The Potions classroom lay deep in the dungeons, cool and damp.
Shelves lined with jars of disturbing things, pickled lizards, floating organs, something with too many eyes, cast faint glimmers under torchlight.
We Gryffindors sat with Slytherins at shared benches.
Ron dropped beside me, muttering, "Hope he's not as bad as Charlie says."
I gave him a look. Spoiler: he's worse.
The door banged open. Severus Snape swept in, robes billowing like storm clouds. His dark eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on me, they sharpened to knives.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," Snape drawled. "As such, I do not expect you to truly appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."
He prowled between desks, voice soft but cutting. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you are not, as I fear, a bunch of dunderheads."
Quills scratched nervously.
Then his gaze snapped back to me. "Potter! Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
I met his stare evenly. "The Draught of Living Death, sir. A powerful sleeping potion. Though it's lethal if brewed incorrectly."
A ripple of whispers broke out. Snape's lips twitched, not in approval but irritation. He had expected me to fail.
He stalked closer. "Very well. Let's try again. Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
"In the stomach of a goat," I replied smoothly. "It's an antidote to most poisons."
More whispers. Ron gawked at me.
Snape's voice dropped to a hiss. "And what is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
I tilted my head. "None, sir. They're the same plant, also called aconite."
Snape's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. "Clearly… fame isn't everything."
He swept to the front. "Let us see if you can bottle competence when it matters. Today, we brew the Cure for Boils."
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Cauldrons bubbled to life. Ingredients clattered. Steam filled the dungeon air.
I worked methodically, cutting nettles with precise strokes, adding crushed snake fangs at exactly the right angle to avoid clumping.
Beside me, Neville fumbled with his cauldron, sweat dripping down his forehead. His potion hissed dangerously, turning a shade too green.
"Er—Harry—" he stammered.
I glanced over. If he adds the porcupine quills now, it'll explode.
"Neville, stop," I said sharply. I flicked my wand under the table, siphoning out a portion of the overheated liquid before it boiled over.
Then I added a stabilizing pinch of dried nettle to neutralize the acid reaction.
The cauldron settled, bubbling weakly instead of exploding.
Neville blinked at me, wide-eyed. "Th-thanks."
"Focus on stirring counterclockwise," I murmured, "and don't let it simmer too long."
Snape swept down the aisle, black eyes sharp. He paused at Neville's desk. His lip curled.
"Barely passable," he sneered. Then his gaze flicked to me. "Helping Longbottom, Potter? How noble. But if you're going to play hero, at least keep your own potion from looking too perfect."
I glanced at my cauldron, potion gleaming textbook purple.
Snape's nostrils flared. He scribbled something violently on his parchment and stalked away.
Ron leaned over, whispering, "Blimey, mate. You saved Neville's potion and still did better than anyone else."
"Don't tell anyone," I said, smirking faintly. "It'll ruin my reputation for mischief."
By the end of class, most cauldrons had produced nothing but foul sludge. Mine was bottled neatly, corked, and labeled.
Snape dismissed us with his usual venom. His glare lingered on me like a promise.
I slipped out of the dungeon with Ron and Hermione, feeling the weight of whispers behind me. Gryffindors impressed. Slytherins wary. Snape furious.
Good. Let them talk.
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Candles flickered against shelves stacked with ancient books.
The soft ticking of silver instruments filled the air as Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
Hagrid sat across from him, rambling warmly. "He's a good lad, Professor. Polite, sharper than a whip too. An'—well—I reckon he's a bit… different."
"Different?" Dumbledore asked mildly, blue eyes glimmering.
"Not in a bad way, o' course. Just—he's not shy, not lost like I thought he'd be. Talks smart. Acts smart. Like he's got a plan every minute." Hagrid scratched his beard nervously. "Don' reckon that's bad, but it's somethin'."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. Yes. Not the boy I expected either.
Later, Minerva McGonagall entered, robes swishing, lips pursed in that familiar line.
"Albus," she began, "I've seen remarkable skill before, but never from an eleven year old on his first day. Potter transfigured a matchstick into a perfect needle. Perfect. No hesitation, no fumbling. And in Charms Flitwick tells me his Lumos was beyond anything he's seen at that level."
She hesitated, then sighed. "I expected another James. Bold, reckless, charming. Instead, I find someone quiet. Watchful. Calculating. He is… not what I thought."
"Not James," Dumbledore murmured softly. "Nor Lily. But Harry still."
McGonagall's stern expression flickered, almost softening. "Yes. But a Harry who feels older than his years."
The door banged open. Severus Snape swept in like a thundercloud.
"Albus. He is arrogant. Insolent. And clearly thinks himself above reproach."
Dumbledore's lips twitched faintly. "You speak of Mr. Potter, I assume."
"Of course I do!" Snape snapped. "He parroted textbook answers in my class as though reciting poetry, all while smirking like his father. He even helped Longbottom avoid disaster, purely for attention, no doubt!"
McGonagall frowned. "He saved the boy's potion, Severus. That's hardly arrogance."
Snape sneered. "He seeks to be admired. To play the hero. Just like James."
Dumbledore regarded him steadily. "Or perhaps he is simply capable, Severus. You must not let old grudges blind you to what is new."
Snape's jaw clenched, but he said nothing more.
When the room emptied, Dumbledore remained, staring into the flickering fire.
Not James. Not Lily. Something else. A child shaped by suffering, yet sharpened rather than broken.
Clever beyond his years. Bold, but not reckless. Calculating, but not cruel.
He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. And already shifting the currents around him.
Slytherins unsettled. Gryffindor impressed. Even Severus rattled.
The Headmaster leaned back, eyes narrowing behind his half moon spectacles.
"Harry Potter," he murmured. "You may surprise us all."
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A week into Hogwarts life, the rhythm had settled in: classes, homework, library runs, the occasional prank war brewing between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
But today, the timetable had something new, Flying Lessons.
By mid morning, Gryffindors and Slytherins gathered on the grassy training field, brooms laid out in neat rows.
The autumn air was crisp, the castle looming in the distance like a watchful giant.
Ron eyed his broom like it was a sleeping dragon. "Dad said they've not been serviced in decades. Probably fly worse than a Cleansweep."
I smirked. "Then don't crash. Gravity's undefeated."
Madam Hooch strode in, short grey hair spiked like steel, eyes golden and sharp as a hawk's. She blew a whistle so sharp Neville nearly dropped his broom already.
"Welcome! I am Madam Hooch, and I will be teaching you the basics of flight. Do not forget: a broom is not a toy. Treat it with respect, or you'll end up in the hospital wing faster than you can say 'Quidditch foul.'"
She clapped. "Now! Everyone, place your right hand over your broom and say: Up!"
The field erupted with shouts of "Up!" Brooms twitched, rolled, or lay stubbornly still.
Neville's broom flipped and smacked him in the face. Ron's spun half-heartedly before wobbling to his hand.
Mine?
"Up," I said calmly.
The broom snapped into my palm instantly, sharp and precise, as though it recognized me.
Slytherins glanced over. Malfoy's brow twitched.
Potter blood prevails.
Madam Hooch's golden eyes gleamed. "Very good, Mr. Potter."
"Now, mount your brooms. Kick off hard, hover a few feet, and come back down on my whistle."
The air filled with nervous muttering. Neville wobbled before his feet even left the ground.
On the whistle, I kicked off smoothly. The broom rose like silk, the wind rushing cool against my face.
I hovered steady, barely shifting, while half the class wobbled like drunks on stilts.
I guided the broom in a neat circle before settling back down. My landing was silent, precise.
Ron gawked. "Bloody hell, Harry, it's like you've flown before!"
I smirked faintly. "Natural talent. Or maybe I read the manual."
Of course, no first flying lesson is complete without disaster. Neville, pale as milk, lost control of his broom. It jerked, shot upward, then dipped wildly.
"Mr. Longbottom, pull up, pull up!" Madam Hooch shouted, sprinting forward.
But Neville panicked. His broom bucked, tossing him off. He fell hard, rolling across the grass with a yelp.
The broom clattered off toward the castle, riderless.
"Broken wrist," Madam Hooch muttered, helping Neville up. "Off to the hospital wing. The rest of you stay put, do not move until I return!"
She marched Neville off, broom dragging behind her.
The moment she was gone, Malfoy picked up something from the grass: Neville's dropped Remembrall. He tossed it in his hand, smirking.
"Look what the clumsy oaf left behind."
Pansy giggled. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled stupidly.
I sighed. Here we go.
Malfoy sneered at me. "How about I leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find? Say… on the roof of the castle?"
He mounted his broom, clutching the glass sphere. "Catch me if you can, Potter."
Malfoy straddled his broom, smirking like he owned the sky. "Come on, Potter. Unless you're scared."
I exhaled slowly. Why is it always the blond ones? Draco out here acting like he's auditioning for Cobra Kai.
Ron muttered, "Don't do it, Harry, Hooch said—"
But I was already mounting my broom. "Yeah, but she also said don't move, and technically I'm moving up. Loophole."
Before anyone could argue, I kicked off the ground.
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Wind rushed past as I rose. Malfoy zoomed ahead, holding the Remembrall aloft. "Catch it if you can!"
I leveled out beside him effortlessly, my broom steady as stone. "You sure you wanna test that theory, Malfoy? 'Cause last time you challenged me, you ended up looking like a PowerPoint presentation with no slides."
Draco blinked. "…What?"
"Don't worry about it," I said smoothly.
He hurled the Remembrall upward, aiming to send it crashing down. But I angled my broom, shot past him in a clean arc, and snatched it mid air before it even began to fall.
Then, instead of landing triumphantly, I circled back toward Malfoy, extending the glass ball toward him.
"Careful, Malfoy. You almost dropped it. Would've been so embarrassing if everyone thought you couldn't handle a school broom properly."
The Slytherins snorted. Even Pansy tried and failed to hide a giggle.
Malfoy flushed scarlet. "I—I meant to—"
"Sure you did," I said, smiling like a saint handing out candy. "Here. You can give it back to Neville yourself when he's better. Real noble of you."
I pressed the Remembrall into his hand and patted his shoulder. Hard enough to make his broom wobble a little.
The laughter from the Gryffindors stung more than anything I could've said.
I descended smoothly, broom touching down like it was custom tailored. Ron gaped. Seamus whistled low. Hermione had that calculating look like she couldn't decide whether to scold me or take notes.
"Harry," Ron whispered, "you—you just made him look like a right idiot… and helped him at the same time."
I shrugged. "Work smarter, not harder. That way your enemy thanks you for beating them."
Dean squinted. "Sometimes you say stuff that makes sense… and then sometimes you sound like a Muggle philosophy podcast."
"Don't worry about it," I repeated with a grin.
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Madam Hooch came striding back, eyes sharp. "What happened here?"
Everyone went dead silent. Malfoy opened his mouth then shut it, clutching the Remembrall awkwardly.
I folded my arms innocently. "Nothing, Professor. Just… holding the line, like you said."
Her eyes narrowed. She glanced at me, then at Malfoy's burning cheeks. Finally, she huffed. "Hmph. Line up! Practice laps, now."
As the brooms lifted off again, I smirked to myself.
One week in, and I've already turned Draco Malfoy into my unofficial PR agent.
Beautiful.
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YOU THOUGHT I WAS DONE?!
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-Nine11P2