Impending Doom

It was a glorious day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The sun shone brightly over the castle and grounds, shouts and laughter of students could be heard and the sweet perfume of spring and happiness filled the air. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon and one more class that afternoon paved the way to the weekend.

The atmosphere in the entrance hall was one of harmony. Groups of students stood talking and laughing, looking forward to two days of fun and rest. Poor, unsuspecting groups of students. The prickle of nervousness that slowly began to creep up some of their spines was shrugged off at first, the fact that the light seemed to be dimming ignored.

It wasn't long, however, before it became too difficult to ignore to feeling of dread that pierced the happiness in the room. The noise dropped. People began looking round curiously. Then, the smell of terror filled the air. The sun seemed to have been snuffed out completely by the dark, ominous cloud of doom that was now making its terrible way across the entrance hall. People began gasping with fear, and the terrified students fighting their way outside caused a stampede. Injuries were sustained and more than one first year burst into tears. Some stragglers were unlucky enough to be left inside, unable to push their way through the crowds. Some cowered, some defiantly turned around to meet what was coming to them . . .

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Severus Snape was in a foul mood. He stormed through the entrance hall, striking terror into the hearts of the group of paralysed-with-fear first-year Hufflepuffs who had the audacity to be standing where he wanted to walk. Giving them his infamous Death Stare, he swept past with a feeling of sadistic satisfaction at the shrieks of terror he had instigated.

He had just been at a staff meeting where he had discovered that, due to the untimely (at least, as far as he was concerned) sacking of the DADA teacher, Professor DeVil, the werewolf would be coming back to teach for the remainder of the year. DeVil had somehow managed to botch up yet another attempt on Potter's wretched life. You would think, he reflected grimly, that out of the three FULLY-TRAINED dark wizards who tried to slaughter the boy, ONE of those morons would have the intelligence to NOT arse it up.

Strictly speaking, he didn't want the boy dead (although, it would be no skin off his nose), but at least if one of those imbecilic fools was to finally manage to win over the fifteen-year-old brat, everything would go back to normal. No more Lupin, no more Potter, no more Black. No wonder the dark side fell. They have the combined mental capacity of a mound of steamed cabbage.

To add insult to injury (although if Longbottom had any hand in the matter it would almost certainly be the other way round), he had fifth-year Gryffindor-Slytherin potions in ten minutes time. As eroding potions were next on the syllabus, he was seriously considering making a run for it. Maybe if he left now, no one would be any the wiser.

No, Albus would find him, anyway, and he would have to return, amid rumours that he had finally lost it, that he couldn't take the pressure . . . He could already pictures Lupin's "concerned" face and Potter and Weasley's amusement at that turn of events. That thought was worse, somehow, than having Longbottom making eroding potions, so, steeling himself, he strode into his classroom to wait for the accursed class of dungbrained buffoons.

TBC...