London Calling

For the first time in months, I was not in Master's white, but in the dark grey I 
had long preferred in my Muggle clothing.  It felt strange, not to look down and 
see white on myself.

I headed for the kitchens to procure breakfast from the house-elves, and perhaps a 
cream cake to bribe my ridiculously sulky apprentice.  He'd been quite put out at 
being sent to bed like a child two nights ago, but it was high time he put it 
behind him.

Good God, was I really thinking of plying Potter with cream cake to make him 
forgive me?  I was losing my mind.

Unfortunately for me, that insufferable woman Trelawney was fluttering around the 
kitchens, waving her hands in despair over the lack of the perfect tea for reading 
tea-leaves.  I entertained a few malicious thoughts of introducing cannabis to her 
tea supplies, and made a mental note to implement that as soon as possible.  I 
should be able to pick some up from Mayhew in London, and I had tea in my chambers 
that should suit.

No doubt it would improve her predictions, which at present consisted of her 
rolling her eyes wildly and declaiming that Harry Potter was *doomed*, absolutely 
*doomed*.

I helped myself to porridge and suggested sweetly that she ask Minerva for some 
good fortune-telling tea.  Hah.  Minerva would probably turn her into a newt.

I sent a house-elf to bring a bowl of porridge to Potter--"And a cream cake, too," 
I heard myself call after the elf, to my utter disgust.

Perhaps there was something to Albus's notions about consumptive change.

I finished my porridge slowly, mentally reviewing the places I knew in Muggle 
London.  Not many--I tended to go out, get what I needed, and come back.  I 
doubted Potter knew it any better--but then, neither would Draco.

I heard familiar footfalls behind me.  "Potter."

"Master."

I turned to him, and he gave me a thin smile.  I wondered if I looked like that 
when I smiled.  "Are you ready?"  

"Yes."

We left the kitchens and headed for Hogsmeade on foot; from there, we would Floo 
to Diagon Alley, stop at Gringott's, and go out through the Leaky Cauldron.  "Do 
you know London?" I asked, as we walked.

"No, sir.  Not really.  But--Draco's not very good at hiding."

"In a city the size of London, Mr. Potter, nearly anyone can hide.  The question 
is--where would he go?"

Potter frowned.  "If I were trying to hide from wizards," he said, "I'd go to the 
place with the most Muggles."

"And where would that be?"

"I don't know."

Hrr.  You'd think a boy raised by Muggles would know something about the Muggle 
world; I'd've done better to have Granger along.  "We can use Investigo to set 
tracers throughout the city, but it may be wise to have my source initiate a 
search for him."

"Your source?"

"A Muggle named Jack Mayhew.  Runs an import-export business."  I raised an 
eyebrow at Potter's expression of surprise.  "What is it now?"

"I can't imagine you associating with Muggles, sir."
 
Ignorant boy. "I can't imagine associating with *you*, Mr. Potter, and yet here we 
are."

He had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

* * *

We stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron into Muggle London. I turned my face to the 
sky, closing my eyes.  Daylight through my eyelids was the color of my own blood.  

"Master?" said Potter.  "Where are we going?"

I exhaled slowly, keeping my eyes closed. "First to Mayhew's, and then we will 
need a grounding point for Investigo."  

Potter shifted beside me.  "Investigo requires an anchor, sir.  Do we have one for 
him?"

"We have me," I said.  I had been entwined in Draco's life since before he was 
born, and he had scarcely drawn a breath I did not know about since he was eleven 
years old.  It would have to be enough; we had nothing else.

"I'll have to cast it, then," Potter said.  

"Yes."  Investigo was a difficult spell; he would anchor it to me and through me 
to the grounding point, and then spin trace-lines out in a wide radius over the 
city.  If it worked, we could then check the tracers through me at any time, from 
anywhere.  *If* it worked.

"I've only done it once before."  I could hear him breathing.  "To find Hermione--
last year, when the Death Eaters--"

"Yes."  I opened my eyes and looked at him. Young as he was, the boy had both the 
strength and the will necessary to do this. "A grounding point, if you will, Mr. 
Potter," I said. I rather hoped he would have enough sense to think of the obvious 
one, but with Potter, one could never tell.

He frowned and looked thoughtful.  "Platform Nine and Three Quarters--would that 
work?"

"No," I answered, unaccountably pleased that he had selected the same location I 
had.  "It is not, strictly speaking, part of the Muggle world.  King's Cross, 
however, will do." 

We set off.  I noticed Potter watching attractive young women surreptitiously, but 
said nothing.  After a few nervous glances at me, he ceased on his own.  Good.  
The boy needed to learn self-control if he was to survive a serious apprenticeship 
in Defence; there is nothing more dangerous than a lack of control.

It is a crime of which I have often been guilty.

Jack Mayhew worked out of an abandoned railway building not far from King's Cross.  
Some years ago, he and I had made a deal: I cast a glamour over the place so that 
he was left undisturbed by the authorities, and in return, he supplied me with 
anything I needed from the Muggle world.  There are certain pharmaceuticals and 
potion ingredients easier to acquire from Muggles.  

He looked up as I came in.  "Snape.  Didn't expect to see you for a few months."

"I found myself in need unexpectedly."

He stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and jerked his chin at Potter.  "That 
who I think it is?"  Muggle though he was, Mayhew kept abreast of the wizarding 
world; I rather suspected that I was not the only wizard he kept supplied, though 
of course we never spoke of it.

"Harry Potter.  My apprentice."

"Huh."  He looked Potter over, then turned back to me.  "You need the usual?"

"Yes."

He reached under the counter and began organizing my regular order: nickel-cadmium 
batteries, acetylsalicylic acid in a powdered form, agar, unenchanted wormwood, 
laudanum, colloidal gold.  "Add some cannabis sativa, if you have it," I said, and 
he looked up at me, then tossed a bag of it into my order.

"Cost you extra."

"I am aware of that."  I surveyed the contents of the order.  "Adequate.  Now.  
One more thing."  I held out a photograph of Draco Malfoy that I had charmed to 
stillness.  "I need to find this boy.  He may be in London.  Can you help?"

Mayhew nodded and took the picture.  "'Course."  He studied it for a minute.  "The 
Malfoy boy, isn't he?"

"Yes.  He's quite possibly mentally unstable, so be careful."  I rolled up my 
sleeve and held out my Mark.  "He'll have the Dark Mark tattooed on his left arm.  
If you find him--or *hear* of him--send me word by the barman at the Leaky 
Cauldron at once."  I rolled my sleeve back down.  "You'll be compensated 
handsomely, I assure you."

He nodded, and I indicated the box containing my order.  "Hold that for me.  I'll 
be back for it later today."

* * * 

King's Cross was infuriatingly busy; Potter and I stopped near the divider for 
Platform Nine and Three Quarters.  "Here?" he asked, looking at the crowds of 
Muggles.

"It will do."  I held up my left hand before my chest, and he took it in his, 
firmly.  I closed my eyes, and felt his wand touch my skin, and heard him whisper 
"Investigo!"

I felt as though I were being torn apart.  My blood vessels unraveled to run 
through the city, following the roads; my intestines twisted like the river and 
the sewers.  Potter's power reached through me, setting the tracers, tying them to 
the grounding point, searching for Draco.

And then my Mark burned sharply and so painfully that I heard myself cry out; felt 
Potter's hand torn from my own.

I came to myself on the platform, Potter kneeling beside me, shaking.  "Potter."

"I'm fine," he said, turning towards me.  "Just--my scar--" 

His scar was burnt nearly as black as his hair.  I rolled up my left sleeve and 
looked at the Mark.  "Voldemort," I said.  "Well, we wanted to know if he was 
still alive.  I'd say the answer is a resounding yes."  I got to my feet and 
reached down to assist him.  "We must have touched him while looking for Draco."

He shook his head and blinked furiously, as if to clear his vision.  As I watched, 
his face paled.  "Dementor."

"What?"

He pointed over my shoulder.  "Dementor.  On the platform."

I felt the cold fingers grasping at my thoughts before I even finished turning.

The dementors, as Albus had predicted, had gone over to Voldemort as soon as they 
had the opportunity.  Whatever their loyalties now, they undoubtedly did not 
involve obeying myself or Potter.

This one was about a third of the way down the platform, moving slowly through the 
people boarding the train. The Muggles didn't seem to see it, but they could sense 
it: one man dropped his possessions and fled as the dementor brushed by him, 
another began sobbing, and people began to move out of its way.  Beyond a doubt, 
it was heading straight for us.  I reviewed our options: we couldn't Disapparate 
in a public place, and the Patronus charm was rather obvious--not to mention we 
were both weak from the contact with Voldemort.  We would have to run for it; our 
physical condition was at present better than our magical one.  I caught Potter's 
hand as he raised his wand.  "Idiot!  Think!"

He looked around.  "Muggles?"

"Muggles."  I shoved him, hard.  "Run, boy.  We've got to get to Mayhew."

We ran out of the station, and the dementor followed us, people scattering before 
it like leaves before wind. Ahead of me, Potter stumbled and fell; I hauled him to 
his feet.  

"Expecto," he gasped, trying to turn and face the dementor.  "Expec--"

That damnable Gryffindor bravado was going to get us killed. "Shut *up*," I spat, 
and shoved him forward again.  "For the love of God, keep running." 

The dementor was close, now; its empty chill tangible.  I debated trying for the 
Cauldron, with its access to Diagon Alley, but Mayhew's was closer. I prayed he 
still kept illegal firearms on the premises; neither Potter nor I was in decent 
shape to cast a spell as difficult as Patronus.  Beside me, Potter ran with no 
further protest, but I could sense the panic in him--his breathing was a touch too 
fast, his steps uneven.  

Only a fool does not fear the dementors.  Had I had time, I would have been 
relieved at his fear.
 
"Alohomora!" he called out, and the building opened for us.  

Mayhew looked up from his bookkeeping as we came in.  "What the--"

"Gun," I said, as Potter took a guard position by the door.  "Dammit, man!  Gun!"

He handed me his own, and I turned and emptied it into the head of the dementor as 
it came through the door.  Potter kicked it into the street and slammed the door.  
"Will that kill it?"

"No," I said, "but it will keep it down long enough."  I turned to Mayhew and 
handed him back his weapon.  "Get out of here for a day or so," I said.  "That 
thing out there isn't very bright.  If no one is here when it wakes, it will leave 
and not return."

He nodded sharply and locked his books into a wall safe before leaving through the 
back--a good man, Mayhew. Knows when not to ask questions.  I charmed my order to 
pocket size, and studied Potter.  He looked paler than I had seen him since the 
night Lucius Malfoy died, but relatively composed. "Can you Apparate?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good.  Hogsmeade, then, at the edge of Hogwarts grounds.  We have to get to 
Albus."

He nodded and Disapparated, and I followed a second later.  "Can they find us 
here?" he asked.

"No," I said.  "Likely not.  We should make haste, however."

* * *

Albus listened quietly, stroking Fawkes with one finger, as Potter told him what 
we had done, and what we had seen. I, for my part, remained silent. Harry Potter, 
for all his youth, was already a seasoned campaigner; he knew how to make a 
detailed field report.

At length, Potter fell silent.  Albus folded his hands on his desk.  "Is the 
Investigo spell still operative?" he asked.

"I don't know, sir," Potter said, and looked to me.  I held out my hand, and he 
laid his own in it.  "Reperio," he said, and the spell within me activated, the 
connection between anchor and grounding point spinning out like silk from a 
spider, the web of tracers throughout London--

Potter released me.  "Yes," he said, to Dumbledore.  "The spell's intact."

"Good," he said.  "We may be fortunate in your choice of anchor, then."  He looked 
at me, with something like compassion in his face.  "You are both tied to young 
Draco, of course, but also to Voldemort.  We now know he is in London, hiding 
among Muggles.  See if you can determine where--when you have both recovered, of 
course.  You must be exhausted..."

He continued rambling as he ushered us out of the door; we stood outside his rooms 
blinking at each other in confusion.  I have known Albus most of my life, and I 
have yet to determine how he manages that particular trick.

"I hate it when he does that," Potter said.

Hah.  "Come on, then," I said, and headed for the dungeons.

Back in my quarters, I searched my personal stores until I found an unopened 
package of loose-leaf tea.  I spelled it open and replaced a quarter of it with 
the cannabis I'd acquired in London.  Not even Voldemort and dementors could drive 
the opportunity to torment Trelawney from my mind.

"Master," Potter said, "what are you *doing*?"

"Preparing a gift for Trelawney," I said, weighing the bag in my hand.

He looked from me to the doctored tea, and back.  "You are..." Words seemed to 
fail him for a moment, and he shook his head before settling on "...worse than the 
Weasley twins."

"I have had a great deal more practice," I said, shaking the package to mix the 
leaves.

"You realize that she gives that stuff to *students*, don't you?" he asked.

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Potter."  I checked the mix with a critical eye.  "I 
should have thought of this *years* ago."

He made a choked noise.

"If you tell anyone," I said, adding a little more cannabis, "I shall turn you 
into a myrrh tree permanently, and use your secretions in poisonous concoctions."  
I weighed the bag again, shifting it between my hands.  Yes. Perfect.

"I wasn't going to," he said.  "Master-Apprentice confidentiality clause.  Sir."

I looked away from the tea and saw he was laughing.  Well.  No doubt he needed it, 
after a morning such as ours.  I bared my teeth at him, and he laughed harder, so 
I tossed him the tea-and-cannabis.  "Don't worry about the students.  It tends to 
dampen magical powers for an hour or so--though it has been known to increase the 
accuracy of divination."  

He held up the bag and looked at it.  "Trelawney needs all the help she can get," 
he said, and then sobered.  "Master?"

I raised an eyebrow at him.  "Yes?"

"You love Draco, don't you?"

I looked at him for a long time. I had lost five--only five--out of all the 
children I had taught to Voldemort; all five had been the sons of loyal Death 
Eaters.

Of the five, only Draco Malfoy still lived.

I remembered Albus's solemn expression when he offered me the position as the Head 
of my House.  Out of my father's generation had come Tom Riddle; out of mine had 
come the Death Eaters.

Out of Draco's would come the honor of Slytherin House.  I had sworn it to Albus 
and to myself, years ago.

"Give the tea to Trelawney, Mr. Potter."

I could see him restrain himself from pressing me about Draco.  Instead, he mock-
saluted, and I felt the sudden, ridiculous urge to smile at him.

Hrr.  If this kept up, I'd run the risk of becoming fond of the boy.