Chapter 6: The Potions Prince and the Price of Fame
For Harry Potter, the boy hailed as a savior, the first few days at Hogwarts were a whirlwind. After eleven years of neglect and misery at the Dursleys', he was now the center of a attention so intense it was dizzying. He still remembered the stunned silence, followed by the eruption of whispers and handshakes, when he'd been recognized in the Leaky Cauldron. He didn't feel famous; he felt like an exhibit. But it was still infinitely better than Privet Drive.
He was content. He was full—so full, in fact, that the start-of-term feast had been a blissful, overwhelming marathon of food. He had made his first real friend on the train. The thought of no longer facing Dudley's punches, Uncle Vernon's bluster, or Aunt Marge's vicious dog was like a dream from which he was terrified of waking.
But dreams have a way of shifting into peculiar realities. By the next morning, the novelty of his fame began to wear thin, replaced by a constant, low-grade irritation. From the moment he left the Gryffindor tower, a trail of whispers followed him like a persistent ghost. In the corridors, students would stop and stare, their eyes inevitably darting to his forehead. Crowds gathered outside classrooms just to catch a glimpse of him as he entered or exited. Even a trip to the bathroom became a public event, with a small audience lingering outside the door.
He missed the Dursleys' cupboard under the stairs for its privacy, if nothing else. Thankfully, Ron was always there, a loyal, grumbling red-headed buffer between Harry and the world.
To escape the relentless attention, Harry made a reckless decision: he would start cutting it close, arriving at his classes at the very last second to minimize his time as a spectacle. Ron, though complaining about the rushed pace, went along with it.
The problem was, neither boy knew the castle. Their attempt to "cut it close" for Thursday's Transfiguration class resulted in them being undeniably, embarrassingly late. Professor McGonagall, a witch whose stern demeanor Harry had recognized immediately, fixed them with a beady-eyed stare. Perhaps out of deference to his "savior" status, she merely gave them a sharp warning instead of deducting points. The real punishment came from Hermione Granger, who spent the entire lesson shooting them disapproving looks and, after class, launched into a lecture about responsibility that made Uncle Vernon's rants seem concise. From that moment, Harry and Ron made a silent pact to avoid the know-it-all witch whenever possible.
Friday morning found them in the Great Hall, finally having managed to find their way to breakfast without a wrong turn.
"What've we got today?" Harry asked Ron through a mouthful of apple pie.
"Double Potions with the Slytherins," Ron mumbled, his own voice muffled by a large piece of sausage. "Snape's their Head of House. They say he always favors them—we'll see."
At that moment, a familiar voice interrupted. "Oh, yes, Solim said Professor Snape is notoriously biased. He told us that he seizes every opportunity to take points from Gryffindor."
Harry and Ron exchanged a weary glance. Hermione Granger had descended upon them, with a nervous-looking Neville in tow.
"Wait, you mean he's going to deliberately pick on us?" Ron asked, his interest momentarily overriding his annoyance.
"According to Solim, yes," Hermione said primly. "That's why he went over the 'do's and don'ts' of Potions with Neville and me last night. He even talked Neville through brewing a Boil-Cure potion without a single explosion."
"Hold on," Ron said, frowning. "Who is this Solim? And he was helping you with potions?"
"Weren't you paying attention at the Sorting? He's Neville's cousin."
Harry and Ron turned to stare at Neville, who shrunk under their gaze.
"He... he is," Neville confirmed quietly.
"Neville, how d'you have a Slytherin cousin?" Ron asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and suspicion. "Everyone knows that lot are all dark wizards in the—"
He was cut off by the sudden flurry of a hundred owls swooping into the Great Hall for the morning post. Hedwig, Harry's beautiful snow-white owl, landed gracefully between the jam and sugar bowl, dropping a note onto his plate.
"Who's it from?" Ron asked, craning his neck.
Harry unfolded the parchment. "It's Hagrid! He wants me to come down for tea this afternoon." He borrowed a quill from a startled Ron and scribbled a quick reply on the back before sending Hedwig off again.
Any thoughts of Hagrid's invitation were swept away an hour later as they descended into the dungeons for Potions. The classroom was colder than the rest of the castle, lined with glass jars holding pickled specimens that made Harry's stomach lurch. The air was thick with the smell of strange chemicals and decay.
Snape, like Professor Flitwick, began the class by taking the roll call. And like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.
"Ah, yes," he said softly, his black eyes lifting from the parchment. "Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity."
Draco Malfoy and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, sniggered behind their hands. When Snape finished the roll call, he swept his gaze over the class. His eyes were black and cold, like tunnels leading to nothing.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began in a voice barely above a whisper, yet it captured the room completely. "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."
A silence had fallen over the room. Harry and Ron exchanged wide-eyed looks. Hermione, however, was sitting on the edge of her seat, looking as if she wanted to prove she was the furthest thing from a dunderhead.
"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry's mind went blank. Asphodel? Wormwood? He glanced at Ron, who looked just as clueless. Hermione's hand shot into the air.
"I don't know, sir," Harry said.
Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything."
He ignored Hermione's straining arm.
"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione's hand quivered, reaching for the dungeon ceiling. Harry had no idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, who was shaking with silent laughter. "I don't know, sir."
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"
Harry forced himself to keep staring back into those cold eyes. He had skimmed his books, but how was he supposed to memorize everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?
Snape continued to disregard Hermione. "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand straining so hard it seemed to pull her off the ground.
"I don't know," Harry said quietly. "But I think Hermione does. Why not try her?"
A few people laughed. Harry caught Seamus Finnigan's eye, and Seamus winked. Snape, however, was not amused.
"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?"
A sudden rummage for quills and parchment filled the dungeon. Over the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."
He saw Malfoy collapse in a fit of exaggerated mirth. The other Slytherins were watching him with keen interest, whispering and smirking.
It was then Harry noticed one Slytherin who wasn't joining in. A boy with a calm, focused expression was quietly putting away his notes, having already finished writing. He hadn't laughed once. It was the same boy from the Sorting, the one who had caused all the fuss about the hat. Solim.
Now there's a strange one, Harry thought. Under Ron's influence and after Malfoy's behavior, his impression of Slytherin was thoroughly negative. But this boy didn't seem to fit the mold.
The lesson went from bad to worse for Gryffindor. As they attempted to brew a simple Cure for Boils, chaos erupted on their side of the dungeon. Seamus Finnigan managed to melt his cauldron into a twisted lump, Ron's potion congealed into a foul-smelling purple glop, and Lavender Brown's concoction emitted a stench of rotten eggs. The only Gryffindors whose potions resembled the clear, turquoise liquid described in the book were Hermione and Neville.
On the Slytherin side, however, the students worked with quiet efficiency. There were no explosions, no foul odors. Snape swept through their ranks, occasionally offering a curt nod of approval, while deducting points from Gryffindor with palpable relish. By the end of the class, Harry himself was responsible for the loss of seven points.
"Neville, how did you do that?" Ron moaned, looking at his own ruined cauldron.
"Can't you read?" Hermione said impatiently, not looking up from her perfectly simmering potion. "The instructions are clearly on the board. I'd like to know how you managed that."
Harry watched as the Slytherin boy, Solim, bottled his sample and presented it to Snape, who took it without a word. Hermione and Neville, the best of the Gryffindors, were still two steps behind.
After the class was dismissed, Harry lingered, pulling Ron behind a stone pillar in the corridor. He saw Hermione and Neville waiting by the door. Finally, the Slytherins filed out, and Solim approached them.
"Thanks, Solim," Neville said, his voice full of relief. "I'd have been a goner without your help last night."
"You should be thanking me, Neville," Hermione interjected, sounding exasperated. "He was about to add the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire! I had to stop him, or it would have been a repeat of last night's practice."
"Alright, alright," Solim said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "No classes this afternoon. What are your plans?"
"Solim, will you be free tonight?" Hermione asked. "I've almost finished that book you lent me."
"After dinner. The usual place. Feel free to pick out another one."
As their voices faded down the corridor, Ron turned to Harry, his face flushed with indignation. "Traitors! Consorting with the enemy! What do you think, Harry?"
Harry didn't think they were traitors, but he was deeply curious. Neville was one thing—they were cousins. But Hermione? And from the sound of it, they'd been practicing potions together. That's why they were the only ones in Gryffindor who hadn't failed miserably.
"Never mind them," Harry said, his thoughts turning to the upcoming visit. "Let's just go see Hagrid. We can figure all this out later."