Snape's Dialogue, a harry potter fanfic

Summary: Three chapters. Severus Snape is tired of the bloody boy-who-lived mouthing off and otherwise disturbing the faculty and students of Hogwarts. So he and Minerva McGonagall cook up a solution. Unfortunately, her solution is just a tad different than his.

It's one of those stories where the author sticks characters into a broom cupboard and watches the lightning bolts fly. Only, I've twisted things up a bit. Maybe more than a bit.

Finally, many thanks to JerseyPrincess, who went through and de-Americanized for me! She assures me that some of the odd spellings are the way it would be in Britain. Bows to the greater knowledge. So everyone thank her dearly, as do I. hee.

Jo Rowling's brain conceived Harry, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, the rest of the world, and—last but not least—Snape. Many thanks to her for sharing.

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If you'd have asked me yesterday, where Harry James Potter was going to be during my class, I'd have told you what I thought. He'd be in the very front row, right next to my desk, pounding ingredients into his desk. He'd be glaring at them as if they were, well, me. Now, he wouldn't have sat there willingly, but I'm willing to bet that before the class was half through, I'd have found a good reason to relieve Potter of a good portion of his house points. Eventually, to stem the flow of rule-breaking, I'd have had to move him to the desk nearest to mine. And I'd have spent the rest of the class smiling disconcertingly, and provoking Potter, as he ground his potions ingredients into tiny particles, imagining that they bore my likeness.

Of course, with Potter, you never know. It's always possible that you'll walk into classroom, only to find that he's not there. It's entirely commonplace that he's got a pain in his skull, and that he's seeing the Dark Lord's feelings. Or perhaps, on coming to class, you'll find that he's sent one of the other students to the hospital wing because they said something to annoy him and his friends. Potter, when he notices rules at all, only does so for the brief instance that it takes for him to break them.

Still, if you'd asked me yesterday, though I'd have said all manner of things, none of them would be correct. I'd have said a few choice words that I'd not be able to repeat here, and I'd have told you all sorts of places Potter might be.

I would not have told you that Potter was in a broom cupboard. I'd not have told you who was inside with him. I'd not have told you about the staff's bet as to which of them was going to break down and apologize first.

But that's where he is, and by my own hand. Normally, as much as I'd like to shove Potter into a broom cupboard, I refrain. It's frowned upon, locking students into enclosed spaces, and not letting them out. Albus said something about legal liability. Or something like that.

Of course, Albus isn't going to come and lecture me about that at the moment. That's because I decided to lock him in the bloody broom cupboard with his golden boy. So they can work things out.

I've always wanted to lock Albus in a broom cupboard.

Unfortunately, that's frowned upon as well. Usually. But not today. After dinner last night, I had an interesting conversation with one Minerva McGonagall. It went something like this.

"Severus." (Her)

"Minerva." (Me)

"Dinner was good." (Her)

noncommittal noise (Me)

"I suppose you heard Albus and Harry had a fight." (Her)

"Hard to miss, wasn't it?" (Me)

noncommittal noise (Her)

"I suppose you want something." (Me)

Then she kissed me passionately and—well, not really. That's just me being the sadist that I am. I enjoy making countless children cringe and run for the toilet. Hobby of mine, you could call it. What she actually said was, "Yes."

So the ball was in my court again. "And…?"

"I'm afraid that I've got rather tired of these fights between Albus and Potter."

What could I say? Being woken up by lightning and thunder and yelling is amusing once. When it happens again, it becomes annoying. After it happens for the eighth time or so, it gives me the urge to strangle someone.

But it's frowned upon, strangling the headmaster and the boy-who-lived.

Even if they have been quarrelling so often that no one's surprised at the lightning bolts they've been throwing at each other. Not that either one of them has ever been hit. I don't think they even try to aim; it's more just for punctuation.

So there! lightning bolt Told you so! lightning bolt

But that's off the topic. I raised an elegant eyebrow to Minerva's statement.

"You know," she said conversationally, "most of the staff is involved now. There have been motions towards bets. On who's going to back down first."

"Neither of them will," I felt compelled to inform her.

"Well."

It's not often that Minerva gets that particular twinkle in her eye, but I will be the first to warn you. If you ever see it, run. I am not the only highly sadistic member of the Hogwarts staff. Minerva, I assure you, is the more dangerous of the two of us. Because when she gets that twinkle in her eye, it means that she's got an idea.

I saw that twinkle, and I knew that what she was going to suggest would be one of those things that are 'frowned upon'.

And I knew I'd do what she asked me to.

I live to do those things that are generally frowned upon. It saves me from the monotony of teaching a thousand lying, cheating, talent-less students.

She continued, the twinkle growing more pronounced. "You're right, of course—" Of course, my hat. She definitely wants me to do something. "—they're both far too proud to give in on their own."

I saw where she was going now. "You mean to give them a little nudge," I said. It wasn't a question.

Minerva shrugged. It wasn't an answer.

"Oh, I see," I drawled, in my moist oily voice. "You want me to give them a nudge." Drawling, once one learns to do it correctly, is the best weapon one can own. I used it now. "Gryffindor courage in a bit of a drought?" I drawled.

Minerva just smiled. And that bloody twinkle became even more pronounced.

I shuddered. I pride myself on being able to scare the bravest first-year—or seventh-year, for that matter—with my eyes alone. They've been described as 'cold tunnels', 'soulless pits', and, once, as 'demonic windows'. The students obviously haven't a clue what they're talking about. That bloody twinkle is far scarier than any soulless pit I've seen.

"Actually, I thought I'd do you a favour," Minerva said with a smile, sounding every inch the responsible Deputy Headmistress that she was. "I was under the impression that you might enjoy locking our esteemed headmaster and his golden boy into a broom cupboard."

I gulped. That sounded wondrous.

"Funny thing is," Minerva continued, "I had to cast a protection spell on the fifth floor broom cupboard just the other day. Hagrid found some interesting artefacts in the forest, and after they chewed their way through two doors and a window, it was decided that they ought to be put somewhere safer." She glanced around casually. "They've been moved, by now, of course. But those were some strong protection spells. Why—" She looked surprised, as though the idea had just occurred to her "—I'll bet if Albus and Potter didn't have their wands, they wouldn't be able to break out of that cupboard at all! Not if they got locked in there—somehow."

The idea was taking shape in my head, as well, now. "Ah," I said sadly, "It's a good thing that Albus and Potter bring their wands everywhere then. I'd hate for them to get stuck in a broom cupboard. They might run out of air."

Minerva frowned at my sarcasm. She didn't enjoy jokes that included, and made fun of, Albus suffocating from lack of air in a broom cupboard.

She shrugged, and raised one eyebrow. It made her look positively sinister, which is supposed to be my job. "Well, I'm sure Albus won't mind giving up his wand for a day or so, not if I offer to get it checked and cleaned for him at Ollivander's. He can do wandless magic, after all."

I smiled evilly. I know I looked evil, for I certainly felt it. "I'm sure Potter won't mind giving up his wand to me. He can do wandless magic as well."

Minerva, to her credit, did not laugh.

Potter can do wandless magic. Quite well, too, considering that his head is larger than the bloody sun.

But the chances of him relinquishing said wand into my hands? Well, they're slim. To say the least.

Minerva smiled again, and I smiled back. This was going to be fun.

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That, in a nutshell, is how I got into this business. That, and the fact that Minerva McGonagall is right; this nonsense has gone on for far too long.

It started several months ago, when the students came back to school. Potter was coming back for his final year at Hogwarts. At long last, the end was in sight. Before long, I told myself, he'd be gone, and I'd never have to look at his inflated head or strutting gait again.

Little did I know, but Potter was determined to make this year—his last year—a year to remember, for all of us.

So Potter spent some time acting sulky. Potter was upset that his godfather had died. Potter was depressed when the werewolf came down with that illness, and distraught when he died. Potter was resentful that the wizarding world expected him to get rid of the Dark Lord. Potter was offended when the Daily Prophet slandered him.

Potter also spent a lot of time running off at the mouth in my class. And in my detentions. He'd never known when to keep his mouth closed, but suddenly, he wasn't even trying. In the past few months, Potter has lost more points for his house than the rest of the Gryffindors combined. Easily.

As if his juvenile attitude wasn't enough, Potter was determined to make more trouble.

He'd always got along well with the headmaster. Albus bailed him out of every scrape, supported him in every battle, and gave him license that no student deserved. Naturally, Potter chose to rebel.

And so the midnight storms began. It would be a normal, quiet night, and suddenly, faculty and students alike would be roused rudely from our beds by shouting and banging. Harry and Albus fought brilliantly, Harry yelling at the top of his lungs, and flinging lightning bolts every which way. Albus, on the other hand, spoke calmly, but in a voice that, while not loud, carried easily throughout the school. He deflected Harry's attacks with lightning bolts and other wonders of his own.

Even these fights, though, pale in reference to those that he and I have had recently. But that's beside the point.

I suppose I ought to be comforted, that Potter is practicing so often for his nearing duel with the Dark Lord.

But somehow, the lack of sleep ruins it for me.

And then there's the fact that this isn't practice. Potter and Albus's private disputes have blossomed into full-force clashes, and it is easy to see that they no longer share the relationship they once did. Potter, much as I loathe him, has a job to do, and his private fights with the headmaster, furthered by Albus's sudden lack of faith towards Potter, can only get in the way.

And Potter has to defeat the Dark Lord.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I felt it was my duty to do what I attempted to do.

Lock Albus and Potter in a broom cupboard.

And not let them out.

I only hope that the Dark Lord doesn't pick today for his final battle, because something tells me that Harry James Potter is going to be busy all day. And well into the night. Possibly tomorrow as well. After all, he's a headstrong creature; who knows how long it will be until he finally backs down?

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My problem wasn't so much getting Potter into the cupboard, as much as it was getting him in there without his wand. One fact about Potter that seems to always hold true, no matter how dire the situation, is that he will always break rules when the opportunity presents itself.

So all I had to do was tell Potter not to go near the broom cupboard on the fifth floor. I should probably add some not-so-subtle threats about detentions and taking house points, and possibly killing him with my bare hands if he should somehow happen to end up said cupboard.

Potter'd be there in an instant.

Plus, I'd have the opportunity to give him detention, dock house points, and—well. I suppose killing him with my bare hands might be frowned upon by some. But, rest assured, Mr. Potter would receive his punishment.

So the only trouble was—his wand. As idiotic as Harry Potter has been known, on occasion, to act, he has never (to my knowledge) willingly given his wand to someone who he knows wishes him ill.

Which meant that he wasn't going to smile and hand it to me any time soon.

But I'm a Slytherin, and we're known to be crafty. I was sure I could think of something. And I was right.

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I sat on the cold, hard surface of my desk at waited. Seven o'clock came and went. Seven fifteen. Seven thirty.

It wasn't until seven forty-two that Harry James Potter finally saw fit to grace me with his presence. I was disappointed, and I made sure he knew that.

"Mr. Potter, so you've finally seen fit to grace me with your presence. How disappointing," I drawled.

Potter frowned, but didn't say anything. I didn't need to use my skills at legilimency to know what he was thinking. That I was an overgrown bat. That I was provoking him. That I wanted to get him riled up so he'd fail miserably at occlumency.

Two out of three, Potter, I thought with a carefully hidden grin. Overgrown and batlike I may be, and I'm certainly provoking you, but I've got something bigger than occlumency in mind for tonight.

But he wasn't to know that.

I started the lesson as I always did, by counting quickly to three and invading his mind. Potter failed to stop me. I did it again. And once more, just for good measure, watching Potter's face grows gradually redder. He ought to know by now, that losing his temper only made my job easier. I told him so.

"Honestly, Potter," I snarled, sounding much angrier than I actually was, "You ought to know by now that losing your temper only makes my job easier." I fit a smirk onto my features. "The Dark Lord will make mincemeat of you if you go before him so ill-prepared." Alas, all true. And no matter how many times I relayed this message to Potter, it never penetrated his thick skull.

Potter scowled at a pickled jobberknoll head on the shelf behind my desk. Undoubtedly, he was reviewing the pros and cons of removing my head, and pickling it. Certainly, that would make his life easier, but it also might cause some unwanted conflict with the Ministry of Magic. Perhaps even the muggle police. Potter seemed to decide not to take that particular course of action, although he still glanced longingly at the jobberknoll head when he thought I wasn't looking.

"I'm trying," Potter muttered under his breath.

"So try harder." An obvious answer. But that didn't stop Mr. Potter from glaring at me. He might have flicked his eyes back to the jobberknoll head, as well, but that's beside the point.

"Three—two—one," I counted lazily, watching Potter raise his wand and brace himself. "Legilimens."

I pushed aside Potter's frail defence, and found myself in the confusing jumble of thoughts and memories that were Harry Potter. I was only vaguely aware of the tensing of Potter's facial features as he again attempted to block me out. Most of my attention was centred around his memories. The sorting hat dropping down over his eyes. Speaking to a boa constrictor in a zoo on his cousin's birthday. Watching Granger throw a punch at Draco Malfoy (with shocking force, considering). Watching Sirius Black fall through a veil of—

In an instant, Potter had raised his wand and thrown a curse. As it exploded from his wand, he expelled me from his mind. I was forced to move quickly to deflect the curse.

"Protego," I shouted swiftly, raising my wand. A shield dropped over me, repelling the curse, and sending it back towards Potter.

He ducked out of pure instinct, and the curse hit a jar, splattering its contents, a pickled graphorn thumb, in all directions.

"Idiot boy," I found myself muttering. Graphorns weren't particularly sympathetic towards human life, and as a result, it was difficult (not to mention highly expensive) to find and buy them.

I mended the jar with a wave of my wand, and reluctantly touched the slimy thumb, placing it inside the whole, but empty jar. I spun, looking sinister.

I felt fairly sinister. "Give me your wand, Potter," I commanded. As I'd thought, Harry was hesitant. I raised an eyebrow ominously.

Evidently, though, Potter didn't realize that he was on dangerous ground. "But why?"

My other eyebrow joined the first.

"Why, Professor?" Potter corrected himself.

"Because I told you to, and I am your teacher," I took the opportunity to hiss.

Potter frowned.

So I took twenty points from Gryffindor.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," I spat.

Potter's mouth opened, but, unfortunately, he caught himself before I was forced to take more points. He snapped his mouth closed, glowering impressively.

I wasn't impressed.

"Potter, surely you do not assume that you will always be so lucky as to have a wand on you. What would happen if it were lost? Are we all to rest are hopes on the merest possibility that you might have a wand when confronting the Dark Lord? After everything the Order has done for you?"

Potter's mouth opened again, and this time, he didn't stop the words from rushing out. "What have they ever done for me?" he shouted. "All Dumbledore cares about—all anyone cares about—is making sure I'll win the final battle!" For a moment, Harry looked terribly burdened. As if he were holding up the world, and everyone around him was only piling more responsibilities on his back.

It's an apt analogy. But the fact doesn't change anything. "So don't let all of us down," I hissed dispassionately. "Give me your wand, Potter."

His hand rose obediently, and I took the wand.

I pocketed it, and turned again to face Potter. "On the count of three, then," I explained. "By now, you should be able to feel me entering your head. If you're not a complete dunderhead. When you feel the pressure that means I'm intruding, push me out." I glanced at Potter, gauging his emotional state. Nervous, but not distraught. Not yet, anyhow.

"Three—two—one." Harry had his eyes closed, his face screwed up in anticipation of the coming mental battle. "Legilimens."

I deftly angled my mind, using the incantation and wand movement as a vessel for my power. Legilimency is an art, and a difficult one, at that. As is occlumency. Focusing the whole of my attention on Potter's green eyes, I centred down and out, again pushing into the depths behind Potter's eyes. I was wading through the memories, good and bad, when I felt the telltale pressure, letting me know that Potter was attempting to expel me from his mind. I lingered a moment longer, just to prove that I could, then retreated.

I blinked, readjusting my vision, and replacing the elegant sneer on my face. Potter was winded, and he didn't notice my temporary discomfort. I watched carefully though, as the idiot boy again brought his eyes up to meet mine, readying himself for another go.

"Eye contact makes legilimency easier," I spat. Potter averted his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. It figures that he'd refuse to look down. Self-centred celebrity that he was.

I'd not have insisted that we go again. The exercise was worth doing, certainly, for the same reason that Potter had been taught wandless magic. Wandless magic might be less controlled, but there was always the chance that without it, Harry Potter might become the boy-who-almost-lived. Knowing all types of wandless magic, occlumency included, could very well benefit the entire wizarding world, should Potter somehow lose or break his wand.

Be that as it may, there was a broom cupboard with Potter's name on it, and I'd not have insisted on another trial. But there he was, looking carefully at the pickled jobberknoll head over my shoulder, waiting for me to raise my wand and enter his mind.

So I obliged him. I counted idly to three, then spoke the incantation. I caught Potter's eyes, which were once again focused on me, and centred down and out, closing off the circle of my vision until the bright green eyes took up all my attention. I gravitated towards them, riding the spell.

Clack!

I opened my eyes and stood quickly, not quite remembering falling down. Not that I didn't know what had happened. Harry Potter had proved his contrary nature. Over and over again, he'd failed the easier branch of occlumency, only to succeed without a wand.

He'd managed to block me from his mind. Not just expel me, but block me altogether.

I straightened my robes, knowing full well how angry I looked. I certainly felt angry. "Follow me Potter." I swept from the room, robes billowing out behind me. Potter deserved to be locked in a broom cupboard, and I most definitely would not keep him from his destination any longer.

I discarded my earlier plan. Telling Potter to stay away from the broom cupboard would, doubtlessly, lure him straight there. But with him would come Weasley. And Granger. And that damned invisibility cloak.

This plan might be slightly less subtle, but I wasn't in a position of caring. I'd wanted to lock Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in a cupboard, and all other details seemed superfluous.

I climbed the steps, several flights of them. I'd made it to the fifth floor, Potter behind me, when we were interrupted.

"Severus." The voice belonged to Minerva McGonagall.

I turned, and she gave me a meaningful look. It said, and I quote 'I need to speak to you. Without Potter. Come over here now.'

I nodded, almost imperceptibly. And shot Potter a meaningful look of my own. It said, and I quote 'I'm going to speak with Professor McGonagall. If, when I come back, you've so much as twitched a toe, I will tear you limb from limb, and take 327 points from Gryffindor.'

"Wait here, Potter," Minerva said, just in case he'd missed my meaningful glare.

Potter nodded as Minerva led me to an empty classroom.

"Well?" I asked, slightly impatient.

"Dumbledore is in the cupboard," she said, "and I've got his wand here." She gestured at said object. "Do you have Harry's wand?"

"Of course," I told her silkily, pulling the wand out of the pocket of my robes, and handing it to her. Unfortunately, my own wand clattered to the floor as well.

I leaned down to pick it up.

There was a sudden bang from the hallway, and I stood quickly, and was out the door in an instant. Potter was still there, but next to him was a weighty-looking chandelier.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

But Minerva's reaction eclipsed my own. "Potter!" she exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Peeves, Professor," Potter explained in an apologetic tone that he would never have used if he were speaking to me.

Now, Hogwarts is a large castle, but there most certainly are not chandeliers adorning every hallway. Actually, I'm not sure if there are chandeliers in any of the corridors, though there are plenty in the Entrance and Great Halls.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Leave it to Peeves to not only take down a chandelier, but then to carry it up four flights of stairs and into a little-used hallway before dropping it. Poltergeist; that he most definitely is.

But that shouldn't concern me any longer. I swept off again, and Potter was right behind me.

I didn't glance backward, but I know now what I would have seen if I'd done so.

Minerva McGonagall. With that terrifying twinkle in her eye.

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Potter and I reached the fifth floor broom cupboard less than a minute later. It looked normal, but I knew from what Minerva had told me that it was well fortified. There was no way that Potter and Albus could get out, not without their wands.

"Do you know what's in there, Potter?" I asked.

Potter shook his head, looking determined not to show me his apprehension.

I wondered briefly how Minerva expected Albus to stay locked in while Harry entered. But she's as intelligent as can be expected, for a Gryffindor. I trusted that she'd thought of this eventuality, and prepared for it.

"Well," I prompted. "There is a reason I brought you here. Open the door."

Potter did so, though not without a questioning glance over his shoulder. He wasn't quite sure what I was up to. But as Potter has an annoying tendency to blame me for anything that goes wrong within Hogwarts, he did assume that I was hiding something. Because no matter how many times I save his skin, I'm still the first one he suspects.

And people condemn me for loathing the boy.

For once, though, Potter was correct. I fully intended to lock him into the cupboard and leave him there to decompose. Rather, I wanted to lock him in until he made amends with Albus.

The same thing, basically.

Potter peered into the cupboard, then took a step inside. He took another step, and tripped over something, sprawling, face flat into the floor. Idiot.

But then, "Ow," he gasped, sitting up. Potter clutched his leg.

I strode over to where he was sitting, mentally shaking my head. "Potter," I hissed, "have you no balance?"

Potter opened his mouth, forgetting his pain for a moment to glare at me. But his words, whatever they would be, never came out.

Because at that moment, the door to the broom cupboard closed.

That was when I realized that Albus Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen. And my wand wasn't in my pocket.

If you'd asked me yesterday, I'd never have known that Harry Potter would be stuck in a broom cupboard. And that I'd be there with him.

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Okay, so this is going to be 3 chapters. I'd be honoured if anyone would review and tell me what you think. Did you honestly see the ending coming? Hee. Well, next chapter, I promise you'll get to see some of the clues that should have clued dear Snape in….What clues did you spot?

Funny, originally this was going to be a one-shot, but I realized after about 8 pages that that wasn't going to work. I mean really, it took me 12 full pages to get them into the cupboard….

As always, I'd love for anyone to visit my other stories, "Of Cohorts and Competitors" and "Oddments and Essays." The next chapter of Oddments is half done and the next two chapters of Cohorts are written and getting proofread. Also, don't forget the name I share with PinkytheSnowmanSiriuslyInsane62442. Also, check everything by Jedicren, StarzInHerEyes, PinkytheSnowman, and Lia Tween, they're all amazing!

Thanks again!

manchot du destin