The Third Weekend
Snape eased himself into a comfy leather rocking chair in the back room of his dungeon office. It had been another long week, courtesy of a certain red-headed fifth year. After resting a few moments in the knowledge that he didn't have to see or hear Ginny Weasely for another two days, he smiled in relief and picked up a rather battered copy of the Great Wizard Meaty-Pants's Toilet Reader.
He had only been reading for a few minutes when Salvadora Swan, a scatterbrained intern in the dungeons, came bustling into the office in a flurry of hot pink robes and yellowing parchmet, exclaiming, "The nerve of that painting! I tell you, who in their right mind would paint a picture of a burlesque You-Know-Who? It was just leering at me and licking its lips!" Snape put his hands over his face in defeat. Even during his time off she would not leave him alone.
"Perhaps if you didn't go gamboling about like a retarded brothel madame in those ghastly robes, you wouldn't gather so much unwanted attention," Snape said, in a pathetic attempt to gather up the shreds of his former imposing ability to come up with quips cruel and aloof enough to silence even the most obnoxious of students. But after two very stressful weeks of steadily losing more and more control of his class, the only reaction it managed to solicit from Salvadora was a blank, confused stare. "You revolting ninny," he added quietly.
Salvadora ignored him and continued to bustle around the dungeon in a manner akin to a flock of bright pink pigeons let loose in a spa. Snape held back the urge to weep like a little girl. I need a vacation, he thought.