A Wizard's Debt

Severus.



Most wizards and witches in this new time of freedom spend their Friday evenings at a club gyrating against each other in an imitation of vertical sex; others sat on the luxury red velvet at the theatre; some visit restaurants and expand their culinary repertoire; many still stay at home listening to the wireless with pleasant conversation or a good book.



I am not most wizards; and all I need to keep me occupied is a quiet lab and a potions conundrum to solve. Many have said I need to ‘get a life’ and ‘get out more’. And to them I say: get on with your life and leave me to get on with mine.



So, on a pleasantly warm July Friday evening, I had not expected my agreeable solitude to be interrupted.



“Sir? Can I come in?” asked Hermione Granger as she walked through the door.



“If you must.” I lowered the flame beneath the cauldron I was working on, turning over the twenty-minute hourglass and watch the sand grains trickle through the opening into the bottom bulb. “What brings you to the dungeons on a Friday evening – I was under the impression that you were on a ‘date’ with one of the possibilities for a husband?”



“I was until he turned out to not be who he said he was on the letter.” She sighed, sitting on a bench to remove the strappy heels from beneath her fitted robes. “He said he was twenty-five, medium height with a slim build. That he had interests in music and art and wanted an equal…”



“And?”



“He was seventy; small, fat, balding and spent the whole five minutes in my company staring at my chest and saying horrible things.” She moaned, dropping her head into her hands.



I tried not to laugh, I truly did – but I couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped.



“Please don’t laugh at me. I’m having a rubbish evening as it is, don’t rub salt in a very open wound.” She whimpered, her voice broken.



“Well, you shall have to go back to that little pile of maybes you had, Miss Granger.” I said, beginning to peel the ingredient next to go into the cauldron – there were mixed results with the whole ingredient.



“There isn’t one. He was the last hope.”



“A whole new definition of hopeless.” I muttered.



“Ha. Ha.” She griped, hitting her head on the desk. “What am I going to do? I’m going to end up with either a man I can’t relate to and don’t want; or in Azkaban.”



“In a perfect world, where you were master, what would you want?” Perhaps this will help? Though, I will admit to just being curious rather than helpful.



“Intellegent – I couldn’t cope with someone who’s got more teeth than IQ points. I’d want him to be calm and controlled, sensible but still able to have fun. Erm… someone I could have a conversation about anything with; someone who could keep me happy and be there to hug me when I need a good cry. Someone who respects me, and who I can respect in return.” She said, her voice unsteady.



“No appearance? No age?” Since when did teenage women care for personality over looks?



“Handsome ish; not too old. I’m not to worried about the packaging the personality is in – as long as its male… you know.” She blushed at the last.



I thought about her request for her perfect husband while cutting the flesh of the plant into strips. There were few men who filled her every request, that I knew of.



And despite that people believe me to be a recluse, I am not – I just don’t spend my free time in public places. “I know of three men that would fit your specifications, Miss Granger.”



“And let me guess, they’re all married.” She said, peering into the gently simmering cauldron. “What are you brewing?”



“It is a challenge among the potions Masters – they half annually. We are given the starting ingredients for a potion and told to invent the rest. It is how most new potions are produced and new techniques discovered. I Am not sure what the potion will do – but if my predictions are reasonably correct – which they usually are, it should behave in the manor of a strong calming remedy, perhaps an insomnia potion?”



“Hmm, sounds interesting! What happens if you find a solution?” she asked, momentarily forgetting her hardship.



“It depends, there are often many different responses to the challenge, and a panel decide on the best option and award a hundred galleons and place it for further experimentation.” I answered, remembering to answer her first question. “And two of the three are wed, their wives are very unique women – it is a requirement of a Potion’s Master’s wife, we tend to be rather driven and focussed.” I smiled, Marcia and Drusilla are both vibrant women who have no idea of potions but keep their husband’s heads out of their cauldrons.



“And the third?” she asked, looking hopeful, in my direction.



Oh, how I love to dash hopes: “Myself.”