Harry Potter and the Exchange Student
by Christine Morgan
christine@sabledrake.com
http://www.christine-morgan.org



*
Author's Note: the characters of the Harry Potter novels are the property of their creator, J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. All other characters property of the author, with the exceptions of Becca Morgan and her parents, who are themselves. November 2001. 35,000 words.
*
For Becca, with love.
*

Chapter Three – A Late Sorting

The Great Hall at Hogwarts was a single long room, its ceiling enchanted to reflect the state of the night sky. By the time the first years were ushered in to be Sorted, that ceiling had gone pitch black, speckled with stars and the grinning arc of a crescent moon.
Candles hung suspended in midair above the four long tables, where the students of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin sat in boisterous black-robed ranks. The start of a new term was always a festive occasion, an excitement shared even by the spectral silver forms of the House ghosts who flitted insubstantially around, above, and sometimes through the tables.
At the head of the room, set crosswise to the rest, was the teachers' table. Harry caught the twinkling eye of old Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, and they shared a private smile over triumphs and trials past. Madame Hooch, the flying instructor and Quidditch coach, was rubbing her hands together briskly, looking forward to a new season of practices and games. Harry looked quickly past the dour presence of Professor Severus Snape, partly because Snape seemed to sit wrapped in a deep chill that warmed only when he looked at the Slytherins, and partly because he still couldn't get his head around the idea of Snape liking a girl. Or a girl liking Snape, for that matter.
The new teacher was present also. Reginald Winterwind still looked like a Hufflepuff student. Although he had to be Snape's age or close to it, his soft, unlined face could have passed for a sixth-year. He was short, too, not diminutive as Professor Flitwick but nowhere near as tall as Snape, and had a meek and unassuming manner about him. He looked the sort of man who couldn't speak above a murmur, given the way Professor Sprout, who taught Herbology, had to lean close and cup a hand to her ear when she spoke to him.
Ron was squirming in his seat, half-rising and peering about and fidgeting until Fred Weasley accused George of putting magical itching-powder in Ron's robes.
"I was looking for the American," Ron explained when Hermione hissed at him to sit down and hold still. "But I can't see --"
"For goodness' sake, Ron," she said, "how could you tell one apart in this mob?"
"Well, there'd be a cowboy hat, wouldn't there?"
"Surely you don't think all Americans are from Texas!" Hermione said.
Harry laughed. His gold plate gleamed invitingly in front of him. Months of deprivation at the Dursleys had left him with a hunger that not even two weeks with the Weasleys and gorging on sweets on the train could fill. He was looking forward to the moment when Dumbledore would signal the beginning of the feast and the platters would fill by magic with all manner of delicious edibles.
But first, the Sorting. Professor McGonagall had lined up the first-years and a hush fell as she brought out the battered old Sorting Hat. She placed it on a stool, and wonder dawned on the faces of the young students as the hat stirred, a mouth opened in it, and it burst into song.
Then, one by one, she called each child up onto the stool and set the hat upon his or her head. The hat considered, sometimes short, sometimes long, before announcing in a loud clear voice the name of one of the four Houses. Harry wondered what would happen if the hat couldn't decide, or what they'd ever do if a year came in which one of the Houses received no new students. That would complicate things. But the Sorting Hat seemed to have it all well under control.
A batch of thrilled-looking Gryffindors joined their table, accepting back-claps and handshakes and warm greetings. A babble of expectation arose as everyone reached for forks or spoons or goblets, ready for the feast.
Professor Dumbledore rang his spoon against the side of his empty crystal glass. He stood, a stooped but powerful figure, the most wizardly-looking wizard Harry could ever have imagined with his wine-colored robes and his magnificent long white hair and beard.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he proclaimed, beaming out at them. "I'm pleased to have you all with us, again or for the first time. I know you're all hungry, but if you'll bear with me a moment longer, I have some announcements to make."
As Dumbledore went through the usual business about how the forest was off-limits, and introduced Reginald Winterwind, Harry felt a prickling chill as of eyes upon him. Almost against his will, he made himself look toward Snape, sure that Snape would be glaring hatefully at him as if he thought Harry were somehow responsible for Winterwind being given the DADA job instead. But Snape's attention was fixed on Dumbledore. To Harry's consternation, it was Professor Trelawney who was staring fixedly at him.
The Divination teacher was a slight birdlike woman with a vast cloud of moonlight-colored hair, and dark mournful eyes behind huge glasses. She instructed the students in tea-reading, crystal-gazing, astrology, and the like, and never missed an opportunity to predict Harry's gory death.
He shivered and hoped she wasn't about to start that up again.
"And one final matter," said Dumbledore, smiling benignly, "the final one, I promise, because I can hear your stomachs rumbling even from here. We're quite pleased to have another new student with us this year."
Here, Ron perked up and began scanning the room for cowboy hats again, while Hermione gave him a look.
"An exchange student from America," Dumbledore went on. "I expect you to extend every courtesy that you would to one of our own and join me in giving a warm Hogwarts welcome to Miss Rebecca Morgan."
Scattered applause broke out, scattered because everyone in the room was straining to see over the heads of everyone else. The doors at the back had opened again, and Hagrid was bringing in a girl about Harry's age. She wasn't wearing a cowboy hat, to Ron's disappointment and Hermione's smug told-you-so, but had on plain black robes and a hat just like the rest of them. The only difference was that where a House patch would have been, she had a small pin in the shape of a red, white, and blue flag.
She had hair similar to Hermione, light brown and a bit unkempt, though no one in all of Hogwarts (except, of course, for Hagrid) could rival Hermione's hair for wild bushiness. Rebecca Morgan looked fairly nervous, and Harry didn't blame her. He remembered what it had been like when he first walked into this Hall with everybody staring, and then they'd also had an entire class of other first-years. To come in alone like that really took courage.
And then, everyone saw what was perched on her arm, and the polite applause turned to a universal gasp of astonishment. Now Harry could see why Hagrid was grinning like a fool.
A tiny dragon rode on Rebecca's left forearm. It was silver as a brand new Sickle, with a long arched neck, a long coiled tail, and wings that folded against its back. Its red eyes sparkled like rubies as it raised its head high to return all the amazed, curious stares.
"It can't be," hissed Hermione. "Dragons are illegal!"
"But it's a dragon, all right," said Ron. "Do you think Dumbledore knew?"
"Of course," said Harry.
Similar statements were being uttered all around the room. When Rebecca Morgan reached the front and climbed the steps to where Professor McGonagall was waiting, the little dragon reared up and flapped its wings, which were silvery but thin membranes of skin through which they could see the candlelight shining.
"Although not a first year," Professor McGonagall said, ignoring the little dragon as it settled back onto the girl's arm with a chirruping hiss, "we still must determine which House Miss Morgan will join."
She held up the Sorting Hat, and Rebecca sat down apprehensively, stroking the dragon between its wings to soothe it. At a throat-clearing "Ahem," from McGonagall, she shook her arm and cast the dragon skyward. Everyone watched, Hagrid most intently of all, as it sprang into the air and flew over them, circling, coming to rest on one of the enchanted roofbeams to give the illusion it sat on nothing but night air.
The Sorting Hat happily repeated its song and Professor McGonagall lowered it onto Rebecca's head. On a first-year, the brim would slide down over the eyes, but it fit this older student passably well.
Harry noticed that Professor Trelawney was now watching the new girl with the exact same expression of dread she'd had when looking at him. He forgot all about it, though, as the hat strongly cried out, "Gryffindor!"
He joined the rest in cheering as the flustered American girl went where she was pointed, and slid onto a seat at the end of the table. She was immediately surrounded, not only by Gryffindors but by people leaning over from other House tables too.
Dumbledore rang for silence again and got it with a little more difficulty this time. "I suspect," he said, still wearing that benign smile, "that most of you are coming at Miss Morgan from all sides with questions about her pet. Let me assure you, I have not forgotten England's ban on dragons. I consulted with the Ministry of Magic on this and it is our conclusion that Miss Morgan's pet, being a drake, is not in violation of the law."
Hundreds of people asked "what's a drake?" in the same breath. Dumbledore chuckled.
"A drake," he said, "is a dragon in miniature. That fellow up there --" here he raised a hand ceilingward and the silver creature warbled as if in reply, "—is as big as he's going to get. He also cannot breathe fire. Drakes are tamable, trainable, and their claws and teeth are no more dangerous than those of a cat or an owl."
He waved for silence again, as now everyone was wanting to know where they could get one.
"That, I'm afraid, I cannot answer. They're not native to England and are found primarily on the western coasts of the Americas. Now, with that settled, let the feast begin!"
A clap from his wizened hands, and the tables were laden with everything from piping-hot soup to freezing-cold ice cream. Utensils clattered as everyone dug in with a will. At the end of the table, Harry could hear his classmates chattering excitedly with the new girl, heard her say that she usually went by just Becca, that she was from a place called Seattle, and that her drake's name was Quicksilver.
Then, someone eager to impress her tugged on her arm and pointed at Harry, and Harry heard his own name mentioned. What came next was incredible.
"Who?" Becca asked, cocking her head. "Harry Potter? Who's that?"
Dumbstruck silence fell at that end of the table. Every wizard-born person grew up hearing how Harry had miraculously survived Voldemort's attack, and once he'd come to Hogwarts his exploits had only increased the myth. Even the ones with Muggle parents were soon told all there was to tell about Harry Potter. The only wizard he'd ever known who hadn't been told the whole story was himself.
"I am," he said in reply to her last question.
People scooted out of the way. Somewhat bewildered, Becca nodded to him. "Hi."
"Don't they teach you anything in America?" Hermione asked. "Why, my parents are dentists and I didn't know the first thing about wizardry until I got my letter, but by the time I was on the train to Hogwarts, even I'd heard all about Harry."
"My mom's a writer and my dad runs a game store," Becca said. "They were always kind of weird, but since there's not much real magic where I come from, nobody knew just how weird. I've been trying to catch up."
"Show her the scar," urged Colin Creevey, one of Harry's most ardent fans whom he just could not seem to shake.
Colin and his camera, and his push to start a Hogwarts school newsletter or, even better, a yearbook … between him and Ginny, really, Harry was almost refreshed to meet someone who didn't know all about him. But, because half the table was now seconding Colin's suggestion, Harry sighed and pushed up his bangs in a gesture that had become very familiar. Underneath the straight black hair, the zigzag of his scar stood out against his skin.
Becca regarded it and looked suitably impressed. "That must've hurt. Mine's just a birthmark, yours is neater, but it's still kind of cool." With that, she flipped her hair back from the left side of her face. Around the corner of her eye, very faint, was a rosy patch. "Mom calls it a stork bite."
Nobody seemed to know what to say to that. Here was someone, one of their own schoolmates, who not only didn't recognize Harry Potter or his scar, but apparently didn't care! Harry, though, liked it. He'd had enough of people falling all over themselves because of something that had happened when he was too young to remember, and it was nice to finally meet someone who was willing to get to know him for who he was.
Harry grinned broadly. "I guess it must have hurt," he said, referring to what she'd said about the scar. "I was just a baby."
"Well, do you have a proper wand at least?" Hermione asked Becca.
"Oh, sure." She brought out a case, which held a wand that wasn't an Ollivander original but was still a serviceable 8-inch length of reddish-brown something with a carved grip on one end and a chunk of rough purple crystal set into the tip. "Chestnut, with a wyvern tendon inside. This is amethyst."
Mollified considerably by this show of knowledge, Hermione fell into a conversation with Becca about wands, the availability of magic items and school supplies in America, how hard she'd found it to do her shopping, and so on.
Ron, across from Harry, wiped his arm across his forehead and whispered, "Whew!"
Harry winked in response. If Hermione had taken it into her head to not like the new girl, the next several months would be a living hell. If they got along, however, that would make things much easier. Especially since they'd probably be in the same dorm. Harry's only worry was what would happen if Becca proved to be as good at magic as Hermione, who'd grown quite comfortable with her status as the smartest and hardest-working student in Hogwarts.
The feast went on, platters replenishing themselves as soon as they were emptied, pitchers of iced pumpkin juice floating down the table to refill goblets. Quicksilver descended from the beam to the Gryffindor table, making them once more the envy of the other three Houses – everyone was captivated by the drake. Soon, Quicksilver was trotting happily from one person to the next, accepting tidbits of food and tentative pettings.
Over at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy was heard to make several loud, snide remarks about how Gryffindor just attracted all the freaks these days, a definite decline in the quality of the school. First Muggle-loving wizards like the Weasleys, then Mudbloods and near-Squibs (meaning Hermione and Neville), and of course Potter, the king of the freaks. Now Kertches, too. It didn't look good for the future of wizard-kind, he stated. With every word, he kept his challenging eyes fixed on Harry, daring him to do something about it.
"What's his problem?" Becca asked Harry, probably seeing how Harry's jaw was clenched.
Had he thought he would be so glad to get away from the Dursleys that he wouldn't even mind seeing Malfoy? That was always a lot easier said than done. Just a few words out of Malfoy's smirking mouth made Harry long to put his fist through it.
"What makes you think he just has one?" countered Ron.
"That's Draco Malfoy," Hermione said imperiously, as if the name tasted bad. "Don't listen to him."
"It is funny, though," said Fred Weasley just as loudly as Malfoy, "how Gryffindor with its freaks can regularly whip the bloody pants off Slytherin with its snobby purebloods."
That almost brought Malfoy up and over, but Crabbe and Goyle had stuffed themselves into a stupor and Draco wasn't about to take on a whole table of Gryffindors by himself. He subsided, muttering and shooting nasty glares at them.
When no one could possibly eat another bite without risk of exploding, the candles dimmed and strengthened, dimmed and strengthened. This signal brought the prefects to their feet, gathering the first-years around them while the upperclassmen left. Becca hung back, unsure what she was supposed to do, but Hermione beckoned.
"Gryffindor tower is this way," she said, and went on to explain about the shifting stairs, the secret doors, and the portraits. When they came to the Fat Lady, Hermione stepped forth to show how it was done and announced the password – "chalcedony!" – in a clear voice.
The picture, frame and all, swung aside and they entered the Gryffindor common room with its wide fireplace, deep chairs, and long tables. Many staircases curved up into the walls, leading to the specific dormitories. Their luggage had already been brought. Once again, Harry and Ron were in with Neville, Dean, and Seamus. It made Ron wonder.
"Say, Harry. What do you suppose they did for the girls' dorm? There are already five girls in our year."
"I expect they just put in another bed," said Harry. "We can ask Hermione tomorrow."
"Fancy a game of chess?"
"No, thanks." Harry was full and happy after a long day, and ready for bed. He changed into his pajamas, said good night to the others, and climbed into his four-poster bed, settling with relief into a mattress and pillow a thousand times more comfortable than the hard daybed in his room at the Dursley's.
His last thought before falling asleep wasn't how Hermione and the new girl were getting on, nor was it about what his class schedule might be, but, oddly, of Professor Trelawney and the grim look in her dark, hollow eyes. They followed him down into sleep, haunting him and filling his night with unsettling dreams.

**

Continued in Chapter Four -- Turtle Teacher



2001 / Christine Morgan / http://www.christine-morgan.org / christine@sabledrake.com