The next morning after breakfast, Harry headed for the castle basement for his first class that day – Potions. The classroom was only modestly-lit, and had a particularly musty odor to it. No doubt this was due to the poor ventilation, as the walls made of solid stone, and the classroom was too far underground for any windows.
The instructor was quite reminiscent of a no-maj's depiction of a witch – she was elderly and thin as a rail, and had a rather hunched-over posture. She was decked almost entirely in forest green, from her bonnet to her boots. Most striking of all were two scrunched, dark eyes behind a pair of pince-nez spectacles, which were perched on a very long, pointed nose with prominent warts. There was a blackboard behind her, with only five words written on it in large, white block letters: "Madam Lewandowski – First Year Potions".
At exactly eight fifteen, she pulled out a parchment and began taking attendance. Her voice was unusually husky and had a certain Mid-Atlantic quality, reminiscent of a certain no-maj celebrity chef who specialized in French cooking. When she had finished calling roll, she scanned the classroom, eyeing her students in a calculating manner.
If it was possible, her already-severe features turned a shade sourer. The scowl on her face clearly conveyed that she tolerated no funny business, and that students would be wise to not cross her. "The lot of you think yourselves so smart," she drawled, "and you think yourselves above paltry instruction and discipline." For but a split-second, Harry swore her eyes bore into his, sending a nasty shiver down his spine.
Her voice was not especially loud, but it commanded a certain level of respect. She slowly strolled throughout the classroom to make sure that she had each and every student's undivided attention. "I don't care if you're a child prodigy… in my classroom, we do things my way, or no way at all – no ifs, ands, or buts!" She clasped her hands together. "My rules are simple, but profound… and by Merlin's beard, you will write them down!" The scurrying sounds of rustling parchment and clinking ink wells filled the classroom for the next few seconds.
"All pupils shall be punctual to each and every seminar, prepared to learn and participate," continued the Potions teacher in a deliberate tone. "Demerits will be handed out to tardy, unprepared, or inattentive pupils."
She continued making her way around the classroom, her footsteps sounding heavy and ominous. "Secondly, when I tell you to do something, you will not ask me to repeat myself. That will be grounds for a demerit."
She returned to the front of the room and scowled once more. "For those of you who haven't the foggiest idea of what to expect in Potions, a lot can go wrong if you are not careful when preparing concoctions. Which is why you must do exactly as I say, which is without exception, quite literally by the book. An incorrect amount of ingredients, or an incorrect ingredient altogether, can send you – or worse, a classmate – to the infirmary. The margin of error is exceedingly small, I assure you. And finally, if I catch any pupils goofing around during class time – that will be five demerits, meaning an automatic detention, plus a referral to your house head's office for any offending pupils." Her small eyes scrunched down to the size of pin heads, and her voice got so low and ominous that several students winced. "Do. Not. Test. Me."
She produced the same list as what she used to take attendance, and began quizzing students at random. "Miss Burgundy," she began, pointing to a baby-faced Thunderbird toward the back of the room. "Can you tell me how many rat tails to put in a Hair-Raising Potion?"
The quaking girl shook her head 'no', which only invoked the wrath of the irascible Potions Master. "A shame. New term, same overconfidence… thought you were too good to at least skim through the material before class started, huh? That's a demerit for your lack of foresight."
She checked her list again, and called out another name. "Ah… Miss Slater. Perhaps you can enlighten us instead?"
Tallulah didn't hesitate for an instant. "I think it's two, Professor," she squeaked.
"You are correct," replied Madam Lewandowski, "but no house points for you. My title is Madam, not Professor, which I clearly wrote on the blackboard behind me. If you want house points next time, you'll do well to remember that!" Tallulah's face remained impassive, but she was fuming on the inside.
Othniel was chanting, "not me, not me, not me," in his head as Madam Lewandowski continued to interrogate students at random. She ran her finger down the list one final time, before stopping at "Potter, Harry J." Her lips curled into an unnatural-looking smirk.
"Ahh, Mister Potter," she creaked. "I can't help but wonder if you're related to the prominent wizarding family from across the pond. I suppose we'll find out." A nasty cackle escaped her lips as she attempted to catch Harry off-guard. "Tell me, young Potter. I'd like to know two ingredients for the Draught of the Living Death."
Harry's eyes rolled upward in thought – he did remember reading about the potion when going over his texts before coming to class. "I think wormwood is one of them," he recalled.
"An infusion of wormwood is one of them, yes," confirmed Madam Lewandowski. "I'll bet you can't name another – Merlin's beard, it took you long enough to name just one…"
Harry's nostrils flared at the jab, but he continued to tap into his memory banks. "I think another is as… asphodel, Madam Luhh…." He didn't even bother attempting to finish pronouncing her surname; fortunately for him she cut him off before he had a chance to butcher it.
"You sound a little unsure there, Potter," admonished Madam Lewandowski. "But yes, powdered root of asphodel is another ingredient." She heaved a reluctant sigh. "At least you've bothered to crack open your textbook, which is more than quite a few of your classmates can say." She returned to the blackboard, and pointed her wand at her name. "You got the 'Madam' part right, and that's enough… a point to the Horned Serpents. My name is pronounced lev-an-DOFF-ski, but I'll throw the lot of you a bone… you may address me simply as Madam L from now on."
Another Thunderbird girl, Tabitha Perch, who was sitting a couple of rows behind Harry, raised her hand.
Madam L rolled her eyes before calling on her. "Yes, Miss Perch?" There was a definite note of annoyance in her voice.
"Why are you 'Madam' L and not Professor L?" Tabitha asked in a sweet, light Southern drawl.
"That is inconsequential and not something you'll be tested on," Madam L replied with indifference. She closed her eyes and pinched her nose. "But I suppose I'll humor you. Years ago, I was an assistant to my predecessor, Professor Huckleberry Quinkle-Chapman, who was the finest potioneer of his day on either side of the Atlantic. And if any of the blowhards at Hogwash School of Worstcraft and Fakery tell you otherwise, well, they're dead wrong! He could brew circles around that buffoon Arsenius Jigger… it's insulting that I have to instruct using his book… Old Huck was too busy actually inventing and brewing potions – you know, actually being a potioneer – that he had no time to write a book!"
The same unnatural smirk returned to her face. "Don't get me wrong, Master Jigger was a competent brewer, but he was hardly the most talented. Writing books was his only meaningful contribution to the potioning world. The information in your course books is little more than glorified plagiarism. That being said, Old Huck was getting on in years… all those experimental potions and exposure to dangerous ingredients did a number to his body and mind. He was slowly losing his sanity, and as a means to protect his remaining good health, he and the former headmaster mutually agreed that he should retire just before Christmas around fifteen years ago. I was asked to fill in as a last-minute substitute, but as I was never expected to stay on as the full-time Potions Master, nobody ever bothered to bestow me the title of Professor."
She shrugged. "For the first couple of years, I lobbied the previous headmaster, Professor Yelverton, about granting me the title of Professor as he apparently was satisfied with me teaching full-time – he never suggesting looking for a permanent replacement – but he never came through. I eventually gave up – I didn't even bring it up when Professor Fontaine replaced Yelverton. Good riddance, I say. Nowadays I take a bit of pride knowing that I'm the only 'Madam' that teaches a core class, and that my authority is coequal to any professor that is not also a head of house."
She looked at the clock on the wall, and glared at Tabitha. "Well done, Miss Perch. You've successfully gotten me off-track. We've lost three valuable class minutes, so now you see why I frown upon students asking impertinent questions." She wagged a long, wrinkled finger. "You are fortunate, young lady – I'll let it slide today as it's the first day, but going forward, keep the questions to the topic at hand! Capice?"
"Yes Madam L," replied Tabitha, who resisted the urge to snicker.
When class got out, a collective sigh of relief could be heard throughout the basement. "I'm glad that's over," Othniel said to Harry and Tallulah. "Holy moly, I've never met such a grump before!"
Even Tallulah, who tended to disagree with Othniel on a lot of things, fully supported his assessment. "I'm glad the rest of our teachers aren't nearly so foul-tempered."
"We've got Transfiguration coming up, and Charms this afternoon," Harry said. "Hopefully whoever teaches those will be a bit less strict."
They made their way upstairs to the first floor, and their eyes and ears got a bit of a reprieve in the far brighter, less-acrid Transfiguration classroom. Their instructor, Professor Ignacio Clemente, was dressed rather like an Argentinian gaucho in a colorfully-patterned poncho and leather chaps, and wore a wide-brimmed felt hat. To Harry's relief, he seemed much more jovial than Madam Lewandowski.
"Bienvenidos, class," Professor Clemente greeted the first-years with a heavy South American Spanish accent. "I am your Transfiguration instructor, Professor Clemente, and we will have a lot to cover this year, so you would be wise to listen, and listen well… if you don't get the material this year, it will only get harder starting next term. So I will tell you now… if you feel you are falling behind and need help, send me an owl. I will arrange a tutor to get you back on track, or if all else fails, I will help you myself. I want each and every one of you to succeed… because your successes are my successes, and your failures are also my failures… I take this very personally."
His expression hardened into something a bit more serious, though it was still far warmer than Madam Lewandowski's. "Transfiguration is a very complicated class, and potentially dangerous, so everyone needs to keep their wits about them at all times. If you are not fully focused, the first mistake you make… could be your last, as accidents have been known to be fatal."
His face reverted to is original welcoming expression, and he wiggled his eyebrows. "Perhaps… you would like to see a little demonstration?" He pointed his crooked wand at a tall coffee tumbler on his desk, and before anyone could blink, it had turned into a muskrat! A few seconds later, he waved his wand again, and the muskrat had reverted to its original coffee cup form. The entire classroom burst into applause.
Professor Clemente smirked. "I'm afraid we won't be attempting anything that complicated anytime soon, but we all have to start somewhere. I have brought some matchsticks for you to practice with; I will award five house points to the first who can successfully transform it into a needle."
He passed out matchsticks to everyone in the classroom, but not one student had complete success transforming them. Harry got his matchstick to glisten a bit, while Tallulah had managed to make her matchstick thinner and more pointed, but still wooden. Othniel couldn't get his to do anything at all.
"Heh. Transfiguration is quite tricky, is it not?" chuckled Professor Clemente, twirling his waxed moustache. "Most of you just got your wands yesterday, is that right? It probably feels a little strange in your hands, especially for those of you who did not grow up in a magical family. Don't worry, it will come in time. Why don't we start with a basic grip? Holding your wand the correct way is key… if you grip your wand poorly, you'll cast spells poorly… if at all!"
He held his wand-arm out, fully extended, to show his pupils how to properly grip a wand. "Hold out your hands, like so. Ahh, very good." He began patrolling the classroom to inspect his students' individual grips. He eventually made his way to Harry, Othniel, and Tallulah. He nodded and smiled at Harry's grip. "Very good, young man," he trilled. He pointed at Tallulah's wand. "Well done, miss."
He arched an eyebrow at Othniel. "The way you're holding your wand, it looks a little… unnatural," he remarked. "Try bringing your hand down a hair." Othniel did as he was told, and brought his hand down to where he gripped the very base of the wand.
Professor Clemente stroked his chin. "Hmm… that's a little better, but something's still not right." He paused to think for a few seconds, before having Othniel try again. "Are you right or left-handed, Mister…?"
"Beckett," replied Othniel. "Othniel Beckett. I'm left-handed, sir."
"Mister Beckett," Professor Clemente repeated. "Yes, try holding it with your left hand. That may explain your strange grip." Othniel nodded and swapped hands as suggested. Professor Clemente nodded in approval.
"Yes, I think that was your problem all along. Just like in the non-magical world, there are right and left-dominant witches and wizards… and years ago, there was an attempt to force all magically-inclined people to use their right hands, but that experiment was disastrous, to say the least." He continued to patrol the classroom and inspected each students' grips before returning to the front of the classroom.
He clapped his hands once. "All right, let's try it again, shall we?"
Harry tried again, and while not a full transformation, he got one of the ends of the matchstick to turn metallic. Tallulah had turned the shape of the matchstick into a needle, with just the eye of the needle actually being metallic. Othniel turned his matchstick metal, but nowhere near the shape of a needle.
"I see you're getting closer – that's good," Professor Clemente said encouragingly. "Keep practicing. You will get the hang of it as long as you keep at it!"
Although nobody had gotten the simple transfiguration spell exactly right, the children at least all felt encouraged. If nothing else, Professor Clemente was a far warmer and more patient instructor than Madam L. Harry, Othniel and Tallulah decided to head to the library to spend their free period.
"Good gravy, we've got a lot of homework," moaned Othniel. "And we've only had two classes – we've got Charms after lunch!"
"There's probably a method to the madness," reasoned Harry. "Potions and Transfiguration are harder classes than anything we've had yesterday."
"And I suspect Charms won't be much easier," guessed Tallulah. "Charms is similar to Transfiguration, but to my recollection it modifies an existing item's properties rather than changing the item altogether."
"Who teaches that again?" asked Othniel.
"Professor Rudiger," replied Tallulah. "His classroom is just down the hall from the library, so that'll be nice."
"It'll be nicer when we'll be done for the day," groaned Othniel. "I've only had two classes but my brain's already mush."