CHAPTER TWO: HARRY POTTER
Harry woke with a lingering, inexplicable sense of confusion, as though he had just had a very important dream that he now could not remember. He blinked, looked around, and blinked again, confused by what he saw. He was surrounded on all four sides by thick, dark green curtains, and the bed he was lying in was softer than what he was used to. He sat up, pushed the curtains aside, and groped for his glasses on the bedside table.
Then the night before came rushing back and he understood where he was: the Slytherin first year boys' dormitory in the dungeons of Hogwarts. A dim, wavering green light came through the windows along one stone wall; they had all of them been too tired to think about closing the curtains last night, but since they were underwater, dawn was thankfully a muted affair. Harry looked around and saw that his new roommates were still sleeping, or at least they hadn't yet felt the urge to get up and face the day since their beds' emerald curtains were all still closed. Harry figured they had to be sleeping; he couldn't imagine anyone not being so excited about their first day at Hogwarts that they wouldn't bolt out of bed the moment they woke.
He wasn't quite sure how he felt about being in Slytherin yet—although he'd felt better about the prospect after his talk with Ron on the train yesterday than he had when he'd first heard about the different Houses; Hagrid, it seemed, had exaggerated a little when he'd claimed that every witch and wizard who'd ever gone bad had come from Slytherin House—but he certainly knew how he felt about being at Hogwarts itself: elated.
Harry climbed out of the plush nest of his bed and rummaged through his trunk as quietly as he could manage. Fortunately he had spent the last month of his summer in such a state of anticipation over his arrival at Hogwarts that he had even found packing—and re-packing—his trunk to be exciting, so his things were arranged more neatly than they might otherwise have been. The long black robes he pulled out weren't even wrinkled and his pointed hat only took a little prodding before it straightened out again. He settled it securely on his head and checked the angle in the mirror of their attached communal bathroom.
By the time Harry finished dressing his new housemates had started to stir. Harry greeted Ron with a cheerful, "Good morning!" and got a smile broken by a yawn in return. He didn't know any of the other boys but they were all eager to introduce themselves to him:
Oliver Rivers, a short boy of Japanese and Irish descent, had shoulder-length black hair and a lilting, musical accent that was nearly hypnotizing when combined with his habit of expansive hand-gestures; Kevin Entwhistle, a gangly white boy whose albinism gave his skin a chalky complexion, had a nose like a beak and a voice that squeaked when he was nervous; Michael Corner, a Romany boy with thick black hair and high cheekbones, had an intense stare and spoke in loud, fast bursts; George Smith, a chubby boy whose Indian heritage was even more distant than Harry's, had tan skin, curly dark blonde hair, and an upturned nose, coupled with a snooty and drawling voice that set Harry's teeth on edge even though everything he said was perfectly polite.
Harry shook hands all around, feeling awkward. He was relieved when Ron suggested heading to breakfast early and he turned to leave in such a hurry that he almost forgot to take his wand. Michael laughed at him when he went back for it; Harry pretended not to hear.
When he got upstairs he slowed down to take a better look around than he had bothered with last night, when he had been almost asleep on his feet. The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. Despite the warm early-autumn weather a low fire smoldered under an elaborately carved mantelpiece. Skulls and snakes seemed to be the primary motif of the décor, which was slightly creepy, but in a very elegant, old-fashioned way. The windows looked out into water—probably the lake that they had come over in the boats yesterday evening, Harry thought—giving the room something of the feeling of an aquarium. It was weird, but also a little soothing, and Harry guessed that the fire was kept lit to ward off any chill or dampness that being underwater might cause. The floor was smooth flagstone but a number of thick rugs were scattered in between the high-backed chairs and low couches. It wasn't the sort of room that Harry would have chosen for himself, being a bit too fancy as well as a bit too subdued for his preferred tastes, but it definitely had style.
He decided he might be able to like it here, especially with Ron at his side. And besides, what was so bad about wanting to do great things? Maybe if he did something magnificent, he would stop feeling like an imposter when people squeaked and fluttered at the idea of meeting him. Not that he was likely to do anything quite as incredible as destroying a Dark Lord again, but he could do something worthwhile, at least. Then he might feel like he deserved all those handshakes and accolades.
Feeling cheered by the thought, Harry led the way out through the sliding stones of the secret entrance and up to the Great Hall.
He was glad it wasn't a long trip; despite retracing their steps from last night he and Ron got lost twice, finding dead ends instead of the staircases they expected, but they made it out of the dungeons after only a few wasted minutes and sat down happily to the large, delicious breakfast waiting on the Slytherin table. Harry was amazed by the amount of bacon that Ron managed to consume, although he was outdone by his older brothers when Fred and George arrived a few minutes later in company with a tall black girl who wore her long hair in a number of thin braids. She introduced herself as Angelina Johnson and spent the entirety of the meal discussing the upcoming Quidditch try-outs with the Weasley twins.
Ron sighed gustily. "It's so unfair that first years aren't allowed their own brooms," he said. Harry grunted his agreement around a large mouthful of potatoes. "I mean, I guess it's not likely that anybody would make it onto their house team their first year anyway," Ron continued, "but to not even let us try—that's just not right." He shook his head.
"You'd try-out if you could? This year?" The speaker was another first year, but Harry couldn't remember her name from the night before; so many of the names Professor McGonagall had called had blurred together in his memory. She was a dark-skinned black girl, short and solidly built, with round cheeks and a wide nose. Her hair she wore loose in an explosion of kinked curls that wobbled above her head like a dandelion's tuft. She was peering at Ron curiously, her head tilted sideways as though he might make more sense from another angle.
"'Course I would," Ron answered her stoutly. "Wouldn't you?"
The girl shrugged. "I don't think so," she said. "What if you botched it? You've no idea what the captains are looking for yet, you've never seen any of the teams play, you've had no time to prepare. To tell you the truth I'd rather have a chance to scout ahead, see what's what, and then be able to put forth my best effort, like."
"Well it's not like you can't try-out again the next year if you blow it," Ron blustered.
"Sure," the girl agreed amiably, "but if you've made a horrible impression you'll have to be extremely good to negate that in the captain's memory, don't you think?" She smiled almost apologetically and added, in a rueful voice, "Sorry, my aunt's a Quidditch player, so she talks about this sort of stuff a lot."
"Your aunt plays Quidditch? What, professionally?" Ron leaned forward and Harry craned his neck to peek around his friend, intrigued as well.
It was hard to tell on cheeks as dark as hers, but Harry thought the girl might have blushed. "Yeah," she admitted, "you've probably heard of her: Gwenog Jones. My name's Megan," she added, in a slightly wistful voice, as though she didn't expect that part to matter.
She was right; Ron's jaw dropped open and he put his fork down with a clatter. "Gwenog Jones?" he repeated. "The Gwenog Jones? Captain of the Holyhead Harpies?"
Megan nodded.
Harry squirmed in his seat, feeling left-out. He wondered if there were sports magazines in the Wizarding World, and if any of his housemates had brought some along that he might be able to borrow so he could catch-up on some of the details about wizarding life that everyone else at Hogwarts seemed to take for granted.
Ron was sputtering a little, reminding Harry of a kettle left on the hob too long, but after a minute or two he got himself under control and launched into a fierce dissection of Megan's aunt's maneuvers and motivations spread over what seemed to be her whole career. At first Megan tried to defend her aunt, but after several rounds of back-and-forth with Ron, throughout which he refused to give so much as an inch without immediately changing topic to a different match or a different move, she gave up.
"Why don't you write her and ask?" she challenged him.
Ron went white under his freckles. "What—write to Gwenog Jones? Directly? Me?" He gulped.
Megan smiled sweetly. "I'm sure she'd be enthralled to hear your opinions," she said.
Ron gulped again and turned his attention to his food.
Megan smirked and shifted in her seat to talk to the girls on her other side instead.
Harry swallowed a grin and poured himself another goblet of pumpkin juice.
. . . .
He hardly minded the whispers that followed him around the school; he reminded himself that he was going to find a way to earn the interest that everybody had in him someday, and anyway, he was preoccupied with trying to find his way around. That was made even more difficult than it sounded by some of the peculiarities of Hogwarts castle:
Not only were there a hundred and forty-two staircases—some wide and sweeping, others narrow and rickety—some of them led somewhere different on a Friday and some had a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. The doors were no better; aside from the handful that seemed to be nothing more than solid walls just pretending, some of them wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place. It was almost impossible to use landmarks for directions too; aside from all the moving staircases the people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk. He and Ron got lost more than once and their fellow first years didn't seem to fare much better. Most of the teachers had little patience for tardiness, although Professor Flitwick always seemed apologetic when he scolded them. Unfortunately the one teacher who might have been willing to overlook a bit of lateness from a confused new student was Professor Sprout, and her greenhouses were one of the few places in the school that was always easy to find.
The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. The Bloody Baron was far too intimidating to ask for directions, and then there was Peeves the Poltergeist; he was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!" Harry and Ron tried threatening him with the Bloody Baron the way that prefect had their first night at school, but Peeves just cackled, secure in the assumption that no first year Slytherin would dare bother their fearsome house ghost just to make the poltergeist go away. Sadly, he was right, although Harry longed to see the Baron put Peeves in his place.
Things didn't get easier once you'd managed to find the way to your classroom, either. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words. The intensity—and oddness—of the lessons had an upside, though: Harry could stop worrying that he was miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, hadn't had any idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so much to learn that even people like Ron didn't have much of a head start, although George in particular liked to brag about how much his parents had taught him ahead of time. Harry would have found the shorter boy very annoying if there hadn't been so many more fascinating things at Hogwarts to pay attention to instead of him.
Even their homework was interesting, although not interesting enough to make Harry actually enjoy doing homework. He would have much rather been reading-up on Quidditch, or exploring the school with Ron, than writing essays—even essays on topics like, "The Side-Effects of Hasty Transfiguration," or "How To Charm Corkscrews." The most boring class of all was History of Magic, although from the reading he had to do in order to make-up for not paying attention during the lectures, Harry could at least appreciate that the subject might have been an interesting one if it had been taught by someone less dull than the late Professor Binns.
On Friday the new Slytherins finally had a class with their Head of House, Professor Snape. Harry was nervous. At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him. He didn't want to be on bad terms with the head of Slytherin House, so he made sure to leave breakfast early enough that he wouldn't be late to class even if he ran into Peeves twice.
He was one of the first to arrive in the dungeon classroom, Ron trailing him and complaining about how much time they'd wasted by showing up so early. The rest of the class soon filed in; they were sharing this lesson with the Gryffindors.
Snape arrived shortly before the bell, sweeping into the room in a gust of black robes. Everybody went quiet at once, even though he hadn't told them to stop talking. Like Flitwick, he started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.
"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Slytherin House's new—celebrity."
Harry squirmed in his seat, feeling odd. He was starting to get used to people reacting strongly to his name or appearance, but something about Snape's quiet voice unsettled him. There was none of the excitement in his tone with which most of the Wizarding World reacted to the Boy Who Lived. Harry couldn't place what it was that bothered him about Professor Snape's reaction, exactly—but it was strange.
Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word—Harry wasn't the only one holding his breath in order to keep especially silent to listen. He doubted that even Peeves would dare interrupt Professor Snape during a lecture. "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 stopped death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
A ringing silence followed his words. Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows, Harry glad that someone else seemed unsettled by Snape's words as much as he was. Looking around the room he observed that most of his other classmates likewise looked taken aback or uncertain about the Potions Master's speech, although a few stared at Snape with eager expressions and glittering eyes. Harry shook his head. He didn't think any of his other teachers had sounded like they loved their subject even half as much as Snape did his, not even cheerful Professor Sprout with her greenhouses full of plants that she treated more like children than foliage. He somehow felt even more nervous now than he had at the start of the lesson.
Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around the room in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone. He continuously peered into the cauldron that Harry and Ron were sharing, sniffing as though deeply unimpressed, but he said little to the two of them despite watching them so closely. Harry wasn't sure why Snape was keeping quiet and it made him nervous. He would almost have rather received a share or two of the endless criticism that the rest of the class faced than the cold, unfathomable pressure of Snape's dark eyes peering down at him like he was a strange new bug that the Potions Master wasn't sure whether he wanted to squash or not. Harry was so distracted by keeping an eye on Snape that, despite his best attempts to follow the instructions on the blackboard, twice he measured ingredients wrong and once he started to stir the wrong direction; thankfully Ron stopped him before his mistakes could ruin their potion.
When class ended Harry had to force himself not to run from the room, so relieved was he to escape the strange tension of that black stare. He was sure he could still feel Snape's eyes boring into the back of his neck as he walked away, even after he turned the corner and put solid stone between himself and the potions room.
*All bolded text has been taken from the book Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (American hardcover edition) written by J. K. Rowling and is quoted here with all due respect and acknowledgement to the author. I apologize for the aesthetically cumbersome bolding; given FFnet's limited formatting options it was the most unobtrusive way that I could think of to mark the quoted text. Hopefully it is preferable to the underlining I had been using at first? Suggestions for alternative, less intrusive indicators are more than welcome.
