Chapter One

Disclaimer: All characters you recognize are the brainchildren of J. K. Rowling. All brains and other original characters are my creations.

Chapter One

BOOM!

An enormous cloud of acrid black smoke mushroomed over the cauldron and obscured the workbench. Snape emerged, covered in fine gray soot, spluttering profanity between fits of coughing.

"Fuck, fuck, buggery, fuck, shit, bollocks!"

When he finally caught his breath, and the ash had settled, he dusted off his singed and splattered notebook and scribbled a few lines within. He punctuated the remarks with a vicious stab of his quill.

"That's a big no for shredded ginger root. Wit-Sharpening Potion version 2.3, marked as a failure."

Epic failure if you ask me, thought Brian. That was painful.

"Oh, what are you complaining about?" Snape asked rhetorically. "You're a brain. You don't have any sensory receptors."

Oh, yeah? Well, I have feelings, you know. And at the moment, I feel rather hurt.

While their relationship had begun years ago as researcher and test subject, Brian naturally assumed the role of confidante and sounding board for Snape, yet the stoic wizard often discounted Brian's emotional needs.

"Bugger your feelings, Brian. I... I can't believe... I'm arguing with a disembodied brain... again. There's something definitely wrong with me."

He slid to the floor and cradled his face in his hands, sighing in melodramatic fashion. "I really need a break from this. I must stop hiding in the Ministry."

Oh, I hear you, Severus, Brian said, his telepathic voice sounding melancholy. I wish I could have a change of scenery, but I'm more or less tethered to the Brain Room. That's what I get for donating myself to magical research.

"Would you stop whining?" Snape bellowed, forgetting his self-pity for a brief moment. "You enjoyed a long, full life before you died. You were a productive member of Wizarding Britain, sired five wonderful children, as you say," he rolled his eyes as he commented, "married a loving witch with whom you enjoyed... erm, sexual relations at least three times a week, as you claim..."

That's what you need, man! You need sex, and lots of it, on a regular basis. You would be a hell of a lot more relaxed.

"How do you know I'm not getting laid regularly?" he replied, blushing. "And what makes you an expert in... Oh, this conversation is over! I'm going to the departmental meeting now. I'll be back later... maybe."

He stood tall, brushed the smokey residue from his robes, and billowed from the room.

The Department of Mysteries head Jonathan Dougherty counted aloud the seats in the briefing room while muttering profanities aimed at his quirky underlings, who had not yet arrived. Fortunately, nobody was there to witness his unprofessional behavior. "Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four... Fucking weirdos... Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven... Can't tolerate another being within one meter for even five minutes... Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Done. Next time you can conjure your own damn chairs, you barmy buggers."

The Unspeakables were generally regarded as a secretive and solitary bunch, better suited for investigations of the odd, unusual, and misunderstood phenomena of the Wizarding world than for a position in the public sector, like the Welcome Witch at St. Mungo's. They wouldn't even sit next to one another at the weekly departmental briefings let alone eat together in the Ministry commissary; actually, they were so anti-social that they would rather spend the lunch hour in isolation at their desks. Agent Dougherty had to be a bit of an odd duck himself to lead them. He complained about those chairs every time; nevertheless, he still accommodated his employees with extra seats, albeit uncomfortable ones upholstered in a scratchy, synthetic fabric.

At precisely 8:59 a.m., field agents and researchers filed into the room, all of them silent, save for their shuffling feet. Some carried parchment and self-inking quills, presumably to take notes, but on occasion, even the most dedicated, stalwart employee, like Hermione Granger, had been known to draw a doodle or two to pass the time. Some carried cups of fragrant tea or bitter, black coffee, presumably for the caffeine, but rarely, even the most eagle-eyed, observant employee, like Severus Snape, had been known to cast a discreet Rennervate to stave off slumber whilst Agent Dougherty droned on, as these so-called briefings were anything but brief.

Hermione took her usual spot, aisle seat, middle row, right center. She greeted her coworkers with an ambiguous nod and a weary smile, having recently completed her midnight shift. As she reached into her beaded handbag – still stylistically inappropriate for everyday use, especially for a Ministry meeting on a Friday morning – she seemed to detect the faint odor of burnt armadillo organs. A few surreptitious sniffs and some furtive glances led her to the source of the smell: Severus Snape, seated across the aisle from her on the left.

He would have lobbed a sharp, biting verbal attack on her rude nose-wrinkling behavior, but he knew the meeting was about to start, so he settled for a penetrating narrow-eyed glare.

"Nine o'clock on the dot, so let's get started," Dougherty announced with a contrasting mix of verve and restraint. "Due to a scheduling conflict, my usual confab with the Minister has been moved to the morning, so I really will keep this short," he said, smiling knowingly.

"We are coming up on the fifth anniversary of Voldemort's second and ultimate demise. The researchers in the Death Chamber have noted an increase in spectregraphic and spectreaudio activity from the other side of the Veil. This could be a coincidence. Perhaps there's been a spike in the number of recent deaths in the Wizarding world, but I haven't received a memo on that. Regardless of the reason, Magical Law Enforcement will be assisting us in securing the area – at least the Death Chamber – until this minor hubbub dies down.

"With that in mind, our housekeeping must be top notch because we cannot ward an entire department against outsiders, especially those we've asked to help us. File or bin sensitive memos and documents; if that's not possible, please encode them for your eyes only. Files should be locked at all times when you leave your offices or labs, even momentarily. Rubbish bins should be set to auto-Evanesco."

Dougherty organized his note cards, then glanced at his watch. "Oh, look at the time. Before we adjourn, there's one last item of a somewhat urgent nature. We've received reports of strange happenings in a Muggle community up north. It's also attracted the attention of... erm, shall we say... non-human entities. This calls for subtle surveillance to assess the situation; however, our field agents are spread thin as it is, what with the Veil and those bird sightings at Dover. I need a volunteer from amongst the researchers for this assignment."

This is a sign, Snape thought. This is the break I need.

"I'll do it," he intoned flatly. After all, he didn't want his coworkers thinking he was eager to leave his Brain Room research.

"Excellent, Snape. You are uniquely qualified for this assignment coincidentally," Dougherty said. "Well, that's it. Meeting adjourned." As the Unspeakables left the room, he gathered his note cards into a neat pile on the lectern, set them ablaze with a silent Incendio, then directed the ashes into the dust bin with a swish of his wand. "Snape, walk with me to the Minister's office, and I'll give you the details."

Snape stumbled into the Brain Room, robes deflated, gait unsteady, and eyes glazed over with terror. Brian could only come to one conclusion:

Did those wankers in the Locked Room dose you with a Love Potion again?

"What?" Snape replied, still a touch shocked. "No, no," he continued, shaking his head vigorously, finally coming back to reality. "I wish it were that simple. I would prefer snogging She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in a dark cupboard over what I just agreed to."

When he wasn't forthcoming with an explanation, Brian joked, Well, are you going to tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you? He waved his tendril – the physical manifestation of his thought – in a menacing manner, sloshing the water from his personal tank onto the floor.

"Stop messing up the place, and I'll tell you. I'm feeling weak again, so I need to sit for this." Snape dragged a stool from across the room. He watched in sadistic bemusement as Brian retreated from the noise, squeezing himself into a far corner of his tank. "Ah, that's better," he said, settling onto the chair.

Must you torture me like that?

"I have so very little joy in life. Must you begrudge me these tiny diversions?" he said, smirking.

Just tell me what's going on. He broadcast that thought with touch of exasperation.

"I am to unobtrusively observe the denizens of a village by the name of Lower Tadfield," Snape explained.

Never heard of it. Is that even in England?

"Of course you've never heard of it. You're a pureblood who rarely stepped foot outside of Devon, except to attend Hogwarts, shop in Diagon Alley, and see an occasional West End show."

What's so special about Lower Tadpole?

"Tadfield," Snape corrected the geographically challenged Brian. "The initial report claims extraordinary ley lines, impeccably predictable weather, and anachronistic beauty for a southeastern English village – the nearest motorway is tens of miles away. In summary, it's too perfect, especially for twentieth century Muggles; otherworldly forces are obviously at work there."

So what's the issue here? You're a master of subtle surveillance. You should have no trouble keeping a low profile.

"And that's the problem," Snape said, his prolonged sigh only emphasizing his irritation. "I'm going so deep undercover that the use of magic has been forbidden. No Disillusionment or invisibility cloak allowed. I'm going native, as the Muggles say, so that I won't raise suspicion among the unearthly beings, should they be in attendance."

You'll have no trouble blending in, Brian encouraged. You grew up among Muggles, and you're an adaptable, intelligent man.

"Ah, if it were as simple as just 'blending in,' I would have no complaint, but Dougherty insists this stakeout be highly visible, 'transparent' was his word. So I'll be operating an ice-cream van as my cover."

What is that exactly?

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose with a vice-like grip. Conversations with Brian occasionally involved extensive explanations of Muggle culture, and even though he expected it to happen at least once a day, that didn't make it any less aggravating.

"A motorized vehicle from which one sells frozen confections," he answered quickly, yet without any hint of annoyance.

You drive and scoop ice-cream. What's the difficulty in that?

Snape didn't respond, but instead gave into the sudden, irresistible urge to pull on each and every button on his frock coat, testing for breaches in thread integrity. While it didn't take a genius to puzzle out the meaning behind Snape's reticence, Brian considered himself rather perceptive for a mere brain, having only two out of five senses at his disposal – sight and hearing.

You don't know how to drive, do you? Further silence only verified Brian's suspicions. Why did you agree to this assignment if you don't know how to drive?

"Because I was impulsive, impetuous, just plain foolish. I volunteered for a field assignment without knowing any of the details before hand. Dougherty asked... and I... I said yes before I could consider the consequences."

Well, just this morning you said, and I quote, "I really need a break from this. I must stop hiding in the Ministry."

"Yes, today's botched potion had some influence on my rash decision; however, I don't want to discuss the real motivations behind my actions at this moment."

Brian usually respected Snape's wishes, and he would have dropped the subject had he not felt a prickly, tingling sensation in his prefrontal cortex; he called it his sixth sense.

Why didn't you graciously retract your offer once you knew the mission involved skills you don't possess?

He sighed deeply, looking off into the distance, probably at the exit sign above the doorway. "That would have been admitting defeat." Now, he directed his defiant gaze at Brian. "Just because I don't know how to drive now doesn't mean I can't learn. And I wasn't about to let a prime assignment fall into Granger's lap by default. I'm sure she would never let me hear the end of it. You should have seen her this morning, turning her nose up at me... literally," he said, adding a contemptuous snort for good measure.

I might not have the ability to smell, but I'm certain that fouled up potion did nothing to improve upon your personal hygiene. Plus, you looked a bit sooty, I think, but the lighting in here is always so dismal, so who can tell?

"Let's forget about my grooming and focus on the problem at hand: learning how to drive."

How do the Muggles do it?

"Specialized schools offer lessons of a practical and theoretical nature, but I don't have the time for that. I only have ten days to learn before I'm expected to peddle ice-cream from the back of a van."

You would have the time if you were willing to test out one of the new prototype Time-Turners.

"I refuse to be in the same room with that contraption until it's been sorted out. Chandler still isn't right in the head after his brief jaunt into the past. He's perpetually running an hour late, and he's convinced his office is infested by Cornish pixies who delight in hiding his current case files."

He stood up and began to pace around the tank. "Oh, this is ridiculous. There's no reason I should be acting like a nervous ninny without common sense." After a few more laps, he stopped abruptly and announced, "Ah, I've got it!"

So, what's your plan, Professor?

"I'll read a how-to manual and use my neighbor's car for practice," Snape replied smugly. "Seriously, how difficult can it be if it's the primary mode of transportation for Muggles? Even teenagers can learn to drive, and their brains are thoroughly muddled by overactive hormones. I see no reason why I shouldn't master the skills of driving a motorized vehicle by the end of the weekend." He picked up the stool and gently placed it in its proper spot across the room. "I'm leaving early to go and do some research at a local bookstore. Maybe I'll have one of those frou-frou coffees made with frothy milk, too. If I must blend inconspicuously with Muggles, I might as well start practicing now."

Severus, you may be able to blend, but inconspicuously is asking for a lot.

"I appreciate your vote of confidence, Brian," he sneered. "I bid you farewell. Have a pleasant weekend." He almost cracked a smile as he turned to leave.

Oh, before you go, would you be so kind as to turn on the wireless? Witching Hour is going to have an interview with Celestina Warbeck today. I can hardly wait for her new album to be released.

Snape switched it on as he exited the room, his robes billowing once more with their usual aplomb. Under his breath, he muttered, "I'm a handmaiden to a brain. This is why I need to get out of here."

A/N: This story appeared in the autumn 2011 SS/HG Gift Exchange on LiveJournal. The original prompt, provided by the lovely labrt2004, will be posted at the end of the story so as not to give anything away. If you've had any contact with me, either virtual or real, then you already know where this is headed.