Chapter 1
The day Douglas took the Express away from Hogwarts, leaving behind everything except his wand and his Letter, was the best and worst day of his life. When the Express pulled into Kings Cross and he slipped through the barrier at platform 9 and ¾ and saw his father waiting for him, Douglas broke into a run and threw himself into his arms.
"I'm never… I can't ever go back," he said into the folds of his father's mac. "I just…"
Douglas' father said nothing, merely held him, and then, when Douglas had finally released him, squeezed his shoulder and gave him a nod. Douglas stiffened to attention and nodded back. Colonel Richardson nodded back and Douglas felt the relief surge through him.
Together, they walked to the Tube and rode home to Putney in silence. There was nothing to say.
His parents didn't ask then what plans he had. They'd never quite... well, they'd never quite understood. Douglas wasn't surprised; very few Muggle families did. His brother Christopher merely smirked at him across the table. Douglas smirked back. He knew he wouldn't be able to leave the house tonight, but tomorrow… nothing wrong with a little bit of a bender with his twin brother, eh?
The four of them had tea in silence, and then sat in the sitting room to watch some bad telly. Douglas shifted uncomfortably as his wand poked him from its holster.
"Excuse me," he said. "I think I'm going to call it an evening."
"Of course," his mum replied. "You've had a difficult… Oh, Douglas, I…"
"Aw, Mum, it's all right," Douglas said, leaning down to pat her awkwardly on the shoulder, and then kneeling at her feet to give her a hug. "It's going to be all right. Just watch me. Douglas Richardson always lands on his feet."
His mum sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. "Of course you will, dear," she said. "You always do."
His dad pretended he wasn't listening and Christopher merely smirked.
Up in his bedroom, stretched out on his narrow bed, feet almost hanging off the end, Douglas held his wand and watched the shadow it cast on the wall.
"You cannot be anything that you are not, Douglas," Dumbledore had said to him. "And the time is coming when you must choose whether to be true to yourself or not. One of your poets said that, I think…"
"'To thine own self be true,' sir," Douglas supplied. "Yes, it's from Hamlet. Polonius' speech to his son."
"Ah, yes. Well, every so often, Muggles do manage to get something correct." Dumbledore twinkled at him. "Sherbet Lemon?"
"Erm… no, sir, thank you, sir." Douglas managed not to make a face.
"Of course. I'm glad we had this little chat, Mr Richardson. I do hope you'll take it to heart."
"Sir, yes sir," Douglas said, striving to keep his voice toneless – the drone of the schoolboy agreeing but not really listening. "May I go now, sir?"
"Oh, yes, run along! And keep an eye on that Snape fellow; he doesn't look quite right to me. Probably the strain of only being a half-blood. He's one of your charges, isn't he?"
"Sir, yes sir," Douglas replied again.
"Good lad, off you go then." Dumbledore beamed as Douglas withdrew.
In the dark of his room, Douglas remembered the part about Polonius' speech that he hadn't shared with Dumbledore: the part where it was the speech of an idiot.
Douglas shifted, turned, and slid his wand beneath his mattress. For a moment, he missed the comforting glint of his Prefect's badge on the nightstand, but it passed. The fact that he had been the first Muggle-born Prefect in Slytherin wasn't important now, and never would be important again. Let the likes of Malfoy rule Slytherin and the rest of the Wizarding World. Douglas tossed, rolling away from the nightstand to face the wall.
He was his own man.
Douglas still didn't sleep, though. All that night, he lay awake in his childhood bed, thinking, planning, and trying to forget.
Papers wouldn't be a problem; he was clever enough to manufacture some A-levels, and then what? Banking? Law? Medicine? Douglas sighed. One thing he was resolved to do: he was going to enjoy being a Mu- enjoy being Douglas Richardson, non-magical human.
So if the plan was to enjoy himself, Douglas reasoned, the first step was to find an area of study where the students had the most fun. Accountancy was probably out. Law students, if Dickens was to be believed, did a lot of carousing, but never came to good in the end.
Medical students, however… Douglas smiled. Free access to drugs, the glamor of eventually saving lives (or making stacks of money for pharmaceutical companies), and, from what he could remember from various conversations with Christopher over the summer hols, the best parties around.
Right then, that was nicely settled. Tomorrow night, while he and Christopher were reacquainting the ladies of the King's Arms with the charms of the Richardson boys, he'd pick his brother's brain and set his plan into action.
As he was finally drifting off to sleep, an errant regret slipped into his mind.
He was going to miss flying.
Thirty-One Years Later
"Could you balance the fuel please, Douglas?" Martin asked icily. They were fighting again, of course, because Martin had decided that he, Douglas, hadn't been toeing the line sufficiently with regards to protocol ever since he’d overridden Martin's argument with the ATC at Monaco over the approach. It had been two weeks ago, too.
Douglas was getting bored.
He sighed and flicked a switch, and when the light did not respond, muttered a swift repairing spell. The light flickered on and the smell of toffee filled the flight deck. At least it was better than the no smoking light that made the cabin smell of fish. Not, admittedly, one of Douglas' finer repair jobs.
"Have you done it?"
"You just saw me do it."
"It is protocol to inform…"
"Then, sir, I am pleased to inform you that I have, in fact, balanced the fuel, sir."
GERT-I shuddered underneath them and Douglas bent, ostensibly to scratch his ankle but in fact to cast another spell, this time a binding one to keep the old girl's landing gear from engaging while they were still thirty-thousand feet above the Pacific.
"What was that? What was that?" Martin shouted.
"Hey, chief," Douglas said, and grinned. He'd been waiting to use that one again for a while. "I might be wrong, but I think…"
"Shut up, Douglas."
"Oh, the chief does not wish to hear my suggestion? Pity."
"It's the landing gear! Why does the light say the landing gear is down?"
"Does it, sir?"
"Douglas…"
"Well, chief, I might be wrong, but I do think the light is off." Douglas twitched at his wand again and the light blinked out. "Perhaps an optical illusion?"
"But the light was on. It was definitely, definitely on."
"Sorry, sir. Can't really help you. Perhaps if sir handed over control for a while and had a nice lie-down in the cabin. Sir is looking tired and frail."
"Shut up, Douglas. I'm fine."
"Of course, sir's lightest word is law."
"Look, I'm…" Martin was, in fact, looking quite grey. "I'm fine."
"Martin, when was the last time you had a meal?" Douglas dropped the snark. "An actual meal?"
"I had… Well, Arthur shared some of his lunch with me yesterday."
"Arthur? Oh, god, Martin, what did you eat?"
"It was just some…" Martin hiccupped and fumbled with his seat, nearly tripping over the console to escape the flight deck for the toilet. He didn't make it and fell against the flight deck door, cracking his head with a mighty whack.
Douglas debated for about four seconds before he slipped his wand from its holster and waved it at the control column. The reliable autopilot engaged, he rose and went to attend to his unconscious captain.
Thankfully, Martin wasn't too badly hurt. Nothing a healing spell (and Douglas did not succumb to the temptation to make Martin's hair any more ginger than it already was) or two couldn't fix.
Vanishing the vomit when Martin had regained consciousness took a bit of sleight of hand, but after years of keeping GERT-I aloft without Carolyn noticing (he didn't count Martin and Arthur, preferring to rely on their natural incompetence), Douglas was nothing if not good at sleight of hand.
Finally, after three days of bouncing around Europe, they finally landed in Fitton, Douglas was executing a quiet sneak to his car before Martin noticed he'd gone when everything went very, very wrong.
There were two wizards standing by his Lexus. And they did not look like they were interested in parlor tricks. One of them, a younger woman with bushy brown hair, he didn't recognize. But he did recognize the other, with his lank, dark hair, sallow features, and impossibly hooked nose.
"Ah, Richardson," Severus Snape said. "We were wondering when you'd turn up."
Douglas hadn't kept up with the Wizarding world since his flight from Hogwarts, but he was fairly certain that not that much had changed. Snape had been a rat at school, and had, Douglas recalled, gone out of his way to not only snub him, but to take out his frustrations on his Housemates, even when Douglas had been his Prefect.
"Snape," Douglas sneered. "Still sporting the terrible teeth, I see. What a pity you weren't more in touch with your human side. They've made marvelous advances in cosmetic dentistry over the last century."
The woman next to Snape gasped and looked so indignant that Douglas thought it possible that she might actually explode. Snape, on the other hand, glared at Douglas.
"We'd like a word, Richardson. About your unauthorized use of magic."
"Would you now?" replied Douglas. "Well, that's a pity, really – because I really can't be bothered. Still, not at all nice to catch up on old school days, and all that. Have a mildly pleasant afternoon and get away from my car."
"I don't think you understand, Mr Richardson," the woman said, and sparks were actually flying from her wand. "We're coming with you. Unless you'd like to have this conversation in front of your Muggle colleagues."
Snape leered at him.
"We've been to your house, Richardson. I must say, Muggle piloting rather pays. Or, perhaps not. As Ms Granger says, we can have this conversation in a more comfortable, intimate environment, or right here. It's your choice."
"Well, by all means, then," Douglas said. The car alarm beeped as he disarmed it. "Please, come with me."
Snape settled in the back seat and the woman – his colleague, Douglas supposed – sat in the front.
Douglas bit his tongue. This was not good. Not good at all.
Douglas's flat seemed a great deal less of a comfortable bachelor pad and a great deal more of a dingy embarrassment with Snape and his colleague, Ms Granger, in it.
"So... on the side of the law, these days, are we, Snape?" Douglas said, deciding that the best defense was a good offense. And he intended to be as offensive as possible.
"Doctor Snape is in charge of many vital projects within the Department of Mysteries," Ms Granger announced importantly. "One of his most fundamental programs is to seek out and develop otherwise untapped sources of magic within the Muggle world, seeking a closer relationship with those resources that have… in the past… been not only underutilized but also ignored, and even, in some extreme cases, wiped out. Now that the War is over –" Douglas could just see the capital W – "The Ministry and the Department of Mysteries have agreed that it is in the best interest of all concerned for him, and for me as his… associate, to seek out and ascertain the utility of such expressions of magic."
She paused for breath and Douglas burst out laughing.
"You don't really expect," he managed between guffaws, "for me to fall into line, and help your little utilization of resources, do you?"
Ms Granger began to do her best impression of a pot of Arthur's fizzy yogurt about to explode.
"As a matter of fact, Richardson," Snape interrupted. He put a hand on Ms Granger's knee, and the impression of a yogurt pot bottle eased. Douglas tracked the movement. Speaking of intimate, he thought. "I think that you and I could come to an… arrangement. One that would satisfy Ms Granger and myself, and that would also keep you flying."
Douglas sobered.
"And why would I want to do that?" he asked Snape icily.
"Because," Snape replied with a grin that highlighted just how terrible his teeth still were. Douglas noted that Ms Granger's teeth, on the other hand, were bright, gleaming, and straight. He also noted that Snape hadn't removed his hand from Ms Granger's knee. "You may recall being… let go… from Air England? Something about kimonos?"
Oh shit.
"If you had anything to do with that…"
"Oh, not at all." Snape's voice dropped to a purr. "And whilst we are fully aware that Ms Knapp-Shappey knows all about the kimonos, I am sure there are plenty of other things you do not care for her to know about."
"Look, if you're suggesting that I start transporting for you lot…"
"Oh no!" Snape pressed his free hand to his chest, spidery fingers spread wide. His eyes widened in mock innocence. "We wouldn't ever consider that, would we, Hermione?"
Hermione, eh? So that's where the wind was blowing.
"Of course not. All we are asking, Mr Richardson, is that you and MJN Air transport – perfectly legally, of course – some rather precious cargo from here to Bulgaria."
"Bulgaria? It's not dragons, is it?" Douglas asked, narrowing his eyes.
"No, not dragons," Ms Granger – Hermione – assured him. "Nothing like as dangerous."
"It's merely Ms Granger and myself and a box of dragon feed," Snape said, in a tone that Douglas was certain was meant to be reassuring, but of course came across as anything but.
"And why not go through the usual channels?" Douglas demanded. "Call us up, book a flight. You know, with a phone. Or even, though I should caution you against this at all costs – the line of dancing aeroplanes have been known to cause epileptic seizures – use our website."
"Oh, rest assured, we will be contacting Ms Knapp-Shappey in the morning," Ms Granger said, pressing her hand onto Snape's. Good God, they were in love. "We are approaching you now to ensure that there will be full cooperation amongst all the staff, and that if there should be a problem, although the likelihood is exceptionally remote, we have everyone who has even the slightest magical ability… on board, shall we say?"
"And if I don't play… Quidditch?" Douglas asked.
Snape gave him another eyeful of terrible teeth and nose.
"We'll suspend your license. Again," he said.
Oh, well… fuck.
Douglas threw in the towel.
"Fine," he grumbled. "I'll be on your little team."
"Excellent," Snape said, rising and peering down at Douglas. "We'll see ourselves out."
"Don't step on any land mines or anything," Douglas muttered.
"Quite," Snape replied.
Douglas did not move until the unlikely pair had closed the door behind them. Then, with speed and agility that would have impressed a passing cheetah (had there been one nearby), he sprung for the door and pressed his ear to it.
"…You were awful to him, Severus," Ms Granger was saying.
"He was my prefect," Snape rejoined. "He was a Slytherin, of course, through and through. Even friends with Malfoy for a while. Then he deserted us. Ran back to the Muggle world… coward…" there was a pause. Douglas strained to hear more.
"…didn't mean it like that… I'm… Hermione! Wait!"
Douglas straightened up and grinned tightly. Snape may have had him over a Quidditch hoop, but perhaps there was a bit of wiggle room. After all, he hadn't been a Slytherin Prefect for nothing.
Rather surprisingly (to Douglas' way of thinking), Hermione and Snape didn't have any trouble with Carolyn and the flight booking. He watched as the cargo (seven crates, no distinguishing marks) was loaded into the hold, under Snape's watchful eye. Hermione had already boarded and was currently being, as far as Douglas could determine, briefed on all of the safety features on board.
It had been a toss up for Douglas, which he had more wanted to witness: Hermione's reaction to the safety demo (Arthur insisted on giving it to each passenger if he could get away with it), or the Snape/Carolyn all-in snarking match. The snarking match won: he'd seen Arthur's safety demo a million times, in hopefully all its variations, just as he'd seen Carolyn in all different shades of rage, but it was too much of a treat to get to watch Carolyn flay Severus Snape out of his ridiculous black trousers and high-necked shirt.
It was worth it, too. Douglas counted sixteen times that Snape's fingers twitched for his hidden wand holster, and twelve different shades of mauve Carolyn went. The argument would have gone on a lot longer, too if Hermione hadn't stuck her head out of the passenger door and called to Snape to come in.
What she actually said was, "Severus, could you… I do believe we need you in here."
"Not now, Hermione," Snape had replied absently.
"Severus…"
"Severus."
"Severus Snape, now!"
Snape froze, and as an experienced Carolyn-watcher, Douglas saw the hint of a smirk that crossed her face, just as he saw the look of absolute chagrin that didn't so much cross Snape's face as samba its way across it.
Well then, Douglas reflected. Muggle airdot owner, one, Interfering Bastard of a Wizard, nil.
"Just coming!" Snape managed to grind out as he turned to board GERT-I. Douglas stepped out of his path only just in time.
"Well," he observed to Carolyn as a fuming Snape entered the plane, "this is going to be quite a trip, don't you think?"
The glare Carolyn favored him with was only just this side of absolute zero.
"Get. On. My. Jet. Now," she grated at him.
Douglas was only too happy to comply. If he whistled a jaunty tune whilst settling into the flight deck, well, it was only because, as usual, things were coming up Douglas Richardson, once again.