Harry Potter and the Fifth House
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. 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.

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page copyright 2002 by Christine Morgan / christine@sabledrake.com