No, I am not JK Rowling, so no, I don't own Harry Potter, his friends, or his teachers.
Prologue
It was half way through the year. Harry Potter was sitting in potions class, hating Professor Snape after yet another jibe about Harry's pathetic potions ability. Sure, his potion wasn't quite the teal color of Hermione Granger's potion, but still. It was green, not pink and sparking like Goyle's, or the consistency of wet cement like Neville Longbottom's. And anyway, most people would say that the PepperUp Potion is much too advanced of a potion for first years, but it seemed Snape was never one to agree with "most people" on the subject of his lessons and treatment of students.
"Now, for those of you who think they did the potion I assigned, you may add the final ingredient, three porcupine quills, and then hand in your results. Unless, like Mr. Potter, you realize that your potion isn't worth the D you would be getting on the assignment," Snape added, shooting a look of loathing at the mentioned eleven-year-old.
Harry threw the three porcupine quills into his potion. At least he thought he did. In all actuality, he threw in four of the quills, and while the cauldron was still on the fire.
His cauldron exploded, and the next thing he knew, he awoke on the ground in front of a destroyed cauldron, in a room full of people he could not recognize. An older teacher, who he did not recognize, stood over him, and that teacher was not Snape.
Just an idea I had. I'll continue it as soon as I get the chance... Should be within a day or two. Please review!