Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter franchine or AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside. This was originally requested by teamcarolbitch on tumblr and championed by fandomtookmyhandandsaidrun.
Authors Note #1: (No zombies) AU on the ending of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" where instead of dying immediately the venom caused Snape to endure a slow, lingeringly painful death. Thus having time for some 'before death commiserating' with an old 'friend.' This is a Daryl/Snape (past relationship) and a Caryl (present relationship) fic.
Warnings: This is basically Daryl in the Wizarding word, visiting Britain as an American wizard who did a brief exchange program thingie at Hogwarts during his fifth year while Snape was also a student at Hogwarts. Adult language, ust, canon character death, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, injury/illness/physical deterioration and mild sexual content.
Specialis Revelio (because we both know the past is never past)
Chapter One
He apparated to Spinner's End with a thundering crack. Refusing point blank to cast a muffliato on the echoes when the dusty lace curtains in the neighbor's parlor twitched. His lip curled as he stamped his boot, turning up his collar against the pouring rain as the shadows between the nearest shitty brick house twisted and warped. Rippling at the edges until the outline of a person – long robes, neatly trimmed hair, tall – hazed rather damningly into view.
He just snorted and showed his teeth.
Aurors.
Couldn't find their own balls if you handed it to 'em on a silver platter.
Glad to see that much hadn't changed.
He remained where he was, boot heels grinding across the cobblestones as he shook out a cigarette and pressed the tip of his wand to the end. He kept it there until the Dogwood point – twelves inches and sturdy with a dragon heart-string core - glowed cherry red. The curtain on the parlor window twitched violently this time, enough to reveal the shocked 'o' of a shocked mouth and lips that whispered deeper into the depths of the squat little house.
Muggles, then.
The shadows lurking under the eaves rippled in response as he inhaled. The magical signature irritated this time as it was joined by another, then another. Giving him the distinct impression they were not only staring at him, but probably shit talking him as well before the sound of raised voices – something about 'skulking layabouts, 'devil worship,' 'police' and 'unchristian behavior' – drifted clearly from the open window.
He raised a brow, giving both audiences the one finger salute. Wondering privately how many times the idiots had been forced to obliviate the nosy neighbors as he sucked the sweet rasp of smoke deeper into his lungs. Willing it to warm him from the inside as the damp cold that seemed integral to Britain in general wormed its way through his skin.
Let the pretty Ministry boys deal with it.
They all got wands, don't they?
Or did that last batch of Ministry decrees demand they hand over their brains too?
He was about halfway through flirting with lung cancer – seriously considering the merits of just lighting them all at once to regain some feeling in his fingers – when the door to Snape's old stomping grounds creaked open.
He remained where he was, square in the middle of the street as a man - ginger hair gently thinning - peeked out. He sized him up quietly. Knowing the Brit was doing the same. The man was pale and drawn but noticeably kind-faced. A bleeding fuckin' heart if he'd ever seen one. Something that was enough to put his hackles up any day of the week, but it only got worse when another red-head, younger and freckled and a curly brown-haired thing stepped out behind him. Closing the door with a firm but quiet snap that echoed like the end-note of a battle cry in the stale Cokeworth air.
He eyed them carefully. Recognizing them from the papers.
Arthur Weasley. Ron Weasley. And Hermione Granger.
"Daryl Dixon?" the older man asked, phrasing it like a question though both of them knew it was anything but. Everything about this shitty place looked unused – dilapidated. There were no flowers. No mail. No sign that anyone had even been in the area other than the Aurors' guarding it and a few self-appointed guard dogs. The guilt that wreathed the place was almost thick enough to overpower the harsh, chemical tang of anger and resentment that seemed to cloak the entire town like a shroud.
Seemed appropriate.
He hadn't seen Snape in close to three decades, but he had a feeling there was a remarkably short list of people who wanted to have a word with him – even if he was kickin' the bucket. He might have been half a world away during the war, but he'd read the papers. He'd been keeping an eye out while he had been taking care of his own fucking problems.
The war hadn't just effected Britain. It had been everywhere. And like war tended to do, it caused ripple effects through everything else. Tensions had been high and people had gotten sloppy. The lines between the wizarding world and the muggle one had started to bleed into one another. Only the muggles were usually the ones that suffered for it, seeing shit they shouldn't and bleating to the wrong people. Hell, he and Rick had been balls deep for the past twelve months undercover. Nipping half formed wanna-be Death Eater groups before they could reach out to Lord Shitsack and get America mixed up in something that was none of its god damned business.
Again.
The Potions Master, now newly minted with an Order of Merlin, first class, had never exactly inspired many feel good emotions in those around him. You had to have a thick skin to stand him, and that was back in their school days. Word on the street was he'd turned it into an art form since he caught that one way Trans-Atlantic broom ride back to the good ol' red, white and blue.
He cocked his head, remembering, hiding a smile as he exhaled. Still, you couldn't deny Snape didn't have a flair for it. Especially considering that the Daily Prophet had all but pounced on the story when it came out that he'd sent the damn award back in pieces. Liberally laced with some unknown hex that'd turned the ears of those responsible into that of various barnyard animals.
Hell, he'd been like that – snarly, sarcastic and on the fell end of quietly sadistic for as long as he'd known him. Figured that being inches from shaking hands with the Grim Reaper wouldn't change that. It was almost reassuring, in a fucked up sort of way.
"What do you think?" he returned flippantly, taking another long puff and holding it. Enjoying watching the younger ginger turn an extremely unflattering shade of puce as the girl – because she was still that – fixed him with a careful stare.
"Password?" Arthur Weasley continued, clipped but polite – like he hadn't even spoken - the slight rankling softly. Not even batting an eye as one of the Aurors slithered out of the shadows, casting a charm that changed his clothing into that of a muggle police officer and knocked smartly on the neighbour's door.
"The man is dying," he hissed, gripping his wand as the wood warmed soothingly in his palm. "What do you think I'm gunna to do? Make him die faster?"
Suddenly angry all over again. Cursing himself for being such a sentimental pussy and answering that stupid owl in the first place. Angry like he'd been when he'd heard the damned venom was killing him slow. Angry like he'd been when he'd heard what the man had done – for all of them. Angry that part of him had believed it, believed Severus had really been Lord Dickhead's lap-dog when he'd really been neck deep in the world's longest double-cross. Saving a world that for all intents and purposes hadn't given him anything but shit since the moment he'd been born.
"At this point it might be more of a blessing than you'd think," the older man murmered, eyes going sad around the edges – something that was distinctly at war with his conflicted expression. Standing his ground despite the handful of steps he'd taken towards the trio.
The younger ones tightened around their wands like a reflex - a warning. But they shouldn't have bothered. The older man's expression told him everything he needed to know. Everything he needed to know about Snape and how bad off he was. But also about them. About why they were doing this – watching over him - even when it was clear that Snape had never really been one of them.
His lip quirked. That, at least, was familiar. Snape usually inspired that in people. Uncertainty. Doubt. The inability to completely hate the bastard even when you were a hundred and ten percent sure he deserved it. He'd always been slippery like that. Less of a catch and release and more of a shoot to kill situation.
"Cherokee Rose," he grunted, snorting when they visibly relaxed. Feeling the magic that surrounded the house and its weed-choked yard shudder and part. Thinking of all the ways he could have killed them already as he ran a hand through shaggy rain-slick hair. They were too good to ever be really good at this, that much was clear. But then again, that was the point, wasn't it? To keep the good people good and the bad on the ropes?
"Gonna make me dance for my supper too?" he drawled, allowing them to lead the way up the porch steps. Spread out at the wings like some sort of half assed honor guard.
"Only if you think it will lighten the mood around here," Weasley junior muttered sarcastically as they piled inside. Trying not to jump when the echoing shriek of rusty hinges bled out into the sudden quiet.
"Where is he?"
"In the bedroom," Arthur replied, indicating not to the master, but the small room at the end as a shaky hand combed nervously through his hair. Looking truly exhausted for the first time as he fixed him with a look and held it. Thinking over his words before speaking.
"Listen mate, I don't know how you know Severus. Honestly there has been so much on our plates no one has had the time to figure out who you are or why. But you should know that he's on borrowed time. Even more than he's been since, well- He should have died hours ago. But the stubborn bastard has been clinging on, drinking potions to keep himself lucid enough to see you. So, whatever it is that's between you, from one man to the next, be quick about it. He's suffered enough."
He nodded, feeling a muscle in his cheek twitch as he extinguished the butt with his thumb and pinched out the ashes. Tossing it in the direction of the fire-grate before he pocketed his wand and started down the hall.
"He asked for you, you know," the girl started, speaking for the first time as she twisted an anxious curl around her finger. Something in her voice making him pause, hand out-stretched, barely there as the tips ghosted across the flaking brass finish of the handle. So close, yet so far. Feeling three separate sets of eyes burning into his back, curious, maybe even suspicious as his tongue darted out – snake-like – tasting the air.
"You were the only one he asked for. When I-when I wrote the letter, I must have asked him a dozen times who else he wanted. But there wasn't anyone else. He wouldn't tell me why, he just wanted you. Only you."
There was an unasked question there.
But he didn't acknowledge it.
He couldn't.
Instead, he turned the knob and walked inside, closing the door firmly behind him.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter, stay tuned.
Reference:
Title refers to the spell of the same name: "Specialis Revelio" which causes an object to reveal its hidden secrets and/or magical properties.
Daryl's wand is made out of "Dogwood" – a tree that is extremely hard and strong, and the wands made from it will have this resilience. It was once used for making daggers, and hence had a slight violent streak.
Daryl's wand has a dragon heart-string core, meaning: Dragon heartstring is a powerful wand with a lot of magical "heft". It is not the core you want for subtlety, but for sheer power it is definitely the best. Although it is the most common core among Dark Wizards, Dark Wizards are most certainly not their most common users. Dragon heartstrings are by far the most common wand core amongst Slytherins, but their power often bonds to Gryffindors and Ravenclaws as well. However, they tend to overwhelm the archetypal Hufflepuff personality.
