Chapter Four: The Parchment in the Potato
A few hours later, the Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade station and the students clambered out, chattering excitedly. Since Beth was the tallest of her group of three, she gazed around over the tops of heads looking for the mythical Potter with the scar on his head.
"I bet he's short, and we'll never find him," she complained, as the group started to shuffle down the platform and toward a long line of horseless stagecoaches. She could see a group of first-years following the formidable gamekeeper Hagrid toward the moat. "Looks like that kid got his toad back." Melissa sniggered. Beth followed her into one of the stagecoaches with a little sigh and a last backward glance. "At least we'll see him at the Sorting."
The moldy-smelling carriage bumped along the road for a few minutes; soon, the lopsided spires of Hogwarts rose into view. They bounced through the enormous iron gates ("What are those, flying pigs on top?") and up to the long stone staircase that led to the entrance hall.
The hall was as gloriously decorated as ever. The bewitched ceiling swirled with stars; long tables waited for the returning students. Everyone scrambled to sit at their House tables before the first years came in; it was as exciting to watch the Sorting as to actually take part in it, and far easier on the nerves.
Beth found herself sitting between Melissa and Bruce. Across from her, a fourth-year named Richard Shaw was whispering in the ear of an older student that Beth didn't recognize. To his left, Uther Montague slouched lazily in his chair. Uther was a Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and was largely responsible for their winning streak. Consequently he appeared to be very vain.
"Here they are!" Melissa squealed, as the large, shaggy Hagrid stooped to enter the Great Hall, followed by a nervous-looking flock of first-years. "They're so little!" The boy across from her raised his eyebrows.
The school watched excitedly as Professor McGonagall, head of the Gryffindor house, led the first-years single file to the front of the Hall and left them in a line as she went to retrieve the Sorting Hat. The frayed wizard's hat was set on its stool.
"They don't know what to do with it," Melissa murmured gleefully, but Beth was more interested in what Richard hissed to the boy beside him:
"All right, Riggs, start it up."
The boy on Richard's right pulled a pen from the pocket of his robes, licked the nub, and set it discreetly on a napkin in front of him, where it hovered on the point.
A tear along the hat's brim opened up, and a song burst from the Sorting Hat:
"It gets cornier every year," murmured Bruce.
Beth glanced back at Riggs' napkin. The pen appeared to be writing down the entire song; it even flourished the capital letters of each line.
"Two lines to everyone else's three," the fourth-year named Richard grumbled to his friend Riggs. "Goes to show."
The students applauded thunderously. Many of the first-years looked relieved, but others seemed even worse-off than before. The boy with (or without) the toad seemed ready to faint.
Across from Melissa, Riggs discreetly leaned down and whispered to his hovering pen, which had finished writing the song and was doodling pairs of clapping hands along the napkin's edge.
"Who's the first Slytherin, now?" Melissa chirped enthusiastically. "Hufflepuff -- another one -- Ravenclaw -- another one -- coming in pairs, this year --"
"WE CAN HEAR FOR OURSELVES!" hissed Bruce loudly. Uther Montague sniggered.
"Bulstrode, Millicent!" called Professor McGonagall.
Millicent, a large and squarish girl, slunk to the stool and stuffed the cap over her head. "SLYTHERIN!" cried the Sorting Hat.
The Slytherin table burst into applause. "She's tough-looking, bet she can play Beater!" Uther exclaimed, looking enthused for the first time all night.
As each table received its new members, the Hall degenerated into rowdy cheering and applause. Beth thought she heard some catcalls from the Gryffindor table. Soon afterward, "Crabbe, Vincent" and "Goyle, Gregory" joined the Slytherins, to the delight of Uther ("Look at them, they're going to be giants! The Quidditch Cup is ours!")
Riggs' pen was hard at work, recording each name and which house they were assigned to. As she leaned back for another look, she accidentally caught Richard's eye. Blushing furiously, she turned back around and tried to pay attention to the Sorting, where "MacDougal, Morag" was greeted enthusiastically by the Slytherins.
"It's the boy from the train!" Melissa cried excitedly, as "Malfoy, Draco" sauntered to the Slytherin table. Bruce issued a grunt of general goodwill.
Soon after, "Parkinson, Pansy" became a Slytherin. A pair of twin girls was split into two different houses. Then --
"Potter, Harry!"
The shouts and cheers suddenly shifted to whispers. From the corner of her eye, Beth could glimpse Richard sitting bolt upright in his seat. "Potter, did she say?" he hissed to Riggs, who checked over his pen's notes and confirmed the name.
Beth craned her neck for a look at the famous wizard. He doesn't look like much, she thought. In fact, with the Sorting Hat falling over his nose and his feet dangling above the floor, he looked just like any other nervous kid about to start his first year at Hogwarts. Come on, she found herself thinking. Put him with us, and Slytherin will be better than ever.
"Please Slytherin, please Slytherin," she heard someone murmuring behind her. It was Richard. The Sorting Hat opened its brim --
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The wild applause from the Gryffindor table couldn't mask groans of disappointment from all of the other tables, most prominently the Slytherins. Even Bruce looked discouraged. A few minutes later, "Zabini, Blaise" entered their midst, but she was greeted into a slightly crestfallen group. Looking a little sour at her muted acceptance, she took a seat near Pansy and Draco.
At the fore of the room, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had risen to his feet. He was old, Beth recognized, but old in a way that made him wiser, not weaker. Unlike her father, she thought bitterly. At his gesture, the hall fell silent.
"Welcome!" he beamed, arms outstretched. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
The Slytherins shared a confused laugh. "That's one for the record books," Melissa said. Glancing over her shoulder, Beth ascertained that Riggs and his magic pen had taken it down as well.
Since it looked like the announcements were over, Beth and Melissa turned back to the table, where Bruce had already begun to dig in. Food magically arose from the once-empty serving platters -- watching the gravy dish was like seeing a puddle fill in with murky water. Beth helped herself to a slab of bacon and steak.
"Potatoes, Beth?"
She looked up to see who had spoken: it was Richard, holding out the plate of tubers. Beside him, Riggs was stuffing his napkin and enchanted pen into his robes. "I -- don't really like baked potatoes, thanks," she stammered.
Richard smiled winningly. "I think you'll get on all right with these." Without warning, he had lifted one of the potatoes with a set of golden tongs and deposited it on top of her steak. "Potatoes, Melissa?"
As Melissa accepted her baked potato suspiciously, Beth pushed hers off to one side. Richard had moved on down the line to Mervin Fletcher, a red-haired boy in Beth's year. Donating one more potato to Bruce's plate ("But I've already got two!") he put the plate down and sat back to a pile of sausages and Yorkshire pudding.
"He didn't take any baked potatoes for himself," Beth whispered irritably to Melissa.
"Are you finished with the pork chops?" came a polite drawl from behind them. Draco Malfoy stood with his hands behind his back, smugly surveying the Slytherin table.
"Of course, here you are," simpered Melissa, handing him the platter. "Good show in the Sorting!"
Draco smiled superiorly. "I warned you, I'd be one of you," he chuckled. "Thank you, I'll return this soon." He lowered his voice. "Very soon. I'm sitting next to the house ghost, and he doesn't seem to like me."
"The Bloody Baron doesn't like anyone," Uther Montague interjected carelessly, winning a glare from the hollow-eyed specter at the end of the table. The ghost wore dark robes stained with silvery blood, and his eyes gazed blankly from a drawn and haggard face.
"Say," Draco continued, dropping his voice even further, "do any of you know why he's covered in blood?"
Riggs dropped his fork. Uther and Richard exchanged uneasy glances before Richard spoke up, "No one does. Secret of the castle, chap. I'm sure the answer died with him."
Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Or maybe it's like him -- dead, but not gone."
There was a pause. Then Richard furrowed his brow in annoyance and took a long draught from his goblet. When he was done he placed it back on the table with a clunk and smacked his lips. "Good to have you in Slytherin, chap. Hope to see you around occasionally."
The pale boy's jaw dropped in amazement at the unmistakable dismissal. Scowling, he swept back to his seat and plunked down, casting a dirty look at Richard that may have only partly been an excuse to avoid the Bloody Baron's empty gaze.
"Speaking of ghosts, the new Gryffindors have discovered Nearly Headless Nick," Melissa said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Attention shifted to the Gryffindor table, where the former Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington had grabbed his ear and wrenched his head straight off his neck, so that it rested at a ninety-degree angle on his shoulder. "At least we have a proper ghost," she added for form's sake.
Across the table, Richard smiled grimly. "At the very least. But they have Potter, so they have the glory. We'll have to work hard to top them this year."
"Don't worry, Terry's still our Seeker," Uther boomed jovially, beating Bruce to the last lamb chop. "All we need is a good Keeper and it's in the bag. You worry too much, old sport."
Bruce was gaping at Uther in new fascination. He appeared to be drooling. Beth gave him a hard nudge in the side, and he sputtered, "I -- I can play Keeper ... been practicing ... new moves..." He swallowed half of a sausage in one nervous gulp.
Uther looked him up and down appraisingly. "All right, we'll give you a try-out. Have your own broom, do you?"
Bruce nodded in open-mouthed stupor. "Uh-huh. Try-out." He roused himself. "You -- you won't be sorry!"
"I think Bruce just said a whole sentence," Melissa murmured dryly, and both of them burst into laughter.
The feast had slowed down; only a few of the larger ones, Bruce included, still heaped the main courses onto their plates. Richard cast his eyes about worriedly. "You really ought to dig into those potatoes," he told Melissa and Beth, then moved down the table before Beth could sputter that she already said that she didn't like them.
Richard looked back at her from Mervin's place. His left eye twitched -- he had winked.
Suddenly Beth found herself gazing at her baked potato with a lot more interest.
Talking up one of the golden knives, she carefully slit it down the middle, half expecting something slimy to come out of it. Instead, she heard a slight tearing. Bending closer, she saw a scrap of parchment, which formed the words "Don't say anything."
As soon as Beth had registered the meaning of the sentence, the ink swirled and sank into the page as if it had never been there. It reappeared and swarmed into formation.
"Put me in your pocket. Be discreet."
Beth glanced around with narrowed eyes. Mervin was dissecting his potato with equal uneasiness, but Melissa seemed to have already pocketed the paper -- her potato was half-eaten, and her face was flushed with excitement. To her left, Bruce devoured a chicken wing while his potato sat untouched. A scrap was barely visible though a crack in the skin.
Moving slowly, Beth slipped the paper from the baked potato and casually shoved it into her pocket. Then, being careful to look the other way, she gave Bruce a very hard elbow in the side and motioned toward the paper. She became suddenly very interested in the antics of the Hufflepuff ghost.
"What do you want?" Bruce asked grumpily through a mouth full of peas, but he broke off. She had to assume that he'd gotten the message, because not a moment later the main courses faded into desserts.
Richard had reappeared at his seat and was rubbing his hands together cheerfully. "Treacle tarts! Excellent way to end the night." He made no sign of acknowledging Beth's questioning stares.
Beth turned away from him and faced the teacher's table. She ran her eyes down the row of teachers, ticking off the ones she recognized and noting the ones she did not. She stopped short near the end. "What on earth is on Professor Quirrell's head?" she demanded. A few Slytherins snickered. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was wearing a large, odiously purple turban. On his slender frame, it looked as if he would tip over from the weight of it.
"It's all the latest rage in Germany," Melissa giggled.
"Really?"
"Don't be a twit, Bruce."
"That means no," clarified Beth.
Eventually the desserts evaporated from their trays, to Bruce's chagrin, and Professor Dumbledore once again stood. The cheerful chatter faded out and the congregated students turned to face the headmaster.
"Ahem --" Dumbledore began. "Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered."
There was a scuffle behind Beth; when she turned, she could make out Riggs scrambling to reactivate his pen.
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors." A Slytherin snorted derisively. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."
Bruce almost stood in his sudden desire to find Madam Hooch -- Beth was sure that he would practically leap on her as soon as the feast ended.
"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
There was a smattering of laughter from the Gryffindor table. Behind her, Beth heard Richard let out a slow whistle, then murmur to Riggs in an indistinguishably low voice.
"And now, before we go to bed --"
"Oh, no!" Melissa wailed quietly.
"Let us sing the school song!" Dumbledore raised his wand and a strand of gold floated from it, twining into words near the ceiling. "Everyone pick your favorite tune and off we go!"
Beth had been preparing all summer: she sang the school anthem to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner. Bruce appeared to be making it up as he went, while Melissa belted a very pretty operatic tune.
The song finished with the Weasley twins harmonizing a very slow dirge. The Great Hall rang with applause. Still looking enthralled with the "music", Dumbledore excused the students and they flocked into the corridors to their chambers.
"Come on, first-years stay close," Jerome Marx called from the front of the crowd. Beth recognized him as a seventh-year.
"He must be the new prefect," she said to Melissa.
"Of course he is," Melissa replied, a little snootily. "He has the badge, hasn't he? I spent the whole meal trying to see who was wearing it this year, since Zamora graduated last year."
Beth scowled. "Just like you British, always trying to find the authority."
Melissa sniffed. "Just like an American not to notice one."
The group of Slytherins wound down an increasingly damp hallway. After a series of twists and turns, they came to a dead end: a solid stone wall with patches of moss and cobwebs.
"Hang on, here I come," Jerome called, pushing his way to the wall. "The new password is 'anaconda'." The wall suddenly gave way to a long, low room with greenish lamps hanging from the ceiling and lots of high-backed chairs. Some of the first-years gasped in awe at the common room; to the older students, the sight was -- well, common -- and they cascaded through the room and into one of two hallways which led to the boys' and girls' bedchambers.
Beth and Melissa bid Bruce a good-night.
Bruce jerked his attention away from Uther Montague, who stood discoursing about this year's Quidditch prospects near the elaborately carved mantelpiece while a pair of enamored first-year girls watched covertly. "Huh -- wha?"
"Never mind, Brucey dear," said Melissa, patting his arm. "It's time to retire to our beauty sleep. See you in the morning."
She and Beth left for their bedroom, leaving Bruce in the common room looking as bewildered as usual.
Everyone's trunks had been set near their velvet-canopied beds, and someone had even laid out a pair of pajamas for them each, so it wasn't long before the third-year girls in Beth's dorm retreated to their curtained beds for private reading or sleep. Beth changed quickly and crawled under her quilt almost immediately, but her head hadn't hit the pillow before she remembered the piece of parchment that she got at dinner.
She poked her head out from between the curtains on her bed. Her robes lay crumpled on the floor -- a quick looting of the pockets proved that the paper was right there. She palmed it and shut the curtains again, as discreetly as possible. "Lumos," she whispered, and the end of her wand lit up like a candle. By this dim, cool light, she unfolded the parchment.
It was blank at first; but seeming to sense her eyes, tiny droplets of ink seeped from the paper and slid around until they formed the words:
"Do not speak or write to anyone about this message."
Beth's mouth dropped open. "Why?" she demanded, feeling silly to be speaking to a slip of paper, but the ink was already changing formation.
"Meet in the common room at eleven thirty on Thursday night." The ink swirled and shifted again.
"Keep this with you. Regards: the S.S.A."
This message shimmered in the wand's light for a few seconds; then the words shrunk into the paper as if they had never been there. Beth stared at the blank page, turned it over to be sure there was nothing on the back, and crinkled her brow in confusion. The S.S.A? She'd never heard of anything like it at Hogwarts. There had been a dueling club many years ago, and the Quidditch teams acted like little clubs of their own, but she'd never known any organization that handed out magical notes stuffed into vegetables.
Beth put the paper in her pajamas pocket. Thinking better of it, she transferred it to her cloak, then took it back out and held it awhile before finally nestling it under her pillow. If she was to keep the scrap with her, then she would do so to the letter, she though nobly.
"Nox." Her wand flickered out, and she closed her eyes in the darkness and slept.