((First off--Disclaimer. No, I don't own Harry Potter. JKR and the movie makers own all. I'm just having a bit of fun.

Secondly, this is not a long fanfiction. I retired from that a couple years ago from that. This is a series of one or two shots about Severus Snape, a young Potion Master working Hogwarts. This is pre-Harry Potter schooling and post-Voldemort (the first time). These stories are meant to be funny and will not benefit humanity in anyway. However, Severus Snape is a tenacious character and my funny ideas may go in very unfunny ways, so be prepared. Also, this story is rated K+ for mild language.

Thirdly, about the stories themselves. I struggle to be as canon compliant as can be. However, I have referenced the Harry Potter Lexicon for some additional information as well as dates. Everything else, as we do not really know very much about Snape or any other professors for that matter, I will invent as I go along.

Fourth, about the dates. According to the Harry Potter Lexicon, Snape was hired in September 1981, a few months before James and Lily Potter met their untimely deaths. I found this inconvenient to my story, so Snape in this story is starting in September 1982, a year later. Imagine him spending that year anyway you want (mourning Lily's death, suffering from the Ministry inquisition into this activities, ect). Just so we have that clear.

Fifth and final. These are stories about Severus Snape. A canon-compliant Snape. Therefore an unattractive, nasty, snarky, and unfriendly Snape. I do honestly believe that deep, deep, deep 

down Snape is a decent human being and will do the right thing. He simply will insult and offend everyone in his path, give as many unwarranted detentions as he can, and be as horrible as possible while doing said right thing. So expect a human Snape here, but not a pleasant one. Also, there will be no Lily-worship here. If you are interested in that, please read another fanfiction. Really.

All right! Now that's all done...let the stories begin!))

A Bad First Impression

By Nearly headless Natalie

The mirror blinked, once, twice. It squinted. It crossed its metaphorical eyes. No luck. With a magical headshake, it manufactured its best optimistic tone.

"I think you are looking….looking your best, my dear," it cheerfully said, its voice twisting upward to a hopeful squeak.

The man in front of the mirror raised a single eyebrow. It was far more articulate than his stony facial expression, than the early frown lines establishing permanent residences in the corners of his grim mouth.

"Indeed," he replied, in a low, silky voice, the dangerous sound of a panther circling his prey.

The mirror was getting desperate. Mirrors cannot lie—the strong magic of the castle, swirling unobtrusively but never quiescently in every single stone prevented it. That didn't mean the mirror wanted to tell the man the whole truth. "Well—that is to say—you have very…striking features."

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Ah. I understand now." The mirror, had it been real, would have breathed in relief. "Likely to want to make the staff want to strike me or to strike fear in the hearts of the unworthy?"

The mirror sputtered. If sentient beings such as mirrors could be uncomfortable, this one would want to sink into the gray stones and disappear forever. Why couldn't he be like other humans and just accept and forget compliments? "Which do you prefer?"

The man dusted an imaginary piece of lint off the shoulder of his black robes. His black hair and eyes with his pale skin completed this human study of contrast. "Would it be too much to ask for both?"

He turned suddenly, his long robes flowing behind him impressively, like a careless waterfall of black wool. The effect was rather ruined when the corner of the robe caught on the edge of the door and took the tall, dark man down to the ground a moment later.

It was impossible to resist. The mirror snorted loudly. The man picked himself up off the floor with a flourish, the effect rather ruined by his reddening ears that his long, greasy hair could not completely hide. A moment later a soundless shot of blue light flew across the room, causing the mirror to squeak in indignation.

The young man brushed non-existent dust from his new black robes, again, and then impatiently pushed back his long black hair from his face, exposing his still pink cheeks. "There," he spat, "Comment about that, bloody mirror."

The mirror did so. In fluent Burmese.

It stuttered itself into silence, much to the pleasure of the black-clad man, who took pleasure in the torment of another, albeit a mere mirror, to escape feeling nervous himself. His smirk vanished, replaced by a preoccupied frown. Because young Severus Snape—although he would rather drink a phial of Armadillo Bile than admit it—was very nervous, indeed.

A year previously, he had been the servant of the Dark Lord, now apparently deceased or…something. Even Snape's convoluted and creative imagination could not—no, dare not, he thought, brushing his hand against his Dark Mark—think of what could have happened that night.

And a year later, he was now a teacher at Hogwarts, about to start his first day as one of the youngest professors in the school's history. Ah, correction. The youngest teacher in Hogwarts history that just happened to have some unsavory ties to Death Eaters and was recently, if quietly, pardoned by the Ministry of Magic for crimes against wizardom.

Needless to say, his co-workers were not thrilled. Minerva McGonagall gave him her best stink eye every time he walked in the room or asked for the butter at the Head Table. Pomona Sprout tutted quietly when he turned his back and seemed to stop breathing any time he approached her, as though she were attempting to hide her plump frame in mid air from his clearly nefarious purposes. Filius Flitwick squeaked every time he entered the room. This would not be so unusual, considering Flitwick's normal communication consisted of squeaks. It was Flitwick's tumble off the chair accompanying the squeak that always irked Snape to no end.

Only Dumbledore, with his damned calm blue eyes, never thought of him as dangerous. Snape smiled grimly. Dumbledore had seen to Snape's…rehabilitation to decent society as well as the protection of his students. Thus, Severus Snape, Dark Arts genius, was sent off into the dungeons to teach the fine art of Potions.

He snorted. Secretly, he thought reporting to the Dark Lord was less intimidating than a herd of…children. Well—not just the children. The little pests could always be put into their places with a detention or so (or a dozen, if it's a Gryffindor brat). No, cauldron-bearing, ingredient-mixing, Dunderheaded students would be enough to drive fear in the hearts of even the most hardened former-criminals. Snape shuddered magnificently. Horace Slughorn, the now retired Potion's Master, reminded Snape to keep control of his students. He showed him the black scorch marks in the wall where Horace's predecessor had once stood trying to keep order.

So was it too much to ask that he make a good first impression? Right—tonight the children would be arriving. He would do his best today to gain his co-worker's respect—not friendship, of course, he hastily reminded himself, as if he would be interested in friendship—to face the snot-nosed brats as one of a unified front. He cracked his neck nervously, taking a few deep breaths. Control and calm was the key. Because once the staff was relaxed, the Slytherin reminded himself, they were so much easier to manipulate.

With a stern nod at nothing in particular Snape turned once more and left his dungeon suite. If the mirror noticed that Snape carefully ensured that his cloak did not impede his grand exit, it did not remark, in English or Burmese.

A moment later he entered into the Great Hall through the staff door behind the table. He took a seat next to Flitwick. He silently repeated his prepared greeting to the little man. He had practiced it in his rooms last night. Clear, direct, neither too cheerful nor too dour. Pulling his shoulder's back, he pulled his chair back and sat down.
"Good morning, Filius," Snape greeted.

Flitwick immediately inhaled his bacon and began to choke. Then he started coughing. Loudly coughing. The whole table turned to stare. Snape struggled with the urge to slump in his chair and hide.

McGonagall rigorously patted Flitwick on the back, while glaring at Snape. Sprout tutted, while nibbling at her eggs with annoying neatness. Rolanda Hooch, the flying instructor, smirked and leaned over to whisper something to Quirrell, the Muggle Studies teacher.

Snape sighed and turned to his plate. So much for relaxing his colleagues.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said, over his toast, smothered in a disgustingly sweet combination of marmalade and Nutella, "You've arrived just in time. I was just asking if someone would look over your lesson plans today. Just to see that you have the general idea, of course. Would anyone like to volunteer just a little time?"

There was an uncomfortable pause. Snape gave a curt nod to Dumbledore and waited in agony. McGonagall started carrying on a suspiciously loud conversation with Flitwick and appeared momentarily deaf to the Headmaster. Pomona was stammering something about the greenhouse and preparing to flee. The silence from everyone else was as thick as house-elf made pudding. Suddenly, a dry, tired voice, like the brush of deadened leaves against rough pavement, whispered down the table. "I'll take a look at young Snape's lesson plans."

At end of the table, Cuthbert Binns, professor of History of Magic, sat in stooped dignity. The withered, thin old man watched Snape with cool, emotionless eyes behind a pair of stern spectacles. To his consternation, Snape could not determine whether the man was pleased or annoyed with his task.

"Thank you, Cuthbert," Dumbledore replied, "And I believe Severus will find you in your office after breakfast? Very good, very good. But are you all right, Cuthbert? Are you still unwell?"

Binns had shakily risen to his feet. "Yes, yes, I'm fine, Dumbledore," he brusquely said, "A man pushing 126-years-old can have some trouble getting up. We all can't be as sprightly as you were." Snape was delighted to hear Binns mutter something about "stupid old codger" and "ridiculous robes" as he walked slowly to the door. Dumbledore, the image of ignorance, brushed crumbs off his vibrant purple and periwinkle trimmed robes. Snape thought he looked like a rejected Easter Egg.

After eating in silence, Snape slunk away from the Head Table, trying to ignore the hiss of whispering that erupted before the door had closed behind him. He supposed it could be worse—they could be laughing. It was a testament to Snape's attempt to be a polite castle employee that he only hexed two suits of armor to pieces on his way back to the dungeon.

A few moments later, he was knocking on Binn's office door, lesson plans in hand. No answer. Muttering about the deaf old men he would be working with, Snape hammered on the door. The door clicked open. Confidently, Snape strode in—to see Binns's head slumped onto his chest, his white brittle hair spread around his face like a dried-out, overused mop.

Snape snorted. Sleeping right after breakfast! Was this a school or a retirement community? Between Dumbledore and Binns it was difficult to tell.

"A late night, was it?" Snape asked with a sneer, not caring if he woke Binns. But the man in the chair did not move.

Snape, whose patience on a good day was as long lasting as a Chudley Cannons winning streak, started to shake the man's shoulder roughly, friendly colleague relationship be damned! "Wake up, man!"

Binn's limp body fell forward and landed on the desk with a soft, boneless thud.

Snape looked at the dead man with a blank expression while he assessed the situation.

A young professor had found a colleague dead in his office.

No, correction—a young, scarcely cleared former Death Eater with a talent for potions found a man inexplicably dead in his office without any witnesses to confirm it.

He looked back at the dead man, back to his lesson plans, and then back at the dead man.

"Bloody hell," he simply said, "Bloody, bloody hell."

It summed up the situation nicely.

((Stay tuned for the rest of this story...let the mayhem ensue! Also, a note: Nutella, to those who are unfamiliar with it (aka, American, usually) Nutella is a chocolate/hazelnut spread, much like the texture of creamy peanut butter. It's fantastic and wonderfully sweet, which makes me think, of course of Dumbledore's infamous sweet tooth.))