A/N: Chapter 2 has landed! Sorting incoming, and so the great question of which house Albus Potter falls to is upon us. Will it be Gryffindor? Possibly Slytherin? Who can tell?! And why does everyone keep checking out the Headmistress? Read on to find out...
'Well, I'm not sure that these carriages were meant for quite so many,' Cassie squeaked from where she was jammed up against the window to James' right.
In a fit of togetherness – and in spite of the fact that they had spent most of the trip through the countryside jabbing each other with that damned furry wand of Fred's – the group had decided to all catch the same carriage for their first journey to Hogwarts, wanting to share the moment as one. James had promptly decided that it was collectively their worst idea since the time somebody had hit Rain in the face with a snowball and began the Great Hogwarts Ice Age in their first year.
He was currently pressed into a rather chilly pane of glass, his view limited severely by Cat's cascade of platinum-blonde hair which rained down around his face from where she was sitting on his lap. Tristan was next to them, and James couldn't see but he was certain that he was taking up as much space as humanly possible. Clip and Holly were in a similar position opposite James, and his legs kept getting tangled up in the hems of their robes. Cassie had somehow managed to draw the short straw, and ended up with Fred's bottom alarmingly close to her face. She was practically clawing up the sides of the carriage to keep away from his furry wand, which was currently tucked carelessly into his waistband and swinging about dangerously as they passed over the many potholes on the tree-lined path.
Rain seemed to be the only one unfazed by the whole affair; perched in her own corner, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, looking out silently at the trees as they slid past them outside, eagerly awaiting their first glimpse of the castle from around the upcoming headland. James was trying to shoot her dirty looks from where he was sat, but Cat's infernal, never-ending curtain of hair kept tickling him every time he tried to move.
'One would think,' Rain began, shifting her scarf idly from within her irritatingly spacious corner, 'that at a magical castle, in a carriage pulled by magical creatures, surely somebody along the line would decide that it might just be a good idea to make said carriages a little more magically comfortable.'
'You don't say,' grumbled Cassie through a mouthful of Fred's behind.
'Ow!' cried poor Fred. 'Nobody likes a biter!'
'No,' mused Tristan, 'Father says it's the swallowers that everybody likes. Whatever that means.'
Rain made a sort of strangled cry which was cut off by a hacking cough. She banged her hand twice against the wall and, much to their immense relief, the carriage expanded comfortably to fit them all in. Cat shuffled down off of James' lap and he stretched his legs out happily.
'I didn't know they could do that,' Clip shot at her suspiciously. 'It never mentions any Undetectable Extension Charms, or anything of the like in Hogwarts: A History.'
'It isn't,' Rain stated simply. Now that she had even more space she was looking more princess-ly than ever. Her legs crossed like the perfect little lady, her heeled boots swaying in time with the carriage. Shoulders back, chin up, James had never seen anyone sit so straight.
'Wait, so you did this yourself?'
'Uh oh,' Cat piped up.
'Yes, I did. Only problem is that I often have a little trouble-'
Before she even finished the sentence the walls of the carriage, which Cat had previously seen twitching as if strained, sprung back to their original size. Bodies flew everywhere, James ended up face down on the floor, hair of three different colours enveloping his face and something rather hard and pointy jabbing him in the backside. All as one the group let out a groan of defeat.
'Ooh!' Cat yelled from where she had somehow managed to land atop them all. 'The castle looks so pretty tonight.'
James was still working out a crick in his back as they filed in to the Entrance Hall. Nobody was talking to Rain. James was also not talking to Fred, as that damn wand had been what was poking him in the bum, and now the seat of his pants were covered in a thick coat of lush green fur. His stomach was rumbling angrily; all he wanted to do was sit down, watch the sorting, and eat.
He cast a final glance back out towards the Black Lake as he crossed the threshold into the castle, seeing the dozens of pinpricks of light bobbing slowly across, making their own way up to the hulking, monolithic edifice where it clung to the hillside before them. He could just imagine their wide eyes and intakes of breath, nudging each other in the ribs and pointing up at this spire, or that window. Marvelling at the way the waning crescent moon was no doubt casting glimmering argent light across the ochre-hued, golden-lit building.
He wished he could be down there to share that moment with Al. Right before he'd push him in the lake, it would be nice to see that rapt wonderment on his little brother's face.
In spite of the incessant ribbing and joking, the teasing which had been the sole highlight to his otherwise forgettable summer, James was secretly hoping very hard that Al made it into Gryffindor. He had gone so far as to owl Cassie over the break – in private, of course – and ask her about any instances she knew of where brothers were in different houses. She had told him that it happened often, and research had shown that the frequency had been increasing following the Fall of Voldemort, now that old prejudices against house colours were beginning to die out within certain families.
That had hardly allayed his fears, and so he had set about setting Al secret "bravery tasks" throughout the course of the holidays, just to get him in the right frame of mind, to make sure that he was ready to show off that Gryffindor courage that James knew he possessed. There had been one time, where a gigantic spider had crawled out of Ron's jacket in the living room after a trip to South America on "Auror business". James had practically thrown Al into the room. His brother had squashed it with a book, no worries. Point for Gryffindor.
The remainder of the results had been a decidedly mixed bag. Al had run and hid when James pretended to be an intruder, but then he had beaten James mercilessly when he revealed that it was him all along. He had successfully asked Mum for more ice cream one evening when she was in one of those moods – something James had never been brave enough to do – but he had refused to chase after Lily the time that she ran into the woods behind The Burrow as night approached, deciding instead to stay indoors and read a book with Rose. Point to Ravenclaw.
James began to fidget as he dwelt on the topic longer. They were making painfully slow progress through the press and into the Great Hall. He prodded Cat in the ribs, gesturing to tell her to take a look at what was causing the hold-up, but she just shrugged.
Someone quite large trod on James' foot, and he swore angrily. He let out his anger by throwing an elbow into the stomach of a passing third year who had been relentlessly shoving everyone out of the way in front of him. The student – who was much larger than James had anticipated – began to turn around angrily, but the great roiling swarm of humanity swallowed him up long before any ill could become of it.
Fred had begun rooting around in his bag by the time their small group arrived at the doorway to the Great Hall. Before either of them could do anything about it, a pair of seventh-year students grabbed both of their arms in a painful grip, pulled up their sleeves, and stamped down hard onto the exposed flesh with a weighty contraption that looked somewhat like a bizarre potato-masher.
James cried out in momentary pain, looking down at the spot where he had been branded. The number "769" was already beginning to fade into his skin, and even as he watched, all trace of the marking was gone.
'What the-' Fred grunted, shoving the older student roughly, for all the good it did.
'They'll explain later. Now get.'
The two younger boys didn't need telling twice, and they scurried together to find their seats, as far up the Gryffindor table – and as close where the Sorting would take place – as they could get.
All thoughts of the branding, and even Al's impending sorting, were whipped from James' mind as he looked up the aisle to see the figure standing in front of the staff table.
Galatea Renshaw. Headmistress Renshaw, now.
She stood firm and implacable, her feet – planted shoulder width apart – were clad in knee-high lace-up black leather boots. She wore loose, black silk trousers and a black blouse, with silver scrollwork brocaded at the cuffs. A long, dark robe with a stiff, high collar was clasped at her breast by a four-coloured pin bearing each of the House mascots. Her lips – adorned in a midnight-purple paint – were pursed as she studied the students before her.
The edges of her robe, and a few loose strands of hair, stirred faintly in a breeze, the provenance of which James could not ascertain. Her face was lit by the candlelight, in a way that she may have hoped was benevolent, but to James it just looked sinister. Even in the way she stood, she betrayed a deadly, poised grace and elegance, as if she were but a split-second away from movement, equally ready to draw her wand or wrap a loved one in a hug, whatever the situation required.
If he hadn't seen it for himself last year, James would wonder if Renshaw even knew what a hug was.
He sat down under that iron gaze, feeling as if her eyes were boring into the side of his head as he very pointedly didn't look back at her. He wished he'd sat on the other side of Cat, a chance for that damnable hair of hers to come in handy for once.
All around the Hall the conversation was subdued, only the faintest confused and concerned murmurs rose up beneath the scrutiny of their Headmistress. But by her will alone, and the threat of invoking her frigid countenance, the chatter was kept to a bare minimum, and the last of the students eventually filed in with next to no fuss.
It was funny, James thought, that all of last year while Renshaw had been here, he had been so afraid of the Steelhearts. Now that they were gone, however, he realised that the scariest thing of all may actually have been their leader.
'Welcome!' she called to the Hall at large, silencing the whispers as if she had used a Charm. She broke from her repose and began to stride back and forth along the length of the staff table, casting her gaze carefully over each of the House tables in turn. She moved with fluidity, a lithe, casual elegance in the position of her shoulders, the sway of her hips captivating and almost sensual-
James stopped himself right there. He had most certainly not been thinking anything of the sort about his Headmistress.
'I am sure you all have a multitude of questions, and rest assured that I possess the answers. I am also sure that you are all aware that we have both students to Sort, and food to eat. Both of which take priority. So, without further ado, I give you Hogwarts latest attendees, our new first-years!'
A scattering of confused applause followed, cut short as the doors to the Great Hall slammed wide open, revealing a single file line of frightened-looking young students in all-black robes that seemed far too big on their scrawny frames. James shared a glance with Fred.
'We were never that small, were we?' he asked.
Herded in by an exasperated-looking Professor Plye, who was practically dragging a single, sopping wet boy with mousy-brown hair the first-years milled about expectantly, three-quarters of the way to the front of the room. None appeared brave enough to get any closer to Renshaw, who was impatiently tapping a heeled boot on the flagstones where she still stood.
'Come on then, children, don't be shy. I don't bite, you know. Professor Plye does though, you've got to watch out for him.'
That produced a round of chuckles from the crowd, as James was sure he wasn't the only one to have been caught out and humiliated for being late to one of their Transfiguration classes.
Plye, much to his credit, managed to briefly partially transfigure either his head or his robe – James wasn't sure which – into something resembling a giant shark. He snapped a couple of times at the first-years, who scampered all the way up to where the Sorting Hat awaited them, to a chorus of raucous laughter from the older students, Renshaw's melodious tone ringing out over all of them.
And just like that, she had won the students over.
From there, the Sorting began in earnest. The Hat, which may have been under strict instruction from Renshaw, had kept its song mercifully brief. It hinted at times of change and excitement, and a wealth of opportunity for all. It cautioned against allowing old rivalries to reinstate, and urged them all that they, the students, were the ones who would lead the magical world into the new age of peace.
All in all, James thought, rather a dull affair.
No sooner had Abercrombie, Aidan been sorted into Hufflepuff than James began to hear a very familiar clinking of metal flitting about the Hall around him.
Everywhere he looked, from the corner of his eyes he caught tiny glints of silver and gold. Brief, intermittent, mocking flashes of light teasing him with their coy winks. Up and down the Gryffindor table, between students seated all around them the coins began to change hands. Now that he was not among the terrified first-years, and scared out of his mind, he was able to notice some semblance of a pattern emerging; the coins were flowing largely in one direction, towards certain figures interspersed up and down the tables, who sat with suspiciously weighty-looking satchel bags next to them. The Galleons flowed upstream into those bags, where they were deposited, and as each student was sorted, a certain amount – calculated at a speed that would make any muggle maths professor raise their eyebrows – was then sent back along the line, into the waiting and eager paws of the winning bettors.
Even just watching it take place made James feel a little sick, as it mercilessly dug up all of the bitter memories of the Lenders from his first year; the way he had felt so used and so useless, how they had been but pawns in their game, all for the sake of a few Galleons more.
He wondered how the other students could not see what he saw; that in their greed and disgusting lust for thrills and instant gratification, they were so blind to the way the gold flowed. The stream to the bookkeepers was steady and wide, a great broad river fed my hundreds of tributaries throughout the room. It raged and seethed, collecting all in its path who had not the will to stand against it. Detritus of whispered hopes and silent wishes were gathered up and ruthlessly drowned in the frothing flow, for there was no regard for the whims of the individual in the maw of a behemoth such as this.
It was the return flow that so enraptured James; the way that not even a quarter of the coins that made their way into those ever-growing money bags found their way back out. He knew not the odds that were offered – he had no desire to – but he could see the futility of it painted so clearly before them in a picture so vivid that it made him want to scream at the fools, for all that they were doing was feeding the beast, a beast with the power to take over them all.
He tore his eyes away, gripping his empty goblet with white-knuckled fury. Cat, sensing his anger, ran her fingers gently along his forearm, making soft, crooning sounds to soothe him. The soft pattern she traced against the dark fabric of his robe seemed to leave a lingering tingle, which flooded outward from her fingertips and eventually began to warm him from within.
The table erupted around him as Jaime-Lee Creswell was sorted into Gryffindor – their first student of the pack. He joined in as the slender blonde-haired girl flounced past him so seat herself among a group of exuberant fourth-years further down the table.
Despite the fact that he was pointedly ignoring the Lenders' gambling, James' tensions continued to rise throughout the sorting. Potter, Albus was fast approaching on the lengthy list of prospective Gryffindors, and James had begun reliving all of the times that he had teased Albus about not making it into his house. The aim had been for him to stand up to James, to tell him to shut up and that he'd damn well be in Gryffindor because he was a Potter and that's where Potters went, but all it seemed to have achieved was to make Al more nervous about the whole affair.
Funny, that.
Which house were the worriers? James wondered. Cassie did a lot of worrying, mostly about grades and teachers and creased pages in her books. Al liked his books as well. Did that mean he was going to be a Ravenclaw? James knew he should have pulled him away from Rose and all of their reading that they did all summer.
He wondered if they ever did transfers; if the Sorting Hat got it wrong every once in a while and they had to switch the students out. James was sure that if Al ended up in Ravenclaw that they'd soon see that he didn't belong. Maybe he could talk to Renshaw about it. She had seemed… reasonable from what he recalled of their bedside chat at the end of his first year.
James didn't think that Al really fit the bill for Hufflepuffs, he just didn't seem… Hufflepuff-ey enough. They were all such a friendly, jovial bunch most of the time. Often outgoing, with big personalities, a helpful sort. That didn't seem to fit Al at all; he was much more quiet, reserved, going about his business behind the scenes and not making a fuss to get what he wanted.
A lot like Holly, now he thought about it. Now that was a concerning thought, what if Al was put in Slytherin? James knew it was just like any of the other houses, and Aunt Hermione – and Dad as well – would chastise him for even thinking differently, but there was just something about them. Perhaps it was the fierce rivalry between their respective Quidditch teams, exacerbated now by the fact that Odette Mansfield was the biggest Trolls-bottom on the planet, or perhaps it was the dark connotations he couldn't help but draw to Wren and Nero – his sponsors-turned-enemies from last year who seemed to embody the dark, broody, ominous nature that many Slytherins still strove for.
Scorpius Malfoy just received an uproarious cheer from the Slytherin table, and he strode over without casting a glance at any of the other houses, his upturned nose and pointed features dripping sheer entitled indifference. What if Al ended up friends with him? Uncle Ron had warned them about the Malfoys; he said their father was a right piece of work. And they had more dollars than sense, whatever that meant.
'Oi!' Fred hissed across the table, punctuating it with a kick to James' shin that snapped him out of his reverie. 'I can practically see the grey hairs sprouting on you. Relax, Al will be fine. It's Rosie I'm worried about. Those damn Ravenclaws will be drooling all over their library books to get their hands on her.'
James emitted a half-hearted bark of laughter, and gave a smile which didn't reach his eyes. For some reason he couldn't stop picturing Al in a green-hemmed school robe, linked arm in arm with Scorpius Malfoy as they pranced about the school together, raining haughty disregard upon all and sundry who got in their way.
He tried to shake the thought, ludicrous as it was. He made to take a drink of his pumpkin juice, before realising that his goblet was still empty. Frowning, he turned to Cat, unable to even watch now as Porter, Nancy made her way over to the Ravenclaw table.
'Potter, Albus!' barked Professor Plye in his no-nonsense, clipped tone. Al, looking as if he wanted to shrink into the folds of his robes and disappear in a cloud of smoke, staggered forward in a not-at-all brave manner. James bit his lip and Cat reached for his hand under the table, giving it a firm squeeze and latching on to his arm in anticipation.
Fred's fingers were tapping a repetitive rhythm, drumming into the table. The noise seeming strangely loud to James, even over the flurry of whispers that had arisen at the sound of the Potter name. The flow of coins had increased dramatically, and the bookkeepers were having to employ folds of robes and bulging pockets now to store the excess Galleons headed their way.
James' leg was tapping, in time with Fred's fingers on the table. Tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. Over and over. The sorting hat fell down around Al's ears, covering his eyes in a way that would be comical if it weren't so damned tense. His body language was taut and hunched, defensive. Not the bold and brazen confidence of a Gryffindor, James thought. Even from this distance he could note the furious grip that Al had on the edges of the Stool of Sorting. He was pulling the face that James knew he made when his teeth were gritted, usually when he was arguing a point with Mum.
Was the Hat trying to send him to Slytherin? James cast his gaze wildly around the room, trying to find Rain. She had done something last year. It had looked like she had been arguing with it as well, and she had won. Could she do it again? He kicked himself for not asking her beforehand; he should have been prepared for this.
A single bead of sweat was rolling down Al's face now – or was it a tear because he had been sent to Slytherin and the Hat was yet to tell them all. The wait was killing James. Cat let out a pained little squeak beside him, and he realised that he had been crushing her hand in his grip. He shot her a sheepish smile and lessened off the pressure.
Up on the Stool, Al let out a sigh, and his body sagged. Was that relief? Or defeat? James was leaning forward in his seat, his breath held along with the rest of the room. Even Renshaw had inclined her head a fraction in Albus' direction.
Then, finally, the Hat spoke.
'Gryffindor!'
Warm waves of relief washed over and through James. He stood up, leading the applause, which was exuberant all up and down the Gryffindor table. Fred let off a couple of miniature Wildfire Whizbangs which he had been stashing in his bag, and the coins flowed once more out and along the tables, the glint of gold reflecting alongside the crimson flowering down the hems of Albus Potters robe.
The Sorting carried on, and Ravenclaw claimed six students in a row – a new record, according to an older Gryffindor who had placed money on such an eventuality – but missing out on the coveted Rose Weasley, who got a cheer almost as loud as Al had as she scurried over to join them, a brilliant flush colouring her cheeks. She squirrelled in between Al and cousin Victoire, just across the table from James. He surveyed the room in delight as food began to appear up and down the tables. All together once more.
'So Al, Rose,' Fred managed around a mouthful of chicken wing, a baked potato held lovingly in his off hand. 'Have you worked out how you're going to get past the troll yet?'
This elicited a pair of blank, yet frightened looks. James, well prepared for this eventuality, dove in with glee.
'Yea, ever since Dad, Uncle Ron and Hermione beat that one in their first year, they made it the new guard to Gryffindor common room, just to show that you really are brave. Only for first-years, though. I've already beat mine. Did it the fastest out of anyone.' He puffed his chest out in mock-pride, shooting a sly wink Fred's way.
'I- I never read anything about a… a Troll,' Rose stammered, looking terrified. Albus dove for his bag, coming up with a rather thick volume labelled only: Notes on Hogwarts – AP/RW.
The pair, like the good little bookworms they were, began furiously flicking through their notebook, trying to find mention of battling a troll. James thought he was about to pull a face muscle from trying not to smile. Victoire was looking on concernedly; James hoped she would stay out of it.
'I led mine off a moving staircase,' Clip provided in a very grave tone. 'Didn't have a single spell to my name, just walked him right off, six floors he fell. Lost ten House Points though, they had to get a new troll after that.'
Al had a comical look of disbelief on his face. Rose's mouth was opening and closing, refusing to emit any sound.
'But dad- dad said- the portrait- there's no-'
'Dad can't tell us everything,' James teased. 'Some things have to be a surprise, otherwise Hogwarts would be boring. That'd be no fun at all.'
'I think I'm going to be sick,' Rose groaned.
It wasn't until halfway through dessert, when Fred had wrapped up a tale of little Jimmy Johnson, who hadn't been able to beat the Troll and spent the entire year sleeping in the corridor, that Victoire finally drove a nail through the heart of their fun.
'You must not make such fun children, there eez no troll. Eet eez just a jest, your brother is being cruel.'
Ugh, James mentally sighed. She was doing the accent thing. She did that when she was smug. She used to do it all the time when she babysat them, and got to tell them what to do. James shot her a hurt look, and she smiled playfully, tossing her lustrous golden hair with a musical laugh. He didn't miss the look she shot up towards the staff table, either. Suspiciously close to where a very worse-for-wear Zoe Meadows was not touching her dinner, but drinking deeply from her goblet and swaying slightly in her chair. James proffered a small wave, but received only a scowl in response.
Before he could dwell on what exactly was causing his favourite teacher so much distress, the food before them disappeared from their plates, coinciding with Renshaw standing up from her own chair. A predatory smile danced across her painted lips, and the soft shimmering of her silken outfit flickered beneath the candlelight.
An immediate hush descended like a blanket upon the students. Frozen silence reigned as a thousand pairs of eyes tracked a solitary figure as she strode languidly around to the awaiting podium to give her opening address.
'Welcome, each and every one of you, to what promises to be the most exciting year for Hogwarts in a long time! Look around at all of your smiling faces, take a moment in introduce yourselves if you haven't already, and give each other a pat on the back, for this is the first year in recorded history that Hogwarts will be home to over a thousand lovely students!'
A hesitant chatter bubbled to the surface, interspersed by yet more clinking of coins. Seriously, was there anything one couldn't bet on? The noise died down instantly again as Renshaw opened her mouth to speak. James' stomach chose that instant to let loose a loud, contented groaning noise that sounded far more like the Bloody Baron rattling his chains than a happy stomach.
He could practically hear Cassie rolling her eyes across the room from where she sat.
'Thank you for that, Mister Potter. Now, may I start with the customary warning to all first-years, and those with selective memory, that the Forbidden Forest remains very much Forbidden, and access to the eighth floor is only granted with express permission of, or accompaniment by, a member of staff, and only if that student is second year or above.'
She paused here to cast a lingering glance out over the students arrayed before her. The warning shot in her tone was underscored by the smouldering heat that simmered behind her eyes. Forgoing the lectern, she strode forth, pacing slowly between the house tables. She effortlessly slipped into that relaxed elegance, her body forsaking her forty-something years to assume the form of something much younger. James caught more than a few of the older students throwing lingering glances at the way her hips rolled, and the way the light lovingly caressed them, before snapping themselves out of it, identical looks of horror writ plainly on each of their faces.
'Now, I'm sure that there are many among you who are wondering about the markings, the numbers given to each of you upon your entry to the Great Hall today. Fear not, for there is nothing ominous to be said! They are, quite simply, a number from one to one thousand and seventeen. One for each student sat within the halls, from the Head Girl down to our newest first-year.
'This is the introduction of a system which has seen remarkable success, which I have seen with my own eyes adopted by several Magical School in the United States. Each of you have been given your individual Student of Hogwarts Identification Tag, and this number shall stay with you for the duration of your stay. Through it, we will be able to see how you perform in each of your classes. We will be able to have access to a living, breathing, magical database of information on every single student. We will see how they perform in each class, which grades they receive on each essay, how many House points they have earned or lost throughout the year. In short, we can track everybody's learning experience, and tailor it much more finely to the individual, to ensure that everybody gets the most out of their time at Hogwarts.'
Her footsteps ceased momentarily, and James could have fallen into the void of empty silence that was engulfing the room. He felt two firm hands plant themselves on his shoulders, and the scent of lavender and eucalyptus wash over him in dizzying waves.
'Take, for example, young Mister Potter, with the chatty stomach.' She paused, and scattered laughter dotted the room. Those who laughed looked shocked at themselves, as if they had been unaware they had even made the sound. Her fingers began to work slowly and deftly against his skin, massaging his shoulders gently, sending enervating waves of relaxed pleasure pulsing through him. He found himself sinking into her grip before he even knew what was happening.
'If we discover that Mister Potter has a tendency to lose an inordinate amount of House points in December, then we might need to pull him aside and have a chat to him about Christmas cheer. If we find that he has a propensity for achieving "T's" on his essays every time a Quidditch Match comes around, then we might just have to have a sit down and talk about the benefits of a well-rounded education. In short, we can adapt each learning experience, tailor it to suit each and every one of you. In spite of the fact that Hogwarts numbers continue to grow, we will be offering the most personal learning experience in history!'
She released James from her grip, and he fell forwards, his muscles feeling extremely relaxed and devoid of energy. He found himself, quite inexplicably, suddenly of the opinion that this new system was going to be the best thing to happen to Hogwarts since they increased the Quidditch Match Schedule from six games to eighteen.
'This is just one of the many new and exciting changes that we have made to the school this year. There are more classes, more clubs, and more opportunities to learn and work and be engaged. For far too long Hogwarts has remained stagnant, relying solely on her reputation to hold up her claims of grandeur and excellence. We have seen through that flimsy façade, and are here to change that before it's too late. We have the best teachers in the world! We have the best students in the world! And we are going to make sure that from now on, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is going to provide the best learning experience in the world!'
As she finished with a flourish and a graceful bow James found himself among the few students who were clapping. Most were just looking on, stunned. A few were glancing down at their forearms and then back up at the Headmistress, as if they were still having trouble processing all that she had said. Cat was shooting him a filthy scowl for his overt of Renshaw, arguably Luna's – and by extension Cat's – least favourite person on the planet, for reasons as yet unspecified.
The dismissal in her gesture was evident to the students, and so, befuddled, confused and far too full of good food, they waddled out as a seething mass and made their way to their respective dormitories. Al and Rose deviated off to follow Victoire, Dominique and the other Gryffindor Prefects, all of whom were yelling out the less important notices and information for their own houses to hear. James lost himself in the middle of a pack of Gryffindors, trapped in a cycle of his own thoughts, and wondering just where he would fit in in this new dream of a brand new, re-modelled Hogwarts. He hoped to Merlin that it would still be the home that he so needed it to be.
