Chapter Five: He's Thrown His Toys Out the Pram
Snape gave out the homework assignments for the last class of the morning, spoke briefly with Vector, who would take his morning classes during the murder investigation, and stalked off to his dungeon laboratory. Once there, he shut and warded the door. Oh, the ignominy of it, to have this Muggle meddler in his laboratory, handling his equipment! Nobody was allowed to muck with his things! Well, almost nobody… there was Miss Granger, his intern, of course, but she was different. He could tolerate her presence; well, most of the time: she had an unsettling propensity for argument, and seemed to delight in throwing his words in his face, challenging his statements, verbally cocking a snook at him whilst informing him that his pomposity was laughable. She could insult him, contradict him, lecture him and rail at him, even say No! to him, and although he gave back as good as he got, he rewarded her with learning, with challenge, with opportunities to stretch her already considerable abilities. He had never encountered a mind like hers, as acute an intellect. Grudgingly he had had to admit that she was his equal.
Then, there were times when he regarded her profile, with its long sweep of black lashes, straight little nose and soft mouth; her thick, wild, curly brown hair, and his traitor heart beat faster …she was just finishing her last year, which made her still a student, and Head Girl or no… She was almost eighteen years old, taking into consideration her excursions with a Time-Turner. He had wanted to wrap her in his embrace and kiss that soft mouth since she was fifteen, and he had, for the first time, noticed the woman she was fast becoming. He could not do that. So she dwelt in his mind, in his head, in his intellect, at his side, under his hand; she was his right hand, his left brain and a formidable opponent in their many battles; a week without at least one good, knockdown, drag-out fight was rare. She had actually become his partner.
Snape stalked around his laboratory bench, over to his shelves, straightening phials arranged in perfectly straight rows, re-stacking precisely stacked boxes of herbs and dried ingredients, re-arranging jars of specimens that stood in military precision. He flung himself into his desk chair, slouched down on the end of his spine and propped his boots on his desk, scowling. He put his hands together; steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips. How, in the name of the nineteen minions of Hermes Trismegistus, was he going to solve the murder, with that self-righteous – whatever he was—in the way?
Minerva had told him that Holmes was not a Muggle. Well? If he wasn't a Muggle (and he was surely no Wizard), what was he? A construct, he thought. He's the product of the imagination of a Muggle author who lived almost a hundred years ago; he's not real. I suppose, if Conan Doyle had written him to be a Wizard, that's what he would have been.
Snape swung his feet off his desk and got out of his chair. He rummaged in a cabinet, looking for a particular book; it was not there, he must have returned it to Madam Pince's restricted section. He paced back and forth, restless for an answer to a question he did not dare to voice: what if he could not solve this crime? What if Holmes solved it? Bitterly, he remembered years in his past when others had taken the credit for his work.
What do I do? Is this to be some obscene competition between myself and this—this literary phantasm made flesh? Must I fight not only the odd and perplexing complications of this case but also the presence of someone who would most likely take delight in seeing me shamed? He stood up, pulled down his jacket and brushed off his cloak. I have a duty to Albus Dumbledore, and through him to Hogwarts and the entire Wizarding World, he thought dully. I do the dirty work. The sodding Detective will most likely take the credit.
And what of Miss Granger? Little busybody will be all over this glamourous figure, he thought sourly. Minerva, whom one would suppose had better sense, is besotted with him already. He prepared to go down to luncheon. Luncheon. I may vomit.
***
There was a knock on the door of Holmes' rooms. "Mr Holmes! Come with us to luncheon!" He opened the door, and there was Miss Granger with two of her chums. He shook hands with Ron Weasley, an open-faced redhead, gangling his way up to more than six feet; and with Harry Potter, shorter, a little more circumspect, with an odd scar on his forehead. Potter was Head Boy. On their way down to the dining hall, the three explained the Houses and how Sorting was done; the subjects studied in different forms, and even the rudiments of Quidditch, which Holmes, no sports enthusiast, made a mental note to avoid at all costs.
"Of course, you couldn't very well play Quidditch, even though you're not a Muggle," stated Potter, who then looked as if he wished he could swallow his tongue. Miss Granger threw Potter a look that would shatter glass.
"Not a Muggle, eh? Well, I'm certainly not a Wizard," commented Holmes. "I'm a bit long in the tooth to be buzzing round in a game of flying cricket on a broomstick! Professor Dumbledore has some more explaining to do, I believe."
They reached the dining hall, with its four long House tables and the Masters' table up front. The giant, Hagrid, lurched up to them. "Come with me, Mr Holmes," he rumbled. "Guests sits at the Masters' table." Holmes bade the students good-bye, and followed the huge man to his seat.
Luncheon was astonishing, as breakfast had been: the Headmaster stood, and the cheerful babble of students' voices hushed to silence. Dumbledore spoke a blessing in some unintelligible language, and immediately great dishes of food appeared on the tables. The young people set to with hearty appetites. Holmes watched as a heaping dish of roasted chicken pieces was picked clean by hungry youngsters – and immediately it was magically refilled.
Holmes, who enjoyed good food, helped himself to grilled fish and prawns, rice pilaf, buttered Brussels sprouts and a tomato salad. A house-elf poured what looked like apricot juice into his goblet. One sip told him it was pumpkin juice, unusual in taste with a hint of spices, but it was pleasant and thirst quenching.
Minerva McGonagall, on his right side, introduced the other Masters, who were most pleased to meet him, especially Poppy Pomfrey, the mediwitch, who blushed and simpered, entranced by the strange and charming visitor. On his other side, Professor Flitwick, a tiny fellow, kept up a constant commentary on everything and everyone, a veritable verbal fountain of information. Holmes, who could 'turn on' his sociable side as if it were a water faucet, conversed with his neighbours and entertained them with tales of some of his more outrageous cases, liberally embellished by his lively imagination.
Holmes glanced around: Snape was not seated at the Masters' Table, nor was he anywhere else. Sulking, he thought, with amusement. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Snape was indeed at table, hidden behind Hagrid. When the half-giant leaned over to chat with his neighbour's neighbour, Holmes noticed the Potions Master, sitting hunched over an almost empty plate, rearranging the few morsels of food, barely picking at his luncheon. Idiot, he thought. He's thrown his toys out the pram, hasn't he? How childish, to fly into a pet because an expert was called in!
Snape looked over at him and barely nodded. Holmes, idling over an excellent cup of coffee and a cherry tart, thought, he wants to get this over with. Let's get on with it, then. He made his apologies to the Masters and Mistresses, stood up (amazing how his chair pushed itself back on its own!) and walked over to Snape, who had risen from the table. "Lead on, Macduff," he said, and was amused when Snape smirked and said, "Macbeth."