Shadows at a Dinner Party
At the eager requests of litlover12 and msantimacassar, I bring forth a crossover fic about Sir Percy Blakeney meeting Severus Snape. I'm sorry it took so long to whip this up, ladies. I was afraid to start it for a long time, thinking I wouldn't be able to do the concept justice--then I decided to just get it over with, and rewrite it if I feel like it later on. Guess that is one of the beauties of writing. :)
Sir Percy squinted till his eyes looked as if they were closed, lips still lingering on the edge of the glass, savoring the delicate taste of the wine.
"Marguerite, my dear," he said, setting the half-full wine glass down on a sweet-laden table, "you must promise me to extract the name of the dealer from which Lady Broughton procures the goods to fill her wine cellar. You must do so by any means possible, Marguerite, or else I shall be forced to do so myself, though she doesn't particularly like me."
He looked round the lavishly decorated room, filled with even more lavishly decorated people, though, naturally, no man wore a waistcoat that presented such delightful color and design as Sir Percy did himself. He studied all the plumed headdresses in the room, searching for the canary yellow that made Lady Broughton look anything but dignified. But the hostess was eluding him--probably on purpose, too.
"I shall have to dispatch you to attack her, Marguerite," he said, turning to the side where his wife had been standing.
But Marguerite wasn't there.
"Sink me, but I am repellent to the ladies today!" Percy observed idly, wiping his monocle with a fresh lacy cuff. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of one person who did not seem properly attired for the celebration of excess. A sombre-looking fellow whose long, black garments made him all-but melt into the shadows past a dark, open doorway.
On second glance, Sir Percy decided the man looked more sour than sombre.
The man saw that Percy was looking at him, and stepped out of view further into the room.
"Now, now, my dear fellow, that simply will not do!" Percy strode with a light laugh straight into the murky room. "You come to a party, and then lurk on the outskirts, what? That seems like a waste of effort to me, my good sir."
The black-robed figure had turned his back to Sir Percy, but as Percy kept speaking to him, he turned around. His movements were stiff and reluctant, as if propriety was the only thing that was keeping him from melting into the shadows altogether. Sir Percy lifted his monocle to an eye to properly assess the total lack of color and humor in the specimen before him.
"No less of a wasted effort than your apparent care in readying yourself before a looking-glass," the gentleman replied. His voice was slow, deep, and resonant, almost the sound you would expect to come from an excessively refined bear upon waking from hibernation and finding everyone else had eaten all the cookies.
"Ah, true! Very true!" Sir Percy laughed even more lightly. "Though, you must admit, your choice of apparel does show some study, though I am not sure what the study is. Are you in mourning?"
The look that came into the man's eyes made Sir Percy want to bite his tongue and never speak again. In a moment, the look passed, and the gentleman said, "In your day and age, is it not a formal introduction required, especially in such a place as this? Your behavior is highly irregular, sir."
"Why be like unto others, when I can be like unto myself instead." Percy smiled. "Since you are highly irregular, I thought I would accommodate you."
"I believe you just contradicted yourself."
"Sometimes I tire of simply contradicting others," said Percy, smile widening. "But, I do believe self-introductions are in order now. My name is Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet. I am here to be trifling and useless, careless with what wit is still left to me. I make my tailors to tremble, my contemporaries to laugh, and my elders to sigh. Now that we've established my name and purpose, what shall we establish your name and purpose to be?"
"I am Severus Snape. Never mind what titles, real or imagined, to which I may lay claim--they matter not. What does matter is this: I am in search of a few samples of a plant--one Scarlet Pimpernel."
"Let me guess, Mr. Snape--you came here because you were sure the Scarlet Pimpernel would be talked about?" Percy's smile was growing so wide, he almost feared it would leave a crevice in his face.
"Yes," said Severus Snape, beginning to pace, "and since all the glittering magpies here seem preoccupied with a person rather than a plant, I was about to take my leave."
"My good man, all you had to do was come to me and ask, party or no," said Sir Percy amiably. "I can tell you that it is naught but a humble wayside flower--that is my pet description for it, you see. All you have to do is take a good, long walk through the country, and you're sure to cross paths with one sooner or later."
Severus Snape stopped mid-stride, lifting his eyebrows, his lack of amusement immeasurable. "That would work well--if I had an unending supply of time."
"Well, unfortunately, there is no way for me to part with mine, or else I would give it to you," said Sir Percy, half-bowing with apologetic grace. "I can, however, give you an idea of what it looks like."
With a sly little smile, he nodded at the pencil and paper half-concealed in Snape's left hand. Severus lit a match and grudgingly allowed him to make a quick scribble along one corner. Holding the still-burning match aloft, Severus took the paper from Sir Percy and studied it, eyebrows knotting together, then lifting once again.
"I would recommend a different choice of port," he said slowly, methodically, as if thinking out a difficult conundrum.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I have it on good authority that the port you plan to make, once you reach France, will not be a good choice at the date you specify," Severus Snape went on, his voice even and emotionless. It was as unwavering as the flame of the match, still burning just above his fingertips, and not moving even a hair.
Sir Percy stared at him, flawlessly masking his alarm beneath the careless confusion of the flippant side of his personality.
The corners of Snape's lips twitched slightly as he tapped the paper with his thumb. "This is your letter, I believe?" He rotated his wrist so that the paper faced Percy--and Percy saw there was not one sheet, but two, his own letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes overlaying his sketch of the pimpernel.
Unable to quell the reflex, his hand immediately flew to his breast pocket, where the letter had rested securely just moments before. It was empty.
Dropping his fool's facade without another thought, Percy stepped forward. "How did you do that, sir? Who are you, really?"
Severus seemed unconcerned by his change of demeanor. Instead of stepping back, as most did when confronted with six foot odd of a suddenly very imposing Englishman, he merely looked emphatically at the burning match. It was still burning, like a candle with an endless wick.
It was all Sir Percy could do to keep himself from taking a step back.
"You're lucky I didn't wrest all your secrets from you. I'm entirely capable of that, you know," said Severus, lips still twitching in spite of himself. "As for how I did it, it doesn't matter. Just like how you do everything you manage to do doesn't matter. You need not feel threatened; I have procured what I need, and have somewhat improved your demeanor in the process. I will depart. Run along, now . . . sir."
Sir Percy felt vaguely like a schoolboy being shooed out of a lesson. He blinked slowly, summoning another witty retort.
But the man in black was no longer there.
"I . . . think I'll give that wine a rest for a while," Percy mused to himself, spotting Marguerite waving to him several feet outside the door. He was about to dismiss the entire conversation as nothing at all and walk out of the room . . . and then, by what little light seeped in from the party outside, he saw the curl of smoke rising from the snuffed-out match lying by his foot. By his other foot lay his letter to Sir Andrew.
Sir Percy squinted till his eyes looked as if they were closed, lips still lingering on the edge of the glass, savoring the delicate taste of the wine.
"Marguerite, my dear," he said, setting the half-full wine glass down on a sweet-laden table, "you must promise me to extract the name of the dealer from which Lady Broughton procures the goods to fill her wine cellar. You must do so by any means possible, Marguerite, or else I shall be forced to do so myself, though she doesn't particularly like me."
He looked round the lavishly decorated room, filled with even more lavishly decorated people, though, naturally, no man wore a waistcoat that presented such delightful color and design as Sir Percy did himself. He studied all the plumed headdresses in the room, searching for the canary yellow that made Lady Broughton look anything but dignified. But the hostess was eluding him--probably on purpose, too.
"I shall have to dispatch you to attack her, Marguerite," he said, turning to the side where his wife had been standing.
But Marguerite wasn't there.
"Sink me, but I am repellent to the ladies today!" Percy observed idly, wiping his monocle with a fresh lacy cuff. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of one person who did not seem properly attired for the celebration of excess. A sombre-looking fellow whose long, black garments made him all-but melt into the shadows past a dark, open doorway.
On second glance, Sir Percy decided the man looked more sour than sombre.
The man saw that Percy was looking at him, and stepped out of view further into the room.
"Now, now, my dear fellow, that simply will not do!" Percy strode with a light laugh straight into the murky room. "You come to a party, and then lurk on the outskirts, what? That seems like a waste of effort to me, my good sir."
The black-robed figure had turned his back to Sir Percy, but as Percy kept speaking to him, he turned around. His movements were stiff and reluctant, as if propriety was the only thing that was keeping him from melting into the shadows altogether. Sir Percy lifted his monocle to an eye to properly assess the total lack of color and humor in the specimen before him.
"No less of a wasted effort than your apparent care in readying yourself before a looking-glass," the gentleman replied. His voice was slow, deep, and resonant, almost the sound you would expect to come from an excessively refined bear upon waking from hibernation and finding everyone else had eaten all the cookies.
"Ah, true! Very true!" Sir Percy laughed even more lightly. "Though, you must admit, your choice of apparel does show some study, though I am not sure what the study is. Are you in mourning?"
The look that came into the man's eyes made Sir Percy want to bite his tongue and never speak again. In a moment, the look passed, and the gentleman said, "In your day and age, is it not a formal introduction required, especially in such a place as this? Your behavior is highly irregular, sir."
"Why be like unto others, when I can be like unto myself instead." Percy smiled. "Since you are highly irregular, I thought I would accommodate you."
"I believe you just contradicted yourself."
"Sometimes I tire of simply contradicting others," said Percy, smile widening. "But, I do believe self-introductions are in order now. My name is Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet. I am here to be trifling and useless, careless with what wit is still left to me. I make my tailors to tremble, my contemporaries to laugh, and my elders to sigh. Now that we've established my name and purpose, what shall we establish your name and purpose to be?"
"I am Severus Snape. Never mind what titles, real or imagined, to which I may lay claim--they matter not. What does matter is this: I am in search of a few samples of a plant--one Scarlet Pimpernel."
"Let me guess, Mr. Snape--you came here because you were sure the Scarlet Pimpernel would be talked about?" Percy's smile was growing so wide, he almost feared it would leave a crevice in his face.
"Yes," said Severus Snape, beginning to pace, "and since all the glittering magpies here seem preoccupied with a person rather than a plant, I was about to take my leave."
"My good man, all you had to do was come to me and ask, party or no," said Sir Percy amiably. "I can tell you that it is naught but a humble wayside flower--that is my pet description for it, you see. All you have to do is take a good, long walk through the country, and you're sure to cross paths with one sooner or later."
Severus Snape stopped mid-stride, lifting his eyebrows, his lack of amusement immeasurable. "That would work well--if I had an unending supply of time."
"Well, unfortunately, there is no way for me to part with mine, or else I would give it to you," said Sir Percy, half-bowing with apologetic grace. "I can, however, give you an idea of what it looks like."
With a sly little smile, he nodded at the pencil and paper half-concealed in Snape's left hand. Severus lit a match and grudgingly allowed him to make a quick scribble along one corner. Holding the still-burning match aloft, Severus took the paper from Sir Percy and studied it, eyebrows knotting together, then lifting once again.
"I would recommend a different choice of port," he said slowly, methodically, as if thinking out a difficult conundrum.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I have it on good authority that the port you plan to make, once you reach France, will not be a good choice at the date you specify," Severus Snape went on, his voice even and emotionless. It was as unwavering as the flame of the match, still burning just above his fingertips, and not moving even a hair.
Sir Percy stared at him, flawlessly masking his alarm beneath the careless confusion of the flippant side of his personality.
The corners of Snape's lips twitched slightly as he tapped the paper with his thumb. "This is your letter, I believe?" He rotated his wrist so that the paper faced Percy--and Percy saw there was not one sheet, but two, his own letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes overlaying his sketch of the pimpernel.
Unable to quell the reflex, his hand immediately flew to his breast pocket, where the letter had rested securely just moments before. It was empty.
Dropping his fool's facade without another thought, Percy stepped forward. "How did you do that, sir? Who are you, really?"
Severus seemed unconcerned by his change of demeanor. Instead of stepping back, as most did when confronted with six foot odd of a suddenly very imposing Englishman, he merely looked emphatically at the burning match. It was still burning, like a candle with an endless wick.
It was all Sir Percy could do to keep himself from taking a step back.
"You're lucky I didn't wrest all your secrets from you. I'm entirely capable of that, you know," said Severus, lips still twitching in spite of himself. "As for how I did it, it doesn't matter. Just like how you do everything you manage to do doesn't matter. You need not feel threatened; I have procured what I need, and have somewhat improved your demeanor in the process. I will depart. Run along, now . . . sir."
Sir Percy felt vaguely like a schoolboy being shooed out of a lesson. He blinked slowly, summoning another witty retort.
But the man in black was no longer there.
"I . . . think I'll give that wine a rest for a while," Percy mused to himself, spotting Marguerite waving to him several feet outside the door. He was about to dismiss the entire conversation as nothing at all and walk out of the room . . . and then, by what little light seeped in from the party outside, he saw the curl of smoke rising from the snuffed-out match lying by his foot. By his other foot lay his letter to Sir Andrew.