Snape reached for the biscuit jar.
This would be funny. Ron scooted closer in expectation. He knew these kinds of jars, bloody pumpkin shaped monstrosities that they were. They had one at the Burrow. Remembering his experiences with it, he grinned. Oh, this would be beyond great. It would be bloody brilliant.
Snape tried to lift the lid of the orange jar. The animated pottery leaves slapped his hand away. Snape growled setting down his tea cup with force.
The front of the jar, where the word 'biscuits' had been in ornate letters, now read: 'You have not had your dinner! No biscuit for you!'
Snape reached for the lid again. The crackle of discharged energy filled the air. Snape let out a rather undignified yelp and sucked his fingers in pain.
"Of all the stupid, idiotic household charms!"
The jar read: 'Bad Language, no biscuit for you!'
"Why you little…" Snape had drawn his wand. "Petrificus totalus!"
The jar scooted out of the way.
Ron watched in fascination. Snape vs. Jar of DOOM. Priceless. He had to remember to thank Mum for giving it to Harry as a housewarming present. Not even the twins had been able to hex the jar into submission. Not for lack of trying, though.
After a couple of minutes, Snape had the trembling jar backed into a corner.
Someone was laughing. Snape twirled around in an impressive sweep of black robes. He looked vaguely guilty, a bit like a little boy having been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar. On anyone else it would have been cute. "What?!"
"Vicious little bastard, isn't it!" Harry leaned casually against the doorframe, amusement written all over his face.
Snape scowled.
Ron snorted, suddenly reminded of a certain four-inch version.
"I only wanted a bloody biscuit!" He folded his arms across his chest, looking petulant.
"You two seemed to be having a great time, maybe I will ask Mrs Weasley to give you one for Christmas."
"Hah, bloody hah. Weasley… I should have known. I want a biscuit."
Harry walked over to Snape, kissing him on the cheek, his fingers tenderly ghosting along the line of Snape's neck, lingering on the curve of his yaw. Harry opened the drawer next to them, taking out a pack of shortbread. Grinning he held the box up like a badge of victory.
"That," he smirked and jerked his head at the pumpkin-shaped, trembling jar, "is why I keep them here… chocolate or strawberry-shortbread?"
"I don't want one of those."
Honestly could Snape sound more like a spoilt child? Ron shook his head. What on earth did Harry see in him?
Harry eyed Snape with amusement. "Uhuh."
"I refuse to be bested by a piece of tacky crockery!"
"Okaaaay." He wrapped his arms around Snape, resting his cheek on Snape's shoulder. "Severus… can I trust you not to demolish anything in the kitchen that you cannot fix? I have to go meet the publisher. And …"
Snape buried his hand in Harry's hair, pulling him in for a passionate kiss.
" …the jar is unbreakable."
Snape harrumphed, kissing Harry once more. "And why would this be of interest to me, Potter?"
"Because I know you, Professor."
As soon as Harry had Apparated, Snape started to rummage under the sink.
"Unbreakable, huh … that we will see." His smile triumphant and not one bit pleasant as he resurfaced from under the sink.
Ron inched away from the globe. Snape happily swinging a hammer was scary, even if it was just a recording.
Tunelessly humming 'God Save the Queen,' Snape chose a saucer and placed it on the kitchen counter, glaring at the porcelain pumpkin. "Watch and learn, you oversized sugar pot."
He glowered at the jar. With several well aimed hits he smashed the saucer into tiny pieces. "Reparo!"
The jar received his best Longbottom-pants-wetting stare.
"Death …" the hammer swung, hit, and smashed, once again reduceding the saucer to tiny shards.
"… will not end your suffering!" And again. And again.
Ron shuddered at Snape's demonic glare. That wasn't a cackle, was it? All he needs now is a lab-coat and a thunderstorm. And maybe a white fluffy cat.
After the fourth or the fifth destruction - Ron had lost count - the biscuit jar started to tremble.
Snape smirked at the porcelain pumpkin, menacingly swinging the hammer. "Your turn…"
Trembling hard, the jar cautiously lifted its lid. The inscription now read: 'Would Professor Snape like a biscuit, sir?
Ron sped up the recording in disgust. Fucking Death Eater. Probably got off on intimidating kittchenware. The bastard. Maybe that was it, maybe he was threatening Harry into submission.
The bee recording was speeding by. Snape reading the Prophet, a cup of tea cooling forgotten next to him on the table. Snape leaving the room, entering the adjoined bathroom.
Ron switched bees. He could not take the chance of Snape screwing with, say, Harry's toothpaste. Toothpaste could be devious. You never knew what potion could be hidden under all that mint.
The picture changed to Snape turning iron faucets over the bathtub. Ron smirked; George owed him five Galleons. Ten if he actually caught Snape washing his hair. Lucky me, to catch Snape at his bi-annual bath…
Ron watched in odd fascination as Snape draped a towel over the bathroom mirror before he undressed. There were faint scars on his back and forearms, their wide puckered smoothness suggesting that they once had been deep wounds.
He kind of looks like a peeled prawn, without his robes. Ron sniggered. Seems like the Death Eaters don't like to play nice. Better people got worse. Poor Longbottoms. Bastard's gotta be glad that that's all he got.
Yet something of the shape of the scars seemed oddly familiar to Ron. He couldn't quiet put his finger on it. Snape folded his clothes neatly on the chair, and then sighed as his emaciated body slipped into the hot water.
There really was not much to recommend Snape. Scratch that. There was nothing. His ribs prominent under pale, nearly hairless skin, legs stick-like. His belly, to belie his sagging arse and protruding ribs, forming a slight hairy pouch. The only thing average seemed to be Snape's prick.
Ron did not hide his glee. Hah! Big noses my arse.
As Snape relaxed into the hot water his scars turned angry red under the heat.
Ron swallowed hard. He had seen these kinds of scars before. Werewolf claws had threaded a similar pattern into Bill's skin. Bill, whose nightmares still woke the whole house. Ron felt his face burn. Up to now he had always assumed that Snape's being an arse to Remus had been caused by, well, Snape being an arse. He had never imaged that Snape had gotten more than a scare from the infamous episode.
Trying to shake the creeping discomfort, Ron fast-forwarded.