Hey guys, it's me again! School is hitting me pretty hard; I have mock exams in a week, plus prep for Scholarship English and Music and a Film assessment due in two weeks. However, I am trying to finish For There to be Light, and will hopefully have finished it by the end of the year. Anything further than that will be a half-job.
This is one of my weekly writing attempts, that I unfortunately wasn't allowed to use in school for copyright issues. Nevertheless, I thought it was worth posting, and hopefully you will too.
Enjoy!
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"Abysmal at best…"
"Useless…"
"Clearly fame isn't everything…"
"Perhaps you should consider opening a book…"
"Pay attention!"
"Dunderhead…"
"Insufferable brat…"
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The words rolled off the boy; insults were nothing new to him. His uncle had called him far worse. This teacher was merely adding bricks to the wall, thickening his skin and building his defences. It wasn't his teachers fault; the boy was certain of this. The teacher wasn't aware of what the boy faced when he went back home.
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Home.
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Such a stupid word. Home was supposed to ignite warmth, and love, and happiness and the mere mention of it. His home practically oozed hate, terror, animosity and disgust; the boy certainly didn't want to go home to that. But, no matter what he said, he was ignored.
His old teachers had accused him of telling lies, what's to say that the ones here wouldn't do the same? They all expected something of him, and he didn't know what. Would they even believe him?
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A swirl of black entered his vision, and the boy focused on the potion at hand. His partner, a red-haired boy named Ronald, was haphazardly tossing ingredients in, while across the aisle, a bushy-haired girl named Hermione was religiously following the instructions on the board, muttering under her breath every so often.
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Ronald and Hermione seemed to be under the odd impression that they were his best friends. The problem was, the boy felt no affection for them. His best friends were a shy boy in his dorm called Neville, and a few from the other Houses, including Slytherin. Whatever claptrap the red-head was trying to sell about Slytherin's being evil was definitely not worth his notice.
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Across from him, Neville was diligently trying not to blow up his cauldron, using his book to follow the recipe instead of the board. Neville looked over, and the boy rolled his eyes at his partner, whose cauldron was now emitting yellowy brown smoke. Neville hid a grin, and focused on his own potion when the teacher walked past, avoiding the black gaze.
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"Pathetic, Weasley. I suppose that you added the foxglove before the baneberry?"
Weasley looked flustered, and right on cue, a whole foxglove flower floated to the top of the potion.
The boy frowned, and checked the board.
'Three teaspoons of ground foxglove. Stir three times clockwise, three anticlockwise, then three clockwise.'
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"Idiot." The boy muttered under his breath, before reading the directions again, his lips twisting into a twisted smile at the irony. He measured out the ground foxglove, and carefully put it in, making sure not to splash the potion over the sides. He grabbed the stirrer, and began.
"Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice once more to make it nine. Peace! The charm's wound up."
He muttered under his breath, the twisted smile lingering faintly on his face.
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A timer went off, and the boy waved his wand over the potion, watching it turn a dark, silvery grey. The boy frowned. It was almost perfect; just a shade too dark. Nevertheless, it was far better that last week's attempt.
It was then that he became aware of a dark, looking presence next to him. The boy took an involuntary step backwards, turning to face his teacher. He met his eyes, and froze.
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There.
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Flickering off the surface was a mixture of pride, respect, and…concern, even as his teacher looked down towards his uncovered wrists, and by extension, the scars that littered them. Then it was shock, anger and thoughtfulness, and possibly guilt.
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As quickly as he saw, it was gone just as rapidly, and the stone cold, blank face was in its place once more. The boy hid his arms as Weasley looked over, and the teacher sneered.
"Adequate. Obviously you headed my advice and picked up a textbook over the weekend."
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The boy flinched minutely at the barb, before nodding.
"Yes, sir." He murmured, reaching for the glass vials. The teacher nodded, and swept past, raising an incredulous eyebrow towards Neville's almost perfect potion (it looked like his), before barking at Neville to bottle his potion.
The boy hurried to finish bottling, ignoring the whining of Ronald, who had failed yet again, and the mutterings of Hermione, whose potion was two shades too light.
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The bell rung, and students hurried to pack up their bag and get to dinner, before a voice called out over the din.
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"Mr. Potter, please stay behind."
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Harry jumped, and glanced towards his teacher, who was looking at him with an indecipherable look.
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"Yes, sir." He replied, nodding towards his Professor.
Ronald mumbled something about slimy gits and greasy snakes, and Harry passed his bag to Neville, ignoring Ronald's protests. The classroom door shut, and Harry turned towards his Professor, hope starting to burn once more in his chest.
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Maybe, just maybe, the teacher would listen and believe him this time.
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Ta da! Short, but there may be others coming that cover Harry's years from 1-7 on his point of view on Professor Snape. I don't know, it's all up to you, the reader, to tell me if you want more.
Till next time,
Siofra