Chapter Three

Excerpt from The Modern Secretarial Witch's Guide to Workplace Success by Penelope Parker

"Never presume to know what your direct supervisor is thinking. He is likely busy with thoughts far above your level of understanding. Be ready at a moment's notice to fetch anything he may need to assist in his work, be it a cup of tea or a new quill. Be discreet, rarely seen and seldom heard, unless you are called for. If your supervisor is female, do not presume to be friendly with her. She requires the same consideration a man does in being able to do her job without distractions.

Arrive to work early so you are ready to serve when your boss comes in. Have his tea or coffee piping hot and waiting for him as he walks by your desk. Be cheerful, but not annoyingly so..."

Agnes tucked the last of the papers on her desk into a large envelope and quickly jotted down a memo to her boss. It'd taken her the better part of a week to hunt down the information on Hermione Granger, and she was impressed. Either Granger had friends in high places or she really was as spotless as she seemed.

Inter-Office Memo

Why do I have the feeling you're going to be disappointed there's nothing unsavoury?

The dossier was thick, owing to the mountain of press clippings available on Hermione Granger, War Heroine. Snape wasn't fooled. Why had she gone to ground after taking her N.E.W.T.s, mere months after the end of the war? The girl he remembered had always had her hand in the air, wanting recognition and attention. What had spooked Granger so badly that she had run away to France? It could have been academia, but there were Arithmancers in Britain to apprentice under: Septima Vector, for starters. Granger had done an internship with Vector; why didn't she stay?

As he leafed through the papers, a glossy, candid photograph slid into his lap from the middle of the stack. He gave it a quick glance, intending to set it aside...he knew what the girl looked like, after all...but what he saw came as a surprise. It was a Wizarding photograph, taken at what looked to be a sidewalk cafe in Diagon Alley. At first, he wondered if they'd photographed the wrong person, but upon careful study, he was sure it was Granger. Her hair was different, cut short and tamed into a glossy cap of ringlets reaching just to her jawline. She looked older, more sure of herself. She looked bloody remarkable. The photographer had caught Granger laughing at something, and it made her come alive. When he caught himself wistfully stroking her glossy, black-and-white jawline, he opened a drawer and thrust the photograph inside, slamming the drawer shut for good measure. She was a know-it-all. She had left him for dead. The sight of her laughing could not, would not, leave him feeling any positive emotions whatsoever.

He stuffed the papers back into the envelope. Best to just turn Granger over to Zabini.

"I've only acted like a lovesick mooncalf once in my life, and I will not be repeating the exercise!" Snape insisted to his closed desk drawer, before penning a note to his human resources manager.

Inter-Office Memo

Enclosed is a dossier on Hermione Granger. Have her in for an interview for the Arithmancer position. Be charming. Scaring her off is my job.

He cast a medium-strength Sticking Charm on the memo and slapped it onto the dossier. Rising from his extremely comfortable and well-padded leather executive chair, he stalked to the fireplace, pinched a bit of Floo powder, and sent the Life and Times of Hermione Granger through the Floo to Zabini's office down the hall.

Snape sat back down at his desk and read over Agnes' memo again. It was only then that he noticed the mention of Longbottom, Terror of the Potions classroom and (he added grudgingly) slayer of Nagini. Granger was dating Longbottom? Granger didn't deserve him. Even if she was nearly pretty these days, she was a harpy of the highest order. Poor, henpecked Longbottom. They obviously weren't suited at all. They ought to come in and take advantage of his services... There were many services he could provide to Granger, and not all of them profession... er. That photo! It was bewitching him! He wrenched the drawer open, scrawled a "forgot this" on the back of the photo, and sent that through the Floo as well. Let Zabini be bewitched by Granger and her excellent jawline, glossy, short curls, and graceful laughter.

"Miss Richards!" he bellowed through the closed office door.

Agnes, out at her own desk with a very comfortable chair, inspected the "Siren Red" toenail varnish she had just applied and sighed in frustration. Drying charms always left ridges. She'd have to do it all again later. She Vanished the varnish instead and slipped her feet back into her very sensible low-heeled pumps. Agnes tucked the bottle of nail varnish into her desk drawer where she kept her personal belongings, like the smutty romance novels she read when Snape didn't have anything for her to do and the box of Honeydukes milk chocolate toffees for when she had successfully navigated her boss' minefield of temper when he was in a particularly prickly mood. It was almost lunchtime on Friday...maybe she could convince him to eat before he launched into whatever subject had provoked his ire. There was no managing Severus Snape, of course. There was only guiding.

Agnes loved working for Snape, and she was quite fond of him in a very aunt-ish way. When he was in a pleasant mood, she wanted to slip him extra pocket money with which to buy sweeties, and when he was difficult and prickly, she wished she could send him home to his mother to have his bottom paddled. Before she had answered the Daily Prophet ad for "reliable, competent assistant wanted for demanding executive," she had been a middle-level secretary at the Ministry of Magic. Working for Snape did not only offer more lavish benefits and better pay, it was a hundred times more entertaining than filing reports on cauldron bottom thickness and other useless twaddle for forty hours per week. Plus, she only had to answer to one boss, not several middle-management wankers who got off on sneering down their noses at the clerical help.

She plucked the folder containing the takeaway menus from her bottom desk drawer before standing and making her way to Snape's office door.

"Yes, boss? Are you ready to order lunch?"

Snape looked up from the memo he'd been perusing. "Lunch?"

"Yes, sir," explained Agnes, shaking the menu folder in her hand, "lunch. It's a meal taken traditionally in the middle of the day to stave off hunger and make for a productive afternoon. You ought to try it sometime; it might sweeten your disposition."

Favored with a glare from Snape, which she made a show of ignoring, Agnes opened the folder and shuffled through the menus. "Indian today? Or perhaps Thai? No greasy pub grub, the Leaky can do without your patronage one day a week. Or I could pop over to that deli in Charing Cross and procure sandwiches."

Snape was sure he had something else he needed to ask Miss Richards, and a very good reason for glaring at her (other than her cheeky impertinence), but the mention of lunch made his stomach grumble and his mouth water, and he couldn't remember just what that reason was. "Indian, if that suits. Aloo mattar and makkani murgh for me, and lots of naan. Ask Zabini if he has lunch plans, and if not, order for him as well. We'll eat in the conference room, I want both of your opinions on the Granger file."

Agnes nodded, placing the menu for Curry Be Any Hotter atop the stack in her folder. "You know Zabini's going to claim that all he wants is a half-order of veggie pakora. Then he'll try to get you to give him your makkani murgh while making not-quite-rude comments regarding the need for expansion tailoring of your trousers under the guise of care and concern."

Snape grimaced. "Never mind; we'll meet at teatime. He can watch me demolish half a Victoria sponge instead. Let's go to the restaurant rather than ordering in. I need some fresh air."

Friday noon found Hermione at a table at Curry Be Any Hotter, perusing the Daily Prophet for job advertisements once again. A week of sitting around waiting to be owled hadn't been very productive, even if it had been fun. Unfortunately, the "help wanted" section was lacking anything but advertisements for shopgirls and waitresses. She didn't mind working in a shop if she had to, but she'd rather avoid it. It didn't seem as though she could put her Mastery to much use behind the counter at Flourish and Blotts.

The server had just set her lunch in front of her when the opening of the door caught her attention. A shorter, middle-aged woman in a sensible tweed skirt suit stepped in, followed by a tall, dark-haired man in a crisp black suit with a vest and a green silk tie. He had a bit of grey at his temples, and his nose was rather large. Had she encountered him in the Wizarding world, she'd think he was a dead ringer for Professor Snape.

"There's a free table just there, Miss Richards. Shall we take it?"

Even his voice sounded like Snape's. Hermione glanced down at her plate, then looked up again through her eyelashes...it wouldn't do to be caught staring. Suddenly, her chair was jarred from behind.

"Terribly sorry about that! It's this gigantic handbag of mine!" the tweed-suited woman apologised.

"It's all right," Hermione said with a smile. "I imagine I've done that any number of times with a stuffed-full bag myself."

"You!" growled the dark-haired man. "What are you doing here?"

A/N: Many thanks to Anonymous_Plume for the ridiculous name of the Indian restaurant. Pyjamapants first looked over this chapter about two years ago when I first wrote it, and kittylefish did the more recent beta. They are both fabulous.