It was a cheerful, sunny morning in early July, and Severus Snape, on vacation from being Potions teacher at Hogwarts School, was sitting alone in his dingy kitchen. Wait, no, he wasn't sitting, he was standing, because he was going to make a sandwich. It was almost eleven o'clock, and he was hungry.

"I'm not hungry," said Snape sourly.

Snape already had a cup of hot coffee, which was as black as his soul, and apparently nothing else was required to sustain him. Nevertheless, he decided to make a sandwich, because the mayonnaise would go bad soon and he wanted to use up the last of it.

"I just bought mayonnaise last Friday," Snape announced to the empty kitchen, sounding even more sour. Picture if you will, dear readers, the hilarious mental image of Severus Snape setting foot in a grocery store. Doubtless he is one of those people who spends an inordinate amount of time carefully choosing his fruits and vegetables--if indeed he eats fruits and vegetables. He looks a bit anemic to me.

"Anemia is an iron deficiency."

I know what anemia is, Snape, I am not one of your retarded students.

"To my lasting joy."

Snape, please stop interrupting me. I am writing a story about you making a sandwich, and the sooner you stop talking the sooner we can get this over with.

Ahem. Now then, Snape decided to make himself a delicious sandwich--a BLT, to be precise. Snape loved BLTs.

"I do n--"

FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS FAN FICTION, SEVERUS SNAPE LOVES BLTS, and he can shut his cork because there's nothing about it in canon, so there. He walked over to his banged-up old refrigerator and took out half a head of slightly wilted lettuce, a juicy tomato (mmm!), and the greasy remnants of what had once been a twelve-slice pack of bacon. Luckily there was just enough left to make a sandwich.

"This used to be full," said Snape suspiciously, scrutinizing the bacon package.

Sorry, I got hungry earlier.

Snape growled something indistinguishable and grabbed the mayonnaise before slamming the fridge door--not only because he was annoyed, but also because his fridge (like everything else in his house) was old and a bit crap, and if you didn't shut the door really hard it would come open a crack and spoil all your produce. The freezer worked fine, but Snape kept potion ingredients rather than food in there, so it doesn't really matter.

Anyway, Snape rolled up his sleeves and laid out all his sandwich ingredients in an orderly fashion along the chipped but spotless counter. A tap of his wand against the old gas stove set one of the burners ablaze, and in a few moments his bacon strips were frying merrily, filling the cramped kitchen with sizzling noises and that delightful, bacony smell. Snape then took a knife and began painstakingly cutting the tomato into identically thin slices; he could have done this by magic, but it was more satisfying to pretend the tomato was James Potter's face. Snape hated James Potter, even though he'd been dead for like, forever. He refused to see a therapist about this.

"There are no magic therapists," Snape muttered, his hooked nose hovering inches from the tomato as he concentrated on making each slice exactly the right thickness. "Nor would I entrust my sordid secrets to one if there were."

Are you kidding? People like you are the reason therapy was invented.

"Be quiet."

I'm just sayin', dude.

Snape finished slicing the tomato and moved on to the lettuce. Most people just tear off a couple of pieces and leave it at that, but years of hardcore potion making had trained an already meticulous Snape to be downright anal-retentive when it came to preparing anything. (To be fair, this was because a sloppily brewed potion could melt your cauldron, or explode, or blind you, or something, and even though sandwiches typically could do none of these things, Snape wasn't about to take any chances.) With surgeon-like precision he laid a slice of bread on top of a large lettuce leaf and began tracing around the bread with the point of a knife, cutting the lettuce into the bread's exact shape. I told you the man was anal-retentive.

"I have standards," muttered Snape, as he began cutting out a second bread-shaped piece of lettuce. Some clock somewhere in the house struck eleven...Oh, and flip the bacon, it's gonna burn.

In obvious irritation, Snape glanced over at the frying pan.

"I prefer it well done," he said dismissively, turning back to the lettuce.

Severus Snape liked charred, crispy, overdone, tasteless bacon ashes. Like his oft-conjectured fondness for black coffee and tea, this symbolized his stern character and crippling inability to love. Pity him, dear readers, and his withered taste buds/soul.

With a growl, Snape flicked his wand at the frying pan; the bacon slices flipped themselves, tiny flecks of hot grease spattering the nearby counter. That's more like it. Snape then unscrewed the mayonnaise jar and one-handedly reached for another knife to stir it with. I would have used the vegetable knife, but this is Snape; he's not going to get tomato juice in his mayo. A few stirs convinced him that the mayonnaise was sufficiently blended, at which point he casually poked the bread slices with his wand, which instantly turned into crispy, well-done toast. (Holy crap, that was awesome.) Then he started methodically spreading mayonnaise on his toast, entering the home stretch of his sandwich-making.

WAIT!

"What?" snapped Snape.

Okay, so...you make potions and stuff, right? (Snape apparently felt this question beneath him, as he did not answer.) Well, making potions is kind of like cooking, so...what if you're the kind of dude who makes his own mayonnaise from scratch? That changes this whole story! I'll have to start all over again!

"I think not." Snape added the lettuce, then levitated the sizzling hot bacon out of the frying pan and onto one of the bread slices before siphoning the extra grease out of the skillet with his wand. "There. I have made a sandwich. Now cease this inane excuse for creative composition."

You haven't eaten--

"This story," said Snape flatly, "is titled 'Severus Snape Makes A Sandwich', not 'Severus Snape Makes And Eats A Sandwich In the Presence of a Voyeuristic College Student.'"

I think I read a PWP like that once...

"Leave." Snape made an angry slashing motion with his wand; all of his sandwich ingredients flew back to their proper places in the kitchen. "This fan fiction is over."

Fine, fine, sheesh. Y'know, you should be nicer to me, I'm the one writing this thing.

"Unfortunately."

Just be glad all you had to do was make a sandwich. The next installment could be 'Severus Snape Goes on a Date with Harry Potter and Gets Pregnant with His Assbaby.'

Snape scowled.

"Perosha?" he muttered, between the first bites of his delicious BLT.

What?

"Get the hell out of my kitchen."