Snape in the Magic City

Chapter Four

The building Priscilla had pictured was derelict: a Muggle ruin. Her childhood memory was of an old Muggle photograph, but static though the image was, she had recalled it clearly and with a wealth of detail.

And a good thing, too, thought Snape; because if I'd tried Apparating to the magical place she and Daisy described I might well have landed up two or three miles from here. Say, bang in the middle of her parents' den.

"Mother and Dad will be in the den," Priscilla had told Snape and Daisy back in Kentucky. "It gets more light than any other room but the kitchen, and the chairs are a lot more comfortable."

The fireplace was in the den, too, Priscilla had said. Not that there would be a fire in it this time of year, but it was the focal point of the den when the TV wasn't working.

"So she can't go by Floo," Daisy had told Snape. "Her dad's not in the best of health, and her mother would have a Hippogriff if Priscilla stepped out of the fireplace without any warning that she was on her way."

"And you can't owl them," Snape had added. This was an assumption; but one didn't need Legilimency to know some things.

And Priscilla had confirmed it. "They don't like me to send them owls. Especially not in broad daylight."

Daisy had rolled her eyes at Snape, giving him the look of one pure-blood to another--Barking, aren't they, Muggles? and pathetic.

But Snape recalled his own parents' list of musts and mustn'ts.

And now he was standing under a clear blue Alabama sky, in front of a building that to his eyes looked neither like a ruin nor like the store-cum-restaurant Priscilla and Daisy had last visited more than two years before.

They had described "The Redeye" as rustic: a building that looked very like the "old country store" the Muggles thought it had once been.

And indeed there were chairs on the verandah; but nobody could have rocked in any of them without first enchanting those spindly legs. They did not look at all inviting to Snape; and with that madding playground just round the corner of the building, even the most longsuffering of parents would soon have sought refuge indoors.

Snape wanted to seek refuge indoors himself. Whatever else he might find, there was sure to be a loo; and he didn't fancy resorting to the woods just beyond the playground--not with the mosquitoes so thick in the air out here. They'd been attacking him ever since he'd Apparated, sucking his blood as an alternative to performing Engorgement Charms on themselves.

"Repello!" Snape muttered, and slapped his neck without bothering to reach for his wand.

Where could Daisy be? He hoped she hadn't got lost. Surely she could Apparate inside--but not directed by an interior view of the gents toilet.

It was going to be awkward enough in there managing these Muggle clothes. He wondered if the trousers she'd put on back in Bat Lick were as uncomfortable as his jeans . . .

Best not go there, he told himself. Still, it was funny how cousins could talk of so many foolish things when they were kids and never even touch upon subjects that might be of real use later on in life.

Or was it just me? Snape wondered now. Is it just Statice's line that's always been so strict and straitlaced they could have passed for Puritans?

Except for the breeches, he thought irritably; and slapped at another mosquito.

He'd never thought he'd be looking forward to Daisy arriving anywhere. Perhaps while he was waiting he ought to have a look at that Alihotsy growing by the verandah. See if a bit of H. appalachiana would give southern mosquitoes hysterics.

He was just taking his first step towards the building when he heard a small pip of a sound--and Daisy Apparated a few feet away.

At least she won't feel the need to hug me this time, Snape thought. Where have you been? he started to snarl--but Daisy forestalled him.

"Hi!" she said, and gave him the toothy smile that reminded him of one of his former students. Wasn't it bad enough that she was half Brightsmith? Why must she have red hair as well, and wear glasses?

"Thank you for directing me," she went on. "I'd never have gotten here without you. This place doesn't look a thing like it did the last time I saw it.

"It doesn't even have the same name," she added, and putting a hand up to shade her eyes against the westering sun she squinted at the sign above the verandah.

The Moon & Faun flashed on and off, on and off; while the bearded little figure swung from the crescent moon's cozy curve to the tips of its horns and back again.

"Oh, Severus, it's gotten cute."

Surprised by Daisy's tone, Snape turned from the sign to see that the look on her face confirmed the distaste he'd heard in her voice. Indeed, she was half Brightsmith.

"Be that as it may," he said, "I'm going in. You can wait out here if you like--"

"No thank you! I've had enough of noisy playgrounds for one week."

Snape felt his lips twitch. "After you, then," he said; and followed her up the steps of the verandah.

* * * *

"It's quite old, this place, isn't it?" As Americans calculate age, Snape added to himself.

He and Daisy were sitting at a table not far from the Moon & Faun's fireplace, which at present was devoid of flames but filled with an arrangement of dried grasses and flowers that were enough, Snape reckoned, to make a Kneazle sneeze.

He had a tankard of Butterbeer in front of him, hotter than the southern September day warranted, but as long as he kept tapping the tankard with the tip of his wand the Butterbeer kept sending up puffs of steam which cleared his sinuses.

"The building's about two hundred years old," Daisy said. " I doubt it's ever been cute before, in all that time."

She took a sip from her own, frosted, tankard.

Cold beer halfway through September. Snape shook his head. In the Three Broomsticks there would be a fire in the fireplace.

And no doubt the fire would be hissing and sputtering from the rain that would be pouring down the chimney as well as out in the street.

The Three Broomsticks would be loud with laughter, unlike the Hogshead, where any conversations would be conducted in furtive mutterings.

They would also, as in the Broomsticks, be conducted in accents as varied as the colors of the

speakers' robes. But all the accents would be familiar to Snape. Homely, he thought. Unlike the ones that filled the Moon & Faun.

Oh, most of these people were speaking English. But the ones who weren't, weren't speaking Scots or Gaelic or Irish or Welsh or Cornish or Manx or any of the other languages one regularly heard spoken in Hogsmeade.

Snape caught a word of what sounded like Spanish here, now and again; but even the English he couldn't help overhearing sounded as foreign to him as if all the speakers had been Muggles.

Quite a few of them were dressed like Muggles. But then so were he and Daisy.

She and Priscilla had said that Creek Rise was an all-wizarding community. It was not, however, isolated like Hogsmeade. Even inside the Moon & Faun, surrounded by conversations, the clatter of crockery and cutlery, and the music of the quartet on the small stage, Snape could hear the roar of Muggle traffic out on the highway and the drone of Muggle aircraft up in the sky.

And the squealing and screaming of the young witches and wizards out in the playground.

Snape wondered if Ministry emissaries ever met their opposite numbers in loud and crowded family restaurants. Spying for Dumbledore certainly did not prepare one for bright lights and music and happy laughter. For a moment Snape almost envied Priscilla her meeting with her parents in their home. Without electricity a Muggle house would be dark and quiet compared to this place.

Would a Ministry diplomat be circulating? Snape wondered. Striking up conversations with the locals at the bar, perhaps? The only conversation he had heard in the gents had been a remark that it was hard to believe that just a couple of miles from here people didn't have lights or any way to cook their food or keep it cold. The reply had been as monosyllabic as any comment heard in a British toilet, and Snape had not been about to add his own two Knuts' worth.

Perhaps the joke was old over here as well.

Snape gave his tankard another tap with his wand, then laid down the wand and picked up the tankard. As he did so, his glance fell upon Daisy. She was looking at him as if she were trying to qualify as a Legilimens.

"What?" said Snape, and put the warm rim of the tankard to his lips.

"Are you OK?" Daisy asked.

Better now, Snape thought, as the hot liquid went down.

"Should you be drinking all that?" Daisy persisted.

Snape indicated her own tankard and took another swig from his.

Daisy pulled a face worthy of Poppy Pomfrey. "But I'm not--"

She stopped, and sighed.

"What?" Snape repeated.

She sat just looking at him for a moment. Why was her face flushed? He was the one drinking hot beer. And there was no fire in the fireplace.

Snape swallowed and set his tankard down. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She drew a deep breath, and her cheeks went even redder. "I'm not the one who heads straight for the rest room the minute I get to someplace. And you're not as old as Great-uncle Algie."

"And my personal habits are not your concern."

Snape curled his lip. How could he nearly have added, "Miss Brightsmith"?

Unlike a student she did not look hurt or frightened by his retort. Unlike Poppy Pomfrey she did not look offended. She merely sat regarding him with those dark eyes of hers.

Snape eyes.

Eyes like his, he told himself. Eyes that most people thought were black, so long as you didn't let anyone get close.

Snape wondered if anyone had ever got close enough to see that Daisy's eyes--like his--were in fact not black, but midnight blue.

"But I am concerned, Severus," she was saying. "You're my cousin."

"And Priscilla is your friend. And don't worry, Cuz: Albus Dumbledore wouldn't have sent me if I wasn't fit."

That brought her up short, Snape was pleased to see.

But only for a moment.

Then she was off again. "Albus Dumbledore sent you? What about my letter? Didn't that mean anything to you?"

"It did. It meant having to tell my headmaster my cousin had asked me to help her friend's family. It meant having to give up my weekend--a weekend I had planned to spend collecting ingredients for a number of potions I researched this summer and watching my house Quidditch team practice. It meant having to Apparate nearly four thousand miles and then another--what? four hundred?--to do work for which I have no qualifications but my name and my blood."

"And your skills."

"Oh. Right. My skills. How could I forget those? I can convince people I'm something I'm not. I can live up to the expectations they have of me based upon their perceptions of me. Oh, yes--and one further qualification: if anything happens to me, I won't be missed."

Snape curled his lip again, but this time it took more effort. He picked up his tankard--but it was empty. He looked around for a waiter or waitress, and saw several--all of whom were busy serving other customers.

He sighed, and turned back to Daisy.

And her eyes were like the lake back at Hogwarts: blue-black and sparkling.

Oh, Merlin, not tears! He had only said what was true. Next thing she'd been expecting him to lend her a clean hankie.

Snape cast about for something else to say before her tears could overflow.

"This community . . ." What had Priscilla said it was called? . . . "It's far older than this building. Isn't it?" he prompted, as if Daisy had been a first-year. A Hufflepuff.

And like old Helga herself--and like a true Snape (except for the sniffle)--his cousin plowed straight in.

"It's about the same age as Hogwarts. Give or take a hundred years." She cleared her throat, and gave him a rather tremulous smile. "How did you know it's old?"

"Our Professor Binns includes a bit of American history of magic in his lessons. For example, he told us that the settlers who preceded the white wizards here didn't call themselves Creeks.

"But Priscilla grew up in Kentucky," he added, half to himself, recalling the first conversation he'd ever had with her.

"So did her father." Daisy not only had quite large front teeth, Snape reflected--she also had the look of a scholar. He'd never noticed before, but--Merlin's balls, he thought, she looks like her great-aunt . . . what was her name? The Brightsmith one, the one who could recite their genealogy like a list of potion ingredients.

His cousin also had the smile of a primary-school teacher.

Well, and a cat can watch a Diricawl . . . up to a certain point, he reflected. He answered Daisy's smile with one of his own most sardonic ones.

"Can you feel it?" he asked.

"The magic?" Her smile grew wider. "Oh, yes. These old bricks have soaked up a lot more than sunshine and rain for the past two hundred years." She looked around. "There's wand magic here, and the magic of people who worked with other crafted instruments. But that's not all there is."

She returned her gaze to him, and her eyes looked safe again. Bright with reassuring interest. And dry.

Snape leant back in his chair and propped his feet up on the rung of the one between him and Daisy. "Do the power lines run beneath Priscilla's parents' house?" he asked.

"I don't know. She's never been able to have their lot surveyed." Daisy's cheeks went pink as she said this.

Never tried, more like, Snape thought. "Indeed," he said aloud.

Daisy looked down at her drink. "She's their daughter, Severus. And they're Muggles."

"Which is why you and I are here."

She looked up at him again. Thank you for pointing out the obvious, her expression seemed to say.

But then her eyes narrowed as she peered into his. He let her: she couldn't have delved into his mind even if she'd pointed her wand at him and shouted "Legilimens!" Not that any Brightsmith would have done such a thing anyway--they didn't even probe their own children's minds to learn what the little Nogtails got up to.

No, thought Snape: they only concerned themselves with what one might be doing, and why one might be doing it.

And now Daisy was shaking her head at him. "Don't get all het up about the power lines, Severus. All you need to do is help Priscilla's parents by doing some things they could do themselves if their electricity was working. You know . . . like cooking, laundry . . . being able to see at night . . . keeping their food cold and fresh . . ."

She paused, and Snape took advantage of the fact to state another obvious point. "You and Priscilla can do all that."

"But you can do it better."

She colored up again; but this time she didn't look away from him. "I'm not any good at that kind of thing, Severus. Not with Muggles. . . . And don't look at me like that."

Why not? Snape wondered. When I don't do well even with Muggle-borns?

"You know I'm not," Daisy was saying. "I never have been. And as for Priscilla . . ."

Her voice trailed off.

"Her parents don't like her doing magic," Snape filled in. "Especially not in plain sight.

"No owls in broad daylight," he added.

Daisy nodded. "So it really doesn't matter whether the house is built over any power lines or not," she said. "You can't use them to help the Pratens."

She took a sip of her drink. "It's ironic, though, isn't it? Living in the Magic City and not wanting to have anything to do with magic."

"What's even more ironic is Muggles thinking The Magic City is a Muggle nickname."

"Priscilla told me the Muggles call it that because it grew so fast in the early days. They say it grew like magic. They just don't believe it grew by magic."

"And all the better for all concerned."

Snape took his feet off the chair rung. He leant forward in his chair, and folding his arms on the table, he fixed his gaze upon his cousin She met his eyes; and put down the tankard from which she'd been about to drink.

"Do you know," Snape asked, "what would happen if I were to try and Summon power from any lines that might run through the earth under the Pratens' house?"

Daisy shook her head. Her eyes looked as sombrously black as his felt.

"Nor do I," Snape said.

And nor did Albus Dumbledore's idea of "running a recce" include learning the lie of the physical land as well as of the political.

But I'm not only a spy, Snape reminded himself. I am, as Priscilla Praten so astutely observed, a teacher as well.

A Potions master.

Snape sat back in his chair, and reached for his tankard. And remembered that it had been empty the last time.

Across the table, Daisy's Briarbeer was forgotten as she sat studying him and trying not to be obvious about doing so.

Snape looked around for a waiter or waitress--and saw, in the fireplace, a dark figure spinning rapidly and growing larger and more solid. As Daisy followed Snape's gaze, Priscilla stepped out over the fender, brushing ash and dried seedheads from the long skirt of her dress.