DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does.

I am trying to write this as I would write a fairy-tale, to accentuate the hilarity of the situation. Forgive me. I'm trying something new.

Slughorn and the Basilisk

"Minerva, my dear, how are you?"

With that, Slughorn's hand gave a hearty pat to the shoulder of Severus Snape. The latter was standing with his back to the door and rather lost in thought, or at least he had been, until Slughorn entered the Teacher's Lounge.

"Professor," Snape hissed, teeth clenched, "Perhaps you should get your eyes checked." Of course, this he said in such a way as to make it a dire insult.

And, as per usual, Slughorn was unruffled by Snape's scathing tone.

"Oh! Mercy me, I've done it again, Severus, my boy. No offense intended, none at all, of course. Just a little trick of the eyes, is all."

McGonagall, who was sipping her tea in the corner (she and Severus had heretofore been discussing Albus' habit of re-gifting Christmas presents) clucked in an amused way.

"Horace," she greeted primly.

"Oh, so I was not far off!" Slughorn said delightedly, toddling over to the dear lady upon whom he clearly had a crush, while Snape knitted his brow and scrunched up his nose in disgust.

"Severus has a point, Horace. Perhaps you ought to consider stronger glasses."

This seemed to irritate Slughorn, just slightly.

"Nonsense, my dear. My eyes are perfectly fine as they are! It's not as though I'm going blind!"

At which point, he stumbled on the corner of the coffee table.

"Not at all!" he restated vigorously.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

And so that's where this rather morbid entry originates, Snape wrote that night in his journal. It is, I suppose, a just and properly covert means of expressing my exasperation with the positively INFURIATING mongrel. If I were not so committed to Albus' insistence on 'good behavior' towards the fat little man, I'd really do something rash. Throttle his throat? Not possible. I've got enough trouble to deal with. But perhaps some crystallized pineapple topped with something to bring about a cardiac arrest…not too difficult, with Slughorn's state of health…

At which point, the Potions Master elaborated in his specialized terms upon all sorts of delicious ways to kill Slughorn without being caught.

…I wonder if there is basilisk venom still down in the Chamber?

At which point, he paused, thinking about basilisks and snakes in general, wondering for the umpteenth time how in the world he could get a sample of Nagini's venom so that he could brew more antidote, and then thinking about basilisks in particular again.

That is when he came up with the most funny idea he had come up with in a long time.

That would be a way to get Slughorn out of the way! He wrote with some amusement. Or…perhaps not…if a person is blind (or nearly so), will the look of a basilisk kill them?

He thought about this, but decided that the idea was so funny that he could not waste it. Now, Snape was not an inveterate or habitual writer of stories, so I fear his style was rather limited to the literature he perused on a usual basis—academic potion journals and the occasional Wizard Tale--but here is his effort, in any case, which he scratched in his journal that day.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Once upon a time, in a place where crystallized pineapple grows on trees, there was a fat little man who lived in a squat little cottage, and he was a happy little man.

Now take heed, reader, this man was fairly average; he had the chemical composition that makes up all men (save the Dark F****** Lord), so the only extraordinary fact about him was that he was merely a man who was little. Not quite so little, mind, as Le Petit Prince, or Hop-On-My-Thumb of old, but quite small nonetheless. His name was Horace Slughorn, and he was an inferior potioneer to myself.

Horace used to work at a great big castle, teaching hordes of pubescent brats how to brew potions and use magic. (I would like to add that I never was so mundane; I have attempted to teach them to 'bottle fame, brew glory, and put a stopper in death', however unsuccessfully, the description being penned by the d*med Weasley twins when one or the other protested bad marks on one of their essays. 'Why, you're a potions master, you're supposed to teach us how to bottle fame, brew glory, and put a stopper in death! Not how to write!' I admit, their argument had an iota of truth, so now I make certain to make my place as a teacher very clear.)

BUT, after a long time, he (Slughorn, the fat greasy b*stard) decided to stop teaching, because he was growing old and fat, and Minerva was not batting her eyes at him anymore. (Or at least so he thought, though I know she couldn't have returned the old oaf's attentions. Ever.) Instead, I believe he retired to a nice little cottage in the vicinity of…I believe Kent, but I'm not certain.

So, he left Hogwarts, taking his rotundity and jollity with him, to the great relief of all sensible people at the school.

It was only after he left that he began to develop a predilection for Crystallized Pineapple (what on earth is he thinking? Anyone who knows anything about Pineapple knows that the high sucrose content and the poisonous climate in which it grows has been proven to diminish one's cognitive sens and even one's personal magical power ; even the vitamin C does not atone for the health issues to which it has been linked… (here Snape continues to ramble in his Potions-Master-Expert way about Pineapple and its detriments until he finally concludes his parentheses) …and ultimately, I can't say that he isn't off his rocker to be eating so much of it) because he was probably lonely and wanting to kill himself in the most pleasant way possible. Because, after all, Horace Slughorn was one of those insane people who are insufferably pleasant every square metre of their lives.

This insufferably unreasonable man was living a very comfortable and pleasant life for quite a while, perhaps a decade or more, until one day, he realized that he could not find his glasses. Without them, he was blind as a bat.

He thought about disapparating to Diagon Alley to get a new pair, but realized that he could not, because he could not be certain that he was looking nice without looking in the looking-glass, and he could not look because his glasses were gone.

This roundabout problem, of course, stumped the poor stupid retired potions master, because his cognitive sense had been so severely diminished by the excessive amounts of pineapple in his diet. So he simply never went, and, well, his quality of eyesight did jut the opposite. (That was a horrid pun. When this war's over, I should go on the radio.)

Now, I'm getting bored of writing, so I suppose I'll continue later.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Snape looked at what he had written, decided it was not altogether too bad, and went about his business for perhaps an hour. Then he returned and began to write again.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Since important things no longer are pressing me, I will continue now.

This stupid imbecile never thought that it might be worth it going out in public (without being immaculate) for an afternoon just to get new glasses. He was always of the notion that appearances are everything (what tosh!) and therefore never could bother himself to weigh the validity of the idea for an instant.

I suppose if nothing had happened to him, though, it would not have mattered in the slightest whether or not he got new glasses or not, but, as it is, he did not, and eventually his eyes would no longer receive images in the way they used to, and then it occurred to him that his ocular organs were more than simply dysfunctional—they had ceased to operate.

Blackness made his daily chores harder, but, since there weren't many of them, he was perfectly fine. He may have missed a few floo calls here or there, he might have dropped a few dishes, but, all in all, his life was not too horrible.

Especially the day that a basilisk got into his yard, dug a burrow, and decided to make its abode there.

Slughorn, being a fat and now blind stupid oaf, never realized that there was a basilisk in his yard, not even at the end of the story. At first he never noticed anything unusual, because the basilisk was only an infant, and it had no desire to go about killing the fat jolly old man who let it live in his yard. Perhaps the basilisk mistook Slughorn and his pineapple for Saint Nicholas and his gingerbread; I can't say for certain.

But, nonetheless, it was not until Slughorn found its shed skin one day in his rhododendrons that he knew that there was anything there.

"Oh, hello" the fat little old man squeaked when he found it. "What have we here?" And he wrapped it up like tissue paper (for that is what he thought it was) and put it in his pocket.

And then he went inside and called his friend George, who happened to be visiting at the time.

"George!" he said, "I've found some tissue paper!"

And George, who had no idea why this was significant, came into the room to look.

"Why, Horace!" George said in shock. "That's not tissue paper!"

"What?" Slughorn asked, but George decided to high-tail it out of there.

So Slughorn felt the skin a little more, and realized, "Oh, this is a giant snake's skin. How queer to find such a thing in my yard! I suppose I have a guest!"

And so, he went out into his yard with some crystallized pineapple and a large stick.

"Come here, little snake, and partake of this Pineapple!"

At which point, the little snake rose from its burrow and

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Snape grimaced as his Dark Mark began to burn. Resisting the urge to curse, he carefully shut his journal and shoved it into the dust jacket for 'History of the World's Greatest Potions Masters' (not an unsubtle hint to he who would find it after his death), following this action by jumping into the floo with a whisk of his magnificent robes.

It was the last time he wrote in his journal, in case anyone wonders. What he intended to have happen was: Slughorn attracts the basilisk, he feeds it pineapple, rendering it drowsy, at which point its own poisonous flatulence kills it. (Because everyone knows that basilisks cannot digest pineapple.) At which point Slughorn cries because he wanted to keep the beast.

But, since Snape did not get a chance to write it all down, no one else knew how the story was supposed to end, save for the fact that Slughorn never knew it was a basilisk.

(I personally think Snape has a way to go before he can count himself among the ranks of better fanfiction writers, though I'm sure J.K. Rowling would appreciate the gesture if she knew about it.)

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .