Artichokes III: The Story Continues

[dolorous_ett]

Here's the third and final part of my Pureblood Dinner Party From Hell story.

The story so far: Hermione has sat through a long and ghastly pureblood dinner party in an attempt to ingratiate herself with her upper-class fiance's family. Now she is faced with a living, breathing artichoke, which she is supposed to kill with her bare hands. Can she go through with it?

As before, all feedback of any kind is much appreciated.  In particular, I'm hesitating between two titles: should I call this story "Supper with Snakes" or "House of Flying Artichokes"?

The golden globe on Hermione’s plate shifted and gave a little whimper. Hermione looked at it, her already uncomfortably full stomach roiling at the prospect of having to strip the petals off a living thing and then devour its quivering insides. Sensing weakness, the creature cocked its snout at her, and snarled.

The eyes of every other guest at the table turned towards her. Nauseated, she realised that this was another test. The choice was simple: torture and eat this sentient creature while they were watching - and pretend to enjoy it too - or show herself to be an outsider, one not fit to join the charmed circle.

She tried to remember Geraint: the way his eyes would brim over with love, confidence and delight as he spoke of their future life together, during their many walks under the immense, star-strewn skies of the desert. For a love like this, how could anything be too much to ask? It was, after all, only an artichoke, bred for the table.

Then she looked down at the artichoke. It shrunk back, tensed to spring, as if daring her to make a move, and she felt an upsurge of sympathy for the plucky little vegetable. Nothing in her upbringing, either among kindly, sensitive, nature-loving, RSPB-member muggles or the wholesome steak-and-kidney pie based Hogwarts menu, had prepared her for this, and she just did not know how she could go through with it. She swallowed, hard, feeling her gorge rising.

Groaning aloud, and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, Professor Snape threw both his hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture of exasperation - a gesture that would have been much more effective had one of the heavy, trailing sleeves of his evening robe not caught on one of the ornamental protrusions of his wine goblet, upsetting it onto the snowy tablecloth.

Snape had been drinking so heavily throughout the meal that a normal, Muggle goblet would have had nothing in the bottom, and the mess would have been minimal. But this was a Self-Fulfilling Goblet, which filled itself as it emptied. Malfoy let out a moan of anguish as great purples gouts of wine from his precious cellar pumped out uselessly onto the tablecloth. He reached over to make a grab for the goblet, overturning his own in the process, and also dislodging the sturdy wire cover on the platter of the second-helping artichokes in the centre of the table. Spooked by the sudden motion, the creatures awoke into gibbering life, and shot off in all directions, bouncing off the walls.

Frantically dabbing at the mess with her napkin, Pansy grabbed the bell and rang it till the clapper flew off and hit Blaise Zabini between the eyes.

"Elves!" she shrieked, in a voice that would have done credit to Bellatrix Lestrange. "Elves! Stop them! They’re getting away!"

A little squad of them came trotting in at her command, armed with butterfly nets, sacks and croquet mallets. With military precision, they spread out and tried to corral the escaped artichokes, which, having tasted freedom, showed no signs of wishing to relinquish it. The house-elves seemed perfectly competent to deal with the emergency, but unfortunately the guests were not, milling about and getting in the way. Zabini was clutching his forehead and whimpering, tripping over elves and getting in their way; Malfoy bemoaning the state of his wine cellar and kicking out at any artichoke that came his way; Snape was wringing wine from his wet robes, and Pansy was yelling out contradictory instructions to the harassed house elves. Crabbe was at least doing his best to help, attempting to take a net off one of the elves, who was clinging to the net and protesting: "Oh no, Mr Crabbe, sir, please no! Gubby will do it! This is elves’ work!"

On her plate, Hermione’s artichoke glared up at her, and gave a little shiver. Quick as thought, she palmed her wand, cast a Silencing Charm on the creature, wrapped it in a discarded napkin and thrust the small, struggling bundle into her embroidered evening bag. Then with the razor-sharp reflexes of a curse-breaker who had battled a thousand horrors in pyramids and tombs all over Africa, she immobilised all the remaining artichokes with a series of perfectly aimed Impedimenta jinxes, and Banished them neatly into the house-elves’ waiting sack.

The room fell silent.

"I’m so sorry, Pansy," she said. "I really couldn’t face a whole artichoke to myself right now, not after all that delicious food. But perhaps a cup of coffee?"

***

Once the artichokes had been dispatched, the meal seemed to have run its course. Elves scurried here and there, casting cleansing charms, righting overturned chairs, removing the dirty tableware, spreading a new, clean white tablecloth and mopping up a furious Professor Snape. As a final pair of house-elves came trotting in with a decanter of port and a fancy ivory humidor, Pansy rose to her feet with a swish of expensive velvet and lace. Hermione, recognising the signal to withdraw and leave the men to their port and cigars, got to her feet, picked up her now stained and twitching evening bag and followed Pansy into an elegant gilt-and-white drawing room, full of elegant, spindly chairs. As in the dining room, all the portrait canvasses were blank, though Hermione thought she might have seen the last few inches of a train whisk huffily away into a frame as she walked through the door.

Pansy perched on a delicate chair, and Hermione, rather gingerly, did the same. Against all appearances, the chair was strong enough to bear her weight, but she could feel whorls and protrusions digging into the tense muscles of her back.

Pansy gave her a huge, strained smile.

"Well! Isn’t this nice!" she said, skin taut around the cheeks. "Now we can have a lovely chat, just the two of us!"

Hermione looked at her tense, weary face, and managed to summon up a smile. "Lovely."

Casting desperately around for a neutral subject of conversation, Pansy caught sight of a silver salver of rum truffles next to the gilt coffee pot.

"You must try one of these, Hermione!" she said. "They’re called truffles - if you like chocolate, this will be a new experience for you. I bet you’ve never had a chance to try them with the mu- at home."

"Oh but I have," said Hermione. "I’m very fond of truffles - my parents send them to me by mail order. She caught sight of Pansy’s stricken expression. "But don’t worry. You’ve been so nice to me - no-one will ever hear from me that Muggles eat rum truffles!"

Pansy sagged with relief. For the first time, the two women exchanged a genuine smile.

Once Hermione and Pansy had established common ground, they spent a relatively happy ten minutes discussing various Muggle innovations in confectionery. Pansy Summoned an elegant white tablet, and took copious notes, while Hermione Transfigured the sweets into all the forms of upmarket Muggle chocolate she could remember. In the middle of a heated debate about whether violet creams were either possible or desirable, they heard shuffling footsteps outside, followed by a little sigh, and a tap at the door.

"Pansy, dear!" Pansy sat up with a guilty start, shoving her notebook under a tasselled cushion. "Have you seen my embroidery silk, darling? My special platinum twist, for the unicorn’s horn? I can’t find it…"

Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Coming, Narcissa," she said, and left.

She was back in five minutes, and sat down, smiling, in the chair she had vacated.

"Now, where were we?"

Suddenly, neither of them could think of anything to say. When Narcissa came back, hovering on the far side of the door and demanding that Pansy help find smelling salts for her Winged Pekingese which had had one of its funny turns, it was almost a relief. This time, Pansy was gone a long time.

***

After fifteen minutes, Hermione decided enough was enough. She found Pansy’s note tablets under the chair, ripped out a page wrote a note thanking Pansy for her hospitality, and explaining that she had just received a message on her mobile phone calling her urgently back home (the mere mention of Muggle technology should, she thought, effectively prevent any follow-up questions). This she left propped up against a delicate little china shepherdess on the mantelpiece. She picked up her ruined evening bag, the Animated Artichoke still scrabbling about inside, and made her escape. She knew she had drunk too much to Apparate safely, but there was always Floo. She had been told that in great houses of this age and antiquity, the Floo-enabled fireplace was usually in a small anteroom just off the main entrance, and after her time in the labyrinths of the pyramids, finding the entrance hall was child’s play. As she was walking towards the exit, she was almost bowled over by a running house-elf.

"Er… excuse me…" Hermione began.

The elf slowed down, but did not stop.

"Tisha cannot stop! Tisha is running on her errands, and Tisha is not being supposed to talk to Muggles - oh! - silly, silly Tisha - too late! Bad Tisha! Horrid Tisha!" The elf dashed off, viciously twisting her own ears and pinching herself.

Hermione gave an offended sniff, paused and sniffed again. Yes, there it was - the unmistakable, sulphurous aroma of Floo powder. It seemed to be coming from a small door to the left of the main entrance. Dim light was seeping from the barely-open door, and as she got closer she heard a man talking behind the door - snatches of a muttered monologue in a voice that was strangely familiar but with an odd slurred and echoey quality she could not quite place.

"Bloody awful people," said the voice, superficially cultured but with the underlying Yorkshire starting to show through. "Better to be alone… Cauldron m’only friend… subtle simmering friend… And then her too… Never would’ve thought it… Never. Not in a million years… Brightest girl in her year…. brave, gifted, pretty…that lummox Rodway… jumped-up streak of nowt… Turning herself into a clothes-horse. Bloody unbelievable…"

Hermione pushed open the door and went in.

Sure enough, there was an open fire burning merrily, ideal for Floo travel. The shards of an onyx container were lying on the hearthstones, and there was a trail of spoiled Floo powder staining the panda-skin hearthrug. And there in a dark corner, as far away from the firelight and candles as possible, sat Professor Snape, white and sweaty, doubled up over a large urn in priceless blue and white Japanese porcelain, which he held clutched between his knees. He looked up sharply as she came in, and shot her a most unfriendly look.

"Oh how lovely," he said nastily. "Look who’s here. The blushing bride."

"Good evening, Professor Snape," she replied in her politest voice.

"Don’t mind me - I was just looking for a Floo-enabled fireplace."

"Oh, but you mustn’t go," he said. "Not when we’re all having so much fun… and how d’you like hobnobbing with the purebloods then? Are we suave? Are we grand? Does it set your funny little mudblood heart beating faster?"

"Excuse me, professor," said Hermione brightly, ignoring the racial slur in the interests of a quick getaway. "I need to go now. I’ve had such a lovely evening, but I’m needed elsewhere..."

"’Course you’ve had a lovely evening," he said with a leer. "Such fun, who could resist? Stay a little longer, why don’t you? Talk to your dear old ex-professor. Pretend you like me. Make small talk about Tibet. Try out your lines for next time you have to coax that toxic little shit Malfoy into giving you a smile. Pretend you’re looking forward to being sneered at by those chinless wonders out there for the rest of your life."

"Professor, what in the world - "

"You can’t do it," he said. "You know you can’t. God help you, idiot girl, you can’t even see an artichoke in distress without wanting to save it! These people were brought up to be Death Eaters, Hermione. Their parents used to torture Muggles for fun - and so would most of this lot if they had the nerve -"

He broke off as Tisha the house-elf, now rather red about the ears, came dashing in, a box of Floo powder in her hands.

"Tisha has brought Professor Snape his Flooing powder!" she announced. "And this time Tisha is going to stand here and watch very, very carefully so Professor Snape is safe."

At the mention of travel by Floo, Snape’s face went from white to green, and he jackknifed over his urn again. With his free hand, he waved Hermione in the direction of the fireplace. She hesitated, not quite liking to abandon anyone so obviously unwell.

"Oh, just go," he said between dry heaves. "Bugger off… while you’ve got the chance… and take your bloody stupid vegetable with you."

Hermione took a handful of the coarse powder, and threw it into the flames.

"Goodbye, Professor Snape," she said, as the green flames rose up in the grate. "I’m sure Tibet won’t be as bad as you think. The Leaky Cauldron!"

***

Hermione’s original plan had been to take the Knight Bus back to Bicester. But when she reached the Leaky Cauldron, she felt a sudden, strong urge to be by herself for a while. After all, if her mother and father asked her: "How was your evening, darling?" what could she possibly say?

Tucked up in a warm bed in the Leaky Cauldron, dress robes Transfigured into soft flannel pyjamas, a warming pan at her feet, a generous mug of the Leaky Cauldron’s special Chocolat Digestif in her hands and the artichoke paddling around happily in a saucer of olive oil on the dresser, Hermione considered her evening with the Malfoys.

She wondered queasily if this evening’s display was a foreshadowing of her own future. Was Pansy’s the fate of every pureblood bride? - to devote her life to acting the perfect hostess, pandering to the whims of a spoiled husband, his dullard or sycophantic friends and his senile relations? More worryingly, was this what Geraint was expecting of her?

She thought about Geraint, and sighed. She remembered their first meeting, chuckling wryly at the memory of the party where they had first met: his cocksure arrogance and her own shrill insecurity. How long ago that seemed! She thought of their days in the pyramids, so frightening at the time, but so delightful to her now: Geraint steadfast against her back as they fought for their lives, battling the ghosts of long-dead jackals in the burial chamber of an empress; Geraint’s smile, dizzy with relief as she levitated gently out of a pit of spikes and cobras, unscratched; Geraint in the dusty darkness of a tomb, far from help, burning up with fever and calling her name… She remembered passionate quarrels that had enraged them both beyond reason, but which they had not been able to let alone until the day when, driven by some force beyond their control, they tumbled into each other’s arms. She remembered sauntering arm in arm through the Wizards’ bazaar at Luxor, haggling for goods, tasting heavily spiced, aromatic delicacies from stalls by the side of the road, and laughing with a carefree abandon she had not felt since she came to Hogwarts and befriended the boy whose destiny was to save the Wizarding world. She remembered Geraint’s strong arms around her, and the thrill as his lips met hers.

And yet something had changed. Other words were intruding on her thoughts: "lummox… jumped-up nowt… bloody unbelievable". Could it be, she asked herself in disbelief, that she was proposing to marry a stupid man? In her own way, Hermione was as much a snob as Narcissa Malfoy, and the thought of a lifetime bond with a man of even just average intelligence appalled her. For the first time she realised, with mounting horror, that she had never seen a book in Geraint’s living quarters.

No, she told herself. She was being ridiculous. Her fears were groundless - night-time fancies brought on by that ridiculous Pureblood diet rather than rational concerns. Geraint was every bit as clever as she was - just not bookish, that was all. He was warm, tender, witty and considerate. And he loved and respected her for what she was, not because of her bloodlines or her name. He knew she was no Pansy, and he would never try to make her into one… surely?

Nonetheless, it was clear that they had a lot of ground to cover before they really knew each other properly. When she got back to Nubia, they were going to have to have a serious talk.

Hermione realised that, for the first time since she had fallen in love with Geraint, she was not looking forward to their next meeting.

She blew out the candle and burrowed under the covers, trying to get some rest. Lying in the dark, mulling over her evening and waiting for sleep to come, she found herself wondering idly if Professor Snape had made it home safely.

"I hope he bloody well splinches," she muttered crossly into her pillow.

It was going to be a long night.

Comments

[lareinenoire.livejournal.com]

Oooh, Snape you nasty bugger! Well, I suppose he's entitled, given his current situation. And oh dear, Hermione has doubts...

Loved the scene between Pansy and Hermione with chocolates. Mmm, truffles.

And the runaway artichokes! Nod to Alice in Wonderland there.

As for a title, I absolutely love 'House of Flying Artichokes', but I'm not sure if that quite covers the insanity of that dinner, so I think I may have to go with 'Supper With Snakes'.

[dolorous-ett.livejournal.com]

Oooh, Snape you nasty bugger!

Ah, good, that means I've got him pitched at about the right level. One of the hardest parts about finishing was writing that scene: he was being most uncooperative, mean-spirited old devil that he is.

And the runaway artichokes! Nod to Alice in Wonderland there.

I'd no idea! I haven't read Alice in Wonderland since I was about 12! What happened? And am I going to have to credit Lewis Carrol now?

[a-t-rain.livejournal.com]

I love the artichoke paddling around happily in its saucer of olive oil. What a wonderful image!

Poor Snape! (I must confess to having a completely absurd, depraved soft spot for Snape / Hermione despite the fact that I ought to know better, so I can't help hoping he turns out to be right about Geraint...)

[dolorous-ett.livejournal.com]

I love the artichoke paddling around happily in its saucer of olive oil. What a wonderful image!

Glad you liked it. There was a point in the early stages of this fic when I thought Hermione was really going to have to scragg the Artichoke - this is my treat to myself for managing to contrive a semi-plausible escape for the plucky little vegetable.

Poor Snape! (I must confess to having a completely absurd, depraved soft spot for Snape / Hermione despite the fact that I ought to know better, so I can't help hoping he turns out to be right about Geraint...)

I've got a soft spot for this pairing too - provided it's done well, naturally, because there are some sick, sick puppies out there. Not that Snape is going to get a willing and grateful Hermione tumbling into his arms any time soon, not after his performance in the Floo room.(Stan Shunpike, anyone?)

Is Snape right about Geraint? I wasn't sure when I started writing this, but by the time I'd finished I knew for sure - Snape is right about Geraint. In every particular (with the exception of active Death Eating). He's a classic well-scrubbed public school boy, straight out of Central Casting, with rude good health and lovely manners. And a real affection for Hermione. And that's all he is.

Of course, it's completely overwhelming when someone light years out of your league socially falls in love with you - so I don't blame Hermione for being overcome. It certainly affected her judgement.

And now she's got all the information she needs to decide if what Geraint can give her is really enough for her.

Could go either way, couldn't it?

[catkind.livejournal.com]

Hi - you don't know me, I just wanted to say I love the artichokes. Yorkshire Snape has a strange plausibility too. And three cheers for Crabbe and his owls! I've always wondered how violet creams are possible - desirable IMHO they ain't.

If random lurkers are allowed to vote, I like the House of Flying Artichokes title better. Snakes is clever, but Flying Artichokes are zanier. (Or why not just use some variant on the pureblood dinner party from hell as the title?)

catkind

[dolorous-ett.livejournal.com]

Very pleased to hear from you, Catkind - I'm really grateful for any comments. I love compliments, but also crave suggestions on how to improve, so feel free at any point!

I may not know you, but I think I've heard of you. Or at least your name seems familiar... May I ask how you found your way here? It's a pretty out-of-the way backwater.

Yorkshire Snape has a strange plausibility too.

There is actually a small village called Snape quite close to where I used to live in North Yorkshire, which is what gave me the idea.

And three cheers for Crabbe and his owls!

Glad you like them - I'm a sucker for owls. Looks like he's making up for his complete silence in canon at last...

I've always wondered how violet creams are possible - desirable IMHO they ain't.

Yes, but perhaps Pansy would like them, as being flowery, and such a pretty, girly colour.

Thanks for your comments on the name... I'm still mulling this one over. "House of Flying Artichokes" is eye-catching (and I'm not a Big Name, so that's important), but "Supper with Snakes" is more representative of what's actually in the fic. Still, there's no great urgency - I still have a Final Edit to do before this goes off to Fiction Alley and it the question becomes pressing.

Again, thanks for the review!

[catkind.livejournal.com]

There is actually a small village called Snape quite close to where I used to live in North Yorkshire, which is what gave me the idea.

Oh, neat! I hadn't picked up on that one.

I may not know you, but I think I've heard of you. Or at least your name seems familiar... May I ask how you found your way here? It's a pretty out-of-the way backwater.

Via a_t_rain and/or hannahmarder I think. They don't particularly know me either, I'm mostly a lurker, but you might have seen me commenting on one of their entries.

Um, any objections to being friended? I seriously haven't got the hang of the etiquette round here...

[dolorous-ett.livejournal.com]

Friend away! And I'll friend you back.

As to the ettiquette, I've no idea what it is - I've not been doing this for long - but am working on the principle that it's best to ask first. So far no-one has chased me away with harsh words or big sticks, so it seems to be working...

[anguis-1.livejournal.com]

When I first saw your artichoke post on FAP I knew I'd have to keep an eye on you, because your idea sounded too good to be missed. I couldn't be more pleased to be proved right. This is a wickedly funny fic--besides the rather bizarre situations, you have a knack for word choice and placement.
I prefer "House of Flying Artichokes" for a title (or something with artichokes in it, at least). Your title doesn't have to describe the entire fic, just tie in with it somehow.

[dolorous-ett.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your kind words! *blush* *simper*. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

If you can see anything that could use improvement, please let me know as well!

I prefer "House of Flying Artichokes" for a title (or something with artichokes in it, at least).

I think I'm going to go with this one - as it seems that there are a few people about who actually remember my FAP artichoke thread, your good self included, and it makes sense to capitalise on that. I must admit to being a bit surprised that anyone still remembers it - it's been a while since I mentioned that idea.

If you like my stories, I've got another one almost ready for its trial run here - this one was inspired by a brief and traumatic visit to HMS Wolfstar on FAP, and attempts to discuss the awful personal consequences of Lily reading way too much into a completely platonic friendship.