A/N: A continued heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited this story, as well as favorited/followed me.

You know the drill: I am poor, and my initials are E.M.C., not J.K.R. #Sad face.

Big congratulations and a shout-out to my fiftieth reviewer, JustCaz. JustCaz will be receiving a separate 250 word oneshot dedicated to her! It will be up within the week, and I'll also post a link to it in the A/N when I get to publishing chapter 5 of this fic.

I'm offering the same prize to my 100th reviewer, so let's keep those reviews coming, guys and gals!

I hope you're still enjoying this crazy ride! xoxoxo

After the charming back-and-forth with the mirror, Severus did not sleep well at all. He woke rather early, and was instantly aware of two things: one, sleeping in an armchair was for the young and flexible, not the old and decrepit; and two, there was a horrendous shrieking disrupting the otherwise peaceful atmosphere of his quarters. It was muffled, but it was still very much there, and he nearly gibbered with rage.

Anyone else might have thought that it wasn't a big deal, seeing as the school term didn't start for another fortnight, but Snape spent all year putting up with ridiculous students who were constantly getting into scrapes and forcing him out of his warm bed, (or armchair, as the case may be), and he didn't intend to put up with it on any Saturday morning, damn it.

He sniffed. What was that disgusting...smell? Oh, yes. He had yet to discover the source of the odd odor lingering in his armchair, but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that this particular piece of furniture was over 500 years old. It had belonged to his distant ancestress, Lucrezia Borgia. It was being held together by magic and luck at this point, but Snape liked its shape too much to give it up. It cradled his bum nicely.

Right now, though, he shot out of it like sparks out of a malfunctioning wand.

He ripped at his clothes. He was itching feverishly. Damned chair. And why had he let himself sleep in his clothes all night? Why did he even wear that frock coat, anyway? It regularly gave him a full body rash.

Even as he stripped down to his sleeping pants (an interesting plaid affair) with a sigh of relief, he shrugged. Because he'd only ever found one tailor who could get the coat to fall quite right around his bum, that was why. If Severus Snape could be said to have any point of vanity, it would be his arse.

The fact that the tailor used wool of exceptionally poor quality was unfortunate, but it wasn't sufficient for Snape to take his custom elsewhere. Even Severus Snape had his points of pride, although, being him, they were considerably fewer than those of most men.

As he scratched his rash, the shrieking grew in intensity until he began to grow light-headed.

No, this could not continue. It was unacceptable. With a snarl, he rushed out the door, oblivious to his current state of dishabille.

He knew this area of the castle as well as he knew every area of the castle, and thus knew for a fact that it housed a grand total of one suite besides his own–an abandoned, grimy, nasty affair, last inhabited during the Victorian era. No one ever stayed there now, but if he was right about the direction of the sound, (and Snape was nearly always right about such things), the shrieking was most definitely emanating from somewhere directly above his head.

He took the stairs at the end of the corridor three at a time, scratching his chest as he went.

The staircase shifted. Swearing like a fourth year late to Potions class, he found an alternate path to his destination. The shrieking stopped abruptly, only to be followed by a contained sort of explosion, which was followed in turn by silence. Snape loped with new urgency along a musty hall that ran roughly parallel to his target area. If someone had just blown themselves up, he was going to be very, very put-out.

Anne Boleyn's portrait averted its eyes as he streaked past.

It took him several more minutes to arrive at the corridor he sought, and he gasped for breath. He needed to start running more. He had the lung capacity of a shrimp these days.

A sharp smack served to remove the remaining scant air in his chest, and he gulped for oxygen like a prisoner recovering from waterboarding torture. Through streaming eyes, he took in the sight of Miss Granger, draped in what appeared to be a blue tent, and managed an irritated snarl through sheer force of habit.

"Mizgwanger, wasmeaningthis?"

She blinked, clearly startled by his sudden appearance. She looked a bit pink. Minerva must have been right about the flu.

He stepped back sharply. The last thing he needed was to be getting sick.

"What-what was that, Professor?" she asked faintly.

He obliged her, and repeated his question. "Miss Granger, what is the meaning of this?" He had gotten some of his breath back now.

She just gaped up at him silently, causing him to grow more irritated by the second.

"What are you doing in this wretched corridor? What was that damned racket? What was that explosion? And why are you currently puce?" He ticked the questions off on his left hand.

They seemed like perfectly reasonable questions to Snape, but the slack-jawed chit in front of him didn't seem to think so.

He huffed, throwing his hands up in the air. "Miss Granger, I sprinted all the way up here on Saturday morning after being rudely awakened by a ruckus in this vicinity. If you know what has transpired, it would be in your best interests to tell me this instant."

"It was...the clock. There was a clock, and it screamed, and–"

"I beg your pardon?" He followed the path of focus her slightly glazed eyes had taken, and found that they were resting squarely on his chest. Clearly, she was ill. He had just called her "Miss Granger" multiple times, and she had yet to have an aneurysm.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," he stated formally, clearing his throat several times.

"I-don't mind," she said, and instantly looked horrified.

Snape made a mental note to clean out his ears thoroughly as soon as he got back to his room, because there was no way he'd just heard what he thought he'd heard.

"Nonsense, Miss Granger, you are all but magenta, and I–"

A loud crack interrupted him, and there at his feet stood a house-elf who looked entirely too chipper for the time of day.

"Master Snape called?" it shrilled happily.

It took a lot to render Snape speechless, but the sudden appearance of the small, bat-like creature did just that.

"How are you today?" Hermione asked the elf, ever polite.

Looking from the elf to Hermione, and from Hermione to the elf, Snape flipped through his mental Rolodex to "Hermione Granger" and "house-elf", found a file marked SPEW, and sneered slightly.

The elf responded to the nicety, asking how "Missy Hermione" was liking the room.

At that, Miss Granger seemed to suffer a coughing fit. When she recovered, she only managed to say, "Adequate, Magenta. Thank you."

Snape felt as though his brain was turning to mush. It was far too early for this, and the core question of this whole encounter had not yet been asked.

"Your name is Magenta?"

"Indeed!" chirped the elf. "What would Missy Hermione and Master Snape be requiring?" She grinned rather widely, and Snape became even more painfully obvious that he was shirtless, and that Miss Granger's hair resembled nothing more than the fur of an electrocuted Pomeranian.

"It's–nothing like that, Magenta!" Hermione protested.

Snape, on the other hand, didn't stoop to explain himself to a house-elf, and merely glowered at the little creature.

"If you come when called, why do you have a name as common as a color?"

"Oh, tisn't common around here, sir! Most students aren't knowing cinnamons for purple!"

That seemed plausible enough. Most of his students didn't know synonyms for dunderhead.

A muffled sound came from the direction of Hermione's face, and he turned his attention once more to her. The elf's butchering of the word seemed to have her in a fit of giggles, and she had pressed a palm to her mouth in an effort to stem them.

After she had recovered, she smiled. "We're quite all right, Magenta. Thank you for coming so promptly."

With a smile and a formal little bow, the elf disappeared with another gunshot-like crack that did nothing to assuage Snape's rapidly growing headache.

It occurred to Snape to conduct a more in-depth inquiry as to exactly what Miss Granger was doing in that wretched room, but as he was trying to formulate his questions, an awkward silence began to form.

Snape hated awkward silences. They took him back instantly to his time at school, when older students of all houses, including his own, would stop talking when he approached, only to continue as soon as he had passed.

Before it could grow too pressing, Snape broke it by turning away. His hands went automatically to his sides to grip folds of black material in preparation for a billowing exit, but he was left short-handed (literally), and had to resort to clenching and unclenching his hands spasmodically several times, trying to make it look intentional.

There was another muffled sound from Miss Granger, and he stalked off with every shred of dignity he could muster.

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes?" he griped, continuing his measured escape.

"Thank you for coming to check on me, even though you didn't know it was me."

"Hmph."

A/N: There will be some Minerva in the next chapter, because of course, Hermione will be discussing this problematic room with her! Snape-well, he'll be off doing his own thing. Magenta may or may not pop up in chapter 5, but there will be more of her as well.

Don't forget to review! It feeds the silly!Muse. Her favorite snacks are chocolate chip cookies and brownies. And wine.