New Blood

NEW BLOOD
by Silverfish ~:

III.

Morning arrived in shades of grey, but not in the mist and dreariness of rain as Snape had expected. No, this morning showed up with a vast amount of attitude and one hell of a big bang.

Smoke billowed out of Daniel's classroom, and out into the damp hallway. The door had blown clean off and was now a twisted, broken collection of metal and burning wood. Snape had barely had time to grab his striped housecoat and pull it over his grey nightshirt, his wand held tightly in his grip, ready to fight. Luckily, the explosion had happened too early, the students not due to arrive to their first class until two hours from now.

A moment of panic welled up inside of Snape as he realized the last time he had seen Daniel was late last night, but it was quickly abated when he saw Daniel himself running down the hallway in the direction of his destroyed classroom. He stood in the doorway's black charred remains, with just a vague expression of surprise.

"Damn," he said. "I'd gotten it to look just the way I'd wanted it, too."

He turned when he heard Snape's steps echoing towards him, and flashed him a wide grin. "Your quarters are down here too? Convenient that, I have to take the express stairs every morning." He waved a large, yellow manila envelope at him. "Good thing I kept this with me. Pity about the cloak, though."

Snape's small eyes widened. "The cloak blew up?"

"No, silly man, my *letters* blew up. You can tell by the way my desk is so mangled, and look at how the drawers are shot outwards. I distinctly remember placing my mail in the upper right hand drawer, and as you can see even from here, that one has the worst damage." Daniel sighed in disappointment. "I left the cloak on that metal table that's melted in the corner. Cor, this is a right mess."

It certainly was. From Snape's viewpoint, the formerly sterile white environment of Daniel's classroom was now a black, charcoal mess of wood, plaster and metal. It would take at least two hours to get it temporarily restored by magical means--and a good few days before it would be fully repaired. They both walked into the smoking confines, Snape heading for his potions door, which thankfully had protected both his potions office and his classroom from damage. Daniel followed him in, shutting the heavy potions door behind him as they settled into Snape's damp, and dark workspace. Snape lit an oil lamp, which set a slightly warmer golden glow over the setting, though the things in the jars sleepily raised their many legs and heads to see why their slumber had been disturbed. The pickled centinewt on the top shelf happily circled around its large jar, more than pleased to see Daniel, who automatically reached up to tap the glass, only to refrain at Snape's glare.

"Have you got any of that coffee?" Daniel asked.

"Daniel," Snape began, "before I give you anything other than an Impervis curse, can you please tell me what the devil is going on?"

"I told you," Daniel said, looking a little hurt at Snape's accusatory tone. "One of my letters blew up."

Snape sank into his chair behind his desk with a slouched resignation. He clasped his hands in his lap. "Yes, you made that clear. What would be nice to know is *why*, and *who* sent it."

Daniel tapped his chin thoughtfully with his fingers. "I can't be sure as to who," he said. "But why is clear enough. I put plenty of druglords and so-called criminal masterminds into prison over the years, and every last one of them hates me for it. There isn't a week that goes by that I don't get at least one death threat. They always seem to know where I've moved to--I've just learned to be vigilant."

"Except last night," Snape observed. He pulled his striped housecoat close around him, and crossed his arms over his chest, small black eyes glittering nastily in the gloom. "Are there any other unsettling surprises about you going to show up?"

"Oh, no," Daniel said in calm assurance. "I'm a walking alive dead man, that's about it."

His odd quip was instantly overshadowed by another, this time smaller, explosion that rocked Daniel's English classroom, and pummeled the connecting door so severely a huge splinter was rendered up its middle. Snape looked on in aghast shock, while Daniel shrugged as he inspected it, his hand automatically finding the back of his head as he nervously rubbed at the base of his neck. The centinewt squished its segmented eyes against the glass of its jar, and quizzically investigated Daniel, Snape and the damaged door.

"Just how many letters did you receive?" Snape asked, his black eyes wide and staring unblinking at the connecting door.

"About four," Daniel said.

"Really?" Snape said. He flung open the door, and before any more damage could be done he held out his wand and shouted: "Temporal Glacius!"

The room was frozen in time, even the dust particles remaining static in the air. As they stepped back into the destroyed classroom Daniel tried to nudge a piece of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling out of his way. It was as immovable as if it were nailed to stone. Frantic footsteps were now arriving, along with a few woken students. Dumbledore was the first to arrive on the scene, his long white beard tangling against the collection of broken wooden splinters and smoldering ash as he made his way into the destroyed room. McGonagall was close behind him, and she coughed through the dust. A large, black dog appeared at the doorway, as did Remus Lupin, his wand held out and ready to do battle.

"I don't understand," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "We've checked all of Hogwarts for magical sabotage, this room especially."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "The reason it was not detected is because magic wasn't used." He pointed with his wand to an envelope that was frozen in time, its contents a solid flame as it had begun to explode. "I have reason to believe that Mr. Deschamps was nearly assassinated, and by Muggle means."

"Letter bombs," Daniel clarified. "They're actually quite easy to do, and an expert can make one that looks just as ordinary as an electricity bill."

"Yes," Dumbledore said, and stroked his white beard. "An explosive device that doesn't use any of the influences of magic. How very ingenious." His white brows knit together as he looked up at Daniel. "Fascinating as it is, perhaps it would be best if you received all mail by owl from now on. Oh, and in future have Professor Snape go over each letter for possible tampering. Your former coworker Chief Constable Blurty had said you were having some trouble with 'those mobster bastards' as he called them, though how they have found a connection into the Wizard world is anybody's guess."

Daniel waved his yellow manila envelope before him. He had a distinctly mischievous glint to his navy eyes.

"I've taken the liberty of getting rid of your guesswork," Daniel said. "I got your wizard interloper right in here."

***

To be honest, Snape didn't *really* believe there was in fact a tiny, flat little wizard folded up in the manila envelope, so he didn't partake in the confusion now reigning in the faculty lounge. He knew Daniel well enough by now to understand that whatever he had to say, it would be complicated, headache inducing, and would make little sense, save for the very important bits which *did* make sense. Deducing what was worthwhile and what wasn't had been an exercise in patience few could master. Right now, Daniel was babbling something about the physical constructions of a creature known in the Muggle world as a tsetse fly and how it had wiped out a few hundred people or so in Panama by passing along malaria. McGonagall had gone pale and asked Daniel if this Malaria girl had ever been caught, since killing a few hundred people is considered a horrible crime no matter what world you find yourself in. This of course resulted in a very long lecture on the nature of something known as viral disease versus airborne microorganisms, which didn't answer McGonagall's question at all.

Oh, Merlin's ashes! He was getting a migraine already!

The coffee table was strewn with papers and diagrams of insects, along with a rather tattered looking map of the world spread on the floor in front of it, multicoloured tacks holding it in place on the rug. A few small countries were marked with pins that had little red flags on their heads, and one of them was notably Panama.

"Now, in the flea world, there are differences," Daniel was saying. "A flea in Panama is not the same as a flea in Surrey--as you can see, here." He held up a small rectangle of glass with two tiny fleas pasted onto their surface, and handed Sirius Black a magnifying glass. Remus Lupin looked over his shoulder and uttered a small cry of surprise.

"How very fascinating! They look just like Roving Wilkerbeasts, although Wilkerbeasts are well over one hundred and fifty pounds and have much larger teeth. Hagrid would love these!"

"Why are we looking at bugs?" Sirius said, impatiently giving both the slides and the magnifying glass to a happy Remus Lupin. "This is a waste of time, we should be sending people into Hogsmeade. Whoever blew up your classroom..."

"Is long gone, I'm afraid," Daniel replied. "And quite possibly not the man we're after, although I admit, coincidence can breed suspicion." He paced in front of the map on the floor, his voice a calm intonation that carried through the room. Snape felt his edgy nerves easing as he listened to him, a lull of pleasant harmony coursing into his being. The migraine was still there, but as long as he didn't try to understand Daniel too much, he could simply enjoy the peaceful lilt of his voice, as well as the figure he presented with his large eyes lazily surveying his diagrams, and his dark brown hair hanging messily in a stylish halo above a rather handsome face.

His headache shot a sense of awareness painfully through the back of his left eye. He cast a worried glance about the room, inspecting everyone's expression in hopes they hadn't caught him looking at Daniel in a manner that could only be described as 'dreamily'. They seemed as rapt by Daniel's speech as Snape had been, and he settled into more ease into his seat.

"So you're saying that these flies," Lupin held up the small rectangular pieces of glass, "suggest that our man has not only been in Panama, he's been bitten by an infected one, and then came home here to get a good bite from a Surrey flea, and you can tell this because of the ages of the fly's exorcism?"

"Exoskeleton," Daniel said.

"Seems like a big stretch to me," Sirius Black said. "I don't know how you figure you know he's not only been in the Muggle world, but he's gotten bit by an infected bug, and he had a hot dog at a Surrey fair, complete with mustard, before coming here, he's got black hair, is possibly Asian or Moroccan, wears a dark red acrylic sweater, the cloak was at least one size too small for him so we have a good idea of his real bulk..."

"It's a pity I don't have his shoe size," Daniel said, frowning.

"Er..." Remus said. "Thirteen and a half. He wears Muggle shoes. We saw the footprints in the forest last night."

Daniel was wounded to the core. "You never told me!" he exclaimed. "We could have had him last night if you had!" He sighed and paced before the map again. "I don't think he's left Hogsmeade, if he's even managed to make it there. The average gestation period of malaria gives him a few days of supposed health. I suggest you send a couple of people to Hogsmeade to track down a very, very sick black haired wizard with no cloak, a love of junk food and possibly wearing Muggle clothes, who is about I would say 160 to 170 pounds. I'm afraid I can't get a good idea of his height without measuring his stride." Daniel frowned, staring at his collection of 'evidence' on the coffee table. "Odd as it is to say, perhaps you aren't so wrong about this fellow being involved in blowing up my classroom. He sounds familiar, though I can't quite place him."

He most certainly was familiar, Snape thought with great discomfort.

Dumbledore, who had been quietly snoring near the roaring fire, coughed and shifted in his seat. "Hm...I wonder. Professor Snape?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to utter a protest, but it seemed a strange thing to do when all Snape had in his mind right now was a nagging suspicion, and not even the 'facts' of a flea's dried up leg to back it up.

"Perhaps you and Mr. Deschamps could take a little trip to Hogsmeade this afternoon," Dumbledore said. He rose from his seat with some difficulty, a frailty to him that pained Snape to witness. "There is something about this wizard's description that teases my memory as well. Potions can be taught by Professor Lupin, if he is willing to double up his workload for the remainder of the day?" Remus Lupin nodded. "English classes will have to be canceled for now, due to the repair of Mr. Deschamps' classroom."

"How unfortunate for the students," McGonagall said, and didn't even try to keep the irony out of her voice.

***
An unhappy memory, once pulled to the surface, has the habit of needling a person until it's as vivid and real as though it had happened only hours ago instead of fifteen years. The journey into Hogsmeade with Daniel had thankfully been very quiet, though it didn't do anything for his headache. If his tense demeanor had disturbed his friend in any way, Daniel didn't show it, and in fact seemed to be going out of his way to put Snape into a better humour.

"This butterbeer stuff isn't half bad, if you get the stronger variety," Daniel said, taking a good gulp of his.

They were sitting in a tavern somewhere on the edge of Hogsmeade. So far their search had been unsuccessful, and Snape's disappointment that Daniel's theories hadn't worked filled him with a sense of pity for his Muggle friend. They would no doubt exclude him in future from all matters relating to Voldemorte and his forces, and as such Daniel would probably withdraw from all of the Hogwarts staff and its dealings. Maybe he would even go so far as to stop his daily ritual of dropping by Snape's office for 'coffee' at three o'clock. Such a prospect filled Snape with infinite sadness.

He remembered, painfully, a time when he was a young student of sixteen at Hogwarts, when he himself was ostracized, his solitude so oppressive he had to either succumb to it or fight it--Since he had been an unattractive, spindly youth with very little interest in sport, he had learned to appreciate being alone. The triad of terror that was Sirius, Remus and James had made his life very difficult indeed, for not a day had gone by where they hadn't played some cruel prank or other on him. They'd once pasted a dead stinkfish on the bottom of his cauldron and it had been an entire year before he realized the horrible smell in his potions class had been wafting from his own iron pot. The Slytherins had tolerated him but barely, and he was sure most of them agreed with the rest of the student body that he was a creature of unified contempt, and he'd caught more than one of his fellow housemates joining in on the laughter caused at Snape's expense. Life at Hogwarts had been horrible. He'd vowed, even then, to come back and show them all, a militant tactic for revenge that had him eventually joining the Death Eaters, and in the odd twist of fate's irony had him now teaching at the one place that he had been most powerless..

Ostracization had its up side, however. The trouble with enforced solitude was that one grew greedy for one's own soul. Snape found that when the time came, he simply couldn't sell it to Voldemorte. He couldn't give it to anybody, not the crooked toothed girl who had been the one to kindly inform him of the stinkfish, not the Professor of the Dark Arts at the time, who had shown him how to get himself out of locked closets (a situation which many a Gryffndor student had indulged in against him), and certainly never Sirius, Remus and James--though he had to admit that their antics were the ones that plagued his inward thoughts of revenge the most.

No, he couldn't give himself to anybody, not even when they tried to force the issue. Like that one, especially, that perfectly built machine who whizzed through the air on his broom, whipping through hoops, his cape always carelessly discarded before every Quidditch match, who Snape just couldn't help looking at every time he happened to be on the field, or in the library...Or even just walking down the hall.

He gulped a good portion of his strong butterbeer. He didn't want to think about this, but the name crept out of nowhere, that memory crawling on him like a spider making a web.

Aristotle Crowley.

He'd been popular. He'd been athletic. When he entered a room the air was electric with his magnetism, you couldn't help but be drawn to him, to just look at him and enjoy the fact that he was sharing air with you, and Snape hadn't been immune to these charms--If anything he discovered he was oddly addicted to them. He always made sure he was in the same study period at the library as Aristotle was, would sit at a good vantage point where he could hear his voice in class, and get a good look at his profile every now and then. Even though he had no interest in sport, he'd attended every Quidditch match that Slytherin played simply to watch him.

The reason for Snape's interest in this fellow student was never fully explained even to himself. He couldn't understand why this admiration kept welling up for this fellow student he didn't even know well enough to nod hello to in the hall. Out of self preservation he'd kept it secret, it was best that way, he had thought.

But Aristotle, for all his outward popularity, was in Slytherin for a reason.

The night was old, the hour hovering around eleven o'clock pm, and it was February. Snow had collapsed the world into a suffocating whiteness that bit its chill into Snape's marrow. He was sixteen and had been in the library, while the rest of the school was attending a celebratory dance of some sort, he couldn't remember what for now, as it had held no interest for him. He was searching for information on black thorned nettles for a potion he was devising as a bonus project. With a copy of the page and its illustration of the plant, he had left the library and headed outside onto the Hogwarts grounds, his destination for the periphery of the dark forest, where he was sure he had seen this exact plant.

It was a bitter cold night, but anyone with any sense knew the best time to harbour black thorned nettles was in this setting--they would be able to see the harvester in the day, and as such could be dangerous. Snape's eyes had stared into the blackness of a large bush, trying to find them. He leaned against a large, nearby tree to open the paper with the illustration to ensure he was searching in the right area.

Two hands grabbed his shoulders and pinned him against the tree's wide trunk.

The object of his mild obsession was staring him down, his mouth twisted in fury as he shouted at Snape.

"What are you following me around for?"

Snape's first thought was that Aristotle was about to throttle him because he'd managed to get into Snape's head and read his mind, though why he would even think to wander around in there in the first place was strange. So no, that couldn't be why he'd pinned Snape to that tree, and stared at him with such a strange expression, one that Snape had never seen on anyone before and was at a loss to figure out how best to deal with.

"I was just...I was just looking..." Snape began and glanced at the black nettles in the bush to his right.

The grip on his shoulders tightened, and Aristotle leaned in. Snape closed his eyes, waiting for the resulting pain of a fist meeting his face, or a knee to his stomach, so furious was the aura of his peer. Aristotle did attack him, as it were. With his mouth, a firm and unrelenting kiss given against Snape's stuttering explanation....

Fear. Terror, even. Both inexplicably mixed with desire.

How long had it lasted? Snape figured the reality was probably only a few minutes, though his memory stretched the moment to last for hours, and if he was honest, it was that moment that had followed him for nearly two decades into the present. He could still feel the warmth of breath against his ear, the feel of his bulk as he pressed against him, that kiss diving headlong into every aspect of Snape's soul.

He'd pulled back. He'd stared at Snape as though he was some pariah that he'd accidentally stepped in. He'd tossed Snape to the right, where he landed in the nest of black nettles and had stormed away from the black forest and all the temptation that the situation had caused. He'd left Snape wounded by the vicious plants. Snape had to bloodily limp to the infirmary when he finally managed to get free of them, and had needed the lacerations on his shoulder sewn. He'd earned a week's worth of detention from his Potions master for being 'foolhardy'.

"Aristotle Crowley," a familiar voice said.

Snape was shaken into the present by Daniel's voice, a familiar feeling of horrible dread coming over him. "What did you say?"

"The barkeep here had him last night, but he's gone now. We missed him by only half an hour. The owner, Mr. Bluebottle, says a wizard by that name stayed here last night, and he fits our descriptions perfectly, right down to being sick."

"He looked as pale as a ghost," Mr. Bluebottle said. He gave his transparent barmaid an apologetic smile. "No offense lass." He turned his attention back to Snape and Daniel. "I told him he looked too sick to go taking off, but he insisted on it. I admit I was a bit worried about him, he couldn't even walk that well, but that might have been because of those big clunky shoes he was wearing. He stepped out of the bar here onto the street and dissapparated."

"Did you hear where went?" Snape asked.

Both Mr. Bluebottle and his ghostly barmaid shook their heads. "Hopefully to a hospital," Bluebottle said. "Ghosts don't buy butterbeer."

***

Snape tried his best to be patient, but Daniel's pacing was now getting on his nerves as well. He stopped him with an outstretched hand, and Daniel looked down on his seated form, confusion reigning in his gaze. They had arrived back at Hogwarts just an hour ago, and were all collected once again in Dumbledore's office. Sirius Black stood scowling at Daniel from his vantage point in the corner of the room, and Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, stroking his white beard in careful concentration.

"Trust me, Mr. Deschamps, it isn't that I don't wish to pursue this information. The problem arises because of the fact that he has journeyed to a place that is far from my influence, and will require special permission to bring him back into our world. There are strict laws that prevent wizards from mingling too much of their affairs in Muggle areas, laws which even now He Who Must Not Be Named finds he must obey." Dumbledore sighed, and gave Daniel a pained look of understanding. "Knowing who to watch out for is more than enough of the battle, for now."

"I can have him in custody in an hour," Daniel said with quiet assurance.

Dumbledore shook his head, adamant."No. I forbid it."

The rest of the room, though disappointed, was content with this order from the Hogwarts headmaster. They knew better than most that these decisions were not based on the whims of an eccentric old man, but were the careful workings of a wizard mastermind. Who knew what influence Dumbledore had on the future outcomes of this war? His mind was an endless maze of possibility, a fact that almost put him in harmony with some of the scientific philosophy Daniel had discussed with Snape not so long ago. Snape was uncomfortable beneath Dumbledore's scrutiny, which had now inexplicably turned to him.

"I wonder," Dumbledore said, "what Aristotle Crowley's best subject here was. I remember he was quite popular and a talented Quidditch player. There had been no complaint of his conduct nor his marks, so why he felt he had to leave midway through his sixth year, and insisted on a transfer to Durmsdey Academy instead...It was very strange."

"Arithmacy," Snape said in confidence. He cast small, black eyes around the room to gage how surprised anyone was at his knowing this information, but the remark caused no reaction.

Dumbledore raised a bushy white brow, "Ah, yes, I remember now. He'd have taken top prize that year for certain, had he stayed. How very interesting, since much of Arithmacy concerns the manipulation of fire, in all its fascinating forms." He stroked his beard in reflection. "I suspect bomb making could be considered a part of it, even if he didn't use magical means, the interest in the main subject was still there." Snape watched as Daniel slyly inched his way to the door, and was stopped when Dumbledore cleared his throat as Daniel was about to leave.

"Mr. Deschamps," Dumbledore said, loudly, to him. "Going after Mr. Crowley at this time could be strategically disadvantageous to us, there is much that could be lost--I suggest tempering your eagerness to catch your criminal, however hard this is to do."

He'd been caught with the thought, and Daniel knew it. He shrugged as he half turned to face Dumbledore, his hand at the back of his neck, rubbing hard. "I know," he said, and gave the headmaster a sad, sidelong grin before leaving. Sirius watched him go, and wasn't the only one to flinch when Daniel set his fist through a glass window in the hall, and toppled a vase and its stand as he made his way.

"He might look as calm as an ice floe on the surface, but mark my words, that man has a vicious temper," Sirius Black observed. "I don't like him."

"He's only having what constitutes for him a natural reaction," Dumbledore replied. "Mr. Deschamps was an officer of Muggle law, and from what I understand it was a difficult line of work. Letting a known guilty man go free is anathema to him. My, but he did look unhappy...Professor Snape, perhaps you should follow him, and see if you can rescue a few more vases before he gets to his room."