TRACK A

CHAPTER 3

The dark man scowled, his irritation evident upon his pale face. Private lessons. As if all of the classes he had to endure throughout the day weren't enough, he, along with many other members of the staff, were being forced to give up the solitude of their evenings to individually tutor some stupid muggle born whose parents had see fit to reenroll her after a five year hiatus. Albus, in all of his infinite optimism, had challenged his staff to help the girl to graduate with her class, all of whom were now sixth years. Severus remembered rolling his eyes at this, for Flitwick had been characteristically jovial at the idea, and the eternal Gryffindor that was Minerva had nodded as though steeling herself for the challenge at hand. He supposed that she was determined to prove her worth to Dumbledore in any way possible. His lip curled slightly at this thought. Would she never give it a rest?

As if having a meeting over the Granger twit, or Beaver Teeth as he remembered her from her first days at Hogwarts (he had a habit of labeling students with their name and one particular eccentricy; in this case, a rather large one), had not been bad enough, Sybill Trelawney had come stumbling into the meeting reeking of alcohol and tripping over her scarves. She had squawked something about cards and roads while the rest of the staff had tried their hardest to hide smirks. Snape had been hoping that the dreadful woman would be fired anytime now but as yet his prayers had gone unanswered. Every time she offered to read his tea leaves, it was all that he could do to keep from choking her.

Now here he was forced to sit and watch Beaver Teeth as she stirred a cauldron full of the elementary potion he consistently assigned to students on their first day. She had done it perfectly, of course, the very first time she had taken his class five years ago but one could never be too cautious when it came to potions. As he watched her, he contemplated changing her moniker to "Cage Mouth" or perhaps "Metal Face" as she now had her over-large teeth enclosed in some type of metallic restraints. Did she not know that a simple spell would do to set them right? He was amazed that she could close her mouth with those things in the way. He supposed it was more of that insufferable pride that Gryffindor seemed to breed into its inhabitants, and turned away, wondering why he had thought on it so much in the first place. She would always be "Beaver Teeth" to him.

He sat back down behind his desk, turning his attention to the ever-growing stack of parchment that needed grading. He swore they were getting dumber in each successive year. He fought the urge to sigh and masked it with a deepening of his perpetual scowl. Merlin, were only the stupidest of wizards breeding?

At least he had managed to rid himself of Weasley, Longbottom, and Potter after the finish of OWLS. He had had a dreadful, recurring dream in which he had been forced to lower his standards and accept the Boy Who (unfortunately) Lived into his NEWT level class, but surprisingly Albus had not forced the brainless wonder and its noble sidekick (who always had to come along) upon him. Longbottom was simply atrocious as a rule, melting cauldrons, exploding potions, and cowering in fear every time he, Snape, came near. He had not been sorry to see the back of him.

"Professor Snape?" Gods, he had forgotten all about Beaver Teeth. She strode purposefully towards the desk, a slight flush of achievement coloring her cheeks. He felt an indignant surge rise in his chest. How could she know if she had brewed the potion correctly? He would put a stop to such dangerous overconfidence immediately.

"Yes, Ms. Granger?" He gave her a hard look and felt a beat of triumph when she blanched a little.

"I've finished my potion, Sir."

"Congratulations. Would you like a Lemon Drop?"
She looked momentarily surprised. "What? I, oh, yes Sir that would be very-"

Snape cut her off curtly. "Then I suggest you take these lessons with Professor Dumbledore. In my class, you can save all of the ridiculous fanfare and simply turn your potion in."

She looked crestfallen, all traces of her earlier glow erased from her features. He wanted to smirk but didn't. She set the vial upon his desk, carefully avoiding his eyes. For a long moment, she stood there, hovering over him like a pesky, buck toothed fly. At last, he could stand it no longer. "What is it now, Ms. Granger? I, unlike you, am a busy man, not blessed with copious amounts of free time."

"Sir, what should I work on now?" She looked up and met his gaze. So, he was wrong. He hadn't broken her yet.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice calm and smooth. "Your potion for the night is completed. I suggest you return to your dormitory and figure that out for yourself. It's not up to me to play nursemaid for you." He turned back to his stack of essays.

He could see her steeling herself to speak again. Merlin, how he hated Gryffindors! "Sir, that was the most elementary potion in Magical Drafts and Potions."

"You are in my most elementary class," he pointed out.

"Sir," she protested. He was pleased to hear a slight note of desperate panic creeping into her voice as she continued her unwelcome diatribe. "Professor Dumbledore said that I would be receiving extra lessons so that I might be able to graduate with my class. If you follow your normal lesson plan during our meetings, I will never even come close to catching up!"

He looked her square in the eye. "Too bad."

Her mouth opened in shock, and he looked away in mild disgust. Those teeth were truly wretched. "Sir, Professor Dumbledore felt that with once weekly tutoring in each of my subjects plus a significant amount of independent study and research, I would be able to graduate with my peers!"

"Then I suggest you study independently."

"I have been! I can't do practicals with potions on my own, however. Please, Sir, give me another potion!"

He glared at her, waiting for her to drop her eyes, but she did not. At last he sighed. "Very well, skip on to page 50. All of the other potions between that which you just completed and the basic Healing Draught are woefully similar in both content and preparation. You have one hour. Be warned, it will be painfully obvious if you have not been studying."

She looked as though Christmas had come early, and headed to the store cupboards immediately. He frowned at the parchment before him on which every other word was either misspelled or scratched out. He had simply wanted to see how willing she was to work for it. He had hoped she would fail his test and that he would be able to end their lessons quickly each Monday and she would trudge along through potions like the rest of the army of dunderheads that traipsed through his classroom daily.

The only sounds to be heard for the next hour were the scratching of his quill, which grew more and more vicious as he became further agitated with the quality of the work before him, and the clanking of Beaver Teeth's wand against the sides of her cauldron. At last, she bottled her latest brew and brought it forward to him, this time impassively.

"Thank you, Ms. Granger," he said. "Dismissed."

She nodded to him, picked up her bags and headed towards the door, scurrying out into the corridors just as they all did after having been forced to associate with him for any length of time. He leaned back and stretched now that he was alone, as he preferred.

He supposed that if her work was quality, he could concede to her skipping through more potions which were similar, as she had tonight, and perhaps even allowing her a week's worth of assignments to brew in her own common room. His brow furrowed slightly as he considered this. He wasn't certain that Potter, Weasley, and Longbottom were able to be in the same room with his ingredients without causing disaster. He would have to think further on that.

Pushing his essays aside, he tested both of the potions she had created. At least he had one student who could do things correctly.

He stood up and paced the room for a moment. Gods, he hated teaching. He was little more that a baby sitter for first and second years, a feared object of scorn and contempt for third through fifth years, and a stupid teacher whom his "esteemed" sixth and seventh years knew far more than. He hated breaking up quarrels in the Slytherin common room, finding miscreants out at all hours of the day and night, and slipping in frog spawn as he walked down the halls.

Some of his more moronic colleagues sang the praises of having the privilege of watching these foul children grow up before their very eyes, but Severus had never been able to understand the merit of this preoccupation. They stayed the same; they just got bigger, stupider, meaner and uglier.

Unwilling to finish his grading for the night, and knowing he would regret it come morning, he extinguished the lights in his potions rooms, and headed for his private chambers where a bottle of Firewhisky awaited. He told himself that he needed out. If you had to drink to make it through the day…

Ignoring this thought, he poured himself a more healthy measure than normal, sat back in his armchair, and sipped, wishing the castle would be destroyed along with all of its inhabitants, including himself.

The drink warming him, he allowed a wry smile that was more of a smirk. He was certain that hell would be none other than the halls of Hogwarts.