Five words: Chocolate Chip Cookie Cream Liqueur.

It really does exist!

Baked goods receipts to follow as they are developed...

Jinx: "I'm thinkin' Killer Blondies..."

If you've never tried one, a Blondie is like a Brownie, except that

it's made of yellow cake with chocolate or butterscotch chips baked in.

rabbit: (drooling) "I vote YES... but maybe we should call 'em Malfoys."

Jinx: "Hmm... 'The Malfoys are in my kitchen.' That sounds like Trouble Waiting To Happen, if you ask me."

rabbit: "Oh, no doubt, but it could be worse... "

It's No Picnic

Chapter 3

On Sunday morning, the Slytherin Dormitory was exquisitely quiet, and the Fifth Years' floor doubly so.

This was directly attributable to Professor Keele's abrupt retirement at the end of the previous year. Her parting words had been stated crystal-clearly for the record: "If a handful of Fourth Years managed to destroy half the sheep paddock, a large chunk of Gryffindor Tower, most of the barn and six acres of the Forbidden Forest in a single day's work, I am not staying around to see what they'll get up to when they're old enough to really wreak havoc."

Her departure had led to the advent of Professor Slughorn's delightfully laissez-faire regime, and its stunning transformation of Slytherin House into a Wildely exciting kind of Nouvelle Versailles such as might be dreamt by an Absinthian dozing in the sheltering shadow of the Moulin Rouge.

In tribute to Professor Keele, who had claimed she would sleep better at night knowing Order was being maintained, Slughorn had, with the Headmaster's full approval (and rather a Moreaunic delight), created a full dozen Prefects from amongst his Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Years. He had instructed his Chosen not to trouble him with trivial matters, and with a wink and a nod had waved them about their business.

The House parties this year were Nothing Short Of Spectacular.

So it had transpired that last night, the Fifth Year Prefects' bold attempt first to crash and then to break up the Seventh Years' boisterous Back-to-School Bash had, what with one thing and another (and Yes, I Will Have Another, Thank You), resulted in Snape's brilliant capture from Titus Maingauche of the coveted title of Mixed Drinks Master of Hogwarts.

Sev had swanned back to his own room in (and full of) High Spirits, perfectionism having dictated frequent monitory sampling of everything he'd brewed up during the arduous contest. He had told the blinking budgerigar and his pillow sincerely that he loved them, and fainted.

Waking up was a Mistake.

He felt absolutely oogy and knew that moving would make it twenty times Worse.

But if he didn't move Soon he'd wind up wetting the bed and so he crawled out of his bookshell, and crawled to the washroom, and crawled back again, all of which took about twelve hours of his life.

Safely back in bed, he clutched the nearest wall of tomes for support, and after a very long while he found the hidden panel which allowed him access to his Emergency Supplies, a much-too-vividly-colored assortment which was lamentably lacking a bezoar. (He had used up his stash during his preparations for last year's Final Exams and had still not been able to bring himself to approach a goat, a barnyard, or any other grassy expanse whereupon sheep might congregate.) Near the back of the alcove full of brews and herbs was a jug labeled in very large, clear letters: Hangover Hindrance. He hefted it in both hands and resolutely drank its contents.

It was Nasty Stuff, even by his standards.

And he'd have to brew more.

Tomorrow. When I can stand upright.

Carefully he settled the empty jug back into its space, and from the nearby tin selected a sprig of mint which he chewed in a half-hearted attempt to mask the aftertaste of rusty hobnails.

Then he crawled back to his pillow, which he still loved very much, and cocooned himself within his quilts, and passed out again.

When he regained consciousness, he was feeling just a little more Human, and all too well aware of Necessary Alterations he must make to his receipt for Hangover Hindrance if he expected to survive the term. He struggled out of his swaddling and started searching for a quill so he could make notes. First and foremost, I need to brew it a damned sight stronger, if I'm going to be involved with-

A raven-tressed Witch, in an indigo bathrobe with a Prefect's badge pinned Just There at the close, was catcurled atop the rumpled bedclothes. Bellatrix Black was leafing through a dog-eared copy of The Necronomicon but watching Snape through half-closed, heavy-lidded eyes.

He thought: If she's been here since three in the morning, and I don't remember any of it I'll–

He didn't actually know what he would do, but testosterone provided the answer: –invent all the details.

She lifted her head and shook her glorious mane, like a thoroughbred preparing to trample a mutt, and said in a voice that could launch a thousand ships, "I don't like you, Snape."

He thought, So this is it, I'm going to die.

But What A Way To Go...

She curled her gleaming, ruby lip and demanded, "What's going on between you and my sister?"

Sev stared at her and began to shake with the realization that somehow or other he had wandered so deep into uncharted and perilous terrain that any moment now he might glimpse an Ivory-billed Woodpecker winging past.

Feeling just as endangered as that Swamp King, he tried to find his voice. If he could find his voice she might just hesitate before tearing out his throat with her teeth–

It was a lost cause. He let out a peep, like a still-damp chick.

This was disappointing. He'd always intended his last words to be I Told You So.

Bellatrix sighed like a torch singer greeting the dawn, "You really are a contemptible creature. I can't imagine what 'Cissa sees in you."

Snape wondered wildly if she would just tear him apart and read his entrails to find out.

"Well-?" snapped Bellatrix, like an executioner on a tight schedule.

Snape didn't feel very well at all, actually.

She curled her glistening, incarnadine lip again, showing white teeth and Sev really thought she might lunge. He discovered to his horror that if she did, he would hold still and greet his Fate.

But she simply sighed speculatively (causing Door Number 3 inside Snape's mind to fall off the hinges) and said, "My sister tells me you're helping her with a little problem."

When he only stared stupidly at her, she smirked and sneered, "Lucius Malfoy."

"Oh!" yelped Sev, suddenly and miserably remembering the promises he'd made, which had landed him in this perilous predicament. He cast about desperately for some way to explain himself. "Er..." he began, but beneath her jackal's gaze he could do no more than clear his throat repeatedly, with the dogged persistence of someone trying to restart an unresponsive vehicle pinned beneath a quarter-ton of bloody, crazed St. Bernard. "Er... Er... Err... Errrreally, I cannot speak of this," he heard himself say as he somehow made a lifesaving breakthrough into Mysterious Magniloquence, "for I must keep Narcissa's confidence in me."

The silence stretched like lampworked glass between them while Bellatrix scrutinized him as if judging whether such constrained nobility really suited him... or deciding whether to start with his liver or his sweetbreads.

Transfixed by the razor's gleam in her eyes, Snape recalled haplessly: Their whole damn family's crazy. Of course, their Family Tree could be duplicated by an elaborately carved walking stick-

Suddenly she laughed, loudly and exultantly.

Snape shuddered like a tod at bay, and found the wherewithal to scrunch himself into the nearest corner, where he awaited The End.

She lunged. He saw just a glimpse of snowy cleavage which was unfortunately obliterated by A Bright, White Light.

Bellatrix screeched like a scalded cat and then there was a terrific frenzy of motion accompanied by a stench of burnt hair.

As Sev's vision cleared, he realized that she was swiping frantically at the Blazing Budgerigar, which had alighted atop her head and started her hair to smouldering. Easily eluding her hands, Lucky Strike was hopping nonchalantly back and forth, setting patch-fires and twittering gleefully in counterpoint to her Furious shrieks.

With a howl of outrage she yielded the field, throwing Snape a glare which promised Protracted and Innovative Murder as she dove for the crawlway and scrambled out of his bed.

Sev took the first deep breath that he'd managed all morning and thought miserably, That's TWO Witches now, who've bailed out of my bed.

He hated hormones. They made you goofy and imprudent.

Lucky Strike chirruped in celebration of victory, and scribed scintillant spirals through the air before landing on Snape's shoulder and making the Where-are-the-marshmallows? sound.

There was a commotion in the crawlway and then Lucius Malfoy half-fell into the bed, pale and trembling. He was holding his hands oddly outspread before him; his fingers were shrouded in charred scraps of Crabbe's mittens, and laced with blisters. He looked wildly up at Snape and gasped, "Are you still alive?"

Snape glanced at the bird, which cheeped approvingly. "So far," he replied.

Malfoy nodded shakily. "I heard Bella– " He shuddered, as if brushed by some awful memory. "She was laughing– " He curled into a ball, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth as he moaned, "I had to save you– you don't know what she can do– I sent the budgie– "

Snape wished for the umpteenth time that the Sorting Hat had put him into Ravenclaw, where they had Family Trees with branches.

Instead, here he was in The Vipers' Pit, where all they could do was look out for one another.

Lucky Strike trilled brilliantly right into his ear and Snape hurried to provide a teacup full of marshmallows for his fiery defender, so that the bird would Shut Up For Just One Minute.

He opened the panel hidden behind his pillow, and took out his First Aid kit. With some effort, he caught ahold of Malfoy's scorched hands, and by the flickering light of caramelizing marshmallows began cleaning and dressing them in salve-laden bandages, absently whistling in counterpoint to the bird's twittering while he worked. As he cinched the wrappings neatly into place he advised sternly, "Leave these on as long as you can, and Don't Pick At Them or you'll sacrifice some skin."

When Lucius nodded rather dazedly, Snape assumed Malfoy was now paying heed to what was being said, and despite a drowning sense of dread Sev had to say honorably, "Thanks, Luke, I owe you one."

"I told you to call me Lucius," Malfoy replied coolly, "and yes, you do."