Harry was different from the others. While everyone else focused on standing properly and following the class instructions, his attention was fixed on Professor Quirrell's head.
Why would he hide something under that hood? Did he have a wound on the back of his neck? Or was he cursed? Harry wasn't trying to protect the professor; he was simply driven by a restless curiosity he couldn't ignore.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, the students were discussing the mysterious professor animatedly.
"I bet he's wearing garlic under that hood too," said Fred.
"Yeah, that way he's protected from vampires wherever he goes," added George.
"Then why don't you just ask him?" Ron intervened, holding a bottle of Coca-Cola. "Or just pull off the hood. You both love playing pranks."
The twins exchanged a knowing glance:
"Ah, Ron… we don't want to get expelled."
"Or worse…" added George.
"Get an angry letter from Mum!" finished Fred.
They high-fived, pleased with their own cleverness, while Ron muttered quietly:
"I really don't know which is worse."
Harry's little biting cabbage had also caught the twins' attention, and they frequently visited his dormitory, fascinated by the feisty vegetable. Fred even tried it—luckily reacting quickly enough to avoid being bitten.
After a few days of classes at Hogwarts, Harry noticed something surprising: the magical abilities of many classmates were remarkably weak, some even peculiar, each developing their own unique style that bordered on incompetence.
It was understandable for young Muggle-borns, who had only discovered their magic upon receiving their Hogwarts letter and had never been taught how to use a wand. But pure-blood families didn't seem to produce much better students either.
Especially Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoy's lackeys, who seemed incapable of performing even simple spells. Even Ron, with his clumsy wand, had managed to light it after just two attempts.
"How did the wizarding world get to this point?" Harry thought with a pang of distress. How could it possibly thrive with so many incompetent wizards? A somewhat immature idea began to form: maybe it was time to reactivate the Duel Wand. After all, he hadn't heard of any such organization since arriving at Hogwarts.
On Friday morning, Harry woke early and had breakfast with his classmates. Strangely, Hedwig wasn't waiting for him. Normally, the owl would perch by his side, nibbling his ear for a piece of toast or landing on his shoulder for a nap. Harry suspected she must be addicted to his company, as she only returned to the owl house when he had classes.
Hedwig didn't keep him waiting long, returning quickly with a note from Hagrid, written in messy, almost illegible handwriting:
"Dear Harry,
I know you don't have class Friday afternoon. Could you come have tea with me around 3 p.m.? I'd love to hear about your first week. Have Hedwig write back to me."
Harry borrowed a quill from Ron and quickly replied:
"Sure, I'd love to. See you soon."
Hedwig flew off, and Harry prepared for Potions class, which was held jointly with Slytherin. The two houses sat separately, but the tension was palpable.
Draco Malfoy seemed to have forgotten the levitation lesson Harry had taught him. He continued to provoke Ron and Hermione without success, as both ignored him. With nothing to gain, Draco turned his attention to Neville, trying to get a reaction.
The classroom door suddenly swung open, and Professor Snape entered, his black robes billowing.
"You have come here to learn the precise science and rigorous art of potion-making," he said, leaning on the podium. His voice was louder than a whisper, yet every word carried clearly across the room.
Like Professor McGonagall, Snape possessed an intimidating authority that maintained order effortlessly.
"Many of you will not appreciate the magic you are performing. Do not expect to admire only the bubbling cauldron or the aroma of its smoke. I speak of the power that flows through the veins of people, stirring the heart and dazzling the mind. I can teach you to forge reputation, achieve glory, even stave off death—but on one condition: you must not be fools."
The class fell silent, stunned. Hermione leaned forward, determined to prove she was no fool. Snape observed, satisfied.
"Mr. Potter," he said, fixing his gaze on Harry, "our new generation of celebrities."
Harry looked up, surprised to hear his name.
"Tell me, Mr. Potter," Snape continued, "what would I obtain if I added powdered daffodil root to an absinthe infusion?"
Harry hesitated. He remembered Miss Garrick, his Victorian-era herbalism teacher, who had taught him the symbolic meanings of flowers: the daffodil represented regret to the grave, while absinthe symbolized absence and profound sorrow.
Harry realized the implicit message: Snape carried sadness and regret over the death of Harry's parents.
"He's really strange," Harry thought. "If he's friends with my parents, why not say it directly?"
But Harry knew that if Snape were straightforward, he wouldn't be a true Slytherin.
Harry's green eyes met Snape's dark, expressionless ones, and he responded calmly:
"It's alright, Professor."
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