2: When There Is a Distinct Possibility of Something Going Wrong

Disclaimer: We don't own it, but there's little doubt that they have much more fun playing with us. If only they could remember it.

WARNING: Since we don't make any money from these characters or their setting, we can't afford to replace your computer equipment. Save the food and drinks for later, just to be on the safe side.

Authors' Notes: Feel free to amuse yourself further by guessing who wrote which sections. (Answers are at the end of this chapter.)

Chapter 2: When There Is a Distinct Possibility of Something Going Wrong

As Hermione looked around the Great Hall, everything seemed to be going smoothly, at least at first glance, but she sensed something was off. She had been put in charge and was determined to make sure that the castle was still standing by morning. She made her way to the punch bowl for a better vantage point.

Hermione had just barely taken a sip of punch when Ernie MacMillan approached her.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

Everyone else seemed to be having a good time, so she acquiesced. After two songs, Hermione noticed that there seemed to be a lot of (too) close dancing and quite a bit of snogging going on.

Well, we did just win, she thought and dismissed it. Even though McGonagall had put her in charge, she had told herself she would not be a complete prude and busy-body at the celebration. She smiled at Ernie, relaxing and enjoying the rhythm of the music. Ernie took this as his cue and leaned in to kiss Hermione. Hermione stumbled backwards, tripping over her own feet, and maybe even one of Ernie's. When she was thinking of enjoying herself, kissing Ernie was not on her list.

"I think I'm overheated and need some punch," Hermione explained as she quickly exited the dance floor and left Ernie staring after her, a perplexed look on his face.

Hermione made it to the punch bowl without further incident and quickly drank a cup, refilling if for no other reason than to have an excuse not to go back on the dance floor. She could not believe how well everyone was getting on; it seemed the House rivalries were finally being put aside. She sipped her punch, watching the party over the rim of her cup.

---

As the students were celebrating the end of the war, it was perhaps not particularly surprising that the older adults, too, were beginning to feel restless.

After years of being alert almost twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, plotting and trying to keep the students in their charge safe or in one case wiping up after them, none of them were very eager to chaperone what was quickly turning into the party of all parties.

They were all rather in need of a stiff drink. Or rather in need of several stiff drinks. And one in particular had a good reason to get plastered, er, to celebrate. Although he didn't get much support on that front.

"No, Mrs. Norris."

"Meowwww."

"You can't really expect me to stay here, after what happened today!"

"Meow."

"But... But it was amazing! Something like this doesn't happen every day! I need to celebrate, can't you see that?"

"Mrrrewwww."

"You never let me do what I want to do! It's always the same... When I want to put my feet up, you want to go mousing or hunting after students. When all I want is some peace and quiet and a nip from the bottle, you want to go out. And what do we do? What you want, every single time. It's just not fair."

"Mreowww, meow... grrweow."

"Yes, yes, I know. It's my own fault that we always end up doing what you want. But not this time. I will go out and celebrate and try out my newfound powers! See what you make of that!" And with that a disgruntled, but very determined Argus Filch made his way around the corner and down a flight of stairs without a backward glance.

---

Mrs. Norris was swishing her tail to and fro erratically, fuming inside.

How dare he? He's behaving as if he is suffering my presence these days and not the other way around!

She would show him... There was that furry half-Kneazle, who was such a delicious shade of orange. Not a dull grey, as was her pet, Argus.

I wonder if he would care for a nice, dead mouse.... she thought with a warm purr...

---

"Ech! What sort of absolutely disgraceful, plebeian swill is this?" Draco held his cup at arm's length, spanning the rim with thumb and forefinger as if he were unwilling to touch it. From his facial expression, one would have thought he'd just been told it was a troll's urine sample.

"The punch is spiked," Crabbe said, knowing what sort of reaction it would yield, but also knowing it was wise to give Draco the lead-ins he wanted. It worked out much better for everyone that way.

"Yes, brilliant observation. But whoever spiked it seems to have access to some sort of heinous Muggle vehicle fuel or something. It's undrinkable!"

Greg downed his cupful. "Tastes fine to me."

Draco set down the cup to make a dramatic 'give me strength' gesture. "Please. All this is fit for is starting fires. No, this needs something more sophisticated... something with class, to bring it into the realm of potability. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To the dorms, of course. This punch is just pleading for that bottle of cognac in my trunk."

Crabbe and Goyle had developed an ability akin to Legilimency over years of dealing with Draco, whereby they could exchange pained expressions behind his back and each could know exactly what the other was thinking...in this case, Shite. If he gets to his trunk, he's going to want to change his clothes. If he starts faffing about with his clothes, trying to put together the perfect ensemble, we'll be waiting in the common room for him all bloody night, surrounded by absolutely no food.

They also knew, from long experience, how to handle such situations.

"You've already had a long day... let Greg and me handle it," Vince said solicitously.

"Yes, you don't want to miss any of the party. We'll fetch it here while you enjoy yourself." Vince wondered why everyone thought Greg was slow. He was always quick enough to pick up on Vince's cues.

"Well..."

Time to seal the deal. "What are those pastries you like so much, the oval-shaped ones with the marzipan?" Vince knew very well what they were called, but it always helped to let Draco show off.

"Mazarin Tarts." Draco's face lit up. "Did you see any?"

"On the platter at the end of the table," Greg said, pointing them out helpfully.

Wait for it... wait for it...

"Here, take my ring...you'll have to match it to the seals next to the lock, otherwise the traps will go off when you try to open it."

Crabbe and Goyle pretended this was news to them. "All right, we'll be back as quickly as we can."

Once they returned, they didn't even need to be told to stand in front of the punch bowl to block the view while Draco did the honours. If it pleased Draco to think he had them well trained... so be it.

"Ah, much better." Draco swayed beside the table like a willow in a gentle breeze, and Crabbe and Goyle hastened to take their places on either side of him. They hadn't protected him all these years so that he could drown in a punch bowl. (Or even fall on his arse next to it and look like an idiot.)

Greg and Vince each obediently took a taste and nearly gasped at the strength of it. Still, they both nodded in feigned agreement. They watched in amazement as Draco downed an entire cupful, refilled it, sipped some more, and began to giggle. He glanced around the room with bright eyes and flushed cheeks as if looking for something long-anticipated. Whatever he saw, it must not have been what he'd hoped for, as his expression dropped into despair just as quickly as it had risen with excitement. Finishing the glass, he sniffled loudly and disappeared into the crush on the dance floor.

Greg carefully set down his cup without drinking another drop. Vince followed suit.

It might have surprised some of their professors, but the boys had definitely learned one lesson perfectly while at Hogwarts: be careful what you eat.

---

"'Puff, the magic draaa-goooon lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee...'"

"Tonks? Is that you?"

"Remus! Spiffy, you had the same idea as me!" she yelled a little too loudly and staggered up to him with a big smile on her lips. He was about to say something when she planted a wet kiss on his mouth, and was temporarily distracted.

"Um, and what idea is that?"

"Uh, well, walking. To Hogsmeade. Or whatever," she waved around vaguely.

"I actually wanted to get some of Rosmerta's excellent elf-made wine. You know, for later," he replied, trying to be as nonchalant as possible and glad that the night was so dark to hide his blush.

"Oh, goodie. Wicked, wicked Remus," she replied and winked at him. "But a really good idea. Let's go then," Tonks continued and made to grab his arm to pull him with her.

"But we can't go together. One of us has to go back and chaperone," he said, sounding very much like the voice of reason.

She laughed more loudly than was warranted in his opinion.

"Oh, Remus, everything is in hand back there. Don't worry. It's all right for us to go to Hogsmeade."

"Do you really think we should go? I mean, Severus isn't in the best of moods..."

"His problem. Just because people everywhere want to kill him is no reason we can't go to the pub tonight of all nights."

"Er, if you word it that way..."

"Exactly. Now we're talking. Besides, he's not alone. Flitwick and Trelawney and the others are still there after all."

"Well, I did hear Filius speak before I left. And the others are bound to be there, too."

"Goodie! Now come on and sing with me! 'Puff, the magic draaa-goooon..."

"Have you been drinking already, 'Dora?"

"Just a tiny bit. Really, we are going to celebrate and naturally we are going to drink something, especially later..." she gave him a sultry look that somehow only served to make him look even more concerned instead of tempted. She pouted. "Don't be such a stick in the mud, Remus. Now sing with me: 'Puff, the magic draaa-gooon..." she sang again, and Remus took her arm to keep her from swaying too much.

So they made their way to Hogsmeade in a slightly wavy line.

---

A cheer erupted from the vicinity of the High Table, causing all heads to turn that way. Before Ernie MacMillan could react, Hermione was bustling over to the source of the disturbance.

"Fred! George! What are you two doing out of the hospital wing?"

"All better now, Mum," one of them (Fred?) said, cheekily.

"Yeah, Poppy's a miracle worker."

From Ernie's perspective, Hermione was rapidly losing ground against the Weasley twins. It didn't help that nearly the entire population of the room was evidently solidly in favour of chaos, particularly the other escapees from the infirmary. He looked around the Hall, seeking professors who could reinforce the side of order... and came up empty.

"Hermione! Hermione, could you come here? It's urgent!"

Loath though she might have been to leave the twins unattended (and un-scolded), Hermione had her priorities straight: maintain the appearance of solidarity between the Head Boy and Girl. "What the devil is it, Ernie? You look as if you've seen a Boggart!"

Ernie knew better than to argue with her verbally. "Look around, Hermione. Tell me how many teachers you see."

Her mouth opened with the apparent intent to retort, but she closed it again and did as requested. By the time she'd made a third desperate scan of the room, her face had gone pale.

"They all must have... stepped out for a breath of air... or had something they needed to fetch from somewhere... or gone to the loo," Hermione said, a tinge of hysteria in her voice. "I know I saw Professor Flitwick, not ten minutes ago!"

"Oh, that was me!" Terry Boot wandered by, his face flushed and his eyes oddly bright. "Hopkins dared me to impersonate my head of house...hey, if I fooled you, I win the bet!"

Ernie and Hermione breathed a collective sigh of relief that Terry was distracted enough not to notice that the professors had gone missing. The pleasant feeling was short-lived.

"Do you want to go looking for them, or should I?"

"No... Fred and George must be behind all this, I just know it." Hermione fingered her wand as she spoke. "Bother! They were right over there a minute ago. Where did they go?"

Ernie decided that he was quite glad he wasn't one of the Weasley twins. Judging by Hermione's expression, she would be biting something other than her lower lip when she found them.

"I'm going to have a talk with them...and they're going to tell me how they sidetracked the professors, and where they are now. Why don't you continue to scan the Hall for problems, and maybe round up a few of the Prefects to help?"

"Right." Ernie felt relieved that he wouldn't be forced to sort out the Twins. He began searching for trustworthy Prefects, failing to notice Hermione detour to the punchbowl for a drink and frown after the first sip. He likewise failed to mark that she finished only about half of the cup before stalking off with both a reddish hue and a determined look on her face.

Even if he had noticed, he might not have realized just how important it was to steer clear of the punch...

---

A card.

"Oh, no."

Another card.

"No. No, no, no, no, no."

Yet another card.

A screech as if from a dying bird followed. "I won't, I tell you! I won't."

Another card hit the table. Then the formation of cards was swiped off the table and onto the floor beneath with an angry huff.

No, she wouldn't; and they couldn't make her! It wasn't anywhere in her contract.

She was a seer, not a babysitter!

She would never, not in a million years chaperone at a party. A true seer would never degrade herself so. She immediately suppressed the nagging thought that always accompanied statements like this: what kind of true seer had never made a correct prediction?

But after all these years with impudent students, wars and ministry officials who thought they could just sack her, this was really too much. She wouldn't chaperone at this monstrosity of a party. Let Snape do that! He's always so very fond of blasting those infernal rustling rose bushes!

She needed something stronger than that cooking sherry. A Firewhisky was too dry and hot for her, but a nice Flaming Mint might do.

Yes! She would leave before anyone would be able to ask her to help out.

Let's see how they'll deal with that horde of hormonal students on their own! And with that thought, she huffily flipped one of her many shawls about her and lifting the trap door to her tower room, made her way from the castle and out into the dark of the night.

---

"Is she gone?"

Seamus could just as well have looked about the Hall and seen for himself whether or not Hermione was there, but Dean indulged him. It was actually a rather good idea for someone to stand lookout during the spiking of the punch. As far as protecting the integrity of the refreshments went, Hermione had obviously been taking lessons from Snape. "As far as I can tell."

"What about Ernie?"

Dean snickered. "On the other side of the hall, trying to stop Smith from singing."

"Best of luck to him in that," Seamus replied, for some reason finding that funny to the point of hysterics. He laughed to the point that he managed to get a liberal dose of his libation of choice on his robes as well as in the punchbowl.

"Why are we doing this, again?"

"Because we need to cancel out that sweet swill I saw Ron dump in here, that's why, me good mate," Seamus said cheerfully, splashing himself again due to inattention. "There! That ought to do it." He Banished the empty bottle and ambled around to the front of the table.

"Phew...better stay away from candles for a bit, Seamus," Dean said, not entirely facetiously.

"Very funny...now, drink up!" Seamus poured them each a cup. They toasted each other on a job well done and tasted the fruits of their labours.

Dean coughed and spluttered, his eyes tearing over. Gasping, he asked, "What ever-living fuck was in the bottle?"

Seamus' eyes were running as he answered, "Why, jus' a lil' (hic!) Irish cheer!"

---

Hermione hadn't been the only one feeling not quite herself. In fact, nearly the entire population of the Great Hall was quite industriously engaged in feeling persons other than themselves, and no one seemed to be complaining. Nor was anyone besides Hermione wondering why all the shyest people in the school were suddenly nominating themselves to run what was rapidly becoming a dissolute bacchanal, with Neville Longbottom and his chosen consort Luna Lovegood campaigning enthusiastically for the titles of King and Queen of Misrule. Currently, they were well on their way to dominating the impromptu 'sexiest tango competition,' which bode well for the success of their bid.

However, Harry and Ginny were offering stiff competition in the form of 'most creative non-culinary use of desserts.' Which they were demonstrating on the High Table, with lots of Chocolate Snitch Ice Cream and hot fudge, to wildly enthusiastic applause from the assembled guests.

Ernie McMillan had the vague feeling he was supposed to be doing something about all this, but he couldn't quite think of what. Where was his chaperone partner?

Wait a minute... partner... pairing... there were still assorted non-snogging, non-coupled persons out there. Maybe that was what he was supposed to be fixing?

"Who's up for a dare?" he bellowed enthusiastically, garnering a surprising amount of attention considering the attraction inherent in watching permutations of the tango (either on the dance floor or on the serving platter).

"Me! Oh, let me!" Somehow, it didn't surprise him that Colin Creevey managed to make his screech heard over...well, over everything.

"Come here." He whispered the terms of the dare and the necessary password for completing it, whereupon Colin nodded eagerly and took off like a shot in the direction of the Headmaster's office.

The staircases must have been with Colin in a remarkable way, for he was back in less than twenty minutes, carrying...

"Is that what I think it is?" Mandy asked, gaping in astonishment.

Ernie jumped a little, not having noticed her arrival but glad of it. He smiled, electing to interpret her expression as one of admiration. "Absolutely."

Just then, the piece of tattered fabric in Colin's hands seemed to perk up, and a familiar voice rang out:

'I'm the Hogwarts sorting hat and I'm feeling quite elated

To see the houses thus united is simply much belated

Slytherin with Gryffindor combines the cunning with the bold

I'm seeing things that make me wish I weren't quite so old

Hufflepuffs with their loyalty will make you feel so grand

While ever brilliant Ravenclaws know how to take things in hand.'

"Did Colin tell you why we wanted you?" Ernie asked the hat. On some level, he thought that he should feel a bit odd addressing a piece of clothing, but it was too hard to hold onto such disagreeable thoughts.

"Oh, yes, my good Hufflepuff. Step right up, youngsters! If you don't have a partner yet, just leave it to the old Hat...I'll sort you!"

Ernie grimaced. Mandy cringed slightly and muttered, "Hats really shouldn't attempt comedy."

---

Minerva hmphed loudly into the warm night air.

Where are those two? I sent them to make sure everything is all right, and now they are not to be found!

She hmphed again for good measure, tapping her foot impatiently.

At least everything really was all right in Hogsmeade, though Vector and Sinistra had neglected to report it.

If you want something done, it's best you do it yourself.

A third hmph was rudely interrupted by a familiar voice calling her name quite loudly from the other side of the street.

"Minerva! Fancy meeting you here! You also out for a drink? After those unruly hordes, I need something to sustain me. Care to join me?" Poppy Pomfrey let loose her barrage of questions, grabbed her arm and proceeded to drag Minerva McGonagall in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

No one was going to bully her like this! "Poppy! Unhand me. I really need to go back to Hogwarts. I'm surprised at you! I thought you were responsible enough to keep to your post."

"The war is over, Minerva. The kids are partying like there's no tomorrow, and my patients are all fast asleep. It's time that we celebrate a little as well," Poppy said determinedly. "Now what say you? Are you going to join me or go back to sit in on the loudest and most obnoxious party Hogwarts has ever seen?"

"What about Severus? I told him I would come right back with...er, I meant to bribe him out of his office."

"We'll bring him a nice Hangover Relief Potion in the morning and talk him through it. He's a lost cause tonight, and you know it very well."

Minerva hemmed and hawed a moment longer. "Well, one drink. But no more!"

---

Pomona and Rolanda made their way through the crowded streets of Hogsmeade as best as they could, dodging the sparks sent in the air by newly christened war veterans and sideline sitting civilians. As one jet of green light grazed Sprout's hat, she ducked and shouted with alarm.

The flying instructor only laughed. "It was only a Jelly Legs. Look!"

Sprout watched a wizard holding up a broken bottle fall to the ground on wobbly legs.

"Saw him yelling and waving that about," Hooch explained, deftly stepping over a couple snogging horizontally on the floor.

"That could have been a Death Eater," Pomona said as she wondered how one could possibly get in that position on the cobblestone road.

"Not here," Hooch said firmly. In a more cheerful voice, she added, "Ready to go for him?"

Pomona blinked, realizing they had arrived at the grimy door of the Hog's head. "Erm... I suppose I–"

"Good." Rolanda opened the door and snatched Pomona's hat.

"Why'd you do that?" Pomona whispered. Hands flying to fix her hair, she stepped into the pub. It was no secret that the Herbology professor's hair was a mess, and she knew about the stories her students told about the plants she grew within the tangled bundle she'd cover with her hat. Though she kept it clean and plant free, Sprout preferred her wrinkled brown witch's hat to cover it all.

"The hex ruined it," Hooch replied, stuffing the hat into the nearest rubbish bin before Sprout could examine it further.

"But... my hair!"

Hooch led the distraught witch to the bar. "Looks better without it. Hullo, Aberforth!"

Pomona sat on a stool and tried not to stare much at Aberforth's hands as he placed stained coasters in front of her and Hooch. A quick glance showed her the Runes tattoos he had on his knuckles, the straight and callused hands that now lay flat on the dull brown counter.

"What will it be?" Nodding at Hooch, Aberforth then leaned in Pomona's direction.

"Gillywater," she said weakly. She couldn't look away from the bartender. Despite his dodgy practices, his eyes were a clear direct blue, not shifting away from her. Pomona gulped.

"Good...and for you?" Aberforth asked Rolanda.

She crossed her fingers and brought her hands up to her chin. "I dunno. What have you got?" Hooch asked.

Aberforth took out two battered glass mugs and set them on the bar. "Made a new beauty this morning."

Not only is his goat history unclear, but he mixes drinks before noon, Pomona mentally sighed. Focusing on the iron grey hair that ran down his back, Pomona thought of his eyes and hands and the way he spoke to her – somewhat harsh but attentive, as if he was actually interested in what she had to tell him about the plants she worked with.

"I'm game," Hooch said.

"Don't you want to know what it is?" Sprout asked.

"I call it Three Mile Island Iced Tea." Aberforth took the mugs and mixed the drinks, handing them to the professors. Pomona took hers with a shy thanks and then stared at the smoking green concoction in Hooch's hands.

"To... victory," Pomona said, her glass raised.

"And a good shag!"

Somehow Pomona's and Aberforth's eyes met during Hooch's toast. She coughed and clinked mugs with Rolanda.

Pomona sipped her drink and grimaced. She had never liked gillywater, but it was the first drink name that had slipped from her lips.

A loud belch sounded from her right, and she saw a glowing green Hooch burping out a mushroom cloud into the air.

"Rolanda... your skin!"

The flying instructor held a hand up to her face and examined it. "Fetching colour, green. How long does it stay on?"

Aberforth turned from the hag he was currently serving. "I'm not sure yet. You're the first one to try it out."

Hooch still smiled, but her eyes went wide. "Best be off to the loo, then."

While feeling concerned for her colleague, Sprout couldn't help her nervousness rise when Aberforth approached her.

"Hello," she managed to say.

He leaned into the counter and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. "Hello, yourself."

In her giddy nervousness, she blurted, "Whatever happened to that goat, anyway?"

---

Rolanda stepped into the loo and found that the mirror had nothing to offer by way of reassurance.

How the hell am I supposed to chat up Poppy looking like the bloody Wicked Witch of the West?

Looking at the dismayed green face in the mirror was getting discouraging. Here goes nothing...damn, I hate having to point my wand at myself...

"Infucatus Novum!"

Success!

Hooch almost cheered...until the Wicked Witch of the West reappeared in the mirror.

Admitting defeat for now and hoping Filius or Severus could do something about this back at Hogwarts, Hooch left the loo and searched for Pomona, who wasn't sitting at the bar.

Glancing at Aberforth, who was mixing a drink and facing the back of the bar, Hooch frowned. The poor woman must be outside. Maybe she wasn't able to take on the goat.

Rushing outside, Hooch found her against the wall by the door, looking up at the fireworks exploding in the sky. The lights illuminated the cheerful expression of her face that didn't change upon seeing Rolanda's epidermal predicament.

"He said he'll meet me after his shift," Pomona said breathlessly.

"Did he now?"

"And we almost kissed."

"Almost?"

Pomona blushed. "I didn't think it would be proper."

"Then you haven't drunk enough yet."

"To the Three Broomsticks? Poppy should be there by now."

Hooch's stomach lurched at the mention of Poppy's name. "To the Three Broomsticks!" She said aloud, matching the witch's tone as they faced the rowdy crowds once more.

---

Harry was feeling a bit out of sorts.

No sooner had he and Ginny gotten within the vicinity of the dance floor than Neville and Luna (of all people) had swooped down upon Ginny and pulled her into a very complicated three-person dance. Harry admired the technique involved. He appreciated that Ginny really enjoyed dancing. But he suspected that he was more than justified in feeling that it could bloody well have waited until the Graduation Ball.

"I'll see you there!" she called over her shoulder, winking as she was swallowed in the crush.

That settles it. The universe is seriously fucked up. I save the world from the most evil wizard imaginable and still can't get a moment alone with my girlfriend.

A flurry of red hair bobbed into view. To Harry's disappointment, it didn't belong to the Weasley he was looking for. "Harry! Harry, I need to borrow the Cloak. There's this dare, and the Patil twins agreed to..."

"Yeah, sure, Ron," Harry said absently, continuing to scan the room. Where the hell is Ginny?

"Thanks, mate!" Before running off, Ron slapped Harry on the back so hard that he had to clutch at his glasses to keep them from falling off.

After several long minutes of fruitless looking, Harry concluded that either he was too short, or Ginny was. The mystery of her location wasn't solved until he ran into Neville...or rather, Neville ran into him (literally).

"Sorry, Harry! Brilliant party!"

"Sure, Neville. Where's Ginny?"

"She left us somewhere on the other side of the floor...she needed a bath," Luna said, as if that explained it all. Which, knowing what Harry knew, it did.

Harry bit back a curse. "Thanks," he yelled into the crowd as Neville and Luna swung away again. He pushed determinedly toward the nearest exit.

Time to see a witch about a bath.

---

And this is Lucky Sev.

He clung to his one and only friend in his pitch-black room...a very large bottle of Firewhisky...for moral support. He poured yet another glass.

gulp

Voldemort was finally dead.

gulp

He looked blearily at his unmarked arm and made a strangled sound resembling a giggle. It threatened to rise to hysteria, but...

gulp... gulp... gulp... gulp

he managed to suppress that.

Hmmm... why isn't this bottle getting any emptier?

gulp

Neither he nor the Brat-that-wouldn't-fucking-die had even a shallow cut after the battle.

gulp

The Ministry of Magic would possibly generously decide not to lock him up in an adjacent padded cell next to his buddy Lucius at the Azkaban Home for Difficult Children.

gulp

All his Death Eater 'friends' were dead, mad or soon-to-be incarcerated.

gulp

Lucky, lucky Sev.

gulp

All the Teachers at Hogwarts had decided that he was a good fellow after all, considering his 'heroics' in the final battle.

gulp... gulp.

Missed out on DADA again!

gulp

Dumbledore...

gulp

...at least, his portrait...

gulp

...told him that he never gave up on him.

gulp... gulp... gulp...

The HAT...that fucking Hat had decided that he had been sorted wrong... Gryffindor? Severus hiccoughed laughter and tears. He had fled the scene of the final battle, not really thinking of a destination. Somehow he had ended in the Headmaster's Office. Hands shaking, he tossed down a large glass of McGonagall's finest. He knew she wouldn't approve. Whiskey should be savoured, but he didn't give a damn. Then the sorting Hat had addressed him, and a certain portrait chimed in!

He shuddered as he recalled the banter between Albus' portrait and the Sorting Hat. The Hat had displayed an almost humanly impish sense of humour, which had seriously weirded him out. He fled the Headmasters' office to the ghostly laughter of his friend and the maniacal Hat.

gulp... gulp... gulp

And Lucky Sev was alive.... What god had he royally pissed off? Was Fate so fucking vindictive that she allowed him to live? Why the hell was he still alive?

He didn't notice the house-elves replacing his bottle whenever he placed his head gently on the table, rapping his forehead on the hard surface.

His mind relived the chaos of the final battle. Snippets and snatches whirled around in his addled brain. He saw Longbottom go down, howling in anguish. As an observer after the fact, Severus laughed as Neville turned the curse back on Pettigrew.

He saw flashes of the Weasleys and Granger darting in and out, curses and counter-curses having a life of their own... deadly arcs of power vaulting over the verge. He saw bottles flying, smashing, erupting great gouts of purple and green, choking entire groups of Death Eaters. In the centre, in a deceptively dead-calm pocket amongst the chaos, he was at Voldemort's shoulder, in the absence of Lucius. This was Voldemort's one and only mistake. Not even the legion of Dementors that Voldemort had sent to Azkaban could bust out his 'Lord's' 'trusted' lieutenant. The Dementors were late, and were evidently going to remain so.

Voldemort was focused solely on Potter, heedless of all his 'beloved' Death Eaters either dying or dead. Like so many megalomaniacs in history, Voldemort had a blind spot, and in this case, it was his unbending belief in his immortality and the fact that no-one could harm him, no matter who he had by his side. Hence Severus' unique perspective in the final battle. Snape was near enough...and underestimated enough...to calmly stab Voldemort in the back. Even the most powerful wizard in the world could be inconvenienced by six inches of tempered steel.

He recalled the almost comical look of betrayal on Voldemort's face as Potter administered the coup de gras. It was almost anti-climactic. Tom Riddle never said a word as he held Severus' arm; just looked at him with a mix of horror and hate as he died... this time for the last time, his body collapsing into a gooey, black ichor, his robes gently smoking in the cool night air. He remembered the blinding pain as his arm, as if it was severed, before collapsing into Potter, who inadvertently broke his fall. He vaguely remembered a frizzy-haired witch looking down on him, forcing his lips open to take one of his viler concoctions.

Lucky, lucky Severus. He had survived. He pounded his head gently on the scarred surface of his workbench.

Bloody know-it-all should have let me die...

The mental shock of Voldemort's death should have been the end of him. By the sounds around him, it had been the end of quite a few of his 'fellow' Death Eaters. For some reason, he couldn't get the frizzy haired girl out of his mind...

Her frizzy hair mixed in with a definite fuzzy aura to his thoughts. He tried to clear his head, but the Firewhisky resisted. His brain felt like... well, felt... It was one of the weirdest feelings he had ever had. Flashes of her intruded on his sozzled mind, the all-encompassing robes not hiding the fact that she was, in fact, quite curvy in a boyish sort of way. Severus reeled in shock as his thoughts wandered down that path, but the fuzziness refused to go away; in fact it got worse. He forced his head from the bench, and tried to focus on his Slytherin coat-of-arms on the wall. His Slytherins... despite the officials... his bloody Slytherins.

In spite of the thick walls and the isolation of his quarters, he thought he heard... no... that wasn't possible. He concentrated harder, still pouring glass after glass... then a particularly loud giggle...and it was a giggle...intruded on his morose musings. The glass went flying and shattered against the wall as Severus hauled himself up unsteadily. Thinking of Granger also brought forth thoughts of duty, and he staggered towards the door, intent on doing his rounds.

---

"Draco..."

Draco literally jumped. Not a start, shudder, or jerk, but an honest-to-goodness jump. "Fuck it, Vince! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

Vincent sighed inwardly. He really is twitchy, he thought, half in fondness, half in frustration. "Draco, you can't hide from Pansy all night."

"It's a big castle," Draco muttered.

"Why don't you just end it cleanly? She'll probably be glad for the chance to just let herself go and flirt a little. You can both enjoy the party, if you'll just clear this up."

"Don't care about the stupid party." He was doing a poor job of hiding the fact that he was wiping his eyes.

Crabbe didn't bother trying to hide his sigh this time. "Oh, hell, Draco! This, from the only person in the room who wanted to hurry back to the dorms to change into formals, instead of just starting the party as is? This from the man who christened the punchbowl with 20 year old cognac so that we wouldn't be forced to drink absolute swill?"

"Absolutely disgraceful, plebeian swill," Draco corrected, a little plaintively. He was sniffling openly now.

Vince rolled his eyes. "Never mind all the time you spent fixing Flitwick's charms on the instruments and haranguing the ghosts so there would be a perfect mix of fast and slow music. Draco, I know you don't think much of my brain, and I admit, I'm not half as quick as you are...but after all that, you couldn't convince a troll you don't care about this party." Or that you're not trying to impress someone, he thought, but refrained from saying it aloud. It wasn't quite time for that yet.

Sniffling turned to out-and-out crying. "Y-you're not dumb, Vince. Y-you just have t-trouble with b-books and stuff. You're m-my b-b-best friend."

Draco sort of collapsed on Vince's shoulder, and the bigger boy summoned a handkerchief. It had been a good idea to leave Greg behind in the Hall to run interference. Considering what they were quite sure they knew of their unofficial leader's preferences, Greg always got a little nervous when Draco hit the 'clingy and maudlin' stage.

Considering Draco was now in the maudlin and clingy stage, it had probably been a very bad idea to comply with his demand to fetch the alcohol. But the Thestral was out of the stable now, and Vince had to deal with it.

"You're the bright one, Draco. But sometimes, you sort of outsmart yourself...you know what I mean? I know you don't like her. Greg knows you don't like her. I'm willing to bet she's got a pretty good idea that you don't like her, and we all know why you don't like her. Don't look at me like that. It's not the rumours. Greg and me know better than to believe those. But we've listened to plenty of your rants over the years, and frankly, it's more than a little obvious."

Draco changed colours very interestingly for what seemed like a good many minutes. "I couldn't stay out there and watch him with...with her...and the chocolate..." Draco broke off with a little wail, as if the chocolate had somehow done something to personally affront him.

Vince patted him on the shoulder. "It's pretty much now or never, you know. NEWTs are in two months, and he'll never be in a better mood."

"He's not interested. I saw the two...t-two...of them..."

"Obviously you didn't see Justin come over and slap his arse," Vince began, only to be interrupted by Draco's indignant shriek.

"Why, that little tramp! I've had my eye on that inspiringly gorgeous backside, second only to mine in perfection in all the wizarding world, since fourth year, and he thinks he can just walk up and put his filthy little paws on it?"

Since first year, by my count, Vince thought dryly, but merely continued speaking where he'd left off. "The two of them just laughed and blew him a kiss as he went on his way. They sure didn't seem to object."

Draco went back to sulking. "She's still there. Don't wanna share."

Just then, Goyle burst through the door into the corridor. "Vince! Did you...oh good. Hey, they're leaving now, and he kind of lost her on the dance floor! If you hurry, you can get to him before he catches up to her again!"

Draco hurriedly dabbed his eyes one more time with the handkerchief, blew his nose and returned it to Vince (who banished it with a long-suffering expression). "Is my hair okay? Oh, I must look a fright right now! I have to..."

"GO, and NOW," Vince said firmly, steering him back into the room by one elbow. Greg gave him a little shove for good measure. Draco hurried off in the direction they'd sent him, leaving Crabbe to reflect that he finally understood what 'all a-twitter' meant.

"About bloody time he went for it."

"Think he'll get hexed?" Greg had agreed to Vince's plan, but that didn't mean he wasn't still worried about it. After all, Draco usually had the plans. Still, it seemed like anything was possible tonight.

Vince thought hard. "No... I don't think so. Everyone seems in too good a mood for that sort of reaction tonight. Who knows? Maybe he'll get a snog out of it and get it out of his system."

Greg shrugged. It was almost a hopeful gesture. "He was all weepy, wasn't he?

"Yeah."

"And clingy?"

"Isn't he always...at least, once he's had a snootful?"

Greg shook his head solemnly. "Better you than me, mate."

Vince's turn to shrug. "Oh, it's not that bad. Not like he'd come on to either of us. Not his type, and all that."

"S'pose. Say, some of those dares sound right interesting. Want to give any of 'em a go?"

"Only if it involves something REAL to eat. I'm through with all this sweet stuff."

"Sounds good."

---

Authors' Notes:

Hermione's dance courtesy of broomclosetravenclaw.

Trelawney, Remus & Tonks, and Filch making their escapes from the castle, and the beginning of the teachers' adventures in Hogsmeade (Minerva and Poppy), courtesy of shalimar1981.

The scene with Hooch and Sprout in the Hog's Head courtesy of SS Lupin.

The drink in the scene with Hooch and Sprout in the Hog's Head courtesy of Hubby_of_Drac.

Angsty, drunken Snape courtesy of JustDesmond.

All other student scenes, including any and all punch-spiking, courtesy of dracontia.

The verse sung by the Sorting Hat courtesy of Droxy.

It's even funnier if you read it while slightly tipsy or sleep-deprived, according to Hubby_of_Drac.