100 Ways to Kill a Weasley

Severus Snape was just coming down the corridor to his quarters when he noticed a highly unusual flurry of activity from further down the dungeon hall. He stopped at his door to watch for a moment, assessing the situation. When Harry Potter, the newest addition to the Auror ranks, came out of Professor Weasley's room pale and in full uniform, Snape decided to investigate. If nothing else, he considered, he might be able to get in a humiliating jab or two for old times' sake.

"What brings you to these hallowed halls, Potter? The Aurors haven't sent you back for remedial studies already, have they?" He sneered in delight as he approached the Auror.

He was a bit rusty, but mocking the brat was a hobby he dearly missed.

Harry, however, to Snape's dismay, was unaffected. In fact, he looked rather sick.

"Thanks for the welcome, Snape, but I'm not in the mood for pleasantries."

The young man's manner of address was almost as alarming as his uncharacteristically morose expression.

Snape raised a brow.

"You haven't looked this upset since you discovered I wasn't dead, Potter. Should I be concerned?"

Harry slumped down against a wall and leaned his head back to look at his former professor.

"A bit less sarcasm and some Calming Draught would be helpful, Snape. Ron's dead and Hermione's panicking. You might make yourself useful instead of hanging around bothering me."

The potions master glowered down at the boy for a full two minutes before giving up. Harry clearly wasn't in the mood for a shouting match, and Snape was (for the first time in memory) at a loss for words.

Weasley dead?

He hadn't realized Christmas was coming so early this year.

The sudden sound of sobs from the open door pulled his attention away. With a final obligatory sneer for the brat, he strode into the room to find the source of the crying. If he thought he was shocked at Harry's immunity to his taunts, he wasn't prepared in the least for what he saw in Weasley's living room.

Hermione Granger, chief know-it-all of the Golden Trio from Hell, annoyer extraordinaire, and the brains behind the most sorry group of dunderheads known to wizarding kind, was sitting on a small sofa, sobbing, dressed in nothing more than a black leather bustier, a tiny pair of matching panties, and the tallest pair of black, patent leather boots he'd ever seen. He counted the eyelets of the boots for twenty seconds before catching himself and clearing his throat.

"Miss Granger—" he started, but he was interrupted when a sudden mass of skin and unruly curls launched itself at him.

"Oh, Professor!"

He pondered for a moment what her snotty little tears were going to do to his freshly cleaned cloak before realizing that a distraught dominatrix was writhing in leather in his arms.

Snape steered her to the sofa as quickly and with as little skin-to-skin contact as he could.

"Miss Granger, what is going on here?"

He handed her his handkerchief and cringed as she promptly blew her nose into it.

"Ron and I—hiccup—were having an evening in, and he wasn't watching what he was doing, and he slipped and—sob—and, and now he's dead!"

She fell apart, forgetting his handkerchief and ruining the shoulder of his cloak with fresh tears.

Unfortunately for Snape, the healers and Aurors decided just then to bring Weasley out of the bedroom. It seemed they had some trouble disentangling the body from the ropes, metal fasteners, and Merlin knew what else of the contraption that the red-headed wonder had strung himself in. As Hermione howled and he patted her back ineffectually, he noticed that at least one person was having fun—Weasley had an enormously huge grin on his face for a dead man.

Snape looked down at Hermione while he comforted her and the Aurors made final arrangements for further investigation. Had his upper body not been covered in her snot, he might have been struggling to hide an impressive erection. Her heaving breasts and pink, wet skin encased in the tight, shiny leather was something straight out of his most delicious fantasies. And those boots, what he wouldn't do to spend a few hours with her legs in those boots.

The dark wizard smirked at the woman in his arms, still oblivious in her grief. Maybe stumbling into another epic failure of the Golden Trio wouldn't turn out so badly after all.


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We're over a third of the way there. Sorry, Ron! :)