âThere, look.â
âWhere?â
âNext to the tall kid with the red hair.â
âDid you see his face?â
âDid you see his scar?â
Ron knew it wasnât his imagination that people had been following them ever since they had entered the Great Hall for breakfast this morning. He didnât mind so muchâ“people were paying attention to him as well, werenât they? But then it started to get...annoying. Tiresome. Students were lining up in the corridors to get a glimpse of the famed Harry Potter, a few actually doubling back to get a second, better look at him, hoping his fringe might move so they could get a look at his scar. By the end of the first week, already fast friends with Harry, he wanted people to be paying attention to him. And, to make it all the more worse, the crowded hallways were making it harder to find their already hard to find classrooms.
Apparently, there was something like one hundred and forty staircases, excluding the ones that were only there on certain days of the week. There were wide, sweeping ones; narrow rickety ones; ones that went somewhere else on Fridays and the nasty one with an invisible hole in the middle of one of the steps half-way up. But that wasnât the worst. The worst thing was that everything moved. The people in the paintings (which left you with an even bigger problem if you wanted to get into the dormitory and the Fat Lady had gone to visit), the suits of armor. everything!
And then there were the doors to consider. Some wouldnât open if you didnât ask nicely (which was often hard to do if you had already spent half an hour trying to find it); some that stayed resolutely locked unless you tickled them in the right place. And then, of course, there were the doors that werenât actually doors at all, simply solid walls pretending.
The ghosts werenât much of a help either, when it came down to it. It was always a nasty shock when one of them came floating through a door you were trying to open. And none of the ghosts felt much like helping outside of their house: the Ravenclawâs ghost, the Grey Lady, simply looked down at them contemptuously; the Fat Friar, Hufflepuffâs ghost, could never be found; and the Slytherin ghost, the Bloody Baron, terrified the lot of them. Nearly Headless Nick was the only one they could count on for any help. Peeves was the worst of them, though: he would send you past a trick staircase and two locked doors if you were late for class. And then of course, there was always the chance that he would throw chalk at you, pull carpets out from under your feet or sneak up from behind you and grab your nose simply because he felt like it.
Ron had never hated his long nose as much as he came to hate it in their first few weeks.
Then there was Argus Filch to consider, the caretaker of the castle and the only person (if it was possible) that was worse than Peeves. Ron and Harry had managed to get on his bad side within the first week when he found them trying to get through a door that turned out, unfortunately, to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were rescued by their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrel, a twitchy, nervous sort of man. Ron had no idea of how heâd managed to get the job.
In addition to his own nastiness, Filch owned a cat. An ugly, scrawny, dusty thing with bulging lamp-like yellow eyes that matched her owners. Ron rather thought she looked like one of those animals that had gotten run over by a Muggle car and then got up again. She patrolled the hallways on her own and if you stepped an inch out of line, broke a single ruleâ“sheâd run off to Filch whoâd appear wheezing a moment later. The only people who knew the schoolâs secret passages better than him were Fred and George.
And then, once you actually found them, there were the classes. Ron knew that it had been quite a shock to both Harry and Dean to learn that there was more to magic than waving a wand and saying a few words.
In the middle of every Wednesday night, they were awakened to learn the night skies in Astronomy, the name and position of every star. Three times a week, they had Herbology in the greenhouses with the Head of Hufflpuff, a dumpy witch named Professor Sprout. They were required, for reasons Ron could not fathom, to take care of horrible looking plants and remember what they were used for. Neville seemed to be the only one who excelled at Herbology. Well, Neville and the ever-annoying Hermione.
Easily, the hardest class to suffer through was also the one taught by a ghost. According to Fred and George, Professor Binns had fallen asleep in the staff room and woken up the next morning, leaving his body behind him on his way to teach class. He droned on and on and on in monotone. It was Ronâs opinion that Professor Binns must think they were as dead as he was, to have as much patience for a subject as boring as his was. As if any of them cared about rebellions or nutcases named Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball? Unless it was the other way around...?
Then there was Professor Flitwick, a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a stack of books to see over his desk. His being a wizard, Ron didnât understand why he simply didnât make himself a chair that was high enough. He started their first lesson by taking attendance and, when he reached Harryâs name, squeaked, and promptly fell off his pile of books. Later, Harry confided in Ron that while it may have been very funny to watch, it had worried him. He had been looked down all his life, but from the moment he had crossed over to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, heâd been a celebrity. And for what? Living. And, he pointed out rather reasonably, wasnât everyone else in the room alive as well?
And then there was Professor McGonagall, the witch who had met them at the door. She was entirely different. She gave them a right talking-to before they had even settled into their seats.
âTransfiguration is some of the most complex magic you will learn at Hogwarts,â she began. âAnyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.â
She then took out her wand and turned her desk into a pig. Ron wasnât particularly impressed; Fred had managed to turn his teddy bear into a giant spider when he had been three and Fred had been five; even now he couldnât look at a spider. But he soon realized that it was one thing to transfigure something by accident and yet completely another when you were concentrating. McGonagall informed them that they wouldnât be turning furniture into animals for a few years, and then set them each to task turning a matchstick into a needle after taking pages of notes on theory. By the end of the lesson, the Hermione Granger was the only one who had managed to make any slight difference to her match and she was glowing when McGonagall held it up to show the class how silver and pointy it had gone, rewarding her with a swift smile. Ron scowled at her back, and if he wouldnât have been brought up as well as he had been, would have muttered âMudbloodâ as well. It took all his self-control not to sling out the filthy word at the Muggle-born. Besides, he rather thought that McGonagall would have had his head for it.
But the class that everyone had been looking forward to was Defense Against the Dark Arts. However, Quirrelâs lessons turned out to be quite the joke among them. The room it was âtaughtâ in smelled strongly of garlic which many believed was to ward off the vampire he had met in Romania. The large turban he wore on his head was, he told them one day, had been given to him by an African prince as a âthank youâ for ridding the area of a zombie. Ron didnât believe this. For one thing, when Seamus asked how he had gotten rid of it, Professor Quirrel turned pink and began to stammer about the weather. For another, Ron sincerely thought that Quirrel did not know one end of his wand from the other, let alone how to use it. And then there was the smell that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Fred and George insisted that it was from all the garlic stuffed in the turban so that he would be safe from the Romanian vampire wherever he went.
By far though, the largest disappointment had been to find out that as a pure-blood, he didnât have much of a head-start on the Muggle-borns, or those, like Harry, who had not grown up with magic. In fact, it was clear before the first week was out, that the smartest person in their classâ“if not the yearâ“was Hermione. Not only was she on-level with the pure-bloods, but she was actually yards ahead of them. It was disheartening.
On Friday, now in school for nearly a week, Ron and Harry had quite the momentous morning: they managed to find their way to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.
âWhat have we got today?â Harry asked, pouring sugar over his porridge.
âDouble Potions with the Slytherins,â Ron answered, his eyes skimming the schedule. âSnapeâs Head of Slytherin House. They say he favors themâ“weâll be able to see if itâs true.â
âWish McGonagall favored us,â Harry grumbled. Professor McGonagall was Head of Gryffindor House, but that hadnât stopped her from giving them a mountain of homework the day before.
At that moment, the mail arrived, and Ron fought the instinct to duck. It had been rather unnervingâ“even having been forewarnedâ“on that first morning when hundreds of owls had flown into the Great Hall to drop off packages and letters to their owners. They had circled overhead like a threatening cloud as they searched for particular students before shooting down like a rain of angry arrows to drop what they were carrying.
So far, Harryâs snowy owl Hedwig hadnât brought him anything. She had flown in, once or twice, to nibble on his finger and drink from his cup but she generally stayed with the other owls in the school owlery which hosted them all, as well as the owls that belonged to the school, for use by all the students. This morning however, she landed between the marmalade and the sugar bowl to drop a small note on Harryâs plate. He looked dumbfounded, but he grabbed for it and tore it open. Ron leaned to read over Harryâs shoulder, in the sloppiest handwriting heâd ever seen:
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 with Hedwig,
Hagrid
âHere,â Ron said, quickly pulling a quill out and passing it to Harry who quickly scribbled, âYes, please, see you later,â on the back of the scrap of paper before sending Hedwig off again. They finished their breakfast quickly and hurried downstairs.
Ron had not been happy to found out that Potions took place in the basement dungeons. There was something...unsettling about learning in a room where people had been tortured. It was colder down there than anywhere else in the castle and the pickled animal parts floating in jars on shelves along the room were just plain creepy.
But they had nothing on Professor Snape.
He started their first lesson with attendance, as had Professor Flitwick. And, like Flitwick, he stopped when he reached Harryâs name.
âAh yes,â he said softly. âHarry Potter. Our new celebrity.â
Draco Malfoy and his two âfriends,â whom Ron and Harry had thus far avoided, sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished the roll call and then looked up at the class, his beady black eyes studying them unkindly. His eyes were like the tunnels of Gringotts: dark and cold.
âYou are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,â he began in a voice that was hardly louder than a whisper. But they caught every word; just like McGonagall, Snape seemed to have the talent of keeping a class quiet without any thought for it. He acted as though he expected it...and Ron knew that he wasnât the only one who didnât want to find out what would happen if he didnât get what he expected. âAs there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I donât expect you will really understand the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron with itâs shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses....â
Ron shivered. Not from the cold.
âI can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death,â Snape continued, âif you arenât as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.â
This was so out of place from the rest of his little speech, that Ron could only stare at him. Hermione though, was on the edge of her seat, an eager look in her eyes.
âPotter!â Snape said suddenly. âWhat would I get if I added root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?â
Ron continued staring at Snape? A what? And why would he expect anyone to know the answer to that, let alone Harry?
âI donât know, sir,â Harry answered, sounding confused.
Snapeâs lip curled and he sneered down at them. âTut, tutâ“fame clearly isnât everything. Letâs try again, Potter,â he continued, ignoring Hermioneâs raised hand. âWhere would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?â
Hermioneâs hand rose as high as it would go, but no one else looked as though they knew what Snape was talking about.
âI donât know, sir,â Harry repeated, stealing a questioning look at Ron, who shrugged, stunned and uncomprehending. Snape was talking to Harry as though he had it out for him.
âThought you wouldnât open a book before coming here, eh, Potter?â Snape asked, still paying no attention to Hermione. âWhat is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?â
At this, Hermione actually stood up next to her seat, her hand nearly touching the dungeon ceiling. Ron glared at her, willing her to sit down; didnât she realize she wasnât making this any better?
âI donât know,â Harry said quietly for the third time. âI think Hermione does, though, why donât you try her?â
Nearly the entire class laughed, including Ron, but Snape didnât seem to find it amusing at all.
âSit down,â he snapped at Hermione, who abruptly bumped back down into her seat with a squeak. âFor your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so strong it is known as the Draught of the Living Dead. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most potions. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name aconite.â He paused, his eyes passing over the class. âWell, why arenât you all copying this down?â
There was a mad scramble for paper and quills. Over the noise, Snape said loudly, âAnd a point will be taken from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter.â
It did not get better as the lesson went on. Snape put them in pairs to create what he told them was a simple potion that would cure boils. He swept up and down the rows, his cloak fluttering behind him like a dark cloud, watching as they weighed and measured ingredients, criticizing everyone except for Malfoy, who he seemed to have taken a liking to.
He was beginning to tell them how beautifully Malfoy had stewed his slugsâ“as if anyone caredâ“when there was an explosion of green smoke. There was a hissing sound and Ron turned around to stare at Neville who had managed to destroy his cauldron: it had melted into a shapeless blob and the potion had spilled onto the floor, burning holes in everything it touched.
Ron quickly stepped onto the seat of his chair, holding his robes above the floor and everyone else followed suit. But Neville, who had been drenched in the potion, was moaning in pain as boils popped up all over his arms and presumably, legs, red and angry.
âIdiot boy!â Snape growled as he waved the mess away with a wave of his wand. âI suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?â
Neville only whimpered as boils popped up on his nose as well.
âTake him to the hospital wing,â Snape spat at Seamus. Then he rounded on Ron and Harry, who had been working a few feet away from the two of them.
âYouâ“Potterâ“why didnât you tell him not to add the quills? Thought heâd make you look wrong if he got it wrong, did you? Thatâs another point youâve lost for Gryffindor.â
Ronâs mouth fell open at the injustice of this, but he kicked Harry under the table when he opened his mouth as well. âDonât push it,â he muttered as Snape turned away. âIâve heard Snape can turn very nasty.â
There was a furious look in Harryâs eyes, but he kept his silence until the end of class.
Ron puzzled over Snapeâs behavior through the rest of class, trying to figure out what in the world Harry could have done before their first lesson to upset the professor so much. Oh well, at least Snape wasnât angry with him.
âCheer up,â he told Harry as they climbed the stairs back up to the first floor of the castle. âSnapeâs always taking points off Fred and George.â He paused and then asked, âCan I come and meet Hagrid with you?â Harry nodded, and sensing a state of brooding, Ron said no more the rest of the way of to the dormitory.
They left the castle shortly before three, making their way across the grounds to Hagridâs hut which sat on the edge of the forest. There was a pair of galoshes and a crossbow leaning against the wall and when Harry knocked on the door, they could hear the sounds of frantic scrambling and several shaking barks.
âBack, Fangâ“back,â Hagridâs voice came ringing out.
The door opened a crack and Hagridâs tremendous head appeared in it.
âHang on,â he said, his mouth breaking through his beard. âBack, Fang.â
The door opened all the way to properly reveal Hagrid struggling with a tremendous and ferocious looking boarhound.
They stepped into the hut, Ron doubting Hagridâs hold on the dog. From the inside, it was one room, ham and pheasant hanging from the ceiling. A copper kettle was boiling and steaming over a roaring open fire. Aside for the table and chairs in the middle of the room, the only other proper piece of furniture in it was a huge bed with a patchwork quilt covering it.
âMake yerselves at home,â Hagrid said, letting go of Fang now that the door was closed.
Ron had one stunned moment before the animal had leapt on him, licking his ears. There was not a doubt in his mind that having a dog slobbering all over you was the most disgusting feeling in the world. Similarly, he was now pretty sure that like Hagrid, Fang was not a scary as he looked.
âThis is Ron,â Harry told Hagrid as he poured the boiling water into a teakettle and put rock cakes onto a plate.
âAnother Weasley, eh?â Hagrid asked, giving Ron a knowing look as he sat down. âI spent half me life chasinâ yer twin brothers away from the forest.â
Ron shrugged, taking a rock cake from the plate which turned out to be...a rock. Well, nearly. It wasnât much more than a lump with pebble-hard raisins in them. He nearly broke a tooth when he tried to bite into it, but both he and Harry pretended to like them as they told Hagrid everything they could remember about their first week of lessons. Fang finally let Ron go in favor of Harry, and was drooling all over his robes, his huge head resting on Harryâs knee.
âThat old git!â Hagrid said, delighting them both when they told him about their run-in with the caretaker. âAnâ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, Iâd like to introduce her to Fang sometime,â he continued. âDâyeh know, everytime I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Canât get rid of herâ“Filch puts her up to it.â
This brought them to their Potions lesson and Hagrid, like Ron, told Harry not to worry about Snape when he voiced the thought that the professor was out to get him.
âBut he seemed to really hate me,â Harry protested.
âRubbish!â Hagrid exclaimed. âWhy should he?â
Ron nodded, agreeing with him, but he couldnât help but noticing that his eyes hadnât quite met Harryâs or his own when he answered.
âHowâs yer brother Charlie,â Hagrid asked Ron. âI liked him a lotâ“great with animals.â
âHeâs in Romania,â Ron answered, certain now that Hagrid was avoiding the question for whatever reason. âWorking with dragons now.â
âReally?â Hagrid asked, his eyes lighting up and sitting up a bit straighter at the mention of the word âdragon.â âHas he ever been hurt?â
âLoads of times,â Ron answered distractedly, seeing Harry pick up a newspaper clipping from the corner of his eye. There was a huge headline at the head of it, reading: GRINGOTTS BREAK IN. Were they still going on about it, then? The break-in had happened months ago. âIn fact,â Ron went on, looking back at Hagrid, âhe got hurt very badly at the start of the summer.â
âWhat âappened?â
âA dragon took a swipe at his leg; nearly took the whole thing off. Took him days to Apparate back home and then Mum had to take him to a medi-witch at Diagon Alley.â
ââowâs he doing now?â
âFine,â Ron answered with a shrug. âMum had to drag him to the medi-witch though. Bit odd if you ask me, his being more afraid of a Healer than a dragon. Butâ“â
âHagrid!â Harry yelled suddenly. âThat Gringotts break in happened on my birthday! It mightâve happened while we were there!â he exclaimed, brandishing the piece of paper in front of their eyes.
Hagrid grunted, and offered them both another rock cake. There was no doubt that he was avoiding them now. Harry looked back down at the clipping, the disappointment clear on his face. Ron could practically hear what he was thinking, the look of concentration on his face was so intense.
It was only on their way back to castle, their step weighed down by the score of rock cakes theyâd been to polite to refuse and had stuffed in their pockets, that Ron finally thought about the mysteries of the day.
Snape hated Harry, that was clear. Hagrid knew something about the break-in that they didnât, but why wouldnât he tell them? And Harry obviously knew something about it as well, or he wouldnât have been so deathly curious. But why?
He sighed. These were the mysteries of magic.
A/N: Sorry the update has been so long in coming!