"So, Mr, ah, Snape? You're a British citizen?"

"In a way."

"Don't play games. Do you have a British passport?"

"No I do not."

"Then what passport do you hold?"

"I have no 'passport'."

"Then how did you get on a plane?"

Snape grimaced at the memory of a most unpleasant experience. "I wish I knew."

The Immigration officer scowled down at his clipboard. "You were discovered unconscious in the forward bathroom of the ten fifteen from Heathrow. None of the flight attendants recalls you boarding." He glanced at Snape's long black robes. "And they're pretty sure they'd remember."

"Do you have my possessions?" Snape asked. "There's one item in particular I require returned to me immediately."

"We're examining your possessions," the official said. He put down his clipboard and leaned across the table towards Snape. "Look pal, what the hell is the deal? Who are you? Some kind of terrorist? Or just a nut? How'd you stow away on the plane?"

"I did not stow away." Snape said. "Whatever happened I'm sure Potter is to blame somehow."

"Potter? Who's Potter?"

"The bane of my existence."

The door slammed back then and another official stood there but didn't come into the room. He had a wild expression.

"Smithy, get out of there, now!"

"What's wrong?"

"The passengers in the plane he was on, they're all getting sick. The doctors say it's the plague! The goddamn plague!"

Snape raised his eyebrows as 'Smithy' left the room in a big hurry. Plague? Interesting. Perhaps not Potter then, the boy was far too soft towards muggles for that. Snape waited. Once he got his wand back, he'd leave this situation forthwith. This "airport" was a most unpleasant environment.

Meanwhile, he enjoyed the solitude, as he always did.