Another dull weekend at Hogwarts.
Following breakfast, Severus Snape spent the morning perusing the latest Death Eater newsletter. It made for tedious reading – none of the Dark Lord's followers were particularly noted for their eloquence with words. Or even a basic ability to string a sentence together. He gritted his teeth as he tried to decipher the Death Eater of the Week profile. Lucius Malfoy without his shampoo is nothing. Well, that could mean a number of things had the syntax been proof-read properly. Let's eat grandma, or 'let's eat, grandma' – punctuation saves lives. Snape made sure his own column, a collection of Death Eater condoned Baking Tips, was at least written (very grudgingly) in full and proper English. Why, even Potter or Longbottom's painstakingly misguided potions essays were slightly more of a pleasure to read than some of this crap. He found Bellatrix's weekly 'Ode to Our Lord' particularly trying, although found solstace at the thought of this rubbish recycled as mulch for Dumbledore's phoenix's cage. Save the planet.
Reclining slightly on his chair, Snape dismissively tossed aside the newsletter. In his personal opinion, the organisation had been going downhill ever since the Dark Lord's megalomania inspired him to hire half a dozen paparazzi to follow him around his daily business. He wouldn't go so far as to say the Dark Lord had sold out, per se, it just appeared the Death Eater organisation, as a whole, just did not stand for the same thing it once had.
Shaking his head slightly, Snape opened his daily planner, as he did each morning, and consulted the to-do-list for today. Mark fifth year moonstone essays… Well that could definitely wait. Perhaps later that night, after a few firewhiskys… Snape felt that was really when he was at his peak, as a marker. The snide comments just flowed, each as carefully planned as the composition of an artists painting. He had to file some reports for the Death Eaters, you know, the usual logistical paperwork. Pay his weekly fees, which went towards the new coffee machine they were trying to install in HQ; perhaps dash off the compulsory note of devotion to the Dark Lord, with whom he had a floo conference scheduled for later in the day… But before that – Snape squinted over his diary – he had been scheduled to oversee a detention for Potter around midday, but silvery-blue ink was crossed over his own spiky black hand; 'see me' written in sleek, elegant cursive in the margain of the page.
He slammed down the diary. Cursed Dumbledore. Brilliant wizard or otherwise, the man had no right to interfere in Snape's personal affairs, especially those documented lovingly in his diary. He had complained to the headmaster time and time again about this little privacy issue, but Dumbledore just nodded, eyes sparkling infuriatingly, and asked him when he needed more baking advice.
Goddamnit. He stood up swiftly, grabbing his most intimidating black robe from its respective hook on his wall, wrapped it around him and menacingly swept out of the room.
The walk to Dumbledore's office was a productive one. He found three separate couples indulging in some Sunday intimacies in snug nooks, and was able to snatch points away from Gryffindor after observing that the Longbottom boy's socks were untidily drooping around his ankles. Sufferings make people stronger – with this motto in mind Snape could see his vindictiveness as heroic; just his little contributions in a noble effort to try and make the world a better place.
"Sugar quill," he covertly muttered at the stone gargoyle, scowling and drawing his robes further around his person as he began the ascent to the Headmaster's office. He rapped on the door, deepening an impatient scowl as Dumbledore's 'just a moment!' rang out from inside.
"Come on, come on," he muttered. He wanted to get this matter with Dumbledore cleared up within the next half-hour, so he could return to the dungeons in time to conjure up some disgustingly crusted cauldrons for Potter to scrub. Would Potter notice if he sipped a glass of steaming firewhisky (or three) as the boy toiled away? He snorted. What was he talking about. The dunderheaded boy was one of the most unobservant dolts he had ever had the misfortune to meet. He rehashed his criticisms of the boy (and his father) under his breath like a mantra, before rapping on the door impatiently for the second time.
"Dumbledore, I am not a man of leisure, I-"
His seventh knock grazed the headmaster's beard as the door was opened.
"Hello Severus," the old man beamed. Snape countered this humor-filled grin with the continuation of his customary scowl.
"I apologize for the delay." Dumbledore led the way into the office, gesturing with an embarrassed smile at a smoldering Muggle stove. "I was taking care of an –uh- incident." He shook his head, and sat down on the plushy sofa he used for informal meetings, and gatherings of the weekly book club.
Snape remained standing. "Headmaster," he began, "I have told you time and time again, I live a stressful life, and it is only within my diary I find peace and order! You have to allow me privacy in this tiny part of my life! You should be understanding - you even dragged me to the damned therapy session where the whole diary idea was suggested! Yet you-"
The headmaster nodded sympathetically. "Severus, I do apologise," he told the younger man, and the sincerity and ease of the apology was rather unsatisfying. So unsatisfying, in fact, that Snape was drawing in breath to continue his tirade of complaints when Dumbledore went on, quite seriously, making a steeple with his fingers to peer over.
"Severus, I've begun to worry about your happiness."
There was a moment of quiet, before Snape – quite unbecomingly – snorted. "My happiness?"
Dumbledore nodded solemly. "It was last night at dinner… you recall? Flitwick was sharing some jokes – that man is a master of humor, I do believe I may have almost choked on a snowpea sprout with laughter had Minerva not swiftly implemented an unobstructico airways charm…" He looked into the distance and began to chuckle slightly to himself for a moment, before the look of solemnity returned to his face and he again regarded Snape. "You, Severus, continued to have an expression of humorless indifference. And I realized it – I have never, not once, seen you laugh! There is no joy in your life! You do not make jokes! You do not-"
Snape's expression soured. "Headmaster, am I to take it that you rescheduled my whole day on the basis of my inability to laugh at Flitwick's jokes?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "How anyone could not laugh at Flitwick's jokes-"
"The man is not the master of humor you make him out to be!" Snape snapped, as the portraits began to mutter with displeasure. (he swore he heard 'blasphemy' over his shoulder)
"His delivery of the jokes!" Dumbledore countered. "The artful way he pauses before the punchline! The sheer subtlety of the humour-"
Snape shook his head. "Headmaster," he interrupted forcefully. "There is nothing, NOTHING subtle about Flitwick's dead baby jokes. Crude, yes. But to talk of them as one would talk of an art…"
Dumbledore shook his head, getting up to retrieve a packet from his super-secret stash of Lemon Drops that only he and Snape knew about. "Severus, you are entitled to your opinion, just as much as I am to mine," he declared, the piercing gaze dancing over Snape's face. "But you cannot dissuade me from my latest – and, if I can say so myself, brilliant – idea. This time of every day – Sunday's late mornings – will from now on be, for want of a less cliché name, Albus and Severus time. Time invested into the upkeep of your emotional wellbeing. Time for discovering what it is that makes each one of us hold onto life, and find enjoyment and meaning within it…"
It seemed to Snape that as his expression soured to depths it had never gone before, Dumbledore's beam became more saturated by an infuriating sense of doing the right thing.
"I can't- I- Detention with Potter-" were a few of the mumbled excuses Snape tried to press.
Dumbledore stood. "You cannot argue, Severus. I think you'll find this time rewarding and fulfilling – more so than detention with Harry. The poor boy hardly steps a foot wrong, Severus, you could give him some time to at least eat meals between detentions."
He held a halting hand up the minute Snape's mouth flew open to further protest. "Enough, Severus. I shall see you back here in an hour." The headmaster paused and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you could wear something a little more- casual? This is recreation time, you know. One does not have to constantly dress as if in mourning."
"Mourning my pride," Snape muttered bitterly, throwing his discarded Death Eater Weekly at the floor. "And I thought the indulging the Dark Lord's roller derby whims was insufferable…"
Dumbledore chuckled heartily, no doubt amused by the idea of Lord Voldemorts spindly limbs flailing around the roller rink. The excursion was, needless to say, never repeated.
Dumbledore flicked through the discarded magazine. "Thank you, Severus. And may I compliment you on another well written column this week-"
Dumbledore was cut off when the door slammed. Snape stalked out. God help any student that stood in his way between here and the dungeons.