"Potter! Can't you do anything right? It's powdered Hasei root, not Asaifut!"
"Yes, Professor Snape," the boy replied quietly, his anger barely concealed behind gritted teeth.
It's not that I enjoy criticizing him in public, although occasionally his resemblance to his father becomes overwhelmingly difficult to pass up. It's rather more of a defense mechanism. I cannot allow...previous emotions...for the boy's mother to interfere with the professor-pupil relationship. And, after all, he is a Gryffindor. What am I supposed to do?
Sometimes I catch myself, in the quiet of a rare free moment, dreaming about those eyes on another boy's face. A boy with an aquiline nose, lank black hair, and no glasses. A boy to teach the subtle art of potion-making, the intricacies of wand-work, or just how to play Quidditch. A boy I could love. My boy.
I never quite know what to make of those daydreams. Should I be more amiable to Potter? Or should I spurn him all the more because he is not mine? At times I wish to kill him, he is so like his father. Other times, though, and it is near impossible to resist the urge to comfort him, hold him, treat him as my own. And so I criticize, scoff, ridicule. Exactly what I did to his mother. And I hate myself for it.
Sometimes, it's not even criticism. Occasionally I find myself giving advice, quite unintentionally of course, that is actually useful. I disguise it as criticism, though, for he must never know. The Occlumency lessons come to mind. I pushed him and pushed him hard, but he came out of it stronger and wiser. In Potions, also, I browbeat him constantly. Not, as it may appear, for the pleasure of it, but to teach him to cope in unpleasant situations. To teach him that life is not always fair.
It wasn't for me, but that was my fault. I don't want him making the same mistakes I did. If it takes making him hate me, so be it. I die every time his mother's eyes turn to me with that look of utter loathing, but I'm doing it for him. And, I suppose, for her.
"Yes, Professor Snape," the boy replied quietly, his anger barely concealed behind gritted teeth.
It's not that I enjoy criticizing him in public, although occasionally his resemblance to his father becomes overwhelmingly difficult to pass up. It's rather more of a defense mechanism. I cannot allow...previous emotions...for the boy's mother to interfere with the professor-pupil relationship. And, after all, he is a Gryffindor. What am I supposed to do?
Sometimes I catch myself, in the quiet of a rare free moment, dreaming about those eyes on another boy's face. A boy with an aquiline nose, lank black hair, and no glasses. A boy to teach the subtle art of potion-making, the intricacies of wand-work, or just how to play Quidditch. A boy I could love. My boy.
I never quite know what to make of those daydreams. Should I be more amiable to Potter? Or should I spurn him all the more because he is not mine? At times I wish to kill him, he is so like his father. Other times, though, and it is near impossible to resist the urge to comfort him, hold him, treat him as my own. And so I criticize, scoff, ridicule. Exactly what I did to his mother. And I hate myself for it.
Sometimes, it's not even criticism. Occasionally I find myself giving advice, quite unintentionally of course, that is actually useful. I disguise it as criticism, though, for he must never know. The Occlumency lessons come to mind. I pushed him and pushed him hard, but he came out of it stronger and wiser. In Potions, also, I browbeat him constantly. Not, as it may appear, for the pleasure of it, but to teach him to cope in unpleasant situations. To teach him that life is not always fair.
It wasn't for me, but that was my fault. I don't want him making the same mistakes I did. If it takes making him hate me, so be it. I die every time his mother's eyes turn to me with that look of utter loathing, but I'm doing it for him. And, I suppose, for her.