Title: SNAPE ANNONYMOUS
Author: islington road
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: HP/SS centric
Category: Humour/Parody
Status: One-shot, complete
Summary: Harry has a problem and Hermione wants to help…

……………

It had been the most embarrassing three minutes of Harry Potter's not so terribly long life. His friend, Hermione Granger, had placed her hand on his shoulder and looked deeply and meaningfully into his eyes, and said, 'I think you need help, Harry.'

…

So, here he was, standing outside an ordinary looking townhouse off of a side street in the Diagon Alley precinct holding a small, discreet looking business card. The card was plain white with black type. It simply had that day's date on it and a time five minutes hence. Oh yes, and the letters 'S. A.'

Harry sighed. It had come to this. Five years in the wizarding world, five years of being the golden boy, the darling of Hogwarts, five years of being a hero, a celebrity, a self-conscious bug under the microscope of the public eye, five years of unbelievable pressure and stress - was it any wonder he was now an addict?

He snorted in disbelief. Harry still couldn't think of himself in those terms - 'addict', 'junkie', 'dependent'. I could give it up any time I wanted, problem is I just don't want to...

He hadn't really needed Hermione to confront him in the common room, or Ron to uncomfortably corner him in their dorm, and he sure as hell hadn't needed Neville to stammer and stutter his way through some scripted pretence at understanding for chrissakes! But...

But they are my friends, and they do care about me, Harry accepted grudgingly. Plus, they had threatened to go to parents and teachers with their concerns if Harry refused to listen to them and that was something Harry was desperate to avoid.

...Still, an - an addicts anonymous group? Who were they kidding? Did group therapy seriously work? Sitting 'round in a circle chanting and weeping and introducing themselves? Harry had seen plenty of movies and TV crap where it had, but it'd always looked so... well, lame. Finding strength of character and inner conviction to overcome addiction - and besides, Harry wasn't an addict. He just... indulged from time to time, but that wasn't the same thing.

A little bit here, a little bit there. When he was alone sometimes, or feeling a little bit blue, when he saw a happy couple giggling instead of doing homework, or maybe to help him relax after a distressing dream. Sometimes he did it when he was feeling brilliant, really on top of the world and nothing could stop him. Sometimes he'd do it more than once a day.

When Hermione had asked him about it, Harry'd simply shrugged it off - it wasn't anything to do with her. But Hermione had asked again the following week, and then the week after that, and the week after that, and she'd pointed out that Harry seemed to be doing it more and more frequently - which was something Harry hadn't actually noticed himself.

Then that fateful Saturday had come along and she'd come right and said that he needed help, real honest-to-goodness help if he wanted kick the habit. That she could understand a bit of experimenting, the thrill of the forbidden, but that what Harry was indulging in went way beyond that - almost every single day for the last month, and six times in the last four hours that she knew of. 'Please, she'd said, please Harry, I think you need some help.'

Which goes to show just how much she had known - it had actually been eight times in those four hours. But, in typical Hermione fashion, she'd done her research and discovered the support group that apparently met in wizarding London once a fortnight at 7pm on Fridays, and that's why Harry was standing there wishing himself a million miles away, sighing into the wind, wondering how the hell he got himself into these sorts of things...

…

The room was plain and ordinary, much like the business card had been. There was a cheap trestle table against one wall with an ever-hot charmed water urn, a collection of straggly tea-bags, a bowl of instant coffee granules (or what Harry hoped were instant coffee granules, he supposed they might very well have been freeze-dried, miniature wallaby droppings), an opened bottle of milk which could be, at best, described as 'tepid' (and, at worst, 'not quite yogurt'), a truly dismal collection of battered enamel mugs matched only by an equally dismal collection of plastic spoons. There was no sugar.

Harry continued to look around the room. This didn't take very long since the only other items to look at were some two dozen or so metal school chairs that had obviously seen the rigorous torture of many long years of service at some school where 'gaZaA rooLZ', 'tiffinee iZ a SLUT' and various other epithets.

Harry had just decided a life on planet Mercury breathing pure methane would be preferable to anything that could take place in this room, and was on his way out when Remus Lupin walked into the room, chatting with a handful of people all covered head-to-toe in impenetrable, black cloaks.

Harry froze.

But Lupin spotted him anyway, and walked on over.

'Why Harry! I'm surprised to see you here,' said Harry's former professor, looking faintly startled. 'Have you come to support a friend or...' Lupin let the question dangle and Harry, a Gryffindor to the core, felt compelled to answer truthfully.

'Yeah, I, er, came for, um... well, Hermione said, y'know, that I probably should,' Harry answered, truthfully, if not a little incoherently.

Lupin simply nodded, his mild nature apparently willing to accept Harry's babblings. 'Well then, we're about to get started so why don't you sit with me,' and he led Harry over to the loose circle of tortured chairs and plonked himself down in one gesturing for The-Boy-Who-Looked-Ready-To-Bolt to do the same.

More and more people had filed in during this brief exchange, and Harry couldn't stop himself from glancing 'round nervously, but everyone seemed to have invested in the same sort of Holocaust cloaks that Lupin's friends had, and so Harry couldn't really recognise any faces.

When everyone else had taken their seats, Lupin stood up and addressed the group. 'Good evening everyone, I'm pleased to see so many were able to join us tonight. Dedication is the key to strength, and strength is the key rehabilitation.' Spatters of applause interrupted him. 'As you can see,' Lupin continued,' we have a new face here tonight,' Harry squirmed in his seat - he hated being the centre of attention, 'but before he introduces himself, I think we should go around the circle and introduce ourselves. Yes?' There were murmurs of agreement, and Lupin said 'I'll start.'

Harry blinked confusedly. Wait, this can't be right! Lupin can't be an- an addict, too. I thought he was just the counsellor or something! I'm sure I would've noticed something when he was teaching DADA that year -

Harry's panicky thoughts were interrupted by Lupin addressing the rest of the group again, his honey-warm voice saying steadily, 'My name is Remus, and I am a Snape-aholic.'

Harry blanched.

Surely - surely it couldn't be true! Not Remus! Not Professor Lupin! Not the kind, patient teacher who'd helped Harry and fed him chocolate and been to school with his parents! No! Harry refused to believe it!

But Lupin wasn't finished.

'It's been many years now since I first realised my addiction, but I know that every day I'm helping myself to get better. Bit by bit. Thank you,' and he sat down again amidst a chorus of sickeningly positive-sounding encouragement and claps, stuff like 'that's the spirit!', 'day by day' and 'you're our inspiration'.

Harry shuddered, and tried to inch his chair away from Lupin and Harry's own shattered illusions.

The figure seated on Lupin's other side, away from Harry, stood up and pushed back the cowl of the dark cloak, he also addressed the group.

'My name is Draco, and I am a Snape-aholic. Although it was primarily my father who encouraged my addiction, the stress of being reviled by my fellow students pushed me even closer to the one man I felt could truly guide me wisely in the footsteps of Salazar without being corrupted by... other influences. However, I now know that the strength and guidance has to come from within myself, and not from an outside source.' Draco sat down again, looking blondly Byronic and up to his armpits in tragic suffering.

It made Harry want to puke. Toffee-arsed little snot. Couldn't do anything without Daddy's help. Harry doubted Malfoy senior had had anything to do with Draco's problem, the little shit was probably just doing it for the attention.

Draco's neighbour stood up and introduced himself. It was Blaise Zabini. Apparently, Slytherins were able to succumb to peer pressure, or were that desperate for something to do on a Friday night. Harry had tuned out, but Zabini's weedy voice was still whistling away.

'...his very presence makes me feel less like background scenery and more like a unique, individual character in my own right. But, with this group's help I've been able to realise that I need to value myself as a person instead of trying to find validation from others. Thank you.'

Yeah, well if you acted a little less like background scenery maybe people would notice you more and you wouldn't feel like your head of house was the only person who noticed your existence, you whiny little whey-faced toad, thought Harry uncharitably.

Harry was unsurprised to find out that Zabini's neighbour was Pansy Parkinson. She uttered an almost identical stream of tripe to Draco's, only omitting the father references, and sat down again, blushing.

Wherever there are boy Slytherins there are girl Slytherins. It's like they have to go out of their way to make sure they aren't promoting gender stereotypes, Harry mused.

The next speaker stood up, and up, and up. The silhouette looked familiar to Harry even before the cloak was removed. The man cleared his throat, a deep, phlegmatic rumble that made the window pane vibrate. It was Hagrid.

'Aherrrm, tha' name's Reubeus, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at - well, it don't really matter all that much now, does it? I'll just say that I'm a Snape fancier like the rest o' you folks, an' I've spent many a long hour thinkin' 'bout how much like my animals Professor Snape is, an' how wi' just the righ' type o' handlin' he'd be as happy as blast-ended skrewt with a fresh mouse head to eat.' Hagrid beamed and sat down in his chair with a tectonic thunk.

Harry didn't actually notice. Harry hadn't actually noticed anything since Hagrid had taken off his cloak. Lupin's feelings had been a shock but understandable - he had, after all, been to school with Snape. The Slytherin trio had been much less surprising, they were with their head of house all the time. If anyone was going to admire Snape it would be someone from his own house. But Hagrid...

Harry's mind rebelled. Hagrid was a kind, wholesome, innocent, gentle half-giant. Mind you, Harry told himself, if Hagrid can see something positive in creatures like dragons and Fluffy, he's certainly likely to see something endearing in someone like Snape.

Just when Harry thought the night couldn't possibly get any weirder, the next two speakers stood up and uncloaked themselves - they were Fred and George Weasley.

Harry's eyes bugged so far from his head that they actually hurt.

The twins' spiel on Snape-aholism veered towards admiration of a worthy adversary and the attraction presented by a stern disciplinarian.

Harry blushed, his thoughts had circled around those issues, too.

Fred and George sat down again, leaving the floor clear for the next group member, who turned out to be Charlie Weasley, and he apologised for his other brother's absence. Apparently, Bill couldn't make it to the therapy sessions this fortnight due to work commitments. There was a murmur of acknowledgement around the circle.

Charlie admitted his addiction wasn't to Snape per se, that it was adrenaline he was seriously hooked on, but that daydreaming about cornering a strict, feared teacher in his own classroom and buggering him beyond words and getting out of the situation alive and wholly intact (after a mind-blowing orgasm at that) did give one an almighty adrenaline rush - although, not quite as strong as the rush from taking the temperature of a baby Hungarian Horntail while it's mother watched, but, y'know...

Firmly convinced he had indeed entered the twilight zone, or some sort of perverted alternate dimension, Harry sank back against the cruelly curved orthopaedic chair-back and steeled himself for even worse horrors to come.

…

Harry didn't have to wait long, Tonks uncloaked herself and squirmed nervously, but not anywhere near as nervously as Shacklebolt did. A quick, scouting glance of the remaining cloakees revealed no one of similar body-shape to Mundungus, for which Harry was really quite grateful.

Grateful, that is, until a man stood up and pushed back his cloak and turned out to be Harry's own godfather. Who at least had the grace to have difficulty meeting his godson's eyes.

Harry, however, couldn't look away. He was frozen fucking solid. He doubted he was breathing, let alone blinking. An iceberg had more life in it that Harry Potter did at that horrible, skin-peelingly revealing moment.

Harry's mind sputtered like the starter motor on a lawnmower that's low on petrol. B-b-but he's my godfather, he's not supposed to think about sex! He's supposed to think about things like work, and paying bills, and-and grocery shopping, and who's going to make it to the quidditch grand final, and...

...me. He's supposed to think about me, worry about me, not jack off to thoughts of my teachers!

Harry wasn't sure what was more devastating for him to realise - that he was jealous if someone other that himself took up space in Sirius' thoughts or that his godfather might have an active (if solitary) libido.

However, before Harry could do something irreparably stupid, he got distracted by the next group member to stand up after Sirius.

It was Neville.

Uh, apparently he really does understand, after all, Harry conceded..

Neville was followed by a blast from Harry's past - Gilderoy Lockhart had apparently found something other than his mirror to obsess over.

There must have been a special section for narcissists, as the next self-confessed Snape-aholic was Malfoy senior who, pointedly ignoring his offspring, waxed poetically about the bonds formed by blood-brothers united for a common cause headtoss, hairfling, strike manly yet emotionally vulnerable pose.

Next was Pettigrew, who slimed obsequiously about chums during school days and the innocence of youth. It made Harry feel in desperate need of a shower - with ajax and brillo pads.

In grand narrative tradition, Harry's famous scar chose this moment to twinge suspiciously, while a creeping dread crept dreadfully along Harry's spine, and a suspicious odour filled the air as the lights flickered.

The person who followed Pettigrew didn't so much as stand up as glide. No hand had to reach up and push back the cowl of the cloak, it fell back of it's own accord, to reveal... Voldemort.

Who introduced himself pleasantly as Tom, confessed to being a Snape-aholic, too, and pledged to stay strong and stay focused as the only help out there was the help one got when one helped oneself.

Everyone clapped encouragingly and Tom took his seat again.

Voldemort was followed by a handful of men and two women who all seemed to be named OMC and OFM, respectively.

The next figure to stand up was also fully cloaked, with the cowl up over their head, covering their whole face. Well, their whole face except for the long, lush, white flowing beard that flowed down like some kind of cotton-puffy waterfall to the man's knees.

Harry was beyond all emotion by this point, and took the sight of his headmaster admitting to mastubatory fantasies of one of his own staff members much more calmly than he ever would have thought possible, had he ever given such things a thought, which he hadn't actually thought about 'til then, but had he actually thought about them before then he was sure he would've given it more thought and been much more alarmed. Or concerned. Or flabbergasted. Or some-fucking-thing.

To make a nice visual counterpoint to the image of a white-bearded old man, Ginny Weasley stood up next to announce her addiction.

She was then followed by Ron Weasley, who was followed by Hermione.

Suddenly it all made sense it Harry's mind; why his friends had been concerned about him, why Hermione had known about the existence of the support group, etc. They'd all recognised the signs of addiction in Harry because they had them all themselves. And, they knew the pitfalls - the agony of thinking you're a pervert (or at the very least perverted), the late-night angst when you worry if you should or not and what if somebody hears you? What would your friends say if they found out? What would your enemies say if they found out? Your family? The concern that you're doing it so often what if you damage something? Beyond repair? Or make yourself sick? Can the Ministry punish you? Can you wind up in Azkaban? Can you lose house points? Be banned from playing quidditch?

All of these worries and concerns that ebb and surge in between waves of pure, 100 proof need to mentally map every line of flesh, every molecule of skin of that simultaneously ghostly pale and devilishly dark professor. To imagine where exactly he might place his hands, or his tongue, or his wand, or his other 'wand'...

Harry blushed when he realised just how out of control his thoughts had become, and that with the polite applause that greeted the end of Argus Filch's declaration (Harry's next-seat neighbour) it was now his turn to address the therapy group.

Feeling like he was reliving the whole Goblet of Fire fiasco all over again, Harry stood up on rubbery legs hinged with noodle knees and wondered if the butterflies in his stomach would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak.

Oh well, here goes nothing...

'My name's Harry,' Harry said, pausing to glance quickly at the understanding, sympathetic eyes that were trained on him. It appeared that knowing his own name was enough to make these people happy. Harry wondered if maybe he could away without having to say the next bit... Unfortunately, Lupin chose that moment to make an encouraging 'go on' gesture with his head. So, Harry sighed and, through gritted teeth, mumbled out the rest.

'And I'm a... Snape-aholic.'

Like a well-trained audience on some revoltingly bland chat-show, the rest of the group leapt to their feet, clapping, happily calling out such truly spiritual and meaningful things as 'Welcome to the group, Harry!' and 'That's the spirit, my boy!'.

Lupin clapped Harry on his back and presented The-Boy-Who-Couldn't-Believe-What-He'd-Just-Said-To-A-Roomful-Of-People-No-Less with the customary black cloak worn by all the other group members. Up close Harry could see there was a small crest embroidered on it. It had the words 'Snape Anonymous' in a banner held aloft by doves above a rising sun.

While Lupin explained the hope the crest symbolised, Harry felt someone on his left give him a quick hug - Harry hoped it wasn't Filch, a mouthful of bushy brown hair reassured him it was Hermione.

After receiving more bonhomie and encouragement than Harry had ever seen outside of early morning, evangelical television shows (and refusing nineteen offers for cups of tea) Harry promised everyone that yes, he'd be back next fortnight, and yes, he was certain that the group members were full of shi- uh, sincerity, and yes he was sure it was a relief to find out he wasn't alone with his addiction, and yes, it was kind, generous, thoughtful and brilliant of Remus to have started the group sessions, and yes, he would sign the petition to lobby the Ministry to proclaim the Snape Anonymous program as an official charity, and yes, he would be coming to the next meeting in a fortnight's time.

Would he really? Well, wasn't that excellent! Next meeting they were going to be exploring their feelings through sketches and acrylic paints, and won't that be fun? Possibly even more fun than last month's Exploration Of Deep Emotion Through Acrostic Poems experience.

Harry rolled his eyes heavenwards and contemplated just going up to the object of his fixation and admitting his addiction in the hope that Snape would kill him outright and thus spare him from this prolonged torture...

Surely, anything had to be better than this, Harry thought, and let his friends lead him out of the meeting room, and back to Hogwarts, still reeling from the knowledge he lived in a Snape-addicted world.

THE END.