Harry didn't take the portrait's advice immediately.

At breakfast he sat beside Draco Malfoy and made a point of not speaking to Pansy. She seemed hardly to notice his absence, talking animatedly with her collection of girls.

Harry had no idea how she'd accumulated so many hangers-on in two days, but it only stiffened his resolve to make her wait. He'd apologize at lunch, and not before. After she'd had a chance to see how Professor Quirrell was actually a great teacher.

"So," the Malfoy heir drawled as Harry sat down. "Finally realizing who your true friends need to be?"

"You offered help," Harry said. "Are you a man of your word?"

Draco stiffened slightly. "Of course."

"Then I'd like to accept your assistance in understanding what it means to be a proper Slytherin." Harry felt a sort of reckless defiance building within him, and didn't care anymore if this was the 'right' or 'wrong' choice. He couldn't be relying on portraits and emotional girls all the time.

He glanced over at Pansy, who seemed perfectly happy with her swarm of acquaintances, and his resolve stiffened. She would see.

"I'm sure you know Parkinson isn't a pureblood family any longer." Draco asked, apparently noticing his glance. "They make no secret of the fact. Generations removed - it was her grandfather who was the blood-traitor - but that kind of mistake doesn't just evaporate."

Harry's mother had been a mudblood, he knew. He turned, found Draco watching him with a slight smirking, half serious expression.

"We can learn from our ancestors' mistakes," Harry said stiffly. "And she can't control her lineage any more than you or I can."

"You're right, that it's our duty to learn from our families, but some families have more to teach than others." Draco smirked over at Pansy. "They're a clever family, the Parkinsons. Very clever, very subtle. They're careful to seem just rich enough, just 'mostly-pure' enough, to be respectable without too much being expected of them. But they're far and away the wealthiest halfblood family. They don't flout it, don't even speak of it."

Harry frowned. He hadn't guessed Pansy was wealthy. Then again, he hadn't thought himself wealthy either. The wizarding world apparently had different definitions of 'normal' wealth levels.

"My father knows because we Malfoys have been practically running this country for generations," Drco continued proudly. "Most people, see, they treat her without expectations one way or another. They consider her a 'safe' option; not quite as high as them, but not so low it's going to hurt their own standing at all. And all the while, she's smiling and scribbling notes to report back to her web-spinner mother."

Draco slid a bite of ham into his mouth, watching Harry sideways.

"If you're trying to make me abandon her, it won't work," Harry said firmly. "She as much as told me she was only. . . hanging around with me because I'm the most famous and a newcomer." It kept surprising him, how much realizations about his friend could hurt, even having known her only two days.

Draco laughed. "That was a cover, of course. She's really after your money. Potter isn't a noble house, if such things can be considered to exist any more, but it is an ancient one. And your own grandparents were quite successful. Well, paternal grandparents at least." He gave a bit of a sneer at the thought of Harry's mudblood mother.

"Why would Pansy need my money?" Harry asked. "You just said the Parkinsons are already really rich."

Draco smirked. "How do you think they got that way? You know the mudblood her grandfather married, that destroyed their flawless hundred years of purity? The one thing she had going for her? Land, and a lot of it. Not many families own additional properties these days, most are down to one or, occasionally, two. A lot of consolidation happened in the past few hundred years, a lot of restrictions, a lot of fortification. My father owns two vacation homes, and that's more than most. But the Parkinsons own an entire wizarding village."

Harry frowned. "How does that work?"

"No one lives there," Draco said offhandedly, pausing his speech for a minute to take another few bites. "It's a dead village at the moment, everyone killed or moved out during the war, but the Parkinsons bought or traded for it all. One piece at a time, with hardly anyone noticing. You'll notice we've had a major influx of foreign purebloods or returning halfblood families in the wake of the war's end? Within another few decades all those families will be expanding, looking for somewhere to settle properly. And who do you suppose will suddenly become even more wealthy?"

"The Parkinsons," Harry said, frowning.

"So," Draco smirked at him with obvious enjoyment of Harry's distress. "If she's done toying with you, feel free to step aside. She may be halfblood, but she could be a valuable ally to the wizard who knows what he's doing."

Harry stared down the table at Pansy. She didn't look like a master manipulator, trying to ensnare the richest person she could find. He wanted to believe she was better than that, that she'd befriended him because she saw he needed her, not because she knew his family had money. Draco would have been the better choice, if that were her objective. Right?

Abruptly, he made his decision. He stood, bowed to Draco. "My thanks," he said. "Your information is appreciated."

"I'll let you know when you can repay me," Draco said, tilting his head in acknowledgment. "I'm sure I'll think of a way."

Harry didn't like leaving an open-ended favour hanging over him, especially to the Malfoy heir, but Draco had told him a lot that was apparently not well-known. And it was useful to be aware of, if only to have a proper understanding of their respective places.

He and Pansy were closer to equal than he'd at first realized. If anything, her status would be considerably higher than his, if you set aside Harry's whole killed-Lord Voldemort-as-a-baby thing.

Which made it all the more important that she'd chosen to come to him. She was used to being the one holding all the secrets, the one who knew her family's hidden worth, weighing everyone else against it. She wasn't a desperate clinger, someone who just decided to befriend Harry on a whim, or because of his scar.

She'd chosen him, and he wasn't going to let that be wasted. Harry still didn't want to give in first, but he hadn't survived the Dursleys without being able to swallow his pride. It was a stretch, thinking of how he could apologize

"Pansy," he said softly, standing behind her. She turned and glanced up at him, then smiled.

"Excuse me a minute, girls." She rose smoothly and took Harry's arm, led him down the table to a less crowded spot.

"Look," she began, as,

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted in the same instant.

"What for?" she asked.

"I shouldn't have gotten mad at you, or your sister, because of what you said. I'm not the only one allowed to have opinions." He felt awkward, his face hot. It sounded even worse when he put it that way.

But Pansy shook her head. "I wanted to apologize to you, Harry. It was a stupid thing for me to get so upset about. Maybe he's a bad teacher, maybe he's not, but that shouldn't come between us."

Harry nodded. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to do next. Even if the temporary rift between them had been repaired, he felt off-balance, out of sync. Unsure what would be acceptable. Should they pretend it had never happened, and go back to planning and running around the castle together?

But now he knew her secrets, it felt. . . wrong to just pretend they were only two children again. She was rich. Not just a halfblood taking pity on another halfblood, but a wealthy heiress. Well, not quite, she had an older sister. Harry wasn't sure if they had a brother, or how inheritance worked in the wizard world.

He stood awkwardly, not able to think what move to make.

Pansy giggled. "Come on, I have more introductions for you."

Harry sighed, but allowed her to take his arm and drag him back. He had already seen Reiko around - the Japanese pureblood girl had a heavy accent and her hair was the darkest he'd ever seen. Pansy's other room-mates were Daphne Greengrass, a pretty, quiet girl with bright eyes and the only other female pureblood in their year, Tracey, Milicent, and Mildred.

Pansy introduced these last three by simply pointing to them in quick succession. Apart from Reiko and Daphne (presumably because of their blood-status) Pansy seemed most interested in the second-years. Imogen and Rachel sat close nearby, even though they were a year older, and joined in the conversation with casual surety.

Tracey had shoulder-length curly brown hair, dark eyes, and seemed perpetually distracted. While he watched, she tried to take a bite and turn to exclaim at something in the same moment, resulting in a collision that made Millicent and Mildred break into laughter.

The longer he watched, the more it seemed Tracey was the outsider of the group. Her sense of timing was off, way more than even Harry's own; she'd say things at just the wrong time or try to push her way into a conversation without waiting for a natural pause.

It seemed reckless to Harry. He wondered if Tracey would manage to integrate herself or only end up alienated.

Milicent was a large girl with a mid-length ponytail that Harry would have considered black if in any other company, but must be only very dark brown when measured against Reiko's. She was loud and outspoken, but upon observation she basically agreed with whatever Pansy said as though it were her own dearly-held belief.

Mildred looked sturdy but a bit thinner than Milicent (or even Pansy,) pale and freckled, with short brown hair and glasses. When she smiled at him when they were introduced, he noticed at once that her eyes were the clearest blue he'd ever seen. He wasn't sure they could possibly be natural.

But though the conversation was uncomfortable for him, it did have one positive outcome. After awkwardly fumbling through the ensuing discussion, he felt completely at ease again when it was finally back to just himself and Pansy.

Harry grimaced, very glad he'd apologized to Pansy before Defence class rather than waiting for her to see the truth.

It turned out, as competent and incredible as he was in one-on-one sessions, Professor Quirrell's teaching style didn't translate particularly well to the classroom as a whole.

There was no room or time for individual tutoring here, no careful practicing and adjusting wand movements to perfection. Just Professor Quirrell's less than effective demonstrations (he used his older and weaker wand during class) and the students trying with minimal success to mimic him.

Harry was glad when class finally ended, so he no longer had to feel embarrassed by Professor Quirrell's obvious inability to handle a large class. It was a terrible shame; he was a great teacher, so patient and detailed in explaining things to Harry, but somehow his class just felt. . . bland and completely ordinary. Unexceptional.

Pansy did scoff as they departed class, unable to resist the chance.

"So that's your great teacher? Sorry, Harry, but I still think I should trust Primma's judgment on teachers more than yours."

"It's not like that when he teaches me," Harry said, his face hot. "I guess he's just better individually."

"Or you're an inexperienced judge of skill," Pansy said, but then smiled to show it wasn't meant unkindly. "Come on, let's get to lunch."

As the week went on, Harry grew more consumed by the world of magic. There were charms and spells and hexes and transfiguration and curses, each subset of magic had its own rules, each class of spell had its own type of wand movements.

Many transfigurations only required a touch with the wand, but more complicated mental preparation, whereas charms generally required near-perfect wandwork and precise pronunciation.

Transfiguration was the most technically difficult class, but one that Harry did at least passably well in. The simple wand motions were a huge factor, but he also found that his years of feigning, exaggerating, and suppressing emotions with the Dursleys had made his mind singularly well adapted to the mental effort required for the class.

He wasn't anywhere near top of the class in any subject, but in transfiguration he came the closest.

Herbology was even more boring than Defence, and almost as dull as History of Magic. Harry didn't see how gardening was supposed to be important to a wizard, that's what shopping was for. And they had to take it three times a week! Harry felt he'd already had plenty of experience gardening back in Privet Drive.

The class that stood out as the most unusual, though, was Potions. Like most magicks, it had its own set of rules and opaque requirements, but instead of simply wands and movements it also required precise measuring of ingredients and impeccable timing. The size of the cauldron was as important as its materials; the type of spoon and how often you stirred mattered as much as the direction in which you did so.

Harry had barely glanced at his potions book by Friday, their first class in the subject, but what little he'd read was enough to completely baffle him.

The Potions dungeon was huge, easily twice the size of most other classrooms, and decorated with a disturbing array of curiosities - mostly dead animals or parts floating in various liquids. Harry could almost feel one particular jar of pickled eyeballs watching him as he sat down.

Then the Gryffindors arrived. Harry was quickly growing used to whispers following him everywhere, but this group always seemed to take his Sorting personally. Weasley, the red-haired pureblood from the train, kept glaring at Harry whenever he thought no one was looking, and he was sure he heard the words 'dark wizard' or 'next dark lord' several times from the other side of the room.

Harry sat straight, resisting the desire to shrink lower in his seat and hide. Ignore them, show strength, and they would get bored and leave him alone. Eventually.

It was hard, but he maintained a facade of calm until the professor swept in and the whispers fell silent.

Professor Snape, wearing his voluminous black robes and cloak, strode to the front of the room. He tapped his wand once against the side of his desk as he spun to face the class. The quiet sound traveled through the now quietly waiting classroom, bringing every student to complete attention.

He gave a brief introduction to the subject, which intrigued Harry far more than anything the textbook had mentioned, then let his gaze wander across the students as though weighing each of their potential.

"I don't expect many of you to understand the subtle power we will study here. Indeed, most of you will barely scrape by an acceptable grade. Every now and again, though, we are graced with someone truly. . . exceptional."

His eyes met Harry's, then flicked over toward Draco.

"Mister Malfoy, what would be the result of combining kava root with valerian, assuming you knew the proper preparation methods?"

"The first stage in the relaxation potion, Professor Snape," Draco said smoothly, smirking.

The professor gave a nod, barely glanced at Hermione, who had put her hand in the air the moment the question was asked. "Mr. Potter,"

Harry stiffened, glanced up at the professor. He had brought out his textbook and noteparchment, but was sure he wouldn't know the answer to whatever he was going to be asked.

"What is most important to remember when potion crafting?"

Hermione's hand went up again, though Harry saw Weasley trying to get her to put it down.

"Patience and caution?" Harry guessed. It certainly wasn't a textbook answer, but he hoped it was an acceptable one.

Snape watched him a moment longer, an unreadable expression flitting across his face, then gave a short nod. "Both essential skills to keep in mind. Our art is a volatile one, if not treated with the proper respect. Two points to Slytherin, well done both of you."

Draco looked smug. Hermione appeared frustrated. Harry just felt relieved. If the question had been anything actually difficult, he knew he would have failed miserably.

Snape finally turned his attention to Hermione. "Very well, Miss Granger, what is the traditional name for the longan fruit?"

She stood, mouth half open as she stared at the wall, obviously trying to bring an answer to mind. Snape gave her a nasty smile and gestured sharply. "Sit down, Miss Granger."

"The longan is a tropical fruit, commonly found in Asia," Hermione said quickly. "Its main use in potions-making is the de-aging potion, and the later stages of the relaxation potion you mentioned earlier—"

"None of that is what I asked," Snape said. "You'll find no benefit from being an insufferable know-it-all in my class. The correct answer is, of course, 'Dragon Eye'."

"That's not fair! That wasn't in any of the potions or herbology textbooks for our year."

"I told you to sit down, Miss Granger. That will be a point lost from Gryffindor for backtalk and another for stubborn arrogance."

Hermione sat down, glaring and fuming, but restrained herself to angry muttering during the remainder of the class.

Potions was entirely different from most other classes, and though it required extreme precision Harry found it oddly relaxing. He couldn't help noticing that, mudblood or no, Hermione's potions tended to come out nearly perfect on the first try, a fact which made Draco furious. Still, he and Harry both managed to impress the professor, who gave an acknowledging nod to each of them.

Author's Notes:

I have been mildly dissatisfied with Snape in this scene, and kept pushing it back in the hopes that giving it more time will make things clearer, but at some point I have to actually post the thing. I'm having a very hard time finding a line I like between 'I hate James Potter' and 'But he's respectful and sumbissive and nothing at all like his father' and 'He's one of my Slytherins' and 'But I still hate James Potter'.

I don't want Severus to be an antagonist, really, but I don't want them to be all chummy either. I'm not sure yet where that balance lies.