Chapter Three
Hermione spent a long but pleasant morning being fitted for new winter-weight robes. Surprisingly, Gladrags Wizard Wear-Hogsmeade was otherwise empty so she had the tailor's full attention while she chose colours, linings and embroidered details.
"Oh, it's always like this before the start of term; everyone tends to make the trip to Diagon Alley instead of coming to Hogsmeade," Madam Arachne said, shrugging. "You might think they'd rather come here and avoid the crowds, but it's as much a social outing as a shopping excursion for most. They'll be back in a week or two and I'll be frightfully busy."
"I'm glad I caught you today, then," Hermione said. "I'll need all the help you can give me. I haven't been able to find off the peg robes that will suit my age and my new profession, and when it comes to buying bespoke I don't know how to pull everything together."
Arachne smiled broadly and led Hermione to her worktable. "With career robes I like to vary the neckline, the sleeve style, the shape of the skirt or any combination thereof. And you needn't limit yourself to black or navy blue." She spread a length of wool in a beautiful dark cranberry shade. "This is still professional and businesslike, as are these," she said, bringing out reams of worsted wool in cobalt blue, bottle green, dove grey, a warm, rusty brown. "These colours would be lovely on you, ma'am."
Without waiting for a demur, Arachne summoned a sketchpad and a pencil, and began making random vertical and diagonal marks that gradually became a woman wearing a set of robes. "This is the basic style, but if you just change this," she tapped the pad with her wand and the neckline changed, showing a tastefully narrow slice of cleavage. "See? Still modest, still professional, but elegant and feminine. Look at it in the brown." She tapped the pad again and colour swirled onto the drawing.
"Ohh," Hermione breathed, charmed by the picture. "That's just lovely."
"And we can alter the sleeves thusly," Arachne said, tapping the drawing. The sleeves, which began life as voluminous bubbles of fabric gathered at wrists and shoulders, shrank into slim tubes flaring in graceful bells just above the knuckles. She looked at Hermione to see if her customer liked the change and smiled. "If you were teaching Potions you wouldn't want to wear sleeves like this, but as you're teaching Arithmancy the greatest danger to your wardrobe will come from chalk dust, I think; I can put a special charm on your robes to repel it."
Hermione smiled a little ruefully. "There are so many details; it's rather overwhelming."
"We haven't even got to the fun part yet, Mrs Weasley," Madam Arachne said with a smile. "Before that, do you have a preference for foundation charms? You've a lovely waistline so I shouldn't think you'd want corsetry, but one of my soutien-gorge charms on the robes will be invaluable as there's no straps to worry about."
"Nothing too…" Hermione began, and mimed her breasts being squeezed up and together.
"Heavens, no, that charm is used only at customer request, usually on eveningwear." She gave Hermione a sly, sidelong look. "Or on special-occasion lingerie. I have a lovely black spider silk that just came in from South America…"
"Well… maybe later on," Hermione stammered.
"Of course," Arachne replied, all business.
"Um… do you have any kind of support for this?" Hermione asked, patting her tummy. "Callisthenics have never done a thing for it, not since I had my children."
"Oh, absolutely." Arachne popped a hand against her seemingly drum-taut belly. "I've had five children, myself, and I would never wear anything without that charm."
"I'm beginning to understand the value of bespoke robes," Hermione said, awed.
"We do cost more, but my customers believe having a garment tailored to one's specific needs and shape is well worth it," Arachne said.
"I've always been too overwhelmed by all of the variables; I'm Muggleborn, so I didn't have my mother to help me with choosing my robes," Hermione said. "And while my mother-in-law is a lovely woman, her sense of style is… eccentric."
The tailor chuckled. "It's a matter of proportion and not putting too much on each garment. Since the style is simple, without ruffles or extraneous fabric, some embroidery along the neckline and sleeves would be lovely; perhaps in gold?" Arachne tapped the drawing with her wand and her brow knit thoughtfully. "No... Perhaps only at the sleeves." A thick band of Celtic interlaced embroidery bled across the belled sleeves. "Still too much... just at the bottom, I think." Another tap and the Celtic band melted from the sleeves and transferred to the hem of the skirt. "What do you think?"
Hermione's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "Yes. Yes, it's absolutely brilliant."
"We can change the colour—," Arachne began, but Hermione cut her off.
"It's perfect as it is. That's it exactly." She grinned animatedly at the tailor.
"Excellent. There's the first one with four more to go," the tailor said. "Shall we try the cranberry red next?"
By lunch, Arachne had completed the five designs and taken additional orders for three pairs of buttery-soft but sturdy walking boots in complementary colours, a heavy woollen cloak, and a lighter-weight rain cloak. The robes would be ready by the end of the day, but the boots and cloaks would be delivered via owls on Friday. "Will that be suitable?" Arachne asked.
"That will be more than suitable. Thank you for all of your assistance," Hermione said, signing the invoice.
"Not at all, Mrs Weasley; many of my customers can be rather inflexible about their clothing and I don't get to do much creative work at all. I do hope you will enjoy your robes."
"I'm sure I will." Hermione paused. "I'll be back at five to collect them."
She walked next door to Scrivenshaft's; in the absence of a nearby bookseller's the stationer's would suffice for browsing.
Hermione wrote quick letters to both Fabian and Blithe, attaching a few Galleons and some sweets from Honeydukes, and sent them to The Burrow via the strongest owl she could hire from the post office. Then she went in search of the Indian restaurant for her lunch.
She found Café Kismet tucked neatly between Dervish & Banges and The Hog's Head, explaining why she had missed it on her previous trips to the village. The scent of garam masala and roasted lamb filled the air and she sighed with deep contentment.
"Hullo, ma'am," a young woman addressed her as she entered the restaurant. "One for lunch?"
"Yes, thank you," Hermione said, smiling, and following her to a table. The restaurant was decorated with the bright colours she had seen and loved in India and the smells coming from the kitchen were heavenly. How did Professor Snape refrain from nipping down here for lunch every afternoon?
He probably doesn't wish to leave the school unattended now he's opened it, she thought with a jolt. He did say it was 'regrettable' that the Kismet didn't deliver.
She scowled at the menu in front of her. Damn!
She was going to have to take some food back for Professor Snape. If she ignored the impulse she knew she would regret it later. But if she didn't ignore the impulse he would probably despise the gesture and look at her as if she were mad... and she would still regret it later.
Not for the first time she cursed her inquisitive nature.
It was the least she could do, though, after practically exposing her breasts to him and embarrassing him horribly in the process the night before.
With an internal sigh she flagged down the server.
She are lunch in Madam Puddifoot's instead, home of the phrase 'dainty little,' as in 'dainty little sandwiches,' 'dainty little salads,' 'dainty little cups,' and 'dainty little cakes.' Not to mention the 'dainty little man' who tried heroically to catch her eye throughout her meal. She was grateful she had brought the fifth year Arithmancy text to review as she ate, otherwise she would have run out of things to look at while she avoided his mooncalf glances.
After lunch she found a quiet little grove of trees near The Three Broomsticks where she could retire in peace to read and wait for her robes to be ready.
So it was that Hermione Granger Weasley trudged around the lake and up the hillside to Hogwarts, arms laden with five new sets of robes and a bag full of takeaway orders of Chicken Curry, Lamb Roghan Josh, a small order of Saag Paneer, and side orders of Naan bread and Pilau rice.
If it all came to smash and he told her to piss off and take her food with her, she would at least have plenty for a good meal, with some left over for lunch and possibly dinner the next day.
Hermione dressed in one of her new sets of robes. This one was dove grey wool with a high neck and long, plain sleeves. The conservative cut contrasted with a dark grey silken cord criss-crossing around her ribcage and her waist, subtly delineating her body without vulgarity; Madam Arachne had served her well indeed. She tied her hair back with another length of the cord.
The robes had been more expensive than prêt-à-porter, but if she could look this nice, with this little effort, every day, they had been worth every Galleon.
With some apprehension, she carried the charm-warmed takeaway food down to the staff room. Professor Snape wouldn't have called down for his dinner yet, being just six-thirty. She arranged the dishes on the table and waited.
She didn't have long to wait. By six-forty he entered the staff room, a quizzical look on his face.
"What is all this?" he asked.
"I brought dinner back from the Kismet; I hope you don't mind."
"Why would you do that?" He scowled at the steaming plates.
She shrugged. "I was going to bring some for my own dinner and thought you might enjoy it as well."
He made a guttural noise of disbelief.
"Oh, well, if you don't like Indian food…"
"What are you trying to achieve? Getting a rise out of the deputy headmaster? Acquiring an ally?"
She refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. "With all due respect, Professor, it's only dinner. I don't want to possess your immortal soul for the price of few pieces of Naan."
"What do you want?"
"I don't want anything from you." She thought. "Oh, on second thought maybe I do want something."
He sneered. "And that would be…?"
"I want you to stop assuming that I want something from you. It's Indian takeaway, for goodness' sake. They don't deliver; I do, but just this once. You might think about shutting up and enjoying it."
She didn't pay him any further attention and instead concentrated on serving herself dinner. The house-elves had brought a few bottles of cold lager and she removed the cap from one with a flick of her wand.
He was still standing just behind her, immobile.
She tore off a piece of Naan and used the flatbread to chase a chunk of lamb around her plate before raising it to her mouth. "Oh, that's good," she said.
After about five minutes of watching her eat and listening to her running commentary he finally sat down with a sigh and dished himself a plate.
She popped the cap from another bottle of lager and handed it to him. "I'm glad you could join me," she said.
He grumbled.
She hid a smile.
A/N: This chapter is entirely my own wish fulfilment (yeah, like the rest of my fanfic isn't). I would love to be able to buy an entire work wardrobe, shoes, underwear, outerwear, everything at one whack and then be done with it for a year or so.A/N: This chapter is entirely my own wish fulfilment (yeah, like the of my fanfic isn't). I would love to be able to buy an entire work wardrobe, shoes, underwear, outerwear, everything at one whack and then be done with it for a year or so.
Soutien-gorge is French for brassiere, which itself sounds like it should be French, but isn't, at least in English usage. Another linguistic oddity: soutien-gorge literally means 'throat supporter.' Who knew?
The foundation charms… I want them. No more slippy straps, no more busted or pokey-through underwires, no more 'fat pants.'
Thanks to my flist at livejournal for giving me encouragement and suggestions as I've worked on this. It's really difficult to write several chapters of a WIP without some sort of feedback, especially when you're not ready to have it beta'ed and posted.
And finally, thanks to selened, beta and Brit-picker extraordinaire.