Snape's face darkened at once and he snapped, "Mr. Potter, I hear you have a bit of a talent for flying?"
"Yes," Harry replied. "That's right. The very first time I tried, I could get the broom to jump straight into my hand.
If Madam Hooch hadn't forbidden us to actually fly that day, I might already be able to handle a broom pretty well.
It seems I've got decent talent. Maybe I can become a Quidditch player in the future."
"If I were you, I'd throw that damned broomstick aside!" Snape said sourly. "Compared to the vast art of Potions, Quidditch is nothing but a coarse children's game. You should be spending more of your time studying Potions."
Harry shook his head and turned him down.
"Potions really are amazing. With the right combinations, you can accomplish almost anything.
But I still won't give up Quidditch. It's not some vulgar sport at all. If Professor McGonagall heard you say that, she'd be very unhappy."
The reason he wanted to get on the Quidditch team was to make the "Savior" image more three-dimensional. He needed to excel in every direction—not just be the savior, but also a Potions master, and of course a genius Quidditch star.
Snape wanted to keep badmouthing Quidditch, but he didn't fancy having that elegant old lady show up at his door, so he could only snort.
"Get out. Now that we're finished talking, why are you still here? Do you want to eat slugs?"
Harry spread his hands helplessly, then turned and left.
Poor Snape, spending his whole life under the shadows of James and Lily.
Lily had an extraordinary gift for Potions; she'd become a Potions master at a very young age. Snape's own profound mastery of the subject was probably tied to her influence.
James, on the other hand, had been a natural on a broom, which was why Snape had so little interest in Quidditch. That was probably why he was trying to convince Harry to give it up and focus entirely on Potions.
Still, Snape treated Harry quite well. Being a Potions master had much better prospects than being a Quidditch star.
After leaving Snape's office, Harry headed to the Great Hall to eat.
He found Hermione at the Gryffindor table. She was different from Ron. Ron had other friends, so even if Harry wasn't around, he wouldn't be lonely.
But studious Hermione wasn't like that. She didn't really fit in with the other Gryffindors and wasn't very popular.
That was one of the reasons Harry had been puzzled about why she'd been Sorted into Gryffindor. Ravenclaw seemed much more suited to Miss Otter.
Sitting down beside her, Harry greeted her. "Good afternoon, Hermione."
"Good afternoon, Harry!" Hermione's eyes lit up when she saw him.
She really wasn't used to being alone, especially not in the bustling Great Hall.
Everyone was physically close, but it still felt like there was a wall separating her from the others.
Right now, Harry had just smashed that wall.
Harry was her best friend at Hogwarts—and possibly her only one.
She wasn't entirely sure whether Ron counted.
After going months without it, Harry couldn't help eating a bit more than usual when he tasted the food the house-elves had cooked again.
After lunch, at three o'clock, Harry, Hermione, and Ron met up again, left the castle, and crossed the grounds toward Hagrid's hut.
Hagrid was the gamekeeper. He lived in a wooden hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
The hut was easy to spot; there was a crossbow and a pair of galoshes by the door.
Knock, knock, knock…
Harry rapped lightly on the door. Inside, there was a flurry of anxious scuffling and a low, deep barking.
"Hold on!" came Hagrid's voice. "Back, Fang."
The door opened, and that familiar bearded face appeared in front of Harry.
He grabbed the collar of an enormous black boarhound and hauled him back so the three of them could come in.
But with a dog taller than the first-years blocking the doorway, Hermione and Ron didn't dare step inside.
Golden light flickered briefly in Harry's eyes as he looked calmly into Fang's. The big, fierce dog immediately tucked his tail, buried his head between his paws, and didn't move a muscle.
Hagrid was a bit puzzled. Fang had never been this obedient.
From the outside, the hut looked quite small. But once Harry stepped inside, he realized the interior was far larger than it appeared. The room had obviously been anchored with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
Apparently Hagrid wasn't quite as simple as he looked if he was secretly using a Ministry-restricted charm.
The hut was spacious and warm. Turkeys, pheasants, and strings of cured hams hung from the ceiling, filling the air with a tempting aroma as they absorbed the heat of the fire.
In one corner stood an extra-large bed, covered in a quilt pieced together from scraps of cloth.
Beside the bed was a chest of drawers, its top cluttered with odds and ends—odd stones, animal bones, and a few little magical trinkets.
In the center of the room was a huge fireplace. In front of it sat an equally massive wooden table and chairs, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use.
"Don' be shy, sit wherever yeh like," Hagrid said, letting go of Fang. He poured hot water into mugs and set out a plate of rock cakes.
Placing the mugs and rock cakes on the table, Hagrid nudged the plate toward them. "Rock cakes are great—they're me favorite snack. Go on, try one."
The rock cakes looked fine at first glance. Ron took a big bite and nearly broke his teeth.
Hermione, seeing that, quietly set hers back down.
Then she noticed Harry calmly munching away as if he were actually enjoying himself. Curious, she cautiously took a small bite—and confirmed that they really were that hard.
"Harry, you don't think they're too hard?" she asked.
"They're fine. A bit of hardness gives them some bite," Harry replied casually, quietly reinforcing his body with magic.
Maybe it was because Harry had scared Fang at the door, but once Harry sat down, the dog just lay beside him and kept licking his leg.
"Fang's never been this friendly with anyone before," Hagrid said in amazement. "Harry, yeh might have a knack for bein' friends with magical creatures."
There was still plenty of afternoon left, so the four of them began to chat.
Ron and Hagrid got along surprisingly well. They complained together about Fred and George, but most of their grumbling was aimed at Filch.
Hagrid called Filch "that old bucket of slop" and swore he'd make sure that damned Mrs. Norris got what was coming to her one of these days.
Ron applauded loudly—he hated Filch too.
While the two of them talked, Harry and Hermione chatted quietly, with Harry helping her solve various questions that had been bothering her.
Suddenly, he noticed a newspaper pinned under the teapot. It was the latest issue of the Daily Prophet.
Harry picked it up, and Hermione leaned in eagerly to read with him.
It covered all sorts of recent events—latest Quidditch match results, shop adverts, wanted notices for Dark wizards, and so on.
Hermione pointed at one of the sections and gasped. "Harry, you're in the paper again."
Harry looked. That column recounted his recent conduct at Hogwarts and lavished praise on his talent, proclaiming that the savior would surely lead the wizarding world into a glorious future.
Harry nodded. Their judgment was spot on.
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