The Potions Master

           "There,look." 

           "Where?" 

           "Nexttothetallkidwiththeredhair." 

           "Wearingtheglasses?" 

           "Didyouseehisface?" 

           "Didyouseehisscar?" 

           WhispersfollowedHarryfromthemomenthelefthisdormitorythenextday. Peopleliningupoutsideclassroomsstoodontiptoetogetalookathim,ordoubledbacktopasshiminthecorridorsagain,staring. Harrywishedtheywouldn’t,becausehewastryingtoconcentrateonfindinghiswaytoclasses. 

           Therewereahundredandforty-twostaircasesatHogwarts: wide,sweepingones;narrow,ricketyones; somethatledsomewheredifferentonaFriday; somewithavanishingstephalfwayupthatyouhadtoremembertojump. Thenthereweredoorsthatwouldn’topenunlessyouaskedpolitely,ortickledtheminexactlytherightplace,anddoorsthatweren’treallydoorsatall,butsolidwallsjustpretending. Itwasalsoveryhardtorememberwhereanythingwas,becauseitallseemedtomovearoundalot. Thepeopleintheportraitskeptgoingtovisiteachother,andHarrywassurethecoatsofarmorcouldwalk. 

           Theghostsdidn’thelp,either. Itwasalwaysanastyshockwhenoneofthemglidedsuddenlythroughadooryouweretryingtoopen.