The Fear is Often Greater than the Danger

Chapter Three: Potions Class

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Harry had always thought he was good at running. He'd certainly spent enough of his childhood with his worn out trainers pounding over hot asphalt, schoolyard gravel, manicured lawns, and beaten down dirt tracks alike dodging the faster members of Dudley's gang. They'd always been so rarely able to catch him he'd been proud of his running ability.

Dropping onto the grassy knoll by the lake and trying not to cough out a lung while Sawyer, the smarmy sod, smirked at him with only his stupidly blue eyes, not a single hair out of place and barely breathing heavily Harry had the thought that he might actually hate running. And Sawyer.

"You're getting faster," offered Sawyer, folding himself to sit lotus style on the grass, "Perhaps by the end of the week you'll be able to outrun a kindergartener."

"You are evil," Harry panted, groaning as he settled onto the grass, "I can't move, you'll have to magic me back to the castle."

"Not a chance, do your stretching and perhaps you will still be able to move by lunch," Sawyer said lightly, fishing a notebook out of his satchel, "What did you have this morning?"

"Double potions with the Gryffindors," Harry said trying to relax his poor abused body enough to lever himself to his feet and run through the glorified yoga routine that Sawyer had taught him.

"Did you read the first few chapters of the text?"

"M'not actually an idiot," Harry said, shifting into a pose that made his legs tremble, but soothed the ache in his hips.

"Just lazy."

"Farley warned us the day after the feast, it was the first bit of homework I did," Harry grumbled.

Sawyer nodded, tapping the book against his knee thoughtfully, "Snape is the head of Slytherin house, and he blatantly favours his snakes, but he also has lofty expectations. I can see why Farley wouldn't leave such a thing to chance."

"I'd just be happy if he didn't pile on a ton of homework, McGonagall's classwork is going to kill me if you don't manage it first," sighed Harry, feeling his breath starting to return.

"You're doing fine," said Sawyer, for once not adding on a teasing addendum, "Your essays need work, but you're progressing very well in the practical work."

"Your fault," Harry accused, putting more weight onto his hands and feeling something in his spine pop with satisfaction.

Sawyer gave and ambiguous hum and changed the subject, "Have you had any success at meditation?"

"Does falling asleep count as success?"

He managed to dodge the first swat, but the second one caught him around the side of the head, "Try. It's good for you."

"So is wheat grass but you're the only one crazy enough to eat that stuff," Harry said standing and shaking out his limbs.

"The reason you have trouble with learning new spells in class is because you lack focus."

Harry shrugged, "I can't turn my brain off when I've got to sit still and think about things. I'm better at reacting."

"I've noticed," said Sawyer, his voice dry as dust.

Harry grinned a bit to himself, Sawyer had had a devil of a time teaching him a very basic deflection but he'd finally managed it, turning Parkinson's tripping jinx back toward her on the way to lunch when she'd thought his back was turned. She'd fallen flat on her face and her homework had gone everywhere. Harry knew that he'd pay for embarrassing her, but for now he was enjoying the satisfaction of having gotten a leg up on his competition for once.

The Slytherins, Harry had discovered, were not like any group of kids that Harry had interacted with before. Unlike the bullies and tormentors of his childhood they weren't as a rule, mean-spirited. Instead they treated every interaction like a competition or a transaction. Constantly jockeying for status in a way that Harry couldn't really puzzle out.

Even among groups friends they never offered something without the expectation of receiving something in return, and they had a distinct system of hierarchy and gradients and a word or a gesture could transmute a person from a metaphorical king to a metaphorical worm faster than magic.

And, of course, he'd ended up on the bottom rung by default.

The usual rules didn't seem to apply to him, his money, magical skill and the few connections he'd made within and outside of Slytherin house were all overshadowed by everything else from his blood status to his name and back 'round to his ratty pajamas.

"Is that your owl?" asked Sawyer, breaking him from his musings.

Sure enough, when Harry looked up Hedwig's snowy white form was winging her way over from across the grounds, a note clutched in her beak.

Hedwig never brought him anything, because who would be writing to him? Sometimes she came to join Harry and Sawyer in the mornings or swooped in with the rest of the mail owls to nibble on his hair and his toast before swooping off to sleep in the owlry.

Harry cooed at his owl shamelessly, and tore her offering open with eagerness. It said, it a truly atrocious scribble:

Dear Harry,

I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come down and have a bit of tea with me around three?

I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with this beauty.

Hagrid

"What does it say?" asked Sawyer.

"Hagrid's invited me for tea after class," Harry said rummaging around in his bag for a quill, "At least he doesn't seem to mind that I'm a dirty snake at heart."

Sawyer smiled, well, his lips tipped upward ever so slightly at the corners, and said, "Hagrid is very loyal to his friends."

"Unlike some," Harry said, marking up the back of the note with his response and sending Hedwig back aloft.

Although Harry hadn't had any classes with Ron yet the red head went out of his way to avoid Harry at meals and in the corridors and instead had made fast friends with his fellow Gryffindors, Thomas and Finnegan. Harry had caught him begging his brothers not to go after him with their pranks too much but apart from that it seemed that Ron wasn't willing to continue their fledgling friendship.

It still stung a bit even when Harry ruthlessly reminded himself that he didn't need a friend like that anyway. To still have Hagrid's friendship, was a balm.

And, as it turned out, it was very lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because Potions was about as much fun as a sharp stick in the eye.

The class was very sharply divided by house, and Millicent yanked him down to sit next to her, and hissed at him that they, "Did not fraternize with Gryffies, not even a muggle-loving blood traitor like you Potter."

At the start of term feast Harry had gotten the impression that Snape might have disliked him. But time spent amongst the Slytherins had given him hope that he was just always that cranky and it wasn't anything personal. By the end of the lesson he'd revised his assumptions drastically—Snape hated him, and it was very personal.

Potions was done down in the dungeons where it was cooler and volatile ingredients weren't likely to get exposed to light, and Snape had a bunch of things floating around in big glass jars on the high shelves that lined the walls. Harry couldn't decide if it was more deranged psycho-killer or mad-scientist but either way it was creepy and more than a little gross.

Snape started by taking the roll call and he paused at Harry's name, his dark eyes flicking up to meet Harry's from across the classroom. It was like staring into a pair of dark tunnels, or a deep silent well filled with tepid, long-rotted water.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice deceptively soft and dripping with unveiled scorn, "Harry Potter, our new—celebrity."

Millicent shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and behind him Zabini hissed, "Oi, Potter, how in Morgana's name did you manage to piss of Snape?"

The head of Slytherin house turned to the rest of the class, levelling a cutting but impersonal sneer at the Gryffindors and an appraising glance at the Slytherins and the students fell abruptly silent.

"You are here," he began, barely raising his voice but capturing the attention of the class with little effort, "To learn the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. As there is very little of the foolish wand-waving you have been utilising in your other classes here many of you will hardly be able to believe that this is magic. I do not expect you to appreciate the delicate power and intricacy of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses. In this classroom I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death—provided, of course, you aren't as hopeless as the usual crops of dunderheads I am forced to deal with."

More silence followed this pronouncement, and Harry found himself suitably impressed. The man was nasty, that much was clear, but he also knew how to hold a room and was obviously very, very skilled at potion-making.

A short glance around the rest of the class showed that the rest of the Slytherins were rendered a little star-struck, Neville 'Toadless' Longbottom was tugging at his red and gold tie and starting to sweat and Hermione had scooted up to the edge of her seat and looked desperate to begin proving that she was neither 'usual' nor 'a dunderhead'.

"Potter," said Snape, suddenly and sharply, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

That, Harry knew, had not been in the first three chapters of their textbook. Regardless, Hermione's hand shot up immediately.

Harry blinked a bit and glanced at Millicent, who was facing the front a slight furrow in her brow.

"The answer will not come to you staring at Miss. Bulstrode, Potter," Snape said, his lip curling up in a sneer.

"No sir," agreed Harry quickly, casting his eyes to a spot a little below Snape's left shoulder, a tactic he'd used with his uncle a time or two, "I'm afraid I don't know the answer."

"Well, clearly fame isn't everything," said Snape, "But I will give you the opportunity to redeem yourself Potter, tell me, where would you look if I asked that you find me a bezoar?"

Outside an apothecary, you mean sir, Harry wanted to retort with a bit of faux-polite snark, but he had a feeling it would mean his head.

Hermione stretched her hand higher into the air, spreading her fingers as far open as they'd go. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were shaking with laughter.

Harry just thanked any deity that cared to listen that he'd met Sawyer and answered, "I believe that they can be harvested from the stomach of a goat, sir."

Snape's expression darkened, though Harry had been very careful to rein in his natural tendency towards insouciance.

"Oh? You think? Did you even bother to open a book before this class, Potter? You are correct, but let us see if that was just a fluke, shall we? What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Hermione's hand was positively quivering at this point but Snape was ignoring her, staring at Harry so hard that Harry was suddenly grateful that looks couldn't actually kill, for better or worse there had been a footnote in chapter three about the plants and Harry knew the correct answer.

"There is no appreciable difference sir, both monkshood and wolfsbane are common names for a plant called aconite."

"Two out of three Potter, barely passable. I expect you to have studied before the next lesson. For your information, wormwood and asphodel combine together make a sleeping potion so powerful it was named the Draught of Living Death, a bezoar is indeed a stone found in the stomach of a goat, cultivating by feeding the animal certain magical plants, it can counteract a great number of poisons. Well, why aren't you copying this down?" he demanded, and there was a sudden mad scramble for quills and parchment.

Harry could immediately see why everyone had been advised to read the chapters before the class.

Snape had a series of notes written out on the blackboard in spidery cursive that correlated directly with the summary of ingredients and their effects and interactions given at the beginning of the chapter after the foreword that talked about when the potion was invented and what it was used for and would make no sense if you hadn't done the reading.

After that was done Snape told them to pair off and set them to brewing a simple potion that was meant to cure boils. He swept up and down the aisle, his long black cloak swirling behind him like some kind of dark cloud, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing everyone, except Malfoy who he held up as the prime example of how to stew horned slugs.

Harry thought that it was a little funny that Malfoy got so puffed up over that kind of praise, but he had to admit that the blond was the only one who Snape seemed to like.

Harry and Millicent partnered up, Harry preparing the ingredients—since the large girl was a bit of a klutz and Harry was already a dab hand with things like dicing and mincing and stewing—while Millicent stirred and monitored the potion itself.

They were through the whole process very quickly and Harry was taking a moment to stretch when he noticed something that made him freeze up and reached across the aisle to grab Neville's wrist before he could add his porcupine quills.

The poor kid gave him a trembling stare and tried to tug his arm away from Harry's vicelike grip.

"Are you trying to melt that bloody cauldron?" he hissed.

"N-n-no I—"

"Take the thing off the fire before you put those in!" Harry said sharply, "You never add porcupine quills to a solution with nettles while it's still on high heat, it was the first point in the known-hazards section of the recipe!"

"Potter!" Snape snapped from across the room, "This is a potions class not a daycare facility, unhand Mr. Longbottom before I take five points from Slytherin."

Harry dropped Neville's wrist as if it had burned him, and ignored the glares he received from most of the Gryffindors and the sneers of the Slytherins.

"You are really determined not to ingratiate yourself aren't you," huffed Millicent, "Hand me the toad liver and for Circe's sake, show me some gratitude and shut your bloody mouth."

It was then that he realized that there must have been some discussion as to who would be forced to partner with him for potions and Millicent had either drawn the short straw or had volunteered to save him and by extension their house from having him need to beg to work with a Gryffindor.

"Don't push it," was all he said to her though.

One thing he had learned was that Slytherins were a bit like the fae from the old book of fairy stories Dudley hadn't cared for, if you acknowledged gratitude you also took on a non-specific debt to the person who'd helped you. He didn't need to be accruing debts to people who thought he was no better then the mud scraped off the bottom of their shoes.

Still, no one was sent to the Hospital Wing and an hour later Harry trudged out of the dungeon in a black mood and stormed blinking into the bright afternoon sunshine to go and see Hagrid.

Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the Forbidden Forest that was almost always sporting a smoking chimney, and had waved across the Lake to Harry and Sawyer a number of times

At five to three he knocked on the big wooden door, stepping around the crossbow and the galoshes that would come up to his mid-thigh that were sitting on the front stoop and waiting for Hagrid to answer.

From inside there came a great series of booming barks, and Hagrid called out, saying, "Back, Fang—back!"

Hagrid's broad hairy face appeared as he cracked the door open, "Hang on a mo, Harry," he said, "Back you sill creature!"

He swung the door wide enough to admit Harry, struggling to hold back an enormous black boarhound who was wagging his tail with enough force to set his entire body swaying and drooling liberally.

The hut was really only one room, salted hams and smoked pheasants were hanging from the high ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire and in the corner was a massive bed, neatly made with a patchwork quilt over it.

"Make yerself at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who immediately pressed his entire wagging body up against Harry—nearly sending him toppling to the floor—and looking up at him with droopy begging eyes.

Clearly he wasn't as fierce as he looked. Much like Hagrid.

Hagrid served Harry a gigantic cup of tea and tried to ply him with rock cakes—shapeless lumps dotted with raisins that tasted alright, according to Sawyer, but were liable to crack your teeth—listening as Harry went off on a biting tirade about everything from his housemates, to Filch and then described, in pithy detail, his first potions class.

"The ruddy git has no business calling himself a teacher," Harry growled, "He's hated me since I first walked into the Great Hall I'm sure of it. My own head of house!"

Hagrid favoured him with a gusty sigh, patting him gingerly on the back as though he wasn't sure whether Harry would explode or cry.

"Rubbish," he declared, not meeting Harry's eyes, "What reason could he have ter hate yeh?"

"I don't know," Harry snarked, "Maybe because I'm the muggle-loving, blood-traitor blight on his perfect crop of well-bred snakes."

Hagrid sighed again, scrubbing a hand across his face, "Snape isn't a nice man Harry, it isn't his nature. But he's a good head of house, don't get to be putting words that aren't there into his mouth."

"You didn't see the way he looked at me, Hagrid," Harry said tiredly, "I know what hate looks like."

"All I'm sayin' is not ter burn yer bridges," Hagrid grunted, offering Harry another rock cake and changing the subject to his lessons with Sawyer.

Harry returned to the castle for dinner that day with his pockets heavier for rock cakes and his spirit lighter for venting, and as he slid into his usual seat beside the bickering Graham and Ariana letting them buffer him from his year mates, he glanced up at the head table and wondered what the real reason was for Snape's hatred of Harry.

AN: Woot! Update!

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