(A/N: This just came off of a funny little idea I had. I defintely know where I want to go with this. The overall plot is inspried by a movie, which I won't tell you the name of, due to giving the whole plot away. But you'll figure it out later. This is set after the death of Dumbledore. Yes, Snape was allowed back at school. Yes, Harry and the gang are back at school, along with Malfoy. You'll find that out later too. Enjoy! Oh, and Harry Potter does not belong to me.)

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Severus Snape nearly fell out of his chair, he was so speechless.

Now, there had not been many times in life where something had startled him that much, especially where he was unable to speak due to shock, but as his days went on, that seemed to be happening more and more often.

So, here he was, in the Hogwarts staff room, with his jaw hanging open like some idiot as he watched a thoroughly ruffled McGonagall try to deal with the unusual situation at hand.

Catching sight of himself in one of the dusty windows nearby, he quickly snapped his mouth closed and regained composure, not without some irritation.

Letting a small 'hmph' of disdain escape his lips, he turned his head back to his work, trying to appear unconcerned, though his natural Slytherin curiosity was hanging on to every word being exchanged.

As McGonagall continued to sit and stare at the student, Snape realized that no one should really be surprised. In theory, this was the exact kind of thing a person of her… nature… would be expected to do.

Then again, as every expert potioneer knows, knowing things in theory and seeing them in practice are two completely different things.

Snape's day had started out fairly normally, by Hogwarts standards. Only an infestation of rats and a quite Thestral stampede before breakfast.

He had then proceeded directly to the staff room, where he had sat filling out various forms of little consequence up until now. Again, he glanced at the Defense teacher who had accompanied the student, with great dislike.

Not that Snape disliked the teacher. In fact, he was one of Snape's former students, now Professor Montague. Snape inwardly smirked to see the once seventh-year student with his head in a toilet standing in front of him, grown up, and face turning a furious colour of red.

No, it was more the resentment that he himself would probably never be able to teach. He knew it was self-indulgent to be thinking that way. Heck, he should be on his knees thanking Merlin that he was still alive. Not that he doubted Dumbledore when the man told him he had 'everything settled'… But it seemed that he, Severus Snape, was finding 'freedom' to be just a different kind of jail.

Running a hand quickly through jet black hair, he turned his attentions back to eavesdropping on the argument. There were only four teachers in the staff room, McGonagall, Montague, Sprout, and himself. He saw Pomona give him an odd look when he leaned slightly to the left, trying to pick up the softer muttering that came from McGonagall One hardly needed to eavesdrop to hear Montague, he was bellowing like a hippogriff who had just gotten his tail pulled, but he wasn't too worried. He knew she was listening to the conversation as well and probably expected him to fill her in on the details during lunch.

Snape found the older woman's presence oddly soothing. Perhaps it was spending a lifetime around the earth and plants, but she had a way of making you feel like you were a good person, and anyone who thought otherwise didn't matter. Not that she had said that to him, of course. But the fact that she was willing to be alone in the same place as him for more than an hour without reaching for her wand every time he breathed spoke volumes in itself.

So he brooded, half-listening, half-contemplating, for a while, but gave a start when he heard his name mentioned in McGonagall's crisp, clipped, voice.

"I'm sorry Ms. Granger," she said shortly, "but as noble as your intentions are, I'm afraid you'll have to serve detention until we get this matter sorted out. I'll warn you that every day you keep this up, one detention will be assigned. And it will most likely take a long time, since we've never had a situation like this…

Can't I persuade you to drop the matter?" She asked again in a pleading voice.

The Gryffindor girl shook her head stubbornly, and pursed her lips. Montague stomped out of the Staff room in a huff, steam practically spilling from his ears.

McGonagall rubbed her forehead tiredly.

"Fine. I'll speak to the board of directors about this. Until then, every day you decide to wear pants instead of the girl's required uniform; you will serve a detention with Professor Snape. Second floor, third classroom on the right, two hours after dinner. You are dismissed."

Snape actually did fall out of his chair that time.

Hermione, Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout looked over their tables interestedly in Snape's direction where a loud 'Crash' had come from.

Snape, who was sprawled behind his desk, quickly grabbed the chair and snapped off one of the legs. He pulled himself upright quickly, salvaged what was left of his dignity by displaying the "broken" chair to the teachers and Hermione.

"Bloody chair," Snape muttered loudly. "Breaks about ever five bloody seconds. Someone get Filch in here, would you?"

All at once, Sprout was telling him that Filch had taken the day off, McGonagall was yelling at him to watch his language in front of students, and Hermione was protesting loudly that according to 'Hogwarts: A History', chairs in the staff room were magically strengthened, and did not just break.

Snape sighed. This was going to be a long day.

Lunch time. Oh goody.

Snape pulled his spoon out of a green sticky goop that looked poisonous and watched it drip back into the bowl. Pomona had told him the other day that it was called "Guacamole". Even the name sounded dangerous.

Why anyone would bother to make food that looked like it had already been digested and then go and name it "Guacamole" was beyond Snape's conception. He looked around him and saw a plate of crackers, a dish of chicken, and some slices of ham.

His nose scrunched up, like he smelled something foul, and his eyes wandered back to his own sickly dish of Guacamole. His stomach felt empty, but it was a pleasant kind of empty that he did not wish to disturb. Sighing, he dropped his spoon back into the bowl.

A few minutes later, that "pleasant" empty feeling had disappeared and given way to a rumbling stomach. Anxious to quell the sound, he grabbed a piece of chicken and stuffed it roughly into his mouth. He chewed, disgusted, and swallowed with a loud 'gulp'. All this in less than ten seconds.

It was times like these that realized whoever might be watching him would think that he was a dangerous, evil man who couldn't even enjoy his own lunch.

Well it wasn't his fault that Hogwarts chicken had chicken with high-fat content. He could practically feel the grease slide down his throat and settle in his stomach.

He looked longingly over at the bowl of lemon drops by McGonagall's seat.

Ever since that night, when McGonagall had inherited the positon of Headmistress, the bowl of candies had been set there as a sort of 'ceremonial' dish. It had been there since then, but unlike the years when Dumbledore was around, the candy dish remained untouched.

And Snape was certainly not going to degrade himself by asking someone to "please pass the lemon drops." He grimaced, just thinking of how that would sound, coming from him. The other teachers would probably think he was making fun of it.

He would have levitated one over, but he had suspicions that that bowl was not a normal bowl. He sighed again, thoroughly disgruntled. Whoever knew how much trouble a piece of candy could cause?

Snape looked around him disinterestedly. He sat on the very end of the staff table, so there was no one to his right. And of course, they had placed Trelawney next to him, because she never dined with the Hogwarts' staff anyway.

Sprout had to sit on the other side of the table, in front of her own house, and he could tell that Flitwick, who was sitting a chair away from him, kept on giving him suspicious glances.

But it wasn't like he was lonely. He turned his attention to the table of Slytherin students, diminishing every day. He watched two boys stuffing themselves with food and shook his head. Not everyone played Quidditch, and those who didn't, didn't get nearly enough exercise. Hm. He should bring that up the next time he was filling out papers with Pomona.

His eyes strayed to Draco Malfoy, who was sitting at the farthest end of the table, closest to the staff, and away from everybody else. Snape almost smiled when he saw what the sullen seventh-year boy was doing. Yes, Malfoy was staring disgustedly at his food, spoon stirring uneaten bowl of Guacamole, and muttering about Hogwarts food and fat content.

'Over. Just be over.' Snape thought desperately.

It had been only fifteen minutes into lunch and he was already feeling a premature headache coming. Oh how he wished the day would soon be over. But then he remembered tonight's detention, and became suddenly grateful for the day's slowness.

Snape wanted very much to bang his head against the table. But, he realized, as most of the inhabitants of Hogwarts thought he was already insane, that he should pass up that idea.

He was not looking forward to detention. And why would he? Usually he enjoyed making students miserable, but this time he would be put with another teacher. He knew this, even though McGonagall had only mentioned his name in the staff room. He was not trusted around students alone, especially Gryffindor ones.

He knew he had been chosen because he was free that evening. Who was he kidding, he was free every evening.

Pomona was busy, and McGonagall certainly wouldn't be there herself to look over the detention. It was common knowledge that Trelawney was too careless, and Montague was a Slytherin. And in Binns' condition, no way was he overseeing a detention. He'd probably be stuck with Flitwick or Vector again.

Here, he rubbed his eyes tiredly. Oh, of all people, why the nosy Granger? What inspired her sudden rebellion anyway?

He snorted, and saw through the corner of his eye that Flitwick jumped a little at the sound, his little hand tightening around his wand, which was drawn and lying on the table.

Rolling his eyes, he went back to wallowing in his thoughts. It was the last year, for goodness sakes! After this, they'd be thrust into the harsh world, fighting for their lives! Typical of her to be worried about the uniforms.

He had to admit, though, that the shocked look on McGonagall's face was priceless. This mental image kept him fairly amused throughout the lunch period, and he returned to the staff room, feeling marginally better.

He had just dipped his quill in the ink bottle to date forms, when the Staff Room door burst open. Again.