Another day (*weak voice* er . . . three weeks?), another chapter.

I hate college apps.

Harry Potter does not belong to me. Girl!Harry (also known as Lucia) and Slytherin!Harry (also known as Jamie), however, do belong to me.

. . . And the tens of thousands of other fanfiction writers who have come up with and used those and similar ideas in their own fics. *sigh* At least most don't have both at once!

Severitus' Challenge doesn't belong to me either. But I'm indiscriminately borrowing it anyway. ^_^
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~*~Intentional Mishaps~*~
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Harry sat in one of the desks, slouched forward, chin resting on his folded hands. Another year, another DADA teacher. So it goes. Still, if this Mundugus Fletcher was the same one mentioned by Dumbledore at the end of the previous year as part of the old crowd', it might be interesting. He would have been friends with his parents, most likely--and if one thing about Harry had not changed, it would be that he never grew tired of learning more about his parents.

That topic of musing dealt with to the extent it could be for the nonce, he just allowed his mind to drift. It being still rather early in the morning, with the light coming through the window greyish blue through the cloud cover, drifting was far easier than in certain other circumstances. Like a dog worrying at a bone, though, his mind soon returned to the previous day's events--particularly his disastrous conversation with Lucia.

Even thinking so briefly on it, he was surprised at the depths of negative emotion that thought inspired. Anger and sorrow came first and foremost. It had hurt him, he admitted to himself, very deeply, that Lucia had refused to believe him . . . just like that. Without even a doubt in her mind.

Perhaps because he trusted in her so deeply. He felt that he knew her, as well as he knew himself. She was, after all, Harry Potter. And if there was any person he trusted above all others, it would be himself. Because he knew who he was, to a certain extent what he was capable of, and what his motivations were for his actions.

Dreaming of her, he supposed he had always thought that they would have been identical in every way; that he would have been able to talk to her about anything because she would understand, the way possibly no one else could. That he would be able to trust her as well as he trusted himself, because all the capabilities, the motivations, were the same.

Unfortunately, it hadn't turned out that way. He had underestimated the effect their differing lives had on them--despite superficial resemblance, they really were very different people. It was probably about time he realized that and stopped trying to fit her into his own mold. He was even beginning to doubt that all their differences were due to their upbringings. Surely, having been raised by the Malfoys, Lucia should have turned out like her brother, a Slytherin?

He remembered her comment that first night about the Sorting Hat. Didn't even mention Slytherin. Surely that indicated something, that even back in first year, despite having grown up with the Malfoys, her basic personality was such that she was still more of a Gryffindor than Harry himself.

That, right there, was the whole problem. Harry's outlook on life had changed, exactly how significantly he was not yet sure. Still, one thing he had figured out in the past few days back at Hogwarts: if not for his fame (of the sort) and the fact that the House seemed filled with Junior Death Eaters, he would actually be more comfortable in Slytherin now than he was in Gryffindor. And Lucia was pure Gryffindor, through and through.

Considering that, it was not so much of a surprise that she had refused to believe his tale of Dumbledore's manipulations. Gryffindors held a store of blind loyalty practically equal to that of the truest of Hufflepuffs, and if possible were even more fierce about defending those they believed in. He doubted he'd ever be able to convince her that Dumbledore had indeed lied to and manipulated him. Even if he had concrete proof, she would ignore the facts staring her in the face.

It occurred to him that Hagrid would not have picked her up from her parents' house and taken her shopping--even if Dumbledore had known at that point that she was Harry Potter, there would have been no excuse good enough to preclude suspicion on the part of Lucius Malfoy.

Then . . . had her Dumbledore known yet? He probably had by Christmas--otherwise, how would she have received the Invisibility Cloak, as he assumed she had done. There were too many of his adventures, after all, in which that cloak had been more or less necessary. But before she appeared, looking like a miniature version of James Potter with Lily's green eyes, had he known?

If he hadn't known, he wouldn't have tried to manipulate her away from Slytherin and into Gryffindor. If she hadn't known she was Harry Potter, she would not have asked him, at the end of their first year, why it was that Voldemort had wanted to kill them so badly, so he would have felt no need to lie and misdirect. In her case, she had been right.

Having determined that, he felt some small part of his animosity ease away. But . . . the largest part had nothing to do with the apparent truth of the matter. She hadn't trusted him. Bottom line, she had not trusted him to tell her the truth, even about something so potentially vitally important.

That was what had hurt the worst--because he knew that he would never lie to her, and he had somehow expected her to know, too. Or at least to trust and believe. Would that have been so hard? Lifting his eyes, he gazed, unseeing, at the blackboard. Fine. So be it. If she wants to be that way, there is hardly anything I can do to convince her otherwise.

And Ron and Hermione. They knew him; they ought to know him better than this by now. He pressed his forehead against crossed arms. Is it just a terminal fault of Gryffindors? Must they be so blind, even to one of their number? He sighed, so quietly that even he could not hear it clearly.

Raising his head once again, his mouth firmed with determination. Fine. At least I still have Draco and Snape. And how funny, to think that the two people he had liked least of all in his past four years at Hogwarts were now perhaps the two people who knew him best.

Ironic indeed.

Footsteps caught his attention and he looked towards the door. Lucia appeared, seemingly alone. She looked around, catching his eyes, then looked away. Ah, so she feels a bit guilty about yesterday, does she? A spiteful little voice in the back of his head cackled. Good!

It seemed that she was turning toward him, but in the end, the hesitation he could see clearly in her eyes did her in; she turned away and sat in the front row on the opposite side of the classroom.

The spiteful side of him continued to gloat, but eventually his conscience overpowered it. It wasn't entirely her fault that she couldn't think outside of the boundaries of her personality . . . after all, he doubted that he could, either. He just couldn't see his boundaries, so the fact that he couldn't think outside them didn't bother him as much.

He turned his head and looked at Lucia, patiently waiting until she noticed his regard and locked eyes with him. I'm still not speaking to you. she warned.

He had to muffle a snort at that self-contradictory statement, but took it in the spirit it was meant. I've been thinking since then. I've come to the conclusion that I may have misinterpreted his actions after all. It even had the virtue of being truth--in her case, at least.

She brightened. I knew you'd reconsider, Jamie! It was quite absurd, after all.

He closed his eyes briefly. How could she, seemingly so similar to him, know him so little? When his eyes reopened, though, there was still that hint, that spark of anger. I saw it your way, you mean. Regardless of what you think the truth is, I truly believed otherwise yesterday morning. He wished he could stand and stalk out . . . but no, not with class starting so soon. Absurd or not, you could have at least refrained from laughing in my face. You could have at least pretended to believe me.

He turned his eyes away from the raven-haired girl, back toward his desk, on which he had placed several sheets of parchment, his bottle of ink (absently, he noticed he was getting a bit low--he needed to remember to dig his spare out of his trunk and to buy some the next time they went to Hogsmeade). He just couldn't quite bear to see Lucia bubbling with happiness that the rift between them had been, apparently, healed.

You may have forgiven me . . . but I'm not sure I'm quite ready to forgive you yet.
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Much like her pseudo-twin, Lucia unpacked what she thought would most likely be necessary for the lesson. As always, ever since third year, a small chill ran down her spine. Once, Defense Against the Dark Arts had been one of her favorite classes, despite the quality (or lack thereof) of the majority of her teachers.

That was before she had become one of the beasts meant to be defended against. Now, every time she walked into this particular classroom, she was struck anew with the awful fear that this time, the teacher would discover her secret, or that one of the other students would.

As long as she took the Wolfsbane Potion, she'd be fine. Unfortunately, she doubted the other students would believe that. She'd be ostracized if her secret ever came to light and, although she had never been precisely the best of friends with anyone other than Hermione and Draco and, to a certain extent, Ginny, she was on fairly good terms with just about everyone. Even Slytherin had cut her some slack, due to the fact that she was sister to one of their own.

Perhaps it was unfairly selfish of her, but she didn't want to lose that. Well, excepting the regard of the Slytherins--but she didn't really mind losing that.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she glanced at Jamie, still the only other person in the room.

Jamie . . . he was different than she had expected. Not at all like her. His baseless accusations of Dumbledore the previous day was proof enough of that. At least he had seen his error, because as different as he was, she didn't really want to lose him permanently. Still, the remarks he had made . . . the tone of voice especially . . . they unnerved her.

Not only because they seemed strange to the quiet young man who had haunted her dreams through the month of August, but only because they reminded her of, not herself, but her brother. The two of them almost never fought, but when they did, Draco would often go all distant and cold and almost bitter . . . much as Jamie had just done.

She had spoken greater truth than she thought Tuesday evening when she commented that he and oniisan were quite alike in many ways.

Oniisan.

Ruthlessly, she shoved the grief down, deep within her heart. She couldn't afford to grieve now, not in this strange place that was so similar to and yet so scarily different from her own home. Everything seemed strangely colder. Snape . . . oniisan . . . they looked the same, but they acted so different.

With Snape, she couldn't even really pinpoint the difference. He was cutting, elusive, cold, everything he had been in her world . . . perhaps the difference was that she got the feeling that here, he actually meant it.

Gone was the man who had bought her a Firebolt when her Nimbus 2000 had been destroyed near the beginning of her third year, claiming it was a combination belated birthday and belated Christmas present--as if he hadn't already gotten her something for both occasions--claiming that it really wouldn't be quite fair if Gryffindor forfeited. It ought to be given the chance to prove that it was an awful team with no chance of winning.

That was her Uncle Severus. So she had hugged him and thanked him and run off before he could deduct points for accosting a professor.

That's just the way things had been. They both knew that they cared for each other, that he was godfather to her just as much as he was to oniisan, even if the relationship wasn't an official one.

The familiarity made the strangeness of the situation all the more heartbreaking. She wanted to go home. So her father was after her, back home, so what? He couldn't harm her, not here (there) at Hogwarts. She wanted to go home.

All right, Harry?

She looked up into familiar brownish eyes and for a moment everything was all right with the world again. She had lost count of the number of times Hermione had asked her that same, simple phrase in that exact tone of voice. It was an unexpected touch of home.

Then she saw Weasley standing behind Hermione. . . . He almost looked like he was worried too. That incongruity was enough to bring her back to her current reality. It's only because he doesn't know I'm a Malfoy. She assured herself. It was the only explanation she could think of for his strangely . . . well, almost nice behaviour.

She summoned a weak smile for Hermione's sake. I'm fine. Just a bit homesick, is all.

Why don't you write a letter home? Weasley suggested suddenly. She raised an eyebrow. Was he actually being helpful? The redhead blushed. It's just . . . he stammered, . . . well, I was real homesick at first, in first year. But owling home always made me feel better, even if my letter wasn't about anything important.

Lucia nearly crossed her eyes trying to imagine Lucius Malfoy's reaction to a letter filled with pointless minutiae from a homesick eleven-year-old's life. I don't think that would work. There are . . . erm . . . certain problems with contacting my family. Even the weak smile disappeared. If they were even interested in contacting me, that is. Well, Father would be glad to see me I'm sure . . . so that he could go ahead and finish what he started. She shook it off. Never mind. It's not your problem. Thanks for talking to me, though . . . it really helped.

To Lucia's surprise--she had expected them to go sit beside Jamie, after all--both set down their books and took a seat, Hermione right beside her and Weasley behind Hermione. Weasley did seem a bit hesitant, probably because of her previous treatment of him. For the first time, she felt the beginnings of a pang of remorse and smiled at him. Not a large or particularly bright smile, but a smile nonetheless. Perhaps, after all, this version of Ron Weasley did not deserve her ill will.

The thought that her red-haired (former?) nemesis might actually have a good side was sufficiently engrossing that she almost missed their DADA instructor's entrance. Up close, the man's face seemed to have far too many lines and creases for his age--if, that is, he actually was the same Mundugus Fletcher from the old crowd', who had presumably been the same age as their parents--probably mid- to late thirties.

As a whole, he did not look all that memorable. His hair was a medium brown and his eyes, although she couldn't tell for sure, looked to be a rather muddy hazel or brown. About the only real distinguishing feature was a long thin white line that ran down along his right jawline--a scar that made Lucia uncomfortably aware of her own.

He picked a list up off the teacher's desk, scanning it quickly before beginning to call out names. At Evans, Henrietta he glanced up and looked assessingly at Lucia. You have the famous Evans eyes, I see. He finally said. You have a nickname?

Lucia nodded. Harry, sir. She replied quietly, and sighed in relief as he moved on with no further comment.

It was as he was in the middle of saying Jamie's name that it happened. Suddenly, his wand flashed out.

The red spell-light arrowed directly toward Jamie. Almost impossibly fast, Jamie ducked under his desk and rolled out of the way, leaving the spell to continue on and hit Seamus--the sandy-haired boy had had the bad luck to be seated directly behind the Boy-Who-Lived.

Lucia was impressed. It had taken her months before she was that quick on the draw. Then again, she had always been merely mediocre in Survival. Despite her enjoyment of the class and realization of the value of what they were learning, she had never been quite paranoid and suspicious enough to be a top student.

Not only did he escape the spell, but in the same motion drew his wand and fired off two quick spells of his own. Expelliarmus! Accio wand!

In the background, Lavender leaned over Seamus. Almost immediately, he stirred, and with Lavender's hand up, stood.

Jamie's wand was back in his pocket as he twirled Professor Fletcher's in his left hand. Constant vigilance, I presume, Professor? He asked urbanely. Lucia had to suppress a smile. It sounded so much like something oniisan would say when he was annoyed and trying to hide it.

The man's muddy eyes did not stir from Jamie's left hand. My wand, if you please, Mr. Potter?

With a flourished bow, Jamie handed the wand back to the teacher. As their heads came closest, the green-eyed boy said something to the professor, provoking a short whispered exchange that made the man start back slightly to look at her twin with a peculiar mixture of caution and surprise.
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Next time, you might want to target someone less alert than me. Jamie advised. Although his voice was calm, his pulse was only just beginning to slow. He was not nearly as in control of himself as he seemed . . . but he hoped everyone else would only see the outer shell.

You give me back my wand, knowing full well that I will do this again? Mundugus Fletcher took a closer look at the young man. Was he mad or just stupid?

It's for our own good. Besides, I am assuming that you are the Mundugus Fletcher that was part of the old crowd' and not an impostor. I may not have chosen to trust you, but I do trust Dumbledore's judgment.

Fletcher had gone very, very still and paled ever so slightly. What do you know about the old crowd'?

You and Arabella Figg are both members; it is presumably a group of people on the side of good, as Dumbledore had them summoned, and he wouldn't summon someone on Voldemort's side.

Jamie released his hold on Fletcher's wand and stepped back. I warn you, though . . . just because I know you're not a Death Eater doesn't mean I won't fight back. He glided back to his seat.

Mundugus Fletcher watched the boy walk back to his seat, mind still churning, swimming in the adrenaline rush that the child's words had so innocently engendered. So. He found himself thinking, words that nearly everyone who met him thought at least once, though the tone of the phrase varied with almost every person that said or thought it.

So that's Harry Potter.
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So, Professor Snape, are you growing senile or am I just crazy?

Snape Looked at Jamie, one eyebrow raised as if to ask, What brought that on?'

Draco drawled from the other side of the room, where he was inspecting some of the jewel-bubbles on the far wall, With no further evidence, I would assume the latter. What brought this on?

I just thought I'd see if I could find out--before Potions tomorrow--why Professor Snape made the summer assignment so easy. Jamie directed his answer toward the blond Slytherin.

He then found himself the target of two incredulous pair of eyes. The other two inhabitants of the room chorused.

Jamie felt his shoulder blades prickling the way they did when someone was watching from concealment . . . or when he got a feeling that something wasn't quite right. Funny, that's about what Hermione said. He tried to laugh off his anxiety.

Draco shook his head. Harry . . . I am thought to be fairly good at Potions, and even I found that assignment moderately challenging. Much as I am loathe to, I'm afraid I have to agree with the Mudblood. You're crazy.

One moment all was quiet, the next moment Jamie had whipped out his wand, Draco's hair had suddenly turned the same brownish color as Hermione's, and the wand had returned to Jamie's pocket. the black-haired boy said with a hint of menace, is the very smart Mudblood who consistently outscores you in every subject' to you. A pregnant pause. Or you could refrain from saying Mudblood' at all. That would be even better.

I do have certain standards to meet. Draco reminded him a bit petulantly. It's just not done to be a Slytherin and polite to Mud--er, Muggle-borns. He changed words quickly when he caught Jamie's warning glance.

Acknowledged. Good save, by the way. Jamie inclined his head graciously. Then he cocked it slightly. Don't you mean Death Eater in training', though? Slytherin doesn't have to be a synonym for Dark and Muggle-hater, you know. Despite popular opinion.

Draco's head snapped back, shocked. If that's what you think of me, then why are you even bothering to work with me? You really should have taken care of me already.

I'm afraid I'm still too much of a Gryffindor for that. Jamie waved his hand languidly. You see, I still harbor the hopes that you'll decide to break with your father and come over to our side instead. Hope springs eternal, y'know.

He drew in a breath, eyes suddenly seeming to pierce through to Draco's soul. Slowly, as if afraid he'd regret it, he asked quietly, . . . do I have reason to hope?

Trying to figure out the answer to that question himself, Draco remained silent.
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Snape stalked among the cauldrons, sampling, examining, and making many caustic comments. Despite the comments, though, he was unexpectedly pleased. The potions were not all correct by any stretch of the imagination, but nearly all the mistakes made were--dare he call them?--intelligent mistakes.

Not for the faint of heart, this class had provided him with an unprecedented opportunity to stalk among the cauldrons without causing some squeaky little scared child to accidentally drop in the wrong ingredient or the wrong quantity, almost inevitably melting his or her cauldron. No scared little children could survive in here--and so far, there had been no melted cauldrons.

As he wound his way over toward the cauldron over which Potter and Draco leaned, his mind inevitably projected back to the words uttered by the Boy-Who-Lived earlier. Easy? Even now, the very though almost mortally offended him. Yet it had been clear the infuriating boy meant it.

Well, this would be a test of sorts. When he taught this potion at all in his regular classes, it nearly always came up near the end of the sixth year. He had even been known to use it as part of the Potions NEWT upon occasion. Even Draco--who was one of his best students, all accusations of favoritism aside--would be incapable of brewing this potion without a partner who was just as good. Although it took a very short time to brew, the timing had to be perfect for this particular potion to work.

Dump the crushed scarabs in now. Jamie instructed Draco as he approached. One eyebrow raised. They were further along in the creation of the potion than all but one of the seventh-year pairs . . . that is, assuming that they had done it correctly so far.

Draco held the tray over the cauldron, then hesitated. But . . .

PUT THE DAMN BEETLES IN NOW, DRACO! Jamie bellowed. The tray flew from the blond's hands but landed safely in the black-haired Gryffindor's; nearly all the beetles landed neatly in the cauldron.

Jamie dropped to his knees, gathering the few that had fallen outside the cauldron. After inspecting them for any dirt or other foreign substances, he dropped them in as well. Honestly, Draco, weren't you reading the instructions? It said two minutes, not two and a half minutes or five minutes or whenever you damn well feel like.

What makes you king of the world? Draco snapped. Maybe I did read the instructions correctly, hm?

Then your sense of timing is off. Jamie said brusquely, and turned back to slicing the next ingredient.

Now there were melted cauldrons, as Jamie's bellow had accomplished for several teams what his caustic comments and hovering could not. A long-suffering expression on his face, Snape rushed off to deal with the dozen emergencies that had arisen.

Not, however, before he noted that Jamie's bellow had coincided precisely with the two-minute mark.
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As Survival let out, Lucia walked away. I never knew Harry could yell that loudly. A voice came from behind her, its tone a combination of shock and a hint of admiration.

She turned her head slightly to see Parvati. Neither did I. She admitted. Did you notice? His and Malfoy's was the only perfect one.

Yeah, because his yell effectively sabotaged everyone else's. Parvati pointed out ruefully. Then again, neither Justin nor I are all that good at Potions to begin with, so ours probably wouldn't have worked anyway. She inclined her head down the corridor. Where are you headed, if you don't mind my asking?

Lucia shrugged. I don't know. I suppose I should go back to the dorm and study something, but I'm really not in the mood . . .

Parvati bit her lip nervously. I was . . . well, I thought I'd go down to the Quidditch field and take a quick flight. I find it helps sometimes . . . anyway, I was wondering . . . if you'd like to go with me? I mean, I know you're new here and you don't know me too well--I'm Parvati Patil, by the way, but I'm sure you know that already--but . . .

I agree already. Lucia held her hands up in surrender with a smile and a laugh. No need to talk my ear off. I think you're right, a flight would be just wonderful right now. I would be honoured to accompany you.

Parvati brightened. Come with me. She set off down the hall and, mindful of the fact that she wasn't supposed to know' where everything was yet, Lucia followed good-naturedly in her wake. Yes, flying sounded like a perfect occupation just now. It had been . . . too long. She was looking forward to getting up on a broom again.
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When the door to his classroom opened at eight o'clock Friday morning, Snape had a sick sensation in his stomach that he knew exactly who it was. He looked up, and sure enough, it was the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Him.

Mr. Potter, last time I checked, this class began at nine, not at eight. Or is there some obscure rule you are following that requires you to appear an hour early for every class of mine?

Love ya too, professor. Jamie tossed off absently.

Snape could not keep himself from gaping. What?!

Jamie looked up and smirked at the expression on his potions instructor's face. Yes? You might want to close your mouth before you let the flies in.

His mouth snapped shut and he reddened. That insolent . . . The problem was, the stupid boy was probably trying to incite just that reaction. Against his inclination, he refrained from responding, and was vindicated when he saw the boy's face fall slightly.

Minutes passed with only the scratching of the quill and small sounds of Jamie getting his gear set up to break the silence. Jamie finally asked. What would you have done if I had been sorted into Slytherin.

Snape shut his eyes briefly. He had been trying his hardest to forget that little tidbit, as it contradicted several assumptions of his about the Boy-Who-Lived that he wasn't quite ready to relinquish yet. Finally, he settled for the humourous--but still true--answer. I would have wondered with whom Lily was unfaithful.

Jamie choked back a laugh at that. No son of James Potter could ever be anything but a Gryffindor, eh? The laughter fell away, and a . . . hopeful? scared? practically uninterpretable . . . look came into his eyes. Am I really so much like my father?

Whimsically, Snape decided to give that question the answer it deserved. Before now, I would have said you were practically identical to him in every way. He was constantly getting himself and his friends into trouble, running like a headstrong fool (or a Gryffindor) into every dangerous situation he could find.

Now, though, I can see a great deal more of your mother in you. She, too, often got caught up in Potter's problems--but more often than not, it was her level head that got them safely out. She was rather more studious than your father, who succeeded at a mediocre level because he was too lazy to exert himself further. Yes . . . you do remind me more of your mother, now.

He waved a hand. But surely your relatives must have told you many stories of the escapades of your parents and their particular group of friends.

Just a moment previous, Jamie's expression had been almost completely open, every emotion clear, as he hung on Snape's every word. It had been disconcerting, those pure emerald eyes trained so desperately on his own, as if they truly believed he held all the answers. Now, though, he closed. Completely.

As far as my aunt and uncle are concerned, he began slowly, guardedly, Lily Evans disappeared off the face of the earth for ten months of the year. Lily and James Potter died in a car crash.
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For the new year, the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins had been gifted with new lab partners. It came as no particular surprise to Blaise, Parvati, and Lucia that Jamie and Draco had been paired with each other. For that matter, few of the rest were surprised either--though many were sympathetic towards their fellow house member--but they attributed the pairing to Snape's sadism rather than any more concrete motive.

Please don't bellow at me this time. Draco said dryly. I think one heart attack is enough for now.

I wouldn't have had to bellow if you had paid attention to me the first time. Jamie replied, blinking innocently. Don't worry about that, though. Today's potion doesn't require anywhere near the precise timing that that one did, so there should be no trouble.

The two worked in a companionable silence, pretending unawareness of the stares from the rest of the class at the incomprehensible sight of Potter and Malfoy actually working with each other.

This continued until Harry picked up an ingredient that was not supposed to go into the potion yet. Glancing to make sure Snape had his back turned and no one else was staring too closely, he brought his hand over the cauldron.

Harry, that's . . . Draco began to warn.

Jamie winked. He dropped the handful in and began to mouth. Three . . . Two . . . One . . . As the potion exploded, he pulled himself and Draco under the table and out of the way.

What are you . . .?! Draco began furiously.

Jamie put a finger to the blond's lips and mouthed the word,

Mr. Potter! Jamie and Draco tentatively backed out from under the table, standing to face a livid Professor Snape. Are you deaf, boy, or merely stupid? I clearly said . . . he ranted on about the potion that Jamie had just destroyed, and Draco shot Jamie a vindicated look.

Schooling his expression to appear properly sullen and affronted, Jamie interrupted, But Professor, I didn't . . .

Snape raised his voice. Are you contradicting a Professor? A detention, then, to add to the ten points I am deducting from Gryffindor. Tonight. Eight o'clock. You can try, he sneered here, to make the potion properly then.

Still looking mutinous, Jamie grudgingly agreed. And tried to ignore the throbbing in his ankle where Draco had kicked it. After he had already hit it against the table. Although, he admitted, the pain did help him to keep the sour expression on his face.

With a sigh, he started to clean up the remains of the cauldron that had been so stunningly melted.
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Setting his bag down inside the Survival room, Jamie turned. I have to get to lunch and History of Magic soon, so could you please not rant for too long?

Draco closed his eyes, giving the impression of someone trying in vain to gather up the shredded remains of his temper. What were you thinking?! Were you trying piss off Severus? Because if that was your aim, you succeeded admirably well.

I was trying to help you, you git. Jamie offered, his voice falsely sweet.

Help me? Help me?! You completely ruined both our grades for today's assignment!

Jamie sniffed. For me, that's nothing new. For you, I'm sure that Snape would be more than happy to let you make it up. He tapped his fingers against his thighs. On the other hand . . . I may be drawing bad conclusions, but it occurred to me . . . that your father might not be precisely happy if he learned that you and I were even sort of beginning to get along.

Draco's eyes widened. At the very least, he'd order me to break it off immediately . . .

. . . I'm betting he'd tell you instead to make up to me, get me comfortable around you, and then either stab me in the back or capture me to bring to Voldemort. Jamie's voice was cheerful, as if it hadn't occurred to him that they were discussing his disposal.

Assuming I haven't been given that sort of orders already. Draco pointed out dryly.

I assure you, you will find it harder than you think to stab me in the back. Jamie returned, still smiling, still cheerful--a fact that Draco found more than a little irritating. Couldn't he at least pretend the thought worried him, even a bit? And if you had been given those orders, then you seemed perilously close to disobeying them before we got thrown together here in Survival.

Just biding my time for the best moment to strike. Draco replied urbanely, his eyes sparkling. Well, now that that's been cleared up, I'm off. He nearly reached the door before turning back part of the way. By the way . . . I bet I can provoke a better explosion than you can next time.

Then he was gone, and Jamie threw back his head and laughed. We'll see about that . . .
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At eight o'clock precisely--Snape knew from experience and years of fiddling that his clock was exactly tuned to Hogwarts time--there was a quiet knock on the door to the classroom. For a moment, he was disconcerted, but then he remembered the events of the morning. Right, Potter's detention. At his sharp Come in, the boy entered, then began setting up a cauldron and gathering ingredients.

So, I see you're not an hour early for once. He observed dryly.

I ate supper an hour ago. He pointed out. I would have come straight here then, but I had to fend off the rest of the Quidditch team trying to elect me as their captain.

Fend off? I would think you would have been honored.

With a small spell, Jamie had started the fire beneath the cauldron burning and was now slicing up the first of the ingredients. Being the Boy-Who-Lived and He-Who-Is-Expected-To-Be-The-One-To-Defeat-Voldemort-Eventually is quite enough responsibility for me, thank you. I need some study time, after all. He glanced up briefly. Final verdict was Angelina. Just in case you were wondering.

His current ingredient was added, a pinch at a time, just as the instructions had said. He then turned his attention to crushing the next step. Without, Snape realized, even looking at the instructions. He raised an eyebrow. What are you doing? He asked.

The Gryffindor shrugged. You said during class that I would be trying to rebrew the potion this evening. So I thought I'd get started.

From your . . . performance . . . yesterday, I already know quite well that you are capable of brewing this particular potion. The Potions professor winced at the memory of that perfectly-timed bellow. I was more curious as to why you felt it necessary to sabotage yourself. You are aware, are you not, that the particular ingredient you added at that particular point in the process, reacts with the rest of the potion in a way such as to make the largest and most impressive explosion that particular potion is capable of creating.

Jamie grinned. I figured, if I was going to melt the cauldron, I might as well do it in style. Even Neville has never managed results quite that spectacular!

It should be noted that Mr. Longbottom has never tried, either. Snape pointed out acidicly. He then came to the question that was the most important reason he had given Potter detention. Why did you do it?

The grin fell away. I don't want Draco to have to deal with the fallout that would inevitably occur if the fact that he and I actually get along now were to become common knowledge. A twisted half-smile. I don't want Draco to become a Death Eater--especially since, knowing my life, I'd end up confronting him sooner or later and probably end up being responsible for his death.

But if he makes that decision himself, I can and will do nothing to stop him. He has too many people trying to control his life already. He took a deep breath. Letting out that he had become (sort of more or less) friends with me would bring things to a head one way or another and force him to make his choice. I don't want to make him choose between his father and me--for one, it's not fair to him, and . . . he sighed . . . I don't want to have to face the fact that I'd probably lose.

Snape blinked. He might have expected this sort of well thought out reasoning from a few of his seventh years, but certainly not from Harry Potter. It surprised him . . . and, in an obscure way, touched him, to know that the boy cared enough about Draco to think things through instead of rushing in like a typical Gryffindor, heedless of the consequences.

Of course, he had had shoved in his face more than once in the past week the fact that, while Harry Potter was many things, a typical Gryffindor was most definitely not one of them. Not anymore.

He had been as doubtful as anyone when this particular pairing had become evident. But . . . if Draco cared even half as much about Potter . . . this friendship had a potential to become a very good thing. For both of them.

Professor Snape? Jamie noted that the Potions Master had fallen into rather deep musings of some sort. What should I do now? I've finished the potion, but I people might think you're getting soft if you let me go now.

Smirk. Snape went over to one of the shelves lining the walls of the classroom, the one on which he kept copies of old textbooks for reference. Flipping through a couple of them, he finally selected one, brought it over, and set it down, opened to a certain potion. We certainly couldn't have that, could we? A wave indicating the page. Brew that. Then you may go.

Jamie scanned the recipe quickly. But this'll take hours! It was nearly as complicated as the one they had brewed in Survival, and a great deal longer.

A smirk that was a bit more like a smile. Isn't that the point?
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It was nearly an hour after curfew when Jamie stumbled back into the Gryffindor common room. In a haze of exhaustion, he wove his way over in the direction of the stairs, only to nearly fall over when someone called his name, startling him.

We waited up. Lucia replied to his unspoken question, backed by Ron, Hermione, and Parvati. What took you so long?

Jamie struggled in vain to open his eyes a bit wider. Snape is a demon. Neglect to mention that, hard as it was, I rather enjoyed it. After I rebrewed that potion from class, he set me working on something else. And it took forever.

Lucia winced. And you'll have to suffer through Malfoy's wrath, too, on Tuesday if he doesn't find you before then.

Hermione frowned. Tuesday? But our next Potions class is not until next Friday.

He's in Survival too. Jamie yawned. Don't worry about your eardrums, Lucia. I let him kidnap me and yell my ear off after lunch. He yelled at me, I yelled at him, we insulted each others' parentage, threw a few hexes in the general direction of each other, and finally left. End of story. A blink that he only just barely managed to reopen his eyes after. 'Night, all. I'm going to bed now.

In Survival too? You have to put up with him in class for four days a week?! Ron caught up with him on the stairs. I feel for you. Really I do, a pause, and now I'm even more glad than ever that I didn't sign up for that class. Snape and Malfoy in the same room as you? It must be like Potions all over again.

Jamie shook his head. He was closer to three-quarters asleep now, and slurring his words. 'S not as cold. And there's windows. He thought longingly of what he already thought of as his daggers.

Without even bothering to undress, he fell into bed. The evening had been extremely enervating--he just wasn't used to such long stints of such focused concentration as true potions-making required. Yet . . . it had been enlightening as well.

He realized, as he hadn't fully previously, that he liked potions-making quite possibly as much as he enjoyed Quidditch. And unlike Quidditch, potions was something that he could almost see himself doing for a living after graduation. Assuming, that is, that he survived that long. Which, with Voldemort around and out for his blood, was not necessarily as sure a thing as it sounded.

And Snape . . . he began to see what he thought Lucia had seen in the man all along. He was so intelligent, so driven, with such a dry sense of humor--enough to set Jamie to laughing or at least grinning every time.

He knew, absolutely, exactly what should be done with any and every aspect of the potion he had set Jamie to working on, and had not minded giving aid when it was truly needed. Simply, Snape knew potions.

Jamie found that was a knowledge that, for the first time in his life, he truly wished he could share.

On the edge of sleep, he suddenly smiled. No one would ever believe me, he mused, if I told them I wanted to be Snape when I grew up.

He yawned and curled deeper within his covers.

. . . minus the dark mark, of course . . .

And slept.
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Hippy Flower=Voldie's Kid, sadineye, Olivier, chibi-Tenshi, Elektra Joradees Gamblin--^_^ Thanx! Hopefully, the next chapter will be out soon. (*grumbles* I HATE COLLEGE APPS!!) Don't hold your breath, though.

Pinkdevil--Yup. Exactly. ^_^

Creamy Mimi--*frowns* Bad Lucia! I agree. Her moment of true notoriety has not yet come, though . . . *frowns deeper* Gryffindors aren't supposed to be this . . . grr. I don't know where she gets it from! Oh well. It'll all turn out all right in the end, I suppose . . .

Mistwalker--*at Bloody Gryffindors'* ^_^ *at weapons choice* ^_^!!

So glad you noticed. I tend to try to downplay the backstabbing interpretation, but concealment and hiding advantages and all that stuff . . . yes yes yes. Precisely.

Those daggers precisely won't play too large of a part in the future, but the concept of the daggers . . . *evil grin*

Prophetess of Hearts--Hm. . . . Maybe.

Sailor Millennium--Mmhm! The Japanese is the one thing I really miss about switching almost entirely into the HP fandom from SM. Good thing I still get to see it in school :)

Shinigami--*looks around worridly, whispers* Just don't tell that to the other characters. They're not supposed to know yet. Hopefully, they can just dismiss his greasy hair as onset of puberty and his change in temperament . . . um . . . as some sort of offshoot of the events of the Third Task?

I know what you mean about Draco's hair. I hadn't originally meant for that exchange to take place, but then Draco made the mistake of ragging Jamie about his hair . . . and Jamie certainly couldn't let an insult like that rest without getting some of his own back.

Gel-less Draco . . . hm . . . maybe.

sras--*eyes wide* *reverent silence* Wow. That is quite possibly the nicest review I have ever received. You really think so? *sniff* I think I might have to go cry now, I'm so happy. *goes all starry-eyed*

Alex--Not Jolt Cola, anything but Jolt Cola! *folds arms* I thought I told you, I only drink Sprite and Fanta. Hmph.

*puppy dog eyes* Please don't steal my socks. Then what would I wear between my feet and my shoes?

25 October 2002