Harry Potter 1 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone

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CHAPTER EIGHT
THE POTIONS MASTER
T here, look.”
“Where?”
“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.”
“Wearing the glasses?”
“Did you see his face?”
“Did you see his scar?”
Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next
day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or
doubled  back  to  pass  him  in  the  corridors  again,  staring.  Harry  wished  they
wouldn’t, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.
           There  were  a  hundred  and  forty-two  staircases  at  Hogwarts:  wide,
sweeping  ones;  narrow,  rickety  ones;  some  that  led  somewhere  different  on  a
Friday;  some  with  a  vanishing  step  halfway  up  that  you  had  to  remember  to
jump.  Then  there  were  doors  that  wouldn’t  open  unless  you  asked  politely,  or
tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t really doors at all,
but  solid  walls  just  pretending.  It  was  also  very  hard  to  remember  where
anything  was,  because  it  all  seemed  to  move  around  a  lot.  The  people  in  the
portraits  kept  going  to  visit  each  other,  and  Harry  was  sure  the  coats  of  armor
could walk.
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. Nearly Headless
Nick  was  always  happy  to  point  new  Gryffindors  in  the  right  direction,  but
Peeves  the  Poltergeist  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!”
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus
Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very first
morning.  Filch  found  them  trying  to  force  their  way  through  a  door  that
unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third
floor. He wouldn’t believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to break into
it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were

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rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.
Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature
with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch’s. She patrolled the corridors alone.
Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she’d whisk off for
Filch,  who’d  appear,  wheezing,  two  seconds  later.  Filch  knew  the  secret
passageways  of  the  school  better  than  anyone  (except  perhaps  the  Weasley
twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated
him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.
           And  then,  once  you  had  managed  to  find  them,  there  were  the  classes
themselves.  There  was  a  lot  more  to  magic,  as  Harry  quickly  found  out,  than
waving your wand and saying a few funny words.
           They  had  to  study  the  night  skies  through  their  telescopes  every
Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements
of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the
castle  to  study  Herbology,  with  a  dumpy  little  witch  called  Professor  Sprout,
where  they  learned  how  to  take  care  of  all  the  strange  plants  and  fungi,  and
found out what they were used for. Easily the most boring class was History of
Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very
old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up
next  morning  to  teach,  leaving  his  body  behind  him.  Binns  droned  on  and  on
while  they  scribbled  down  names  and  dates,  and  got  Emetic  the  Evil  and  Uric
the Oddball mixed up.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had
to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he
took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name he gave an excited squeak
and toppled out of sight.
Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to
think she wasn’t a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to
the moment they sat down in her first class.
“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you
will  learn  at  Hogwarts,”  she  said.  “Anyone  messing  around  in  my  class  will
leave and not come back. You have been warned.”
Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very
impressed and couldn’t wait to get started, but soon realized they weren’t going
to  be  changing  the  furniture  into  animals  for  a  long  time.  After  taking  a  lot  of
complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into
a  needle.  By  the  end  of  the  lesson,  only  Hermione  Granger  had  made  any
difference to her match; Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone
all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare smile.

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           The  class  everyone  had  really  been  looking  forward  to  was  Defense
Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His
classroom  smelled  strongly  of  garlic,  which  everyone  said  was  to  ward  off  a
vampire he’d met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him
one of these days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African
prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren’t
sure  they  believed  this  story.  For  one  thing,  when  Seamus  Finnigan  asked
eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and
started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell
hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of
garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.
Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t 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.
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally managed to
find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.
“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar on his
porridge.
           “Double  Potions  with  the  Slytherins,”  said  Ron.  “Snape’s  Head  of
Slytherin House. They say he always favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s
true.”
“Wish McGonagall favored us,” said Harry. Professor McGonagall was
head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn’t stopped her from giving them a huge pile
of homework the day before.
Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but it
had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls
had  suddenly  streamed  into  the  Great  Hall  during  breakfast,  circling  the  tables
until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.
Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to
nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with
the  other  school  owls.  This  morning,  however,  she  fluttered  down  between  the
marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s plate. Harry tore
it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:
Dear Harry,
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a
cup of tea with me around three?
I  want  to  hear  all  about  your  first  week.  Send  us  an  answer  back  with

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Hedwig.
Hagrid
Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later on the back
of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.
It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because
the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that had happened to him so
far.
           At  the  start-of-term  banquet,  Harry  had  gotten  the  idea  that  Professor
Snape  disliked  him.  By  the  end  of  the  first  Potions  lesson,  he  knew  he’d  been
wrong. Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him.
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder
here  than  up  in  the  main  castle,  and  would  have  been  quite  creepy  enough
without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.
           Snape,  like  Flitwick,  started  the  class  by  taking  the  roll  call,  and  like
Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.
“Ah, Yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity.”
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their
hands.  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 potionmaking,”
he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word
—  like  Professor  McGonagall,  Snape  had  the  gift  of  keeping  a  class  silent
without  effort.  “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.”
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks
with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked
desperate to start proving that she wasn’t a dunderhead.
“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered
root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
           Powdered  root  of  what  to  an  infusion  of  what?  Harry  glanced  at  Ron,
who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione’s hand had shot into the air.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.
Snape’s lips curled into a sneer.

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“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.”
He ignored Hermione’s hand.
“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a
bezoar?”
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without
her leaving her seat, but Harry didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was.
He  tried  not  to  look  at  Malfoy,  Crabbe,  and  Goyle,  who  were  shaking  with
laughter.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?” Harry
forced  himself  to  keep  looking  straight  into  those  cold  eyes.  He  had  looked
through  his  books  at  the  Dursleys’,  but  did  Snape  expect  him  to  remember
everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?
Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand.
“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
           At  this,  Hermione  stood  up,  her  hand  stretching  toward  the  dungeon
ceiling.
“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione does, though, why
don’t you try her?”
A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye, and Seamus winked.
Snape, however, was not pleased.
           “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?”
There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise,
Snape  said,  “And  a  point  will  be  taken  from  Gryffindor  House  for  your  cheek,
Potter.”
           Things  didn’t  improve  for  the  Gryffindors  as  the  Potions  lesson
continued.  Snape  put  them  all  into  pairs  and  set  them  to  mixing  up  a  simple
potion  to  cure  boils.  He  swept  around  in  his  long  black  cloak,  watching  them
weigh  dried  nettles  and  crush  snake  fangs,  criticizing  almost  everyone  except
Malfoy,  whom  he  seemed  to  like.  He  was  just  telling  everyone  to  look  at  the
perfect  way  Malfoy  had  stewed  his  horned  slugs  when  clouds  of  acid  green
smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to
melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across
the stone floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within seconds, the whole class

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was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion
when  the  cauldron  collapsed,  moaned  in  pain  as  angry  red  boils  sprang  up  all
over his arms and legs.
           “Idiot  boy!”  snarled  Snape,  clearing  the  spilled  potion  away  with  one
wave of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the
cauldron off the fire?”
Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.
           “Take  him  up  to  the  hospital  wing,”  Snape  spat  at  Seamus.  Then  he
rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.
“You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought
he’d  make  you  look  good  if  he  got  it  wrong,  did  you?  That’s  another  point
you’ve lost for Gryffindor.”
This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked
him behind their cauldron.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, “I’ve heard Snape can turn very nasty.”
As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry’s mind
was  racing  and  his  spirits  were  low.  He’d  lost  two  points  for  Gryffindor  in  his
very first week — why did Snape hate him so much?
           “Cheer  up,”  said  Ron,  “Snape’s  always  taking  points  off  Fred  and
George. Can I come and meet Hagrid with you?”
           At  five  to  three  they  left  the  castle  and  made  their  way  across  the
grounds.  Hagrid  lived  in  a  small  wooden  house  on  the  edge  of  the  forbidden
forest. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door.
           When  Harry  knocked  they  heard  a  frantic  scrabbling  from  inside  and
several  booming  barks.  Then  Hagrid’s  voice  rang  out,  saying,  “Back,  Fang  —
back.”
Hagrid’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open.
“Hang on,” he said. “Back, Fang.”
He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous
black boarhound.
There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from
the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a
massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.
“Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded
straight at Ron and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as
fierce as he looked.
“This is Ron,” Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a
large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate.
“Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s freckles. I spent

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half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.”
The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their
teeth, but Harry and Ron pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all
about  their  first  lessons.  Fang  rested  his  head  on  Harry’s  knee  and  drooled  all
over his robes.
Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call Filch “that old git.”
           “An’  as  fer  that  cat,  Mrs.  Norris,  I’d  like  ter  introduce  her  to  Fang
sometime.  D’yeh  know,  every  time  I  go  up  ter  the  school,  she  follows  me
everywhere? Can’t get rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.”
Harry told Hagrid about Snape’s lesson. Hagrid, like Ron, told Harry not
to worry about it, that Snape liked hardly any of the students.
“But he seemed to really hate me.”
“Rubbish!” said Hagrid. “Why should he?”
Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t quite meet his eyes
when he said that.
           “How’s  yer  brother  Charlie?”  Hagrid  asked  Ron.  “I  liked  him  a  lot  —
great with animals.”
           Harry  wondered  if  Hagrid  had  changed  the  subject  on  purpose.  While
Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie’s work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece
of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the
Daily Prophet:
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations  continue  into  the  break-in  at  Gringotts  on  31  July,  widely
believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that
was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you
know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had tried to rob
Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t mentioned the date.
“Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday!
It might’ve been happening while we were there!”
There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t meet Harry’s eyes
this  time.  He  grunted  and  offered  him  another  rock  cake.  Harry  read  the  story
again.  The  vault  that  was  searched  had  in  fact  been  emptied  earlier  that  same
day.  Hagrid  had  emptied  vault  seven  hundred  and  thirteen,  if  you  could  call  it
emptying, taking out that grubby little package. Had that been what the thieves

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were looking for?
           As  Harry  and  Ron  walked  back  to  the  castle  for  dinner,  their  pockets
weighed  down  with  rock  cakes  they’d  been  too  polite  to  refuse,  Harry  thought
that none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as much to think about as
tea  with  Hagrid.  Had  Hagrid  collected  that  package  just  in  time?  Where  was  it
now?  And  did  Hagrid  know  something  about  Snape  that  he  didn’t  want  to  tell
Harry?

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