A/N This will likely be short. It originally was about one paragraph long, inspired by a line my roommate told me. Now, well, I apologize for the short chapters.

Thanks for the reviews, and by the way, prettyproffessor, even I'm not that cruel. I don't think.

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The Gryffindor trio decided to put off asking their professor for anything until they absolutely had to. His expression at lunch had sent several first years running screaming from the hall, while two fifth year Hufflepuffs fainted. The three had managed not to do anything quite so drastic, but had certainly had their appetites vastly shrunk. They grabbed some of the more portable food items and made a break for the library.

"Here are all the books I could find with any reference to the Fiesta potion," Hermione announced, levitating a small city's worth of paper onto their table. Harry looked at it in dismay, then looked at his red-headed friend, who was currently twitching in rather unpleasant looking ways. He had stopped commenting on the lights, but occasional attempts to cover his ears indicated that he was still hearing the horrific sounds. Harry summoned his resolve (Here boy! Here, Resolve! Come on!) and opened the first book.

Three hours later the two were surrounded by books they had looked through and declared useless. Well, unless you were trying to turn your neighbor's pet chicken purple or change high school cafeteria food into something edible. (Hermione didn't believe that one; not even magic could make Muggle schools' attempts into actual food.) Their search had been interrupted a few times by pained groans from Ron, and mumbled comments along the lines of, 'no, I don't actually want to stay alive after all this' and 'please, someone, just kill me'.

Considering that not even Trelawney's dreadful predictions had ever inspired any of the three to actually wish for their utter demise, Harry and Hermione were justifiably worried.

"Ok, we've narrowed it down to these few," Hermione said finally. Seven books lay open to various pages on their increasingly cluttered table. The table practically groaned under the weight, until Harry threatened to chop it up for new equipment for the Gryffindor beaters. After that the only sounds were Ron's whimpers.

"So what have we got?" Harry asked anxiously, trying to ignore the strange twitches running through his friend's body. It was almost like he was trying to dance, but not even Ron danced that badly.

"Well, there's this one," Hermione said. "It says something about…ugh, that's gruesome!"

Harry looked over her shoulder and twitched. "Justin Timberlake? Can't be, Ron would've jumped off the roof by now. Nobody could have survived that this long."

Hermione nodded. "I guess that also knocks out Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys."

Harry agreed. "I would guess it cuts out all the boy bands. And probably the Spice Girls too. Oh, and most country."

"It could be opera, I suppose," Hermione said doubtfully. "He was complaining about the men singing too high, but he didn't really sound sure. It could have been a woman's voice."

"Nah, his eardrums are still mostly intact. Those high sopranos are lethal weapons, I swear."

Hermione sighed. "Ok then, what's left?" The two bent back over their books.

Ten minutes later they lifted their heads, almost simultaneously. They looked at each other in horror, and wordlessly showed the other what they had found. All the symptoms matched. There was nothing else possible, it had to be this. They looked at their friend in awe of his fortitude, picked him up from his convulsions on the floor, and dragged him towards the Headmaster's office.

*****

Severus Snape was not a happy man.

True, he wasn't a happy individual in general these days. He still wanted to know whose influence he was under when he agreed to teach these incompetent prepubescent fools. If he ever found that person, he would bottle them up and feed them to the giant squid. Then again, maybe not. He had nothing against the squid; after all, there was always the possibility that it would eat one of the brats and leave him less to put up with.

But his usual everyday 'I'm not allowed to kill the students no matter how many times they melt my cauldrons, nearly blow me up, or turn each other into un-nameable objects, what a pity' dissatisfaction was nothing compared to the anguish he was suffering now, at the hands of one of those students.

One student, and that damned music.

Snape prided himself on his steadiness, his ability to resist the worse tortures even Voldemort could devise. But this, this horror, was pressing him close to his limits. Not even the Dark Lord was this cruel.

Since the – incident – he had been searching frantically through every journal and book in his collection, searching for an explanation, and more importantly a cure. He managed to ignore the flashing lights his eyes swore were creating boxes on the walls. Well, mostly.

He flipped the page, nearly growling as the music in his head began to repeat itself for the fifth time, then stared at the next page in disbelief. He had found it! Skimming through the page, his momentary elation sunk until it hit the floor with a loud *clang*. He ignored the onomatopoeia and stared in horror. It was too diabolical, too inhuman; no one could survive that. The cure was nearly worse than the disease.

He dropped his head to the desk with a loud thud and Severus Snape, greasy git potions master, ex-Death Eater turned spy, cried like a baby.

Bonus points to whoever figures out what they're hearing. And sorry if I offended anyone's beloved music. Well, no, not really.