CHAPTER TWO: HOGWARTS
Professor Severus Snape was in an uncharacteristically horrible mood.
Typically his moods tended to run the gamut from bored to slightly irritable and petered out around generally pissy. Tonight, however, they'd decided that generally pissy was not even close to adequate for his current situation, and therefore ran up his emotional meter to absolutely hacked off.
If it weren't for his dignity, Snape might've considered kicking the cauldron in frustration. But as that would only land him with a rather sore foot and a cauldron slightly more to the left than it had been previously, he refrained. It wouldn't have achieved anything, anyway. The problem lay not without the cauldron, but within it – in the potion it contained. Snape was sure he'd run variations on the same experiment enough times to throw in the wand and pronounce it a complete failure.
He stared at the cauldron coldly. It was unthinkable for the Hogwarts Potion Master to come across any magical substance-related problem he could not solve within the span of four days. Snape was a professional, and more than that, a perfectionist. He prided himself on his immaculate skill, the subtle nuances of precision that lent themselves to his impeccable technique.
Inside the pewter cauldron, the experimental potion bubbled a muddy bluish-grey. Turning sharply to the nearby desk, Snape ran a finger down a list of ingredients he'd listed as suitable possibilities. He'd begun with a basic Concealment Concoction and moved forward from there – tweaking the properties, attempting to strengthen its protective elements while moving towards a resulting potion of a completely different nature. The aim of the entire mess was a variation on the Polyjuice Potion, which would eventually enable its drinker to take on another's appearance at will without the nasty go-between requirement of a bit of the other person, and with a set time limit reaching past an hour.
Snape supposed he ought to have proceeded directly to using the Polyjuice Potion as an experimental base rather than wasting time with its predecessor, the Concealment Concoction. He removed the cauldron from the fire and grimly pointed his wand at its murky contents. "Evanesco," he muttered.
His eyes briefly paused on the wall clock. 6:58am. Snape hadn't realized he'd worked so late, or so early, rather, but was unsurprised. He tended to lose track of time when his mind was busy with an absorbing task, and he was becoming more and more preoccupied with creating a correct formula for his elusive illusory potion.
Snape's head ached slightly, probably from hunger, and he noted that he couldn't remember eating anything after breakfast the previous day. Albus would undoubtedly issue a gentle reprimand if he didn't show for this morning's meal, and more importantly, his head would probably continue to pound if he did not eat. Wearily he recorded the ingredients and methods used on the failed potion in a lined leather notebook lying on a nearby counter, and swung open the door of his dungeon to mount the stairs leading to the warmer, dryer upper floors of the castle.
The ascending sun on Hogsmeade lit the quaint wizard town gently, tempering the chill night into a cool, bright morning. Incredibly, Hazel had managed to not splinch herself while Apparating to the village and now stood blinking at the bizarrely familiar beauty of her surroundings. Small thatched cottages and picturesque shops lined the cobblestone streets of the only completely Wizarding village in Britain.
The names on the signs outside the shops and pubs – Honeydukes, Zonko's, The Three Broomsticks, Gladrags Wizardwear – were the only indication that the town was not completely normal. Fortunately, it wasn't normalcy Hazel was after.
As she walked west, the castle loomed into view, grey-brown stone and immense despite its distance. The final establishment, a pub called the Three Broomsticks, fell away to her right as she followed the road, stepping lightly over the track-ties of Hogsmeade Station. The path led her through several small copses of trees surrounding a wide blue lake and, after some time, to the great mahogany doors of the castle.
She found herself strangely nervous, a small queasiness in the bowl of her stomach to which she had long been unfamiliar. Odd. Years of presenting herself to hundreds of people in all her most vulnerable states hadn't lessened the discomfort she felt re-entering Wizarding society. The village had been deceptively charming, but Hogwarts castle rose stalwartly above the dark lake and unsettled her slightly. She finally shoved aside her doubts as she mounted the castle steps.
Hazel pushed open the heavy wooden doors to reveal a spacious foyer of vaulting arches and elaborate stonework. She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped inside, her sandals slapping sharply against the stone floor. A short, wide staircase led her to another pair of arched mahogany double doors. A slight murmuring sound leaked from beneath these doors. After a few seconds' deliberation, Hazel lifted the great iron ring that served as a handle and pulled the door towards her to admit herself to the room.
Four long tables running perpendicular to the door filled the greater part of the room. A group of wizards and witches clustered around a fifth, shorter table at the far end of the hall. Hazel recognized Professor Dumbledore sitting in a high-backed chair at the center of the table, chatting amicably with the grey-haired witch to his right. Glancing upwards, she noticed that there was no ceiling to the hall; outside, the morning sunlight was rising steadily above the walls of the room. She supposed the ceiling was enchanted to form an exact replica of the sky she'd left outside the castle, as she hadn't seen a gaping hole in the roof and it would be very unpleasant for everyone in the hall if it rained.
At the High Table, Professor Dumbledore had seen Hazel's entrance and was now enthusiastically waving to her to join the group of breakfasting professors. Digging her hands deeply into the front pocket of her navy Oxford sweatshirt, Hazel began the trek across the hall.
Okay, breathing is a good idea, Hazel reminded herself. It's just a new group of people. No reason to have kittens. She was nervous, which was not familiar for her, and this in turn made her even more nervous. Oh, Jesus. Everyone was staring at her now.
Dumbledore rose to shake her now-shaking hand as she approached the High Table. "No accidental side trips to the Forbidden Forest, I see. Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Farren. Please, have a seat." He smiled kindly. It was reassuring, but only slightly. After rounding the table, Hazel plopped rather unceremoniously into the vacant wooden chair beside the witch to Dumbledore's right, who introduced herself as "Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration professor, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House."
"Pleased to meet you," squeaked Hazel. Minerva McGonagall's stern countenance reminded her vaguely of a challenging yet kindly acting professor she'd had as a freshman. "I'm, ah, Hazel Farren, Professor of Dramatic Art."
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Farren." The professor paused momentarily to chew rigorously on a strip of bacon. "I'm pleased to see you've joined us so soon. Professor Dumbledore has been most anxious for your arrival."
"I'm not sure how anxious he could've been, I was only just offered the position yesterday," Hazel said quickly. She realized all the professors had gone back to their food and conversations, and took the opportunity to help herself to scrambled eggs, several pieces of toast, and a thick slice of honeydew melon. Unwanted attention apparently had a huge impact on the appetite.
In Hazel's periphery, Professor McGonagall seemed to falter almost imperceptibly. Her quickly regained composure almost convinced Hazel that the professor hadn't hesitated at all.
"You'll want to begin work on lesson plans immediately, I expect," she said, examining Hazel with her sharp eyes.
She nodded in acquiescence. "I'd like to get settled into my room first, but I've brought several scripts and some of my college acting textbooks. I'll take a look at them afterwards."
"College textbooks?" repeated Professor McGonagall approvingly. Hazel didn't fail to notice the satisfaction that crept into her voice.
"Better than the watered-down excuse for acting curriculum used in most middle and high schools," she replied. "I'd like to do some graduate-level work in my older classes. The more I can challenge my students, the more skills they'll gain. And the sooner I can start, the happier I'll be."
"I'll have one of the house-elves show you to your rooms after breakfast so you can settle yourself and begin work."
Hazel grinned, party in relief. She didn't seem to be mucking up her first conversation with another professor too badly. Fortunately, McGonagall hadn't asked about her previous education. Hazel was sure it was blindingly obvious that she was just out of university, and she was a little embarrassed about her lack of magical experience in the presence of Hogwarts' skilled professionals.
Looking down to her plate to seize upon her melon slice, she suddenly remembered she was wearing her favorite old comfy Oxford sweatshirt. Oh.
Over the course of the meal, she continued to ask Professor McGonagall questions – about the other members of the teaching staff, the students, the four Houses, and finally the Founders and the history of the school. When she reached the bit about the history, Professor McGonagall quickly responded, "There's a book containing everything you'll want to know on the subject. I'll have it sent to your rooms. I think you'll find it an invaluable resource while you settle into Hogwarts."
Suddenly, a door to the far left of the High Table flew open with a bang. A hook-nosed man in long black robes entered. He paused to speak briefly with the Headmaster, then took a place at the table between a grey-looking man in brownish robes and a witch with short spiky grey hair.
The man's greasy black hair fell into his face as he began to eat vigorously. To Hazel's right, Professor McGonagall said in a low voice, "Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin. It's the first time he's eaten in nearly a day. Albus should speak with him about it. He has a tendency to forget himself when he's engrossed in his work."
"Suppose that explains why he hasn't noticed the small mountain that's taken up residence on his face," Hazel joked before she could catch herself. She had no idea whether or not the stern-looking Transfiguration professor would take kindly to an offhanded critique of her colleague's appearance. To her relief, McGonagall snorted into her coffee.
After the meal, a house-elf appeared so quickly Hazel could've sworn McGonagall had used a Summoning Charm. The house-elf led her from the Great Hall, past the Charms corridor, up a few flights of stairs and stopped before a door which caused Hazel the greatest unpleasantness of her day by being an abysmal shade of mauve. A feeling of discomfort welled in Hazel's stomach. She'd never been able to tell house-elves' genders, and it made her feel incredibly guilty for some reason she didn't understand.
"Hold on a moment. Can't this be changed?" she asked, indicating the door. The house-elf looked at her blankly.
"Why, certainly Miss can change her door if Miss so wishes," it squeaked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Hazel sighed. "I'm not really sure how to . . ."
The house-elf gave her an almost condescending look and turned to the door. A few seconds later, the door was plain dark cherry wood. "I hope Miss is now pleased," he – she – it said, turning back to look unblinkingly at Hazel. "Miss would do well to remember that Miss's password is 'Philomel.' Is there anything else Miss may require?"
"It's perfect. Thank you --"
But the house-elf had already disappeared with a crack.
Aargh. Talked down to by a house-elf. Hazel hoped they weren't given to having conversations with the other teachers. She'd be so embarrassed if her inadequacies at the Wizard lifestyle became blindingly apparent her first day at Hogwarts. Hazel was certain at least one of the staff would have a 'good enough sense of humor' to take the piss out of her for ages.
The door to her quarters was welcoming. At least inside she wouldn't have to worry about making a fool of herself.
Hazel quickly swung open the door to her rooms and entered what she supposed must be her study. The walls were lined with high shelves of books towering to the ceiling. A fire crackled warmly on the far side of the room, and a roll-top desk stood in the corner with a sheaf of parchment, ink, and quills. Facing the fire sat a deep brown armchair, positioned perfectly for reading on chill winter evenings.
Another door led her into her bedroom. The walls were a deep russet color, the floors the same deep cherry wood as her door. Gold bedspreads and curtains covered the canopy bed and high windows, which gave a rather excellent view of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. A tall wood closet stood on the opposite end of the room, next to a third door into Hazel's bathroom. The bathtub was HUGE, white marble matching the sink and toilet. She eyed it with great satisfaction. It was an incredible bathroom. Incredible rooms, really.
Hazel immediately set about enlarging and unpacking her trunk. She realized with some annoyance that she'd forgotten hangers, but was pleased to find her closet came equipped. Her jeans and corduroys went into the chest-of-drawers-like section in the bottom of the closet, her shirts and skirts hung neatly in the upper portion.
All her plays were moved to the desk in the study, and after some deliberation, Hazel decided her few acting awards would look best displayed on the mantel of the fireplace. Various and sundry items eventually found their rightful places in the bathroom, where she finally realized she might have to purchase some new magical bathroom items because there were certainly no electrical outlets for her hairdryer.
Finally finished settling in, Hazel flopped down onto her bed, only to find a hard object poking into her shoulder. She pulled it out from the voluminous bedspreads. It was a book, prefaced by a note on a slip of parchment.
Miss Farren – thought you might find this helpful. Professor M. McGonagall
Pleased, Hazel settled in to read several chapters of Hogwarts, a History before beginning work on her lesson plans for the first semester. She wasn't entirely certain what she'd do yet, but a school play might be in order, and she'd be depending on the Bard for the script . . .
A few hours later, short stacks of scripts she'd managed to magically copy crowded her desk. Hazel figured she'd start her younger classes out on the classic tragedies – Hamlet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, Titus Andronicus, Othello, Lear – before moving on to some contemporary work in the second semester. She planned on working Caesar and Titus with her older class as well, but preferred to tackle the more-challenging clown work via Shakespeare's comedies – As You Like It, Much Ado About Nothing. She'd just settled in with quill and parchment to write out a more specific, day-to-day plan when the clock on her wall reminded her it was time for lunch and her presence was probably required in the Great Hall.
In her haste to leave, Hazel knocked past a stack of plays on one of her study shelves, which immediately fell over. She reached to straighten them, but pulled her hand back as if bitten.
The yellow covers read Flee, by Hazel Farren – a play in two acts.