Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

A/N: I'm so totally not a Harry/Ginny shipper – even though that's canon. The only exception to this is when Ginny is completely out of the picture… So, yeah. In other news, this story's version of Dean was demanding a bit more screen-time. Yeah, I'm weak, but he's so cute… Anyway, I hope you like what he does in this chapter.

Twice is Circumstance

Time unknown, October 10, 2007
Room 217, Super 8 Motel
Houma, Louisiana

Harry was dreaming. He knew this, but it brought no comfort.

"I just wish…" Ginny trailed off, her eyes focused on the lake reflecting the riot of color of an early fall sunset.

"Shush, Gin. Wishing doesn't fix anything," Harry reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Ginny looked back at Harry. He was lounging against the base of a tree trunk. "I know. It's just… this has all been so – I don't know. Horrible springs to mind. So does frightening, terrifying, and intense. But… It's been good, too. I think I must be losing my mind, Harry. All the death, the destruction. Is it bad of me to want to forget about it for a while? For me to be happy, here with you, when so many others are dead or dying?"

Harry sat up and pulled Ginny close, "No, Gin. It's not bad. It's just life."

"You're sure?" she had tears welling up in her warm, brown eyes.

"Yeah, love. I'm sure. Because I feel that way, too."

The scene melted in a dizzying whirlwind of color. No! Take me back to Ginny, damn it! The dream didn't listen – they never did. Harry was standing on the top of the Astronomy Tower. No! Not this, not again! Ginny was leaning against the parapet, looking out over the Forbidden Forest. Her breath was visible in the starlight, puffing out in little white clouds. Harry watched as a silent, sparkling tear traced its way down her cheek. Unable to stop the power of his memory, he stepped forward. "Ginny?"

She didn't speak until he was right next to her. "Does it hurt, do you think?"

"Dying?"

She nodded.

Harry shook his head, "I don't know."

"Who does?"

"Dunno… Maybe the ghosts?"

She still stared out over the night-shrouded forest, "I asked Sir Nick, but he said he didn't really remember the details of the process of dying."

"Myrtle didn't either."

"When did you talk to her? Was it after Sirius?"

Harry shook his head, "No, back in second year."

"I hated that year."

"So did I."

The two of them stood in comfortable silence for several minutes before Ginny spoke again. "What comes next?"

Harry's heart was hammering in his chest and he knew he was thrashing around on the bed, but it didn't stop the dream. I don't want to see this again! You hear me, you motherfuckers? Wake up, wake up, wake up! There was no sign of his struggle within the confines of his dream. His dream self shook his head, "I'm almost ready. I'm going to end this, I promise. After that, then… Then you'll finish school and we'll see if we can't scare Snape into retirement, yeah?"

Ginny smiled, though had it been even two days earlier, the comment would have had her laughing. "Ten kids, right?"

"Five girls, with hair just like yours…"

"…and five boys who can all out-fly their daddy." Ginny leaned over and kissed Harry.

NO! I know what's next and I can't fucking watch it again, please! God, not again! Even in the dream/memory, Harry didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind him until it was too late. The snobbish tone of Draco Malfoy was the first sign to Harry all was not right with the world. "Well, isn't this sweet. Tell me, Potter, did the Weasel know you were screwing his sister before you got him killed, or is it something he had to wait until now to find out?"

Harry and Ginny sprang apart, both going for their wands, but Draco already had his out. "Expelliarmus! Now, we can't have any of that, now can we?" he taunted, deftly catching the wands as they hurtled towards him.

"Bugger off, Ferret-Boy, and give us our wands back." Harry stepped to stand between Draco and Ginny.

Draco smiled. A cold, cruel, calculating smirk that drained what little life and warmth the Slytherin usually possessed from his face. "No. I don't think so, Potter. Not this time." He aimed his wand at Harry, and before he could move, he was bound to the parapet. The spell Draco had used wasn't one that Harry had studied. I know now he'd created it just for that night. I still don't want to see this! Wake up, Potter! It's just a dream, just a memory! Fucking wake the fuck up already! "I wonder, Potter, just how the Dark Lord will reward me for breaking you?"

Ginny had also been caught by Draco's spell and was bound to the parapet next to Harry. "Shut up, Malfoy. Someone like you can't break Harry – haven't you learned that by now?"

"Silencio," Malfoy lazily drawled. "Oh, but you see, you stupid little Blood-Traitor whore, I can break Potter. And I will."

Don't, please, no more. Please, no more. His dream self was still caught reenacting that cold, January night at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Harry laughed. "You're still under that delusional impression that Voldemort gives a damn about you? How thick can you get?"

"Silencio. Oh, Potter," Malfoy's tone was laced with mock-pity, "I don't expect you to understand just yet, but you will. You will."

No, I understand, you motherfucker. I just don't want to see this again. Please. He watched as Draco finite'd the spell holding Ginny to the stone railing. He felt the surge of pride he'd felt then when she wasted no time and decked Draco with all her strength, the feeling mingling queasily with the sick despair he had from knowing what came next. He struggled ineffectively against the binding spell when Draco slapped Ginny and wound his hand in her long, red hair. "I think I'm going to enjoy this," he said, forcing Ginny to her knees and aiming his wand at her. "I've been practicing, you know. Just biding my time and waiting for the perfect opportunity. I suppose I should thank you for this, Potter – after all, this really is all because of you."

NO! No, no, nonononono. Harry tried to close his eyes against what he knew was coming, but it didn't work. It never worked. "Crucio." Ginny's body crumpled to the stone floor of the tower, twitching with the power of the curse, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide, staring unseeingly up at the clear night sky.

Malfoy held the spell on her for what felt like years. Minutes ticked by, and still the spell was held strong. Ginny bit through her tongue and her lip, the blood trickled across her freckled chin and down her neck to be absorbed by her red-and-gold Gryffindor scarf. The spell wasn't lifted until her eyes rolled into her head and blood started to drip from her ears and nose. Malfoy, shaking a little from magical exhaustion, tucked his wand away and landed a solid kick in Ginny's side. He stepped up to where Harry was bound. "I have to say, Potter, that was probably the most fun I've ever had." He lightly slapped Harry's face, "However, I must be going now. Ta!" Draco spat in his face and tossed his and Ginny's wands onto the stone floor before activating a portkey and disappearing.

Once the blonde was gone, the spell holding him to the parapet dissolved, as did the silencio. Harry didn't even think about calling out, though. He stumbled forward and collapsed next to Ginny, cradling her head in his lap. The starlight glittered across the blood staining her face and gleamed in the thick, white tendrils that now marred her red mane.

Harry was thankful when the dream dissolved and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

11:00 pm, October 10, 2007
Room 216, Super 8 Motel
Houma, Louisiana

Dean had finished cleaning all the guns, oiling and sharpening their knives, and checking on their supplies of things like lighter fluid, salt, and holy water. He wasn't in the mood for television, and listening in on Sam's conversation with the scarred man in the red sweater had rapidly gotten boring when it had taken a turn to discussing the relative merits of an author Dean didn't know anything about. Pacing quickly lost its appeal, and he wasn't in the right frame of mind to search out a bar for pool or companionship.

His mind wandered back to the websites he'd read through earlier and the information he'd learned regarding the physics of magic. Contrary to his brother's apparent assumptions as to his intelligence, Dean knew he was a bit smarter than the average guy; it was just that his intelligence wasn't in words and thoughts – it was in making things work. If he knew how something was supposed to work, he could fix it or change it to do something similar. It was how he'd made their EMF, after all. He took the knowledge of how a radio receiver worked, tweaked it to pick up on a different set of frequencies, removed the tape deck, and added a few indicator lights and a needle-meter. It wasn't hard. Just like when he rebuilt the Impala – he knew how it was supposed to go together in order to run properly when he was done, and so he'd just done what he needed to. Now, he wasn't thinking along the lines of electricity and radio frequencies or fuel-to-air ratios, but along the lines of magic.

Hmm… The site said that certain stones had an inherent magical capacity, that's why salt works the way it does, after all. Heh, and I always laughed at those freaks who would drone on about the 'crystal energy'. Guess they were more right than me. Quartz draws magic – that kinda makes sense, what with it having an electrical charge when compressed. Isn't that the mechanism in a lot of watches and those cheap clicky-lighters? Cobalt acts like a capacitor for magic. So that's draw and storage… How would it trigger, though? Dean strode into Harry's room, ignoring everyone, seized Harry's laptop, and retreated back to his and Sam's room. Poking around on the same websites as before, he soon had his answer. "Yahtzee," he grinned. "That'll do."

Of course, that's only part of it. Still need to address the whole 'type and intent of magic'. Didn't I read that the color of the quartz used influences that? Yeah, here it is. 'Quartz crystal… blah, blah, blah… color pertaining to the intent of use. See chart 23.' Rose – love, no surprise there. Clear – healing. Huh. Whatever. Next, yellow – conjuration. Here we go, smoky – destruction or luck. What the fuck? How can it have two designations that are so totally opposite? Dean clicked on the link for that particular subtype of quartz. Ah, that's how. 'In its raw state, smoky quartz attracts luck, be it good or bad. When the raw stone is polished, the act of destroying part of the stone transmutates its draw to that of destructive energies only.'

"Okay, I need a list. Some polished smoky quartz, cobalt, the stock and a parts-kit for a .22 Beretta semi-auto… Oh, yeah, can't forget that. Gold firing pin. Hmm... Anything else…" He turned his attention back to the computer and eventually added yew to his shopping list. Using his debit card, he managed to order everything from Harry's computer – which just proved Dean's theory that one could buy anything off the internet. The website promised 'Delivery within an hour or your next order is on us!' He wasn't disappointed. Less than ten minutes after he'd submitted his order, there was a knock at his door. Looking through the window, he saw a gruff, older man wearing a set of green-gray overalls that sported the logo of the web company. Dean grinned, opened the door, and signed for the order. The man handed him a tiny box, no larger than a match box.

"I'd set it on the floor, if I was you, mister," the delivery man warned before spinning on his heel and disappearing with a crack. Dean followed the man's advice and sat it on the floor next to the foot of his bed. One heartbeat, two, three… Suddenly the box grew to its proper proportions. It stood level with the bed, was about three feet long and about the same in width. Dean's grin grew and he sliced the tape open with his pocket knife.

12:10 am, October 11, 2007
Room 217, Super 8 Motel
Houma, Louisiana

Severus scrubbed a hand across his face. There wasn't much more he could do until he got some sleep, and sleep was definitely sounding better and better. Between his experiments of the day before, being dragged halfway around the world, and ransacking Potter's potions kit between diagnostic spells and sedating the foolhardy Gryffindor, he was completely wiped. He set a monitoring spell on Potter, conjured a cot, and said, "If you two want to continue your ceaseless chattering, do it somewhere else," before turning the lights off.

Sam and Remus exchanged a glance in the low light coming from the room next door, shrugged, and made their way to the adjoining door. After closing the door behind them, Sam stopped short at the sight of his brother. Both the window and the door were open, and Dean was crouched on a collapsed cardboard box in front of them, running the bright blue flame of a cutting torch over the outside of an ammunition magazine he held with a pair of pliers. Dean's bed was covered in gun parts, rocks, small bars of a bluish metal, and several long dowels of a pale white wood. The toolbox from the car was sitting on the floor between Dean and the bed.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Sam asked, not having moved from the door to room 217.

Dean didn't bother looking away from what he was doing. "What's it look like, Sammy?"

"Like you've lost your mind."

Dean chuckled, "Not at all. Just had an idea and I wanted to see if it would work."

"This is like the thermal scanner, isn't it?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know if this'll work, though."

"Pardon?" Remus was confused.

Sam shook his head at his brother before turning his attention to Remus. "Dean… Likes to tinker with stuff. He built our EMF meter out of an old walkman, and the thermal scanner out of a camera that had night-vision capabilities and a couple of CD players he salvaged from a junkyard."

"I didn't hear you complaining when they worked," Dean commented, shutting off the torch. He got to his feet, carried the mag through the room to the bathroom and ran it under cold water.

"So what is he making now?" Remus asked, looking at the multitude of oddities on Dean's bed.

"I have no idea," Sam admitted.

At that moment, Dean's cell rang. "You wanna get that, Sam?"

Sam seized the phone from the bedside table, "Hello?"

"It's Bobby. I'm about five miles outside New Orleans and heading your way."

"Good to hear. We're in the Super 8 just off the second exit coming into town from that side. Room 216."

"I'll be there in about forty minutes."

Sam sat Dean's phone back on the bedside table and sighed a little as he looked over the mass of junk on Dean's bed. Dean returned to the room, examining the magazine as he deftly stepped over and around the two bags of clothes, the one containing all the weapons out of the trunk of the car, and the one that Dean had transferred their ammunition, salt, and miscellaneous other supplies to. "Oh, dude, before I forget, we're almost out of consecrated iron shot, and it wouldn't hurt to do another set of salt rounds, too." He knelt by the toolbox and fished out a metal file.

"We'll need to stop by Jefferson's when we're done here, then."

Dean nodded, running a finger over the top of the magazine. He held it up to the light and filed away a spar of blue metal. "May want to see about getting a new machete, too. The one with the plastic grips has a stress fracture halfway down the blade – one too many decapitations, I guess. This time, let's spring for something not on clearance, hmm?"

"Whatever," Sam dismissed the comment. At the time they'd bought the machete – shortly before Sam had left for Stanford – they'd only had a hundred bucks on them.

Remus was still looking curiously at the assortment of junk on Dean's bed. "What are you trying to do?"

Dean's eyes flickered up to Lupin and back to the magazine he was working on. "What's it to you, professor?" Yeah, Dean had caught that portion of Sam's conversation with the man.

"Dean!" Sam started to chastise his brother, but Remus cut him off with a raised hand.

"Don't, Sam. I can handle this." Remus picked up one of the dowels. "This is yew," he sat it back down. "And you've got cobalt and smoky quartz. I assume these," he gestured over the miscellaneous other parts, "are bits of a muggle handgun. Just guessing, but I would assume you are trying to make a combination of a gun and a wand."

Dean ran his fingers over the top of the magazine again, "Not exactly."

"How'd you come up with that?" Sam asked.

Remus leveled a wry smile at Sam, "Clearly, you never met the Weasley twins. They toyed with something like this during the War," the word was quite obviously capitalized in Remus' tone, "but couldn't get it to work."

Dean sat the mag and the file down and picked up one of the dowels, his pocket knife, and the barrel section of the disassembled gun on the bed. "They weren't me." He measured the length of the barrel against the dowel and marked the wood before setting the barrel down again. "The only part of this I'm not too sure about is it working at all… If the website was right about how these things interact, then it will work. If it was wrong, then I've managed to waste a couple of hours."

"What website?" Remus asked; unlike most European wizards, he did have more than a passing understanding of technology. Often, the only places he could find employment was in the muggle world. He also knew that American wizards had a tendency to blend magic with their love of technology.

"Um…" Dean broke the dowel at the marked section and started trimming the short piece of wood with his knife. "Something called 'MagusWiki-dot-magi'."

"'Wiki' as in Wikipedia?" Sam said.

Dean shrugged, "That's what I said."

Remus and Sam took seats on Sam's bed and watched Dean work on his project. Sam still wasn't too clear on what Dean was hoping to accomplish; Remus had an idea, but he decided not to comment further – he could tell that he set Dean on-edge. He was pretty sure he knew why, too, but he wasn't going to volunteer the information.

Finished with the dowel, Dean sat it down and began working on the barrel section of the gun with his cutting torch. The hole he cut was roughly two inches long, a couple of millimeters wide, and ran parallel to the length of the barrel. After cooling it in the sink, he filed the rough edges away and set to attaching a small, straight pin-spring halfway down the length of the hole. When that was done, he turned his attention to a piece of quartz that was somewhat mushroom-shaped, with one end the same diameter of the bore on the gun barrel and the other end shaped something like a contact lens. He picked up a tool Sam knew for a fact they hadn't owned earlier in the day and proceeded to thread the stem on the piece of quartz. The gun he's messing with must have been bored for a silencer, Sam noted.

With the quartz threaded, he screwed it into place on the gun barrel. Then he dropped a small coil-spring down the barrel, followed by the piece of wood. Holding his thumb over the open end, he attached a small screw to the wood through the hole in the barrel; the screw was the distinctive black shade of iron. Iron is magically inert, Remus thought, catching on to what, precisely, Dean was trying to do and realizing where the twins had gone wrong in their experiments.

Once he'd finished with the barrel of the gun, Dean quickly reassembled the rest of the weapon. Sam let out a little huff noise when he saw the gold firing pin. Dean merely smirked at him and slid the modified magazine into the handle. He sat the finished product down on the bed before standing and stretching, "Well, what do you think, Sam?"

Sam reached over and picked it up. "I think you're nuts."

"You won't think so if it works."

"What's it supposed to do?"

Dean grinned, "What do guns do?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Kill things."

Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at Sam, "Yahtzee."

"But, Dean… This one isn't…"

"Come on," Dean snagged it out of Sam's hand. "How 'bout we try it before you dismiss it." He snagged an empty water bottle from the trash and was out the door before Sam could argue with him.

Remus got to his feet and followed Dean outside. Sam sighed again and followed them down to the parking lot. Once there, Dean handed the bottle to Sam. "Target practice. I don't know for sure what this will do, so I'd rather aim over the buildings."

"I get the idea," Sam snapped, snagging the bottle. "Whenever you're ready."

Dean fiddled with the modified Beretta for a moment, rolled his shoulders and nodded at Sam. "Pull!"

Sam threw the bottle as high and hard as he could. The city lights glinted off of the shiny plastic, making it easy to see. Dean tracked it through its flight and just as it reached the apex of Sam's throw, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The nearly silent click-tick of the hammer connecting with the firing pin and the firing pin connecting with the wood definitely didn't do justice to the bolt of green-tinged light that burst from the crystal attached to the end of the barrel. When the light connected with the water bottle, both simply ceased to exist. A waft of ozone was the only lingering physical evidence. Dean's earlier smirk had nothing on his smile. "Son of a bitch! That was even cooler than I thought it'd be!" He stopped short and laughed at Sam's expression. "Close your mouth, Sammy, before something lands in it."

"That… shouldn't be possible."

Dean shot Sam an innocent look, "Dude, with our lives, anything's possible."

The sound of slow clapping dragged Dean's attention back to Lupin. "Impressive," the man in the red sweater said. "You will, of course, want to be careful with that."

"Ya think?" Dean's reply was sarcastic and automatic. He never did have much in the way of patience for people who thought they knew weapons when they obviously had no clue what they were talking about.

The light from a pair of headlamps cut across the parking lot and Dean stuffed the modified Beretta into his waistband, covering it with the hem of his t-shirt. A mid-sized anonymous four-door import pulled into an empty spot and turned off. Bobby's familiar baseball cap appeared through the opening door, followed quickly by the rest of him. "Dean! Sam! Come unload for me while I get a room."

"Sure thing, Bobby," Dean called back across the lot, hurrying to the rental car. "We're in 216 and 217. I think 215 is still empty."

Bobby nodded and headed for the motel lobby. Sam, with Remus at his heels, caught up to Dean and opened the trunk of the rental car. Dean let out a low whistle, "I hafta wonder if Bobby left anything at home?"

Sam shrugged, "You've seen his place – you tell me."

Dean handed Sam Bobby's duffel bag and a green army-surplus ammo box, taking a large wooden crate for himself. Remus stepped forward, "I'll help." Dean looked at the man, who was nearly the exact same height as Sam, though had far less in the way of body mass. He looks like a stiff breeze'd send him flying. Remus smiled, knowing exactly what Dean was thinking and said, "I am stronger than I look."

"You'd have to be," Dean muttered, letting the man take the crate. Remus wrapped his left hand through one of the crate's rope handles and swung it up onto his shoulder. Holding out his right hand he snapped a couple of times to indicate he could carry something else. Dean shrugged a little, If the dude wants to fall over, that's his business, and handed him the blue metal five-gallon can of holy water. He and Sam watched in silence as Remus walked lightly over to the stairs to the second floor.

As Remus ascended the stairs, Sam whispered to Dean, "You know, you just might be right about him… That had to have been what, a hundred pounds of stuff?"

"Closer to a hundred-twenty. I think the crate was full of books." Dean grabbed the remaining two bags and shut the trunk with a bang.

By the time Bobby made it up to Dean and Sam's room, Dean had managed to get the majority of the spare parts for his latest project cleaned off his bed; the newest addition to the arsenal sat innocuously on the table by the window. "You were right, 215 was empty," Bobby said, stepping into the room. He eyed the odd-looking gun on the table, nodded in satisfaction at the white line of salt encircling the room, and let his gaze come to a rest on Dean, Sam, and a man he didn't know. He took a breath and said, "Christo." No one flinched and Bobby grinned. "Well, no one's possessed – have to say, it's a step in the right direction. Now, boys, why don't you introduce me to your friend here and then we can get down to business."

Remus smiled, he liked the man's no-nonsense attitude. He stepped forward and offered his hand, "Remus Lupin."

Bobby shook it, "Bobby Singer." He took a closer look at the man, "You're a long way from home, ain't ya?"

Remus chuckled, "Ah, I guess you could say so, Mr. Singer."

"Mr. Singer was my pop – you can call me Bobby."

"Certainly," Remus replied.

Bobby looked past Remus and told Sam, "Crack open that crate. I came prepared." He looked around the room again, "Where's that door go?"

"To the room next door – Harry's room," Sam replied, unlatching the rough wooden crate and opening it.

"He awake?"

"No," Remus replied. "He's… not feeling well at the moment. I don't think it would be wise to wake him." This was certainly true, but as Harry was heavily sedated, Remus' worry was more for Severus' reaction to being roused after only an hour or so of sleep.

"Hmm…" Bobby could tell he wasn't being told the whole story. He'd address that in a moment, however. "Too bad there ain't another door into my room. Would make things a little easier, but I'll work with what we've got," he faced Sam again. "Hand me that bundle of papers. Dean, in the black duffel, I've got a staple-gun. Get it."

Remus stepped out of the Hunters' way and watched as Bobby directed Sam and Dean to affix a piece of large paper on the ceiling just inside the door. "I have a couple more of these, so we can put one in each room." The paper sported one of the many designs detailed in The Lesser Key of Solomon. Remus shook his head a little, They might be muggles, but they certainly know their business. He removed his wand from his pocket and decided to make himself useful.

Keeping in mind the layout of both this room and Harry's, Remus walked over to a section of wall that was the least likely to cause any problems with the motel's electrical lines and plumbing and aimed his wand at it. "Prodeo ostium." A door that looked similar to the one leading to Harry's room melted into existence from the wall.

A metallic clicking noise drew Remus' attention back to the other men in the room. He saw that Sam was standing on tiptoe, holding up a corner of the large paper with the devil's trap drawn on it, while Dean stood on a chair with the staple-gun in one hand. Bobby, however, had a small pistol cocked and aimed at Remus. "Bobby!" Sam exclaimed, "Put it away!"

"But –"

"No, Bobby – Sam's right. Put it away, and we'll explain in a minute," Dean's voice was soothing, like he was talking to a frightened child or trying to coax a skittish puppy over to him.

Remus held his hands up, his wand still held loosely. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt anybody."

Bobby uncocked the pistol, but didn't lower it. "What are you?"

"I'm a wizard, Mr. Singer… Bobby. I specialize in defensive magics, though I'm a fair hand at transfiguration," he nodded towards the new door.

Dean quickly finished stapling the trap in place and jumped off the chair. "Bobby, chill. Sam and me have known about people like Lupin here since July – when we met Harry. Harry's a wizard as well as a Hunter. This guy was one of his teachers."

Remus slowly lowered his hands and tucked his wand back into his pocket. Bobby lowered the pistol. "You boys have some serious explaining to do," Bobby said, claiming the chair Dean had been standing on. "Start talking."

6:32 am, October 11, 2007
Room 217, Super 8 Motel
Houma, Louisiana

Harry's consciousness swam up out of the murky depths of dreamless oblivion, thankfully bypassing any more dreams on its way. It took several moments for his brain to engage and allow him to recognize the plain blue-green paint on the wall he was staring at. Motel… Where? Oh, yeah. Louisiana. With a gasp he bolted upright, throwing his blankets off. Fucking power-leech… Dream? Merlin, I hope it was a dream.

"Lay back down, Potter, before I'm forced to tie you down."

I know that voice… Harry looked to his left. "Snape," his voice was flat. I suppose this means it wasn't a bad dream.

"Indeed, Potter."

Harry scrubbed a shaking hand across his face. "I can't believe they actually managed to find you."

Snape scoffed, "They didn't."

"Then how –" Harry stopped himself, "Oh. They must have called Leanne." He winced a little, imagining her reaction. "Sorry about that."

"Stop with the apologizing, Potter. I am not here to hear you talk." Snape crossed the room to Harry's potions kit and grabbed two vials of Pepper-Up and an Energizing Elixir. He handed them to Harry. Harry downed the contents of the three vials. Some of the fuzziness in his head dissipated. "Is it too much to assume you have something resembling a cauldron among your things?"

Harry nodded and wished he hadn't, "In the saddlebag." His eyes were dry and scratchy and his head was pounding. "Hand me a fever-reducer, would you?"

"No," Snape replied, his attention on the black leather bag. He was already regretting his decision to wake Potter before Lupin returned from wherever it was he'd gone after Severus had gone to bed.

"Why not? I can fucking tell when I'm running a temperature, Snape."

"Use that mass of grey tissue currently housed between your ears, Potter. What's the main ingredient of a fever-reducing potion?" Just how much junk does the brat carry around with him? Severus gave up rooting through the bag and simply dumped its contents out on the dresser.

"How the fuck should I know? It's been what, ten years or more since I was in your classes?" Harry's headache seemed to be getting worse, Either that, or its just an allergic reaction to all things Snape. "I don't bother brewing unless I've got no choice. Hell, I can't remember the last time I used the fucking cauldron."

Spotting a miniature cauldron in among the pile of doll-sized bags and boxes, Snape muttered a resizing charm and swept the mess back into the saddlebag. "It was covered in your third year, Potter."

"I don't know, Snape. Quit fucking with me."

"I see leaving home has done nothing for your vocabulary," Snape moved the cauldron off the dresser and to the floor. Some quick wand-work had it sitting over a conjured unidirectional flame – a fire that would only send heat upwards, into the cauldron.

"Bite me."

"I think not," Snape filled the cauldron halfway with an oil base he had brought with him.

"Are you going to tell me or should I just get up and get the damn potion myself?"

Severus added three drams of salamander blood. "By all means, help yourself. Of course, when the oxidized dragon blood in the fever-reducer reacts with the silver nitrate in this and melts your skin off, don't expect me to fix it for you."

Harry, who was halfway out of bed, flopped back down onto the pillows. "You could have just said so, you fucking bastard."

Severus smiled down into the cauldron, his hair screening his expression from Harry. Though I would pay good money to see it, I don't want to have to clean the mess up. He stirred the cauldron six times in a figure-eight with his wand.

A/N2: And this is where I think this chapter should end. This chapter pretty much wrote itself – I love it when that happens. I had originally intended for Dean's experiment to fail, but he told me – in no uncertain terms – that he wasn't going to cooperate for the rest of the story if I made him look incompetent. He can be very persuasive.

Review and let me know if this is still running in the right direction.