"If you don't get up now, Pansy and the others will snatch all the roasted tomatoes."
Draco's voice came from beside the bed, still a little rough with sleep.
Harry blinked awake, seeing pale blond hair hanging into his field of vision—Draco was bending down, gathering the textbooks scattered at the edge of his bed.
He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow.
"Five more minutes. Just five."
"Get up," Draco said, giving his back a firm—but not harsh—pat.
"Snape docks five points for being late. Want Slytherin to start the term at the bottom?"
That hit Harry immediately.
He shot upright, hair sticking in every direction.
"Alright, alright—"
He yanked on his clothes, buttoning them wrong in his rush. Draco came over and fixed the buttons with deft fingers, his cool fingertips brushing Harry's wrist.
"No need to panic. We've got time."
They slipped into the Great Hall just in time. Many Slytherins were already seated.
Blaise looked up and jerked his chin at them.
"Thought you two were going to be late. Saved you a couple tomatoes."
Harry grabbed one, took a bite, and the sweet, tangy juice finally woke him up.
No Ron handing him toast.
No Hermione urging him to hurry.
Just Draco passing him a cup of pumpkin juice—the temperature perfect.
The only thing that hadn't changed was the whispering about him.
"Be careful in Potions," Draco said quietly, sipping his own drink.
"The steps I told you last night—powdered asphodel first, then wormwood. Medium-low flame. Got it?"
Harry nodded, swallowing the last mouthful of tomato.
"Got it. Just afraid my hands will shake and I'll mess up the measurements."
"I'll watch the scale for you."
Draco stood, picked up both their bags.
"Come on. The Potions classroom's far."
The underground classroom was the same as always—cold air seeped from between the stones, cauldrons on the walls gleaming faintly.
Snape stood at the front, his black robes melding with the shadows.
Students settled into their seats.
Harry and Draco took a spot in the middle.
Harry had barely put his bag down when Snape launched into the exact same speech—as unchanging as time itself:
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making…"
(He delivered the whole speech, sharp and theatrical as ever.)
Listening to Snape, Harry leaned slightly toward Draco and whispered:
"Oh, Merlin. I can't believe I missed this. I must be insane."
"I'd say that's likely," Draco murmured back, amusement in his voice.
"Today we will be brewing the Boil-Cure Potion. Ingredients on page fourteen…"
Snape went through the steps—
asphodel powder and wormwood, mixed 2:1; two drops of unicorn horn powder; medium-low flame; stir five times.
His gaze swept across the room, pausing on Harry for two seconds, no longer, before he said:
"Begin."
Harry flipped open his book, fingers tense.
Draco was already at the scales, pouring asphodel powder onto a weighing paper.
"Watch the needle. I pour—you watch. Last time you messed up because you weren't paying attention."
"Got it."
Harry leaned close to the scale, watching the needle settle.
"Enough—enough—another tap and it'll go over two grams."
Draco stopped immediately, tipped the powder into the cauldron, and reached for the wormwood.
"One gram. Don't drift off."
Around them, Slytherins worked quietly.
Occasional clinks of cauldrons echoed.
Only Pansy, sitting ahead, glanced back when she saw Draco helping Harry measure—raising an eyebrow before returning to her work.
Harry added the two drops of unicorn horn powder. Just as he reached for the burner, Draco pressed a hand over his.
"Medium-low flame. High heat burns it."
"Oh—right."
Harry quickly adjusted the dial.
Blue fire licked the bottom of the cauldron as he stirred, slow and steady.
He remembered his first life—how he'd mixed up asphodel and wormwood and been humiliated in front of everyone. It felt like someone else's distant dream.
"Second stir," Draco reminded softly.
Harry stirred. The potion glowed pale green—no smoke, no cloudiness.
A Ravenclaw nearby yelped as his cauldron turned brown.
Snape swept over, glanced once, and said:
"Too much wormwood. Detention. Clean cauldrons after class."
Harry tensed, grip tightening on the spoon.
Draco murmured, "Ignore them. Focus on yours."
Harry took a breath and kept stirring.
When the ten minutes were up and he extinguished the flame, the potion was a clear, textbook-perfect green.
Snape came to inspect.
He checked Draco's cauldron first. Then Harry's.
A brief pause.
A tap of his fingertip on the cauldron's side.
"Steps accurate. Purity acceptable."
No insult. No sneer.
He moved on.
Harry deflated in relief, sinking into his chair.
"Didn't mess it up… thank Merlin."
"You were never going to," Draco said, taking their cauldrons to the sink.
"Have some confidence."
Harry followed, washing the cauldron in cool water. Watching Draco scrub the rim with quiet focus, he suddenly said:
"In my last life, Snape always picked on me."
Draco paused, glanced at him.
"He won't anymore. Professor Snape doesn't deduct points from Slytherin for no reason."
Harry set his rinsed cauldron on the rack.
"Nice change. At least I won't be yelled at in front of the whole class."
The bell rang.
Students filed out.
Blaise walked past and clapped Harry's shoulder.
"Not bad, Potter. Potion looked good."
"Decent," Draco replied for him, handing Harry his bag.
"Come on. History of Magic next."
Harry took it and followed him out of the cold dungeon.
Sunlight streamed through the corridor windows, casting long shadows—two shadows close enough to overlap.
He stole a glance at Draco.
The sunlight softened the edges of his pale hair and his profile.
"What are you thinking?" Draco turned suddenly—catching him.
Harry jerked his gaze away, speeding up.
"Nothing. Just thinking whether I should practice Potions again tonight."
Draco slowed his steps, falling into pace beside him.
"Up to you. If you want to practice—I'll stay with you."