The rolling hills outside had given way to steep-sided glacial valleys when there was a knock on the door and a round-faced boy entered, looking downcast. "Sorry," he said nervously. "But have you seen a toad at all?"
Ron and Michael shook there heads. "Why?" Michael asked. "Do you need one for something?"
The boy shook his head and wailed. "He was my Dad's and I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"
"He'll turn up," said Michael reassuringly.
The boy sniffed and nodded miserably. "Well, if you see him..."
Michael nodded, "We'll let you know," he promised.
"Don't know why he's so bothered," Ron said once the boy was gone. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk." He looked down at the rat, who was still fast asleep on Ron's lap. "He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference. I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."
The redhead opened his trunk and rummaged around for a moment before producing a rather battered wand that was chipped in places. Michael could have sworn that he could see something white inside the wood and this was confirmed when Ron said: "Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway…"
Ron had just raised his wand and pointed it at Scabbers when the door to the compartment opened. The roundfaced boy had returned, accompanied by a girl of about the same age who was already wearing the robes that seemed to make up the school uniform. Personally, Michael thought that the robes were rather silly looking but he supposed that the teachers wouldn't like it if he voiced that thought out loud.
"Has anyone seen a toad?" she asked in a bossy voice. Michael didn't like that much, it reminede him of his little sister's – she would be about the same age – and a wave of homesickness went through him. "Neville's lost one," the girl added.
"We've already told him we haven't seen it," Ron told her.
"Oh," the girl said, looking at the wand in Ron's hand. "Are you doing magic? Let's see it, then," she said and sat down.
Ron looked taken aback. "Er -"
"Not exactly magic," Michael said shortly. "Showing me a spell that doesn't work. Was told it would make the rat yellow." He looked over at Ron. "Ready?"
Ron nodded and cleared his throat. "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast asleep.
Michael nodded. "You're right, your brothers must have been having you on," he said, as if Ron had suspected that all along.
"I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me," the girl said quickly. "Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough - I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"
Michael looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn't learned all the course books by heart either. "I should bloody well hope it's enough," he said. "I certainly haven't memorised them. I'm Hal," he added and jerked his thumb at Ron. "And this is Ron."
"Pleased to meet you," Hermione said. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad... Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon." And then she left, with the boy, presumably Neville, who hadn't managed to get a word in edgeways, dragged along in her wake.
"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron and threw his wand back into his trunk. "Thanks for covering for me. It was George who gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."
"What house is he in?" asked Michael.
"Gryffindor, along with Fred and Percy," said Ron, gloomily. "Mum and Dad were Gryffindors and Charlie and Bill were too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."
Michael shrugged. "Is it really that important?" he asked. "Hagrid told me about the Houses but it seemed a bit silly." There had been houses at his old school, but they'd not mattered very much at all – he'd barely noticed them in fact.
"You-Know-Who was in Slytherin," said Ron, as if that settled the matter.
"Who?" asked Michael, who knew perfectly well who Ron meant.
"You-Know-Who!" Ron replied louder.
"No… I don't know who," Michael insisted with a twinkle in his eyes.
Ron groaned. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," he said, realising that the previous description had been mistaken for an assertion rather than an answer.
Michael looked sideways at him. "Why not?" he asked. "How am I supposed to know who you mean if you can't use his name?"
"I mean the Dark Lord," Ron hissed, seeming afraid that someone might overhear him.
"Darth Vader was in Slytherin?" Michael asked, barely restraining a chuckle.
Ron noticed and glared at him. "You're having me on," he accused. "You know exactly who I mean."
"Voldemort," Michael said and Ron paled at the word. "Stupid sort of name. His parents must have hated him to call him that. Why didn't they just call him Cecil and be done with it?"
Ron didn't seem any happier about that speculation so Michael changed the subject. "So, I saw Percy, Fred and George on the platform," he said. "So who are Bill and Charlie?"
"My other brothers," Ron explained. "They're older, they don't go to Hogwarts anymore."
"So what do they do?"
"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing something for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you get that with the Muggles - someone tried to rob a high security vault."
"What did the goblins do to them?" Michael asked wuth a wince.
"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught."
Michael choked. "Dear god! The goblins must be livid!" he exclaimed.
Ron shrugged. "I guess. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."
"Is this the same You-Know-Who we were talking about earlier?" Michael asked sweetly. He grinned at Ron's expression. "Just asking."
"What's your Quidditch team?" Ron asked trying to find a less scary subject to talk about.
Michael chortled at that. "Ron, I heard of Quidditch only a month ago. I've only the vaguest idea what the rules are and I've never, ever, seen it played – even by kids on borrowed brushes -"
"Brooms!" Ron corrected.
"- brooms," Michael conceded mildly. "What on God's green earth leads you to believe I have a Quidditch team?"
"Oh, you wait," Ron assured him. "It's the best game in the world -" And with that, he was off. Encouraged by the nods and encouraging noises that Michael made whenever he paused, he explained the rules and history of Quidditch with a fervor and precision that would have been worthy of a university dissertation. He described every game he'd ever seen, every game he'd ever played with his brothers and every broom that he'd ever dreamed of buying.
Or at least that's what Michael presumed he was saying, since with practised ease he had tuned out everything being said and was thinking happy thoughts to himself about possible ways to abuse the course material. The prospect of duplicating Getafix's Magic Potion in the potions class was particularly appealing.
The two of them were therefore engrossed in their activities when the door opened. Three boys entered, and Michael recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Michael with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.
"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"
"So they tell me," said Michael laconically. He looked the other two boys over and winced mentally. Both of them were thickset and reminded him of a couple of bullies from his old school. Not too bright, but quite capable of being dangerous if directed, in other words.
"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Michael's attention lay. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
Michael gave him a blank look and Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger.
Draco Malfoy looked at Ron and sneered. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." He dismissed Ron from consideration and looked at. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
He held out his hand to shake Michael's, but Michael didn't take it. Instead he simply glanced at it and then back up at Malfoy's face with a neutral expression of curiousity on his face, as if the other boy was nothing more than an animal, or perhaps an insect, that he happened to by studying. He didn't say anything… the look in his eyes said it all and a pink tinge appeared in Malfoy's pale cheeks.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."
Ron shot to his feet. "Say that again!" he demanded, face flushed with fury.
Malfoy sneered at him. "Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?"
More slowly, Michael rose to his feet, tightening his grip on his own temper. He didn't fancy the idea of fighting the two young behemoths behind Malfoy, but that caution was being steadily eroded by the veiled threat in Malfoy's words. Searching his mind for a example of what to do in that situation, one came to mind and he grimaced. Oh well, might as well. Then he lashed out suddenly and landed his fist clumsily on Malfoy's nose.
The blond boy sat down abruptly, a surprised look on his face. He raised his hand to his nose and when he lowered it, it was stained crimson by blood. "It's bleeding!" he exclaimed. "You made my nose bleed."
"That's what happens in fights," Michael said calmly, as if nothing remarkable had happened at all.
"Why did you hit me?" Malfoy said, tears in his eyes. "No one's ever hit me. I didn't do anything to you."
Michael shrugged. "You were going to," he replied. "Stop being such a baby."
"My nose is still bleeding," Malfoy said still shocked, touching it again. He held out his hand to display the blood, which was also evident on his upper lip. "What if it doesn't stop bleeding?"
"You'll probably die," said Michael in a heartless tone. "Go outside if that happens. I don't want a dead body in here. They smell."
Malfoy blinked at him and then tried to get to his feet. It took two attempts and he only succeeded with the help of Crabbe or Goyle, who had been standing, dumbly astonished by the sudden events. Michael picked up a couple of Chocolate Frogs and tossed them to the boys who promptly let go of Malfoy to catch the treats. Deprived of his support, Malfoy fell to the floor again. Ron, who'd been standing open-mouthed and staring, choked and jammed his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.
"Pick him up and clean him up," Michael ordered the two larger boys. "He's going to get blood all over his robes."
Deprived of any other instructions, Crabbe and Goyle picked up Draco and half-carried him away.
As soon as the door closed, Ron collapsed into his seat, howling with laughter. Michael sat down opposite him, chuckling himself, although his laugh was higher-pitched and just a little hysterical as the adrenealine rush departed. Then the door opened suddenly and he jumped to his feet. Hermione Granger gave him a perculiar look as she looked at him. "What has been going on?" she asked, looking at Ron, who was still laughing helplessly. "You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"
Michael sat down again and took some deep breaths before answering, then he looked up and her and couldn't help but to burst into peels of laughter as he saw the look on her face.
Hermione went red. "What are you laughing at?" she demanded, but Michael couldn't manage an answer and Ron was no better, rolling about in his seat and gasping for breath.
With a sniff, Hermione turned her back on them. "I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," she said sniffily. "I know when I'm not welcome." She opened the door and went out. Before closing it, she added: "You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor and he says we're nearly there." Then she closed the door on them.
Michael looked out the window and saw that the sun had almost set, leaving the sky a spectacular purple. The train was passing mountains and forests now and it seemed to him that it was beginning to slow down. "She's right," he said. "Let's put the silly things on then."
They both retrieved their robes – Ron from his trunk and Michael from his rucksack - and pulled them on over their jeans and sweaters before bundling their coats away into their luggage. Ron's robes were a bit shorter on him than Michael's and his trainers were visible beneath them.
No sooner had they done this than a voice echoed down the train. Michael spent a moment looking for the speakers, then realised that it was magic and felt rather foolish. "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time," the voice said. "Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."
Yeah right, Michael snorted to himself and pulled his pack down from the rack, shoving his arms through the straps. Ron looked at him oddly. "Didn't you hear them say to leave your luggage on the train?"
Michael shook his head. "Everything I own in the entire world - well, except for the vault at Gringotts – is in this bag. I'd not letting it out of my sight until I know it's going to be somewhere secure."
Ron's jaw dropped. "What… everything? You don't have anything else?"
"It's bigger inside than outside," Michael reassured him and opened the door to join the throng of students forming in the corridor that ran along the length of the train.
"You're not leaving anything at home? At all?"
Michael snorted. "Home?" He shook his head. "No."
The train was definitely slowing now and it came to rest against a small, dark platform that looked like hundreds of other small English train stations – nothing more than a narrow strip of paving backed by a black-painted wooden fence. The crowd poured out onto the platform and Michael hugged his robes against himself as protection from the cold wind. At one end of the platform a lantern was being held above head hight by someone and then Michael heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?" He turned and saw Hagrid's face illuminated by the lantern
The big man beamed as he saw Michael plough through the crowd towards him. "C'mon, follow me," he ordered. "Any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"
The path was narrow and went down quite a steep slope so Michael was hard pressed to keep from stumbling as he followed Hagrid. The fact that he was more encumbered than the other first years made it relatively more difficult and he got a few odd looks when people realised he was still carrying a bag. Neville, who was walking ahead of Michael and Ron was sniffling a little and Michael hurried his pace to put his hand encouragingly on the boy's shoulder. "It'll work out," he he said reassuringly.
"Thanks," muttered Neville, who didn't seem to be very much happier.
Hagrid halted at a bend in the path and called back over his shoulder: "Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec, jus' round this bend here."
The little crowd followed him around the bend and there was a massed gasp as they did indeed see Hogwarts. They were looking across a huge black lake that dominated the floor of a great valley. Precisely opposite them, rising up the flank of the mountain that made up the other side of the valley was a huge castle, a mass of turrets and towers that made Michael's feet itch with an urge to walk the passages and courtyards of the vast building. He'd seen castles before, he and his father were rather fond of tramping around the ruins of long-ago fortresses and monasterys, but this was on another scale entirely and to make it better, this was an inhabited castle – the lights from its many windows made that obvious.
Hagrid pointed to the waters edge where a number of small boats were floating only a few inches from the shore. "No more'n four to a boat!" he called and Michael and the others bustled forwards to claim their places.
Michael, with his back in his back, was rather more bulky than most of the first years and with he and Ron aboard a boat it already felt quite crowded. Hermione and Neville both tried to get in but looked rather dubious as to whether the boat would manage. Finally Hermione went to one of the other boats and Neville scrambled aboard.
"Everyone in?" Hagrid asked loudly. He was too big to share a boat with anyone – as it was his boat rode noticably lower in the water than any of the others. "Right then - FORWARD!" In response, the boats immediately began to move away from the shore and towards the castle. The water was absolutely still, Michael couldn't even see ripples from the boats, and the castle above was reflected perfectly in the water beneath them as they moved towards the cliff that Hogwarts sat upon.
As the first boats reached the cliff Hagrid yelled, "Heads down!" and they entered a low dark tunnel, the boats pushing past a curtain of ivy that hid the tunnel from outside and into the darkness. Ahead Michael could see lights and they eventually reached a large chamber that seemed to function as a harbour, the boats grinding ashore onto a small beach. The children scrambled out of the boats and up the beach to the doors. Hagrid plucked something out of one boat and looked around. "Has anyone lost a toad?" he asked loudly.
"Trevor!" Neville called joyfully and Hagrid placed the toad carefully in the round-faced boy's outstretched hands before leading the first years up a passageway that had been carved out of the rock. The other end was on a lawn around the outside of the castle and another stair, this one rising along the outer wall to a huge wooden door reinforced with iron bars. "Everyone here?" Hagrid asked, counting heads. "Right then." He raised his hand and knocked three times against the door.
At once the door opened to reveal a tall woman in green robes, a witch, her hair black and pinned back in a severe bun. Unlike Hagrid's genial air, she seemed very stern and Michael shuffled his feet nervously.
"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid told her.
The witch, Professor McGonagall, opened the door wide to reveal a huge entrance hall, as large as house. "Thank you, Hagrid," she said. "I will take them from here."
Inside the hall Michael could see a huge marble staircase leading up to the floors above them. The ceiling itself was too high for him to see at all, it blended into the shadows. The hall was lit only by flaming torches not unlike those that Michael had seen at Gringotts. He wondered if those were the standard of the Wizarding lighting – he suspected that he'd prefer a decent set of electric bulbs.
Professor McGonagall led them into a small side room rather than through the doors that faced the stairs, although Michael could hear the sounds of many voices from the other side of those doors and was sure that the other students must be within.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall began as the first years clustered together nervously in front of her. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."
"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." She didn't pick out anyone as particularly needing to 'smarten up' but most of the children, in a fit of paranoia began to adjust their clothes and rub at possible stains, Michael included. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."
Professor McGonagall left and Michael looked over at Ron. "She didn't say what we'd have to do in the Sorting Ceremony," he said in a worried voice.
Ron was pale. "Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."
Michael considered that. "Well," he muttered. "If it does hurt a lot, I reckon we'd know before they got to us, they'll probably have us go in alphabetical order. If it comes to a pinch I'm pretty sure we could make a run for it."
"But then we'd not be allowed to enter Hogwarts," Ron protested.
"Um," Michael said thoughtfully. "Yeah, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?"
Their conversation was cut off when a small horde of ghosts swept through the wall of the chamber, apparently oblivious to the first year students beneath them. Michael was almost oblivious to what they were saying as he looked at them in their archaic costumes, all transclucent pearly white in colour. He was brought back from his bemused thoughts by a sharp voice from the door. "Move along now," Professor McGonagall told the ghosts sharply. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." One by one the ghosts drifted away through the wall that Michael thought would take them to where the rest of the school were waiting.
"Now form a line," the witch instructed, speaking to the first years this time. "And follow me."
Obediently, the group sorted themselves out, Michael standing behind Ron, and trooped after McGonagall, out into the entrance hall and through the double doors that Michael had surmised led to the rest of the students. He had been right.
The Great Hall was gigantic, dwarfing the Entrance Hall easily, and was far better lit with thousands of candles floating above the four long tables that stretched almost from one end of the hall to the other and above what seemed to be the night sky. Only after looking carefully could Michael see that there was a ceiling and that the image of the sky was simply an illusion of some kind. Students, scores and scores of them were sitting at the tables and at the far end of the room another table ran from one side to the other with witches and wizards who must be teachers seated behind it. All the tables were set with golden plates and dishes and the part of Michael was baffled by the ostentatious display. Ghosts drifted about above the other occupants, but they, like the older students, were all looking at the first years.
Then their gazes moved to Professor McGonagall and Michael watched as she silently placed a small stool in front of the first years, who were now lined up along the bottom end of the hall. On top of the stool the Professor placed a rather battered pointed hat, patched, frayed and with a patina of dirt that Michael suspected would be very difficult to get rid of. It only needed the addition of a little glitter and the word 'Wizzard' to have belonged to Rincewind and Michael felt obscurely comforted by that fact. For a moment there was absolute silence and then, entirely on its own, the hat moved. For a moment Michael thought he was imagining it, but he soon realised that he was not, for a rip near the brim of the hat opened and the hat began to, of all things, sing!
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffis are true And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
if you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"
The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.
"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to Michael. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."
Michael grunted something that even he wasn't sure he could interpret. Once he got over his nerves in the entrance hall he had been pretty sure that the Sorting wouldn't be too difficult – they'd been getting students here for years after all and trying on a hat was a great deal easier than most of the possibilites he'd been hearing proposed by the other students. On the other hand, he'd never liked it when teams were picked for sports – he was generally among the last chosen, which was a fairly rotten feeling at best. Still, it sounded from the song as if Ravenclaw might be the sort of place he'd fit in well.
Professor McGonagall produced a long roll of parchment and opened it out to read from it. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she instructed sternly. "Abbott, Hannah!"
Hannah, who was mostly distinguishable from the rest of the group by her blonde pigtails, stumbled forward and put on the had, which had obviously been sized for someone much larger as it sank down over her face and covered her eyes entirely. After a moment the rip near the brim opened again and shouted: "HUFFLEPUFF!"
One after another, more students followed Hannah, being sorted into Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor. No one seemed to be rejected, which was something of a relief to Michael since he'd have a hell of a job getting into a school anywhere else at this point. Living on his own had burnt his bridges a bit.
"Granger, Hermione!" called Professor McGonagall
Hermione went to the stool eagerly and whipped the hat onto her head. Immediately the hat shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!" and Ron groaned.
Michael chuckled. "How's Slytherin sounding now?" he asked in a whisper.
Ron just shook his head in denial.
A crash from in front of them drew their attention back to Neville, who had fallen over on the way to the stool. Michael winced at that. It wasn't so much the pain as the thought of doing a pratfall in front of the entire school. Ouch. The boy sat for quite a long time with the hat on his head before finally shouting "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville promptly capped his previous feat by forgetting to remove the hat before he ran for the Gryffindor table and had to run back with it so that a girl called Morag MacDougal could be sorted.
Malfoy, on the other hand, was sorted into Slytherin almost before the hat touched his head. Judging by his swagger as he walked to and from the stool, if he had had any doubts about the outcome they were well buried. His two friends from the train had already been sorted into the House, so he sat between them.
Well, Slytherin wasn't looking too promising now, Michael noted. Ah well, he wasn't going to wind up there if he had the choice anyway.
After a few more sortings, he realised that the last few surnames called had begun with P and listened for the call of: "Potter, Harry!"
As Michael moved out from the crwod of first years and went to the stool he could hear whispering around the hall in response to the name. "Potter, did she say?" said one of the nearer voices. "The Harry Potter?" He could see people shuffling around to get a better look at him and rolled his eyes before Professor McGonagall, after annoyed look at him for keeping his bag on him, put the hat on his head, where it fell over most of his face and obscured his view.
"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear and Michael flinched before he realised that it was the hat. "You're an interesting one, aren't you? Are you sure that you're Harry Potter?"
Not really, Michael thought. In fact, I've only Hagrid's word for it that I'm this kid who stopped Voldemort. I wonder how anyone knows what happened anyway… from what that book I bought said Harry Potter was the only survivor and would have been far too young to give any sort of account.
"Very strange," the hat muttered. "Not a bad mind and some talent for sneaking I see. Not short of courage either."
Ravenclaw please, Michael thought.
"Ravenclaw, eh? Yes, you could do well there," the voice decided. "Very well then, make it: RAVENCLAW!"
The last word had been shouted to the whole hall, so Michael reckoned that he'd been well and truly sorted and removed the hat. With a certain sense of satisfaction, he walked to the bottom of Ravenclaw table and sat down, ignoring the frenzied cheering from further up the table although he did let a few of the students shake his hands when they tried to.
Resting his rucksack on the floor next to him, right at the end of the table, Michael lookied up at the head table and saw Hagrid at the far end, who gave him a friendly thumbs-up. Michael nodded his head in response and looked along the table, spotting the wizard from the Chocolate Frog card sat in a large golden chair right in the centre. Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts. Further along was Professor Quirell, who looked quite ridiculous wearing a purple turban.
Ron, unsurprisingly was almost the last person to be sorted although Michael absently congratulated two girls who were sorted into Ravenclaw in the interim. The redheaded boy looked a little green as he walked to the Hat, but it had no sooner been put on his head than it shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!" Michael applauded as Ron walked over to join his brothers at the Gryffindor table and Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.
Up at the head table Professr Dumbledore got to his feet and beamed at the assembeld students, spreading his arms wide to express his apparent delight at their presence. "Welcome," he said in a voice that carried to every corner of the Hall. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
Michael blinked at the bizarre speech and then saw that the golden dishes on the table, previously empty, were now piled high with food. Now that was a form of magic that he would definitely like to learn. The moment anyone made a move for the food, he did likewise, filling his plate with roast potatoes, roast beef, roast chicken, bacon and carrots, then poured a thick layer of rich gravy over them before tucking in. The food was excellent and after a month of eating little more than homemade sandwiches and fast food it was a great relief to have a real meal.
He'd only managed three large helpings before the food faded away from the serving dishes, leaving them perfectly clean, another nice trick that would have helped Michael a lot over the summer. Then desserts appeared and Michael managed, just barely, to find room for a slice of apple pie and a bowl of trifle.
Although Michael had not contributed anything to the conversations around him he'd still been aware of them and when the other first-years began comparing their wizarding blood his ears pricked up. Two of the girls – Morag McDonald and an indian girl called Padma Patil were both from wizarding familes and Terry Boot and Lisa Turpin, the first and last students sorted into Ravenclaw this year had two muggle parents. The other students were all mixes with muggle or muggle-born parents the same as Harry had.
As Michael helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families. Most of the Ravenclaws were from mixed backgrounds – parents or grandparents had been muggles – as Harry Potter apparently was. Halfblood, it was called. Two of the girls were purebloods – wizards and witches on both sides for as far back as anyone could remember, and one boy and one girl were the first in their family to show any magic, although the girl, Lisa Turpin, told them that once Professor McGonagall had visted her parents to explain about magic to them, they rather thought that her little sister Lydia might be a witch as well.
"She's always playing with mum's knick-knacks," Lisa explained, "and she's dropped dozens of them but somehow they never break and they're really flimsy little things, you know?"
Feeling very full (he'd made a bit of a pig of himself, he admitted privately) and sleepy, Michael yawned and put his head on his folded arms, pushing the plates back and out of his way. With his head turned to the left he could still see the high table. Quirell, still wearing the turban on his head, had turned around to speak to the wizard sat next to him, a pale man with long black hair and a hooked nose. After a moment the other man turned away from Quirell and his eyes met with Michael's.
A sudden sharp pain ran through the scar on Michael's forehead. He yelped – as much surprised as pained and broke eye contact, rubbing at the scar.
"Are you alright?" asked one of the older girls at the table, Penelope Clearwater. She'd introduced herself as a Prefect earlier.
"Yeah," Michael said, fully awake again. The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Michael had gotten from the teacher's look - a feeling that he didn't like Michael at all. "Who's the man Professor Quirell was talking to?" he asked.
Penelope looked over. "The man in black?" she asked. "That's Professor Snape, he'll be teaching you potions. He'd very grouchy – he really wants to teach the Defense Against Dark Arts course but Professor Dumbledore hired Professor Quirrell instead."
.oOo.
Eventually the dinner drew to a close and when no one could possibly eat any more, the dishes were once again left clean and at the head table Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet once more and an expectant silence fell across the Hall. He cleared his throat and announced: "Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
"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." His eyes were twinkling as he looked at the lower end of the Gryffindor table.
"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."
"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."
"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."
Michael blinked. "Did he just say what I think he just said?" he asked no one in particular.
"Very painful death?" Morag said from across the table. "He's not serious is he?"
"Presumably," Penelope told them. "I don't know why though, which is odd because he usually tells the Prefects at least."
"And now," Dumbledore cried enthusiastically, "before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" Quite a number of the teachers cringed at that remark. Undaunted, Dumbledore flicked his wand and a a long golden ribbon shot out of the end, curling to display the words of the song. "Everyone pick their favorite tune," he said. "and off we go!"
Michael, never the most musical of people, understood instantly the responses of the teachers as without further ado almost every student at the tables began to sing. It was possible that there were some good singers at the school but it was hard to tell in the cacophony.
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.
Naturally, the song tailed off as one after another the students came to the end of their own versions. The last to finish were the Weasley twins, who were singing as if it were a dirge. Dumbledore seemed to appreciate the song and waved his wand as if conducting them until they were done and then lowered the wand to clap loudly. "Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
Penelope led the Ravenclaw first years through the crowds of older students, out of the Great Hall and then up the huge marble staircase. The route to the Ravenclaw rooms seemed to be quite convulouted but Michael was too tired to pay any great attention to it, concentrating instead on following whoever was in front of him. At the end of a long corridor they reached the portrait of a very old wizard who seemed to be asleep in a library of some sort. He opened one eye as they approached and looked at Penelope wearily. "Password," he requested quietly.
"This can truly be said," Penelope replied and the portrait slid to one side, revealing a doorway that led down a few steps into the Ravenclaw common room, a round and cozy room with the walls lined by bookshelves and dozens of comfy looking couches upholstered in blue. Penelope directed the four first-year boys through the door to their dormitory and as they went through it Michael heard her guide the girls through another door.
The door led to a spiral staircase and at the top of what was evidently one of the castle's many towers, they found the first year dormitory. There were four large beds, four-posters with thick drapes of blue velvet around them, and three of them had school trunks at the foot of them. Michael went to the other bed and placed his bag at the foot of it.
"Why don't you have a trunk," asked Anthony curiously.
"Too much bother," Michael yawned back and removed his robes. "I'm not carrying around a great sodding trunk if I don't have to."
With that said, he removed the rest of his clothes, slipped into his pyjamas and lipped under the covers of the bed, closing his eyes. Almost at once, he went to sleep.
.oOo.
Michael scowled as he walked to his classes the next morning. Students lining up to enter classrooms would turn to look at him as he passed and he was sure that a few people were going out of their way to go past him more than once. It was gettign on his nerves, particularly since the layout of the castle was ridiculously confusing. There were hundreds of staircases all of them different and some of them didn't always lead to the same places. Added to that, at least two were trying to catch students by vanishing steps when you were stood on them. The doors were worse and he couldn't even use the portraits and suits of armour as landmarks because they seemed to move around as well, although at least the portraits were up front about it.
Even the staff weren't reliable help. Michael had tried to ask the caretaker, an angry looking man called Argus Filch for directions and the man took the opportunity to threaten to lock Michael away in the dungeons. Only the arrival of Professor Quirrell resolved that little crisis, but the Defense Against Dark Arts teacher stuttered too much to give anything approaching coherent directions.
And then there were the ghosts, especially Peeves the Poltergeist…
By the time that Michael reached his first class he was fuming. Fortunately he didn't have to do or say much – the Herbology class was in the greenhouses at the back of the castle and he managed to blend into the back of the crowd fairly well. The teacher, Professor Sprout, had enough to do teaching everyone how to take care of the various plants and fungi that Michael had never heard of, so as long as he listened and did what he was told she was content to leave him alone.
The last class that the first year Ravenclaws had on that first day was Potions. Michael had been looking forward to that somewhat. He had found chemistry to be somewhat interesting and rather hoped that Potions would be like that except with more magical effects and results. His first look at the classroom – which was located down in the dungeons – made it clear that Potions would be a rather less pleasant experience than he'd hoped for.
His expectations were further lowered by the actions of the teacher. So far as he was aware he'd never met the man before the feast, but it quickly became obvious that he'd been right in his guess that Professor Severus Snape had some serious issues with regard to Harry Potter.
Professor Snape started the class by taking the register paused at the name 'Harry Potter'. "Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity." Michael confirmed his presence and Snape continued calling the rest of the names before he looked up at the class with cold, dark eyes.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he told them, speaking in barely more than a whisper. None the less he was clearly audible, the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students remaining absolutely silent, intimidated by his hostile attitude. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Michael raised his eyebrow, concluding that the Professor was apparently something of a drama queen when it came to his subject. He folded his hands under his chin and looked up at Snape, waiting for the man to continue.
"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Michael frowned. He recalled the ingredients from the potions textbook but couldn't recall which potions used both of them. After rubbing his chin for a moment he shook his head. "Sorry Professor," he said. "I don't know."
Snape tutted, his lips curling into a nasty sneer. "Fame clearly isn't everything," he said, ignoring the hands of Padma, Terry and Morag, all of whom seemed confident that they knew the answer. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Michael narrowed his eyes, wondering what had led the Professor to single him out. Something about this ridiculous Boy-Who-Lived business? "In the stomach of a goat, Professor," he said quietly, lowering his hands to the table and meeting Snape's eyes squarely.
"Is that so?" Snape asked sarcastically.
"Unless you mean where in the storage cupboards, sir," Michael said before he could restrain himself.
"You're not here to make jokes, Potter," Snape snapped. "A point from Ravenclaw. Perhaps you can win it back though. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane."
"There's no difference, Professor," Michael replied immediately and Snape scowled at him. Unsurprisingly, he made no move to return the point to Ravenclaw.
"For your information, Potter, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death," he sanpped and then turned to the rest of the class. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"
Those of the class who hadn't made a note of the questions and the answers rushed to take the information down and the dungeon room was filled by the scratch of quill against parchment. Michael flipped open the spiral notepad he'd written 'Potions' on the front of earlier and clicked the end of his biro before scribbling the information that Snape had told him about the Draught of Living Death.
"What are you doing, Potter?" demanded Snape.
"Taking notes, Professor," Michael said politely.
Snape snatched the biro away from him. "This is no place for your muggle toys, Potter. That's another point from Ravenclaw." He threw the pen away into a corner of the room. "You will take your notes with a quill and parchment, as if you were a civilised wizard."
The rest of the class went no better for the Ravenclaws or the Hufflepuffs. They were split into pairs by Snape and assigned to brew a simple potion that would apparently cure boils while the Professor swept around the class in his black cloak and made a nuisance of himself by criticising everyone venomously once the criticism was too late to actually be of any help. Michael was morally certain that it was this hazing that so unnerved Ernie MacMillan – an earnest and sincere Hufflepuff student working at the next table over – that he made a small mistake with his cauldron.
The first Michael knew of it was when a sudden hissing sound heralded the clouds of acrid green smoke that came pouring from Ernie's cauldron. A moment later the cauldron collapsed as the contents ate their way through the pewter and Ernie barely managed to escape onto his stool before the potion did something nasty to his feet. Michael and most of the other students had to take refuge as well as the potion began to spread over the floor.
"Wretched brat," Snape snarled as he waved his wand to clear away the potion from the floor. "You're supposed to take the cauldron off the fire before you add the porcupine quills." He wheeled upon Michael, who had been partnered with Michael Corner for the brewing. "You – Potter – why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Trying to cost Hufflepuff to make up for the one you lost, were you? That's another point you've cost Ravenclaw."
Michaels lips thinned and his eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Snape glared at him and then, seeming vaguely dissatisfied by something, stalked off to harass someone else.
An hour later, Michael was the last student to leave the dungeon, having meticulously restored all his possessions to his bag, with the exception of the pen that had gotten lost, presumably forever, in some dark corner of the potions classroom. Snape glared at him as he left and Michael returned the look with lidded eyes.
War had been declared.
.oOo.
Fortunately, Potions was the only lesson where Michael had to deal with that particular problem. He made a mental note to study up on that subject in his spare time – forcing Snape to give him good grades would be a definite victory if he could pull it off. The other classes proved far more managable and he enjoyed most of them thoroughly. (the princiapl exception being Astronomy – Michael was as space mad as the next boy but having to stay up past midnight to peer through a telescope was a rather unpleaseant experience for someone who was such an early riser by habit.
Charms was taught by Professor Flitwick, the head of Ravenclaw, and was the most directly useful class to Michael's mind – it was the basis for most of the wandwork after all. Once Flitwick got over the presence of 'Harry Potter' (he fell off his chair the first time he read the name off the register) the tiny wizard quickly demonstrated that he had a superb grasp of both the theory and practise of magic. Michael felt quite challenged there – his grasp of the waving of the wand was quite shaky compared to rest of the class.
History of Magic was easily the most boring class – Professor Binns could have represented his country if boring people to sleep was an olympic event. As it was, he droned away at the front of the class and Michael eventually settled on ignoring him completely to study on his own. Since he did this in the class it didn't cut into his free time at all and Wizarding history was quite interesting if, rather than simply trying to regurgitate the facts, you wondered about why the Goblins kept rebelling and how the elitist pureblooded families had come into being.
Defense Against Dark Arts was just as bad – Quirell was far too nervous to be any actual use at teaching, although he was quite entertaining prey for the sceptical questions of his students. Of course, if he really had fallen afoul of a vampire in Romania, then the garlic that festoned the classroom (and probably filled his turban to boot) was an understandable precaution. However, judging by Quirell's evasiveness whenever someone asked about his supposed feats (his claim that the turban was the gift of an African prince who he had saved from a zombie was possibly the most ridiculous), it was likely that the vampire was as imaginary as Snape's good nature.
It was Thursday before Michael finally figured out how to find his way to the Great Hall without getting lost en route. He celebrated by stacking his plate high and devoured a stack of bacon and eggs with relish. "What class do we have first today?" Li Su, one of the first year girls in Ravenclaw asked as she sat opposite to him.
"Double Transfiguration," Michael replied. "With Professor McGongall and, if I recall correctly, we're paired with Gryffindor this time."
Fortunately the Head of Gryffindor was very different from the Head of the rival House. While firm with the students she was also scrupulously evenhanded. Even the lecture she gave to introduce her subject had a very different tone from Snape's.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she told them. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
As a demonstration, she transformed her desk into a pig and let it wander around for a moment before reversing the change and floating the desk back into position. The class was impressed, obviously, although their enthusiasm faded a little once they realised that such a large and complex transfiguration was outside their abilities and would be for quite a while.
The class started with the theory, which was rather complex but did explain a few things in Michael's point of view, including some very interesting tidbits he picked up on about where magic and scientific theory differed and where they agreed. The practical side of the class involved turning a matchstick into a needle. Only one student managed to make some changes (the Granger girl Michael had met on the train) but even she didn't manage the complete transfiguration and the others, like Michael, didn't manage anything at all.
.oOo.
The next day was Friday and Michael barely looked up as the mail arrived – scores of owls swooping through the high windows clutching packages or letters. Today was unusual however because it was the first time that he had seen Pollyanna among them, although he often dropped by the owlery to give her a treat. He'd been a bit lukewarm about having a pet at first, but the owl had grown upon him.
The owl dropped a note onto Michael and he blinked and snatched it out of the air while she fluttered around and settled onto his shoulder. Absently he broke off some toast for her and flattened the rather crumpled note against the table to read it. In Hagrid's characteristic scribblings it said:
Dear Hal,
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three?
I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Pollyanna.
Hagrid
Michael pulled out a pen and scribbled an affirmative response on the back of the note. Passing it to Pollyanna, he said: "Take this to Hagrid please." Then he finished his breakfast and went to see Ron, who was still eating. He'd not seen much of the Weasley since they arrived and maybe he'd like to go and meet Hagrid.