Fankle

Fankle

Disclaimer: Dinnae gi'e me the malky. Ah huv'nae ta'en onything.

Translation: Scots – Don't beat me up. I haven't taken anything.

The dark-haired wizard could sense someone's gaze upon him, but every time he lifted his head to check the students, they all had their heads bowed, eyes glued to their text books. Shifting in his seat, he bent his head lower to his paperwork, just enough for his sleek curtain of hair to shield his eyes. Then, with a swift sideways glance, he caught the perpetrator.

"Not now, Malfoy." The reply came through gritted teeth, as the young blond tried the professor's patience. "I deal with facts, not myths and legends."

~*~

The gargoyle at the foot of the headmaster's stairs glowered at the small crowd in the corridor.

"Slytherin serpent!" yelled Alecto Carrow.

Raising an enquiring eyebrow, the statue shuffled its feet but did not move out of the way.

"Shift over, dear, and let me try. Slytherin serpent!" Amycus spoke with conviction, but the gargoyle remained in place.

"Open up, damn you!" Alecto slapped the sculpture's hard shoulder.

"Perhaps, we have the time wrong... or... or the password?" Justin queried meekly.

"Don't be so pathetic, Flinch-Fetchingly."

"It's Finch-Fletchley, miss."

Alecto Carrow snarled. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the guardian of the stairway, threatening it with her wand. Justin swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with nervousness and a grey tinge colouring his complexion.

"Let us in, you granite-faced monstrosity," she shrieked.

A spark of scarlet shot from the tip of her wand and struck the gargoyle between the eyes. With a low rumble, the carving bared its teeth and scowled stonily, remaining solidly in place.

Neville Longbottom approached the gargoyle from its other side, stroking a soothing hand over its flank. "I'm sure there's a simple explanation for the problem. I suspect the headmaster is distracted by some tedious matter involving the two house reps who aren't here. Am I right?"

The gargoyle nodded stiffly, leaning into the gentle caress, but keeping its eyes fixed on the Carrows.

"And as soon as he is free, you'll let us in to see the Slytherin serpent," Neville murmured, rubbing the hexed spot on its forehead as the gargoyle hummed and butted its head against the young wizard's chest.

"Did I ask you to intervene, Longbutton?" The Carrows looked daggers at Neville.

"I sense a detention brewing," Amycus muttered to his sister who smiled wickedly in return.

~*~

Meanwhile, up in the headmaster's office, Severus and Draco were coming to terms with Luna's ancestry claims while she chatted quietly with Phineas Nigellus Black.

"Horny Gollochs! I knew it!" Luna exclaimed suddenly, wrenching the Slytherins from their discussion about her recently divulged lineage.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Lovegood?"

"What?" asked Draco.

"I told you my friends who are camping would be pestered by Horny Gollochs. Uncle Phin says they've got a bad infestation. Apparently, Ron's... um..." Her voice petered out. "Oops! I may have said too much." She glanced down at the toes of her sandals, one of which was starting to trace a semi-circle across the floorboards.

"Miss Lovegood, please explain." Snape's dark-eyed attention focused on the dithering witch as her eyes flicked from her shoes to the portrait on the wall.

"Phin?" Luna's voice had a plaintive edge. The ex-headmaster's gaze was almost kindly when he looked down at her. She nodded towards the Slytherin wizards, keeping her eyes fixed on the painted effigy and raising her eyebrows in inquiry.

"I believe my great-niece is wondering where your loyalties lie." Black looked pointedly at the two men.

"You know my allegiances very well, Headmaster Black," Severus responded, "as you have been privy to many of my private conversations in this room, and... elsewhere. I'm sure you can vouch for my loyalty appropriately."

"Indeed, Headmaster Snape. And you, young Malfoy?" The old wizard pinned Draco with a long, hard look.

Draco appeared flustered for a second, then, drawing his slender frame up to full height and straightening his spit-streaked robes, he declared, "I stand beside Professor Snape. My loyalties lie where his do."

"A typical Slytherin, tortuous response," muttered Luna, "answering the question without elucidation."

"Are you certain of that, young man?"

This time everyone's eyes were on the blond wizard. Colour seeped up from under his collar with the intensity of the scrutiny, tracking up his cheeks. Biting his lip with apparent uncertainty, he took a deep breath then nodded. "Yes."

"Excellent, excellent!" The ex-headmaster beamed and rubbed his painted hands together. "Now, I believe there are people waiting at the door for a meeting. Shall I let them in?"

Snape's only reply was a grinding of his teeth.

~*~

Harry shifted lethargically on his bunk. No matter how many times he moved and repositioned himself, he couldn't get comfortable. His clothes had a musty dampness, and his skin felt sticky with old sweat. He scrubbed his knuckles along the rough, stubbled edge of his jaw, then lifting a hand, he inspected his ragged fingernails.

Scraping some dirt from underneath his thumbnail, he mused it was a good thing he had split up with Ginny; no-one would fancy him like this.

Huffing, Harry turned onto his side, and, feeling the weight of the locket slide across his chest, he let his gaze drift apathetically round the inside of the tent. Hermione and Ron sat crouched over a small stove. Harry knew they were talking about him and hated them for not hiding the fact.

"'Mione," whinged Ron, "can't you cook something better? You know me and Harry are growing lads. Look at us; we're wasting away. How am I supposed to keep body and soul together with fungus stew?"

Hermione's reply was terse, and inaudible to Harry. Probably saying she would give Ron a bigger portion and less for him, he thought dismally.

Ron got to his feet, his face dark with fury, and stomped over to Harry's bunk before shoving a plate of grey slop towards him. A spoon slid over the edge of the plate and clattered to the floor, splattering food everywhere.

Listlessly, Harry brushed sticky globs from his bedding, only managing to smear them deeper into the fabric.

"Here's your dinner. Give me the bloody locket," Ron snarled, his mouth an angry twist. "Apparently, it's my turn for misery."

Hermione's hand on his shoulder made him whirl round and level his ill temper on her. "What? I did what you wanted, didn't I?" he shouted in her face. "Geez, I can't do anything right in this place, can I? 'Don't complain, Ron. Eat what you're given, Ron. Help Harry, Ron.' Forget it! I'm out of here!"

Side-stepping Hermione's concern, he strode out of the tent, slapping the canvas flap back as he left.

"It's not quite as effective as slamming the door, is it?" Hermione murmured.

"Hmph!" Harry dragged himself up to a semi-sitting position and started to spoon the foul-smelling, tasteless mush from his plate into his mouth. Even chewing seemed like too much hassle, and he stopped half way, mouth sagging open.

With gentle hands, Hermione closed his mouth and removed the chain from his neck. "Here, I'll take this. You finish eating, Harry. Then, maybe we should go and look for Ron. I'm really worried about him."

Harry nodded, his eyes glazed and expressionless.

As Hermione slipped the locket over her head, she felt the weight of her own depression descending. Sighing deeply, she lay down next to Harry on the bunk.

"We've got to do something, Harry. I can't stand much more of this."

He slid an arm around her thin shoulders and kissed the side of her unkempt fuzz of hair.

"We'll think of something, Hermione. I promise."

~*~

Snape's mind wandered as the student meeting dragged on. Petty inter-house rivalries did not interest him and appeared unchanged since the days of his youth, so he took the opportunity to observe the others.

The bickering over which house had more time on the Quidditch training pitch was interminable. He knew he should intervene, but was intrigued by the increasingly physical interaction between Malfoy and Lovegood.

He had noticed the ill-grace with which Draco had taken a seat on the couch next to Luna. Positioning himself as far away from the girl as possible, Malfoy had been unable to conceal his sneer. But, leaning back into the softness of the cushions, his expression had changed somewhat as he breathed in Miss Lovegood's scent. Severus recalled how she smelled clean and fresh, like moonlight and apples. Its effect was apparent and seemed to soothe Malfoy's irritation.

That was until the discussion about Quidditch erupted, at which stage Draco sat forward on the edge of the sofa, turning towards the blonde witch. With a finger wagging in her face then prodding her shoulder, he flung some heated comments about the intelligence of Ravenclaws in general and Luna in particular.

Luna smiled gently, nodding and patting Draco's knee soothingly in response. As his colour rose and his ire increased, his face got closer and closer to the witch's until he was breathing hard, inches from her nose. His hands came up and clenched the loose cloth at Lovegood's shoulders. Luna's hand stilled on his knee, then gave an imperceptible squeeze.

"I agree with you, Malfoy. Perhaps you would like to have a further discussion after this meeting, and we could work this out together. Hm?"

Draco looked in horror at his hands fisted in Luna's robes. "As if, Looney," he snarled, shoving her away from him and turning his back on her.

Snape noticed the slight tremor in Malfoy's hands as the young man folded his arms across his thin chest and the continued nervous jiggling of his crossed legs during the ensuing discussion about house points.

Interesting, thought Severus. Just as interesting was the small knowing smile on Neville's face as he too watched the interaction. One of Snape's informants had advised him Lovegood and Longbottom were up to something, but he didn't think Malfoy baiting was their focus. No, he was certain they had other nefarious plans.

Severus took a closer look at Longbottom, observing how the young man appeared to have matured since last year. Minerva had always extolled his Gryffindor virtues; perhaps the cauldron destroyer was more switched on than Snape had given him credit for previously.

Allowing his mind to drift back to the Quidditch issue, Severus realised all they required was someone to draw up a roster. He had neither the time nor the inclination himself. What they needed was someone with an organised mind, like the Granger girl. He actually missed her in a peculiar way. Rather like missing a thorn after it has been removed, he had a strange sense of loss.

Life as headmaster would have been much easier with her alongside him as Head Girl instead of this bunch of dunderhead misfits. Severus could even have put up with Potter as Head Boy. No, he could have chosen another Head Boy. Maybe his choice of Malfoy wasn't so bad after all, he mused. At least he had the young Slytherin's ear and could exert some influence on him.

Light tapping from the office window derailed his train of thought. A small owl pushed through the slightly open window, gliding silently to Snape's shoulder where it alighted, hooting quietly. It rubbed its soft, feathered head on the man's cheek and nibbled at his ear lobe.

"Just give me the letter, bird-brain."

The little owl bobbed its head up and down and lifted its leg for Severus to untie the attached mail. Overbalancing with the movement, the small bird dug its needle-like talons into Snape's shoulder and grabbed his ear with its sharp, curved beak.

"Ow!"

The owl screeched and flew off as Severus swiped at it, landing on a nearby bookcase.

"Bloody, idiot bird, you're as useless as your owner," Severus grumbled, wiping a small smear of blood from his ear. As he reached for the owl, it hopped away, just out reach. "Stop being such a chicken. Give me the letter before I have you gutted and plucked."

Fluffing its feathers, the diminutive bird gave him a scornful look, then, with reluctance, held out its leg, wobbling a little as it pecked ineffectually at the attached mail. Severus laid a hand on its back to steady it before removing the note. "You look exhausted, little one," he murmured. "Go to the owlery for some rest and food before you fly home."

Reading the brief message, Snape turned back to the small gathering in his office.

"I apologise for the interruption to our edifying discussion, but I must adjourn this meeting. Perhaps, we can defer some of the issues to our next get-together.

"The issue of detentions I will leave in the capable hands of my esteemed colleagues, the Carrows, who will continue to refer all pupils requiring punishment to my office."

Alecto simpered and patted her brother's chunky shoulder.

"As for the Quidditch issue, Malfoy is the man for that. Draco, you and..." Severus scanned the group in front of him. "... Miss Lovegood can work together on a roster." He answered Draco's black look with a small smirk.

"And the other two, I'm sure you're aware of what is required of you."

"Sir?" Justin queried.

"Longbottom, take Finch-Fledgling under your wing and keep him out of trouble; my presence is required elsewhere," Snape said, his dark gaze locked with Longbottom's. Neville nodded, but Justin appeared confused.

"It's Finch-Fletchley, sir."

"Perfect," replied Severus as he ushered the group out of the room, scarcely waiting for the door to close before he grabbed his cloak and Death Eater's mask.

~*~

A short time later, Snape hurried out from the gloomy shadows of the castle walls, his robes flapping round his legs in the stiff breeze. Striding downhill towards the old town, he muttered under his breath as brightly-clad clots of happy people obstructed his route down High Street. He ignored the hawkers' cries and the street performers' antics as he dodged on and off the pavement, avoiding the slowest of the ambling pedestrians – the ones who did not move at the sight of an imposing Death Eater bearing down on them.

"Stupid tourists, shift your dawdling arses."

A smoky whiff of whisky tempted his nostrils as he passed the open doorway of a pub. Peaking in, the swing of a kilt caught his eye moments before the wailing skirl of bagpipes assailed his ears.

"For the love of Merlin! Scottish, tartan shite," he groused.

Rechecking the details on the small note in his hand, Severus was relieved to find this was not the allocated meeting place. He loved Edinburgh, but at the height of the festival and tourist season, it tried his patience to the limit.

Striking out into the centre of the cobbled street again, he narrowly escaped being engulfed in a swarm of Muggles with camcorders glued to their eyes and heads rubber-necking back and forth. They gawped at his cloak and mask, whispering and pointing.

"Hey, big man, I like your costume. Are you in a show or something?" a snot-nosed youngster shouted after him.

He grinned behind his Death Eater's mask. It was one of the things he liked about Edinburgh at this time of year; you could get away with anything.

Heading further down the street, he swung left on to Bank Street, pulled open a door a few paces down the road on the left, and stepped off the busy thoroughfare into the cool, dim interior of Deacon Brodie's Tavern. He knew where he was going and made straight for the stairs ahead of him.

Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind, his elbows pinned to his sides by a strong pair of encircling arms. He caught the man's familiar animal scent as he was dragged backwards into the gents' toilets. Unable to reach his sheathed wand, Severus trod hard on his assailant's foot.

With a yelp, the man tightened his grip, and with a sharp yank of Disapparition, they both disappeared.

A/N: I have sunny33 to thank for her beta skills and Jokay for aiding and abetting with the destruction of my brain cells.

Deacon Brodie's Tavern is on the corner of The Royal Mile (High Street) and Bank Street in Edinburgh. Named after an interesting Edinburgh character, Deacon William Brodie, who was a town councillor and well respected carpenter by day, and a burglar of the properties he made security systems for by night. He and his accomplice were hanged in 1788, using gallows Brodie had designed and paid for the year prior.

The door on Bank Street used to lead to the upstairs bar, where I did a good deal of my underage drinking. The pub has changed owners since then, and I'm sure those kind of misdemeanours are no longer allowed.

Translation:

Fankle – Scots – a tangle, a state of confusion.