From Spark to Flame

Chapter Six: Foolish Games

Barely visible, the hooded man leaned against the old brick wall, bathing in its recessed shadow. He'd been there for hours now; the sun long since having set on the Watford street. Most Muggles had wisely returned home before the fog that wisped around him could chill their bones as it did his. Still, he paid it no notice, the only sign of movement a forefinger rubbing his lower lip.

The motion ceased, replaced by a slight furrowing of the brow as he took in the small wooden door that had just appeared in the wall of a local laundromat. The two Muggle customers within continued their washing and drying, paying the new addition no heed at all...simply unaware of its presence.

A corner of Steven's lips pulled into the faintest of smiles. The spiky haired young man, with the assortment of safety pins through his clothes, and the neatly attired elderly woman paid little notice to the assortment of odd customers that exited through the new portal. Considering the alarming appearance of some of them, it truly said something about the power of magic over the Muggle mind.

The emergence of a rather short man with a pointed nose from the doorway brought the watching wizard's full attention back to the door. The familiar surge of eager anticipation coursed through him as it always did when he was about to embark on a new phase of an investigation.

The only irritant was that it had taken him just over a week to get this far.

On receiving Dumbledore's letter eight days ago, Steven had bid his farewells to his nephew and their charge and after giving a set of strict instructions to Paidea's house-elf, had made his way immediately to Hogwarts to meet with the elderly wizard. Once there, he had had been told in detail what had been briefly outlined to him in the letter. The Reflectus used in the attack did indeed appear to be the work of Maximillian Nevermoon, a former...acquaintance...of Steven's, as Dumbledore had put it. A man who was supposedly dead for almost two and half years -- a death that had turned Steven's world upside down.

He had tried not to show to the headmaster just how stunned and disoriented he had been, but it seemed he was just as good at hiding his reactions now as he had been when the old man had taught him Transfiguration in school all those years ago.

After an hour, the two men had decided that Steven's best course of action was to consult with a young wizard of dubious reputation by the name of Mundungus Fletcher. A thief, pickpocket and fence, he had an intimate understanding of the underground of the Wizarding world and could point Steven where he needed to go...for a fee.

His meeting with Fletcher had been fruitful but aggravating, testing the limits of even his already strained good humour. After paying the unsavoury young man a good deal more than Steven had bargained for, he was rewarded with the name of a possible contact who might know someone who could have an idea where this bloke he wanted to find was...and a location -- a tavern called The Wicker Man. Naturally, there was a catch.

This tavern was no ordinary tavern. For the safety of its patrons and their less than legal business, it tended to shift location every night, the disconnected entrance appearing within a certain window of opportunity. Unfortunately, unless you were really in the loop...which thanks to a certain light-fingered incident Mundungus was not...there really was no knowing where the pub would show up.

Luckily for the Auror, Fletcher could still give him a few possible locations...again for the right price. And gritting his teeth, Steven had paid him, gotten his list, and even the password, though the wretch had finally seen the end of his patience when attempting to bargain for that. Steven smirked to himself at the memory; the boils should go down in three or four days.

He checked the time. Midnight. He was as likely to find his quarry now as he ever was. Adjusting his hood, he made his way across the street and past the laundering Muggles. Three raps on the ancient looking wooden door later and the recitation of the password -- Lost Opportunity -- saw him inside the noisy, dimly lit tavern.

Not unexpectedly, there were one or two oddities about The Wicker Man. To begin with, it was as if a mass of design styles had been gathered up by some giant hand and glued together higgledy piggedly. Here there were traditional English pub leather booths, there Parisian style café tables or medieval oak tables and benches, and over there heavily shadowed Moroccan style alcoves, their tables deeply inset into the whitewashed walls.

Then there was the matter of the noise emanating from the crowd. For there wasn't a crowd. At most there were perhaps twenty people in the large bar. Inhabiting the gloom, there were goblins, wizards, witches, and perhaps a few half-breeds, but the buzz that was being magically created would have normally required at least three times that number. An effective way to ensure discretion of conversation, Steven thought as he seated himself at the long, polished mahogany bar, pushed back his hood, and ordered a pint of ale.

The bartender who served him was a sharp faced little man of indeterminate years with slicked back hair and a handlebar moustache that twitched involuntarily every minute or so. The hair at the back of his neck at full attention, Steven could feel his and several other pairs of eyes on him.

"Anythin' else I can getcha?" the bartender queried.

"Just the pint, thank you." Steven smiled and shook his head, slipping the older man several coins. "For your trouble."

As the little man looked down, his moustache twitched again at the sight of the gold under Steven's fingers. His own smaller hand slipped out and covered it. "Mighty civil of yeh, I'm sure." He sniffed as he pocketed them, returning to cleaning his glasses but standing a good deal closer to Steven now.

Sipping on his ale, the Auror looked out around the bar, taking in the surrounds. Catching the barkeep's eye, Steven gave him his most winning smile. No smile returned; however, the gold did purchase him a slight cock of the head, the barkeep showing he was willing to listen to whatever it was the younger man had to say next. The Auror steeled himself. He was a ridiculously bad actor, he knew, and undercover work was really not his forte, but he had to give this a shot.

"You seem like a wise man...knows who's who and what's what..." A gold coin appeared in his hand and he twirled it in his fingers.

"Do I now?" the bartender murmured, no hint of a smile in his eyes or around the mouth. "Perhaps I am...perhaps not. But seeing as yeh think I know who's who and what's what...would you like to know what I'm thinking right now?"

"Oh, I could hazard a guess," Steven said with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm a suspicious newcomer free with his gold and soon with his questions. You may even think I'm in law enforcement, and you may be quite right. Or..." He took a long sip of his ale and leaned in, his voice now carrying an edge. "I may be an agent of the Dark Lord." His eyes grew hard until he shrugged lightly. "Or I could just be here on business. No matter what you are thinking, unless you are quite the Legilimens, you really have no idea. But you know what I think? I think for the right price you'll tell me exactly what I wish to know...or..." A vague hint of menace entered the air before, rather bewilderingly, his grin returned in full force. "You could miss out on a very profitable opportunity."

The bartender regarded him silently and then cracked a small smile, bending his head. "If yeh are one of His lot, then yeh wouldn't be the first one I've seen off. But I'm thinkin' yeh're not; for if yeh were a dabbler in the Dark Arts, yeh'd have sense enough to recognise that if yeh raise your wand anywhere around my pub there would be no more of yeh left than a pile of smokin' ashes to regret it." Retrieving Steven's glass, he topped it up and pushed it back to him. "I've not survived in this business fifty years with men and creatures that'd give the likes of yeh night sweats not to know someone out of his element when I see him.

"So...yeh're either venturing here looking for something or someone of great importance to you personally...or yeh are the law." His voice dropped down on the last word. "Seeing as yeh've given me the first amusement I've had in a month, I'm going to choose not to believe my gut and assume yeh're here on 'personal' business." He arched an eyebrow. "Ask...and if it's not too much, I'll see what I can do you for."

"Sounds awfully fair," Steven agreed, still smiling while making a mental note to add warts to Fletcher's ails for not telling him about the potential of becoming a dust bunny. Taking a sip of his ale, he leaned a bit closer. "You see, I'm looking for this woman..."

"To contact, bargain with, kill, buy, or shag?" the bartender responded as casually as if he had been asking what kind of potatoes he'd like with his dinner.

Steven merely arched an eyebrow, repressing a shudder at the idea of shagging his contact. "Bargain," he replied, sipping his drink.

The moustache twitched. "All right." He picked up another glass to wash and clean. "And what might this lady's name be, then?"

"Brody," Steven replied, glancing around the room again. "Red-head, tall...bit of a looker."

Sharp eyes returned to him, the bartender's years of perceptiveness brought to bear upon the Auror. "Yeh'd best be telling me the truth. Ariadne Brody is well liked around here, and none of these fine people will take kindly to yeh messin' with her. Just a friendly warning." He jerked his head towards one of the Moroccan alcoves at the far end of the bar, his gaze still on Steven. "Down there."

Inwardly sighing with relief, Steven nodded, his expression serious. "Many thanks...and not to worry." Finishing his drink, he gave the barman another coin and preparing for his next challenge, made his way to the booth. Whereupon, he walked smack into the chest of one of the largest men he had ever seen as he stepped directly in front of him.

He had to have been seven feet two inches at least, and so perfectly proportioned that he had to undoubtedly have at least some giant blood in him. Muscles fairly bulged out from under jacket and trousers, which were softly tanned suede leather under a white silk shirt. Dark brown knee length boots and a matching sleeveless robe of dark brown completed the ensemble.

A mane of sleek and tidy blond hair hung to his shoulders, and twin pale blue eyes stared down at Steven from a tanned and surprisingly good looking face. Two exceedingly large arms folded, biceps bulging, across the man's chest right in front of Steven's face as he stared wordlessly at him, waiting.

"My...you are a big fella," the Auror murmured, rubbing his nose a little. Arching his eyebrow, he straightened, folded his arms, and stared straight back at the other man. "I'm here to see Miss Brody." His words were short and to the point and there was a definite hint that the tall man was not going to get much more out of him than that. There was a momentary pause before the man nodded and stepped back, affording Steven the view of a slender, athletic young woman. For once Mundungus had not exaggerated; she was indeed a 'bit of a looker'.

Ariadne Brody was in possession of a head of flame red hair that Arthur Weasley's family could only have gazed upon in envy. Sharp green eyes were set in slender features that might well have been described as aristocratic if it were not for the jaunty smile that she wore. Clad in a wide collared white shirt under her button up robes, she appeared tall and nicely packaged with only just the hint of cleavage on display -- no doubt to provide distraction and therefore advantage in her dealings with her mostly male patrons. Leaning back against her giant companion as he resumed his seat, she lounged in the booth, the fingers of one hand circling the rim of her straight glass slowly as she appraised the new arrival.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," she said in a pleasant contralto flavoured with a mild southern Irish accent.

Steven smiled at her from where he stood. "No, for I would most certainly would have remembered if we had."

Her lips turned up a little more at his charm. "Ariadne Brody," she introduced herself.

"Steven Prince," he replied, taking her in and weighing up any potential threats.

"You're quite safe, Mr. Prince." Amusement touched her voice. "Neither Fionn nor I carry weapons...not here. And of course neither do you, do you?" she enquired lightly.

He doubted she was telling the truth, though with as big a man as Fionn...did she really need to? That man was a walking weapon. "Of course not," he replied. "I'm just a man looking for some simple information...and willing to pay nicely for it."

"Oh good." She sipped on the Firewhisky slowly. "I do enjoy it when a customer is upfront with me. So now it will just be a formality when Fionn searches you, won't it?" A full beamed smile was aimed at him as the glass lowered.

"Of course," he said without hesitation as his eyes turned to Fionn, his smile widening. "But be gentle...it's my first time."

A second later, he found himself unceremoniously pushed face first against the rough wall, the giant performing a vigorous and intensive search -- turning and repositioning him like he weighed nothing, while frisking and probing him thoroughly, all to the intense amusement of those present. Satisfied and leaving Steven rather mussed, he returned to sit by his female companion, his arms folding across his chest once more.

"Thank you, Mr. Prince." Ariadne indicated a seat. "That was most civil of you."

"You're quite welcome," the dark haired man replied, straightening his clothes and shaking his hair back into shape as he sat. "No bother at all. Quite bracing really." Running his fingers a few more times through his black mane, he smiled, inwardly relieved the jerry-rigged concealment spells had worked and the giant hadn't found the two short daggers, as well as one or two other items, concealed on his person. "And now we all trust each other, I humbly suggest we forego the sing-a-long and get straight to business?"

Her smile hardened in an instant. "Mr. Prince, business began the moment you approached." The glass scraped over the wood of the table as she pushed it away slowly. "I don't do 'sing-a-longs' and I don't take insults."

Steven's lively baritone laugh filled the enclosure. "Quite right too. And, of course, no offence was meant. In fact, I quite enjoy a good sing-a-long...a nice rendition of 'Roll Out the Wizard'? Perhaps later?" he suggested and as she blinked, he leaned forward, looking completely serious. "I have it on good authority that you might know a thing or two about these." Fishing a hand into his robes, he pulled out the pieces of the destroyed Reflectus he'd received from Dumbledore. "Before it was ruined, it did a smashing job relaying my little instructions to my partner, but then he had to go and break it. You really can't get quality like this anymore and I was told you might know somewhere I could. I would be profoundly grateful if you could point me in the right direction."

Drawing the pieces towards her, she gazed at them before picking one piece up, turning it back and forth to examine it carefully. "Interesting." Sharp eyes turned towards him. "I'm not surprised your partner broke it, Mr. Prince. I'd be in a hurry, too, to escape any fire hot enough to char the edges of such a strongly magic imbued piece as this."

"He should have been more careful with it," he sniffed, his tone irked. "Don't get me wrong...I am glad he is all right...but such equipment is near impossible to replace!"

"Surely." She placed the piece back on the table. "Being as they are completely banned by every Ministry of Magic this side of China."

Steven nodded adamantly. "Exactly!"

"And I suppose you are also aware that even the possession of these few mementos," she pushed the pieces back towards him, "carries with them a mandatory twenty-five year stretch amidst the comforts of Azkaban."

He sighed long-sufferingly and gave her a look. "Of course I know the risks." His eyebrow arched. "Now can you assist me or not?"

"Mr. Prince, I was referring to my own safety, not yours," she replied, her jaw tightening again. "I remind you, you came to me seeking a favour. If you do not wish to move at my pace...you are free to leave me at any time. It is no hardship to me, I assure you."

He sighed and sat back, relenting. "Very well...we shall play it your way."

Ariadne's piercingly green eyes remained on him. "I am sorry you find my company tedious, Mr. Prince. So I shall be as blunt as you like -- two thousand Galleons."

His eyebrow arched. "Two thousand?" he repeated coolly.

She leaned back against her companion. "The information is valuable."

"Just for information?" He sniffed and gazed at his fingernails. "One thousand."

"Now you are the one wasting my time, Mr. Prince. Two thousand..." she insisted with a sigh, "and not a Knut less. That is, unless you would rather deal in some other commodity?"

He smiled suddenly, giving him the appearance and genuine feel of someone who was possibly a touch deranged. "Oh come...bartering is the spice of life. The give...the take...the thrill of the deal?" He pouted a little as she remained silent. "I was rather looking forward to that bit. But all right, you win -- two thousand it is."

Her brow creased ever so slightly. "Mr. Prince..." she queried, "are you sure you weren't caught up in that explosion? A little flak to the head or an awkward landing perhaps?"

He appeared completely mystified. "No...no. I was miles away...why do you ask?"

She turned her head slightly to look at Fionn, who shrugged lightly. Shaking her head, she turned her eyes back to Steven, slipping back into business mode. "Never mind, Mr. Prince. I'll be needing the money from you upfront, of course."

"Of course," he agreed, fishing around in his pockets before pulling two bags from his boots and four from his robes.

The two with him in the booth exchanged glances once more, the giant looking a deal more perturbed this time as his search had obviously proved lacking. "I trust, Mr. Prince..." Ariadne said quietly, "that whatever spell you used to conceal that gold from Fionn's search doesn't also conceal a weapon."

Steven blinked, his face beatific. "Why on earth would I conceal a weapon? Don't like them...messy things. I'm just a simple businessman."

Ariadne's lips curled in a mirthless smile. "Yes...and I'm a Leprechaun," she answered. "Speaking of which." She pulled one of the magically load-reducing bags open and reached in to take a handful of the coins, spreading them on the table and handing one at random to Fionn. The coin was tiny in his huge hands as the big man held it up to the light, his pale eyes narrowing as he turned the coin this way and that. "There's a lot of stunts pulled with Leprechaun gold, Mr. Prince," Ariadne said. "It's not that I mistrust you...I simply mistrust everyone."

"Then I shall not feel the least bit offended," he replied, secretly glad he hadn't decided to try that particular trick.

The quasi-giant's expert eye finished its perusal and he handed the coin back to his red-haired partner with a terse nod. "Very good," she pronounced, gathering up the coins and pushing the other bags towards Fionn for him to examine. "I shall refrain from questioning your sanity further in coming in to a place like this with so much cash on you.

"The one who can help is not, I'm afraid, one of my regular contacts." She picked up her glass again. "He casts a wider net and deals with a rather more atypical clientele then we average smugglers. You may not have heard of Wigglesworth's, the Muggle department store in Birmingham?

"Run by Sinister Wigglesworth, it's an excellent cover to track magical artefacts lost to the Muggle world. It used to be both him and his brother, but he disappeared two years ago in the search to acquire a Nundu for private collectors. Probably just as well, as Dexter's use for Muggles was beginning to take a darker turn...he never was the most appealing of men," she mused. "Ask any Brummy; they'll know how to direct you."

"And shall I tell him you sent me?" Steven enquired.

"If you wish." She smiled. "It won't do you any good, though. As I say, his is a more exclusive clientele. If you wish to be seen by him, I'd suggest a more notable introduction."

"Such as?" he prompted, keeping on the charm.

"Mr. Prince," she laughed to herself, "refined for this place I might be, but do I look like a walking social register? I'm a smuggler and purveyor of information, not a PR consultant. If you have a highly connected friend or patron, I suggest you use his or her name. If not...then you may join the rest of the plebs queuing outside Sinister's office."

He smiled cheerily at the woman, internally already planning a trip back to Dumbledore to see what could be arranged. "I think I have one or two with whom I can gloss the way. My thanks to you, Miss Brody, and your perfectly silent friend." Gathering the broken pieces of the Reflectus, he shoved them back into assorted pockets.

"You're welcome, Mr. Prince, it was a pleasure to meet you," she extended her hand, "and an even greater pleasure to see you leave."

Taking her hand, he shook it with a smile and with a wink to Fionn, rose to his feet and left. With his head lowered and the hood covering his eyes, no one saw the thankful glint in them nor, as the door shut behind him, the gradually triumphant smirk on his lips.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The flower filled meadow beside the cottage overlooked the deep blue of the sea on one side and the sweep down to the verdant valley on the other. It was both picturesque and an excellent vantage point to watch for intruders, and yet Snape wasn't entirely sure why he was here.

He eyed Paidea surreptitiously as she laid out the picnic she had requested he join her on. A request that had followed her avoiding him like a manure flavoured Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean for the previous forty-eight hours, ever since he'd kissed her on the beach. From that moment to this, everything had been tense. Short sporadic questions and answers followed by silence or her locked in her room, reading or working on speeches. He had been stunned when, just as he was settling down to annotate his Potions textbook, her door had opened and she'd breezed out with a smile, asking him if he enjoyed al fresco dining.

And now he was sitting on a blanket with a basket of food Elly had packed, quietly bemused. Keeping himself still, he waited, half expecting her to say something along the lines of 'I've been in touch with the Ministry and they're sending someone down to replace you. Thanks for everything and enjoy your life.'

These past two days had been horrendous with him constantly berating himself for his ill timed approach of her or for his even having such feelings in the first place. But he still didn't want to leave...though a part of him felt it was inevitable. He shifted a little and glanced at her again, waiting for the boom to be lowered.

She smiled up at him, the breeze blowing tendrils of her hair and the ribbons that were woven into it. "And what have you been working on these past couple days? I have seen you with that Potions book...have you been given an assignment for school?"

"No..." He shook his head, doing a reasonable job of keeping the wariness from his voice. "I have my own projects. I just tamper with them from time to time."

She nodded, offering him a sandwich from a platter. "Like what?" she enquired, appearing genuinely interested.

"Improving antidotes...enhancing elixirs..." He took a sandwich slowly and placed it on his plate. "It varies, depending on my mood or what has caught my interest. Sometimes, I just work on my own spells instead."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Your spells? You have invented spells?"

He looked down, having said more than he intended to in his edgy state. "One...or two..."

Taking a sandwich herself, she helped herself to some fruit. "That's very impressive," she told him, her tone mirroring her words. "I have not heard of anyone inventing a new spell for quite some time...except perhaps...well, 'He We Do Not Speak Of.'" She shuddered a little. "You must be quite the prodigy. Your family and teachers must be very proud."

He cringed slightly. "They don't know. No one does, except you now. You're not going to tell the Headmaster when you see him, are you?" The question came quickly.

Her brow furrowed. "Why would I do that?" Her smile grew softer. "Besides, I highly doubt I shall be seeing Albus Dumbledore any time soon. And I must say I feel rather privileged that you've cared to share this with me. I shan't betray your trust."

He relaxed a little, rebuking himself for the slip but knowing it had come from a lingering desire to impress her. "I shouldn't have told you, what with you being a government official. I wouldn't want to compromise you in any way." The kiss flashed through his mind. "That is, having to report on things like this...and not..."

"Severus...relax." She reached out and touched his hand, which had the exact opposite effect. "We are still friends and I'm under no obligation to tell them anything of the sort. Unless they are Dark Arts spells and you use them to harm anyone." She gave him a teasing smile and turned back to her food, releasing his hand and trying to ignore how the simple touch had made her entire body tingle.

He gazed at his hand for a moment more, resolving and smoothing the frown on his face at the thought of how she might react if she knew of the malevolent power of his Sectumsempra spell. Not to mention one or two others still in their infancy.

But as he took a bite of his sandwich, he picked up on something else she had said -- Friends. They were 'friends.' Even as he realised he probably wasn't going to be sent away, his heart sank at the word all would-be lovers dreaded to hear.

"It's good," he mumbled, forcing the words from his mouth to break the bitterness of his thoughts. "The sandwich."

Pouring out two glasses of wine, she handed one to him. "I'm glad you like it and shall most certainly pass on your compliments to Elly." She gazed down at the food around them. "There are cheese and crackers, fruit...pate...and I think some..." A most avaricious gleam formed in her eyes. "Chocolate cake."

He regarded the salacious expression on her face, and despite the depression sitting on him, just managed to keep the amusement from his face at an example of one of the more unusual items he had discovered about her during this time together. "I wonder what the Wizarding world would think if they knew that the idealistic star of the diplomatic world could be bribed into almost anything by a devil's food cake with hot fudge sauce."

A full bellied laugh escaped her lips, her eyes shining. "Yes...well, that is your secret to keep," she told him with a wink. Taking a sip from her wine, she looked out over the flower-filled meadow.

She had decided that morning that she was going to cease tip-toeing around her companion. The tension had been so thick after her mistake, it could have been cut with a knife. It was not only disquieting but downright irritating. It was not his fault she had caved in to her desires, and she shouldn't keep treating him as though it was. And so she'd decided to make a peace offering -- to take him out of the cottage and get him in the sunshine...to allow him to stop looking like a plant that had been kept in the shadows and allow him to flourish.

She also had simply wanted to spend time with him again. It had been a surprise, though not a huge one, to find that she had missed his company over those last two days...that she had been flourishing under his quiet light. These newfound revelations and current upheaval of her life were hard enough to handle as it was without self-inflicted solitary confinement. And so, she decided that if he agreed, she would put away the diplomatic veneer and just allow herself to be...herself. Within newly careful limits, that is.

But even now, as she took another sip of her wine and popped a cube of cheese into her mouth, she could feel his eyes on her...and it made her tingle pleasantly, a little whisper inside making it clear that it no longer felt uncomfortable or unwelcome...quite the opposite. Still, she insisted inwardly to herself, she could handle it.

"It is clear you never went to Hogwarts." He sipped on his wine. "If you had, you'd know better than to tell your secrets to a Slytherin." The more she appeared to feel at ease, the more his tone seemed to relax. "We're inclined to use such information to our advantage."

Her eyes turned back to his, the smile still on her lips though a little more sly. "Yes, well...I choose to see the individual and not what House they belong to. If I were to believe the propaganda, then you would be a power hungry, untrustworthy prat. But I have yet to see any of that. At the risk of insulting your Slytherin nature, so far, you have been loyal, kind, and thoughtful...though perhaps a pinch caustic and sarcastic at times." Her eyes glittered mischievously as she popped another cube of cheese into her mouth.

He raised an eyebrow. "Just a pinch?"

"Mmmmm," she agreed, still chewing and held up her hand, her forefinger and thumb parallel. "Just a little."

His eyebrow rose still further. "No..." he reached up and widened the gap between her finger and thumb, "more like that. Even at its weakest, sarcasm is a Slytherin specialty."

She lowered the gap again, taking an extra millimetre off it for good measure and barely repressing the laugh that threatened to bubble up again in her. "No...I think perhaps...this much," she managed levelly.

He gazed at her. "Madam Diplomat, you overstep yourself. Be wary lest I spirit away your chocolate cake in revenge."

Popping another cube of cheese into her mouth, she giggled. "I dare you."

"I see," he said quietly as he put down his glass. "A poor move. From you I would've expected more...diplomacy." He held up his hand and whipped the entire chocolate cake from the basket with the other. Leaning back, he placed the plate beside him and examined the cake thoughtfully. "Some for the mice..." he marked off a chunk, with his knife, "the birds...possibly a slice for myself..."

Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't!" she gasped. Fumbling in her pockets, she pulled out her wand, preparing to summon the cake right back.

Sitting up, he snagged her wrist. "I think not." His head shook slowly as he drew her wand from her hand with a smirk. "The cake is mine," he rumbled darkly.

It wasn't until he looked down at her that he realised how close to her he was.

Drawing back slowly, he let one corner of his mouth crook, covering the sudden heat that had infused his body and the desire to move closer still. Her wand twirled lazily in his fingers as he lay back. "Now what do you do, Madam Diplomat...in a case like this?"

Her lips pursed and her gaze still mischievous, she gave no hint of how his proximity and touch had shaken her. After a moment, she sighed and sat back. "Very well...the cake is yours..." she acquiesced before turning away and silently summoning her wand while he was in mid twirl. Once in her hands, she turned back with a grin. Though this time, she pocketed the wand and instead threw a cube of cheese at him.

His own wand was already pointing right at her and the cheese flew across the field and over the cliffside. "Such aggressiveness, Madam Diplomat...for shame."

"What happened to no unnecessary magic?"

"That was a defensive spell. I deemed it necessary."

Her eyes narrowed and she huffed, "Well, if you are going to be that way..."

He eyed her sudden pout closely. "And what do they call that ploy in the diplomatic corps...the Footstomping Failsafe? The Tantrum Tactic? The Moaning Manoeuvre?"

A cube of cheese hit him square on the forehead. "No...I call that distract and conquer." The follow up cube got him on his overly large nose.

"Very tactful." He sat up, rubbing his forehead as his face darkened. "I never realised conquering played such a big part in diplomacy. I was always of the opinion it was about peaceful resolution."

"I am currently on a leave of absence," she replied with a giggle. "Therefore...I am free to indulge myself a little." She aimed another cube at him, but then suddenly popped it in her mouth, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh...really?" he replied, glowering at her a moment before he stood up, taking the chocolate cake with him, and strode off across the meadow towards where the cheese had shot over the cliff. Still grinning, she rose up and, skirts and ribbons blowing in the breeze, ran after him.

On reaching the edge he looked over it and dropped the cake, plate and all, over the drop before folding his arms and looking over his shoulder at her smugly.

Skidding to a halt, she stared at him in shock. Her gaze went from him, to the cliff, and back to him again. "You...you...I can't believe you actually did that!" she gasped.

A moment later, something appeared to give under him and unbalanced, he lost his footing and disappeared over the cliff's edge.

"Severus!" she cried, her heart in her throat, and pulling her wand out, she ran forward trying to think of a spell to keep him from being turned into paste.

"Yes?" came a casual voice from just over the edge. On looking over, she was greeted by the sight of him lying on his side on a wide grassy ledge just over the cliff's edge, the cake still on its plate by his side as he picked at it.

Her mouth opened and closed several times like a goldfish's before her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "Oh! Oh you! That's a horrible thing to do!" she scolded, staring down at him in a mixture of relief and annoyance. And with a swish of her wand and a silent use of a levitation charm, she returned the cake back to the picnic blanket.

"No..." he looked up at her as he lay back, "it's a Slytherin thing to do."

Folding her arms across her chest, she continued to stare down at him. "Very well," she acquiesced, the glint reappearing in her eyes, as she turned on her heel and disappeared from his view.

Standing up quickly, he stuck his head over the edge of the cliff to see what she was up to. But she was nowhere to be seen. Pulling himself up over the top of the ledge, he got to his feet and wiped his hands as he gazed around once more. "Paidea?"

There was no answer. Crossing back across the sweep of the meadow, he stopped by the picnic, and turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees to look around the uncovered area. "Paidea!" he called out loudly.

The cheese cube came out of nowhere and hit him square on the back of his head.

Standing still, his shoulders tensing, he growled, "Very funny. So are you intending to stay under the Evanesco spell all day?" He turned around, trying to get a bearing on where she might be. "No...you're still here, aren't you." There was a slight rustle to his left and another cube of cheese hit him in the back, followed by a giggle. "I can still hear you so it can't be Evanesco, can it..." he murmured to himself, "it must be a charm or an enchanted object. You have either cast the spell, which you left too early from school to learn how to do...or you have an object imbued with a Disillusionment Charm!" he accused the air.

A cheese cube hit him in the chest.

He dived forward, heading for the rush of silks in front of him that came with the movement, and connected. "Got you!" he snapped triumphantly, both hands closing around her waist. There was a gasp and a laugh, and a moment later, she reappeared, grasping his arms and grinning like an idiot.

"Where is it?" He started to explore her without thought, searching for the charm, his hands delving here and there. "Hand it over. I can hardly watch you without seeing you!" he huffed again.

She giggled, laughing and squirming in his hands before finally wriggling away and running off down into the meadow, throwing a mischievous smile back at him...the gleam in her eyes daring him to catch her.

He took off after her as she zigged and zagged, her skirts slowing her up, and the lope of his seventeen year old legs caught up to her quickly. Tackling her to the ground lightly, he resumed his search. "You will hand it over," he assured her, hands wandering again as he turned her over, smirking softly.

She laughed harder than she had in her life, tears welling up in her eyes. "No! Never!" she managed to blurt out before dissolving into giggles again and wriggling in his hands.

"Give it to me." He batted her hands away and rummaged again. "Give me what..." he snorted in amusement, a moment before his eyes met hers, "I want." His hands and movements slowed as he finally realised what they were doing -- how close he was to her, how he was lying over her.

She stopped fighting the moment he did, both the outward battle...and the inward. Staring again up into those dark eyes, she knew...knew exactly how she felt...what he made her feel. But she couldn't give him what he wanted...what she wanted too. Everything inside her told her it was wrong and beyond foolhardy to even consider it. She had never wanted this before, why did have to be him? Politicians didn't romance schoolboys...even if the schoolboy was now a legal man in the eyes of Wizarding society. She couldn't allow herself that luxury...and not only did it hurt...it tore her to pieces inside.

His hand rose to touch her cheek as he saw the vulnerability in her eyes.

Closing them, she took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to still her rapidly beating heart and when they opened again, the moment was gone. The friendliness in her smile was still there...but that door inside her was closed. She held up her hand, an emerald ring on her middle finger. "I believe this is what you're looking for."

When the gates slammed shut before him again, he almost groaned audibly in frustration, though its only manifestation was the curling of his fingers before they could touch her skin.

He longed to just burst out and ask her why. Why she wouldn't let herself go? In that single surging moment, he knew she felt something for him. Knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. He dragged his eyes from hers to her hand, trying to swallow back his savage disappointment, his voice thick. "I see." He rolled to sit beside her and cleared his throat. "Family heirloom?"

"No," she replied, sitting up and pushing back the waves of guilt inside for what she knew he must be feeling, busying herself with brushing the grass out of her hair. "My sister bought it for me for my seventeenth birthday. She told me now I was legal I'd need it to disappear from ardent suitors." She rolled her eyes. "Not that I've had any..." She paused, trying not to look at him as she realised what she was saying. "I don't exactly have time or energy to date..." Kicking herself for her words, she hurriedly rose to her feet. "Hungry?" she asked, gliding back to the picnic.

He caught a fistful of the grass and wrenched it into his hand. "No suitors," he murmured to himself. "None that you take seriously at any rate." He shook his head and rose up and followed her. Somehow, someway, he would make that change.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A soft pop, the familiar herald of Apparating, echoed in the narrow alleyway. The figure that appeared, haphazardly and garishly dressed in a variety of Muggle fashions, adjusted his wide-brimmed and rather floppy fedora to a jaunty angle and glanced around in amusement. It was a bright and sunny day in central Birmingham and yet this little alley, though completely open to the sunlight, was quite overly drab and dark. He sniffed. Not really blending in at all, he thought offhandedly to himself, straightening his long, burgundy velvet coat.

With an offhanded shrug, he moved briskly from the alley to the side door of Wigglesworth's Department Store. Muggles browsed around inside, several more mature types stopping to stare at the mishmash of colours, fabrics, and styles that moved past them as Steven headed through the aisles. Right...then left...then right. He paused, glancing around. "Does this look like the right way to you?" he asked a pair of half-dressed mannequins that appeared to have seen better days. Nodding thoughtfully, he tapped his finger to his lower lip. "Yes...just down here, I think."

And on he continued...until he reached the lone solitary door to a Gent's WC that had a large note stapled to it that said -- BROKEN! DO NOT USE!

"But I have to go!" he complained with a chuckle as he pushed open the door and headed inside to find himself in a rather polished and clean lift with brass fittings, oak panels, glowing buttons, and a deep rich red carpeted floor.

"Yes, well...going in here may not be such a swift idea," he murmured, pressing the large button at the top labelled YOUNG MR. WIGGLEWORTH'S OFFICE.

Steven blinked. "Young? I thought they were twins?" he commented to the thin air.

The lift plummeted downwards, sideways, and shot upwards again in a ride that took about two minutes, continuing without pause until the dial on top of the door reached the final floor and the doors opened with a chirpy ping. He stepped out to face a rather glum line up of visitors sitting in a plush, if rather drably designed, waiting room with a neatly coiffed blond secretary initiating some typing with the wave of his wand.

There was a bright, shining silver bell on the secretary's desk that said -- FOR ASSISTANCE, PLEASE RING BELL. Letting the typewriter run on, the blond secretary sat back, glanced at the newcomer, and pulled out a nail file, settling back to work on his manicure.

Steven approached the desk and stood there...waiting. After about three minutes, he said, "I'm here to see Mr. Wigglesworth."

The blond man did not even look up. "Did you ring the bell?"

Steven blinked. "But I'm right here..."

"Yes, but I can't help you until you ring the bell," came the patient response.

The Auror was dumbfounded, his brow furrowing. "So...even though I'm right here...you know I'm here...and can blatantly see me here...you can't help me 'til I ring this bell?"

The blond man looked up and considered that for a moment before taking a deep breath and replying with a bright, "Yes." He then went back to filing his nails.

"Well, that's kind of rubbish, now, isn't it?"

"No, sir...that's the rules," the blond commiserated.

With a long inward groan and a few inner choice words about how he felt about bureaucratic nonsense, Steven lifted the bell and gave it a quick jingle.

Instantly the file was put down and the blond man smiled winningly at him. "Good morning, sir! How can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Wigglesworth," the Auror explained patiently.

"Do you have an appointment?" the young man asked with an even more particularly charming smile, the small gap between his two front teeth only adding to the effect.

Steven blinked. "No...did I need one? The matter is a most important and delicate one."

The secretary tutted and shook his head. "Well, Mr. Wigglesworth is most particular about seeing people on by appointment. You really should have thought ahead..."

Steven swallowed back his irritation. He'd sent in his letter of carefully forged introduction and waited for a response...and waited...only to receive a very curt letter saying that if Steven wished to drop by early in the morning he would try to squeeze him into his schedule. Taking a deep breath, the Auror pulled out the letter he'd received via owl late last night. "Mr. Wigglesworth, as you can see, asked me to drop by this morning. He has kindly volunteered to try and fit me in..."

Twin blond eyebrows rose to their hairline as the young man looked over the letter. "Oh my!" he breathed. "So he did!" His gaze shifted to the dark haired man, an appreciative gleam in them as he considered the obvious importance of this newcomer. "Well, if you'll take a seat, I'll just send word to Mr. Wigglesworth that you have arrived." And with that, he waved his wand, sending a silvery cloud floating over to the door and through the keyhole inside.

Rolling the scroll back up and with a brief nod, Steven moved over to the line of chairs by the wall and took the only available seat between a hag -- who seemed to be knitting a sweater for something with an odd number of legs -- and a one-eyed goblin who was dressed impeccably but kept glancing at his pocket watch with much irritation.

After half an hour, the impressive office door finally opened and an erudite voice called out, "Mr. Steven Prince?" A moment later a tall, dark haired man with a pinched face and moustache stepped out, brushing down his pinstripe robes.

Steven stood up smoothly, only for the goblin to rise as well.

"I've been waiting 'ere for my nine o'clock appointment for two 'ours!" the short being growled. "'e's only been 'ere 'alf an 'our...and without an appointment!"

The dark haired man walked towards them, eyeing the goblin with disdain; however, on reaching them, he turned towards the lift and pressed the button. At the sound of a small cough, all eyes to turned towards a diminutive, cherubic faced man in his fifties with neatly cropped golden blond hair and a matching goatee beard standing in the doorway with a smile.

"I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Grapplehook...I shall of course make it up to you by treating you to a sumptuous lunch." Sinister Wigglesworth, a man whose features were decidedly unworthy of his treacherous first name, turned to his secretary. "Mr. Inman, would you be so good as to make reservations for myself and Mr. Grapplehook at my usual eatery...and please provide him with whatever he would care for, for the moment?"

Sniffing, the goblin appeared vaguely appeased, grumbling as he sat down that a hot drink might be nice.

Sinister's bright blue eyes and wide smile turned upon Steven. "Mr. Prince," he beamed, stepping back to usher him in, "please...do come in."

Pushing his floppy fedora back on his head, Steven nodded to the small man and moved inside, giving a quick grin and wink to the secretary, flustering him somewhat.

Sinister Wigglesworth's office was not what one would expect of any department store owner in Muggledom. Inside the office doors was a study filled with books and arcane devices that thrummed and hummed with magical power. It resembled, in a way, the office of Albus Dumbledore, except that the snoozing portraits on the wall were of the ancestral Wigglesworth line and there were absolutely no windows. Candlelight was the sole means of lighting, none of the electricity that lit the department store entering the inner sanctum, it seemed, and banks of candelabra bathed the room in a magically enhanced glow. The room was long and carpeted with a comfortable couch and chairs in one corner near a fireplace large enough to be a Floo Network connection. At the far end, there stood a huge black lacquered desk behind which was a matching black lacquered chair with gold upholstered backing and two eagle heads carved into the arms.

Steven said nothing as he watched his host shut the door and move into the room, Mr. Wigglesworth obviously much more than he seemed.

"Come in...come in..." The small man ushered the Auror to a pair of comfortable leather seats in front of his desk, indicating to either. "Please, sit down." Wigglesworth crossed over towards a rather large drinks cabinet. "Something to drink? I can offer you five excellent vintage Firewhiskies if that is your poison?" He arched a quizzical eyebrow.

"No, thank you," the tall man replied, taking the proffered chair with a smile. "It was very kind of you to fit me into your schedule like this...you seem to be booked solid."

"Yes..." Wigglesworth sighed ruefully, as he poured himself a drink. "I'm afraid between trying to deal with Muggle employees in my other office and fitting in my more valued custom..." he glanced meaningfully at Steven, "my day is one long series of meetings. Quite tiresome." Once back at his desk, he pulled across a scroll that Steven recognised as his letter of introduction. "Still, never mind...how is Walburga? She and Orion Black have long been stalwart customers of mine. It is a shame they don't get out to do their own shopping anymore." He sipped on his drink. "I suppose it was coming though. Their dislike for Muggle company, even in short bursts as with visits to me here, was bound to keep them from my door eventually."

Steven sighed and nodded. "She's well...just had this new portrait commissioned, don't you know. Though she won't let anyone see it until it is finished. Oh and she's been not in the best of moods since her son Sirius...well, we all know about him, don't we? Such a good thing Regulus is there to comfort her." Settling back in his chair, he crossed his legs as he shook his head sympathetically.

"Indeed...indeed. Always seemed a bright lad to me, odd that he should go so against his parents," Sinister agreed with a nod. "Still, Black sheep do seem unavoidable when you have that family name." He chuckled softly. "How do you know them?"

"My mother, though older, is a good friend of Walburga's," Steven replied honestly. "They make it a point to pay calls on each other at least once a week to chat and catch up on the gossip. And though my family is not nearly so illustrious as the Blacks...my mother has been comforting poor Walburga during this trying time as she and her mother were a great help to her when my sister...well, let's just say she should have been a bit more particular in her choice of husbands." Inwardly, Steven winced at the lie about his feelings toward his elder sister but unable to disagree with part of the sentiment -- not about her marrying a Muggle, but one who obviously made her and her son so unhappy at times.

"Ah..." Sinister nodded, "I see. I have nothing against Muggles per se, I must tell you...after all," he smiled, "I do employ a good five hundred of them across the country and they do make my acquisitions of certain items far easier to come by. You would be flabbergasted to know just how many magical items fall into the hands of Muggle museums and collectors. They have no idea what they are, of course, and they are completely useless to them but they carry value as objets d'art.

"Most wizards and witches have little dealings with the Muggle world and the Ministry has never sought fit to set up a reclamation department for magical heritage lost to Muggles. My connections with Muggle import/export people and art collectors allow me to reclaim and return these items to their rightful place in our society quietly. At a tidy profit, of course." He chuckled before sipping on his drink. "So you see, I cannot dismiss Muggles out of hand as so many of us do. They are tremendously useful to me and they do bring in a goodly income via shopping. They are shopping fiends; you have no idea. You put out one advertisement, magically enhanced or not, and they all come flocking to you. With wizards, it would take at least four or five to permeate the consciousness...but Muggles are so pre-disposed to shiny new things."

Steven nodded with an amused smile at the thought, unable to disagree with that statement. "I concede you the point," he agreed.

"Ah, good." Sinister relaxed back into his chair. "I am glad you understand my position...because oft times and more and more of late, I find myself at odds with wizards from certain families or...backgrounds...that are glad of my work but disapprove of my association with Muggles, failing to understand my need to work with them. It has gotten to the stage now where I feel I must lay my cards upon the table in this regard so as to avoid unpleasantness later.

"I am, Mr. Prince, first and foremost...a business man. I do not care which side I deal with, providing the Wigglesworth establishment and name continues to provide good service." He watched Steven's reaction carefully. "If the time comes when one side prevails over the other, that will be different, of course..." he conceded, "but for the moment, I find the best course the middle one."

Steven nodded placidly, though his keen eyes were taking in the man in front of him, and though he nodded in agreement, he cursed silently inside him. Idealists and purists were easy to deal and to fake allegiance with...those who had no care in one side or the other were much more difficult to fool or to win over.

"So..." Sinister arched an inquisitive eyebrow, "now that you know where I stand, and I see you are not departing so I assume that must sit fair with you...how can I be of service to you and Walburga? Or is it just your good self?"

"I'm afraid it's just me," Steven replied apologetically. "And since you were so candid with me, I shall be candid with you. I need a little help obtaining an item that is most necessary for me but not entirely legal." He sighed. "I had one such item, you see, but it got a bit...damaged." He grimaced and shrugged. "And so I find myself in need of a new one. It's quite a pain really and most inconvenient."

"I see..." Sinister nodded amiably. "Well so far it doesn't sound too out of the ordinary, I must confess. But then the devil is always in the details, and the level of illegality is always the tricky part. So what is it precisely you are looking to replace?"

"Oh, it's highly illegal." Steven's voice was again very apologetic for the inconvenience. "But I am willing to pay a fair price." He uncrossed and re-crossed his legs to get a bit more comfortable. "Dashed nuisance...but I really do need a new one or I can't complete my commission." He leaned forward a bit. "It's a Reflectus." He almost seemed to pout, his expression one of a man that was completely put out. "And a high quality one too!"

"Really?" Sinister's eyebrow arched as he leaned on one arm of his chair. "My, my...that is illegal. Two-way private mirrors capable of transmitting anywhere and undetected. I've only come across two pairs in my entire life. No wonder you are put out. Of course now I understand completely why Walburga sent you to me. Out of curiosity, may I ask where it was you originally got the one you lost?"

Steven sighed. "You could...but I wouldn't have the best answer, I'm afraid." His hands smoothed down his velvet overcoat. "I can't really remember, you see." He rolled his eyes. "I believe he had a memory charm on him that scrambled one's memory of him as soon as he leaves your presence. Which is quite daft if you ask me...because if one gets into one of these situations, how is one to get a replacement?" Again the put out expression appeared on his face. "Shoddy business technique, I say!"

"Quite so, quite so," Sinister agreed quietly. "Although perhaps -- given the extreme rarity of these items and the talent required to create a magical item that can transmit into and out of any area unseen -- he hardly expected to come into another one. As I said, even I have only ever seen two pairs, and the original pair stand in the office of Albus Dumbledore, of course." He laughed. "I trust it wasn't his you had!"

Steven snorted, one side of his lips curling up in a half smile. "Hardly."

"Of course..." Sinister continued to chuckle. "This is intriguing all the same. Would you happen to have the remainders of the Reflectus with you? Or perhaps the undamaged part of the pair? Tracking its origin and manufacturer will help, I'm sure."

Steven's nose wrinkled. "Oh, I have it...but it's all damaged, I'm afraid." Reaching into several pockets, he pulled out the various pieces of the Reflectus. "And some bits are just melted." He gazed down at the parts with disgust.

"Thank you." Sinister reached across the expanse of the lacquered desk to take them. If anything, he spent even longer scrutinising them than Ariadne Brody before he put them down. "Right!" he said in satisfaction before giving the younger man an apologetic look. "One more question if you don't mind, Mr. Prince?"

Steven gestured for him to continue.

"Do you take me for a complete fool?"

The young man's eyebrow arched, looking outwardly not the least bit as flustered as he felt. "Quite the contrary," he replied smoothly.

"Oh, I think not," Wigglesworth scoffed. "In fact, considering the way you blundered in here with your forged letter of introduction and quite frankly, thin as toilet paper fabrication, I think you think I am an idiot." He held up the pieces of the Reflectus. "I...and I alone sold this item and its mate and to an individual, who I can assure you, given his...affiliations...would never have sold it. Obfuscating charm or no!" He leaned forward on his desk, his cherubic face now shrewd and no nonsense. "I somehow have my doubts, sir, that you are of the same affiliation. I'm sure a quick examination of your left arm would prove that."

Steven merely smiled at the onslaught, his suspicions about this man's intelligence and dangerousness being more confirmed by the minute. Leaning back in his chair, he nodded. "That, and I'm an exceptionally bad actor. Never really had the talent for it...now singing...that's my forte." He shifted the angle of his hat, his voice still jovial but his eyes very serious indeed. "That, and duelling...and darts."

"You..." Sinister sat back, "are either a very odd or very foolish man. Either way, for your own sake, I suggest you leave now."

"Why?" the dark haired man asked, not moving a muscle. "So, I lied...everyone lies in this game. So you know I'm not a Death Eater...so you know I'm not a purist. Actually, if you really want to know I'm an Auror, and if I wanted to, I could arrest you for trafficking illegal goods. Your words alone would damn you to Azkaban for a few years." The younger man smiled but there was no warmth in it. "But...I don't want to. I do want information and I'm still willing to pay a hefty sum for it." His eyebrow arched. "So...we can deal...or you can threaten me a bit more. Your choice really...I've got all day."

Sinister returned his smile. "There is only your word against mine, Auror. And that is not enough for the Wizengamot to convict...and you are the only one here with illegal items on you." He chuckled softly, looking around them. "Besides...you misunderstand me. I'm not threatening you...I'm warning you."

Steven snorted. "We're in a time of war, Mr. Wigglesworth. Words alone are enough to incriminate anyone. And you must really think I'm daft to just walk in here without any protection of my own."

Sinister rolled his eyes. "I'm not warning you against me, you clownishly clothed buffoon! I'm warning you against proceeding further along this line of investigation...and where it might lead you." He leaned forward. "Believe me, I know the law, Auror, and you cannot frighten me with words of 'war' and erosion of civil liberties. I know Dumbledore, Bagnold, and the Abernathys too...our civil rights have not been reduced to the words of Aurors becoming judge, jury, and executioner. I have danced around the likes of you enough to know that. You have no hold over me save what I choose to give you. And I am attempting to stop you from blundering into something you have no conception of."

Steven frowned and rose to his feet, pacing the room for a minute as though pondering something very serious before he stopped and turned back to the man behind the desk. "You really think my clothes are clownish?"

"Velvet and a fedora -- quite frankly, sir, you look like a Muggle pimp!" Sinister informed him flatly.

"Well, it looks loads better with the knitted scarf." Steven's words were humorous, but his expression was quite different and with a sigh, he moved back. "Look...I know what I'm getting into more than you think. You may not care a whit one way or the other whether a good woman lives or dies, but I do...and it's my job to stop it."

"You refer of course to Counsellor Abernathy," Sinister said, resuming his more relaxed pose, a slight crease on his brow. "I confess, Mr. Prince, that had I known the purpose the Reflectus was to be put to, I would have thought twice about selling it on to our erstwhile assassin. I wish no ill to the young lady; in fact, I wish her nothing but well as her equivocation over the war suits me no end at the moment. But my customer appeared to know for certain I had the Reflectus, which was unusual to say the least as I had only come into possession of it a few days before and had not as yet advertised that fact."

Steven actually looked surprised. "A few days...you say?" He frowned. "How odd." His lips pursed a bit, his expression still thoughtful as he took his chair again. "Perhaps the person you purchased it from referred the man to you?"

Sinister returned his eyes to him, the corner of his mouth curling up a little. "Perhaps you are not as foolish as you dress, nor as dense as your words make you appear, Mr. Prince." He nodded. "Yes...I believe that almost certainly to be the case. And yet, I know for a fact," his smile grew, "that my 'dealer' is anything but sympathetic to the cause of the Dark Lord." His fingers closed about his glass again. "Odd, no?"

The Auror's brow furrowed even more. "Very..." he agreed lowly.

"In any event..."Sinister said conversationally, "I trust you know I won't be giving you the name of my dealer, Mr. Prince."

The younger man sighed and nodded. "Oh yes...that would be way too easy." His eyebrow arched. "I don't suppose a complete or partial description would be forthcoming though?" he enquired with a wry smile at Sinister.

The short man's low laugh wafted to him again. "I'm rather afraid not. I know it must be a dreadful bore," Wigglesworth commiserated, "but, you see, I must be even more careful in the steps I take as it is quite clear to me now that I am walking a very thin line between two extremes. Two extremes that oddly seem to be colluding on one very salient, very agreed upon point."

"The death of Counsellor Abernathy," Steven said tightly. Rising up, he stalked the room back and forth with long strides. "Someone who is against His side is using His people to take her out." He frowned. "However, it makes no sense for 'He Who Must Not Be Named' to want the Counsellor dead! Her pacifist ideals and notions are, if anything, rather beneficial to Him for now..."

"My thoughts exactly...if a little less succinctly put," Sinister agreed with a smile. "It does seem a queer thing to do. But then there is often method to madness, Mr. Prince, and in my experience, when one discards a prize, such as Counsellor Abernathy, it is often to get a far greater one. Of course," he shrugged lightly, "what that might be I have no idea, and as I wish to keep my head upon my shoulders, I shall be making no further enquiries. You would be well advised to do the same."

Steven shook his head, his eyes frank and a little tired. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Of course you can't." Blue eyes regarded him with total non-surprise. "Well..." the older man pushed the pieces of the Reflectus back to the Auror, "as I say, I cannot give you any information regarding either my dealer or my customer. That information is sacrosanct. What I can tell you, however, is that the maker of both the Reflectii pairs that came into my hands must be quite the remarkable auteur...considering he was reported missing, presumed dead some time ago."

Steven's jaw tightened as he gathered up the pieces. "Yes...I know," he said quietly.

Sinister's eyes moved to the pieces on the table. "Ah, but of course...you were no doubt involved in the investigation of his disappearance at some point. Where was it he disappeared? Near Brecon Beacons in Wales, wasn't it?"

"No, it was Moreton on the Marsh in the Cotswolds," the dark haired man replied, stuffing the last piece into an inside pocket. His eyebrow arched as he looked over at the businessman. "Which I'm sure you knew."

"Of course..." Sinister nodded, "my mistake." He rose from his chair and gestured towards the door at the far end of the room before he walked around his desk. "I am sorry not to be of more assistance to you, Mr. Prince, but you know how things are. Business is business after all."

Steven rose to his feet. "Yes...of course it is," he replied and held out his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Wigglesworth. This has been a most...enlightening...conversation and I thank you for your time."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Prince..." He took the Auror's hand and then walked him towards the door. "Just ensure that next time you intend to try and dupe me, you and your superiors put a little more effort into it, eh? A little challenge brightens all our days, wouldn't you say?" He opened the door further for his guest.

Steven couldn't help smiling at that. "Then they won't send me. I'm utterly crap at acting." Walking out the door, he doffed his hat to the short man and headed toward the elevator.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dinner that night in the cottage was one of the tensest meals that Paidea had ever experienced in her life...and that was saying something, given the line of work she was in. She had sat at dinners where the two figures at either end of the table were so completely antagonistic that any little word could set off a feud that could last for a decade, but she had still never been as on edge as she was at this moment. And it didn't help that Snape's face was utterly unreadable.

Not a word had been spoken...from either of them. In fact, both of them seemed to be more occupied with eating, drinking, pushing food around their plates, and simply gazing anywhere but at each other. It was nerve-racking to say the least.

Once Elly had cleared the plates and leftovers and disappeared for the night, Paidea had finally been forced to say something to her companion. Giving him a smile, but in knots inside, she had enquired if perhaps they should...talk? Seeing him flinch, she'd quickly amended it to talking in general...not anything specific. She knew they would have to have a 'talk' but she wasn't entirely sure what to say...nor how to say it. 'Oh yes, Severus, I feel the same as you, but I can't be with you because you're barely legal and I could get thrown out of my job. Oh, and you'd be hounded your whole life for it...' Oh yes...that would go over very well. Add that her family would be horrified that she hadn't married 'well.' Well, maybe not her sister...but most certainly her parents and she could just call it all a hat trick. She could just see her mother fainting.

So, here they sat. Neither saying a word. Neither knowing what to say. And Paidea found herself wondering if perhaps they should just have that 'talk' and get it over with.

Snape's mind was racing but next to nothing was coming into it. "Perhaps we should talk in more comfortable seats?" he enquired, shifting on the wooden chair at the table.

"Perhaps you are right," she agreed readily, rising to her feet and moving over to the couch to sit at one end.

Standing as well, he followed her to the couch, pausing behind it and hesitating to look down at her. A part of him wondered -- was she doing it on purpose? -- picking those dresses that seemed demure but revealed just enough to make his palms sweat nervously and his fingers itch...hardly an attractive combination. Inhaling slowly and pulling on his button down shirt just a little, he continued around the couch with equal slowness to sit at the far end. "Comfortable?" he asked stiffly after a moment, his hands on his knees.

She looked anything but, and in fact was sitting just as ram rod straight, hands -- long ago trained out of nervous habits -- folded placidly on her lap. "Yes...the cushions are very...soft." She moaned inwardly, cursing the sudden desertion of her verbal skills.

"I've slept on worse," he agreed with a nod, cringing at how 'pauperish' that made him sound, like he'd just crawled out from under a footbridge somewhere. What a wonderful way to convince a wealthy pureblood girl you're worthy of her...sound like a Muggle tramp comparing flop houses.

She merely nodded quietly, racking her mind for something to talk about.

"Attractive gown," he commented, shooting a rapid glance at her.

She glanced down at the gown with a tight smile. "Thank you," she replied, suddenly wondering if perhaps her dress was adhering a little too snugly to her figure.

He frowned, staring ahead of him in silence for what felt like an age before his hands suddenly fisted, his black eyes hardening as he turned a little toward her on the couch. "The weather tomorrow is supposed to be fair, I believe. We could go for another walk along the beach if you want...and I'm in love with you, Paidea."

She stiffened immediately, shifting in her seat but not getting up. "Severus..."

He allowed her go no further, his words calm but decisive. "You know it. There is no way it can have eluded you. I've been stumbling around half-blinded by it the entire time we've been here. I've loved you from the first moment I saw you all those years ago. There's not been a day that's passed I've not thought about you, wondered about you...wanted to see you again...to feel your eyes on me.

"It is foolish, I know, and you may think it childish still, but it was clear to me then that you were the one for me. And when chance brought me back into your sphere there was no way I could deny it. But it's not childish infatuation, Paidea. Don't think to dismiss it or believe I'll get over it. Because I won't. I love you," he stated firmly.

"You fill my dreams. You are the sum total of my thoughts. I still feel your lips on mine. Even though you say it was wrong, I know it was not. I have no right to feel this way, I know, but I refuse to believe that it can be wrong. I know it's not." He inhaled, and then pressed ahead, his words quiet and serious. "I would do anything for you, anything you ask. I'm young, yes...poor, yes...not in your class nor am I pureblood...but I have talent...intelligence...ability. Give me a chance to prove myself to you; to prove what I feel for you is real...that I can be good for you."

His hand inched along the couch, his chest achingly tight from trying to keep the full raging force of what he felt reined in, trying to keep his words smooth, adult, and civilised. But finally his youth broke through in a quiet ringing plea, "Please."

She stared at him, taking in each word...each syllable of his speech, her heart aching to agree, to allow him to sweep her up. She had never been so touched and honoured in her life. That someone could love her so strongly, deeply...devotedly. She longed for the world to be different so she could give in. But it wasn't, so she couldn't.

"Severus...I can't," she whispered, quickly rising to her feet and away from his hand, her voice growing more impassioned. "Forget where we are for a minute and come back to the real world. I am a diplomat...and you...you're still in school. Do you really think the world is going to support such a union? I would be thrown out of my job; you would be expelled from school. Your life and all your hopes, dreams, and ambitions would be over...tainted beyond repair. I cannot and will not allow that to happen to you regardless of how we feel about each other."

He stood up slowly, his black eyes widening. "How we feel about each other?" He took a step towards her, his next words half statement, half hope. "You feel the same."

Her expression, which had been steadfastly determined, wavered a little under his naked and exposed optimism. Optimism she had to crush. "It doesn't matter what I feel. That path is one we cannot go down, Severus," she told him shakily before straightening. "I will not give into this. I will not let you throw away your entire future for me."

He drew himself up, looking down at her, his voice low and adamant. "You are my future. Any kind of real future, I mean. You and the thought of you have been the one bright spark in my life all these years. I don't care what others think; it's not any of their business," he spat before moving a little closer. "I only care what you think. If you love me, that's all that matters. I understand your work is important to you, and I could damage you, but I will do anything. No one else has to know. We can keep it secret if you wish," he offered, trying to reason with her. "I'll take on any role you want. Keep to the shadows. I can still work, do what I need to do, build a name for myself...and see you. Be with you." He tried to touch her...to convince her.

But she stepped back, looking down for almost a full minute before raising her eyes. "But we'd be living a lie. A lie that could destroy us. Could you live with that? I am not sure I could."

"A lie?" His eyes bored into hers. "If that is living a lie, what is denying what we feel? How much more of a living lie is that, Paidea? How much more destructive would that be?"

Her lip trembled for a moment, her aching heart clear in her eyes before again, like each time before, the door slammed unceremoniously shut. "I can't...I won't give into this," she stated again before turning quickly on her heel and striding to her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

He took a step after her as she went but ultimately let her go. He'd said all he could say, anything more in the same vein would be teenage histrionics. He'd pleaded the best case he could and it wasn't enough to convince her. Either she was too scared or just didn't feel the same strength of what he did. And all the pleading in the world wasn't going to change it.

He had tried and he had failed, and the pain he had felt before was nothing to now. Now he knew for certain she felt something for him, loved him even if not the same way he did, and it tore at him all the more to know that nothing would come of it. That he was only causing her grief by his presence.

After sitting for a long time, he rose up and walked to her door, his boots' footfalls quiet on the granite. Stopping by the door, he waited and then raised his hand to knock softly.

"Paidea," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "I will go if you want me to; if you tell me to. I have no wish to cause you pain. I never wanted to hurt you, your career...your work. If my presence here makes you unhappy, then tell me to go. I will contact Dumbledore and have someone replace me. Tell me to go, Paidea." His hand touched the door, his forehead a moment afterwards. A pleading murmur she could not have heard escaped him. "End it."

There was a long silence before a weary voice came softly through the wooden door. "It's late...go to bed, Severus." And a moment later, the light shining under the door was extinguished.

His eyes closed at her order. He had failed once again. Sent to his bed like a boy -- a boy she couldn't...wouldn't...risk loving. He turned from the door and moved about the room, extinguishing all the lights, and crossed to the couch. Half collapsing onto the cushions, he pulled off his boots and zombie-like, tossed them onto the floor before removing his clothes and curling up in his shirt and underpants. Drawing his blankets over him, he stared into the dark, facing a sleepless night...rejected but not dismissed, in pain...and in limbo once again.