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The promised storm finally came that afternoon, the sky opening up just after midday, showering warm rain over the quiet town. Severus lounged in the little downstairs bedroom that served as his study, leafing through a herbology journal and breathing in the lush, green scent of summer. The cat, vexed by the presence of water on the other side of the window, had taken shelter at his feet.
On paper, it was the perfect Tuesday afternoon. In practice, he was quite prepared to kill someone.
"Ahem!"
He gritted his teeth as he lost his place for the umpteenth time; not even the loud patter of the rain was able to drown out a theatrical clearing of the throat from the other side of the wall.
It was certainly no defence against Horace Slughorn's booming voice. "Bunjoor, monsewer! Oo eset mah ploom?"
Severus clamped his jaw shut.
"Pardon, Madam, avay vouse de l'eoh? Jay le gull de bwah."
It was the last straw. He dropped the journal and leapt to his feet, sending the cat streaking out from under the desk. He stomped to the door, yanked it open, and glared out into the sitting room. "Guele! Eu-eu-eu-eu-eu. I know very well you can make that bloody sound."
Horace looked up from his phrasebook with affected surprise. "There you are, m'boy! I thought you must have gone out—I said to myself, 'The house is far too quiet, Severus must have gone to town'—but now that you're here, sit down and tell me what you think about the menu for Sunday's soirée. Chicken or fish? Or do you think it might be cool enough for a sausage dish?"
In the back of his mind, he heard the faint snap of a mousetrap.
He glowered, but Horace did not break, regarding him with polite expectation.
"...who's coming?" He sidled reluctantly into the room, arms crossed.
Horace steepled his hands over his stomach. "Mme. Morel from the bank—you remember her, she owns that lovely parcel of land by the church—and her husband, Émile. He's a trifle dull, but I've heard he has a library to rival Ptolemy's."
"You should invite that drea—ah, charming couple with the vineyard and that son you were panting over last time." He perched at the edge of the couch and plucked a sugared plum from the candy dish, chewing morosely.
"The Brunos? Oh, no, we couldn't possibly have a full-fledged supper party on a Sunday. Besides, if we have a crowd, I seem to think you'll get a headache and go hiding in your study, and I'd hate to see you poorly."
Severus felt his eye twitch. Despite all empirical data to the contrary, Horace still entertained the notion that he could be made sociable. "I'm poisoning your soup."
Horace smiled beatifically. "Fair warning. What do you think for afters on Sunday: pastries or a gateau?"
"Hmph. Gateau."
"Gateau it is. See?" Horace rose to his feet, always a spectacle, and managed to herd him off the couch, steering him to the foot of the stairs with a firm hand on his hip. "What would I do without you?"
The rest of that rainy afternoon was passed upstairs.