The Pitfalls of Being an Insufferable Know-it-all

Ten

I found Uncovering the Secrets of Augureys and Other Creatures to be a compelling read. After the way my last meeting with Snape had gone, however, it had been some hours before I could even look at his name on the cover without fuming, let alone read his work.

Uneasily, I noted that he and Ridley had carried out a comprehensive survey of Augurey habitats, some five years ago. It rather provided a neat little guide to spotting the elusive Augurey around the British Isles. Naturally, there was also a whole exposition on the use of Augurey feathers within potion-making.

I was disappointed not be more inspired once I'd finished reading. Finally getting my hands on the document had not really shed any further light on the matter. I had confirmation Snape and Ridley were both experts on the Augurey — nothing new there. Anyone could have copy of this journal article and be using it for nefarious ends.

The only unusual aspect, of course, was that I should have found the master copy from the Practical Potioneer stuffed under a bookcase in Snape's office. And was it carelessly placed? Or strategically placed?

I resolved to sit on it for the time being. Snape's excruciating behaviour meant I could not confront him on the matter — not yet. My dealings with him at that time were still so very much focused on an imagined points-scoring battle. And in my own mind, I was far behind in that battle.

There was another matter to occupy my mind, too. It was time for me to return to work at the Ministry.

There is no point denying that my job had become to be my focus during that period of my life. But faced with returning after only a week away, after all that had gone on, there was a worrying lack of enthusiasm on my part. To be sure, I wanted to work — I wanted the occupation. I was beginning to see, however, that I wanted it far less at the Ministry.

I expected the lack of enthusiasm ran both ways. I had a feeling the only reason they did not try and conjure an excuse to relieve me of my post was that they had begun to perceive me as a threat. Especially since the House Elf reform. To a certain extent, maybe they thought they would be better placed to keep an eye on me. Or perhaps it was my notoriety in the public consciousness that prevented them from getting rid. No one wanted to be the person who sacked one of the saviours of the Wizarding World, I supposed.

I'd always imagined finding myself in an occupation where I'd be valued and respected. To be in my late twenties and to have achieved only indifference at worst and barely disguised tolerance at best was a cause for great reflection. I had to wonder what it was about me that engendered such feeling.

I thought the fault must have lain with me, for I couldn't deny that I hadn't experienced this type of thing in the past. How many times had I been criticised by my peers as a child? As a teenager? Neither was it limited to my peers.

And for what? For being enthusiastic? For being intelligent? For being opinionated?

I'd tempered my eagerness and, perhaps, my inclination towards bossiness, as I'd aged. Or so I'd thought.

And yet… I was still the insufferable know-it-all.

I'm sure neither Snape nor I could have known how precipitously, and how succinctly, he had summed up my future in deeming me an insufferable know-it-all that day, in the classroom, many moons ago.

I'd never shake it off, as hard as I tried. Eventually, I learned how to embrace it and even to rise above it, but it wasn't always easy.

It came to pass that I walked back into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to a smattering of greetings and pleasantries. I was summarily called into the manager's office whereupon I was told I was to be given a new workload. I was reminded to abandon all efforts regarding the survey — it was a waste of time, I was told. A waste of time and resources.

I acquiesced with enough protestation that would not seem out of the ordinary, but I took the files back to my desk with good grace. This was all as Snape and I had anticipated and, indeed, had wanted. Admittedly, as I sat there, I rued not for the first time that Snape's machinations were not more transparent to me. But in any case, we'd resolved I should not reveal anything to the Ministry.

I sorted through my new tasks and smiled cynically. They were basic, rudimentary jobs that not even I could cause a fuss when executing. I'd expected as much, but part of me chafed at what could only be described as a demotion.

'Nice week off, Hermione?' It was one of my colleagues.

I looked up sharply. 'Oh, very good, thanks.'

'Do anything exciting?'

My mind went blank. 'Er, this and that.'

'Right…' she replied awkwardly. 'I thought we could go out to Essex to deal with that gnome infestation this afternoon?'

I nodded my agreement and when she'd departed I looked at my desk with a scowl. When was the last time I did anything exciting, I thought? And yet to me, following the trail of the Augurey hunters was my idea of excitement. They all thought I led the most humdrum of lives for a young woman. I glanced around the office and wondered what they would think it they knew the truth? What would my superiors think if they knew I was colluding with Severus Snape himself? Would their sycophancy then suddenly extend to me?

It was amusing to think on it. However, my initial ire with the powers-that-be had mellowed back into a more comfortable derision, and so one-upmanship on that score was not a priority, unlike my competition with Snape. The incident with the liquorice wands still smarted keenly (it still does) and I longed to be able to revisit that frustration upon him. Tenfold, if possible.

Unbeknownst to me, matters would soon conspire to reach a turning point in my dealings with the man. I still cringe to think back on it. However, even with the benefit of hindsight, I'm sure there's no earthly way I could have dealt with it any differently.

It happened all by chance. I was rummaging through my desk drawer, looking for my work diary, and I paused at a copy of the Daily Prophet that I had roughly shoved in there only a few weeks ago. It was the edition that had initially broken the Augurey story.

I sighed and unfolded it. What a mess it all was, I thought. Disgruntled, I was about to Banish it to the bin when my blood suddenly ran cold. I read the name of the journalist under the headline story several times.

Gwynfor Brown.

I knew I'd seen that name only recently and it didn't take long for me to recall where. I'd seen it on a scrap of parchment that had been lying in the grate in Snape's office. My mind rushed back to the incident of the leaked story and I realised I never knew exactly who was responsible for it. No one had ever been identified.

I like to think I'm someone who doesn't ordinarily jump to conclusions on the flimsiest of evidence. In fact, I'm more disposed to over-thinking. This time, however, I felt jumping to the most obvious conclusion was warranted. The leak had never been identified. We'd been told it had been someone in the department and these incidents were not unusual. Yet, it had been swept under the carpet. No single culprit had been identified and punished. Had the Ministry been simply bluffing to appease certain people, particularly Snape himself? And so, had they ever actually known from where the leak had sprung?

Then I recalled how Snape had already known of the issues referenced in the story. He'd been several steps in front of my research and I had seen the name Gwynfor Brown written in Snape's own hand. So, could he have leaked the story? It all added up rather nicely, except that I didn't know why he should play such a game.

Or, could the name be written down for some other purpose?

My morning was effectively ruined from there. There was only one immediate recourse I could think of that might confirm or allay my fears. During my lunch break, I went to the offices of the Daily Prophet and requested to see Brown himself. My luck was in; he agreed to see me and I found myself in a poky little office that was piled high with all manner of newspapers and scrolls and cabinets.

I fully anticipated that he would not reveal his source, but I hoped to glean something.

'My source,' he began equably, 'as I told the Ministry, was anonymous. I honestly don't know who it came from; I had many questions I should have liked to put to them, but I could not trace them.'

'What evidence did they provide to corroborate their story, if I may ask?' I paused. 'You had to be sure of its credence, I'm sure.'

He deliberated for a moment, before getting to his feet and retrieving a folder. He placed it on his desk and rifled through its contents. I itched to reach over and rifle through it myself. In time, he placed a packet of folded-up parchment onto the desk.

'There were several reasons to believe this story was credible — various pieces of evidence that bore out.'

He unfolded the parchments and I simply stared. I recognised them as extracts from a certain pocketbook I'd seen only recently. The handwriting was charmed, of course, but the layout was exactly the same. The content utterly familiar.

Now I was convinced Severus Snape had leaked the story to the Prophet. It was obvious. Quite possibly, incontrovertible.

I jumped from my chair as if hexed.

'Oh, wouldn't you like to —'

I shook my head briskly. 'No — no thank you. You've been very helpful; I'm grateful.'

My subsequent indignation was acute. I could have seized this tidbit of information and kept it as a card close to my chest, but I couldn't detach myself from the matter. Looking back, quite clearly this incident was the tip of a rather large iceberg and so, it is not unsurprising why I reacted the way I did. The fact I had hours for this anger to simmer and boil didn't help matters either, because of course, I still had no means of contacting the man other than to send a note to Edinburgh. That in turn only served to stoke the flames further.

One may imagine, then, that when I Apparated home from work and found him once again having let himself into my house, and having helped himself to a cup of tea, I could not have tempered myself. For all the galleons in Gringotts', I could not have forestalled my tirade.

'All right, Granger?' He didn't even bother to look at me — he was reading the Practical Potioneer.

'You bastard,' I whispered icily.

This diverted his attention. He looked at me, but his expression was blank.

'How could you? Why would you?' I spat. 'What have I ever done to you, hmm? You didn't even have the guts to tell me it was you!'.

He stood up then and seemed to fill the room, as only he could.

I flung my bag off my shoulder and ripped off my cloak. 'You don't intimidate me, Snape.' I glared at him scornfully. 'I know you leaked the story to the Prophet!'

He had the temerity to give a look of long-suffering. 'And?' he questioned facetiously.

My stomach clenched with an emotion that ranged from anger to disbelief to a traitorous pang of personal hurt.

'And?' I repeated dully. 'And? And what about me? What about my work? What about my career, Snape? Do you know how hard I have worked, for years, to get where I am now? Which, I might add, is barely fucking anywhere! Do you know how many brick walls I have banged my head against? How many doors have been slammed in my face by Ministry fucking troglodytes who just want to totter along with their blinkers on until their retirement beckons?'

I took a breath, but I wasn't done by a long shot.

'Do you know what I have had to put up with? The comments and the jibes, because, God forbid a young woman has ideas! But I persevered, I bore it with good grace – I played the game! And I thought I was getting somewhere, until you shafted me and gave them the ammunition they needed to put me back in my box!'

To be fair to the man, during this torrent, he did not let his expression flicker once. Indeed, I don't think he even blinked.

At a pause, he did try to speak. 'Gra—'

But I cut across launching into my next rant.

'You've been using me, haven't you? You wanted my work to be swept under the carpet! You gave me all that crap about having me help you… I bet you're in it up to your neck, aren't you? You don't care about what happens out there, just as long as nothing sticks to you! I bet you've got it all planned out with them… Humour me for a time and then fob me off, is it?'

'Granger—'

'I am sick to death of men thinking they can walk all over me — men who think they can do what they fuck they want!'

'Granger—'

'Well I've had enough!' I was alarmed to find I was starting to shake; my face was burning and I could feel the traitorous tingle of tears in my throat. 'I'll find out what's going on — I'll find out by myself! I don't need anyone else to'—

'Hermione…'

I broke off immediately with no little amount of surprise. I couldn't recall him ever uttering my name before, and the quality in the tone of his voice arrested me in a way I wasn't entirely comfortable with. The only other indication as to his being taken aback was a slight widening of the eyes as he watched for my next move. Black eyes, though, that I found to be warm, and it was oddly a blessing when my own vision blurred and I had to viciously swipe at the tears that threatened to fall. I used that movement to look away. I thought I must tell him to leave immediately. I was afraid of what he might say — afraid of how I might react if he chose to employ his infinite repertoire of cutting remarks.

But he said nothing. Instead, he touched my elbow and guided me to the kitchen table. It was only my feeling of being rather dazed that I did not shrug him off. I sat and he soon procured a steaming mug of tea which he placed in front of me.

I could not bring myself to look at him, but as the silence echoed loudly I forced a glance. He had his back to me and was looking through the window as if in some form of reverie. Perhaps he sensed my appraisal, because he turned suddenly and pulled out the chair opposite mine.

'Granger?'

Despite everything, I felt keenly a sense of disappointment that he did not address me in the way he had done only moments before. I hated myself for it.

'Are you recovered so that I might speak to you freely?'

I only nodded.

'I did leak the story to the Daily Prophet, anonymously, of course.'

The blood in my veins bubbled immediately, but he raised a hand to forestall any protestations on my part.

'The leak was necessary — I could not afford to have the incompetency of the Ministry muddying the water in all of this.'

I moved to interrupt again, but he carried on swiftly.

'You said it yourself, Granger, "troglodytes", was it?' He allowed himself a small smirk. 'As we have seen, predictably, once the uproar was initiated there was no longer any will to continue the research any further. I'm not up to my neck in it, Granger, the Ministry is.'

He glared at me to emphasise his point. At my silence, he stood and went to the window once more. He spoke again after a few moments and his voice was studiously blank — his expression hidden.

'We have been acquainted in some form of another for a number of years. Did we not already decide we desired the Ministry's retreat? I enlisted your help — I have not underestimated you.'

'You rubbished me to them.'

It was a moment before he spoke, returning to the table as he did so. 'You need not concern yourself with your colleagues, Granger. You will far surpass them in your own time, of that I have no doubt. But, you will not solve this problem you have identified from within… Bureaucracy is a large machine that shall not be ignored. We may force its hand, however, with the right leverage.'

I still said nothing. Inwardly, my thoughts raced to appreciate fully what he was saying.

'Yet,' he began softly. 'You do not trust me, I fancy.'

As a child I'd always been trusting of authority figures. How often had I even defended the man opposite me to Harry and Ron? I'd ultimately been borne out in the end but it hardly spoke well for my judgement considering what had happened in between. Now that I was older, more cynical, perhaps, I was less inclined to blindness. There were doubts I had had... After all, I'd just accused him of trying to use me to mask any nefariousness he might be involved in.

But… When faced with this plain statement, I decided that I did trust him. Why I decided this, I couldn't be sure at the time. There was something in him that I felt I could not ignore. Maybe it was a hang up from those Hogwarts days or maybe it was more intangible than that. Nevertheless, the crushing sense of humiliation that pressed at me with the echo of my rant meant I could not surrender graciously.

'You make it very difficult,' I replied, tightly. 'You tell me nothing, apart from what you deem necessary. I have no means of contacting you, yet you insist on turning up here announced. You don't even knock! I could have anyone in here...'

I trailed off because he was smiling — there was a very distinct lift at the corners of his mouth. I should have bristled, but, in actual fact, I failed to suppress a rueful quirk myself.

How tragic was it that he knew I had a nearly non-existent social life to speak of?

Not wanting to dwell, I stood to wash my mug at the sink. It was sparkling by the time I finished — I was at a loss what else to do, or, indeed, say. I half wished he would take his leave; I felt I needed some time to regroup. What he must have thought of me I dreaded to think… Unbalanced, maybe? Fragile? I could only be grateful he chose not to voice his thoughts aloud.

When the towel started squeaking against the mug because of my repetitive wiping, I was forced to return to the matter at hand. My discomfort was not lessened when I realised he'd been studiously observing my performance. There was a peculiar glint in his eyes — I think it meant he was amused.

'Well?' I asked, shrugging.

He frowned to himself and reached for his gloves on the table. 'The question is, Granger; can I trust you?'

'Yes,' I replied stoutly, without hesitation.

There was a short moment, after which he simply said, 'Very good.' He stood up then. 'There are matters I must attend to.'

Part of me breathed a sigh of relief he was leaving. I couldn't bring myself to ask why he had even been in my kitchen this night in the first place. All I wanted to do was get a wine bottle and then contemplate the sensibility of a self-administered Obliviate. But to my chagrin, he made no immediate move to the door.

I had not failed to notice he had borne my outburst with rather more good grace than I would ever have credited him. Yet, as I observed his delay, I could still see that peculiar glint was present and I held my breath for what might be a final parting prod.

'How did you find out I leaked the story to the Prophet?' he asked.

I blinked, marginally bemused. Under better circumstances, I would have relished this advantage I had, because I doubt he would have allowed himself to ask had I been more composed. Looking back, I'm only surprised he did not try and spin the story to make out he had always intended me to find out his leak to the Prophet.

'You need to clean out your fireplace more often,' I stated quietly.

He regarded me, then; the cogs in his mind no doubt efficiently joining the dots together. He nodded fractionally to himself and then there was a small concessionary shrug of his shoulders.

'What — no witty comment to make regarding your house-elf being tardy with the cleaning?'

I folded my arms and looked at him obstinately. Unfortunately, I got the feeling there was a comment poised, but that he'd swallowed it. There was a look of faint innocence on his face that seemed to suggest it was so. Ironically, despite how often his manner had infuriated me, I found I was not entirely grateful when he tempered it, either. That was frustrating in and of itself.

'I will return tomorrow and apprise you of further details, which should allay some of your, ah, concerns,' he stated.

When he reached for his gloves, I felt a little of the tension within me alleviate. He put one glove on, but before he could encase his other hand, he suddenly held it out for me to take.

I looked at it in small surprise.

'Are you agreeable?'

I shook his hand and nodded dumbly. His grip was strong, but not intimidating. When he did not release my hand straightaway, but rather held on, I looked at him in surprise once more.

'Tell me, Granger; you do not consider me a troglodyte, do you?'

I felt my bottom jaw slacken slightly. I made to try and speak, but to this day I do not know what I intended – no words would come. As it was, he must have read all he needed to know in my stumbling.

He released me and Disapparated. I can't be sure, but I think I heard a soft chuckle on his departure.

Troglodyte? Oh no, I certainly didn't consider him to be a troglodyte.

What I did consider him, however, I wasn't sure would be wise to contemplate.

AN: Thanks for the reviews! Happy you're enjoying this one!