JKR owns HP
Belated thanks to beta reader Achos Laazov.
Disclaimer: Opinions expressed are those of the characters and not their author. For the kosher status of various species of berries, as always, CYLOR.
And [God] said to Avram: Know that your children will be strangers in a land not their own. (Genesis 15:13)
The goodbyes that morning had taken so long that Yehuda had wondered if they would ever end, but they reached King's Cross with plenty of time to spare, and unloaded his luggage onto a cart.
His father pulled out the ticket and studied it. "There's no such platform as nine and three-quarters, but it's bound to be somewhere between nine and ten—I'm sure not even magic can mess with math—so let's head over there and see if we can figure it out."
They pushed his cart in silence to a bustling double platform, an empty track nine on the left, a train idling on track ten. Halfway down was a big brick pillar, and nothing else. Nine and three-quarters was nowhere to be seen.
"Do you see anything?" his father asked. "Perhaps it's like that pub on Charings Cross, where only you can see it."
Yehuda studied the crowd carefully. Most were suit-clad businesspeople striding with attaché cases, a few casually dressed day travelers scattered among them. Further down, he thought he saw more trolleys, more children. He pulled his father's hand and tugged him down the platform, the cart careening from side to side. Yes, there were definitely more children—and was that an owl in the birdcage? He watched, his forehead furrowed.
"I've got it," Yehuda said. "They're all just walking straight into the wall. That's all you've got to do."
"What?" His father looked dubious, but as they watched, an old woman, hat topped with a stuffed bird, wrapped her arms around a round-faced bareheaded little boy and a luggage trolley, strode headlong at the barrier, and vanished. "Never mind. I'm convinced."
He leaned against the cart, small against his father, and walked, faster and faster, and the bricks loomed up in front of him and suddenly his vision blurred and he was standing beside his father with the trolley in front of a great steam-belching red engine lettered The Hogwarts Express.
His father's mouth formed into a small o. Platforms nine and ten were nowhere in sight. "Well," he said finally, "let's find you a place to sit."
They tried to get the trunk into the first car, but a pompous-looking redheaded boy blocked their way. "Percy Weasley. Hogwarts prefect. Pleasure to meet you—"
Yehuda let the open end of the question hang. He couldn't decide what his name was today.
To his credit, Percy Weasley recovered quickly. "These two compartments are reserved for prefects, but you can join the next one, there's another first-year there." Two teenagers lifted his trunk onto the train and steered it into a corner. Yehuda followed timidly. Another trunk stood there, but the car was empty. He ducked back out. His father was thanking the boys. He stood quietly beside his father, watching children and parents push trunks, wave goodbye. None of them wore yarmulkes, their bare heads looking almost naked, and none of them save Percy wore white button-down shirts.
"You should go," his father said quietly. "The train'll be leaving in three minutes."
Faced with the sudden reality—he had to get on this train and just leave—his throat choked. "T-t-ta. I don't want to…"
His father laid trembling hands over his head, as he did on Friday nights, as he did before Yom Kippur. "Yesimcha Elokim k'Efrayim uk'Menashe," he murmured God make you like them, Jewish children faithful in a foreign land. "Yevarechecha Hashem v'yishmerecha. Ya'er Hashem panav eilecha viy'chuneka. Yisa Hashem panav eilecha v'yaseim lecha shalom." Yehuda saw tears in his father's eyes, his staid, unemotional father, before he pulled him tight and enfolded him in a hug. May God bless you and watch over you…
"Thanks, Ta," he whispered. And as he did on Friday nights and before Yom Kippur, Yehuda kissed his father's hand. It took all his strength to tear himself away, climb aboard the train, and settle into the compartment and press his face to the glass, waving to his father. Then the train began to move, faster and faster, rounding a corner, and the station was gone and houses were flashing past. Tears pricked his eyes.
"Homesick already?"
He tore his eyes from the window to see his seatmate watching him curiously. "I'm guessing you're Muggle-born—first wizard in your family, are you?" He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Oh, well, I'm not, my mum's a witch. But my dad's a Muggle, so he doesn't know much about this either. What's your name?"
"Y—Anthony Goldstein."
The boy's eyes flicked toward the corner. "Why's your trunk say Yehuda, then?"
He ducked his head, embarrassed. "Anthony's my legal name. I'm mostly called Yehuda."
"Weird," said the boy. "But shouldn't Yehuda be Judah, not Anthony?"
"It's from the Ge—the Talmud. Rabbi Yehuda was best friends with Antoninus. My parents thought it was funny…" he trailed off lamely. There was no way this goy would understand what he was talking about. "What's your name?"
"I'm Michael Corner, pleased to meet you. Should I call you Anthony or Ye…huda?"
"Yehuda," said his mouth, a second before his brain said Are you crazy, he'll know you're Jewish, what if he can't pronounce Yehuda? His brain neglected to note that if Michael Corner wanted to know his religion, one glance at his yarmulke was all it took.
But Michael didn't seem to care. "It's a long trip, all the way to north Scotland," he said. "I don't mean to be unfriendly, but I've got a book I want to finish, if you don't mind…"
Yehuda didn't. He could understand that. So he sat quietly, watching fields and bushes speed past, and Michael propped a book open on the table, and the compartment was lost in pleasant silence. Only the sound of turning pages signified that time was passing at all. He was tired, it was warm, and he laid his head on the table and dozed. The sun was high in the sky when there was a clattering in the corridor outside, and a middle-aged woman opened their door. "Anything off the cart, dears?"
There was nothing he recognized, certainly no Bissli or brownie bars. He turned something called a Cauldron Cake over and over, but didn't see any O-U or Star-K or Kedassia anywhere, and the Chocolate Frog package had no certification either. Nor did the packets of riotously-colored jellybeans. He raised hopeful eyes to the woman pushing the cart. "Do you have any fruit?"
"Sure, love." She chuckled. "You're the first one to ask, and I've been stocking it for years. Would you like some cherries? Apples, grapes, pineapple…I've got fresh-squeezed orange juice as well, and there may be some berries in here somewhere…"
He bought some of everything, but passed over the pineapples, which had been cut into chunks with a probably treif knife, and took a water bottle, too. Somehow he managed to make correct change out of the gold and silver coins, and spilled an armful of cherries, apples, grapes, and strawberries on the compartment table.
Michael's eyes widened. "Are you a vegetarian? Or do you just really like fruit?"
"I—"
"Oh, right." Michael slapped his forehead. "You're Jewish. Kosher, right? Are you going to bless the food? Can I watch?"
He laughed. "Baruch Atah Hashem Elokeinu, melech ha'olam, borei p'ri ha'etz." There was a split-second startled pause which no Amen filled before he bit into a grape. He watched Michael and wished he had brought something to read. Something English. He was too embarrassed to take out a Tanach or a siddur, or—horrors—a Gemara. So he ate grapes, washed his hands by leaning out the window (Michael, amazingly, was too absorbed in his book to even notice) and finished half a tuna sandwich before starting on the cherries.
The compartment door rolled open again, and a girl around their age leaned in. "You haven't any of you seen a toad, have you?"
"A toad?" Yehuda echoed blankly.
Her eyes lingered a moment on his yarmulke. "A first-year boy down at the end of the train's lost his. Have you seen one?" She addressed Michael.
He moved only to turn the page. "No, I haven't, sorry."
The girl left, and their compartment fell back into silence. Yehuda stared out the window and wondered what his siblings were doing, how the boys in his class were doing on their first day at Yesodey. He pulled the Hogwarts robes over his white button-down, trying to get used to the feel-it was almost, but not quite, like a davening jacket, but it was so goyish, so utterly wrong. Soon the setting sun flashed through the window, nearly blinding him. His gaze flew to his watch and he gave an involuntary gasp. "Oh!"
"What's the matter?"
"I have to—" daven mincha before shkiyah— "say afternoon prayers before the sun goes down." He winced inwardly. It sounded so stuffy.
"All right, so pray." Michael returned to his book, unconcerned. Yehuda stood up uncertainly, looking around. Then he brightened. He rummaged in his trunk until he found a notebook. Leaning against the wall, he penned his first question.
Dear Rabbi Zeller,
1. Which way do you face when davening Shemone Esrei on a train?
In the meantime, he supposed any direction would do. He could be facing Jerusalem one minute, and then for all he knew the train would go around a bend and he wouldn't be anymore. Michael was now watching him with interest. His heart skipped a beat as he took three steps back and began.
Baruch Atah...he bowed, acutely conscious of Michael's eyes burning a hole in his back. He forced himself to focus. Gomel chassadim tovim v'konei hakol, v'zocher chasdei avos, u'meivi goel livnei bneihem l'maan shemo b'ahava. Melech, ozer, u'moshia, u'magen. The compartment door rolled opened and he gulped but bent his knees anyway. Blessed are You, God, shield of Avraham.
"Change into your uniforms, boys, we'll be there in—what's he doing?"
"Praying," Michael said matter-of-factly. "I'll tell him when he's finished."
"Uh, right." The door shut. Seconds later, the voice echoed throughout the train. "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."
He forced himself not to blink, to keep going as though there were no people lining the corridor chattering with excitement, Atah chonen l'adam da'as, umelamed l'enosh bina and he'd be finished within the five minutes, it wasn't worth getting distracted, refaeinu v'neirafe, hoshieinu v'nivasheia and out of the corner of his eye he saw Michael fidgeting and stuffing candy into the pockets of his robes and he whispered faster, the words running together tekah-bshofar-gadol-lecheiruseinu-vsa-nes-lekabetz-galuyoseinu and the train began to slow and his heart hammered in his chest, finish, just finish. He reached Modim and bowed, almost toppling as the train braked and doors began to slam, voices rose, muffled by the train's walls. Cold air washed in through the open doors. His mouth moved frantically, hatovkilochalurachamechavehamerachemkilosamuchasadecha and finally he skittered three steps back and jerked a sort-of-bow to the left, right, just as a voice outside called, "First years!"
He barely stopped to look, to breathe, but threw open the door and sprinted out onto a platform, where a bobbing lantern was leading a group down the path. "Any more firs' years? Mind yer step now—firs' years, follow me—"
He caught up to them, breathing hard, and slipped his siddur into his robe's pocket beside a forgotten sandwich. They were following a giant of a man down a stony, slippery path in the deepening twilight, trees so thick it could have been a forest. He stepped carefully, avoiding twigs and rocks, but then the girl next to him slipped and grabbed his arm and he jerked away immediately and lost his balance.
"Easy, there," someone snickered. His face burned.
"Yeh'll get yer first sight of Hogwarts in a sec'!" the giant called from up front, looking over his shoulder. "Just 'round this bend here!"
He fixed his eyes on the invisible horizon. "He can't even speak English," someone muttered next to him, but Yehuda's eyes were wide and his mouth slipped out a quiet, unconscious "Oh!" A castle loomed over them, shining towers and windows reflected in a black glassy lake.
"Wow!" Someone bumped his shoulder as they descended the riverbank. To his relief, he saw it was Michael. "How do we—"
"No more'n four to a boat," the giant announced, answering his question. A fleet of tiny canoes lined the shore.
"This is creepy," Michael said. His teeth chattered as he clambered into the boat behind Yehuda. A girl with blond pigtails sat on the bench opposite them, avoiding eye contact and biting her nails. The boats began to move on their own across the water and they watched the castle draw closer until they were so close they couldn't see it. Ivy tickled Yehuda's face as the boats were carried under a mountain, through some kind of tunnel, until they disembarked on the opposite shore and followed the giant up a flight of stone steps.
They gathered in front of a huge oak door, which opened to reveal McGonagall. She looked completely different, in a pointed witch's hat and long bright green robes. She had been formidable in his sitting room, and authoritative in the rabbi's study, but here she seemed to own the castle, here she was a queen.
"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," the giant announced.
Professor. They had been calling her "Ms." Yehuda flushed. The straggling group of eleven-year-olds followed the professor across a huge marble entrance hall, torches lighting the walls. A grand staircase faced them, and he could hear faint chatter somewhere close by, but the professor led them right past it and opened the door to an empty room. She flicked her wand, and torches flared to life along its walls.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, as they filed in solemnly. "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." Yehuda wondered why anyone would name a house Hufflepuff or 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 rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. 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."
In front of the school? The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he nervously tucked his peyos behind his ears.
"I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting. I will return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly." She left, shutting the door behind her.
"How do we get sorted?" Yehuda asked Michael in a low voice. He'd done magic before, erased dirt in the refrigerator and made flowers bloom, but he'd never done it because he had to, only because he was angry or scared or happy.
"There's a magic hat," Michael explained. "You just put on the hat and it says what house you go to. My mum told me about it. It's not scary at all, but it's in front of the whole school."
"Some sort of test, I think?" a redheaded boy was telling his friend. "Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking." Michael sniggered, but the other children were stunned into silence.
"It's not true, my mum—" Michael stopped, and gasped. The pigtailed girl screamed, and so did ten or fifteen others. Yehuda gaped, open-mouthed, as twenty ghosts—they had to be ghosts, they were people, in midair, glowing white and half-transparent—floated through the walls, conversing among themselves. "Forgive and forget, I say," one was saying, "we ought to give him a second chance..."
"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost... I say, what are you all doing here?" The ghost looked at them curiously.
The question fell flat. Yehuda stared up at them, as did all the others.
"New students!" said the first ghost approvingly. He was bald, and wore a robe with a rope wrapped around the waist. "About to be sorted, I suppose?" Yehuda nodded automatically, as though he were not standing in a magic castle, in the middle of a lake, waiting to be sorted,talking to an actual ghost. Things couldn't get much weirder. "Hope to see you in Hufflepuff, my old house, you know—"
The door opened, and Professor McGonagall entered. Yehuda wondered if she too could float in through the walls, probably not, she wasn't dead—what was he thinking?"Move along now," the professor said briskly. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start. Form a line, and follow me."
He kept his face pointed toward the floor as they walked through a doorway and into a brightly lit room, clenching his teeth to stop their chattering. There was laughter and a babble of noise and he knew everyone was staring at them, and he watched his feet as they were led between tables to the front of the room. Finally he lifted his eyes, saw—candles floating in midair, a long table set with glittering plates and goblets and lined with adults in pointed hats. He stood on tiptoe to see over the boy in front of him. There at the front of the room sat a plain three-legged stool, with the oldest, dirtiest hat he had ever seen perched on top of it. He wondered if he might get lice, trying it on. Michael said it talked, but how?
As though reading his mind, the hat began to sing.
"Oh you may not think me 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 Hufflepuffs 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 folks 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!"
Applause resounded throughout the hall. Yehuda bit his lip. So: a house for brave people, loyal people, smart people, and cunning people. He wondered what the difference was between smart and cunning, and how on earth could the hat sing,but was cut short as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, now holding a long roll of parchment.
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!"
The blond-pigtailed girl who had shared their boat walked up to the front and gingerly put on the hat, looking as though it might bite her. There was a moment of silence before the hat shouted "HUFFLEPUFF!"
"I'll be one of the first, I reckon," Michael whispered in his ear. "It goes in alphabetical order."
Yehuda's stomach flip-flopped. How many names would there be before his?
"Brocklehurst, Mandy!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
He watched the tables carefully: Mandy Brocklehurst was welcomed to the second table from the left, but Lavender Brown became a Gryffindor, and sat at the furthest left. A girl called Millicent was made a Slytherin and headed to the table on the right. He tried to ingrain it in his memory so he'd know where to go at his turn—
"Corner, Michael!"
"See you round," Michael whispered, and Yehuda watched him get sorted into Ravenclaw and give him a tiny, fingers-fluttering wave as he crossed the hall. The flip-flopping in Yehuda's stomach intensified. Vincent Crabbe became a Slytherin and Kevin Entwhistle a Ravenclaw (oh no, they were up to E already) and Justin Finch-Fletchley a Hufflepuff. He wondered how many F's there would be and if there were any G's before him. "Finnegan, Seamus!" Any minute now.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat screamed.
"Goldstein, Anthony!"
So soon? He stepped up, feeling hundreds of eyes watching him. He squeezed his eyes shut as he sat down and gingerly pulled the hat on.
"Well, well, well," said a voice. "I haven't seen a kippah in a while."
His eyes popped open in shock. Upon seeing the hundreds of students facing him expectantly, he quickly closed them again.
"Well, where to put you?" mused the hat in his ear as though it were perfectly normal. "A good healthy dose of intellect, and my, aren't we analytical, if only for the fun of it. Not a lot of ambition, prefer a quiet life, do you, my boy?"
Of course, he thought, who wouldn't?
"You'd be surprised."
You can hear me!
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be able to sort you. Well, that rules out Slytherin, I suppose, and you've got a fair bit of courage, all right, but it's of the internal sort, so we'll go with the first instinct which is usually the best one…RAVENCLAW!" The hat screamed the last word for all the hall to hear. He sagged with relief and stood up.
"And just so you know," the little voice said, and he froze with his hand on the brim, "the food is kosher."
He blinked—what?—but the faint chuckle had already died as McGonagall called, "Goyle, Gregory!" and he replaced the hat and set off across the hall to the Ravenclaw table.
"Welcome to Ravenclaw, Goldstein!" Hands shook his and someone patted him on the back, and an older boy sat him down on a bench toward the end of the table. Michael beamed at him as Greengrass, Daphne became a Slytherin, and he wondered idly if that was a Jewish name.
The Sorting was interesting now that he could watch calmly instead of waiting and worrying. A boy with the odd surname of Longbottom tripped on the way up and sat on the stool for nearly three minutes before the hat called, "GRYFFINDOR!" Then he walked away wearing it. A very small, thin girl with a long braid and a foreign-sounding name was made a Ravenclaw and slid into the seat across from Yehuda, her eyes fixed on the hat and the next student sorted. When the hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" she sighed and her shoulders slumped. A boy called Harry Potter was sorted into Gryffindor, and the table exploded into hysterical cheers as though the boy were some kind of celebrity.
"Blimey, they got Harry Potter," the older boy said, with a touch of envy in his voice.
Perhaps he was some kind of celebrity. The line of first years moved quickly after that, was nearly gone, and finally Zabini, Blaise became a Slytherin and Professor McGonagall rolled the parchment and took her seat at the head table. The man at its center, who had a long flowing white beard, got to his feet. Swap the robes and pointed hat for a black jacket and fedora, Yehuda thought, and he could have been on a gadol card.
"That's the headmaster," the older boy explained in an undertone. "Albus Dumbledore. Brilliant man. Greatest wizard in the world, and maybe of all time—they say he's the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of."
"Welcome!" Albus Dumbedore boomed, stretching out his arms as though he'd like nothing more than to give them all a hug. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words."
Yehuda relaxed; this was something he was familiar with.
"And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."
What?
Before his eyes, the empty dishes suddenly filled with food. Roast chicken, boiled potatoes, meat he didn't recognize wet with sauce and gravy, sausages, jugs of juice and bowls of peas and carrots. His mouth watered. The fruit on the train seemed like years ago, and all he had was a sandwich. He didn't see a sink to wash, but he'd washed and made a bracha on the train, and he was so hungry he decided it was okay to continue eating the sandwich without washing again.
"Can I pass you anything, Goldstein?" the older boy asked, holding a platter of fries.
"Just juice, please," he decided. "I'm—not hungry." His stomach growled like the traitor it was. Resolutely, he took another bite of his sandwich.
Years and years ago, when Shua Danziger had still called himself Josh and his mother Mum, he had stood on his tricycle to peer over the hedge between their front yards, and offered Yehuda a candy bar. Yehuda had been little then, noted the crocheted yarmulke on his neighbor's head, and accepted it. Two seconds later, Esti had snatched it out of his hand and returned it to Shua, and that was how he learned you always always always check if something is kosher enough for a boy like you.
He definitely wasn't going to take the word of a talking hat for it.
The night wore on and the noise of happy, hungry people eating rose and fell. Yehuda finished his sandwich and refilled his cup with juice, embarrassed to be the only one not eating, though the girl opposite him simply pushed peas and carrots around her plate. Thankfully, no one tried to talk to him, except to pass platters of treif food under his nose and he was so tired and disoriented he wouldn't have responded anyway. The food vanished and was replaced with plates of apple pies and doughnuts, ice cream and jello, and thank God a small bowl of strawberries appeared right in front of him. The headmaster warned everyone not go here or there and there was something about a painful death that Professor McGonagall had definitely not mentioned back in May, and they sang a long and nonsensical song about the school, and then at last were dismissed to bed. The boy who'd shaken his hand stood up and called for first years. Yehuda swung his legs off the bench and followed Michael into the noisy throng.
"Hilliard!" It was Professor McGonagall, the one familiar face in a dizzying crowd. She hurried up to the older boy, a small dark girl trailing wide-eyed behind her. "I need a word with three of your first years. Would you find me Boot, Goldstein, and Patil, and wait up in Ravenclaw Tower until they get back, please."
"Why does she want you?" Michael whispered. "You haven't even been here a day. Blimey—are they twins?"
"Looks like it," he muttered. It was the girl who had grabbed his arm on the path, and the other had sat across from him all night. They looked exactly alike. No wonder she had been so upset.
Michael patted his shoulder rather like an affectionate older brother, though the effect was somewhat spoiled since he was two inches shorter than Yehuda. "It'll be all right. Go on."
The double doors boomed shut behind the last students, and the four stood in the middle of the Great Hall around McGonagall. The twins stood so close together they looked like they wanted to share each other's clothing. Yehuda fidgeted away from Terry Boot, acutely conscious of the weight of his yarmulke.
"Right," McGonagall said briskly. "You're all here because your parents requested that we make accommodations for you during your time at Hogwarts. Let's start with you, Mr. Boot. I'm told you attend Mass on a regular basis at home. Hogwarts does not have a chapel, but there is one in Hogsmeade Village. Generally, only third-years and up are permitted to visit Hogsmeade, but in light of your circumstances we are going to make an exception. This is a privilege; you are to use it to attend services only, do you understand?"
Boot nodded. "Of course."
"Regarding literature and the teaching of evolution," McGonagall said, looking amused, "I'm afraid your parents did not understand the exact nature of the curriculum here, so that isn't relevant. Some of the students here do occasionally organize informal services; I don't know the nature of it, but you can ask the Hufflepuff prefect for details. Miss Patil and Miss Patil?"
"Yes," they blurted at exactly the same moment.
"As per your parents' request, in the event that beef is served, a house-elf will notify you and your food will be delivered separately. You may set aside a corner for worship in your dormitories—if you prefer, we can find you a spare classroom—and you may worship together past curfew if necessary. If you have a holiday or—some other religious restriction, do let someone know. Your prefect, Head of House, or myself—they'll all do. I can allow you to miss classes, within reason, but only if I know about it in advance. The same goes for you, Mr. Goldstein."
He nodded silently. It was more than he had expected. But there was Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur and eight days of Sukkos, and that was just September!
"Mr. Goldstein, your food will be prepared separately in the Hogwarts kitchen and delivered to your plate. If this is not sufficient, you may use the kitchen facilities on your own. Naturally, you will be excused from all Saturday and late Friday events, and while there is no synagogue located in Hogsmeade Village, we may be able to arrange a trip off-grounds for particularly important services. I am afraid," she turned to the Patils, "I have not the faintest idea where the nearest Hindu temple might be located."
He tried to slow his pounding heart, but settled for breathing calmly, in and out. It would be all right. Now he had a second question for the rabbi:
2. Can I eat kosher food that was cooked by goyim without supervision?
If the answer was "no," he would be in a very tight spot indeed. He had no idea how to cook anything at all.
"Well, unless you have any questions, that will be all. Miss Patil, I will escort you to the Gryffindor dormitory. Mr. Boot, Mr. Goldstein, Miss Patil, please follow the cat to your tower." A silvery cloud blossomed from the end of her wand, solidifying into the shape of a cat, which turned to make sure they were following before trotting out of the hall. He wondered if this was what Rabbi Zeller had meant by an illusion, because as illusions went, this cat wasn't a very good one.
They were walking in silence, started up a staircase and along a corridor, and once the cat headed through a tapestry that turned out to be a hidden doorway. He felt compelled to speak, feeling a kind of kinship with the boy and girl on either side of him "It's nice of them to do this for us, isn't it?"
"Well, I wouldn't have come, otherwise," the Boot boy said. "Terry Boot, by the way, and you are—?"
The barest breath of hesitation. "Yehuda Goldstein."
"You're Jewish, then."
"Yes," he said, though it wasn't a question. He waited. The cat paused in front of a door, waiting for them to catch up.
Terry leaned around him to look at the girl. "What's your name?"
She opened the door, revealing a stairwell. "I'm Padma Patil. My sister Parvati's in Gryffindor."
"Where are you from?"
"Birmingham."
"No," Terry said, "I mean, where are you from?"
"Birmingham," Padma repeated, looking at him with the grave snobbishness of a preteen girl. Then she laughed, and rolled her eyes. "My grandparents are from India. You could have just asked."
"And you're—"
"Hindu."
The cat started up a round staircase that spiraled around and around, up and up stone steps and glowing torches, until Yehuda was dizzy and short of breath.
"So—you're an—idol—worshipper?" Terry panted.
Padma flinched as though she had been struck. She said nothing. Conversation died an instant painful death. Yehuda walked faster, and they continued in awkward silence. He heard ragged breathing behind him but could not tell whose it was, and none of them spoke again until the staircase ended at a wooden door with no keyhole or knob. The cat nodded curtly at them and vanished. They were home.
Terry stood on tiptoe to knock. Yehuda stepped back, half-expecting to door to swing open on its own, but it did not. Instead, a pleasant female voice echoed through the landing. "Do we see with our eyes, or through them?"
They looked at each other.
"It's a riddle," Padma said sleepily. She covered her mouth, stifling a yawn. "We have to answer it to get in. I think."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Yehuda asked. "You see with your eyes. If you didn't have eyes, you couldn't see."
"But if you were seeing through your eyes, you still wouldn't be able to see if they were missing," Terry pointed out.
"So it's asking if you are your body, or if you're just inside it?" Hogwarts was turning out to be quite interesting. He mentally composed a third question:
3. Do you see with your eyes, or through them?
"I'm too tired to be philosophical," Padma mumbled. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's like asking if you bang in a nail with your arm or with a hammer and anyway you see with your brain. Or through your brain. Whatever."
"An apt analogy," said the voice, with amusement, but the door swung open.
They faced a huge circular room, the walls lined with bookshelves and arched windows, a few cushioned benches placed here and there. Blue and bronze banners hung from a domed ceiling far above their heads. Yehuda stepped inside. Further down, groups of tables and chairs were strategically placed as though waiting for a chavrusa. He could imagine the room quietly humming like a lively library.
"Oh, good, you're back." The older boy strode toward them. "I'm your prefect, Robert Hilliard—welcome to Ravenclaw Tower. You can get the grand tour later." He steered them past an imposing white statue, Padma through one door and he and Terry through another, up another flight of stairs. Through the haze of sleepiness, Yehuda wondered how high they could possibly go, until they were there. Five four-poster beds stood in a semicircle, wind whistling outside a huge arched window. Two beds were still made, blue silk sheets stretched neatly across the mattress. He saw Michael sprawled across one bed, chest rising and falling, another boy tucked neatly under the covers. His trunk stood beside his bed, and he blearily fumbled for his pajamas.
He had pulled the covers over him, half-asleep, when he remembered that he'd forgotten to bentch. He mumbled Shema instead.
Note: Happy Chanukah, Rosh Chodesh, and anything else you happen to be celebrating.