If All Else Fails

Chapter 2:

An Unfortunate Letter

The early morning sunlight trickled lazily in through the windows of the 6th-year Gryffindor girls' dormitory, pausing to curl playfully around the curtains, then dancing lightly across Hermione's bedspread. Hermione slumbered peacefully on, her chest slowly rising and falling with each breath she took. The sunlight was not pleased with this, however, and crept gently up to her face, brushing softly against her rosy cheeks and lowered eyelids. Hermione reluctantly opened one eye, closed it then opened both. She yawned, stretched her arms above her head, and gracefully rose from her bed, sending a protesting Crookshanks to the floor, who meowed pitifully and sprang lightly back up.

Hermione walked briskly over to her wardrobe, opening the door and surveying the clothes within. Her regulation black Hogwarts robes filled most of the space, with a few others scattered here and there. She removed one carefully from its hanger then put the now-empty hanger with the others, meticulously stored on the left side of the wardrobe. Her clothes were as neatly organized as her life, hanging in straight rows, with not a sleeve out of line or a wrinkle to be seen.

She quickly removed her pajamas (pink, with little butterflies--Hermione had charmed them to move) and donned her robe (black as the midnight sky). After slipping on her white, cotton socks and lacing up her practical brown shoes, Hermione turned to the grueling task of brushing her hair. She began at the ends, working the fierce tangles out of a small section before beginning on another. Following twenty minutes of hard labor, her hair appeared to be in some semblance of order, held in the back with a beautiful gold clip. She especially liked this one; her parents had given it to her for her last birthday.

Her morning rituals complete, she heaved her overloaded school bag onto her shoulder and stepped quickly over to the door. Ignoring her still-sleeping roommates, she went out and descended the stairs into the common room. There was a blazing fire already crackling in the hearth, sending out a finger of warmth into the chilly air--September wasn't freezing, but it wasn't the hottest time of the year, either. Some house elves must have gotten up early. Hermione mentally frowned. She still wasn't pleased about their enslavement, but with no outside support, the Society for the Protection of Elvish Welfare had died while still in its infancy. When I'm Minister of Magic, things will be different, she thought. She sat down on the couch nearest the fire and waited for Harry and Ron to appear. Might as well read a few more chapters of my new Potions textbook. Snape is sure to ask some hard questions, since it's the first day of school. Opening her book, she was soon lost in the entrancing world of study.

Severus Snape was not in a good mood. Residual stress from the Welcoming Feast the night before had given him a bludger of a headache, and he had no headache potion on hand. He knew he should have made sure his cupboard was well stocked before the school year began, but it had somehow slipped his mind. Drat, this means I'll have to ask Poppy for some, and she'll start fussing over me like a mother hen. He momentarily debated just dealing with his headache to avoid seeing Madame Pomfrey, but decided against it. A headache on the first day of classes was sure to cause more trouble than it was worth. He would just have to sacrifice his pride and make a visit to the infirmary.

His steps were long and angry as he strode to the hospital wing. The few students roaming the halls avoided him like he was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, all but running in panic. Good riddance, he thought grimly. He wanted as little contact with the students as possible. It wasn't like any of them would ever amount to anything anyway. The ones with ambition lacked brains, and the ones with brains lacked ambition. That was the way it had been for centuries, and it was no different now.

Reaching the infirmary door, he yanked it open and stepped inside. The familiar scent of healing potions reached his nostrils like perfume associated with a nostalgic memory, and for a moment he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and just breathed. Why don't I come here more often? he wondered.

He got his answer when the also-familiar voice of Poppy Pomfrey broke into his musings. "Is there something I can do for you, Severus?" she enquired.

Snape's eyes snapped open and he immediately straightened up. Fixing her with a cold glare, he said, "I find that I require a headache potion if I am to face those bratty, brainless Hufflepuffs this morning. I am sure you have some in stock, so if you give it to me quickly I can be on my way."

True to his forebodings, Madame Pomfrey instantly began to worry. "Are you feeling ill, Severus? Do you need to stay in the infirmary for a few days? Should I call a mediwizard? Should I call Albus? Are you sure--?"

Snape's patience snapped. "I am not ill," he snarled, "nor do I need a mediwizard. If you call Albus he will tell you the same thing, and I have no desire to remain in your care for even the next few minutes, let alone the next few days. I simply need a headache potion. If you are incapable of getting one for me I will brew one myself, although that would be a great inconvenience for me. Now may I have it?"

"Well really, Severus, there's no need for all the dramatics," Madame Pomfrey sniffed. "I just wanted to make sure you were feeling well and you're acting like a wounded Hippogriff. Don't come to me if you're ever seriously injured. You can just stay in your little hole and sulk." She opened a nearby cupboard and removed a tiny bottle made of pearlescent blue glass. It was filled with a potion that upon first glance appeared to be a deep green, but turned out to be yellow when away from the influence of the blue bottle. Snape snatched the bottle, wrenched off the lid, and downed its contents in two seconds flat. Relief flooded his face, and he handed the now-empty bottle back to Madame Pomfrey.

"Thank you, Poppy," he said in his usual silky voice. "I knew you could manage such a simple task given enough time. Now if you'll excuse me, I have classes to teach." With a final sneer and a swirl of his black robes, Severus Snape turned and exited the infirmary.

Hermione yawned. She had really gotten up too early that morning, but old habits die hard. Harry and Ron had joined her in the common room about half an hour after she had gotten there and the three of them were now pleasantly eating breakfast together at the Gryffindor table. She lifted a bite of scrambled eggs daintily to her lips then stopped as a shrill noise caught her ears. She glanced up to see hundreds of owls swooping overhead, dropping letters and packages upon their respective owners. The mail had arrived!

Having subscribed to Witch Weekly the year before, Hermione scanned the flock of birds and soon saw one heading in her direction. It dropped the newspaper on her lap, but almost before she had a chance to pick it up, another owl dropped a letter on her head. Hermione inspected the pale blue envelope--it looked harmless enough. She hoped there were no repeats of the hate mail of her fourth year. Above all else, the envelope looked expensive. Whoever had sent this letter was clearly rolling in Galleons. She frowned. She didn't know anyone that rich--well, except Harry, and why would he send her a letter? It was only the first day of school, and they saw each other every day anyway. Curious now, she stuck her butter knife under the flap and carefully pried it open. Nothing could have prepared her for what she would find.

It was a letter. Ordinary at first glance, but then she opened it and the words struck her heart like sharp daggers. It read as follows:

Dear Ms. Granger,

It has come to my attention that you fancy yourself as being exceptionally clever, able to solve the most difficult riddles. Solve this one for me then, if you can.

I know of a certain Mudblood at Hogwarts who thinks herself above her station. She continually attains higher grades than my son Draco, a Pureblood in every aspect. Naturally, this is unacceptable. The question is: what should I do in order to teach this Mudblood a lesson?

I believe you are acquainted with two Muggle dentists named Rick and Thelma Granger. If you wish for their existence to continue undisturbed, I would suggest you change your studying habits. Otherwise, I cannot guarantee their safety. Such simple Muggles as they are, it would be simplicity itself to throw a few unpleasant hexes their way, knowing they could not defend themselves.

Also, I would recommend not mentioning this to the Headmaster. If I hear you have told him about this, you will have put your parents' lives in jeopardy. Their blood will be upon your head.

Sincerely yours,

Lucius Malfoy