Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Chapter 6: Teachers, Classes, and a Poltergeist

Hogwarts, Harry discovered the following day, was a very strange magical place.

There were the stairs: they were constantly changing, some occasionally disappeared, according to the older students, and quite a few of them had trick stairs that you had to jump (Neville got stuck twice just on the way back to the Great Hall). And then there were the portraits; they covered every wall in the staircases, and along every hallway that Harry had visited so far. Besides moving, they talked (he supposed that he shouldn't have been that surprised; it was the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry).

Breakfast was as delicious as dinner had been, and somehow, Harry knew that he wouldn't ever get tired of it. The table was absolutely loaded with food, from strips of bacon (perfectly cooked) to waffles, to scones, and biscuits. It was the most fulfilling breakfast he had ever had.

After breakfast however, Harry was quickly reminded that this was a school: Professor McGonagall swept down from the head table handing out schedules; he had Transfiguration first, followed by History of Magic and Charms, then a break for lunch and after that, Potions and Defense against the Dark Arts. Harry gulped; this list suddenly seemed very intimidating.

It didn't seem to affect Hermione in the same way; she was off her seat, smiling so wide that Harry thought her head might split in two and from the way she was bouncing up and down on her feet, if the hall hadn't been so crowded, she would have been jumping up and down.

"Come on, Harry, if we hurry we might be able to review a little before class!" And so, Harry found himself being dragged through the halls at a breakneck speed. As they ran, he noted everyone was staring… and whispering; were two running first-years really that uncommon? Then they passed by a group of older boys; maybe fifteen or so, and Hufflepuffs by their badges, and he managed to hear their whispers; they were talking about him, and… his scar? Now that he was paying attention, he noticed everyone that they passed all seemed to have something to say about him.

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the girl with all the bushy hair."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"But he's so small!"(Harry barely managed not to grind his teeth at that whisper.)

"Did you see his scar?"

Harry stopped for a moment and glanced back, causing Hermione to tut impatiently and tug at his sleeve. But, he was too late, and the whisperer had disappeared into the swarm of students in the hall. He shrugged and continued along behind Hermione, thoughts awhirl. What was so important about a scar gained from a car crash? Yes, it probably looked quite cool, but it wasn't that interesting, to make all this fuss. Suddenly, a voice seemed to well up from inside him "I find it very curious indeed that you should destined for this wand, when its brother gave you your scar." Harry shivered at the memory, and pushed the thought down; he knew where his scar came from, and it certainly wasn't from any magic incident; Aunt had told him it was from a car crash. But then, when she had told him, Harry had noticed a flicker of some emotion that he hadn't been able to identify; many people wouldn't have even noticed the flicker, but Harry, who had lots of experience in watching his Uncle for the slightest sign of his quick temper, (not that the signs were hard to see) had seen it. Only now, however did it make any sense; had she lied to him? It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

But, then Hermione turned aside and led him into a semi-large classroom; they had apparently arrived at their first class. As if in confirmation, Professor McGonagall swept into the room and gave them a nod as she passed. She sat down behind the adult-sized desk at the head of the room, and began to study a number of papers that were scattered over the desk; presumably, they were her lesson plans for the class.

A few minutes later, which had been passed in quiet study, the door opened again, and other students began to trickle into the classroom. Professor McGonagall waited for a few more minutes, until the trickle of students slowed and stopped. Then she rose from behind her desk and began to speak.

"While in this classroom, I will expect you to follow my instructions very carefully. If misused, Transfiguration can be a very dangerous form of magic. Therefore, anyone I catch fooling around in this classroom will leave and not come back."

With that, she turned around, and with a flick of her wand, turned her desk (complete with papers) into the largest pig Harry had ever seen (not that he saw many pigs anyway). Then, with another flick, before the pig could make a dash for it, or even squeal, it was a desk again.

"Today, you will be changing matches into needles, but first, we will go over the basics of Transfiguration. To begin with…"

She went into a complex discussion of the ins and outs of the basics, most of which Harry understood, and the rest he might if he could think about it for a moment. He took notes anyway; it was very complex, for the basics and it would be wise to have something to fall back on if he forgot something. Next to him, Hermione was doing the same. The rest of the class however, appeared to be much less diligent; at least, they weren't taking very many notes.

Sometime later, the Professor stopped speaking, and gave out matches. Harry glanced at his notes, and flicked his wand the way they said he should. Almost immediately afterwards, the match flickered and part of it turned silver; he flicked again, and more of it turned sliver. A final flick and it was completely silver and shaped like a needle. He glanced around; Hermione had likewise finished, but the rest of the class seemed to be having a lot of difficultly with their matches; not one was silver.

McGonagall, who had retired to her desk after handing out the matches, got up and began moving amongst the desks. Some of the students flinched as she drew closer, but she merely glided past, showing little reaction to the failed spells. When she reached Harry's and Hermione's table, however, surprise shot across her face for a moment; apparently, actual success was rare in this first lesson, at least. Then surprise was gone, and she gave them both a grave nod of approval.

The next class, however, was nowhere as interesting. The teacher was a ghost, who reminded Harry of a speaker who had come to his primary school once. He was a dried-up shell of a man, who had bored the entire school within the space of an hour. Professor Binns, however, was worse. He hovered in front of the class, giving a (from what Harry could tell) a well-formatted and organized, but dull as dish-water speech on the early history of wizardkind. Fortunately, one of Uncle's favorite things to do had been giving Harry long, boring speeches on how on how freakish he was. Then he would have Harry repeat the gist of the speech back to him. The consequences if Harry failed to pay attention or couldn't repeat the lecture had been … severe.

Even so, Hermione kept on having to nudge him every couple of minutes to keep him on track. Even so, he thought that he was doing better than any of the other students; they were all either staring at the Professor with a glazed look that said nobody's home or dozing on their desks (Ron and Dean were playing Hangman).

Finally, it was over, and they went out into and made their way to the next class (there seemed to be even more people than before who wanted to stare at Harry). The next class, while loads better than History of Magic, was fairly unexciting. Save for the Professor nearly falling off his desk when he called Harry's name, nothing at happened. They didn't even do any magic. Instead of spells, Professor Flitwick taught them a bit of theory; save for a few wand movements, they didn't even use their wands.

Next, they returned to the Great Hall, where they had a delicious lunch and then made their way down to the dungeons.

The dungeons were just as he had thought; that is to say, dark, more mazelike than the rest of the castle put together, and not a little creepy. The classroom seemed to only deepen that image, as if the designer had wanted to make this area as intimidating as possible.

It certainly fit the teacher, who stormed in after a couple of minutes, looking immensely like some previously undiscovered kind of giant bat, only far more terrifying. It was Greasy-hair, or if what Percy had told him at lunch was correct, Professor Snape, Potions Master.

Professor Snape, unlike Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Binns, was neither stern, friendly, nor boring; instead, he seemed to be very angry at something, unless that scowl (easily surpassing even Aunt Petunia on a bad day) was his permanent expression. And that, considering his entrance and choice of classroom, seemed very likely.

He, however, like Professor McGonagall, seemed to believe in the value of a starting speech. He also took roll, which none of the professors save Flitwick had done, and for some reason, on Harry's name, his lips curved into a sneer that made Harry's heart plummet.

"Potter!" said Snape, whirling towards Harry, scowl firmly in place, "What would I get I added powered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Suddenly thankful that Hermione had insisted they review the potions textbook at lunch, Harry racked his brain and came up with the answer; "The Draught of Living Death, sir."

The Professor's face suddenly flickered, as if he had been caught off guard, but next moment the scowl was back, bigger than ever, and he continued if nothing had happened. "Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

This question was a bit more difficult, but Harry, after a moment's thought, remembered a part that sounded a little disgusting from the textbook; "In the stomach of a goat, sir."

This time, there was no flicker, but the scowl did widen a bit; what was he doing wrong? "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry fought back a smile (It probably wouldn't be the best of ideas, with the look on Snape's face); he knew this one. He remembered wondering why they hadn't bothered to just name it one thing. "They're the same plant, sir; also known as aconite, sir."

Instantly, Snape's face went black with barely suppressed rage, and he stood there for a moment, before, sounding like it was beginning dragged out of him, said, "Correct."

As Snape swept away, Harry slumped a little in his chair, and had to push down a sigh of relief. That was a very nerve-racking experience; Snape was one of those people who possessed the ability to unnerve you with one stare; the fact that he was very hostile towards Harry didn't help at all.

After that, through, class was somewhat uneventful; well at least for Harry and Hermione; about halfway through, Ron and Neville's cauldron melted, and Snape swooped down on them, giving them a barrage of insults and recriminations that made Harry wince (Snape seemed to be glad to have someone to vent on) before sending them off to the hospital wing. Also, during the whole lesson, he stalked around the room, insulting potions and the student's methods of handling the ingredients. He did this to everyone, except for Draco Malfoy, who he seemed to like for some reason, and Harry and Hermione, whose table he stopped by shortly after the explosion, stared at their potion for a minute, and then turned away, without a word to them. But, before he turned, Harry thought he saw the smallest glimmer of approval in the Professor's eyes.

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Severus Snape watched the students stream out of the classroom, feeling the first of his many plans falling to pieces. He had known that the brat would come to Hogwarts; his name had been written down from birth, after all. He had hoped, when the brat ran away and disappeared, that he wouldn't have to deal with a clone of bloody James Potter, but his hopes had been crushed when his letter had been sent out and he had seen the boy in the Alley.

Over the years, he had developed a plan to deal with the boy; a plan based on the assumption that, like his father, the boy would be nothing more than an average potions maker. Now, of course, that part of the plan lay in ruins; there were other parts, of course, but that had been the center point.

At first, when the brat had passed his quiz, he had assumed that the boy merely had the luck to befriend the year's know-it-all (there was usually at least one in every year, though they mainly got sorted into Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor).

That notion had gotten shot out of the air as soon as he had seen the brat mix the potion for the day; unlike Granger, who shot looks at her book for every step, the boy had barely seemed to need the book. His handling of the ingredients was a bit awkward, true, but that was to be excepted, and with a little time and practice, that would fade. Severus had only seen such sheer potential in all his life in two persons; himself and Lily Evans.

With the proper training, he could become one of the best; one of those few beings that could really understand the subtle art of potions. It would mean of course, that he wouldn't be able to take as much of his ire on the brat as he had originally planned. Or, perhaps he could take his long-delayed revenge on James Potter down another path. With a little work on his part, he could get the brat to follow his mother's path; that of the academic rather than becoming the arrogant, bullying prankster his father had been. Oh, sure James Potter had been talented; but he had preferred to use that talent for rule-breaking and an occasional burst of bullying. Lily, on the other hand, chose to focus her efforts on exploring magic, on perfecting the most difficult branches of magic, with the end result of becoming one of the best students of their year; even when she had begun to be attracted to bloody James Potter.

The new plan wouldn't be as immediately satisfying as the first had been; for that matter, it wouldn't even give as near as much satisfaction as the first plan would have. But, with the core of that plan lying in ruins, it was the best plan he had. And besides, if all went as planned, he would finally have someone to talk to about advanced potions research, without the bother of having to stop and explain in plain English.

As the first students for the next class (second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs) ran into the classroom, the front runners stopped in their tracks in shock, causing a minor traffic jam. As it settled, a Hufflepuff boy asked a nearby Ravenclaw, in a sort of trembling whisper, "Is it a good thing that he's smiling?"

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The D.A.D.A. class wasn't anything like what Harry had expected: instead of the terrifying man he had seen at the teacher's table that night, Professor Quirrell seemed to be a stuttering coward of a man; he was afraid of everything in the classroom, from the curses he was supposed to teach, to Neville, who looked almost as frightened.

However, Harry wasn't completely convinced; he remembered that terrible gaze from the Sorting feast too well to believe that it had been a trick of the light or a fault of his memory. Also, the Professor's stutter and scared face seemed a little too perfect; as if he was an actor putting too much effort into a role.

Other then the fact that Harry strongly suspected Quirrell had it in for him, it was a good class. Despite his stutter (false or not) and his obvious fear, he seemed to at least know what he was doing. The stutter made it a bit hard to keep notes, but Harry was reasonably sure that he kept decent ones at least.

Still, despite the fact he was at least a somewhat skilled teacher, Harry found it quite nerve-wracking to be in the same room with him. So, he was quite glad when the class was finally let out.

Later, after a trip to the library, Harry decided to go exploring. He said good-bye to Hermione, who barely looked up from her book, and wandered off into the massive castle. In no time at all, due perhaps to the fact that he didn't pay any attention to where he was going, he was very, very lost.

Had anyone been around, even a ghost, Harry would have asked them, but they were nowhere to be seen. There wasn't even a painting around.

However, there was, now that he was listening, a sort of a mumbling whisper coming from around a nearby corner. He walked towards the sound, listening carefully.

"Put this there, and this here, and Peevesy has a," the mumbling stopped as Harry came around the corner, and the person whirled around to look at him.

There was a moment of pure silence, which Harry used to study the person. He was a small man, only a little bigger than Harry himself. Behind him, leaning against the wall, was a rather unflattering picture of the castle caretaker and his cat.

Harry however, promptly forgot the picture in favor of the man's face; he recognized the emotion on the other person's face: he had felt that particular feeling too many times on his own face. It was pure, undiluted fear. And Harry couldn't see any reason why the man was afraid of him.

"Sorry, Your Bloodiness, Peeves didn't see you there…," The man's eyes which had been wide and unfocused, suddenly narrowed, "You aren't His Bloodiness; you're just a firstie. But you feel like him, all dark and deadly. What are you, firstie? Are you a Dark One? His Bloodiness told Peeves all about them."

Harry swallowed; he was a Dark One? And who was His Bloodiness that Peeves was talking about? And for that matter, why was he talking in third person? "Who's His Bloodiness?"

Peeves seemed to tense up for a monument before answering, "You don't know His Bloodiness? Peeves thought everyone knew His Bloodiness. But then, you're a fristie, and firsties never know anything. You might call him the Bloody Baron."

Harry froze, thinking back; where had he heard that name before? Then he got it; shortly before the feast ended, Percy had pointed out a few of the castle ghosts; one of the ghosts he had pointed at, a gaunt, staring ghost with blood running freely down his chest had been pointed out as the Bloody Baron. Percy had been very clear about telling them to stay out of his way.

But, if Peeves was telling the truth, the Baron might know what he was, or at least have some idea about it. But first, "What did he tell you about Dark Ones?"

Peeves crackled (a little nervously), "Not much, Dark One, His Bloodiness only mentioned them once, said Peeves should be glad that a Dark One isn't in charge of Peeves; got less patience then His Bloodiness, and no sense of humor, Dark Ones."

Harry fought down a sigh; he always had thought his alternate form had a bad reputation: now, he had proof. Unreliable proof to be sure; Peeves could be mistaken or Dark Ones could be something entirely different. But, that didn't seem likely.

"Two things then, Peeves; First, which way to the library, and second, don't tell anyone about this, got it?"

Peeves began backing away, nodding frantically, "Peeves won't tell, Dark One, Peeves swears it! And Dark One, the library is that way; take two lefts, and go down one floor." Harry waved a dismissal at him, and Peeves turned around and shot down the corridor at such a speed that a nearby wall hanging rose off the wall for a couple of seconds.

Harry turned in the other direction, thoughts ablaze. Thanks to Peeves, he now had a name for himself. It probably wasn't the real name, through; it sounded too much like some sort of nickname. But, it was a name, and now he had more than a picture to go on.

In a few minutes, he was back in the library. Hermione, through she hadn't moved, had apparently somehow managed to make a large dent in the giant pile of books surrounding her. Harry moved to sit on the other side, glancing around him at the long rows of books about them. Surely, somewhere in this storehouse of information there would be something on him.