CHAPTER SEVEN
be very difficult —”; “You’ll be starting small, just matches into
needles and that sort of thing —”).
Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at
the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet.
Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Pro-
fessor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with
greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.
It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past
Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s eyes — and a sharp, hot pain
shot across the scar on Harry’s forehead.
“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.
“What is it?” asked Percy.
“N-nothing.”
The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off
was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teachers look — a feel-
ing that he didn’t like Harry at all.
“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he asked
Percy.
“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he’s look-
ing so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he
doesn’t want to — everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows
an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”
Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t look at him
again.
At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore
got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.
“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and wa-
tered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
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