The Half Blood Prince
Vs
The Know-All-Queen
Oh What a Night!
"Sevvy-poo!" I shriek to my self back in my room. What the hell was I thinking? Not a lot apparently. I flop back down onto my couch and hear a clink noise from my bag. "Oh well," I sigh as I unscrew the top off the bottle, "start as you mean to go on." And take a good long swig, in an attempt to block out my own thought process.
My notice board was currently displaying:
'1) Get thoroughly pissed.'
'2) Get thoroughly sober.'
"Damn right!" I agree, and raise my bottle of whisky to it.
ooo000ooo
It's now 12:30am and my whisky bottle is empty. I look around the room; it's a bit scruffy and a bit warped. The warping was due to the volume of alcohol drunk, shared over the volume of food consumed. In this case, the alcohol clearly won. Or not so clear, depending on how you look at it. But I'm unsure about the scruffiness. I squint my eyes, as though making them smaller and more watery is going to help me to focus. And then I spot something, a sprig of rowan or at least I think it is. It's definitely a twig off some sort of tree anyway. I scan the room and through my severely reduced depth perception, notice something else. I scramble on the floor like a woman possessed. I have an idea.
I knock on the door. No answer. I knock louder. Still there's no answer. I call through the door, "If you don't open the door right now, I swear I'll call you by your new pet name!" Not a peep. "Fine then, SEVVY-P-" The door opens so fast, the air hisses.
"You'd better have an excellent reason for this, Granger, or I swear, the entire school will know of every mistake you've made since you were eleven," Snape growls. He looks a little bit dishevelled. Dishevelled. That's a funny word. I start giggling to myself like some sort of deranged maniac. Clearly Snape thinks I am, as he then snarls, "Well I'm waiting and though patience is a virtue, mine is rapidly wearing thin."
"I've come to do my potion now!" I say cheerfully holding out my hand full of the 'ingredients' that fell on the floor in my room. He is totally furious and slams the door in my face. After the split second of surprise, the alcohol takes over again, telling me, 'Yes Hermione, pissing of an already annoyed Snape was an excellent idea.' So I try to open the door myself, only to find that it is locked. I pull my wand out of the pocket of my skirt (which is now creased worse than a concertina,) and say boldly "Alohomora." Should've known Snape would use more than that to lock the door; most of the students knew it. Ah, but teachers knew ones what students didn't. "Patefacio." Nope. Still nothing. "SNAPE, BLOODY WELL OPEN THIS RUDDY DOOR," which I kick in a poor attempt to show that I'm some sort of crazed lunatic "OR I'LL BURN THE BUGGER DOWN!" I rant.
I actually consider using the incendio spell but I decide better of it, lean against the door and close my eyes. I slide down and I'm currently sitting in the doorway of the potions classroom, looking like a sad cross between an over-enthusiastic student, queuing for Monday's lesson to get in before everyone else and the drunk that I am. I start to amuse myself by having a one-player game of eye-spy. I decide to cheat and give myself the upper hand; I start, which leaves me to guess. I start mumbling to myself (in the case of the blissfully unaware, I do this a lot more than I'd consider normal,) "Eye spy with my little eye something beginning with…" I spot an oil-burning lantern; the fire is dancing inside "F." I sound very confident that I'm not going to guess what I'm thinking. All of a sudden the door behind me opens, and I hit my head on the floor as a world of black swirls consumes me, I'm conscious enough to hear Snape curse, "Fool."
ooo000ooo
I feel a warm fuzzy feeling inside and I like it a lot. My eyes open and see Snape and I say stupidly, "This is nice." Clearly Snape does not agree.
"I see. Next time I find you squatting on my doorway playing childish games by yourself, drunk to oblivion, and threatening arson I'll remember that indulging you to sit on the floor in the corner of my room and enervating you, you think it's nice," he replies, as sarcastic as ever.
"Why was I here again?" I ask lightly dazed.
"Because you were, and very possibly still are, intoxicated up to the eyeballs, and you insist on being the bane of my life because of the silly notion that threatening, me mauling, waking me up at ungodly hours and exposing your breasts to me is, contrary to popular belief, actually helping me." Ouch! The blinding headache of hangovers has arrived.
"Potion," I articulate and mouth the word clearly as though he's deaf. "I came to make a potion." I look around the room and see my ingredients on his desk. I stand up and walk over to them and sit myself in his chair.
"Granger, I am the Professor of this classroom. If you wish to sit down then use the students' chair," he snarls.
I pick up the plants and take a seat in the chair that I sat in when I was the student.
"Now, which potion were you supposedly going to make?" he towers over me, and suddenly I feel like I'm 14 again.
I really embarrassingly fancied him then; it was very sad and very pathetic. It wasn't his looks, for obvious reasons, but he had this presence about him; he still does. It's eerie and highly egotistical. He just exudes vast amounts of confidence, like 'I'm brilliant, and I know it'. Also because it's very rare to find a man with that much thought activity going on in the upstairs department. Everything about him is smooth, his voice, the way he glides instead of walks, and of course his hair, albeit it does look like an oil tanker had ran aground on his head. He's still the tall, dark, mysterious type, though in a few years he'll definitely be the old, grey, pensioner type, I remind my self.
"What potion?" he growls. Ah, he sounds a little annoyed.
"A hangover cure?" I say blatantly over enthusiastic. He narrows his eyes in such a way that tells me, if looks could kill I would be well and truly dead.
"Fine, the cauldrons are over there." He gestures with his hand. "Ingredients are in my store cupboard, and if there are any ingredients I do not seem fit to keep," he walks toward the door "or if you set fire to the lab, with or without intent, please do not hesitate to go find someone who gives a damn!" His voice crescendos, "I will be going back to the sleep that you dragged me out of for no fit reason!"
"You're leaving me?" I ask incredulously.
"Well done, Granger." His voice oozes mockery. "You deduced that from me walking towards the door and saying I was returning to go to sleep." Ever since receiving only an E for my potions grade in the N.E.W.T. exams, I have totally lost faith in my ability of potion making.
"Please, I need help." I ask, actually it's more like begging, as I'm so desperate. Oh no, I'm begging Snape for help. He's going to milk this one for the rest of my life. I dread his answer.
He turns his head towards me, but doesn't look at me and says simply "No. Granger, I do not call you an insufferable know-it-all for any other reason except that it is true."
I hear the echo of his footsteps down the corridor and I stare curiously at the door, thinking about what he said. I then look at my proposed ingredients sitting on the desk. Rowan, yarrow, oak, meadowsweet, a button and a dead midget type fly caught in a bit of carpet fluff and I wonder what the fuck I was thinking.
Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing, means a lot. Erm... what else...oh yeah i know Snape is a little ooc and apologies for that but i swear he will not turn into the lovey-dovey Sevvie we all know and hate. love to all as always, xxx