Disclaimer: *yawns massively* J. K. Rowling....But of course, my darlings.

How can a woman be so...so...careworn at thirty-seven? the man looking on from merely five yards away mulled, piercing the forearm-long stem on a spectacular apple-green bud of some sort, the blood-colored points forming at the end of the tongue-sized petals entangling his own forearm like the sash of a bonnet. He was referring, rather reservedly, to the woman named Virtrum Wells, who was burrowed into a flourishing tapestry of demure shatter-blossoms like an mole, the cartwheel hat with the buttercup-colored taffeta streamers shading her from forehead to shoulders, the rest of her undistinguishable in a knee-length shift and belt.

She was school gardening management, maintaining the upkeep and aesthetic panache of the establishment, if not merely employing the elves who did so. She herself was more eager to do handiwork with the grounds' fantastic flowers, but she was kind enough to maintain the shrubbery first, since most elves were not tall enough to maintain them without frustration. Yet, it was a rare occasion when she was spotted at all; she tended to steer clear of staff and students, preferring to let them think (if not simply imagine) that the grounds were tended solely by discrete, invisible faerie fingers. All of the faculty were aware of her existence, naturally, being adults and not as willing to make-believe as in yester-year.

The woman scurried about on all-fours towards him, without prior and decent warning, and the man in voluminous black garb was a tad unnerved and off-guard.

"Virtrum Wells is an aesthetic asset to these grounds....."

Severus recalled Albus' words without flaw as those dry-humored, nearly emotion-purged gray eyes of the woman who had been in question now caught his under that ridiculous hat.

"...and for your many years of tireless, relentless, and extraordinary service, we offer our thanks and many happy returns on your thirty-sixth birthday..."

Erm. He squirmed and toyed with the top ivory button of his collar. When did it become a trifle too humid to wear black? he mulled darkly, planted like some sort of Middle Eastern stalk in the garden under Virtrum's stoic but nearly glazed glare.

"For you."

How he had trained for those words of presentation to accompany his gift! Later to be followed by hers:

"Sorry?"

"....If you want it."

"Oh! Well...I didn't anticipate a gi---ft....That is, I don't accept them, I believed that to be without---"

"Oh, I'm horribly----"

"---question."

"Well....I'd best be seeing to my grades. You may return it to my office when you see fit."

He had fled, in the manner of his more youthful self, and had (in exactness) barred himself within the lavatory and had vomited. Profusely. And he hadn't spoken since.

But....

He was still waiting. His gift, it had never been returned.

That ridiculous cartwheel hat.

Now, Virtrum slumped by, eyes at her soiled fingernails. In passing, her wooly eyebrows flexed spitefully.

"Snape, is it?"

She bared her brown-tinted teeth in a...grin? A snarl?

Toss up.

"Dashing." The lethargic waves in her hair set off her square jaw. Her fingertips touched the crown of the hat. "Many thanks, chum." She tread on, casting a backwards, jeering but jovial glance. "Coming with?"

"Why the devil not," was his soft reply.

Gentlemen in black love their women in hats.