Hermione needed a getaway. Like…now! The best place to have it was in Cokeworth.
The opportunity presented itself so conveniently, Hermione wrote it off to fate. It turned out that Harry had forgotten he had to babysit his cousin Dudley's children the same weekend he and Ginny were going on a trip to Fiji (the one they'd been putting off for the past two summers). When Hermione volunteered to take on the task last minute, he had been more than grateful. How hard could handling two children be?
The village in the English Midlands was the perfect place to escape the ever-discerning eye of the London wizard population. Small. Tranquil. Most importantly, it was completely non-magical. At least if she stuck to her plan and never uttered her name in public.
"That's it?" were Penny Dursley's first words when she melted out of the red Mini Cooper. "Where are all the people?"
"What about them?" Hermione pointed to an older couple rocking in their chairs.
"People my age, not some old farts."
Penny shook the mud off her sandals and wiped the soles on the damp, morning grass. Those were her final spoken thoughts. She expressed the rest of her dissatisfaction through dramatic sighs escaping over the pages of her teenage magazine, which she remained glued to for the remainder of the check-in.
Vinny Dursley was not in a good mood himself. He finished his stash of snacks and the rest of his sister's an hour into the car ride. After that, he fell asleep and only woke up when they saw the outline of the Mill in the distance.
"When is the all-you-can-eat buffet opening?" he asked, peaking into the dining room by the lobby.
There was no buffet and Vinny slumped on the sofa next to his sister. He spent the next fifteen minutes kicking her shins and trying to wipe his boogies on her magazine.
As such, Hermione had no opportunity to make a good first impression as their nanny. She reminded herself that this was only a temporary gig. When the noise over Rita Skeeter's scandalous article died down and the last of the hate mail was discarded, she would return to her normal, completely magical life.
Until then, she had to keep her skill under wraps (at least around the children). Easy!
Hermione cast the doors of the car shut with a spell, by habit, and cursed under her breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the lace curtains on the first-floor window flickering. A twinkling eye was watching her.
Her heartbeat echoed through her ears. She lifted the car handle a few times, hoping the nosy onlooker had not noticed her using magic.
Right, no magic. No magic. No magic. No magic she chanted to herself as she walked into the lobby.
Said nosy onlooker happened to be Mrs. Prince. With her frail figure and twiggy hands, the old crone was not only the owner of the Black Sheep Bed and Breakfast but also its concierge, cook, laundry-maid, and entertainer. How such a feat was possible for a woman of Mrs. Prince's disposition remained a mystery. Hermione only hoped to be just as energetic at her age.
Penny and Vinny bickered in the back while Hermione signed the bound leather guest book at the front desk.
Penelope Dursley and Vincent Dursley
And then, she was tapping the back of the pen against the page. What to sign herself in as?
If she didn't think of a name fast, that fistful of Vinny's hair was about to be ripped straight from his head.
Which surname to sign in under? One that wouldn't lead any nosey reporters on. One that nobody would recognize. It had to be someone with no known relatives. Someone who was dead and who would not mind.
There was only one name that came to mind and she scribbled it down with the ballpoint pen before she could change her mind.
Mrs. Hermione Snape
There.
He couldn't possibly mind her using his name for a simple week-long vacation. Besides, what were the odds? The real Mr. Severus Snape had died before her very eyes, an unfortunate and deadly bite by a python to the carotid artery.
Surely she could not besmirch the old bachelor's name with the assumption that he left behind a grieving wife? Besides, she was certain that there were a great many Snapes in Britain that it would not be a coincidence at all that she had married one.
She grabbed Penny in one hand and Vinny in the other and shook them apart.
Mrs. Prince eyed her, and again there was a tiny twinkle in her left eye.
"Mrs. Snape." She let the surname linger in the silence. "Is your husband not traveling with you?"
"My- Mr. Snape has- well- he has passed away."
Did Mrs. Prince know something? She couldn't. Cokeworth was a completely non-magical, ordinary village.
Hermione rummaged in her purse for her checkbook. As she handed over the sum, Mrs. Prince gave her a long look, an estimation that seemed to capture every bit of Hermione's essence. When she thoroughly examined her, her thin lips spread into a Cheshire smile and her eye wrinkles pulled at the bridge of her hooked nose.
"Pity. Young and pretty and already a widow. Something must be done to fix that. Room number three hundred and ninety-four," were the words she finally said. She handed Hermione a key on a chain and hobbled towards the tight staircase.
Hermione reached for the three suitcases.
"No need to dearie, he will have them up to your room in a sweep!" was Mrs. Prince's reply.
Who?
There was no way the old lady could carry nearly ten pounds of rad clothing, comic books, and Lego toys up the winding staircase by herself, Hermione thought. She hauled the bags by their handle up the first step and immediately regretted packing her twenty volumes of light reading.
"Penny, could you grab your brother's luggage?"
The scrawny girl let out a groan, but carried out the request.
The building had a great many rooms on the top floor. Hermione did not realize it was so spacious; so spacious that it could house more than three hundred occupants.
There was room '394'. Why Mrs. Prince had such strange numbers engraved on the little plaques above the rooms was a question in itself. Hermione checked the neighboring rooms, the one to the left was a whooping room '1960'; the one on the right was a measly little room '01'.
Vinny was brave enough to ask Mrs. Prince for an explanation, to Hermione's relief. The question sounded far better coming from a little boy than a full-grown woman.
"Why did I number the rooms as such? Magic, my dearie. Each one holds a special meaning to me. Oh, but I do forget what- just be sure not to open the odd numbers."
"Magic-shmagic, everyone knows it doesn't exist," Vinny said. He gave door '01' a little kick and a low growl sounded out from the other end.
Mrs. Prince did not miss a beat. In a moment, she flicked her fingers against the back of Vinny's head, resulting in a loud snap and a yelp from the boy. She repeated her warning once more in a low and severe tone, "Don't touch the odd numbers. Especially not that one."
Hermione spread out on the paisley sheets inhaling the relaxing lavender smell. The Dursley's children's room was similar to hers, only in lighter pastel shades and smelling of rosemary.
"We have a lovely herb garden just out back if nature pleases you," Mrs. Prince said as she lay a few spare towels on her bed. "Full of herbs and berries and vegetables."
Penny was absorbed in her issue of Backstage Bois , clearly showing that she was more than content to spend the vacation with her teenage heartthrobs rather than with flowers.
"Can we eat them?" Vinny asked. His stomach rumbled.
"I would think twice before putting anything out there into your mouth, young man. Especially the gooseberries. Although our rosemary is fresh and will be fine in tonight's pot roast."
So far, Hermione had not seen a single soul in the house besides their diligent hostess. Who was the mysterious our she was referring to? The longer she watched Mrs. Prince fumble with the plugs of the floor lamp the less she thought of her being the sole manager of this quaint countryside business. She could not be so energetic?
"I can help with dinner tonight. I'm no expert, but I can manage my way around the kitchen," Hermione offered as Mrs. Prince hunched over and rubbed her back.
"How kind of you to offer dear, but I assure you that I have a few tricks up my sleeve to make the job done faster. Besides, my son is cooking tonight. Enjoy yourself." Mrs. Prince shut the door and hobbled down the stairs. "And do visit the garden!"
Hermione listened to be sure she didn't fall down on her way back, but Mrs. Prince hadn't missed a beat. Only when the pitter-patter of her feet vanished, did Hermione take a deep breath of relief and fall on her bedsheets.
Mrs. Prince's son was cooking tonight? Thank Gods she wouldn't have to spend dinner engaging in small talk with her fish-lipped children and a very nosy grandmother.
She wondered how old he was? Was he good-looking? She reminded herself not to put the Thestrals before the carriage. Besides, there were no more relationships until the article was forgotten. All men be damned.
If Mrs. Prince's son was half as nosy and snarky as she was, she most certainly would not like him anyways.
"I'm bored, what can I do?" Vinny groaned behind her door just as Hermione was starting to doze off. She was beginning to understand why mothers shipped their children off to be babysat.
"Go and visit the garden," she said quietly.
The door bonked back and forth a few times and then tiny feet stomped their way downstairs. She listened to the gentle murmur of the hummingbirds before falling into a deep afternoon slumber.
She woke up with a gasp to find Vinny standing right in front of her bed, red and covered in prickles.
"We- well I was in the g-garden and the g-gooseberries just j-jumped out at me," he said and began to wail loudly.
There were an unusually large number of thorns in the boy's arms, legs, and cheeks, as though he had specifically sat in the middle of the patch. She pulled one out of his juice-stained cheek and Vinny screamed.
"Did your sister push you?"
"N-no. I was alone and they- they just snuck out and bit me all around!" He continued to sob and whine. "Oh, I'm going to tell daddykins all about it when I g-get home."
"No, no I'll sort it out."
Oh, these did not seem like ordinary gooseberry bushes at all with the giant gashes they made. She feared there might be magic involved (which was the last thing she wanted).
She would have to go down and examine the garden herself. After picking out the largest offenders and rubbing a bit of salve (of her own making) onto the cuts, Hermione pulled her sunhat over her curls and stormed out into the yard.
What kind of nasty prick would push a child into a gooseberry bush on purpose? Her arms tensed as she scanned the perimeter.
The herb garden was lovely, very 'quaint' as her romance novels would have described it. If Vinny hadn't been pinched the way that he was, she would have even enjoyed being here. Now the green space looked like a vicious battlefield.
She stomped past the pumpkin patch and swung her legs over the squashes. There was the naughty gooseberry bush looking as prim as a show poodle. There wasn't another soul in sight as she made her way around the crime scene.
A tinted greenhouse that smelled of cucumbers and tomato stems welcomed her inside. She could swear that it had looked smaller on the outside. Now that she was standing in the doorway, the padded pathway stretched for miles on end. Curious indeed.
"Hello, is anyone here?" she called out. Nothing but the cukes and the toms, teasing her with their round, cheeky bottoms.
She knelt back down by the gooseberry bush. No harm in testing it. Well, it certainly could not be charmed. She grabbed a small branch and began to rustle through. She plucked off a green pod and put it by her lips.
"I would not do that if I were you. The gooseberries are not yet ripe for eating," a voice came from nearby. A low voice with a steady tone.
Hermione froze with the gooseberry in her hand. She'd already picked it. It would be rude to toss it on the floor, so she plopped it into her mouth and swallowed it.
"Did you see who pushed my boy in the thorns?"
"I might have."
"He came back covered in blisters and bruises, so I would like to know."
"It was a bit of a shock for him, but he's better off for it. Such are the natural consequences for snooping where you aren't supposed to," replied the voice in an increasingly smug manner.
"For your information, we were invited to go and look at the garden-"
"I presume he had only been told to look, not to touch. And he did touch, so he had it coming for him," the voice continued to say. "This is what happens when children are not told the full truth."
Hermione's curls all but stood on the tip of her head. Who did this gardener think he was, sitting in his bush and enforcing consequences like some malicious professor? Besides, Vinny was only eight.
"At your distance, things are bound to be misrepresented," she said, hoping this would inspire the bush-man to at least have the decency to step out and show his face. It did not.
"I know this garden like the back of my head. In any case, I would suggest getting your clumsy son some glasses. Or perhaps a leash if you can't control him."
A pair of marigolds, now looking like little Pomeranian dogs, leaped out and nipped her ankles.
"Woof."
Hermione fumed and clenched her fists around a nearby pair of hedge clippers and chopped all of their orange doggy heads off. Woof, woof indeed. Then she took to the gooseberry bush, snipping off prickly branch by branch at various levels and lengths.
"Do not -"
"If you step one more toe out of line, Mr. Gardener, I swear the gooseberries will not be the last to suffer." With that, Hermione chopped off a couple more nearby lilac branches, for added effect.
"You menace, get your bloody hands off of my lilacs," the voice boomed out.
She backed into a brick border, her hand slipped and the clippers flew out. A loud satisfying crack followed by a male curse resounded.
"There you have it! I hope this is a lesson for you not to mess with my children again."
With that, Hermione stormed back into the house. Absolutely preposterous and uncivil. Besides, couldn't he have just told Vinny to back away from the precious berries instead of jumping to such hasty conclusions?
She, for the record, would never insult someone she barely knew.
At that moment, a strange feeling of pride washed over her. When you stand up for something, you begin to like it all the more.
Penny and Vinny were pieces of work themselves, but they were her children for the week and some gardener was not about to go around punishing them for their mishaps.
That evening, having showered and wearing a freshly pressed, olive-green wrapped dress, Hermione expected to help set the table. It was the least she could do to be useful and it would set her mind off of this afternoon's rude encounter with the gardener.
To her surprise, the china dishes adorned with ruby hearts and tiny birds lay in neat place settings along with the table when she descended. Mrs. Prince was polishing a tiny teapot with two chubby cats with cherub wings painted on the side.
"Tradition marks the spot, oh I mean the pot! Have a seat, dearies. Except for you lad, go and fetch me the tea cozy in the parlor."
Hermione nudged Vinny on. The boy plopped out of view. Penny was sitting in her chair like a chicken on eggs. How unfortunate she would have to miss out on reading the latest gossip from her magazine for the fourth time that day.
"Nanny, is there any wifi?"
"Who dearie?" Mrs. Prince whistled as she folded a small triangle of a napkin beside the girl.
"You know, the internet? Where people go for fun?"
"I will show you fun, go and bring me the rest of the napkins."
In a moment, Mrs. Prince was teaching Penny to fold the ivory napkins into crisp little swans. To Hermione's surprise, the little swan Penny placed on the china plate flapped its cloth wings and gave a little squawk.
"What was that?" Penny squealed.
"Sorcery, dearie." Mrs. Prince gave the swan a little wag of the finger. "Only this little one needs to keep its beak shut, or no rum cakes for dessert."
"Sorcery, coursary, everyone knows witches aren't real."
Mrs. Prince did not miss a beat. In a moment, she flicked her fingers across the back of Penny's head and the girl let out a hurt yelp.
"If witches were real, they'd be ugly and all," she grumbled and went back to folding. This crossed Hermione so.
The old grandfather clock in the foyer struck eight, the dancing dames twirled in a circle with their cavalier. The window shutters in the parlor burst open and the wind swirled the lace curtains as a black cat jumped inside. Penny shrieked as the cat made its way across the carpet and rubbed against Mrs. Prince's leg.
"Oh Toby, you old ninny, don't be scaring our first set of guests." Mrs. Prince ran her fingers through the cat's thick fur.
Toby hissed and bit down on the old crone's hand. She took out a small locket filled with tobacco and gave the cat a whiff.
"My dear husband was a smoker, some habits never change."
"H-h-husband?" Vinny stuttered, looking at the cat. The cat's body arched as it sneezed.
"There will be more guests?" Hermione asked.
Perhaps this was the mysterious son she'd been waiting to meet since her arrival. She adjusted her dress straps and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Not that she was trying to impress him, but it wouldn't do her any harm to look composed.
"Yes, please sit dearies."
The company was seated at the table draped in a red and purple paisley tablecloth. The swan napkins now lay unfolded on their laps and the silver cutlery by the sides of the embroidered golden plates sparkled. A candleholder flickered in the center of the table.
Hermione's stomach rumbled. Smells wafted from the kitchen doors. Rosemary and sage and freshly chopped parsley. Potatoes and chicken roast and steamed vegetables. She did have a soft spot for men who could cook.
Then the brass knob turned counter-clockwise and the engraved oak door opened inwards. Two gloved hands in frog-green oven mitts held a large, roast chicken drizzled in oil and covered by lemon slices. Underneath the silver platter was a pink, polka dot apron with little strawberries and a pair of navy blue trousers. On his feet, laced brown leather shoes with very extraordinary rainbow-striped socks covered in Pygmy Puffs.
Penny would have been delighted to see this fashion monstrosity, but she was too busy poking at her napkin-swan to notice their delightfully dressed cook.
Hermione's face turned white, then pink, then hot-red.
"Oh and here is my sweetie-son. Sevvy, don't just stand there like a poor relative, say hello to Mrs. Snape," Mrs. Prince said with a stern 'mother knows what's best for you' tone.
It was at that moment that Hermione noticed a red, swollen bump on the center of his head. She had hit Mr. Severus Snape over the head with a pair of hedge clippers. The very much undead Severus Snape. He, in turn, looked like he was ready to slice through he with his gaze.
Severus Snape in frog-green oven mitts, in a pink polka dot apron with little strawberries and rainbow Pygmy Puff socks, stood by the table. A magical Severus Snape on her very non-magical vacation. A magical Severus Snape and his magical mother Mrs. Prince were going to ruin her completely non-magical vacation with the Dursleys. Oh, she was utterly screwed.