Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Plotting, Privilege, and Peacock Shit.

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After breakfast, Draco dressed, and then he took a stroll around the estate. He walked around the rear of the carriage house and towards the lake at the bottom of the swathe of lawns that circled the Manor.

The grass was in need of cutting, and the flowerbeds were overgrown and weed-ridden. If the Manor was neglected, its grounds had been abandoned. Wherever Draco cast his disdainful regard about him, he saw disorder and dereliction where he should have seen precision and order, but the Manor looked worse than unkempt, it looked... lost.

All, that is, apart from the perfectly manicured and well-maintained oblong space, in a perfect playing card shape, before him on the lawn. The grass on this area was well kept. Meticulous white lines criss-crossed the court, and a low net stretched from one side of the space to the other.

His mother's tennis court. Draco's lip curled scornfully. His mother's obsession with such Muggle cultural degeneracy had begun here, in the very grounds of his childhood home....

"I see that you are admiring the estate, dear boy!"

Alerted by his father's shout, Draco turned from his contemplation of the alien structure and turned to watch his father weave his way towards him across the ragged lawn.

Lucius was moving in a curious motion, periodically pointing his cane to the right, then the left at the ground as he moved. Draco had the sudden impression of a slow motion dance, his father's feet moving in an elaborate pattern while the wizard's cane moved like a music hall troubadour as he progressed across the ragged lawn. Small puffs of smoke or dust erupted from the sun-baked grass wherever Lucius' cane struck the earth (it had been an unseasonably hot September in Wiltshire).

Draco frowned. Frustrated musical theatre artiste? Early onset dementia? he wondered as his father made another gliding turn, tapping the cane to his right this time as he approached. It reminded him absurdly of a Muggle film, which he had been forced to watch as part of his rehabilitation, in which some idiot -– what was his name? – who was famous to Muggles... Oh yes, Gene Kelly had pranced around ridiculously with a mop.

Lucius was less than ten feet away. He whirled once more, stabbing at something to the left of his feet, before bouncing the cane around in an elaborate arc and striking the ground on the right.

Draco's eyebrows crawled ever upwards. "Are you quite alright, father?"

Lucius paused, his cane poised in mid-sweep.

A moment passed. Two. Lucius regarded his son blankly.

Draco curled a lip in amusement at his father's expression. "A new exercise regime?" he suggested, waving his hands at Lucius' body language.

"Peacock shit," replied Lucius smugly, bringing his cane down on the small pile of purple droppings at his feet. "Incendio!" The pile of peacock poo disappeared in another small detonation.

"Ahhh." Of course. Exploding peacock shit. Perfectly normal, thought Draco. Things were clearly far worse than he had thought. Excellent. "Did she even take the garden-elves with her when she left?"

Lucius flicked his cane at another small deposit on the lawn, which in turn obligingly exploded into non-existence.

"Small pleasures, dear boy," he said dismissively.

Draco grunted, his eyes still fixed on the tennis court before them as his father came to stand next to him. The net sagged a fraction in the middle and moved gently in the wind that was blowing gently off the ornamental lake.

"I'm not here to discuss shit removal, father," he drawled. "I would rather discuss more... pleasant diversions."

"Your plan to return Narcissa to me from that... Muggle." Lucius did not quite manage to shield the longing in his voice.

"Quite." Draco smirked. "The 'tennis coach'."

Lucius tapped his fingers impatiently on the head of his cane.

***

NO, you stupid boy.

Turner, you are incompetent. NO. No, no, no, no. no. NO.

It was nearly ten o'clock, and Severus had spent a number of unproductive hours waiting for Miss "I'll see you later, then" Granger to arrive at his chambers and convincing himself to not go up to Gryffindor Tower to find her. What did she mean by "later", anyway?

Your methodology is as stupid as your demeanour during lessons. If you had paid any attention at all to your notes in your second year, Branbury, you would know that mixing Ximphatic Aromena with a distillation of Murtlap BEFORE adding the Arrowroot would cause a toxic reaction that would kill you. Congratulations. I look forward to the practical demonstration. T.

The clock on his mantelpiece chimed mockingly. He scowled, and then he scrawled a thick red line through the next hesitant and inaccurate answer.

Utter, utter tripe, Williams. See me after the lesson.

Perhaps he should have gone to...

He shook his head sharply, furious with himself. Don't be an idiot. She's letting you down. Disdain. Indifference. Scorn.

Fuck it.

Back to the next manuscript.

This one was better. One of the Godfrey twins. He squinted at the top of the scroll. D'arcy. Stupid name. He grunted and read on.

Tick. Tick. Tick – yes. Applying a counter turn every seventeen stirs would further enhance this.

Tick. Tick tick tick tick. Acceptable, Godfrey.

He pushed the scroll across his desk into the group of marked papers.

He stared at the bottle of elf-made wine that was standing unopened on the bureau, at the two crystal glasses beside it. Up at the clock. Ten past ten. She's not coming. He tried to school his features into a terrifying sneer and failed.

He looked again at the bottle, then at the next essay in front of him. A cursory glance at the handwriting scrawl confirmed that it was Bensen's latest incompetent effort.

Why did I even think that this... He clamped down on that train of thought, grinding his teeth and picking up his quill again.

A tentative knock on the door broke the silence. The knock bore all the hallmarks of a student.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. What have the little snots done now? he thought viciously, pushing himself away from the desk, the chair legs squealing in protest on the flagstone floor.

He flung open the door to his chambers.

"What?" he barked, intent on making whomever had dared to interrupt his evening off suffer badly for their impertinence. And then he would find Nott and murder him slowly for dereliction of duty, as he was the member of staff on duty in Slytherin.

"Err. Hello."

It was Granger.

Hermione. His mind stuttered to a halt.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said a little breathlessly, her hands fluttering at her sides.

She was wearing a pretty blue dress that was far too lightweight for the dungeons. Goosebumps were already showing on her upper arms. Her hair had been pulled back from her face and neck, and she was smiling and squinting up at him rather anxiously.

Her eyes flicked to his hand on the doorjamb. "Oh." Her face fell. "I'm sorry, are you busy? I thought..."

Severus followed her eyes and saw that the red ink from the quill he was holding was running down his wrist, staining the cuff of his best white shirt.

"I'll just..." she began, taking a step backwards.

The scuff of her heel on the floor was finally enough to galvanise his mind into some sort of action.

"No!" his voice was too loud in the corridor. She paused, uncertain, her eyebrows raised in surprise. He cleared his throat and tried to smooth his tone. "Please come in, Professor." He forced his face into a smile (hoping to Merlin that it was a smile and not some sort of hideous grimace) and gestured that she should come forward to follow him inside his rooms.

Hermione stepped closer to him, but before he could move backwards, she caught hold of his arm and pulled him a little towards her. Startled, he bent forward, conscious that he was halfway out of his rooms and into the corridor and that anyone who was walking past could come upon them and think...

"Hermione, Severus," she whispered in his ear and kissed his cheek. "Boyfriend's privilege."

She moved quietly past him into his chambers.

He shut the door. Boyfriend? he thought, horrified.

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A/N: With grateful thanks to beaweasley2, Clairvoyant and nagandsev – always.