Title: Frogspawn and its Side Effects
Author: Kitty Chou
Category: Drama, humor, romance, death
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG-13...maybe R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I make no money off them, and I promise to clean them up when I'm done.
Authors Note: Alright, I liked the Googlism challenge enough to come out of lurking and post out of my usual fandom. Muahahaha. My first Harry Potter fic. Beware.
Summary: In response to the Googlism Challenge from a very long time ago that was issued on the Veela Inc Mailing List. My Googlism: 'Snape is an ugly git'. A potion goes wrong.
'Snape is an ugly git.'
Harry looked at the words critically before drawing a line through them.
'Snape is a REALLY ugly git.'
This too was crossed out and replaced by, 'Snape is the ugliest git in the whole world. Followed by Dudley as a close second.'
Harry snorted and crossed this out as well, propping his head up on one hand as he studied the scroll of parchment that was to be his Potions assignment. Three feet on the uses, origins, and magical side effects of frogspawn. Just because he'd dumped all his frogspawn in his Wart Removal potion, instead of slowly stirring it in over time as the directions on the blackboard had said.
The blackboard hadn't said that the potion would explode. Nor did it state that whoever happened to be splashed with it would receive genital warts. So really, it wasn't his fault at all that Professor Snape happened to be coming over to inform him of this so that when the potion exploded, it happened to explode all over the Potions Master. Luckily, Harry knew the signs of an exploding potion by now, having blown up enough of his own to last a lifetime, and ducked behind the nearest person, who happened to be Malfoy, in order to avoid getting splashed.
He wasn't actually sure how Malfoy had come to be standing nearby, but considered it a stroke of good luck he'd rather not question. After all, who better to give genital warts to than your archrival? However, it was better not to give them to your hated Potions professor, as he could: A) deduct one hundred points from Gryffindor, B) give everyone (save Malfoy, as he was, "a victim of Potter's unending stupidity") three feet of parchment to write on frogspawn before next Tuesday, and C) give Harry a weeks worth of detention going over the Hogsmead weekend since it was Friday and to top it all off, he was going to give them personally for once instead of shipping him off to clean trophies with Filch.
It was cruel. It was unfair. It was worth it to see Malfoy wince and adjust himself periodically, but not enough to keep Harry from sinking into what Hermione liked to call a 'black mood'. Which was unfair, really. It wasn't as though he was constantly sinking into pits of oozing despair. Well, there was his fifth year in general, but they didn't talk about that anymore by unspoken agreement.
"Harry," Hermione began in a disapproving tone, from where she was just finishing the last few inches of her scroll, "you have detention. You're going to get in trouble. We're going to get in trouble."
"Snape can blow it out his ear, for all I care," Harry muttered irritably, but reluctantly got to his feet. He waved halfheartedly to Ron and Hermione, nodded at Neville, and threw a rude gesture towards the sniggering Seamus and Dean before ducking through the portrait hole and stepping into the hallway beyond. He looked quickly around the moment he was through, checking to be sure Peeves wasn't floating in the corridor, ready to drench an unsuspecting student with his new batch of Hare to There tonic, which turned you into a very large, very pink rabbit.
Sometimes Harry hated Fred and George Weasley.
The walk to the dungeons was uneventful, if too short for Harry's taste, and he soon found himself standing before the door to the Potions classroom, wondering how much his housemates would hate him if he ran back down the corridor and hid in the kitchens for the next week. After all, it was his graduating year, and there were only so many months left and who really cared about winning the House Cup this year anyway?
However, before Harry could flee into the night, the door opened, revealing an extremely sour looking Potions Master. Not that Snape ever looked anything but sour.
"Mr. Potter," he began in that tone designed to frighten small children, "are you ill?"
"No, sir?" Harry replied, voice heavy with confusion.
"Do you suffer from an affliction to your legs?"
"No, sir."
"Have you lost all ability to tell time?"
"No, sir." Harry sighed as he suddenly realized where this was going.
"Good. Ten points from Gryffindor for failure to appreciate the art of being punctual. Do come inside." He turned, cloaks billowing and strode away into the classroom.
Harry had a sudden urge to ask how his gentile warts were faring.
"Yes, sir," he said instead and followed reluctantly, closing the door behind him. He stood there and waited to see what was to be his cruelly unfair detention was to be, for he had no doubt in his mind that it would be cruel and unfair. After all, it was Professor Snape.
The worktables before him were cleared and cleaned to a shine despite all the explosions of the day. All except one anyway. The one occupied worktable bore a cauldron and a layout of neatly organized ingredients that looked rather familiar. When it occurred to him they were the same ingredients he'd used earlier that day to bestow the gift of warts to the private areas of Malfoy and Snape, it was all he could do to hold back a groan.
Snape smiled nastily, coming to stand before the worktable. "Mr. Potter," he began, sweeping his long hands to gesture at the setup in what Harry considered a terribly overdramatic way. "As it has come to my attention on many occasions before now that you lack the ability to understand written direction, simple though it may be. As such, I have taken it upon myself to spend the next week verbally directing you.
"For the remainder of this week, you will not brew potions in my class and instead spend your time studying the history and theory behind each one, as I sincerely doubt you do so. Each potion shall then be brewed under my supervision and direction in detention that evening. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Potter?"
"Yes, sir," he replied, though it was grated out from behind clenched teeth and he was sure his face had gone either pale or red. Maybe both.
He was supposed to brew potions with Snape hovering over him the entire time?! At least in Potions there were twenty odd other students helping to distract his attention! Surely he had some of Neville's cauldrons that needed scrubbing? Or floors? Or tables? Or even shoes?! It was cruel, it was unfair, and it was going to be hell.
The smirk on Snape's pale face seemed to agree with that sentiment.
-----
"No, you fool boy! Gradually! As in progressively over time!" Snape snapped, grabbing his hand as he very nearly made the same mistake he'd made earlier that day.Harry glowered at his professor, but stopped dumping in frogspawn irritably, pulling his hand free and away from the Potions Master, grumbling a halfhearted apology. Snape glared down his nose at him, but released his hand and folded his arms imposingly, watching as Harry began adding the frogspawn gradually like he'd instructed.
When every last sickly spongy piece had been slowly stirred in, the potion turned from a sluggish brown to a deep magenta, giving up a puff of powdery white smoke that smelled of lilies. Harry's nose twitched as he breathed it in and there was the sudden faint tickle of an oncoming sneeze.
Snape had been observing the magenta potion with something close to a smile when he heard the usual intake of breath that occurred just before a massive, and probably very satisfying, sneeze. He looked up at him in horror, reaching out to shove him violently away.
"NO, you idiot!" he shouted, but it was too late. Arms cart wheeling as he fell backwards from Snape's push, he sneezed loudly, a glimmering spray of spittle leaving his mouth to fall like rain upon the potion.
He landed hard on his backside with a yelp as a faint rumble came from the cauldron, followed by a massive explosion, which gave off the almost anticlimactic sound of, "POOF." Harry shielded his face reflexively; glad he'd been knocked to the floor now despite his sore posterior, which had objected to the rough treatment. Thick plumes of pinkish smoke filled the room and he coughed, squinting through the rosy haze.
"P-Professor Snape?" he called tremulously, wondering how badly he'd botched things for Gryffindor this time. There was no answer. Waving away the rapidly clearing pink cloud, he stood, peering at the cauldron, which had been reduced to a fine, silver powder. There was no sign of the Potions Master.
"Oh...bollocks. This will definitely get me kicked off the Quiddich team again..." he lamented, heaving a heavy sigh as he searched for some remnant of his Potions professor.
"Really, Mr. Potter," came Snape's sarcastic drawl, causing Harry to jump. "You're heartfelt concern is touching."
"Professor?" he asked, looking around. Snape's voice sounded strange...softer and hoarse, like a croak. Finding no sign of him he put a hand on the worktable, peering under it, just in case. Sure enough, there on the floor was a pile of familiar black robes and two lumps, which looked to be the Potions Master's shoes. Harry blinked at them, wondering if he'd somehow turned Snape invisible like in some Muggle movie.
"In here, you fool boy," he snapped in that same hoarse croak. The clothing moved and he jumped, banging his head hard on the table and sitting back on the floor again, staring at the moving pile in astonishment. Something pushed it's way from out of the folds of cloth, glaring at him with large bulging eyes. Harry gawked.
"P-Professor?!" he squeaked, eyes wide and staring.
"You, Mr. Potter," Snape seethed, hopping toward him. "Are in serious trouble."
The croaking voice of his professor had come from a small, black frog, which jumped onto his knee and glared.
--TBC--
So, there it is. The first chapter of my first story outside my usual fandom of writing. Yes, I am a comment whore, so give it to me, baby!