By the time Professor McGonagall entered the Hospital Wing, wearing black robes with tartan edging, Harry had dressed completely except for the red-and-gold necktie.

Uncle Vernon had always tied Dudley's ties, but Harry had never even had a castoff to practice with. And now this stupid length of striped fabric was defeating him even more obstinately than the newspaper owls had. Even Hagrid had been of no help.

"Don' wear ‘em, ‘Arry," he denied, waving away the tie that Harry had held out toward him in desperation. "No idea how t' tie ‘em. Yeh better ask someone wi' ‘sperience."

"Couldn't I just leave it off?" Harry whined. "I HATE this stupid thing!"

"Indeed not, Mr. Potter," stated McGonagall. "That tie is part of your school uniform, not merely frivolous decoration, and without it, you would not be properly attired."

"But-"

"Mr. Weasley is your prefect. He will assist you with your tie this morning."

A tall, red-haired boy stepped forward past McGonagall, his hand extended. "Percy Weasley, Potter. An honor to meet you."

"Um... Thanks," said Harry. "You, too." He put the offensive tie into Percy's outstretched hand, causing two younger students behind him to snicker with ill-suppressed amusement.

McGonagall whipped her head toward the boys, who appeared to be about Harry's own age. "Longbottom! Weasley!"

Harry couldn't understand why, exactly, but the stern witch's hissing admonition inexplicably-

and creepily-reminded him of Mrs. Figgs' cats.

"But Professor," said the younger student with red hair the same shade as the prefect's, "Percy was going to shake hands with Potter!" He dissolved into open laughter this time.

Harry's face suddenly flushed redder than the Weasleys' hair as he realized his gaffe. "Oh ... sorry," he mumbled, dropping his eyes to the floor.

"Don't mind my brother, Potter," said Percy as he shook Harry's hastily re-extended hand. "Ron is just being a prat. As usual."

Ron stuck out his tongue at Percy's back, causing Harry to grin involuntarily before Percy spun him around so that Percy was standing immediately behind Harry. With a weird-sounding incantation and a flick of his wand, Percy caused a mirror to abruptly pop into midair right in front of the pair of them.

"Watch closely, now," Percy instructed, whipping the tie around Harry's upturned shirt collar. Harry tried to follow the sequence of the flipping ends of the tie, but he lost track before Percy's nimble fingers slid the knot snugly against his throat. "There you go, Potter. Got that?"

"Um ... maybe. It went a bit fast," he admitted. Upon seeing Percy's reflection frowning at him, he added, "You must be quite good at it, I expect."

The tall prefect looked mollified. "It just takes practice, that's all. If you need more help, you may ask me this evening in the Gryffindor Common Room. Now, fetch your books-we'll be going directly to classes following breakfast."

When Harry lugged his bulging bag from his chair, McGonagall stopped him.

"Here is your class schedule, Potter. You won't need all of your books today." She flicked her wand, and Harry nearly staggered sideways as half of the books suddenly leapt out of his bag to float in mid-air. "I shall send these to your dormitory, Potter, along with the remainder of your personal belongings."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry, clutching his schedule tightly in his free hand.

"Come on, you lot," ordered Percy rather imperiously, striding so rapidly that he was halfway through the corridor door before the younger boys could run to catch up.

"'Bye, ‘Arry!" called Hagrid. "Good luck!"

"'Bye, Hagrid!" Harry paused just for a second to wave back before stepping through the doorway into the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

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Hogwarts castle was HUGE, Harry discovered.

By the time the four boys had descended several flights of stairs (waiting in one case for a set of steps to swing over to them), navigated various identical-looking corridors (lined with statues, suits of armor, and moving portraits which could actually SPEAK!), and finally reached the massive doors leading into the Great Hall, Harry felt hopelessly lost. When he mentioned as much to Percy, the prefect tried to reassure him by saying that if he ever needed directions, he could ask any older student for assistance.

"Just don't ask the Slytherins," he warned. "We might never see you again."

"Why not?" Harry asked, wondering if he could acquire some of the "context" which Snape had seemed determined to deny him earlier.

"Liars, the lot of them, right, Perce?" said Ron emphatically.

The round-faced dark-haired boy, whose name Harry had learned was Neville Longbottom, bit his lip nervously. Harry suddenly realized that he was biting his OWN lip.

"How can you tell which ones are Slytherins?" Harry asked Percy quietly, not that he could be overheard above the breakfast uproar in the Great Hall.

Percy's finger pointed, his arm swinging from one long table to another. "Hufflepuff-yellow and black with a badger crest. Ravenclaw-blue and white with a raven crest. We're red and gold with a lion. And THAT table along the wall is Slytherin-green and silver with a snake. Watch your back, Potter. A lot of Slytherins will ... well, things could get nasty. If you have any problems with them, tell a teacher-anyone but Snape, that is. Or tell a prefect. Except for a Slytherin prefect."

"Snape?" Harry repeated, wondering why Percy would feel the need to warn him about the man-the WIZARD-who had rescued him from the Hut.

"Snape," said Percy, his lips twisting in disgust. "That greasy git third from the left at the staff table. He wouldn't do anything to help you, Potter. In fact, he'd probably award points to his own house if a Slytherin did something TO you. Slytherins look after their own, Potter. Remember that."

Seems like a lot of people were telling him to remember things over the past twelve hours or so, Harry thought, looking at Neville who returned his look of trepidation before they followed Percy and Ron to the Gryffindor table.

During breakfast, Harry caught Snape's gaze upon him several times. He didn't feel the least

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bit tempted to smile at the Potions Master, however-not after hearing Percy's warning against all things Slytherin. Still, when the man's dark gaze segued into that familiar black glare, Harry realized that Snape had been observing him pushing his food around on his plate. Not that the food was bad-far from it! It was actually the best breakfast Harry had ever had the opportunity to eat. But his own concerns about Slytherin arising from the night before were now reinforced with the prospect of possible trouble-even threats?-and if he couldn't trust Slytherin students on principle and gut instinct, could he really even trust Snape if a Gryffindor prefect warned him not to?

But Snape HAD rescued him, Harry stubbornly reminded himself. And if Snape himself had warned Harry against members of the man's own house ... didn't that count for something?

He glanced up at the Head Table and saw Snape staring at him. The man deliberately made a show of eating a forkful of omelet, and Harry realized if he failed to eat a proper breakfast, Snape might decide to send him straight back to the Hospital Wing! Hurriedly, he scooped up scrambled eggs and began eating as much as his shrunken stomach could hold. He'd have to eat a good lunch and dinner, too-he didn't want to risk missing a single class. He washed down part of a sausage and a slice of tomato with half a glass of the delicious pumpkin juice before rising to follow boisterous Ron and quiet Neville off to their first class.

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By mid-afternoon, following his after-lunch study period, Harry was almost drooping with fatigue. In just half a day at Hogwarts, he'd already climbed a bazillion steps going to and from classes, meals, and the library, as well as checking in twice with Madam Pomfrey as required. In addition, he'd mentally worn himself out in Charms class trying to make a feather float. To top it off, in the weirdest shock of all, his Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, had turned out to be a cat! Or vice versa. And they were saying that tomorrow's classes would include a ghost teacher-it was almost too much to take in all at once!

But even as his feet dragged a bit traversing the stone floors of the endless corridors, he gave himself a mental kick. He COULDN'T allow himself to droop-not now! It was finally time for Potions! A double class, at that! And if Snape saw how tired he was... Although Harry had downed a vial of Pepper-Up Potion after lunch when he visited the Hospital Wing, he'd squirreled away the energy bar Madam Pomfrey had handed him, tucking it into his trousers pocket. Now, he whipped it out and unwrapped it, chewing vigorously to get the snack into his system before Potions class began. Swallowing the last of the bar, Harry squared his shoulders as he joined a mixed throng of Gryffindor and Slytherin First Years headed to the dungeons.

The DUNGEONS! Harry couldn't tell if it was just the word itself which affected his perception, but these lower stone corridors seemed far gloomier than those on the higher floors of the castle. Were the flaming sconces somewhat farther apart? Were the stone walls damper? Certainly, the heavy doors occurred with far less frequency as the group of students trailed the length of the interminable corridors. Not to mention, the very atmosphere seemed to hang

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heavily in their nostrils as they breathed. Definitely chillier than upstairs, Harry thought. If he were to exhale heavily through his mouth, he would almost expect to see his breath fogging in the air.

"I'm going to be pants at Potions, I just know it," mumbled Neville disconsolately as he and Harry turned a corner. "My gran thinks I should have inherited my father's expertise at Potions-he scored an Outstanding N.E.W.T., you know-but when she gave me a Wee-Wiz Potions Set last Christmas, I kept screwing up one potion after another. It didn't help that my Great-Uncle Algie kept shouting at me when I was working, telling me to put the ingredients into the cauldron in a different order. I was following the printed instructions, but he said the person who wrote the Wee-Wiz instructions must have scored a Troll on his O.W.L.'s. Anyway, my Wee-Wiz potions failed every single time. I'm going to fail First Year Potions, for sure."

Harry gave Neville a sympathetic look, even as his own heartbeat sped up. Since Harry had never had a Wee-Wiz Potions Set to practice with, what were his chances at succeeding at real Potions? What if he was the ONLY person in the class never to have a Wee-Wiz Potions Set? He'd likely be at the very bottom at the class, no matter how much he tried to read ahead...

"They also say," continued Neville in a whisper as they approached the Potions classroom door, "that Professor Snape is the WORST teacher at Hogwarts. That he hates all the students except for Slytherins." He swallowed audibly. "I'm DOOMED, Harry. Just DOOMED."

By this time, they had reached the doorway leading into the classroom, and Harry himself swallowed hard as he got his first glimpse of what certainly did NOT resemble the brightly-lit, professionally-sterile laboratory of his imagination. After swiveling his head to take it all in, he felt his heart plummet toward the hem of his robes. It was difficult to envision himself brewing The-Magic-Potion-That-Saved-The-World in this darkly-intimidating room, even if he didn't have the added humiliation of wearing striped pajamas after all.

The dungeon classroom contained lab tables and tall wooden stools, yes. But the walls! Harry heard other students whispering "Merlin!" in shocked horror as they caught sight of row upon row of shelves completely covering the walls, neatly filled with jar after jar after polished jar of what must be potion ingredients, but the sight made his stomach squirm-were those EYES? And TONGUES? From what animals? And what was that slimy purplish-green mass MOVING around in that jar? And that other jar, there on the end-live worms of some sort that Harry had NEVER seen in Aunt Petunia's flower beds. And they kept splitting into MORE worms, and MORE worms, and MORE worms... The jar filled more than halfway before Harry could even manage to find an empty stool to sit on. And that clawed foot-it kept flexing its claws, even though it wasn't attached to any sort of controlling body. Another jar of eyes, and these seemed to be actually LOOKING at Harry, following his progress as he moved forward through the classroom...

His stomach clenched as he averted his eyes from a jar that appeared to be three-quarters full of Ripper's vomit, that time he'd gotten into the rubbish bin after the spoiled macaroni

casserole... The sight made Harry suddenly wish that he hadn't made a point of eating such a goodly amount of food for lunch.

Willing himself not to look at the contents of any more jars, Harry finally found an empty stool and sat down between Ron and a bushy-haired girl who'd repeatedly shown off her witchly brilliance in all of their earlier classes. She'd been the only one to succeed in making a feather float in Professor Flitwick's Charms class; Harry's efforts with his mother's wand had barely managed to move the feather a few inches across his desktop. The girl's attitude was insufferably pushy-she never seemed to stop talking authoritatively, whether in class or between classes or at every meal, even though it was everyone's first day at Hogwarts. At the moment, she was engrossed in lecturing poor Neville about what she believed he'd done incorrectly in Transfiguration, never mind that Professor McGonagall herself had praised Neville's attempts.

Suddenly, the massive dungeon door crashed open against the stone wall, causing all of the students to jump sharply in reaction to the loud noise. Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master, swooped to the front of the classroom, his dramatically billowing robes creating a draft which caused the flames to falter beneath the cauldrons along that side of the room.

The bushy-haired girl sat bolt upright on her stool, wand in hand, ready for action, although Harry couldn't begin to fathom how she thought a wand would play into brewing potions in a cauldron. Seconds later, he smirked in silent satisfaction when Snape admonished the class about foolish wand waving, and the girl's bushy hair brushed Harry's robed arm as she leaned over to tuck her wand into her school bag under their table.

Harry struggled a bit with his quill, but he managed to take notes, hanging on Snape's every word as he feverishly scratched inky letters across his sheet of parchment. He could comprehend how potions could be used to "bewitch the mind" and "ensnare the senses", but how could a person possibly learn to "bottle fame" or "brew glory"? As for putting a "stopper in death"-he dutifully scratched the words with the tip of his quill, but his mind wandered a bit, wondering if a potion could have prevented the evil Dark wizard from murdering his parents. Or, at least, prevented them from dying...

Miss Pushy-Bushy was elbowing him rather rudely, and he looked up to see the Potions Master darkly staring down at him from the dais in front of the blackboard.

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WHAT, in Merlin's name, was the boy writing?

Severus Snape could barely hear himself speak over the persistent scritch-scritch-scritch of Har-POTTER'S quill. Any second now, the tip would surely break under the pressure that the boy was unnecessarily exerting upon it. Doubtless, the boy-Muggle-raised as he'd been- was accustomed to abusing Muggle writing implements, but quills needed to be handled with

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finesse.

SKRICKKK...

Snape shuddered inwardly, the sound of Potter's quill grating on his nerves as sharply as fingernails scraped across a blackboard. He just HAD to stop the boy from abusing his quill. Perhaps a pop quiz would take the wind out of his sails. And note to self: someone would need to take Potter in hand and teach him how to write properly. He would mention that to the bottle-green tabby over supper.

That bushy-haired witch had finally managed to get Potter's attention by elbowing him. At least Potter's quill had fallen silent, and the boy was now staring up at him rather warily. One pop quiz coming up...

"Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Snape waited for the boy to shake his head in understandable ignorance. After all, he would not have received his textbooks until shortly before Snape himself had visited him in the Hospital Wing, and he had still been in bed at that time. Just one question, that's all he'd ask. Just to let his Slytherin First Years-one in particular-report to their parents that he'd managed quite satisfactorily to put the Boy-Who-Lived on the spot in his very first lesson. One question would suffice-he did not wish to humiliate Lily's boy, after all. She would never forgive him for it. Lily had been so good at Potions, second only to himself...

To Snape's annoyance, the bushy-haired Muggleborn's hand shot into the air. That one-yes. He'd heard McGonagall and Flitwick speaking about ... Granger ... over lunch. He'd need to do something about her, definitely. She was actually waving her hand when he had specifically directed his question to Potter instead of to the class in general.

But even Potter was looking annoyed at the girl's eager hand. To Snape's astonishment, after Potter had glared briefly at Granger, the boy spoke up rather confidently. "The Draught of Living Death, sir."

Granger's hand plummeted so hard that she banged her elbow painfully on the lab table. Snape hid a grin by compressing his lips in apparent displeasure at Potter's response.

"Indeed. Well, then, let us try another question, Potter-where would you look if I asked you to find a bezoar?" While the Draught of Living Death was mentioned in the Potions textbook's introduction, bezoars did not appear until Chapter Three, which discussed various antidotes to common poisons. Even if Potter had skimmed the text's lengthy introduction during his hour- long study period, surely he could not have progressed to the actual chapters.

But before the word "bezoar" had completely left his lips, the Granger girl's hand was waving like a dirigible plum in a tempest.

"He's asking ME!" Potter hissed at the girl before responding to Snape directly. "Actually, sir, I would look first in your Potions ingredients collection," he said, waving his own hand to acknowledge the impressive compilation of carefully polished jars on the dungeon room's endless shelves, "since you'd almost certainly have some on hand. They do originate in goats' stomachs, but I could probably kill a hundred goats and still not find one, since they are relatively uncommon."

At least the little br-POTTER-wasn't going all puppy-eyed on him, probably remembering the points taken in the Hospital Wing for cheek, but Snape would push him for a complete answer. "Their purpose? POTTER, Miss Granger, NOT you."

The bushy hair flounced as she jerked her hand down, glaring sideways at Potter as if he'd stolen her thunder.

"Bezoars will protect against most poisons, sir, but due to their rarity should be used only in extreme emergency when no other antidotes are readily to hand."

Potter actually had the temerity to smirk as he quoted verbatim from the text. Far too clever for his own good, groused Snape mentally. That was the sort of Gryffindor idiocy- overconfidence-that could get the boy killed one day. He would do far better to play down his intelligence to keep his enemies speculating.

Well, even if the boy had thumbed through the actual Potions text, surely he could never have stayed awake all night reading "1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi". The Hospital Wing would have been dark, and without a wand, Potter could not have cast a Lumos to read by.

"Would you care to explain the difference between-SIT DOWN, you silly girl!" shouted Snape, as the bushy-haired witch shot off her stool, waving her hand energetically toward the vaulted dungeon ceiling. "I am addressing Mr. Potter, in the first place, and I haven't even finished asking the question in the second place-how could your arrogance possibly assume that you would know the answer before the question has been asked, you incompetent creature?" Snape glared fiercely at Granger as she sank onto the stool, her hand lowering but slowly, almost as if she was ready to give it another go if Potter failed to answer correctly this time. In spite of the man's black fury, the girl's hand continued to hover somewhere between shoulder level and the table top. Enough was ENOUGH!

"Ten points from Gryffindor for insubordination, Miss Granger."

The hand finally flopped into her robed lap.

"POTTER, can you explain the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

A desperate, despairing groan emanated from Granger, causing Potter to shuffle his stool closer to the latest Weasley boy, but at least the girl's hand stayed beneath the table.

"Monkshood and Wolfsbane are the..."

The boy's voice trailed off momentarily, and Snape followed the shift in Potter's vision to see an angry scowl on the pale, pointed face of one of his Slytherins. The boy's ugly expression was topped by white-blond hair, and Snape knew instantly that Potter had already made an enemy. A dangerous one.

"They're the same plant, which is also known as aconite," Potter finished.

"Quite," murmured Snape, glancing around at the other students. Most of the Gryffindors were staring at Potter as if he were, indeed, a celebrity, while the Slytherins seemed to mirror varying degrees of Malfoy's discontentment. How Potter had managed to absorb such diverse information since being rescued last night, the Potions Master had no idea. But the pop quiz- ill-advised, in retrospect-was over. No sense in assisting Potter to dig himself a deeper hole than he'd already done. Snape swooped along the aisle between two sections of lab tables. "WHY aren't the rest of you writing this down?" he thundered.

Instantly, the Potions dungeon sprang to life with a flurry of quills and parchment. Everyone seemed focused on writing, except for Potter, and Draco Malfoy, who continued to glare resentfully at the dark-haired boy, who in turn was just now realizing that his correct responses would not earn back any of the House points which Granger had lost for Gryffindor.

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Harry breathlessly caught up to Ron and Neville as they were passing the doors of the Great Hall, having run from the dungeons after being held back by Snape following the dismissal of the remainder of his classmates.

"So, what did the dungeon bat want?" demanded Ron.

Neville was still brushing vainly at the garish yellow stain which his boiled-over potion had left on the sleeve of his black robes.

"Oh, he just told me to get instruction in how to write properly with a quill. He could tell I'd never used one before."

"Yeah-that scratching was rather loud, mate," said Ron, laughing as he swung his bag over his shoulder.

As they climbed ever upward to reach the heights of Gryffindor Tower, Harry pondered silently over Snape's low-voiced (in spite of the protective wards he'd cast) admonition against showing off everything he knew, so as to keep his enemies guessing about his true abilities.

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"But you ASKED me, sir," Harry had protested.

Snape had smirked mirthlessly. "True. But that does not mean that you are required to answer every single question correctly. Or at all."

Hmm... There had to be a catch...

"But, Professor, if I don't answer, won't you deduct points?"

"Naturally."

Harry's emerald eyes darkened stormily. "But that's not fair. I'd rather answer what I know, even if you don't give me points, than to fake a wrong answer and have you take them away. What's your point then, sir? I know there has to be a point in there somewhere!" he accused, frowning mightily.

To his surprise, Snape actually smiled, the smile even crinkling the corners of his eyes. "The point, Potter, is that you need to learn to balance knowledge with the dispensing of that knowledge. Nobody likes a show-off, you know."

The light clicked on over Harry's head-that bushy-haired girl. "Miss Granger, you mean?"

"Among others. But did you enjoy her attempts to answer every single question?"

"No, sir. I thought she was a right... Well, it made me angry, sir."

"As did your answers make other students-Slytherins in particular-angry. I fear you have already made at least one enemy."

Harry gaped at him. "Who?"

Snape was no longer smiling. "Keep your eyes open, Potter. Choose your battles carefully from now on, even in the classroom. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"Very well. Dismissed."

And as Harry had turned toward the massive door into the corridor, Snape added, "You need to find someone who can instruct you in the proper use of a quill. If you keep on writing as you are, you will break several quills a day, Potter."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll do that. And Professor?"

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure I'm going to like your class, even if I have to pretend I don't," he added cheekily, points be damned.

Snape snorted audibly, even as he pointed a stern finger at the dungeon door.

As Harry had hurried to catch up to the others, he couldn't help feeling irritated that he hadn't earned any points in Potions, not even with the near-perfect Boil Cure Solution he had managed to brew by the end of the double session. But at least he felt certain, after his first Potions class, that he could truly trust Severus Snape, Potions MASTER, to secretly help guide him through the cut-throat complexities of his brand new, different BETTER life! Hogwarts was, indeed, a birthday wish come true!

Now, ten floors so much higher up that the air MUST feel thinner than the heavy atmosphere down in the dungeons, Harry waited while Ron and Neville gave the password to the Fat Lady's portrait which guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Just wait till you see our dorm room, Harry," Ron told him eagerly. "The windows look right out over the lake, and if you tilt your head far to one side at the west window, you can even see one end of the Quidditch pitch!"

"What's Quidditch?" asked Harry, his emerald eyes wide.

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Far below, in the silent dungeon, the Potions Master silently considered the empty stool where Lily's boy had sat.

"Fifteen points to Gryffindor," he whispered.

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