Impending Doom

I glowered around the Great Hall. Teenagers talked and laughed whilst shovelling food down their gullets, no doubt spraying one another carelessly with bits of masticated chicken. The buzzing conversations that were poisoning the air in the room were annoying me no end. Why can't they just eat in silence and save their inane chatter for a time when they are well away from me?

Even more irritating, Lupin was sitting directly to my left, having a lively conversation with Flitwick, who was sitting directly to my right. I scowled at Lupin. He either didn't notice or chose to ignore me and continued his ridiculous conversation about the Quidditch Cup. Having failed to provoke a reaction there I turned around and glowered at Flitwick, but stopped abruptly upon realisation that I was in fact glowering right over his head at Hagrid. He met my scowl with a loud, cheerful "Alrigh', Professor?" when he saw me looking his way.

No, I'm not, you great oaf

, I felt like saying. I refrained, however, and chose not to bother dignifying the idiotic question with an answer. Instead I began viciously attacking a chunk of cauliflower on my plate, imagining with grim pleasure that it was Lupin's head...then Flitwick's...Potter...Longbottom...

"Of course, for that to happen, Slytherin would have to beat Ravenclaw," Flitwick was saying, "and my team have been training extremely hard this year, so..." Here he cast me a look that was ridiculously sympathetic. I glared at him but said nothing. I absolutely did not need or want sympathy. If he thought a group of insufferable know-it-alls were going to beat Slytherin, the house of the cunning, he could think again.

Lupin nodded. "Yes, I've seen them training out on the Quidditch pitch. It should be an interesting match this weekend."

I considered going to the Headmaster, who was currently engaged in a conversation about lemon drops with Minerva, and suggesting, again, that he make it against school policy to talk in the Great Hall. It would certainly make my mealtimes more enjoyable. He had so far refused, however, choosing instead to encourage that sort of foolish buffoonery. I resolved to try again later. If at first you don't succeed ...

As I sat there, despondently trying to come up with a convincing argument for my case, I tried to cheer myself up by seeing how many students I could terrify. It's a way of keeping myself sane during meals. I award myself ten points per Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and five per Hufflepuff, because they're just too damn easy. If I manage to terrify one into hysterics, I get fifteen. I smirked as a Hufflepuff first year squealed and tried to hide behind a prefect.

Everyone needs a hobby.

For a bit more of a challenge, I let my gaze rove over to the Gryffindor table where the first student to catch my eye was none other than Longbottom. I darkened my scowl and curled my upper lip into a sneer. Almost unconsciously, my right hand went up to feel the bump on my head that had been sustained just over a week ago due to Longbottom's determination to destroy all who stand in the way of his plan for world domination. His eyes widened and he dropped his fork under the table. Nice show, Longbottom, I thought. Pity it isn't working on me. Potter, following Longbottom's 'terrified' stare, looked up at me. I raised my eyebrows, daring him to even blink at me wrongly. Wisely, he chose not to look adopt a defiant or impertinent facial expression, and instead averted his eyes back to his food.

Satisfied, I looked back to Longbottom. He's planning something, I thought, and as I watched him crawl under the table, my heart sank. I didn't know what he was doing down there under the guise of looking for his fork, but I had the distinct impression that I was going to regret looking at him like that very soon ...

I had considered telling Albus about Longbottom's penchant for the dark arts, but decided against it. I'd have to deal with Longbottom myself. The man's far too trusting. Quirrell, Lockhart, Crouch ... even Lupin shouldn't be trusted, dark creature that he is.

Said dark creature was now looking at me curiously. "Are you alright, Severus? You're looking very worried about something."

I realised that I was gripping my fork so hard my knuckles were white, and I forced myself to loosen my grip. "Thank you for your touching concern, Lupin, but I assure you I'm fine."

He nodded, though attempting no pretence that he believed me, and went back to his meal.

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

"Fizzing Whizbees."

The gargoyle didn't move. I sighed in annoyance. That had been the password yesterday. Mentally, I scrolled through the list of teeth-rotting rubbish that could be purchased at Honeydukes.

"Fudge Flies ... Cockroach Clusters ... Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans ..."

The gargoyle stared stonily up at me. I resisted the urge to kick it.

"Droobles Best Blowing Gum ... Ice Mice ... Pepper Imps ..."

I was now fairly wound up, but still the bloody gargoyle remained stationary.

"Jelly Slugs! Chocolate Frogs! Acid Pops!"

I was rapidly approaching blood-boiling level. The gargoyle, looking extremely smug, didn't move an inch.

"SUGAR BLOODY QUILLS!" I roared, drawing my wand. I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted to do with it; blast the bloody thing to smithereens with the Reductor curse, maybe, but I was saved from having to think of something by an angry voice down the hall.

"Severus!" I groaned inwardly. Minerva was stalking towards me, the look she usually reserved for misbehaving students and Trelawney pasted firmly onto her face.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" she demanded. "Cursing like a sailor in the middle of the hall and threatening Albus's gargoyle!"

I took a calming deep breath. Well, the intended effect was calming, but the end result just antagonised Minerva further, having obviously mistaken it for an exasperated sigh. "I was merely trying to get up to see the Headmaster," I answered, with the air of one talking to an extremely dunderheaded Hufflepuff.

"With your wand?"

I paused. "Yes ..."

"Pumpkin Pasties," she said, casting me a pointed glare, and with what I was sure was a priggish look at me, the gargoyle leapt neatly aside.

I glowered at it and stomped up the stairs. I thumped the door with a fist. Sod the niceties.

"Come in!" said the perpetually cheerful voice of our esteemed Headmaster. I, however, was in no mood for cheerfulness, and, doing my utmost to exude an air of foreboding, I squared my shoulders and banged open the door.

"Headmaster--" I started.

"Ah, Severus!" he said, indicating a chair. "Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you? Lemon drop?"

A painfully bright yellow bag was thrust into my face. "No, thank you," I gritted out, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. I should know better by now, however, than to make it obvious that something (or as is more often the case, someone) has annoyed me in Albus's presence. Be it an idiotic student, a blusteringly foolish Ministry official or a maddeningly cheerful Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, he is an adamant believer that talking will make everything better. And until the day comes when I can talk him into expelling Potter, Granger, the entire Weasley family and Longbottom, firing Lupin and turning Black in to the Ministry, I will be a firm believer in precisely the opposite.

"Is this about the talking in the Great Hall at mealtimes again?" he asked, moustache twitching.

The way he says it, you'd think it was funny. Already defeated, I tried and failed to come up with something on the spot that was less amusing. "Actually ... yes," I had to grudgingly admit.

"Yes, I did notice that you were looking rather annoyed this evening at dinner," he said with a benign smile. "But maybe if you joined in the conversation, you would find that you have more in common with your fellow professors than you first thought. Poppy is very interested in potions, and you and Remus are the same age--"

"Thank you, but I have no desire even to be in the same room as Lupin, let alone have a conversation with him," I snapped. I generally refrain from snapping at the Headmaster (out of respect, you understand, not tolerance of his insane ideas), but the insinuation that I had things in common with the werewolf infuriated me no end.

Another benign smile. As I sat there, glowering fiercely, tapping my fingers restlessly on the armrest and grinding my teeth, Albus ever so slowly reached for the bag of lemon drops. Even more slowly, he took one out and popped it into his mouth. He paused, savouring the taste (at least, I assume he was; had I been in a more misanthropic mood than I already was I would have assumed he was doing it to annoy me), and eventually offered me the bag. "Are you sure you won't have one?"

Infuriating

. "No, thank you," I ground out, barely combating the urge to grab the bag from him and launch it desperately across the room, laughing maniacally when those infernal chunks of yellow, sticky goo hit the wall and spilled everywhere...

"Well, Severus, I do apologise, but I'm afraid that forbidding conversation at mealtimes would be rather oppressive. Not the atmosphere we're trying to create here, you see."

As I expected. "In that case, Headmaster, I think I'll retire for the night," I said coldly.

"Good night then, Severus," he said with a nod and a smile. Why does he always look so damn amused? I stood up and walked dejectedly over to the door, rather like a sullen child but not caring in the slightest. "Oh, Severus?"

I turned round. "Yes?"

"Are you sure you won't have a lemon drop before you go?"

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

In my rooms later that evening I pondered Longbottom. Would he try to attack Potter? Not that that wouldn't be highly entertaining, but I couldn't allow another attack on school grounds ... or could I ...?

No.

Or ... no. It wouldn't be right.

But then again...it would have the triple effect of having Longbottom removed from the school, Potter possibly dead (although I wasn't overly optimistic on this point given the boy's infernal ability to weasel his way back to safety) and proving to that blithering idiot Fudge that the Dark Lord was indeed back. A fairly tempting series of events...

I groaned and got out of my chair by the fireplace to pour myself a brandy. No. Knowing Longbottom and his blasted Divine Favour, he would find a way to make a complete balls-up of killing Potter, but would cripple me instead. Then he'd escape and disappear, and everyone would think that I killed him, I would be sent to Azkaban, and then Longbottom and Voldemort, together an horrifyingly formidable force, would storm Azkaban and it's curtains for me.

It seemed that this was a lose-lose situation for me. Suffer ridicule, torment and eventually death at the hands of Longbottom and his master ... or protect Potter.

Bugger.

It would have to be the latter. I had done it once before, and I could do it again. Then again, last time Quirrell had been the fool I was trying to save Potter from and the man was jelly on legs. A pathetically brainless invertebrate. Longbottom, though ... Longbottom was something else altogether.

I knocked back the remainder of my brandy and poured myself another. You have to do this, Severus, I told myself. You are a spy. It's part of the double-agent role you took on all those years ago. That settled my resolve. I wasn't going to let Potter out of my sight. Or Longbottom.

I groaned again. Whoever it is that's up in the sky favouring Longbottom is having one hell of a laugh at my expense.