![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Simple Economics
I am sure some fraction of you has always wondered why a certain wizarding school is utterly incapable of finding qualified staff. There is, in fact, a very simple reason.
"Bodkin!" a voice outside grumbled. The door creaked open, and Snape stalked into the room. Snape was hardly broad-shouldered and commanding; his hair was glued to his head and his coal-colored eyes seemed to have been buried in the back of his skull. Still, he made Percy feel scrawny and infantile. The daydream collapsed. Percy took a few more glum sips of tea, watching Snape over the rim of his teacup. Presence. That air of superiority. Why could Snape do it, when he couldn't?
Snape paced up and down the long room. The rows of wooden chairs scooted aside as he passed. Presence, Percy thought again. It was frustrating and unfair . . . But Snape did have it. Maybe Percy should pay attention. He could learn something important. Snape obviously had the support of the Board; he was the headmaster, after all. And he was very skilled in both Potions and the Dark Arts. Percy's family had always hated the man, but then his family had never been able to see the big picture. His father had lost several promotions through sheer lack of political observation, and his brothers (especially Fred, George, and Ron) had elevated that absent-mindedness into a positive virtue. Percy was different. He was awake, he was aware, he could think long-term-- and he wouldn't let petty family feuds stunt his growth.
"Did you have something to say to me, Mr. Weasley?" Snape inquired.
"No, sir. Sorry, sir!" Percy said hastily.
"You're absolutely certain? You haven't encountered any strange explosions? I'm not afflicted with horrible scars?"
"Oh, no, sir." Percy wondered where this line of questioning was leading. He had never been less certain what he was supposed to be saying-- except, perhaps, during the interview for this position, which Snape had conducted with his back to Percy, occasionally glancing over his left shoulder.
"Then, Mr. Weasley, you may cease peeping at me from behind your teacup, and address me in an adult manner, without the extraneous honorifics."
"Sorry, sir," Percy whispered. He set his cup down and glared at his tea, wondering how long it would take for it to chill enough for the cream to separate out again. Little droplets of congealed fat in a dark room on a cold September-- Percy realized he was maundering. It was far too early to abandon his new plan. He would learn from his superiors, no matter how unfriendly they seemed.
Percy took a deep breath and began again. "Headmaster Snape?" It was hard to suppress the "sir", but he would do it. "Could I ask for your advice, please?" Percy had learned early that nothing filled a man with goodwill like being asked to provide advice.
"Yes? What is it?"
Now Percy had to find a problem that he could admit without embarrassing himself further. The impossible class sizes? No. He was strong, he could find a way to enforce his will on fifty eleven-year-olds. The tea was simply petty. When in doubt, Percy thought, try the offensive. "It's . . . I don't like to criticize anyone unfairly . . ."
"But you are about to criticize. Do get to the point."
"Madame Beauregarde . . . She keeps interrupting my classes, and I was wondering . . ."
"How to lock the door? It's a very simple spell. Even your capabilities should not be strained."
"No, it's more-- a competent instructor would have lessons to prepare, courses to teach-- but of course she might be lonely or something . . ."
Snape chuckled, a grating sound that grew louder and quicker as time went on. "Are you implying that the illustrious Madame Marie-Suzanne Beauregarde is not eminently qualified for her position?"
"Naturally I would never imply anything of the sort about one of my colleagues, but I did feel some concern--" Percy said hastily.
Snape's laugh grated even more uproariously, then creaked to a stop. "How exactly would you rate your own qualifications?"
"I believe my NEWTs were rather exceptional, and my record since--"
"And how many people turned you down, before you had word of this position?"
Percy felt himself growing pale. He didn't want to think about those in-between days, the stacks of carefully calligraphed applications, the hunt for recommendations, his tiny, bare flat . . . "But Hogwarts is an honor, sir! It's always been extremely competitive!"
"HA!" Snape's laughter was almost threatening. "Perhaps you have had the fortune to avoid encountering Hagrid as an instructor? You believe that Sibyll Trelawney is a natural at Transfiguration? Werewolves and madmen enthrall you?"
"Sir . . . The thousand-year tradition . . ."
"And lack of benefits, mediocre pay, and constant residence in a drafty castle among a pack of puling children. Do you know how much a mid-level Potions researcher makes in industry? Do you?"
Percy shook his head mutely.
"More than your weight in Galleons, Mr. Weasley! Without death threats, Ministry interference, or prowling basilisks. Of course Beauregarde's unqualified. She's a hopeless old fraud. We all are, and we're bringing up a whole new set of them."
"Headmaster Snape, sir," Percy said desperately. "You seem agitated. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Snape didn't answer. He was gazing into the distance, eyes squinting as if he saw a bright light. "It will change," he said, so quietly Percy almost didn't hear him. "It will all change."
(from the forthcoming Chapter 3 of Sorting Error)
"Bodkin!" a voice outside grumbled. The door creaked open, and Snape stalked into the room. Snape was hardly broad-shouldered and commanding; his hair was glued to his head and his coal-colored eyes seemed to have been buried in the back of his skull. Still, he made Percy feel scrawny and infantile. The daydream collapsed. Percy took a few more glum sips of tea, watching Snape over the rim of his teacup. Presence. That air of superiority. Why could Snape do it, when he couldn't?
Snape paced up and down the long room. The rows of wooden chairs scooted aside as he passed. Presence, Percy thought again. It was frustrating and unfair . . . But Snape did have it. Maybe Percy should pay attention. He could learn something important. Snape obviously had the support of the Board; he was the headmaster, after all. And he was very skilled in both Potions and the Dark Arts. Percy's family had always hated the man, but then his family had never been able to see the big picture. His father had lost several promotions through sheer lack of political observation, and his brothers (especially Fred, George, and Ron) had elevated that absent-mindedness into a positive virtue. Percy was different. He was awake, he was aware, he could think long-term-- and he wouldn't let petty family feuds stunt his growth.
"Did you have something to say to me, Mr. Weasley?" Snape inquired.
"No, sir. Sorry, sir!" Percy said hastily.
"You're absolutely certain? You haven't encountered any strange explosions? I'm not afflicted with horrible scars?"
"Oh, no, sir." Percy wondered where this line of questioning was leading. He had never been less certain what he was supposed to be saying-- except, perhaps, during the interview for this position, which Snape had conducted with his back to Percy, occasionally glancing over his left shoulder.
"Then, Mr. Weasley, you may cease peeping at me from behind your teacup, and address me in an adult manner, without the extraneous honorifics."
"Sorry, sir," Percy whispered. He set his cup down and glared at his tea, wondering how long it would take for it to chill enough for the cream to separate out again. Little droplets of congealed fat in a dark room on a cold September-- Percy realized he was maundering. It was far too early to abandon his new plan. He would learn from his superiors, no matter how unfriendly they seemed.
Percy took a deep breath and began again. "Headmaster Snape?" It was hard to suppress the "sir", but he would do it. "Could I ask for your advice, please?" Percy had learned early that nothing filled a man with goodwill like being asked to provide advice.
"Yes? What is it?"
Now Percy had to find a problem that he could admit without embarrassing himself further. The impossible class sizes? No. He was strong, he could find a way to enforce his will on fifty eleven-year-olds. The tea was simply petty. When in doubt, Percy thought, try the offensive. "It's . . . I don't like to criticize anyone unfairly . . ."
"But you are about to criticize. Do get to the point."
"Madame Beauregarde . . . She keeps interrupting my classes, and I was wondering . . ."
"How to lock the door? It's a very simple spell. Even your capabilities should not be strained."
"No, it's more-- a competent instructor would have lessons to prepare, courses to teach-- but of course she might be lonely or something . . ."
Snape chuckled, a grating sound that grew louder and quicker as time went on. "Are you implying that the illustrious Madame Marie-Suzanne Beauregarde is not eminently qualified for her position?"
"Naturally I would never imply anything of the sort about one of my colleagues, but I did feel some concern--" Percy said hastily.
Snape's laugh grated even more uproariously, then creaked to a stop. "How exactly would you rate your own qualifications?"
"I believe my NEWTs were rather exceptional, and my record since--"
"And how many people turned you down, before you had word of this position?"
Percy felt himself growing pale. He didn't want to think about those in-between days, the stacks of carefully calligraphed applications, the hunt for recommendations, his tiny, bare flat . . . "But Hogwarts is an honor, sir! It's always been extremely competitive!"
"HA!" Snape's laughter was almost threatening. "Perhaps you have had the fortune to avoid encountering Hagrid as an instructor? You believe that Sibyll Trelawney is a natural at Transfiguration? Werewolves and madmen enthrall you?"
"Sir . . . The thousand-year tradition . . ."
"And lack of benefits, mediocre pay, and constant residence in a drafty castle among a pack of puling children. Do you know how much a mid-level Potions researcher makes in industry? Do you?"
Percy shook his head mutely.
"More than your weight in Galleons, Mr. Weasley! Without death threats, Ministry interference, or prowling basilisks. Of course Beauregarde's unqualified. She's a hopeless old fraud. We all are, and we're bringing up a whole new set of them."
"Headmaster Snape, sir," Percy said desperately. "You seem agitated. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Snape didn't answer. He was gazing into the distance, eyes squinting as if he saw a bright light. "It will change," he said, so quietly Percy almost didn't hear him. "It will all change."
(from the forthcoming Chapter 3 of Sorting Error)