Jehane Desrosiers

Chapter 6 – Hagrid’s Hut

We Portkeyed directly to the paddock. Hagrid kept one hand on Filleambre’s neck and one on Serrebrune’s while I led Protecteur; we held the Portkey, a dirty shoelace, between us.

“I wouldna believed it,” he said, relieved. “I thought they’d bolt at the last.”

“As long as you’re touching them they feel secure. You don’t need a hood, most of the time.”

“W’out even a collar. ‘S lovely, but I woudna believed it.”

I looked around. Strange to have come to live here without so much as a preliminary visit. A nice big paddock with soft, turned earth. On the far side, a freshly fenced green pasture. A wooden hut with a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney – that must be Hagrid’s – and up the hill –

“Oh, Hagrid, is that the castle? It’s huge. I saw pictures, but – I didn’t realize --”

“Yeh like it? Ever’body says tha’ the first time. A fine example of the period, too, they say.”

“It makes Beauxbatons look like a cottage. I’ll never find my way about.”

“Ever’body says tha’ too. Yeh’ll get the knack.”

On the other side of Hagrid’s hut loomed a large wood, so dense and old that I couldn’t see past the first ring of trees. I wondered if a candy house with a dark witch was hidden in its depths.

The hippogriffs moved away from us and began scratching in the dirt for bugs.

“Now, would yeh like to come up to the castle and meet the Headmaster, or –“ Hagrid noted my apprehensive expression. “I bet yeh’d rather come in teh my place for a cup a tea.”

“Yes, please.”

Inside Hagrid’s hut, I felt as if I had shrunk to fairy size. Four enormous chairs, their seats at level with my ribs, surrounded a scrubbed wooden table of similar scale. In the far corner was a sturdy bed covered with a patchwork quilt – the large stitches suggested that Hagrid had done the quilting himself – and on that same wall, a fireplace I could have fit entirely inside. Some great tree of the Forbidden Forest had been transformed into a neat stack of logs.

“Make yerself comfortable,” Hagrid said. “I’ll get us some tea and a nice bit o’ sommat to eat.”

I boosted myself onto a chair using the rung as a step and sat with my legs hanging off the edge. Hagrid brought a Brown Betty teapot like a washtub and a plate of biscuits.

“Rock cakes!” he proclaimed. “Sort o’ my specialty.” And then pinching it between his finger and thumb like a thimble, he set a china teacup before me.

“This was my da’s mum’s,” he said shyly. “Fer special guests.”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I couldn’t have wanted a nicer welcome.” And with the first sips of tea I felt myself unwind and send tendrils of happy expectation into my new life.

Fortified with several cups, I was ready to run the gauntlet of whatever staff and students we might encounter on our way to Headmaster Dumbledore’s office. We stabled the hippogriffs in their new digs, and to protect them from curious visitors in our absence, I warded the stables. A small tidying spell sufficed to get my clothes and hair in order, or in as much order as they ever get.

Indeed, I found myself the object of many curious looks and whispered conversations in which the word “hippogriffs” could be discerned. It seemed that the riding program had been well promoted.

These English children thronging the corridors on their way to lunch seemed different from my schoolmates at Beauxbatons. Opener, less calculating, or was it only that now I was an adult and could see how tender and defenseless children really were? Harry Potter, who had defeated Voldemort just two years before, had trod these halls not long since. He can’t ever have been so very young as these chattering English roses brushing by me with their book bags.

The Headmaster’s office turned out to be hidden on an obscure corridor, protected by a password and up a spiral staircase. I wondered why he made himself so scarce. Madame Maxime had liked to be in the thick of the student throng like a general, giving advice and direction at all times.

“’Ere she is, Headmaster, safe and sound and none the worse fer wear.” Hagrid spoke as if he were delivering a precious package of which he had been put in charge.

“Ah, Madame Desrosiers. So good to have you with us.”

Professor Dumbledore looked just like his picture on the Chocolate Frog card, down to the old-fashioned pointed hat and snowy beard. He clasped my hand in both of his and gazed benignly at me through his half-moon spectacles. He was, however, performing a thorough and penetrating examination of me. He didn’t use Legilimancy; it was not magic but extreme astuteness, and he did it without diluting the genuine warmth of his greeting.

“Your trip was comfortable, I hope? And you are not too fatigued?” he asked, waving his hand so that two small cups and one large bucket of tea appeared on his desk along with a plate of cakes.

“No, thank you, it was easy,” I answered. “And the hippogriffs seem quite at home already. You’ve made a beautiful place for them. Thank you.”

“I hope this will be a beautiful place for you, as well.” And this time there was no assessment going on, just goodwill that opened my heart like a flower.

“Please, have some tea,” he said. “You too, Hagrid. And try these cakes. They are my own invention.”

“Real cream,” I sighed.

“Do you like cream?” said Dumbledore. “I do, too. If there’s any left in that pitcher when we are done, I might just drink it.”

The cakes were balls of flaky pastry with a glaze on the top. Inside was a pink cream. At first I could not identify the fragrant, delicate flavor, then –

“Roses!”

“Yes,” He looked pleased. “The trick isn’t in the composition. It’s in finding fresh roses in October.”

He inclined his head. “In your honor, Madame Desrosiers.”

+++++

After a few days Hagrid and I let the hippogriffs – my three, and three Hagrid had procured for me – mix for the first time in the paddock, chatting while we watched for trouble. He had trained two griffs in the traditional way and wanted to buy a fledgling to train Unroped.

“I sure wish I cud breed ‘em here,” he said.

“You don’t have the room,” I answered. “Or the staff.”

“Oo, I know that,” he replied. “I’m lucky if nawt complain when I raise one. Just – wouldn’t tha’ be sweet, wi’ the little fledglings rompin’ in the grass, tearin’ up their kill. Watchin ‘em from the very beginnin wi’ their mums.”

I leaned on the fence, watching Protector groom Serrebrune. After the last desperate year alone, I found Hagrid’s simple sweetness as relaxing as a warm bath.

From the vantage point of the hut I could see the path to the gates and the lanes that led away, over the dull autumn grounds, toward Hogsmeade and into the open country. A black shape like a soot, changing as its robes flapped in the wind, moved away from the gate and toward the moors.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Professor Snape,” answered Hagrid. “’Ee’s a great walker, that one. I see him come by that way, oh, two-three times a week.”

“Why have I not met him?”

“”Ee probably didn’t want to meet you. ‘Ee’s not what ye’d call social, I’d say. Ye’ve probably seen ‘im at dinner in the Great Hall, though.”

“Oh, right, I have,” I answered.

“’Ee’s not exactly outgoing. But ‘ee’s a great man, a brilliant man, and ‘ee was a hero in the war.”

+++++

That night at dinner I surveyed the room for Professor Snape. I found him at the head table between Professors McGonagall and Lupin. The Headmaster caught my eye and smiled genially. I smiled back, embarrassed.

When I peeked again, Professor Snape was scowling at his plate, tucking single-mindedly into his food and ignoring his table mates. His long, straight, black hair hung forward in wings, partially covering his pale face, although his hooked nose protruded. Despite the fact that he was packing away his dinner with indelicate haste, he handled his cutlery gracefully. I turned to Madam Hooch to ask about the composition of the season’s quidditch teams and their relative chances. It was an exhaustive discussion, and when I glanced up again, Professor Snape was gone.

After that I noticed him every day. At dinner, of course, and striding toward the Hogwarts gates, robes flying, and as a black speck cresting the hills. His was a lonely, but compelling, figure.

The week was filled with arranging the stables, acquainting the hippogriffs with their surroundings and their new fellows and, of course, exercising and grooming them. Hagrid had been helpful in securing a regular supply of small beasts for their feed.

I had designed my classes to have four in each group, two classes of younger and two of older children to meet twice a week, and Headmaster Dumbledore had been correct in his predictions; they had filled immediately. All of the students were completely new to hippogriff riding -- a blessing, as I would not have to disabuse them of misconceptions or break their bad habits. We were due to start the following Monday, and I spent some time going over the class lists with Hagrid, learning a little about each child.

I looked forward to teaching. I had given lessons at our stables, and I didn’t expect to have discipline problems as those teaching required courses did. I have never found young people difficult. I must have left some part of me behind when my mother died, for I remember very well what it is like to be fifteen. Teenagers seem normal and comprehensible to me, and they respond to my ease.

I got my first look at Professor Snape in action one day just before dinner. The noise of a hundred piping childish voices in the corridor outside the Great Hall was naturally wearing on the nerves and I was feeling a bit irritable. I caught a glimpse of him ahead of me, striding impatiently along as if taking meals was an imposition barely to be tolerated. He bore a stack of parchments under his arm, and I wondered if he planned to read during dinner. That would certainly be rude, and I'd only seen others do it at breakfast, but perhaps in character for him. A second year, calling backward to a friend, neglected to watch and wandered into Snape, knocking the parchments to the ground and treading on Snape's robe. When he turned to see what had happened, he froze like a mouse under the eyes of a snake.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing, clumsy idiot?" Snape snarled.

"Sorry, sir, so sorry," squeaked the boy. He bent to gather up the parchments.

"I'll thank you to keep away from those," hissed Snape. "Before you do further damage. If you can't control your own body you don't belong in a school of wizardry."

"Sorry --" said the hapless fellow again.

"Get out of my sight and stop your pathetic apologizing." Snape was nearly shouting now. The bent heads and averted eyes around them told me that this was not an unfamiliar scene and that others had learned to keep out of the line of spellfire. The boy scuttled off.

Snape certainly seemed a nasty piece of work. "Brilliant man and a war hero," indeed. I considered the long solitary walks and the silence at dinner and how all the staff seemed to respect the bubble around him. What was his trouble?

Then I thought, of course -- he is spoiled. Defensive and angry and superior and afraid of people, for sure; he’d been deeply wounded early on, anyone could see. But did they see how their tiptoeing around and deferring to his vicious tongue had made him meaner and more alone? He got away with acting like a bastard and no one called him to account, as if no one cared enough. Like Serrebrune when she’d first come to me — no good to herself or anyone else because no one had cared to make her behave.

He needed a spanking; the thought was so ludicrous I smiled.

+++++

Like institutions everywhere, Hogwarts conspired to have its staff meeting at the deadliest possible time, four o’clock on Friday. As I expected there to be some sort of official welcome, I made a special effort with my appearance, which consisted of several spells one on top of each other for my hair, which left it glossy and braided and woven with small green ribbons. Experience had taught me that this would last about the duration of one staff meeting, then spring loose like a Christmas cracker. I’ve never had any luck either with make-up or glamours, so I contented myself with a little pink lip gloss and clean jeans under my better gray robes.

I don’t like being looked over, even in a friendly way, so I made a point of arriving in the Quidditch room – so called, I suppose, because of the sports memorabilia displayed in cases all round – before anyone else and securing a seat in the corner. Madam Sprout was the next to arrive.

“Now, are your rooms comfortable, dear?” she fussed. “Because if they are not, just go ahead and arrange them to your liking. And the house-elves are to be used, so get them to work cleaning and straightening. Is there anything you need in the way of furnishings?”

“No, thank you. You’re very kind. Actually I had so much from my old house, it was a problem to winnow it down.” I looked around for a diversion. “Are these team photos arranged chronologically?”

“Yes.” She led me from my chair to one of the cases. “This one here, that Seeker in the front, that’s Harry Potter.” A skinny boy with round glasses grinned bashfully from the photo and fiddled with the handle of his broom.

“Gosh, he doesn’t look like the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Now look here.” She brought me to the next case. “Eighteen years earlier. Look at the Seeker in this picture.” Another lanky boy with thick, unruly hair.

“Harry’s father?” I guessed.

“Yes,” she sighed happily. “There’s such continuity, such tradition at Hogwarts. He was an adorable boy.”

Something about her tone gave me a clue. “Was Harry’s father in your year?” I asked.

“A year ahead.” She gave me a conspiratorial look. “I had quite an eye for boys, and James Potter was a dream. Smart, and funny. Full of mischief.”

“So you must have been partial to Harry as well.”

“No,” she answered. “Not more than any other child. You see, James was – life was a light thing to him. He took delight. But Harry – he’d seen so much already. Complicated, and closed. Except to those two buddies of his.”

“Yes, Hermione and Ron.” Poor Harry Potter, whose life had been the subject of so much interest and speculation. Even in Europe we knew about his school friends, his Quidditch record and his history. Everyone that read Wizards in the checkout line had seen pictures of him, his dead parents and his friends at school. Wherever he was, supposedly working as an Auror for the Ministry of Magic, I wished him joy of his private life at last.

I returned my attention to the case. On the shelf above James Potter were an engraved dueling cup and a team photo. I immediately recognized the slender figure in whites, wand vertical in the en garde position, left hand lightly on his hip. As I watched, he raised his chin slightly, challenging.

“Madam Sprout, is that Professor Snape?”

“Oh yes, he was in that year also. I’m afraid James teased him rather a lot.”

“Was he a good dueler?”

“Yes. Very agile and fast. He won a lot of matches, but –“ She lowered her voice. “He wasn’t sportsmanlike, I’m afraid -- so intense about everything, easily offended. You know, it makes people want to pick on you.”

“And James did.”

“Yes, and it didn’t help that James and his clique were so popular.”

“Mm.” I sympathized with this teenaged Snape, never having been one of the popular crowd myself, at school.

“It was a lovely sport, though,” she mused. “And not that dangerous. I’m sorry the Commission on School Sports banned it.”

Several other staff entered at that moment, and I retreated to my corner chair. Remus Lupin gave me a friendly smile and Madam Hooch a sporty fist-pumping gesture. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape came in together, finishing a conversation. Snape threw himself into a chair to the Headmaster’s right, crossing his ankles under the table and fixing his eyes grimly on its edge.

“Ah. Madame Desrosiers,” said Dumbledore genially. “Welcome. There is room here at the table. Do come up. I promise you, we are not so fearsome as we look.” He took the edge off his teasing with a wink.

Eek. I got up and crossed the room under examination after all, settling myself in the farthest chair from the head.

“Have you all had a chance to meet Madame Desrosiers? Severus?”

He glanced up and gave me a curt nod. “How do you do,” he said dismissively.

“Madame Desrosiers is the author of Hippogriff Whispering, as you probably know, and a scholar of hippogriff-human relations,” Dumbledore went on. “And I expect you have seen the facilities we have put in place for her riding program.”

“Private lessons for faculty, I hope,” declared Madam Hooch. I grinned at her and nodded, noticing a subtle shiver from Professor McGonagall at the thought.

“We feel very lucky to have you, my dear,” said Dumbledore. “And we hope you will be happy with us.” There was murmured assent from around the table, but I noticed that Professor Snape did not join in.

The meeting ground on through the usual material – updates, notices, requests, proposals – and since I hadn’t been around at the inception of most of these issues and wouldn’t need to know about some others, I examined my new colleagues. In truth, I was looking for my new friend, but the female pickings seemed thin -- McGonagall – too serious, and old enough to be my mother; Sprout – too motherly; Hooch – no rapport and that weird Trelawney creature at the corner, with those scarves and bracelets -- out of the question. It seemed that Lupin was my best bet for companionship besides Hagrid, but I had hoped for a girlfriend.

My eyes wandered to Snape. He sat looking at me with the face of a tired king, eyes a fathomless black, unreadable, and as I returned his gaze, I fell through a door, opening into another door, opening into another, deeper and deeper into a world alive with meaning. Then I knew:

I was meant for him.

In the next moment my heart raced, as if I had walked too close to a cliff and felt it crumble. What an insane idea, calculated to spoil every chance of happiness in my new life. For the rest of the meeting I stared at my clasped hands, then blessedly, Lupin came over to invite me out for a butterbeer. I focused on him and got out of the room as quickly as possible.

Notes

“The face of a tired king.” I stole this from Pat Conroy. I wish I’d thought of it myself, but it belongs here and I didn’t think he’d mind.