The Pitfalls of Being an Insufferable Know-it-all

Five

The Reading Room at the The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, I admit, had a calming influence upon me. I'm sure that comes as no surprise to anyone. It was a circular room, filled with books, tables, and several little windy staircases that led upwards to, I assumed, more books.

There was a wizard sorting through books at a large desk in the centre, and though I took him to be the librarian, he paid me no heed as I wandered around the shelves. In all honesty, I wasn't sure what it was I was looking for. I was rather hoping I'd know it when I saw it.

I passed by bookshelves containing tomes on all manner of potion-making related subjects. From recipe books; the history of potion-making, autobiographies; biographies; encyclopaedias… the list went on and on. None of them, however, seemed to be worth my while.

So, next I went up one of the spiral staircases and walked through an archway to find myself in an alcove lined with yet more bookcases. Only, this time, they held far slimmer volumes, all uniformly bound with gold lettering along the spines. I tilted my head and scanned the shelf nearest to me and it soon became obvious these were copies of research dissertations. Pausing, I glanced speculatively to the far side of the little room.

I stepped across and quickly found the shelf containing the works of those whose name began with 'S'. I ran my finger along the work of Horace Slughorn, and several personages with the surname of 'Smith', until I arrived at the theses of one Severus Snape. My stomach jumped in satisfaction and I dropped to my knees to read the titles better.

Admittedly, the first title I read —'The Benefits of Lemongrass in Preservation Techniques' — didn't exactly ignite inspiration, but I carried on along the row undaunted. He was clearly prolific in his work. Considering the advanced years many of his colleagues must have had on him, they had far smaller bibliographies in comparison.

'Deconstructing Wolfsbane' didn't strike my fancy either.

There were some rather interesting sounding studies, I must say; studies that, under different circumstances, I would have sat down and read simply for pleasure. As it was, I wasn't there to idle my time away.

Soon, I was past 'SN' and was into the 'SO's' and I straightened with a frown, disappointed I hadn't found anything to take my eye.

I moved out through the archway and leant on the railing, looking over the library from my elevated viewpoint. There was another spiral staircase at the opposite end, leading to a similar room as the one I'd just left and I decided to try my luck there next. I was to find this one was also filled with uniformly bound books, but these were big and chunky. I pulled the nearest one to me off the shelf, enjoying for a moment the weight of it and the feel of its leather cover.

'Ah…' I murmured to myself in comprehension. These were journals; bound copies of The Practical Potioneer, and I wondered if journal articles might actually be more helpful than more specialised, in-depth research papers.

What I held was, The Practical Potioneer, Vol. LVIII, but from a glance around the room, it appeared the journal had gone to press many, many times since. Still, there was no need for me to be put off by the size of the collection. No matter how prodigious Snape's skills might be, I decided not even he could have been publishing work in the eighteenth century, after all.

I whispered a charm to help me narrow down my search and volumes started floating over the to table I pointed at with my wand. I sat down with a business-like sigh and started scanning the table of contents in each volume. A few books in, I found an article that drew my attention.

'The Reflective Potioneer.'

I read the whole article, and not unwillingly so. His style of writing was engaging, even to someone as uninvolved in the world of potion-making as I was. The piece was about the changing role of the potioneer over time, as the science behind their 'art' had become steadily more refined and precise; the changing of the role from the quack of the middle-ages, to the professional of the contemporary world.

But the next article to really spark me into attention was one entitled:

'In Defence of Potion-making: A Refutation of George Cresswell.'

The name rang an immediate bell, Snape having only mentioned it two days ago when we'd spoken. This was the man who'd been caught trafficking Ashwinder eggs. I flicked immediately to the article in question and read.

Apparently, this man Cresswell, following his shunning by the Society and the industry in general, had written a letter to several institutions, including the Practical Potioneer, the Daily Prophet, and indeed, the Ministry. Snape had included several quotes from Cresswell, and from what I could gather, Cresswell appeared to decree potion-making to be "barbaric" "outdated" and "unethical".

Before reading any further, I turned to the end of the article, to the bibliography, to see where I might find a copy of the letter. My luck was in; a copy was included in the appendix, so I flipped the book to the back.

Why did I jeopardise my career as a potioneer? the letter said. Why did I get involved in the fraudulent scheme that I did? The answer is because I had become disillusioned with my profession; become typified by the casual indifference and carelessness the industry engenders.

It is my opinion the industry has become bloated with an overblown sense of its own importance. Believing itself to be a beacon of progress and modernity, when the reality couldn't be further from the truth. How modern is it of us to be chasing after defenceless creatures for their skin, for their feathers, for their claws, for their very lifeblood, in order to make such trivial mixtures as cleaning solutions and luck potions?

The truth is, potioneers have too much free reign and too much arrogance. Why do we need luck potions? Why do we need Babbling Draughts? Half of the creations to have been announced by potioneers in recent times we just don't need.

What potioneers should be doing is working to improve what we do need. It's surely time to find an alternative to stalking fairies for their wings; farming all manner of creatures whose only purpose in life is to end up in a cauldron?

Potioneers have become too obsessed with testing what they can do; not what they ought to do.

George Cresswell

I digested this information for several moments before turning back to Snape's article. While I can't deny I did not see an element of truth in Cresswell's appeal, I also could imagine very well how Snape's defence might go.

He ripped it to shreds, basically; this is probably why Cresswell didn't get much newsprint for his complaint. He had an answer to every one of Cresswell's points, and then some. He rightly pointed out the doubts about the credibility of anything Cresswell could say after what he'd been involved in. He also pointed out there was more significance to what Jones didn't say.

Even I knew that, for the most part, creatures did not have to be unduly harmed in order for their properties to be used in potions.

Snape obviously took the view that Jones's letter smacked of sour grapes, and I felt he could be justified in this to an extent. But I couldn't fully dismiss Jones as not having some salient points. The use of fairy wings in potions, for example; who's to say they are obtained from fairies that died of natural causes? And I also felt Cresswell's point about the use of certain potions and the validity of them was right.

Snape could list as many life-saving potions as he wanted to, no one could argue with the principle of those. But I found myself asking if it was a waste, sometimes. Was it irresponsible of us to be using our natural ecology for cleaning solutions and headache powders? Should we be looking to find alternatives?

These were questions I didn't want to answer myself. I don't think I was in a position to, but it was food for thought.

There was something else I noticed at the end of Snape's article. One of the works he'd referenced in his bibliography was a book he'd collaborated on with Theodore Ridley. Primarily, it stood out because it was entitled: Uncovering the Secrets of the Augurey and Other Creatures.

For a moment, I just stared at the page, trying to imagine what 'secrets' there were to uncover. The Augurey is renowned for its shyness and elusiveness. Was this about discovering more about the habits and characteristics of such creatures? Perhaps. But in doing so, had they practically written a guide for the would-be illegal exporter? The company looking to save a few galleons? The potioneer looking to cut some corners?

This, I anticipated, might give me a few ideas, and I rushed back down into the library proper, heading for the shelves organised under the letter 'R'. I found Ridley's work, thinking it would be shelved under his name, but there was no such title. Intrigue growing, I moved along to 'S', to check under Snape's name, but again, there was nothing. Next, I crossed to the issuing desk and asked the wizard there if he knew where to locate the work in question.

He looked at me disdainfully. 'I'm afraid if it's not on the shelf it has been taken out of the library, Miss.'

I did not particularly appreciate this dry reminder of what happens in a library.

'Do you know when it's due to be returned?'

He huffed a bit as he glanced through a ledger, but his expression cleared a little when he found what he needed. 'Oh,' he said, 'Severus took it, therefore, I'm afraid I couldn't say when it'll be returned.'

Evidently, library rules for mere mortals didn't apply to Severus.

'Thanks,' I said stiffly and took my leave, thinking I was getting nowhere in this place. Outside the door, I paused and leaned against the banister of the stairs, thinking Snape would surely have had his own copy of a book he'd written. Before I could dwell further, above me, I could hear footsteps travelling down the stairs and I glanced up, wondering who might appear. The figure that rounded onto the steps was Ridley himself and I drew myself up expectantly.

'Hello,' he greeted carefully, tensing, I thought, at the sight of me.

'Mr Ridley,' I spoke brightly, 'just the person. I was looking for a copy of your book, the one you co-wrote with Severus Snape, about Augureys, but unfortunately someone has beaten me to it. I don't suppose you have a copy I could commandeer?'

He surveyed me intently for a moment. 'No,' he replied coldly. 'I believe Severus borrowed mine… Try him…'

He brushed past me with a smirk. What bare-faced cheek this man had! Was obnoxiousness the prime qualification to work in this place?

'Hang on,' I called out, and the look on his face at my tone of voice was one of affront. Clearly, obnoxiousness wasn't the only requirement—superciliousness was welcome as well.

'I've just been told that he's taken out the library's copy. Why on earth would he want yours as well?'

Ridley paused and shrugged his shoulders. 'He asked me for mine, after misplacing his own copy.'

I frowned, thinking only how completely puzzling it was that Snape should not only take the library copy, but Ridley's copy of their book, as well. Why? It was an old work, no doubt little-known beyond the world of potion-making, I thought; why would he… It seemed to me almost like he was hiding them.

It was a reasonable assumption to make, wasn't it?

'May I ask what the book contains?'

I broke off as Ridley approached me with a deep scowl of suspicion.

'Would you like to accuse Severus of something, Miss Granger?'

I flushed uncomfortably, but he carried on before I could respond.

'I see you're persisting in this matter despite the decision of your bosses. If I were you, I'd think very carefully about what you are doing.'

He turned on his heel and continued down the stairs. I stared after him, cheeks aflame with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Without wasting another moment, I left the building, glad to see Albert missing from his front desk so my escape might be executed unhindered. I moved across the road and into a small square, making use of one of the benches.

My first thought was how long did I have before Ridley reported me to the Ministry again.

My second thought was that I didn't care.

Taking out my notebook, I started pondering.

As I pondered, it seemed prudent to consider the likely possibility of Snape anticipating my coming to the Society to further my enquiries. I had no doubt, no doubt, he was a man of perception and cunning. And I also had no doubt about my own predictability. I know that I can be quite predictable within certain contexts… Nothing to be ashamed of, though, is it…?

So, that he might anticipate my actions seemed… inevitable, unfortunately. Therefore, was this why he'd taken both copies of his book? Did he think there was something within that could implicate him?

Or… Maybe I was just flattering myself; indulging in a bout of vanity, because maybe it wasn't me he was hiding from. After all, I'd never given him any reason to suppose I doubted him. Maybe there was someone else, somewhere else, who was on his tail…

And maybe, I decided, this was all something of nothing. Despite my earlier resolve, I was back to pointing the finger at this man. The evidence I had wasn't evidence at all. It was just my own fancies I'd flimsily based upon some suggestive circumstances.

I slapped my notebook shut and jumped to my feet. Sighing at myself, I Apparated back home.

Sometime later, I drafted a letter to the Prophet, anonymously signed, questioning the Ministry's response to the issues facing our indigenous creatures. There was no guarantee they'd even publish the letter, but I had nothing to lose in sending it. I rather thought it my only option at that time. I had no real lead to pursue. No evidence to follow.

I felt disheartened that night and, admittedly, spent most of the small hours thinking of my job at the Ministry and the lack of support I received from everyone there. I've never been entirely sure why I seem to rub people up the wrong way. I know why it happened when I was young; I was too eager, too officious, too… insufferable, I suppose. I thought I'd managed to soften those traits over time; maybe even out-grow them.

That's what I thought, anyway. But the reality of me being well into my late twenties, with my social circle extending only as far as the bottle of wine I was drinking, pointed to something far different.

And carrying on with this pursuit, I knew, would not endear me any further amongst my colleagues. Yet, even recognising this, I wasn't about to give it up—not for that sake, anyway. The point was, these moments of reflection always passed me by without injury. It was never something I let myself dwell upon for an extended length of time. I'd get up in the morning and my mind would only be focused on the job at hand—not self-pity; not regret.

On the morning in question, a surprise awaited me on my windowsill. It was an owl bearing a nondescript envelope, but the note inside certainly wasn't unremarkable. It was a small square of parchment and in the centre was written an address—nothing more.

And it was the address of one George Cresswell.

I turned over both the note and the envelope for a sign as to the sender, but there was nothing to be found. The handwriting, similarly, bore no evidence as to its origin for it was unfamiliar to me.

Stumped, I simply sat on my bed contemplating the possible meaning behind the note. Why should I need the address of George Cresswell? Who should send it?

I looked at the specifics of the address more closely and then I realised there was some significance to be realised. I scrambled out of bed and dashed towards my map, still spread out in my kitchen. George Cresswell, it appeared, was residing within the boundary of Snowdonia national park.

That was it. I hurried to dress and then collected my things together. I did not know why I was being referred to Cresswell, and I did not know who was doing the referring, but I wasn't going to ignore this pointer.

I Apparated using the one of the nearest spots we'd used when conducting our research in the area, and then I made my way to the house in question on foot, using the time to work out what I would say in greeting, unsure as I was, as to what I was supposed to be finding there.

Was I supposed to assume Cresswell was involved in the illegal selling of Augureys? In which case, turning up on his doorstep and giving the game away might not be the best option. Still, I had one opening gambit available to me that just might buy me an audience without evoking suspicion.

I arrived at a small house perched on a hillside. I strode up to the door and knocked confidently, setting my shoulders squarely in preparation. The door opened and a white-haired man of some age appeared.

'Mr Cresswell,' I said, proceeding to introduce myself as a researcher from the Ministry. I hadn't said much more before a look of dark anger came over his face.

'Just because I made a mistake in a former life doesn't give you leave to accuse me of what's happening in there.' He glared angrily over my head, where I knew the Dyfi forest was visible in the distance.

He moved to shut the door and I put out my arm to halt him. 'Wait,' I called firmly, 'I… Why would I accuse you of that?'

'Everyone else is. The Prophet enjoyed suggesting my culpability what with my proximity to the forest!'

His eyes blazed at me and I fought not to flounder.

'I only wanted to ask you about a letter you once wrote, four years ago, about…' I trailed off and bit my lip, unable to temper the rush of curiosity ignited within me. 'What's going on in there?' I asked quietly, motioning with my head towards the forest.

He scowled and moved to shut the door again. 'I'm not getting involved.'

'Please,' I urged. 'If you know something—'

'Who put you on to me?' he asked roughly, looking beyond me, as if expecting to see that I'd brought company.

I hesitated over whether to reveal the anonymous note I received. 'I told you, I recently read your letter dismissing potion-making, and I—'

'That was years ago, and I was rubbished by that smug—' he choked off his words with a fierce look of contempt.

'Perhaps you were simply ahead of your time. You can't fail to have noticed how recent issues have swayed public opinion. If you know who is harming the Augureys—what better way to put yourself in a better light.'

Cresswell shook his head so vehemently, I was nearly taken aback. 'I made one mistake after years of blood and sweat I put into my work. Did Snape give me an opportunity to make amends? No. He ended my career without a second's thought. One word from him and no one wanted my services ever again. Do you think I'm likely to risk his wrath further?'

Once again, he started pushing the door closed.

'Why should you risk his wrath?' I argued with a thrill. 'Why should—'

'I saw them,' he spat in a hushed tone. 'I saw them late at night, in the forest… Seems Snape's found a new use for his old Death Eater robe… You didn't hear it from me… right?'

He raised an eyebrow at me before slamming the door shut. I couldn't stop him this time, simply because I was stunned; frozen to the spot. When my wits were re-gathered, I walked dumbly from the house, coming to a stop when I had a clear view across the valley to the forest in question. I stared at the barren peaks and then to the tree-tops of the Dyfi forest.

I could very well believe there could be someone, or some people, out there, capturing Augureys, be it the phoenixes themselves or their eggs, and selling them on the black market. The money to be gained from such endeavours, I knew, could be great. That this might be one of their hunting grounds was supported by the facts I'd complied during the survey.

But Snape being involved at the heart of it? Hearing the accusation from someone else's lips only made me realise how ridiculous it all was. I'd had my suspicions—how could I not after witnessing what I had? Yet, when it came down to it, I couldn't countenance it.

Maybe Snape did have his own agenda. Maybe he did have something to hide. But I could hardly take seriously the word of a man who had, once upon a time, been involved in the very crime he was implicating Snape in. Never mind the obvious grudge he held against him.

The truth was, deep down, whatever my feelings against the man, I didn't want to believe he was out there, up to his neck in criminality, and for something as trite as money.

I felt in my pocket for the note I'd received that morning. The unassailable fact, however, was that someone had pointed me towards Cresswell. Someone who clearly knew what I was up to, and that, actually, left a fairly narrow field of suspects.

Despite being confused as to what it all added up to, I knew where my efforts would next be directed.

The forest.

AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing : )