The Second Year: The Wolf at the Door

The Second Year: The Wolf at the Door

Christmas brought another ham from the Derbyshire Witches' Defense League and another proposal of marriage from the spinster in Cornwall. This time, no strangers had invited me to holiday dinner. Instead, there were a number of party invitations from misguided souls who evidently had me mixed up with another Severus Snape. I did receive a number of Christmas cards, including one from Granger, wishing me merry and thanking me again for my assistance in preparing for her N.E.W.T.s. She had passed everything with flying colors, she said, something which came as no surprise whatsoever.

I also found a Christmas card from Harry Potter in my post. Although I daresay that we will never be close friends, we seem able to tolerate each other more readily. It is surely a result of the fact that we are linked through Lily, a topic we have barely touched. While I was recuperating in St. Mungo's, Potter came to see me.

"I'd like to rest, please," I said impatiently as the bedside curtains rustled open. I'd been poked and prodded all day, and I was tired of it.

Every mocking, contemptuous phrase in my compiled repository seemed to have fled from my mind. I began trembling all over; I wanted to run from the room but my traitorous body refused to cooperate. Even breathing seemed a chore just now. Potter was beginning to speak again, which was a good thing; I was certain that if I tried to talk, a howl of anguish would be torn from the depths of my soul. What in the world was happening to me?

Fortunately, Potter had taken one look at me and decided that perhaps summoning a Healer might be in order. I was given a Calming Draught, and Potter was shown the door. He did return another day when my emotions were not so near the breaking point, and we had a civilized, in-depth conversation about the war. And I found that I could actually look at him and see Lily's eyes without my heart shredding itself.

***

In early January, a letter arrived from the Ministry of Magic. Minerva McGonagall, it stated, would not be supervising my community service duties this year. Instead, that duty would fall to someone else to be named shortly. I sighed; at least Minerva was a known quantity. Too bad Granger would not require another two hundred hours of tutoring. While tutoring wasn't my idea of pleasure, serving in that role to Hermione Granger had been an easy job. The final year of the war had tempered the girl to the point where she no longer bounced in her seat to spit out an answer. Instead, she thoughtfully and carefully considered whatever was put to her, minus the underlying begging for approval that had gone on for six long years. Granger had matured, although I suppose that war has a way of doing that to people.

During the time I acted as Granger's tutor, I began to prepare and sell potions out of my home. I had no wish to labor under someone else's direction at either of the two large potions companies, nor did I want to be tied down to the daily grind of pharmaceutical preparation at St. Mungo's. All three had offered me positions, despite the fact that I had not applied for any. It was a result of the continued post-war adulation, a phenomenon so ridiculous that it made me want to scream at times. Certainly if any of the witches or wizards offering me employment had been in my classes, they would have known better. And even if I had not taught them, they surely had heard of my reputation. At any rate, working for myself and by myself seemed a far better choice. While I would not call my enterprise wildly lucrative, it was at least profitable enough that I could eat and pay the bills.

A day after the first letter from the Ministry arrived, a second owl appeared at my window. According to the instructions, I was to report to Miss H. Granger in the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures, Being Division. So that was where the girl had ended up, was it? I was right, then – the Ministry would be overrun by house-elves before long.

***

I arrived at the Ministry of Magic on a beautiful spring day. Unfortunately, setting foot inside that tomb of a building has the power to diminish even the most pleasant weather. Spending five months in a holding cell there does nothing to alleviate the feeling that you are walking to your doom the moment you enter. I took the lift to the fourth level.

"Professor Snape!"

Hermione launched herself from her desk chair to shake my hand enthusiastically. She looked much the same as she had when last I saw her, nearly twelve months earlier. There was, however, considerable improvement in her color; she had also put some weight back on and no longer resembled a skeleton.

"Miss Granger," I said, taking the chair she indicated by the overflowing desk.

"How are you, Professor?" she asked eagerly.

"Quite well, thank you."

"I hear that you've started your own potions firm."

"Not exactly a firm," I told her, going on to describe my mail order business.

Unlike most people, whose eyes glaze over after an initial display of interest, Granger listened to every word.

"That's wonderful," she said with absolutely no trace of forced politeness in her voice. "I'm happy that you're able to work at something you enjoy for a change."

"You don't think I enjoyed teaching?" I asked, an eyebrow raised.

"I think you loathed it," Hermione retorted, a twinkle in her eye.

"You think correctly." The barest hint of a smile quirked the corners of my mouth. I gazed briefly around the tiny cubicle which comprised Hermione Granger's office. "How do you like your job, Miss Granger?"

"It's wonderful," she enthused. "I was so afraid that they wouldn't hire me. I thought I'd end up in the Quidditch League Headquarters. Ron was hoping for that, of course."

"Mr. Weasley is working there?" I asked.

Granger looked momentarily confused, then her expression cleared. "No, I meant that he was hoping I would get a position with the Quidditch League so that he could hear all the latest news first. Ron's still working with George at the joke shop."

"And how is Mr. Weasley?" I truly didn't care, but I could make small talk if need be. Besides, there was an odd, subtle darkening in Granger's face when she spoke of Weasley and the remaining twin working together.

"He's fine." She had already turned back to the stack of papers in front of her.

"And Mr. Potter?"

"Doing quite well. Working like crazy at Auror training. He doesn't have much spare time."

"I'm sure. How is your mother faring with her memory problems?"

The last vestige of a smile faded from Granger's face. "Better, although she hasn't been able to return to work yet."

"I'm still keeping an eye out for any news of some potion in development that might help." I had taken on the challenge the previous year, but to no avail. And while I couldn't say that I held any particular concern for Lynette Granger, I still found myself scanning the potions journals for anything that might be beneficial.

"Thank you," Hermione said, not quite meeting my eyes.

"Miss Granger, may I suggest that you rethink the concept of carrying around a load of guilt? Having done so, I can find absolutely nothing to recommend it."

She looked me full in the face then, and I could tell that beneath the chirpy, pleasant exterior, Hermione Granger had developed her own set of inner demons. And abruptly, the shutters closed.

"Well then," she said briskly, "shall we get down to business? I asked specifically for you to help me with my project."

"And what is your –" The words had barely left my lips with my eyes lit upon the nameplate on the desk.

Hermione Granger. Werewolf Support Services.

"Werewolves!" I blurted. I had assumed that her job dealt with house-elves. And I remembered why, in all my years as a spy, I made it a practice never to assume anything.

Granger glared at me. "Yes, werewolves. Do you have a problem with that, Professor?"

I scowled. "Do not call me 'Professor'. 'Mr. Snape' will do, and no, I do not have a problem with werewolves."

Not that I would admit, anyway. Given that Saint Lupin was one of the honored war dead, it was folly to say anything else.

"I've been assigned a project, Mr. Snape, and given the nature of the project, you seemed a natural to help with it. That's why I requested to direct your community service this year."

I was tempted to rub my hands together and say 'Goody'. Instead, I asked with forced politeness, "What is it that you want me to do?"

"Let me explain. Now that certain people who actively worked against primary rights for werewolves are no longer in charge –"

"If you mean the bitch Umbridge, just say so."

Granger cast a sly smile in my direction. "As I was saying, there is finally a chance for werewolves to live a decent life. Already, there is legislation pending which will rescind the laws prohibiting the hiring of werewolves. In a few weeks' time, there will be a Ministry push to make sure that all werewolves in the country have easy access to Wolfsbane potion, and that all unemployed werewolves are registered and enrolled in job training or job search programs."

"Very ambitious," I remarked. "And I fit in where, exactly?"

"You're very familiar with Wolfsbane potion, Pro – Mr. Snape. Here's what I'm proposing: first, you need to inspect Wolfsbane production at St. Mungo's, then –"

"Inspect Wolfsbane production!" I blurted. "What, exactly, gives me the authority to inspect the Potions Masters at St. Mungo's?"

"It's just for show," Granger said matter-of-factly. "All you have to do is watch them long enough to attest to the fact that they're doing it properly. Then, we do a mailing to all the registered werewolves in Britain, telling them that they'll be receiving a visit from Ministry officials to discuss the new laws and encourage everyone to sign up for the potion and job training programs. Needless to say, the previous regime didn't win any fans among the werewolf population. It's no wonder that they don't trust us. I'd like to think that they'll be willing to sign up immediately, but it may take a bit more convincing than can be done with a letter and one visit."

She'd made the entire speech with barely a breath taken. I felt rather sorry for Potter and Weasley and what they'd had to contend with all those years.

"I still don't understand. Why can't you simply say that the Wolfsbane made there is satisfactory? Why do you need me to –" I broke off as the light suddenly dawned. "Aha," I said, my eyes narrowing dangerously, "I'm on to your little game, Miss Granger."

For the first time, the girl looked a bit worried. "Sorry?"

"There's not a thing wrong with the Potions Masters at St. Mungo's, except that they're not war heroes, are they?"

Hermione reddened. "I only thought that people might pay more attention if you attested to it personally."

I couldn't help but be amazed. "You think that linking my name with this campaign of yours will actually help? You're positively barking, Granger!"

"You have an Order of Merlin, First Class. The Potions Masters at St. Mungo's don't."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of all the insane, absurd ideas...

"I don't suppose I have a choice in this, do I?"

"I was hoping you'd like the idea," Hermione ventured, "but perhaps we could drop the personal endorsement."

"Drop the – what, exactly, does that leave, then?" I protested.

"Well, I'll need someone to go around with me to visit all the werewolves and their families," she said carefully.

How had Potter and Weasley put up with this girl? I wanted quite badly to strangle her then and there. At least last year's tutoring project was something up my alley. This was... this was...

Before I could come up with a suitable word, Granger had whipped out a calendar.

"Now then, when can you start?"

***

We spent fifteen minutes standing about in the pharmaceutical laboratory at St. Mungo's while a photographer from the Daily Prophet took our picture. The story ran on the front page the next day, under the headline 'New Ministry Initiative Begins', and described the program to draw the werewolf population back into society. It depicted the program as daring and insightful, while personally, I believed it to be hopelessly optimistic and naïve.

I spent the better part of two hours, signing my name next to Granger's on the dozens of letters being sent to our 'target audience', announcing our impending visit. I could picture the owls, flying hither and yon across the entirety of the British Isles, dropping Hermione Granger's good news into the laps of the werewolves who had been alienated by Dolores Umbridge and her cronies. If I were a werewolf who had been treated like dirt by the mighty Ministry of Magic, I would probably have stomped on the letter and then throttled the owl before it could escape through an open window. How had Hermione convinced the higher-ups that werewolves would flock to their new benefactor with unadulterated zeal?

I tried to warn Granger about this.

"Don't be surprised if our reception is not what you expect," I said as we approached a lonely farmhouse somewhere in Yorkshire. It was our first stop on what I had christened 'the Werewolf Tour'.

"I'm sure they'll at least be civil," Granger retorted, completely unwilling to entertain the idea that we might be hexed into oblivion with scant notice.

"Fine," I snapped. "Just keep your wand at the ready, won't you?"

Hermione knocked at the door. It was opened by an elderly woman who, predictably, eyed the two of us with suspicion.

"Good day," Granger began brightly. "We are from the Ministry. I believe you received our owl recently, regarding the new assistance programs? I am Hermione Granger, and this is Severus Snape."

There was a brief silence, then the woman smiled graciously and opened the door wider.

"Please, come in! We don't oft get visitors way out here. Why don't you take those chairs in front of the window? They're far more comfortable than the lumpy old sofa. Davey! We've got company!" she called towards the upper floor in a thin, cracked voice. "My son Davey will be down in a moment. Would you like some tea?"

"Please, don't go to any trouble on our account," Hermione told her. "Actually, we won't be staying long."

"No trouble. I just made a fresh pot, I did." The woman tottered off to the kitchen immediately.

I glanced sideways at Granger as we sat on the hard wooden chairs. "This is likely to take forever," I muttered. "How many of these visits did you say we have to make?"

"Ninety-six altogether," she said, and hastily added, "but only three more visits today."

Which meant that I would likely be in tea up to my eyeballs if each visit went like this.

"I don't suppose," I drawled, "that any of the werewolves will offer us firewhisky instead, will they?"

Hermione glared at me. We sat in silence until the woman returned, carrying two china cups and saucers.

"Here you go, then. Would you like some biscuits to go with your tea?"

"Thank you for offering, but we've just eaten," Hermione answered in congenial tones.

"Of course." The woman beamed at us as she settled herself in on the sofa. "Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?"

Granger shot me a look which suggested that I might want to enter the conversation.

"Very pleasant," I muttered.

"Are you from London, I suppose?"

"Yes," Granger replied. Evidently she saw no need for me to explain that I lived nowhere near London, for she continued on. "It's such a delight to get out of the city. You're fortunate to live in such a beautiful place."

"Aye," the woman nodded enthusiastically. "Bit far away from things, but very beautiful."

Hermione folded her hands in her lap. "Is Davey... the one with the problem?" she asked gently.

The woman's face fell. "Aye. Don't know as the government's ever been interested in him before, though."

"That's why we're here. We'd like to rectify that."

"I know he can be a nuisance – annoying the neighbors and such, but I didn't know that many people had complained."

Granger launched into a discussion of the various new benefits the Ministry initiative would provide. I had to admire her enthusiastic belief – however misguided – that she could single-handedly change the opinions of millions of British wizarding society. Then I remembered: she wasn't doing it single-handedly. She had me.

I hastily covered up what would have been a rather rude snort of laughter, and as I did so, dislodged the file of papers from my lap. I was in the midst of replacing them when something caught my eye. I froze.

"Miss Granger," I said, interrupting her description of the wonders of the newly-enlightened Ministry of Magic. "I need to discuss something with you."

She was in the midst of casting me a scathing look of anger mixed with puzzlement when footsteps on the nearby creaking staircase announced the arrival of Davey.

"What's all this, Mum?"

"These folks are from the government, Davey. They want to help you."

"How do you do, Mr. Cushman?" Hermione rose from her seat to extend her hand.

Too late.

"Cushman? You've got the wrong house," the man told her.

In reshuffling the papers, I had noticed that the werewolf in the Cushman house was named Roger – not Davey. The look of shock and dismay on Hermione's face was priceless. She turned to me, gesturing for the file as if the paperwork could somehow save her.

"You're not Mr. Cushman?"

"Name's Davey Bottersley. Cushmans are those oddballs next farm over."

"Oh." Granger's face was beet red. I know that she was thinking of the Statute of Secrecy, and expecting a squad of Obliviators to swoop down at any moment.

"We'll be on our way," I said smoothly, rising immediately from my seat. "Our mistake. So sorry to intrude."

I had taken Hermione's arm and was steering her towards the entrance when she paused to ask, "Just out of curiosity, how exactly do you annoy the neighbors, uh, Davey?"

"Not important, Granger!" I hissed in her ear, loathe to waste any more time.

"Like to give a glimpse of me wares to the girls in town," Davey Bottsersley said, a leering look on his face. "Care to have a look, doll?"

I shoved a speechless Hermione through the entrance before muttering a hasty "Obliviate!" over my shoulder. Glancing back to make sure Davey and his mother sported unfocused, puzzled expressions, I pulled the door shut behind us.

"I don't believe it!" Hermione muttered furiously. "I thought for sure – I'd checked and double-checked the location – if I'd only thought to cross-reference..."

"Not a very auspicious start," I said as we retreated hastily down the path, "although it appears that I was correct after all."

"Correct?" Granger blurted, her face flaming crimson. "Correct about what?"

"Our reception was not what you had expected, was it? Although, your friend Davey definitely had wolf-like qualities..."

She looked as though she wanted to take a swing at me. On my part, I was rather pleased: not only was Granger prettily embarrassed, I had actually made a joke – a word, it was rumoured, was not even in my vocabulary.

***

It was late summer by the time we finished the last of the werewolf visits. Once we finally found the correct addresses, we were generally received with a reserved respect. More than a few werewolves and their families told us just what they thought of the treatment they'd received over the course of the past few years and expressed their doubts that the Ministry of Magic could deliver on what Hermione was promising them. It was hardly surprising, and we left those homes with no guarantee that the werewolves would follow up on what we were offering.

Making these visits, I found, was not an unpleasant way to spend my spare time in the spring and summer. I had to admit that Hermione Granger was an impressive force when she was fired up about something. Not only was she enthusiastic in her pursuits, she had the determination to see them come to pass. It was a good thing, I reflected, that Potter had had her along on the journey to rid the world of Voldemort. Without her, Potter and Weasley would doubtless still be sitting in the Gryffindor common room, scratching their heads and trying to come up with a plan.

I learned – whether I wanted to or not – that Fleur Weasley was expecting again, that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley were unofficially engaged, and that Hermione was deeply worried about Ron Weasley and his inability to leave his brother Fred's death behind him.