Then there was Professor Filius Flitwick — an unusually small wizard who taught Charms. During class, he had to stand on a stack of books just to see over the desk.
Harry was deeply impressed by his first Charms lesson. Rarely had he met a professor who took such joy in teasing his students — a rather amusing contrast to his goblin heritage.
Before class began, Professor Flitwick would always pull out the roll book and call the names. When he reached Harry's, he let out a high-pitched squeal of excitement and promptly vanished behind the desk, collapsing in delight. It was almost impossible to believe that this bubbly little man was the Dean of Ravenclaw House.
Harry had heard that Flitwick had once won a dueling championship in his youth, which made his cheerful and comedic nature even more surprising. He was playful, witty, and completely the opposite of Snape — which, to Harry, was definitely a good thing.
In private, Harry had asked him what a proper wizard's duel was supposed to look like. His instincts told him that Flitwick wasn't someone who lived off reputation alone. His power felt real — dangerous even — on par with Professor McGonagall or Snape.
Considering that championship title, Harry theorized that in a life-or-death fight against Hogwarts' four Heads of House, it would be wise to take Flitwick out first with a surprise attack. Not that Harry planned on killing anyone — it had been a long time since he'd done that. The last time was, well… before the school year even began.
Professor McGonagall's personality, on the other hand, was exactly as Harry had imagined. From the moment he entered Hogwarts, he could tell that she was a formidable woman — sharp, strict, and intelligent, though lacking a little of the killing intent he'd grown used to sensing.
She was, however, not someone to trifle with. At the start of their very first Transfiguration class, she gave them a warning that none would forget.
"Transfiguration is the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she declared sternly. "Anyone who misbehaves in my classroom will be asked to leave and will never be allowed back in. You have been warned."
Then, with perfect precision, she transformed her desk into a pig — and then back again.
Harry was fascinated. It was no wonder Transfiguration was its own field, separate from Charms. The spell showed incredible magical control. Of course, Harry reasoned, against powerful wizards with equally strong magic, such direct transfigurations would likely fail. Someone like Dumbledore wouldn't be so easily transformed — unless he was ambushed.
Real combat, Harry mused, probably wasn't about turning people into pigs anyway. It was about reshaping the environment — creating openings, setting traps.
Professor McGonagall was also a registered Animagus. Like the ancient Druids in British legend, masters of Transfiguration could eventually transform into an animal while retaining their magical abilities. Hers was a cat — dignified, alert, and slightly judgmental, much like the Professor herself.
Thanks to his skill panel, proficiency upgrades, and innate intelligence (and charisma, which he refused to downplay), Harry's spellcasting was already far beyond the typical first-year. He could perform spells that others struggled with for entire lessons.
In practical classes, he earned bonus points with ease and even received occasional guidance on advanced theory from his professors.
Hermione, to her credit, was learning magic quickly too. In Transfiguration, her matchstick-to-needle transformation was second only to Harry's. She studied tirelessly and her talent was undeniable — but, unfortunately for her, Harry's existence made everyone else seem slightly less brilliant.
Still, Hermione no longer treated him as a rival. She seemed to have accepted that Harry was… something else entirely.
Both Charms and Transfiguration were fascinating, but the entire year was most excited for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Unfortunately, Professor Quirrell's class turned out to be a disaster. His classroom reeked of garlic, and rumor had it he used it to ward off a vampire he'd once encountered in Romania — afraid the creature might come after him for revenge.
He also claimed his enormous turban was a gift from an African prince, who gave it to him out of gratitude for helping banish a zombie. Whether anyone actually believed that story was another matter.
When Seamus Finnigan eagerly asked how he'd defeated the zombie, Quirrell went red as a beet and began mumbling about the weather.
To make things worse, his turban emitted a strange odor. The Weasley twins swore it was stuffed with garlic as well — just in case.
Harry's personal assessment was simple: "He's really good at pretending."
Such cheap theatrics might have fooled schoolchildren, but Harry wasn't one of them. He'd already reported his suspicions to Dumbledore — and, unsurprisingly, the Headmaster had confirmed his thoughts. Dumbledore said he was "playing the long game" to catch a big fish.
Harry wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he could tell Dumbledore was aware of far more than he let on.
Among the staff, Snape had certainly noticed something off about Quirrell too. Their interactions were… peculiar. They acted wary of one another — like two predators sharing the same cage, neither wanting to make the first move.
Snape was undoubtedly the stronger wizard, but Quirrell's strange turban gave Harry pause. Something about it was wrong.
Then a ridiculous thought crossed his mind — could Snape and Quirrell be having an affair?
Of course, there was no sign of romance between them now — only stiff tension and mutual dislike. But in Britain, Harry mused darkly, stranger things had happened. Maybe love had curdled into hate. The way Snape looked at Quirrell sometimes… it had that painful, tangled quality of someone who couldn't decide whether to strangle or kiss the other.
Before the term started, Harry had occasionally wandered the streets of London and witnessed all sorts of bizarre things. Among wizards, such scandals were rare, but not unheard of.
He sighed. Perhaps it was his curse — too much charisma. He seemed to attract weirdos like moths to a flame.
He even warned Ron and Neville to be careful.
"You boys must protect yourselves when you're out and about," Harry told them, mock-seriously. "Don't think that just because you're ugly, you're safe."
Ron nearly choked on his pumpkin juice laughing, but Harry continued, utterly straight-faced.
"I'm serious. Handsome or not, it doesn't matter. There are perverts everywhere. You two can't fight like me, so stay alert. Especially around priests or suspicious older wizards."
Of course, he was joking. Mostly.
Harry did have a sense of humor, though it tended to surface at the strangest times — usually Fridays, for some reason.
"What classes do we have today?" Harry asked Ron one morning, demolishing the last of his breakfast like a starving dragon.
"Two Potions classes with the Slytherins," Ron replied grimly. "Snape's their Head of House, and everyone says he favors his own students. We'll see if that's true."
Harry smirked. "Oh, it's true. I asked around. The man's a master of unfairness — deducting points like it's a hobby. That's how Slytherin's won the House Cup six years straight. Makes you wonder how Dumbledore tolerates it. Maybe next year he'll let Gryffindor win a few in a row, just for balance."
"Nah," Ron said. "Professor Dumbledore's like McGonagall — fair to a fault. She never favors Gryffindor. Honestly, I think she'd make a great Headmistress."
Harry chuckled. "Maybe. Though I thought Dumbledore's speech at the feast sounded like something out of a madman's diary."
Ron laughed. "A bit loopy, yeah, but he's still sharp."
"Hard to say," Harry muttered, brushing crumbs off his robes. "Anyway, we shouldn't stress about House points too much. Competing over numbers just ruins the fun."
When Potions finally came around — their last class of the week — Harry felt a strange sense of foreboding. Of all the professors at Hogwarts, the one who truly unsettled him wasn't Dumbledore or Quirrell. It was Snape.
There was something about that man — the calm menace in his voice, the way his eyes glimmered with buried emotion — that sent an instinctive chill through Harry.
Few things in this world could scare him anymore, but everyone had their limits. Everyone had their own version of the ultimate insult.
At the opening feast, Harry had already felt Snape's burning, fervent gaze from across the hall. It was the kind of stare that could strip a man bare.
If it had been directed at anyone else, Harry might have called it passion — cold on the outside, fiery within. A personality worth respecting.
But since that gaze was aimed at him… it was simply disturbing.
Beneath Snape's chilly exterior, Harry could feel it — that smoldering, forbidden affection, twisted and obsessive.
"Unfortunately," Harry thought grimly, "when that kind of man starts looking at you like that — it's the ultimate insult."