“Who
sacrificed the wrong goat to the Fashion Police? You are so going
to be my new project.”
Those
were the words that ended Severus Snape’s life. They undid
him as thoroughly as any Death Eater’s curse, any well intentioned
meddle by Dumbledore, and any foolhardy prank by that damnable Potter.
Just
because they came from the most beautiful woman’s mouth he
had ever seen didn’t change a thing.
So
Snape had gathered his entirely prickly wit and drew himself up
to his imposing-if-a-bit-grim height and hissed back, “I am
no one’s project, Madam.”
She
narrowed caramel colored eyes, planted distressingly aggressive
hands on her shapely hips and said just as stridently as any Quidditch
referee on game day, “Oh yes you are, Mister. You got dumped
on us by the Powers That Be. I get that. We live but to serve and
all that crap, but you are not walking around here like death warmed
over.”
She
jerked a thumb towards the leader of this merrily demented band
and said, “He’s the resident Broodmeister, and unless
you’ve got two hundred years of nun-eating atonement to work
through, you get a makeover.”
The
leader in question, a Vampire of all things, with the cosmically
bizarre name of Angel, just stifled a smirk that let Snape know
that this Broodmeister- what an appalling Americanism- was more
than pleased to have a new target for his seer’s energies.
Angel gave a Gallic shrug of his shoulders, handed that dreadful
woman a piece of brightly colored plastic, and chuckled.
“Have
fun, Cordelia. Just remember, he’s human, so don’t break
him.”
Snape
opened his mouth to protest- unsure of whether he was protesting
his upcoming treatment or if he wanted to be lumped into the category
of ‘human’ along with these miscreants- but was stifled
by a firm palm on his lips.
“Shut
it, Scarecrow. I will work with you. I will listen to your snarky
English ass bitch about all and sundry, like a good wizard, but
I will not do it while you’re wearing…” She waved
at him desultorily, “…that.”
“What’s
wrong with my robes? Black is perfectly serviceable, and perennially
in style.”
In
style? When did he care if he was in style or not? This was ridiculous,
this was not happening, this…
…Was
being dragged out into the nauseatingly bright California sunshine
by a firm hand on his elbow.
“I
beg your pardon! This is most inappropriate!”
“No
kidding. Black flowing wool, here, now? Where were you raised, Halloween-land?”
She
turned a flashing white smile his way. He blinked, from the white
of the smile or the sunshine he had no idea, and tried to talk again.
But
she was off and running once more.
“You
know, I think they’re having a sale at Macy’s but I
called ahead and Fernando can get you in this afternoon. I had to
promise to go to his comedy routine, so you had better behave. He’s
a wonder, and I know he can fix your hair issue.”
Hair
issue? What was wrong with his hair?
Apparently,
everything. First came Fernando, then Alicia, then a long, depressing
list of people that measured, poked, prodded, pinched, clipped,
tutted, sighed, and grumbled.
That
was just the beginning. Cordelia had begun her campaign of terror,
and was winning. Pronouncing that if he was going to work in the
City of Angels, he’d better dress like he belonged there.
It simply wouldn’t do for him to scare off the customers-
the paying customers, she’d emphasized- with his creepy aura.
He was helpless- unable to curse her, unable to flee. He was trapped.
She was persistent. Three months later, Snape looked around and
wondered who the man in the mirror was.
Then
he glanced over his shoulder to the woman standing at his side.
“You’re a horrible wrench, you know that. A harlot like
you would have been burned at the stake not that long ago.”
She
just glared at him, hands across her chest, unrepentant.
He
looked back at his reflection, and decided it wasn’t all bad.
He still looked like Severus Snape, bane of Potions students, but
there was something different. He didn’t think it was the
hair- carefully washed in a concoction that should never be legal-
or the better fitting clothes. He was still tall, thin, and hooked-
nosed. He was still dour and grouchy and a right ass.
But
the difference was standing behind him, a slow smile starting at
the corners of her lips.
Ah
yes, the difference. Bane of his existence. Someone who cared enough
about him to make him care about himself. What a novelty. What a
companion. What a new life she’d, they’d, given him:
a chance to start over.
So
he thought about it for a bit and came to a rather startling conclusion:
what’s a little haircut for the one you love?
~Fin~
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