I remember the days when I dreaded Potions class. I think I would have
done anything to get out of it, but when I did manage to fake projectile
vomiting or a gushing bloody nose, thanks to the Weasley brothers of course,
I would always fall more deeply into the hole that is homework. I can
recall on many occasions being scolded for my father for getting such a poor
grade on an exam because I had been "sick" when we covered the Toad Tongue
Draught or the Olfaction Potion. Who needs to know how to make such
useless potions anyway? Apparently Professor Snape did, and I loathed
him for that. I hated Snape so much that I shook with anger whenever
I thought of him. Before I had come to Hogwarts I always had excellent
marks in my muggle Primary School. My muggle teachers always said that
I was "gifted". Back then I never would have thought that I would be
receiving a "Dreadful" on anything I did in school. I could take that,
it made me furious, sure, but at least a Dreadful isn't taking things too
personal. It was when Professor Snape decided to write a little note
on one of my assignments that pushed me over the edge. I'll admit it,
I snapped. On any other occasion I would have never had the guts to
storm into the middle of a Potions class, with Slytherins none the less!
But this was different. I had worked for hours and hours on my report
about Wolfsbane. It was exactly the right length and had in it exactly
everything that Professor Snape asked for. It was on time and in order,
but when I got it back I was shocked to see a big red zero at the top, and
a hastily scribbled note below. It read:
"Meta Cockerham is a disgrace to the wizarding world and this report proves it. She receives a zero for this positively pathetic excuse for a paper."
I stormed into the classroom and walked right up to Professor Snape, who was inspecting a Slytherin girl's cauldron.
"THIS IS RUBBISH!" The class all fell silent and turned to look at me. I was too angry to care. "This grade is rubbish, and YOU ARE RUBBISH!"
Professor Snape looked up from the cauldron. His lip curled slightly but he didn't say a word.
"I demand that you give me the grade I deserve. Now take it back and re-grade it!" I shoved the paper in his face. He took it in his white hands but didn't look at it.
"Fifty points from Ravenclaw," he snarled, "and a weeks detention. THAT is what you deserve. Oh, and I'll be having a chat with the Headmaster and your parents about this littleā¦tantrum." I opened my mouth to reply but before I could say a word he hissed, "Now get out of my classroom. You are disrupting these REAL pupils."
As I stormed out, my fists clenched, I saw out of the corner of my eye, my beautiful paper being ripped to shreds.
The next day was even worse. At breakfast I received a Howler from my father for getting a poor grade and getting in trouble for my outburst. Even if not everyone knew about my outburst before, they certainly could hear my father's voice yelling for ten whole minutes. I was so flustered over the Howler that in Transfiguration I accidentally beheaded my rooster, which I was supposed to be turning into an alarm clock. Professor McGonnagall spent nearly half the class trying to get the headless chicken under control. I wanted to die already, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. The worst part of my day, however, was detention. I arrived in Snape's dungeon promptly at 8 p.m., only to be told that I was two minutes late and therefore would have to stay two extra hours to make up for it.
"But that will be past midnight! Won't you have to sleep Professor?"
"I don't sleep." He said, and glared at me.
The actual punishment wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. My job that day was to pull the wings off of dead Sharp-Winged Bats. The name says it all, by 9 o' clock my hands were scratched and bleeding from the spikes that stuck out of the bats' wings. All the while Snape lurked around, coming out of his office to see what mistakes I had made.
"You are getting lazy. You haven't gotten the shoulder joint in half of these. You'll have to de-wing twenty more to make up for that."
"You know," I whispered to the pile of dead bats, "I used to feel sorry for you guys because you are dead, but now I'm jealous. I'd rather have someone pulling off all of my limbs than be near him."
The next night wasn't a barrel of laughs either. I had to stay until nearly two-thirty in the morning because I had not been labeling the jars of ingredients properly. "The label should be exactly in the middle! Have you been measuring these at all? Start over!"
"Like you even care how neat your ingredient jars are. Look at your hair." I muttered when he stormed back into his office and slammed the door.
By Wednesday I was so physically and emotionally exhausted that I was constantly on the verge of tears. Professor Snape had me cataloging and organizing all of his books that night. It was much better than pulling wings off of bats, and by ten I had managed to not get severely scolded. I was up to the P books when I found an untitled book. It was small and bound in red dragon hide. I opened it and the name embossed on the inside cover read Berthe H. Kelty.
"A diary," I whispered to myself. It turned it over and over in my hands, afraid to read any of what was written. Why did Snape have some woman's diary? I shoved it in the pocket of my robes when I heard his footsteps and tried to look busy as he yelled at me for mixing around "Potions for the Extraordinary Wizard" and "Potions, Potions: A History and Chronicle of Their Importance".
"Can't you even alphabetize?" He shouted.
"Meta Cockerham is a disgrace to the wizarding world and this report proves it. She receives a zero for this positively pathetic excuse for a paper."
I stormed into the classroom and walked right up to Professor Snape, who was inspecting a Slytherin girl's cauldron.
"THIS IS RUBBISH!" The class all fell silent and turned to look at me. I was too angry to care. "This grade is rubbish, and YOU ARE RUBBISH!"
Professor Snape looked up from the cauldron. His lip curled slightly but he didn't say a word.
"I demand that you give me the grade I deserve. Now take it back and re-grade it!" I shoved the paper in his face. He took it in his white hands but didn't look at it.
"Fifty points from Ravenclaw," he snarled, "and a weeks detention. THAT is what you deserve. Oh, and I'll be having a chat with the Headmaster and your parents about this littleā¦tantrum." I opened my mouth to reply but before I could say a word he hissed, "Now get out of my classroom. You are disrupting these REAL pupils."
As I stormed out, my fists clenched, I saw out of the corner of my eye, my beautiful paper being ripped to shreds.
The next day was even worse. At breakfast I received a Howler from my father for getting a poor grade and getting in trouble for my outburst. Even if not everyone knew about my outburst before, they certainly could hear my father's voice yelling for ten whole minutes. I was so flustered over the Howler that in Transfiguration I accidentally beheaded my rooster, which I was supposed to be turning into an alarm clock. Professor McGonnagall spent nearly half the class trying to get the headless chicken under control. I wanted to die already, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. The worst part of my day, however, was detention. I arrived in Snape's dungeon promptly at 8 p.m., only to be told that I was two minutes late and therefore would have to stay two extra hours to make up for it.
"But that will be past midnight! Won't you have to sleep Professor?"
"I don't sleep." He said, and glared at me.
The actual punishment wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. My job that day was to pull the wings off of dead Sharp-Winged Bats. The name says it all, by 9 o' clock my hands were scratched and bleeding from the spikes that stuck out of the bats' wings. All the while Snape lurked around, coming out of his office to see what mistakes I had made.
"You are getting lazy. You haven't gotten the shoulder joint in half of these. You'll have to de-wing twenty more to make up for that."
"You know," I whispered to the pile of dead bats, "I used to feel sorry for you guys because you are dead, but now I'm jealous. I'd rather have someone pulling off all of my limbs than be near him."
The next night wasn't a barrel of laughs either. I had to stay until nearly two-thirty in the morning because I had not been labeling the jars of ingredients properly. "The label should be exactly in the middle! Have you been measuring these at all? Start over!"
"Like you even care how neat your ingredient jars are. Look at your hair." I muttered when he stormed back into his office and slammed the door.
By Wednesday I was so physically and emotionally exhausted that I was constantly on the verge of tears. Professor Snape had me cataloging and organizing all of his books that night. It was much better than pulling wings off of bats, and by ten I had managed to not get severely scolded. I was up to the P books when I found an untitled book. It was small and bound in red dragon hide. I opened it and the name embossed on the inside cover read Berthe H. Kelty.
"A diary," I whispered to myself. It turned it over and over in my hands, afraid to read any of what was written. Why did Snape have some woman's diary? I shoved it in the pocket of my robes when I heard his footsteps and tried to look busy as he yelled at me for mixing around "Potions for the Extraordinary Wizard" and "Potions, Potions: A History and Chronicle of Their Importance".
"Can't you even alphabetize?" He shouted.
