Bollocks, thought Snape savagely as he jabbed his wand at the cockerel he had bribed the night before to wake him up on time, forgetting that, in order to perform a non-verbal silencing charm, he should not have been thinking anything of the sort. The newly castrated cockerel squawked indignantly as Snape staggered over to the wardrobe, pulling on the first set of robes that came to hand “ fortunately for him, they were all a suitably moody shade of black “ and jamming his feet into his shoes.
Without socks.
Snape remembered his old headmaster’s devotion to these garments and allowed himself a vindictive leer.
Checking that his wand was stored safely in his…well, away, Snape raked his fingers through his hair, and, wiping the residue on the hitherto squeaky door hinge, was about to exit when “
SNAP!
Looking down, Snape realised with a surge of annoyance that the elastic of his underpants had twanged painfully and rather musically loose, causing them to slide down around his ankles.
“Oh gods, why do you mock me with this plague of eunuch roosters and weak elastic?” he cried, looking distractedly at his watch. He was already running late. Did he have time to go back and find another pair of pants, or should he just go out like this and hope for the best?
The split-second in which he made his decision was possibly the most important moment in the history of the wizarding world. He could have turned back. He should have turned back. He should have let the plot of Harry Potter take its course. But he did not. He did not.
Overcome with a spirit of recklessness, Snape bent down decisively…and pulled up his pants.
“Time waits for no garment,” he muttered, and, with a rather twitchier gait than usual, walked out of the house.
“Gnarrrungh,” moaned Snape, many hours later, collapsing into a chair at the bar of the Hog’s Head Inn.
He was tired. He was cold. He was wet. All day his shoes had been rubbing against his feet which, without the sheltering embrace of a pair of socks, were red raw and blistered. Snape could feel the pus from what he could tell was an absolute beast of a blister oozing down his heel. His robes, which had been purchased on the cheap, had gone a navy-blue colour in the rain, and his hands and face were streaked with dye.
The pants, however, had been the worst.
They had fallen down just as he had been protesting against the Dark Lord’s insistence that he, Severus Snape, become a teacher at Dumbledore’s school, ruining the effect of what had previously been a most persuasive speech. He had then had to endure a round of the Cruciatus curse because, as the Dark Lord had hissed vehemently at him, a Death Eater should behave with a little more dignity, retain an aura of Dark mystique.
“And besides,” Voldemort had added confidentially once Snape had picked himself up off the ground, “if you’re really hardcore, you don’t wear pants.”
Bloody cheek.
Trying hard not to think of the Dark Lord’s preferences regarding undergarments (Well it’s true! When Voldemort returns, does he say to Wormtail, “Quick! My Y-fronts!” or does he merely say, “Robe me”? Eh? Eh?), Snape ordered a drink from the barman.
“Yezzurr, what can oi do fer you, zzur?” said the barman, with an unconvincing West Country accent.
“One firewhisky, please,” said, Snape, a bite of irritation in his voice. He’d show the Dark Lord just how hardcore he was. It was a well known fact that Voldemort was a teetotaller.
“Yezzurr, roight away, zzur,” said the barman, shuffling away and returning again shortly, bringing the smell of goats with him.
“Keep the change,” said Snape impatiently. “And you can drop the accent. It’s just about the worst-kept secret in the world that you’re Dumbledore’s brother so you really needn’t bother.”
Sulking, Aberforth snatched the money from Snape’s hand and was heard to mutter a word that made the infant Hermione, many miles away, say “Ron!” in a reproving voice. It was the beginning of a lifelong habit.
Snape glared moodily at the ceiling. According to the arch-prat Wormtail, Dumbledore was interviewing for jobs tonight. He took a glug of firewhisky and pulled a face. Well, if he was going to apply for a teaching post, he might as well do his research.
Standing up suddenly and drawing his arm out in front of him as though holding an imaginary skull in the manner of Hamlet, he drew his other hand dramatically across his brow.
“Forsooth!” he declaimed, “My bladder hath o’er-brimmed! I must to the privy! What ho!”
And, mincing deftly out of the room, he made a dash for the stairs. Where would he have been all these years if he hadn’t learned to act? He almost smiled to himself. He’d had one season with the Royal Shakespeare Company and he’d never looked back.
As he moved up the rickety steps, Snape heard, though very faintly, voices coming from the room at the furthest end of the landing. For some reason, this excited him greatly. There was nothing like a bit of eavesdropping every now and then.
He was half-way up the stairs. He broke into a run. He was at the top of the stairs when “
“NYYYAAAAAARRRGHH!”
Snape clawed wildly at the air, but to no avail. His ankles were entangled in the greying, dye-streaked material of his underpants which had chosen this moment to slide gracefully down. Mouthing obscenities at the air, fist raised, Snape sailed forwards, landing in a heap at the point where the stairs led onto the landing.
“Ungh,” he said, by way of affirming the dire nature of the situation.
Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore sat smiling politely at the clearly deluded Sibyl Trelawney. The commotion outside, however, roused him from his semi-stupor, and, glad of an excuse to terminate the interview, he murmured a word of apology and dashed out of the room in time to see a rather ugly, dishevelled young man scrabbling for a grip on the floor as his wet robes dragged him backwards. Dumbledore watched with a sort of detached interest as Snape’s black eyes widened in horror.
Babbling in desperation, Snape made a swipe at Dumbledore's robes, missed, and began to slide back down, his chin banging painfully on each step until, finally, he reached the bottom in what Dumbledore observed must have been considerable agony.
“Dear me,” Dumbledore murmured to himself as the man extricated himself from what seemed to be a pair of greying underpants and bolted, cursing, from the pub.
After a moment of consideration during which curiosity got the better of him, Dumbledore muttered, “Accio!”. Catching the undergarments on the end of his wand, he examined them closely as he moved slowly back towards the room.
“…month dies,” finished Trelawney impressively as Dumbledore opened the door, still deep in contemplation.
“But what have you got there, Professor Dumbledore?” inquired Trelawney after having finished her slumping and reawakening routine.
“It would appear,” said Dumbledore slowly, “that there is some kind of...”
"A mark!" breathed Trelawney, her eyes widening as she leaned forward to gaze into the folds of the soiled material.
“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore gravely. “A dark mark.”
Dumbledore remained standing, apparently lost in thought. After a short pause, he spoke again to Trelawney, almost as an afterthought.
“Thank you for your time, my dear Madam…but I’m afraid that I have decided against the continuation of the subject of Divination. I wish you luck in finding employment elsewhere. Good day to you.”
He bowed himself out.
Author's Note: Apologies for the toilet humour, but I couldn't resist! So now you know why Voldemort got to hear (part of) the prophecy. Because Snape had decided to wear a fresh pair of underpants that morning instead of just going out of the house wearing a pair with knackered elastic. Hmm...something tells me I need to get a life! Hope you enjoyed it!
Disclaimer: No cockerels were castrated during the writing of this story!
P.S. The title is obviously a reference to the film "Sliding Doors", in which the outcome of a woman's life is determined by her catching or missing the tube/train...but I fear I may be insulting your intelligence by pointing this out!