New Blood

NEW BLOOD


by Silverfish ~:





IV.

He followed him not to his room, but to the partially reconstructed classroom, where Daniel evicted a few hardworking house elves and sat at his new desk. Snape clung to the blasted open doorway, not at all sure if he wanted to venture further into Daniel's current inner sanctum or not. He watched as Daniel opened a desk drawer and took out a large bottle filled with amber liquid. He uncapped it and took a few swallows of the substance, his eyes wincing shut after every take.

"You going to stand in the doorway all night?" Daniel asked. Snape reluctantly peeked around the charred door frame, his hands accidentally peeling away some splintered wood and plaster. Daniel gave him a warm smile and shook the bottle and its amber contents at him. "Rudy can't fail, as they say." He brought the bottle to his lips and took another huge gulp.

Snape stood leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly. "Breaking windows is hardly an effective way of dealing with one's disappointment," he said.

"You're right," Daniel said, and downed another helping, the bottle already now half empty. "That's why I have this."

Snape was thoroughly chagrined. He brushed a few strands of tangled black hair from his equally black eyes and sighed. "Dumbledore is not doing this to harm you, if anything it's for your own protection. He is a master wizard who understands more than you are giving him credit for."

Daniel took another drink anyway. "It's not the only thing bothering me," he said, but he didn't expand on the point. Instead he took the open bottle with him and left the half repaired classroom, his shoulder nudging Snape as he did so. "I'm heading to my room, do you want to join me?" Daniel asked. Snape, who believed getting drunk solved even less problems than broken windows, primly declined. Daniel gave him a half smile and then, to Snape's discomfiture, he outstretched his right arm and clutched at the door frame, balancing his posture above Snape, his presence dangerously close--So close that Snape could catch the scent of Muggle alcohol on Daniel's breath, a teasing sweetness.

"Do you ever get tired of being by yourself?" Daniel asked.

He wanted to say 'never', but that of course wasn't true, at least not lately. Three o'clock had developed a special meaning for him, one he couldn't quite interpret as to what just yet. So, instead, he glibly replied: "I like having time to think."

"So do I," Daniel said. He bent his elbow, causing his body to ease all that much closer into Snape's stubbornly guarded personal space. "I like thinking about science, about how it can apply to this magical world as easily as my own. I like thinking about the imperfections of both disciplines and how best to arrange myself and the answers I'm seeking inside of them. In that respect, one could say I like thinking about you, too." He gave Snape a grim laugh and then stood up, releasing him from the uncomfortable scrutiny. "Right now I'm going to go to my room and think about how good this stuff is going to work on me." He swirled the bottle's contents, and then began his journey down the hall where the express stairs were located which would take him to the floor his room was on. "Goodnight, Snape," he shouted back, not looking behind him.

Snape was left alone in the corridor, his room mocking him at its end, the loneliness of his current state oppressing him in ways he couldn't understand. He'd always lived his life with no one else to bother about, his own soul stubbornly held onto for himself alone. Yet, there was something so incredibly disturbing and appealing about Daniel Deschamps he was conflicted with being both drawn to him and repulsed. He'd had this feeling before, hadn't he? He was unsettled tenfold by this realization. What a terrible result had come from that.

***
He couldn't sleep, much as he desired it. All that talk of thinking had left Snape's mind in a muddle of strange theorization, unhappy invasions from his past and frustration at finding no resolutions. Large, poetic sounding words filled his head, oddly enough running through it with the intonations of Daniel's rather soothing voice, and even if they had the power to calm him in wakefulness, now that he was trying to sleep he was hindered by attempting to derive meaning from the alchemical phrases.

His insomnia and resulting unhappiness were unfortunately all Daniel's fault.

For one, was it really fair right now for Snape to be thinking that the word 'imperfections' used in Daniel's small speech this evening was a not so disguised slur against the profession of magic? Perhaps he was being oversensitive to the subject, but as a person who had studied much of the forbidden knowledge of the Dark Arts at great risk to his life and well being--Such a dismissal in any form grated on his nerves. Eventually, as the late hours wore on, he had distilled Daniel's speech in such a manner that he was now positive the man had made a terrible mistake in underestimating Snape's prowess as both a potions master and a wizard, and not only this but was misunderstanding the potential of Aristotle Crowley, as Snape was now certain this was the person who had tried to assassinate Daniel. The reason why was a question that plagued him, for as a non magic Muggle what possible connection could he have with a wizard of any sort?

He gave up on sleep, and was so agitated with this question he grabbed his striped housecoat and left his room, to journey down the black hall to the express stairs which led to the upper floors. He marched with determined resolution to Daniel's door, and was about to knock, when he realized such a thing might awaken a student and he would have a very difficult time explaining what he was doing wandering around in his striped housecoat late at night and very far removed from his dungeon dwelling. So, to avoid detection, he simply opened the unlocked door and stepped into Daniel's quarters, and quietly closed the door behind him.

Daniel's home was as bare as his classroom, Snape noted. Though the walls were the standard Hogwarts burgundy with baroque gold decorations, they were strangely bare of any portraits, save for an unframed paper monstrosity in black and white, which was currently snoring loudly, a rumpled figure laying spread-eagled on his back on what looked like an out focus stage. A broken guitar lay discarded next to the sleeping man, and the words The Clash were above him in bright bold green lettering, a cryptic meaning possibly attached to the broken musical instrument. There was nothing of any personal worth in Daniel's room other than this one object, and Snape felt a small amount of discomfort at even being here in his friend's personal domain. Still, it didn't stop him from finding Daniel's bedroom, and instantly being struck with angry disgust at the way the man had simply fallen drunk into bed, a bottle of empty Muggle liquor which Snape shoved with his foot, rolling it out of his way.

It was late, he was tired, and all because of Daniel he just might never sleep again.

He marched to the bed and sank onto it, his arms crossed as he did so. His head hit the pillow beside his friend with a soft thump. "Daniel, I am thoroughly displeased with you," he said, and kicked at Daniel's leg to get his point across. Daniel groaned at the touch. "I should have thought that by this time you would have trusted me enough to give me the truth."

Daniel groaned a little more loudly and stirred onto his side. He blindly grabbed a small metal object on his side table and looked at it. "Sev, it's two am. The truth is only present between the hours of eleven am and ten pm." He dropped the metal object with a small clang onto the side table, and then buried his face into his pillow. Snape shoved at his leg again.

"How do you know Aristotle Crowley?" Snape asked him.

"Who?"

"Aristotle Crowley!" Snape exclaimed, and Daniel pushed his head further into the muffling effects of his pillow. "The wizard who tried to blow you up!"

"I don't think I do," Daniel said. "He just sounded like a guy I used to know."

"A friend of yours?"

"Oh no, not at all," Daniel replied. "He killed my goldfish."

Snape took a few moments to digest this information. "You don't get along very well with people, do you?" Snape observed.

Daniel didn't answer. He'd already fallen back asleep. Snape sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if maybe he should just give up and leave but the thought of heading all the way back down the express stairs to his room in the dungeons was too much of an effort to bear. Besides, the pillow here was comfortable, and Daniel had a much warmer room than he did.

Sleep took him captive, and without complaint.

***
Severus Snape, potions master and head of Slytherin house in the wizard school known as Hogwarts, awoke to a horrible buzzing noise in his ear, and a Muggle named Daniel Deschamps' face only inches from his own.

Daniel was frowning. He reached over Snape and hit something metal on the side table, effectively shutting the creature up.

"Did we...?" he began, and Snape groaned, turning away on his side.

"It's too early to talk," Snape grumbled.

"I see," Daniel said.

This bed was significantly more comfortable than his as well, Snape thought, along with the room being warmer than his own, and completely without that horrible basement dampness the dungeons were infamous for. Usually, he had no trouble at all getting ready for a day of tormenting young minds, but the pull of comfort was too much of a temptation, and for once he allowed himself to indulge in it. He could feel Daniel shift again beside him, and he did his best to ignore him while he earned some much deserved extra few minutes sleep.

Daniel leaned on Snape's arm, a very friendly pose. "Rise and shine, then," he said, and flicked Snape's forehead with his forefinger and thumb.

Snape swore a little in Latin and was about to tell Daniel just what he thought of his early morning alertness (along with these much more comfortable surroundings, which should have been given first to a wizard of Snape's own stature), when the words were stolen by another sensation--One terribly familiar, and harrowing, and confusing and...and..

And pleasant...

Daniel rested his chin on Snape's shoulder after the delivery of the kiss. "I have to get ready," he said, and bounded off the bed. "I'll see you at three o'clock!"

***
"There is no way I can figure this out."

Hermione glanced over at Harry Potter and 'tsked' in only partial sympathy. "Shakespeare does have his moments," she said. "This is incredibly difficult, I don't know how he expects us to narrow down all the nuances of Lady Macbeth's soliloquy into a two page essay."

Ron was positively lost. They'd spent twenty-five minutes of their break in mutual complaint in the dungeon hall, white pieces of paper mocking them. "What the hell does he want us to *do*?" he asked the paper in front of him, which wasn't forthcoming with information. " 'Discuss in two pages, double spaced, the properties of Lady Macbeth's speech and the resulting consequence upon the symbolic magical elements within the play, as well as its influence on the construction of the murder scene, in as accurate details as possible.' I've read that sentence fourteen times and I still can't figure out what the hell it means!"

Ahead of them, Draco Malfoy was with his usual cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. He passed a noted look at Harry Potter before turning back to his henchmen, laughing. Harry kept his guard up, but Crabbe and Goyle took the express stairs to the upper floors. Hermione and Ron waited until they were well out of sight before heading for them themselves. Draco Malfoy had a potions class with Harry, which explained why he still remained, but it did not explain why he marched up to all three of them, a singularly angry expression on his face. Ron kept his hand on his wand, and both Harry and Hermione narrowed their eyes at their enemy.

Draco stopped in front of them, glaring down at them all, and Harry waited for the insulting quip that was about to be spit out.

"What the hell is a soliloquy?" Draco asked.

Harry blinked. His friends were in likewise shock. He supposed some things in wizard life were more universal than others, and in an odd way, Daniel Deschamps and his incompetence at teaching had somehow become a highly unsteady bridge between them all.

"I believe it's a long speech made by a singular character in a play," Hermione answered, confidently. "Like an aside. It's what they're thinking."

"I don't get it," Ron said, shaking his head. "If it's an aside, and it's what they're thinking, then what does it have to do with the rest of the whole play? And more importantly, how am I going to write two entire pages about something that I don't understand one word of? And why is it worth seventy percent of our marks for the year??" Ron blushed furiously. "What the devil does 'unsex me here' mean?" He looked at the three gathered around him for uncomfortable support. "It doesn't mean what I'm thinking it does...Does it?"

"Draco," Harry said, and was wholly unnerved to have to do so. "This will be the first and only time I will ever beg you of anything." He swallowed, forcing the dryness from his mouth. "Will you please, *please* tell your father about Daniel Deschamps? He's still got influence with the board of governors, if he could help get rid of..."

The door to the potions classroom swung open. "Potter! Malfoy! Are you going to spend the rest of the year debating the wording of a man who's been dead for five hundred years, or are you going to actually attempt to *learn* something useful?" Snape glared at them both as Hermione and Ron scrambled to the express stairs and away from the potions master's ire.

"Shakespeare is very useful," Deschamps' voice said behind Snape. Harry shrank a little as Deschamps looked over Snape's shoulder at both he and Draco, and he wondered how much the English professor had heard of their complaints. "One can deduce an incredibly accurate vision of Elizabethan history and life through his works, not to mention how they dealt with law and crime and guilt, and how easily such things have transferred over into present day dealings."

"His works are full of nothing but prejudicial slagging of wizards and witches and a skewered concept of magic and its function," Snape argued.

"You only think it's skewered because of your life experience," Deschamps argued back. "In my world it's often said that history is painted in the colours of those who won. An accurate portrayal is often impossible, so one must observe as many different sources and angles on a situation..."

"I think knowing Muggles were willing to burn people alive for using magic says plenty," Snape asserted hotly.

Harry and Draco slunk past both professors to get into the potions room.

"From what I understand, wizards aren't all that fond of Muggles themselves, are they? I've seen in your own school's historical accounts "Hogwarts, A History", that crimes against Muggles in this establishment were not uncommon nor even observed as crimes until well into the middle century."

"You are taking out of context a tapestry of knowledge that has been in existence for tens of thousands of years."

"And you, dear man, are forgetting the fact that the Muggle world is significantly older, and we can trace its existence through factual means to over five million years ago."

"Utter nonsense! The wizard world is just as old, and you know as well as I that Muggles didn't even start *counting* their time on their world until just over two thousand years ago. It's a known fact that magic has been in existence since time itself began!"

"Yes, apparently. But can you carbon date it?"

"You are giving me a migraine."

"Shall we continue this argument later? In my room...About eight o'clock tonight?"

"Definitely."

Daniel Deschamps walked briskly through the potions classroom to the side door connecting to his own. He didn't close it all the way, and a sliver of uncomfortable white light seeped into Snape's dungeon room. Harry noticed that Professor Snape's eyes were constantly drawn to it, and that he was oddly quiet as the class settled into their seats. He never left his post at the front of the room, his black gaze constantly flitting from that sliver of white light back to the students before him.

"Today, we are going to discuss the properties of black nettles," Snape said. He paused, his hand sliding over the page dedicated to the subject in his copy of their potions book. "They are often used in charming spells, sometimes in love potions, and in memory collections. The black nettle has a long standing history of igniting a person's passions. Its essence is remarkably cool when distilled, but when one drinks it, it burns hot against the heart, causing it to beat in a fast, unnatural rhythm. There's euphoria...A sense of completeness and yet, overall, a fear...A wonderful, tantalizing, passionate fear that what has happened wasn't quite right but it's perfect beyond any explanation you can give yourself, and you find that you've fallen, quite helplessly, into a complicated place from where you aren't even sure you want to find your way out of..."

He didn't look at all well, Harry thought. He frowned at the way Snape was so oddly agitated, his hands clutching at the row of buttons on his robe, at a place near his heart. His sallow complexion looked oddly reddened, especially when he glanced at that sliver of white light that kept inching its way into his potions room.

Draco's voice was near Harry's ear. "That Deschamps has gotten right under Snape's skin," he said. "Look at him. He's practically frothing at the mouth, it's awful."

Harry couldn't help but agree. As the class wore on, Snape's composure didn't entirely calm, and for some unknown reason his biting sarcasm was missing for a good portion of the lesson. He never picked on Harry once, which spoke volumes more than anything else of Snape's unsettled state of mind. There was only one explanation that could exist for this to happen, and Harry relayed the information in a low whisper, mostly to himself, but also as an answer to Draco's own worry.

"He hates him."

Snape's eyes shot at him, ferreting out the fact that Harry Potter had whispered in class. "If you have something to discuss Mr. Potter, perhaps we should all hear what it is?"

Harry didn't answer.

"Ten points off Gryffndor," Snape said. He narrowed his eyes at Draco Malfoy as well, and to everyone's shock said "And ten points off Slytherin. There's no whispering in my classroom."

Draco paled. "He's gone mad with rage," he whispered to Harry, who wisely didn't respond.

"Again, is it?" Snape said, shooting a devilish look at Harry. "Ten more points off Gryffndor!"

"But.."

"Silence or I'll have you collecting nettles in daylight." Draco sniggered and Snape sought him out as well. "That goes for you too, Malfoy. Perhaps an afternoon journey to the dark forest for a good collection of the weed will do wonders for ceasing both of your tongues. The black nettle isn't known for enjoying harvesting--a few stitch worthy lacerations from their thorns might help you keep quiet in future." He gave Draco a pointed glare. "I should expect as a Slytherin you understand the rules more than most."

Draco wasn't pleased, but he said nothing for the remainder of the class. By the time it was over he was as red faced as a candy heart, and practically pulled on Harry's arm as they collected their books.

"My father will hear about this," he promised.

Harry figured he would.

He looked at his potions professor with a mixture of anger and, surprising as it was, pity. He could understand the madness a person like Daniel Deschamps could inspire in one, though even now he couldn't fully say why it was that he, Harry Potter, disliked his English teacher so much. If he really investigated it, he could say that it was more about Daniel representing that part of his life, the Muggle part to be exact, that he was so disconnected from and hated by.

As if bidden by a dark arts spell, Daniel Deschamps quietly opened the connecting door, nearly sending Snape out of his skin in agitation as he entered the room. He waved a small, white envelope towards Snape, and gave the half emptied class a lopsided smile. "Don't mean to be a bother. I just received this, I was wondering if you could check it?"

Snape avoided looking Deschamps in the eye. "What for?"

"Anthrax," Daniel replied.

Harry, along with a few other students of Muggle background, dived to the back of the classroom. Snape looked quizzically on.

"I'll take care of it," he said, coldly.

Daniel hovered near his right shoulder as Snape took the envelope.

"Eight o'clock," Deschamps said in a harsh whisper, and Snape's face practically exploded into a red blush. His lesson on black nettles seemed to be playing out in his physical body at present, a result that didn't abate even after Deschamps had made his way back into his classroom, the potentially deadly envelope now in Snape's shaking hand.

Harry couldn't help but be alarmed. Snape never reacted like that with *anybody*.

He made a vow as he left that this had to be investigated. He shoveled his books and cauldron under his arms and practically fled the room, not waiting for Malfoy to get him into any more trouble simply by talking to him--which was another incredibly odd occurrence. He'd take a few lessons of Deschamps' himself to heart, and make sure he got a few other angles to these circumstances.

He'd tell his godfather, Sirius Black, and maybe, just maybe, he'd manage to avoid involving any of the Malfoys after all.

***
It wasn't that he didn't have control of the situation. Daniel was the one who was waiting for him, who genuinely enjoyed his company, who would be the most adrift should it abruptly end.

So why was it his own hand that was shaking as he held that envelope and dropped it into the purifying potion in his cauldron, the blue flames displaying nothing but the money owed for an overdue medical textbook?

"Because," Snape thought,"I'm the one with the most to lose."

The sensation was horrible. He was happy.

No one knew better than Severus Snape how tentative that state could be.

He closed the door connecting his room to Daniel's, and placed the lid back on his cauldron, holding the purifying contents safely in place. Behind him, in its jar on the top shelf, the pickled centinewt yawned, and closed its huge, squishy eyes as it slept.

Snape knew one thing. This happiness he'd somehow found--He didn't deserve it.

He put out the lights in his classroom, the day had ended. He would go to his room, and read, and not see the words, and would pace for a few hours, and maybe think about eating, but wouldn't. He'd wait for eight o'clock, and then he'd think about visiting Daniel and he would argue with himself against it, and he knew, without being a false prophetess like that Trewlany woman, that he would give up at exactly eight-thirty p.m. and he'd find himself going up those express stairs and would walk silently, with forced confidence, into Daniel's room.

Where any argument went from there, he wasn't about to hazard a guess.

END