Author's Note: This story is ancient (and terrible - honestly). Consider it archived.
Severus Snape lifted the bottle of Firewhisky to his lips; as he did so, he almost fell backward due to his lack of balance. He began to tip back and the bottle moved further away from him as he went, because of the instinctive attempt to steady himself with the hand containing the bottle. He leaned on the desk next to him awkwardly, swaying side to side gently, then tried again to lift the bottle and take a drink.
Sadly, however, as much as he tried, he couldn't keep himself balanced enough to take a drink; he continued swaying from side to side, depending on where the whisky was – the closer he was to drinking it, the more likely it was that he would tip over to the left; the further away it was, the safer he was, leaning awkwardly on his desk. It seemed that fate was against him and his last bottle of Firewhisky that night – but not if he had anything to say about it. He would make sure that he downed his last bottle, even if it was the last thing he did.
He looked around wildly, searching for something to steady himself with. He spotted the chair behind the desk and grinned like a crazy 5-year-old. Staggering around the desk, he plonked himself down in the chair, then lifted the bottle once again, with a triumphant grin. He was about to pour the last of his Firewhisky into his open, waiting mouth, but before he saw the first drop, he felt the bottle being taken from his hand.