This is my attempt at the 100 Things I am not Allowed to Do at Hogwarts challenge set by Sharlmalfoy. Never before have I attempted writing a challenge fic, so I hope you readers enjoy it.
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The sun was shining, the birds were singing and it was the Monday following a Hogsmeade weekend, and so naturally everyone was in a good mood. Everyone, that is to say, except Severus Snape, Potions Master of the school. Ignoring the bowls and platters of food, he sipped his scalding coffee- black. As a potions master he understood that a caffeine addiction was nothing to aspire towards, unlike those preening adolescents who saw the drink as a gateway to maturity, but considering that his first class of the day contained not one Weasley but two, the fortitude was required. In fact, were he a god fearing man Snape would begin to pray. He wasn't. If both Weasley twins could make his NEWT level potions class then there was truly no god.
"Lovely day today, Severus." He fixed Minerva McGonagall with his most devastating sneer, warming up for the first lesson he would teach that day. She turned away looking decidedly uncomfortable. Good. It wasn't every day he had Minerva backing down, and he would see to it that she had further payment for her use of a banal pleasantry. Never mind his role as a spy, his atonement for his sins came in the form of this particular ginger haired brood of recalcitrant Gryffindor children. Once again giving Snape leave to suspect he could read minds, the headmaster addressed him.
"There, there Severus. It can't be as bad as all that." Not even the omnipotent Albus Dumbledore could have predicted how wrong he would be proven.
****
"Messrs Weasley, what, exactly, is so fascinating that it is worth discussing during my lecture on the Draught of the Living Death?" Fred and George exchanged a familiar glance before looking up at their potions teacher. He knew that glance and it filled him with almost as much dread as the Dark Lord. There was a collective intake of breath from the class.
"Well, sir-"
"We have a question-"
"Of an undeniably academic nature-"
"Sir."
During this exchange his black eyes, glittering dangerously, flitted from twin to twin.
"And this question, surely a mental magnum opus requiring your combined brain power, could not have waited until after class?" The menace in his voice was unmistakable. Snape stood and rounded his desk, asserting that this was his domain. After this point any sane student would have stopped, but then neither twin could be wholly stable. "Ten points each from Gryffindor. Now, who can tell me wh-"
"No sir." That awful Jordan boy disappeared behind his potions text, which shook suspiciously.
"Excuse me?" Was it Fred or George he was addressing? It hardly mattered.
"You're excused, sir." After gaping slightly for a moment, the power of speech returned.
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"Well, sir-"
"It can't wait." He had always assumed Tom Riddle would have been the one to end his destitute excuse for a life. Now he understood that these twins would drive him to an early grave.
"Anyway, sir."
"The French call it le petit mort."
"A little death."
"And so-"
"We were wondering-"
"Can the Draught of Living Death be used-"
"As a Lubricant?"
"MR WEASLEYS BOTH, HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH MY LESSON WITH SUCH PROFANE-" One of the miscreants interrupted him. Again.
"A lubricant with the power to enhance sexual pleasure?" It became clear that neither one of them would speak again until given an answer. He was sorely tempted to invite them to ingest the potion before speculating the answer to their postulated... theory. However, this was Minerva's problem and he had no further interest in dealing with it. He wrote a few lines on a piece of parchment and with a wave of his wand it was transported to the head of Gryffindor house.
"Boys, I suggest that you go and pay a visit to Professor McGonagall immediately if you do not wish to see Gryffindor house points in negative figures." Snape's fingers curled around the handle of his wand, the unvoiced threat obvious. Obstreperous they may be, but not foolish. The twins made an exit. It can't be as bad as all that? Well, it was Minerva's turn to deal with this
****
Minerva,
Consider this my belated thanks for your scintillating conversation at the breakfast table.
S.S
There was nothing accompanying the sheaf of parchment. The sight of that spidery scrawl made Minerva even more apprehensive than it usually did, even at the staff meetings. Her Slytherin counterpart was clearly up to no good. Minerva McGonagall took a moment to collect herself before returning to her copy of Transfigurations Today. This was her free space in the timetable, and she was determined to enjoy it with the most current and topical research into her subject, Severus Snape be damned. Minerva had just bitten into a ginger newt when a familiar knock sounded upon her door. Or to be precise, two familiar knocks. No. This couldn't be happening. They were scheduled to be in potions class with... that bastard. She paused, summoning the strength to invite in the twins.
"Here pussy, pussy, pussy!" As she attempted to inhale, a piece of biscuit lodged itself firmly in her windpipe. The audacity of these those two never failed to shock her. Minerva slumped over her desk, coughing and spluttering in an effort to dislodge the newt. So engrossed was she in attempting to perform anti-peristalsis that Professor McGonagall failed to feel angry as the identical boys strode into her office, annoyingly cheerful for before noon on a Monday. Fred (or was it George?) strode behind her and patted her back. The other twin conjured a glass of juice which she gratefully gulped. They could be good children at times. Problem sorted. She sat back down, rearranging her black teaching robes.
"What's new-"
"Pussy cat?" Perhaps not as good as all that. Minerva blanched.
"You will refer to me at all times as Professor McGo-" It was a rare thing for a witch so dignified as Minerva McGonagall to spit out the contents of her mouth in shock, but that was exactly what happened as the burn of firewhisky hit her throat. She had been expecting pumpkin juice or something similar, not alcohol!
"Alright, Professor McGoogle."
"Henceforth we do so swear."
"Firewhisky?! Why are you pair in my office and what on earth possessed you to try and make me drink an alcoholic beverage."
"We thought it would soothe your nerves."
"Especially after what Snape told you."
"Professor Snape." No, that was not an immense glow of self satisfaction that she had done the professional thing and insisted upon the use of her not-so-dear colleague's title. Of course not. However tempting it was, she couldn't punish them for this kind of behaviour with the impending quidditch match scheduled for after lunch. She would not give Severus the pleasure.
"Gryffindor courage does not come in bottles labelled 'Firewhisky'. Due to your misdemeanours in Professor Snape's class, of which I would not care to know the details, I suggest that you do something kind for him. After all, your victory against his house this afternoon will be a bitter pill for the poor man to swallow."
"Thanks, McGoogle." The guilty twin (Fred, she believed) looked contrite at having addressed her thusly.
"My name is Professor McGonagall."
"We know, but you-"
"Insisted upon being referred to-"
"As McGoogle."
"And who are we to but follow-"
"The whims of our beloved head of house?"
"Appease Severus Snape in an... appropriate manner, and I'll let this slide. Dismissed."
"We love you, McG." After they had left, she took a longing look the glass before banishing its contents. It wouldn't do for her to be tempted. Those twins had better perform well on that pitch or she would have them in detention until they graduated.
****
I'm safe from harm. I'm safe from harm. I'm safe from harm. This was the mantra Severus Snape repeated to himself as he watched the Gryffindor quidditch team lap the pitch as they were announced by their infernal accomplice, Lee Jordan. Fred and George Weasley were not in a position to speak to, look at or make any form of contact with him, and nor would they be until the Potter brat caught the golden snitch. At least, he had assumed himself safe. A first year whom he recognised from his potions class tugged on his robes. Snape looked down, his expression similar to what it had been had Harry Potter sent him a Valentine's day card.
"S-s-sir?" The child thrust a cardboard box into his hands, clearly terrified. Lewis Abbot turned to face Minerva, looking faintly ill. "Professor McGonagall? Is it true that a wizard staff has a knob on the end? Only, I..." It took all of his willpower not to laugh at the expression on her face. Truly, Minerva's facial expression epitomised shock. Perhaps it wouldn't be bad at all if the child sought to antagonise the head of Gryffindor house. He opened the box, dimly aware of the tirade Abbott was being forced to endure that may cause that nervous stutter to become permanent. A folded piece of green material; how droll. What was it anyway? A scarf? A handkerchief?
"I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall. The Weasleys taught me the song, and I didn't know if it was true or not. They swore I'd go to Azkaban for disobeying them." Weasley twins? Oh, Merlin no! He made to drop what he now saw was a sock... only, it wouldn't leave his hand. In fact with every shake it edged its way more firmly onto his hand, until his right digits were replaced by... a sock puppet. Snape blinked, wondering how many times he would have to cast 'Avada Kedavra' before hitting a flying Weasley twin. Additional casualties were bonuses, especially if they happened to be his employer or Harry Potter.
"I say, Severus, that is simply delightful?" Dumbledore examined the puppet, which appeared to be a snake.
"Headmaster no, it-"
"Everyone look at how creative Severus has been in showing support for his house!" As every one of his co-workers turned and examined his accessory adorning the hand raised by Dumbledore, Snape once again fought homicidal thoughts. When Pomona admired the craftsmanship of the little felt forked tongue he shot her a glance that could wither any of her plants. This wasn't worth going to Azkaban over. Really. His acerbic rejoinder was cut short as Lee Jordan proceeded to announce the Slytherin quidditch team between snorts of laughter. Snape's dearest thoughts were about to become reality; both Weasley twins had ceased their circuit before a Gryffindor stand and were now stood upright on a broom, balanced precariously. It looked suspiciously as though Snape was mouthing the word fall repeatedly. He nearly broke forty years of habit and smiled as they waved their arms enthusiastically. However, any positive feelings met the fate he had hoped belonged to Molly's twins as their purpose became clear. They were conducting a chant;
Malfoy takes it up the arse!
He'll say he's straight but it's really a farce.
The Slytherin seeker loves riding wood,
Crabbe and Goyle will spank him when he isn't good!
Camper than a row of pink tents,
It is so obvious that Draco is bent!
Yes, Malfoy takes it up the arse!
The student body showed no signs of stopping their chant any time soon. In fact, they were getting louder. Standing, he pushed Lee Jordan out of the way.
"Students, desist at once or I will put you all in detention!"
****
Albus Dumbledore reclined, enjoying the fresh air against his face, ruffling his beard. Today had been better than he had expected. Not that he could admit it as headmaster, but those Weasley boys made him smile. Perhaps he would ask for a sock puppet similar to Severus', but in the mean time he would sit back and enjoy the match.
END