AN: I know, I know, by the fifth year the Golden Trio know how to get into the kitchen. Let's assume that in this silly!verse (where Voldemort was Transfigured into bread and devoured by pigeons, in case anyone wanted to know), the Golden Trio have no idea how to get into the kitchen. For the sake of humour.
03
Ron had always thought of Snape as a fearsome, broody, sulky and generally moody guy who spent too much time in the dungeons and not enough time outside. Now, however, Ron supposed he had to add 'insane' to the list.
Snape was standing in front of a painting – nothing wrong with that – of a very nice bowl of fruit. While Ron agreed that the painting was indeed a nice one, he still held that it was no reason for one to start tickling the pear. Ron had wondered if the insanity was spreading when he could have sworn he heard the painted fruit giggling, before he remembered that he was a wizard, Snape was a wizard, they were in a magical castle and Voldemort had been defeated by pigeons.
The giggling pear became a door handle, and Snape tugged on said handle to reveal a room beyond the painting, a room which happened to be bustling with house elves.
Every single elf froze. Then every single elf turned as one to the two wizards in the doorway.
Ron gulped.
Snape got to the point rather blandly. "Why in Merlin's pants did you all serve soup for breakfast this morning?"
Before the elves could explode into a frenzy of self-flagellation at having displeased the Potions Master of Hogwarts, the dour man quickly added, "And don't even think about hitting yourselves. In fact, don't hit yourselves."
The elves froze in the act of reaching for the nearest object to bludgeon themselves over the head with, caught in the paradox of having already thought of hitting themselves, the urge to dole out their self-imposed punishment and the order to not hit themselves.
Ron, thankfully, snapped the elves out of their dilemma. "Wait! Wait! Just tell us where you got the mushrooms from."
"Mushrooms, sir?" One of the elves squeaked. "They were delivered to the kitchen in a basket."
Snape motioned for the elves to bring the basket, and a familiar elf rushed forwards with a wicker basket.
"Thanks, Dobby," Ron smiled at the elf, hoping to reassure the rest of the elves at the same time.
Dobby bowed a very low bow, and skittered away before Snape could do anything particularly violent. The elf needn't have worried, since the Potions Master was busy examining the mushrooms still left in the wicker basket.
"Shiitake."
Ron turned an incredulously stare at Snape. "What did you say?"
"Shiitake," Snape repeated with a great air of annoyance. "Don't make me repeat myself, Weasley. This is shiitake mushroom," Snape pulled out the offending fungus and held it up for Weasley to see, "obviously picked under the full moon last month."
"Amazing!" Ron breathed. "How could you tell just by looking at it?"
"Because it is slimy," Snape answered in disgust, dropping the fungus back into the basket. "And is quite rotten. This mushroom is a month old at the very least."
"Hang on," Ron looked at the basket. "Isn't that the type of basket we use in Herbology?"
"Well spotted, Mr Weasley," Snape sneered, looking pointedly at the tiny label on the basket, declaring it to be 'Property of Hogwarts, Greenhouse', "it's a wonder you haven't considered becoming an Auror yet."
Ron beamed.
Idiot. Snape rolled his eyes, and continued. "Now, as I said, it's clear to me that this mushroom was picked under the last full moon-"
The elves looked like they very much wanted to say something, but none of them did, for fear of gaining another paradox to torture themselves over. Neither Snape nor Ron noticed, naturally.
"-and if you were half as observant as a flobberworm," Snape lectured on, unaware of the elves' more-bug-eyed-than-usual expressions, "you would have noticed that tonight will be another full moon, optimum time for picking mushrooms with magical properties. Come, Weasley, we have work to do."
…
The Bat of the Dungeons was a glorious, graceful wraith that swooped down on unsuspecting students with the ferocity of an angry hippogriff, but he found that there was a certain detriment to one's reputation if one was constantly followed by Ronald Bilius Weasley, who grinned and greeted everyone they passed with aplomb and annoying cheer.
That, and the fact that he currently had a basket looped on his arm did little to add to his fearsomeness. One could hardly look terrifying if one happened to be carrying a basket like some emo-versioned Red Riding Hood. Regardless, he sneered at one Neville Longbottom, sending the boy scurrying in the opposite direction.
"Weasley!" Snape snapped, whirling around in a dramatic twirl of his robes. "Stop following me. Meet me next to Hagrid's hut two hours before moonrise. I have preparations to make."
Startled, Weasley stumbled back. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime, then? Sir?" he added quickly.
"Do whatever it is teenage boys do in their spare time," Snape turned the corner and headed for the dungeons, leaving Ron behind.
"What the bloody heck is that supposed to mean?" the boy wondered aloud.
…
Ron, without either Harry nor Hermione to entertain him, finished all his homework that day.
…
By nightfall, a steady flurry of snow was falling, and by the time Snape reached Hagrid's hut, Ron was already waiting, a great hairy drooling beast by his side.
And he was not talking about Hagrid.
"Down, Fang!" Hagrid grabbed the hound's collar, preventing it from bowling Snape over.
Somehow, Ron had the feeling that the Professor would not appreciate being covered in dog drool and snow. Most people didn't. While Snape was not considered 'most people', Ron had been correct in this regard.
"Keep that beast under control, Hagrid!" Snape looked at Fang with a mixture of fear and disgust – mainly disgust, the type he reserved for stupid teenagers – while Fang looked back with only the type of love and adoration a dog could exude.
"Hagrid says he's a great tracker," Ron explained, scratching Fang behind the ears, "and said that Fang'd be able to help us find our mushrooms."
"Tha's right," Hagrid grinned through his thick beard. "Why, on'y yesterday 'e 'elped Neville find-"
"Wonderful, Hagrid," Snape cut across the half-giant severely, "but Mr Weasley and I must be going if we wish to find our fungus before the full moon."
"Fungus?" Hagrid repeated, a small frown on his face as he watched the Potions Master and the red-headed Weasley boy go into the Forbidden Forest. "You mean to say yer looking for mushrooms?"
"Yes, shiitake!" Snape called back.
Hagrid frowned again, thinking that he'd forgotten something important. Like how shiitake didn't really grow in Europe. Or was it something about Neville Longbottom? Then, he shrugged and returned to his hut.
It probably wasn't that important.
Hopefully.
…
"Here, get its scent. Go find the mushroom," Snape held out the slimy mushroom to Fang, only for the animal to slobber all over it and his hand. With a cry of disgust, Snape flung the mushroom into the undergrowth.
Ron looked like he was trying very hard not to burst out laughing.
"Shut up, Weasley," Snape snarled nonetheless, gingerly rubbing his fingers together, feeling the slimy texture of the dog's drool. It felt surprisingly familiar, rather like the mushroom had originally felt back in the kitchen.
And then he realised that the mushroom may not have been old and slimy after all, but merely stewed in boarhound drool and heated to a bacteria-growing temperature in the warm kitchens.
The revelation did not make him feel any better.
"You disgusting beast," Snape growled.
"Oy!" Ron was rather offended.
"I wasn't talking to you," Snape rolled his eyes, and kept how he thought Weasley could be a disgusting beast in the Great Hall, devouring half the food on the tables, to himself. "I was talking to Fang."
Fang paused from sniffing around the clearing to look up hopefully at his name, tongue lolling out, drops of saliva falling into the pristine snow.
"Yes, I'm talking about you," Snape told the dog grumpily. "This isn't the first time you've been out to look for mushrooms, is it?"
Ron wondered if he should point out that Snape was talking to a dog, and if he should ask about how much stress the Professor had been under recently. Perhaps all those long hours of marking poorly written essays were getting to him.
Snape's eye twitched as Fang cocked up one leg at the foot of a tree. "Don't change the subject! Who have you been working for?"
Fang sneezed.
"Fine," Snape whipped out his wand, "I can do this the hard way just as well as the easy way."
Ron's eyes widened in horror, and he considered diving in front of Fang to take the curse Snape was no doubt going to direct at the dog, but instead, he managed a cry of, "No! Don't do it, Professor!"
Snape stared at the Weasley boy, and wondered what was wrong with him. Perhaps it was the stress of the upcoming OWL exams. Or maybe the expectations of living up to being friends with the Know-It-All and the Imbecile-Who-Wouldn't-Die had proven too much and Weasley had finally snapped.
Snape held out his wand, and demanded, "Point Me, Mushroom."
Ron blinked.
Snape couldn't care less if the boy had lost his mind, but since he was a teacher and under certain obligations to look after the students, he felt compelled to tell Weasley, "Madame Pomfrey… Madame Pomfrey offers free counselling, you know."
Ron's blank look became one of understanding as he nodded. Of course, Ron realised, that's the Professor's way of saying he has help. I needn't worry.
The wand pointed to a direction in the woods, and Snape glided off, "Come along, Weasley, this way-ack!"
Ron stared. For one second, Snape had been heading away from the clearing. Then, there'd been a snapping of tree branches, and the Potions Master had disappeared in an undignified tangle of limbs.
"Snape?" Ron ran forwards. "Professsor- Merlin!" Ron stopped short at the clearing, just at the sharp drop leading down and further into the Forbidden Forest. Clearly, the Professor had been caught unaware, and taken a tumble down the drop. Ron knelt down, squinting into the darkness. "Professor Snape?"
Fang, who had finished with his business at the tree, turned to join the excitement, bounding towards the red-headed boy. Fang was not very good at English. He knew the words 'Fang' and 'food' – often exclusively in that order – and that was about the extent of his knowledge. Therefore, he had no idea he was about to send both himself and Ron over the edge.
Ron turned in time to be hit by fifty kilograms of fur and drool, and they followed where the Potions Master had went.
Down, down and down.