Harry Potter, the boy the wizarding world called the Boy Who Lived, had never known anything like this in the eleven dim and joyless years of his life. For the first time, he was truly the center of attention.
He still remembered what it had felt like when Hagrid led him into the Leaky Cauldron. People had rushed forward to shake his hand, to offer their admiration, to look at him with a kind of awe. Harry could not remember having done anything that should make witches and wizards revere him so deeply.
Still, whatever.
All Harry knew was that right now, he felt satisfied. Happy, even. He would have sworn that last night's feast had been the finest meal he had ever eaten in his life, and the fullest he had ever been.
No, not the fullest.
The most stuffed.
The young witches and wizards here were friendly, all except that pale-faced boy from the train. On the train, Harry had made his first real friend his own age. And when he thought about it, truly thought about it, the feeling was almost dreamlike. He would never go hungry again. He would never have to endure Dudley's fists and kicks again. He would never have to listen to the Dursleys' cold mockery again. He would never have to deal with Aunt Marge's dogs again.
Thinking of all that, Harry sometimes felt as though he were living inside a dream.
But very quickly, he began to feel uncomfortable.
Starting from the morning of the second day, from the moment Harry stepped out of his dormitory, whispers followed him everywhere. He could feel that almost everyone was looking at his scar. Between classes and after lessons ended, crowds of young witches and wizards would gather outside the doors just to catch a glimpse of him. In the corridors, people would circle around him and stare. There were even times when, while Harry was in the lavatory, a group would remain standing outside the door.
To be honest, Harry was beginning to miss the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys'.
Only as a manner of speaking, of course.
Going from one extreme to another was not something everyone could adapt to quickly. Fortunately, he had a friend called Ron, who was always there beside him to help him escape awkward situations.
Being stared at like some kind of rare creature was embarrassing and irritating, but Harry could tell that none of them meant any harm. No harm or not, he was thoroughly sick of it. This was already his fourth day at school, and the number of people orbiting around him had not diminished in the slightest.
To avoid these "Harry Potter observers," Harry had no choice but to make a risky decision: he would start timing his trips to class so that he arrived at the last possible moment. Ron, his new friend, did not seem especially pleased with the idea.
But Harry had forgotten something important.
He did not know this school.
He did not know how long it took to get from one classroom to another. He did not know the exact routes. He did not know which staircases went where, or how they moved, or which ones betrayed you halfway.
And because of that, he could not possibly manage such careful timing.
Ron could not manage it either.
So, quite naturally, the two of them were late for Transfiguration on Thursday morning.
Professor McGonagall was a very strict witch. Harry had known that from the first moment he saw her. Perhaps because of the resounding fame of the Boy Who Lived, she did not punish them. But the one giving Harry a headache was not Professor McGonagall.
It was a little witch named Hermione Granger.
Harry had already experienced Miss Granger's lecturing tendencies on the train, but that had done nothing to prepare him for her repeated stream of chatter in his and Ron's ears, going on and on about what they had done wrong, what they should have done, what they ought not to do next time. So Harry and Ron decided they would try, as much as possible, to stay away from the sermon-loving Miss Granger.
Friday, however, was an important and memorable day for both Harry and Ron.
Because they had finally managed, for the first time, to find the correct route to the Great Hall in one go without getting lost along the way.
"What lessons do we have today?" Harry asked, working his way through an apple pie while looking at Ron across the table.
"Potions this morning, with Slytherin. Double period."
Ron's mouth was crammed with food, and Harry had to work a bit to understand him.
"Snape is Head of Slytherin. I heard he's especially biased toward Slytherin students. I suppose we'll find out soon enough."
Just then, a girl's voice cut in.
"Oh yes, Sorimus told me that too. He said Professor Snape is very biased toward his own House, and very unfriendly toward Gryffindor. Sorimus said Professor Snape will seize every possible opportunity to take points from Gryffindor."
The moment Harry and Ron heard that voice, they already knew who it was.
The two boys exchanged a look and prepared to continue eating as though nothing had happened.
"Wait, you mean Snape is going to pick on us?" Ron asked at once.
"Yes," Hermione said. "That's what Sorimus said. So last night he explained the important points of Potions class to Neville and me. And with his help, Neville can already brew Cure for Boils without blowing up the cauldron."
Hermione glanced at Neville, who was sitting beside her.
"Wait, Hermione, who is this Sorimus you keep talking about?" Ron asked. "And you said he helped you and Neville revise Potions?"
"Were you asleep during the Sorting Ceremony?" Hermione said. "He was the one who kept talking the whole time. And he's Neville's cousin."
"I remember him. Wasn't he in Slytherin?"
Harry and Ron both turned to look at Neville.
Neville nodded. "Yes. He's my cousin."
"Neville, how can you have a cousin in Slytherin? Students in that House all grow up to become dark..."
Ron did not get to finish.
A burst of owl wings interrupted him.
Harry was used to it by now. But on the first morning, when a hundred or more owls had suddenly come flying into the Hall during breakfast, it had given him quite a fright. They swooped above the tables until they found their owners, then dropped letters and parcels into laps and onto plates.
So far, Hedwig had not brought Harry anything. Sometimes she would fly in, nip his ear lightly, beg a bit of toast from him, then fly back to the owlery to sleep with the other school owls. But this morning, she fluttered down between the marmalade dish and the sugar bowl, then dropped a note onto Harry's plate.
Harry opened it at once.
"What does it say?" Ron leaned over to look.
"It's Hagrid. He wants me to come and see him this afternoon."
Harry borrowed Ron's quill and quickly wrote on the back of the note:
All right, I'd be glad to. See you soon.
Then he sent Hedwig on her way.
At the Start-of-Term Feast, Harry had already felt that Professor Snape disliked him.
By the end of the first Potions lesson, he realized he had been wrong.
Professor Snape did not merely dislike him.
He hated him.
Potions was taught in one of the underground classrooms. It was colder there than in the main castle above. Glass jars lined the walls, and inside them floated preserved animal specimens that made the room feel even more unsettling.
Like Flitwick, Snape began the lesson by taking up the register. And also like Flitwick, he paused when he came to Harry's name.
"Oh, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."
Draco Malfoy and his two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, sniggered behind their hands.
Once Snape had finished taking attendance, he raised his eyes and looked over the class. His eyes were as black as Hagrid's, but there was none of Hagrid's warmth in them. They were cold, empty, and somehow gave Harry the feeling of two dark tunnels with no end in sight.