November, 1991

Quidditch was horrible, Harry concluded. He'd warmed to flying, which really was a lot of fun once you got used to trusting a broomstick. But the practices were eating up all his reading time. And the first match itself? Truly horrific. He almost died and no-one helped him – he had to save himself. Brooms weren't as trustworthy as he'd thought. Neville said he and Hermione saw Snape hexing the broom, but when at Hermione's suggestion they went to see Professor McGonagall, she acted like Snape was beyond reproach and of course would never harm a single hair on Harry's head. Hermione got detention for setting fire to Snape's robes – she was in tears about it. McGonagall was an idiot – Snape hated him, everyone knew. She, Snape, and Dumbledore were now all down on Harry's mental list of people to avoid at all costs (and lie to if he couldn't avoid them). Neville hadn't wanted to go with them to complain about Snape to their Head of House (Ron joined them instead), and it reminded Harry that he'd been meaning to talk to Neville about why he'd disliked (even feared) Snape before he'd even met him.

Neville said he'd explain if the others weren't around, so the next morning before breakfast they walked outside despite the icy grey weather, and looked at the frozen lake as Neville shared his fears.

"The first thing you have to understand, Harry, is how ashamed people are of having a Squib in the family," he whispered quietly.

"What's that go to do with Snape?" said Harry, puzzledly.

"Maybe I'm not telling it right," said Neville, biting his lip. "Sorry. Just bear with me, please? So, Squibs are born to wizarding families, like the opposite of Muggle-borns. They don't possess enough magical power to cast spells."

"Okay."

"But like Ron's relative who is an accountant, or Filch-"

"Filch is a Squib?!"

"Yes, everyone knows that. You didn't know?" Harry shook his head. "Anyway, so no-one wants to know a Squib. No-one associates with them. Lots of people shun them – some families formally cast them out. Blotted off the family tree. It's amazing that the Parkinsons are willing to recognise the connection to you, frankly. It's a shameful thing to have a Squib in the family. I guess you being famous balances things out for them. And you're a wizard, of course. Half-blood with two magical parents and some magical grandparents is fairly respectable – almost pure-blood. Some would call you a first generation pure-blood."

"Your uncle, I remember you said he tried to kill you to make you show your magic," prompted Harry, concerned.

Neville flinched. "Great Uncle Algie. But he wasn't trying to kill me, he just wanted my magic to come out. It usually does come out in stressful situations, you know."

Harry looked sceptically at him, but Neville wasn't meeting his eyes.

"Has Snape… done anything to you? To try and make you show your magic?"

"No, it's not that," said Neville. "Not exactly. I mean, he hates Squibs. Uncle Algie told me that. The thing is, Squibs that don't have enough power to cast charms or hexes can still have enough magic to make a potion come together."

"Oh yes!" said Harry, perking up. "I remember reading in Potion Opuscule about how it's not just about stirring ingredients together, you need to channel your magic smoothly through the stirrer as if it's a wand. It's why some types of wooden spoons are more compatible than others and produce better results – you should get a spoon that matches your wand if you need a larger amount of magic channelled for your potion. Apparently Petunia was wrong about that subject; Muggles can't make a potion work."

Neville blinked. "I think I really must read that book. I didn't know you were so good at the theory – you and Ron never seem to get good marks in class."

"Well, Snape hates me, you know," said Harry uncomfortably. "I returned that book a couple of weeks ago – it should be back on the shelves unless Hermione's taken it out."

"So… Muggles can't make potions work even a little bit. And neither can Squibs. Squibs who try to make potions – they might get a result of some kind but it always goes wrong. Just like my potions," Neville said, hanging his head. "And my spells."

Harry didn't know what to say – he didn't have a lot of experience with comforting upset friends. He patted Neville's back awkwardly. "I'm sure you'll get it with a bit more practice."

"But that's just it. I might not get a chance. My Gran and Uncle Algie told me about Snape – he used to be a Death Eater."

"One of Voldemort's followers?" Harry gasped. "Why isn't he in prison?"

"He got off," said Neville, looking scared. "He turned in evidence against the others - said he was a spy. My Gran told me all about it. She said Dumbledore vouched for him, that he even worked with my parents before…" Neville hesitated. "I'll tell you about my parents another time, Harry. So, Uncle Algie said it was true - Snape was a Death Eater. But that he's not completely reformed. He still stands for You-Know-Who's philosophies - the old traditions of a pure society, and that means casting out the weak. If he thinks you're a Squib," he said, eyes wide with fear, "Snape will poison you. So you see, I have to pass Potions, no matter what."

"But he couldn't possibly poison every person who fails Potions!" objected Harry. "People would notice. You know he fails me and Ron on most of our assignments."

"Mayhap you're right. But you see while your potions might not be great, they basically do what they're supposed to. And maybe most of Crabbe's fail, but some of them are alright. Mine never work. I haven't gotten a single one right so far."

"Do you think… he tried to kill me at Quidditch because he thinks I'm a Squib?"

"Merlin! I never thought of that. I don't know… maybe. But you can cast spells – like Incendio. So you're definitely not a Squib. Unless, he doesn't believe you cast it because he didn't see it with his own eyes. And maybe he thinks your potions only work because of Ron – I know you usually get him to do the stirring."

Harry chewed on his nails nervously while he thought. It was true he always got Ron to stir. He liked to do the chopping and measuring, so he could sabotage the potion to a D standard. Or sometimes improve it to a D standard. Ron was rubbish at Potions.

"Well, I'm going to make sure he sees me brewing a good potion then, with me doing the stirring. Just in case," he said decidedly. "And Neville, I think I'd better tutor you in Potions."

Neville gave a small grateful smile – he looked appreciative but hesitant. "No offense Harry, that's a really kind thought believe me, but if anyone was going to tutor me I'd rather it be Hermione."

"No, you see, I don't try to do well in Potions. Snape wants me to fail - you can see it. The one time I brewed a really perfect potion, as a test, he just accused Ron and me of cheating and gave us a T. So I don't bother. I'm aiming for a Dreadful in Potions. But Neville, I promise I could brew EE or Outstanding standard potions if I wanted to."

"Really?" said a wide-eyed Neville.

"I swear, it's true," promised Harry. "I can help you – let me help my new ally, hey? Maybe Hermione and I can take turns working with you. But don't tell her I'm good at Potions. You know her – she'll nag me to always turn in perfect potions but if I do Snape will be worse than ever. You know how she is. She doesn't know how bad people can be, and Snape's a teacher. She was worried enough to want to talk to Professor McGonagall after what happened at Quidditch, but once she was told it was all just a misunderstanding she dropped her worries about Snape altogether. She trusts people will be fair."

"Sure, I won't tell her if you don't want me to. I'll just ask her for help with Potions."

"I'll help you on Monday evenings and… damn, Quidditch practice." Harry thought for a moment. There really was a very simple solution. "I'll have to quit Quidditch."

"No, Harry! It's not that important," objected Neville, "I'll be fine, and Hermione will surely come to my aid."

"I want to help too. And I was thinking of quitting anyway, it's no big deal," reassured Harry. "You're my friend." Harry hurried them back into the hall, trying to give Neville no more chance to object, but Neville kept trying to talk him out of it as they walked to the Gryffindor table.

"But you're great at Quidditch, the youngest seeker in a century! You can't just quit!"

Ron, in shocked surprise, spat out his pumpkin juice all over his plate of toast and sausages. "You're quitting Quidditch?!" he said loudly.

Soon Harry was beleaguered by the Weasley twins, Oliver Wood, and the rest of the team, who all tried to talk him out of it. But he stood firm, and resolute. Yes, he'd caught the snitch, albeit by almost choking to death on it. But he didn't want to play anymore. It was too dangerous, and he wanted more time to concentrate on his studies.

"Bravo, Potter," said Percy approvingly, and was promptly rounded on furiously by all his brothers for his treachery. Percy escaped only by fleeing the table, mumbling that he had to get to class. Harry decided to follow his example; discretion was the better part of valour. He slipped away while Angelina was asking Oliver to talk to Professor McGonagall or Madam Hooch – there must be a rule that stopped Seekers from quitting mid-season.

At the end of classes that day Pansy and Daphne waylaid him as he was coming out of Transfiguration. Pansy nodded briefly at Neville (ignoring Hermione and Ron) as she greeted him and hooked her arm around his elbow, leading him away for a chat.

"Daphne was talking to Pucey, who heard it from Roger Davies, that you're quitting the Quidditch team! Is it true?" she asked eagerly without pausing for breath.

"Well yes, I'm quitting," he said. "It's too dangerous. And I'd rather have more time for study. This school is life-threatening enough, what with forbidden corridors and stray trolls in bathrooms."

"Oh Merlin yes! Can you believe Dumble-bore sent us straight to our dorms, in the dungeons? Right after Professor Quirrell had said that's where the troll was! Unbelievable!" complained Pansy. "We would have been safer just staying put in the Great Hall."

Harry had never thought about it like that before. It was a good point.

"That man hates Slytherins," Pansy griped, crossing her arms.

"The Hufflepuffs were sent to the dungeons too," reminded Daphne.

"Oh who cares about a bunch of Hufflepuffs!" snarked Pansy. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Well I wouldn't want them dead," she amended. "Just, you know, obviously I'm going to be more worried about my friends in Slytherin."

Harry nodded. He could understand that.

"You simply must tell me all about what happened!" cooed Daphne. "We only heard snippets about it down in the Snake's Den."

He told Daphne and Pansy what had happened, minus the bit about Ron's teasing Hermione until she hid for hours, and downplaying the strength and duration of his Incendio spell. Daphne in particular hung on his every word; she was a good listener.

Then she asked for more detail about how he'd quit the Quidditch team, and he shared that he thought Oliver and Angelina were going to complain to the teachers.

"Do you think they'll make me stay on the team? Is there anything you think I could do if they tried?" he asked. "They kind of made me join in the first place – I didn't get a choice."

"Really? Hmm. Well, I'm no Quidditch expert. I'll ask Millie if she has any ideas," said Pansy.

"Ooh! I'll ask Flint," volunteered Daphne eagerly. "He's captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, so you know he'll want to rid Gryffindor of their new star seeker. He'll be sure to help. He might even owe us a favour for it," she said smugly and happily.

Harry grinned. "Sounds great! And since we're talking favours, maybe I can ask you something?" They perked up, interested.

"Do you know somewhere I could do some potions practice after classes, without anyone bothering me? Especially not Snape?"

They had a little chat about Hogwarts, and the vacant classrooms. There used to be a lot more students, but it was a bit unpopulated at the moment. "The war, you know," said Pansy. The girls looked uncomfortable. They recommended learning locking and silencing spells if he could, and drew him a little map of a remote lab in the dungeons that they thought was rarely used.

"The ones near Professor Snape's classroom and office are no good," they said, marking them with x's on their rough map. "Those are used by a few Slytherins on weekends – Snape checks in on people occasionally so I don't think they'd suit you."

A few days later the gossip had clearly spread. Marcus Flint (whose looming presence and unpleasant body odour reminded Harry strongly of a small troll stuffed in a school uniform) clapped Harry on the back when he passed him in the hall, causing him to stagger a little from the force of the friendly blow.

Flint loudly declared, "You are a credit to Slytherin, Potter! Thanks for quitting Quidditch. If McGonagall upbraids you for it, just remind her that school rules don't require students to join any clubs. It's somewhere in Hogwarts, A History, if you want to look it up. And if that falls through, get your family to write a Howler to them banning you from playing Quidditch. Your parents - well, guardians in your case - can ban you from playing and then the school can't do anything about it."

Harry gave Flint a polite nod of the head, "Thanks, Flint."

"Any time, Potter. Slytherin for the cup!" he yelled happily as he left, with a little bow to Harry. Nearby Gryffindors glared evilly at Harry as he hurried away with Hermione and Neville flanking him. Ron stayed to mutter with some of the others. He still wasn't happy with Harry. Harry was just ignoring him and waiting for his bad mood to blow over. He was happy with more time to study, less fame, and less risk to life and limb. And besides, he didn't want Dudley to hear about him being a sports star at school.

At the next Defence Against the Dark Arts class, as the students filed out of the room Harry asked to speak privately with Professor Quirrell. Quirrell had a surprised look in his eye but quickly acceded. He closed the door after the last of the students left.

"Just the two of us then, P-P-Potter," he said. "What shall I do with this rare opportunity?" he mused out aloud, twirling his wand idly in his hand.

"I wanted to ask you about stronger combat and defensive spells," explained Harry. "I would quite like a pass to borrow some extra books from the Restricted Section, if you don't mind."

"Ah, so the Gryffindor hero wants to learn even more spells to defeat the wicked with," said Quirrell. "So ready to destroy your enemies." From the odd tone in his voice, it didn't sound like he approved, so Harry quickly changed tack.

"Well, not so much. It's more for defence. I won't go looking for trouble, but if it finds me I want to be able to survive. If I can hide, I'll hide. If I can talk my way out of trouble, I'd much rather do that. But if I fight, I want to win."

"And what if it takes a l-less than savoury spell to win, Potter?"

Harry noticed Quirrell's stutter wasn't quite so bad when it was just the two of them. It probably only came out under stress. Some people just weren't good at public speaking.

Harry shrugged. "I'm not sure everyone would agree that trying to burn a troll alive was the nicest way to win, but it worked, didn't it?" Harry leant forward and gave Quirrell his most manipulatively earnest look. "You remember how scary it was, don't you Professor? How the troll almost killed people – it almost killed you too. Wouldn't you rather have students around you trained and able to help defeat such creatures?"

Professor Quirrell gave him an odd smile, with a glint in his eye. "I would indeed," he agreed. "But that's not a very Gryffindor approach, Potter."

Harry hesitated. It was hard to think with another headache starting up. It would be good if he knew what house Professor Quirrell had been in. He thought about it – Quirrell had run from the troll, rather than stay to face it. He didn't chat much to other teachers at dinner. Not very sociable, so probably not Hufflepuff. He wasn't the most amazing teacher but as he could teach two subjects Ravenclaw was a possibility, as was Slytherin given his streak of self-preservation.

"Can I tell you a secret, Professor?"

"My lips are s-s-sealed."

"The Sorting Hat didn't want to put me in Gryffindor," Harry confided.

"No? How fascinating," said Quirrell. "And where did it want to put the Boy Who Lived?"

"Slytherin," said Harry.

"And how did you end up in Gryffindor then?"

"I talked it around. I didn't want to be in Slytherin. People would think I was some kind of evil troublemaker, just because of where I was sorted. I hated that in primary school and I didn't want to go through it here too. You do know, Professor, what an unfair reputation Slytherin has at this school?"

"Y-y-yes. Quite unfair. I was sorted into Slytherin too, you know, very swiftly. It simply said I was destined for greatness."

"It said the same thing to me!" said Harry, surprised. "Does it say that to all the Slytherins."

"No," said Quirrell. "Mayhap only the more powerful and ambitious ones. I think perhaps you and I are kindred spirits, Harry. I shall have to watch you carefully."

"I'm nothing special, really," said Harry, embarrassed. "I'd rather you just treated me like everyone else."

"Yet here you are, casting spells perfectly without practice and wanting a pass to the Restricted Section. I think perhaps you will owe me a favour, P-P-Potter."

Harry hesitated. He remembered Pansy and Millicent talk like promising a favour was a formal thing. He didn't know if it was a Slytherin thing, or a traditional pure-blood thing. Either way perhaps this called for some extra formality.

"A small favour," he ventured, "for I did help defeat the troll you know, and that deserves recompense too. No favour that requires me to get in trouble."

Professor Quirrell nodded. "Acceptable."

Harry did a little awkward bow in return. "Thank you kindly for your assistance, Professor."

Quirrell smiled at him. "How delightful," he said. "Is someone teaching you the Old Ways?"

"Miss Parkinson and her friends," said Harry. "She's my second cousin you know. In Slytherin. Neville, that is, Mr. Longbottom, he gives me some tips too. I don't know much yet."

"It is a grand thing, is it not Potter, to reclaim your heritage as a wizard after living among Muggles all your childhood," said Quirrell approvingly, without a single stutter.

Harry wanted to be honest, but didn't want to offend his professor. "I'm enjoying finding out I have more family, but it's hard trying to fit in and be a normal wizard. There's lots of things I don't understand."

"One thing I've n-n-never understood, Potter, is how you survived the Dark Lord's killing curse. If you do discover the reason, in your r-r-research, do let me know."

"It's a mystery to me too, sir. All I remember is a bright green light, and someone laughing."

"How intriguing. Well, I've enjoyed our little ch-ch-chat, P-P-Potter, but you really must be heading to your next class before someone wonders where you've got to." He went to his desk and scribbled out a note. "Here's your pass to the Restricted S-S-Section. I have listed some advanced books I th-think may be of interest to you for Defence."

"Could you add The Decline of Pagan Magic too please, Sir?"

"C-certainly," Quirrell amended the note, "an ex-cellent choice. Don't let anyone know you have a pass for books from the R-restricted Section. Some people may try and take a-advantage of you to access books they aren't ready for. If I find you've shared your books I will r-r-revoke your pass. And I don't want to have to do that to such a surprisingly promising s-s-student."

Harry promised he wouldn't, and hurried off to his next class. That chat had gone really well, he thought.

Snape had an opinion to share on Harry quitting Quidditch at Harry's next Potions class. He caught Harry chatting with Pansy and her friends outside the classroom at the start of class, while Neville, Hermione and Ron were keeping a careful distance. Ron had his hand on his wand like he expected trouble at any moment. Draco similarly was keeping a watchful eye on the situation from a safe distance, with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. The targets of their observation were just ignoring all the paranoia, gossiping about Marcus Flint's advice.

Snape stalked up to them, robes billowing. "I have heard reports you quit Quidditch, Potter," he sneered. "Realised it would take too much hard work, I expect? Perhaps you're already getting your fill of incessant fawning praise from your clod-pated Gryffindor fans over your heroics at Halloween."

"I've never wanted to be famous. I'm not enjoying the experience so far. I'd much rather just be a normal student, thank you," said Harry as calmly as he could. "I prefer having my evenings free so I can work on my studies. Maybe I'll even manage to bring my Potions grade up a bit."

Snape's eyes widened ever so slightly from shock. He looked deeply into Harry's bright green eyes, framed with his thin silver glasses, like he was judging his sincerity. He stared silently for some time until Harry fidgeted uncomfortably, smoothing down his hair. It was an old nervous habit of his from when Uncle Vernon used to glare at him and yell how he was a disgrace, looking so scruffy all the time, and he'd give him the back of his hand if he didn't tidy himself up right now. Thank goodness his hair behaved these days.

Snape blinked and looked away. He stalked off into the classroom, and called for students to stop dilly-dallying and get to their desks. He didn't talk to Harry for the rest of the class. He wouldn't even look him in the eye.

A/N: The problem with reviews is all sorted out! It wasn't restricted just to my own account - other authors were suffering too. So reviews will now display properly again, and I will be responding to them. :) An extra thank you to those who submitted reviews for the last chapter, despite the technical difficulties.