The Charms teacher, Professor Filius Flitwick, was an extraordinarily short wizard who had to stand on a precarious stack of books just to reach his desk during lessons.
During the first Charms class, Harry found himself genuinely impressed. Few professors enjoyed teaching young wizards quite so much—and his enthusiasm was contagious.
Before each lesson began, Professor Flitwick would retrieve the roster for attendance. When he reached Harry's name during that first class, he gave such an excited squeal that he toppled backwards off his book-stack, completely disappearing from view behind the desk. Hard to believe this was Ravenclaw's distinguished Head of House.
Harry had heard Flitwick was a dueling champion in his youth, yet his personality remained wonderfully animated—he loved jokes, possessed genuine wit, and never seemed to stop smiling.
A far cry from Snape's perpetual gloom. In any case, Harry actually liked this teaching style.
He'd privately consulted Flitwick about what genuine wizard dueling actually entailed at professional levels. Harry's battle-honed intuition immediately recognized the diminutive professor definitely wasn't someone coasting on past reputation. His danger level registered remarkably high, comparable to Professor McGonagall and Snape.
Considering his championship credentials and estimating threats conservatively, Harry calculated that if death-dueling all four Heads of House simultaneously became necessary, he should prioritize eliminating Flitwick first through surprise attack—purely hypothetical tactical analysis, naturally. Harry hadn't actually killed anyone in quite some time. His last necessary execution had occurred before the term started.
Professor McGonagall's teaching style matched Harry's initial assessment perfectly. During the welcoming feast, he'd instantly recognized this formidable witch possessed considerable capability, merely lacking overt aggression and killing intent.
She was strict, sharply intelligent, and established authority immediately. During their very first Transfiguration lesson, she wasted no time asserting dominance.
"Transfiguration is the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she announced crisply, her stern gaze sweeping across the assembled first years. "Anyone foolish enough to misbehave in my classroom will leave immediately and not return. Consider yourselves warned."
Then she casually transformed her desk into a living pig with a single elegant wand movement, before reversing the spell just as effortlessly.
Transfiguration was indeed profoundly sophisticated magic. No wonder it warranted separation from general Charms as its own dedicated discipline.
This "pig transformation" demonstrated impressive control, though Harry suspected high-magical-power opponents would prove extraordinarily difficult to directly transfigure against their will. Someone like the legendary Dumbledore—when not caught completely off-guard, standing ready with full awareness—other wizards simply possessed no viable methods of forcing transformation upon him.
Many experienced wizards also developed natural dodging intuition for incoming spells through years of practice. Real combat probably didn't involve standing still whilst opponents leisurely transfigured you—more likely using Transfiguration to reshape battlefield environments for tactical advantage.
Professor McGonagall was also a registered Animagus. Like legendary druids from ancient folklore, powerful Transfiguration masters could train themselves to transform into specific animals whilst retaining their magical consciousness and abilities. Professor McGonagall's form was a tabby cat with distinctive markings around the eyes.
Due to Harry possessing his unusual skill progression system—once mastered, abilities never degraded—combined with his extraordinary Intelligence and Charisma, magic that required other students an entire class period of stumbling practice, he could already execute competently.
In such practical courses, he accumulated massive positive recognition, then learned considerably more advanced techniques under professors' private guidance.
Hermione also learned magic quite rapidly. In Transfiguration specifically, she successfully transfigured matches into needles—completion quality second only to Harry's flawless work.
She'd conducted an extensive preview study and possessed decent natural talent. Unfortunately for her academic pride, Harry's existence made her achievements seem less outstanding by comparison, though she'd also stopped viewing Harry as a genuine peer. He occupied an entirely different category in her estimation.
Transfiguration and Charms were already engaging courses, but what the entire first-year class truly anticipated with nervous excitement was Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Professor Quirrell's lessons, however, quickly became something of a farce. His classroom reeked perpetually of garlic—the pungent smell was so overwhelming it made eyes water. Popular rumor claimed this was protection against a vampire he'd supposedly encountered in Romania, fearing the creature would track him down for revenge.
He told elaborate stories about his oversized turban being a grateful gift from an African prince, thanking him for assistance escaping dangerous undead entanglements. But absolutely nobody could confidently say whether they actually believed these theatrical tales.
First, when Seamus Finnigan impatiently demanded details about how Professor Quirrell had defeated the zombie threat, the professor's face flushed bright crimson as he mumbled evasive nonsense about weather conditions.
Second, students quickly discovered his ridiculous turban also emitted strange, unpleasant odors. The Weasley twins insisted loudly it must be stuffed with additional garlic cloves, ensuring Professor Quirrell carried protection wherever he traveled.
Harry's private assessment: remarkably skilled at deceptive performance.
But such transparent tricks could only deceive inexperienced children. Harry had already reported his suspicions directly to Dumbledore. The Headmaster had indicated similar awareness—they were deliberately playing the long game, allowing Quirrell to believe his cover remained intact. Dumbledore assured Harry everything remained under his careful control.
Among other professors, that disturbing Snape should have long since recognized Quirrell's true nature.
Their relationship carried subtle undercurrents—mutually wary, like two people carefully avoiding breaking something valuable yet fragile between them.
Snape was objectively stronger than Quirrell in direct magical capability, but Quirrell's turban concealed something peculiar and potentially dangerous.
Their interactions felt strained, carrying extremely low favorability, perhaps even hidden conflicts simmering beneath professional courtesy. Currently devoid of warmth or genuine collegiality.
Harry had spent enough time observing London's diverse population before term started. He'd witnessed all manner of unusual relationships and complicated dynamics.
The perpetual shortage of wizarding population compared to Muggles created certain social pressures and unconventional arrangements.
'Damn this excessive Charisma,' Harry thought with mild exasperation. 'Attracting unwanted attention from all quarters.'
He made mental notes to remind Ron and Neville—young wizards needed to remain cautious and aware. Don't assume safety based on appearance alone. Predatory individuals existed everywhere, hiding behind respectable positions.
Though obviously, Harry also enjoyed occasional dark humor. His experiences across multiple lifetimes had given him rather grim perspective on human nature.
Friday morning arrived with typical autumn chill.
"What classes do we have today?" Harry asked Ron whilst demonstrating his now-legendary appetite, working through his third helping of breakfast.
"Double Potions with the Slytherins," Ron said with evident apprehension. "Snape's the Head of Slytherin House. Everyone claims he blatantly favors his own students—now we'll finally see if the rumors hold true."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I've consulted students from other houses as well—the favoritism is absolutely confirmed. Mainly he deducts excessive points from non-Slytherins on the flimsiest pretexts, creating systematic unfairness. Slytherin's already won six consecutive House Cups largely through his bias. Sometimes I genuinely don't understand—him serving as Head of House whilst causing such controversy. Where does that position Professor Dumbledore, who came from Gryffindor? Perhaps eventually the Headmaster will show equivalent favoritism, letting Gryffindor win several consecutive House Cups to balance the scales."
"Professor Dumbledore probably wouldn't stoop to such behavior," Ron said loyally. "He strikes me as the just, impartial type—rather like Professor McGonagall. She never shows Gryffindor any special preference and treats all houses equally strictly. I actually think she'd make quite an excellent Headmistress herself."
Though Ron felt Dumbledore's opening ceremony speech had seemed somewhat eccentric and rambling, overall the elderly wizard still appeared fundamentally sound.
"Difficult to predict," Harry finished his last piece of bread, patting Ron's shoulder companionably. "But ultimately we shouldn't obsess excessively over House points—such systems often alienate people from genuine learning and personal growth."
Potions class represented the final subject new students would attend in their first week. After entering Hogwarts, the person Harry remained most wary of wasn't Dumbledore's overwhelming power, nor Quirrell's suspicious behavior—but rather Snape's utterly incomprehensible fixation.
Not for tactical reasons regarding magical ability—Harry purely felt this particular individual represented something terrifyingly uncomfortable on a fundamental level.
Things that could genuinely unsettle Harry weren't numerous after his experiences across multiple brutal lifetimes, but everyone possessed certain unbearable lines that shouldn't be crossed.
At the opening feast, Harry had clearly sensed beneath Snape's icy, hostile exterior, something that resembled burning passionate obsession directed specifically toward him.
If aimed at literally anyone else, Harry would interpret Snape as fundamentally decent—externally cold but internally warm, perhaps a devoted romantic capable of profound loyalty.
Unfortunately, when that intense gaze fixed upon Harry himself, this situation became utterly, completely, and absolutely unforgivable.
The man's obvious fixation represented Harry's worst nightmare—an ultimate insult to everything he'd survived and overcome. Whatever complicated history connected Snape to Harry's parents, it absolutely did not justify this disturbing attention.
Harry gripped his wand beneath his robes as they descended toward the dungeons, preparing himself mentally for what promised to be an exceptionally unpleasant double period.