He Said, He Said

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 for Scotland Yard, 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 Charmers 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. 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?

TBC