FIC: "The Hounding of the Baskervilles" (3/4) - RL/SS

[bronze_ribbons]

Chapter 2


Chapter 3

The following night, Snape was so agitated that, as soon as he reached his room, he practised chain-casting with his wand and the candlestick for a full half hour. Only then did he feel capable of writing to Lupin without stabbing his quill straight through the parchment.

My dear, infuriating Lupin --

When the devil were you going to tell me that Irene Lucretia Longbottom is a Black?

I suppose I cannot fault you for failing to recognize the Trifling Affair's seventh cousin thrice removed when neither he nor Longbottom appear to be aware of the connection. Since you have never been interested in feminine women, you likely paid little attention to Narcissa when we were in school. Even so, given that you've slept with her sister and her niece, one might have thought you would have been more closely attuned to their shared genetic features. Or did you sleepwalk through the entirety of Longbottom's nuptials?

Aggravatedly yours,
S.

Too livid to wait until morning, Snape stalked to the aviary to send the note on its way, his dressing gown billowing behind him as he swept down the draughty corridor. Upon returning to his room, he poured himself a fresh glass of port, settled himself by the fire, and forced himself to concentrate on the guide to otters he'd borrowed from the library.

When Lupin's owl tapped on his window a mere three-quarters of an hour later, Snape frowned. It was a dark and stormy night; coming from London, the bird should have looked considerably more bedraggled than it did.

My dear Severus,

I did in fact doze through most of Neville's wedding, I'm sorry to say. I happened to work a thirty-hour shift right before the gathering (you will recall that, that same week, there was a breakout of Deranged Sheep Syndrome up in Cheshire that incapacitated the entire northwest bureau of the Brunnhildeworth Agricultural Authority) . . . and, myths about werewolf stamina to the contrary, Anglican ceremonies of any stripe invariably strain my ability to stay awake.

Besides, other than us half-bloods, who isn't related to a Black -- or a Malfoy, for that matter? If you ask me, half of the blondes on page 3 look like their get.

Yours,
Remus

Scowling at the note, Snape hastily changed into a pair of trousers and a jumper. He yanked on a windcheater before scribbling his reply:

Lupin,

Although I concur that it is generally a waste of time to speculate about litters of Blacks, I prefer to avoid attributing choice similarities to sheer coincidence when plausible explanations appear attainable.

However, to the extent I was able to cross-examine her, Dr. Longbottom indeed believes herself to be entirely of Muggle origin. She is in fact unaffectedly attractive, at least by conventional standards, and the Trifling Affair is unquestionably smitten, albeit discreet enough to covet his neighbour's wife without raising said neighbour's hackles. It must be said, however, that if I believed Longbottom to be remotely capable of deviousness, I would be inclined to construe his banal and frequent testimonials to the joys of wedlock as a clever and socially unimpeachable approach to taunting the Trifling Affair.

In the meantime, there is the matter of your determination to work yourself into an early grave. I won't have it, Lupin. It will not do. Pretending to be driven by an overdeveloped sense of obligation will not get you out of living long enough to spend the rest of your life with me. You belong back in our rooms in Baker Street, allowing Hudson to serve you multiple-course meals and cosseting yourself with hot baths, thick books, and pleasant music on the wireless. If you must insult my intelligence and abilities by Apparating nightly to Devon -- this, in spite of your twelve-hour shifts at Mungo's, never mind the myriad extracurricular demands on your time -- at least insult me to my face and stay at Baskerville Hall, rather than camping in whichever primitive hovel you've contrived to render quasi-habitable.

S.

Still fuming, Snape sealed the note, attached it to the bird's leg, and put out the lights in his room. Keeping a firm hold on the owl as he strode down the hall and let himself outside, he muttered a tethering spell -- one that effectively functioned as a twenty-foot leash. He then released the bird, trailing it across the moor as it lightly tugged him toward the location of its owner's hiding place. The rain was light but the wind was stiff -- enough to muddle with the vibrations of the tether, and Snape found himself mustering together the entirety of his concentration to follow the owl properly.

When they reached a rude granite hut, the bird ceased to pull on their invisible connection, electing instead to perch on Snape's wrist. Snape thought he detected a sardonic gleam in its eyes as he adjusted his grip on his wand, and then walked swiftly up to the dilapidated lintel.

"Severus, love, it's a nasty evening," Tonks said, her voice lilting from the recesses of the shelter. "Do come in before you catch your death of cold."

Snape slowly entered the hut, torn between relief and fury. Not trusting his voice, he untethered the owl, watching it fly to a shelf several feet from Tonks's head and nestle in between a can of peaches and a half-full bottle of whisky. His note still dangled from the creature's leg, but Tonks ignored it.

"Lupin?" Snape finally croaked.

Her smile vanished. "Out on the moor." She conjured a towel and walked over to Snape. "Take off your jacket, Severus, so I can charm it dry without baking you. I know you hate that."

"What I hate," Snape growled, scrubbing his hair and face with the towel, "is this entire bloody misbegotten farrago --"

"Yes, yes," Tonks interrupted. "And you can't even rant at Remus yet. Out of that jacket, please."

Snape irritably peeled off the wet windcheater and tossed it at her feet, where it landed with a soggy thump. It was only then that he noticed the plump yellow kitty-cats appliquéd to the socks she wore.

All of a sudden, it was all too much. Severus Snape sat down on the floor of the hut and succumbed to a fit of hysteria, howling with laughter until his eyes were blurred with tears. Tonks watched his emotional eruption with a measure of wariness, but she refrained from attempting to halt or comfort him, busying herself with drying his jacket and Summoning glasses for the whisky.

When Snape finally regained control of himself, he wiped his face once more with the towel and banished it, and then accepted the drink she extended to him.

"I should tell you," he said, after draining half the glass, "that Longbottom has misplaced his dog. I have never met anyone less capable of keeping track of their pets."

"Oh, dear," said Tonks. "I like Quibbler. Which reminds me, that heap of ashes you forwarded to Remus was most illuminating."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Are you telling me there was actual information to be gleaned out of that pathetic joke of a forgery?"

She shrugged. "It's likely not relevant, but I made enquiries nevertheless. It's rather a coincidence, don't you think, that Luna Lovegood is currently working in Teignmouth as a milliner?"

Snape nearly choked on the Scotch. "Lovegood? The bug-eyed chit whom Longbottom squired about right after the War?"

Tonks nodded. "The same. I do believe my mum would adore a new hat for Christmas." Snape snorted in response -- Andromeda's hatred of headcoverings was legendary -- but Tonks demurely continued, "So that's where I'll be heading tomorrow."

Snape said, "Would you have time, afterwards, to swing by Baskerville Hall for tea? Minerva's bringing the Bonnefaux girl to meet Draco."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Tonks said. "Remus will thank you for the break from me."

"He -- where the devil is he, Tonks?"

"Out," she said. "On the moor." She thrust a newspaper at Snape. "Her Majesty's Jaws, at your service."

Snape stared at the newspaper -- an intact version of the issue Draco had incinerated two mornings before. The headline proclaimed, "CONVICT ELUDES CAPTURE," and the photograph featured a snarling face bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Mr. Barrymore.

"Oh. Oh, hell." He rapidly scanned the article -- the man was apparently the butler's twin -- and then looked back up at Tonks. "Hence the infernal sobbing."

"Indeed," she said. "I very much fear there will be more of that than less in the days ahead."

Snape carefully refolded the paper and handed it back to her. "One might argue," he softly said, "that he is doing a kindness to the survivors. To be mauled to death in the wild is a tragedy, to be sure, but as a method of expiration, it remains far more socially acceptable than being formally executed."

Tonks's smile was thin. "You can tell him that when he returns. I doubt he'll be too much longer."

"Are you not supposed to be out there too, madam Auror?"

"I am," she said, "but he knew you would come to look for him. Don't look at me like that -- he doesn't need a spotter for this. Likely he'll find the man half-dead as it is -- this isn't prime foraging country." The pinched expression on Snape's face hadn't changed, leading her to demand, "You don't seriously think I'd leave him alone if there was any hint at all he'd need my help?"

"No," Snape admitted, "you wouldn't. But I don't have to like being predictable."

Tonks smirked, but her voice was gentle. "It does him a world of good," she said. "Knowing he could count on you to come."

Snape scowled at her remark, although a corner of his mouth twitched at the latent double entendre. He pushed himself up off the floor and walked to the stone slab on which a heap of blankets had been spread. Fingering a faded blue fringe, he said, "He's stayed in London up to now?"

Tonks snorted. "You should smell the state of your flat! When I stopped in yesterday, there was so much bloody smoke I thought it was on fire. If Hudson hadn't already assured me he'd refilled the coffeepot twice --"

"Tell the truth, Tonks: was it any more polluted that those ghastly clubs you like to frequent?"

"No one -- not even baby gothlings -- smokes tobacco half as manky as the shite Remus rolls."

"Ah," Snape said. "A good thing, then, that he chain-smokes only when I'm away."

"Yes," Tonks agreed. "A good thing, too, that you're not away that often." She covered her mouth as she yawned.

Frowning, Snape gestured to the bed. "Madam --?"

She waved him off. "No, no. That's for you, love. It's back to London for me as soon as he gets back."

"But --"

"Don't. Fuss," she ordered. "You'll remind me of my parents, and then I'll think about Mum and Remus and I'll need therapy."

Snape tried not to laugh, even though he thought she was joking. Instead, he said, "Speaking of mothers, Draco's crush on Irene --"

Tonks breathed, "Oh my God. That does stir up all sorts of Oedipal muddiness, doesn't it. . ."

"Do you know if you are related to her?"

"Meaning, did Grandfather Black or one of my Rosier great-uncles go slumming around? More likely than not, but who knows which one." Her gaze grew thoughtful. "I'd put my money on great-uncle Wickham, though. According to family legend, he charmed his way under half the petticoats in Brighton, but then his luck ran out and he had to marry the fourth daughter of a nobody."

"So, for all you know, she could be a cousin."

"Could, yes. But see here, Severus, do you honestly think she has designs on Baskerville Hall? She's got her practice, a husband who adores her--"

"One with an unnatural tendresse for the orchids in the conservatory. At least according to Mrs. Barrymore."

"So: Neville and Irene's tearoom visits were merely part of an elaborate, extended conspiracy to ultimately net them the prize plants of Baskerville Hall?"

Snape heaved a sigh. "You're right, it's utterly farfetched. Longbottom can't even manage simple, never mind elaborate."

"I'd give my eyeteeth for a simple life right now," a hoarse voice muttered from the doorway. "If reincarnation wasn't just wishful thinking, I'd want to come back as a sheep. Graze, sleep, show up at fairs --"

"End up as dinner --" Snape caught Lupin as he swayed.

"Why not?" Lupin mumbled, eyes closed in exhaustion. "What better beast for sacrifice than best of show?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Snape saw Tonks grimace. Over Lupin's shoulder, he mouthed, It'll be fine. Go, I've got him. She nodded and Apparated out before he'd lowered Lupin onto half of the blankets.

Lupin turned his head slightly at the sound of her departure. "Didn't waste her time leaving, did she," he said.

"Miss Tonks is a smart young woman," Snape said, "her taste in friends notwithstanding."

"Ah," Lupin said. "You gave her your Head of Slytherin glare?"

"Not exactly," Snape replied. "More in the vein of 'We'd like some privacy now' glaring."

"Do we, now," Lupin murmured. In spite of his weariness, he arched in pleasure as Snape divested him of his robes.

"Yes, we do," Snape answered firmly. His left hand caressing Lupin's hip, he used his right to aim his wand at the entrance of the hut, sealing out the night and setting a layer of wards against intruders. Then he shed his own clothing and slid his body on top of Lupin's. As Lupin's hands curved around his arse, he pulled the remaining blankets over them both.

--O

They said their farewells before the sun rose, Lupin Apparating back to London and Snape beginning his walk back to Baskerville Hall. As he passed a copse of stunted oaks, a short, slender man wearing a grey jacket approached him.

"Good morning, Mr. Snape!"

"Good morning," Snape replied, stopping. The man appeared to be Snape's age, albeit with fair hair and an amiable, foolish-seeming face. "An early one," Snape added, waiting.

The man laughed and extended his hand. "Tristan Bonnefaux," he burbled. "Violet's uncle. One of my hobbies is collecting rocks. It's better hunting at this hour, with the tourists all still in their beds."

Snape shook Bonnefaux's hand, privately cringing at the clamminess of the man's palm. He said, "Would there be many on a day like this?" The rain had lightened into a mist.

"Not the crowds of the summer," his new acquaintance agreed, "but I don't like sharing at all. So even the hikers I like to avoid."

"Well, then," said Snape, "I shall continue on my way and leave you the field."

The man hastily said, "Oh, oh no! My manners -- Mr. Snape, I didn't mean you." His brown eyes widened in apology. "I have heard about you, sir, and your command of natural materials. I would be honoured if you had any time to spare from your schedule -- see, for instance, this lovely hematite -- we locals call it 'treacle' --" Bonnefaux fished a shiny black lump out of his left-hand pocket and held it out to Snape for inspection.

"This is not the ideal spot," Snape murmured, stalling. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to join us for tea --?"

"Alas, I have other obligations," the man said. "If I may accept that invitation some other time?"

"But, of course," Snape said.

"Until then, Mr. Snape."

"Until then, Mr. Bonnefaux."

--O

"Cousin," Draco said, "why is there a sequined squid on top of your head? It looks like something a dragon threw up."

Until that moment, Snape had been marvelling at Draco's good behaviour. Apparently the way to elicit the young aristocrat's better manners was to place him in the company of smart, beautiful females he wished to impress. Violet Bonnefaux was certainly too young for him -- at least, at the moment, seeing that she was only in her sixth year at Hogwarts -- but she was decidedly mature physically, with a very well-developed bosom and sleek copper tresses. Once she's of age, Snape had mused, she could offer him tracts of land and "tracts of land" . . .

To be fair, the confection on top of Tonks's head was decidedly arresting. Snape had to admit that, in his opinion, it looked like the dragon had ingested several hares and halibuts -- as well as an entire tinsel-smothered Christmas tree -- before upchucking the entire lot onto the bonnet Tonks currently wore. In light of the expression of transfixed horror on McGonagall's face, Snape mentally awarded Tonks fifty points for perpetrating the fashion crime of the century.

Naturally, Tonks was elated by their response. "Isn't it darling?" she trilled. "Mumsy's going to adore it," she claimed, removing it from her head and putting it back into its box.

"Thank you," Draco said. "There was no way any of us could continue eating with that present."

"Nonsense," Tonks said briskly. "If you were hungry enough, you'd eat anything anywhere."

"Is that what you learned from your furry ex-boyfriend?" Draco enquired.

Tonks and Snape exchanged a look that McGonagall correctly interpreted as Who gets to kill him first? Before either of them could speak, the headmistress precipitously rose to her feet and said, "Oh, look at how the time has flown! Miss Bonnefaux and I need to return to Hogwarts before it grows too late. Draco, will you please see us out?"

As the sound of their footsteps receded from earshot, Tonks hauled in a deep breath and said, "Whoever it is, it isn't Lovegood."

"Capital," Snape said. "That alone was worth whatever you paid for the hat."

"I like this hat," Tonks insisted. "I may not even give it to Mum."

"You'll have to buy her another present, then," Snape pointed out.

"I was thinking," Tonks said, "of trying my luck in Buckfastleigh." Her expression turned mischievous. "There's that abbey there with the tonic wine. . . "

Snape manufactured a repressive look. "I trust this isn't your idea of needling your mother? She's in remarkably fine shape for her age, considering."

Tonks grinned. "Especially considering Mum used to chug Bamgrias back in the day." At Snape's blank look, she clarified, "Buckfast mixed with Irn Bru."

Snape made a noise akin to that of a cat sicking up.

Tonks's grin widened. "And that sounds exactly like McGonagall after she's had too many."

"Tonks, I could have done without knowing that."

"Nonsense, Severus, you're a glutton for unnecessary details."

"It certainly explains your appalling taste in drinks. Dare I hope you've removed your melon-flavoured swill from my flat by now?"

"All in due time, love. First, the shopping." Tonks cocked her head. "Want to come with me? You might like the abbey -- they raise their own bees. Treat yourself to some Benedictine mead or honey. And," she jerked her head toward the hall, "you look like you need more of a break from him. Last night notwithstanding."

Draco re-entered the room, his right arm cradling a massive book. Snape quietly said to Tonks, "When were you thinking of going?"

"How about two days from now? Nothing ever goes right on Tuesdays, and nothing goes right when I shop --"

"You can say that again," Draco said snidely.

Had it been anyone else, Snape thought -- Remus, or Minerva, or even me -- Tonks would have simply laughed off the insult. With Draco, however, her face shuttered down for a fleeting moment.

Then a poisonous smile crept across her visage, and she morphed into an approximation of Violet Bonnefaux.

"Draco, darling," she cooed, sidling up to him. "Won't you be my tutor? I'm sure a smart, suave Slytherin like you knows everything there is --"

"You bitch," Draco hissed. He threw the book down and left the room.

"You are, you know," Snape said to her without rancour. "You've just wrecked my hopes that something would move him to study."

--O

To Snape's surprise, however, Draco returned after Tonks's departure and spent the remainder of the evening diligently perusing the tome McGonagall had loaned to him on Highly Advanced Transfiguration; Miss Bonnefaux was reportedly a top student in the subject, and the headmistress had not been blind to Draco's interest in the girl -- nor, apparently, to the need to occupy the boy with something sufficiently demanding to keep him out of trouble, but not so much that he'd give up too quickly. Snape made a note to himself to pick up a token gift for her come Tuesday.

Draco's newfound motivation sustained itself throughout the course of Monday, even through the day's considerable upheavals. The first occurred at the end of breakfast, when Pansy Barrymore appealed to Draco for bereavement leave. The corpse of her husband's brother had been discovered out on the moor late Sunday night, mauled to such a degree that it had been identifiable only by the cast-offs the two servitors had smuggled to him over the past fortnight, including Draco's discarded boots.

Although he had paled at Mrs. Barrymore's admission of aiding her brother-in-law, Draco readily consented to let them go. When the door closed behind her, Snape raised his eyebrows at Draco and said, "That was well done of you, but what will you do in the way of staff until they return?"

Draco said, "I still have my wand, and I know how to make tea and toast."

Snape thought, Well, well. Ten points to Neville Longbottom.

The second disturbance took place as they were sitting down to tea. Snape, craving more substantial fare than bread and biscuits, had sent an owl to Tonks requesting emergency rations. Thinking she was about to appear with some sort of savoury takeaway, Draco had answered the tap on the door -- upon which, Tristan Bonnefaux stormed into the foyer and began to berate him.

Hurrying down from the library, teapot still in hand, Snape heard the phrase "your filthy paws" ricocheting against the metal and stone of the Hall. He banished the teapot, retrieved his memories of the opening day of a term, and swept into the foyer, deliberately invoking the sinister grace that had intimidated thousands of Hogwarts students.

"Mr. Bonnefaux," he hissed. "What is the meaning of this?"

As if responding to a cue, the rabbit-faced man immediately deflated. "Oh. Oh, Mr. Snape," he began to babble. "My niece, she's far too young, she shouldn't be spending any time with any young men just yet, whether they're nice or not so nice, I know Mr. Draco's your pet but I can't bear the thought --"

"Mr. Bonnefaux," Snape softly enunciated. "What makes you imagine I would allow anything amiss to take place?"

"Oh, oh sir, I know you would see that it didn't, but see, I received an owl from Violet just this morning, such a silly girl, all about Mr. Draco, how handsome he was and how eager he was to help . . ."

Oh, sweet Salazar! Snape didn't have to look at Draco to know the boy was preening at the news. He also didn't think he could bear Mr. Bonnefaux's banalities for another second. He unclenched his teeth and said, as smoothly as he could manage, "Mr. Bonnefaux, perhaps we can discuss this at a more congenial time? Dinner, say, a week from now? Your niece is at school, and Draco is here. Among us -- you, I, and Minerva McGonagall -- not to mention your niece's Head of House -- surely we can all contrive to see that they stay out of trouble."

Bonnefaux looked abashed, as if he'd come back to his senses. "Yes, yes, quite so. So sorry, sir. I didn't mean -- I care about her so very much," he said, and hastily left the Hall.

Just as he departed, Tonks appeared on the threshold, the scents of chips and curry emanating from the bag she carried. "Sorry, lads," she said, "I would've been here sooner, but I tripped and had to go back. Made a horde of moggies happy, anyhow. Who was the bloke with the Bertie Wooster face?"

---

almost_clara's illustration of The Hat

Chapter 4