A/N: Been a long time, I know. Severus wouldn't shut up, but I finally managed to crack it. Many thanks to curly_queue for the beta.
11. Reflections: Hermione
His presence hangs in the air, so heavy it’s almost tangible. I realise after what seems like hours that I’m holding my breath, the blood in my ears pounding out the seconds as I sit, frozen to my chair in the gloom, half-expecting him to suddenly reappear in a flurry of black robes and hex me into oblivion. Even though good sense tells me this is extremely unlikely: my wards are as good as impenetrable.
Yet, my eyes remain fixed on the spot he’s just vacated, my wand digging painfully into my hand. Nothing would surprise me about that man or his capabilities. Nothing…
Oh, God. What if he recognised me?
A deafening clatter breaks the silence as the crop slides off the chair and hits the floor, finally shocking me out of my stupor. So much for meticulous planning, so much for testing the waters…
Idiot. His first scene could have been much more rewarding if he hadn’t tried to outmanoeuvre me. Oh, well, if he wants to squander his money, that’s his problem, not mine. There won’t be a third chance, that’s for certain. No skin off my nose if he doesn’t come back for more. I’ve got better things to do with my time.
Then why am I shaking?
Breathe, Hermione, and stop being so paranoid. You know there’s no way he could have seen past the glamour. You’d be dead. And he’ll come back; you know he will—and when he does, he’ll be full of remorse and desperate to prove what a good little sub he can be.
But still… I shouldn’t have thrown him out on his ear, not without a proper cooling off period, anyway—even if he was wilfully disobedient. It was terribly unprofessional of me. And I hadn’t intended starting his anal training quite so… forcefully, either. I like to make my novice subs quiver in anticipation, you see—keep up the torment over several weeks—Touching, teasing. Will I, won’t I?—letting the tension build; make them fear it. Make them want it. So, why did I…?
He got to me.
The bastard got to me.
I bring the lights up quickly and aim my wand at the windows to let in some much needed fresh air and to get rid of the stink of male sweat and other bodily fluids. The curtains billow inwards, wafting the scent of violets towards me, but I remain in my seat, ignoring the chill.
What the hell happened?
My gloves get a hurried Scourgify while I ponder the question. Did I lose control of the scene? If so, when? Was I too much in character to notice? I need to move in order to think; this has never, ever, happened before. In a whirl of frenzied wand-waving, I start putting the room to rights like a creature possessed: the table is cleared, Snape’s personal items stored away in his box, the dungeon transformed back to a sitting room, and all the while I’m analysing the events of the past three-quarters of an hour and trying to make sense of them. A few moments later, and I’m leaning against my desk, panting.
O-kay… Let’s go over this one more time… Snape came here with the intention of testing me, obviously, but he was fully prepared to take the consequences—excited by the prospect, even. There was no protest, no fight when I disciplined him—the only show of fear was when he saw the razor—that was a small triumph, I suppose. Then, he… absorbed the beating I meted out like some life-giving energy. Yes… he had me where he wanted me there, which was more than a little galling, I have to admit. But he hadn’t anticipated the plug. Seeing him with his cheeks spread like that… He wasn’t in charge of the proceedings, then, was he? Oh, no. That reasserted my authority, all right. And he was so embarrassed when I made him wank himself off… Hmm… All in all, I think I more than evened the score. And he should be in no doubt now that I won’t tolerate him trying to top from the bottom in future.
The thumping in my chest has subsided somewhat by the time I reach into the top drawer of my desk and extract his case file. It’s usual practice for me to write down my impressions of a scene while they are still fresh in my memory. It rounds off the session nicely, I find, collecting my thoughts on paper and mentally closing the door on the client.
‘Right, Quill, take a dictation…’ My favourite Dicto Quill (the one with the pink ostrich plume) jumps to attention, dips its nib into the inkwell and rises into the air, quivering expectantly, as I arrange my notes on the desk. So, what have we learned today about one Severus Snape?
Hmm… Let’s see… ‘Physical attributes…’ I tap the appropriate parchment for the quill’s benefit and wait for it to scratch out the title.
‘General Condition: (underline). Painfully thin, middle-aged wizard of slightly above average height. Very pale…’ The quill hovers patiently as I pause to recall my first sight of his naked body. ‘… apart from his penis… Skin in surprisingly good condition. No obvious scarring, moles or birthmarks. Does not appear to bruise easily. Paragraph.’
The quill makes an unnecessary scrolly embellishment under the word ‘penis’. Why, I’ve no idea.
‘Musculature: best described as wiry. Prior knowledge presupposes a high tolerance to pain…’ I smile to myself; it’s going to be fun discovering his more… tender spots. Which brings me to…. ‘Nipples: fairly small. Scrotum: unusually tight and high for a man of his age. Needs work. Penis:…’ The quill does the scrolly thing again. I’m going to have to check its charm tomorrow. ‘… pink with prominent veins. Strong erectile function…’ No problems in that department, I don’t think. ‘Um…New Heading, Quill: Observations…’ Where to start? Hmm. ‘Reluctance to comply with my written instructions I believe, on reflection, to have been a one-off as obedience to vocal commands was prompt. No previous anal experience, as expected, yet took a medium plug with minimal fuss. Arousal by humiliation also confirmed…’ Oh, the look on his face when I told him to wank himself off. ‘General deportment is, unsurprisingly, graceful. On the whole, novice sub shows potential, but it’s early days yet. Training to proceed as outlined earlier. Stop.’
Feeling much calmer, I read through the file again, making one or two extra comments in the margins for clarification. There. That’ll do for now. The ink’s barely dry, but I stuff the parchments and quill back in the drawer regardless. It’s getting late, and I’m starting to feel hungry. A quick trip to the bedroom and Mistress Roxanne is back in the wardrobe, leaving Hermione Granger to hurriedly wipe off her greasepaint and throw on some comfy clothes. Wards checked one last time, and with everything in order, I gratefully Disapparate for home.
~ * ~
‘I’m so, so sorry, Hermione.’ Harry looks as helpless as I feel. ‘I didn’t want you to find out like this. Wanted to tell you myself.’
The headline on the front page of the Evening Prophet screams ‘Notorious Death Eater Released Early from Azkaban’, accompanied by a photograph of a thinner, older-looking, Lucius Malfoy.
‘How did he manage to worm his way out of this one?’
Harry shrugs. ‘He was eligible to apply for parole.’
'That didn’t mean it had to be granted.’ I can only wonder who he bribed, blackmailed or Imperius’d to regain his freedom. ‘He’s a psychopath. He should have been banged up for life!’
‘He has friends in high places, still,’ says Harry. ‘And, unfortunately, the Wizengamot chose to believe that Bellatrix Lestrange had him under the Imperius Curse all along.’ He pushes his hair off his forehead and sighs. ‘And I know what you’re thinking—Don’t think I haven’t been on the look-out for anything dodgy because I have. If I could pin something on him—something that would stick—I would, believe me.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But why didn’t anyone think to ask me? Doesn’t my evidence count for anything?’
There’s nothing Harry can say to that. Shaking my head, I stare at the photo again, willing for it not to be real. ‘Looks strange with short hair, doesn’t he? Almost didn’t recognise him.’ That’s a lie of course; I’d recognise those eyes anywhere. And it doesn’t fool Harry for a minute. ‘Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t look so distraught. It’s not like you didn’t warn me this was going to happen.’ I just didn’t expect it to be quite so soon.
Harry places a hand on my shoulder, and for once I don’t flinch or feel the urge to shake it off. ‘What hasn’t been made public are the conditions of his release,’ he says gently.
I tear my gaze away from the paper, frowning. ‘Which are?’
‘Well, for a start, he’s not allowed within a mile radius of this house—’
‘He knows where I LIVE!’
Harry winces at my high-pitched shriek, but I don’t particularly care. ‘Please tell me there’s at least a magical tag on him.’
‘It’ll be okay, honest,’ he says, taking me by both shoulders. ‘I won’t let him harm you.’
‘No tag, then?’
Harry sighs. ‘Look, we can put the cottage under the Fidelius in no time at all. I’ll be your Secret Keeper again, no problem.’
‘No.’ The vehemence of my refusal surprises even me. God knows Harry looks shocked. Malfoy may be the Big Bad Wolf, but he can huff and puff ’til he’s blue in the face. He’s not going to blow my house down. Not this time. ‘I refuse to let him do that to me—put me in isolation again. This is my home. I’m comfortable here, and I’m not going to turn it into some kind of a-a bunker because of Lucius fucking Malfoy!’
‘Hermione, love. You’re trembling.’ He glances over his shoulder at the wine rack, letting his hands fall. ‘I think we could both do with a drink.’
My hands are indeed shaking, but I take a deep, calming breath. ‘Go ahead. Use the glasses from the cupboard above the washing machine.’
Harry examines some of the labels, then shrugs before grabbing one from the top at random. He’s never had any pretensions of being a wine buff, bless him. ‘This okay?’
My best bottle of Chateau d’Yquem, but what the hell. ‘Fine. Just make sure it’s well chilled.’ While he struggles manfully with the corkscrew, I force myself to read the rest of the article: When questioned as to what the future held, Mr Malfoy replied, “My only plans are to go home with my family, recuperate from my ordeal and become acquainted with my grandson and daughter-in-law. That is all.” Yeah, right.
‘Here you go,’ says Harry, handing me the wine glass. He takes a sip from his own and wrinkles up his nose. ‘Bit sweet for me.’
‘Then don’t drink it.’ Rolling my eyes at him, I swirl the wine around in the glass. ‘So… What other terms should I be aware of?’ I inhale the wonderful aroma and take a sip. It tastes like nectar.
‘Well, he’s under curfew between eight in the night and eight in the morning—and has to report to his parole officer twice a week…’
I’m sure he’ll love that. ‘O-kay…’
‘He’s not allowed to leave the country at all or venture outside wizarding Britain without permission—’
‘So, there’s a good chance I could bump into him, then, should I venture out into Diagon Alley?’ I feign interest in my wineglass.
‘He's not to approach you or make contact with you in any way, including Owl Post,’ Harry continues, putting his glass down and taking me by the shoulders again. ‘And if he is stupid enough to try anything, I’ll escort him back to Azkaban personally. Just-just kick him in the knackers and send your Patronus. You’ll have me and a team of Aurors at you side in seconds.’
Somehow, I doubt I’d have seconds if Lucius Malfoy decided to take his revenge on me, even with a few Muggle self-defence moves up my sleeve, but I nod and try to smile.
Harry pulls me into a hug. ‘You know you can always come and stay with us, don’t you? For as long as you like? There’s plenty of room. Throw a few things into a bag now, if you want.’
‘I know, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but… I’d have to come back here, eventually, and I….’ Pushing him off, I consign the Prophet and Lucius Malfoy to the bin. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’
‘Well, then…’ Harry glances towards the door to the living room and smiles apologetically. ‘I said I’d be back for the kids’ bedtimes.’
‘Then you should be at home.’ I give him an encouraging shove. ‘You know where the Floo powder is, and yes, I’ve cleaned the soot out of the chimney. Now, shoo.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Harry says with a grin as he turns and makes his way to the fireplace with me in tow. ‘I’ll go quietly. Just don’t hit me with the tea towel again, a’right?’ His hand reaches for the bowl of powder then hesitates. ‘But seriously, you call me, OK? Any time. I mean it.’
‘I will. Now, off you go. Give my love to Ginny.’
He nods as he takes a scoop of powder and tosses it into the fire.‘ Make sure you do. Number 12 Grimmauld Place!’ And he’s gone in a whirl of green.
The house returns to its customary silence as the flames revert to their normal colour, my solitude hitting home like a knife to the heart, but I vow to myself that, after all the progress I’ve made, I am not going to retreat. No going backwards, Hermione. I am stronger now. Much stronger. I can cope with this. I have to—
With impeccable timing, Crookshanks appears from behind the sofa with an ‘any-chance-of-dinner?’ miaow, scaring me half to death.
‘Don’t do that.’
He pauses mid-step and turns his head to regard me, looking anything but contrite.
‘Sorry, Crooks, I didn’t mean to shout. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you? Fear, that is—seeing that I spent the majority of my schooldays scared shitless and wondering if I’d make it to my eighteenth birthday. I managed to convince myself back then that it would all be worth it one day, you see, because we were on the side of the Light, and that we’d win. Eventually.’ With a sigh, I flick my wand at a stray cinder that’s managed to escape and turn to extinguish the fire. ‘And there was a time I was naive enough to believe we’d done just that. Vanquished evil for ever. How dumb was I? We may as well have been trying to kill the Hydra—blithely chopping off heads only to watch two growing back in their place. It’ll never give up, you know. Evil. There will always be nasty, vicious men, and women, in the world only too eager to do its bidding.'
‘MI-aaow?’
‘I know. And you don’t particularly care.’ And I really must resist this urge to wax lyrical to my cat, intelligent though he undoubtedly is. I bend down to give him a quick scratch as he winds around my legs. ‘Come on, Furball. It’s high time we both had something to eat.’
On our way back to the kitchen, the thought occurs to me that I haven’t cast a Patronus in a very long time and wonder whether I still can or even if it might have changed. Well, there’s only one way to find out…
Expecto Patronum!
A wisp of white smoke drifts from my wand, forming an elongated blob which may or may not be an otter, before fading from sight.
I suppose that answers that question.
~ * * * ~
12. Reflections: Severus
Uh?… Light? What in Mer—? It takes my sleep-fogged brain a full second to recall which bed I’m currently occupying and a few more to realise I have slept until daybreak, as attested by the gap in the green velvet curtains. I cannot remember the last time that happened. Must be years, decades even. And…
Yesterday.
I lie, unmoving, in that brief moment of uncertainty between sleep and wakefulness, afraid I may have dreamt it all. But, no. My nerve endings tell me otherwise, the dull ache of bruised skin and strained muscles being unmistakable. I flex my back experimentally before carefully—not to mention a bit cautiously—rolling onto my side. Still a bit stiff and sore, but not as bad as last night when I awoke, freezing, on the floor. The memory of the flogging she… Mistress… dealt out may be fading from my body, but one thing is growing progressively uncomfortable. That damned plug. It’s shifted while I slept, started to work its way out, and my arse is burning.
Reaching behind, I touch the unnatural object, both repelled and fascinated by the sensations it evokes, and my morning hard-on takes note in spite of the discomfort. Enough of that or I’ll never get through the day, never mind the week. Whatever lubrication she… Mistress… used, however, has long since dried up, and I am reluctant to attempt to insert the thing further. I know that my instructions for its removal were quite explicit, but technically, I have not actually done anything—and it may be a while before I do need to remove it, on account of my, er… preparations before the session, though a good fart would probably eject it—so I don’t see why I should risk any more damage to my already sore rectum by shoving it back in.
Getting up without sitting on the edge of the bed takes some doing, but I manage to scramble sideways to my feet and haul my aching carcass to the bathroom without further problems.
~ * ~
‘Has the Dark Lord risen again?’ the sarcastic voice of Hector, my mother’s bathroom mirror, greets me as I pull the chain and turn to peer at my morning visage.
‘No. And it is, or rather was, “Voldemort”.’ Believe me, if I could unravel whatever fiendish Sticking Charm Mother used to pin him to the wall, I’d have chucked him in the cut long ago.
‘You look like shit.’
He’s quite right for once, actually. My eyes are puffy, my nose is red, and I feel a bit thick-headed, to be honest. Could be a cold coming on, and typically, I didn’t bother to pack any Pepperup to bring home with me. ‘Looks can be deceptive, Hector. Now, shut up and show me my back. Full length.’
Ahh… It would seem Mistress saw fit to bestow a cross-hatched pattern on my buttocks. How—
‘What the fuck is that?
‘That is none of… none of your… a-tchoo fuck, business.’
Well, that’s the plug taken care of.
The silence is deafening as I bend to pick it up off the floor, gingerly holding the end between my thumb and forefinger. Hector, it seems, has lost the power of speech.
It’s the first object of this nature I’ve ever seen close up. White, made of some sort of plastic… hmm… a lot smaller than I imagined, too. And… there appears to be some sort of writing on it. How odd. I hold it up to the light to examine it more closely, twisting it around to read the tiny letters spiralling along its length…
~sub-severus~
~Property of
Mistress Roxanne~
‘Gods’… The plug clatters around the washbasin as it slips from my grasp. My Mistress’ property…. I know it’s referring to the plug, of course, but I can’t help imagining… No, no. I cannot dwell on that. Even so, she has entrusted me with something of hers—something, it would appear, for my personal use—something which could almost almost be considered a… gift. Precious. But I was wilfully disobedient, and she was justifiably displeased, so why has she entrusted it to my keeping?
Property of Mistress Roxanne….
If only… With a long sigh, I open the hot tap and let the water run. While part of me is most definitely not looking forward to wearing the plug again, a very sore part of my anatomy has started tingling in anticipating for the moment when I will once more feel its pressure. But before I do that, I must attend to the practical side of things: Mistress’ property needs to be cleansed, if not sanitised, before attempting reinsertion. A good soak, I think, is in order—warming it up first should be less of a shock to the system, anyway—followed by a Scourgify to be on the safe side. But what about lubrication? Mistress didn’t mention that. Am I allowed it? Surely I must be?
‘What have you got yourself involved in this time, you steaming great ponce?’
‘Why, Hector. You sound almost conce—' Without consulting me, Hector has reverted to front view. Full-frontal view. It’s my turn to be dumbstruck. Ye gods! I look like a plucked chicken. My cock looks several deeper shades of pink than normal, if that’s possible, without its habitual nest of pubic hair, and the least said about my old scrotum, unleashed on the world in all its wrinkly glory for the first time since puberty, the better. Worst of all, instead of there being a pallidly white groin to match the rest of my body, a nasty red-spotted, pimply sight greets my eyes: the onset of razor rash breaking out on my nether regions. Any sense of optimism I may have awoken with instantly vanishes.
I look fucking ghastly.
Worthless…
The horror of it sends me reeling backward; my knees smack into the loo, and I sit down hard enough to make me wince. Merlin, I can’t go back to her looking like this: I couldn’t stand the embarrassment. It was bad enough before. God knows I wouldn’t want to look at-at that even if I was being paid to do it. And—oh, fuck it. My nose starts running uncontrollably, and I grab a handful of toilet paper and bury my face in it, feeling like a complete and utter wanker. Talk about pride coming before a fall. No wonder she was laughing her arse off— Oh, Merlin, what a twat. Here I’ve been, busy congratulating myself for my abominable behaviour when I should have been thanking all the stars in the firmament that I wasn’t permanently tossed out with the rest of her unwanted rubbish.
What was I thinking? What the fuck was I thinking?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. At-choo. FUCK!
Sniff.
And yet… And yet in spite of me goading her, taking liberties, in spite of everything, she Mistress decided to give me another chance…
And a butt plug with my name on it.
Why? Why would she do that?
Sniff…
Slowly, I rise to my feet as if pulled by some magnetic attraction, throwing the paper behind me. I keep my eyes down as I approach the washbasin, ignoring Hector’s taunts and insults, and scoop Mistress’ plug out of the water.
Hmm… Would a good submissive be second-guessing his Mistress’ motives, I wonder? I don’t think so somehow. Neither is it my place, I’m sure, to speculate on why Mistress tolerated my insolence; it is enough that she did. And this … this belongs to my Mistress, and I should feel honoured to have been entrusted with it..
… you are to wear that plug day and night…
And I will. Maybe not gladly, but respectfully. However, I’m not going to insert it here, not with Hector watching. No, I shall do it in the privacy of my bedroom, in peace.
Without an audience.
~ * ~
Kneeling on the bedroom rug, I flick though Mistress Roxanne’s sheafs of parchments, hoping to find some hints on how I should proceed, to no avail. Ah, well. It would appear that I shall have to improvise:
‘Accio Olive Oil!’
The bottle comes flying up the stairs at my command, followed a few seconds later by the small bowl I summoned as an afterthought. My hands have become so clammy, I almost drop them, but the plug is soon soaking in an oily bath while I rummage through my carpet bag for the bruise and skin soothing salve that, unlike the Pepperup, I had the foresight to bring with me.
Now, where’s it hiding…. ? Ah, there you are. A familiar smell rises out of the pot as I unscrew the lid—mmm, yes, the bitter scent of misspent youth and indescribable agony, times I’d rather forget. But despite the negative associations, it’s still the most effective balm for all sorts of cuts and bruises, minor as well as major, and practicality wins over mawkish sentimentality where pain is concerned. Without further ado, I dip my fingers into the greasy ointment and remove a generous dollop. The itching and redness on my groin and bollocks fade away almost instantaneously as I slather it around my cock and under my scrotum. Gods… what a relief. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, composing myself a moment before dipping my fingers in the salve once more. The memory of those other, leather-clad, fingers comes back to me:
Lean forward and spread your buttocks…
‘Yes, Mistress.’ Oh, if only she were here now, telling me what to do. I close my eyes and imagine just that, bowing my head until it touches the floor, wishing it were Mistress’ fingers smearing the grease around my sore ring-piece instead of my own. Tentatively, I ease two fingers inside. Like before, the stinging fades away on contact, and I relax as the dulling, analgesic effect, allows them to ease further in. I hope this can’t be construed as cheating. Perhaps the soreness was part of my punishment? Too late to worry about that now, though. I hold my fingers apart a little in preparation, taking a perverse pleasure in the unfamiliar stretch and then, unable to think of an excuse to put it off any longer, I retrieve the plug from the bowl.
It’s as hard and unyielding as before, but I manage to work the tip in without much difficulty. The warm oil is a big improvement on the cold lube, I must say. Much more pleasant. I twist it experimentally and try to push it in further, gritting my teeth against the resistance I meet, then pull it out slightly and try again. Not letting up the pressure this time, I push until I feel the impossible stretch of the widest part, then my muscles seem to clamp down on it and pull it almost all the way in. Just once more and… Oh, Merlin, I’m going to sneeze.
‘Ah-ah- CHOO.’
Thank God I have the presence of mind to keep my hand on the plug. I don’t want to have to go through that again so soon, though I hope it will become easier with practice. Feeling quite shivery now, I Summon a handkerchief to wipe my nose, which is tender and sore to the touch and no doubt getting redder by the minute. Oh, well, so much for having a quiet day in naked contemplation as I’d planned.
Buggering bollocks. I can’t spend the week like this! I’m going to have to make a trip to the apothecary’s.
~ * ~
My hand hovers automatically over my wand pocket as I duck out of the Floo and into the bar of the Leaky Cauldron. Old habits die hard. Brushing the inevitable soot off, I glance about me surreptitiously. It’s early yet: too soon for any but the most hardened drinkers and usual old reprobates to have put in an appearance. But whatever the time of day, the smell in here is always the same: stale beer, pipe tobacco and something musty and damp seeping from the walls. I’d recognise it blindfold. Riding over the top of it, however, I can detect, even with my blocked nose, a waft of something meaty emanating from the kitchen. Having missed breakfast, my stomach rumbles in hope.
‘Mornin’ Sev’rus.’ Tom pauses briefly from stacking the tankards behind him to greet me. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Just passing through,’ I reply, nodding towards the back door. Tom is perfectly aware that I rarely engage in idle conversation, but this has never deterred him from trying in the past. Indeed, I believe he sees it as some sort of challenge.
‘Well then, perhaps I can tempt you back after you’ve conducted your, er… business,’ Tom says cheerfully. ‘Steak and ale pie’s on for lunch.’
That would account for the aroma. Hmm...
Tom notices my hesitation. ‘I can keep a seat for you in the Snug, if you like.’
Another, more insistent, growl from my stomach makes up my mind for me. ‘That would be… acceptable. Now—'
‘Chips or mash?’
‘Mash. Please.’ I make a move towards the exit before he can come up with any more asinine questions.
‘You a’ right, mate?’
I halt in my tracks and sigh. ‘I thought it would be blatantly obvious that I have a cold.’
‘Not that. I meant…You’re walking a bit funny, like.’
‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’ I draw myself up to my full height and clench my buttocks tightly together. ‘Now, if there’s nothing further.’ I almost pull the door off its hinges in my haste to leave, only to see the entrance to Diagon Alley starting to close up.
‘Hold the bricks!’
‘Hey, Severus. Have you heard the news about—?'
Whatever else he was about to say is lost in the clatter of the wall sliding back into place behind me.
~ * ~
Great. Fucking great.
Hovering just inside the door, a notice in the form of a bubbling cauldron is puffing out the words, ‘BACK IN 10 MINS’.
More likely thirty, if past experience is anything to go by. With a sigh, I shrug up the collar of my cloak, turn on my heel and set off at a leisurely pace up Diagon Alley—or as leisurely as Mistress’ gift will allow it at any rate—feeling quite irate at this unexpected delay. I’ve never been one for aimless wandering or shopping for the sake of it, and am somewhat aggrieved at the waste of my time and energy. The stares and whispers from some of the passers-by does little to improve my mood, either, but they are easy enough to ignore by pretending to be interested in the contents of the shop windows.
A few doors up from the apothecary’s, a new ‘Chocolatiers’ arrests my progress and gives me the opportunity to relax my posture for a moment. Despite my aversion to window shopping, I am rather partial to a dark truffle or two, and their display—a riot of boxes and chocolates in all shapes, sizes and colours—would make all but the most ascetic of monk’s mouth water.
Mmm…vanilla and sea salt…or maybe… Elderberry and peppercorn?
I shall give it some consideration…
‘Cor, what a beauty!’
‘She is, in’ she.’
‘Jus’ like Harry Potter’s!’
At the mention of the ‘P’ word, my head jerks reflexively towards the sound. Outside the Owl Emporium, a half a dozen or so boys are staring, transfixed, at something inside. Not all that curious but with nothing better to do, I amble towards them. One of their number, however, happens to glance in my direction, nudging his friends as I approach, and predictably they all scarper across the road.
I stop to regard the bird that had so grabbed their attention. Ah, a Snowy. Truly beautiful—with an impressive price tag attached to its perch. The Harry Potter factor, no doubt.
She flexes her talons and stares back at me imperiously. Ridiculous pet for a child. Why, when I came here for my Hogwarts’ supplies, my mother couldn’t afford so much as a toad—
But that was a long time ago. Now I could—but I already have an owl that serves me well. A second would be too great an extravagance, magnificent though she is …
A reflection from somewhere high up across the road shimmers in the glass as a casement window rises up, and I feel my pulse start to quicken in sudden realisation. That might well be coming from Mistress’ residence! The entrance isn’t that far from here, after all. Could she be observing me at this very moment?
Don’t turn around.
My senses on full alert now, I search the window for further movement in the hope I might catch a glimpse of her. The chances are slim, I know, but that does little to quash the feeling… Ah, well. I can’t hang about here all day like some lovelorn fool.
Snowy hasn’t blinked once in all the time I’ve been standing here. Such a lovely creature. I do hope she finds an appropriate master or … Mistress…
For one wild, mad moment, I seriously consider buying the owl to give to Mistress as a present. But she would surely think I was insane, or worse, desperate. Although…. there may be merit in purchasing some sort of gift—some small token, by way of an apology, might be appreciated. Nothing as dramatic as an enormous white owl, though.
Chocolates perhaps? What woman doesn’t like chocolate?
Hmm…
With one last look at Snowy, I retrace my steps to the chocolatiers. Just as I’m about to cross the threshold, I spy a witch ushering some children into the apothecary’s and following closely behind. Open already? Well, that’s a turn-up for the books. I think the need to get rid of this damned cold and clear my head takes precedence over any other shopping. I’ll come back later, after lunch. I’ll be in a better frame of mind to choose then, anyway, once I’ve taken a dose of Pepperup and had something to eat.
~ * ~
‘Dawkins! For Merlin’s sake, watch the cooling charms on those Ashwinder eggs, will you.’
Old man Jigger is rushed off his feet and looking even more harassed than usual trying to serve several people at once while keeping a beady eye on his assistant. Two boys are running riot, prodding and poking at some of the shop’s more hazardous stock with no heed for safety or desire to preserve their fingers into adulthood. Their mother, I assume it’s their mother, appears oblivious.
‘Get away from there, you stupid little—Ah, Professor Snape. So nice to see you. What can I get you?’
The witch gives me a filthy look.
‘I believe this lady is before me, Mr Jigger, but I require some Pepperup if you have some to hand.’ I stare back at the witch and sniff pointedly.
'No problem, Professor,’ Jigger replies with something that could pass for a smile. ‘Dawkins! Mind the counter while I go downstairs. And you, Madam, can come back when you’ve civilised your brats, and they’re capable of keeping their grimy little paws off the merchandise.’
‘Well, I never—'
But Jigger has his wand out and is no mood for an argument. The witch gathers her brood and leaves in a swirl of robes and muttered curses.
‘Won’t take a moment, Professor,’ says Dawkins picking up a duster as his employer heads for the cellar. ‘New batch needs bottling, you see.’
With Dawkins busying himself to avoid having to actually talk to the customers, I glance about the premises, mentally going over the shelves in my Hogwarts store cupboard for any supplies that might be running low. But as always, my eyes return to the large container that Jigger has kept on the plinth behind the counter for as long as I can remember. It’s a show-off piece: a glass tube filled almost to the brim with Felix Felicius, left on permanent display to impress even hardened old cynics like me. Large drops of the golden liquid break the surface sporadically as I watch and then plop back in again. The effect is hypnotic, though twenty Galleons for a sixth of a gill is an exorbitant price to pay, even if the quality is as flawless as Mr Jigger would have his customers believe.
A few moments later, a breathless Mr Jigger appears again, clutching a standard, one-dose phial, which he duly passes to me.
‘Have this one… on me,’ he wheezes as I reach for my wallet.
Well, I am one of his best customers so I suppose I’d do the same in his position. I nod my thanks, flip the cork and down the potion in one, grateful that there is now only a small audience to witness the smoke coming out of my ears. Placing the phial on the counter, I breathe through my nose for the first time today and feel the fog clearing.
‘Thank you again, Mr Jigger, and good day to you.’
Pie and mash in the Leaky has never seemed more appealing.
~ * ~
‘Pint of Wizard’s Finger, if you please, Tom.’
The Dumbledore look-alike on the beer clip raises a one-fingered salute as Tom pulls on the pump. ‘There you go,’ he says, placing the tankard before me. He nods in the direction of the fireplace. ‘I kept the settle by the fire for you. Maeve will be along with your order in a mo.’
‘Maeve?’
‘Yes,’ Tom replies, touching his finger to the side of his nose. ‘Best little cook I’ve had in years. Hogwarts’ loss is my gain.’
I decide not to rise to the bait and hand him a few Sickles. ‘May I?’ I ask, noticing today’s Prophet folded neatly on the bar.
‘Yeah, it’s all yours. Full of the usual rubbish,’ he grumbles, ‘other than…’
But I’ve stopped listening as my world proceeds to crumble from beneath my feet.
~ * ~
That’s something I haven’t felt in a long time… Like being cocooned in a woollen blanket, floating on air…
‘Is he all right, do you think?’
‘Headmaster Snape is needing food, Mister Tom.’
Elf magic for sure. But here? How?
A jolt of pain ricochets up my spine as my arse hits the bare wood of the settle. Not the most gentle of levitation spells, by any means.
‘What happened?’
‘You, er… fainted, mate.’ Tom thrusts a glass at me. ‘Here. Drink this.’
The pungent aroma of Ogden’s best hitting my nostrils brings me back to my senses. I nod my thanks and knock it back.
‘You look like you needed that,’ Tom mutters. ‘On the house, by the way.’ He smiles, embarrassed, then returns to the bar, collecting glasses and tankards as he goes. ‘Kitchen, Maeve!’
I glance to my left to see a house-elf, fists dug into her hips, glowering at me. She looks vaguely familiar. ‘I know you. You’re…’
‘Headmaster Snape is to be eating Maeve’s pie right now!’
‘So… Maeve, eh?’
Hogwarts’ erstwhile second pastry-cook doesn’t bat an eye. ’New job, new name!’ she squeaks. ‘Now, eat.’
She watches as I pick up my fork and stab half-heartedly at the mashed potato before bringing it to my lips. ‘Up to your usual standard,’ I say, hoping to appease her so she’ll leave me alone, but no such luck. Despite Tom yelling that there are other customers in need of sustenance, Maeve remains unmoved until I’ve tackled some of the steak and gravy. ‘Satisfied?’
Apparently so, as she nods and leaves. I try to force down some more of the meat and potatoes, even though it tastes like dust, while I mentally struggle to make sense of what I’ve just read. I can’t believe that the Wizengamot could be so stupid as to—How could they? How could they let that monster out. Poor Draco. He was just starting to get back on his feet. And Miss Granger? What about Miss Granger? Gods, she must be in a terrible state. Will she even be able to continue? Have I lost my Mistress having only just found her?
I put down my knife and fork and push the plate away. That is not going to happen. Not if I have anything to do with it. Lucius is not going to ruin things for me this time…
Rising to my feet, I fish a Galleon out of my pocket to leave on the bar on my way out. I still have a gift to purchase for my Mistress—and I know now exactly what I’m going to get her.