Want to give Hermione a run for her money in the know-it-all field? Simply play the quiz by commenting on this post with your answers at any time over the weekend. All comments with answers will be screened until the answer sheet is posted on Monday morning EDT. On Monday, all quizzlings with the correct answers will receive a pretty banner to prove their quiz prowess. Ready? Set? Play!
Match the quotes to the story titles without picking the red herring titles:
The Goddess of Never Being Broken by cathedralcarver
Psychotrist by vanityfair00
Discoveries by snapeophile
Anger Management by teshara
Felix Infelicis by juniperus
Awkward Entanglements by lady_rhian
Sex Therapy in the Dungeons by brilliantruthie
The Interpretation of Maladies by azraelgeffen
S6x by neelix_2000
Everything I Do, I Do It For You by sbrande
Extinctus amabitur idem by ianthe_waiting
Calling Dr. Granger by AprilGrey
1. "I hardly touched him!" Severus Snape's arms were crossed and he was glaring at the fat, patronizing witch sitting across from him.
"That's not what your report says." Mrs. Johnson peered at him over the tops of her glasses.
"I don't care what that bloody thing says," Severus grumbled. It was annoying the way this woman stared at him. It reminded him of Dumbledore, except he suspected this cow was twice as daft. "Perkins was an incompetent oaf at Hogwarts and no doubt still is. Did he even spell my name right in that thing?"
He threw a look at the manila folder as if it had personally wronged him.
In a way, it had.
Mrs. Johnson opened the folder and read it. "Oh yes, he did. And, quite remarkably, a few other details from the incident as well."
Severus shifted uncomfortably in his chair as she read from the folder.
"Let's see what else he spelled right," she said silkily. "Well, he got 'assault with a mug of ale' correctly… as well as 'beat him to the ground with a chair'."
Severus snorted and flipped his head, rearranging a lock of hair that had fallen into his face.
"Hardly touched him?" Mrs. Johnson quirked an eyebrow at him.
2. They told her it would never work. No one from the Wizarding world would utilize her services, and her Muggle medical school education and training would be wasted.
Yet six months later, her appointment book was full. And here was another owl; yet another request for a course of psychiatric treatment with Dr. Granger-Bradbury. Dr. Bradbury, as she was professionally known.
St. Mungo’s had given her a large office suite, but she preferred to meet clients at a nondescript, innocuously decorated Muggle flat. Clean, but without the negative associations psychiatric patients may have with hospitals.
The owl held out its leg. Hermione smiled. The parchment was from Minerva.
Congratulations on your practice. Of course, the brightest witch of her age is a rousing success! One expects no less from a Gryffindor.
Hermione, I beg you to take one more patient. This one will be a tough nut to crack. Like many of us, he bears deep scars, physical and mental, from the War. Also, he’s skeptical, to say the least, about the science of Muggle psychiatry. I know you can break down his defenses and help him. We will be forever in your debt, my dear.
P.S. Could I send him Saturday at 1:00?
3. That Severus was even willing to seek advice spoke volumes about the frightening tenor of the situation. Or so Flitwick had written on a piece of parchment that shot out of Severus’s personal fireplace.
Oh, he had no idea.
At last, Severus stopped in front of a small brick building with a sparkling purple sign that read, Magical Counseling with Filius Flitwick, Charm Doctor.
Severus shook his head as he walked up the steps. As he passed the sign, sparks shot out, showering him in rose petals. He froze, tightened his lips, and opened the door.
If Severus had entertained a thought about ribbing Filius for the sign, it was gone the minute he saw the décor.
Neon greens, blues, pinks, and deep purples were the colors of the day. The chairs and sofas were crushed velvet, and the chandeliers were ostentatious.
“Are you lost, sir?” the receptionist asked.
Good. He didn’t look like he belonged here. “Ah, no. I’m a colleague of Flitwick’s, here for a four o’clock.”
The lady nodded, not an emotion passing over her face, for which Severus was grateful. The last thing he could have handled was a receptionist whose attitude matched Flitwick’s awful taste in interior decorating. Neon, bright, smiley. If Severus Snape said ick, he would have said ick.
“If you’ll have a seat, the doctor will be with you shortly.”
4. So Snape did what he had always done when the pressure is on and he had no one to talk to. He sulked for a few days, got pissed five nights in a row and let his stubble grow into an almost-beard. When he finally stopped showing up to take his classes, Minerva got a bit antsy and called in Lucius. It was a low move, even for her, but an effective one. Lucius was never one to stand on ceremony or ask permission before casting Legillimens on his friend. He was a busy man and he didn't have the time or the patience for Snape to just spit it out. Afterwards, once he had managed to convince his face to stop grinning, he passed the Therapist's card to Snape and assured him he'd be back in the saddle in no time.
So here he was, waiting to share his embarrassing secret with a stranger. But he had his wand up his sleeve and he wasn't scared to Obliviate the man if the need arose. He was just musing about adding a hex into the mix when the door opposite him opened and a tall, blond haired and (Snape had to grudgingly admit), handsome man stepped into the waiting room from the office beyond.
'Mr Snape?' He flashed a perfect row of white teeth at Severus, who immediately scowled back.
'Mr Bates?' Snape stood and reluctantly shook the younger man's hand.
'Please,' said Mr Bates. 'Call me Dick.'
5. I knew I was far too young to be losing my mind, and the concept of Alzheimer's was as foreign to the Wizarding world as online shopping. All the same, the fact that I was mixing up details of my past was alarming sign of something not being quite right. Dementia was not something that ran in the Granger family, and I had not hit my head enough times to explain the gaps and misinformation my brain was feeding back. At first, I thought it was post-traumatic stress. I had read of cases of post-traumatic stress sometimes interfering with memories, and for a while I chalked it up to the fact that I, at the age of seventeen, had experienced enough war time traumas to need intensive therapy.
Psychology was as much a pseudo-science in the Wizarding World as it was to some people in the Muggle world, and I, for one, considered psychology that—something not substantially based on empirical fact. Yet, here I was, sitting in a waiting room, hoping to get my head 'shrinked.'
Dr. Martha Jones was a well-respected psychiatrist, and like myself, Muggleborn. She was in her sixties, an elegant woman with perfect ebony skin and sparkling violet eyes, and when she admitted me to her office, motioning for me to sit down on an antique velvet upholstery chaise, I noticed that she had warded her office for silence. I was sure her Muggle clients felt much at ease with the embedded wards in the walls, inducing a sense of security. I sat, and looked at the walls with its fine décor, warm colors, and a window overlooking a small park. Dr. Jones sat down in an armchair across a glass topped coffee table, my file in her long fingers, and a pair of half-moon reading glasses perched on her long nose.
This was the first meeting, and being such, scheduled to last an hour and half to give her time to become acquainted with whatever it was I needed to be analyzed. I was nervous, just as I was always nervous when about to open myself up to scrutiny.
6. She leaned forward. "What...happened?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, precisely. I've been travelling now, for many years. This condition is recent, its onset swift. I had to return home. I can no longer travel or work. I've been rather...housebound for some time."
"I didn't come here for pity, Miss Granger."
"Of course not. I think you're the least pitiable person I know."
A look of surprise flickered across his face.
"But, I don't generally deal with problems...like yours," she said slowly. "I mainly deal with...emotional issues, and the physical problems stemming from those."
There was such a long pause Hermione wondered if he'd changed his mind, or if he'd even heard her. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke with great effort.
"Well, Miss Granger, I've been told repeatedly that my problem is not, in fact physical." His face went red. "There's nothing wrong with me....physically."
"Ah." She paused. "How do you—"
"I've been, thus far, to six different doctors, both magical and Muggle. Each has come to a similar conclusion, following a multitude of tests and examinations. My eyesight is perfectly intact. No trauma, no degenerative disease. No...what was the term...cataracts."
Hermione bit her lip. "And now you've come to me."
7. He stared out over the waters to the white-capped mountains beyond. She didn’t recognize him at first. He was wearing Muggle clothing and a glamour disguised his face. Still there was something in his stillness and in his posture that told her it was her old professor.
She shyly walked up to him and stood at the railing, watching the same view.
“Rather spectacular, isn’t it,” said Snape.
“Well, I suppose,” she sighed. “And how are you doing?”
“Quite well, I think for the first time in my life.” He shot a look at her and then stared into the water. “I’ve never felt guilty about what I’ve done, because I’ve never felt that I had any choice. For the first time in my life, I feel as if I do. As if I might actually be able to have some say in how things go.” He cleared his throat nervously.
“And this place that you found for me, I’m still astounded that such a place exists. I can come and go as I please and yet I am expected to be part of the community, much like Hogwart’s except I’m the student again.”
“And is that all right with you?”
He snorted and then he laughed, sending small tingles down her spine. He was still the old Snape in many ways, yet he seemed so much more relaxed.
“I don’t mind attending the 7:30 AM Yoga Club in the community room because then everyone is blissfully quiet. Except for Parsons, he always wheezes. And it is much preferable to attending the 4:30 Let’s Chat about our Day group. As it is I am forced to attend Group Therapy once a week, yet am finding a bright spot there, as Sally the Pratt keeps insisting that all my problems stem from being Scorpio on the cusp of Capricorn.” He chuckled. “I’m waiting for just the right time to spring it on her that I am actually a Gemini. Done right, she shall be devastated.” His lips curled back, reminding Hermione of how Snape looked just before his dueled Lockhart.
She tried to suppress a smile.
8. Hermione stood in a corner of the room, staring out of the barred windows. Rain was thrashing the windowpane. It was late afternoon; she could tell this by the darkening sky outside. There were others seated, chatting or milling around the room, but she took little notice of them, and no one approached her.
Dr. Andrew Lopes, closely followed by Dr. Carol Harefield, entered the room. Andrew held his clipboard tucked firmly under his arm, while Carol held on to her briefcase.
Andrew took in Hermione’s stance by the window and became pensive for a moment.
After the initial shock, disbelief and denial had worked their way through Hermione’s system, Andrew found her to be quite a courteous, kind and intelligent young woman. She had lashed out at everyone, including himself, and she had even managed to land one of the orderlies in hospital with a fractured jaw. Her medications had been changed after her attempted suicide, and now she seemed to be in a place of calm.
Broken from his reflection, he looked around at the other patients that made up the group.
“If everyone could please take their seats, we can begin.” Andrew spoke with authority in his voice. “We have a new doctor here with us, as well as a new member to our group.”
Hermione heard the scraping of chairs and even a few grumbling noises, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the window and the darkening street below. The rain was almost hypnotic as she watched it falling on the pane.
9. “Severus, would you please stop being an arse for one moment this morning, and allow an old lady to enjoy the success of a former student?”
“Minerva, what page?” Remus asked again. “And what business is she opening?”
“Um, page 16, on the lower right hand corner. She is a therapist, if memory serves. Ah yes, let me read her ad to everyone.”
Marriage and Family Therapist
REGAIN CONTROL OF YOUR SEX LIFE!
Counseling to explore sexual desires
Get to the root of sexual problems
Floo “Granger Practice” in London
“What in Merlin’s name was that girl doing in America?” Minerva whispered, seemingly unable to believe what she has just read.
10. She closed her eyes against the sight of her former professor and again found her voice. "I stayed with a cousin who worked in a clinic like this in London... Lambeth... volunteered a bit, you know... learned how to relax again. Nine months in I decided to sit my NEWTs cold, just to get them over with." She paused.
"I received Outstanding marks in Potions, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, but only earned an Exceeds Expectations in Ancient Runes and Transfiguration." She shrugged. "I became a Healer―it seemed like the only sane option after, uh..." She gestured at nothing.
"Everything?" He raised an eyebrow.
Hermione snorted. "Yes, everything. I would have preferred to remain in the Muggle world, to be honest, but when faced with the records nightmare of having left Muggle education at age eleven, I decided St. Mungo's would suffice. I completed my training, and helped my ward mentor establish a Muggle-style psychiatric program. The wizarding world was a right mess, rampant with PTSD, but I hadn't recognized the patterns until I returned. I'd met a few Iraq vets at Lambeth, you see..."
At the look of confusion following her last comment, Hermione clarified, "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shell Shock. A very large number of Healers and researchers at St. Mungo's are half-bloods or Muggle-borns, and many of those come from families with a background in medicine―it was surprisingly easy to find Muggle doctors with magical siblings willing to take on 'interns' for six to eight weeks at a time. Dr. Brownslow has a magical fraternal twin."
Severus sat up sharply. "Hufflepuff, two years my senior. I knew she looked familiar."
Hermione nodded. "Hufflepuff is correct... the age sounds about right. She works in the spell damage ward, currently over-full with victims of potions damage... none of the damage is accidental, however... not quite. Before the Harry J. Potter Postwar Wellness Clinic had got off the ground..."
Severus barked out a laugh.