Chapter 170: A Young Man at Number 10 - Hogwarts i am snape

December in London was dreary, the sky a heavy gray. A mix of rain and snow dusted the streets, soaking coats and hats. Outside the iconic black iron gates of 10 Downing Street, an old red taxi squeaked to a stop.

The door swung open, and a young man with dark hair hopped out from the back. As he reached to pay, the scruffy driver leaned out the window, jerking his chin toward the towering gates and the armed, vigilant guards. "Oi, mate!" he growled. "You're getting dropped here? That's double the fare!"

Severus Snape didn't mind shelling out a few extra pounds. He'd noticed London's mood had grown grimmer lately. With a faintly puzzled look, he pulled some notes from his wallet and handed them over, asking curiously, "Why's that? Something special about this place?"

The driver snatched the money, stuffing it into his greasy shirt pocket before spitting out the window. "Pah! Blame those rotten politicians and their bloody policies. 'Wage caps,' they say—workers can't get more than a five percent raise a year! Prices are soaring like a rocket, and hardly anyone's taking cabs anymore. Leeches, the lot of 'em!"

His rant grew heated as he rolled up the window. The engine roared, and the taxi sped off, kicking up a spray of muddy water.

Snape watched it disappear before turning to face the heavily guarded 10 Downing Street. His decision to come here, rather than the Prime Minister's secret safehouse, was deliberate. Passively protecting a target was, in his view, the worst possible strategy.

In this systematic slaughter of Muggles orchestrated by dark wizards, clinging to the arrogant notion that Muggles were lesser and only needed passive protection—keeping them entirely separate from the wizarding war—was dangerously shortsighted. The conflict had already spilled into the heart of Muggle society. Gaining their understanding, even tapping into their organizational skills, intelligence networks, and operational capabilities, was the smarter move.

That meant talking to the core officials still running the government from Number 10.

He turned and strolled casually toward a narrow, deserted alley nearby. Once deep in its shadows, he checked that no one was around, drew his wand, and silently cast a Disillusionment Charm. His form melted into the gloomy backdrop.

Now camouflaged, he returned to the gates of Number 10. Unseen by the guards, he slipped through the iron bars and approached the famous black door, gleaming with lacquer and marked with a bold brass "10."

Another armed guard stood outside, scanning the empty courtyard. Snape paused, flicked his wand from his sleeve, and whispered, "Alohomora."

The lock clicked softly.

The guard frowned, muttering, "Blimey, is it the wind?" as he glanced around.

While the guard puzzled, Snape slipped inside.

The interior of the residence was imposing—dark wood paneling, thick carpets, and a heavy, somber atmosphere. Snape glided silently through the corridors, using a charm to sharpen his hearing. He caught snippets of sound from behind office doors: ringing phones, clacking keyboards, hushed conversations.

Passing a staircase lined with portraits of past Prime Ministers, he climbed to the upper floor. As he walked by an office marked "Mrs. McCann," a woman's voice boasted, "…Oh, darling, you wouldn't believe it. The job's stressful, sure, but the pay's fantastic. I'm one of the few here who can type properly…"

He moved on until he stopped at a heavy, unmarked oak door. The conversation inside piqued his interest.

"Is the Prime Minister really safer there?" a younger, bookish voice asked. "I thought Number 10 would be the safest place."

A deeper, bureaucratic voice replied, "Of course it's safer. The Prime Minister's absence makes us all safer, Bernard."

Snape aimed his wand at the lock, and with another faint click, it sprang open. He eased the door ajar, slipped inside, and closed it softly behind him.

Inside, a impeccably groomed man in a three-piece suit lounged in an armchair, while a bespectacled, slightly nervous man sat across from him.

"Bernard, what's that? The door?" the older man, Sir Humphrey, said irritably.

"Oh, yes, Sir Humphrey," Bernard replied, hurrying to the door. He inspected the lock, puzzled by its apparent malfunction, secured it, and returned.

"Get yourself a coffee, Bernard," Sir Humphrey said dismissively, sipping from a bone china cup with an air of calm.

Once Bernard settled with his coffee, Sir Humphrey resumed, his tone dripping with the smugness of shared wisdom. "Bernard, it's not that simple. From generations of hard-earned experience, during these… extraordinary crises, sending the Prime Minister away from the storm's center ensures the true heart of the empire—us, the machinery keeping the government running—remains safe, stable, and functional. It prevents chaos, division, organizational decay, and ensures continuity across departments, preserving the foundation of the United Kingdom."

Bernard blinked, confused. "I've… never heard of such a policy."

Sir Humphrey sipped his coffee, smiling cryptically. "You'll understand when you're Cabinet Secretary."

Bernard hesitated, then voiced another concern. "But, Sir Humphrey, isn't that dangerous for the Prime Minister?"

"Dangerous?" Sir Humphrey shook his head, confident. "The Prime Minister is under MI5's tightest protection—frequent location changes, decoys, layered security, restricted communications, even nuclear bunkers if needed. In theory, he's perfectly safe." He paused, his brow creasing slightly. "Historically, Prime Ministers have mostly been safe."

"As for those… witches," he continued, searching for the right word, "they're the stuff of legends, barely documented. I used to think they were medieval nonsense, but recent events suggest otherwise."

Bernard nodded thoughtfully. "Sir Humphrey," he said, shifting topics, "there's another issue. Workers' strikes are getting worse, unemployment's rising, wages are capped, and public unrest is growing…"

"That's for politicians to worry about," Sir Humphrey sighed. "And nobody tells the public the truth about unemployment."

"Why not?" Bernard asked.

"Because it's simple," Sir Humphrey said, as if stating the obvious. "Cut unemployment in half in weeks by denying benefits to anyone who's refused two job offers. Statistics are a marvelous thing."

A new voice cut through from the corner. "Impressive tactic, Sir Humphrey. Truly remarkable."

Both men whipped around to see a young man in a dark coat materialize from the shadows. "Guards! Guards!" Bernard yelped, leaping from his chair.

Sir Humphrey tensed, his face paling, but he forced calm, his hand inching toward an alarm under the table. Snape, faster, flicked his wrist, and the small metallic device flew into his palm. He toyed with it, his eyes on Sir Humphrey's frozen hand. "Looking for this, Sir Humphrey?"

Bernard's shouts stopped abruptly, realizing no guards were coming. "Sound doesn't leave this room," Snape said calmly, revealing a slender wand. "This is what your 'witches' use to cast magic. We call it a wand."

Sir Humphrey steadied himself, adjusting his tie and gesturing for Bernard to sit. "Please, have a seat, Mr…?" he said with a strained smile. "I assume 'witch' isn't quite right?"

Snape nodded and sat across from him. "You may call me a wizard, Sir Humphrey. Or Severus Snape."

"Wizard Snape," Sir Humphrey said cautiously, "what brings you to infiltrate the heart of the Prime Minister's residence in such a… dramatic fashion?"

"I come as a representative of the wizarding world's unconquered side," Snape said, "seeking cooperation in this unprecedented crisis."

"Cooperation?" Sir Humphrey's brow shot up skeptically. "Is that… permissible? As far as I know, our worlds have had little official contact. We're not even entirely sure you exist."

Instead of answering, Snape placed the alarm on the table and pointed his wand at it. A flash of light, and the device morphed into a squeaking gray rat, scurrying in panic.

Both men gasped. With another flick, Snape turned it back into the alarm, as if nothing had happened. "You may doubt us," he said, "but we're all human. This crisis doesn't just target non-magical people—it affects both our worlds. Many wizards come from ordinary British families, yet some in our world see them as impure, deserving eradication."

"I'm not here to show off parlor tricks," Snape continued, locking eyes with Sir Humphrey. "We have abilities you don't, but we're fundamentally human. Our worlds stay separate for good reason. If others saw our power, they'd covet it, beg to learn it. But magic isn't taught—it's innate. That leads to resentment, conflict, and, inevitably, someone's destruction."

Chapter 170 - Chapter 170: A Young Man at Number 10