Inside the Mind of a Snape

Chapter 2: Unfortunate Neckties

I'm going to start off this chapter with an apology for those of you who may have been expecting something different. This is not a story in which I reconcile with some long-lost enigmatic woman whom I loved in the past, nor do I fall in love with that bushy-haired swot, Granger, or any other student for that matter. What do you think I am, some kind of paedophile? (Don't answer that. Twenty points.) And how dare you even suggest that I am homosexual!

In line with the story (if you want to call it that), the next day during double Potions I pondered which perverse dunderhead could have sent the letter. I implore you, is there a reason for multiplying the ridiculously long amount of time in this class? Will my torment never cease? Don't get me wrong, it's not Potions I dislike, it's children. Filthy, vile things.

And as I watch the self-obsessed Gryffindors file in, that nasty little voice in the back of my mind says, "Don't waste your time. You'll likely die teaching this class." God how I wish it would shut up.

Hmm...Finnigan. He's done many a stupid thing...come to think of it, perhaps too many stupid things. He seems prone to extended lapses in intelligence.

Weasley. He'd be the type to find this sickness entertaining, but unless I miss my guess, there's no way he'd be able to formulate anything resembling the bizarre suggestions in that letter. That is, unless he'd had help from Finnigan, whose mind appears to dwell on the twisted. (Insert shudder here.) In my class, no less. Hm...even with Finnigan's assistance, Weasley would never do anything without...

Potter. Of course...so obvious. Potter's just demented enough, and just pompous enough to think he can get away with something like this. But he reckoned without my wrath, which sends all within a five-kilometre radius flying. Oh, how he had miscalculated. I waited until well into the lesson, when the little cretins were all working, to make my move. And no, before you ask, not that kind of move.

"This is a new low, even for you, Potter," I said quietly. He jumped in surprise - chalk one up to Snape's stealth.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he answered, continuing to chop up his potion ingredients.

"You sick child, you know perfectly well what I'm talking about. Who else would be foolish enough to try something like this? I don't appreciate your sense of humour, Potter."

"At least I have one," he muttered back. The boy grows stupider by the minute.

"I'll trace this back to you, Potter. What price your snide comments then, having lost far too many points for Gryffindor to count?" He began chopping with ferocity - ah, just one more push to put him over the edge of that cliff, and I would sincerely relish watching Granger waving good-bye with a tear-stained handkerchief. "What will your fame earn you, when your own housemates no longer speak to you?"

BOOM! And with my luck, Potter would catch his robes on an outstretched branch before he even hit the ground.

"Longbottom! That's the third cauldron in two weeks! Your idiocy astounds me, boy. How difficult can it be to follow the directions? Look." I snatched the parchment of instructions from him, and pointed at the list. "It tells you what to put in, how much, when, and for how long! It can't be put in plainer terms!" Breathe in, breathe out. Homicides only lead to Azkaban - although at that point I thought I might be more suited to Azkaban. At least the madmen in there had higher I.Q. levels than this rabble.

"Class dimissed," I managed through my teeth, with a look that plainly said, 'Get out or I'll string you all up by your unfortunate mismatched neckties'. Longbottom would get his detention soon enough; Salazar Slytherin couldn't make me clean up this mess, and Longbottom was becoming quite skilled at the task. And Potter had managed to evade nuclear wrath...but not for long.