Author's Note: Snape is so fun to write. I had more fun with this chapter than most of the others I've done in the past.

Dedications: Have to cheer the boy up.

For Billy, who was disappointed to hear Ricky replaced him for first dedication.

Chapter 1: A Crowded Pub

The first half of December eighteenth I spent in furious agony. It was winter hols at Hogwarts, of course, so I was off teaching. You'd think my day would have been a tad more enjoyable as a result, but inevitably I managed to forget an item or two in my office and therefore made an unexpected trip to the school's dungeons to retrieve them. I wish I'd had the sense to leave them there. A book of new antidotes and my old silver and green scarf, I believe they were, and I had somehow convinced myself that the holidays just wouldn't be the same without them.

The castle had been lavishly adorned for Christmas on the interior, and I found myself taking a peek inside the Great Hall at the towering tree Hagrid usually brought in. Flitwick--the old Charms teacher--had already seen to its decoration; popcorn streamers, ribbons, snow (none of that faux rubbish Muggles love so much--genuine flakes) baubles, and even a couple of snoozing owls. It was breakfast time for the handful of students still in school, so I made quick for the door to avoid annoying small talk and simpers of "Happy Christmas, Professor Snape!"

"Professor!" called a student from the Slytherin table. I froze, wishing I'd walked faster.

Resisting the urge to swear both loudly and profusely, I turned and gave the brown-nosing twit a wave. It was McDougal, one of the most annoyingly cheerful tossers I've ever met. He always tried to start conversations with me when the room grew too quiet for his liking or he chatted his partner into a coma. They weren't bearable conversations, either. He'd talk about anything--his pet toad, his mother, his next-door neighbor's goat; he only needed a topic with which he could begin.

"Having a pleasant holiday, Professor?" I noted the multi-colored jester's cap atop his head. Oh, the horrors of Christmas crackers.

"Sure am," I lied with a pasted smile. "Just marvelous. Yourself?"

He grinned. "Wonderful. Couldn't make it home this year to see Mum, though. New baby, and all...very busy."

"What a shame." It was obvious that he was prepared to launch into a three-hour monologue, so I rushed to make my exit. "See you next year, then," I called, tossing in another wave as I slipped through the doors from the Great Hall.

I comforted myself with the usual mantra while I walked to the dungeons.

'He's graduating in two years...he's graduating in two years...'

I'd used that one since I first became Potions Master two years before. Luckily, Hogwarts didn't possess too many McDougals; most of the students fancied conducting their assignments in silence after my unveiling of the 'nasty voice.' One scene over a badly concocted potion and I was ensured hundreds of successive quiet classes. Only not on Mondays and Thursdays.

The dungeons were even colder than the outdoors, if that was possible, and I was keen to fetch my things and retreat to the warmth of my home in Hogsmeade. I unlocked my classroom, as it provided the speediest route to my office, and was met with a sight that made me want to gouge out the eyes of my students with a spork. Not a single chair remained on all fours and several were missing legs here and there; potion ingredients laid in careless heaps and trails, knocked from their shelves; a yellowish liquid blanketed the floor and occasionally bubbled; a sign bearing the sentence 'Professor Snape sucks' along with a crude, unflattering drawing of myself hung over the chalkboard, and, apparently deciding that toilet paper was the newest fashionable method of interior decoration, those little wankers had unraveled it everywhere and most of it was soaked in the yellowish liquid. The smell of ammonia wafting past the doorway only strengthened my migraine.

This time I gave in to the urge to swear and splashed across the room to the chalkboard to tear down the sign. On the board in jagged handwriting I wrote: 'ESSAY--TWO ROLLS OF PARCHMENT ON THE STUPIDITY OF ADOLESCENTS AND ITS EFFECT ON MODERN SOCIETY.'

I smirked. "Happy holidays, heathens."

My triumph, however, was short-lived. I stared around me at my trashed classroom and the scowl returned to my face along with the twitch in my eye; I had to clean the mess up. Couldn't allow those brats to return with it still there. They could not win.

The chairs and potion ingredients weren't so tough. I only had to repair them and set them right and summon the ingredients back into their containers. The poster I burned, savoring the crackle of the flames as it collapsed into ashes before my eyes. I tackled the toilet paper next, relieved and slightly less angry since my task was nearing its end. I'd had it nearly all summoned into a heap by my feet when I remembered that some of it was covered in the yellowish liquid; by then it was too late. Splashes of it pelted my hands and forearms--I'd rolled up my sleeves--and soaked my shoes. Immediately I felt large boils spring up in said places and cursed my negligence. Bubotuber pus. Undiluted bubotuber pus. I changed the 'two' to 'three' on the board, fetched the items for which I'd come, and stormed from the dungeons.

Well, stormed the best I could with boils on my feet, anyway.

I thanked whoever was listening for the fact that Madam Pomfrey was still in her office that day.

"Professor Snape!" she chirped, as if my hands and arms looked perfectly normal, "why aren't you at home with your family?"

Deciding to omit the tale of the Snapes, I answered, "Forgot a couple things in my office." I showed her the book and my scarf; they pressed against my throbbing boils.

Her eyes fell upon my ailment and her smile vanished. "I'll see what I can do about those." She rushed off to locate an antidote in her supply cabinet.

Probably thought it was best not to ask.

The bursting, cleaning, and healing of my boils took nearly an hour. Seemed like more than two, though, at the sloth pace the woman collected the pus from the ruptured skin. At least I'd discovered the juvenile prank before term began. I don't think I could've dealt with the students' laughter and smug grins.

'My essay will show them who holds the reins,' I thought with a satisfied smile.

"All right, Professor!" trilled Madam Pomfrey as she closed the lids of her supply cabinet. "You're all set to go. Lucky thing I planned to go home later, huh?"

"Indeed," I replied, inspecting my hands. "Well, thanks very much."

She smiled. "You're welcome."

I decided to treat myself to a well-deserved trip to the Three Broomsticks after that ordeal. A nice mead or a mug of firewhiskey would make the classroom incident appear as insignificant as an ant on the sidewalk and might aid me to forget my Yuletide sorrows.

Strolling through Hogsmeade's main street lifted my mood. Being back in my cozy village soothed me, and fleetingly I even considered moving the essay back to two rolls of parchment. Fleetingly. Christmas was Hogsmeade's best time of year. It's like having a preferable side on which to take one's photograph. Hogsmeade in the summer, while still lovely and quaint, could not compare with its winter counterpart. The snow that laid in piles on roofs and stoops and had spread itself out over the lawns and streets like a crashing wave garnished the area like the green grass of summer never could. It wasn't dirty snow, either. Nothing about winter decorations in Hogsmeade ever looked dirty, whether it was a stream of red bows along an awning or a fir wreath tacked upon a door. It was too early in the day for the holiday lights to flick on, so they remained dormant in their lines and wraps (the poles, you know), awaiting dusk.

To my great displeasure, the Three Broomsticks was packed. For a moment, I thought of heading for the Hog's Head instead, but I remembered the odor of goats, heaved a sigh, and nudged my way to the front counter to place an order for a good, strong firewhiskey. A couple minutes later, I looked, my mug in hand, for a vacant table. I had no luck. Laughing, chatting, and shouting customers clogged both the aisles and tables and there was hardly a spare seat in the whole inn.

I decided to try my luck at the table-for-two in the front corner near a large window where a blonde witch sat sipping idly at a foaming mug of butterbeer. She stared out the window, daydreaming, and jumped in her seat when I dragged my chair from under the table. She gave an embarrassed giggle when she saw I was only another customer and a blush rose to her cheeks.

"You scared me," she muttered. Her accent was strange; an amalgam of French and British, though the French was dominant.

"Sorry," I said, indifferent. What did I care if I'd given some foreigner a fright?

I made myself comfortable in the chair--or somewhat so, at least--and fiddled with my mug's handle while plotting a better revenge on my students. Introducing a high-level potion appealed to me; I could give them each one chance to concoct it properly and if they failed, I'd make them write an expository on their failure...Or I could just make it a large part of their grade...

I paused, feeling the woman's eyes on me. I looked up to meet her curious stare.

"You were a Slytherin?" she asked with a slight smile.

I blinked. How would she know this? And why was she starting a conversation with me? Suddenly, the table of rowdy thugs didn't look so bad.

"Why do you ask?" I said suspiciously.

"Your scarf." She indicated it with her eyes. "It's a Hogwarts scarf, no?"

I blinked again. This woman was familiar with Hogwarts?

"It is, actually." I couldn't keep the bewilderment from my voice.

She smiled. "I have my old scarf as well. They're lovely on days like this." She touched the blue and bronze scarf that looped her neck; I hadn't noticed it before. A Ravenclaw.

But why had she attended Hogwarts? Why not the French school, Beauxbatons?

I debated whether or not to ask her, now that she'd roped me into the conversation, but I feared that if I talked to her too much she'd have me there all day. She seemed the type. I was glad when she next spoke, for she settled my curiosity without my having to say a word.

"I bet you're wondering why a French girl attended Hogwarts?" I neither confirmed nor denied this. With her slight smile, as though she was going to tell an amusing joke, she continued. "My mother felt that attending Beauxbatons would not be in my best interest."

"Wouldn't be in your best interest?" I repeated, cocking an eyebrow. I couldn't help myself.

"My father taught there. Probably still does, actually. He and my mother divorced when I was very small and she wanted neither of us to have anything to do with him." Her expression changed then, telling me that she'd wanted to meet her father. Still, I wondered why she was giving me her family history. Lucky for her, it was only me; what she was doing could endanger her.

"So your mother chose Hogwarts for you instead?"

She grinned and her face was alight with happiness. She wasn't likely to be seen on the cover of Witch Weekly, but she wasn't bad-looking. "Yes. My mother moved us as well, to be closer to Hogwarts and further from my father. She loved big cities and replaced Paris with London."

"You liked it there, then?" I said, only half-listening.

"Very much." She hadn't stopped smiling. "I definitely prefer it to Paris."

"Oh?" I was quickly losing interest and began formulating excuses to leave in my mind.

"Yeah. London is more...easygoing and the people are less critical of everything. They all seem so condescending in France. I wasn't treated with as much respect for being brought up in Britain. And"--she giggled, a memory coming to her--"a big thing with some is asking foreigners' opinions on the Eiffel Tower. A lot of the people I met don't seem to like it much. Mind you, I don't know how fond I'd be of a thousand-foot phallic symbol in my city, either."

This. This right here is a perfect example of my aforementioned reactions to her wit. Presently, I'm rolling my eyes, amused, but at the time I raised condescending eyebrows and eyed her as though she were a silly adolescent.

Because I made no remark to her penis-humor, she quieted down for a few minutes. I restarted the process of layering my revenge, enjoying my amusing daydream. In addition to a difficult potion, I planned to assign some required reading. Something thick with small print. I started running titles through my head only to be interrupted once again by my irritating table mate.

This time, her intrusion came in the form of humming. I have scarcely any tolerance for humming. The only person whom I do not snap at for humming is Albus Dumbledore, for obvious reasons. I cringed at her cheerful tune. I was definitely, after my trashed classroom incident, in the mood for snapping, but a better idea came to mind. Another pet peeve of mine--and hopefully of hers, I thought--is finger drumming. Softly at first, I drummed my fingers on the table's wooden surface. It didn't catch her attention right away--too absorbed in her humming and daydreaming, probably--but she heard it after a minute, once I'd tripled the volume. She stopped humming at once; a frown line appeared between her eyebrows and she stared back and forth at my drumming fingers and my face.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

I pretended she startled me out of thought. "Hmm?" I stopped drumming. "Could you repeat that? I couldn't hear you properly." Not the most subtle way to go about it, but I was annoyed.

She paused before speaking, thinking. "Was I humming?" Oh, of course not. "I'm sorry. I don't even notice half the time." Yeah? Well, I do.

She fiddled with her cup instead and I returned to my thoughts. I wondered why she wasn't leaving; her mug was empty.

CLUNK!

I'd only listed two titles.

She bent down to retrieve her fallen mug and brushed it off. Again, she was embarrassed. "I've got horrible reflexes. I could never play Quidditch because of them," she explained.

"Do you often start and continue conversations with complete strangers?" I asked curtly. She stared, taken aback. I wouldn't have snapped at her if she would have just bloody shut up. Why she insisted on explaining her every mistake, I'll never know.

"I just wanted to break the silence," she said apologetically. "I don't get the chance to speak much with people my age during the day." How old was she, eighteen? Why would she assume we're the same age? But I wasn't buying her last statement. How could she not have the opportunity to speak with people her own age during the day? Hogsmeade was teeming with fresh Hogwarts graduates. Or was she a teenager? It's hard to tell with women. "I work at Honeydukes and you know how it is in there--in and out. Besides, I couldn't chat if I wanted to, being cashier and all. Except with the owners, of course, but they don't fancy talking with a twenty-something; they're up there in age."

So she was in her twenties, and her early ones by the looks of her. She had been right, then. We were about the same age.

She fished something out of the bag at her feet--a book--and tapped the cover. "I'll just read, then."

Ah, wonderful. I followed her lead and opened my own book. Curiosity as to what she was reading overcame me and I peered over the top of my book at the front cover. So You Want to Become a Teacher in Your Predicament, Eh? I smirked. She wanted to be a teacher? Now I was interesting in talking to her. I had a gold mine of reasons to steer her toward another career path.

I tipped her book down with my index finger so the cover rested on the table.

"Yes?"

I smirked again. "I couldn't help but notice what you were reading."

She arched her eyebrows. "I'm sure you could have." Ah. Pay back for my rudeness.

"You really want to become a teacher?" I pressed.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have plenty of reasons for you to abandon this dream," I said.

She looked amused now. "Do you?"

"Yes," I continued confidently. "Students are incompetent, aggravating, stubborn, brainless little pillocks who have no respect whatsoever for their teachers, their classrooms, or costly school supplies."

"What makes you such an expert on students?" she challenged. She's a stubborn woman, Sophie. Can't be arsed to consider others' (correct) opinions. She always believes she's got everything right.

I chuckled smugly. "I'm a teacher, naturally."

"Why don't you resign, then, if you hate your job so much?" she clipped. "Open up the field for those who want it." The frown line returned to the space between her eyebrows; teaching was obviously a sensitive subject with her.

"It's not the job I hate--it's the students. Most of them, anyway."

"Why bother teaching, then? If you don't care about helping them?"

"I enjoy my subject," I told her. "And I do like teaching those who can comprehend it."

She glared at me, visibly incensed. "Don't you offer assistance to your students?"

"No."

"Well, why not?" she snapped. "Good teachers help the students who don't understand."

"I'm sorry my teaching methods aren't up to your standards," I replied coolly. Who was this wannabe-professor to lecture me on my teaching, good or bad? As though she could teach one of my classes. "I make my instructions very clear and if they can't follow them, the problem obviously lies with the students, not me."

She made a disgusted noise, shoved her book back into her bag and marched from the inn, pushing people on her way through. I watched her stalk up the street through the window.

As you can see, Sophie and I didn't have the best of beginnings.

O O O

Let's thank my reviewers!

Piper of Locksley -- We've discussed your review, pretty much, so I don't have much to say you haven't heard. ; )

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Megan