Unofficial Portkey Archive

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Snape stormed down the long corridor, his black robes swirling out behind him like raven's wings. Every time he approached a classroom, however, he would slow his gait down to a lazy sort of ambling whilst in open view of the pupils within, then continue his frantic flight unseen until the next doorway. Finally, after swooping around a corner and down a flight of moving stairs, he reached his destination.

Outside the History of Magic classroom, Hermione was still trapped against Madam Pomfrey in a vise-like hug. The school nurse was doing her utmost to try and offer her some sort of consolation, interpreting her great gulping breaths of laughter as great gulping sobs of mourning. At one point, Hermione thought she might laugh so hard she actually would cry.

Snape approached the pair, a patented scowl on his face.

"Miss Granger."

The steely sound of his voice was enough to silence both laughter and tears (had there been any). Hermione jerked her head away from Madam Pomfrey's chest to meet the professor's eyes, which were as black and cold as two lumps of coal. Immediately, she cast her eyes downward, not wanting to give him the opportunity to use Legilimency and find out the truth.

He addressed her without a trace of sympathy. "Your father will be meeting you shortly in Hogsmeade by the train station."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It was one thing to play truant, but it was quite another to lie to a professor--to Snape!--to his face. Blanching, she trembled a little, hoping he would mistake her fear and lack of composure for grief.

"I-I'd best be off, then." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, Professor Snape, for letting me know." She turned and began to quickly walk away.

"Not so fast."

Hermione froze, slowly turning around. Her heart thumped so loudly in her chest, she was positive he could hear it. She snuck a quick glance at him, but the Potions Master's face was completely unreadable--which only served to frightened her more.

"He specifically requested I accompany you there and wait with you until he arrives," Snape announced darkly.

"Oh ... right," she smiled weakly, staring at the floor. "Of-of course."

Hermione prayed her eyes didn't give away the bewilderment she felt as she followed his brisk strides down the corridor.

Harry, what on earth are you playing at?

"Aloh--!"

Harry pointed his wand at the Weasley family's garage and began to utter a familiar spell, but Ron (who looked fully like himself again now) grabbed his arm and pulled it down violently.

"Have you gone mad?" he howled. "Harry, you can't use your wand to perform magic outside of Hogwarts--not again! You barely got away with it the last two times, and you had legitimate reasons then! The Ministry will have sent a warning owl before you finish the bloody spell!"

"Ron! Will you relax? There's nothing to worry about," Harry grinned cheekily, twirling the wand back and forth in his right hand like a Muggle baton.

"Nothing to worry about? Nothing to worry about?" he spluttered furiously. "Have you forgotten my father works for the Ministry? It's all fine and well flying during a game of recreational Quidditch over summer hols, or Flooing, or perhaps even drinking pre-mixed Polyjuice Potion, but the minute you wave that thing--"

"I told you, there's nothing to worry about." He waved the wand under Ron's nose, a twinkle in his eyes. "Notice anything different?

Ron frowned. "Harry--"

"This is an 11-inch wand made out of ebony," he interrupted impatiently.

"Yeah, so? What, you bought a new wand? So? Congratulations. I don't see--"

"Ron," Harry sighed. "I use an 11-inch wand made out of holly."

Ron blinked uncomprehendingly. "So whose ..."

Harry smirked. "Malfoy's."

"Malfoy? How di--"

"He came to the hospital wing this morning when I was there, whinging about some stupid burn he suffered in Potions, and he threw such a strop when he saw me that he took the wrong wand on his way out," Harry explained.

"Hang about," Ron's brow furrowed in displeasure. "What if he tries something on today using your wand? You'd be right buggered."

"What if he does?" Harry shrugged. "Anything out of the ordinary using my wand today couldn't possibly have been performed by little old me. I'm at death's door at Hagrid's right now, remember? Iron-clad alibi, mate. However"--he began to twirl Malfoy's wand like a baton--"any magic performed with this wand today will be ..."

"... traced back to Malfoy," Ron finished, breaking into a grin. "You know, this is going to be a truly fantastic day."

"Have I not been saying that from the beginning?" Harry grinned back. "It's going to be absolutely perfect. Now, where was I?" And before Ron could stop him, he pointed the wand at the tumbledown garage again. "Alohomora!"

Immediately, the large wooden double doors sprang open, revealing a small, shiny red automobile.

"The 1965 Austin Mini Cooper 850 Super Deluxe Cabriolet," Ron whispered in a reverential tone. "There are less than a thousand in all of Britain. It has a market value of 925 Galleons. Dad found it in an abandoned Muggle scrap yard near Grimmauld Place in fifth year--he's spent the past two years restoring it. It is his love, it is his passion--"

"It is his fault he didn't use a strong enough room-sealing spell," Harry replied firmly, running a finger along the glossy red bonnet.

"Harry, what are you on about? My father loves this car more than life itself," Ron told him, his eyes growing wide with alarm.

"A man whose priorities are so far out of order doesn't deserve such a fine automobile." He struck a pose alongside the driver's door and gave Ron a toothy grin.

"No, no," Ron shook his head, starting to almost hyperventilate. "Apparently, you didn't quite hear me, Harry. He never drives it--he just rubs it down with one of Percy's old dress robes!" Ignoring his best friend, Harry continued to examine the car from all angles. "Remember how he went round the bend when I broke my wand in second year? That was just a tiny, second-hand piece of wood--this is a bloody cabriolet!"

"Ron, I'm sorry," Harry frowned at his best friend, exasperated. "But what else are we supposed to do? We can't exactly fly into Hogsmeade and pick Hermione up on our broomsticks!"

"Why not?" Ron whimpered desperately.

"Ron, Hermione's parents are Muggles," Harry explained patiently. "It only makes sense that her father would pick her up from Hogsmeade in a Muggle car. Look, I'm sorry--there's nothing else we can do."

Harry opened the door on the driver's side, but Ron grabbed him by the arm to stop him. "He knows the mileage, Harry. He has it bewitched on his wrist in invisible ink."

"He doesn't trust you?"

Ron shook his head fiercely. "Not after the Ford Anglia."

"All right," Harry sighed, holding up his hands. "Look--this is dead easy. Whatever miles we put on, we'll just take off."

"How?"

Harry grinned at Ron and hopped into the driver's seat. "We'll drive back to the Burrow in reverse."

"No!" Ron was adamant. "You'll just have to think of something else! I'm putting my foot down! We could take a Portkey? Maybe conjure up a couple of Thestrals? What about the Knight Bus? I'll even spring for hot chocolate!" He was getting increasingly desperate.

Tapping Malfoy's wand against the ignition, Harry started the car and Ron's protests were quickly drowned out by the roar of the engine. Harry tossed the wand to Ron, then revved the accelerator a few times for good measure.

"You don't even know how to drive!" Ron howled.

"I've watched my uncle in his car enough to get the gist of it, and besides--I can ride a broomstick," Harry replied confidently as he fingered the various buttons and devices on the dashboard, eyeing one marked 'Triple Speed Turbo Boost' with glee. "How different can it be?"

"You're off your head, Harry! No! You'll have to come up with something else!" Ron spluttered. "You're not the one who had to live with him after the Whomping Willow incident! Not to mention my mother, and I don't need another Howler, thanks all the same! I'm sorry, but you can't ju--"

The squealing of tyres interrupted him. Ron jumped out of the way just in time to avoid his toes being run over as the car tore out of the garage. The Mini leapt forward like a giant red grasshopper, coming to an abrupt halt several metres away.

"OI! STOPPIT! YOU'RE KILLING THE CAR!" Ron shouted, closing the distance between them in a few long strides. "I thought you said you knew what you were doing!"

Harry stuck his head out the driver's window. "Er ... I do. Except that this is a manual, and Uncle Vernon has an automatic. But really, once I get it up in the air, how different can it be?"

"You keep saying that, and yet strangely, I'm not comforted by it," Ron groaned, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Okay, fine. You win. Unlock the other door. Though I think you should at least conjure up Learner plates."

Harry grinned at him. "This'll be deadly!"

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ron muttered.

As he held on for dear life, the car lurched down the long driveway in a jerky fashion. "What made you change your mind?" Harry asked.

"The fact that you're going to do this whether I say you can or not, and the hope that you'll find a way to get us killed so it won't matter, anyway," he replied gloomily, as they taxied down the dusty lane and swooped up into the sky, fading from view as they sailed on towards Hogsmeade.

Hermione and Snape walked out the front doors of the Hogsmeade train station and were instantly bathed in glorious spring sunshine--although it may as well have been a gloomy day in November, as it felt like grey storm clouds were hanging over both their heads, though for completely different reasons.

For her part, Hermione was deathly afraid of being caught. Certainly, she had broken school rules and even missed classes before, but there was always a justifiable reason--like researching the latest plan of attack against Voldemort, or being petrified. This ... this was breaking rules and missing classes purely for enjoyment's sake. Which was wrong. Indisputably, indubitably, categorically wrong. She was Head Girl! She had an example to set! Most importantly, she had N.E.W.T.s coming up in less than a month! She should be studying! And yet, the idea of a stolen, perfect day shared with Harry and Ron, where they could just enjoy being 17 years old for once in their lives, without the stresses of exams or the fears of Dark Magic or the threat of the looming war or the uncertainty of what would happen after graduation ... it was too irresistible to pass up. She just hoped the exploits and schemes Harry had planned for today didn't get them killed. Or worse, expelled.

Snape, meanwhile, was deep in thought. If Dumbledore got word of what had transpired between himself and Granger's father, he would be reduced to teaching Potions via Kwikspell correspondence courses faster than he could say "Asphodel". The mere thought of it made him shudder. He hadn't worked this hard for this long to have it all disintegrate at the hands of an irate Muggle parent (especially one he initially thought was Potter). Much as it greatly pained him, he thought it prudent to attempt some sort of amends with the girl--strictly for the sake of his future career.

Straightening his robes, he cleared his throat and addressed Hermione in a stilted, formal voice. "I am ... sorry ... to hear of your loss."

Forgetting the threat of Legilimency for a moment, she stared at the Potions professor in perplexity, not quite believing what she had just heard. "Par-pardon?"

"I had a grandmother once," he continued absently, warming to his subject as if she weren't even there. "Two, actually--a crone and a hag."

Hermione looked completely astonished by this seemingly random admission. "Oh ... right."

"Man that is borne of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth also as a shadow, and never continueth in one stay." Snape paused on the stairs they were descending to the street, and turned to face her. "Between and grief and nothing, I'll take grief."

The passage stirred some sort of vague memory within Hermione that she couldn't quite place, until she remembered the vicar at her parents' Anglican church reading similar words during her real Gran's funeral the previous summer. But coming out of Snape's mouth, it all seemed quite mad.

"Erm, how ... em ... lovely ..."

Hermione felt like she had consumed several gallons of Confusing Concoction--none of this made any sort of sense. Why had Harry asked Snape to come with her to Hogsmeade in the first place? And more over, what in the world had possessed Snape to recite passages from the Muggle Bible?

Just then, a crimson Austin Mini drove up from the far end of the street, interrupting her thoughts. The car, which looked vaguely familiar to Hermione, stopped about 50 feet away from them, and a tall figure emerged from the driver's side. He was wearing a dark blue Mackintosh and a black fedora pulled down far over his brow, and called over to her in an eerie replica of her father's voice.

"Oh, Hermione, love!"

She gawked at the gleaming cabriolet in utter disbelief, her eyes as large as Professor Trelawney's crystal balls. What on earth--

Her 'father' motioned for her to join him. "Come along now!"

Barely suppressing a fit of the giggles over the accuracy (and sheer nerve) of the impersonation, Hermione turned to bid Snape a hasty farewell. Mustering all her self-control, she spoke in what she hoped sounded like solemn tones.

"Well, I suppose that's my father. I'd best be off. Professor Snape,"--feeling suddenly cheeky, she fleetingly considered addressing him as 'Severus' but decided not to press her luck--"thank you for your ... your warmth, and compassion." She gave him a brief smile with as much sincerity as she could manage, then turned and walked towards the waiting car as quickly as she could without arousing suspicion.

Harry smirked at her mischievously as she approached him, the fedora perched at a rakish angle over one twinkling emerald eye. "Do you have a kiss for Daddy?" he quietly sing-songed.

"Are you kidding?" Hermione grinned back, flushed with a giddy rush of excitement, partly from the sheer absurdity of their situation and partly because Harry (even in the guise of her father) always made her feel like that when he looked at her that way. That particular grin of his had always been her undoing, ever since he had used it to charm her into not reporting him during his illegal trip to Hogsmeade in third year.

Snape watched with narrowed eyes as father and daughter embraced in a lingering and decidedly most unplatonic manner. "So that's how it is in Muggle families," he frowned. Still, there was something about the entire situation that he found rather unsettling. He just couldn't put his finger on what.

Harry held Hermione's door open for her, then turned to acknowledge Snape with a brief nod before getting into the car himself. Hermione looked over her shoulder to where a lump protruded from the collapsed canvas roof of the cabriolet.

"Hallo, Ron. Comfortable back there?"

"Hi, Hermione," responded a muffled, disembodied voice. "No."

Hermione turned back towards Harry. There was a rare twinkle of mischief in her eyes, no doubt a sign of the adrenaline high she was currently coasting on from their narrow escape. "So ... what are we going to do?"

"The question isn't what are we going to do--the question is, what aren't we going to do?" he replied.

"Please don't say we're not going to take the car back," Ron muttered from somewhere behind them. "Please don't say we're not going to take the car back, please don't say--"

Harry cast a sideways glance at Hermione. "If you had access to a car like this, would you take it back straight away?" The corners of her mouth turned up very slightly, then she looked away, watching the Potions Master ascend the stairs leading to the train station entrance. Harry nodded solemnly as he pressed the Triple Speed Turbo Boost button. "Neither would I."

As the squeal of tyres met his ears, Snape flinched then whirled around, only to catch the tail end of the Austin Mini race down the road amid great whoops of laughter that were clearly neither grievous nor mournful in nature. Comprehension dawned a moment too late, and his usually sallow face turned purple with rage.

"POTTER!"