Harry was different from the others. While everyone else was focused on learning how to master the Leg-Locker Curse, his attention was fixed on the back of Professor Quirrell's head.
What could be the reason for stuffing so much garlic in there to mask something? Could it be that Quirrell had some nasty sores on the back of his head? Or perhaps he was cursed?
It wasn’t that Harry wanted to help Quirrell solve his problem—he was just purely curious.
When he returned to the Gryffindor common room, everyone was enthusiastically discussing Professor Quirrell.
"I bet there's garlic stuffed under that turban too," Fred and George chimed in. "That way, no matter where he goes, he's protected against vampires."
"Then why don’t you ask him yourselves?" Ron, holding a bottle of Coca-Cola, suggested. "Or better yet, just yank off that turban. You two love pulling pranks, don’t you?"
The twins exchanged a glance before replying in unison, "Oh, dear Ronniekins, we’d rather not get expelled from school."
"Or worse," Fred added.
"Mom’s Howler," George finished.
The twins high-fived, and Ron muttered under his breath, "They really don’t know which is worse."
Meanwhile, Fred and George discovered Harry’s little biting cabbage. These two copycats often visited his dormitory, showing an unusual interest in the peculiar vegetable.
Fred even tried poking it once but was quick enough to avoid getting bitten.
After a few days of classes at Hogwarts, Harry noticed something shocking: his classmates’ magical abilities were surprisingly poor. Some were so bad they’d even developed their own unique flair for failure.
The Muggle-born students were understandable; after all, nobody told them they were wizards until they received their Hogwarts letter, much less taught them any magic.
But the so-called pureblood families? Their kids weren’t much better.
Take Malfoy’s two goons, Crabbe and Goyle, for example. Rumor had it they couldn’t even manage a basic Lumos spell. Even Ron, with his hand-me-down wand, managed to light it on his second try.
Seriously, how had the wizarding world declined to this extent?
Harry felt a pang of frustration. How could they possibly rebuild the magical world with such a crowd?
A thought began to form in his mind—an immature idea, but an idea nonetheless. Should I restart the dueling club?
In his days at Hogwarts, he hadn’t heard of any such organization.
On Friday morning, Harry woke up early and joined his classmates for breakfast in the Great Hall. Not seeing Hedwig felt strange; usually, by this time, she would be perched beside him, nibbling at his toast or dozing on his shoulder before returning to the Owlery once classes began.
It wasn’t long before she returned, carrying a note. The handwriting was messy and scrawled—it was from Hagrid.
I know you don’t have classes Friday afternoon. Could you come by for tea around three? I’d love to hear how your first week went. Please send your reply with Hedwig.
Harry quickly borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled, "Sure, I’d love to. See you soon," on the back, and sent Hedwig off.
Potions class with the Slytherins was an exercise in tension. The two houses sat divided by an aisle down the middle of the classroom.
Draco seemed to have forgotten the floating charm incident with Harry and was busy taunting Ron and Hermione, attempting to provoke a reaction.
But Ron ignored him, and Hermione wasn’t fazed either. Frustrated, Draco turned his attention to Neville.
Before he could say much, the classroom door slammed open, and Snape swept in, his black robes billowing behind him.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper, yet every word was clear.
Like Professor McGonagall, Snape commanded the classroom effortlessly.
"Since there’s no silly wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you to truly appreciate the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, or 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, and even put a stopper to death—but only if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The room was silent. Hermione leaned so far forward she was almost off her chair, eager to prove she wasn’t a dunderhead.
Snape’s gaze swept the room, clearly satisfied with their reactions.
"Mr. Potter," he said, fixing his dark eyes on Harry. "Our new celebrity."
Harry looked up, unsure why he was being singled out.
"Tell me, Mr. Potter," Snape drawled, his words as greasy as his hair. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
He’d once studied Victorian botany with Miss Garrick, a knowledgeable herbalist, during a peculiar time-travel mishap. From her, he’d learned that in Victorian flower language, asphodel (not narcissus) symbolized "my regrets follow you to the grave," while wormwood represented "absence" and "bitter sorrow."
Combining these with Snape’s Slytherin demeanor, Harry understood: this was about his parents. Snape was expressing remorse and grief in his twisted, indirect way.
What a peculiar man, Harry thought. If he had been friends with my parents, why not just say so?
Then again... he wouldn’t be a Slytherin if he could say it outright.
Meeting Snape’s piercing black eyes with his emerald ones, Harry’s voice was calm as he replied, "It’s okay, Professor."
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