The Visits

Part II: Solutions and Solvents.

Especially if young Aronson is sorted into Hufflepuff, thought Snape, walking down the street. The Fat Friar is always happy to talk. The boy will make quite a face when he finds that Hogwarts' real chaplain has been dead for a couple of hundred of years. Well, this next visit should be, if not easier, at least more fun. Let's go.

He Apparated in a secluded spot and transfigured his robe into a black tunic and trousers. After checking the address in his notebook, he marched towards a small house, in front of which, chromium steel gleaming in the sun, stood an enormous motorcycle with a sidecar.

"Showoff," sneered Snape. He hated bikes. And bikers. Especially bikers.

He glanced left and right, took out his wand, muttered "Alohomora" and emptied half a sachet of a white powder into the gas tank. Then he walked towards the door, but before he reached it, a large man in denim jacket appeared from behind the house, carrying a big black leather sack.

"Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Pankhill? Allow me to introduce myself - Severus Snape, Professor of Potions at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Delighted to meet you, sir." Snape beamed inwardly, seeing that his sickeningly sweet and soft accent grated on the other man's nerves.

"What?"

"I presume your son has received a letter inviting him to attend our school. I was in the neighbourhood, so I decided to drop by and inquire... I am truly sorry I didn't call in advance. I hope you don't mind."

"Well, you should've called, 'cos we're just leaving for holidays. We've got no time. Sorry." Mr. Pankhill threw the sack over the bike's rack and started tying it.

"Oh, I do hope you'll be able to spare me a few minutes, sir. I would hate to disturb your packing. Perhaps we can talk here..."

He allowed his voice to trail off for a second, enjoying the effect his carefully modulated tones had on the veins on Mr. Pankhill's temple.

"You see, we were most disappointed to read your letter refusing our invitation. We are still awaiting Geoffrey's arrival at Hogwarts."

The man tugged the last strap with a bit more strength than was really necessary.

"You read my letter or not?"

"Actually, I didn't have the pleasure, but my esteemed colleague, Professor..."

"I made myself clear. I do not want Jeff to go to your school. So don't expect him to turn up."

"But, why, pray? It's really an excellent institution..."

"Listen, I've made up my mind, okay? Spare yourself the trouble."

"But, my dear sir, Geoffrey's abilities make him such an excellent candidate!"

For a blockheaded and rash Gryffindor, if he takes after you, thought Snape.

Mr. Pankhill straightened up and looked him in the eye.

"I'm busy packing, Mister. I've told you all you need to know. So don't waste my time. Or your own."

"Mr. Pankhill, I implore you..."

But the man was already halfway to the door. After a moment he appeared carrying another identical black leather sack.

"You still here?"

"Mr. Pankhill, I really cannot leave before asking you to reconsider your decision."

The man hung the sack, but didn't start tying it to the frame. Instad he leaned against the saddle.

"So you did. So I will." He was silent for a second. "So I've reconsidered. But I haven't changed my mind."

"But why, for goodness sake?"

I almost overdid the accent, thought Snape, seeing the man clutching the leather of the saddle. He should explode after next sentence, not this one. These bikers. All think themselves "real men". All real arseholes. No control, no brains.

"Professor..."

"Snape, sir, Snape is the name."

"...Snape, I repeat for the last time. Jeff isn't going to your school. He may be a Wizard, but he'll go to the normal school and stay a normal kid, understand?"

Now was the time for the final coup.

"But there's great opportunity for advancement..."

Mr. Pankhill turned purple, his meaty hands knotted into fists, he rushed forward, but was stopped by his own bike.

"'Cause I don't want him to go to any of your bloody public schools, clear? I won't have him changed into a bloody smooth talking prick like you! When he finishes his school he can go to bloody Oxford for all I care. He'll be big enough to decide on his own! But now I want him to be a child and not a public-school stuffed shirt, got me?"

"A bit of politeness..."

"Don't you talk to me about politeness... Professor. You're all the same - if you had any 'politeness', you'd have gone away a long time ago! I told you're not wanted! But no, you had to stay and try to fuck with my head. That's the kind of 'politeness' I'm trying to protect my son from. You're like fuckin' politicians, that's what you are, the lot of you!"

He was trying hard not to jump over his bike and throw himself at Snape, who observed it all with great amusement, although he displayed only a mix of uneasiness and fear.

"But Geoffrey..."

"Oh, just scram, will you? We're leaving anyway. Stay if you want. Talk to the bloody walls. Jeff!"

A boy clad in blue jeans and a jacket identical to his father's came running from behind the house, carrying a biker's helmet. A pair of goggles dangled on his neck.

"Jump in! Quick!"

The boy cast a short curious glance at Snape and jumped into the basket, pulling on his goggles.

"We'll meet again soon, Mr. Pankhill. We still need to talk."

"I don't think so..."

The rest of the sentence was drowned by the roar as the engine kicked to life. The bike leapt forward, leaving Snape in a large cloud of dust. When it subsided, the Potions Master swept the sand from his tunic and produced a map from his pocket. For a second he looked at the red dot speeding through the streets, then he folded the paper and walked down the street to the café. He drank a large glass of grapefruit juice, tracing at leisure the movements of the dot until it stopped. He waited for a while longer, to make sure it didn't move again. Then he left the place, stepped into the side lane and Disapparated.

* * * * *

He surveyed the situation from behind a dense bush. There was nobody around save a few cows regarding him philosophically, unmoved by his sudden appearance. An old shack stood further down the road, less then twenty yards from the bike, which was still gleaming in the sun, but not roaring and not speeding down the road. Not any more. Its owner was crouching at the side of the engine, trying to guess what had happened. His son jumped off the sidecar and went to have a look behind the hedge on the other side of the road.

"Jarred? How could it? The oil was fine, I checked!" Mr. Pankhill smelled the wisps of smoke. "Traces of char... It means rebuilding the engine. My God..."

What a tragedy, thought Snape, standing behind him.

"Mr. Pankhill? I believe we hadn't finished our conversation."

For such a large man, Mr. Pankhill moved very fast. He was on his feet in an instant, clutching a spanner, his eyes screaming murder.

"There would be a better place there," Snape pointed to the shack. "Your son may be watching."

The mention of the boy stopped the spanner half way to massacring Snape's nose.

"Shall we? Then follow me, Mr. Pankhill."

They marched towards the shack, Pankhill a half-step behind, Snape speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

"So you didn't want to commit murder in front of your son. Commendable. Doesn't quite fit my experience of people of your sort."

The man gurgled and Snape continued.

"Bikers, I mean. Worst possible tempers and no self-control whatsoever. The passion for those machines must compensate for some deficit. I'm not curious what kind. Impedimenta," he finished evenly, as they just disappeared from the view, hidden by the shack's walls. Mr. Pankhill froze in mid-step. Snape stood in front of him and crossed his arms.

"And so, Mr. Pankhill, ends your dream of beating me to a bloody pulp with your tool. Or strangling me with your big hands. Third term charm. And before you finished your move, I'd be able to go for lunch, then do some shopping, put in some quality time reading in a library - mind you, I know several excellent ones - and come back here, after supper, to check if you'd finished your wave. But I doubt you would have."

"On the other hand I could stay here and enjoy myself skinning you alive. I have a potion in my pocket which does just that. The skin peels like a glove. But I have already wasted enough of my time on you. I don't know how such a fool, with only large metal toys on his mind, could spawn a Wizard, but you managed. Now you are required to provide him with a proper education - namely you have to do nothing, as we do everything. Really comfortable for you, as you will be able to spend all the day polishing your bike... or to occupy yourself with something equally important and useful."

"Your son was born with a special ability he needs to cultivate. I'll see to it that he does. And I hope you won't waste his young talent killing him on some crazy ride during the holidays. I see he's come to see if you're all right. Commendable, I repeat. Cares about you, does he? Shall we embarrass you by showing him strong Daddy not able to move a finger? Maybe... not. Finite Incantatem."

"Dad?"

Mr. Pankhill was purple and not quite capable of speech.

"Your father and I have had a discussion about your future, Mr. Pankhill. Your father has reached the proper decision and you should be grateful. It was not easy for him."

"Yes, Jeff... Professor..."

"...Snape..."

"... convinced me you ought to learn more about your, you know, gift." He took a large gulp of air. "So you'll go for this school for Wizards after all."

"Oh." The boy turned and walked slowly to the bike. The men followed.

"You're not happy, Jeff? You'll meet new kids. Learn magic... It could be fun."

"Yes... But I'll be coming home for holidays, won't I? And you'll be taking me for rides on Annie? If she runs again..." he finished, becoming sad again.

His father crouched at his side, his anger gone.

"Of course you will. I'll repair Annie, you'll see. And you won't be going to an unknown place. You know Professor Snape already."

I'll be damned if the boy doesn't end up in Gryffindor, thought Snape. Like father, like son. First he wants to kill me, and now he's noble-heartedly praising me to the boy, because the kid threatened to shed a tear. Pathetic.

"Professor?" The boy lifted his head. "You'll be teaching me? What?"

"I teach the subtle art of Potions. Useful in all walks of life... it can even be applied to Muggle inventions as this one." He touched the tyre with the very tip of his polished black shoe. "For example, here is the general solvent used by Potion masters for cleaning charred cauldrons. Smell it."

The boy sniffed the vial. "Stinks of petrol."

"Indeed, kerosene is the main solvent. And what does it mean in regard to this?" He poked the tyre again.

"It'll mix with fuel... Can it dissolve the char? Annie will go again? Really?" The boy's eyes lit up briefly.

"Maybe there will be some chance for you in Potions, Mr. Pankhill, if you remember not to sniff directly out of the bottle containing unknown substance. Yes, pour it into the tank and the machine should run after half an hour. It would be prudent, though, to change the petrol, not use it up."

Benevolence to a lesser kind.

"Since the matter is now decided, I shall be gone. It would be best, Mr. Pankhill, if you call this London number, as soon as possible."

The large man, now somehow shrunk, accepted the card in silence.

"And you, young Mr. Pankhill, I'll see in September."

He Disapparated with an almost imperceptible crack.