Rated R for swearing, violence, and suicide (and/or suicide-related issues). If this offends anyone, don't read. Thought I'd add that I own nadda. All characters, names and related indicia are property of J.K. Rowling. I am merely trying to share some of her goodness in a non-illegal way. :)

-------

Chapter 5: The First Slytherin Revenge

Professor Snape sat at his desk in his classroom, punishing a group of fifth years by scathingly grading their papers. Leafing through them all, he shook his head irritably and sighed, not up to this tedious task whatsoever. His liquor cabinet was calling to him from somewhere in the depths of his quarters, but he knew that getting pissed would have to wait. Silently he rewarded himself for not hexing any of his students yet...then remembered it was only September. He would have to exercise more control to keep that record at zero.

Sniggering, he recalled the class of fifth year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students he had had earlier the previous day: how they had cowered. How they had feared him. How he had assigned them two feet of parchment on the uses of Aconite and Dragon's Blood. How they were all failing it. Miserably.

He couldn't wait to hand them all back. Actually, he always dreaded the very thought of waking up in the morning to corridors filled with young brats, but whenever he was given the opportunity to punish any of them, then his day went a little better. After all, currently sitting in his high- backed chair looking thoroughly sinister, he was the mean one. The Professor that scared the living shit out of anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path. He always enjoyed walking the halls and seeing the students flatten themselves against walls and statues of amour just to give him a wide berth. There might have been room for two carriages to pass between the students and himself. Oh, how he savored it.

Picking up yet another unfortunate piece of parchment, he began to read. "Aconite is a plant and it goes by two names and they are called..." He felt the distant throbbing of an approaching migraine. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and tried not to gnash his teeth at the assignment before him. Who was this moron? He would have checked the name at the top of the essay but opening his eyes would probably hurt too much. Damn you all, he thought. May you all rot in hell.

There came a hesitant knock on the door. Snape sighed irritably, his concentration (what was left of it), broken. This was how it had always been done: the student would stand outside his door, trying to muster up the courage to knock. And Snape would wait a little...just maddeningly long enough to reduce the young idiot to a sniveling pile of insecurity by the time he said, "Enter."

And so Snape waited. He drew a large 'D' on (he checked the name), Zacharias Smith's pathetic excuse for an essay and composed himself, trying to recall to whom it was that he'd given detention to. His mind was a little foggy at the moment. He blamed the earlier three glasses of wine. After that little episode in Dumbledore's office, we just wanted to fall over and sleep. And never wake up. Glancing at the paper again, he felt this grade was justified. He didn't need to bother reading it, seeing as it wasn't even a foot long; let alone two.

"Enter."

The door opened with a creak and Harry Potter slowly trudged in. Ah yes, the little prat had another detention. Snape's eyes grew malicious. The boy was looking at his feet, hair wild, his robes hanging loosely around him; book bag slung precariously over one shoulder. Perfect. His sniveling pile of insecurity had arrived.

"Close the door you idiot boy."

Harry pushed the door shut a little too roughly. The resounding bang rang through the corridors. Damn this spawn of hell. Snape would have to remember to deduct more House Points later on in class, just to annoy him.

"I suggest you not try to reduce the dungeons to crumbled stone next time, Potter." He whispered coldly, glared daggers at the boy. "Look at me when I am speaking to you."

Harry lifted his head almost unwillingly. Snape was suddenly startled to see – were those tear marks? – an expression of utmost brokenness on the young wizard's face. Surely even he hadn't inflicted enough horror on him yet; the boy hadn't been in his room for more than a minute. Reason number two; maybe his skills were just getting that good.

"Something the matter, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "No, sir."

"Are you sure?" Snape's lip curled horribly and Harry was tempted to dig a trench right there and dive for cover. "Or has the position of The Golden Boy finally gotten to be too much for you all of a sudden? Did the Headmaster's speech get to you? After all, you weren't let off easily this time, were you, boy?"

Harry flinched as though struck, but remained silent; but his emerald green eyes flashed furiously. His jaw was set and his hands, which were trembling vaguely, were balled into fists. Just how Snape liked him. Provoked but unable to present an outburst. More House Points could be taken away very easily if Harry dared to even breathe the wrong way.

Snape sniggered. He stood from his chair and drew himself up to full height, staring down his hooked nose at the moronic excuse for a boy in front of him. Stupid git. How dare he look at him that way, with so much defiance in his eyes? He would make him pay.

"I want you to scrub cauldron's for me tonight, Potter," Snape said smugly. Harry's shoulder's slumped a little. Snape pointed to the back of the darkened classroom where stacks of them balanced against the very back wall. "A dirty cauldron can make potions poisonous," he went on. "And I seriously doubt whether my students would fancy a visit to Madame Pomphrey. I've been meaning to scour them for a while now, but seeing as you're conveniently here, - " Harry eyed him with disgust. – "You can end my misery and do it for me."

Harry counted. There was about thirty there. His head throbbed painfully and he resisted the urge to rub his hands over his scar. He wished someone would make Voldemort happy...anywhere...bring him ice cream or something...just end his temper. Harry shook himself, ridding his head of the image of The Dark Lord lounging on a bench in some sunny park, licking at an ice cream cone, surrounded by happily chattering Death Eaters.

Snape's eyes were on him, Harry could feel it. Looking up quickly, his potions master was studying him deeply as though trying to pry something out of him. A particularly nasty wrench of pain seared through his head and Harry hissed with pain and clapped his hands to his scar, unable to stop them. Snape was silent.

"Sorry," Harry said quietly, not sure of why he was apologizing. His arms dropped to his sides and he tried to control his ragged breathing.

Snape's onyx eyes were fixed into his. "Cleaning supplies are in the back cupboard," he said strangely, not tearing his gaze from the boy's face. "Report to my office when you're through."

He turned around with a swish of robes and disappeared through the door at the back of the room.

Around eleven, Harry stood and surveyed the work he'd just finished. Thirty gleaming cauldrons were stacked once more at the back of the dimly lit dungeon, their polished outsides glinting in the candlelight. His back ached terribly and he groaned in pain as his muscles screamed in protest when he stretched. His hands were red raw and bleeding from the cleaner and he threw the rag into a sink. He severely wanted to do his job half-assed, just to piss Snape off, then thought against it. Whatever Snape would do to him later would probably be much worse. Sighing and closing his eyes in severe tiredness, he knocked sharply on the office door.

"Enter."

Harry hated the way Snape said that.

The Professor sat on a black leather chair, a massive book on his lap and a bottle of Firewhisky on the table beside him. It was almost empty. Harry looked at the man, slightly surprised.

Snape noticed. "How else do you think I stay sane in this hellhole, teaching insignificantly useless children a beautiful and delicate art?" He stared back at Harry as though daring him to retaliate. His eyes looked oddly misty.

Harry waited.

"Have you finished?"

"Yes, sir."

"All of them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Clean as dandelion heads I hope for your sake, otherwise it'll be a week's worth of detentions for your impudence."

"Yes sir."

Snape gave Harry a look of uttermost loathing. "Sit down."

Harry was taken aback. "Sit? -- Where?"

"Anywhere, twit, or I'll hex you. I am not in the mood for stupid questions!"

Harry hurriedly sat himself on the floor as far away from his Professor as deemed possible. He had no bloody idea what Snape could want with him at this hour. His detention was served; he should be back in Gryffindor tower, complaining to Ron and Hermione...

Snape cleared his throat, wearing an expression that might have suggested that he'd prefer Harry to sit anywhere but on his floor. "Your scar."

The boy's eyes grew wide and immediately clouded with suspicion. "What about my scar?"

"It hurt, did it not? Right before I assigned you your task? Or do you just like grabbing at your forehead from time to time? Does that make you feel special?"

Harry sighed. "Yes, it hurt. Sir."

Snape sniffed. "Do you want to tell me about it?" Dear lord, what am I saying?

Harry almost laughed. Imagined himself and Snape talking merrily about Voldemort over tea. "I couldn't see anything. I just...felt his mood."

Snape nodded. Harry nodded back, trying not to drift off.

"And that's all?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Get out."

Harry got out. In record time. Snape shook his head and cursed Albus Dumbledore. He hated the way that that sodding wizard automatically assumed that he would take on any job or duty that he asked him to. No consideration.

Draining the last of his Firewhisky, the book slipped from his thin, pale fingers and he slept, where he dreamed he was being chased around Hogwarts by Professor McGonagall who was wearing a t-shirt with Harry's face on it.

---------