Welcome & thank you for reading! This particular Snarry poem is not rated M, but future poetry will definitely qualify as such. I live for reviews, since I make no money from my fic(s), so please consider writing one & following my fanfiction! All characters are of course owned by JK Rowling and Warner Bros. Entertainment. (HP/SS, Snarry, Rated M) Hope you enjoy it!
Also, my sincerest apologies for the lines between stanzas-it was the only way to separate them. If anyone knows a better way to do this on , please let me know! I'm a little new here. #newbie
"Sorted Into Gryffindor"
(Date: September 1st, 1991. POV: Severus Snape)
Blast it all,
Fire-Whiskey slithering
Down my throat as I
Calm myself,
I stalk toward The Great Hall.
My black robes, all buttoned-up,
Sway loose at my sides.
It is one thing
I can control, one small
Habit I dare not take for granted.
Students pile in, like cattle,
Awaiting their pathetic teenaged-fates.
Meanwhile, Albus has that damned twinkle
When he smiles at me
As if I am someone important, today.
McGonagall, the thin-lipped, quick woman
Grips the bloody sorting hat
Calling another godforsaken Weasley—
Merlin forbid any Weasels
Not be sorted as Gryffindorks!
I am unsurprised, as per usual,
Until I see him:
Harry James Potter.
The-Boy-Who-Lived,
Sporting a curse-scar and all,
With his eyes glued to mine.
Lily Evans' emerald
Hypnotizing gaze—
Her nose, as well, I notice.
The lovely eyes narrow at me
As if searching for a reason to hate me:
Just like his father.
Dark-brown, ragged, impish hair,
A trait of James Potter,
Along with that arrogant smirk he wears suddenly.
No;
He looks afraid.
Wincing, he touches
His legendary, galleon-winning-scar,
Turning to yet another Weasley.
I narrow my eyes back at him,
Involuntarily touching my chin,
Wondering why the child is as thin as a rail.
James was too, I suppose.
The older Weasel glances up at me briefly.
I scoff inwardly—
No doubt
The Weasels warn the boy of me
Merlin-forbid,
He not fear the Head of Slytherin House!
"Harry Potter."
Minerva even widens her small
Beady eyes at the name—the one
Used in bedtime stories, and in
All the wizarding newspapers.
From a glance, Albus seems
Indifferent—but I know the man.
It takes him a great deal of effort
To withhold that curiosity—
I believe he nearly had a heart-attack from shock.
The eleven year old boy looks frightened
As if he were approaching his turn on death-row
In Azkaban,
But why?
Surely, he would be confident
With all that fame on his side?
Not Slytherin,
Not Slytherin; Anything but Slytherin!
Please!
I nearly snort, barely suppressing it.
I shall have a
Hearty laugh in my quarters tonight
Over this boy bickering with
That crusty old black hat—
Not Slytherin, Eh, Harry?
You could be great you know!
Doubt it,
Though he might have a shot
In the only acceptable house
In this bloody school.
Alright,
The sorting hat gives up
As if it were in a bitter marriage,
Gryffindor!
I snort aloud this time,
Quietly, under all the
Annoyingly loud cheers
For the star of
Everyone's favorite
Hero.
I spy at Albus:
The closest person I have had
To a father.
Concern washes over his wrinkled face, and
He, too, is disappointed.
He claps with the others, wearing that selfless grin for Harry.
The glint in his eye is gone.
Destined, he is, for Slytheirn—
Albus babbled, two nights ago, with that blasted hat.
I sat, watching the delirious old man, praying to Merlin it was the sodding truth.
Be that as it may,
Protecting the boy
Will be that much more strenuous, and I will always be a slave to Harry James Potter,
Who presently glares at Draco Malfoy, probably a future Death Eater.
I suppose it runs in the family, like everything else.