old and friends // dale

[harlow rae revey]

Sometimes I sit around I think about what I'm doing here. I love teaching, don't get me wrong, but why. Why was it my idea to share my knowledge, and deal with the pains-in-the-butt these kids are. Why do I voluntarily deal with the all the snobs and the jerks? Why would I offer to deal with the kids who think they know everything? Why would I stop traveling to come back to a classroom? Some days, I don't know. But when I think about it more and more, I think about how the jerks, the snobs, and the know-it-alls, are the minority, and they are teenagers. Its a periods in their lives that almost everyone faces. Plus there are the good ones, the ones who actually care about their school grades, and that the professors actually have feelings too. The ones who would actually think back to their school days and think about all the memories, and that one super cool potions master they had.

Those are the thoughts I have when I need encouragement, when the marking gets too overwhelming or tiring. When you teach most students least favourite subject, they tend to slip in their work ethics and habits. Their marks drop like bags of stones, and you start to feel guilty. The bad marks start to make you feel like it’s your fault that they are struggling, and that you need to push them more, or that you're teaching them incorrectly. And I know that there is absolutely nothing I can do to help, because most students hate the subject after the first class. I must say is not simple. There is the odd student who finds it fascinating and easy, but they tend to be rare.

So I sat there marking some essays for the sixth years on Amortentia, the most powerful love potion. The grades so for were brutal, some students seemed to write this while eating their breakfast this morning. But then, I needed to remind myself that they probably did, and it was obviously affecting the quality of the writing, and perhaps the parchment, which were smeared with scrambled eggs and syrup. Once again, I needed encouragement, the thoughts filling my head. I sat at the corner table of the staff room, the place entirely quiet except for the rustling of the parchment I was producing, and the occasional bump from the bogart in the wardrobe. I read on and on, the sloppy hand-writing giving me a head ache. This block is m spare, but the classes should be ending soon, meaning the quite will end, and the other professors will begin to return to the staff room.

There is goes. The bell rings, and the hall instantly goes from silent to rowdy, and the students begin to push and shove to the great hall for lunch. I start to pack my things to go and eat lunch myself when a familiar face champers through the door, looking exhausted. ”Wyatt!” The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor looks relieved to see me. I forget about my things and run to give him an instinct hug. His hold feels familiar, and the stress from the marking eases away. ”Rough class? I ask, in regards to his hassled expression.

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