Hi!

This is my first fic, so go easy on me, would you? And keep in mind that this will be slash, so if you don't like that sort of thing, well, don't read it.

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Disclaimer: Mine! JKR stole them all from me! Right. So maybe they're not mine, but that doesn't stop me having some fun with them, eh? I rest my case.

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Harry carefully measured out three drops of bowtruckle blood (a gummy liquid that reminded him forcefully of Hagrid's treacle tarts) and leaned over his cauldron. It was perfect, so far. Surprisingly, he'd managed to follow the instructions. He sneaked a look to the front of the classroom to see if Snape was looking. It would be nice to get approval for once. It'd be nice to get something more than approval…

Disappointed, (the professor was leaning over Malfoy's potion, nodding approvingly) Harry shrugged and peered at his work again. He just needed to drop in the blood, stir clockwise four times, and he was finished. The spoon with the drops in it was poised in his right hand, while his left hand steadied him against the wall, holding a full bottle of the stuff. He tilted his hand…

"Mr. Potter." The silky voice was right next to his ear, and he jumped, surprised. Damn it, people weren't supposed to move that quietly! His jump put him off balance, and he threw out his left arm to avoid toppling face-first into the fire.

Unfortunately, the full bottle of bowtruckle blood was in his left hand, and in his surprise, he felt it slip out of his hand…

"Oh bloody hell!" Harry watched in dismay as his potion changed from the desired cloudy blue of the almost finished potion to a deep rusty color that looked disturbingly like dried blood.

He looked over his shoulder, bracing himself for Snape's comment. The potions master leaned past him to look into Harry's cauldron, and Harry involuntarily breathed deeply. Snape smelled of herbs and smoke, a combination that should have been repulsive, but was decidedly not.

"Mr. Potter, where in your instructions does it advise that you empty your entire bottle of bowtruckle blood into the potion?"

"Um, nowhere, Sir." Harry said blandly.

Snape sighed. "So why, pray tell, did you feel the need to do so?"

Harry would have dearly loved to say "I was experimenting", but felt that this could lose him as many as a hundred points for Griffendor. Instead he looked insolently at the man standing beside him. "It was an accident, Sir. You surprised me." Greasy git. Sneaking up behind me. I'll bet you did that on purpose.

Snape's lip curled. "Kindly do not blame your abysmal potions skills on me, Potter."

Harry felt that this was more than slightly unfair, but kept his mouth shut. Hermione had lectured him the night before, after all, and he owed it to her to try for at least a day to be polite to Snape.

Snape sneered, realizing he wasn't going to get a reaction, and shook his head. "Ten points from Griffendor for wasting ingredients. And I'll see you after class, Potter."

Harry swore under his breath and looked helplessly at his potion, which was now quite ruined. "Sir, what should I do with this?" the question slipped out. Harry knew perfectly well the futility of asking Snape anything.

Sure enough, the familiar sneer was firmly in place when his professor turned to face him again. "Dispose of it."

The class filed out, some of them giving Harry sympathetic looks, others sneering at him, reminding him eerily of their head of house. He grinned and shrugged at the Griffendors, and did his best to ignore the Slytheryns. As Hermione said, he thought ruefully, they weren't worth it.

"My desk, Potter." The voice came from the front of the room, where Snape sat, looking thoroughly bored, marking some unfortunate first-year's paper. Harry glimpsed a failing grade before Snape covered it up and met his eye.

"The potion we attempted in class today was well within your capabilities, Potter, meager as they are. I was…surprised…" here he looked as if something disgusting was crawling in front of his nose "to see how well you were doing with it, in fact, until the last step."

"Yes, Sir. You just distracted me." You always distract me.

"That is not an excuse."

"No, it's a reason! Anyway, I made a mistake! At least I didn't light anyone on fire!" Harry stopped, surprised to see Snape suppressing a grin.

"We cannot all judge ourselves by Longbottom's standards, Mr. Potter." Then the smile was gone. "Failing at a potion that you are perfectly capable of getting right is not acceptable."

"Well, would you let me try it again?"

He'd succeeded in catching the potions master of guard. "Again?"

"This was my last class. If you'd let me try it again, maybe I could get marks for it? I mean, Sir, you wouldn't have to supervise me or anything, and it only takes about half an hour to actually make the potion."

Harry did not actually expect to be allowed a second chance. He was simply prolonging the time he got to spend in the company of his professor. His professor who he could not stand (or so he kept telling himself).

But this time it was he who was caught off guard.

"Certainly, Potter."

"That's—what? Really, Sir?"

"Of course." Snape answered smoothly. "Provided you manage not to set the room on fire in my absence. However," He held up one long finger, "should you fail to complete the potion to my satisfaction, I will expect you here for the next four Friday evenings, for detention."

Harry nodded. Detention with Snape no longer bothered him unduly. It was, in fact, a good chance to ogle his professor, something he'd never admit, even under torture.

Half an hour later, the potion was finished. And, Harry knew, it was perfect. If Snape was disappointed, it'd be a sure sign that Harry would never be up to his standards, which would be a good indication that he should stop trying. Harry smirked a little at himself. He'd certainly been trying harder at potions in the past year. Ever since something about the professor had caught his eye.

At first it had been the fingers. Harry had never seen anyone with longer fingers. They weren't just long, either; they were graceful. Then, after he'd noticed that, it had been the walk, which was more of a glide. Then simply the way he talked, which was disturbing and yet intelligent at the same time. Harry found himself appreciating the insults sometimes, even though they were aimed at him.

Trying to distract himself from thoughts of Snape, Harry began to put away his ingredients. The bowtruckle blood wasn't his. It was from the store cupboard. As he opened the door, he saw another cabinet, higher up, which was open slightly. Unable, as always, to deny his curiosity he glanced quickly around, and opened it.

The familiar basin of Dumbledore's pensive greeted him. Why, he thought, does no one ever lock this up? He couldn't look in it this time. If he felt the way he thought he did about Snape, he ought to have some respect for privacy.

But his good intentions didn't get him very far. He peeked into the basin, thinking to put it back right away, and saw a face that was strikingly familiar.

His own.

Harry gasped and almost dropped it, tightening his hold quickly. He leaned in closer, frowning. Something about his face wasn't right somehow.

And, as he fell into the basin, head first, yet again, he realized what it was. The face was not his; it was his father's.

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PLEASE review? I NEED feedback…

Oh, and I don't have any of the HP books handy…could someone tell me how to spell Griffendor, Slytheryn, bowtruckle, and Dumbledore? I kind of doubt I got them right…