Chapter Fifty-Two: Reminds Me Of…

"Draco, what the fuck?" Draco heard the professor and took his headphones off. The sight startled him.

"Speak for yourself, per'fessor. What happened?" Sighing slightly, Cass set down her guns and pulled off the coat she wore. Blood had colored the sleeve of her t-shirt and Draco hurried to her side. "Good lord!"

"Aw, piss off. It just grazed me." Draco began rolling up the sleeve to inspect the wound.

"A bullet?"

"A dagger. No big deal."

"Get your shirt off."

"Up yours."

"I'm not kidding, Yankee. Either you get it off yourself or I'm tearing off the sleeve." Draco tried to make his voice as stern as his godfather and evidently succeeded, for Cass glared and pulled the garment over her head. As the sleeve brushed the gash on her shoulder, she winced slightly. Draco noticed and kept up his authoritarian approach. "No big deal, my foot. You've just missed the artery. What goes on that you let yourself get cut up like this?"

"Did you just completely miss your classmate's getting kidnapped? Voldemort coming back? The Ministry being more full of shit than a rhino colon? Were you under a rock, Malfoy?"

"Well, the Ministry's always been full of shit, but you don't see me coming home to bleed on the linoleum." The blond boy sighed at the professor's arm, which was going to need a couple of spells. "Not that I wouldn't fight if Dumbledore would let me off the grounds, but must you always get hurt?"

"I don't always get hurt."

"The Macnair raid you got hexed, then at Nott's you got a black eye, and now your arm's all slashed. Where was it tonight?"

"Where do you think?"

"Honestagod, Cass, lay off Pettigrew. My- …Lucius has him protected too well."

"I was after Hermione, thank you, but that Russian-sounding fellow met up with me."

"And slashed your arm to hell?"

"During a very impolite and uneven match, let me tell you." The room was very dark, lit only by computer screens, but Draco could see his friend's wry smile.

"Did you kill him?"

"With these crap pseudo-bullets? If only! I shot him and Portkeyed his comatose Death Eater ass straight to the holding pen, but not before your- …Malfoy saw him 'dead'. One more guinea pig for the Confession Extraction Box."

"Speaking of, Bellatrix Lestrange has demanded more legal pads and another bottle of ink. You may have inspired her to write novels instead of doing Dark magic with all your rock n' roll."

"So the literary community can hate her guts as well. How poetic."

"That reminds me. What is a songfic?"

"When you write a story based around an existing song. Why?"

Draco actually managed to look guilty.

"I've been releasing my tension on your computer."

"Good lord. Been reading the smutty stuff out there in Cyberland?"

"Er…writing it, too. I have a three-chapter Lord of the Rings story that's finished, and one work in progress. What's a Mary Sue?"

"Any OC who your readers feel is cliché'd."

"OC?"

"Original character, twit. You can't just throw in a strikingly pretty female hobbit who wants to help Frodo and Company without giving the girl some flaws or at least a sense of humanity."

"Don't you mean hobbitity?" Draco inquired wryly. "Mine is just an extra girl-elf with hot pants for Legolas."

"Jeez. Anything wrong with her?"

"Apart from being randy as a goat?"

Cass sighed theatrically and began to lecture, oblivious to the sting as Draco methodically healed her wound.

"Does the pointy-eared skank have anything she's bad at? Is she stunningly pretty or more expectable? Why does she fancy Legolas? She can't be like every other 'extra girl-elf with hot pants for Legolas,' and let me tell you, there have been several."

"She isn't a very good shot, but not a bad one, has brownish hair and a squint, freckles, and she fancies Legolas because he's cute in her opinion and famous, not to mention he actually noticed her. I sort of based her on Moaning Myrtle, actually, only non-transparent."

"What'd you name her?"

"Illonwen. Is that okay?"

"Crap, Draco! You can't just swipe Welsh names for the elves, even if the entire goddamn language is spelled like a bad hand of Scrabble on Dyslexics' Night. It works, but just barely." The professor abruptly realized she was standing about lecturing in her bra and grabbed a blanket from the chair. "What sort of reviews'd you get so far?"

"Mostly pretty good, but one person called my girl-elf a Mary Sue. I wondered why, but now that I know what one is, I'm a little ticked."

"Well, you can't please everyone. Try giving what's-her-head a few strictly humor scenes or a good reason to be involved with the Fellowship."

"Like…?"

"Oh, I don't know…have her do the cooking. It can be a joke: 'after two of Strider's venison-based breakfasts and Merry's stolen-veggie stew, the hobbits no longer liked the idea of five meals a day.' I can't see any of the guys being decent at fixing meals, except maybe Gimli. He has kind of a Paul Prudhomme vibe going."

"What if Gimli secretly loves to cook?" Draco suggested. "The Gourmet of Moria."

"Sounds like a great one-shot, but if you run too far, it'll become the Shire's Top Fifty Recipes."

"The Rivendell Cookbook."

"On about Tolkien again?" John asked, coming down the steps with a box of books.

"The usual fanfickery," Cass explained. As John bent over to kiss his wife hello, he noticed her unusual attire –or lack thereof. Instead of getting jealous or confused, however, he picked up the bloodstained t-shirt with a free hand and tossed it toward the laundry heap.

"Did you get cut again, dear?"

"I've just finished mending a dagger wound on her shoulder. How's it look?" John looked at the patch of skin Draco indicated, smiled mischievously, and set down the box.

"Delicious."

To Draco's slight chagrin, the werewolf began kissing up Cass' arm to her neck before resuming the pair's seemingly favorite activity. Cripes. How often could two people kiss without getting bored by it? As discreetly as he could, Draco slipped out the front door and headed for his room in the Slytherin dungeon. He was beginning to feel the effects of noone to date since his induction to the Light. The Slytherin chippies were off-limits by his own decision, as he wanted nothing less than questions about his loyalties from Mrs. Malfoy-wanna-bes with braces on their brains, and the other houses had to still think him Dark for his cover to stick.

Since graduation, too, he had lost interest in the student body. Potter and Ginny Weasley were still head-over-heels with each other, but Draco wasn't quite keen on meeting a seventh-year in an empty classroom and getting caught. Severus called it the onset of maturity. Draco called it distraction. It seemed so pointless to chase girls when the entire wizarding world was at war, and himself a spy, no less. True, he was being made to wait, as were many others, and the typing on the Tylers' old Compaq passed the time. So did reprogramming other Slytherins, and that actually did some good. Flirting did not, unless…

An idea flicked into his head.

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"Hey, Mel!" Tonks hurried to catch up with the Professor's friend, despite the pile of books in her arms. She wasn't slowing down, but Tonks was determined to chat with her. "Really great show last night. I loved your joke about Fudge and the hooker."

"Oh, thanks. A fifth-year sent that one in."  Melanie Watling, despite her usual affability, always seemed distracted in Tonks' presence.

"I was wondering…who requested the Styx song the other night?"

"Er…jes' some guy, I guess. You'd have to ask Cass to find out for sure."

"I was afraid o' that," Tonks observed, shrugging. "Say, when did you two meet, anyway? School together in America?"

"Naw. We're just…we're old mates. See you in a bit!"

As Mel pulled the door shut behind her, something occurred to Tonks, who for all her rock n' roll and punk accoutrements was not an Auror for nothing.

Why would a Southern American say 'see you in a bit'? Wouldn't 'see y'all later' or even 'see you later' be more typical? For that matter, what American referred to mates as 'mates' instead of 'friends'?

And how did she know where the prefects' bathroom was? Cass Tyler didn't, or why would she have gone downstairs to get shampoo for the kids in Professor McGonagall's class after they converted dandruff to vanilla sprinkles by accident?

Melanie Watling was not American. She almost had to be a former Hogwarts student, but whom?

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"And I use it how?"

"Cassandra, you know how to use a Pensieve as well as I. It's standard in all Auror training." Remus was astonished to see the werewolf stick out her tongue at him. "Is that really ladylike where you come from?"

"Neither is kicking you in the balls, but I'll do that too, if it comes to it."

"Cassandra, Albus himself requested it."

"Requested or suggested? I don't need anyone else messing with me, thank you very much."

"You have to let out this tension somewhere," a stern, familiar voice observed. "Shooting at pictures of Voldemort isn't helping you put this aside."

"I don't want to put it aside, Severus!" Cass raged. "We are at war!"

"And if you don't learn to relax and get some rest sometime, Mrs. Tyler, you will be off the mission and back in America faster than you can say 'stress disorder,'" Madam Pomfrey added. "Your blood pressure has gone up over thirty-five points in less than a month. You will kill yourself."

"So I've had the flu this week. Big deal. So has most of Ravenclaw." Quite suddenly, mid-rant, in fact, Cass was seized by what looked like nausea. "S'cuse me a sec."

Remus and Poppy were shocked by what sounded like the Professor vomiting into an office wastebin behind the door, but Severus quite abruptly smiled and fetched a few potion vials from his shelf. As Cass emerged, looking sick, he combined two into a goblet and offered it to her.

"Drink." She did. "Spit into this." He held out a bowl of the third potion.

"Why?"

"Because I'm your Head of House. Do it." Grudgingly and with a peculiar delicacy, the Professor spat into the bowl. "Good girl. Sit down and drink this tea."

"Bark," she replied sarcastically, even as she accepted the teacup.

"Remus, Poppy, I wouldn't worry about Cassandra for now. I can take care of things." Remus sighed relievedly, but Poppy looked unconvinced. Severus raised an eyebrow at her. "Trust me." As if he had flicked a switch, the mediwitch smiled.

"See you at the game, Severus."

With the two other Order members gone, Severus began mixing the potion Cass had sipped with the one she had spat into. The werewolf watched him quizzically, but he said nothing for several minutes.

"You're not using your Jedi-Potions-Master mind tricks on me, Sevvy. I'm not touching that Pensieve thing."

"Why?" he asked briefly, still stirring.

"Because they have a nasty habit of falling into the wrong hands, for instance! Harry Potter has a disastrous record of stumbling into them, as I recall. Nope. No brain colander for this wolfie."

"What about for a new 'wolfie'?"

"Huh?"

"Say, for posterity. The next generation of Tyler werewolves."

"Next generation?" Cass actually snorted. "Come on. Ringo's only seventeen and interested more in Aurory than parenthood, Smokey's girlfriend is afraid of papercuts, let alone pregnancy, I think Paul may actually be gay, and-"

"Actually, that's not entirely accurate." Completely missing Severus' mysterious smile, Cass let out a chortle.

"What? Because Ringo's been flirting with Blaise Zabini? Just because she's a bit of a temptress doesn't mean she can't operate a condom, pal."

"No." Severus bit his lip to remove the mental picture and moved closer to his friend, placing a hand on her stomach gently. "Actually, that is the next generation of Tyler werewolves."

Cass looked at him as if he were patently insane.

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Cassandra, you had a flu shot last year, not to mention you haven't even been near the sick Ravenclaws. You're going to have a baby, sometime next June." Severus couldn't restrain a Dumbledorean twinkly smile. "Would you like to know what kind?"

"Kind?" Cass looked numbly at the professor. "Wolf or human?"

"Oh, no, the child will definitely be a werewolf. That's a given from parentage. I meant would you like to know boy or girl?"

"You know that?"

"The second potion told me. Are you interested in knowing?"

A dark shadow crossed the younger professor's face.

"No. That way it won't be so painful when I lose this one. In fact, would you mind Obliviating-"

Severus swept his friend into his arms before she could protest. As tears streaked down her face, he smiled and explained:

"You won't. That was the first potion."

There was a long silence before Severus abruptly realized the littler professor was shaking, and not with sobs.

"Sevvy, I can't possibly have a kid." Her tone was laughing, in kind of a hysterical way, but calmer than before. "Can you imagine me a parent? Cripes, Sev, I can scarcely teach a class."

"I can see you and John in twelve years' time, watching the Sorting Hat ponder your child, both nervously and proudly." Cass smiled.

"With Hermione by your side, wearing a Snugli full of baby Granger-Snape."

"Are you mad?" Severus considered this idea and found it, oddly enough, to his liking. "Or perhaps with a Granger-Snape godchild riding on John's shoulders, and a second or third Tyler on my lap."

"Three?" Cass looked scandalized. "Isn't one enough? Only mad people have more than two children or less than four. Three is a horrid number."

"Gods smite me for asking, but why?"

"You have an oldest to bitch about never being the baby and having to be the big kid, the middle to bitch about being the baby for too short a time and having to be a big kid, and the baby to bitch about never being a big kid. It's the most positively godawful amount for children."

"And two?"

"Only two kids is nothing."

"And four?"

"The oldest is too busy to bitch and the baby is too busy being dressed up as a cat by the two middles."

"You are quite insane. I always thought three children the ideal number."

"You can't tolerate twenty, Sevvy dear. Three will kill you."

"What set of three were you acquainted with?"

"The next-door neighbors growing up. Separately or in pairs they were dear, as a clan, quite mad."

"Your school friends?"

"Crap, no. I had to babysit the lot, a four-year-old, a two and an infant. It was abject madness."

"But one baby is acceptable to your mind?"

"One at a time, they're darling. It's only in trios that they become unholy, if they aren't triplets."

"Any preference for the type?

"Well, I suppose a boy would be fun, and I think John really wants a girl."

"And you?" Cass appeared to think.

"You're dying to tell me, aren't you?"

"Shall I call John in and tell you both?"

"Actually, I'd like it if you'd just tell him. Call it superstition, or intuition, or whatever." Severus nodded agreeably and Cass smirked. "And if it's a boy, I'll name him Severus."

"You wouldn't!"

"When did you get nicer, Sevvy? The students used to complain to me about you every day. And it's been months since you've threatened to throw me a tennis ball."

"May I blame stress?" the elder professor sighed. Cass suddenly smiled and kissed Severus on the cheek.

"It's a question of thank, not blame, and I know who's responsible. Don't think this whole parenting thing is going to slow me down finding her, either."

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The Filius Replicatus was a dirty charm, alright. Narcissa almost threw down the fat book she had been leafing through, tracing Lucius' bookmarks to discover his intentions. The signs all pointed to her worst fear: Voldemort wanted to turn Hermione Granger into his heir, and more than that. There was only one snag in the Dark plan, but it was a large enough one for Narcissa to pin her hopes on.

Hermione would be nineteen in a few months.

The Time-Turner had increased the girl's age, but even without it, she would be too old for the charm to have much effect. The ideal candidate was someone very young, the younger the better, in fact, and anyone over five was really quite useless. To cast Filius Replicatus on Hermione would actually be counter-productive; giving her all Voldemort's power and none of his intentions. Her best friend's lover –and therefore her friend- was safe. She must be a mere hostage, perhaps an answer to Bellatrix' captivity in the hands of the Light.

Wait. Hadn't Cass Tyler offered an exchange over the radio and in the papers? She had, and quite bombastically, too, with a cover photograph by Colin Creevey showing Bellatrix in handcuffs and the werewolf grinning almost as psychotically as her prisoner glared. Voldemort had scorned the switch of Hermione for Bellatrix, even though the Dark witch was far more valuable than the barely-qualified Mudblood one. There had to be some reason…

Narcissa's charge stirred slightly.

"Hermione? Are you awake?"

There was a short, pain-filled cry.

"Please, dear, you've got to wake up. Do you know where you are?"

The girl slumped back against the bed, as unconscious as before. Narcissa almost swore in disappointment and touched her patient's forehead. Warm, but not feverish. Why was she sweating so? And why was she losing weight? With no exercise and practically constant nutrition, she should be gaining it. Maybe it was all of the vomiting in the past few weeks-

Narcissa Malfoy, for once, didn't know a swearword strong enough.

It made perfect sense. Voldemort didn't want a full Mudblood, but a half would be ideal. A brilliant mother, a father who had wet his feet in the Dark…

Good lord.

After a few dumbstruck moments, however, Narcissa began to shake with hysterical laughter. Severus… oh, dear. What would Dumbledore say? And McGonagall… oh, that was positively killing…Wait, what about the wards on the school? Oh, dear, that was even worse. If students behaved anything like they had in her day, Hogwarts would be through the ears with unexpected babies soon…

Oh, that was really hilarious.

No, it wasn't.

Narcissa's giggles subsided into sobs. She was the only one who knew what was going on, and she couldn't eve use a wand without…

Oh. Wait.

The anti-magic cuff on her wrist burned like fire as she cast the spell. Just before the guards came stomping in to confiscate the wand, Narcissa got the information she needed. Six months along…that meant January. Even as Greg Goyle senior shouted epithets, the blond aristocrat smiled serenely. She had four months of time that she hadn't counted on. Four months to work on Lucius.

It was, to use Bella's term, smoldering temptress time.

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