Kibitzer

KIB-it-ser | noun

2: a giver of uninvited or unwanted advice

She could feel him watching her. Why, oh, why did it have to be him? At least he was invisible. She could almost hear the questions that would be asked of her if her family, her muggle family, could see him staring intently at her all evening. She could almost see the looks they would be throwing him. Dumbledore had insisted on sending a member of the Order to accompany her to her family's annual Christmas reunion. Severus Snape had been the one to draw the short straw and she was glad she hadn't been around when he'd been informed of his bad luck. Thankfully, Harry had been willing to part with his cloak for the evening and the dour professor was currently standing unobtrusively in a corner of the room, invisible, and likely bored out of his mind.

Well, his entertainment was not her problem. It wasn't like the man had gone out of his way to make anything a pleasant experience for her, ever. His classes were practically torture and interacting outside of classes was, if anything, worse. She did hope that no one bumped into him, though. It would be a bit difficult to explain to Great Aunt Lydia – who believed a bit too strictly, in Hermione's opinion, in the Roman Catholic faith and had screeched in horror and outrage when she had caught Hermione reading The Lord of the Rings in the fourth grade – why there was a wizard in the living room.

She couldn't very well tell Great Aunt Lydia that Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard to ever live, was gaining followers at an unprecedented rate as the magical world jumped ship to the supposed winning team. Professor Snape was here to ensure that Hermione, at least, would not bite it should Death Eaters decide to crash the party. Of course, being their spy, she would hope that he would have known if they were going to have unexpected guests. Still, it would almost be worth it to see Great Aunt Lydia screeching about witchcraft and the devil and attempting to beat Malfoy Sr. about the face with the large-print bible that she kept on the coffee table.

"Hermione!"

A hand clamped around her arm and pulled Hermione into a crushing hug. "Granny!" she returned. Her mother's mother, while definitely getting up there in years, remained in excellent health. Hermione hoped that she would be as physically fit at her age.

"How are you, dear?" asked the older woman, pulling back and holding her granddaughter at arm's length. She stared intently into her face. "How is that school of yours?"

Granny, along with Hermione's own parents and, of course, her professor lurking in the corner, was the only person in the room who knew the truth about what and who Hermione really was. Thankfully, unlike her sister, Jean Barber had had no problems with accepting the fact that Hermione was a witch. "I've heard stranger things, dear," she had said, patting her daughter on the hand, when she had been told.

"It's wonderful, as always, Granny, thank you. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm just fine. Are you seeing anyone?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Hermione blushed. "No, Granny."

"And why not? You're young and attractive and you should be taking advantage of that," the old woman chided. She took Hermione's hand and led her toward a few chairs… in the corner of the room in which her guardian was disguised. Her heart leapt into her throat. "Let me give you some advice.

"Granny, I don't-"

"Nonsense," she cut off. "You are seventeen years old and in the prime of your life and, while I may be old now, I was young once and I do remember a thing or two about bagging a young man. Sit."

Hermione miserably did as she was told, pointedly not looking in his direction. Lovely, more fuel for humiliation.

"Now, tell me how you approach a young man."

She gaped at her grandmother. No way was she going to have this conversation in front of him. "I don't really-"

The old woman huffed. "Hermione, you will never bag a beau if you don't approach with confidence. Men like to see a woman who knows what she's about. You march right up to him and you tell him that you're interested. Make a fun play on words. Tell him you'd like to take a ride on his broom. That's a thing you magic folk do, right?"

This was it. She was going to sink into the floor right here and now and disappear forever. At least, she rather hoped that she would. Snape was never going to let her hear the end of this, and, worse, he would never let the rest of her classmates hear the end of it either. "Please, Granny, can we not-" she tried feebly, but the woman would not hear her plea.

"I'm old, Hermione. I would like to see great-grandchildren one day before I die. And speaking of which, I've got some tips for that too."

Please, no, her seventy-five-year-old grandmother could not be about to give her advice for her sex life. She didn't even have a sex life at this point! Please not now. Not in front of him. She couldn't see him, but she could see the wicked smirk that was likely plastered across his wretched face as he listened in. She couldn't even be angry with him for doing so. He had assured her that he would remain in this one corner for the duration of the evening. It wasn't his fault that this conversation was being had within his range of hearing.

As her grandmother proceeded to wax eloquent about various aspects of pleasing a man in bed and pleasing herself in bed, which, Granny pointed out, was just as important, Hermione sat in nearly a catatonic state. She nodded along, trying desperately not to think too hard about what she was being told and in whose presence she was being told.

"And remember, dear, just be willing to let loose and have fun. Experiment. Try new things. Sometimes dirtier is better." She winked at her granddaughter suggestively.

"Granny…" Hermione glanced toward the corner where her guard was standing, and lowered her voice. "I was actually assigned an, er, escort for the evening to ensure the safety of this event. Professor Severus Snape is standing about three feet from us, invisible, and heard every word that you just said."

The old woman, far from being embarrassed, cackled. "Well, dear, I'm sure that the good professor can confirm everything that I've just said, isn't that right?"

"Indeed, madam," came his voice quietly from the corner. Hermione could hear the humor in his voice and groaned loudly, burying her face in her arms.

As it turned out upon their return to the Burrow that evening, she was unable to look 'the good professor' anywhere near the face as she thanked him for accompanying her. She took the cloak from him and turned to make her escape.

He cleared his throat and she paused. "Your grandmother was correct, you know. Confidence is sexy."

"Well, Professor," she answered, without turning back to face him, "perhaps in a few years I can test that theory. For now, I don't know that it would get me anywhere."

"Probably not," he agreed. "In a few years, perhaps you can test a few of her other theories as well."

A small smile tugged the corner of her mouth as her stomach twisted pleasantly. "I look forward to it. Good evening, sir."

As the door closed behind her retreating form, he turned on the spot and apparated away. Only a whispered, "Good night, Hermione," remained behind him.

A/N: Two for one today, I suppose. This is today's actual word. I'm quite amused by the image of Malfoy Sr. being beat about the face by an old woman with a bible.