Title: Harry Potter's Day Off
Author: Arachne
Snape entered The Leaky Cauldron and nodded briskly to Tom the bartender, who gave him a gummy smile in return. Trade was brisk for early afternoon, but Snape knew exactly what--or whom--he was looking for as he began to weave his way through the maze of tables and chairs crowding the shabby, dimly-lit room.
Suddenly, the back of an all-too-familiar head caught his beady eye. The figure was sitting alone at a table tucked in a dark corner. Short ebony hair stuck up in all directions, and Snape could even make out the back of a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses hooked around the figure's ears.
"Potter."
It was beautiful. It was better than Slytherin winning the Quidditch and House Cups, and a promotion to Defence Against the Dark Arts professor all rolled into one. Finally, after seven long years, he, Severus Snape, had caught the great Harry Potter red-handed. And no Invisibility Cloak or secret map--not even Albus Dumbledore himself could save the little bastard now.
"Le jeux est fini." The figure raised its head, clearly having heard Snape's oily voice. "Translation: The game is up. Your hide is mine."
Slowly, the figure stood up, and Snape felt his heart swell with victory as Potter turned around to face him. Only, it wasn't Potter. The figure that stood before him had the same scruffy black hair and the same wire-rimmed eyeglasses--even the same black robes and the same slight frame. Except he was a she, and Severus Snape had never laid eyes on her before in his life.
The young witch glared at Snape contemptuously, taking a long, slow pull on her Butterbeer, right down to the dregs of the bottle. The joy drained from Snape's face and he winced, knowing what was coming next and yet finding himself physically incapable of preventing it. Her eyes narrowed and a millisecond later she spat her Butterbeer at him forcefully, smirking with satisfaction as she watched the golden liquid drip from his hooked nose. Wordlessly, she turned around again and sat back down at the table.
Shaking with humiliation and rage Snape made his way over to the bar, where Tom was busy polishing a pewter tankard, his eyes and ears engrossed in a Quidditch match being broadcast over the Wizarding Wireless.
"--Wadcock in possession of the Quaffle--ooh, and a nice dodge there, avoiding the Bludger sent her way by Jenkins--Wadcock looks around for a team mate--is she going to try the Porskoff Ploy?--but wait, there's the Snitch! Ladies and gentlemen, would you look at that! The Snitch has been caught by a spectator in the stands! Unbelievable! This is a first! The whistle blows as the referee calls a quick time out, and ... do we have a decision ... it looks like he's indicating ... yes, he's indicating to play on! A new Snitch has been released, and the match continues--"
"What's the score?" Snape muttered, busying himself with a Scouring Charm to clean his soiled robes and face, whilst thanking Merlin he had the foresight to pick his wand up from his desk before leaving Hogwarts.
"Nil-nil," Tom replied, his eyes not moving from the Wireless.
"Who's winning?" Snape asked absently.
Tom glanced over at him, frowning. "Puddlemere."
At the Puddlemere United Arena in London's West End, Harry, Hermione and Ron sat high up in the stands, Harry's outstretched hand still clasped tightly around the Snitch. He flashed the squirming golden ball in a few directions as the crowd roared its approval, then sat down as the match resumed play. Much to Ron's delight, Puddlemere's opponents that afternoon were none other than the Chudley Cannons and he wasted no opportunity to proclaim his loyalty loudly, for all to hear.
"Hey, beater-beater-beater-beater, swiiinng, beater!" Ron bellowed at the Puddlemere player, who was hovering on her broomstick several feet away from them. He nudged Harry. "Come on."
Laughing, they shouted together. "Hey, beater-beater-beater-beater, swiiinng beater!"
Harry grinned at Hermione, who rolled her eyes and shook her head, but smiled back nevertheless before returning her attention to her copy of Yet More New Theories of Numerology.
"Hey, Ron," Harry said through a mouthful of Chocolate Frog, "D'you realise if we were at Hogwarts right now, we'd be in Divination?" They both cackled as Ron cupped his hands around his mouth and gleefully continued the chant.
"She-can't-hit-she-can't-hit-she-can't-hit-she-can't-hit-she-can't-hit, swiiing beat-er!" Behind them, high atop the stands stood a gigantic blackboard, similar to the one Harry, Hermione and Ron had seen at the Quidditch World Cup just before fourth year. In gold sparkling writing, it bore a two-word plea: Save Harry!
Malfoy stomped across the entrance hall and yanked open one of the oak front doors of the castle so violently, it caused the twin suits of armour that flanked them to rattle. He stopped for a moment, glaring into the sparkling May sunshine. Potter was out there somewhere.
"I loathe him," Malfoy muttered to himself.
For seven years, he had suffered through the unabashed favouritism Potter had been shown from almost every member of the faculty and student body. For seven years, every attempt he had made to expose Potter's rule-breaking and trouble-making had been foiled--nay, had even backfired--spectacularly. For seven years, he had lived in the shadow of the great Harry Potter, who could do no wrong. Well, no more, Malfoy vowed. No more. Today he would find Potter and expose him for the conniving, mealy-mouthed, wretched little runt that he was. Today, Potter would finally get his comeuppance.
Malfoy began to walk purposefully down the steps, then stopped suddenly when he reached the bottom. The only problem with his plan was that he didn't quite know where Potter was. He had returned to the Hospital Wing earlier, under the guise of getting some more paste for his burn, only to discover Potter was no longer a patient. When Malfoy had enquired about Potter's whereabouts, he had been met with the frosty response that "dear Harry" had been moved into isolation so he could continue with his convalescence in peace. Malfoy sneered. More like continue with his skiving ...
Malfoy had then paid a quick visit to Professor Snape, his only oasis of sanity in the Potter-induced hysteria that had bewitched Hogwarts for the past seven years. Except the Potions Master hadn't been in his office, and in his stead, seemed to have left that ridiculous woman in charge, for reasons Malfoy could not begin to fathom. He exhaled in disgust and frustration. It didn't matter. He would find Potter, help or no help, and he would wipe that smirk off his face for good.
A knot of passing First Years on their way up the steps jostled Malfoy out of his reverie.
"Did you hear?" Moira Quirke said breathlessly to Jeremy Thackeray and Theodore Creevey. "Harry Potter was admitted to the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's last night! I heard the Minister for Magic herself is keeping a bedside vigil!"
"He wasn't," Jeremy replied authoratively, eager to brag about his connection to The Boy Who Lived, however tenuous it was. "I know, because I spoke to him this morning just before Herbology."
Malfoy's ears pricked up.
"That's right--he appeared in a fireplace in a corridor on the second floor," Theodore added helpfully.
"Said he was at death's door, and that Madam Pomfrey put him under strict quarantine in Professor Hagrid's Hut," Jeremy continued. "He's so contagious, he's not allowed to have visitors or anything!"
"Dumbledore's even on standby to administer the last rites!" Theodore insisted, not wanting to be outdone.
Their voices faded out of range as a thin, cold smile ghosted across Malfoy's lips. No visitors, eh? We'll see about that. One thing's for certain, though--Potter's going to need the last rites by the time I'm through with him ...
After Portkeying back to Hogwarts after the incident at the Leaky Cauldron, Snape found himself in a fouler mood than usual (if that was possible). Potter had not only managed to thwart him thus far, but make him look like a fool in public to boot. There would be hell to pay when he caught the boy, Snape rued, but catch him, he would. Where was it Minerva had said Potter was allegedly convalescing? A moment's thought gave him the answer: Rubeus Hagrid's hut.
"We'll see about that," Snape muttered darkly, and set off across the grounds towards the groundskeeper's home.
A few minutes later, the Potions Master found himself in front of Hagrid's ramshackle abode. His face contorted in distaste as he pushed aside a few half-plucked pheasants that were hanging from the little porch outside the front door. Snape gripped the massive doorknob and attempted to turn it. It wouldn't budge. He rattled the knob violently, throwing his full weight against the door. Nothing happened, save for a loud round of barking from within. Seething with anger, Snape whipped out his wand and pointed it at the heavy oak door.
"Alohomora!"
The door stubbornly refused to open.
"Colloportus Terminus! Finite Incantatum!" he bellowed, but the door remained shut.
Enraged, Snape finally picked up the enormous brass doorknocker and slammed it against the door with a loud thud. Immediately, a disembodied voice called out to him over Fang's continued barking.
"Who's there?"
"Potter, open this door!" Snape commanded.
Harry's voice replied, in a tone that suggested he was on the verge of death. "Oh, I'm frightfully sorry, but I can't answer the door right now ... I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill whilst getting out of bed and subject myself to further absences from class."
"Silence, Potter! Open the door!"
"Should you wish to know more about my condition," the voice continued, "you can contact Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. Thank you for stopping by. I do appreciate your concern for my well-being."
"I am not leaving, Potter, until you Open. The. Door."
"Have a nice day!"
"Open this door at ONCE!" Snape hissed into the silence that followed. "Potter! POTTER!" He hammered on the doorknocker several times in rapid succession, unknowingly re-triggering the Voculae Iterationis spell Harry had placed on it before leaving for the Burrow.
A moment later, Harry's voice greeted him again. "Who's there?"
"You know bloody well who this is, Potter--if you do not open the door this INSTANT, I shall break it down!"
"Oh, I'm frightfully sorry, but I can't answer the door right now ..." Harry's voice parroted as Snape's face morphed from anger to confusion to comprehension to fury in the blink of an eye. He hurled himself against the door one more time, but it still would not give. Apoplectic with rage, Snape stalked around to the back of Hagrid's Hut, while Harry's voice continued to drone on from inside.
"... I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill whilst getting out of bed and subject myself to further absences from class ..."
Snape looked around wildly for something that would help him gain entrance. Three small wooden crates were stacked neatly beside the back door. He wasted no time in attempting to climb them in order to see in through a tiny curtained window that was open a crack, high up in Hagrid's bedroom wall. The crates groaned under the Potions Master's weight, and a moment later, Snape found himself tumbling to the ground, where his fall was broken by a large patch of muddy brown earth.
"... Should you wish to know more about my condition, you can contact Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. Thank you for stopping by. I do appreciate your concern for my well-being ..."
Snape wrinkled his nose in disgust at the unmistakable smell of Thestral manure--a pungent combination of dung and blood. The mud made a squelching noise beneath him as he staggered to his feet and attempted to walk back to the door. But as soon as he took the first step, his shoe became stuck in the mud, causing him to lose his balance and topple over again. Cursing Merlin, Circe and every prominent witch and wizard known to the magical world, Snape fumbled about for his lost shoe, eventually extracting the stinking, manure-covered object and unsteadily rising to his feet. After slipping and sliding a few more times, he eventually made it back to Hagrid's back doorstep just in time to hear Harry's voice conclude from the front of the Hut, "Have a nice day!"
Snape shook the manure off his filthy shoe as best he could, and was just about to cast a Scouring Charm on his robes for the second time that day, when he noticed a small rubber flap in the bottom of Hagrid's back door. His eyes lit up with unbridled glee as he got down on his hands and knees and pushed against it. The flap moved inward, and he was able to stick his head and a shoulder inside.
"POTTER!" he bellowed, peering around in the darkness. "Potter, come here this INSTANT!"
From the shadows within the hut, Snape could hear a scuffling noise and heavy breathing, almost like panting.
"There is no need to continue your silly play-acting," he reprimanded harshly. "You may think you have fooled the Headmaster with this imaginary illness of yours, but I will not have it!"
Two eyes peered at Snape from the blackness.
"That's right, Potter." He spoke softly, but his tone was chilling. "You cannot hide any more. Come here. Come here and face the punishment you so richly deserve."
A low, guttural growl came from within the hut. A moment later, Fang's large black face came into view, eyes shining brightly and saliva dripping from his bared teeth.
Snape's shock and fear were almost palpable. "Stay," he ordered. Fang growled in response and trotted towards him. "Stay!" Snape repeated more urgently. "I command you to stay where you are!"
But staying put seemed to be the last thing on Fang's mind. Before Snape could even raise his wand, the enormous boarhound suddenly charged towards him and through the flap. Shrieking in a most unSnapelike manner, Snape dropped his filthy, dung-covered shoe, scrambled to his feet and began to run.
On the outskirts of Muggle London, a certain 1965 Austin Mini Cooper 850 Super Deluxe Cabriolet was being taken on the ride of its life by its skinhead and mohawked passengers. Meanwhile, in the Museum of Magic, just off Trafalgar Square, Harry, Hermione and Ron inserted themselves into a hand-held chain of giggling, green-and-gold robed six-year-old witches and wizards from the Tír na nOg Primary School in County Clare, Ireland, who had Portkeyed in for the day.
The trio echoed the stance of the sculpture Portrait of Pierre Bonaccord (first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards) specially commissioned by the Muggle-born sculptor Rodin, then moved along to three large, square pieces by Picasso, the greatest wizard painter of all--so famous, in fact, the Muggle world had embraced him as their own and he was celebrated as much in their culture as the wizarding one. Hermione gazed thoughtfully at The Red Throne, whilst next to her, Harry studied Portrait of Morgana Le Fay (who was rumoured to be an ancestor of Salazar Slytherin). Beside them, Ron took in Seated Witch, scrutinising the asymmetrical lines and dimensions.
Harry and Hermione leisurely strolled around the gallery hand in hand, stopping to sit in front of a moody blue-hued composition entitled Wizarding Windows. A feeling of tranquillity washed over them both as Harry wrapped his arm snugly around Hermione's shoulder and she sighed gently. Neither spoke, but the penetrating gaze of Harry's emerald eyes told Hermione all she needed to know. She smiled up at him adoringly and he bent slightly to give her a soft, lingering kiss, twining her arms around his neck.
Later, they found Ron transfixed in front of an enormous painting entitled Sunday Afternoon on Llangynidr Moors by the renown wizard painter Georges Seurat. The little description beside the painting said Seurat had had much crossover success in the Muggle world during the nineteenth century. As was common in all wizard paintings, the small clusters of witches and wizards moved about the tall grasses and hills of their landscape. But as Ron squinted and concentrated on the painting more, he could see the wizards and witches were not comprised of brushstrokes, but tiny, precise coloured dots and it was the dots themselves that were moving. Ron blinked, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He shook his head and refocused on the miniscule moving dots. The sensation reminded him vaguely of the time he and Harry ate some of those dodgy mushroom-flavoured Bertie Botts beans Fred and George gave them the summer after fifth year.
Traffic in wizarding London had just as bad a reputation as its Muggle counterpart. The carriage that housed Harry, Hermione and Ron had come to a complete stop in the middle of Solstice Square, in order to let swarms of witches and wizards past on their way to a parade in honour of Beltane. Sated and contented, Harry and Hermione were sprawled lazily across the back seat, whilst Ron sat ramrod straight beside them. Harry leant over to give his girlfriend a kiss, but was interrupted by the agitated sound of his best friend's voice.
"It's getting on, Harry--we'd best get the car back to the Burrow." Harry glanced down at his watch. "Don't be daft, Ron, we have a few hours--we have at least until classes let out, around half-past five."
"I'm sorry," Ron said in a huff, "I mean, I know you don't care, but it's my arse on the line."
"You think I don't care?"
"I know you don't care."
Harry gasped theatrically. "Oh, that hurts!" He pretended to clutch at his heart with his hands. "Ron, what have you seen today?
"Nothing decent," he muttered.
"Nothing de--nothing decent?" Harry spluttered. "What are you on about, 'nothing decent'? We've seen everything decent--we've seen the whole of wizarding London today!" he howled. "We went to the Museum of Magic--we saw priceless works of art, we ate--we ate haggis, we saw the Cannons kick Pud--" Harry trailed off when he saw the panicked expression on his Ron face. He was staring out the window behind Harry, his face drained of all colour and frozen in a mask of disbelief and horror. "What--what's the matter?"
"Look. Over. There," Ron hissed through clenched teeth.
Harry turned to look over his shoulder. Immediately to his right, in the backseat of an identical carriage, was Dumbledore, reading the Daily Prophet and humming to himself.
In a flash, Harry and Ron dived to the floor of the carriage. Harry pointed Malfoy's wand at Hermione, and an instant later, she found herself wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, her bushy hair shrunk to chin length again. Timidly, she glanced over at Dumbledore's carriage, thanking Merlin for the dark glasses that shielded her from the Headmaster's formidable Legilimency skills. Dumbledore matched her gaze, held it for a moment, his blue eyes twinkling like sapphires, then returned to his newspaper. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.
"What's he doing?" Harry asked. Beside him, Ron vigorously rubbed the small talisman he used as a keychain and sent up prayers to every deity, Muggle and magical, that he could think of.
Hermione grinned down at them cheekily. "He's winking at me and making rude gestures with his wand."
"WHAT?" Harry and Ron exchanged horrified looks on the floor of the carriage. Realising she was having them on, they both lunged for Hermione's legs and began to tickle her mercilessly. She shrieked with glee, momentarily drawing Dumbledore's attention a second time, before he refocused on the Prophet, where a headline on the back cover screamed: Is The Boy Who Lived Going To Die? Wizarding World Rallies Around Ailing Harry Potter.
Snape's mood was so black, it almost visibly emanated from him. He stalked back to the rear of Hagrid's hut, taking cover behind a Flutterby Bush adjacent to the gamekeeper's pumpkin patch. From this vantage point, he had an unencumbered view of Fang gnawing on his dung-covered shoe as happily as if it were a juicy dragon bone. Outraged, Snape drew himself up to his full height and took a step towards the giant dog, only to find himself being chased off the property by the charging, snarling canine for the second time in as many hours.