Disclaimer: Please see Chapter Zero.
Author's Notes: Nothing really to say about this chapter. Sorry it took so long to get out, though. Hopefully, the next chapter will be posted within the next week or so.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed and didn't recieve a private reply, and to those who've added this story to their C2, favorites or alerts lists. It always makes my chest feel warm and fuzzy :D.
o.o.o.o
1 September, 1991
9:15 PM
Harry Potter was correct. He was not surprised to realize that he was correct, because he was almost invariably so -- in fact, he would have been astounded to have it turn out that he was mistaken about anything. So, at the present moment, Harry was standing in front of Dumbledore's desk, feeling unsurprised and rather pleased with himself, and not smiling. As he stared at the venerable headmaster, he'd discovered that, for the first time, he did know what to think or how to feel about a person.
His instincts, which usually served him so well, were conflicted; on the one hand he experienced a fiercely loyal surge of respect, admiration and love, and on the other was a deeply resentful sense of abandonment and anger. These conflicted signals confused him, and left him unsure whether or not he could trust this man. He'd decided immediately to be very, very cautious.
Besides, both his father and Sirius tended to go a bit cross-eyed and grim when Dumbledore's name was mentioned. He wasn't entirely sure how to take that, either.
"Well now, Harry," said Dumbledore, in a very genial voice that made Harry want to grin. He didn't, though, and the professor added, "It's good to see you again."
"Yes, sir," Harry replied automatically, even though he couldn't remember ever having met the man. He suppressed a grimace, anyway.
"I must say, you've grown rather bigger," Dumbledore went on, his eyes twinkling.
"That usually happens, sir," said Harry, though if he'd had his own way he wouldn't have responded at all; it was a silly statement to have made to an eleven-year-old boy.
Dumbledore smiled. There was a knowing tone in his voice as he said, "Indeed. You know, Harry, I expect you'll be quite the student here."
"You would know, sir." Harry's face was completely blank; he hadn't expected the old man to bring the subject up so abruptly or so early in their interview. He cursed himself inwardly, reflecting that Dumbledore thought very quietly indeed. Which was all right, since Harry had been able to think silently since he turned two.
Dumbledore's smile had faded fractionally, and Harry knew he'd startled the old man with the confident tone in his voice.
"Perhaps," allowed Dumbledore, slowly.
Harry was under more careful scrutiny now. He felt goose flesh up his arms, and his spine stiffened.
"Sir, I'm really very tired," he announced, suddenly eager to be away from the Headmaster. His words included a subtle, gentle suggestion that he be dismissed and sent to bed right away.
Instead of responding favorably to the coaxing -- a reaction which Harry hadn't really expected, to be honest -- Dumbledore abruptly let his smile fall entirely. "I expect you are. You've been up for quite some time, haven't you?"
"I've been up longer, sir," said Harry, thinking of the time when he was seven and Sirius had woken him at three in the morning, because they'd needed to reach Italy as quickly as they could, for some reason Sirius had never told him. Hadn't needed to tell him, really, because Harry paid attention to the news.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Indeed. Do you travel much, Harry?"
"Sometimes, sir," said Harry, wanting to roll his eyes at the stupidity of asking a question one already knew the answer to. Besides that, their conversation seemed to be jumping around quite a lot, particularly if one ignored the tense, prowling undertones and insinuations behind everything that was being said. A spectator would probably have thought they'd both lost their minds.
"You might find spending a school year at Hogwarts a relief, then," Dumbledore suggested, his tone imply that he didn't doubt this himself.
"We'll see," answered Harry with a dry smile, somehow managing to convey, through his politeness, the implication that if he didn't find it a relief, he certainly wouldn't be staying. He saw the line of Dumbledore's shoulder's tighten slightly, and added for good measure, "I've never attended a school before."
"Really."
"I might have difficulty adjusting." The possibility, of course, was laughable; Harry could adapt himself to any situation or location, and besides that, he had work to do here, he could tell already. Something about the way he said it, however, managed to send the proper warning to the Headmaster.
"I would advise that you don't," Dumbledore returned coolly. His gaze narrowed on Harry. "You've had unusual advantages in life already, Harry."
"And disadvantages, sir," countered Harry, managing with a little difficulty to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Golden half-moon spectacles seemed to slip down the long, crooked nose just slightly. Harry changed the subject, "But my education, at least, has been thorough."
He'd just given Dumbledore the perfect opening, and they both knew it.
"I see." The accusation in Harry's voice must not have sat well with the old man, because he turned right around and changed the subject yet again, "I believe you've spent much time on the Continent, is that right?"
Harry nodded slightly, once. His theory had just proven itself, and he hadn't even had to force anything from the professor; he felt generous. So he said, "It is, sir."
"How many languages do you speak, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, with absolutely no curiosity, because they both knew he already knew, or thought he did.
Harry decided that, no matter how wise he thought caution was, lying to this man could be a bad idea. Better to avoid the prickly situations that might possibly arrive if he tried it. "Nine, sir," he answered truthfully.
"I see," Dumbledore said again. He did see; his eyebrows had both lifted an eighth of an inch. "Which languages would those be?"
At least he hadn't asked Harry for a list of the languages he intended to learn. Harry didn't think they had the time for that, even if he did trim it down to just the ones he wanted to master before his eighteenth birthday. Quite a few of them were the languages of magical creatures. For now, of course, he stuck to the Muggle ones.
"English, Russian, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Swedish, Latin, and Bulgarian, sir," stated Harry smoothly, waiting for the last one to sink in and the old man's surprise to show. He wasn't disappointed.
Dumbledore's pale eyes widened slightly, suddenly. "Bulgarian?" he repeated.
Harry nodded shortly. "Yes, sir."
"Where did you learn Bulgarian?" Dumbledore demanded, leaning forward a little.
"I don't really feel like answering that," Harry hedged, stiffening imperceptibly. Under other circumstances he wouldn't at all have minded answering, but Dumbledore's coaxing tone had set his teeth on edge, with that last question especially.
"Harry--" Dumbledore began, a slightly patronizing air seeping into his voice, which was even worse than the coaxing.
Harry's recognizable blank expression abruptly fell into place on his face, and he took a step away from the Headmaster's desk, clasping his hands behind his back and standing up just a touch straighter. No-one spoke to him like that, not anymore; they knew better. However, he reflected, he hadn't had a chance to teach Dumbledore any such thing, and therefore leniency was required, to some degree.
But that didn't mean he could just let the old man get away with it, either.
Harry cleared his throat, and his mind. Boldly, he offered, "Might I suggest, sir, that you ask my teachers that?"
Supremely serene still, Dumbledore half-smiled. "While the Hogwarts staff is exceptional, Harry, I hardly expect you'll be confiding in them--"
"I was speaking, sir, of my other teachers. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin." It was Harry's turn to smile, as Dumbledore's eyes widened again. "I believe you know them. In fact, you'll probably be seeing them soon, won't you? To check firsthand on my progress."
For several long moments, neither man or boy said anything. They stared at each other, their eyes filled with sudden wariness and abject confidence, respectively.
"I think, Harry," Dumbledore began slowly, at length, "that perhaps I shouldn't keep you up any longer. Why don't you run along to bed?"
"Yes, sir," replied Harry, turning on his heel and leaving the room. He didn't bother mentioning that he had absolutely no intention of going to sleep for at least another hour; he had two more chapters of his Romanian primer to cover.
As the door swung shut behind the new, green-eyed student, it occurred to Dumbledore that no-one had had a chance to show Harry the way to Gryffindor Tower.
°
1 September, 1991
9:57 PM
As he absently walked up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry considered the man whose presence he'd just left. He didn't like not having a fix on a person's personality, and the Headmaster seemed as if he'd prove to be a hard man to pin down. He remembered the speech Professor Dumbledore had given after the feast had come to an end, before he'd sent McGonagall to intercept Harry and take him to his office.
Dumbledore had gotten to his feet for the second time just after the desserts had disappeared from the golden serving platters. The hall had, obligingly, fallen silent.
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes had flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins, who'd offered him unrepentant grins.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."
Harry had noticed, without even really trying, that quite a few of the students shifted uncomfortably in their seats at this. Dumbledore had just continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.
"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
A flood of information had suddenly rushed through Harry's head, and he had abruptly known everything he might ever have wanted to about that corridor and why it was blocked off. He'd smiled, and Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes had settled on him with a stern look.
He'd concluded his speech by calling them all to join in singing the school song. But Harry, with his mind so alive, hadn't paid attention any longer, to the song or the Headmaster.
And now he wished he had.
°
2 September, 1991
9:02 AM
On the first day of classes, Harry woke before his new friends. Several hours before them, actually, and that was how long he'd had to wait for them in the Common Room. He didn't really mind, as it gave him a chance to catch up on his work.
It was Ron who'd come down first, by some miracle that Harry thought he had a lot to do with, and after heaving a huge sigh, sat himself in the chair across from Harry's.
"So," Harry began, glancing up from the copy of Fundamental Latin: A Beginner's Guide he'd dug out of his trunk. "Do we wait for Hermione, or go down to breakfast now?"
Staring into the redhead's eyes, Harry knew what he was going to say before he said it. (That was happening a lot, lately.)
"Well... Er." Ron stumbled ungracefully to a halt. He cleared his throat loudly. "Wait for her, I suppose."
Harry nodded. "All right, then," he said, and went back to preparing for the Latin lesson he planned to give the other two later that afternoon. It was tedious, going over things he'd mastered more than five years ago. Lucky for him he liked Latin.
Ron fidgeted, and glanced once or twice at Harry's scar. When Harry looked up again and raised his eyebrows questioningly, he looked away.
"What?" prodded Harry.
"Hermione-- what do you think of her?"
Although he wanted to smile smugly, Harry simply shrugged. "She's okay, I guess. What do you think?"
"Yeah," murmured Ron, looking tremendously relieved. "Yeah, I agree. Hermione's all right. Er, for a girl."
"For a girl?" demanded Hermione, who'd come up behind Ron in time to catch the tail end of his little speech, and now stood with her hands on her hips. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Ron whipped around and stared at her, his eyes wide. His ears and the back of his neck going pink, he stammered, "Er--"
"Really, Hermione," Harry exclaimed, snapping his Latin book shut with more force than necessary and calling their attention away from each other. "It doesn't mean anything. Ron was just saying how everyone knows that girls are better than boys.-- Isn't that right, Ron?"
Ron looked as if he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Clearly it had never occurred to him that girls were any such thing, but he was aware enough of the danger that he managed to nod his head stiffly. "Yeah. Of course," he muttered, a contorted expression on his face that Hermione thankfully couldn't see.
"Ah." Looking mollified, Hermione beamed at Ron, and said, "Were you boys waiting for me?"
"Yes," replied Harry, gathering his books and standing. "Ron said we ought to."
"Did you?" Hermione asked, bestowing another glance of approval on the other boy. "That was very considerate of you, Ron."
Ron, his face beet red, shot Harry a glare that didn't faze him at all.
Harry smiled at both of them. "Shall we?"
They both nodded, and he led them out of the Common Room and down to the Great Hall, without getting them lost a single time.
°
2 September, 1991
11:14 AM
By sheer coincidence, Sirius and Remus both arrived a few minutes early for their appointment with the Hogwarts Headmaster.
Dumbledore ushered the two men into the room. He watched as they took seats across from his desk. He settled more deeply into his comfortable chair. He folded his hands serenely as they began to shift nervously. He smiled.
Then he demanded, "... Which one of you taught Harry to speak Bulgarian?"
"What?" asked Sirius and Remus in unison, as innocently as they could. Both were imagining the scene that must have occurred when Dumbledore had discovered that particular ability of Harry's.
"That wasn't on the list," Dumbledore reminded them, his voice curious and low. It seemed very non-threatening, but of course both other men knew better than to believe any such thing. "And neither of you mentioned it. Who taught it to him?"
"Neither of us, sir," Remus admitted, reluctantly. "We didn't even know he could speak it, until we were in the airport on our way back. He interrupted some Bulgarian's fight with Customs Security, if you must know," he added, seeing all the questions lighting in the Headmaster's eyes.
"I see." Dumbledore sat back, folding his hands over his stomach, and smiled suddenly. "Indeed."
"If you don't mind us asking," said Sirius, with noticeable sarcasm, "might you happen to have any theories about this?"
"I do, as a matter of fact." Dumbledore smiled again. "If I'm right about where Harry's powers come from -- and I think I am -- then it appears that the other Harry had a reason to know Bulgarian. This, I hardly need add, is very interesting."
He wouldn't explain further, much to the frustration of both Sirius and Remus.
°
2 September, 1991
11:30 AM
"There, look."
"Where?"
"Next to the tall redhead and the girl with the bushy hair."
"Wearing the glasses?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Unfortunately for Ron and Hermione, whispers followed their trio, and Harry in particular, from the moment they left the Gryffindor Tower. He ignored them, but the other two found it more difficult. Harry could have stopped the whispers altogether, but he wanted Ron and Hermione to learn, because he wouldn't always be around to divert attention.
So he let the other students stare.
People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Hermione and Ron wished they wouldn't, because they were trying to concentrate on finding their way to class -- they needn't have bothered, of course, because Harry never got lost, though naturally they didn't realize this at first.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember (and Harry never forgot) to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit one another, and Ron even said that he was sure the coats of armor could walk.
The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop waste paper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"
Harry had a knack for avoiding Peeves, though.
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus Filch. Apart from being generally nasty, he owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp-like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (except Harry and perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.
Harry had a knack for avoiding Filch, as well. In fact, if Ron and Hermione thought about it, Harry seemed to have a knack for avoiding anything they might not have wanted to run into.
But even when you managed to find them (and with Harry's help, Ron and Hermione always did), there were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as the students quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.
They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets -- several times Harry found himself in intense discussions with the professor about how different the sky looked from various countries across Europe, and what astronomical advantages could be gained from practicing Astronomy in certain places instead of others. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for -- their second lesson, Harry got in an argument with Sprout regarding the use of a specific plant's secretions to enhance natural vision for extend periods (a highly experimental procedure still in the developmental stage), and whether it actually worked; Harry insisted it didn't, while she was firmly convinced it would.
Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up the next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. This class Harry didn't bother to pay attention to, instead burying his nose in a highly interesting explanation of Mandarin he'd found by accident in the Hogwarts Library, or else the Romanian primer he seemed to take everywhere with him and still insisted was a book on Latin.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight -- this was remarkably similar to his reaction when Harry quizzed him intently on the theory behind the first charm he tried to teach them.
Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class; Harry knew exactly what she was going to say before she said it.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed by this (except Harry) and couldn't wait to get started (including Harry), but soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only two people had succeeded in making any difference in their matches; Hermione's had gone all silver and pointy, and Professor McGonagall showed the class while giving Hermione a rare smile. It was a moment or two after this that McGonagall, as well as the rest of the class, realized that Harry's had actually become a needle, completely.
The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Professor Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days. Quirrell himself was a pale, nervous young man, with one eye that twitched constantly, who wore a very ugly purple turban. The turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought of the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went. Harry, for his part, did not like Quirrell; he avoided talking to the professor whenever possible, and felt himself growing peculiarly angry whenever he looked at the turban for too long. Despite this, he found himself answering more of the questions his classmates put to Quirrell than the professor himself did.
After classes on their first day, Harry gave Ron and Hermione a Latin lesson. Hermione enjoyed it thoroughly. Ron suffered through, and took revenge immediately afterwards by explaining, in detail, every Quidditch foul he'd ever heard of. When he'd finished, Hermione forced them to finish all of the homework they'd somehow managed to acquire after only one day of classes. This became something of a tradition that was continued for the rest of the week, without complaint from any of them.
°
6 September, 1991
8:04 AM
Friday was an important day for Ron and Hermione; Harry had let them find their own way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, and they'd managed to do it without getting lost once. They both beamed at him as they took their seats across the table.
"What have we got today?" Harry needlessly asked Hermione, the most likely of the pair to know.
As she'd memorized their timetable, she answered promptly, "Double Potions with the Slytherins. Professor Snape teaches that class."
"Snape's Head of Slytherin House," said Ron, to explain the sudden grimace on his face. "They say he always favors them -- we'll be able to see if it's true."
"Wish McGonagall favored us," joked Harry, just to see the grin appear on Ron's face as Hermione's lips thinned in disapproval, remarkably like the professor in question. McGonagall was, of course, the Head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn't stopped her from giving them a huge pile of homework the day before, which thanks to Hermione had all been finished before they went to bed.
Just then, the mail arrived. Harry and Hermione had gotten used to this by now, but it had given her a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.
Hermione had received nothing. Ron had gotten two letters from his younger sister Ginny, who seemed to write letters to all her brothers in some sort of weekly routine that Harry still hadn't figured out, all of which were delivered by an ancient owl that Hermione was terribly afraid would collapse at any moment. Hedwig had only brought Harry one letter so far, ostensibly from his sister Ella, but clearly written by his mother; he'd answered it promptly, putting the names of all three of his sisters on it, and saying nothing very interesting. Hedwig seemed very pleased when he'd given it to her to deliver and, though she didn't usually have anything for him, she sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls.
This morning, an unfamiliar owl fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Ron's plate. Ron tore it open at once, and read it aloud. It turned out to be an invitation to tea from the huge man who'd shown them across the lake; it turned out he was the Hogwarts groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, a friend of the Weasleys and a particular favorite of Ron's. Since they had Friday afternoons off anyway, Ron borrowed one of Hermione's quills and scribbled an answer on the back of the letter saying he'd come and mentioning he'd be bringing a couple of friends with him, then sent the owl off again.
It was lucky that they had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to be the most surprising thing that had happened to any of them so far.
At the start-of-term banquet, while waiting for things to wind down so that he could be summoned to the Headmaster's office, Harry had happened to be looking around, and gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him -- both the glare on the man's face, and the uneasy feeling in Harry's stomach when he caught sight of the professor contributed to this impression. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he'd been wrong. The greasy-haired man didn't dislike Harry -- he hated him.
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.
Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.
"Ah, yes," he said softly, and Harry felt ice grow in his veins. "Harry Potter. Our new -- celebrity."
Draco Malfoy, the blond Slytherin Harry had noticed during the Sorting Ceremony, and a couple of his friends -- who looked remarkably like boulders -- sniggered behind their hands. Barely sparing them a glance of veiled annoyance, Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Harry had noticed Hagrid's were, but they had none of the same warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels. They also, much to Harry's disappointment, made you think of a person who thought almost as quietly as Dumbledore.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape 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. And like McGonagall, Harry knew exactly what the man was going to say before he said it. "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, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows, while Hermione tried not to fidget or scoot forward to the edge of her seat and look as desperate as she felt to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.
"Potter!" said Snape suddenly, and Harry unexpectedly saw a brief image of a young man who looked like his father pointing a threatening wand at a much younger Professor Snape. His insides twisted. Somehow he managed to keep his expression neutral as Snape went on, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry heard Ron thinking, and glanced over to find the other boy looking stumped; Hermione's hand had shot into the air, and Harry was certain that she also knew the answer, considering she was practically screaming it into his head.
"That would be the Draught of Living Death, sir," Harry answered respectfully, his voice almost as low and level as Snape's had been. The vision of his father threatening Snape was still alive in his mind, behind firmly closed doors, and he hadn't quite decided how to treat the professor yet. "It's a very powerful sleeping potion."
The Professor's face grew a little stonier, and his lips curled into a sneer. "I see."
Hermione lowered her hand, glancing at Harry without even a flicker of surprise on her face; instead she seemed rather resigned. Knowing Snape wasn't finished yet, Harry decided he'd let her answer the next one, if he could.
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfbane?" demanded Snape.
Harry knew it was a trick question, and he also knew that Hermione knew it; she'd stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat.
"I've already answered a question," he said quietly, keeping his tone as inoffensive as he could while giving an unsolicited suggestion to one of his teachers. "Hermione hasn't, though, and I think she knows the answer, so why don't you try her?"
A few people laughed, including Ron; Harry accidentally caught the eye of Seamus, one of his dormmates, and Seamus winked. Snape, however, did not look particularly pleased.
"Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything. Your manners, I see, are as lacking as I suspected.-- I asked you, Potter; monkshood and wolfbane, what is the difference? Or do you not know?"
"I know," Harry responded, his face going blank. He thought he could hear Sirius sneering at Snape and calling him something rather unpleasant, though he knew he'd never heard any such thing. "They're the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Sir."
The professor looked even less pleased than he had a moment ago. Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes, and did not flinch.
"Let's try again." As Snape spoke, Harry had another image flash through his mind of a wand he knew to be his father's leveled at a young Snape's face. "Potter, what is a bezoar, and where would you look if I told you to find me one?"
Before he could think better of it, Harry found himself replying calmly, "Well, a bezoar will save you from most poisons -- and since it's a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, I guess I'd try my father's belly first."
For a moment, there was absolute silence in the classroom. Snape's eyes had widened noticeably, and then narrowed just as sharply. Harry met his gaze, one eyebrow slightly raised. He waited.
"That was inappropriate," murmured Snape, the sudden change in his voice obvious but indecipherable. "Three points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter."
Beside him, Harry heard Ron sigh, and saw Hermione send him a rather crestfallen look. The Slytherins, particularly Draco Malfoy, all gave each other smug smiles, but Snape wasn't done.
"Of course, it was also correct," he continued, and everyone in the class frozen again. The forbidding professor lifted one eyebrow, in response to Harry's unspoken challenge. "One point to Gryffindor."
The class gave a collective gasp of surprise, the loudest being Ron's. Draco and a few of the other Slytherins looked about to protest, but Snape's still narrowed eyes were now sweeping the classroom.
"Well? Why aren't you all copying Potter's answers down?" he demanded. There was a pause, and he added somewhat reluctantly, "Minus the bit regarding his father, of course."
There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape started speaking and began their lesson in earnest. He put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he almost seemed to like, and Harry, to whom he occasionally gave advice -- judging by the expression on his face as he did this, he was actually testing Harry, though for what none of them was exactly sure.
This continued throughout the rest of the lesson, and everyone who'd had previous expectations of Snape was mightily surprised, and more than a little confused. Draco kept casting Harry speculative looks, and one or two Gryffindors had nearly ruined their potions because they were staring at their housemate with open amazement.
As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were conflicted. He'd lost two points for Gryffindor in his very first week -- why did Snape hate him so much? But he'd also been awarded a point, by Snape -- Ron claimed, on information from his brothers, that such a thing hadn't happened in all the years Snape had been teaching. Moreover, it had been the slur on James Potter that had won him the point -- Harry wasn't sure he liked insulting his father, but he did feel sure that it had been the only way to make Snape back off, if even only a little.
"Cheer up," said Hermione, mistaking Harry's thoughtfulness for anxiety over the lost points. "We still get to go meet Hagrid, right, Ron?"
Ron nodded his eager agreement.