A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood at the forefront—her silhouette from the firelight within was taut. Harry's gaze was drawn inexorably to the witch's stern countenance, her features chiseled and unyielding, a mask of determination and resolve. There was an intensity in her eyes, a fierce glimmer that spoke of a formidable intellect and unwavering resolve. In that moment, Harry knew instinctively that this was not someone to be trifled with, her presence commanding respect and obedience in equal measure.
"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."
With a decisive tug, she pulled the door open wide, revealing a sight that took Harry's breath away. The entrance hall stretched out before them, vast and imposing. It was a space so immense that it dwarfed the entirety of the Dursleys' mundane home, rendering it insignificant in comparison.
The stone walls rose high on either side, adorned with flaming torches that cast flickering shadows across the ancient stones. Their warm glow bathed the hall in an ethereal light, reminiscent of the torches that lined the corridors of Gringotts Bank, lending an air of mystique to the surroundings.
Above them, the ceiling soared to dizzying heights, disappearing into the darkness like an endless abyss. It was impossible to discern where stone met sky, creating the illusion of an infinite expanse that stretched far beyond the confines of the hall.
But it was the centerpiece of the entrance hall that truly captured Harry's attention—a magnificent marble staircase that ascended gracefully towards the upper floors of the castle. Each step was polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the dancing flames of the torches in a mesmerizing display of light and shadow.
As Harry took in the awe-inspiring sight before him, he felt a surge of excitement course through his veins.
They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right—the rest of the school must already be here—but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.
Harry noticed that the others were a rather large group of people—amidst all the faces he felt it difficult to perceive any one person specifically.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. This is not to say that you cannot intermingle between houses—this much will be expected of you as you navigate your scholastic term. But as we have ourselves a tournament with each of the houses as competitors throughout the school year, you may find yourselves aligning with your housemates more than you would think.”
Her eyes—emerald flickering like a cat’s scanned the faces out in front of her and Harry felt a sort of odd familiarity with those eyes, but he couldn’t place it directly. Before he could continue on that thought process, Professor McGonagall continued.
"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. Now, since you are first years, your contributions—and also as such, deductions, to the house point total will be...minimal. You are each new to magic and thus have much to learn. As you grow you will contribute to more and more of your house’s standing. That is not to say that you have no effect, but you will see as your skills and abilities grow, your effect on the end result shall similarly grow. Regardless of such, you will still be expected to follow the rules to the same degree.”
Harry felt it was a little unfair to consider his contributions less to the total, but...upon looking at all the faces in the crowd that seemed to be having similar thoughts, he guessed it was for a good reason.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I am unable to describe anything further about the ceremony until you see it so you’ll have to wisen up and prepare yourselves," Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair.
"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."
She left the chamber. Harry swallowed hard and felt the tension in the room increase tenfold.
"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron.
"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."
“Your older brothers went through it, right? Wouldn’t they know?”
“They refuse to talk about it—Mum and Dad too. I think there must be something preventing them from.”
“So how do you know Fred can talk about it?” Harry asked.
“I don’t think he is. I think you can joke about what it isn’t all you like.”
Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt. He certainly didn’t like the sound of that. What could it possibly be? A test? In front of the whole school? He had learned a few of the incantations that his Charms class would be expecting of him, but he had never actually practiced the movements that his textbook had specified. Much less did he remember what the majority of them were now. One was like...flip...something. Flippen? The pressure soon overcame what his memory had of the spell. He knew it had something to do with knocking back an opposing force, but what if the test had nothing to do with that? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they arrived.
He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one she'd need. Harry thought he heard something along the lines of “This should have been in the book…why wasn’t it there?”
Harry tried hard not to listen to her. He'd never been more nervous, never, not even when he'd had to take a school report home to the Dursleys saying that he'd somehow turned his teacher's wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come back and lead him to his doom.
Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the air—several people behind him screamed.
"What the—?"
He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance—"
"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost—I say, what are you all doing here?" A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.
Nobody answered.
"New students!" said the Friar, smiling around at them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"
A few people nodded mutely, nobody wanted to be the first to respond to the ghosts.
"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house, you know."
"Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall. "Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall told the first years, "and follow me."
Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.
Thousands upon thousands of candles danced in midair, their flickering flames casting a warm, golden glow that illuminated the hall in a mesmerizing display. Harry's breath caught in his throat at the sight, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the grandeur of his surroundings.
Four long tables spanned the length of the hall, each adorned with intricate carvings and draped in rich velvet tablecloths. The rest of the students sat scattered along the tables, their faces illuminated by the soft candlelight as they chatted excitedly amongst themselves.
These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars.
He heard Hermione whisper, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History." It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn't simply open on to the heavens.
Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a three-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it in the house, much less let it within her eyesight.
Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing—noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth—and the hat began to sing:
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
if you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Are driven by their passions
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"
The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.
"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to Harry. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."
“I couldn’t imagine…” Harry whispered back. He smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot better than having to do a spell, but he did wish they could have tried it on without everyone watching. The hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn't feel brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him.
Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Tamra!"
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moments pause—
"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat. “You’re loyalty stands as a paragon above all others. Your strong sense of justice easily lands you in the hands of Helga Hufflepuff.”
The table on the right cheered and clapped as Tamra went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Friar waving merrily at her.
"Bones, Susan!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Tamra.
"Boot, Terry!"
"RAVENCLAW! Your propensity for learning is obvious to me. Searching for the answers makes this one just as clear. To the house of Rowena Ravenclaw with you!"
The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.
“Brocklehurst, Amanda" went to Ravenclaw too, but "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see Ron's twin brothers catcalling.
“There’s a deep bravery within you,” The hat had said to Lavender Brown. “You don’t yet see it within yourself, but in due time you’ll clutch your courage as did my previous owner, sir Godric Gryffindor had!”
"Bulstrode, Millicent" then walked up and sat down on the uneven stool. “SLYTHERIN! Passion matches your resourcefulness one-to-one. No one would dare cross your path, but be wary, as passion often lies in solitude, just like that of the only founder who’s final resting place be outside these halls, Salazar Slytherin!”
He saw Millicent stand and walk over to the Slytherin table. She sat down next to a girl with long red hair and bright brown eyes—if Harry hadn’t known that Ron’s sister was back with his parents he would have thought she was another Weasley.
He felt a sickening sensation welling up in his chest. It was going to be some time before he was called up since they were going alphabetically. He remembered being picked for teams during gym at his old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not because he was no good, but because no one wanted Dudley to think they liked him.
A few more names had flown around but Harry had been too deep in his thoughts to put them to the faces that walked up, sat down, then stood back up.
He did recognize one of Malfoy’s posse—Crabbe, Vincent—get sorted into Slytherin, but he wondered what passion he had inside him.
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. "Finnigan, Seamus," the sandy-haired boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.
“Goldstein, Anthony!” The hat roared out next, who was very easily sorted into Ravenclaw.
Next after was Goyle, Gregory—the larger of Malfoy’s group. Similarly he was sorted into Slytherin, where he sat next to his mates almost immediately.
"Granger, Hermione!"
Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.
"RAVENCLAW!" shouted the hat. Ron ushered in a sigh of relief.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts have a way of doing. What if he wasn't chosen at all? What if he just sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he'd better get back on the train?
When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted, "GRYFFINDOR," Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag."
“RAVENCLAW!” The hat screamed.
Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with himself.
There was still quite the number of students left to sort, “Moon, Lucy”, “Neilson, Robert”, “Nott, Theodore”, “Orville, Henry”, “Parkinson, Pansy”, then a pair of twin girls, "Patil, Padma" and "Patil, Parvati" then "Perks, Sandy-Anne" and then, at last—"Potter, Harry!"
As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.
"Potter, did she say?"
“The Harry Potter?"
The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.
“Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, A my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting...So where shall I put you?"
Harry gripped the edges of the stool and his mind went blank...except for—
He caught a glimpse of Draco Malfoy seated at his table. He had a strange...almost hopeful look in his eyes. It wasn’t inspiring any sort of good feelings. He closed his eyes and in that instant anything but Slytherin would be good.
"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—no?”
Harry’s eyes opened inside his mind. He was staring into darkness as the voice he knew as the Sorting Hat’s spoke up louder in his mind. “Well, if you're sure—better be GRYFFINDOR!"
Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall as his eyes opened to the students all sitting in front of him. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"
Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff he'd seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he'd just plunged it into a bucket of ice-cold water.
He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once from the card he'd gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore's silver hair was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. Harry spotted Professor Quirell, too, the nervous young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking very peculiar in a large purple turban.
And so the names kept on coming just as they had before. “Asher Rhodes”, an androgynous wizard stood to the hall and joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. Then came “Rivers”, “Roper”, “Runcorn”, “Silver”, “Smith”, “Thalan”, all the way to "Thomas, Dean," a Black boy even taller than Ron which seemed to be a miracle in of itself. He was sorted into Gryffindor. Then came “Turpin, Lisa” a tall pale skinned French wizard who was sorted into Ravenclaw.
And then it was Ron's turn. The name Weasley had rung out through the halls no less than six times that Harry could count, and in each time it rung true to Gryffindor. Ron, himself had looked like he was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
The hall seemed to quiet—nobody knew how to react, but before Harry knew it, he was shoo’d off the stool by Professor McGonagall. Harry watched Ron shuffle awkwardly to the Hufflepuff table as the three other Weasley boys around Harry—Fred, George, and Percy—stared with utmost confusion as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.
Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago.
Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.
"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”
"Thank you!"
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not.
"Is he—a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly.
"Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"
Harry's mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.
It was astounding. One minute there wasn’t any food, and the next…
“It’s the house elves,” Percy explained, seeing Harry’s face. “They came with the Castle—but don’t let them know you know about them. Consider them Hogwarts’ companions.”
Hogwarts’ Companions? Just what could that have meant? He should have thought on it more, but the thoughts seemed to spill out of his head as the smell of all the food in front of him hit him like a train.
The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he'd never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if It made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.
"That does look good," said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak,
"Can't you—?"
I haven't eaten for nearly four hundred years," said the ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."
"I know who you are!" said Ron suddenly, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at the boy behind him. "My brothers told me about you—you're Nearly Headless Nick!"
“Ron! What are you doing over here?” Percy asked, a stern look on his face.
Ron looked as if he had stolen himself away, “They had me seated next to Justin. He wouldn’t stop talking about how his family was going to send him to Eton,” Ron spat out the word. I couldn’t get in a word edgewise—mind if I steal a seat here?”
“Lookit Ronnie! The Family’s first Huffiepuffie!” Fred called, and George offered a guttural laugh, then patted the seat next to Harry and a boy named Johan Thalan.
“Come here, oh, Mum’s gonna get a hoot and holler out of this one.”
Ron sat down, saying hello to Johan, and tried to avoid the attention that Fred and George’s catcalls were bringing.
"I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy—" the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted.
"Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?"
Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn't going at all the way he wanted.
"Like this," he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on their faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head back onto his neck, coughed, and said, "So—new Gryffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house championship this year? Gryffindors have never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron's becoming almost unbearable—he's the Slytherin ghost."
Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to see, didn't look too pleased with the seating arrangements.
"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest.
"I've never asked," said Nearly Headless Nick delicately. “But I assume it’s the person he killed’s—not his own blood, you see.”
When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding—"
As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.
"I'm half-and-half," said Seamus. "Me dad's a Muggle. Mom didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him."
The others laughed.
“Both of my parents are wizards,” Asher said, their voice was a little quieter than the rest, but they made an effort to speak up. “We’re out in London, so seeing a castle this big is entirely new to me.”
"What about you, Neville?" said Ron.
"Well, my gran brought me up and she's a witch," said Neville, "but the family thought I was all-Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me—he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned—but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced—all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here—they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad."
On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and a girl named Alice Runcorn were talking about lessons ("I do hope they start right away. I’m very excited to meet all the new professors."; "You'll be starting small, take it day by day and don’t shirk on your work—").
Across the table, one of the Patil twins, Parvati, sat with the girl named Lavender Brown. They had been talking amongst each other since they’d been sorted and he heard all sorts of giggling from their end of the table. A moment later and Harry saw a finger point in his direction and he knew the conversation had shifted to be about him, which caused him to look away, embarrassed.
Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, now that Harry got a closer look at him was wearing a pretty ornate looking turban. It must have been something he got on his trip to Albania Harry had remembered him talking about back in the Leaky Cauldron. Quirrell had been talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.
It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead. He got a stinging sensation in his head as if he wasn’t the only one in there. It lasted but a moment before the pain reached its peak.
"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.
"What is it?" asked Percy.
"N-nothing, just a headache, I guess," said Harry.
The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look—a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.
"Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy.
"Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to—everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape."
Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again. He felt the pinpricks of a chill remain on the surface of his flesh.
At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. Harry saw Ron sneak back over to the Hufflepuff table.
"Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Magic in dorm rooms for the purposes of practice is always encouraged, but be warned this does not excuse one from the consequences of their actions as a result of said magic.”
Harry looked into the aged man’s face and seemed enveloped by his candor.
"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. She will also be available during each of your Flying lessons. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.
"He's not serious?" he muttered to Percy.
"Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere—the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least."
As the candles flickered and cast dancing shadows upon the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall.
"I also wish to illuminate the intricate workings of our esteemed house points system." His words carried across the hall, enveloping the students in a sense of reverence and anticipation. With a wave of his wand, the hourglasses representing each house glowed softly, a visual testament to the significance of their collective efforts. Each had tiny gemstones inside to match the color of the houses—Gryffindors was a bright crimson, Ravenclaw’s a deep Sapphire, Hufflepuffs were an enamored Gold, and Slytherins were a brilliant Emerald.
"House points serve as the cornerstone of our community," Dumbledore continued, his tone solemn yet reassuring. "They are a reflection of your dedication to academic excellence, bravery, kindness, and adherence to our cherished values." As Dumbledore spoke, his gestures were graceful and purposeful, each movement imbued with a sense of profound significance. "At year's end, we gather to celebrate the achievements of our students," he proclaimed, his voice ringing out with pride. "And we award the House Cup to the house that has shown exemplary character and unity throughout the year."
Harry listened intently, his eyes fixed upon the venerable headmaster, hanging on his every word. With a final flourish of his wand, Dumbledore concluded his address, leaving the hall abuzz with anticipation for the adventures and challenges that lay ahead.
"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.
Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.
"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore with a bit of whimsy, "and off we go!"
And the school bellowed:
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.
Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.
"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
With Percy leading the way, the Gryffindor first years trailed behind him like ducklings following their mother, navigating through the bustling crowds of students that filled the Great Hall. Their voices mingled together in a cacophony of excitement and anticipation, creating a vibrant backdrop to the scene unfolding before them.
As they exited the Great Hall, Harry felt the weariness of the long day wash over him like a heavy blanket, weighing down his limbs and slowing his steps. The feast had been glorious, but now his stomach was full and his eyelids drooped with exhaustion.
Despite his fatigue, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder as they ascended the marble staircase, its polished steps gleaming in the dim torchlight. The portraits lining the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, their animated faces adding to the surreal atmosphere of the castle.
Twice Percy led them through hidden doorways, concealed behind sliding panels and intricate tapestries that seemed to shift and shimmer in the flickering light. Each secret passage revealed a new wonder.
Their journey seemed to stretch on endlessly, each staircase leading to another, until Harry found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. Yawns escaped him involuntarily, and he dragged his feet wearily, wondering how much farther they had left to go. It had been a very, very long day.
Just as Harry was on the brink of succumbing to sleep, Percy brought them to a sudden halt. The abruptness of the stop jolted Harry out of his drowsy stupor, his senses alert once more as he looked around, trying to discern the reason for their pause.
A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him.
"Peeves," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist." He turned to explain to the group. “Different than a ghost as it’s stuck here, built to annoy those that occupy within.” He raised his voice, "Peeves—show yourself"
A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.
"Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?"
There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.
"Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ittle bittle Firsties! What fun! What raucous fun!" He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.
"Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean it!" barked Percy.
Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Neville's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.
"You want to watch out for Peeves," said Percy, as they set off again. "The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects. Ah, here we are."
At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very large woman in a pink silk dress.
"Password?" she said with an air of integrity.
"Caput Draconis," said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. He turned to the first years and looked at them seriously, “The password to enter the dormitory changes on a weekly basis. I will be distributing the next week’s password on the Friday, before everyone’s first classes begin. So please make sure you’re around so you do not get locked out.”
They all scrambled through it—Neville needed a leg up—and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs.
Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the boys through another. Asher stopped him to question him on their placement, and he nodded, “We’ll get this sorted with Dumbledore. Hogwarts itself is a bit stubborn to change, but Dumbledore’s usually good at coaxing it into assistance.”
At the top of a spiral staircase—they were obviously in one of the towers—they found their beds at last: five four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.
“Food was great,” Seamus had said, then he looked over to Dean Thomas. “Better than anything you’ve had?”
“Marvelous,” replied Dean. He lay upright on top of his bed and was nursing his stomach which was plump full.
“You looked like you enjoyed it,” Johan had asked Harry. “I have to ask…do you have…” he made a motion toward his own forehead—pulling back the dark bangs across his eyes.
Harry nodded, quietly mirroring the motion with his own hand and the five other boys all gasped in shock and awe.
“My Dad told me the story about the whole legend.” Johan began. “Our whole family was in hiding during the worst of the fighting—they were a part of the cause, you see. So it really is an honor to meet you, My Dad would want me to tell you that.”
“T-Thanks,” said Harry, nervous. “I don’t really remember doing anything.”
“That’s the craziest part of it all,” said a boy named Robert Neilson. He had short cut hair and a strong build. “I couldn’t imagine not knowing.”
The talk continued for a few minutes longer, and Harry was going to ask about Asher who had left separately with Percy, but he fell asleep almost almost at once.
As Harry drifted into sleep, his mind swirling with the events of the day, he fell into a fitful slumber plagued by unsettling dreams. He found himself in an unfamiliar scenario, adorned in Professor Quirrell's turban—a strange and unsettling sensation that sent a shiver down his spine.
To his horror, the turban began to speak to him, its voice echoing with sinister undertones as it urged him to abandon Gryffindor and embrace Slytherin, claiming it was his destiny. Harry recoiled at the suggestion, his heart pounding in his chest as he vehemently protested against the turban's insidious whispers.
But as he resisted, the turban seemed to grow heavier upon his head, pressing down with an oppressive force that threatened to suffocate him. Desperate to free himself from its grasp, Harry struggled to remove it, only to find it tightening around his head, causing searing pain to shoot through his skull.
Amidst his struggle, he was confronted by the mocking laughter of Malfoy, whose sneering visage transformed into that of Professor Snape—the hook-nosed Potions Master. Snape's laughter pierced the air like shards of ice, sending a chill down Harry's spine as he writhed in agony.
Then, in a flash of green light, Harry was jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat and trembling with fear. The remnants of the dream lingered in his mind, haunting him with its ominous imagery and unsettling implications. As he struggled to calm his racing heart, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that his strange dream held a deeper significance—one that he couldn't yet comprehend. As the remnants of the dream faded he turned over and tried to hold his pillow tight. By the time he fell asleep again, the memory of the nightmare had long faded.