Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all related materials are the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Brothers. I am in no way affiliated with JKR, Bloomsbury or Warner Brothers, and use their materials without their permission or knowledge.
My Enemy's Son
My fear that this was not going to be a good year was alleviated even before my very first class, but I had to wait nearly a week to start my planned campaign.
When I do enter the classroom, it is with my trademark billowing of robes. It has taken a long time and many hours of practice to perfect it, so I am gratified to see impressed faces amongst the dozen or so children awaiting me; that was the point of such a dramatic personal style.
First year students, of course. Very few second year, and almost no third years, are impressed anymore, not after seeing it daily every time I pass by. It has crossed my mind to stop, but I have invested too much perfecting it to let it go lightly.
Still, it gives them something else to gossip about, besides what potions I must use to achieve my unique hair style.
Slamming the windows shut with a wave my wand, I launch into the usual spiel introducing them to what to expect in my class. It is an intimidating speech, designed to impress these young minds with the seriousness of the subject, and to force their miniscule concentration back from whatever tricks and foolishness the professors before me have filled their heads with. My every word is caught by each of them, despite my voice being no louder than a whisper. Another trick I learned, this one was from Minerva McGonagall when she was my Transfiguration teacher.
Once I have them hanging on my every word, I start to call the roll. I want to rush through these early names and get to the name that I know is waiting for me, but taking my time and reading each one slowly and carefully increases my anticipation, already agonisingly sweet since I recognised the son of my most hated enemy entering the hall for his sorting earlier this week.
How could I fail to recognise him? Aside from some minor differences that reflect his beautiful mother, he could be a clone. The raven black hair, the cruel face, and above all, the arrogant saunter, were all traits of the man who made my own time at Hogwarts a living nightmare.
But now my time has come. Now I can repay the thousand and one insults and abuses I endured. This year, and for the next five at least, I will be able to return the torments put upon me, even if it is only to be by proxy.
I wish it was him in that seat; that somehow a miracle would occur and allow me to strike directly at the father, but I will take my blessings as they come; the son will suffice.
The other professors may try to stop me, but I doubt it. They owe me too much from the war. Even the head of this illustrious institution is forced to acknowledge my role, though I myself have never sought fame or recognition.
I played my part, others did too, even my hated adversary; I don't care.
I have lost too much, given too often. My hope for a normal life was forever destroyed by the sacrifices I made; now it is time to be petty and get revenge on at least one of my enemies who managed to escape me.
Many will say I have become bitter. They simply do not recognise that I always was; undoubtedly caused by my abusive childhood.
It is almost time - his name is but two others away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a few smirks from children who were put into my house; they know what is coming and are eagerly awaiting the spectacle.
"Snape!" I snap loudly, startling those who had fallen into a stupor.
"Present, Mr. Potter," he answers. I can see his defiance - smell his arrogance.
"I do hope you are able to forget all of that nonsense your ignorant father is bound to have filled your head with," I snarl.
"The Dark arts are not many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is nothing like fighting a many-headed monster, which each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before."
"Your father is so completely wrong in his muddle headed beliefs that I fear you will not do well in this class."
I see him gulp in fear, and am tempted to smile.
"No, not well at all."
Oh yes, this is going to be a good year, even if it is for the wrong reasons.
Finite Incantatem
A/N – Did I get you?