This might be the last chapter I'm able to get up so quickly for a while. Thank you for the reviews!

Chapter Four: Detention With the Potions Master

"Wake up, Harry!"

"I'm already up, Draco," Harry said, sitting up and stretching lazily. Draco, who'd flung back the green-and-silver hangings on Harry's bed, looked startled for a second, but then grabbed his arm and dragged him out. Harry sighed, but said nothing. Most of the time, the only people who touched him were his parents, Connor, Sirius, and Remus. He would have to get used to other people doing it, especially when said other people were trying so hard to be his friends.

That was what he didn't understand, Harry admitted as Draco all but dragged him through the common room, down the dungeon corridor, and towards the Great Hall. Draco was acting—well, not like a Malfoy—in his attempt to get Harry to pay attention to him. But there were other people in Slytherin, including Vincent and Gregory, whom Harry had met last night, perfectly glad to give Draco all the attention he wanted. What could be gained by badgering him?

Because you're the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived, of course, whispered a voice in his head that Harry distrusted. It sounded awfully like the voice of a snake, or a Slytherin. Draco wants to get at Connor. He wanted to be his friend, and now he probably wants to be his enemy. What better way to do that than convince Connor his brother's turned against him?

They were in the Great Hall by then, and Harry could see Connor sitting with Ron at the Gryffindor table. This time, his twin didn't meet his eyes, just turned his head away and talked more loudly.

We'll have a conversation this afternoon, Harry promised his twin mentally, as he sat down and helped himself to a plate of eggs. I'm not going to let my brother hold these ridiculous prejudices against me. Everyone else in Slytherin might be a slimy snake, but I'm not.

"Professor Snape's staring at you again."

Harry blinked at Draco's words, but didn't look up at the head table. He could feel the professor's eyes, after all. "Yeah, I know," he said, and then paused to get a drink of pumpkin juice down his throat without spraying it all over the table. "He hated our father in school." He thought about telling Draco about the life-debt and that Snape was really good, but refrained. Maybe Draco wasn't a Death Eater, yet, but Lucius Malfoy still might learn about that interesting tidbit a few moments after Harry said it.

I hate that I have to keep secrets, he whined to himself, just before putting the whining in the secret box of his mind. If I was in Gryffindor, it wouldn't be like this. We could trust most people there to be for the Light.

He shut the lid of the box firmly when he was done. He was in Slytherin, and Snape hadn't yet come up and suggested that a son of the Potter family really belonged in Gryffindor, so he supposed he'd have to make the best of it.

As it turned out, Friday came around before Harry saw his brother for more than a few minutes at a time, or closer than on the other side of a sea of uncomprehending faces. All the students were constantly on the move, going to one class or another, and chattering so loudly that Harry's gentle call to Connor in a corridor almost always went unheard. Or perhaps ignored; Harry had to concede that Connor might be too angry to pay attention to him even if he heard.

Draco didn't particularly help. He stuck to Harry's side like a burr, and uttered a constant stream of bright chatter that Harry was sure was false. When Harry tried to win free to go to the library—really in hope of finding the way up to Gryffindor Tower—Draco invited himself along. He said nothing about Connor, or about Gryffindors, but kept a constant eye on Harry, and smirked whenever someone mentioned the Boy-Who-Lived in passing.

I could deal with Slytherins better, Harry thought as they moved into Potions, if they didn't smirk all day long.

It was true that he hadn't really met many Slytherins other than Draco yet, but they all seemed to smirk, except for Vincent and Gregory, who were mostly expressionless. Blaise Zabini stared and smirked, Pansy Parkinson simpered and smirked, Millicent Bulstrode glared and smirked, and the older years smirked at the mere thought of paying attention to someone from a younger year. Harry was afraid that his smile would be a smirk by the time that he got back to Connor, and was determined not to let it be.

"You'll love this class," Draco whispered to the back of Harry's head as they set up at the desks. "Snape is a brilliant teacher. And we have class with the Gryffindors, which I know you were looking forward to." He smiled blandly when Harry whipped his head around and scowled at him.

Harry had known about the schedule, of course. But he hadn't known that Draco had noticed.

Maybe asking him about it directly would work.

"Why do you care?" he whispered fiercely. "Of course I want to say hello to my brother. We've never been apart until we came here. Why do you smirk at me like that's unusual?"

Draco smirked at him, and didn't answer.

Harry turned around again, grinding his teeth in frustration, and saw the Gryffindor first-years tumble in around the door. Hermione Granger walked in by herself, consulting a book as she did so. Harry blinked when she also took a seat by herself. Why hasn't she made friends? She doesn't look as though shyness is going to stop her.

Connor and Ron came next. Harry waited until his brother didn't have an excuse not to look across the room, then caught his eye and smiled hopefully. Connor sent him a tentative smile, but it broke apart when Ron's elbow went into his ribs. Then they turned away and sat down at a desk.

Draco snickered, Harry was sure of it, but he didn't get a chance to confront him about it before Snape swept to the front of the classroom.

He stared out over the students. Harry stared back, and noticed that he felt no pain in his scar this time when he met Snape's eyes. That was worth paying attention to, maybe—though maybe not, since he still didn't know why his scar had bled in the first place.

There are so many things I don't know, Harry thought, tapping his quill against his parchment in agitation. How am I ever going to protect Connor if I can't learn what I need to know to do it?

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," Snape was saying. Harry didn't pay that much attention to his rattle, even when he got to an apparently practiced speech about brewing glory. Of course Snape would try to impress students. He didn't want them acting up in his class.

"…if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach," he finished, and Harry nodded. Yes, Snape worked to intimidate. His tactics were the same as James said they had been when he and the Marauders were in school. Harry would work to get along with him, the same way he would with the rest of the Slytherins, but he didn't intend to let Snape impress or goad him.

As though his nod had been a signal, Snape turned on him. Harry studied his sneer, but couldn't make out whether it came from speaking to a Potter, to the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived, or to the Potter and the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived who had somehow wound up in Slytherin House. No doubt he thinks it unfair.

Well, on that we can agree, at least.

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

"The Draught of Living Death, sir," said Harry. That much he knew, having scrambled through his Potions textbook over most of the last week, after he found out Snape would be his Head of House. He had memorized by sheer force as much information as he could. If Snape asked him for details, he'd be in trouble, but he thought he could manage general answers.

Snape stepped back, head tilted. Harry couldn't read the expression on his face, but his eyes never left Harry's, so Harry never glanced away from him, either.

"Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

"In the stomach of a goat, sir." That was also luck, Harry reflected; he'd seen the odd word while flipping through the book, and stopped to read about it since he didn't recognize it.

"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" Snape asked the question with a much milder tone in his voice than before. Harry dared not hope he'd impressed him, especially because he wasn't sure of the answer to this one; he only knew about the plants at all because he was friends with Remus.

"They're the same plant, sir."

Snape nodded at him. "Five points to Slytherin for displaying some actual study skills," he said, and then whirled on Connor before Harry could draw in a breath of relief. "And you, Mister Potter, our newest…celebrity. Tell me, what are the ingredients for a boil cure potion?"

Connor froze, eyes wide. Beside him, Hermione Granger's hand appeared to have taken on a life of its own and was crawling up the air. Connor nodded to her. "Why don't you ask Hermione?" he said. "I think she knows."

Snape lost all traces of amusement, and took a long, heavy step forward. Harry tensed, but Snape only said, his voice cold, "I asked you, Mr. Potter."

"I don't know," said Connor, through gritted teeth. Harry sympathized. He didn't know, either. Out of everyone in the class, probably only Hermione did.

Snape sneered at him. "Clearly, fame isn't everything," he said, and turned to write on the board. "Five points from Gryffindor for severely lacking study skills. The ingredients of a boil cure potion are dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, stewed horned slugs, and porcupine quills. You must add the porcupine quills after you take the cauldron off the fire, unless you want a nasty mess. When you put the nettles in…"

Harry sat back in his seat, stomach churning. Snape had deliberately set him and Connor against each other, and he didn't like the feeling. He glanced over to see Connor staring at him with a mixture of embarrassment and resentment, at least until he ducked his head.

Draco poked him in the back. Harry whirled around. "What?" he snarled. He was fighting hard not to draw his wand.

Draco blinked at him and said, "Want to partner up?"

Harry sighed, nodded, and went to fetch the ingredients.

Of course, as James had warned him, Snape turned out to be an intimidating teacher, too, sweeping around the room, staring into students' cauldrons, and making impatient comments—comments aimed only at the Gryffindors. "That's not the right consistency, Longbottom. Did you imagine that you could put the snake fangs in without crushing them, Weasley? I am awed by the bottomless display of your incompetence, Thomas, but not by the color of your potion."

Harry soon found that he had to try to ignore Snape as much as possible. When Snape commented on Connor's potion, there was an extra sneer in his voice, and it infuriated Harry. He crushed the snake fangs and stirred the potion with just enough violence that it didn't slop over the side, and watched Connor.

That was how he noticed his brother was about to add the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire. Harry winced. He could imagine not only the mess that would result, but the punishment Connor would receive from Snape, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

He whispered to Draco, "Duck," and then tossed his own handful of porcupine quills into his potion.

Snape was just swooping down on Connor when Harry's cauldron produced a nasty plume of green smoke and a noise that rivaled a swarm of bees. Snape stiffened, and then turned slowly to face the Slytherin side of the classroom. Draco had ducked out of the way. That left Harry to shuffle his feet and blink at Snape as if he didn't know what was going on.

"And what exactly was that, Potter?" Snape hissed.

Harry blinked at the cauldron, at the floor where the cauldron was melting and nearly burning a hole in his shoes, and at the gaping faces of his peers. Then he shrugged. "Oops?" he offered.

Snape strode over to him, stared into the cauldron, sneered, and announced, "You put the porcupine quills in before you removed the cauldron from the fire." Harry was gratified to see Connor hastily snatch his hand back and gently lay the quills down beside the potion. "Could you not clearly see the written instructions?"

"Oops," said Harry again. He kept his head up, and even let a faint hint of a smile play about his lips. Snape wouldn't know the real reason. He would only think Harry was being the mocking son of James Potter.

"Detention, Mister Potter," said Snape softly. "Eight'-o'-clock tonight, in this classroom. I shall expect you no later than that."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, ducking his head as Snape moved away. The ruined cauldron vanished a moment later. Harry eyed the mess for a moment. He could owl home and get his parents to send him another one. He was sure that his mother would oblige, once she heard he'd ruined it for a good cause.

A hand gripped his arm just then, forcing Harry to pay attention to the gripper—Draco. "Why did you do that?" Draco whispered at him. "You whispered to me to duck. You knew what was going to happen."

Harry nodded.

Draco's grip only grew firmer, and he scowled as though this somehow personally affected him. "Why?" he repeated.

Harry shook his hand loose. "I didn't lose any points for Slytherin, so what do you care?" he whispered, and sat back to listen to the rest of the class suffer from Snape's sharp-edged tongue. Connor and Ron didn't brew their potion perfectly, but then, no one in the class except Hermione did. They also suffered from Snape's insults, but Harry was fast becoming resigned to not being able to do anything about that. He could at least save Connor from detention.

He didn't mind giving up his evenings for the rest of the year, come to that. It was for the highest purpose imaginable.

A knock sounded on Snape's door at precisely eight-o'-clock. He looked up, checked the time, and raised his eyebrows. So the brat does have some semblance of good manners.

"Enter."

Potter—not the famous one, Snape corrected in his mind, which sounded awkward—entered and nodded to him. "I've come about my detention, sir. What do you want me to do?"

Snape studied him for a moment. The boy was unmistakably Potter's son, given that hair and those glasses, but he didn't carry himself like James. His head was up all the time, and he met Snape's eyes without flinching. Curious, Snape used a gentle touch of Legilimency, and found a memory of Harry arguing with Draco Malfoy just before he came here. Draco wanted to know why Harry had done what he had done in Potions. Harry had shrugged him off and run to his detention.

Snape ended his probe into the boy's head in time to see Harry's calm mask split into a frown. He lifted a hand and rubbed his temple, gingerly, as though his head hurt and he didn't know why.

Interesting. His mistake during Potions was deliberate, then? Snape kept the thought tucked behind his own mask, and snapped, "Clean up the mess that you and your fellow idiots caused today. You may not use magic."

"Yes, sir."

Potter located a brush and a pail of water without being told, which took him a few minutes, and then began to scrub down the classroom. Snape marked essays and watched him from the corner of his eye. Potter worked calmly, without complaint, his face reflecting far less emotion than Snape would have thought possible for a son of James. His twin, the famous one, was open enough, his hazel eyes spitting fire about the unfairness of it all whenever Snape was within sight.

Snape grimaced in distaste. And I have to protect the brat. That does not mean I have to like him.

He went back to marking essays, at least until a faint, nagging buzz broke his concentration. He looked up, an insult on the tip of his tongue, but the loudest noise Potter made was the rasp of his brush over the tables. The buzzing noise came from something else.

Snape touched his left forearm, and then shook his head. For all that he did not believe the Potter brat had managed to banish Voldemort forever, his lord was not yet able to command any former Death Eaters. Had he been, the first sign of his presence would hardly be such a gentle manifestation.

Then he thought of someone trying to spy on the detention, and cast a Revealo with his wand under the table. Nothing showed.

He worked through several other possibilities before one occurred to him that hadn't in years—the memory jogged, perhaps, by the sight of the Malfoy boy in Potter's mind. He reached out for the shield Lucius had taught him, after teaching him to hear the faint ringing vibrations that encircled powerful wizards, and let it down for the first time in years.

The buzzing noise sharpened immediately. Snape stared at Potter, who was currently kneeling down and trying to reach a particularly stubborn spill half under Longbottom's table. The air around him sang with power like a finger running around a wineglass.

Why didn't I sense it when he was in class? Snape wondered, and then snorted to himself. He was among a dozen other brats, that's why. Their power would have covered his.

Strange, that the twin who did not defeat Voldemort has such an aura about him. Perhaps the other one is even stronger, and will provide our true 'last best hope' after all. Snape grimaced. He'd spoken to Dumbledore several times about Connor Potter as the true focus of the prophecy, and still felt ill at the thought of that child being the only one who stood between the wizarding world and Voldemort's return. It's very romantic, of course, but not very practical.

A glance at the clock showed that it was almost ten, and that Potter's detention was finished. Snape shook his head and put the shield back up. "Potter!" he barked.

Harry started, but did not bang his head into the table, as Snape had half-hoped he would. He stood and turned around, bucket and brush held loosely in his hands. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Your detention is done, and the room is not passable," said Snape coldly. "You will return on Monday night, also at eight, and make sure it is finished then."

For a moment, a bare moment, the brat's eyes flickered. He was doubtless thinking that the Monday potions classes would cause an even greater mess, and more work. But he said only, "Yes, sir," and moved to put the cleaning supplies away.

Snape leaned forward. "One more thing, Potter."

Potter—no, he would think of this boy as Harry, since he didn't think he would ever be able to muster the same amount of venom for him as he could for the Boy-Who-Lived—looked up at him. "Yes, sir?"

"If I find out that you have deliberately made a mistake in my class again," Snape said softly, "I will give you a week's worth of detentions. I will not have any of my Slytherins working at less than their full potential, especially in an art I know they have basic knowledge in. Is that clear?"

Harry's shoulders tensed for a moment, but he only tilted his head and said, "With all due respect, sir, I'm only a first-year, and I don't know much about Potions. I'm sure I'll make lots of mistakes."

Snape narrowed his eyes and stared at Harry. Harry stared straight back at him. Snape hissed. Does he think that he can really best me in the arts of cunning?

The set of Harry's face told him the answer. He doesn't know if he can. But he knows he's going to try.

"Then I suggest you study, Mister Potter," Snape told him flatly. "As the dividing line between a deliberate mistake and a true one may grow hard to see when you've spent multiple nights scrubbing the Potions classroom."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, and walked to the door.

Snape watched him go, then leaned back in his seat and tried to play his memories of class over. Harry had caused the mistake when—

When he'd just been about to descend on Potter for incompetence.

Snape snarled and stood up. If one Potter thinks to interfere for another, he should think again. I will not tolerate celebrity treatment of that brat in my classroom, even if his brother is the cause.