บท 154: Chapter 154: Turbulent Times
"Step right up onto the Knight Bus, your trusty distress beacon for all wayward witches and wizards. Extend your wand, step aboard, and leave your troubles at the door. Gibbs Shunpike is at your service, your reliable conductor for the journey," welcomed the conductor as Sherlock Forester and Severus Snape climbed aboard the magical vehicle.
Within the Knight Bus, the conductor, a slightly frail middle-aged man, met Sherlock and Snape with a quirk of interest.
What might your names be, gentlemen?" Shunpike inquired, raising a solitary eyebrow. Snape's visage had already recovered, thanks to a selection of healing potions always at his disposal. His survival was guaranteed as long as there was breath in his body, disregarding minor injuries such as bruises.
"John Watson," Sherlock answered, casting a memoire glance towards Snape that hinted at an alias. Snape's chilly and sober expression showed understanding, as he introduced himself. "Tobias Prince."
"Oh, John and Tobias, pleasure to make your acquaintance! So where are you planning to go?" Noticing the complicit exchange between Sherlock and Snape seemed to elude Shunpike, but there was a subtle involuntary sense of curiosity about their relationship.
"Cokeworth," came the decisive response from Sherlock. With an understanding nod, Shunpike tallied the fare. "That would be 16 Sickles per head, bringing us to 1 Galleon and 15 Sickles in total. Remember, hot cocoa comes with an extra 6 Sickles, and should you require a hot water bottle or toothbrush, kindly add another 4 Sickles."
While Snape maintained his icy silence, Sherlock requested a steaming cup of cocoa. His body demanded warmth, clamoring to douse its fatigue. When it was time to settle the fare, they exchanged wide-eyed glances, a silent standoff that hung in the air before Sherlock relented. Delving into his money bag, he procured two Galleons and two Sickles. Grumbling to himself, he surrendered the fare. "Consider this a debt settled, Tobias. You can view it as repayment for your medical supplies." (E/N.: isn't he two sickles short?)
Entering further into the bus, they spotted the elderly wizard in charge of steering. The interior held numerous beds fastened with brass poles, instead of seats. An inviting sight for a mentally and physically drained man like Sherlock. But alas, any idea of finding rest was swept away once the bus commenced its journey. A loud jolt nearly knocked Sherlock over, but a bushel of soft pillows saved him from harm.
Through the fields they raced, not following the regular route, but paving their own path. The wheat in the fields seemed to part for the bus, getting out of the way, splaying like a fan in their wake. Shunpike delivered Sherlock's cocoa in the continuing turbulence of the jolty journey. Each leap the bus took moved them to a completely different place. It was efficient, but not the most relaxing way to travel.
Snape's countenance betrayed an internal dilemma, as he lay on the bed next to Sherlock, silently staring out the window. During the brief respites that the bus offered, Sherlock struck up a conversation with Shunpike.
"Where does our journey lead next?" he asked. Shunpike, engrossed in the Daily Prophet, grimaced before answering. "We're due to drop off Mr. Shunpike in Wales, currently a hub of activity for 'those' individuals. Fingers crossed we don't run into any complications."
Sherlock caught the headline that Shunpike was reading. "Four House Elves Murdered in a Clash in Denbighshire!" He mused.
"Things have taken a turn for the worse," A fellow traveler pitched in from a neighboring bed. Shunpike's pallor heightened at the statement.
"It's plain as day in the Daily Prophet's reporting trends, innit? Back in the day, any kerfuffle in Wales would have them high-ups in their suits and ties, wagging their fingers and giving these groups a proper dressing down, they would. But now, what's the deal? They're telling us to 'ave a good long think about our beliefs, ponder the future, like some sort of mind game. What's their game, I wonder?"
His tone was heavy with despondency. The other wizard exhaled a sigh. "Their game, you ask? They're reading the signs of declining control by the Ministry of Magic. With Dumbledore entrenched in Hogwarts, hidden away from the public eye, they sense a shift in the wizarding world's dynamics."
"Dumbledore 'asn't completely vanished into oblivity, he still 'as soldiers from the Order of Phoenix," Shunpike countered. "When will this turmoil come to an end? I 'ad 'opes of my lad followin' in me footsteps, but now even a conductor's job is gettin' dangerous," he sighed, "Jus' the other day, we 'ad the misfortune of givin' a lift to one of 'em. Didn't even dare ask for a fare, nor report 'em to the Ministry. Ernie was shakin' like a leaf, nearly had us tumblin' into the sea!"
Sherlock, having finished his cocoa, was a silent spectator to this conversation. He absorbed the sombre note of the talk, realizing the wizarding world was teetering on the edge of uncertainty. The prophecy of the 'Chosen One' by Sybill Trelawney was yet to be disclosed.
The alarming rise of Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the wizarding world was becoming decidedly akin to an open rebellion against the Ministry of Magic. The tone of even mainstream media, such as the acclaimed Daily Prophet, was shifting ominously. It was into this hostile climate that Sherlock Forester and Severus Snape, who had somehow been displaced in time, found themselves returning to. They not only grappled with the conundrum of how to return to their own time, but they also stepped cautiously, keenly aware of the dangers lurking at every corner. As the sky outside cloaked itself in the darkness of approaching night, Sherlock sank into his bed, gradually accustoming himself to the ceaseless jolting of their conveyance. Eventually, he surrendered to slumber, waking after a fitful two or three-hour rest at the curt proclamation – "You two have arrived."
Accepting a warm towel proffered by Shunpike and wiping his face with it, he handed over eleven knuts, a "Thank you" escaping him as he did so. Snape, having turned ashen due to the bumpy journey, disembarked with Sherlock. They found themselves in a dismally gray city, busy chimneys visible from virtually any vantage point, continuously belching black smoke into the overcast sky.
The city, bordered by a churning river colored an ominous brown, sat replete with discarded wrappers of fried fish and chips strewn in the vicinity. The dark water bore no evidence of any life dwelling within. An industrial city under the pall of pollution and terrible living conditions, had a harmful aura of despondency that seemed to pervade the air. Snape, on the brink of succumbing to travel sickness, maintained a notable fervor despite appearing physically enfeebled.
"We need to find your current self," Sherlock declared with a note of urgency.
"What do you propose we do?" queried Snape, feeling a pang of uncertainty.
Sherlock sighed before replying, "In your current state, it would be downright terrifying for her to see a man in his thirties weeping inconsolably. We should first locate your younger self, procure a few strands of hair for a Polyjuice Potion, and then you can meet your beloved without sending her into shock.".
Snape could not rebut Sherlock's plan and simply led the way to his childhood home—a decrepit Muggle alley named Spinner's End. Lined with rambling brick houses darkened under the night sky, revealing no signs of life, the alley was ensconced beside the littered river. The putrid stench from the river seemed to blend all too well with the dirty overtones of the alley.
At the very end of the poorly lit alley, Snape directed Sherlock to a ramshackle two-story house. Sherlock looked to Snape inquiringly, "Should I to go in or will you?".
Snape stood by the door, a clear discomfort in his eyes, "You go."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Didn't you want to sneak a peek at your parents?"
Snape retorted sharply, "Just do what you came here to do! The room at the far left on the second floor is mine!".
The antipathy in Snape's tone did not faze Sherlock Forester, who had grown accustomed to the former's acerbic behavior. With a shrug, Sherlock directed his hand towards the second-floor window on the far left and expanded his magical senses. Within ten meters of Sherlock, peacefully asleep, was the seventeen-year-old Snape, his hair not yet tainted with an excess of grease and his youthful appearance unbeknownst to its future ravages.
Regardless, Sherlock was not there on a nostalgic errand. He turned a book on young Snape's table into a pair of scissors using his wandless transfiguration abilities. Having silently snipped a few of Snape's younger counterpart's hair strands, he released the transfiguration spell, coaxing the slivers of hair to float through the window gap and land gently in his palm.
The whole operation was completed in under three minutes. Snape merely watched from the corner of his eye as Sherlock extended his palm and caught the hair snips flying from the room above. He seemed oblivious to the intricacies of Sherlock's magic. His heart pounded with anticipation, the excitement of the moments to come brimming over.
Good-naturedly witnessing Snape's frenzy, Sherlock handed over the strands of hair. Snape promptly tucked them into a potion vial he had at hand.
"Shall we go find Lily now or would you prefer waiting until tomorrow morning?" inquired Sherlock. Snape, clearly unable to contain his excitement, turned briskly towards the other end of the alley just a short distance away.
"Alright, let's just go now," Sherlock affirmed, noting Snape's anxious energy and shaking his head with bemusement. A year as Snape's colleague at Hogwarts had led Sherlock to believe that the stone-hearted Snape was impervious to emotion. But about to be face to face with his cherished love, the austere Snape revealed his human propensity for affection. Just steps away from Spinner's End, they reached a charming two-story house nestled behind a well-kept front lawn—the Evans residence. Snape, standing in front of Lily Evans' home, seemed suddenly bewildered and hesitant. However, at last, he had arrived at the doorstep of his heart's desire.
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