Snape slunk into the staff room, claimed the chair closest to the hearth with a ill-tempered glower that kept the rest of the teachers on the other side of the room, poured himself a cup of steaming hot tea, and settled in for a nice, very long sulk.

Minerva had the good grace to keep her pleased, gloating smiles to a minimum, but when Filius started charming various inanimate objects to start chanting 'Gryffindor 210 – Slytherin 60' and Pomona started pouring glasses of Ogden's Finest… which were enthusiastically quaffed… well, the hairline crack in the teacup certainly hadn't been there before.

"Oh, cheer up, Severus." Minerva said at last, flopping (she was happy, Snape noted sourly; Minerva never 'flopped') into the chair opposite.

Snape snarled. It wasn't that he liked Quidditch, as such. He didn't, although he supported it as being the most exercise many of the children would ever get while living within Hogwarts' walls. No, it was matter of pride. Many things were a matter of pride to Snape. Slytherin had held the Cup for a long time, and Gryffindor, the most likely source of competition, had been abysmal in many matches due to the absence of a good Seeker, despite the undoubted talent of their other players. With an even remotely competent Seeker – Merlin, that galled him – he could expect many more humiliating defeats coming his way.

If only he hadn't been so distracted trying to save the Dunce Who Lived's miserable, worthless life, he'd have had plenty of time to sabotage the Gryffindor players. Yet another perfectly acceptable reason to hate the boy. As if his continued existence was worth the humiliation of that defeat.

He wondered absently if Quirrel really was working for the Dark Lord, did he know he was meant to be trying to kill the other one, or was the opportunity – as Snape suspected – simply too good to pass up?

If Snape had been in his place, he'd certainly have attempted it regardless.

"I'm not sure it counts, you know," he remarked, although without any true bitterness, still wrung out from the effort of chanting a counter-curse at five miles a minute. "I mean, he didn't actually catch it now, did he?"

"But he did have the Snitch," Minerva said firmly. "Even if the method of capture was a little… unorthodox."

"Unorthodox?" Snape baited. "He nearly swallowed it! He was choking on it!" A wicked grin crossed his face. "I must say, that sight almost made up for the fact we lost."

Minerva shook her head, unable to stop herself smiling slightly in response. "It did look a little ridiculous, I'll admit," she murmured. "Firewhiskey?"

Snape shrugged elegantly. "Certainly. The flask has been a little lighter of date."

She threw him a disapproving glare that always made him feel that all was right with the world. "Severus, you really shouldn't… it's not fair after all – the rest of us have to deal with Them without the aid of alcoholic beverages."

Snape grinned. "Do you expect me to believe that? Well, I suppose there's no reason for me to buy you a bottle of sherry this Christmas, is there?"

"Hrmph."

Yes! Severus Snape 1, Minerva McGonagall 0!

"I suppose, Severus, that this rapid emptying of your infamous firewhiskey flask has something to do with Potter?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean," he said warily. The smile that crossed her face was rather too similar to a cat cleaning canary feathers off its face for his liking.

"Come, Severus, we all know that you have taken it upon yourself to tutor young Harry Potter." She glanced at him carefully sideways. "I must say," she added in an undertone, "I am most pleased to hear that you've overcome your aversion to anyone remotely connected with James. I'm very proud of you Severus."

"Hmph."

Damn. Severus Snape 1, Minerva McGonagall 1.

Dumbledore wandered in, looking, as ever, surprised to find himself in a school. "Why, hello," he said brightly. Snape exchanged wry glances with McGongall, and the two shook hands cautiously, agreement to set aside the point scoring for moment now that even better entertainment had presented itself.

"My, my," Dumbledore said, staring in bemusement at the decorations, "Gryffindor won, I take it?"

Every teacher in the room exchanged irritated sighs. Hooch conjured an overripe tomato and threw it at his beard. To Snape's delight, the rest of the faculty followed suit. Snape conjured himself several sugar pixies and directed them to attack with a feeling of indescribable glee. He was certain that this was the kick the Dark Lord got out of watching the Death Eaters jump through hoops at his whim.

Generously spattered with fruits and vegetables, Dumbledore looked much as all the teachers secretly suspected he should look all the time. Snape took pictures.

Dumbledore frowned at them, distinctly ruffled. "It was only a question," he said, with the mild reproof that could instantly reduce those it was directed at into puddles of repentant tears. All the teachers looked suitably chastened. Sinistra dropped the dish of sherbet lemons she was holding with a guilty start. Snape hid the camera in his robes before he succumbed to the urge to throw it at the floor in disappointment with his own actions.

"Now then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, vanishing the sticky mess from his clothing and beard, "about the blatant and discriminatory use of the house point system…"

Snape stared thoughtfully at his class of shivering first years. Granger appeared to be the only one capable of researching a warming charm. The rest of the Gryffindors, he was pleased to note, appeared to be trying to set themselves on fire, huddled as closely to their cauldrons as they were.

He kept one eye on Longbottom as he made his rounds, fully expecting him to melt his third cauldron of the year soon. And if he didn't, Snape might be forced to commit a little sabotage – he'd lost five galleons to Minerva over that Quirrel bet, he was not losing again.

A muffled boom and several screams were heard after his second pass. "Detention, Longbottom," he said absently, banishing the mess to Minerva's office. Proof, of course.

He returned to the front of the class to claim his place as lord and master of all he surveyed. There were occasional upsides to teaching, he'd been told, but this was the only one he could think of. Privately, Snape suspected the Dark Lord's ego-trip was simply a substitution for teaching.

"Your homework is on the board," he said flatly. "If you don't turn it in on the first lesson after the Christmas holidays, don't bother coming back at all."

At least three people nearly became imbedded in the stone floor in the stampede to leave.

Snape waited until the last of them was out of sight before he poured himself a generous measure of brandy in commemoration. One term successfully survived. If he could just last the rest of the seven years of Harry Potter's time at Hogwarts without the Dark Lord breaking every natural law and coming back to life…

"To the Boy Who Lived," he said dryly, raising his glass – and wondered for a moment which one he meant, the real one or the supposed one, before deciding it hardly mattered. "Long may he continue to distract the Dark Lord from me."

Watching Longbottom attempt to clean cauldrons of whatever vile mess had congealed there, started breeding, and was now planning to take over the world, Snape could see it already. Sooner or later, this boy, capable of blowing up even a swelling solution, was going to kill everyone in the class.

Snape could stand no more. In a choice between ensuring his students lived to see graduation and maintaining his reputation as a Heartless Slytherin Bastard™, the former meant he would receive fewer lawsuits.

"Longbottom," he said. Longbottom jumped so badly Snape was surprised he managed to stay in his skin. "Let me tell you something that may save the lives of everyone unfortunate enough to share a Potions class with you: Potions is closely connected with Herbology." He took a deep breath to prepare himself for his next words. "You are good at Herbology. Outstanding, in fact, though if you tell anyone I said that you will be in detention for the rest of your natural life. Ergo, if you only apply your talent with one to the other, you will not suffer in my class. Understand?"

There was a pitiful squeak that indicated surprise and confusion to Snape's well-trained ear. Longbottom's face was a hideous colour closely resembling porridge, and he seemed quite ready to faint if Snape said anything else. In a fit of unaccustomed pity, he sent the gibbering Longbottom back to his Common Room after an hour. He suspected he might have irreparably damaged him.

He mulled that thought over for a moment before shrugging and started searching for the answer to a question that occasionally proved vexing.

The Dunce's real name.

After two hours, most of them spent rummaging first through Filch's filing cabinets and then Dumbledore's office, Snape finally held in his hands The Answer. He unrolled the piece of parchment with mild curiosity.

His lower jaw imitated the totem of his House for a moment and completely unhinged.

Connor Nathan Jericho Michael Darius Percival Merlin Godric Potter?!

Snape stared. "And they call us Slytherins sadists," he said at last. He picked up a quill and pulled the certificate towards him. "Hm." He murmured.

By the time he left, whistling the most sinister version of 'The Teddy Bear's Picnic' ever heard (complete with gory examples of judicious violence) the birth certificate behind him read 'Rosalind Potter'

James Potter would probably just be incensed that a prank had been committed that most definitely outclassed any of his own unsubtle works. But he knew for a fact that Lily had always wanted a little girl and who was he to say no to Lily Evans?

The psychological damage was a bonus, naturally.

"What did you do?"

Snape opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. There might be worse things to see upon waking, but a fire-breathing Minerva McGonagall was definitely near the top of the list. He blinked.

"How the hell did you get in here?"

She shoved a brightly-wrapped present under his nose. Snape was only mildly dissatisfied to discover the card read 'Rosalind Potter'. "Every – single – present, Severus." She hissed. Snape wondered if she even cared her professionalism had just flown out of the window.

"Mm. And I should care – why?"

She pulled her wand out from her sleeve and aimed it somewhere vital. Snape let his eyes drift around the room in search for anything nearby that might provide a suitable weapon. "It is his name," he pointed out reprovingly.

He always knew her eyes really could flash lightning when angry.

"Every single piece of correspondence, every record, now states 'Rosalind Potter'. Any attempt to use his actual name results in 'Rosalind'. What. Have. You. Done?"

Snape allowed himself a smug smile as she attempted to strangle thin air.

"It could have been worse," he said piously. "I could have renamed him Cindy." He paused. "Or even Barbie. Credit me with a little discernment that he merited 'Rosalind'. Poor Shakespeare."

He deserved the slap that followed, he supposed. "You will fix it," she insisted. "Or else."

The level of venom she could pack into 'or else' could eat through seven layers of shielding spells. Snape was insanely jealous. He decided it was probably not the best time to ask her how she did it.

"It'll be fixed," he said dismissively, waving her away, much to her annoyance.

"I'm serious, Severus! He'll be damaged for life!"

"I hope so," Snape responded instantly before his survival instincts caught up with his mouth. When she turned and stormed out without a word (or a curse) he was more worried than if he'd realised he was late for a Death Eater meeting.

This did not bode well. Not at all.

Then he imagined the look on James Potter's face upon discovering his precious firstborn brat and supposed saviour of the Wizarding World was now called Rosalind, and decided it would be well worth whatever Minerva handed out.

Eventually – having driven the few Slytherins remaining for the Christmas break away from the dungeons to the sound of his maniacal laughter – Dumbledore sent Tipsy the House Elf (Snape had offended to poor thing terribly by inquiring what lunatic had named her when they first met; consequently, Dumbledore used her to communicate with him at all times a third party was necessary) to remind him that if he was late for Christmas dinner, the Weasley twins would get there first.

The only time Snape had moved faster was when being chased by Fluffy.

Credit goes to Morbious20 and Anna Potter-Snape for the scene with Dunce's name – whatever would I do without you people?