Babbity Git Chapter 1: Part One, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer notice:

The author wishes to make it known that s/he doesn't own Harry Potter or any of the characters, settings, objects, etc. associated with ol' scarhead. Furthermore, s/he'd like to state for the record, that s/he wouldn't want to be—in any way, shape or form—responsible for that infantile epilogue. Though owning Lucius might be nice. However, s/he knows this is a pipedream, as Lucius belongs to Shiv. Also, the author categorically denies any intent on her/his part to resemble any other work of fan fiction in existence, but s/he realizes that s/he is a whorish clichéd hack, and as such, the odds are against her/him. Any resemblance to published works of Popular Culture is fully intended (see; hack) and is properly cited in the author's notes following the story. S/he would lastly like to state that s/he is most particularly sorry s/he is so abysmally, unforgivably late. S/he promises never to hire typing monkeys again; even if they have big brown eyes and hold up signs saying "will work for bananas." They are clearly better suited to picking gnats or flinging excrement.

Babbity Git, Part One

~Prelude~

Severus flexed the slits on either side of his throat in concert with his webbed feet and propelled himself across the murky lake with a silky whoosh. Eddies of water billowed in his wake as he glided through the shadowy depths.

A hypnotic silvery voice lilted out a giggle as he caught a glimpse of glittery green scales and long flame-like hair just ahead. He kicked out again and his reaching fingers brushed against a diaphanous fin. He chuckled with predatory fervour as the fin jumped slightly and then shivered in delight. He swooped suddenly and caught his Piscean nymph by the waist and murmured, "Tag, you're it," in her perfect shell-like ear.

But she wasn't laughing anymore. She turned to face him, concern filling her bright green eyes and said, "Breathe, Snape! Dammit, wake up and breathe!"

This directive confused Severus. He didn't need to breathe. The gillyweed he had consumed was a super-strength potion-enhanced strain guaranteed to last four hours, and he had only been dreaming of swimming in the lake for a half an hour at the most.

Dreaming?

Mermaid Lily slipped out of his embrace and vanished into the turbid depths as the voices outside Snape's dream state penetrated the illusion and tore it to shreds like a hippogriff with a tasty ferret.

Damn. Just when he was about to give her one.

~Rules of the Game~

"—I still say we're bringing him out of stasis too early, Potter."

That Slytherinesque drawl was music to Snape's semi-conscious ears.

"Unfortunately, we don't have a choice, Zabini. The diagnostic scans show he has his full magic back and is completely healed—" Potter sounded almost… apologetic.

"Physically! The scans still show emotional and psychological scarring—"

"No one believes the headmaster deserves a better life and full health more than me."

"Former," Zabini muttered. Potter ignored him.

"But this is Snape we're talking about. He's been under almost five years already. Full emotional and psychological health could take another decade at least."

Ungrateful, insolent, callow, half-witted, egotistical dunderhead.

"You have a point," Zabini conceded.

Three hundred points from Slytherin for disloyalty, Mr Zabini.

"Besides," a new voice piped up, confusing Snape. It sounded familiar somehow, yet different. "He's the only one we can spare or trust—"

His semi-conscious mind chased itself in circles, like a Crup puppy spotting its forked tail for the first time—familiar, different, familiar, different—until it gave up on him and decided to take a kip.

Maybe the ever-lovely mermaid Lily would visit him again…

The first thing Snape did upon regaining full consciousness was to demand various key morsels of information from Blaise Zabini, a far more forthcoming nurse than Poppy Pomfrey. Of course, it helped that Zabini had been Snape's covert informant since he was a Firstie barely out of knee-britches.

The second thing Snape did was to tell the tiny speck of hopeful romanticism still residing in his soul, "I told you so!" His not-so-inner bitter cynic was immensely smug when he realised that Dumbledore, not satisfied with sixteen years of guilt-ridden, pain-filled, and mind-numbingly boring (that was the teaching bit) service, had—by asking Snape to kill him—set him up to die for his sins. For a scrap of black wood wrapped in power, glory and legend, no less. The irony caused Snape to grimace in dark humour. Zabini, observing him quietly, mistook that grimace for a pain response and upped the dosage on the Dreamless Sleep and the Relief Draught accordingly.

When Snape next woke, he noted the complete absence of hopeful romanticism from his soul. He decided to celebrate his descent into fully depressed cynical bitterness—with just a smidge of hopeless romanticism; there was still the aquatic ghost of Lily to deal with—by presenting the Chosen One with a list of his demands.

He was very much surprised, though he hid it well behind a contemptuous sneer, when Potter immediately agreed to the entire list. Before adding a caveat of his own. And the insolent whelp dared to twinkle at him whilst doing so!

Bugger.

"The thing is, Snape, your Dark Lord isn't quite all gone, yet."

If Potter offered him a lemon sherbet, he'd shove it up his bloody arse. Without magic.

"Mr Zabini told me you killed him. And he is not my Dark Lord anymore." He would not be guilt-bound to this half-arsed protégé pretender. He'd done enough.

"Well… That isn't the complete truth either. Turns out, by Summoning Dumbledore's wand, Draco controlled it. When I took Draco's wand off him, I controlled it. So when Riddle tried to use the Elder wand on me, the magic backfired. He killed himself, really. Twice, if you count the forest. Not so quick on the uptake, was he?" The twinkling achieved mirth-filled vibrancy.

His near-death had saved Draco, then. It was a fair cop.

That didn't stop Snape from grinding his teeth; he could sense the other shoe was about to drop.

"Turns out ol' Voldie had another Horcrux up his sleeve." Potter wasn't twinkling anymore.

Buggity bugger.

The voice that had confused Snape earlier spoke again, increasing in volume as it moved from the doorway to Snape's bedside.

"We've pinpointed the location of the last Horcrux, and thank Merlin, the remaining Death Eaters have not. Yet. Which is why you have been revived, Headmaster," said Neville Longbottom as he came into view. "We need you to guard it against discovery."

Longbottom met his former boggart's eyes with quiet confidence. His innate magic was almost a physical presence in the small makeshift sickroom, and Snape was vividly reminded of Neville's father, Frank.

"Why me in particular?" he enquired neutrally.

"Because the enemy thinks you are dead," replied Longbottom. "The Death Eaters and their allies have become quite active again. Everyone on our side has been busy counteracting that activity."

Neville declined to spell it out, but Snape didn't need reminding what activity his former mates were up to. Been there, done that. Had the ink stain to prove it.

"We are very certain they are aware of Riddle's ace in the hole, as it were. Intercepted communications indicate they have started searching for it. If they happen to find it, we'll need you there to keep them from taking it. A resurrection would be inconvenient, to say the least."

Harry chuckled darkly, which caused Neville to raise a sardonic eyebrow in reply. Snape repressed a shudder, feeling as if a goose had walked over his grave.

"We don't anticipate them locating it, seeing as it is stashed in a somewhat remote locale. You'll probably end up rather bored. Think of this as a vacation, if you will."

Snape's curled lip was condescendingly scathing. He'd heard a variation of this song and dance before, too. "If they find it, Mr Longbottom? How did you come to know about this Horcrux and its location?"

"I inherited Dumbledore's Pensieve," said Harry. "After the battle at Hogwarts, I was looking for answers. Neither Riddle nor Albus were very forthcoming, were they?"

Harry and Snape shared a brief look of mutual disgust for their former "masters."

"During the rebuilding process, I came across a room full of chamber pots, and I found a box of bottled memories there. One of the memories showed Riddle having tea with Hepzibah Smith. She had acquired Godric Gryffindor's mace and wanted it authenticated. As an employee of Borgin and Burkes', Riddle was well-qualified to do so. In fact, he had done so for Madam Smith in the past. He also killed her and stole all the Founder artefacts she had collected. He made Horcruxes of the rest as well, which we destroyed, so I was sure he'd made a Horcrux of the mace, too."

Harry stopped his explanation when Colin Creevey entered the room and handed him a roll of parchment. He muttered a decoding spell, broke the wax seal and scanned its contents.

"Ron says the mission is a go," he stated, first looking at Neville and then Snape as Creevey handed him a sealed wooden box.

"Colin here is your main point of contact, Snape. His code name is Hopping Pot. Neville is Sir Luckless, Ron is Sabre, Zabini is Altheda, I am the Third Brother, and you are Babbity Rabbity. Base code name is Stump." He waved his hand over the box, opening it. "Memorise the codes. The Death Eaters might know about the underground frequencies."

He showed Snape the contents of the box, pointing to each item with his wand. "Miniaturised supplies, including the books and firewhisky you required." Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry continued, "Yes, Ogden's Old Special Reserve."

Harry held up a thin metal disc strung on a long piece of supple black leather. "This is a glamour amulet, which you will wear at all times, in case of a skirmish with a Death Eater who might escape."

It appeared to be an ordinary St. Anthony's medal.

"You'll have all the peace and solitude you asked for," Harry said as he tapped a small seashell. "This is your Portkey, Headmaster. It leaves in two minutes." Harry dropped it into Snape's hand.

Snape fiddled with the shell. "I haven't agreed yet, Potter. Your code is transparent and juvenile. Do you have a contingency plan? What is the catch?"

"Riddle put up extensive wards around the Horcrux. Those wards allow for the innate magic of two full wizards on the island," Harry explained. "You can do small magic up to the equivalent of the second wizard, but do so sparingly. We may need to Portkey in occasionally, yeah? Those wards are nasty. You wouldn't like to find out just how nasty the hard way. You'll need to do almost everything the Muggle way. No catch."

Snape rolled his eyes and tossed Potter the Portkey. Or tried to. It seemed to be stuck to his hand. Potter handed him the re-sealed supply box, which Snape accepted automatically with his empty hand, while still trying to shake the shell off.

"Bon voyage, professor." Harry twinkled as he waved cheerfully at a glowering Snape. "As you cannot use Magical forms of communication, there is a pedal radio on the island. We'll be in touch shortly."

"Island? Where the fuck am I going, Potter? You'd better hope those Death Eaters get to me first, Potter. Because if I get to you, Crucio will seem like a slap and a tickle!" He was just working up to a good bollicking when Snape felt a strong tug behind his navel. "You utterly gormless gobshite!" he ranted as he whirled out of sight.

"That went really well, don't you think?" Harry commented mildly as he turned to Colin and Neville.

Neville shrugged and quirked a grin. "About as well as we expected it to."

"Does Snape know how to operate a communication radio?" Colin asked in puzzlement.

"He will soon enough. I charmed the bit with the talking manual to expand first no matter which thing he chooses to un-shrink," Harry replied, unconcerned.

"And the liquid peace offering included with the manual?" Neville enquired with amusement.

Harry smirked as they left the medical room. "Couldn't hurt to calm him down a titch."

~Home Sweet Home~

Severus landed with a bone-jarring crunch on hard rock and abruptly fell to his knees, barely managing to set down the supply box before ejecting the meager contents of his stomach onto the slimy gray-green moss that covered the land beneath him.

He loathed Portkey travel more than snakes and only a little less than Potter, father or son. The list of things he hated was long, granted, but it was variable depending on season and location, excepting the top three positions: Potters, Portkeys, and poisonous snakes. Some things were, by merit, eternal.

He attempted to wipe his mouth, and almost cut his lip with the edge of the seashell he still held. He dropped it to the ground next to the supply box and eyed the pattern of sick before him.

Jackson Pollock, eat your heart out. The wizard Snape was a maestro of artistic regurgitation.

Severus got to his feet cautiously, wanting to avoid upsetting his stomach again. He was also keen to evade touching the disgusting-looking moss. He could feel it, wet and clinging to the hem of his dingy grey nightshirt. Idiots. They hadn't even let him change into proper clothes. At least he had slippers on his feet from a timely visit to the loo. He stared at the supply box. It appeared to be locked tighter than a Gringotts vault.

Brilliant.

Potter's crack support team was performing as expected. He feared it was too much to hope that the blasted box contained a change of clothing, let alone food or water. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Severus looked up and realised he had over-estimated Potter's logistical skills.

He was standing on a low atoll, composed entirely of moss-covered rock, perhaps nine hundred metres across at its widest point. It was, for the most part, long and narrow. And completely bereft of shelter, fresh water, or edible vegetation. He stared out at the placid sea with bemused resignation. Well, he was fucked now. He nearly laughed out loud. And that made his life different how?

The shell. He could use it to pry the box open. Surely, Potter or Zabini had packed his wand. He would reactivate the Portkey—as much as he hated them, he was beginning to loathe the slimy moss more—and encode it to transport him to New Zealand. He would live out his remaining days in drunken obscurity.

As if summoned, the shell floated up to hover before his face, and morphed into a scroll of parchment. It unrolled itself and script appeared on its surface.

Turn around.

Severus curled his lip in disdain, but did so.

Oh.

The medical coma had clearly dulled his normally sharp sense of surroundings, because he had to windmill his arms backwards to keep his footing. He was standing on the western edge of the atoll, facing the sheer cliff wall of a much larger island.

He shaded his eyes against the sun and tilted his head up. The cliff wall was immense. He closed his eyes for a moment and calculated the dimensions in his head. Perhaps four hundred metres high and at least a kilometre wide. He heard a rustling and opened his eyes.

The parchment was before him again, this time displaying a map of the island. He studied it with keen focus, noting the location of a hut, the lagoon and stream. There was also a coral barrier reef, which seemed to form a natural cove at the southern inward curve of the island. A section of the map glowed faintly red in the ghostly outline of a... cave, where Voldemort's last Horcrux was located. Severus traced the tunnel to the entrance with his forefinger and then gently nudged the map aside to scan the surface of the cliff wall.

Ah.

There it was, about two hundred metres up. The opening was barely detectable, recessed under a narrow overhang and just large enough for a full grown man to slip into sideways.

I could destroy it now and then bugger off to New Zealand.

The parchment flapped back in front of his face.

No. The wards would kill you.

Severus rolled his eyes. Did Potter think him a nincompoop? Or worse yet, a Gryffindor? He was well-acquainted with the workings of the Dark Lord's devious mind. Given enough time, he would devise a plan to dispose of the soul fragment and wash his hands of this absurd affair.

In the meantime, how was he meant to get to the blasted island? Flying would expend too much magical energy and set off the "nasty" wards, assuming he had a wand. He had never learned to swim properly, and he was reluctant to try out his doggie paddle against an unknown current pattern.

The parchment rustled to attract his attention. It displayed the map again. As he watched, a small rowing boat appeared at the northern tip of the atoll, about twenty metres from where he stood, and floated on the current down along the cliff face into the cove, coming to a rest at a wooden dock sheltered by a grove of palm trees.

Ah ha.

The parchment rolled itself up again with a neat snap and tucked itself into the breast pocket of his nightshirt, next to his wand.

Wand?

Had it been there all along? He withdrew it from the long, narrow pocket and blushed. Clearing his throat, he picked up the supply box and shuffled cautiously over the slippery rocks to the spot where the rowing boat was hidden. He set the box down again, reaching out with both wand and hand to grasp the invisible rope he felt with his magic.

As soon as his wand touched the scratchy coil of hemp, the small rowing boat bobbed to the surface of the water and steadied itself against the rocky beach of the atoll. He put the box in the boat, and then clambered onboard inelegantly, his slippers affording no purchase on the wet rocks. The oars slipped into the water with barely a ripple, and a few minutes later, the boat docked itself at the island.

~Code Names~

Severus pocketed his wand, hefting the box under his arm to disembark. He checked the boat's moorings, making sure they were secure, and left the dock for the shelter of the lush palms swaying overhead in the tropical breeze. He removed the scroll from his pocket and unrolled it, noting a narrow pathway just north of the dock leading to the lagoon and then beyond it past some palms to the hut. Which was undoubtedly uphill and probably both steep and rocky.

He needed proper shoes, at the very least. He set the supply box down on the dock and tapped the lid with his wand, muttering "Alohomora," almost under his breath, reluctant to disturb the tranquillity around him. The box opened with a tiny pop, and Severus exhaled in relief. He selected a promising-looking minuscule trunk and placed it on the dock, a ways apart from the supply box.

"Engorgio."

The trunk resized itself obediently, and Severus opened it to find a plethora of brightly coloured long-sleeved shirts in tropical patterns, light-weight cotton trousers in khaki and white, Bermuda shorts, flip-flops—he curled his lip at all of it, but reserved his deepest disdain for the flip-flops—thick cotton socks, white y-front underpants and a pair of rugged, deep brown hiking boots. He tugged on a pair of khaki trousers, the thick cotton socks and was lacing up the boots when he heard a throat clear itself in the vicinity of the supply box. Withdrawing his wand, he crouched into a battle stance.

"Show yourself," he hissed.

"Radio is one of the principle means of communication within all units of the army. It is used between rapidly moving units where wire communication is difficult—," a tinny voice droned, ignoring Severus completely.

Keeping his wand at the ready, he approached the supply box with constant vigilance.

"It is subject to interception, location and jamming by the enemy and is affected by terrain and weather conditions—," the radio manual continued in a Texas twang. It lay full-sized at the top of the supply box, a bottle of Ogden's Old Special Reserve nestled at its side.

"Silencio," Severus said. He picked up the bottle and opened it, taking a healthy swig.

"In order that radio communications may follow the proper channels of tactical command, the radio station of the superior unit and the radio stations of its next subordinate units are grouped, by being on the same frequency, for operations with one another. This group is called a net. The composition of each net depends—"

"Muffliato!" He took another drink.

"Correct radio procedure under any operating condition is characterized by brevity, uniformity, and simplicity. When special operating conditions require procedures not illustrated in detail in this Manual, the briefest common-sense application of the principals and signals contained herein will be—"

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

"Every radio net is assigned a frequency on which it must operate, and every station is assigned a call sign by which it is identified. Stations within the same headquarters should be assigned different call signs. A call sign, termed the—"

Severus raised his wand menacingly. "I shall set you on fire."

The manual paused its lecture, flapping its cover closed so that Severus could read it.

U.S Radio Manual

Army standard issue 1945

Waterproof - Fireproof

Then it flapped open and continued where it left off. "Termed the 'net call,' is also assigned to designate the entire net. Call signs are composed of three or four characters. Call words, often used to identify a radiotelephone station, consist of a word, or a word and a sign, such as—"

Severus took a last long drink from the bottle, set it gently in the supply box and shut the lid on the yapping monograph. It finally got the message and ceased speaking. If only Miss Brown had been as easy to dissuade. Unfortunately, both Dumbledore and McGonagall had frowned on locking endlessly prattling students up in boxes.

His life would have been infinitely more pleasant had such a course of action been allowed.

Que Sera, Sera.

Now feeling a bit squiffy, Severus reduced the trunk, pocketed his wand, stacked the trunk on the supply box and tucked them both under his arm, before striding haphazardly up the path past the lagoon.

He was right about the trail to the hut. It was steep. And rocky. The waterfall was pretty, though. And the falling water had a soporific effect that boded well for his future sleep pattern. But first, he had to get up this Brobdingnagian hill. He made a pouch of his nightshirt, looping the hem through a high section between two buttons, to cradle the trunk and supply box in its confines. Then he crouched over, using his free hands to grasp at the low vegetation for balance as he scaled the incline.

A long while later, Severus stood, sweaty and panting, before a slightly derelict Quonset hut painted in tropical greens and covered in leafy netting. He wanted nothing more than a slap-up meal and a dozen pints of tea. Even his toes were hungry after that arduous climb.

He found a large rock, opened the supply box, took out the Radio Manual and set it down on the wooden deck the Quonset hut sat on. Quickly, before it could start talking again, Severus plunked the heavy rock down on it.

"There, Brown," he said, feeling slightly foolish, but regarding the wriggling Manual with smug satisfaction nonetheless, "enjoy your new home."

He then rummaged through the supply box, locating a crate of Operational Ration Packs and a Tommy cooker in short order. He resized the crate and fired up the cooker, wrinkling his nose at the smell of burning Hexamine. He was ecstatic to discover the tins of soup and beans, the water purification tablets, the neat little envelopes of tea and Brown biscuits. But he nearly wept tears of joy at seeing the precious packet of Marmite tumble out of the meal box. Clutching it to his chest, he swept a metal bucket off the shelf near the door of the hut and practically skipped to the stream to retrieve some water.

Several hours later, after a grand meal and a long kip, Severus was rudely roused by a crackling noise emanating from the pedal radio situated near his bunk. He stumbled over to it, and blearily rubbed his eyes before locating the communication switch.

"What do you want?" he barked.

There was no response, though the crackling was fainter.

He sat down and tried pedalling for a bit.

"Babbity Rabbity, Babbity Rabbity. Are you there? This is Hopping Pot. At the Stump. Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Babbity Rabbity, Third Brother here. We can hear crackling, but not you. Depress the talk button."

Severus frowned at the machine. He picked up the microphone and pushed the talk button.

His response was a tad more acerbic the second time around. "Yes. I am here."

He hated repeating himself. It held position eighteen on his list in the autumn, position seven in the spring and position fifty-three during the summer hols.

"We've been trying to reach you, on and off, for the last twelve hours, Babbity. Did you have trouble finding the hut? Over."

"No."

"Did you read the Manual, Babbity? Over."

Severus jabbed at the talk button. "Don't you mean listen, Potter?"

"Er, yes. Well, it worked then. Good. And please use the code names, sir."

"You can take your code names, Potter, and shove them where the sun doesn't shine."

"Thank you, sir. I'll keep that in mind."

"Don't you mean Babbity, Potter? Over."

Harry grinned and set down his headset.

Colin looked up at him with wide eyes. "He sounded cranky."

Harry's grin grew wider. "Just like old times, bless him."

~Hobbled Boat~

It took Severus a day or two to situate the hut to his liking—there was extensive testing of the four beds available, after which his first choice nearest the radio was proclaimed just right—but following that, his hours blurred together in a comfortable routine of eat, sleep, read, drink, harass Stump. Rinse, repeat. He didn't bother marking the days as they passed. The weather was mostly pleasant, whether it rained are not, and as long as the trade winds blew, the humidity didn't bother him much. When he was content, he would read his books and contemplate the meaning of the wards in the Horcrux Cave. When he was restless, he'd tramp around the island, collecting edible plants to supplement the Rat Packs' lack of nutritious greens. When he was overtired, he'd let Brown talk him to sleep and dream of pixies who lectured him on proper radio protocol. When he was feeling cranky, he'd radio Third Brother and quiz him on the state of the wizarding world. When night fell and he was drunk, he'd radio Hopping Pot and reminisce.

"Hopping Pot."

"Yes, Babbity?"

"Were you a boy scout?"

"Yes, I was, sir."

"I thought so."

"Sir?"

"Hurmph." This sound passed for 'You have a question?' in Severus's sozzled state.

"Why do you ask?"

"Merely curiosity."

"Oh."

"Were you a wolf cub, Creevey?"

"Just a cub, sir."

"I wanted to be wolf club."

"You did, sir?" Colin was sure he'd heard that wrong.

"Yes. My Da wanted a normal lad."

"Oh." Maybe he wouldn't tell Longbottom everything he'd heard later.

"And normal boys were wolf cubs. But Mum never had the dosh for subs."

Colin didn't know what to say to that.

"So. I would follow them around, like. And learn things. Like how to build a fire or shelter. How to bind a twisted ankle. Games. Songs. I was good at spying."

"You were, sir? Even then?"

Severus snorted. "I am Slytherin, boy. No one saw me unless I wanted them to."

There was a long silence as Severus took a drink of firewhisky.

"Indicate the way to my habitual abode, I'm fatigued and I want to retire." Colin's singing voice sounded thin and wavering through the radio static. It was sweet, nonetheless. "Oh, I had a little liquid sixty minutes ago, and it went right to my cerebellum."

Severus recognised the tune and felt obliged to join in. His deep baritone bolstered Colin's voice and the wavering disappeared.

"Wherever I may perambulate, on land or sea or atmospheric bubbles. You will always hear me humming this melody: Indicate the way to my habitual abode."

Colin's voice trailed off last, as if he were reluctant to end the magic.

Severus never remembered these whisky-soaked interludes. Or didn't allow himself to. There were several dozen of them that Hopping Pot kept under his lid.

Eat, sleep, read, drink, harass Stump. Rinse. Repeat.

Until one day, Severus noted his food supplies were running low.

"Babbity Rabbity calling Stump. Hopping Pot, are you there?"

"Yes, Babbity. How are things out there?"

"Fine, fine. I am running low on food, however."

"Fecking hell! I nearly forgot it's been four months!"

"Will more food being coming, then?"

"Yes, sir. We'll Portkey supplies straight away, sir. You'll need to retrieve it from the atoll tonight, sir. A storm is headed your way."

"Storm?"

"Tropical cyclone Cilla, sir. And she's a doozy. A level four, we heard. It's January, sir. The height of cyclone season."

"It's January, Creevey?"

"Yes, sir."

"What date?"

"The tenth, sir."

"Ah, well," Severus murmured to himself, "Happy birthday to me."

"Come again, sir?"

"Never mind, Creevey. Just get me that food."

"Yes, sir. We're sending it now."

Severus eyed the long line of empty bottles on the shelf above the radio. "And, Creevey?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't forget the whisky."

"No, sir. We won't."

Cilla hit the island two days later with the ferocity of a scorned, premenstrual, chocolate-less female.

The Quonset hut rattled and shook under the buffeting winds as Severus huddled under the blankets on his bunk, attempting to sleep. After the fifth time the branches of a palm slapped against the metal roof with a bang, Severus tossed the blankets aside, muttering, "Sod this for a lark." He decided to drink instead. Two bottles of whisky later, he fell asleep mid-sip despite the racket overhead…

Severus flexed the slits on either side of his throat in concert with his webbed feet and propelled himself across the crystal clear water of the cove towards the coral reef with a silky whoosh. Eddies of water billowed in his wake as he glided through the sunlit shallows.

But she wasn't laughing anymore. She turned to face him, concern filling her bright green eyes and said, "Babbity Rabbity, do you read? Babbity Rabbity, are you there?" in Hopping Pot's panicked voice, which confused Severus, because Lily had never sounded particularly boyish.

Also, her voice had never caused his head to pound like a giant pounding a hugely-sized thing with another hugely-sized thing.

Severus had the microphone in his hand and the talk button depressed before he realised he'd got out of bed. He tried to speak. It was no good. His tongue had grown fur. He growled into the mic and dropped it in favour of lighting the Tommy cooker to heat water for blessed tea or coffee, whichever was closer to hand.

Ah, the smell of Hexamine in the… Morning? Afternoon? It hardly mattered. Coffee mattered. Much, much more than time.

The water boiled, and he poured it into the mug over the tiny crystals of caffeinated relief. He blew on the hot, dark liquid and then swallowed a mouthful. It slid down his throat in a wonderful trickle of hydration that caused him to expel an enraptured moan. He tipped a dram of whisky into the mug and drank deeply.

"Severus, are you there?" Potter squawked.

"Yes, I survived the storm."

"You sound rough."

"You'd sound rough too, after thirty kilometre winds and two bottles of firewhisky."

"Oooooooo, were you a big girl's blouse, Snape?"

"Shut your gob, Potter."

"All right, I'll leave off, then. Assess the damage and radio us back, yeah?"

Severus didn't bother replying.

Fortunately, Cilla had stormed over the island quickly, and the Quonset hut withstood her fury well, only losing the camouflage netting and a few boards off the deck. After Severus repaired the deck, he scouted the rest of the island, looking for damage.

There wasn't much. Apparently, Cilla was all bark and no bite. She felled a palm tree in the lagoon, and uprooted a fair amount of grasses and shrubs, eroding a great deal of soil on the flat cliffs above the Horcrux Cave. So much so, in fact, that Severus was able to dig a hole into the cavern near the base of a shrub with yellow and red flowers that smelled like star jasmine. Luckily, it was the only one of its kind on the island.

He tossed a pebble into the hole and watched it bounce off the wards a few metres below the cave's ceiling. They sparkled in hues of violet, midnight blue, and forest green. He'd never seen that particular combination before. He would have to consult with Potter and perhaps a book or two before attempting a closer inspection. Ah, well. At least he had created an escape hatch of sorts. It was sure to come in handy at some point.

Severus stood up, dusting his knees off and then his hands. He ambled over to the cliff's edge overlooking the dock and the cove beyond it to see how the rowing boat had fared.

Well, wasn't that something?

Cilla had bite after all, or rather, she had taken one out of a Bulgarian ship. It was caught up on the lowest point of the coral reef, a ragged hole the size of a troll's massive club in the larboard side near the bow, just above the waterline. There didn't appear to be any survivors.

He made his way, nimble as a mountain goat, down the trail and approached the Bulgarian ship, wand in hand.

"Homenum revelio," he whispered.

Nothing. He waded through the shallow water to the side of the ship. Climbing through the club-sized hole, he rummaged the ship for supplies. There wasn't much he could use. A scratched mirror, an old-fashioned strap razor, some water-logged spell books, and a specimen jar that contained two sea horses. He gathered all of it up and took it back to the hut. He named one sea horse Romaine, because it looked like a branch of leaves. He named the other Dandelion. It resembled an overgrown weed.

When he tried to radio Stump that night, he couldn't get through.

The radio was out for several days.

He assumed it was due to the storm.