The four of us quickly find seats at the Gryffindor table, near Neville, Seamus, and Dean, Harry and Ron's roommates.
"I heard you got to go the World Cup," Neville says by way of greeting. "How was it?"
"It was brilliant," I grin. "Troy, Mullet, and Moran are possibly the most talented Chasers in the world."
"And look at this…" Ron fishes something out of his pocket – a small figurine of Krum on a tooth-pick sized broomstick.
"Whoa," Neville breathes, eyes lit up, but Seamus frowns and launches into a fierce Ireland vs. Bulgaria debate.
Keeping one ear on them in case I needed to step in and hex someone, I turn my attention to the Great Hall as a whole.
The entire room was abuzz with start-of-term excitement, from the Gryffindors to the Slytherins. The conversations I could hear were mainly about the World Cup, although Colin Creevey, enthusiastic fanboy-stalker extraordinaire, was gushing to Harry about his younger brother, who was apparently about to get sorted.
Up at the staff table, things were much quieter, as three seats were empty: McGonagall's, as she was leading the firsties in; Hagrid's, probably because he was tying up the boats; and the seat where Lupin had sat last year, Lockhart before him, and Quirrell before that.
"I wonder where the new Defense professor is," Hermione wonders aloud.
I shrug, but before I can reply the main doors open, the creaking almost drowning out the thundering of the enchanted ceiling. I look up to see Professor McGonagall leading in a bunch of soaking wet eleven-year-olds, every single one of them absolutely tiny.
"We weren't that small," I deny, looking at Harry. "Were we?"
"You were smaller," he teases as they reach the front of the room and McGonagall sets the Sorting Hat – still as grubby as it was my first year – down on a stool.
Silence reigns for a moment before the hat's brim opens wide and began it's song, singing, as usual, about the founding of Hogwarts and the four Founders, about what each Founder had valued within their chosen pupils.
Once he (she? It?) was done, McGonagall brandishes a list of names and gives the sae instructions I'd imagine she gives every year.
The first name –"Ackerly, Stewart!" – is called, and a trembling first year sits on the stool. The hat doesn't deliberate for long before shouting, "RAVENCLAW!"
The students in blue ties clap and cheer, and I catch Harry staring at their table – more specifically, at their team Seeker.
I hum a few lines of "Kiss the Girl" to myself as "Baddock, Malcolm!" gets sorted into Slytherin and "Branstone, Eleanor!" gets put into Hufflepuff, followed by "Caldwell, Owen!"
"Creevey, Dennis!"
I look up to see a teeny-tiny boy wrapped in Hagrid's coat stumble forward, his eyes bright and excited.
"S'that your brother!" I ask Colin.
"Yep!" Colin exclaims, practically vibrating in his seat. "He fell into the lake!"
"Wonderful," I deadpan, hiding my eye roll behind my cup. I note that Hagrid had walked in and occupied his seat, as gigantic as ever.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouts, and I cheer with the rest of my housemates as Dennis takes off the hat and runs over to join his brother, excitedly recounting how he'd fallen into the lake and been rescued by the giant squid. The enthusiasm thing was definitely genetic.
"See that boy over there, Dennis? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?"
"For Godric's sake, shut up," I groan under my breath.
I'm saved by Dumbledore standing at his podium, causing the room to go silent almost immediately.
"I have only two words to say to you now," he declares, eyes twinkling. "Tuck in."
Ron groans is appreciation as the Welcoming Feat appears before us, immediately beginning to shovel food down his throat. I follow at a more sedate pace but dig in as well; Hogwarts' food was as magnificent as always.
"You know, I've always wondered who makes the food," I muse. "I've been down to the kitchens loads of times, and I've never seen another witch or wizard."
"That would be because Hogwarts employs house-elves," Nearly-Headless Nick informs me.
Hermione's fork falls from her grasp with a clatter as she stares up at the Gryffindor ghost. "Hogwarts uses house-elves? Here?"
"Yes," Nick replies, confused. "The largest amount in wizarding Britain, actually. Why do you ask?"
Hermione looks sick to her stomach as she stares at her food like it had just killed her cat. "This food was made with slave labor."
"Oh, come on, 'Mione," I sigh. "I told you – it isn't slavery if the elf's only purpose in life is to serve."
"That doesn't make it any better!" Hermione exclaims, distressed. She looks up at the ghost. "What else are they forced to do?"
"Erm…they do a bit of cleaning, mainly. Tend the fires, do the laundry…"
Hermione slowly puts down her utensils and pushes away her plate. "This isn't right."
"Starving yourself won't help anyone," I point out, but she refuses to eat another bite.
Once dinner and dessert were finished, the food vanished and Dumbledore stood up once again.
"So! Now that you have all been fed and watered-" Hermione scoffed, "-I once again ask for your attention."
"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs," Dumbledore announces, and I look down the table at Fred and George, who give me identical winks. The three of us were responsible for putting a god portion of those items on the list, and every year it became sort of a game to see just how many banned items we could use.
"The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it." Dumbledore's gives us a half-smile before continuing. "As always, I would like to remind you all that the Forbidden Forest is, of course, forbidden, as is Hogsmeade for those under third year."
He pauses before adding, "It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup has been canceled this year."
The Hall erupts in outrage – at the Gryffindor table alone, I watch Harry and Ron looking horrified as the twins lose the ability to speak, which is rare in and of itself. Further down the table, Angelina Johnson, my fellow Chaser and newly-minted Captain of the team, looks torn between crying and screaming.
"Silence, please!" Dumbledore hollers, and we all reluctantly lower the nose to a murmur. "This change is due to an event that will begin in October and carry through the school year, needing the utmost devotion from the staff here. This year, Hogwarts will be home to-"
The Headmaster is cut off by a bang as the doors to the Great Hall are flung open, revealing a man momentarily lit up as lightning flashed across the ceiling.
The man is vaguely old, but his skin isn't really wrinkled – it's scarred instead. His face reminds me of a misshapen blob of clay; every inch is marked with some sort of scar, and there's a chunk missing from his nose. The worst part was his eyes – one was small and beady, while the other one was much bigger and an electric blue. It swiveled and spun unnaturally in it's socket, until it flipped entirely around so only the white showed.
The man walked to the only empty seat left at the staff table, his every other step a dull thunk. At one point, his cloak lifts slightly, and I spot a wooden leg.
"May I present our newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody," Dumbledore announces. Usually, new professors are at least greeted with polite applause, but this time the only people clapping are Dumbledore and Hagrid, and they quickly stop.
Moody either doesn't notice or doesn't care.
"As I was saying," Dumbledore continues, "This year, Hogwarts will be home to a very special event that hasn't been held in over a century. This year, Hogwarts is going to be home to the Triwizard Tournament."
"You're joking," Fred gasps, effectively breaking the silence that had settled over the student body since Moody's arrival.
Dumbledore chuckles. "No, Mr. Weasley, I assure you am I not. Although I did hear a good one this summer about a leprechaun and a Veela walking into a bar…"
McGonagall clears her throat, cutting him off.
"Aw, come on! I wanted to hear it!" I protest.
Dumbledore pays me no attention as he continues. "Where was I…ah, yes, the Tournament. I expect that some of you already know what this is, so excuse me while I give a brief summary."
"The Triwizard Tournament is a competition, founded about four hundred years ago, pitting the three largest European schools of magic – Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons – against one another. The Tournament was held once every five years, and it was a great success…until the death toll reach unacceptable levels."
"Death toll?" I hiss, sharing an incredulous look with Hermione.
"Our very own Department of Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have successfully reinstated the Tournament, and Hogwarts has been chosen as it's host. The heads of the other two schools and a small group of students from each will be arriving here in October, and the final contestant selection will take place on Halloween. An impartial judge will decide who is most worthy of competing for the glory of their school, a thousand Galleons, and the Triwizard Cup."
"I'm going for it," Fred hisses.
"However," Dumbledore continues, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the whispers that had broken out around the Hall, "the heads of the schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders. This means that only students who are of age – that is, seventeen years or older – may enter their name for consideration."
"I'm still going for it," Fred whispers, now sounding furious.
"Don't you dare," I hiss, leaning over the table slightly. "I will tell your mother."
"Aw, c'mon, Blackie," he pushes. "Wouldn't you want to enter."
"No thank you, I would rather not die," I snap, turning my attention back to Dumbledore as he began to speak again.
"This is necessary because the tasks presented will be difficult and dangerous, no matter the precautions we take, and only a sixth or seventh year will be able to handle them. Great care will be taken to screen the entrants, so I implore you to not waste your time entering if you are underage," Dumbledore orders, his twinkling eyes resting on Fred and George for a moment.
"The other schools will be arriving in October and staying with us for the greater part of the year. I expect you to show them the greatest hospitality and show the utmost support the Hogwarts champion, whoever he or she may be. Now," he concludes, "it is late, and you must all be rested tonight, as lessons begin tomorrow. Off to bed! Chop chop!"
There's the sound of wood scraping against stone as the students begin to file out, chattering excitedly about the Triwizard Tournament.
"I'm still going to try and enter," Fred decides as we leave the Hall. "Think of what you could do with the prize money, eh?"
"Maybe," I shrug. "Personally, I would rather not risk my head to win the favor of those around me, but it's your choice."
"I'd enter if I were seventeen," Ron says. "One thousand galleons…"
I roll my eyes and speed up to fall in step with Hermione. I'd rather take her sullen, house-elf induced silence over their idiocy any day.
When we reach the portrait hole, our group splits into different directions: Fred and George hurry off to their dorms, probably thinking up ways to fool the "impartial judge". Ron and Hermione head up to their dorms, each lost in their thoughts.
I make a quick detour, grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill before heading up to the owlrey.
Dear Padfoot – I write –
I've arrived at school safely, as has Harry, and Ron and Hermione. Hope you're safe, and that you haven't managed to do anything dangerous without Moony there.
Did you hear about what happened at the World Cup? I'm surprised you weren't frantically owling me. I'm fine, don't worry; I wasn't injured physically, at least. Mentally…is another story.
School's fine so far – we get to host the Triwizard Tournament this year! It sounds really exciting, but I'm glad I can't enter. Dumbledore used the words "death toll" to describe it.
Please stay safe, and don't worry about me.
-Pup
P.S.: I want a cool nickname too! You've got Padfoot, what do I get?
I roll up the parchment and call Tyche over, tying the letter to her leg and quickly nudging her out the nearest window. "Take that to Padfoot, alright?"
She hoots at me before taking off into the night. I watch her go for a moment before leaving the tower, quickly making my way back to the Common Room just before curfew.
I climb the staircase to the girls' dorm and enter the one for my year, trying not to let myself linger on the empty bed just to the right of mine. Last year it had belonged to Fay Dunbar, a schoolyard bully that had tried to murder me last June – and she'd come damn close to succeeding, too.
But she'd been expelled, I remind myself as I change into my pajamas and climb into bed. This is a new year.
A new year, indeed.