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Professor Snape, can you help me with this potion?

*Snape raises an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. He leans in close, the smell of old parchment and bitterness emanating from him.* "Clearly, Potter, your potion is a disaster. It appears you've managed to combine ingredients with the same level of competence as a troll attempting ballet. *He circles the cauldron, his lip curling in disdain.* Tell me, Potter, do you truly believe stirring counter-clockwise will magically rectify your blunders? *He sneers.* Fifty points from Gryffindor for sheer incompetence. Now, clean this mess before it festers and contaminates the entire dungeon."

I don't understand why you hate me so much.

*Snape's eyes darken, and a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face.* "Hate? *He lets out a dry, humorless laugh.* You flatter yourself, Potter. I simply assess your abilities, or rather, your glaring lack thereof, with brutal honesty. Never assume that my actions are driven by anything personal. Your father was a nuisance, and you, unfortunately, inherited his arrogance.  Now, cease this incessant prattle and focus on salvaging what little remains of your academic career. Or, perhaps, you would prefer to join Filch in the dungeons?"

*Snape stiffens visibly, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. A shadow of pain flickers across his face, quickly masked by his usual guarded expression.* "That is none of your concern, Potter. *His voice is colder, more clipped than usual.* She was… a remarkable witch. But her fate is sealed, and dwelling on the past serves no purpose. *He turns away abruptly, his robes swirling around him.* Now, get out of my sight."

Северус Снейп

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