The note was tucked under a pile of marked essays on her desk when Hermione reached her classroom the next morning — unsigned, unaddressed. The handwriting was very upright, the quill scoring deep into the paper on the descenders, the 't's' crossed so energetically the bar shadowed the letters before and after — the instantly-recognisable handwriting that had recorded thousands of scathing comments on her Potions essays over the years. Severus Snape.
She didn't have time to read it until she'd set her fourth-year class to brewing Wit-Sharpening Potion. After a quick stroll around the desks to make sure they were cutting their ginger roots to the right size, she settled in her chair and plucked the note from under its concealing essays — the letter, she corrected herself when she saw its length.
Based on the evidence, it my conclusion that the Boggart was transported into the dungeons and released by Wilkins, Aitkins, and Rowland, to provide a distraction for their theft of ingredients from the classroom storeroom (successful).
Given their established potential for mischief creating actual hazard to the staff and students of this school, your plan may have some merit (expulsion, while preferable, is unlikely to meet Minerva's approval).
Order Hungarian Hiccoughing Gas from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (you will inevitably find at least one catalogue on demanding any given class of students empty their bags).
Ascertain a suitable location within the castle. It must include both a confined space, and a separate, larger one, and be out of the usual areas students frequent.
Leave the "Quidditch Key" in the drawer of this desk.
Hermione read it twice, frowning the first time, smiling the second. It was completely typical of Severus Snape to be issuing instructions to her about what was, after all, her idea. Once her irritation faded, she could read between the lines of his spiky penmanship. Some merit, hah! He's admitting he's wrong.
She slipped the heavy key she'd appropriated from the Room of Requirement into the drawer of her desk, and placed a check-mark next to that instruction. Hungarian Hiccoughing Gas was easy — she didn't need a catalogue, she just needed to Floo George this evening. Pending, she inked on the parchment.
A suitable location … somewhere students won't stumble on it accidentally … She chewed her lip for a moment, running through the vast array of forbidden places she and Harry and Ron had explored over their years as students. Finally she wrote Fifth floor, west corridor, unused classroom (third door) and shoved the letter back under the pile of essays.
That was the last moment she had to consider anything other than teaching for the rest of the day. Getting her fourth year students through Wit Sharpening Potion without any accidental poisonings or explosions took so much concentration that Hermione felt rather in need of a dose of it herself by the time they'd cleaned up their cauldrons and made their way out. What is there so difficult to understand about lime green? Lime green, the same colour as a lime, not forest green or pale green or turquoise!
She made a note to visit a Muggle hardware store at the next possible opportunity and collect a bunch of paint chip charts, and prepared to welcome her N.E. students. While there was considerably less danger to life and limb in a classroom full of seventh-year students, Hermione found them exhausting in a different way. Unlike the younger students, who still regarded all adults as approximately the same venerable age, Marcus Selwyn and his classmates were practically adults themselves — the same age as Hermione had been, and Harry and Ron, when they'd set out to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes single-handedly. Hermione was sharply aware that they couldn't help seeing her as a near-contemporary.
"For the next month you'll be working on Polyjuice Potion," she told them. "This is a difficult potion that requires perfect measurement, perfect timing, and the intuition and delicate touch that true mastery of potions demands. The brewing instructions —" A wave of her wand revealed it. "Is on the board. Your first task is to copy it down precisely. I will not be checking your work — nor will you have another opportunity to see the recipe. Any errors you make in transcription will spoil your potion and be a waste of the month's work." A hand went up from the Slytherin side of the room. "Yes, Miss Firesmith?"
Fiona Firesmith, a slender witch with perfectly sleek dark hair cut into a perfect bob, widened her eyes in theatrical curiosity. "Is it true you tried to make Polyjuice Potion and turned yourself into a cat?"
"No," Hermione said. A low murmur ran around the room, and Hermione heard someone mutter Liar. "Express your question more precisely, Miss Firesmith." She paused for emphasis, and then drew on memories of her own time as a student in this very classroom. "And address it appropriately, if you don't desire detention."
Marcus Selwyn raised his own hand. "Professor Granger. There is a rumour that you accidentally turned yourself into a cat with Polyjuice Potion. Does the rumour have any basis in fact, and if so, what is it?"
Hermione gave him an approving nod. "Well phrased, Mr Selwyn. First of all, it's impossible to change species using Polyjuice. You can change your age, your sex, your appearance, your height, skin colour, eye colour — but only into the resemblance of another human being. So no, I did not turn myself into a cat, either accidentally or deliberately. What I did do, after brewing Polyjuice Potion correctly, was accidentally add cat hair rather than human hair at the final stage of the brewing. While I remained human, I did acquire fur, whiskers, pointed ears … and a tail." There was a single guffaw, quickly stifled, from the Gryffindor side of the room. Hermione smiled. "And no, before you ask, there are not any pictures."
Fiona Firesmith raised her hand again. "Professor Granger," she drawled, with a degree of contempt in her tone that would have done credit to Severus Snape. "Do you really think it appropriate that someone capable of such a basic mistake be in charge of preparing us for our N.E. ?"
"First, given that the Headmistress was well aware of the incident at the time and still chose to offer me this job, I defer to her judgement," Hermione said, very careful to keep her voice steady and even. "Secondly, given that I made that mistake in my second year, then yes, I do think it's appropriate that I be teaching you. You should be aware by this stage of your education that it takes a very high quality Polyjuice potion indeed to have any effect at all with that error. If you can find someone else who successfully brewed an impeccable Polyjuice Potion at the age of thirteen, then by all means, suggest to Professor McGonagall that she hire them. And thirdly, you all now have less than fifteen minutes before I erase the board, so I suggest you pick up your pens."
"Some of us can afford to buy a copy of brewing instructions," Fiona said, ostensibly to her bench-mate but loudly enough for the rest of the class to hear.
"And some of us know how to read and write, but you don't see us rubbing your nose in it," one of the Gryffindors shot back.
Fiona leapt to her feet, wand out. Stools scraped on the stone floor as several Gryffindors scrambled up as well, pulling out their own wands. Fiona levelled her wand. "Sno —"
"Immobulus!" Hermione snapped. Fiona froze, and Hermione turned the same spell on the Gryffindors, freezing them as well. "Expelliarmus!" Wands flew from the culprits' hands. "Accio!"
She caught the four wands as they sailed towards her. Not having Harry's Seeker reflexes, she had to juggle a bit to get hold of the last one, but managed not to embarrass herself by dropping it.
Every student not frozen in place was staring at her, wide-eyed. For a moment, Hermione could only stare back, heart racing, fight-or-flight adrenaline still flooding her veins.
Very carefully, she set the students' wands down on her desk, keeping hold of her own. "Those of you able to move, return to your seats, pick up your quills, and copy the brewing instructions on the board." Perhaps it was the wand still ready in her hand, but there was a sudden rush of movement and in seconds the only sound in the room was the scratching of quills on parchment.
Hermione made her way to the back of the classroom. "When I release you," she said quietly to the four culprits, "you will walk — silently — out into the corridor. Or I will put you in a Full Body Bind and float you to your Head of House. Finite Incantatem."
The three Gryffindors walked quietly and obediently out of the classroom. Fiona Firesmith sauntered.
Hermione gritted her teeth, and followed.
"Regardless of what your Head of House decides, each of you just lost twenty-five points for your House for drawing your wands in my classroom, and earned yourselves two weeks' detention. Miss Firesmith, another twenty-five points from Slytherin for your attempted Pus-Squirting Hex. Your wands will remain with me until I decide you are responsible enough to —"
"But —"
"Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting me!" Hermione snapped. "I know you'll need them for Charms and Transfiguration, so you'd better work on proving how responsible you are as quickly as possible! Miss Firesmith, I believe at this time of day you will find Professor Sinistra in the staffroom. The rest of you, straight to the Training Grounds. And I will be checking with Professor Sinistra and Madam Hooch later today, so it would be smart to be frank with them."
She watched them go, and then went back into the classroom.
After putting in a brief appearance at lunch — all the while thinking about the marking she should be doing — the afternoon brought Hermione its own challenges, including a third year class that managed to create three different poisonous odours while following the same recipe for Shrinking Solution. By the time it was over, Hermione wanted nothing more than to run a hot bath and soak until her fingers and toes were wrinkled like prunes. The last thing she wanted to do was supervise detention.
She watched the students currently in disgrace file into the classroom with resignation. You can't always get what you want.
Setting the four seventh year miscreants an essay on the importance of restraint in the use of magic, Hermione turned to her marking.
She had just finished reading and annotating a three foot essay on variant recipes for Blood-Replenishing Potion — written by a Ravenclaw, and two feet longer than required — when her subconscious told her that there was something not right in the classroom.
She looked up. Three Gryffindors, heads bent, quills scratching busily across parchment. One second year, scrubbing cauldrons by hand. On fourth year, dissecting Horned Toads.
One seventh year Slytherin, quill idle, gazing blankly into space.
Oh, for Circe's sweet sake!
Hermione put down her quill and stood up. A dozen Snape-worthy comments occurred to her: starting with the relatively mild That essay won't write itself, Miss Firesmith and ranging all the way up to If you're reluctant to write down your thoughts because you fear looking like a fool … too late.
She resisted the temptation. Instead, she crossed the classroom and sat down on the stool next to Fiona. The parchment in front of the girl was completely blank.
"The longer you delay writing that essay, the longer you'll be waiting to get your wand back," Hermione said.
Fiona shot her a look of such pure hatred that Hermione had to suppress the instinct to recoil. "You had no right. You have no right to take a witch's wand."
Hermione folded her hands on the bench and forced herself to lean closer to the girl. "Actually, not true. You drew your wand to fight, and I disarmed you. Not only did I have the right to take it, I have the right to keep it — forever, if I like."
"It wasn't fair," Fiona muttered. "You ambushed me."
"You drew first," Hermione reminded her. "You had even started to hex before I did a thing. Now. Write your essay, or I will keep your wand."
With another furious glare, Fiona picked up her quill, dipped it, and began to write.
Hermione watched her for a moment to make sure she kept writing and then went back to her desk.
At the end of the hour, she dismissed the delinquents, waited until the room was empty, and said quietly, "Professor Snape?"
Silence was the stern reply.
She riffled through the essays on her desk, but Snape's letter was gone — as was the key, when she opened the drawer of her desk.
Fifth floor, west corridor.
Her teaching robe rippling and flapping behind her, Hermione headed that way.