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Disclaimer: Hogwarts, its world, its faculty and students are all the creations of J. K. Rowling.
The challenge: "A fanfic about his reaction to being the subject of so much -- um, er, ah -- interest on the part of so many females. . . ."
After endless days and nights being pursued by sylphs and phantasms and the ghosts of stories that had escaped their muggle creators, Snape barricaded himself in his dungeon, whimpering behind stacks of cauldrons as owls bearing love tokens banged themselves loudly against the enchanted door. Hogwarts' famed defensive perimeter was no impediment to these strange visitors, these . . . harpies who had begun to pursue him at all hours of the day and night.
"No, no, NO! Dammit, a man has to sleep sometime! Just a few hours. . . ."
In the early hours of the morning, utterly exhausted by the siren songs ringing in his ears, Snape realized the futility of his pleading. He unfolded himself from his cave of cauldrons and began to dig into his potions stores. Wincing, he ran his hand across the back of the cabinet until his fingers found the tiny gargoyle they sought. Removing his wand from his sleeve, he touched it to the the gargoyle's head. The cabinet vanished. In its place stood exposed a closet-sized cavern hewn from the dungeon's wall. Fingering one and then another of the dank and mildewed bottles housed in carved niches in the massive stones, he began to experiment with some of his most coveted and dangerous ingredients.
Three days later, he added the final handful of loamy earth to the potion brewing over his office fire. Snape snarled with disgust at resorting to such a perverse use of his beautiful art, but he could envision no other remedy. He could only hope that there wasn't a heretofore hidden subculture of geeky muggle women who found gnomes to be irresistibly sexy. For a moment, he considered the risk that no amount of points from Gryffindor would be able to deter the Weasley twins from hurling their Potions Master through the windows. "No," he mused, stirring the brown, glutinous glop in the cauldron. "As unpleasant as this horrendous experiment may be, I will at least be spared that particular humiliation; dungeons don't have windows."
At the stroke of eleven, he drank.