Chapter the Eleventh: In Which Desperate Measures are Taken

Disclaimer: The only character I own is the one writing this nonsense. Well, and the elf, but he can't leave the story to help tidy my house, so phooey. All others are on unpaid leave in my imagination (and probably wondering what they ate before bedtime to cause this.)

Warning: If you've been following the story to this point, I probably don't have to tell you that drinking and chuckling don't mix.

Severus bypassed the usual entry procedures for Hogwarts Academy of Heroic Arts and Princely Pursuits and Past-Times (HAHAPPPT), landed directly on the balcony of the Headmaster's private tower, and could not be compelled to give a single damn that he would set off alarms eight ways to Sunday by so doing. A tabby cat on the desk leaped up and promptly changed into a tall, severe-looking witch wearing spectacles and an abundance of tartan (including a tartan Cap of Maintenance under her thistle-decked tiara.) Severus dared to hope that Lady McGonagall had replaced Lord Dumbledore. If he must deal with Gryffindors, he preferred interacting with sane ones.

"Have you reconsidered, Severus? I know you want to start a proper curriculum for Anti-Heroes, but until there's more demand, Albus would love to have you teach Practical Potions for Precocious Princes," said the witch. (We really ought to call her Lady McGonagall, as we've no permission to use her given name. But we'll likely forget in a few paragraphs.)

"Never mind that, Lady McGonagall! Where's Lord Dumbledore? I need a prince, and I need one NOW." Not only was the old barm-pot still in charge, Severus had forgotten the general preoccupation with alliteration and demented acronyms that plagued Hogwarts. Five minutes within its precincts and he could already feel a headache coming on.

"Now, see here, laddie..."

"Quite all right, Minerva." A door covered in arcane symbols opened to reveal an elderly man with a long beard. A coronet of gold and ruby bees rested upon his flowing white locks. "Severus, my dear boy, how good to..."

"Save it for the naïve children." Said in unison, with Severus' voice a near-groan and Minerva's more of a sigh, it came out in a sort of harmony.

The old wizard looked put out. "Oh, very well. What brings you here?"

"Absolute desperation. If I do not rid my tower of that irritating little Malfoy, I refuse to be responsible for the consequences." Severus summarized his circumstances, handing over the cursed parchment at the heart of it all, and gave an idea of the trouble his young apprentice caused...leaving out the specific details of the precipitating incident, of course.

No power on earth could compel him to say 'sexual lubricant' in front of a pair of his former teachers.

Lord Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles and perused the contract. "Oh. Oh, my. You've screwed yourself rather royally. It's very specific: the young Malfoy must be rescued from the tower by a suitably powerful prince, and the hair must be climbed."

"We canna just send any prince," Minerva had been reading over Albus' shoulder and disbelief enhanced her brogue. "You're in up to your simmet and no mistake, lad."

"Indeed. Who are our best climbers, Minerva?"

"The absolute best would be the Orphaned Prince, H..."

"What about the Earl of Westham?" Albus interrupted.

"He's agile, but he's finalizing his betrothal to Lady Ginevra this afternoon and can't be spared. Besides, it sounds as if the lad's parents insist on major royalty, and Earl Dean has only a standard castle. No, for sheer heroism, magical ability, royal blood, and secure residence, ye really need Prince Har..."

"Longbottom! Longbottom Keep is secure. We could send Duke Neville. He's sole heir of the House of Harfang, he should rate," Albus stepped on her comment again.

"Neville is a valiant young man, but a poor climber. Longbottom Keep is not as secure as Castle Grimhold, which as you know was inherited by Pri..."

Albus cut her off. "There are a good half-dozen Royal Weasleys, I'm sure..."

"Stop interrupting! Castle Grimhold is supposed to be more impregnable than Hogwarts itself. Which of the Blacks has that bit of real estate?" Severus asked, not-so-subtly flaring his robes in an attempt to block Albus' frantic gestures.

"Harry, the Orphaned Prince of Gryffindor!" Minerva finally managed to yell.

"The Prince-Who-Lived is real?" Servus asked, aghast.

Minerva ignored the forehead-slapping sound from Albus' direction and cleared her throat to remove the taint of unseemly shouting. "Ahem. Yes, the papers have it right for once. He is quite genuine, and a valiant (if academically average) student at this very Academy. In addition to being the last Prince of the Blood Royal for the Kingdom of Gryffindor, he is a remote relation to the House of Slytherin and could legitimately unite both kingdoms in his person. He dealt handily with the basilisk we had some years back, so your defenses should pose no problem. He inherited Castle Grimhold from the last of the legitimate Blacks, the Slytherin side of his family. He rescued one princess that wasn't even on the curriculum, and saved one of our minor barons who got into a bit of..."

"You know very well that there are plans for Prince Harry," Albus said. "I didn't scour his mother's family tree for peasant pig-farmers to serve as his guardians just for him to turn out a common knight-errant. All of that rags-to-riches privation is the stuff of which mythic heroes are made."

"I'll bet," Severus muttered. All this trouble so old Bumblemore would have his hand on the shoulder of the king of all...what would they call it, anyway? Some sort of... united kingdom? Severus barely contained a snort.

Lady Minerva turned to Severus with sympathy. "Oh, Severus. Did I nae tell you no good could come of such things?"

"I gave up 'good' when I was obliged to quit this place and make my way based on raw talent and a small inheritance," Severus said. He looked remarkably like his student-self with his arms crossed petulantly before him and a Heathcliffe-worthy glower plastered on his face. Life as an unacknowledged royal bastard quite frankly sucked. "Just because I'm not a stereotypical prince on a suitably outlandish steed does not bar me from performing great deeds," he added, hoping to strike the right reluctantly heroic note.

"Bide your time, my boy. There are some popular leanings that way; in a few years, we may be able to justify an anti-hero elective in the curriculum," Lord Dumbledore said. Severus rifled through his mind to make sure the sneaky old shit hadn't somehow snuck around his Occlumency. "As for Prince Harry, I'm afraid I simply couldn't let him go." A gleam came into his eyes. "Though I might be able to loan him out for an afternoon if I had a Potions instructor in return..."

"I'm desperate, not insane." Despite his coolly defiant response, Severus realized that concessions on his part were imminent. Sod it all for a game of soldiers. Why do I always wind up playing 'Let's Make a Deal' with the barmiest wizards in the land? "A symposium...three weeks in the fall term. That's more than generous."

"Severus, dear boy, I'd simply love to help you. But truth be told...and this is in the strictest confidence, you understand...Prince Harry is fated to defeat the Evil Snake-Face," Albus said. He stared solemnly at Severus, willing him to grasp the gravity of the situation or swallow the Kool-Aid, damned if Severus knew which. "You must see that I couldn't loan him out for less than a full-time instructor."

"Bugger that!" Severus sensed this was not to be one of his better bargaining days.

Dumbledore shrugged as if to say, 'your funeral.' Verbally, he added, "Ah, well, I'm sure you'll think of some use for the young Malfoy."

"Six weeks with a weekend practical and not a moment longer...ONCE! And I expect you to provide me with a fully-stocked teaching laboratory for the duration." He tapped his wand against his hip while awaiting Lord Dumbledore's response. A few angry green sparks shot from the tip.

"Och, be reasonable, Albus," Lady McGonagall contributed her two sickles. "How much Potions-making skill do the lads need? I agree that it needs doing each year, but Fall-term and a practical examination should suffice to teach them the difference between poison, a love potion, and sundry sleeping draughts."

Severus silently cheered Minerva and resolved to provide her with his very best Draught of Doddering if she ever wished to hasten Dumbledore's retirement.

"I get to re-negotiate after two years, and I insist on a title." Severus re-folded his arms.

"I really don't see how that's possible for only two y..."

"Look, you daft codger, I refuse to set foot in a classroom where I have to give way to every poncing prince just because I'm only 'Honorable.' I've no wish to revisit the vexations of my student days, and I'm sure that you would rather I not earn my title the same way you did yours," Severus hissed.

Barmy or not, Dumbledore had his wand out just as quickly as Severus did at that last bit. It was common knowledge that Lord Dumbledore was no more royal than an old boot heel; his title was 'inherited' by ridding the land of the previous Lord High Wizard of Hogwarts (who had gone barmy in a decidedly malevolent manner.)

Lady Minerva, having no shortage of will to rush in where angels fear to tread, stepped between them. "GENTLEMEN. If you please. We're short few nobles after that last battle; 'twill do no harm to pass along a spare title. I've 'Earl of Thanestrife' to dispose of as I will, if that would suit."

If Severus hadn't been busy staring down a barm-pot whose loopiness did nothing to impede his dueling skill he could have kissed Minerva. "Call me 'Lord Thanestrife' and, against my better judgment, you'll have a deal. I will write the contract," Severus hastened to specify.

"Oh, very well," said Albus. "But Prince Harry must get back to me in one piece. I can't afford to have him damaged." Both wizards grudgingly stowed their wands.

"I'll give him the usual instructions for surmounting the obstacles. If he is as good as you claim, it will suffice." With a much more courteous attitude, Severus turned to Lady Minerva. "Where might I find Prince Harry?"

Note: the use of titles in this chapter (Lord, Lady, Duke, etc.) bears no resemblance to the correct manner of addressing peers in modern day (or any day) Britain. If you guessed that their liberal sprinkling through this chapter is chiefly an exercise in cramming in canon references, register a point to the House of your choice. Minerva's coronet also defies the conventions of the Scottish peerage, but go right ahead and see how far you get by telling her that.