Before he actually took over the job, Voldemort had never thought much of teaching.
In his view, it was merely a superior letting a little knowledge slip through his fingers as charity for the mediocrities beneath him. Truly gifted people did not wait to be spoon-fed.
Back when he studied at Hogwarts, he had been so brilliant that even Dumbledore could find no fault with his academic work. He had been the perfect prefect. Later, when he ruled over Great Britain, Death Eaters surrounded him, and however stupid they were, the threat of the Cruciatus Curse ensured they followed his instructions to the letter.
Even Hagrid, whom he had framed all those years ago, possessed a talent for raising dangerous fantastic beasts that ordinary people could scarcely match.
And so the great Dark Lord simply could not comprehend just how low the intelligence of normal underage wizards could sink.
Until the monthly exam results at the end of October landed like a resounding slap across that sallow face belonging to Snape.
The average Potions Class scores for the first and second years set a five-year low at Hogwarts.
Whenever he thought of Sirius at the Academic Affairs Office's regular meeting, sitting with his legs crossed, holding the report between two fingers, wearing that mocking half-smile-
"Our Potions Professor has been devoting all his energy to extracurricular research lately, hasn't he? How is it that you can't even teach first-year brats properly? Have you forgotten that being a Hogwarts professor is your main job? Why don't you resign?"
Hearing this, Voldemort had wanted nothing more than to burn the Academic Affairs Office, along with Black, to ashes with Fiendfyre on the spot.
What he found even more unbearable was going to inform Snape that the Academic Affairs Office required an "Analysis