The Diary of a Somebody
All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.
Thursday 1st November
19:15 — Home. Pissed Off.
That's it. I think I need help — some serious mental assistance. Or, at the very least, I need someone to slap a bit of sense into me.
Because I —
No, I'm not going to write about it. I refuse. Surely I have far more important, discerning observations and thoughts about the world to transcribe for posterity? Exactly. No more of this sentimental old twaddle.
Well… it's raining outside.
Being insightful is hard.
Fuck it. I must write about it, simply because I'm a self-pitying, self-indulgent, annoying old fart.
I'm thinking about her more than ever. There. No point denying it. Time has improved nothing, and distance has done nothing but the proverbial. It's just getting worse.
For crying out loud, I can still feel the tingle when she touched my hand in that cell…
Oh God, that cell. Bet she thinks I'm a nutcase.
And writing such nonsense makes me feel like shit. She makes me feel like shit. Everything makes me feel like shit. Humph. I'm going out for a pint. At least booze gives me a bit of pleasure before leaving me feeling like bloody shit.
I really don't have any bloody luck, do I?
What does a man have to do to have peace and quiet while he wallows in a pint or five? Eh? Because I'd barely settled into my session when a voice sounded over my shoulder that was instantly recognisable. It was her, of all people! She must be stalking me. Must be. Can't be any other explanation.
'I thought I might find you here,' she said, seating herself on a stool beside me. 'You'll have a pint glass here with your name on it, before long.'
I shifted uncomfortably and grimaced at her. Why does she always have to point out my deficiencies? Does she think I have a drink problem?
Her unexpected arrival rather prevented any witty retort I might have made under better circumstances. She requested a glass of wine from the barman and then folded her arms atop the bar.
I refused to look at her. I resented her presence when she was so uppermost in my thoughts. I worried that I might say or do something to compromise myself. Wouldn't be the first time, after all.
'Can I help you?' I enquired bluntly, staring straight ahead, and tone suggesting she should either explain herself or simply bugger off.
Her reply was a little while in coming.
'I just thought… I mean, I fully realise I'm probably the last person you want to spend any time with, but… ' Her voice lowered so I could hardly make her out. 'Well, I remembered your father died a year ago today and…' She shrugged her shoulders self-consciously.
It sounds melodramatic, but I was completely stunned; completely and utterly taken aback.
'Has it really been a year?' I heard myself murmur.
I never thought about it. It had never entered my head. But it had entered hers, and I didn't know whether to be grateful, humbled, resentful or indifferent. The usual dilemma for me, it seems, and so I chose the usual solution:
I swigged on my pint.
Bet she thinks I'm as unfeeling as a lump of granite. Should I have remembered the anniversary of my father's death? Should I think about him more often than I do (which is hardly ever)?
I swigged on my pint, again.
She sighed loudly. 'Sorry; I shouldn't have brought it up, or come here, even.'
I said nothing, too busy trying to fathom where the past twelve months have gone. This time last year she was giving me driving lessons. Bloody hell. Now look at us!
'He was a bastard, Granger; thought I told you this already?'
'Once or twice.'
'And speaking of bastards; how's Weasley?'
I could have quite easily kicked myself all the way to Yorkshire and back for uttering his name. And her response did nothing to comfort me. She huffed quietly and said:
'Fine… He's walking again now.'
Oops. Did I hex him that hard?
'I'd rather not talk about him, really,' she continued.
Oh. It's like that is it? Interesting.
'Very well,' I muttered, draining my glass, debating whether I should depart. It seemed the sensible thing to do. 'Excuse me…'
'Wait,' she said hurriedly. 'Look, you should know, there's nothing going on between Ron and me, and there never—'
Unbidden, I felt a rush of embarrassment. Which is ridiculous, because, really, hexing Weasley in the middle of Diagon Alley and getting arrested for it surely betrayed my interest in the matter? Regardless, I feigned complete indifference this time.
'I really think it's none of my business, don't you? Good night.'
And so I went. I actually went (why? Why did I do it?) Any triumph I felt at her declaration was rather more secondary to the generally shitty frame of mind I've been cultivating lately, and which never fails flowers brightly whenever she's in my vicinity.
Nothing going on between her and Weasley… So, what? What difference does that make to me, really, eh?
If it isn't him, it'll be someone else, someday.
23:40 — Bed.
How the fuck I'm supposed to sleep tonight I'll never know.
Saturday 3rd November
17:31 — Apothecary.
It's Arthur Weasley's party tonight and I'm not going to be there. I don't care what Ginevra says. Granger finished with me. I'm going to need a bit more than a comment from Potter's wife to put myself on the line. Desperate has never been a good look on me.
Must stay strong. I must move on. I need to move on. Therefore, it's right and proper I should stay away.
I should endeavour to move on — both literally and figuratively, I suppose. Forget Granger, and next month I'm supposed to be leaving this house to mercy of the local authority. I still don't know what I'm going to do or where I'm going to go, but perhaps it's a good thing. Perhaps there's a reason things are coming together in this way at this particular time.
Hah. What a load of tosh!
I need a drink.
Monday 5th November
10:05 — Apothecary.
Going to the Ministry tomorrow. Could do with putting my mind to something constructive for a change.
I've set up a number of hidden spells around the place to ensure Jess doesn't rob me and/or cause devastation. Think I'll be all right, though. In fact, it'll be nice to get out of this dump for a few hours. Think my eyes are starting to go, working in this gloom day in day out.
I happened to mention this to Minerva, the other day, when she said she thought I was squinting a bit too much whilst reading the menu in the Three Broomsticks. She agreed that it was possible, before suggesting it could also be down to age.
'Next', she said sagely, 'your hair will start to thin and your joints will start to ache'.
Is it any wonder my self-esteem is non-existent?
Tuesday 6th November
15:34 — Ministry (Have own office — bigger than a pokey box, too).
Bloody… I'm back in the Ministry for five minutes and Potter's cornered me already! Ended up having to sit with him in the canteen, because he brought his pie and chips over and parked himself without so much as a by-your-leave.
He beamed. 'This is like old times, Snape!'
The Lord have mercy upon me.
'I've a bone to pick with you, Potter, actually.'
'Well, I've got one to pick with you, as well.'
He leant forward — a bit too close for my liking, I must say. Creep.
'Where on earth were you Saturday?' he hissed. 'You missed a perfect opportunity—'
'Er, hang on,' I interrupted loudly, suddenly rather pissed off. 'What do you mean, "Where were you Saturday?" And a missed perfect opportunity for what?'
His face clouded darkly. 'What do you think—?'
'Why the fuck should I bother? She finished it,' I spat in an undertone. 'And for future reference, Potter, if you keep sticking your nose into my business, I'll slice and dice it before feeding it to the pigeons, all right?
He blanched, and rightly so, in my opinion.
'Cut her some slack— ' He broke off at my thunderous expression and tried a different tack. 'I think she feels you're no longer interested—'
'Well, guess what, Potter, maybe she's right!'
And with that, I stormed off.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Why did I say that, when it's patently not true?
But I'm confused. Does Potter actually desire us to resume relations? Forget Potter, does Granger desire it as well?
Bugger it. I refuse to consider anything that hasn't come from Granger herself. I don't trust Potter as far as I can throw him. Weasley was probably hiding under a table somewhere in the canteen ready to laugh his head off at my expense.
Pair of wankers.
For God's sake!
I've entirely forgot to mention my working day. This is terrible. Have I only got one thing on the brain? I've become precisely the person I've always despised:
A single-minded dunderhead.
This should have been my immediate focus, because Potter interlude aside, it was a good day.
Yes, a good day.
(I had to check my phraseology of the above, so unused I am to forming such a thought).
I daren't write too much because, actually, I'm not allowed to — it's too sensitive.
Oh yes. Severus Snape, man of mystery, has finally returned.
Saturday 10th November
18:59 — Yorkshire.
Things are not going well — Granger keeps popping up everywhere these days! It's starting to do my head in!
It was a matter of pure happenstance that I looked through the window to see her standing in my back garden, staring out over the North Sea, as calm as you like. Cheeky bint.
I was halfway to the door when it flashed through my mind that it would probably do me better to pretend I was out… It really would have been the best option all round, but, alas, I couldn't resist the temptation… Temptation of what, I'm not sure I want to speculate, but there we go. I'm a weak, increasingly decrepit, self-indulgent old fart, it would seem.
Oh well. Even men of mystery can't have everything.
Besides, I bloody well wanted to know why she was standing in my bloody garden as if she bloody owned the place!
So I went to join her. 'Are you lost?' I asked by way of sarcastic greeting.
She turned and smiled into the woolly scarf wrapped around her neck. 'No, not quite. Paperwork,' she admitted, nodding at the house behind me.
Oh. I huffed loudly, wishing I'd hidden after all.
'You must co-operate with the Muggles, Severus; it's for the best.'
'Is it?' I snarled tightly.
'It's understandable you've become attached to the place…'
I snorted, but her look of scepticism told me she really believed her words. I looked at the old stone façade, the splintered paint on the window-frames, and the tiles that had seen better days. I looked at the unkempt garden and the crumbling cliff edge and thought, regardless of my feelings for the place, that there could not be a better metaphor for my existence than this. And perhaps, in this sense, I am attached to the house. I've always enjoyed a touch of subtle melodrama, after all.
And I mean subtle, mind.
I took the so-called paperwork from her, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the air. We watched it get carried on the wind over the cliff and into the swirling depths of the sea below.
'Oh dear,' I said sadly. 'How clumsy of me.'
She chewed her lip. 'I thought you'd do that,' she replied briskly, rummaging in her bag. 'And so here you are.' She marched to the door, opened it, and threw a scroll inside the house. 'I've charmed it against fire, hexes, anything you want to throw at it, really.'
'Your pragmatism will get you into trouble one day, Granger,' I grumbled darkly.
To my surprise, her expression took on a discomfited edge, for a few moments, before she ploughed on with her cause.
'You can't deny they haven't got a point. Who knows how many more winters this place can survive?' She shrugged her shoulders questioningly.
'I know that it will not be this year, nor the next—'
'I know you're used to living life on the edge, Severus, but let's face it, this is taking it all a bit too literally. This place could kill someone.'
I hate it when she preaches. She's forgotten something rather important, mind: where the hell am I supposed to go? With any luck, I'll be able to buy a tent to house myself with the few pence I'll get.
'Don't you think it's about time to… ah, well…' she began, trailing off with a look of vague consternation.
'To move on?' I pressed, somewhat masochistically.
So, then. Potter was wrong, as I thought. There we have it. I've been told to move on. It's sorted. Had it straight from the horse's mouth. Fine by me. She can help by never showing her face around here again.
Don't have the guts to tell her that, though.
'You're back at the Ministry, I hear. What of the Apothecary?'
'It's only one day — Jess can manage.'
'Ah, I'm glad you can rely on her.'
I blinked. She's still labouring under the impression Jess is a she? So, she's not even been interested enough to glance in through the bloody window and see who this female assistant is? Fabulous. She doesn't give a shit.
I started towards the house.
'Ah, by the way,' she called hurriedly, 'now that I'm here, did I, ah, happen to leave a scarf here at some point? '
'It was an old thing — my grandmother gave it to me.'
I straightened my cuffs. 'I can't say I've noticed it, no…'
Oops. Best not tell her there's a seagull out there somewhere wearing it.
Move on. Hmm.
That is precisely what I failed to do all those years ago. I simply cannot make the same mistake twice. It cannot be countenanced. This time next year, Hermione Granger will simply be someone I used to know. This time next year, a week, a month, five months will pass and I shall not turn a single solitary thought to her.
This time next year…
Monday 12th November
How does one move on, I wonder? On previous form, I must wait twenty years and held defeat a Dark wizard in order to achieve it.
Shall I revert to square one — should I find myself another woman? Where can I meet a woman? Do I even want another one? Not really bothered… but seems the best way to Move On. Is there a potion for moving on? Perhaps I should devise one — bet I'd make a fortune.
Can't be arsed, though. Need speedy solution.
Should I try meeting a woman in the pub again?
I think the answer to that is painfully clear.
Thursday 15th November
12:02 — Work. Diagon Alley
Even Jess is talking to me about Granger now. I'd gone out to buy myself the biggest bacon roll I could find (too many snifters last night), and when I returned, Jess shuffled over with an almost manic looking, smug expression on his face.
'I had a conversation with your young lady just now.'
'My what?' I snapped, barely listening to him.
'How on earth did you ever manage to gain her affections?'
Now I listened. I glared at him, mildly insulted. I say mildly because, deep down, I wonder the same thing too. There was a small twinkle in his eye which deterred the swell of irritation I felt brewing.
'Clearly, I didn't gain them for very long,' I muttered, not quite hiding the resentment in my tone.
'She speaks of you fondly.'
'What did she want?' I asked, pointedly not rising to the bait. And what a pointless, inane comment it was. People talk of bloody butterbeer fondly. Idiot.
'She didn't say.'
Oh. Well aren't I glad I didn't miss this conversation for all the sparkling facets of information I haven't gleaned.
'Funny thing, she did say she'd expected me to be female. I thought you'd have—'
'Not my fault you've got a woman's name, is it?' I snapped, retreating into the back of the shop. Great, now she'll wonder why I never corrected her.
I expect she turned up here wanting to talk about my intentions with regard to the Muggles, again. Well, she'll just have to wait. I haven't decided what I'm going to do.
I'm talking like I have a choice, but I think I may be stuffed.
Saturday 17th November
Have received an invite today from Minerva. It's her usual request that I spend Christmas at Hogwarts, accompanied by the details of the big party she's throwing to celebrate the anniversary of the school's founding. Doesn't she realise it's only bloody November? I don't want to think about bloody Christmas until it's staring me in the ruddy face.
And do you know what?
This time, I'm going to say no and I'm actually going to mean it.
I can't think of anything better this year than spending Christmas alone and insensible.
Can't wait. Shall Owl my regrets to Minerva forthwith.
I must regretfully decline. I'd rather come down with a nasty bout of gout than attend your party.
I estimate in a few short hours I'll receive the usual scathing reply telling me to grow up and/or respect my elders, and do as I'm told.
As anticipated, Minerva's owl has arrived. I'm almost looking forward to seeing how creative she's been this year.
Oh for fuck's sake!
All she replied was:
Hermione will be there.
I'm not going.
Tuesday 20th November
11:15 — Department of Mysteries.
Lucinda is still working within the Department of Mysteries. Luckily, she's moved up to personal assistant so I don't have much to do with her.
I say luckily… Am I seriously narcissistic enough to imagine she still holds a torch for me? No, I can't be, can I?
Think I'll look out for her at lunch and speak to her, to prove that I'm not.
Spoke to Lucinda. She's getting married next year. Definitely no torch burning there. Humph.
Hmm. It's a good job I never thought to ask Granger to marry me. How embarrassing would that have been, eh?
I'd never have survived it.
In other news, I may be man of mystery, but I'm still not fully au fait with the Unspeakables. Still, have been given cover story for my work here. Anyone asks, I'm employed there for 'research' purposes.
Not very mysterious, I grant you.
And I've probably just breached protocol in writing this, but do I care?
Friday 23rd November
20:06 — Leaky.
I've received more letters from the council about my house today. I'm going to have to sort it out. I've left it rather late — I now only have four weeks or so to arrange an alternative abode. But I'll let them have the blasted thing, I can't see any other way without creating a large headache. I like to think I can win one over on them, but the truth is I simply can't be arsed.
And I suppose I can see the logic. And well, suppose it'll save me having to dispose of it. Part of the garden disappeared the other day after a few days heavy rain. Pity I hadn't been standing there at the time, eh?
Trouble is, I've a mountain of pesky forms to fill in and be counter-signed by my so-called solicitor.
This means I'm going to have to seek her out.
Will be eminent disaster.
Saturday 24th November
20:14 — Home.
So fucking much for Moving On.
I went to see my so-called solicitor this afternoon and, as a result, I'm now in a state of mild anxiety. I don't know what to do. Why does she always do this to me? I honestly think I'd be better off without her than have to have her unsettle me all the time.
I ventured to her house a couple of hours ago and half wish I hadn't. When I arrived, I looked to the windows and could see from the light filtering through the drawn curtains that she was probably inside. I hardly knew whether to be pleased or disappointed. Still, as I approached the front door, I think I became rather more intrigued than anything else, for I could hear the strains of music.
As I poised my fist to knock the door, I was the victim of some dreadful vision that I might find her entertaining someone (male) within. However, it didn't sound to me the kind of music one might describe 'romantic' (not that my ear is particularly well-trained in that area) and I forced my knuckles to rap sharply.
In my defence, I'll say that I stood there and knocked for a good five minutes or so to no avail. Deciding it more likely she simply couldn't hear the door over the din she'd created, rather than simply ignoring any visitors, and feeling I hadn't come all this way to leave empty-handed, I tried the handle. Trepidation replaced irritation when it gave way beneath me. I opened the door and the music was far louder inside, so much that I winced at the sound of it.
I don't know what music it was, or who was responsible for it, but I do know that it was shit.
Standing in the passage, and before an impulse to flee could overcome me, I opened the door to her living room and, indeed, the source of the noise.
And Jesus; what a sight.
She stood in the middle of the room, her back to me, with a rather large wine glass clutched in one hand, and swaying in complete mismatched rhythm to the music.
And, Merlin, when she started singing… I say singing, but I mean this in the loosest possible way.
I had to put a stop to it right there; I could hardly believe this was my cool, pragmatic, sensible Miss Granger.
I cleared my throat loudly and said: 'Er, do you take requests?'
She let out a rather impressive screech of shock and jumped a foot into the air, entirely losing the contents of her glass. When she turned around, the front view was no more encouraging than the rear. Her robes (those robes) were askew. Her hair, well, let us say it was no advertisement for tidiness, and her face was flushed an alarming shade of red.
To my infinite chagrin, I thought she looked lovely.
Anyway, she half-gasped my name, whilst scampering over to the contraption spouting the awful racket in order to turn it off.
'What… What are you… ?' she muttered, slightly breathless it seemed with drink and embarrassment. Indeed, her hands set out on a rather fruitless journey to right her appearance.
For my own part, I took a long look around the room before alighting on her again. 'Granger,' I said, with a carefully poised hint of disappointment. 'It's six o'clock in the evening; I thought I nurtured your drinking habits better than this.'
Her embarrassment seemed acute enough that my jibe didn't appear to register. In hindsight, it's something I should probably be grateful for.
'What do you want?' she asked with considerable consternation, lowering herself delicately into a chair. She would not look at me directly.
'I need to discuss my pending homelessness. Since you commissioned yourself as my solicitor, and I find myself in need of instruction… However, as I see you're otherwise, ah, engaged, I could return at a later date. 'She squirmed for a moment. I have to admit, bastard that I am, I enjoyed making her uncomfortable.
Her hand was supporting her forehead and she peered meekly at me through her fingers. 'You're co-operating, then?'
I nodded tightly.
'Good.' She sighed. 'But can it wait until tomorrow? As you can see, I'm hardly in the best frame of mind right now.'
Her eyes closed and I watched her — concerned, I suppose.
'Why are you drinking in the afternoon?' I asked plainly, feeling I could hardly leave without addressing the elephant in the room.
She let out a little tired laugh. 'Does it really need explaining to you? Didn't you once tell me you'd "written the book on getting pissed"?'
'It's highly unlikely I would have uttered something so uncouth.'
She snorted, and quite derogatorily, too, I thought. When she finally raised her head, there was a small glimmer of humour apparent in her eyes.
'Sit, Severus, and have a drink with me.'
This threw me a bit.
Nevertheless, she got to her feet, a tad precariously, and tottered to the wine bottle standing half-empty on the sideboard. Despite feeling it was a bad idea, I sat. I've come this far in life on bad decisions, one more wasn't going to hurt. That's my philosophy, anyway.
'You know what it's like,' she continued, nodding to the glasses in her hands. 'Sometimes you just need to… blow away the cobwebs.'
I blinked. I could only wonder what cobwebs she had to blow away. Did I constitute a cobweb?
She threw herself heavily back into her chair and closed her eyes. 'How is it people manage to cock-up life so spectacularly, eh?'
A pointed barb, to be sure.
'My mother's cocked up. Ron's cocked up. I've cocked up…' She trailed off into silence and sighed.
I was unmoved. 'You know, I think I prefer it when you're dancing…'
A little laugh escaped her. 'You won't tell anyone about that, will you?'
'I haven't decided yet.'
There was a short silence before she lapsed into philosophical musing once more.
'Anything good…' she said. 'Anything good in their lives, people always seem to bugger up eventually.'
'What, pray, have you buggered up?' I asked her shortly. I had to wonder. After all, she's young, intelligent, has the makings of a long and illustrious career ahead of her… 'One failed marriage to a Weasley is nothing to lament.' I rose to my feet and stalked to the sideboard. 'And why you persist in drinking this piss-awful vinegar, I'll never know.' I snatched up a bottle of Scotch and poured out a measure, fully realising the bottle was a relic of a time when I'd often had occasion to be drinking in her living room. She, after all, wasn't a whisky drinker, just a mere pretender.
I gulped it down in one and decided I should retreat before I made a fool of myself for the umpteen millionth time in her presence. When I turned round, however, the expression on her face arrested me.
'I wasn't thinking of my marriage, Severus, I was...' She stood and went to fuss unnecessarily with a stack of books.
'What?' I heard myself prompt.
'It doesn't matter.' There was a long pause. 'Actually, perhaps it does… Maybe. Well, I was thinking about us. There; I've said it.'
At the risk of sounding repetitive, I simply stared at her.
'I'm… I don't think I ever really apologised for being such a bitch, did I?' Her shoulders drooped. 'Well, I am sorry, for what it's worth.'
'You did say sorry,' I replied evenly. 'But… you never really explained—'
I cut myself off, not sure I wanted to rake it all over. So I never really understood why she chucked me — what's the point in churning it over now, months down the line? I'm Moving On, aren't I? Haven't I decided this?
I spun on my heel and made for the door. Before I could reach it, she seemed to lurch across the room and grabbed my sleeve.
'Wait, let me say it… I am sorry,' she said solemnly. 'I underestimated many things… It was I who had the — Well, I buggered it up…'
Her fingers released my sleeve and her eyes turned away. I've never wished her ill after what happened — never really felt any true antipathy towards her. But I think right then was the first time I felt no resentment towards her for what happened. At that moment she looked every inch her young years. Perhaps the age difference was too great, in the end. And it struck me that she, neither of us, actually, are know-it-alls, however much we might pretend otherwise.
So it had gone wrong. Things always do.
'My best friend made a fool of me... My mother left my father. I didn't have any faith left in relationships, Severus, and you deserved better. That much, I do know.'
Right then, I honestly didn't know what to say. She was close enough that I could have touched her — made some sort of gesture. It might even have been welcome. But no; instead, I bade her goodnight and left.
I really am a useless piece of crap.
This evening's going from bad to worse.
In a fit of maudlin self-pity, I've been re-reading certain entries in volume one of my ramblings. This part stood out — she once said to me:
'If this goes anywhere, I don't want you, six months down the line, to have some typically male identity crisis over the fact you're seeing a younger woman and then bugger off to go and nurse some inferiority complex—'
I think she was trying to tell me earlier that it was the other way around. She had the crisis of confidence, not me.
Oh God, the irony. I'd fall about laughing if I had enough booze inside me.
Who knew what useful tools my diaries would prove to be?
Re-reading them is an interesting experience. Time, I suppose, has allowed me to view them a little more objectively. There are certain things I wrote during my association with Granger which, in hindsight, sound rather loud alarm bells.
Take her parents, for instance. She accused me once of not being interested, and it seems I'd already identified that as being a problem. 'I prefer to pretend they don't exist' I wrote.
What a first class prick.
'We never seem to talk about our… About what's going on…'
So why the bloody hell didn't I listen to my own advice? Instead, I wrote it all down in this bloody stupid diary and said nothing to her face. All right, the thought of uttering such sentiment aloud does make me quail inside, but… I suppose I could have tried, at the very least. I could have made an effort. I think I thought, for some inexplicable reason, that she would excuse my reticence — that I could get away with it on the basis that I'm… me.
I must either be very arrogant or very naïve.
Well, it's too late to try now… isn't it?
… Is it?
Perhaps if I made some concerted effort to… Well, to what end, I'm not entirely sure, but… I…
Yes, I still love her… There. That one only took me ten minutes to write, rather than the usual twenty. Progress, perhaps?
Was Potter right? Could I, somehow, persuade her that we might try again? Do I have it in me to try?
A drink will help me decide.
23:20 — Bed. Triumphant.
There we are, Ogden's fixed it for me.
Can barely make out my writing — vision's swimming a bit — but I must write this down. Must record this vow in case I forget it in the morning. It must be set in stone.
Because I'm going to tell her.
How, I don't know, and when, I don't know, either. Hopefully Old Ogden will decide that for me, too.
Yes, Severus Snape, forty-six year old former Death Eater, former spy, former civil servant of… Ah, can't remember how it goes…
Yes, Severus Snape, man of mystery and apothecary extraordinaire, is finally going to show the world how it's done.
AN: It's up to you what music Hermione was dancing to. For my part, it was 'Wishing' by A Flock of Seagulls, but that's only because I'm going through an 80s phase.
Thanks once again for your patience, much appreciated : )