Book 1: Harry Potter and the Saiyan's Secret

The next morning, Harry awoke groggy but determined to focus. Harry decided not to mention the voice to anyone—not even Ron or Hermione. He wasn't sure they'd believe him, and he didn't have an explanation himself, but one thing was certain: whatever was happening to him wasn't normal magic. Harry had a feeling that whatever lay ahead would test him in ways he couldn't yet imagine.The memory of the whisper lingered in the back of his mind, but with a full day of classes ahead, including the dreaded double Potions with the Slytherins, he knew he couldn't afford to let his thoughts wander.

As he and Ron made their way down to breakfast, Hermione caught up with them, already lecturing on the importance of staying organized.

"I've made a chart for our assignments," she said, waving a piece of parchment in their faces. "If we don't stay on top of things, we'll fall behind, and I'm not letting that happen."

Ron groaned. "It's the second day, Hermione. Can't we just eat?"

---

Snape's Cold Reception

The Potions classroom was in the dungeons, a cold, damp space that made Harry feel immediately uneasy. Large glass jars lined the walls, filled with floating, pickled things Harry didn't want to identify.

Professor Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing like an ominous shadow. He didn't bother with introductions or pleasantries. Instead, he launched directly into a sneering monologue.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving here," Snape began, his dark eyes scanning the room. "As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. For those select few…" He paused, his gaze landing squarely on Harry. "…who possess the predisposition."

Harry stiffened as Snape's cold eyes bored into his. He felt something stir inside him, something defensive and raw. He didn't like the way Snape was looking at him—like he was trying to see into his very soul.

"Potter," Snape said suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "I—I don't know, sir."

"Clearly," Snape said, his lip curling. "Let's try again. Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

Harry shook his head, feeling heat rise to his face. "I don't know."

"Pity," Snape drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. "Fame clearly isn't everything."

The Slytherins snickered, and Harry's fists clenched under the desk. He could feel a strange pressure building in his chest, like a coiled spring ready to snap. Ron nudged him under the table, and Harry forced himself to take a deep breath.

---

A Brewing Rivalry

As the lesson progressed, Snape paired the students off to brew a simple Boil-Cure Potion. Harry was partnered with Ron, who seemed just as nervous as Harry felt.

"Chop the snake fangs," Ron muttered, glancing at the instructions. "I'll crush the spine of the lionfish."

Harry nodded, focusing intently. Despite the tension in the room, he found himself falling into a rhythm. There was something oddly satisfying about the precise, methodical work of potion-making.

"Not bad," Ron said as their potion turned a bright green—the color indicated they were on the right track.

Harry smiled faintly, but his relief was short-lived. Snape appeared behind them, his expression one of cold disdain.

"Hmm," Snape said, peering into their cauldron. "Passable, for a pair of amateurs."

He sneered, then swept over to Draco Malfoy and his partner, whose potion shimmered a flawless emerald.

"Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, his voice softening. "Clearly, some students possess natural talent."

Harry's jaw tightened, but he bit back a retort. As the lesson ended, he and Ron bottled their potion and handed it in, neither of them speaking until they were safely out of the dungeons.

"What's his problem?" Ron burst out, his face red with frustration. "It's like he's got it out for you!"

Harry shrugged, but inwardly, he couldn't shake the feeling that Ron was right. Snape's hostility felt personal, and Harry couldn't help but wonder why.

---

A Flicker of Power

Later that afternoon, Harry found himself in the courtyard, sitting with Ron and Hermione as they worked on their Charms homework. Despite the pleasant weather, Harry couldn't concentrate. His thoughts kept drifting back to the strange sensations he'd experienced in Snape's class.

"You're quiet," Hermione said, glancing at him. "Something wrong?"

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "Just tired, I guess."

But even as he said it, he felt a faint flicker of energy inside him—like the whisper had left behind an ember, glowing faintly in his chest. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't ignore it either.

That night, as he lay in bed, Harry stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. The whisper hadn't returned, but the feeling of being watched hadn't left him.

For the first time, he wondered if he truly belonged at Hogwarts—or if he was something else entirely.