Chapter III: The Potions Master
"What's all this, then?" Filch spat angrily at Mrs. Norris, after coming across the sight of so much rubbish on the staffroom table. Mrs. Norris ignored him, slunk past, and curled up once more on the armchair in front of the hearth where Professor Binns had snored his final snore.
Strewn across the table were a heap of loose matchsticks, lumpy-looking candles of varying shape, colour and girth, several confused-looking mice, what looked like the brass horn from an ancient gramophone, warped and oddly-shaped porcelain teacups that looked like they had somehow melted, and a large wastepaper basket in the shape of an elephant's foot, which was unnervingly wiggling its gigantic toes. Filch's lip twitched in disgust.
He shuffled off to fetch a large sack, grumbling about how teachers can be 'as mucky as students', and returned to sweep the entire lot, mice included, off the table into it. He cupped one hand around the matchsticks, and—
"Ouch!" Filch quickly withdrew his hand. One of the matchsticks was as sharp as a thorn: it had pricked his filthy finger and sank in deep. Blood began to flow.
"Argus!" a voice barked behind him. He leapt in the air, emitting a terrified squeak of surprise. It was Professor McGonagall. "What are you doing with my transfiguration equipment?"
"Nu-nothing, Professor," Filch stammered shamefacedly, shaking off the pointy matchstick and nursing his wounded finger. "I was just tidying the—"
"I say, which of your first years managed that?" interrupted a brusque, raspy voice from behind the pair. It was the flying instructor, Madam Hooch, bustling through the door with a clutch of well-worn, patched-up Bluebottle 100-series broomsticks. They followed her gaze to the matchstick that had impaled Filch's finger.
McGonagall let out a rare beaming smile, before almost immediately stifling it. "That, Rolanda," she said, "would be Miss Grainger—Hermione Grainger. She's the first pupil I've taught who can transfigure over fifty percent of an object on her first try. I expect big things from her."
Madam Hooch inspected the half-matchstick-half-needle. "Impressive," she remarked, holding it to the light. "It took me four months to turn a button into a thimble in my first year. And the gramophone horn?" she indicated the flared brass cornet, which the confused mice (that had been turned into matchboxes and back again) were sniffing curiously.
"That's just an ear-trumpet I confiscated from Fred Weasley. He's somehow imbued it to blow raspberries whenever a teacher's back is turned."
"Remarkable," Madam Hooch said, studying it. "Quite the talent you have spread across Gryffindor."
Filch grumbled and muttered under his breath, still sucking his sore finger. "Talented? Needles and matchsticks and farting trumpets. If that's what passes for talent these days—"
"Thank you, Argus," Professor McGonagall interrupted, shooing him away. "I'll tidy this up." She turned back to Madam Hooch, who was now inspecting each of the battered Bluebottle 100s. "Dear me, Rolanda, isn't it about time we upgraded our broom closet? The first years will spend the rest of the day picking splinters from their palms with those wretched old things."
Madam Hooch surveyed one splintered shaft. "Hmm, you may be right. These are easier to learn on than the Shooting Stars, but given their condition…" She called over to Filch. "Argus, dear? You wouldn't mind bringing a bottle of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish from the Quidditch arena storage room before you begin your afternoon rounds of the castle?"
Filch, with his back to Madam Hooch, screwed up his eyes in annoyance. McGonagall pretended not to notice. "Yes, Madam," he growled.
"And some sandparchment? Courseness level three, at least. I'll need you to buff these splintered sticks into something the kids can actually use."
"Yes, Madam." Filch was practically gnashing his teeth.
"Excellent. You really are an asset to our students!" She turned back to Professor McGonagall. "I suppose we'll have to go with the Shooting Stars, then. Speaking of which: I've got your shooting star—Miss Grainger—up next. And the famous Harry Potter! I wonder if he'll be any good?"
"If he takes after his father, I'm sure he'll be a seeker by his fourth year," McGonagall said.
"Potter's already taking after his father," a voice sneered. Snape had entered the staffroom and had swept past them on his way to the teachers' supply chest. "Rude, impudent, interruptive and insubordinate. It's like dealing with James Potter all over again." Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch exchanged a look as Snape lifted a fresh cauldron and a string-tied wrap of porcupine quills from the chest and marched out of the room. Filch, too, shuffled out with slumped shoulders and a thunderous look.
The atmosphere in the staffroom lifted immediately upon the two men's departure. Madam Hooch breathed a sigh. "That explains why the Longbottom boy's in the hospital wing, covered in angry red welts. Looks like Severus is being as harsh on the first years as usual with that anti-boil potion. You know, I couldn't even make that by my fifth year? And I was above average!"
"Mm," agreed McGonagall. "Someone always melts a cauldron on their first day. Several students always get horribly burned. I suppose it's quite lucky only one student got maimed in their first potions lesson this year. I did see on the House Points wall that Gryffindor are down two points this afternoon. Given Severus's antipathy towards Harry Potter, and Longbottom's unfortunate hospitalisation, I assume they lost a point each?"
"Seems likely," Madam Hooch nodded. "Anyway, I must fetch the Shooting Stars from the broom closet. Filch can deal with this scrappy kindling." She rested the gnarled, aged broomsticks against the wall, swiped her whistle from its peg, and headed out the door. She paused at the threshold. "James Potter was Gryffindor seeker, wasn't he?"
"In his final year, yes," McGonagall replied. "He was a chaser before that. From his third year, if I remember rightly."
"Let's hope it runs in the family," Madam Hooch said, and swept from the staffroom.