Lost and Found


There were hardly any people left by the time Dean made it to the pitch. He noticed a few wizard/warlock people walking around the outside flicking their wands in what could only be described as a girly manner. The walls of the pitch unfurled from the top and folded until the seven-storey tall arena was reduced to a six-foot high block.

"Can I help you there?"

Dean turned to see a tall, gangly stick of a man in official looking clothes. Well, as official as a man could look when he was wearing a dress (he suspected that the clipboard was what did it).

Dean spread his arms wide. "Lost and found?"

"Just over there," The man nodded to a haphazardly constructed table/stall setup by the wall.

"Thanks." Dean made it all of two steps before Larry Longlegs spoke again.

"American?"

"Yes."

"Right, right." He nodded as though that explained everything. Dean was tossed between wanting to punch him, and find Sam.

Sam came first. As usual.

There was only one other person perusing the haphazard stall/counter set up that was the Lost and Found, and Jesus if he wasn't the textbook definition of Merlin. The man was old and grey and had more beard than bones. It was because of this person that Dean decided to refer to them all as wizards from now on, because if anyone looked the part, it was this guy.

He was sifting through the clothes stand with a curious expression on his face. Dean wondered if he had actually lost something, or just liked to rifle through other peoples' things.

He shrugged it off and crossed to a table of assorted knick-knacks where another official looking wizard (matching robes, he had no clipboard) was standing.

"Excuse me... Uh, hello?" When the portly gent – portly gent? I've been here ten minutes and already I'm talking plum crazy… I didn't just think that–

"…Of assistance?"

"What?"

The wizard sighed. "American."

Dean sent him his best glare, the one reserved for demons and whatever fugly he had to save his brother from.

Being all of five-feet-zero, the man swallowed and repeated much more politely, "I said how can I be of assistance?"

"I'm looking for my brother Sam. He's about this tall," He held up a hand, "brown hair – old ladies like to pinch his cheeks and tell him how adorable he is."

The man blinked. Dean suspected he was sifting through the statement to find something he could reply to. Serves him right.

"That tall, you say?"

"Yeah, practically a giant," Dean nodded.

The man raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I haven't seen…"

Having already lost interest at "I'm sorry", Dean turned around to address the barking that had cut the man short. A little clump of fur that Dean had mistaken for… well, a clump of fur, had in fact been a sleeping dog. A Jack Russell, the residual memory of grade three fantasies for a pet informed him.

Said dog was currently alternating between growling and barking at Dean something fierce. I can see why he hasn't been found yet.

Dean was about to comment to that effect when he noticed that the wizard was furiously scribbling something down on a piece of paper, casting slightly panicked glances in Dean's direction.

Okay, this guy is officially weirder than the little girl with the rabbit ears. At least he thought they were ears, he was too preoccupied chasing Regulus to stop and check.

"Thanks for all your… help. If you see my brother, let me know." He didn't bother leaving a number, the phone was likely dead by now and they probably had some magical way of compensating for technology anyway.

"No, no you can't go!" The man waved his arms about frantically. Yep, definitely beats bunny girl. "I, uhh… I think I see your brother."

Dean didn't need to look to see that he was lying. Or stalling. Or an idiot. He turned to go with a sigh. "Right, English..."

"Oh come now, surely we aren't all bad?"

It was the old guy who had spoken. Merlin. He knelt down by the dog and managed to soothe him with a few strokes. Either he had the worst possible timing or Dean had somehow been outed and they were starting to converge.

Time to bail. He turned around, and came face to face with a three wizards, two of which had their wands pointed at him. "Something wrong?" He bit down the officers part.

"That's him! He's the muggle!"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"A muggle, eh?" The foremost wizard said, his suspicious gaze sizing Dean up. "Well, you're gonna have to come with us."

"You're gonna have to make me," Dean retorted. When he saw him raise his wand, he conceded. "Or we could talk here. Here is good."

"I'm afraid I must insist." The man smiled. If he didn't know better Dean would swear the man was itching for a fight. The wizards behind him seemed to sense it, and were bracing themselves for Dean's resistance. Well, they're right about that much, I ain't going without–

"Is everything alright?"

Merlin – Did that guy stick his nose in everything? He was currently standing to the side, watching the interaction with rapt interest.

His would-be imprisoners seemed to know him, as they – with the exception of the unwavering leader – fumbled. "Everything's fine, Albus. Just taking care of a wayward muggle."

"I see," he stroked the part of his beard that wasn't tucked into his belt. "However did you manage to discern that he was in fact a muggle? I daresay I would have had a hard time telling him apart, particularly here."

The man turned to Shifty McWeirderson, who straightened up proudly. "That was me – Auron Shantz, sir. I noticed that the crup reacted strongly to his presence and notified Mr Moody here."

Crup? What the hell is a… He caught sight of the dog tied to a pole. That's gotta be the lamest name for a dog, bar none. Dean was about to try and talk his way out of this when the old man who was apparently named Dumbledore beat him to it.

"That's some fine work, Mr Shantz," Dumbledore commended. "But forgive me; do crup also react to a squib as they would a muggle?"

At his words, all the wizards present turned on Dean in scrutiny. He in turn glanced at Auron and raised an eyebrow. "Well, do they?"

The man ducked his head, and fumbled for a reply. "He thought Giants were six feet tall!"

Dean let his sarcasm show. "I was joking."

The contingent of wizarding… police(?) All considered Auron Shantz – and what the hell is up with the names in this place? Wizards are cracked – anew. When Moody apparently decided that he wasn't the reliable source he once thought, he glanced at Dean and asked in his gruff voice, "Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"A squib?"

Dean snuck a glance at Dumbledore. The old man seemed to be on his side, so he might as well go with him, for now. Even though he wasn't sure that being a 'squib' was much better than a 'muggle'. "Yeah."

"And you're from America?"

He was getting sick of that question. Thankfully they weren't really expecting an answer, as Moody seemed to be merely thinking aloud.

"…Which means we can't validate your ancestry. This is sounding a little far-fetched." He glared at Dean. "Who's to say you're not a Death Eater in disguise?"

Dean didn't know what exactly a person that ate death was (besides gross), but he doubted they would make their presence known. He said as much. Moody didn't seem impressed.

"If I may…?" Dumbledore interjected. "Perhaps we could simply ask him something of the magical world?"

Moody nodded. "Good idea Albus." He turned to Dean. "In which year was the first Quidditch World Cup?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth. "You gotta be shittin' me."

"Perhaps something not so… historic?" Dumbledore suggested.

Moody waved Dumbledore as if to indicate he could take the floor.

"How tall are giants?"

Dean paused. "Taller than I can gesture with my hand."

"Oh please, like that's hard." Shantz scoffed. Though he still quietened up when Dean glared at him.

"I got one for you;" Dean turned the table, "how did I end up here, if not by magic?"

"That's not a convincing question, Mr…"

"Scott."

"Mr... Scott." Moody finished. "You'll need more than that to convince us."

Dumbledore held up a finger for attention. After a minute's consternation, he looked to Dean. "Name one spell which can return the dead to life."

Dean blinked. How the hell was he supposed to know that? In all his years of hunting he hadn't heard of any such thing. If he had, he would've used it last year instead of making that damn deal.

He looked over to Dumbledore. The mans' eyes were sparkling and when their gazes met, he raised his eyebrow the slightest fraction as if to say you should know this.

But he didn't. All he knew was… Wait a minute, maybe it was all that he needed to know. "There isn't one. Short of going to a crossroads or playing puppeteer to a bunch of zombies, dead is dead."

Apparently this was something out of Shantz area of expertise, as his face was scrunched up in confusion. The others fared little better; they looked to Moody in anticipation. Dumbledore was smiling.

"And what do you know of crossroads?" Moody's voice commanded.

"That's it's dark stuff that only leads to badness, or death. Or both."

Moody stared him straight in the eye for what felt like the longest time. When he reached a decision, he held out his hand. "Sorry to bother you Mr… Scott."

"It's alright." He shook it. "Actually it's not, but it's also not your fault, so don't worry about it."

The sound of Shantz' swallowing was audible.

After Moody and his lackeys – or trainees? They were awfully young – departed, Auron Shantz made himself scarce. Which just left…

"Lemon Sherbet?"

…One crazy-ass octogenarian.