The Bear and Barnacle

"...And stop clapping your hands or I will reach right across this fire and clap them in irons," Severus bellows across the floo line. That's always annoyed him about house elves, and having his face in the flames does nothing for his temper, either. More moderately, he continues, "Better. Now, you understand that you would have to receive clothes from Professor Sprout? I will provide her with the equipment you'll wear in the lab and while doing--well, we'll get to that in a moment--in any case, I will provide the uniform and equipment that you'll wear here, but you'll receive it from her hands. Understood? Good.

"Now, there's another matter: I don't currently have a house to bring you to, so--so help me if you start blubbing again I will tell Filch he is not to allow you to clean one single damned thing for a week are you finished thank you. Now, until I do have a house, there is the possibility of your staying with a friend of mine and doing his cleaning as well as helping me in the brewery in exchange for your lodging. I expect I shall also require your assistance in the magics and other arrangements for the residence once I've acquired one. No clapping, I said! I must tell you straightaway that the gentleman in question is a muggle, and that you will be required to cover yourself appropriately by human standards while assisting both him and me, just as you've done while working in the dungeons before. If the equipment you receive from Professor Sprout becomes unrepairable, you will replace it with your own hands. And you will not be allowed alcohol unless you arrange for time away from your duties in advance. Can you manage that? Good. Here's a portkey," he tosses one into the fire, "which will bring you to the gentleman's home; he wishes to meet with you before any final decisions are made. I'll owl Filch with the time. You are expected to stay sober and be a model of utility for the remainder of your time at the school, do you understand? And for Salazar's sake don't gloat to the other elves about having an individual position; it's showy and excessive and in any case they're happy where they are and won't envy you. And remember that the story for everyone who doesn't already know is that I'm dead and your employer will be my cousin and apprentice Mr. Clayborn; Professor Sprout has all his details and so does Professor Flitwick if you don't like to bother her. I have your compliance? Good. Await the owl, then."

He turns the floo off with a sigh. Minerva's right about how much trouble Winky is likely to be, of course, but if he was going to refuse responsibilities thrust on him with the argument that they'd be an unreasonable bother, he should never have accepted the Headship of the House of brutalized children and spoiled brats, and there's Sirius's cat to think about, too, and Rodolphus (although in a less adoptive capacity, of course). And as much as he hates to admit it, the success of his little brewery is making her spare room a more and more crowded stillroom; he's going to have to either restrict his orders or move. It's something he's been struggling with for weeks, but he'll just have to give his inner Slughorn a strengthening potion to help it stand up to his rather more established inner hermit and arrange for weekly teas, or something of that sort.

He sits himself right on the sofa's godawful throw (still with some satisfaction) with a collection of real estate magazines spread out conspicuously on the table, and waits for Minerva to walk in. A shop with a warehouse behind and rooms up top, that's the thing; nothing fancy. It doesn't matter how sparse the rooms are as long as they're there; there are spells for that, and if he can't take care of them himself Clayborn can hire wizarding contractors.

When he sees the paper that morning, Severus snarls wordlessly to himself, state of mind throwing itself back several years in an instant, and leaves a note for Q asking him to take care of the day's brewing (except for the copper cauldron, which he should just throw a stasis spell on). Twice is coincidence? Sod that. He's still not going to write the 'all afire to be on campaign' note that he's been dying to for weeks, or call in the cavalry, but it is time to do something else. Just because no one's been actually killed yet means... enough to matter, but not to reassure; it's early days of a very familiar pattern.

( Some of the spells, he'd learned from Moody, once they'd resolved their differences.* )

At four o'clock, utterly drained from so many nearly permanent spells, letting the small presence-concealers and deceptions melting away slowly as he's nearly too tired to banish them, he presses Holmes's doorbell. Here's hoping that Albus isn't off having tea in a shop somewhere and can remind him of protections he's missed, that Holmes isn't and can tell him where people who need more protection than he's been able to lay on today live. Not having said a word to anyone all day, when the door is opened, he's not quite too weary to be startled by what comes out of his mouth.

* This had involved a two-hour duel, evenings on end of grading and reading through the Albus And Alastor Knitting And Comedy hour, an ambush on an attempted ambush (wherein Alastor got petrified and his wand stolen and sent up to Albus but not hurt, which Moody found persuasive, although not convincing), and a really dreadful pun involving cocaine and hallucinatory alligators, which had gone on for nearly ten minutes before someone failed to keep an entirely straight face. The final blow had been when Moody, during his recovery period from Crouch's box, had been cajoled by one of Severus's all-time favorite pupils into flying a kite outside, and then taught her a few charms to stop other students stealing her books and shoes. Severus had sent him an obviously-hexed card which, when the hex was disabled, manifested a bottle of really good lubrication for Moody's false leg, and Moody had smacked him so hard upside the back of the head on the way to the Great Hall the next day that he'd thought it was Hagrid. And that was that.

Q, who has been keeping himself occupied with Severus' back issues of Brewers Monthly, now pokes his head round the door. He'd made himself temporarily deaf, as opposed to casting a silencing charm on Severus' lab with who knows what consequences, so he listens intently. Not hearing anything untoward (which isn't necessarily a good thing), he ventures out into the hall. "Severus?" he calls. He wanders into the living room. No one there. A peek in the kitchen. Also empty. The wards keep him from the bedrooms and he wouldn't go there anyway, so he heads out to the garden. He sighs with relief when he sees Severus sitting there. "Is it safe to come out?" he asks, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Minerva's memory has yet to fail her, but she's been prepared for it to do so since about eighteen. The habit of keeping extensive, diaristic notes on her research and activities came from her mother, an apothecary renowned for the efficacy of her precisely-prepared remedies. In compact black books Minerva logs her research activities, notes down interesting page numbers from the books she's using, jots questions for later consideration. She also tends to mark things like visits, and interesting weather patterns, and her time of the month back when it mattered, and any interesting newspaper headlines.

Lately the books have been all about Zelgadis Grayweir. There are notes of other things, mind -- "Explosion in Severus' lab, am assured was to be expected," and "Unnaturally hot," and "Rain of fish -- for God's sake," and "Am being haunted by the ghost of Ginny Weasley, with passenger. Am assured of current sanity, but not of its continuance."

( But rarely do three days pass ... )

Lucius sat at his desk, glancing through the owl post and muggle mail, reading glasses perched on his nose. He's noticed that he needs them more and more, as people seem to insist on writing smaller and smaller.

As he reads one letter from a local solicitor, he pulls his quill from the inkstand to make a corresponding note in his desk ledger. He writes the figure from the letter down, but pauses as he begins to write the date. He looks at the book, over to the calendar, and back.

August 17.

He'd completely forgotten. Well, it's not as if anyone else had reminded him. Narcissa's ghost had distressingly vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, only two days prior. She probably would have remembered. He himself had really, truth be told, purposely ignored the date for at least 5 years now, depsite her protests.

August 17. His own birthday. But really, with no one likely to remember, what reason did he have to celebrate another year of age?

He pulled himself out of what felt like the best, most restful nap he’d ever had. In fact, he was a bit reluctant to wake, but something told his brain his work was done, and that the dream he was in could conclude itself. The boy…no, the man, had already succeeded. The world would be righted at last.

He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaking through the clouds overhead, and looked around. A beach. Well, there were certainly worse places to find oneself than the shore of England.

He knew very well he ought to be dead. Remembered dying quite clearly – a face, a flash of green light. And yet here he was, and quite sure he was living despite it all. He felt better than he had in years, in fact, as if a great burden had been lifted. Well, it had, he reasoned with himself. And his nose itched. He idly reached up with his right hand and then paused, eyes crinkling in amusement as a perfectly whole, un-cursed hand presented itself.

On a beach, seemingly whole and healthy, and with not a care in the world for once. He looked around again, and seeing buildings in the distance, began walking toward them. Being not-dead and waking from a long nap left one exceedingly thirsty. He looked at the signs above windows as he walked, finally seeing what was unmistakably a pub. Adjusting his hat and lifting the hem of his robes slightly, he stepped up and in the door.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who was overly concerned with tidiness. In fact, if you were feeling petty, you’d call him a slob. It wasn’t that his house was dirty, it was just…cluttered. Very. He was loathe to throw anything away, and papers, books and newspapers were everywhere. At least there weren’t any bullet –pocks on the walls of this house. Still, he did keep cigars in a coal scuttle (bought especially for that purpose; no one used coal heaters any more) and his unanswered mail was indeed transfixed with a jack-knife to the mantelpiece. The Persian slipper for tobacco had been forgone, as it was now much easier to smoke cigarettes that had been rolled rather than getting loose tobacco. All in all, his house was a mess, but Holmes didn’t mind in the least. He knew where everything was and could lay his hands upon any document with a minimum of fuss. However, today he was expecting company (not clients; clients had to take as they found), so he felt a bit of dusting was in order. Holmes bounded down the stairs, exceeding grateful that whatever malady had afflicted him last month seemed to have cured itself. He glanced around the lounge and started to gather the newspapers into a neat(ish) pile. As he straightened the papers, his eyes narrowed. He felt as if he was being watched. He’d long ago cultivated the habit and it had never failed him. He had no weapon; he certainly hadn’t thought he’d need one. He could, however, throw the newspapers at the intruder and distract him while he went for the poker. Holmes turned, drawing himself into a crouch, papers at the ready. Instead of throwing them however, he dropped them. He gaped at what stood before him. “Watson?!” he inhaled the name. “I say Watson, is that you?!” He started forward and the shadowy form turned toward him, an expression of bewilderment on the familiar face. “Holmes!” he cried, though the voice was rather faint. “Is it really you?”

Q stepped out onto his front stoop and almost trod on the small package lying there. He eyed it, surprised. He automatically grabbed for his wand and looked around suspiciously. No one should have been able to get to his house without the wards sounding, let alone leave something. He didn’t see anyone and he knelt to inspect the parcel. It was small, wrapped in brown paper, and had his name in flowing script written on it. No address, so it wasn’t the regular post. Q prodded the thing with a finger. The paper crackled. Frowning, he ran his wand over it, checking for any hexes. Nothing. Gingerly, he picked it up. It was very light. He shook it gently. It made no noise. Recalling every spy movie he’d ever seen, he wondered if it might be a bomb. He discarded the idea immediately. It was much too flimsy for that and no one would be sending him a bomb. Still puzzled, he carried the package inside and set it on the table. It felt like there was something made of cloth inside. He debated whether or not he should do more sophisticated tests on the thing. Obviously it was meant to be a surprise of some sort, but who could have sent it and why? It was months away from his birthday and the only person who might give him anything certainly wouldn’t resort to anything like this. Oh well, only one way to find out. Holding his wand in one hand just in case, Q tore open the parcel with the other. It was a t-shirt. A blue one. “What on earth…” He muttered to himself. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it, so he picked up the shirt, unfolding it. His face lit up when he saw what was written on it. ( Read more... )

from the Kent Messenger

Margate- Residents and tourists in the seaside resort town got a bit of unexpected weather yesterday when a rain of fish suddenly dropped on a quiet block near the beach. The rain began at approximately 8:05AM GMT and ended some ten minutes later. Professor Fred Windbright of the Royal Meteorological Society theorised that the fish (which were mostly deep-sea dwellers) might have been the result of a water spout in the Atlantic. “They’re like Hoovers you know, waterspouts,” he commented. “Suck up anything in their path and then when the wind goes, it just drops. Not an unheard of phenomenon. Rare though, certainly. There was a rain of frogs in Essex a couple of years ago.” Naturally, this has caused some consternation for the town council, who will be meeting in emergency session to try to decide what to do about the mess. Local homeless advocates are chivying for saving the fish to feed the needy. The local animal shelter has been overwhelmed with calls to come and remove various cats, dogs, birds and other animals that are helping themselves to the bounty. The waste removal force is already complaining about the extra work this means for them, busy as they are with the increased rubbish of the season. “My lads will be clocking up the overtime,” said R P Taylor, supervisor of the local union. “I just want to know who’s going to pay for it all.” Residents of the house where the majority of the fish landed refused to speak to reporters.

He’d been on the run for so long it seemed he could scarcely recall a time when he wasn’t. After being left for dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d escaped and managed to stay hidden until his wounds had healed. Then, he’d just wandered. Anywhere and everywhere it seemed. He’d fallen in with smugglers soon after he’d healed. Working just outside of Perth, he’d been an enforcer for a gang, a task he was eminently suited for. That had ended when a dispute over territory left key members of two gangs the victims of a group entrail-expelling curse. The dock warehouse had gotten rather messily redecorated and he’d gotten two suitcases full of money. So all in all, it hadn’t been too bad, even if he did have to work with muggles. Muggles! Merlin how he hated them! It was ironic that he was safer with them then with his own kind. And so he just…drifted. Glasgow, Edinburgh, Cardiff, Liverpool, Swansea. All the bigger cities where a stranger wouldn’t get a second glance. He avoided London though. No sense begging for trouble. He’d let his hair grow out and grown a beard and mustache as a disguise of sorts. But he had no purpose any more. All he’d held dear was gone. Revenge, of course he wanted revenge. That could wait though. Wait until they didn’t expect it. And it would be all the sweeter for the waiting. But there was something, some niggling something that seemed to be calling to him. Not all the time. Sometimes months would pass and he’d feel nothing. Then, out of the blue, there it would be and he’d be off again. He had no idea what it might be. He didn’t dare hope, he just went. Finally, finally, he came to Margate. Here, whatever it was that had been calling him seemed to tell him. It’s here. He walked down the streets, noticing the shops and inns that were being readied for the summer tourists. He saw nothing and no one familiar. He ended up on a lonely stretch of beach, with only the distant cry of seagulls for company. “Show me,” he murmured to the air. “SHOW ME!” he bellowed, his face reddening. The only answer was the pounding of the waves. He picked up a rock and heaved it angrily out into the ocean. Then, Rodolphus Lestrange turned and stalked off toward the town.

Quirinus Quirrell walked out of Bookman’s on Northdown Road clutching a largish paper parcel. He’d taken advantage of the ten books for ten pounds special that the man ran frequently. Bookman guaranteed that the books had all their pages, but that was all. You got what you got and too bad if you didn’t like it. However, Q was interested in quantity, not necessarily quality. Replacing all of his books, especially the magical ones, was quite impossible, but he had to start somewhere. He opened the parcel and rummaged inside without looking, vowing to read whatever his hand closed on first. He pulled out a massively thick volume, gave a satisfied sigh, and began reading, the parcel tucked up under his arm. He retained just enough presence of mind to not step out into traffic. Sure you have. Sure. I never forget a face. Come on over here and let me shake your hand! Q walked and read, oblivious to where he was going. Tell you somethin’: I recognised you by the way you walk before I ever saw your face good. You couldn’t have picked a better day to come. . The back of his neck prickled and Q rubbed it absently, his fingers straying to the ragged hair on the back of his head that would never completely grow back. Again the prickle, as if he was being watched. Q glanced around, not recognising the street he was on. His mouth was suddenly dry. Was he being watched? He closed the book on his finger and swallowed nervously, his eyes darting up and down the block. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just rows of flats. He opened his book again. Can you sit a spell with me? Over here on the steps will be fine. Q inadvertently looked at the steps of the building he was passing. Did he see a curtain twitch? "Stop being such a ninny," he muttered to himself. "No one’s watching you. You don’t even know this street." But an icy shiver ran down his spine. Q shut the book and put it back in the bag. He’d read it later. Right now he figured he’d best keep his wits about him. He patted his pocket, feeling for his wand. He started walking again. He couldn’t be too lost, he reasoned. He’d just walk to the beach and go home from there. Everything would be fine. Just fine.

On one of the benches overlooking the beach, black-clad arm fallen and long, white fingers brushing the sand, a man lies comatose. Gaunt, framed by nearly eighteenth-century clothes and sea-salted black hair, his face would look twenties-young (and his style the gothic of an over-meticulous modern histrionic) if it weren’t so haggardly drawn, the shadows under the eyes so deep and dark. It’s a striking incongruity, although, when he first appeared, he looked a seventy with little strange about it. The forbidding, heavy-clothed, over-buttoned outfit hangs on him rather, although it isn’t cut for a heavy man.

He has a nearly foot-long piece of pale wood holstered to one thigh--smoothly carved, well-worn, and just slightly rosy, with a few remaining flecks of walnut-stain lingering in its few deep groves--and a collection of intriguing little textured vials to the other. A few men with more respect for value and their own curiosity than dignity or possession have, since his unceremonious appearance on the bench, tried to handle or even make off with one or the other. All ran away quickly in pain and astonishment, clutching hideously blistered hands. One tried gloves, to no avail, and one paused to land a retributive backhanded blow.

The only relief of blackness on him are the odd and varied stains on his bony hands, and the spectacularly attractive mess of blood, bruised swelling, and bone-white cravat at his throat. He looks like a vampire victim, were the vampire diseased and the body stirred to a froth of outraged rejection. From the twin wounds, rather large to have been from a human mouth, emerge a slow, exhausted trickle of almost clear fluid. His skin is cold, his heart beats, perhaps, once a minute, and his breath, while regular and continuous, is so slowly even as to be invisible too all but the most interested observer. Peeking from under the cravat is the edge of a note, its handwriting crabbed, annoyed, and painstakingly legible.

( To_you_who_have_chosen_to_concern_yourself )

And, upside down at the bottom of the paper, in a quite different hand, less irritated than morose,

“Riddle
Though in theory I’m always behind you,
Your shadow, to prop and remind you,
And you may, as you roam,
Wish to make me your home,
Do not dwell on me much: I may blind you.”

And, folded into a hidden pocket, just showing since the departure of the disgruntled tough, is a sheet of heavy paper, so full of linen fiber as to feel nearly cloth, much and madly scribbled on.

---

“Leave me alone,” he says. “Sod off, I’m dead,” he says. “Reports of my demise have been grievously understated,” he says. “Of course I’m sure, stop wittering,” he snaps. Unreliable bratstard. Wait till he realizes he started waking up on his birthday =.=