Rain

Some time later....

"Dear God. You listen to David Bowie?"

"What. Something wrong with that, Sev?"

"Don't call me that. No, nothing's wrong with Bowie, it's just... I never imagined you as, mm... well..."

"Sod off, Snape. And what do you listen to? Let me guess. Rachmaninoff and Wagner."

"Naturally."

"Hmph. Aristo swine."

"... of course, they're not all I listen to. If you're interested, I'll loan you my Sex Pistols records sometime."

"..."

"What?"

"..."

"Don't look at me like that, Hooch."

"Jeezus Muggle Christ. Sorry. You like the Pistols?"

"I don't know if it's occurred to you, Peregrin, but the three years' difference in our ages does not mean a gap of Paleolithic proportions. If you can like Bowie, I see no reason why I can't like the Sex Pistols."

"Yeah, yeah, unwad your knickers, Snape. I was just commenting. You're just... I just can´t see you at a Pistols concert. You know?"

"Hmph."

"Oh stop it. Have another drink, Sev."

"I told you not to call me that."

****

"Let me make sure I've *hic* got this straight. You quit playing professional Quidditch because of a stalker?"

"Shut up. The bastard was bloody insane. You'd quit something too, if you got forty-seven owls in one day, all saying things like the only way you could look better on the pitch was if you flew without your uniform robes. Sick bastard."

"Doesn't the Ministry do something about those sort of people?"

"No, Snape, that would mean the Ministry is at some point useful. ...I reported it two or three times, and the idiots *hic* I talked to all acted like I'd done something to de-sherve it. Pigs."

"Now that's something I can toast. Here's to the Ministry being the biggest conglomeration of idiots, wastes-of-space, and pigs assembled on the face of the earth."

"Hear, hear."

=Clink=

=glurg swallow gulp=

"...gasp. P-potent shit. So. You came here to work for Albus."

"Well... not right away. I was enjoying the married life at the time, and when Albus's owl showed up-- what?"

"Excuse me while I *hic* adjust myself to the concept of you being married. Oh, good, I managed not to spit my liquor... now, what's all this about you married?"

"Er. Well. He was... he was a sweet man," Hooch said, her face growing wistful. "A Muggle, actually. We met at a soccer game I went to, just to see what it was like... Daniel Hopkins. He was a civil engineer, or something like that. Bit of a shock for him when I said I was a witch, on the second date. He j... jo... joking-- *hic* jokingly asked if I had a broomstick too, so I took him up to me apartment and asked him which model he was referring to. This was when I was still playing for the Falcons, mind..." She trailed off into nothing, staring at the ceiling.

Snape turned his bottle around in his hands, fascinated by the way light gleamed through the amber-coloured liquor. "So... what happened to him?"

"Car accident. Such a silly, stupid thing. We'd been married about two years. He drove off to work. Never came home. They rung me up to tell me, and that was that. I... after that, I accepted the job offer. I needed something to keep me busy.

"... all right, Snape. Your turn."

"What? Oh no. I've never been married."

"Didn't think so. No, I was talking *hic* about why you quit Quidditch."

"Beg your pardon."

She sighed and began to explain, in the tone of voice one used with a small child, "My first year at Hogwarts. You were Chasing for Slytherin. You were good, too. My s-shecond year, you weren't on team. What happened?"

"I lost interesht, I imagine," Snape slurred dully, taking a swallow from his drink.

"Bollocks. Someone doesn't jusht 'lose interest' like that. What happened?"

Snape sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "...If you remember me playing, you no doubt remember James Potter."

"'Course. Who doesn't. I swear, the stunts he pulled as a Seeker... two of you never got along, did you?"

"An un- under- understatement worthy of a Slytherin. ...anyways, I'd hoped of being moved up to Seeker, someday... but that nitwit MacNair was captaining, and he thought the only way to match Potter's speed was with brawns and force. I'd never have gotten where I wanted, or had a chance to face off squarely with Gryffindor's golden boy. So I quit. Found other things to occupy my time. Quidditch bored me after that. Still does, to be honest."

"Why the hell didn't you stick with it. Captains change. You might have gotten to play."

Snape glared at her. "I just didn't care. Quidditch wasn't my life. I had other things on my mind. Don't you go-- *hic* judging me."

"Unwad your knickers, Sev. Just commenting. I'm drunk, y'know."

"Obvioushly. And don't call me that."

****

"My God. You're totally sh- shmas- shmash- ed--... drunk."

"S-speak f'r... y'rshelf... I'm *hic* completely shober. Com. Pletely."

"...C-come off it, woman."

"You firsht."

"...

"Han' me anoth'r bottle..."

****

"Do y'know, I think whoever first invented the Sobering Spell is a bloody genius. Post-mortem Order of Merlin is called for."

"So you say now. Sobering spells have nasty aftereffects. The drunkenness is not removed, just post-poned... and it's cumulative."

"Shut up and deal the cards, Snape."

"grumble snark..."

"All right. Hmmm. Er, two cards, please."

"Mm."

"Hmm."

"... *swallow*... gasp..."

"Pass me another bottle, will you."

"I fold."

"You can't fold!"

"Well, I am."

"But. But. Oh come on, Severus Snape. I have the bloody best hand I have ever had and you want to fold. Damn you to hell."

"Join the club... you know, playing for imaginary sums gets very dull after a while."

"You got a better suggestion?"

"..."

"Snape. What are you thinking, Snape? I don't trust the look on your face..."

"Nothing. Never mind."

"What? Tell."

"No, it's not important."

"Come on! Tell."

"No."

"Tell! Tell! Tell! Tell!"

".... gods, you're going to kill me... alright. Strip poker."

"....

"....

"....

".... I'm going to need to get really drunk for this."

****

"Call."

"*hic* Full... housh..."

"Oh Merlin dam' my eyesh. Damn."

"Pay... up."

"Right. *hic*.... er.... dam' theesh b-buttonsh..."

"Need *hic* help withat, Peregrin?"

"You wipe that grin off your faysh, Shnape, or so help me I'll- *hic* I'll- *hic* *hic* do it fo' you."

"An' jusht how are you going to do that?"

"Like thish."

"..."

"..."

"Oh."

"Yeh."

"Neither of ush are going to remember thish tomorrow *hic* morning, are we?"

"Dear God I hope not."

****

"Mmm."

"Ohh."

"Shit."

"..."

"Mm. Mmm. Mnnn."

".... bedroom."

".... yeh."

"That door?"

"Yeh."

"Mmm."

****

"On the day of breasts and small hips

The window pocked with bad rain,

Rain coming on like a minister,

We coupled, so sane and insane."

--Anne Sexton

Part four coming soon.