Chapter 6: The Sorting
Hermione fidgeted nervously as they climbed a hauntingly homey hallway that she took to almost immediately. It's arched, corrugated stone ceiling gave her a warm feeling of safety, and she turned to see Draco cautiously climbing out of his boat and hurrying after her, his robes flying behind him.
They walked, together, toward the opening in the stairwell and scrambled onto sweeping grass plains in the shadow of the magnificent castle. The first-years took a moment to gape at the classic architectural points of the turrets and bridges, or at least Hermione thought they were, for she couldn't see why they wouldn't, and she pointed out each one (to their disappointment) but luckily Hagrid gave her a clap on the back to push her forward, and she had to take a few moments to recover from her cardiac arrest (to their quiet relief).
Hagrid led them forward toward an oak door facing north, and as he tapped it with the mysterious pink umbrella that hung respectfully inside his jacket at most times, the great, hollow wooden doors swung inward, revealing a very stiff-looking women with sleek black hair pulled tightly into a bun, robes of the deepest emerald, and square-shaped spectacles perched low on her nose as she peered at them over the top. A permanent grimace emanated from her sharp, shadowed face, and despite the welcoming greetings she stated as she led them through the school, Draco couldn't quite shake her piercing glare. Hagrid introduced her as Professor McGonagall.
She stopped abruptly in a corridor with muffled chattering pounding the walls from the outside, and Draco could only assume that the Great Hall was behind the tall doors towering high above them.
"How do you open the doors," Pansy shouted from behind.
The already stiff women stood straighter, and she looked as though she wanted to throttle the short, plump, furry girl standing right behind her.
"We walk through them," she said with obvious sarcasm.
"I don't know how to do that."
"'Course you don't," Professor McGonagall muttered under her breath.
"Oh, just run straight through, like the platform," piped Draco from behind.
A look of alarm flashed across professor McGonagall's pointed face. "Don't – " she started, but it was too late. Pansy rushed passed the hand the professor held up and ran/wobbled straight toward the wall. She buckled and gasped as she crashed flat against the hard stone, and flopped to the ground, clutching her knee, which had chipped off a section of rock and was now twisting grotesquely.
"Just leave her there," Blaise whispered to Draco, who sniggered quietly. Their comments didn't go unnoticed by the flustered professor, who was too busy to bother with them.
"Well, she can't take points from us," mumbled a sandy-haired boy with a heavy Irish accent. "Term hasn't really started yet."
Hermione hadn't the slightest clue what they were talking about, which bothered her more than she would've expected. She decided she would read up on her stolen Hogwarts: A History textbook.
Transparent and shimmering, a fat ghost floated to a hard-faced, bloody one sitting atop an equally bloody stallion. Hermione looked uncertainly their way and waited to be escorted into the Great Hall, not paying much notice to the moaning pug-faced girl rolling on the floor, a shard of bone sticking out of her inner thigh. The thought crossed her mind that McGonagall was waiting for the pain to sink in before finally repairing the girl's shattered leg, but she quickly dismissed it, almost sure their professor couldn't be that bad. The first years stepped over the heap of a girl.
As Pansy struggled to her wide feet, whimpering faintly at the now less severe pain, Hermione knew for a fact that she wouldn't be asking any more stupid questions.
They entered the hall.
The warm glow of thousands of hovering candlesticks encompassed her face as she looked skyward at an exact replica of outer space and its multiple constellations, a charm that not only impressed, but gave her a nice, tingly feeling inside.
McGonagall rushed to the High Table and pulled a stool from behind it, quickly unraveling a long scroll at the same time, eager to get a move on. She propped an old, stitched and floppy hat on the stool. To Hermione's (and everyone else's) complete surprise, the hat shuddered and pricked up its pointed top, as if listening for something. It then jumped into a melodious tune:
I, the hat, have chosen
That I will sing a song,
Of each of the four founders,
For I've been around so long.
An argument had broken out,
Among the founding four.
A conniption, nonetheless,
That couldn't be ignored.
Slytherin left the quartet,
Miffed by their opinions,
Leaving only in his place
House-elves, obsequious little minions.
The otherwise cheerful castle,
Mourned for several years,
For Slytherin had rubbed off on the students,
Who were condescending towards their peers.
Ravenclaw had learnt the most,
From the argument that divided their lot.
And forth decided not to boast,
Of the tiara she'd soon sought.
They each claimed the objects
That would show the worth of their house.
Slytherin, a glittering locket,
That sparkled with bone-chilling loathing.
Ravenclaw, her now prized crown,
Topped upon her clothing.
Gryffindor, a gleaming sword,
The enemy it would slay.
And Hufflepuff, with her shining cup,
Would always keep them at bay.
Those trusting days were ever gone.
No one saw worth in friendship.
They parted with no looking back,
And, owing searching, found promising leadership.
Since Slytherin had abandoned the castle,
The students' learning had not ceased.
In fact, upon his leaving,
Their knowledge of kindness had even increased.
Their rejoicing had been put off,
And each had now grown old.
Ravenclaw outstretched a shriveling hand,
And came back up with a hat covered in mold.
With her last air of self-confidence,
She brandished her wand,
And lifted it above her head,
The others did the same.
They each brought them down upon my maggoty top,
And, ta-da, they gave me brains.
This castle has brought you together,
You young witches and wizards.
And as I continue to whither,
You must quarter for her.
We must not divide again.
We join here to learn.
We can't begin our descent,
Or let the spite and venom return.
And we must unite inside her,
Or we'll crumble from within.
I have told you, I have warned you,
Let the sorting now begin!
The entire hall roared with cheers.
McGonagall began reading off her roll of parchment.
"Abbot, Hannah," she called. A girl with pig tails tumbled over her feet and placed the hat excitedly over her head. It fell past her ears and into her eyes, and the moment it touched her blonde head, it bellowed, "HUFFLEPUFF," in a triumphant voice.
"Bones, Susan," was also a Hufflepuff, and she scuttled over to sit next Hannah at one of the four tables decorated with empty gold plates.
"Boot, Terry," was a Ravenclaw. He shuffled happily over to another of the four tables.
"Brocklehurst, Mandy," was Ravenclaw-worthy. "Brown, Lavender," was the first named Gryffindor.
"Bulstrode, Millicent," a nasty looking Slytherin, lumbered over to sit by a fifth-year at her table, who cowered away from her and slid a few feet over on the bench.
A few more names went by. Before Hermione knew it, "Finnigan, Seamus," was declared worthy of Gryffindor house and she was up next.
Hermione was so nervous and agitated that when her name was called, she practically flew to the stool and jammed the hat atop her head, eagerly waiting, waiting to get it over with.
It was a few seconds before the hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN," and there was clapping and cheering and patting of the backs as she walked to her table, careful not to sit next to Millicent. A couple more names passed by swiftly, and when Draco was called forward, the hat had barely touched his bleached blonde head when it once again bellowed to the hall, "SLYTHERIN," and he, too, sat at the table, next to Hermione, who had saved him a small spot on her left.
Pansy Parkinson slowly approached the stool, sitting down carefully. When the hat toughed her head, it said in an insulted tone, "So now Hogwarts is accepting animals? Just because they are allowed to come here doesn't mean that I have to waste my time sorting them. I refuse to sort this little pug – okay maybe not so little – "
Dumbledore walked over to the hat and explained to it that Pansy was a girl and not a pug. After they got that sorted out, the hat made it's decision and embarrassedly shouted out, "SLYTHERIN." She wobbled over to the table and sat down next to Milicent, who was discreetly scooting away. Harry Potter was sorted into Gryffindor, and he elicited the most cheers of them all.
A few more people were sorted and then it was time for Ron to go up. He was so nervous he nearly soiled himself. Before the hat even touched his disgusting Brillo-pad hair, it yelled out, "HUFFLEPUFF."
Blaise was the last person to be sorted. He refused to sit on the stool insisting that the red-haired boy before him had wet the seat. He was sorted while standing up, but it still didn't take the hat very much time to bellow, "SLYTHERIN," when it settled upon his dark head.
Draco was staring hopefully at the glittering gold plates laid neatly across the sweeping tablecloth. Hermione was just about to ask him what he was doing, when Dumbledore started to give announcements, and her attention was then averted to the headmaster.
"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" he finished, and then raised his hands gracefully to the ceiling. Food appeared on the plates, and Draco was so hungry he didn't even bother himself with thinking about the fact that their were no desserts.
But he was wrong – very, in fact. Just as he was finishing off the last bites of a large steak, the bits left on his plate vanished and cleaned, leaving him with the bite on his fork, which he ate and then laid it back on the tablecloth; it cleaned itself, too, with a small shine and the sound of a knife slicing metal. The platters in the middle of the table cleared and refilled with the most decadent desserts Hermione had ever seen, and Draco could hardly contain himself – he purposely left and allowed himself to be led to the loo, only to return a few minutes later with a full appetite. Hermione groaned when he took extra scoops of bread pudding, making a note to herself to write Narcissa tomorrow about Draco's very apparent sugar addiction. Before the feast had ended, a large explosion erupted from the center of the Great Hall and three third year students launched towards the ceiling on their broomsticks. They dropped crackling balls of light, and multicolored explosions erupted from the least expected places; one fizzled and popped alarmingly close to Milicent's head, and ash dusted the left side of her face; Pansy looked up just in time to see a dung bomb erupt in her eyes. A girl with straight dark hair and a pale complexion, wearing a Slytherin tie, zoomed around the perimeter of the hall and slowed as she neared Pansy. She yanked her up by her hair and dropped her four feet above the table, straight into the treacle pudding, which splashed the nearby victims. Fred Weasley lifted a second year by the scruff of his neck and hung him by the back of his robes on the brackets of an unlit torch, and shouted towards his Slytherin companion, "Nice one, Morrisan!" His twin, George Weasley, wove through the hovering candlesticks, occasionally ducking down and throwing Filibuster Fireworks in the faces of unsuspecting first years. They exploded spontaneously next to them and they fell out of their seats.
* – * – *
A fifth-year with a mischievous smile that exposed large teeth led them through convoluted corridors and down deeper into the dungeons, where oiled chains hung freely out in the open throughout the passageways, dimly lit by the occasional torchlight. Crossed swords gleamed on their own, and the small noises that floated from behind them elicited yelps from mostly Hermione and a couple of the other whimpering students.
Draco tried to remember the route they took, but it kept going on, and he lost track. Left, right, right, left-fork, left, right. . . . He didn't bother after that. Further passed the last turn was a door of the same wood as the others. The prefect mumbled something Draco couldn't quite hear from the back, (it sounded as though he said "Poisen") and the door swung outward, opening onto a darkened common room ruffling with powerful scents that wrinkled their noses immediately. More long, heavy chains, which no normal magically-altered giant could lift, blocked most of the entrance.
"You'll get used to it," said the nameless prefect matter-of-factly, gesturing to the majority of noses pinched at the pungent odor.
Pansy had kept quiet throughout most of this, but she couldn't help herself. "How do we get in?" she said obnoxiously yet again, cringing as she dared to look at her slightly mangled leg.
Draco was just about to tell her to walk through it again, but a small mousy haired boy nudged him and shook his head fervently, for he feared the sight of more blood. Pansy waited for answers, looking about, but everyone ignored her as the prefect waved his wand, the chains hovering, and led them through the door.
Draco and Hermione had not had the chance to debate who got to keep Buttercup during term, who was sitting sleepily in Hermione's carry-on. But they hadn't decided, and Draco thought he'd better bring it up. He couldn't have been more wrong.
"Who's keeping Buttercup," he said swiftly, looking pointedly at her bag. She raised her eyebrows and began walking towards a very tall spiraling staircase very much like the one at The Manor. Buttercup yawned quietly in her bag, poking a furry paw out the top, as if stretching.
"Me, of course," she said as though it was obvious and they had discussed it before. It was apparent that she had assumed beforehand that she was keeping him. She climbed the steps easily and quickly as a fourth-year, nasty-looking as ever, directed her to her dorm, which she would share with Pansy, Millicent, and a girl with glossy brown hair who was much like a goblin in terms of size and demeanor.
Draco began to follow Hermione, but when his heels touched the very first step, it became slippery and he slid on his back down what appeared to be a curved slate of stone. The steps had turned to a slide, obviously not granting him entry to the girl's dormitory. He watched Hermione and Buttercup disappear around the corner, cursing himself and her.
Draco walked dejectedly up the staircase directly adjacent to the other. As he opened a door labeled FIRST-YEARS, he took in majestic replicas of old-fashioned furniture; four-posters, wooden dressers, armoires. It was a very appealing sight. He hopped through the hung green velvet onto one of the four-posters and admired the softness of the sheets, which were even softer than the ones at home. He glanced around briefly and continued rubbing his cheek against them, smiling happily with deep ardor for the fabric. Draco faintly paid attention to the mousy haired boy peeking at him curiously through the space in the velvet pleasantly encompassing his bed – In fact, he completely ignored him.
Draco was used to banquets and feasts, but never like the one just an hour before, so he felt quite tired and slumped back into his new bed, straight into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
* – * – *
Draco woke to find a note on his mahogany dresser, written in small, neat handwriting:
Fellow roomy,
Going to breakfast. Your welcome to come down with me, but I know I'll probably be down by then, since I'm writing this note because you won't be up when I'm gone. Sleep well!
– T. N.
{P. S. Don't be alarmed if you wake up around noon, there's nothing wrong with you (probably), I just drugged your pumpkin juice last night so you wouldn't hog the shower. Hope that doesn't hamper our friendship. Bye!}
Draco looked, alarmed, toward his empty glass on the same table as his clock, which, across its face, read . . . 11:30! He stared at the empty bed across from his. On a pillow were a dirty quill and a pad of paper. The mousy haired boy had drugged him? Outraged, Draco hurriedly grabbed his school textbooks for double potions lessons with Gryffindor at noon (he'd gotten the itinerary at the end of the feast) and threw on a pair of pants and hobbled, one leg in, down the staircase, balancing his bag in one hand and a stack of books in the other.
* – * – *
As Draco shot down the drab hall with his belt, half looped through his pants, trailing behind him, he noticed something odd about the dank dungeon floors, which at one time had been horribly damp and monotonous, and were now dreadfully depressing on a whole new level. At first he couldn't understand what could be so surprising about a dreary dungeon, and was about to dismiss the thought when he suddenly caught the scent of burnt reptile wafting through the corridor.
He scrunched his nose and hiccoughed as a new, fresher version of the stench reached his nostrils. His eyes were watering when he reached the Potions classroom, and he was forced to wave his hand feverishly in front of his face to clear the billowing purple smoke clogging the room's atmosphere; he knew immediately where the awful scent was coming from, for it was strongest near a cauldron overflowing with bubbling, runny green liquid, which had begun to erode the shiny black paint on the cauldron's disintegrating rim. He saw a round-faced, fidgeting boy nervously stirring the boiling liquid with a wooden ladle. He had something that looked like a surgical mask fixed on his face, so as not to breathe in the nauseating fumes, and was glancing around anxiously at the students and teacher passed out on the floor, who hadn't been wearing the masks.
Draco was clutching his nose and mouth to protect from the fumes as well and watched, shocked frozen, as the boy stared, like a cornered animal, at the potion now pooling around his feet, protected by his shoes which were now melting like the cauldron.
Draco hurriedly dragged the boy from the potion and hopelessly waved his hand over the smoke, as if trying to make it stop; unfortunately, this only made the effects of the potion stronger, for he was closer and it was stronger. It stubbornly clotted his vision until he could see no more, until he couldn't breathe, and he just barely fainted, crashing in a heap next to a familiar face; he clutched their hand and felt excruciatingly dizzy, not able to breathe at all. He saw a blank pair of eyes before descending into the darkness, clutching the warm hand, as if it would bring him back. He stared up at the face, and a look of shock crossed his own before he passed out, like the others, completely.
It was Hermione.