The next day being Monday, was of course my foulest of days. Nothing could even think of lifting my spirits past dismal, and I would snap at anything that moved.

The morning began, of course, with my Gryfindor and Slytherin seventh years. I groaned as I looked at my schedule; I was teaching until 1:30, then I would have to fly to the library to do research for a certain potion. I smacked my books down on the table. Some days I truly, truly, truly detested the job of teaching other people's brats.

And there was Granger. Bloody chit left her scent on my robes, her flavor in my mouth, and long, jagged scratches on my neck. I hesitated to put a cosmetic charm on them, for I wanted a reminder that I wasn't dreaming. I felt the tender curls of her hair become so willingly pliable in my fingers. I shook my head, this was no time to be having erotic day dreams. After all, teaching a group of Gryindors with an erection is not a pleasant early morning start.

I stomped, rather than strode into the classroom, and there was a chilly stillness in the air. As I approached my desk slowly, I looked at each and every one of them. Something was amiss, there was too little activity. Every single pair of eyes stared at me with such genuine innocence, it looked forced.

You, up here, I demanded instantly, seeing two troublemakers that reminded me of Potter and Weasley were sitting together. The boy looked at me and began to form the words of protest, but his mate shoved him out of his seat, nodding solemly. You friend cannot understand English, Peter?, I sneered, eight points from Gryindor.

The boy gave me a look of pure hate before settling into seat once again. The other boy, ploddingly making his way to the front, dropped his books down with deliberated slowness. Hurry up, fool. I'm not having this class wait upon your idiocy, I snapped. The boy's books tumbled from his grasp, and from the horror on his face, I could tell it was completely unplanned.

A wicked smile lit my face asI saw that one of his book fell open and a small parcel fell out. I swiftly retrieved it, before the boy could even bend down, and unwrapped it climactically in front of the class. There was a small cluster of pungent smelling green herbs. I looked curiously at it, then I realised what it was. I rolled it back up.

Forty points, Bartlet. After class, I said calmly, enjoying the fading amusment of the others. Only the Slyherins sat upright, smiling smugly at the others. Woe betide anyone who makes even the slightest rustle, I said menacingly, advancing upon a particularily frightened girl. She shrieked and ducked under the table. I laughed, Frightened, Ms. Clarkson? Perhaps less so if you would be so kind as to teach the class. Now, now, don't be shy. I insist. Just go up and follow the instructions on the board. After all, seven years should certainly be sufficient enough to brew a simple Senencus Potion.

She weakly made her way up to the desk, her head hanging. She slowly began to chop the roots, the blade slipping dangerously from her persperation. She glanced at the board far too many times, hindering her process even more so. Can you not even slice Ditramtirus Root, Ms. Clarkson? I would have thought muggle parents would have invested you in a class about the art of being a housewife, I said sharply. At this, the knife slipped and there was a sudden pooling of blood around one of her fingers. I wrinkled my nose.

Go to Pomfrey, now, I ordered, and she ran, sobbing and bleeding, clutching her injured finger in her robes. I slammed the door after her, surprised even at my own anger.

That is why, you fools, you must learn to position the tools properly, and be able to read instructions when made available, I said quietly. The only sounds were the harsh friction between dulled quill tips and rough parchment. I required no potions to be made that day, my countenance only further spoiled by the stupid girl cuttting herself. Finally, the bell rang, and everyone sat taut, afraid of leaving before I had finished doling punishments out. I nodded, and the group leapt up collectively, and scrambled towards the door.

All, except, for Bartlet. He sat there, his handsome, young face quivering noticeably in the hazy light. I tapped the package which I had lain out in front of him. He gulped.

Tell me, what are the more scientific names of this...primitive herb which you have so graciously been sharing with your friends?, I asked, pushing it towards him. He shook his head, his eyes watering.

Cannabis, Mr. Bartlet? Marijuana? Hashish?, I continued, watching his face contort in fear, no? Not familiar? Perhaps they should be if you insist upon bringing such a substance within these walls. He nodded.

But, I know that smoking this...disgustingly organic substance would be quite difficult to conceal from both your classmates, as well as the numerous ghosts and certain Mrs. Norris' that wander the halls, no? Well, then explain to me what you planned to do with it, I said, slapping my palm on the desk, making him jump back and collide with other wood behind him. He winced, and muttered something inaudbile.

Do speak up, Bartlet. It would be a shame for the stuff to wreak havoc on your already considerably weak brain, I said in my most velveltly dangerous voice. I wanted to brew a potion with it, he said again, turning red. His fear was slowly being distilled into anger, and he was hotblooded by the looks of it. A potion?, I asked curiously, an eyebrow patently raised. He nodded.

What kind of potion would this be?.

An...er...a..dream potion, he said, shameful. Right. So, I've caught you redhanded with quite a lot of cannabis, enough to get you expelled, and now you wanted to break into my stores and steal more ingredients to make a potion you've obviously lied about?, I snarled, nearly shredding the package between my fingers. I'm sorry professor, he muttered, almost as angry as I was.

Go to Dumbledore. I've alerted Minerva. I expect to see your bags packed by tonight, I said calmly, and pointed towards the door. He gave me such an imploring glance, I might have been tempted to take back what I had said, but I was still furious about the fact he was planning to break into my stores.

He stopped before he exited, but turned around slowly, as if he had forgotten something. You know what, Snape?, he asked, and I rolled my eyes, expecting to be bomboarded by a maudlin explication of why everyone hated me. It had happened before. You don't deserve Granger, he finished triumphantly, his eyes gleaming in an utterly un-Gryfindor manner. I must have been quite startled, for it showed. He laughed and stood there, his handsome face glowing sinsisterly beneath the light. If Draco Malfoy had brown hair, he would have looked like this boy.

Out of my dungeons. If you're quick, perhaps I won't disclose to your father about your own indiscretions with fourth years, I said, smoothly as silk.

But even the most reslilient silk can be unfurled by a cruel twist of blade.














A/N: Snape getting progressively nastier, eh? I thought it would be funny to have someone in Hogwarts sneak pot in, just to see what would happen. And, besides, in a school with few adults and many horny teenagers, there's bound to be more than a little sex going on, right? r/r. You guys haven't been!