Just Another Tequila Sunrise

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

I'd like to point out that Cara is a bit of a potty-mouth, as is my version of Severus. You've been warned - liberal usage of swear words ahead!

Thank you, DelilahKelley, for being so wonderful and patient with me!

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"God-damned, fucking, insufferable, pestering, blue-eyed harpy!" Severus Snape roared violently. He had been purposely avoiding the new Muggle Studies teacher since her arrival at the school just over two weeks ago. She seemed to be the 'let's-be-friends' type. He was undoubtedly not.

Severus knew that he had been exceedingly rude. He had yet to truly speak to the woman, let alone welcome her or introduce himself, but he really didn't give a damn. He also knew that she had been trying - unsuccessfully he might add - to speak to him for days now. Probably to prattle on about how much she appreciated his 'efforts' in the war against Voldemort, his sacrifices for the Light.

He snorted.

Sacrifices... What did anyone really know about his sacrifices? He had lied, cheated, and committed sins that would surely send him straight to the deepest recesses of Hell - do not pass Go, do not collect 100 Galleons.

He had put his life, the life he had wanted to live, on hold for nearly twenty years for the sake of the world, damnable place that it was. What had he gotten for it? A six-month stint in St. Mungo's, a mangled neck, and a limp.

No, she was certainly just like all the rest.

The news of his role as Dumbledore's spy – along with his verdict of innocence from the Wizengamot in the case of said man's murder - had hit the front page of the Daily Prophet barely a month after the Dark Lord's downfall. Since he was now a 'war hero,' he had literally become the most popular bachelor in Britain. The women - he used the term loosely - had literally come out of the woodwork. He had received numerous letters proposing marriage, many more whose senders wanted to -- he shuddered at the thought-- bear his love child, and a few that he had thrown into the fire immediately, having detected the reek of cheap, love potion-soaked parchment before ever opening them. It was a farce if he ever saw one.

That was more than a year ago, and still he was hounded wherever he went by every over-coiffed, over-perfumed, painted, corseted, simpering cow in the country.

He smiled evilly to himself.

He had, of course, been smart enough to get a few good shags in along the way. What kind of Slytherin would he be if he didn't partake, at least a bit, in what was so freely offered? Besides, a covertly cast 'Obliviate' cleared up all problems of 'the morning after.' A Prophet headline detailing all his coital shortcomings was not something he wanted littering the streets of Hogsmeade.

Still, what did it matter, really? No woman would ever want him for who he was. His past held proof enough of that.

Dwelling on that past only increased his anger as he stormed down the hallways leading to the dungeons. His rooms were still located in the cold, damp bowels of the castle, even though he no longer taught Potions. He would have stormed faster, but his leg was giving him a bit of trouble tonight. Usually, he was able to keep his infirmity - as he called it - hidden and walk normally, but tonight he had been in a hurry to get away from that blond Jezebel and her sarcastic little comments.

"I won't bite you, Professor Snape," he said snidely, mimicking her higher pitched voice as he repeated her words from earlier. "Getting started a bit early, are we?" he parroted again.

Her voice played over and over in his head, as did her golden hair and sea-blue eyes, with their ring of royal blue circling the iris. Shaking his head to clear himself of her image, and just to spite her, he pulled his flask out of his robes and drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I have not yet begun to defile myself, you Anglo-Saxon swot," he spoke to no one in particular. As he finally reached his quarters, the wards lowered automatically, sensing his presence. The heavy oak door smashed loudly against the stone wall as he crossed the threshold. Torches lit themselves as he paused briefly to discard the silver flask and black teaching robes on the sofa. He then moved quickly to the liquor cabinet across the room. With a swift slash of his hand over his shoulder, the swaying door closed itself with another resounding boom.

He smirked as he heard the bottles within the cabinet clink together from the vibration of wood against stone. He reached for the twin glass doors with one hand, as the other harshly undid the buttons of his coat. After much rummaging, cursing, sliding, reaching, more cursing, and several bouts of glass on glass violence, he found what he was looking for:

Tequila.

Beautiful, golden, mind-numbing tequila.

He held the bottle up and smiled, watching as the torchlight made the amber liquid shimmer, beckoning him to drink himself into oblivion. "Oh, I shall, my Hispanic friend... I shall."

With that, he twisted off the top and tossed it behind him. 'Won't be needing that,' he thought, before turning the bottle up and taking a long, slow drink.

A thin line of the toxic liquid slid slowly over his bottom lip and down his chin. He caught it with the backside of his hand, grimacing as he finally pulled the bottle from his lips. Not his favorite poison, but it certainly got the job done. Feeling the liquid run smoothly down his throat, followed by a line of fire that brought a barely discernable flush to his pale cheeks, he resisted the urge to cough - barely.

His countenance changed slightly as the liquor warmed his body. His features softened slightly, and his eyes closed as he leaned his head back, taking a deep breath in through his nose and letting it out slowly.

Still limping slightly, he made his way slowly back to the sofa, arranged as it was in front of the hearth. Another wave of his hand, softer this time, and a roaring fire soon filled the grate. He knocked the previously discarded flask onto the rug before sitting down on the middle cushion.

Severus groaned as he stretched out his left leg and sat his bottle on the table in front of him. Slowly, he leaned down to massage the protesting limb.

"Fucking snake," he swore. "I've not yet seen forty, but thanks to that scaly sack of shit, I feel as old as Minerva." Despite his mood, he smirked as he imagined the look that would cross the old bat's face if she had heard his insult. He could imagine her beet red countenance and stuttering Scottish brogue even now. He chuckled darkly.

After a few more minutes of deep tissue massage and imagining more ways to enrage the Headmistress, Severus reached down to pull off his boots. One after the other, the black dragon-hides slid from his long legs, to be tossed unceremoniously into a pile by the fire, followed by his socks.

He reached out again to grasp the bottle of liquor, turning it up once more as he fell back heavily against the cushions of the couch. The tip came away from his lips with a wet 'pop.' He held the bottle up, examining it. "Half gone, already," he sneered to himself, giving the bottle a small sideways shake. "This shouldn't take long."

With that, he turned the bottle up for a third time and welcomed the coming oblivion with open arms.

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'Clink.'

"No, not that one..."

'Thunk.'

"Definitely not..."

'Crash!'

"Fuck!"

Cara bent down in front of her liquor cabinet, staring in distress at the shards of broken glass that had recently been a rather expensive bottle of elf-made wine. "Shit!" she swore again. Slapping her hand to her forehead, she groaned before getting rid of the mess with a wave of her hand.

With a dramatic sigh, she pushed back to her feet and stood staring at the cabinet full of bottles, hands petulantly on her hips.

"It's all your fault, you nasty piece of work," she said out loud. The 'nasty piece of work' in question was two floors down, holed up in his rooms, so it was very unlikely that he would hear her.

"Probably pulling the whiskers off kittens, or some other sadistic garbage," she cracked out, sarcasm lacing her voice. "Why am I even bothering with this? It's not like the man actually wants to talk to me. He'd probably rather pull out his own toenails than even say hello - bastard."

She rolled her eyes as her conscience shook its mental finger at her. "Fine... I don't know him well enough to call him such things... yet." Her foot began tapping as she narrowed her gaze murderously at the bottles in front of her.

Covering her eyes with one hand, she stepped forward, reaching randomly amidst the chaos of the cabinet. Her hand closed around the hard neck of a tall bottle, and she gently pulled it out, her other hand still over her eyes. Opening them quickly, she looked down at the bottle in her hand and laughed out loud. "Ha! What fuckin' irony! Not only am I about to literally drag myself across the coals to try and make a horrible man's life slightly less miserable, I'm going to waste my favorite poison on him, as well!"

With a frustrated growl, she tossed the bottle onto her bed - yes, her liquor cabinet was in her bedroom - and went to change out of her horribly uncomfortable teaching robes. "Itchy bastards," she mumbled, moving to her wardrobe after discarding the robes in a pile on the floor.

After much deliberation, she decided on a comfy pair of old jeans, a black sweater, and a pair of black, low-heeled boots. It's not that she was trying to look nice or impress him - 'Fat chance...' - but she didn't want to look like some frumpy old cat lady either. Casual but nice was just a means to an end: the less ammunition she gave him, the less likely he was to scream at her. She had heard rumors of his quick, sarcastic, hateful tongue.

"Well, Mr. Snarky, I've got one of my own. Care to trade blows?" She laughed out loud at the mental picture her mind gave her of that one.

Shaking her head, she dressed quickly and, tucking her wand safely into a side pocket, checked herself in her mirror. She ran her hands through her wavy hair, arranging it about her face. She had done her makeup earlier that evening for the Welcoming Feast, so she simply touched up her lips with the slightest hint of color. After a quick adjustment of cleavage -'Can't have the girls looking bad, now can we?' - she gave her reflection one last, sarcastic smile, snatched the bottle of Jose Cuervo from the bed, and exited her room, blonde hair flying behind her.

"Well, girlie," Cara's enchanted mirror said to itself just as the door had shut behind its owner, "he may not want to be your friend, but he'll certainly want to fuck you."

~TBC

A/N: Thanks to anyone who's reading! Leave me a review and tell me what you think! :)