THE POTIONS MASTER
T here, look."
"Where?"
"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."
"Wearing the glasses?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next
day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or
doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they
wouldn't, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide,
sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a
Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to
jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or
tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all,
but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where
anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the
portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor
could walk.
The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of
them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless
Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right direction, but
Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you
met him when you were late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on
your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak
up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus
Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very first
morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door that
unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third
floor. He wouldn't believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to break into
it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were
rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.
Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature
with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone.
Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for
Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret
passageways of the school better than anyone (except perhaps the Weasley
twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated
him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.
And then, once you had managed to find them, there were the classes
themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than
waving your wand and saying a few funny words.
They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every
Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements
of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the
castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout,
where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and
found out what they were used for. Easily the most boring class was History of
Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very
old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up
next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on
while they scribbled down names and dates, and got Emetic the Evil and Uric
the Oddball mixed up.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had
to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he
took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak
and toppled out of sight.
Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to
think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to
the moment they sat down in her first class.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you
will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will
leave and not come back. You have been warned."
Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very
impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going
to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of
complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into
a needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione Granger had made any
difference to her match; Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone
all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare smile.
The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense
Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His
classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a
vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him
one of these days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African
prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't
sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked
eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and
started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell
hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of
garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.
Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn't miles behind everyone
else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, hadn't had
any idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so much to learn that
even people like Ron didn't have much of a head start.
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally managed to
find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.
"What have we got today?" Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar on his
porridge.
"Double Potions with the Slytherins," said Ron. "Snape's Head of
Slytherin House. They say he always favors them — we'll be able to see if it's
true."
"Wish McGonagall favored us," said Harry. Professor McGonagall was
head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn't stopped her from giving them a huge pile
of homework the day before.
Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but it
had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls
had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables
until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.
Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to
nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with
the other school owls. This morning, however, she fluttered down between the
marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Harry's plate. Harry tore
it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:
Dear Harry,
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a
cup of tea with me around three?
I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with
Hedwig.
Hagrid
Harry borrowed Ron's quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later on the back
of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.
It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because
the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that had happened to him so
far.
At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor
Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he'd been
wrong. Snape didn't dislike Harry — he hated him.
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder
here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough
without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.
Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like
Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.
"Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity."
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their
hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes
were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth. They were cold
and empty and made you think of dark tunnels.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,"
he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word
— like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent
without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will
hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty
of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power
of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the
senses.…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death —
if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks
with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked
desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.
"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered
root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron,
who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione's hand had shot into the air.
"I don't know, sir," said Harry.
Snape's lips curled into a sneer.
"Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything."
He ignored Hermione's hand.
"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a
bezoar?"
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without
her leaving her seat, but Harry didn't have the faintest idea what a bezoar was.
He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with
laughter.
"I don't know, sir."
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Harry
forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He had looked
through his books at the Dursleys', but did Snape expect him to remember
everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?
Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon
ceiling.
"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why
don't you try her?"
A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus's eye, and Seamus winked.
Snape, however, was not pleased.
"Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "For your information, Potter,
asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the
Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat
and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they
are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't
you all copying that down?"
There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise,
Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek,
Potter."
Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson
continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple
potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them
weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except
Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the
perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green
smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to
melt Seamus's cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across
the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class
was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion
when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all
over his arms and legs.
"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one
wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the
cauldron off the fire?"
Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.
"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then he
rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.
"You — Potter — why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought
he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point
you've lost for Gryffindor."
This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked
him behind their cauldron.
"Don't push it," he muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."
As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind
was racing and his spirits were low. He'd lost two points for Gryffindor in his
very first week — why did Snape hate him so much?
"Cheer up," said Ron, "Snape's always taking points off Fred and
George. Can I come and meet Hagrid with you?"
At five to three they left the castle and made their way across the
grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the forbidden
forest. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door.
When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside and
several booming barks. Then Hagrid's voice rang out, saying, "Back, Fang —
back."
Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open.
"Hang on," he said. "Back, Fang."
He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous
black boarhound.
There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from
the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a
massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.
"Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded
straight at Ron and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as
fierce as he looked.
"This is Ron," Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a
large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate.
"Another Weasley, eh?" said Hagrid, glancing at Ron's freckles. I spent
half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest."
The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their
teeth, but Harry and Ron pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all
about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on Harry's knee and drooled all
over his robes.
Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call Filch "that old git."
"An' as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I'd like ter introduce her to Fang
sometime. D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me
everywhere? Can't get rid of her — Filch puts her up to it."
Harry told Hagrid about Snape's lesson. Hagrid, like Ron, told Harry not
to worry about it, that Snape liked hardly any of the students.
"But he seemed to really hate me."
"Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should he?"
Yet Harry couldn't help thinking that Hagrid didn't quite meet his eyes
when he said that.
"How's yer brother Charlie?" Hagrid asked Ron. "I liked him a lot —
great with animals."
Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. While
Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie's work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece
of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the
Daily Prophet:
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely
believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that
was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you
know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had tried to rob
Gringotts, but Ron hadn't mentioned the date.
"Hagrid!" said Harry, "that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday!
It might've been happening while we were there!"
There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn't meet Harry's eyes
this time. He grunted and offered him another rock cake. Harry read the story
again. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same
day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if you could call it
emptying, taking out that grubby little package. Had that been what the thieves
were looking for?
As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for dinner, their pockets
weighed down with rock cakes they'd been too polite to refuse, Harry thought
that none of the lessons he'd had so far had given him as much to think about as
tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid collected that package just in time? Where was it
now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn't want to tell
Harry?