Chapter Two

The inside of the train was a gaggle of students rushing back and forth, saying hello to friends and giving me sidelong glances as I struggled with my trunk through the hall, looking within each compartment to see if there were any empty. I doubted it. I'd left Miss Summers probably about five minutes before the train was due to depart. The traffic thinned out; I was the only student left in the corridor. I pulled in a deep breath, setting down my trunk in the luggage car. There was nothing for it, I'd have to share a compartment with other students. I'd known that I'd have to, of course, but I hadn't really imagined walking into one and having things go well. Things wouldn't go well. Things never went well.

I walked out of the luggage car and nervously began peeking into each compartment, checking for one mostly open. Suddenly, the train lurched forward; I felt chugging beneath my feet, and I almost toppled over.

"Watch yourself," said an older boy, catching me and putting me to rights. He had a nice, round face, and mousy brown hair. There was a shiny badge pinned to his right lapel, with a "P" emblazoned upon it. "Would you like some help? Can't stay in the corridor the entire trip to Hogwarts."

I felt my cheeks go slightly red. I shook my head, agreeing.

I followed him even farther down, as he tried to make conversation. "So, what're you called?"

"Er… Albus."

He looked back at me. "Weasley?"

I shook my head, looking down at my feet.

"Prewitt?"

Remembering Miss Summers' words, I nodded, feeling another blush. You'd think after everything I'd be able to lie by now, I thought miserably.

"Knew it had to be one of them, red hair, you know," the boy said jovially. "I'm Jonathon Longbottom, Gryffindor Prefect." He stopped, and pointed to a compartment where two girls were giggling together. "There's a lot of room in here, and I know Mirabella, she's quite kind, if a little wooly. Now get on inside, I need to get to the Prefects' compartments."

He gave me another nice smile, and was gone.

I stared into the compartment. The two girls, though one of them at least was "quite kind," seemed rather imposing. They were situated close to one another and smiling brightly. Whatever they were talking about probably did not want to be interrupted by an awkward, newly-turned eleven-year old. The older looking one was gesturing widely. She had deep brown hair and eyes to match, with freckles all over her face. Her companion, a girl with white hair and eyes of an unknown color, looked interested although uncomfortable: her back was straight as Father's dining set at home, and her hands sat neatly on her lap.

Father'd probably like her, I decided.

The train suddenly gave a wild turn to the right and I tumbled, once again, but this time there was no Prefect to catch me. There was a loud THUMP against the compartment door followed by the sound of my forehead and nose falling into the bottom half. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, the door opened and the older girl (witch, she's a witch) peered down at me, giggling.

"Well, what a surprise," she murmured, bending down to look at me. "Who're you?"

"I'm, er, Albus," I stammered, picking myself off the ground. "A, uh, prefect said I could sit here."

"Prefect, eh? Better say yes then, or else I might get a detention! Well, get in here, Albus."

She shuffled me inside, and I carefully placed my book bag away, very aware that I'd just interrupted their conversation in the worst possible way. Who was conducting this train, anyway? I sat down across from them. The seat crinkled pleasantly under my bottom--the sound of new leather. I looked out the window at the passing countryside. We'd already left London, and I was a little disappointed I hadn't seen more of it.

I barely noticed that the girls were staring at me, until the younger one cleared her throat. Blinking, I looked down and muttered "sorry."

"So what's your name, again? Sorry, I've already forgotten," the brown-haired one said.

"Albus," I repeated.

She raised her eyebrow, as if waiting for more.

"I'm a, er, well, a Prewitt," I said, rather softly.

"A Prewitt, eh? Well, I should have guessed! Not many wizards have bright red hair, like yours, y'know," she smiled brightly. "I'm Mirabella Plunkett, third year Hufflepuff, and this is Bronwen Day--, er, Dew--"

"Dwyre," Bronwen said, finally.

"Right," Mirabella continued, without trying to repeat the name. "Are you a first year?"

I nodded, feeling squeamish under their dual gazes.

"So is Bronwen. Hope you two get sorted into Hufflepuff, best house there is," her voice was firm, but I thought maybe she didn't quite believe it. I gave her a smile, hoping it looked polite. The scenery outside had gained a few goats and cows, which were chewing on the grass lazily as the train whirred by, appearing like they didn't even notice its passage. The sky, past the angry, grey, London smokestacks, shone a deep blue. A few thin, textured clouds dotted the horizon.

The compartment was silent.

"I… er, is, uh, there a privy?"

Probably glad to be rid of me, Mirabella nodded, "It's at the end of the hall, just go right and keep following. There should be a sign."

I left the compartment quickly, noticing that as I closed the door, Mirabella and Bronwen's chatter resumed. It's only expected, I reminded myself. They've never met you before. Nonetheless, I wondered whether every meeting I had with a wizard or witch at Hogwarts would be equally… silent.

I found my way to the lavatory easily. It was, as Mirabella had said, at the exact end of the hall. I watched the bright green scenery fade into the sky through a tall window situated between the compartments, then stepped into the wash room to think.

The door swung open and locked immediately behind me. I gawked at the room, glad that I could finally do so without anyone seeing.

There was a large gilded mirror on the left wall, which hung over a white marble sink. The sink had five knobs on it. Pressing one of the shining silver knobs, I gasped. Water fell from it, and not only that, but hot water.

"Amazing," I said aloud, watching its magic.

I pressed the silver knob again and the water offed itself. Still somewhat disconcerted, I made my way to the chamber pot, glad that it didn't have any magical gadgets or surprises, although I poked it with my foot to make sure. It looked like a regular chamber pot. It smelt like a regular chamber pot--one that needed to be cleaned, in fact. It was, perhaps, the only normal part of this entire room. I turned back to the sink, enthralled, and pressed another knob. A lathery substance came out, and once I smelled it, I realized it was already mixed soap. The other three knobs revealed steam, a thick lotion, and cold water. I cupped my hands and took a sip from the last knob, confused and enticed.

If magic can do this, what other miracles can it perform?

After discovering how to unlock the door (turning the doorknob left, not right), I found myself staring into annoyed blue eyes.

"What took you so long?" asked the boy. He had a large amount of black hair, which stuck up in the back and curled at the edges. A pair of glasses poked out of his robe pocket.

"I-I…"

"Oh, first year, eh? Don't worry about it, then. Just don't take so long in the baths at Hogwarts. You'll be lynched, you know," he chuckled, then moved past me, into the wash room. I heard the door click.

Lynched?

When I arrived back at the compartment, I noticed that the Prefect had taken up a seat, and was talking easily with Mirabella.

"How is everything, Albus?" he asked pleasantly, motioning to have me sit next to him.

I glanced at him quickly, "Alright."

"Find the privy?"

I blushed, again, nodding, and looked off into the green beyond the window.

"Right, then. Bye Mirabella! It was good meeting you, Bronwen, and you too, Albus," he said quickly, standing up.

I gave him a small smile as he left, and pulled out Hogwarts, A History. I flipped through the pages, concerned about what the boy at the privy had said. Not that one could really 'flip' through Hogwarts, A History, as it had over twelve hundred pages.

"What is that?" asked Mirabella suddenly. I jumped slightly, losing my place in the book. Mirabella had a slightly awed look on her face.

"Er, its ah, Hogwarts, A History," I murmured, glancing between her, Bronwen, and the cover.

"And you own it?" she continued, her eyebrows furrowing now.

I nodded.

Her mouth gaped open a little. What's so odd about owning this book? I wondered. I looked back at the cover again. It was leather, and the title was embroidered in shimmering black ink. Since I'd gotten it, the book had grown a few pages. Apparently each edition automatically updated whenever there was something more added. It was already very heavy--it contributed most of the weight to my book bag. Miss Summers had insisted I buy it, though. "Shan't have you see something you don't expect," she'd said matter of factly in Flourish and Blotts. Along with reading all the school books, I'd been assigned Crises in Wizarding History, Great Wizarding Events of the Eighteenth Century (Abridged), and Hogwarts, A History. She'd also shoved An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe into my trunk before I left Platform 9 and 3/4, where I'd probably discover information about that Durmstrang place.

I only noticed the ringing silence in the compartment when Mirabella cleared her throat, and turned to her own book bag. I reopened Hogwarts, A History, and thumbed through the 300s to find my previous end.

The first Triwizard Tournament, held in 1296 AD, took place at Beauxbatons. Hogwarts sent twelve representatives for the duration of the year. Although there was only one champion, Niall Kavanagh, the other eleven students remained at Beauxbatons to increase international understanding and cooperation. ("Yes, but does anyone actually speak the language?") …international understanding and cooperation. The judges at the tournament included the three heads, Xavier Rossau, Asparouh Zakhariy, and Sebille Borland. As an olive branch to the Wizards' Council (former Ministry for Magic), the French Wizarding government appointed Elfrida Clagg as… ("They have the most amazing green hair, if only I could see it up close!") … government appointed Elfrida Clagg as one of the remaining two judges. The other, of course, was held by La Sorcière Suprême, Agnes Champney.

Two years went into deciding the point system, individual rules, and the creation of the Goblet of Fire, a charmed object which decides the three champions. ("Well, aren't they considered beings?") …which decides the three champions. The Goblet of Fire, for a trial, even chose which school would host the tournaments.

I sighed, admitting defeat. Miss Summers wanted me to finish the book by Boxing Day, a long enough period of time that I could stop reading, at least for now. I gave my attention to the passing scenery, which had grown grey and dank as the sun slowly set. Dew formed lazily on the window, and my breath caused little clouds of smoke to appear then disappear in the glass, temporarily obscuring the shadows outside.

The compartment door slid open, shuddering slightly. I turned at the sound.

"Food?" asked a sour voice, which belonged to a rather pudgy wizard who had blond hair covered by a velvet bowler hat.

"No, thank you," said Bronwen softly, holding a thin book in her hands. Mirabella also declined, intent on the book in Bronwen's lap.

My stomach growled mostly inaudibly, and I flicked my eyes to the girls, before looking back at the wizard. He had a small cart in front of him, layered with candy. I gulped, and shook my head. Harrumphing, the sour-voiced man left.

I furrowed my body into the leather seat. Hogwarts, A History rested on my lap as I watched time tick by outside the window.

"If all the first years could please gather over here!"

The voice was low and feathery. The moon was already visible in the sky, and I could feel people shoving all around me. I wondered whether I should get my trunk, but was swept off the train within the crunch. The platform was made of soft wood, and a creaking sign above said "Hogsmeade." Trees lined the area, and my breath rose in a soft cloud from the night air.

"Hullo there, Albus," came the smiling voice of the Prefect. He never seemed very far off.

"Good evening, uh…" I paused, embarrassed.

He grinned kindly, "Jonathan Longbottom. It's quite alright, worry not. Wasn't until this last year that I started making an effort to learn a few names here and there. Now I'll have to start all over again--new professors, and all that, not to mention a new caretaker. Last year was quite memorable, in that respect."

I nodded, not understanding at all. "Do I, uh, well--my trunk?"

"Oh!" His smile was still on his face. "It'll be taken up by the house elves. Just go over there and stay with Professor Pokeby, she'll let you know what to do."

Gulping, I thanked him, Jonathan, and pushed my way through the throng. Despite the cold air, I'd begun to sweat. Hoping I wasn't about to start smelling, too, I smiled grimly at a girl standing next to me, who raised a small, black eyebrow in return, and turned to speak with a girl to her left, who had a nose resembling a squished pig's snout. Bronwen moved easily through the crowd, appearing near Professor Pokeby's side. Finally, when no one was left but a mass of cold (sweating), scared first years, the woman spoke again.

"Excellent, now if you would all please follow me to the boats," Professor Pokeby instructed, turning easily and moving softly down the path towards a shimmering black lake. I trundled along, hearing snippets of conversation as I went, the air slowly becoming damper. Suddenly, the wooden path turned, and we could make out Hogwarts.

A few gasps of delight rang around the group. I eyed the girls to my left, and noticed the black haired one looked annoyed, although her eyes reflected the sparkling black of the lake.

The castle was gigantic. It overlooked the lake from the top of massive, sharp cliffs. Huge towers rose asymmetrically about the outer edges, surrounding the high roofs and various ornamental turrets. Gothic windows stretched across the outside, glimmering darkly in the fading night, the lower walls surrounded by a thick ivy which wound its way across doorways and brick. Several gleaming buildings lay to the right of Hogwarts, looking like tiny doll houses next to the enormity of the castle. Beyond the lake was a deep forest full of dark, towering trees whose shadows stretched across the silent water.

"Four to a boat, please," Professor Pokeby said, pointing with her wand at tiny boats I hadn't noticed before. I clamored inside, and Bronwen appeared next to me, smiling politely. I nodded back, and pulled my robes tightly, wondering why Miss Summers had insisted I wear the silk. Professor Pokeby looked about, long, light hair flying as she turned her head to and fro.

"Everyone in?" she asked. "Good. Forward!"

The boats began moving towards the looming castle of their own accord. I blinked carefully. Magic exists, I reminded myself, And I'm a wizard.

The surface of the water barely rippled as the boats skimmed through, making tiny splashing noises under the whispers of the other students. I gazed at my hands, covered in dragon-hide gloves. No words were spoken within the tiny confines of the boat, and although awed whispers floated gently through the air, real noise came only from the blanket of quiet that draped our descent to the castle.

A quiet before the storm.

The boats docked at a rocky beach next to a deep tunnel with no clear end. Professor Pokeby held up her wand, muttered "Lumos" firmly, and waved with her other hand for us to follow.

The tunnel's floor was soft and smooth, its cavernous shape leaving echoes of our footsteps. I started shivering; the tunnel turned back and forth, climbing steadily upward until Pokeby's dim light emerged from the ground. I stopped, staring at a set of twelve deep steps, which lead to a set of large oak doors.

"Nox," the Professor said, walking swiftly up the stairs, where she rapped sharply on the door. It was opened immediately by a rather tall wizard. He had dark hair pulled back into an effortless ponytail. His cravat was tied simply, yet still far better than any attempts I'd ever made. His nose jutted straight from his eyes, reminding me strongly of my father.

"What took you so long, Columbia?" he said lowly, sounding like he had a rather strong cold.

Professor Pokeby arched her eyebrow at him, "You try seeing how long it takes sometime, Professor Marjoribanks." She swept past.

Looking somewhat affronted, Professor Marjoribanks cleared his throat, looking down his sharp nose at our group. "Right, well, get inside."

I followed glumly, my feet moving slowly up the eighth step, then the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and finally last. The floor changed from granite to a smooth cobblestone, and I lifted my eyes from the ground.

The hall we'd entered into seemed as massive as the castle from the lake. It could probably fit over one thousand people comfortably. A great clock stood at the opposite end, overseeing another pair of doors. Muffled conversations were coming from behind it. (…built in 878 AD during a time of great muggle crises, the Hall and first floor were originally wooden buildings and housed the entirety of the staff, students, and eventually ghosts…) A great fire crackled in the corner, and four gigantic hourglasses with green, red, yellow, and blue sand remained perched at the top.

Professor Marjoribanks ambled towards a small door, hidden next to the fireplace. Herding us all inside, he closed the door and gave a strained smile.

"I expect you all know about the sorting. It should have been included in your letter if your families could not know. It will begin in due course, and I'll be back to fetch you then."

And he left.

Blinking, I peered at the other students, who also appeared confused. Bronwen was pulling lint off of her robes. The black haired girl whispered sharply to her snout-nosed friend.

"Fantastic," intoned a voice from the back. A few people nodded. A boy across from me played with something in his robe pocket, a look of intense contemplation on his face, his robes reeking with a strange, disgusting smell. Bronwen frowned, and gave him a few more feet of room. Seemingly noticing, the boy smiled wanly and pulled his hand out of his pocket. The smell stopped.

Professor Marjoribanks poked his head inside, frowning condescendingly. "What are you all still doing in here? Follow me, quickly. We've been waiting for three minutes."

The doors to the great hall were open. Hundreds of eyes stared. The only sound in the whole room was the shuffling of our feet and the slow wisp of robes. At the other end of the hall, a pointed, bedraggled hat sat on a three-legged chair. Directly behind it, a man in striped black and green robes sniffed, his eyes sweeping over the group with barely hidden disgust. His hair was mostly white, but random streaks of black were sprinkled through it like pepper. It was held in place firmly, revealing a balding widows peak. A triangular beard jutted out from his chin, quivering slightly whenever he frowned (which was often).

Sauntering to a seat at the high table, Professor Marjoribanks grabbed a large scroll and stared expectantly at the hat.

All was quiet for a few minutes.

I shifted back and forth on my feet.

"Start, you disgusting lump of cloth," snapped the sharp, annoyed voice from the wizard in black and green.

A dull, rasping laughter resounded throughout the hall. Startled, I noticed it came from a rip in the hat's brim, which moved delightedly and was shaped like a mouth.

Magic Exists.

The laughter stopped, but instead of more silence, the hat began to speak, hoarse voice echoing.

"I am a Sorter!
Just attach me to your head,
And I will place you.
Hufflepuff is true--
Gryffindor utterly brave;
Slytherin quite sly, cunning.
Ravenclaw is smart."

More silence.

The hat looked pleased.

Yet more silence.

Whispers, growing in volume, started traveling across the room once the surprise had worn off. ("What the devil was that?") ("Doesn't he usually rhyme?") ("Ooch, I could use some Haggis"). My stomach grumbled unpleasantly and unexpectedly. Every student and staff member looked just as confused as I felt. I looked surreptitiously at a few of my fellow first years, trying to discover just what was going on, when the brim stretched open again, and in a keening, sarcastic voice, the hat added, "I'm done. Begin the Sorting, already."

"The hat's been trying to branch out, you know, choose different forms of poetry," drawled a man to my right.

I started. The speaker next to me floated a few feet off the ground and was a sickly cream color. His head bobbed precariously as he shook it in distaste."Last year it attempted a Sestina. That was awful, but this certainly wasn't any better. I don't think they're meant to be written in English, haikus."

The wizard in the center of the high table (…Phineas Nigellus, 392nd headmaster of Hogwarts, began his career as Potions professor. Upon the tragic and mysterious death of Francis Fortescue, the school governors awarded him with the position of Headmaster, which he has retained since 1805...) looked like he smelt something particularly vile, and glared dryly at the hat, then swept his annoyed gaze over the whispering students. Having never heard a haiku before, I was unsure of the proper reaction, but at least it hadn't mentioned someone named Lesbia, or girdles anywhere, a vast improvement over all the other poetry I'd read. And it was in English.

"Right," the nasal voice of Professor Marjoribanks began. The rising voices of the students died down again. "Well, let's get on with it."

The headmaster looked like he wanted to drown someone.

Clearing his throat, Marjoribanks drawled, "Ackart, Chalmers."

A blond haired boy moved easily to the stool, picked up the hat, and sat it on his head as he got onto the chair. The hall stayed hushed for only a moment before the brim opened, and "SLYTHERIN" burst out. The boy grinned, and a table at the far left erupted into cheers.

"Bane, Benjamin," Professor Marjoribanks continued.

Boy, sit, hat, "HUFFLEPUFF." More cheers, more sweat, and slowly the group around me started to thin. The table at the far left received four more students until finally, Chanteuse, Rosette, became the first new Ravenclaw. She smiled brightly, her slight pretty face and shimmering blond hair becoming a Van Gogh painting. Professor Marjoribanks (and all the students in the hall) stared at her, until she broke everyone's concentration by blushing prettily and rushing to the table at my direct left.

My heart beat faster. How many more could there be before Dumbledore, Albus?

I'm a wizard. A wizard. Father's leering face appeared in my mind, his distaste mirroring the disgust on the headmaster. His voice, sharp and full and deep, "…have informed me that they will not allow you to go to Eton, or any school of the like." I shivered.

"Cowan, Ciadan," said Marjoribanks, his voice conveying boredom, although his eyes still flicked between his parchment and Chanteuse, Rose.

The hat paused for a number of seconds. How does it decide? Does it speak haikus in your ear? I wondered. "GRYFFINDOR" yelled the hat and loud screams came behind me. I saw Jonathon excitedly slapping Cowan, Ciadan on the back as she sat nervously between him and the black haired boy I met at the privy.

"Clagg, Brian."

Automatic, no consideration needed "SLYTHERIN."

"Dumbledore, Albus."

Thump thump, went my heart and I all-of-a-sudden felt like I was four years old again feeling my mama being pulled away from me and despite the haikus I was scared and I could feel the sweat soaking into the silk of my robes and I'm a wizard and magic exists and it always has but then I'm on the stool and the hat's on my head and the thin, raspy voice is whispering softly into my ear

"Hello."

I gulped.

"Muggle-born, eh? Well, then… ah, I can see--and… interesting, very, very interesting. But you're not ready. No, and you may never be, so probably Hufflepuff, eh boy?"

I could feel the brim ripping open, and inside my jumbled, sad, I'm-a-wizard head, the only thought I could form before it screamed it was, Why why why?

The hat paused, and I felt its brim reattach itself. "Why? Well, why not? Can't be in Slytherin or Ravenclaw, they're not ready. Not for a few decades, yet. But Gryffindor… well, you're much too scared."

Why why why? I'm a wizard.

"Yes, yes you are," it rasped, and I felt gooseflesh along my neck. "But you, ah…"

And Mama's face was in my mind and I wanted to reach for her but she was already gone and the ripping and the tearing and I felt a tear trickle a river down my face and I didn't know why I was remembering but the brim opened and screamed "GRYFFINDOR."

I blinked as the hat was yanked off my head. I was eleven years old again and staring at the other confused first years. Professor Marjoribanks took me off the stool and pushed me forward. A few nervous smiles came from the other students. The Gryffindor table was still cheering. From the mass of still-scared first years I saw a tiny girl, slanted eyes, black hair, thin frame, bow softly as I passed. I sat down across from Ciadan and the boy from the privy, who gave me a wink.

Jonathon laughed, his Prefect badge shining in the candlelight. "Welcome to Gryffindor, Albus."

Mama, I thought, rubbing my eye to check if there were any remaining tears.

Bronwen followed right after me, and her calm, grey face was sorted into Hufflepuff, where she delicately sat next to Mirabella, her hands folded in her lap. My nose was stuffed from crying. My stomach rumbled angrily. The hat considered "Foss, Ffion." The headmaster looked like he wanted to throw up.

Overall, it wasn't particularly exciting after I'd been sorted.

That is, until the smelly boy from the side room was placed into Hufflepuff. As he left the stool, a loud BANG swept through the Great Hall, followed swiftly by the unmistakable smell of burnt cow dung. A few people (girls, mostly), screamed and hid underneath the house tables.

"That's disgusting," the hat mumbled unexpectedly through a haze of smoke. A few students and a single teacher with an elaborate coiffure laughed unexpectedly.

I wrinkled my nose; it was possibly one of the most sickening things that had ever wafted through my nostrils. When the smoke cleared, the boy, Grunnion, Xavier, laughed uproariously until the headmaster tapped his wand on the corner of the head table and pointed at a corner. A pale man I hadn't noticed smiled, his yellow teeth interspersed with black spaces. Grunnion, Xavier stopped laughing abruptly. He gulped, and stood next to the man, his eyes darting between the headmaster and the Hufflepuff table, all who looked rather confused.

"Scourgify," Marjoribanks said, annoyed. The mess was removed, but the smell still floated through the room. I watched "Ketteridge, Alfonso" step slowly to the hat, his eyes clenched shut, his hand holding his nose together tightly.

"HUFFLEPUFF," "RAVENCLAW," and then Marjoribanks called out "Li, Mingyue", and the girl with slanted eyes and deep black hair glided to the hat, placing it on her head. Her legs were crossed on the stool, hands lying limply on her right knee. The hat quickly decided "GRYFFINDOR," and she slid off easily, placed the hat back on top, and patted it gently.

The boy from the privy squinted. "Did she just pat the Sorting Hat?"

"Where's she from, you think?" Jonathon asked, frowning

On the other side of Jonathon came a drawling, unconcerned voice. "She's Asian. Please note the slanted eyes and yellow skin."

"Muldoon," "Parkinson," and then something completely unexpected.

"Prewitt, Archibald," said Professor Marjoribanks.

"Ah, who's he, eh Albus?" asked Jonathon, smiling nicely.

"He's, uh, er, cousin. Second cousin, I think."

But he wasn't paying attention as the hat had just called, "RAVENCLAW." Archibald Prewitt walked past the Gryffindor table, and I caught sight of shining blue eyes and bright red hair, exactly like my own, exactly like Aberforth's.

Exactly like Mama's.

I shrank down in my seat. If Archibald didn't see me, he'd probably think I was part of that other Wizarding family Jonathon said had red hair. Why don't you want to meet your family? asked the soft, mostly ignored part of my brain. I ignored it, or at least tried. What are you afraid of?

Archibald Prewitt didn't notice, and Marjoribanks yelled "Principe," "Smyth," and a nervous and jumpy "Stroulger." My stomach still grumbled angrily, but it couldn't be heard over the cheering of the students. Oh, if only I'd eaten on the train, I thought longingly. I couldn't believe there was still a small cluster of students after all this time. And where was the food? Would waiters bring it in after the sorting? Would it be, I gulped, more than one course? Would I have to wait even longer? I slouched myself further down in the seat, staring below the table.

A face stared back.

The man's eyes were strangely dark and glossy. He wore a striped cravat, tied into a lopsided bow, and a molded old bowler sat on his head. His suit jacket was a little too small, and his breeches a little too long. He had a wide mouth, which was currently stretched into a divisive smirk.

"Ickle firsty should learn not to stare," he whispered, slightly high pitched and croaking.

"My… my apologies," I mumbled, immediately straightening.

"What were you looking at?" asked Jonathon, patting Vilkenson, Bernard on the back as he passed.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Who was that sad looking man? I wondered as Wenlock, Shaldrissa shuffled to the Ravenclaw table. And what was he doing hiding under the table? I peeked to look at him again, but he was gone.

"How did…" but I realized I was speaking aloud. The black haired boy stared at me curiously, so I decided to look at my plate: polished, gleaming, and, I discovered with a prod, most likely pure gold. Hogwarts really seemed to be a strange place--even aside from all the… the magic.

I noticed the three remaining students had vanished, absorbed by their new houses, and that the headmaster was glaring quite obviously at the entirety of the student body. His wrinkles were especially pronounced.

"Thank you for respecting me enough to keep your mouths closed for even the short time I wish to speak," he started, snappish voice from before still in place. "As headmaster of this preschool, I am required to inform you of a number of school rules, which, if not followed, will result from at the very least a detention--" The pale man at the table's edge smiled "--to at the very most, expulsion. Please note that either of these options will be rather… uncomfortable."

Xavier Grunnion gulped audibly. He was probably still rather smelly, as Professor Marjoribanks hadn't used Scourgify on his person.

"First, no magic in the corridors. Second, never speak in the library. Third, corridors are closed to students, exempting prefects and heads, from nine o' clock to six in the morning. Fourth, only students above the third year and with a valid permission form are allowed to enter Hogsmeade, and only on the allotted weekends."

The headmaster's voice was very dry as he listed everything. I wondered whether he had it memorized, or if there was a slip of paper in front of him he read off. There certainly seemed to be a lot of rules.

"Fifth, no food allowed in the dormitories. Sixth, although this should be gathered by rule number three, I'm sure you mo--students need to be informed: no one should be on Hogwarts grounds after dark unless given permission for Quidditch. I do not heed your own misguided notions of uniqueness. Seventh, don't go for a swim in the lake, I don't want to have to deal with the consequences. Eighth--"

"Oh, here it comes," mumbled the boy from the privy.

"--It is not my responsibility to take care of, or listen to, your sordid affairs or problems. I am not your parent, your nanny, or your grandfather, so do not treat me like one. If there are any shenanigans, they fall under the sole responsibility of your head of house. Deal with your problems on your own. Hogwarts does not accept idiotic two year olds for a reason, so for your own sakes make an attempt not to act as such. If, for any reason, there is need for me to be apprised of any situation you unlearned folk find yourselves in, I promise, I will not look favorably upon either party."

My stomach grumbled. I covered it with my gloved hand, hoping to muffle the noise. I hope he finishes soon, I thought. It was incredibly difficult to pay attention while so hungry, and I doubted the headmaster would give leeway because of my stomach.

"Now for a few other notices: For those who wish to try their paltry talents, Quidditch tryouts for those teams needing new members will be held next Friday afternoon to Sunday night. First years are reminded that they're far to young to join, so don't even make the effort. Last--oh be quiet Mr. Grunnion, you're in quite enough trouble as it is--I would introduce to you Mortimer Yetler, who will be replacing our previous caretaker." The pale man smiled, yellow teeth glinting in the light. Xavier looked quite taken aback, and he gulped again. The headmaster paused. Food, food, food, whispered my angry stomach and I felt obliged to agree with it.

"Eat," he finally sneered after a prolonged pause. "But at least attempt not to fatten up your stomachs too much. No discipline"

I turned my head toward the doors, expecting to see hordes of waiters or servants entering, but my eyes caught instead on the piles of food that had just appeared on the table. Gasping excitedly (and my stomach, too), I quickly piled oyster pudding, leeks, mincemeat, and a nicely roasted chicken leg onto my plate. What magnificent magic, I thought wondrously, sipping something that tasted like pumpkin.

Monday, the third day of September in the Year of Our Lord 1855, dawned early on in the morning. My bed, situated adjacent to the window, warmed from the light of the sun. The other three boys still slept peacefully. Outside, the clouds cast a murky glow over the towering trees of the forest where a glint of red flashed above the tops, followed by a hauntingly beautiful cry. I stared, waiting to see if the thing would reappear, but only the green trees moved, swaying innocently in the wind. My chest felt strangely constricted as I looked through the window. I reminded myself slowly, my personal mantra, I'm a wizard.

I changed quickly into my school clothes, which were folded neatly inside of a large dresser next to my bed. After divesting myself of the clothes, I pulled on my school bag, filled nicely with more than half-a-dozen books, and made my way to the great hall.

As I exited the portrait, I noticed the sad-looking man from the night before, except he didn't look sad any longer… and he was floating high above the ground.

He had traded his striped cravat for a polk-a-dot one, and he was cackling loudly. Angry shouts and crashes came from the paintings lining the walls as he methodically grabbed the portraits and turned them upside down. The Fat Lady glared at the man as he giggled his way through mischief.

She looked at me. "I'd tell Professor Marchbanks if I could, but I can't leave all the students locked up, can I?"

I shook my head.

"Go on to breakfast and tell someone, would you?"

I nodded. The Fat Lady smiled grimly, then returned to glaring.

I got lost four times on the way down to the Great Hall. Not only would the staircases move, but every once-in-awhile a door I needed to go through had disappeared. I found myself wandering through a dark corridor for twenty minutes before a painting pointed me in the right direction. By now some of the other students had probably told someone at the staff table about the floating-man's tomfoolery, and I was bound to miss breakfast.

My stomach growled angrily again. How can I still be hungry after eating so much yesterday? I wondered as the stairs to the Great Hall finally came into view.

When I entered for breakfast, Jonathon waved me over to sit by him.

"Alright there, Albus? Here's your schedule, and try the eggs, they're delicious."

I noticed he had seven stacks of parchment in front of him, which probably contained the schedules for all the Gryffindor students. I looked down. The parchment was sectioned into five spaces for Monday through Friday, and there was a large question mark in the bottom corner.

"What's the question mark for?" I asked, wondering what sort of pattern there was to my classes.

"Put your wand to it, and say what class you want. It'll tell you where to go." He smiled, distracted, as four other students surrounded him for their own class schedules.

I pulled my wand out of my robes. It still felt strange holding a wand. I cleared my throat. "Defense Against the Dark Arts."

The question mark faded away, and was replaced by First floor corridor, across from the portrait of Andros the Invincible. A few seconds later, it was replaced again by the question mark.

"Herbology." Greenhouse number one.

"History of Magic." First floor corridor, right of the portrait of Gifford Ollerton. The door likes to disappear.

"Oi, Albus!" yelled Jonathon, breaking my concentration. He smiled again. I wondered whether he ever frowned. "Go on, you'll be late."

I nodded and gathered my books. "Er… did someone take care of the, uh, portraits?"

"Professor Marchbanks has it," he murmured, putting his books away.

"Name," said a slight woman as I walked into the classroom.

"Albus Dumbledore," I said, looking at my feet.

"Right," she nodded, checking off her attendance, "Second row in the centre, please."

I hurriedly moved to the correct seat and readied myself for class. I pulled out a quill and bottle of ink and a spare bit of parchment. On the top I wrote "Defense Against the Dark Arts, 03 September, the Year of Our Lord, 1855" and underlined it. Students were slowly filtering inside, evident by slight strains of conversation and a laugh here or there. I looked down at my parchment and made another underline. I decided I preferred it with two lines.

"I'm Bernard," said a boy, taking the seat next to me.

"Albus," I told him.

There was a slight pause. "Right. Well. You know anything about the Professor?"

It came automatically. Professor Dierdre Liadan is an alumnus of Hogwarts, graduating class of 1843. A representative of the Ravenclaw House, since leaving Hogwarts she has received many honors and awards, and her work experience includes a curse-breaker for Gringotts bank. She retired from Gringotts in 1847, and Headmaster Nigellus invited her to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in 1848. Page 1278, Hogwarts, A History.

"No," I said, doodling in the corner of my parchment. "No, I don't know anything about her a'tall."

Bernard shrugged. "We'll find out anyway, right Albus?"

I nodded. There was another pause.

"So, er, who's your family?" he asked. I noticed he'd placed his wand next to his book and quill. Wondering at it, I pulled out my own wand and carefully set it down at the edge of the table.

"Right," Professor Liadan said from the back of the room, saving me from having to respond to Bernard. "Everyone's found their way, and right on time as well."

She moved up to the front of the classroom, her mouth curving in a frown as her eyes flickered over each of the students. She looked at Bernard and me. "Wands away, boys. You won't start learning counter-jinxes until we can get down the basics."

Professor Liadan turned her back to the class, casting a spell on a piece of chalk. Words appeared on the board.

Defense Against the Dark Arts Year One
General Knowledge

I. The development of the jinx.
A. Ancient Babylonian wizards discovered magic could be focused through wand waving.

She returned her attention to the class. "Take notes. There will be essays and tests in the future on this. To begin, although magic existed before the time of Babylon, it was mainly used without focus or point. For the higher classes of Egypt and the people of Sumer and Akkad, the purpose of magic was for divination and respect of the gods. Wizards and witches were well known, and they worked to appease higher beings when something went wrong. However, near the end of the first Babylonian Dynasty, the great Wizard-King Hammurabi came to power. Through the work of his palace scholars, he discovered that if the intent of magic was focused through consecrated power tools--primitive forms of wands--it could in fact be used on a daily basis and usually in a stronger form."

"I thought this was Defense Against the Dark Arts," Bernard whispered, his face close to the desk as he scribbled down notes. "Sounds more like History of Magic to me."

"I don't understand. He's pronouncing it correctly, he has the motion, yet that damned pillow refuses to move. Well, there's nothing for it."

I decided I didn't mind that we weren't practicing magic just yet.

Professor Liadan continued, her voice crisp and quick. "From Hammurabi onward, magic was used without words and only mediocre arm movements. The Kittites, though, seemed to have an advanced form of wand movement and thusly broke the factions of the Babylonians in a small offensive quite easily. The use of wands spread slowly throughout the Middle East and Eastern Europe, arriving in the Mediterranean area around 750 BC. However, it was not until the famed rape of Lucretia and the creation of a Roman Republic that the intent of wands was further refined to include spoken words, spells, and jinxes. This helped those whose magical power was not as refined as Priests or Priestesses still focus and create through their thought.

"It is important to remember, though, that the words and arm movements do not make the spell. Each of those spells, counter spells, jinxes, counterjinxes, and charms you find yourselves learning at Hogwarts can be changed, woven in your own way to suit your desires. All that matters is your mind and heart are equally focused upon the same intent. With that, please open your books to page 14, and we'll start examining how Sextus Tarquin accidentally led to the creation of Expelliarmus."

Bernard's wand was still lying innocently next to his book. Why can't I use a wand? I have magic… I'm a wizard…

I walked into transfiguration a few minutes early after escaping from the droll tones of the Professor of History for Magic. He'd introduced himself as Professor Binns, said this was his second year at Hogwarts, then launched into a long, monotonous lecture on the first Egyptian dynasty and the use of magic within society. Wish I had one of those copying quills, I thought, remembering the woman from Madam Brousseau's. Luckily, I hadn't had to endure magic as of yet.

Professor Marchbanks sat in the front of the class, checking off students as they entered. Her stiff demeanor and dress contrasted greatly with her hair, which was arranged into a crown of balls around the top of her head. A bright pink cap rested inside of the ring. Once everyone had settled, she stood up and smiled.

"I'm Professor Marchbanks, head of Hufflepuff house. Welcome to Hogwarts, everyone."

Her voice seemed at odds with her dress, too. It was soft and likeable, but as stiff as her clothes.

"Well, let's just begin straight away."

With a swish of her wand, seven pieces of fabric zoomed out to each of the Gryffindors.

I gulped, pulling out my own wand.

She tapped her own blackboard. A large amount of writing appeared, and I quickly grabbed my quill, eager to have swish and flicking optional.

"Transfiguration is almost entirely a magic of thought. There really aren't many incantations within transfiguration, although if it helps, there are a number of spells within your textbook that describe what we'll be doing in the first few years. Transfiguration changes the particles of one organism into another. Because everything in the world is made up of essentially the same particles, the way to transfigure is simply to reorganize those pieces into something else. It won't work to stare at your fabric and think 'paper,' you must know that within your piece of fabric there is the potential to be paper."

I looked at my fabric. It had a black embroidery along the side that looked like slithering snakes. It didn't appear anything like paper.

"Please copy down the instructions on the board," she continued, pointing with her wand. "After you understand them well, attempt to turn your fabric to a piece of paper."

The scratching of quills began immediately. I wrote slowly, trying to put off using my 'very powerful' wand as long as possible.

'Transfiguration is defined as the art of rearranging different particles to suit your purpose'…too cowardly to do anything right…'almost anything in the world can be transfigured, but because human beings are so complex, they are the hardest and most dangerous to transfigure' …this son will not be like that…

When I finished note-taking I took up my wand and whirled it in a circle before pointing at the fabric.

Paper, turn to paper. It doesn't even have to be pretty paper.

Whirl, point.

It could be really grainy, even. Please turn to paper.

My nose started itching. Whirl, point. Whirl, point.

Whirl, point!

Next to me, Ciadan was gently poking the side of her fabric with her wand, which was returning a faint crinkling noise.

Whirl, point! I'm a wizard, aren't I? On my other side, Bernard folded his fabric into a paper airplane.

…whirl, point… …whirl, point…

Aren't I?

Notes: Nothing really special to report, just that I'm running out of chapters to add so I should start working on Chapter four again. Once more, comments, especially constructive criticisms, are appreciated. Feel free to be as harsh as you like. I can take it, I promise.