About A Potions Master

Chapter 3

By Pigwidgeon37

Their shopping trip to Diagon Alley—reluctantly agreed to but secretly enjoyed—had yielded very impressive results: Hermione had purchased summer dress robes, a multi-layered creation of dark red muslin, matching shoes and a drawstring bag that was now dangling at her wrist on a thin silk cord. It was too hot for her to wear her hair open, as Ginny had initially prompted her to, because it was long and shiny; and so they had pulled it back in a loose chignon. Like this, she looked less girlish, even Ginny had to admit that; more refined and adult. After the hairstyle was finished, another struggle had taken place because of the make-up. It was difficult to say who had won, for Hermione had finally agreed to put on a bit of lipstick, but nothing more. Secretly, each of them thought she had been victorious, and so they were both in very high spirits.

More so as this was a girls’ night out: Harry was abroad, playing Quidditch for England against the Indian National Team, and Ron had got it into his head that he had to see the world before he started working at the Ministry. Currently he was deep in the middle of Africa, obviously enjoying himself. So the two main Male Protectors were out of the way, as Ginny had remarked with a broad grin.

“Overdressed? I sincerely don't think so. Just look at the others. No, no. We’re both perfectly dressed up for the occasion. Come on, let's enter.”

“Oh, it’s great to be back again,” Hermione said, nudging Ginny while they climbed the steps that led up to the entrance door. “Isn’t it, Ginny? Three years have gone by, and nothing has changed!”

“Why should it?” Ginny asked reasonably. “I mean, it hadn’t changed in thousand years, why should it now? Oh, look! There’s Skeeter!”

And there was not only Rita Skeeter. Everybody had come to Hogwarts that night, at least everybody who had received an invitation. Dumbledore and Snape had sent out eight hundred of them, and every single had been accepted. Hermione was still not quite sure why she had received one, for she was neither very rich nor exceptionally famous. To tell the truth, she felt rather out of place among the glittering crowd of spectators.

After having duly admired the decoration of the Great hall, the two women sat down at one of the many small tables, sufficiently near the makeshift dais to have a good view of what was going on. Hermione picked up a piece of parchment from the tabletop and read “ To order food and drinks please tap the table with your wand and utter your wishes. Our House Elves will be delighted to provide whatever you desire.”

“Sounds good,” Ginny said and drew her wand. “A Bloody Mary, please, and don’t waste too much tomato juice.”

The drink appeared almost instantaneously, and she took a sip. “House Elves know what girls want,” she said. “Come on, Hermione, place your order. Or are you afraid you might ruin your lipstick?”

“No, I’m afraid that it might be Snape who mixes the cocktails. He’d have a field day, poisoning everybody. Better be on the safe side, just in case. A glass of champagne, please,” she called, tapping the table with her wand.

A little later, all the guests were seated, and the Great Hall echoed with the buzzing of hundreds of voices, highlighted by the tinkle of glasses. Ginny and Hermione, now well into their second drinks accompanied by a plate of delicious-looking canapés, were mustering the crowd.

“Look!” Ginny hissed, “There's your boss!”

Hermione whirled round and saw Cornelius Fudge enter the hall. “I never knew he was married,” she whispered back.

Ginny snorted. “He isn’t. That's his newest girlfriend. How come you don’t know? You’re working there!”

“I don’t pay attention to gossip,” Hermione retorted, belying her own words by staring at the very young witch who was dangling at the portly Minister’s arm. Skeeter whooped down on the couple but was chased off rather unceremoniously.

Obviously the Minister’s arrival had been the signal for the event to begin, and when Albus Dumbledore made his entrée, silence fell immediately. The ancient wizard crossed the dais, to stand behind the pulpit that was later to be occupied by the auctioneer. With one of his heart-warming smiles, he let his eyes roam over the assembled crowd for a moment.

“My dear guests,” he began, “I am very happy to welcome you all here on the occasion of the First Potions Masters Bachelor Auction. It is an honour for Hogwarts to host such a prestigious and, if I may say so, original event. We are living in peace now, and thus able to thoroughly enjoy occasions such as this.”

He made a short pause.

“I would be tempted to say more but, as the Potions Master of Hogwarts and deputy chairman of the W.A.P.M. so kindly reminded me, once I start I am unable to stop… I think he said gibbering—” laughter from the spectators “—it was, however, a very unflattering expression.” More laughter. “Much as it pains me to admit it, I have to say that he is right.” Laughter and lengthy applause. “Thus, I limit myself to introducing tonight’s objects of desire. Chasim Ben Akbar, Chairman of the W.A.P.M. and Potions Master at the Ibn Sinna Institute in Bagdad!”

The guests applauded, as a tall, olive-skinned wizard appeared on the dais. His eyes, hair and beard were black, and his robes had a decidedly Arabian touch.

“Severus Snape, Deputy Chairman and Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

“And you said that nothing has changed?” Ginny whispered into Hermione’s ear.

Hermione was momentarily unable to answer, because all she could do was stare at her former teacher. Still black-haired but without any trace of oily lankiness. Still pale-skinned but the sallow tone was gone. Still stern-looking but not sour anymore. Still black-clad but in dress robes of rich, sensual velvet. Relaxed. Smiling? The pigs would come sailing into the Great Hall any second now. Hermione was mesmerized. So much that she didn’t hear the names of the other five Potions Masters. It was as if she were sitting underwater with only muffled sounds arriving at her ears, orchestrated by the constant murmur of the sea. She simply couldn’t refrain from staring at that… yes, gorgeous man. A particularly fervent round of applause, combined with a particularly vicious nudge by Ginny brought her up to the surface again.

“Wh-what?” she asked, very conscious of how sheepish she was probably looking.

“Didn’t you hear? Sirius is the auctioneer! Look, here he comes—gosh, isn’t he incredibly handsome?”

Hermione nodded somewhat unenthusiastically. “Yes, well…”

“Hermione, you had a crush roughly the size of Madame Maxime on the man unless memory fails me. And I daresay you’d still stand a chance with him.”

“That was about seven years ago, Virginia Potter. I’ve grown up since, just in case you didn’t notice.”

Sirius Black, ex-convict, ex-most-wanted-criminal, war hero and Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, raised his right hand, asking for silence. He would probably have raised both hands had he not lost his left arm during the final battle against Voldemort. Magical healing had its limits, and those limits had dangerously narrowed during the last part of the battle when lost arms were not as important as helping those struggling with imminent death. He had got over the trauma, though, and seemed to enjoy every moment of his life and freedom.

The auction began. Chasim ben Akbar’s merits were duly emphasized—Sirius revealed that, besides his obvious qualifications, he was also an excellent Polo player—and the bidding started. Hermione's jaw went slack when she heard the sums that were being called out, mostly by female voices. Akbar smiled in visible satisfaction. When he was finally sold to a very attractive young witch, for a very respectable two hundred and eighty galleons, he didn’t seem displeased in the least. And probably it wasn’t only the thought of W.A.P.M.’s funds that made his eyes glitter.

Erich von Winckendorff, from the Paracelsus University at Heidelberg, was next. Both Ginny and Hermione grinned like mad when a plump, middle-aged lady, the intricacies of whose hairstyle reminded forcibly of a bunch of epileptic vipers, immediately waved her hand and yelled, “Fife hundred! Fife hundred!” before anybody had had a chance to open their mouths.

“Well,” Sirius said, biting back a grin with visible difficulty, “anybody else? Although I may warn you: Gretchen von Winckendorff may have Othello’s temperament, but she will certainly not strangle her husband.”

Everybody laughed, and the German Potions Master, visibly vexed, stepped down from the podium and gruffly took a seat beside his wife. Hermione distinctly heard him order a triple whisky. She exchanged an amused glance with Ginny and was about to say something, when they had to redirect their attention at Sirius.

“And now to my esteemed colleague Severus Snape.” Sirius beckoned for him to rise. “Come on, Severus, you have to stand here at my left.”

Snape rose and strode forward. Hermione was pleased to see that he had lost nothing of his habitual feline grace.

“A most outstanding Potions Master, an excellent teacher—” there were obviously some Hogwarts alumni among the public, for this last remark elicited a chorus of whistles “—and a man of great courage.” Deafening applause. “But, there’s more than that, ladies and gentlemen. Severus Snape has one hidden talent—” Snape turned towards his former enemy, hands balling into fists “—he also is an excellent cook!” Laughter and long applause. “He just threatened to blast my motorbike into smithereens if I go any further. So I won’t, although for correctness’s sake I have to mention that I just got myself a new car.” Whistles, and female voices calling ‘Need a co-driver?’ “However, Severus Snape is an excellent chef and would make any House Elf blush with envy. A weekend at his home is therefore doubly desirable. Which brings me to an interesting question: Ladies and Gentlemen, how much are you willing to bid?”

The change Severus Snape had undergone had obviously not remained unnoticed. Female bidders were by far outnumbering their male counterparts.

“One hundred and fifty galleons! Going once, going twice—”

“Two hundred!” said a cool, silky female voice.

Hermione glanced round to identify the woman who intended to spend a small fortune on Severus Snape, ready to dislike her. It was difficult though, for the lady in question was not only impressive, she was also long past her prime. Tall, lean, with iron-grey hair swept up in an elaborate but sober coiffure, she reminded a little of Professor McGonagall, although she possessed a more aristocratic and refined demeanour. Not your classical, easy-to-despise rival.

“Thank you, Madam. Does anybody want to give more? No? Two hundred galleons, going once, going twice—”

Hermione felt her arm being pushed up and heard Ginny’s clear voice call “Three hundred!”

Mrs. Snape had just taken a sip of champagne to celebrate her easy and —by Snape standards—cheap victory. When she heard Hermione’s, or rather Ginny’s, preposterous offer she was so shocked that she choked on the beverage and was overcome by a coughing fit.

“Three hundred!” Sirius exclaimed, winking at Hermione. “Anybody else? No? Three hundred galleons then, going once, going twice, gone to the fascinating young lady in red.”

Still completely stunned, Hermione turned to Ginny. “Are you mad?” she whispered frantically, “I don’t have the money, you stupid… stupid…”

Ginny merely grinned at her. “Harry has it, though. Just accept it as an early birthday present from us.”

“Why should I want such a present?” Hermione replied mutinously, “You know what I think about Snape!”

“Of course, of course,” Ginny said, patting her arm. “How couldn’t I? After all, I saw you look at him. Well, no. I saw you devour him with your eyes. Don’t deny it,” she added, shaking her red curls, “You’re a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors don’t lie. Now close that mouth, you don’t want to look like an asphyxiated goldfish. It’s not attractive.”

In the meantime, Severus Snape had stepped off the dais, shooting his mother a deadly glare, and was now stalking towards Ginny and Hermione’s table. The look he bestowed upon the two young women was, if possible, even deadlier.

“Congratulations!” he snapped and threw a piece of parchment onto the marble tabletop. “Friday at six p.m., and be punctual.”

With a swish of his robes, he turned round and was gone, without uttering another word.

Hermione swallowed. Maybe he hadn’t changed after all. His tone had certainly been the same she remembered from countless Potions lessons. Becoming aware that she had slumped into her usual subdued Potions-class position, she sat up straight and searched a focusing point for her eyes, so she could concentrate on restoring her facial expression back to dignified. Thus wandering about the hall in a desperate quest for something immobile to cling to, her eyes encountered another pair of eyes, pitch-black, penetrating but by no means unfriendly. They belonged to the old lady who had offered two hundred galleons for Snape. A strange feeling crept up Hermione's back and made the hairs on the nape of her neck stir in discomfort. The woman was clearly scrutinizing her. And obviously the result of her examination satisfied her, for the aristocratic head sketched a small nod, while an almost imperceptible smile played around her lips. Still wondering what this was all about, Hermione felt greatly relieved and returned the smile before she returned her attention to Sirius, who was singing the praise of Vincent Delacroix, director of the Toronto Academy of Advanced Alchemy.