Trouble in Paradise
By the Serpent, my head hurts.
I thought that nothing could be worse than teaching a room full of dunderheads, and I've found that there is—serving a room full of dunderheads is infinitely worse.
They couldn't decide whether they wanted a refill or not, and upon saying 'no,' they would swiftly change their minds the moment I walked away. Believe it or not, the students weren't even the worst of it. Pairs of randy lovebirds would be ogling each other from across the tables, and I'd have to clear my throat repeatedly to get their attention. However, I'd inevitably wish I hadn't, as their only response to the question of what they wanted was, "You go first. No, you. You. You. You. You. You first. I insist, after you. You. You. You…"
Shut up, already!
If I hadn't a grey hair before, then I certainly did now.
After everyone had left, I dumped the last of the water, wiped down the tables, turned off the fires, and sighed in relief as I flipped the sign to read, "Closed." After locking the door, I would have sprinted to the Three Broomsticks if it were not for my dignity—or the fact that it felt like a herd of hippogriffs were raging through my skull. As it was, I walked briskly and wished for one of the potions I had foolishly left on my nightstand.
I Floo'd from the Three Broomsticks to the Headmaster's office, and I'd be damned if he didn't greet me with a smile.
"Enjoy your day?" Albus asked me.
Enjoy my day? Enjoy my day?!
I'll bloody give him 'enjoy my day.' Without saying a word, I ripped off the putridly pink apron, and threw it at Dumbledore. The apron was swiftly followed by my red robes. He even had the gall to look amused as I pulled my high collared and blessedly black robes out of my bag, shrugged them over my shoulders, and painstakingly buttoned them up. I glared at him and noticed his eyes were focused on me—or more specifically—my shoulder.
I followed the line of his sight and saw bits of pink and red confetti on my shoulder. I angrily swiped the trash off my shoulder and snarled when more fell from my hair to soil my robes. More angry swipes followed as it continued to fall like multicoloured dandruff.
"Son of a kappa!" I cursed. Frustrated, I gave up trying to wipe the confetti off of my shoulder, and went straight for the source.
Both hands scratched at my scalp as I tried to get the bits of abomination out. It seemed like the red and pink sprinkles would never end.
The angrier I became, the more Dumbledore chuckled. I was pretty certain that I would loose all of my hair before the confetti would run out. Right as I willing to shave my head to get rid of the mess, I saw Dumbledore pull out his wand.
I froze, even though I was sure that I hadn't actually said that I'd rather be bald. I feared that Dumbledore was barmy enough to do it.
He flicked his wand and I cringed—Not my hair! I know it's hideous, but anything but my…
"There, that better?" I heard him say.
I cringed as I expected to feel my bald scalp, and sighed in relief when I realised my hair was still all there. After an experimental shake, I also realised that the confetti was gone.
Oh, so that was Evanesco I heard him say, not Excorio.Doesn't he know better than to point a wand at me?
Moodily, I sat rather harshly in an armchair in front of Dumbledore's desk. I crossed my arms and grumbled my displeasure.
Dumbledore smiled—the senile old man. "You're welcome. Sherbet lemon?"
I gritted my teeth in frustration and scowled further. I wouldn't even give him the pleasure of my refusal. Yes, I was pouting, but I rather think I deserved to after going through the saccharine hell that is Puddifoot's.
He brushed my petulance aside. "I take it everything went well?"
"I daresay there was no Dark Lord, if that's what you wanted to know." Blast it all, there went my refusal to talk.
"No Voldemort? (I cringed.) Then I suppose you'll have to go back next weekend."
I bristled. "He wasn't there," as I knew he wouldn't be. "I suppose you're other intelligence source must have been wrong, because he did not deem to grace me with his glorious presence."
Dumbledore looked at me like he had no idea what 'other source' I was referring to, and it sorely grated on my nerves. I knew he had to have gotten that idea of his from somewhere, probably from someone in the Order who wanted to see me humiliated…
"Well then, my boy, humour an old man and go again next weekend."
"And be attacked by another floating cupid? I think not."
"Ah yes, adorable things…Unfortunately, Madam Puddifoot only decorates with those on Valentine's Day."
Unfortunately? Well, bless Merlin for small mercies. I saw the smile that he gave me, and knew that I didn't even need to respond. I was defeated and he knew that I knew it—I'd have to continue this ridiculous farce. So I did, every single bloody weekend.
The same routine repeated, again and again. I changed into the red robes, put on the pink apron, and put the kettles to boil. I'd sift out the tea leaves by the cup, and deliver on demand. I put up with more public displays of affection than I thought I could possibly stomach, and smiled to the point that I thought my cheeks would lock in place.
Every weekend, like clockwork, Miss Granger would come in with Mr Weasley in tow (this is why I hated the revised rules about seventh year visits), with the old man coming in about thirty minutes behind them. Every time they would order the same blasted things (to the point where I stopped asking and just started bringing the same things out) and spend the same amount of time talking about the same things, at the same blasted table. Every time I went by Miss Granger's table, she would smile at me as I served her, thanking me every time I walked away, and call me by name—well, my pseudonym, at any rate. Every time, I would respond a little more favourably; I told myself that it was because it amused me for her to think she was developing a new friendship, though the truth may have been simply that I was going mad. Every time I walked by the old man's table, he would take a sip from his flask, and then snarl at me and try to trip me; I'd never fall for the trick as too many students have already tried...to their own detriment. Every weekend—as expected—the Dark Lord never arrived.
And every weekend I watched with amusement as Weasley became more and more—ah, uncomfortable. I knew it was only so long before he reached the breaking point…
oOoOoOo
Ron didn't like this. He didn't like coming to Puddifoot's, and he especially didn't like the way that their waiter seemed to cosy up to his girlfriend. Hermione couldn't help that she was a nice person, but she could have turned the smiles down a little. Besides, where did Gerry…Gerald…Gerard—whatever his name is—get off on monopolizing his girl's attention?
He couldn't help that when Hermione had asked him about the qualities of hippogriff hoof versus white hart antler in producing effervescence in a Debilitating Draught, he had simply blinked dumbly. How the flip was he supposed to know? Effer…what? She was the walking encyclopaedia, not him; he hadn't even been in Potions for the past two years. Of course, their waiter knew the answer, and had happily blathered out his opinion. This had predictably resulted in a rather lengthy discussion that Ron had had no part in, and had to watch with more than a hint of jealousy. That hadn't been the first time either, and it rankled on Ron's last nerve.
oOoOoOo
I walked away from the Gryffindors' table, feeling oddly pleased at myself. It had been a rather interesting diversion to discuss something requiring more than two brain cells to rub together.
Judging by the look on Weasley's face, he had no idea what Miss Granger and I had been discussing…and I do not pretend to understand why she was discussing the current N.E.W.T. Potions assignment with him anyway. I certainly could (and did) give her far more than the stuttered, "Erm…" that Weasley was famous for, even though it was supposed to be a solo assignment…
My eyes widened.
That cheating, little cheat!
oOoOoOo
Once Gerard had left, Ron leaned over and tried to get Hermione's attention, as she was furiously taking notes in her Muggle notebook. "Friendly chap—isn't he, Hermione?"
That jab didn't elicit a response, so he tried again. "Hermione."
"What?" She paused writing just long enough to see what he wanted.
Ron, at the exact same moment, had the ill luck to lock eyes with the old man who always sat across from them. He paled; it was almost as if he could sense the geezer licking his chops in their direction. Disconcerted, Ron responded, "Nothing."
Hermione rolled her eyes as if to say 'Then why bother me? I'm doing research.' and returned to her furious note taking and theorem making.
A few minutes later, Ron tried to get her attention again. Hermione sighed and tossed down her quill.
She looked up. "Now you made me forget what I was writing."
"Why don't you ask Gerard to help you remember," he sneered.
Hermione shut her notebook. "What do you have against him, Ron?"
"What do you have with talking to guys that aren't your bloke?" he countered.
He saw Hermione's eyes flash before narrowing with menace, and promptly realised that he had made a mountain out of a molehill, and would swiftly pay when it all rolled down hill in his direction.
"Are you jealous?" she asked. "Perhaps if you tried at your schoolwork instead of copying off of me, then maybe you would have still been in Potions with Harry and I, and had a chance of being an Auror when you finished with school. I, on the other hand, plan on getting this paper done, and if I find a credible source, then I'm going to take it."
Ron didn't copy everything off of her, and he was insulted and angered by her insinuation that he did. Just because he couldn't complete his first career goal didn't mean that he was an altogether failure. Did she really know that little about him? "How do you know we'll even finish?" he countered. Stealing is nerves, he added, "What if V—Voldemort manages to destroy the school before you even get to take your precious N.E.W.T.s?"
Hermione was aghast. "How could you even think that?" she hissed. "The end of term is only a few months away, and you're already thinking the worst? Do you have that little faith in Harry, the Order...or yourself for that matter? Do you really think that anyone will let the end happen that way?"
She stood from the table and stuffed her things into her bag before Ron could even digest the disastrous end of their conversation.
Ron stood as well. "Hermione, wait! That's not what I meant..."
She stopped him with a raised hand. He could see that he had made her cry, and his heart wrenched at the sight. "Just stop...stop it, Ronald. I need to be alone."
Ron wilted and sat back down in disbelief as Hermione left the tea shop.
oOoOoOo
Voldemort saw his chance to get the Granger girl by herself. He had overheard their conversation and was flattered that they didn't even question his ability to destroy Hogwarts.
Perhaps, he thought. I may just raze every last stone to the ground…during N.E.W.T.s.
However, first things first. He knew that it would be best to acquire more information about the girl's behaviour, so grabbing a bit of her hair would do for now.
Voldemort rose from his chair, paid the minimum tab and followed Granger swiftly out the door.
oOoOoOo
I couldn't repress the snigger that I had been holding back after seeing Miss Granger depart as she did. Of course, I could have strangled the pair for mentioning the Order so publicly, but at least—even in the heat of their combined Gryffindor tempers—they had the common sense not to mention any names.
Strangely enough, at the vociferous mention of Volde...the Dark Lord's name, everyone in the establishment flinched...except for one. The old man who had taken to watching the Gryffindors (perhaps to live vicariously through their drama) had...well, grinned.
A vile grin it was too, and strangely familiar. To further arouse my curiosity, the old man had left immediately after Miss Granger had. His usual routine was to stay until nearly closing every weekend and leave shortly after Miss Granger and Mr Weasley. Couple that with his Moody-like and hourly use of a hip flask, and...
I blinked as my normally astute mind worked this information over, and could have kicked myself for not seeing it sooner. The Dark Lord had been here the entire time.
The Polyjuiced old man was Voldemort!
My jaw dropped and I felt my grip begin to slacken; I returned to the kitchen to deposit the teapot I was carrying before I could drop it.
Once safely out of sight of the customers, I let my guard drop as I realised how near death I had been this entire time. I gasped and pulled in a shuddered breath. Great gods—what if the glamour had failed? What if some integral part of my character had leaked through? What if I had been recognised? I cursed Dumbledore silently has I realised the danger he had put me in. It is one thing to face the Dark Lord, fully cognizant of his identity and whereabouts...and another to gallivant blindly around him!
Dear gods! I needed to pull myself together. I went to the sink and splashed my face with ice cold water, and resisted the urge to slap myself. Now was not the time to give into hysterics (as if I ever did). As long as I kept my Occlumency strong, and that blasted smile plastered on at full volume, then I would be fine. Perhaps I would even make it until classes to give that slip of a girl, Granger, what was coming to her.
There was only one question—what did I do now?
oOoOoOo
Hermione left Madam Puddifoot's and adjusted her school robes. She was trying hard not to cry, but there was only so much a witch could do. She took to surreptitiously wiping away her tears with the back of her sleeve, pretending that she was rubbing her face.
As she pulled her hand away, she noticed wet spatters being made in the dust.
Great, she thought. At least I won't have to hide my tears now—I can pretend it's just the rain.
Suddenly, the pattering drizzle became heavier as the clouds opened up and the rain began to fall in earnest.
Hermione cursed her luck. She still had the walk back to Hogwarts, but it was raining cats and dogs. Hitching up her bag on her back, she began walking through the rain and didn't even bother to protect the papers inside. Her papers were now soaked, as her bag was only thin cotton, so it didn't even matter that she had had that conversation with Gerard, as none of the work would remain. I hope you're happy, Ronald.
"Bollocks!" she heard a raspy voice call out behind her, followed by a wooden thud and a grunt.
Hermione turned around and saw that the old man from Puddifoot's had fallen down the slippery steps. She took a step forward to go help him up, but stopped when a passing wizard took care of the deed for her.
"Watch it there, sir," the younger wizard in blue said. "It's raining heavier now; perhaps you should wait for it to clear up."
The wizard took a look in her direction. "The same should go for you as well, miss. You'll catch your death in this weather."
"I've got to get back to the school," Hermione called out.
The old wizard had finally managed to throw off the other's help with a snarl and an aimed wand. Surprised, the younger man raised his hands in apology for doing a good deed, and went into the tea shop.
Hermione began to turn when she caught the old wizard's eyes. She could have sworn that they had flashed red. Cold fingers of dread pierced her through.
She turned and ran for Hogwarts.
AN: Enjoy it? Please review! As always, thanks go out to my beta, Nalaniekiela.