Severus Snape does NOT like seafood. While he can force himself to tolerate fish, he absolutely loathes shellfish. He is not allergic. He is simply repulsed. During staff Yule parties, when professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sinistra practically mow down innocent bystanders in their joint pursuit of the oyster plate and ultimately wind up in a bitter row over who got the last shrimp, Severus makes a hasty but decorous ( not to mention self-preserving ) retreat to the other end of the buffet table. Along the way, he averts his eyes from a sugar-dazed headmaster and passes a cheerfully oblivious Professor Sprout happily munching on her typically vegetarian spinach, mushroom, and cheese…whatever, before finally joining Hagrid in the vicinity of the gravy boat.
Because Severus Snape prefers meat. Not raw meat, although past witnesses of his gleefully bloody – metaphorically speaking – verbal eviscerations might conclude that. No, Severus Snape has always preferred his meat to be thoroughly well done. In fact, beautifully roasted is his preferred taste. And while a preference for well roasted meat reveals a typically English palate, Snape's favorite roasted meat is in fact, not roast beef but roast lamb. In the dim recesses of his memory, he recalls sitting at an ancient wooden table, his chin barely clearing it, as an older woman, not his mother, cuts the lamb into pieces small enough for his toddler's fingers to easily grasp and his baby teeth to comfortably chew. There was stuffing with baked apples and date paste and walnuts and black pepper. He remembers the taste of ginger, coriander, and olive oil bursting lushly in his mouth. And he remembers that the abundance of food and flavor was matched by the warmth emanating from the people around him.
Yes, it was a very long time ago.
Along with the shellfish massacre, Severus experiences another Yule tradition. It arrived as regularly as the seasons, in the weeks before Yule proper. He did not inaugurate it, and all of his attempts to end it, diplomatic and otherwise, were met with dismal failure. His last attempt, a curt letter peppered with admittedly blue phrases, was returned with as polite and devastating a written riposte as he'd ever received from anyone sans the headmaster. His written reply had contained only two sentences: Forgive me. Thank you. The recipient had had only one minute to read that before the parchment's self-destruct spell eliminated any incriminating evidence. Now every year, he commandeers a house elf to elegantly slice and arrange the fresh challah bread on the silver service whose use is the sole prerogative of the Head of Slytherin House. Surrounded by a full selection of sandwiches, clotted cream, jellies, jams, paté, and other condiments, it's a must-have treat among his prefects and honor students when he hosts them at his end-of-term teas. Their eyes light up with anticipation as soon as they see the serving tray. The usual bribe gift basket from Bulstrode's Classic Cuts, Condiments, and Confections courtesy of Millicent Bulstrode's overreaching father goes untouched as they reduce the contents of the heavily laden platter to crumbs. Of course, he always takes care to keep a portion of challah for himself stashed away in the tiny kitchen of his private quarters. It goes extremely well with his morning coffee. The Bulstrode basket goes to the house elves.
He's addicted to clove cigarettes. He has a standing order with Kashmir – Kashmir Fine Tobacco Products & Accessories, Ltd. to be exact. Like most, he started smoking in his teens. It was his pathetic attempt to make himself look older in Lucius' crowd. Lucius had taken one look at the sad, spindly fag he'd nicked from Tobias' work jacket, snatched it out of his mouth, and haughtily summoned a house elf to dispose of it. Then, thankfully, before the humiliation had had a chance to sink in, Lucius had apparated them to a tobacco shop in Knockturn Alley, pushed him through the door, and demanded the proprietor give him a crash course in a gentleman's preferred tobacco products. The fallout of the first war had eventually left that little shop in ruins but his inquiries had happily turned up a replacement in Kashmir.
Discreetly nestled deep in the heart of Muggle London, the shop's tricky location endowed it with a unique neutral status. Neither dark wizards nor aurors were immune to their need for a good drag. And muggle cigarettes never delivered quite the same kick. Since it was too hard to attack or obliviate with impunity in such a densely populated neighborhood, both sides enjoyed a wary truce while they stocked up on nicotine. Or in Severus' case, the exquisite Javanese blend of cloves and nicotine known as kreteks. All through the two years Severus had slogged away at his potions mastery, apprenticed under that old skinflint Ambrosius Stopford, Lucius had graciously supported the expensive habit the Malfoy heir had inculcated in Severus in the first place. But once he'd achieved his master's status, Severus was on his own. They cost a pretty sickle and there were days before his comparatively comfortable tenure at Hogwarts when he'd opted for his fags over his food. But once the headmaster understood that they were sometimes all that stood between Severus and his urge to murder his student charges, the headmaster made it his business to turn a blind eye to certain items on Severus' requisition forms. And neither man would admit that the appearance of a fresh, unopened pack on the headmaster's desk during a meeting when Severus could expect to hear particularly vexing news was a mutually acceptable bribe to keep Severus from doing any permanent damage to the headmaster's suite.
Which is why he could never explain to himself why he made a point of accepting the pack but never opening it, why he carefully saved each one, separate from the supply he bought himself. He kept each one fresh with perfect stasis charms, until, on New Year's Eve, he could pack them up, and send them off, sans note, by anonymous owl post. Within a week, two weeks at the most without fail, he would receive a note, again by anonymous owl, written in a script that was the younger masculine version of the careful, slightly shaky female handwriting on the note that came with his annual Yule gift. Technically, it was not a note but a receipt, solemnly stating the amount, in galleons, of the contents of the package received for that year, as well as a tally for all previous years, and an invitation to settle any outstanding amounts in person at a date and time of his choosing. Of course he never went. And since he never considered that there was anything owed to him, he always, always, burned the receipt.
~*Fin*~