#[forever martyred by a grumpy git's horrible attitude and inability to have nice things]

[obsidianwarden]

❝Drinking until you puke is not normal.❞ (A concerned Az caring for the grumpy boi)

bottoms up! - accepting.

Snape scowled, though it lacked its usual caustic disdain. The dim candlelight of his quarters cast deep shadows over his face, accentuating the lines of exhaustion and something heavier - something raw. He sat stiffly, his long, slender fingers idly nursing an untouched glass, the lingering scent of alcohol clinging to the air between them.

His head throbbed dully. He hadn't puked, for Merlin's sake. He wasn't some reckless imbecile who couldn't hold his drink - not that it was anything to be proud of, but he had a handle on it ... usually. His high tolerance to alcohol (wizarding or otherwise), combined with steep disgust for his father's antics and an absurdly meticulous and unyielding self-control were a strong bulwark against unwanted effects of inebriation. But tonight -tonight had been an exception. He wasn't about to explain to her why.

His black eyes flicked up to meet hers, their usual sharpness dulled at the edges. "Normal." he echoed in an almost imperceptibly slurred drawl, dripping with sarcasm. "Yes, because I do make a habit of aspiring to that." What was she doing here anyway? That implied he might enjoy drinking in company and he couldn’t possibly have his unapproachable reputation suffer such nonsense. It had been hard enough to make a quick exit from the staff party as it is.

A moment's silence elapsed as he gathered his wits, or what pathetic remains he still possessed. He felt a vexing heat under his collar that made him want to loosen it, against his better judgement - but he wouldn't dare do so. Then, lips curling wryly, he added. "Tch, Professor Sprout. I hope you are not suggesting I am so … common in my vices."

He should have been irritated by her concern. He had every right to be - nobody attempted a peek into the private life and habits of one Severus Snape without regretting it. He'd made it into a fine art. Instead, it settled somewhere deep in his ribs, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Blast the Firewhiskey for lowering his cast iron defences and many walls, gates, turrets--whatever he usually set between himself and any semblance of humanity daring to taint him with its moronic sentimentality. He set the glass down with deliberate care, fingers lingering against the rim.

"Go on, then." he drawled, his voice lower, rougher than usual. "Lecture me." he provoked her, he knew very well how childish and bitter he must have sounded, but he had little energy to care at the moment. He was used to ruthlessly shooting down well meaning people bursting at the seams with sage advice and pastoral disappointment.