Unexpected Encounters

How he hated this place.

Diagon Alley was a flurry of activity; adults pouring out of bars and taverns–drunk and celebrating the Holidays–kids running down the street with sticks in their hands that exploded with colour at the tips, loving parents running after said kids…

Memories flooded Leylin as he watched a boy, no older than 8, grabbing his mums hand and excitedly pointing through a window. Inside was an ebony broom with golden brown bristles that extended the shaft and looked like a flame in the wind.

With a sigh he walked past them, hands in his pockets, feeling the Knuckles and Galleons he had just exchanged. Over 400 pounds and he'd only gotten half the worth. 

The greedy goblins and the laws that protect them, Leylin thought with bitterness. 

His destination was a single story green building. On the front above the wooden door was a sign that read, 'Slugs and Jitters,' in faded gold paint. 

As soon as Leylin opened the door, he was hit with the aroma; Herbs and grass and earth mixed with the acidity smell of poisons and venoms. He smiled–his first time doing so since arriving at the alley an hour prior. 

The place was practically empty, everyone too busy celebrating the nearing of Christmas, only a few days away now. The entire street was filled with a sense of enthusiasm at the coming of the fat man and his sleigh. 

Personally, Leylin never much cared for the holiday.

He saw an older man at the counter talking to the owner and a girl with his back to him, inspecting a display–but other than them, the place was filled with only stacks of shelves and rows of counter tops.

Leylin began looking for the stuff he needed–a list of it all in his hand–and grabbed some straw stacks to stuff it all into. 

Anjelica, Knotgrass Spring, Troll Bogey, Borage; the apothecary was packed with various ingredients. Leylin felt like a kid in a candy store as he walked around, inspecting this and that. 

He spent almost 30 minutes in the place, mostly just looking. By the end of it, he had multiple sacks filled with goods for potion making. 

"Find everything alright?" The man at the register was round, with ruddy red cheeks and a large smile plastered on his face. 

Leylin just grunted, getting out the pouch of coins he'd gotten from the bank. 

"A fine selection." The rotund man said, waving his wand over each individual bag. "If you ever need some of the more rarer ingredients, I can put in an order, though it'll cost extra. And nothing illegal, of course."

"I'm good for now." Leylin said, handing the man almost all the money he'd made over 3 weeks working at the corner store. "Just doing some simple brews." 

"Of course, of course. It's good to see children so enthusiastic about the art of potion making. I was once a lad like you, buying all the ingredients my mother would allow me. Though she wouldn't let me-" 

"Sorry, but I have to get going." Leylin said, interrupting the rambling that he could see coming. "Long day." 

"Of course. Thank you for your patronage and come again!" 

He really didn't have anywhere to be, Leylin just really didn't feel like having a conversation. Especially about the man's mother.

With a shake of his head, he made his way to the exit. He was about to walk through when a voice called behind him.

"Addams? Leylin Addams?" 

He released a breath. What is it now? Diagon Alley was wearing on his patience.

Leylin turned around and was met with a pair of brown eyes looking up at him through a head of bushy hair. 

"Granger." He said.

She smiled, nodding. "I wasn't sure if you'd recognize me." 

"Well, it's hard not too." Leylin said, thinking of all the attention the girl received from professors in the classes they shared together. "Besides, Hagrid talks about you. A lot. Well, you and Potter and Weasley." 

"Really?" She said with a slight flush. "What does he say?"

"Smartest witch of the year, good friend," Leylin said, waving his hand. "Yatta, yatta, yatta."

"Oh. Well that's embarrassing." 

"Hmm." Leylin grunted. "So, did you need something or…." 

Hermione looked at him, fidgeting. "Actually, I was wondering." She said, tightly gripping the book in her hand. "Did you maybe want to get some tea? I know an excellent place."

Leylin narrowed his eyes at the nervous looking girl, shifting on her feet, avoiding his gaze.

What does she want? We've never spoken, and now she wants to get tea together? I'd rather not, but…

His curiosity won over in the end.

"Sure." 

******

Hermione took him to a quaint little shop with circular tables and chairs scattered about. The place was filled with plants that hungrily ate the sunlight that streamed in through the large windows on the front walls.

Leylin ordered a latte–thankful they had coffee as an option. Hermione ordered some type of black tea and an asortment of pastries to go with it.

Leylin sat staring at the bushy haired girl a while, said girl looking around the room, taking tentative sips of her drink and nibbling on a biscut.

Eventually she seemed to build up the nerve and put down her cup. "So I was wondering." She started. "You're close with Professor Snape, right?"

Leylin raised a brow at the abrupt question. "I don't know if you'd call it close. More of an errand boy than anything." 

"But you're with him a lot." It was more of a statement than a question. 

"I guess…" He said. "More than other students." 

"Have you ever seen Snape acting," She paused, biting her lip, "weird?" 

"Weird how?" 

"Like maybe he rushes off to places in a hurry, or you might have noticed he had an injury a while back; maybe how he got that injury or if he ever mentioned anything about it."

Leylin did remember the dour man with a limp for a day or two. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but with the recent discoveries about Quirrel…

"I can't say that I have." 

Hermione deflated. "He's never mentioned the name Nicolas Flamel to you? Or have you seen him….talking with other professors?" 

She knows something. 

Leylin was sure of it. He had no idea who Nicolas Flamel was, but Daphne said she had seen Snape arguing with Quirrel. Was that that what she meant by 'talking'?

The only question was how much she knew, and why she was even asking him all this in the first place. 

"I'm curious." Leylin said. "You say I'm close to Snape–what makes you think I won't go to him about all this?" He gestured between the two of them.

Hermione turned red, face contorted in brief horror at the thought, but she quickly set her jaw and locked eyes with him. "Because I'm just trying to look out for you. Snape is up to something dangerous and I thought I'd let you know because Hagrid has talked about you too. He says you're a good person and I wouldn't like to see you get hurt." 

Leylin leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, as he stared at the Gryffindor girl in front of him with a wrinkled brow.

She's serious. 

At the thought, he almost considered telling her what he knew–about Quirrel, about the thing in the forest, about his own suspicions of Snape. Almost.

"I'll be fine, Hermione." He said, smiling. "But I do wonder what you think he's up to; and whoever this Nicolas Flamel is." 

Hermione blushed. "I shouldn't have mentioned that." She mumbled, looking at the ground. "Just forget it. And please be careful around him." 

With that, she hastily stood and walked out the door, giving him a small smile as she went, leaving a half drunk cup of tea and a slightly stunned Leylin.

He watched her back as she went, wondering if he made the right choice in not telling her. 

But no.

I'm better alone. No one to get in my way, he thought. 

And besides, if that voice that kept telling him in the back of his mind that this whole thing with Quirrel was somehow important, that his instincts were screaming at him to look further into it were right....it'd be best to do it all himself.

****** 

Leylin released a breath, looking at his watch. It was only 4:30, but he was already exhausted. 

The street was still filled with music and laughter and cheer–the sounds bringing on a headache. 

He was about ready to leave when something stopped him in his tracks. 

It was just a glimpse from the corner of his eye, but he wouldn't mistake that abysmal looking purple turban anywhere.

It weaved through the crowds, zigzagging through running kids and stumbling adults, turning a dark corner to a street Leylin had never gone down before. 

Knockturn Alley, directly adjacent to Diagon Alley, was a stark contrast in atmosphere.

Where one was light the other was dark, where one was joy the other was misery, where one was filled with laughter the other was filled with silence.

Leylin followed Quirrel through the narrow street, turning corners and avoiding eyes; the man's gaze darted left and right, clearly nervous about being followed.

Leylin made sure to keep his distance, even grabbing a muddied cloak he found on the ground and wrapping himself in it, trying to act inconspicuous.

He followed him up to a deserted looking building that the man entered, no sign out front to indicate what it was. Just two stories of crumbling decay.

Leylin watched the door close, and after a few seconds of hesitation, he rounded the building and found a window–lifting it and crawling through.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, master?" 

Leylin followed Quirrel's voice, crouching beside a door that led to the room the professor was in, slightly ajar. He couldn't see inside, only able to see the flickering shadows of a singular person dance in the wavering candlelight.

"I thought you didn't want anyone to know of your return." 

Quirrel spoke again, and Leylin realized something. 

No stutter.

"It's fine. He needs to know." 

Leylin's breath caught. The voice that spoke was the same one he heard in the forest all those nights ago and the same one he heard on his first day of Defense Against The Dark Arts.

"But the stone is almost within your grasp. Why risk it now?" 

"Because I need him, you incompetent fool. Nott is the best we have, now that Bellatrix is in Azkaban."

Leylin almost stumbled through the door, leaning to hear better. 

Nott? My father? 

Who else could it be.

As if summoned by the name, a pair of footsteps echoed throughout the building. Seconds later, Leylin heard the screeching of hinges as a door opened.

"Miles." That grating, gravely voice greeted. 

"Master," was the reply. Leylin could see the shadow–only two despite the three voices–prostrate in front of the other, in front of Quirrel.

Master.

The man's voice repeated in Leylin's mind. He knew that voice; although the one he was familiar with was usually filled with mirth and loathing, not respect and….fear?

"Rise." The gravely voice said. "Do you know why I called you here?" 

"I…I do not master. Frankly, when I got your message, I wondered if it was a joke. I mean, you're alive….how?" 

"Through much time and much pain." The voice sneered. "Now I need your assistance in some matters for when I make my return. I hope that nothing has changed in the years I've been….absent, my most loyal servant?" 

"Of course not. I am yours to command." 

Leylin's mind raced throughout the conversation. Questions, answers and more questions springing forth. He closed his eyes and tried slowing his breathing, thinking.

Who did the voice belong to? Why did both Quirrel and his father call them master? 

Then it hit him. Voldemort.

The only person he ever remembered his father talking about in that same tone he used now. The way he spoke, it brought out flashes from his childhood, hearing his father utter the dark lord's name, then curse the boy that had killed him.

But somehow, Voldemort spoke through Quirrel. How? Was he possessed? Was that how he came back? Was that why Quirrel was constantly muttering to himself? It made sense.

My instincts were right, Leylin thought. Quirrel, that thing in the forest, Voldemort, my revenge–it's all connected.

"Good." Voldemort said. "I will need a base of operations and some assistance in escaping from Dumbledore while I am still weak."

"Of course." 

"One other thing. Your son." 

"My…son?" Miles said. "Theodore? What of him?" 

"Not him. The other one." 

Silence. Then a mumbled reply, "I don't know-"

"Do not lie to me, Nott!" 

"I never intended to master." Miles said in a hurry, terror tingeing his voice. "It's just I'm not sure what you would want with him. He's rebellious and barbaric. My Theodore came home with a broken nose because of that boy." 

Leylin swallowed, willing his feet not to move. The way he spoke about him. Like he was a stranger.

He wanted to burst through the door and kill him there and then. But that was his rage talking. He wouln't be able to, he knew it. Not without any weapons, any preperation.

So he stayed where he was, a dribble of warm fluid flowing down his fingers, blood from where his nails were digging into his palms.

"Yes, yes, I heard what happened on the train." Voldemort said, sounding uninterested. "But the boy will be an asset. He takes after his mother; he's a genius in potions, I'm sure of it. And just like she was before her demise, he will be a great asset. Especially if Snape turns out to be....not as dedictaed to our cause as he so claims." 

Mum. A great asset to Voldemort? No. No way. 

Leylin's head spun with the implications. His hand shot out to support himself on the wall and accidentally pushed the door open, eliciting a loud creak. 

"Who's there!?" Miles yelled. "Show yourself!" 

With no time to think, Leylin ran. He tripped, stumbled and fell, footsteps thudding against rotting wooden floor as he bolted for the window he came through, not daring to look back. 

He sprinted through people, through crowds, not seeing what was in font of him–not caring.

Leylin had long-lost his pursuit by the time he slowed. Around him were the tall buildings of London, orange light from the setting sun peaking through, and the cobbled streets filled with businessman getting off work.

He sat crouched in the street, back against a red stoned wall, clutching his head and breathing in and out in ragged breaths.

She wasn't a death eater. No way. No way.

His mum's warm smiles, reassurances that magic wasn't everything, how she seemingly hated the society they lived in as much he. The purity of it all.

But did she actually? Or was that just the memory a child concocted to deal with a world that seemed to hate him at the time.

Leylin didn't know. He didn't know if he even wanted to. For if his mum was a death eater, were all the things she told him a lie? Was the love she gave him a lie?