The Potion Master's Birthday

There once was a young man named Snape,
Whose dark cloak around him did drape.
His black hair was long,
His hooked nose was strong,
And his arm bore the Dark Lord's dread shape.

His birthday had come and had passed.
He was glad it was over at last.
He hated the day
When people would say:
"Happy Birthday!" He just felt harassed.

Yet when he returned to his room,
He found there amid the dark gloom:
A cake burning bright,
With candles so light;
From Albus, he'd only assume.

Beside sat a bottle of wine,
With a glass made of crystal so fine.
So he drank to his birth
With a smirk of bleak mirth
And finished it in off in no time.

"Happy Birthday to me!" he exclaimed,
As he held up the glass to the flame.
"A toast to the spy,
Who must one day die,
Because he plays such a fell game!"

With that he then sank into sleep,
And dreamed of things desperate and deep:
His love had not died,
And stood by his side.
For in dreams may one's hope always keep.

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