Roll Up Your Sleeves

[A/N: Warning: Implied Abuse; if this bothers you, don't read].

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Potter. Perfect Potter and his Imperfect scar.

The phrase turned to variations as it laced through Snape's cheerless mind, annoying him possibly even more than the bespectacled boy had the potential for. Well, so Snape reasoned for a moment - then returned to his tirade, since every whisper of clarity would die out with every glimpse he got of Potter's gleaming disfigurement.

Well, the scar was far from gleaming, Snape admit begrudgingly. It just rested, slightly conspicuous, over the Golden Boy's left eyebrow. But it might as well have been a glowing beacon to his fame - what with how many times a day he must have flaunted it.

(Snape suddenly noticed that Potter was cutting his ingredients with more skill than he would have suspected the boy to possess. This only caused him to frown further and become more high-strung in his mental banter).

Yes, his dislike for the boy was not like his usual contempt for others, Gryffindor or not, yet they had barely just met. Even so, it wasn't like he had to even attempt to deduce the boy's character: those piercing green eyes withheld Lily's vibrancy, and his face was a nauseating animate sculpture of his father's. Even each scrappy tuft of hair on the Boy-Who-Lived's head was uncannily identical to the egomaniac which he (so unfortunately) remembered. The only differentiated detail, from his father that is, in addition to the hue of his eyes was the added scar, to which only gave him more to boast.

Therefore "Potter" and "celebrity status" were anything but incompatible, annihilating what little sense he has probably inherited from his mother's genes. This left nothing but a broiling mass of stupidity, sopping with undeserved pride.

And that was Snape's deduction.

Strangely, hate had a way of making him feel rather parched, and thirst only granted him with headaches that did nothing for his surly disposition.

Snape swooped down upon the other students, testing with his eyes, cursing at the Gryffindors through clenched teeth; words meant to pierce their concentration and give him leeway to remove points. He quickly found that Finnigan's partner, Longbottom, a round, gawky boy, would be a perfect candidate to lash out at in the future: utterly incompetent in the way he handled his ingredients, and the swaggering indications of clumsiness were woven thickly within his movements. He would have to keep his eye on him, though, in case the boy did any real damage. . . .

Potter was finished cutting ingredients; Weasley began doing the rest. Every once in a while, the dark-haired boy's eyes would stray upwards from the class' assignment, and Snape watched as they seemed to falter in their keen gaze, defocusing and refocusing, and then the boy would shake himself awake and move his idle hands once again in slow, stirring motions over his cauldron.

So Perfect Potter thought he was too good for Potions - enough to sway on the spot and daydream? Or maybe he thought it was too easy; too lackadaisical of an activity!

He sneered and moved on; he halted his hissings at the Gryffindors, and instead moved on to assess his Slytherins and scrounge for talent. He did not remain disappointed.

"If you dimwits could stew your horned slugs half as skillfully as Malfoy, I'd deem you acceptable." He nodded to Malfoy, who smirked pompously in return.

Snape turned to catch Potter's gaze to let him know that he would never be deemed acceptable, when his vision began to obscure. Gradually, he saw green and only green as thick tufts of smoke rose into the air and settled around his eyes. His sight was deluged with it, but he could hear a telltale hiss, heightening in volume, which would reveal the moron that had screwed up such easy instruction.