Chapter One Summary- The first week sweeps by, and Harry finds himself dealing with gossiping peers, broken friendships, and one particularly hateful teacher—and he hasn't even completed the first semester! But he knows he can make it through, with Draco's help.
Replies to Reviews (you may skip)-
Guest- Author appreciates the feedback and hopes that this chapter pleases you as well.
SB- Potterhead Budgie Lover- 100 points to you too, good sir. Or madam. Whichever. Or both! Author doesn't discriminate.
Note- Author may have been lying in the first chappie when she said that the chapters would be out of order. She's since decided to post the first year (with Quirrelmort) in chronological order, with brief intermissions and flashbacks because…well…actually there isn't a reason.
Disclaimer- Author owns neither the characters nor the setting in which this mess takes place. They all belong to J.K. Rowling, the goddess.
"He's a Malfoy! A bloody Malfoy!" spat Ron, face rapidly turning purple with fury, "I wouldn't be surprised if he was being trained as a bloody Death Eater already!"
"He's eleven," Harry protested.
"He's scum!" Ron shouted, voice reaching the far ends of the deserted classroom they were arguing in. "His parents served the person who killed your mum and dad, and yet you sit next to him and laugh and talk as if you were best mates! I can't believe you, I really can't believe you! Bloody hell!"
It was quiet for a moment, the sound of Ron's labored breathing filling the classroom. Both boys took the second to study one another; Harry's face was tired and drawn, but stubborn, and Ron's was furious and a just tad bit desperate. Harry was Ron's friend too, and Ron wasn't ready to lose him either, but it was just plain unacceptable that he was friends with a Malfoy because didn't he understand the things that the Malfoys had done—
But Harry would not budge, no matter what evidence or reason that Ron threw at him; he would not budge no matter how many colors Ron's face turned and that wasn't fair because Ron had known Harry for longer than that Malfoy and yet Harry's loyalty had swayed so easily.
And so that was how the two had found themselves in this position, where Harry's face could've been stone and Ron's too was rapidly closing off.
"Fine," Ron growled, turning around and heading for the door, "But don't come crawling back to me when he stabs you in the back like the cowardly snake he is."
He walked out, footsteps echoing loudly in the empty corridor.
Harry stood there for a while more, listening to the sound of his own slow, deep breaths, and thinking. He supposed he should have been thinking about how Draco's family had supported the man who killed Harry's parents and how Draco was on the wrong side of it all, the Dark side. But all he could think of was how Draco's face had lit up when Harry first showed interest in talking to him, in becoming his friend.
He also thought about how Draco's face had—not exactly fallen, per say, because Draco had been trained better than that (and hadn't that rankled, to know that he had been trained like a dog) but how it became icy and cold and scarily reminiscent of Harry's first impression of him: a closed-off unlikeable boy with all the personality of a wooden chair. He thought about how it had done that when Harry first told him that he knew about Draco's family, knew of what they had done.
And Harry thought about how he couldn't just leave Draco to become a wooden chair, not because of his family's political views or anything. Harry couldn't remember his parents; in fact, the clearest memory he had was of their deaths, and the flash of green light accompanying it, so of course he didn't dwell on them as much as you might think.
To be honest, though, when he was younger he had dwelled on the idea of them, on the idea of people who loved him and gave him his own room with toys and books and stuffed animals, on the idea of people who didn't think he was a freak at all, but rather the opposite.
But he did not think of his parents as people themselves, only of people who loved him and cared for him. He had only imagined their faces when he was very, very small, even smaller than he was now. He had thought that his mother had green eyes like Harry did and perhaps long, wavy hair the color of crimson roses, and maybe his father had the same gravity-defying hair as Harry did himself. But they were just childish fantasies, he told himself, just wishful thinking, and once he got to a certain age, he stopped thinking about them at all.
It was only when Hagrid and the letters came did Harry really remember he had parents at all. It was only when the many people in Diagon Alley commented offhandedly on his mother's eyes and his father's hair did he think that maybe his childish imaginings were not childish imaginings after all.
The people who had been his parents were still dead, though, still six feet under and gone. Forever. So Harry's loyalty, at the moment, rested with the lonely boy who he had only just met, and if the boy's family had assisted in the murder of his very dead parents, well—that wasn't Draco's fault.
Instead of looking in Draco's gray eyes and thinking, "Those very same eyes, on a different man, might've witnessed my mother's death," Harry thought that those eyes looked quite similar to Harry's back in primary school when he realized that no one would play with him, not with the way that Dudley had glared at them.
Harry decided that he would stay as Draco's friend, whether the other Gryffindors (or, rather, the entire school) liked it or not.
And then he realized that he was spectacularly late for his next class, cursed, and ran towards where he hoped the Transfiguration classroom lay.
Naturally, the rest of Gryffindor house—no, the rest of the school itself was wary and curious of them, but not curious enough to treat them as anything more than outcasts, or even to have a decent, civil conversation with them. Therefore Harry and Draco found themselves spending a lot more time than they previously expected in the Hogwarts library, if only for a moment or two of quiet void of whispered speculations.
The library was vast but dusty, ancient tomes and newer releases stacked indiscriminately on top of one another in an order that only made sense to the unpleasant librarian, Madam Pince, and a handful of the more avid bookworms.
One of these aforementioned bookworms was another first year called Hermione Granger, whom Harry had met previously on the Hogwarts Express. Granger was quiet, and minded her own business, which Harry and Draco soon came to appreciate.
She either did not know or did not care about the rumors swirling round them, perhaps because she had her own share of criticism to deal with, or because she was Muggle-born and had not grown up with heroic tales of the Boy-Who-Lived and horror stories about You-Know-Who and his accursed Death Eaters.
Whichever one it was, Granger was far easier to deal with than their gossiping classmates, and that was good enough for the boys, who exchanged notes with her every once and a while.
The boys, for their part, had agreed to stick together in the face of the rest of the student body after some initial argument— "It'll ruin your reputation to associate with the son of a known Death Eater!" "Well, I hadn't known my reputation until a month ago, much less cared about it!"—and they were both sticking to that commitment. Murmurs were ignored, rumors brushed aside like cobwebs. But despite his forced indifference, Harry longed to walk down the school corridors without the stares and seemingly constant chit-chat. He told Draco of this, and he sympathized, but didn't seem very sure that the rumors would dissipate anytime soon. Having been in the spotlight all his life, Draco was used to the grapevine and its trickery, and he assured Harry that he would quickly learn to ignore it.
In direct contrast to their social situation, classes were interesting and even fun. Some teachers (Professor Flitwick) showed elation at the opportunity to teach such a famous celebrity, while others (Professor McGonagall) made it clear that they were all fellow pupils, and should be treated as equals in the classroom. Nonetheless, even the excitable Flitwick mellowed out after a few days, smoothly falling into the now familiar routine of assignments, class discussions, and demonstrations.
The latter was one that Harry was very much interested in. He doubted that he would ever get used to the wonder that was magic, and those demonstrations of things even as simple as lifting a feather ignited a spark somewhere inside of him, a spark that whispered, One day. One day I'll be as good as that and better.
Draco enjoyed those demonstrations as well; he explained to Harry that even though there was a wealth of magic in his everyday life, he had never received an explanation on how it worked. Harry learned quickly of Draco's insatiable curiosity, and strived to match it with his own. The two worked well together, with Harry's sense of righteousness and Draco's firm belief in equality. Draco had a dry wit that made many conversations entertaining, and Harry was one of the first people to properly enjoy it, judging by Draco's pleased flush whenever Harry laughed at one of his jokes.
Yes, the two made quite the pair, and despite (or rather, in spite) of the judgment of his peers, Harry found that his joy could not be muffled, not when he had Draco's support and his fascinating classes on things that seemed more at home in an old, worn fiction novel than a classroom textbook.
Then Harry went to his first Potions class, and realized that maybe not all of the teachers had his back quite so firmly as he had previously believed.
It was a Friday, the last day of their first week of classes, in fact. This was the very last class, and both Harry and Draco were eager to finish up the week. Draco had gone over his Potions textbook enthusiastically, and convinced Harry to quiz him, so in the end they had a fair grasp of the subject.
So it was with confidence that they strode into the dank chamber, claiming a spot in the very middle of the classroom, right in between the gathered Slytherin and Gryffindor first years, who had split evenly in half and were giving each other (and the pair) equally dirty looks.
The Slytherins treated Draco in the relatively same way that the rest of the school did: with a combination of cold, cruel looks and uncertainty. They, however, did it not because of his family's renowned Death Eater members, but because of his association with Harry. Many of the elder Slytherins were furious that one of them (whom several were related to, as Pure-bloods are all interconnected) would willingly talk to the cause of their parent's imprisonment. Harry's "defeat" of Voldemort at such a young age had led to the capture and sentence of many a Slytherin's father or mother, so they were none too pleased at Draco's sorting and defiance of family loyalty.
"Blood traitor," they'd whisper, though Draco hadn't shown any sign of supporting Muggle-born rights. (On that note, Harry noticed that Draco avoided the subject quite thoroughly every time it was brought up. Whether it was his family's history or something more personal Harry did not know, but he decided that it was Draco's business when he wanted to tell, and Harry would not pry until then.)
Harry and Draco studiously ignored the others (though Harry still felt a pang when he saw Ron's disgusted look) and pulled out their textbooks and parchment. Then they preoccupied themselves with choosing which of the assembled glass jars with pickled animals was most disturbing. The debate was just getting interesting—Draco voted the rabbit hearts, but Harry was a staunch believer in the snake eyes—when there was a bang!
The doors flew open and in strode the Potions Master, glare in place and robes billowing in a menacing fashion. Practically all the first years jumped, twisting around in their seats and ending their hushed conversations as quickly as possible.
Professor Snape's shoes on the stone floor sounded like a gunshot in the suddenly silent chamber, and his scowl was truly a thing of horror. Harry could tell why the rest of the student body was so frightened of him; he hardly looked the type to ask questions of.
The intimidating man reached the front of the classroom and whipped out an attendance log. He barked out the names in a sharp manner more befitting of a military sergeant than a schoolteacher, hardly pausing at any of them, save Draco's and Harry's. For Draco it was brief, and he quite nearly missed it; but Draco had been trained in the art of observation from a young age, and he caught the look of contemplation that crossed the man's face before it disappeared as he reached the next person.
For Harry, it was far more noticeable. Snape paused, and a smirk crept onto his face; and if you thought that the scowl was bad, then you might've fainted in fright at this expression. In fact, that was what timid Neville Longbottom (who had, most unwisely, sat in the first row) nearly did, he was shaking so badly.
"Ah, Harry Potter," breathed Snape, "our new—celebrity."
None of the students in the class dared twitch for fear of invoking his wrath. Draco wondered, suddenly, if the man was quite stable. The smirk was still on his face, but Draco caught a glimpse of what looked like a mess of hate-anger-guilt in his dark, dark eyes, and that surely wasn't very healthy.
Whatever moment there was passed, thankfully, and Snape finished up roll call. Both Harry and Draco had by then decided that they would not like these lessons in the least bit, for the man seemed to ooze malice, and classes would be most unenjoyable if they could not ask for clarification.
Snape snapped the roll call book closed—poor Longbottom flinched—and began to pace in front of the chalkboard.
"I doubt that any of you fools really consider the art of potion-making "magic," because there is little wand-waving and charm-muttering involved in the brewing of a potion. I also very much doubt that any of you will ever even begin to appreciate what you will learn in this class; the exact preciseness in every step, the patience it takes to monitor a potion for hours on end, the power in your final brew—the power to bewitch the mind, to ensnare the senses, to even bring life to a halt; all of this will surely fly over your large, bloated, arrogant heads—" and at this he glared at Harry in particular, "—but if you are willing to listen and obey instruction, then perhaps you will pass above my very, very low expectations."
Snape turned on his heel and pinned Harry with a glare. "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Hermione's hand flung itself into the air, but Harry hardly took notice. He tried to recall Draco's and his study sessions, but found it difficult. There certainly wasn't any of this material in the beginning of the book! He'd have to think of some of the trickier details, and piece a few of them together…asphodel, asphodel…it represented death in Greek mythology, right? Persephone, queen of the underworld, wore a crown of them, if he remembered correctly. Asphodel, in some cases, was used as a way to kill someone peacefully, such as a suffering friend or family member. So the answer had to do with death.
Wormwood…it reduced pain, right? And it could be used to stimulate the imagination, or even cause hallucinations…so something had to be simulated in the answer.
A psychedelic drug, then! Harry remembered a play that his primary school had forced his class to attend: Romeo and Juliet. Juliet, in the end, had used a psychedelic drug to imitate death, forcing her family to cancel her unwanted marriage to the County Paris.
So, a potion like that would be— "The Draught of Living Death, sir!" I hope.
Snape gave a terse nod, obviously surprised at his correct answer. Harry cheered inwardly. The lessons with Draco had really paid off! But then— "Where would you look if I asked you to find a bezoar, Potter?"
Well, at least this one was easy. "I'd look in the belly of a goat, sir." The textbook, right at the very beginning, had insisted upon highlighting this information. You should always know a way to counter the effects of a potion you're brewing, and a bezoar was the simplest way to cure someone of a poison, or any other potion, for that matter.
Snape gave another jerky nod, as if it physically pained him to do so. He seemed quite put off, and very much annoyed, but Harry had begun to think it was over when— "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Wait, what? What the hell was wolfsbane? Or monkshood, for that matter?
Harry almost tried to guess, but he had a feeling Snape would appreciate that far less than an admittance of ignorance, so he just said, "I don't know, sir."
"Clearly fame isn't everything. For your information, Potter, monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, and it also goes by the name of aconite. Sit down, girl— " to Hermione, whose hand was still in the air, waving madly, "—and why aren't the rest of you idiots copying that down?"
Harry felt a spark of righteous anger. He had gotten two out of three of the questions right, hadn't he? And as for the last one, he had only heard it referred to as aconite in his textbook, and that was only once or twice in passing. What was this man's problem? He felt his eyes narrow, which was a mistake.
"If you have something to say, Potter, then say it," purred Snape, who looked absolutely delighted at his chance to further humiliate Harry.
Harry gritted his teeth. "Nothing, sir."
"Nothing? Nothing at all? Well, a point off Gryffindor for your insubordination, then."
Harry very nearly leapt to his feet at that. He hadn't said anything even remotely insubordinate! How dare—
Draco stepped on his foot harshly, shaking his head. It would do no good to further provoke the man, his eyes spoke. Best to let it lie.
Harry sighed but heeded his advice.
The rest of the lesson proceeded in a similar fashion, with Snape blaming Harry at every chance available—and even some that weren't—and taking points off Gryffindor left and right. In the end, they totaled up to ten points lost, and Harry was feeling worse than ever. The only good thing about this entire situation was that the rest of his house didn't blame him in the slightest. In fact, they were just as furious as Harry. For once, he and his house were united in their views, and that made it feel a little better, at least.
After class (which seemed as if it had lasted years rather than hours) Granger even walked very quickly and quietly up to Harry, and said in her hurried, rather nervous manner, "I just wanted to let you know that I think it was completely unfair of Professor Snape to take off so many points, and that you did very well in answering those first two questions, and that it was quite unprofessional of him, and that he ought to be ashamed of himself." She took a deep breath and continued. "If you'd like to go over the material with me, then I'd be happy to, seeing as you seem to know the subject better than most of our classmates." She made a face, and then stopped, apprehension clouding her eyes.
It occurred to Harry that this was a very large risk for her to take, seeing as she had already been ridiculed and mocked multiple times by her other peers, and she was just offering an opening to be made fun of.
But Harry liked to think of himself as more decent than that, and besides, this was a person who was willing to talk to him! "Sure," he said, "but only if Draco can come." If she accepted Harry, she'd have to accept Draco too; it was both of them or neither.
But Hermione didn't seem to even consider this, she was so relieved at his answer. "Great! I'll discuss times with you after dinner in the library, then." And then she walked off briskly. Harry had seen the happiness in her eyes, though, and thought that perhaps this friendship would extend to more than just a reviewing of notes.
"Harry!" called Draco, "Hurry up! I want to check something out on the first floor. I've heard a rumor that there's a ghost that haunts a girl's bathroom or something!"
Where Draco had heard the rumor, Harry didn't know, since no one would talk to him, but he sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and ran after the enthusiastic blonde. Maybe this whole situation with his peers wasn't so hopeless after all.
There you go. A good thousand or so words longer than the last chapter. Appreciate it, Readers, for you shall probably not get it again anytime soon.
Snapey took off so many points because he was pissed at the mini Potter for knowing so many of the answers. Also, don't think that Author doesn't like Snape; she loves him, actually, for he's one of the sassiest characters in the series (disregarding McGonagall, and perhaps Dray-dray) but this is through the perspective of an eleven-year-old, one who already has a foul opinion of him. Author may or may not develop his character into something more than a bully, but that depends on her mood.
Also, Draco is a curious little shit. And Author loves him like her child. And one of Author's head canons is that unlike Hermione, who memorizes the facts themselves, Draco turns the facts into entertaining stories so that he can remember them easier. So Draco will probably be nerd-friends with Hermione and get good grades in this ficlet.
For your information, the potions segment was very much bullshitted. Some parts were taken offline, and the rest was made up by Author or drawn from some of her own personal experiences.
Now, please review! Author eats them up like human souls! If Reader has any recommendations of any fluffy gen one shots involving our favorite blonde and brunette, then comment about them to. Author is thirsting for reading material right now.