The 16 year Hangover From Hell : A Recipe for Disaster

49 packets of Cheesy Nibbles
15 kegs of Butterbeer
2 crates of Firespirits
45 magic folks in their early twenties (For best results include a squeeze of Werewolf, a pinch of rat, a plastered brace of hosts, and for that sharp tang - one socially inept, mentally unstable DeathEater.)

To aid mixing, be sure to add a dash of Sirius Black: Cocktail Mixer Extraordinaire.

Instructions: Put folks together in a small, detached house in remote village in Wales. Then add alcohol, and leave to marinade for the evening in own juices.

Then stir sharply, add extra ingredient of choice, and stand well clear.

Chapter One

Potters, Gnomes, Dogs, and Noses

Godric's Hollow was a very peaceful old village in the heart of Gwent. There were only thirty houses, one local shop which sold homemade walnut cake, one red post box, one well trimmed village green, one local sheep, and a pond with three ducks (One white, two brown) and a very raucous, one legged moorhen.

All in all, the place was dead boring. Any self-respecting young, trendy Muggle would flee the place on Friday nights rather than stay in and listen to some plummy voiced git on radio 4, or help their grandfather plan out radish planting strategies for the allotment next year. Or even, perish the thought, get dragged into a long over-the-garden-fence natter with Mrs Next Door about the blessings of her new, twin tub washing machine.

According to the few young people unfortunate enough to be born and raised in the village, Godric's Hollow was not just a hollow, but an utter HOLE.

But, as obscure and out of the way as any Muggle village can get, every place gets its fifteen minutes of fame, be it even for its boiled egg rolling championships, or annual Mayor throwing. In the magical world, though, the village meant something far more exciting.

One particularly chilly November day, Godric's Hollow suddenly became the in-gossip of all the Ex-Hogwarts' twenty-somethings. It transpired that the Potters at number fifteen High Street were having a piss up.

James and Lily cordially invite you over for a House Party

Friday 2nd November. 8pm onwards.

Bring both friends and booze.


(P.S - We urge you not to drink and fly. You are welcome to sleep over if you wish.)

The Potters' piss ups were legendary. As legendary as Sirius' whiskey, cider, and vodka watermelons, perhaps, which everyone learnt to avoid after a while. (They also learnt to never ask him about his cocktail making skills, lest he dared them to sample the results.)

Any excuse was used to arrange a party. And any means any - even if it was a new carpet celebration, or a pet's birthday, nobody cared. Aurors worked hard, so they played harder. And wizards are strange. So the Potters lived for parties, and so did every other young magical human on a Friday night.

Well, almost every young magical human.

Unseen by the excitedly chattering gaggle of party goers that had just apparated outside the front gate of number fifteen, a shadowy, gangly figure was skulking about the garden in a rather creep-ish, lurking way. Now, (as Hermione Granger would already have guessed,) there is only one person in the Harry Potter-Verse wizarding world who had gangly, skulking and creep-ish listed as his nicest qualities.

But - this tale, as can be noted is set before Harry Potter, (And Miss. Granger,) were even conceived, so the normal levels of competency for suspected person do not apply. This sneaky young bastard was yet in his early twenties, and was yet to master the art of sweeping about with style.

In the space of five minutes since apparating into the garden, said young bastard, that was Sev Snape, had already hurt his leg by tripping over one of the pair of Lily's cute, lovingly planted, decorative, miniature, wooden wheelbarrows. Twice. Swearing foully both times. And had then kicked clods of pansies about the garden while hexing and swearing loudly. But, I digress.

Objective 1: Gain Entry to the Potter house.

The noisy lot of young magic folk had reached the front door, carefully levitating kegs and crates of wizard (and non-wizard) booze, and packets of Cosmic Cheesy Party Nibbles. They were already too tipsy (The fault of Three Broomsticks' fine ales) to notice either the upended wheelbarrow, or the trampled bedding plants scattered across their path. And due to the music, or their chattering, they didn't even hear the angry voice, which continued to curse from a shadowy Potentilla bush, or the sound of ceramics exploding nearby.

Fortunately, Lily had had the foresight to cast a sound proofing charm around the house and garden before the party. So, Mr Meldrew at number 13, and Mr and Mrs Trilby at number 17 couldn't hear any of the racket that was coming from the Potters' property. Mr Trilby was shocked enough next morning, however, to write and submit an article to the Godric's Hollow Community Magazine, warning his fellow villagers to be on the sharp lookout for any suspicious looking hoodlums who might think it funny to go around knocking the heads off ornamental garden gnomes.

Anyway, despite scrawny Snape's apparent lack of stealth, grace, temper- management, or refinement, he somehow managed to sweep semi-stealthily across the garden to the fence, then half glide, half limp near the fence toward the open front door. The last party guest had wiped his feet and was about to step inside. As he drew nearer Snape believed he knew the owner of one screechy voice, which seemed to drown out all others in its excitement.

"OOOOH Gracie!" it shrilled, (more than a little under the influence of alcohol.) "Darling! How wonderful you managed to get here in the end! Did your Nimbus 1000 break down again? Oh, shame! Was it still under the warranty? Oh, good! Help yourself to the drinks, won't you? Ahhh - it's Marky Mark! Hows your Ma? How were the Bermudas? Oh wonderful! James sweetie darling - will you take their coats?"

He wrinkled his long nose in distaste at the display of such trivial and emotionally sickening chit-chat. How he hated people who talked too much. And when those people who talked too much, drank too much...

He scowled. Take Lily Potter, for example. All chance of subtlety had probably been shamelessly drowned hours ago. (He cringed as a loud screechy laugh rang out.) Along with her inhibitions.

Enough theorising, Severus. The last wizard is just stepping into the house - here's your chance. He crept forward.

"Oooh look who's here! Who's a good little girly, wirly-wirly-wooble? Yes she is! Oh yes she is! Ha...agh!"

"Doobie - no! Get off Gracie! Doobie, GET DOWN!! Oh, for Merlin's sakes, who bloody well let her out of the dining room? DOOBIE HEEL!"

The scrawny wizard stopped dead. He could see that Gracie was being jumped on by Doobie, who was a large dog. A very large dog with huge paws. With its tongue hanging out and tail wagging furiously, it jumped around like Zebedee on acid, making sure every face was equally drenched with globules of yellow drool.

"Dogs!" he shuddered. "I forgot Potter and his bloody dogs!"

The wizard wasn't just referring to the slobbery Dobermann, (That was now being dragged down the hallway by its collar) as he had already recognised the familiar outline of Lupin sat just inside the kitchen window. Young Remus had no interest in current Muggle fashions, but any Muggle passer by would assume he had. The scruffy beggar wore heavily ripped T-shirt and trousers, and sported a shaggy shock of bleached hair to rival any punk.

Snape allowed a sneer to curl his lip again. Two dogs then. And slobber. Well, just from Doobie at the moment - Remus didn't look quite drunk enough to drool. Yet.

But he would make an effort to ignore the disgusting canines - he must speak with Lily tonight. It was very, very extremely urgent. No matter that the damn witch had chosen Friday night of all nights to hold a social gathering.

He shuddered. Social. The word really, really, extremely got to him. He was Severus Snape - the Master of Words, after all!

He tried to think of an apt Shakespeare quote, but gave up. Maybe not a master of words then.

Master of Stealth and Guile? No, not quite. He shuddered trying not to think about the gnomes or the wheelbarrow. He made a mental note to become the master of something, someday. While it suited him to bum around sucking up to people at the moment, he had to plan ahead. Slytherins were supposed to have ambition, after all.

"What are you drinking, Marky? Care to start off the Firewhiskey for us?" As the last robed figure smiled and stepped forward to hand James Potter his cloak, Snape planned to slip around them all, with a stealthy manoeuvre a cat would be proud of. He stepped forward.


A strangled, gagging sound rasped from his mouth. Then as quickly as he had moved forwards, he felt himself being yanked backwards as if someone had grabbed hold of his robes. Retching and gasping for air, Snape put his hand to his throat, frantically tugging at the edge of robe that was slowly strangling him. Whipping out his wand, he swung round, eyes flashing.

And stared at no one.

His face flushed rather unbecomingly as he saw what had happened - the edge of his cloak had snagged in the rambling rose on Potter's garden trellis...

Bugger shit.

He wrenched his cloak off the clingy thorns, and spat on the ground. Snape hoped that Lupin hadn't heard his strangled noises, or turned round just then - as he could feel his ears beginning to burn with embarrassment.

The front door was still open though, and Lily now had her back to the garden, tottering slightly in her stiletto heels. Now - he would tell her there and then, face to face on the doorstep, and be gone. At the same time he sprang swiftly forward, one of Lily's ankles gave way to the stiletto, and she stumbled, falling against the door. The heavy oak door shuddered, swang and slammed shut, just as Snape advanced at speed


A yelp of pain was quickly muffled through a pair of hands. Snape's breath hissed through his clenched teeth. He could see tiny little black and red dots interbreeding in front of his eyes...

Holy fucking MERLIN!!

His delicate and sensitive nose. His crucial piece of spy equipment - BROKEN. By Lily Evans - AGAIN!

He blinked back tears of pain. But inside he felt his stomach turn over - with what emotion exactly? It was the oblivious violence that did it. It was so...


So...subtly beautiful in its own, indescribable way. His watery eyes seemed to glitter. Oh, he had almost forgotten those slaps, following his insults, Merlin how they had made his face sting and smart! But they were worth it to see those eyes glint like green jewels close to him! (Not shone, not twinkled - glinted) In those moments he was noticed, no longer a tiny and insignificant ant. Those pure jewels that glinted because of something he had done!

He gave a rather stupid, lop-sided grin. He had felt this way ever since that day she accidentally dropped a heavy charms book on his face in the library, knocking him to the floor. He had then dived at her snarling, and she had gasped, before unbalancing on top of him - He could still remember the words -

"Arwgh! Ow dahr ew bweake my blooby dose, you fildhy Budblud!"


The stupid grin grew wider, and he imagined the pain in his nose was transferred to his cheek. Yes, Lily was a good, sound slapper - for a filthy Mudblood Gryffindor anyway. Lily was the reason why he occasionally wore red and gold socks inside his Hungarian Horntail leather boots. And Lily was the reason why he had spent months obsessively rehearsing insults in the mirror, training his eyebrows to arch just so, sharpening his innuendo to the finest point. Maximumus annoyingius - Or whatever.

Obviously not the Master of Latin, either then, Severus.

Was it medically possible to dislocate a jaw with one slap? Could he still find out?

Even a whole pack of dogs could not put him off seeing her now.