What Might Be Done

Chapter 14: The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
In which our Hero has . . . difficulties

There were lima beans for dinner and I hate limas. There was kissing on TV and I hate kissing. My bath was too hot, I got soap in my eyes, my marble went down the drain, and I had to wear my railroad-train pajamas. I hate my railroad-train pajamas. When I went to bed Nick took back the pillow he said I could keep and the Mickey Mouse night light burned out and I bit my tongue. The cat wants to sleep with Anthony, not with me. It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
–Judith Viorst: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day


“ELF!”

Someone was screaming and it made Snape clutch his head in agony.

“ELF!”

Not so much a scream as a rather hoarse bellow.

“GOD DAMN IT! ELF!”

“You is wanting a house-elf, Professor Severus? (Hic!)”

The sickly-sweet odour of butterbeer flooded Snape’s painfully flared nostrils and he squinted at the elf – clad in a more than usually filthy tea-towel – as it swayed towards him.

“No yelling,” Snape whispered. “I didn’t call for an elf.” He paused, thinking of the voice that had just been demanding elf-service at the top of its lungs. “Oh, perhaps that was me. Pull the drapes. There’s entirely too much light for the crack of dark.”

“Professor Severus is drinking too much again, Winky is thinking. (Hic!) Not that Winky is casting stones. Winky is understanding the lure of strong drink. (Hic!)”

“Are you drunk, elf?”

“Winky is not drinking, sir! Don’t be mad at Winky, Professor Severus! Winky is not wanting clothes! She can’t help her little problem.”

“Oh, shut up. Pull the drapes. Bring me tea. Bring me Pepper-up. And tell whoever woke the sun to put it back to sleep.” Snape rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

“(Hic!)”

He woke again an hour or two later, stinking and soaked with sweat. He wiped his face with his sheet and then peeled it off of himself. One eye at half-mast peered peevishly at the window. He thought he’d told that damn elf to pull the drapes. Oh. So he had and so she had. He’d meant close them. Sod’s law: no hangover, feeling as if God were in his heaven – the weather would be dark, wet and gloomy; with hangover, hammers and tongs inside his head – it was a hundred-and-fuck and muggy. This was Scotland, for fuck’s sake, not the fucking West Indies. If Albus were the great fucking wizard he was supposed to be why in fucking hell couldn’t he do something about the fucking weather? The old man had picked a fucked of an inconvenient time to become fatally ill.

Feeling more than a little exposed by the bright sunlight streaming into his tower room and not yet inclined to drag his carcass out of bed, Snape tugged the damp sheet back over himself. Painful memories of the previous day invaded his consciousness. Who knew that drinking half pints would be as deleterious as swimming in a vat of whisky? Of course he had lost count after his fourteenth half. Surely he had not attempted to kiss Granger goodnight? Surely she had not laughed in his face? Surely that was just a bad dream brought on by too much bitter and greasy pub food.

Ah yes. Pepper-up. He looked irritably around the room. It was there, on a small table, next to a cup of no longer steaming tea. Just as well. It was too blistering to be drinking hot beverages. He just might take up drinking tea with ice, and sweet, as the Americans did. Picking up the little potions vial, he walked to his mirror and winced at the face looking back at him. On a bad day his skin tones could generously be described as jaundiced, but today he looked as if someone had dyed his skin with a watery solution of . . . Creme de menthe. The bags under his eyes could have benefited from a luggage trolley, although the colour of his luggage of choice was certainly not puce. And his hair, admittedly usually lank and slightly oily, was plastered to his skull and appeared to have been soaked with dripping. Even his nose seemed to have changed; it was still large and hooked, but looked more prominent than usual due to the deep crevices that made large parentheses around his mouth.

Snape shivered. Twelve hundred degrees Celsius, drenched with sweat, and his entire body was trembling. He felt unaccountably cold. Perhaps he was coming down with something. He put down the Pepper-up and picked up his tea. Casting Incendio in the general direction of the hearth, he stood with his back to the fire, hitching his nightshirt up under his arms, warming his backside and his calves. His hands curled possessively around his cup of lukewarm tea.

“Professor Snape.”

Snape looked vaguely around the room and saw nothing. He let his nightshirt fall back over his bum and returned to his tea.

“Excuse me, Professor Snape?” The voice seemed to be coming from somewhere underneath him, which was, of course, impossible. Snape did the only sensible thing and ignored it.

“Severus Snape!” The voice snapped. It sounded remarkably like Hermione Granger. A product of his guilty conscience, no doubt. Or perhaps delirium tremens. That was it. He wasn’t feverish, he was merely more hungover than usual. He’d be seeing cross-dressing dancing lilac hippogryffs soon; he really had to stop drinking.

A loud whoosh now assaulted Snape’s ears and he whirled around, producing a wave of nausea and almost knocking Hermione Granger back into the fireplace. Politely she said, “Excuse me,” and calmly dusted ash off her robes.

Snape winced and then snarled, “It is customary to send an owl requesting a meeting or, at the very least, fire-calling before you drop into someone’s private residence.”

Hermione looked pointedly past Snape and he turned slightly to see an owl pecking irritably at the lap robe tossed over his couch, a cylinder of parchment tied to its leg.

“Where did that come from? He wasn’t here a minute ago.”

“She has undoubtedly been sitting there for the better part of an hour. She’s a very fast and reliable messenger.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Miss Granger,” Snape snapped. “How dare you invade my quarters without so much as a by-your-leave?”

“I sent an owl. I fire-called and you merely wiggled your arse at me. Thinking something was wrong I thought I’d better just pop on in.” Granger’s mouth twisted in disapproval. “I wouldn’t think a man who is attempting to seduce a student, no, two students, would be such a stickler for the other social niceties.”

“If I were inclined to seduce a student, which I most certainly am not, it wouldn’t pick a woolly-haired, buck-toothed–“

“Oh stop. I may not be the most attractive girl in the world but that was definitely your tongue that was trying to push its way into my mouth last night.” Granger sounded more amused than affronted. Chit.

“What is it you want?” Snape asked churlishly.

“I thought it might be wise, after the events of last night,” Snape winced and Hermione smiled, “to find out if I was still being considered for the apprenticeship.”

“You might have owled.”

“I did owl,” Hermione reminded him.

“You might have waited for a response.”

“And the owl might have starved before you noticed it.”

“You’re starting off your apprenticeship on very poor footing.” Snape tried to look superior but it was ruined by a grimace of pain.

“Ah, that answers my question then. I am still going to be your apprentice. Excellent. I trust you won’t be drinking when we’re working together?”

“I trust you’ll learn to keep your big mouth closed, if you can close it over those teeth!”

“Update your inventory, Professor. My teeth are perfectly normal.” Granger smiled at him, revealing a mouthful of perfectly sized, perfectly straight, perfectly white, perfectly annoying teeth, “It’s big of you to not make me pay endlessly for a moment’s embarrassment,” she said with sweet sarcasm. “I’ll just toddle off then. See you in a few weeks.”

She was gone before Snape realised he had missed his best opportunity to recant the apprenticeship offer. Chit.

A soft hooting reminded him of the owl’s presence. Better get rid of it before it fouled the premises. He picked it up clumsily and was rewarded with a savage peck on the head. Snape growled and tossed the damn thing out the window. It immediately flew back in and thrust its leg out at him. In a fit of pique, Snape transfigured it into a small sculpture of a lilac-coloured hippogryph and sent it to float in the rafters.

“I’m never drinking again,” he vowed. “Now, where’s that damn Pepper-up?

Finding the bottle he returned to staring at himself in the mirror. Tossing back the contents, he watched the smoke pouring out of his ears. It did not dissipate as usual but coalesced in a dark cloud that hovered over his head. Snape snorted. The fine hand and maleficent sense of humour of Minerva McGonagall were manifest in that storm cloud. The miserable cow.

He tossed the bottle in the general area of anywhere and stalked into his bathroom. A cold shower might help to clear his mind, evanesce the overcast above his head – which looked as if thunder and lightning were on its agenda. The only thing missing was an unwanted erection brought about by thinking of Harry Potter and damn it! He had thought of Potter and right on cue . . . A cold shower was definitely in order.

Snape gave a sharp gasp as the frigid water splashed down on him. Cursing, he grabbed a bar of soap and began lathering his hair – which was resistant. Three scrubbings later, he had the semblance of clean hair. The nice thing, the only nice thing about a cold shower was not worrying about when the hot water would run out. He quickly began to wash the rest of his body and let his mind drift back to the previous evening.

In a life riddled with monumentally stupid acts – such as leaping out of the sizzling frying pan of the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters and straight into the hottest portion of the fire that was Albus Dumbledore and the endless teaching of an endless progression of ninnyhammers – drinking endless half-pints of bitter and at least three g-and-t’s and then capping off the evening trying to kiss Hermione Granger wasn’t even in the top ten, although it was a near thing. Fortunately the Granger chit had more sense than sensibility and had laughingly escaped his embrace – before Snape could attempt the tragic error of pressing her against the door – by the simple expedient of ducking. Snape had overbalanced and landed in the erratically trimmed shrubbery, affording Granger time to disappear into her house, rather breathlessly calling, “Thank you, Professor, and good-night!” over her shoulder before Snape had time to explain that he had merely been attempting to blow away a piece of dandelion fluff clinging to her cheek, which wouldn’t have explained how his tongue got in her mouth but . . .

While Snape couldn’t bear the thought that she was laughing at him behind his back, there was nothing he could do about it now. He had just had the opportunity to confront the problem head on and had muffed it. He would now have the discomfort of broaching the subject again when she reported for her apprenticeship. Perhaps he could induce her to place the memory in a pensieve and then accidentally topple it to the floor. Perhaps he could simply Obliviate her, wiping the last six months completely from her mind. It would play hell with her NEWTs, but he had little doubt she’d manage to pass anyway. The chit.

Well, thinking of Granger had taken care of his lingering Potter problem. Snape looked down at his now limp cock and sneered disdainfully at it before turning off the water and grabbing a towel. It was time to get to work, lingering headache be damned. He had a new batch of Morpheus bubbling away unattended in his lab and a nagging feeling that he might have done something stupid when, more than three sheets to the wind, he had looked in on it the night before.

***

Snape leant over the cauldron of Morpheus and blenched. The colour was not the lovely, peaceful shade of azure blue that it should have been. Rather, it was a bilious shade of green. The reason became clear as his foot hit something. There was an explosive crash, then the sickening, sugary smell of mint boiled out from under his lab table. He looked down at the broken shards of green glass littering the stones under his feet. It was perfectly superfluous to turn a piece of glass over with his foot and read the label – Creme de menthe.

He sank down to his knees, heedless of the broken bottles, and put his hands to his face. Snape was not a crying man, but at that moment he felt as if he could just weep. He was never drinking again. The Dark Lord would kill him, and if he didn’t, Albus would, sick as he was. How could Snape have been so monumentally stupid?

He clamped his right hand over his left forearm as the Dark Mark seared with pain. Bollocks! His master’s voice. Well, there was no time to worry what three bottles of Creme de menthe would do to the Morpheus. Perhaps he would be lucky and it would turn out he had drunk more than he had added and the effect would be negligible. He had an uneasy feeling that mint and opium might not be complementary but there was no almost no literature on the effects of opiates on wizards, much less a vast herbal compendium on the subject.

Snape was no more a religious man than he was a weeper but he rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and muttered, “Please.”

He ladled the green stuff into bottles and carefully packed them in his case. When he was done, he knelt by the hearth and called Minerva. There was no response. Damn it! She must be with Albus and the floo in his quarters had been closed. Snape didn’t dare delay any longer. He’d have to hope she find his note if he didn’t return before he was missed.

***

The Riddle family home was little different than the last time Snape had visited. It was a bit more decrepit – more than would have occurred naturally, the Dark Lord’s magic was clearly helping it along – and for a moment, Snape thought he could see storm clouds through a gaping hole in the roof, but they weren’t clouds. The entire ceiling was obscured by tiny bubbles. Snape wouldn’t have thought a clear bubble could appear black, but these were. Black and filled with what looked like smoke. A good sign. The Dark Lord was taking his Morpheus like a good little boy.

The master of the Death Eaters was – and there really was no other word for it – lounging in his chair, head canted to one side, back slumped and legs spread wide in front of him. It was hard to tell from his position but Snape thought he might be even thinner. Not that he had been robust at any point since his return. Another good sign; he was losing his appetite as a result of Morpheus. An unpleasant surprise was Bellatrix Lestrange, on the floor by the Dark Lord’s knee, her own legs curled under her. She was wearing a dress of carmine silk, which on another woman would have been lovely but only served to make Bellatrix look wan and tired. The dark lids of her eyes seemed heavier than usual and yet she still managed to look more insanely irritated than sleepy. Which was more up to Snape’s expectations.

“Isn’t my Bella lovely?” Voldemort was almost purring, a steady stream of black bubbles pouring out of his mouth and gathering about his head before drifting up to join the collection at the ceiling.

Snape wrenched his eyes away and hurried to answer. “She is lovely, my lord. Although, as I’m sure you’ll remember, I don’t incline towards witches. Certainly, if I were to want a woman, I would want one as . . . heroic as Bellatrix.” He looked at her, making sure she understood the insult.

Bellatrix glared and Voldemort chuckled, a thin and eerie sound. “You go too far, Severus Snape. My beautiful Bella is loyal to the grave, something you might do well to emulate.” Bellatrix raised her chin proudly and glared at Snape. “You’re lucky I’m tired and disinclined to punish you. On the contrary, I believe what I have in store for you could be considered a reward. However little you deserve it.” Now Bellatrix’s eyes widened in anger.

“I find, lately, that my stamina is impressive when I can be arsed to rise to the occasion. In other words, I can go all night but I seem to be losing interest in doing so. Poor Bellatrix, my lovely, luscious, languorous, loyal Bellatrix. I have not been much use to her lately and I’m sure she’s hungry. I would like you to do the honours, Professor.”

“My Lord!” Snape and Lestrange said at the same time, in the same appalled tone.

“Oh yes,” Voldemort said, pulling a bottle of Morpheus out of his robe and pouring a healthy dose into a cracked crystal goblet. “Give me a show, my two most faithful servants. You have each told me, in your different ways, there is nothing you would not do if it pleased me. Perhaps you need a little reminder of the dangers inherent in going back on your word to your lord.” He didn’t sound as if he cared one way or the other.

Snape was not fooled and, not knowing where Voldemort would cast, stepped in front of Bellatrix. It was not that he didn’t value his own nervous system, but perhaps if he protected Bellatrix he would gain a little of her trust. Perhaps.

“Crucio!” The Dark Lord managed to sound bored even when screaming.

There was a brief pause where nothing happened before Snape fell to the floor writhing and screaming. It was an excellent show, he felt sure. He stretched his neck, forcing tendons to pop out in high-relief as he strained to appear in agony. Inside he exulted. True, the spell hurt, but it was nothing compared to what he usually experienced at the Dark Lord’s wand. This was more of a dull ache. It appeared the Morpheus was working as Snape had hoped.

“Finite Incantatum! The Dark Lord laughed, as did Bellatrix. Snape wrapped his arms around his head to hide his scowl. He curled into a foetal position and did his best to groan convincingly.

“That was very brave of you, Severus. Leaping in front of Bella that way. Quite the little hero. Perhaps association with Potter is having an influence on you. It was also quite unnecessary. I would never hurt Bella,” he paused, “unless she did something to deserve it. Now, if you’re quite done defying me? Good. Stand up and strip.”

Snape struggled to his feet and immediately pressed his palm against his groin. Bella did not inspire prodigious growth; if anything, Snape thought his genitals might completely retract into his body. But, when the alternative to sodomising Bella – and if he had to fuck her it would definitely be up the arse, he didn’t think the Dark Lord would care – was another round of Cruciatus, it behooved him to encourage tumescence.

Bella looked up at him, her heavy-lidded eyes only accentuating the expression of deep loathing on her face as she said, “You wouldn’t dare, Severus!” but her legs were spread, the carmine dress pooled around her hips, and it was easy to see she was wet and swollen.

“I must dare, Bellatrix,” Snape said sincerely. “Would you deny our lord?” He smiled unpleasantly as Lestrange’s eyes closed briefly and she shuddered.

“Get on your knees, Bella. I’d like to get this over with.”

In spite of his earlier loving exclamations, the Dark Lord obviously did not care who humiliated Bellatrix, as long as she was humiliated. Snape was on safe ground talking to her this way, but if his cock didn’t get fully hard soon, he was going to be in trouble. Bellatrix’s skin had the bluish tinge of skimmed milk. Faint traceries of veins were visible on her breasts, although otherwise her skin seemed thick and coarse. She seemed somehow heavy, oddly fleshy. The idea of touching her made his flesh crawl.

Snape quickly shucked his robe and his pants and began to stroke himself in earnest. Bella was taking her own sweet time lowering herself to her hands and Snape decided he would take advantage of it.

“Wait. Take me in your mouth.”

Bellatrix glared at him again before crawling forward and nuzzling at his thighs. She took his cock in her hand and pushed her tongue under the foreskin without peeling it back. Her tongue felt thick and hot. Snape found himself wishing he hadn’t been so fastidious cleaning himself. She opened her mouth and took him in, not bothering to sheath her teeth with her lips. Snape didn’t care, the irritation of it would only aid his faltering erection.

Taking one of her heavy breasts in his hand, he squeezed it hard, twisting the nipple rather viciously. When he let it drop back to her chest her white skin showed a perfect handprint in red and both her nipples had hardened considerably. In the past Snape had seen Bellatrix service her lord enough to know her pleasure was only enhanced by brutal treatment. He pushed his cock deeper into her mouth, not stopping until she gagged. A few more thrusts and her eyes were watering.

Bellatrix looked up at him and sneered. “You move like an inexperienced boy, Snape. I would have thought you’d been on the receiving end of enough cocks to know how it’s done. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

“You’ll know you’ve been fucked by a grown man before I’m through, Bella. Get on all fours like the bitch you are!”

Snape almost shuddered with relief when he heard the sound of Voldemort languidly applauding. “Well done, Severus. I think you actually meant to go through with it.”

“I would do anything to please you, my Lord.” Snape bowed slightly from the waist.

“What would please me is more Morpheus. It does help my head and I seem to be running short. How long will it take you to brew some more?”

“If you will allow me to retrieve my bag, my Lord, I’ve brought some with me. I’ve changed the formula slightly, added er, mint to make it more palatable. I hope it meets with your approval.” Snape retreated across the room without turning around, trusting neither a fractious Dark Lord nor a resentful Bellatrix enough to present his back to them. He knelt down and extracted several bottles of Morpheus from his black case. He held one up for the Dark Lord’s inspection.

“Vile colour,” Voldemort pouted, “I liked the blue better.”

Snape filled Voldemort’s goblet to the brim and waited anxiously as the Dark Lord too a lengthy draught.

“Oh, but it does taste lovely. A definite improvement, Severus. Always with my best interests at heart.”

Snape almost sighed with relief. He noted with interest that the bubbles streaming from the narrow lips were now a greenish black, not unlike a swatch of ancient bombazine.

“I’m glad it meets with your approval, my lord. And now, if you’ll permit me, I must leave. Dumbledore has taken a turn for the worse and the staff will be suspicious if I’m gone too long under the circumstances.”

“Fine. Go. I only wanted the Morpheus, and Bella’s pleasure, of course. See him out, won’t you, my dear?”

Bellatrix pouted but rose to her feet and, barely allowing him time to snatch up his robes, took Snape’s arm.

“What have you done to him?” Bellatrix whispered as they reached the front entryway. “What is in that foul potion he drinks? It’s changed him!”

“Has it?” Snape asked as his head cleared the neck of his robes. “Should we ask our Lord if he agrees with you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Severus! There is only one way he can answer that.”

“What’s different about him?”

“As he said himself, he’s more able but less interested in ... many of the things that interested him before.”

Snape laughed. “He’s losing his sexual appetite? Yes, I must apologise, Bella, I suspected that might be an unfortunate effect, given the ingredients of the potion but, as his headaches are apparently much improved, I think you’ll just have to continue to sacrifice. Don’t be forlorn, my dear,” and he invested the ‘my dear’ with as much disdain as he could, “just think, you’ll be able to whore yourself to as many as you like, for the Dark Lord’s pleasure. I’d think that would appeal to you.”

“I should kill you, Snape,” Bellatrix hissed.

“You could try,” Snape conceded, “but I don’t think our lord would be well pleased.”

If that thought worried her, Bellatrix showed no sign. Snatching at the sleeve of her dress, she pulled out a jewelled knife with a razor-thin blade. Snape stepped back and turned his head fast enough to avoid having his eye sliced out but not enough to avoid having his cheek slashed through. He could taste the blood welling up in his mouth.

“Crucio! Bella screamed and laughed as Snape fell to the floor, writhing in agony. “Perhaps next time you’ll know how to treat your betters with respect!”

She released the spell and stalked away, her peals of laughter taunting Snape as he recovered from the curse.

“Perhaps,” Snape said as he shakily stood and wiped the blood away from his face, “next time I’ll choke you to death with my cock.”

***

Snape had barely staggered into the castle when he saw Minerva.

“What are you doing out?” he demanded.

“I beg your pardon?” Irritated, Minerva’s rrr’s could have sanded a woodpile into floorboards.

“I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you for days. I thought you had immured yourself in Albus’s quarters.”

“And what’s happened to you? You look more dreadful than usual.”

“I asked you first.”

McGonagall rolled her eyes at this display of childish behaviour, then widened them as Snape staggered slightly.

“You’re hurt! What have you been up to this time, Severus?”

“A visit to my lord and master. His magic is weakening. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“You didn’t leave word that you’d been summoned! Severus, you know we must be advised–“

“I tried to firecall you. You were nowhere about.”

“You didn’t try hard enough. You certainly could have found me if you put an ounce of effort into it. You didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Minerva, please. Scold me later. Unless you want to pick me up off this floor. I need a bath and a healing potion.”

“And a bit of whisky, I’ll warrant. Come see me when you’re done with your ablutions.”

“Where will you be?”

“My quarters. Poppy came last night and gave Albus a large dose of Dreamless Sleep. Enough for two days, she said. Albus hasn’t been sleeping well and apparently it’s weakening him. The Dreamless Sleep is working like a charm. So, I have some time for myself. And you, of course. Go, before you collapse.”

Snape staggered off to his quarters, immediately stripping off his blood and mud splattered robes and tossing them in the fireplace. He took his second shower of the day. This time, he made the water blistering hot, trying to scald the Lestrange stench from his body. When he was done and dressed in clean robes, he looked longingly at his liquor cabinet. “Not now,” he scolded himself. “Time enough when you get to Minerva’s rooms.” And perhaps she’ll have some of that Muggle whisky, his id supplied.

“Severus, you look even more like hell than usual. The shower didn’t help. And you’re bleeding again.”

Snape grimaced. “Thank you again, Minerva. I can always count on you for a kind word. And you’re repeating yourself.”

“Perhaps you should see Poppy.”

“I’ll be fine,” Snape snapped. “Just pour me a drink. And none of that fucking Creme-de-menthe. I need a real drink.”

“Well, sit down then.” She poured him a large measure of amber liquid. “You’re going to need that even more in a moment. I have worrisome news.”

“Fabulous. Can it wait?”

“No, it can’t! You’ll have to go out again as soon as you’ve finished your drink.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ve earned my rest for the day. Hell, I’ve earned it for the next decade!”

“I’ve had an owl from Harry.”

“And why should I care?”

“Read it!” Minerva angrily thrust a piece of parchment into Snape’s hands.

“Dear Professor McGonagall,” he read aloud. “Lucky you. He only ever addresses me by my surname, these days.”

“Shut up and keep reading.”

“One or the other. I can hardly do both.”

“Read the damn letter. You needn’t read it aloud. I’ve already read it.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Snape said mildly, and looked back at the letter. “Bad things are happening. Please have someone come get me before I go spare and kill them all. Harry Potter. Well, he has a gift for melodrama.”

“You’ll have to go. I can’t leave Albus.”

Snape had never seen anyone actually wringing their hands before.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Calm down. His aunt probably sent him to bed without dessert. I’m sure whatever problem he’s having will straighten itself out.”

“I don’t think so. Something’s definitely wrong. I owled him back for an explanation and he didn’t respond. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m worried. I tried contacting Arabella Figg but she knows nothing. She hasn’t seen Harry for days. Something’s wrong with Harry. You must go to him!”

“Do you know what I’ve had to put up with today? A hangover. A surprise visit from Hermione Granger. A nearly ruined potion. Sex with Bellatrix Lestrange.” Minerva blinked. “Two rounds of Cruciatus and a knife in the face. Potter can go hang himself for all I care. Fine. No. Don’t say anymore.” Snape drained his glass. “Chasing after Potter. The perfect end to a perfectly horrible day. If there’s not something wrong with him, there will be before I’m through.”