Chapter 12: Snape

On Friday, Harry’s first class was Potions. Perhaps because of that strange dream on the first day of term, Harry didn’t want to mess up his Potions class. That night, he carefully previewed the textbook—not just the first lesson, because he’d noticed that Hogwarts professors liked to skip around, so he also read ahead a bit.

The Potions classroom was in a cold, damp basement; Professor Snape dressed like a bat, his gloomy gaze sweeping over the students.

“In my Potions class, I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as foolish as the bunch I taught before.” He introduced the course content in a low voice, leaving Harry deeply intrigued; he wanted to prove he wasn’t one of Snape’s fools.

“Potter!” Snape suddenly called out, “What happens if you add powdered daffodil bulb to wormwood juice?”

“Um… to make a Draught of Living Death?”

“Correct… then, where would you go to find me a bezoar?”

“Inside a cow’s stomach, Professor.”

“What’s the difference between aconite and wolfsbane?”

“They’re just different names for the same plant.”

“...Harry.” Professor Snape’s eyebrows drooped; he looked almost sorrowful. “You’re good. Gryffindor gains one point.”

Harry said nothing, silently meeting the professor’s gaze.

“If you truly understood what I was asking,” his tone returned to its low, cold tone, “the Draught of Living Death is a powerful sedative, and bezoar has antidotal properties. Aconite is poisonous—be careful to distinguish wolfsbane from wolfsbane flower; they are not the same…”

As Snape explained, some students began taking notes; Harry, however, with a hint of doubt, copied down these three questions in his textbook.

Just before class ended, Snape stopped Harry.

“Harry, you have a talent for Potions,” he said. “I hope…”

Harry looked at him, waiting for the next words.

“I hope you study hard. If you have any questions, come to my office.” Snape finally said only that, then fell silent, gazing at his potion shelves.

After Potions on Friday, Harry had no other classes. After lunch, he went to the library, hoping to finish his homework early so he could head to Hagrid’s for afternoon tea with a clear mind.

Zhang Qiu heard of Hagrid’s invitation and asked to join. After some thought, Harry agreed. In truth, Hagrid welcomed any student to visit him—though most students tended to dislike Hagrid.

“By the way, the professor asked me three completely unrelated questions today,” Harry said, opening his Potions textbook. “But I suspect he meant something by them.”

Zhang Qiu glanced at it and said firmly, “In Tianchao, we have the custom of ‘using objects to express aspirations,’ which creates many ‘images.’ For example, when we speak of the moon, we often link it to home. So understanding these three questions isn’t hard—you just need to find what each object symbolizes.”

“I know the concept of imagery,” Harry said, intrigued. “I’ve just never read magical poetry. Maybe I can borrow a poetry collection.”

“Oh, no need for that,” Zhang Qiu said. “Many flowers have flower meanings—just find a book that explains flower language.”

Thus, Harry temporarily forgot his homework, his mind filled entirely with Snape’s implications.

“...Daffodil stands for pure love, wormwood for peace, for no longer blaming oneself. Bezoar has no special meaning; aconite stands for malice.” Zhang Qiu closed the book, frowning. “You might be overthinking it—he just asked three random questions.”

“I believe he was hinting,” Harry scratched his head. “Maybe crushing daffodil into wormwood juice means giving up love to stop blaming yourself? And the resulting Draught of Living Death means you can sleep peacefully. Does the professor think I’m so haunted by love that I can’t sleep?”

“That’s interesting. Love can also extend to other ideals or beliefs,” Zhang Qiu continued. “If cow symbolizes honesty and strength, and cows ruminate, then the bezoar in its stomach could be seen as food. So perhaps the food of an honest, strong person can dispel troubles?”

“That’s intriguing. I think the cow might refer to Hagrid—the professor probably knows I’m going to his place for tea today.” Harry’s eyes lit up. “And aconite means malice. Oh right, the professor mentioned wolfsbane flower—what does that mean?”

“Let me see… heroism, born of love,” Zhang Qiu flipped through the book and answered.

“That’s it! He’s reminding me that wolfsbane is aconite, not wolfsbane flower—meaning some people pretend to be loyal and heroic, full of noble spirit, but their true intent is full of malice!” Harry looked as if he’d just had a revelation.

“Hmm…” Zhang Qiu rubbed her forehead. “Do you really think the professor meant all that? To me, Snape has nothing to do with you—he wouldn’t waste time giving you three useless pieces of advice.”

“Alright, but it’s not entirely useless,” Harry said. “At least going to Hagrid’s for tea will be fun—as you said, it’ll help me forget my troubles.”

But Harry hadn’t had any troubles to begin with. It was only when he went to Hagrid’s for tea that he encountered new ones.

Hagrid seemed to know something about Snape. Every time he mentioned Snape, he stammered and changed the subject. The first time Harry said Snape seemed to be paying attention to him, Hagrid eagerly asked Ron about Charlie and enthusiastically offered them rock cakes. The second time Harry said Snape’s hair was greasy, Hagrid hurriedly showed him newspaper clippings about a robbery at Gringotts.

Wizarding banks had robberies too—Harry was curious. But when he looked closer, the robbers hadn’t taken anything, and they claimed the vaults had already been emptied. That was strange—were the robbers targeting a specific person’s vault?

But compared to this incoherent news, he cared more about Snape. Clearly, Snape knew some secret—perhaps one connected to Hagrid.

“Oh, July thirty-first—that’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Zhang Qiu said, glancing at the newspaper.

Harry didn’t remember telling Zhang Qiu his birthday—perhaps her magical master had divined it. But what struck him more was that on July thirty-first, he’d gone to Gringotts, and Hagrid had secretly retrieved a powerful magical artifact from Dumbledore.

Thanks to Zhang Qiu’s casual reminder, Harry now looked at Hagrid differently. He whispered, “Could it be… the robbers wanted to steal what we just took?”

Hagrid’s expression turned extremely awkward. He hurriedly said, “I think that’s very likely—after all, it’s magic—oh, many people want it. But it’s fine; Dumbledore set up many safeguards to protect it.”

“What philosophy?” Harry asked.

“I can’t tell you. Oh no, I’ve said too much—I’m sure Dumbledore won’t be happy.” Hagrid frantically grabbed a pile of rock cakes. “Eat more, child, eat more.”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Harry said, feeling his teeth might crack—he didn’t want another bite. “Let’s take them back. I haven’t finished my homework.”

“Uh, alright,” Hagrid looked flustered. “You’re welcome to come again anytime.”

“He must have meant ‘death,’” Ron mused as they left Hagrid’s hut. “Dumbledore set up many safeguards, but he worried students might accidentally wander in—so he left us a hint?”

“Very likely,” Harry said. “But since it’s Dumbledore’s secret, we’d better not pry.”

“Aren’t you curious?” Zhang Qiu pressed. “What secret could the greatest wizard possibly have?”

“That’s not how it works,” Harry frowned. “Does a great wizard have no right to privacy? And since he’s so powerful, those safeguards might be extremely dangerous—I don’t want to actually ‘die’.”

“But as Quirrell said—what was it again? I forgot.” Ron said. “Anyway, his power doesn’t affect students—maybe those safeguards are simple, just things we’ve learned in class?”

“My gut tells me you might be right, Ron,” Harry said, half-amused. “Dumbledore might be kind enough not to make the safeguards terrifying. But doesn’t that mean our very existence as students is hindering him from protecting his secret from villains?”

“Then Quirrell was right,” Ron mused. “Dumbledore is weakening because he chose to become headmaster. We students, enjoying his protection, are actually draining his strength.”

“I understand Snape’s meaning!” Harry suddenly clapped his hands, startling the two beside him.

“Daffodil mixed with wormwood juice yields the Draught of Living Death—meaning giving up ideals born of guilt lets you sleep peacefully. The professor doesn’t want me chasing that artifact out of fear of Voldemort. The bezoar in the cow’s stomach can neutralize poison—meaning Hagrid will protect Dumbledore’s secret and keep us safe. And wolfsbane is aconite, not the flower—meaning that although Dumbledore is a hero born of love, in this matter, he holds deep malice toward anyone who dares touch this secret—we must not take it lightly.”

“What are you talking about, Harry?” Ron was completely lost. “When did Professor Snape say all this?”

“That’s his brilliance,” Harry grinned proudly. “If I were a foolish child, I wouldn’t realize Dumbledore hides a powerful artifact. But if I’m clever enough to figure it out, then I should also understand his hint.”

“The truth is, I truly understand what he meant,” Harry said confidently. “I will never go near the third-floor door and risk ‘death’.”