The Snapeorium

Disclaimer - See Prologue

Chapter 1

“’Mione, I really think we should take these Snape-a-Therapy kits off the market. This is the seventeenth complaint this week.”

Hermione Granger looked up from a particularly long report on cauldron thickness and glared questioningly at the letter in Ron Weasley’s hand. “Why? What’s wrong with them?” she asked irritably.

Ron picked up a stack of letters and began to read random excerpts from the pile of complaints. “Let me see, oh yes: ‘never been so scared in my life,’ ‘fouled my bathwater in panic,’ umm, ‘I’ll never sleep again,’ and this one’s my personal favourite: ‘my cat fell in the bath, you greasy bastard, and I demand a replacement.’”

“Kit or cat?”

“Pardon?” Ron looked thoroughly confused.

Hermione sighed impatiently and tried to contain her irritation. Ron really could be very thick sometimes, and with the cauldron report due the following morning, she’d hoped he’d have a little more wit about him that evening. “Do they want a replacement kit, or a replacement cat?” she said, a little too slowly for good humour.

Ron ignored her tone, read further down the page, and winced. “Oh…” he said uncomfortably, “cat…”

Hermione felt a tight knot of guilt form in her stomach, but she wasn’t going to show it to Ron. “Okay, send that person…”

“Estrid Eldritch…”

“Estrid Eldritch, send her a gift voucher for the Magical Menagerie.”

Ron nodded, agreeing that the voucher might be a good way to make amends to the angry Ms Eldritch, but he wouldn’t let the subject drop so easily. “Yeah, okay, but ‘Mione, I think these kits have gone too far… You’ve really pissed people off.”

Hermione sighed, any guilt about the cat leaving her with remarkable speed. “Look, they’re awake aren’t they?”

“Well… yeah.”

“And they’re alive?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do they have to complain about? The kit did exactly what it said it would do!”

Ron shook his head and returned to opening the post. He knew better than to argue with Hermione these days; and he had to admit that orders and requests for catalogues far outweighed any complaints they’d received, so he figured they must be doing something right. That was to say that Hermione must be doing something right; Ron and Harry were just the suckers she used to test her products and open the mail. Ron fancied that he worked harder for Hermione than he did at his actual paying job; he certainly took a lot more abuse from her. Of the three of them, Harry was the only one who actually had a job remotely close to what he wanted to be doing, and even that was proving unfulfilling. None of them were particularly happy with their vocation, but it was Hermione’s lack of her dream job that started the Snapeorium in the first place.

After finishing at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione started working for the Ministry of Magic. Like Harry and Ron, Hermione had high expectations for her future. She’d managed to survive the war and come out a hero of sorts, she was intelligent and gifted, and she expected to do well. And at first she did do well. Hermione found herself advancing through the Department of International Magical Cooperation with amazing speed, and everything seemed to be going according to plan. Her career in the magical world appeared to be on the fast track, until one day when she had been thrust into the public eye because Percy Weasley had taken ill with a cold. Percy was supposed to hold a press conference that day, and as Hermione happened to be in his line of sight that morning, the Minister of Magic had decided she would be an adequate substitute. Hermione did an excellent job, just as she always did, and before she knew it she was the Ministry of Magic’s Public Spokeswoman. Now she was constantly in the public eye, and as a result, that same public held her accountable for every ill-fated decision the Ministry had made over the last two years. She often mused that it wouldn’t be so bad, except that every time there was good news, some departmental head stepped up and took the credit for it. Hermione was almost uniformly seen as the much loathed bearer of bad tidings.

For almost as long as she had been working for the Ministry, Hermione had talked about wanting to work in the developmental potions department of St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Not being one to sit idle when it came to something she really wanted, she had written letters every few weeks asking if a position had opened up in the potions department; and every day she scanned the job ads in the Daily Prophet for anything that might possibly aid her ambition to get there. Over time, the idea of working for the hospital had become almost like a dream; a job that would put an end to her troubles and spontaneously bring about her happiness. So it was like a dream come true when one of her enquiry letters came back with a positive response. A position had opened up, and they were willing to interview her for it. Hermione had almost wet herself in anticipation of finally having everything she ever wanted. She certainly had the marks for it; she had topped Potions at Hogwarts and she had kept her hand in ever since, and her constant letter writing had proven her enthusiasm to them. She just needed to sit through the interview and she had the job.

Except that she didn’t. Thanks to one Professor Severus Snape, who sat on the placement committee, Hermione had been overlooked, in favour of Draco Malfoy, who had also applied for the job, and who had smirked as he offered his condolences after the interviews were through.

“Bastard,” Hermione had ranted when she’d returned to Grimmauld Place. “Ferret faced bastard!”

To make matters worse, Snape had advised the hospital board that Hermione Granger did not have the right temperament to work with. He had advised the board that he believed she should seriously revise her decision regarding her vocation!

“Not the right temperament?” she screamed later, pacing the living room of Grimmauld Place and subjecting her unfortunate housemates to her tirade. “Not the right fucking temperament?” She had turned wildly on them both. “And Draco fucking Malfoy has the right temperament. Draco Fucking Malfoy?”

“Well,” Harry had said, without actually thinking first, “he was pretty good at Potions at school.”

Ron had sunk his head into his hands, and made a noise that sounded remarkably like ‘d’oh.’

Hermione had glared at Harry as though he had just called her a Mudblood. “Draco Malfoy couldn’t brew a basic sleeping draught if it got up and slapped him about the head!” she’d cried. “Are you trying to tell me that someone like that should be celebrating having my job?”

“Err…” Harry swallowed hard and looked to Ron for help, “um, I have to… go… to work! Yes, that’s right… work! Bye!” And he bolted out the door.

Two hours and a long hot bath later, Hermione had returned to the living room. Harry had ventured home, a little drunk and a little stoned, but certainly still fearful, and was playing video games with Ron. She had sat quietly on the couch and watched the boys play Doom on the Play Station, before saying in a horribly calm and calculating voice: “I have decided to dedicate my life to humiliating Severus Snape in public.”

And so the Snapeorium was born.

Business had been running hot for three months, and Ron reasoned that if sales continued as they were, Hermione would be able to quit the Ministry of Magic and devote herself to the Snapeorium full time. That was, of course, if Snape didn’t find out about it first. The Potions master had been strangely silent on the matter. Harry and Ron both agreed that Snape simply couldn’t know about the Snapeorium yet, though it was only a matter of time until he found out.

“Hermione,” Ron said, suddenly serious as he opened yet another complaint about the Revive and Feel Alive kit, “you can’t poison people just because Snape would. That bloody kit is dangerous.”

“Oh, honestly, Ron,” Hermione scolded him irritably. “Do you think I would actually poison anyone? Just because the kit says we have poisoned them doesn’t mean that we have actually done so! It’s a joke! The potion is harmless.”

“It killed a cat!”

“Yes, well, it is harmful to cats, but who in their right mind bathes with a cat?”

By way of reply, Ron waved Estrid Eldritch’s letter in her direction.

They were interrupted by the sounds of familiar footsteps dragging up the hall, and Harry trudged past the doorway, covered in mud and slime and looking as though he had just gone a few rounds with a Troll, which, as it turned out, he had. Harry had been a fully qualified Auror for a little over a year, and they were still giving him the ‘difficult’ cases. Usually it was a task that involved a crazed beast rampaging through London, and they kept telling him that all new Aurors went through the same initiation. Apparently he had to prove his metal before he could move on to chasing Dark Wizards and the like. Not that there were many Dark Wizards around anymore. Harry was at a loss; obviously killing Voldemort in hand-to-hand combat had proved nothing, and he had to wonder what more he could do.

“Harry? Is everything okay?” Hermione called out the doorway, and Harry grumbled a reply about needing a shower because he smelled like a toilet. Hermione chased him down the hall, calling for him to wait, and Harry turned irritably back to her.

“What?” he asked grumpily. He was covered in Troll bogeys, and Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust; he really did smell like a particularly foul public toilet, and he obviously felt as bad as he smelled.

“Do you want to test my new Snape-a-Therapy Foaming Shampoo rinse?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, come on, Harry, I need a guinea pig… and Ron’s going to test the facial wash!” She smiled pleadingly and held out the bottle. Harry sighed and took it with a resigned look on his face, knowing that refusing her was useless. Hermione kissed him on the cheek, and immediately regretted it, because he did in fact taste like a particularly foul public toilet. “Thanks, Harry, you’re a saint.”

“More like a ruddy idiot,” Harry muttered, and he turned and trudged his way up the stairs.

***

Using the toilet at Grimmauld Place had become a chore that Harry Potter had learned to dread. The house had become a testing ground for Hermione’s Snapeorium products, and while Harry could stand most of them… almost… the toilet was another matter. Harry went in, closed the door, and sat down with his eyes closed, and he tried to concentrate on doing what he went in there to do.

It was no use. He could feel the eyes watching him! Why oh why could Hermione have not put the Potions Periodic Tables wall hanging somewhere other than the toilet? Far from teaching Harry the Potions tables, having Snape glaring back at him, looking smug and self satisfied, and blinking on the odd occasion, tended to bind up anything that he would want to do in the toilet.

Just ignore it. Don’t look at it. It isn’t real; it’s just a stupid wall hanging.

Why couldn’t she just take it down?

Ron had tried to remove it, but it had simply attached itself firmly and threatened to take points from Gryffindor. When she put the Snape toilet paper in there, declaring that they could wipe their arses on Snape’s face, the boys had cried foul. The wall hanging was bad enough, but the toilet paper was just that one step too far.

Harry somehow managed to finish his business and left the toilet. He grabbed a rather scratchy Snape towel from the airing cupboard, and stumbled into the bathroom to shower.

“Snape-a-Therapy Foaming Shampoo Rinse, eh?”

Harry chuckled and looked at the bottle of shampoo. Hermione must be losing her touch, because everyone knew that Snape didn’t wash his hair. Just look at the state of it! He placed the bottle on the rack beside the Snape-o-Shave (which had an irritating habit of singing “shave your face with a Snapey razor” if it was picked up), and the Snape Gigantic Nose Sponge, which Harry had to admit did get into those hard to reach places. He moved Hermione’s Snape-a-Rub loofah, rumoured to be as abrasive as the Potion master’s personality, and turned on the water.

Ahhhhh, hot water. Troll smell washing away. Harry closed his eyes and allowed the water to wash over him, before happily turning on the Snape-o-phonic Waterproof Wireless, and tuning it in to the Macarena. The dangling Snape-on-a-Rope soap leapt to life, climbed up his rope, and found a nice clear space in the soap dish. The miniature Potions master then began to wiggle his hips and wave his arms, his face twisting into a perfect Snape like scowl.

“Ohhhh, Macarena,” Harry sang along, encouraging the soap to move that little bit more vigorously.

Snape clapped his hands and jumped to the right, repeating his dance in time to the music.

Harry didn’t really care about the Snapeorium at all, but watching Snape dance the Macarena in a soap dish? Well, that was always worth watching.

He retrieved the bottle of experimental shampoo and sighed. It was probably best to get this over with as soon as possible.

********

Professor Severus Snape decided that after twenty-one years of teaching, he must be losing his touch. He was sure he kept hearing some dreadful Muggle tune every time he turned around, and although he had never caught them at it, he was certain that his students were actually laughing at him behind his back. Which was completely ridiculous, as no student would ever laugh at Severus Snape.

Of course, he reasoned that he could be imagining things. He had never been one for fanciful imaginings, but he had seen a lot in his life, and perhaps all the years of spying and paranoia had finally gone to his head. Approaching the staff room, he decided that it was best to put any fears about his state of mind away in a safe place. He was hardly popular, and there were more than a few teachers who would love to discover that he was doubting his sanity.

Not that he was doubting his sanity… not really.

He pushed the door open, prepared to stalk over to his regular chair, slump down in it and endure his weekly contact with the other staff members, but as he entered the room, there it was. That bloody awful tune!

There was a peel of laughter from the gaggle of witches in the corner, and Pomona Sprout was actually wiggling her fat hips and singing along, “Ohhh Macarena”, as they pored over some unseen object on the side table. Then Aurora Sinistra looked up, spotted Snape, and nudged Minerva.

There was a confused hiss of whispers. “Oh shit!” “Put it away!” and “Quick, turn the music off!” Then they were standing in front of the table, grinning unnaturally at him, and shielding whatever they’d been playing with from view.

Snape’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Severus!” Minerva exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a staff meeting, Minerva, and the last time I checked, I was still a member of staff,” Snape said coldly, and he craned his neck a little to see what Minerva had behind her back. Minerva sniggered and Aurora nudged her again, but the Astronomy professor was barely keeping her own face in check.

Deciding it best to leave them to their joke (and resolving to find out what it was later), Snape moved into the room and took up his usual place by the fire, eyeing the witches suspiciously and waiting for Dumbledore to arrive.

Dumbledore did not take long, but unfortunately Hagrid was late and Dumbledore insisted on everyone having tea. Snape knew that regardless of his answer, Dumbledore would always ensure he had a cup, so he nodded silently and glared at the witches until they started to fidget.

“Sorry I’m late.” Hagrid finally burst into the room with his usual greeting, and ambled over to the large chair reserved especially for him. “Had t’ get the Flobberworms int’ their crates for the fourth years.”

“That’s quite alright, Hagrid,” Dumbledore told him jovially. “Tea?”

“Wouldn’t mind one, Professor Dumbledore,” Hagrid replied, “brought me own mug.”

Hagrid produced his new tea cup proudly. Minerva’s eyes widened and her tenuous grip on calm ran out the door as she spluttered, snorted and sniggered hysterically. Beside her, Sinistra shook with silent laughter, holding the stitch that was forming rapidly in her side. Hagrid looked as though he was about to join in the laughter until he realised that Snape, sitting by the fire, was glaring at him and positively seething.

“What is that?” Snape hissed.

Hagrid realised his mistake after a moment of confusion. It probably wasn’t the best idea to show off his new Snapeorium Snape’s Head Mug with the nose handle at a staff meeting, particularly when Snape would be in attendance.

*************

“OH MY GOD!”

Hermione looked up from her report in alarm, and she and Ron ran into the hall at full speed, looking for Harry, who they were certain was the owner of the horrified yell that had just echoed down the stairs. Out in the hall they were confronted by a pissed off, and very naked, Harry.

“Wow, Harry.” Hermione took in the full sight of her housemate and raised an impressed eyebrow. “With a package like that it’s no wonder that witch from Wiltshire doesn’t stop writing.”

“Never mind my fucking ‘package’, look at my fucking hair!”

It took great effort for Hermione to drag her eyes away from the blatantly obvious, and she began to wonder how long it had been since she’d actually had a shag. When her gaze finally settled on Harry’s face, she beamed, positively delighted. Ron, on the other hand, was horrified. Harry’s normally messy and uncontrollable hair was hanging lank and greasy down either side of his head.

“Oh wonderful!” Hermione clapped her hands and squealed with vindictive delight. “It worked!”

“It’s supposed to do this?” Harry asked, and his mouth dropped open. He couldn’t quite believe that one of his best friends would do this to him on purpose.

“Of course it’s supposed to do that,” Hermione replied, exasperated that they just didn’t get the brilliance behind the product. “It’s Snape shampoo.”

Ron looked as though he would cry.

“What’s your problem?” Harry snapped irritably.

“I…” Ron’s mouth worked open and closed silently for a moment. “I said I’d test the facial wash.”

************

Considering he spent most of his evening staring at a mug in the shape of his own head; and that several of his colleagues had spent the entire meeting sniggering and casting glances at him when they didn’t think he was looking, Severus Snape was in a reasonably decent mood. Well, as decent a mood as he could be after someone was drinking tea out of a cup in the shape of his head.

With his nose as the handle.

And it was obviously custom made for Hagrid because it was roughly the same size as Snape’s head too… which made it unpleasantly like watching someone drink the contents of one’s own cranium.

It was best not to think about it. After all, the actions of one fool caretaker was no cause to start hexing everyone one in sight. Not yet anyway. He would leave that until he found out who had manufactured the offending mug. Could it have been a student? Was Hagrid even close to any students of late? The last time Snape could recall Hagrid being particularly friendly to a group of students, it had been Potter, Weasley and Granger. Aside from seeing that infernal Granger girl several months back when she had applied for a job for which she was wholly unsuited, Snape could honestly say that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them around the school since they’d left it.

He put his kettle on the fire and began throwing an assortment of herbs into the pot, but was disturbed by a strange rustling sound at the door. He turned, frowned and just couldn’t quite believe what was happening. What the hell was going on? Now they were sneaking up to his door? Had some sort of idiocy curse been cast upon the entire school? Snape stormed over to the door and swung it open.

There was no one there.

He frowned and scanned the deserted corridor and found nothing. And then he saw something on the floor, right in front of his feet. Some kind of brightly coloured magazine, with twinkling little advertisements that popped and whizzed and sang out from the cover as he picked it up.

“The Snapeorium, for all your Snape related needs. Official catalogue, accept no substitutes.”

Snape paled until he was the colour of fine china and closed the door. The proprietors of the Snapeorium were about to wish they had never been born.

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