Warning: If you haven't figured out this is a Mary Sue fic then you deserve your torment.
Disclaimer: JKR. Not mine. Got it?
Chapter Nine: The Snape Before Christmas
The evening before our last day of term, I found myself once again on my hands and knees scrubbing another foul smelling potion out of the many Potions Class cauldrons. Again, I couldn't keep my big mouth shut when it came to Malfoy. We had spent the better part of the last month glaring at each other across the room and trying to hex each other in the halls when no one was looking. Finally, today during double Potions he flicked some kind of root across the room and into my cauldron, completely destroying a perfectly good batch of Engorging draught. I knew Snape watched him do it and said nothing—he had a few things to say when I started swearing and dumped the steaming mess over Malfoy's oily little head. I cursed to myself thinking how I'd gone almost 3 months without getting a detention.
So there I was on Thursday night scrubbing away while Snape poured over some documents on his desk. I had just started on one of the larger cauldrons (I was actually completely inside it—on it's side, of course, not over a flame or anything) when for no reason I started humming to myself. I started very softly humming "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" so quietly I was sure Snape couldn't hear me. Even up to my waist in sticky cauldrons and putrid scourifying liquid I had the Christmas sprit. It was like Snape was Scrooge and I was the poor guy who worked for him and was treated like crap.
"Miss Bradshaw, is that really necessary?" Snape droned, not looking up from his papers.
"Sorry, sir," I said, "Just getting into the spirit a little."
We went on in silence for a few more minutes when I started humming again without realizing it.
"Bradshaw!"
"Sorry again, professor," I sighed, "It's just sort of habit for me to…you know, hum while I work."
"I'm amazed you have the capacity to multitask like that," Snape muttered.
"Well, I have mastered the art of walking and breathing at the same time," I replied sarcastically. I winced, You can't go five minutes without some kind of crack, can you? But Snape didn't dock points—instead, he looked down at me from his desk with something of a half-smirk.
"Tell me, Bradshaw, why you find it so difficult to control that mouth of yours? You have enough wit about you—why not put it to better use in your schoolwork rather than your cynical banter?"
I blinked. Did he just compliment me? "I suppose for the same reason you don't give any praise to your students. It's easier to be witty and cynical than dull and charming." I knew it didn't sound as right out loud than it did in my head, but Snape still didn't attack me. He was looking at me with something of curiosity now. I bent my head down again, intent on scrubbing—his looks were starting to weird me out. I could hear him go back to scribbling something on parchment and thought about what he said. Why was I so bent on being sarcastic all the time—and why did he never give praise. I scrubbed for a few more minutes to work up my courage before I opened my mouth again.
"Professor, why don't you praise your students?" I asked. I leaned back on my haunches and looked at him.
Snape looked up again, this time with no smirk. "Because praise builds confidence, Miss Bradshaw, and too much would make one feel they have a through knowledge of the subject. By using harsh criticism—which is often well deserved—I can prepare you not only for the harsh realities of the world, but fuel the desire to constantly push yourself to achieving perfection."
I sat thinking on his words for a minute before I responded, "Just because you give someone a compliment instead of a critique doesn't mean they're going to have an ego problem. Did you ever think, sir, that maybe we could be motivated by positive reinforcement rather than being called morons on a daily basis?"
He folded his long fingers and continued to stare down at me. For some reason right then the man didn't intimidate me. Maybe I was starting to find my nerve around him—or maybe it was the fumes from the cleaning solutions.
"Are you saying you are not satisfied with my observations?" Snape said, coolly.
"Not at all, sir," I said, shifting my weight, "Its just…take Neville for example. Did you ever think that maybe if you told him once that he was making progress or his stirring techniques were improving that he might actually go an entire class without blowing something up?"
Snape's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but actually doing it was impossible, "That might work, save for the fact that Longbottom has never made progress in this class and his stirring techniques are atrocious. I see no point in lying to a student, regardless of their progress or lack there of. Mediocrity is never appreciated in the real world and nor will it ever be in my classroom."
"But we aren't in the real world, Professor. Not yet. And wouldn't it be better to send a group of promising young wizards who know they lack in some skills, but have the ability to improve themselves than a bunch of bitter, cowering wizards who think they stink at everything and can't do anything about it?" I asked.
Again, Snape twitched. I started to become aware of the fact that I felt very cold. I looked down and remembered that I was standing in a pool of disinfectant in the middle of a very drafty dungeon. I wanted to finish this conversation with Snape, even if it did end with me losing all of our House points.
"And what skills do you feel you lack, Miss Bradshaw? Besides the ability to contain your violence and sarcasm." Snape asked. He sat back in his chair, watching me intently.
"Well," I began, "Besides your own points…I don't take some classes as seriously as I should. I know I can do them—I just choose not to apply myself all the way. I usually act before I think—hence, why I'm here on hands and knees at nearly midnight scrubbing again," I smirked. I half expected Snape to blast the look off my face with his wand.
He cocked an eyebrow, "This from your own mouth, Miss Bradshaw? I thought you Americans tended to hide your flaws rather than flaunt them like you do."
I shrugged and started scrubbing again, "Well, I guess that makes me unique, doesn't it, Professor?"
The only sound heard for a few minutes was the frantic scrubbing from my brush. I wasn't sure what was going on right then—but I was having an actual conversation with Snape and it didn't involve me mouthing off at him or focusing on his head bursting into flames (which I've always wondered if I could really do given enough rage.) For once, Snape was acting like a human being—talk about a Christmas miracle.
"You were rather adept at Potions at your old school, were you not?" Snape asked me.
I stopped again and rolled up my sleeves, "Well, I guess so," I looked up and saw he was looking down on me with that superiority look again. I bristled, "Yes. Yes I was, sir. I really liked Potions back home."
Snape began shuffling through his papers and then stood up. He walked over to the cauldron I'd been laboring over for nearly 45-minutes now. I thought he was inspecting my handiwork when he said, "Your enthusiasm for the subject is apparent in your work."
My mouth fell open. Snape—the man I thought embodied all that was evil in the world—just told me I was doing well in his class. He never told a Gryffindor—hell, a Slytherin, for that matter—that their work was more than mediocre. I quickly snapped my jaw shut before he had the chance to make some sort of comment about me looking like a fish. I felt something swell up inside me and it took a moment before I could figure out what it was. Pride. Here was a man who I'd come to look down on in disgust and now this sliver of approval from him had me reeling. Why the hell did I care what he thought? I knew my potions were up to snuff—in fact, some of them were N.E.W.T level. But to actually hear it from one of the foremost potions masters in the world—even if it was Snape—meant everything right then.
"That is enough for tonight, Miss Bradshaw," Snape said. With a quick flick of his wand the mess I'd been wading in had vanished and the cauldrons were stacked neatly in the corner. As Snape began gliding out of the classroom a thought popped into my head.
"Professor," I said. He turned, sending his dark robes billowing around him. This would probably come out a lot worse than I intended it too, but hey, "So's yours" I smirked.
The right side of his lip curled up in a half-smile. He nodded, turned, and left the classroom.
I stood there for a moment, too confused to know what had just happened. Snape complimented me…I went 5 whole minutes without thinking the name "git" in his presence…we didn't end up shouting at each other. I started making my way to the Gryffindor tower. Snape could be a smarmy bastard, but when it came right down to it he knew what he was doing. Every potion was right on and every critique was grounded. Yeah, he had a terrible way of going about corrections, but he had a point—the real world wasn't going to cut us any slack when we got out there. It was going to verbally abuse us, spit on our work, and demand for excellence. I barely noticed when I got to the Gryffindor common room. I only noticed I'd gotten there when I heard light snoring coming from the fireplace.
Harry had tried to wait up for me. There was a book lying at his feet that had slid off earlier. I smiled as I picked up the book and set it back on the table beside him. I shook Harry's shoulder—he was hard to rouse.
"Hey, Reg," he yawned, "How was the dungeon?"
"Alright," I said, "You know, I don't think Snape is a big a git as I first thought."
"Mmmm…" Harry murmured. He'd fallen back asleep in the chair.
I shook my head and made my way up to my room. Christmas miracle or not—I knew that it couldn't last forever. But it was enough for now…