Chapter 4: Mi Casa Es Su Casa

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Chapter 4: Mi Casa Es Su Casa

Contrary to popular wizarding world belief, Severus Snape was not a cold, unfeeling bastard. At the moment, he felt a veritable cornucopia of emotions, including but not limited to anger, annoyance, disappointment, irritation, and loathing. All due to the arrival of Hermione Granger at the Shrieking Shack – now completely renovated down to its bland new moniker, the Hogsmeade Arms Apartments. Indeed, death had rendered him cold, but it hadn't improved upon his personality.

It could have been worse, he thought, trying to be optimistic, a new emotion for him. I could have been saddled with the accidental savior, Potter, instead of this overbearing harpy. He'll probably show up at some point, however. And with the red menace, Weasley, too. Though I'd rather they arrive together, one big, happy Golden Trio reunion. Then I can suffer just one industrial strength headache, perhaps with a side of nausea as well. In the end, this newfound optimism was beaten down by the resident school-yard bully, pessimism.

As Hermione unpacked and settled into her flat, Snape lurked in the shadows, watching with intense interest. He studied her every move and everything she touched, filing away details in his vast memory banks, fodder for future haunting.

First, I will collect the data. Next, I will formulate a thoughtful and thorough plan to drive Miss Granger and all living creatures from my home. Finally, I will execute.

Only he could hear his low, evil cackle. Death had robbed him of almost all he held dear in life, but at least he still retained his sense of humor.

She was organized and methodical, as one would expect of the swotty, overachieving Miss Granger, tackling one room at a time, emptying one box at a time, stowing away her gear and personal effects. As she went about her task, she carried on a one-sided conversation with her familiar, who responded with a meaningful meow every now and then.

"I used my first Order of Merlin stipend to outfit the kitchen," she explained, pulling new Teflon®-coated cookware from a box and using her wand to neatly stack the pots and pans within the white laminate cupboards. "I went shopping at Marks and Sparks. Oh, and look at this."

She bent down and held her treasured purchase at arm's length, offering it to Crookshanks for inspection. He found nothing appealing in the wooden rack, or its tiny, colorful jars, but he sniffed at it with his usual indifference simply to appease his mistress.

"Well, of course you don't find it very exciting, but Molly assured me I should be capable of cooking all of Ron's favorite dishes with just the contents of this spice rack and a few fresh ingredients." Hermione danced in joyful anticipation of her culinary adventures.

Snape could have sworn the ginger hairball rolled its eyes.

Satisfactory brewing skills do not make you an expert in the kitchen, Miss Granger. But just in case, you might consider having a heartburn potion or bezoar on hand.

Snape followed Hermione into the bedroom next. She wielded her wand with graceful economy, guiding her clothing from trunk to wardrobe like a seasoned conductor directs an orchestra. Robes, dresses, skirts, trousers, jeans, and blouses clung to perfume-scented padded hangers, organized primarily by color, then season. A furious twirl of her wand sent small folded items – lingerie, socks, t-shirts, jumpers – to their respective dresser drawers. The contents of each drawer were then inspected for quality control; she was too meticulous in her charms to allow the socks to mingle with the knickers. She plucked out a lacy red bra and matching thong, waving them before her familiar's squashed face.

"These are a gift for Ron. Do you think he'll like them?"

The half-Kneazle stared unblinking at his mistress. "Meooow?"

"Well, of course they wouldn't fit him, but he'll get to see me wearing them. Not for long, though, if you know what I mean?" She waggled her eyebrows, but Crookshanks ignored her lascivious innuendo like he did most things.

I would have expected more subtlety from the erudite Miss Granger. But then again, she is attempting to seduce a Gryffindor, and Ronald Weasley isn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

Wasting no time, she stowed bed linens, towels, and grooming products in the bathroom cupboards. "I want to put everything away tonight and set this place to rights. But rest assured, Crookshanks, I do plan to decorate this flat. With a few judiciously applied Transfiguration spells, I will turn this boring bath into a luxurious spa. It will be like the prefects' bath at Hogwarts, but without the voyeuristic stained-glass mermaid."

She regarded the frosted glass-enclosed shower for a brief moment, then conjured a shower caddy to hold her vast collection of haircare products. "I paid a pretty Knut for Sleekeazy's Salon Professionals. This line of products is very technique sensitive, but the stylist assured me I could achieve salon results at home. Just picture me with soft, manageable curls."

You should hope for nothing short of a miracle in those bottles or at least a money back guarantee.

She spent most of her time that evening in the library-cum-lounge, returning hundreds of shrunken books to their original size and shelving them – grouped by subject matter, of course – in the floor-to-ceiling, built-in, hardwood bookcase. Her vast library almost rivaled the collection previously housed in the Shrieking Shack. There were paperback and hard covers, fiction and non-fiction, reference and pleasure, classic literature and mindless pablum.

I wonder if she's got Beyond the Valley of the Dolls? At least her books should provide a welcome diversion as long as I'm forced to endure her presence. Snape ventured from the shadows to survey the titles, certain he would go unnoticed while Hermione remained so absorbed with her task.

Blessed silence settled around them, broken only by her whispered "Engorgio" and the muffled snores of her familiar, curled up, asleep on the hearth rug. Once every book was in its place and the boxes vanished, Hermione collapsed upon the reproduction Victorian sofa – a dark-walnut-and-red-velvet monstrosity that had resided with the Weasleys in its former life. "Ugh, I never noticed just how dreadful this sofa is in style and comfort. This will be Transfiguration project number one tomorrow. I hope Molly takes no offense." She wiggled her bottom across the tufted cushions from one end to the other, eventually finding a comfortable bit of real estate on which to settle.

"Accio Advanced Charms Theory," she said with a yawn. The thick tome flew from her book bag into her eager hands. She spent a few moments indulging in the "new book" sensations, caressing the never-before-cracked cover and gilt-edged pages, inhaling the fresh-off-the-presses ink. Despite the lure of knowledge, Hermione struggled to keep her eyes open as she read the introduction. Her lids drooped; her head lolled backward, resting upon the arm of the sofa. Deep in slumber, she never noticed the fire bursting to life in the hearth, nor the snifter of brandy on the side table.

On Saturday evening, Hermione entertained her beau and erstwhile comrade, Ronald Weasley. She flitted about the tiny kitchen, bouncing as she prepared to début her new culinary skills. With her wand, she directed her assistants in their tasks – knives a-chopping and spoons a-stirring – but she added the spices to the curry by hand, not trusting the delicate seasoning to magic. Inhaling the spicy, fragrant steam floating above the skillet, she smiled and hummed with satisfaction.

While his girlfriend slaved over a hot hob, Ron lazed in the lounge, sprawled across the recently transfigured sofa. He held a sweaty bottle of butterbeer in one hand while the other one tossed Stilton-stuffed olives into his wide, gaping mouth, his accuracy spot on.

Recessed in the shadows, Snape was both amused and appalled by the young man's antics. Where did he learn his table manners? He looks like a baby bird, waiting for mum to serve him warm, regurgitated worm.

Hermione's heretofore undiscovered house-mate had been biding his time, observing the lady of the house as she went about her strict routine. Throughout the week, he had tested the waters with a bit of minor mischief, small household failures that by themselves were easily dismissed, but collectively were quite distracting. Tonight would commence his formal haunting.

Having depleted the appetizers in record time, Ron turned toward the kitchen and shouted, "Oi, Hermione. When's dinner going to be ready? I'm starving here."

The multitasking witch wiped her hands on the frilly gingham apron tied at her waist and placed a stasis charm on the chicken tikka masala and basmati rice before joining her guest.

"Budge over and make some room for me." Hermione glared at Ron as his boot-clad feet came to rest upon the coffee table. The boots were clean, rendered mud free when he passed over the threshold – courtesy of a cleansing charm created by Hermione herself. She remained silent but snatched the bottle from his hand with a bit too much vigor, butterbeer sloshing his trousers in the most unfortunate of spots. She took a long swig, then gently returned the bottle to Ron as she sidled up next to him on the sofa.

"I like what you've done with the place, Hermione. Cozy, but kind of cramped, though, isn't it?" At the tender age of eighteen, Ron Weasley knew just the right thing to say in any situation, including critiques of interior decorating.

His remark effectively raised her hackles, and she snatched the bottle from him again, leaving an ever larger unfortunate stain in the same area as the first one. Before he could react to that grievous offense, she forged ahead in retort.

"Well, Ronald, I occupy one-quarter of the former Shrieking Shack." Her tone had a frosty edge. Any application of a cooling charm to the flat at that moment would have been gilding the lily. "If it's not to your liking, we could always go to your flat."

He recoiled at her suggestion. "No way, Hermione. You remember what George did the last time we spent the evening at my place? I had those itchy purple spots on my... you know... for days. We can't take that risk again." He squirmed a bit and, in doing so, snuggled closer to her, thighs touching. "Have you met your neighbors yet?" It was a swift subject change; the dizzying effects might have floored Hermione if she weren't already sitting.

"No. When Mr Filch was here yesterday, he said I'd likely be the only tenant in Hogsmeade Arms Apartments, Building One. Apparently, its former reputation as the most haunted house in Britain precedes it still. Even with a change of name, this will always be considered the Shrieking Shack."

"What was Filch doing here?"

"Attending to some maintenance issues. In the midst of my morning shower, the water turned ice cold, and that's not an exaggeration. My teeth were chattering, and I could see my breath. There's something odd with the electricity, too; my alarm clock goes off in the middle of the night, waking me from a sound sleep, and I always check the setting twice before I go to bed. And my books rearrange themselves as well, even after the self-organizing charms have been neutralized. It's all very odd."

Ron attempted to offer a logical explanation. "Maybe the house-elves are messing with you when they're tidying up and delivering your laundry. Payback for S.P.E.W.?"

She shook her head. "No, they aren't here long enough for any mischief. Besides, I spoke with the lot of them at the beginning of the week, and there are no hard feelings on either side."

"Hmm. Maybe there's a ghost here, playing tricks on you."

Maybe you aren't as gormless as you look, Weasley.

"Another one of Dumbledore's red herrings. Nobody really died...oh, I forgot."

Prolonged silence hung between them, threatening to suck the air from the room. Hermione needed a fortifying dose of butterbeer before she found her voice, barely above a whisper. "I hardly think Professor Snape would waste his time haunting the Shrieking Shack. He couldn't tolerate me when he was alive, so why hang around me in the afterlife?"

My point exactly, Miss Granger.

Ron's one-track mind kicked into gear, preventing another tension-filled pause. "Dinner smells fabulous, Hermione. Let's eat."

Indeed. Let the games begin. Snape followed the couple to the kitchen, lurking in the shadows outside.

Ron proved to be a deft hand at domestic charms, artfully setting the table as Hermione took care of the food. He was somewhat of a gentleman as well, pulling her chair out before sitting down himself. He went so far as to plate the food, serving Hermione first.

He's not as feckless as I thought. Molly must have driven some manners into his thick skull.

"Tuck in, Ron." Her teeth were poised for lip-gnawing action as she watched him bite the first tender morsel of fragrant, spicy chicken.

Ron smiled and bobbed his head in synchronous time with his chewing. "It's delicious," he managed to say between chews. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then Hermione was cruising on the road to success. But it's also said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. For after Ron swallowed, it became clear his brain and body had differing opinions regarding her cooking. A bright red flush spread across his face and neck, clashing with his ginger hair and overpowering his freckles. Tiny beads of sweat merged to form larger ones and eventual rivers pouring down the sides of his face.

"Too hot," he rasped between wheezing breaths sounding like a death rattle. "Water."

He searched in vain, butterbeer the only beverage in sight. He grabbed the bottle, only to have Hermione snatch it from his grasp once again.

"No," she shouted. "You are supposed to drink..." Ron's speedy and ingenious actions stopped Hermione mid-warning.

"Aguamenti," he shouted hoarsely as he pointed his wand toward his mouth. Head thrown back and mouth agape, he swallowed the jet of water issued from his wand with relative ease, dribbling just a bit from the corners of his mouth.

Quick thinking, Weasley, however uncouth your actions were. Maybe a bezoar wasn't such a bad idea after all, Miss Granger.

Her compassionate face belied the patronizing tone of her voice. "Better?"

He coughed and sputtered, hand clutching at his throat. Unable to form meaningful words, his grimace spoke volumes.

"That's because you need milk, not water, to temper spicy foods. Lactesco." She handed him the butterbeer, which she had transfigured into milk.

Ron chugged the entire contents of the bottle without stopping for air. "Whew. That's more like it. Thanks, 'Mione." His ears remained bright red while his face and neck returned to their previously peachy tone, complete with freckles. He wiped his sweat-soaked brow with his shirt tail. It seemed table manners were optional at this point.

She smiled reassuringly and rested her hand upon his. "I'm just glad you're feeling better."

He cleared his throat and stared at their hands, rather than her eyes. "Yeah, well... I don't want to discourage you from cooking, love, but... I don't think you should make that again."

Her smile collapsed as she snatched her hand away. "I used your mum's recipe and followed it exactly."

"Well, something went wrong, didn't it? Maybe the spices? Let me see them please."

She huffed and rolled her eyes as she handed him the spice rack. "I examined it thoroughly when I bought it," she explained, her tone petulant.

Being tied to Molly Weasley's apron strings had given Ron a slight advantage over Hermione in the kitchen. He targeted three spices in particular – chilli powder, turmeric, and cumin – pulling them from the rack as he spoke. "I know the recipe calls for equal amounts of each one. But maybe you were a bit heavy handed with this one?" His voice was tremulous as he handed her the essentially empty jar, orange-red residue clinging to its sides.

Or maybe my hand just slipped...

Her narrowed eyes shot between her quailing boyfriend and the depleted jar of chilli powder she held in her lightly trembling hand. Her words were clipped and edged with anger.

"This jar was as full as the others when I placed dinner under a stasis charm. Why would I sabotage my own cooking?"

"You would never do that on purpose, love. Accidents happen all the time," he answered, grasping for a plausible explanation. "Dad told us stories of Mum's early kitchen mishaps..."

Need any assistance in removing your foot from your mouth, Weasley?

Her eyes widened; nostrils flared in time with her quick, shallow breathing. Her body remained mostly still, however; only the slight twitch in her wand hand told of her imminent loss of control.

Ron called upon untapped reserves of tact and courage in order to halt Hermione's transformation from benevolent domestic goddess to pugnacious, canary-conjuring witch. With a quick scan, he ascertained the location of her wand – still sheathed in her back pocket – then approached the brooding witch with caution, enfolding the seething woman in strong, yet gentle arms.

"I'm sorry if I insulted you. The spice thing... it's just weird, you know?"

Her rigid posture relaxed, and she melted in his arms, head resting upon his chest. "Strange, yes," she agreed, her voice small and soft. "I guess there's no way to explain it." It seemed neither party wanted to broach the ghost subject again, so it remained unspoken between them.

"Yeah." He exhaled a sigh of relief, but when he inhaled, his nose took on a life of its own, sniffing the warm vanilla-scented air permeating the kitchen. Any remaining trepidation vanished when he asked, "Did you make pudding, too?"

"Yes, bread pudding," she replied with hesitation. "Do you really want to risk it?"

"Yeah, I'm starving." His eager, beaming smile punctuated his answer.

She glanced at the oven timer. "It needs a bit more baking, then some time to cool down."

"I know what we can do in the meantime." Ron waggled his eyebrows at his blushing girlfriend before pulling her from the kitchen.

Enjoy the fumbling grope, Miss Granger. I'll just check on your pudding.

Upon his return to the sitting room, Snape found the couple nestled intimately on the sofa; he could not discern where one ended and the other began. Gangly arms and legs tangled, awkward hands sought purchase beneath clothing, curious lips explored every inch of exposed skin, tongues fought for dominance. The noise of sloppy, wet kisses and soft moans mingled in a symphony of innocent teenaged lust.

He shook his head and sneered. She must truly be desperate to tolerate the inexperience of this overeager, bumbling paramour. I've seen enough, however. I wonder if a ghost can go blind? Regardless, I hope to be saved by the bell soon enough.

The piercing blare of a smoke alarm startled the couple, causing them to roll from the sofa onto the floor. They dashed to the kitchen to see black smoke billowing from the oven. Ron stood ready for action as Hermione pulled the door open, then jumped aside. He shouted, "Aguamenti," for the second time that night, successfully dousing the flames within the gas oven.

They stood there, wide eyed, panting, neither able to speak, nor perhaps willing. After a few moments, she moved, donning oven mitts to pull the blackened dish from the oven. She noted the temperature dial had been raised to 260 degrees Celsius, well above the 170 degrees she had set earlier in the evening. With little ceremony, she dumped the burnt pudding, crock and all, into the sink; the ruined curry soon followed. She stared sullenly at the colorful culinary failure which mocked her domestic skills.

Ron approached her with hand extended, but pulled back at the last second. "Let me help you with that, 'Mione." He began to clear plates from the table, but her hand on his forearm halted his movement.

"Thanks, Ron, but I think I would rather clean up on my own, if that's okay."

He shrugged. "Yeah. I ought to be getting home, anyway. Gotta help George take inventory tomorrow. Can I Floo-call you tomorrow night?" She nodded weakly, her smile uncertain, eyes glistening. "Don't think too much on this, Hermione." He hugged the subdued witch and placed a tender kiss atop her curly head. "Goodnight," he called over his shoulder as he walked away.

She waited for the flaring green fire to wither to silence before slumping to the floor in a weeping heap.

The ghost in her kitchen took great pleasure in witnessing her failure.

Hermione and Ron didn't meet again until the following weekend, due to their very full schedules. The responsibilities associated with her Charms apprenticeship consumed almost every waking hour; not only did she spend her weekdays at Hogwarts studying under Professor Flitwick but she also spent a few evenings there as well, performing curfew-monitoring duties and researching in the library. Fortunately, she could grade essays in the comfort of home. For Ron, the demands of Auror training and his part-time position at the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes shop left little time to socialize.

For tonight, Hermione had left nothing to chance regarding the food; she'd Floo-called Ron that morning and asked him to bring Chinese take-away from the little Muggle restaurant just outside Diagon Alley. Although the simple meals she had prepared during the week were uneventful, she'd spent an inordinate amount of time inspecting the ingredients beforehand, searching for breaches in package security and sniffing each spice to verify authenticity, and she'd never left the food unattended for any reason. She had gone so far as to place wards on the pantry that would indicate if any items had been tampered with.

Ron arrived at six o'clock, heralded by a bright green flare, one hand carrying a bag full of warm, fragrant food, the other one brushing fine gray ash from his hair and clothing; however, he neglected to Evanesco the Floo residue from the hearth rug. From beneath a shielding fringe of red hair, his eyes darted side to side, searching for his sometimes shrewish girlfriend.

Rather than a scathing glare or barrage of belittling words, silence greeted him. His eyes grew wide at the sight of Hermione knocking back a glass of Chardonnay in one long series of gulps. Or perhaps her appearance shocked him. She sat huddled in a corner of the sofa, shivering uncontrollably beneath a heavy patchwork quilt, wearing a shapeless gray sweat suit, her hair the bushy, untameable mass of her youth. This was not the look one would sport if one expected to get lucky.

Ron flew to her side, wrapping her in his warm, enthusiastic embrace, rubbing her back and patting her frizzy head. "Is everything okay? What happened?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Oh, it's nothing really, just silly, little annoyances."

She sat up and patted the cushion next to her. As Ron sat down beside her, she conjured a second wine glass and poured generous portions for both of them. She took dainty sips as she reviewed the litany of irritations she had experienced earlier in the day.

"Well, the books are still rearranging themselves every day, making it impossible for me to find what I need. And there are so many titles that I can't be expected to remember them all. So last night, I made a master list of all my books."

Ron interjected as she brought the glass to her lips. "That's brilliant, Hermione. Now a simple Summoning Charm is all you need to find any title. No more time wasted reorganizing the books."

She conjured a coaster upon which to place her glass. "That's how it should work in theory, but the list had mysteriously disappeared overnight. I lost half the morning recreating it. Only this time, I made multiple copies which I've placed all over the flat. Those books with their faulty self-organizing charms won't confound me again," she said triumphantly, taking another sip of wine in celebration of her brilliance.

Perhaps a copy in your vault at Gringotts would be the best course of action, Snape thought, observing from the shadows as always. Someday, I might have the urge to tidy up our flat, and those out-of-place parchments might be binned.

She continued her tale between generous sips of wine. "Anyway, I spent the remainder of the day reading, revising, and researching for my essay on advanced Cheering Charms for the chronically depressed. I stopped a little over an hour ago so I would have ample time to prepare for our date. Moments after I stepped into the shower, the water turned icy – again – and the plumbing had behaved without incident all week long. And I had to wash my hair with a bar of soap because I ran out of my very expensive shampoo and conditioner. I could have sworn those bottles were at least half-full the other day. I found the tube of curl tamer empty as well. And these sweats were the only clean clothes I could find. Half my wardrobe seems to be missing. I can only account for the clothes I handed to the house-elves of the school laundry service." She gazed into the empty wine glass and pouted. "I so wanted to look pretty for you tonight. Instead, I look like a dowdy Medusa."

Ron pulled her into a comforting embrace and smoothed her wild tresses with a tentative touch. He seemed afraid to touch her hair. Would it attack if he came too close? Then he did the only rational thing a mostly sober, eager young man could do when confronted with an ardent, though less than visually appealing young lady. He closed his eyes and kissed her, hesitant at first. She gasped and stiffened; apparently, his advances caught her off guard. Wasn't that the whole point of this romantic charade? Eventually, they relaxed, becoming bolder in their exploration, her awful appearance a distant memory.

Fuck. Heavy petting isn't on the menu tonight, Weasley. You aren't supposed to be tongue spelunking Miss Granger's mouth. Her looks are meant to drive you from this flat, screaming in horror. Time for plan B.

Snape fled the scene in search of his unwitting accomplice. Within a minute, he returned to the shadows of the sitting room, petting the clueless half-Kneazle nestled in his arms. Into its ear, he whispered, "That incubus is attacking your mistress. He means to devour her, body and soul. It is up to you, Sir Hairball, to defend her honor. Now fly!" He hurled the furry orange beast at the amorous couple.

Despite his loud, protesting wail, Crookshanks managed a soft landing – with claws extended – on Ron's lap, thus ending the tender interlude on the sofa.

"Bloody hell," the young man exclaimed as he leapt to his feet, forcing Hermione's familiar into her arms. "That cat's nutters, 'Mione. And jealous." He looked down at his trousers to discover several – sixteen, in fact – discrete holes grouped around his groin, more battle scars obtained in his relentless pursuit of the Gryffindor princess. First, she tried to kill him with her cooking; then her pet attempted a crude vasectomy. How much more would he endure just to get into her knickers?

She soothed the clinging animal with gentle words and light strokes, smoothing its fur, which stood on end. "There, there, Crookshanks. Nothing will harm you when you're in my arms." Her narrowed eyes shot a withering glare at the injured wizard. "I don't know what you're on about, Ronald, but my cat is not jealous."

"Oh, yeah? Why did he attack me while I was kissing you?" His tone was equal parts smugness and curiosity.

"I don't know, Ronald," she replied in breathy exasperation, "but if you don't want to stay, can't you do better than blaming Crookshanks?"

He threw his hands up. "What are you talking about?"

"I can tell you don't want to be here tonight. Your touch and kisses were tentative at best. Just admit it, Ronald; you are put off by my looks, aren't you?" She turned her attention back to her familiar, thus avoiding the confrontation she had began.

He returned to the sofa, but kept a respectable distance from the witch in case her beast chose to attack again. "Hermione," he said oh so softly, his hand on her thigh. "You're brilliant. You know looks don't matter that much to me, anyway."

You've done it again. Eloquent as always, Weasley. I hope you can take your foot out of your mouth soon. You'll need both of them to escape the wrath of Miss Granger, Snape gloated to himself.

She jumped from the sofa, and the bewildered cat slid to the ground, hightailing it from the room shortly thereafter. "Thanks for dinner, but I'm not up for company anymore. I trust you can see yourself out." Her impatient foot tapped nonstop against the hardwood floor while her wand hand twitched at her side.

"Fine," he whinged. "Just make up your mind, Hermione. I'm getting tired of your mixed signals." He moved quickly to the fireplace, grabbing a messy handful of Floo powder from atop the mantle and throwing it in the hearth with a vengeance. "Goodnight," he muttered, not bothering to look back at her.

Hermione shed no tears this time when the green flare faded to nothing. Her solace that evening came from cheap Chardonnay and Chinese take-away, enjoyed directly from bottle and carton, respectively. She had no use for glassware or dishes, as she had nobody to impress.

The ghost in her lounge took great pleasure in witnessing her discomfiture.

The following Saturday, Snape enjoyed an evening of blissful solitude. In front of a roaring fire, he lay sprawled upon the sofa, feet resting upon the sacred coffee table. He held a book in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other. Blessed silence reigned, broken only by the rustling turn of a page, the occasional crack or pop of the fire and the quiet, refined sip of fine brandy from an elegant, wide-mouth goblet. He knew this brief moment in paradise would come to an end all too soon when Miss Granger and Weasley returned from their romantic evening in Hogsmeade. But as far as weekends went, Snape considered this one a success so far, having spent the better part of the day alone while his flat-mate attended to her business.

Considering how her last two attempts at seduction had gone pear-shaped, Hermione planned all pre-sexual activities to take place outside the confines of her flat. First, she deposited a none-too-happy Crookshanks into the care of Harry Potter at Grimmauld Place. Next, she indulged in an afternoon of pampering at the salon, no Gorgonian hair for her tonight. Finally, The Date, a sunset stroll around the Black Lake to be followed by dinner at the New Hog's Head Inn – Aberforth Dumbledore's dodgy establishment had undergone a post-war makeover to become a charming French country bistro that put the goats (and their offensive odor) out to pasture, or at least behind the building.

She pulled out all the stops to ensure successful copulation would be achieved this evening. If everything went as planned, Hermione Granger would no longer rank amongst the wizarding world's most sought after virgins, or she would die trying.

Snape didn't want the girl to die literally; if that happened, he might be burdened with her forever in the afterlife. No, he simply wanted her so frustrated, sexually and in general, that she would move from the Shrieking Shack – leaving her books behind, he hoped – and Snape could once more bask in the glow of his solitude.

The jingle of keys brought his optimistic musings to a halt and signaled the start of the evening's entertainment. No, he didn't care to watch the awkward, ineffectual grappling of hormonal teenagers, but he gained immense enjoyment from throwing ice water – metaphorically speaking, of course – on amorous duos caught in the act. Pity, though, he could no longer assign detentions or remove House points. Snape moved to the shadows to observe.

They stumbled across the threshold, laughing, and no sooner had the door been shut than Hermione slammed Ron against the wall and latched onto him – much like the Giant Squid would engage his playmates, willing and otherwise. Her hands fisted his hair, keeping his head in place as her tongue plunged into his mouth, all while she rubbed her legs and other body parts against him.

Ron encouraged this pleasurable assault to continue for less than a minute before taking her face in his hands and slowly disengaging her mouth from his.

"Slow down, love," he said, gasping for breath. "We have all night. No need to go this fast." His fingers caressed her professionally tamed curls, and his warm smile assured her of his continued interest. Or perhaps his erection pressing into her hip provided the only physical affirmation she needed.

A subtle blush bloomed upon her face, already reddened from wine and kisses. "I know that," she whispered, peering at him through thick spell-enhanced lashes. "It's just... I... I want you... now," she stammered.

"All right," he agreed cheerfully.

Hermione wasted no further time on foreplay in the foyer. She grabbed his hand and pulled him up the staircase and into her bedroom, Snape following at a reasonable distance. She had set the seductive scene earlier in the day, dressing the bed in gold satin sheets beneath a sumptuous burgundy velvet duvet, blatant abuse of Gryffindor décor. A Chianti-bottle candlestick, dripping with colorful wax and sporting a wicker base, stood upon the bedside cabinet and bathed the room in a soft, flickering glow.

The eager witch made quick work of removing her little black dress and fuck me pumps while the equally horny young wizard followed suit, removing his shirt and trousers without bothering to fully unbutton them first. In an instant, she wound herself around him again, smothering his face with incessant kisses and kneading every square inch of bare skin within her reach.

His gentle exploration contrasted hers in a more subdued manner, licking and nipping her neck and jawline, caressing her flanks from breast to... He froze when his hand met something wholly unexpected at her hip.

"What is that?" More shock than curiosity fueled the question. He gently disentangled himself from the clinging witch to see what he had touched. Once adjusted to the dim light, his eyes grew wide to see her fanny covered in a large expanse of unadorned white cotton knit. "Why are you wearing granny pants, Hermione?"

Because her lacy red knickers have taken up permanent residence in the spatial and temporal no man's land outside the Shrieking Shack. I happened upon them – tossed carelessly upon the bed – as I tidied up this morning. She needs to take better care of her possessions so they don't become misplaced or damaged.

"Oh, bugger," she muttered under her breath. She sighed, then went on to explain, "I couldn't find the new lingerie I wanted to wear, and I tried to transfigure a duplicate set at the last moment. I was so rushed, so distracted... I wasn't able to transfigure anything at all. I didn't mean for you to see them."

"That's all right, love," he said, his hands resting upon her shoulders. "You won't be wearing them for very much longer, anyway." His fingers traced down her arms, pulling with them the straps of her plain white cotton bra. He continued to undress her, unwrapping the gift he had waited for so long to receive. His eyes grew wide and his breath quickened upon seeing her naked for the very first time. His lingering gaze traveled from her well-coiffed head to her prettily painted toes and made a return visit to her breasts.

Hermione was simply beautiful. No pointless attempt to cover her nudity, no telltale blush of mortification. She fairly glowed in the warm candlelight, radiating innocence and grace, a symbol of the Light and all that was good in the wizarding world. However, she didn't behave like a paragon of virginity.

Snape grew impatient, simply waiting for the action to start. Oh, for the love of Merlin. Take a picture. Don't just stand there gawking at her. She's not a work of art to be admired. She's flesh and blood and eagerly awaiting to lose her V card. Do something, fool.

She grabbed the waistband of Ron's pants and pulled them down in one swift movement, baring the young man's freckled arse to the candlelit darkness and the ghost hidden in the shadows. With the gentleness and subtlety of a Blast-Ended Skrewt in heat, she threw him to the bed and pounced on him.

Snape paid no heed to the couple engaged in foreplay, but the muffled moans, slurping noises, and protesting bed springs distracted him just a bit. His earnest haunting began small: the window flew open; crisp autumn wind rushed into the room, blowing out the candle and slamming the door shut.

These actions went wholly unnoticed by the living. Ron grunted, but he could have been responding more to Hermione's manual machinations than the odd environmental issues. The witch carried on as though events like this – windows opening themselves – occurred every day, which they did of course, especially in the middle of the night. She doubled her stimulating endeavors, and Ron's grunting grew louder. He was oblivious to the strange goings-on taking place around him. He no doubt enjoyed her efforts, yet he stilled her clever hands with his own.

"I don't want this to be over before we start, Hermione." The darkness of night couldn't hide the disappointment seen in her fallen face and slouching shoulders. "I think it's time I paid some attention to you."

With a graceful roll – inventive fighting maneuvers were a necessity when living with five older brothers – he pinned her body beneath his, straddling her hips and peppering her upper body with kisses, nips, and feather light touches. She answered with throaty moans and spirited writhing, an unexpected, high level of passion for such an inexperienced virgin.

Snape repeated the cycle with relentless frequency and plaster-cracking force; the window burst open as the door slammed shut and vice versa ad nauseam. The wind picked up to near gale force, sending Hermione's tchotchkes – a menagerie of porcelain cats – crashing to the floor.

Now Ron found this distracting. "Erm, Hermione, this is very odd." He made to pull away, but she held tight, gripping his arms with bruising force, her nails marking a trail of red half-moons upon his pale skin.

"I know what you mean, but we should just move past it." She had to shout just to be heard above the rushing air, so strong it whipped the bedclothes about the would-be lovers. "I'm ready, Ron. Take me now." She pulled him down, bestowing a hard, lip-crushing kiss upon him.

A loud, otherworldly wail rose above the din. The mournful cry of a spiteful spirit shattered the romantic mood. Perhaps Ron could have ignored magical, self-adjusting windows and doors opening and closing at will. Maybe he could have overlooked sudden changes of Scottish weather with concomitant micro-bursts of gusty wind – but not occurring indoors. He could not, however, ignore the disembodied moan echoing throughout Hermione's bedroom. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed his discarded clothing from the floor.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I can't deal with this. I gotta go." He dressed, forgoing socks and pants in favor of a hasty retreat.

"What?" she asked, her voice high pitched, shrewish, yet spoken at normal volume.

All paranormal activity ceased as soon as the coitus was interrupted; the lovers hadn't been close to penetration in any definition of the word. Now the only sounds heard were the chirping of the cricket chorus and the zipping of a young man's trousers – he couldn't be arsed to button his shirt or tie his shoelaces, but apparently he wanted to maintain some level of decency. As he made to leave the room, she leapt from the bed and lunged toward the doorway, blocking his exit.

"Let me go, Hermione," he pleaded in a tired voice. "I promise to call you tomorrow."

She wouldn't let him pass. She stood resolute, hands on her hips, mouth set in a tight line, yet her lips trembled a bit. "I planned to give you a very precious gift tonight. My virginity. That should mean something to you."

"I care for you, Hermione. I might even love you. But if I don't feel comfortable shagging you in my flat with George in the next room, what makes you think I want do it here with a pervy ghost looking over my shoulder? And you're so eager to lose it that you would willingly ignore the fact you're living with a ghost?"

Bringing attention to her low moral standards is rather endearing. But I take offense in being called a pervert. I had no intention of watching you fornicate.

Silence. Not absolute, for the cricket chorus returned to play an encore. The fierce face of the warrior princess never faltered as she stepped aside, offering him the chance to escape.

With not so much as a single word or a second look, he walked away. No fond farewell or sorrowful stare. When his footsteps faded and the flare of the Floo died away, all hell broke loose.

"You wretched, cock-blocking ghost," she bellowed, stomping through her bedroom, throwing open doors and drawers with hinge-bending force. She conducted a frantic, yet thorough search of all the places one might expect to find a spirit lurking – in the wardrobe, under the bed, behind the drapes, even in her inaptly named hope chest – but could not find the mischievous ghost. The bedroom lay in shambles, looking like a low-grade cyclone had touched down, which for all intents and purposes it had. She collapsed upon the toile-covered cedar chest. "Show yourself," she demanded between quick and shallow puffs of breath, "whoever you are."

Snape emerged from darkened shadows into a bright rhombus of moonlight. "I've been in plain sight all along," he replied in soft, dulcet tones. "You chose to ignore my presence."

"Snape!" His sibilant surname had never sounded as lovely before that moment, spat from the mouth of an enraged, naked woman.

Hermione clambered across the bed to retrieve her wand from atop the bedside cabinet. She whirled around to confront him, practically nose to nose, toe to toe, wand at the ready for... What? Would a well-aimed spell have any affect on a specter? Or would it pass through, leaving the target unharmed and unfouled?

"Well, the times have certainly changed. When the Dark Lord fell, did all pretense of polite society die with him? I've never heard you address me without an honorific before. Where are your manners, Miss Granger?"

She remained stoic, unwavering. "It seems I've misplaced them." But apparently, she had discovered sarcasm while on sabbatical from Hogwarts last year.

"Along with your clothes?" Touché.

She blinked but once – almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, but not Snape's – her quavering courage exposed. The absurdness of reality overwhelmed her at that moment. Was it the shock of coming face to face with the ghost of Snape? The embarrassment of being au naturel in his presence? Whatever the reason, she crumpled to the floor, her hands covering her face but making no attempt to cover the rest of her body.

"This is surreal, even for the wizarding world. I need a drink," she groaned.

The ghost in her bedroom took great pleasure in his triumph.

"Why don't you go and get dressed, then meet me in the lounge for that drink?"

Snape evaporated into a wispy haze, wafting through the hardwood to the main floor below, leaving behind a naked, bewildered witch, a rare experience even when he was alive. Perhaps his luck was improving after all.

A/N: Ta da! Snape's haunting efforts have finally been noticed! But questions remain... How successful was he? Will Hermione pack up and leave? Will you hazard a guess, gentle readers?

Next up: The sit down. It never goes the way one expects.