The dungeons were freezing. Not that this surprised Harry, since he'd had Potions class in those same dungeons for a year now, but one would think that it would be just a little bit warmer, seeing as how it was only the beginning of September and had been a bright, sunny day; but no, they were still cold enough to make him shiver. This in turn annoyed him, because he had opted to only wear his school shirt, removing his robes and jumper before coming down to detention. He was annoyed with himself and his lack of foresight.

Or maybe he was just annoyed with the two hundred lines he was currently scrawling angrily across a defenseless piece of unlucky parchment. I am no better than any other student at this school and will not make elaborate attempts to draw attention to myself. What a load of tripe.

Glancing heatedly up from where he'd just misspelled 'elaborate', he examined the familiar head of greasy hair, currently bent over whatever the man was reading on his desk. Snape really had been even more vindictive than usual, not only in assigning this detention in the first place but the way he'd sneered at Harry when he arrived, ordering the boy to write the lengthy line over and over, smirking nastily when just what he had to write sunk in for the child. Delighting in the glare he received in turn, knowing he had hit a nerve. Harry huffed silently. Git must really have been in a foul mood that day. Either that or over the summer he'd gone from simply loathing Harry's existence to actually harboring murderous intentions towards him. Maybe he should watch his back a bit more carefully.

Sick of both the lines and the way the snarky professor was treating him, Harry was suddenly remembering all too clearly his first, disastrous Potions lesson. And it was still quite easy to recall, having only been a year ago it happened.

He had still been getting used to the castle and all the new, strange things magic brought at the time, and despite learning that many of the other children came from Muggle homes and didn't know any more about magic than he did, he still had recurring nightmares about being kicked out because he just wasn't good enough. That was one of the main reasons he was so excited for Potions. After skimming through all his books, he'd decided Potions seemed rather a lot like cooking, and he'd had more than enough experience with that. Hell, compared to the other chores the Dursleys normally gave him, the boy enjoyed cooking, or at least he would have had he then been allowed to eat some of what he took the time to prepare.

Regardless, when it came time for their first Potions lesson, Harry was excited, despite the fact the professor made him nervous. *At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong. Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity.”

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands*, though to be honest, Harry very nearly did the same, even with the rather cutting tone the word had been said in. At least someone else saw how dumb all the fuss over him really was. Biting back a smile, he actually, for a brief moment, had hope that this man was someone he could well and truly get on with.

*“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,” he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word — like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. “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.”*

Next to him, Harry saw Ron raise his eyebrows and shared the look with him quickly. While he did admit the speech was a bit over the top, inside he was feeling more like Hermione looked, hanging on the edge of her seat, enraptured. Yes, maybe he could really come to enjoy this class.

*“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what?* It was then that the nice, content feeling he had settled into slowly began to fade. Less than two minutes later, any and all hopes the boy had held were dashed. Not only did it seem like this class would be downright miserable, but Snape was going to treat him differently, just like everybody else. Except rather than be like the rest of the professors, he was choosing to be more like the Dursleys. To him, Harry wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived, he was just boy.

A boy who couldn't even lie to himself and say he wasn't disappointed.

Then that very afternoon had proven once more how much Snape truly did hate him. And if the bastard was going to dole out detentions for something as small as the incident (if one could really even call it that) in the courtyard, then Harry would likely be stuck in detention with the tosser until he was fifty. There really had been absolutely no reason to—

A thought struck Harry rather abruptly, as they oft tended to, and he looked once more at the lines he'd been writing. Ah, now he saw. This detention had nothing to do with the courtyard incident, none whatsoever. This was all about the flying car. It was Snape's own little way of getting his revenge for not being able to expel him and Ron, seeing as he couldn't give Harry a detention for it specifically after he was already punished by McGonagall. So instead, the man made up something ridiculous and was able to get away with it because no one would dare question him. It was very... well, Slytherin. Of course, didn't that make Harry's own mind being a bit Slytherin as well, being able to figure it all out? Then again, the Hat had said— No! No, I said I wasn't going to think on that ever again.

“Mr. Potter,” the oily voice drawled even as the dark head never raised from its current task, “unless you'd like to spend the rest of the evening in each other's company, I suggest you continue writing. Surely even Gryffindor's golden boy hasn't managed to complete two hundred lines already.”

Harry pressed his lips together so hard they went white, doing everything in his power to curb his temper and not issue a sharp retort. That's exactly what the bastard wanted, for him to snap back and dig himself in deeper. Well, Snape wouldn't win this one. If Harry had managed to hold his tongue around Uncle Vernon over the years, surely he could do the same with his vile Potions professor. It was just that he tended to let his guard down when he was at Hogwarts. He needed to keep reminding himself the dungeons were a special case. Snape would not best him this year.

“Problem, Potter?”

The man was clearly enjoying this. Too much, in fact, for Harry's liking, so forcing out a falsely sincere, “Not at all, sir,” he returned to his lines, refusing to let the git see how angry he really was. He would win.

It was nearly three hours later when he was finally released from his temporary prison, hand aching dully. He was currently trying very hard not to pout like a child (he was twelve now), and he was trying even harder not to think about Snape's stupid smirk, nor his parting jab of, “Until next time, Potter. I'm quite sure you'll be back here soon enough once more, seeing as how history has an unpleasant way of repeating itself.” Which Harry took to mean the man would be watching him like a hawk this year. Just wonderful.

Rounding a corner, mind still abuzz with the injustice of it all, Harry's face suddenly met with a very solid brick wall, hard enough to make the slight boy stagger backwards, rubbing a palm against his stinging nose. What on— oh!

“Sorry,” he hastily apologized, trying to fix the glasses that had once more gone askew. “M'sorry, I didn't see you—” The pair of spectacles refused to stay over one ear and he belatedly realized it was because they had broken once more, at the temple this time, the arm hanging limply on the left side. Great, just what he needed. He'd had to use Reparo on his glasses so often they were beginning to become immune to the spell's effects. You could only fix something so many times before it refused to be fixed again. He dreaded the day the spell no longer held any potency at all and he'd be forced to mend them with a roll of Muggle tape like he had during his primary school days. Malfoy would love it.

“It's quite all right, you're hardly the only one at fault here. Ah, let me.” A hand much bigger than his own plucked the glasses from his weak grip and a softly muttered Reparo had them set to rights again, though Harry winced seeing as that had to be the twentieth time now the spell was used. Still, the eyewear that was placed back in his hold was sturdy and strong, the spell obviously having worked better than when he or even Hermione used it. Though that really wasn't surprising seeing as how this was an... adult...

He blinked, and looked up at the man curiously. He was indeed an adult. One the boy had never seen before, which begged the question... who was he and why was he in the castle at nearly curfew wandering the dungeons? A professor? Harry frowned at that thought. He knew all the professors though, at least by sight, even the ones who taught the elective courses for the older students. He had never seen this man before.

“There you are, all better.” The man's voice was light and his smile was warm, forcing the small boy to smile back unwittingly.

“Yes, thank you.” Vision no longer blurry he could clearly see the man's features, light brown hair and eyes to match, care lines creeping in around the corners of his face, and a happy little tilt to his lips, as if he went around smiling cheerfully most of the time, something Harry had very little trouble believing. Who was this man?

“Better run along now, nearly curfew,” the man went on in a friendly tone, as he smoothed down the front of his robes where Harry had bodily impacted with him. “Wouldn't want to get caught out by Filch. Harry, isn't it?”

“Yes, I'm...” The implications of the man's words slammed into him, making him feel a bit breathless. Like he'd just been smashed by the Whomping Willow in a particularly foul mood. This man knew exactly who he was.

“Are you all right?” a concerned voice asked to match the speaker's expression.

“Fine.” Harry sucked in a large gulp of air and willed himself to calm down. “I'm fine.” This man knew who he was... and he had called him 'Harry'.

“Are you sure? You're looking a bit pale; perhaps a visit to the hospital wing—”

“No, no, everything's fine, really.” This man knew exactly who he was, and he had still proceeded to call him just 'Harry'. No Potter added on the end. Nothing special in the tone of voice. No eyes surreptitiously sweeping his brow for a hint of the infamous lightening bolt scar. For once, someone he had only just met, made his name sound as plain and boring as it really was. It wasn't even just that. The man had asked if that was his name, the way you would with normal people. People who weren't internationally known for something they couldn't remember doing.

That had never happened before. Not in the wizarding world.

“Well, if you're sure...”

“Really, everything's brilliant,” the boy insisted, not having to fake the overly happy smile that spread across his lips of its own devices, despite knowing he must look like a fool. “I'm just a bit tired.”

The smile the man aimed at him was so friendly and understanding. “Happens to the best of us, I'm afraid. Stayed up too late last night with your dormmates?”

Harry grinned ruefully. Despite the fact that he was actually wide awake, that was still true enough. “Maybe a bit.”

“I remember those days.” A wistful look stole over the man. “The first night back in the castle was always the best.” He pinned the boy with eyes of mock sternness. “Of course, nothing's more important than a proper night's sleep. You always need to be at your sharpest for class.”

The pre-teen attempted to wipe away his grin and look equally serious. “Yes, sir. Of course.” It did occur to him that he was standing in the middle of Slytherin territory, joking playfully with a man he had never met nor even knew the name of, but at the moment he really couldn't care less. His bad mood and temper left over from Snape had already dissipated to nearly nothing, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a friendly conversation with an adult.

Besides... this man had called him Harry.

“Off you go then.”

“Right.” The boy nodded jerkily, taking several hurried steps in the direction of Gryffindor common room. Pausing a moment to wave over his shoulder, he called back, “G'night, sir.”

“Good night, Harry.”

Chest swelling and cheeks reddening a bit just at the sound of his name, the boy scurried along feeling light as a feather. He hadn't felt quite this good in some time.

-Contorted-

Add three dried porcupine quills, stir counter-clockwise six and a half times, then let simmer for five minutes before bottling.

Teeth sneaking out to worry a reddened bottom lip, Harry carefully followed the instructions, words playing over and over in his mind like a tuneless song. Porcupine quills now ensconced in the viscous liquid of his cauldron, he began to stir, six— no six and a half times counter-clockwise, green eyes following his slightly clumsy movements vigilantly. There, all done. Now all he had to do was wait for five minutes until it turned —he referenced his book once more— lime green in color. He wasn't entirely sure, but maybe, just maybe he'd gotten it entirely right this time. A perfect potion. Or one worthy of an E at the very least.

Grinning a little with the satisfaction of a job well done, he turned a grimace towards his best friend's cauldron beside his, wincing a bit at the... well, even he wasn't foolish enough to call the horrid mess Ron had created a potion. He eyed the lumpy gray substance that now adorned his friend's work station rather warily, half expecting it to come alive and attempt to eat them at any moment. Ron, finally seeming to realize himself that it was a lost cause, gave up on his vigorous, desperate stirring and shot Harry a slightly pleading look. “Dunno what I did wrong this time.”

Harry wisely kept to himself that he didn't know what Ron had done right.

Thinking maybe he should try to cheer up his friend... somehow, the smaller boy opened his mouth to speak when a flash out of the corner of his eye caught his full attention. Whipping around, he was just in time to make out the extra ingredient sailing with well-aimed precision straight for his simmering brew. His perfect (or at least E-worthy) potion.

No! With all the reflexes of an experienced seeker, the boy flung himself forward, arm outstretched to catch whatever was coming and save his masterpiece. All but throwing himself over the desk in his attempt, he had a brief, wonderful moment of triumph when his fingers closed around the projectile... until it was ruined by a very large clanging noise and hot liquid sloshing down the front of his robes, soaking his shoes and scalding his thighs. In his rather exuberant attempt to stop the ingredient (which had worked, he tried to placate himself), he had managed to upset his cauldron and spill his perfect potion all over. Ruined.

“Well, Mr. Potter, I'm impressed,” that hated voice hissed, coming up behind him in his misery. “Even Longbottom has of yet to simply knock over his own cauldron. Would you mind enlightening us as to what exactly you were doing to achieve such an end.”

Harry considered telling the truth, that someone had attempted to sabotage his work and he'd only tried to keep it safe. That it was an accident, but really it wasn't his fault. Not entirely, at least. That he really hadn't meant to make such a mess of Snape's classroom, and while it still wasn't his fault, he was sorry about that; but then, why bother? Snape would never listen to him anyway. So instead he just shrugged with a muttered, “Dunno, sir. Accident, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Snape's black eyes glittered suspiciously as he stared down his rather prominent nose at the small boy in front of him, quite aware not all was as it seemed. Ah, there. “What, may I ask, is that you have in your hand, Potter?”

In his hand? Harry actually paused a moment to blink stupidly in the Professor's direction before he remembered the projectile that had caused this whole debacle in the first place. Hesitantly, a bit uncertain at just what he might find, the boy uncurled his closed fist, staring in puzzlement at the harmless little shell that sat there. A snail's shell maybe? Did it really matter?

One look at Snape's livid face told him yes, it did indeed matter, quite a lot. Damn, what now?

“Why you arrogant little—” Snape abruptly cut himself off, appearing to need a moment to get ahold of his temper. The very thought that the normally calm, collected man was so upset he had trouble containing it made Harry shiver a little in apprehension, green eyes darting questioningly about. Why was the man so angry? What was so special about a tiny shell? He glanced in Ron's direction, but it was obvious the redhead was just as lost as he was, probably even more.

“Attempting to cause an explosion, Potter?” Snape's usual, icy voice was back to normal. “Plotting to make a mess of my class?”

“An explo—” Oh, of course! The shell must be volatile when put with the other ingredients of the potion. Quite volatile to make Snape so mad. Oh. “No, sir, I—”

“And I suppose,” the man went on through slightly clenched teeth, “you thought nothing of the others around you, hm? Didn't bother to think of your classmates.”

“Sir, it's not mine!” Harry gasped out in a rush. “Someone— someone threw it at my cauldron.”

Snape sneered at the boy's disgusting attempt to worm his way out of trouble when caught red-handed. Just like them. “Not yours, Potter? Well then,” he smirked, “why didn't you say so in the first place?”

The boy's mouth worked silently, doing a rather accurate impression of a fish on land. Bugger. Apparently he should have tried to explain it all to begin with. Whatever small chance there was the man would have believed him was long gone now.

“I believe a month's worth of detention and fifty points from Gryffindor is an appropriate punishment.”

“Fifty—” Harry began to protest, but one genuine glare from those coal dark eyes had him shutting right up. The lousy, greasy—

“Tomorrow night, Potter, seven o'clock. I trust you'll be on time.”

The boy had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep from exploding like his potion nearly had. “Yes, sir,” he forced out harshly. “I will.”

The silence in the classroom absolute, Snape waved his wand in what Harry thought was an overly showy movement, cleaning up the spill on the floor. The Potions Master shot Harry one final scowl, took one look at Ron's concoction, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then just banished the brew instead with something half way between a sneer and an expression of incredulity, stalking away towards his Slytherins. He was well aware of the twelve year old brat willing him to drop over dead as he went.