So, this is me writing another Hogwarts tale - a crossover this time ... a cross with Bob the Builder [yes, you read that right: stupid bunnies]. I would have posted this in the HP/Crossover section but there is no Bob the Builder category ... so meh

I have to admit, I enjoyed writing this immensely - I hope you derive a similar amount of enjoyment from reading it. as with most of my stories, I have pillaged the literary and historical canon; I've also blatantly robbed the local pop-culture vault.

My use of the 'Heritas' spell is based upon Blueowl's 'Legacy Spell' mentioned in their story: 'To Shape and Change', which I highly recommend - I thank Blueowl for their permission in letting me use and adapt the Legacy Spell to my purposes.

This is self beta-ed with my usual indifference - all mistakes are either: my own or your imagination.

I have no idea whether I will continue this; however, if I do it may do so in some sort of vignette/ experiential form - you never know.

If you feel so inclined, please leave a review: thank you.

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable

One persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all

progress depends on the unreasonable man.
- George Bernard Shaw

Harvard Law:
Under the most rigorously controlled conditions of pressure,
temperature, volume, humidity, and other variables, the organism

will do as it damn well pleases.

The owl was old – and vastly experienced -but not so old as to be decrepit or suffering from an avian form of dementia. Dementia-addled owls were always cause for heated discussion [behind a surreptitiously raised wing] in the Owlery. Hushed discussion about how such-and-such owl had dropped a howler down the cooling tower of one of those nuclear power thingies of which the muggles seemed so enamoured or, how some-other-owl had mistakenly delivered a letter to the head of one of those fundamentalist-religious groups; admittedly, the latter had been in Massachusetts in the seventeenth century, but owls had long memories.

Yet even taking into consideration the age, experience - and the peculiarities of its species' spectacular memory - this owl had never delivered a Hogwarts letter quite like this: it had even stopped to check the address – something almost unheard of in the annals of owl-kind.

Roley

Machine Shed

Bob's Yard

Sunflower Valley.

It wasn't that the owl couldn't find Sunflower Valley. Finding a place called Bob's Yard, in a place called Sunflower Valley, didn't provide too much of a challenge, even the 'machine shed' wasn't especially strange after all, humans turned up in all sorts of strange places; cupboards under the stairs, for example. What was giving the owl problems was the ostensible recipient, this 'Roley'. Unbeknownst to most pretty much anyone who wasn't an owl, the addressee-locating magic utilised by owls was based on a type of personal resonance emitted by the person for whom the letter was meant; in this instance, there was no resonance – not in the normal owlish understanding of such - and this had the owl worried, worried that it might end up as an entry in those previously mentioned historical annals as one of those owls that couldn't find its target.

Oh the shame.

"'Ere, Muck, wot's that owl doin'?"

"Wot owl?"

"That one, on the shed."

Muck turned to look at the shed roof and lo, there was, indeed, an owl on the roof.

"I dunno, d'ya fink it's lost or sumfing?"

"It might be broken, owls are s'pose' to be nok ... nok-sumfing, they only come out at night ..."

"I''s not night, Roly, the sun's up there."

"Tha's right, Muck. I wish Scoop was 'ere, he'd know what to do."

The two machines took a moment to digest that particular truism before returning to what they were doing previously: B.O. – Before Owl. An hour later, Muck had cause to again look in the direction of the shed roof.

"'Ere, Roly,"

"Yeh,"

"That owl..."

"Yeh? I''s still there?"

"I''s carryin' a letter."

"Owl's don' carry letters, Muck; Mister Dixon carries letters, he's a postman – not an owl."

"Spud thought he was a postman; Special Delivery Spud, he wuz callin' himself, he wasn't Mister Dixon..."

"He wasn't an owl, either..."

Owls couldn't do any worse that Spud, both machines thought, but then, Spud wasn't the brightest of scarecrows; actually, Spud wasn't the brightest of anything, but as he was their friend they accepted him for who he was and repressed the occasional urge to douse him in petrol and use him for a night-light.

"Ere, Roley, looks like Bob and Scoop are back, I can 'ear them comin' down the street."

The owl was certain now, the letter was for the green ... thing; the owl was pretty certain it wasn't a human; he'd encountered humans on a fairly regular basis throughout his career and was pretty certain that, humans:

* Weren't green

* Didn't come with wheels (or things that looked like wheels)

The owl didn't question why it was delivering a letter to something that wasn't a human, after all, it had delivered to centaurs and they weren't human - they weren't green, either, his subconscious muttered.

Taking a moment to render his subconscious unconscious, the owl calculated angles and trajectories before diving off the roof on a flight path that would directly place its letter-wielding talons precisely above the recipient thus poised for the perfect delivery.

**CLUNK**

"What'd you do that for Scoop? I fink you killed it." Roley took a moment to gently nudge the owl with his roller, "You aw'right owl-y?"

The owl was not a coward. It did not frighten easily. In the course of its duties it had faced giants, vampires, chimera, and even the odd dragon, yet the sight of the large green ... thing ... nearly scared him out of his feathers; he settled for briefly fainting before achieving something unheard of in the annals of owldom – he apparated. Away.

"Where'd the owl go, Roley?" asked Scoop, who was feeling bad for having struck the bird with his back-hoe; however, he had seen it –appearing to – dive bomb his younger friend and had sought to intervene.

"Dunno," was the somewhat subdued response.

"Roley," it was Bob, standing a little way off from where the machines had gathered, "there appears to be a letter here, addressed to you."

"Musta been that letter the owl had," said Muck.

"Don't be silly, Muck," replied Bob, "owls don't carry letters."

"This one did, I saw it. So did Roley."

"Yeh Bob," added Roley, supporting the red bulldozer, "the owl-y had something in its claws."

"Well, okay, if you say so." Bob didn't sound particularly convinced but, without evidence to the contrary, had no choice but to politely accede to the assertion of his two friends. "Anyway, let's see what the letter says; shall I open it for you, Roley?"

"Okay, Bob."

Breaking the seal that held the heavy parchment closed, Bob gave the information contained therein a quick précis in preparation for reading it aloud – after all, one didn't wish to trip over one's tongue and make a mess of things. He didn't get very far, in fact, no further than the first line of the masthead, which stated: 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry':

"Unbelievable!"

"Wha' d'ya mean, Bob?"

"I mean I don't believe this, Roley – I think someone is playing games; apparently this is an from a school for witches and wizards." He read on, "Apparently, Roley, they are offering you a position there as a student; this is ridiculous."

"Yeh," agreed Muck, "you'd look pretty silly on a broom, Roley."

"Yes, very droll, Muck; but what I mean is that there is no such thing as a witch or a wizard. They're fantasy. So inviting someone to attend a school for such is nonsense. If I didn't know better I'd say that this was something that Spud would do."

"Except Spud can't read ... or write ..." noted Scoop, not adding the 'or think', which was gleefully lurking in the darker reaches of his subconscious.

"...Which is why I said 'if I didn't know better' ..." replied Bob, somewhat absentmindedly, as he had turned his attention back to the letter and continued to read.

As Bob read on he became increasingly agitated; after all, as a builder he was the type of person who worked in the realm of the real, with the concrete, with things that he could grasp [we won't, for the sake of narrative continuity, point out that it Bob didn't think it odd that he worked with a bunch of anthropomorphic machines] this idea that magic existed was nonsense. Finally, finishing the letter, he turned to the green roller, who had been peering over his shoulder.

"Well Roley, I don't know who'd be so cruel as to play such a joke on you but I promise that we will get to the bottom of it."

"That's okay, Bob. No harm done. Can you tell me what it says though? I mean, it was addressed to me and I can read; I can't help it if I don't have an opposable thumb."

Bob had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, he hadn't meant to imply that Roley was stupid – yes, the road roller was young and prone to fits of frivolity that weren't necessarily in keeping with his occupation, but he wasn't stupid.

"I'm sorry, Roley," he apologised, "In essence, it says that you have been invited to this Hogwarts place and then it goes on to cover a bit of basic information about basic materials you'll need if you choose to attend; I have to admit that whomever is responsible for this has done a remarkable job; it's a very impressive piece of work."

Bob, about to launch into a wax lyrical on the subject of the quality workmanship, was brought up short by a question from Roley, who was still peering over his shoulder.

"'Ere, Bob, wha''s tha' waxy thing down the bottom of the page."

"It looks like a seal, Roley, with an embossed picture of a shoe." Bob ran his finger gently over the raised wax – again pausing to admire the intricacy of the workmanship.

"I can see little words, but I can't read them."

"Nor can I, Roley; I'll need to get my magnifying glass."

"It says, 'Tap your heels together three times and say 'there's no place like home' ... it's a joke," came a laconic response from behind the group.

No one had heard the distinct 'pop' of displaced air collapsing in on a previously occupied space, so focused were they on the letter – not, of course, that they would have recognised the sound for what it was but it would have alerted them to the fact that something had happened.

Quickly regaining his composure, Bob stepped forward "Who are you ... and..." he added, looking around arms askance, "Where did you come from? Were you in the office?"

"I," replied the man, sketching a sardonic bow. "Am Professor Severus Snape ... of ..." the pause was purposely dramatic and, clearly, the man was deriving no small amount of pleasure in playing up his introduction, "... Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; and no, I wasn't in your office, I was notified that my personal attention was required when you touched the seal."

"... But ... but ..."

"There is a problem?" Snape's tone was silken, a tantalising noose of come-hither entrapment – something that any of his more enlightened students would have recognised and backed away from as quickly as was decorous.

Bob, focused on the practical matter of the man's mysterious appearance missed these clues.

"Then where did you come from? You weren't in the yard and you didn't come in after myself and Scoop, so where do you come from."

"Would you believe ... magic ..."

"No."

"How about a Tardis?"

"A what?"

Snape sighed, "Never mind, another joke; I appear to be in a peculiar mood today." The potions master took a moment to gather his thoughts before proceeding." So, accepting that I wasn't here before you, didn't get here after you and that there is, apparently no evidence to indicate that I arrived by some other mundane means, what does that leave?"

"I don't know."

"Was it not Sherlock Holmes who said that: 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'"

"Well ... yes ..."

"So then ... magic ..."

"But magic isn't real. It doesn't exist."

A resigned sigh emanated from the potions master – as he withdrew his wand - and a muffled comment, immediately suppressed, concerning 'muggles and their bloody ideas about reality' was heard by those standing nearest to him.

"Ah yes, that ... I assume you'd like some proof – shall I turn you into a frog; I understand that is the traditional way of proving one's magical prowess."

Bob, and the machines, took a step [and, where appropriate, a wheel] back from the –clearly – deranged man (and his stick).

"No, that's fine; something a little less dramatic will be perfectly acceptable."

"Pity," Snape murmured before, with a practised flick of his wrist and a guttural 'wingarium leviosa' began to levitate the large, blue crane, which began to gibber in terror as it began to float around the yard at the direction of the man beneath him.

"'Ere, put Lofty down," growled Muck, "'e ain't dun nuffink to you."

"Oh, very well," acceded Snape, "Now," he said, returning his attention to Bob, "Will you accept that that was 'magical'?"

Bob sighed, "I don't really have a choice do I?"

"You always have a choice," was the enigmatic response. "Now, where can I find a..." Snape took a moment to review a parchment he had removed from his robe, "... Mister Roley?"

Roley inched forward from his friends, "That's me, I mean, I'm Roley."

For a moment, a very brief moment, Severus Snape was startled and those well versed in his expressions would have clearly interpreted his minute eyebrow lift and shoulder hunch as an imprecation against the gods for dropping him in it yet again.

"But you're a machine."

"Is that a problem?"

If he could deal with Longbottom attempting to blow him into orbit every second day for seven years, he could deal with this. "I guess not; I just need to confirm your identity."

A quick 'revealo' confirmed that Roley was indeed who he said he was. Snape privately admitted to confusion, how the hell was a machine going to get into Hogwarts? That being said, he was looking forward to the purebloods' – who had had conniptions to last a generation over muggle-born students - reaction to a 'thing' doing magic; no doubt there would be many a 'strongly-worded missive' to the editor of the Daily Prophet and [again] no doubt said missives would rely heavily on the use of the word 'abomination'. Snape shrugged; the wizarding world had survived the advent of the muggle-born, no doubt it would survive this.

Maybe.

Snape was roused from his reflection by a gentle nudge at his shoulder and turned to find the green roller, Roley, he corrected himself, staring at him with an earnest expression.

"Is there a problem?" he asked quietly, reiterating his earlier question.

"No, not really," replied the professor, "just considering the implications of your arrival, this assumes, of course, that you want to come to Hogwarts, that you want to learn to use magic."

"Excuse me, Professor." It was Bob, again. "But can I ask how it is that Roley is able to do magic? He is, and I mean no disrespect to you, Roley, a machine. Might I also point out that you were clearly surprised to find that Roley WAS a machine, clearly you were expecting something or perhaps that should be someONE else"

Seeing little point in prevarication of obfuscation, Snape acknowledged the point. "You are quite correct, Roley was not what I was expecting; in the magical world machines simply don't exist on an anthropomorphic level like Roley does. Frankly, I would doubt that most machines in your world function on such a level"

"... 'n anthro-wut?"

This enquiry came from a blocky red machine who, although it beggared the imagination, appeared to be hovering protectively over Roley.

"Anthropomorphic – it means, in broad terms, that something non-human has assumed, or is ascribed, human qualities. In the magical world, what machines we do have are simple and have neither personality, nor volition. Certainly we are able to fabricate marvellous simulacra, however, they are not animate at least not in the sense of retaining consciousness and self-awareness. Understand?"

"No."

Sighing gently and mentally berating himself for forgetting his audience, Snape prepared to deliver for a simpler recitation only to be stopped by Bob.

"Don't worry, Professor," he said cheerfully, "I'll explain it to them later."

"You understood that?"

"I'm a builder, not an idiot, Professor; determining the correct end of a hammer to hold wasn't the only thing I learnt at University."

It was rare that Severus Snape acknowledged fault in himself, rarer still that he acknowledged that he'd mis-judged a person so replete was his past with the necessity of making accurate, first-time character assessments.

"I apologise. I am used to teaching idiots who seldom understand anything on the first time through. It does me well to be reminded that not everyone in the universe is similarly stunted on an intellectual level. I also know better than to judge a person simply based on appearance having, myself, been judged so."

Bob shrugged, "No problem, Professor, I understand; you should see some of the people I have to work with." However, choosing not to elaborate, the 'simple' builder changed tack, "Accepting what you've said about Roley and the fact that all of my machine friends are obviously different from the machines in your world, why is it that only Roley is able to do magic?"

It was Snapes' turn to shrug, "I have no idea. I can, with Roley's permission of course, attempt to discern such."

"Roley?"

"Is it going to hurt?"

Snape allowed himself a small smile, at least this person (for he found that it was becoming harder to think of Roley as a 'machine') had sound self-preservation instincts; unlike some he could mention, "No, not at all."

"Okay then."

Taking his wand, Snape sketched an intricate pattern in front of the roller before uttering a single word: "Heritas," a moment latter he was nearly knocked off his feet by the wave of magical feedback that swept over him.

"Are you alright, Professor?" inquired Bob, ever solicitous.

Brushing himself off – and taking a moment to straighten his robes – Snape waved away the attention. "I am fine, thank you."

"Did you discover anything?"

"A significant amount. Not only do I know why Roley is able to do magic, I also have the solution to a mystery that has plagued the magical world for over a decade."

"...And? ..."

"What? Oh, sorry. Most economies, as you are probably aware, are based on trade and on the notional value of certain commodities; precious metals being a case in point. As a magical society we place value not only the standard precious metals such as gold and silver but also on magical metals, which are infinitely rarer. Somewhat over a decade ago, a major shipment of these magical metals was being transported to the most secure bank in the wizarding world, Gringotts, when it went missing."

"Well, what happened to it?"

Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts and all-around scary bat-guy (the Hufflepuff that had said that was STILL in detention) actually laughed, "It's over there," he said, pointing at Roley, "Cunningly disguised as a Road Roller. All I can surmise is that someone stole the shipment and it wound up in the muggle word and they, not knowing what they had, subjected it to the usual smelting and industrialisation processes and coincidence saw it end up being used to build Roley."

"How much of him?"

"If I read the results of the spell correctly, pretty much all of him." Snape turned to Roley and presented him with an amused bow," Congratulations, Roley, you are, as far as I am aware the only mithril-adamantium - with a few extras thrown in - machine in existence."

"What does that mean?" Roley's voice was hushed with worry as he wasn't sure he understood the implications of what was being said.

"What it means, Roley is that not only can you do magic, you ARE magic, every nut and bolt of your being is magic; so, with that being said: will you come to Hogwarts and learn to use your magic?"

"Yes."