Doxycide
It’s the fourth out of five lessons that day, and Severus is tentatively thinking that perhaps McGonnagall was not completely barmy, and that everyone might get through the day unscathed.
What was that saying about not counting your chickens?
The third years look tiny, but then all of the students appear surprisingly small to him, apart from the sixth and seventh years. Funny how a few years away from the school had made a surprising amount of difference to his maturity. Or perhaps he was just prematurely aged already from the stresses of being a double agent during the war.
He writes his recipe and instructions for Doxycide on the board, and tells the class to get started. Although he had been loath to give up any of his secret recipe improvements, he simply could not bring himself to teach the potions the way the recipes were written in the text books, I mean who had written that shit? And who had fucking approved it for use in a school? He knew the answer to the second question – Slughorn.
None of the students seemed to be where they should be thus far, so old Sluggy’s teaching must have gone even further downhill since his own graduation. Thus Severus is not altogether surprised that this group is struggling so much with a simple Doxycide.
The lesson had started off well enough, the wide eyed little brats seeming to have heard that the new Potions Master was not to be trifled with from the older students he had taken this morning. But halfway through, they are dithering, chatting, and no where near the point they should be at by this time. At this rate the class was going to run over, and there would be no time for them to clean up after themselves – an important part of the lesson in his view. Not to mention the fact that he was about ready to kill for a cup of coffee.
He strides up and down the aisles, prompting the students to stop slacking, and threatening to take points among other less pleasant incentives.
Soon the students are working away satisfactorily, and there is a busy hum of chopping and grinding, a blur of elbows stirring vigorously, and joyously no chattering. Their chubby little faces flushed from exertion, sweating and hair in a mess. People used to mock him for his unkempt appearance, but they would have looked the same if they had put the proper effort into their work.
He smells it before he sees it. The unmistakable smoky tang of burnt Streeler shells. Followed by a loud farting noise which makes several of the students burst into giggles. Severus is not amused however. That sound in this particular potion means imminent disaster.
His eyes lock onto the source to see a Gryffindor boy looking far too pleased with himself for someone who’s cauldron is about to explode in his face.
‘Mr Tyler!’ Snape roars, using a probably non regulation curse to shove the boy away from his work bench, then following up immediately with a shielding charm around the cauldron, just a fraction of a second before the mixture blasts upwards, splattering thick, hot, green slime all over the inside of the magical barrier.
‘What the hell is wrong with you? What did you do?’ Snape roars, before answering his own question, because from the look of the ruined potion he can tell exactly what the idiot had done. ‘Third years should know better than to add dried ingredients before wet. Where is your basic potions theory?! Do you know what that concoction would have done to your face if I had not cast that barrier spell in time?’
‘Excuse me sir…’ A small voice tries to interject, but Severus ignores it; that had been too close and his heart is racing as fast as it ever had done at any moment during the war.
‘Heated Bundimun sticks like glue to anything, and combined with Dragons liver it would have melted your skin clean off the bone. And there is no quick way to remove it. The pain would be excruciating, not to mention the process of re-growing the skin, which takes weeks, and often leaves the patient with life long scars.’
The edge of his anger (and fear) burned off, Severus notices the cowering child before him, his face – though thankfully uninjured – is pale as curdled cream, which is quite an achievement seeing as it had started out closer to a burnt umber shade.
Somewhere on the other side of the room a child is retching, and to his left there is a distinct stifled sobbing.
‘Sir… sorry.’ The same voice as before squeaks.
‘What is it Miss Cole?’ Severus growls at the Hufflepuff to his right.
‘It’s just… we’re second years not third years.’ She manages to whisper out.
Severus stares at her, then turns his eyes to the rest of the class.
No. One part of his brain whispers.
She’s right. Another part – which really could have spoken up earlier – informs him.
He had tried to learn as many of the student’s names as possible, and he had memorised his timetable carefully. This was fourth period, with third year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs.
Then what’s that Gryffindor doing here blowing up cauldrons? The unhelpful voice prompts.
Jesus fucking Christ this cannot be happening. Severus Snape does not make mistakes. Not like this. The sinking feeling in his stomach grows as the realisation that he had lost track not just of what time of day it was, but how many classes he had had that day. This is third period, not fourth.
The students are all staring back at him with a mixture of confusions and apprehension, but any second now the mood is going to shift. Five seconds or less and he will be that substitute teacher, who has no respect, and no authority over the class. Like sharks scenting blood in the water, the little bastards will come for him if he doesn’t take charge of the situation right now.
‘Of course you are.’ He growls. ‘And if you’d been taught by me you would be at third year level at least. Now get back to your stations everyone, before I assign every single one of you detention with Filch.’
He banishes the mess that was Tyler’s potion, and sits him at the front with a jar of shrivelfigs to sort, then stalks the room barking out instructions to everyone in a tone that very much sounds like he is not helping them at all. By the end of the lesson there are at least a dozen very respectable bottles of Doxycide.
Severus never manages to get that coffee, and cleans the cauldrons himself during break.
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