For disclaimer, see Chapter 1. Thanks to Melusin for beta-work!
Chapter 3: Boo, Hiss.
The rest of Hermione's Christmas visit passed without incident, and whenever Angela Granger tried to introduce the topic of Severus Snape into the conversation, Stephen observed his daughter's expression and changed the subject abruptly. Privately, Hermione spent a good deal of time celebrating the fact that Snape was alive and well. In between remembering the way his thighs and bottom looked in trousers, she replayed their conversation in her head over and over again and tried to reconcile it with her previous experiences and the things that Harry had told her.
To Hermione, Snape had seemed resoundingly normal. He went to the local pub and made friends with his new neighbours. He sang carols on Christmas Eve. He found absurd things amusing. He had smiley eyes. He was free to wear woolly jumpers, go for walks in the country and forget all about his miserable experiences at Hogwarts and, presumably, elsewhere. He obviously got on all right with her dad, and her mum practically had her tongue up his arse. Now, that was a mental image she could do without. Fierce concentration on Snape's solo arse would definitely be required. It might be lonely, though. It might need a nice bit of stroking to cheer it up…
After a week consisting purely of meals, awful Christmas telly and the construction of increasingly outlandish fantasies involving (amongst other things) Severus Snape, cashmere and candles, Hermione spent the evening of New Year's Eve at the Leaky Cauldron with her friends. She was determined not to dwell on the idea of Snape, sat in another pub at the other end of the country, happily seeing in the New Year with his Muggle acquaintances and quite possibly having a better time than her. Hermione's determination was such that she got absolutely hammered on mulled mead with firewhisky chasers. By midnight, she'd decided that, this year, she wasn't going to hide in a corner and watch everybody else snogging at midnight. Or brooding over the probability that Snape hadn't thought about her at all since Christmas when she'd spent some/most/practically all of her time thinking about him.
The next morning, she woke up in one of the bedrooms above the bar with the worst hangover she'd had since her twenty-first birthday. Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth took a full minute. Extracting her eyelashes from the crud that encased them took a bit longer. When she was almost able to see properly, the bed inexplicably shifted, and her head bounced agonisingly against her pillow. Her memory immediately began to spit random blurry images at her.
Dean. Dean Thomas. Handing her a shot of firewhisky as people noisily counted down from ten. Pulling her up stairs that kept rising to meet her too quickly. Kissing her clumsily with soft lips. Sucking her nipple and trying to inconspicuously massage his pickled penis into an adequately turgid state. Shagging that seemed to go on and on because both of them were too pissed to come. The last thing she could remember was collapsing onto her belly and gasping that they'd have to stop because she was getting sleepy. She must have passed out as soon as she'd finished speaking.
Deciding that she had to have a shower within the next five minutes or she'd actually start to rot, Hermione fumbled for her wand on the bedside table, croakily Summoned her clothes and shoes and wondered whether it was possible to Apparate lying down. The bed shifted again, and Dean's bloodshot brown eyes appeared next to her.
"You making a move?"
"Yes. I'm not feeling too good."
"Me neither."
They regarded each other awkwardly for a moment. Eventually, Dean rolled onto his back and shut his eyes. Hermione gritted her teeth against the pounding behind her eyes and carefully eased herself into a sitting position.
"Shall I Floo you?" he asked.
"Probably better not. I'll see you next time we're out?"
"Yeah, okay. Are you, you know, alright?"
"I'm okay. Feeling a bit bashful."
Dean cracked open an eye and squinted up at her.
"Don't be, love. We were both mullered. I didn't exactly cover myself with glory, did I?"
He had a point. He was being magnanimous in defeat. It contrasted pleasantly with her memories of Ron's antics. She'd better escape before the mood turned sour.
"I'll leave you some Galleons for the room."
"There's no need; I paid Hannah last night."
"Oh. Thank you. See you around, I suppose."
Clutching her possessions to her chest, Hermione scrambled out of bed, concentrated on the thought of her cosy living-room and Disapparated.
Surviving a two day potion-resistant hangover was a truly grotty way to start the year. Annoyingly, it was made even grottier by a nagging anxiety about what Severus Snape would think of her. Although she felt like a bit of a mangy fox for having a drunken one-night-stand, it really wasn't any of his business. The inability to get Dean Thomas excited enough to shoot his load before she dozed off was a genuine cause for concern, however. If Snape really was crying out for a girlfriend, she'd have to brush up on her technique. The only discernable silver lining to Hermione's New Year cloud was the incontrovertible evidence that she hadn't sealed over completely from lack of use.
For some reason, Bob had expressed a particular interest in the extent to which wizarding Britain relied on Muggle roads. Kingsley had eyed this topic with trepidation and made a note next to it on Hermione's list:
'Don't dig too deep. Registered vehicles only!'
January's research therefore took approximately an hour of waiting around while somebody in the Department of Magical Transportation found the right box of parchment. Hermione was rather surprised to discover that apart from ten Ministry cars and the Knight Bus, there were very few vehicles officially in use. In fact, there was a Reliant Regal van in Peckham, a 1969 Dodge Charger in Glasgow and, surprisingly, an Aston Martin DB9, a Porche 911 and a Range Rover in Melksham, all belonging to Draco Malfoy. It appeared that Mr Anti-Muggle was a closet petrol-head.
Hermione knew for a fact that Arthur Weasley had recently got his oily paws on a yellow Volvo, and she hated to think what every other middle-aged wizard was up to in his garden shed. However, bearing in mind Snape's advice about being careful around Kingsley Shacklebolt, she decided to stick to the official version and sent Bob a report stating that only fifteen cars were in use in wizarding Britain. She was horrified to receive a letter from Bob in reply, saying he wanted the topic on wizarding finance to be tackled next. The subject would be a nightmare to deal with because, to be frank, nobody magical she'd ever met had a clue about economics, and she couldn't recall seeing any relevant books at work. Witches and wizards earned Galleons, and they spent them or saved them. Things like inflation didn't seem to come up in normal conversation – although she could distinctly remember her parents grumbling when the pound to Galleon exchange rate was poor. Hermione's head dropped into her hands when she realised that the goblins were the primary source of information on wizarding finance. She wasn't exactly popular at Gringotts.
The following Sunday evening, Hermione's telephone rang while she was in the bath. She swore loudly, chucked her book on the bathroom floor away from any drips of water, climbed out and wrapped herself in a towel as she stumbled towards the phone. When she picked up, her dad greeted her. His voice sounded strained, as if he was in pain. Hermione's knees went weak with fear, and her towel slipped dramatically when she heard an unearthly screech followed by high-pitched laughter in the background. It sounded uncannily like Bellatrix Lestrange. Surely she wasn't still alive, too?
To add to Hermione's confusion, Stephen Granger lost the plot completely and began to wheeze with the sort of laughter you emit when your stomach already aches from giggling. What was happening to him? Repeated use of Tickling Charms? Was Snape indulging in a spot of Muggle-baiting, even though he'd promised not to?
"I'm-I'm sorry, Hermione. It's just that your Mum's practicing for the pantomime and… Severus is helping. Oh, my life! You should see her. She looks completely barmy!"
"I can imagine."
"It's brilliant! You'll love it."
"Right, Dad. Could you possibly put Severus on for me?"
"You want to speak to him?"
"Yes, please."
There was a murmur and a scuffling noise, and then the unmistakeable sound of Snape could be heard.
"Hello, Hermione. How are you?"
"What the fuck was that noise?"
"That's good. I'm very well too, thank you."
"I almost had a heart attack!"
"Yes, she is doing well, isn't she?"
"You can't teach my mother to sound like Bellatrix Lestrange. It's completely inappropriate!"
"Much better than before, yes."
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
And then the three words that Hermione least expected ever to hear from the lips of Severus Snape slid gracefully out of the telephone and into her ear.
"I'm having fun."
"Are you having fun at my expense, Severus?"
Snape's smooth tones became a little less certain.
"I'm sorry? I don't follow you."
So he hadn't heard about the Malfoy Manor Cruciatus Extravaganza. Bellatrix and the Malfoys had obviously managed to keepthat little bit of panicked disloyalty Occluded from old snake-eyes. Should she burst his happy balloon and try to make him feel guilty by squeaking about war-time torture? If she told him he was an evil, thoughtless tosser for dragging up bad memories, she'd probably never see him again.
It took some effort, but Hermione swallowed her outrage.
"Never mind. I'll explain another time."
"You're here at the end of the week, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"I'll see you on Saturday evening, then. Stephen's having trouble breathing at the moment, so I'll pass you over to Angela—"
"No! I was in the bath when the phone rang, and I'm too cold to stand around talking!"
Snape's smooth tones got quieter and very smooth indeed.
"The bath? Don't you have a robe on or something?"
Shit!
"On second thoughts, put Mum on."
After a pause, Snape obliged.
"Darling! How's London? Any news on the boyfriend front?"
"Mum, please don't start that again!"
"No? Oh, well. Perhaps somebody will turn up soon. Severus has been awfully helpful, you know. I'm all set for the opening night!"
"Mum… I might have to work…"
"What your Dad was trying to tell you is that he's really looking forward to seeing you. He's booked a table for dinner at eight on Friday, so make sure you aren't late."
"Right, then. I'll see you both on Friday. Nice to speak to you. Give my love to Dad."
In Devon, Angela addressed the room.
"Hermione sends her love and says she can't wait to see you both!"
In London, Hermione kicked the wall with her cold, bare foot. It hurt.
"Mum. I'm begging you. Please don't humiliate me!"
Angela Granger chuckled wickedly.
"I'm sure Severus is really looking forward to seeing you, too."
"You're a cow, Mum! I'm hanging up now."
"Love you too, darling. See you soon!"
As soon as Hermione got back into her bath, she realised that Saturday's date was February the fourteenth. She shook her head in bewilderment as she realised she'd be spending Valentine's Day with her dad and Severus Snape, watching her mum imitate Bellatrix Lestrange in a village pantomime.
The village hall was a single-storey, late Victorian building with a steeply pitched roof. It reeked of floor polish and old-aged pensioners. Most of the hall was filled with rows of stackable grey, plastic chairs, except for a two-foot high stage at one end that was cunningly concealed behind a very big pair of faded green, velvet curtains.
As Hermione and her father waited to be shown to their seats, they could hear snatches of other people's conversation.
"If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times. That tree has got to come down…"
"So I said, 'Give him a mangelwurzel; he'll eat that'!"
"Hope the raffle's better than last time. I've had that jar of runner bean chutney in the cupboard ever since…"
An elderly and officious gentleman in a blazer and regimental tie bent to scrutinise Hermione's ticket just as Severus Snape appeared behind them.
"Evening, Stephen, Hermione. Happy Valentine's Day."
Hermione immediately swivelled to face Snape, inadvertently pulling her ticket away from their would-be usher. Stephen Granger smiled to himself, produced his ticket instead and glanced over his shoulder.
"Hello, Severus. You haven't brought me a rose, and I've been banking on it for weeks!"
Snape flicked an eyebrow at Hermione, causing her toes to wiggle a bit with suppressed excitement. He looked even better than she'd remembered. Especially when he smiled at her father and said, "But I was expecting a scroll of scented parchment containing a sonnet composed in my honour! Both of us seem destined for disappointment – we can only hope that tonight's entertainment will ease the pain."
Hermione's dad laughed so loudly that the usher holding his ticket took a pace back and collided with a large lady in a mauve jacket. By the time he'd disentangled himself and smoothed his moustache, Snape had directed Stephen, then Hermione, into two of their seats, snagged the aisle seat for himself and begun to negotiate with the lady selling raffle tickets. Hermione silently celebrated the fact that Snape had apparently chosen to sit next to her.
"Here you are, Stephen. You can have some pink raffle tickets instead of a rose. And here are some green ones for Hermione. Three-hundred-and-ninety-four looks like a lucky number to me."
Hermione accepted her strip of raffle tickets with a pretty blush and a not entirely steady hand. Was Snape suggesting they were a substitute for a rose in her case, too? Did they count as a Valentine's Day present? Why were his eyes glittering with secret mirth again?
The lights in the hall were lowered, and the chatter of the audience died away. A pianist began to play the overture. She was absolutely abysmal, and it took Hermione all of fifteen seconds to succumb to a fit of silent giggles. Snape and Hermione's dad both fell victim a minute later as the curtains opened, the stage lights went up and fifteen inhabitants of Slapton Poppleford dressed as pantomime 'villagers' comprehensively butchered 'Oh What a Beautiful Morning' in the name of amateur dramatics.
The song ended, the audience applauded and after some very bad jokes and a bit of slapstick comedy involving a fake custard pie, Mrs Kipling the baker's wife informed the audience that the Queen had given birth to a baby daughter called Rose. There would be a big party up at the castle (she pointed to the back of the stage where a passable picture of a castle on a hill could be seen). All the fairies in Pantoland were, of course, invited to attend.
As the villagers noisily exited the stage, wobbling scenery as they went, and four pre-teen girls inexplicably began a rather risqué dance-routine, Snape pulled a copy of the Daily Telegraph, a pen and a bar of Honeydukes chocolate out of his coat pocket. He passed the chocolate to Hermione and bent his head to whisper in her ear, "Your Mum's only in the next scene, one just before the interval and a bit right at the end. What are the odds that we can do the whole of today's crossword in between?"
Hermione gave Snape her best charming smile and whispered back, "Pretty good. Especially if that's dark chocolate."
"It's milk chocolate with raisins and hazelnuts, actually."
"In that case, we'd better get cracking straight away."
A wave of lemony aftershave and a huff of warm breath against Hermione's ear as Snape signalled his agreement was enough to make her girlie bits tingle delightfully. A heady combination of Severus Snape, a crossword, chocolate and a dark, crowded room was rapidly turning the evening into the kinkiest experience she'd ever had. While the audience enthusiastically applauded the dancers off stage, she opened the chocolate and broke off a piece for her father. Snape put his hand back in his pocket and silently caused the crossword section of the paper to glow gently.
"Handy spell if you want to see something while the Muggles can't," he murmured against her earlobe. "My Mum used to like reading in bed, but my Dad was a light sleeper."
Hermione nodded, not registering what Snape had told her. She'd shut her eyes as soon as his nose touched her temple. She had goose pimples in places she'd never even felt before. As she opened her eyes and took in the sight of fifteen villagers hastily reincarnated as fairy godmothers and godfathers, Hermione struggled to pull herself together. It was time to act intelligently, despite all physical urging to the contrary. It was time to do the crossword.
By the time Angela Granger leapt onto the rickety stage in a burst of green light, mad hair and insane cackling, they'd filled in three clues. As Snape observed Hermione's wide eyes and very obvious flinch with an increasingly uncomfortable level of understanding, Angela strutted her stuff.
"How dare you throw a party?
How dare you celebrate?
I was not invited,
And they stopped me at the gate!
"I am Belladonna,
A fairy of renown.
I'm not used to hearing bouncers
Say that my name isn't down.
"Forget me at your peril.
Ignore me and you'll pay.
I'll curse your little princess.
I'll make you rue this day.
"When the girl is spotty.
When she's always in a mood.
She'll wander where she shouldn't.
She'll ignore you, and she'll brood.
"She'll find a spinning wheel.
Your advice she will ignore.
She'll prick her precious digit,
And her life will be no more!"
The audience booed and hissed loudly. Angela, aka, the Fairy Belladonna, cackled evilly and aimed a rather realistic wand threateningly at the loudest people. A small boy in the front row began to cry.
"You can't do that!" exclaimed the King after an uncomfortably long pause because he'd forgotten it was his turn to speak.
"Watch me!" shrieked Angela. "Punctum Pollex!"
With a bang and a puff of smoke from a theatrical flash, she vanished from sight. The audience gasped, and the tearful tot could be heard asking his mummy whether it was really magic. Hermione stared. Her mum was bringing the house down. Snape had got it exactly right; the twisted and crazed and absurdly melodramaticBellatrix Lestrangewas a perfect pantomime baddie, and the fact that a Muggle was taking advantage of it, even unwittingly, was the icing on the cake.
"Oh, look," murmured Snape, as a good fairy told everybody with unconvincing optimism that things would be fine because falling asleep for a hundred years was far better than dying. "Here's a clue for me: 'Fundamentally like a really bad apple.' Six, two, three, four."
"Rotten to the core," Hermione hissed back immediately.
Snape scribbled for a moment or two. It was odd seeing him wield a biro with such familiarity.
"Absolutely right. I appear to have, 'Made a resounding mistake', in three words – seven, one, seven, by the way – for want of a better phrase."
Hermione pondered this with narrowed eyes. In the meantime, the two middle-aged men who had been responsible for the custard pie shenanigans in the first scene began a discussion about whether or not Princess Rose was the moodiest teenager in Pantoland. The audience was asked to take sides in the argument and bellowed, several times in fact, that 'oh, yes, she was'. Even Snape and Hermione's father joined in at one point.
Eventually, the argumentative men were replaced by the King and Queen of Pantoland. The children in the audience found the fact that the queen was actually a man in a dress terribly amusing. Especially when the king pinched the queen's bum, and the queen squealed like a pig. The conversation turned to more serious matters, though, including the chances of the princess finding a nice, rich husband (which might seem a little harsh for a sixteen-year-old English girl, but stranger things have happened in fiction).
"You've dropped a clanger!" exclaimed Hermione excitedly, forgetting to whisper very quietly right into Snape's ear.
"Shhhhh!" said a lady in the row behind.
Snape turned round in his chair and stared at the woman. She fiddled with the straps of her handbag and gazed pointedly at the stage in an, 'I haven't a clue who shushed you' manner until he faced the front again. He sighed, stretched his legs out into the aisle, crossed his ankles and leant back until his head was almost resting on Hermione's shoulder. By this time, the king and the queen were singing a duet about the joys of marriage.
"This is why I don't have friends. Things go swimmingly for a while, and then I go and do something inexcusably idiotic. You obviously knew Bella better than I thought."
"About half an hour's worth of chewing the Malfoys' carpet better," whispered Hermione, remembering to be very quiet this time and tilting her head so that her nose was actually in Snape's hair before she spoke.
She got a good sniff at the same time. Unsurprisingly, it smelt like hair. Luckily, it didn't smell like dirty or smoky hair. Instead, it smelt faintly of coal tar, just like the more expensive kind of anti-dandruff shampoo.
"I doubt you care, but I really didn't know."
"I do care, actually. It's fine. Mum's good. She'll be really happy."
Stephen Granger turned towards them and found his daughter nose-deep in his friend's hair. His friend didn't seem to mind at all, but all the people seated around them were ignoring the on-stage action and watching Snape and Hermione with varying degrees of hostility. Stephen leant over and berated his daughter in an awkward undertone.
"Will you sit up straight and be quiet! You're disturbing the natives!"
Hermione and Snape obliged instantaneously. They might both have been blushing painfully, but it was too dark in the village hall to tell.
Note: The shampoo Snape uses is T-Gel. It is also supposed to be good for conditions such as Psoriasis.