OPOET 3
Chapter 2
She stood staring down at the caption for a very long time, her eyes glued to the newspaper as she continued to read the byline over and over again and she was vaguely aware of the strange fact that she suddenly felt rather cool and clammy.
Rita Skeeter-Snape.
She tried to convince herself that she was mistaken. After all, although her former Professor was the only one of her personal acquaintance to bear that surname, it certainly didn't mean that he might not have an extended family of which she had no knowledge. That thought brought to her mind the image of a houseful of scowling and cantankerous witches and wizards, all adorned with large, hooked noses and greasy black hair, sneering at each other. Perhaps, she told herself, the venomous journalist had married one of Snape's cousins or something. But that faint hope dissolved in a moment as the memory of the afternoon sun glinting off of the broad golden band adorning Snape's third finger of his left hand popped back into her head. It was all well and good to tell yourself not to jump to conclusions, but logically the fact that Snape admitted he was married and was quite surprised that she hadn't known about it fitted perfectly into the assumption that he was the one providing Rita with her new surname.
"Something wrong, Miss?"
She started and glanced up at Tom, who had returned to the table and was eyeing her with a great deal of concern.
"Of course not," she said hastily, suddenly realizing that she was still holding the glass of whiskey up in midair. As she frowned and replaced the drink back down on the table, the bartender nodded in understanding and pointed towards the paper.
"That was quite a shock, wasn't it?" he clucked, sympathetically.
"Well," she hesitated, clearing her throat and shrugging her shoulders, "I don't know if shock is exactly the right word for it, but it is definitely-" She paused again and frowned down at the paper before continuing. "Quite a surprise," she finished, lamely.
"Yes, indeed," agreed Tom, nodding his head. Placing his hands upon his hips, he continued, "Never thought I'd see the day that it would happen," he confided, dropping his voice to a whisper.
"No, " she answered, feeling a sudden relief that she could talk to someone about this rather strange turn of affairs.
"The Chudley Cannons getting into the Quidditch World Cup and then being eliminated in the first round!" There was a definite tone of disgust and shock in the old man's voice.
"Oh...yes!" she cried, her exclamation covering her awkward realization that she and the bartender were speaking of two different things. "A real shame," she added hurriedly.
"But don't you be blaming your friends, eh?" he added, wagging a finger at her.
"My friends?" she answered.
"Yeah, young Weasley has the makin's of a fine player, but to be tossed into that kind of competition during your first season-no wonder he had a bit of trouble!"
"Yes," she agreed, nodding her head and hoping that she could think of a tactful way to get out of this conversation as soon as she could. The only thing that was more boring than watching a Quidditch match was talking about it.
"And if Harry Potter, the lad who lived and destroyed 'You-Know-Who' needs a bit of time off, who are we to criticize him?" demanded Tom, warming to his subject.
"Oh, exactly," she answered, her mind searching frantically for a way to politely get rid of the man again so that she could return her attention to the paper.
"You sure you wouldn't rather have a butterbeer?" he said suddenly, pointing to her relatively untouched glass of whiskey.
"Er, no, I'm fine," she said and then felt a bit of inspiration. She leaned forward and gave him a large, apologetic smile. "But I suppose I really shouldn't be drinking this on an empty stomach," she whispered.
"Can I bring you a sandwich then?" Tom asked, brightly.
"Oh, yes," she answered, happily.
"We've got turkey, chicken, corned beef tonight," he offered.
"Turkey sounds wonderful," she said, and breathed a sigh of relief as he turned and went towards the kitchen to place the order. During the short time it took for him to come back out carrying a tray, the tavern had begun to fill up rapidly. To her delight, he merely placed the plate and the small piece of parchment which was her bill in front of her and murmured his apologies before scurrying off to attend to his other customers. Propping the newspaper up against the salt and pepper shakers, she began to munch distractedly upon her sandwich as she returned her attention to reading the article.
She found herself snorting in disgust, her eyebrows knitted into a frown as she read through the story. She was sure that Ron had said that he and the team had been thrilled to even make it to the Cup. No doubt he had added that they had missed Harry and that, of course, his presence would have assured them a better showing in the match. But he also knew that if it had been physically possible, his best friend would have been there. As usual, Rita Skeeter-Snape had twisted his words and put her own unique spin on the story in order to make it sound as though he was bitter and angry over the whole matter and blamed their "humiliating defeat" (two words that Hermione was sure Ron had never spoken) upon a feckless and selfish teammate who hadn't even bothered to show up or owl a word of encouragement when he was needed the most. There were several references to "Weasley's flaming red hair" which was likened to 'the color of an exceedingly incendiary howler". On the whole, Ron was portrayed as being dangerously upset over the whole incident, to the point of becoming mentally unhinged. And there were a few not-so-discreet hints scattered about the article insinuating that the whole episode was going to have a lasting and scarring effect upon his young psyche and probably sabotage his whole Quidditch career. Of course every word of this tripe was belied by how remarkably relaxed and happy he appeared to be in the accompanying picture.
Hermione found herself chuckling as she reached to take another drink of her whiskey. A rather nasty thought had just occurred to her. If Rita Skeeter-Snape really wanted to see what a seriously angry Weasley looked like, she was probably going to find out once Molly had gotten her hands on the article.
With a sigh, she forced herself to read the rest of the story and found herself frowning again as her eyes fell upon a sentence in which Rita spoke of "Weasley's pretty and vivacious young girlfriend" Gabrielle Delacour. That prompted a fresh grunt of disgust as she rolled her eyes. No doubt Fleur Delacour had accompanied her fiancee, Bill Weasley, to the match and her younger sister had tagged long as well. Leave it to Rita's vivid imagination to turn that chance encounter into evidence of a torrid love affair, she thought disdainfully.
Folding the paper carefully, she glanced up and realized that the room had gotten even more crowded while she had been reading the article. She hurriedly gobbled down the rest of her sandwich and took another large swallow of the Firewhiskey as she debated what she should do. She had intended to Floo herself to 'The Three Broomsticks" in Hogsmeade and walk on to Hogwarts from there, but she now doubted whether she wanted to make that journey tonight only to have to retrace her steps tomorrow. On the other hand, she had no wish to reappear upon her parents' doorstep tonight after the painful farewell of this morning. After a moment, she came to a decision and rose to her feet, pushing her way through the crowd until she managed to get to the bar and catch Tom's eye again.
"Everything all right, then?" he asked cheerfully, holding out his hand to take the bill and the handful of coins from her.
"Fine, Tom, fine, but I wondered-" she hesitated for a moment and glanced around the packed room. "I don't suppose you have any vacancies tonight?" she asked, her voice hesitant and doubtful.
Tom's smile widened. "As a matter of fact, we just had a cancellation," he assured her. "It's our smallest room though, up on the top floor," he added apologetically. "But it's cheaper too-only five Galleons a night," he explained.
"That'll be fine," she answered, in relief.
"Well, then, let's make it official," he said, reaching underneath the bar to retrieve an inkwell and a battered ledger. "Just sign here," he prompted, pointing to a spot on the parchment as he produced a quill.
Hermione had already retrieved the additional coins out of her pocket and stacked them next to the book. She took the key in her left hand as she scribbled her name in the appropriate spot.
"And if you tell me where your trunk is," Tom added, producing a wand out of his apron pocket, "I'll send it there directly."
"Oh," she exclaimed, feeling slightly flustered as she set the quill down. "I don't have any luggage with me-just my briefcase."
For the briefest of moments she felt a flush spread across her face as Tom blinked rapidly and then dropped his eyes to the counter as he began to scrub away at a non-existent spot. She suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that that barkeep now suspected that she had obtained the room in order to have an assignation.
"You see," she hastened to explain, "I had sent everything else on ahead and had planned on flooing over to Hogwarts tonight, but I arrived too late to pick up my robes from Madam Malkins."
"Oh," said Tom, smiling again.
"Yes, and I suppose," she said, frowning slightly as another thought occurred to her, "That I really should send an owl to Headmistress McGonagall to let her know I won't be arriving until tomorrow." Luckily, she added to herself, she had also provided for Crookshanks to be delivered along with the trunks to Hogsmeade and was already in Hagrid's care. As much as Hermione herself detested traveling via floo powder, she was not foolish enough to attempt it while holding a howling, hissing cat in her arms.
"We keep a few owls here," Tom replied, jerking a thumb towards a small room. "We ask the local crowd to pay a small fee to use them, but they're free for our guests."
"Thanks," she said as she pocketed the key and, picking up her briefcase, headed into the small cubicle. Three sleepy-looking owls were settled upon their perches and a tiny desk holding parchment, ink and a quill sat upon it, along with a small jar filled with knuts and sickles. Hermione pulled a sheet of the paper towards her and quickly wrote out a short note apologizing for the delay and promising to be at the school by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. She folded the parchment carefully and moved to tie it onto the leg of the nearest owl. In response, the owl gave a loud hoot and ruffled its feathers in a most indignant manner. She stared at it for a moment, perplexed by its behavior until she realized that it was staring down at the jar of coins. With a small smile, she dug the room key out of her pocket and held it out towards the owl's large orange eyes. The bird gave another hoot, sounding much happier now and seemingly reassured that she was allowed to use the free postal service.
"Headmistress McGonagall at Hogwarts, please," she asked, and in a moment the owl had spread its wings and swooped out of the open window.
With a small sigh, she turned and made her way down the hallway to the small, creaking staircase. The last time she had stayed at the Leaky Cauldron had been when she had stayed here with the Weasleys and Harry just before the start of her third year at Hogwarts. Their rooms must have been on one of the lower floor, for it seemed as if there were many more flights of stairs than she had remembered, and she found herself grateful for the fact that she had nothing heavier than her attaché to carry up with her. Finally she reached the uppermost landing and found herself having to squint in the dim light to make out what room number was imprinted upon the key. After finally deciphering a faint "6F' stamped upon the ancient, worn surface she turned her attention to identifying the correct door. This proved to be much easier, as someone had recently repainted all of the numbers. She found, to her surprise, that the room opposite hers was not only embossed with the letters "6E" but also the words "Bridal Suite," along with a rather garish depiction of a pudgy, grinning Cupid.
Upon entering her room she called out "Lumos!" and could see, as the lamps flickered to life that Tom had been telling the truth. The room was quite small-the double bed, tiny table and small bureau that were crowded into it left little room for an occupant. On the other hand, it was clean and she only needed it for the night. She locked the door behind her and placed the briefcase upon the table as she yawned tiredly and kicked the shoes off of her feet. Her fingers had already begun to undo the buttons of her blouse before she frowned and wondered what she should do about the fact that she had no nightgown. She peeled off the shirt and tossed it onto the bed and then divested herself of her skirt, slip and brassier as well, folding them into a careful pile next to the attaché. It was a warm enough night to sleep as she was, of course, but she had never been terribly comfortable sleeping without pajamas. A sly smile broke out on her face. Perhaps it was because of the proximity of the Bridal Suite, but she suddenly had the impulse to transfigure a lovely negligee for herself. After all, she was a Professor of Transfiguration. A moment later she had retrieved her wand, and with a well-aimed flick of the wrist the sensible white cotton blouse was transfigured into a long and gauzy nightdress. She shrugged it on and although she lacked a full-length mirror in which to appraise it, felt pleased with her choice. Undoing the latch on the briefcase, she searched inside one of the inner pockets for a hair band, which she used to tie back her bushy brown hair. She pulled a small pad out of the case, and then snapped the lid down again. She piled the pillows against the headboard and then folded the quilt and blankets down to the foot of the bed. Propping her back against the cushions, she sat down upon the bed and went over her lesson plans again.
She especially wanted to make a real impression upon the new students, she thought. But there was no way she could top Professor McGonagall's trick of showing up as a tabby cat on the first day of classes. She would sit placidly gazing out of her green eyes while the students trouped in and began to loudly wonder where their instructor was until they were stilled into silence by her sudden transformation back into human form. Despite years of trying, Hermione still had not managed to pull off an Animagus transformation. She refused to admit total defeat, as she was not yet certain if her failure was due to the fact that she was incapable of it, or if she simply had not yet stumbled upon the appropriate animal form. A part of her had always wanted to ask Sirius exactly how he and the other Marauders had managed the difficult task without formal instruction.. But she had never quite gotten up the nerve to approach him on the subject-and now it was far too late to do so, of course. Both he and James were dead and although Pettigrew was serving a life sentence in Azkaban and seemed extremely eager to cooperate with all the authorities, she had no desire to question him on the matter.
A small hiss of disdain escaped from her lips. If Peter Pettigrew and Rita Skeeter could manage to transform themselves into Animagi, she rather suspected that she should be able to do so.
Rita Skeeter-Snape, she corrected herself.
With a frown, she lowered the pad to her lap and marvelled again at the strange and unlikely pairing. For a moment, she wondered if there was any chance that Snape was an unregistered animagus as well, and found herself speculating upon what animal form he would be most likely to take. There had always been something decidedly bat-like about him, of course. But if the image of a dark, lean and lanky Snape beside a short, squat Rita Skeeter wasn't incongruous enough, the thought of a bat and a beetle coexisting was even more absurd. Although, she mused, there was something strangely satisfying about imagining a bat-Snape pouncing down and devouring a bug-shaped Rita.
And then she found herself wondering again just what Harry and Ron were going to say when they heard about the marriage. She supposed they might say that two such unpleasant people deserved each other. Or that they probably got along well with each other because they were both so nasty to every one else. But really, that wasn't true. If being hateful or disagreeable were the only prerequisite for Snape to form an alliance with someone, he and Professor Umbridge would have gotten along much better than they had. Instead, they had merely tolerated each other for most of her tenure at Hogwarts before the relationship had degenerated into mutual and open loathing. So the mere fact that Rita had always been mean and spiteful didn't guarantee that Snape would like her. In fact, for the life of her Hermione still could not imagine that Rita Skeeter would be his 'type' of woman at all. Although to be honest she couldn't recall his appearing to be attracted to anyone
On the other hand-she suddenly sat upright as she remembered the events of her fourth year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy had gleefully spoken to the interviewer in her animagus form and she somehow doubted the fact that, as head of Slytherin House, Snape had been entirely ignorant of the processes she used to gather her information. And when he had discovered that horrible article that Rita had written about the supposed love triangle between herself, Ron and Harry, he had taken great delight in reading it out loud to the whole Potions class.
She frowned and wondered if that was how they had become attracted to one another. No, she decided, as a faint shiver ran through her. If she and Snape had been 'friendly' at the time, he would surely have been more concerned about her sudden disappearance. Additionally, she was sure Rita would have complained about her behavior and Snape would have been in a perfect position to exact retribution upon her for imprisoning the woman in beetle form and holding her captive for a fair amount of time. Perhaps they had simply known each other for years, maybe they had even been classmates at one time?
No, she thought, shaking her head as she considered the question. She had always doubted that Rita had been telling the truth when she admitted to being forty-three at the time of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, feeling that the witch had shaved more than a few years off of her true age. Snape would have only been in his mid-thirties at the time. Although, she hastened to tell herself, it was horribly prejudiced to consider that a large difference in ages given the expanded life expectancies of witches and wizards. It simply precluded the possibility that they had met at school.
The thought of the school brought her back to the problem of her first lesson. But she barely begun to read through her notes again before her mind drifted back to Snape. His introductory speech had certainly made an impression upon her. But she would rather like her own words to serve as a form of rebuttal to his oratory. Perhaps she should demonstrate that transfiguration was so much more than "silly wand waving". It was an artful balancing act requiring a combination of muscle control, focusing of magical ability and a keen understanding of the nature of that which you were transfiguring.
In the end, of all the classes that the Hogwarts students were required to take, Charms and Transfiguration really ended up being of the most use, since they were the things that most people used on a day-to-day basis. Arithmancy, Astrology and Care of Magical Creatures were interesting, of course, but only a select group of occupations actually used those skills on a routine basis. To be fair, most everyone used potions, but very few people actually brewed their own, preferring to buy them pre-made. Not that she wouldn't have felt a good deal of satisfaction in becoming a skilled Potions Mistress herself. But considering Snape's attitude towards her in the classroom she had never seriously considered pursuing that occupation.
She stared down at her notes again for a minute or two and then found herself fighting off another yawn. Sighing wearily, she closed the book and tossed it onto the nearby table. Extinguishing the light with a whispered, "Nox!", she pulled up the covers and snuggled down in the bed, deciding that she still had plenty of time to come up with an interesting bit of transfiguration to show the new students.
But the various questions that had been nagging at her continued to dog her in her sleep, for she found herself dreaming that she was teaching the first years how to turn beetles into buttons. But everyone was having great difficulty achieving the transformation, and in the midst of the lesson Professor Snape came storming into the classroom demanding to know where his wife was. She found herself suddenly remembering that one of the beetles had looked rather familiar, being fat and round and with strange markings around the antennae, but she wasn't quite sure which one it was. She was fairly certain, she told him, that she had not been among the unfortunate half a dozen or so who had been crushed to death when the novice witches and wizards had been too careless about how they aimed their wands. On the other hand, she admitted, she just might have been the one that Neville Longbottom Jr. had transfigured into a dish of mutton rather than a button. Unfortunately, the student seemed to have no idea how he had done it and she had so far been unsuccessful in reversing the spell. Snape had icily informed her that for a know-it-all witch she was spectacularly inept and that he intended to take the matter-and what was left of his wife-directly to the headmistress so that he could lodge a formal complaint. Picking up the plate, he turned and his heel and swept out of the room, ignoring Hermione's pleas that it was really best for him to leave her in the classroom until she had managed to return her to either bug or human form. After all, Mrs. Norris was prowling the halls and had looked quite hungry this morning...
With a start, Hermione opened her eyes to find that there was bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was but when she did sat up in the bed and stretched. She might as well get an early start, she supposed. She needed to get a shower and then to perform a cleaning spell on her clothes before transfiguring the nightgown back into a blouse. Throwing back the covers, she arose and headed for the bathroom.
About forty-five minutes, feeling much more awake and refreshed, she was latching her briefcase shut and preparing to leave the room when her ears caught the faint sound of something rustling outside in the hallway. Looking slightly puzzled, she walked to the door and pulled it open. Tom was just straightening up from placing a small tray of tea and toast on the floor just in front of her door.
"Good morning, Miss," he said cheerily.
"What's this?" she asked, blinking in surprise.
"New service," he informed her, stepping back slightly to gesture down the hall, "For all of our guests."
She leaned out of the doorway and saw that there was, indeed, a small tray sitting outside each of the doors. They were all identical to hers, she noted. Tom in the meantime had turned back to a small cart and was removing another, slightly larger tray. This one, she saw, held a much wider variety of food, including a large plate of sausages and eggs.
"I see the Bridal Suite gets a little extra," she noted, with a smile.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head. "Although it's all rather nice," he amended, in a slightly affronted tone.
"Oh, yes," she agreed, "This is really quite nice. How long have you been doing this?"
"Just a short time," he told her. He glanced up and down the hall for a moment, he took a step forward and whispered, "Actually, the management is anxious to keep the clientele happy," he confided. "The Leaky Cauldron is about to get some competition," he added, his voice dropping even lower.
"You're joking!" she exclaimed, and then blushed as Tom gestured at her to lower her voice. "Who on earth would think of competing with this place?" she asked.
Tom took another surreptitious look around the hallway before bending down to whisper, "Gilderoy Lockhart."
Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The last she had seen of him, he had been wandering around St. Mungo's, still suffering the after-effects of a memory charm gone horribly wrong.
"He's out of St. Mungo's then?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," said Tom, nodding his head again. "Been out for most of the summer. Got well right after 'You-Know-Who' was defeated."
Hermione struggled to keep a grin off of her face as she considered the possibility that the two events weren't completely coincidental. If Lockhart had begun to regain his memories, he might have thought it was prudent to pretend he was still a babbling amnesiac instead of someone who might be expected to join the resistance. It would be just like Lockhart to appear right after the threat had disappeared to proclaim what a shame he hadn't been there to defeat foe.
"What does he know about running a hotel?" she protested.
Tom shrugged his shoulders.
Of course, she admitted to herself, lack of knowledge had never stopped him from boasting and posturing before.
"That's right," said Tom slowly, "He was a teacher at Hogwarts for a while, wasn't he?"
Hermione nodded her head and found herself thinking back about the night they had all gathered in the Great Hall for their first dueling lesson. The memory of Lockhart's golden hair and dazzling white smile flitted before her eyes for a moment, to be suddenly replaced by the image of him flying through the air and sliding down a wall after being hit by Snape's 'Expelliarmus' charm.
"Yes," she replied, "He was-"
But whatever she had intended to say flew out of her mind as the door across the hall opened and she caught the sight of Severus Snape standing in the doorway of the Bridal Suite, wearing a garishly bright yellow robe. The color, it must be admitted, would not have been complimentary to his skin tone under the best of circumstances. The moment his eyes had fallen upon Hermione, however, his normally pallid complexion took on a greenish cast which clashed horribly with his attire.
" 'mornin Professor," called Tom with his usual measure of good cheer, seeming amazingly unconcerned about the Potions Master current state of dress-or undress. "The usual breakfast," he proclaimed loudly, pointing at the tray sitting on the floor. "Just like your missus always wants."
Hermione found her eyes drifting downwards towards the tray but this time she found herself mesmerized by the sight of Snape's bare legs and feet. The toes, like his fingers, were thin and abnormally long and for some reason she was surprised to see that there was a large amount of dark, curly black hair covering his calves. Her gaze continued to move upward until she came to the hem of his robe, at which point she abruptly snapped her eyes back to his face. He stared back at her, his eyes glittering and cold.
"Thank you." Somehow Snape managed to get those two syllables out of his mouth without appearing to either move his lips or his angrily clenched teeth.
"Well, I'll be going then," said Tom hurriedly, belatedly sensing the tense atmosphere. "Lots of trays to deliver," he explained as he rummaged in his pocket for his wand. A moment later, with a loud cracking noise, both he and the cart had disappeared.
The silence stretched on ominously.
"Well," she said finally, wavering as she tried to decide if she should retreat back into her room or make a dash down the hallway. "Fancy running into you again," she murmured, regretting the banality of the phrase even as the words fell out of her lips.
"Fancy," he replied, imbuing those two syllables with a wealth of sarcasm.
There was another long and uncomfortable pause, during which Hermione realized that Snape's hands were coiled tightly at the front of his robe, his left hand looped about the belt while his right hand clutched angrily at the overlapping lapels of the robe. She suddenly realized that he had no intention of making the slightest movement while she was still standing there, least of all bend down and pick up the tray, for fear that she would catch a further glimpse of what lay underneath his robe.
"Severus!"
They both froze as the sound of a woman's voice wafted out into the hall. To be honest, it sounded more like "SEVres", for Rita's emphasis was definitely upon the first syllable, with the rest of the name spoken so quickly that it was almost unintelligible.
"SEVres!" There was a definitely whining and irritating tone to the voice this time.
Hermione found herself stepping backward into her room as she watched Snape close his eyes and take a deep swallow.
"Just a moment!" he hissed, and Hermione saw his right hand reluctantly release its hold upon the fabric as he reached back and blindly searched for the door knob so that he could close the door behind him.
But to no avail. For Rita Skeeter-Snape, wearing a matching yellow robe that managed to look even more hideous upon her than it did upon her husband, had appeared in the doorway. She looked strangely unfamiliar, and Hermione realized that it was the first time she had seen her without her eyeglasses. The makeup around her eyes was faded and smudged, and her curls had lost most of their habitual stiffness, but she had already applied a bright, garish coat of red lipstick to her mouth. For a split second, there was an undisguised expression of shock and hatred upon her face, but it was replaced quickly with a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
"Oh, my," she purred, leaning against the doorway, "If it isn't Little Miss Perfect."
"You are mistaken," corrected a deep voice.
Both Hermione and Rita turned to gape at Snape in amazement at this pronouncement.
"It is Professor Perfect now," he added, dryly.
Rita began to giggle in an inane and thoroughly irritating manner as Hermione felt a hot flush upon her cheeks. "Oh, that's right," she sneered, "My husband mentioned that he was going to have to work with an incredibly large number of green and inexperienced teachers this year. I hear that Hogwarts is so desperate for teachers nowadays that they'll accept-" She paused a moment and ran her eyes up and down Hermione's frame, "anybody."
With a smile she reached up to plant a large kiss upon Snape's rigidly tense jaw, leaving a distinct mark of her lips upon the pale skin. "Don't dawdle too long," she whispered as she tried, halfheartedly, to wipe the splotch away. She glanced down at the tray and then added, with a smirk in Hermione's direction, "I worked up quite an appetite last night." With another irritating giggle, she turned and disappeared back into the room.
"My apologies, Professor."
Snape, who had been staring up at the ceiling abruptly flicked his back to Hermione's face. "I beg your pardon?" he challenged, obviously daring her to make a remark regarding his poor judgment in the area of selecting a spouse.
"I hadn't realized," she continued, gesturing at the door behind him. "That you had just been married."
Snape turned slightly and regarded the words painted gaudily upon the door.
"Ah." He turned back and fixed her with another icy glare. "You are mistaken. We have been married nearly two months."
"And still occupying the Bridal Suite. How romantic." She really hadn't meant to inject quite so much sarcasm into her tone, but something about Rita's attitude had managed to enrage her.
"No, it is an eminently practical arrangement," he retorted, narrowing his eyes.
For a moment she wondered if she dare ask if he meant the marriage or the accommodations.
"The management offers a generous discount in price if one is willing to let a room on a long-term basis," he continued smoothly. "And since this is the only suite available, it seemed to be the wisest choice."
"I would have thought that Rita had a flat in town."
Snape shrugged. "She did, but she deemed it much too small for the two of us."
"So you're renting a motel suite instead?" There was a note of incredulity in her voice.
Snape's hands were tightening around the fabric of his robe again. "It is close to Rita's work and my wife is not the type of woman who seeks fulfillment in the undertaking of traditional domestic duties."
Like cleaning and cooking, Hermione noted to herself. Although the marriage bed seemed to hold a fair amount of attraction for her.
"SEVres!"
Snape's jaw clenched again. "If you will excuse me, Professor Granger?"
"Of course," she said, smiling broadly and carefully stepping over her own untouched tray. "I will see you at Hogwarts then."
A stiff, hardly perceptible bow was her only reply. She walked swiftly down the hall, feeling the heat of his gaze upon her back with every step. She turned the corner and then hesitated, fighting the childish impulse to suddenly peer back around the corner and see if he had ever deigned to bend down and pick up the tray. As she stood there, she heard him pronounce the words "Wingardium leviosa" and deduced that he had finally gone back into the suite to retrieve his wand and had magically transported the tray into the room.
Chapter 2
She stood staring down at the caption for a very long time, her eyes glued to the newspaper as she continued to read the byline over and over again and she was vaguely aware of the strange fact that she suddenly felt rather cool and clammy.
Rita Skeeter-Snape.
She tried to convince herself that she was mistaken. After all, although her former Professor was the only one of her personal acquaintance to bear that surname, it certainly didn't mean that he might not have an extended family of which she had no knowledge. That thought brought to her mind the image of a houseful of scowling and cantankerous witches and wizards, all adorned with large, hooked noses and greasy black hair, sneering at each other. Perhaps, she told herself, the venomous journalist had married one of Snape's cousins or something. But that faint hope dissolved in a moment as the memory of the afternoon sun glinting off of the broad golden band adorning Snape's third finger of his left hand popped back into her head. It was all well and good to tell yourself not to jump to conclusions, but logically the fact that Snape admitted he was married and was quite surprised that she hadn't known about it fitted perfectly into the assumption that he was the one providing Rita with her new surname.
"Something wrong, Miss?"
She started and glanced up at Tom, who had returned to the table and was eyeing her with a great deal of concern.
"Of course not," she said hastily, suddenly realizing that she was still holding the glass of whiskey up in midair. As she frowned and replaced the drink back down on the table, the bartender nodded in understanding and pointed towards the paper.
"That was quite a shock, wasn't it?" he clucked, sympathetically.
"Well," she hesitated, clearing her throat and shrugging her shoulders, "I don't know if shock is exactly the right word for it, but it is definitely-" She paused again and frowned down at the paper before continuing. "Quite a surprise," she finished, lamely.
"Yes, indeed," agreed Tom, nodding his head. Placing his hands upon his hips, he continued, "Never thought I'd see the day that it would happen," he confided, dropping his voice to a whisper.
"No, " she answered, feeling a sudden relief that she could talk to someone about this rather strange turn of affairs.
"The Chudley Cannons getting into the Quidditch World Cup and then being eliminated in the first round!" There was a definite tone of disgust and shock in the old man's voice.
"Oh...yes!" she cried, her exclamation covering her awkward realization that she and the bartender were speaking of two different things. "A real shame," she added hurriedly.
"But don't you be blaming your friends, eh?" he added, wagging a finger at her.
"My friends?" she answered.
"Yeah, young Weasley has the makin's of a fine player, but to be tossed into that kind of competition during your first season-no wonder he had a bit of trouble!"
"Yes," she agreed, nodding her head and hoping that she could think of a tactful way to get out of this conversation as soon as she could. The only thing that was more boring than watching a Quidditch match was talking about it.
"And if Harry Potter, the lad who lived and destroyed 'You-Know-Who' needs a bit of time off, who are we to criticize him?" demanded Tom, warming to his subject.
"Oh, exactly," she answered, her mind searching frantically for a way to politely get rid of the man again so that she could return her attention to the paper.
"You sure you wouldn't rather have a butterbeer?" he said suddenly, pointing to her relatively untouched glass of whiskey.
"Er, no, I'm fine," she said and then felt a bit of inspiration. She leaned forward and gave him a large, apologetic smile. "But I suppose I really shouldn't be drinking this on an empty stomach," she whispered.
"Can I bring you a sandwich then?" Tom asked, brightly.
"Oh, yes," she answered, happily.
"We've got turkey, chicken, corned beef tonight," he offered.
"Turkey sounds wonderful," she said, and breathed a sigh of relief as he turned and went towards the kitchen to place the order. During the short time it took for him to come back out carrying a tray, the tavern had begun to fill up rapidly. To her delight, he merely placed the plate and the small piece of parchment which was her bill in front of her and murmured his apologies before scurrying off to attend to his other customers. Propping the newspaper up against the salt and pepper shakers, she began to munch distractedly upon her sandwich as she returned her attention to reading the article.
She found herself snorting in disgust, her eyebrows knitted into a frown as she read through the story. She was sure that Ron had said that he and the team had been thrilled to even make it to the Cup. No doubt he had added that they had missed Harry and that, of course, his presence would have assured them a better showing in the match. But he also knew that if it had been physically possible, his best friend would have been there. As usual, Rita Skeeter-Snape had twisted his words and put her own unique spin on the story in order to make it sound as though he was bitter and angry over the whole matter and blamed their "humiliating defeat" (two words that Hermione was sure Ron had never spoken) upon a feckless and selfish teammate who hadn't even bothered to show up or owl a word of encouragement when he was needed the most. There were several references to "Weasley's flaming red hair" which was likened to 'the color of an exceedingly incendiary howler". On the whole, Ron was portrayed as being dangerously upset over the whole incident, to the point of becoming mentally unhinged. And there were a few not-so-discreet hints scattered about the article insinuating that the whole episode was going to have a lasting and scarring effect upon his young psyche and probably sabotage his whole Quidditch career. Of course every word of this tripe was belied by how remarkably relaxed and happy he appeared to be in the accompanying picture.
Hermione found herself chuckling as she reached to take another drink of her whiskey. A rather nasty thought had just occurred to her. If Rita Skeeter-Snape really wanted to see what a seriously angry Weasley looked like, she was probably going to find out once Molly had gotten her hands on the article.
With a sigh, she forced herself to read the rest of the story and found herself frowning again as her eyes fell upon a sentence in which Rita spoke of "Weasley's pretty and vivacious young girlfriend" Gabrielle Delacour. That prompted a fresh grunt of disgust as she rolled her eyes. No doubt Fleur Delacour had accompanied her fiancee, Bill Weasley, to the match and her younger sister had tagged long as well. Leave it to Rita's vivid imagination to turn that chance encounter into evidence of a torrid love affair, she thought disdainfully.
Folding the paper carefully, she glanced up and realized that the room had gotten even more crowded while she had been reading the article. She hurriedly gobbled down the rest of her sandwich and took another large swallow of the Firewhiskey as she debated what she should do. She had intended to Floo herself to 'The Three Broomsticks" in Hogsmeade and walk on to Hogwarts from there, but she now doubted whether she wanted to make that journey tonight only to have to retrace her steps tomorrow. On the other hand, she had no wish to reappear upon her parents' doorstep tonight after the painful farewell of this morning. After a moment, she came to a decision and rose to her feet, pushing her way through the crowd until she managed to get to the bar and catch Tom's eye again.
"Everything all right, then?" he asked cheerfully, holding out his hand to take the bill and the handful of coins from her.
"Fine, Tom, fine, but I wondered-" she hesitated for a moment and glanced around the packed room. "I don't suppose you have any vacancies tonight?" she asked, her voice hesitant and doubtful.
Tom's smile widened. "As a matter of fact, we just had a cancellation," he assured her. "It's our smallest room though, up on the top floor," he added apologetically. "But it's cheaper too-only five Galleons a night," he explained.
"That'll be fine," she answered, in relief.
"Well, then, let's make it official," he said, reaching underneath the bar to retrieve an inkwell and a battered ledger. "Just sign here," he prompted, pointing to a spot on the parchment as he produced a quill.
Hermione had already retrieved the additional coins out of her pocket and stacked them next to the book. She took the key in her left hand as she scribbled her name in the appropriate spot.
"And if you tell me where your trunk is," Tom added, producing a wand out of his apron pocket, "I'll send it there directly."
"Oh," she exclaimed, feeling slightly flustered as she set the quill down. "I don't have any luggage with me-just my briefcase."
For the briefest of moments she felt a flush spread across her face as Tom blinked rapidly and then dropped his eyes to the counter as he began to scrub away at a non-existent spot. She suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that that barkeep now suspected that she had obtained the room in order to have an assignation.
"You see," she hastened to explain, "I had sent everything else on ahead and had planned on flooing over to Hogwarts tonight, but I arrived too late to pick up my robes from Madam Malkins."
"Oh," said Tom, smiling again.
"Yes, and I suppose," she said, frowning slightly as another thought occurred to her, "That I really should send an owl to Headmistress McGonagall to let her know I won't be arriving until tomorrow." Luckily, she added to herself, she had also provided for Crookshanks to be delivered along with the trunks to Hogsmeade and was already in Hagrid's care. As much as Hermione herself detested traveling via floo powder, she was not foolish enough to attempt it while holding a howling, hissing cat in her arms.
"We keep a few owls here," Tom replied, jerking a thumb towards a small room. "We ask the local crowd to pay a small fee to use them, but they're free for our guests."
"Thanks," she said as she pocketed the key and, picking up her briefcase, headed into the small cubicle. Three sleepy-looking owls were settled upon their perches and a tiny desk holding parchment, ink and a quill sat upon it, along with a small jar filled with knuts and sickles. Hermione pulled a sheet of the paper towards her and quickly wrote out a short note apologizing for the delay and promising to be at the school by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. She folded the parchment carefully and moved to tie it onto the leg of the nearest owl. In response, the owl gave a loud hoot and ruffled its feathers in a most indignant manner. She stared at it for a moment, perplexed by its behavior until she realized that it was staring down at the jar of coins. With a small smile, she dug the room key out of her pocket and held it out towards the owl's large orange eyes. The bird gave another hoot, sounding much happier now and seemingly reassured that she was allowed to use the free postal service.
"Headmistress McGonagall at Hogwarts, please," she asked, and in a moment the owl had spread its wings and swooped out of the open window.
With a small sigh, she turned and made her way down the hallway to the small, creaking staircase. The last time she had stayed at the Leaky Cauldron had been when she had stayed here with the Weasleys and Harry just before the start of her third year at Hogwarts. Their rooms must have been on one of the lower floor, for it seemed as if there were many more flights of stairs than she had remembered, and she found herself grateful for the fact that she had nothing heavier than her attaché to carry up with her. Finally she reached the uppermost landing and found herself having to squint in the dim light to make out what room number was imprinted upon the key. After finally deciphering a faint "6F' stamped upon the ancient, worn surface she turned her attention to identifying the correct door. This proved to be much easier, as someone had recently repainted all of the numbers. She found, to her surprise, that the room opposite hers was not only embossed with the letters "6E" but also the words "Bridal Suite," along with a rather garish depiction of a pudgy, grinning Cupid.
Upon entering her room she called out "Lumos!" and could see, as the lamps flickered to life that Tom had been telling the truth. The room was quite small-the double bed, tiny table and small bureau that were crowded into it left little room for an occupant. On the other hand, it was clean and she only needed it for the night. She locked the door behind her and placed the briefcase upon the table as she yawned tiredly and kicked the shoes off of her feet. Her fingers had already begun to undo the buttons of her blouse before she frowned and wondered what she should do about the fact that she had no nightgown. She peeled off the shirt and tossed it onto the bed and then divested herself of her skirt, slip and brassier as well, folding them into a careful pile next to the attaché. It was a warm enough night to sleep as she was, of course, but she had never been terribly comfortable sleeping without pajamas. A sly smile broke out on her face. Perhaps it was because of the proximity of the Bridal Suite, but she suddenly had the impulse to transfigure a lovely negligee for herself. After all, she was a Professor of Transfiguration. A moment later she had retrieved her wand, and with a well-aimed flick of the wrist the sensible white cotton blouse was transfigured into a long and gauzy nightdress. She shrugged it on and although she lacked a full-length mirror in which to appraise it, felt pleased with her choice. Undoing the latch on the briefcase, she searched inside one of the inner pockets for a hair band, which she used to tie back her bushy brown hair. She pulled a small pad out of the case, and then snapped the lid down again. She piled the pillows against the headboard and then folded the quilt and blankets down to the foot of the bed. Propping her back against the cushions, she sat down upon the bed and went over her lesson plans again.
She especially wanted to make a real impression upon the new students, she thought. But there was no way she could top Professor McGonagall's trick of showing up as a tabby cat on the first day of classes. She would sit placidly gazing out of her green eyes while the students trouped in and began to loudly wonder where their instructor was until they were stilled into silence by her sudden transformation back into human form. Despite years of trying, Hermione still had not managed to pull off an Animagus transformation. She refused to admit total defeat, as she was not yet certain if her failure was due to the fact that she was incapable of it, or if she simply had not yet stumbled upon the appropriate animal form. A part of her had always wanted to ask Sirius exactly how he and the other Marauders had managed the difficult task without formal instruction.. But she had never quite gotten up the nerve to approach him on the subject-and now it was far too late to do so, of course. Both he and James were dead and although Pettigrew was serving a life sentence in Azkaban and seemed extremely eager to cooperate with all the authorities, she had no desire to question him on the matter.
A small hiss of disdain escaped from her lips. If Peter Pettigrew and Rita Skeeter could manage to transform themselves into Animagi, she rather suspected that she should be able to do so.
Rita Skeeter-Snape, she corrected herself.
With a frown, she lowered the pad to her lap and marvelled again at the strange and unlikely pairing. For a moment, she wondered if there was any chance that Snape was an unregistered animagus as well, and found herself speculating upon what animal form he would be most likely to take. There had always been something decidedly bat-like about him, of course. But if the image of a dark, lean and lanky Snape beside a short, squat Rita Skeeter wasn't incongruous enough, the thought of a bat and a beetle coexisting was even more absurd. Although, she mused, there was something strangely satisfying about imagining a bat-Snape pouncing down and devouring a bug-shaped Rita.
And then she found herself wondering again just what Harry and Ron were going to say when they heard about the marriage. She supposed they might say that two such unpleasant people deserved each other. Or that they probably got along well with each other because they were both so nasty to every one else. But really, that wasn't true. If being hateful or disagreeable were the only prerequisite for Snape to form an alliance with someone, he and Professor Umbridge would have gotten along much better than they had. Instead, they had merely tolerated each other for most of her tenure at Hogwarts before the relationship had degenerated into mutual and open loathing. So the mere fact that Rita had always been mean and spiteful didn't guarantee that Snape would like her. In fact, for the life of her Hermione still could not imagine that Rita Skeeter would be his 'type' of woman at all. Although to be honest she couldn't recall his appearing to be attracted to anyone
On the other hand-she suddenly sat upright as she remembered the events of her fourth year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy had gleefully spoken to the interviewer in her animagus form and she somehow doubted the fact that, as head of Slytherin House, Snape had been entirely ignorant of the processes she used to gather her information. And when he had discovered that horrible article that Rita had written about the supposed love triangle between herself, Ron and Harry, he had taken great delight in reading it out loud to the whole Potions class.
She frowned and wondered if that was how they had become attracted to one another. No, she decided, as a faint shiver ran through her. If she and Snape had been 'friendly' at the time, he would surely have been more concerned about her sudden disappearance. Additionally, she was sure Rita would have complained about her behavior and Snape would have been in a perfect position to exact retribution upon her for imprisoning the woman in beetle form and holding her captive for a fair amount of time. Perhaps they had simply known each other for years, maybe they had even been classmates at one time?
No, she thought, shaking her head as she considered the question. She had always doubted that Rita had been telling the truth when she admitted to being forty-three at the time of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, feeling that the witch had shaved more than a few years off of her true age. Snape would have only been in his mid-thirties at the time. Although, she hastened to tell herself, it was horribly prejudiced to consider that a large difference in ages given the expanded life expectancies of witches and wizards. It simply precluded the possibility that they had met at school.
The thought of the school brought her back to the problem of her first lesson. But she barely begun to read through her notes again before her mind drifted back to Snape. His introductory speech had certainly made an impression upon her. But she would rather like her own words to serve as a form of rebuttal to his oratory. Perhaps she should demonstrate that transfiguration was so much more than "silly wand waving". It was an artful balancing act requiring a combination of muscle control, focusing of magical ability and a keen understanding of the nature of that which you were transfiguring.
In the end, of all the classes that the Hogwarts students were required to take, Charms and Transfiguration really ended up being of the most use, since they were the things that most people used on a day-to-day basis. Arithmancy, Astrology and Care of Magical Creatures were interesting, of course, but only a select group of occupations actually used those skills on a routine basis. To be fair, most everyone used potions, but very few people actually brewed their own, preferring to buy them pre-made. Not that she wouldn't have felt a good deal of satisfaction in becoming a skilled Potions Mistress herself. But considering Snape's attitude towards her in the classroom she had never seriously considered pursuing that occupation.
She stared down at her notes again for a minute or two and then found herself fighting off another yawn. Sighing wearily, she closed the book and tossed it onto the nearby table. Extinguishing the light with a whispered, "Nox!", she pulled up the covers and snuggled down in the bed, deciding that she still had plenty of time to come up with an interesting bit of transfiguration to show the new students.
But the various questions that had been nagging at her continued to dog her in her sleep, for she found herself dreaming that she was teaching the first years how to turn beetles into buttons. But everyone was having great difficulty achieving the transformation, and in the midst of the lesson Professor Snape came storming into the classroom demanding to know where his wife was. She found herself suddenly remembering that one of the beetles had looked rather familiar, being fat and round and with strange markings around the antennae, but she wasn't quite sure which one it was. She was fairly certain, she told him, that she had not been among the unfortunate half a dozen or so who had been crushed to death when the novice witches and wizards had been too careless about how they aimed their wands. On the other hand, she admitted, she just might have been the one that Neville Longbottom Jr. had transfigured into a dish of mutton rather than a button. Unfortunately, the student seemed to have no idea how he had done it and she had so far been unsuccessful in reversing the spell. Snape had icily informed her that for a know-it-all witch she was spectacularly inept and that he intended to take the matter-and what was left of his wife-directly to the headmistress so that he could lodge a formal complaint. Picking up the plate, he turned and his heel and swept out of the room, ignoring Hermione's pleas that it was really best for him to leave her in the classroom until she had managed to return her to either bug or human form. After all, Mrs. Norris was prowling the halls and had looked quite hungry this morning...
With a start, Hermione opened her eyes to find that there was bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was but when she did sat up in the bed and stretched. She might as well get an early start, she supposed. She needed to get a shower and then to perform a cleaning spell on her clothes before transfiguring the nightgown back into a blouse. Throwing back the covers, she arose and headed for the bathroom.
About forty-five minutes, feeling much more awake and refreshed, she was latching her briefcase shut and preparing to leave the room when her ears caught the faint sound of something rustling outside in the hallway. Looking slightly puzzled, she walked to the door and pulled it open. Tom was just straightening up from placing a small tray of tea and toast on the floor just in front of her door.
"Good morning, Miss," he said cheerily.
"What's this?" she asked, blinking in surprise.
"New service," he informed her, stepping back slightly to gesture down the hall, "For all of our guests."
She leaned out of the doorway and saw that there was, indeed, a small tray sitting outside each of the doors. They were all identical to hers, she noted. Tom in the meantime had turned back to a small cart and was removing another, slightly larger tray. This one, she saw, held a much wider variety of food, including a large plate of sausages and eggs.
"I see the Bridal Suite gets a little extra," she noted, with a smile.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head. "Although it's all rather nice," he amended, in a slightly affronted tone.
"Oh, yes," she agreed, "This is really quite nice. How long have you been doing this?"
"Just a short time," he told her. He glanced up and down the hall for a moment, he took a step forward and whispered, "Actually, the management is anxious to keep the clientele happy," he confided. "The Leaky Cauldron is about to get some competition," he added, his voice dropping even lower.
"You're joking!" she exclaimed, and then blushed as Tom gestured at her to lower her voice. "Who on earth would think of competing with this place?" she asked.
Tom took another surreptitious look around the hallway before bending down to whisper, "Gilderoy Lockhart."
Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The last she had seen of him, he had been wandering around St. Mungo's, still suffering the after-effects of a memory charm gone horribly wrong.
"He's out of St. Mungo's then?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," said Tom, nodding his head again. "Been out for most of the summer. Got well right after 'You-Know-Who' was defeated."
Hermione struggled to keep a grin off of her face as she considered the possibility that the two events weren't completely coincidental. If Lockhart had begun to regain his memories, he might have thought it was prudent to pretend he was still a babbling amnesiac instead of someone who might be expected to join the resistance. It would be just like Lockhart to appear right after the threat had disappeared to proclaim what a shame he hadn't been there to defeat foe.
"What does he know about running a hotel?" she protested.
Tom shrugged his shoulders.
Of course, she admitted to herself, lack of knowledge had never stopped him from boasting and posturing before.
"That's right," said Tom slowly, "He was a teacher at Hogwarts for a while, wasn't he?"
Hermione nodded her head and found herself thinking back about the night they had all gathered in the Great Hall for their first dueling lesson. The memory of Lockhart's golden hair and dazzling white smile flitted before her eyes for a moment, to be suddenly replaced by the image of him flying through the air and sliding down a wall after being hit by Snape's 'Expelliarmus' charm.
"Yes," she replied, "He was-"
But whatever she had intended to say flew out of her mind as the door across the hall opened and she caught the sight of Severus Snape standing in the doorway of the Bridal Suite, wearing a garishly bright yellow robe. The color, it must be admitted, would not have been complimentary to his skin tone under the best of circumstances. The moment his eyes had fallen upon Hermione, however, his normally pallid complexion took on a greenish cast which clashed horribly with his attire.
" 'mornin Professor," called Tom with his usual measure of good cheer, seeming amazingly unconcerned about the Potions Master current state of dress-or undress. "The usual breakfast," he proclaimed loudly, pointing at the tray sitting on the floor. "Just like your missus always wants."
Hermione found her eyes drifting downwards towards the tray but this time she found herself mesmerized by the sight of Snape's bare legs and feet. The toes, like his fingers, were thin and abnormally long and for some reason she was surprised to see that there was a large amount of dark, curly black hair covering his calves. Her gaze continued to move upward until she came to the hem of his robe, at which point she abruptly snapped her eyes back to his face. He stared back at her, his eyes glittering and cold.
"Thank you." Somehow Snape managed to get those two syllables out of his mouth without appearing to either move his lips or his angrily clenched teeth.
"Well, I'll be going then," said Tom hurriedly, belatedly sensing the tense atmosphere. "Lots of trays to deliver," he explained as he rummaged in his pocket for his wand. A moment later, with a loud cracking noise, both he and the cart had disappeared.
The silence stretched on ominously.
"Well," she said finally, wavering as she tried to decide if she should retreat back into her room or make a dash down the hallway. "Fancy running into you again," she murmured, regretting the banality of the phrase even as the words fell out of her lips.
"Fancy," he replied, imbuing those two syllables with a wealth of sarcasm.
There was another long and uncomfortable pause, during which Hermione realized that Snape's hands were coiled tightly at the front of his robe, his left hand looped about the belt while his right hand clutched angrily at the overlapping lapels of the robe. She suddenly realized that he had no intention of making the slightest movement while she was still standing there, least of all bend down and pick up the tray, for fear that she would catch a further glimpse of what lay underneath his robe.
"Severus!"
They both froze as the sound of a woman's voice wafted out into the hall. To be honest, it sounded more like "SEVres", for Rita's emphasis was definitely upon the first syllable, with the rest of the name spoken so quickly that it was almost unintelligible.
"SEVres!" There was a definitely whining and irritating tone to the voice this time.
Hermione found herself stepping backward into her room as she watched Snape close his eyes and take a deep swallow.
"Just a moment!" he hissed, and Hermione saw his right hand reluctantly release its hold upon the fabric as he reached back and blindly searched for the door knob so that he could close the door behind him.
But to no avail. For Rita Skeeter-Snape, wearing a matching yellow robe that managed to look even more hideous upon her than it did upon her husband, had appeared in the doorway. She looked strangely unfamiliar, and Hermione realized that it was the first time she had seen her without her eyeglasses. The makeup around her eyes was faded and smudged, and her curls had lost most of their habitual stiffness, but she had already applied a bright, garish coat of red lipstick to her mouth. For a split second, there was an undisguised expression of shock and hatred upon her face, but it was replaced quickly with a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
"Oh, my," she purred, leaning against the doorway, "If it isn't Little Miss Perfect."
"You are mistaken," corrected a deep voice.
Both Hermione and Rita turned to gape at Snape in amazement at this pronouncement.
"It is Professor Perfect now," he added, dryly.
Rita began to giggle in an inane and thoroughly irritating manner as Hermione felt a hot flush upon her cheeks. "Oh, that's right," she sneered, "My husband mentioned that he was going to have to work with an incredibly large number of green and inexperienced teachers this year. I hear that Hogwarts is so desperate for teachers nowadays that they'll accept-" She paused a moment and ran her eyes up and down Hermione's frame, "anybody."
With a smile she reached up to plant a large kiss upon Snape's rigidly tense jaw, leaving a distinct mark of her lips upon the pale skin. "Don't dawdle too long," she whispered as she tried, halfheartedly, to wipe the splotch away. She glanced down at the tray and then added, with a smirk in Hermione's direction, "I worked up quite an appetite last night." With another irritating giggle, she turned and disappeared back into the room.
"My apologies, Professor."
Snape, who had been staring up at the ceiling abruptly flicked his back to Hermione's face. "I beg your pardon?" he challenged, obviously daring her to make a remark regarding his poor judgment in the area of selecting a spouse.
"I hadn't realized," she continued, gesturing at the door behind him. "That you had just been married."
Snape turned slightly and regarded the words painted gaudily upon the door.
"Ah." He turned back and fixed her with another icy glare. "You are mistaken. We have been married nearly two months."
"And still occupying the Bridal Suite. How romantic." She really hadn't meant to inject quite so much sarcasm into her tone, but something about Rita's attitude had managed to enrage her.
"No, it is an eminently practical arrangement," he retorted, narrowing his eyes.
For a moment she wondered if she dare ask if he meant the marriage or the accommodations.
"The management offers a generous discount in price if one is willing to let a room on a long-term basis," he continued smoothly. "And since this is the only suite available, it seemed to be the wisest choice."
"I would have thought that Rita had a flat in town."
Snape shrugged. "She did, but she deemed it much too small for the two of us."
"So you're renting a motel suite instead?" There was a note of incredulity in her voice.
Snape's hands were tightening around the fabric of his robe again. "It is close to Rita's work and my wife is not the type of woman who seeks fulfillment in the undertaking of traditional domestic duties."
Like cleaning and cooking, Hermione noted to herself. Although the marriage bed seemed to hold a fair amount of attraction for her.
"SEVres!"
Snape's jaw clenched again. "If you will excuse me, Professor Granger?"
"Of course," she said, smiling broadly and carefully stepping over her own untouched tray. "I will see you at Hogwarts then."
A stiff, hardly perceptible bow was her only reply. She walked swiftly down the hall, feeling the heat of his gaze upon her back with every step. She turned the corner and then hesitated, fighting the childish impulse to suddenly peer back around the corner and see if he had ever deigned to bend down and pick up the tray. As she stood there, she heard him pronounce the words "Wingardium leviosa" and deduced that he had finally gone back into the suite to retrieve his wand and had magically transported the tray into the room.