Having received an official invitation to the club from the Dursleys through the bespectacled and perpetually disheveled "postal owl" named Harry Potter, Snape paused to think. It was unlikely that just anyone had free access to weapons. Consequently, this place was rather elite. Which meant they judged people there... first by their clothes. And then by the thickness of their wallet. Time to change masks...
The Island's best potioneer didn't have particular problems with finances, but he had never gotten used to spending on himself. And for what reason, one might ask? But in this particular case, he simply didn't want to let down Petunia Dursley, who had invited him... Lily's sister. Now he perceived this woman quite differently than back then, in childhood. After all, blood is thicker than water: Lily's manners and gestures sometimes simply shone through in Mrs. Dursley's behavior. It was good that the sisters were so different at least in appearance, otherwise he would have had a hard time.
Snape sighed. He should have thought of everything while Potter was still with him, to clarify everything at once. But as usual, that one dumped on him from the doorstep a heap of the most absurd assumptions and delusional ideas, which it was quite risky to seriously consider. Primarily because one could easily become the founder of a new direction in magic. Or even more than one. How Potter's head didn't explode was unclear, but it didn't happen, apparently because he happily dumped everything from it... onto him, yes. No way, they would work in order and first sort out what they had on hand. And the other ideas needed to be set aside for the future for now.
True, Snape fairly, as it seemed to him, believed that to sort out everything Potter produced would require more time than he would definitely live. But it was definitely worth trying.
When attempting to systematize what the boy dumped on him, the potioneer was tormented by suspicions that the artificially slowed work of the brain and development of thinking had now broken through, like a river through a dam: any moment now it would sweep everything away. At least, his brains were blown every time the "little student" came. But, Mordred and Morgana, it was... magnificent. To the point of trembling, that very one that arises in anticipation of discovery.
Each day brought some finding, and often more than one. Each morning broke his stereotypes. Sometimes it turned out to be painful, but most often it brought an incomparable feeling of freedom. It seemed to him that if at the time when he was sorting through his notes after the boy's departure, someone tried to distract him, he would Avada whoever it was without looking. Even Riddle, even Dumbledore... Just so they wouldn't interfere. And most likely, he would succeed.
But for now... He positioned his notebook more comfortably and leaned back in his chair.
Snape to Potter:
How is one supposed to dress for a shooting club?
Potter to Snape:
Definitely not robes!!!
(An unreadable heavily crossed-out phrase...)
Do you have Muggle clothes? Or money?
Should I come over?
Snape to Potter:
I'll come get you myself. Is half an hour convenient?
Potter to Snape:
I'm ready.
Snape to Potter:
I'll be there in half an hour. At the turn toward the park near the bakery.
***
And only then did it dawn on Harry. He. Would. Have. To. Solve. The. Problem. Of how to dress Snape! He completely froze, thinking that about his own readiness, he had, it seemed, spoken too soon. Written, that is. Simply VERY prematurely!
The next half hour, the newly minted clothing selection specialist rushed around the house like a mad squirrel, trying to find a couple of fashion magazines with men in them. Women - as many as you want, but there were practically no men. Yes, Harry was absolutely no help, which Snape would soon discover. Now he was really in trouble. And he had agreed himself, practically volunteered, the fool!
As luck would have it, his aunt was too busy to advise anything - she was talking on the phone with one of her friends. It was better not to approach her at such moments even for her beloved son. And his uncle, as always, was at work. Thank goodness, his brother suggested a simple and sensible thought: remember who he'd seen at the club and their clothes. Harry immediately felt better, and he closed his eyes, summoning visual images from memory. There were plenty of men of suitable age and more or less appearance there, unlike in the magazines. And then, catching himself, he glanced at his watch and flew out of the house.
So when Snape Apparated to meet Harry, the latter was waiting for him at the agreed place and was mentally prepared to sit for a bit in his office over the Pensieve. But to find himself near one of the fairly large London stores - he wasn't prepared for that... Yes, when Snape decided something, he didn't waste time.
"My requirements are simple: the arms must be completely covered. In Mungo it was easier, but this club of yours is a public place. Who knows who goes there. I looked through a couple of magazines, so... Black trousers. White shirt. Black jacket..."
"Sir, you'll look like a gangster... Besides, a jacket isn't quite right. Clothes shouldn't restrict movement if you need to raise your arms..."
"Why?"
Harry demonstrated one of the two-handed shooting positions.
"You're going to try, right?"
Snape, who was trying on a black jacket, attempted to repeat. His back tightened, his shoulders went rigid.
"Really quite bad."
And then it finally dawned on Harry that he could simply summon memories of the club for Snape to look at. He could do Legilimency without a wand, right? Harry looked questioningly into his teacher's face.
"I can. But for that we'd need to sit down somewhere. Where there are fewer people..."
"How about we have coffee, for example, over there?"
They moved away and sat down at a small table for two near one of the display cases with ladies' handbags.
When their order was brought, Snape took a sip of the drink and grimaced.
"Are you ready?"
Harry nodded and opened his eyes wider.
"But you absolutely don't need to stare at me, just look."
Harry finally offered Snape to view his memories of the club in the Pensieve and tell him where everything was located, and somehow managed to negotiate that he would choose and the "client" wouldn't resist. Snape himself didn't understand how he fell for it. Definitely, Lily's eyes were to blame for everything...
Black jeans, a black T-shirt without logos or designs, and a loose light gray-blue chambray shirt... Light?! But it's so hot! Harry looked at the professor and... saw that it suited him. He looked simply cool! Wait, stop, he couldn't afford to break into a smile, and those patent leather shoes with all this... just didn't work at all.
Fortunately, Snape liked the athletic footwear, especially when he walked in it. Luckily there were enough black sneakers... He bought two pairs at once. They even selected a men's wig with a neat haircut: not to wear, but as a sample for Transfiguration, of course. Although there was a lot of... different things... flashing in the potioneer's gaze that Harry preferred not to dwell on: he'd had quite enough for today already.
The viewing of memories in the Pensieve, when they Apparated to Snape's home, didn't take long.
"And what's this?"
"A shooting range. There are targets that people aim at with different weapons."
"What kind?"
"Oh... just a moment."
Harry summoned the club's shop from memory, and Snape understood that getting acquainted with weapons in general terms wouldn't happen quickly. The memory was there, look to your heart's content, but how much was it worth without commentary? And it was time to send the boy home.
"And this?"
"Shooting galleries. This one is for moving target shooting. And over there - with a turn. And my aunt will go here, to sporting clays. Shooting clay pigeons. You know, a machine throws them out, and you have to hit and break them in flight. And here's the medical station, restaurant, locker rooms for athletes, training classrooms, pneumatic weapons range... The parking lot is over there. Probably better to meet near it?"
"Your aunt said exactly that. Thank you, Harry, you really helped me a lot. It's late, you need to go... I'll just take a taxi tomorrow."
"You... called me by my name?"
"It won't happen again, Mr. Potter. And you need to go."
"Well, that's too bad," Harry said disappointedly and, without looking at Snape, grabbed his wrist, activating the portal chain, and disappeared.
Only to fall almost at his knees again ten minutes later, thrust some book into his hands, and immediately disappear again.
Snape turned the brand new encyclopedia of firearms in his hands. He definitely wouldn't be sleeping tonight, that was for sure. And the question was, who was learning from whom?!
***
Petunia Dursley, composed and serious, nodded approvingly, greeting her old acquaintance. "He didn't let me down, well done," she thought, evaluating his quite presentable appearance. "It's a pity I won't get to see how he freaks out about the club itself and the weapons capabilities. Oh well, my nephew will tell me in vivid detail, he knows how."
She introduced her "childhood friend" to Vernon and left after the men exchanged handshakes. And then things took off. Mr. Dursley remained in the spectator area waiting for his wife, and Harry and Dudley gave Snape a real tour, during which the potioneer barely restrained himself from freezing completely in front of the weapons displays. And then they all cheered for Mrs. Dursley, who was extraordinarily skillfully shooting down clay pigeons.
Having watched enough of the competitions, Snape turned to the Dursley family, congratulating the flushed and happy Petunia who had returned to her family: of course - the winner! He'd had enough observations to take out his notebook and start scribbling in it. He felt quite obligated to Potter for the preliminary acquaintance with the club and detailed story: without it, he would have felt quite, to put it mildly, unwell here. He had brought the encyclopedia with him to return it, but hadn't taken it out yet, waiting for a convenient moment.
Harry craned his neck, trying to peek at the professor's notes - it was interesting, after all. Because from his face... Yes, he was already learning to make the same poker face: school was coming soon. Playing the same slacker he used to be convincingly probably wouldn't work for him, but they had already started sculpting the mask, and quite successfully at that.
Either accidentally or deliberately, Snape lowered his notebook a little, and Harry smiled widely, seeing calculations he had done himself not so long ago. He had been really struck then by the understanding that a wizard could do little to oppose Muggle weapons. True, he still couldn't properly cast shields - didn't know how, but now... And he mentally rubbed his hands, noticing the corner of lips that trembled in a genuine smile, and most importantly, the familiar spark in the black eyes. When it lit up, life became simply dizzyingly interesting - he had understood that well over the last few days!
Snape imperceptibly moved away from the company, asking questions of Petunia's instructor.
"You've never shot in your life? Where did you live before?" Harry heard and understood that now his professor would have to break the law...
A light "Confundus" - and now Mr. Wilson was evaluating the strange newcomer as a new wealthy client and leading him to the pneumatic range. And along the way, he stopped seeming strange...
Having rushed between his aunt and the professor, Harry decided that his aunt had been here for a long time almost like at home and he had congratulated her enough, but the prof... and he rushed after him, almost losing sight of him. The short haircut on the head of the Terror of the Dungeons looked very unusual.
"Is this your son?" the instructor asked Snape, turning on the target lighting, when Harry, slightly out of breath, caught up with them. Snape stood at the firing line, sizing up the pneumatic rifle and pistol lying beside him.
Having opened his mouth to finally breathe in, Harry noticed only a second's petrification of the professor.
"I wish I could do that," flashed through his head. There were no words.
"Nephew," Snape drawled with feigned indifference, and it became somewhat hurtful for some reason.
"It's just that you look alike," the trainer shrugged.
"What impertinence..." Snape thought, but soon he had no time for that. Because it turned out that even pneumatic weapons, the lightest, which "serious men don't even consider weapons," could arrange a couple of unpleasant surprises for a wizard, especially an unprepared one. And as for the fact that he could confidently put a shield on a target from ten meters, but beyond that he himself wasn't yet sure, he wasn't going to tell the instructor. Wasn't going to tell anyone at all. So pneumatics, for now just pneumatics. Compressed air, just think! A couple dozen more tries, and it would be enough, and then he could and even should move on to twenty-five and... fifty meters? That exists too? And one hundred, but only outdoors? Only with firearms? He would try everything little by little. He had to figure it out somehow, logically?
"An excellent client," Mr. Wilson rejoiced and nodded. "Disciplined, calm, stipulating everything that interests him in advance. And not poor, since he decided to go through almost the entire arsenal available at the club. To train him would be something - he started hitting from the first try. A sniper sleeps in this big-nosed fellow, and not so deeply! And why did I think he wasn't familiar with weapons? Most likely, he lived outside England for a long time and is used to other models... Should I ask? Should I not ask? It seems this client doesn't like questions."
But then the client himself began loading him with questions, so much so that all other thoughts seemed to be swept away by a stream. He could talk about the quality of different types of bullets, trajectories, features of different types of weapons, compare range and accuracy without a break, and he was listened to with visible pleasure, inserting only remarks that helped switch to specifics.
"To take large game from a relatively safe distance, say a hundred meters, it's best to get a good rifle for African hunting, for example, from Holland & Holland or from Rigby chambered for the .375 Holland cartridge. An excellent powerful cartridge, at three hundred meters it ensures surgical accuracy! And with bronze bullets they go after thick-skinned game of particularly large size or hiding in particularly dense bushes," the instructor continued to describe the delights of English hunting rifles with all the passion he was capable of. He himself would be happy to acquire one, but alas, it wasn't within his income. But if the client buys...
Snape chuckled and thought. A shot from pneumatics simply removed his weakest shield without damaging the target. But a second shot could easily follow before a new shield appeared: to make it, a well-trained wizard needs at least a couple of seconds. But firearms penetrated as if the shield didn't exist at all, a combination of two shields protected only a little, and completely - a combination of three shields layered on each other. They absorbed the bullet's energy. But then all the wizard's power went into the shields, and he had no time for attack at all.
"Interesting, what attack energy are magical shields designed for at all, because they were developed not only against magical effects. I'll need to look into the history. I suspect they were designed for at most the first arquebuses or heavy crossbows... And in the shop, five of these rifles that this guy is pushing on me, with these cartridges... Would take out the Lord, and would be enough for the beloved Headmaster too. A good thing."
They had found each other: an elderly shooting instructor and this strange man... True, Harry himself almost violated the Statute when he caught with the corner of his ear the whisper of some youth who had attached himself to Snape as a voluntary assistant.
"What kind of fearless type is this anyway? He knows nothing. Complete zero," the guy literally breathed in Mr. Wilson's ear, languishing with curiosity, and of course, didn't notice himself how quickly he lost interest in both the instructor and his client, although he had so hoped that he would get a couple of shots too. He had already forgotten what he was asking (Snape did have excellent hearing and the same reaction), and lagged behind, but the bastard had awakened Wilson's interest again.
"Where did you live, you say, Mr. Green?"
"Did I say anything?" Snape's imperturbability, it seemed, could be scooped with a spoon. "According to the rules of this club, am I required to tell someone my biography?"
"Forgive me, no, of course not! It's just that nowadays I don't know people as poorly informed as you are."
"How much does it cost to fill this gap without unnecessary questions?"
"And the movements... like a cat's, smooth. He probably grew up somewhere in Tibet... Or in the desert... In some monastery. An unbreakable man. But where does he get such pure and slightly old-fashioned English from then? Although... if he's a descendant of those who left the country long ago, then exactly!" thought the instructor, proud of his "discovery," and for today this was his last thought about the unusual client...
They couldn't pry Snape out of the club until closing time. Once again congratulating Petunia on her victory, he shared with the elder Dursleys some thoughts on how they could protect themselves - it turned out to be quite decent. Even Dudley, who had been actively warming his ears near the adult conversation, cheered up: his slingshot, it turned out, could also cause trouble. Mr. Dursley chuckled contentedly and twirled his mustache, mentally figuring out where to get a shotgun...
As for Harry, he was looking forward to the next day. And was incredibly disappointed when in the morning Snape informed him that he would be busy all day.
***
"We live in a country of fearless idiots!" All aristocratic polish flew off Lucius Malfoy as soon as he emerged from the pool of memory of his... let's say colleague.
"I will disappoint you, Lord Malfoy, but not 'we live,' but we are them."
"You're right, Severus... You're right. And I think I understand why you chose me specifically. But to lead the opposition to the Lord, if he returns... I won't be able to for the same reason."
"You have something to lose. We all have something to lose. Someone less, someone more, but..."
"Are you suggesting we inform and prepare the others?"
"There are practically no Lord's fanatics at large now, am I right? All in Azkaban."
"Let them stay there. I can't imagine what will happen if they release Narcissa's sister. But... still a sister."
"Is your wife worried?"
"It's family, you understand... oh, I beg your pardon. Should I give you an oath after all that's been said?"
"And then inform the others? How do you imagine that?" Snape smirked. "We both have things to tell each other, and therefore, I think, we'll keep quiet about some things anyway. Both of us."
He wasn't in a particular hurry to get closer: no rush, he couldn't break character. Snape could allow only one step forward under quite serious circumstances, and it had already been made.
"Cassie!" Malfoy snapped his fingers, and a house-elf in a towel with the crest delivered a pot-bellied bottle. He let his guest create a couple of snifters. Unlike Snape, Malfoy always easily approached people, however, just as easily cut off everything unnecessary. And everyone unnecessary. Snape was needed by him. Moreover, necessary. Although he had long been looking for a convenient approach to the talented potioneer and was now simply very pleased.
For some time they simply remained silent, savoring the expensive drink.
"Severus Snape," Malfoy pronounced solemnly. "After what you've told me, I see no other way than to neutralize the Lord as soon as he returns. And also... we must stick together. I invite you to my home - as a guest and friend," he pronounced the official formula.
Snape bowed ceremoniously, slowly and clearly pronouncing that he accepted the offer.
***
"Do you seriously believe that the Lord consciously led us to extermination?"
"Were you able to draw other conclusions from what you saw? I'm all ears."
"..."
In Malfoy Manor, all the "cream" of Voldemort's remaining followers at large had gathered. The mood was... nonexistent. It was known that the Dark Lord would return, sooner or later, and summon them to serve. But his last actions now told them much. Particularly that this faithful service was just the beginning of their end. And not only of themselves, but of their families, and now, it seemed, of the entire wizarding world.
They couldn't openly oppose him - the Mark wouldn't allow it - careless youths had allowed themselves to be influenced, but why hadn't their elders warned them?
"They didn't know," Lucius answered. "My father died of dragon pox after he saw the Mark on my arm and... had a conversation with its creator, as I now understand."
Nott turned sharply pale and drew in air. Parkinson clenched his fists. The older generation had left too quickly. And too early... The heirs understood this only now.
"Another question is, who or what prevented us from researching the Muggle world ourselves and at least being aware of what was happening there?"
"Who could have been aware?"
"Muggleborns, of course."
"Dumbledore..."
"It feels like he wanted to play something..."
"Together with the Lord?"
"More likely, with him in the role of queen."
"Severus, your knight's move confused his game. Be careful."
"I suppose we all now have to... prance around a bit," Snape smirked. "But we'll still have to give an oath. Especially if your loved ones are dear to you."
The aristocrats didn't hesitate for long: everyone understood the necessity of secrecy and weren't going to neglect the possibility of additional protection.
"And now I invite you to the shooting range," the master of the house made a broad gesture...
Snape mentally rubbed his hands. The aristocrats were in for a simply unprecedented, let's say, entertainment.