*
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 |