"Mr. Flint," Severus said as the bell rang for the end of class. "Stay after."
The Prefect nodded with a "Yes, sir," and gathered his things, rather messily cramming them into his bag.
Severus sighed, but ignored the transgression for now; he had more important things to address. He waited until the rest of the fifth years had gone, and set a silencing ward on the closed door. "Potter is going to be a problem," he said without preamble.
Flint relaxed a fraction from his rigid stance, realizing, correctly, that he was not the one up for castigation. Instead, he nodded, rolling his eyes a little. "Yes, sir. I figured."
"At table . . ." Severus threw out the lead, and Flint took it up.
"His manners are hopeless, sir. I noticed." The boy shook his head ruefully. "He's like a monkey, grabbing at food. I keep expecting him to sniff it before jamming it in his mouth."
"Indeed." The very idea gave him shivers. "I am sorry to have to do this, Mr. Flint, but I am going to rely on you rather heavily to bring him back into line. I wouldn't have thought we needed to make basic table etiquette an item on the rules sheet, but perhaps a special list should be drawn up just for him. It will be difficult to get him to follow it at first, I expect. This morning, for instance, he violated the bathing schedule and was barely repentant when caught. It's obvious he has no regard for rules whatsoever."
"I understand, sir. I'll have Torrence start a new list, she's got better penmanship. And I'll keep a close watch on him. He won't know what hit him."
"Excellent. Bring me the list when you have it finished, and I will . . . explain it to him. That will be all, Mr. Flint."
"Thank you, sir." Flint departed, giving Severus the rest of the lunch hour to prepare for his first NEWT class of the year. He almost looked forward to the sixth and seventh year classes. They were populated by those students who had excelled in their first five years, and who really and truly wanted to be in Potions. He rarely had to intervene to halt an explosion, and the students were more quiet and focused than the rest of the dunderheads he usually had to put up with. This class was going to have Percy Weasley in it, though, and the boy was a supercilious brown noser. It made him ill, just thinking about it. Still, there were nine others in the class; that should balance him out.
At supper, later, Severus once more kept his eyes on the Slytherin table, making sure they were still as prompt and proper as this morning. The day hadn't been a total waste. He had made a Gryffindor second year cry.
He had also managed to send owls to the families of each of his new Snakes, to start setting appointments for a home visit. He found it was easiest to deal with any problems that arose from the inevitable homesickness and stretching of wings that came with being away from home for the first time, if he had a better idea of the kind of home they were used to enjoying. And it never hurt to have the parents on his side.
He had already heard back from Lucius Malfoy, of course, who had invited cordially him for dinner on Friday. That should be interesting. He hadn't been to Malfoy Manor in almost three years.
Though he was watchful of the Slytherins, he tried not to watch the Brat Who Had No Manners Whatsoever, not watching to spoil his own appetite at another meal if he could help it, at least until Flint brought him the new list. The visit to the Potter household was the one he dreaded most.
After dinner was through, Severus collected potion residue specimens and arranged a number of nastily - and in some cases, hopelessly - stained and crusted cauldrons in a heap on the back table of his classroom. One for each year of the Brat's miserable life, and one for sheer pique. Then he retreated to his office and started to correct second year summer essays. Mostly successfully, he tried to keep from weeping over their infantile efforts, as he waited for the Brat Who Would Sure Be Surprised at His Punishment.
A tentative knock came at 6:55. Alas, no chance for a dressing down there. "Enter," he called, and caught the determined expression on the boy as he came in, chin up again. Did he have a facial tic? Then the Brat's jaw dropped open, as if he had never seen potion ingredients before. Well, he had been raised by Muggles, hadn't he? And, according to Minerva, the worst sort of Muggles, which meant no potions, most likely.
Suppressing a smile, he didn't look at the Brat and said, "Close you mouth, Potter, before a Doleshinkle Weed makes a home of it," and was satisfied to hear the click of jaws slamming shut. Seemed he could obey when properly brought down to size.
Still not lifting his head from the current object of his ire - Honestly! You'd think after a year of study, one of his students could tell the different between Murtlap Essence and Bicorn Horn! - he suppressed a smirk and pointed a slim finger toward the door that led to his classroom. "You will find cauldrons in there. Clean them. Without a wand. Go now."