The Boy Who Lived I -- The Alchemist's Prize

Chapter Three: Eyes Everywhere

Harry, Ron, and Draco managed to make it to the Great Hall the next morning in ample time for breakfast, though they nearly got lost when they came to the Tower Gallery. This was an immense square room that reached twelve stories from the sixth dungeon level all the way up to the sixth floor above ground, where it was surmounted by a giant glass steeple to let the light in on its stone walls, which were covered in paintings. Nearly forty passages connected to the cavernous chamber, some of them open archways leading into apparent darkness, others blocked by forbidding oak doors. Fortunately for students trying to move through the room, the passages were connected by great wooden staircases.

Unfortunately, none of the boys could make any sense of what they saw. All three distinctly remembered making a right turn out of the gallery the night before. When they reached their landing, however, the only staircase leading from it was straight ahead, not on their left. Taking those stairs only made them lose their bearings, and by the time they'd gone down three more flights they'd gotten completely lost. Percy put in a timely appearance, however, and was only too pleased to perform his prefectorial duties and lead the trio to the Great Hall.

"The wooden staircases are the least trustworthy," Percy pontificated as he led them into the entrance hall. "They move around almost once a week. The stone ones move around less frequently, though they have been known to vanish if mistreated. If a staircase is really necessary, like the one in Gryffindor tower, it's a good idea to keep it happy by occasionally massaging its lower steps."

Thankfully, Percy shut up once they reached the Great Hall, bidding them farewell so he could go sit with the other Gryffindor prefects. Harry wondered if all of them had the same pompous and superior attitude.

Breakfast was a much simpler affair than the feast from the night before, but the food was still plentiful. Harry, accustomed to small morning meals, buttered up two slices of heavy wheat toast and added an apple for good measure. Ron and Draco were shocked at this—in true English fashion, they had loaded their plates with eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes, and sticky buns. A lively discussion ensued ("It's the most important meal of the day," Hermione said, but everyone ignored her), and Harry had just decided to appease his friends by eating a link of sausage when Professor McGonagall arrived with their schedules.

All Gryffindor first years shared the same class schedule, and it became quite evident over the next few minutes that most of them were dreading the first class of the morning—Magic Theory. The subject matter was not the problem, though Seamus spoke for all of them when he said he'd rather learn actual spells than potential ones. What promised to make the session really intolerable was that they shared the class with the Slytherins.

The prospect of spending half the morning with MacNair and his cronies made a dent in Harry's appetite that the gloomy conversation did nothing to improve. The sausage sat cooling on his plate for several minutes, looking almost as if it wanted to hide under Harry's half-eaten second slice of toast. Ron encouraged him to try and eat at least a few bites more, but after spending fifteen minutes nibbling at the edges of his toast, Harry decided to throw in the towel. He grabbed his bag and left the Great Hall, glancing at his schedule for the classroom location and wondering how he'd get there.

"Up the stairs to the right," Ron called from behind Harry, who turned to see the redhead running to catch up to him. Draco followed behind at a more leisurely pace, still licking frosting off his fingers. Harry paused at the base of the granite staircase to wait for them. "Percy gave me directions to our classes," Ron explained, showing off what appeared to be a paper towel covered in ink.

"And what's even better is that he didn't come along himself," Draco drawled, winking. "Let's go find a seat before the Slytherins take all the good ones."

They needn't have worried; Harry's vanishing appetite had brought the three of them out of the Great Hall long before anyone else had finished breakfast. The only person in the Theory classroom was Professor Dapnid, whose tall, thin body gave the impression that he had been stretched on the rack at some point in the recent past. His lips seemed to be permanently twisted in the puckered frown of a man who'd just accidentally swallowed a lemon, and he fixed the new arrivals with a suspicious, beady-eyed stare, as if students who came to class early couldn't possibly be up to any good.

Harry, Ron, and Draco quickly chose desks as far to one side of the room as possible, in hopes of minimizing their proximity to Slytherins. Their plan proved successful, as the other Gryffindors arrived shortly afterwards and all took seats around them. Hermione turned out to be the lone exception, unsurprisingly selecting a desk in the middle of the front row. The Slytherins started filtering in a minute later, and clustered together on the side of the room opposite the Gryffindors. Nobody sat next to Hermione, who looked somewhat indignant about her isolation.

Harry hardly had any time to feel sorry for her, because the bell rang almost as soon as he noticed. Dapnid stood up behind his desk and said, "Good morning, students, and welcome to Magic Theory," in a voice so deep and loud it hardly seemed possible it could have come from such a wisp of a body. "Though you will doubtless be disappointed not to be learning spells in this class, the knowledge you gain will be essential—"

He was cut off as the door slammed open and three more students scrambled in. Harry was delighted to see that the late arrivals were MacNair, Crabbe, and Goyle. His joy redoubled moments later when Dapnid fined them a point each for tardiness.

"As I was saying," Dapnid continued once the last Slytherins had settled into their seats, "the theoretical knowledge you gain in this class will be essential to understanding the applications you learn elsewhere. You will be sorely tempted to ignore what I tell you in this class, and I admit that you can become quite competent wizards and witches if you give in to that temptation."

Ron surreptitiously closed his notebook.

"I must stress, however," Dapnid added, leaning forward over his desk and splaying his long fingers out over its oak surface, "that an understanding of theory is essential if you want to achieve greatness." He swept his gaze over the class, for a moment staring directly at Harry. The intensity of those gray eyes felt like a rope tightening around Harry's chest, and he had to muffle his sigh of relief when Dapnid turned away a moment later.

"Nothing on this earth," Dapnid said, "is without magic. Some things are more magical than others, just as some people are born Muggles and others wizards. Nonetheless, every stone, grain of sand, drop of water, and living thing has magic in it. Under ordinary circumstances, the intrinsic magic of objects lies dormant. Nonetheless, we can affect this magic, and use it to our advantage if need be."

Hermione raised her hand, and Dapnid waved for her to ask her question. "Do you mean like how we use wands?" she asked.

Dapnid seemed to frown a little less at this, and Harry wondered if the minute change of expression passed for a smile. "Yes, that's exactly so," the willowy man said. "The overtly magical core of the wand helps draw out our magical energies, and the magic inherent to the wood helps constrain and focus them—we will be learning more about that later in the term. What I want you to understand now, however, is that a wand does not create magic; it only focuses the magic that is already within us. A wizard without a wand will still have more magic than a muggle who's gotten his hands on one."

"You mean we can cast spells without a wand?" someone asked out of turn.

Dapnid's face returned to its sour frown, but he said, "It is possible, yes. Shamanic wizards from America have no need of wands at all, and can create very powerful magic, and the same is true for the monks of Tibet. Most of their spells, however, take hours or days to cast, and usually involve extended rituals and meditation. The use of wands makes it possible to cast spells with only a short incantation. As we shall see later on, however, wands also introduce limitations."

"Of course," Dapnid continued, "We're getting ahead of ourselves here. The first question of magic theory, and the major one we'll consider in detail these first few weeks of the term, is this: What is magic?"

The lecture became significantly less interesting from that point on. Professor Dapnid presented the material well, Harry thought, but the day's lesson was focused less on what magic actually was than on what people meant by the word "magic". It didn't help that Dapnid kept using words Harry had never heard before. He had a feeling he'd need to spend some serious time with a dictionary before he could really understand Dapnid's classes. He only hoped he could squeeze in the time alongside the fifty pages of reading the Professor had assigned for the next week.

Finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of class at five 'til ten. The Gryffindors scooted out of the room as quickly as they could, bound for Charms with the Ravenclaws. Percy's directions once again proved useful in obtaining good seats, though this time the placement was different. Eager to learn actual spells, the Gryffindors decided that the frontmost seats in the class were optimal, which meant that Hermione had company at last.

The Ravenclaws arrived without incident, and the class began. Professor Flitwick, a tiny man with wild white hair and long sideburns, resembled a cross between a dwarf and a feather duster. He was very animated, bobbing his head endlessly and peering around the class to identify students as he called the roll. When he came to Harry's name, Flitwick got so excited that he toppled off the tall stack of books that served as his podium, and had to levitate himself back up to the top.

As expected, Charms was much more interesting than Theory—though it did not get there immediately. Professor Flitwick spent the first hour of the class teaching the students how to hold their wands properly. "A proper grip for Charms," he explained patiently, "requires that you extend your thumb and index finger along the wand, whilst your other fingers are wrapped around it. You can secure the wand quite well by pressing it against your fingers with your thumb. This leaves your index finger free to provide extra control for some of the more delicate motions Charms require." Harry caught on quickly, though not as fast as Hermione, who earned five points for Gryffindor by grasping her wand properly on the very first try.

Flitwick then had them work on producing a small shower of sparks from the ends of their wands. "This is most useful for lighting a candle on a long night of studying," Flitwick explained. "Just twitch your wand ever so slightly, concentrate on producing the sparks, and say, Incendio." He held his wand over a candle to demonstrate, a burst of white sparks flaring out of it as he performed the spell. "Now, you try," Flitwick instructed.

Harry pointed his wand at the candle that had been placed on his desk, trying to fill his mind with an image of cascading sparks. He said the word, but nothing happened. Frowning, he glanced around and was relieved to see that nobody else had succeeded yet either. Harry closed his eyes and went over what Flitwick had said again, only then remembering that he should have twitched his wand. Harry started over, imagining the sparks and saying the word as he lightly tapped his wand with his index finger. To his surprise and relief, a few emerald-green sparks wobbled out of his wand, one of them setting his candle alight.

Harry felt a huge smile break out on his face. He was about to call Professor Flitwick over when he heard the little man say, "Excellent, oh excellent! Miss Granger's got it! Another five points for Gryffindor!" And indeed she had; her wick had also caught fire and was burning merrily.

Harry's smile faded and he glanced down at his candle, which was still sputtering slightly as the fire fought its way to life. He leaned forward, blew the flame out, and pointed his wand at the wick again. He thought of the sparks, flicked the wand, and said, "Incendio". This time, the emerald green lights were more plentiful, and practically shot towards the wick. A healthy flame immediately formed. Harry grinned, leaned forward and extinguished it, ready to try again.

At that moment, a great spout of purple flames burst out of Draco's wand, instantly melting his candle. Draco cursed and jumped out of his desk, which had started to smolder. Flitwick arrived before a real blaze could start, however, dousing the smoking wood with a splash of water from his wand. Levitating again and pointing to Draco's steaming desk, the instructor said, "We see now the importance of enunciation. Our words, thoughts, and motions in concert tell our magic what to do. If we say, as mister Malfoy did, 'Incendjo' then the magic gets confused, and does whatever it wants. Am I correct, Mister Malfoy, in assuming that your wand contains a dragon heartstring?"

Draco nodded, taking his seat again. "Yes, Professor Flitwick," he said.

"Wands with dragon heartstring tend to be the messiest," Flitwick continued. "When their magic gets confused, it typically wants to be a fire... preferably a large one. Phoenix tail-feathers are a bit more manageable, though they tend to flame up a bit too. Unicorn tail-hair, on the other hand, can produce some quite pleasant accidental effects, though they do take quite a while to wear off, and you're not much good to anyone while you're still feeling them..."

The rest of the class passed without incident, and by the time the lunch bell rang all of the students had managed at least a few weak sparks. Harry and a few other students had gotten quite good at the spell and started on the homework, which was to figure out how to make the sparks a different color. Harry got the hang of this almost instantly, popping off a shower of bright blue flames, but decided not to call Professor Flitwick over. He didn't want to show off his more advanced skill when poor Draco had only just then managed to conjure up a thin, feeble shower of red flashes. Besides, the thought of having everyone stare at him simultaneously gave Harry an unpleasant fluttery sensation in his stomach.

This feeling was quickly forgotten at lunch, however. The long tables were covered with materials for making sandwiches, and seeing the available fixings made Harry realize how hungry the spellcasting class had made him. He set down his books and immediately constructed a thick sandwich, with layers of ham and muenster between two slices of hearty rye bread. His construction job complete, he bolted it down in moments, chasing it with a long drink of pumpkin juice.

"You wouldn't be so hungry if you'd eaten a proper breakfast," Ron scolded as Harry worked to build his next sandwich.

Harry shook his head. "I'm always hungry at lunch," he said, spreading brown mustard on a slice of rye. "Doesn't matter what I eat in the morning."

"Besides," Draco interjected, dropping his own bag at the table, "Seeing that git MacNair lose a point on his first day is enough to stoke anyone's appetite." He paused to wring out his hat, which Professor Flitwick had also doused by accident.

"Sorry about Charms," Ron said as Draco finally took his seat. "Bloody awful luck, that."

"Won't get any easier, either," Seamus interjected, pulling out his schedule. "We've got Transfiguration this afternoon, with the Hufflepuffs."

"Ah, it's just my wand," Draco said, slapping some salami between two slices of wheat bread. "Oak's all stiff; it kept waggling around instead of twitching. I wanted a willow one, but you know how Ollivander is..." He switched into a whispery voice and continued, "'The wand chooses the wizard, young man.'"

Harry shuddered, remembering how Mr. Ollivander had said that exact thing after telling him the disconcerting truth about his wand's brother.

"'Least you got your own," Ron muttered. "I've gotta make do with Charlie's old one."

"It worked, though, didn't it?" Harry asked. "That's something."

"Yeah, I guess so," Ron replied, biting into an apple, "but the sparks were pink."

Further conversation was interrupted by a loud flapping of wings coming from overhead. An open window near the ceiling had just admitted a flock of owls that swooped down over the long tables, dropping small packages and envelopes along the length of their lengths. A note landed in front of Ron, who idly opened it as he chewed.

Over at the Hufflepuff table, a medium-size box landed on Neville's head. "Gran sent my socks," the boy explained to his tablemates as he picked himself up off the floor. "I forgot to pack 'em."

"Terrible luck that he'll be with us in Transfiguration," Draco said, shaking his head. "Hope he doesn't turn anyone into a doorknob."

Harry frowned, thinking it a bit rich of Draco to be publicly worrying about another student's competence when he'd nearly incinerated himself half an hour earlier. Changing the subject, he asked, "What's in your letter, Ron?"

"Just a note from Mum and Dad," Ron replied, folding the letter and tucking it into his bag, "congratulating me on getting into Gryffindor. It's their old house, you know." He smirked, and added, "And Mum wrote to tell me not to get directions from the twins."

"More obvious advice was never given," Draco said.

"How'd they know where you got Sorted?" Harry asked.

"Start-of-term owl," Ron replied. "Percy says they send one out for all the first years—just to ease the parent's minds."

Harry nodded silently, wondering whether Mother and Father had gotten the owl yet, and whether they were pleased about his Sorting. He pushed it out of his mind—he'd need to be focused in his afternoon class. McGonagall was the head of Gryffindor House, and Percy had mentioned that she had high expectations of her students.

Transfiguration proved to be a much more frustrating subject than anything they'd had in the morning. Professor McGonagall made it clear within only a few moments that she was just as stern as her visage promised. "Transfiguration is some of the most difficult and dangerous magic you can perform at Hogwarts," she said, staring down her nose at Neville. He was fumbling through his robes in an increasingly desperate attempt to find his wand. With a disapproving sniff, McGonagall continued, "There will be no fooling around in my class. Any misbehavior, and you are out!" The scowl on her face left no doubt that she meant this sincerely.

She followed these pronouncements with an extended lecture on the basics of transfiguration, which Harry was hard-pressed to follow. He barely had time to dip his quill into his inkwell between explanations that were, or at least seemed to be, very important. Finally, after an hour of talk, McGonagall handed out matches to the class and told them to turn them into needles.

Neville, who had finally managed to find his wand, promptly set his match on fire. McGonagall thenceforth had him work on a toothpick.

Harry had no luck with his own match, which simply sat on his desk and did nothing that remotely resembled turning into a needle, nor even as interesting as catching fire. He had just given the spell a fourth try when McGonagall walked by his desk, making a circuit of the class. Realizing he had no idea what mistake he was making or how to fix it, he took a deep breath and asked, "Professor McGonagall?"

It came out sounding more like a squeak than actual words, but the black-haired witch turned and said, "Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong..." Harry began, but McGonagall immediately cut him off.

"Well, your first problem is that you're holding the wand incorrectly," she said, pulling out her own wand. "That grip is excellent for charms, but transfiguration requires a more forceful application. Hold your wand like you would hold a knife," she explained, demonstrating with her own.

Harry shifted his grip and tried his spell again. Nothing much happened, but he thought he saw one end of the match get a bit narrower. "That's right," McGonagall encouraged, though her face remained locked in its stern expression. "Remember to focus your mind on the changes that will be occurring, not the end product," she advised, then moved on down the aisle.

Ten minutes later, Harry finally managed to produce something that resembled a needle. It was silvery, one end was sharp and pointed, and it even seemed to have a proper eye. Harry decided not to show Professor McGonagall just yet, however. Instead, he pressed the eye of the needle against the sandstone floor and flicked it with his thumb.

To his dismay, the needle flared up and caught fire, quickly burning almost all the way to his fingertips. Shaking his head, he blew it out and raised his hand to request a new match.

Class ended before Harry managed to get the complete transformation down, though he did succeed in turning the whole match into metal. Again, Hermione performed impressively, proudly showing off how her match had gone all silvery and pointy, and wouldn't catch fire even when she shot sparks out of her wand at it. McGonagall seemed to actually smile at this, and gave Hermione five points for Gryffindor.

The Gryffindor first-years had free time from the end of Transfiguration until dinner, and they decided to go down into one of the courtyards to start on the homework Dapnid had given them. Harry quickly became uncomfortable, however, because nobody in the courtyard seemed to be looking at anything but him. Several of the older students were outright staring at him as he started his Magic Theory reading, and he noticed that many others seemed to be repeatedly passing the spot where he was sitting. The occasional scraps of conversation Harry heard almost all consisted of one person pointing him out to another.

The whispering and staring made it nearly impossible for Harry to concentrate on his book. He read the words, but every time they seemed about to stick in his mind he'd see a returning pair of feet, or hear someone whisper, "He's sitting next to the tall redhead." When he realized that he had just re-read the same paragraph for the fifth time, Harry decided he had to leave. He abruptly slammed his book closed and shoved it into his bag, which he slung over his shoulder as he started for Gryffindor tower at a pace just shy of a run.

Trying to ignore the strange looks everyone in the halls gave him, Harry scrambled upwards through the Tower Gallery and somehow managed to find the right hall. Now running as if something more than the inquisitive stares of his schoolmates was chasing him, he sprinted down the hallway, squeaked out the password, and hopped through the portrait hole.

Everyone in the Gryffindor common room stared at him. Harry felt it was more than he could bear; the moment he noticed their gawking, he took off up the stairs as fast as he could take them. Four floors later and out of breath, he stumbled into his dorm room, hopped onto his bed, and pulled the curtains closed. Harry's heart was racing, both from the exertion and his anxiety, and he felt vaguely nauseous. The space enclosed within his bed curtains seemed to be spinning and pressing in on him at the same time. He covered his eyes, then curled up into a fetal position as he tried to control his breathing.

After a while, he'd calmed down sufficiently that he thought he could read again. He kicked off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed, his Magic Theory book open in his lap. He'd gotten through ten pages of the dense material when he heard the door open and shut, followed by a loud sound of footsteps.

"Harry," Ron asked, "Mind if we open the curtain?"

Harry closed his eyes for a second, then said, "Okay."

He heard the rustling of the curtains being drawn, then opened his eyes to see the concerned faces of his four roommates.

"We were... worried about you, the way you ran off," Ron explained. "Took us forever to find you. What's wrong?"

Harry looked down at the book again. He doubted any of them would understand; he barely understood why he'd run himself. He blushed, feeling like an idiot, and replied, "It's stupid."

"You didn't seem to feel that way half an hour ago," Draco objected.

"Yeah, you looked really upset," Seamus added.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to think up some way to deflect their curiosity. All that came into his head, however, was the memory of a conversation he had with Sirius that summer.

"Well, Harry," Sirius had said, "a friend is someone you like, and spend a lot of time with. Friends play together, and talk to each other about what's bothering them. You'll grow to really care about your friends, and they'll care about you—like me and your dad. Don't look so worried—it sounds complicated, but I think making and keeping friends will come naturally to you. You'll have loads of them."

Harry swallowed and quietly said, "Everyone was staring at me."

"So?" Ron asked. "I'd kill to be the center of attention in my house."

"It's different," Harry protested, his voice shrinking as he started to wonder whether telling the truth had been a bad idea.

"Yeah, Ron," Draco interjected. "If your mom pays attention to you, it's a good thing. But think about the way everyone was staring when I lit off that desk in Charms. I felt terrible—I couldn't concentrate on anything after that 'cause I kept thinking of the way they all looked at me."

Harry found his voice again and added, "Everyone acts like I'm not really there, like I don't feel anything... it's like... it's like I'm some statue of Harry Potter, that they can stare at and whisper about and they don't even care that I know they're doing it!" He found to his surprise that his hands had formed into fists, his knuckles white as he clutched at the blankets. He forced his fingers to relax, then pointed to his scar. "All they care about is this."

Ron shook his head. "They're all just being stupid," he said. "Give them some time, and they'll get over it. In the meantime, just keep your mind off it."

"I can," Harry said, "most of the time. Just when I was reading I kept noticing it."

Harry saw a calculating look in Draco's eyes, but Seamus interjected, "Let's go down to the Great Hall. I bet you'll feel better after some dinner—I always do."

Seamus turned out to be right. With some food in his stomach, Harry felt much better, and he barely noticed the staring at all during dinner. Then again, he hardly had any opportunity to look around; Draco was constantly involving him in conversation about that day's classes, what Professor Quirrell was like, and any other subject that seemed to float into his head. After dinner, the other four boys escorted Harry back up to the dorm room, where they started moving clothes and books from their trunks to their wardrobes and desks. By the time Harry finished his unpacking and slid into bed, the incident that afternoon had been almost completely forgotten.

With Monday as a guide, Harry had high expectations for his Tuesday classes, but he ended up being sorely disappointed. The first class of the day, Basic Learning, seemed terribly mundane—they worked on penmanship and arithmetic, without a wand in sight. Things got worse in the second period, when the Gryffindors had History of Magic. The teacher, Professor Binns, was a ghost, and had a teaching style no more lively than himself. Harry had to nudge Ron to wake him up when it came time for lunch.

Lunchtime ended up being the most exciting part of the day. The mail brought letters from home for Seamus and Dean, and a small red envelope for Draco. The blonde boy stared at it in horror for a moment, and Harry suddenly realized what it was. Sirius had told him all about Howlers.

"It'll only be worse if you don't open it," Seamus finally said.

Draco nodded, leaned forward, and unsealed the envelope. Then, holding it at arm's length, he opened the small red card inside. Instantly a voice boomed out of it, magnified at least a thousand times above its normal volume. It was so loud that Harry could hardly make out the words—they only became intelligible when he clapped his hands over his ears. The voice was shouting: "...GRYFFINDOR, IT'S A DISGRACE TO YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY! HAVE YOU NO PRIDE AT ALL? YOUR PARENTS WOULD BE APPALLED!" Its message apparently delivered, the letter burst into flame and disintegrated into a pile of ash.

"Bloody well hope they are," Draco said, removing his hands from his ears. Over the blonde's shoulder, Harry could see MacNair and his friends at the Slytherin table laughing heartily, as if the Howler had been a great joke.

"Who was that?" Ron asked.

"My guardian," Draco replied. "He was heart set on my getting Sorted into Slytherin like my parents."

"He did seem a bit upset," Harry noted.

"Can't say as I give a damn," Draco said.

The rest of the day was a loss. Herbology with Professor Sprout was not unbearable, but it wasn't particularly interesting either. Then again, Harry had not expected to enjoy it, not having much of a green thumb himself.

By contrast, he had hoped that Defense Against the Dark Arts would be one of his most interesting classes, but it turned out to be a joke. Quirrell could hardly mention the various monsters they were discussing without shuddering with fear. He couldn't even say the word "vampire", and for other words his stuttering was so bad that he could barely squeeze out a sentence every five minutes. The best part of the day was the end, when the first-year boys went back to their dorm room to play an extended game of Exploding Snap.

On Wednesday it was Theory, Charms, and Transfiguration again, with another session of Basic Learning in place of the free afternoon period. Harry was disappointed to lose the afternoon, but it proved fortuitous. At midnight on Wednesday, the first year students all had Astronomy, and having the second session of Basic Learning on Wednesday afternoon meant a free period on Thursday morning so they could sleep in.

Harry found himself looking forward to Friday, when the Gryffindors would have the whole afternoon off. He realized over breakfast that morning, however, that before he had the afternoon freedom, he'd have to get through a double class of Potions in the morning. And Potions meant Snape. Even worse, it meant Slytherins.

Snape's classroom was on the fifth level down from the ground, lit by a number of candles that flickered feebly in sconces on the stone walls, as if they didn't want to be there. The Slytherins were already in their places when the Gryffindors arrived, and Harry had no sooner sat down and gotten his notebook out than the door banged open to admit Snape. He strode to the front of the room and started speaking. Harry, intent on not drawing the Professor's ire, diligently took notes for the first few moments, until he noticed that Snape had broken off in the middle of a sentence and the classroom had gotten very quiet.

Harry looked up, straight into Professor Snape's almost-black irises.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said, "Our new celebrity." Harry felt his stomach twist into what felt like a triple knot. "Tell me, what would I get if I mixed powdered root of asphodel into an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry knew the answer to this question; he'd read about it just days before on the train into London. In the face of Snape's angry gaze, however, he simply could not call the facts to mind. He glanced at Ron, who shrugged, then turned back to Snape. "I don't know, sir," he admitted.

Hermione raised her hand, but Snape ignored her. "Let's try another," he said, his lips curling into a sneer. "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione extended her hand even further, but Harry drew a true blank on this one. Though he'd read all of 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi, he couldn't recall seeing this anywhere. He shook his head and replied, "I don't know, sir."

"Then what is the difference between monkshood and wolfbane?"

Harry just shook his head. The names rang a bell, but between the searing black gaze and the contortions of his stomach he could barely breathe, let alone answer.

"You don't know?" Snape asked. "Well, I suppose fame isn't everything. One point will be taken from Gryffindor for your woeful lack of preparation." Harry heard a snigger, and knew it was coming from MacNair. Snape seemed to know, too: he stared angrily at the well-manicured boy's desk for a moment, then turned and said, "Sit down, you silly girl!" to Hermione, who had been practically standing up to draw his attention.

Snape returned his gaze to Harry. "Let's see what had your attention so captivated while I was speaking," he said, snatching up the notebook. Reading from the page he said, "Potions—no wands or incantations, most not expected to succeed, those who can will brew fame, bottle glory, put a stopper in death..." He tossed the book back down on Harry's desk. "Almost my exact words," he sneered, "an adequate effort. Well, you'll want to write this down, Potter. That mixture of asphodel and wormwood produces a sleeping potion so potent it is known as the Draught of Living Death; a bezoar is a stone found in the stomach of a goat and is good for fighting most poisons; and monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which is also called aconite." He paused while Harry scrambled to scribble the information into his notebook. Then Snape glanced around at the rest of the students, none of whom were moving, and snarled, "Well, why aren't you all writing this down?"

The class did not get any better as the morning progressed. Snape had the students start mixing up a basic potion to cure boils, then swooped around the class criticizing everything that they did. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time hovering over the desk Harry and Ron shared, muttering under his breath and making Harry more nervous by the minute. The fact that Harry was careful to do everything exactly right seemed to make Snape more angry yet. Ron, whose reaction to the constant hovering was even worse than Harry's, was content to let his deskmate do most of the work.

Harry felt very relieved as the class neared its end. He and Ron had finished their potion and were putting away their leftover ingredients when Snape stopped by their desk. "Your potion is satisfactory," the greasy-haired man spat, then grinned wickedly. "Yet you still lose one more point for Gryffindor," he added, sneering.

Harry could not hold back his exclamation of dismay. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"You did more than your share of the work... showing off, no doubt," Snape snarled. "Next time give others an opportunity to learn."

This was so unfair that Harry almost protested again, but Ron kicked him behind the table and shook his head ruefully. By the time Harry turned around, Snape's attention was already on Draco.

"Let me see your notebook, boy!" he shouted, snatching it before Draco could say anything either way. As he had done for Harry's, Snape held up the notebook and read, "Potions—not everyone has the knack... require extensive preparation and meticulous execution, but promise great rewards for those with the dedication." Snape put the book back down on Draco's desk. "Excellent, Mr. Malfoy," he said, "you have the proper eye for detail, and a knack for determining what was meant rather than just what was said. Your potion is also flawless. You win your house two points." He walked back up towards the front of the room, turning as the bell rang to add, "How fortunate for Gryffindor that your skills have compensated for Mr. Potter's... inadequacies."

Harry bolted from the room before Snape could say anything else or take away more points, Ron just behind him. He felt slightly sick, terribly embarrassed, and so eager to get out of the dungeons that he took the first staircase he saw in the Tower Gallery. This proved to be a mistake, because a few minutes later he and Ron found themselves on a landing that had three staircases leading from it... all of them going down.

"Let's get out of here," Ron suggested, turning to the door that opened onto the landing. He gave it a tug, but it appeared to be locked. Eager to get out of the dungeons, and unwilling to go back down towards Snape, Harry stepped over to try and help him. Unfortunately, they had no more luck pulling on the door together than they did pulling separately.

Ron and Harry began yanking on the handle with all their might, but froze when a creaky voice said, "Well what have we here? Students trying to get into a forbidden room?" They turned to see Argus Filch, the groundskeeper, standing behind them, an evil grin on his withered face.

"We didn't know..." Ron started to protest, but Filch only snarled at him.

"A likely story!" he wheezed. "No doubt you thought you'd find a pretty treasure to take. Well, we'll see what you get now..."

"W-what's g-g-going on h-here?" someone asked, and Harry saw Professor Quirrell coming up one of the staircases, looking very surprised. Before Filch could say anything, Ron stepped forward to plead their case. Quirrell believed him, and convinced Filch to let them go.

Harry was so relieved not to lose any more points for Gryffindor, and so glad to finally get away from Snape and Filch that he didn't even bother to wonder what timid Professor Quirrell might be doing in the dungeons. And after a filling lunch and a few afternoon games of Exploding Snap, he hardly remembered the incident at all.