Despite Jay's best efforts, the rest of the day passed by relatively smoothly. They got lost multiple times, which was to be expected, and ended up late to almost everything, but considering that was the fate of every other first year (with the possible exception of the bushy-haired Granger, who seemed to believe she would be set on fire were she to be late), none of the system felt too much out of sorts. Raven was clamoring to go to the library, as was Blue, oddly enough. Tom wanted to explore the castle more, to compare his old memories to the present day.

Harry ended up out for dinner, blinking owlishly at the table and regarding the others with mute surprise at the rehash of what had happened in Potions. Draco had seen him drop the porcupine quills into Weasley's cauldron and kept eyeing him with a mix of admiration and suspicion. Harry himself felt horrified. He'd done what? Now Ron would never want to be friends with him again!

Maybe he was the next Dark Lord in training after all. Harry slumped, picking at his food. He knew he should eat more, now that he was actually allowed to eat as much as he wanted, but he couldn't. None of this was going how he'd imagined. Back in his cupboard, this had seemed like a magical adventure out of one of the storybooks he purloined from Dudley and hid under his mattress.

Now that he was actually here, however...he'd been Sorted into the House that turned out his parents' murderer. His only friend on the train thought he was the next Dark Lord. And apparently, he'd managed to make said ex-friend's cauldron explode, and couldn't remember doing so at all. Maybe Ron had a point, Harry pondered moodily, stabbing a carrot with his fork.

"Hey, you all right?" Blaise questioned, jarring him from his reverie. Forcing a smile, Harry nodded and took a giant bite out of said carrot. It would be all right. He had to have faith in that.

Or so he kept telling himself that evening as he tried to do his homework. Tried being the operative word because no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to put quill to parchment correctly, and instead had ended up with a mess of chicken scratches and ink splotches that even hecouldn't read, never mind Professor Flitwick. Flitwick had seemed relatively easy-going (although excitable, given how he'd actually toppled over backward when he reached Harry's name in the roll call), but Harry had a feeling even he wouldn't accept this mess. He pushed it away from himself with an irritable sigh. Beside him, Blaise did the same.

"Do you know how to use a quill?" Harry found himself asking, near the end of his tether. His hands were covered in ink, and he'd managed to scratch his thumb with the tip of his pen.

"Sure," Blaise said agreeably and began showing Harry the finer points. He'd finally gotten a meager grasp on it (and started his homework on a fresh sheet of parchment), when a shadow fell over their table. Harry looked up and gulped. It was Professor Snape and he did not look very happy.

"Potter, I asked you to stay behind after class," Professor Snape said icily. "However, given the...circumstances in which class ended, you will not receive detention. This time. Now come with me."

Feeling his heart sink down into his new shoes, Harry bid Blaise a low goodbye and stuffed all his things into his bag, which the professor had indicated he should bring with an irritable wave of his hand.

Professor Snape led him down a corridor Harry hadn't noticed. The lamps kept flickering and the chill raised goosebumps on Harry's arms before the Potions professor finally stopped in front of a foreboding-looking wooden door and murmured something at it. It creaked open, and Harry was pushed inside before he could blink.

"Sit down," Professor Snape ordered curtly, and Harry obeyed, looking around the man's office with slight interest. His feet barely touched the ground and he flushed at this reminder of his height.

"I noticed this morning," Snape began, "that you do not know how to use a quill properly, Potter." Harry's cheeks flushed brighter.

"I asked Blaise for help, sir," he managed to say softly. The professor looked slightly surprised at that and nodded.

"Mr. Zabini is indeed a good resource for that," Snape told him. "Keep it up. If you hand in your homework looking like your notes did, you will receive an immediate grade of Troll and be told to do it over."

"I understand, sir," Harry whispered. The professor stared at him as if he were a new and interesting species of bug, and Harry couldn't keep eye contact. Uncle Vernon had always told him that it was disrespectful, don't you look me in the eyes, boy! And so Harry instead regarded the already-dirty laces of his trainers until Professor Snape told him that he could return to his dormitory and finish his work, dismissing him with another one of those slightly elegant hand-waves.

Perhaps Harry should have suspected something when the lamps flickered out before and behind him, but really, how could he? They'd looked nearly extinguished anyway and a first year couldn't expect to know they were magicked to stay lit regardless. But he suspected nothing until there was a rush of footsteps and suddenly, he was surrounded.

They knocked off his glasses first thing, so he couldn't see more than shadow among shadow. And then they slowly and steadily begin to pummel him to the ground.

Leigh switched out nearly immediately. Their main physical protector could hardly expect to stay inside, after all. But Harry's body was tired and still recovering from the summer's beatings. Leigh got in a few good hits (including breaking the nose of the ringleader), but all too soon, their body was slumped unconscious against the wall, bleeding heavily from the nose and breathing funny because the heavy boot of one of the perpetrators had managed to crack a rib.

They wouldn't be found for another two hours.