Flistie Challenge
Okay. You all have heard me whining about how I can't write fic to save my life, and I'm afraid I'm about to prove it to you in a truly spectacular way, but when I went to look at the prompts for hp_crackdealers , I couldn't help myself.
I have written the start of a story based on this prompt:
PROMPT 26 (CLAIMED ONCE)
Characters and/or Pairings: Severus Snape
A prompt: One night Snape has too much to drink. Hilarity ensues.
Notes: Can involve a pairing of your choosing, or just a genfic.
I will post what I've written below the cut, and, if anybody's interested, I'd like you all to help me finish it. We could do this round-robin style, in which each person takes up where the previous one left off, or we could have a massive brainstorming chat session and do it all together.
What think you, flisties? Can we make a crack-y silk purse out of this sow's ear?
Severus Snape did not drink.
It was a well-established fact that an inebriated spy was eventually a dead spy, and a drunken double-agent rarely made it out of the pub loo before being prematurely shuffled off of this mortal coil.
And if that wasn't enough to keep him sober, there were always the memories of his parents three (and on occasion, four) sheets to the wind. There wasn't a chance in hell that he'd be any more sweet-tempered drunk than they were, and Merlin knew, he was a vicious enough bastard stone sober. Or worse, he'd be a maudlin drunk like his father's brother and blubber all over the first unfortunate that didn't take one look at him and run screaming from the room. Snivellus, indeed. So, no. Intoxication was right out.
That being the case, the earliest wandless, wordless magic he ever perfected was a spell to turn alcohol to water. No liquid ever passed his lips without it. It was a matter of self preservation. In fact, it was such an established habit, that long after it had stopped being necessary it was as automatic a thing to do as sneering at stupidity. Hell, he even cast the spell without thinking at the bloody tap water he rinsed his mouth with after brushing his teeth!
So why was it that as he stared at the papers which had come into his possession that morning, ten years after he'd disappeared from the British Wizarding world without a trace, he pulled that jug of absolute ethanol down from the solvent cabinet in his laboratory and was now well on his way to being truly, completely and spectacularly potted?
::casually tosses gauntlet to floor::
I have written the start of a story based on this prompt:
PROMPT 26 (CLAIMED ONCE)
Characters and/or Pairings: Severus Snape
A prompt: One night Snape has too much to drink. Hilarity ensues.
Notes: Can involve a pairing of your choosing, or just a genfic.
I will post what I've written below the cut, and, if anybody's interested, I'd like you all to help me finish it. We could do this round-robin style, in which each person takes up where the previous one left off, or we could have a massive brainstorming chat session and do it all together.
What think you, flisties? Can we make a crack-y silk purse out of this sow's ear?
Severus Snape did not drink.
It was a well-established fact that an inebriated spy was eventually a dead spy, and a drunken double-agent rarely made it out of the pub loo before being prematurely shuffled off of this mortal coil.
And if that wasn't enough to keep him sober, there were always the memories of his parents three (and on occasion, four) sheets to the wind. There wasn't a chance in hell that he'd be any more sweet-tempered drunk than they were, and Merlin knew, he was a vicious enough bastard stone sober. Or worse, he'd be a maudlin drunk like his father's brother and blubber all over the first unfortunate that didn't take one look at him and run screaming from the room. Snivellus, indeed. So, no. Intoxication was right out.
That being the case, the earliest wandless, wordless magic he ever perfected was a spell to turn alcohol to water. No liquid ever passed his lips without it. It was a matter of self preservation. In fact, it was such an established habit, that long after it had stopped being necessary it was as automatic a thing to do as sneering at stupidity. Hell, he even cast the spell without thinking at the bloody tap water he rinsed his mouth with after brushing his teeth!
So why was it that as he stared at the papers which had come into his possession that morning, ten years after he'd disappeared from the British Wizarding world without a trace, he pulled that jug of absolute ethanol down from the solvent cabinet in his laboratory and was now well on his way to being truly, completely and spectacularly potted?
::casually tosses gauntlet to floor::