Snape was seated his office, craving something to drink, while searching
through the notes he had prepared for his next class. 'Incompetent
fools..' he mumbled to himself. 'Hensbane is used in only one bloody thing,
a ridiculously simple rain potion', he moaned. Be very careful, it's
poisonous', I say, 'remember to wash your hands after you handle it', I
say, and what does the incompetent whelp go and do? He licks his fingers!
A deep breath escaped his lips and he suppressed an urge to fling his papers against the wall in frustration. 'I need to get these papers organised' he muttered, searching frantically through them until, Ah, here it was, the notes he had made for the seventh years. He let out another groan; of course this reminded him of 'Hermione bloody Granger'. He opened his drawer to see if the potion he had prepared was still there; well of course it was, but with today's disasters, he didn't take anything for granted.
Hermione Granger. Why wasn't there a spell that could allow for all of this to be forgotten? Well there was, but none that he was legally allowed to perform, and he was convinced it would back-fire without hesitation.
He wasn't in the appropriate mood for this -- he felt ill-humoured, or rather, more ill-humoured then usual; plus his head ached like there would be no tomorrow. The headache, he could at least deal with, he noted, and with stiff limbs, he drew himself up to his feet and opened one of the mahogany cabinets in the back of his office. If there was anything he kept a large supply of, it was a Potion to cure headaches of differing potency and cause. Some were for migraines; some were for headaches caused by irritations, and some were for hangovers. He uncorked a green bottle, pouring the contents into a silver goblet and added a spoonful of sea salt. With the content fizzing and bobbling, he stirred it with a spoon, and collapsed in to one of the larger armchairs at the back corner of the room; he then tapped an enchanted candle with his wand, which made it flare in to a blue flame.
Ah, the tranquil silence of the dungeon. Once designed to clench the screams of its chosen victims, now as his quiet refuge, no sound, not even the thousands of students that roamed the halls above, managed to penetrate.
Sipping the content of the goblet, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. It really was foul tasting, and yet it rarely went a day where he didn't drink it. He really should try to find a way to sweeten the flavour, add some liquorice, or cinnamon if he could, anything..
He then realised that he was avoiding the one subject that was stirring about in the back of his mind.
"Hermione cursed Granger", he murmured quietly to himself..
"No.." with a wrinkled and distorted expression, he spat out, "Harry Potter!"
It was always Potter! She was part of his clique, and be it Ron or Ginny, whoever's fault it was to begin with, it all could eventually be narrowed down to Harry 'kiss my feet' Potter.
He didn't quit know how he was involved, but he knew -- call it intuition or experience, but soon or later, the boy who still lived would be involved.
Now he did indeed feel even more ill-humoured then before.
Finishing off the contents of the goblet, his head felt free of strain, but his mood hadn't improved. In his around fifteen years or so as teacher at Hogwarts, he had never had to prepare for such a discussion; it was ridiculous, illogical, unreasonable, and absolutely absurd.
He had brewed contraceptive potion! And why? Because for some, outrageous circumstance, he had sex, with one of his own students, and now she stood in risk of becoming pregnant with HIS child.
How could this *possibly* have befallen him? And with Hermione Granger of all people, a student he could barely stand being in the same room with. It couldn't be her appearance; she was tolerable he supposed, but hardly pretty enough to tempt him, he mused, eyes shifting to the round coffee table and the pile of newspapers and magazines.
"Brains, but no breeding..", he added in a superior tone, reaching into the pile and pulling out this month's issue of the 'The Wand', a tabloid magazine, which was known to be quite controversial in its views on the wizard world.
"Can I truly have been so desperately lustful?"
Women, he had no problems with, he reflected, flipping absentminded through the pages. He was hardly what one would call attractive, but not repulsive enough to repel the opposite sex. What he lacked in good looks he made up for in both stature and charm, and though he had no hesitation in acting unpleasant to those who failed to keep his interest, he could be both charismatic and charming when he so chose. He was a Slytherin after all.
"Amarissa Dracova", he read out loud with a small twitch to the corner of his lips, stopping at the potion section of the magazine. In the right corner was a passport sized photo of a pointy nosed witch, with curly carrot coloured hair, and a pine green hat. She smiled and nodded, giving each reader a scornful look.
He had no time for socializing during the school term. The weekend was spent ordering and stocking up the shelves with supplies, marking late papers, preparing notes for classes, attending staff meetings and patrolling the halls; and what little time he had left was spent either working on his private projects, or answering less urgent owl post.
When he eventually did make time, it was spent with old friends, colleagues, and possible business partners of the future. It was hardly high society, and it allowed absolutely no time for women and certainly not relationships.
He sunk back with a wicked grin on his face, a rare sight, but then more common in private then ever in public. He enjoyed women, against popular beliefs; he found them to be fascinating discussion partners, more so then some wizards he knew, but in turn, women had a tendency to annoy him immensely.
Any a relationship with woman that he'd attempted in his younger days, only stretched over a few weeks before her breathing was enough to make him wince in irritation. Partners were high maintenance in his book, and he had no need or desire for it. He could happily go without female company if necessary for long periods. He did have, if he so desired, female acquaintances, whom he could take out, and dine if needed company. Anything more, however, was not guaranteed.
Anyway, it had been barely been four months since last he had shared the 'company' of a lady. It had been end of July, he remembered, and he had agreed to attend this seminar and being one of the leading spokes wizards there, to give a quick lecture on some newly discovered nerve poisons. It made no difference to him whether he stood before a class of snot nosed children, or adults, he thought; he didn't need the money, but the publicity was always a pleasant bonus, as well as the free drinks at the bar. Once finished he had left the hall, caring little to stay and listen to the rest of the lecturers. The bar was empty, and he had grunted his order, making it clear he held no desire to make conversion with the bartender.
Two drinks later he felt quite at ease, when a woman swept through the double doors and headed straight for him. Stretching a hand forth, she said, "Greetings, Professor Snape, I am Amarissa Dracova, a journalist in the publication --"
"The Wand", he interrupted her.
"Ah, you know my work", was her reply. "May I join you?".
Usually, he would have said a firm no, but even he was wiser then to turn away a journalist who happened to write a well-known potions column. Waving an indifferent arm, he motioned for her to sit. She was about his age, and quite.. well, plain looking by his standards, not one he would usually look twice upon in normal circumstances.
He turned on his rare charm, and decided the quicker he answered her questions, the quicker she would depart; he called the bartender over and got a couple of drinks for the two of them. He was pleasantly surprised with the ensuing conversation, as she turned out to be both witty and well educated in the subject of potions. It had been long since he have had such an in-depth discussion, and even found himself laughing out loud at one of her cruder remarks.
It would be a lie to say that he didn't already appreciate her columns, for she was among the few he knew that publicly criticised Mortimer Tonsel, the head of the ministry of potions --who was a completely incompetent man in his opinion-- and for that she had already scored a major point in his book.
The night moved on, and a few drinks later she accompanied him to his room. Though her face was, well unseemly, she had the body of a panther he noted, and the breeding and tongue of a Slytherin. More favourably, an hour and half later, she politely made her excuses, and left.
He smiled pleasantly to himself at the memory, and threw the magazine on top of the pile, glaring blankly into the empty air.
She had owled him a few weeks later at the release of her newest edition; her letter was professional, thanking him politely for their discussion, and asking him a couple of questions regarding a future column she was writing. He was mentioned in the current one, and it was exceptionally flattering, something that had made him laugh, and think that this was indeed the closest he had ever come to feeling like a complete tart. He had owled her back of course, his answer as sterile as hers, and in the few months to come, when they had been conversing, neither one had mentioned that single night of commitment free amour.
"Why do women have to be so complicated..", he growled, thinking back on Hermione, and wondering if she would be as wise as Amarissa, or if he had to give her a fright. He shrugged, and drew his tired body back to his feet, eyes glimpsing the clock on the wall. With a sigh, he realised it was about time to face the seventh graders, and headed to his desk to gather his notes before he swept in to the classroom.
It would be the first time he had ever dreaded a class to end; having yet another talk with Granger was something he would rather like to skip all together.
A deep breath escaped his lips and he suppressed an urge to fling his papers against the wall in frustration. 'I need to get these papers organised' he muttered, searching frantically through them until, Ah, here it was, the notes he had made for the seventh years. He let out another groan; of course this reminded him of 'Hermione bloody Granger'. He opened his drawer to see if the potion he had prepared was still there; well of course it was, but with today's disasters, he didn't take anything for granted.
Hermione Granger. Why wasn't there a spell that could allow for all of this to be forgotten? Well there was, but none that he was legally allowed to perform, and he was convinced it would back-fire without hesitation.
He wasn't in the appropriate mood for this -- he felt ill-humoured, or rather, more ill-humoured then usual; plus his head ached like there would be no tomorrow. The headache, he could at least deal with, he noted, and with stiff limbs, he drew himself up to his feet and opened one of the mahogany cabinets in the back of his office. If there was anything he kept a large supply of, it was a Potion to cure headaches of differing potency and cause. Some were for migraines; some were for headaches caused by irritations, and some were for hangovers. He uncorked a green bottle, pouring the contents into a silver goblet and added a spoonful of sea salt. With the content fizzing and bobbling, he stirred it with a spoon, and collapsed in to one of the larger armchairs at the back corner of the room; he then tapped an enchanted candle with his wand, which made it flare in to a blue flame.
Ah, the tranquil silence of the dungeon. Once designed to clench the screams of its chosen victims, now as his quiet refuge, no sound, not even the thousands of students that roamed the halls above, managed to penetrate.
Sipping the content of the goblet, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. It really was foul tasting, and yet it rarely went a day where he didn't drink it. He really should try to find a way to sweeten the flavour, add some liquorice, or cinnamon if he could, anything..
He then realised that he was avoiding the one subject that was stirring about in the back of his mind.
"Hermione cursed Granger", he murmured quietly to himself..
"No.." with a wrinkled and distorted expression, he spat out, "Harry Potter!"
It was always Potter! She was part of his clique, and be it Ron or Ginny, whoever's fault it was to begin with, it all could eventually be narrowed down to Harry 'kiss my feet' Potter.
He didn't quit know how he was involved, but he knew -- call it intuition or experience, but soon or later, the boy who still lived would be involved.
Now he did indeed feel even more ill-humoured then before.
Finishing off the contents of the goblet, his head felt free of strain, but his mood hadn't improved. In his around fifteen years or so as teacher at Hogwarts, he had never had to prepare for such a discussion; it was ridiculous, illogical, unreasonable, and absolutely absurd.
He had brewed contraceptive potion! And why? Because for some, outrageous circumstance, he had sex, with one of his own students, and now she stood in risk of becoming pregnant with HIS child.
How could this *possibly* have befallen him? And with Hermione Granger of all people, a student he could barely stand being in the same room with. It couldn't be her appearance; she was tolerable he supposed, but hardly pretty enough to tempt him, he mused, eyes shifting to the round coffee table and the pile of newspapers and magazines.
"Brains, but no breeding..", he added in a superior tone, reaching into the pile and pulling out this month's issue of the 'The Wand', a tabloid magazine, which was known to be quite controversial in its views on the wizard world.
"Can I truly have been so desperately lustful?"
Women, he had no problems with, he reflected, flipping absentminded through the pages. He was hardly what one would call attractive, but not repulsive enough to repel the opposite sex. What he lacked in good looks he made up for in both stature and charm, and though he had no hesitation in acting unpleasant to those who failed to keep his interest, he could be both charismatic and charming when he so chose. He was a Slytherin after all.
"Amarissa Dracova", he read out loud with a small twitch to the corner of his lips, stopping at the potion section of the magazine. In the right corner was a passport sized photo of a pointy nosed witch, with curly carrot coloured hair, and a pine green hat. She smiled and nodded, giving each reader a scornful look.
He had no time for socializing during the school term. The weekend was spent ordering and stocking up the shelves with supplies, marking late papers, preparing notes for classes, attending staff meetings and patrolling the halls; and what little time he had left was spent either working on his private projects, or answering less urgent owl post.
When he eventually did make time, it was spent with old friends, colleagues, and possible business partners of the future. It was hardly high society, and it allowed absolutely no time for women and certainly not relationships.
He sunk back with a wicked grin on his face, a rare sight, but then more common in private then ever in public. He enjoyed women, against popular beliefs; he found them to be fascinating discussion partners, more so then some wizards he knew, but in turn, women had a tendency to annoy him immensely.
Any a relationship with woman that he'd attempted in his younger days, only stretched over a few weeks before her breathing was enough to make him wince in irritation. Partners were high maintenance in his book, and he had no need or desire for it. He could happily go without female company if necessary for long periods. He did have, if he so desired, female acquaintances, whom he could take out, and dine if needed company. Anything more, however, was not guaranteed.
Anyway, it had been barely been four months since last he had shared the 'company' of a lady. It had been end of July, he remembered, and he had agreed to attend this seminar and being one of the leading spokes wizards there, to give a quick lecture on some newly discovered nerve poisons. It made no difference to him whether he stood before a class of snot nosed children, or adults, he thought; he didn't need the money, but the publicity was always a pleasant bonus, as well as the free drinks at the bar. Once finished he had left the hall, caring little to stay and listen to the rest of the lecturers. The bar was empty, and he had grunted his order, making it clear he held no desire to make conversion with the bartender.
Two drinks later he felt quite at ease, when a woman swept through the double doors and headed straight for him. Stretching a hand forth, she said, "Greetings, Professor Snape, I am Amarissa Dracova, a journalist in the publication --"
"The Wand", he interrupted her.
"Ah, you know my work", was her reply. "May I join you?".
Usually, he would have said a firm no, but even he was wiser then to turn away a journalist who happened to write a well-known potions column. Waving an indifferent arm, he motioned for her to sit. She was about his age, and quite.. well, plain looking by his standards, not one he would usually look twice upon in normal circumstances.
He turned on his rare charm, and decided the quicker he answered her questions, the quicker she would depart; he called the bartender over and got a couple of drinks for the two of them. He was pleasantly surprised with the ensuing conversation, as she turned out to be both witty and well educated in the subject of potions. It had been long since he have had such an in-depth discussion, and even found himself laughing out loud at one of her cruder remarks.
It would be a lie to say that he didn't already appreciate her columns, for she was among the few he knew that publicly criticised Mortimer Tonsel, the head of the ministry of potions --who was a completely incompetent man in his opinion-- and for that she had already scored a major point in his book.
The night moved on, and a few drinks later she accompanied him to his room. Though her face was, well unseemly, she had the body of a panther he noted, and the breeding and tongue of a Slytherin. More favourably, an hour and half later, she politely made her excuses, and left.
He smiled pleasantly to himself at the memory, and threw the magazine on top of the pile, glaring blankly into the empty air.
She had owled him a few weeks later at the release of her newest edition; her letter was professional, thanking him politely for their discussion, and asking him a couple of questions regarding a future column she was writing. He was mentioned in the current one, and it was exceptionally flattering, something that had made him laugh, and think that this was indeed the closest he had ever come to feeling like a complete tart. He had owled her back of course, his answer as sterile as hers, and in the few months to come, when they had been conversing, neither one had mentioned that single night of commitment free amour.
"Why do women have to be so complicated..", he growled, thinking back on Hermione, and wondering if she would be as wise as Amarissa, or if he had to give her a fright. He shrugged, and drew his tired body back to his feet, eyes glimpsing the clock on the wall. With a sigh, he realised it was about time to face the seventh graders, and headed to his desk to gather his notes before he swept in to the classroom.
It would be the first time he had ever dreaded a class to end; having yet another talk with Granger was something he would rather like to skip all together.