Interwoven: The Seamstress and the Lovable Stray

Chapter 4

***

Abby gasped. She gaped. She blinked her eyes again and again. Her mouth moved woodenly, with no words or even sounds coming forth. Her stomach gave an awful lurch. The prodigal dog was gone, and in his place stood the man generally considered to be the most dangerous wizarding criminal alive. And she had just pelted him with raisins.

Dizzy and dumbfounded, she tore her eyes away from the man and rose to her feet, not knowing exactly where she was going to go, but feeling that she should leave before anything else in the garden chose to transform. Her sanity was in no position to find out that her favourite rosebush was actually a Quintaped in hiding. Unfortunately, her legs wobbled as she cleared the corner of the bench, and her left knee met the stone with a sharp crack. She cried out in pain as she fell to the ground, but threw herself forward as he rushed toward her.

“Let me help you – ”

Abby stumbled to a half-standing position, keeping herself out of his reach. He stepped ahead of her and grabbed her elbow, which she tried to wrest away.

“Don’t touch me! Please, just let me alone!”

He kept his hold on her elbow despite her protests, keeping her steady as she made for the cottage.

“I’ll get the door – ”

“Argghh – move, will you!”

Abby’s face contorted as the nerves in her leg continued to feel every bit of the collision. She was desperate for her wand, not only for a Pain-Relief Spell, but for self-defense. Sirius Black was not helping matters any; he blocked her path, rattling the door in vain.

“I – I can’t open it. Is it locked?”

Exasperation overcame Abby’s pain and fear. “I know you can’t open it, which is precisely why I told you to move! Now stand aside – ”

She threw her shoulder into him, pushing him away. The door opened easily at her touch, and she lurched inside, clutching her knee. Her wand, she noticed with sudden horror, lay on the kitchen table, still several paces away. She shook when she realized that Black was coming toward her, but he crossed wordlessly to the table and retrieved the wand. Snatching it from his hand, Abby quickly cast the spell and sank against the wall as the pain dissipated from her knee. When she cracked an eye open a moment later, she saw him staring at her – intent, although the ferocity was now gone from his eyes. How odd. In fact, his look was more of…concern, much like Snuffles’ expressions had been. Wait, he was Snuffles.

Black extended a cautious (and dirty) hand, which Abby accepted with even more caution to stand up. His stance was tense, as though he feared that she, her knee now operable, might soon shriek and flee his presence. She considered that a viable option herself, but she stayed her place as the convict searched her countenance, waiting for a reaction.

Although free from pain, Abby’s knees trembled at the sight before her. Sirius Black, the murderer, the lunatic, the Ministry of Magic’s most wanted. The crimes to his name were public knowledge. Still, he was not brandishing a pickax and a maniacal grin – he did not even have a wand, as far as she could tell. If he had really wanted to kill her, there had been plenty of opportunities before this, and he had actually been more of an annoyance than a menace as she had tried to get inside the cottage. Abby finally managed a weak half-smile, still not taking her eyes off of him.

“I seem to be casting that spell fairly frequently in your presence, don’t I?”

He nodded slowly. “I could have used it a time or two myself. Isn’t it only allowed for Healer use?”

“I had a head injury when I was younger, and so Madam Pomfrey taught it to me. As you’ve seen, it’s made itself useful ever since.”

Abby’s mind whirled with the speed of a dozen Dervishes. The man before her seemed a sane and civil enough person – not the violent, deranged psychotic the papers had made him out to be. Her heart had always fought against giving the media accounts much credence anyway – bitter personal experience had taught her that any witch or wizard could be fooled by magical means of illusion.

But still…Snuffles was Sirius Black. Sirius Black was Snuffles. The thoughts pounded against her brain like a troll wielding his club. Finally, devoid of a better idea, she held out her hand, which he stared at for a moment before grasping tentatively.

“Abigail Loomis,” she said, “or just Abby. Although…I suppose you already knew that.”

He nodded. “Sirius Black,” he replied with hesitation. He was still bracing himself, as though waiting for her inevitable mad dash for the door.

And I suppose I already knew that, too.

“You’re an Animagus,” Abby said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I am,” he replied uneasily. “I’m sorry I frightened you outside. I didn’t mean…well, the things you said, they… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

His voice lapsed, and he broke off his gaze. Abby’s mouth felt as if it were made of cotton. She was certain that any rational thought had long since vacated her mind. Looking down, she took in the long streaks of Mrs. Skower’s running down the front of her robes. She did not need a mirror to know that her hair had been left a fright by her earlier cleaning exertions. The air had now fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Abby bit her lower lip and began to pull at a hangnail on her thumb.

Still, I suppose he’s seen me in a worse state. Oh, how embarrassing… I haven’t seen an evening this bizarre since Dad picked the wrong sort of wild mushrooms for Mum’s chicken pie.

Just as the awkwardness of the moment became almost tangible, a memory returned, entirely unbidden. A white tub, a pile of frothy suds, and one very wet dog… Oh, no. As the absurd hilarity of the situation ran fully rampant over her senses, Abby began to silently shake. Sirius eyed her warily, again unsure of whether she was going to run away or just fall over. She was in no state to form words, though, and so he finally had to speak.

“Abigail?”

Abby looked up at him, still shaking.

“I GAVE YOU A BATH!!!” she shrieked, eyes wide, face aghast.

Sirius flushed at her outcry and screwed up his face as though afflicted by a strong Headache Hex. He kept his eyes downward, kicking at the ground with one foot. Abby clutched her sides until the laughter slowed. She had treated one of Azkaban’s most infamous prisoners to a dip in the tub – surely, there had to be a law against that. As she raised the heels of her hands to wipe her eyes, still hiccoughing, Sirius dared to look up.

“Abby, I – I feel things differently as a dog. It was late, and Padfoot – yes, it’s Padfoot, thank you, not Snuffles – was tired, and you’d gotten hurt, and – ” He paused and swore, appearing desirous for the earth to swallow him whole on the spot, but Abby had to smile. If he had not already hexed her to pieces after that incident, he was not going to do so now. In an instant, Abby decided that the Ministry and their concerns could be hanged. Sirius Black was Snuffles, and Snuffles was safe.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” she said, as one last laugh slipped out. “Padfoot it is.”

And thank Merlin I didn’t gad about the house in my knickers last week.

The abashed look left his face, and he gave a breath of genuine relief. Mercifully, the horrible tension in the cottage seemed to subside. A hesitant smile broke out on his face.

“It’s been some time since I’ve heard the expression ‘flaming Quaffle’,” he said, shaking his head with a short, bark-like laugh.

“I had a – a friend who played Quidditch at Hogwarts,” Abby replied. “Stop laughing – it’s a real expression! People say that!”

To her surprise, Sirius did quiet himself at the rebuke, although he did not take his gaze away. Her mind now on fire, Abby could not keep from asking the next question.

“Why did you always leave before, at night?”

He paused before speaking, and his face grew solemn again. “I had to see to an animal that I keep.”

The evening was becoming less terrifying and more ridiculous with each passing moment, and Abby broke out into a torrent of fresh giggles from the images his reply inspired. Sirius pulled his mouth and eyes into a scowl at the sound, as though another piece of raisin-filled scone had connected with his head.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” she finally gasped. “That gave me a vision of you rushing home to milk your cow. I’m so sorry. What kind of animal is it?”

“A hippogriff.”

“Oh.” Abby could think of nothing more to say to that revelation.

A hippogriff? He keeps a hippogriff? I’ll never doubt anything again.

Once more, uneasiness began to creep back into the room. The seamstress and the “stray” simply looked at each other, both very much aware of the irregularity and import of their current situation. Despite his current behavior, Sirius Black was still very much a wanted man.

“Did we know one another at Hogwarts?” he asked after some time.

“I was a few years behind you,” Abby answered, “but I knew James Potter a little. He’d say ‘hullo’ from time to time.”

And my grandmother wove his Invisibility Cloak, although I can’t have you knowing that.

At the mention of James, a mask crept over Sirius’ face, and a haunted look settled in his eyes. The abruptness of the change tore at Abby’s heart, and she regretted bringing up the memory of his long-dead mate. She had quietly observed them at Hogwarts for years, and she knew their friendship had been extraordinary.

In that moment, the dozens of questions vying to get out of her mouth – How did he escape from Azkaban? Why was he in Hogsmeade? Why had he chosen her cottage? – petered off. She did not need to know. She did not want to know. And she was not going to ask.

Although pained by his expression, Abby took advantage of the pause to glance over his ragged appearance. His hair, though messy from the rain, was neatly trimmed – blushing with discomfort, she realized that she might have had a part in that. His robes were rough, tattered, and crudely made. Azkaban issue. Abby did not know what she could do to take that awful look out of his eyes, but she resolved to do something about the one thing she could change. He should not have to look like a prisoner.

“Just a moment, please – ”

Her words jostled him out of the horrible trance, and he watched silently as Abby hurried across the room and rifled through the piles on her workbench. Pulling a bolt of deep gray wool from the clutter, she returned to him and tossed it into the air, where it hung suspended, softly thumping as it unfurled a length of fabric unfurled before them. She scanned Sirius’ frame once more, taking in his measurements. He was thin, terribly thin, but she forced her attention back to the task at hand, avoiding his eyes. If he had not thought her completely mad before, he might now.

With a wave of her wand, Abby muttered a Shearing Spell (“Incisum!”). A thin beam of gold light shot forth from her wand, cutting through the cloth. After a moment, the bolt fell to the ground, leaving several robe panels hovering in the air. A quick “Suturo!”, and the pieces joined together fluidly. The finished robes dropped into the arms of Sirius, who stared at them blankly.

Abby cleared her throat. “Now, for the fitting.”

He looked up with horrified eyes. “The fitting?”

“You would like them sized properly, wouldn’t you?” she replied, but her cheeks began to burn when she realized that Sirius could not tell she spoke in jest. “Sorry – that was just a joke.” A rather pathetic one, at that. “I don’t need to measure – they’ll fit.”

Please, stop me before I ask him if he’d like them pressed and starched.

He ran his fingers over the smooth, clean cloth, as though it were something completely foreign to him. “It has been a while,” he finally said, holding the robes stiffly, “but don’t you usually do something with a measuring tape?”

“Oh, that’s just for show. It makes the customers feel as though they’re getting their Galleon’s worth.”

He looked at her, surprise and gratitude openly evident on his face. “Thank you,” he said.

She smiled shyly in return. “No bother. It’s what I do.”

Abby then realized with a disconcerting jolt that Sirius Black was probably not going to change with her still there.

“I’ll just go into the other room for a moment, shall I?” she said, excusing herself. She hastened into the bedroom and shut the door behind her with a heavy breath.

Abby sat down on the edge of her bed, holding her head. Her previous certainties were beginning to waver, and she wondered again what she was getting herself into.

I’ve obviously had a lack of male company lately, but there’s something to be said for starting off with the law-abiding variety.

Sirius Black – the murderer. He had killed thirteen people, by all accounts. Fifteen, if the account Rosmerta had shared with her last Christmas – that his betrayal had also led to James and Lily Potter’s end – was to be believed. But he was also the Sirius Black she had watched innumerable times at Hogwarts, when he was unaware that his presence was known. The Sirius Black that had regarded James as a brother. Moreover, he was her dog – the dog that had saved her life. The dog that had, she remembered with a flush, licked her hand on a few occasions.

Oh, I’ll never get used to this.

She sat up from the bed and crossed to her wardrobe, hesitating before its door. She changed her mind fourteen times before deciding that putting on clean robes herself would simply be too strange. He was not some gentleman caller, after all. She passed the time by tidying up her hair instead. At least Gertie was absent, set up in her new home.

Counting to twenty as she leaned against the bedroom door, her heart still pounding, Abby rapped lightly on the wood to signal her entrance. She saw Sirius at the kitchen table as she came into the room, his old pair of robes balled up near the fire. His hair was now mostly dry, and together with the new clothing, he looked altogether different, almost like a respectable wizard. It was a definite change, a nice change. He glanced over as she neared and gestured clumsily at his robes.

“They fit nicely…thank you.”

Her self-consciousness was threatening to rush back and trounce her composure entirely, so Abby merely gave a small shrug in reply and went to the kitchen to find something, anything, to keep herself busy. She was a bit frightened to open up any further train of conversation with Sirius, especially since each passing minute reinforced the nagging feeling that he already knew much more about her than she cared to think. Still, she did not necessarily want him to leave.

“Er, care for a bite?” she asked, as she set out to prepare cocoa and a plate of biscuits. Sirius nodded, then sat quietly as she puttered about the kitchen.

“Why do you walk to work?” he asked when she finally sat down opposite him. Abby’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the question, but her mouth soon found itself in a grin. She could overcome self-consciousness long enough to voice her opinion on that subject.

“There’s the small matter of an Apparition License, which I do not have, as the Ministry deems me a “high Splinch risk”. I’m a danger to others and myself, it would seem. I don’t like to bother with Flooing – we don’t even have a fire in the shop, and it musses up my robes – and so, I walk.” She pushed a steaming mug across the table before continuing.

“I often think of sending an owl to the D.M.T., telling them just what I think of them – er, I suppose you’ve already heard me say that– but I still hold to the vain hope that one day they’ll grant me a license.”

He nodded his head. “I thought as much,” he replied, lifting the mug to his mouth. The room was silent for a moment, except for the crunch of ginger biscuits.

“Your neighbours talk about you,” he said at last.

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” Abby replied, with a roll of her eyes. “For the record – no, I am not growing anything illegal in the cellar. I don’t even have a cellar.”

One that I’ll show you, anyway.

“You never finished at Hogwarts, then?” Sirius posed the question warily, as though he knew the danger of assumptions very well himself.

A far corner of Abby’s mind told her that this was the ideal opportunity for delusion, to adopt a few flighty airs and mannerisms. But another corner reminded her that he had already seen her often enough, just as she was. Any attempt to disguise her character now would be too apparent, and, truth be told, she simply did not want to.

Let him think whatever he bloody well pleases.

She did launch into the well-honed tale, however, inwardly amazed at how glibly the lie danced out of her mouth.

“…and so, Headmaster Dumbledore arranged for me to apprentice at Gladrags, and I’ve had a distinguished career in fashion ever since,” she laughed. “I even had to make a special appeal to the Ministry to apply for my wandwork trade license. I’m required to display it in the shop – a bit embarrassing, I’ll have you know – but I don’t think anyone notices it anymore.”

She took a sip of cocoa, curious as to another matter. “What was that thing, the other night in the forest?” she asked. “It scared the life out of me.”

Sirius shrugged. “My money’s on Hagrid. He usually doesn’t care much for an animal unless it had deadly properties.”

“You saved me.” Abby looked at him earnestly. “It could have killed you, too.”

He threw back his head and laughed at that, closing his eyes as though lost in memory. “I’ve dealt with worse. Please, Abby, forget about it.”

Well, that’s not likely, but I’ll try.

“So,” she asked with a smile, “exactly how does one go about tending to a hippogriff?”

She listened with a liberal amount of grimaces as Sirius described catching rats, ferrets, and other small animals for “Buckbeak.” His affection for the hippogriff was surprisingly endearing, but still, she hoped he would not bring it by the house for a visit. She had experienced her share of fantastic beasts recently.

The conversation wound on into the night, as mugs emptied and the tower of biscuits diminished. Finally, as the clock crept past one o’clock and their talk dwindled, Sirius began to look toward the door.

No, don’t go –

“It’s still storming something dreadful outside,” Abby interjected into his unspoken thoughts. “You could, um, kip on the couch if you’d like. Will Buckbeak be all right for the night?”

Sirius looked as embarrassed as she felt. He toyed with a pile of crumbs on the table as he gave his answer.

“I left him with a good-sized pile of things to eat. I think he’ll be fine.”

“Good, then.”

Abby left the table on the pretense of finding him some pajamas, but mostly so she would not have to look him in the eye. This really was too ludicrous – perhaps she would wake up the next morning and find that the happenings had been a dream, instigated by over-exposure to cleaning products.

Despite a faintly sore knee and a convicted murderer under her roof, Abby fell asleep fairly easily that night. The conversation had been such a pleasant diversion, she reflected sleepily, even if it came under such odd conditions. Lately, the bulk of her evenings had been spent in fruitless efforts to finish her Invisibility Cloak.

I certainly hope someone appreciates the dratted thing someday.

As Abby’s eyelids became increasingly heavy, she could not help but laugh at what the rest of Hogsmeade might think of the sight of Sirius Black, asleep on her sofa in a pair of old flannel pajamas.

***

Abby was not always the sole occupant of her cottage. Her father visited on occasion, as did various former schoolmates when they were passing through Hogsmeade. Still, she was quite unaccustomed to being awoken by a male voice in the dead of night – so unaccustomed, she had to stare into the darkness for some time before she realized what she was hearing.

Groggy, she hoisted her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled to the doorway of her bedroom. Easing the door open a crack, she peered into the dim room and tried to make out whatever it was that Sirius was saying. Despite her sleepiness, it only took a moment for her to realize that her was not merely talking in his sleep. She could not see him over the high back of the sofa, but she heard his low, tormented moans and the muffled thumps that echoed throughout the room. She pushed the door the remainder of the way open, hesitating before padding out into the room and around the sofa.

He did not look like any depiction of Sirius Black she had ever seen, even in Azkaban photographs, even at his worst. He writhed about on the sofa, twisting and jerking painfully. The light of the dying fire threw the angles of his face into sharp relief, highlighting every convulsed movement. He looked as though his soul were being torn from him with steady, exacting precision.

Abby now had some understanding, inadequate though it was, of what Azkaban did to a man. She stared at him in confusion, not knowing what she should do, and yet knowing all the same. She reached out to touch him, which proved difficult – his arms thrashed fitfully, and exhaustion dulled her reflexes. On her third try she managed to grasp a forearm, and the twitching stopped. His eyes opened, and though they did not focus on her, Abby caught her breath when she saw their deadened appearance.

He seemed aware of her presence after a long minute had passed, punctuated only by the crackling of the coals and the shallow gasping of his breath. When his eyes finally fixed on hers, she added her other hand to his forearm and rose to her feet, pulling him slightly upward. She tugged again, motioning gently for him to follow.

With Sirius in tow, Abby stumbled back to the bedroom, drowsily colliding with the doorframe (Ow!) as she entered. She had collapsed back on the bed and drawn the covers over her before she realized he was no longer with her. Looking up, she saw Sirius standing in the doorway, his tall form now cast into a dark shadow by the dwindling fire. His body still trembled from the nightmares, and if she had had any presence of mind at the moment, Abby would have found the sight terrifying. As it was, her only lucid thought at that early hour was that she just wanted for him to be able to rest.

Mustering the little energy she had left, Abby lifted her head off the pillow and patted the empty space to her right. Sirius transformed, and Padfoot covered the distance with quiet footsteps, wavering at the foot of the bed before finally leaping onto it and settling down. Abby raised her hand to reach over and touch the dog’s muzzle softly and then, seconds before the thought that she might feel exceptionally foolish in the morning could fully sink in, she fell back asleep.

***

When slivers of sunlight stole through the curtains and opened Abby’s eyes the next morning, her first thoughts were calm and pleasant. Ah, Sunday. She could spend all morning reading silly fashion periodicals, lolling about in her nightdress. A smile grew on her face as imagined the peaceful, unhurried hours ahead with no inventory to count, no till to balance, and most importantly, no customers to serve. Then she happened to look to her right, to the sight of a large, furry black mass sleeping beside her, and she had to clap a hand to her mouth to keep from shrieking.

Unable to make head or tail of the situation, she racked her brain in a panicked frenzy. Bits of hazy memory were beginning to creep back, bringing with them the unsettling feeling that she might have instigated this arrangement. She had the vague recollection of leading Sirius by the arm and then hearing the thud of Padfoot as he landed on her quilt.

Perhaps she had thought, in whatever meager mental clarity might be found in the middle of the night, that it would help him to be near something other than Dementors and hippogriffs. Perhaps she had thought it was all taking place in a dream. Regardless of the reason, she was heartily grateful that she had splurged last year at the Forever Fluff Mattress Factory and purchased their largest model. Snuffles – er, Padfoot – was a nice, safe distance away.

Abby slipped out from under the quilt, which was pinned down on the other end by the dog, and tiptoed from the room, snatching a dressing gown on her way out. Her face blanched at the thought of what her father might say if he knew about her present predicament. She might be an adult who was free to make her own decisions, but all the same, she was not about to tell him of this.

Her ears soon picked up the sound of water running in the bathroom. He was awake. She cracked another egg into the frying pan and began to fill the teakettle. More niggling doubts arose with each new sizzle. This was aiding and abetting at its most obvious. Was she so caught up in the heady feeling of defying the Ministry that she was willfully disregarding where Sirius Black’s allegiances might still lie?

Should I hunt down whatever’s left of Voldemort and ask him if he’d like a spot of breakfast, too?

But when Sirius nervously poked his head out the door ten minutes later, wearing his new robes, Abby’s fears abated. A snicker threatened to escape her lips. Death Eaters could not possibly look so sheepish.

“Hullo,” she said with studied nonchalance, as though greeting him in the morning was an everyday occurrence. “Tea?”

Sirius walked into the room and took the cup and saucer from Abby. She angled her head so as not to stare, but she was glad to see that his face looked less haggard than it had the night before. She continued to watch as he raised the cup and took his first sip…which he promptly spat back out. Liquid sloshed off the edge of the saucer and onto the floor.

“What is this?” he asked with a grimace.

“Mint, with a little bit of sugar,” Abby answered, confused. “Why? It’s not so bad. I grew it myself.”

Sirius peered into the teacup, before giving her a look of utmost skepticism. “Not so bad with a shot of Firewhiskey, perhaps, but this…yech.”

Abby’s mouth began to twist into a scowl. Her father was always on about her mint tea, too. She liked the taste, blast them all.

“That’s all I had! If I’d known I was having company, I’d have stocked the pantry better.”

Abby huffed in annoyance, too flustered to prevent the next comment from slipping off her tongue.

“At least you managed to groom yourself today.”

“Surprisingly, I do still remember how to do that,” Sirius replied calmly. “And I’m sure that if you’d known you were having company, you would have scrubbed up the tub better, too.”

At those words, Abby’s jaw dropped. Her father might joke about her tea, but he knew better than to ever, ever criticize a witch’s housekeeping.

It’s your blooming dirt I can’t get off that tub! You, of all people, really can’t afford to be picky! You –

Her temper came dangerously close to breaking free, but then she noticed the growing smirk on Sirius’ face, which finally erupted into a loud guffaw. She directed her wand at him and picked up the frying pan off the hob a few threatening inches.

“Shut it, or you’ll have all future meals in a tin dish outside the back door!”

Sirius smirked, amused at her flustered state. “Now that I know you can’t do much damage with that wand, I won’t be so easily coerced.”

She glared back at him, but her wand hand shook with repressed laughter.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. I know a mean curse or two…involving needles.”

“I’ll take your word on that. But put the frying pan down, will you? There’s no call to waste a decent breakfast.” Still grinning, Sirius walked over to the stove and peered at the sizzling sausages and eggs. “Looks good. Better than rats, I dare say.”

Abby cringed at the image that comment evoked. “I should hope so! I won’t even ask how you know what rats taste like.” After a pause, she added lightly, “For the sake of my stomach, please don’t eat them again. At least, not any more than you have to.”

The offer was subtly given, as was his brief nod of assent.

You can eat here, stay here.

“Um, thank you, for – ” he gestured awkwardly toward the bedroom with his head.

Abby kept her face on the eggs, to keep her blushing cheeks unseen. “Well, I knew I’d be able never get any sleep, otherwise,” she said, with a dismissive flick of her hand. But Sirius seemed to understand the reason for her flippant tone, and he did not mention the incident further.

As she placed breakfast before him and sat down with her own plate, Abby snuck a few small, stealthy glances at the man across from her. Yes, if only in small part, this was more like the Sirius Black she had enjoyed watching at Hogwarts. It was nice to see him again.

As they breakfasted in silence, Abby noted with amusement that Sirius’ method of eating varied little from dog to man. The portion of the tablecloth nearest him was definitely making out the worst from the meal, but she could look past that. Social graces would come later.

***

Gladrags’ winter cloak racks were in sore need of rearranging, and the monotony of the task provided Abby with a welcome opportunity to sort out the events of the past few days. She shuffled various thoughts in and out of her mind as she worked. Lucius Malfoy…flame-shooting monstes...the dog…Snuffles...Padfoot…Sirius Black. Sirius Black.

And oh my, the bath…

Once again, she felt grateful for the solitude of the cloak display. For all she had known, he had just been a dog, but still…one did not hold prison escapees in a tub at wandpoint just everyday.

The bell on the shop door tinkled, signaling an arrival. Abby stayed behind the racks, curious to see if her shop attendants would divert themselves from their gossip session near the school robes long enough to attend to the patron. She smiled as she heard Chanella’s voice. Good for her. Although talented with a needle, Chanella Parker was still terribly timid and would benefit from more direct contact with the customers. Abby busied herself with the robes again, keeping an ear attuned to the distant conversation.

I must find better hangers for these…

She was airing out the folds of a voluminous scarlet cloak when an angered reply from the customer carried back to her. The voice was low and controlled, but the sneer in it was unmistakable. Briefly burying her face in the cloth, Abby flinched. She now knew who the customer was, and she regretted not having providing Chanella with some assistance. As amusing as the idea of Professor Severus Snape standing on a velvet pedestal with outstretched arms was, she would have known better than to broach the subject of a fitting to him. Madam Bussell had once suggested this action years ago and had received the most withering of replies. And that reaction had been understated, for Snape – Abby could hardly imagine what he might say and do to a novice shop assistant like Chanella.

Abby crossed the showroom floor in a few quick strides and placed herself between him and the now cowering girl.

“Professor Snape, how may we be of service today?”

Her intervention diverted his attention from Chanella and seemed to quell any further fury. “Professor Dumbledore has announced…a Yule Ball.” He lingered on the phrase, a wince easily detectable in his low voice

Abby let out a small cry and beamed, clapping her hands together. A Yule Ball would be wonderful for the students and, more importantly, great for business.

Snape ignored her delighted response. “As if the youngsters needed another forum to publicly display their baser urges,” he continued under his breath.

“Wonderful, Professor Snape! You’ll be needing dress robes, then.”

“Yes,” he replied pointedly, mocking the obviousness of her statement. “That is the expected attire for such an occasion.”

Abby decided to give no visible heed to his sarcasm. “Why, there hasn’t been a ball in ages, has there? I suppose it’s in honor of the Tournament. Oh, there may be a rush on our eveningwear. I really ought to check the stockroom tonight…”

“Miss Loomis.” The interruption was firm. “I have no desire to occupy your time any longer than is necessary to procure dress robes. May we proceed?”

Realizing the advantages in keeping Severus Snape in a tolerable mood, Abby complied. She gestured toward the private fitting room in the back of the shop and followed as he stalked past the black velvet curtains. She looked over her shoulder to smile sympathetically at the still-shivering Chanella. Professor Snape did not come to Gladrags often, yet when he did, he almost always managed to leave a shop assistant on the verge of tears.

Abby had since decided to see to the professor herself on these infrequent visits. He was a contemporary of hers, of sorts, and surely no one could be that unpleasant on purpose. He doubtlessly did not recognize the gesture, and he certainly would not acknowledge it if he did, but Abby usually did her best to lessen his discomfort by getting him in and out of the shop as quickly as possible.

They entered the fitting room, and Abby began to open cupboards and drawers, pulling out swatches and bolts of dress fabric. With great forbearance, she refrained from laying out the garish lavenders and blues Gilderoy Lockhart had once favored. Snape might curse her on the spot for the suggestion that he attend the ball clad in periwinkle.

“Do tell me, Professor Snape” Abby said when finished, “what particularly nasty concoction have you left bubbling in your dungeon today?”

Annoyance was evident in every part of his face. “A Deflecting Draft, a special request of Madam Pomfrey,” he stated brusquely. “As it would seem, the winter sun shines too brightly for some students’ delicate eyes.”

Deflecting Draft? The thought piqued Abby’s curiosity, but she kept her attention focused on the black satin before her.

“Really, now – a Deflecting Draft? What would go into such a potion?” Her eyes narrowed as she readied herself to retain whatever information he might give.

“Of what possible interest could that be to you?” Snape inquired coolly, his implication clear.

“Oh, I’m just having a go at friendly conversation, sir.” Abby could hardly resist her next remark, knowing full well it might infuriate him to the breaking point. “I was quite a hand at Potions in my Hogwarts days.”

To his credit, Snape merely raised an eyebrow in response. Still, his nostrils flared in suppressed irritation, and Abby had to fight the impulse to giggle. “Is that so?” he replied. “I’m sure a knowledge of potions is quite useful in your…current vocation.”

More than you might suppose, Severus.

“Pray tell,” she tried again, as she spread the fabrics out, “what does one use to brew a Deflecting Draft?”

Snape exhaled deeply, but he began to flatly recite a list of Potions ingredients as Abby continued to arrange the pieces on the table.

“…crushed Scarab beetles, the eggshell of one Ashwinder – Miss Loomis, dare I ask you to hurry? I hardly need tell you again that I am not here of my own accord and have no wish to tarry a moment longer than necessary!”

“I’m so sorry, Professor Snape. It was simply fascinating to hear you talk so!”

A voice from outside carried into the room, saving her from his mounting rage.

“Miss Loomis? Could you come here, please?”

The tremulous voice belonged to Chanella. Abby excused herself from Professor Snape, who looked none too sad to see her depart, and returned to the showroom. To her eternal frustration, she saw the same wizard who had tried, just last week, to return without a sales slip a cloak that was at least five years old. Sighing, she went to Chanella’s aid.

The thick carpet muffled Abby’s footsteps as she returned to the fitting room minutes later, and Snape did not notice her approach as she came to the partially open door. He was hovering over the samples, fingering each piece, the low lamplight muting the lines of his face. Abby hesitated to enter the room. It felt almost improper to be watching him so, and she knew quite well that he would not like to be interrupted at such a time. The manner of his gaze was puzzling – if she did not know better, she might actually think that Severus Snape, a man not known for his personal grooming, gave a pickled slug as to what he wore. He paused on a swatch of fine black silk, lightly running his long fingers over it.

Abby took a few steps back into the corridor, clearing her throat. “That’s right, Chanella, file the return with the others,” she called out. Counting to five, she stepped forward and rapped on the door.

“All right, Professor Snape?”

He was standing by the table when she entered, tapping his fingers impatiently. “I trust you have taken care of these more pressing matters?” he inquired. He picked up the bit of silk and tossed it aside with seeming indifference as she nodded.

“That, then,” he said curtly. “Make them up in my usual style, and owl them to Hogwarts by Thursday next.”

Abby nodded demurely, and Snape stalked out the room. She heard the heavy swish of the velvet curtain, then Chanella’s frightened gasp, and then finally the tinkle of the bell as he left Gladrags. His scent lingered in the room, causing Abby to thank Merlin that the house elves still ran an exceptionally efficient laundry. For someone who bathed as infrequently as the state of his hair might indicate, a much more disagreeable odor might have permeated his robes.

She glanced down at the slip of parchment in her hand and the measurements it noted in firm, even script. This was his practice, every time he visited the shop. He had informed her years ago of having no intention to ever try on a garment on while in Gladrags. She never pressed the issue, not daring to wager on making it out of a fitting with him alive.

With a flash of fiendish determination, Abby resolved to take a few liberties with Professor Severus Snape’s dress robes. She could always say she had misunderstood his instructions; no one would doubt her much on that point, and he would hardly return to Gladrags to argue with her about it.

You deserve this, Snape…yes, you certainly do.

The robes she later finished and sent to Hogwarts were still simply made, yet they had the stylish, understated additions of notches to the collar, a pleat in the upper sleeve, and an attractive, leaner cut. She could only suppose and smile at the choice expletive that might greet them, or at his general disposition at the Yule Ball. (She would never know that her plotting, in small part, had contributed to the violent demise of several Hogwarts rosebushes.)

Abby returned to the showroom and busied herself once more with the cloaks. The shop was empty, she observed, and a glance at her watch told her that only twenty more minutes remained until closing time.

“Chanella, what do you saying to closing up early today? Why don’t you tell the other girls to begin tidying up?”

“Really, Miss Loomis?” Chanella looked over in surprise. “Do – do you have an appointment to get to?”

Abby turned to the sapphire cloak before her. “There’s no particular reason, dear,” she said, as she casually straightened out its folds. She lowered her head so that Chanella would not see the smile that played across her lips.

“Although, I do have to see to an animal that I keep.”

**