The Pitfalls of Being an Insufferable Know-it-all

Eight

Merging back into consciousness seemed a rather slow process. For a precarious time, I thought the darkness wouldn't clear and I'd be stuck; lying there motionless in some sort of limbo forever. But that I even contemplated this pointed towards me regaining my faculties. Eventually, my limbs started to tingle, my ears rang loudly, and I seemed to be returning back to life. I fluttered my eyelids open and experimentally moved my head from side to side, unable to stifle a soft whimper.

I soon established I was lying on my living room settee. Clearly, Snape hadn't decided to leave me out on the forest floor, open to the elements.

With regard to the man himself, I was aware of a faint rustling sound and I blearily hoisted myself up into a sitting position. My head throbbed with the movement and my vision was out of focus for a few moments. In time, I managed to ascertain he was sitting at my kitchen table, quill in hand, scribbling over something. Even in my compromised state, I hoped for his sake he wasn't scribbling over my work. Had I been sure I could stand without my legs giving way, I would have launched myself over to him.

He glanced up at the sound of my stirring, but I was more interested in my clock that sat on the wall behind him.

'Eleven thirty?' I stammered in confusion. 'What—Is it Monday?'

'Indeed,' he grumbled. 'Milking it, were we, Granger?'

I collapsed back down with a sigh, wishing for unconsciousness to return. I put a hand over my face and counted to ten in my head. The whole bloody night had come and gone since that incident in the forest. What on earth had happened to me?

I heard, rather than saw, him stand and take the armchair opposite me. I clenched my jaw at the way he seemed to have made himself at home. How long had he been there, I wondered; all the while as I was dead to the world? Wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. I had visions of him snooping around my possessions again.

'What happened to me?' I asked, not bothering to remove my hand or open my eyes.

'You were merely jinxed,' he stated blandly, and I loved the use of "merely". 'I've seen it once or twice before, and as far as I can tell, it's used by poachers who want to capture Augurey's and other birds alive. They land on the afflicted tree and the spell knocks them out cold. Far more efficient than having to aim your wand at a bird in flight.'

I grimaced to myself. 'That's horrible.'

'I don't think it's a favoured modus operandi,' he continued, ever the detached observer (supposedly). 'Too noticeable for Muggles; and by extension, potentially, the Ministry.'

I wasn't convinced with this analysis. Noticeable, was it? He bloody well hadn't noticed it.

Or…Actually, he might have, I realised uneasily.

'What did you do afterwards?'

'After dumping you back here—'

I nearly snorted.

'—I returned to our task. I've since been back to examine signs they turned up last night, but I found none. Either, they were successfully deterred, or they went elsewhere, perhaps.'

I said nothing. Is it terrible the first thought that entered my head was how convenient it all was? The one jinxed tree being amongst the area he'd instructed me to work on? How convenient was it that I lay unconscious and was unable to see the effects of our work? I frowned to myself, thinking this whole situation was only getting worse and I still didn't know where I was, or where he was, in all this.

I didn't enjoy thinking in this manner. As much as he irritated me, I only wished he would be frank with me so I could forget, or confirm, my doubts.

There was the sound of a newspaper being opened and he spoke again. 'Some bloody do-gooder has written to the Prophet.'

The contempt in his voice made me turn my head into the cushions and smile. 'There are some people who care,' I muttered.

I was only surprised he hadn't deduced my involvement; perhaps he wasn't as omniscient as he liked to make out.

He snorted scornfully. I wasn't surprised. I knew whatever his motives were for pursuing this matter, they weren't because he cared, in the sentimental way I did, about the animals.

'Now you're back in the land of the living, I'm off.'

I stirred sharply at his words and let out a noise of protest. 'What do we do next?' I asked, heaving myself into a sitting position.

'I haven't decided.'

I scoffed, uncaring if he heard me. Why did he have to decide everything? 'And what if I have an idea? Some information? How am I to contact you?'

I hardly knew where he lived under normal circumstances, let alone where he might lurk about whilst trying to maintain a charade. I pushed my hair out of my face, for the first time considering I might look a wreck, and peered up at him with narrowed eyes.

'I will contact you,' he stated, and then he was gone.

I simply sat there, dumbly, for some time afterwards, completely unable to comprehend, and completely resenting, his prickly, high-handed demeanour. I rose unsteadily to my feet, still feeling rather unlike myself, and obtained a glass of water. Partially refreshed, I went to my kitchen table to see what it was he had been writing.

It was with no small amount of horror that I took in the numerous spidery scribbles cluttering up my margins and footers; there were corrections and crossings outs and…

'Oh my God!' I cried out in aggravation.

The bastard had had the gall to mark my work. Out of everything he'd said and done recently, it was this I considered to be the final straw.

He'd written Troll at the end of it.

As I've said previously, I'm usually up for a laugh, but I didn't find this funny at all. Not one bloody bit. In fact, it was a good hour or so before I could do anything else but fume.

When I was able to think clearly again, I wrote a quick note to the Weasleys—to apologise further for my abrupt departure the day before. I simply told them I'd had some work to attend to. They wouldn't have batted an eyelid at that—wasn't the first time I'd disappeared from some social gathering to test a sudden theory or write down a new idea.

Some hours later, when I felt I'd regained my equilibrium sufficiently, I also returned to the scene of the crime—the forest in Cheshire. I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to examine that tree for myself. It would be futile, I knew; Snape, so he said, had been back here. Any (self-incriminating?) evidence he would have discovered and, possibly, hidden from me.

I arrived at the same clearing he'd brought me to, and I proceeded walk slowly around the base of the trees, examining the ground closely for disturbance. I probably would have looked ridiculous to any passer-by, but, fortunately, there was no one around to observe my antics.

All I found was leaves. I kicked at them irritably, feeling this was my perpetual problem—always being two steps behind; the last to be in the know.

Finally, I cautiously approached the stricken tree, which had jinxed me so thoroughly the evening before. This time, as I stood close to the trunk, I felt no essence of magic. It's possible this was because it was simply less noticeable to me a second time around. However, and though I was reluctant (of course) to touch it, I rather thought the jinx had been eliminated. The likeliest candidate to have done this was, clearly, Severus Snape. And the most logical reason for him to have done this was to ensure no one else ended up in the predicament I did.

Good, responsible behaviour.

Yet… and I felt awful for thinking it again, it just seemed so very convenient and… coincidental.

Of all the forests in the country, of all the areas within a forest, he'd brought me to this spot, where there just happened to be a trap waiting for me to fall into. My doubts about this man and the fancies that he was playing a double-handed game always seemed to run wild when I was left alone to brood. It was only when I was with him that my desire to believe in him appeared to supersede anything else. And at that point, I had to wonder, uncomfortably, whether this might say more about his cunning than it did about my instincts.

I suppose a lot of my trouble stems from the fact I have a tendency to over-think matters. I think and I think and I think, and often, I just don't get anywhere. Something obvious may be staring me in the face, but I have to complicate things by reasoning out too many options, too many possibilities, and I just can't proceed. And there's not much I hate more than indecision.

I couldn't wait for Snape, I decided. I couldn't wait around indefinitely on his say-so. I was due back to work in the Ministry soon; I needed to make some headway before the majority of my time would be spent dealing with all that headache inducing rubbish there. The first thing I wanted was to see Cresswell again. Out of everyone, he had the most inflammatory accusations to make and I needed to know what substance he could provide them.

And as for danger… Well, Snape had done a good job of mitigating it so far, hadn't he? I'd take the risk—the risk, pointedly, only Snape had identified.

There was nothing else for me to decide. I Apparated to Snowdonia once more and knocked briskly on the door of one George Cresswell. I tried to ignore my discomfort as I considered whether Snape would somehow, in his apparent infinite wisdom, know that I had come here once more.

I knocked on the door again, but there was no answer. I bit my lip and frowned at my luck, concerned that if I had to return to try again at a later time, I might very well have talked myself out of it by then. There was nothing else I could do, however, and I moved back down the steps, preparing to Apparate home. I hadn't reached the bottom, however, when I heard a muffled noise sound from within the house.

I launched myself back up the steps and called through the door. 'Mr Cresswell? Please may we talk? It's important…'

There was nothing for a moment and I knocked again, straining to hear of any sound from within. In time, the lock clicked gently. The handle moved and the door opened partially.

'Go away,' said a voice.

'Mr Cresswell,' I urged, trying to get a glimpse of him, but there was only his hand to see, holding the door. 'I just need to ask you about… Well, to talk to you about—'

'I've nothing to say.'

'I don't believe that. Please—'

Suddenly, the door was opened further and his face came into view. I shrank back at what I saw.

'This is what happens when I talk,' he spat.

There was angry bruising all around his left eye and cheekbone.

'What happened?'

'I'm not to talk to you; not unless I want another… visit.'

'Visit?' I queried urgently. 'From whom?'

He was a while answering. 'Who do you think?' he hissed.

Every part of me went cold, because I knew precisely to whom he was referring. 'Snape's in Norway; everyone knows that,' I stated, as boldly as I could.

The expression of the old man twisted bitterly with resentment. 'Not last night he wasn't.'

Following that, the door was shut firmly in my face, and I was left standing there full of complete and utter disbelief. So much so, that I had to ask myself if this was all really happening. On top of everything else, I was now being told that Severus Snape was going around threatening people for their silence.

I had to think hard whether I could believe he would do such a thing, but the inescapable conclusion I reached was that I simply didn't know the man to determine either way. His whole personality, his motives, his drive, were as clear as mud to me.

The most troubling part of this new development was that, regardless of the truth of Cresswell's allegation, he seemed confident Snape wasn't in Norway. How did he know this?

I knew Snape wasn't in Norway, and I also knew I had no idea what he might have done, or where he might have gone, whilst I was supine across my settee all night.

I couldn't see it… I didn't want to see it. Snape attacking an old man physically… It just didn't seem his style. Yet, I had to wonder if that, in itself, was the whole point.

My instincts pointed at one thing, but the facts, such as they were, pointed to another. But it was something I couldn't sit on. I couldn't bide my time regarding this. Either Snape really was up to his eyes in skulduggery, or someone, for reasons unknown to me, wanted me to believe he was. I needed to resolve this, as far as I could, soon.

I Apparated home hoping, ironically enough, that I would find the man had broken into my home again. However, he hadn't.

How was I supposed to get in touch with him, when he refused to give me any inkling of his whereabouts? I thought hard, but for all that, coming up with only a couple of options. The first was formed on the recollection of a vague mention Harry had once made, a few years previously, regarding our former nemesis.

To speak to Harry, I would have to wait until the evening, when I knew he would be home from work, and that wasn't ideal on its own. The other option I had involved sending a note to his office at the Society. My reasoning was that, some way or another, he would likely be keeping up with the post he received there. This was hardly ideal, either; but in the short-term, the best I had.

I certainly had nothing to lose in sending a note, so I sent my owl off as soon as possible.

I still travelled via the Floo to Grimmauld Place, later that day. I cornered Harry—shut us in the library, away from the children, and knowing it would be a long shot, asked him plainly if he knew where Snape lived.

'Snape?' Harry echoed with confusion. 'What on earth do you want to know about him for?'

'Oh, you know, I just need to contact him regarding the work I'm doing.'

Harry nodded suspiciously. 'Isn't he, ah, away, though? That's what I read in the Prophet.'

'Well, yes—'

'Who knows how long your letter may go unopened, then? You'd be better off going to his place of work and asking for a forwarding address.'

He looked at me as if I were completely dim, and I say with no affectedness that this rarely ever happens.

Wasn't his fault really. I wasn't prepared to go into the details. I don't like to say Harry had become rather institutionalised over the years, but he took his responsibilities as an Auror seriously, and he flourished because of it. Had he heard even some of what had been going on, he would have had me in the Ministry making a witness statement immediately.

I was disappointed I hadn't got anywhere. I think, secretly, I would have loved turning up on Snape's doorstep and seeing his reaction (I'm not vain enough to think I could break his wards and enter unannounced). I didn't want to push Harry any further, though. He did know where Snape lived, at that time, but I had a strong feeling he wouldn't have told me, probably out of consideration for Snape himself. And that's another story, really.

The point was, I personally didn't want to go anywhere near the Most Extraordinary Bloody Society for Potioneers. I wasn't sure there was anyone there whose word I could rely upon; even kind old Albert I was beginning to doubt.

This was why I had to reach some sort of consensus before proceeding; there had to be someone I could trust, and despite everything, I wanted to believe it could be Snape; even if he was, and remains, a grumpy old git. As I think back, maybe even, curiously, because of it…

So, I returned home and I waited.

I waited and I waited.

And waited.

I dozed off when it got late, feeling my luck wasn't to be in that day, for he wouldn't turn up at some unconscionable hour, I thought.

Why was I always wrong?

It was well after midnight when I was jolted from my sleeping by a noise. I sat up, suddenly alert, and heard it again—it was a knocking on the door. A short, irritated rap, and I knew exactly to whom it belonged. I was only grateful he'd bothered this time with such an apparently disposable convention as knocking on the door for entry. Was a bit surprised not to wake up and find him sitting there, glass of wine in hand, and looking at me as if to say, 'What kept you?'

I rushed over to the door and wrenched it open. I barely had time to register his dark figure before he'd glided over the threshold and took himself straight into the living room. With a sharp sigh, I closed the door and braced myself.

He didn't apologise for the late hour, and I hadn't expected one. It seems, slowly, I was learning.

He stood in the middle of the room, pulling the scarf around his neck loose. I couldn't help it; my eyes surreptitiously lowered to his hands. Ridiculous as it sounds, I was looking to find some bruising of the knuckles perhaps; signs of an altercation reminiscent of the one Cresswell described.

Snape however, much to my consternation, was wearing gloves.

Was I worried for myself, then? Did I consider the only danger facing me, possibly, was this man who I'd brought into my home and shut myself in with? Would he threaten me for my silence?

No; I wasn't afraid. I should never have even contemplated what I was about to do, had I been afraid of him.

'You summoned me?' he stated with a sneer.

Oddly enough, I was suddenly overcome with a sense of self-assurance. Yes, I had summoned him, and yes, he'd turned up. Maybe, even, I could say I had the luxury of exercising the upper hand. I'd confront him; prove to him I was no mere girl—not his student to intimidate any longer. One (small) point to me, finally.

Slightly exhilarated, I moved into the room and leaned against the back of the settee, crossing my arms nonchalantly. 'I wished to inform you of a rather, ah, interesting conversation I had today,' I began, relishing the opportunity to adopt the drawn out, roundabout manner of speaking he often employed (usually to the detriment of my mental health). 'Most… curious it was.'

I even raised my eyebrow at him for good measure.

What he said, however, was simply: 'Get on with it, Granger. Think I've got all bloody night, do you?'

I grimaced. Of course, I should have known he'd have no qualms about being blunt with me. Thwarted, I resolved right there the next time he started doing my head in, I would just say: 'Get to the point, Snape. Think I've got all bloody night, do you?'

'Where did you go after you brought me back last night?'

A faint frown appeared across his face. 'Why?'

'Was it only the forest you returned to?' I questioned briskly.

Oh my, I could tell I was pushing my luck. His eyes were beginning to shine with ice-cold fury. Perversely, I think I rather enjoyed being responsible for it.

'I'm not answerable to you,' he hissed contemptuously.

I was unmoved. 'Maybe you'd rather answer to the Aurors, then?'

He took a step forward and I rejoiced inwardly as I held my ground without the slightest hint of a flinch.

'Explain yourself… now, Granger.'

Admittedly, that soft growl of his was, slightly… off-putting.

'Oh, well, it's just a little bird tells me you popped over the border last night. Told me you visited Mr George Cresswell and… attacked him.'

It was a moment I shall always remember with unerring accuracy. The perpetually pale complexion of my former professor paled further still and there was an unquestionable flicker within his eyes.

And that flicker, I'd never seen before, but I knew what it was—it was uncertainty.

In hindsight, I didn't much care what he would say in his defence. It, perhaps, doesn't reflect well upon me, but all I felt was triumph over wrong-footing him. It was a moment to enjoy, and I won't pretend it was otherwise.

I had to make the most of the chances I had. Because I doubted anyone could cow Severus Snape for long.

Or, more pertinently, even, to get away with it.

AN: Thanks for the reviews! Always appreciated : )