A Perfectly Potent Potion

Although Snape had never literally been told to go fuck himself, he was certain the exhortation had crossed the minds of many a student, and probably not a few of his colleagues.

Little did they know how very pleasant such an occupation could prove. Merlin knew he'd been surprised.

It all started, as most things did in Snape's world, with a request from Dumbledore. At some point in future, the old man told him, it would become necessary to move the Potter whelp from his aunt's meagre hearth, at which time it might be desirable to have prepared a bit of a red herring.

"A what?"

"Red herring. A misdirection. Forgive me, Severus, it's a Muggle term," the Headmaster said, ignoring in his condescension the fact that Snape, who had grown up in the Muggle world and come of age at the Dark Lord's knee, had forgotten more than Dumbledore ever knew about both Muggles and misdirection.

But when Dumbledore made his suggestion, Snape had to admit that it was clever.

So he slunk dutifully down to his dungeons to whip up a batch of what the old man required. Being a Northern boy of humble means, he could not, in good conscience, waste exorbitantly expensive and damnably perishable ingredients, so he made more of the potion than he was charged to do.

His mistress would approve, in her Caledonian frugality, and pleasing her had been on Snape's weekly to-do list for almost seven years now.

In fact, Snape thought, looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he might have found a new and surprising way to do just that. His reflection broke into a smile that would have sent him screaming for the safety of his dungeon had he not already been there. Yes, this was just the ticket. The very idea would make her squirm with Gryffindorian scruple. Then he would chide her for her lack of courage and faulty sense of adventure, which would yield the predictable results. After which he would make her squirm again, scruples discarded along with the sensible cotton knickers she insisted on wearing despite his numerous hints that black lace might place her ageing arse in a more flattering light.

Still smiling, he used his wand to make some adjustments to his robes and swept out of his rooms.

~oOo~

The look of surprise and quickly hidden consternation that greeted him when she opened her door made the discomfort of the transformation worth it. Already.

"Is there an emergency?" she asked.

"No, no, my dear," he said, lifting her hand to his lips for a gallant kiss. "I just thought I'd wander over for a bit of a chat."

Her eyes narrowed. "Did you? Do come in, then."

"Thank you." Seeing the whisky and two glasses on the table by the fire, he asked, "Expecting someone?"

"A friend."

"Severus?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"He's a lucky fellow, to be served your best whisky."

"Hardly my best. As you know," she said, "I reserve the best for you."

Snape almost frowned but caught himself in time and recovered well. "Do you, my dear? How delightful."

"But this is good enough for Severus. He doesn't know the difference between decent whisky and excellent whisky."

This was entirely too much.

He asked, "But surely, as a Potions master, Severus has a very discerning palate?"