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. 53,000 words.
January, 2002. Adult situations, mild sexual content and violence.
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Chapter Six – The Green-Eyed Monster.
The rest of the
journey passed with a hectic, dreamlike strangeness. A story somehow got
around that Harry Potter had brought back a boy from the dead, and reactions
ranged from whisperings-behind-the-hand as he passed to Colin Creevey's
enthusiastic, puppy-like cavorting.
"How'd you do
it, Harry? Gosh! I thought no magic could raise the dead. Gosh! I wish
I hadn't packed my camera in my trunk. If you'd wait right there, I'll
go get it, won't be a minute, and if I could get a picture of you and
the boy …" Colin had finally gotten permission to put together a school
paper, though some thought the only reason Professor McGonagall had finally
agreed was so he'd hush up and give her a moment's peace.
Harry winced.
He could just see himself plastered on the first page of the first-ever
issue of the Hogwarts Happenings. And as bad as it would be for
him, it would probably be a million times worse for Jeremy Upwood. Nobody
needed to start off their school life with that kind of attention, as Harry
personally knew all too well.
He managed to
duck Colin by saying he really had to talk to Hermione about something,
and escaped back to the compartment he'd been sharing with her and Ron.
When people kept dropping by on all sorts of pretenses, Harry's only recourse
was to dig out his Invisibility Cloak, put it on, and sit quietly by the
window. From then on, whenever the door would slide open and someone's
head would poke in, whoever it was would see right away that Harry wasn't
in there, and leave after mumbled apologies to Ron and Hermione.
Jeremy was,
luckily for him, spirited away to the conductor's office to 'recover from
the ordeal.' Ron had done a little asking around, but nobody seemed to
know who'd been riding in with him, or who the person that had bumped into
the snack-trolley witch might have been.
"Malfoy," Ron
said. "It had to have been Malfoy."
"I don't think
so," Harry said, and told them why.
Ron goggled.
"You don't mean they were …"
"It wouldn't
surprise me," said Hermione loftily. "All the girls talk about Pansy Parkinson."
"Do they?" asked
Ron. "What do they say?"
He and Harry
had shared an unspoken fascination with what girls talked about ever since
their third year, when all of the girls had been called away to a 'special
assembly' and all the boys sent out to play wizard golf one fine spring
day. Hermione had returned from that assembly with a smug glint in her
eyes. As if anybody needed more of a knowing look.
Hermione didn't
answer. She smoothed her skirt demurely, a motion which drew Harry's eyes
to her legs again. They were really quite spectacular, he was beginning
to understand. Not that he would ever say such a thing to her. Besides,
he'd had the odd feeling for some time now that there was something between
her and Ron, something that all their bickering tried to mask. Thinking
that made him feel unaccountably envious and sad. Cho Chang's image danced
briefly into his head and quickly out.
The train arrived
at Hogsmeade Station beneath a sky in which the first brilliant pinpricks
of stars were beginning to appear. The students, all dressed in their robes
now so that they resembled an earthbound flock of crows fluttering busily
about, disembarked and struggled to organize their luggage.
"'Ullo, Harry!"
boomed Hagrid's deep, gruff voice.
The huge figure
waded through the crowd. Some gave him a wide berth – the news that Hagrid
was half-giant, and Dumbledore's liaison in forging an alliance with that
fierce race had made many people think that his jovial, bearish exterior
really hid a bloodthirsty menace. Not that Hagrid couldn't be fierce if
angered … but he was slow to anger and really just a great marshmallow
at heart, especially when it came to his fondness for horrific monsters
that no one else in their right minds would have gone near without a full
suit of armor, every defensive spell known to wizardry, and a wand the
size of a battering ram.
Hugging Hagrid
wasn't so much a matter of sharing an embrace as it was of being nearly
hoisted off one's feet and shaken like a rag in a dog's jaws. Harry endured
this with good humor, as did Ron. When it came to be Hermione's turn, though,
Hagrid hesitated awkwardly and ended up sort of patting her on the shoulder.
He harumphed into his beard and mumbled something about how grown-up they
all were getting.
"What was that
all about?" Ron asked as Hagrid turned to bellow his summons for the first-years,
who would join him on the traditional boat-ride across the lake.
"I don't know,"
said Hermione, but she looked like she had a fair idea. Harry, glancing
once more at her figure – mostly concealed now by the loose flow of her
robes – and thought he might have a fair idea too.
"Heard yeh had
a bit of trouble on the way," said Hagrid in a rumbling undertone. "Yeh
all fine, then?"
"We are," said
Harry. "But there's a boy who might need to see Madame Pomfrey straight
away, even before the Sorting."
He indicated
Jeremy, who was standing a ways removed from the rest of the first-years,
all the rest of whom were clustered close together as if for shared courage
in the face of this massive, wild-haired man. In the pale lights of the
station, Jeremy looked wan and very pale.
"I'll see to
it," Hagrid said. He clapped Harry on the shoulder hard enough to stagger
him, then collected his young charges and led them away in the direction
of the lake.
The remaining
students rode up to Hogwarts in magical horseless carriages. As always,
the sight of the castle's many turrets and gleaming windows woke a feeling
of freedom and joy in Harry. Those halls, passages, towers, and rooms were
his home. Not that he knew them all. His father had, as had James Potter's
friends, at least well enough to devise their enchanted Marauder's Map.
But a few instances of corridors that no longer led where the map claimed
they did, plus the way the staircases of Hogwarts liked to move of their
own accord, led Harry to believe that the map might have become slightly
outdated in the years since his father had been a student.
They climbed
down from the carriages, trusting that their luggage would find its way
to their rooms. This was one of the many tasks of the house-elves, who
persisted in their cheerful servitude despite all of Hermione's best efforts
as a union agitator, despite the proud example displayed by Dobby. Hermione
hadn't quite given up her aim of seeing house-elves with fair wages and
benefits, but even her indomitable will was hard-pressed to deal with an
entire race of elves who could barely conceive of, let alone want, that
kind of help.
"This is always
my favorite part of the year," said Ron as they waited outside of the Great
Hall for its mighty doors to open. "The feast."
"Honestly, Ron,
you'd think your mother starves you," Hermione said. "It's Harry who has
to live on scraps all summer."
"I've nothing
against my mum's cooking," Ron protested. "But she never makes as much
as we want. It's magic, isn't it? Free. But whenever we say anything about
wanting a bit more, she'll trot out that old clunker about starving wizards
in Africa and how we should be grateful for what we have. None of that
here. We can eat until we split."
"What a lovely
thought," she said.
Harry hid a
smile. Hadn't he just been thinking that Mrs. Weasley cooked enough food
for an army, acting as if all of her children were still living and eating
at home even though nearly all of them now were off with places and jobs
of their own?
The doors opened,
and they filed into the Great Hall. Ranks of candles hung suspended between
the floor and the star-strewn darkness of the enchanted ceiling. The golden
dishes on the four long tables sparkled with the promise of the feast that
Ron was so eagerly looking forward to. At the head of the room, the staff
table was already surrounded by the teachers. Harry spotted Dumbledore's
shining silver hair and beard the moment he crossed the threshold.
Murmurs eddied
among the students as they saw Professor Ophidia Winterwind seated between
Professors Snape and Flitwick. This was the first time in most of their
recollection that they'd actually begun a year with the same Defense Against
the Dark Arts teacher they'd had at the end of the last year. Many of the
murmurs were colored with appreciation (from the male students) and sniffs
of jealousy or spite (from the females). Harry, having just seen her a
few nights ago, was struck once more by her ominous, alabaster-and-obsidian
beauty.
Ophidia was
chatting gaily with Professor Flitwick, flicking her long lashes and pursing
her lips and generally flirting so outrageously that the diminutive Charms
teacher was bright pink and barely able to sit still. Snape, on Ophidia's
other side, was regarding this with a flat, humorless demeanor that did
nothing to soften the sour, miserly lines of his face.
"Is it just
me," Ron whispered as they took their places, "or do they look different?
The witches, I mean. Look at Sprout."
Professor Sprout,
who taught Herbology, was a plump little witch whose hands and clothes
were usually dirty from gardening. Now, she was as well-scrubbed as a newborn
infant, and in place of her comfortable jumper, she was wearing a yellow
robe sewn with green leaves and vines.
"And Madame
Hooch," Hermione added with some wonder.
The Quidditch
coach, a stocky and tough woman with hair nearly as defiant as Hermione's,
was similarly attired in new, fashionable robes. She even, though it was
hard to tell from here, looked to be wearing a touch of eyeshadow.
Harry looked
from one teacher to the next. He saw other small changes, nothing big,
but overall it added up to a sweeping sense of peculiarity. Everyone, wizards
and witches alike, were done up much smarter than usual. They were all
talking more vibrantly, their gestures more animated. As if each of them
wanted to be sure he or she was noticed. Even Dumbledore was resplendent
in robes of deepest purple, and his pointed hat was especially tall and
straight.
Madame Pomfrey
was not in attendance, and Harry took that to mean she'd been called away
to see to Jeremy. Hopefully, the boy would be all right … and hopefully,
Harry would have a chance to talk to Dumbledore or somebody about what
had happened on the train.
The only unfamiliar
face at the staff table was a man who looked to be in his sixties, though
Harry knew that sort of thing counted for little among wizards. He was
portly, with grey hair that was balding on top but made up for it with
the most massive muttonchop sideburns Harry had ever seen. Which was to
say, they were the only muttonchop sideburns he'd ever seen on a
real person, outside of the moving portraits that filled the castle halls.
Except … the
man was unfamiliar, but there was something about him that made Harry wonder
if maybe he had met him before. He leaned toward Hermione to ask if she
knew, because she always did.
At that same
moment, though, Hermione had been leaning toward him to ask him something,
and their faces ended up so close to one another that their heads nearly
bumped. She gasped, and blinked, and Harry was fascinated by her eyes.
Velvety brown with a sheen like honey, and the pupils so large and dark
that he imagined he could see through to the inner, secret Hermione. He'd
never been this close to her, not like this, and for a moment forgot entirely
about what he'd been going to say.
She, too, didn't
speak. All around them the Great Hall was full of the noise of their classmates
settling into their seats, and no one else seemed aware of the two of them.
Or so Harry thought until Ron, across the table, flicked his golden goblet
with a fingernail and it chimed like a bell.
Startled, Harry
drew back and Hermione did likewise. She busied herself with her napkin,
folding and re-folding it.
A silvery peal
of laughter rose from the staff table. Ophidia Winterwind, in response
to something that Snape must have said, put her hand on his upper arm and
briefly tipped her head against his shoulder, then shook a finger at him
as if he'd been a naughty boy.
Professor Flitwick
immediately launched into a witty story of his own, puffing up and speaking
perhaps more forcefully than necessary. Professor Sprout tugged at Dumbledore's
sleeve, making him look away from Ophidia and at her instead, and as she
began to talk quietly to him, she made a point of fluffing her curled hair
in a disconcerting manner.
"They're jealous,"
Ron concluded after observing some minutes of this interplay. "She's got
the whole staff worked up. Look at that. Did you ever see the like?"
"Nonsense,"
said Hermione. "Don't be silly."
"I swear, it's
true, look at them," said Ron. "All the witches dolled up, trying to compete
with her, all the wizards spruced up, trying to compete for her.
It's plain as day."
"I'll admit,
she's pretty," Hermione said. "But to think that the teachers … to think
that even Dumbledore …"
Her voice lost
strength, because just then Dumbledore arose, and as he stood proud and
commanding, they didn't miss the way his eyes darted to his right and then,
seeing that Ophidia was watching him with rapt adoration, he stood even
straighter and held his head high so as to present his most striking profile.
"See?" hissed
Ron as an expectant hush fell over the room.
"Yes, I take
it back, you're right," Hermione whispered.
The side door
opened on silent, stealthy hinges and Hagrid crept in. It should have been
impossible for a man his size to make his way unnoticed to his seat at
the end of the table, but most everyone else was distracted by the doors
at the end of the Great Hall opening once more to admit the first-years.
Professor McGonagall
led the procession. Her robes were midnight-blue and sewn with tiny silver
stars, obviously new and flatteringly tailored. She wore a matching silver
necklace made of small interlocked stars. And either she was a whiz with
cosmetics or she'd been sneaking sips of a Youthening Potion on the sly,
but she looked at least ten years younger than Harry remembered.
This change
was not lost on the other students. For the first time, more eyes were
fixed on McGonagall than on the nervous line of first-years behind her.
At the end of the line was Jeremy Upwood, still very pale but evidently
all right because Madame Pomfrey – in a new, crisply white nurse's robe
– was bringing up the rear.
McGonagall marched
to the front of the room and spun with a grand flair. This was her moment,
everything about her proclaimed it, and she meant to make the most of it.
She made a grandiloquent beckoning gesture.
Hooves clattered
on the floor. A beautiful golden horse, so graceful that Harry's first
impression was that it was an adolescent unicorn, pranced forth. It was
bearing a shapeless, tattered hat on its back in place of a saddle. As
it reached Professor McGonagall, the horse reared up, hooves flashing prettily,
and let out a loud, musical nicker.
She snapped
her fingers. As the horse came back down, it changed seamlessly into a
stool. The hat, the Sorting Hat, was resting upon it, unchanged.
Scattered applause
broke out but was stifled quickly as a rip in the side of the hat opened,
and began to move like a thread-edged mouth. A cracked, amused, and actually
not-quite-sane voice rang out:
Appearances can be deceiving
A cover doesn't make the book
They say that seeing is believing
But they don't know how deep to look
For truth is hidden deep inside
Like a story in the pages
What is within, you cannot hide
My fine and new young mages
I am old and torn and plain
I may not look like much
Yet put me on and I'll obtain
The truth with just one touch
Oh, I am called the Sorting Hat
And what that name espouses
Is how I can in no time flat
Determine all your Houses
So step right up and try me on
To see where you belong
In Slytherin if ambition
And cunning craft are strong
Be Gryffindor if courage
Is where your heart excels
Or Ravenclaw if knowledge
Will help you learn your spells
Or is your heart of Hufflepuff
Faithful, pure and true?
I think we've waited long enough
Come up; there's much to do!
The first-years
looked amazed and delighted by this novelty, a talking hat, and it helped
some of them get over the anxiousness of the Sorting. The rest of the students
clapped politely for the Hat, which nodded its point this way and that
as if in acknowledgement of their praise. Ron surmised that the Hat spent
all year thinking up each new song and lived for this one moment of glory.
Professor McGonagall
instructed the first-years to come up when each was called, and then once
a House was declared, to go and sit with their classmates. The students
already seated shuffled around a bit to make sure the empty chairs were
visible.
Unrolling a
long sheet of parchment, Professor McGonagall called out the first name.
A thin girl named Alison Appleby climbed the steps, sat gingerly on the
stool as if she feared it might collapse and spill her to the floor, and
waited with eyes squeezed tightly shut as the Sorting Hat was lowered onto
her head.
The Hat considered
for a moment, humming to itself. Harry remembered from his own experience
that Alison would probably be hearing the Hat's musing aloud in her head,
as it sifted through her psyche and judged by what it found there. Her
tension was evident in her knotted fists and the quiver of her chin, just
visible beneath the brim of the overlarge Hat.
"Ravenclaw!"
the Hat announced.
Cheers and applause
exploded from that table. Alison, looking shaky with relief, hopped down
and scurried over. Professor McGonagall called the rest one after another.
By virtue of
alphabetical order, Jeremy Upwood was last. He climbed the steps slowly,
and when he turned to sit on the stool, his eyes swept the room with a
strange, shadowed emptiness that touched Harry with a chill even from yards
away. Jeremy was awfully pale, as if he was about to faint, but his features
were composed.
He was small
for his age, smaller even than the Creeveys, and the Sorting Hat plopped
all the way to his shoulders. Then it shivered, and went rigid, and for
one horrible instant Harry thought it was going to shout out Slytherin.
He glanced that way, saw Malfoy with his usual entourage plus Fyren Grimme.
Time spun out
like an endless thread. The waiting hush turned into a restless fidgeting
rustle. At the staff table, a few concerned looks were exchanged. Professor
McGonagall took a step forward, perhaps meaning to lift the Sorting Hat
off Jeremy.
Before her hand
got there, the Hat cleared its throat – not that it had a throat,
but that was the sound it made.
"Battenby!"
it cried.
And now the
silence, disturbed before, was utter and complete.
** |