The Man Who Makes Potions

I stalk the halls,
a bat whose bite draws worse than blood,
who speaks invective
like one born to the language of hate.
A breath away from evil
and a step away from death,
with nothing to redeem me
save control, stealth, wit,
and a hand no man may match
when poised over a cauldron.
Master of mortal and pestle am I,
king of the shadows of the dungeon realm
where none but my favored few dare enter,
for silence suits my purpose
as I traffic with darkness and dead dragons
and magic.
For it is power that I brew, distill, and bottle.
So this black bat,
this creature of the night,
has power over kings
who must needs eat, and drink,
and breath the air.
So they may laugh at me,
who takes no care with his appearance,
who has no friends, and shows allegiance to the present power,
not mincing words in favor curry,
But they dare not laugh too loudly,
and never in my presence.
Only the children whose lives
I would give mine for
dare that.

S. Snape