He already hated being a father and he'd been one for less than half an hour. Minerva had refused to share her whisky until he had come up with a reasonable plan for what he intended to do with the girl. Which he thought seemed unfair, surely a nip would have helped that plan along? She had levelled him with a glare that sent him right back to his school days when he'd dared to voice that. Damnable woman. She'd confiscated his whisky too, like he was a bloody student with contraband. And then she'd left, in a swirl of robes that rivalled his own billow, ushering the shell-shocked girl out of the room.

He assumed she was taking the little know-it-all back to her tower. Fuck, could he keep calling her a know-it-all? Was he now going to have to be nice to the girl? Surely not. No one would expect that of him, least of all her. He had an image to keep up, thank you very much. An image he had worked very hard to earn. He didn't want the little sods in the castle to think he was approachable. They'd want to talk to him then. He shuddered at the thought.

Sitting morosely in his chair, lamenting his lack of alcohol, he wondered what had happened to Elladora. She'd just upped and disappeared one day. At the time, he had assumed she'd been quietly married off on the continent after the Dark Lord had found out about their liaison. No one wanted a half-blood sullying a pureblood woman, there were few enough of them as it was.

It was only meant to be a stress relief, for both of them damn it! Constantly being in complete control in the presence of an increasingly insane megalomaniac was bloody stressful. And it wasn't like he could afford to be permanently drunk, although he had considered the idea. His death would likely be quick if he had been drunk enough to voice his thoughts to the man who demanded complete control and was prone to tantruming like a toddler. A particularly dangerous, murderous toddler. It would have got him out of this mess if nothing else.

And just like that, he was back thinking about his delightful mistake wandering the castle. He'd like to say the sex had been worth it. But for fucks sake, a child? A fucking Gryffindor child. A fucking Gryffindor child who was best friends with James bloody Potter's lookalike. Maybe the world did hate him. It definitely seemed like it.

What the fuck was he meant to do now? And where was Minerva? Surely his need was greater than Gryffindor's resident swot? She at least knew that she was adopted, he had had no fucking idea she existed. Well, he knew she existed, obviously. She drove him insane in his classroom on a regular basis. But he had had no idea of her existence in relation to him.

He wasn't equipped to deal with this.

Standing abruptly he headed for his rooms, finally remembering he'd squirrelled away a bottle of something alcoholic for emergencies. He was reasonably certain it could double as a paint stripper but beggars could not be choosers.

Locating the bottle, he sank down into a seat and took a long swig, regretting it almost immediately as it stripped the flesh off the inside of his throat, settling in his stomach but making itself known as it caused more pain than the Dark Lord's cruciatus.

Fuck, that had been stupid. It bloody hurt. Ah, and now Minerva was back, looking down at him in abject disappointment. Fucking wonderful.

"Drink, Minerva?" he asked as he waved the bottle at her.

"Severus Tobias Snape! Pull yourself together this instant!" she commanded, her stern face pinched.

"No. I don't want to," he replied mulishly, reverting back to the teenager she made him feel like.

"You don't want to? Damn it, Severus, how old are you! Your thirteen year old daughter is acting more like an adult than you are!"

"Ah, so she is the adultier adult" he mused, trying not to wince at the word daughter, as Minerva looked at him with concern.

"The what, Severus?"

Shaking his head against the buzz of cheap alcohol, taking another long swig, he noted that it burned less this time. Maybe there was nothing left there to burn. Maybe if he was lucky, it was slowly burning away his oesophagus and then he could just die of lack of oxygen quietly, they always say fatal wounds don't hurt, don't they? Was that a myth?

Although death by shit alcohol seemed a bit of a shit way to go if he thought about it. Death by 100 year old scotch, that sounded much better. But Minerva wasn't sharing. It was cruel really, subjecting him to death by Tesco's cheap vodka. He'd need to haunt her after his death to make sure she understood that.

Fuck, she was looking genuinely concerned now, had he said that out loud? Surely not. He had more control than that. He was Severus Snape, double agent, spy for the light. A real-life James Bond.

He couldn't control the snort that forced its way out at that thought. Imagine all those women, turning up to the cinema to see Pierce Brosnan, he was rumoured to be next, wasn't he? And instead being faced with his ugly mug blown up to spectacular proportions on the big screen. Would his nose fit? Could it be used to hide some of Bond's props? Probably. He'd always been jealous of Bond's props. Albus refused to allow him any. Was it too much to ask to be allowed an Astin Martin for his troubles?

Fuck, where had the vodka gone? There should be more than that surely? Was Minerva secretly syphoning some out? He peered at the bottle curiously. Less than an eighth. She must be, he hadn't drank that much.

"Severus, give me that bottle!" Minerva barked, making him jump.

He frowned, hugging the bottle to him. It was his bottle of cheap vodka. She wasn't having it. She refused to share hers.

Damn, she was pinching the bridge of her nose. That wasn't a good sign. She appeared to be swaying slightly, had she been drinking her scotch while he wasn't looking? Or was she swaying from the vodka she'd clearly been syphoning off his? That couldn't be it, he couldn't imagine Minerva drinking cheap vodka.

"Severus Snape, you are drunk!"

No, he wasn't, he'd barely had anything. Although, the bottle appeared to be empty. When had that happened? He was still hugging it. It felt quite nice. No one hugged him. He was the dungeon git, greasy bat. No, wait, that wasn't right. He shrugged, close enough.

He heard Minerva sigh. "Go to bed, Severus. We'll discuss this in the morning, even if I am forced to have the conversation with your ghost while it haunts me."

And then she left him. All alone, with just his bottle. It was quite cold hugging the bottle, maybe he should stop. He still hadn't gotten his scotch.