Another Chance At Childhood || Harry Potter

1 | Pilot

"Who says life is fair, where is that written?"
William Goldman

~~~

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Harry James Potter, born in Godric's Hollow, raised in the cupboard under the stairs, later moved to the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive, currently staying at Hogwarts, was not having a good day. Though he'd managed to get rid of every single Defence teacher within the last five years, the greasy Potions Master of Hogwarts continued to be the bane of his existence. Last week, Harry had been so dearly tempted to chug the mysterious green substance in the vial on the man's desk, with the far-fetched hope that it was fast-acting poison.

Today, the man had made a jump off the Astronomy Tower sound outstandingly appealing.

"Harry?" Said wizard only groaned in response, before looking up into Hermione's intelligent, concerned hazel eyes.

"That bad?" Harry thudded his head against the table once more. Beside him, Ron was currently trying to beat his chicken leg consumption record from last Tuesday.

Harry felt almost honoured when Ron took a break from food inhalation.

"What'd the greasy git say?" Chewed up chicken pieces sprayed onto him, reprimanding him for his overly optimistic expectations.

"Ronald!" A napkin slapped the top of his bird-nest hair. "Honestly, you're not some uncivilised animal, so why do you insist on eating like one?"

"Actually, Fred and George are working on modifying the Canary Cream formula for stuff like that, so don't speak too soon."

"Really? Could you ask them—"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Why he had even bothered to continue with Potions into his sixth year, he didn't know. So what if he'd scraped an O in his Potions OWL, and McGonagall had made it her life ambition for Harry to become an Auror. The slimy, Slytherin bat of the dungeons still found every chance to demean Harry with increasingly inventive insults.

If you could apply a modicum of thought using whatever questionably resides in your skull, that would be marvellous, Mr. Potter.

Are you always this stupid, Potter, or are you simply making a special effort today?

Do we need to send you back to Remedial Potions again this year?

The last gibe had tipped him over the edge; with a lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of will-to-do-Potions, Harry had added too many diced ashwagandha roots, which reacted badly with the schisandra berry juice that had spent too much time on the fire.

And then ka-boom.

Harry Potter became the new Neville Longbottom of NEWT Potions.

And now he had to spend an extra two hours of his afternoon stressing over re-making a Tranquility Draught.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"I'm sure it won't be too bad. He won't say anything when the pair of you are alone."

"You want to bet on that, Hermione?" Snape saw insulting Harry much the same way Dudley and his gang saw Harry-hunting.

"If you die, can I at least have your Firebolt, mate?"

Harry emerged from behind his arms with the shadow of a grin, just in time to see Hermione viciously swat Ron with the napkin again.

And then Hermione's gaze darted to his forehead. "Harry!"