Possibilities

Potions class was in the dungeons with Gryffindor; Harry knew none of them so he opted to sit next to Hermione. Hermione was practically bouncing on her stool with excitement, Harry had seen her reading a book on potions the other day; he’s sure she has the whole course committed to memory already. 

Harry looks around the class and finds himself – for the first time – quite happy he isn’t a Gryffindor. They’re all glaring at the people in green, and a boy next to him in a strong Irish accent says: “Can’t believe we have class with snakes first thing on a Monday morning.” His friends scoff and sneer in agreement. 

Harry thinks it must take up a lot of energy being that judgemental. 

He wants to turn to them and tell them that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being in Slytherin; he’s ambitious and he’s cunning, he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with that. But he finds himself believing it less and less – there must be something wrong with them if everyone hates them so much, right? 

He feels quite disheartened by the whole thing, he was finally free from Dudley’s reign of terror over him; finally free to make friends and not be on the outside looking in. Yet here he is, hated already, by people that don’t even know him; simply because of a colour and a few house values.

The classroom is loud, full of screeching children and whispers. He can’t help but to listen to it all. Hermione knocks ankles with him, he looks over to her; she seems to have deflated too. She’s still smiling at him though. “Merlin,” she whispers to him. He offers her a small smile. “Merlin.” 

A man walks in and the classroom falls deadly quiet; Hermione straightens in her seat. The man – Harry presumes to be Professor Snape – has an aura to him, he demands respect, he’s important and he knows it. He wears all black, long robes billowing behind him as he strides in, he commands the attention of the whole room. He turns round to face the class; he looks like he’s sizing them up. Pale skinned with harsh contrasting black eyes and hair. He’s clearly unimpressed. 

He picks up a parchment and begins to call out the names of people in class. He pauses on Harry’s name, to look at the boy in green robes, but makes no comment. Harry learns that the Irish boy is called Seamus Finnegan and his two friends are Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom – Harry doesn’t laugh, but he wants to. 

 “Potion making is an art form, it is intricate and requires a certain level of cleverness that I am positive most of you do not have,” Snape says. His voice is cold, and his eyes are narrowed as he looks around the classroom. “I shall not tolerate any kind of nonsense behavior from anybody,” at this point in his not-so-inspirational speech he stops and glares at Harry. 

He clears his throat and continues, “Because of this I will be moving your seats.” The silence from before is disrupted by complaints and groans from the children – most of which are Gryffindor Harry notes. He isn’t overly thrilled at the prospect of moving because then he won’t be with Hermione, he might even be with one of those nasty boys from earlier. It would be just his luck. 

Snape raises a hand, and the class falls silent once more. “As I was saying,” he mutters, “I will be putting you into new pairs. This class is extremely difficult and if you are with your friends none of you will pass.” Snape says this as though he doesn’t really expect any of them to pass. 

Theodore Nott and Parvati Patil are partnered. Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown. Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabb (Harry hopes he’s not next to them, for fear he might lose a body limb). Hermione is put with Sophie Roper. And Harry is paired with Neville Longbottom. 

Just his luck. 

The rest of the class are paired together and they move around the classroom to sit around a cauldron in pairs. The class is silent again, but Harry suspects that this has more to do with the sheer amount of Gryffindor and Slytherin pairs than Snape this time. 

Neville Longbottom looks to be nice, if timid. Clearly looks are deceiving. He has a round face and brown hair that has an uneven cut – there’s a toad in the hood of his robes, Harry wonders if he should tell him. He doesn’t. 

“Today,” Snape speaks again, “We will be starting with a simple cure for boils potion.” 

Harry vaguely remembers seeing this in one of the textbooks he had looked through at the Dursleys’. It had seemed simple at the time, but now he was faced with making it he wonders if it will actually be that simple. Probably not. He blames his sudden dip in self-esteem on Snape’s previous speech. “You,” Snape sneers, and for one horrifying moment Harry thinks he’s talking to him. 

But he isn’t, his cold beady eyes are instead trained on the boy next to Harry. Neville has suddenly tensed, and is suddenly sighting alarmingly straight. “Longbottom.” 

“Y – yes, Sir,” Neville stutters through his response cheeks burning. Harry sympathises for him – a bit. “Tell me,” Snape raises an eyebrow. “What ingredient is added first to a Cure for Boils potion: Snake fangs or Horned Slugs?” 

Harry has the uncanny ability to, whenever given an option, always picks the wrong one. It’s a gift, really. Neville Longbottom seems to share this particular trait with Harry. 

“Eh, I – Horned Slugs?” 

Snape sighs, “Did you just answer my question with another question, Longbottom? In any case you are wrong. Like I said, this class is not made for just anybody.” 

There are some sniggers from around the classroom and Neville looks like he wants to curl up into a little ball on the floor and die. He’s blushing from the roots of his hair, eyes slightly wet. “O – oh,” Neville murmurs. 

“You will find the instructions for this particular potion on page seventeen of your textbooks, get started.” 

Harry turns to Neville, “Do you want to get the ingredients or start heating the cauldron?” 

Neville’s eyes widen and he seems to shake even more than before, “I’ll get the ingredients.” And he sprints away from Harry. Harry pretends that doesn’t hurt; he’s always the person running away from the bully, he doesn’t want anyone to feel like that because of him. 

The rest of the class follows similarly, they work in silence for the most part, every now and again Harry will say something to Neville. Neville squeaks and stutters a reply. Mostly Neville ignores him. 

The bell goes for the end of class and Neville sprints out, leaving Harry standing alone. Seamus Finnegan shoves past him, shoulder barging him, hissing: “Snake.” 

Dean Thomas smiles at Harry, an apology of sorts, but he doesn’t do anything. Harry turns around and inhales sharply. Then Hermione is there, looping her pinky through his. She doesn’t say anything, they just stand there. 

“Potter,” Snape calls after him as the pair go to leave the classroom. Harry turns around to see the cold, expressionless face of his Professor. “I do not have favorites, Potter, do not think that you will be the exception to that rule.” 

Harry shakes his head, “Of course not, Professor.” 

Snape brushes past them, marching away. He turns, “Children are hideous creatures, Potter. Pay them no head.” He turns his nose up and stalks away. 

“I can’t tell if he was nice to me or just insulted me,” Harry’s eyes have gone wide, like saucers. He doesn’t know what to make of Snape, cold and cruel and calculating. Yet, he has a reserved kindness. Distantly he reminds Harry of Draco Malfoy. Funny, that. 

“Both, I think,” Hermione says star-struck. “Absolute genius though.” 

Harry finds himself nodding his head; he’d heard from many students that Snape was pure evil, Harry didn’t think he believed that. Well – not fully. 

They head to lunch next, Harry’s stomach grumbling – he had missed Breakfast and the slice of toast had been rather unappetising. The hall is relatively empty, Hermione tells him this is because most students opt to have lunch outdoors during Summer. Harry’s glad for the slight peace. 

Him and Hermione sit down, and start digging in to the platters of sandwiches and meat; Hermione pours each of them a goblet of pumpkin juice. “Hey,” Ron says sitting down next to them, grabbing a sandwich and taking a large bite out of it. “Blimey, I’m starving.” 

Hermione glares at him, “You can’t be here Ron, this is the Slytherin table.” 

“I know,” he rolls his eyes at her, “I’m not that stupid.” 

“It’s against the rules-” She hisses. 

“Granger,” Draco joins them. “Nobody cares, be a bit reckless.” 

“You three are going to get me expelled.” 

“Granger,” Draco scoffs, “People don’t get expelled for sitting at the wrong table – that’s ridiculous.” 

Harry nibbles at a ham and cheese sandwich, watching his friends bicker. His friends. They’re an odd bunch he’s come to realise. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Potter, you look,” Draco searches him, “Sad.” 

“Eloquently put, Draco.” 

Draco rolls his eyes, “You’re impossible.” 

Harry shrugs. “So what class have you two come from?” He asks them after taking a gulp of Pumpkin Juice; which, is disgusting. He keeps drinking it. 

“Charms,” Ron grumbles. “It was so boring, and this tosser,” – Draco – “Insisted on sitting next to me and showing me up.” 

Draco scoffs, “Hardly. It was excellent, and I only sat next to you because you’re slightly more bearable than the rest of them.” 

“High praise,” Ron mused. 

“I’m pretty sure that was still an insult, Ron,” Harry says, grinning. 

“Oh, it was,” Draco says. 

“What have you got next?” Ron asks them. 

“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” the other three chorus. 

“You have Quirrel,” Ron tells them, “Fred and George told me he’s an idiot.” 

When they head to class Draco, Hermione and Harry make their way up to the Defense classroom. Ron, on the other hand, heads to Herbology with Gryffindor. Harry doesn’t envy him. 

The classroom is spacious with large floor to ceiling windows and moving portraits. There are giant stone pillars, and a spiral staircase that leads up to the Teacher’s office. There are desks laid out in neat rows, made for pairs. Hermione goes to sit next to Harry, but Draco darts in before her. “Not a chance, Granger,” Draco says, “He’s in all of your classes. I want my quality Potter time.” 

Harry thinks the sentiment is nice, but Draco says it in a way that makes Harry think he’s making fun of him. Draco turns to him, and whispers: “Don’t tell Granger, but she’s bloody terrifying.” Harry grins back at him. “You on the other hand, you don’t stand a chance against me.” 

Harry’s indignant at this, but it’s probably true so he lets it slide. “Don’t go thinking I enjoy your company or anything, Potter. I’m simply prioritising my safety.” Draco on the train to the castle had had a cold drawling voice; posh and well mannered. Clearly the time spent with Harry and the other two was corrupting him because he was adopting a distinctly less posh way of speaking and figures of speech; the other day Harry swears he heard him say ‘Blimey’. 

Quirrel walks into the classroom and Harry instantly notices how different he is from Snape. When Snape walked in the classroom feel silent, here however, nobody but him seems to have noticed the teacher. 

He wears a purple turban and slightly scabby blue robes. Quirell’s hands tremble as he waves them around – an effort to quieten the class. It’s unsuccessful. 

“S-s-students,” he stutters. “M-my name is P-professor Quirrel.” People turn their focus to the man; however there are still some hushed whispers from others in the class. Harry’s head is quite sore, he realises – how long has that been happening? It’s probably the putrid fumes from the Potion this morning. 

He clenches his jaw as the edges of his vision go white, it’s so painful – almost blinding. 

“Potter?” Draco turns to the boy. “Are you – okay?” 

“Peachy,” Harry groans. “Sorry – my head hurts, it’s – it’s my scar.” 

The rest of the class passes painfully slow, Quirrel stumbling through the coursework. Harry can see why the Weasley twins think he’s and idiot; Harry’s sure he might know more than this man does. 

When the bell rings Harry nearly jumps for joy. “Let’s get out of here,” Harry bites out. The headache has subsided for the most part but it has left him with the distinct need to be sick. 

They have three hours of ‘free’ time before dinner after class – Hermione protests by telling them that it is not free time but rather study time. Ron told her that free time was much more fun that ‘study’ time. 

She agreed to go with them as long as she could read in peace. They compromise on that – however Harry thinks peace is relative with Ron and Draco. They walk outside to a strip of grass by the lake that has small pockets of students sitting on it. They settle somewhere off to the side; under the shade of a massive oak tree. 

Hermione settles to read, and Draco lies down studying the sky. Ron sits next to them pulling tufts of grass out of the ground. Harry grins at him, laughing silently. He gets a fistful of grass to the face. 

“Must you two act like six year olds,” Draco drawls, not looking away from the sky. Harry and Ron share a look and burst out laughing. This feels good, Harry thinks, safe. Bit by bit, he thinks, he’s getting his childhood back. 

Two red haired boys make their way over to them, they’re identical. Both as lanky as Ron but much taller, the same freckles and blue eyes and signature red hair. It’s uncanny. 

“Why hello, little brother,” the one on the right says to Ron. 

“I’m George,” says the one on the left. 

“Fred,” says the other. 

“I’m Harry,” Harry smiles, “This is Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.” Hermione closes her book over, muttering something along the lines of: “Peace – as if!” 

Draco sits up and nods his head to the boys, acknowledging their presence. “Malfoy and Potter,” Fred says sitting down between the two boys. “Bloody Hell, I didn’t really believe it.” He looks between the boys as if he doesn’t quite believe they exist; he has about as much tact as Ron. Draco and Harry glance at each other, rolling their eyes. 

“You know, Potter, I thought for sure you’d be one of ours,” Harry stiffens, here’s someone to voice what everyone had been thinking. He was wrong – out of place. He’d disappointed the whole Wizarding World. Instead, Fred throws an arm around his shoulder, “Then I realized you’d look hideous in red; honestly green is definitely your colour.” 

Harry glows internally, feeling an overwhelming sense of appreciation for the Weasley family. Tactless and childish though they are, they have big hearts. 

George sits down next to Hermione, “And you, we were most shocked by you.” Fred nods his agreement. “You’re supposed to be smart – and you picked these three buffoons to be friends with. Really? We expected better.” 

Hermione groans, “Don’t remind me.” 

They all laugh.