All Revved Up with no Place to Go

A/N: Thanks to the lovely peskipiksi for betaing in the face of germs. Disclaimer: Any characters you recognise are JKR's, not mine. And I'm making no money from this. Hermione may have borrowed a couple of CDs from me. But not the car, more's the pity.

---

Chapter 4 – All Revved Up with no Place to Go

Hermione woke with the dawn light, feeling deliciously refreshed. Her alarm had yet to go off, so she remained where she was, relishing some extra minutes in bed. At some point during the night, she and Snape had both turned over, and she was now nestled against his back, her arm wrapped round him. She gently caressed the soft fabric of his T-shirt. She'd been unable to resist it when she spotted it online. She honestly hadn't expected to see him wear it, though.

She had been surprised by his actions last night, but had to admit he had been right. After his unexpected embrace, she'd relaxed and slept as comfortably with him as if they'd been together for years. Who'd have guessed that Severus Snape was a snuggler in bed? She giggled quietly, muffling the sound against his back.

"That's rather disconcerting, you know," rumbled Snape's soft voice. "Waking to find a woman laughing at me."

"Not half as disconcerting as discovering the dreaded bat of the dungeons wears T-shirts with inappropriate slogans and enjoys a cuddle," she retorted.

"I'm undercover," he responded with aplomb. He rolled onto his back, and Hermione moved over slightly, propping herself up onto her elbow to look down at him. He looked as relaxed as she'd ever seen him, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. She felt a sudden rush of affection for this complex man with whom she'd been acquainted for years, but whom she felt she was only now getting to know.

Beep, beep. Her alarm. She reluctantly moved away from Snape and reached over to her bedside table to silence it. She sat up then, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. She noticed Snape's eyes flickering to the inch of bare stomach revealed by her movement.

"Time to get up, I'm afraid," she said.

"Off you go then, wife. I'm not moving from this bed until I can smell coffee," Snape replied imperiously.

Hermione stood up and pointed a warning finger at him. "Just to be clear, I am getting up and making coffee because I want some, not because I'm being obedient."

"Oh, don't worry; I would never accuse you of that."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him and flounced out of the room, well aware that her shorts had ridden up and were giving him a fantastic view of her arse.

Snape banged his head down on the pillow and groaned. He hoped she took her time with the coffee. It was going to be at least ten minutes before he was in any fit state to move.

*

"What the hell is that?"

Snape scowled at Hermione as she held open the car door for him. The early morning air was cold, and the city around them was starting to wake.

"It's a car. A Jaguar XK to be precise. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it parked out here."

"Yes, I know it's a car, and yes, I had noticed it. I just didn't realise it was yours. It hadn't occurred to me that a long car journey was one of the tortures I would have to endure this weekend."

Hermione abandoned her position by the passenger door and threw their bags into the boot instead.

"Just get into the car, now!" she hissed.

Snape glowered again as he lowered his long frame into the sports car. Hermione slid into the driver's seat and turned to face him.

"Had you forgotten we're probably being watched?"

"Yes, I had," he admitted, surprising her. "I was just rather taken aback. How long will it take us to drive all the way to Mid Wales?"

"About four hours, depending on traffic," Hermione replied.

"So, why can't we Apparate most of the way there and just drive the last few miles? And by the way, I assume you can drive and this isn't some ill-advised magical-Muggle hybrid."

"Totally Muggle, and I am an excellent driver. And I enjoy driving. This is a fantastic and very expensive car, and it has to be returned after this weekend. There's not a Bowtruckle in a bonfire's chance I would ever be able to afford one in real life, so I'm going to take advantage of having it and drive every possible mile I can. You're not scared are you?" Hermione's eyes widened teasingly.

"I have travelled in cars rarely, and I have never enjoyed the sensation," Snape conceded reluctantly.

"You were fine in the taxi yesterday," protested Hermione.

Snape looked at her directly. "I was... distracted yesterday."

Hermione smiled mischievously. "Well, I strongly recommend you don't attempt any distraction today, or I am highly likely to crash the car. Honestly," she continued, more seriously, "I am a good and safe driver, and I promise I will get you there in one piece."

She put her seatbelt on, raising her eyebrows at him until he did the same.

"Excellent. Now hold on."

She turned the key in the ignition and grinned at the apprehensive expression on his face as the car roared into life. She revved the engine slightly.

"Ready?"

"I place my life in your apparently capable hands."

"That's what I like to hear. Wales, here we come!"

She released the handbrake and, with a cursory check in her mirror, accelerated noisily down the narrow street.

*

An hour into the journey, Snape was somewhat surprised to find that he was relaxed and almost enjoying himself. The seat was comfortable, there was more legroom than he'd expected, and the vehicle smelt delightfully of leather and Hermione's perfume. He was fairly sure that her initial hurtle through the deserted early morning streets of the city had just been mischievously calculated to scare him, and once they were on the motorway, her driving style settled to one of easy competence. Now no longer in fear of his life, he settled back to admire the relaxed strength of her hands on the steering wheel and gear stick. Not to mention the way her short skirt rode up slightly as her feet moved on the pedals. He moved his eyes away swiftly when he realised where they were directed, only to meet Hermione's amused glance.

"Enjoying the scenery, Steven?"

"Very much. I hadn't realised Berkshire was so appealing."

"Hmm. There's music in the glove box if you need distracting."

Snape followed her gesture towards the cubby hole under the dashboard. He opened it and pulled out a wallet full of CDs. He looked at the silvery discs, tilting them to the light to read the titles.

"Black Sabbath? Is that Muggle or ours?"

Hermione chuckled. "Muggle, though I think the lead singer would wish otherwise. Surely you've heard of them? They've been around since the seventies."

"Strangely enough, Muggle music wasn't the listening material of choice in the Slytherin common room during that period."

"Fair point."

"Aha! This I recognise!"

He pulled a CD from the wallet. Hermione held out her hand for it and inserted it into the player without looking. Within seconds, the car was filled with the sound of a solo cello.

Hermione let out a long sigh and put her head back on the headrest. "Bach! Oh, I love this. Cello Suite No 1, I believe?"

"Five points for Gryffindor. One of ours, of course."

"Bach was a wizard?"

"Naturally. There's no way a Muggle could produce that amount of music in one lifetime."

*

It was late morning by the time Hermione drove through the elaborate gates of Penbryn Hall. The house was not immediately visible as they passed along the beech-lined avenue. Manicured grass extended in all directions, and deer could be glimpsed grazing in the distance.

"So good to know crime doesn't pay," observed Snape, taking in the surroundings.

"It won't for much longer if I've got anything to do with it," replied Hermione grimly. Then she flashed a bright smile at Snape. "Told you I'd get you here in one piece, didn't I?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "There's still time for one of those deer to leap out in front of us."

"In which case we'll be having venison tonight," Hermione retorted cheerfully.

She was pleased Snape had got over his fit of apparently genuine nervousness at the beginning of the journey. Given the scale of abdication of control required, she shouldn't really have been surprised. Merlin knew she could sympathise with that feeling. One of the reasons she loved driving so much was the fact that she could experience total mastery of woman over machine – in marked contrast to the extreme lack of mastery she still felt every time she mounted a broom. She had considered telling Snape the story about her near-death experience with an unwary hang-glider, but decided to maintain her illusion of competence for a little longer.

The next bend brought Penbryn Hall into sight. Hermione had seen photos, but still wasn't prepared for the sheer beauty of the Georgian mansion set against the backdrop of the Cambrian Mountains. The soft grey stone was bathed in July sunshine, and water sparkled in a fountain at the centre of the gravelled forecourt.

"Wow," she said. "I'm in the wrong job."

"I think you'll find it's more a case of having the wrong parents," replied Snape acidly.

She parked to one side, between a battered Land Rover and a new BMW saloon. She patted Snape swiftly on the knee.

"There. All safe."

"Never doubted you for a moment," replied Snape as he opened his door.

"Wait a moment!" said Hermione sharply, putting her hand on his arm to stop him. "There's a security camera above the front door – can you see it?" She pointed to the front of the house.

Snape looked in the direction she was indicating and nodded briefly.

"I see it. What do you suggest?"

Hermione frowned slightly. "We should be fine as long as you keep your face angled away from it."

"Are you implying I have a distinctive profile?"

"Certain elements of your physiognomy are fairly recognisable, yes. It would scupper our plans a bit if you were recognised remotely before we've even stepped through the front door."

"Very well, then, I shall keep my head bowed as if in deference to my esteemed wife." And Snape was out of the car before Hermione could think of a suitably cutting riposte.

She chuckled to herself as she joined him at the back of the car and retrieved her bag from the boot. They stood together briefly, Hermione looking at the house's elegant façade while Snape looked at Hermione.

"Ready, wife?"

Hermione met the challenge in his eyes and nodded. "As I'll ever be, Steven."

They climbed the shallow stone steps to the porticoed front door, Snape carefully averting his face from the camera's gaze. He rested his hand briefly on the small of Hermione's back as if to guide her. Her stomach was churning with nerves, but she derived some slight comfort from the contact. She pressed the enamelled bell-push and heard a loud jangling from inside the house.

Only seconds later, the door was opened by a black-and-white-uniformed maid. She was plump and in her early twenties and greeted them with a welcoming smile.

"Hiya!" she said with a strong Welsh accent. "Welcome to Penbryn Hall."

Hermione returned the smile. "Jane Eastwood and Steven Singer. I believe Mrs Markov is expecting us."

"She certainly is," replied the girl, opening the door fully and beckoning them in. "It's lovely for her to have company. It's so quiet here most of the time, and I'm just that excited about this weekend! We've been dead busy getting everything ready, and of course there's the big dinner tonight and..."

"I think our guests have got the picture; thank you, Ceri," interrupted a soft, cultured voice from behind her.

Ceri spun round, hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs Markov. I'm talking too much again, aren't I?"

Hermione looked with interest at Helen Markov. She was in her late forties, slightly built, with mousy brown hair cut in a short bob. She wore a sensible tweed skirt and a short-sleeved cream blouse. Her eyes were gentle, and she smiled kindly at the flustered maid.

"That's fine, Ceri. Would you go down to the kitchen please and arrange for tea to be served in the morning room?"

"Yes, Mrs Markov." Ceri gave Hermione and Snape a brief grin as she hurried off.

She could be a good source of information, thought Hermione.

"I'm sorry about that," continued Helen, joining them by the door. "As you'll have gathered, I'm Helen. You must be Jane." She held her hand out to Hermione.

"I'm so pleased to meet you at last, Helen," responded Hermione, shaking hands. She indicated Snape. "This is my husband, Steven."

Snape took Helen's proffered hand and raised it to his lips briefly. "Delighted to meet you, Mrs Markov."

Hermione watched this display of old-world manners with amusement. Snape the charmer? Who'd have thought it? Helen seemed quietly delighted, though, as she led them further into the lofty entrance hall. The floor was marble, and their footsteps echoed through the huge space.

"You have a very impressive home, Helen," remarked Hermione.

"I'll give you the full guided tour later, if you'd like," responded Helen. "I'll show you up to your room first, though; then we'll have some tea."

"That sounds lovely, thank you," replied Hermione warmly.

They walked through the entrance hall, exchanging small talk about their journey and the weather. A pillared opening on the right led to the base of a stately stone staircase, which rose towards a large stained glass window before dividing into two. They climbed the stairs, turning left at the second flight, then followed Helen along a luxuriously carpeted hallway.

After passing several doors, Helen paused and opened one.

"Here we are," she said. "I've put you in the Blue Room. I hope you like it."

Hermione stood in the doorway and gazed around the ornately decorated room, taking in the delicately figured Chinese wallpaper, dark wooden furniture, and canopied bed. The fabrics and wall-coverings were all, unsurprisingly, in varying shades of blue.

"Wow," she said. "I'm going to feel like I'm in a Jane Austen novel, sleeping in here. It's beautiful."

Helen smiled in pleasure. "Thank you. It's one of my favourite rooms. You've got an en-suite bathroom as well, which was a luxury Elizabeth Bennet could never have dreamed of. Now, get yourselves settled in; then you can join me for tea in the morning room. It's the door immediately to your right at the bottom of the stairs." Hermione and Snape both thanked her, and she hurried away back down the corridor.

The two entered the room and dropped their bags by the door. Hermione took her phone out of her bag and began to scan the room while Snape walked over to the window.

"I'll just check my messages," she said, watching the screen carefully as she walked slowly around. The alert for a radio bug showed up as she approached the bed, and she isolated the source of the signal to the base of an incredibly ugly table lamp. She continued around the room, but found nothing else. She went into the en-suite bathroom, which was at least double the size of the bathroom in her cottage. No bugs there either.

She changed the phone setting and rapidly typed a note on the screen as she returned to the bedroom. 'One audio bug by bed. No cameras. Bathroom clear.'

She walked over to Snape and held the phone out to him. He glanced briefly at the screen and nodded once.

"Right then," she said decisively. "Let's get unpacked."

"Is that really necessary?" asked Snape. "We're only here for the weekend."

"You can't leave your clothes in your bag. They'll crease. Come on – it'll only take a few minutes."

Hermione suppressed a smile as Snape put his bag in the bed and unzipped it with a scowl. The whole nagging wife persona might prove to be rather enjoyable.

*

Snape tried to remember the last time he had unpacked a bag manually instead of magically. He supposed it must have been his last trip home from Hogwarts before he came of age. The inefficiency of it had chafed even then.

Suit over his arm, he opened the door of a huge mahogany wardrobe. He hoped Hermione was just being polite when she expressed admiration for the room's decor. It was far too ornate and stylised for his taste. As he was arranging his suit on a hanger, Hermione came to stand next to him, a swathe of deep green silk over her shoulder. She smiled at him as she hung the dress (ah, that's what it was) next to his suit.

"Like the colour?" she asked.

"Very appropriate. Are we finished here?"

"Yes, darling. Let's go and find that tea, shall we?"

It wasn't me that caused the delay. And stop calling me darling. With some difficulty Snape kept his thoughts to himself and took Hermione's proffered hand as they left the bedroom.

Following Helen's directions, they found the morning room. It was decorated in a more relaxed and comfortable manner than the few parts of the house they had seen so far, and it looked like a room that was lived in rather than displayed, Snape thought. As they entered the room, Helen was just putting a pill bottle down on a side table next to the tea tray.

"Migraine medication before you ask," she said with a smile. "I used to suffer terribly, but Yuri brought these for me the second weekend he came to stay with us. That was the weekend my father..." She paused briefly. "That was when I realised what a kind and thoughtful man Yuri was, and I haven't suffered from migraine since."

"That's very impressive," responded Hermione. "Migraine is notoriously difficult to treat."

"I know," answered Helen. "My doctor had tried everything, but Yuri said these came from a Russian herbalist, and I was to take them twice a day, and voila – no more headaches."

Snape held out his hand. "Would you mind if I had a look at them? Herbal medicine is a research interest of mine, and professional curiosity is a terrible thing." He gave a slight self-deprecating laugh.

Helen handed the bottle over. "Of course. Though they're just little green pills – I doubt you'll be able to tell anything by looking at them."

"Ah, but my husband has an extremely talented nose." Hermione said.

Snape opened the bottle and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply.

Feverfew, of course, for the headaches. And butterbur for the same. Ginger for nausea. Moonstone for emotional balance. And a hint of Ashwinder egg. That explained a lot, he thought. Markov was dosing his wife with a love potion. Despicable but rather clever – the low dose would have brought on the effect subtly and no doubt felt totally natural to Helen, and as the tablets were actually effective against her headaches, she would just keep taking them regularly without suspecting a thing.

Snape opened his eyes to see Helen and Hermione watching him with amused curiosity. He put the lid back on the bottle and returned it to Helen.

"I can understand why they work," he said. "I could detect feverfew and butterbur, which are well-known herbal remedies for headaches, and ginger to prevent nausea. I suspect it is the precise way in which the three are combined that gives the pills their efficacy."

"I'm intrigued you could tell all that from the scent alone," said Helen.

"Merely a matter of more years of practice than I care to remember," responded Snape. "And always a useful party trick." Not to mention a literal life-saver on more than one occasion.

*

Helen was as good as her word and gave them an extensive tour of the Hall following their tea. Hermione lost track of the bedrooms after number seven. Their hostess was an informative and amusing guide, explaining how an ancestor had built the house in the early nineteenth century, using his fortune earned from the wool trade during the Napoleonic Wars.

"I must admit the house had been getting somewhat down-at-heel over the last few decades, but when we got married, Yuri vowed to return it to its former glory, and he has invested a lot of time and money in the place. He loves it as much as I do," she explained as they descended the stairs to the entrance hall. She led them to the left of the front door. "Here's the dining room."

The room was dominated by a vast table, the gleaming mahogany surface polished to a mirror-like shine.

"Needless to say we don't eat in here very often!" said Helen, laughing. "It's a little large for the two of us. But it does look wonderful when it's set out for a formal dinner, as it will be this evening."

"I'm looking forward to it," said Hermione warmly. "I just hope my dress is smart enough."

"I'm sure you'll look utterly enchanting," murmured Snape, but loudly enough for Helen to hear, and she smiled at them both indulgently.

"Your husband is quite the charmer, isn't he? He reminds me of my darling Yuri."

Hermione wondered briefly whether Snape would be taking more offence at being called charming, or being likened to an arms dealer who was also a suspected Dark wizard. Probably the former.

Helen indicated a door at the far end of the dining room.

"That leads to the store rooms, laundry, and kitchen, but I daren't take you down there at the moment. If past performance is any measure, my housekeeper, Mrs Bowen, will be supervising a scene of controlled chaos preparing for tonight, and interruptions will not be welcome."

"She sounds rather scary," observed Hermione.

Helen grimaced. "She can be utterly terrifying when she wants to be. She's run the house for forty years, mostly single handed, and has rather definite views on the way things should be done. She was horrendously offended when Yuri insisted we take on more staff, but I think now she is secretly loving the new opportunities for intimidation that are offered her. Poor Ceri gets the brunt of it, but fortunately she's as thick skinned as she is talkative. The gardener, on the other hand, is a more sensitive soul – I've caught him hiding in the hydrangeas on more than one occasion. And we've gone through four cleaning ladies at last count. But she's actually a very kind soul underneath it all – my mother died when I was ten, and Mrs Bowen rather took me under her wing."

Hermione was starting to develop a somewhat sad picture of Helen's life. An only child, left alone in this huge house with just her father and the housekeeper from a young age, resigned to spinsterhood. Until she was swept off her feet by an exotic foreigner with whom she was besotted. (Although, from the expression on Snape's face while he examined Helen's migraine pills, she had some suspicions about the reasons for that.)

And within twenty-four hours Hermione was probably going to deprive her of her husband. Merlin, this job was hard sometimes.

She glanced at Snape, who was observing Helen with something like compassion in his dark eyes. As they followed their host back out into the entrance hall, his hand rested briefly on Hermione's shoulder, and he squeezed it slightly. With that gesture, she realised that he knew exactly how she felt.

*

From the dining room, Helen led them straight across to the opposite side of the front door.

"This is Yuri's office," she said, opening the door and gesturing for them to enter. It was furnished just as an old-fashioned country squire's study should be, with hunting prints on the wall, a couple of comfortable leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, and a large antique desk. The only incongruities were the flat-screen computer monitor and keyboard to one side of the desk.

"Where does that door lead to?" asked Hermione, pointing to the other side of the room.

"What door?" asked Helen, looking straight at it.

Ah, Muggle-Repelling Charm, thought Hermione. She quickly continued speaking. "Sorry, I just assumed there would be a door like the one from the dining room. Papered over, maybe?"

Helen looked confused briefly. "Um, you're right, there was a door there." Her expression cleared. "I remember now. Yuri had it bricked up when he renovated this room. It does lead to the mirror image of the kitchen wing, but we'd only used it for storage for years, and it's structurally unsound now. We may renovate it in the future, but for now it's safer blocked off."

Seeing that Helen still looked slightly disconcerted, Hermione linked her arm though that of the older woman.

"Now, I'm sure in a house like this there must be a wonderful library."

Snape moved to Helen's other side. "I feel I need to warn you that if you let my wife enter your library, you will have severe difficulty extricating her."

Suitably distracted, Helen laughed as she left her husband's lair.

*

The house did indeed have a magnificent library, which Hermione was prised from with only modest protests. Following cursory looks round the drawing room and saloon, they had left the house via the rear terrace to view the immaculately laid out garden. Hermione and Helen chatted animatedly about horticulture as they strolled between the colourful flowerbeds while Snape trailed slightly behind them. He wondered idly when Hermione had gained her apparent expertise in Muggle gardening.

There was no doubt in his mind now that Markov was a Dark wizard. The love potion pills could possibly have been sourced from elsewhere, but the Muggle-Repelling Charm on the study door settled the question. The only mysteries now were Markov's actual identity and what exactly lay behind that concealed door. The fact that Markov apparently hadn't felt the need to use anything other than anti- Muggle magic indicated a certain arrogance, mused Snape. He was obviously supremely confident that no-one from the wizarding world was going to penetrate his disguise. Which was going to make apprehending him all the more satisfying.

Hermione and Helen had paused ahead of him and turned, waiting for him to catch up.

"Helen says she needs to go back up to the house to organise lunch, but we can go and have a look at the stables. Shall we?" asked Hermione.

"That would be pleasant," responded Snape. And would give us an opportunity to compare notes.

Helen smiled at them.

"Perfect. Well, in that case, I'll see you in the saloon for lunch at one o'clock. The others should be here by then. And we can ride this afternoon if you're interested – as you'll see, we've got a good choice of mounts."

"We're very grateful for your hospitality, Helen," said Snape, inclining his head politely.

"Thank you, Helen," agreed Hermione. Their hostess murmured her appreciation and hurried back to the house, no doubt to face the formidable Mrs Bowen.

Snape held out his arm to Hermione. "Come along then, wife. Let's see what fine specimens of horseflesh await us."

Hermione took his arm with a grin as they began to walk slowly in the direction of the stables. "You sound the very epitome of a country gentleman."

"Antithesis, more like, but I'm glad the act is convincing. So, what have we learnt this morning?"

"You first. I'm guessing Helen's migraine pills are nothing of the sort?"

Snape shook his head. "They are, I'm sure, extremely effective against her headaches. But they also contain a weak love potion."

Hermione let out her breath in a long sigh. "I thought so. Poor woman. There's nothing in them that is actually harming her health, is there?"

"Not that I could detect, no."

"That's one mercy, anyway. I was slightly concerned that if Markov bumped off her father he'd do the same to her. I take it we think he did kill the father?"

"Well, the timing is rather suggestive. If I interpreted what she said correctly, Markov stayed with them for a weekend, and that was when he saw the house and met Helen. Then he returned for a second weekend, at which point he started dosing Helen with love potion, and her father conveniently died. Heart attack, wasn't it?"

Hermione nodded.

"There are any number of methods a skilled potioneer could use to bring on a heart attack in a way undetectable by Muggle medicine," Snape continued. "Foxglove, oleander, corn lily, broom, Cerbera – and those are just the plants. Unfortunately, I think you'll struggle to prove his guilt on that count."

"So, we'll just have to find more evidence against him," said Hermione in a determined voice. "On which point, I'm assuming the concealed door from his study leads somewhere interesting. Was it just me, or was it a little odd that the door only had Muggle-Repelling Charms on it?"

Snape quirked his lips slightly. "Well, that does depend what's behind it. There may just be an impressive display of pornography he wants to hide from his wife."

Hermione looked at him steadily.

"But," Snape continued, "if we are correct in our assumption that it is his laboratory, then the lack of precautions is rather telling. We are dealing with someone arrogant enough to feel he is at no risk of discovery by anyone from the wizarding world. Such a lack of fear is rather unusual for a former Death Eater. Any of them with half a brain cell – and Markov's potions skills indicate an above-average level of intelligence – will have spent a couple of decades either terrified of Voldemort, or terrified of the Aurors, or terrified of betrayal by one of their own. Paranoia rather came with the territory. The only exceptions were those of high enough rank to be totally confident of their position in Voldemort's circle, or the general wizarding hierarchy, or indeed both."

"But I thought all of Voldemort's nearest and dearest were already accounted for?" asked Hermione.

"That was my understanding as well. Have you considered the possibility that Markov is genuinely Russian? There were a number of Dark wizards on the continent who were loosely allied with Voldemort, but who never totally committed to his cause."

Hermione frowned. "In that case, how likely is it that you will be able to identify him?"

"It's still perfectly possible. With his potions expertise, I may even have encountered him in a professional capacity. But, to be honest, I think who he is matters less than what he is – a Dark wizard who has developed a dangerous weaponised potion which he is selling to Muggles, who has murdered at least one man, and who is deceiving a delightful woman who really doesn't deserve it."

"Should I be jealous?" asked Hermione, eyebrow raised.

"No, I think you're safe. You're much better endowed." He paused for a beat, watching Hermione's eyes narrow dangerously. "Your library's more interesting for a start."

Hermione laughed and squeezed his arm. "I do love a man with a one-track mind."

*

Their stroll eventually brought them to the stable yard, with its arched entrance topped by a clock tower. Walking through the archway, they found themselves in a large courtyard, three sides of which were taken up by looseboxes. At least half were occupied, and a number of equine eyes followed their progress across the yard. An elderly man in a flat cap approached them, and Hermione observed with some amusement that he was the absolute caricature of an old stable hand – small, wiry and bow legged. She tried to decide whether the picture would be completed by an Irish brogue or West Country burr, so she was slightly disappointed when he hailed them in an unmistakeably local accent.

"My granddaughter told me you'd arrived," he said. "Ceri. Up at the house."

"Oh, yes," said Hermione, "she seems like a lovely girl."

"Lovely but could talk the arse off an antelope. I'm Huw. Are you two riding later?"

Hermione turned to Snape, who returned her look with a challenge in his eyes. "I'm happy to if you are," he said.

Hermione turned back to Huw. With some trepidation, she said, "OK. But I warn you I haven't ridden since I was a child, and I wasn't very good then. I need the equine equivalent of a Morris Minor."

Huw chuckled. "Is that what you drive, then?"

Snape interrupted. "No, she's got a Jaguar which she drives like a demon, so I've no idea why the thought of a horse worries her."

"I trust the brakes in my Jag – animals are rather less predictable," retorted Hermione. "I'm just more comfortable with horsepower than horse power, if you know what I mean."

"Don't worry, bach," said Huw reassuringly. "I've got just the thing." He led them over to a nearby box. "Meet Violet. She's nearly twenty and hasn't been faster than a trot for at least five years. She was a good hunter in her time, but Helen only really keeps her as a pet nowadays."

Hermione and Violet eyed each other doubtfully. Hermione held out her hand and rubbed the horse's nose gently, at which the grey mare closed her eyes and exhaled softly, looking for all the world as if she was dozing off. Hermione grinned. "She'll do."

Huw rubbed his hands and turned his attention to Snape. "And how about you?"

"To remain with the mechanical analogies, good brakes are essential, but I wouldn't object to a bit of acceleration as well."

"Ah, in that case I think you'll like Samson." They followed Huw to a stable on the opposite side of the yard, where a huge black horse with a crooked white blaze was looking down his nose at them. "Gentle as a lamb but will run all day if you want him to."

Snape patted Samson's neck briefly, but they both gave a start at the sound of a loud crash from the adjacent box.

"Behave yourself, Turpin," growled Huw, moving to look over the door. Hermione peered over his shoulder from a safe distance to see a large chestnut horse stamping his feet at the back of the box.

"He doesn't seem happy," she observed.

Huw shook his head. "Too many nerves and too little training. Mr Markov bought him for Mr Price to ride. We're doing our best with him but...." He shrugged his shoulders.

Snape walked over to stand next to Huw. "He's a beauty, though, isn't he?" He held out his hand over the door towards Turpin, who eyed it distrustfully.

"Watch yourself," warned the stable hand. "He's bitten chunks out of two of the grooms."

Snape kept his hand still, and gradually the horse approached, ears flat against his head and tail swishing angrily. Hermione took a nervous step back. Once the horse was close enough, Snape placed his hand very gently on his neck, carefully making eye contact. Hermione was reminded of Harry greeting Buckbeak for the first time. Turpin snorted, and Snape murmured something softly to him. The tension left the horse's body, his ears pricked forwards again, and he nudged Snape's shoulder hesitantly.

Huw gave a low whistle. "Never seen him do that before. You've got a way with horses, mate."

Snape turned his head towards them, hand still resting on Turpin's neck. He smiled slightly. "I used to. It's good to know my touch hasn't deserted me."

Hermione was intrigued. Was Snape just adapting the Hippogriff technique, or did he have some hidden past as a horse-whisperer? She'd ask him later, she decided. She glanced at her watch.

"Come on, Robert Redford," she said. "We need to get back to the house for lunch."

A look of slight puzzlement crossed Snape's face at her form of address, but he gave Turpin a last pat on the neck and moved over to join her.

"We'll see you later, then," she said to Huw.

"Enjoy your lunch, both," he said, walking away across the yard with a brief wave.

Snape draped his arm round her shoulder casually as they headed back to the house.

"Robert who?" he muttered into her ear.

"Redford. Actor. Good with horses." Hermione replied, succinctly. "Where did that little trick come from?"

"Product of a misspent youth."

"As long as you didn't Imperius him."

"That would be a fairly despicable thing to do. And unnecessary. Horses are simple creatures. Project an image of sweet, green grass into their minds, and they calm instantly."

Hermione slipped her arm round his waist.

"Impressive. Tell me more about this misspent youth of yours."

Snape looked down at her, amusement in his eyes. "This is very cosy. In case of an audience, I suppose?"

"Of course," Hermione replied, electing not to point out that he'd put his arm around her first. "And don't change the subject. I want to hear about your early career as a horse-wrangler."

Snape chuckled softly. "That's overstating it somewhat. There was wasteland near my childhood home that gypsies often used for grazing their horses. One summer – I think I'd have been ten – there was a group of unbroken colts on there. Some of the local boys were taking bets on who could stay on one longest. I spent a week creeping down there at night to practise, and I picked up the trick you saw earlier.

"The second week, I took that group of boys for every penny they'd got. I'm sure you wouldn't think it to look at me now, but I was a particularly unprepossessing child, as scrawny as I was ugly." He gave a wry twist of his lips.

"I can't believe that," interjected Hermione.

Snape looked at her sceptically. "Liar," he said. "The other boys were convinced I would be incapable of staying on even one of the colts for more than a second, but I took great pleasure in relieving them of both that illusion and their money. They were pleasantly stupid, and it took them four horses before they caught on that there was something not quite... normal about what I was doing. At which point, I ran before they could beat seven kinds of shit out of me. I seem to recall that was the day I performed my first wandless Disillusionment Charm, as well."

Hermione laughed. "Precocious brat, weren't you?"

Snape eyed her sternly. "The words 'pot' and 'kettle' spring to mind."

"You may have a point," conceded Hermione. "Was that the extent of your riding adventures?"

Snape shook his head. "No, I'd quite often sneak off at night and borrow a horse for a couple of hours. The wasteland was developed when I was in my mid-teens, though, so that was the end of that."

"Well, I look forward to admiring your skills later." A sudden thought occurred to Hermione, and she struggled to suppress the grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

"What now?" asked Snape, warningly.

Hermione grinned fully as she replied, "I've just remembered what else I'll be admiring. The jeans I've brought for you to wear may be a little on the snug side."

She shrugged at his faintly shocked expression. "It's only fair I get a good look at your arse – don't think I haven't noticed you ogling mine."

Humour sparked into his eyes. "I haven't been ogling, as you so inelegantly put it. I've been studying in a spirit of scientific enquiry."

"Really?"

"Naturally," he responded loftily. "I was merely curious as to whether the cumulative years you've spent sitting on your arse in the library have deformed it in any way."

"Have you reached any conclusions, yet?" Merlin's balls, he is joking isn't he? With difficulty, she resisted the absurd impulse to peer round at her own rear end.

"It's a little early to say. I think I need rather more observation before I can decide."

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Observe away. I fear I may be in for a disappointment though – muscle tone's one of the first things to deteriorate with age, and I'm slightly concerned your backside may have got as flabby as your wits."

Snape studied her face closely. "In that case, I think I'll choose not to mention the streak of horse shit you've had on your cheek for the last fifteen minutes."

Hermione's hand flew to her face, and simultaneously, triumph flared in Snape's eyes and realisation dawned in her brain. Bugger, he got me with that one.

"One–nil to me, I think," he continued airily. "Flabby wits indeed."

They'd reached the steps up to the terrace at the rear of the house now. The French windows from the saloon were open, and a sudden burst of high-pitched, raucous laughter reached their ears.

"Either Mrs Bowen has finally provoked Ceri into a fit of hysterics or the other guests have arrived," observed Hermione as they paused at the bottom of the steps.

"Amusing as the former would be, I suspect the latter," said Snape. "Come along then, wife; on with the show."

Hermione tightened her arm briefly around Snape's waist and was reassured to feel an answering squeeze round her shoulders. Wordlessly fortified, they headed up the steps to continue their masquerade as a loving couple.

---

A/N: Bach is a Welsh term of endearment, literally meaning 'little one'. Much used by the older generation round these parts!

For the benefit of non-Brits (and, come to think of it, anyone under the age of 30!) a Morris Minor is a type of car that was beloved of elderly ladies and the clergy until at least the 1980s.

In Georgian house design, the saloon was a large drawing room or room used for entertaining.

Credit must go to the late, great Douglas Adams for pointing out that Bach's musical output was suspiciously high for a mere mortal.