Act Two: La Belle Sorcière Avec Merci

You Reap What You Sow

In the narrow confines of the phone-box elevator, Severus held Hermione simply because there was not enough space not to hold her.

With a nasty crunch, the telephone box arrived at its destination. The door jerked open, and he could have sworn that the floor tilted, heaving them convulsively onto the dirty pavement of Muggle London.

‘You have been exiled from the wizarding world for a period of exactly seven years,’ a tinny voice blared from a dirty black speaker.‘Or, in other words, for a period of 91.3106279 months or 365.2425116 weeks or 2556.6975810 days or 61360.7419444 hours or 3681644.5166667 minutes or …’

Severus slammed the door shut before the voice could get started on the seconds.

Outside it was raining, of course, never mind that it was August, and the middle of summer.

For a long moment Severus stood in the pouring rain and just stared at Hermione. She was transforming into a drenched poodle right in front of him, her curls sticking miserably to her head. She stared right back, eyes wide, shocked, and very brown. Shadows moved within them, making him realise that Legilimency was a kind of magic no one could ever take away from him. Without thinking, he bent down, his gaze locked with hers.

For a split second, he saw her standing in front of an old carousel on an abandoned playground. But before he could process the impression, she blinked, and time started again.

Someone behind him cleared his throat. ‘Ahh, Prof– Mr. Snape?’

Severus whirled around, fingers snatching, but touching just an empty sleeve. He had to exert all of his self-control not to ball his hands into fists.

A fat young Muggle — no, he thought, and something twisted sickly inside his stomach. Not a Muggle. That is not an applicable category anymore.

A fat young man stood before him. Solemn, slightly stupid expression fixed between a wobbly chin and watery blue eyes, crowned with a mop of curly blond hair. And although visibly nervous now, a man used to violence. Severus narrowed his eyes. But the stranger had taken a step backwards. Keeping his hands down and at his sides, he presented his empty palms. Though scared and in the defensive, the man’s stance was solid. For some reason he reminded Severus of Harry.

‘My name is Dudley Dursley,’ the man said, as he warily extended his hand. ‘I promised Harry to come and collect you — if, if it came to — well, and it has, and so I’m here. Uh. Hi. And err… you must be Hermione.’

That is Tuney’s boy? Severus caught himself just before he could shake his head. Dudley was at least twice as wide as Potter. Potter. Bile rose in his throat. What in Merlin’s name did the prat think, sicking Tuney’s whelp on him? Did Potter think that he needed his pity? Severus swallowed hard, as his mind mercilessly supplied a succinct assessment of the situation. What Potter thought was very simple: that both Severus and Hermione would need all the help they could get, thrown out of the wizarding world without a knut to their name and no more than the robes on their backs — damn, they’d have to get rid of the robes as soon as possible, or they’d arouse attention they could ill-afford. And fuck, where did this ‘they’ come from? There was no ‘they’!

With a taste in his mouth that was bitter like armadillo bile, Severus shook Dudley’s hand. ‘How do you do.’

He turned to give Hermione room to greet Dudley as well, but she just stared at the man with wild eyes. Severus wondered if she was in shock. She was shivering slightly, and white as a sheet. Fuck. I should just leave both of them standing here, gawping at each other in the rain.

And then what? a nasty little voice inside his mind asked. As if you have so many good friends in the M— in this world that it would be just piece of piss for you to find a place to hole up while you figure out what to do next.

‘You reap what you sow,’ Severus muttered.

He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulder and drew her against him. She was indeed trembling. Shaking like a leaf, in fact. Oh, damn.

Dudley’s soft look said more than words. Thankfully, the traffic noise covered the sound of Severus’ grinding his teeth.

When they reached Dudley’s car, Severus’ snort roused Hermione enough to make her stammer, ‘What — what a pretty car you’ve got there, D- d- dudd- Dudley.’

It was a baby-blue Austin Mini.

Somehow they squeezed inside. Huddled against Severus, Hermione mumbled, ‘That’s what gave me the idea for my bag, actually — tiny cars and drawers. They can hold so much more than it looks like from the outside. Especially drawers. Muggle ones. Boxes not even as big as a square foot, and they still can eat your socks.’

Severus remembered the beaded bag she’d created for that ill-conceived camping trip with Potter and Weasley. Quite an ingenious bit of spellwork — he had to grant her that. And like her silly bag, the girl held more than it appeared from the outside. He grimaced. So much promise. All of it wasted, now.

‘However shall I cope now, with just an ordinary Muggle handbag, I wonder?’ Hermione went on. ‘Though my mother always seemed to fit everything into her handbag, including the kitchen sink.’ She giggled shrilly.

Severus frowned. She was babbling. Definitely shock, then.

Suddenly the car lurched to a halt. Severus jerked. Worrying about Hermione had at least kept his mind off their method of travelling. Now he gulped at the red lights looming in the twilight above them. The irony didn’t escape him: he who’d never trusted anyone since Lily’s betrayal was forced to trust a tin on wheels and a pudgy Muggle with his life.

And Hermione’s. He tightened his hold on her. At least they’d have been Apparated to Azkaban …