It was a well-established tradition to ensure that Hogwarts graduates were capable in all areas of life--and that included sex. Sex magic was highly volatile, after all, and if adult wizards and witches did not know how to restrain the explosion of power that occurred during orgasm, they could be a serious danger to themselves or to their partners. Or, indeed, even to their neighbours. Or anyone within a two-mile radius.

The Great Hall was milling with nervous students today, particularly the fifth-years, who were waiting with baited breath for their exam schedules to be announced. Breakfast was a noisy affair consisting as much of the clinking of spoons and the chatter of students as it did of the rustling of parchments--study notes passed from palm to sweaty palm, covering Potions, Transfigurations, and Defence--all the subjects the students found most difficult.

Still, silence descended post-haste when Dumbledore stood up at the teacher's table, looking calm and mildly amused at the tumult around him.

Ron was still gulping down his juice rather loudly--but Hermione nudged him in the ribs, hissing at him to quiet down.

'I'm sure that all the fifth-year students are eager to know when their exams will be held--the lists will be appear on the notice-boards just after breakfast is over.'

Another burst of chattering filled the Hall, but subsided when Dumbledore raised his hand.

'There is, however, one change to the list of supervisors.' Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles and looked, for a moment, almost... awkward. 'Due to a sudden illness, Professor Delacour will no longer be holding the Sex Magic exams.'

Pin-drop silence echoed through the Hall. Somewhere, a boy let out a heartfelt groan of disappointment, soon to be followed by several others, from members of both sexes.

Dumbledore was beginning to twinkle again. 'The Sex Magic exams will be held, instead, by Professor Snape.'

The Hall exploded into noise. It was almost as though a bomb had been dropped--chairs scraped, forks clanged and someone--perhaps the same boy who had groaned before--let out what sounded like a wail.

Ron looked like he might throw up his juice. Hermione looked intrigued. Harry was blushing, and trying to hide a grin behind his hastily buttered toast--Lavender Brown looked appalled, Dean Thomas looked calculating and Neville Longbottom... well, Neville looked like he might just pass out.

'No...' Neville's soft, horrified whisper somehow made itself heard under all the chatter. 'No.'

Hermione patted his arm consolingly. 'Cheer up, Neville. He's been given the proper guidelines. I'm sure he'll be gentle.'

Neville only looked more horrified. 'But I... but I... I'll blow him up!'

'Well, fingers crossed, yeah,' said Dean, only to have Hermione kick him under the table.

'Buckle up, Nev.' This from Harry, who was leaning back now, looking far too pleased. 'It's not that bad.'

'Not that bad?!' Ron had finally managed to swallow down his pumpkin juice, and didn't seem in danger of spewing his housemates with it. 'From Delacour, Harry! To Snape! It's unthinkable!'

Hermione flicked her hair back irritatedly, the way she always did when Ron talked about Fleur Delacour--but Harry only leaned his chin on his hand, looked over at the staff table, and smiled. 'Different blokes, different strokes, Ron.'

'Gyah.' Ron looked like he might throw up again. 'I do not need that image.'

'You'll have to deal with more than the image, mate,' said Seamus, who'd been staring despondently into his porridge thus far. 'Best get over it.'

And so the Hall emptied, slowly, the students finishing their breakfasts and going to loiter in the corridor outside, waiting for the exam timetables to show up. Some of the faces were green--faces like Neville's--and others were red, with either anger or embarrassment or something far more pleasant.

Only Harry looked calm, as though he'd expected this--and before he left the Hall he glanced at the staff table again, where Snape was methodically dissecting his omelette, acting as though he couldn't hear the racket all around him.

It was only later that night, when the Gryffindor boys were settling into bed, that something rather strange occurred to Ron.

'Harry,' he said quietly, eyes unusually narrow as they fixed on his friend.

'Yeah?' Harry was shrugging on his grey nightshirt, and Dean was watching appreciatively from across the room, as he always did.

'Didn't you order that Week of Woozies packet from Fred and George?'

Harry froze--one arm in his sleeve, the other not, with only the top of his head showing through the nightshirt's collar. It looked like a patch of messy black grass growing on wavy grey ground. 'Er,' he said through the fabric.

'And didn't you have detention with Delacour last night?'

'Er,' said Harry again, pulling his nightshirt down slowly, revealing a red, sheepish face under that messy black outcrop.

'Harry,' Ron said threateningly, 'tell me you didn't.'

'Wh-what do you mean?'

'You know what I mean,' Ron growled. 'We all know about your little crush on Snape. We all know that he's the only professor here even remotely suitable for the job, after Delacour. Gah. Suitable.' He shuddered. 'We know you've been trying to get into Snape's pants.'

'I was only joking! About--about--'

'Being on all fours on Snape's office floor? I think not, Harry. And just where are those Woozies now?'

'Er,' mumbled Harry, looking appropriately terrified as Ron and, oh Merlin, Seamus and even Neville scowled at him menacingly. Seamus actually flexed his fists.

'Now, boys,' Dean called from his safe perch. 'Easy on the testosterone.'

'Thanks to Harry, I won't get to be hard on my testosterone,' Ron snarled, taking a step towards Harry.

'Oh, I'm sure it's not that bad. Snape's quite the dish, in his own way. I mean, can you imagine dirty talk? In his voice?'

For a moment everyone whipped around to stare at Dean, who only grinned unashamedly. 'Oh, come on. Admit it.'

There was a minute of stunned silence. Then: 'I admit it,' said Harry, meekly, before letting out an 'eep!' as an outraged Ron barrelled him into his bed, thwacking him repeatedly with an over-stuffed pillow.

Laughter and shouting echoed down the stairway to the Gryffindor common room, but no one spared a thought for Snape, trapped and terrified in his dungeons so many levels below, getting drunk on his best batch of firewhiskey and staring at nearly a hundred vials of perfectly-brewed Lubricus.