A/N: And here comes chapitre four-- and 82 reviews! Wow! You guys are AMAZING. I can't thank you enough, and so this chapter is dedicated to everyone that has reviewed and sent such lovely comments.

Also dedicated to She's A Star, because . . . well, she knows why. Because she rocks the socks and she wrote IR! Breakfast foods, anyone?


Chapter Four: Meet Your Destiny

Of all the hair-brained schemes in the world, this is the worst. How the hell does Albus expect us to get through this horrific excuse for a holiday without our magic?

Severus, please. We have it for emergencies, you know that. Albus just feels our cover would be better protected should we reserve it for that.

I can't imagine why I didn't resign in the first place--



Bad enough that I have to spend the summer with Potter--

Gee, thanks.

Pretending to be a loving husband-- don't gape, Potter, you look more idiotic than you usually do.



But this!



Before Harry could blink at Amalthea's shout, she had pulled out her wand and advanced on Snape, her wand held at battle-ready position.

I. Am. Not. she said clearly, her wand two inches from Snape's hooked nose. Snape swallowed visibly, his sallow face turning a nasty shade of pale green. Harry eased himself into the shadows, wishing that he'd thought to wear black. Going to go through this with you again. I don't like it, you don't like it, Harry doesn't like it-- but Albus clearly has sadistic tendencies and we have to suffer through this. All right? She stormed over to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, and vanished into a whirl of green flames.

Snape and Harry stared at each other.

Harry said blankly.

Snape agreed, all the wind temporarily taken out of his sails by Amalthea's sudden turn of temper. It is quite true, then, that hell hath no fury like a woman irritated. They stared for a long moment until Harry finally roused himself and walked over the fireplace. Snape arched an eyebrow at him.

Not backing out, then, Potter?

And miss all this? Harry asked sarcastically. Not for a million.

Snape snorted lightly and shook his head.

The Gryffindor stupidity strikes again. Very well, Potter, he snapped in response to Harry's questioning look. After you. He raised another hand to his hair and winced. Why on earth did Amalthea have to charm it this short? Surely some Muggle men must understand the virtues of-- oh, go on, Potter.

Yes, Professor, Harry said grumpily, and shouted into the whirl of green flames, hoping very much he articulated his words properly this time round. Somehow, he didn't think Snape would object to leaving him in Knockturn Alley.

When he'd tumbled out of the fireplace and dusted himself off, Harry looked up to see Amalthea nervously poking a lampshade with her wand. He hid a smile and looked curiously around the room. Neat, clean, and already furnished, if a bit dark. They'd all agreed that it was better to Floo in before sunrise rather than deal with Muggle transportation.

He flipped the light on, and Amalthea yelled and jumped back.

she shrieked as Snape stepped out of the fireplace, grimly brushing dust off his shirt and glaring around.

It's too early in the morning for Potter to have destroyed something yet. Snape, of course, who was busy examining a cushion. His lip curling, he put the floral face down and nodded.

Amalthea said dangerously, ignoring Snape. What, exactly, did you just do?

It's just-- the light-- Harry gasped in between fits of laughter.

Potter's cracked.

Harry, so help me--

No magic, now, Amalthea. We can't have you hexing Mr. Potter into oblivion, now can we?

Shut up, Severus!

The light-- the light--

Stop laughing! Amalthea's voice rose to a high-pitched whine and Snape abruptly shut up, evidently remembering the previous events.

It's just a light switch, Harry said patiently, finally mastering control of himself. He flipped it up and down a few times. It controls the light.

Experimentally, Amalthea gave it a try. How peculiar. . .

Would you like to train your telescope on it, Amalthea?

Wouldn't you like to go pick out your bedroom? Amalthea shot back, her pale face flushed with embarrassment and indignation. See if you can drown yourself-- she remembered where she was. Harry, you go too.

Aw, but I was looking forward to--

It's too early in the morning for me to deal with you, Potter. Snape advanced on Harry, glaring with full force. Harry gulped.

Snape could only be pushed so far, Harry decided as he mounted the stairs. Besides, first choice of the bedrooms was nothing to sneer at.

Snape said conversationally, turning back to his Amalthea Sinistra. Perhaps Dumbledore could have been crueler-- there was always Trelawny to be reckoned with-- but still. Ah, well. At least Sinistra was quiet, and had half a brain in her head. Didn't know how to handle Potter, but nobody was perfect. Now that we've got Potter taken care of, I suppose we had better discuss this farce of a marriage.

Amalthea said curtly. She sat down on the chaise and crossed her ankles primly. Snape mentally rolled his eyes-- he would have done it physically, but that would certainly fall under the undignified behavior' category. Prissy, half-baked Astronomy teacher, he thought balefully as he folded his arms.

Greasy, unpleasant, and all-around ridiculous Potions professor, Amalthea thought snidely. The expression on his face was all too clear. Well, fine. If Snape intended to be that way, then she would let him. She'd smoothed the way for her relucant long enough. He could struggle through this conversation on his own.

 Snape began.

Amalthea replied placidly. She plucked a thread off of her skirt and flicked it onto the clean floor. Snape visibly flinched.

Good.

We're a married couple, Snape said painfully.

A nod.

And we need to establish the relationship we'll be presenting to-- to the rest of the world.

There was a tiny smudge on the corner of her spectacles.

And doubtlessly we will have to present some sort of . . .

Better check to make sure that smudge hadn't transferred itself to the white blouse she wore.

. . . physical contact, occasionally. . .

That cushion Severus had adjusted definitely didn't match the opposite one.

Are you paying any attention? Sinistra!

His irritated voice broke through her studied indifference, and she looked up at him.

I'm sorry, Snape, did you say something?

Snape growled in the back of his throat and stalked over to where she sat, pulling her up from her dainty pose. She flinched back a little as his hand refused to release hers. Snape was considerably taller than she was-- nearly a foot higher, and even without his billowing robes, she felt tiny this close to him.

I'm not going to hex you, Snape snarled. Remember Albus the sadist? This is further proof.

she said softly, biting her lower lip and colouring a little. Damn Albus. This was humiliating.

Please, Sinistra, lose the blushing virgin act.

Her only response to that was to flush an even deeper shade of red. This was, on second thought, beyond humiliating. Snape dropped her hand and looked askance at her.

Oh, no, he said, sounding truly horrified. Amalthea, deciding enough was enough, drew herself up and glared. No, they were not taking that particular route of confession. She truly had no desire whatsoever to know about whatever it was the man did in bed when he was alone, much less when someone was drugged enough to be in there with him.

That's none of your business, she said quickly, taking hold of his hand again. Now. You're making a fuss over nothing. This will be painful, but easy. Watch. Gritting her teeth together, she wrapped her arms around Snape's neck and hugged him lightly, careful to keep a healthy distance between their bodies. Ugh. His hair really was as greasy as it looked.

Oh, for God's sake, Amalthea. He pulled her closer, his hands fitting on her waist. She waited patiently until he released her a few seconds later. This certainly was anticlimactic. There. That's it.

I have to crane my neck to look up at you. Surely that's not normal?

You're not doing it right, then, Snape said peevishly. He dragged her closer and placed her arms around him again. She touched a lock of his hair and bit back a shudder. He released her and sighed. What now?

Can't you wash your hair?

Can't you comb yours? Snape snapped back with a pointed glance at her frizzy hair. You're as terrible as that Granger girl.

That has nothing to do with my personal hygiene.

Oh, really? Snape arched an eyebrow and smiled sardonically. Hair usually does, as you were so generous to remark upon.

Oh, for heaven's--

You're holding my hand, Snape interrupted. She halted in the middle of her tirade to look down at their intertwined fingers. Strange. She swallowed suddenly. Her fingers felt hot and moist and uncomfortable this close to Snape's bony hand. Awkwardness, she decided, turning back to the conversation.

Well, let my hand go! she demanded harshly when the pressure on her fingers wasn't immediately alleviated.

I'm not the one holding on! Snape said curtly.

You took my hand first!

You are utterly ridiculous, Sinistra.

The bright tones of Harry's voice interrupted them, and they looked up to see him grinning at their joined hands. Snape snatched his hand away and scowled darkly. Harry only smirked in return.

Did you want something, Potter?

Yeah, actually, Harry replied nonchalantly, stretching himself over the banister. Would this be a bad time to mention this house only has two bedrooms?

Well, that won't be difficult, Amalthea said briskly, stepping around Snape to walk up to the bedrooms. Snape raised a puzzled eyebrow-- were they sending Potter to sleep in the bath? A perfectly logical idea in his mind, but somehow he couldn't see it happening. The powers-that-be hated him too much for that. Amalthea continued up the stairs and gave Snape a predatory smile. Severus can sleep on the floor.

This day couldn't get any worse.

It wasn't until a few hours after breakfast that he had proof the opposite would be true. Until then, things had gone surprisingly well, he thought idly as he flipped through a Muggle scientific journal. Potter and Amalthea had bestirred themselves enough to not burn down the kitchen during breakfast, although Snape suspected Potter had more to do with that than his . . . especially in light of the shouts he'd overheard that sounded suspiciously like feminine pleas for help with the toaster.

But breakfast had passed by calmly enough, and Potter and Amalthea were quietly perusing something called. . . tellie-visien, when a bell sounded throughout the house. Amalthea jumped and flung a small plastic controller away from her in defense, but Potter had merely walked to the door. Muggles, Snape thought dryly as he peered over the top of his periodical to eye the newcomers, simply overcompensated for their lack of magic. Bells and flashing pictures and. . .

Possibly the most gaudy woman he had ever seen.

And she stood before him, resplendent in a cheap, sparkling, and decidedly sleazy green and black gown that showed a few too many of her forty-something curves. Her long, curving black nails tapped against a pile of pitch black hair that hung limply against the back of her neck. Lips, smeared with dark crimson cosmetics. Eyes shadowed with a glittering substance that shot up to her false eyebrows.

There was nothing to be had for it-- Snape winced.

Because the. . . woman . . . was smiling.

At him.

He could hear the cheerful chatter of the other Muggles with Amalthea and Potter-- apparently the boy about Potter's age was a son, and they'd wanted to stop by before their day in London-- but the woman just smiled at him as he sweated.

Snape said, a finger digging under his collar. Rita Skeeter. That hideous cow and Trelawney clearly had a love child, because there was no other way to explain this creature. I'm Severus Snape.

The woman collapsed onto a chair next to his. I know, she purred, running a long, thin finger up her false fur stole. I knew the moment I saw you.

I'm. . . sorry? Snape hazarded.

The bonds of marriage may have grasped your soul in steel-clawed venomous hands, she said quietly, a spark lighting in her eyes. Snape sank down slightly in his chair and tried to catch Amalthea's eye. He couldn't make a scene, not in front of these Muggles-- but surely this wasn't appropriate behavior. But I knew from the moment the depths of your onyx eyes met my own, our souls were meant to meet in the scarlet tongue of that holy fire.

. . . what the hell?

Aunt Destiny? a voice broke through his stunned disbelief. Whatcha saying to Harry's dad?

Oh, Thomas, the breathy voice answered him. We must find solace where we will.

Right, Auntie, the young boy answered, exchanging an amused look with Potter. Hello, sir. I'm Thomas Day. This is my aunt, Destiny du Maurier.

Amalthea started, just visibly.

Destiny. . . du Maurier? she asked carefully, avoiding Snape's eye for a moment. Interesting name, she said lightly, winding a curl around her ring finger.

As is Amalthea, Destiny du Maurier. . . a name that fit the woman devastatingly well, Snape decided. . . smiled thinly over at Amalthea.

And I'm Geoff Day, and this is my wife Marie, another man broke in with an alarmed glance at who was clearly his sister-in-law. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bayley.

Snape said stiffly, and rose to find the drinks Potter had pointed out this morning. He needed something strong.

. . . very, very strong.

And you've spent all those years abroad? Marie Day's eyes widened. My goodness, how long have you been married?

Sixteen years, Amalthea said blithely-- the very moment Snape decided to break into the conversation.

Eighteen years.

I mean, it's been sixteen years since we got married . . .we had. . .

A long engagement, Snape said flatly, taking a long sip of gin and tonic. Amalthea nodded energetically.

A very long engagement, because I was. . . nursing.

Potter offered, and went off into inane cackling with his new friend. Snape closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

You see, my dearest danish, Destiny whispered in his ear, you and your wife have clearly lost the painstaking dreams and strangled agony of lovers.

Snape said, very slowly, as his fingers systematically strangled a tassel on a cushion. Am not a breakfast food.

Of course not, my torturer, my lover, my destiny, she murmured dramatically. You are the hero of my stories made flesh by my ebony ink that spills out across the creamy page. When, in my stories, you take the trembling heroine into your arms and kiss her with all the passionate fire that I know burns in your veins, I feel you clutched against my own breast, and my breath heaves and burns in my slim throat--

You write romance novels, Snape said flatly. Amalthea looked over at the two of them curiously, but said nothing. Snape sighed, mentally reassigned Albus to the seventh circle of hell, and went to fetch himself another drink.

Or perhaps he'd just pour the alcohol down his throat in an attempt to dull the pain. It was probably a very good thing Albus had prohibited all but necessary magic, as a certain Muggle would find herself on the end of an Slightly-Less-Than-Unforgivable curse.

Breakfast foods, indeed.