[As previously, bold lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]

Chapter 9: Potions

At breakfast the next morning Snape was his usual surly self, handing out schedules and sneering at questions.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, his hand held out, waiting for Draco's OWLs letter. Draco watched as Snape glanced down the list. He grunted and thrust the letter back into Draco's hands along with a schedule without comment, which Draco understood to mean, "good job."

Pansy leaned oppressively close to see his schedule, asking, "what're you taking this year?" when she caught a glimpse of his OWLs letter. "Draco! Is that? Did you –" but Draco shushed her and moved to return the letter to his bag when Blaise snatched it and started to read aloud, but stopped when he saw:

Ancient Runes E

Arithmancy O

Astronomy O

Care of Magical Creatures E

Charms O

Defense Against the Dark Arts O

Herbology O

History of Magic O

Potions O

Transfiguration O

Blaise, who had clearly fallen for his mock embarrassment, threw the letter back at him with a huff, adding, "I'm surprised, Draco, that Runes exam was laughable. Of course, you did have other things on your mind…"

But his remark was drowned by Millicent Bulstrode's incredulous, "You got an O in History of Magic? No one gets an O in History of Magic!"

"Some of us actually study," Draco observed, rolling his eyes. He snatched up his letter and gingerly tucked in back into his bag, and turned to his schedule.

He'd chosen to continue NEWTs in Arithmancy, Astronomy, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, and Transfiguration. He looked at his schedule. Not a lot of spare time for everything else he was supposed to be doing. He should probably drop one of these classes. He could drop half of them, really, if he wanted to. He probably wasn't going to be here next year to finish them.

And yet… Draco just couldn't bring himself to. He was happy never to set foot near Hagrid's filthy hovel, or hear Trelawney hazy babbling, or struggle through Binn's deadly drone. But drop Arithmancy? Charms? No, he couldn't possibly. This might be his last year (funny how it turned to "might" and "probably" when he thought about his classes).

If he was honest with himself, he longed to throw his mind into his school-work, if only to distract from everything else he was supposed to the thinking about. Mother. Dumbledore. The Dark Lord. Snape. It was all too much. He fingered the crisp cover of his brand new copy of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Grade Six as he strolled to his first class. Snape teaching Defense, this should be brilliant, he thought, putting everything else out of his mind.

And not ten minutes into class Snape had almost hexed Potter, who had thrown an impressive protego back at Snape, nearly knocking him over.

"Do you understand the meaning of 'non-verbal spells,' Potter?"

"Yes," Potter answered defiantly.

"Yes, sir." Snape sneered.

"No need to call me sir, professor."

Draco coughed and nearly choked on his sugar quill. Did Potter seriously just say that? Draco had to swallow and look away to keep from chuckling.

Seriously, though, if Potter had any idea what Snape was actually capable of - he shuddered as he recalled the sound of Karkaroff's exploding skull. It's amazing Snape hasn't already taken him out, Draco thought. And then he recalled that fierce look in Snape's eyes that night in the freezing cold shack, the same look he had worn when he cast the cruciatus on Draco three months ago. The laughter died in his throat.

After a break in the Slytherin common room full of innuendo about the coming revolution and power plays among the seventh years, Draco went up to his dorm room to collect his potions supplies. He had bought himself new scales, and a brand new silver knife, to replace the old ones he had been using since third year. And he had a new cauldron, like every year. He lifted his supplies case out of his neatly organized trunk, unstrapped the leather flap, and opened it to run his fingers gently over the little glass vials. He'd of course supplemented the rudimentary required ingredients list, like every year. His fingers hovered over the lacewing flies before he shut the case again, closed the strap, and prepared for Potions without Snape.

It was a nightmare.

The sopophorous beans were impossible to cut. Stir as much as he liked, he couldn't get the lilac colour right, all he got was a sort of bluish green. Nott and Blaise were in no better shape. Even the Mudblood seemed frazzled. But Potter. Fucking Potter. Slughorn is so far up his ass, it's no wonder he gave the prize to 'the Chosen One,' the Golden Boy. Like he needs any more fucking good luck. Slughorn is nothing but a fangirl trapped in the body of a fat, frumpy old paedophile.

The next morning in the Slytherin common room, Blaise was at it again.

"So, Draco, Potter's charmed Slughorn and taken your place in potions. And here I thought your marks in potions had nothing at all to do with the fact that Snape loves the way when you suck his giant…" Blaise paused.

"Nose?" Nott supplied, earning him snickers from the surrounding Slytherins.

"I could never do it better than you, Blaise, I'm sure your mother is quite the expert."

"Speaking of parents, Draco –" Blaise began, but Draco rolled his eyes in feigned disinterest and stalked off before he could hear the rest of it.

Irked by Blaise's persistent attempts to undermine him, and Nott's insolence, Draco stormed up the stairs to breakfast with Crabbe and Goyle in tow, and knocked right into Potter.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" the Weasel spat.

"Ignore him, Ron," Potter growled, and stooping to pick up his books and shove them unceremoniously into his bag. Potter reached out to grab his Potions textbook, which was lying in front of Draco's feet, but just as his hand brushed the worn fabric of the cover, Draco kicked it away.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Potter growled.

"No thanks, Potter," Draco sneered. Potter's stood up, bag abandoned on the floor. His face was red with anger and he took another step closer, hatred seeping from his pores, his eyes narrowed. Draco glared back, hand gripping his wand inside his robes, waiting. Their faces were mere inches apart, faces flushed with hate and fists balled.

Everyone around them seemed to holding their breath. Draco could hear his heart beating in his ears.

Waiting…

Then Potter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, turned to grabbed his bag out of the Mudblood's shocked hands, and stalked off, a rough "come on" directed at his fawning followers.

Draco turned to watch him go and called "pathetic, Potter." Potter paused, his shoulders obviously tense with fury. But he kept walking.