So we're having another Harry Potter weekend, and it reminded me that I have this fic I've been working on, so….

Fanfiction has always been a double-edged sword for me—I first got into it because I wanted more Yu-Gi-Oh! stories to read, and I got that but also unfortunately got to learn about yaoi as well. With the possible exception of Don't Starve, I have to do a lot of hunting to find the sort of stories I like to read in whatever fandom I look in. Eventually, it got me to branch out to writing for fandoms I like but usually wouldn't be interested in writing for, because that way I can write the sort of stories I want to read. Pokémon, Jurassic Park…and now Harry Potter.

This was a little idea that started from seeing a caricature of Snape in a comic called My Life as a Background Slytherin and me starting to reread the Harry Potter series—I love some of what fanfiction has done, can't get enough of Harry/Snape mentorships and all that…but sometimes it feels like it goes too far and just doesn't scratch that reading itch. So, let's go over what this story will not have:

Smart!Harry/Dark!Harry/Manipulative!Harry/Harry with any exclamation points

Similarly, no manipulative/evil Dumbledore

No bashing of any characters—except Umbridge, but she's special

No Draco in leather pants—it wasn't just the scene on the train, Harry had formed an opinion of Malfoy at Diagon Alley as well

No evil Ron—yes, he's a git, but he's not the horrible person that the fandom seems to make him out to be

No going into gruesome detail about the Dursley's abuse—I don't want to write that sort of thing, so no

Also related to the hot potato—none of this whole going into dark evil topics that weren't even mentioned in the source material. I have read so many fanfictions that were so good until they touched on things from that spectrum, and then I 'x' out so fast it'd make your head spin. It's against my beliefs, so we're never going to have that.

We're going to be puttering along with this story on an irregular basis (dissertation is killing me, sorry), and if it's not covered in the story, then it happened as it did in the source material. We are, of course, going to be dealing in an AU, so things will start to splinter off the further we go. In addition, we're going to be blowing up Professor Snape in the first chapter.

If at any time you didn't leave the story in abject frustration—I hope you enjoy this story, and hopefully it fills the gap for you like it did for me. :)

So for this first chapter: I'm American, it's the Sorcerer's Stone for me (sorry).

Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling

Trevor Carson, seventh-year Hufflepuff, regretted getting an O in his Potions OWL.

Specifically, he regretted it because the intensity of the class had been cranked up to eleven, and the danger of the potions being brewed even more so. He had been forced to vanish more than one of his potions before things went too far and it exploded on them all—something that at this stage would have been catastrophic. But that usually ended with him getting an unsatisfactory grade on his work, and even trying to study on the side wasn't helping. It was honestly starting to wear him thin, and worn-thin students are just as likely to make mistakes as first-years.

Today, they were brewing two potions at once, to simulate the sort of hectic situations they might find themselves in, such as a Healer position, and he was forced to admit that at some point things had gone terribly wrong in his brewing, and he had no idea how to fix them. Nothing was working, and at this point all he really had was two terribly vicious hissing, spitting, bubbling cauldrons, busily splashing into each other and their neighbors despite their distance. Regrettably, he was going to have to start again.

And soon—the cauldrons were approaching something imitating critical mass. Tug his wand out—catch the handle on a thread—rip it free as Professor Snape surged forward, wand at the ready with the exact same intent—

Trevor Carson would forever go down in Hogwarts history as the one who blew up Severus Snape.

Everyone involved in the aftermath agreed that the poor distraught Hufflepuff was not to blame, it was an accident, everyone's consulted memories attested to that.

And unfortunately, there was nothing left of the Potions master but scraps of his robe. All the teachers agreed that it was a shame for someone so bright to be gone so soon, and Albus Dumbledore hoped that the former Death Eater had been able to forgive himself before he passed, and that it was a shame he would never meet Lily Potter's son.

About ninety percent of the student body was in celebration, however—not the least because no Potions master meant no Potions final—and made Trevor more than a little sick with all their congratulations. Trevor eventually appealed to Professor Dumbledore, and was sent home to finish up the year via correspondence course.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, went and fetched Professor Slughorn out of retirement, and lamented the loss of his potential double-agent—because he was certain deep in his bones that Voldemort would return, and Harry Potter losing one of his protectors was not something that they needed.

At least Severus had not slacked in providing his means of keeping the Sorcerer's Stone safe.

But life eventually went on, as it does, and Hogwarts settled into its new normal, calming even further over the summer as it patiently awaited its returning students and its new arrivals.

But this year promised to be charged, as it was the year Harry Potter was to arrive.

Harry Potter found Hogwarts to be huge, magical, and intimidating.

He loved every moment of it.

Magic was promising to be every bit as fascinating as he had hoped, and potentially limitless—provided he could get to his classes on time. Navigating in a magic castle with staircases that moved and doors that weren't really doors but walls pretending to be doors and doors pretending to be walls made Harry wish for a map sometime on his way to his second magical class ever. More than once, he had to ask for directions—but at least the portraits moved and talked, and were more often than not willing to point him in the right direction, after having a lengthy conversation first.

But right now, however, Harry was eating in the Great Hall with his new friend Ron, and trying to get directions to his Potions class from Ron's numerous brothers. Percy was the most helpful in this regard.

Fred and George, meanwhile, were busy telling them how lucky they were this year.

"You see the man talking with Professor Quirrell?" Fred asked, pointing at the High Table.

Harry did—winced as a little lance of pain went through his scar. Odd.

"That's Professor Slughorn," George said, as Harry rubbed at his forehead. "Dumbledore had to bring him out of retirement to fill the position when Trevor Carson blew up Professor Snape."

"Carson's finest hour," Fred said, hand to his chest and eyes closed.

"But that sounds horrible!" Hermione Granger said from further down the table. "Blowing up a teacher!"

"The man was a git," George said, waving her off. "Always fussing over his little snakes and taking points from all the other houses."

"Professor Snape was the head of Slytherin?" Harry guessed, having to edit his image of a man with a lot of pet snakes after George mentioned other houses.

"Yeah," Fred said, nodding. "But now it's Slughorn—"

"And he's the Potions teacher now," George added. "But at least he's not breathing down everyone's necks like Snape used to."

"True. You'd think he didn't trust us."

"And after our exemplary first year."

"And our second—"

"And winding up for a stellar third year as well."

Harry wasn't exactly sure why Percy rolled his eyes or why the older students within earshot all started choking on their food, except that maybe Fred and George were stretching the truth a little.

But thanks to Percy's directions, they found their Potions class with little effort—or at least, less effort than with finding their other classes—and settled in with what was promising to be a recurring sinking feeling whenever they shared classes with Slytherins. Harry had asked Ron about the house rivalries, and Ron was quick to point out that while most of the dark wizards from the whole secret wizarding war Harry had learned about were from Slytherin, those who opposed them were primarily Gryffindors. Pointing out that several of the children present were from those dark wizard families answered most of Harry's next questions.

Like all of the other teachers, Professor Slughorn paused on Harry's name and made a big deal of him, which bothered him deeply. What didn't bother him deeply, after they turned to their proper pages in their textbooks and started gathering ingredients and working, was Slughorn coming over and telling him he knew Harry's mother.

"Brightest witch of her year, and excellent at potions besides," Slughorn told him, pointing at Harry's cauldron. "I wouldn't be surprised if you inherited that from her, no sir!"

Harry was excited about that—so far, all he had heard about his mother (aside from what Aunt Petunia had said, and that was a lie anyway) was that he had her eyes. He had spent several hours staring into a mirror after that, pretending that he was looking at her and trying to figure out her face just from those eyes. So when Professor Slughorn invited him to a party that weekend, Harry was eager to accept, adding that he hoped to hear more about his mother then.

"The Muggles you lived with never told you about her?" Ron asked quietly once Slughorn had moved on. "I thought you all were related."

Harry shook his head. "Just that they died in a car crash."

"Well that's rubbish," Ron muttered.

There were two things happening right then that Harry had no idea of and could have no idea of. The first was that Ron was planning on writing to his parents and asking them if they knew anything about the Potters that he could pass on to Harry. Maybe even pictures.

The second was that a small black blot underneath their table had stirred, and was now making its way over to where Harry was standing and working at his cauldron, trying very hard to make his potion spot-on so Slughorn would be impressed enough to tell Harry all about his mother. Tiny claws reached out, dragging it along, until finally it reached Harry, who had been unwittingly obliging enough to stand still long enough while he stirred his cauldron the number of times that the book said, after refreshing his memory on which way counterclockwise was. Harry's only indication that the thing was climbing on him was a faint tug at his jeans, and he only spared a glance before going back to his cauldron, having not seen anything.

By then, the blot had tucked itself under the hem of Harry's robes, content to the fabric after exhausting what little strength it had by getting there.

Harry had told Ron that Hagrid had invited him by for tea later that day, and invited him along to meet the man. Ron had been a little leery upon seeing how huge Hagrid was, but settled in as well as could be expected, what with Fang drooling all over him.

Harry had offered to help Hagrid with the tea or treats or something—it felt weird not being the one to do the serving—but Hagrid had told him not to fret, just sit down and then you can tell me about how your classes were—

Which was about the time that Fang had apparently decided that he had drooled on Ron enough, and came over to sniff all over Harry—

And growl at the hem of his robes.

"Wha' is it, Fang?" Hagrid asked, putting the tea on the table. "Strange—'e ain't the sort to act like tha'."

"I don't know—hey!" Harry yelped, when Fang bit at his robe and started tugging.

"No! Bad Fang! Spit 'arry's robes out!"

Ron hustled over, apparently decided that helping Harry out of his robes was the most expedient way to get out of the mess he was currently in—he slipped out, Fang shook the robes—

Harry's wand flew out and clattered on the floor.

Something else flew out and landed with more of a squeak.

Two schoolboys, one half-giant, and a dog turned to stare at the thing, the latter dropping Harry's drool-soaked robes out of his mouth.

"Hagrid," Harry asked quietly, moving first. "What is it?"

"I dunno, Harry," Hagrid said, crossing over to it before Harry could. "Best stay back a bit, though—might sting ya if yer not careful."

Hagrid didn't seem to share his own caution, kneeling next to the thing and trying to coax it into his hand. Harry and Ron took the opportunity to lean around him and give it a better look.

Harry's first thought was bird, because of the bright white beak curving lightly down, with beady black eyes set into it. Scraggly black feathers just behind the beak helped that impression along, although the rest of it more closely resembled a crumpled black umbrella, with thin ribbing underneath the velvet-looking fur and tiny claws poking out where a wing-joint would be.

It was currently blinking up at Hagrid and backing up carefully, making tiny crr noises like it wasn't sure what else to do, looking around like it was very disoriented and not impressed with Hagrid's overtones.

"It's okay," Harry told it. "Hagrid's nice. And he made treacle tart."

The tiny white beak swung to him, beady black eyes blinked, and it started dragging its way to him on tiny wing-claws. Hagrid took the opportunity to adjust his hands, allowing it to climb onto one before lifting it—it reached the other end of his broad hand and clawed bleakly at the air with one tiny wing-claw-hand, bereft at the loss of the ground and not quite sure how it happened.

"What is that thing?" Ron asked, squinting at it like that would make its identity any clearer.

"Not quite sure," Hagrid said, obliging the little thing and putting his other hand out—it climbed onto it and continued on its quest to get to Harry, thin tail trailing behind, before once again reaching its previous obstacle. "Seems to have a likin' fer ye though, 'arry."

Harry found himself peering at it as well, before finally and gingerly holding up a hand for it to climb on. It reached out, tiny claws gently pricking his skin before climbing fully into his hand—he didn't think it was much bigger than a small bat.

And it was trying to crawl up his arm.

"Uh, no," Harry said, stretching his arm away from his body like that would help somehow.

"No, 'arry, lower yer arm, that's it," Hagrid counseled, gently lowering Harry's arm and blocking the thing's progress. It looked around before climbing up onto Harry's sweater and settling in on his chest.

There was a moment of them all watching it as it stayed there.

Ron finally asked the pertinent question.

"Now what?"