THE POTIONS MASTER
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 stopper death — if you aren’t as big a bunch of
dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron ex-
changed 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.
“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added
powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at
Ron, who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione’s hand had shot
into the air.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.
Snape’s lips curled into a sneer.
“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.”
He ignored Hermione’s hand.
“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to
find me a bezoar?”
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go
without her leaving her seat, but Harry didn’t have the faintest idea
what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and
Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.
“I don’t know, sir.”
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