Harry sat in the potions classroom, vapours rising in multi-coloured swirls above the brewing cauldrons. He was sweating but not, he knew, because he was warm.
Ron sat to his left, gazing in horror at the concoction he had somehow managed to create in his second hand, partially rusted old cauldron, whilst Hermione, on his right, was mixing feverously as she tried with all her might to get the potion perfect. Glancing across the classroom, Harry caught sight of Neville, who was almost in tears as he struggled through the lesson. A small bubble of pity rose into his chest, but was immediately quashed as he caught sight of the one he had been looking for.
Severus Snape emerged from the storage cupboard, his dark eyes sweeping across the classroom, lank hair framing his sallow face. His nose, large and hooked, was scrunched slightly in distaste as he looked at the mass of students assembled before him, working desperately to perfect what he knew they couldn't. Throwing what he had collected from the cupboard onto his desk, he took to prowling around the classroom. He did not notice Harry watching him as he moved around the classroom, breathing menacingly down the necks of the terrified students.
Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore resided in his office. He had spent so long that year attempting to stay out of Harry's way, but when he heard him calling for him in the corridors as he swept past, pretending not to hear the anguished cries on the teenage boy… He wondered, so many times, how Harry would take it when he eventually made his move- how would he react? Dumbledore rubbed his eyes- he was exhausted. He stayed up until late into the night, thinking about Harry, and when he could no longer take being within the same walls as him, he disappeared for as long as it took to get his head back on straight. He had not felt this way since his own teenage years, locked in his bedroom planning world domination with Gellert Grindlewald. He still thought about his old teenage crush sometimes, wondered what could have been- if Gellert had not brought about the death of Albus' beloved sister Ariana. Albus shook his head. He could not think about Gellert now, nor ever again- he must focus on the problem at hand.
A little taster of an idea that popped, quite suddenly, into my head as I sat in one of my free periods. I don't know if I'll develop this story yet; let me know what you think, and if you want to see more!
From, Dementia xxx666xxx