multiversallogs | hold your burning hands up, the emblems of eternal youth

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hold your burning hands up, the emblems of eternal youth

Who: Only Velcro is owning up to his real name in this one.
What: A visit to the mob doctor.
Where: The backroom at a dodgy apothecary.
When: Newdi evening.
Warnings: Exposure may cause or contribute to: itchy rashes, full body hair loss, projectile vomiting, gigantic eyeball, the condition known as 'hot dog fingers,' children born with the head of a golden retriever, seeing the dead, bone liquification, possession by the Prince of Darkness, tail growth, elderly pregnancy, and back pain.

A city as diverse as Baedal provides a glut of strange medical practitioners and without much to base his opinions on, Sebastian is forced to scan the local papers, trade on word of mouth, and spend a fair portion of his spare time calling on various practices. Once he'd put out a quiet word at work, the staff at Hellsing have been quite helpful in suggesting magically-inclined doctors, healers, shamans, and a few truly alien specialists that left him confused but pleased by the thought of progress. Admittedly, there had been a good deal more walking and interviewing than actual headway, but a little ~~CONSTANT VIGILANCE~~ caution when describing his condition was the prudent course of action.

One consultation led to another, which lead to contacting a small apothecary that was known for poor bedside manner and efficiently dealing with odd problems. After sending off a brief description of himself and his problem, Sebastian consoled himself that no matter how suspect the apothecary, he had the luxury of time and choice -- no more stitches by veterinarians or hasty and ill-brewed healing by untrained students. Still, as he reads a book in 'waiting room', there's a touch of same atmosphere and he's not sure if it's worrying or comforting.

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Sebastian keeps his hand on the dogs back and firmly relays the 'down' command. It seems that at the very least, he's got a well trained dog who might not trust Severus but doesn't bear him any ill-will.

"The second war," he replies plainly. Sebastian is aware that there's never been any value in hiding the truth from any variation of Snape - either it's something he already knows and will accept as obvious information from a mooncalf idiot or it's new data and therefore Potter is lying. "I started young and we didn't have trained mediwizards."

He speaks slowly, taking care with his words, and while he'd prefer to make a good impression doesn't believe that such a thing is possible.

The look on his face is plainly yes yes I know, but there's something else - Severus is looking for specifics, but what those specifics are, who knows. He frowns, and adjusts his weight where he's sitting, fussing at the cuff of his left sleeve for a moment. (That motherfucker burned; still doesn't feel excellent, even now.)

Clipped: "Who raised you?"

"Wolves would've been an improvement over the Dursleys," he says with barely concealed rancour. Normally, he would be a little more circumspect in his criticism, but his dislike of that part of his family is something he knows Snape has experience with and they can agree upon.

"I went back to their house every summer until I was eighteen and then I never looked back, except when I asked them to flee the country." Of the three, Vernon chose to stay behind, Petunia didn't want to abandon her husband, and Dudley, the only survivor, is currently a baker somewhere in middle America.

Something like resigned disappointment covered in an ever-present layer of irritation simmers on his expression, and though Severus doesn't seem surprised to hear that, he also doesn't look like everything makes perfect sense now. This is not his (world's) Harry, but then, he doesn't think there's many of his kind running about the place. (It's not a relief.)

"My condolences," he says finally, chill in his voice for reasons that both mirror Harry's and stretch beyond it in a very different direction. He lapses into silence after, staring at him and the cracked lines of dead spellwork and old curses he can see with something that's not much like ocular vision at all. There's two ways to take the incident that's left them in the position of texting Death Eaters and cleaning up the mess Severus has so recklessly made - either he's an impulsive fool, or he's someone who's not used to leaving survivors to witness his more creative stunts. The truth is he'd planned on killing this man if he turned out to be a Death Eater, and modifying his memory if not. Severus isn't sure which of those assumptions he'd prefer Potter to make.

"I know how the war goes," he hazards, "in several instances."

It looks like he might say something more, but when he does, it's a topic swerve: "I'll need a list."

Of his injuries.

"There's more than one outcome or so I've learned." From what he's heard, there's his world and then the more common variant of the Dark Lord falling early. "In my world, I started fighting at eleven and finished at twenty-two, which might give you a rough timeline to match things to."

As he pulls out and hands over a rather long, and worryingly detailed list of injuries, there's another short flurry of texting as Sebastian tries, and most likely fails, to reassure the Malfoys of his safety and relative good health. "I've told the Malfoys -- the younger, paired set -- that I was at the doctor's and there was a hiccough in the testing procedure. Mrs Malfoy'll know it's a lie. What would you have me say to her?"

Severus doesn't reply to more than one outcome, because he's not about to just spill his insides like a Bond villain, but he does give the other man a bit of a side-eye as he takes the list. At least he's prepared; Severus appreciates it.

He's halfway through reading that list when Narcissa is mentioned, and his shoulders twitch slightly like someone's just shrieked his name from across the room. He does not look up from the list.

"...Your name. You go by something else, don't you."

"Sebastian LeMat. I've been living muggle for the past couple of years and, well, any wizard with any brains has better things to do than hunt for me." And those without any at all, what few survived, wouldn't think he'd be willing to leave behind the heart of wizarding Britain and go into the magical wasteland of Newcastle.

"The Malfoys I'm acquainted with, we met in another city, a bit like this one." While he doesn't go into the details of how he first approached Lucius and forged a relationship based on enlightened self-interest, there's clearly something curious at the heart of the story. "They know who I am and have been good to me."

If all goes well, then when they return to their own timeline, Lucius and Narcissa have a decent shot at ending or shortening the second war. Sebastian was able to sway them not by any righteous talk, but because he could tell them what would happen to their son if they didn't. He isn't bothered by using Draco's well-being as a goad; it's war, after all.

"Sebastian."

It's half to himself; testing it out, maybe. He's not so attached to the name Harry (for... reasons) that it's jarring. Sebastian LeMat. That's fine. Perhaps he'll disengage to Mr. LeMat, eventually, but he's never bothered with anything besides first names for the child he left outside Toronto. (Merlin, this is surreal.)

Only slightly louder, and skirting the edges of sounding like that strange professor, "What a depressing cartomancer you'd make... Tell Narcissa you'll explain later. You are, understandably, busy at the moment."

He isn't surprised to hear about the Malfoys.

Sebastian nods and quickly sends off a text to the Malfoys, promising to meet with Lucius in an hour at the Guild Hall. He winces at the light from the CiD's display and rubs the heel of his hand against his eye. There's no doubt about it, Severus' brilliant idea is going to be the cause of a truly stunning headache.

"No one's ever gotten the joke before." And it is a joke. What better name for a man who wanders the world without any more than his dog and what he can pack into a single bag?

It'll be less awkward in the long run if Sebastian decides to think that Severus just had a pointless lapse in judgment. He doesn't want to have to explain why he's going into situations blind behaving like an executioner. (There aren't many people he'd have held off for. Who fucking expects Harry Potter?)

"You aren't very funny," he remarks dryly and, finally, he sets aside the list. There's going to have to be an excuse presented to the Death Eater community, and while Severus is inclined to decide, well, the Malfoys are so invested, let them think of a cover - but he's already in with the elder Lucius, and the mental image of them making excuse to each other and slowly catching on is... a nightmare. No, he'll assist. He's dug his grave. Unfortunately.

"Nerve damage of that kind is fixable with a potion." Not many people can make it, he's sure Sebastian knows (or assumes, if it's never been offered to him), but it's a condition he's treated before. "Just looking at you I can see some of the re-healed hexes and cursework that's done improperly I can fix." He makes a bit of a face as he looks over the other man, as if mentally going over how utterly stupid whomever patched him up the first two dozen times was. (That's exactly what he's doing.) "I'd need a closer look at the rest, but nothing sounds so absurd as to be impossible to investigate, at least."

Edited 2011-11-15 05:20 (UTC)

Sebastian won't press the issue of Severus' over enthusiastic reaction to a possible Death Eater in his waiting room. After all, if presented with the same situation again, he can't swear that he wouldn't do the same thing.

"That's a relief." During the war, they did as best they could to patch each other up, but mediwizards weren't often available. Those few students who had an aptitude for potions or healing were overworked, undersupplied, and most hadn't even finished their time at Hogwarts, let alone went on to specialist training.

"If we move forward, what will I owe you for this?" For a given value of the concept, Snape may be one of the more honourable wizards of his parents' generation, but Sebastian he's grown accustomed to betrayal and disappointment from the adults he knew growing up. As much as he wants to trust the other man, he can't quite bring himself to accept that there won't be a vicious catch at the end of it all.

"Considering I just nearly blew your cover to half a dozen Death Eaters?" He smiles, and the brittle knife's edge of it matches his tone. "Exactly what anyone else would owe me, except that I'll not be charging you for that potion or anything superficial I recognize on your person."

It is parts comforting and concerning that he can look at Sebastian and tell just who left what, probably.

"Consider it a bribe, if that makes you more comfortable."

... There are no community college weekend courses on these things, after all. Hellsing would not approve of his methods of self-education.

"Nearly is the key word. Given a dim room and some aspirin, I can recover." He's always known that sooner or later the rest of the Death Eaters would learn of his existence and come for him. "And, while it's not the way I would've preferred testing it, we've proof that I'm still connected. Not as strongly as I was before, but it's there."

When he was younger, Harry wondered where Voldemort left off and he began. Did speaking Parseltongue strengthen that Other part of him? What could weaken it? Was there a way to starve it out? Without ready answers, he turned to Hermione and then to practical research.

"When we've more time, I'd like to go over the mess of the connection, because that's tied into why I can't cast, but for now, I'd best return to Hellsing and speak to Malfoy before anything else goes horribly awry."

"It isn't your head I've particular concern for in this instance," he says, "But rather what might happen when the older Lucius Malfoy and younger pair inevitably begin to compare notes on the excuses they've been given."

Severus speaks as he rises and moves to walk out the door - not far, he just pulls open a cabinet in the dark hallway, and pulls a few things out. He's pulling a long coat on when he returns, and hands Sebastian a vial of some pale blue liquid with his off hand as he does so. "It's not aspirin." That would be for his head.

"I was doing something foolish with a client that caused the reaction, and we never saw each other. Obviously you're going to have to tell the Malfoys, but as for the rest of them - they can blame me."

(It's hard to tell just how furious with him self he is - it's so far gone it's almost manic, swimming somewhere behind his eyes.)

"I'll not be going to your guild hall. Contact me again when it's safe for you to speak." He'll write his own CiD number down, now.

"The elder knows who I am and is, for now, keeping the younger's secrets about it. Probably more for Narcissa's sake than his own." This may be because he cares about her or because all the Blacks are mad as a box of frogs and women all twice as frightening.

Sebastian is probably less upset by this than he might otherwise be since he'd long harboured nasty suspicions that his life with Hellsing -- filled with painting, plastering, and the occasional zombie fungal ant attacks -- was too good to last. With any luck and a lot of lies, they can hold back the tide for a little while longer, but this madness is familiar and what he's used to.

"Be well and as safe as you can."

"Hand to fucking Merlin they're like a plague," he says, nearly a hiss, and it's difficult to discern if that's an insult or... what. Surely it can't be fondness.

He heads out the back, obviously expecting Sebastian to follow him - he'll let him out, lock up, and they'll both be on their ways for the time being.

(Severus has a few things to rip out of his head before he faces anyone. It's just something that has to happen.)

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hold your burning hands up, the emblems of eternal youth

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