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Harry Potter never thought that his life could get any more complicated. But, that was before he met Hagrid. Before he was whisked away to a magical school called Hogwarts, hidden somewhere in the mundane English countryside. It was before he had been sorted into Slytherin. And, it was before he became friends with Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy was his opposite in nearly every way; in fact, Harry had never met anyone so unlike him. Malfoy relished fame and attention. He wanted people to laugh at his jokes, wanted girls to fawn over him… he wanted Slytherins to like him.

Harry on the other hand, hunched his shoulders and hated all the stares, the people gawking at him. He wanted to slip into the shadows, melt into the background and make it through the day unseen. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this attention. It was just a bit of luck.

Maybe that’s why breakfast the next morning was something like Hell on Earth.

 “Did you see his scar?”

“Like lightening!”

The whispers were everywhere. He tried to keep his head down over his plate, to ignore the people standing up to get a look at him, the students pointing him out to their friends. Harry focused on his bacon, trying and failing to ignore the Gryffindor table.

It wasn’t until halfway through breakfast did he no longer become the chief topic of conversation. He wondered how long it would take until everyone got bored of him.

Meanwhile, Malfoy – already bored of him – managed to get Zabini into an animated conversation about their family wealth.

“Married seven times,” Zabini was saying. “Poor mum. The blokes just keep dying and leaving her loads of money…”

Harry personally thought that seven was a bit outside the realm of coincidence, but wisely didn’t say anything. Zabini was the only other Slytherin – at the moment – that didn’t gawk at his forehead.

“Yeah, I heard,” Malfoy said, his tone hinting that he too thought the coincidence of that uncanny. Harry glanced up at him and they traded knowing looks.

“What about you, Potter?” Malfoy asked suddenly, as if he thought it polite to include his new friend in the conversation. “You got any galleons hidden away someplace?”

“Parents left me some,” Harry muttered looking away again. His gaze was drawn to the Gryffindor table once again, to where Ron was sitting beside his older brother, Percy.

“Oh, your parents,” Malfoy drawled. “Yes, that really is a shame…”

Something about his tone of voice made Harry suspect that the latter of that statement might not have been entirely platonic in its intention. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Malfoy lowered his voice, and glanced up and down the table as if to make sure they weren’t being listened to. “Wasn’t your mother Muggle-born?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied looking at him flatly. He didn’t like the way he said Muggle-born. Like a bug under his shoe.

“Oh, I don’t have anything against you, you know,” Malfoy added quickly, misinterpreting the reason for Harry’s glare. “You turned out alright and all. It’s just a shame when Purebloods mix with that lot…”

“Don’t insult my mother, Malfoy,” Harry muttered coolly, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Malfoy would not pick fun at her. Not his dead mother.

Malfoy seemed to realize that he was trespassing on forbidden ground because he quickly added, “But your mother was an exception, I’m sure. Good witch?” he asked tentatively.

“Excellent,” Harry answered stiffly.

“Hey, Potter,” Zabini cut in. “What’s your first class?”

Grateful for the interruption, Harry glanced down at his schedule for the first time. “I’ve got Charms.”

“Same,” Zabini said with a laugh and smug glance at Malfoy, who simply rolled his eyes.

“Don’t get too excited, Zabini, I’ve got the same class as well.” He leaned foreword, lowering his voice again. “I’ve heard Professor Flitwick is part goblin. That ought to look interesting.”

Personally, Harry thought that it would be horrible idea to mock anyone with goblin blood, but he shrugged all the same, getting to his feet.

“Yeah. Let’s go then.”

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Much to Harry’s disappointment, the school did not get bored of him quickly. And, because of that, classes that week were incredibly awkward. He had never thought that his being famous could earn him more stares, but he hadn’t accounted that he’d be placed in Slytherin. It was as though someone had painted a gigantic bulls eye on the back of his head. Whispers followed him wherever he went, as did wild conspiracy theories.

“I heard he’s an even more dangerous wizard than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. How else could he have beaten him?”

“He’s in Slytherin too. He must be a Dark Wizard, then.”

He couldn’t believe the absurdity of it all. What did it matter, how he did it? He would have given everything, traded his soul, if he could have everything back the way it was supposed to be. His parents alive and his forehead scar-less.

Malfoy didn’t help matters. He was constantly bragging to anyone within earshot about the Boy-Who-Lived.

“An honor to have him in our house, really,” he boasted when a group of Ravenclaws made the mistake of standing long enough to catch his attention. “Glad to be his friend, too. We’re very close.” Then, turning to Harry, “Father always said you were destined for great things, Potter.”

Somehow, Harry didn’t think he’d be saying this if he’d been placed in Gryffindor…

And then, worse still, the reactions of the teachers.

Professor Flitwick, a very short man with shocking white hair – and no doubt part goblin –started class by reading the roll call. Upon reaching Harry’s name, he paused, squeaked, and toppled off his stack of books. Other teachers weren’t so obvious, but Harry found that they irked him even more. Professor McGonagall taught Transfiguration, and every time she looked at him, Harry got the impression that she was trying to see what color his soul was. They stared too, perhaps not as obviously as the students, but Harry could feel the judgment and assumptions rolling off them in torrents.

Was being in Slytherin really so bad?

Hagrid had certainly seemed to think so, that time when they talked about the four houses. Not to mention that this was the house that had produced Lord Voldemort himself. But, Harry didn’t feel like a dark wizard. Aside from Malfoy, everyone seemed perfectly hospitable. Then again, that might be due to the fact that they were scared he would turn out to be a powerful dark wizard and were trying to get on his good side.

It killed his mood just thinking about it.

He was, however, relieved to discover that he was not the only one behind. There were others who hadn’t known they were wizards… though he did notice a shortage of those in Slytherin. But, as the class started from square one, it didn’t matter. And, Crabbe and Goyle were so stupid that Harry had the assurance that he’d never be the worst in the class.

Thursdays at midnight they went to the Astronomy Tower to learn from Professor Sinistra, a rather thin woman who loved to wear navy. And, three times a week they were in the greenhouses learning about different magical plants and their uses. History of Magic had been exciting for the first five seconds, and the only reason for that was because Professor Bins was a ghost. A lot of the older students speculated that he didn’t even know he was dead. He just died in the staff lounge and got up to teach the next day, leaving his body behind. He drawled on and on about dates and wars in a flat emotionless voice that put Harry into a daze six seconds in.

He had been looking forward most to Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Professor Quirrell’s lessons turned out to be something of a joke. He stuttered so much that it nearly impossible to understand what exactly he was talking about and the smell of the classroom – strong garlic – gave Harry a headache. Everyone said the garlic obsession was to ward off a vampire he’d met in Romania. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie… but Harry didn’t believe it.

For one thing, he wouldn’t say how he’d done it. And for another, a funny smell emanated from it and a rumor started going around that he had stuffed it with garlic too, so that he was protected wherever he went.

Malfoy was seething by the end of class.

“Absolutely absurd! He should be fired immediately. I’m going to talk to my father about this. You can’t learn Defense Against the Dark Arts from a loon.”

When Friday rolled around, Harry was surprised to find Malfoy in an even happier mood than usual. “Potions, last thing today,” he explained before Harry could ask. “Course, we are sharing the slot with the Gryffindor’s, but it’s okay. We have Snape.”

Harry couldn’t see why this was a good thing. His one recollection of his Head of House was not a pleasant one. “You said he favors us?” he asked tentatively.

“That’s what my father says.”

Then, the mail arrived. Harry was quite used to it by now, but it had near given him a heart attack that first morning, when about a hundred owls swarmed into the Great Hall during breakfast.

Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to steal some of his bacon, or nibble his hear affectionately before taking off for the Owlery. This morning though, Harry was pleasantly surprised to see her flutter down between the marmalade and toast and drop a note onto Harry’s lap. Ignoring the sudden gaze of Malfoy, he tore it open and read, in a very untidy scrawl:

Dear Harry,

I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me ‘round three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.

Hagrid.

Harry borrowed Zabini’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later, on the back of the not and gave it back to Hedwig.

“Who was that from?” Malfoy demanded as the snowy owl swooped out the window.

Harry shrugged. He had the feeling that Malfoy wouldn’t be on the best of terms with Hagrid. “No one,” he lied, getting to his feet and heading towards the door.

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Potions took place in one of the dungeons. It was even colder here than the Slytherin common room, and apparently Snape’s idea of interior decorating consisted of having pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

Professor Snape started class by taking roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name but, unlike Flitwick, he sneered.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly. “Harry Potter… Our new… Celebrity.”

Harry traded looks with Malfoy, who gave a small shrug. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black and cold, like dark tunnels.

“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 they caught every word. “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.”

He was met with absolute silence from the class. Harry was in the process of trading slightly impressed looks with Malfoy when Snape suddenly said, “Potter – can you tell me what I would get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Something of Harry’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle began sniggering uncontrollably. Harry stepped on Malfoy’s foot under the table – hard – before replying. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

Snape paused, a fraction of a second, watching him with a cold calculating eye. Harry started to feel anxious. Wasn’t he supposed to favor his own house?

“Well, then lets try again,” Snape suddenly shot. “Potter, where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?”

What on earth was a bezoar, let alone where to find one! Harry tried not to glance at Malfoy who was still chuckling uncontrollably beside him and ended up meeting Ron’s eyes. He wasn’t sniggering like Malfoy. But he didn’t doing anything else either. Snape was still waiting for a response, but Harry had no idea what to say.

Finally, “I don’t know, sir.”

Snape’s mouth curled into an unpleasant sneer. “Thought you wouldn’t open a book before you got here, Potter?”

He had looked through his books… but how did Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi? Not to mention that his Aunt and Uncle had locked his spell books away the instant he bought them!

Harry was beginning to feel slightly betrayed, turmoil building up inside of him. Why did he have to be treated different? Why did everyone make him out to be some sort of hero or contrarily, the villain? Why couldn’t he just be treated like the rest of the Slytherins? All he wanted… was to be anonymous. Normal.

He was beginning to wish that Malfoy – and his bodyguards – would crawl under a rock and die… the snickering was getting on his nerves, as if he didn’t have enough on his plate.

Snape however, didn’t seem to give up.

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

There was a clatter as someone jumped to their feet, but Harry ignored whoever that was. Instead, he looked up into Snape’s cold black pitiless eyes.

What was the professor looking for?

Was no one going to treat him right… treat him like a normal kid? Not even his Head of House? And where were the friends the Sorting Hat had promised? Or maybe, he had just thought the wrong thing and been placed here as a part of some sad, sick irony. He glanced down, suddenly worried the sadistic professor might see weakness in his eyes and attack him.

 “I don’t know Professor, I’m sorry.”

Snape looked at him for a moment longer before glancing at someone in the back of the room. “Sit down,” he ordered coldly. “I don’t know if you take pleasure in the entertaining the delusion that you are somehow better than your classmates, or if you think you have something to prove, but your insolence will not be tolerated in my classroom. One point from Gryffindor for your need to show off.”

The rest of the class turned to see Hermione Granger sinking back into her seat, looking immensely hurt. Malfoy gave another low chuckle.

Snape, meanwhile had returned to his desk. “For your information, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.” A fraction of a pause. “Well, why aren’t you all copying that down?”

There was a rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape added, “And I highly suggest that you study more thoroughly before coming to my class again, Potter.”

Harry made a firm commitment to memorize the book when he had a spare moment, and proceeded to feverishly copy down the notes. He glanced up every now and then, watching the professor pace through the classroom. Maybe it was just paranoia – not that he didn’t have a reason for it – but he wanted to make sure Snape didn’t catch him off guard.

After that, he put them to work making a potion to cure boils. It was relatively easy, and the class was quiet for the most part except for the soft comparison of ingredients and murmured instructions. Snape circulated the room criticizing everyone except for Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. But this also resulting in his hanging around their table – the same table that Harry was stationed at.

“Potter!” Snape snapped and Harry jumped. “You’re crushing the fangs wrong, how on earth do you plan to reduce them to powder like that?”

Harry felt the back of his neck burn and quickly adjusted his knife, his hand slipping with the excess effort.

“No! What are you doing? You’re going to chop off your finger in a moment. Look at the way Malfoy’s doing it.”

Harry glanced half-heartedly at Malfoy who was positively shaking with laughter. He was crushing them the exact way he had been doing before Snape had started berating him.

Five minutes later.

“Potter, You need more dried nettles.”

Ten minutes later.

“You’re stirring it the wrong way!”

He only stopped to admire Malfoy’s potion. “Look at the way it’s simmering, that’s what you want!”

Halfway through the class Harry was exhausted. He was re-reading every single instruction in his book, measuring everything twice, doing everything in his power to get the potion right and still, the potions master said it wasn’t good enough.

“Look at the way Malfoy’s stewed his horned slugs,” Snape said loudly to the class. “See how they’re all belly-up?”

Harry glanced down at his own potion. There was still one slug that hadn’t bellied up. He cringed and waited for the professor to criticize him for it, but he was saved.

There was a loud hissing noise and a burst of acid green smoke shot out of Neville Longbottom’s – the boy who had lost his toad on the Hogwarts Express – cauldron. He had managed to melt it. General and widespread panic swept the class as the potion spread across the floor. The boy himself had been drenched with the solution, and he moaned in pain as angry red boils starting to spring up all over his face and arms.

Malfoy burst out laughing, with Crabbe and Goyle joining in after a second’s delay. Snape cleared away the spilled potion with a wave of his wand, snarling something about Longbottom having incorrectly added some ingredients. He sent him to the hospital wing, then rounded on Granger who had been working next to him.

“You – Granger – why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor.”

Harry wanted to point out that it wasn’t her fault, but bit his tongue. He didn’t want to get on Snape’s bad side now, not when he stopped attacking him.

But he burned with questions. It was an uncomfortable and slightly nauseating feeling. Why was he so mean to her? Why did Snape pick on him? He’d been the only Slytherin he’d done it to. Something Malfoy had been quick to notice.

“Well Potter, looks like you get special treatment from everyone,” Malfoy said just as Snape was making his checks past their table.

Harry, aggravated by the truthfulness of that, muttered angrily, “Wish they wouldn’t. It’s annoying.”

Snape paused, looked at him for a moment and then swept away, robes billowing behind him.

“I think he hates me.”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy said airily. “He hates Granger over there, that’s obvious.” He gestured to Hermione Granger, who was staring at her own perfectly brewed potion, looking on the verge of tears, and scoffed. “Filthy Mudblood…”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Mud-what?”

“Her parents are Muggles,” Malfoy explained, looking at the Gryffindor as if she were something particularly unpleasant that had no right to be in the same room with him. “Mudblood – it means dirty blood. I don’t know what Dumbledore’s thinking, letting them n here…”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “My mum was Muggleborn.”

Malfoy looked as though he couldn’t quite understand the reason for his anger. “I already said, she was probably the exception. I mean, you’re her son,” he went on lightly. “Maybe your mum’s grandparents were wizards and they just had a squib child. I’m sure there was magic in your family before.”

Harry decided not to point out how very wrong he was and was saved from making something else up when the bell rang, signaling the end of class. He stood up and jerkily stuffed his notebooks and quill into his bag. He glanced behind him.

“Hey, I’ll catch up with you.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment before smirking. “Going to have a word with Ol’ Snape? Have fun.” And he left, taking Crabbe and Goyle with him.

But Harry wasn’t going to talk to Snape. He made a beeline for Ron who was still packing his bag up. He looked up when Harry approached.

“Hey.”

Ron stared at him.

“Um…” Harry took a breath. “Can we still be friends?”

Another lengthy pause.

“I thought you hang out with the better wizarding families now,” Ron muttered sourly.

“Who? Malfoy?” Harry shrugged. “You can’t judge a family by how much wealth or connections they’ve got. Our friendship is sort of fake anyway…” he trailed off.

“I assume he doesn’t know about this then?”

Harry shook his head. “He thinks I stayed to talk to Snape.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, right?”

Ron scratched his head awkwardly. “My brothers freaked out on me after the sorting…” he finally said. “Asked me if you had acted Slytherin at all… Seemed worried that some of you had rubbed off on me.”

Harry swallowed nervously. “And… what do you think?”

Ron took a deep breath and grinned. “I think the Sorting Hat might actually have made a mistake.”

Harry released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Good. You have no idea how hard it is to talk to Malfoy without telling him off.”

“Oh. I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“Hey!” Harry remembered the letter from Hagrid. “Hagrid’s invited me for tea, you want to come along? I don’t think Malfoy likes him much.”

“Sure… but I’ll meet you there. I think Percy might strangle me if he knew I was still friends with Slythering Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Is that what they’re calling me?”

Ron smirked back. “Yeah, Fred and George thought it was funny. They’re not against you, mind. They think… well, you can’t be all bad if you got rid of the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I mean… you could’a joined him and then we’d be in a pickle.”

Harry was too happy to have his friend back to point out that at one, he didn’t have any choice in the matter.