Slythies! - The Slytherin Revolution...A Musical

CHAPTER ONE - The Revolution Begins...

"Professor McGonagall! Professor McGonagall!"

Minerva McGonagall, tireless educator extraordinaire, uttered an unladylike cross between a "huh?" and a snort as she jerked upright in her chair. Her eyes took a moment to adjust (as did her brain, which was presently still lingering on her aborted dream about that dashing Muggle thespian Sean Connery...), and once they did, she could make out a sea of anxious young faces spread out before her. They belonged to students, all seated at desks, their posture rigid with fear, and the vast majority of them were wearing scarves of grey and green...

Slytherins...McGonagall's sleep-addled mind struggled back to alertness, but somehow skipped past "logic" on its way there. Slytherins - but I don't like Slytherins that much. I don't know why...they just aren't as trustworthy as Gryffindors, though I don't like to generalise. But why am I suddenly in a room with so many of them? Oh, God, could it be? No! Oh, I knew that this day would come! Help me, Lord, I've been captured by Slytherins!

For a moment, she considered whipping out the stiletto dagger that she kept concealed in her stocking, then cutting down as many as she could as she made a break for the door, but the second the idea crossed her mind, her wakening memory cancelled it out and offered an explanation that made a great deal more sense than being kidnapped by a pack of eleven-year-olds.

Detention. I was...monitoring...afternoon detention up in the...tower detention room, wasn't I? Yes, that's right. That would explain why there are so many Slytherin children here - all troublemakers, I'm afraid. A bad lot...why, that boy has been in detention at least nine times since the first day!

Recovering admirably from her ungraceful awakening, McGonagall smoothed back a few strands of hair that had escaped from their severe bun, and corrected her posture until she once again looked like the resident elegant dragon-lady. She looked out once more on the collection of future degenerates, and caught sight of a little hand waving frantically in the air. That hand led down to a scrawny arm, and that arm in turn led to an undersized first year with dark gold hair, a sharp little face, and darting copper-coloured eyes. She recognised the boy as a Slytherin by the name of Cyrus Cutler - slightly birdlike in appearance and more than slightly mischievous in behaviour, who already promised to make his educational career at Hogwarts seven years of complete and utter hell for the staff...

"Yes, Mr. Cutler," said McGonagall, leaning forward over her desk and shooting the boy a weary look, "What is it this time?"

"Well, miss," sputtered the little runt, casting nervous glances in the direction of one of the tower room's windows, "It's, er, that...while you were asleep..."

"Yes, yes?"

"Well, professor, miss..." The child's brow furrowed in distress. "It's just that...well, he's gone out the window, you see!"

"Who's gone out the window?"

"Severus, miss! Severus Snape!"

It took every ounce of Minerva McGonagall's formidable self-control to stop her from slamming her forehead down on the desk in exasperation. Cutler was full of lies, full of wild stories, and full of something else that her good breeding prevented her from mentioning even in private thought...

"Mr. Cutler," she said instead, massaging her temples and feeling very harassed, "What in kind of tales are you telling now?"

This time, a slight, large-eyed boy of Arab heritage - whom McGonagall recognised as Cutler's friend and fellow Slytherin, Darius Sayid - answered her.

"I saw it, Professor McGonagall," he said, pointing to the open window with an expression of absolute honesty, "He crept out of his seat once you had fallen asleep, made his way over to that window, leaped up on the sill, and hurled himself out into space."

"Yes, yes!" piped up Cutler, "Oh, miss, it's true! He flung himself out that window, just there, really he did! I saw it all, miss - he shouted, "Goodbye, cruel world!" Oh, it were awful, miss! Awful! I even suspect that I'll be needing some sort of mental therapy, miss, counselling...!"

"Severus did all of that?" McGonagall raised an eyebrow, and allowed her voice to reveal just a little dignified sarcasm. "He managed to do all of that while I was asleep? Without waking me? I see..."

"Well, you were snoring, Professor, miss. Just a little."

McGonagall felt her cheeks burn at that, but she managed to keep her face set in its disapproving lines. She leaned back in her chair, her demeanour that of a cool, unimpressed authority figure. Usually, imaginative Slytherins didn't get her acting so jumpy - dear God, the woman could stare down a werewolf until it ran crying for its mother - but lately, the little tykes had been getting more and more audacious. School had only been in session for about a month, but already, the rebellious nature of the Slytherin house was beginning to show itself, becoming bolder by the day.

She wasn't exactly sure as to where this particularly strong spirit was coming from, but throughout her years of teaching, Minerva McGonagall had learned that such mass disobedience could usually be traced back to the ideas of a single person, or of a small group. That person, or persons, would have a strong influence over a larger collection of students, whether it was through threats or through simple charisma, and consequently, their followers could be made to do virtually anything. "Anything" included pranks, riots, impertinent behaviour in the face of a professor...in short, something that was not to be tolerated, even for a moment. Eventually, she and the rest of the staff would ferret out the ringleaders of the first-years' defiance, if there even were ringleaders. For now, she could only curb the antics of certain individuals...

"Mr. Sayid, Mr. Cutler - and anyone else who was thinking of jumping in with their own addition to this nonsense..." McGonagall fixed the assembled students with a look that was stern, yet not entirely unkind, "Please, keep your imaginations in check. Detention is no place to behave in this foolish manner, and I will not stand for it. You were told to copy lines when this session began, were you not?"
"Yes, professor..." came the chorus of mumbled replies, as the students cast sullen glances at the blank scrolls that lay on their desks.

"Hop to it, then," said McGonagall with a nod of her head, "And let us have no more distractions. Am I rightly understood?"

"Yes, professor..."

"Good." McGonagall smiled thinly. Then, she rose from her seat and began to circle the classroom, lazily surveying the students' work as they scribbled away with their quills. She noticed that there was an empty desk at the back of the room, and that that Snape boy was indeed nowhere to be seen. But that was to be expected - after all, one could not carry out an effective prank concerning the suicide of a student if said student is in plain sight.

So where had he hidden? The room was used as a detention hall the whole year through, and thus was appropriately bare of furniture with the exception of the desks and chairs. There was neither a cupboard nor a closet to be found, and it would be impossible to stuff an eleven-year-old into one of those desks without some sort of shrinking spell...so where could he have gone?

"All right, Mr. Cutler." McGonagall turned to face the boy. "Where is Severus?"

"Where, professor?" Cyrus looked up from his scroll.

"Yes, tell me where he is."

"I already told you, miss," the child replied, jerking his head towards the window. "Out there! Out the window!"

"Out the window!" repeated the rest of the students, as if singing the refrain of some song - or chanting a verse from a satanic ritual. "Yes, yes, out the window!"

"Mr. Cutler, students, please. I distinctly remember discussing this silliness with you a moment ago..."

"Check out there for yourself, miss-professor-madam!"

The young Slytherin's eyes were large, pleading, innocent...and McGonagall was getting the definite impression that that was all an act. She was also getting the feeling that Cyrus Cutler was incapable of uttering a single sentence that didn't end in an exclamation point - and that he was still telling ridiculous lies.

"Mr. Cutler, why would I do that?" McGonagall's tone was calm, but there was an underlying note of impatience meant to gently warn the boy that he'd better choose his words wisely.

"Because, miss," answered Cyrus with a child's trademark logic, "You'd find Severus spread out all over the ground below, and then you wouldn't think I was lying to you, professor!"

McGonagall opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again and sighed. What could it hurt? She'd find Severus soon enough, and when she did, he would receive the proper punishment for such disgraceful behaviour.

"Very well, Mr. Cutler," she said, "I will go to the window, from which Severus has - as you say - leaped out into oblivion. Mind you, I am only taking your suggestion because I wish to prove that you are indeed telling lies. Fair enough?"

"Yes, miss, but..."

"Good."

McGonagall strode over to the window, feeling rather satisfied with the way that she was handling the situation. She pondered once more over the possibility of a Slytherin revolution (if such a laughable collection of weak pranks could be counted as a revolution), and also over the existence of a ringleader. She'd bet sixty galleons that it was Cutler, for a start, but Severus Snape was another likely candidate. Yes, she could certainly see that moody little boy, even at the tender age of eleven, standing atop the proverbial soapbox and preaching about Slytherin rights...

Except that now she could see him sprawled out on the grass seventy feet below the tower window, just as she had expec - wait.

Wait.

"SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!"

It was not by magical means that Minerva McGonagall descended the corkscrew of stairs leading down from the tower room - her speed was born of raw panic. She hardly used the steps at all, seeming instead to glide down the entire flight on air and screams. Caught up in this mad dash, she nearly barrelled straight into Filch, who gave her a sour look as he dodged and stalked away. McGonagall didn't notice him any more than she noticed Madam Pomfrey, the young prefect, or the rather confused-looking ghost that she plunged into in her frantic efforts to get to the bottom of the stairs...and by the time that she reached the last step, crossed the hallway, and flung the courtyard door open, she had run over no less than fifteen house elves that had happened to be bustling through the hall on their ways to the kitchens.

McGonagall prepared herself for the worst as she made her way to the spot where Severus had...fallen. Being a typical winding staircase, one ended up on the opposite side of the tower upon reaching the bottom of them, and she had to pick her way gingerly through a prized rose patch to reach the...point of impact.

Curse Albus and his fancies! Who decorates a tower used for detention with pink, fragrant roses?! Ow, ow...oh, that Snape boy! What has he done...? Why did Cutler and the others just tell me instead of playing silly games?

A small, motionless body came into view as she rounded the side of the tower, and even from far away, it was unquestionably Severus Snape. He lay in a heap of black robes, his still form looking tragically stark against the healthy green of the grass beneath him. McGonagall took a deep breath and rushed to the first year's side, dropping down onto her knees to better assess the damage.

He isn't as bloodied as I would have thought, but there's no breath...she noted grimly. Gently, she placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and shook him, and received no response. No reaction. Is there...oh, come on, boy...no. No pulse. No...why do they do it? What is so miserable about any child's life that he would think to put an end to it? From the moment that I first laid eyes upon the boy, I thought he seemed troubled. But then I thought it was just a façade to cover up that streak of mischief...oh, I was wrong. This isn't mischief...this is real. This is terrible. He was in my charge, too! Why didn't they wake me when they realised what he was about to do? WHAT WAS THE BLOODY POINT IN WAITING UNTIL HE'D DONE IT?!

She sat back, rocking onto her heels, and looked in misery at the tragedy that she had been unable to prevent. Death certainly did make things seem smaller and more vulnerable than they had appeared in life; though he had been pale and slight of frame while he was alive, the boy now seemed almost cadaverous. It wouldn't be long before he ceased to resemble his living self at all.

McGonagall ran through a mental list of what would have to be done now. The first matter of business, of course, would be to alert Dumbledore of the incident, and then there would be the removal of the body and the summoning of the proper authorities...

...And then, someone would have to contact his family. Being, as she was, the first to come across the accident (though she supposed "accident" wasn't the correct term to use), McGonagall assumed that that unenviable task would fall to her. Through the thickening fog of her disbelief, the distraught professor tried to recall any fact that she may have heard about Severus Snape's parents.

I remember that...they were fairly wealthy, weren't they? An entire family of Slytherins...father's name was...Septimus? No, of course it wasn't...Claudius? Yes, that was it. "Mr. Claudius Snape, it is with great regret that I, Professor Minerva McGonagall, inform you..."

Her heart sank at the thought of having to write those words out on parchment, but she knew that she would have to. Difficult as it was, it was her duty...and, under the circumstances, the very least she could do.

The mother's name is Olivia...

"Professor?"

McGonagall looked up, and saw Cyrus Cutler waving at her from the infamous window. His expression was sombre.

"What, Mr. Cutler?" said McGonagall.

"I told you, didn't I?"

"Yes, I suppose you did." Her voice was wooden, dulled by shock and guilt. If only she had been awake, she might have been able to stop him...

"Professor?" called another student from above.

"What, Mr. Sayid?"

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"I...yes. Yes, Mr. Sayid, I believe he is." McGonagall's heart sank as she forced herself to tell him the cold truth. If only she had been more vigilant, she could have spotted the boy's depression and taken measures to help him...

"Professor?"

"What, Mr. Snape?"

The reply was automatic, but the following reaction was more logical. McGonagall's eyes darted back down to the corpse in front of her, and found it propped up on its elbows, smiling pleasantly.

It...it's impossible! McGonagall just stared in amazement and horror. How in the world could he...?

"So, tell me, Professor McGonagall," said Severus Snape, very alive and grinning wryly, "Don't they have death-simulation potions where you come from? I'd be quite glad to lend you a book on the subject. They're so simple, even a child could mix one..."

* * * * *

Detention was concluded early that day. The common understanding was that Professor McGonagall, in her wisdom, had decided to allow those students in her care to retire to their dormitories for a chance to study their textbooks and thereby better themselves...and that the professor herself would retire to her private quarters for a chance to lie down and thereby better her heart rate.

"Game - set - match." Cyrus Cutler said with a grin, exiting the stuffy confines of the detention room with Darius Sayid and Severus "Hero-of-the-Moment" Snape on either side of him. Darius was smiling with barely-contained delight, obviously proud, in this hour of triumph, to be a Slytherin.

"You've got guts, mate," continued Cyrus, fairly jumping up and down with glee, "Guts that I think the McGonagorgon fully expected to see smeared all over the rose patch. Brilliant ...simply brilliant."

"And I think the bleeding's likely to stop any time now," Darius put in optimistically.

"That would be nice..." Severus said, his voice slightly muffled by the wad of tissues that engulfed his nose. "I've got admit, I was surprised when she forwent the customary fainting fit and went straight into hysterics. Aagh...I've also got to admit that that woman has truly impressive right hook..."

"Yes," replied Darius contemplatively, "Should the dear lady ever encounter a real zombie, I doubt that she'd need magic to defend herself."

"What I didn't understand, though," Severus went on, wincing, "Was the fact that she somehow felt the need to put her fist through my face, then run all the way to her office, snap up a copy of The Daily Prophet, and then return to start beating me with it. I ask you, was that necessary?"

"Hardly."

"I thought not."

"She pretty much levelled you right off with that punch, anyway."

"Thanks." Severus risked removing the clump of tissues from his injury, grimacing slightly as he did so. "All right, now, tell me straight...how bad is it?"

"Hmmm..." Darius raised a dark eyebrow. "What d'you think, Cyrus?"

Cyrus made face and examined his friend's profile with a critical eye.

"Well," he said after a moment, "What shape was it prior to its meeting with the McGonagorgon's knuckles?"

"Shape? It was shaped like a nose!"

"A human nose?"

"Of course a human nose!"

"Then we've got a problem..."

"Why? How is it shaped now?"

"Oh, my, this sort of thing requires surgical intervention..."

"Cyrus, stop it!" said Darius crossly, putting a hand on Severus' shoulder. "Look, Severus, it's not that bad. It's just sort of...hooked now."

"It was hooked before!" Severus sniffed a few times, trying to get used to nasal breathing again. "Every male relative in our family has a hooked nose. My mother always told me it was some sort of ancestral thing. She said having this sort of nose is part of being a Snape."

"Oh, yeah...as I remember it now, it was hooked before she bashed you." Cyrus shrugged flippantly. "Silly little me. Only known you for a month, mate - I'm still trying to get all the nuances of your charming personality down, so naturally I've got no time for things like noses. Anyway, I didn't alarm you too much, did I?"

"Remind me again why I even bother talking to you..." Severus said irritably, crumpling up the bloodied tissues and tossing them into a nearby wastepaper bin.

"Because I'm the best friend you could get, Severus, me lad," replied Cyrus with a flourish. "Who else would help you to play such a magnificent practical joke on a teacher? You can't do that stuff alone, you know. Besides, we're Slytherins - joined in brotherhood against our foes."

"She did scream pretty loudly, didn't she?"

"Yes." Darius nudged his friend conspiratorially. "I've got a feeling that you're going to make a great deal of trouble for this school, Sev."

"That's the plan, Darius. I..." Severus paused, and a somewhat bemused expression crossed his face. "Hey, Darius - did you just call me 'Sev,' by any chance?"

"Sorry." Darius looked away, evidently a little embarrassed. "It just slipped out. If you aren't keen on it..."

"No, no...I actually kind of like it. 'Sev...' Sounds a lot better than 'Severus,' let me tell you."

"As far as nicknames go," said Cyrus, "I was just going to annoy you by going around calling you 'Snape,' but I guess that'll never fly. Very well...'Sev' it is. And now Sev, O Great Slayer of the McGonagorgon, what is your next plan for the preservation and the promotion of the most marvellous but most maligned house of Slytherin? Hmmm? Speak! Don't keep us in suspense!"

"Well, seeing as I am the 'Great Slayer,' as well as the something-hundredth-or-other Slytherin in my bloodline..." Severus trailed off, evidently deep in thought, before finishing with an anticlimactic shrug.

"Oh, come on!" Cyrus whined, "What are you up to?"

"Nothing at the moment." Severus smiled slightly and brushed a few strands of dark hair out of night-black eyes. "But, later on, who knows? We've only started our first year, gentlemen...and we're trapped in this hellhole for seven."