Title: The Inter-House Mystery Pen-Pal Extravaganza!
Written for: myself xD feel free to send requests if you like though
Prompts: Every pen-pal or mystery admirer fic ever written
Ratings and Warnings: NONE
Word Count: About 7.5k total
Summary: Post-war professors SNUPIN fic, for the most part doesn't mention either war or any ex-students. SLASH without actual smex. Just confusion.
Dumbledore decides that the violence and bullying between houses is getting out of hand, and devises a game that will help cross the growing rift. Even the grumpy potions master must take part. Will he last the entire month before his pen-pal realises who it is? And other gripping questions, answered in six short chapters.
Author notes: I have no beta. I'm quite confident in my writing, but pacing is always off. For this I apologise in advance :3 Please leave a review if you like it, because I have awful self-loathing habits.
**THIS WORLD AND ITS CHARACTERS ARE NOT MY PROPERTY AND I MAKE NO MONEY FROM THEM. I JUST LOVE THEM AND ALSO WANT THEM TO LOVE EACH OTHER**
CHAPTER 1
It was November the third, the beginning of that awkward time between Halloween and Christmas when the level of excitement within the hall was usually low. There was no upcoming party or celebration, no ball for almost two blessed months, and yet the great hall of Hogwarts was filled with the kind of annoying buzz that was normally only associated with celebrity visits or mass poisonings.
Professor Severus Snape raised his head minutely, only enough to stare at the culprit – the cause of his current growing headache – from behind his usual shroud of wiry black hair. Albus was settling into his chair, a picture perfect portrait of grandfatherly innocence despite having made the announcement that had set the hall ablaze with noise. No wonder he had been so adamant that Severus should attend dinner tonight.
There was to be an event, of sorts, lasting one month. Put another way, there were thirty days of torture on the way for one always suspecting potions master.
It was to be an inter-house mystery pen-pal extravaganza. A chance for teachers and students alike to make fools of themselves and each other while fixing what Albus called "the worst year for inter-house rivalry and violence since 1728."
What rubbish! Severus snorted at the thought. There was no problem with inter-house violence this or any other year. Yes, his Slitherins had taken a bit of a battering since the war – labels, accusations, curses and maybe one or two explosions. And yes, they had retaliated in kind or worse, perhaps with some quiet encouragement from a certain dark robed mentor, but really!
There was no need for such extreme measures.
Of course, such things as common sense and reason were far below Albus' warped logic, and cancelling the event now would cause riots. He had no choice now but to go along with it... But that didn't mean he was going to make it easy.
Severus pushed mashed potato around his plate for a few minutes, deep in thought. He would likely end up matched with some second year Hufflepuff chit who would only rave endlessly about her crush or favourite boy-band. Augh, the kind who would dot her 'i's with a heart.
He would rather die.
A quick eavesdropping charm made him scowl further. There were already titters going about, children putting bets on which unfortunate student would get matched up with the dreaded potions master, and how long it would take for them to realise who it was. So far, the odds were heavily in favour of "after the first message", and the longest available option was day three.
He stood abruptly, tossing his cutlery at the table in disgust. He could exit through the side door, which would take him more quickly to his quarters, but his old spy habits were yet to die so he made instead for the main doors, walking between the Slitherin and Ravenclaw tables.
As he passed, student after student quickly stuffed what looked like ticket stubs into their pockets. Bet slips. Worthy of a few deducted points, were most of them not in Slitherin.
To hell with them all!
He didn't want to participate in this stupid game, and so he would not. Albus could not force him to do anything.
He paused at the door momentarily before stepping over the threshold into the corridor outside.
Strictly speaking, Albus could force him to do almost anything, and he would have to comply under his parole regulations. But still! He would make it such a miserable experience that Albus would never think to try such a thing again.
He passed no one on his way to the dungeons, which only made him angrier. No house points to take or detentions to give out. There was only one option now.
He slumped into the chair next to his writing desk and spelled open a secret compartment. The wood panelling along the left edge of the desk opened out with a click. He then cast another two spells to release the wards and notice-me-not charm. A moment later, the top of a cork faded into view sticking out from the hidden compartment.
He pulled it out with a satisfied smile. This was not just any old bottle, but Dragon's Resolve no. 12. The label had long peeled off, though the cork was intact. It was used, back in the 1760's, as a test for would-be dragon hunters wanting to join a guild. If they could stomach just one finger of Resolve, then they would be accepted.
Severus had never opened the bottle, as it was dangerous to let oxygen inside. Instead, he took a tumbler and carefully transferred a measure across using his wand.
As soon as it touched air, the liquid glowed red then white, and the surface blazed in sudden flame. Severus replaced the bottle in its hiding place, wards and all, then sat back to stare into his glass.
Never mind Old Ogden's, this was the king of fire whiskey.
His mind returned to Albus and his silly schemes, and he once again grew angry.
He didn't want to spend a single day, let alone a month, speaking to any student - or staff member - of Hogwarts, and they most certainly wouldn't want to speak with him. So what was the point? There was nothing at all to be gained by his taking part.
And the betting! Damn students and their 'three days'. As if he couldn't go longer, if he wanted to.
Why were they so damned interested anyway? He could be civil if he tried, he just never did. And if he did write those silly messages, then he would make it to the end of the thirty days with no one guessing his identity. He hadn't spent so many years as a spy and double agent for nothing – he was perfectly capable of hiding things.
Though the honesty charm on the enchanted parchment would make it tricky... If he couldn't outright lie then he would have to lie by exemption, or say half-truths. There were things he could truthfully say that no one would ever attribute to him. For instance, who would put him down for a master of the air guitar? Not his students, certainly.
He made a quick mental list of all the people who had ever walked in on him playing imaginary tunes in the dorm room, and realised that they were now all dead. He hadn't liked any of them, and it meant his secrets were forever safe, but somehow this thought drove him to down the rest of his drink. He shed his cloak in the following rush of heat.
There was no lying allowed, but everything else was fair game. He could hardly be responsible for people getting the wrong impression. There were too many gullible fools out there, and that wasn't his fault, was it?
Yes, this could work. He could write the message in Snape-speak on ordinary parchment first, then translate it into young people language. He could make it work, and prove a point.
Not that he wanted to. It was just a childish thought, to reassure himself that they were all wrong. He was sneakier than they gave him credit for, and it wasn't as if there was anyone left who knew what he was really like. Lilly was long gone, as were Regulus and the Malfoys.
There was no reason for him to take part, he thought angrily. He stood, paced the room twice, then stopped by his desk once more. He glanced to the far corner, where he had initially set aside space for incoming and outgoing post. The former did have a pile, three or four letters he didn't want to open, the youngest of which was over six months old. Next to that was an empty space that had been gathering dust since last Christmas.
No reason at all.