As ever, standard disclaimers apply.

Of Dreams, Delusions, and Demons

"Gods, that was useless!" Dr. Margaret Sellinger threw down the paper in disgust, barely missing the demitasse still full of the espresso she'd ordered.

The man seated across from her merely shrugged and sipped his tea. He'd finally gotten rid of his two hangers on and introduced himself as "Preston." She didn't think it was any more his own name than "Brandon" was Snape's. It didn't matter, though. "Preston" was assigned to assist her in getting the wizard back into the agency's hands. Or, more specifically, her lab. "I shouldn't too surprised, really," he offered convivially, "Good help is hard to get these days."

"Droll." Margaret shifted in her chair. They were in a cafe near her apartment, sharing the scene with couples and small groups out for an evening's entertainment. The place was bustling and loud, the acoustics not being conducive to restraining noise. Her fingers drummed incessantly on the polyurethane coated hardwood surface where she now focused her attention. She didn't notice Preston's detached observation settle on her shrewdly.

"How is it you know about these wizards, Margaret?" He asked after a long period of waiting out her impatient silence.

The woman sighed. "I'm a Muggle, my whole family is except for... my brother." The agent's left eyebrow arched in curiosity and she explained with a dismissive wave of her hand, "Muggles are us; the unmagical people."

"But your brother..." he trailed off, knowing she'd continue.

"Was a wizard. Muggle-born. He's dead. He died in 1977." She herself wasn't sure of the exact date." She lowered her head, not to keep any grief to herself, but rather to hide the unbridled anger that welled up and threatened to tear away her self control.

"I see."

"No, actually, you don't."

"My dear doctor, I think you underestimate me. It is clear you harbor a great... shall we say, dislike--"

"Hate. Loathing."

"Quite so. For either the wizards in general or your subject in particular." He shrugged.

"For Snape in particular." She affirmed softly.

"I take it that is "Brandon's" real name then."

"Yes. A killer." She smiled grimly. "Like you, I imagine. Only for the wrong side." Her voice was husky with its well ripened malevolence.

"Ah. I see. And what, exactly, do you mean by 'for the wrong side?' Which side would that be?"

"Not what you think. The wizards have their own battle lines. This one is drawn on blood. Snape is what they call a 'Pureblood.' With a capital 'P.' They want to terrorize and enslave the rest of us."

"I see no evidence that they've been particularly successful. Why not?"

"Because not everyone agrees with them and the main devil himself--." She stopped and shot a glare at the secret agent. "Even the best of them are not above manipulating other people's memories."

"And so, nearly twenty years later, you are still able to keep up with the goings on of their community."

"Special case. I have wizard friends, and as long as I have a subscription, I receive the Daily Prophet." Preston had been very interested in that rag. The moving photographs had definitely given him a turn and Margaret had almost laughed out loud at his bemused expression. He, clearly, was a man who did not appreciate the unknown.

"You have some idea, then, who has him."

The blond psychiatrist released a hiss of breath from pursed lips. "That's the problem. There are two sets -- at least! -- of people who might want him. The first is the group of killers he is a part of. The second, the man he spies for." She grimaced. "I have friends who might know. But I don't know that they will tell me."

"I'd like to meet them."

"I'm sure you would. But it isn't possible. All that will do is have you end up with your memory erased and me without my contacts. They'd never trust me again. They fear us as well as hate us."

--

Albus Dumbledore was, once more, scanning the faces of his compatriots. He saw worry, exhaustion, wariness. And in the case of one, Alastor Moody, downright anger. Remus Lupin's proposal was being met with mixed feelings. Was it really necessary to involve Muggles? "I am not sure that I feel comfortable involving any non-magical people, in this, Remus. I should prefer, in fact, to keep it within the Order."

"Well," Molly offered hesitantly, "Aren't the doctors Granger medical people?"

"They are dentists, Molly," Minerva McGonagall replied with a shake of her head. "They work with teeth. I don't know what exactly that means, but Hermoine has a lovely smile."

Madame Pomfrey snorted. "It means, dear, that they are dental healers. They are medical people and must at some times work with Muggle potions. At least they would know where to find out what we need to know. I think Remus' suggestion has merit."

"I don't like the idea of involving Muggles." Moody insisted.

"They are involved, though," Arthur pointed out. "It was Muggles who held him captive in the first place."

"Another reason not to involve them any further. Likewise, they are not members of the Order." Moody sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, clearly satisfied with the unassailability of his argument.

"We don't have any Muggle members." Remus retorted in exasperation. "Severus needs us to find out more. I think we owe him that."

"We don't owe him a thing!" the old ex-Auror was almost shouting. "He's a contemptible spy who can't be trusted!"

Albus sighed. Only his deputy headmistress heard him and she gave him a weary, commiserating glance in sympathy. This was not going well and he was still undecided.

"Oi!" A faint shout came from upstairs. Bill Weasley's voice, not panicked, but not calm either. Lupin, nearest to the kitchen door, was first out of the room and up the first flight of stairs to the entrance hall.

"Bill? What's wrong?"

"Snape's being summoned!" The eldest Weasley son called down. "I cast a binding charm but I don't think he's actually trying to respond to it."

Lupin stood aside as Poppy pushed past him, following in the wake of her billowing robes along with everyone else from the meeting. They all halted at the doorway to the bedroom as if an invisible shield held them back. Only Albus Dumbledore had the nerve to intrude into the nurse's domain.

What he saw made him pale in dismay. Not only was the Potions Master not trying to answer the summons, he seemed to have retreated so far into the recesses of his mind as to be unaware of the burning of the symbol on his forearm.

Perhaps it was, after all, time the wizarding world asked the Muggles for help.