Shop 'Till You Drop

Disclaimer: I make no money off this fic. All characters, places, and cannon spells are the sole property of someone who is, sadly, not me.

Special thanks to HermioneDiggory, who is just freaking awesome for saving the Headmistresses red ink by providing her services as a beta and helping me in my battle against writer's block

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CHAPTER 7: Shop 'Till You Drop (or 'We Have Contacts!')

It had occurred to him that his stores were getting dangerously low on the ingredients he needed to maintain the peace in the household. She was correct when she said she'd be needing embarrassing quantities of Pepperup. He'd managed not to use too much of the deflating draught by putting a halt to the 'supervision' of washing her hair, but Dreamless Sleep was an unfortunate necessity. He had run out of the more hard-to-come-by ingredients and only had a few doses left of the finished product.

So when she requested an outing for the wardrobe she'd need to be seen out in public by others of the magical bent, it seemed as good a time as any. He wondered why he was putting it off, because he had previously come to the decision that he'd use something of the robes his mother had put away to ensure she looked the part. Was it nerves?

No. He was sure that she was ready to take on her new persona.

As he ascended the stairs to the attic, he had to come to terms with the fact that he was dreading the dredging up of painful memories that this task would undoubtedly provide. Toward the end of his schooling, his mother had completely severed herself from everything that had to do with being a witch. All of her robes, her books (that he had not absconded with for school or his own curiosity), her wand, and all of the wizarding photographs had gone into storage in the dusty old attic. She'd set some preserving charms and left them there, never to return to them again.

Over the years, he'd renewed the charms out of a sense of preserving her memory. Sometimes he'd railed at her as he did it, though she was no longer around to hear that she was stupid for letting his father cow her into losing her magic. Sometimes he'd done it with silent tears, mourning her loss as he loved her, still. Each time, though, he had descended the pull-down stairs feeling emotionally drained and melancholy for the experience.

The 'Notice-Me-Not' wards still carried the barest hint of her flavor. He let the dying echoes of his mother's magic wash over him like a balm to his emotional scars before he went about dismantling them. The stasis charms were left in place as he lifted out the robes, still in their boxes, and stacked them one-by-one to the side. Finally, he found the box he was searching for, as it was markedly different from the rest.

He knew the box well. It looked the same as the day he had purchased it in Hogsmeade.

His note still lay atop the tissue paper under the lid. She'd never even opened it, he realized. The sharp crinkling of the paper in his suddenly clenched fist accompanied the overwhelming sense of sorrow that his mother feared his father more than she'd loved her son--the rage that his father could even CLAIM that he loved his wife yet he resented everything that made her who she was. Roughly, he put the rest of the boxes back in their places as he stood with the one he sought. He scooped the soft fabric out of its wrapping and let the rest fall unheeded to the floor. It was out of a sense of duty that he replaced all of the charms and wards, but as soon as it was done, he was back down the stairs and on the second floor.

These robes will never see the inside of that box ever again, he vowed, even if it means permanently loaning them to Hermione. He felt better for the declaration--the feeling that in this, he had control.

He allowed himself the moment to pause and run the fabric between his fingers to feel the silky slide of it against the sensitive webbing between digits. It was this hedonistic pleasure that led him to choose the robes in the first place. He had saved up all of the money he'd been making, brewing potions for Hogwarts students for the entire year: love charms, Polyjuice, hangover cures that didn't require alerting the school matron of underage drinking and the like. He'd run a tidy business. He had put aside enough to purchase more necessary ingredients and spent the rest on these, as a present to his mother. They had not been inexpensive, but he had hated her old shapeless house dresses and determined that she should have something finer. Something worthy of the woman who had been the shining star of her graduating class. So much potential... wasted. All for a man who was never worthy, all in the name of 'love.'

A part of him had... perhaps... sought to use the robes to remind his father that not everything about the magical world was to be feared, hated. He had such foolish hopes, born of youthful naivete. He shook his head as he magicked the stairs to fold up and return to their place in the ceiling behind him. The purchase had been a futile gesture on the part of a silly boy, trying to put the pieces of his broken family back together and bind them with nothing more effective than bubblegum. By then, the pieces were warped and would never fit again.

By the time he'd finished his trek back down the narrow stairs, his emotions were firmly back under control, for the most part. He'd said very little and fought hard to betray nothing, but Hermione reacted as though she'd seen far more than he'd wished her to: a side effect from such close association, no doubt.

Having delivered the robes from their lonely confinement in the box and into the arms of a witch who would wear them instead of leaving them in an attic to rot, he waited for her to shut the door of her room before he let his facade go. He felt bone-weary, and it showed in the defeated slump of his shoulders and the way he let his hair fall around his bowed head to conceal his features. He walked into the kitchen, looking for all the world a battered martyr, and halted before the liquor cabinet. He seldom indulged, fearing a transformation into his drunken father. It was also hazardous to his job as spy to be anything but in full possession of his mental faculties. Drink tended to dull the senses that needed to be sharp when in the precarious business of subterfuge, but all the same, he felt that he deserved some liquid comfort just then to dull his aching emotions.

The dusty bottles that greeted him attested to the length of time it had been between indulgences. He recalled a rather lovely Irish creme that Rosmerta gifted him some few Christmases back. He reckoned it would make a worthy addition to a mug of coffee.

It seemed he had only had a few fortifying swigs in his favorite reading chair when Hermione's voice called for him from her room. He gave a mournful glance to his half-finished mug of white Irish, put a stasis charm on it, and went to see what the chit needed.

The chit...

That was no chit.

Before him stood a woman: straight-backed, regal, and elegant with her wand unashamedly in the hand which reposed on her minimally cocked hip as befitting all that she was. The black hairs at the nape of her neck had escaped the hasty coiffure and curled ever-so-slightly above the bare strip of flesh that ended in the middle of that perfect line, just above her tastefully-emphasized hips and derrière. He knew now that the robes would never have looked so on his poor, downtrodden mother. She had been too thin, too unhappy, too drawn and careworn to do them justice. Her brittle frame could never have carried them off the way that this woman wore them: this woman who refused to be stopped before the endless torrents of adversity. She adapted. Her spirit, like her body, was lithe and supple with a hidden strength that shamed him at times. She would bend, yes, but never break.

She would--she would turn around and look adorably flustered. "I need help with the buttons," she blurted. He would not embarrass her by laughing at the unsure tone in her statement. Silly girl, he wanted to say, you have nothing to feel insecure about. You are amazing. Fearing her reaction to those bald words, fearing laying himself bare for her to mock, he did not.

He relished the feel of her body heat emanating from the siren strip of skin even as he worked to vanish it beneath the row of buttons. By the end, he was helplessly addicted to the task. It felt endearingly domestic to be helping her with the closure of her robe, and it took him by surprise that there were no more buttons left. Perhaps if I undo the top one again. What in the name of Merlin am I thinking? He shook himself out of his trance but could not for the life of him take his hands away from where they hovered. He could not say how long he stood there wrestling with himself, but for her part, she made no move. Not even to fidget. He wondered where the bushy-haired know-it-all had gone, not exactly sure how he felt about her disappearance.

He wondered if she was as composed as she seemed. He wondered yet again what it was she was thinking because, although the view from behind was spectacular, it lent very little in the way of an emotional barometer. It was the intense curiosity that helped him win the war with his errant hands, who in the end only acceded to a compromise. So his next move was to put his hands on her waist and guide her to turn around, so he may gauge her reactions properly.

It was with a sense of relief that he noted her lower lip caught between her teeth. So my little Gryffindor is still in there, he mused, disguising the smile in his eyes by making a show of looking her up and down in a cursory fashion. "The robes suit you," he said evenly, glad to have gained mastery over his vocal cords at the very least. Before he could stop himself, though, he had rescued her bottom lip with his thumb. You were just overjoyed to see it there! Why are you chiding her for it? True, a dead giveaway, but proof she is still herself beneath all this artifice. You can let her go now. Still, his hands had minds of their own, and he had to admit he was reluctant to give up the delightful feeling of having her so close to him. The soft slide of her ebony locks across his fingertips was akin to the hedonistic pleasure of the robes' texture. Even having taken such liberties with her person, he could not stop touching her. He was treading very heavily on the line of impropriety, and he was trying very hard to come up with a way to explain it away. His hands found themselves back on her hips. When she took a step forward, he had just about given up all hope of redemption. He swallowed thickly at the hint of approval in her eyes, sure his poor subconscious must be providing hallucinations to make up for all the dreams he'd been missing.

Inspiration hit like lightning, and he gave himself over to the absurdity of doing the box-step with all the courtly manners the professors had valiantly tried to bludgeon into the heads of all participating students in time for the Yule Ball. Not that any of it took with most of them, but he had been required to learn it all before he was able to move about in proper society, so it had fallen to him to assist Minerva in her bid against being embarrassed by her students' inadequacy in front of the other schools. Fear, he found, was the best motivator with the thick-witted, so he applauded her choice in assistants even as he bemoaned the task.

She could have asked Flitwick. And then where would they be? The boys would be swishing and flicking about the hall. An amusing thought, but at times disturbing as he pictured Harry Potter in a frilly dress. However, he allowed his thoughts to stray where they may to distract him from the compulsion to hold onto Hermione. It worked like a... charm... and he managed to retain what was left of his imperious distance to return to business as usual.

She returned from the room, this time with her boots on, which under the robes looked as though they could really do with replacements. He added the cobbler to his mental list of things. She really needed to be wearing dragon hide to pull off the look, though her bare feet were just as acceptable in his estimation. Still, the boots would afford her the needed protection from broken glass, pebbles, and, later, cold weather.

Before they could leave, though, he had to adjust one more thing about her or the jig would be up. He produced a set of small, white plastic circles from an inner pocket of his robes. The look in her eyes told him she knew exactly what they were and wasn't exactly looking forward to the eye irritation. "These came with the post the other day. I had to order them special from an American company that produces colored contacts for Muggle films. They came with instructions for their cleaning, storage, and use, but I'd wager that they never took into account magic being a reality. The Headmaster has sent a small list of charms for you to practice and use so that you will never need to take them out. I have also availed myself of the lab to brew better eye drops to keep the irritation to a minimum. We'll use the day-time drops now, and I will have the ones for night wear finished by the time you go to sleep."

"Thank you, I... that's very kind of you," she stuttered. He put the plastic case into her upturned palm and gestured for her to proceed him into the bathroom.

He held her hair back for her as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and put in the contacts. She blinked rapidly and teared up just a tad. He had to help her with the special eye drops for the first go, but the relief she felt afterward was a palpable force in the room. She blotted the corners of her leaking eyes with tissue and inspected her makeup for smudges before sighing and pulling out the eyeliner from her basket of cosmetics on the counter.

He leaned against the door frame, suddenly content to stay and watch her fiddle with her face. Once she'd put it to rights, he took in the overall effect. Eyes once hazel had become smoky blue, dark enough to almost pass for his black. The clear edges of the contacts were barely discernible, even in the bright lighting from the fluorescent fixture. Satisfied with the result, he turned and made his way to the back yard by way of the solarium, secure in the knowledge that she'd be just behind him.

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Severus chose Apparition for their mode of transportation into London. Standing outside of the brick wall that led to Diagon alley, he took a moment to give a reassuring nod to his charge. They were not entirely alone, however, as the warm summer day had Leaky Cauldron patrons enjoying their frothy beverages in the shade of the building's backside. He pressed the bricks in their order, and a happy sigh from said customers arose at the breeze the magical portal kicked up. 'Eu de Pub' was replaced by the myriad scents of wizard London, and not a moment too soon. He much preferred spun confectionery, dragon hide, potions ingredients, parchment, and yes, even owl dung to stale beer and old piss.

The midday sun came streaking through the spotty cloud-cover and caught the blue highlights of the black of her hair, stunning him momentarily as it took all of his attention. It took him a moment to register the fact that she was speaking to him.

"...off to first, Severus?"

"I shall deposit you at the clothiers while I withdraw the funds we'll need from Gringott's." He took her arm in his and led her off down the narrow street.

She took a breath and let it out slowly, nervous but trying not to show it. "You'll be fine. Just wait for me inside Madam Malkin's, and I will return to collect you by the time they have finished measuring you. I'll even help pick out fabrics for your new robes if you like."

She smiled with gratitude, though her nerves had it a little rumpled around the edges. "I just feel a little like I'm being thrown to the wolves."

"More like pink kittens with razor-sharp claws," he rejoined as they reached the door to the shop.

"Ugh, don't remind me of pink kittens. It calls to mind one Ministry official I think Hogwarts would like to forget. As would I."

He glanced around furtively to make sure they would not be overheard. "Just remember: chin up, don't talk about school unless it's to express curiosity. If anyone asks why you're buying an entire wardrobe (not that I think they will, they do work on commission, you know) just say something vague about what you had in Australia not being suitable for Scottish winters. I will be back shortly. You'll do fine. Really. Remember to use your accent." He pushed open the door and ushered her inside with a comforting hand at the small of her back. Then he fled.

The withdrawal of funds from the account the Headmaster had set up went quicker than he would have expected. Gringott's security had gone lax after the Dark Lord's fall, he supposed. He took enough for the fees to cover the commissioning of her wardrobe, also the little extra for the ingredients he'd need for her Pepperup and eye drops as a justifiable expense. He would have liked to take his time ordering ingredients to be sent to the school, but images of Hermione backed into a corner, warding off faceless, beribboned shop clerks with a broom had him keeping his time in the apothecary to a minimum.

In the end, he was glad of his haste. He entered the shop and immediately recognized the familiar blond head of his godson, who was currently chatting up the clerk, with Hermione (Olivia!) nowhere to be seen. "Draco," he said by way of greeting, and the blond spun on the spot, real delight lighting up his eyes.

"Severus! My Head of House and lately absent godfather. What brings you here? Not that it isn't always a pleasure to see you."

He had hoped the end of the war would mellow his godson somewhat, but instead had unlocked a pocket of Malfoy charm that had erstwhile laid dormant. With the madman safely dead and no longer spending his way through the Malfoy riches and some very convincing testimony on the part of many of the war's heroes regarding the Malfoys' change of heart to bring about his downfall, the pureblooded family had once again come up smelling like roses. Power, influence, and affluence had always suited Draco to a tee, and he had spent his summer living the good life with Zabini in Italy. He could never pull off his father's cool indifference, but the switch to overly-pleasent and effusive had Snape's Slythierin sensibilities all bunched up in a way that made spending long periods with the young man uncomfortable. He had almost dreaded returning to teach his godson's final year.

Before he could answer, Hermione (Olivia!) chose that moment to return from behind a curtain, no less than three shop attendants in her wake. From her slightly stiff posture, he could tell that she'd recognized Malfoy's voice and wasn't exactly pleased that he was the first of her classmates she'd have to fool.

One tended to remember the girl who had delivered a blow to one's person. Not to mention the time they'd spent in the Order together that final, fateful year.

Severus spared a probing look at his godson's features, looking for the tell-tale signs of recognition. He almost wished he hadn't. What he saw there could only be described as 'smitten.' "I am here," he finally answered, "to escort my cousin on her shopping excursion before she takes her final year of schooling at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy, I present Olivia Prince. Olivia, this is my godson, Draco Malfoy."

"Charmed," he said, bowing to take her hand and kiss the air above it.

"I'm sure," she replied in a dry voice, shooting a bewildered look over Draco's bent back to his dour Head of House. It was her discomfiture alone that had him keeping his temper.

Introductions having been made, he was permitted to return to the business at hand. "How goes the robing process?" he asked, prodding Draco to release her hand with his solicitous hand at her back. He led her over to the waiting couch. She sank into it gratefully. She shot a peeved glance over at the fluttering shop attendants, who were at this moment going absolutely gaga over Draco, who, for his part, only had eyes for 'Olivia.' The magical measuring tape flew about the blond wizard, never once smacking him in the nose, oh no. Neither did the flighty, frilly harpies peck at his physical 'flaws,' inferring that his hips were too round or his chest too flat.

"I'll just be glad when this is all over," she muttered, picking up a book of fabric swatches from the low table beside the couch.

Deciding to ignore the flurry of movement in the corner in front of the mirror, he chose another of the resource materials from the same table and took his seat beside her. He curled his nose in distaste as the waft of perfume hit him from between the pages. He took out his wand and did a discrete air-clearing charm before he could look at the moving models with any real acuity.

In the end, they had found that arranging the books across their laps, held open so each could cross-reference a style of robe with a type of fabric in all of the hues available made the most sense. 'Olivia' summoned a scrap of parchment and a quill from the counter to take notations on their choices, which Severus intercepted and took the duty upon himself. We've yet to do anything about your handwriting, he scrawled on the corner of the sheet and siphoned the ink back off with one of his most-used spells once she'd read his note.

She merely nodded. "You will have to teach me that spell," she murmured with a joking manner.

Draco rejoined them a little later and took the small armchair to Severus's left, obviously wishing that the chair had been situated closer to his newer acquaintance. After choosing the style he wanted for his new set of robes for the upcoming party at Malfoy Manor, he made himself an amiable nuisance by making suggestions regarding Olivia's colors and which style would drape her frame the best. Snape had to admit, Draco knew a thing or two about fashion, but his over-eager willingness to 'help' had him gritting his teeth. He recognized the emotion of jealousy, as familiar with it as he was. It made no rational sense that he should feel jealous of Draco, for all that it was plain that his attempts at flirtation were hitting the brick wall that was Hermione's indifference. Measured glances at her profile allowed him to catch each instance of consternation, discomfort, and irony as they passed while she stared fixedly at the books before her. He was glad she'd showed no interest in his attractive, confident godson. He was her teacher, for all the gods' sakes, and old enough to be her father. He had no claim on her and had no reason to guard her virtue, as they were not really family. Still, Draco's behavior had his hackles in the upright position, illogical as it was.

Eventually, Draco left for the rest of his errands, feeling just a bit put off that his advances had been politely declined by the attractive newcomer. He made his requests to the clerk, leaving his choices of style, fabric, and embroidery embellishments in a neat packet on the counter, which the clerk promptly stuck to an order form and sent into the back. Perhaps when they attended school together and she saw how popular he was, he mused as he left for the cobbler, she would be more receptive to his charm. If not, well, there were plenty of fish in the sea, as the saying went. He whistled a jaunty tune as he strutted off down the alley to pick up his new dragon hide boots.

Only after Draco's departure did Hermione fully relax her stiff muscles into a more natural state. She let out a relieved breath, and Severus found himself sliding his hand over hers to give it a reassuring squeeze. They had fooled someone who knew her, and it seemed as though the entire endeavor so far had all been for this one moment of success. She smiled at him, giddy with triumph, and he found himself smiling back. They returned to their task of selecting her wardrobe with renewed vigor.

Once their list of notations were complete, they rose as one from the couch to inform the clerk that they were ready to see Madam Malkin, who would be the one in charge of overseeing the completion of all of the robes. The clerk escorted them into another room. The walls were lined with bolts upon bolts of fabrics within wooden frameworks built into the floor, walls, and ceiling to hold the weight. Some shades were just too glaring to be borne, but arranged as they were in a graduated spectrum--from monochrome black and whites through violets, indigo, blues, teals, greens, yellows to ambers, ochers, screaming scarlets, and dark wines--they each had their place in the grander color scheme. Every color imaginable was there, and quite a few fabrics were duo-tone or even tri-tone, depending on the way the light hit them.

Madam Malkin met them with all due courtesy and professionalism that had been missing from her shop girls, a fact which Hermione struggled not to point out. She was just ecstatic to be treated a bit more with the customer service Madam Malkin was famous for. In the end, she had an array of potential garments that ranged from serviceable to sumptuous and would hold her in good stead for what ever the weather had in store for her in her final year. She'd chosen mostly subdued colors, blues and grays being predominant, choices that Snape thought were very appropriate.

Malkin refused to leave it at that, though. She had a brilliant turquoise that looked spectacular with Olivia's coloring and set the blue tones of her eyes and highlights to best advantage, which she'd insisted that a set of dress robes be made of. Severus knew better than to meddle in the affairs of a true artist, so he'd fully endorsed that one addendum to the set until the both of them teamed up had Olivia's protests crumbling under. Severus paid for the commissions, and the two of them left the shop together.

Although her mood had improved from her earlier time with the pecking hens, Hermione/Olivia was still looking just a bit peaky, perhaps out of consternation that he had ganged up on her with the seamstress. He swung them from their course to the cobbler's for a little much-needed detour from their shopping. He quirked a smile at the confusion in her manner and ushered her into Florean Fortescue's.

They had just purchased their cones and were seated when an all-too-familiar voice saying, "Fancy meeting you here," came breezing over from another table. He watched Hermione/Olivia's spine become rigid again as Draco swung his legs out and stood to join them.

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a/n Am I confusing you with ambiguity about what we are to call Hermione/Olivia now?

Good.

Really, I want to swamp HermioneDiggory with love and flowers for her work. She got this back to me in record time!