"I'm beginning to wonder if Garfield has a point," Snape muttered to himself; unfortunately for him, he was heard.
"I must say Severus, your generally evil disposition doesn't lend itself to reading muggle cartoons," McGonagall commented dryly. Snape scowled. "What's the matter, Sevviekins?" she cooed.
"Oh, everything," he lamented. "Malfoy attempted to strangle Creevey with his own bogies, our alone time got interrupted by Potter and Granger making out in my precious cupboard –"
"Copycats," McGonagall muttered.
"And do you know what's worst of all, Minnie my dearest?" Snape said woefully, the pitch of his voice raising to levels higher and more unbearable than the Fat Lady's occasional arias.
"What is it, Sevviekins?" McGonagall asked worriedly, feeling his forehead when he sneezed three times in a row.
"See? I told you it was tragic," Snape said, resisting the urge to start blubbering. One couldn't be sure that Malfoy wasn't lurking behind something – yes, the empty room they were in was the size of the Great Hall, but so what? – waiting to strangle Snape with his own bogies. One could never tell with Draco. He decided to reveal his borrowed theory anyway; he was a hypochondriac anyway. "I'm allergic to Mondays."