Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to JK Rowling, WB and the various publishing houses. I do not own any intellectual property related to Harry Potter. I do not make any money from this piece of fanfiction.
Little Red Devil
No matter what he did, the migraine that had sprung up on him in the middle of the day seemed to get bigger and bigger, like it had a life all of its own. It was like a little annoying creature pounding away at his skull. Harry Potter imagined that the little creature was red and ugly and had a devilish little tail and gruesome horns. He pictured the menacing little creature hacking away at his skull and carving holes into his soft, fragile brain matter. In a momentary flight of fancy, Harry wondered if maybe his gruesome migraine-creature was a reincarnation of the dead former Dark Lord, Tom Riddle.
The pounding devil made it so that every movement was jarringly painful and Harry could barely think, let alone teach. It was to the surprise of many that his afternoon DADA classes were treated to a spectacular show of bad temper and snarling insults. The usually jolly and friendly Professor Potter was seen cutting points and throwing detention slips about like a madman. The students in his class were alarmingly reminded of another, much more hated Professor. So uncanny was this resemblance that Matilda Longbottom, a third year Ravenclaw, promptly fainted after a nastily barbed comment was hurled her way. The unfortunate girl had sadly inherited the innate fear of 'great greasy bats' from her father, Neville Longbottom.
The students who did not have his class were not spared the Snape-like treatment either. The Savior of the wizarding world was equally aggressive to the students he passed in the hallways. With his teacher's robe billowing around him, Harry would glare at anybody stupid enough to get in his way. And heaven have mercy on those fools who tried to wish him a good day. It was not a good day! It was a bad day! There was a little devil in his skull pounding his brain to mush!
By the end of the day, each house was down by at least a hundred and fifty points and Argus Filch had a whole army of students to help him scrub the floor of the Great Hall. The sudden abrupt change in their favorite Professor got the old rumor mill started, and at dinner, the Hall was alive with whispers of cursed quills and discussions of the Professor's supposedly broken heart.
At the Head Table, Professor Snape was scowling menacingly at the student population. A well-placed listening charm had clued the man in on the latest gossip and it left him livid. HE was the resident evil bat! HE was the Professor that struck fear and terror into the hearts of the annoying brats! Snape had cultivated the reputation meticulously over many years, and he was immensely proud of the fact that he could make the students cower in fear at his mere presence. But now, here they were, talking about that Potter boy – for he was still a boy in Snape's eyes and would forever be so – with the same tremor in their words! It was ludicrous! And totally unfair!
Growling in a last show of his extreme displeasure, Snape stormed from the Great Hall in a fury of black robes. He stalked the hallways, in search of his former student who had not showed up for dinner at all. Snape searched the entire castle when he did not find the Potter brat in his rooms, but it was useless. His mood rapidly deteriorating to dangerous levels, Snape made his way back down to the dungeons. Where could the brat be?!
Storming into his rooms, Snape was hit by a sudden feeling of unease. Something or someone had disturbed his inner sanctum. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard a loud expletive coming from his personal potions store. The rage in Snape's veins reached boiling level. If it was a student in there trying to steal his concoctions, he would skin them alive and use their entrails in his potions!
Throwing open the door violently, Snape was met with the brat of his nightmares.
"Potter! How dare you barge into my rooms and ransack my potions! You have no right!"
Not even sparing the fuming man a glance, Harry searched the shelves in a kind of detached panic.
"Where is it? Where is the damn thing? Stupid git can't even label his vials properly like a good potions master. There doesn't even seem to be a method to this mess..."
The muttering snapped Snape's last ounce of patience and he forcefully spun the bane of his existence around to face him. As if only just realizing that he was in the presence of said stupid git, Harry gaped at the man before jabbering on as best he could.
"Oh! There you are Snape! Look, where do you keep it? Do you ever organize your potion store? Never mind, Poppy's run out, so I thought you might have some so..."
"So you decided to barge into my private quarters and ransack my personal space! Stupid, ungrateful, pompous brat! These are my PRIVATE rooms! I order you out this instant!"
Harry stared at Snape like he had just grown an extra greasy-haired head.
"No time for that! Where is it? Where did you put it? The little devil somehow got hold of a jackhammer and I just know he's gonna drill a hole in my skull pretty soon..."
Now it was Snape's turn to stare at Harry in confusion. Nothing coming out of the abomination's mouth made any sense. Maybe he had finally gone and lost what few marbles he had in the first place. It was Snape's fond opinion that James Potter had dropped his precious baby boy on his head when he was born. It seemed to explain for Snape how one little boy could be filled with such vast amounts of idiotic 'courage' and general all-round insanity.
Unknowingly, Harry was having similar thoughts, though in a less coherent manner. He was wondering how one got to be so stupid and clueless. Maybe it was old age. Maybe it was all the grease in his hair; it must mess with his brain functions. Harry's train of thought very nearly took a nose-dive off the tracks into oblivion, but the little red devil with the jackhammer decided to make itself useful and drilled a particularly deep hole into the mushy grayness of Harry's brain.
Giving a high pitched squeal of pain, Harry decided that with Snape, he had to be blunt.
"Headache potion! Headache potion, you imbecile! There is a little devil in my brain trying to kill me and you're just standing there like a helpless first year! Give me the bloody potion Snape!"
Snape's first reaction was to scream back at his screaming colleague, but then the actual meaning of Harry's words managed to penetrate his brain. Smirking in his trade-mark fashion, Snape's mood miraculously lifted. Suddenly the world was filled with the sobs of ridiculed children and everywhere he looked, he saw cauldrons a-brimming with beautiful potions. This was Snape's idea of a perfect world. His second most hated enemy - the son of his foremost hated enemy - had a headache? Ha! The sadistic side of the man, which by all accounts was ninety nine percent of him, shrieked in girly, joyous delight. The boy was in pain. And by the groans he was emitting, it was a considerable amount of pain. The very sight of the brat's face contorted in pain was like the very best orgasm.
"A headache, potter? Well, as a potions master, I am properly knowledgeable about these kinds of ailments, and the best cure for your unfortunate circumstance is patience. Wait it our potter, it is much more beneficial to let the ache fade on its own."
"And entertaining." Though that wasn't said out loud.
The little devil stopped its drilling for a moment to gaze fondly at the Slytherin.
"Ah, a kindred spirit," he thought. Then he went right on with the drilling.
The momentary lapse of pounding, however brief, gave Harry a moment of much needed clarity. Snape's words, and intentions, managed to be fully appreciated by the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldy. Harry was able to detect the subtle nuances of Snape's carefully crafted tone and he marveled at the beauty of the man's expertly framed speech. He was in awe of the mastery of language the professor possessed and he was envious of the man's obvious finesse. And it also made Harry very, very livid.
Now, Harry was not a wizard to be messed with during the best of times. And at the worst of times people tend to run and hide; preferably on a different planet. Old Voldemort learnt that lesson the hard way when he had stolen Harry's favorite pair of briefs by accident. He had actually been aiming for Harry himself, but the Scaly One had messed up the spell and only managed to grab hold of the briefs that Harry had been wearing at that particular moment. It was unfortunate for the Dark Lord that that particular pair of briefs held a large sentimental value for the Hero of the wizarding world. He hadn't lost a single Quidditch game in them yet. The tragic and sudden kidnapping of this beloved piece of clothing had prompted Harry to hunt down the villain and vanquish him in a fit of heartache induced rage.
At the moment, the rage building in Harry was induced by another kind of ache, but it was no less deadly. The little red devil sensed the burning desire building in Harry to hurt the other man, and though it considered the beaked nosed stranger as somewhat of a comrade-in-arms, it could not resist egging Harry on. Who was he to deny Harry a delicious piece of the revenge pie?
Snape, meanwhile was gloating in a fit of self-satisfied glory. He didn't really see Harry's eyes narrowing and the emerald orbs glinting with malicious intent. Neither did he notice the air around him dancing with the intense magical energy Harry was cultivating. All he could see was little Hufflepuffs fainting, littler Gryffindors wetting themselves in fright and the fabulous image of a Harry Potter in pain.
This inattentiveness proved to be Snape's ultimate downfall. In a spectacular climax of wandless magical power, Harry Potter, all-around Savior, lashed out with full force at the Slytherin Head of House. Colorful lights of every spectrum known to man filled the dark, cold dungeons and for miles around, magical folk sat up and were in awe of the power and majesty that washed over them. The students and teachers in the castle stopped dead in their tracks and cried tears of joy; over come with the feelings that accompanied the magical release. The superstitious centaurs in the Forbidden Forest dropped to the ground in supplication. And Hogwarts herself, an old and wise dame, sighed in contentment and pleasure. Everyone who felt the Savior's magic somehow knew that they had been saved yet again from a terrible evil. There was joy and merriment all around.
Back in the personal, private potions store of the dreaded Potions Master, all was calm. Looking beatific and angelic, Harry Potter stood proudly in the middle of the deserted room. His eyes aglow with peace, Harry resonated a sense of nirvana that few would ever achieve. The devil in his head was gone. Chuckling softly in gentle amusement, Harry left the room with a regal sweep of his robes. But not before bestowing a final, wise comment.
"Sic friatur crustum dulce."
--
From that day on, Harry James Potter, twice Savior of the wizarding world became the Professor for Defense against the Dark Arts and Potions. The students readily forgave him for his one day of weakness and came to love and respect him like they did before. With Professor Potter's patient and loving teaching, students soon began to adore Potions lessons and the general skill of the Hogwarts students rose dramatically. No other school had ever produced such a fine crop of Potions Masters and Mistresses.
Generation after generation of eager young minds congregated in the classroom of Hogwarts' most beloved teacher, who bestowed upon them tremendous knowledge and cultured in them a deep appreciation for Potions, Defense and Life. And as life in the wizarding world settled into its most peaceful and prosperous time yet, no one gave a thought - or a mention - to the small black bat with the alarming amount of greasy hair that seemed to be forever hovering broodingly in the corner of the great Harry Potter's Potions classroom. And as each successive batch of students graduated from the exalted Halls of Hogwarts, the reality of the snarling Potions Master Severus Snape became only a memory. And the memory became a legend, and finally the legend faded into oblivion. All that was left was a muted sense of euphoria felt by the Savior every time he caught sight of the great greasy bat that glared at him from the corner of his classroom.
Never mess with a man who had been dropped on his head as a baby.
Author's Notes:
Sic friatur crustum dulce: It is thus that the cookie crumbles
Got the idea from a latin phrase book, I don't speak a word of latin, so I hope the phrase is correct. I decided that after a little tragedy, a little comedy is needed to lighten the mood. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Comments and suggestions are welcome, and will be greatly appreciated. Thanks. :)