The Third Year: Granger's Folly

The Third Year: Granger's Folly

Christmas, again, with the usual ham, holiday invitations, and marriage proposal. And again, I received a Christmas card from Hermione Granger wishing me the usual holiday felicitations. Recalling last year's fiasco during our first werewolf home visit, I was seized by a sudden desire to taunt her. Although sending Christmas cards is not something I ordinarily do, I decided to make an exception in her case. I wrote back to Hermione, wishing her a happy Christmas and expressing my astonishment that she had sent her card to the correct address.

It was not long before I received a reply: "As I recall, both of us knew the address of the house in Yorkshire. Don't try to pin the blame solely on me!"

Needless to say, I couldn't let that go. I wrote to Granger again, pointing out that she had led the way to the house in Yorkshire, and as her 'charge' during my community service, I was merely following directions. Knowing Granger, she would probably have more to say on the subject – but there was no answer this time.

The reason there was no answer, I decided a few days later, was related to a piece of gossip found in the Christmas Day issue of the Daily Prophet. I certainly do not make a practice of reading Rita Skeeter, but Granger's name leapt out at me as I was scanning the page.

What a ring! War heroes Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were spotted last night at new Diagon Alley dance spot, Coven, making lovey-dovey eyes at one another. Although it comes as a surprise to no one that the two are now officially engaged, the ring itself was the talk of the holiday partygoers at Coven: a heart- shaped ruby surrounded by heart-shaped topaz. This chunk of pricey jewelry is definitely a one-of-a-kind for the two former Gryffindors-in-love!

Heart-shaped ruby surrounded by heart-shaped topaz? It sounded gaudy and revolting, not Granger's style at all. As far as the engagement, I suppose it was inevitable. Still, the news disappointed me; Weasley was not even close to the girl's league, let alone in it. Surely Hermione had higher expectations that that.

I thought about her again shortly into the new year, when I read about a study in the latest issue of the American trade journal, Practical Potions. The purpose of the study was to evaluate possible uses for a newly-created headache remedy, whose unexpected side effects included boosting one's memory. Hermione's mother came to mind, and I wrote to the researchers for more information. I then wrote to Granger, telling her of this development and congratulating her on her engagement.

Her reply was swift, the parchment weighted down by questions about the study and its possible outcome. I wrote back at once.

"Granger, what part of 'wrote for information' do you not understand? All I know is what was printed in the journal – a small blurb about the study beginning. Nothing more, nothing less. Being as Legilimency is of little use against the written page, I can enlighten you no further at the present time."

And when another week rolled by and I received my yearly notice from the Ministry, I can't say that I was terribly surprised to learn that I would once more be doing my community service under the supervision of Hermione Granger.

***

"I see you've changed departments. Are there no more unemployed werewolves in Britain?" I remarked as I took the chair next to Granger's desk, now located in the newly-formed House-Elf Liaison Office.

"I'll have you know that the project has been very successful," Hermione said, her chin tilting proudly. "Successful enough that I was able to turn it over to someone else and move on."

"How did you convince your superiors that you have no intention of creating a clothing line for house-elves?"

She gave me a filthy look. "I'd like to think that I've matured since I was at school. The only way to beat the system is to work within the system."

"Which means what?"

Hermione was saying something about laws and regulations guaranteeing elf rights, but my attention was drawn to her left hand and the hideous ring on the fourth finger. It was every bit as silly-looking as Skeeter had implied. Granger saw where my eyes had wandered and turned bright red.

"I expect Ron was thinking of our years in Gryffindor when he bought that," she said faintly.

"Indeed."

And that one innocuous word burst the dam.

"It's horrible," Hermione moaned, propping both elbows on the desk and covering her eyes with both hands. "It's absolutely, positively –"

"– the ugliest piece of jewelry I've ever seen," I finished.

She looked at me then and burst into nervous laughter. I chuckled along with her; I couldn't help myself.

Granger's laughter subsided, replaced by a sudden moistness in her eyes.

"Needless to say, Ron bought it without any input from me. I always fancied a simple diamond solitaire," she said miserably.

"I suggest that you tell him," I said. "Surely he would not want you to wear a ring you hate for the rest of your life."

Hermione stared at the ring, and as she did so, I had the impression that there was more involved than an unsightly piece of jewelry.

"He really thought he did a wonderful thing, buying this," she told me.

"Then you have a difficult choice to make, don't you?" I grimaced inwardly. When did I begin offering advice to the lovelorn? I quickly turned the conversation back to the reason I was sitting there. "What, pray tell, is our project regarding house-elves, Miss Granger?"

"This office was just formed two months ago," she said, apparently as eager to abandon the subject of Ron Weasley's taste in jewelry as I was. "Before, there was only the House-Elf Relocation Office – which, needless to say, did virtually nothing other than keep track of the whereabouts of house-elves. We want to do more than that. We want to improve the living and working conditions for the elves, not just do a silly, meaningless census every year. And we've already begun to make overtures to them, much as we did with the werewolves last year."

"How many werewolves signed up for your program?" I asked out of curiosity.

"We've had a steady stream of applicants."

Her answer seemed somewhat evasive. "How many? Forty? Fifty?"

"Twelve," she said a bit sheepishly. "But I'm sure more will sign up when they see the program is taking hold."

It was, I decided, a lucky thing for the werewolves that Granger had moved to the aid of a different clientele. She would likely have had me physically restraining the werewolves while she demanded that they sign up for assistance.

"Point taken. What is our elfin project for this year, then?"

"I wanted to start with something simple. The Americans have a holiday called Labor Day, begun when people worked far longer hours and days. It celebrates the working man, so to speak, and involves nothing more than a day of leisure – a day for picnics and barbecues and that sort of thing. I thought that a national holiday for house-elves would be a wonderful idea."

She had that look in her eye. Some might call it an expression of dedication and zeal. I call it the Granger Harebrained Bright Idea look.

"Why a national holiday?" I wanted to know. "Why not simply encourage anyone who owns a house-elf to give it a day off?"

Judging by the now steeled glint in her eyes, I knew I had erred by using the words 'owns' and 'it'.

"Because compliance would most likely be non-existent," she snapped. "Until people learn that it's wrong to enslave a sentient creature, proper treatment has to be legislated!"

"And is that in the planning?"

Granger deflated a bit. "Yes, but it will take a long time. I thought we'd start with the holiday. Eventually I'd like to see elves given work contracts specifying duties, hours, working conditions, and so forth."

"No salary?" I asked innocently.

"No salary," Hermione agreed, although I could tell by her frown that she was still displeased with that particular little sticking point.

"And where do I fit in?"

"Well, I'd like you to help with the planning. Then I've already set aside a Sunday in June."

"A Sunday for what?"

"The picnic."

"The what?" I choked, a vague feeling of panic starting to well up.

"The first one will be strictly voluntary for the elves and their masters, of course," Granger put in hastily. "I intend to encourage everyone to give their elves the day off so that they can attend. I'm certain that Professor McGonagall will insist that the Hogwarts elves come, and that's the largest single group of elves in Britain."

"You want me to help give a picnic for house-elves," I said.

"Yes."

She looked so hopeful, so impossibly young and idealistic. If I didn't know that a mind like a steel trap lurked behind the bushy hair, I would have laughed in her face and walked out.

***

It's amazing how much planning goes into a picnic for creatures that aren't likely to appreciate it. Granger headed a committee of four disenchanted, low-level bureaucrats from the Being Division who – along with me – wrestled with the knotty issues involved.

First there was the menu. What did house-elves eat? Nobody seemed to know for certain, for as soon as elves served food, people were too busy eating to observe what the elves did to feed themselves. Hermione volunteered to check with Minerva McGonagall.

Granger was all for games to be held, as well. She had visions of house-elves in three-legged races and some sort of peg-and-ring game, not to mention elf football. One of the indifferent committee members suggested a game where participants tried to fling a rock-filled sock great distances; he sniggered quietly when Hermione's eyes first lit up, then darkened when she realized that clothing was involved. I could see that her enthusiasm for elf rights was no more widely embraced by others than it had been at Hogwarts all those years ago.

Hermione was also determined to come up with a gift for all attendees, something akin to the commemorative tee-shirts that Muggles tended to dispense for any and every occasion, only suitable for elves. The committee batted around the idea of sun visors for all guests and whether or not they counted as hats. The same man who had suggested the sock fling put forth the idea of souvenir sunglasses with the Ministry logo – all in extra large sizes to shade the elves' enormous eyes. Granger turned beet red at that remark, and I couldn't help but feel just a bit sorry for her. She was trying to change the mindset of a lumbering bureaucracy as well as the staid wizarding society, and success was a long shot at best.

Despite the general foot-dragging and lack of animated involvement, the day of the picnic arrived. When we gathered at the picnic site, I discovered that Granger had enlisted more accomplices. I was required to be there by virtue of my sentence, of course. Potter and Weasley were there because of their years of friendship with Hermione and status as war heroes. The other committee members were there because they had been ordered to do so.

"It's good to see you, Mr. Snape. How are you?" As soon as Harry spotted me, he walked over and extended his hand. His eccentric house-elf, Kreacher, trailed in his wake.

"Quite well, Mr. Potter." The boy – no, young man – standing in front of me was direct and courteous, and I was impressed in spite of myself. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

"This is Hermione's big day," he said, grinning. "She's been waiting for this for a long time."

"I hope that she's not going to be disappointed when the world doesn't change overnight." There were footsteps, and I glanced to my right: Ronald Weasley was approaching.

"Hey, Professor Snape." He stuck out his hand and I took it, somewhat reluctantly.

"Mr. Weasley," I said coolly. If Weasley thought he could ride Potter's cloak-tails into friendship with me, he was sorely mistaken. It had taken a near-miracle for Potter and me to arrive at the point where we could refrain from attacking each other on sight.

The boy – who looked much less a man than Potter – appeared to be extremely well-dressed for a Sunday afternoon picnic. In fact, his clothing appeared to be of the latest design and style.

"How are things going at your shop, Mr. Weasley?" I asked, already suspecting that things must be going quite well if he could afford such a pricey wardrobe.

"Great," Ron said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We're doing great. Profits are up and business is booming. Where's Hermione?"

"Last I saw, she was directing the table set-up," I told him, glancing over my shoulder to where the Ministry people were using their wands to move picnic tables – elf sized – into position.

"Good. Guess you heard we're engaged."

"I did. Hermione showed me her ring." I managed to keep my face impassive as I said this.

"Real corker, isn't it?" Weasley said, looking utterly pleased with himself. "None like it anywhere."

"I have no doubt." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Potter's mouth twitch. "When is the happy day?"

"Oh, we haven't set a date yet. Got a million things to do at the shop. George relies on me."

"Hello!" Hermione came rushing up, her hair pinned into a frenzied knot on top of her head, her eyes bright, and looking like the fate of the world depended on the outcome of this picnic. "We're about to set out the food. Could you all pitch in and finish up the tables? I expect the elves to start arriving at any moment."

Without further ado, we began conjuring elf-sized chairs and placing them about the tables. We put out plates and specially made goblets – 'Elf Fest 2001', they proclaimed – and then began to set up the food. As Potter and I wrestled large urns of butterbeer into position, a massive crack announced the arrival of the Hogwarts elves.

It was an odd sight: nearly a hundred house-elves of all shapes and sizes, clad in their immaculate white tea towels bearing the Hogwarts crest, and shifting nervously from foot to foot as though they were lost en masse. Hermione took charge at once, pointing her wand to her throat and welcoming them in a loud, enthusiastic voice.

"Hello, I'm so glad that you all could make it! My name is Hermione Granger, and on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, I want to welcome you to Elf Fest 2001!"

The elves stared at her, some of them muttering. The words 'Dobby' and 'knitted hats' could be heard. There wasn't any overt hostility per se, but to an elf, each one was regarding Granger with frank mistrust.

"Miss Granger!" Minerva McGonagall, who had Apparated just behind all the elves, strode forward. "How are you, dear?"

"Fine, Professor," Hermione said, shaking her former teacher's hand.

"And Mr. Potter," Minerva continued, spotting Harry standing nearby.

Abruptly, the elves' attention was diverted, and they all beamed as one. Awed murmurs of 'Harry Potter!' could be heard. That seemed to break the ice a bit. Granger took advantage of their improved mood to request that everyone queue up at a nearby table to make name tags. That was greeted with general head scratching; finally, one elf tentatively raised a hand to inquire why name tags were needed, as the Hogwarts elves already knew each other.

"It'll make it easier for you to get to know the other elves when they arrive," Hermione said brightly.

The elf still looked dubious. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Potter standing next to Granger and nodding agreement at them in an encouraging manner. The elves shrugged and queued up and made out their name tag. Before long, I overheard Hermione wisely suggesting to Harry that he be the one to make the announcement when the food was ready.

And the food service was yet another fiasco. Unaccustomed to being served themselves, the elves seemed completely unable to grasp the idea that the humans wanted to serve them. Elf after elf would fill a plate and offer it to one of us, only to be reminded that the food was for them. Eventually, they tried to serve it to each other, with the same lack of success.

"How are we doing attendance-wise?" Hermione, looking utterly frazzled, rushed up to where McGonagall and I stood chatting by the name tag table. "How many, other than the Hogwarts elves, have shown up?"

"Only one," I said, gesturing to where Potter's house-elf, Kreacher, sat regarding the Hogwarts elves with something akin to condescension.

Granger's face fell. "None of the others came?"

"Now, now," Minerva said briskly, "this is a good start, you know. It takes time to change people's minds."

Hermione smiled wanly at the older woman's encouragement. "Thank you, Minerva."

One of the committee members wandered up just then to inquire about beginning the games. Granger and Weasley made complete idiots of themselves as they tried to demonstrate the three-legged race. I'm certain that the elves ended up convinced of what they already suspected – that humans were insane after all – as they watched the physical gyrations of the two as they tried to run with legs tied together. House-elves surely have better means of entertainment than the silly games we offered, but they tried – I think simply because Harry Potter was present.

And when the picnic finally ended and the elves Disapparated, I saw Hermione Granger sink wearily down into a chair and cover her face with her hands. Ron Weasley went to comfort her, and I busied myself with cleaning up. I couldn't help but overhear their conversation, however.

"–told you this was a barmy idea."

"It wasn't a barmy idea!"

"Well, the only elves that showed up were the ones that had to, weren't they? Although, I'll bet if Dobby was still alive, he would have been here."

"Thank you, Ronald. You've been very supportive – as always."

Granger stormed off. I'm sure that Weasley truly had no idea why.

Eventually, the clean-up was complete, and I remembered the letter that I'd had in my pocket all day.

"I have something for you, Granger. It's from the Experimental Potions Laboratory at the New York Institute for Magical Research," I said. "I took the liberty of inquiring whether your mother might participate in their study for the new drug."

Hermione stared at me, her eyes widening. She snatched the parchment from me and scanned it rapidly.

"Are you serious? They'll take Mum for their study?" she gasped, looking for confirmation that she'd read correctly.

"Yes, as long as she has a wizarding sponsor who –" I was cut off in mid-sentence by a slender, bushy-haired body hurling itself at me. Granger threw her arms around me and burst into tears.

"I – I don't know how to – to thank you," she wailed. "If – if this works, it'll b-be so – so wonderful!"

"If it works," I repeated, surprisingly uneager to pluck Granger off my person. Having a woman plastered to me was an experience I'd not encountered for a very long time, and I thought that I might as well enjoy it, however brief it might last. "You know full well that it's experimental."

"Yes, but it's a start, Severus!" Hermione let go of me and clasped her hands to her chest, her eyes shining with tears. The loss of the feel of her against me made me feel unexpectedly bereft. She had also called me by my given name, which gave me a bit of a start. It had been years since my days in the Hogwarts staff room when I was addressed daily in such a manner. "What do we need to do? You mentioned a wizarding sponsor?"

"Being as your mother is a Muggle, she obviously would not be eligible without a witch or wizard to sponsor her," I explained patiently. "In addition, I believe that she will have to go to New York for at least part of the study."

"Oh." Granger was thinking hard. "Well, Mum's still not working, of course, so that shouldn't be a problem. I'll have to see about getting some time off to go with her. How long do you suppose she'll need to be there?" she demanded, scanning the letter once more.

"You may write them back and find out the details. I've done my part."

***

The Experimental Potions Laboratory at the New York Institute for Magical Research was the source of at least a dozen innovations over the past twenty-five years. Their reputation was widespread, and it was for that reason that I had felt no compunction whatsoever in suggesting Lynette Granger for the program. The British wizarding world was still too busy congratulating itself on winning the war to make solid progress in its research.

A week later, I was surprised by a knock at my door, and when I opened it, I found Hermione Granger standing there.

"I hope I'm not intruding," she said by way of greeting.

"And if you are?" I posited.

"Then I apologize," Granger said, beaming. "May I come in?"

Wordlessly, I waved her into the tiny parlor. At once, Granger pulled a letter from the pocket of her robe and handed it to me. "It's from the EPL in New York. They want Mum there on the first of June."

"That's the week after next," I pointed out. "What did your parents have to say about it?"

"They're both willing," Hermione told me. "They trust me – and you, being as you're the one who recommended her. I discussed the whole thing with Mum and Dad on Sunday, and they both agree that it's worth trying the new potion. Mum's better, of course, but it's driving her batty that she can't go back to the dental practice."

"How long will she need to stay there?"

"Two weeks, initially. Once Mum begins the program, the Institute will send the drug and the protocol to St. Mungo's, so at least she can have her monthly evaluation done here."

"I take it you're going with her?" I asked, gesturing for her to take a seat in a wingback chair.

Granger nodded. "Yes." At this, she frowned. "My supervisor wasn't terribly happy about giving me the time off just as they're working on the final drafts of the Elf Protection Act, but I have no choice. Mum can't go by herself."

I smiled politely. "I hope it works out for her."

"Me, too. It's terrible, seeing her unable to work in her profession and knowing that it's my fault."

"Stop it, Granger," I said in a low voice. "Put the guilt away, or it will eat you alive."

Hermione studied me, searching my face for – what? Caring? Concern? It shocked me then to realize that I actually felt genuine concern for the Grangers.

"I owe you everything," she murmured.

"You owe me nothing," I began, unable to tear my eyes from her face.

Abruptly, Granger took two steps forward until she stood in front of me. Then she reached up to cradle my face in her hands and kissed me, gently, on the lips.

I don't know which of us looked the more startled when she stepped back again.

"I'd better go," she said uneasily, tucking the letter back in her pocket and moving toward the door again.

I trailed after her. "I assume that when you return, you'll have more work for me to do? I still have more than a hundred hours of this year's community service remaining."

"If this potion helps," Hermione murmured as she stepped outside, "you can consider this year's service completed."