Living Like A Muggle Quiz Part 3
Admit it ... at one time or another as you've been reading fanfiction, you've wished you could just Accio yourself a snack or conjure up a glass of wine. Magic ... it's the basis for the HP world, but sometimes authors like to explore placing the magical in a non-magical world. This week's quiz focuses on stories where Hermione and/or Severus are living as Muggles. Why they would want to do that, I have no idea -- I'd certainly like to be able to wave wand and have the dishes, dusting and laundry be done ...
Match the story to the quote:
A Mournful Rustling in the Dark by elise-wanderer
Full Circle by sunnythirty3
Half Life by sc010f
Cast Out by Iad via windwings
Scorched by karelia
There Where I Can Never Find You by machshefa
Secret Revealed by Dynonugget
Snape’s Ocean by Theolyn
The End of Reckoning by stormyskize
The Caretaker by aurette
Post Tenebras, Lux by Loten
The Mysterious Miss Granger by duniazade
1. By the light of the bird and the glow of the moonlight, I can see low bookshelves lining the walls and a heavy desk in the middle of the room. But aside from the bookshelves and desk, there are portraits on every available space. Portraits of old men and women, each wearing outlandish clothing, and almost all of them are moving, gently nodding as they sleep.
"What the hell?" I crane my neck to look to either side of me through my window and realize that I am just like them.
What I thought was a window is actually a frame.
I am in a fucking portrait.
The portrait nearest me, that of an old man in a bright purple robe, snorts to life. The nameplate on the bottom of his frame reads "Albus Dumbledore".
"Ah, Severus, my boy," he says, "nice of you to join us, finally."
I look around.
"Excuse me?"
"I've missed you."
"I'm sorry," I say, "You must have me mistaken for somebody else."
2. He was lucky. Argos had a coffeemaker of the cheap kind on special offer, only a tenner. Maybe he would make it to the pub after all. There was no queue yet, only a couple of minutes’ wait for his purchase to arrive from the warehouse; then he walked back to the hole they called home, half-way distracted by the bus stopping to vomit a bunch of people, most of whom rushed into all directions, late for work. One lone woman walked ahead of him, her hair wild, her figure slim; he couldn’t make out her age from the back.
She stopped about five doors down from his own hole and disappeared inside.
He continued on and uttered a sigh of relief that Lucius hadn’t awoken yet. The new coffeemaker produced acceptable coffee.
3. "I suppose you're parked on Ferry Lane, like the last time?"
"Kew Road. Unicorn Gate will do just fine, thank you."
"You're always parked so conveniently, Miss Granger. The first time on Kew Road, the second on the riverside and now on Kew Road again. One might think that you were calling your car like a faithful steed by waving that mobile of yours. The miracles of modern technology, I suppose."
"My faithful flying car," she said, slinking out of the gate. His eyes followed her down the road until she ducked around a double-decker coach. Wherever her car was, it wasn't parked in sight.
4. “He was Obliviated?” she asked in horror.
“He was placed under an Entrancement. His magic was bound, and his memory of his life among wizards has been suppressed. He is living as a Muggle.”
“He won’t know me …” she whispered.
“It was necessary. The effects of the Entrancement can be reversed once his name is cleared.”
“I still want to see him. Please, sir. I have to know that he’s safe and well.”
“He must not see you,” Dumbledore warned. “Although unlikely, it’s possible that seeing you would break the Entrancement. It would be cruel to revive memories of a world he can no longer be part of.”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t see me, I promise.”
5. Margaret was a little more persistent. In her well-intentioned way, she was determined to find out more about the mystery patient. She would settle herself in for a good natter at least once a day and was most disappointed when her thinly veiled probes into Hermione’s past were somehow deflected. Hermione gently but firmly steered the conversation away to other, safer topics. Asking after Margaret’s beloved grandchildren usually did the trick.
Late one afternoon, Amanda had come to see her. It was time to sort out her discharge. Hermione had to have a place to live and a means of income before she would be released. As the in-house social worker, Amanda’s task was to facilitate this process.
“Right, then,” Amanda started without prevarication. “We need to find you a job. What are your qualifications and your work experience?”
“Umm, well, I don’t have any A Levels or GSCE passes,” Hermione had to admit. She didn’t think OWLs, even with Outstanding grades, were likely to get her very far in Muggle employment.
6. "Try to restrain yourself, Miss Granger," he drawled.
Ignoring his sarcasm, she studied the titles nearest her with interest. The books had been grouped by size more than genre as far as she could tell and proved to be an eclectic mix of texts on a wide range of both Muggle and wizarding subjects, as well as a large number of fictional works. Judging by the battered condition, all of them had been bought second-hand; there wasn't a single new book that she could see. Looking behind her at the other rooms, she shook her head slowly. "Why do you live like this?"
He straightened slowly. "Like what?" he asked with a faint edge to his voice.
"Well, in a caravan, for a start. It's not exactly luxurious, is it?"
"You forget," he replied tightly, "I have been effectively dead for almost ten years. I could hardly wander into Gringotts and withdraw money from my vault, could I? And I wasn't particularly wealthy to start with. Besides, there are advantages to being mobile."
He had a point, and she suspected she had offended him by criticising his home. It wasn't as if her own flat was anything to boast about. "No, all right. But you could have modified it so it wasn't so cramped, at least."
"Why?" he asked indifferently. "I don't have many possessions anyway. It's big enough for my needs."
Sensing that this was a conversation she wasn't going to win, she surrendered. "All right. I'm sorry."
7. Ask whatever it is you feel obliged to ask and piss off.”
Well, it’s not the friendliest beginning of a conversation. The fact is, Hermione has nothing to ask. All those possible “Why are you here?” and “How does it feel, to live without magic?” questions seem unnecessary, and, truth be told, she’s not really interested to know.
This is where he does turn to her, apparently taken aback by her silence.
“Is that Potter’s child?” he asks callously, staring at Madge like she is a museum oddity.
Hermione recoils, as if slapped in the face.
“Fuck you, Professor.”
She doesn’t see Snape’s perplexed face as she drags her daughter away from the pond so fast that the girl’s little feet stumble and catch upon themselves.
“Mum, you know him?” Madge asks, looking coy.
8. “Tell me, Ginny. Please.” Ginny seems more confident than any of the men, so she clings to her like a lifeline.
“I told you; it’s simple. Hide him in plain sight.”
“Where’s that, then?” Harry looks amused. His wife does not.
“Did Severus have any contact with the Muggle world once he came to Hogwarts?” She’s looking at Hermione.
“Not that I know of. His parents died when he was in his early twenties, and he didn’t mention relationships with anybody else from his hometown.” She looks at Harry. “Other than, you know.” Harry nods. “He hardly talked about Kelton.”
It had mostly been after his childhood home had burned to the ground, and he’d obsessed over the bits of paperwork the Muggle authorities had sent. Hermione had wondered at the time why he’d bothered, but it had seemed to matter to him, a way to tie up the trailing threads from childhood that always seemed to catch him at the most inopportune times.
“He went to primary school there, but I never heard him talk about anybody else he considered a friend as a child. Certainly not by the time he’d come to Hogwarts.”
Ginny looks thoughtful. She reaches for a stack of paper.
“Where’s the one that has the ‘S’ names?” she asks.
9. Severus Snape loped, barefoot, beside the sapphire sea. It was long his habit to run at dawn, to be out in the air before the heat set in, to pass the squid boats as the fishermen returned from their night's labors. It was his privilege to start his day in that between-time, as some were moving to rest and others just waking, as the night was yielding to the day.
As he well knew, great beauty often rested in the spaces in between.
It was a privilege, too to move this body, push it, ask from it, receive its response. Though he had always kept himself fit, for to become weak was to die, it was now with pleasure that he extended, tested, grew stronger. Not for combat, though he would be ready should that come again, but moreso just because his body was there. Because to feel the body's pleasures and pains was precious to him. Because those pleasures and pains were the stuff of life.
It had been twenty years since he'd begun his life here, and still, he found himself surprised by the simple joy of freedom.
He pushed his speed as he ran up the steep path to his cliffside cottage. He reached the crest just as the sun moved above the village rooftops, exploding amber light onto the whitewashed walls. It was his favorite moment of the day. His body heaved with effort, his lungs gasped for air, sweat stung his eyes. He looked over the momentarily violent beauty of his home with gratitude.
10. Another knot of students scattered away from him but, blind with rage, he didn't even see them as he took a turn and vanished down a passage.
He unlocked the door to his room and flung it open. It crashed against the wall and bounced back, and he grabbed for it and slammed it shut with two hands, not seeing it bounce back open. Unsatisfied with that release, he grabbed up his wooden stool and swung it at the wall with all of his renewed strength. It splintered, leaving him holding one broken leg like a cudgel. He flung it across the room wishing it was a knife aimed at Weasley's throat. He gasped for breath as a pain clawed at his chest.
Finally overwhelmed, Snape collapsed onto the bed with his legs splayed out before him. He fisted his hands into his hair because the pain helped to calm him as he started a chant in his head. Ten months, two weeks, five days. Ten months, two weeks, five days. Ten months, two weeks, five days. That was all he had left to endure before he was free.
"Mr. Snape?"
He leaped up off the bed and spun to see Granger standing just inside his door with a concerned expression.
"The door was open. I knocked, but-Are you alright? Has something happened?"
Match the story to the quote:
A Mournful Rustling in the Dark by elise-wanderer
Full Circle by sunnythirty3
Half Life by sc010f
Cast Out by Iad via windwings
Scorched by karelia
There Where I Can Never Find You by machshefa
Secret Revealed by Dynonugget
Snape’s Ocean by Theolyn
The End of Reckoning by stormyskize
The Caretaker by aurette
Post Tenebras, Lux by Loten
The Mysterious Miss Granger by duniazade
1. By the light of the bird and the glow of the moonlight, I can see low bookshelves lining the walls and a heavy desk in the middle of the room. But aside from the bookshelves and desk, there are portraits on every available space. Portraits of old men and women, each wearing outlandish clothing, and almost all of them are moving, gently nodding as they sleep.
"What the hell?" I crane my neck to look to either side of me through my window and realize that I am just like them.
What I thought was a window is actually a frame.
I am in a fucking portrait.
The portrait nearest me, that of an old man in a bright purple robe, snorts to life. The nameplate on the bottom of his frame reads "Albus Dumbledore".
"Ah, Severus, my boy," he says, "nice of you to join us, finally."
I look around.
"Excuse me?"
"I've missed you."
"I'm sorry," I say, "You must have me mistaken for somebody else."
2. He was lucky. Argos had a coffeemaker of the cheap kind on special offer, only a tenner. Maybe he would make it to the pub after all. There was no queue yet, only a couple of minutes’ wait for his purchase to arrive from the warehouse; then he walked back to the hole they called home, half-way distracted by the bus stopping to vomit a bunch of people, most of whom rushed into all directions, late for work. One lone woman walked ahead of him, her hair wild, her figure slim; he couldn’t make out her age from the back.
She stopped about five doors down from his own hole and disappeared inside.
He continued on and uttered a sigh of relief that Lucius hadn’t awoken yet. The new coffeemaker produced acceptable coffee.
3. "I suppose you're parked on Ferry Lane, like the last time?"
"Kew Road. Unicorn Gate will do just fine, thank you."
"You're always parked so conveniently, Miss Granger. The first time on Kew Road, the second on the riverside and now on Kew Road again. One might think that you were calling your car like a faithful steed by waving that mobile of yours. The miracles of modern technology, I suppose."
"My faithful flying car," she said, slinking out of the gate. His eyes followed her down the road until she ducked around a double-decker coach. Wherever her car was, it wasn't parked in sight.
4. “He was Obliviated?” she asked in horror.
“He was placed under an Entrancement. His magic was bound, and his memory of his life among wizards has been suppressed. He is living as a Muggle.”
“He won’t know me …” she whispered.
“It was necessary. The effects of the Entrancement can be reversed once his name is cleared.”
“I still want to see him. Please, sir. I have to know that he’s safe and well.”
“He must not see you,” Dumbledore warned. “Although unlikely, it’s possible that seeing you would break the Entrancement. It would be cruel to revive memories of a world he can no longer be part of.”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t see me, I promise.”
5. Margaret was a little more persistent. In her well-intentioned way, she was determined to find out more about the mystery patient. She would settle herself in for a good natter at least once a day and was most disappointed when her thinly veiled probes into Hermione’s past were somehow deflected. Hermione gently but firmly steered the conversation away to other, safer topics. Asking after Margaret’s beloved grandchildren usually did the trick.
Late one afternoon, Amanda had come to see her. It was time to sort out her discharge. Hermione had to have a place to live and a means of income before she would be released. As the in-house social worker, Amanda’s task was to facilitate this process.
“Right, then,” Amanda started without prevarication. “We need to find you a job. What are your qualifications and your work experience?”
“Umm, well, I don’t have any A Levels or GSCE passes,” Hermione had to admit. She didn’t think OWLs, even with Outstanding grades, were likely to get her very far in Muggle employment.
6. "Try to restrain yourself, Miss Granger," he drawled.
Ignoring his sarcasm, she studied the titles nearest her with interest. The books had been grouped by size more than genre as far as she could tell and proved to be an eclectic mix of texts on a wide range of both Muggle and wizarding subjects, as well as a large number of fictional works. Judging by the battered condition, all of them had been bought second-hand; there wasn't a single new book that she could see. Looking behind her at the other rooms, she shook her head slowly. "Why do you live like this?"
He straightened slowly. "Like what?" he asked with a faint edge to his voice.
"Well, in a caravan, for a start. It's not exactly luxurious, is it?"
"You forget," he replied tightly, "I have been effectively dead for almost ten years. I could hardly wander into Gringotts and withdraw money from my vault, could I? And I wasn't particularly wealthy to start with. Besides, there are advantages to being mobile."
He had a point, and she suspected she had offended him by criticising his home. It wasn't as if her own flat was anything to boast about. "No, all right. But you could have modified it so it wasn't so cramped, at least."
"Why?" he asked indifferently. "I don't have many possessions anyway. It's big enough for my needs."
Sensing that this was a conversation she wasn't going to win, she surrendered. "All right. I'm sorry."
7. Ask whatever it is you feel obliged to ask and piss off.”
Well, it’s not the friendliest beginning of a conversation. The fact is, Hermione has nothing to ask. All those possible “Why are you here?” and “How does it feel, to live without magic?” questions seem unnecessary, and, truth be told, she’s not really interested to know.
This is where he does turn to her, apparently taken aback by her silence.
“Is that Potter’s child?” he asks callously, staring at Madge like she is a museum oddity.
Hermione recoils, as if slapped in the face.
“Fuck you, Professor.”
She doesn’t see Snape’s perplexed face as she drags her daughter away from the pond so fast that the girl’s little feet stumble and catch upon themselves.
“Mum, you know him?” Madge asks, looking coy.
8. “Tell me, Ginny. Please.” Ginny seems more confident than any of the men, so she clings to her like a lifeline.
“I told you; it’s simple. Hide him in plain sight.”
“Where’s that, then?” Harry looks amused. His wife does not.
“Did Severus have any contact with the Muggle world once he came to Hogwarts?” She’s looking at Hermione.
“Not that I know of. His parents died when he was in his early twenties, and he didn’t mention relationships with anybody else from his hometown.” She looks at Harry. “Other than, you know.” Harry nods. “He hardly talked about Kelton.”
It had mostly been after his childhood home had burned to the ground, and he’d obsessed over the bits of paperwork the Muggle authorities had sent. Hermione had wondered at the time why he’d bothered, but it had seemed to matter to him, a way to tie up the trailing threads from childhood that always seemed to catch him at the most inopportune times.
“He went to primary school there, but I never heard him talk about anybody else he considered a friend as a child. Certainly not by the time he’d come to Hogwarts.”
Ginny looks thoughtful. She reaches for a stack of paper.
“Where’s the one that has the ‘S’ names?” she asks.
9. Severus Snape loped, barefoot, beside the sapphire sea. It was long his habit to run at dawn, to be out in the air before the heat set in, to pass the squid boats as the fishermen returned from their night's labors. It was his privilege to start his day in that between-time, as some were moving to rest and others just waking, as the night was yielding to the day.
As he well knew, great beauty often rested in the spaces in between.
It was a privilege, too to move this body, push it, ask from it, receive its response. Though he had always kept himself fit, for to become weak was to die, it was now with pleasure that he extended, tested, grew stronger. Not for combat, though he would be ready should that come again, but moreso just because his body was there. Because to feel the body's pleasures and pains was precious to him. Because those pleasures and pains were the stuff of life.
It had been twenty years since he'd begun his life here, and still, he found himself surprised by the simple joy of freedom.
He pushed his speed as he ran up the steep path to his cliffside cottage. He reached the crest just as the sun moved above the village rooftops, exploding amber light onto the whitewashed walls. It was his favorite moment of the day. His body heaved with effort, his lungs gasped for air, sweat stung his eyes. He looked over the momentarily violent beauty of his home with gratitude.
10. Another knot of students scattered away from him but, blind with rage, he didn't even see them as he took a turn and vanished down a passage.
He unlocked the door to his room and flung it open. It crashed against the wall and bounced back, and he grabbed for it and slammed it shut with two hands, not seeing it bounce back open. Unsatisfied with that release, he grabbed up his wooden stool and swung it at the wall with all of his renewed strength. It splintered, leaving him holding one broken leg like a cudgel. He flung it across the room wishing it was a knife aimed at Weasley's throat. He gasped for breath as a pain clawed at his chest.
Finally overwhelmed, Snape collapsed onto the bed with his legs splayed out before him. He fisted his hands into his hair because the pain helped to calm him as he started a chant in his head. Ten months, two weeks, five days. Ten months, two weeks, five days. Ten months, two weeks, five days. That was all he had left to endure before he was free.
"Mr. Snape?"
He leaped up off the bed and spun to see Granger standing just inside his door with a concerned expression.
"The door was open. I knocked, but-Are you alright? Has something happened?"