A Gift For A Hag

Chapter 25: My Cunning Valentine

Last season, another successful holiday grab bag at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had been had…for the most part.

Unfortunately, it cannot be said for Professor Snape and Professor Vector.

Valentine's Day was approaching yet again and the professors feared the inevitable gift-giving obligations that hung over their heads and…each other.

The Dungeons – Professor Snape's Office…on the verge of a breakdown…

…HAD…CHOSEN…VECTOR'S…NAME…AGAIN…

Silence in the dungeons…

And a seething, near manic, Potions Master was at a loss for words because he was livid and experiencing what was quite possibly his first ever panic attack. His thoughts were jumbled, his mind raced, and it was very unlike him.

That and his throat was dry and his voice hoarse after cursing the Sorting Hat and Dumbledore and Vector and Lockhart, just because he despised him heartily, for an hour or two while pacing frenetically, unsure of how he should handle this debacle yet again. And then he had cursed Peeves for an additional hour which made him quite put out this evening.

How had he once again been lured into Dumbledore's foolish staff socializing ventures?

He didn't want to partake in anything of a holiday nature, which at its very essence was unsettling and revolted him. And he was sure nobody else but Dumbledore or that sentimental and simpering fool Hagrid wanted him too either. Yet he had got sucked in and trapped again. He was seriously starting to consider that the Dark Lord might be more sympathetic to his anti-social plight than the Headmaster that he had served, gave the best years of his life to in that service, and risked everything for. Surely, allowing Snape to have some peace of mind was clearly too much to ask in return for all of his sacrifices.

And before returning to the dungeons, he had insisted to the Headmaster that he be allowed to have a word with the Sorting hat…privately. Dumbledore, noticing that Snape had a hand in the pocket were he believed he kept his wand, claimed that the Sorting Hat needed to rest before all of the Hogwarts staff drew names at 7:00…they did have a rather large staff.

"I will return in one hour. Hopefully, the Hat will be well rested and in good spirits after having ruined my life yet again, and then perhaps will be more than willing to submit to questioning," he had told Dumbledore in a low, waspish voice, as he willed himself to exercise some sort of outward self-control.

And he had returned in exactly one hour and the Sorting Hat was still unavailable when Professor Snape called on it, or rather yelled through the door where it was "resting."

Professor Snape placed a hand on his throbbing temple and sat down at this desk.

Throwing what was very near a temper tantrum in the Headmaster's office like the time I had lost the Order of Merlin and demanding that Dumbledore force the Sorting Hat to allow me to make another selection as a special consideration in the face of personal crisis did not help…

Telling Dumbledore that for the past few grab bags I had only been trying to help Vector was lost on him…regrettably the Headmaster was getting on in years.

Dumbledore had advised him that this year he should seek out something more suitable for Professor Vector. He had disagreed with former gifts such as the cockroach clusters, blood lollipops, hag literature like "Magical Makeover: Putting Your Best Claw Forward (Hag's Edition) and attempting to fix up Vector with Sanguini the vampire.

He believed, to use his words, "…that insinuating such things about a lovely woman in the flower of her youth, like our dear, sweet, undeniably beautiful Professor Septima Vector was preposterous."

Snape wished to shout from the top of the Astronomy Tower, "but Headmaster you don't truly know her," but it was probably a moot point. Also that the Headmaster was apparently getting on in years so a homely face like Vector's would appear to him as beautiful because 28 was far away from Dumbledore's current age. Perhaps the hag brought on a bit of nostalgia to an aging headmaster? Snape, however, was not fooled so easily.

Snape scowled thinking about their earlier exchange. He wondered how in the hell he could face Vector after he had chosen her once again. He thought of where he could possibly go shopping for another gift for a troublesome hag and was at a loss for options. He dreaded that the staff would surely know by this evening because secrets had a very short shelf-life in this school. A vein continued to throb at his temple as he remembered the bluebells…and how he was teased as the staff believed he was harboring a secret, passionate love for Vector because he gave her flowers after finding nothing in either Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Well, the Headmaster had told him that blood lollipops were no longer a viable option and other items had to be over looked because they might even cause her pain, embarrassment, or slight disfigurement if used improperly.

Snape concentrated very hard and tried to remember where he had put his calming draught.

And then Dumbledore had done the unthinkable…truly Snape would never forgive him.

"Professor Snape, before you leave, it was brought to my attention that last Christmas, mistletoe was provided and you gave Professor Vector a kiss on the lips. I would think it is a step in the right direction. How will you top that this year? I believe the staff would like to know, but I will not answer for you on such a personal matter. Good night, Severus."

He had opened his eyes wide in shock. His thin cheeks burned a blotchy red and he stammered something, turned on his heel, and swept off to the dungeons in horror.

Peeves and the Sorting Hat would pay. Dragon pox on both of them! And how dare the Headmaster remind him! And how in the world did the staff know! He was sure that Vector would never admit that to anybody!

This was the last time, the very last. The last grab bag he would ever participate in. He would go to Hogsmeade first and buy the first blasted thing that he saw. And perhaps he could research a spell or potion in which one could confound oneself following the aftermath of a truly traumatic event?