Chapter 5: In Which Snape & Nose & Co. Get Drunk
AN: *Gasp* two updates in one day? It couldn't be... :D
Professor Snape really hated Valentine's Day. Why Dumbledore put him on hall patrol, this night of any, was beyond him. He would rather sit alone in his office, drinking himself into the 5th dimension, giving zero shits as to whether or not the older students were going at it like rabbits on viagra. As it was, the glowering Professor had been sipping on a special flask for most of the day, and still, the memories persisted.
"I'm sorry Severus, but I'd really rather not get pizza with you. It's just too much of a risk in my opinion. They might take you hostage and force you to be a never-ending supply of fast food grease. I don't want that to happen to my friend."
Snape groaned at the recollection of his failed attempt to ask Lily Evans out during the summer after their fourth year. He had recognized that Potter, the imbecile, was vying for her attention already. So in a rare moment of courage, he had decided to do his best to make the most of the summer months Snape and Lily spent together.
The noble lions of red and gold could screw themselves for all that he cared. Give him petty politics and emo Christmas colours any day. Snape shuddered, taking another large gulp from his choice of poison. It was a mix of every alcohol he could find in his quarters, and a few potion ingredients thrown in for good measure. It certainly smelled interesting, and Snape had quite the nose, so he greatly appreciated the unique scent. There wasn't a whole lot left for him to appreciate.
It was getting darker. This wasn't because Snape was sinking deeper into the alcoholic-induced vegetative state that he desperately craved. No, it was just night. Manoeuvring his nose towards the window, Snape watched as a cloud slid in front of the moon. To his annoyance, it reminded him of Lupin, which led his thoughts to Black, and then even more regrettably, the time when Black had mooned the entire school, showing off a hot pink butt plug. The flask was empty again. In peculiar fashion, this was occurring more often as the night wore on.
Sighing, Snape refilled his flask, jabbing his wand at it and cursing the small container. He heard the shuffling of feet and a giggle down the corridor to his left, so he chucked his flask at the noise without looking or changing direction. The Professor sporting an incredibly large nose groaned as another memory surfaced. Apparently, his mental state wasn't deteriorating fast enough.
Seventh year. Valentines Day
Sirius Black twirled his wand as he watched Snape hang upside down in the air, struggling to retrieve his own fallen wand. "You know, you're not going to be able to reach that Snivellus," Black taunted. "It's not important for our mission anyway."
"See, Valentine's Day is the most important day of the year. You're either enjoying yourself with your date, or you're helping your mate work their magic so they can get it on."
Revolting boy, revolting description.
"No, no, don't panic my dear Snivelly, I've figured it all out for you."
"I know you don't have mates, and certainly not any dates - except maybe the ones you eat - but you can still be part of the lovely spirit! See, I've been helping Prongs decorate for his night with Lily, and he's gone to get her, but I couldn't help but feel that it was missing something. The cherry on top, the finishing touch, the condom on the john. And then, as fate would have it, I ran into you!" Black spread his arms, looking delighted. Snape was red in the face, partially from anger but mainly because he was still upside down. "I'm so glad you're volunteering, Sniv, my pal, for this noble duty ensures the continuation of love and the next generation. What better way to encourage Prongs and the beautiful Miss Evans to get it on," he continued as Snape sputtered incoherently, "than a couple of bunnies to provide an example! And to top it all off, you'll get the release you desperately need!"
That was how Snape had spent his Valentine's evening in his seventh year. Stuck in a ridiculously decorated room, locked in the form of a bunny, and spray-painted pink "because colour-changing charms don't seem to stick on grease, do they Sniv?" Why and where Black had obtained a spray-can, Snape was sure he didn't want to know. The look of adoration on Lily's face as she gazed at Potter had confusingly haunted both his nightmares and fantasies in the years that followed.
Around the next corner, a crash rang out, and a small "oops" followed the disturbance. Snape sighed, wishing that he was anywhere else, rounded the corner. In his not-fully-inebriated state, Snape still managed to trip over the fallen suit of armour. knocking into something else on the way down. Dumbledore walked by and handed Snape his discarded flask. Giving a grateful nod to the retreating Headmaster, Snape took a swig and tried to stand up, when he hit something else and fell again. He heard a small "eep," and looked up to catch a glimpse of the youngest Weasley boy's face before it disappeared again.
There was really only one possible conclusion. "I guess Weasssley's gettin' i' on with tha' ghoss now," slurred Snape. He lay there for a while longer, frowning to himself, before staggering to his feet and stumbling towards the dungeons. Screw patrols, this called for spirits of the liver-destroying kind.
As he made it to the stairs, the small coherent remains of Snape's mind caught a mumbled, "we really need to get better at moving around under this thing," but by that point, the Potions Master was far too gone to care. The last thing he remembered that night was the odd recollection that ghosts weren't invisible, and Weasley was still a first-year, not an adventurous (horny) teenager.
Harry cast a slightly worried glance at his friend. They had guessed the correct combination on Flitwick's bike lock, struck a deal with a surprisingly scholarly Mandrake, and evaded the pink killer-rabbit that Hagrid had placed but was, as the large man insisted, inspired by Snape. McGonagall's upside-down chessboard had been headache-inducing, but nothing they couldn't handle. Or nothing Ron couldn't handle, who had to sacrifice himself just before they won the game, and was still stuck to the ceiling. Inversions always confused Harry, but regardless he and Hermione pressed forward. A tribute of lemon drops unlocked the next door. At the sound of voices, Harry hesitated, turning to his bushy-haired friend.
"I think this is it, Hermione. Ready to save Flamel's pet rock or whatever it was?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, Harry. We need to get the Stone away from You-Know-Who. I'm ready."
With a nod, Harry flung the door open. The two rushed in, then stopped as abruptly as they had started. Partially facing them, Snape was sitting on a stool. Wedged under his nose was a bottle that was rapidly draining into the Professor's mouth. Snape slammed the bottle down on the table he was sharing with another man who sported a purple turban. Looking around his nose, Snape caught sight of the two first years.
"Ooooohh, we have visitors," he cheered, clapping his hands. "Check it out Q-man, friends!"
Professor Quirrell turned around, loosely gripping his own bottle. "Hmm, tha's pretty nice- oh shit! Master, it's Potter!"
"Told ya I wasn't into ya, Q," mumbled Snape.
"Potter? He's here?" came a third disembodied voice, sounding both slightly muffled and raspily echoey. Harry began to feel irritated at the contradictory acoustics. "Well don't just sit there, kill him!"
Quirrell lunged at the boy, hands outstretched. Harry jumped to the side, slapping the man's hands away. "Ahh! My hands master, they're burning!"
"You imbecile! Let me see" retorted the nonsensical voice. Harry's eye twitched.
Quirrell took a step back, took one end of his turban, and cracked his wrist like it was a whip, swiftly and dramatically pulling the fabric off of his head. However, it also ripped his head to the side, and something snapped. Quirrell face-planted at Snape's feet, but another face was still looking up.
Harry gasped, "Is that Voldemort?"
"You worthless man," raged the extra face. "How are you supposed to serve me if you're paralyzed?!"
That was when Snape looked down.
Quirrell and the other guy screamed. Snape's nose had swung down and penetrated Voldemort's eye, and stabbed into Quirrell's brain. "Oops," muttered Snape as he reached out to wipe off the end of his now-bloody nose. Hermione looked about ready to faint, probably because her dreams of reliable authority figures were being brutally shattered and desecrated. Harry watched as Quirrell simultaneously bled out and burned up from the contact with The-Boy-Who-Lived. It was a bit gruesome, Snape's nose was evidently a fearsome weapon.
Then, in a final act of vengeance, a smokey spirit burst out of Quirrell's body and flew through Harry. The intense smell of garlic and the morbid spirit was too much, and the boy hit the ground, out cold.
The Gryffindors were partying. This wasn't exactly uncommon, except for two things. The first being that the Lions had been dead last in points for the past 3 months, with no hope of making a comeback. The second was who their House Cup saviours were, and how they had gotten their points.
Harry had missed the end-of-year feast and was only just getting back to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady swung open her portrait, to loud cheers.
"Way to go Harry!"
"You did it mate!"
It was a frenzy. Harry was dragged through the crowd, and forced on top of a large table shared by Ron, Hermione, and… Neville?
A seventh year jumped onto a chair. "Lions!" he yelled, and the crowd roared. "I propose a toast," he continued, raising his cup full of… something.
"To red and gold!" yelled someone, to cheers.
"To finally beating those bastard snakes!" someone else screamed, accompanied by more cheering.
"And to our saviours!" cried the seventh year. He kept going, over the ensuing noise, "to Hermione Granger, for being a brilliant pyromaniac!"
The Gryffindors roared their approval.
"To Ron Weasely, for a bloody epic chess game!"
The cheering grew louder, members of the house screaming their approval and stamping their feet.
"To Harry Potter! Because he broke the rules in such a bloody epic way that they HAD to give him points for it!"
Harry didn't think it was possible for his housemates to get any louder than this.
"And finally, Neville Longbottom! And I quote, 'body positivity or some shit, even though he's probably gonna be hot in a few years.' Yeah, Neville!"
Harry was wrong, the Gryffindors could get louder. Banging on walls, tables, and the ceiling. Screams, whistles, intoxicated toasts, and drinking. In the corner, Percy Weasley was alternating between clapping his hands and sipping from a fluorescent orange Fiji water bottle.
Deciding to forget about the train departing the next day, Harry pumped his fist in the air, to more roars from his fellow Gryffindors. Tonight, he was happy.
AN: And that's first year, done! The story will continue, and I am very excited for it. Hope you are enjoying it!
An alternate ending to first year:
"Ten billion points to Gryffindor! Fuck you snake, Gryfflepuff wins!" Dumbledore slapped the table and fell over.
Were all the teachers drunk?
Yes, that was taken from some vine/tiktok/other meme video. Doesn't fit super well into the story, and obviously can't in good conscious use someone else's idea that blatantly. There's actually another reason that it isn't as obvious, and is also why Harry wasn't at the end of term feast, but I won't say what yet. Let me know what you think of this ridiculous disaster. I won't beg, but reviews and feedback is always appreciated. Cheers