THANK YOU
CAN BE THE HARDEST THING TO SAY
To receive a simple thank you is an inconceivable notion to one Professor Snape.
Characters and universe belong to JK Rowling. Thanks for such an awesome series!
Severus Snape was never anything less than attentive. Every drop of a quill, every footstep after dark, every whisper and look rarely went unnoticed by the brooding Potions Professor. Dumbledore called it a gift: the ability to discern when something was out of place. He sneered. But, to humor the old coot: if it was, in fact, a gift, it most certainly had its downsides.
A prime example would be the fact that he could only sense so much. How many nights had Perfect Potter successfully roamed the hallways, and had not been caught? It infuriated him to no end because countless times he could very well hear the clumsy footsteps of that unmistakable brat, but he could rarely ever trap the source and exploit it. He had been naïve at first and gone to Dumbledore, but the old man had just looked at him with a twinkle in his eye and rambled something ridiculous about proof. Proof, ha! He knew better than anyone that even if he had proof, it would magically disappear… most literally.
It was bad enough that he was surrounded by children day in and day out. It was worse that most of these children, even after maturing somewhat, didn't want to learn. They wanted to date. They wanted to play. Most of the students were filled with an irregular immaturity and a lack of respect for authority. That, and their awareness was dull, to say the least. Bullocks! The entire lot of them was filled with a false notion of security - especially those bloody Gryffindors.
Maybe this is why he hated them so very much. Each of them thought that they were so bloody perfect. So absolutely safe. Dumbledore would save them. Dumbledore would protect them. Dumbledore this, Dumbledore that. It was always about him, the man was a God, and Snape was a traitor. The fact that it was him going to grovel at a monster's robes monthly (or more) didn't matter. It might have been Dumbledore's idea, but really, Snape was the only person holding off the war until Potter was ready. And did he ever hear a thanks? No, and he doubted that he ever would. Severus Snape was going to die old, alone, and unappreciated.
As much as Snape loathed this over all, there were some perks to the situation. Because he was supposedly playing the other team, because he had a façade to hold up, the Evil Potions Professor was free to terrorize all those who crossed him. Dumbledore needed him to do the work that no one else would, and Snape needed an outlet. So for once in the entirety of the man's reign over Hogwarts, Dumbledore turned a blind eye on the mistreatment of his precious Gryffindors, and in this alone Snape found some consolation.
But to his disappointment, it wasn't much consolation. The Professor roamed around the aisles, hovering over particular students and examining their progress on today's lesson so far. Approaching Potter, he grimaced.
It disgusted the Potions Professor at the minimal work that the boy did for marks that weren't far behind Ms Granger's. Snape knew that the boy was indeed not as bright as his grades dictated. What especially annoyed him was that if something didn't go Potter's way, it 'wasn't fair'. The boy would throw his usual tantrum and someone almost always would step in to rectify the injustice that had been served. Every mistake he made, every life he compromised (including his own), was someone else's fault. The realization that Potter and the Dark Lord were parallel in such a huge aspect was frightening. Neither understood sacrifice or consequence.
The thought quickly dissolved and his frown was replaced by a smirk. Perhaps having Potter in N.E.W.T. Potions wasn't so bad. The potion was the proper colour, but it was far too thick and the mistake was irreversible. Oh my, Potter was going to fail this assignment; that was for sure.
He moved on to the next set of desks. Young Mr. Weasley, though part of the Golden Trio, was hardly worth a thought. Deep inspection on the red-headed fury wasn't needed, simply because there wasn't anything to deeply speculate about. Quidditch was obviously the only concept that the boy could grasp, and his temper surpassed any that he had ever seen. Jealousy radiated from Ronald Weasley constantly; he had received absolutely no fame for befriending The-Boy-Who-Lived.
The simplicity was too much … kind of like the potion that Weasley was about to botch up horribly.
Snape immediately broke his train of thought and slammed his fist down on the station that the idiot was working at. The offending ingredients that were hovering over the cauldron just seconds before were thrown across the desk and melted in the burner flames. The immediate threat was gone, but Snape could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his body.
"Ms. Granger!" he roared. A bewildered gaze met his own cold one from across the room. "Could you please tell us what would have happened when Mr. Weasley added one too many scales to the draught that we are currently brewing?"
Snape only had to wait a moment for her answer, "It causes the potion to nullify the effects of the wormwood completely, sir." and he fought the urge to feel some sort of relief that he at least could count on one person in his class not to be a complete dunderhead. Pity she was insufferable most times.
"And the result would be?" He watched the girl search her brain opposed to her book for the answer. Clever girl, he thought for a fleeting moment. She obviously had read enough to know that even the Advanced Potions text was extremely vague on the consequences of imprecise measurements. He turned away, mentally preparing the lecture and congratulating himself on finally finding a question that Granger could not answer. He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard her voice.
"The same as Neville's?" The class all reeled around to look at her, himself included. He was met with a pair of twinkling brown eyes and a smirk that he had never (and he meant never), seen before in his class. Nervous chuckles broke out among the room. They immediately stopped though when her eyes narrowed and she continued with a far more serious tone. "The wormwood stabilizes the potion, so if the effects were nullified it would most likely cause quite the explosion, not that we would live to tell about it."
He felt his eye twitch. She really was a know-it-all. Although part of him wanted to strangle her senseless, he was also amazed at how thorough and accurate her answer was given in the short time that he had provided. The entire class was eying their scales with a new found horror.
"Correct, Ms Granger," he replied flatly. With that he turned and stormed back to his desk; the grand tally of points he had planned to deduct was forgotten. The students silently went back to their potions until class was finished, where each student bottled and handed in a sample. Much to Snape's disgust, he could only distinguish two correct ones out of twenty-four, knowing well they belonged to Ms. Granger and young Mr. Malfoy. His grimace turned to a smirk. The average was far too high for a N.E.W.T. level class, anyway.
The following day:
His class was unusually quiet today. Talking was never permitted, so it was hard to explain exactly what he meant by 'quiet'. Perhaps Professor Snape really meant to classify his students as tense. It was one of those days that the air was so thick you could cut it with a wand.
He had heard something going on before he stormed into the room but had waved it off as a verbal sparring battle between Potter and Malfoy. It was a weekly occurrence at best, and since he had his own problems today he took no effort to involve himself. Not only was his body sore, but on his return early this morning, Albus had decided it was necessary to have an early morning interrogation of him. As if it couldn't wait. As if his body didn't need the precious few hours of rest.
The hour ticked by unbearably slow, not to mention that it was Double Potions today, so they still had another full hour to complete.
That's when he noticed it. Unbelievably, he blinked. He knew that he wasn't paying much mind, practically oblivious to his surroundings unless he sensed immediate danger. Now he refrained himself from rubbing his eyes, and wondered how he could have possibly missed such an overbearing presence… even with his mind elsewhere.
Potter's seat was empty.
The reason for his absence aside... No Potter? Did some higher power deem him worthy of a single day of peace? However, if Potter wasn't here, who was involved in the argument before class? Other than Mr. Weasley, of course, since he was broadcasting his mood. As usual.
His attention then shifted over the class to find the poor chap who had to suffer such irrational, though likely common, banter. Because the Slytherins all looked rather pleased in a non-involved way, Snape concluded that the issue was between two Gryffindors. There was a Quidditch mishap last week that involved Seamus Finnigan, but the boy was busily chopping away without a care in the world; that ruled him out. His final guess was that Dean Thomas had let slip his involvement with the young female Weasley, but the boy only looked slightly uncomfortable. Snape was absolutely perturbed. Who could have possibly pissed Weasley off so much?
He kept a careful eye on those glancing away from their potions, determination guiding his gaze along their own to rest on a single seat in the back row. Surprised, but hardly about to show it, Snape's eyes fell on Granger for the first time that day.
She was stirring with the same angry vigor as Mr. Weasley, chopping her ingredients with what only could be a murderous intent, and realized that he had finally found the second perpetrator. Of course, now that he thought about it, it wasn't really much of a surprise after all. Why hadn't he thought of her before?
Weasley's new stirring habits may have, in fact, been an improvement from his careless sloshing that he usually did, but in Hermione's case it was certainly not. If she kept it up her potion would don a 'B', at best.
He was in no rush, however. Professor Snape stood from his seat, for it was time to terrorize at least some of the class. He smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles from his robes before he began his prowl with a wicked smile. Though he stepped lightly, his footsteps were loud on the stone floor and echoed mercilessly amongst the silence. He was like a dementor of sorts, and although he couldn't force the students to relive their worst memories, he knew that he could certainly create them.
He made his first stop at Mr. Weasley and peered down. With immense pleasure, he plucked away the ladle and prodded the bubbling mass.
"Ah, an improvement, Mr Weasley. It seems your potion may actually dissolve today, and I will be saved from my constant wonder of your incompetence."
He could see the boy's ears turn even more red (if that was possible) from where he was standing, and content that he had succeeded in royally pissing the ogre off, set off to inspect the others. He began to weave through the aisles slowly, making his usual snide comments, yet without offer to correct. By the time he came up on Hermione, he was feeling a bit apprehensive and was beginning to wonder if he should retreat. She either didn't realize that he was right behind her, or didn't care. He looked over her ingredients, which were perfectly prepared (much to his relief), and stared into the cauldron. The potion was doing fine regardless of her abuse, but if she kept this up it could quite possibly erupt. Physically harmless, but if she was anything like him, her reaction to a bruised ego could be problematic.
He was overcome with a foreign need to help her, but the last thing he wanted to do was humiliate her in front of an entire class or openly display favourites. He reached out without further delay and grabbed her hand. She froze and didn't make a sound, which he was thankful for. They didn't need a flying potion and an entire class accusing him of groping a student (especially the Gryffindors, who always managed to blow everything out of proportion). When she continued not to move, he realized that even her breath had stopped, and he placed another hand on her shoulder firmly and leaned in close to her ear.
"Calm down."
He was gone as soon as he came, robes billowing as much as the confined classroom would allow. Mission accomplished, he made a beeline straight for his desk and practically threw himself back into the chair. Severus couldn't help but look around suspiciously. When he was sure that no one had seen his little display of courtesy, he turned his gaze back to the previously flustered witch. Miss Granger still looked somewhat troubled, but that wasn't his concern. He could see from where he was that the draught was indeed turning out correctly and gave a soft sigh of relief. Alas, he had secured an unwavering competence other than his own. Besides, botching a potion would throw her mark horribly. Not only would she drop behind Mr. Malfoy, but also Mr. Potter, which was completely unacceptable.
The time came and with a strict order, the students bottled up their potions. He didn't feel like trying to poison anyone today so dismissed them with a wave of his hand, not bothering to look up from his papers. He did, however, notice a looming presence near his desk when everyone should have been gone and looked up to meet two, very curious, brown eyes.
Her eyes fell to the vial, which was tightly gripped in her hand. He couldn't help but wonder about her delay. Did she think that she brewed the potion wrong? Did she think that she didn't deserve the marks she was most certainly going to get? Maybe she thought that he was going to deduct marks for her carelessness. He didn't offer her any comfort though, ignored his own curiosity, and pretended to dismiss the young witch who stood in front of him. The longer she stood there though, the more irritated he became. He felt his grip tighten on his quill, mentally scolding himself for helping her in the first place, and preparing a scathing remark in the event of much more subdued silence.
Well, it appeared he didn't have a choice. His irritation won out.
"Miss Granger," he started; his voice was dangerously low. He was cut off, however, as the girl practically threw her vial into the pile and shifted her books so she could bow deeply.
"… Thank you."
He didn't have time to reply, which he was grateful for; something told him that his voice would not have worked. Once the words had left her mouth, she had turned and fled with an impressive speed. The door slammed shut behind her.
The barely audible whisper echoed in his mind and he reached out absently to touch the vial she had left. Any negativity had been wiped clean from his mind, only a mild bewilderment left in its wake. His fingers lingered a moment longer before he withdrew and sat back into his chair with a sigh. He answered to an empty room, the small smile that graced his lips was an expression foreign to his face.