Home | Members | Help | Submission Rules | Log In |
Recently Added | Categories | Titles | Completed Fics | Random Fic | Search | Top Fictions
SS/Canon

Insidious by Grainne [Reviews - 13]

<< >>

Would you like to submit a review?

Disclaimer and Thanks:

I acknowledge J. K. Rowling as the sole creator of the Potterverse and thank her for allowing us to play with her creation. I make no money from this work.

The beta crown (and my sincere gratitude) goes to Vaughn. All errors are my own. Feedback is always welcome.





Insidious

by Grainne






Chapter 4: Beguiling


Snape soon realised that, Unforgivable Curses and ancient rites notwithstanding, gaining Petunia Dursley’s trust was no easy matter. In fact, convincing deranged Lestrange of his loyalty to the Dark Lord seemed a lark in comparison. He had Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye’s unwavering support, of course, and, after the BADLAD team did indeed take a first in the Southeast Suburban Community Garden Spruce-Up (largely thanks to Snape’s concept and plant suggestions), he had a host of other venerable ladies singing his praises. He had dropped countless intriguing hints about his own importance and had reiterated time and again his genuine interest in Mrs Dursley’s gardening practices. He had even engaged in repulsive flattery of Mrs Dursley’s tastes in everything from teacakes to toothpaste. Still, it took Snape three excruciating weeks of Thursday teas and assorted “chance” meetings before he managed to wangle an invitation to number four, Privet Drive. Or, to be precise, to its gardens.

The time of the appointment—after lunch, but well before tea—had made it plain to Snape that he was not likely to be invited into the house. The stiff manner in which the invitation had been issued indicated that Mrs Dursley was doing this at the suggestion of her wealthy friend, not out of any great desire to entertain him. If Mrs Dursley had her way, Snape would, no doubt, be expected to look at the rosebushes and then scarper before any of the neighbours caught sight of him.

As he strode through Little Whinging, Snape occupied his mind with puzzling over why Mrs Dursley seemed to find him so off-putting. It was not a flattering exercise, to be sure, but it was better than losing himself in memories or fretting about the onerous duties that awaited him at Hogwarts.

Snape thought that it just might be his hair—he had caught Mrs Dursley glaring at it and then quickly averting her eyes on more than one occasion—but there was nothing much he could do about it. He wasn’t allowed to magically alter his appearance, and he’d be damned if he was going to get a Muggle haircut. There would be too many raised eyebrows amongst certain associates of his, for one thing, not to mention that start of term was less than a month away. And really, if Mrs Dursley was determined to hold his hair against him despite all of his impeccable credentials, what hope did he have? That would be more unreasonable than hating Muggles just because they were Muggles.

Today Snape had left the hat behind and had opted for tying his hair back at the nape of his neck. It was a style that he loathed—what good was long hair if you couldn’t hide behind it?—but a bowler hat seemed a bit formal for dropping round to look at rosebushes, and he needed to make a good impression. After all, he would not have Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye to hang on his every word and allay Mrs Dursley’s misgivings about his company.

Snape rounded the corner onto Privet Drive and proceeded along it, seemingly oblivious to all of the eyes watching him from behind very similar sets of net curtains. He made his way directly to number four, which he contemplated for a long moment before proceeding up the path. He was about to ring the doorbell when Mrs Dursley came round the side of the house.

“Good morning, Mr Prince.” She craned her neck this way and that, scanning the street. “You didn’t come by car?” She did nothing to disguise the disapproval in her voice. She didn’t know much about cars except what she’d picked up from Vernon (namely, that the newer, bigger and shinier they were, the better), but she did know that they allowed odd-looking men to arrive in a discreet fashion without the whole neighbourhood having a gander. She just hoped that no one had reported Mr Prince as a suspicious person.

“Not today,” Snape said smoothly. “I decided to take the train in and walk from the station, given the weather.” It was less misty than it had been in previous weeks, and now and then a ray of sunshine managed to penetrate the low cloud cover. Nevertheless, Snape saw the doubtful look on Mrs Dursley’s face as she peered up at the sky. He approached her and said, in a low voice, “Truth be told, Mrs Dursley, I fancied a look at the other gardens in your area. One never knows when or where one might find something extraordinary.”

“Oh? And did you?”

“Find something extraordinary? No.” Snape sighed. “All the gardens round here are rather common, if you ask me. Nice enough, tidy and all that, but the plants…”

“Yes?” Petunia was suddenly keen. No matter what she thought about Mr Prince on a personal level, hearing a professional horticulturalist dish dirt on her neighbours’ gardens was a gossip opportunity not to be missed.

Snape looked around warily, then leaned in and said, “Dull as dishwater. They’d be better off using their gardens to graze sheep. Or keep pigs.”

Petunia tittered, unable to hide her delight at discovering that she was, as she had always suspected, better than her neighbours in some fashion. She asked Mr Prince to follow her into the back garden, and there was a little spring in her step as she led him along the gravel path.

They’d barely drawn abreast of the greenhouse, however, when Petunia was struck by a terrible thought. Her flowerbeds were not so drastically different than those of her neighbours. In fact, if pressed, she would have to admit that the same agapanthuses, hydrangeas, and begonias could be seen up and down the street. Hers might very well be superior specimens, but would Mr Prince recognise this?

Without realising it, Petunia had slowed her steps while she considered the matter. Now she came to a full stop, suddenly not at all sure that she wanted to hear what Mr Prince had to say about her rosebushes or any of number four’s other horticultural attributes. She was so preoccupied that she did not notice that Mr Prince had come to a stop just behind her. When he suddenly spoke, low and in her ear, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Horticulture is at times a subtle art, Mrs Dursley. What may seem ordinary in one setting is transformed in another.” Snape gently eased himself around her, entered the garden, and began to pace from one rosebush to another. “The slightest variation in placement, colour, or planting pattern may mean the difference between the mundane and the marvellous. Good breeding of the individual plants is important, of course, but it is not an exact science, as some believe. Even the best stock produces aberrations on occasion, and, every so often, from low stock comes something truly special.”

Petunia stood, transfixed. In the overstuffed armchairs of the Woolley Arms or lurking in the Uppityton shops, Mr Prince had always seemed ridiculous and perhaps a tad sinister. Now, however, she saw him in a new light. He was self-possessed and purposeful as he prowled about. And the things he was saying, why, he almost sounded like…

Marge, Petunia thought. He sounds like Marge. Vernon had mentioned that Cornelia Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye was an acquaintance of his sister, and Mr Prince was an acquaintance of Cornelia. Had he ever met Marjorie Dursley? Had Marge ever told him about Harry? Oh, dear God, did Mr Prince know? But that didn’t make any sense, did it, because Marge always went round saying things like, “bad blood will out.” She never would have agreed with the things Mr Prince was saying about context and chance.

Besides, now that Petunia thought of it, Marge had denied knowing any Mr Prince. Vernon had rung her and asked. Yes, that had been over two weeks ago—Petunia should have remembered straight away because Vernon had chuckled over his sister’s response for some time afterward.

“And then she says—oh, she’s a great wit, Marge is—that she can’t say for certain, of course, as the only use she has for plants is for her dogs to piss on, and that, these days, she rarely notices any male who can’t be put on a lead! On a lead—can you imagine, Petunia?”

Petunia could not imagine. Or rather, she could imagine Marjorie Dursley saying such a thing, but she could not imagine anyone putting Mr Prince on a lead. Or rather, she could imagine Mr Prince on a lead (for the very image had popped into her mind at Vernon’s words), but the entire concept was too disturbing to think about, and she’d never speak of it to a soul. Little spots of colour blossomed on Petunia’s cheeks as she watched Mr Prince stalk from rosebush to rosebush.

“And speaking of special,” Snape went on, “this James Mason is simply divine. If I may?” He bent lower and looked inquisitively at Mrs Dursley.

Petunia started, and the spots of colour grew into an overall flush. At first, she was puzzled, but when she realised that he was asking her leave to have a sniff, she laughed nervously and nodded. He lowered his overlarge nose into the centre of one of the scarlet blooms, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, it was with a noisy, “Ahhhhh.”

“Perfection,” he announced. “Truly.” He took another small sniff and then returned to Mrs Dursley’s side. “So, we must see about the entry forms directly. The deadline is Saturday.”

“Entry forms?” Petunia said, befuddled.

“For the Best Kept Garden Secrets showcase. You simply must enter that James Mason, Mrs Dursley. It’s a sure winner in Scintillating Scents and Classic Colours.”

“Best Kept Garden Secrets?”

“Up in—ah—Todmorden. I know it is a bit of a jaunt, but really, you must enter. You can’t keep something like this all for yourself. And I’d be honoured to take care of all the details; you needn’t lift a finger, or even attend, unless you wished.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the Best Kept Suburban Lawn Competition, would it?” Petunia said suspiciously.

“The what? Never heard of it. At any rate, who cares about grass when you have such an ideal specimen of flowerhood flourishing under your very nose? And not a sign of the black spot either. You must tell me your secret—I insist!”

“Well, I,” Petunia floundered. The truth was that, although she’d heard about the dreaded black spot, she hadn’t a clue how to recognise it, let alone prevent it. She simply assumed that something so foul sounding would never dare sully her garden. In the past, if one of her rosebushes had started to look poorly, she’d simply put it down to inferior breeding, purchased a suitable replacement at the garden centre and made Vernon switch them at night when the neighbours couldn’t see. “I really don’t know what to tell you, Mr Prince. My roses have always been healthy.”

Snape looked at Mrs Dursley appraisingly. “Very well, very well. I don’t suppose I’ve earned it yet. I’ll say no more about it for now, but perhaps after I’ve got you that prize at Todmorden you’ll reconsider. When shall we meet to discuss the details?”

Petunia put a hand to her forehead. This was moving awfully fast. She’d only agreed to let Mr Prince come round to see her garden. She certainly didn’t intend to make a habit out of meeting him privately. “You know, I will have to check our calendar. My husband, Vernon—”

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” Snape interrupted. “I’m meant to pass you a message from our mutual friend. It concerns your husband.”

“Yes?” Petunia asked, curious.

“Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye told me how disappointed your husband was that her stepson couldn’t attend the Spruce-Up prize-giving last week.”

“Yes, well, given that he was the key sponsor, we thought it a little—”

“I must, of course, apologise for my own absence,” Snape cut in. Mrs Dursley coloured again and looked away. Evidently, she hadn’t been the slightest bit upset by his absence, which was not surprising. Snape had always been appreciated more as a behind-the-scenes man. “Unlike Mr. Blye, I can’t blame it on the trains, but I assure you that only the most pressing of matters kept me from witnessing your—well, our—triumph.”

“Er, Mr Prince,” Petunia said, flustered. “We all appreciate—”

Snape held up a hand. “I am a modest man, Mrs Dursley. I find that, after so many years in a single line of work, prizes and public recognition mean little to me. What I most desire is the challenge; what I most enjoy is the chance to share my knowledge with others and, of course, to use what little influence I have to benefit my friends.”

And if she swallows that, Snape thought, I have a whole other cartload. He smiled at her, noting, as he did so, that it was another thing that seemed to unnerve her. Well, perhaps an unnerved Petunia Dursley was exactly what was needed.

“Now, as I was saying, your husband was most disappointed not to meet Kevin Blye.”

“I am well aware of my husband’s feelings, Mr Prince.”

“Naturally,” Snape said, and smiled again. “But Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye wishes you to know that, at first, she too was chagrined at the lost opportunity. I think she has it in her mind that Mr. Blye and your husband might get on well together…in a business sense, of course.”

Petunia wanted to ask, “And in what other sense is there?” but she refrained, in part because she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to hear the answer, and in part because she knew that whatever Mr Prince was about to say next might mean shopping at Marks & Sparks every day, with weekend trips to Harrods and holidays in Majorca.

“But Kevin Blye is notoriously fussy about who he deals with,” Snape went on, “and so, on second thought, she thinks that the train delay might have been a blessing in disguise. She thinks the better approach would be to train your husband up a bit, if you’ll pardon the expression, and then carefully orchestrate a meeting.”

“Train him up in what?” Petunia said, shocked. “I assure you that Vernon is a perfectly competent businessman. His office is on the ninth floor. It has a window. He’s—”

“I meant no offence, Mrs Dursley. It’s only that Kevin Blye is, well, how to put this…” Snape leaned toward Mrs Dursley, amused at the way her apparent revulsion of his person and her penchant for gossip warred within her. Her head swayed back and forth on her long neck. It reminded him a bit of those weird dolls with the wobbly heads (four Muggles in blue suits, each holding a different instrument) his Aunt Adamina had given him for his fifth birthday. Whatever had happened to those?

“Yes?” Petunia hissed, practically spitting in Snape’s face.

Snape frowned. He had to work on controlling these reminiscences; perhaps he’d have a word with Dumbledore about them.

“He has very particular tastes, if you know what I mean,” Snape said. Petunia blinked. “I’m sure your husband is a fine man, Mrs Dursley, but if he isn’t prepared for Mr Blye’s little eccentricities, he might rub him the wrong way, and that would be most unfortunate, don’t you agree?”

Petunia nodded dumbly. She didn’t really understand what Mr Prince was trying to say about Mr Blye—she was used to the more blatant innuendos provided by the gossip rags—but she did understand what was at stake.

“It is a shame the way some people let their personal prejudices interfere in their business arrangements, but there you have it. Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye just wanted you to know that she is on your side in the matter.” Snape stared into Mrs Dursley’s eyes. Without Legilimency to necessitate and legitimise it, it was an uncomfortable business. “Incidentally,” he added, “she also asked me to help in any way I can.”

“You?”

Snape nodded. “I know a thing or two about Mr Blye, which I’d be happy to share with your husband if—oh, but look at the time! I must dash; I’ve got a ground cover consult in Dorking in a half-hour’s time.” Snape turned to go, but he hadn’t taken more than two steps when Mrs Dursley tremulously called his name.

“Mr Prince? Er…about that flower show, when did you say the deadline was, for the entry forms?”

“Saturday.”

“Well,” Petunia said, smiling obsequiously, “why don’t you come round for a drink Friday evening, and we can go over the forms.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Snape replied hastily.

“No, no, I insist,” Petunia said. “My husband should really…would really like to meet you.”

“You don’t need to check your calendar?”

“Not,” Petunia said regally, the colour high in her cheeks, “for Friday. I distinctly recall that this Friday evening is free. Eight o’clock?”

“I look forward to it,” Snape replied with a little bow.

He left Mrs Dursley standing next to her rosebushes and hurriedly retraced his steps through the suburban Muggle wilderness that was Little Whinging to his chosen Apparition spot. Spinner’s End was looking better and better by the minute, for at least there the drab conformity was not by choice. What’s more, a few sausage rolls and something from his mother’s stash of elf-made wine would go a long way toward helping him forget all of the disgusting phrases he’d just uttered. There had been a few moments there when he’d sounded disturbingly like Lockhart.

Petunia stood staring at her supposedly divine James Mason for several minutes after Mr Prince departed, mulling over all of the things he’d said, worrying about how best to present all of this information to Vernon, and wondering if she should have pointed out to Mr Prince that, unless he could fly, he would never make it to Dorking within thirty minutes.

*******


At five of eight on Friday evening, Petunia rushed downstairs into the lounge and announced, “He’s on his way. I’ve just spotted him coming round the corner.”

“Humph!” Vernon said. He had practically bet Petunia that Mr Prince would be late—head in the petals and all that. He puffed himself up as large as he could (which, surprisingly, was quite a bit larger than his already large size) and peered through the bay window. “Where? I don’t see…”

Petunia edged around her husband’s bulk and had a quick peep through the bay window herself (though she’d only just left off looking out their bedroom window). “There, in front of number fifteen,” she said. She fell back from the window, unsure of whether she should greet Mr Prince in the hall or drape herself on the sofa.

This uncertainty had been going on all day. Petunia had worked herself into a froth cleaning house, rearranging sofa cushions, and deciding what to serve for (and with) drinks. She desperately wanted to impress Mr Prince without it appearing as if she’d gone to any special trouble. She also desperately wished that she could somehow let all of her neighbours know that she would never entertain characters of Mr Prince’s appearance without good reason. She had given Vernon strict instructions to shout, “The gentleman from the Royal Horticultural Society wants a word,” if Mr Prince should phone, but, alas, he had not phoned, and none of Petunia’s other imagined name-dropping opportunities had materialised.

Vernon had another look through the window. “He’s on foot? Doesn’t he have a car? Preposterous!” he said with equal measures of scorn and triumph. Mr Prince might not be late, but he was certainly not arriving in the normal, prescribed fashion.

“Of course he has a car,” Petunia said irritably. “But I expect he took the train and walked from the station. That’s what he did last time—said he wanted a look at the gardens.”

“Preposterous!” Vernon repeated, shaking his head.

“He thinks ours superior.”

“Well.” Vernon deflated slightly and pulled at his tie. “Naturally. What’s that he’s got under his arm?”

But there was no more time for speculation, as Mr Prince was turning into the front garden path. Vernon puffed himself up once more and went into the hall. Petunia remained into the lounge. A moment later, however, she appeared in the hall and vigorously tugged on her husband’s elbow.

“Go sit down,” she said quickly. “I’ll greet him.”

“But—” Vernon protested.

“Go!” Petunia urged. “This way makes you look too eager. I’m the one who knows him; I should be the one to show him in and introduce you. Sit in one of the armchairs—you look so magisterial in an armchair.”

Vernon frowned, but as he couldn’t find any great flaw in her assessment, he did as she bade him. He settled himself into the armchair nearest the drinks trolley and, as a consolation for not getting to intimidate Mr Prince at the door, put on his best senior management face. Mr Prince might be able to give Vernon an in with Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye and her stepson, but he would be damned if he was going to play toady to a plant fancier in his own home. Vernon was determined to spend the evening being indifferent and/or condescending, demonstrating that he could hold his own with the likes of Kevin Blye, thank you very much.

While Vernon preened in the lounge, Petunia opened the door to Mr Prince, who was once more dressed in his typical dark suit and bowler hat. Grey eyes met black. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Petunia murmured greetings and fell back into the hall with a gesture of welcome, and Mr Prince stepped swiftly over the threshold. At that very moment, far away to the north, hidden in a little-known, well-guarded room deep within the bowels of Hogwarts, the glowing contents of a stone basin began to simmer at a furious pace. Tiny bubbles broke the surface and burst, sending off reddish sparks into the dim chamber.

*******


“He’s a fine looking boy,” Snape said, replacing the photo on the mantel. “Cornelia was very impressed with the way he helped at the Spruce-Up.”

“Takes after his father,” Vernon said, beaming. He chose not to mention that Dudley had been bribed magnificently for his services that afternoon. Vernon thought that this demonstrated that his son had a canny mind for business opportunities, but Mr Prince might think otherwise, and Vernon didn’t particularly want to cross Mr Prince at the moment. After all, Mr Prince had brought that very excellent bottle of brandy (all thoughts of feigning indifference and condescension had dissipated round about Vernon’s third glass of liquor); Mr Prince had been telling him the most outrageous things about Mr Blye; and, best of all, Mr Prince seemed wholly inclined to assist Vernon in winning that exclusive contract. True, Mr Prince looked like a bit of a ponce with that preposterous hair, but he was all right. And he was dangling an awfully big carrot. “Now, what was that you were saying about personal secretaries?”

Snape turned toward Mr Dursley. The man’s cheeks were ruddy and his piggy eyes were glazed with drink. He listed in his armchair, the hand not holding his glass absently plucking at his trouser knee. Snape smiled. It seemed that the bottle of very very old Armagnac he’d brought had not been a waste, which was a relief, as he’d flogged a first edition of Kitty Foyle at a used bookseller’s for the money to buy it. The book must have belonged to—and been beloved by—a member of his father’s family at some point (unless his mother had had a secret penchant for Muggle literature), but Snape had found it standing in for the back legs of his night table, which had either fallen off or disappeared into the “about fixing” cupboard, that mythical place in the Snape household where Tobias Snape squirreled away all of the broken appliances, toys, and bits of furniture that he insisted on repairing himself, the Muggle way.

“Tobias, what have you done with the handle off the meat mincer?”

“I’m about fixing it.”

“And the girders from Severus’s Meccano set?”

“About fixing. He bent ‘em.”

“And the legs off the kitchen stool.”

“About fixing.”

“Hmm…that ‘about fixing’ cupboard of yours must be getting quite crowded.”


Snape had heard his parents go on like this on numerous occasions, but he’d never really given it much thought. Now he wondered what his father really had done with all of the broken bits and pieces—he knew for certain that he’d never seen those girders again. Suppose there had been a physical place, a hidden cupboard that his mother didn’t know about or had never bothered to look for; suppose all that stuff was still in the house somewhere. Suppose—

“Mr Prince?”

“Hmm?” Snape discovered, to his great alarm, that he was standing near the fireplace in a strange living room with a large Muggle looking anxiously up at him. Snape stared down his nose at the Muggle until he remembered who Mr Dursley was and what he, Snape, was doing in his living room. Snape blinked, took a hasty sip of his drink and pointed to another of the photographs on the mantel. “And where was this one taken?”

Vernon chuckled. He knew what Mr Prince was up to. The man did have something juicy to offer, but he had no doubt been instructed by Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye to save it until the last moment. He decided to play along. “Oh, that was on a camping trip a few years back. Or, rather, it was supposed to be a camping trip, but we ended up staying at an inn.”

“Oh? Foul weather send you indoors?”

Vernon shook his head. “Snakes, would you believe it? A whole ruddy mess of adders, right on our campsite. None of us are particularly fond of snakes, given what happened at the z—oh, but surely our little family adventures are of no interest to a man like yourself?”

“No, no,” Snape protested. “Please, continue. Did you say you had trouble with snakes on the—”

“Plain, or with nuts?” Petunia trilled, sweeping back into the lounge. She held an antique crystal dish piled high with chocolates. She’d debated with herself in the kitchen about offering something more substantial, as the men had been drinking quite a lot (Vernon had nearly given in and told his naughty horticulturalist joke until Petunia had stopped him), but her vanity had got the better of her. She was determined to use the crystal dish in front of Mr Prince to show him that, though she might occasionally take advantage of the savings at Tesco, he was dealing with quality people. There had been a matching platter once, but it had gone to Lily, and Petunia could only assume that it had been either destroyed or stolen on that awful night. Without that platter, Petunia felt she had nothing appropriate for serving extra nibbles. She flat out refused to put electroplate or ordinary china next to antique crystal.

Each of the men took a chocolate—Vernon, plain; Mr Prince, one with nuts—and Petunia set the dish down in the centre of a small table, where she thought the lamplight would illuminate it to its best effect.

“Mr Prince has just been admiring the photos of Dudders,” Vernon said. Now it was Petunia’s turn to beam.

“It is a pity he’s not here. I would have liked to meet him,” Snape said, adding one more to the pile of lies he’d been telling all evening. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t feel a slight (and admittedly perverse) curiosity about Potter’s childhood tormentor, but that was a long way from desiring Dudley’s company.

“Oh, well, you know—boys, summer holidays,” Vernon said vaguely, eyeing his own glass, which was once again empty. “Now, about—”

“I don’t know what his friends would do without him,” Petunia cut in. “I think they rather look to him as their leader. Do you have children, Mr Prince?” Petunia regretted the words the instant they’d left her lips, for they caused the most unusual expression of alarm on Mr Prince’s lean face. Vernon shot her a dark look.

“No, Mrs Dursley,” Snape said. He took a largish swallow of his drink, and then scowled. “Although I am a sort of uncle to a great many, so I am familiar with their habits.”

Vernon gave a loud, false laugh. “They can’t all turn out like our Dudley, now, can they?”

Snape looked over the array of photographs on the mantel—all of a massive, clearly spoilt, and dull-looking young man—and shook his head. “No, Mr Dursley, they can’t.” And thank several Muggle and wizarding deities for that. “You are…truly blessed.” He gave the proud parents his most beatific smile, which was horrible indeed.

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Petunia dived for the dish of chocolates and offered them to Mr Prince again, noticing, out of the corner of her eye, that her husband had taken the opportunity to sneak a further measure of brandy. Mr Prince dutifully popped another chocolate into his mouth and crossed to the sofa, where Petunia (after replacing the dish and looking pointedly at her husband’s glass to let him know that she wasn’t a fool) joined him and tried not to notice the way his oily locks brushed against her upholstery.

Mrs Dursley began to natter on about the flower show, and Snape, who was still feeling a bit odd, was happy to let her. They’d sorted the entry forms shortly after Snape’s arrival, but she was evidently curious as to various details, for she fired questions at him in an unnecessarily cheery chat-show hostess voice. She’d had a drink or two herself at the beginning of the evening (no doubt to calm her nerves), and her face was unusually animated.

Snape assured her that he would take the rose cutting himself, but that, in the event he had pressing business elsewhere, one of his associates would gladly take over the duty of transporting and displaying the specimen. As the showcase was taking place on the seventh of September, Snape already knew that he did, in fact, have pressing business elsewhere (he’d rather face the Dark Lord with “SNEAK” tattooed across his forehead than ask Dumbledore for leave the first full weekend of term), but he planned to send Mrs Dursley a note to that effect last-minute. He would explain that family matters at an estate up north would necessitate his absence for some time, express his great regret at missing their weekly teas at the Woolley Arms, and hint that he might be socially available some weekend in October.

“Do you really think I might win?” Petunia asked.

“Yes,” Snape said matter-of-factly.

Petunia waited for Mr Prince to elaborate (she had rather hoped that he would make his little “horticultural arts” speech again for Vernon’s benefit). When he did not, she settled for another string of questions: “What drew you to horticulture? How long have you been with the RHS exactly? Do you know many of the judges personally?”

“Petunia!” Vernon admonished, waggling one of his thick fingers. “We invited the man round for drinks, not for an interview. Besides, he probably gets nothing but twigs and berries all day long; you’ll make him think he’s still on the clock.”

Petunia turned red and looked away, her hands clenched in her lap. Snape hid his face in his glass and tried not to laugh.

“Now, Mr Prince,” Vernon said, leaning forward in his chair, “you were saying something earlier about Mr Blye’s feelings regarding personal secretaries?”

Snape finally managed to look Vernon straight in the eye and say casually, “Oh, was I?”

“Yes, yes, you were,” Vernon said, nodding enthusiastically, his great jowls quivering. “You said—well, we never quite got to what it was you said, but I am certain that you were about to say, that is to say, ahem, that you did mention the subject. In passing. I believe. Earlier.” Vernon peered from his wife to Mr Prince, puzzled as to why the former would not meet his eye and the latter was staring at him most disconcertingly. His speech grew stilted and uncertain as he scrambled to recall if he’d said something inappropriate.

Just then, Snape felt a searing pain in his left forearm. He didn’t gasp or twitch or alter his gaze, but he did mentally reel off several expletives. Summons never meant good news these days, but this was, in addition, very bad timing.

“Ah, so I did,” Snape said, the sinking feeling in his gut at complete odds with the relief that washed over Vernon Dursley’s face. He went on, acutely aware that he was rushing his words. “Yes, Kevin Blye tends to judge potential business associates by their personal secretaries. He’s very odd about that, so you’ll want to make sure that yours is up to speed on all the things we spoke of earlier. In addition, she should be highly efficient, deferential, and of smart appearance.” Snape ignored the way Mr Dursley was now goggling at him and added, “None of which should be a problem where you are concerned, should it, Mr Dursley? But I did feel I should warn you.”

Vernon spluttered. Petunia got over her embarrassment and came to his rescue. “Well, actually, Mr Prince, Vernon is between secretaries at the moment.”

“Is that so?” Snape already knew from Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye that it was so, but only just. The new top brass at Grunnings, after vetting senior management practices, had decided that Vernon did not really need a secretary devoted exclusively to his position, and had reassigned Miss Fritter to what they were now calling “The Ninth Floor Team.” Miss Fritter, rightly seeing the small pay rise they’d offered her as poor compensation for being shouted at daily, not just by Vernon, but also by four other supercilious old gasbags, had promptly quit. They had yet to find a replacement.

“That is unfortunate,” Snape added. “Still, perhaps it is an opportunity in disguise. You can keep Mr Blye’s tastes in mind when interviewing new applicants.”

Petunia gave a brittle laugh. “Really, Mr Prince, I don’t think my husband would hire someone just because she appealed to one of his potential clients.”

“Not even if that client was a member of the Institute of Directors—a very active member, I might add, who sits on the policy panel and has a decade’s worth of networking experience? What we’re talking about here is a whole lot bigger than flogging Grunnings’ drills in Blye’s DIY stores, Mrs Dursley. Kevin Blye could help pave the way to, to—”

“Majorca,” Petunia and Vernon said in unison, eyes shining.

“Er, yes,” Snape said. “Exactly.” Actually, he had been about to paint the Dursleys a vision of access to the lions of British business, fabulous cross-promotional schemes featuring Grunnings’ products, and entrée into a certain level of Muggle society, but if they were content with a package holiday at the beach…well, he wasn’t going to argue. The Dark Lord’s summons was becoming more agonising by the minute.

“And now, I’m afraid I must be off if I want to catch my train.”

Amidst the ensuing protests, Snape managed to convey to the cockeyed Mr Dursley what a pleasure it had been to meet him at last; to the distracted Mrs Dursley, how delighted he was that she’d decided to enter her James Mason in the showcase; and to them both how honoured he was to have met and befriended such fine people as themselves.

“And send a message to me through Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye if you’re still having trouble on the secretary issue. I know of one or two people who might suit,” Snape said to Vernon in parting. To Mrs Dursley, he merely expressed his sincere thanks for her hospitality.

All too soon (given what awaited him), Snape was out the door and onto the pavement, striding past houses whose occupants could have little guessed his destination, even in their darkest nightmares. When he was well away from the Dursleys', Snape slipped into an alleyway. There he Transfigured his Muggle attire into something more suitable, removed all traces of Muggle liquor and chocolates from his breath, and, with a rude gesture to the Fates for having served him thus, Disapparated.

Insidious by Grainne [Reviews - 13]

<< >>

Disclaimers
Terms of Use
Credits

Copyright © 2003-2007 Sycophant Hex
All rights reserved