Potions' Master

Scores of pain to make him wince

Searing blades shred herbs to mince

Using weakness to survive

Twisting truth my lies contrive;

I am the Half Blood Prince.

Snape

A glance from me will make him wither

His greasy hair will up and slither

From his gauntlet face—

A bloody disgrace.

To hit this slug, I would not dither!

Guess who!

The gent with ladies on his arm

Does his best to amp up the charm

For when the date starts ending

He'll want kisses for sending

Them home in the early morn!