Harry truly only refrained from confronting Snape directly out of consideration for Dumbledore's careful management of Hogwarts's complicated political landscape.
The man was genuinely disturbing—simultaneously drawn to and repelled by Harry in ways that made no logical sense.
Perhaps Snape himself recognized his own twisted fixation, creating layers of self-loathing that fed back into his already tortured psyche. Harry even sensed something darker—self-destructive tendencies lurking beneath that perpetually hostile exterior.
Absolutely terrifying. Harry desperately wanted to maintain maximum distance. Actually, he didn't particularly care about Snape's personal psychological problems. If circumstances permitted, Harry would gladly pretend the man didn't exist entirely. Unfortunately, that remained impossible because Snape served as the Potions professor—making the class mandatory.
Potions lessons were held in a dungeon classroom deep beneath the castle's main structure.
The underground chamber was considerably colder than rooms above ground, the chill seeping through robes and settling into bones. Glass jars lined the stone walls, each containing preserved animal specimens floating in cloudy liquid—things with too many eyes, skeletal creatures, and internal organs Harry couldn't identify. The air smelled of damp stone, ancient mold, and something vaguely chemical that caught in the back of his throat.
Like Professor Flitwick, Snape retrieved the attendance roster at the start of class. Also like Flitwick, he invariably paused when reaching Harry's name.
But with completely opposite demeanor and intent.
"Oh yes," Snape said softly, his voice carrying silky menace that made several students flinch. "Harry Potter, our new celebrity. On his very first day at Hogwarts, he mistook the school for some barbaric gladiatorial arena, forcibly battled innocent ghosts, and even drew Gryffindor's legendary sword."
Actually, Snape's sarcasm wasn't always genuinely amusing, but as Head of House, when he began mocking students from other houses, loyal Slytherins would typically chime in with supporting jeers. Today proved an exception.
Not a single first-year dared join Snape in mocking Harry Potter.
Only Draco Malfoy showed any inclination—he looked at Snape desperately, seemingly gathering courage from their obvious connection.
Harry understood human dynamics far too well—he instantly recognized Snape and Malfoy shared an unusually close relationship beyond typical professor-student boundaries.
Possibly distant relatives? Snape serving as Malfoy's godfather or family friend? Probably something along those lines.
Malfoy frantically signaled Crabbe and Goyle with increasingly desperate eye movements. Normally, those two loyal bodyguards would skillfully laugh on cue—a standard tactic meant you first attacked the mocking chorus before addressing the leader.
But Harry had already scared them absolutely senseless during their train compartment encounter—both studiously ignored Malfoy's signals. Draco looked around the silent classroom, realizing he'd have to perform alone. "Ha—haha, foolish Gryffindor! I laugh at Harry's recklessness, at Potter's lack of wisdom..."
The forced laughter gradually died away, his voice dropping to almost nothing—painfully awkward silence filling the dungeon.
Bang—Snape slammed his palm flat against the desk with sharp finality, mercifully ending the excruciating moment.
He looked up at the assembled class, his eyes cold, empty, utterly devoid of warmth. Harry sensed the man had somehow lost all genuine will to live, yet was striving with grim determination toward some incomprehensible goal that kept him functioning. Truly an unfathomable person. Harry shook his head slightly.
Snape obviously remained unaware that Harry had already penetrated half his carefully guarded secrets. The Potions Master delivered his well-practiced opening speech to the new students with theatrical precision:
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic at all. I don't expect you will truly understand the beauty of a 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 the misfortune to teach."
After finishing his dramatic opening remarks, absolute silence blanketed the classroom.
Harry and Ron exchanged meaningful glances, eyebrows raised.
"I bet he uses that exact speech every year," Harry murmured. "Actually quite well-crafted theatrically."
"Not as inspiring as your battlefield speeches though, Harry," Ron whispered back loyally.
Hermione had shifted to the very edge of her chair, leaning forward eagerly, apparently desperate to prove she wasn't a dunderhead through sheer attentiveness.
"Potter!" Snape suddenly snapped, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Here we go again. Harry felt the complex tangle of emotions radiating from Snape—hatred certainly, deliberate cruelty, traces of expectation buried beneath... and that disturbing undercurrent of obsessive focus that made Harry profoundly uncomfortable.
"The Draught of Living Death, Professor. A powerful sleeping potion."
Snape's lip curled slightly, internal conflict flickering across his features before he responded harshly, "Tut, tut—clearly fame isn't everything. So you bothered to do some preliminary reading."
Snape deliberately ignored Hermione's enthusiastically raised hand waving desperately for recognition.
"Let's try again, Potter. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
He seemed perversely to be enjoying this interrogation process somehow.
Hermione stretched her hand as high as physically possible without actually leaving her seat. Harry replied calmly, "In a goat's stomach, Professor. These questions are relatively straightforward—why don't you ask other students? I see Miss Granger clearly knows—"
"Don't presume to redirect my questions, Potter. I'm asking you, not soliciting your pedagogical advice."
Harry met those superficially cold dark eyes directly, refusing to look away.
Truly extraordinary—human emotions were indeed bewilderingly complex...
Snape didn't actually seem to be simply making trouble for trouble's sake. Observing him receive correct answers to these potion questions, Snape was genuinely pleased beneath the hostility. His favorability toward Harry seemed to have marginally increased despite no deliberate Charisma manipulation. So difficult to understand, impossible to fully decipher.
This isn't my perception malfunctioning—definitely Snape's psychological problems, Harry decided firmly. Had we met before somehow? What is this rekindled flame nonsense? My danger sense must be giving false readings!
Snape continued pointedly ignoring Hermione's trembling, desperately raised arm.
"Potter, what is the difference, if any, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
At this point, Hermione actually stood up completely, her hand stretching straight toward the dungeon classroom's low ceiling.
Snape decisively deducted five points from Gryffindor specifically for her presumption.
He practically roared at her, "Sit down immediately, Miss Granger! I didn't call on you... You tell me, Potter."
"Professor, there's no need to speak so harshly to eager students," Harry said quietly, projecting just enough Charisma to soothe Hermione, who appeared on the verge of tears, then answered, "Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, Professor. Collectively called aconite. They're different common names for identical species."
"Adequate. Very adequate answer."
Definitely not Harry's perception creating false patterns— Snape was genuinely pleased for one fleeting moment but then became paradoxically angrier at his own positive reaction:
"Why aren't you all writing this down immediately?" he snarled at the class.
Suddenly the dungeon filled with the frantic sounds of students rummaging for quills and parchment, the scraping of chairs, and the rustling of bags.
Amid the commotion, Snape added coldly, "Potter, for your impertinent back-talk to a professor, Gryffindor will lose one point."
Harry remained completely indifferent. Before arriving, he'd mentally prepared for massive systematic point deductions throughout the term. Losing only one point felt almost anticlimactic.
He decided his priority was investigating what exactly was psychologically wrong with Snape himself. If that investigation proved fruitless, he'd need frank negotiations with Dumbledore. Harry genuinely couldn't tolerate this situation indefinitely—better perhaps to have dueled Snape early, with the loser thoroughly beaten and rescued by Harry's mercy, planting indelible psychological dominance that would have prevented this current disturbing dynamic.
Potions class continued. Snape divided students into pairs, instructing them to mix and prepare a simple potion designed to cure boils—a standard first-year introduction to practical brewing.
Snape swept menacingly around the classroom in his billowing black robes, watching students weigh dried nettles with shaking hands and crush snake fangs into uneven powder. Almost every single student received harsh criticism for minor imperfections. Only Malfoy inexplicably escaped censure.
Harry had robbed Gringotts of considerable wealth during summer vacation, using those resources to frantically practice these exact beginner potions until achieving high proficiency. Even professional apothecaries specializing in standard potions possessed roughly this competency level—Snape could barely find legitimate fault with Harry's technique.
He could only suggest marginally better processing methods, demonstrating superior knife angles or slightly different crushing pressures. Harry found himself surprised to discover Snape's techniques often genuinely exceeded the textbook's recommended approaches.
These advanced techniques Harry might eventually grasp independently without instruction as proficiency naturally increased through pure repetition, but Snape's teaching undoubtedly saved considerable time and experimentation.
Perhaps during foundational learning stages, having a genuinely skilled teacher truly does accelerate progress significantly, helping students avoid unnecessary detours and mistakes, Harry reflected. Directly learning superior methods means standing on giants' shoulders rather than rediscovering everything independently.
Despite Snape's thoroughly unpleasant personality and disturbing fixation, Harry had to grudgingly acknowledge the man's undeniable expertise in his chosen field.