He'd spent most of the preceding night curled up on the floor of the loo, bringing up first his supper, then bile, and finally nothing at all, but unable to control the urge to dry-heave. Unbelievable, that he could have witnessed (not to mention participated in) the carnage of the Death Eaters' excesses, but that the idea of standing in front of a room of students to teach -- to teach his field, in which he was acknowledged to be the best in Britain -- made him puke until he wanted to die.
He should have taken Tom Tittifer's Tummy Tonic at the first sign of trouble, but he'd adamantly refused to give in to his weakness, assuming if he could only get to sleep fast enough he'd be fine.
So much for assumptions.
Now he was going to have to teach his first day of classes at Hogwarts with an aching head, raw throat, and empty stomach -- because there was no way he was going to appear in the Great Hall, not when there was a distinct possibility that the very sight of food (let alone the smell) would send him running for the ground-floor student loo.
What did I ever do to deserve this? he thought as he pushed himself upright and leaned his forehead against the cool water-tank on the back of the toilet.
Don't answer that.
On the whole, he would have preferred incarceration in Azkaban to teaching a flock of dim-witted adolescents. He'd have willingly cut off both hands as well. Perhaps he should have suggested that to Dumbledore, instead of accepting the position.
He simply hadn't had much of a choice in the end, though. Dumbledore had protected him from the Ministry, and thereby from Azkaban; the old man had trusted him when no one else in their right mind would (granted, right mind was an iffy thing where Dumbledore was concerned); he'd lent Snape the means to continue his education, to give him back some of the pride he'd lost over the way his Mastery had been acquired. In a very real sense, he owed the Headmaster a life-debt. He had to do his duty: he'd had no qualms about doing it for Voldemort, so he could bloody well get off his arse and do what the old man required.
That thought was finally enough to get him to his feet, cursing his sense of duty and work ethic all the while. He shucked off his nightshirt and left it draped over the sink -- that's what House Elves were for, after all, and as far as Snape was concerned that was the only advantage to returning to this godsforsaken school -- and stumbled into his bedchamber to pull some clothes from the wardrobe.
Not the Muggle clothes, he thought with a shudder. Too casual. Probably never need them again, I should just burn them.
Oxford had not been an unalloyed success. Academically it had been fine, certainly, once he'd beaten his pride and paranoia into submission and accepted Dumbledore's aid; and he'd resisted the temptation to push himself to complete in record time, as he had with his Mastery. He'd had his hands full simply learning the basics and the new methodologies and technologies before beginning the coursework. He'd actually developed a compound that looked promising for use as a Muggle anti-acid -- highly ironic, considering his current physical state -- and had his name on a Muggle patent (said name suitably disguised, of course), and even had an offer of employment from the company which had pounced on the compound. Something to fall back on, he supposed, when Dumbledore would eventually admit defeat and sack him.
No, it was the lifestyle and culture that had unnerved Snape. Outside the classroom and tutorials he simply hadn't felt comfortable: the regrettable tendency of other students to want to "get to know" him, the overall tendency of many Muggles to be distracted and enthralled by the absolute inanities in their lives, like television or their cars or, gods above, their clothes. These did not impress someone who had seen Life at its most elemental: at how appallingly easily an individual life could be snuffed out, and on what little grounds.
He'd merely done his best to keep a low profile since he couldn't bear to "blend in," and had applied himself to his work with his customary vigour. It had, he, suspected, even unnerved some of the dons and researchers he'd worked with. But it didn't matter: the work was done, his D.Phil acquired, and he was back at Hogwarts. And his most pressing problem at the moment was not appearing in front of his first class naked.
Not the good frock-coat either, obviously too formal -- and the little beasts will probably explode their cauldrons at the first opportunity --
But his hands froze on the broadcloth, sensitive fingers caressing the fabric, the silver piping and embroidery, the elaborate frogging.
Suitably impressive, though. Quite severe.
It might do, actually, with some adjustments. He set it aside to ponder the necessary Transfigurations as he swathed himself in the accoutrements.
Item One: the smallclothes -- fine linen under-shirt and drawers. (He made a slight modification to the latter, admitting the utility of design of Muggle Y-fronts.)
Item Two: slightly coarser linen over-shirt with high collar, suitably starched. He removed the lace at the cuffs.
Item Three: black cotton socks, ungartered. A slight securing charm sufficed, and the trouser ankles were tight, in any case.
Item Four: black broadcloth trousers, buttons at ankles and fly. (No Muggle "zipper," thank you very much. He didn't expect the little wizard would get many outings, and he didn't fancy the potential pain involved in hurriedly shedding zippered trousers should an unfortunate splashing incident occur in class.)
Item Five: sensible boots with a non-slip sole.
Item Six: braces.
Item Seven: the waistcoat. This was far too elaborate, with the same silver motif as the frock-coat collar worked into the brocaded fronts: but he couldn't bear to alter it. It wouldn't be seen, in any case.
Item Eight: neckcloth, black silk, wound about the neck twice, and tied in a flat knot at the hollow of the throat to preserve the lie of the coat-front.
He finally stood before the frock-coat, wand in hand, and made some judicious alterations: gone was the silver embroidery; the unnecessary piping reduced to neat hems and seams; the frogging... first changed to black, and then dispensed with altogether, replaced with utilitarian black cloth buttons. Still pure in silhouette, still dignified, still... forbidding.
Item Nine: black frock-coat, suitably forbidding.
He tried it on, did up the buttons, and stared at himself in the mirror.
Not quite right.... Still something missing....
With a start, he realised what it was. He returned to the wardrobe and pulled from it the long teaching robe, slipped it over his shoulders, and took another look.
Perfection.
He rather thought he looked like an overgrown raven. But then that, too, was appropriate in its own way.
Though the idiotic buggers will come up with something far less complimentary, I'm sure.
His leisurely toilette and ruminations were interrupted by the first-hour bell, and with a strangled oath he fled his rooms, robe tails flying, for the first class of his Hogwarts teaching career -- already a full minute late.
Snape fixed the boy with a glare and searched for a suitably crushing opening remark.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he grated out, voice rough from the previous night's activity. "Ten points from Gryffindor, and I'll have the cost of that flask charged to your parents."
Patterson looked likely to piss himself.
"Put the wand away, boy," he snarled. "And from now on, do not take it out unless you're given leave."
Patterson shoved the wand in his jacket-pocket and tried to slink back toward the desks.
"I think not. The broom and dustpan are in that corner --"
(Indicated with a vicious stab of a forefinger.)
"-- and I expect you to be done clearing up the mess by the time roll is finished."
Snape strode to the head of the room, perched on the stool at the ancient clerk's desk, and unrolled the parchment containing the names of this batch of simpletons.
"Allenby, Richard --"
A tremulous voice at the back mumbled a "Here."
"-- speak up, speak up, I shan't bother to call twice. Ashton, Phoebe --"
A rather assertive and bright-eyed Ravenclaw, front row, answered.
Wonderful. A bloody know-it-all, I'll wager. Some things never change....
"Banning, Edmund --"
Banning's response was interrupted by a squeal from Patterson, who'd managed to embed a shard of glass in his thumb.
"-- really, Patterson, if you must bleed, do it over the dustbin. See Madam Pomfrey about it -- after class. Billingsly, Amelia --"
He assumed Billingsly was there, but he didn't hear her respond: his eyes had already moved to the next name on the list, and there was a sudden buzzing in his ears that obscured all sounds in the room other than the pounding of his own heart.
He had expected this, really -- it was inevitable. He'd been present when this girl's parents were killed; she and her elder sister were orphans, now, being raised by an aunt.
He just hadn't expected it his first day. His first bloody class.
Get used to it, man. It will drive you mad, otherwise.
"Bones, Tabitha --"
The girl smartly replied and he placed a tick beside her name, unwilling to glance up and see her face. He continued with the roll, hands gradually steadying as the litany of largely unfamiliar surnames soothed him.
"Gudgeon, Terrence --"
Good gods. Not Davey Gudgeon's son, surely?
He knew Gudgeon had married just out of Hogwarts, but could he really have an eleven year-old son? Had it really been that long?
By the time Snape had reached Willmot, Charity, Patterson had managed to finish the clean-up and was at a desk, handkerchief wrapped tightly around the wounded thumb; Snape carefully set aside the roll and stood, resting his fingers against the top of the desk, and faced twenty-two pair of eyes.
Don't think of them as individuals -- for Merlins' sake, don't think about Tabitha Bones. They're students, that's all.
They looked expectant. Some eager, some terrified -- perhaps they thought he'd have one of them roasted medium-rare for luncheon, and he wasn't displeased by that misapprehension -- but all expectant. Burkett had simply launched into the first lesson, preceded by a safety lecture, of course. But Snape needed to set a tone. He didn't fancy repeating the experience of the injuries the lower forms had given themselves when he'd taken the class his seventh year.
Very well. He'd oblige their expectations -- and put the fear of Merlin into those who might be tempted to take Potions less than seriously, as well.
"I," he said softly and distinctly, "am Professor Snape, as you must have noted last evening were you paying -- attention."
Not terribly impressive. Most of them sat with glazed eyes and slack jaws. The Ravenclaw girl in the front row wriggled a bit appreciatively, and Snape suppressed a groan.
Definitely a know-it-all.
His blunt fingers drummed on the top of the desk for a moment, his impatience with his own hesitance bleeding through.
Tell them why it's important. Why they're here.
He took a deep breath and began to muse aloud.
"I don't imagine that most of you have an appreciation for the subtle science and the... art of potion-making. As there is little wand-waving here --"
He shot Patterson a particularly whithering glance.
"-- you may be tempted to assume that it is not a truly magical craft. I am here to disabuse you of any such notion."
That was better. Most of the mouth-breathers had straightened perceptibly in their chairs, and the Ravenclaw girl was obviously hooked. Snape relaxed, leaning -- apparently casually -- against the desk, and felt the cramping in his stomach ease just a bit.
"I," he continued softly, forcing them to shift forward and to prick up their ears, "can teach you how to appreciate the beauty of the simmering cauldron, the power of the potion as it creeps through human veins.... How to... bottle fame. Brew glory. Even, perhaps, to stopper Death."
Absolute, arrant hyperbole, of course. At least for most of them; he had little hope that any of them would attain his level of mastery. He'd been the first student to manage that in 173 years, after all. But it didn't hurt to impress them with the possibility.
"I can only do so, however, if you are willing to learn. If you apply yourselves and recognise the necessity of focus and exactitude. Only when you have mastered the mechanical processes and have painstakingly acquired every shred of knowledge available can you hope to attain the unconscious skill and grace of the true artist."
That appeared to have done it. They were, with the possible exception of that blighter Patterson, enrapt and hanging onto every word. Very nearly enchanted.
Not bad for improvisation, Snape grudgingly allowed himself. I'll have to remember that. Smooth it out a bit, perhaps.
But enough wasting time.
"Turn to Chapter One in your text," he said abruptly. "Miss Bones, if you would read."
He turned to the board and began to scrawl the introductory principles -- without a tremor of the hand, he was pleased to note -- as Bones read the first paragraph of the text.
He would never be a kind teacher, he knew; he would never inspire the kind of loyalty and affection that Dumbledore and McGonagall seemed to do unconsciously.
But he was beginning to suspect that he could teach well. He could make the dunderheads learn respect for the subject -- if nothing, and no-one, else.