Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I wouldn't be so poor.

AN: My dear readers, I must say, reading your reviews has become one of the highlights of my day. On that note, thanks for the reviews for chapter 6; I thought it was rather well received – apparently it was funny or something. Who knew?

Chapter 7: Of Potions and Prats

Their first class Wednesday was History of Magic. At first, Harry and his classmates had been confused by the upper years' sympathizing glances of pity as they left the breakfast table, but the confusion did not last long. Professor Binns, professor of History of Magic, was a ghost – most spirits, Harry knew from his research, relied on patterns of behaviour, and Binns certainly did. For an entire hour he droned on, quite repetitively, oblivious to his students' boredom – several, including Terry, Lisa, and Stephen, slept through a great portion of the class, whilst Michael simply glared at the ghost. Only Kevin and Anthony seemed to be taking notes – and Harry, well, Harry was plotting. It was devious, sinister, and perhaps even cruel, and would land him in more trouble than he would care to be in if he was caught, but it was necessary.

"Binns must be exorcised," Harry whispered between Terry and Michael as they finally walked out of the history classroom.

"I agree with you there mate. I mean really, a bloody ghost?" Terry yawned.

"No," Harry said urgently, "I mean, really. We need to find a way to exorcise Binns."

Terry gaped at him.

"History is an important subject – it educates us on political climates, conflict resolution, and on how to avoid past mistakes! I will not have my education compromised by a stupid ghost! Binns must be done away with."

"Er, Harry you're talking about murdering a teacher here."

"He's already dead."

"That's not the point!"

"It needs to be done!"

"I agree with Harry," Michael suddenly spoke up, "We're Ravenclaws – knowledge is what defines us as a house, and therefore we have a responsibility for it. Binns is not only an obstacle, but also an insult. He deserves to be exorcised."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Harry.

Terry groaned. "Anthony would kill me if he knew we were even discussing this."

"Your girlfriend doesn't need to know," said Michael.

Terry scowled. "He's more like my little sister."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

"Damn you, Michael, I-"

Suddenly, Harry grabbed both of their arms, dragging them down a dark passageway.

"Harry! What the – "

"Is it agreed then? We'll work together to find a way to exorcise Binns?"

Michael nodded determinedly. Both he and Harry looked toward Terry.

"Oh, oh no, you're not dragging me into this."

They glared.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble we could get into? We could be expelled!"

"We'll just have to be discrete, then," said Michael airily.

"Discrete! How do you discretely murder a teacher?"

"Exorcise." Michael corrected.

"Subtly," Harry said, "You do it subtly."

"You can't subtly murder someone!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "If anyone can do it, I can."

Michael nodded. "Come on, Terry, we've known each other forever - best friends trust best friends; trust me on this! It's important!"

"I don't know…"

Harry sighed. "If you don't agree, we'll just have to make sure you stay silent about it. I read about this one charm, Obliviate, it alters memories…"

Terry stiffened and backed away. "You're not touching my memories, even if you are Harry bloody Potter."

The other two boys stared at him expectantly.

Terry sighed. "Fine, fine, I'm in. I'll help you exorcise Binns."

"Good to have you on board," said Harry, grinning, "Now, place your right hands on your hearts."

The two boys nodded and did so.

"Now, Terry Boot, Michael Corner, do you so swear to aid this Harry James Potter in the exorcism of Professor Binns of History of Magic, for the purpose of saving our magical education?"

"I so swear."

"I so swear."

Harry nodded, "Then we are now the Brotherhood of Binns Exorcists."

Terry blinked. "We are?"

"Of course we are. We are now bound together by secrecy and a common goal – we're a brotherhood, with the purpose of exorcising Binns."

Terry nodded slowly. "Well that's sort of awesome, I guess."

"Now let's go, before we're late for charms!"

The boys barely made it into the charms class room before class started, ignoring the disapproving glares sent their way by Padma and Anthony.

Charms class was good fun, Harry found; it was a versatile subject, and Professor Flitwick, their head of house, was a cheery man (er, half goblin), enthusiastic about what he taught. His diminutive stature did not at all subtract from the amount of knowledge and magical power that the man had at his disposal, Harry realised. Unlike McGonagall, who had been disapproving, and Quirrel, who had fainted, Professor Flitwick seemed quite pleased by Harry's curious inquiries, even his more…inventive ones. He also seemed quite interested with Harry's mention of Jean's charmed record player.

By the end of class, though they had not learnt any charms and would apparently be concentrating on charm theory for the next few weeks, Charms had easily become Harry's favourite class. As the students filed out, off to the Great Hall for lunch, Harry turned to Michael and Terry.

"I need to ask the professor something, and I don't think I'll make it to lunch. Meet you at Potions?"

They nodded. "Right, mate, see you."

Harry walked up to Professor Flitwick's desk, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, Mr. Potter! Is there something I can help you with?"

Harry nodded. "You see, professor, I was just remembering today how Mr. Ollivander told me that my mother's wand was well-suited for charms."

"Ah, yes," said the professor, smiling fondly, "Lily Evans was one of my most talented students – a genius at charms, one might even say. In her later years, especially when she had taken some Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, she showed a unique sort of brilliance, even starting some spell-crafting on her own. I was pushing her to continue on to her Mastery in Charms when she graduated, but with the war…" He shook his head sadly. "One of the brightest witches I have ever had the honour to meet – I would have liked her to take my position here, one day…"

For some reason, Harry had to blink back tears – he never knew the woman. He didn't even know what his mother looked like, what her voice sounded like – but then why did hearing about her make his heart twist within his chest? "And my father?"

"Ah, James, the liveliest Gryffindor of them all. More talented at transfiguration, as I understand. You should really talk to Professor McGonagall, as she was their head of house. I'm sure she could tell you many a tale."

Harry nodded. "Thank you professor. But I didn't want to only ask you about my parents."

"Oh?"

"People keep telling me I survived the Killing Curse."

Professor Flitwick nodded, seemingly understanding Harry's intended question. "And you want to know how."

"I did some research, last night, in the library. The basic definition of the Killing Curse is that it forcibly separates the soul from the body. How could a baby survive that?"

Professor Flitwick shook his head. "That is the thing, Mr. Potter – it should be impossible to block such a powerful curse that has such a single-minded objective."

"But then I got to thinking, why isn't there a counter-spell? I mean, theoretically, if there is a branch of magic that can separate a soul from a body, it should be able to bind a soul to a body, or re-attach it too."

"There are no such spells, Mr. Potter."

"But what if someone created one? What if my mother, who was a genius at charms, managed to create a spell that kept a soul attached to a body? What if-"

Professor Flitwick held up his hand. "Mr. Potter, how much magic would one need to know to kill a person?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "Not very much. Most children could produce accidental magic with potentially fatal effects, right?"

The professor nodded. "But it takes many years of study as a healer to be able to properly repair a body that has been dropped ten metres using a simple levitating charm. You see Mr. Potter, it is easy to break something, but it is much harder to put something back together. Very, very little is known about the soul, even among wizards – though a spell that forcefully, crudely rips the soul from the body has been created, it would take much, much more insight to be able to put them back together. And generally, Mr. Potter, magics concerning the soul are considered forbidden."

Harry sighed. That word again. "So, it's a mystery, even to you?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter. I am sorry I could not be of more help. Sometimes, things happen that nobody can understand – it takes an intelligent man to realize this, and a wise man to accept it."

Harry nodded, smiling. "Thank you, professor."

"Not at all, Mr. Potter, nothing pleases me more than answering the questions of my students."

Harry left the charms classroom deep in thought, and though he had a bit of time before Potions, he resolved to go back to the library, instead of the Great Hall. Rather than going back to the depressing and daunting task of researching the Killing Curse, Harry decided some lighter reading was in order, and retrieved some Hogwarts yearbooks from the shelves. He picked a few from the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s – it was his estimation that Voldemort must have gone to school sometime during those three decades. While he knew that it was not as though he would be able to tell from a picture who the dark lord was, and that three decades was a wide area to search, he presumed that it would be possible to find at least a few clues from the yearbooks.

"Potter?"

Harry looked up from the 1952 yearbook, seeing Draco Malfoy walking up behind him. "Malfoy."

"You're not at lunch?"

Harry shook his head. "I had stayed behind at charms to ask Professor Flitwick something, and decided to just wait here until Potions."

"Potions?" Draco asked, perking up slightly.

"With the Hufflepuffs. We've got a class today and Friday with them."

Draco scowled. "Good luck with that. Professor Snape doesn't put up with idiots, and those Hufflepuffs are a load of duffers."

"I'm sure they're not all bad. But I've heard a great deal about the potions professor – I've heard he's everything and anything between a Death Eater and a vampire."

Draco's face whitened briefly, but Harry didn't miss it. "What are you doing now, then? It's too early to be assigned any essays." He frowned at the book in Harry's hands. "A yearbook from 1952?"

Harry sighed. "I'm trying to figure out Voldemort's –" Draco flinched, especially violently, "- real name. You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

Draco shook his head urgently, still seeming quite flustered.

"I didn't think so, nobody seemed to know. I even asked Madame Pince, the librarian last night, because librarians always know all sorts of strange things, you know, and she just paled and shooed me away."

Draco seemed to have recovered. "Why would you want to know that, anyway?"

Harry shrugged. "He tried to kill me, I killed him, apparently. He knew my name, why shouldn't I know his?"

Draco frowned, apparently confused by the strange reasoning. "Right."

Harry stood. "Well, I better start making my way down to the dungeons. See you around, Malfoy."

He nodded. "And I need find Crabbe and Goyle, make sure they don't get lost on their way to Transfiguration."

Harry snorted. "Say Malfoy, remember what you said before the sorting feast, about associating with the wrong sorts?"

Draco straightened. "Of course."

"Right, well, I figured if you were offering such advice, you must know the student body pretty well."

Draco smirked and puffed out his chest.

"I've been meaning to curse someone, you see, and I need a good candidate."

Draco blinked.

"It would have to be someone deserving, a major prat, a bully or something – someone not too smart (wouldn't do to have someone real clever after me), and someone who is noticeable, a good, clear target. And it can't be another Ravenclaw."

"Er…" Draco began unsurely, before pulling himself together, a calculating look coming over his face. "Marcus Flint. Slytherin sixth year. Apparently, he often bullies the lower years, but gets away with it because he's on the Quidditch team. He was rather rude to me, last night."

Harry smiled. "Thanks, Malfoy. It's been lovely doing business with you."

From there, Harry made his way down toward the dungeons where the Potions classroom was, finding the door open. He rushed in, finding a seat beside Padma Patil, who blushed as he sat down.

A moment later, Professor Snape burst into the room, slamming the door and causing most of the students to jump a foot in the air. He strode purposefully to the front of the room, dark robe billowing behind him. Immediately, Professor Snape began by calling roll, his silky yet firm baritone drifting over the dark, cold classroom.

It's no wonder they all think he's a vampire. This place is creepy! thought Harry, I wonder why he…

"Ah, Yes," said the soft voice, suddenly, "Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity."

Harry met the man's gaze coolly, holding it until he turned away.

"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 his words were clear, biting – the Hufflepuffs looked terrified, while the Ravenclaws appeared to be completely drawn in.

"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."

The students were silent, barely daring to breath as Professor Snape paused.

"Potter!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry panicked for a moment. He didn't know the answer to that – he had read the potions textbook inside and out and there wasn't a single formula that…

-Draught of the Living Death- said an amused voice inside his head.

Harry stiffened. But wasn't that…? Apollo? But why would Apollo be helping him? In Potions class, of all places?

"Well, Potter? I'm waiting. If you do not know the answer…"

"Draught of the Living Death…sir."

Professor Snape sneered. "Clearly luck follows you around, Potter."

Harry was hard pressed to keep from bursting out in laughter. If only you knew…

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

That's easy. "An apothecary, sir." He watched Padma's dark face pale a few shades beside him, and quickly amended, "Or, the stomach of a goat, if the apothecary ran out."

Professor Snape looked as though he had swallowed something especially sour. "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

What is this, twenty questions? Is he trying to stump me? Suddenly, something in Harry's mind jolted – as Professor Snape had interrogated him, he had felt a growing pressure in his mind – but now, he felt a sharp prod on the shields he had lifted for the Sorting Hat. He pushed back. If you don't get out now, I'll make sure you never get out, he shoved the threat to the front of his mind. It was a bluff, of course, but it seemed to work, as the presence retreated. Harry glanced around the classroom, finding all eyes on him. Oh, right, the question. "Only the fact that you are trying to trick me, sir. But both share the scientific name aconite." Harry knew that because Indian Aconite was the most poisonous plant in the world, according to some sources.

Professor's Snape's face went an angry crimson, before he turned around and began lecturing.

The class was interesting, Harry had to admit – the man knew what he was talking about, and expected a great deal of his students – which Harry found impressive, though a little unfair. However, unlike Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape did not tolerate questions in class, and eventually, Harry asked one too many.

"That's it, Potter! Out! Now!" the man snapped, causing the entire class to stiffen, and a few students to whimper.

Harry, meanwhile, paled. He would admit, while he was curious about potions, he had not been innocent of trying to annoy the man – but he didn't mean to go that far. Who knew the Slytherin Head of House would have such a foul temper? Slowly, stoically, Harry rose to his feet, but stopped, when he heard the voice in his head speak up.

-There is only one will Severus Snape will bend to, and that is Albus Dumbledore's…-

Harry took a deep breath, turning back to the professor, and saying in his firmest voice, "That's alright, I was planning on doing some research in the library, anyway. Or maybe…maybe I'll take up the Headmaster's offer for tea, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I was a bit early…" he bluffed musingly.

And sure enough, Professor's furious face slackened, and it took only a moment before, "Oh, for Merlin's sake, sit down, Potter," he hissed.

The rest of the class went by uneventfully, with Harry remaining quiet and Snape ignoring him. Harry and Padma silently agreed at the end of class that Harry would remain seated while Padma bottled the potion and took it to Snape.

After class had finished, Professor Snape immediately shouted, "You stay behind, Potter!"

As all the students left, Michael and Terry casting a wary but pitying glance at him, Harry remained seated at his desk. Only after the classroom was empty did Harry rise to his feet, striding up to Professor Snape's desk. The man ignored him, of course, until he cleared his throat quite loudly…twice.

"Ah, Potter." he spat, eying Harry suspiciously when he opened his mouth to speak.

"I just wanted to say, professor, that I am sorry. I was not considerate of your method of teaching, and was disruptive in class. Moreover, I overstepped my bounds and was disrespectful. You are clearly a competent Potions Master, and expect the same competency and dedication from your students – I respect that, sir, and I humbly apologize for my behaviour." He managed not to grimace or grit his teeth through the whole stiff apology - he could not help but pat himself on the back. It was all true, sort of, from the professor's point of view...he just left out the parts about the professor's obvious anger issues. Whether he was really sorry or not...well, there's got to be a difference between apologizing and actually feeling guilty, right?

One moment, two moments, three moments passed, and the professor's face remained frozen in place. At that point, Harry steeled himself and nodded respectfully, smirking as he retreated from the class, leaving a stunned Severus Snape behind.

"Mate, how are you still alive?" cried Stephen, over dinner.

Harry shrugged, noting the other first year Ravenclaws' curious glances. "I apologized."

Terry across from him burst out laughing at that. "Blimey, mate, Snape was right about that luck of yours."

"Professor Snape," Padma interrupted.

"So you actually swallowed your pride and apologized?" Kevin asked skeptically.

"Well, the man's a total bastard, and a little bit evil...and I like that, so yeah."

"Evil bastards got to stick together, right?" grinned Terry.

Harry glowered at Terry, but then his expression cleared as something caught his eye. He leaned over to Robert the prefect. "Oi, Hilliard, who's that boy over there at the Slytherin table, the big one shoving Zabini?"

Robert glanced over the table, and scowled. "Oh, that's Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain."

Harry nodded, grinning quite nastily and causing Anthony to glare at him suspiciously. "Say, Terry, would you mind sitting up a bit straighter? Yes, like that, and lift your elbow a bit?" He pulled out his wand, hunching over in order to remain hidden, nestled among the other Ravenclaws, and whispering, "Calvorio."

A moment later, cries of surprise broke out from the Slytherin table, and Terry glanced over his shoulder, laughing as he saw Marcus Flint's hair rapidly falling out; in his panic, the burly boy tripped and fell into a bowl of whipped cream. The entire Great Hall burst out in laughter, Draco catching Harry's eye and smirking, receiving a wink in return.

"…and so the Slytherin table was completely divided for the rest of the evening – half was furious, trying to find the culprit, and the other half was snickering into their pumpkin juice!"

Portrait-Jean burst out laughing, and Harry thought that if he was not a portrait, he might have been in danger of suffocating to death. "And you're sure you didn't get caught?"

"Of course not, Jean, what do you think I am, a Gryffindor? No, it's me and Malfoy's dirty little secret now, and I don't think I've pissed him off yet, so he shouldn't rat on me. Except, Anthony knows, he saw me, and so did Terry, because I told him to move over. They won't tell though. I think Hilliard, that prefect, might know too, but he's a big Quidditch fan, and probably loves that Flint lost all his hair – he didn't take any points, after all."

Jean chuckled, shaking his head. "That's one more thing off your list, then?"

"I suppose, but I don't think I'll stop with Flint. There must be a ton more prats in the school, and they'll make good practice targets. I'll be like a vigilante, like Batman or something! Maybe not…that sounds like a lot of work…we'll see."

"And Malfoy? you said he's a prat too…"

"Yeah, but he's my prat. Ugh, that sounded wrong. What I mean to say is, he's my informant. I need him, so he's safe. Besides, he's been nothing but helpful, if not a bit annoying."

"Ooh, very Slytherin of you, Harry."

"Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. When dealing with a Slytherin, you've got to out-Slytherin them."

Jean grinned. "Like you did with Professor Snape?"

Harry groaned. "I don't know whether I'm looking forward to my next class, or dreading it. You're never going to let me live that down, will you?"

Jean laughed. "You almost got kicked out of Potions on the first day! If it wasn't for Apollo's save, you would have been. Very nice of him, that was."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Very nice. Too nice. I wonder what he's up to…"

Jean rolled his eyes. "He's a god, Harry, he's always up to something. Now that they don't rule over us humans anymore, they just screw around with us…as much as the Fates let them, that is."

"The Fates?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. If stories are to be believed, then Clotho is the one that spins the threads of life, Lachesis is the one who measures it out and weaves it, and Atropos cuts it. Anyway, rumour has it that Apollo's done 'em all at least once."

Harry grimaced.

"They're all pretty close. Which is important to know, because the Fates are the only ones who have power over humans."

Harry looked thoughtful. "So, the Fates are like, the most powerful beings in existence?"

Jean shook his head. "Nah, I shouldn't have said that thing about the Fates being the only ones with power over humans, because it's not really true. Even the Fates have to suck up to someone, the big Kahuna, that is."

"And who is that?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Death."

Harry immediately sobered. "Death?"

Jean nodded. "The only one nobody can beat – because even though Death can kill anyone, you can't kill Death."

There was a long, still silence.

"So…"

Harry glanced down at him.

"Tell me how you cursed off all of Marcus Flint's hair again."

"Again?" Harry grinned. "Right, so…"

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