more passing glance before taking off the lid of the jar. "Make sure they are all the same size." *** Unlike the day, the late evening brought with it a crisis. Dumbledore was sighing heavily as he looked on the cloak Sirius Black had brought to him, Remus Lupin looking pointedly on. Snape hovered near the door, not missing any of the information given, observing as he always did everyone's reaction. Hagrid and McGonagall were also present, as was, oddly enough, Daniel Deschamps, though why he needed to be appraised of He Who Must Not Be Named's infiltration into Hogwarts was anybody's guess. "I'm sorry to have disturbed your slumber," Dumbledore said, his voice ancient and tired. "But what we have here is evidence of a most alarming nature. It is the cloak of a Death Eater, one of Volde--I'm sorry Minerva--He Who Must Not Be Named's followers, and whoever this is, they are in the vicinity of Hogwarts, possibly not far from here in Hogsmeade. We have no idea who they are or even what they look like. Hagrid was the one who nearly apprehended the interloper, but lost him in the dark forest. He couldn't see who it was, and the cloak itself has no magical properties attached to it, and it cannot tell us a thing. All I can recommend to all of you is to be extra vigilant. Danger lurks very close to home." "I'm feeling right foolish that I's never managed to catch 'im," Hagrid said, unhappily. He sat his huge bulk down onto a chair, which groaned in protest against his massive weight. He punched his palm with a huge fist. "I woulda flattened 'im good if I 'ad." "You cannot blame yourself Hagrid, you did manage to get his cloak. At least the crest hidden in the lining is present, otherwise we would never have known." He unfolded the cloak and turned over the black silk that was the lining around the bottom right edge of the hem, the unmistakable snake and skull crest of Voldemort embroidered in shining silver threads. "How did you find him?" Sirius Black asked Hagrid. Hagrid sighed again. "I was looking for slugs to feed the pot-bellied griffin I got," he said. "They're a nice treat for her. It's hard to find any near my home, what with all the other things eating everything, I think the slugs have gotten wise to me. So, I headed into the periphery of the dark forest to see what I could scrounge up. And sure as I stepped my foot in there, I saw a cloaked shadow out o' the corner of my eye." He tapped it with a large finger as though to emphasize the point. "So's I pretended I didn't see nothing, and then, when I was picking up a leaf to harvest a slug, I just swung around right fast and clobbered him down with one shove of my arm. He was pretty quick, though, managed to wiggle away from me and then all I was left with was the cloak while 'e took off into the woods, and then did a dissaparation spell. I 'eard him yelling out 'Hogsmeade'." "He must be familiar with the woods if he risked running further into them," Remus said. "Not necessarily," Sirius replied. His black brows knitted together. "It's possible that's why he performed the dissaparation spell, he knew he could get out of it at any time. Also, Hagrid only found him on the periphery." He looked over at Hagrid with dark concentration. "You keep calling this person a 'he'." Hagrid immediately nodded. "Yeah, he had broad shoulders like, a bit bulky. His voice was pretty deep too. I dun think it was a woman at all, but then one can't be sure of anything." "That narrows it down to about fifty percent of the Hogsmeade population," McGonagall unhappily observed. Snape walked towards Dumbledore's desk, away from his position at the door. His hands were clasped behind his back as he spoke. "Perhaps it would be wise to investigate the area where Hagrid first met this 'Death Eater'. He may have dropped something more than his cloak that will give us an idea of who he is." "He's already dropped an awful lot," Daniel said. He was looking at the cloak in Dumbledore's hands with a hungry expression. He shrugged and scratched the back of his head, an irritating habit that for some reason set Snape on edge. "If you are finished with it, may I have it for a few days?" Dumbledore stroked his beard, and then bundled up the woolen fabric. "It's a perfectly good cloak, I can't see why not," he said, and gave it to Daniel, who thanked him, and without saying anything to anyone else, not even Snape, he quickly left the office. Sirius and Remus gave each other knowing looks, Sirius nodding in the direction Daniel had left. "Headmaster, I'm not so sure that man is trustworthy," he said. "I have to agree," McGonagall shot back. "Always talking about murder, and I have to soothe the fears of my poor first year students every time he's had a chance to give them a daily traumatizing. Poor Dean Chalmers was beside himself with worry the other day, he was convinced his cereal was going to do him in. Honestly, 'cereal killers'--it's terrible the way he teases them!" Even Hagrid was in agreement. "Any man what eats dragons for a lark isn't all there in my book," he said, and tapped the side of his forehead with his beefy thumb. "If I may say," Snape interjected. "Perhaps we are being a little harsh on Mr. Deschamps." Sirius and Remus raised twin brows in surprise at this defense coming from, of all people, Snape. "He has not had the same kind of background we have, and as such has a much different outlook. It may be difficult for us to understand that he lives without the influence of magic, and even our Muggle students have at least had this exposure by being attendees at Hogwarts." "Professor Snape is right," Dumbledore assented immediately. "We must not let our own preconceptions of how a person like Mr. Deschamps *should* behave colour who he in fact *is*. Right now we have more important matters to deal with than mere gossip. So, Sirius, Hagrid--Lead the way to where you last saw this interloper, and if we are very lucky we may discover much more than a quality cloak." *** The journey into the forest yielded nothing more than some footprints which corroborated exactly what Hagrid had said, the steps remaining on the periphery of the forest and then breaking off into nothing at the spot where he dissaparated. Sirius held his wand outstretched before the footprints and shouted "Lumos!" The footprints were much more visible in the bright light, their pattern a haphazard bundle of misplaced steps as the wizard had run from Hagrid. Sirius crouched down to get a better look at them, his fingers touching the pattern now sealed in the drying mud. Some of the now light brown clay clung to his fingertips and he brushed them off onto the black folds of his robe, leaving chalky streaks. "I can tell you one thing," he said. "He wasn't used to the forest, I'm sure he's been hanging around in the Muggle world for quite a while. Long enough to see a need to buy their footwear." He gestured to the footprints in the mud again. "These aren't wizard shoes by any means, only Muggles have the sizes of their shoes imprinted on the treads. See here? That circle with the number inside of it--size thirteen and a half. There's also a bit of wear on the heel, you can tell because of how light the treads are. He's been wearing these shoes regularly." "Curious," Remus said. "What's a Death Eater doing in the world of Muggles? More importantly right now, however, I guess we've narrowed him down a bit further. We just have to look for a wizard with a pair of Muggle's size thirteen and a half shoes." A breeze carried through the dark forest, making all of them slightly shiver against it. The trees were in conspiracy above them, whispering their secrets amongst themselves as the breeze carried their gossip up the thick canopies of dark green and black leaves. "I wouldn't be so confident about that," Snape replied. "There's a good chance he's gotten rid of his shoes by now, he wouldn't be able to hide bulky looking footwear like this for long. It's possible he's even returned to wherever it is he's hiding out in the world of Muggles, he's had plenty of time to journey out of Hogsmeade." "That may be true," Sirius said. "But whatever it was he was supposed to find here, he failed in the attempt. He'll be back, I'm sure of it." Remus sighed. "In the meantime we're stuck looking for a wizard with a pair of discarded Muggle shoes and a missing cloak. I'd say half of Hogsmeade. We're no better off than we were in Dumbledore's office." The gathering of wizards and Hagrid made their way out of the dark forest, all of them unhappy with how this had turned out. Remus was walking ahead of them all in a steady gait beside Dumbledore and insisting that several protective charms be placed at strategic points on the school grounds. Snape wasn't so sure this would be enough, since this was Lord Voldemort they were talking about, and it didn't matter what kind of 'protection' you thought you had, if he was determined enough to find you and kill you, he'd make quick work of it. No, the best recourse would be to flush out this latest rat, and learn everything that he knew. Right now, such a plan was near impossible. They parted ways at the entrance of Hogwarts, Snape walking past Sirius and Remus who were still in conspiratorial conversation with Dumbledore, the ancient wizard chuckling at intervals and shaking his head at the suggestion that the school be placed in a protective 'bubble' charm--A horrible idea due to the risk of suffocation, and definitely too drastic for a place that wasn't yet under overt attack. Snape left them and walked alone into Hogwarts, the hallways dark and full of shadows from the scant light given off from the candles lining the walls. He descended a set of familiar stairs and then a few others to reach his dungeon office as well as his living quarters, which was at the end of the corridor that held his potions room. He was momentarily surprised, however, to see a bright, white light slicing its way through the hall, the dewy walls glistening from its reflection. Daniel's classroom. He paused at the door to see him in his stark white setting, the cloak laid out on a large, metal table before him at the lectern. He was taking large pieces of clear, wide tape, and carefully placing them over the fabric, pulling it off again with precision. He would then place the pieces of tape and their collection of fuzz face up on his desk, and start again with another wide strip. Snape watched him for a while, wondering what madness he was concocting now. If he'd wanted the cloak cleaned, all he had to do was ask and a quick wave of Snape's wand would have done the trick. He decided against bothering him with this information. Right now, Snape was tired, and his head was full of all kinds of worries that a potions master shouldn't have to deal with, the number one issue in his mind being that of Voldemort's possible return, and just how angry he would be with his former follower. Spies never had very healthy or long lives, and especially not those who worked as double agents. He walked a few paces past Daniel's door, and then paused. He rolled up his sleeve, inspecting the mark that lay on his arm, the serpent coiling around the circumference of his flesh. The branding of a Death Eater. It was faded now, but its presence alone gave Snape great pain, its constant reminder of what he could have become had he not been stronger. It was a bitter cause for reflection. Had he been as lazy as some of the others, as complacent and easily appeased, he might have fallen for Voldemort's lies. But as much as the Dark Arts had attracted him, the forbidden a genuine draw for his passion, he could never descend into what Voldemort was. Evil was not a power worth gaining the favour of. He was not so soulless to allow himself to reconcile with it. His steps echoed dully as he walked. Daniel's classroom door suddenly closed, the shaft of white light now effectively sealed away as Daniel worked inside. Snape hoped he hadn't offended him by walking by without at least saying hello. Simple social pleasantries...They had always been his downfall. He reached his home with tired relief. If morning decided to come, it would be grey and dreary. Better to look forward to the afternoon. For three o'clock, to be precise. This had fast become the only time of day he felt alive. NEW BLOOD by Silverfish ~: III. Morning arrived in shades of grey, but not in the mist and dreariness of rain as Snape had expected. No, this morning showed up with a vast amount of attitude and one hell of a big bang. Smoke billowed out of Daniel's classroom, and out into the damp hallway. The door had blown clean off and was now a twisted, broken collection of metal and burning wood. Snape had barely had time to grab his striped housecoat and pull it over his grey nightshirt, his wand held tightly in his grip, ready to fight. Luckily, the explosion had happened too early, the students not due to arrive to their first class until two hours from now. A moment of panic welled up inside of Snape as he realized the last time he had seen Daniel was late last night, but it was quickly abated when he saw Daniel himself running down the hallway in the direction of his destroyed classroom. He stood in the doorway's black charred remains, with just a vague expression of surprise. "Damn," he said. "I'd gotten it to look just the way I'd wanted it, too." He turned when he heard Snape's steps echoing towards him, and flashed him a wide grin. "Your quarters are down here too? Convenient that, I have to take the express stairs every morning." He waved a large, yellow manila envelope at him. "Good thing I kept this with me. Pity about the cloak, though." Snape's small eyes widened. "The cloak blew up?" "No, silly man, my *letters* blew up. You can tell by the way my desk is so mangled, and look at how the drawers are shot outwards. I distinctly remember placing my mail in the upper right hand drawer, and as you can see even from here, that one has the worst damage." Daniel sighed in disappointment. "I left the cloak on that metal table that's melted in the corner. Cor, this is a right mess." It certainly was. From Snape's viewpoint, the formerly sterile white environment of Daniel's classroom was now a black, charcoal mess of wood, plaster and metal. It would take at least two hours to get it temporarily restored by magical means--and a good few days before it would be fully repaired. They both walked into the smoking confines, Snape heading for his potions door, which thankfully had protected both his potions office and his classroom from damage. Daniel followed him in, shutting the heavy potions door behind him as they settled into Snape's damp, and dark workspace. Snape lit an oil lamp, which set a slightly warmer golden glow over the setting, though the things in the jars sleepily raised their many legs and heads to see why their slumber had been disturbed. The pickled centinewt on the top shelf happily circled around its large jar, more than pleased to see Daniel, who automatically reached up to tap the glass, only to refrain at Snape's glare. "Have you got any of that coffee?" Daniel asked. "Daniel," Snape began, "before I give you anything other than an Imperius curse, can you please tell me what the devil is going on?" "I told you," Daniel said, looking a little hurt at Snape's accusatory tone. "One of my letters blew up." Snape sank into his chair behind his desk with a slouched resignation. He clasped his hands in his lap. "Yes, you made that clear. What would be nice to know is *why*, and *who* sent it." Daniel tapped his chin thoughtfully with his fingers. "I can't be sure as to who," he said. "But why is clear enough. I put plenty of druglords and so-called criminal masterminds into prison over the years, and every last one of them hates me for it. There isn't a week that goes by that I don't get at least one death threat. They always seem to know where I've moved to--I've just learned to be vigilant." "Except last night," Snape observed. He pulled his striped housecoat close around him, and crossed his arms over his chest, small black eyes glittering nastily in the gloom. "Are there any other unsettling surprises about you going to show up?" "Oh, no," Daniel said in calm assurance. "I'm a walking alive dead man, that's about it." His odd quip was instantly overshadowed by another, this time smaller, explosion that rocked Daniel's English classroom, and pummeled the connecting door so severely a huge splinter was rendered up its middle. Snape looked on in aghast shock, while Daniel shrugged as he inspected it, his hand automatically finding the back of his head as he nervously rubbed at the base of his neck. The centinewt squished its segmented eyes against the glass of its jar, and quizzically investigated Daniel, Snape and the damaged door. "Just how many letters did you receive?" Snape asked, his black eyes wide and staring unblinking at the connecting door. "About four," Daniel said. "Really?" Snape said. He flung open the door, and before any more damage could be done he held out his wand and shouted: "Temporal Glacius!" The room was frozen in time, even the dust particles remaining static in the air. As they stepped back into the destroyed classroom Daniel tried to nudge a piece of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling out of his way. It was as immovable as if it were nailed to stone. Frantic footsteps were now arriving, along with a few woken students. Dumbledore was the first to arrive on the scene, his long white beard tangling against the collection of broken wooden splinters and smoldering ash as he made his way into the destroyed room. McGonagall was close behind him, and she coughed through the dust. A large, black dog appeared at the doorway, as did Remus Lupin, his wand held out and ready to do battle. "I don't understand," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "We've checked all of Hogwarts for magical sabotage, this room especially." Snape's eyes narrowed. "The reason it was not detected is because magic wasn't used." He pointed with his wand to an envelope that was frozen in time, its contents a solid flame as it had begun to explode. "I have reason to believe that Mr. Deschamps was nearly assassinated, and by Muggle means." "Letter bombs," Daniel clarified. "They're actually quite easy to do, and an expert can make one that looks just as ordinary as an electricity bill." "Yes," Dumbledore said, and stroked his white beard. "An explosive device that doesn't use any of the influences of magic. How very ingenious." His white brows knit together as he looked up at Daniel. "Fascinating as it is, perhaps it would be best if you received all mail by owl from now on. Oh, and in future have Professor Snape go over each letter for possible tampering. Your former coworker Chief Constable Blurty had said you were having some trouble with 'those mobster bastards' as he called them, though how they have found a connection into the Wizard world is anybody's guess." Daniel waved his yellow manila envelope before him. He had a distinctly mischievous glint to his navy eyes. "I've taken the liberty of getting rid of your guesswork," Daniel said. "I got your wizard interloper right in here." *** To be honest, Snape didn't *really* believe there was in fact a tiny, flat little wizard folded up in the manila envelope, so he didn't partake in the confusion now reigning in the faculty lounge. He knew Daniel well enough by now to understand that whatever he had to say, it would be complicated, headache inducing, and would make little sense, save for the very important bits which *did* make sense. Deducing what was worthwhile and what wasn't had been an exercise in patience few could master. Right now, Daniel was babbling something about the physical constructions of a creature known in the Muggle world as a tsetse fly and how it had wiped out a few hundred people or so in Panama by passing along malaria. McGonagall had gone pale and asked Daniel if this Malaria girl had ever been caught, since killing a few hundred people is considered a horrible crime no matter what world you find yourself in. This of course resulted in a very long lecture on the nature of something known as viral disease versus airborne microorganisms, which didn't answer McGonagall's question at all. Oh, Merlin's ashes! He was getting a migraine already! The coffee table was strewn with papers and diagrams of insects, along with a rather tattered looking map of the world spread on the floor in front of it, multicoloured tacks holding it in place on the rug. A few small countries were marked with pins that had little red flags on their heads, and one of them was notably Panama. "Now, in the flea world, there are differences," Daniel was saying. "A flea in Panama is not the same as a flea in Surrey--as you can see, here." He held up a small rectangle of glass with two tiny fleas pasted onto their surface, and handed Sirius Black a magnifying glass. Remus Lupin looked over his shoulder and uttered a small cry of surprise. "How very fascinating! They look just like Roving Wilkerbeasts, although Wilkerbeasts are well over one hundred and fifty pounds and have much larger teeth. Hagrid would love these!" "Why are we looking at bugs?" Sirius said, impatiently giving both the slides and the magnifying glass to a happy Remus Lupin. "This is a waste of time, we should be sending people into Hogsmeade. Whoever blew up your classroom..." "Is long gone, I'm afraid," Daniel replied. "And quite possibly not the man we're after, although I admit, coincidence can breed suspicion." He paced in front of the map on the floor, his voice a calm intonation that carried through the room. Snape felt his edgy nerves easing as he listened to him, a lull of pleasant harmony coursing into his being. The migraine was still there, but as long as he didn't try to understand Daniel too much, he could simply enjoy the peaceful lilt of his voice, as well as the figure he presented with his large eyes lazily surveying his diagrams, and his dark brown hair hanging messily in a stylish halo above a rather handsome face. His headache shot a sense of awareness painfully through the back of his left eye. He cast a worried glance about the room, inspecting everyone's expression in hopes they hadn't caught him looking at Daniel in a manner that could only be described as 'dreamily'. They seemed as rapt by Daniel's speech as Snape had been, and he settled into more ease into his seat. "So you're saying that these flies," Lupin held up the small rectangular pieces of glass, "suggest that our man has not only been in Panama, he's been bitten by an infected one, and then came home here to get a good bite from a Surrey flea, and you can tell this because of the ages of the fly's exorcism?" "Exoskeleton," Daniel said. "Seems like a big stretch to me," Sirius Black said. "I don't know how you figure you know he's not only been in the Muggle world, but he's gotten bit by an infected bug, and he had a hot dog at a Surrey fair, complete with mustard, before coming here, he's got black hair, is possibly Asian or Moroccan, wears a dark red acrylic sweater, the cloak was at least one size too small for him so we have a good idea of his real bulk..." "It's a pity I don't have his shoe size," Daniel said, frowning. "Er..." Remus said. "Thirteen and a half. He wears Muggle shoes. We saw the footprints in the forest last night." Daniel was wounded to the core. "You never told me!" he exclaimed. "We could have had him last night if you had!" He sighed and paced before the map again. "I don't think he's left Hogsmeade, if he's even managed to make it there. The average gestation period of malaria gives him a few days of supposed health. I suggest you send a couple of people to Hogsmeade to track down a very, very sick black haired wizard with no cloak, a love of junk food and possibly wearing Muggle clothes, who is about I would say 160 to 170 pounds. I'm afraid I can't get a good idea of his height without measuring his stride." Daniel frowned, staring at his collection of 'evidence' on the coffee table. "Odd as it is to say, perhaps you aren't so wrong about this fellow being involved in blowing up my classroom. He sounds familiar, though I can't quite place him." He most certainly was familiar, Snape thought with great discomfort. Dumbledore, who had been quietly snoring near the roaring fire, coughed and shifted in his seat. "Hm...I wonder. Professor Snape?" It was on the tip of his tongue to utter a protest, but it seemed a strange thing to do when all Snape had in his mind right now was a nagging suspicion, and not even the 'facts' of a flea's dried up leg to back it up. "Perhaps you and Mr. Deschamps could take a little trip to Hogsmeade this afternoon," Dumbledore said. He rose from his seat with some difficulty, a frailty to him that pained Snape to witness. "There is something about this wizard's description that teases my memory as well. Potions can be taught by Professor Lupin, if he is willing to double up his workload for the remainder of the day?" Remus Lupin nodded. "English classes will have to be canceled for now, due to the repair of Mr. Deschamps' classroom." "How unfortunate for the students," McGonagall said, and didn't even try to keep the irony out of her voice. *** An unhappy memory, once pulled to the surface, has the habit of needling a person until it's as vivid and real as though it had happened only hours ago instead of fifteen years. The journey into Hogsmeade with Daniel had thankfully been very quiet, though it didn't do anything for his headache. If his tense demeanor had disturbed his friend in any way, Daniel didn't show it, and in fact seemed to be going out of his way to put Snape into a better humour. "This butterbeer stuff isn't half bad, if you get the stronger variety," Daniel said, taking a good gulp of his. They were sitting in a tavern somewhere on the edge of Hogsmeade. So far their search had been unsuccessful, and Snape's disappointment that Daniel's theories hadn't worked filled him with a sense of pity for his Muggle friend. They would no doubt exclude him in future from all matters relating to Voldemort and his forces, and as such Daniel would probably withdraw from all of the Hogwarts staff and its dealings. Maybe he would even go so far as to stop his daily ritual of dropping by Snape's office for 'coffee' at three o'clock. Such a prospect filled Snape with infinite sadness. He remembered, painfully, a time when he was a young student of sixteen at Hogwarts, when he himself was ostracized, his solitude so oppressive he had to either succumb to it or fight it--Since he had been an unattractive, spindly youth with very little interest in sport, he had learned to appreciate being alone. The triad of terror that was Sirius, Remus and James had made his life very difficult indeed, for not a day had gone by where they hadn't played some cruel prank or other on him. They'd once pasted a dead stinkfish on the bottom of his cauldron and it had been an entire year before he realized the horrible smell in his potions class had been wafting from his own iron pot. The Slytherins had tolerated him but barely, and he was sure most of them agreed with the rest of the student body that he was a creature of unified contempt, and he'd caught more than one of his fellow housemates joining in on the laughter caused at Snape's expense. Life at Hogwarts had been horrible. He'd vowed, even then, to come back and show them all, a militant tactic for revenge that had him eventually joining the Death Eaters, and in the odd twist of fate's irony had him now teaching at the one place that he had been most powerless.. Ostracization had its up side, however. The trouble with enforced solitude was that one grew greedy for one's own soul. Snape found that when the time came, he simply couldn't sell it to Voldemort. He couldn't give it to anybody, not the crooked toothed girl who had been the one to kindly inform him of the stinkfish, not the Professor of the Dark Arts at the time, who had shown him how to get himself out of locked closets (a situation which many a Gryffndor student had indulged in against him), and certainly never Sirius, Remus and James--though he had to admit that their antics were the ones that plagued his inward thoughts of revenge the most. No, he couldn't give himself to anybody, not even when they tried to force the issue. Like that one, especially, that perfectly built machine who whizzed through the air on his broom, whipping through hoops, his cape always carelessly discarded before every Quidditch match, who Snape just couldn't help looking at every time he happened to be on the field, or in the library...Or even just walking down the hall. He gulped a good portion of his strong butterbeer. He didn't want to think about this, but the name crept out of nowhere, that memory crawling on him like a spider making a web. Aristotle Crowley. He'd been popular. He'd been athletic. When he entered a room the air was electric with his magnetism, you couldn't help but be drawn to him, to just look at him and enjoy the fact that he was sharing air with you, and Snape hadn't been immune to these charms--If anything he discovered he was oddly addicted to them. He always made sure he was in the same study period at the library as Aristotle was, would sit at a good vantage point where he could hear his voice in class, and get a good look at his profile every now and then. Even though he had no interest in sport, he'd attended every Quidditch match that Slytherin played simply to watch him. The reason for Snape's interest in this fellow student was never fully explained even to himself. He couldn't understand why this admiration kept welling up for this fellow student he didn't even know well enough to nod hello to in the hall. Out of self preservation he'd kept it secret, it was best that way, he had thought. But Aristotle, for all his outward popularity, was in Slytherin for a reason. The night was old, Snape recalled, the hour hovering around eleven o'clock pm, and it was February. Snow had collapsed the world into a suffocating whiteness that bit its chill into Snape's marrow. He was sixteen and had been in the library, while the rest of the school was attending a celebratory dance of some sort, he couldn't remember what for now, as it had held no interest for him. He was searching for information on black thorned nettles for a potion he was devising as a bonus project. With a copy of the page and its illustration of the plant, he had left the library and headed outside onto the Hogwarts grounds, his destination for the periphery of the dark forest, where he was sure he had seen this exact plant. It was a bitter cold night, but anyone with any sense knew the best time to harbour black thorned nettles was in this setting--they would be able to see the harvester in the day, and as such could be dangerous. Snape's eyes had stared into the blackness of a large bush, trying to find them. He leaned against a large, nearby tree to open the paper with the illustration to ensure he was searching in the right area. Two hands grabbed his shoulders and pinned him against the tree's wide trunk. The object of his mild obsession was staring him down, his mouth twisted in fury as he shouted at Snape. "What are you following me around for?" Snape's first thought was that Aristotle was about to throttle him because he'd managed to get into Snape's head and read his mind, though why he would even think to wander around in there in the first place was strange. So no, that couldn't be why he'd pinned Snape to that tree, and stared at him with such a strange expression, one that Snape had never seen on anyone before and was at a loss to figure out how best to deal with. "I was just...I was just looking..." Snape began and glanced at the black nettles in the bush to his right. The grip on his shoulders tightened, and Aristotle leaned in. Snape closed his eyes, waiting for the resulting pain of a fist meeting his face, or a knee to his stomach, so furious was the aura of his peer. Aristotle did attack him, as it were. With his mouth, a firm and unrelenting kiss given against Snape's stuttering explanation.... Fear. Terror, even. Both inexplicably mixed with desire. How long had it lasted? Snape figured the reality was probably only a few minutes, though his memory stretched the moment to last for hours, and if he was honest, it was that moment that had followed him for nearly two decades into the present. He could still feel the warmth of breath against his ear, the feel of his bulk as he pressed against him, that kiss diving headlong into every aspect of Snape's soul. He'd pulled back. He'd stared at Snape as though he was some pariah that he'd accidentally stepped in. He'd tossed Snape to the right, where he landed in the nest of black nettles and had stormed away from the black forest and all the temptation that the situation had caused. He'd left Snape wounded by the vicious plants. Snape had to bloodily limp to the infirmary when he finally managed to get free of them, and had needed the lacerations on his shoulder sewn. He'd earned a week's worth of detention from his potions master for being 'foolhardy'. "Aristotle Crowley," a familiar voice said. Snape was shaken into the present by Daniel's voice, a familiar feeling of horrible dread coming over him. "What did you say?" "The barkeep here had him last night, but he's gone now. We missed him by only half an hour. The owner, Mr. Bluebottle, says a wizard by that name stayed here last night, and he fits our descriptions perfectly, right down to being sick." "He looked as pale as a ghost," Mr. Bluebottle said. He gave his transparent barmaid an apologetic smile. "No offense lass." He turned his attention back to Snape and Daniel. "I told him he looked too sick to go taking off, but he insisted on it. I admit I was a bit worried about him, he couldn't even walk that well, but that might have been because of those big clunky shoes he was wearing. He stepped out of the bar here onto the street and dissapparated." "Did you hear where went?" Snape asked. Both Mr. Bluebottle and his ghostly barmaid shook their heads. "Hopefully to a hospital," Bluebottle said. "Ghosts don't buy butterbeer." *** Snape tried his best to be patient, but Daniel's pacing was now getting on his nerves as well. He stopped him with an outstretched hand, and Daniel looked down on his seated form, confusion reigning in his gaze. They had arrived back at Hogwarts just an hour ago, and were all collected once again in Dumbledore's office. Sirius Black stood scowling at Daniel from his vantage point in the corner of the room, and Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, stroking his white beard in careful concentration. "Trust me, Mr. Deschamps, it isn't that I don't wish to pursue this information. The problem arises because of the fact that he has journeyed to a place that is far from my influence, and will require special permission to bring him back into our world. There are strict laws that prevent wizards from mingling too much of their affairs in Muggle areas, laws which even now Voldemort finds he must obey." Dumbledore sighed, and gave Daniel a pained look of understanding. "Knowing who to watch out for is more than enough of the battle, for now." "I can have him in custody in an hour," Daniel said with quiet assurance. Dumbledore shook his head, adamant."No. I forbid it." The rest of the room, though disappointed, was content with this order from the Hogwarts headmaster. They knew better than most that these decisions were not based on the whims of an eccentric old man, but were the careful workings of a wizard mastermind. Who knew what influence Dumbledore had on the future outcomes of this war? His mind was an endless maze of possibility, a fact that almost put him in harmony with some of the scientific philosophy Daniel had discussed with Snape not so long ago. Snape was uncomfortable beneath Dumbledore's scrutiny, which had now inexplicably turned to him. "I wonder," Dumbledore said, "what Aristotle Crowley's best subject here was. I remember he was quite popular and a talented Quidditch player. There had been no complaint of his conduct nor his marks, so why he felt he had to leave midway through his sixth year, and insisted on a transfer to Durmsdey Academy instead...It was very strange." "Arithmancy," Snape said in confidence. He cast small, black eyes around the room to gage how surprised anyone was at his knowing this information, but the remark caused no reaction. Dumbledore raised a bushy white brow, "Ah, yes, I remember now. He'd have taken top prize that year for certain, had he stayed. How very interesting, since much of Arithmancy concerns the manipulation of fire, in all its fascinating forms." He stroked his beard in reflection. "I suspect bomb making could be considered a part of it, even if he didn't use magical means, the interest in the main subject was still there." Snape watched as Daniel slyly inched his way to the door, and was stopped when Dumbledore cleared his throat as Daniel was about to leave. "Mr. Deschamps," Dumbledore said, loudly, to him. "Going after Mr. Crowley at this time could be strategically disadvantageous to us, there is much that could be lost--I suggest tempering your eagerness to catch your criminal, however hard this is to do." He'd been caught with the thought, and Daniel knew it. He shrugged as he half turned to face Dumbledore, his hand at the back of his neck, rubbing hard. "I know," he said, and gave the headmaster a sad, sidelong grin before leaving. Sirius watched him go, and wasn't the only one to flinch when Daniel set his fist through a glass window in the hall, and toppled a vase and its stand as he made his way. "He might look as calm as an ice floe on the surface, but mark my words, that man has a vicious temper," Sirius Black observed. "I don't like him." "He's only having what constitutes for him a natural reaction," Dumbledore replied. "Mr. Deschamps was an officer of Muggle law, and from what I understand it was a difficult line of work. Letting a known guilty man go free is anathema to him. My, but he did look unhappy...Professor Snape, perhaps you should follow him, and see if you can rescue a few more vases before he gets to his room." NEW BLOOD by Silverfish ~: IV. He followed him not to his room, but to the partially reconstructed classroom, where Daniel evicted a few hardworking house elves and sat at his new desk. Snape clung to the blasted open doorway, not at all sure if he wanted to venture further into Daniel's current inner sanctum or not. He watched as Daniel opened a desk drawer and took out a large bottle filled with amber liquid. He uncapped it and took a few swallows of the substance, his eyes wincing shut after every take. "You going to stand in the doorway all night?" Daniel asked. Snape reluctantly peeked around the charred door frame, his hands accidentally peeling away some splintered wood and plaster. Daniel gave him a warm smile and shook the bottle and its amber contents at him. "Rudy can't fail, as they say." He brought the bottle to his lips and took another huge gulp. Snape stood leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly. "Breaking windows is hardly an effective way of dealing with one's disappointment," he said. "You're right," Daniel said, and downed another helping, the bottle already now half empty. "That's why I have this." Snape was thoroughly chagrined. He brushed a few strands of tangled black hair from his equally black eyes and sighed. "Dumbledore is not doing this to harm you, if anything it's for your own protection. He is a master wizard who understands more than you are giving him credit for." Daniel took another drink anyway. "It's not the only thing bothering me," he said, but he didn't expand on the point. Instead he took the open bottle with him and left the half repaired classroom, his shoulder nudging Snape as he did so. "I'm heading to my room, do you want to join me?" Daniel asked. Snape, who believed getting drunk solved even less problems than broken windows, primly declined. Daniel gave him a half smile and then, to Snape's discomfiture, he outstretched his right arm and clutched at the door frame, balancing his posture above Snape, his presence dangerously close--So close that Snape could catch the scent of Muggle alcohol on Daniel's breath, a teasing sweetness. "Do you ever get tired of being by yourself?" Daniel asked. He wanted to say 'never', but that of course wasn't true, at least not lately. Three o'clock had developed a special meaning for him, one he couldn't quite interpret as to what just yet. So, instead, he glibly replied: "I like having time to think." "So do I," Daniel said. He bent his elbow, causing his body to ease all that much closer into Snape's stubbornly guarded personal space. "I like thinking about science, about how it can apply to this magical world as easily as my own. I like thinking about the imperfections of both disciplines and how best to arrange myself and the answers I'm seeking inside of them. In that respect, one could say I like thinking about you, too." He gave Snape a grim laugh and then stood up, releasing him from the uncomfortable scrutiny. "Right now I'm going to go to my room and think about how good this stuff is going to work on me." He swirled the bottle's contents, and then began his journey down the hall where the express stairs were located which would take him to the floor his room was on. "Goodnight, Snape," he shouted back, not looking behind him. Snape was left alone in the corridor, his room mocking him at its end, the loneliness of his current state oppressing him in ways he couldn't understand. He'd always lived his life with no one else to bother about, his own soul stubbornly held onto for himself alone. Yet, there was something so incredibly disturbing and appealing about Daniel Deschamps he was conflicted with being both drawn to him and repulsed. He'd had this feeling before, hadn't he? He was unsettled tenfold by this realization. What a terrible result had come from that. *** He couldn't sleep, much as he desired it. All that talk of thinking had left Snape's mind in a muddle of strange theorization, unhappy invasions from his past and frustration at finding no resolutions. Large, poetic sounding words filled his head, oddly enough running through it with the intonations of Daniel's rather soothing voice, and even if they had the power to calm him in wakefulness, now that he was trying to sleep he was hindered by attempting to derive meaning from the alchemical phrases. His insomnia and resulting unhappiness were unfortunately all Daniel's fault. For one, was it really fair right now for Snape to be thinking that the word 'imperfections' used in Daniel's small speech this evening was a not so disguised slur against the profession of magic? Perhaps he was being oversensitive to the subject, but as a person who had studied much of the forbidden knowledge of the Dark Arts at great risk to his life and well being--Such a dismissal in any form grated on his nerves. Eventually, as the late hours wore on, he had distilled Daniel's speech in such a manner that he was now positive the man had made a terrible mistake in underestimating Snape's prowess as both a potions master and a wizard, and not only this but was misunderstanding the potential of Aristotle Crowley, as Snape was now certain this was the person who had tried to assassinate Daniel. The reason why was a question that plagued him, for as a non magic Muggle what possible connection could he have with a wizard of any sort? He gave up on sleep, and was so agitated with this question he grabbed his striped housecoat and left his room, to journey down the black hall to the express stairs which led to the upper floors. He marched with determined resolution to Daniel's door, and was about to knock, when he realized such a thing might awaken a student and he would have a very difficult time explaining what he was doing wandering around in his striped housecoat late at night and very far removed from his dungeon dwelling. So, to avoid detection, he simply opened the unlocked door and stepped into Daniel's quarters, and quietly closed the door behind him. Daniel's home was as bare as his classroom, Snape noted. Though the walls were the standard Hogwarts burgundy with baroque gold decorations, they were strangely bare of any portraits, save for an unframed paper monstrosity in black and white, which was currently snoring loudly, a rumpled figure laying spread-eagled on his back on what looked like an out focus stage. A broken guitar lay discarded next to the sleeping man, and the words The Clash were above him in bright bold green lettering, a cryptic meaning possibly attached to the broken musical instrument. There was nothing of any personal worth in Daniel's room other than this one object, and Snape felt a small amount of discomfort at even being here in his friend's personal domain. Still, it didn't stop him from finding Daniel's bedroom, and instantly being struck with angry disgust at the way the man had simply fallen drunk into bed, a bottle of empty Muggle liquor laying on the floor which Snape shoved with his foot, rolling it out of his way. It was late, he was tired, and all because of Daniel he just might never sleep again. He marched to the bed and sank onto it, his arms crossed as he did so. His head hit the pillow beside his friend with a soft thump. "Daniel, I am thoroughly displeased with you," he said, and kicked at Daniel's leg to get his point across. Daniel groaned at the touch. "I should have thought that by this time you would have trusted me enough to give me the truth." Daniel groaned a little more loudly and stirred onto his side. He blindly grabbed a small metal object on his side table and looked at it. "Sev, it's two am. The truth is only present between the hours of eleven am and ten pm." He dropped the metal object with a small clang onto the side table, and then buried his face into his pillow. Snape shoved at his leg again. "How do you know Aristotle Crowley?" Snape asked him. "Who?" "Aristotle Crowley!" Snape exclaimed, and Daniel pushed his head further into the muffling effects of his pillow. "The wizard who tried to blow you up!" "I don't think I do," Daniel said. "He just sounded like a guy I used to know." "A friend of yours?" "Oh no, not at all," Daniel replied. "He killed my goldfish." Snape took a few moments to digest this information. "You don't get along very well with people, do you?" Snape observed. Daniel didn't answer. He'd already fallen back asleep. Snape sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if maybe he should just give up and leave but the thought of heading all the way back down the express stairs to his room in the dungeons was too much of an effort to bear. Besides, the pillow here was comfortable, and Daniel had a much warmer room than he did. Sleep took him captive, and without complaint. *** Severus Snape, potions master and head of Slytherin house in the wizard school known as Hogwarts, awoke to a horrible buzzing noise in his ear, and a Muggle named Daniel Deschamps' face only inches from his own. Daniel was frowning. He reached over Snape and hit something metal on the side table, effectively shutting the creature up. "Did we...?" he began, and Snape groaned, turning away on his side. "It's too early to talk," Snape grumbled. "I see," Daniel said. This bed was significantly more comfortable than his as well, Snape thought, along with the room being warmer than his own, and completely without that horrible basement dampness the dungeons were infamous for. Usually, he had no trouble at all getting ready for a day of tormenting young minds, but the pull of comfort was too much of a temptation, and for once he allowed himself to indulge in it. He could feel Daniel shift again beside him, and he did his best to ignore him while he earned some much deserved extra few minutes sleep. Daniel leaned on Snape's arm, a very friendly pose. "Rise and shine, then," he said, and flicked Snape's forehead with his forefinger and thumb. Snape swore a little in Latin and was about to tell Daniel just what he thought of his early morning alertness (along with these much more comfortable surroundings, which should have been given first to a wizard of Snape's own stature), when the words were stolen by another sensation--One terribly familiar, and harrowing, and confusing and...and.. And pleasant... Daniel rested his chin on Snape's shoulder after the delivery of the kiss. "I have to get ready," he said, and bounded off the bed. "I'll see you at three o'clock!" *** "There is no way I can figure this out." Hermione glanced over at Harry Potter and 'tsked' in only partial sympathy. "Shakespeare does have his moments," she said. "This is incredibly difficult, I don't know how he expects us to narrow down all the nuances of Lady Macbeth's soliloquy into a two page essay." Ron was positively lost. They'd spent twenty-five minutes of their break in mutual complaint in the dungeon hall, white pieces of paper mocking them. "What the hell does he want us to *do*?" he asked the paper in front of him, which wasn't forthcoming with information. " 'Discuss in two pages, double spaced, the properties of Lady Macbeth's speech and the resulting consequence upon the symbolic magical elements within the play, as well as its influence on the construction of the murder scene, in as accurate details as possible.' I've read that sentence fourteen times and I still can't figure out what the hell it means!" Ahead of them, Draco Malfoy was with his usual cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. He passed a noted look at Harry Potter before turning back to his henchmen, laughing. Harry kept his guard up, but Crabbe and Goyle took the express stairs to the upper floors. Hermione and Ron waited until they were well out of sight before heading for them themselves. Draco Malfoy had a potions class with Harry, which explained why he still remained, but it did not explain why he marched up to all three of them, a singularly angry expression on his face. Ron kept his hand on his wand, and both Harry and Hermione narrowed their eyes at their enemy. Draco stopped in front of them, glaring down at them all, and Harry waited for the insulting quip that was about to be spit out. "What the hell is a soliloquy?" Draco asked. Harry blinked. His friends were in likewise shock. He supposed some things in wizard life were more universal than others, and in an odd way, Daniel Deschamps and his incompetence at teaching had somehow become a highly unsteady bridge between them all. "I believe it's a long speech made by a singular character in a play," Hermione answered, confidently. "Like an aside. It's what they're thinking." "I don't get it," Ron said, shaking his head. "If it's an aside, and it's what they're thinking, then what does it have to do with the rest of the whole play? And more importantly, how am I going to write two entire pages about something that I don't understand one word of? And why is it worth seventy percent of our marks for the year??" Ron blushed furiously. "What the devil does 'unsex me here' mean?" He looked at the three gathered around him for uncomfortable support. "It doesn't mean what I'm thinking it does...Does it?" "Draco," Harry said, and was wholly unnerved to have to do so. "This will be the first and only time I will ever beg you of anything." He swallowed, forcing the dryness from his mouth. "Will you please, *please* tell your father about Daniel Deschamps? He's still got influence with the board of governors, if he could help get rid of..." The door to the potions classroom swung open. "Potter! Malfoy! Are you going to spend the rest of the year debating the wording of a man who's been dead for five hundred years, or are you going to actually attempt to *learn* something useful?" Snape glared at them both as Hermione and Ron scrambled to the express stairs and away from the potions master's ire. "Shakespeare is very useful," Deschamps' voice said behind Snape. Harry shrank a little as Deschamps looked over Snape's shoulder at both he and Draco, and he wondered how much the English professor had heard of their complaints. "One can deduce an incredibly accurate vision of Elizabethan history and life through his works, not to mention how they dealt with law and crime and guilt, and how easily such things have transferred over into present day dealings." "His works are full of nothing but prejudicial slagging of wizards and witches and a skewered concept of magic and its function," Snape argued. "You only think it's skewered because of your life experience," Deschamps argued back. "In my world it's often said that history is painted in the colours of those who won. An accurate portrayal is often impossible, so one must observe as many different sources and angles on a situation..." "I think knowing Muggles were willing to burn people alive for using magic says plenty," Snape asserted hotly. Harry and Draco slunk past both professors to get into the potions room. "From what I understand, wizards aren't all that fond of Muggles themselves, are they? I've seen in your own school's historical accounts "Hogwarts, A History", that crimes against Muggles in this establishment were not uncommon nor even observed as crimes until well into the middle century." "You are taking out of context a tapestry of knowledge that has been in existence for tens of thousands of years." "And you, dear man, are forgetting the fact that the Muggle world is significantly older, and we can trace its existence through factual means to over five million years ago." "Utter nonsense! The wizard world is just as old, and you know as well as I that Muggles didn't even start *counting* their time on their world until just over two thousand years ago. It's a known fact that magic has been in existence since time itself began!" "Yes, apparently. But can you carbon date it?" "You are giving me a migraine." "Shall we continue this argument later? In my room...About eight o'clock tonight?" "Definitely." Daniel Deschamps walked briskly through the potions classroom to the side door connecting to his own. He didn't close it all the way, and a sliver of uncomfortable white light seeped into Snape's dungeon room. Harry noticed that Professor Snape's eyes were constantly drawn to it, and that he was oddly quiet as the class settled into their seats. He never left his post at the front of the room, his black gaze constantly flitting from that sliver of white light back to the students before him. "Today, we are going to discuss the properties of black nettles," Snape said. He paused, his hand sliding over the page dedicated to the subject in his copy of their potions book. "They are often used in charming spells, sometimes in love potions, and in memory collections. The black nettle has a long standing history of igniting a person's passions. Its essence is remarkably cool when distilled, but when one drinks it, it burns hot against the heart, causing it to beat in a fast, unnatural rhythm. There's euphoria...A sense of completeness and yet, overall, a fear...A wonderful, tantalizing, passionate fear that what has happened wasn't quite right but it's perfect beyond any explanation you can give yourself, and you find that you've fallen, quite helplessly, into a complicated place from where you aren't even sure you want to find your way out of..." He didn't look at all well, Harry thought. He frowned at the way Snape was so oddly agitated, his hands clutching at the row of buttons on his robe, at a place near his heart. His sallow complexion looked oddly reddened, especially when he glanced at that sliver of white light that kept inching its way into his potions room. Draco's voice was near Harry's ear. "That Deschamps has gotten right under Snape's skin," he said. "Look at him. He's practically frothing at the mouth, it's awful." Harry couldn't help but agree. As the class wore on, Snape's composure didn't entirely calm, and for some unknown reason his biting sarcasm was missing for a good portion of the lesson. He never picked on Harry once, which spoke volumes more than anything else of Snape's unsettled state of mind. There was only one explanation that could exist for this to happen, and Harry relayed the information in a low whisper, mostly to himself, but also as an answer to Draco's own worry. "He hates him." Snape's eyes shot at him, ferreting out the fact that Harry Potter had whispered in class. "If you have something to discuss Mr. Potter, perhaps we should all hear what it is?" Harry didn't answer. "Ten points off Gryffndor," Snape said. He narrowed his eyes at Draco Malfoy as well, and to everyone's shock said "And ten points off Slytherin. There's no whispering in my classroom." Draco paled. "He's gone mad with rage," he whispered to Harry, who wisely didn't respond. "Again, is it?" Snape said, shooting a devilish look at Harry. "Ten more points off Gryffndor!" "But.." "Silence or I'll have you collecting nettles in daylight." Draco sniggered and Snape sought him out as well. "That goes for you too, Malfoy. Perhaps an afternoon journey to the dark forest for a good collection of the weed will do wonders for ceasing both of your tongues. The black nettle isn't known for enjoying harvesting--a few stitch worthy lacerations from their thorns might help you keep quiet in future." He gave Draco a pointed glare. "I should expect as a Slytherin you understand the rules more than most." Draco wasn't pleased, but he said nothing for the remainder of the class. By the time it was over he was as red faced as a candy heart, and practically pulled on Harry's arm as they collected their books. "My father will hear about this," he promised. Harry figured he would. He looked at his potions professor with a mixture of anger and, surprising as it was, pity. He could understand the madness a person like Daniel Deschamps could inspire in one, though even now he couldn't fully say why it was that he, Harry Potter, disliked his English teacher so much. If he really investigated it, he could say that it was more about Daniel representing that part of his life, the Muggle part to be exact, that he was so disconnected from and hated by. As if bidden by a dark arts spell, Daniel Deschamps quietly opened the connecting door, nearly sending Snape out of his skin in agitation as he entered the room. He waved a small, white envelope towards Snape, and gave the half emptied class a lopsided smile. "Don't mean to be a bother. I just received this, I was wondering if you could check it?" Snape avoided looking Deschamps in the eye. "What for?" "Anthrax," Daniel replied. Harry, along with a few other students of Muggle background, dived to the back of the classroom. Snape looked quizzically on. "I'll take care of it," he said, coldly. Daniel hovered near his right shoulder as Snape took the envelope. "Eight o'clock," Deschamps said in a harsh whisper, and Snape's face practically exploded into a red blush. His lesson on black nettles seemed to be playing out in his physical body at present, a result that didn't abate even after Deschamps had made his way back into his classroom, the potentially deadly envelope now in Snape's shaking hand. Harry couldn't help but be alarmed. Snape never reacted like that with *anybody*. He made a vow as he left that this had to be investigated. He shoveled his books and cauldron under his arms and practically fled the room, not waiting for Malfoy to get him into any more trouble simply by talking to him--which was another incredibly odd occurrence. He'd take a few lessons of Deschamps' himself to heart, and make sure he got a few other angles to these circumstances. He'd tell his godfather, Sirius Black, and maybe, just maybe, he'd manage to avoid involving any of the Malfoys after all. *** It wasn't that he didn't have control of the situation. Daniel was the one who was waiting for him, who genuinely enjoyed his company, who would be the most adrift should it abruptly end. So why was it his own hand that was shaking as he held that envelope and dropped it into the purifying potion in his cauldron, the blue flames displaying nothing but the money owed for an overdue medical textbook? "Because," Snape thought,"I'm the one with the most to lose." The sensation was horrible. He was happy. No one knew better than Severus Snape how tentative that state could be. He closed the door connecting his room to Daniel's, and placed the lid back on his cauldron, holding the purifying contents safely in place. Behind him, in its jar on the top shelf, the pickled centinewt yawned, and closed its huge, squishy eyes as it slept. Snape knew one thing. This happiness he'd somehow found--He didn't deserve it. He put out the lights in his classroom, the day had ended. He would go to his room, and read, and not see the words, and would pace for a few hours, and maybe think about eating, but wouldn't. He'd wait for eight o'clock, and then he'd think about visiting Daniel and he would argue with himself against it, and he knew, without being a false prophetess like that Trewlany woman, that he would give up at exactly eight-thirty p.m. and he'd find himself going up those express stairs and would walk silently, with forced confidence, into Daniel's room. Where any argument went from there, he wasn't about to hazard a guess. END RUNNING A FOWL OF THE LAW by Silverfish ~: Certain things could make Sirius Black nervous--such as the chance of imminent danger towards his godson Harry Potter, or even the fact that his best friend Remus Lupin could turn into a monstrous werewolf if he stayed out in the moonlight too long. But all these were things Sirius could, on some level, understand. He knew how to best fight and be wary of the dangers surrounding Harry, and he also knew how to best deal with Lupin when the attack came and he turned into a monster. Such things were remarkably easy in comparison to the newest fourth addition to their group. Daniel Deschamps. Former forensics pathologist for Scotland Yard, oddly cheerfully melancholic and prone to drink far too much, and most certainly *not* a good influence on the charges he taught English to, was a bit of a mystery Sirius was having difficulty overcoming. It might have been because he was Muggle born, and completely without magic, an affliction which Sirius couldn't help but consider more an impediment against their fight with He Who Must Not Be Named than a help. Dumbledore had insisted that Deschamps become a part of their quest, for hadn't he, though he was a simple Muggle without magic, had an uncanny ability to track where He Who Must Not Be Named had been hiding within the Muggle world? His methods were strange, definitely, and Sirius wasn't so sure if the migratory habits of something called a tsetse fly telling them where the Death Eaters were roving about wasn't some form of divination after all. It wasn't that Deschamps was a bad person, in fact he was quite the contrary. He was charming and witty and very much at ease anywhere he went, and you instantly couldn't help but like him just a little.. He had the kind of unhurried manner often found on four hundred year old tortoises. Sirius was quite sure this sense of calm would follow Deschamps into a field of battle, where he would quietly sip coffee while all the world around him disintegrated. No matter how unreasonable it sounded, to Sirius people like that could be annoying. They were seated in Dumbledore's office, an opulent space where several ancient wizards from times past looked down on them from their portraits, most of them asleep and snoring loudly. It was early morning. Lupin was yet to show up, and so far he was alone, waiting for the next meeting to begin. They had drawn up several defensive strategies against the Death Eaters in the event of an attack on Hogwarts, but it was becoming increasingly clear, at least to Sirius, that an offensive attack would be better. He Who Must Not Be Named was relying on the fear he had cultivated to prevent an all out war against him from openly erupting. Sirius sighed and tapped long fingers on the arm of the chair he was slouched in, thinking of how the only other person who seemed to disagree was Daniel Deschamps. Even so, the man had an odd reasoning. "It's one thing to run after him, telling him an answer out of the mouth of a canon," Daniel had said, and shrugged, and scratched the back of his head. (An irritating habit. Lupin thought some of the fleas Deschamps studied had got onto him.) "Sometimes...It's the quiet touch that works best." Dumbledore had nodded his assent at this, but no one else, not even Snape, could understand what was so wise about it. He Who Must Not Be Named knew they were preparing for him; to strike first, and viciously, had to be the only way! Even Snape had reluctantly agreed! Snape. Now there was another point of weirdness when it came to Deschamps. Snape, who had nothing but a scowl and a curse for the world, who had dabbled in the Dark Arts and received the serpent's mark upon him for his troubles, who was as uneasy in this alliance as anyone could be--How was it he had become so close a friend with a non magic Muggle of all things? Snape who had, for the entirety Sirius had known him, no friends at all? As if on cue, Deschamps walked into the office. It was clear that even though it was six am, he was still getting over a drinking bout from the night before. Sirius had criticized him for this, and he could remember the last occurrence of Deschamps' bad habit vividly. He recalled it now as Deschamps sauntered around the office, getting himself a cup of steaming hot, black liquid he called coffee from the breakfast tray. He gave Sirius a smile as he sipped at it, soft brown bangs hanging before equally soft, almost understanding, dark blue eyes. The conversation from a few night's ago was fresh in Sirius' memory, and he lost himself inside of it: "He's incompetent!" he'd shouted at Dumbledore. "He's an asset I'm not so sure we can do without," Dumbledore had replied, completely unbothered by the fact that Deschamps was currently passed out drunk on the floor of his office. He was splayed face up on the carpet like a starfish. "He is not always this way, Sirius. There have been many great wizards who have had their weaknesses, why Sir Kierdsly Bingbotto himself was known for his strange propensity for collecting sheep..." Lupin winced, but Sirius went on. "He knows *nothing* of our world! He is a man with no powers to protect himself, and frankly I'm not sure he's quite in his right mind! Have you ever heard his lessons? This afternoon he was telling the students that an 'easy life breeds a dull, contemptuous outlook, and they ought to go searching for tragedy, if it doesn't come to them first.' Professor. Mcgonagall had to stop poor Dean Charmers from purposefully getting eaten by Hagrid's griffon!" "Well," Dumbledore said, and stroked his beard, smiling just a little at the passed out form on the floor, "there is some truth to what he'd said..." "I'm not judging him by his personality," Lupin said, in defence of Sirius' concerns. "It's simply a fact, we can't have someone with us who is going to go on a drunken binge right when we need him." "Or turn into a monstrous werewolf," a dark voice said behind them. It was Snape, an expression of both disdain and disgust for Lupin and Sirius, though it didn't seem to extend to Deschamps, passed out oblivious on the floor. He had a long, tubular glass of liquid in his hand, which, when he walked past Deschamps, he neatly overturned, sending its contents all over Deschamps' face. Deschamps instantly sputtered and woke up, throwing in a few colourful words in Muggle slang that Sirius was sure weren't taught in English classes. Deschamps had looked up from his seat on the floor to see an entire room full of wizards glaring down at him in disapproval. He'd shrugged and scratched the back of his head, amazingly turning to Snape for forgiveness first. "Cor, that was a night I thankfully won't remember. Thanks for the pick up, Sev." Sev? His thoughts came back to the present as he looked over at Deschamps now. Though he was still his usual, rumpled self, he carried it with an air of pride few could manage. He hadn't just called Snape by his first name, he'd even shortened it to 'Sev'. It wasn't right. It had been bothering Sirius now for days. People didn't make pet names for Severus, that dark, spindly, greasy thing of a man. Well, to be honest, he hadn't been all that greasy lately, had he? Which was another odd occurrence. Deschamps showed up on the scene and all of a sudden, Snape decided his appearance needed looking after. He still had the usual shoulder length cut to his black hair, the same clothes, but gone was that basement mustiness that had always clung to him. He was still pale as death, but every now and then Sirius could swear he saw a blush of colour on his face whenever he got into an animated argument with Deschamps--which was often. Perhaps he was worried that his own dishevellment wasn't as noble as the simple Muggle's, and prejudicial pride made him alter his habits? Deschamps took another large gulp of his coffee, and shrugged at Sirius. "I was up most of the night," he said. Sirius glared at him as if to say he knew why. "I've got a chicken problem," Deschamps added. Confused, Sirius knit his black brow, staring all the while rather blankly at Deschamps. He had no time for a question about the matter, however, for Lupin barged into the room, and not a few moments later was followed by Snape. "We've heard reports of Death Eaters gathering near Mt. Parnell," Snape said quickly, and pointed his wand towards the floor. "Cartographicus!" In a flash, a map of the area in question quickly materialized. Dots of moaning red represented the death eaters, of which there were quite a few in number advancing on a fairly well populated area between the mountains. "They're going to attack," Sirius said, and ran his hand along his jaw. "The village will have to be relocated within twenty-four hours." "Dissapparating that many people will prove to be difficult," Lupin said. "We'll do it in small batches," Sirius said. "If we can get enough wizards..." "I'm not sure we'll have time for that kind of mobilization," Snape said. "The village of Poempi is not as the name suggests a mere village, but is in fact a very bustling city. There are hundreds of thousands of lives at stake. Twenty four hours--I doubt even half of their population will make it." "You don't have to tell me the odds," Sirius said, grimly. "Lupin, you tell Dumbledore, we don't have time to waste. We need an area free to place as many of them as we can away from the clutches of the death eaters, and we need more wizards to help us with the relocating." "Finding a place will be difficult as well," Snape said, thinking. He steepled his fingers, touching their tips to his long nose as he concentrated. "The isle of Wieryd may do, for now. As far as I know it's unpopulated, though it may be too small for what we need." "We'll put them in a glass bubble if that's what it takes," Lupin testily answered. Deschamps said nothing. His eyes calmly watched as a feather fell from Snape's shoulder through the centre of the transparent map. Sirius felt his own eyes drawn to it, a tiny hole rent in the map from where it had fallen. With a wave of his wand, and a shout of "Foldupus!" Snape made the map disappear. The small white feather, however, remained. Deschamps reached out and took something off of Snape's shoulder, and let it fall to the floor. Another white feather. He shrugged at it, and then at Snape when he was glared at. "Oh wait, there's another one," Deschamps said, and pulled another slightly larger feather out of the collar of Snape's wizard robe. Deschamps coughed, and let it also fall to the floor. "We'd better get to work," Sirius said. Everyone left and he lagged behind, his eye drawn to the three feathers on the ground. Odd, he thought. They looked like they once belonged to a chicken. *** Snape and Deschamps' classrooms were both located in the dungeons of Hogwarts, and also had the added friendliness of a shared door. The setting had been highly useful for Deschamps, since his letters often needed a good screening for anthrax and ebola spores, not to mention things called 'letter bombs'. Snape's students had learned well to become terrified the second they saw Deschamps politely poke his head into the classroom through the adjoining door, the tell tale white envelope of doom plainly in his hand. His classroom had been repaired twice due to a couple of letters going off, and it was only by sheer luck that no one had been there to blow up with the words "I haite u an u shuld dye write now". How Muggle mail somehow found its way through regular channels and into Hogwarts was a mystery Sirius was yet to solve. Deschamps didn't seem too worried, though this was one of his many failings. Deschamps wouldn't be worried if his left arm was lopped off and he was bleeding to death, slowly. He'd simply sip his coffee, or better yet go on a drunken binge, and completely forget about the fact that he was dying. He might find it odd that he couldn't hold his mug properly, but Sirius was sure Deschamps would simply force his right hand (or if that was also missing, a dexterious foot would do) to do the work instead. Sirius, in the form of a black dog this time to avoid detection from the other students, waited patiently beside Deschamps' classroom door for Harry to be let out. He wanted to know if Harry's scar had been acting up at all lately, especially after the seriousness of the Mt. Parnell region's plight. So far they had only been able to dissapperate two thousand people out of a population of three hundred thousand. Their efforts were looking as depressing as Snape's observations had been. The door opened and let out a student, and Sirius put out a black paw to stop the door from closing again. Deschamps was busy answering questions, though to be sure the answers were constantly a lot more cryptic than not. "What does a Mug..I mean a person have to do to be a writer, sir?" one girl earnestly asked. "Hm," Deschamps said, thinking. "Well, if we look at all the authors we've been studying today, we can get a good look at what a profile of someone who is thought to be literary could be. There's Hemingway, a moody, boozing man who survived a war and then blew his brains out in a boat. There's Sylvia Plath whose cutting emotional poetry was a cry for help from a dark and disturbed soul, and who killed herself with sleeping pills. Ah yes, and Philip K. Dick. Brilliant futurist whose stories show a bleak and depressing vision of humanity's inability to get past being selfish and moronic--He followed Hemingway's example, as I recall." He gave the class a sympathetic gaze. "I suppose you have to be a depressive self and world loathing person with a proclivity for offing oneself. Oh, and drug abuse and alcoholism seem to feature prominently as well, can't forget that. Oh...You don't have to look so alarmed, not *all* writers are like that..." The girl looked relieved. "...just the highly successful ones who end up getting studied in English courses..." The girl's face instantly fell. The class over, several students tripped over each other to get away from the room. Harry walked past Sirius, not noticing him at first. He was deep in conversation with Ron, and Sirius distinctly heard Ron mutter "I wonder if *he's* written any novels, then..." Sirius barked, shocking Harry so badly that he nearly let the books fall from his hands. He saw Harry frown, and rub at a small area near his scar. So, it was hurting him. Sirius whined in sympathy and nudged at Harry's hand. "It's all right," Harry said. "It's not too bad an ache, so he might still be far enough away." Only somewhat satisfied with this, Sirius let out a bark of appreciation and took off down the hall to search for Lupin. So far, Lupin had managed to get information to Poempi that the citizens had to relocate to the isle of Wieryd, but there were some unexpected problems concerning the fauna of Wieryd, which had a habit of being predatory. Four people already had been attacked by daisies. Dumbledore was in conference with some of the elder wizard allies from the far reaches of their world. The suggestion was to make a large, suspended platform that could be a steady replica of Poempi to hold the population, but the trouble with this was that it would only be a temporary solution, and magic that vast would take a while to create. He bounded down the hallway, barking at the cries of surprise of the students who passed him, the occasional scratch behind his ear much appreciated. He made sure to give Draco Malfoy a disturbing growl as he passed, if only out of a favour for Harry. Draco Malfoy snarled back at him. "Something should be done about stray dogs," he said to his two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. "Like a shot of lightning right between the eyes." He brought his wand down as if he was about to do just that, but then lifted it up and laughed. Sirius watched as they bounded down the stairs, pushing people out of the way as they passed. Harry was right about one thing, that kid was a shocking brat. He'd never met anyone so dedicated to animosity at so young an age. If Draco Malfoy was only a fraction of the viciousness of his father's potential, Sirius felt there was little doubt to Harry's accusation that Lucius Malfoy was one of He Who Must Not Be Named's death eaters. Sirius cast him one black glance before continuing onwards, to a quieter floor, and then upwards to one quieter still. The sunlight of a cheerful, early spring afternoon was making its way down the silent hall, covering the floor in bright splotches of gold. A distinct humming could be heard, and Sirius saw that it was Peeves, looking positively miserable that this floor was so tranquil. He zoomed past Sirius without a second glance, heading for the more bustling crowds on the lower floors wherein he could wreak his havoc. Now that he was alone, Sirius transformed once again into a man, his body smoothly gliding from the form of a black dog into a man dressed in a black, billowing cape, black trousers and black buttoned down shirt. He paused at a door with a sleepy gargoyle guarding it, and whispered the password into its ear. "Stinkbug," he said. The gargoyle grunted, and yawned, and with a step aside the door opened, allowing Sirius in. There were several wizards standing in a circle, their concentration on the massive map materialized before them. Above the map was a replica of Poempi, which was flickering in and out of existence. Dumbledore was shaking his head, his bushy eyebrows pursed in concentrated thought. "The Voldemort forces are moving more quickly than expected. We've hexed their path as much as possible, but it has been quite a trial to figure out how to properly evacuate so many of Poempi. By our calculations, the death eaters will be upon Poempi in just under fifteen hours." He glanced up at Sirius through his white brows. "If you have a miracle hiding anywhere, Sirius, now would be a good time to hand it over." The door opened, and Lupin stepped in. He looked pale, his usually cheerful disposition strained. He closed the door behind him quietly. "The problem on the isle of Weiryd has been taken care of," he said, happily. "We put some gnomes among the flaura...They're doing a great job of ripping up the poisonous daisies. A case of a common pest having a use, I suppose." Sirius glared at the map, at the red dots that were the death eaters. At intervals, flames of blue blocked their path, slowing them down. Still, they were increasing in number, many flying and running in from the west. "What should we do now?" Lupin asked. Dumbledore gave him a gruff cough. "The only thing one can do in such situations," Dumbledore said, and walked away from the map, to a tray with sweets and a large, brown betty teapot. "Have a cup of tea, and wait." Sirius thought about it, but right now he'd seriously consider some of the brew that knocked out Deschamps on a regular basis instead. Dumbledore had begun pouring himself a small cup of tea, only to suddenly cry out in surprise and spill a good portion of it onto the floor. Instantly, the tea rose back from its sloshing onto the carpet and leapt back into the pot. The source of Dumbledore's shock was clear, a round, white, feathery thing without a head or wings, but it had two very clearly chicken feet. It ran around the room like a...like a.... Well, like a chicken with its head off. Dumbledore lifted his boot and brought it down on the strange creature, which then exploded into a flurry of feathers and sparks, which in turn disintegrated. "Blasted things, I've been finding them underfoot all day. An experiment of the Weasley twins, I suspect." Dumbledore stroked his white beard, thinking. "Perhaps I should give the next one I find to Hagrid. He hasn't been getting any new creatures from his usual channels lately, and has been feeling quite morose. Though, I'm not sure if a headless bird would ease his melancholy." Sirius said nothing. He was too busy thinking about that morning, and how Deschamps had so blithely picked a few white feathers off of Snape's shoulder and out of the collar of his robe. He narrowed his eyes at the few feathers that remained. They blinked out of sight in moments. "Lupin," Sirius said, pulling him along, and out of the room. He gave Dumbledore and the rest of the wizards the barest nod of a goodbye. He whispered harshly into Lupin's ear, "We have a few things to discuss." *** Lupin sighed and crossed his arms and on the whole was entirely bored and miserable. His eye kept wandering to the far wall, where there was a portrait of a young man in a black and white setting smashing a guitar to the ground. Every now and then he'd look up at Sirius and Lupin and curse at them in Muggle slang. "We're in his room, because..?" Sirius forced him to be quiet with an impatient wave of his hand. He crouched low, searching, and Lupin followed suit, before asking, "Just what are we looking for?" Sirius nearly let out a cry of triumph. He grabbed Lupin's arm and pointed towards Deschamps' bedroom, the door wide open, and to Lupin's absolute shock a slew of round, feathered creatures like the one Dumbledore had stomped out of existence were running around the entrance, bumping into the frame and against the walls and each other. "Tell me something, Lupin," Sirius said, grinning. "Just what is a non magic Muggle doing working magic?" Lupin was doubtful. "How do you figure that?" he asked. "Call it instinct," Sirius said. "Or maybe it could also be because he has a feather pillow, or had one, I'll bet." He pushed a few of the headless, wingless chickens out of the way with this foot, and they rolled like fuzzy balls with feet along the floor. He walked into the bedroom, and in a note of triumph shouted, "Aha!" He threw an empty white pillowcase at Lupin. The pillowcase slipped out of his grip and instantly spilled four more of the white feathered creatures. "That's the source of it," Sirius said. "Now...I wonder where he hid his wand.." "It wouldn't work for him," Lupin said. "Non magic Muggles have no effect on wands." "Aren't you listening to me?" Sirius asked, his voice gravel, harsh. "That idiot isn't any Muggle at all, he has to be a wizard, and probably a wizard spy *posing* as a Muggle!" "But..." "It would explain why he hangs around with Snape," Sirius continued. Lupin was quiet a long moment, and Sirius let it pass before speaking again. "You and I both know he turned turncoat against the Death Eaters, who's to say he won't do it again, and this time against us?" A 'chicken' rolled along the floor, bumping against Lupin's ankle. "I..I don't know," Lupin said uncertainly. He picked the creature up and it seemed to purr in his hands as he petted it. "Dumbledore hasn't expressed any kind of distrust for Snape, if anything it's stronger than ever." "He's blinded by it," Sirius snapped. "You know how Snape is, how he's always searched for his own answers and ends. I don't know why he turned against He Who Must Not Be Named, but I can guess it was because he realized he wasn't backing the winning side. No...I'm sure Snape's reasons were entirely selfish..." Voices, and not exactly friendly, were filling the hallway outside Deschamps' room, and Lupin and Sirius frantically searched for a way out. They were blocked in when the front door to the living quarters was opened, and Sirius and Lupin hurriedly searched for a place to hide. Sirius began pressing his hand against bricks along the wall, looking for a secret passage, which all Hogwart's faculty bedrooms had. The voices of Deschamps and Snape were making their way into the bedroom. Lupin let out a hiss of victory and grabbed Sirius by the shoulder, lifting him off the ground and into the ceiling. In seconds they were in the rafters, and settled on a hidden wood beam, the room below clearly visible through the apparently solid ceiling. "I guess this room was never properly finished," Lupin said, breathlessly. "It's still got a single coat of Vermoni's Glass Cieling Glaze on it instead of a proper Vermoni's Glass Cieling Solidifying Primer." Lupin scratched his chin, "They probably forgot about it, I'll bet." Sirius kept his eyes on the setting below, which while it had the usual four poster bed, and heavily ornate, baroque gold and deep mahogany walls, there was a certain plainness attached to it. The place looked as though Deschamps merely came here to sleep, and quite possibly did a lot of that, considering the mess of his bed. Usually, the beds made themselves, but for some reason the bed in this room was devoid of magic influence, and Sirius could only surmise that this was because Deschamps wasn't used to being around magic letting alone sleeping with it. Dumbledore may have assigned him this unfinished room for that reason alone. There was a heated argument brewing between Deschamps and Snape, the words indecipherable. One of the little round feathered creatures was booted into the bedroom like a ball, quickly followed by Snape who stormed into the room. His long cloak billowed about him like a dark cloud and he was fiercely glaring back at Deschamps with small, slitted black eyes. Deschamps followed him, his usual nervous shrug given with his right shoulder. "It was an accident..." he started. "Liar!" Snape shouted at him. He pulled out his wand and shook it in the air, stray sparks from his dangerous mood flicking from its tip. "I warned you to never touch it!" Deschamps gave the wand a guilty glance. "I just wanted to see it. You were the one who left it on the end table." "You leave Muggle criminal profiles scattered on the floor, do you think I'm stupid enough to pick one of them up and read it again?" He glowered at Deschamps. "I *told* you!" Deschamps was looking annoyed now, the shrug to his expression completely gone. He looked a little taller, Sirius thought as he looked down on them both, his blue eyes just a bit more steel. "Wands don't make people run to the bathroom to throw up," Deschamps said. "I asked you to help me get my cell phone working properly again..." "Muggle equipment doesn't work here," Snape interrupted. "I know that, Sev," Deschamps said, sighing angrily. "I wanted you to magic it enough so it could." "Wands can do far more damage than you can imagine, Daniel," Snape said to him darkly. He pocketed his wand and stomped on a round chicken thing for good measure. It exploded into tiny sparks and white feathers. Deschamps gave up and moved to the bed, where he collapsed onto his back onto it. A few of the bloated, round chicken creatures rolled along the surface and were pushed off with the back of his hand, where they fell with a little squeak to the floor. He grabbed a pillow that hadn't been accidentally magicked and put it under his head. He was staring right up at Sirius, who of course couldn't be seen through the false opacity of the ceiling. "I'm sorry I touched your wand," Daniel said. Snape was silent, moving through the room and shuffling through the odd bits and pieces of Muggle life that Daniel had brought with him. He picked up a shiny disc which instantly started hammering out a loud, noisy 'song'. He hit it against the surface of Deschamps' dresser, cracking it and effectively stopping the noise. "I've been having a hell of a time getting used to all this." Deschamps said. "It's disheartening to be a teacher, and to look at the rows of those young faces of those first year kids and know, right in the very marrow of your heart, that you've lost them." He yawned. "I hope they turn up soon. It's been two days now, and I've looked everywhere." He gave Snape a sidelong glance from his position on the bed, his arm lazily draped around the back of his head. "I never was good at teaching," he admitted. "I'm more the one who gets taught about, you know?" Snape sighed and to Sirius' shock fell onto the bed beside Deschamps. His shoulder length black hair, if not greasy was still just as messy, tangled in stringy strands before his small, black eyes. "I hate him," he said. Deschamps rolled his eyes. "Not this again." Snape, moved to his side, beside Daniel, an oddly cosy pose from Sirius' perspective above in the rafters. Lupin had moved as well, to get a better view over Sirius' shoulder. "Why should he have the deferential treatment, when everyone knows how his father treated me?" Snape snarled. "Our world is on the brink of collapse, but who is the most concentrated on aspect in this entire mess? Harry Potter, the saviour of us all!" He'd said that last sentence with such vehemence and hatred, Sirius was ready to just leap from his hiding spot in the ceiling and onto Snape, where he could smash that hateful expression off his face with his fists. Lupin, however, held him back, and bid him to keep his own growling anger at a minimum lest they be discovered. "Harry Potter..." Deschamps said, yawning. "I think I know that kid. Blond hair, pissy attitude, worships his father in a way that I'm convinced will backfire by the time he's eighteen when he finds out he's not the demi god he thought, and thus, fronts a punk or gangster rap band and drops dead of a cocaine overdose by the time he's twenty-five..?" "No," Snape replied, looking thoroughly chagrined. "That's Draco Malfoy." "I think you're being childish," Deschamps said to Snape. "Just because his dad was a bad lot doesn't mean his kid is too, you know." "His father nearly murdered me in a prank," Snape said. His mouth was a curled snarl, an expression that would have sent many of his students screaming away in terror. Deschamps, however, was clearly immune to it. "You're still alive, aren't you?" Deschamps said, dryly. "Look, Sev, the guys at the precinct were vicious pranksters. I can give you plenty of examples of crap they did to each other in the name of good fun, it happens to everybody. At least your friends knew when to call it off." Snape was silent a long moment. He buried his face a little closer to Deschamps' shoulder, and when he spoke next his voice was muffled and Sirius had to strain to hear it. "I wasn't their friend," Snape said. "They made my life at this school hell. Not a day went by that they didn't taunt me in some way, put some humiliating spell on me, or goaded an entire classroom into their games. I tried to keep to myself, but they always somehow found me, they always had something to pick at me about. 'Friends'. I've never had any of those, Daniel." Deschamps gave Snape a strangely understanding look mixed with puzzlement. "*You* were the cootie kid?" he asked. Snape frowned. "The what?" "The cootie kid," Deschamps replied. "There's one in every school. Usually the little skinny greasy kid who's quiet and smart and gets upset easy when people pick on him." Deschamps gave Snape a sad grin. "The whole phenomenon is an epidemic in Muggle life, Sev. It's all about someone, or a group, placing themselves in a position above another person whose already so downtrodden by circumstance they can't possibly fight back. An easy target, you understand? It's about the weak finding someone weaker to attack, and often those who are different are translated in the uneducated mind as 'weak'." He bent both of his arms upwards and around the surface of the pillow, clasping his hands on the top of his head, his expression thoughtful. "I would have thought that a place running on magic would have fewer occasions to entertain prejudice. Unfortunately, I keep finding more proof of it than ever." He looked over at Snape, who was laying beside him. "You're not the cootie kid anymore, Sev. You're in a position of respect and are well known and your expertise trusted. Remember, while you may have not had any friends in the past..." He reached out, then, and to both Sirius and Lupin's shock, he pinched Snape's chin playfully between his forefinger and thumb. Deschamps grinned at Snape, who made no move to shake off the touch."*I* like you. So get the hell over it, all right?" Silence prevailed, both Sirius and Lupin holding their breath while Deschamps actually, his lips actually.... Something cut into the silence. A buzzing noise, like a large insect. Deschamps swore and took out a small rectangular box covered in little black squares. "Damn this thing," he said to it, and hit it against the side of his palm. Sparks flew from it, along with a few strange looking bugs which scurried out of the black squares and began flying around the room. "There's goes the electronic components as usual," Deschamps groaned. Snape tore the muggle contraption from his grasp. "You don't listen to a thing!" he shouted. "Bringing Muggle equipment here is very dangerous! Who knows what this has turned into!" "A bunch of transistor roaches by the look of it," Deschamps observed. He shrugged resignedly at Snape's glare. "Fine, fine. Get rid of it." "I will," Snape said. He got up off the bed, Deschamps groaning and then following him as though he was made of lead weights. "We should stop by Dumbledore's office before the next classes start," Snape said. "I want to see what's happening in Poempi." Sirius could hear the front door of Deschamps' quarters open and then close. He and Lupin were finally alone in the Muggle's bedroom, but they remained where they were in the rafters, still too stunned to move. "He.." "I know," Sirius answered. Lupin opened his mouth and then closed it again. "I guess that explains why he never got that upset when we teased him about not having a girlfriend," Sirius said. "Hm." There was a long period of silence between them as they digested this new information. The ever familiar pangs of guilt welled up inside of Sirius as he thought about some of the things Snape had said. He cast a glance in Lupin's direction, a half grin forming. "We weren't that bad to him, were we?" Lupin was unsmiling. "We were awful," he said without hesitation. Sirius shook his head, thinking about it, and about how strange certain things could turn out. He slid off the support beam and fell onto Daniel Deschamps' bed with a springy thud. Lupin soon followed suit. He picked at the feathers of the round chicken creatures that lay scattered on the unmade bed and blew on them, making them run circles in the air. "I never meant to ruin anybody's life," Sirius said. "Do you think what Deschamps' said was true? That we were weak and just wanted someone to beat up on and make ourselves bigger because of it?" "Maybe," Lupin said. Sirius nodded at this. He got off the bed and walked determinedly to the front door. Lupin waved a wand over his cloak as well as Sirius', making sure none of the tell tale white feathers were on either of them. "At least he's found a 'friend', so to speak, now," Lupin said. "You've seen the way Snape's been looking lately. He's probably good for him." "I don't know about that," Sirius replied. He checked the hallway to make sure no one was coming, and then both he and Lupin left Deschamps' quarters, their steps quick and their instincts attuned to anyone travelling the empty corridor. "Deschamps is pure Muggle, which isn't wrong in and of itself, but there's little he has in common with Snape. He's not exactly a responsible person, is he? His classroom was blown up twice and he gets a massive load of hate mail once a week from unknown sources, not to mention his drunken habits." Sirius was grim. "He's a charmer, but that's about it." "I don't get what you're saying," Lupin said. "Snape actually seems kind of sort of 'happy' with him." "No," Sirius said, his words harsh. "He's the sort that could destroy Snape a lot more than a prank ever could. Utterly and horribly." His hand met his jaw, which he rubbed, fingers roughly moving over an unshaven face. "We have a duty to Snape, Lupin," he said. "I won't let some flippant bastard charmer ruin his life anew. I couldn't bear it if I just stood by and did nothing while I watched that happen. It would be us being evil brats to him all over again, you understand?" He watched for comprehension from Lupin, but found only the barest hint of support. "He's a grown man who can make his own decisions," Lupin said. "But if you want to keep an eye out for his well being, I'm not going to stop you." "Good," Sirius said. "Because I have a few plans to ensure it." *** Dumbledore's office was packed solid with wizards from all corners of their world. Both Lupin and Sirius kept to the sidelines, while Deschamps made his way towards the tea caddy, many apologies expressed as he accidentally stepped on long, white beards, and the occasional oversized wizard foot. Snape remained silent in the background, not looking in Deschamps' direction at all. "We have less than six thousand people on the isle of Wieryd," Dumbledore said, stroking his bushy eyebrow with his fingers. The portraits on the walls looked down on them all with intensely worried expressions. "The Death Eaters have gained even more ground, and some have managed to break past the mountain barrier, and are advancing quickly into Poempi. Our so called six hour reprieve has now dwindled to minutes as they've regrouped. We have done all we can, but there is no way we can move any faster." His voice was uneven, betraying for one of the few times in his life the measure of his great age. "I suggest we bow in respect for the lives and people of Poempi, and remember her great, gleaming city, the beauty of her crystal waterfalls that sang, and the air that shone a brilliant emerald green on the fairest of sunny days." Sirius felt, as no doubt many in the room did, an intense and overpowering sorrow. He'd spent some of his exile in Poempi, and knew the city well. His anger over what was happening was competing with the sorrow of happy days spent and forever gone. He bowed his head, thinking of Poempi's friendly people. He could feel his eyes smarting with unshed tears. A low ringing broke the respectful silence, and Sirius, along with the roomful of wizards, looked reproachfully at Snape. Snape's small, black eyes widened at their scrutiny, and he fumbled through the pockets of his robe, and then took out the small rectangular box of Muggle technology that was the culprit. He banged it on the side of his palm like he had seen Deschamps do earlier, but the insistent ringing refused to abate. Deschamps hurried to his side, stepping on a few more beards and toes and earning a few promised hexes in return. He ignored them all, and grabbed the contraption from Snape's now panicking grip. "To answer a cell phone," Deschamps said in a fairly loud whisper, "you just press this button, here." He pressed his thumb on a small square near the top of the little metal box. Suddenly, the room was awash in a warm, golden glow. It lit up the map with shocking clarity, streams of lighting white shooting through it and into the city of Poempi. The wizards gathered around the map watched on in horror, convinced that they were witnessing the city's end. And certainly, when the blinding light finally cleared, their worst fears were realized. Poempi was no longer on the map. Deschamps' phone stopped ringing, and then, a different tone arose from it, staggered, and almost in the form of a tune. Deschamps stared at it in wonder. "Well, that's the first time it's worked properly since I came here," he said. He answered it, tentatively, clearly more than a little intimidated by the murderous glares the roomful of wizards were giving him, Snape included. "H-Hello?" he asked. "Oh? Really? Yes, yes quite. He's right here." He coughed, shrugged, and then to everyone's shock handed the phone to Dumbledore. "It's for you," he said. "I believe they said it's Poempi..." *** The atmosphere at Hogwarts was considerably happier and lighter than it had been for weeks. Sirius, in dog form, trotted cheerfully down the busy halls, searching out Harry. He let out a loud bark when he saw him approach, and Harry gave him a wide grin back. He crouched down beside Sirius and gave him the latest news. "Professor Deschamps finally found his first year class," Harry said. "Can you believe they'd somehow been transported to Poempi by cell phone? Remind me to never try and borrow any of Dudley's stupid video games, I'd hate to think what Grand Theft Auto might do to this place!" Sirius barked a cheerful assent. Harry bit his bottom lip and looked around warily before talking to his godfather again. "My scar hasn't been acting up lately," he said. "I hope that means good news." Good news was an understatement. Somehow, Deschamps' smuggled in 'cell phone' had managed to transport an entire city of four hundred thousand people onto the small isle of Weiryd. Dumbledore and the other ancient wizards were looking over the contraption in an attempt to figure out how it happened. Deschamps had also received a serious reprimand for not reporting his first year class had gone missing. They'd spent the last few days in terror of the Death Eaters attacking Poempi, and were significantly happier to be back in the comfort of Hogwarts, even if they did have to sometimes suffer the rather banal blathering of suicidal English poets. Sirius licked Harry's hand in assurance and then let out another cheerful bark. Harry smiled, and got up. Ron rushed past him, and grabbed his arm, hauling him down the stairs. "You've got to come on, Harry! We have to get to Deschamps' classroom before poor Dean Chalmers does and gets another stupid idea planted in his head. Just yesterday, he took the lecture to heart and tried to smoke fartweed to see if it would give him an expanded consciousness." Ron made a face. "It expanded something all right, but it's hardly a place a person should be known for thinking from." He watched them as they left, Harry looking over his shoulder once to give Sirius a happy wave. He padded off, in the opposite direction towards Dumbledore's office. When the bustle had quieted, he shook off his dog form and became a man once again. Lupin, who had been waiting for him, gave him a wide smile and a hearty wave. "I was wondering when you were going to get here," he said. "I just saw him heading down the express stairs to the dungeons." His grin faltered just a little, as though he was uncertain. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" "Of course it is," Sirius said, pulling his close friend and associate along. The arrived at the massive staircase which, at this hour, was heading at a breakneck pace into the dungeons of Hogwarts, where Snape's potions class was already in progress. With a quick hop onto the steps, they slid down into the depths, the ride a tad too fast and queasy, but nevertheless effective. They'd arrived before the other students, who rarely took the express stairs to this floor. No one was ever in a hurry to see Snape. Deschamps was already visible, his brow frowning over a white envelope in his hand. He was heading for his classroom, and no doubt also for Snape and his newly discovered expertise in checking for bomb materials in muggle mail. "Mr. Deschamps!" Sirius shouted. Deschamps stopped and looked up, dark blue eyes lazily viewing Sirius and Lupin through soft brown bangs. He gave them a half smile, as though the effort to make a full one was too much trouble. "Hello," he said. "Interesting day, isn't it?" "Yes," Lupin agreed. "I suppose you're happy to have your first year class back?" "Definitely," Deschamps said, frowning. "Cor, I felt terrible when I realized I was supposed to report it. I thought this kind of thing happened all the time at this place." He tapped the edge of the possibly lethal envelope against his chin. "I honestly thought they'd disappeared en masse so they wouldn't have to come to class. I was kind of relieved, I'm ashamed to say." Sirius gave him a warm laugh, and then walked up to him, embracing Deschamps around one shoulder. Lupin laughed as well and caught him on the other one, thus both of the wizards flanking a rather squished Deschamps in the middle. "That's the thing about Hogwarts, there's so many, many unexpected dangers," Sirius said. "Yes," Lupin agreed, laughing, "one never knows what's going to pop out and kill a person." "It could be a nasty letter with a bomb in it," Deschamps said in equal cheerfulness. "Yes," Sirius said, laughing though mirth didn't quite meet the darkness tingeing the expression of his face, "Or it could be a very irate faculty member who might get angry over how you treat their friends. Like say, oh, Snape for example.." "Definitely," Lupin said, squeezing Deschamps' shoulder just a little too hard, "we wouldn't want anything bad to happen to Snape because of someone's rather...blase attitude. Am I right Sirius?" "I agree," Sirius said, and also squeezed Deschamps' shoulder, this time so hard he could feel Deschamps flinch under the pressure. "It would be terrible, for instance, if someone's drinking problems got in the way of a good friend's happiness." "Like Snape, for example," Lupin cheerfully said, smiling widely. "One has to take to heart a person's feelings," Sirius said, thoughtfully. "There might be very serious, albeit fatal, ramifications to someone oh, breaking someone else's heart. Especially in a place like this." He winked at Deschamps whose own smile was a tad strained, though this might have been because he was so squished between Sirius and Lupin on either side of him his ribs were about to be crushed. "Hogwarts is a wonderful place," Sirius said, and then he and Lupin let go of Deschamps so quickly he nearly fell to the floor. "And it can also be hell, depending on your perspective. I suggest you remember that." Deschamps looked on, all the while smoothing away the wrinkles out of his muggle suit. He was still smiling as Lupin and Sirius left him. "I guess Professor Snape has a lot more friends than one might think," Deschamps confidently shouted after them. Sirius stopped, and then looked over his shoulder at Deschamps. Lupin paused with him. "Yes," Sirius said, mulling over that irony. "I guess he does." END HE SAID, HE SAID by Silverfish ~: I. He hadn't meant to allow this to go so far, but Daniel Deschamps wasn't a man who worried all that much about details, especially when those details were based on the murky workings of 'magic' and not 'science'. He had, so far, held himself politely aloof from the rest of the Hogwarts faculty when it came to their professions, and even Snape's collection of potions held little to no interest for him. This was a fact that Snape couldn't understand, since as a Muggle officer of the law, Daniel had a natural propensity to search out the answer to a secret. No matter how much Daniel tried to reiterate that the supernatural had little use in his life, and thus he was an entirely neutral and thus excluded party here for the most part, Snape insisted that Daniel simply wasn't letting on about the 'secret workings of Muggle magic'. A rather odd argument, but one which continued to come between them, and was straining an otherwise sort-of-kind-of-happy relationship. The fact was, Snape's distrust was bothering him. For something to bother former forensics and pathology expert Daniel Deschamps, it had to be the kind of pressure that would make a Zen master break out in a sweaty migraine. It would be very fair to say, if patience had a physical form it would be yawning at Daniel, and tapping its foot in agitation. Right now, despite his protests to Snape, he did have a Muggle secret in his possession. He placed the small bottle that had come by owl from Scotland Yard onto the surface of his desk, on top of various essays on how and why so many literary figures offed themselves scattered and ready for marking. It was an unassuming little bottle full of a clear liquid, but Scotland Yard's forensics department was having a hell of a time determining just what exactly the substance inside was. He held it against the light of the morning sun, the contents shimmering slightly, as though incandescent. His former supervisor Chief Constable Blurty had said in his letter that while the labs had no definable data on what this substance was, perhaps a bit of magic was at play here? Daniel placed the small vial back on the surface of his desk, a doubtful expression on his face. What was more likely evident was that Chief Constable Blurty didn't want to waste more time and effort on something that was a curiosity more than a threat. It had given the pusher of the substance terrible seizures, but one didn't like wasting good taxpayer's money on the afflictions of the addicted. To Blurty, Daniel's position in the world of magic was an easy way out. He couldn't grasp the concept that perhaps some things in this world couldn't be solved by wishes and imperfect theorization. Perhaps this spoke volumes of Blurty's deeply ingrained optimism, a virtue the rather melancholy Daniel Deschamps didn't share. "I finished my report," a curt voice said at his ear. A stack of papers were tossed onto his desk, and Deschamps looked up from his scrutiny to see a smirking blond kid staring back at him. He gave the stack of papers, there had to be at least twenty from the thickness of it, a disapproving grimace. "I hope that isn't the two page essay on Lady Macbeth's soliloquy," Deschamps said. The kid was intensely proud. "I'm sure you'll find it to your satisfaction. I've annotated and discussed the many layers of her speech with cross references from all of the historical magic background she used." A rather brutal smirk marred the kid's features. "Though, perhaps, as a simple Muggle you would not be aware of these things. I am sure my observations could prove to be groundbreaking if you..." "Hardly," Deschamps said, fighting a yawn. He pocketed the vial sent to him from Scotland Yard and then picked up the stack of papers. He opened the first page and shook his head at the basic thesis in the first paragraph. "I doubt very much that Shakespeare had any knowledge of wizard affairs." He took out his pen and without even the slightest glance at the gasp of shock issuing from the kid at his side, he marked it with a large 'F'. "How dare you!" the kid shouted at him. Deschamps held the paper up, the failing grade visible for all nearby to see. "If you want to change this grade, I suggest you take into account what it was I specifically asked for. I wanted a *two page* essay on the significance of Lady Macbeth's soliloquy, not an unbearably longwinded treatise on the superiority of the 'Dark Arts' and their uses." "You're a stupid excuse for a teacher!" the kid shouted at him. "How dare you! I spent over an hour on that paper!" "Just an hour?" Deschamps said in surprise. He lifted the weight of the stack again. "Cor...I guess you do have some groundbreaking work here, Harry. It appears bullshit can be measured." The kid's usually pale face was now so red he looked like a tomato about to pop. "MY NAME IS NOT HARRY!" Deschamps frowned, then checked the name on the paper. "Oh, that's right, Drano Malfoy." A girl near the front row sniggered. "DRACO!" The kid was positively livid. He was snarling like some rabid snake at present. He pulled out his wand and to a murmured shock throughout the class, pointed it at Deschamps. "Change my mark to an 'A' you vile muggle, or I'll turn you into the blob of mud you are!" Deschamps was completely at ease. He smiled amicably back at the threat. "Being called a stupid excuse for a teacher I can forgive," Deschamps said. "After all, I readily admit I'm not all that good at it, and I've always been a proponent of free opinion. However, threats to my person are a wholly different matter. I suppose a chunk of discipline is in order." He made a concentrated face that consisted of him squishing his mouth to one side and humming. Discipline. What was it Snape always did when some little snark in his class pissed him off? His first thought was that he poisoned them, but that probably wouldn't be all that constructive in this case. No, it was something else, something to do with a house... "Ah yes," Deschamps said to the furious, red faced kid. He sat up confidently and grinned like a madman. "You are in Gryffondor of course.." "Of course NOT!" Draco shouted again, and this time sparks were starting to emit from his wand. "I'm in SLYTHERIN!" "Excellent!" Deschamps said. He slammed his palms on the surface of his desk in confidence, dark blue eyes just a little tinged with steel. "Five hundred points off Slytherin!" There was a definite, deadly gasp throughout the classroom. The kid whose name was...Harry, wasn't it? Harry Plumber?...instantly went from tomato red to snow pale. "F-Five..hundred..?" The kid looked about ready to faint. "You can't be serious!" "I'm not particularly fond of threats if you haven't noticed," Deschamps quipped back at him. "I'm also a tad used to them, so don't waste the effort. Put your wand away and go to your seat." "You can't do this," the kid breathed. He really did look like he was about have an asthma attack or something similar from the way he was fighting for air. "Slytherin...Five hundred points...How are we going to catch up? We'll be dead last!" Deschamps gave him a warm smile. "If you don't put the fucking wand away, I'll double that penalty." The kid dropped it. The sound echoed through the silence of the classroom. He bent down and picked it up slowly, all eyes on him. He walked silently back to his seat, and settled into it stiffly, eyes wide and maybe even a little afraid. Snivelly little brat, Deschamps thought. He'd had enough experience with that lot when he worked in London, the sweet little rich kids who did coke and tore into their parents' bank accounts, who'd never heard the word no uttered to them once in their lives until it was too late. Maybe today would be a life changing lesson, one never knew how far one's small actions reached a person. "I think it's time we turned our thoughts to murder," Deschamps said, cheerful. He didn't look up at his class as he opened his copy of Macbeth. "Now...Who wants to read the section where Macbeth tries, and fails, to wash the blood from his hands...?" *** The small vial was stil in his pocket, eroding away his resolve when he saw Snape at three o'clock that afternoon. He'd made a habit of meeting him for coffee, though coffee as he knew it didn't exist at Hogwarts, and all that he could manage to scrounge up was some oddly grassy tasting tea. Snape, his black hair hanging before his eyes in stringy strands, his tall, gaunt form bent over his current experiment, hadn't yet noticed that Deschamps had stepped into the room. Guilt made its presence known, and Deschmaps shrugged at Snape, who was wholly involved in some strange, magically chemical composition before him. He watched as Snape threw something silver and shiny into the cauldron, the air above becoming a shimmering blue. It took a few moments to register just what it was. "My digital watch!!" Deschamps shouted, and Snape jumped back in surprise, bumping into clanging bottles of potions. If the shock of having Deschamps creep up on him unawares like that had disturbed him, he made a good show of smoothing it over with annoyance. "You've been warned before about harbouring Muggle equipment," Snape said, his voice filled with reproach. "As you may not recall, your 'cell phone' transported your entire first year class to a city fourteen mountains and countries away." "I got that watch when I left the force," Deschamps pouted. "It's got sentimental value." "The little bell inside of it kept going off," Snape said. He tossed a few stray strands of black hair out of his eyes. "Which in turn had magicked itself into a method through which horrible memories could be recalled, with alarming vividness. Dean Chalmers was huddled into a ball on the floor, arms over his head and screaming 'No, no don't eat me!' to an invisible griffin." Deschamps raised a brow, dark blue eyes fairly mirthful. "Invisible griffins, eh? So, digital watches have a hallucinatory affect here?" "No," Snape said, his mouth a harsh, thin lipped line. "There really *was* an invisible griffin trying to eat him. I had a hell of a time finding it and getting rid of it." Snape tossed something that looked suspiciously like a small fish eye into the cauldron and the blue shimmer dissipated. "If you have anything else from the Muggle world hanging around, I suggest you hand it over before you cause even more damage. I can only shield you from the rest of the faculty's ire for so long." He looked at Deschamps as though he saw right through the ruse of dishevelled uncertainty, and there was a damn good chance he truly did. Daniel kicked at the floor, sending a small nail scurrying and running to the corner of the room on its many spindly legs. "I got something today by owl," he said, cautiously, and not meeting Snape's glare. "From Blurty. He thinks it might have magic properties, but I'm not so sure." He took the small vial out of his side pocket and handed it over to Snape, who frowned over it. He held it to the light of a small candle that was suspended in the air. "Another thing you were keeping from me?" Snape asked, darkly. Daniel rolled his eyes. "It's nothing, I'm sure of it," he said. He bit his bottom lip and gave Snape a sidelong glance. "Right?" "There is a strange shimmer to it, but I'm not entirely sure it's magic," Snape said. He turned the vial over in the light, odd refractions of colour shining through it. "This is very unusual. At certain angles, its opacity actually changes.." Deschamps was busy pacing around Snape's back shelves, concentrating on the myriad bottles and beakers located on thick, black planks of wood, layers of dust and spider webs overlaying most of them. The contents were all murky and of varying colours, some with odd spheres of indefinable matter within them. A pickled centipede-like creature with many legs peered down at him from its position on the corner shelf, its head swivelling around to stare at Deschamps. Large, segmented eyes squished against the glass to get as unobstructed a view as possible. Deschamps looked away from it, and through the corner of his eye saw it dart in a circle within the large jar. Snape made a move to open the vial and Deschamps stopped him. "It gave the pusher they found it on bad seizures," Deschamps warned. "Really, I think Blurty was an idiot to send it to me, God knows what this is, it should be studied in a proper science lab. I'm thinking...I might have to leave Hogwarts for a few days..." Snape narrowed his small, black eyes at him. "I *am* an expert in poisons and substances," Snape shot at him. "There is nothing in my *own* *proper* lab you cannot use to define what this is." Deschamps took the small vial from Snape's grasp gently. "Sev," he said. "The thing is...Look, I mean no disrespect to your work..." Snape let out a snort of disgust and turned his back on Deschamps. "Daniel, the minute a person says they mean no disrespect, it's certain they are about to be grossly insulting." Deschamps frowned, for it was painful to see how Snape held onto his old prejudices the way he did, that method of distrust that had been so deeply ingrained since he'd been a kid studying at Hogwarts. The feeling was a rather sad legacy of being picked on and bullied relentlessly by Sirius and Remus and the now deceased James. At least, that was what Snape had assured him. Deschamps had clearly said to Snape many times over, such things quite a few people had to deal with in this life, and frankly he was an adult now and old enough to get the hell over it. With a bit of nudging he seemed to be doing just that. Still, when it came to any kind of, well, more *personal* affairs between the two of them, Daniel had to proceed with all the caution of a bombs expert. Every half truth, every charming phrase was scrutinized, mulled over, obsessed about until it was destroyed and all that could possibly remain was Daniel Deschamps' true intent. Which, more often than not, was Daniel's desire for a quick sojourn to bed, but that was besides the point. "If this is some new street drug London will be smoking, and not for the sake of a wild celebration," Deschamps said. "I've always held the hope that people's prejudices against bad choices won't colour their own well being. A junkie can be a dangerous thing, Snape, not only to themselves but the community around them, and I'd hate to think of some stupid kid who otherwise might have a life ahead of him being snuffed out by a bad choice at a party, do you understand?' Snape didn't, but this made no difference anyway. Daniel Deschamps was already sliding headlong into his old role of scientist turned inspector, and really if one thought about it, the two occupations weren't so very dissimilar. "So, if you say it's not magical, then I have to head to some regular labs and give my 'Muggle' population the version of evidence they need for them to believe this stuff could be a danger, not to mention how to best combat it. Magic works well in wizard circles, Sev, but in my universe it's facts that are relied on. They rules of science don't change with the same kinds of whims as they do here." He ignored the stare of insulted shock Snape was giving him at present. The vial felt strangely cold in his pocket, and he gave it an uncertain pat with his hand. The coldness seeped right through the tweed of his Muggle suit, like he'd pocketed an ice cube. He kept his head down as several of Snape's three thirty class entered the room, the little weasel kid from this morning being among the first. He gave Deschamps a sneer, and had he known a few Muggle curse words he would have thrown them at him, Deschamps was sure. Snape was still silent, refusing to look at him. He'd have a good amount of pouting over this, Daniel was sure, and any thought of sort-of-kind-of happy reconciliation over the fact would be an impossibility for at least a few days. Just long enough for him to get out to London, do a few tests on the vial and get back, maybe. "I'll see you later, Sev," Deschamps said, and put his hand on the adjoining door of their classrooms. "No," Snape said. Daniel looked over his shoulder warily to see Snape with narrowed black eyes staring at him. He didn't look at his class as he spoke. "I'm afraid this class will be cancelled for the next few days." You could practically touch the unexpressed joy of his students. "...I shall be taking a trip to London," Snape finished, all the while staring at Daniel Deschamps with the most wicked, all knowing smirk on his face. A collective gasp erupted throughout the room. The blond brat sputtered, and actually blurted out, "That Muggle cesspit? Sir, you're mad!" For once, Daniel couldn't help but agree with the kid. London and Severus Snape--Snape with his long black robes and proud aura, his greasy black hair and his stiff, unforgiving demeanour. There went the whole idea of going to the pubs with his old pals, he'd have to beat the gay whores off Snape with more than one pair of boots and a pocket of smart remarks. He wanted to adamantly protest, but Snape's expression gave no room for question. He was going. "A hundred points off your house, Potsdam," Deschamps said to the little weasly blond kid, who right now looked about ready for tears. "I'm DRACO!" he bawled. *** Sirius was not happy. He glared dangerously at Daniel as though he was single-handedly responsible for killing a roomful of puppies and kittens. Daniel's suitcase was partially packed, a heavy contraption that still lay partially open on his unmade bed. They were leaving in less than half an hour. Snape, true to form, was travelling light, which was, no suitcase at all and a wand in his pocket. "I'm sure he'll be fine," Daniel said to Sirius, though he wasn't exactly convinced himself. Sirius had his hands on his hips. He was tall, and handsome underneath all that messy stubble, and every now and then Daniel got a hint of the popular, charismatic kid that had once gone to Hogwarts and made poor Severus Snape's life a teased hell. A lot of that happy confidence had been eroded away by his prison term in Azkaban, and now he was a wilful man with an even stronger suspicious streak than Snape. In an odd way, they'd somehow arrived at being equals in paranoia. Daniel stood unhappily between Sirius and Snape, two hammerheads of opposition ready to pound him to dust. "You have no idea how dangerous the Muggle world can be," Sirius said to Snape. "With He Who Must Not Be Named mobilizing on the opposing shores from Poempi's former location, we can't afford to lose you and your expertise." He pointed to a thin red scar on his angular cheekbone. "I got this from something they call a bullet. One fraction of a shift, and it would have lodged in my skull, killing me instantly. They may not have magic to destroy you with, but the Muggle world is pretty effective when it comes to ensuring fatalities." "Reminds me," Daniel said, squinting in thought. "I'd better tell Dumbledore to not accept any mail for me while I'm gone. I'd hate for an outbreak of deadly influenza to course through Hogwarts just because he'd signed off a UPS form." Sirius crossed his arms and gave Snape an 'I Told You So' look. If he'd thought this was going to change Snape's mind, however, he was sorely disappointed. Tiny black eyes fixed on him, his mouth as thin and white as the rest of his ghostly pale face. "I wonder what there is in London that you are so afraid of me finding," Snape said to Sirius. "Keep up your little argument, it amuses me. Perhaps you're planning a trip there yourself, to 'help' Daniel. Maybe you'd like to ensure he doesn't come back..." "I don't know what you're talking about," Sirius broke in. "Oh don't you?" Snape said, brutally. "Everyone knows you have a special loathing for Daniel, that you've been trying for the past two months to get rid of him. I wonder, Sirius Black, if murder in the Muggle world is as closely monitored as it is here..." Deschamps cast a wary glance at Sirius. He closed his suitcase with a gentle click, as though there might be a trigger bomb somewhere in the lining. A horrible racket was erupting out in his living room, his Clash poster acting up again. Daniel shrugged in the direction of his open bedroom door, wondering if he could make his escape with one quick bolt between them. Joe Strummer's black and white photo was egging him on. "Oi! Oi! Oi! FUCKERS!!" The stand off between Sirius and Snape was more than just a little uncomfortable. Snape was only partially right, Sirius did want Daniel out of the picture, but Daniel suspected it had more to do with past wrongs unevenly being made right. Sirius was obviously convinced that he was 'bad' for Snape, though how someone could possibly be such an influence on a man who regularly boiled rat tails and spider sputum as the ingredients for a 'health potion' was beyond Daniel's reasoning. He picked up the suitcase from his unmade bed and held it close against him, hoping to somehow force the hint that he really, really did have to leave. "You're not going," Sirius said to Snape. Small black eyes flashed dangerously. "How will you stop me?" Oh great. If wands started getting waved about he'd be toast. Literally. "Look, Sev, Sirius has a point," Daniel said. He held his suitcase close against his chest, and saw his Clash poster in the living room giving him the finger. But Snape was adamant. His thin lips were even thinner than usual, his pale face like chalk. The stubborn will that was only hinted at before was now appearing full force, and nothing short of lopping off his arms and legs was going to change Snape's mind. "Goodbye, Sirius," Snape said, and left the room. He shouted from the living room, his resolve loud enough to soar above the cursing of the Clash poster. He had his wand out when Daniel left his bedroom and without one look towards Sirius, Snape circled his wand in the air twice and shouted "Vehere!" That was it. He was standing on a rainy platform, somewhere in London, possibly by the look of the area, around Birmingham. Snape was beside him, and of course he hadn't changed from his wizard's robes to Muggle gear. Still, Daniel thought, no one seemed all that shocked at his appearance. After all, there was a group of young punks not far down the platform with brilliant pink mohawk hair and rags held together with chains. Such visions had been commonplace since the mid 80's, and while they might have received odd looks in the past, by now it didn't seem right if your day didn't go by without seeing at least one example of a punk refugee. The fact was, once you get used to that sort of statement, well, a tall, gaunt man in what looked like priest's robes didn't really cause all that much of a fuss, did he? He Said, He Said by Silverfish ~: [1] [1] II. The power of perception had always been Daniel Deschamps strong suit, and right now Snape was hoping it was focused on his uncomfortable posture in the wooden seat beside the old, scratched, wooden desk next to him. Daniel was behind glass, in a separate room, talking animatedly with Chief Constable Blurty, and making a very good show of forgetting Snape had even arrived with him. There was a familiar scratching sound at his right, and he glanced sidelong at the large woman who was filing her chipped red nails as though they were made of granite slabs. She was loudly chewing gum, an effect which made parts of her face oddly crack. There were lines of beige beneath her heavily kholed eyes, which made her look as though her face had been plastered. "Sae, you're Danny Boy's new fling?" she asked him, her cockney accent so thick Snape could barely decipher the words. She made Hagrid look like a master linguist. "Yeah, I guess yer'll do, 'sidderin' you fixed yerself a right fuck up, wha?" She dropped her nail file onto her desk and leaned closer to Snape, an overpowering scent of cheap aloe nearly making him gag. "Yer a bit of an oddity, rayt enou', but yer nuttin' at all compared to that stalkin' bastard 'e 'ad 'afore. Some Monaco slut, I think. Or was 'e Asian? Can't rightly remember 'im, but then, I might 'ave 'im confused with about ten or so other's jus' like 'im that Danny Boy wanders around with. 'E's got something new on the go once a week, 'e does. At least that's my impression. Still, we alls gots to love the guy, rayt? 'E's got that kinda personality--like a serial killer withou' the killin', jus' karysmatick, yew know?" Snape wasn't so sure he *did* want to know. Of course it was unsettling to think that Daniel had a new 'friend' every week, and certainly the ease with which everyone here at his old precinct accepted Snape only added to that suspicion. He narrowed his small black eyes at Daniel, wondering just how much trouble he would get into, really, if he took out his wand and turned him into the dog he was. "So wot are ye then?" the dark eyed hag at the desk asked him. "You one of dem wicca freaks? Can't see the point meself, too much fooking howdy doo, if you ask me. None of that dancing in the moon, mooning the world withou' my knickers, no sir." She let out a rheumy laugh, "That would send most of 'em scrambling for a proper priest, I dare reckon!" She suddenly became serious as she got a good look at Snape's robes. "Here, you ain't some priest, are ye? Well, fuck a duck, I's never thought o' tha'! Cause if so, I's reckon poor Danny Boy's got a lot to answer for in the confession booth. Now that I looks at ya, I imagine I done ya wrong talking about Danny Boy's trash. Dinna mean nae disrespect, father..." Snape gave the glass 'office' a panicked glare. He self consciously put his hand on his wand, fighting the urge to use it. The trouble at the train station had been neatly smoothed over when Daniel had politely told the conductor that Snape was some 'patient' on a day pass, whatever that meant. He sulked a little in his chair, the drone of the nail file echoing through the large area filled with empty desks. There were two detectives looking through papers at a file cabinet on the other end of the room. One was fat and the other rail thin. They cast suspicious looks at Snape every now and then, but it was hard to tell if it was because they didn't like the look of him, or it was the force of habit from their job. He didn't want to think about the incident at the station, even though it did keep brewing up in his mind, bothering him. He still couldn't understand all the fuss that was made. So what if he didn't have a proper 'ticket'? The one he had given the collector was much more interesting than their drab examples, he'd given one with a train on it actually moving across the paper instead of just a series of numbers on a dull orange background. Who wouldn't want a ticket like that? Then there was all that fuss over him complaining over the smell of that pimply teenager's 'chips'. He had every right to retaliate, they had been insufferably rude. He'd also suspected they were theives and told them so. Poor Tommy Hilfinger, whoever he was, having his ragged clothes stolen from him. It was vile the way Muggles just turned their heads at such an obvious crime. They couldn't *both* be Tommy Hilfinger, could they, not when Tommy Hilfinger was obviously the poor, skinny man in the huge picture on the wall of the station platform. Bastards, stealing from a person who obviously had so little in life. No, Daniel was wrong, a few nights in Azkaban *would* have done the little rats a world of good. Oh no, but Daniel made him bring them back, as well as turn them into human beings again. Pity. They'd run off and complained to the train security and as a result they were delayed for over an hour while the whole mess was puzzled together. "...I's had enou' of them biznissmen, I can tells you tha'. Give me a rough up punter anyday, they dun have that weird streak in 'em. Wantin' me tae do *that* wi' a garden gnome, I mean, come on...!" Snape shuddered. He watched as Daniel took the vial out of his side pocket and held it up to the light, saying something to Blurty, who also peered up at the small glass tube. Snape hadn't found any magical properties to it at all, but there was something about it that unsettled him. He knew after his many years of working as a spy during Voldemort's uprising that it was wise to pay attention to his instincts. He frowned as Daniel pocketed the vial, in a place far too close to his heart for Snape's liking. Right now, his instincts were screaming that they get back to Hogwarts, and put that vial into a much safer and more secure environment. The door to the glass office was finally opened, and both Blurty and Daniel spilled out of it. Daniel was still talking to Blurty as he approached Snape. "We'll see if radiating it does anything. Doesn't sound very healthy, I have to tell you that." He cast a warm smile at Snape, "I see Lucy's been keeping you company. What are you in for today, Lucy?" Lucy was still filing her nails. "Whorin'." She nodded at the two detectives at the other end of room, still at the file cabinet. "Waitin' for those two tae git me fine papers so I's can go. Been havin' a nice chat with the Father here, in the meantime." "Yes," Daniel said, giving Snape a wholly sympathetic look. "He looks grey enough for that to be true." He sighed, and took out the vial from his side pocket. Snape immediately thought he was being far too easy with the substance, constantly taking it out and hiding it, as though it was mesmerizing him. Daniel held it in front of Lucy. "Have you seen anything like this on the streets lately, Lucy dear?" The liquid turned to powder, and then smoke and then liquid again as Daniel waved it before her. Lucy frowned as she looked at it, her make-up caking. "I dun think so. Why? Is it any good?" Daniel gave her a wan smile, and pocketed the vial again. "Don't touch it," he warned her. "It killed the pusher." *** They took a taxi back to a hotel, since Daniel didn't want a repeat of their train troubles. Snape found the entire process more exhausting than interesting, and nearly said as much by absently turning the cab driver's hair different colours without him noticing. "Quit it," Daniel said. "You aren't supposed to be using magic in the Muggle world anyway, it's against Hogwarts rules." "The rules are different for the teachers, Daniel," Snape said. Daniel sank further into his seat as Snape purposefully turned the cab driver's hair a brilliant yellow/green. "I guess some things will never change," Daniel said. He shrugged and scratched the back of his head when the cabbie's hair coloured turned to flaming orange. "Listen, I'm going to drop you off, all right? Do you think you can get into our room at the hotel properly?" "Of course I can!" Snape angrily replied. He turned the cab driver's hair colour back to its original electric blue and pocketed his wand. Daniel's expression indicated he didn't have much faith in this retort. "You go to the front desk, you tell them you have a reservation and you are 'S.Snape'. You pick up a key..." "Yes, yes, yes," Snape said, waving him off. "It's a simple process, a child could understand it." He glanced out the window of the cab, thinking quickly that London was a rather dirty looking place of huge, black buildings and garish yellow lights. It looked worse at night, a kind of oily feel to the air, full of a dampness similar to his dungeon office. No wonder Daniel had no issue with having his classroom there, it had all the discomfort of home. Drops of rain were beginning to descend and Snape looked unhappily out into the gloom. "What's so pressing that you need to go out?" Snape asked. "Where are you going?" The real question of course, was 'who' was he going to, especially after that disconcerting conversation with Lucy. Daniel remained quiet, looking out his own window, his hand propped under his chin, dark blue eyes absorbed in the scene on the other side of the glass. "I'd damn near forgotten how much of a depressing hovel London can be," he said. "Especially the places I have to visit." He didn't clarify at all what he meant by that, and Snape instinctively knew not to press him on it. He kept wary eyes on Daniel's form beside him, hoping to possibly ferret out some information with carefully placed silence. But Daniel was far too inward right now, and whatever he was holding, it was with an iron stubbornness that Snape would not yet be able to penetrate. The taxicab pulled up in front of a tall, Victorian styled hotel, a valet immediately taking Daniel's suitcase and staggering up the steps with it. The rain was falling more fiercely now. Snape stood beneath the drops, his hair getting wet. He turned to watch the cab leave, his expression stern as Daniel left with it. Fine. Let him have his stupid Muggle secrets--Severus Snape was a wizard who knew how to get information out of a man, no matter how much he tried to hide. Black hair dripping, he walked into the lobby of the hotel, which was fairly busy with Muggle activity. A couple of old ladies were together in the central sitting area, sipping at cups of tea. Various men were scattered about reading newspapers, one or two foreign sounding accents punctuating the air. He walked up to the front desk, and was about to ask for his room key, when he stopped. An involuntary shudder ran through him, his dark eyes narrowing in recognition. There was no mistaking it. There was another wizard here, in this lobby. He cast a sweeping glance through the room, searching past the newspapers that hid the Muggles beneath them. The feeling was more pronounced in the far right corner, and he followed it, the shadows of the area pronounced, a rather sickly looking fern attempting to live within it. The sensation shifted as he approached, and he cast his gaze around the room again, this time finding a rather simple looking Muggle in a suit with his back turned to him. The Muggle folded his paper quickly and hurried away. He had a bowler hat on, but beneath it was long, black hair, and Snape caught just the barest outline of a profile within the shadows, an unmistakably dark brow. He followed him, and marched directly out the front hotel doors after him, and then onto the sidewalk where the rain was now billowing down in a torrent. It soaked him to the skin almost immediately. He walked a few paces, only to end up turning back when he couldn't make out anything further down the street other than the yellow, eerie glow of old lamplights. He had lost him. Not that it mattered. He knew who he'd seen. He shook his wet hands and the sleeve of his drenched robe as he re-entered the lobby, the old ladies now paused from enjoying their cups of tea as they stared at him with nervous, shocked glances. He rung out the ends of his sleeves, leaving a long trail of water on the red carpet. The hotel concierge behind the front desk raised a thin, disapproving brow at him. "Sirius Black," Snape muttered. *** He was pacing the room like the carpet had something against him, small black eyes flashing with serpent anger. His fists pounded his sides as he paced, his thin mouth assuring Daniel in no uncertain terms how those who hadn't heeded his warnings were about to reap what they sowed. Daniel yawned. He was sprawled on his back on the bed, still fully clothed right down to his black shoes, which were now resting muckily on the pillows on the other side of the bed. His head hung off the edge of the mattress, his bangs defying gravity as he looked through them at Snape. "Are you really so sure it was Sirius?" he asked. "He wasn't dressed like him all that much, was he?" "Who cares what he was wearing, I know that profile anywhere!" Snape spat at him. He had magicked his robes dry, but Daniel was still wearing damp gear, and not all looking as though it bothered him. Snape glared at him, accusing. "He didn't check in under his old name, however. There was a bit of confusion when I went to get the key...At first they weren't going to let me in, they thought I was a 'street person'." He frowned. "That's not what that Lucy person was, right?" "Oh, no," Daniel said, biting back a smile at Snape's expense. "Where were you, anyway?" Snape asked. He stopped his pacing just long enough to get a good look at the portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall. She didn't move or acknowledge him once, a fact that was *most* unsettling. "Hanging about with street people," Daniel said, yawning again. "I had to ask around some old haunts as to whether or not anyone had heard of our favourite poison." He took it out of his pocket, and played with it beneath the lamplight. Snape had to fight to keep from snatching it from him once and for all. Instead, he settled for nagging. "Stop playing with that thing, who knows what it can do." Daniel gave him a smirking smile. "Haven't you been paying attention? We already know it can kill." He kept the vial in his grip, clearly getting a perverse sense of joy out of Snape's discomfort. Snape made a disgusted face at him and turned away, and it was only then that Daniel put the vial away in his jacket for the remainder of the evening. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, a spider slowly making her way across it to a dark shadowed corner. He glanced from the arachnid to Snape, who had stopped pacing but who, barely perceptible, shuddered for a moment. "I don't think that fellow was Sirius Black," Daniel said to him. Dark blue eyes melted into the shadowed gloom of their room, casting more cold than warmth. "Although...I don't think you're wrong in believing it was a wizard." "Of course I'm not wrong!" Snape nearly shouted at him. "I think the rain has frozen most of your mind." Daniel quietly laughed. "I showed the vial to one of the street guys I know well. He's got a bone disease now, just one fall and he'll break his legs, that kind of thing. That's what heroin does, eats away the bone tissue." His eyes were on the ceiling, every now and then finding that female spider in her corner, and watching as she spun her deadly web. "I showed it to him, and he says to me 'It's full of orgasms!' " Snape didn't get the joke. "Organisms," he corrected Daniel. Daniel gave him a crooked grin. "I like orgasms better." "Muggle pig," Snape said to him, and sulked. "If it's what I think it might be," Daniel said, "he won't be all that wrong, at least not in his perceptions." Their room was dark, a heavy dampness permeating it through the still steady fall of rain outside the narrow window. It was so plain here, Snape thought, the portraits of the walls uncaring, the lamps cheerless even when they were turned on, the walls and aura of the room cured of any sentiment. Unhappiness was a way of life for Muggles, by the look of things. If this was what that brat Potter and his friend Hermione Granger had to suffer through every summer, perhaps he could even find room for pity for them. "We go to the lab tomorrow, it's not too long a drive," Daniel said around a yawn. He gave Snape a vicious wink. "You'll get to find out what *serious* science is all about." Daniel was a lucky man. Snape might not be able to take a joke, but he did know constraint--which he exercised now, when all he really, really wanted to do was turn Daniel into a beetle and enjoy the satisfying crunch of his body under Snape's heel. "I don't know why I talk to you," Snape said through clenched teeth. Daniel outright grinned. He shrugged his shoulder, scratched the back of his head. "Because some things are just better than conversation," he said, and grinned even wider. He Said, He Said by Silverfish ~: III. This was definitely not a place a potions master like Severus Snape could feel comfortable. For one, the floors were far too antiseptic, and wholly unsuitable for the organic needs of proper experimentation. Any wizard with sense knew that a laboratory had to be shrouded in ancient dirt, cobwebs, the more spilled substances on the floors the better. Within such an environment, life in all its forms could thrive, and all the better be exploited with a few well placed ingredients and phrases. Not that Muggle experimentation didn't have these last attributes. There were stacks of small papers with odd hieroglyphics written on them, lots of little {} signs and +, x, ab, AACCBB, =, %, along with others of much more complicated construction. Daniel seemed to be able to interpret this odd language of numbers and symbols, though it was quite disheartening to Snape to see it consisted of no astrological references whatsoever. It couldn't be a very perfect method. They had arrived at the lab early in the morning, and this time Snape *did* receive a few odd looks as he followed Daniel through the building. Every section of the place had a horrible stale, antiseptic feel about it. Even the plants that dotted the hallways were in fact made of plastic. Snape couldn't help but feel a terrible mixture of foreboding and disgust within these walls. Though he wouldn't admit it to Daniel, (no, never), he longed to be at home in his cosy, comfortable dungeon office with things in jars that were alive instead of dead. Daniel glanced up from a beaker full of pale blue liquid and smiled at Snape. The vial had left his pocket and had been given to a young woman who was bent over what looked to be a huge barrel made of glass. It spun at an alarmingly fast rate, the inside of the barrel's drum perfectly sealed. The vial had been carefully placed in the centre, and the woman beside Daniel was now reaching into the sealed drum using rubber gloves attached to it. Snape watched with a kind of horrified fascination as she brought the tip of a needle through the stopper on the vial, to take a tiny sample of the substance into it. It had altered yet again since it's spinning within the sealed, glass barrel, and was now a writhing smoky substance that still held onto some of its liquid properties. "This stuff isn't organic," she said, looking at a glass screen that scrolled green and white numbers in various shifting levels. "It doesn't seem to be metal or chemical, either. Where did you say you found this?" "Some drug pusher," Daniel said. She took out a shallow, round dish from a sealed shelf within the barrel, a clear gel covering the bottom of it. She carefully deposited the substance within the needle onto its surface, watching it carefully. All three of them were silent as the grey smoke curled over the gel on the bottom of the dish. In seconds, the shallow dish yellowed, the gel on it hardening to a thick, plastic, clump. "What do you think of that, Amanda?" Daniel asked. Snape watched as the young woman withdrew her hands from the gloves attached to the barrel, and gave Daniel a rather warning glare. She adjusted her brown glasses on her nose, to better look down on him like a disapproving headmistress. "You got a lot of nerve bringing this here," she said. She shook her head and glared back at the petri dish, it's dried up contents had now completely absorbed the smoky example from the vial. She checked the readings on the computer above the bin, and then placed her hands in the gloves again. She lifted a lid within it, and deposited the shallow dish within it. "It's highly toxic," she said. "You're looking at a chemical weapon of some sort, I'm sure of it." Daniel smiled. "I thought you said it wasn't chemical," he said. "Nothing that I can determine," she said. She gave Snape a dubious once over. "You with the FBI or something?" "Yeah, he is," Daniel said. "Just seal that up with some duct tape, and we'll take care of it from here." 'Amanda' gave them both fierce, and if Snape was right, slightly frightened looks. "You don't understand, Daniel," she said. "This...it destroys every tiny thing that lives." She took her hands out of the rubber gloves attached to the drum, and inspected them as if, regardless of the protection so clearly provided, the substance had managed to leak out. "It's so cold," she said. Snape walked away from them both, to wander a little more around the lab, the eerie cleanliness getting to him even more now that the substance had been investigated. What did she mean specifically by chemical weapon? Are these the curses Muggles use? If so, they were horribly twisted in their simplicity, for a curse was meant for one other, and a chemical, well, wouldn't a chemical be used as a method for massive killing? Such things were so intrinsically wrong for his wizard training--a wizard was used to fighting one on one with a foe, using whatever means he could to destroy the other, and yet...These were solitary wars, and rarely did they mean the destruction of others. He could feel his heart beating too quickly at the thought, his mouth dry. This was, he knew instinctively, some new method of He Who Must Not be Named. It explained the near destruction of Poempi, the loss of innocent life possible had been enormous. Difficult as it was to fathom, He Who Must Not be Named had become even more bloodthirsty and cruel as time had wore on him. Perhaps his humanity had eroded away with his body, when he was left as nothing more than a wraith from the backfire of his own spell when he had tried to kill Harry Potter. Still, Daniel and his former forensics peer Amanda knew what chemical weapons *were*. He frowned. Was this some strange metaphor from He Who Must Not be Named? A final blow to the Muggle world once and for all? Something clanked next to his ear. He looked over his shoulder to see the horrible vial with its deadly substance now placed in another, slightly larger glass tube, the original vial's stopper duct taped severely over it, the glass tube holding the vial likewise taped up. Snape shrank from it's danger as though it were a living monster. "Is it okay if I hold onto this?" Daniel asked, cheerful. Snape was about to say "CERTAINLY NOT!" only to hear Daniel shout back to Amanda, "Yeah, it's all right, we got it. Don't worry!" He gave her a hearty wave, which was weakly returned. "Be sure to send my love on to Ricki!" "He was laid off last week," she said, dully. "Cor, that's a pisser," Daniel said. He pocketed the vial, and patted the outside of his Muggle jacket. "They always want to cut corners at labs these days. I'm starting to think our government never wants to see a cure for cancer." She remained in the stark, white, sterilized setting, looking on with a worried expression as they left. Snape found he couldn't take his eyes off of her, the fear she emanated touchable. Even after the glass doors closed behind them, and they were out of sight of her as they walked down the white hallway with its plastic plants, Snape still couldn't shake the feeling of horrible dread welling within him. "You told her I was with the FBI," he said. "What's that?" Daniel slapped Snape on the back good naturedly. "Freaky Blackrobed Investigators," he said. They walked into an elevator, its steel construction so shiny it was like a box made of mirrors. "I don't believe you," Snape said. "You're obviously lying." "No, really, they exist," Daniel said, without missing a beat. "I think you're making fun of me." "Never!" The elevator stopped on the ground floor, and Snape was too angry to wait. He marched out of it as the doors opened, the skirts of his black robe swaying. He turned back once to shout out some evil retort at Daniel, but was silenced. Daniel was nearly out of the elevator, when a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back in. Snape didn't have a second to think. He lunged at the elevator door and managed to prevent it from fully closing. The metal door swung open again, and Snape tumbled in. Daniel was being pulled through a reflection in the mirror interior of the elevator, and though he was putting up a good fight, it was nothing against the power of a displacement spell. The elevator doors closed as Snape took out his wand and pointed it at the shadowed wizard in the reflection. The wizard, with Daniel partially brought into the steel two dimensional world of the mirrored surface, was suddenly out of shadow as he shot a look at Snape. He did have a large brow, and a rather mean profile, but though he wanted this man to be Sirius Black, he wasn't. There was a momentary recognition, and then, regardless of the shocked look of surprise on his enemy's face, Snape's wand sparked into action: "Combustio!" Flames leapt into the mirror, burning the wizard who had a hold on Daniel. He let him drop, and Snape grabbed him just before he slid fully into the mirror. The wizard inside of the reflection was running, patting the flames on his robes. The elevator was engulfed in a warm, golden glow as the flames crept along the mirror's reflective surface. Music trickled from the speakers in the roof of the elevator. Daniel, out of breath and covered in soot, was on the floor, dark, navy eyes rolling up to the song that was playing. "Oh..Oh...Oh...I'm on fire..." "Haven't heard a Bruce Springsteen tune in a long time," Daniel said. The wizard who had attacked him was still running around the circumference of the elevator's reflective surface, his hands wildly patting out the flames on his robes. The 'real' elevator interior was in fact quite cool. Daniel nodded at his attacker, a gesture for Snape. "Do you know that guy?" he asked. "Icarus Moonbellow, I met him when he was a student not too long ago," Snape answered. "He seems to now be one of He Who Must Not Be Named's lesser henchmen. He's always been a weasly sort of fellow, I remember when he was a student at Hogwarts not seven years ago. He used to whine over the state of the potions room, claiming it was the disorganization that had caused him to fail." Daniel stood up, wiping soot from his jacket sleeve. He had a bemused smirk on his face as he watched Icarus Moonbellow howl as a clump of flame ignited his butt. "So, he failed your class because he couldn't use an organizer?" "No," Snape said. "He failed because I couldn't stand him." He took what looked like a matchbox out of his robe pocket and opened it. Waving his wand around it a few times he shouted "Transmigro Littlus!" The flames in the reflection immediately disappeared, as did the wizard who had attacked Daniel. Where the wizard had gone soon became apparent, however, if the tiny squeaks emitting from the matchbox were any indication. "His use of a reflection spell is a good indication of how poor his skills are. Any first year wizard can utilize that particular spell, so it's clear He Who Must Not Be Named was relying more on this useless idiot's brawn. My worry is why he was after you." "He wasn't after me at all," Daniel said. He peered over Snape's shoulder to see the wizard who had attacked him now shrunken to about the size of a small beetle. Icarus Moonbellow shouted up at him from his place in the tiny box, shaking his fist. Snape shut it with one hand, and pocketed the matchbox roughly. "If you had been fully pulled into the reflection, I never would have been able to get you back," Snape warned. "So I don't see how you figure he wasn't out to harm you." "Oh, I didn't say he had my best interests in mind," Daniel said, smiling. He shrugged, and scratched the back of his head, a nervous tic that Snape had learned could bode no good. "You see...He was rummaging in my pockets. Looking for the vial." He took it out, as if to assure Snape that it was still in his possession. But the vial was now a murky black substance that emitted such coldness this time even Daniel seemed a little perturbed by it. He placed it back into his side jacket pocket with the utmost care. The elevator doors finally opened, and they both stepped out into the white, sterile environment of the Forensics and Pathology building wing of Scotland Yard. *** The day, of course, wasn't over yet. They made a quick trip to their first visit, and Daniel had been given a couple of gifts from his pals back at the busy lobby of his former precinct. They travelled up to the second floor where Daniel used to have an office. Lucy with her plastered make up was there yet again, the two usual detectives again huddled near the file cabinet, avoiding her. Daniel disappeared behind the glass door of the office, to have another animated discussion with Blurty. It was so similar to the previous day, that Snape half wondered if some spell hadn't been performed to mask time, but he couldn't detect anything so obvious. This time he hung closer to the two detectives at the file cabinet, avoiding Lucy and her disturbing talk. "Here," the fat detective to his right said. "You Danny Boy's new thing?" "You gotta be better than that Monaco freak he 'ad," the thin one on his other side said. "I thought that one was Asian?" "It dun matter, I dun think. Danny Boy's a right fuck up for anyone, wha'?" He punched Snape's arm, a little too harshly, and Snape rubbed the slight bruise. He was beginning to wonder if the two detectives were spending too much time on Lucy's case. The door to the glass office opened, and Daniel beckoned Snape in. He gladly left the trio in the empty precinct to themselves, and their oddly single mind. Blurty, a ruddy faced Scot with a furiously bulbous nose offered him a cup of coffee, which Snape politely refused. The door behind him was shut, and though the two detectives were now leaning nonchalantly with their backs against the glass, privacy, it seemed, was assumed. "Go on," Daniel said to Snape. "Hand over the suspect to Blurty for a bit." Snape gave Daniel and his former chief a questioning, uncomfortable look, but Blurty seemed perfectly happy with whatever Daniel had suggested. Not entirely sure this was the proper thing to do, Snape took the matchbox out of his robe pocket and placed it on the surface of Blurty's desk. He opened it, and the tiny, shrunken wizard Icarus Moonbellow leapt out as though to escape, only to cower in horror when he saw the form of a massive Chief Constable Blurty staring down at him. "Ah, we've met before," Blurty said to the tiny form. A large, pudgy finger pinned Moonbellow down amongst some papers. "You remember that case, Daniel, the pickpocket on Charles St., the one who preyed on the elderly and infirm. I don't think he garnered how tough little old East End ladies can be. I rather remember that nose being even more crooked the last time I saw him." Blurty looked down on his prisoner with good natured menace. "Ah, but maybe that's because he was just a tiny bit taller back then." "Go to hell!" the tiny figure shouted up at him, and it was such a tinny, squeaky voice that even the suggestion of threat was hysterical. "You sound like the guy in that old fifties movie," Daniel said, the tiny shrunken wizard turning his attention to him instead. "I think it was called The Fly." He bent low so that even though their massive size differences prevented direct proximity, Daniel was still able to maintain a deadly eye contact. "What was it he said when they found him trapped in that spider's web?" He imitated the tiny voice, "Help meeeeee!" Snape peered down in disgust. "I don't imagine He Who Must Not Be Named will be all too pleased to know of your failure," he said. "A pickpocket like you should have known how to easily take it from Daniel without a fight." The tiny figure actually looked a little defeated at this fact. He sat on the edge of the matchbox cover, his arms crossed, his glare for his own, minuscule feet. "It was so damn cold," he said, and visibly shuddered. "I...I couldn't get a proper grip on it." He cast a wary glance up at Daniel. "I don't know how *he* manages it, that's for sure." Blurty coughed. "Danny Boy has a lot of uncomfortable attributes," he said. "But he knows his work, as do I, and what we both want of you are some facts. Like just what the hell that vial was going to be used for." "It's a weapon," the Moonbellow said, sneering. "I don't care if you know that." "Against who?" Daniel asked, and Moonbellow became a lot more uncomfortable. He paced around the circumference of his matchbox prison, arms crossed. Snape's mood was decidedly black. He picked up the wizard Icarus Moonbellow with a quick pinch of his forefinger and thumb and dumped the protesting figure back into the matchbox, and shut it with another pinch. He pocketed the prisoner, and didn't look at either Daniel or Blurty as he spoke. Blurty's nose was just a little redder, and Daniel was inspecting his nails. "It's obvious," Snape said, dully. "He Who Must Not Be Named may be a vicious killer, but he still knows the value of one on one battle between wizards. Even the destruction of Poempi was to take place with thousands of his followers, and not through the mass destructive use of magic. To fight one on one is a strict part of wizard code, and I doubt He Who Must Not Be Named has quite lost that habit of tradition." Snape frowned, "However, he would not hesitate to wipe every Muggle off the face of the Earth with one fell swoop. This is his weapon of choice for what he sees as the lesser of all creatures." Blurty's red nose looked a little pink now as he paled. "What kind of scope are you talking about?" he asked. Snape took the matchbox out of his pocket, and opened it just enough to catch a few curse words thrown out. "Answer the man," Snape ordered him. But Moonbellow merely laughed. He pointed a tiny arm at Daniel. "Ask *him*," he said. "He's got all the answers." *** The train ride back to Hogwarts was mostly uneventful. Snape tried to suggest to a pink mohawk haired girl with a baby that a safety pin through her bottom lip would be much more attractive than through the top, but Daniel stopped him with a glare. The tube was fairly quiet as they made their way, the bulk of people on the tram looking tired, and haggard, as though worn away from life. He half wondered if this might have been some working of He Who Must Not Be Named after all, but then, the baby in the brightly pink mohawked girl's arms began giggling, and in turn elicited a few approving glances from a nearby old lady. If this was some magic of sadness performed upon the Muggle world, it was an imperfect one, and Snape knew He Who Must Not Be Named never did anything that wasn't predetermined to be exact. Daniel's quiet was unreasonable, Snape thought. He kept glancing over at him, at the seriousness of his profile as he sat in his chair, thinking, his hand at his breast pocket, touching that horrible coldness seeping through it. Snape had left Moonbellow, still shrunken, in the care of Blurty where he was being processed for the attempted murder and assault of a former police officer. Considering what the aim of the weapon was set to do had he retrieved it, suffering his days in a Muggle prison was perhaps a good end. They left the tube at quarter past, to arrive at station 13 1/4, their tickets complete with moving trains and it was such a relief to not be given a hassle over it. If anything, the conductor admired the craftsmanship. Daniel was lugging a small suitcase with him, now laden with a few more Muggle things within it that would no doubt cause all manner of trouble once they got back to Hogwarts. They boarded the train and made themselves comfortable in a private booth. "No dissaparation today?" Daniel asked as he settled into his seat. A tray of tea instantly ran to their side, but Daniel waved it off, while Snape impatiently grabbed a cup before it scrambled further down the train's corridor. "No," Snape said, balancing the cup and saucer in his grip. "I wanted a more leisurely ride...To think things over." "Like what?" Daniel asked. "Such as," Snape said, setting the tea on the empty seat beside him, "the fact that the more time we spend together, I know you less and less." "That's probably a good thing," Daniel said. He had his chin in his palm, his elbow propped against the window he was now looking out of. "I told you what the end would be, didn't I? Right from the beginning." Snape frowned, wondering just what the hell Daniel was talking about. What did he tell him? He'd spent the majority of their trip to London in stuffy laboratories and empty precincts, what could he possibly have to say other than, 'This is a whole lot of nothing, darling?' "Your tea will spill," Daniel said. "I don't want it," Snape replied. "Oh now, don't be like that." "Like what?" "All pouty and disappointed." "I am not." "You most definitely are. I should take a photo of it, only I think your portrait would be quite nasty to me at times." Snape's black eyes narrowed. "Would it have a reason?" he asked, sharply. "A Moroccan, or an Asian one perhaps?" "Cor," Daniel said, and even blushed a little. "Those bastards didn't tell you about *him* did they?" "A little," Snape said. His mouth was a set line, waiting for Daniel's answer. He watched Daniel shrug and scratch the back of his head, the nervous tic setting off warning bells all over Snape's emotions. He did his best to keep his demeanour cool and unassuming, but it was pointless. His anger won out. "I suppose you cared about him as much as you cared about all the other 'things' you've had. Once a week, wasn't it?" "What?" Daniel said, his attention diverted from the window to rest on Snape in shock. "I never cared a whit about *him*! He stalked me, Snape! I never even *knew* him, he delivered my pizza! For God's sake, he broke into my flat and killed my fucking goldfish!" "But..." Snape began. "And what's all this new thing once a week business? You didn't believe that old whore Lucy, did you? Dear God, she's convinced Blurty is hopelessly in love with her when it's obvious all Blurty cares about is his wife Caroline, their cocker spaniel, and whether or not the cat is allergic to gardenias. You speak once to Lucy and she's thinking she's slept with you more than five times! She's probably got a whole love affair decked out over that conversation she managed to drag out of you yesterday!" "Oh!" Snape said, thoroughly disgusted, his arms crossed over his shudder. "Why didn't you warn me!!" "I never thought you'd believe such garbage," Daniel said. Snape felt utterly terrible. "I didn't quite believe it," he said, trying to save face, but Daniel wasn't buying it, at least not right away. Snape sighed, and moved from his seat across from Daniel to the one just beside him. Their booth was private, and no one was walking past in the train corridor. He kept his hands palms down on his thighs, and gave Daniel furtive looks from the corners of his small, black eyes. "I couldn't help it," Snape said, resignedly. "You never tell me anything." Daniel was looking out the window, and this time he sadly smiled. He turned to face Snape, and, in a gesture that just about made Snape's heart crush to dust, he smoothed away a lock of tangled black hair that had fallen before Snape's face. "You're too brilliant to not figure things out," Daniel said. "Blurty told me if you ever decide to give up the whole magic wizard scene he'd be more than happy to have you on the force." Thoughts of Lucy made him shudder again. "I don't think so," Snape said. Daniel laughed, a sure sign of forgiveness. Snape gave him a nervous, strained smile in response. "You have trouble just enjoying life, don't you?" Daniel asked. He pinched Snape's chin. "Nah, don't answer that. Just keep that annoyed, pouty look on you, I've grown quite fond of it." *** Albus Dumbledore stood in front of Daniel Deschamps with an expression of grave concern lining every feature of his posture and face. The vial was now suspended in mid air, the two bottles as well as several magical shields placed over it for the best protection possible. Snape had told him the finer points of how it was going to be used as a weapon by He Who Must Not Be Named, and Dumbledore nodded in approval at Daniel. "It was wise for you to bring it back here, rather than leave it in Muggle territory," he said. "The spells placed upon it right now are of a complicated variety of my own creation, and will not be nullified easily, if at all. Let them try to take it, they'll soon learn not to trifle with Life and Death." They had left, then, Snape running into Sirius Black only briefly before rudely brushing past him to continue after Daniel. Sirius called after them both, his voice brash: "Hey, both of you!" Snape and Daniel turned in unison. Sirius Black began to speak, only to halt a few times before finally getting out the words. "Good work, you two," he said, and then made his way into Dumbledore's office, the large, ornate door nearly slammed behind him. The hallway was now shrouded in doubtful silence, both Daniel and Snape wondering what to make of that sudden outburst of positivity. Snape was the one who began walking again first, Daniel slightly behind him. He noticed Daniel was still absently patting the area on his jacket where his inside pocket had held the vial. It disturbed him. He kept thinking on what Moonbellow had said, and how Daniel had just smiled back at him, and never said a word to clarify just what the wizard had meant. "Daniel," Snape said. "What is in that vial?" Daniel raised a brow, as if surprised that Snape didn't already know. "It's obvious, isn't it?" Daniel said to him. "It's a little piece of Death." Snape frowned. "I don't understand. It had no magical properties..." "...And no chemical or biological ones, either," Daniel finished for him. His hand finally fell away from his now empty pocket. "That's the nature of Death, isn't it? It's not a magical thing, and yet not a part of this world of the living. What's there, but isn't...Do you understand what I mean?" Snape didn't. If anything he was even more perturbed now than ever, for hadn't Daniel so easily touched and pocketed that vial of Death, keeping it so dangerously close to his own heart? For all his dishevelled Muggle ineptitude, he'd managed to side-step the one thing that would destroy Muggle and Wizard alike. As they continued to the express stairs that led into the dungeons, Snape couldn't help but think once again on how there was so much about Daniel he didn't know. Considering how close Daniel had kept that coldness next to him, and even seemed to mourn it--Perhaps not knowing was the best recourse after all. They descended into the dungeons, one bleak, tall, gaunt, black robed man with straggly black shoulder length hair and beady eyes glaring down into its gloom, and behind him one rather innocent looking Muggle with dark brown hair and lazy, dark navy eyes and an equally lazy smile following him down. They seemed opposites, in every respect. First impressions. They are often incorrect. END JUNKIE SLIP by Silverfish ~: "..kooky kooky kooky kooky afternoon"--The Clash Morning came with a serious threat that Daniel Deschamps, Muggle English teacher for Hogwarts Academy, couldn't ignore. His mail was carefully inspected for the usual deadly issues such as tiny bombs the size of a sliver of aluminium hidden in the glue sealing the paper, as well as the routine biological scans using far more sophisticated means at his disposal in Snape's potions room (which, truth be told, consisted mostly of Snape simply having the letter 'talk' its contents using a spell similar to a howler and then destroying the unopened envelope in a sterile blue fire). But despite the usual precautions, this particular morning had much more devastating possibilities. He checked the frame of his classroom door often, making sure there were no trigger ropes or wires. He avoided opening any drawer in his desk, even when a tiny third year student asked him if he had an extra quill. Books were an especial worry, and each page was leafed through out in the hallway, just in case there was something waiting within them that might leap out and bite. Yes, this could be considered a side effect of a non magic Muggle living at Hogwarts, but the truth was Daniel Deschamps was not worried about magic so much as old fashioned spring mechanisms. The day was May twenty-sixth, and he was now 36 years old. Today was his birthday. The morning had gone by fairly well, no doubt due to his own vigilance in ensuring the doors were clear, the drawers not opened, his mail sealed in a vault to prevent any mishaps of a grand scale, and a good scatter of tacks under his bed to prevent anyone from hiding underneath it. By noon he managed to not flinch at every tiny, misplaced step that happened to echo out in the hall. When the day had wound itself down to two thirty, he began to relax enough to stop holding his breath for long intervals. The day was nearly over, and he'd made it through without one devastating event. He noted that Potter, (he was pretty sure that was the name of that blond kid) and his dark haired, bespectacled friend were giving him odd looks all the way through his lecture. It set him a little on edge, but then, they weren't exactly fond of him and would hone in on any small difference in his behaviour. He made a mental note to take ten points off of Slytherin just to piss Potter off and give himself some much deserved satisfaction for it. One of these days he was bound to make the little pisser cry. There was a knock at his classroom door. Before he could prevent him, Potter's dark haired friend had leapt at the opportunity and opened it, half looking as though he wanted to bolt through the door himself. Two men in sailor uniforms walked in, grinning widely at Daniel, who could only stare back at them in absolute horror. They saluted him, while Daniel chanced a glance back at his class, the students looking on in question. One of the sailors had a portable CD stereo,which he placed on the floor and then pressed play. A familiar tune began tinnily making its way through the sterile, white environment of his classroom. "This is a gift from your pals at Precinct 137!" one of the sailor's said. He was a young guy by the look of him, and clearly very proud of his job. A small scroll was presented by his near twin, and he saluted smartly when Daniel took it from him. Daniel opened it and read: "Here you go, it'll be cowboys next year! Don't think we haven't forgotten you as much as you have us! We've had a little chat with that Dumbledore headmaster of yours--You'll be seeing us later!" "Oh no," Daniel moaned, and let the scroll drop to the surface of his desk. The sailors were now doing a choreography number for the benefit of the class, singing in near perfect key: "If ye gooo will ye send baaack...A letter froooom America!...Take a looooog up the rail track...From Miami to Canada..." At the end of the chorus they tossed off their hats to some girls in the third row. Daniel shrugged, and scratched the back of his head, and without looking back made his way through the connecting door to Severus Snape's potions room. He opened it with a gentle creak, the students within instantly shooting him fearful glares. Snape himself paused over his cauldron, and gave Daniel a quick once over that ended in relief when he didn't see any tell-tale white envelopes in his hand. "Sev, I need to talk to you," Daniel said. Snape's high brow furrowed. "What about?" Trails of the sailor's song made its way into the potions room: "..of all the blood that flowed awaaay..." "It's about my birthday," Daniel said. "It's today, and..." "Yes, I'm aware of that," Snape said, dismissing him and turning back to his class. "Turn to page 210 of your potions books and make careful note of the construction of fermented brisbane..." Daniel wasn't all too pleased. "What do you mean you *know*?" A horrible realization began creeping into his features, dark navy eyes with a hint of steel glaring at Snape. "You didn't call the precinct!" "I warned you to get rid of that pager," Snape said to him. He glanced up at the inquisitive looks his students were giving him and then pulled Daniel a little further to the back of the classroom for more privacy. "They said they have a party for you every year, I assumed it was all right. They said they had permission from Dumbledore." "Dammit!" Daniel shouted. He was really scratching the back of his head now, his hair a messy halo of unevenly short brown. "Do you have any idea what kind of havoc they can cause?" Of course Snape didn't know. Snape had been hovering in his Potions room for far too long, and had lain in the sidelines of a serious, humourless dictator when he'd played spy all those years ago. He had no idea how insane Daniel's lot could get. "...we go Bathgate no moooore....Lewis no moooorre.. Loch-aaaabeeeerrr nooooo mooooooorrre..." "Shit!" Daniel shouted and bolted from Snape's confidence to run to the connecting door. "They've nearly finished the damn song!" He ran into his room and stopped the two singing sailors just in time to prevent a rather impromptou male anatomy lesson for his sixth year students. He gathered up their costumes and shoved them into the hands of the dancers along with a couple of pounds tip which both naval officers felt was significantly scant in comparison to what they'd had to do to *get* to Hogwarts. "Yes, yes, great performance, now sod off," Daniel said to them, and shoved them out the door. He closed it again with a near slam and looked nervously back at his class. "Just..uh...write an essay on evil versus good, which works best. Two pages. Double spaced." He picked up the scroll on his desk and opened a drawer to drop it in. With a loud clang a shock of smoke emitted from it, along with a skeleton's hand. It held a bottle of good scotch, which was flung from its grip, Daniel neatly catching it. Daniel looked the medium sized bottle over. It sure as hell wasn't the cheap crap Blurty usually took out. It had to be a subtle message of how much they were going to celebrate when they got here. "Just great," Daniel muttered to himself. *** Draco Malfoy did not have to say to anyone "Just wait until my father hears about this!" because of the fact that Lucius Malfoy *had* heard about the expected arrival of a gang of Muggles to Hogwarts, and no, he wasn't pleased. He marched into Dumbledore's office, his robes billowing behind him like a raven's feather, long, straight, flaxen blond hair in an equally windswept state. There were already several people in Dumbledore's office, including Muggle Daniel Deschamps, Severus Snape, Professor McGonagall, Remus Lupin and a large black dog at his side. Lucius Malfoy gave them all an assessing glare before stomping his staff to the ground a few times in pointed agitation. "I would like to know what madness you think you are playing at," Malfoy said to Dumbledore. "Allowing half breeds and the few..promising...Muggles to Hogwarts is one thing, but to allow a troupe of rag and tear Mud..Muggles with no magic background whatsoever to simply waltz into a wizard stronghold like Hogwarts and..." Dumbledore stroked his white beard absently at this outburst. "A stronghold? Is that what Hogwarts is referred to as, now?" His huge, bushy white eyebrows knitted together. "How interesting. I was under the impression that this was a school and not a political pawn of battle." He coughed and leaned forward in his seat as he spoke, his voice just a little gruffer in irritation. "Mr. Malfoy, Hogwarts, as a place of learning, must provide the most broadened cultural experiences possible for its students, if they are to live in this and any world. I believe interaction with non magic Muggles may do well to help overcome certain prejudices, as well as seal our own convictions in our fight against Vold--" he cast a sympathetic look to the gasp of some in the room and shook his head with a low chuckle. "'He Who Must Not Be Named'." Lucius Malfoy flashed him a wholly ingenuine smile. "Never let it be said that I believe Muggles to be beneath wizards." The expression in his eyes clearly showed the opposite of what he was saying, especially when he looked on Daniel Deschamps. "However, I am merely concerned for the safety of these poor, unsuspecting souls, for you know as well as I how easily excitable these Muggles can be." Dumbledore's brows knit together again as he looked at Daniel Deschamps who, as usual, looked about easily excitable as a rock on the bottom of a quiet forest floor. If anyone was looking agitated right now it was Severus Snape who kept looking from Lucius to Daniel with quick, black, assessing eyes. The uncomfortable note of silence was dispelled, however, by a shout of indignation in the hall. A familiar voice, one Daniel knew to belong to Harry Potter, the little blond haired kid who'd suffered through his own ire for the brunt of the year. A deeper, heavily Scottish voice followed, and Daniel smiled at the intonations of Chief Constable Blurty. The door to Dumbledore's office was still open, and one other non magic Muggle had found his way inside, his nose as red as if he'd started on the party earlier that day. And no doubt about it, he had. Blurty shook a shrunken putrefied hand in the air before him. "Here, wha's this? Found it in that little snot's possession, I did." He used to shrivelled black hand to point in the direction of the protests. "Draco?" Lucius Malfoy asked. There was some hesitation, but the familiar form of Draco Malfoy (known to Daniel, of course, as Harry Potter) walked into the room, his face as red as a heated iron poker. "Give that back to me!" he shouted at Blurty. "Nae, I dun think sae," Blurty replied, and winked at Daniel. "This here's evidence." Lucius Malfoy let out a chuckle and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. Draco stood beside him proudly, staring down Blurty and his stolen prize. "That's a hand of glory," Draco said. "It's very expensive!" "Now, now, Draco," Lucius said, though his voice was only barely tinged with caring sentiment. "As a simple Muggle, this man has no idea of what a hand of glory is, and as such cannot possibly conceive of its, or perhaps many things in this establishment's, worth." Lucius Malfoy gave Dumbledore a nod at this, along with a most unfriendly smile. "I know what it's worth," Blurty interrupted. He shook the ugly hand around as if it were a twig and not a human appendage. "It's a bloody murderer's hand is what it is." Lucius Malfoy blinked. "Well, how interesting that you would have such knowledge..." he began. "Of course I got that knowledge, who the 'ell do yae think put 'im in the body bag 'i the firs' place? One shot through the neck, but then, I was lucky I never nicked the hostage." He pointed the blackened fingers at Daniel. "What do yae think of this for eerie, wha'? I come here and the first thing I find is O'Grady's hand!" He pointed with his living fingers to the blackened tips of the ex-murderer's in his grip. "Look at that, there's no mistaking. See how all the bits and pieces are all mashed up together on the swirls. Mind, there's a bit of wrinkling, but you can see it clear enou'. Aye, that's O'Grady all right." He mildly chuckled. "You can tell I've been hanging around the labs too much, heheh. I have to admit, though, seeing O'Grady's hand this wrinkly is a surprise--I'd always thought the cesspit of illegal drugs in his system would 'hae helped preserve 'im better." Daniel smiled in recognition. "How could we forget him? Cut up his fingertips into pieces and then rearranged them like a puzzle in his flesh. It's a marvel of science to see how it actually did grow back that way--however, I don't think he realized how easy it was to put the pieces back the right way again on a computer screen." "Aye, stupid bastard. Must have hurt like hell and for naught, thanks to fractals and geometry we got the stupid twit for murder anyway." He smacked Daniel on the arm with the black wrinkled hand. "And all this time we'd thought it was Micheal Jackson what had gone and bought his barmy hand." He handed the now decidedly devalued hand back to Lucius Malfoy, along with a look that suggested the man had been ripped off, and Blurty knew it. Dumbledore was still stroking his long, white beard and smiling beneath it. "I hear you enjoy a Muggle pastime known as 'soccer'?" Dumbledore said to Blurty. "There is a Quidditch match, our version if you will, of 'soccer', in half an hour. Perhaps you would enjoy viewing a match? It's very popular amongst wizard circles, although, I don't believe Mr. Deschamps has ever attended a game--Today can be a first for all of you, perhaps?" Snape looked over at Daniel, who was smiling blandly. No, Daniel never had attended a Quidditch match, come to think of it. When he'd been asked once by McGonagall he'd replied that he simply wasn't that much of a fan of sport. "Aye, that sounds pleasant, eh Danny Boy?" Blurty said. "It can be like old times, when we bet like mad on the Irish teams, wha'? Danny here's a big soccer fan, he is, never missed a game the entire time he was working with us, even had the telly on in the lab to catch the action." Snape gave Daniel a quizzical glare. "Mr. Malfoy..." Both Lucius and Draco looked up at the mention of their family name. "We shall no doubt see you both there, as well?" Draco's mouth was a thin line. He shoved the hand of glory into his father's grip and nodded curtly at him before leaving the office. "Hm," Blurty said as he watched him leave, "he's like a little soldier, isn't he?" "My son understands the importance of self discipline," Lucius Malfoy said, his eye twitching slightly as he looked on the rumpled, red faced form of Blurty. "Well, a game of wizard soccer sounds like a right enough way to spend the early part of a day. I'll bring the lager, Daniel, you bring the rest of the gang. They've all been distracted in that huge cafeteria of yours, Mr. Dumbledore, I don't think Constable McKinnon has quite seen so many pastries in one room. He looked rather faint, though that might have been from having from having one of those 'all flavour beans' as they were called on the train ride in. Apparently he got a dog hair flavoured one. Serves the poor stupid ass right for not reading the label, wha'? I think he half suspects the sweets in front of him are all misleading." Blurty coughed into his fist. "Maybe this will finally get his fat ass to keep on his diet." *** The faculty booth at this day's Quidditch match was especially crowded this time around, and Snape noted that Lucius Malfoy was very perturbed to have been wedged between one fat officer of Muggle law and his thin as a twig companion. There were four Muggles, all told, including Daniel Deschamps, and were drunk, loud, and swearing far more than was prudent at a school function. Everyone that was, save Daniel, who was quietly sitting between Snape and Blurty, a half smile teasing the edges of his mouth as he watched the game, his dark navy eyes as far away from the event as Snape was from understanding Blurty's constant conversation. "..and anybody with a brain knows that Ireland just *gave* away the championship to Belgium last year, but mind you they have that little quick as a sniper Beurgen on their team, and if any man can weasel his way past a goalpost and under a ref's legs, it's that one. What's this, you're sitting here not having a drop at all? What's the point of even watching a game without a bit of bolly--Here," he shoved an opened can of lager into Snape's protesting hand. "Drink that, it'll straighten your hair." "Aye, an' make crooked a few other things," the chubby Constable McKinnon said ahead of him. His companion, Constable McKnulty, grinned and reached around Lucius Malfoy between them to punch his companion harshly in the shoulder. "Fifteen pounds says the dark haired kid gets the snitch in ten minutes," a forensics officer Snape knew as Amanda shouted back to all of them. She adjusted her dark brown glasses on the bridge of her nose, and looked pointedly at her peers. "I know better than to gamble wit' you," Constable McKinnon said to her. There was mumbled assent from all who knew her, but Lucius Malfoy patronized her with a smile and said: "I'll bet you a hundred gold galleons that you're wrong." Amanda adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose again, dark brown eyes showing no emotion whatsoever. "If you want higher stakes, that can be arranged. Two hundred and fifty galleons says he'll catch the snitch in ten minutes, the score will end at exactly 634 for Gryffndor and 200 for Slytherin." Lucius Malfoy actually grinned at her audacity. "My dear, you have a, how do you put it? A bet." Snape looked from Lucius Malfoy's malevolent stare to Amanda's cold statistical one, and took a long draught of his bitter, strong lager. This couldn't end prettily. *** Ten minutes, 634 points for Gryffndor and 200 for Slytherin later, Snape caught Lucius Malfoy neatly hidden with Amanda underneath the scaffold that had held their booth, a navy velvet bag open in Amanda's hands as Lucius unhappily counted out two hundred and fifty gold galleons into it. Constables McKinnon and McKnulty got a good laugh out of it, the chubby McKinnon confiding to Snape, "That's what the poor snob gets for betting with a physics genius." The canned lager had been quite strong, and Snape was feeling a little light-headed from its effects. The sun was beginning to set over the horizon of Hogwarts grounds, layers of dark greens and blues blurring together over clumps of trees and hedges. Another full can was shoved into his hand as the empty one was taken away. Snape couldn't be sure who had given it to him. "Aye, Danny Boy didn't look all that pleased to be there, did he?" Blurty said to Snape. Daniel was ahead of them all, his hands in the pockets of his Muggle jeans, the hem of his suitjacket sloppily wrinkled against his arms. "He almost didn't come to the game, but I made him rethink it when I told him you'd be with us all alone. Dunno why he's so worried about that, we'd hardly do you harm, am I right?" He shoved Snape in the arm, and Snape opened the can of lager with some difficulty, nearly cutting his finger in the process. He took another long sip of bitterness from the can. Daniel had been acting very strangely since his friends arrived, an odd distance placed between himself and the rest of them. If Snape could feel it, he was sure Daniel's friends could all the more. He could hear Constables McKinnon and McKnulty as they caught up with Daniel, their hands patting his rather stooped posture. "All that whizzing noise," McKinnon was saying, possibly talking about the Quidditch match, "It can grate on your nerves well enough, am I right, Danny Boy?" The slap on the back was supposed to be jovial, but Daniel certainly didn't see it that way. He whipped around and without warning gave McKinnon a fierce punch to the jaw that floored him. McKnulty jumped Daniel when he tried to hammer a few more hits onto McKinnon, and earned a good shove to his ribs for his trouble. Snape was frozen to the spot at this appearance of violence, and it was Blurty who tore Daniel off of his friend, and who asked him just what the bloody fuck was his problem... Daniel shrugged, and scratched the back of his head, his breath a heaving series of panting gasps as though he'd run a mile only to find he'd lost the race. Without saying anything he turned from his friends and walked into Hogwarts, away from McKinnon and his busted bottom lip and away from McKnulty who was still rubbing his side where Daniel's elbow had pummelled him. "Fucking nutter," McKnulty said. He shouted after Daniel, who was already out of sight. "Happy birthday, you fuckup twit!" McKinnon got off the ground, testing his busted lip with his fingertips, blood leaking onto the pads. "What the hell's got into him?" he asked Blurty. Snape heard Blurty sigh. The Scot's usually red face was even more rouged than usual. "You know as well as I, it was that damn O'Grady's hand. I'm bloody stupid. I should never have made a joke of it." He left Snape alone, with his open can of now not so bitter lager, the night crawling over Hogwarts like a steady, fast stream of shadow. Everything about the situation he was in was wrong. Daniel never lost his temper, not for the months he'd known him--if anything he'd always been eerily calm in face of even the most deadly forces of nature. He thought about the vial Daniel had kept in his pocket, that coldness so close to his heart. Not even something like that had affected him. So, why would the shrivelled hand of a dumb murderer be the thing to set him off? He took another few gulps of the can of lager, the taste muted the more he drank it. He followed Blurty, keeping a few feet away from him and his friends, not entirely sure if he was supposed to be a part of their gathering or not. *** By the time eleven thirty pm rolled around, Severus Snape was feeling very, very numb indeed. He tried to remember the last time he'd been this inebriated and instantly a date came to mind. 1979--and it had been butterbeer which wasn't even a quarter as potent as the current levels of alcohol his body was harbouring. He kept nodding at everything Blurty was saying, the Scot's mouth moving and moving as it had done all night, and nothing of what he was saying was registering in Snape's mind whatsoever. All of his concentration at the moment was being spent on how to keep his eyelids from closing, though he couldn't figure out why this was important. Right now, sleep was a very good idea. Daniel was nowhere to be found. For all his worry of leaving him alone with his friends, he'd managed that feat quickly enough. Daniel Deschamps...Muggle, former forensics expert, former officer of Muggle law, formerly calm, non-violent Daniel with big lazy navy eyes and messy brown hair...Snape could feel a lazy smile of his own finding its way onto his expression. He'd really flattened that McKinnon, hadn't he? Oh yes, he'd seen a bit of that before, in much, much different circumstances. His face felt hot. He pressed his cheek against the stone wall, enjoying its cool texture. The Muggles were loud, and had found a few others to join them in their drunken party, McKinnon and McKnulty were currently having a contest to see who could down a bottle of scotch the quickest, although it was clear from the attempt that whoever brought it back fastest would be the real winner. He got up, surprised momentarily with the way the room spun at odd angles. He ran his hand along the wall for both support and direction as he headed unseen out of the mess hall, his forehead resting on damp stone once he was out in the hallway away from the throng within. He walked a few paces and down a couple of flights of stairs, heading, he hoped, in the vague direction of his bedchamber. He had to pause a few times to regain his balance and composure, though his steps were staggered as he made his way further down. He had to rest momentarily at the side of a large griffin, the cool comfort of the statue's shadow a welcome relief for his hot face. He rested his forehead on the side of its beak, and closed his eyes, a dangerous thing to do when what he wanted most of all at present was the pleasure of sleep. His possible slumber was broken by the sound of a creaking door. He slowly opened his small, black eyes, to see Lucius Malfoy creep from someone's quarters, his gaze furtively looking up and down the hallway to see if anyone had noticed him. Behind him the familiar form of Amanda stood with her arms crossed. She sighed, and uncrossed them, to adjust her glasses on the bridge of her nose. Lucius turned to her, and gave her a condescending smile, though it was by no means as imposing as the cold glare Amanda was giving him. Lucius refastened a few top buttons on his black robe before he spoke to her. "I trust I can rely on your discretion," he said. "You can fire it off on a NASA newsletter, I don't care," Amanda replied. Lucius Malfoy's right eye slightly twitched at this, but it didn't stop him from trying to press his point further. "What are the chances," he asked, "of my coming back here to visit you again?" "Nil," Amanda replied. "Oh come now," Lucius replied, and actually leaned his arm against the frame of the door, a sultry smile leering down at Amanda. "I figured out where it was eventually, didn't I?" The heavy door slammed shut in his face. Lucius, obviously chagrined, checked once again to make sure no one was in the hall before slinking away in the opposite direction Snape was heading. Snape watched him until he was no longer in sight before leaving his hiding spot in the shadow of the stone griffin. The display had been interesting, to say the least--Lucius Malfoy's prejudices obviously didn't extend into the bedroom, although, perhaps, Amanda's did. Somewhat sobered by this information, Snape made his way further down, and into his dungeon dwelling, a small, damp room not far from his classroom and office. It had been a while since he'd been here, since most of his time lately had been in Daniel's company, though he had been sure to make at least one or two trips here a week to give the illusion he still lived there. So, it was with some surprise that he found he was not alone as he had expected, but Blurty was walking quickly down the narrow, algae lined hall, and was talking in some confidence with a young man who stood next to him. At first, Snape thought Blurty had followed him, but then realized he didn't know where Blurty had gone in the interval between his wanting to stay conscious and leaving the mess hall himself. "Express stairs," Blurty was saying, clarifying the matter. "Who would have thought such a thing could exist?" He chuckled and smacked the young man with him on the back. "Look, I meant no disrespect about that hand earlier, but you have to understand, when you know where these things come from, you have a much better insight into its possibilities, am I right?" The young man spoke, and Snape was surprised to hear Draco Malfoy's voice break clearly into the darkness of the hall. Snape hid himself again, this time in the shadows of a staircase. "I just want to know more about this O'Grady person," Draco said. "You said he wasn't very smart, but you have to admit that it takes courage to be able to take another life..." Blurty swore in exclamation at this. "Rubbish!" he shouted. "What fool has been putting that kind of nonsense into your head? No, Draco, there is no courage of any sort in cold blooded murder--Courage comes from finding a way to let someone who should be dead, live. That is significantly harder." He shook his head, and coughed into his fist. "Here, that O'Grady was not only stupid, he had a long history of making idiotic choices. He always looked out for himself, and how to take the easy way out of everything. That's what it all boils down to, lad. The criminal mind is no master--it's a stupid, bloated blob of grey that only sees its own ends, and as a result is it any wonder criminals destroy themselves most of all? No, if you want to be successful, avoid glorifying a criminal mindset." He smiled at Draco's frown. "Follow my advice and stop listening to your father--At your age you should be thinking about rebelling, and getting at least one really bad friend. We all need a bad friend once in a while, lad, they teach us how not to be when we see how fast they fall, or sometimes, how wrong we've been thinking." He sighed, the sound echoing through the black confines of the hallway. "O'Grady weren't no one's friend. He was a business associate of a very nasty crime gang, and when we took him down it was a bloody business all over. They'd just been ambushed at their 'safe house', you see, right in the middle of a seedy and busy London street. He'd taken a hostage, I was damn lucky I never shot her, but I knew if I'd waited one more second that poor girl would have been dead. It's never a good thing to have to kill anyone, lad. As you can see, he's still managed to come around and cause mischief." Draco tried to interject, but Blurty held up his hand, stopping him. "I only hope it won't be to cause the same sorrow he did when I took him down. Two innocent people died that day, along with him. Yes, I suppose there are people in the world who can get over seeing a small child die. I don't want to know them." They walked past Snape, steps echoing into the distance, Blurty still talking in confidence to Draco, who was hanging on his every word. Again, Snape waited until they were completely out of earshot before leaving his hiding place. He avoided his quarters after all, and instead made his way to the express stairs to the upper floors, wondering if Daniel was home. He had a few questions about O'Grady's hand himself. *** Daniel was in bed, fully clothed though his suitjacket and tie had been tossed off and lay in a heap of fabric on the floor next to the bed, his white shirt partially unbuttoned. Numerous empty bottles of scotch littered the floor, which suggested Daniel had a party all on his own, a theory which a very tired and snoring Clash poster agreed with. Snape sat on the bed beside him, his own head pounding with a migraine that wouldn't be cured easily. He shoved Daniel's shoulder. "I don't suppose it's worth it for me to say 'Happy Birthday?'" "Not really," Daniel groggily admitted. He sighed roughly and rolled onto his back, bloodshot navy eyes now open and blearily looking at Snape. "What's Blurty doing?" "Giving very bad advice to an impressionable young mind," Snape said. Daniel nodded, and then rubbed the side of his forehead with his palm as though it pained him. "I figured he'd do that," he groaned. "Your associate Amanda seems to have either improved or further destroyed Muggle/Wizard relations, I'm still not sure which." Snape got more comfortable on the bed, and his head sank with grave relief onto a pillow. "McKinnon and McKnulty are busy showing the older students that there are worse things to be consumed than an unfortunate all flavour bean." Daniel rubbed his hands over his face, forcing a sense of wakefulness into his body. Snape watched him, acutely aware of how the shadows played over Daniel's features, making him appear gloomy along with his silence. "Everyone else is wondering if you've gone mad," Snape said. Daniel wasn't disturbed by this information. He turned on his side away from Snape and buried his face into his pillow with an exhausted sigh. "A little late for that realization, isn't it?" he said. "I suspect a shrivelled hand was involved in it," Snape testily replied. He stared up at the ceiling, mentally remarking on its plainness. "I know about O'Grady," Snape said. Daniel groaned, but remained facing away from Snape, his face buried in cotton and the softness of feather down. When he spoke the words were muffled, and Snape had to strain to hear him. "Do you know what Death looks like, Snape?" he said. Snape was about to say it looked like a smoky/liquid greyish substance when it was sitting in a vial, but Daniel answered before he could. "It's a small child. A little girl of about five. It's the pupil of her eye, Snape, the way the light inside of it gradually fades after a stray bullet shoots through her ear, and she starts to fall." He let out a sad laugh. "Sometimes, I can even hear the bullet. That whizzing noise as it rushes past the ear. Fwoom. Fwoom. McKinnon was right, it does get annoying. This afternoon, that stupid snitch in that damn game of yours....It's all I could hear, it's all I could think of." He raised his hand and shaped it into the form of a gun, brushing the 'barrel' that was his finger past his ear. "Fwoom. Fwoom." Snape reached out to Daniel's shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "What O'Grady did wasn't your fault, Daniel." "It wasn't his bullet," Daniel said. Then, so quiet only the barest hint of the words could meet Snape's hearing: "It was mine." More shadows played over the room, Snape frowning as he looked up at the ceiling, part of him actually wondering if he'd seen something crawling and casting a grey relief. He still held onto Daniel's shoulder, his mind a rush of thought and latent alcohol and pain. Blurty had said two innocent people had died when he took O'Grady down. Blurty had been a good shot, Snape supposed, while Daniel wasn't. He closed his eyes, ignoring the sensation that the grey shadow above them was moving again. Right now he was so tired, and terribly sad. He leaned on his side, and pressed his temple against the back of Daniel's head. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, but then, who wasn't right now, with such horrible past events rushing to the surface of the present? He let out a heavy sigh, and slept. *** Morning was far too bright and cheerful, and everyone involved in the McKinnon And McKnulty Experiment had obvious ill effects plaguing them. The Weasley twins looked the worse off, and McKinnon even slapped George on the back, and said, "Well now, you don't need a bean to make you taste the hair of the dog *this* morning, now do you?" Snape would have found the joke funny if he wasn't suffering from alcohol poisoning himself. The Weasley twins were so pale you could barely see their freckles, and Snape himself knew his own face was a tad green. How Daniel managed to appear unaffected was beyond his understanding, as was the cheerfulness bloodshot-eyed Blurty still held onto. "It's a shame we have to leave, I could get used to this place." "Some things can't be solved with a wave of a wand," Daniel reminded him, and Blurty gruffly pshawed. "You've always been the spoilsport. Here, happy birthday, you fuckwit." He gave him hearty shove and a few swats on the back of the head, which Daniel good-naturedly allowed. The fight the night before was instantly forgiven even on McKinnon and McKnulty's part and they also tackled and roughed him about a bit, exchanging swearing insults meant as endearments. Amanda, approaching a bit later, left the front door of Hogwarts, her overnight bag slung over her shoulder, a quick "Happy birthday, Daniel," muttered to him as she briskly walked past them all to head towards the train. McKnulty nodded after her. "She scored with one of them wizards, she did. Fellow came round last night asking how to reach her, and where she lived." McKinnon frowned. "Did you tell him?" McKnulty gave him a grin. "I gave him a cell phone number." "She'll kill you." "Nah...it was her husband Ricki's." McKnulty cocked his head at Daniel. "Did you know he got laid off from the lab? Poor bastard. He'll probably have to go back to being a bouncer at the nightclub again." "He's suited for it, anyway," McKinnon said. "He's bigger than that Hagrid fellow." As they picked up their bags, Dumbledore and Remus Lupin stepped out of the main Hogwarts doors, to greet them on the grassy plains in front of the stairs. Dumbledore shook Blurty's hand with more strength than his elderly stature would suggest, his eyes sparkling beneath bushy brows. "I'm happy that you enjoyed yourselves," he said. "I must admit, some Muggle creations are quite fascinating, especially those VDs." "DVDs," Blurty instantly corrected him. "Yes, yes," Dumbledore said. "Please, all of you, feel free to come back and visit our establishment anytime. You are always most welcome." As these pleasantries were exchanged, Remus approached Snape and Daniel, and spoke lowly to them in confidence. "There might be a security breach," he said. "Dumbledore suspects there might be a Death Eater lurking about Hogwarts, and I myself have seen his shadow. I'm not sure how to best flush him out, but there's no mistaking. Last night someone tried to break into Dumbledore's office, and you and I both know what for." He bit back a little on his own fears. "He Who Must Not Be Named's forces have taken Argon, off the coast of Trelly. They're circling in, and whatever it is they think they have to use against us, it's giving them all a terrible amount of confidence." Snape's forced smile for Daniel's guests was even more strained at this news. Beside him, Daniel was as calm and lazily composed as he usually was, but after last night Snape knew better. He could see without any aid of magic the horror of the past invading the present, the murky contents of that hideous vial the same thing Daniel himself had seen in a barely begun life. He was seeing that gradual emptying of Life affecting all the world he'd lived in, while he stood powerless to stop it. The morning was full of cheer as Daniel's friends left. In the doorway of Hogwarts, Snape caught the eye of Draco Malfoy, who was watching them leave with an intent and curious expression on his face. He turned away and went back inside when he saw Snape had noticed him. There might be hope. After all, this was a world where Draco Malfoy's chosen 'bad friend' was Chief Constable Blurty. The sunshine refused to abate. Soon, the students of Hogwarts would be finishing their final exams and a peaceful quiet would descend upon the school as they returned home. A quiet which, unfortunately, the faculty of Hogwarts would not share. The train blew its whistle and began its journey back into the world of Muggles, where Life and Death were so much more fragile, and happiness in both was a struggle. Snape alone remained to watch it leave, until the track itself dissolved, and no one of Daniel's world remained. END OTHER ENDS by Silverfish ~: I. "I don't know why you don't believe me," Daniel said, as he hovered over the small machine, measuring the contents carefully. "It's not the same and we're going to resolve this issue once and for all." Snape paced his potions office, looking warily in the vicinity of the classroom and the outside door for any signs of life. So far, they had been able to enjoy a nice ten minutes of peace, even if a good portion of that time had been spent trying to press the usual point that the coffee at Hogwarts was just as good as the coffee Daniel drank in London. At this point, the argument no longer mattered. He was risking an awful lot of trouble for Daniel's sake, possibly even the removal of his employment if anyone in Hogwarts found out he, Severus Snape, was the one who had not only been the one to purchase the contraption, he was also illegally harboring it within a locked cabinet in his office. A hiss of steam set him even further on edge. "Can't that thing work any quieter?" Snape growled at Daniel. Daniel gave him a bemused expression. "For God's sake, Sev, it's just a low end coffee maker. Relax." "What do you mean by 'low end'?" Snape said, immediately insulted. "I'll have you know that's a Proctor Silex 2001 model, and it comes with a WARRANTY and a TIMER." Daniel ignored the outburst and held the mug of coffee to his lips, his navy eyes closed in supreme bliss as he gently sipped at it. Without asking, he poured Snape a likewise helping of the brew, which didn't smell all that pleasant to his companion, and urged him to drink it. "You will definitely admit that it's nothing like what you're used to," Daniel said in full confidence. Snape paused, the black opaque liquid wholly unappealing. He closed his eyes and took a long sip. He gagged and sputtered after he had, the cup of coffee falling messily onto the floor of his potions office, the stain seeping into the already moss laden wood as though it was being consumed. "It's disgusting!" he shouted at Daniel. He wiped at his tongue with the sleeve of his black robe, trying desperately to rid it of the poisonous, bitter taste. "It's like drinking fermented brisbane sap that's had numerous things die in it!" "I know," Daniel replied, closing his eyes in absolute bliss. "Isn't it fabulous?" Snape was leaned against his desk, clutching the edge and wondering if he was going to be sick. "You're mad," he said to Daniel. He heard the creak of his office door open, and in a panic Snape grabbed the still bubbling coffee maker in an attempt to hide it in his locked cupboard again, but he'd forgotten about the battery he'd used to power the contraption up. The hot coffee sloshed onto his arm, and he just managed to save it from dropping to the floor by depositing it onto the surface of his desk, where it messily ruined many of the papers he was marking. A perversely sadistic part of him instantly hoped that one of them was Harry Potter's. Lupin was standing in the doorway, along with his long time friend Sirius Black, who for once wasn't in the form of a large black dog, but was instead his usual tall, imposing suspicious self. Sirius instantly honed in on the coffee maker, his black brows frowning. "Is that a Proctor Silex 2001?" he asked. "It's Daniel's," Snape said, instantly. Sirius rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "My God, I haven't had a Muggle coffee in ages! I used to have this every morning when I was in their world. Check this out, Remus, it has a *timer*!" He gave Daniel a slightly imploring look and Daniel handed Sirius the fallen mug. Sirius poured himself a generous helping, and Snape couldn't help but gag again as he watched him actually drinking and *enjoying* that utterly disgusting brew. Daniel quickly ran back into his classroom, and then re-entered Snape's office with a large bottle in his hand. "At this time of day, it's best to have the Irish method," he said, and topped off his coffee with an amber liquid Snape had long since learned was whiskey. He poured some into his own cup and shook his head. "I'm not looking forward to my sixth year class this afternoon, I can tell you. That poor Dean Chalmers kid came up to my desk after school yesterday asking me how to best impress a girl. I warned him that I'd avoided the subject completely myself." Sirius wasn't entirely happy, even if he was drinking Daniel's coffee. He cast a knowing glance at Snape and sipped at the steaming hot, bitter brew. "You have a real addiction to Muggle contraptions," Sirius said to Daniel, but he kept his gaze on Snape. "You realize of course that I will have to confiscate this machine before it does any damage. Severus, as a wizard you should know better than to harbour such a thing. It's making coffee now, but who knows what kinds of things it will be distilling by the end of the day." "I can give it a few ideas," Daniel said, and gently clinked his now empty bottle of whiskey against the coffee machine's carafe. The fact that Snape looked about ready to kill him didn't bother Sirius Black in the least, and he ignored the pickled centinewt on the top shelf, which pressed its eyes against its jar and stuck out both of its tongues at him. Remus was still looking over the coffee maker, transfixed by the red blinking 12:00. "Amazing," he said to it. Snape settled behind his desk, shrinking a little within this mixed company of past enemies and...well he wasn't going to come right out and say what Daniel *was* to him, not even in his thoughts. He couldn't help but feel cruelly misjudged, however, and this was an affliction of Sirius Black's suspicious personality mixed with Snape's own past experience and paranoia considering the man. He'd nearly killed him once, after all, with that James Potter's help, and even now he couldn't figure why Remus remained such a close friend with him. Sirius and James had exploited the monstrous side of Remus Lupin for their own perverse amusement--something which Snape was sure a real friend wasn't supposed to do. "I think you're being way too hard on him," Remus asserted, and Sirius frowned. "You know, this might be an interesting thing to watch. I'm just as curious as Daniel to see what it turns into here." "I'll keep it under lock and key," Snape said, quickly. He narrowed small black eyes at Sirius. "I imagine you have come here not for Muggle beverages, but on some important development concerning the war?" Sirius raised a black brow. He sighed and took another gulp of coffee, wincing just a little at the addition of whiskey, which Daniel had been generous with. "There's been an incident which Dumbledore feels may be related to Aristotle Crowley." Snape felt his face go pale at this news. Daniel didn't seem to be listening at all, and was now busy tapping the side of centinewt's jar, making the creature spin in happy circles over the attention. "Someone broke into a war museum in Tokyo, Japan," Sirius continued. "Two of the guards on duty were knocked unconscious, though the Muggle doctors were at a loss as to how. I know well enough, from the description in the Muggle news, their hair had turned white, and their eyes were wide open as though they'd had a terrible shock. It has all the classic symptoms of Adavra Kedavra influence." There was a collective shudder by the wizards in the room, with only Daniel unaffected by this news. He was busy with the centinewt, which performed tricks for him as he ran his finger along the surface of its glass home. "None of the security alarms went off, which is easy enough for even a first year student to pull off. The only thing stolen was a small model of a regulation ten bomb, not the nuclear variety from what I understand, but just the shell of the usual explosive type, which can be just as dangerous in the wrong hands, I imagine. The Muggles are baffled as to why this was so important that two men were knocked unconscious for it--It's made of something called plastic, and as a replica and not the real thing it has no use whatsoever. I'm not entirely sure of this surmising." Sirius stroked his chin in thought, black brows coming together. "There was one other odd thing," he said. "The fish had died." Daniel paused in mid tap on the centinewt's jar. "They had an artificial pond in the center of the main lobby, full of koi. They were all belly up when the men were found." "Very strange," Remus agreed. Snape said nothing. He kept his overt attention away from Daniel, but observed him through his periphery, noting well that Daniel had grabbed his large bottle of amber whiskey and was now topping off his coffee mug contents with it. From the way he had gulped the last one down, he would be lucky if he even had a drop of his muddy brew inside of the mug. Without a word, Daniel left Snape's office and entered his classroom, allowing in a shaft of horrible, piercing white light to temporarily illuminate Snape's room before the door closed and calm darkness took it back again. "He seems a little upset, don't you think?" Remus observed. "Yes," Sirius replied, his voice as dark as his appearance. "I wonder why." *** The day was not good, not at all, not in any form of happiness or calm or peace or even pleasant argument. This was fast turning into a day of terrible proportions, and no amount of bitter Muggle beverages would cure it. Knowing this, Daniel rested his head in his hands while his sixth year students were busy reading their latest assignment 'Beyond The Formaldehyde Curtain' to better understand how to write a proper English essay, or at least become good taxidermists. Explosives and dead fish. This was not a good portent. He debated going to Dumbledore with it, but then wondered if even people in the wizard world could be considered mad with the kind of information Daniel held inside of himself. He imagined they could, they did have a prison here, didn't they? One where monstrous black wraiths painstakingly sucked the soul from a person. "Mr. Deschamps?" He looked up from his miserable ponderance to see Dean Chalmers looking down at him with deep concern. He was a skinny kid, with a bit of acne near his ears, and messy auburn hair that looked as though he'd walked through a huge, static charge. His green eyes were large and right now a little fearful. "What is it?" Daniel asked. "I was wondering," Dean Chalmers began. He looked behind him to ensure none of the other students could overhear what he had to say. He whispered to Daniel, "I have a question about girls." Daniel groaned. Of all the damn things he didn't need right now, this was tops on the list. He pulled open a drawer on his desk and took out yet another, this time full, bottle of whiskey, and thumped it onto the surface of his desk, along with the coffee mug from that morning. Without pause, he twisted open the cap and poured himself an entire mug of whiskey. He recapped the bottle and thought about putting it back in the drawer, only to reconsider and then place it on the surface of his desk again. He gave Dean Chalmers a pained look, and in exactly two seconds downed the entire contents of his mug before speaking to him again. "What do you need to know?" Daniel asked. "I was w-wondering," Dean Chalmers continued, still whispering, "what my parents might think of a girl...If I took her to m-meet them." Daniel sighed, and balanced his chin in his palm. "Unlike my parents, I'd say they'd be infinitely relieved," he said. He tapped his chin as though thinking of something. "She is a *girl* girl, right? Not a...you know...not quite a girl one?" Dean Chalmers gave Daniel a blank expression. "I'm pretty sure she's all girl," he said. He frowned, as though a seed of doubt had been planted. "You'd better make sure," Daniel said in all seriousness. "Granted, the packaging is what's important most of all, I should think, especially at your age." He patted Dean Chalmers on the shoulder, the young man looking an awful lot more worried than when he'd gone to Daniel for advice in the first place. "I'm sure everything will work out just fine." *** Minerva McGonagall was beside herself with rage, her speech full of Gaelic curses and bloodthirsty descriptions of what she'd like to see done to Daniel Deschamps before he was, wholly and completely, sacked from Hogwarts forever. Sirius Black was seated beside Dumbledore's desk, a concentrated appeal given from his end in support of McGonagall's wishes. "He actually told Dean Chalmers to 'check and make sure' Victorianna Briton was a girl! You do not want to know what he did to actually do such a stupid thing, but I will tell you it involved a rather unnecessary 'cop of a feel' which has now resulted in Dean Chalmers missing his hands and possibly spending the next two months in the infirmary while they grow back. I can't blame poor Victorianna, I'd have done worse myself!" McGonagall's mouth was a thin line of fury that was so tight it would have split atoms, and quite possibly was. "His drinking habits have gotten far out of control," Sirius added. "I'd warned you before that he was a drunkard, and not a good influence on the students here at Hogwarts." Dumbledore was gruff at this accusation. "Sirius, I do believe you were once being hunted down for murder, and I did not see any reason to doubt your innocence then, as I do not doubt Mr. Deschamps now. He may have exercised a little poor judgment, but he has hardly done anything to warrant firing. As for his drinking habits, well, to be honest I had tried to find other English teachers in our wizard world, but their substance abuses seemed to include much worse things than the occasional indulgence of amber Muggle alcohol." Dumbledore shook his head at this odd fact. "I half wonder if that Shakespeare fellow was involved in the Dark Arts." Sirius felt his cheeks redden a little at this, but he wasn't about to see any kind of comparison between that incompetent man and himself. "Headmaster, he is a danger to himself and the students here, especially during these unstable times. With He Who Must Not Be Named gathering his forces so closely to Hogwarts, perhaps he should be sent back to his Muggle world for better protection? We don't have much need of his so-called 'expertise', it certainly hasn't given us Aristotle Crowley, it's been months and he's still out of our grasp." Dumbledore nodded his assent at this, his expression one of worry. His concerned teapot poured a cup for him and toddled back off of his desk to rest on the tea trolley beside him. Dumbledore took the hot, sweet smelling brew with a gentle 'thank you'. "Sirius, Minerva," Dumbledore said to both of them, "you may not feel all that disposed towards Mr. Deschamps' personality, and I admit he has made a few foolish choices while he's been here. But I am not about to fire him, nor deny the benefit of his Muggle form of specialization. We all know that Aristotle Crowley uses bomb making equipment of Muggle origin, and he's already infiltrated our school once. I suspect he will try again, and Mr. Deschamps will prove to be indispensable in ridding us of his threat. Besides," Dumbledore took a long sip of his tea, "he seems to have made a very genuine friendship with Professor Snape, a rare thing to be sure. I am not so cruel to wrench from our potions master the one person who has managed to breech Snape's stubborn hold on his own company." Sirius shrank a little at this, for certainly Dumbledore was saying that such a cruel act was weighing on Sirius' own shoulders with his request that Daniel be removed. Sirius coughed and tried to argue further. "There's a lot about him we don't know..." "Ah," Dumbledore said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I suspect you know more than most, Sirius Black. As does, I agree, Mr. Deschamps when it comes to our Death Eater wizard Aristotle Crowley, though in what capacity is yet to be revealed." Dumbledore sat back comfortably in his seat, his tea balanced on his chest. "I, for one, fully intend to enjoy this mystery's unraveling." Twinkling eyes dismissed both Sirius and Minerva, neither of whom were fully convinced of the rightness of their headmaster's decision. The door to Dumbledore's office closed gently, and he was left alone with his sympathetic teapot and dozing portraits. OTHER ENDS by Silverfish ~: II. It wasn't that Daniel didn't care, far from it in fact. If one could measure the amount of care Daniel did have for this current predicament, you could run rings around the circumference of the entire universe at least four times, with some extra jogging to spare. Daniel sank his head in his hands and groaned. He was sitting in Snape's office, wondering where the thin, sallow potions mastermind his most dear *personal* friend--was. The centinewt was happy enough to see him, but Daniel was too perturbed to give it anything more than a passing wave as attention. The pickled centinewt circled in its jar madly, the murky colours within every now and then shooting through with the barest flicker of its gold underbelly. It tied its many arms into complicated pretzel-like knots and then untied itself, arms splayed against the edges of the jar with a theatrical flourish. But even this display did nothing to attract Daniel's attention, and now in a more somber mood, the centinewt sulked in a muddy brown blob on the bottom of its jar. Daniel checked his watch. Three o'clock, and no sign of Snape. He'd been punctual all year and now, the one time when Daniel needed to see him most, he was nowhere to be found. Daniel sighed, a sense of overwhelming depression addling his mind. He'd run out of his liquor at five to three, and even though he'd cleaned off the bottle of whiskey he'd kept in his desk drawer, he wasn't feeling all that happy or numbed. Yesterday had been a nightmare of accusation from Minerva McGonagall, and he'd wondered if the woman was going to lay blows on him she was so angry. He had no idea what she was talking about, insisting he'd encouraged Dean Chalmers to feel up a female student. Poor kid, he'd apparently lost his hands in the process. Daniel mused the girl must like him just little bit because otherwise there'd have been something a lot more important missing. There was definitely a crag in this reasoning, but then, Daniel wasn't exactly an expert on female and male relations and had never bothered exploring the subject past the knowledge it somehow existed and procreation ensured the survival of the species--though science was certainly catching up. He wondered vaguely if Snape had ever had the misfortune of having a girlfriend, and then bit back on his own laughter. Poor Snape. Most definitely not! Daniel clasped his hands behind his head, and sighed heavily. He gave the locked cabinet holding the new coffee maker a covetous glare. He could really use a coffee to sober up a bit about now, he thought. He hummed and squished his mouth to one side considering how easy it would be to pick the lock, and in one split decision fueled by caffeine addiction, he got up from his chair, took a compass off of Snape's desk, and made his way to the cabinet. The padlock was a huge, clunky thing, and as was often the case with such old imposing looking antiques, it was incredibly easy to pick. Daniel bit his bottom lip as he maneuvered the sharp end of the compass in the lock, a lever pulled up here, a latch pulled down there, and...Success! The lock sprung open, and Daniel quickly opened the cabinet, his mind full of the glorious memories of yesterday morning's coffee, a memory that had not yet been repeated today. Oh...No. A huge tentacle sprung out of the Proctor Silex 2001 glass carafe, reaching angrily for whoever it was that disturbed the Something inside of its sleep. Daniel slammed the cupboard door closed, but the Something, having now had a taste of freedom, was pushing against it with its massive suctioned arms, and sliming up the edge of the door as it did its best to resist. With a few slams of the door, Daniel finally managed to get it closed, and with great effort got the padlock on. His hands were shaking too much to attempt to actually lock it, and the Something inside calmed once it was in its familiar lair. "Dammit, Sev," Daniel said, and inhaled deep breaths in an attempt to regain his usual calm composure. "You're supposed to clean the pot out when you're done!" Feeling a little better, he reached towards the padlock to properly lock it, but it slipped out of his reach as he fell. Falling. Tumbling. From a great distance through the floor of Snape's potions office. When he landed, it was with a gentle thud onto wet concrete. He frowned, staring out into the darkness of night, on a street that while it was familiar, shouldn't have been--especially considering he'd just been at Hogwarts, in a slightly damp but nevertheless *indoors* office. The setting was too dark to be three o'clock, he realized, and when he dared to check his watch he could see that time had been speeded up, and it was now 1:00 am. He wasn't entirely perturbed by this. After all, he'd had plenty of experiences where he'd lost a few hours out of his life and woke up in strange territory. He rubbed his hands over his face as he stood up, and wondered what combination of whiskey and coffee had done this to him. *** While the hours might have passed at a lightning, forgotten pace for Daniel Deschamps, they didn't, unfortunately, have the same effect on the rest of Hogwarts. It was fifteen minutes past three o'clock and Snape was quite upset to find that someone had been tampering with his locked cabinet. His first thought was that it was Sirius Black, but he soon dismissed this as nonsense since the man wouldn't go so far as to steal the machine to get him into trouble. Or would he? After all, he'd nearly killed Snape with a prank once. Petty thievery couldn't be all that far behind. He handled the padlock and let it fall against the cabinet with a clang, not noticing the slight shudder of the wooden door. He didn't lock it, and instead paced his office room with grave agitation, and hoped Daniel hadn't given up today's usual meeting to do something stupid--like give Dean Chalmers more useless and ill-informed advice. He eyed the connecting door to Daniel's classroom with nervous hope, but even after ten minutes of this Daniel didn't show up. By the time three thirty arrived, and there was still no Daniel Deschamps, Snape was beginning to feel some very instinctual worry. Snape had been late because of a horrible catastrophe that had occurred in Dumbledore's office, and he'd been ordered by the Headmaster to go to his potions office and wait for Daniel to show up, and once found, to bring him upstairs immediately. Daniel was still lost, obviously. This wasn't good, not at all. His potions class was filling up, but Snape had much more important things to attend to at present than the half hearted attempts at learning of his pimply sixth year students. His black robes billowed behind him as he walked through his potions office and into the classroom, small black eyes sneering at the collection of unhappy students as he passed. "Today's lesson is canceled," he said, and gave no further explanation. He flinched only when he was out their sight and the class suddenly whooped and cheered in joy. *** By six o'clock, things were definitely looking grim. So grim, in fact, that Dumbledore had even descended into calling up Daniel's old cronies at the Muggle precinct in London, asking them to hurry to Hogwarts immediately. He didn't wait for a train, once he'd received Blurty's confused consent he'd merely transmigrated them into his office. Blurty was still holding a delicately pink flowered cup of tea, and both McKinnon and McKnulty had someone else in their grip--a huge, HUGE Muggle who couldn't possibly be that big without it being some sort of genetic anomaly. The large man looked down on everyone in the room, saying nothing. He cracked his knuckles. "I was about to finish my tea and pack," Blurty said, his large nose scarlet. He nodded over at McKinnon and McKnulty, "They were busy processing Ricki's public nuisance report on a fellow he had to toss out of the club last night." There was a tense silence, broken intermittently by Ricki's knuckle snaps as they echoed through Dumbledore's office. "I got a mind to meet me a wizard," he drawled in a thick Liverpool accent. Dumbledore sighed, and stroked his white beard, his bushy eyebrows pursed together in worry. "This has proven to be a most vexing day," he began. "I've not only had to deal with the unexpected arrival of Lucius Malfoy this morning and his complaints against Professor Deschamps, I've also had to suffer the indignity of thievery." All of the other wizards in the room looked grim as Dumbledore eased himself unsteadily out of his seat, to hobble with ancient stiffness to a cabinet on the far end of the office. The portraits above it stared down at him in embarrassed solemnity. "I'm sorry I fell asleep," the portrait of Sir Grizzald Kingsley, Dragon tamer of the first order, said to Dumbledore. A tiny dragon was in his palm, its tongue lolling playfully to one side like a happy Maltese puppy. "It cannot be helped," Dumbledore replied, sadly. "It is my belief all of the portraits in this room were bid to sleep through the workings of a somnalescence spell." The portraits, which had a habit of sleeping 99% of the time, shook their heads sheepishly in response to this. A bit disappointed, Dumbledore pushed the cabinet door in and it swung open outwards, revealing a large ball of magical charges encircling a now empty wire pedestal. "The vial had been placed here, under careful guard and under many spells to ensure its protection. As you can see, it was taken without disturbing them--A work of genuine skill." He petted his white beard, thinking. "The only person who might have been able to break through such a barrier could be Voldemort himself. But still, I am not so sure that is the answer--I've received no warning from anyone that he is here, nor has anyone been found wandering the halls of Hogwarts who shouldn't be. There is no signature of magic anywhere to be found." He gave the portraits a pointed stare, and a few of them even mouthed 'sorry'. "This is why I've felt it best to call you in, Constable. I suspect the means by which this vial was stolen is Muggle in origin." "To top it all off, Daniel is missing as well," Blurty noted. Sirius Black sidled up behind him, his voice deadly as he spoke. "Yes. Interesting, isn't it?" Snape, who had been very quiet up to this point, suddenly put himself between Sirius and Blurty, and practically spit in Black's face. "If you're suggesting Daniel is a thief, you're a fool! You and I both know he was instrumental in getting this vial out of He Who Must Not Be Named's hands!" "That may be true," Sirius said, "but it can also be said that he brought it here purposefully to both take us off his trail and to steal it easily later." It was Blurty who broke this small confrontation with a cough, and a wide grin at both Sirius and Snape. "Ah, you're both all wrong," he said. "Daniel doesn't work on anything that isn't in his own interests most of the time--This is no exception." He turned to Dumbledore. "Is there any way of seeing the usual comings and goings of this place? I think we might be able to figure your puzzle out, but it may take a while." Dumbledore nodded his assent. He hobbled his way to his desk, McKinnon and Mcknulty getting out of his path. The two younger constables looked a little out of place in this much more formal wizard setting, but oddly enough their friend Ricki was in perfect ease. Ricki glared down at Sirius, and cracked his knuckles, a most disconcerting action to be sure since Sirius black felt himself actually shrink at the implied threat the sound appeared to contain. Dumbledore took out a familiar looking roll of parchment and handed it to Blurty, who unrolled it on the surface of Dumbledore's desk. "It's a Marauder's Map," Remus Lupin explained. He was standing beside Sirius now, and smiling cheerfully on their Muggle company. "It shows you where everyone is. See, these dots represent us." He pointed to the cluster of dots and names collected in the area mapped out to be 'Headmaster Dumbledore's Office'. "This is Daniel's classroom, down at the bottom here, and this place labeled, 'The Foulest Room In The Universe' is Severus' quarters." Snape's murderous glare at both Remus and Sirius was ignored. Ricki was looking over Blurty's shoulder, a grunt issuing forth deeply from his massive bulk. "Lucius Malfoy. In the library," he growled. He cracked his knuckles yet again. "I think I'm going to have a talk with him." "Oh, jolly good idea!" Blurty said. "Has he been at Hogwarts long today, Mr. Dumbledore?" He tapped at his very large, red nose. "A man who keeps the hand of a murderer has certain inclinations, I should think. Ricki, be sure to ask him where he's been lately, get as much detail as you can and tell me what he has to say." Ricki was already heading out the door. "I'll be asking him about that right enough," he replied. *** Just after midnight, Harry was jostled awake by a panic stricken Ron Weasley. He blearily opened his eyes and put on his glasses to see his good friend grimacing down at him, a bead of sweat on his brow. Frowning, Harry sat up, and then in further shock realized Hermione was standing directly behind Ron, a look of determined exasperation on her face. "I don't think we should go," Ron said to Harry. Confused, Harry rubbed his eyes with his fingers digging beneath his glasses. When he took them away, both Ron and Hermione were still there. "Don't think we should go where?" Harry asked. "To Professor Deschamps' classroom to meet Draco Malfoy," Hermione clarified. Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed, all thought of sleep fleeing. "What the hell for?" "That's what I say," Ron agreed. Hermione shook her head. She passed Harry a neatly folded piece of parchment. He opened it to see neatly printed script on its surface, Malfoy's handwriting. It read: "I wouldn't be asking if this wasn't important. I need you, Harry and Ron at Deschamps' classroom at midnight. This is of the utmost urgency. I will be expecting you. Draco Malfoy." "This has to be some sort of trap," Ron said. Harry looked from the piece of parchment to Hermione's worried face. "I don't know," he said. "This is very unusual for him." He frowned, thinking. "Maybe if we used the invisibility cloak, just to see if he's alone?" "That's *exactly* what I told Ron," Hermione sniffed. "You're absolutely right that this is not normal behaviour for Malfoy--And frankly there's been a *lot* of things not quite normal about him lately, haven't there? Like the fact he's been talking to us, and actually finding common ground in hating our English teacher. I find the whole thing very disturbing." Harry brushed his hair with his fingers and got to his feet. He took out his invisibility cloak from its hiding place in his bottom drawer. "You can't be serious!" Ron exclaimed. Harry held the shimmering fabric in his grip for a long moment before speaking again. He kept his eyes averted from both Ron and Hermione, hoping they couldn't see the doubt that was niggling within them. "If he's in trouble, real trouble--We have a duty to find out," Harry said. "Whether we like him or not doesn't matter. If he's desperate enough to need to talk to us about it, well...It must be pretty terrible." He paused for a moment, and then in one swoop of decision held the invisibility cloak out wide enough to encompass all three of them beneath it. "Let's go," he said. They made their way down into the dungeons using the express stairs, which left them all a little dizzy afterwards. They quickly got their bearings and passed the potions classroom door to reach Deschamps' room a bit further down. The door was slightly open, and Harry held onto the hem of the cloak with a firm grip as he took a look into the plain confines of the room. Only one fluorescent style light was on, and it illuminated Draco Malfoy, who was sitting in the center of the classroom, looking every inch of miserable. There was no sign of anyone else. Swallowing back his apprehension, Harry let the invisibility cloak fall back. He neatly folded it up, and placed it in a schoolbag he'd brought for the purpose of concealing it. The three of them entered the room, and stood near their English professor's desk. Draco Malfoy looked up, and to their mutual shock he was amazed that they had actually shown up. "You're late," he said, and frowned slightly, but it was more confusion than anything else. "I was about to go back to the Slytherin dorm." Harry crossed his arms, glaring at his old enemy. "What are we doing here, Malfoy?" he asked. Draco motioned them closer, and, still on their guard they complied. Hermione sat at a desk a few rows away from him, and Harry and Ron sat in front. Draco, even in this half light, looked sickly pale. He swallowed, deeply, and with shaking, thin pale hands he took out a velvet cloth and placed it on the surface of the student desk before him. With deliberate care he opened the folds, to reveal the horrible thing it had encased. Ron nearly jumped back in shock. Harry was confused and Hermione...Hermione's expression was so poker faced you could say it was 'unplottable'. Before Draco Malfoy, on the surface of the desk, was a Muggle pistol. "I've only heard about these things," he said, his words hollow in the dark blankness of the classroom. "I never would have known about them at all if Chief Constable Blurty hadn't told me." He gave a fleeting glance at Hermione and asked her, "Is it true...Do Muggles really use these things to kill people?" Hermione was quiet a long moment. "About two hundred in Britain alone annually," she said. "Worldwide, that statistic is much, much, much larger." The sobering effects of this information weighed heavily on them all. Harry made a move as if to touch the gun, and Draco shot him a look that made him think twice. It was a warning glare, like he was about to dip his hand in pure acid. "Blurty said it's just explosive pellets inside of it, that's how it kills people," Draco continued. "That it rips through the important organs, like the heart, or any other, and makes the person bleed to death internally, or it suffocates them, or severs the important nerves that make the body know how to live...." He visibly shuddered. "It's horrible." Harry frowned. "How can you of all people think so?" he asked. "Weren't you bragging not too long ago that you owned a murderer's hand?" Draco shook his head. "This is different. Blurty said it's different every time someone is shot--sometimes they die right away, sometimes they live for days and days or years and suffer and are in pain. A wizard death blow is just that--quick and easy and it never misses. This is just..." "Messy," Hermione finished. Draco flashed her a pained look, and she averted her gaze. "You say this kind of...Muggle Dark Arts...Is common? This is something you people have to worry about?" "This and worse," she said, and crossed her arms, clearly waiting for the racial slurs he was about to hurl at her. But Draco did no such thing. He merely shook his head at her in disbelief and shock. Harry watched this display with some curiosity, and wondered just how sheltered Draco's life had been after all. "I'm sorry," he said. With shaking hands he covered the pistol with the velvet cloth again. With it at least out of naked sight he seemed to calm a little, and he sat back in his chair, but not in any better ease. "A thing like that," he said. "You shouldn't find it in your father's suitcase." "Give it to me," Hermione said in confidence. "I'll get rid of it." Perhaps it was the commanding no nonsense sincerity of her tone that made Draco comply, but Harry was more sure it was the fear of the evil thing forged in metal laying within the folds of that velvet cover. The Dark Arts were full of gruesome images, but perhaps the reality of someone actually dying, someone coming to an end that wasn't easy--These weren't the kinds of things even a pureblooded wizard could easily comprehend. Hermione took the gun and tied the velvet around it tightly. She nodded at Ron, who practically bolted to the classroom door to get away from both Malfoy and the gun...Only to realize with some chagrin that Hermione was the one now carrying it. "How are we going to get rid of it?" he asked her in a harsh whisper. "I have an idea," she replied, but this didn't make Ron feel any better as he followed her out. Harry and Draco were left alone in the classroom, the leftover fear of the gun coming between them. Draco refused to look at him, but Harry kept his old enemy keenly in his sight. "You've seen someone die," Draco said to Harry. Harry narrowed his gaze. "You made a sick joke about Cedric," he reminded Draco. Draco reddened slightly. "Sometimes, when you don't have a clue about something, it's easier to make light of it." "That makes it easier to accept, too," Harry said. Draco's silence was broken by a commotion in the hall. Both he and Harry tried to get out of their seats to escape the room in time, but a brilliant white light blinded them both, and the figures of Snape, Remus, Sirius and Headmaster Dumbledore marched into the room, clearly in serious debate. The rest of the fluorescent lights had been turned on, and now the teachers and Headmaster stared dumbly at the two students alone in the classroom. "What are you doing here?" Snape bellowed at them. "Fifty points off Gryffndor!" *** It was one am, and Blurty had made a significant note of progress. He had Dumbledore and the rest of the wizards, along with McGonagall in the Headmaster's office. He had his hands behind his back and was happily rolling back and forth on his heels as they waited expectantly for him to reveal what he knew. "Magnets," he said. The wizards and witch blinked. "Your thief used magnets to get the vial," Blurty further explained. He took out two large red and silver pieces of metal shaped like a miniature horseshoe and held them up for the company to view. "We found these in Professor Snape's office, on the floor underneath his cabinet, they'd obviously been tossed there. I didn't think magnets were something that would be found all that commonly in Wizard circles, especially not ones like these." He pointed to the tiny words imprinted on the silver surface of the metal objects--the words "Made in Korea" plainly visible. "Now," he said, holding them open ends out, "watch and learn about positive electrons meeting negative electrons." He brought the magnets to the protective bubble of spells that had surrounded the vial. With a significant amount of sparking the magnet connected with the surface, and to the room's utter shock the protective shield parted in conjunction with Blurty moving the magnets apart. A large, gaping hole appeared, and Blurty stuck his head in,taking the wire stand out of it with his teeth. He closed the shield and then tossed the magnets onto Dumbledore's desk. Minerva McGonagall gave him an emphatic 'Bravo!' and clapped madly. "Yes, well," Blurty's nose got even redder in blushing, "it's all quite natural, really." Out of all of them, only Sirius was unimpressed. "What have you got on Lucius Malfoy?" he asked. "It's been hours and we still don't know what he had to say." Blurty frowned. "That's true. I sent McKinnon and McKnulty to talk to some of the students,and I haven't seen them since they ran into that George and Fred Weasley set. The last I saw, it was Ricki with Malfoy in the Potions office." Blurty took up the Marauder's Map and inspected it. "Ah, there's Mr. Malfoy, still in the library." Blurty frowned. "No...He seems to be in Daniel's classroom. How odd. And he's not alone, neither. He's with someone else by the name of Potter." "Harry Potter!" Snape seethed. "How obvious!" "Don't be stupid," Sirius barked at him. "We'd better get down there...Harry could be in danger!" "I must remind you there IS a teacher still missing!" Snape shouted at him. "If anyone is in danger it's Daniel!" "We all know that Lucius Malfoy has some serious connections to the Dark Arts and quite possibly to Voldemort himself," Remus Lupin replied. He glanced up at Blurty. "What's going on with that Malfoy in the library?" "Oh, he's not moving," Blurty said, smiling widely. The positivity of his expression faltered as he looked at the map again. "Not moving at all, in fact." "I suggest we get to the dungeons," Dumbledore said. "Minerva, you and Constable Blurty can stay here and keep an eye on the Map. Keep me appraised of any changes." The express stairs were getting a lot more use than usual at this late hour, and they groaned as the entourage of wizards descended to the dungeons. They silently passed Ron and Hermione, who also failed to notice the group, a shaft of shadow from the overhanging gargoyle hiding everyone effectively. Sirius was ahead of everyone else, his wand held out at the ready to take down the evil man who had dared to cause his godson harm. The lights to Daniel's classroom were turned on by Remus, and the wizards marched in with Snape arguing in a high temper with Dumbledore over how much of a waste of time this was, especially with Daniel missing--A most important point which seemed to have been forgotten! But there was no Lucius Malfoy in the classroom. It was Harry and Draco, and from the way they stared back at the wizards in confusion it was clear they weren't having an argument, but some kind of mutual understanding. Very, very strange. Sirius was about to point his wand at Draco anyway, and ask what the hell the little snot was thinking he was doing, when he noticed both Harry and Draco look up at the ceiling, their eyes rolled white as they were transfixed. Frowning, Snape was the one to look up first, and when he did he damn near fainted dead on the spot. On the ceiling...Like a massive, watery cinemascope...was the image of Daniel on a damp inner London street. Behind him, while Daniel was completely oblivious, was a dark figure. Light from a nearby lamppost brought his pursuer into clarity. The man was a wizard, wearing Muggle boots. He looked like he might have been of Asian background, or Moroccan, or maybe even neither. Aristotle Crowley. OTHER ENDS by Silverfish ~: III. Where he was, Daniel discovered, was not back in Snape's office as he had expected, but was instead on the wet ground of a dirty inner London street. He got up and wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving muddy, black prints. It was evening, the world had descended into a horrible darkness that lay inside of every shadow and every cranny and angle of alleyways. All of it was numbingly familiar, and Daniel hardened himself against it. He walked a few steps, passing a few groups of people here and there, and looked out onto the street to see the brightly coloured wares and textiles for sale, which were hung like dirty washing on tightly fastened pieces of twine. Though it was early in June, there was a distinct damp chill in the air that crawled into his bones, as though settling in to create moss. He was somewhere in the seedier section of Lambeth, though how he had managed to get here was another question. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed the scene a bit better, wondering if maybe Snape had some odd hand in this, or maybe even if the coffee maker had turned into a portal of some kind. One never knew what to expect at Hogwarts. Daniel sighed and shrugged, and scratched the back of his head, and wondered just where in the hell one would purchase a ticket back to an 'unplottable' place and more importantly, would he be re-imbursed for the fare? "Confused, are you?" Daniel whipped around to see a tall man with wide shoulders leaning against the entrance of an alleyway. He was wearing dark robes, and peeking just underneath the hem of his attire were a pair of nobby looking Doc Martens, the bright yellow stitching in great contrast to the more formal wizard wear. Daniel smiled in recognition. "Not any more," Daniel said. "You're Aristotle Crowley." The wizard left his post at the entrance of the alleyway, slowly clapping his hands as he moved closer to Daniel. A shaft of light from a nearby streetlamp briefly illuminated his face, and Daniel beheld a fairly handsome looking man with smooth, dark olive complexioned skin and Asian eyes. Daniel was momentarily stunned by this, though really he shouldn't have been. Perhaps it was more the realization that this was the mysterious stalker who had killed his goldfish and had forced him into hiding. He choked back on a small piece of anger that dared to well over onto his calm bearing--a bomb blowing up his classroom was one thing, but to kill prize marble bubble eyed goldfish (one of whom he'd named 'Gordon' after his mother) was quite another! "Murderer," Daniel growled at him, and it was Aristotle Crowley's turn to look confused. "I don't recall anyone dying under my careful plans," Aristotle assured him. "Although that point on my resume is about to change today." With this, he pulled out his wand and Daniel had barely a second to react as he shouted "ADAVRA KEDAVRA!" Daniel managed to scramble on the ground and find a protective shield beneath an empty fruit stand, the spell just missing him and exploding against a tattered canopy above the store. He peeked out at Aristotle Crowley through the slats in the wood, mud and spoiled vegetables smearing his clothes. "I guess you don't waste time once you've decided on something," he observed aloud. "But you haven't been a man of the direct approach, have you?" The wizard actually looked hurt by this. "I should think blowing up your classroom had plenty of punch," he indignantly replied. "Not to mention my foray into your home and placing a death curse on it. How you managed to live is beyond my understanding, anything living should have immediately died the second it walked through your apartment door." "You got my fish first," Daniel said. Crowley raised a brow in understanding. "Ah, so that's why. They must have canceled it out." He smiled menacingly. "You've been a slippery one. The Dark Lord himself had requested your death, especially after you had so easily escaped it all those other times. I'm not entirely sure of why your assassination is so important, but I know it has something to do with this." He reached into his robe pocket and took out a very chillingly familiar vial. The black/grey substance within it writhed and twisted against its prison. "So, you see, blowing up your classroom was an entirely courageous act in the eyes of our Dark Lord--otherwise he never would have cured me of that horrible Mudblood illness. You have to admit, my work is a delightful example of fire and brilliance." "Not really," Daniel said, resting his hands on the slats of wood before his eyes. "It was mostly grey smoke and broken drywall. I still don't think it should qualify as courageous by any stretch of imagination, I mean if you aren't actually *there* it's hardly a fight, now is it?" Aristotle Crowley paused, and scratched his chin in thought. "Hm, I suppose you're right. This can be a new leaf in my book for me, then, another challenging experience with my passion for fire. I should thank you for that. ADAVRA KEDAVRA!" The bolt of green light from the wand shot through the gloom and under the empty vegetable crate, exploding it into shattered splinters. Daniel rolled out of the way just in time, the spell missing him by mere millimeters. He knew, from the many,many lectures he'd had with Snape, that just one tiny fraction of a spark from that spell would kill him instantly. He was quite shocked by the power of it, and figured the Adavra Kedavra spell wasn't quite the perfect method of killing someone as it had been promoted to be. From where he was sitting, (behind a barrel of fermenting pickles) it looked like nothing more than a lightning bolt from the end of a black stick, and everyone knew that lightning was nothing more than an electrical charge. Aristotle Crowley still hadn't quite left his leanings towards blowing things up. "Magic indeed," Daniel muttered in pique under his breath. "I imagine anyone would drop dead after having that kind of charge course through them." He watched as Aristotle Crowley investigated the blown up pieces of wood, searching for Daniel amidst the rubble. The street was deserted now, and there was a screech in the far distance of police sirens possibly rushing to the scene. It was hard to say just what was about to happen, whether the police would arrive in full force, in full riot gear waiting for any number of variables, or if they might avoid the place for the time being until they could properly figure the best way to deal with it. It hadn't been all that long ago that the Brixton riots had nearly destroyed this area. The sirens petered off into the distance. The place had changed, but memory remained. Crowley was impatiently kicking aside the stands and boxes now, and it wouldn't be long before he found Daniel out. Daniel crept backwards, between a set of stores, his foot gently nudging an old drunk in his stead, though the oily man didn't wake up. For a second Daniel thought he'd actually nudged a dead man, but the rise and fall of the bum's chest said otherwise. The street was deserted, though there were a few telling tales of grimy life in this area, needles tossed into the alley's dark corners, and used condoms laying in rubber rings against the dumpster at its end. His first thought now was that he needed a weapon, something to club the bastard with if that's what it took. He searched amongst the rubble of the alley and found a brick. It was heavy, and rough in his palm, but he kept it ready. He backed out of the alley, and onto another equally dark and deserted street. A dog barked behind a thick wooden fence. He turned to see Aristotle Crowley right behind him, wand poised, a look of victory on the wizard's face. Without hesitating, Daniel threw the brick at him, and would have made a good blow with it if Crowley hadn't shot it with a brief spell from his wand and said "Incentario!". The brick exploded into sandy crumbling, and scattered onto the wet pavement. Rain was beginning to fall in soft misting Aristotle Crowley gave Daniel a wide, unfailing, grin. "There's no hope for you now," he said, walking towards him. "Even if you run I still have a direct line to you." "I'm afraid you're right," Daniel said with resignation. He stumbled over a stray steel pipe, and then, still keeping his eyes on Aristotle Crowley, he picked it up and gave it a few test swings. Crowley laughed. Daniel shrugged at him. "I might as well make an attempt, at least," he said. His feet were soaked in a puddle of water that had to be three inches deep. Daniel shivered as the rain began to pour, brown bangs plastered in wet, curling lines before navy eyes. "I'm just wondering why a wizard who had so much talent, who was first in his class in Arithmancy, would go so low as to use Muggle bombs." Crowley chuckled as he made his way nearer, the hem of his robes remaining miraculously dry. Some wizard point of vanity Daniel supposed. "You left Hogwarts rather suddenly, Sev told me," Daniel said. "I was just wondering why." Aristotle Crowley paused, his wand still fixed on Daniel, but an even darker expression cascading over his features. "What did Snape say about me?" he asked. Then, his expression almost softening, he said, "How is he doing these days?" "Mostly making kids miserable," Daniel replied. Crowley smiled warmly at this. "Ah, he always was a disturbing person," he said, and his voice was not devoid of affection. "Do you know, he used to follow me around, staring at me all the time--It's quite a feat to be someone's object of admiration, especially someone like Severus Snape. He was such an ugly kid back then--is he still as thin and sallow as ever?" "He's thin," Daniel said. "But since he's moved in with me that sallow look about him is gone. I think it was that dungeon room of his, I warned him there were probably mold spores giving him asthma." Crowley took a step closer and Daniel halfheartedly swung his piece of steel pipe at him. Crowley looked very, very perturbed. "What did you say he did?" "Ruining kids' lives, making them suicidal--Same difference, I should think." "No, that other thing." Daniel frowned, wondering where this was going. "You mean the part about him moving in with me? Cor, I'd say that was in September, after I'd known him a couple of weeks." If it was any more possible for Crowley to look even more threatening right now, he was certainly doing a good job of it. His face was so red and his fist so tight on his wand he half looked as though he was about to spontaneously combust. "Do you mean to tell me," he said to Daniel in all the intonations of deadly threat, "that after only knowing you for two weeks that cold, calculating snake of a man actually moved in your quarters with you?" Crowley's eyes made a quick assessment of Daniel and obviously found him lacking. "Why?" he asked. "Are you some dark wizard we haven't yet brought into our fold? Are you another turncoat who didn't have the courage to give over yourself to the Dark Lord, or perhaps you are in on a secret plan of Severus', the two of you plotting to take over the reign of the Dark Arts yourselves..." "Hardly," Daniel replied hotly. "What's all this 'cold, calculating' business? Are you sure you're talking about the right man? The only Severus Snape I know is as high strung an overly tuned piano wire." Daniel held the piece of steel in his hand at the ready, Crowley definitely looked ready to give a death blow. "I think two weeks is plenty of time to move in with someone, especially if you're sleeping together on a regular basis." At this, Crowley actually paled. Daniel was impatient at this reaction. "Oh *what*?" he accused. "Come on, Muggle superstitious history practically *insists* that most wizards are gay. If you've got a problem with it, you're in a closet deeper than a pipe leading to the earth's magma." "Bastard!" Crowley shouted at Daniel. He added a few other descriptive words as well, but they aren't fit to print here. His formerly poised speech had now descended into the kind of cockney slang one would hear at drunken rugby matches. He pointed his wand at him, a right angry business to be sure. "I'll kill you!!" He circled the wand once and shouted: "ADAVRA KEDAVRA!" *** Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, along with Dumbledore, had all now crowded into Daniel's classroom, where they stood with their necks craned, staring up into the watery cinema of the ceiling. Both Harry and Draco were in equal awe to the spectacle, for not only had Aristotle Crowley bent a transmigration spell to this odd angle, he'd also managed to shield the makeshift portal. Dumbledore, grunting, made his way onto the top of Deschamps' desk, stepping on a few essays in the process. Draco winced when he saw the one with the most obvious footprint had his own name written neatly in the corner. Dumbledore tested the watery looking substance of the ceiling. with his wooden staff. It thumped against the waves as though they were solid instead of liquid. "An interesting spell," he said in admiration. Snape, however, clearly wasn't so easily appeased, especially not with the vision of Daniel hiding beneath a wooden stand, his dark navy eyes staring out in bland assessment at the wizard approaching him. Snape jostled Sirius and Remus with a shove, and not for the first time. "What's wrong with the two of you?" he asked, furious. "Help me get rid of that barrier so we can rescue him!" Sirius, though understanding of Snape's emotions, had little patience for being bullied. "I told you already, Severus," he said tautly. "If we get rid of that barrier all of Lambeth will come crashing into this room, and I hardly think it's large enough to hold an entire borough, or possibly even all of London!" Snape was definitely not pleased with this news. He paced the classroom wildly, his small black eyes staring up with panic as Daniel neatly dodged yet another deadly curse, and was now hiding behind a large wooden barrel. Dumbledore sighed, and climbed down from his position on the top of the desk. He sank into Daniel's seat and clasped his hands in his lap. "Hm. Doesn't seem to be much else we can do other than wait it out then," he reasoned. He looked up at the company gathered in the classroom and gave them all a warm smile. "Who is up for some tea?" "How can you even think of tea!" Snape bellowed at him. He really was a horrible looking colour at present, a rather reddish tone to his now paler complexion. His wand was held out and was fiercely in his grip at his side, which he tapped impatiently against his thigh. "The vial was stolen, and now Daniel is going to meet his death over it! And you expect us to just sit here and watch it all happen, and sip *tea*??" Harry and Draco shrank a little from Snape's rage, neither of them had witnessed their potions master quite *this* angry before. They both held themselves aloof from the scene,afraid to even remark on it to each other just in case some stray piece of anger flew from one of the wizards to settle nastily in their direction. Dumbledore 'hm'd' and stroked his beard in thought at this. He then gave Snape a warm smile and nodded. "You're right, of course," he said to the Potions master, who instantly calmed slightly. "Sir, I suggest if we attempt to break through certain places in the barrier, perhaps create a hole through which..." "Coffee is a much better idea than tea," Dumbledore finished. He nodded in the direction of the adjoining door to the potions room. "Sirius told me you have a Proctor Silex 2001 coffee machine in there, is that right?" Snape fired Sirius a glare that should have stopped his heart in mid beat. Sirius sputtered a bit, insisting he'd never intended to 'report' such a thing, it was merely making the Headmaster aware.... "I hear Muggles make excellent brews with these machines. Professor Snape, if you could be so kind as to make us a pot." Snape's teeth were clenched as he spoke. "Sir...With all due respect..." "Coffee," Dumbledore said, and clapped his hands happily together. A shout of ADAVRA KEDAVRA! erupted overhead, and Snape's head shot up in fierce panic. "Ah, Harry, Draco--Perhaps you both could go into Professor Snape's office and bring in the 'machine'? Harry, as a resident of the Muggle world during summer, perhaps you have the knowledge needed to make a pot? Excellent. I believe you'll find it in the locked cabinet, which is conveniently not locked anymore." His eyes were twinkling as he looked at back at a very enraged Snape. "I've grown quite fond of Muggle coffee, to be honest. Especially the Irish method." Above them, Daniel was standing in a puddle of water, a steel pipe in his hand. Aristotle Crowley had raised his wand, pointing it directly at the helpless Daniel Deschamps' chest. Snape watched on in pure horror as the most terrifying words known to Wizardkind were hurled at his only friend for the third time. *** The spark from Aristotle Crowley's wand grew as Daniel watched this second that would define the entirety of his life. His existence flashed before him, as was the usual custom, and he watched it with all the detachment of a man who had gone through this kind of thing many times before. He could see his dull childhood, his mother who smoked cigars and his father who worked for a dry cleaning company coming home smelling of gasoline and soap. He saw his life lost in books and in the algorithmical patterns of science, his recognition of the dullness of his life by the time he was thirty giving him the career change he wanted into becoming a homicide officer, leaving the lab behind. He saw that little girl who had life stolen from his own careless need for a death defying thrill, his own existence sinking inside the black cavern of the pupil of her eye. This was where the images ended. He held the steel pipe in his hand with careful precision. When the green lightning strike of the Adavra Kedavra spell hurtled towards him and over him, it skipped along the surface of his body, entwining its way around the steel pipe. The spell charged away from it, hitting Aristotle Crowley square in the chest. His arms splayed wide, a look of furious shock on his features as he fell. He collapsed to the ground, the most deadly spell known to the world of wizards sparking around him before finally dissipating and charging itself out. Aristotle Crowley was dead. Daniel tossed the steel pipe to one side, and wiped at his face with a wet sleeve. The rain was in a steady fall now, water pooling in deep sections of broken and uneven concrete. He walked over to Aristotle Crowley's body and without hesitation searched the newly dead man's pockets. His hand found something ice cold, and he clasped his grip around it. He brought it out and then stepped away from the body before opening it, his attention both relieved and wary of the small vial of Death in his grip. He was watching this, and nothing else, the twining of the blackish grey substance mesmerizing within the vial. He walked away from the scene wondering vaguely how he was going to get back to Hogwarts, if ever at all. Somehow, the events of this night had done more to make him feel as unconnected to that world as ever. He glanced up and saw her. She was as tiny as that first time he had met her, her dress marred with blood, her eyes round, and large, and abysmally black. He smiled, sadly. He held up the vial. "I've been wondering when you were going to finally show up," he said. He took a step towards her, his foot sinking into an especially deep puddle. He fell. *** Draco and Harry brought in the coffee machine, though the contraption wasn't happy about being forced to leave its happy lair within Snape's dark, damp cabinet. Holding it arms length, the brought the machine into the classroom. Inside of the glass carafe a murky brown mess of Something was writing inside of it, huge tentacles spilling out of its lid and reaching for an intruder to strangle. The two young men set the machine roughly onto a desk and backed away from it, the tentacles reaching a little farther than they had anticipated once it got its bearings. Harry scrambled to the left, while Draco bolted to the right, the Something's reach just missing them both. The brown, tentacled Something withdrew into its carafe when the threat wasn't so clear, though one tentacle stayed outside of the lid, testing these unfamiliar surroundings. Its slimy tip left a brown smudge over the words Proctor Silex near the 'on' switch. "Dear me," Dumbledore observed. "Muggle coffee isn't very good once its been sitting for a while, is it?" Sirius and Remus were both at the back of the classroom, doing their best to prevent Snape from seeing the drama enfolding above them on the ceiling. They didn't have to do much at present. With that final Adavra Kedavra curse, Snape had covered his face with his hands and collapsed in a wail of despair that set both Sirius and Remus on edge. "If he wasn't dead right now," Sirius said, angry. "I'd kill him again myself!" "Stop it," Remus said to him, nodding at the miserable form of Snape in their grip. "You're being an ass." "I'd warned that bastard," Sirius complained again. "I'm warning *you*," Remus added. The unhappy pall that had fallen over the room was suddenly destroyed by a loud shout, and the sound of an awful lot of water collapsing onto them all. The ceiling. let out a huge gush, and then, in an instant, dried up into a crackling desert of water damaged drywall as the street scene above disappeared. In the center of the classroom, Daniel Deschamps lay groaning slightly on the ground, the small fall from the ceiling. had bruised a few ribs. He got up unsteadily, his clothes matted with mud and torn from the scuffle with Crowley. He took a deep breath and looked in the direction of Snape, who had taken his hands from his face to stare at Daniel as though he was having a terrifying hallucination. "Hey Sev," Daniel said. Snape opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again. He shook his head. "But...how?" "Electricity," Daniel said. "The human body is an amazing conductor. All I needed was a good grounding, and the puddle sufficed." Everyone was incredibly relieved, Snape most of all. He practically leapt from the desk he'd been seated at to run at Daniel, and heedless of whatever anyone else saw or thought or surmised from this he grabbed him into a fierce embrace and hugged him close. Daniel disentangled Snape's arms from around him, but not before enjoying this feeling just a little while longer. He held Snape away from him at arm's length, and shook his head. On the floor, near his foot, was the vial. It was broken, the murky contents gone. "Don't," Daniel said, and stepped away from Snape. The look of hurt and pain Snape was giving him was so horrible even Dumbledore couldn't face it. He coughed and patted down his white beard with his palms. "I don't understand," Snape said to Daniel. He narrowed his small black eyes at him. "What do you mean, 'Don't'? Don't what? I watched you nearly die, Daniel! What do you mean by this 'Don't' business, when we've...When you've been in my life..." Daniel shrugged, and scratched the back of his head. When his hand came back to his side, it was smeared with a thick layer of blood. He glanced at the fingertips with a sad sigh. "It was all wrong, right from the beginning," he said. He raised navy eyes to meet Snape's wide black ones. "It was *my* death, and now...well, let's just say it finally found me." He gave Snape a look of tortured apology, Snape's confused hurt the last thing he saw before the familiar black took over, and he fell, completely, into it. OTHER ENDS Silverfish ~: IV. The trouble with Chief Constable Blurty is that he is a curious man, and not in the sense of someone who enjoys searching out the answer to a puzzle, like Daniel is, but he is more, as one could say in an honest description which hopes not to be derogatory--"He's a very nice fellow. A little curious, perhaps." This aspect of his personality may be why he was so strangely chipper given the gravity of the current situation. Minerva McGonagall found his positive outlook to be oddly refreshing. "...So the walls were damp,and some of the bricks were coming way, and the foundation had a horrible crack right up its center, but I have to say, all in all the little Provence cottage we'd invested in wasn't all that bad. Not even with the rain pelting us with that hole in the roof...Oh yes, and that snap snowstorm, and unfortunately we hadn't any heat and the fireplace was blocked. There was a layer of ice on all the roses we'd planted, and had finally gotten to grow properly. Very pretty. My wife wasn't quite so pleased, though. I still don't know why she made me sell the place." He poured himself a cup of tea into his pink flowered cup and unhappily sighed. Minerva made a move to get herself a cup, and Blurty instantly grabbed a small cup and the handle of the teapot, which struggled in indignance against his tight grasp. "Dear me, my manners! How many sugars?" "Two," Minerva McGonagall said, and smiled sweetly. The spout from the teapot tried to inch away from the rim, and Blurty had to place the teacup on the surface of Dumbledore's desk and then grab the spout with his free hand. "Come on now, what's the trouble with giving the fine lady a spot of tea?" "It may have an opinion about the tea being over steeped," McGonagall explained, and blushed a little at being called a 'fine lady'. Blurty gave her a look of concern which she waved away. "Oh, but I don't mind it strong." Blurty managed to pour the tea, but not without sloshing just a little of it onto Dumbledore's desk. The drops immediately evaporated. Out of curiosity,and to the great displeasure of the teapot, he purposefully poured a few larger drops onto the wooden surface. The tea evaporated, and left it even shinier and cleaner in its wake. "Self cleaning furniture," Blurty said in admiration. "My wife would be a fan of this." He sipped at his tea and picked up the Marauder's map that lay partially curled on the surface of Dumbledore's desk. He had a bemused expression as he watched the gathering of wizards descend onto the section marked as 'new construction'. The little dots and corresponding names kept melting into one another as the scene became more panicked. Blurty's gaze traveled away from there to find his other two officers, who were found in the Gryffndor tower, having some serious conference with George and Fred Weasley, which seemed to involve a lot of dancing dots and few female co-op students from Ravenclaw's graduate affiliate: "The Wizard and Witchery Scholastics And Tiresome Philosophies College". Blurty figured they wouldn't be able to brood too much on Sartre with Britney Spears playing that loudly. He could even hear her tinny voice through the map. In contrast was Lucius Malfoy, who was still between shelves, not moving. Ricki was in Hagrid's home, and by the look of things in deep conversation which was always a rare thing for Ricki. Blurty concentrated on that unmoving Malfoy dot for a long moment. He drained his pink cup of tea, and then rolled the map up, tightly. "I think," he said to Minerva McGonagall, "we'd best take a trip to your library." *** Hermione and Ron crept through shadows as they made their way the painfully long distance to the Hogwarts infirmary. Ron walked behind her, not at all sure that this particular plan, whatever it was, was going to work. But then, Ron always had been a bit of a pessimist in the face of adversity--At least, he thought, when it came to Muggle things that could suddenly turn into who knew What in his universe--and it definitely couldn't be something useful or good. Guns were used to kill people. That thought alone, of it resting against Hermione's heart where she held it close as they walked--Ugh, it made him shudder! "Are you sure this won't take too long?" he asked. "I can't make any promises," Hermione said in confidence. "All I know is that to make a purifying potion, one must have purifying ingredients, and I know that most of them are in Madam Pomfrey's cabinets. Elfvensbane especially." She flinched at the thought. Ron grimaced. "Aren't those..?" "Elf boogers," Hermione said, her voice sharp. "They're quite common in all wizard remedies. Especially cough medicine." "I was going to say thyme sap." Ron turned a shade of green. "But...I had a cold last week...and she...she gave me cough medicine..." "And you don't have a cold now," Hermione said, and smiled. "Amazing, isn't it?" "It's disgusting," Ron said. His mind was reeling with the thought of elves horking loogies into an amber coloured medicine bottle. He clutched his stomach. "I think I'm going to be sick." Hermione wasn't as concerned about her friend's discomfort, for there was something even more important pressing on her, facts that simply were more personal than she was willing to share. Their meeting with Draco Malfoy had been strange, to say the least, especially after all these years of him being their most severe enemy. She wouldn't forget in a hurry how he'd looked at her, in that awful mixture of what could almost be seen as pity and revulsion. It hurt her pride to think that some of his ideas on the 'barbarity' of Muggles may be right, but it didn't mean that he was correct in placing his own pureblooded Wizard status above her own. That is...If he still did. He said he was talking to someone named 'Blurty'. As in Chief Constable Blurty, Daniel Deschamps' former superior. Of course she knew about him, she knew about McKnulty and McKinnon as well, for she wouldn't be the thorough academic she was if she didn't know a thing or two about nosy research. Besides, she couldn't help it if their English teacher's wristwatch had been talkative. She was still annoyed that Professor Snape had confiscated it during one of her potions classes. She had assured the dour Snape at the time that no, she hadn't stolen it, the watch had a terrible habit of slinking away from Professor Deschamps like an inchworm and she'd found in the hall after her Arithmancy class. She had every intention of taking it to the Headmaster where it would have been dealt with properly. For whatever reason, this ended up in fifteen points being taken off of Gryffndor, and Snape being the proud new owner of a partially sentient Timex. Muggle things certainly didn't belong in the wizard world. She gave the gun she held against her chest an unhappy pat. Draco had said he found the weapon in his father's briefcase. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him, especially after seeing that stricken expression of his when she'd clarified his darkest fears. Disillusionment was never an easy thing, especially when it involved the man you worshipped most--your own father. "I wonder where it will all lead to from here?" she wondered aloud, and Ron, thinking she was talking about the twisting corridor, said: "The infirmary's only around this bend." They turned and were immediately standing before a huge, oak door. At first, Hermione was worried it may be locked, but Ron was the braver one, and he opened the door with a gentle shove. It softly creaked as they made their way into the black, velvet darkness, the beds all empty, and the room as cheerless as any tomb. "In the past, that's what this place had become for a few unfortunate students," Hermione thought. She shuddered at the way her own and Ron's shadows crawled along the walls. "And nearly for me as well." "The cabinet's over here," Ron whispered, though there was no need. No one was coming here tonight, the silence of the dark room overpowering--deafening, even, in its depth. Hermione swallowed back her nervousness and followed Ron to the cabinet containing Elfsvenbane along with several other ingredients they would need. She placed the gun and its velvet covering onto the seat of a nearby chair, and began reading and collecting bottles that were the ingredients they would need. She was holding an especially small bottle of mandrake juice, when loud voices suddenly disturbed the quiet. She could hear Madam Pomfrey the loudest, and she was barking out frantic orders. "Another somnolence spell! Now! He's only just dead, not entirely dead, there might be some hope yet if we can hold him in this suspension for just a little while longer..." The door to the infirmary burst open, and both Ron and Hermione ducked behind the medicine cabinet as a stretcher was wheeled in and placed in the center of the infirmary. Dumbledore was there, as was Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. All of them were working over the horrifying, bloody form of Daniel Deschamps, who lay stretched on his back, the tone of his skin every inch of death's grey. Hermione clasped her hand over her mouth to keep her cry of terror inside, but unfortunately Ron wasn't so quiet. "Oh FUCK!" he shouted, and staggered out from his hiding spot, and looked as though he was about to fade away himself right then and there. Which, as he tumbled to the ground, is exactly what he did. Dumbledore noticed him, and raised a bushy white brow. "Hm...Seems this place is popular for energetic get togethers--Who else is there?" Embarrassed, Hermione crept out of her hiding place from behind the cabinet. "It's me, sir," she said. "Ah, yes, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, and actually smiled at her. Though the image of Daniel Deschamps on the stretcher was certainly terrifying, she did her best to compose herself, and she nodded at her Headmaster carefully. Madam Pomfrey had a cloth held against the back of Daniel's head. It was dripping crimson. "This won't do," she said, "I need something a little stronger." She nodded at Hermione. "My dear--Get me some of that wall plaster, will you? Second shelf from the right." She shook her head as she stared what had to be a very fatal wound. "Getting the bullet out of there is the biggest problem," she said. "If I even dare to nudge it, he'll be dead beyond repair." Silently, Hermione got the plaster and made her way to the gurney that held the dying, if not already just dead, Daniel Deschamps on it. Sirius Black was cursing, his good friend Remus Lupin holding his shoulders. "That bastard," Sirius said. "He knew all along!" "And what would you expect him to do?" Remus said to him, angry. "Just casually announce that 'Oh, by the way, I might look very healthy and alive, but Death is looking for me since She already nicked me a year ago.' Even here in the wizard world no one would have believed such strange nonsense. A man dies and he can either go or become a ghost, that's just the way things are supposed to be...Not this weird lingering." "That bullet," Pomfrey said, shaking her head again. Hermione nudged her way past Sirius and Remus who let her pass between them, and handed Pomfrey the can of wall plaster. Pomfrey tore off the lid and began applying the substance liberally onto the back of Daniel's head. "Sometimes, they just leave the bullet in," Hermione offered. Pomfrey paused, and Dumbledore, who had been watching Daniel with grave concern, stroked his beard in contemplation at this. The Headmaster smiled. "Why...Of course, what an excellent suggestion, Miss Granger. It should be implimented at once!" Sirius and Remus exchanged confused expressions, expressions which soon turned to shock as Dumbledore pushed them aside with a strength that no wizard who looked as fragile as he did should have had. "Out of the way, now, I've work to do!" he said to them. He tapped his wand on the metal frame of the gurney, capturing Madam Pomfrey's attention. "You too, Madam, I would hate anyone else to get caught in a crossfire of this magnitude." "But..." she looked down at Daniel's wound, and at the way his body still refused to do the basics, like breath and make its heart beat. "He'll be dead too long in a few seconds and..." "Out of the way," Dumbledore said, sounding mildly irritated. There was strength enough in that conviction to make Madam Pomfrey leave her patient, though still with some reluctance. Hermione, for her part, inched closer to the far wall, and nearly tripped over a chair. Something heavy, and metal, hit the floor. It was resting against her foot, something strangely warm. She tried to kick it out of the way, but for some reason she refrained. She allowed the fallen gun to rest at her ankle. It was warm, and inviting. The weapon of Muggle Death was giving her some measure of comfort. She let it remain. *** They'd been forced to stay in the Potions classroom, to keep an eye on Professor Snape since Headmaster Dumbledore had refused to allow him to follow the entourage to the infirmary. He was now behind the closed door of his potions office, and Harry and Draco were sitting at the places they usually occupied during class. Draco was concentrating heavily on the lines of his palm, his thoughts drawn deeply inward. Harry was staring at the potions office door, his brow in increasing rivets of worry. "Do you think it's wise to leave him in there alone?" Harry asked. Draco didn't look up from his inspection of his palm. "I don't know," he said. Harry made a decision. He pulled on Draco's shoulder, gnarling the fabric of his robe into his grip. "We'd better check on him," he said, and Draco sneered in response. "Are you mad?" He shook off Harry's touch. "I have no intention of rolling around in black nettles, thank you very much. I say we just leave him alone--He's probably devising some potion to bring Deschamps back from the brink of death anyway, and we'll be back to misunderstanding Shakespeare and earning 'F's in no time." "No," Harry said, and he really was adamant. Draco fumed as he was practically dragged to the shut potions door. Harry fixed a look of profound disapproval on him. "You really are a coward, Malfoy," he said. "And you're a meddling brat," Draco replied. "What do you hope to see when you open that door? If Snape is making a potion to bring Daniel back from the dead, you can be sure the ingredients won't be pretty, in fact they could be highly volatile--disturbing him might affect the way the potion works." Though what Draco said had some merit, Harry wasn't about to entertain the thought too long. "Snape is a potions master, he won't let us distract him," he said. Still, when he placed his hand on the knob of the door, and gently turned it, he only pushed the door open a small sliver, to give them an inkling of what Snape was doing within his office. Draco stood behind Harry, looking over his shoulder, for now that the decision had been made and the act carried out, there was no point to refusing himself a peek. Severus Snape was not creating a potion to bring Daniel Deschamps back from the dead. He was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Grief. It was overlaying every molecule of the air within his office, and it leaked out through the sliver of the partially open door. Harry had been curious, that was all--and he realized now that such a thing under these circumstances had no place in this man's suffering. It put him on the same cold level as the Malfoys. He closed the door again in silence. Casting Draco an apologetic glance, he raised his hand in a fist, and knocked twice on the thick, moss laden wood. "Sir?" Harry asked. "Leave me alone," was the tired answer. The words were devoid of the usual Snape malice, replaced instead by this horrible dullness--like his life had been siphoned out. Inexplicable as it was, Harry longed to have that biting sarcasm of Snape's back. That emptiness was just....It was wrong. "I thought he'd hated him," Harry said to Draco as they left the door, and their potions master's grief, alone. "But now I think Daniel Deschamps was the only person Snape ever called a friend." Draco sat in his usual spot, and began contemplating his palm again. "Harry," he said. "Do you believe in destiny?" Almost immediately, Harry touched the scar on his forehead with his fingertips, and then took his hand away, as though his fingers had been burned. "I don't like to," he said, "but I think it's just forced on us just the same." Draco snorted at this. "My father said it had always been my destiny to be a wizard of great worth, to be a Malfoy and a master of the Dark Arts, to be a blessed party to the greatest wizard ever known." He looked for shocked surprise on Harry's face, and found nothing but sad agreement. Draco's mouth twisted into a sneer, his grey eyes flickering in anger. "I don't believe in destiny," Draco said in finality. He raised his gaze to Snape's office door, and narrowed his eyes at it. "Not anymore." *** Albus Dumbledore was a wizard of great mastery. Far too many times had both the students and faculty of Hogwarts forgotten this, believing his outward, almost frail appearance and his odd eccentricities to be the true level of his personality and power. Hermione was becoming a very fast learner when it came to surface appearances. Everything she thought she might have known about their enigmatic Headmaster was in this moment being shattered. Both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were standing on either side of Hermione now, their eyes wide as they watched Dumbledore, his arms spread wide and his robes billowing as he commanded the pillar of power that lay over top of Daniel Deschamps' body. The spell he was weaving was infinitely complicated, and used so many commands in differing succession that Hermione had a very hard time keeping up with them. Some sounded Latin, while others were of some other, unknown language. Trails of magic sparked against every corner of the room, and even Madam Pomfrey had to find some safety behind a large rocking chair in the corner of the infirmary. Dumbledore certainly didn't look all that harmless right now, Hermione thought. He looked as strong as if he could have forged the oceans themselves. She was glad Ron was still unconscious. This was quite terrifying. The package at her heel was still warm. She bent low, between Remus and Sirius, and picked the velvet encased gun up, and held it close to her chest. Its warmth sent a calming sensation throughout her, and she closed her eyes, giving in to it. When she opened them again, the swirls of power were gone, and Dumbledore looked on the rest of the gang in the infirmary with an expression one could only describe as 'confused'. On the gurney before him, Daniel Deschamps' body was no longer there. On the center of the pillow, still stained bright crimson from the loss of his blood, was a small, oval, metallic object. A bullet. Dumbledore stroked his white beard. His eyes twinkled mischievously as he looked over his shoulder at Remus, Sirius, and a frightened Hermione between them. "I should think," he said. "That now is a good time for tea." He winked at Hermione and she held the gun in its velvet covering even closer. It sent a wonderful sensation of calm throughout her being. "Hermione, if you could let Professor Snapes know that I would like to see him here, if you please. I believe he is in his potions office." He pointed towards the cabinet where Ron had fallen. "Madam Pomfrey, if you could find a more comfortable spot for our Mr. Weasley to sleep, I'm sure his back would appreciate it." Hermione dropped the gun she had been holding onto the seat of a nearby chair, and bolted out of the infirmary. She kept looking back as she ran down the corridor, and neatly bumped into the side of Professor McGonagall. "You should not be walking the halls at this hour," McGonagall said, sternly. "Go to your dormitory immediately!" Hermione didn't quite catch what she'd said. She was eyeing the mysterious, very large black canvas bag she and Chief Constable Blurty were lugging between them. "Headmaster Dumbledore said that I had to inform Professor Snape to come to the infirmary," she said. McGonagall sighed in both irritation and frustration at having to further stumble along with the heavy weight of whatever was in the bag. "Well, the second you are finished with that you are to go back to your room! Exams not even a week away, and here you are traipsing about at all hours. If you want good marks you need to get a proper night's sleep." Blurty passed Hermione as they struggled with their package through the infirmary doors. "You must be the little lass Draco's told me about," he said, smiling. "Good to meet you." She nodded, a little confused at this. The infirmary doors closed behind them, and she was left alone in the corridor. "Curiouser and curiouser," she said to herself, and made her way to the express stairs to the dungeons. *** The infirmary doors swung open as Snape, followed by Harry and Draco, burst into the room. Hermione's announcement had caused a small flurry of panic in the dungeons office. Snape marched to Daniel's bed, and stared blankly at the little bullet sitting on a now pristine white pillow. The other wizards and Madam Pomfrey were gathered around the gurney in solemnity. Seeing this, Snape clearly feared the worst. His face was pale, and his tangle of black hair obscured his small black eyes, effectively hiding what sorrow might have been reflected within them. Blurty coughed, and walked up to Draco. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, lad," he said. "He's at the best hospital in all the wizarding world, so your Headmaster Dumbledore says." Snape spoke dully to the stretcher before him, though there was a tiny, barely perceptible timbre of hope to his voice. "So...He's alive?" "Hm?" Blurty said, looking up at Snape. "Oh...Oh, I'm sorry!" He patted Draco's shoulder jovially. "I was talking about Lucius Malfoy!" Draco frowned. "My father?" Blurty coughed. "Oh now, lad, don't look so glum. They say the reconstructive surgery will be a piece of cake." He scratched at his red nose in reflection. "Though it's quite possible that nose of his will be a lot less symmetrical." He grinned up at Snape. "Daniel's been shipped off to a Muggle hospital--St. Thomas's, I believe, isn't that right Headmaster Dumbledore?" "I'm pretty certain of it," Dumbledore said. "The spell would have directed him to the place he'd had his last breath the first time he'd nearly died." He gave Blurty a knowing look. "Am I correct that this was at St. Thomas?" "Aye, and I'll never forget that doctor," Blurty said, and he looked perturbed. "If anyone had worse bedside manner..." "Where is it?" Snape asked. "I believe it's on Lambeth Palace Road. I've taken the tube there a few times, it's off Waterloo station," Blurty replied. "Professor Snape," Dumbledore said to him, "there's something you should know..." But Snape didn't wait for Dumbledore to explain. In a second he had his wand out and shouted the transmigration spell--Heading, quite clearly, for St. Thomas' Hospital. OTHER ENDS by Silverfish ~: V. He found himself in a place surrounded by blank whiteness, a place that wasn't uncomfortable, or painful, or dark in any sense of the word. Soft breezes, like the caress of down feathers showered past his sight, streaks of white light laying suspended within the air. Through their haze, his dark navy eyes could see her, and the vast, unforgiving depths of her pitch black sight. She stood still before him, and he realized he was lying down on what might be a bed, though the comfort wasn't unlike that of literally sleeping on a cloud. He had no wish to get up. "I saved you a lot of trouble," he said to her at length. "They were going to make a bomb out of my death, they were going to destroy my world with it." She remained as unmoving as a rock, and quite possibly as emotional. He closed his eyes, sinking into the comfort of the softness surrounding him, enjoying it. He sighed, thinking one couldn't get more content than this, to simply lay and sleep for an eternity in such a bed. Still, a note of regret pulled on him, and caused an itch in his psyche that wasn't easy to get rid of. He kept seeing Sev, his stricken face as Daniel fell, that cry of horror that echoed inside of memory. Poor Sev, he'd made such bad choices, and Daniel had been yet another one. Regret was making the perfection of his sleep uncomfortable. Severus Snape, potions master of Hogwarts, ex-spy against some horrible, unknown wizard who wanted to destroy the Muggle race kept intruding on his peace. The Severus Snape who, despite all of this, still remained as innocent in some things as a heartstruck teenager. He'd plunged headlong into Daniel's life, at first out curiosity and then later out of need. He'd surrendered everything, Daniel thought, and received nothing but sheer emptiness in return. Oh yes, there are Dark Arts in the Muggle world, Daniel knew, and it was a knowledge tinged with bitterness. Love was definitely one of them. He opened his eyes again, that filter of white brilliance shining into them, though not painfully. She was closer this time, standing right beside him at his bed, her abysmal, black eyes staring down at him in what could almost be considered anger. She was tiny, like a child, small and frail, but this was all an illusion meant to placate the soul as it surrendered its body. Every Muggle, and every Wizard for that matter, knew that there was no power more severe than that of Death's. He closed his eyes again. "I'm sorry to have caused you all this trouble. But you realize, of course, that some of this you brought on yourself? If you'd given that Voldemort bastard a fatal coronary or an undetected brain tumour, the threat to mine or the Wizard's worlds would never have happened. And don't you go getting mad at me for keeping my death in that vial instead of taking it like I was supposed to--I was alive, and that's what people who are do, they struggle to keep it that way." He sighed, resigning himself to the helplessness of the situation. "I suppose there wasn't much you could do against Voldemort, given that you aren't supposed to have an opinion--But dammit, he wasn't using just any bomb at all, he was using parts of what was *my* existence, or rather the end of it!" He frowned, his eyes tightly closed. "I would have thought you of all things would understand how awful that is. A person's death is highly personal, it's intimate. It would be like killing people by sending up posters around London of me in the nude, and not on my most aesthetic day, either." "Are you quite finished?" Daniel frowned even further, for that wasn't a little girl's voice, as one would expect--even from Death--but the tones were definitely deep, and male, and.... He opened his eyes to see a wizard in a white coat staring down at him. Or, rather, not a wizard but a doctor, and he didn't look at all pleased. "I don't know how you managed to get into our ER without any registration, but I'll have you know we don't like people who waste our time whining over silly, tiny little injuries and moaning about their impending end." He pointed the chart in his hand towards a little boy in the next bed who looked to be about seven years old. He was crying, miserably, while his mother at his side was glaring at Daniel. "You're scaring the other patients with your nonsense." Daniel sheepishly sat up and tested the back of his head with the heel of his palm. To his surprise, he found nothing more than a small bandage and...what was this? He brought it out and laid it in his lap, wondering how in the hell a piece of drywall plaster got into his hair. He checked again with quick sweep of his hand, and found more of the chalky chunks within his brown tangled mop. "The next time you need stitches for a cut, don't let your drunk friends try to patch you up with carpentry equipment," the doctor shot at him. He snapped Daniel's clipboard shut and marched off, leaving Daniel stunned, confused and, oddly enough, very, very much alive. *** Snape walked into the front entrance of the St. Thomas hospital, doing his best to hide the feeling of being grossly overwhelmed. Though he'd been in Muggle surroundings before, he'd had an escort with Daniel, and even then the journey had been fraught with many problems, not the least of which involved an embarrassing incident with a Tommy Hilfinger fashion poster. At least, as he stood in the lobby of the St. Thomas hospital, he could take some uncomfortable confidence in the fact that he'd been in these kinds of sterile environments before as well--though for Snape such a place was tantamount to a Muggle wandering into a graveyard at midnight and finding out the dead dug themselves out of their graves to sit on their coffins and play cards... He took a deep breath, doing his best to compose himself and not make his nervousness show too much. He made a quick sweep of the people sitting on chairs in what was labeled the emergency waiting room (though why, if someone was in an 'emergency', they needed to sit at a chair and wait for Fate to intervene before a medical professional arrived didn't make all that much sense to Snape). Not finding Daniel anywhere amongst the sickly grey faces of the emergency room, he began a small journey down the hall, his hip bumping a gurney with an ancient old man moaning on its surface. Fear was creeping into every aspect of his being, and he forced himself to move on, regardless of the old man's horrible pleading behind him: "Father..I need to confess...Father..." The unsettling words crept up after him, and Snape hurried his steps down the pale, green corridor, the lights too bright, the atmosphere too sterile and busy and efficient. This institution was a personification of that cold, unemotional detachment he had learned was so prevalent amongst Muggles when they were confronted with mortality. Perhaps because they lived so closely on the edges of life and death every day, such distance kept them balanced. Knowing this didn't settle the feelings of unease within Snape, however, even if his discomfort was mixed with profound sadness. When he did find Daniel here, what would be greeting him? His heart and stomach sank at the very thought, and he struggled not to explore it. But Snape is not a man without imagination, and unfortunately right now it was spilling over with images of Daniel soaked in blood, his face in a fixed mask of pain that would never relax in Snape's memory. His hand dove into the pocket of his robe, where he reflexively grasped his wand, though what service it could provide him with now was moot. Grief threatened to overwhelm him at these black thoughts, and he did his best to suppress it. Daniel, who had been his only friend....Who, despite all of his strangeness, or maybe even because of them, had found a kindred spirit in Severus Snape. An often shortsighted, infuriating Muggle who challenged the importance of magic at every turn, who drank too much, who had a bad temper hiding underneath his calm veneer, who was definitely not a good influence on the young minds he taught strange literary snippets to, who was forever obsessed with his Muggle gadgetry and caused no small level of destruction to Hogwarts with his insistence on bringing them into the wizard world, whose stolen death nearly destroyed his own universe---No, Severus Snape wasn't going to crumble in this corridor in grief and longing and despair and all those terrible adjectives the loss of a silly, stupid, infuriating man like that would cause! Of course it's what he felt like doing, just the same. He hoped his tangle of black hair effectively hid the sorrow in his eyes as he saw a wizard, no, a doctor, in a white coat heading toward him, a clipboard slapping against his thigh angrily as he walked. "Excuse me," Snape said to him. "I'm looking for Daniel Deschamps. He was in here not long ago with a severe head injury..." A flash of something that looked like rage crossed the doctor's features. He sighed as he looked on Snape, taking in the robes and the concern in his voice. "He's taking advantage of priests now, is it?" he said. He shook his head. "If I were you, Father, I'd be staying as far away from that troublemaker as possible." Snape let his gaze fall away. "Yes...that is what some people have told me." "Don't let it worry you anymore," the doctor said, and slapped Snape on the arm with his clipboard jovially. "He's gone now." The corridor felt like it was spinning. He could hear the doctor walking away from him, his steps echoing as Snape was left alone. The wall wasn't providing enough support as he slid against the green sterility of it's surface, the floor coming up to meet him as he crumbled to it. It's not fair, he kept thinking. It's not fair, not at all! Within this rage against the injustice of life and death was this overwhelming sorrow that threatened to crush every living thing (every molecule as Daniel called those pockets of existence), inside of him. It wasn't fair. It was never, never fair. "Sev?" Despair stumbled. Snape felt strong hands on his shoulders, steadying him, pulling him up. When he dared to see who it was that had offered his help, he just about collapsed again. "But you're.." he began. Daniel gave him a small smile, and shrugged. A piece of plaster was loosed upon Daniel shoulder and he brushed it away with a freed hand impatiently. "I guess I've been granted a reprieve, I'm not sure why," he explained, but it wasn't really any kind of explanation at all. Daniel reached at the bandage at the back of his head, and then partially turned to draw Snape's attention to it. "Five stitches. That's all I needed." He turned back and gave Snape a wan smile. Snape grabbed Daniel by the throat with a fierce, not exactly Welcome Back To The World Of The Living grip. "I thought you were dead! You bastard! You bastard!!!" "S-Sev," Daniel croaked, "C-Can't b-breathe..." The doctor who had told Snape about Daniel's release was running back up the corridor, shouting at Snape to stop. He did release his grip on Daniel's throat, but only long enough to take Daniel's face in his hands and then plant a firm, very unpriestly, kiss on Daniel's lips. He tasted of coffee, Snape thought. Liquor and caffeine and hope. He pressed his forehead against Daniel's when he finally released him. He was so exhausted and relieved he half felt as though he was going to shudder into mad, raging sobbing. He was shaking, he realized, and Daniel's hands on his shoulders were doing their best to calm him. "Don't do this to me again, Daniel," Snape said to him, almost pleading. Then, in a much less friendly timbre, in a manner that would even make He Who Must Not Be (to hell with it, that Bastard Voldemort!) take pause, he said, with his hand firm on his wand: "I'm warning you." The doctor was standing shock still in the corridor, the clipboard still in his hand as he looked on Snape and Daniel. Snape ushered Daniel through a set of swinging doors. Snape swung his wand around twice and shouted "Vehere Hogwarts!" They were both gone by the time the doctor opened the doors, the stairwell they had stepped into completely empty. He looked up and down the sections of stairs, trying to find any glimpse of them, but it was no use. He shook his head as he made his way back into the main corridor of the emergency ward, muttering under his breath about radical church reforms. *** It was three am, and four Hogwarts students were now huddled in Deschamps' English classroom, white mugs of coffee in their hands, a courtesy Hermione had secured from the House Elves in the basement. The Something in the coffee machine's carafe was with them as well, a large speckled tentacle poking out of its glass lair, and wrapped around the handle of a steaming hot mug of caffienated brew. Ron actually yawned. "Look, I don't mean to be nasty about this or anything, but dammit Draco, your father deserved it." Harry shot Ron a warning glare, but Draco only nodded in agreement with Ron. "Rita Skeeter has already got a hold of this information. I've gotten a copy of the Earliest Early Edition of the Wizard's World Weekly, and he and his smashed up nose are on the front page, along with the details as per the report by Constables McKnulty and McKinnon with a little sympathetic aside by Ricki and his good friend Hagrid." He bit his bottom lip harshly. "Hogwarts, especially the Slytherin section, should be a fun place for me later this morning," he said, miserable. Hermione felt a stab of pity for him. "What are you going to do now?" she asked. He shot her a look of angry indignation. "I'm doing nothing," he said. Harry cradled the hot mug of coffee in his grip. "What do you mean, nothing?" he asked. "That doesn't sound like the Draco Malfoy I know." "That's because that Draco belongs to Lucius Malfoy, and I'm afraid he's long dead," Draco replied. He crossed his arms. "I'm doing nothing. I'm quitting that fucking Quidditch game, I've always hated it. I'm dropping out of that damn potions class, and I'm going to make Muggle English my major. If anyone asks what I'm learning at school these days, I'll tell them I'm writing a groundbreaking thesis on the homoerotic subtexts of Moby Dick and how the whale is representative of nothing more than a giant penis. I'm going to start saving the fucking salmon and hugging trees and eating granola while smoking things and drinking things that are known to destroy most human brain cells--or at least get caught with that stuff so I'll end up with a criminal history and a parole officer I can bring to snobby family functions. I'm going to listen to loud, furious Muggle music that'll make the plaster in my dormitory crack. I got a good idea where to get a lot of this stuff too." He narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "Got any of those S.P.E.W. buttons on you? Better yet, some fundraising forms? I've got a few of my father's wizard notes, already signed by him in case I needed money--I think a nice healthy donation to your cause in the Malfoy name is worthwhile, don't you?" "Dear God," Ron exclaimed, and who looked positively faint. "You're more evil than ever!" *** It was three am, and the collection of three wizards and two Muggles in Snape's potions office had already polished off more than four bottles of quality scotch. Sirius Black kept sloshing his glass onto the surface of Snape's desk, clearly too drunk to quite get the rim in proper symmetry to his mouth. "You got a lot of nerve dying like that," he slurred at Daniel as he pointed at him waveringly. "Too bad Snape here really didn't strangle you." He looked over at Snape, hopeful. "How about if I finish what you started?" Snape took another long, long drink of his bitter draught. He was propped up unevenly with his chin in his palm, and when he spoke his voice was even more slurred than Black's. "I'm not letting any Girfinedour jackass do my job!" Groaning at the effort to stay steady and yet actually attempt to stand, Snape sat up and then, using a good grip on the desk for support, managed to get out of his seat. He lifted the velvet cloth lump with its heavy metal parcel and dangled it above the bubbling cauldron of blue liquid that was situated in the centre of his desk. Blurty, who had remained quiet for most of this gathering, coughed and then gave the object a wistful sigh. "Are you sure that's what you want to do?" Snape held the wrapped gun over the bubbling cauldron for a few seconds more. A feeling of well being and peace overlayed everyone and everything in the room, an effect that even the pickled centinewt wasn't immune to. Now that Daniel was back in his proper place, and not only that but was given the special treat of this very early morning visit, it settled squishily against the side of the jar as it stared at Daniel in blissful, rapt attention. Of course, this sedated happiness may have been partially because Daniel, when Snape wasn't looking, offered the centinewt a few drops of choice Scotch alcohol through the open narrow lid of its jar. Snape dropped the gun into the cauldron, the purification setting off a brief show of blue flames and sparks that reached the ceiling of the office before finally settling back into the cauldron beneath it. "Happiness as a warm gun," Blurty said. He sighed again, and then took a long sip of his scotch. "A thing like that could have been useful." "Some people are miserable no matter what kind of magic you throw at them," Sirius said. Snape actually laughed. "If you're talking about me, you're sadly mistaken." He poured himself another tall drink from the amber bottle in front of him, which was more than half empty. "I could have been a very happy person all those years ago," he said, bitter. "If you two hadn't done everything you could to destroy my life." Remus, who had been quiet up to this point, rolled his eyes. "It's not our fault you were a snotty little dweeb," Remus said. "Besides, you kept trying to get us expelled all the time, what did you expect us to do? Just sit around and take your stupid meddling?" Snape was truly incensed. "I think the population of Hogwarts had a right to know you turn into a vicious monster once a month!" he shouted at him. "Really?" Blurty said to Remus, and arched a brow. "How extraordinary, my wife has the exact same affliction." "Every day," Snape continued, his memory clearly trapped in that place of adolescent nightmare where he'd suffered indignity after indignity, "there was always *something*. A stolen book here, a snapped wand there--a disgusting stinkfish pasted to the bottom of my cauldron!" Sirius paused in mid sip of his drink. "I never pasted a stinkfish to your cauldron," he said, frowning. "I certainly never did," Remus added. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, "James was deathly allergic to the rotten things, he couldn't even smell them without going into a dead faint There was a gentle silence as this truth was meted out between them. Unknown to them all, a certain pickled centinewt was suddenly sober and awake, and looking very, very guilty. "As for your missing books," Remus continued, "it was Lucius Malfoy who always seemed to have extra copies which he sold to unsuspecting Muggle students." Snape was momentarily confused, only to begin seething at the truth of it. "He used to extort lunch money out of me when I was in second year," Remus added, miserably. "I never got to buy my own butterbeer at Hogsmeade, Sirius and James always had to get it for me." "It doesn't matter anyway," Sirius added, his own heavy brow forged into a single line of anger. "You did plenty of rotten things to us too. Thanks to you, the entirety of the girls population thought I'd given Ainsy Easyweather veneral fleas!" Snape made a disgusted face. "I didn't say that to anyone!" He downed another gulp of his tumbler of scotch, draining it. "Besides, everyone in Slytherin knew she got them from Lucius Malfoy." Sirius's jaw dropped in shock. "That bastard!" he shouted. He clenched his fists, helpless. "Great, now I know the real culprit and I can't kill him either." He grabbed his glass and swirled his drink around in the tumbler, the amber liquid slipping against the sides of the glass in a gentle whirlpool. "I spent the entirety of my school career painfully single thanks to that rumour." "I'll have to mention that to Amanda," Blurty mumbled to himself, and he suddenly found the focus of the three wizards on him. He sat up, to appear a little less rumpled and maybe even a little less drunk, but facts were facts, and it was clear he wasn't going anywhere unless he spilled them. "My other officers, McKnulty and McKinnon...They thought it was a right jolly prank to give Mr. Malfoy Ricki 's cell phone number." Memories of the huge Muggle in Dumbledore's office kept reaction at this revelation silent. "Ricki is Amanda's husband. I don't know how he managed it, since you lot don't use proper phones, but Mr. Malfoy dialed Ricki up, thinking he was Amanda. Ricki wasn't too pleased to hear sweet, rather risque, nothings being leered into his ear when he answered a call from Mr. Malfoy, nor was Ricki too keen on being called 'Amanda, my precious vicious vixen of pleasure'." Sirius, Remus and Snape exchanged gravely serious looks. Which disintegrated instantly into uproarious laughter. " 'Vicious vixen of pleasure'! Oh the pity of it!" Remus shouted. Sirius quickly grabbed a still partially full bottle of scotch and topped everyone's glass, including Daniel's. He held his tumbler up with an outstretched hand. "I propose a toast--To Lucius Malfoy's newly crooked nose!" "To his darling wife, Narcissa, who will make sure his balls do not make a speedy recovery," Remus added. "To the fact that he's not getting laid," Snape said with great flourish. "While *I* am." Remus and Sirius blinked at this, while Blurty simply took the information in stride and downed the rest of his drink. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," Blurty said, and nudged the unconscious, passed out form of Daniel draped over the corner of Snape's desk. "At least not tonight." Remus reached out and pressed a couple of fingers against Daniel's neck. "Remus!" Sirius exclaimed at him. Remus shrugged, counting the rhythm of Daniel's pulse. "One does need to make sure." ~*~END~*~ Notes: I would very much like to thank everyone who has responded to this series, especially Asrai who has been my biggest fan throughout this entire enterprise :D. It's been a lot of fun to write, and I'm glad it was enjoyable for people to read. Thank you all so much for being patient with my silly scribblings and being kind enough to take a look and tell me what you think! It's always much, much, *much* appreciated :D Love and hugs Silverfish ~: For comments and suggestions mail to: sylfverfish@yahoo.com
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