Whispers followed Hazel wherever she went.

"Dark witch."

"Slytherin."

"The Girl Who Lived."

Hazel didn't know what the fuss was all about. She had survived a madman's murderous act as a baby, likely through no prowess of her own. No one knew how she had survived, and Hagrid's details on that night had been scant. And as for her being a Slytherin, she had tried to protest—the Sorting Hat simply wouldn't hear it. She was who she was, and accepted that, but she wished she had been put in Gryffindor with her new friend Ron.

She was still having difficulties finding her way to classes, struggling with all the corridors and the hundred and forty-two staircases. She supposed that at least she wasn't like the poor Longbottom boy, who couldn't remember the trick steps and was knocked to the ground whenever a staircase decided to move. Even though she fared better than many other first years, she still got lost with some frequency. McGonagall had been most displeased when she had come to class late after getting lost and trapped in an empty classroom by Peeves, and had taken ten points from Slytherin, to her housemates' consternation.

And, of course, there were the classes themselves. Magic was much more difficult than Hagrid had made it appear. Things didn't just happen because you waved your wand and said a few words—and if they did, it was often something bad.

That said, Hazel did enjoy her classes. Flitwick had nearly toppled over when he saw her. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy learning charms with the happy little wizard. Transfiguration, of course, was terribly tricky, but the thought of turning one thing into another was a fascinating one. She didn't much care for History of Magic, which was boring, or Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was a bit of a joke, being taught by the stuttering Professor Quirrell who was scared of his own shadow.

Hazel was pleased to find she wasn't behind. She had managed a wand-lighting charm before Malfoy, and he had been bragging about his private tutors back home. She had found out there were lots of people from Muggle families who knew just as little as her and had been just as surprised to find out they were magical, though none in Slytherin. She still hadn't revealed her Muggle background to anyone but Ron.

She was pleased to encounter Ron just before their Potions lesson. It was the only class she shared with the Gryffindors, and she had yet to make friends with any of her housemates, mostly because Malfoy bullied anyone who seemed too friendly with her. It was a tactic she was used to, as she had experienced it all through primary school with Dudley as the bully. She thought that Theo was interested in being her friend, as he often shared sympathetic looks with her, but his sense of self-preservation must have outweighed that desire.

"How've you been, Ron?" Hazel said, beaming at him.

Ron looked at her, a bit wide-eyed. "Er…good."

Hazel cocked her head. This wasn't the effusive boy she had talked to on the train. She watched him as he turned around, back to the Irish boy and tall black boy he had arrived with.

"Ron?" she said.

The Irish boy, Seamus, she thought his name was, turned to her, a nasty sneer on his face. "He doesn't need to associate with dark witches like you, you sneaky Slytherin."

"I'm not a dark witch," she said. "I'm just a student, like you."

"Then how did you defeat You-Know-Who?"

"I don't know."

The nasty sneer grew. "I think you're a dark witch, Potter, and that's how you defeated him. You're in Slytherin, so you'll go bad too. Won't she, Ron?"

"Er…I don't think…" Ron said.

"So you'd rather be friends with the sneaky snake?"

"I didn't say that!" he protested.

Hazel's heart sank. Ron didn't want to be her friend after all. She hung her head. There was a lot of things you could force, but friendship wasn't one of them.

At that moment, the door to the classroom opened. "In," Professor Snape bit. Hazel walked in to the classroom, her face still burning with shame.

She sat down at the table nearest the front of the classroom. A Gryffindor with bushy hair sat down beside her, smiling a buck-toothed smile. Offering her hand, the girl said, "I'm Hermione Granger."

Hermione Granger. She had heard about her already, of course. The Gryffindor know-it-all. That was what the others called her. She was something of an outcast—the other Gryffindors thought her too brainy and bossy, from what she had heard. But Hazel was an outcast too—the other Slytherin first years were too afraid of Malfoy and his goons to befriend her, and the rest of the first years thought her a dark witch in the making.

So Hazel shook Hermione's hand. They could be outcasts together.

And then the lesson began. Professor Snape, like Professor Flitwick, started the class by taking attendance. And like Flitwick, he paused on her name. His cold black eyes turned to her and lingered there. For a moment it seemed he was going to say something, but then he read the next name on the list.

After he called roll, he stalked around the classroom in silence. The class watched him, wide-eyed in the silence. At last he began to speak.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquid that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Hermione edged forward in her seat.

"Potter," Snape said, his voice soft. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand shot into the hair. She waved it around for a bit. It was distracting, and Hazel needed to think. She knew the answer—it was in the introduction of the textbook, which she had read the night before while everyone else was playing Exploding Snap (which no one had invited her to play).

"The Draught of Living Death, sir," she whispered.

Something like approval flashed through the man's dark eyes.

"And where would you find a bezoar?"

Hermione's hand was so high in the air, she had left her seat.

"The stomach of a goat."

"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"They're the same thing. Aconite."

Snape turned around. Hermione sank back down into her seat.

"Show-off," Seamus whispered.

"A point from Gryffindor," Snape snapped, flicking his wand. Seamus flinched, but all Snape had done was make instructions appear on the board.

Snape split them into pairs according to the table they sat at. Hazel really wanted to work with Ron, to get him away from Seamus so they could talk, really talk, but that was an impossibility. Once Snape spoke, his word was law, so Hermione was her partner.

He set them a simple potion to cure boils. He stalked around the class room, his long robes swirling around him. He criticized everyone except for Hermione and Hazel. Ron and Seamus didn't crush their snake fangs into a fine enough powder. Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs for too long, causing an acrid smoke to rise into the air. Snape made any criticism he could, small and large. But it was Neville and the tall black boy, Dean, who drew the worst of his ire.

Poor Neville had managed to melt his cauldron into nothing but a hot, twisted piece of unrecognizable metal, causing their potion to spill across the floor. After discovering it had burned holes in Dean's shoes, most of the class decided to stand on their stools to avoid becoming the potion's next victim. One look at Neville, who was covered in terrible red boils, told them that coming into contact with the potion was a less than desirable fate.

"Idiot boy! I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? Take him to the hospital wing, Finnegan," Snape said. "Weasley, why didn't you stop them from adding the quills? Thought it'd make your inept attempt look better, did you? That's a point you've lost for Gryffindor."

Ron's face turned a startling shade of red, but he said nothing. Hazel thought it was rather unfair of Snape to take points from Ron, but said nothing, feeling satisfied that the boy had gotten his comeuppance for denying their friendship. Hermione glared at Ron for his loss of points.

Snape dismissed Hermione and Hazel early, after they finished their near perfect potion. Considering she and Hermione had both been raised by Muggles, Hazel was pleased with their first attempt. Snape had not praised them, but neither had he criticized them, which was more than anyone else could say.

Later that day, Hazel met Hermione in the library, newspaper in hand. An article had caught her eye when she saw an older Slytherin reading the paper. Someone had broken into Gringotts, on her birthday. It could have happened while she was there with Hagrid! The article said that the vault had been emptied earlier that day—it very well could have been the one Hagrid had emptied. The thought that she could have been wrapped up in something as cool as a break-in, however tangentially, excited her.

Hazel, delighted to have a friend, told Hermione about their trip to Gringotts.

"I don't know, Hazel," she said. "I imagine lots of people accessed their vaults that day."

"But it says it was emptied, not accessed. How many people empty their vaults completely?"

Hermione chewed on her lip. "I suppose you have a point."

"I wonder what was in that package. It was just a little grubby thing, but Hagrid said it was important Hogwarts business."

"It could be anything!" Hermione said.

"Well," Hazel said. "That's half the fun in trying to figure out what it is."

*HP*

Hazel had spent hours with Hermione wandering the grounds that day. She smiled at the thought of her new friend. It was a fantastic feeling, having someone to share things with, even it was something as mundane as retelling the events of the day's classes. Hermione, she found, was all too eager to recount her successes in class and to review the materials with her. Being Hermione's friend, she knew, would mean many hours spent in the library. But Hazel didn't mind—she could do with learning all she could about the Wizarding World, if she wanted to fit in within Slytherin.

She was pleased to find they would have flying lessons with the Gryffindors, meaning she would see Hermione again. She met Hermione on Thursday morning in the Great Hall and they made their way to the lawn where flying lessons would take place.

"Ready to make a fool of yourself, Potter?" Malfoy drawled, stopping them just outside the front door of the castle. "And your mudblood friend will too, I bet—this isn't something you can learn out of a book." Then Malfoy stuck his teeth out of his mouth and raised his hand enthusiastically into the air, doing a cruel but rather accurate impression of Hermione.

Hazel drew her wand, despite not knowing any hexes, though Malfoy didn't know that. The blond boy eyed her wand warily, before saying, "Put that thing away, Potter—it isn't as if you know how to use it."

Sparks flew out of the end of her wand, causing Malfoy to draw back.

"Try me, Malfoy," she said.

He scurried off.

Hazel and Hermione walked down the sloping lawns towards the Forbidden Forrest. There was a clearing on its outer edges, where the flying lessons would take place. It was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze blowing. The sun was high overhead, shining brightly, but the day was not too warm. Hermione said she had read that today's weather was ideal for flying.

Madam Hooch strode into the clearing shortly after everyone arrived, her short, gray hair looking windswept. Her yellow, hawk like eyes flicked across each student. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she said. "Go stand by a broomstick, everyone."

Hazel immediately made her way to the broom across from Hermione. She knew Hermione was nervous, from the way she had recited everything she had learned about flying and broomsticks. Unlike Hermione, she was excited to learn to fly. Hazel had always had a talent for the physical, as she was agile and graceful from years of avoiding Dudley's fists.

"Hold your hand over the broom and say 'up!'" Madam Hooch said. "Command the broom."

"Up!" everyone said, some shouting, some whispering.

Hazel was delighted when her broom shot into her hand at once. She looked to see how Hermione had fared. Her broom was still on the ground, rolling over each time she said "up!" bossily.

She glanced around. Malfoy was looking around with a smug look on his face—he was one of the few that had successfully commanded the broom. Theo Nott was still struggling to get his to come up more than halfway to his hand. To her surprise, Neville Longbottom was holding his broom too. She thought the broom would have refused to come to him, with as much trouble the boy had staying afoot on the ground.

Madam Hooch then taught them how to mount their brooms and how to grip the broom. She snapped at Malfoy, who had tried to tell Goyle what to do; as it turned out, he was gripping the broom incorrectly. Hazel sniggered as the blond boy turned red.

"When I blow my whistle, push off the ground," Madam Hooch said. "Let yourself rise into the air for a few seconds, then lean forward slightly to come back down. Three—two—"

Neville lost his balance and accidentally pushed off the ground before Madam Hooch blew the whistle.

"Come back, Longbottom!" she shouted. But Neville only rose higher and higher, winding high into the air. He turned his white face to the ground and slipped off the broom with a gasp.

With a nasty crack, Neville landed on the ground, his broom falling to the ground beside him. Madam Hooch rushed to the poor boy's side.

"Broken wrist," she murmured. "Up with you, boy. We're going to the hospital wing." Then she raised her voice. "All of you, stay here! Leave your brooms on the ground—if I catch any of you flying, you'll be out of Hogwarts quicker than you can say 'Quidditch.'"

After Madam Hooch disappeared up the hill, Malfoy burst into laughter. He strutted over to where Neville had fallen and picked something up out of the grass. "Look, it's that stupid thing Longbottom got from his gran."

"Oh, that's a Remembrall!" Hermione said. "I read about—"

"Give it to me," Hazel said, cutting through the nervous chatter.

Malfoy sneered. "I think I'll leave it up a tree for Longbottom to find, Potter. You can tell your little boyfriend about it later—I'm sure he'll be delighted to fly again to find it."

"Give it to me!" Hazel yelled, watching as Malfoy mounted his broom and flew into the air. All Malfoy's boastful stories about flying as a child came back to her. He wasn't lying—he really could fly.

There was only one thing to do.

Hazel mounted her broom and kicked off into the air, ignoring Hermione's protests.

Her hair and robes whipped around her as she flew into the sky, but it did not bother her. This was fantastic—she could fly, and fly well. Even as the others called for her to come back, that it was her first time on her broom, that she would fall, she knew none of it mattered. She was perfectly at ease on the broom. She was safe. She would not fall.

She turned her broom to face Malfoy, taking pride in the stunned look on his face.

"Give it to me, or I'll knock you off that broom!"

Malfoy sneered and said, "Catch it if you can, Potter!" Then he threw the Remembrall into the air.

Hazel streaked towards it, the wind whipping in her ears. The Remembrall was falling now, falling fast. She was gathering more and more speed—Hermione let out a scream. She was close now, close to the ground and the Remembrall. She stretched out her hand and swiped at the Remembrall, which she clutched safely in her hand as she toppled gently onto the grass.

No one was cheering—no one even looked slightly impressed. Hazel was a bit put out; that was her first time on a broom! Not to mention that would have been a spectacular catch, even on the ground. Sure, she had broken a rule, but she had saved Neville's Remembrall, and that ought to make the Gryffindors happy. She couldn't understand why no one, not even Hermione, was smiling.

Until a pale, bony hand reached out and seized her wrist.

She looked up in horror, straight into the black eyes of Professor Snape.

Her heart sank.

She was going to be expelled for sure.

"Come with me, Potter," he said, his voice quiet and deadly.

Then he was dragging her off, dragging her towards the castle. He was wrenching her wrist—it hurt, but she wasn't going to say anything. Complaining always made the punishment worse. She knew that well from the years she had spent at Privet Drive. She lengthened her strides, trying to keep pace with the professor to ease the pressure on her wrist.

She looked back to the clearing where Hermione stood, head in her hands. Ron was looking at her, open-mouthed. Hazel wondered if this would be the last time she saw them, if she would be on the train home tonight. She could only imagine what the Dursleys would say—she hadn't even lasted two weeks. Everything had been going so well, for the first time in her life. If only she had listened to Hermione and stayed on the ground!

Once they were out of sight of the others, Professor Snape stopped and turned to her. His features were usually devoid of expression, but now they were contorted in fury. Hazel instinctively tried to pull back, but he maintained the firm grip on her wrist. She shrank back into herself, fearful of the man towering over her.

"Are you going to expel me?" she asked, her voice small and fearful. "Madam Hooch—"

"Was a fool to leave first years unattended with brooms."

"Oh," she said.

"And you were a fool to take that broom off the ground. I don't care how much you've flown at home, this is—"

"I've never flown before," she said. She knew she ought not have interrupted the professor, but it seemed important that he knew that detail.

"That was your first time on a broom?" he asked incredulously.

Hazel nodded.

Professor Snape considered this for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Surprised to find the snappish man at a loss for words, Hazel decided to try her luck at an explanation.

"Malfoy…he was making fun of Neville. I know you said to present a united front, sir, but he just made me so angry. He took Neville's Remembrall and was going to hide it or break it. I can't stand bullies, sir."

"Nor can I, Miss Potter," he said. "But you should not have flown. It was against the instructions of a teacher and a foolish thing to do. You could have seriously injured yourself."

Hazel hadn't thought of that—she had been too angry at Malfoy to think much at all. She dropped her gaze to the ground.

"Ten points from Slytherin," he said. "And detention with me tonight. Now return to your friends, Miss Potter."

*HP*

When Hazel arrived for her detention that night, she was surprised to find Professor Snape was not alone. A tall, muscular boy with coarse black hair was leaning against one of the classroom tables. She had seen Malfoy talking to him earlier that week—he was the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. Malfoy had been bragging about his skill at flying to the older boy, no doubt hoping to get a place on the team. Fortunately, it seemed Flint was not one to be persuaded by Malfoy.

"Miss Potter, this is Mister Flint, captain of our Quidditch team."

Hazel nodded at Flint, who returned the gesture.

"It seems someone told Mister Flint about the…incident…today."

"Oh," Hazel said, not quite sure where this was going.

"He was most impressed by what he heard. As such, he would like you to join the team."

"Join the team?"

"Our current Seeker, Mr. Higgs, is much better suited to a Chaser position," Flint said. "But you, you'd be a perfect Seeker. You're tiny, and fast too, I'd bet. And if that was your first time on a broom, you can only get better."

Seeker? Chaser? Hazel had no idea what he was talking about and said as much.

"Merlin, Potter! Haven't you ever seen a game of Quidditch?" Flint said.

Hazel shook her head.

Flint muttered something under his breath.

"Well, Potter. You've got a lot of learning to do."