Madam Rosemerta was quick to approach the back door of the Three Broomsticks tavern when she heard what sounded like paws scratching the oak panels. She was still in her dressing gown that early Saturday morning, her hands tidying up her loose hair as her green eyes shown with a sparkle of anticipation.
"Have you changed back?" she asked with her cheek to the bolted door. "You know I'm allergic to short-haired dogs."
She heard a tired sort of chuckle. "You'll take me as I am," said the familiar voice.
Rosemerta drew back the dead-bolt and gave the door a quick tap with her wand.
"Right, then. I'm decent. Come in."
She pulled the door open, letting in a chilly draft and the dark-clad figure of a man with long tangled hair and the general look of one who is leading a rough life.
"I'll just whip you up some breakfast before the kitchen help arrives," said Rosemerta. "We've an hour before-- oh hmm!" Her laugh ended on a sigh as Sirius embraced her. He gave her an impassioned kiss that did not surprise her so much as alerting her to the possibilities she had been daydreaming about for the past month.
Sirius went over to the stove to warm his hands. "Did that Minsky girl come round yet?" he asked. "I saw her grandfather the other day, here in Hogsmeade when I was chasing a stray cat."
"You refer to Igor Spassky," said Rosemerta, still feeling the glow of the kiss. "He's become a regular here. Most afternoons he comes by. It's been almost three weeks since he brought Alice with him. I've fresh eggs and bacon. Would that suit you? Toast and hot coffee to round it out."
Sirius smiled at her a little crookedly. "You'll forgive me for being so impetuous. And acting so instinctively. That's how dogs are, you know. And it's been so long since..." He threw himself down in a chair at the prep table. "Tell me, will Fudge be having his meeting with Dumbledore here? Has he responded to your invitation?"
Rosemerta paused to get her thoughts in order. She went to the shelf by the stove and selected a frying pan. "He told me he'd be meeting with Minerva McGonagall, and that Hagrid would join them, for what reason I don't recall."
Sirius sat up, his face brightening. "The animagus angle, possibly. Hagrid suspected us Marauders of shape-changing. Fudge will want to look into that idea. Somehow I've got to make him or McGonagall realize it was Peter who killed all those muggles, and that I'm bloody well innocent. But how to swing it? And I'm positive now that Peter's at Hogwarts, living a rat's life."
Rosemerta cracked an egg, staring at him doubtfully. "I could bring up the idea about Peter Pettigrew hiding out at the school, but of course everyone thinks you killed him. They would wonder why I'd think such a thing, that Peter's alive and keeping to his rat form."
"I know," Sirius said dejectedly, running a hand through his hair.
"There's talk that you're out to kill Harry Potter," Rosemerta remarked in an amused tone. "Professor Trelawney swears she saw a Grim in Potter's tea cup. I just can't see her being much help to us. Oh, she thinks the raven is the servant of a Ministry official assigned to locate you, and that Alice was sent to Hogwarts to assist him. Ha. What a dunce that Trelawney is, so easy to manipulate. And maybe that's the problem. She's too easily fooled."
Sirius shook his head, exasperated.
Then with a sour grin he leaned back in his chair and let out a long hiss of satisfaction. "I may not be able to clear my name for awhile yet, or get my hands on Wormtail, but by God I'll have Snivellus Snape in the ground before long."
He studied Rosemerta's reaction to that. She hurried her cooking, laying out strips of bacon and putting bread slices in the toaster. It was all so homey, this muggle way of doing things. Sirius supposed it was therapeutic for her to eschew magic and do things in the squib fashion. Then she was waving a spatula and giving him a worried smile.
"I think, Sirius, that you have a loyal co-conspirator in Alice Minsky. She hates Severus as much as you do, if that's possible."
"Can you blame her? Snape killed her father."
"Gunther Minsky was a Death Eater who tried to usurp Snape's authority. Wasn't it a fair duel?"
"There's nothing fair about Snape!" said Sirius hotly.
He rubbed his face, letting his breath out forcefully. "Forgive me."
He dropped his hands, looking around at the cluttered kitchen. How sorely he missed living a civilized human life. Regrets welled up in him, but he pushed them away and said, "Look, Snape knew it was Peter who had gone over to Voldemort. How could he not know? He didn't lift a finger to aid me when I was charged with those murders."
Rosemerta almost said, 'Can you blame him?' But she thought better of that. It hardly mattered to her now. The kiss was still fresh in her mind and all her erogenous zones were afire.
She slipped eggs and bacon onto a plate. When she set it on the table, she asked, uncharacteristically shy, "Can you come back tonight, after the tavern closes?"
The gleam in his eyes was answer enough.
Snape adjusted his woolen neckscarf and buttoned the collar of his black overcoat as a fresh fall of snow came obliquely on the wind, later that same morning.
He had been following Trelawney, keeping a discreet distance behind her. The main street of Hogsmeade displayed its usual weekend traffic, the horse-drawn carts and thestral carriages, the magic folk from the nearby muggle towns, a smattering of school personnel, a few students who were apparently uninterested in the upcoming Quidditch matches; so it wasn't difficult for Snape to keep an eye on the Divination teacher as she hurried along the boardwalk as quickly as the slippery ice allowed.
He stood in the recessed doorway of Honeydukes and watched her enter the Three Broomsticks. For a moment he seemed indecisive. He waited for a group of people to pass by, people bundled warmly, their breath making little spouts of fog. Then he went around behind the building.
Snape was alone among the trash bins. He took out his wand and made a peculiar gesture with it. In the next instant he was chastising himself for a fool.
The audible holographic spell he had cast on the upper floor of the Three Broomsticks the year before was in need of renewal. The physical spell component he had placed in the corner guest room that allowed for the spell's activation was either missing or had weakened over time. It had served him well when he was investigating a suspected Death Eater from the Ministry, an investigation requested of him by Dumbledore, who had provided him with the component (a tiny statuette of a gryffin). But now, when good fortune had brought Trelawney to the one place where Snape could spy on her from a safe distance, the spell was all but worthless.
There was the faintest image in the air, inches from his narrowed eyes; an image of Trelawney sitting on the edge of a bed, taking off her gloves and speaking to a house elf. Snape caught a single word, barely heard above the moaning of the wind:
"Scabbers."
The term was not completely unfamiliar to him, but he couldn't place it. Further attempts at the spell were futile. He considered what little he knew about the situation: an ensorcelled Snitch that was negligent of late; Trelawney acting as though she were afraid of Alice Minsky, or in awe of her for some unknown reason; Alice herself obstinately reticent when questioned about her transfer.
Could it be that she had learned the details of her father's death? From whom? Who else knew of the facts surrounding the duel except himself? It had been fought in a secluded place shielded by concealment spells. Some birds in the trees had witnessed it, along with the dog that had frightened the birds away when it growled and snapped the moment Gunther Minsky died. No, there was just the duellists, and no one else.
There had to be some other explanation for why Alice despised her potions master, Snape concluded.
The Ravenclaw sections of the elevated bleachers rose in unison, roaring in a frenzy of euphoria as their team's seeker bumped Potter aside and grabbed at the fleeing Snitch.
Premature! A desperate swerve to avoid a pennant pole by both seekers caused the Snitch to free itself and flit erratically off over the tops of the bleacher towers.
The Ravenclaw students dropped back on their benches with a collective groan. But the Gryffindor fans shouted with glee across at them, waving the red and gold scarves to encourage Potter. He was soaring up at a steep angle, higher than anyone could remember seeing a seeker fly, so high that the Snitch he was trailing was just a pinpoint of light.
Giselle and her team mates sat among the Hufflepuff crowd and watched every strategic move the contesting teams made. Deidre was pointing out how well Ravenclaw's two chasers flew in tight orbits around the quaffle-carrying third, risking a hit by the bludgers to protect him. "And see how he holds the quaffle," she said breathlessly, "snug in the crook of his arm and firmly against his ribs. THAT'S the way to do it!"
Giselle was impressed by the aggressiveness of the Ravenclaw seeker, a stand-in named Baxter. He was doing so wonderfully well in blocking Potter, which he accomplished again just now as the Snitch whipped around a goal post and Baxter swiped Potter off balance; doing so well indeed that she thrilled at the thought of playing against him in the Pre-Christmas tournament. It was to begin next weekend. But today it was time to consider Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin team's back-up seeker. He was scheduled to play in place of Bruno.
Draco was the type that dogged his opponent, rather than taking the initiative. Giselle had an easy time with him in the season's opening game, faking to one side to misdirect him, then doing a semi-circular loop the other way. Bruno had then been sent in to replace Draco. To no avail. Giselle caught the Snitch just twenty minutes into the game; five minutes after it had so very nearly clobbered Snape, and not once, but immediately again, like a mongoose attacking a cobra.
And speaking of Snape... Giselle looked down from over the parapet and saw the potions master far below, striding along the easement way between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin bleacher towers, his black cape billowing in the rising wind. The thought crossed her mind that a strong wind would favor the seekers and beaters, while making havoc with quaffle throws.
Beaters... She looked back at Felix and Alice sitting side by side in their player uniforms, broomsticks upright between their knees. They were watching the zigzagging race that had Potter and Baxter carooming off each other as they gained on the Snitch, a good hundred meters above the pitch.
Alice's expression was one of tense excitement. But Felix sat there chewing on something and observing the wild tussle over the Snitch as though it were two birds vying for the same dragonfly. He didn't so much as blink when the magnified voice of Aunt Minerva echoed out across the stadium, "Potter with the Snitch! Gryffindor wins, one-eighty to thirty. Congratulations Gryffindor."
Deidre stood amidst the thunderous applause.
"We're up!" she shouted. And rising as one, the Hufflepuff team started its winding way down the oaken stairwell to the pitch and into the pavilion tent for a last minute pep talk.
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