Pranking a Professor

Chapter Four: Task Three--Screaming At His Spoon

Hermione awoke the next day to a dawn without the usual blinding light she secretly despised. It was a very cloudy morning she noted, watching a shapeless cloud roll aimlessly about the sky. The promise of rain hung in the crisp autumn air that swept down the shockingly green countryside. Feeling a tiny bit more confident than she was the previous day, she got dressed and ready for her humiliating duty.

"Spoon," she muttered to herself, while attacking the numerous knots in her chestnut hair with furious velocity. "How ridiculous. He never eats breakfast anyway."

Giving up on her hopeless hair, which was more entangling and dangerous than a Devil's Snare that particular morning, she returned her brush to the drawer. A light bulb suddenly flicked on in her head, even though the thought was unlikely, because electricity doesn't work in Hogwarts, as everyone knows. That's it. Snape wouldn't use a spoon, or any other utensil for that matter! He doesn't eat! He never eats! Not breakfast anyway. He just sits there and reads the Daily Prophet and sips tea. A smile flitted across her face and, with renewed zeal, she trotted downstairs. Maybe she wouldn't have to go through with this after all. Bet the Masters of Disaster didn't even think about this one!

As it turns out, Hermione was right, surprisingly enough. Snape wasn't one for sitting down to a nice stack of pancakes and chit chatting with Professor Flitwick. She'd always figured him out catching his breakfast raw and then sucking out his prey's blood, and afterwards leaving the carcass to rot in his dungeons. But the point is, she was right. However...Snape did drink occasionally, as she'd guessed. Of course, certain drinks need to be stirred, so the pain continues for our poor heroine. And if it didn't, there would be no point to this story. Moving right along...

Hermione gave a groan and dragged her hand across her face in agony as her eyes zeroed in on Snape picking up his spoon to stir his...whatever it is that he drinks on the table for breakfast, about eleven minutes into breakfast. You could never be sure with him. Ron and Harry glanced up at the table to see if the plan was to be put in action. Their instincts were correct.

The two boys immediately broke into horrendously false coughing fits, causing most of the students and teachers to look over at Gryffindor table's boys and see what the fuss was about. Hermione ignored the coughing along with her desire to feed chopped Harry and Ron to the skrewts in Care of Magical Creatures class and instead glanced up at the table as casually as possible, which was fairly difficult what with having two ridiculously hacking boys sitting next to her. She did a double take, pretending to notice Snape and his spoon for the first time. She was staring at him with eyes the size of bludgers. He was staring back, holding his spoon in midair. A thick, chunky red liquid was dripping back into his silver goblet in a most nauseating manner. Is that...?! No...couldn't be blood. He can't truly be...could he?

Hermione had little time to ponder the terrifying thought that seeped into her head. She was on a mission, after all. She allowed a horrified expression to wave over her face. Eyes wide and face pale, she jumped up from her seat, trying not to trip on the hem of her robe and omitted a small whimper. She stepped out from the bench quickly, and with one last horrific, gaping look at Snape, she let out a blood-curling scream that awoke Aragog frantically in the Dark Forest, plus the sleepy students with an unceremonious jolt. Hermione ran like a bat out of hell from the enormous dining area, followed by the stares and confused eyes of her peers and educators.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, Professor Dumbledore scratched his head and surveyed Harry and Ron, who were muffling chuckles at their seats as Snape let his spoon fall in his goblet with a clank and ran a hand through his slimy hair exasperatedly.

"What has gotten into Miss Granger lately? What frightened her so bad?" the benevolent Headmaster asked to no one in particular, baffled and watching the elephantine oak doors, thinking she might return to finish breakfast as if nothing had happened. Snape sighed.

"I think there is a plot out amongst certain students to drive me insane," he stated quietly in a weary tone of voice that Dumbledore had never heard before, unless you counted his brother Aberforth and that unfortunate goat incident, but that's another story entirely.

"A plot?" Dumbledore repeated with a chuckle and that damn familiar twinkle in his warm, blue eyes that mesmerized anyone who looked close enough. "Surely Severus, you aren't that paranoid?" Snape simply shook his head at the elder wizard who was currently eating a slice of toast with a peculiar abundance of foreign toppings decorating it. The crumbs fell into his long white beard that was, unbeknownst to him, dipping into his bowl of scalding oatmeal. Snape had the urge to grab the snowy hair of his boss's chin and yank as hard as humanly possible, hoping that the Headmaster's head might ricochet off of the hot bowl and knock some normality into that bizarre brain. Of course, thankfully, Snape didn't follow his thoughts, because he would've been on the unemployment line, not to mention hexed into next week by his powerful elder.

Outside, Hermione leant on the door to the Great Hall and caught her breath, her heart thudding inside her chest. She was starving; she'd only been able to take a sip of pumpkin juice before she had to run. Hopefully he wouldn't use his spoon at any other meal times today so she could actually eat something...but he did. Lunch, for eating a bowl of soup, and dinner, for something that had the same texture of Jell-O. You never know with Snape though, it could've been some kind of body part from a misbehaving Hufflepuff. Hermione wouldn't put it past him. She'd been wondering where Hannah Abbott was... Besides, it seemed more likely that Snape was snacking on a student rather than that delicious muggle treat Hermione adored.

Anyway, it took Snape until dinner and three times when Hermione had stood up, screamed, and raced out of the hall to figure out that she was acting that way only when he picked up his spoon. Students were beginning to stare at him as well; their previous confusion was now replaced with suspicion. He glanced over at Lupin, who simply winked and smiled knowingly, tearing off another piece of meat from a lamb chop. Snape somehow knew that the werewolf was in on this--whatever it was--as well. He considered calling it conspiracy, but perhaps the Headmaster was right. He was probably simply stressed, as he usually is, and starting to jump to conclusions.

...Yeah right.

Later, in the common room, while Hermione was trying to ignore the grumbles in her empty stomach, they all sat down again to plan her next move. Harry and Ron sat together on the couch, looking over the list as Hermione waited, her belly doing flip-flops. Whether it was from hunger or nerves, she wasn't sure. Suddenly Ron pointed to a number on the parchment that sent both boys into a gale of uncontrollable laughter for the umpteenth time in two days.

"Oh Merlin, do I even want to know?" she asked apprehensively. Ron wiped his eyes and sat forward.

"Not really. This, Hermione, is where the game gets interesting. Here's what you have to do."

After Ron uttered the instructions of her next task, the citizens of Hogsmeade nearly went into cardiac arrest when a resounding cry of anger shattered the sound barrier and flew through the atmosphere of the magical community.

Task #4: Learn a charm that shows the undergarments of the victim. You know what to do next.

Duration: Once if you want to live. And even then, survival is not guaranteed.

"HELL NO! ARE YOU CRAZY?!" Hermione shrieked at the boys. Hearing the wail of a banshee would've been less painful. Harry and Ron shrunk away at her yelling, delving into the safe velvet of the couch upholstery. "HE'LL BUTCHER ME ALIVE!!!"

"Hermione calm down! He'll never know who did it!" Ron told her hurriedly, trying not to let the chuckles out of his oral cavity. He was doing better than Harry, whose face was buried in a cushion with his shoulders shaking. Hermione was considering hanging both of her deranged friends by the red and gold ties resting loosely about their necks.

"But he knows what I'm up to, you brick!"

"Think about it Hermione," Harry stated, immerging from the cushion, face red. "It'll be fun! You can't get in trouble because if you do it secretively, he can't accuse you of anything without proof."

Hermione shook her head vigorously. "No. This is where the games end. I absolutely refuse. I am in NO hurry to see what lies beneath those Shakespearean era clothes." She put her foot down so hard she almost sent the world into a flurry of earthquakes, registering 8.0 on the Richter Scale.

"Come on, Hermione! Remember our promise?" Ron pleaded with shining puppy dog eyes.

Hermione hated that face, but even though she knew it was going to wear on her more than she could bear, she said, "Stop it Ron. It's not going to work."

"Hermione, we had a deal. You can't stop now. Just trust me...I swear, if he even looks in your direction, I'll cover for you," Ron reassured.

"Ditto for me," Harry added. There was silence for a long time before Hermione gave an almighty sigh and looked at both the boys sadly, reeking of defeat.

"Fine. Harry, let me borrow your cloak."

"What for?"

"I've got to go to the library to figure out how the hell I'm going to do this."

Hermione nearly spent all night at the library, but after five cups of coffee and twenty Lumos spells, racing around a corner to dodge Peeves, ducking behind a bookshelf to avoid Filch, and giving Mrs. Norris a good kick in the hind quarters, she finally found the right spell during the early morning hours.

"It's from an ancient Latin spell book. Why anyone would use it back then, I don't know," she told the boys, handing Harry back his Invisibility cloak.

"This is going to be great! How does the spell work?" Ron asked, nearly bouncing on his heels.

"Well, it charms the bottom of a person's garments to disappear. Need I go on?" Hermione explained in a manner to suggest that she'd just won the Nobel Prize, a very important muggle award for very important muggle things that have nothing to do with this story.

"Wonderful! He'll be so humiliated! Nothing could go wrong with this one," Harry cried, slapping a high-five with Ron in a motion of extreme satisfaction.

"Not true," Hermione informed them, shaking a finger.

"What?" asked Harry.

"Well, it could hit the wrong person. Snape still hasn't tested our potions; he'll call up victims. He can't stand you two, we all know that, so let's say he calls you up. What if I just happen to accidentally slip while you're up there? You know..." Hermione mimed dropping her wand.

Harry choked and Ron's smile faded.

"You...you can't be serious," Ron stammered.

"Goodnight boys," she called airily, climbing the stairs to her dormitory, hiding an amused grin with a sleepy yawn.