mmoa_writes

Downloading fics off fanfiction.net is pretty tiring. My poor fingers.

My mouse ball (*snerk*) needs replacing. It's being an absolute fucktard and refsed to roll around or whatever it is that mouse balls are supposed to do.

*sniggers*

Good Lord, I am childish.

I was just thinking of my experiences in Camden around lunchtime: there are wonderful market-side cuisines (mainly Thai, Japanese, Chinese) and I've found that they all call out to you at the same time, determined to make you buy their food and no one else's.

What's sometimes even funnier, is that when you buy food from one stall, the next stall owners seem to think that means you'll buy food from them. Of course, you're not, and you learn how to say no.

Which brought me on to another thought of mine. Specifically about Snape.

Those slimy things in the jars that one can find in his office? What if they were simply 'complimentary' gifts, forced upon him by eager apothecaries?

This was result (And yes, I do so love Victorian!Snape. It's the only way I can write him in first-person *hides*): my first fanfic-post on LiveJournal! So proud... *sniffs*

I know that M. Martin prides himself on the freshness of his ingredients, but this is ridiculous.

"Monsieur," I say, hiding the pleading whine in my voice as much as possible (the damn man can smell fear just by looking at you, I swear), "Monsieur Martin, the package is, ah, twitching, so to speak..."

He waves his hand as if this is a complaint not worth discussing. I swallow back a sigh, or a growl or whatever the sound turns out to be, and look back at his apprentice, cheerfully heaving the package into the small luggage compartment of the carriage (on loan, again, from my sister, who seems to genuinely believe that it is hers, as if I, as the eldest son, were of no more importance than-- Egad. Ridiculous woman. She always brings out the worst in me). It had started to drip. No one else could see it, I suspected, but I am in range of the light and so the small splashes of - Deus! Blood!? - caught my eye.

"Terrible, terrible sorry about some of zthe ingrediants," he says through his nose (and to think that his accent once amused me as a child! Now it simply strikes some deep well of apprehension within me). "Terrible sorry. But zsince zthe rrise of zthat Darrck Lawd," here he shakes his head, as if Tom Riddle were naught but a spoilt, precocious five year old who had spent a little too much time in the company of an irresponsible Grandfather, "some of zthese ingrediants 'ave been a little diffi-cult to trade for."

I nod my head in understanding. Ah, well: it simply means I will have to bomb off and annoy Reuben - the local Potions Master of Durmstrang - again. Well, he does owe me, after all.

"But I can make it up forr you, of courrsse!" He gives me what he obviously thinks to be a charming smile. It has the same effect as one of my fathers lecture had on me when I was younger: I stand stock-still and feel my stomach trembling within me.

Rhianna would probably find this hillarious; not that I will tell her, of course. Little sisters should be at least a little in awe of their older brothers.

"No, no," I begin - the blood from my face has drained to my feet, I can feel it - attempting a smile (it rather hurts, actually), "that's alright, I assure you, M. Martin..."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" He chuckles sinisterly. I am beginning to feel like Neville Longbottom, only at least I don't try to smile at him when I feel like torturing the little fool. That would be too cruel. "Berna!" He calls to the back. "Venez ici!"

I feel a whine attemtping to escape from my throat. Bernadette is worse than her father. Evil minx.

"Oui, Papa!" She says in an innocent enough voice, but with an evil glint in her eye when she sees me.

This time, M. Martin doesn't even let me babble on in some pathetic attempt to defend myself. With no warning, he says:

"Get Severo a complimentary gift... or maybe two!" He turns to me again: "for our best customer."

One more smile, I realise, and I will not see tomorrow... in the same way as I normally would have at any rate. I take in a deep breath and feel a bit silly for following the advice that my foppish sister-in-law eagerly laps up from that daft hippy of a Yoga teacher she has (Yoga! Yes, Yoga! Narcissa was having fits of laughter when Rhianna told her... Ye gods, what the hell is our family coming to?!).

Berna does a small curtsey to her father and I feel myself blush - damned good-looking woman - skips off to some dark recess of the stock cupboards and comes back with two large jars of what I assume to be a liver of some bizarre creature of another in some sort of agent.

I try to carry out my Great-great-great-great-great-great (Oh, I give up) Grandmother Hyacinth's advice and say a polite 'That will do...' but I am left speechless.

I don't entirely recall what happened next; all I truly know is that I am shown to the carriage, tripping over the lowered steps, I'll have you know, with five large jars of slimy things in agent, an extra cauldron, several ladles and such other utensils and a bag of sherbets.

Sherbets!

I am suddenly brought back out of my daze when the door closes with a firm *clip* besides me and Berna (behind the back of the apprentice and her father) blows a kiss at me. I don't blush when she does this, but merely shake my head: she must think I'm one of those celibate librarian-scholarly types. I'm not in all honsety, I just think it would be damned inapproapiate to be caught kissing the Apothecary's daughter.

On my way home, I find myself increasingly irked by how cheerful the world insists on being. She's worse than my sister, mother, and numerous aunts and neices put together. Even the thestrals seem to be moving at an all-too jaunty pace and I swear the coachman laughed at me (which he isn't supposed to do: you know how these Igors can be...).

Dammit.

And to think that I had hoped (having smashed one over the Potter bastard's head) it would have been plain sailing to get rid of the rest of them. But no: I lose one, and end up with five more.

On returning home, I refuse to speak to the Housekeeper (a wonderful, efficient young man: rather unorthodox, true, but he's very good), or the footman (who suppresses a grin, insolent fop in tights...).

When I see my Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great (Oh I give up) Grandmother Hyacinth (she insists on going over my Potions experiments, despite being kept in the deep-freeze; yes, even Muggles are good for something) later on that day, she sighs in mock irritation and begins to chuckle.

"Sometimes, Severus," she says softly, "a mere That will do,' will suffice."

Oh yes?

I hate my hayfever. I have been irritable all day, which didn't help at all trying to fiddle about hydrochloric acid with Athene. I hate being mad at her, because it's always the utter nonsensical that does it... dammit, I've been reading too many Victorian novels and have started speaking and writing like one.

...

I want an Igor... just like from Terry Pratchett, I know.