Really Bad Things

Author: Pasque

Summary: A cheery glance at Professor Snape as we know him: the big greasy slime-ball who hates children. Seriously. It's on his office door. (updated for teensy errors etc)

Rating: PG? A bit of language here and there, but nothing that will traumatize you forever.

Disclaimer: JKR owns the world.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Once upon a time, in a far away land (Scotland), there lived a man who was deeply proud of his one and only true accomplishment: being the most evil, slimy grease-ball in the entire magical world.

His name was Professor Severus Snape (his middle name was Herbert, but he would have sacrificed his incredible good looks to keep that out of public knowledge), and he lived in the deepest, darkest, most unclean dungeon of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In fact, he'd lived there ever since the fall of Lord Moldyshorts nearly fifteen years ago, but that was not important because, in the grand scheme of things, would anyone ever really want to see Snape in shorts? I ask you.

But back to the story.

It was a rather strenuous existence at first, creating and then maintaining the unofficial title of Supreme Slimy Bastard, but after the first few years Snape found the routine surprisingly easy. He would wake up every morning from his corpse-like position in the middle of his empty, windowless dungeon, get up from the floor, and (having slept in full wizard garb) frolic off to a day of making kids miserable.

…Although perhaps frolic isn't precisely the right word. What would be more appropriate now? Ah yes: death march down the corridors like a Nazi, glaring sinisterly at the world with an expression indicative of Impending Doom… or perhaps salted coffee. Damnit Peeves.

After several years passed, Snape found that his stellar reputation often preceded him. New first years were warned far in advance to watch out for any and all tall, black-robed, greasy potential-pedophiles. They started arriving on the first day already terrified beyond all logic, which was more fun than it really should have been worth.

He almost wished that one of them would speak up, and ask him why he was such a hygienically-impaired git. Then he could force them to disembowel pixies in detention all year AND he would win his bet with McGonagall. After all, he would have to kill her if he lost the bet, and he really didn't want the Deputy Headmistress to die (if only because Dumbledore would royally kick his ass)… but the alternative would be to give in and accept her conditions… to wash his hair. Thoroughly. And frankly, given the choice between her life and his hair, he'd keep the hair.

His hair, incidentally, was his pride and joy. The half-witted little cretins that he was forced to teach might call it merely "greasy", but they knew nothing. Snape considered his hair to be the epitome of all foul, gag-inducing creations, unrivaled by the armpit of Satan, or even by Ron Weasley's face. He worked tirelessly to preserve it, oiling it up every now and then with Lockhart's Magical Bum Cream (guaranteed to man your can!). But that's not important either.

All in all, it can be fairly said that Snape's life was pretty good. He had plenty of miniature wizards and witches to passionately loathe, and a whole labyrinth of slimy dungeons to himself where, when he wasn't teaching, he could be Alone.

Indeed, Snape enjoyed his life until the arrival of Harry J. Potter, the embodiment of all really bad things - the horrible, evil, near-sighted spawn of his enemy. The only thing more despicable than James Potter, as Snape very quickly learned, was James with specs.

It all started one fateful September.

It was a pretty crappy September, as Septembers go when one must confront the annual torture of new first years. But this one would be worse. Snape knew, as he stood in his malodorous office on September the first, that there were only two things in this world of which he could be absolutely certain: 1. He would eventually die and spend eternity in hell, playing strip poker with his Aunt Gertrude. 2. Harry Potter suxors.

If only I had been a lumberjack, thought Snape wistfully.

"Severus," a familiar voice came from just outside his office, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Snape looked up from where he had been scratching the words I HATE CHILDREN onto the inside of his office door with a shard of broken glass. He hastily tossed the piece of glass aside and yanked the door open to see the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.

With a supreme effort, Snape did not slam the door shut again.

Instead, he scowled and shifted so that he was blocking the doorway. All he needed now was for Dumbledore to see the words on his door and he'd be bouncing out of Hogwarts on his magically creamed can.

"The Sorting Ceremony will begin in twenty-three minutes, six seconds," said the Headmaster cheerfully. "Fifty-one new students this year!"

Fifty-one pairs of eyes to gouge out Muggle-style, thought Snape. What he said instead was: "How lovely, Albus. Perhaps they will prove more competent than last years' students."

"Undoubtedly," said Dumbledore with a straight face.

Snape bit back a scathing remark about the sub-crustacean intelligence of last years' morons and forced a twisted smile.

"Twenty-two minutes and seven seconds," said Dumbledore after a few moments.

"Fine," Snape grumped, looking away. "I shall attend the Ceremony this year." He started to close the door -

"Severus."

He frowned.

"No repeats of last year, Severus."

Snape growled an affirmative and began to shut the door again, but Dumbledore placed a hand on it to stop him.

"I mean it," said the old man firmly. "It took us two days to find all of the pieces, and I'm quite sure that none of this years' first years would fancy a stay in the infirmary when they've only just arrived."

Alright, alright, keep your beard on. "You have no bloody proof," he said with a scowl.

Dumbledore gave him a knowing look and turned to leave. "By the way," he added casually, throwing a glance at Snape from over the tops of his half-moon glasses. "I know you don't hate children. They are delightful."

Snape slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily. After several minutes, he retrieved his shard of broken glass and began retracing his letters, etching them even deeper into his heavy wooden door. God, he hated Septembers.