About A Potions Master

Chapter 2

By Pigwidgeon37

Hogwarts usually was a quiet place during the summer holidays. Contrary to what many students believed, their teachers did leave the castle—most of them not for the whole two months, but everybody had their time away. Albus Dumbledore had found out, during the decennials of being first a faculty member and then the headmaster, that to observe his staff’s holiday preferences was a good way to neatly separate them into two main categories: the methodical and the more-or-less-chaotic ones. The first species remained at school for about two weeks after the students had left. They reordered their books—Dumbledore quite enjoyed lingering near the library during the first two days of the summer vacation, watching as they entered, loaded with books, an expression of carefully affected aloofness on their faces, to leave somewhat cowed after having received a nice tongue-lashing by Madam Pince—they sketched first drafts of lesson plans for the next school year and tidied up their offices. The second species got on their broomsticks or Disapparated as soon as the last wisp of smoke of the Hogwarts Express had vanished behind the hills. When they came back, usually a week before the start of fall term, they had difficulties readjusting, conceded themselves two or three more days of acclimatization, thus losing precious time. During the last days before the beginning of school, they could be seen whizzing around in a flurry of activity, snapping at whomever dared to address them, and always arriving late at staff meetings.

This year, everything was different. Everybody had returned by 10 August, because they all wanted to be present at the Potions Master Auction that was to take place two days later.

Dumbledore had practically jumped at the occasion when Severus Snape had brought up the topic. Hogwarts had been the battlefield of the last and decisive encounter with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and the Headmaster wanted the name of his beloved school to be connected with more than death, horror and desperate victory. It was a place for young people, for fun and laughter and erudition. The auction was the ideal means of emphasizing this.

He was very fond of Snape and had appreciated the man’s visible struggle to get over his past and face the future. His active participation in the project was another good sign, thought Dumbledore. One more reason to host the event.

“Albus, you’re looking unbelievably smug!”

Dumbledore, standing in the centre of the Great Hall, turned round and smiled at Snape. “I think I have every right to look smug, Severus. This result of our joined endeavours was well worth having our meals in the staff room, don’t you think so?”

Snape smiled back and cast an appreciative look around. All the tables, House and High, had been removed. In the place of the High Table, a makeshift dais had been erected. It ran along the whole length of the Hall’s back wall and was about three feet high and thirty feet deep. It was completely covered by a black, velvety rug that bore the crests of the four houses. Along its edges ran a drapery, also black, adorned by yellow, green, red and blue polka dots.

Snape snorted. “Albus,” he said, “don’t you think that the… er, pattern is somewhat—” he searched for the right word “—incongruous?”

Dumbledore shot him a long-suffering look. “You are the tenth person who tells me so. Well then—” he drew his wand “—I bow to majority. Is this better?”

“I think,” Snape said carefully, “that it makes little difference whether there are smiling stars or polka dots. From a little farther away, they look the same. Wouldn’t black be the best option?”

“I’m always the best option,” came a voice from behind them. “But it’s so good to hear you say so, Potions Blaster!”

Snape closed his eyes, praying for patience. “We were discussing the drapery, Mr. Offence-Against-The-Dark-Arts. And in this single case, I’d honestly prefer black.”

When Dumbledore and Black started a Who-Can-Produce-The-Most-Tasteless-Design contest, roaring with laughter, Snape distanced himself from them by a few yards and continued his inspection of the Great Hall. The marble-topped, round tables and chairs—all of different shape, but all gilt with black upholstery in case they had any—that were scattered all over it gave the space a certain cosiness in spite of its enormous dimensions. On each table stood a small cauldron holding a golden candle, and, propped against it, a card instructing the guests about how to place their orders. Glancing upwards, he saw—much to his amused bewilderment—that the habitual floating candles had been replaced by thousands of tiny crystal cauldrons. They contained blue, yellow, green or red oil that would be lit by a flick of Dumbledore’s wand when the first guests arrived.

He had already controlled the guest rooms. Everything was in perfect order, according to the guests’ wishes. Snape felt satisfied. A glance at his pocket watch told him that his colleagues would arrive any minute. Leaving Black and Dumbledore to their own devices, he strode out of the Great Hall and towards the entrance door to meet the world’s most illustrious Potions Masters.

**°°**°°**

Hermione was, to say the least, miffed. One might also say that she was boiling with frustrated fury. Why, oh why had she complied to her parents’ wish that she participate at her aunt Abigail’s birthday party? Even though ‘party’ was certainly the wrong word. Gathering, more like it. Or what did you call ten mummies sitting around a table? Gerontosymposion? This made her chuckle and lightened her mood a bit. This and the fact that she had just closed the door of her very own flat behind her.

Was there anything better than to come home, to your very own cosy nest, where a big ginger cat was already waiting for you, purring and nudging your shins with his head?

“Hallo, big boy,” she said, picking him up and stepping out of her shoes contemporaneously. “Let's put some nice cat hair on this disgusting dress! So I’ll at least look like a sofa with cat hair on it. And now let’s have tea.”

At age twenty-one, Hermione had achieved quite a lot. Barely graduated from Hogwarts, while the war against Voldemort had still been raging, the Ministry had offered her and some other first-rate students the unique possibility of working together with Ministry employees, thus being trained in the practical aspects of their chosen field. This was completed by a few selected courses at the university. After two years of this combined work-and-study experience, they were to get their university degree, just as if they had completed a normal course of studies. Hermione had, of course, done more. Not only had she taken almost the amount of courses regular students did, she had also written a thesis. Not just any thesis, though. Combining the fields of Charms, Potions and Arithmancy, she had produced a thousand feet of parchment that had left the examiners breathless. The commission had unanimously decided to award her two degrees, in Potions and Charms. The thesis had been published and sold rather well. As the Ministry’s offer had also included the obligation to remain on their staff for at least five years after getting the degree, Hermione was now working at the Research Department and generally having a good time. The payment was more than decent, the royalties of her book rounded it up nicely, so that she had been able to buy this small but comfortable flat in the wizarding part of Canterbury. She loved it here, and as she had gotten her Apparition license first thing on her eighteenth birthday, it didn't really matter where she lived.

She prepared tea—real tea, not the dishwash she had been forced to accept at Aunt Abigail's—and some sandwiches that actually tasted of something. Crookshanks got a bowl of tuna laced with a bit of cream. They were eating in companionable silence, enjoying each other’s silence—or at least that was what Hermione enjoyed—when an owl swooshed in through the open window.

Crookshanks gave the bird an irritated stare. When it tentatively approached his bowl, though, he started spitting and hissing.

“Come on,” Hermione said, laughing, and offered the owl her forearm to perch on. “I think we’d better go into the kitchen,” she told it, “You don’t know what Crookshanks is capable of if you mess around with his food.”

She put some raw meat on a small plate and filled a mug with water. While the owl, obviously delighted at her hospitality, dug into the food, she untied the letter it had been carrying from its leg. It bore the Hogwarts crest.

“Now what…” she muttered, frowning. “They can't be offering me a job, can they? I mean Dumbledore knows…”

She unrolled the parchment and read:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy

And

The World Association of Potions Masters

have the honour of inviting

Miss Hermione Granger

to the

First Potions Masters Bachelor Auction,

to be held at Hogwarts on Wednesday 12 August, at 8 p.m.

Dress Robes                                                                                      R.S.V.P.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she read again. And then once more. The words remained the same. She examined the seal. It was, without doubt, genuine. Otherwise she would have categorized the missive under Fred-And-George’s-More-Elaborate-Hoaxes. But not even the twins could fake the Hogwarts seal. Instead of in the aforementioned category, the invitation landed in the dustbin. The owl glared at her and gave a slightly annoyed hoot.

“No,” Hermione said firmly, “I’m not even going to answer. No need to wait.”

The bird shook its feathers indignantly, took off and vanished through the kitchen window.

“Now really,” Hermione said to herself, still shaking her head, “Who on earth would want to buy a Potions Master?”

**°°**°°**

“You don’t have to buy anybody,” Ginny said defiantly. “You can just sit there and watch the others, it’s fun!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Forgive me if I differ, but to watch people clad in dress robes spend loads of money isn't my idea of fun.”

“The problem, dear friend, is that you don't have an idea of fun.” Hermione merely glared at her. “Don’t give me this look, you should know by now that it’s useless. When was the last time you went out?”

“Went out, went out! I’m not the type who goes out, is it so impossible to get that into that red head of yours?”

“Yes,” Ginny said simply. “Hermione, I’m your friend, and I don't want you to turn into a hermit. It's all well and fine now, because we're all young and don't have children. But things won't remain like this forever. I won't love you less once I’ll have children, but I won't have the time to come here and drag you out of your lair. The same goes for Ron and most of the others. You’ll feel neglected and abandoned, and you’ll hate us for it.”

“And going to the auction is, of course, going to change all this.”

When Ginny Potter became angry, even the Boy Who Lived wished he had watched his words—it was clearly a trait inherited from her mother. Hermione flinched slightly when she saw her friend’s hackles rise. “Nothing will change your life, Hermione Granger,” she spat, “unless you understand that you have to change it yourself. And you will have to start sooner or later. The sooner, the better, if you ask me. All you have is your work and a few friends who might even grow tired of constantly running after you. We love you, Hermione, we truly do, but believe me, you’re making it a hard job.”

Hermione felt the tears creep up her throat. She had always known that she was difficult to be friends with. But no-one had ever made it that clear. Moreover, Ginny was right.

Seeing her friend's eyes become very bright all of a sudden, Ginny rose from her chair, went over to her and crouched down, looking up at Hermione's face. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “Not about what I said, but about the way I said it. I didn’t mean to offend you. Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter with you, hm?”

Now the tears were running freely. “I… I guess it's just… I’m just so bloody insecure,” Hermione blurted out. “It’s so difficult… When I work or study, I know that nothing will happen to me. Books can’t hurt you—”

“Except if written by one Tom Riddle,” Ginny remarked dryly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… You see?” she wailed, “That's exactly what I mean! I’m a tactless idiot! How could I say that to you?”

“Oh, come on!” Ginny said, laughing, “You didn’t hurt me! I’ve long gotten over that. But the sad truth is that you, Hermione Granger, are a bloody control freak. You can control your books, and your work, even your cat. But when it comes to relationships, you feel that all you can control is yourself. You might be hurt, or abandoned, or whatever. And so you simply declare them unnecessary. A very unwise thing to do, my dear. Where is your Gryffindor courage?”

Hermione's hands fell into her lap, and she gave Ginny a desperate look. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “I guess I lost it somewhere along the road…”

“Then let's go find it,” Ginny said, rising from the floor and holding her hand out to her friend. “I heard that they have very good courage at Fortescue's, not to mention wonderful ice cream. Come on, let's have a chocolate binge, and then we’ll go shopping. You’ll need dress robes for that auction.”