Joule and Announcements
Ron
There was a definite end-of-the-holiday gloom in the air when Ron awoke the next morning. Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as he got dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into their school robes on the Hogwarts Express.
He, Fred, and George had just reached the first-floor landing on their way down to breakfast, when Mum appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed.
“Arthur!” she called up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!”
Ron flattened himself against the wall as Dad came clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtled out of sight. When Ron and the others entered the kitchen, they saw Mum rummaging anxiously in the drawers — “I’ve got a quill here somewhere!” — and Dad bending over the fire, talking to...
Amos Diggory’s head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears.
“... Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems — please-men. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there-"
“Here!” said Mum breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Dad’s hands.
“— It’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” said Mr. Diggory’s head. “I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off - if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur-”
“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Dad, un-screwing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.
Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house but was ambushed by his dustbins.”
“What did the dustbins do?” asked Dad, scribbling frantically.
“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory. “Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up —”
Dad groaned. “And what about the intruder?”
“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?”
“Might be a caution,” Dad said, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?”
“I’ll bet he leaped out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window,” said Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there aren’t any casualties.”
“All right, I’m off,” Dad said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again.
Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Dad.
“Sorry about this, Molly,” he said, more calmly, “bothering you so early and everything... but Arthur’s the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to choose last night...”
“Never mind, Amos,” Mum said. “Sure you won’t have a bit of toast or anything before you go?”
“Oh go on, then,” said Mr. Diggory.
Mum took a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, and transferred it into Mr. Diggory’s mouth.
“Fanks,” he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a small pop, vanished.
Ron could hear Dad calling hurried goodbyes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the girls. Within five minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the right way now, dragging a comb through his hair.
“I’d better hurry — you have a good term, boys,” he said to Ron and the twins, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. “Molly, are you going to be all right taking the kids to King’s Cross?”
“Of course, I will,” she said. “You just look after Mad-Eye, we’ll be fine.”
As Dad vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the kitchen.
“Did someone say Mad-Eye?” Bill asked. “What’s he been up to now?
“He says someone tried to break into his house last night,” Mum said.
“Mad-Eye Moody?” said George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t he that nutter-”
“Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody,” Mum said sternly.
“Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” Fred said quietly as Mum left the room. “Birds of a feather...”
“Moody was a great wizard in his time,” said Bill.
“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” said Charlie.
“Dumbledore’s not what you’d call normal, though, is he?” said Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and everything...”
“Who is Mad-Eye?” asked Hermione, entering the kitchen with Ginny.
“He’s retired, used to work at the Ministry,” said Charlie. “I met him once when Dad took me to work with him. He was an Auror - one of the best... Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of enemies, though... the families of people he caught, mainly... and I heard he’s been getting really paranoid in his old age. Doesn’t trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere.”
Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needed to get to work.
“I just can’t justify taking more time off at the moment,” he told them. “Mr. Crouch is really starting to rely on me.”
“Yeah, you know what, Percy?” said George seriously. “I reckon he’ll know your name soon.”
Mum had braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them into London.
“Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us,” she whispered to them as they stood in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving six heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. “But there weren’t any to spare... Oh dear, they don’t look happy, do they?”
Ron frowned, getting the sense that Muggle drivers didn't like to transport overexcited owls, and Pig was making an earsplitting racket. Nor did it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks went off unexpectedly when Fred’s trunk sprang open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks clawed his way up the man’s leg.
The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that they were jammed in the back of the taxis with their trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover from the fireworks, and by the time they entered London, Ron and Hermione were both severely scratched. They were very relieved to get out at King’s Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks across the busy road and into the station.
Ron was used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part was unobtrusively doing this, so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups today; Ron and Hermione (the most conspicuous, since they were accompanied by Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks) went first; they leaned casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it... and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of them.
The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts. Pig became noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist.
"Hey guys!" Ron and Hermione turned to see Charles approaching them. "Shall we find seats? Wanna join us?" he added to Ginny, who shook her head. "No thanks, I have my own friends."
Ron scowled. She probably was going to go sit with Malfoy again. Hermione strode on his foot as a warning, and they set off to find seats. They were soon stowing their luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. They then hopped back down onto the platform to say goodbye to Mum, Bill, and Charlie.
“I might be seeing you all sooner than you think,” said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny goodbye.
“Why?” said Fred keenly.
“You’ll see,” said Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I mentioned it... it’s ‘classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all.”
“Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year,” said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.
“Why?” said George impatiently.
“You’re going to have an interesting year,” said Bill, his eyes twinkling. “I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it...”
“A bit of what?” Ginny asked.
But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mum chivvied them toward the train doors.
“Thanks for having me stay, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said politely as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out of the window to talk to her.
“Oh it was my pleasure, dear,” Mum smiled. “I’d invite you for Christmas, but... well, I expect you’re all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with... one thing and another.”
“Mum!” said Ron irritably. “What d’you three know that we don’t?”
“You’ll find out this evening, I expect,” said Mum, smiling. “It’s going to be very exciting - mind you, I’m very glad they’ve changed the rules-”
“What rules?” they all asked together.
“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you... Now, behave, won’t you? Won’t you, Fred? And you, George?”
The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to move.
“Tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts!” Fred bellowed out of the window as Mum, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them. “What rules are they changing?”
But Mum only smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated.
Charles, Ron, and Hermione went back to their compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle his hooting.
“Bagman wanted to tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts,” he said grumpily, sitting down next to Charles. “At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won’t say. Wonder what —”
“Shh!” Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. Charles and Ron listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door.
“. . . Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore - the man’s such a Mudblood-lover - and Durmstrang doesn’t admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn’t like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do...”
Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy’s voice.
“So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?” she said angrily. “I wish he had gone, then we wouldn’t have to put up with him.”
“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ron vaguely. “Where is it? What country?”
“Well, nobody knows, do they?” said Hermione, raising her eyebrows.
Charles said, “There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets."
“Come off it,” Ron said, starting to laugh. “Durmstrang’s got to be about the same size as Hogwarts — how are you going to hide a great big castle?”
“But Hogwarts is hidden,” said Hermione, in surprise. “Everyone knows that . . . well, everyone who’s read Hogwarts, A History, anyway.”
“Just you, then,” Ron scoffed. “So go on — how d’you hide a place like Hogwarts?”
“It’s bewitched,” said Hermione. “If a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying danger, do not enter, unsafe.”
“So Durmstrang’ll just look like a ruin to an outsider too?”
“Maybe,” said Hermione, shrugging, “or it might have Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it, they’ll have made it Unplottable —”
“Come again?”
“Well, you can enchant a building so it’s impossible to plot on a map, can’t you?”
“Er, if you say so."
“But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Somewhere very cold, because they’ve got fur capes as part of their uniforms.”
“Ah, think of the possibilities,” said Ron dreamily. “It would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident... Shame his mother likes him...”
The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Charles bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share.
Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, extremely forgetful boy who had been brought up by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was still squeaking “Troy — Mullet — Moran!” but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buried herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a Summoning Charm.
“Look at this...” Ron said, and rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack, pulling out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. Ron grinned, “We were in the Top Box-”
“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.”
Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently, they had overheard the conversation. through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar.
“Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” Charles said coolly.
“Weasley... what is that?” said Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon’s cage. A sleeve of Ron’s dress robes was dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious.
Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and pulled.
“Look at this!” said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, “Weasley, you weren’t thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean - they were very fashionable in about eighteen ninety...”
“Eat dung, Malfoy!” Ron snarled, the same color as the dress robes as he snatched them back out of Malfoy’s grip. Malfoy howled with derisive laughter; Crabbe and Goyle guffawed stupidly. Charles seemed angry, of course, but Ron could tell he found the robes absurd, as well.
“So... going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know... you’d be able to afford some decent robes if you won...”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Ron.
“Are you going to enter?” Malfoy repeated. “I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?”
“Either explain what you’re on about or go away, Malfoy,” said Hermione testily, over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.
A gleeful smile spread across Malfoy’s pale face.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he said delightedly. “You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don’t even know? And Potter, with the sort of family you've got... My God, my father told me about it ages ago... heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry... Maybe your father’s too junior to know about it, Weasley... yes... they probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of him..."
Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle, and the three of them disappeared.
Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding compartment door so hard behind them that the glass shattered.
“Ron!” said Hermione reproachfully, and she pulled out her wand, muttered “Reparo!” and the glass shards flew back into a single pane and back into the door.
“Well, making it look like he knows everything and we don’t...” Ron snarled. “‘Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry.’... Dad could’ve got a promotion any time... he just likes it where he is..."
“Of course he does,” said Hermione quietly. “Don’t let Malfoy get to you, Ron-”
“Him! Get to me!? As if!” said Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into a pulp.
Ron’s bad mood continued for the rest of the journey. Charles didn't mention the robe even once. Ron didn’t talk much as they changed into their school robes and was still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.
As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron left his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.
“Hi, Hagrid!” Charles yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.
“All righ’, Charles?” Hagrid bellowed back, waving. “See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!”
First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid.
“Oooh, I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this weather,” said Hermione fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Ron, Charles, Hermione, and Neville climbed gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle.
Ginny
"You okay, girl?" Amy asked worriedly. "I read your letter."
Ginny, Amy, and Josephine were sitting in a compartment together, and Amy was looking straight at Ginny. Josephine raised a curious eyebrow as Ginny shrugged. "Fine, I guess."
"What is it?" Josephine asked.
Ginny sighed and told her about the problems with Draco. Josephine was sympathetic but the strange thing was the look she shared with Amy. Ginny frowned. "What?"
"You sure you don't like him?" Amy asked bluntly.
Ginny blushed and spluttered. "W-what?"
Josephine shrugged. "It seems like you do. It's nothing to be ashamed of; I think he likes you back, too."
Ginny just shook her head vehemently. "No way do I like that git! And no way does he like me back. He's a Mafoy. I'm a Weasley!"
Amy smiled. "That doesn't interfere with his heart and feelings, does it? Just... talk to him. About what happened. Find out his position."
Ginny just pouted at her friends and grudgingly agreed to talk it out. They didn't refer to the subject again the whole ride.
Charles
Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Charles could see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps.
People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Charles, Ron, Hermione, and Neville jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase.
“Blimey,” said Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, “if that keeps up the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak — ARRGH!”
A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head and exploded. Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggered sideways into Charles, just as a second water bomb dropped - narrowly missing Hermione, it burst at Charles’ feet, sending a wave of cold water over his sneakers into his socks. People all around them shrieked and started pushing one another in their efforts to get out of the line of fire. Charles looked up and saw, floating twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again.
“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!”
Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.
“Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger —”
“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped, massaging her throat.
“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles.
“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall. “Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aimed another bomb at a group of second-years who had just arrived.
“I shall call the headmaster!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves-”
Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely.
“Well, move along, then!” said Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall, come on!”
Charles, Ron, and Hermione slipped and slid across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he pushed his sopping hair off his face.
The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer here. Charles, Ron, and Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and ensuring that his head didn’t wobble too much on his partially severed neck.
“Good evening,” he said, beaming at them.
“Says who?” Charles groaned, taking off his sneakers and emptying them of water. “Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I’m starving.”
The Sorting of the new students into Houses took place at the start of every school year, but by an unlucky combination of circumstances. Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table.
“Hiya, Charles!”
It was Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Charles was something of a hero.
“Hi, Colin,” said Charles warily.
“Charles, guess what? Guess what, Charles? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!”
“Er — good.”
“He’s really excited!” said Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. “I just hope he’s in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Charles?”
“Er — yeah, all right,” Charles said. He looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, had been fired last year. In his place sat a lady. Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there was another empty chair too, and Charles couldn’t think who else was missing.
“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Hermione, who was also looking up at the teachers.
They had never yet had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Charles’ favorite by far had been his uncle Remus, who had resigned last year. He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there.
“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!” said Hermione, looking anxious.
Charles scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway gray hair. She was talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra’s other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape - Charles' least favorite person at Hogwarts. Charles' loathing of Snape was matched only by Snape’s hatred of him.
On Snape’s other side was an empty seat, which Charles guessed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore’s long, thin fingers were together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. Charles glanced up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and he had never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed across it.
Beside Dumbledore was an empty seat, beside which sat Sirius, talking animatedly with Professor Septima Vector, the Arithmancy teacher, and beside her sat Professor Bathsheba Babbling, the witch who taught Runes.
“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, beside Charles, “I could eat a hippogriff.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Charles, Ron, and Hermione were wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school - all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was wrapped in what Charles recognized as Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it looked as though he were draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey’s eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and mouthed, I fell in the lake! He looked positively delighted about it.
Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard’s hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:
A thousand years or more ago, When I was newly sewn,
There lived four wizards of renown, Whose names are still well known:
Bold Gryffindor, from Wild Moor,
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,
Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.
They shared a wish, a hope, a dream, They hatched a daring plan
To educate young sorcerers
Thus Hogwarts School began.
Now each of these four founders Formed their own house, for each Did value different virtues
In the ones they had to teach.
By Gryffindor, the bravest were Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;
For Hufflepuff, hard workers were Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide
Their favorites from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones When they were dead and gone? ‘Twas Gryffindor who found the way, He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me So I could choose instead!
Now slip me snug about your ears, I’ve never yet been wrong,
I’ll have a look inside your mind
And tell where you belong!
The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished.
“That’s not the song it sang when it Sorted us,” Charles said, clapping along with everyone else.
“Sings a different one every year,” said Ron. “It’s got to be a pretty boring life, hasn’t it, being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one.”
Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment.
“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.
“Ackerley, Stewart!”
A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat down on the stool.
“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat.
Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him. Charles caught a glimpse of Cho, the Ravenclaw Seeker, cheering Stewart Ackerley as he sat down. For a fleeting second, Charles had a strange desire to join the Ravenclaw table too.
“Baddock, Malcolm!” “SLYTHERIN!”
The table on the other side of the hall erupted with cheers;
Charles could see Malfoy clapping as Baddock joined the Slytherins. Charles wondered whether Baddock knew that Slytherin House had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other.
“Branstone, Eleanor!” “HUFFLEPUFF!”
“Cauldwell, Owen!” “HUFFLEPUFF!”
“Creevey, Dennis!”
Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over Hagrid’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into the Hall through a door behind the teachers’ table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming — a misleading impression, for Charles, Ron, and Hermione knew Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. He winked at them as he sat down at the end of the staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opened wide —
“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted.
Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat, placed it back on the stool, and hurried over to join his brother.
“Colin, I fell in!” he said shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. “It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!”
“Cool!” said Colin, just as excitedly. “It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!”
“Wow!” said Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster.
“Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one with the black hair and glasses? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?”
Charles looked away, staring very hard at the Sorting Hat, now Sorting Emma Dobbs.
The Sorting continued; boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passed the L’s.
“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, massaging his stomach.
“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than food,” said Nearly Headless Nick as “Madley, Laura!” became a Hufflepuff.
“’Course it is, if you’re dead,” snapped Ron.
“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors is up to scratch,” said Nick, applauding as “McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table. “We don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?”
Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row.
“Pritchard, Graham!” “SLYTHERIN!”
“Quirke, Orla!” “RAVENCLAW!”
And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away.
“About time,” said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.
Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome.
"I have a small announcement to make before the food is served," he said, and most of the students let out an audible groan. Dumbledore chuckled. "This is quite exciting, actually. We have a transfer student from Ilvermony School of Witchcraft and Wizardry joining us this year, and she'll be starting fourth year. Welcome Bianca Joule!"
There were shocked cheers. Hogwarts didn't often take in transfers...
The doors of the Great Hall opened and entered a very pretty girl of fourteen. Her blonde hair was incredibly straight in a feather-cut, side-parted nicely. Her face was oval-shaped with soft features, and her eyes were amber. Her skin was olive, and she wore black robes that seemed to be new.
She walked confidently, straight to the stool and sat with the hat being dropped on her head by McGonagall. Everyone waited with bated breath, wondering which house she'd go to...
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The red table all exploded in loud cheers and Harry, Alicia, and the twins even stood up to whistle and cat-call. Bianca, smiling, made her way to the table and sat down beside Hermione, who had been waving and pointing at the seat.
As the cheers died, Dumbledore looked at Bianca, “Congratulations, Miss Joule, on making Gryffindor House. I hope your time here at Hogwarts enjoyable. I have only two words to say to all of you,” he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. “Tuck in.”
“Hear, hear!” said Charles and Ron loudly as the empty dishes filled magically before their eyes.
Nick watched mournfully as they all loaded their plates. Hermione extended a hand to Bianca. "I'm Hermione Granger, and these boys are Ronald Weasley and Charles Potter."
"Parvati Patil." Parvati introduced herself, as well. The others all introduced themselves, as well, and Bianca nodded. "It's nice to meet you all." Her accent was American.
"So," Hermione said, "Ilvermony, huh? That's the American school, isn't it?"
"It is," Bianca nodded.
"Why'd you change?" Ron asked curiously. "And right now?"
"My father works for a Traveling Agency. He has to move a lot. This is his newest location, and we decided it would be better for me to study at Hogwarts. Ideal for my brother, as well..."
"You have a brother?" Charles asked.
Bianca nodded. "Yeah, Nico. He's a wizard, we suspect. And an older sister Arizona, who's a muggle."
"You're muggleborn?" Hermione asked in surprise.
Bianca shook her head. "Half-blood, actually. My father's a muggle, and my mother's a squib of the pureblooded Joule family."
Charles hummed. "Oh."
"You’re lucky there’s a feast at all tonight, you know,” said Nearly Headless Nick suddenly. “There was trouble in the kitchens earlier.”
“Why? What happened?” Ron asked.
“Peeves, of course,” said Nick, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. “The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast — well, it’s quite out of the question, you know what he’s like, utterly uncivilized, can’t see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost’s council — the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down.”
The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He was the only person at Hogwarts who could really control Peeves.
“Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something,” Ron said darkly.
"Who's Peeves?" Bianca asked curiously. "And who're you, if I may inquire."
"This is Nearly Headless Nick," Hermione explained, "He's the Gryffindor Ghost. And Peeves is a poltergeist always creating mischief. Bloody Baron's the Slytherin Ghost, Friar is of Hufflepuff, and the Grey Lady is Ravenclaw's."
“So what did he do in the kitchens?” Charles asked.
"Oh the usual,” Nearly Headless Nick shrugged. “Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house elves out of their wits-"
Clang.
Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention.
“There are house elves here?” she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at Hogwarts?”
“Certainly,” said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”
“I’ve never seen one!” Hermione cried.
“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?” said Nick. “They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning... see to the fires and so on... I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?”
Hermione stared at him. “But they get paid? They get holidays, don’t they? And - and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?”
Nick chortled so much that his ruff slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck. Charles and Ron sighed and Bianca frowned in confusion.
“Sick leave and pensions?” Nick said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!”
Hermione looked down at her hardly-touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her.
“Oh c’mon, ’Er-my-knee,” Ron said, accidentally spraying Charles with bits of Yorkshire pudding. “Oops - sorry-" He swallowed. “You won’t get them sick leave by starving yourself!”
“Slave labor,” said Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor.”
And she refused to eat another bite.
The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings.
“Treacle tart, Hermione!” Ron said, deliberately wafting its smell toward her. “Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!”
But Hermione gave him a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that he gave up.
Bianca uncomfortably cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but... why do you care for the... I mean, I didn't think House elves were slaves..."
Charles took pity on her and quickly responded before Hermione. "It's not. Not really. House elves like to do the work, they're not forced. In fact, paying them or freeing them is the biggest insult to them ever. Almost worse than death."
Hermione looked furious, but a glance in Bianca's direction and she stayed quiet. They didn't wanna scare the poor girl off already.
When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.
“So!” said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. “Now that we are all fed and watered,” (“Hmph!” said Hermione) “I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.
“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch’s office if anybody would like to check it.”
The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched. He continued, “As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”
“What?” Charles gasped.
Harry yelled, "Impossible!" Fred and George were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak.
Dumbledore went on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts-"
But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.
A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, and then began to walk up toward the teachers’ table.
A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.
The lightning had thrown the man’s face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any Charles had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man’s eyes that made him frightening.
One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man’s head, so that all they could see was whiteness.
Charles felt a burst of excitement. Mad-Eye Moody?!
Moody reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words Harry couldn’t hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.
Moody sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.
Sirius started to talk to Moody, who snarked something back, and Sirius could be seen suppressing a snigger. Charles, with a jolt, realized that Sirius had been trained by Moody, being his apprentice (even though Moody was known to be very demanding), and that he and Sirius had not only been colleagues but also friends.
“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.”
It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore, Hagrid, and Sirius, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.
“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered. “What happened to his face?”
“Dunno,” Ron whispered back, watching Moody with fascination.
Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, and Charles saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”
“You’re JOKING!” said Fred loudly.
The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.
“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar...”
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.
“Er - but maybe this is not the time... no...” said Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament... well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.
“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities - until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”
“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Charles himself was far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.
“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.
“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”
“I’m going for it!” Fred hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, Charles could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once more.
“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put forth their names for consideration. This,” Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious, “is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no under-age student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion.” His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Fred’s and George’s mutinous faces. “I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.
“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”
Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.
“They can’t do that!” said George, who had not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”
“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!”
“Yeah,” said Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a thousand Galleons...”
“Come on,” said Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left here if you don’t move.”
Charles, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen from entering the tournament.
“Who’s this impartial judge who’s going to decide who the champions are?” Charles wondered.
"Dunno,” said Fred, "but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, George...”
"Dumbledore knows you’re not of age, though," said Ron.
"Yeah, but he’s not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?” George said shrewdly. “Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he’ll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore’s trying to stop us giving our names."
“People have died, though!” Hermione said in a worried voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.
“Yeah,” said Fred airily, “but that was years ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get ’round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?”
“What d’you reckon?” Ron asked Charles. “Be cool to enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want someone older... Dunno if we’ve learned enough...”
"I definitely haven’t,” came Neville’s gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. "I expect my gran’d want me to try, though. She’s always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I’ll just have to - oops...”
Neville’s foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville’s memory was notoriously poor. Charles and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.
“Shut it, you,” said Ron, banging down its visor as they passed. They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.
“Password?” she said as they approached.
“Balderdash,” said George, “Harry told me.”
The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Charles distinctly heard her mutter “Slave labor,” before bidding them good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls’ dormitory.
Charles, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed; Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of the West Ham football team was pinned right next to it.
“Mental,” Ron sighed, shaking his head at the completely stationary soccer players.
Charles, Ron, and Neville got into their pajamas and into bed. Someone - a house-elf, no doubt - had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside.
“I might go in for it, you know,” Ron said sleepily through the darkness, “if Fred and George find out how to... the tournament... you never know, do you?”
“S’pose not. . . .”
Charles rolled over in bed, a series of dazzling new pictures forming in his mind’s eye... He had hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he was seventeen... he had become Hogwarts champion... he was standing on the grounds, his arms raised in triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom were applauding and screaming... he had just won the Triwizard Tournament... Cho’s face stood out particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, her face glowing with admiration...
Charles grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad that Ron couldn’t see what he could.