Just a short bit. I went to the Renaissance Fair in my area today, and I wanted to commemorate it. Liked the idea of Snape or Hermione randomly showing up and nobody noticing them because the wizard style of dress is so Renaissance style. Surprised I didn't see any people dressed up like HP characters at that faire, though. There's no rhyme or reason to this tale, just another experiment with Snape and Hermione. There will be no more after this so don't add this as an alert or ask me to make any more chapters. I'm trying to focus on AKC with what time I have. This just sprung forth randomly. Nothing more. Okay?
DISCLAIMER: If I were J.K. Rowling, I wouldn't be cursing her in this story. Paul Calais is mine, but he's a weevil, you wouldn't want him anyways.
Two Ostensibly Dead (otherwise called At the Renaissance Faire)
February 18, 2018.
Inspector Deborah Fraise, a cynical thirty-nine-year-old with dark cascading hair and hard incredulous eyes, looked at the sky with a sniff of disdain. Looks like rain. Like usual. It's pathetic how California's known for its fine weather. It may as well be England for all the sun I've seen.
Adjusting her long green cloak against the sudden gust of damp wind that sent her many-layered dress billowing, she strode briskly across the terrain. Which, for all the weather's teasing, remains irrevocably dusty, she irritably decided. The grit and grime got between the toes of her leather sandals, grit and grime consisting of a thousand minuscule rocks, clumps of earth, and dead plant parts.
She did not want to be here, but she had good reason. Deborah was on the track of one Sir Paul Calais, the man who had claimed the life of her husband and two children. The experience of watching them die, one by one, had been painful enough. She did not understand why, at first—they were a healthy family, good about germ education and keeping a rigorous natural diet.
Then she learned the truth. They had been transmitted a certain strand of Tuberculosis--purposefully--by that man. She had been meant to die as well, since, being strong in politics, she was the most important fish in the basket by far. Somehow she had evaded it, while her family—and a thousand other worldwide victims of the cruel and malicious Calais--suffered.
In desperation, she had come to only one conclusion—she must have revenge. Having connections to Scotland Yard helped in this aim. She gained the title of ('Honourary') Inspector, along with a gravestone with her real identity upon it, instead taking upon herself a new name and a new history. Biological warfare was one of the most terrifying means of effecting death upon others, and taking her own self out of the picture would be an advantage. With the resource of Scotland Yard at her disposal, she set off to comb the earth for the most infamous of assassins of the 21st century, the most notorious name since Osama Bin Laden.
Otherwise, she would not have come to California at all.
Canvas stalls lined the dirt paths, glaring colored flags fluttering over them. Their creamy canvas appeared soft, but Deborah knew it was rough, sketchy, and made a noise that sent terrified shivers up her spine as her fingernails ran against the fabric. She knew; she had spent the last few days snuggled up to the sides of the tents, sneaking, listening, recording, thinking. Today she would spend sneaking, listening, recording, and thinking. Tomorrow she would spend sneaking, listening, recording, and thinking. She would continue sneaking, listening, recording, and thinking, and sneaking, listening, recording, and listening until she got a lead concerning the whereabouts of her quarry.
Everyone was in costume. Many gaudy women paraded with wreaths on their heads, cheerful smiles, and ample breasts overflowing from the tops of their tiny girdles. Men hiding behind long hair and beards wore flamboyant kilts, tucking pipes and cigarettes between their teeth. A band of Spanish nobles promenaded in fine raiment, a pair of knights from the Crusades wore heavy chain mail and shields bearing red crosses. Arabian belly-dancers jangled in bands of smiling henna-adorned girls towards a theater area, sluts in thin black lace gathered young men into inconspicuous corners for NC-17 shows, and bakers with pretzels and cross buns harked their wares to the populace.
Deborah barely glanced at these—she had been here for five days garnering information, and nothing caught her sight anymore. The only fun thing she now was concerned with was purchasing a new costume every day; she could not wear the same thing twice, and she was more noticeable if she went without period dress than with.
A busker with a stringed instrument clamored for her attention, as he had done for the past three days despite how she refused to look at him, and he acted openly affronted as she ignored him as usual. "Aye, m'lady, and ye'd be not so good as to even drop a poor yon' man as mu' as a wink, say what?"
She kept her head down and kept going. However, as she was not looking, she found herself abruptly thrust out of the way as a burly man in street clothes who looked like he would better like to be driving a Harley-Davidson than participating in an age-old cultural festival. From their brief but very forceful impact, Deborah could tell that he reeked of beer. Tripping over her skirt, she fell against the nearest tent, cursing profusely at the rudeness of the brute. As she found herself on the ground, she looked around, trying to see where he had gone, but far off she saw his swaggering buttocks almost half hanging from his jeans.
"Disgusting, some of these damned wretches," said a voice from above her, and she felt a hand tap her shoulder. "Are you all right, m'lady?"
She accepted the proffered hand and stood, somewhat embarrassed that someone so genteel had heard such vulgar words from her lips. Then again, no one really has any scruples about cursing around here anyways.
"Thanks," she replied, looking to the kind member of the male sex who showed such gracility. Dark hair, though rather graying at the temples, an absurd and almost comically large nose, complex black eyes, and a tall, lean stature. Altogether, she reminded him of someone, but she could not place him.
"Most people would say it was no problem." He shrugged, turning to depart behind a curtain of canvas.
All of a sudden, as his dark cloak billowed with another gust of wind, she realized who he was—as if his (authentic!) British accent, dulcet tone, and clear indifference were not enough hints.
"Professor Snape!"
Words he had not heard in ages made him stop, turn, and look at her closely.
A flame of mortification moved across Deborah's face. This was not the first time she had done this—approached people in the street, in the market, thinking that they were people she used to know. Not only Professor Snape, but Fred Weasley. Nymphadora Tonks. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. She had soon come to reconcile with the fact that these people were unchangeably dead, but Snape particularly was one that she still seemed to see everywhere. Part of the reason, she remembered, was that the corpse in the Shrieking Shack was so mutilated that it was not evident who it exactly was, though everyone did know that it was obviously Snape due to Harry's testimony and her own.
"Severus Snape is fictional," sneered the man, looking coldly into the eyes of Inspector Deborah. Any pretense of speaking Renaissance-style dropped, though his accent did not. "And even if he were not, I shouldn't want to be him. Fucking J.K. Rowling."
"Pardon me," Deborah replied, flinching with humiliation. Another slip of the tongue. Dear, you really ought to stop with this nonsense. He's downright dead, and you know it. Random men dress like him, after all.
Still, though, he was looking into her eyes.
"I would almost say, though . . ." he went on, quietly, a bit less acerbic in his tone. Then he stopped. "No, I'm being ridiculous."
"What were you going to say?"
He seemed a bit irritated at this point. "I was going to say you looked a bit like Hermione Granger . . . not Emma Watson, but my personal image of the girl."
Talking about the Harry Potter series with random adults did not seem too unseemly to Deborah—there were so few people who were unacquainted with it these days that it was really quite strange to find a person who would not get the joke of 'Ugh! My scar hurts!' or 'The gnargles have been at it again!' or somesuch. It was quite irritating to Deborah, actually, since she knew how much truth the books contained.
She felt quite horrified at the prospect he presented, and her hands went flying to her hair. The man smirked, swirling a cup of what smelled like Guiness in his hand. "Not the hair, no, nor your face, really, just the eyes. Eyes I would probably recognize anywhere." He shook his head. "I'm an old man, go on your way before I start imagining you look familiar in other ways."
That's interesting. Although I did change my hair, face, body, and stature, I never could truly part with my eyes. I always thought they were my best feature. How strange that he should . . . why . . . how on earth . . .
Deborah was intrigued now, and she pulled her hair back behind her ears. "Who are you?" she asked.
"A vendor, probably like yourself." He gestured to the sign at the top of the tent they stood next to, and Deborah craned to see it. Poshuns and cholicks for the common aylmint, enquire ins.
"Oh." She looked at him. "Potions?"
He shrugged again nonchalantly. "Nothing miraculous. Just an enhanced chamomile blend for colds, enhanced lavender blend for better sleeping, things of that nature. Useful, I suppose, but really not necessary."
"You say enhanced. Enhanced how?"
He smirked cruelly. "Oh, a little bit of magic. Wand waving, incantations . . . sometimes I provide demonstrations. The people really adore it, even if they think it is an illusion."
"Do . . . do you think magic is an illusion?"
The man who looked like Snape guffawed. "If I said that it wasn't, you'd find a way to tote me off to the loony bin soon enough. Or else shove that religious crap down my throat. I've no want for that, thanks."
Deborah was hurt, since she knew the truth of the matter, but she could not actually say anything. I agree; fucking J.K. Rowling. Destroyed the novelty of our world forever. Now we have these people who want to think it's fiction but don't know for sure. Why in the world would a woman let Muggles know about us? Why did we let her?
She felt, suddenly, that there was a presence in her mind . . . a presence she had not felt since she was in England giving her latest report to her superior, a very aged Minerva McGonagall.
Good god, woman, she heard his voice ring in her head as the memory of McGonagall and Hogwarts (not the views from the movies, mind) floated to the top of her mind. You ARE Hermoine Granger.
"And you really are Severus Snape!"
Before she could stop herself, she had thrown her arms around him in a fit of excited enthusiasm. "I . . . I knew you weren't dead!" she found herself rambling, "I knew it! I knew it, knew it, knew it!"
"I thought you were dead, too. How serendipitous." He scowled. "Good god, though, if you didn't know how many times strange women of varying ages—from nine years old to eighty, I should say—approached me screaming my name. Some of them claiming they were you. Some of them even looking like you. It almost wasn't worth the legal process, actually. Though I do wonder why so many did, as I look nothing like Alan Rickman." He paused. "My name is Sylvester now, by the way. God damn I wish I looked as good as Alan Rickman."
"I'm Deborah, now, so I know what that's like. That's why I look so different." She frowned and stepped away from him. "No one would take us seriously these days if we went by what the Harry Potter Books have done to our reputations. What are you doing in California, anyways?"
He shook his head. "Eeking out a miserable living selling enhanced potions in an environment where I can wear wizarding attire and not look weird. Just as I said before."
"I see."
"And what are you doing? I've seen you a lot about lately . . . you walk past here virtually ever day two or three times. Though I didn't recognize you until now, I daresay."
"Well, I'm not part of the faire, actually," she replied, "I'm a on a mission. Hey, maybe you can help me. I'm looking for information on a certain Sir Paul Calais."
"Never heard of him," he sighed, then pulled back the flap of his tent. "Come in and rest yourself a bit; I need to tend to the store somewhat. Don't get company very often. If you can spare the time."
She really wanted to do so. "I . . . I really should not," she responded, quietly.
"Well, what have you been doing for days? Searching for this man you're after by wandering about in unsolicited areas, poking your nose in the occupied lavatories and holding on for dear life under rolling wagons? Try doing so from the purveyor's point of view. At least your feet will be less blistered at the end of the day."
She shook her head no. "I really would love to, Professor."
"Don't you dare call me professor after all these years!"
Her smile let a dismal laugh erupt from his mouth. "I can see, though, that you are truly desperate to find your quarry. All right. I'll help as much as I can. Try looking in the vendor's residency area. You can't get in there without a key." So saying, he drew a large ring from his pocket and separated one key from the three upon it. "Take it, don't bother about returning it."
The woman was more surprised than anything at his cooperation. "Thank you so much! I really . . . if there's anything I can do for you . . ."
He shook his head again. "Just keep on being brilliant as always, Granger. Although I daresay detective work does suit you, I'm rather surprised to see you so low in the chain as to actually be the hound."
Her eyes met his. "Well, if I wanted to be a higher rank, I suppose I could be—some of my Scotland Yard connections would get me in there instantly—but it's a very personal reason that I have for finding the madman."
Snape nodded. "I think I understand." He really did.
Kissing him softly on the cheek, Deborah raced off with the key.
Fortunately for her, she actually did find Sir Paul Calais in the residency area, hiding with his pants literally down behind a tree. It seemed ridiculous that a man with so much power would actually have to deign to . . . well . . . and do so in such a rustic environment, but there it was.
Later that day, after having called in an American SWAT to collect the dangerous man and cart Sir Paul Calais to the care of the FBI, Deborah went back to search for the 'poshuns and cholicks' booth monitored by her old professor, to both thank him, celebrate with him before her flight back to London in the morning, and chat about old times in general. Maybe she even had hopes for something else.
However, at three o'clock in the afternoon, she found his booth closed just in the prime time to miss visitors with hefty pocketbooks.
Knowing he was alive was satisfying, but she had wanted to at least tell him goodbye before she left.
It was sad, but she figured that he had not really wanted to be found by anyone from his past life, and the idea of talking to her was uncomfortable. Or maybe he just began to doubt that she actually was the Miss Granger from his past life, and left before he could mortify himself further.
Who knew?
Deborah never found him again.