3.
Early Sunday morning.
He had mastered the mouse.
He could now find any letter on the keyboard in under thirty seconds.
He knew the difference between het and slash.
He knew what BDSM stood for.
He wondered if fisting felt as good as it sounded.
Snape blinked his dry, burning eyes. After an endless parade of stories in which Potter shagged some stunningly beautiful, intelligent, witty, female nonentity, he had refined his investigation, and stumbled upon a neatly organized directory which offered stories of Potter paired with everyone imaginable: Granger, predictably enough after that Skeeter woman's article, but also each and every Weasley from Bill right down to Ginny, the extras of the Gryffindor class of '98 from Parvati Patil to Neville Longbottom, and *Draco Malfoy*. Snape outright laughed at the idea.
Then he read some of the stories, and started to wonder about those two.
Potter and Lupin... Merlin's beard, Potter and Black... Potter and *Hagrid*... Snape winced, and decided not to read those ones. Potter and the elder Malfoy. Potter and assorted Death Eaters. Potter and *Voldemort*.
And then Snape had discovered a large section featuring Potter and himself... and beyond that, what appeared to be his own little following, who seemed every bit as obsessed with him as the other brainless twits were with Potter.
The same eclectic, hormone-indulgent collection of partners existed for him. Lupin (he sneered). Black (he shuddered). Hagrid (he crossed his legs). Lucius, Albus, James, Lily, Narcissa, Voldemort, and what looked to be every single student to attend Hogwarts in the last thirty years.
He didn't even want to think about the broomstick.
*I'll never be able to look Albus in the eye again,* Snape thought and clicked away from the jumble of partners, drawn back to the little section labelled 'HP/SS'. Once the initial shock wore off, Snape found some small measure of amusement knowing that there were hundreds of people who wanted him to fuck Potter until the Boy Who Lived became the Boy Who Couldn't Walk In The Morning.
By midnight, his rational mind had reasserted itself, and, now accustomed to reading about himself in every imaginable sexual scenario, began reacting to other aspects.
"I would never say that!" Snape snorted, and jabbed the monitor as though assigning it blame for sloppy characterization. "And why would Potter do that? It doesn't make any sense." Muttering under his breath, he clicked away in search of something with more substance, more credibility, and more accuracy. He supposed these 'PWPs' might be titillating for someone who could suspend their disbelief for a few minutes, but Snape prided himself on logical thought.
Three o'clock found him deeply engrossed in a long, breath-taking saga. The author had given him some truly memorable lines, cutting and witty and so very *Snape*, and he filed them away in his mind for later use. He found himself wanting to slap Draco Malfoy the next time he saw him, and even admitting the writer's version of Potter was not quite as annoying as the real one.
Then it ended.
Right after he, Snape, had been forced to betray Potter in order to win the war, sending Potter straight to Black, who was under the control of his lover, Lupin, who was actually a polyjuiced Pettigrew.
"TBC? What the hell does that mean? Why does it end there? What's this WIP rubbish?" Furious, Snape resolved never to read another of the stories labelled WIP, but his vow only lasted until he came across one sporting a positively salacious summary. He read it, slipping a hand absently under his robe to rub the front of his trousers, and resigned himself to never knowing the ending.
Besides snaring him with their simplified worlds where sex was as easy as breathing, everyone came twice, and lubrication was always handy, the stories hinted at interesting tidbits which might in fact be based in reality. The invisibility cloak came up too often for coincidence, and Snape wondered if he could take house points from Gryffindor retroactively. That blank sheet of paper he had confiscated might actually be something called a Marauder's Map. Universal opinion seemed to be that Potter's relations were verbally abusive at best, and horrible monsters who beat, raped, and starved him at worst. Snape shied away from stories featuring the Dursleys; he had no wish to feel sympathy for the brat, particularly over something that may not have even happened. Instead he flitted through the directories, following links to still more archives, scrolling through summaries until one snared his attention...
And found himself sitting back wearily, rubbing his eyes against the dawn light spilling into the Muggle Studies classroom. The computer declared it to be six o'clock Sunday morning, and Snape realized he'd sat at the machine since mid-morning, Saturday. Fumbling for advice from the textbook, he managed to turn the computer off, then staggered down the stairs to bed.
* * * * *
Late Monday night, restless and irritable after a long day fraught with incompetent and increasingly irreverent children, he casually passed the Muggle Studies classroom at the end of his rounds, and was surprised to find it occupied.
"I do hope you all have passes, Mr Shaw, Mr Creevey, Miss Dessier, Mr Talbot," Snape purred as he stalked into the room.
"Of course, Professor," Talbot said, and to Snape's dismay they produced four passes bearing Glumdunley's signature. "We never get enough class time on the 'puter. I'm surprised you haven't seen us here before. There's always someone here, 'cept on a Hogsmeade weekend."
"Merlin, someone's been hitting the adult fanfiction sites," Creevey muttered, flying through screens with disgusting ease. "Glumdunley's gonna restrict our access if those bloody fifth years don't stay out of the porn."
"Better tell them how to erase their tracks," Shaw muttered, and was elbowed in the ribs by Dessier, who shot Snape a weak smile.
Snape felt his face heat. He'd left a trail?
"Er, I'll just erase this then, sir" Creevey said. "Wouldn't want the fourth years to blunder into it."
"You do that, Mr Creevey. And don't... forget... to inform Professor Glumdunley of this matter." With a final glare, Snape swept from the room, and slunk back to his dank, dark, technology-free dungeons.
Early Sunday morning.
He had mastered the mouse.
He could now find any letter on the keyboard in under thirty seconds.
He knew the difference between het and slash.
He knew what BDSM stood for.
He wondered if fisting felt as good as it sounded.
Snape blinked his dry, burning eyes. After an endless parade of stories in which Potter shagged some stunningly beautiful, intelligent, witty, female nonentity, he had refined his investigation, and stumbled upon a neatly organized directory which offered stories of Potter paired with everyone imaginable: Granger, predictably enough after that Skeeter woman's article, but also each and every Weasley from Bill right down to Ginny, the extras of the Gryffindor class of '98 from Parvati Patil to Neville Longbottom, and *Draco Malfoy*. Snape outright laughed at the idea.
Then he read some of the stories, and started to wonder about those two.
Potter and Lupin... Merlin's beard, Potter and Black... Potter and *Hagrid*... Snape winced, and decided not to read those ones. Potter and the elder Malfoy. Potter and assorted Death Eaters. Potter and *Voldemort*.
And then Snape had discovered a large section featuring Potter and himself... and beyond that, what appeared to be his own little following, who seemed every bit as obsessed with him as the other brainless twits were with Potter.
The same eclectic, hormone-indulgent collection of partners existed for him. Lupin (he sneered). Black (he shuddered). Hagrid (he crossed his legs). Lucius, Albus, James, Lily, Narcissa, Voldemort, and what looked to be every single student to attend Hogwarts in the last thirty years.
He didn't even want to think about the broomstick.
*I'll never be able to look Albus in the eye again,* Snape thought and clicked away from the jumble of partners, drawn back to the little section labelled 'HP/SS'. Once the initial shock wore off, Snape found some small measure of amusement knowing that there were hundreds of people who wanted him to fuck Potter until the Boy Who Lived became the Boy Who Couldn't Walk In The Morning.
By midnight, his rational mind had reasserted itself, and, now accustomed to reading about himself in every imaginable sexual scenario, began reacting to other aspects.
"I would never say that!" Snape snorted, and jabbed the monitor as though assigning it blame for sloppy characterization. "And why would Potter do that? It doesn't make any sense." Muttering under his breath, he clicked away in search of something with more substance, more credibility, and more accuracy. He supposed these 'PWPs' might be titillating for someone who could suspend their disbelief for a few minutes, but Snape prided himself on logical thought.
Three o'clock found him deeply engrossed in a long, breath-taking saga. The author had given him some truly memorable lines, cutting and witty and so very *Snape*, and he filed them away in his mind for later use. He found himself wanting to slap Draco Malfoy the next time he saw him, and even admitting the writer's version of Potter was not quite as annoying as the real one.
Then it ended.
Right after he, Snape, had been forced to betray Potter in order to win the war, sending Potter straight to Black, who was under the control of his lover, Lupin, who was actually a polyjuiced Pettigrew.
"TBC? What the hell does that mean? Why does it end there? What's this WIP rubbish?" Furious, Snape resolved never to read another of the stories labelled WIP, but his vow only lasted until he came across one sporting a positively salacious summary. He read it, slipping a hand absently under his robe to rub the front of his trousers, and resigned himself to never knowing the ending.
Besides snaring him with their simplified worlds where sex was as easy as breathing, everyone came twice, and lubrication was always handy, the stories hinted at interesting tidbits which might in fact be based in reality. The invisibility cloak came up too often for coincidence, and Snape wondered if he could take house points from Gryffindor retroactively. That blank sheet of paper he had confiscated might actually be something called a Marauder's Map. Universal opinion seemed to be that Potter's relations were verbally abusive at best, and horrible monsters who beat, raped, and starved him at worst. Snape shied away from stories featuring the Dursleys; he had no wish to feel sympathy for the brat, particularly over something that may not have even happened. Instead he flitted through the directories, following links to still more archives, scrolling through summaries until one snared his attention...
And found himself sitting back wearily, rubbing his eyes against the dawn light spilling into the Muggle Studies classroom. The computer declared it to be six o'clock Sunday morning, and Snape realized he'd sat at the machine since mid-morning, Saturday. Fumbling for advice from the textbook, he managed to turn the computer off, then staggered down the stairs to bed.
* * * * *
Late Monday night, restless and irritable after a long day fraught with incompetent and increasingly irreverent children, he casually passed the Muggle Studies classroom at the end of his rounds, and was surprised to find it occupied.
"I do hope you all have passes, Mr Shaw, Mr Creevey, Miss Dessier, Mr Talbot," Snape purred as he stalked into the room.
"Of course, Professor," Talbot said, and to Snape's dismay they produced four passes bearing Glumdunley's signature. "We never get enough class time on the 'puter. I'm surprised you haven't seen us here before. There's always someone here, 'cept on a Hogsmeade weekend."
"Merlin, someone's been hitting the adult fanfiction sites," Creevey muttered, flying through screens with disgusting ease. "Glumdunley's gonna restrict our access if those bloody fifth years don't stay out of the porn."
"Better tell them how to erase their tracks," Shaw muttered, and was elbowed in the ribs by Dessier, who shot Snape a weak smile.
Snape felt his face heat. He'd left a trail?
"Er, I'll just erase this then, sir" Creevey said. "Wouldn't want the fourth years to blunder into it."
"You do that, Mr Creevey. And don't... forget... to inform Professor Glumdunley of this matter." With a final glare, Snape swept from the room, and slunk back to his dank, dark, technology-free dungeons.