The Pitfalls of Being an Insufferable Know-it-all

Seven

I see myself as someone capable of humility, when a situation calls for it. But squaring up to Snape, feeling uncomfortably out of my depth, it was hard not for me mulishly stand my ground in order to save as much face as I could. All I really wanted was to get him to leave. Yet, I couldn't ignore his warning; otherwise I really would have confirmed I was without sense.

Swallowing a resentful huff, I went to close the door myself. 'What danger?' I asked eventually.

He sat back down in the armchair, looking vaguely pleased with himself. 'What do you think? There's Galleons to be made through selling items illegally—lots of Galleons. Those involved aren't going to want their little gold mine to be jeopardised, never mind their liberty. Therefore they're unlikely to sit back and allow some slip of a girl the chance to unmask their criminal deeds. Do not think they wouldn't be prepared to take more, ah, direct action, shall we say, towards you.'

This little speech, in my opinion, exemplifies rather nicely the type of man he is. I'd, apparently, ventured into rather dangerous waters, but to hear him speak of it, it was the most mundane thing in the world. This also explained further his efforts in hiding his involvement. He'd covered his tracks comprehensively, while I, on the other hand, had conducted my enquiries with little guile or subterfuge.

'We should inform the Aurors, then,' I suggested firmly.

My word; it was as if I'd hexed him. Personally, I very much enjoyed his flinch of outrage.

'I'm sure Harry and Ron would be happy to take the case on,' I continued with a studied air of pragmatism.

'If you truly believe that to be the best course of action, I've clearly overestimated you.'

'My, I can't imagine that happens often,' I muttered to myself, hurrying on when his expression darkened. 'There's danger, then,' I commented. 'I'm confident I can take care of myself.'

I watched him, and it was in retaliation to his aggravating behaviour that I purposefully wondered whether this was all some sort of personal warning from him. Maybe it was he who posed the danger. Maybe it was he who had the little gold mine to protect.

'If you say so,' he remarked derisively.

'Well, what do you want from me, then? Do you want me to step away from the matter? Because I assure you I—'

'Spare me your nobility, please; I'm not interested in it.'

I snapped my jaw shut and wondered despairingly when this ordeal was going to end. His next words, however, jarred my irritation from the fore, leaving only surprise.

'I want co-operation,' he said succinctly.

'Co-operation?' I questioned with confusion and doubt. 'Forgive me… You hardly seem the co-operating sort.'

His raised a cautionary hand. 'My blushes, Granger.'

I nearly laughed despite myself; only he would find in my criticism a compliment.

'I can't deny your involvement wouldn't open up avenues of investigation that are closed to me while I'm in Norway.'

I frowned. 'So much for the danger, then.'

'You'd simply have to trust in my ability to mitigate that danger, wouldn't you?'

The look he gave me was piercing and I felt uncomfortable and unsure. Did I trust him? I could hardly tell. Did I even want to co-operate with him? How would I be able to put up with his infuriating sense of superiority?

'What if I don't want to work with you?'

I'm not sure where I found the courage to say this out loud to him, but it must have been borne from the careless part of me. At my words, his eyes had a flinty gleam and it was difficult for me to face them directly.

'Well, then,' he murmured slowly, 'I shall just have to ensure my… friends at the Ministry are aware of your little… quest, won't I?'

I'd liked to have brushed him off by claiming my colleagues at the Ministry wouldn't give a fig what I was up to. However, while this might ordinarily have been the case, I knew they would care if I managed to end up discrediting them. And they would surely want to head off this possibility post-haste.

I scowled at him, but inwardly I was not so very opposed to 'co-operating', as he put it. After all, he'd made much use of me, why then should I not seek to find an advantage in him? Of course, what put me off slightly was the very real prospect that I'd get nowhere near trumping him in any way, shape, or form. Still. I could try, I decided; what other options did I have available to me?

None, was the answer.

I wasn't entirely sure what, in this instance, his ability to 'mitigate the danger' might entail, but it would have been reckless of me to deny it might prove handy.

Still, after his performance I was hardly about to lie down and let him have free reign.

'May I clarify something?' I asked preciously.

I took the tightening of his lips to be an affirmation for me to proceed.

'Your definition of 'co-operating' doesn't preclude the hiding of certain facts and ideas from the other party, does it?'

His eyes narrowed suspiciously and I was pleased to see it. 'Just wondered… for my own peace of mind,' I continued evenly.

'If you have some information, then—'

'As I said,' I interrupted firmly. 'For my own peace of mind.'

His expression looked perilously close to thunderous. I didn't care. He had some bloody cheek asking me for my information and my assistance, when, clearly, he wasn't prepared to give me all the facts he had. So why should I, in turn, be forthcoming? I would keep whatever cards I had close; at least until I could be sure of his motives and part played in this whole issue.

He seemed content to fume for a moment or two, but when the ire faded into a grim resolve, I was suddenly worried he'd decided to forsake my help altogether. Feeling a blast of indignation buffet me, I nearly exploded into a diatribe about his hypocrisy and double-standards.

Luckily, before I managed to embarrass myself, he uttered a terse, 'Fine,' and shot to his feet.

Thrown, a tad, I automatically rose with him, and he looked at me so fiercely it nearly sent me reeling backwards.

'Don't do anything until I've been in touch,' he warned. And then he Disapparated into thin air!

My jaw went slack as I stared incomprehensibly at my now empty living room. I let out a huge groan of impotent anger and threw myself back onto the settee, thinking I'd never had the misfortune of meeting anyone so indescribably trying to one's patience. When the hell was he going to be in touch? Where the hell had he gone? How the hell could I contact him, if I needed to?

I sighed and screwed my eyes shut against the frustration of it all, only wondering what the hell I'd let myself in for.

Perhaps unsurprisingly enough, I didn't sleep very well that night, even though I was tired. My mind kept troubling itself over possibilities and scenarios involving a whole variety of people; Snape very much a key player. But I wondered about Cresswell, too and his motives. I also tried to fashion a line of reasoning why someone other than Snape would want to remove the original manuscript of his and Ridley's work from the Practical Potioneer archives.

Was it Ridley, perhaps? Was he yet another person feeding me misinformation? From the impression he'd given me, I decided I could hardly put it past him.

In the morning, after a fitful few hours sleep, I awoke to find my anonymous letter published in the Prophet. I was mildly surprised to see it, but pleased nonetheless. It only remained to be seen whether anyone might reply and, in doing so, help to keep the matter afloat. Snape, I felt, would not condone my action. He seemed very much to believe there were benefits to the public leaving the issue on the back-burner, and maybe he was right, but maybe he was wrong, as well. I wasn't prepared to subscribe to his methodology straightaway.

And what was I supposed to do now? Put my life (for lack of a better word) on hold until Snape condescended to greet me with his presence again? Seemed to me I could be waiting forever until that moment! I felt so disgruntled; my irritation from the previous night obviously hadn't dissipated.

I wrenched the covers off me and sprang to my feet, determined that I should spend the day productively, regardless of my mood. I was halfway across the room before I cursed aloud, having remembered it was Sunday.

It was Sunday, and I'd forgotten to send my customary note of apology to the Burrow for being too busy to attend Sunday dinner. More often than not, I really was busy, but there were times when I just… couldn't face it, and this day was no exception. I had a long-established pattern worked out; in order to maintain a certain sense of propriety and courteousness, I only ever attended one Sunday a month, but this month it seemed I'd be there twice.

Resigned to the idea there would be no productivity after all, I dressed slowly and made myself presentable. My appearance may not be one of my primary concerns, but I do have some pride in it. The routine helped relax me, and by the time I was ready to Apparate, I felt maybe it was no bad thing that I had somewhere to go—somewhere, for a change, that didn't involve work.

However, there are reasons why I'm reluctant to regularly participate when the Weasleys gather en masse.

For one thing, it never helps that Arthur always shouts, 'The Hermit's here!' whenever I arrive.

'You're like a little hermit,' he once said to me, after I'd spent several weeks buried in my house-elf reform with little contact beyond it. 'Hermione the little hermit,' he'd said, delighting in what he thought was his hitherto hidden comic genius.

I'm perfectly up for a laugh… most of the time. And actually, to be fair to him, at that point, it was quite an accurate observation of my behaviour. Unfortunately, the name has managed to stick, off and on, ever since. And it's now turned just ever so slightly patronising. To the point where I have to clench my fists as I smile and pretend the joke is still funny.

And the children have happily taken it as a cue to call me 'Auntie Hermit,' instead of even attempting a pronunciation of my actual name. They all think it's hilarious.

As I entered the kitchen at the Burrow, Molly bustled in and exclaimed, with far too much exaggeration, I thought, at my presence. And then, to make matters worse, she launched right into commiserations about the state of my career.

'Not like you to take holiday time, Hermione,' she lamented sadly. 'I was saying to Arthur, "Can you remember the last time our Hermit took time off work?" Well, we neither of us could remember any instance of it.' She shook her head admonishingly and her red hair quivered. 'To think they could just ignore your work like that; after all the effort you put in!'

Then I was enveloped in her bosom—squeezed perilously close to asphyxiation.

'It's all right, Molly,' I eked out. 'You know I'm not easily put-off; just needed a breather for a week, that's all.'

'You want to get out of that department, my dear; why don't you see if Arthur can get you transferred into his?'

'Oh,' I smiled, feeling warmed despite myself at her exuberance. 'Thank you; I'll stick it out a while longer, I'm sure.'

She frowned deeply. 'Just as long as you don't burn yourself out. You'll never find a husband if you can't get out of bed every morning.'

And that's another reason for rationing my appearances at the Burrow.

I was released and sent off in search of the others. I opened the door to the sitting room and was immediately assaulted with a cacophony of squeals, greetings, compliments and, of course, the compulsory inquiry as to whether I'd found myself a man yet. That's the usual pattern when I first enter the fray consisting of my friends and their families (I sometimes wonder how it is I ended up with so many honorary nieces and nephews when I hadn't even reached thirty).

And I tell them, as I do every time I'm there, there's no man, I'm too busy, and in any case, present company excluded, all the men I know are idiots and/or cads. I always present to them a case in point, and this week it was Bertie, my boss. I soon had them all scowling and sighing when I described his behaviour recently. Rather neatly, it also manoeuvred them away from the awkward subject of my non-existent social-life.

Why do people set standards for other people to live by? They were never able to accept I might be perfectly fine living on my own; that I was perfectly content, the majority of the time, with the life I lived. I know they never meant anything by it; that they were only ever looking out for me. But, I was always left with the uncomfortable sense I was lacking in some way, because I did not have a husband, or a family, or even the faintest prospect of one.

Maybe I made it worse for myself. Perhaps if I'd gone there more regularly, they wouldn't have felt the need for the same interrogation on each visit.

I always enjoyed the company once I was there, but unfortunately, I'm not one to cope with boisterousness for an extended length of time; and that's only Harry and Ron, never mind the children.

So, after dinner, I often took in a refreshing breath of air outside in the garden, with a little stroll about. I've always enjoyed the luxury of the Weasleys' open, wild, garden as a good place in which to think and reflect. In this instance, I stood at the far end of the garden. I thought about my job at the Ministry and the possibility that, very soon, I would seriously consider looking for a new position. All was lovely and peaceful; the only noise from a brook that gurgled its way across the land, and, from a distance…. the sound of Al shouting 'Auntie Hermit! Come and play Gobstones with me!'

I smiled to myself resignedly and twisted round. 'You set them up and I'll be there in a moment,' I called back.

Stealing a few more moments of solitude, I experimentally dipped the toe of my boot into the stream and watched the water rush on over it. My boot was nearly joined by my whole person, however, when a nearby voice said:

'Perhaps Auntie Hermit would play Gobstones with me, instead?'

I steadied myself and looked up with dismay to see a familiar figure detach itself from the trees. 'This has got to stop, Snape; how did you know I was here?'

He stood on the opposite bank, still partially in the shadow of the trees. 'Simple piece of deduction, Granger. Where else would you be on a Sunday afternoon if not at your house or Potter's?'

I stared, hardly enthused by the fact that within only a few hours of acquaintance, Severus Snape had apparently managed to reason out the staid mechanics of my existence. I even had a strange little vision of him asking me when I was going to finally find myself a husband. I was forced to put a hand to my mouth to stifle a quick laugh.

'What do you want?' I asked gruffly, in order to maintain my air of impatience. 'Wasn't expecting your swift return.'

'I've heard whispers of a possible attempt on an Augurey nest, in a forest near Cheshire. Thought you might be interested.'

'What? An attempt?' I spluttered indignantly. 'I should get Harry—'

'For the love of Merlin, Granger, you really are a simpleton. What on earth would be the point in waltzing in with the Ministry's worst and confronting two, maybe three, blockheads trying to steal a few eggs on the order of someone, I'm willing to bet, they do not even know.'

I huffed furiously.

'We can stop them interfering with the nests, but there's no point apprehending them until we can establish precisely the web they are but one single thread of. They won't know any answers to your questions.'

'What are you proposing, then?'

'We go to Cheshire, obviously.'

'Fine; fine. Let me go and say my goodbyes—'

He cut me off with a snort. 'I haven't got time to hang about while you dally with your goodbyes. We're going to Cheshire, not voyaging round the world; either you come now or you don't come at all.'

My God I wished I could tell him to stuff it. I longed to say, 'Fine; I won't bloody well come!' But I knew I had to take my chances where I could, and no doubt he knew this too; hence his casual sarcasm and general disregard for my opinions and, yes, feelings.

Reluctantly, and with much ill-grace, I snatched out my wand and conjured my Patronus to convey my excuses to the Weasley assembly behind me.

I stepped across the brook and impatiently crossed my arms. 'Shall we?'

Without a word, he removed what I assumed to be a Portkey and proffered it to me. With a certain element of uncertainty, I reached out to touch it and then we were gone. When I was back on solid ground again, I was surrounded by dense woodland and accompanied by a man whose motives, I had to admit, were unclear to me. Suddenly, I was quite sure this was actually the last place I wanted to be.

'Where did you get your… information from?' I queried, knowing full well I wouldn't get a straight answer.

I was right. In fact, he didn't even bother answering. He ventured forward into the trees, instead. I clenched my fists as I followed, wondering if it would be truly awful of me to hex him in the back and then Disapparate away.

'They won't attempt anything until nightfall,' he murmured. 'Augurey's are nocturnal—'

'Funnily enough, I was aware of that,' I interceded pithily.

He ignored me. 'We can't know precisely where they shall strike. However, we can try and ward some of the nests—the type of person we're dealing with has no idea how to dismantle such spells.'

'We can't ward them all. How can we pick—'

'We think logically, Granger; we put ourselves in their shoes. Imagine, if you will, and I'm sure it won't be difficult for you, that you are a dunderhead who has been tasked with poaching some Augurey eggs. Your number one concern is that you aren't caught… Therefore, where do you think the best place to carry out your deed might be?'

I scowled fiercely at his back. 'I assume the deeper into the forest, the less likely they'd be spotted.'

'Furthermore, they use brooms to scan the treetops for nests—'

'You seem to know an awful lot about it,' I muttered, before I could stop myself.

He came to halt and looked over his shoulder at me. 'Hmm… Something you want to get off your chest?' He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

I nearly rose to it; I nearly accused him there and then of all the fanciful scenarios I'd conjured up recently. 'Just would like to know your sources, that's all,' I managed to say instead.

'You'll know when you need to.'

I shook my head despairingly as he continued onwards, deciding, for the benefit of my health, that I should remain silent for the time being. He was also silent (thank Merlin) until he stopped in his tracks, seemingly at random, but from the surveying glance he gave the trees around him, there was nothing random about it whatsoever.

'There are several Augurey nests in this vicinity,' he said in his usual quiet, indifferent tone that I could barely hear him. 'We mustn't fly too close—'

'You what?' I blurted out.

'We mustn't fly too close,' he reiterated, absurdly crisply, as if I had no grasp of the English language.

To my dismay, he produced two small objects from within his robes, and I just knew instinctively they would be enlarged and revealed to be broomsticks. I wasn't disappointed; soon, I held a battered old Cleansweep in my hand. A cursory inspection seemed to point to an infestation of woodworm at some point; how gallant of him.

'There's no need to approach the nests directly, just near enough to get a good aim. We shall use a spell of my own design.'

Here he proceeded to demonstrate a particular wand movement, coupled with a specific Latin phrase that I've been warned never ever to divulge.

Before I could say anything, he was on his broom. 'I'll do the far side; you stick to this part.'

And then he was up in the treetops and I was left standing there, perplexed and uneasy. He hadn't even explained what precisely his spell did. Would I really be warding the nests against danger? Or would I be bloody well marking them out for the poachers later that night?

Deciding to follow my instinct, I got on the broom and pushed up into the air. Flying has never been a particular pastime of mine, and it isn't a skill of mine, either. But I'm someone who does have trouble admitting weakness, and so there was a snowball's chance in hell of me admitting it in front of Severus 'Insufferable Know-it-all' Snape. For all he would know, I was a champion flyer.

I floated among the boughs slowly, careful not to get too close to the trunks, where I knew there could be Augurey's hiding. I've always found it very tempting to take a peek inside when you are at the home of some unsuspecting creature. Unsuspecting is the operative word, however, and I learnt the hard way the folly of curiosity in this situation. I once peered down into a gnome burrow and got punched in the nose for my trouble.

I aimed my wand from my vantage point and cast the spell to, I hoped, stave off any unwanted visitors. It was a simple action, really, but it left me brightened. I felt glad to be able to do something practical in this situation, instead of just sitting around staring at my maps and charts and getting nowhere. It occurred to me it was for this feeling and for this sense of being useful that I'd taken up my post at the Ministry in the first place.

But why do people often see the need to be helpful as contemptible? Why do they scorn it? Why did my colleagues look on me so negatively?

I carried on meandering through the air until I spotted another telltale knot-hole in a tree trunk that might indicate the presence of an Augurey. I inched forward to get a better perspective, and that's when I suddenly felt it. A spell. Magic emanating from the tree itself.

I twisted on my broom and looked for Snape. He was some distance away and I hesitated. It was all right when I was filled with annoyance, but otherwise, I was suddenly aware how awkward I felt having to refer to him by his surname. Wasn't as though he'd requested I call him anything else, however.

'Um, Snape?' I called out, bracing myself for a torrent of vitriol.

It wasn't vitriol, but the sigh he issued I managed to hear even as far away as I was.

While I waited for him to join me, I inched closer still to the tree. I could see there was very little chance of there being anything living in this tree. The bark was crumbling and its leaves, what few it had, were drooping. There was twigs and grass and other material visible in the knot-hole, signs of a nest, but they were blackened; charred and dead.

It was a stupid thing for me to do. In hindsight, certainly. Although, at the time, I think I could be forgiven for making such a mistake. I reached out an investigative hand to touch the tree bark.

I flinched as a strident command sounded from my companion. 'Don't touch it!' he hissed.

It was the flinch that did it. My fingers grazed the bark and within a split second, a stinging sensation travelled from my fingers right through my body. My eyes fluttered closed and I felt myself list to one side like a wilted flower. Before I passed out completely, and before I plummeted to the forest floor, Severus Snape said crossly:

'Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger.'

AN: Thanks for reading : )