“The Properties of Feverfew in Potions Mak…”
Severus closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. Why did the Wizarding world have to be so intractable in its whimsy? Bertie Bott’s Beans promised every flavour, but the wise eater knew never to expect chocolate, coffee, rum, or even a borderline-civilized anise; no, black would be flavoured as boot polish, or asphalt, or the Dark Lord’s bathrobe, and brown of any shade probably didn’t bear thinking about, never mind consuming. And Colour-Change Ink… It could be counted on for fuchsia, ultramarine, chartreuse, puce, and white, possibly in the space of a single essay. Somehow, though, it never managed black, or navy, or maroon, or any other colour dark enough to read comfortably in a dungeon.
The author’s name had tried to hide itself in taupe on the tan parchment, but there was no need to look. These were fifth-year essays, and only one fifth year had this particular annoying habit. Only one fifth year was hard-headed enough to persist this way in a childish enthusiasm. Only one was this blithely inconsiderate of the idea that someone might actually try to read his essay. Did Harry Potter’s other professors work in better light? Assign fewer papers? Have some little trick for turning essays readable that they had not bothered to share with Severus Snape?
Did they, in fact, grade essays at all?
He was quite certain the Granger girl looked over Potter’s essays, and Ron Weasley’s as well. Granger had the same tendency as many otherwise-intelligent people to reverse ‘its’ and ‘it’s’ consistently; the boys did it only on homework. Severus had years of practise in spotting these little oddities.
He also had years of practise in casually passing over the unreadable with a quickly-scrawled D, so why did he know this about bloody Potter’s bloody writing style?
The boy’s mother would have had the matter sorted out in an instant, if she had allowed such foolishness in the first place. She would probably have seen to it that the boy had some respect for the art of Potions-making as well. For the thousandth time, Severus wished he could send the letter.
Dear Mrs. Potter,
Please procure for your son one jar of black ink, and insist that he use it on Potions essays.
Respectfully,
Professor Snape
What if he did write that letter, slashing his own dark response over Potter’s turquoise and buttercup yellow? What would the boy conclude? What would the strutting, gormless Harry Potter think of a good honest reply to his drivel?
Dear Lily,
Sadly, your son displays your sharpness of tongue, but not your sharpness of intellect, at least not in our subject. Help him along a bit, will you, and explain to him about the respect due his professor?
With affection,
Severus
Even the boy’s handwriting resembled the father’s. It simply wasn’t fair “ to anyone, including the boy himself. Harry had Lily’s eyes, hidden behind James Potter’s spectacles. Possibly Lily’s cheekiness, hidden behind James Potter’s judgemental disregard.
Dear Lily,
How could you leave me like this, with nothing but memories and your thoughtless son?
Yours always,
Severus
The one thing, the absolutely only thing, worse to see in those green eyes than hatred would be pity. D, Severus slashed onto the parchment with enough force to mar it and bend the tip of his quill. Throwing aside the offending essay prevented him from adding anything foolishly honest beyond that single letter. He paced the office floor until calm enough “ tired enough “ to face the next garbage on feverfew.
Handing back the essays a few days later, Severus paused long enough to say, “See me after class, Potter.” Weasley cast his friend a furtive sympathetic look.
As the other students handed in samples and left the room, Potter stood beside Severus’ desk and fidgeted. Severus ignored him until the room was empty and the corridor quiet. Was it even worth making an effort? He’d called the boy aside; he had to say something.
“Potter,” Severus began, though he could barely speak the name and keep his temper, “do you and your friends read each other’s essays?” He looked up at the end of the sentence to catch the boy looking puzzled. The question earned a shrug. A shrug probably meant that Granger read the boys’ and they in turn read nothing including their own words. “Do you compare your marks to those of your friends?”
Potter resented his marks, it appeared. “No,” he grumbled. Severus met his eyes and counted sharp-edged heartbeats. At sixty-seven the blasted boy added, “Sir.”
“Did it never occur to you that you might learn something by doing so?”
It was not the easiest question to answer, and the sullen boy didn’t try. Severus could solve a great deal of tension with one simple sentence, but then the boy would reveal the secret of a passing Potions grade to all and sundry. Chartreuse ink, pink ink, silver ink, would depart the heap of essays. The sorting tool that served well to separate bearable from dross would vanish, and grading time would double from ridiculous to impossible. And confound it, the children learned something when they had to look things up and write them down. As it was, Potter already owed him for an hour’s pacing.
“Detention, Potter. Tuesday evening, seven o’clock. Pickled toads sink to the bottom of the barrel when they are ready for use. Fetching them out with magic reduces their effectiveness. You will be removing the toads from the pickling barrel by hand, and the useful organs from the toads in similar manner.” It was a good project to shift onto someone else: easy, messy, and unpleasant. Perhaps it would inspire thought, as nothing else had to date. If the boy did manage to figure out the problem on his own, he’d be less likely to noise the solution about, and more likely to change his behaviour.
Potter only stood there hating him.
“You may go.”
Severus stayed at his desk, sorting clearly dreadful potions from possibly-passable ones. Potter had, as always, muffed the one step that had no room at all for error, almost as though he failed deliberately. If the habit was deliberate, however, the boy was a bloody genius. A devious, potions-befouling genius, but brilliant all the same. This option seemed deeply unlikely. Lily would have been able to do such a thing if she wished, and in fact had at one point, but Harry simply didn’t have the talent.
Turning the flask of useless goo in his fingers, Severus paused to stare at the cold stone wall of the classroom for a long moment, thinking useless thoughts.
Dear Lily,
Why did your son have to turn out to be exactly as stubborn and contrary as I am?
Much love,
S
Potter by Vindictus Viridian
Chapter Notes: This is a gift for my fellow mods, who all have days like this occasionally.