2: Snarkarella at the Ball

Disclaimer: Second verse, same as the first. (And I truly hope you don't wind up with that song stuck in your head!)

Thank Southern_Witch_69 and PlaidPooka for issuing the Makeover SexGod!Snape Challenge over at Potter_Place and for inspiring this fic. (If you like it, that is. If you don't like it, forgive them. It's not their fault I can resist everything but temptation.)

Chapter 2: Snarkarella at the Ball

Severus idly wondered if the wizard checking invitations at the door was an angry former student or a thoroughly cowed former student. The pathetic lackey refused to meet his eyes and mumbled the requisite welcome nervously and indistinctly. Hmm. The latter, then.

True to her word, Reggie entered invisibly, clinging to his shoulder. She refused to risk being trampled (accidentally or on purpose) by following at his heels, and he had objected to the unsightly bulge she made in his coat pocket. He ducked quickly into the gent's lav, luckily vacant at the moment. The evening was young. No one was hiding, nor was anyone vomiting or otherwise relieving themselves of one too many drinks, as yet.

As soon as the door swung shut behind them, she leapt to the edge of the nearest sink and revealed herself. "All right, brace yourself--here comes Severus 'The Sex God' Snape!" she yelled, giving a particularly lewd wiggle of her hindquarters and whipping her silver tail at him.

The glamours were as powerful as they were garish. Severus literally didn't recognize himself.

The man in the mirror was still tall, but that was about all that seemed immediately familiar. His face was tanned and framed by waves of his newly silky and now slightly curling, raven-black hair. His eyes had a nice chocolaty glint that kept them from being too formidably black. Where the hell had his nose gotten to? That perfectly proportioned right triangle in the middle of his face sure as shite wasn't his, and he was dressed in... What the fuck was he wearing, anyway?

Damn, he was using copious mental profanity. This was always a sign of extreme nerves. No, nothing to be nervous about. No reason to be nervous. Just going to talk to the lovely Miss Granger, dressed like a refugee from a Mardi Gras parade. If anything went wrong, just blame it on the Jarvey. Blame everything on the Jarvey.

"You have truly warped tastes, Reg," he finally managed, fingering the convincing illusion of a dragon hide opera coat in iridescent purple. He had to admit, it did complement the reddish gold silk tuxedo shirt with the emerald buttons--in a Louis XIV's royal pimp sort of way. And the shimmering dark purple trousers with the reddish gold stripes down the sides dementedly held it all together.

He was glad he couldn't see his feet from this angle. He feared they might be encased in something sparkling.

The Jarvey was babbling again. "Thanks, Sev. Oi! No need to be so quick on the draw with that wand, you damned berk." She watched as the sink upon which she had been perched crashed to the ground, split in two. Water bubbled merrily from the broken pipes. "You know, that might have left a mark, had you hit me."

"Call me 'Sev' again and you'll find I can be even quicker, you mangy mustelid," he groused. The past twenty-four hours had taken their toll. It was the best he could come up with at the moment, as he considered whether to attempt to cast 'Reparo' on the sink or just slip away and pretend he knew nothing about it. 'Reparo' was notorious for not having the intended effect when applied to plumbing.

"Nyah, nyah, smartarse--Jarveys are NOT mustelids. We are genetically distinct from weasels, ferrets, stoats, and all manner of shoddy little vermin-kin. So there," she finished petulantly, sticking out her little pink ribbon of a tongue.

"Oh, I am sorry. Jarveys are more like skunks then, I take it?" Hmm. Better. He was recovering.

"Okay, I give up on improving your personality. I suspect that if the snark were removed, there'd be little left save a pile of bitterness, rage, and a couple of empty Cockroach Cluster bags. I'm going back to calling you Snarkarella," she groused.

"Not if you value your fur. There is no way in hell I am letting her see me like this," he grumbled threateningly. His voice sounded odd in his own ears, for some reason. Perhaps it was shock. Definitely not a good time to attempt plumbing repairs, then. A strategic withdrawal was in order.

"You are letting everyone see you like this. You're gorgeous. You're glowing with confidence--"

"--Yes, definitely 'glowing.' I can be seen from the moon, if the light hits this coat just right--" he interrupted sourly.

"--The lady won't be able to take her eyes off you. How about it, Snarking Beauty?"

"When were you born, Reg?"

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"I want to know if there's any chance you're a reincarnation of Albus Dumbledore. That might explain your unholy fascination with clothing loud enough to wake the dead and tormenting me under the pretext of having my best interests at heart," he sniped. But his tone was resigned.

Reggie sniffled. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Give me a hug, you big lug!"

Snape activated his death glare, and the Jarvey subsided slightly. "Right. No hugs. Come on, let's go."

Regina resumed her invisibility and her perch on Snape's shoulder. He was agitated and wary, but he couldn't very well hide in the lav all evening like a nervous schoolboy at his first dance. Also, Merlin help him, he couldn't quite bring himself to attempt to Stupefy the Jarvey and stuff her behind the nearest potted palm. Reg had been strange, but undeniably efficacious up until now. He squared his shoulders and exited carefully, minding the increasingly slippery floor.

Their escape was just in time, as it turned out. A portly wizard in genteel plum-colored robes entered seconds later to quite a nasty shock. The poor chap slid wildly all the way across the swamped floor before managing to catch himself on the Endless Warm Towel Dispenser. He clung to it desperately, yelling for help a good three or four minutes before being rescued.

Hermione Granger was anxious. She had overheard Minerva McGonagall gloating about how she had cleverly roped Severus into attending this function, and it worried her. All the isolation in that ramshackle house of his (and Hermione imagined it was only still standing because the termites were enchanted to hold hands) must be seriously dulling the edge of his instinct for self-preservation.

She couldn't really ask anyone she knew whether or not they had seen him arrive. Her friends had a nasty habit of interpreting any inquiries she might make regarding someone of the opposite sex as evidence of a deep romantic attachment and tease her unmercifully. Hell, they were still bringing up that Lockhart idiot after a decade. She had developed quite a complex with regards to him, to the point where she flinched inwardly if introduced to anyone bearing the initials 'G.L.'

It was bad enough when she had no romantic interest whatsoever in the person in question. But in the case of Severus...

She really had resented Draco asking her to be a delivery witch--for at least a full thirty seconds. He had been so polite and earnest that she had known he was angling for a major favor, which was supremely galling in light of all that had passed between them. If he hadn't caught her at the exact moment she happened to be inwardly fuming at the injustice of how Snape had been so utterly shut off from Wizarding society, even in the wake of being completely exonerated, she probably would have fallen back on old habits and added one more tally to her 'Slapped Draco Malfoy Today' record.

Of course, her lofty acquiescence to his request had left her with a slight dilemma. How now could she thank Draco for the chance to acquaint herself with Severus--without losing her hard-won position of moral superiority and the lovely sensation that the Lesser Malfoy Prat believed he owed her?

Yet she felt she really must thank him. She had come to look forward to her monthly appointment at Spinner's End, spiders notwithstanding.

Outside of the classroom, Severus (It was so hard to call him Mister rather than Professor Snape that in the privacy of her own mind, she never bothered.) was still predominately prickly as a hedgehog. But without the need to constantly project intimidation, he was more of a dignified hedgehog. It was a measure of how desperately he needed the work--and the human contact--that he not only suffered her to be his St. Mungo's liaison, but also actually invited her in each trip for tea and a discussion of the latest academic news. Little by little, he had relaxed sufficiently to even toss out snide witticisms and caustic observations on life, the universe, and generally, everything.

It was nice, to talk to someone who was truly interested in having an intelligent discussion. Not that she was without intellectual acquaintances. Eventually, however, every one of them wanted to turn the topic of conversation to the war (which she would dearly like to forget) and to Harry 'The-Boy-Who-Whipped-Voldy's-Arse' Potter (whom she dearly loved, but in whose shadow she was feeling a little pale and piqued. Or even peaked). No danger of that with Severus.

On a superficial level, he could have been talking about the weather, and she still would have eagerly anticipated her next chance to visit him. The man's voice was like a full-body hot oil massage. She would even tolerate sipping her way through an entire cup of his wake-the-dead tea, just to have an excuse to look down once and a while during the conversation; she was fairly sure it kept him from noticing that she was secretly perving on his voice. She didn't think he would keep inviting her back, if he knew.

Hermione could only just dissemble convincingly to others; she was therefore stuck in the unenviable position of being perfectly honest with herself. She really enjoyed Severus Snape's company and was hoping for more of it. Especially tonight, when she was wearing an incredibly flattering new turquoise robe with the perfect just-this-side-of-slutty sweetheart neckline and had reaped the rewards of a hairstylist who knew perfectly well how to turn untamable frizz into a close approximation of classical curls.

She had to find Severus. But what soul of discretion might answer her queries without broadcasting them to the entire room?

"Have you seen Severus Snape?" she asked the bartender.

"Snape? Long nose, short fuse, wears any color so long as it's black?"

Hermione brightened. "That's him."

"Not tonight, Miss. Sorry."

So much for that.

Hermione wondered how long it would take for enough people to register her presence at the event so she could make her escape with good grace. The last time she had slipped out early, evidently the Social Stigmatization Network had sent representatives to her supervisor by noon the following day. She had been put on the night shift for two weeks straight in retribution.

Disgruntled at the thought, she ambled back to the table where Harry and Luna were sitting with Ron and his flavor-of-the-month. It was far from the ideal situation, but she could either sit with her interfering but well-meaning friends, or she could sit with someone who only wanted to talk about her interfering but well-meaning friends. It had begun to be quite nerve-wracking, being around them at events like these. Everyone was either securely paired up or happily dating around, and their only hobby, save snogging each other, seemed to be setting her up with someone or bemoaning her single state.

Ron's date was babbling loudly and announced that she was going to visit the loo, plainly expecting either Hermione or Luna to join her. Neither of them bothered to take the hint. It was clear this one was never going to be Mrs. Ronald Weasley and would, indeed, be lucky if he kept his patience with her long enough to dump her on her own doorstep at the end of the evening rather than making his escape whilst she was distracted.

Hermione wondered idly if Harry and Luna would ever get married. They seemed to get along better than any two people she had ever met. Luna was like the calming goat to Harry's high-strung thoroughbred.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the other end of the room. Hermione turned, but could see nothing beyond an increasingly large and excited throng of women.

"I haven't seen anything like that since the moment Neville's bride threw the bouquet at their wedding reception," Luna remarked serenely.

"I didn't know there were any mega-celebrities here tonight--besides you, Harry," Hermione quipped. The evening might have some entertaining qualities, after all.

Ron, the tallest of the group by nearly a full head, stood to get a better look. "Blimey! There's some bloke dressed like a Knockturn Alley pimp coming this way!"

The cause of the commotion managed to break free of the press about mid-room. Hermione frowned. There was something vaguely familiar about him, though the clothes were absolutely impossible.

"Hey, look 'Mione! It's a brunette Gilderoy Lockhart!" Harry teased.

Hermione felt blood rushing to her face. She had initially thought the man rather handsome, if you ignored the clothes. (She had heard intense colors were the rage lately, but really!) The suggestion that there could be a single atom of her being capable of finding anyone resembling Lockhart even superficially attractive was appalling. That couldn't have been what was appealing about him--could it?

"Don't look now, but he's coming our way," Ron observed. "And that look on his face! You've made a conquest, 'Mione!"

Oh, Circe's girdle. The man was coming this way. And since his eyes were glued to her, she couldn't even pretend that his intentions might be to talk to Harry. She was glad Ron's date was in the loo. She didn't need any further witnesses to her humiliation. With Harry and Ron choking back hysterical laughter, and even Luna's almost perpetual smile showing a hint of amusement, she would really rather crawl away and die than do anything else at the moment.

It was not very Gryffindor of her, but Hermione had been out of school some time now and didn't give a damn what anyone thought. She made a run for it. "I'm going to the loo," she muttered, almost knocking over her chair in her haste to get as far away as possible from anyone who would want to remind her of this incident later.

Unfortunately, tall, dark, and haute couture was also quite agile. He dodged milling bodies and awkwardly placed chairs with the grace of a dancer until he had her cornered near the back wall.

She would have appreciated watching him move under other circumstances. She would have even been flattered at the fact that he was clearly seeking her out, despite all the women obviously throwing themselves at him. But once her friends got on the subject of Lockhart, the nightmare could continue for weeks. If she didn't shut him down now, she would suffer later. And suffer, and suffer, and suffer...

"Miss Granger," he began, slightly out of breath and sounding a little uncertain.

He knows my name, she thought, blanching inwardly. His voice sounds as blank and uncertain as his face looks. Get him away, get him to go far, far away.

"Oh, excuse me, I've been looking for someone all evening!" she gibbered brightly, the words popping out in a patently insincere rush. "A Mr. Severus Snape. Do you know him? Have you seen him? Can you find him for me?" Sweet Nimue, she was babbling like an absolute idiot.

The handsome man's face shut down, like all the lights in a skyscraper turning off simultaneously. While he stood as if under Petrificus Totalus, emotions flickered wildly through his eyes, including hints of anger. Hermione was beginning to worry that the man wasn't merely vapid, but actually slightly unhinged.

In a flat and hollow, almost lifeless voice, he said, "I will find him for you, Miss Granger. Good evening." He spun around and stalked away, deftly deflecting grasping women as he went.

Harry had been watching the byplay avidly. He became alarmed at the slightly panicked look on Hermione's face and hurried over just in time to hear the stranger's response to her apparent babbling. He wasn't sure whom Hermione had asked the man to find, but he was relieved that she had managed to rebuff him so easily.

As the flustered man retreated, Harry could be heard laughing. "Come on, 'Mione. Do you think that garish git could find his arse with both hands and a 'Lumos' spell?"

The walk across the room was a nightmare.

What was it with women, anyway? Was a remotely handsome face all that it took to efface any vestiges of their self-control? A man who did to a woman what these harpies had done to him would be chucked into Azkaban!

Snape had barely entered the main ballroom when the first woman accosted him. She had begun fluttering her eyelashes and simpering at him, and he hadn't the first idea how to put her off with any sort of good grace. It wasn't exactly a situation that he faced on a regular basis. He was busy deflecting her when another woman took advantage of his distraction to sidle up and grab his arse! He would have hexed her, except that by then, a third woman had cozied up to him and was hanging very inconveniently on his wand arm.

It seemed as if every time he turned around, there was an unfamiliar hand trespassing somewhere upon his person. It would have been rather flattering had he not been uncomfortably certain that all these women would run away shrieking if they knew at whom, precisely, they were throwing themselves.

Where in the bloody hell had the Wonder Weasel and all these (apparently) sex-starved women been when he was a hormonal and slightly unethical teenager?

Reggie was no sodding help at all. She had clambered up on top of his head to avoid groping hands and was now clinging to his hair, quivering slightly. He couldn't be certain, but he strongly suspected that she was sniggering silently at his predicament. Oh, fuck--was that a man eyeing him, now? Wonderful. His internal dialogue was becoming peppered with profanity again, always a sign he was losing his grip. He had to find Hermione and fast!

"What's all this about, then?" A sultry, throaty voice with an Irish accent penetrated the shrill babble around him. An older witch--tall, blond, busty, and (in a slightly tawdry way) rather attractive--strafed the women around him with her quelling expression. Then her eyes lit on Snape.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" she practically purred. "Come to Sophie, gorgeous, and let her show you a thing or two."

This was the Grissig woman?

"Madam Grissig?" Snape asked, somewhat faintly.

Her face broke into a smile of amazing brilliance and ferocity. She advanced on him until she was within murmuring distance. "Good, you already know who I am. Maybe we can skip the formalities and get right to serious playtime. Why don't we--"

The fairy glamour Reggie had used was an excellent one. It changed his features without in any way impairing his ability to convey facial expressions. And so it was that his disguised face went quite blotchy in an effort to both blush and turn as white as a sheet simultaneously at the things Madam Isgrig was whispering in his ear.

Role-playing was one thing--but there were certain objects that should never, ever, approach certain portions of anyone's anatomy. His own, in particular.

"Excuse me, I just saw the person I am to meet tonight," he squawked and scrambled away with very little semblance of dignity.

Gods and Merlin! Had Minerva any idea that her friend was a sexual sadist who would make Lucius Malfoy look amusingly kinky by comparison? And did he truly want to know the answer to that question?

For once, Regina had no clever comments to add. "Faster," she murmured in his ear, and he had the distinct feeling the Jarvey was peering nervously behind them. "If that's her idea of what to do with a nice big bloke like you, I'd hate to see what she'd have in mind for little bitty me."

Blessed relief! There was Hermione, looking absolutely divine. He hurried towards her, his eyes never leaving her lovely face. He wondered why she looked so worried. Wait a minute... Where was she going?

Without miles of corridors to prowl every night, Severus was getting a little out of shape. Between rushing and sheer nerves, he was breathing a little harder than he ought to have been by the time he finally managed to corner Miss Granger. The frightened look in her eyes jarred him so that his voice came out as a fragile shell of its usual richness. Then, when she said she was looking for him (and obviously lying, at that) his heart absolutely froze in his chest. What was going on here?

Had his voice been responding properly, he likely would have been recognized immediately (which might have had a properly quelling effect on the hormonal masses). If one considered his altered face in conjunction with his unmistakable baritone, clear evidence of Severus Snape could be seen. However, he just didn't seem to be able to conjure that infamous vocal magic. Whether it was emotional stress, the many and varied layers of intense fairy magic to which he had been subjected over the past twenty-four hours, or some unknowable third factor, he was sounding uncertain, slightly nasally, and not at all, well, Snapely.

Obviously, Hermione didn't recognize him at all, either. What purpose could she have for asking a man she believed to be a perfect stranger--and in her eyes, evidently, a frightening one--to go looking for him? Was she using his name as a diversion, hoping to either intimidate the man or waste his time looking for someone who wasn't there?

Regardless, the Jarvey's machinations had failed him miserably. There was no way he could attempt to explain himself now. He was back to square one. Less than one, since he now had the humiliating memory of Miss Granger trying to escape him in a blind panic, to fortify him during their next encounter. Assuming there was a next encounter.

He hardly knew what he said to her before turning away. He only knew he had to get back to looking like himself, get back home, get back to the way things were before Regina Fletcher started manipulating his life into an even sorrier mess than it had been.

And of course, as he turned to leave, Potter had to blunder along and put the maraschino cherry of misery on his mortification sundae.

Fairy magic was powerful. Even through the roaring of blood rushing furiously in his ears, Severus could still hear the invisible Jarvey on his shoulder hissing a quelling mantra. "Do NOT turn around. Do NOT hex Harry Potter. Do NOT hex Harry Potter. Head directly for the gent's lav. I will undo the glamours. I fixed your teeth, I fixed your hair, and I can fix this. Do not, do NOT, DO NOT hex Harry Potter... "

Moving mechanically, Snape negotiated the obstacle course of dining tables and milling people. It was fortunate the dancing hadn't begun yet because he likely would have blindly thrust anyone aside who got in his way at this point.

They re-entered the gent's, and Snape grabbed at his shoulder, finding the invisible furry mass there and flinging it across the room. Regina screamed a particularly choice obscenity as she managed to catch the Endless Warm Towel Dispenser (which was really having quite a heroic night) and thus avoid an unfortunate meeting with the far wall.

"Okay, I guess I needed to add 'Do not hex, jinx, or otherwise molest, Regina Fletcher' to that chant," she gasped. "STOP TRYING TO KILL ME, YOU BLOODY BAD-TEMPERED WANKER! I'M ONLY TRYING TO HELP YOU!" Her voice rose to a screech and mirrors cracked. Judging by the new trickle of water on the floor, a toilet tank may have cracked, as well. This was unfortunate; Maintenance had only just contained the mess from the broken sink, and the new leak threatened the floor's restored traction.

Angry fairy god-thingies were evidently not only hazardous to anything remotely breakable; they also forgot to maintain invisibility. Her silver fur stood on end, snapping electrically, and she practically foamed at the mouth.

"The nerve of you!" he hissed, quivering with rage. "Help me? Is this what you call helping me? I could have cocked up approaching her in a social situation all on my own, thank you! I hardly need any 'help' from you to exponentially aggravate my complete and utter humiliation!" His voice intensified until it seemed likely that more fixtures would be cracking in the near future.

The effect of his impassioned speech would have been far more impressive were it not for the glamour. There is only so intimidating one can appear while wearing the latest from the 'Liberace Out For an Evening Stroll' collection.

A stall door slammed open, and a wizard in spangled blue robes shot out of the tiled room and into the hallway (serving to underscore the point that it is vital to check for feet first, if planning to have a battle royale in a public lav).

"Do you want the fucking glamour gone or not?" she yelled back. This did not even slow down his tirade, much less garner an acknowledgment that she might have a reasonable point.

She didn't have time for this. The escapee from the end stall could be alerting Security, or at least Maintenance, at this very moment. With a wild snarl of frustration, she whipped her tail at Snape viciously and thought the magic words.

It's never a good idea to do any complex or potentially dangerous task when very angry.

Fortunately, there was a choice of empty stalls for Snape to duck into, once he realized that her spell had taken off more than just the glamour.

"Give me back my clothes," he demanded. Quietly. Not only was it a tactical error to widely broadcast the fact of being trapped in the loo wearing not a stitch, but a wizard with no wand (except in the anatomical sense) was not exactly in a position to insist on anything too boldly.

Well... there were very specific conditions under which he might, but they were not in effect at the moment.

Regina's reply was equally quiet. If she was laughing her furry little arse off right now, she was doing an amazing job of hiding it. "Your personality is impossible. Your face was an unmitigated disaster before I came along, and despite my amazing talents, there is only so much I have been able to accomplish towards mitigation. You're smart as hell, though no one can stand being in the same room with you long enough to appreciate it. But, below the waist... Holy Merlin," she solemnly pronounced.

It was difficult to be very hostile towards a female so obviously in awe of his endowments, even if the female was of a different, smaller, and far too furry for his tastes species.

"I'd like you to note that down for my eulogy. Now, my clothing, please. And no more Mardi Gras colors," he insisted.

She sighed. "Okay, but I'm not returning your wand until I get some assurance you won't try to separate whatever may pass for my soul from my cute, fuzzy little body again," she warned.

He supposed that was a mild enough condition to insist upon, given the situation. "Agreed."

"You'll also need to open the stall door, at least a little," she said. "I can't guarantee the desired results if I can't see where I'm directing the spell."

After a thoughtful pause, the stall door opened--approximately one inch--to reveal a bare back. The hand holding the door placed very strategically.

She concentrated carefully. With a stylish swish of her tail, he was once again dressed and armed. This was a good thing because it was now time to panic.

"I'm telling you, there's a fight going on in there! And one of the voices was definitely female!" The voice, undoubtedly belonging to the rudely interrupted occupant of the end stall, was approaching rapidly. It was a foregone conclusion that he had brought reinforcements.

Regina raced along the tops of the stall dividers and took her place on Snape's shoulder, just in time for him to Disillusion them both.

It wasn't as if the unlikely duo couldn't explain everything in perfectly logical terms. They could probably even evade any potential adverse legal action. It was just that they both much preferred a clean getaway.

They eased away from the tell tale swinging stall door and were almost in position to escape as the blue-robed wizard burst into the room with two burly security guards. "I'm going to create a diversion," Reg whispered. "When all hell breaks loose, run for it!"

That last bit could be the title of my autobiography, Severus reflected, as Regina provided enough diversion to mask the retreat of an army. Sinks fell from the walls, stall doors exploded from the force of jets of water, and the Endless Warm Towel Dispenser (either indirectly stimulated by overwhelming waves of fairy magic or having developed a modicum of sentience and, with it, a savior complex) enthusiastically shot a stream of warm towels across the room at the drenched security guards. Severus and Regina had absolutely no problem escaping completely unnoticed, even with the Jarvey laughing hysterically at the sight of her three collateral victims sliding wildly on the slick tile as they attempted to dodge towels.

The noise and confusion began to draw a crowd, making it easy to reappear discreetly once clear of the lav. Regina, her giggle attack finally contained, ducked behind a potted palm and whispered, "Hey, Snarky! Cute little bint at five o'clock!"

Snape whirled to find himself face to face with the inspiration for all his image-reshaping travails.

She was transcendently lovely. Her eyes were bright, her décolletage was low, her hair was under some semblance of control... He was so flushed with adrenaline, he wasn't thinking at all. This proved to be excellent tactics on his part. With no voluntary input from his frontal lobe, he smiled and said, "It's good to see you, Hermione."

She smiled back at him--a shocked, but lovely smile. Wait. He had spoken aloud. Had he actually called her Hermione?

"It's good to see you, too. You look wonderful tonight, Severus," Hermione breathed.

Oh, very good. It appeared they were on a first-name basis, after all.

He glanced quickly down at his clothes. Rather than return his couture completely to normal, Reg had taken the liberty of Transfiguring his usual ensemble slightly. His frock coat was enhanced by pencil-thin lines of dark, green silk piping along the collar, cuffs, and buttoned front. The buttons were tastefully antiqued silver. She had tweaked his waistcoat as well, changing the material into deep, green velveteen, almost black, with a subtle design of arabesques in shorter pile. Shoes and trousers were also normal, aside from looking a little sharper and newer. He breathed an internal sigh of relief.

And of course, there was that delightful hair the Jarvey had conjured for him. Must resist the urge to keep smoothing it...

"Thank you," he replied, feeling more confident than he had in ages. He ventured another smile, and was rewarded with a dazzlingly breathtaking grin from her. "Are you intent upon staying here for the duration, or can we escape to someplace where it is possible to obtain a decent dinner?"

"There's a nice Chinese takeaway around the corner from my flat," she offered shyly.

"I think I wouldn't mind eating at your place," he said, trying to sound casual.

Perhaps he hadn't succeeded in sounding casual. But, in light of her next words, this was a good thing. "If we do, I think I could manage something nice for pudding," she said, giving him a suggestive glance from under her eyelashes.

By way of reply, Severus grasped her firmly by the arm and began escorting her to the exit. He felt that he exercised admirable restraint in not reacting to that innuendo by tossing her over his shoulder.

"Incidentally, do you have any idea what's going on back there?" Hermione asked, inclining her head towards the disaster that was the gent's lav.

"Poltergeist in the plumbing, I believe," he answered gravely.

As they walked out the door, arm in arm, people gaped. Severus Snape was walking with Hermione Granger. He was smiling; she was smiling. They were smiling at each other, and the sheer joy of it rendered both their faces radiant. No one would have noticed if they both had pink hair and were wearing matching tutus. With those reciprocating smiles, all that anyone would perceive was that they were beautiful together.

"Well, bugger me," Regina said, agog. "All that work... and all he really needed to look completely different was a new accessory..."

Author's Notes:

Hmmm. One more chapter, shall we say? After all, our heroes, having skipped the banquet, need their supper. Raise your hands if you want lemon pudding! (With appropriate upping of the rating.) And don't worry--Reg will have a (four-letter) word or two to add before it's all over. In more than one language.

I hate to admit it, but I was thinking of Zaphod Beeblebrox when I invented the 'pimp outfit' (though it really would be a little restrained for him). And I strongly suspect the towel dispenser would feel quite at home in 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' universe.

LariLee beta'd this. She is a warm, wonderful, and possibly semi-angelic being. Don't let the 'canon Nazi' rumors put you off. She's more like the Countess of Commas.