Snalentines

This had to be a joke. A tasteless joke of the kind that people liked to call “pranks”, as if that somehow excuses the behaviour. Muggles had a saying about a magic word – which they thought was please. But if there were such a magic word, it would most certainly be prank. The ultimate excuse for whatever nasty, ill conceived action one wishes to perpetrate. “It was just a prank!”

“Oh well in that case I must have imagined the parchment stuck to my back saying kick me, and being nearly mauled to death by a werewolf, and being hung upside down and…” That thought remains unfinished. Severus had not tackled that particular nugget with Ted yet.

Minerva is very obviously trying not to look at him, and is failing even worse at hiding the smile tugging at the sides of her mouth. If one of these were from her he might just have to reconsider his acceptance of her apology, and his relinquishment of the Headship. Pomona and Filius are far less subtle, although that is in some ways preferable.

‘Ooh! Very popular this year Severus!’ The Hufflepuff beams.
‘You old dog!’ The Ravenclaw winks.

Severus clenches his jaw and reminds himself that he is in the hall, in front of the students. He glares around the room, searching for the eyes that flick away suddenly or the head that quickly turns back to its breakfast. There are plenty that do exactly that, but not precisely in the manner he is looking for. Not in the guilty way.

If the twins were still students of Hogwarts he would have suspected them immediately. But they were not. Nor were they twins any more. There was only one. The one he had accidentally caught with a sectumsempra. The one who was now seated two places to his left, and was in no frame of mind for pranks.

‘Well; aren’t you going to open them?’ Pomona prompts.

Severus raises a brow and looks with disgust at the large pile of envelopes piled over his breakfast plate. Most inconvenient. The simplest solution would be to eviscerate them all right now.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ Minerva intones. Her reflexes were far too good for a woman of her age. That had been a good thing when he had had to fight her and make it look real. Now however… The Headmistress has cast a protective charm over his post before he is able to send them up in smoke. Probably for the best. No knowing how a fire spell might interact with whatever potions and curses were laced into the parchment of these… things.

Severus sighs and begins the task of checking each envelope for nasty surprises. He manages to ignore the looks of bemusement on his colleagues faces for a minute before looking up.

‘What are you doing Severus?’ Minerva questions. The Headmistress and her deputy stare at each other in a stand off of mutual incredulity.

Why would I not check this highly suspicious pile of mail for curses? Severus face says.

Are you really so paranoid that you think someone might try to kill you with a Valentines card? Minerva’s frown responds.

The Potions Master gives a last dismissive eye roll and turns back to his task. What he discovers are: ten gold envelopes, ten pink envelopes, four purple envelopes, two baby blue, and one a rather garish lime green. None contain any curses as such, though two are steeped in amortentia (as if he would not notice, who were these imbeciles?) and the contents of the rest are so pathetically tawdry they might as well be.

Surprisingly none contain a deadly curse. Nor even any lesser hexes, or jinxes. No poisons, no potions to turn one’s hair green, or cover one in boils. Amortentia not withstanding, as pranks went it was rather uninventive. He collects up the envelopes and tucks them into his robe pocket for later study. The handwriting might reveal who is responsible for this tasteless joke.
He gives a last glance around the hall, and stalks off to his office.

The students had been keeping an unspoken secret since last Saturday, when the special Valentines edition of Witch Weekly had come out. Some kept the secret out of their new found respect for Professor Snape. Others out of fear of the mood he might get in. Some just because it was so bizarre that they could not quite get their heads around it. And a few who would never admit that they understood it rather too well. The secret was that Severus Snape; ex Death Eater, killer, greasy haired dungeon bat, cold, cruel, strict and merciless teacher, had been named Witch Weekly’s third most eligible bachelor.

Kingsley Shacklebolt took the top spot, partly because everyone was very excited to have a Minister of Magic that was not old and incompetent, and white, nor a Voldemort sympathiser, or corrupt; but also because he really was rather dashing and stylish, with a charming but genuine smile, and a voice that was reassuring but also sounded like he would be fun to chat to at a party, plus that accent was actually very sexy.

There had been many arguments in the office of the popular magazine about whether Harry Potter should be included on the list, but in the end it was decided that though he was technically of age, 18 was still quite young and it was a little bit weird. Hopefully they would be able to feature him in future years, and he was certain to only get more good looking. So they named instead the second most eligible bachelor Oliver Wood, captain of Puddlemore United Quidditch team.

After that it got a bit more difficult. Nobody really wanted to talk about the fact that many of the men they would have put on the list had died in the war, so they joked instead about how so many had been snapped up; William Weasley whom everyone agreed would have been number one if he had not got married right in the middle of everything; Victor Krum had his own spread on page 8 - an exclusive interview about his engagement to the Princess of Sweden; and a dozen others who might have made the list. When faced with terrible tragedy, the fear of admitting one’s feelings to the love of your life suddenly seems insignificant so there was always a spate of marriages following a war.

Snape was always going to be on the list. That had been decided early on, though his inclusion was somewhat controversial so they would have put him nearer the end if there had been better options to choose from. However, the editor of Witch Weekly was good at her job and knew her readers. Their annual list of eligible bachelors was not just about picking the most conventionally attractive specimens. They must also have something interesting about their character. And Professor Snape had interesting in bucket loads. He was a little bit dark, a little dangerous, but he was also a hero. A few of the writers in the office had been pupils of his and could confirm that he was just as strict as rumoured but that also, looking back, he had always shown great protectiveness towards his students. Slytherins found him to be an excellent Head of House, and upon reflection, yes, he did have rather a fatherly vibe about him. Really he was the whole package; dark and mysterious, mean and stoic, but in the end he would sweep in and rescue you from certain death.

Someone with a friend at the Prophet managed to get hold of a photograph that they had never been able to print as it had been taken unlawfully, of Snape at the Yule Ball at Hogwarts back in ‘94. He was dressed very nicely, and his hair looked as though it had been styled, with a slight wave that framed his face. His stoic expression actually looked rather noble in the soft light of the ballroom, and the backdrop of snowflakes and twinkling lights was almost romantic.

Copies had flown off the shelves and though most readers agreed that Kingsley Shacklebolt was indeed the most attractive, and that Oliver Wood was absolutely dreamy, and that Benjamin Roebuck had the most beautiful eyes etc, there was a group of witches and wizards whose hearts were set a flutter over the ‘bad boy’ of the list. In fact Severus Snape, unbeknownst to him, began to attract a little cult following, and he was actually lucky that the magazine had come out only three days before valentines or he may have been confronted with rather more than 27 valentines cards.

Mara knocks on her colleague’s office door and waits for the mumbled ‘enter’. She was certain that their meeting was supposed to be in her office, and it was not like Severus to forget (anything) so could not help wondering if this was some sort of power play. They had been getting on very well despite the odd balance of power and she had thought that the misanthropic man had come to respect, perhaps even like her. But perhaps that was not the case.

What she sees, however, upon entering the Professor’s office throws her. He is scowling down at a bunch of variously coloured cards and parchments, quill in hand and open book to the side. His long hair hangs over his face and is rather greasy, and there are half a dozen coffee mugs scattered about. In short he was a mess. But the sort of mess that an intellectual or academic got into when they were working on some terribly difficult research or equation. Mara is intrigued.

Severus was not working on research or equations or even a potions formula. What he was working on was far more obtuse and complex and it was giving him a headache. He hated not knowing. It was perhaps his one biggest driving force – particularly now that the whole ‘saving children (and the rest of the wizarding world) from any number of dark forces’ thing was behind him. He had carefully studied the handwriting of each letter, using a volume on Handwriting Analysis for reference, and had determined that each of the twenty seven ‘valentines’ were indeed, written by a different hand.

He hated that he had not as yet been able to work it out for himself, but Mara was intelligent – both intellectually and emotionally – and perhaps a fresh perspective would help.

‘Why would someone go to the bother of having twenty seven different people write out trite and gushing love notes, seemingly with the sole purpose of minor embarrassment?’ He scowls and leans back in his chair. It was completely baffling. None of the notes was cursed, no one had laughed, or claimed responsibility. Perhaps by not reacting he had scuppered the culprit’s plan. Perhaps they had hoped that he would be flattered, and swoon, and attempt to contact “Maisey Dooley” or “Frank Appleby”. Perhaps it was more of a long game, in which the perpetrator hoped to lure him to a “date” at which someone would be waiting to attack him. It was still a rather poorly conceived plan considering he was one of the least likely people to respond positively to a romantic declaration.

Mara had made her way around to his side of the table and was peering over his shoulder at the notes. Her spicy scent was refreshing in comparison to the sickly sweet floral fragrances covering many of the letters on his desk. To her credit she does not smirk or scoff or make jokes as his other colleagues had done, and at least makes a show of taking him seriously, though Severus can see the amusement which softens her features as she picks up a particularly obnoxious pink parchment with a rather gauche poem written in swirling lettering.

‘You have, I assume, heard of Ockham’s Razor?’ She asks, putting down the pink poem, and shuffling through the other notes, cringing slightly at a card sporting a photograph of a pair of swans whose necks form the shape of a heart.
Severus crosses his arms and glares up at her.
‘The simplest solution is more often than not the correct one.’ Severus paraphrases in a bored drawl. However he failed to see how that applied here. The simplest solution, she was suggesting, was that these were in fact all genuine valentines cards. But that was not the simplest solution, nor was it likely to be the correct one.

Objectively he could accept that he must have some sort of attractiveness. Severus had had sex with exactly five people – three women and two men, he had no preference – and as he was not the type of person to force himself on someone – quite the opposite – he was sure that those five people had found something attractive about him; although he was sure that desperation and lack of alternatives had also played a part. He was intelligent, an accomplished spell caster and potioneer, and had held some level of prominent position in both Voldemort and Dumbledore’s ranks, and those things could be attractive.

He himself tended to be more attracted to personality and intellect than physical appearance. Sure, he could appreciate a pleasant face as much as anyone, but intelligence and power were far sexier in his opinion. Eight year old Severus had not been intrigued by Lily Evans because she was pretty, but rather because she was a witch. He had not met any other magical folk aside from his mother at that point, and Lily seemed to have as much power as he did, despite apparently not knowing what she was. And he had not spied on Lily Evans from a bush because she was pretty, but because he had absolutely no idea how to approach another human being. Much later on he had fallen in love with Lily, not because she was growing into a beautiful young woman – although she was – but because she excelled at charms and potions, and worked hard, and was not afraid of anything, and would stand up to bullies, even though he hated how weak that made him look.

So yes, objectively, Severus could accept, in theory, that somebody might one day be attracted to him. But twenty seven? I mean, come on. That was just ridiculous. He had never even met any of these people. Apart from Charlie Wyvern, who had graduated from Hogwarts in 1989, and had always paid very close attention in potions class, despite being abysmal at the subject, and Severus didn’t want to think about what that meant. Perhaps he had a few things going for him – particularly after Harry’s gushing epitaph, but he was still an ugly bastard. He was under no illusions there. No one had ever once described him as anything other than ugly. He couldn’t even claim to be simply ‘plain’ or ‘homely’ or any other of those other euphemisms that really all meant the same thing. His features were far too prominent and distinctive for that.

He is shaken from his thoughts by the slight movement of Professor Shafiq, who was not in the least bit ugly. She too had somewhat distinctive features; but they were arranged very nicely, and her skin was a beautifully rich and warm shade; more the colour his skin was probably supposed to be if he had not had such a white father, and had not grown up under a blanket of coal smog, and then hidden himself in a dungeon for twenty years, living off stress and coffee and wine. She reaches into her robe and pulls out a magazine which she lays on top of the pile of cards.

Witch Weekly? Had everyone gone completely mad? What interest could he possibly have in that piece of trash?
Most Eligible Bachelors of 1999! the fuchsia coloured font zings.
He was vaguely aware of the magazine’s yearly list, having had to confiscate many a copy over his years of teaching, from blushing girls – and boys – who were gushing over the pictures of that year’s selection. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, and considers lighting his pipe, even though his throat is not currently sore. He is tired from lack of sleep, and twitchy from too much coffee, and does not have the patience for further games.

Mara flicks her hand, and the magazine opens to the centre spread. A large picture of Kingsley Shacklebolt takes up nearly a quarter of the double page. Well that made sense. He was a very attractive man; inexplicably single, and now the most politically powerful wizard in Britain. He was a more than fair duellist too, and one of the very few people that had ever made Severus consider trying to improve his looks. The next picture is of some Quidditch meathead who had the advantage of a boyish face set atop an overly masculine physique. He looks vaguely familiar; a Gryffindor he thinks. The third picture Severus doesn’t recognise for a second. The young man in it is not conventionally attractive, but is striking nonetheless. It takes reading his own name alongside the photograph for the recognition to sink in.

He had made a particular effort that evening he recalls. It had been Lucius Malfoy who had taught him the value of a well cut suit and a professional barber. Severus had never forgotten the lesson, but had not had many reasons to use it over the years. But the Yule Ball was about as public an event as one was likely to attend at Hogwarts. The Minister at the time, Cornelius Fudge, had been in attendance, and having made a spectacle of himself earlier in the year over the whole Sirius Black debacle, he had been keen to make a good impression. He sometimes wondered how things might have been different if he had been awarded that Order of Merlin. It could have done wonders for his confidence and prestige. On the other hand he would eventually have realised that he had earned it by condemning another innocent person to death, so there was that.

‘‘Professor Severus Snape; Master of Potions, Deputy Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This mysterious figure makes our top three for three reasons. Snape is the classic bad boy turned good; the former Death Eater became a spy after the love of his life was murdered by Voldemort. Any student of Hogwarts will tell you of the imposing Professor who would stalk the halls in his signature billowing black robes. A strict teacher, he nonetheless never hesitated to risk life and limb to protect his students. And to top it off, after years of fooling friends and colleagues alike he was revealed to have been working to defeat the Dark Lord all along, almost sacrificing himself in the pursuit of his goal. Dark, mysterious, talented, and a hero… you can put me in detention any time Professor!’’

Severus doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or vomit. Perhaps all three at the same time would be an appropriate reaction.

Mara cannot help but laugh at the look on his face. There cannot be many things that have shocked this man. His eyes flick up at her, defensive and suspicious. He stands and sweeps from the room (in his signature billowing robes!), only to return a few minutes later with four more copies of Witch Weekly clenched between his long bony fingers. Bony, but strong, and graceful, Mara cannot help but note. He flicks through them, standing in the middle of the room. Ah, so that was it. He had suspected her copy had been tampered with. An extension of the elaborate prank she supposed he must be thinking.

‘This is…’ For once Severus is lost for words. It is possibly the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to him, and is in complete opposition with everything he thought he knew. So the valentines were genuine? And they had been precipitated by the fact that he had been named Witch Weekly’s third most eligible bachelor? It was a stupid, vapid piece of trash, he presumed written and edited by a bunch of airheads; though they obviously had some sort of talent, as they had made him look and sound… well eligible. Mara is holding her nose in an attempt to control her giggling. It might be quite an endearing look under other circumstances. Severus scowls at her, grabs the other copy of the magazine from his desk, and chucks the lot into the fire.

‘Hey!’ Mara exclaims. ‘I was going to cut that out and stick it to my fridge!’
‘Pfft.’ Severus huffs with a further scowl, then gathers up the assorted cards, letters and envelopes and dumps them unceremoniously on top of the already flaming magazines.
‘Ah. Your poor admirers.’ Mara says, with a little genuine pity, but mostly humour (and perhaps a touch of relief). ‘You did not wish to write any of them back?’

‘Not in the least.’ Severus intones firmly. ‘They clearly all need their heads reading. Trauma of war does odd things to people.’ He says nonchalantly. He is feeling rather stupid for having wasted his time on a non existent murder plot. A healthy dose of paranoia is what had kept him alive for so many years, but he did not want to turn into Alastor Moody; so worried about who might be coming to get him that he had missed the actual threat when it had come.

‘Severus.’ Mara says. She has a hand on his arm, but her face is quite serious. He had seen her use this look on a student when she was about to tell them that they were not at all useless, and that they would in fact manage to cast a protego with just a little more practice. (She was a much better teacher than him). So he is not entirely surprised with the tone of what she says, but he is surprised at the content. ‘You are a very handsome man.’ She states.

He would have laughed in her face, or spat back some sort of venomous comment, except that she seems to be entirely genuine. For the second time that day, and perhaps the sixth time in his life, he is completely lost for words.

‘I need a drink.’ He sighs at last, plucking his outer cloak from the hook by the door. ‘Hog’s Head?’
Mara has a strange feeling that this might be a date, though he had certainly not put it that way. Under the circumstances she decides it’s best not to ask, lest she be chucked into the fire, but she does smile a little, the way she does when she flirts a little with him.

‘I’ll get my coat.’ She says.