Chapter One

Harry hated Potions. He just hated Potions. He hated the too-difficult subject, he hated the depressing classroom, he hated the Professor, and he didn't much like taking the blasted things themselves.

Potions stood for all the things Harry had never found much patience for. Patience itself, for one. Accidents, and extended stays in the Hospital Wing.

Precision with a bladed object.

He had a steady hand when holding a wand, and his timing was spot on when diving through the air on his broom, but hand him a knife and something wriggly, or give him a stirring rod and tell him exactly when to drop the leaves into the blue sludge to make it turn into purple foam, and he faltered.

He knew he faltered.

He closed his eyes every time he had to perform any of the crucial steps in Potion-Making, (and every step seemed crucial, there was never room to breathe), and cringed when he finally let go of whatever substance to which he was reluctantly clinging, almost always after hesitating just too long.

He knew his hatred was partly down to the Professor's hatred of him, but also knew that even the nicest teacher in the world would still probably struggle to interest him in the subject. He much preferred to be outside, at Care of Magical Creatures or, better yet, Quidditch Practice.

Harry sighed yet again at the fact there was no natural light in the room, no window to look out at the world from. He noted miserably that he reacted much like an animal that had been caged when you took away his view of the sky, the horizon, the lake, the quidditch field.

Harry was, to his slight chagrin, thinking wistfully of the high windows in Gryffindor Tower when the blinding flash of pain across his forehead made him bark a sharp hiss of pain. He toppled from his stool in shock, hands flying instantly to both Scar and Wand even as he landed awkwardly on the icy stone floor of the Dungeon Lab. His head was searing, a blue-hot flame running rampant behind his eyes even as he got his bearings and managed to focus again.

Scrambling to his feet and opening his eyes with a wince, Harry wasn't entirely surprised to see the whole classroom staring at him with varying expressions. He fought the heat creeping onto his face as he pocketed his wand again, wishing he couldn't hear the aggressive rash of whispering that was breaking out.

He risked a glance at the Professor, and winced again when their eyes connected. Harry slumped his shoulders and returned to his desk, righting his stool before meekly sliding onto it. He studiously avoided the concerned and rather fearful eyes of Ron and Hermione and the sniggering from the Slytherins as Snape continued to gaze at him with that unreadably dark expression for several seconds, before sneering and uttering the inevitable mocking remark.

Harry barely heard it though, not when all sound in the room seemed to die as a thin, yet remarkably mournful sort of mewing-pop echoed throughout the classroom.

And then, directly in Harry's line of sight, on his way back from the Supply Cupboard, a little glass jar in each hand, Draco Malfoy disappeared.

Or rather, he seemed to fall through the floor. Harry, buzzing and edgy from his shock, was already on his feet and over his desk, wand again in hand on instinct before he knew where he was, long seconds before everyone else began to shout and a frenzy of hurried movement whirled the air into a panicked blaze of surprise, fear and wonder. Draco's dark robes lay in a large heap on the floor, and even as Harry, astride Professor Snape, drew near, he knew it couldn't be his imagination that the dark pile was moving.

Grasping the heavy robe material, Snape whipped it from the ground like a whip crack, as he did so dislodging the small bundle inside. Harry knew he wasn't the only one to jump.

However, he knew his silent tongue was the only one not whispering in shock as the bundle tried to right itself and toppled again, instead turning it's head towards the class and revealing the wide-eyed face of a child.