About A Potions Master

Chapter 15

By Pigwidgeon37

Like Cassandra Snape, Albus Dumbledore fervently believed in morning walks.  During the school year, he usually had to recur to a time turner in order to indulge this pleasure, for there was almost always so much to do that he couldn’t simply spend an hour and a half doing nothing but walk. During the holidays things were different, though. He could roam the grounds as long as he wanted without increasing his already venerable age. On this beautiful Wednesday morning, he was a trifle absent-minded—probably due to a whisky-drenched late night talk with Sirius and Minerva—and thus had, upon his return to the castle, automatically set the time turner, which had led to a rather exhilarating encounter with himself.

Still sniggering into his silver beard, he set out for his habitual morning round through the castle. It always preceded his breakfast, because afterwards he was able to dedicate himself to the joys of eating, undisturbed by thoughts about what might be going on. Theoretically, he knew that a crisis could erupt at any moment fate chose, but the rounds were a reassuring ritual all the same.  Passing through the dungeons, he saw light shining out from under the door to Severus Snape’s quarters. Momentarily flabbergasted, he stopped to think. He had got a letter from Severus, the day before yesterday, in which his Potions Master announced his absence from Hogwarts until 1 September, hadn’t he? Or had he dreamed it? After a brief reflection, Dumbledore decided that the letter hadn’t been a figment of his subconscious. So either Severus had come back prematurely, or somebody else was in his rooms. Both possibilities required further investigation, and so he drew his wand and undid the wards protecting the entrance.

The Potions Master was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, not in his habitual black robes but wearing only shirt and trousers, staring into the flames and holding a tumbler filled with honey-coloured liquid. Beside him on the floor stood a bottle, the label of which informed the beholder that inside, there was Camus Napoléon V.V.S.O.P. In other words, brandy, if a very fine one. 

Considering that it was half past eight in the morning, Dumbledore thought this to be a rather alarming situation. During the years since Snape had turned away from Voldemort, there had, of course, been more than one alcohol binge the Headmaster had witnessed—although not always with Snape’s knowledge. Dumbledore had been constantly, but discreetly monitoring him, in order to avoid more serious occurrences than the occasional hangover. But never, ever, had he seen Severus Snape drink in the morning. This was a first, and the Headmaster doubted very much that his Potions Master had hitherto foregone matutinal inebriation merely because he had to teach. Which meant that what was currently plaguing him had to be more dramatic than his previous sufferings. Dumbledore sighed goodbye to his breakfast and approached Snape’s immobile form.

“Good morning, Severus.” Snape didn’t budge. “Severus, I have no intention of nettling you with questions, but it is rather unusual for you to ingest high-proof spirits at such an early hour, at a place where you are not supposed to be. I promise that I will leave immediately if you tell me what happened.”

Snape still didn’t react. After some seconds of quiet, he lifted the tumbler to his lips, drained it in one single, large gulp, grabbed for the bottle, refilled his glass and sank back into his previous position.

Dumbledore stroked his beard and remained standing where he was. “Severus, I know you want to throw me out. But please try to understand that I cannot leave you like this without at least knowing what put you into this state.”

Snape simply repeated his previous movements—gulp, bottle, refill, back to immobility—and remained silent.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, “You obviously don’t want to talk, so I will do the talking.” He summoned a chair and positioned it behind Snape’s, but a little to the left, so that he could scrutinize his half-profile. “Now let us see,” he said, sitting down and leaning back, “whether I’m able to piece together what you refuse to tell me. Last week, there was the auction, and Miss Granger—”

He was interrupted by Snape, who whirled round and stared at him with such fury in his eyes that even Dumbledore recoiled. “If you ever mention that name again in my presence, Albus, I will not be accountable for my reactions. And now kindly get out of here.”

Dumbledore shook his head slightly and got up. “I will, of course, do as you wish. But you should not shut down again, Severus. It would be a great loss, for all of us.”

Snape had already turned back towards the fireplace and was again staring into the flames.

**°°**°°**

A little later, Sirius Black and Minerva McGonagall were sitting in Dumbledore’s office. The Headmaster was catching up on his breakfast, the two staff members were drinking a cup of post-breakfast tea to keep him company, and all three of them were looking preoccupied. Fawkes, sitting on his perch, observed the trio and nibbled sunflower seeds from a small golden bowl.

“But how can you be so sure it’s about Hermione?” Sirius asked, putting down his cup and grabbing a bit of buttered toast from the Headmaster’s plate—his eating capacities were astonishingly similar to those of Ron Weasley.

Dumbledore wagged his head. “Severus would be furious if he knew that I told you. On the other hand, you haven’t seen him. He is like a corpse that gulps down brandy at regular intervals. I feel that it is my duty as a friend to help him, although he refuses to be helped, and I think I need more than one brain to excogitate a suitable way to do so. Which means,” he said, twinkling at the two teachers, “that I am going to tell you what I think might be the cause for his present condition.”

McGonagall nodded. “By all means. Although I must confess that I’m looking forward to the day Severus will finally find his peace and cease making trouble.”

“That will be the day you’ll cease teaching, Minerva,” Sirius remarked dryly. He was Deputy Headmaster and Head of Gryffindor, but the Transfiguration job was still firmly in Minerva McGonagall’s hands. Neither did she want to retire nor was there a better qualified teacher for this complex subject.

“The facts are these,” continued Dumbledore. “You both know that Miss Granger was so lucky as to offer the highest bid for Severus at the auction one week ago. My eyes are still very sharp, and they certainly didn’t miss the very appreciative expression on Cassandra’s face. Knowing her, I am sure that she planned to bring those two together.”

“You mean Severus and Hermione?” Sirius exclaimed, “If that isn’t the most preposterous—”

“If you look at it from an unbiased point of view,” Dumbledore calmly interrupted him, “It doesn’t seem so absurd anymore. Above all considering that you were not entirely unsusceptible to Miss Granger’s charms, and you are the same age as Severus.”

“Well, but—”

“No well-buts, Sirius, supposing that this is the situation, we have to take it as it is and deal with it.”

Black grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t object any further.

“So what you are implying,” McGonagall said, “is this: Cassandra—and I fully agree with your theory, as I remember her very well, after all she’s only one year my senior and used to play matchmaker at school in a most shameless manner—Cassandra tried to set up Hermione and Severus. But Hermione only got a weekend, how do you explain—”

“If,” Dumbledore cut off her question, “you two could put a leash on your impatience, just for a moment, until I’m finished, there would be no need for you to ask. I got a letter from Severus on Monday, that is the day before yesterday. He asked my permission to arrive at Hogwarts only on 1 September, and furthermore requested that I agree for Acantha to take over his duties as Head of Slytherin until 5 September, so that he might return home immediately after the last afternoon class.”

“That doesn’t say anything,” Black observed. “There might be a thousand reasons for this request.”

“Of course, Sirius, I agree. If only in principle. Because you must take into consideration that, firstly, Severus has never, in all his twenty-three years as a teacher here, arrived later than 25 August. Secondly, if there were any reason except for the one I suspect it is, he would certainly have specified it. But all he mentioned was ‘inevitable obligations’. A very un-Snape-ish thing to say, if you ask me.”

“That’s true,” said McGonagall, “but what—”

She was again interrupted, only this time not by the Headmaster but by the sudden appearance of Cassandra Snape’s head in the fireplace.

“Albus!” she exclaimed, “How lucky that you should be here!”

“Cassandra, my dear. I suppose you are calling on Severus’s behalf?”

“Yes, indeed. Oh, sorry, Minerva, Mr. Black, I… I seem to be a little nervous today and forgot to greet you properly. Did he tell you anything, Albus?”

“No, unfortunately he didn’t. He is… well, it’s very similar to how he used to behave during his worst times. In fact, I had hoped that you might be able to bring some light into this regrettable affair.”

“Knowing you,” Mrs. Snape said with a very weak smile at Dumbledore, “you have already put together most of the pieces. But I will certainly tell you what I can.”

The three listened attentively.

“But what about Hermione?” asked McGonagall, who was by now more worried about her former student than about Snape, whom she knew at least to be safely holed up in the dungeons. “Where is she?”

“I can only presume that she went home. She has left everything here, so she must have departed quite in a hurry. She didn’t even take Crookshanks with her.  And her Floo connection is blocked. Which is, in my opinion, a reason to believe that she is indeed at her house.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. He didn’t look very happy. “Well,” he said finally, “Considering the situation and, above all, the characters of the two people involved, I don’t see any other possibility than to leave them be for the moment. Maybe, if by any chance we should get more information about what happened between those two, we might be able to devise a strategy. But not now, I’m afraid.”

Mrs. Snape, who was looking every single of her eighty-seven years, sighed heavily. “Probably you are right, Albus. We should leave them be for a while.  But you will… er, look in on him from time to time, won’t you?”

Dumbledore promised, and with this the meeting came to a very unsatisfactory end.

**°°**°°**

Mrs. Snape, feeling very old, useless and sad, turned away from the fireplace and was about to go upstairs for a closer look at Hermione’s room, when she heard a female voice call her name from the fireplace. Wearily, she looked back and saw a vaguely familiar face amidst the flames. Frowning in an attempt to recall where she might have seen the girl, she returned to her point of departure.

“Mrs. Snape?” the redheaded girl—or rather young woman—repeated, “Sorry to disturb, my name is Ginny Potter and—”

“Of course! You were at the auction together with Hermione!”

“Exactly.” Ginny flashed the older witch her best smile, very satisfied to hear her use her friend’s first name. “There is something important I have to tell her, only she isn’t in her room—”

“No, Mrs. Potter, she is not in her room, and to my infinite regret she is not in the house either. She has left.”

“Left? But… but she only just arrived, and she was so happy…”

“It seems that she had a serious altercation with my son.”

“Oh,” Ginny said, “You don’t by any chance know what they quarrelled about? I mean, perhaps there’s something you or I could do to reconcile them?”

“I wish I did. But it must have been something very dramatic indeed, as she left behind all her belongings, including her cat.”

“She left Crookshanks?” Ginny looked at her pensively. “You know, Mrs. Snape, I might have an idea about what happened. Would you do me a favour?”

“Of course, if I can.”

“I think you can. Would you look for a letter, either in the usual spot the owls leave it or in Hermione’s room? Maybe Professor Snape’s study wouldn’t be a bad idea either. I can’t give you any better indication, I’m sorry. But the handwriting is awful, if that helps. And if you find it, would you call me back?”

Mrs. Snape merely nodded and went over to the console where Piggy put all the incoming letters. It was empty. So she went upstairs. Hermione’s rooms were impeccably tidy. The only object lying around was a diary, open on the small desk near the window. Mrs. Snape pocketed it and went into the bedroom, even the bath, but didn’t find a letter. Only when she was almost out on the corridor again, she detected a piece of parchment that had obviously fluttered down and was half-covered by one of the curtains. She picked it up and read ‘My darling Hermione…’ The handwriting was awful. This had to be the corpus delicti, then.  Still perusing it, the line between her brows deepening the more she read, she positioned herself in front of the fireplace, threw in the Floo powder and called “Ginny Potter!”

“Well?” said Ginny, who had obviously been waiting.

“I think I found the letter you mentioned. Who is this Ron?”

Ginny squirmed. “Much as I regret it, my brother. And a complete moron. He showed up at our house some time ago and boasted that he was going to marry Hermione. Knowing what I knew about her and Sev—I mean, Professor Snape, I assure you that I was more than surprised.”

Mrs. Snape was twisting the letter between her fingers. “Does that mean you are sure that there is nothing between your brother and Hermione?”

“You must be joking!” Ginny exclaimed. “In fact, when she dropped by to fetch Crookshanks, I warned her that there might be trouble ahead with Ron. She was very unpleasantly surprised, I assure you.”

“Knowing my son,” Mrs. Snape said gloomily, “I can imagine how things went between him and Hermione. He somehow got hold of the letter and did not even give her a chance to defend herself. Oh, I could—” Her right hand was lovingly fingering her wand.

“Well, go and hex him!” Ginny said laughing. “Maybe he’ll see reason.”

“I wish I could, my dear. But he reacted as he always does: he ran away.  Currently, he is at Hogwarts, and I can only say that I pity Albus Dumbledore, who has promised me to look after him.”

“How fortunate that school hasn’t yet started,” Ginny observed, “Imagine how he’d treat his poor Potions students!—What?” she asked, seeing Mrs. Snape’s expression change from gloomy to mischievous, “Did you just have some kind of illumination?”

“I think I might have a plan. Tell me, Mrs. Potter, when will you meet your brother again?”