Fridays
This is just some short randomness. I'm sure this idea has been done, but oh well. I was bored, and I didn't have the energy to work on my other fanfic. This only took me about five minutes to write. No idea whether I'll continue it. I might if I get any positive response.
I own nothing you recognize.
Chapter 1: Session 6
God, I hate Fridays.
Most people like Fridays.
Then again, most people don't have to watch Severus Snape sneer at them for an entire hour every Friday afternoon.
I blame Dumbledore for this. He called me up at the beginning of the school year and asked me if I'd be willing to counsel Severus Snape. I was reluctant, of course, but Dumbledore begged me and promised to triple my fee. So I gave in.
I'm stupid.
No amount of money is worth this.
When Snape came in for our first session, he took one look at me, said "I'll be leaving now," and walked back toward the door. I was a Gryffindor, you see. And he was one of my professors. He hated me. Surprise, surprise.
At that point, I gave him a note from Dumbledore, which the Headmaster had told me to present to Snape in the event that he caused any trouble. I don't know what the note said, but it pissed Snape off big time. After reading it, he walked back into my office and sat down on the couch.
I'd been rehearsing that first meeting for days, and I'd decided that the best way to go about it would be to act naturally. Talk to him as if we were on the same level: like equals. I figured that'd be the best way to ensure that I maintained professional control of the situation.
I was wrong.
I said, "Well, Severus, it's a pleasure to see you again."
He glared at me and said, "The fact that we are not in the classroom does not change the fact that you were once one of my students. You will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir' at all times. Do you understand?"
I stared down at my feet and said, "Yes, sir..."
So much for maintaining control.
He glared at me for a while, and after about five minutes, I mustered the courage to say, "Well, Professor, how are you feeling today?"
He sneered at me and asked, "Is that my cue to lie down on the couch and start blubbering about how terrible my childhood was and how it scarred me for life and turned me into an evil old bat?"
"...Um, no?"
I tried to make conversation after this. I asked a lot of questions.
It didn't work.
He sneered at me for an hour. A whole hour. The sneer never faltered. I actually wondered, at one point, whether his face had gotten stuck like that. I even wondered whether he'd died, and I just hadn't noticed yet. He didn't move a muscle. He seriously might have died. No one would know. Do you know how rarely he blinks? It's creepy.
We've had four sessions since then. He still hasn't said a word. He just sneers. For an hour. Every Friday.
I hate Friday.
I owled Dumbledore a couple of days ago and told him how poorly Snape's therapy was going. Dumbledore suggested I raise the issue of Harry Potter, who is currently in his second year at Hogwarts. This seems like a stupid I idea. But since I'm out of ideas, I guess I'll try it anyway.
He walks into my office and sits down. He doesn't say anything. As usual. I smile and say, "Good afternoon, Professor."
Sneer.
"Have you had a good week at school?"
Sneer.
"...I... was thinking that, perhaps, we should discuss some of your students."
Sneer.
"...I wondered... for example, how Mr. Potter is doing?"
He's still sneering, but... Oh my god! It speaks: "Potter is doing very poorly, Mrs. Townes. Very poorly indeed."
"I see... and what makes you say that?"
"He is alive."
"...And that's bad?"
"From my perspective, yes."
"...I see..."
"I tried to poison his owl on Monday."
"Oh... really?"
"Yes. Got the wrong owl. Minerva's pissed."
"Professor McGonagall's owl? You poisoned her owl?"
"Yes."
"Does she realize you were the one who poisoned it?"
"I doubt it. I tied a Gryffindor scarf around it's neck and hung it from the rafters of the owlery."
"...Oh... really...?" Oh my god. He's completely deranged!
"Yes. With any luck, she'll think it was Potter."
"Why would she think that?"
"Because I also shoved a Snitch down it's throat."
"...I see... Well... er, perhaps we should talk about something else. Are there any other things that are bothering you at school?"
"Lockhart."
"Gilderoy Lockhart? The author?"
"I hate him."
"Perhaps... perhaps you should find a way to channel this hatred into something productive."
"I shaved his head last weekend. While he was sleeping. Does that count?"
"...You... shaved his head?"
"And took pictures."
"I see... and what are you going to do with these pictures?"
"I plan to paste them all over the school sometime within the next week."
"Is that... really worth your time, Professor? Don't you think Professor Dumbledore will just take the pictures down as soon as you put them up?"
"Not if I use a permanent sticking charm. I'm thinking of putting up a life-size photo in the Great Hall."
"Okay... What did Professor Lockhart do when you shaved his head?"
"I was told that he -- ah -- cried like a little bitch. For two full days. Until Madam Pomfrey came and regrew his hair."
"Does anyone know that you were the one who shaved him?"
"Yes."
"How do they know?"
"I told them."
"Who did you tell?"
"Everyone."
"Even the students?"
"Yes."
"And how did people react?"
"I got 'thank you' cards from most of the staff and about a third of the student body."
"I see. Well, Professor, do you have any idea why you have these hateful feelings toward Professor Lockhart?"
"I fell asleep during a staff meeting one night, and he tied my hair into a French braid."
"Well, I can see how that would be annoying, but it didn't really cause any harm, did it?"
"He didn't tell me he'd done it. And neither did anyone else. I didn't find out until breakfast the next morning when I noticed that everyone who walked into the Great Hall was laughing and pointing at my head."
"I see..."
"Tonight, I think I'm going to transfigure his face to look like a house elf."
"Yes... well... I'm sure that will be fascinating... Unfortunately, I believe our time is up, Professor."
Sneer.
"And you're scheduled for the same time next week, of course."
Sneer.
"...Well, then... see you next week..."
Sneer.
He doesn't say anything, but he sneers at me all the way to the door. God, he's insane. Please get out, please get out, oh my god, you're freaking me out! He's going, going, going...
He's gone.
Oh my lord, that was awful. I think I liked it better when he just sneered at me. Someone needs to put a permanent Silencing Charm on that man.
I hate Fridays.
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