DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter. God, I hate these things.
It was a Wednesday afternoon; twenty minutes before sixteen O'clock. Severus Snape strode through the castle halls toward his dungeon classrooms. It was not so much that he needed to prepare. He wasn't any sort of dunderhead to not know his craft. He took offense at any sort of notion like that, such as when the werewolf used to ask him. No; his time in the dungeons was spent composing himself: perfecting his unfettered mien and preparing himself for the onslaught of stupidity he would have to endure. As much as it pained him, he did not discuss with himself why he even still taught; he brushed it aside and continued clearing his mind.
The room was silent for many minutes. Snape kept his fingers laced and quietly breathed through his nose. Then, as expected, the bushy-haired student Granger came bustling in. Snape gave her a cold stare, and she broke away from his gaze hurriedly and began taking everything out of her bookbag. Weasley and... Potter were not far behind.
The room gradually filled up and the seats became occupied. Snape feigned ignorance when Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco Malfoy came straggling in. He kept quiet. Now was not the time to make a fuss.
"I suppose you all consider yourselves worthy of my class," he drawled. He wasn't in the best of moods, as always, so he was taking his time. "Little do your small minds realise how your supreme ignorance will cost you." His eyes panned the faces of the Golden Trio as he said this. Draco and his little posse were still giggling about some joke or another. He again took no notice. Now was not the time.
"Granted, you all did wonderfully on the last exam." He was layering on the sarcasm now. "You got Poors and deserved Dreadfuls. You should all be superbly thankful of me. Most of you, that is." He did not look at the hopeful Granger, who got an Exceeds Expectations. He eyed his own house while giving the smallest of smirks.
"You will thank me later, in any case, for what I am about to introduce today." Weasley muttered something concerning thankfulness and his previous marks to Potter on his left. "With your habit of talking during my lectures, Mister Weasley, you might consider yourself thankful that you pass the fifth year." Potter and Weasley opened their mouths indignantly at this. It quite reminded Snape of the shrake specimen he kept in his office. He ignored this as well and instead turned to the front of the classroom.
"The Confusing and Befuddlement Draught:" He drew in a slow breath. "if used in the proper way, it can cause long-lasting mental inebriation to the drinker. Not that you need any more of that." He looked straight into Potter's eyes for a fraction of a second, then continued surveying the classroom with a smirk. "It is not a solution to be taken lightly. If you find yourself victim to it," He tilted his head ever so slightly. "woe betide you. Now, start."
Everybody promptly got out their supplies and began reading the instructions at the front of the room. Snape quietly kept his watch, even though it did not help his mood. Many days he felt himself becoming almost unbearably angry inside while watching the usual circus of follies that took place. He took level breaths through his nose as he paced inaudibly about the room.
He sensed his first mistake: Longbottom was heaping the sneezegrass into the cauldron, and the fire wasn't even on yet. The boy, as always, had a stupid, bewildered look about him, and was making no attempt to hide it. The professor closed his eyes and, cool and collected as ever, siphoned off the anger that was attempting to aggregate. There will be time. He satisfied himself with a small snort and a disparaging look over the hapless idiot. At this, the boy gulped and spilled half his bag onto the floor.
He glided over to the Slytherin section. He always liked to see Malfoy's work. He was certainly not the worst of them. More than that, he knew the boy as one working as cunningly as he could, against the odds; much like himself at that age. Malfoy had already worked through half the steps, and was now stewing it for the second time. The look of the potion did not lie. He was still talking, and taking time from that to comment about the Gryffindors. Yet he knew what he was doing. It always seemed that, through all the classes he taught, his house was alone in that characteristic. Snape gave a small smirk, which the boy returned, and passed on by.
At a leisurely made his way back to the front of the classroom, taking note of the multitudes of errors and making sure to sneer at the culprits. Granted, Granger was farther than the rest, however Snape did not like to see her succeed. She was not truly clever; she had no love for potions and would make a huge mess every time if there wasn't a book in front of her. Her potion was a deep green colour, and he could find nothing she did wrong in spite of it. He suppressed a small amount of frustration. He would find an outlet eventually. He feigned taking no notice of her, even if it meant leaving the other two alone, and moved on silently.
He saw an outlet. Longbottom's cauldron was overflowing with a chunky, gray... mixture, and began to slightly hiss. The boy had a look of worry and was furiously trying to keep the contents inside the cauldron. Snape knew what would happen, but he enjoyed it all the more to stay back.
BOOM.
The mixture exploded and the contents were sent flying into the faces of his classmates. Snape remembered correctly, that the mixture would be highly corrosive, and swept to his private stores for the antidote. It was a pity. He had desperately wanted to make him pay with humiliation, but he calmed himself. There will be time. He would accomplish it somehow.
Back at the scene, the children were shouting and moaning. The potion's contact with the skin was creating an odd smell, and more hissing sounds. The Gryffindors watched in horror as their skin was eaten away to reveal bubbling crimson flesh. Snape snorted. It was plainly obvious that, with the ingredients, it hurt much less than it looked. So he took his time.
"Make your way to the front of the room, Gryffindors, if you're that terribly disturbed by it." The Slytherins were laughing in the background. "That is, unless you would like to thank Mr. Longbottom for his excellent example of being that befuddled to start with." The idiot boy put his head in his hands, not realising that some of the mixture was still on them. The laughter in the back of the room got louder. An evil glimmer appeared in Snape's eyes and he smirked.
After most of the students were taken care of, it was time for the next class. "Those of you who are still ailing, Hospital Wing." Not that they need it, Snape thought derisively. He tolerated weakness in his classroom only a bit more than stupidity. "And two rolls of parchment from you, Longbottom, to show me that you actually deserve higher than a Troll in this class. On the actual usage of the potion, due tomorrow." The boy groaned and walked as fast as he could out of the classroom, carrying the cauldron with his still-burned hands. Snape watched him leave. He snorted and went to sit down at his desk again. He sat quietly, and measured his breaths. He reflected back on the lesson today. It was one of many that sorely dissatisfied him. There was no need for any facade of tolerance now, so he allowed himself to scowl freely now. There were no more classes for today, so he strode out.
Silently as a ghost, he made his way down to his quarters, where it was dark and damp as could be. He sat down at his desk and clenched his jaw. Stupidity. He now could interrogate himself on why he was still in that godforsaken position. But no words came to mind. None at all. He continued to sit there, still as a statue; lost in a thought he could not decipher.
It was not worth it to continue this career. He was far above being a simple professor. He could be doing great things with his life, and was instead babysitting a load of teenagers who would amount to veritably nothing. Sticking like glue to a headmaster who did not value him. He knew he was angry. He didn't know why, other than that. For what seemed like a long time, the Potions master sat there and brooded in silence.
Then, suddenly, imperceptibly, a thought floated up to his consciousness:
Would there be time?
He put his head down on the desk.
ER. Please review this thing. I don't know if I'll make this a one-shot or not. But feedback would help. Danke.