Chapter Two -The Candidate
It was eight and three-quarter years later. Eight and three-quarter largely dreadful and very eventful years. Voldemort had risen and fallen. The last remaining Death Eaters had been rounded up and imprisoned. Marius Findlayter had replaced Cornelius Fudge as Minister for Magic. Snape had gone from regarding Harry Potter as an overindulged, lazy, lying, disobedient upstart who posed some danger to his own position and authority, to a boy more sinned against than sinning. And now that golden boy had taken his final exams and by the end of term he would be gone. Gradually life at Hogwarts was returning to something Snape could describe as normal.
The beginning of July 1998 was miserably wet. Harry Potter left Hogwarts to start training as an Auror – a Dark Wizard catcher. Snape sighed with relief, feeling a difficult chapter had finally closed. Not that he hated the boy as much as he used to, but life would be easier without him.
Snape desperately needed a break; he was anxious to get to London. Just a simple staff interview to do and he could be off. He should have known things are rarely that simple.
As it turned out the interview panel consisted only of McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout. Snape was of course to have been present as well, but the candidate from Brazil suffered a sudden family bereavement and to ease his plight the interview date was then put back until 6th July, by which time Snape had planned to be in London. Dumbledore was adamant that every candidate would be seen on the same day. He said it was imperative that everything should be scrupulously fair. Snape, annoyed that his plans were to be disrupted, insisted on starting his holiday on July 4th as originally agreed, and the atmosphere at his departure was somewhat acrimonious.
"That dammed man" McGonagall said as he set off. "Can't even spare us three days. Anyone would think he was the only one with holiday plans."
She had to admit however, that Snape had played his full part in short-listing the candidates. She could still picture the four Heads of Houses sitting in Dumbledore's spacious office, pouring over and over the application forms, Snape's head bent in fierce concentration, his face hidden by his curtain of greasy hair.
Three months earlier Dumbledore had put forward the suggestion that they take on a trainee teacher. The suggestion had been well received. After the horrors of the years of fighting Voldemort, everyone was keen to return the school to normality. The Department for Magical Education had handled the advertisement and by the closing date of 14th May five application forms had been received. None of the applicants had any previous teaching experience and all were seeking a one-year work-experience placement before they applied for fully-paid permanent teaching positions.
The Department for Magical Education was meticulous about equal opportunities, the application forms were forwarded from The Department to the school and did not disclose the candidates' names, nor any indication as to their gender, race, or ethnic origin. During the latter part of May and with some slight assistance from Dumbledore, the Heads of Houses selected three of the five for interview; Candidates Two, Four and Five. Snape stated that of these short-listed three, Candidate Number Four was by far his preferred choice. This was hardly surprising; Candidate Number Four was everyone's preferred choice. Privately, all were looking beyond the one-year training period to possible longer term recruitment needs.
Candidate Number Four got up and was shown out of the Headmaster's office. A moment later Dumbledore entered and seated himself in the interviewees' chair. Having selected the order of the numbers at random, the panel had interviewed Number Five, followed by Two and lastly Four. Now was the time to hear their deliberations.
"Well?" Dumbledore asked, as the panel consulted their scorecards.
"Candidate Number Two is trilingual – English/Spanish/Italian – unusual – and has a good combination of Herbology and Potions knowledge, which is always useful" Amarila Sprout replied. "Other areas however are rather weak" she added sadly. "Four has a lot of strengths – the best all-round academic record, the strongest team player, tough, practical and willing to turn a hand to anything. I think Number Four will fit in best and be a credit to the school in the long term. A long term asset. And that's what this is about – maintaining our position as a centre of excellence."
"This is a very unusual combination of the academic and the practical, here" Felix Flitwick observed, tapping a long fingernail on Number Four's application form. "I agree with Amy's assessment, and as to languages Four is bilingual in English and French, although I don't envisage we will have much call upon it. Having seen and heard them all, Number Four scored highest on the questions and is still most definitely my preferred choice."
"Both Number Four and Number Five have extensive experience of the Muggle world; something many of us lack. I include myself in that assessment" Minerva McGonagall said, her steely gaze taking in everyone. "However I just don't see Number Five as a team player in the way Number Four is. We don't need someone whose main concern is to pursue their own agenda, we need a colleague. In that respect Four fits the bill far better than Five. Two would be acceptable on that score but the academic excellence just isn't there – as we see in the low scores to many of the technical questions. It has got to be Four, has it not?"
They all agreed. Dumbledore beamed. Candidate Number Four was brought back into the office and the offer was made. McGonagall said she would owl Snape to inform him of the decision, but as she was rushing to be ready to go on holiday the following morning, Flitwick offered to contact Snape on her behalf.
That evening at dinner, McGonagall was aware of an extra bright twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes. He was in excellent spirits. "I wonder what Severus will make of our new trainee" he muttered.
"Number Four was his top choice, he's in no position to complain" she replied archly.
"Since when has that ever stopped Severus?" Dumbledore chuckled.
It was a hot afternoon in early August. Temperatures in London had reached the nineties and the network of magical lanes centred on Diagon Alley had filled up with students earlier than ever. Snape had been button-holed in Borgin and Burkes by Pansy Parkinson's fearsomely shrill mother who demanded to know why her daughter had done so badly in her Potions final.
For Snape that was the final straw! Students were bad enough, but parents who were loud, pompous, fussing, or ingratiating were to be avoided at all costs. He wanted peace and quiet, and a little less heat. Snape Apparated at Hogsmeade just after lunch and the carriage that now bore him from the village bumped and bounced in the dry ruts of the lane. As it turned in at the school gates and began its slow ascent toward the imposing Main Entrance, his only thoughts were of unpacking his few belongings, settling back into his dungeon chambers and brewing a refreshing beaker of tea.
Shouts and the buzzing roar of machinery cut in on his thoughts. Four people were working amongst the trees that bordered the grounds. Someone was hanging from a harness high in an oak tree, sawing off dead branches and lowering them to Filch and Hagrid. Filch the Caretaker and Hagrid the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, were grasping the branches and dragging them to one side, whilst from a safe distance Sprout the Herbology Professor was directing the surgical operations. Snape gazed up at the person suspended from the oak tree. This might be the new trainee, he thought; he was supposed to start in mid July. All Snape could make out was a tall figure clothed in a denim boiler suit, unseasonably thick socks and brown safety boots. A bright yellow safety helmet was clamped over brown hair. The only view of the face was a flash from the lenses of rather large goggles. The hands, swathed in dragon hide gauntlets, wielded a chainsaw with panache and a certain ruthlessness.
Well it seems he is the outdoor type, Snape sneered. Can't be much of a wizard if he has to use all these Muggle devices and protective clothing. Probably something of a straw-chewing yokel. He remembered the application form. The candidate had graduated from BeauxbatonAcademy with excellent all round results, his strongest subjects being Arithmancy and Herbology, his weakest Potions and Divination. He was only just above average in Potions and a trace below average in Divination. (Snape smiled his cold smile – he intended to have no challenges to his mastery of potions!) The candidate had played Beater for his House Quidditch team. After leaving Beauxbaton he took a Muggle degree in Physics with Applied Mathematics, studying in London via the Open University. He has a fondness for mechanical devices. Prior to seeking a teacher training position he spent five years working with dragons in Romania as part of Vladimir Gordeev's team.
Snape lost interest in the tree surgery; his thoughts returned to tea.
Five o'clock; still hours to dinner. Snape decided on a stroll in the grounds. He rarely spent much time outside and the afternoon sun would be hot on his black robes, but he could shelter under the trees at the edge of the forest and maybe speak to the new trainee; size him up. The Head of Slytherin liked to get the measure of people – he was by nature inquisitive and suspicious; traits which had repeatedly saved his life during his days as a double-agent.
Snape glided to the Main Entrance, but once there he halted. Someone wearing a denim boiler suit was plodding wearily towards the foot of the steps. A slim brown hand was pulling off the yellow helmet and easing the goggles down around the neck. The person tossed his head, and a wealth of chestnut hair cascaded around it. Snape, his heart rate rising, stepped back into the deep shadows of the doorway and looked down into a face. A woman's face. The face of a beautiful witch. With the adeptness born of years as a spy, Snape glided soundlessly back into the Great Hall and stood watching from behind one of the tall oak doors, looking through to the Entrance Hall.
Clump, clump, clump. With a measured tread and far from dainty footsteps the witch walked purposefully to the marble staircase, sat down on the sixth step and proceeded to pull off her steel-capped boots. She stuffed the socks into the top of a boot and pressed her hot, tired feet against the cool marble. "OK, Rubeus?" she called.
"Yeah. Yeah, Miss Celeste, tha' were great." Hagrid's voice sounded from the main entrance.
"Please call me Celeste, just Celeste, OK?" She rotated her shoulders to ease the muscles. "Tomorrow, if it stays fine, we'll chop up the logs. I'll let you loose with the chainsaw." She grinned. "But not today – don't try it; I've disabled it in case you get tempted."
Hagrid grinned in return. "Wha' we gonna do about the smaller branches? We'll 'ave a lot of 'em. 'Eck of a lot of 'em" he pointed out.
"I've hired a shredder" she replied. "Should arrive the day after tomorrow. We'll shred the small stuff and try mulching around the shrubs and the rose bushes. If we've got too much we may have to have a bonfire. Shame though, I'd rather not–. If we keep on top of this job we'll be able to use severing charms most years; won't need a shredder, nor have to use the saw so often."
"Yeah, well, I 'ave let the grounds go a bit, I know. Bin a bit preoccupied these past years what with one thing an' another."
"I know; I did hear about the Voldemort wars you know" Celeste said with a calm smile. Hagrid flinched, marvelling that she could say the name. "Err, Rubeus" she added, apparently alluding to a topic they had been discussing earlier, "if you want to nip over and see Olympe, just go! Argus and I can manage. Certainly for a day!"
"Ohrr, I dunno" Hagrid replied. He appreciated the offer but he was a bit sensitive about his on/off relationship with Olympe Maxime, the feisty Beauxbaton Headmistress.
"Well, it's up to you" Celeste said, "but you two won't get anywhere if you don't talk to each other. Anyway, you know my offer is there if you need it. Right; I'm off for a shower and a tidy up before dinner. And a cup of tea wouldn't go amiss. See you later, Rubeus."
One brown hand grabbed the helmet, inside of which the goggles now rested, the other hand grabbed the boots, and she was up and off, taking the stairs three at a time. Hagrid turned and ambled out into the grounds, and Snape was left alone with the sound of her cool voice still ringing in his ears. He stood for a long moment in the Great Hall; then he glided down towards the lake and sat on the bench.
What was Dumbledore playing at? What was this woman doing here? He thought they had agreed on Candidate Number Four, whom he had assumed was a tough, rugged wizard. Had Number Four withdrawn – was this a second choice? Worse still, he thought he knew this witch's angelic face. He remembered a slender neck beneath a high pony tail, graceful but muscular arms and a glint of gold at a strong young wrist as she caressed the gear selector. A red sun dress to match a large, red, luxurious sports car. This was that rich little bitch who many years ago had given him a lift to The Leaky Cauldron. The witch he had nicknamed Melissa because of her ear clips. This, dammit, was Fudge's grand-niece!
Snape was beside himself with fury! No wonder there had been such careful arrangements to hide the identity of the candidates. But what about her name? Flitwick had kept him informed of the outcome of the interview and had owled him to say they had appointed 'Candidate Number Four, Celeste Leander Lavelle'. Celeste was surely a man's name; it meant 'heavenly' – several Popes had been called Celeste! Leander certainly didn't sound feminine; in Greek mythology Leander had swum the Hellespont to join his lover, Hero - literally, his name meant 'lion man'.
Snape's foul mood lasted all through dinner. Celeste was introduced to him and he went out of his way to be as cold and formal as possible, staring haughtily down his long nose as he barely muttered "Good evening, Miss Lavelle" and working hard not to return her friendly smile. She gave him a quizzical look. Hagrid sat as usual at the opposite end of the staff dining table from Sirius Black, and McGonagall had placed Celeste at right angles to Hagrid, facing in the far distance Madeline Hooch. Shortly after Celeste took her seat, Argus Filch joined them, sitting on Celeste's left, and she was soon engrossed in conversation with both Hagrid and Filch. Snape was aware that from time to time she glanced in his direction, a puzzled look in her eyes. Whenever he looked in her direction she seemed to be always in deep conversation with Filch and Hagrid. Snape worked hard at keeping his gaze away from her.
"Well, she seems to have entranced Rubeus and Argus." McGonagall's voice made Snape jump. He glanced in Celeste's direction. She was drawing something on a pad of Muggle paper and indicating various points to Hagrid and Filch. A blue plastic roller-ball pen was in her hand.
Dumbledore lent forward, turning to McGonagall and Snape. "She is explaining the difference between two-stroke and four-stroke engines" he chuckled. "Just by way of conversation!"
"Fascinating" sneered Snape. "What have we taken on? She can't be much of a witch if she has to use all those Muggle devices."
McGonagall bridled. "She is using those so that Hagrid and Filch can take over from her" she snapped. "Filch, as you know, is not magical, and Hagrid is perhaps not the most accomplished wizard. She is instructing them in a way that is appropriate to their abilities. It will be helpful if they understand both the possibilities and the limitations of mechanical devices within the confines of the school."
Snape said nothing in reply. He studied Celeste. She was an old fashioned girl in a way; her clothes, although expensive, did not follow the latest trends and her chestnut hair, styled in a French pleat, was certainly old fashioned! She'll be like McGonagall when she's seventy, he mused, frigid and prickly. No, perhaps she won't! He recalled the way she had enjoyed pressing her hot feet against the cold marble of the stairs and the expression in her eyes as she had shaken her hair free of the safety helmet – there was a sensuous quality to her nature that McGonagall surely didn't possess.
He studied Hagrid and Filch, her faithful audience. Hagrid looked engrossed and was concentrating hard on what she was saying, trying to understand Celeste's diagram and to follow her hand-waving explanation of the firing sequence of an internal combustion engine. And Filch? Was he concentrating on mechanics, or was he trying to peer down the cleavage of her royal blue evening gown? Snape grinned sourly and turned his attention to his cup of black coffee.
It didn't take long, however, before the Head of Slytherin resolved to do more than merely sit and let his annoyance fester. He decided he must thrash the matter out with Dumbledore, and the Headmaster agreed to see him the following morning at ten o'clock. Inevitably, it was an acrimonious meeting…
Snape swung back his curtain of greasy hair and scowled at the Headmaster. "But she's Fudge's niece!" he snarled.
Rain beat on the windows as Dumbledore studied the House Master's face. The leaden sky matched Snape's foul mood, the wet weather was settling in for the day. All in all, Dumbledore was surprised at Snape's reaction. He knew him to be an angry man by nature, but it didn't often surface – Snape was usually sarcastic or sneering, but quite cool and in control of himself. This bout of histrionics was a little out of character.
"I think you are wrong to make this fuss, Severus" Dumbledore said mildly. "When you looked at the application forms no one, apart from myself, knew the identity of any of the candidates. It was quite clear to me which application form belonged to Celeste because she not only happens to be Cornelius' grand-niece but also a relative of mine."
"Yours?" Snape roared, his anger rising sharply.
"Yes. She is my brother's wife's youngest sister's granddaughter. Now don't ask me what that makes her to me" he continued deprecatingly, holding up a hand, "because I have no idea, but suffice it to say we are related. I took a good deal of advice from the Education Department about this. No one was to know of our connection so that no one could choose her as a favour to me, nor reject her to spite me. The candidates were to be examined purely on their merits. I did not take part in the interview, that is one reason why I particularly wanted you to be there. I felt I could not explain all this to you without alerting you to the circumstances. You, however, had other priorities and chose to absent yourself."
At this caustic remark Snape's eyes gleamed in fury. "You may not have taken part in the interview but you could have helped her to fill in the application form" he growled, but immediately he knew he had gone too far. All trace of warmth leached out of Dumbledore light blue gaze and Snape was forcibly reminded of the occasion three years earlier, when the Headmaster had interrogated the bogus Mad-Eye Moody at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, in the tragic summer of 1995.
"I can assure you, Severus, I would never do such a thing." Dumbledore's voice was icy. "On that point you will have to take me on trust." He pronounced the last word with great emphasis. He gazed at Snape for a moment, then got up, wrenched open a filing cabinet and threw a bundle of parchment, tied in pink tape, across his desk. "Here are the forms" he boomed. "Examine them for yourself. If you find any points that are not factually correct or are in any way misleading you are at liberty to speak to the Ministry. That is all I have to say on the matter. Good day to you, Severus."
Snape stood up. He stared down at the parchment forms but decided not to touch them. Without a word he strode from the Headmaster's office leaving the door open behind him because he could not trust himself not to slam it.
He spent the day in anger and resentment; and by the evening felt little better, so he decided to sit in the staff room before dinner and unwind by reading the evening paper. Consequently, at around six o'clock he was bounding up through the castle with ill-considered haste, and flinging aside a tapestry that concealed a short-cut passageway, he collided with Adoración Everista Vector. Fortunately, the haughty Arithmancy witch contented herself with giving him a petulant stare. Older even than McGonagall, and with her greying hair adorned by a black lace mantilla, the dark eyed witch had a temper the equal of Snape's and a look of anger that could melt ice.
"Sorry, Dora" he mumbled. I must calm down, Snape told himself, and he completed the journey to the staff room at a more judicious speed.
"Oooh, look at that, Helena Wilkinson has died her hair again! She must be a hundred-and-sixty now" Estella Sinistra remarked, flicking over her pages of Witch Weekly.
"That was a rather unkind remark, Stella" McGonagall observed. She glanced towards Snape and a tiny smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Ensconced in his favourite armchair by the staff room fire, Snape shook out his newspaper irritably and buried himself behind it, refusing to be drawn into Sinistra's invariably bitchy conversations.
"And how is dear Celeste coming along, Minerva?" Professor Sinistra enquired in her sing-song voice. "Such an unusual girl" she went on, not allowing McGonagall to reply. "My great-granddaughter Simone was at Beauxbaton with her, you know. Such pretty girls both of them. All the boys used to chase after them but Celeste showed hardly any interest in them."
"Perhaps she was more concerned about her exams, Stella" McGonagall replied testily.
"Perhaps" Sinistra simpered. "Do you know what they nicknamed Celeste in the end?"
"Estella, I don't think we should be discussing this–"
"Celeste the Unattainable. Imagine that!" Sinistra announced with triumph. "And yet there was that Charlie Weasley episode in Romania. Of course, he is a little younger than her, you know – less than a year I believe, but–"
"Enough, Estella!" McGonagall snapped. "I have no wish to hear any such gossip. Will you kindly desist!"
"Ooh well, I was only–" Sinistra replied, pretending to be hurt, but then abruptly she stopped talking because the staff room door was opening.
Celeste walked in, said a quiet good evening to everyone in general, and took a seat on a pouffé between McGonagall's and Sinistra's armchairs. Under her clothes her body was lean and muscular, lending an air of powerful suppleness to her movements. Her clothes however made her look like an early 1960s fashion model. She wore a long, jade green, satin evening dress and her high-healed shoes were a perfect colour match for it. Her hair was again slicked into a French pleat. Silver ear clips glinted at her ears. Incongruously, the scar from a badly healed burn could at times be seen on the inside of her right forearm and she seemed to have no vanity about it being in view.
"I was just wondering how you are getting on, Celeste" Sinistra cooed.
"Fine, thank you" the trainee replied with a modest smile. "I've got a lot to learn. I may be in danger of information overload at any moment, but even so it's all great. I'm working on next year's timetable with Professor McGonagall." Briefly she glanced at the Deputy Headmistress. "Well, I think she's already planned it really" Celeste added warmly to Sinistra, "but she's letting me have a go to see what I come up with."
"I'm trying to persuade her to give Severus fourth year Gryffindors for double Potions first thing on Monday mornings" McGonagall smirked. "I know how much he loves a good challenge as the start of a perfect week." Snape lowered his Evening Prophet to glare briefly at McGonagall, his eyes gleaming dangerously; but not wanting to be drawn into conversation with Celeste he retreated once more behind its pages. "However Celeste is being too kind to him" McGonagall continued. "Planning to start his weeks with Slytherin and Ravenclaw first years. They will gaze up at him, hanging on his every word. I've tried to explain to Celeste that it doesn't do to be too kind to Severus."
"Well I'm glad you're enjoying the work but I hope you will find time for a bit of recreation" the Astronomy Professor continued solicitously to Celeste, turning the conversation in the direction she wanted. "A pretty young girl like you should find a handsome wizard to amuse her. But perhaps you already have someone special?" She raised her eyebrows in polite enquiry.
"Oh, I have so many" Celeste replied airily. "This is why I can never choose." Beneath his newspaper Snape could just see her feet. They were pressed together quite tensely in the pointed-toed shoes, and she lifted them momentarily to flex her leg muscles. "How is Simone?" he heard her ask Sinistra.
"Oh doing splendidly" came the gushing reply. "Just about to give birth to her second. You don't see anything of your old friends from Beauxbaton?"
"No. Not often" Celeste replied. "I met Melanie and Yvette at the Paris opera some years ago. We were there to see Tosca. You must be very proud to be a great-great-grandmother."
From behind his newspaper's business section Snape emitted the tiniest groan, and his long, bony fingers clenched the edges of the pages a fraction more tightly.
"Oh yes! I can't tell you…" Sinistra began, clasping her hands in delight.
But of course Estella Sinistra could tell them, and did tell them, at great length, at every opportunity. Clever girl, Snape thought. Got her onto her pet subject, so the spotlight's off you.
At last it was time for dinner and Snape sighed with relief. Estella Sinistra's tales of her great-great-grandchildren were threatening to drive him up the wall. He sauntered down to the Great Hall, letting the elderly Astronomer prattle beside him, oblivious of his silence, while he listened to the clip, clip of Celeste's high heels as he watched her walk like a dutiful child beside McGonagall.
At dinner Celeste spent most of her time chatting to Hagrid and Filch but when coffee was served they slipped away and Filch's place was taken by Amarila Sprout the Herbology Professor. She was soon deep in conversation with the trainee, so much so that the two witches turned sideways on their chairs and hooked the heels of their shoes on the side rungs. Sprout's right arm hung over the back of the chair. Her left hand alternated between seizing her coffee cup and clutching at her hat which tended to slip sideways on her wealth of fine grey hair. At Celeste's temple a small chestnut strand had broken free and she was absentmindedly twisting it into a ringlet. Her other arm dangled over the back of her chair, and waved about at times as she outlined in the air some point she was explaining. As Snape watched, Celeste turned to pick up her water goblet, Sprout made some comment, and both witches laughed, Celeste displaying a row of even, very white teeth.
Against her better judgement Celeste's eyes were repeatedly drawn to Snape. He looked ever so slightly familiar yet she couldn't believe she had ever seen him before – his looks were so striking, she would surely have remembered him instantly. His hair, roughly parted in the centre and hanging in a heavy, greasy curtain gave his long face a pointed, gothic appearance. He was unhealthily pale, as if he spent all his time in the dungeons, and when she had glimpsed his teeth they had looked rather yellow. He had a long, aristocratic face, a powerfully aquiline nose, and such eyes! Cold, black tunnels, drawing you in to, to – to what? To doom? And yet she already knew there was anger in those eyes – they could sear like hot coals.
And his mouth, his lips – oh, what lips! Finely chiselled and eminently kissable, yet they issued only bitter sarcasm in a cold, baritone purr – like acid dropping onto velvet. What would it be like to be kissed by such lips? Stop this, she warned herself. This is too ridiculous for words! Angrily she dragged her mind back to her conversation with Sprout.
By the end of dinner Snape was working hard to ignore Celeste. Her pearly laughter irritated him. Her enthusiasm irritated him. Her easy friendliness irritated him. Her adaptability irritated him. He made up his mind. Celeste had got to Hogwarts by means of a trick and he was not going to go along with it. Outwardly he was going to ignore her as much as possible. He was not going to help with her training, and he was not going to converse with her except whenever it was unavoidable. As far as possible he was going to carry on as if she had never turned up. But he was never going to trust her. He would be on the watch and would find out anything he could about her. Surreptitiously. She was threatening to be like the Potter boy – fêted by everyone as so wonderful, such a treasure! Potter had been just a kid, but this was a calculating woman of twenty-seven. She was just too good to be true.
