CHAPTER EIGHT
I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an
answer back with Hedwig.
Hagrid
Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later on
the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.
It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to,
because the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that
had happened to him so far.
At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that
Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson,
he knew he’d been wrong. Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated
him.
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 Harry’s name.
“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity.”
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered be-
hind 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.
“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
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