Hahaha! Classic! Now read, peasants! READDDD!!!

(JUST KIDDING! :3)

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."

"Wearing the glasses?"

" With the blonde hair?"

"Did you see her face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Whispers followed Harry and I from the moment we left our 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, me and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on our very first morning. Filch found us trying to force our 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 we were lost, which wasn't that hard to believe, considering the school we were in, and was sure we were trying to break into it on purpose, and was threatening to lock us in the dungeons when we were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.

Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamplike 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 I quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.

We had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight, which wasn't so bad, the view was unbelievably beautiful, and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week we went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where we 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 staffroom fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while we scribbled down names and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. I shouldn't have, since I had Oddball's Chocolate Frog card, but, hey, it was magic school.

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. And he repeated the action when he got to mine. 

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 me and Hermione Granger had made any difference to our match; Professor McGonagall showed the class how Hermione's had gone all silver and pointy, and mine had gone pointy with a silver tint to it, and gave us a rare smile. I swelled with pride. Harry asked for lessons.

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 nobody was 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.

I was very relieved to find out that we weren't miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like us, 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.

"Harry, unlike the Slytherins, we don't need favouritism, we're good enough as it is," I said.

Just then, the mail arrived. I had gotten used to this by now, but it had given us 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.

Althea hadn't brought me anything so far. She sometimes flew in to nibble my ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with Hedwig and the other school owls. This morning, however, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto my plate. It was addressed to both me and Harry. He tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:

Dear Harry and Haylee,

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 Hedwig or Althea, either one will do.

-- Hagrid

Harry borrowed Ron's quill, scribbled "Yes, please, see you later." on the back of the note, and sent Althea off again.

It was lucky that we had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that had happened to us so far.

At the start-of-term banquet, I had gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked us. By the end of the first Potions lesson, I knew I'd been wrong. Snape didn't dislike us — he hated us.

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 our names.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry and Haylee Potter. Our new twin celebrities."

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.

I shivered.

"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 — 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 put a stopper on death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Draco Malfoy, I noticed, was listening with rapt attention.

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. I knew I wasn't one, but for some strange reason, (gee, I wonder), I felt no desire to prove myself to this certain teacher. 

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood."

"Which Potter, Sir?" I asked. 

"Well, since you want to be smart about it, you."

"That is the.. um... Oh! You get the Draught of the Living Death! Right?"

Snape sneered in disgust, obviously not expecting me to get it right.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"Oh, that's easy. You could find that in a -- "

"Oh, no. I meant your brother. "

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but I knew Harry didn't have the faintest idea what a bezoar was.

I glared at Draco, 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. We 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 also raised my hand, trying to help Harry out.

"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione or Haylee does, though, why don't you ask them?"

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, 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, Ms. 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 Draco, whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Draco 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 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 me, Hermione, Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.

"You — Potters — why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you two look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point each you've lost for Gryffindor."

This was so unfair that I opened my mouth to argue, but Hermione kicked me behind our cauldron.

"Don't push it," Ron muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."

As we climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, my mind was racing and my spirits were low. We'd lost four points for Gryffindor in our very first week — why did Snape hate us so much?

"Cheer up," said Ron, "Snape's always taking points off Fred and George. Can I come and meet Hagrid with you?"