JKR owns HP

Disclaimers: For the kosher status of tea prepared by non-Jews, CYLOR.

And the Children of Yisrael observed the Sabbath, establishing it for generations as an eternal pledge (Exodus 31:16)

"Don't be thrown if you don't understand your Potions grade," Marcus was telling them, as they sorted out the returned exams from the pile. "Snape only gives good marks if you're absolutely perfect."

Yehuda folded back the corner cautiously and saw his eighty-eight. Points had been deducted for milling his mistletoe berries too finely. As the gaggle of first years retreated to a corner to lick their wounds in peace, he flipped slowly through the stack of parchment, reviewing his mistakes and trying to puzzle out the comments the professors had left behind in the margins.

"How did you do on Charms?" Michael asked.

"Ninety-eight," he said ruefully, "but I knew that already; he told me at the practical exam. I lost two points for Incendio, of course. What about you, Terry?"

"One hundred four," Terry said.

"Ninety-six," Michael said. "Would have been ninety-two, but I got two of the extra credit questions."

"I got two as well," Mandy said, checking her last page. "Did anyone get all of them?"

"Hermione Granger," Yehuda said, "obviously." He hadn't even tried, and now he regretted it. What would have been the worst that could have happened?

"How about Transfiguration?"

They were distracted momentarily by Hilliard coming through the door, his arms full of posters, and going to the noticeboard to tack them up, one by one.

"The Hogwarts Express will depart from Hogsmeade Station to Kings Cross Station in London on Saturday, 20 June, at 11 a.m," Kevin read, squinting. "Please return all library books. Please remove all cauldrons and spare ingredients from the Potions classroom. Seventh-years should be advised that any belongings left behind will be donated to the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund. In accordance with the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, students are not permitted to use magic during the holidays."

Terry's head snapped in Yehuda's direction, but he didn't say anything.

"It's a good thing he reminded us," Yehuda said absently, still looking at his Transfiguration exam. "I've still got some back issues of Challenges in Charming out—it leaves on Saturday?"

"That's what it says," Morag said. "Oh! That's your holiday. I mean, your…"

"Sabbath," Terry murmured.

"Aye, your Sabbath. Can you go on a train then?"

"No," Yehuda said shortly. He got to his feet. "Uh—" Hilliard? Robert? A prefect was something like a teacher; it still felt odd to call him by his first name. "Excuse me? Is there any other train that's not on Saturday?"

"Special to the end, aren't you?" Hilliard smiled, rumpling his hair. "I suppose you'll have to talk to Flitwick. This isn't one of those things you can find your way out of, is it?"

Find his way out of? He looked down at the stack of exams and laid them face-down on the table. "Will you take these upstairs for me, then? I'm going to see what to do about this train business."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Michael asked.

"I'll be all right." That they knew all about the little things you needed to be frum, all the Yamim Tovim and all the times he needed to daven—that was fine, that was easier, even. It was only when he had to go to teachers, embarrass himself by asking their permission to be different, that he was glad they weren't there. No, he would go alone. It would be all right. They would find a way, he knew that now.

Like they did for Parshas Zachor? said the whisper of doubt, but he put it aside.

On the seventh floor, Flitwick's office door was open. He could hear the whoosh of spells being cast and cancelled, and the wall opposite the door reflected their glow. Flitwick was standing on top of his desk in a fencer's stance, concentrating intently and jabbing luminous lines of charmwork into the air. Yehuda knocked gently at the edge of the doorframe.

Flitwick looked over at him, his wand still raised. "Good afternoon, Mr. Goldstein, how nice to see you. Is something the matter?"

"The train's leaving on—Saturday," he said.

"So it is," Flitwick said. He shot a jet of water from the tip of his wand, vanishing before it hit the desk. "Would you like to learn the packing charm? With a bit of practice—"

"No," he said reluctantly. His face was hot; after all this time, it still embarrassed him to have to say it. "I'm not allowed to do things on Saturday. It's…sort of like a holiday. I guess I'll have to be stuck in the castle, then?"

"An interesting dilemma, Mr. Goldstein, but not one that I can solve for you," Flitwick said. "Influential as I am among members of Ravenclaw House, I'm afraid that responsibility lies with the deputy Headmistress."

Had he known he was going to be sent all the way downstairs, he might have accepted Michael's offer of company, he thought ruefully. He held the banister and carefully skipped over the trick step, all the way down to the corridor above the entrance.

"Professor?"

McGonagall was leaving her office, a stack of books in her arms. She looked at him inquiringly. "Yes, Mr. Goldstein?"

"It's about the train back to London," he blurted, before he could lose his nerve. "I'm not allowed to take a train on Saturday, and I thought I could stay here another day, until after it's over. Would that be all right?"

"Well, Mr. Goldstein," she said, "that's not a decision for me to make. Professor Dumbledore is the headmaster of this castle, and it is he who has the authority to decide who lives here."

"I don't want to live here," he said quickly, anxious to set the misunderstanding straight. "I just can't take the train on Saturday. I've already got somewhere to live."

McGonagall actually smiled. "I understand, Mr. Goldstein. But the fact remains that June twentieth is the last day of term. Come along."

She swept up the steps to the second floor. Yehuda hurried behind her. Where was she going? It was like a treasure hunt, going from teacher to teacher, searching for someone to tell him what was going on, and the next clue was Dumbledore. McGonagall stopped on the third floor, in front of a rather hideous statue he had never noticed before. "Sugar quill," she said.

"What?"

But the gargoyle had stepped to the side, and the stone of its niche melted away to reveal the first steps of a slowly revolving, ascending staircase, encased in a tube behind the corridor and spiraling upward into the walls. He followed McGonagall, his mouth open. It seemed that Hogwarts would continue to surprise him, no matter how long he stayed.

They reached a small landing, a nondescript door, and Professor McGonagall rapped on it and it swung open. He thought he heard the fluttery jingling of wind chimes as they walked through. Dumbledore's office was twice the size of Flitwick's, maybe even bigger than his dormitory, though it was hard to tell as the dormitory was full of beds and the office wasn't. The walls were curved and expansive, lined with shelves and books.

"Sit here and wait for the headmaster," Professor McGonagall said, steering him toward a chair. She left.

Yehuda took a seat, swinging his legs, the wind chimes tinkling peacefully behind him. A vast wooden desk occupied a place of honor at the center of the room, clawed legs looking bowed under the weight of the cluttered surface, piles of parchments and stacks of books, a large silver bowl resting on top of it all. Portraits hung all along the round walls, white-bearded men and solemn-faced women, watching him silently. There were stools placed behind the desk, holding strange silver instruments whose levers and cogs hummed delicately, puffing steam and plinking in a vaguely musical way. Behind the desk, he recognized an old, tattered hat crumpled on a shelf.

A thought came to him—a memory, from his first frightened night under the cavernous ceilings of the Great Hall, the question that had flooded his mind before being flattened by a thousand more minutes later. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he had stood up and retreated to the doorway, listening carefully to the silence in the passageway below. No door opened, no stone staircase moved. No Dumbledore.

His heart pounding, he tiptoed around to the other side of the desk and gingerly lifted the hat. It settled over half his face, just as it had then.

"Hello?" he whispered, still straining to hear footsteps.

Something seemed to stir in the musty darkness. "Yehuda Goldstein," said the little chirping voice. "What's going on under that kippah?"

"The first week of school," he said breathlessly. "When I got Sorted, you said you hadn't seen a kippah in a while. Does that mean there were other Jews here before me?"

"Certainly," said the hat calmly. "There have been, on and off, since 1077—well, bit of a gap for a certain three hundred fifty years, and never more than two or three at once, but there always have been. And wouldn't you know, almost every single one has asked that question, and I give every single one that same answer."

"You said the food was kosher—do you tell that to everyone, too?"

"Only the ones who cared to know."

"Why," he said, surprised, "were there some who didn't?"

"Doesn't mean they were any less Jewish than you are, my boy," the hat said pointedly, "only that it wasn't on their minds during the Sorting."

He ignored this. "So who was the last one who you told? Is he still here, at Hogwarts?"

"The last one? You're going back some fifty years, now. And who says it was a he?"

Yehuda didn't answer; the door had opened at the bottom of the staircase. He pulled the hat off and hastily put it back on the shelf, and by the time Professor Dumbledore swept into the room he was sitting on the straight-backed chair again, only a slight panting in his breath to indicate that he had ever been anywhere else. He shrank back, avoiding Dumbledore's eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Goldstein," Dumbledore said, inclining his head. He glided across the chamber and pointed his wand at the desk. A steaming teacup appeared, followed by a jug of milk and a small pile of sugar cubes. "May I offer you a glass of tea?"

He shook his head mutely, but Dumbledore continued as easily as if he has spoken aloud. "My apologies. May I instead offer you a glass of hot water and a teabag?"

He didn't particularly want tea at the moment, but if the headmaster was going to trouble himself to remember all the rules about food, he ought to at the very least be a gracious guest. So he nodded, and accepted the cup that materialized out of nowhere, warming his fingers through its side.

"Now, then," Dumbledore said, settling into his seat on the other side of the desk, "to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

He had never been this close to Dumbledore before, and it was making all the words catch in his throat. "P-Professor McGonagall. Professor McGonagall said that I should come and speak with you."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore looked over his glasses, smiling. His eyes were bright blue and Yehuda had the discomfiting feeling that he could see right through him.

"Yes. You see, the—the Hogwarts Express, the train home, it leaves on Sh—on Saturday, and I don't, I mean, I can't go on a train until it's over, and that's after the term, and she said that since you're the Headmaster, you have to give me permission to stay until the end of…"

"Yes, yes." Dumbledore nodded, stopping him mid-ramble. "You have my permission. The question, of course, is how to return you home once the evening is over. Given your baggage and your inexperience, the ideal methods would be the Knight Bus on Saturday night, or the Hogsmeade Local train on Sunday morning. Hogwarts will, of course, pay your ticket, just as it will for your classmates returning home with the Hogwarts Express on Saturday. Which would you prefer?"

"Well, it's hard to say, I've only ever taken the train and I don't know what the bus is like," he said, and, remembering who he was speaking to, quickly tacked on, "Sir."

"Quite reasonable," Dumbledore said. He wasn't angry that Yehuda had forgotten to say sir. "The Knight Bus is an emergency transportation service available to any witch or wizard. It is easily recognizable, being three stories tall and a charming shade of violet. It employs some rather…unpredictable methods of travel, but it is enchanted with Imperturbable Charms that provide for the safety of the riders, and any homes and vehicles in its path."

"Oh," Yehuda said. "Oh, I'll take the train, then." Michael, he thought wryly, would leap at the chance to ride what surely amounted to a triple-decker purple vehicle of insanity, if he hadn't done so already. What sort of bus driver needed Imperturbable Charms to keep his passengers safe?

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, I thought you might."

It all ended so quickly, you could almost forget that it had been ten months since they had come—the last few days were a blur of sunshine and laziness, but the very last day was a whirlwind. It was an odd feeling, watching the others pull their clothing from the wardrobes and strip the sheets from their beds, dismantling the whole year around him while he sat on top of his blankets with his usual Shabbos tray of rolls and salmon balanced on his lap.

"Whose trainers are these?"

"Oi, Kevin, you left your telescope under my bed!"

"I never handed in this essay; d'you think Binns even noticed?"

Kevin tucked the telescope into his trunk, checking his watch. "We've got to be in the Great Hall at half past ten. I'll see you downstairs."

"Have a nice summer, Yehuda," Stephen said.

"Yeah, cheers."

The door shut behind them. He heard their trunks thumping all the way down the stairs.

"I'll write to you," Michael promised. "Muggle post and all. What's your address?"

"Number ten Finchley Road. Can you—" It was Shabbos. He stopped and chose his words more carefully. "I'd love to be able to write to you as well, but I don't know your address."

"Oh, it's thirty-five Moorfield Street, in Bradford," Michael rattled off easily, "it's a Muggle town, but there're a few wizarding fam—"

"He wants you to write it down for him, you twit," Terry said. "He can't today, or he'd be coming with us."

"Oh! That's right." Michael popped open his trunk. Books and unmatched socks cascaded out. He extracted a roll of parchment from the depths of the mess and tore off a piece, leaning on the trunk to copy down his address, and set the parchment on Yehuda's nightstand, next to the waxy stubs of the melted Shabbos candles.

"Well," Terry said. He looked at the paper on the nightstand, then at the door. "Well, have a great summer, then."

"Go on," Yehuda told him. "I don't know your address either."

Terry broke into a smile. He set his bag down on the bare mattress and put his arms around Yehuda in an awkward sort of hug. Yehuda was standing wrong for a hug, he hadn't been expecting it, but he shifted and hugged back. Terry let go, a bit pink in the face, and bent over the nightstand and put his address down.

"Well, let's go!" Michael said impatiently.

The common room was nearly empty; Marietta and Cho were there, and the oldest Weasley brother, helping Penelope with her bags. But outside, the hallways were full of the leaving, some still in school robes, some in jeans, laughing, chattering, dragging their trunks or levitating them a few steps ahead. A collection of horseless carriages stood waiting at the front doors, and the teachers circulated in the waiting crowds. Hilliard shook hands with Flitwick and Michael hugged Yehuda, and carriage by carriage, the doors slammed, the stream of black-robed students thinned and dissipated, and he saw someone lean out the window and wave, the line of coaches moving down the green and to the gates, and they were gone.

There was a great exhale among the professors, and they all seemed to relax. They were silent another moment. He thought he saw a tear in Professor Sprout's eye.

"Until next year," Professor McGonagall said at last.

"All but one," Flitwick said with a fond chuckle. "Why so quiet, Mr. Goldstein?"

He startled. It was just him now in the hall in a forest of his teachers (well, not Flitwick; he was at eye level), and he felt an overwhelming urge to flee. Did they want him to say something?

He was saved by the tiny horde of house-elves that appeared out of nowhere, swarming across the hall wielding brooms and mops and rags, Remmy and Ezzy and Dory and a host of others whose names he guiltily realized he didn't know, even after ten months of them separately plating his narrow list of acceptable foods. "Professors," said the one at the head of the swarm, "is there any special requests this year when we is clearing the seventh-year rooms?"

"Only the usual, I think," McGonagall said. "All ingredients to the dungeons, Healing Potions to Poppy, robes to the scholarship office, and so forth. Farley in Slytherin has a lovely illustrated edition of Transformation through the Ages, so if she's left it, let me know—that is, if Severus doesn't assert his rights as Head of House."

As the professors laid claim to the left-behind belongings of the now-departed seventh-years, Yehuda backed away, up the grand staircase. The second floor was completely silent. He avoided the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom; none of them had set foot in it since the whispers had spread knowledge of what had been under Professor Quirrell's turban. At the end of the hallway was a large sunny room he had never seen before, lined with plain iron beds. He guessed this was the hospital wing.

There were one hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts, or so it said in Hogwarts, A History, and he doubted he had seen half of them. The third-floor corridor was the hallway that was out of bounds unless you wished to die a painful death, where Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and the Weasley boy had gone after You-Know-Who. The other half of the third floor was lined with suits of armor. There was a room filled with tall glass cases, the shelves lined with burnished trophies and ceremonial cups and labeled with a small plaque below, every square inch of wall space given over to shields and medals. On the fourth floor, he tried a door and found nothing but a blank wall behind it. The fifth floor, of course, held the stairway to Ravenclaw Tower. The seventh floor was a hallway he knew well, having trod the path to Flitwick's office so many times. Somewhere along it was the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which he wouldn't be able to enter—they had a password that only they knew. There was a long stretch of blank wall at the other end whose purpose he could not discern. He stared at it, lost in thought, when he remembered what he had wanted to look up, and that there was no one here but him and he could read whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted. He turned and ran back downstairs.

The librarian's desk was piled high with seventh-years' books; Madam Pince was barely visible behind them. She was sorting them into piles, clicking her tongue each time she picked up one of the more well-worn ones. He stood there for a few minutes before realizing that unless he caught her attention, possibly by pouring ink all over the flyleaf, she was never going to look up, ever. It being Shabbos, he faked a cough instead.

"You're the boy who's staying until tomorrow?" she asked, staring at him suspiciously.

He nodded. "Where can I find a book about boggarts?"

"Defense!" she said imperiously, and turned back to examining the volumes in front of her.

He trailed his hand along the spines of the books as he walked down the towering aisles. In the Defense Section, he found an thick tome entitled Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions (was that like a ghost? Spirit, apparition—but it said non-human, and ghosts, he assumed, were human) and opened to the introduction.

What is a non-being? It is not a human, for it has no consciousness. It is not an animal, for its species can never be extinct. In fact, it cannot be considered a living creature at all, since it has never been born, will not naturally die, and in some forms is indestructible. And yet it is not a ghost, for it has never truly been alive. Rather, then, a non-being is generated, manifested, and maintained by the emotional state of human beings…and on and on it went. It didn't say anything about boggarts right away, but he could see where this was leading. By the seventieth page, his legs had begun to hurt. He wandered back down the aisle, still reading, and groped blindly for a chair. Many non-beings are more difficult to perceive for Muggles than wizards, or are simply less corporeal in their presence. It would seem, then, that non-beings feed off of magic, or off the emotional states of wizards alone, but again this is not so...He realized vaguely that there was a table in front of him. He set the book down and kept reading.

He read for what seemed like hours, and in fact was. He finished Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions and went on to The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, pausing only for Mincha, which he sped through rapid-fire facing the windows and the afternoon sun. There was no one to block the light, no sixth-years to come along and trip on him. Around six, when he would normally go downstairs to dinner, it occurred to him that he ought to see to shalosh seudos.

He came back up the aisles, too absorbed in the tragic story of James and Lily Potter to notice that Madam Pince had gone, and continued reading all the way down to the entrance hall. It was a good thing his feet knew the route by heart. As he read, he realized suddenly that the baby he was reading about, the one whose parents had been personally murdered by You-Know-Who, was the skinny Gryffindor boy with the odd scar and messy black hair. He'd known that, but all the same it was jarring to realize. He finished the chapter, put his finger in to hold the place, and approached the Great Hall. As he pushed the door open he suddenly remembered that all the students were gone; would there be meals at all?

The Hall was empty. The four long House table had been moved to stand flat against the walls, replaced by a single long table in the center of the room. Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, McGonagall to his right, and there were wine goblets, and steaming tureens and platters being passed among them. He leaned forward to see if there was a place, somewhere, for him, and the hinges groaned like a gunshot.

He froze instantly: all the teachers' faces turned to look at him. Professor Flitwick was there, seated on a stack of books, as were Filch, Professor Sinistra, the witch who had taught them to fly brooms, Madam Pince, a rigid-looking Snape and smiling Madam Pomfrey, and some teachers he had never seen before: a grizzled old man whose left arm ended at the elbow, a curly-haired woman sitting beside Snape, a dark-haired girl who looked awfully young to be a teacher, a skinny woman wearing multicolored shawls and too many necklaces. He felt very small, framed by the looming doors of the Great Hall.

"There you are, dear," Professor Sprout said warmly. She drew her wand and conjured a chair in front of the empty setting beside her, patting the seat. "Come and have a bite to eat."

The echoing walk across the Hall was even longer than it had been on his first day. He was tongue-tied, unable to lift his eyes from the floor. It was like joining the table with his older aunts and uncles at Bubby and Zeidy's house, only worse because these were teachers, his teachers; they didn't have to like him. He sat down gingerly, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts still tucked under his arm.

Madam Pince watched him through narrowed eyes. "Books are not to be brought into the Great Hall during meals," she said sharply.

"Oh, go on, Irma," Professor Sprout said. "Term's over. What happens in the summer stays in the summer. He won't tell anyone, will you, Goldstein?"

"N-no, Professor."

"Then that's that, then," Professor Sprout said. "As I was saying, Headmaster, do let me know when to place the order at Mulpepper's. The Mandrakes have been withering, and a mature Venomous Tentacula won't be any good for next year's N.E.W.T. students—I'm sorry, Minerva, it won't—and we'll need a few pints of dittany."

"As will I," said Snape.

McGonagall turned to him rather abruptly. "Have some pudding, Mr. Goldstein."

"No, thank you," he squeaked. A silver basin appeared in front of his seat, a towel tucked through the handle. Right hand, right hand, left hand, left hand—the cup clattered loudly against the basin. He dried his hands hurriedly and bit into a roll. The woman in colorful shawls was now staring wildly around the table, muttering to herself. She appeared to be counting.

"We were fifteen before he arrived, Sybill," Professor Sprout said reassuringly, "nothing to worry about."

"And where is dear Rubeus?" There was something odd about her voice, Yehuda thought; it was faraway and lyrical, like the background music played on a suspenseful tape. "The eight of swords, impending powerlessness…surely you have not cast him out, Headmaster?"

"Certainly not," Dumbledore said. "Hagrid has chosen to take his dinner in Charity's study so as to become better acquainted with her piranha."

"No one else wanted to feed Zambezi for the next two weeks," the curly-haired woman explained, "and I can't just leave him while I go off to Cagliari for research."

Snape looked incredulous.

"It is for research," she said defensively. "Although Sardinia is lovely this time of year. You ought to come along, Severus. Put a toe outside Cokeworth for once in your life."

Yehuda looked over the table cautiously, avoiding eye contact with the professors opposite him. There was plain fruit, that was all right, but it was too far away to reach without extending his whole arm over the table, and that felt too exposed. He stared at it, squirming.

"Don't be shy, Mr. Goldstein," Madam Pomfrey said. "You, too, Septima!"

The dark-haired girl arched an eyebrow. "Once a student, always a student, I suppose?"

"Oh, absolutely," Madame Pomfrey said cheerfully, passing the fruit over to Yehuda. "Just ask Severus."

"Congratulations on your first year, Septima," Snape said. His lips barely moved. "And be glad you didn't spend it teaching your former housemates."

"Surely it can't have been that uncomfortable?" Dumbledore said.

Snape shot him a look of deep contempt. "When was the last time a student called you Albus?"

"In any case," Professor Flitwick said hastily, "it will soon be someone else's first year, now that we have a…vacancy…in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"And who will agree to take the position?" Madam Pomfrey asked faintly. "After this—episode?"

None of them seemed to want to say Quirrell's name. Did it change everything they thought about him, knowing that he'd helped You-Know-Who? Or was it because he was dead?

"Oh, I have someone in mind," Dumbledore said. "But I think it unwise to discuss in present company. Bacon, Mr. Goldstein?"

At the sound of his name, he jerked his head up from the book. Stern Professor McGonagall was watching him with a faintly affectionate look in her eyes. Bacon? Once when he was seven, Adina had asked Savta why she had numbers on her arm, and Mummy had immediately begun fussing over Brochie. He felt like Brochie now—a way to change the topic of conversation. This dinner wasn't meant for students. He ate as fast as he dared, then bentched with his face down in the hopes that they would think he was reading to himself. It was getting dark, dusk sinking in through the magical ceiling, and he looked at them cautiously through lowered eyelashes, his voice stuck in his throat, wondering how to excuse himself. Very slowly, he started to edge his way off the chair.

Professor Sprout noticed, of course. She patted his hand and he flinched and yanked it back. "Leaving so soon, dear?"

His eyes slid toward the ceiling, helpless.

"Nightfall," Dumbledore murmured. "Yes, I quite understand."

Whether or not it was meant, he decided this was permission to go. He walked across the dining room again, just managing to stop himself from full-out running, and climbed the stairs all the way up to the common room, breathing hard.

The door had been left ajar by the long-departed jostling crowds. All but one of the torches had been extinguished, and all the books had been put back on the sweeping bookshelves all around, so that the library tables were empty, just the way he had found it on that first night. In the darkness, the windows seemed to glow, the sun setting in lavender and rosy flames, as though the whole sky was on fire. He leaned on the windowsill of the empty Ravenclaw Tower, daydreaming—well, twilight-dreaming would be more apt, he thought, or dusk-dreaming. Shkiyah-dreaming.

The professors weren't professors when there were no students around. He had seen teachers outside of school before; Rabbi Kaufman had even gone to his shul, but he had never eaten dinner with him, never heard teachers converse among themselves, just like students did. They found their first years awkward. They had homes in other places. How odd, he thought, that they were so very human!

In a little while the stars would come out. The professors would have emptied their offices, the house-elves would have swept the classrooms clean. The torches would go out in the common rooms and hallways, and he would tip two more candles together to create a double-wicked flame, he would say one more goodbye to one last Shabbos at Hogwarts.

It wasn't home, but there had been another Jew here before him, and it had been a home away from home for him, or her. Maybe it would be for him, too.

Glossary

Frum. Religious.

Yamim Tovim. Holidays.

Daven. Pray.

Parshas Zachor. Reference to Deuteronomy 25:17-19, a mandatory public reading for the Saturday before Purim. See Chapter 12.

Mincha. Afternoon prayer, said before sunset.

Shalosh seudos, literally "three meals." The third meal of the Sabbath, eaten before nightfall.

Silver basin. For ritually washing hands before eating bread.

Bentch. Say grace after meals.

Shkiyah. Sunset.

Double-wicked flame. For Havdalah, the ceremony that marks the end of the Sabbath.

Note: Happy Chanukah! Epilogue coming soon.