(Warning - this is simply stupid. The following fic contains Martha Stewart and Severus Snape, both seen in completely different lights. You have been warned.)
Night fell in two completely different places, in seemingly different universes, and two of the world's most loathesome people found slumber with ease. One found her rest in her New England abode, clutching matching sheets and comforter close to her, while the other found comfort in the cool quiet of his dungeon room. Neither knew what was to find them.
Severus Snape awoke in a bed that wasn't his own.
He turned to his side, and upon finding himself alone, he let out a scream that even he didn't know he was capable of making. His eyes grew to the size of half-dollars as he surveyed his surroundings, finding himself incapable of words. Everything.. matches. It all matches. What kind of game is this? It was no joke; every object in the room complemented the rest of its companions. At least he didn't match; he was still clad in the black pajamas he seemed to favour over the Slytherin-print boxers; three "charming" Slytherins had given the boxers to him as a gift for the holidays. They had neglected to point out the fact that the Slytherin crest was glow-in-the-dark.
Snape clambered out of the bed and glanced outside. Definitely not at Hogwarts, he muttered, turning his gaze to the mirror in front of him. Again, his eyes doubled in size as he reached up to touch his hair. "It's.. it's clean." He couldn't help but smile at his reflection. Here he was, away from annoying children, and his hair finally looked decent. I guess I can overlook the matching bit for now...
"...and it's a goo--...wha'?"
Martha Stewart awoke with a shiver, pulling her blankets around her tightly. It took her a moment to realize that the blankets were, in fact, not hers. Nothing in the room was, to be truthful. She swallowed hard and drank in the sight before her. She was in a dull, dreary dungeon, wearing pajamas that didn't match the decor at all! She blanched and quickly flung herself out of bed, searching frantically for a window.. or a mirror. Finding neither, she flung open the door and let out an ear-shattering shriek, which served as a wakeup call for the professors of Hogwarts.
Sleepily, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stumbled from his chambers, adjusting his half-moon spectacles as he glanced around for the source of the noise. It didn't take him long to see what was wrong with the picture before him; instead of a tall, lanky Potions master glaring back at him, he happened upon a much shorter blonde woman, mixed horror and amazement becoming her countenance. It took a moment for the goings-on of the early morning to click with Dumbledore, but realization dawned on him like the sunrise. He smiled a knowing smile, reaching out to take Martha's arm. "Let's get some robes for you, Martha."
She obliged and went with him; what else was she to do? Stand at the door of the dungeon, mouth agape, looking very much like the herring she'd cooked for Wednesday's show?
The phone rang at the Stewart residence around 9:30. (Snape had discovered he was at the home of a Mrs. Martha Stewart after rummaging through drawers and reading old bills, letters, complaints filed by neighbours...)
"..hullo?"
"Sevvie! Hey there, old pal.. here's your schedule for the day. Filming in an hour, lunch with the publisher of your new book - Potions to Match the Person -, and then you're free for the afternoon. Tonight, dinner with some of the Sevvie Snape Living employees, then you rest up for tomorrow. Ciao, babe! *click*"
Snape simply stared at the receiver of the telephone, his stare as blank as many of his first-year Potions students. Filming? He scowled and adjusted his new, Muggle-style clothing. He felt too chic.. charcoal-coloured pants, matching loafers, and a deep blue button-up just didn't suit him like his robes did. But he didn't have to face those kids today.. the silver lining to his perfectly-matching black cloud.
It turns out, Martha was a witch.
"Back in my day," she said, "Hogwarts wasn't real. None of this was real. My parents told me witches and wizards were Halloween fantasies. Weird things would happen, but it was chance." McGonagall sneered, her expression something akin to Snape's infamous Potter-Glares™. Martha didn't seem to notice the glare, nor the coughing from Lupin's direction that sounded vaguely like "Lockhart." "But I'm here, and it's a good thing." Muggle-borne students fought to control their laughter.
-Potions, Double - Slytherin/Gryffindor, 10:00
"Today, we will be preparing a duck sauce -"
"Duck sauce? But this is Potions class, Professor Stewart!" At the current moment, the speaker, one Draco Malfoy, looked very much like a ferret; a whiny ferret, as Hermione thoughtfully pointed out. Ron and Harry giggled, and the ferret turned an unflattering shade of red. Stewart just smiled, prompting Neville to bet that her smile was painted on. The Gryffindor side of the room was in hysterics, while the poor Slytherins sulked, scowled, and prodded at the various ingredients.
It was going to be a long period.
Severus was enjoying his time in the limelight. He'd just had his make-up done, his hair trimmed and styled, and his wardrobe analyzed. (Turns out, his charcoal-and-blue ensemble was perfect for today's taping.) He was ecstatic; the Potions Master was finally being appreciated for the genius he really was! He had his own show, and according to his advisors, a lot of products to reflect his way of living. Sevvie Snape vials, cauldrons, even robes were marketed to the hip and modern wizards. His show was a hit, with thousands of viewers tuning in across the world. All he'd done was woken up into this, but he wasn't complaining.
Today's show was preparing a potion to alter the effects of the body's chemicals so that certain spells were made useless. While at Hogwarts, Snape had deliberately left this out of every Potions class, but he was more than happy to share it with the faithful viewers of "Sevvie Snape Living." He explained carefully what he was doing, as if he were speaking with first year Hufflepuffs. "Chop your roots finely; leaving chunks will render the potion useless." He promptly demonstrated his slicing and dicing, flashing a rare grin at the camera.
Severus Snape had found himself in his element.
"Make sure your butter's melted before you add your cherries. Follow that with your sugar, thyme, and plums." Professor Stewart walked about the class, surveying every pair's concoction. Hermione and Neville appeared to have done the best, out of all the students. However, Martha couldn't help but show the students their faults.
"Ron, keep stirring. Don't let it stick. Harry, remind him to stir."
"Draco? Draco! Your cherry-plum sauce is revolting! I wouldn't serve this to my ownservants!" For a moment, Neville noticed that she lost her sickening smile and instead took on a countenance of revulsion. Her disgust was brief, however. She had found her opening, and a chance to gloat.
"Students, your sauce should look like this, and should flow evenly around the bottom of your pan. Now, for homework, I expect all of you to do this again, but prepare a duck as well. The recipe has been handed out to you; bring it in tomorrow, and the person with the best duck will receive fifty points for his or her House."
The students clambered out of Potions, solemn and fearful. The Slytherins and Gryffindors alike were stricken with silence. What had just occured was wrong, on so many different levels. Ron, paler than Nearly-Headless Nick himself, uttered words he would have never before spoken.
"I wish Snape were back."
Snape returned from his dinner meeting, beaming. His lunch meeting had gone smoothly; his book was due out in April of the following year, and he would travel across the nation to promote it. Dinner was just as uneventful, but beneficial to his ego. His employees revered him, catering to his every whim. Sure, it was Sevvie's dinner party, but he felt almost as if it were in his honour. He sighed and retired in his favourite chair, a plush crimson-velvet armchair that was undoubtedly older than Dumbledore. He sank into the warmth, closing his eyes, and barely moved when a small cat jumped into his lap. Absently, he stroked the feline's soft fur, knowing full well that there was no life better than this.
Night had fallen once more, and the traded counterparts had drifted to sleep, their hearts at rest. Snape had gained the appreciation and adoration he felt he had always deserved, and Martha had continued to fulfill her role as the Uberfrau.
Morning broke the peace, the two finding themselves back to their regular states, Martha in her matching bedroom, Snape freezing in the dungeons. From this, two questions arose that have yet to be answered.
"Whose hair is this in my brush?"
"..Mister Malfoy, might I ask why you have prepared a grilled duck breast for this class?"