Classes
The morning sun filtered through the high, stained-glass windows of the dungeons, casting long, shifting patterns of light across the stone floor. Sage Violet Potter stood with her fellow first-year Slytherins, her heart pounding as she clutched her schedule. Professor Snape loomed over them, sharp eyes dissecting each student before handing out timetables. His gaze lingered on Sage, cold and calculating, as though daring her to falter.
With their schedules in hand, the students dispersed. Sage glanced down at the neatly printed words, confusion bubbling up. She glanced sideways at Ron, who stood with a scowl on his face, poking at his parchment as if it might bite him. He caught her eye and nodded toward the path to the Transfiguration classroom. Without a word, Sage fell in step behind him, feeling the weight of the Dursleys’ neglect press heavier on her with each step.
The corridor was alive with the sounds of chattering students, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. By the time Sage and Ron reached the Transfiguration classroom, they were late. Professor McGonagall’s eyes flashed with irritation as they entered.
“Mr. Weasley, Miss Potter, I expect better punctuality,” she snapped, her sharp tone slicing through Sage’s composure. Sage’s knees wobbled, and she quickly slipped into an empty seat next to a blonde Gryffindor boy who gave her a curious glance.
“It’s Draco,” he whispered, tilting his head slightly, his voice low enough to avoid McGonagall’s attention.
Sage nodded mutely, her hands trembling as she placed them in her lap. The classroom rule of sitting with a student from a different house for increased unity only added to her anxiety. Sage’s eyes flicked nervously around the room as Professor McGonagall began her lesson on basic transfiguration. While the rest of the students scribbled notes, Sage sat with her hands folded tightly, listening intently but not moving to write. She knew how to read, but writing was an elusive skill she’d never been taught.
Professor McGonagall’s keen eyes narrowed when they landed on Sage. “Miss Potter,” she said, making Sage’s breath hitch, “if you’re paying attention, you should be able to perform the spell.” She placed a matchstick on the desk in front of Sage and raised an expectant eyebrow.
Sage’s heart raced, thumping so loudly she was sure Draco could hear it. The trembling in her hands grew as she pulled out her wand. She pointed it at the matchstick, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to speak the incantation. For two agonizing minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the occasional murmur from other students and the steady, impatient tapping of McGonagall’s foot.
Just as the professor drew in a breath to deliver another scolding, Sage whispered, barely audible, “V-Ver-to—” The matchstick shimmered, then transformed into a pristine silver needle.
A stunned silence filled the room. McGonagall’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Well,” she said after a pause, the sharpness in her voice tempered with surprise, “impressive, Miss Potter. Ten points to Slytherin.” She raised her hand, and Sage flinched as if bracing for a blow. The professor’s expression softened as she gave Sage’s shoulder a gentle pat. “Do try to take notes in the future,” she added, moving on to the next student.
Draco let out a quiet breath beside her, one corner of his mouth turning up in an uncharacteristic show of approval. Sage didn’t dare look at him, her chest tight with a mixture of relief and the residual fear that gripped her.
The next class was History of Magic with Professor Binns, and it felt like stepping into an old, dusty lullaby. Sage sat next to Neville Longbottom, who slumped beside her and dozed within minutes, his quill dangling from his fingers. Sage forced herself to listen, eyes wide as the ghostly professor droned on, each word like an anchor pulling her deeper into a sea of monotony.
When classes finally ended, Sage exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. While her peers chattered about their plans and rushed off to their common rooms, Sage made her way toward the library—a sanctuary she had long dreamed of. The sheer magnitude of bookshelves towering over her sent a thrill up her spine. She ran her fingers reverently along the spines, eyes scanning titles with a hunger she had never felt before.
Sage spent what felt like hours searching for books that might teach her to write, but every tome she found assumed prior knowledge. Frustration welled up, her vision blurring with unshed tears as she struggled to copy the elegant handwriting from a Transfiguration text. Her quill skated awkwardly across the parchment, leaving smudged, jagged lines.
“Need a hand?” A familiar, warm voice made her look up. Daniel Granger stood there, a lopsided grin on his face, eyes alight with mischief. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, not waiting for an invitation.
“I—I can’t—” Sage stammered, eyes dropping back to her chaotic page.
“It’s okay,” Daniel said, his tone gentle as he positioned his hand over hers, guiding the quill slowly. The warmth of his fingers steadied her, and under his patient instruction, Sage began to form letters that resembled actual words.
Time melted away as they worked, and Sage’s initial hesitance gave way to cautious confidence, despite the occasional mistake. Each soft correction from Daniel—“Almost, try again”—felt like a balm.
The next day in Potions, Sage’s nerves flared again. Paired with Draco, she stood as Professor Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing like an ominous shadow.
“Today, you will attempt the Boil-Cure Potion. I expect nothing less than perfection,” Snape said, his voice cold. His dark eyes zeroed in on Sage. “And don’t think your last name will earn you any favors.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, but he stayed silent, his hands moving deftly to prepare ingredients. Sage’s fingers shook as she ground the snake fangs, the memory of shouted orders from the Dursleys pressing on her.
“Potter!” Snape’s voice cracked like a whip, and Sage flinched, nearly dropping her pestle. “If you can’t even handle a simple ingredient—” Spittle flecked his words as his sneer deepened.
Despite the humiliation, Sage held her ground, focusing on her task. The simmering cauldron began to release a faint, lavender-colored mist—the exact hue described in the textbook. Beside her, Draco added the porcupine quills with steady hands, glancing at her with a hint of approval.
Snape loomed over them, lips twisting in dissatisfaction when he saw the potion’s perfection. “Lucky,” he muttered, moving on without a word of praise. Sage’s chest heaved, relief and exhaustion warring within her.
When the class ended, Draco and Sage exchanged a rare, silent acknowledgment—the unspoken bond of those who knew the sting of high expectations and low rewards.