Potions Class

Harry was different from the others. While everyone else was focused on learning the Leg-Locker Curse, his attention was fixed on the back of Professor Quirrell's head.

What could possibly require stuffing so much garlic in there to cover it up? Could Professor Quirrell have some festering sore on the back of his head? Or had someone cursed him?

It was not that Harry wanted to help Professor Quirrell solve his problem. He was simply curious.

When they returned to the Gryffindor Common Room, everyone began eagerly discussing Professor Quirrell.

"I'll bet his turban is stuffed full of garlic too," Fred and George said back and forth. "That way, he's protected from vampires wherever he goes."

"Then why don't you ask him?" Ron said, holding a Coca-Cola in one hand. "Or just take off his turban. Don't you two love pranks?"

The twins exchanged a look and said in unison, "Oh, Ronnie little darling, we don't want to be expelled."

"Or worse," George said.

"Get a Howler from Mother," Fred said.

The two looked at each other and high-fived.

"They really don't know which one is worse," Ron muttered.

Harry's Snapping Cabbage had also been discovered by the twins. Those two copycats would drop by his Dormitory whenever they had nothing to do, and they seemed intensely interested in the biting vegetable.

Fred had even reached out to give it a try. Fortunately, his reflexes were quick enough that the cabbage did not bite his hand.

After attending classes at Hogwarts for several days, Harry had discovered a shocking fact: his classmates were all terrible at magic, each worse than the last. Some had even reached new heights of terrible, terrible in their own distinctive ways.

The young wizards from Muggle Families were understandable. After all, when they received their Hogwarts acceptance letters, no one had told them they were wizards, much less taught them magic.

But the young wizards raised by those so-called pure-blood families were not much ahead of anyone else.

Especially Malfoy's two lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle. Harry had heard that neither of them could even learn Lumos.

Even Ron, using a wand that did not suit him, had successfully lit it after only two attempts.

Damn it, how had wizards degenerated into this state?

Harry was deeply pained.

How were they supposed to improve the Magical World with these useless people around?

An immature idea began to take shape in his mind. What if... he restarted the Dueling Club?

He had been at Hogwarts for so many days, yet he had not heard of any similar organization.

On Friday morning, Harry woke up early and ate with his classmates at the Dining Table.

Not seeing Hedwig today made him feel strange. Normally, Hedwig would have already come to his side by now, sometimes pecking Harry's ear to beg for a small bite of Toast; other times, perching on his shoulder to doze and catch up on sleep. Harry thought she might be addicted to people, otherwise she would not come to the dining hall every morning without fail to stay with him, only returning to the Owlery once he went to class.

He did not have to wait long. Hedwig soon flew back with a note for him.

It was from Hagrid, and the handwriting was messy and scrawled.

My dear Harry: I know you have no classes on Friday afternoon. Could you come have tea with me around three in the afternoon? I would really like to know how your first week has been. Please send me a reply with Hedwig.

Harry borrowed Ron's Quill and hurriedly wrote on the back of the note, "All right, I'd be happy to. See you soon." Then he let Hedwig fly away.

Potions Class was held together with Slytherin. The two houses sat on opposite sides of the classroom, clearly divided by an aisle running down the middle.

Draco seemed to have forgotten how Harry had taught him a lesson with the Levitation Charm. He was still provoking Ron and Hermione, trying to anger one of them.

But Ron ignored him completely, and Hermione did the same. Draco did not dare say the word "Mudblood," so after failing to get a reaction, he turned his attention to Neville instead.

He had only said a few words when the classroom door burst open with a bang. Snape swept in, his black robes billowing around him.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of Potion Making," he said as he stepped behind the lectern, resting his arms on it. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet everyone heard every word clearly.

Like Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape possessed an effortless authority that kept the classroom perfectly orderly.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect you will really understand the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron sending out white smoke and delicate fragrance, nor will you truly understand the wondrous power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewildering the mind and ensnaring the will... I can teach you how to brew fame, bottle glory, even stopper death—but only if you are not the sort of hopeless fool I so often encounter."

When he finished his brief opening speech, the entire class fell silent, seemingly intimidated by his words.

Hermione had almost shifted to the edge of her chair, leaning forward as though eager to prove that she was not a hopeless fool.

Snape swept his gaze around the room, clearly satisfied with the students' reactions.

"Mr. Potter." His eyes turned toward Harry. "Our famous new student."

Harry looked up, unsure why Snape had called his name.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter." Snape drew out his words, as greasy as his hair. "What would I get if I added Asphodel root powder to Wormwood infusion?"

Harry froze.

He had happened to visit the Victorian era and had been quite close to Miss Garrick, the Herbology professor of that time.

The arrival of the Age of Sail had ushered in the flourishing of species, horticulture, and plant culture across Europe. The relatively conservative standards of etiquette in the Victorian era had restricted social interactions, and upper-class circles had begun using flowers to convey secret messages.

As society grew obsessed with precious imported plants, books introducing flowers and interpreting their meanings became popular as well. The various emotions contained within flowers were deciphered, recognized, and widely spread.

Miss Garrick, being a Herbology professor, happened to be especially fond of Victorian flower language and had taught Harry many little things about it.

According to Victorian flower language, the "asphodel" Professor Snape mentioned—Asphodel, not narcissus—was actually a lily resembling a daffodil. Its meaning was, "My regrets follow you to the grave," while wormwood meant "absence" and "bitter sorrow."

Combined with Slytherin's usual character, Harry understood. Snape was grieving and deeply regretting the deaths of Harry's parents.

The professor's personality was truly awkward, Harry thought. If he had been good friends with my parents, why not just say it outright?

But... if he could say it outright, he would not be a Slytherin.

Harry's green eyes looked straight back into Snape's pair of pitch-black, emotionless eyes, his voice gentle.

"It's all right, Professor."