December in London.
The sky hung low and gray, and the things falling from it were somewhere between rain and snow, dampening the streets and the coats and hats of passersby.
Outside the black iron gates of the iconic 10 Downing Street, an old red taxi screeched to a halt.
The car door opened, and a young man with black hair jumped out of the back seat.
As the young man reached for his wallet, the bearded driver, glancing warily at the towering gates, the guards with rifles, and the solemn black door, jerked his chin toward them and barked through the window:
"Hey! Mate! You came to this place, I'm charging you double!"
Severus Snape didn't particularly mind paying a bit more in Muggle currency. He had noticed that lately, the atmosphere in London seemed even gloomier than usual.
With a faintly puzzled expression, he pulled out a few extra banknotes and handed them over. "Uh, why? What's so special about here?" he asked, his tone curious.
The driver snatched the money and shoved it into his greasy shirt pocket. He spat angrily out the window.
"Pah! It's these damned politicians! Bloody fools and their 'wage restraint' rubbish, saying workers' pay can't rise more than five percent a year!"
"Bloody hell! Prices are going up like rockets, and now hardly anyone takes taxis anymore! Parasites, the lot of 'em, just bloodsucking parasites!"
The more he talked, the angrier he became. He muttered curses under his breath as he rolled up the window.
The engine roared, belching black smoke, and the taxi sped off, splashing Snape's boots with muddy water.
Watching the taxi disappear, Snape slowly turned toward the heavily guarded Number 10 and the armed officers.
The reason he had come here, rather than going straight to the Prime Minister's secret refuge, was a deliberate one.
In Snape's eyes, passively protecting a target was always the worst strategy.
Especially in this ongoing, systematic slaughter of Muggles at the hands of Dark wizards.
If wizards continued to cling to the arrogance that "Muggles are inferior and must merely be shielded from danger," severing them entirely from the war's reality, it would be not only foolish but disastrous.
Since the flames of war had already spread to the heart of Muggle society, then seeking their understanding, and even their cooperation, their organization, intelligence, and operational resources, might well be the wiser course.
And so, speaking with the senior civil officials who still kept the machinery of government running within Number 10 had become a necessary step.
He turned again and strolled casually toward a narrow, deserted alley beside the street.
After confirming that no one was nearby, he drew his wand and silently cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself.
In an instant, his outline blurred and melted into the drab gray surroundings.
Thus concealed, Snape walked back toward the gates of Number 10.
Under the unknowing eyes of the guards, he passed effortlessly through the iron fence and approached the famous black door marked with gleaming brass numerals, "10."
A guard stood watch outside, scanning the empty front courtyard.
Snape stopped before the door and gave a small flick of his wand within his sleeve.
"Alohomora."
There was a faint click.
The guard frowned, looking about uneasily. "Bloody hell... wind's strong today, isn't it?" he muttered.
While the man was still peering around, Snape slipped sideways through the door.
Inside the residence, dark wooden paneling, thick carpets, and a heavy air of solemn authority pressed close.
He moved noiselessly through the corridors, enhancing his hearing with a whispered spell, catching fragments of sounds leaking from office doors, telephones ringing, typewriters clacking, low murmurs of conversation.
Ascending the staircase lined with portraits of past Prime Ministers, he came to the upper floor.
Passing an office whose door bore the nameplate Mrs. McCann, he heard a woman's slightly smug voice from within:
"...Oh, darling, you've no idea! The work is stressful, yes, but the pay's excellent. I'm one of the few who can actually type here..."
He moved on, finally stopping before a heavy, unmarked oak door from which voices drifted, voices that caught his attention.
"Wouldn't the Prime Minister be safer staying here? I thought Number Ten was the most secure place," said a younger, scholarly-sounding voice.
Another voice, older, steadier, and steeped in bureaucratic authority, replied smoothly,
"Of course it's safer. If the Prime Minister isn't at Number Ten, we'll all be safer, Bernard."
Snape repeated his silent unlocking spell. Click. The latch gave way.
He pushed the door open just a crack, slipped inside, and closed it behind him.
Inside, a middle-aged man with impeccably combed hair and an elegant three-piece suit sat in a large armchair. Across from him, another middle-aged man with glasses and a cautious demeanor perched on the edge of his seat.
"Bernard, what's this? The door just opened, go and shut it, will you?" said Sir Humphrey, irritation flashing in his tone.
"Oh, yes, Sir Humphrey." Bernard rose quickly, went to the door, and frowned at the latch as if puzzled by a draft before locking it again. He returned to his chair, still uneasy.
"Get yourself a cup of coffee, Bernard," Sir Humphrey said mildly, as if the interruption hadn't occurred. Lifting a bone china teacup, he sipped elegantly.
Once Bernard had settled again with his coffee, Sir Humphrey resumed, his voice calm and full of the lofty superiority of long experience.
"Bernard, these matters are never as simple as they appear. According to the wisdom passed down through generations of civil servants, whenever an extraordinary crisis arises, it's best for the Prime Minister to step away from the eye of the storm.
"This ensures the true core of the Empire, namely, the machinery of government itself, us, remains safe, stable, and functioning. It prevents chaos, division, organizational decay, or administrative paralysis, all of which could threaten the foundations of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."
"I've... never heard of such a practice," Bernard admitted, baffled.
Sir Humphrey smiled faintly, the expression of a man who knew far more than he would ever say.
"When you become Cabinet Secretary one day, Bernard, you'll learn all about it."
Bernard hesitated, still uneasy. "But won't that put the Prime Minister in danger, Sir Humphrey?"
"Danger?" Sir Humphrey repeated, clasping his hands.
"No. A Prime Minister away from Number Ten is under the most stringent protection of MI5.
"They employ numerous highly classified measures, frequent relocation, body doubles, layered security perimeters, restricted communications, even underground bunkers originally built for nuclear war.
"In theory," he concluded smoothly, "the Prime Minister is perfectly safe."
He paused, frowning slightly. "Though, historically speaking, 'in theory' has not always meant 'in practice.'
"As for those... ah... 'witches'", he hesitated over the word, "they've long been confined to myth and marginal folklore. Few have encountered them directly, though not entirely without trace.
"I used to think such tales were mere medieval fancy. But in light of recent events, the truth seems... less simple."
Bernard nodded thoughtfully.
"Sir Humphrey," he began again, "there's another concern. Worker strikes are spreading, unemployment's rising, wages are frozen, public anger's mounting, "
"Bernard," sighed Sir Humphrey, "that's the politicians' problem.
"And as for unemployment, no one ever tells the public the truth about that."
"Why not?" Bernard asked, frowning.
"Because everyone knows the golden rule," said Sir Humphrey smoothly. "You can halve unemployment in a matter of weeks."
Bernard blinked. "How?"
"Simple," said Sir Humphrey, spreading his hands. "Stop paying benefits to anyone who's refused two job offers. The statistics will look marvellous. That, Bernard, is the beauty of numbers."
At that moment, a calm, unfamiliar voice echoed from the corner of the room.
"An ingenious method indeed, Sir Humphrey, truly admirable."
Both men whipped their heads toward the sound.
Out of the shadows, a tall young man in a dark coat seemed to materialize from the air itself, his form sharpening into focus.
"Guards! Guards!" Bernard yelped, leaping to his feet, voice high with panic.
Sir Humphrey's face had gone pale, but he forced composure. His hand, almost imperceptibly, slid toward the emergency alarm hidden beneath the coffee table.
Snape was faster. With a casual flick of his wrist, the small metallic alarm device lifted from beneath the table and floated neatly into his waiting palm.
Both men froze. Snape examined the object with detached interest, then glanced at Sir Humphrey's halted hand.
"Looking for this, Sir Humphrey?" he asked mildly.
Bernard's shout died in his throat. No sound came from outside; the room remained eerily still.
"No one can hear us," Snape said evenly. His other hand rose, and a slender wand appeared between his fingers. "This is what your people would call a witch's tool," he explained. "We call it a wand."
Sir Humphrey drew a long, steadying breath, forcing his voice back under control. Adjusting his tie, he motioned for Bernard, who was still frozen, to sit. The man collapsed back into his chair.
"Please, do sit, Mister...?" Sir Humphrey's tone was professional courtesy incarnate. "I take it addressing you as 'witch' would be inaccurate?"
Snape inclined his head slightly and took a seat opposite him.
"You may call me wizard, Sir Humphrey," he said. "Or Severus Snape."
"Wizard Snape," Sir Humphrey replied carefully. "Then, may I ask, what compels you to take the remarkable risk of infiltrating the very heart of the British government?"
There was a faint warning under his polished words, an implication that such trespass violated certain unspoken laws.
"In this unprecedented crisis," Snape said calmly, "I come as a representative of those in the magical world not yet conquered by darkness, to seek cooperation."
"Cooperation?" Sir Humphrey raised his brows. "That's... rather irregular. For as long as I've been in service, your people and ours have maintained... very little official contact. Some even doubt your existence entirely."
Snape gave no verbal reply. He simply placed the alarm device upon the gleaming table and pointed his wand at it.
A spark of light, then the cold metal warped, swelled, and transformed into a live gray mouse, which squeaked in terror and scurried across the tabletop.
Both men gasped.
Snape gave a small shrug. Another flick of his wand, and the mouse reverted to the lifeless alarm, perfectly ordinary again.
"As you can see," he said, "your doubt is understandable. Yet we are human, all the same."
"This crisis is not merely a persecution of non-magical people," he continued, "but a war tearing through both our worlds. In fact, many wizards are born into ordinary British families. But some of our kind consider such wizards 'impure', and believe they must be exterminated."
"I have not come to show tricks, Sir Humphrey," Snape said, his black eyes steady. "As you've seen, we possess abilities you do not, but remember, we are still human. It is precisely because of these subtle yet vast differences that, for most of history, our worlds have remained apart, for both our sakes."
"Otherwise," he added quietly, a warning threading his words, "those who see such power would inevitably covet it, beg for it. If I, fearing their wrath, were to teach them, they would find themselves unable to wield it. Frustration would breed resentment. And in the end, one side, or both, would perish."