IT ALL STARTED IN POTIONS.
The classroom felt... messy, messier than usual. Extra desks filled the limited space, along with additional chairs scattered about for needy hands. Cauldrons have been stacked up high in the corners of the room for those without one. And the ingredient shelves seemed to multiply.

Students shifted around with hushed voices. Kids from each of the four houses joined together to share the busy space of Snape's second period. It was normally a sixth year class, but now, it's divided amongst those of differing ages.

It happened just before the start of class. You had settled into your seat, lugging a huge textbook onto the table when the door creaked open. Snape barely gave a glance to who walked in.

It was Dumbledore. He was followed by a handful of fourth years, a few third years, and a couple of fidgety first years. "We are making room for the new arrivals," the headmaster said, sprouting a wave of questions from the class that Snape silenced with a glare.

The professor was far less than pleased having been given more students. But he summoned more seats and work spaces for the "new" kids. Then, he assigned random potions to each pair, prohibiting chatter unless amongst partners, as well as no questions for him.

"Any idea who the new arrivals are," you ask, watching the underclassmen scurry for an empty seat. They've never put younger students in an older class to "make room".
Dalila shrugs. She couldn't care less. She's more focused on groaning as she sees the potion Snape has assigned to you and her.

Wit-Sharpening Potion, a potion which allows the drinker to think more clearly. You read somewhere that it is also an antidote for the Confundus charm.

"This one is so difficult," Dalila complained.
"It's literally a fifth year potion," you countered. "It's not that strenuous of a recipe, nor will it take all class. It'll be easy."

Her shoulders slump and she slinks away to grab the needed ingredients. You set up your cauldron, casting a spell to fill it with water. As you wait for Dalila to come back, you glance around the room. You recognize some of the younger kids.

Harry Potter, in all his glory, took the table just in front of yours. Obviously, his partner is Ron Weasley. The ginger takes a peak at their assigned potion, then let's his head hit the wood of the desk with a thud.

Hermione Granger is a few tables to your right. There's a crease between her eyebrows. Her mouth moves as she speaks inaudibly to you, but judging by the way Ginny Weasley snatches up different herbs, the former is listing what they need.

Neville Longbottom and Dean Thomas are behind you. They share happy smiles upon seeing they've been required to create a fertilizer potion.

The notorious Weasley twins are just behind the herbology boys. They've ripped their paper of assigned concoction to shreds, and begun their work on a new prank.

And directly to your left is Draco Malfoy. His frown is seemingly permanent as he plops himself down in the seat next to a lone first year. The first year cowers.

"Unless you know how to make this-," Dalila appears, capturing your attention. She heaves a bunch of things onto the desk. Bottles clink together and you stop them before they roll off and onto the floor. "-we're screwed."

You raise an eyebrow at her.
"It's not that hard."

"Oh, I know." She blinks. "But I tried to make it last year and I ended up spending two weeks in the infirmary. So..."

Oh. You forgot just how bad she was at potions. Her knowledge was much better in the air, where she could calculate how hard she needed to throw a quaffle to score a point. But on her feet, she didn't know the difference between a cauldron and a fancy bowl. She was lucky you enjoyed potions.

Dalila waited patiently for you to reply, though her lips quirked in a way you didn't like. You knew what her face meant; her lifted lips showed mischief. She wants you to do all of the work, and in return she'll steal the potion you make.

Snape forbid students from taking their creations outside of the classroom. But you really wanted to keep a collection of your success.

You sigh, pulling all of what she grabbed towards your side of the desk. "I hate you sometimes."
Dalila chortled. She snapped her fingers. "I knew I could count of you."

And just like that, you're on your own. She makes her way over to the Weasley twins, sure to flirt with her boyfriend, Fred, and make George whine about third-wheeling.

You siphon through the things. Newt spleens was the first thing on the list. You grimace, wondering who the hell had a job collected spleens as you picked one out from its container. You put it into your cauldron.

Then, you scoop a spoonful of armadillo bile, placing it in the cauldron before you could create your own bile in the back of your throat. As you mixed the liquid with a spoon, smoke began to amass. It spilled over the edges. At the rate you were going, the potion would be finished by the end of class.

It was second nature at that point; you'd add in a scarab beetle, then mix, then repeat those steps a few more times until the mixture was green, signaling one last ingredient was needed.

Cut ginger root.

You looked around your desk; behind your cauldron, underneath a small towel, in the drawer of the desk, but couldn't find a knife. The ginger root needs to be cut into thirds, or the potion won't mix right.

But you couldn't find the damn knife.
Then you realize; Dalila forgot to get one.

You grumble to yourself, glancing back at her. She's in her own world, leant up against Fred, unaware of you trying to catch her attention. There's no way in hell you're going to yell across the room and risk getting a lecture of a lifetime from Snape. The class was quiet and you weren't going to be the one who'd break the silence.

Neville and Dean had stepped away to grab more things. Ron and Harry would be of no help to you; their potion was a muddy red instead of the silver-blue a Draught of Peace was supposed to be.

And you'd rather die than ask the first years to your right.
That left Draco Malfoy.

Physically preparing yourself for his attitude, you took a deep breath before whispering.
"Hey," you called softly. "Psst, Draco!"

He turns slowly, like his body is made of the heaviest material known to man. When his eyes connect with yours, creases grow between his brows. "Who are you?"

Your face falls.
Rightttt. You've never spoken to him before. With him being two years under you, and an asshole, you've never sought out a conversation, despite being a fellow Slytherin.

"Give me your knife." You avoid his question. He won't be needing a knife, you deduce based on his closed notebook. He hasn't started his potion, and you assume he won't.

"No," he sneers. "Use your own."
If your face could drop anymore, it would have. "You think if I had one, I'd be asking for yours?" You managed to match the sassiness of his tone with your own.

You outstretch your left hand to him, leaving it there as you turn back to your potion. You're busy with scanning how much ginger root you need to notice Draco shifting in his seat.

His jaw clenches at the absence of your attention. You're just waiting, hand lazily elongated, for him to give you his knife. Your absent-minded demeanor ticks off his little patience. He scoffs, and is careless in the way he grabs the object and places it in your grip.

He doesn't register the fact that he placed it blade-down in your palm till you hiss and retract your hand.

A spike of pain goes through your arm. The shock of it makes you flinch back. Your elbow bumps the side of your cauldron. It tips over, spilling its contents and hitting the floor with a crash. The sound is like a pin dropping in a silent room, only the pin is huge and made out of thick metal.

The sound reverberates off the wall.
Everyone turns to you, holding their breath and awaiting the professor's reaction.

Draco's throat goes taut. A shocked gasp sticks to the sides of his mouth, not making it to his lungs.

Snape pulls his head up from a stack of parchment. His gaze is sharp, piercing. His lips pull into a tight scowl. The first thing he assesses is the mess on the floor, then he finds the source of the racket, you.

"Ms. L/n."

Your face suddenly feels hot. It matches the warmth that grows from your hand, trailing up your wrist. A cut lines the inside of your palm. You're at a loss for words.

Your eyes flicker to Draco. For a moment long enough for him to catch, he sees accusation cross your features. He still has the knife in his hand, fingers wrapped around the handle.

A drop of blood hits the floor. You switch your focus to it, staring down as another drop hits the wooden panels, then another.

"Professor," you gulp, closing your hand into a fist and tucking it towards your chest. "I... can I go to the infirmary?"

Snape glares down at the puddle of your failed potion, then the extremity you have clutched to your ribcage. Red is running down your forearm; you're not putting enough pressure to stop the bleeding.

"Get that cleaned up," Snape starts, speaking harshly with the addition of his drawl. "That's ten points from Slytherin for your incompetence."

Damn.
You just got yourself and Dalila a failing score for the class and ten points from your house? You nod, still in shock, and duck out of the classroom.