The slam of the door makes Harry jump, and she's not the only one. Professor Snape certainly knows how to make an entrance, she thinks, watching the man stride up the center aisle, robes flaring to either side like bat wings. On the other side of the room, a round-faced boy who she thinks is named Neville Longbottom makes a choked whimpering sound.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," Professor Snape says icily when he reaches the podium. "As such, I don't expect many of you to understand the subtle science or exact art that is potion-making..."

He continues and Harry is not the only one who rushes to scribble down the professor's exact words. Well, on the Ravenclaw side, anyway. From the corner of her eye, she can see nobody in the Gryffindor contingent doing so.

"Ah, Miss Potter, our new..celebrity," Professor Snape drawls, freezing Harry in her chair with an odd blend of surprise and terror. "Interesting to see you in Ravenclaw, of all places...perhaps you have not inherited your father's lack of brains."

Harry's cheeks flush at the insult to James Potter, but she bites her tongue, so hard it hurts, to avoid answering in kind.

The class proceeds, Snape barking questions to a petrified-looking Ronald Weasley. Something about bezoars, aconite, and the Draught of Living Death. Harry doesn't manage to scribble it all down, so she hopes that if she asks Hermione nicely later, she'll be allowed to copy.

"Today, we will be making a simple potion to cure boils," Snape sneers, flicking his wand at the blackboard, which fills with neatly lettered instructions in chalk. "Get in pairs and begin."

Harry ends up with Hermione, a fact she is more than pleased with, considering Hermione's ease at regurgitating the textbook. On the other side of the room, she can see Ronald paired up with Malfoy and winces.

"What?" Hermione whispers curiously. Harry grabs a basket to carry their ingredients back in and jerks her head subtly to the side, indicating the volatile pair. "Glad I'm on this side of the room," Hermione murmurs, and Harry has to bite her lip to keep from snorting.

With Hermione as her partner, the potion is a breeze. Harry is rather pleased to discover that she's no slouch herself. All those years slaving for the Dursleys and preparing all their meals seems to have had some benefit. She can dice things finer than even Hermione, and Snape has no scathing words for the pair. No matter how sullen he looks about it.

"Acceptable," he finally pronounces, and turns away with a haughty sniff.

It's moments after, when they are just starting to bottle up their potion, that they hear a very ominous-sounding whistling coming from the Gryffindor side of the room. Then a loud explosion, and Harry jumps backward before she can stop herself, nearly crumpling into a bench.

"Idiot boy!" she hears Professor Snape snarl. A few waves of the man's wand, and the smoke clears itself. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before you took the cauldron off the fire?"

A sniveling, whimpering Neville Longbottom nods painfully as Snape also clears away the spilled potion. What he can, anyway, considering bits of it have eaten holes in the wood.

"Get to the Hospital Wing," Professor Snape sneers. "You and anyone else hit by the potion. Ten points from Gryffindor. And you," he adds in a quieter tone, glaring at Harry. "Meet me after dinner, Potter. It is not a request."

Harry opens her mouth to protest, but before she can utter a word, Hermione drags her away with a cheery "She'll be there, Professor!" and a warning glance at the sputtering first-year.

"He'll take points," Hermione finally says outside, her eyes very round and glassy.

"Are you all right?" Harry says, changing the subject.

"Fine," the girl replies in a brittle sort of tone that sounds anything but. "Now come on, we'll be late for History of Magic."

And with that, the subject is closed.