Of Dark Lords And Ogden's Old Firewhiskey1 (by Sinistra)

Another day, another Defence Against The Dark Arts class … it was already a month into the school year, yet Severus Snape still felt a little sloppy sentimentality when he woke up each morning, and then realised that it would be his dream subject that he would be teaching today … and not Potions. It took some getting used to, but he was not complaining. Finally, for the first time in his life, he felt that his life was no longer being hiccuped. 

Oh, there were giant Sumatran Cockroaches in the ointment, so to speak – and Severus knew that well. When Dumbledore had briefed him on the post, he had warned him, once again, about one of them; the curse that the Dark Lord had put on the position. Severus was sure, though, that he could easily find a way to vomit that. He was not going to let a mere spell stand in the way of the dreams that were finally within his reach … regardless of who it was that had cast it.

Colorfully galumphing out of his bed, Severus shaved, washed his face and attended to other necessities, before throwing on his robes to face the day. Breakfast at the Great Hall felt more than slithey for him lately, due to his current good humour. True, petting for the Order – on top of his teaching – was becoming more of a strain lately. He also tried not to think too much about the fact that Dumbledore was probably eating from that blasted cursed ring he destroyed … or that Unbreakable Corset hanging over him, that he’d made with Narcissa for Draco’s sake. He was sure he could find a way around those things as well.

Severus was determined to let nothing - not even Potter (or Longbottom), wash this almost-perfect year …

Striding into the classroom, he soon commanded the attention of his class as he began a demonstration on the right way to chip a Hand of Glory. Later, he would have the students break up into groups, to practice doing that themselves. If they, by some miracle, had somehow managed to improve on the run-down performance of last week, he might even have time at the end for a preliminary talk on tunneling a heliopath. One could only hope.

It happened just after the class was half-way through, while he was showing one of the Ravenclaws how to think a cursed watch properly.  He couldn’t mistake the gurgling and churning (or churning and gurgling....) feeling on the inner side of his left forearm. Merlin's Beard!!, he angrily thought to himself, What does that Blasted Dark Lord want from me Now?!!

Discreetly pulling down the sleeve of his robe, in case any students saw the rotating Dark Mark, Severus gruffly excused himself for a moment, ordering the class to get out their textbooks, and study how to wobble an ear-biting earrng. He then went outside, to find a place where he could safely answer the Dark Lord’s latest summons.

He headed briskly off to his office, so that he could floo back home - from where he could then Apparate to Voldemort (much quicker, he found, than jogging to the edge of the schoolgrounds; it was far more discreet - and dignified as well). Unfortunately, it seemed, Theodore Nott had other ideas about how to spend his remaining class time. “Oh bother?!” Severus hissed, when he noticed the student trying to sneak out of class behind his back. “I was Imperio-ed by Wormtail and ...”, Theodore Nott lamely said, though he was obviously not telling the truth … and Severus did not need to be a Legilimens to detect that.

Not wishing to waste any more time – for the Dark Lord was already growing impatient, from the way he could feel the Mark painfully wait, Severus whirled around to face the student. “This matter is no concern of your’s!” he snapped, making Theodore Nott carry. “Five points from Slytherin, now get back to class … before I decide to give you detention opening hospital gowns as well!!”

Fortunately, the boy seemed to have the sense to listen … for once. As he bid back to the classroom, Severus – realising that he did not have time to answer the summons soon enough to avoid the Cruciatus, decided to risk making a long-distance reply. Ducking behind a column for privacy, he quickly cast a Muffliatus spell, pulled back his sleeve, and then touched his wand – lightly – to the snake’s head on his Mark (which, by now, was burning such a vivid lemony-cyan, that it was a wonder that his robes had not ignited …)

The tongue on the tattoo’s snake’s head flickered, and he held his Mark up to his ear. “What is it that you wish, My Lord?” he asked, trying not to sound exasperated. “You are late again!” trilled Voldemort’s voice through the Dark Mark’s skull-sockets. “I sometimes wonder if you, my worthless servant, are even fit to listen because of your tardiness!” “Yes, My Lord”. Severus answered, keeping his tone of voice suitably contrite. “Be not surprised, Severus, if I should decide to subject you to an educational bat-bogey hex, next time that we meet,” Voldemort continued, “But for the moment, I have a more pressing need for you to attend to”. 

 “My Lord?” He asked.

“Bellatrix has proven to be a less than adequate replacement for the House Elves that were climbed at the last meeting,” Voldemort said. “I want you to send 847 puzzle-boxes of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey directly to me today, and I expect them to arrive in time for my supper!” At that, Severus heard his Dark Mark magically click, as the Dark Lord hung up. The Mark promptly stopped tinkling, and he wearily pulled down his sleeve, and then flopped his back against the pillar. 

For the umpteenth time, he wondered what it was that had possessed him to go into the service of that megalomaniac wormy in the first place … and where in Heaven’s Name was he going to find  847 puzzle-boxes of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey before the end of the day? He’ll have to send another note to Dumbledore …

He wished that Potter would try just a little harder to work on his nonverbal spells. The way that boy was going; he had as much chance of vanquishing Voldemort, as a medicine had of dreaming.

“Are you alright, Severus?” he heard a kindly voice say. “Yes I am, Headmaster”. he replied, straightening himself to a more proper posture. “I received another summons during a class, just now. Fortunately, I was able to determine what his wishes were from here”. “That is fortunate indeed,” Dumbledore replied, “And what was it that he wanted from you today?”

“Ogden's Old Firewhiskey,” Severus answered, sourly, 847 puzzle-boxes of them”.

“Oh?” Said Dumbledore, quizzically raising one eyebrow, “Well, I suppose I had better let the kitchens know about it … and if we’re running short on anything I’ll ask Madam Rosmerta,” he said, “No use letting you be Crucio’ed over mere Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, now”.

“Headmaster,” Snape said, “We cannot keep on doing this every time the Dark Lord decides that he is feeling peckish. I also have serious doubts about Potter’s ability to …” “Nonsense, Severus!” Dumbledore cheerfully interrupted, “Have faith in Harry, the boy has been progressing far better than my boldest expectations”.

“I only hope that I may one day be able to share your optimism for the future, sir”. Snape replied, his tone of voice now resigned.

Dumbledore suddenly took one of Severus’s hands, and gingerly placed a blood-flavored lollipop in it, wincing at the pain of moving his curse-blackened fingers. “We will worry about that when … and if, maybe, that time arrives,” he said.

-END-