Your Horoscope For Today

By Telanu (

Rating: PG13

Pairing: Harry/Snape, of course!

Notes: I know I should be working on my "real" series, but you know how rabid plot bunnies are.  And I don't know where this deranged idea came from, except that Tinderblast encouraged me to write it.  So it's all her fault.  Yeah.  Thanks to both her and JayKay, beta readers par excellence.

More Notes: It's a horoscopefic!  Yes, not a songfic, a horoscopefic!  (Although the opening scene was inspired by the song "Coffee Break" from "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.")  All horoscopes are taken without permission from The Onion (truly America's finest news source).  Title stolen from Weird Al Yankovic.

Summary: Not on your life.  There's no plot here!  

Archive: Sure, if you actually want this thing.

Disclaimer: JKR and The Onion own the various parts of this random little fic, not me.  I claim no responsibility, and I make no money.

Warning: WAFFyness ahead, general pointlessness and hopefully a few chuckles.  I needed a break from work.

Does the wizarding world have coffeemakers?  Or, for that matter, regular clocks?  Who cares?


Taurus: (April. 20—May 20)
Your life's problems will be put in proper perspective when you realize that, compared to the plague that swept Europe in the 12th century, they're still pretty bad.


Minerva McGonagall sat down hard in a chair in the staffroom, brows knitted together in a winter-of-her-discontent expression.  Filius Flitwick smiled sympathetically and pushed a steaming cup of tea towards her.  "Try this instead."

Keeping her mulish expression well-fitted to her face, McGonagall raised the cup to her lips.  "Not the same," she mumbled. 

Flitwick shook his head.  "How all of you can have gotten bogged down in that insane American habit I can't imagine.  Tea is our drink.  It's British, Minerva."

"It's less caffeine, Filius," McGonagall replied waspishly.  She turned and glared balefully at the coffeemaker, sitting silent and cold on its table.  "What happened to it?"

"Peeves," replied Flitwick succinctly.

"I'll kill him," rasped McGonagall, taking another very resentful sip of tea. 

"He's already dea – "

"And with good reason, I'm sure.  But I'll think of something."  She sipped again.  "Bloody hell, this is awful."

Flitwick looked very offended.  "I like that!  And you call yourself a Scotswoman?  Can't even appreciate your own native beverage…" he puffed out his chest, which wasn't perhaps as effective as he would have liked.  "What's wrong with this faculty, that's what I'd like to know.  The headmaster and I appear to be the only ones capable of enjoying all the natural benefits derived from tea."

McGonagall rolled her eyes and, sipping again, sank a little lower in her chair. 

Flitwick continued, "What's wrong with keeping up your antioxidants?  Eh?  Eh?  And the digestive benefits!  The bright sense of well-being!  What does coffee give you that tea doesn't, eh?"

"The will to live when I get up," growled McGonagall, "and the ability not to kill you when you natter on like that."

Flitwick frowned, then glanced at the clock on the wall and brightened.  "Well, if you can will yourself to live for two more minutes, you should see something rather entertaining."

She glanced over at the clock.  "What?. . .oh. . ." and actually smiled.

Severus Snape had his mornings down to an exact science.  At exactly 7:33 every weekday morning he would stagger into the staffroom with an empty coffee-cup, hold it under the magic drip for forty-three seconds, drain the cup, make another, drain it again, sit down in the chair by the window for seven minutes, awaken fully and stalk off to the dungeon for his first class of the day.  Without a word to another soul.  Ever.  The other staff had seen the ritual countless times. 

Realising this, other grumpy faces in the room brightened and glanced eagerly at the door.

It was now 7:32.

One minute later, right on schedule, the door banged open and a black-robed figure stumbled inside with none of its usual grace, an empty mug clutched in one white-knuckled hand.  McGonagall hid her smile behind her teacup, not that he would have noticed it.  Snape slumped against the wall by the coffeemaker to support himself and, keeping his eyes closed, jammed his mug under the drip. 

No coffee emerged, of course, but he didn't appear to realise it.  After forty-three seconds, he pulled the mug back out, brought it to his lips, blew the air over it, and tossed it back.

Then he brought the mug back down and squinted into its empty recesses with an expression of bewildered suspicion.  His brow knitted and, with the dogged air of a man determined to overcome adversity, shoved the mug back under the drip, eyes falling shut again.  McGonagall snorted and Flitwick covered his mouth with his napkin.  Professor Sprout, sitting by the bookcase, had to glance out the window to keep from laughing out loud. 

They let him do it one more time before taking pity on him.  "Severus," McGonagall said.  There was not even the slightest twitch of response.  "Severus!" she said, a bit more loudly.

One black eye opened and glared at her.

"The coffeemaker is broken," she said, enunciating as clearly as she could.  "There is no coffee this morning."

"Have some tea," Flitwick added brightly.

Snape stared at her.  He looked down at the coffeemaker.  He looked back at her, his brow furrowing in a way that would have been endearing if he hadn't been Severus Snape.

"It's broken," she said again. 

There was a brief pause.

"No coffee?" Snape asked, his voice coming out as a hoarse rasp.

McGonagall shook her head, forgetting about her own caffeine-deprivation and fighting a smile.  "No coffee."

Snape's lips moved for a moment before he managed, "Why?"

"Because the coffeemaker is broken," McGonagall repeated, still using that loud, clear tone one uses with slow children.  "Peeves broke the coffeemaker."

"Little bastard," Sprout muttered.

"We'll get him," McGonagall assured her.

"Dumbledore said he'd speak to him," Flitwick sighed, "like that's ever done any good. . ."

"D'you suppose there's any way we could interest the Bloody Baron?  He's the only one who could ever. . ."

Snape was still staring at McGonagall, his mug still under the non-responsive drip.  She raised her eyebrow at him.

"There's no coffee?" he repeated blankly.

"There.  Is.  No.  Coffee.  Severus."

Sprout was starting to look concerned.  "Here, why don't you have a nice sit-down in your usual chair. . ."

Without a word Snape shifted from the wall onto his own two feet, albeit unsteadily, headed for the door, ran smack into the doorpost, backed up, and made a successful exit the second time.

McGonagall glanced at the defunct coffeemaker and decided reluctantly that it had been worth it.


The hallway seemed to lurch unsteadily in front of Snape as he made his way towards the dungeons and his classroom, where he was going to . . .do something, he was sure of it.  He'd figure it out when he got there.  And then maybe he'd figure out why the devil half his face hurt.

A rather hideous vision of purple and scarlet and many gray hairs seemed to appear from nowhere in front of him.  Snape gasped, stepped back, and squinted, in that order.


Oh.  Dumbledore.  Yes, now he could vaguely recognize the shape as the headmaster.  Confound it, why could he only see out of one eye?  He had a vague recollection of smashing into something a moment ago. . .

"Severus, what on earth happened to your face?"

Dumbledore's voice buzzed annoyingly in his head.  Why was Albus asking him hard questions this early in the morning, especially when he'd had no –

Ah, yes.  Certainly something the headmaster ought to be informed of, Snape thought, gazing mournfully down where his empty cup swung from his fingers.  "There's no coffee," he announced, sweeping his arm out vaguely in the direction of the staffroom and almost knocking over a passing first-year. 

"No coffee?"  Dumbledore sounded appropriately concerned about this, or at least so Snape thought, until the older man continued with, "I see, but Severus, your face!"  He frowned, bushy silver eyebrows drawing together, and glanced about them, lowering his voice.  "I do not wish to pry, of course, you know that, but I feel it is my duty to ask. . .are you and Harry having. . .problems?" 

Snape frowned at the abrupt change of subject.  What the hell did Harry have to do with this?  Well, he supposed there was a certain sense in it – if it weren't for Harry he could get a decent night's sleep for once and wouldn't need coffee.  But that didn't solve the immediate problem.

"There's no coffee, Headmaster," he repeated, enunciating slowly.  "In the staffroom."  Memory jogged itself.  "They said it was Peeves."

"I understand, Severus," Dumbledore replied, enunciating even more slowly.  "But what – happened – to – your – face?"  He reached up and laid a gentle finger on Snape's left cheek, which for some reason hurt like hell and made the Potions Master's eyes water.  Another vague memory uncurled.

"Eh?  Oh.  I ran into something."  He paused, considering.  "I think it was a door?  But, Headmaster," he continued, getting irritated with the old man's lack of focus, "there is no coffee."  As if for proof, he jangled the empty mug under Dumbledore's nose.

The worried frown disappeared from Dumbledore's face and his eyes began to twinkle.  "Oh dear.  I see.  Well, we'll see if we can do something about that.  And in the meantime. . ."  he raised his wand, pointed it directly at Snape's face – which caused little more than a slow blink in reaction – and murmured, "Reduceron danosi."  Snape noticed vaguely that his face stopped hurting and his vision cleared, and that was nice, but it didn't solve the immediate problem.  "I really must apologise to Harry for even thinking such nasty thoughts," Dumbledore continued amiably.  "There, that's got the swelling down.  Can't have your class coming to the wrong conclusions like their poor headmaster did, eh?"

Class?  Snape blinked.

"Class," Dumbledore repeated firmly, and gave Snape a gentle push towards the dungeon stairs.  "There we go.  And I'll see what I can do about the, er," he coughed into his hand, "situation."

It would have to do, Snape thought rather sadly, as he focused on making his way down the stairs without tripping, unaware that Dumbledore watched him every step of the way – cautious and highly amused.


Aquarius: (Jan. 20—Feb. 18)
The moon is indeed rising in your sign, but no one can figure out what to do with it at the moment. Just enjoy the pretty moon for a while.


Snape stared down at the parchment on his desk which appeared to contain, for all intents and purposes, a lesson plan.  "Today, class, we will be making coffee."  No, that wasn't it.  "I mean, Deflating Draughts.  Yes."  Not looking up from his desk, he waved his hand vaguely in the air.  "It's in your book.  You know.  Get to work."

And then he sat down heavily in his chair, still staring vacantly at the desk and ignoring the puzzled murmuring of the third-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as they began searching the texts for the proper recipe, with precious little help from their teacher.  Really, this was intolerable.  How could he possibly be expected to function without chemical substances?  He hadn't done it in the seventies and he sure as hell wasn't about to start now.

One of his admittedly over-large nostrils twitched.  Well, at least everything smelled all right.  The little idiots couldn't be messing up that badly yet.  Although if one of them raised their hands and called for Professor Snape in a shrill I'm-a-moron voice, well, Snape really couldn't be held accountable for his actions. 

Frowning, he sniffed again.  Yes, everything certainly smelled all right.  More than all right.  Deflating Draughts weren't supposed to smell this. . .wonderful, were they?  He blinked and looked up.  The students were all bent industriously over their cauldrons, chopping and simmering and all that sort of thing – well, what could you really expect from Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, anyway. . .and there was that divine smell again!  He had to be hallucinating.  Withdrawal of some kind.  Because there was no earthly reason that a roomful of Deflating Draughts should smell like a hot cup of –

"Professor Snape," a timid Ravenclaw girl whispered, "th-there's somebody at the door."  Turning in the direction of the aforementioned door, Snape frowned again – he hadn't heard anybody knocking – and then stood up so quickly his chair fell over and he got dizzy.  Standing in the open doorway was the most beautiful, marvelous, sexiest thing he had ever seen in his life.

A hot cup of coffee.

That Harry Potter was holding it seemed rather inconsequential.

Ignoring the slight buzz of conversation in his class, he swept towards the door and his smirking lover, not even bothering  to right his toppled chair, and then closed it firmly shut behind him.

"Good morning," Harry tried, but Snape had already grabbed the cup and was draining it like it was water in a desert.  ". . .And you're welcome," he added dryly.

"Umm," Snape replied, holding up one finger in a gesture for silence as he struggled to get down to the very last drop.  Then he lowered it from his face with a satisfied sigh.

Harry shook his head disgustedly, though he was still smiling.  "You don't even make noises like that in the afterglow, you know."  He paused.  "During, mind you, yes, but not after. . ."

"Hmm?" Snape's eyes were closed, something like a smile on his face as he felt the hot liquid burning its way down into his stomach.  Any moment now his brain cells would finally awaken. . .any moment. . .he thought he heard Harry laugh.

He definitely heard Harry purr, "You have some coffee-stuff on your lips," and then felt a warm, nimble tongue lapping gently at the corners of his mouth.  "Allow me," his lover added, and then pressed their lips lightly together.

Oh, now that was nice.  A very nice way to start the day indeed – wait a minute.

He jerked away, looking up and down the hallway wildly.  "Are you out of your mind?  We're in a school corridor!  I have a roomful of students just behind me!"

Harry grinned ruefully.  "Ah, I see it's kicked in."

"Hm?  Oh.  Yes.  Thanks," Snape murmured distractedly, trying not to look at his lover's flushed lips, which probably tasted coffee-flavoured by now.  Those lips had caused him plenty of problems already, not the least of which was caffeine-addiction.  Although now that his craving for coffee had been satisfied, he wasn't entirely sure that the Harry-addiction wasn't even worse. 

Harry grinned up at him again.  Hmm.  No. . .maybe that cup of coffee wasn't all that sexy after all, not in comparison, now that he could think about it properly.

"I ran into Professor Dumbledore," Harry murmured, though from the way he was speaking he might as well have said Come to bed, dear.  No sentence with the word "Dumbledore" in it had the right to sound like. . .that.  "He mentioned your appalling plight.  Being the noble Gryffindor I am, I immediately raced to the fieldhouse – at great risk to my person, of course – and got you a cup of coffee from our very – own – coffeemaker."  Each pause was punctuated by a slight poke of his index finger to Snape's chest.  By "our," of course, he meant his and Madam Hooch's.  And speaking of which. . .

Snape frowned.  "Didn't you say you had a flying lesson to give this morning?"

"In fifteen minutes, yeah.  Loads of time for me to rescue my poor, benighted, unfortunate, helpless – " 

"Oh, get stuffed," Snape growled, though he couldn't help wishing he had another cup of coffee. 

"Well, I like that.  Only to be expected from a Slytherin, of course.  You're neglecting your duties, you know."  Harry sniffed the air rather obviously.  "Is it me, or do I smell something burning?"

Sure enough, the odour of singed mugwump root was floating through the air, and soon a distressed "Professor Snaaape!" could be heard on the other side of the door.  Snape cursed.  Harry snickered.  "I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

"Hmph.  And I'll leave you to your oh-so-important lesson of teaching a bunch of dunderheads how to swoop around like airsick birds," Snape responded acidly, turning to open the door again.

Harry waited until the door was fully open and the whole classroom was gazing at him before taking his revenge.  With a lovestruck expression that would have made a cow sick, he murmured throatily, "I love you too, handsome," and promptly darted off down the hall before a red-faced Snape could curse him with something suitable.  Snape ignored the titters of his class as best he could, silencing them with a glare, and gathered what was left of his dignity so he could prowl up and down the rows glaring at people like normal.  The little sod. . .

That sort of thing should probably bother him more than it actually did.


The rest of the day passed more or less uneventfully, unless you counted Harry trying to interest him in a game of footsie during lunch in the Great Hall, which Snape scotched with one venomous glare.  He wasn't going to forgive the "handsome" remark for a while, he decided, and besides, it was a public display of affection.  Even if it was under the table.  Harry merely responded with his most angelic smile and proceeded to swirl the chocolate pudding off his spoon with the tip of his tongue.  Snape snarled to keep from swallowing hard, though he was well aware the pink tinge in his cheeks wasn't due to the heat of the room.  McGonagall laughed and then cleared her throat, quickly returning her attention to her plate.

"Nobody thinks you're cute," Snape muttered, refusing to look Harry in the eye.

"Of course he's cute," Professor Sprout cooed.  Harry beamed at Snape again, who rolled his eyes and forbore to comment.  Forbearing to comment was really the only appropriate thing to do if you were a put-upon martyr, which any fool could see he was.

But lunch ended, thank God, and Snape fled back down to his dungeons, grabbing another cup of coffee on the way to compensate for the horrific lack of it this morning and telling himself quite firmly that he was not looking forward to getting back to the rooms he shared with Harry that night.  And he wasn't thinking about that little pink tongue either.  Or the way Harry had murmured into his ear, right before he'd left the table, "I'm planning to suck you dry tonight. . .just thought you should know."

He told the sixth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins that today they were going to be making tongues.  No, Photograph Potions.  That was it.  Right.


Capricorn: (Dec. 22—Jan. 19)

You will discover incontrovertible proof that someone did, in fact, promise you a rose garden.


 That night, Snape decided rather fuzzily that enough time had elapsed and he was quite prepared to forgive the "handsome" thing after all.  Well, it would be petty of him not to, all things considered.

Harry raised his head from Snape's thigh and smiled – not the smirk or the knowing grin, but the rather shy smile he always wore after sex that said he was satisfied  with both his lover and himself.  "All right?" he asked softly.

"You do. . .keep your. . .promises. . .don't you," Snape managed in between slightly laboured breaths. 

"It was all I could think about all afternoon long," Harry murmured, and added slyly, "though I'm sure it never once crossed your mind."

"Not once."

"Went through your whole afternoon thinking of nothing more interesting than potions, am I right?"

"Got it in one," Snape replied, tugging the impossible brat up for a soft kiss.  Harry sighed and murmured contentedly through the whole thing, pulling back eventually and curling up against his lover's chest with a little yawn.

"You really are a bit like a cat, you know," Snape said, stroking the dark head of hair absentmindedly.

"So you keep saying."  Harry chuckled softly.  "Lucky for me you're not a dog person."


"I mean, then," Harry laughed again, the huskiness of his voice promising quick sleep, "you might go for Sirius.  Ha ha. . ."

"Ha ha," Snape said blandly, and once again swore to himself by every god that Harry would never, ever know about the fifth-year Yule Ball incident where he and Black had been far too drunk for their own good.  He'd never live it down.  Come to that, he might not live, period, though he wasn't sure if it would be Harry or Black himself who would do him in.  Goddamned Firewhiskey.

Then again, the first time he'd ever kissed Harry, his lover had been the brand-new Assistant Quidditch Coach and they'd both been blitzed out of their minds after the welcoming party.  Maybe alcohol wasn't the root of all evil. . .

Fortunately, Harry's soft "umph" promised that no other questions were forthcoming.  His lover soon sagged like a dead weight against his chest and Snape was forced to shift them both to a more comfortable position.  He traced Harry's reddened lips affectionately, wiping away one telltale smear from the corner of the soft mouth.  "Black has nothing on you," he murmured, and kissed the lightning-bolt scar. 

And if he was honest, neither did coffee.

Or anything else.


Pisces: (Feb. 19—March 20)
As long as people continue to ignore the lessons of history, there's always a chance that you will one day find love.


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