Four: Through the Trapdoor

Autumn/Winter 1995

During the first weeks of Miss Granger's Potions assistantship, meetings were conducted solely in the classroom. Typically, I conversed briefly with her, detailing her instructions and answering any preliminary questions. I assisted her if necessary; she then continued on with marking or preparations in the classroom while I retired to my office. Thus I divided the labour between us. Not infrequently, however, she came a-knocking several times over the course of the evening with further questions, requests for clarification, theories, suggestions, or trivial commentary. On one such evening, as I battled fatigue while reading in my office, a Granger-light rap came, yet again, at the office door. I gritted my teeth and admitted her.

"Sir, I was marking Ernie's essay on the magical uses of ergot, and I realised I didn't take enough points off. He focused on the magical properties, but he didn't report the psychological side effects, and I thought delusions were far too important not to mention –"

"Here, just take the whole stack of essays."

"Sorry, I'll try not to bother you again. But while I'm here –"

"Yes, while you are here, as you seem to always be, why not Summon a desk and use my office as your own? That way you may pester me to your heart's content."

She feigned complete innocence: "Really? I could work here? That would be so much better –"

I heaved a much-aggrieved sigh, which she summarily mistook as preliminary assent and an opening to remind me fervently that "other professors had assistants use their offices" (but not me, I attempted to say), and "isn't it annoying to have me knocking all the time" (yes, but it did not follow that she should be present more often), and "it would only be several hours a week, during my already-established hours –"

"Granger, do not try my patience."

"But sir, I – I think maybe I could do a better job marking if I could use your textbooks in here, and I would bother you about it less that way too, if I could look up the easier answers . . . ."

Hmm – she was quite likely correct. Her knocking and always coming and going were quite disruptive, and her heaps of essays were overwhelming half the office anyway, and besides, such an arrangement would only be temporary and might actually save me some trouble, as it was not at all convenient to transport her work back and forth from office to classroom. Perhaps, I at last conceded to her, I could allow this on a provisional basis – under the strict conditions that she enter only during her appointed hours and providing that my door was open; otherwise she must knock to see if I was in there or return later. She was not to go bragging to her Gryffindor friends about this arrangement, or she would suffer my extreme displeasure and immediate revocation of the privilege. And she must attempt to work through her questions herself and trim and refine them before bringing them to me –

"I promise I will! I've been lots better about it lately, haven't I?"

"And I don't want you in here unless you're working on Potions . . . And absolutely nobody else in here. Ever. That includes your bloody cat –"

"He's a half-Kneazle!"

"I don't care. Nobody." I continued, "I suggest you take these rules to heart, or you will regret ever having set foot in this office."

She sat quietly for a moment, and I thought she had perhaps reconsidered. Then she said, "I understand, sir . . . Do you think I could charm some extra light through the windows? Or make a fire in the fireplace? It's a bit – erm, chilly in here."

". . . I suppose so. But you must touch nothing else without my explicit permission." I glanced up at the shelves lined with fragile, painstakingly preserved specimens – tidily sorted and labelled, alphabetically arranged (by scientific name and anatomical feature), many rare, some fatal to the touch, all of them my bottled treasures – stingers of scorpions, ants, and rays; electric eels; Occamy eggs and specimens; assorted golden chrysalides; luna moth nympha at various stages of magical potency; dragon skins and membranes; Yunnan silver-carp; a prodigious array of magical serpents, including an albino fer-de-lance; Porlock and unicorn hooves; and, of course, potions, extractions, and ingredients of innumerable variety. Should I move them? Certainly the most precious ones were well-warded, but she was far too clever and curious for her own good. Perhaps I ought to place extra protective wards round my private potions cabinet, whose contents included such precious rarities as unicorn blood, a phial of phoenix tears, samples of venom from Acromantula, Basilisk, Nagini (the Dark Lord's personal serpentess), and sundry others. Needless to say, most items within were quite fatal, some of dubious legality, many Class C non-tradable items, or Dark in source or in potential application. If I allowed her to use my office, would she be tempted to steal if I happened to step out?

She followed my line of sight to the museum pieces, and her keen eyes glittered with discovery. She solemnly promised to follow strict orders and disturb nothing. Then she shyly remarked that she wished to have a closer look – "only just to look" – at the creatures and potions and oddities on the shelves – they were "cool", she said without any apparent mockery in her voice. I'd never had that request before from a student; they were usually anxious to leave the office as quickly as possible; so how I could not but acquiesce to such rare – but nonetheless quite understandable – curiosity?

The specimens stayed, as did Miss Granger.

* * *

A word on hiring: The addition of one small woman may transform even a spacious office to a wholly alien landscape. Furthermore, if the woman is Hermione Granger, force of Nature, her boundless energy will completely dominate it and leave the other hapless inhabitants with nowhere to hide and longing for a dram of whisky. That first evening, as she claimed her spot in my office, she did indeed "have a look" at my specimen collection, all the while emitting little coos and gasps of wonder, and murmuring questions (always questions!), which I mostly disregarded: "I wonder why it needs eight legs"; "Where does it get all the energy to generate that electricity?"; "How are they preserved? Are they all preserved in the same way?" She immediately set about Transfiguring a desk in the corner and dared, with a sidelong glance in my direction, to place upon it a bright sprig of daffodil. (I raised an eyebrow, chose to ignore it – no matter that it looked utterly ridiculous in the otherwise spare office.) Upon the desk, she set ink and quills and piles of work in various stages of completion; on a shelf behind, she laid her dragon-hide gloves, her schoolbag, and some textbooks.

From that night on, Miss Granger popped into the office like clockwork, twice weekly, at her appointed time. She typically attended first to duties in the classroom while I remained in my office, but nearly always found time to return to her new desk before her allotted hours were over, as if merely to gloat over the privilege.

Reader, you are no doubt envisioning my secret batlike soul, having pined away so long for female companionship, now awakening to Miss Granger's guileless presence and overjoyed to simply surrender to her conquest of my office. If so, you have read too many fairy tales, for this could not be further from the truth. No sooner had I opened my bloody mouth (why did she induce me, even then, to such foibles?) than I rued my capitulation to her whim. I did not take her into confidence, or commence to offering lemon drops or biscuits or other niceties employed by other teachers to encourage a comfortable office atmosphere. I did at first attempt civility, but this quickly became impossible, and soon it was all I could do not to throw hexes at her, for she invented all manner of excuse to pester and annoy me.

She made nosy personal enquiries, inflicted upon my tired ears little gasps and exclamations of "Oh no!" or "There!" as she worked, berated me about the state of clutter in the office (which was perfectly well-organised, just not to her liking) or about the fact that I had not eaten dinner, nervously bounced her leg at all times, and a host of other tactics designed specifically to infuriate me.

She seemed intent to flout my authority with a combination of untoward familiarity and general contrariness. I reminded her often of the rules and proscriptions of working in my office, but while outwardly she obeyed the letter of my commands, she did everything in her power to question their meanings, test their limits, and try my patience. For instance, she presumptuously challenged my orders with the sorts of questions deliberately framed to present, on their surface, a conciliatory veneer while nevertheless belying certain not-so-subtle slights. For example: She didn't understand what was the matter (with my character, she left unspoken)? Or: No, she had no idea where the N.E.W.T. class essays were, perhaps I myself had mislaid them? Or: If her flaws were so awful, would I not rather select another teaching assistant (thus reminding me of the Headmaster's ultimatum, of which she was well aware)?

Furthermore, she monitored my every word and movement for any sign of weakness she might use to her advantage – for instance, by peeking slantwise at my desk from time to time, in what she clearly thought an unseen gesture, to spy upon my work, or by couching leading questions within supposed pleasantries to discover where and with whom I had travelled lately. Presumably she intended to run to Potter and the Headmaster with any news of suspicious activity on my part (though certainly I was not stupid enough to provide her any ammunition). It occurred to me that if this were a sly plan of Dumbledore's to bring about the slow, painful death of the Potions master through Granger's driving him mad, it was working exceedingly well.

As I had little choice but to keep her in my employ, I lacked any real means with which to coerce the desired respectful behaviour, and so I had to suffice with mere words, those weapons of the powerless. Though my occasional well-aimed barbs of sarcasm at first sufficed to deter her endless needling, she soon became inured to this strategy; thereafter, short of petty insults, I could not seem to find effective methods to intimidate her into leaving me be. I confess I did employ some trivial aspersions upon her (or, at times, her house, her choice of friends, her general status as teacher's pet) as a means of retaining some authority over a spoilt child. But I came to find reducing her to tears less and less satisfying, not least because her sniffles were accompanied by even more irritating Granger antics – for instance, attempting to induce me to guilt by excusing herself and running out of the office, stumbling over herself like a rabbit (or perhaps a cowardly lioness) – very perplexing and leaving me sans assistant until she got control of herself.

Of course, I ought to have forbidden her from my office and revoked her office privilege. I considered it many times, and I certainly threatened her with it often enough (which only served to induce a sullen, pouty silence filled with dark looks, almost worse than her chatter). But I always managed to find some excuse to postpone her eviction, and so these skirmishes recurred periodically. Though I suggested several times that she was welcome to withdraw herself from the assistantship and answer to the Headmaster, she stubbornly refused, chin invariably raised in defiance, as if her employment were a chess match at which she could not stand to be bested.

"Do you want me to quit?" she asked at one point, after I mentioned she might wish to rethink her agreement of assistantship. "Is your idea to force me to quit? For goodness sake, I don't want to quit, but if you're using some Slytherin method to drive me out – just tell me, please sir."

"That's enough. I am not asking you to quit. You are far too useful for menial tasks. But if you cannot handle the rigors . . ."

"I can handle it, but I'd –"

"Very well then. As I believe I've made clear, I am not going to treat you like the royalty you clearly think yourself. The real world will not coddle you like they do here, and I will not either. And if your opinion differs, you are more than welcome to leave at any time."

She said with forced calmness, "No. I'm not quitting. I promised Professor Dumbledore I would help you, and I am not going back on my word."

Her reminder of the Headmaster's ultimatum to me, and her insinuation that I was 'going back on my word' simply for suggesting she quit, incensed me further. I snapped, "Then, if you at least respect the Headmaster, I suggest you watch your temper and that mouth of yours while you are under my employment. I do not tolerate insolence."

"Yes, sir," she muttered, quite disrespectfully.

* * *

Consider the following additional examples of Miss Granger's inappropriate attitude:

I, at my desk working with visible diligence and concentration. Her instructions upon her desk. She, upon entering the office: "Hi Professor, how was your weekend?"

A lifted eyebrow: ". . . The same as every other weekend."

"Mine was good too . . . ." She paused, gauging my response to determine how far she could push me this evening.

I said nothing.

She refused to be deterred. "I practiced producing a Patronus . . . ." Again, she waited expectantly for the usual gushing affirmation bestowed on her by teachers, but I supplied none, despite a (very) slight curiosity as to the nature of said Patronus. She rushed on, "I could do it sometimes but it was really difficult. Every time I kept telling myself to think only happy thoughts, I would immediately think about the O.W.L.s – and then I'd think of the N.E.W.T.s too – and then there went my chance at a Patronus. But I did find out I'm going skiing with my parents over holiday –"

"Congratulations, you have now succeeded in providing me more words on your life than I ever wished to hear. Please stop now."

She ignored this direct order, tried a new tack. "I saw you at the Quidditch match. You and Professor McGonagall looked like you were having a lot of fun arguing . . . ."

"Mmm, yes, she seems to think Jordan is an unbiased announcer."

"Well, I suppose he favours Gryffindor a bit at times, but you've got to admit he's good . . . Do you watch professional Quidditch too?"

"Miss Granger?"

"Yes?"

"Get to work or get out of my office."

* * *

Later that evening, she apparently had finished her Potions corrections, for she set about to reading a book I had not seen before: Jinxes for the Jinxed.

I could not reign in my suspicion: "More defence study?"

"Professor Umbridge's class is worse than ever."

"That's not a library book. It just came out this year."

"I bought it."

I saw at once that she was lying, and this angered me for no discernible reason. I said, "What are you hiding? Is there someone bullying you?"

"You mean, apart from you?"

"It's called discipline, and you seem to be developing an unfortunate immunity to it. And just for that remark – here, hand over that book; I've been meaning to look at a copy of this. You may have it back at the end of the hour."

* * *

"Miss Granger, what are you doing?"

"I'm just – erm, knitting some . . . hats."

"What did I tell you about only being in here for work purposes?"

"Well, I know, but –"

"No buts. Your presence is trying enough when there is actual work to be done. This office is not yours to do with as you see fit."

She took a breath, said brazenly, ". . . Professor Snape, I don't deserve to be insulted, just because I'm a . . ."

"A what?" I challenged.

"A Muggle-born. And a girl. And a Gryffindor. I don't know – I don't know why – why you feel you must always insult me."

I saw that she was trying all manner of desperate tactics to manipulate me into guilt or into bending to her demands. I said slowly, "First of all, you will address me as Sir or Professor. Secondly, you are well aware that I treat all my students in the same impartial manner."

"That's not true – sir – Draco –"

"Draco is socially adept enough to realise that accusing your employer of bigotry is not a winning strategy. Those are very serious charges you have just levelled against me – without a shred of evidence, I might add."

"I didn't mean – really, I don't think that, I – sorry."

* * *

On another, brighter evening:

"Professor Snape?"

"Mmm?"

"Will you teach me about Dark Detectors?"

"Oh, sometime later perhaps. I'll have to fetch some from my rooms; I don't think I've got any in here."

"Oh, I brought one we could practice with."

"You – what? Give that to me. Where did you get this?" She handed it meekly over. I studied it; it wasn't mine.

"Well, I guess it's a good sign that it's not sounding the alarm," she said brightly.

"Is that your aim? You wanted to find out if it could detect me?" I said angrily. "Did Potter put you up to this?"

"No, no –"

"You know, whatever your little experiment is, it proves nothing. It's quite simple really to fool these. But . . . if anyone asks, you had better say it went off." I frowned.

"So you want everyone to think you're a Dark wizard," she laughed.

"It's safer for everyone that way," I said sternly.

"Mmm-hmm," she said.

I suppose that particular example was not so bad . . . .

* * *

Finally, one evening, sick to death of her deceitful flow of chatter and increasingly concerned that she might be tempted towards inappropriate familiarity in more public settings, I forbade her outright from speaking to me at all. Blessed silence held for a time; then suddenly she said, "I don't understand why we can't just have a friendly conversation once in a while."

My temper snapped; I slammed my hand down. "Granger! You are wasting my time!"

I rose from my seat and fixed a silently smouldering eye upon her. What sort of student expected a master to accommodate every demand of hers? What sort of ploy had she concocted with Potter to wriggle her way into my office and out of my rules? I would suffer her schemes to control me no more; she had begged to move into my office and she must understand that meant no less than the full brunt of my authority and no compromises.

"The purpose of your employment is to assist with Potions work, not to fulfil your wish for conversation," I said as coldly as possible. "This is my office, and these are my rules."

"I'm sorry, Professor, I don't mean to upset you –"

"Now I believe you have been suitably forewarned that my demands might not be to your liking. I do not care if you dislike your terms of employment, but I ask that you follow them. If you regret your acceptance of these terms, you are free to leave. You are not, however, at liberty to converse with me, as I have attempted to reinforce to you time and time again."

She said in a low voice, "I – don't regret it, sir. It's just not what I expected."

"Really? What did you expect? A medal? Induction into the Order?"

She looked down at her desk.

I continued, "So no, if you insist on remaining in this office, we cannot have a friendly conversation, because I haven't the slightest interest in anything you have to say. I am not simply insulting you for fun. Your company is tiresome. Surely after sixteen years you know that by now –"

Tears and hand to mouth, hasty exit from the room. Sigh, slight regret.

Author's Note:

A tremendous thank you to Countrymouse and Hollimel for their assistance with this chapter.