Title: The Swear Jar
Author: Miss. Sly
Style: Oneshot
Type: Harry Potter
Category: Humor / General
Main Character(s): Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, Pink Monstrosity
Minor Character(s): Minerva McGonagall, Madame Hooch, Sybil Trelawney, Hagrid, Fillius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout
Word Count: 757

Severus Snape was completely positive that if anyone was to kill Albus Dumbledore, it would be him.

"Now, now, my boy, it's only fair. Everyone will do it."

"Everyone, you say. Bullocks."

Twinkling blue eyes came to rest on Madame Hooch. The soft sound of metal clinking against glass reverberated through the lounge, filling its inhabitants with a damning sense of dread.

"Bullocks."

A sigh. Two clinks.

Snape slumped foreword in his chair feeling every bit as old as Dumbledore looked. His slender fingers rose to rub his temples.

"Let me get this straight," He ground out, feeling the beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes. "Every time we swear, we have to put money into that... that... monstrosity."

Dumbledore peered innocently at his youngest employee, eyes twinkling dangerously. "Whatever do you mean, Severus? Sybil seems to think it's quite fetching."

Snape exchanged glances with an equally skeptical looking McGonagall before eyeing the huge jar on the staff table with obvious mistrust. The gaudy pink bow and the glitter gleamed menacingly back. He shuddered.

"Yes, I suppose she would."

"Albus," McGonagall said delicately, exchanging another glance with Snape, "Is this really... necessary."

Dumbledore looked entirely too pleased with himself as he popped a lemon drop in his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was sage and omniscient, "Of course it is Minerva! We have been setting a terrible example for the children! Think of the children!"

Flitwick hesitated, uncertain if he truly wished to enter this conversation at all. "But none of us have said anything in front of the children."

Pomona Sprout snorted from where she sat beside him. "Oh what a load of dragon dung, Fillius. I clearly recall you cussing your tongue out of your head when a first year lit up the stack of books you were standing on."

The glass jar zoomed off the table and proceeded to do an odd sort of jig in the air around her head. She sighed and tipped a few Knuts into the slit at the top. Snape was sure he heard it purr in satisfaction.

"How are we supposed to know how much money we have to put in?" He grouched, thoroughly unhappy with this entire concept. He glared at the jar as it slowly began inching towards him. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it glared back.

Dumbledore reached out and began petting the nauseatingly pink lid. "Good question. I suppose we should make a set of ground rules, hm?"

He grinned at McGonagall and muttered under his breath to her, "Take notes, Minnie, this needs to be in writing."

Twin spots of colour bloomed along the Deputy Headmistress' cheekbones as she conjured a scroll, a quill and a pot of ink.

Dumbledore's face was suddenly very grim. All the teachers leaned forward, almost unconsciously, to listen to what the old man would say next. He steepled his fingers and grimaced. In a soft voice that carried through the entire room, he said, "Listen very closely, as this will only be said aloud once and once only. The monetary penalties will be as follows."

He paused and leaned back, forcing the teachers to lean forward even further. Snape absentmindedly hoped he wouldn't lean back any further or Flitwick was going to topple off his chair and break his neck. On second thought...

"The use of the world 'Damn' or any variant will cost precisely ten knuts. 'Shit' will cost you twenty. 'Cock' will cost you one sickle, one Knut and 'Cunt' will cost you one sickle and three Knuts. 'Bastard' will cost you two sickles, as will both 'Arse' and 'Bloody'. 'Fuck' on the other hand, will cost you seven sickles."

Every cuss that escaped the Headmasters lips was punctuated by the correct amount of money slipping though the slot of the jar. Each professor watched the Headmasters money drop into the jar with trepidation. A sick feeling wound its way through Snapes stomach and he swore before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore beamed and waved his hands towards the growling jar. He swallowed hard and dropped precisely seven sickles into its gaping maw.

"Excellent, my boy. Excellent."

Snape let his head drop and it hit the hard wooden table with a muted 'thump'. McGonagall cast him a sympathetic glance and patted his back soothingly.

Hagrid broke the stifling silence that followed with a nervous, "What happens if we don't have any money on us?"

"That," Dumbledore said, smile turning sinister, "is the fun part."

Date Written: July 7, 2009

A/N: Pure, sweet crack. I make absolutely no apologies.

More emailing has occurred between JescaShylock and myself. This has been one of the fics spawned. Hopefully, there will be many more.

Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism is love.

Sly.