The melodious jingle of the doorbell (charmed to play Jingle Bells while the miniature snow men –complete with carrot noses and candy for dainty buttons- danced a cheerful jig in the shop window) alerted Hermione to the presence of a new customer in her shop.
Her eyes, her face, yes, in fact her entire body and manner was at once all one of warmth, cheer, welcoming affability and how-may-I-be-of-service-today?-helpfulness.
She assessed him briefly, eyes frank and appraising under the modestly lowered eyelashes. Wealthy. Well-made clothes, rich cloth, fine cut.
Her mind began mapping what he might possibly be interested in and drawing up a list from the large catalouge of what she kept in stock. Something exclusive, no doubt.
Was he a rich fool? she wondered hastily, much too used to that sort and apt to dislike them even though they were to thank for a substantial part of her income. They tended to buy anything, provided it was gaudy, exotic-looking and she overpriced it outrageously enough.
He looked good enough, she supposed, or would've if his lips had not been fixed in a constant, unwavering sneer. The sort who'd say nigger and vermin in the same tone of voice and who'd drink tea like a ponce, little finger sticking out at an aristocratically right angle.
She smothered a giggle, storing it away somewhere behind her straight eyebrows (unplucked), frank eyes and inviting mouth, generously ampled with the past years.
His hair was very pale and gossamerfine, as softlooking as the last breath of a woman who dies old in her bed, warm and content. She wondered how it would feel between her calloused hands, then briefly looked down at her fingers and wished the ink stains hadn't been so painfully visible. The darkness ran in the folds between nail and finger, illustrating how the season and hard work made her fingers appear chubbier, shorter. It didn't look very neat.
Her customer paid her no heed, his whole being disregarding her from the way the half-lidded eyes lazily flickered around the establishment (seeming to taint her cozy, heartwarming little shop by his very presence) to the way he rigidly held himself. She saw how he caught sight of the untidy apartment behind the door at the corner, how he disdainfully flicked away a few specks of dust from a shelf. (her face felt hot and heavy, shame and anger warring for dominion)
A cold wind cooled her rising temper, clumps of snowflakes presaging another customer as the snow men began a maddeningly rousing allemande.
She started, too bewildered then she ought to have been. For why should not Severus Snape enter her shop? She was widely known for carrying only the finest stock, after all. Then her eyes narrowed, and after a few seconds of patient rummaging provided the necessary description, pinning down the helpless feeling of recognising someone but not quite remembering who or why. Draco Malfoy.
"Well, gentlemen," she drawled, because she felt certain she could afford to lose these two as customers, "what a surprise. Christmas shopping, are we?"
Outside, children made delighted gurgles of laughter. The donkey that was meant to be carrying Mary and baby Jesus on its back had rebelled and was trying to learn how to skate on the frozen ice in her miniature winter landscape.
Snape smiled, if a tiny, tiny flexing of his thin lips could be called a smile. "Hardly. Well, miss Granger, you've done well for yourself, or so it's been said."
"Hm. Possibly. Oh, please don't shake that!" she exclaimed, wheeling on Malfoy. He was holding a small crystal ball, dwarfed even in his slight palms. It glimmered tantalisingly. "It's just a prototype, for decoration," she explained urgently and left the safety behind her counter. Her low-heeled boots clappered an impersonal staccato rhythm against the stone floor. "Prone to explosions if upset." With a sound just like an irritated cat she held her hand out, palm turned upwards, and eyed him expectantly. But he would not part with it yet, holding it up to his eyes to admire it in the light.
"Pretty," Draco observed at last, hiding a glimmering half-smile at the delicious look of rolling emotions in her eyes. "What is it?"
"I believe," Severus answered composedly, "that it is a specimen of a Danoan embedded in crystal."
Hermione nodded her assent. "Correct, mr. Snape." (the shadow of a smile swept over her face because it clearly irked him to be referred to as thus) "You are, as usual, very well informed. This one is quite small, won't be fully evolved for another twenty years or so."
"And you are, as usual, supremely overinformant."
Draco frowned, and shook it delicately again, displeasure at being outwritten from the conversation clearly evident. "But what do they do?"
She was suddenly smug, pleased. "Danoans are a sort of shellfish. Something between a crab and a shrimp, one might say. Quite ugly, but loyal pets, if one fancies cuddling something with tentacles and eight legs I suppose. They have a natural ability to record and replay memories and fantasies because that's what they build their shell of. Ergo, craft a favourite fantasy while holding it, place it under your pillow when you go to sleep… and sweet dreams every night."
Snape sighed. "Well done, miss Granger. You just manage to say in fifty words what someone else could have said in five."
She bristled, baring her teeth at him. "Danoans are very interesting creatures, and quite rare to boot. They are experimenting with breeding them artificially, you know."
"As a matter of fact, I did know. Their shells have some interesting qualities to a Potions master. Although," he sneered, "I have not yet had the luck of finding one. But even as a girl you bragged about your exclusive collections, did you not?"
"What do you mean?" she stiffened.
"Only that mr. Potter's friendship appears to be rare and wealthy coin these days indeed… how is young ms. Weasley doing these days, I do wonder?" he shook his head in mock sadness. "Such a sad business, it was. They say the poor boy she… attacked… won't be able to walk again."
"It was an accident! She wasn't herself!" Hermione cried, spots of red flaming on her cheeks. The gryffindor lion inside her roared, and everything became hazy and then she came to her senses only because strong, warm arms were restraining her, holding her back.
"Easy, easy!" Draco exclaimed, struggling to subdue the snarling creature in his hold. "Easy…"
"Out! You despicable trash, worthless scum, traitor! Get out!"
Snape snorted disdainfully. "Temper, my dear."
But a pointed look from Malfoy made him strangely quiet. The silence was punctuated only by her heavy breaths as she slowly ceased struggling, every ebb and swell of her body against his sending a jolt of want coursing through his body, poisoning his blood. He swallowed, his hair brushing her cheek featherlight.
"If you think you are quite done con amore," Snape snapped impatiently, "then please let me know so we can get on to Bertram's. Preferably before I die out of sheer boredom." He emphasised.
Back in the Victorian era, when they had first opened as a respectable, honourable establishment Bertram's had been the first wizarding restaurant to overcome the obstacles associated with the use of a levitation spell upon multiple objects, and were the first to properly utilize flying trays. (And that, she thought, gave a whole new meaning to flying saucers.) Nowadays they were mostly famous for making the best darned pastries in all of London.
Malfoy only laughed, his breath soft but insistently strong and palpable upon the column of her soft, pale throat.
"Certainly, my impatient friend. We'd better leave miss Granger to let her… recover herself." His eyes glinted wickedly before he kissed her hand in a gentleman's goodbye. It wasn't until later she realised he had pocketed the Danoan while she wasn't looking.
She shuddered, surreptitiously wiping at the back of her hand. Trying to wash away the invisible mark he left behind.
In her dream that night, his eyes were so dark, smoldering with lust that did unspeakable things to the coil of desire in her stomach. She woke to a day that seemed somehow bleaker, emptier, than yesterday.
