Chapter Four: Two Massive Egos
Snape threw back his cloak with a theatrical gesture. "We are quite capable of resolving this situation," he purred. "Please refrain from getting in the way of the investigation. That will be your chief contribution."
Holmes still had not moved. "Pompous ass," he thought to himself. "I have been called to consult. I shall do so. You may assist me."
Minerva curled her tail around her feet. She regarded the black-ringed tail. I might have to stuff it into my mouth to keep from howling, she thought. There had been nothing for it but to resort to her Animagus form; cats don't laugh.
Not that they noticed her. From the moment Holmes had faced Snape, they stood stock-still; both of them, chins up, glaring down their noses, eyes slitted, arms folded. I can't bear it, she thought, furiously grooming her shoulder to hide her amusement. It's incredible. They're so alike they must be related.
Minerva ran quickly into an alcove, where she regained her human form and laughed until she feared for her knickers. They could go on like this all day! She saw Hermione Granger out of the corner of her eye, and beckoned her over.
"Shh!" she cautioned. "You can't imagine the ridiculous confrontation taking place!" Hermione's eyes sparkled. "Where? I must see them!" She ran up the staircase to the gallery overhead.
Snape's brows beetled. He flung out a long arm; finger pointed somewhere "offstage."
"You, sir, may stay out of my way!"
Holmes' mouth produced a smirk identical to Snape's. "I shall allow you to make every mistake you can, not that it will bring these unfortunate individuals back to life, but that it may teach you something about detection –of which, sir, it is obvious that you lack even the barest rudiments." He rolled the final "r" contemptuously to put Snape in his place.
Hermione lay on her back on the gallery carpet, kicking her feet, tears streaming from her eyes, both hands clamped over her mouth to keep her laughter from being heard. She knew, from her adventures into Doyle's Canon and Mrs King's Kanon, that Sherlock Holmes was tall, thin, greying; that he had grey eyes and an eagle's beak of a nose, and that his hands were long and elegant. Until she saw them facing each other, she hadn't realised that Snape, twenty years older, greyer and with a good haircut, would be (except for the colour of his eyes) a dead ringer for Holmes. She sat up abruptly. Did Maura write Holmes to look like Snape?
She looked through the balusters. The two men were toe to toe, and now both had their heads thrust forward on their necks, reminding her of two vultures squaring off for a fight. Oh, gods, she thought. Holmes is a former boxer. If he punches Snape on the nose - the Professor will strike him with Cruciatus, or worse. Maura, I should have had you write at least their first meeting…
Headmaster Dumbledore hastened to step between the two massive egos. "Now, gentlemen," he said, "Let's sit down in my office and work out a plan of action that is satisfactory to all." They trooped off, Holmes stumping his unsatisfactory walking stick, Snape swirling his black cloak.
An hour and a half later, Dumbledore rose from his conference table. Snape and Holmes rose also. "Well, gentlemen, I must commend you. Your plan is sound, and I have every confidence that you will work together—he eyed them both shrewdly – to solve the mystery."
He looked over at Holmes. There was no doubt that the Great Detective had it all: sophistication, refinement, education, daring and an almost-wizardly skill with inductive and deductive reasoning.
On the other hand, Severus Snape was a powerful wizard, and his methodical, logical and precise procedures had solved many puzzles and brought criminals to justice. Together, they should make an ideal detecting team, if they did not kill each other in the process.
"I'll have a house elf show you to your quarters," said Dumbledore to Holmes. "Please join us for luncheon and, of course, dinner. Minerva says the rest of the masters are keen to meet you."
Holmes swivelled his eyes sideways, and noticed the fleeting look of rejection on Snape's face: It was clear that no-one was especially keen to welcome him.
A thought occurred to Holmes. "Headmaster Dumbledore, I regret that I did not bring evening dress with me, as I did not think I would receive a dinner invitation whilst I was tramping the moor."
"The house-elves will see to your comfort," beamed Dumbledore. "We don't have distinguished guests often!" The little gnome who had appeared at breakfast blinked into existence at his elbow. "Master Dumbledore?"
"Nibby, conduct our guest, Mr Holmes, to a suite in Gryffindor which I have reserved for him," stated the Headmaster. "Luncheon is served at noontime in the dining hall, tea at four, and dinner at seven. We'll see you later," and he waved Holmes off cheerily.
Holmes followed the gnome up and down the many strange staircases, along an open-air colonnade with a view of the lake, round and round a tower and along many corridors. They stopped in front of a large portrait of a very stout lady. She looked at them, turning around in her chair. "Well?" she demanded.
The little gnome whispered a password to the lady. Holmes was astounded; he could have sworn the little creature said, "Reichenbach Falls." She looked sharply at Holmes, said, "Oh, very well," and directly a door opened through the portrait frame. They passed through and found themselves in a large, comfortable sitting room, with two fireplaces, many squashy armchairs and small tables. Some students were clustered around a long wooden table, doing homework (writing with quills on parchment, Holmes noted); others were seated in armchairs, reading; some were playing chess or gossiping, heads together. There were girls as well as boys, and all wore black robes over their school uniforms.
As he entered, all the students immediately sprang to their feet. Well-mannered, thought Holmes with approval. Although he was far from fond of children, he recognised good breeding. He looked round at the group. "Good morning," he said. "I am Sherlock Holmes, lately of Sussex, England, and I will be spending some little time at Hogwarts on a project."
A young woman, probably a last-year student, approached him. "My name is Hermione Granger, sir," she said, and shook hands with him. "Welcome to our House." She lowered her voice; "I am aware of your project, sir, and I wish you all possible good fortune with it. Please do not hesitate to call on me if I can help."
Holmes nodded. She seemed intelligent, well spoken and forthright. Of course; here's another Russell, albeit plainer in appearance and not quite so truculent in manner. "Thank you, Miss Granger." He stopped as he prepared to follow the gnome: "Perhaps you will conduct me on a tour of the castle, at your convenience," he said.
His rooms were comfortable: a small sitting room with a fireplace, a worktable with a sturdy chair, a basket chair suspiciously like his favourite in his Sussex cottage, and a settee; a bedchamber with a large four-poster bed hung with heavy curtains, a large wardrobe and small chair, and a bathroom with what one would expect, including a large claw-footed tub. The wardrobe was filled with clothing. Holmes perused the trousers, shirts, jackets, coats, cloaks, robes, and boots – all his size. There was even an elegant evening dress suit, impeccable black broadcloth, a tailcoat with satin lapels and waistcoat, black tie and fine white dress shirt.
"Your bath ready, Master," said the gnome, peering round the bathroom door. "Nibby help you, Master." The little creature held a long-handled brush, a loofah and an assortment of washcloths and sponges.
"No, thank you – er, Nibby," said Holmes. Nevertheless, the gnome, rather, the house elf, lingered at his side, taking up his clothes as he removed them, and setting a number of thick towels within easy reach of the bathtub. Holmes sank his aching bones gratefully into the steaming water; he had had a poor excuse for a bath at his lodgings in Edinburgh, and none at all during his tramp across the moor. As soon as he sat up, his back was briskly scrubbed. He looked for a washcloth, intending to wring it out of the hot water and put it on his face: the little elf handed it to him. As he relaxed in the tub, Nibby approached him with a shaving mug full of lather, brush and razor, and proceeded to give him the best shave he had had since leaving London and his favourite barbershop. Hum, I could become accustomed to this, thought Holmes.
When he was done with his bath, and wrapped in the towels held for him by the ubiquitous Nibby, Holmes looked through the wardrobe for appropriate clothing. He found a drawer filled with fine Scottish knit undergarments, another with socks and stockings, a very handsome Harris tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, and a pair of stout woollen trousers. Nibby chose a white linen shirt, a sleeveless jumper of lightweight wool, and a silk cravat of subdued and elegant pattern, and brought over Holmes' own boots, polished to a fare-thee-well. "It's a good thing these clothes were here, Nibby," remarked Holmes. "My own are hardly fit for the dustbin, after the past few days. "
"Clothes not here, Master," said Nibby. "Nibby bring them for you."
Holmes shook his head in wonderment. Clearly, magic existed amongst all the inhabitants of this world, from the lowly house-elves to the great warlock Dumbledore. Amazing, exciting, fabulous, to be in this place, surrounded by these people, witnessing this – this magic!
Holmes put his knapsack on the sitting-room work table, and withdrew his notebooks and a couple of cases of medical instruments, phials of chemicals and other apparatus he liked to carry when he travelled just in case. He recalled the singed carpet fibres around the corpses; he would like to get a small sample…Damn. He and Snape had agreed, albeit grudgingly, to commence the investigation together, directly after luncheon. Must I abide that strutting popinjay?