Chapter 3
The Sorting and the Shopkeeper
Diagon Alley, named by someone with a fairly clever sense of humour, was an altogether charming little street, lined with attractive-looking shops and generally full of kind and charming people. Knockturn Alley, which was probably named by the same person, was quite the opposite. It seemed dark and oppressive even in the middle of the day, and was lined with rather unattractive looking shops...and the people who frequented it were anything but kind and charming. We're skipping back a few hours in time, by the way, because while I had spent the majority of my day on the train, our Auror friends had been considerably more productive. Accompanied by the Mad-Eyes, they had gone to Knockturn Alley just before lunch in order to investigate a particularly shady store known as Borgin and Burke's.
Perhaps some explanation is in order here, as I doubt any Muggle readers will have been reading the Daily Prophet recently. I should probably begin, for sake of those who have been living as hermits in the Gobi Desert for the past thirteen years, by explaining the concept of a Horcrux. Simply put, a Horcrux is an object within which a Dark witch or wizard has hidden a fragment of their soul. As long as the Horcrux continues to exists, the Dark witch or wizard who created it is granted immortality, and will continue to be immortal until the Horcrux is destroyed...which is no easy task.
This much became common knowledge after the downfall of Lord Voldemort, who had audaciously aimed to create six Horcruxes, the only time in known history that any wizard had attempted to create more than one. It should be noted that the precise mechanics of how split-soul immortality functions is not generally known, but it can be surmised that, lacking a body, a soul will exist in a non-corporeal state with the ability to take host bodies, although such possession causes irreparable damage to the body in question. Harry Potter, who had rather unique experience with Horcruxes and possession, had spotted the tell-tale signs on the body of Mr. Stubbs that meant that the detached soul of a somewhat-dead Dark wizard had taken control of his body. There was a Horcrux out there somewhere, and the soul of its creator was out there as well...and it was killing people by taking them as hosts.
Armed with this knowledge, Harry and Ron had proceeded to the most well-known store in Britain with a reputation for buying and selling Dark items: Borgin and Burke's.
"You do realize that there's not going to be a sign in the window saying 'Horcruxes, half price!'" Ron pointed out. "Couldn't it just be some old necklace or something? How are we supposed to know?"
"Voldemort's the only wizard in the past hundred years that we know created Horcruxes," Harry said, making sure he kept his voice down. Knockturn Alley was no place to be saying the former Dark Lord's name. "So either he's got another one out there that we never knew about, or he taught one of the Death Eaters how to make them. Either way, there's one place that'll sell stuff that used to belong to Death Eaters."
"Borgin and Burke's," Ron said darkly. "Why do we even let them stay open? We should confiscate their whole bloody stock and chuck Borgin in Azkaban!"
"Malfoy would never let it happen," Harry reminded him.
Perhaps some additional explanation would be useful. In the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War, the Malfoy family, while avoiding charges and/or prison sentences, had dramatically fallen from grace. Not only had they lost a great deal of their social standing, but due to a long and embarrassing series of civil suits, much of their family fortune had been depleted. They were by no means in the poorhouse, but their days of Ministry-controlling bribes seemed to be at an end.
Or were they? Lucius Malfoy had all but vanished from the public eye, but his son and heir Draco Malfoy refused to accept a life of shame and obscurity, and over the past thirteen years, Malfoy had managed to rebuild a considerable amount of his fortune while establishing himself as a legitimate, if not totally ethical, businessman. Noting that the value of anything related to the Dark Arts had plummeted after Voldemort's defeat, Malfoy had begun purchasing various shops and establishments in Knockturn Alley, knowing that as soon as Voldemort began to fade from public attention, interest in Dark items would return. And it had worked. Soon, Malfoy was bringing in a tidy profit from the many enterprises he controlled. Beyond that, with money came respect, and slowly but surely, Malfoy's name began to be spoken with respect once more. And as it happened, the very first establishment Malfoy had purchased was Borgin and Burke's, the one place you could always find something illegal or unpleasant.
Harry, Ron, and the three Mad-Eyes finally reached the store, and quickly ducked inside. The claustrophobic store had a vaguely unpleasant odour, and the air itself seemed stale. The five wizards were quickly confronted by Borgin himself, an oily and decrepit man whose eyes shone with malice and barely-restrained loathing at the sight of Harry Potter.
"I haven't bloody done anything," he grumbled.
"Oh, I very much doubt that," Harry replied with matching politeness...or lack thereof. "May we have a private word?" Throughout this exchange, the few patrons inside the store had begun to slowly shuffle towards the exit, eager to avoid a confrontation with the Wizarding world's most famous Auror. Glaring with hatred, Borgin beckoned the Aurors to follow him, and the group made their way to the dimly-lit storeroom at the back of the shop.
"Now what do you lot want?" Borgin spat, "other than to force me out of business!"
"Spare me," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "As long as Malfoy's running the show, your job is secure." He signalled to his companions, who lit up their wands and began to search the shelves of goods.
"Hey! You can't do that! Get away from those!" Borgin protested. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to Harry. "What are you looking for this time?"
"I'm not exactly sure," Harry admitted, and a vein began to throb in Borgin's forehead. "Perhaps you can help me with that. I'm looking for anything that used to be owned by a Death Eater."
"You won't find anything like that here," Borgin insisted. "And that's bloody unspecific anyways."
"It wouldn't be any old thing," Harry elaborated, talking as much to himself as he was to Borgin. "It would be something valuable in some way, even if it was only sentimental value... and it wouldn't have belonged to just any Death Eater. It would have to be someone he trusted..."
"Oh, what are you on about now?" Borgin grumbled. "And you can bloody stop that!" he snapped at Ron, who was rummaging through a box of (probably cursed) jewellery. "If you're looking for Death Eater memorabilia, you won't find any here. Mr. Malfoy made it very clear that if anyone tried to sell me anything like that, I was to refuse and report them to the Department of Magical Law-Enforcement."
"I find that a little hard to believe," muttered one of the Mad-Eyes, a middle-aged wizard with a wrinkled and serious face.
Oh...perhaps I have neglected my explanations. Last time, I promise! Reader take note: the following information was not widely available at the point in the story which I have reached, but many of you are no doubt aware of it now, largely thanks to Crawley and the ever-sensationalist Prophet. Soon after assuming the position of Head of the Auror Office, Harry became painfully aware of the opposition he was going to face. Many voices within the Ministry had protested Harry's appointment, fearing that a cult of personality was forming around the young wizard. He was too young, they had argued, and the fact that much of his Auror training had been forgone in light of his experience fighting Voldemort had also raised the ire of others in the Ministry, who felt that he was being given preferential treatment.
Perhaps he was simply concerned for the well-being of the Wizarding world. Perhaps he feared for his own safety. Or perhaps, as some suggested, he could not feel totally secure unless he possessed some measure of control over all that surrounded him. Whatever his motivation may have been, Harry had secretly recruited a select group of Aurors whom he knew to be both highly skilled and sympathetic to his ideals. This group, named after celebrated Auror Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, was completely unknown to the rest of the Auror office; they were treated no differently than any other Aurors, but were simply Harry's first choices to send on assignments or to head investigations. Harry knew very well that if knowledge of the group became public, the political consequences would be severe. The already controversial head of the Auror office...hell, one of the most controversial wizards of the century...was forming a "secret society" within the Ministry of Magic? No, it was better to keep such things quiet. But anyways, back to Borgin.
"Yes," Harry agreed, "I don't recall you ever contacting the Ministry about such matters."
"Well, perhaps that's because there hasn't been anything to report," Borgin said shiftily.
"Doubt it," Ron commented, gingerly picking up something that looked suspiciously like a Hand of Glory. Borgin glared at him, but Harry smirked.
"You know, you could get a considerable stint in Azkaban for some of this stuff," he told him. "And don't think that your association with Mr. Malfoy makes you above the law. Besides, he'd make just as much money without you, so unless you can convince me otherwise..." Borgin swore under his breath.
"Fine, fine. I was telling the truth when I said that you wouldn't find anything here," Borgin said reluctantly. "Mr. Malfoy instructed me that any items related to You-Know-Who or the Death Eaters was to be handed over to him."
"Why? What does he want with them?" Harry questioned him, puzzled.
"I wouldn't know," Borgin said, and now he was the one to smirk, knowing that, for the moment, he was off the hook. "You'd have to ask Mr. Malfoy."
Try as they might, the Aurors could get nothing more out of the unpleasant shopkeeper. Rather than retell that particularly uninteresting part of the story, I think that I shall get back to Hogwarts instead.
That evening, the train finally arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Having changed into our uniforms, we made our way to the Thestral-drawn carriages while trying to avoid stepping on the gawking first-years. Although really, who could blame them? All of us had been just as awestruck when we'd first arrived. As we walked to the carriages, we waved to Hagrid, who was calling the first-years over to him. It was hard to believe that I had ever been that short...but perhaps they just looked smaller due to contrast with the half-giant groundskeeper.
As we disembarked from the carts, Gordon and I began looking around for Phillip, eager to see if he'd managed to get his face cursed off by Amanda already. Unfortunately, Gordon managed to run into Amanda before I managed to run into Phillip, and the two were soon deeply immersed in a passionate argument on the correct application of explosives.
"I'm serious! Any problem in the world can be solved with the correct application of explosives," was Gordon's point.
"Not any problem," was Amanda's. "In fact, that usually makes problems worse."
"No, I don't mean just chucking explosives around like Muggles do. I mean the correct application of explosives."
"Doesn't matter."
"Oh, really? Fine, name one problem that can't be solved with explosives."
"Okay...how about the last Wizarding War? Obviously you couldn't have solved that with explosives!"
"Sure you could have!" Gordon countered. "Just blow up all the Death Eaters!"
"That wouldn't have helped! Voldemort was immortal, remember?"
"Immortal my ass! Nothing's immortal once you shove some C4 down its throat!" Although entertained, I continued my search for Phillip, eventually finding him in the crowd of students milling about the front doors.
"Oh, hello Sebastian," he called with a smile. "And just because I know you're wondering, no I have not had my balls cursed off yet."
"How'd you manage that?" I asked. "And hello by the way."
"Miss Watson and I are planning on just not speaking to each other," he explained. "Funny enough, it's a verbal agreement." He grinned. "What idiot made her a prefect anyways?"
"The same idiot that made you one," I said with a smirk.
"Oh, how very clever of you," he drawled, applauding sarcastically. A few feet away, the explosives debate continued.
"Fine," Amanda said. "Let's say that you could somehow blow up every single Death Eater in Britain and Voldemort too. Don't you think the Muggles might notice if things start exploding?"
"So?"
"So? How would we cover that up? We'd just end up revealing the entire Wizarding world to the Muggles!"
"Oh come on," Gordon said. "We'd find some way to explain it. The Muggles didn't even notice Voldemort! Blowing up the Death Eaters couldn't possibly reveal us."
"It would still be too risky," Amanda insisted disapprovingly. Gordon rolled his eyes.
"Fine, let's say somehow the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee can't think of a cover-up, and we end up revealing ourselves to the Muggles. That doesn't mean that we didn't solve the Death Eater problem!"
"But...but what does that matter? We'll have an even bigger problem!"
"Yes," Gordon said triumphantly, "but it won't be the same problem! And besides, then we can solve the new problem with more explosives!" Clutching her forehead, Amanda pushed past him and walked ahead, leaving Gordon looking rather pleased with himself.
We finally made it inside, and began to walk towards the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast. As we walked, we were approached by the school's Deputy Headmaster, and current Potions master, Professor Slughorn.
"Excuse me, excuse me!" he called out. "Carmilla Le Fanu! Have we got a Carmilla Le Fanu here?" I looked around for my new friend...well, I supposed she would be a friend...but the crowd of identically-dressed students around me made this impossible. However, Carmilla emerged after a moment, now dressed in Hogwarts robes that notably bore no House crest. It occurred to me that I'd never actually heard of a student transferring in or out of Hogwarts before. "Could you come with me please?" Slughorn said to Carmilla, who nodded and followed him out of the hallway. Muttering amongst ourselves, we continued our march to the Great Hall.
The feast itself was fairly similar to the four Welcoming Feasts that had preceded it. Because we could only sit with other members of our Houses, I was mercifully spared from having to spend time with both Gordon and Amanda together, which would have been a trying ordeal under any circumstance. In any case, Gordon was quickly drawn away by Mitchell Nguyen, who had been his Quidditch teammate for many years. I sat down in between Amanda and Phillip (dangerous, but the only way I could talk to both of them) and across from Polina and fellow fifth-year Susan Rangarajan (whom had, upon learning that I had planned to write about the events of our fifth year, insisted that I describe her only as the epitome of grace, elegance, and awesomeness, drama queen that she is...).
But before we could eat, of course, we had to sit through the Sorting. This wouldn't have been any trouble at all if I hadn't been quite so hungry, but the knowledge that an endless supply of mouth-watering food was just out of reach was torturous. It was interesting to see the first-years though; I still couldn't believe that I'd ever been that short. And, of course, I clapped along with everyone else for each new Ravenclaw. But just as Professor Slughorn reached the end of the list, he called out one final name.
"Le Fanu, Carmilla!" I suddenly noticed the mysterious girl walking between the House tables up to the front of the hall, where the Sorting Hat waited.
"Who's that?" Amanda whispered to me.
"She's a transfer student," I whispered back, noting that the information was spreading across the Great Hall like wildfire. "She was sitting with me, Gordon, and Olivia on the train."
"I've never heard of a student transferring to Hogwarts before," she told me. The chorus of whispering died down as Slughorn place the Sorting Hat on her head; everyone was eagerly waiting to hear which House the mysterious transfer student would be sorted into. The silence lasted for over a minute as the Hat deliberated; the girl must have been particularly difficult to sort. I knew from experience that sitting up there waiting for the Hat's decision could be quite intimidating, especially when it was taking such a long time. At least in her case, she wore no glasses, and the large Hat therefore fell over her eyes, sparing her from having to look at the hundreds of students staring fixatedly at her. But eventually, the Hat announced its decision in a booming voice that echoed throughout the hall.
"RAVENCLAW!" My table erupted in cheers and applause, and Carmilla, smiling faintly, jogged over to our table and sat down next to Susan, who immediately began talking to her as if they'd known each other for years.
All eyes turned back to the staff table. The Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, rose as if she were about to speak. She opened her mouth slightly, but then seemed to reconsider. She smiled, something she usually reserved for special occasions.
"Tuck in," she said. As she spoke, the plates covering the tables immediately filled themselves with an amazing variety of food, which we more or less attacked like a pack of starving hyenas. As I ate, my mind wandered four years backwards, when I had sat upon the stool at the front of the hall with the Sorting Hat on my own head. It had considered Slytherin and Hufflepuff, as well as Ravenclaw, which it had finally decided upon. I was a little disappointed at not being sorted into Gordon's House (we had already met on Platform 9 ¾, and by the time we'd reached Hogwarts, we knew we were going to be friends), but I decided that it wouldn't matter too much in the end. As I walked to the cheering Ravenclaw table, one of the other first-years offered me a seat next to her (which was very nice, as the mass of older students looked very intimidating to my eleven-year-old self). That first-year, interesting enough, was Amanda Watson, whom I was sitting next to now. Two friends on my first day? Not bad, I had thought, not bad at all.
My reverie was interrupted when I realized that Phillip was talking to me.
"...and so she suggests that, starting then, we just shouldn't talk to one another so there'd be less opportunity for conflict. Then she got pissed when I didn't answer." Polina and Susan laughed, but Amanda just glared into her pumpkin juice. As for myself, I just tried to enjoy the best meal I'd had in a long time (no slur against my father's cooking, but he can't compare to a team of house elves).
By the time we'd stuffed ourselves to the brim, we were all in no mood whatsoever to listen to important announcements from Professor McGonagall. So obviously, Professor McGonagall decided to make important announcements at precisely this time.
"Welcome!" she said enthusiastically...well, as enthusiastically as she ever was. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. Before we all head off to bed, there are a few start-of-term announcements. To begin, first-years should take note that the Forbidden Forest is, as the name implies, forbidden...and some of our older students would do well to remember that too." I could practically feel her staring at me, and then at Gordon (which we probably deserved after that whole fiasco in third year...but that's a story for another time). "Quidditch tryouts will take place on the second week of the term. First-year students may not participate, as they are not allowed to bring their own broomsticks to school. Additionally, our caretaker Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the halls, and that there is a list of items that are banned at school, which is posted on the door of his office. Also, students should take note that several rooms in the Charms Corridor seem to have switched places with rooms on the fourth floor. A list will be posted of any scheduling changes that will result from this.
"And finally, I would like to introduce a new member of our staff." I, along with everyone else in the hall, scanned the staff table to see any new faces...and indeed, we found one. He was a young man with a prominent forehead and spiked brown hair, and his face seemed set in a rather stern expression. "This is Professor Johnstone, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Professor McGonagall said, indicating him with her hand. As Professor Johnstone rose to accept applause from the students, his severe expression vanished, replaced by a warm and laughing smile. As the applause died down, he returned to his seat, the smile lingering on his face.
"He seems interesting," I said quietly to the people around me.
"Never seen a teacher with hair like that," Susan commented with some amusement. Up at the front, Professor McGonagall was wrapping up.
"And with that, I think it's about time that we all got to bed. Classes will begin promptly at 9:00 AM tomorrow, so I suggest that you all try to get as much sleep as you can. Goodnight and off you go!" With that, the teachers all rose and began to leave, and, predictably, so did the students. All of the students. At the same time. No one ever seemed to learn that this was a rather unproductive way to leave a room.
Amid the noise and confusion, I noticed that Amanda was nudging me.
"Tell Phillip that we're supposed to show the first-years where to go," she said. Before I could even begin to consider relaying her message, Phillip was tugging on my other arm.
"Tell Amanda that I am perfectly aware of what I am supposed to be doing."
"Tell Phillip that if he's so aware of what he's supposed to be doing, then why has he let half of the first-years wander out of the hall?"
"Tell Amanda..." Deciding not to pursue a career as a messenger boy, I joined the swarm of students trying to escape the hall. Once outside, I was approached by Carmilla, who looked slightly concerned.
"Um..." she said hesitantly, "I lost Susan and Polina, and, um...I don't know where I'm supposed to go."
"Just follow me," I said, "I'll show you." We made our way to the Ravenclaw Tower, soon joined by several of our fellow fifth-years. Oddly enough, our group was soon approached by Kenneth and several other veterans of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. When he spoke, it was to Carmilla, and I made sure to roll my eyes as noticeably as possible...although admittedly, eyeball movements are rarely that noticeable.
"Hey, so I hear you're new here," he said. "I'm Kenneth Davies. If you need any help finding..." His introduction was cut short by his girlfriend (and Chaser) Hannah Wilson, who dragged him away by the arm, which was a rather surprising display of strength for the veritably tiny girl. She wore a rather stormy expression when Kenneth was looking, but she looked back at us and winked when he couldn't see. "I was just trying to be welcoming!" he protested indignantly. Any further protests were quickly swallowed up by the noise around us. One of the players, a Beater named Taylor Lennon (who insisted on being called Earl for reasons I did not understand), stayed behind to chuckle with us.
"He never learns, does he?" he laughed.
"He probably was just trying to be friendly," I said, shaking my head. "Anyways, see you later Taylor."
"My name is Earl!" he insisted as he walked away.
Amazingly, we ended up being the first batch of Ravenclaws to actually reach the tower. As was to be expected, the door was closed to us. After a moment, the brass eagle-shaped knocker spoke the following riddle:
"I can be cracked, I can be made. I can be told, I can be played." After a second of consideration, I looked up and answered.
"A joke." The door swung open, revealing the Ravenclaw common room, a large, circular, and predominantly blue space. Soon after our arrival, Phillip and Amanda showed up with the first-years, who gawked in amazement at the room, particularly the high domed ceiling, which was painted to resemble the night sky. They were followed by more and more students from all seven years. For a while, we all lingered in the common room, sharing stories of summer, complaining about our parents, and agreeing that Gryffindor was most definitely going down this year, but eventually, all the students began to trickle upwards into their dormitories.
"Hey, Phillip!" I called out. "Do you still snore?"
"Loud and clear, mate!" he answered, ascending the stairs.
"Great," I muttered, walking over to one of the arched windows. I gazed out into the night, losing myself in my thoughts. It was a strange thing, being a fifth-year. I'd be taking my O.W.L.s at the end of the year, and after that I'd have to be pretty well set on what I wanted to do with my life afterwards...but what the hell was that exactly? As accustomed as I'd become to the Wizarding world, whenever the idea of a career or a future came into my head, it was invariably one of the Muggle variety. What did I want to do, anyways? It suddenly occurred to me that I was the only one left in the common room.
"It's strange being a fifth-year, isn't it?" came a female voice from behind me. All right, perhaps I wasn't the only one left... Amanda leaned against the window next to me wearing a contemplative expression. "Just think: in a few years, we'll never be coming back to this place. But...I can't imagine not being here! I mean, what else am I going to do with myself? I haven't even really thought about..." she broke off suddenly, and turned to look at me. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
"Actually, you just about read my mind," I said with a smile. The sound of footsteps rang out from above me. I turned around to see Phillip standing on the stairs.
"Come on Seb, I can't possibly be that bad! Get some sleep; I'm not waking you up tomorrow." With that, he turned walked back to our dormitory. Throughout the entire exchange, he didn't even look at Amanda, nor did she show any sign of having heard him, or even being aware of his presence. They must have been taking this not-talking thing extremely seriously.
"Goodnight Amanda," I said, climbing the stairs.
"Night Seb," she replied distantly, still staring out the window, presumably lost in her thoughts.
Of course, it did not occur to me that the reason Phillip had not acknowledged Amanda's presence might have been that, in fact, she was not really there at all.