Harry Potter & the Philosopher's Stone: Take Two

by MysticSong1978

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot switch and any original characters I may add in as I deem necessary. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling. Should any other literary references be used, they will be so noted at that point.

Dialogue is in double quotes ("") and Thoughts are in single quotes ('').

Chapter Fourteen:

Harry groaned. The dungeons were bad enough with their dark tunnels and corridors that came to a dead-end for no apparent reason that he could see. No, that wasn't enough to befuddle the first-years. The staircases moved as well; and there were one-hundred and forty two of them! The grand marble one probably was stationary, but as far as Harry could tell, the rest of them moved around as they pleased. Some had trick steps that disappeared, and if you stepped in one, your foot got caught; some only went to certain places on certain days. This made it extremely difficult to learn your weekly schedule. The portraits would help some students and not others; which you could never be totally sure of - Harry suspected they changed their minds about it all from day-to-day as well. Harry noticed that Nearly Headless Nick was happy to point his House's lost students in the right direction, but the Bloody Baron, well, he was bloody unhelpful, that one! Peeves was no help at all; especially if you were lost. He'd give you directions, alright, but they usually led you to a trick door or a staircase pointing in the wrong direction from which you needed to go. Harry despaired of ever knowing where he was going inside of Hogwarts.

Draco, having grown up in a wizard manor, was a little more familiar with the tricks that Hogwarts tended to pull on its occupants, but Harry was used to getting up early, thanks to the Dursley's forcing him to cook breakfast and such all those years, so Draco was usually still asleep when Harry headed off to the Great Hall.

Draco wasn't quite sure what to make of Harry being sorted into Slytherin. Although inside he felt quite gleeful, his Malfoy mask would never reveal his feelings to others. Well, not too often. Harry had apologized for his words on the train and said he'd been nervous and wanted to make a fresh start. He didn't know much about the wizarding world and felt that he should wait to judge people – and made it very clear that this included people in every House – until he got to know them better. In a way it was a very Gryffindor thing to do, but Draco could see elements of Slytherin planning in it, and nodded. He would bide his time to see what Harry would decide; in the meantime he would help Harry when he could. It never hurt to have someone like Harry on your side; no matter what side in life that may end up being.

The trick staircases, walls, doors, and Peeves weren't the only thing Harry had to put up with, however. The very first morning after the feast, from the moment he stepped out of the dungeons, unfortunately by himself as Draco was still asleep, he heard the whispers start.

"There, look, you see?"

"Where?"

"Coming from the dungeons. The small boy with the messy hair!"

"Do you see his scar?"

Harry heard them everywhere he went. From his Muggle schooling with Dudley, he was used to being made fun of, but this was different. They were pointing him out, but more with a sense of awe, then anything else, although Harry suspected some disgruntled feelings from the Gryffindors who were sure he'd been unjustly sorted into the wrong house.

Ron was having no better luck finding his way down from Gryffindor Tower. Hermione had hurried on ahead, not that he wanted that bushy-haired know-it-all hanging around him, blimey was she annoying, but, he supposed, some help, even from her, would have been nice.

Unfortunately for Ron, he made an enemy out of Argus Filch, the school's caretaker, and his cat, Mrs. Norris the first day. Ron had to wonder about that Mrs. bit . . . animagus? He was trying to get through a door that wouldn't budge. Filch found him and demanded to know why he was trying to get into the forbidden third floor. 'Just my luck,' thought Ron. He was trying to explain, and getting nowhere, that he was simply lost, when Professor Quirrell happened by and saved him. Later, Ron would relate the experience to others and find no good rationalization for Quirrell to have been there at all, but for now, he was simply grateful.

Harry, along with several Muggleborns, with the possible exception of Hermione, soon realized there was a lot more to doing magic than one would first think. And not all the classes were anything resembling fun; or even interesting for that matter.

He wondered sleepily how he'd ever make it through the weekly midnight meetings for Astronomy for planetary and constellation mapping. Three times a week he had Herbology with a stout little witch named Professor Sprout; an apt name for the woman. He learned all about fungi and plants and other items that were useful in many different ways, especially with potion brewing. Herbology wasn't all that bad; but what they learned in first year was a lot of basics, and it reminded Harry strongly of Aunt Petunia forcing him to tend her garden.

History of Magic was easily the most lackluster class of them all. Professor Binns was a ghost who didn't seem to realize he was dead. He droned on and on in every class, never noticing the students were half-asleep.

Then there was tiny Professor Flitwick, the Charms professor, who, when he called Harry's name in class, squeaked excitedly and rolled off of his desk. Harry and Draco hid smirks behind their hands.

Transfiguration, the art of transforming one object into another, was taught by Professor McGonagall. Harry knew his first observation of her was correct; this was not a teacher to cross! Like many Muggle teachers Harry had had, she gave them a strict talking-to the first day of class before getting started. She seemed no less pleased than she did after Harry's Sorting and watched him carefully throughout class; for what, exactly, Harry wasn't sure. It was unnerving, though, and he wished she'd give it a rest.

After watching Professor McGonagall transform her desk into a pig and back, they worked excitedly, although the Gryffindors were certain the Slytherins were all bored, on transfiguring toothpicks into sewing needles. By the end of class, Harry's was silver and quite sharp, although it was still a toothpick and Draco had a needle-shaped toothpick. Professor McGonagall graced them with what for all purposes appeared to be a smile, but it was clear she wasn't happy with the Sorting and that she didn't trust the Slytherins very much. 'So much for her spiel on all the Houses having noble histories,' thought Draco. 'She obviously doesn't believe it.'

Harry and Draco had looked forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts, although Draco professed to already know a number of hexes, but the class was altogether a joke. Although as smooth as glass . . . perhaps with a few bumps in it, when taking roll, even trying to bait Harry with, "Ah, Mr. P-Potter, our n-new celebrity," Quirrell stuttered and stammered every sentence of the actual class period. The room smelled strongly of garlic and Quirrell wore a hideous purple turban around his head which smelled even worse. Harry and Draco sat in the back to avoid the man as much as possible. When they were leaving the classroom, however, Harry passed within a few yards of the professor and felt a repeat of the sharp stabbing pain he'd experienced at the Welcome Feast. He shrugged it off as they headed to lunch, but thought perhaps he should mention it to his Head of House when he got a chance. Something about Quirrell didn't sit well with Harry, and from the looks he saw Professor Snape shoot at Quirrell during the Feast, he had a feeling his Head of House concurred.

Over the course of the first week, Harry was relieved to find out he really wasn't that far behind the other students as a whole. There was a lot of information to learn, and many of the wizard-born children were no better off than he. Aside from knowing more about Harry than he himself seemed to. He really needed to get those books from Hermione.


Friday was exciting; they would finally learn how to fly. Aside from the wand, this was what Harry was really looking forward to. They were paired up with Gryffindor House for flying, and Harry thought perhaps he'd be able to gauge Ron's opinion of him. Who know if his housemates had already helped him make up his mind? That would be unfortunate as Harry had taken a liking to him.

Standing next to their brooms, they followed Madam Hooch's directions and commanded the brooms, "Up!"

Harry and Draco's ricocheted into their hands. They grinned at each other. Ron's jumped up, but whacked him on the head. "Bloody school brooms," Harry heard the redhead mutter. Hermione's broom rolled over but otherwise stayed in place. Neville's just laid there. From what Harry had heard of Neville's exploits, this was probably just as well. They had Double Potions that day with the Gryffindors and Harry was not looking forward to finding out if Neville's clumsiness with life in general would carry over into that particular delicate art.

Finally, through help from Madam Hooch, everyone was holding a broomstick. Madam Hooch got them into position and instructed them as to what they were supposed to do for their initial test. Neville, however, nervous and clumsy as always, managed to kick off – hard – and shot straight up into the air. The broom, apparently they could sense the mood of their rider's much in the way a horse does, was flinging Neville from side to side as if it wanted nothing better than to unseat its unfortunate rider.

It didn't take long for Neville to pass out and slip unceremoniously from his broom, plummeting in an ungraceful free-fall towards the ground. Harry didn't stop to think. He kicked off as well and soared into the air, out of range from Madam Hooch's horrified shouts – both at Neville's accident and Harry for trying to save him. Harry, however, was in heaven. He'd finally found something he instinctively knew how to do. Flying was great. Hermione was watching him a bit nervously and Draco was grinning, uncharacteristically showing everyone just how he felt.

Swift as anything, Harry intercepted Neville's descent and carefully flew them both back to the ground. Madam Hooch just gaped at him before she recovered her wits. "Fifty points to Slytherin for quick thinking and most excellent broommanship!" exclaimed Hooch. Harry grinned. "I'm going to take Longbottom to the infirmary just to be safe. The rest of you put up your brooms. We'll continue this lesson next week." Unknown to Harry, Madam Hooch also stopped by Professor Snape's office after seeing to Neville, and alerting him to the fact that he had a potential Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch Team; he'd just need to get the boy permission to have his own broomstick. Knowing Severus's joy in beating the other Houses, especially Minerva's Gryffindors, she was sure he wouldn't mind petitioning Albus for that favour.

As the students were putting away their brooms, Ron kept shooting glances at Harry. Harry noticed this and told Draco he'd catch up with him for a quick snack before their next class. When the rest of the Slytherins were gone, Ron caught up with Harry. "Why'd you do it, Harry?" he asked the smaller boy. "He's not even in your House."

Harry looked coolly back at Ron. Perhaps the Gryffindors had already swayed the mind of his very first friend. 'Just like Dudley would have done', he thought sadly. "What difference does it make?" Harry replied instead. "He doesn't deserve the injuries he was sure to get if he'd hit the ground from that height because of what House he is in. No one does."

"Harry's right, Ron," came a girl's voice. Hermione was now standing next to Ron, looking somewhat approvingly at Harry.

Ron looked ready to make a scathing reply at the girl . . . maybe it wasn't his housemates views, perhaps the boy just had trouble interacting with people he thought might look down on him.

"Hullo, Hermione," Harry said to the girl, giving her a sweet smile.

"Hullo, Harry, how are you?"

"Fairing pretty well; it's sure a lot easier to get around out here than it is in that castle though! Cor! The dungeons are a bloody maze! Make sure you give yourselves plenty of time to get down to Potions!" This last bit to both Ron and Hermione.

"I heard Snape –"

"Professor Snape," Hermione chided gently.

Ron sighed. "I heard he favoured his own house. Is it true? Our Professor McGonagall sure doesn't favour us at all. She gave us loads of homework already!"

Harry shrugged. "I really haven't had any interaction with Professor Snape other than when he helped me get my school items. He welcomed us to Slytherin after the first bit of excitement had worn down, and explained some things to us, but I haven't had Potions yet. First class is today with your House. I guess we'll see this afternoon."

"Harry," Ron said, "why were you sorted into Slytherin?" He looked ill at the mere word.

Hermione shook her head at Harry; he winked at her. "The Sorting Hat told me I'd do best in Slytherin, so it put me there. I've come to understand that a lot of . . . well, just about everyone, was surprised because my parents were both Gryffindors, but I didn't grow up with them. I grew up with Muggles who hated magic, who told me my parents were shiftless alcoholics and that they died in a car accident!" blustered Harry.

"Do you think your Muggle family had anything to do with your House placement, Harry? Directly or indirectly?" questioned Hermione gently.

"I really don't know." Harry shrugged. "But there's nothing wrong with being in Slytherin." Harry cut Ron off before he could speak, "I know that they have a bad reputation, and I know why they have a bad reputation, but that doesn't mean the entire House is to blame," he said to Ron, a bit frostily. "Look," he said, his tone softening, "I told Draco that I was wrong for what I said on the train," he held up a hand to stop Ron again, "and I said it because I was. I didn't know Draco; about him, sure, but I didn't know him and neither, really, do you, Ron. We know speculations; that's really what we know about everyone here, unless they're your family members or people you grew up playing with. I'm pretty sure Draco wasn't one of your childhood cohorts!" Ron gave Harry a tiny smile but shrugged impatiently.

"Ron, all I'm saying is to give people a chance. Look what I came from and I'm willing to do it." Harry fixed a pointed stare on Ron. "I quite enjoyed our train ride in together, Ron. You're the first person I could ever really call a friend, and I hope that the Sorting Ceremony doesn't come between us. It's up to you. I know you may need some time to think things through, so you don't have to say anything right now. I hope we'll be still be friends . . . but . . ." Harry shrugged, not wanting to say he'd understand if Ron turned against him, because he wouldn't. He'd subconsciously attribute it to his own lack of worth, long instilled by the Dursleys, but he wouldn't really understand. "See you guys in Potions."

Harry turned and headed towards the Great Hall for his long awaited snack. He heard quick steps behind him and turned to see Hermione scampering towards him. He stopped and waited.

"Harry," Hermione panted, "I don't know what Ron's going to decide, but I wanted to tell you that I'll stand by you no matter what." She smiled at him.

Harry smiled back. "Thank you, Hermione. Maybe you'll rub off on Ron."

Hermione patted his hand and went back to Ron, talking insistently to him and gesticulating wildly with her hands. Ron, Harry noticed, looked as if he were trying to keep from telling the insistent Hermione to bugger off. Harry rolled his eyes.

Once in the Great Hall he barely had enough time to eat before racing down to his rooms to collect his books for Potions. Double Potions with the Gryffindors.

Potions took place in the dungeons, of course. The classroom was rather chilly, no doubt in order to preserve the more fragile ingredients. Altogether it was a bit creepy. 'At least it doesn't smell quite as horrid as the Apothecary does,' thought Harry.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking roll. Unlike Flitwick and Quirrell, he did not react to Potter's name. Of course, he'd had more time to get used to the boy than the rest of Hogwarts had, though very few people knew about their trip to Diagon Alley.

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How could Harry stand to be in Snape's House? The man had cold, black eyes and was, well, just nasty, thought Ron, with his greasy hair, sallow complexion and crooked, yellow teeth.

Unbeknownst to Ron, most of his thoughts showed clearly on his face; Snape noticed this.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word – like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "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 liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Silence followed his speech. Harry and Draco smirked. Hermione, sitting closer to the Slytherins than the Gryffindors (which didn't bode well for Ron's feelings towards Harry), was on the edge of her seat looking quite desperate to prove herself. Ron raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

"Weasley!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Ron, startled out of his complacency, an attitude that would only cause him further troubles in the class, bolted upright. 'Crikey,' thought Ron. 'What did he say? Powdered what of what to what?'

Hermione's hand shot into the air. Ron shrugged, "I don't know, sir."

Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Pity." He ignored Hermione for the time being. "Let's try again. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione was practically dancing in her chair in an effort to be noticed. She had edged further away from Ron. The Slytherins, Harry aside, were shaking with mirth.

"I don't know, sir."

"Going to follow in your brothers' trouble-making footsteps, are you Weasley?" He turned suddenly, swooping in on Hermione.

"What is the difference, Miss Granger, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"They are the same plant, sir, which also goes by the name of aconite. If used incorrectly, it can cause death, but the reaction time is anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, depending on the way it reacts with the victim's body, and depending on what else was in the potion."

Snape nodded imperceptibly. "I assume you know the answers to the other questions I asked your housemate?"

Hermione didn't dare look at Ron. "Asphodel and Wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful that it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone or hairball taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons."

"Very good, Miss Granger. Are you sure you're in the right House?" Snake said with a smirk. "Ten points to Gryffindor." There was a startled pause. "Well? Why aren't you all writing this down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for parchment and quills.

With the exception of Hermione, whom Snape seemed to tolerate, things continued to go downhill for the Gryffindors. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a relatively simple potion to cure boils. He swept around the room, black cloak billowing behind him, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy and Potter, who were working nicely together.

Professor Snape was just instructing the class to look at the perfect way that the Potter-Malfoy potion was simmering when Seamus's cauldron exploded with a loud BANG! Acrid green smoke hung in the hair, the potion splattered across the room, dousing everything in its path, burning shoes, clothes, and skin alike.

Neville, who had been completely drenched when the potion detonated, was quickly sprouting painfully large boils all over his body.

"Idiot boy," growled Snape, clearing the mess away with a wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off of the fire?"

Neville just whimpered. Seamus wasn't fairing much better, though he'd managed to duck, sparing his face from the noxious brew. "Take him up to the infirmary," Snape spat at Seamus. "Anyone else who was hit should go with them." He rounded on Ron and Dean. "You – Weasley – why didn't you tell him what to do? Thought you'd make up for how foolish you looked this morning by having your potion turn out correctly when Longbottom's did not? Five points from Gryffindor!"

Ron stupidly opened his mouth to retaliate. "But that's not fair," Ron whined. "Seamus was his partner, I didn't even see what he did!"

"Another five points from Gryffindor for talking back to a professor and another three for not using a respectful title!" snarled Snape.

Dean kicked Ron under the able before he could say anything else to further besmirch their House in Snape's eyes.

Harry sighed. Ron could be quite a git. Despite Harry's notion of giving everyone a fair shake, and his own feelings of friendship, Ron was making it very hard to be likable.

Snape stalked up to his desk and faced the class. "Those of you who were not afflicted by Longbottom and have finished brewing should bottle your potion and bring it up to my desk for evaluation. Class dismissed!"

Harry waited for everyone to leave; Draco had carefully bottled their work and left it on the professor's desk, leaving Harry to clean up and wait for their Head of House to acknowledge him.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, what is it?" Snape said, rather shortly. Still visibly irate at the hapless Longbottom.

"Professor Snape," Harry began, "during the Welcoming Feast I felt a strange pain in my head – where my scar is – when I made eye contact with Professor Quirrell. When I thought about it further, I realized it was the same pain I felt in the tavern when I got shoved close to him."

Severus looked up at Harry at this. "I remember that. I thought it was just claustrophobia at the time, but then I noticed a similar reaction from you during the feast. There's something off-putting about that man, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

Harry nodded. "Yes, I feel the same way, although I suppose I don't know enough about this world to draw enough conclusions. I had the pain again after the first DADA class when Draco and I walked by him to get out of the room."

Snape pondered this. "I will think on this Harry. I appreciate you informing me about your reaction to Professor Quirrell. Please let me know if it continues to happen. And keep a written record of the pain. Try to describe it in as best detail as you can. Sometimes, knowing precisely the way a magical pain feels can be the key to unraveling the mystery."

Harry inclined his head, gathered his belongings, and headed back to the Slytherin Common room to update Draco.


Updated 27 January 2017