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Unintentional Inveiglement	By : onecelestialbeing Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 130116 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and it's characters and making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 45
- 46
- 47
A/N: Remember, I have a facebook page for anyone that likes running their mouth and being exposed to tawdry jokes and random things. It's my penname, one celestialbeing ;) I'd love to have you!

"All right, love?"
Hermione turned her head to see a grey-haired man who looked old enough to be her grandfather. There was warmth in his hazel eyes as he peered curiously at her. Running her eyes over his uniform, she came across a large officious-looking name tag hanging around his neck that proclaimed him to work for London Heathrow Airport.
"Yes. I'm fine, thank you," Hermione stammered once she finally found her voice.
Just fifteen minutes ago, she had numbly walked away from Terminal Three, continuing on past the cafe where the scent of burnt coffee beans hung heavily. Hurrying away from the acrid scent, Hermione didn't realise that she had been slumped against a wall for the last five minutes, looking completely dejected. A few passerbys had given her a curious look, but most went on their way without batting an eye. Telling herself that she most likely looked like a nutter lurking near the loo, hence the reason for the security guard calling to her, Hermione stood up properly and smoothed her hair out of her face.
"Let me guess," the security guard continued as if he saw unhappy looking young women with tendencies to loiter on a regular basis. "You had to see your feller off, that's why you look as if you've lost your best friend. Or a lady friend. Am I right?"
"Something like that," Hermione told the man, forcing a smile while trying to keep tears at bay.
"I didn't just happen upon these greys without experiencing a broken heart or two myself," he replied jovially, pointing to his thinning hair and winking at her. "Surely you'll be seeing them again, faster than you expect."
"I'm sure you're right. Thanks again."
After the man nodded his head and walked away, Hermione hurried off in the opposite direction, still doing her best to keep it all in until she made it outside.
That day had started out with no unusual occurrences. Mrs Granger had fussed and carried on, yelling to her husband and daughter that she wanted them to bring down their suitcases, even though their flight was not due for another eight hours. Mr Granger made the perilous mistake of pointing this out, and the tongue-lashing he received did nothing but make him give a short "Yes, dear," to his wife while playfully nudging his daughter, whispering that he was going to be sent to the naughty step for his cheek.
Hermione did everything her parents requested of her that morning, giving nothing away of her future plans. They had breakfast together, and she even suggested things to do once they were in Australia. Little did the Mr and Mrs Granger know that in a few short hours, their lives would be forever changed.
It had taken Hermione an inordinate amount of time to find just the right spell she needed. Most of her research had to be conducted at night, not wanting her parents to happen upon her as she trawled page after page of old tomes that did not look like her usual reading material. At some point she thought about the extensive library belonging to Snape, but then remembered that one, she had no way of accessing his collection, and two, that she had no idea of his whereabouts as he was wanted for murder. That last conundrum almost hadn't mattered to her; Hermione would have risked the chance of asking for Snape's help if it meant keeping her parents alive.
Just as she had been ready to give up, feeling discouraged when the majority of her books led her down a road of utter confusion, a small paragraph of text had given her a smidge of hope. Outlined was a brief discussion of modified memory charms, mostly used for long yet temporary purposes. Casting the spell was purported to be easy, but it was the modification of thought and memories where things tended to go pear-shaped.
The week before the Grangers' trip to Australia, Hermione used the time to memorise everything she learned about the spell, which had to be carried out in two parts. The night before their flight, she waited until her parents were asleep before creeping into their bedroom and pointing her wand at their quiescent figures, uttering the words to the first part of the charm. The second casting had to be carried out within twenty-four hours of its initial one and that had taken part at the airport.
It would have been strange to hug her parents in farewell, as they'd believed their daughter to be getting on the plane with them. Before going through security and border patrol, Hermione had feigned dropping her wallet out of her handbag. Hiding among the cluster of strangers' legs, she remained stooped down to withdraw the tip of her wand from its hiding place up her sleeve.
Not being able to properly say goodbye to her parents had been heartbreaking, but surreptiously aiming her wand from the floor at their turned backs and ridding them of every memory of their only daughter was the final blow. Mr and Mrs Granger had given no indication that anything had taken place; they had gone on talking with one another as well other people standing in the queue, murmuring things about the weather and the long wait. When they didn't turn around to unerringly give their daughter one last glimpse of their faces, it had taken Hermione every bit of self-control to not collapse right in full view of everyone. Surprisingly, she did a good job of holding it together, and hastily grabbed her belongings and ducked out of the queue to dash across the terminal.
Roughly wiping at her damp eyes with the heel of her hand, Hermione continued through the sliding doors in aims of finding the taxi rank. It was raining, but the time spent walking out of the airport and to the rank, she barely noticed the water hitting her hair and making it bushier than usual. Locating an available black car proved easy, and Hermione fumbled with the door handle, unceremoniously dragging her suitcase into the back seat with her.
"Where to, love?" asked the cabbie, a burly man with a shaved head and an England shirt, an earring, and tattoos covering both arms.
"East Finchley Tube Station," Hermione responded in monotone, staring out at the fat raindrops pelting the window. Glancing cursorily through the windscreen, she saw that the cabbie was going the right way instead of taking the scenic route to raise the fare, and she turned her attention back to the rain.
"So what's with the long face?" earring-and-tattoo asked after fifteen minutes of stark silence had passed with them travelling comfortably on the M4 towards London. Hermione didn't know that the cabbie had been peeking at her with intrigue using his rearview mirror, immediately honing in on her bereft expression. "Come on, it can't be that bad," he pressed when Hermione remained silent.
The corner of Hermione's mouth lifted marginally; she forgot that London cabbies had tendencies to be chatty. Some of them were ranty, and others could be downright philosophical. The idea of pouring out her heart to the burly, tattooed man that might have appeared menacing to a person that judged someone on looks alone, could be interesting. Yet after peering over the edge of the seat, Hermione noticed photographs of the man, one of him with a small girl on his knee who was clutching a tawny kitten to her chest, and another with him kneeling beside an elderly grey-haired woman in a wheelchair, she decided that he was harmless.
"My life is a bit of a mess," Hermione answered, while taking care in choosing her words. "I recently had to make some very difficult decisions, although I'm not sure if they were the right ones."
"Vague, but it's a start," said cabbie. "Well then, I'll ask you this: is it so bad that it can't be undone? I'll go out on a limb here and assume that you've not murdered anyone, but if the answer to that is 'yes', then yeah, might be a bit of a problem."
"Just a bit?" Hermione chuckled lightly. The memory charm she used on her parents could be reversed, but even so.... "But no, it's nothing like that. And yes, I suppose I can fix my mistakes, if you could call it that."
"There you are! Now, what about your boyfriend?"
There was a brief silence as Hermione tried to suss out the man's angle at the shift in conversational topics. "I beg your pardon?"
"I promise I'm not hitting on you," cabbie quickly told her, "but I know that look. And besides, the pretty ones always have boyfriends. So what happened with you and yours? Did you have a row?"
Hermione reeled a bit from being referred to as pretty. She had never thought of herself as hopeless, but pretty was not something she often felt, especially at that moment. Even though she was out of the rain, she could tell that her damp curls had continued expanding; there were dark circles beneath her eyes from not being able to sleep, and on top of it all, she had thrown on the first pieces of clothing her fingers touched that morning. Pretty was laughable...
"Something like that," Hermione replied in response to the driver's query about her 'boyfriend'."I came back from school and haven't heard from him since."
The car was now whizzing along the motorway, and a blue lorry suddenly cut them off and slammed on the brakes.
"Fucking twat!" cabbie swore as he slammed down on his own brakes. "I hate these fucking lorry drivers, no respect for the road or anyone else. Excuse my French, love. Now where were we? Ah, yes, the boyfriend. Is he a nice bloke? Does he treat you right?"
Thinking about Severus and the many times he had gone beyond the call of duty when it came to welfare, putting at risk his own life...she would say, without a doubt, that he treated her well. True, he had a sharp tongue and called a spade a spade, but he never lied and malicious was not a word she could use to describe him.
"Yes, he's been very good to me," she responded, almost painfully at the brief flashback of moments shared between the two. "Not that everything was roses, but even so..."
"Nothing ever is," cabbie replied sagely as he nodded his head. "But if it's worth having, it's worth fighting for. Of course, these young ones'll drive you mad if you let them. Your young man go to Uni with you?"
Not exactly...Hermione answered inwardly. "Yes, we met at Uni." That wasn't a complete lie; she had met Snape at a school, not Uni, but the cabbie did not need to know the gory details.
"Try this, next time you see that feller of yours, give'em hell. If he turns tail and runs like some pouf instead of trying to sort things with you, let him go off with the next slag. You don't need someone who's all talk and no trousers. Trust me, you'll regret it in the long run."
Hermione murmured in quiet agreement. The cabbie wasn't in need of further encouragement, and seemed quite capable of carrying on a conversation in spite of her taciturn behaviour. She learned that his name was Niall, and with a beefy hand he pointed to the photographs fastened to the dashboard. The elderly woman in the wheelchair was his Nan, and the little girl with the kitten was his four-year-old niece, Elsie, whom he proclaimed to love as if she were his own and have spoilt rotten.
When Niall neared Hermione's home, she had him drop her off where he could not see her address, yet was close enough to walk.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, digging into her handbag to withdraw a handful of notes. To her surprise, Niall waved a dismissive hand.
"Put your money away. This one's on me."
"Really...are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. You go on, and remember what I told you about your man—if he doesn't come around..." Niall brandished one hamfist that was explanation enough, and that made Hermione crack a smile.
"Thanks, I will."
Even though Niall had told her that she didn't have to pay her fare, it did not stop Hermione from pressing a folded note into his hand before getting out the cab. Once he had driven off, she began making her way towards her house. She had just set her suitcase down in the hallway and was on her way to the bathroom when the phone rang.
"Hello?" she answered warily after picking up the cordless extension in the kitchen.
"HELLO?!" a voice shouted from the other end, making her jump and nearly drop the handset onto the floor. "HERMIONE, IS THAT YOU?"
"Ron?" Hermione asked, wincing at the ringing in her ears. "Ron–Ronald! Stop shouting!"
The bossy tone in her voice, the very one she had often used when he and Harry were doing something she disapproved of, immediately made Ron cease yelling into the receiver.
"Sorry, I wasn't sure if you could hear me," he continued in a more normal tone.
"It's OK," Hermione sighed, switching the phone to her other ear and walking into the front room where she sank into an armchair. "How are you? And where are you calling me from, anyway?"
"I'm with Dad and he has a friend that knows where to find–"
Ron's words became muffled as if he was suddenly cupping a hand over the receiver, and Hermione was sure she could hear Mr Weasley speaking in the background.
"Dad wants me to tell you to not tell Mum about us using the tellyphone when you see her. Although, how she expected me to get in contact with you is beyond me, since she got shirty with me when I suggested sending you an owl because apparently they're being monitored. Anyway, we wanted to see if you were still coming to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding; it's a week and a half from now, on August first."
"A week and a half from now...yes, I'll be there," Hermione answered, shouldering the phone to her ear and bending down to untie her trainers. "So...I haven't spoken to you in a while. How are things?"
"Mad, to be honest. I figure organising a wedding while in the midst of all this other insanity is stressful, but Mum has truly gone off the deep end. Fred and George are even scared of her, more than usual, that is."
"I can imagine," Hermione murmured, feeling a pang of sympathy for her best friend as she thought about his over-zealous mother. "Have you spoken to Harry?"
"No, but I expect to see him soon," Ron told her without further explanation. "Oh yeah, Dad wants to know if your parents want the Order's help to...you know."
Clearly, Ron was speaking of the Grangers going into hiding with the Order's help until things in the wizarding world blew over. That was the exact sort of thing that Hermione refused to chance, which was why she had personally taken charge of the situation.
"Thank you, but no," she replied. "Besides, they've gone on a long holiday and will still be away by the time I leave for the Burrow."
Ron repeated the message to his father before returning to their conversation.
"Dad says if they change their mind, to let him know. But we've got to go, he says Mum is going to flip her wig if we're gone too long."
"Ron, I did not say that!"
"'K, I'm exaggerating about the Mum flipping her wig part—I added that bit. But we're both going to be yelled at since we were sent to run wedding errands and left the house well over an hour ago. Honestly, who cares about...whatever flower we're being sent to look for. They're going to die anyway, and besides, the ones growing by the shed should be fine. Or Mum can charm some to wherever she wants. All this fuss for nothing—"
"Ronald, I'm not even going to explain about the flowers: it's not the same thing. But please don't get into trouble on my account. Go finish your errands with Mr Weasley, and I'll see you soon."
"Alright. And if you decide that you're bored at home with your folks being gone, I'm more than happy to come keep you company if it means getting out of this madhouse."
The thought of Ron visiting her house was somewhat amusing; Hermione remembered the time half the Weasley family went to Privet Drive to escort Harry from his aunt and uncle's home to bring him back to the Burrow. That hadn't gone well at all, but even if her parents were home, the sight of Ron popping up at random would not have been cause for worry. The biggest problem Hermione figured she would have was keeping Mr Weasley away from her father's television set, since he would be sure to happily volunteer his services to act as his son's escort. Then again, there was the issue of Ron eating everything that wasn't nailed down...
"You're more than welcome to visit, but you have to do the cooking."
"As if that's an issue; I cooked for us at Grimmauld Place, remember? What?" Ron's voice became muffled again. "Oh, OK. Dad says we have to go now. See you soon, yeah?"
"Yes, Ron. I'll see you soon."
Hermione gave a short, wry laugh as she hung up the phone. Ron's call had been unexpected yet not unwelcome. At least it served as a temporary distraction from the trip to Heathrow with her parents.
A flicker of shame caused Hermione's cheeks to heaten when she thought back to Ron and his family and immediately she felt a pang of envy. You weren't supposed to be envious of your best friends; Ron knew as much without saying so, but it had been obvious that he at times resented Harry for multiple reasons. There had been a time where Hermione had also secretly resented Ron, not because of his pure-blood status, but because he had been fully immersed in the magical world since birth and took it for granted.That point had always gone over Harry's head; he had been too busy with taking in everything to bother with feelings of envy. Now she was jealous that he got to return home that evening to a house brimming over with loved ones.
"Wringing your hands will get you nowhere," Hermione told herself, but at that moment she would have taken the fussing of a parent—just like Mrs Weasley was going to do when her husband and youngest son returned home—over the deafening silence that permeated each room of her house. Trying to ignore that, she began thinking about the preparations needed before going to the Burrow. Her trunk needed to be packed, and then she would have to figure out what books to take. Then there was the issue of her parent's house.
Hermione had picked out no fewer than twelve enchantments to secure the place. Spells that would ensure against unwanting parties—Muggle and magical alike—from breaking in, as well as spells to back up those spells. A handful of charms were going to be used to make the house look as if it still had occupants inside. While the neighbours mostly kept to themselves, there was the chance that at least one of them would notice none of the Grangers coming in and out, and would possibly go to investigate. Some might have called her measures drastic, but hopefully it would lend her some peace of mind. So, stiffening her upper lip, Hermione went through the motions of carrying out her self-sworn duties.

"You've missed a spot," Snape drawled as he brushed past Wormtail, who had been in the middle of going at his bookshelves with a feather duster.
The scruffy, rotund wizard's hand paused from moving over the middle shelf. He turned to glare at Snape, doing nothing to hide his displeasure.
"This shouldn't be my job in the first place!" Wormtail retorted churlishly, fisting the handle of the feather duster. In spite of his blustering and fervid attempt to have a stand-off with Snape, Wormtail's nervousness became apparent when the professor slowly advanced on him and stopped once they were inches apart.
"Remember that it is I who has been providing you with regular meals as well as a marginally clean place to sleep. Be thankful that a bit of housework is your only inconvenience," Snape offered silkily, just a hint of threat present in his words.
Wormtail bared his overlarge two front teeth at Snape as he stepped back, swearing when he stumbled over a bucket that had certainly not been on the floor a minute ago.
"The kitchen floor needs scrubbing when you're done with the sitting room," Snape then directed, flicking his wand to make a scrubbing brush appear on the floor next to the bucket.
Wormtail continued cursing Snape and the day he was born, although both wizards knew that he was going to do as he was told in the end. Tuning out the grousing, Snape took his usual place in his armchair before the hearth. A tidy house was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, but Wormtail had no need of that tidbit. His assigned chores were more for his benefit than Snape's, because if he were to annoy the professor any more that day, then he would have found himself on the receiving end of a deadly and untraceable draught. Mostly to keep Wormtail honest, Snape kept 'watch' from his position in the sitting room. The truth was, watching Wormtail from his peripheral was good enough; he could make sure that he didn't touch anything he ought not to, and Snape's presence was enough to keep him from skiving off.
It was nearly August. Snape knew the entire month would mostly likely fly by, and then he would find himself as Hogwarts' new headmaster. Various Death Eaters were also going to be sent to assist him, and Snape knew that he had a better chance of pulling the pin from a grenade and setting it loose, its explosion causing less mayhem compared to allowing sadistic wizards who nursed a semi for punishment and torture.
Therefore, Snape had no sympathy for Wormtail, who chose to fuss over something as banal as a bit of dirt.
Both wizards were basically pawns of the Dark Lord. Even though he ignored the nasty little whispers about now being the Dark Lord's favourite, Snape had to concede that he little more clout than the rest of his peers. Regardless, he never lost sight of his true position. That was where the similarities lie between him and the pariah currently stood in his kitchen, bemoaning over a mop and bucket. Wormtail believed that he could do whatever the Dark Lord wished, and it would make him exempt from his wrath. Of course, that was the illusion given, and Voldemort's followers believing it had been the desired effect. Snape pretended to not know better, yet remained obsequious enough to not arouse suspicion. To do so meant risking the chance of becoming Nagini's afternoon tea.
"Sodding...effing..." spat Wormtail from the kitchen, his oily, aggravated voice punctuated by three loud thumps, a single clank, and then a fair amount of splashing.
"Having a little trouble, are we?" Snape called from the sitting room, suppressing a snort when Wormtail bellowed loudly again. "Mind your silver hand around the bleach, although I doubt I would happen across the fortune of watching your limbs turn to rust."
Goading Wormtail was not what Snape would call a favourite pastime, but was quickly becoming one. It hadn't mattered that both wizards were in their thirties; whenever Snape looked in his direction, he saw James Potter and Sirius Black, and could nearly hear their mocking laughter. Taking out his lingering resentment and pent-up anger was admittedly childish, but Snape knew that he was never known for a charitable attitude. Furthermore, if Wormtail were to try and dream up of plotting revenge, he didn't have an ice cube's chance in hell. His mind was entirely too shallow, too transparent, and while his magical ability was relatively decent, all Snape had to do was skirt along the edges of his mind to find his every thought.
Self-preservation was the first and only thing that Snape found hanging in the rafters of Pettigrew's mind. The other thing was cats, rather, his fear of them. Perhaps that stemmed from remaining in his Animagus form for much of his life, which led to an inner monologue which mostly consisted of Pettigrew mentally cursing the black cat that lurked in the shadows of Spinner's End.

Ever since returning home, Snape tried sticking to a rigid schedule each day, mostly because it was what he was used to. It also helped to keep him from losing his mind. Going out in the day of light hadn't been an option, but there were times where he would ignore the stink of the nearby canal, and linger at the door leading to the back of his house; garden one might call it, if a garden consisted of dead grass and overgrown weeds.
For Muggles, black cats were supposed to be bad luck. Snape did not see how his luck could head further south than it already was. During his childhood his father had gone along with that notion, which Snape learnt to be utter tripe, especially after his mother, being a witch, set him straight. None of it mattered now, because Spinner's End belonged to him, and he could bring in a hundred black cats if he so damned pleased. For now, one black cat would do, namely the one that, out of all doorsteps to show up at, chose his.
The cat showed up a roughly a week or so before Wormtail came along. Snape figured the cat had to be an odd sort of creature, especially since it was willing to remain in his presence. Only upon finding that Random Black Cat was not another Animagus or some other wolf in sheep's clothing, did he allow it to continue making visits.
Like clockwork, Black Cat showed his furry face each morning and could be found stalking his way through the overgrown weeds. Whenever the weather-worn back door was opened, its rusty hinges squeaking and announcing the dark man's presence, cat would politely make his way over and sit on his haunches, waiting for his meal. Black Cat was so unlike a regular cat, in the way that it was barely mischievous, that Snape gave him the misnomer of Loki, purely to be ironic.
It wasn't as if he was eager to find Loki waiting for him every morning—that would have been absurd. Yet Snape always found himself putting certain food items to the side after remembering what Granger's cat seemed fond of. Eventually he allowed Loki to grace the inside of his home with his four-legged presence, but only after warning him that he would be excoriated if he found so much as a single black hair on his books.
Perhaps Snape had become used to having a feline presence around him; Granger's cat certainly refused to leave his chambers at Hogwarts, no matter how much blustering he was subjected to. Maybe Loki was able to snuff out the scent of the former half-kneazle who rolled around in the professor's clothing whenever Snape had his head turned. Or perhaps Snape needed some form of life other than his own traipsing through the halls of Spinner's End. Whichever it was, the clincher had been the day where Pettigrew returned with Snape from the meeting with the Dark Lord, and clambered his way into the house.
Wormtail's first comment, which Snape found to be rather insipid yet fitting of the uncouth wizard—"Mother of god, in here smells like the underside of a Giant's bollocks!"—had been cause for Loki to come out and investigate the newfound source of noise. Right as Snape had been about to ask just how many Giants' crotches had Pettigrew buried his face in, since he seemed to be well familiar with the odour, Loki hissed in their directions while baring his tiny claws. The sight of Wormtail panicking immediately made Snape feel marginally lighter about the undesirable living arrangements, as he now had an extra bit of leverage. It had been Snape's turn to laugh as Pettigrew flattened his back against the wall, terror filling his small, watery eyes as he was held hostage by the ball of black fluff at his feet.
After scooping up the cat into one arm and pointedly looking at Wormtail before sending him to his room, Snape had stood in the hallway, casually scratching the top of Loki's head as they both listened to the hasty, pounding footsteps of Wormtail making his way upstairs. This mutual dislike of Wormtail gave them more common ground, and after that, the cat rarely strayed far from his side.
In fact, Loki seemed perfectly comfortable with being practically glued to his side. Later that night after Snape had retired to his room, he lie awake in bed, eyes closed and ears focused on the sound of Wormtail thumping around in his room across the hall. Loki had settled at the top of the bed, curling up on Snape's pillow with his side pressing into his head. Snape would have made him move, but the feel of Loki's rumbled breathing lulled him into a semi-relaxed state.
The professor had no idea of Wormtail's activities that preceded bedtime. But he had let his mangy houseguest know that he was not to go on a nighttime excursion throughout his home. The bathroom was upstairs, and not far from either bedroom.Thus, it had been made clear that if Pettigrew were to take one step where he ought not to, he would fall to the hexing end of Snape's wand. Despite having instilled a healthy dose of fear into Wormtail, Snape still refused to let his guard down. He kept his bedroom door locked at night, sure that at the first possible opportunity, Pettigrew would bumble in to seek a bit of revenge. Not that he couldn't have easily defended himself, but Snape saw no reason to take the chance.
That night, Wormtail was taking longer than usual to bring his noise-making activities came to a halt. Loki had taken to swishing his tail around, batting the side of Snape's head with it while also waiting for the house to fall silent. Finally the banging stopped and both man and cat were asleep. Snape had turned onto his side, and Loki deemed the area beneath his chin a suitable place to rest. The professor never noticed the change, only snuffling once when Loki's tail veered too close to his nose.
Two hours later, however, Snape groused when he received a nose and mouthful of black fur when the cat rose to all fours, peering down at something on the floor.
"Get your furry arse out of my face, cat."
Loki let out a soft meow before jumping off the bed and darting into the corner. Snape was just about to resume his sleep when a fervent scraping noise made him peer through the darkness.
"Listen, I know it may not be much but this is still my shabby house. I would prefer to keep the floorboards intact, if you don't mind."
Still ignoring the professor, Loki continued digging in his claws as if trying to root through soil. Flinging back the blankets and cursing when his sleep-warmed feet hit the cold bedroom floor, Snape hastily crossed over to snatch the cat out from the corner.
"Didn't I tell you to stop ruining my floor?" he asked softly, holding the animal up to eye level.
"Mrrow."
After setting Loki down, Snape grabbed his wand from his bedside table, aiming it in the corner to view the damage caused. He found the source of Loki's mischief—"A spider? Do you mean to tell me that you're going to claw my floorboards into sawdust because of a fucking spider?"—and was about to return to bed when he noticed something else.
There was a hole, small enough to go unnoticed by an unobservant eye, but large enough to catch with the edge of a knife or the like. Snape didn't know why he was drawn to this particular area, especially since most of the bedroom floor was worn away and in severe need of redoing. That point was moot, and he ended up prying the floorboard with an old knife found in a drawer that had been lying among other abandoned bits and bobs. At first glance by dint of pale wandlight, the small space appeared to be empty, but after reaching in with two fingers and rooting around, his fingertips met with something small and hard.
Two am was not the time to play pirate and discover buried treasure, but Snape was compelled to find out what the hell had been hiding beneath the floorboards of his bedroom for...he had no idea how long. The object turned out to be a plain, non-descript wooden box that was big enough to fit in his palm. After confirming that the box and its inside contents wasn't some piece of Dark Magic, Snape opened it to find a yellowed piece of folded parchment.
Finding the message had been curious enough, but what the letter spoke of...
Rare was the day where Snape was shocked into silence. His always rapid-firing brain was currently doing a miserable job of making sense of things. Numb with disbelief, the professor remained on the edge of his bed, his nightshirt bunched beneath the backs of his thighs and leaving his pale, thin legs exposed to the brisk night hair. His feet were getting cold but Snape continued sitting there unaware, holding his want to the note, rereading and staring at it until the letters turned blurry. Loki was oblivious to all, and indulged himself with batting his paws at Snape's feet while chewing on the freshly caught, and previously sought after spider.
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