Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, though I do love Snape
Thursday mornings are the worst. No really, they are. Thursday mornings I have a double Potions class with the Third Years, the Third Year Slytherins, to be exact. You may be wondering why I hate Thursday mornings. Third Years are surely better than First Years, and you like the Slytherins. Well yes, all that is true, but when there is double Potions with the Slytherins, there is double Potions with the Gryffindors, and the Third Year Gryffindors have Potter. I [I] loathe [/I] Potter.
I watch as Potter struts into the classroom. If there is anyone with an excessive case of pride, it's him. He thinks he's so great because he's survived the Dark Lord three times now. Yeah, well try playing the double agent Potter. The bell rings, and class starts. I rise to give the instructions.
"Your essay on the practical usage of armadillo bile is due, so put it on my desk. If it's not done, you get a zero. I do hope that this essay is better than the last, as those were dismal and will be handed back as you all complete the Growing Draught, to be handed in at the end of class. Instructions are on the board, you may begin."
I watch as Potter hands his essay to Know-It-All Granger. So he can't even bring up his own essay, can he? Hopefully his mark on last week's essay sobers him a bit, though I doubt it. He's so proud about everything, from his Quidditch skills to his scar to his prat of a father. He thinks his father's an absolute hero as he thinks he "saved" me. Well, his father was bloody well saving his own skin. I wonder what else he's learned about my school days. Lupin had better not be telling him anything about what his father did to me; it would only make him fuller of himself, thinking he knows things about me, thinking he can use them against me.
The students are well along on their Growing Draughts. I walk around looking at their brewing potions and handing out last week's essay. I get to Potter and manage a sneer at his - I hate to say it - almost perfect potion. I give him his essay and he simply continues making his potion, not lifting his arrogant face to meet mine. I walk on, glad that there is only ten minutes left of the worst class of the week.
Five minutes to go. "Your potion should be done. Put it in a phial, label it with your name and put it on my desk. Make sure you clean everything up."
Potter struts up to my desk and drops off his phial. It looks to be the right colour and the right thickness. Potter smirks at me then gathers his stuff. I watch as he struts out the door, clearly pleased that I had nothing to criticize about his potion. I hate that kid.