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. :)
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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.
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