Author's Note:
The Hat song is taken from the original Cup.
There are obviously a few more teachers than in the original.
Actually, a word or two about the teachers/subjects, though that's more for the next chapter.
The discipline of 'divination' does not exist.
Theory of Magic, aka Arithmancy, is part of the compulsory programme before PSB. (Spellcasting includes more than just words and waving a stick, if there is a case I will spell it out, but I don't see any particular need).
Rune Writing, aka Artefacting, and Care of Magical Creatures, aka Mage Zoology are optional subjects.
Oh yeah, no idiotic Muggle Studies, at least Astronomy has a bunch of physics in it, so don't blah blah blah.
"I've invited you gentlemen to share some very unpleasant news."
© M. Gogol
Leaving their suitcases in the compartment, the students headed for the exit. In the departure rush, Ginny somehow got lost, Parks also went to her own group, and the fourth year of Gryffindor was left to fend for itself.
"It's always like this," Seamus complained to no one in particular. "Just as you start to like some girl..."
"She immediately turns you down," Ron continued.
"She did not turn me down," Finnigan argued.
"That's exactly what she did, mate. Just deal with it."
Seamus grumbled something unintelligible and jumped onto the platform, swearing as he nearly fell face first onto the stones. It seemed that it had rained in Hogsmeade during the day, turning everything into quite slippery mud. Grey clouds still hung overhead, although they weren't as oppressive in the approaching dusk. Harry, carefully choosing a landing spot, jumped off after his classmate and looked around for Hagrid. As always, the half-giant was there, calling the first-year students to him. Truly, every school year began with the giant figure of the groundskeeper, shrouded in train smoke.
"Hagrid!" Harry called out to the half-giant and waved his hand.
"Hi, Harry!" Hagrid raised his own hand in response, almost crushing a second-year Hufflepuff who quickly dodged aside. "Hi, Ron, Hermione! Come by tomorrow!"
"Yeah!" Harry responded. "Sure thing."
"Of course, we'll come by, his gingerbread is a menace to our teeth," Ron murmured to himself, earning a nudge from Hermione.
"Enough with that already," Harry asked them, noticing in passing that Seamus and Neville had already gone ahead, leaving the three of them behind. "All you do is bicker."
Hermione just snorted, but surprisingly, Ron decided to back down a little.
"Come on, it's more of a habit. It's clear that I don't... I don't..."
Ron suddenly stopped and whistled, staring somewhere behind Harry.
"Guys, am I the only one seeing this?"
Harry turned his head, and his gaze immediately met the object that had caught his friend's attention. Strictly speaking, it was not an object but a living being - many living beings. The carriages that traditionally transported students to Hogwarts (except for the first-years who crossed the lake) were no longer horseless. Each one was now pulled by two steeds of a rather terrifying appearance.
All of them had the same dirty-grey color and would have resembled horses, had some maniac not stripped the skin, then all the flesh from a horse, leaving only the skeleton, and then pulled the skin back on. On their backs, these skeletal horses had leathery wings, like those drawn on vampires in Muggle horror movies.
Harry recognized these creatures from the literature he had studied over the summer, particularly in "Dark and Semi-Dark Beasts of Britain." These eerie pseudo-pegasus had a less than stellar reputation, especially given their diet, consisting solely of rotting raw meat. Most likely, Hermione knew about them; there's no way such a point wouldn't be covered in Hogwarts History, but for three years she hadn't told anyone anything about this. Though nobody had shown much interest, to be fair.
"These are Thestrals," Harry explained to his friend, who was gloomily examining the steeds.
"And what for? Carriages used to ride peacefully by themselves before."
"They've always been here, Ron," Hermione quietly remarked, and Harry elaborated, "Those who have seen death can see them."
Ron studied his friends' faces for any hint of a joke, then looked at the eerie horses with a newfound perspective, and remained silent. While they were discussing this new phenomenon for themselves, most of the carriages were already occupied, and they couldn't fit the three of them together. This time, their company was made up by Susan Bones. As far as Harry remembered, Amelia Bones was the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, so it was a good chance to ask how things were going. But after some thought, he dropped the idea - what to ask about? And it's unlikely that her aunt retells
Susan all the intricacies of her work. So he limited himself to a simple "Hello", receiving a nod in response.
This time, the ride was uncomfortably long - the road was significantly extended, and the Thestrals, at which the friends were constantly peeking out of the window, were trudging.
"What are you guys looking out for?" Susan asked.
"No, nothing," Potter quickly replied, turning away from the window. "How was your summer?"
The girl shrugged and neutrally responded, "Not bad."
"Uh-huh," Harry said awkwardly, once again involuntarily staring out the window. The snout of one of the Thestrals was right opposite him, and the beast squinted at the boy with its dark eye. It's pretty strange to see something that others can't see, especially if that something is alive. Harry averted his gaze, but opposite him sat Hermione, which was no better. Mordred! - The boy thought a bit irritably, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes - soon he would have to wear a blindfold.
The ordeal lasted about twenty minutes and, tumbling out of the carriage, he couldn't hold back a sigh of relief. The students squelched through the mud to the school doors and finally found themselves inside. Hermione immediately cleaned the muddy shoes of all four of them with a spell, but there was little use from this - not everyone had done so, and the path to the Great Hall was easily traced by a wide black trail stretching across the entire hall. Inside, Harry was irritated for the umpteenth time that day, and then it extinguished just as quickly. Instead, the fatigue that had been piling up all week crashed down on him. What Harry wanted most right now was to sleep, he would even skip dinner - he had a proper fill on the train. But it was still early, and he pushed back the sleepiness with an effort of will.
The trio walked into the hall and dropped onto a bench.
"Harry! Hello, Harry!" came from the other end of the table.
Harry waved his hand.
"Hello, Colin."
"My brother is entering this year! Dennis!" Excited, Creevey was practically bouncing on the bench. "I hope he gets into Gryffindor!"
"Most likely," Harry reassured him, although, honestly, he hoped for the opposite - two Creeveys was already too much. "Usually brothers and sisters study in the same faculty."
"Well, not the Patils," Ginny noted, sitting down opposite.
"No rules without exceptions," Ron shrugged.
"There are," Hermione interjected.
"For example?"
"The Harrell-Gilmore law," Harry replied for some reason. "The superposition of the flow in double transfiguration is always negative."
Three amazed gazes were directed at Harry, and he thought that he should better watch his tongue if he doesn't want to take over Hermione's laurels as Gryffindor's main bore.
"What? I read books too sometimes."
Ron patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, mate, this will pass."
"Thank you, you've calmed me down," Harry smiled crookedly and stared at the teachers' table.
There were two seats vacant, and it was strange. Professor McGonagall went for the first-years, but whose chair was also unoccupied? The boy looked over the faces, caught the director's gaze for a moment, and nodded slightly, receiving a similar gesture in response. There was only one new person - a not very tall, although while sitting it was hard to tell exactly, and thin man about thirty-five, who unpleasantly reminded Harry of Lockhart. A somewhat dandyish robe with an asymmetric collar, a starched shirt peeking out from under it. Dark hair is styled in a fashionable hairstyle. Aunt Petunia would call such men "dandies". Only the gaze didn't quite match the image - too ironic, as if... Harry tried to find words for "as if what" and couldn't.
Obviously, this is one of the new professors, but what subject will he be teaching? And where's the second one?
"Listen, how long have you been calling her 'Herm'?" Ron suddenly asked in a half-whisper.
"Who?" Not taking his eyes off the teachers' table, Harry asked back.
"Hermione."
The boy turned to his friend and for a couple of seconds tried to figure out what he was talking about.
"Lower!"
He's leaning over the back of the hippogriff, but still can't reach. He can't reach at all! Too high.
"Hermione! Lower, Beak!"
He hits the hippogriff's neck and leans down again, straining his knees.
"Hermione!"
She can't hear him. Probably from fear. And the werewolf is just two steps away. So close!
"Mordred, even lower! Hermione!"
Just turn around! Buckbeak's claws begin to grab onto the humps.
"HERM!"
She finally hears and looks back. Her face is distorted by terror. Her mouth is open, her lips are broken in a grimace.
Harry stretches out his hand, and somehow she understands what is required of her. She throws up her own.
Jerk. The pain in his shoulder is such that it seems the joint is about to pop.
The boy yanks his friend up, Buckbeak sharply gains altitude, and the mad Remus jumps. The jaws fly by, the front paws grab them both. Claws dig deep into Harry's leg, and the girl screams, pressing her free hand to her face.
And the resulting bundle collapses down.
Harry flinched and swallowed hard.
"That's how it happened."
Ron shrugged and explained.
"Well, I just thought there was something between you two, you could have told."
Harry opened his mouth, looked at the back of his friend, who had started some conversation with Parvati Patil, and was not immediately able to find what to answer to such a statement.
"Uh... No, there's not." He ran his hand through his hair and, recovering a bit from the surprise, smiled. "I would know, I guess." Harry turned back to the table. "Look, it's starting."
Professor McGonagall had already arranged the first-years in a line and placed a stool with the Sorting Hat in the middle of the hall. Harry looked over the row of children. In his view, they became smaller and smaller each year, which was strange – it seemed like Hogwarts still admitted them at eleven years old. Conversations gradually died down, and complete silence set in after a couple of minutes. The hat twitched, groaned, sneezed, and finally, opening its mouth located above the brim, it sang.
A thousand years or more ago,
When I was newly sewn,
There lived four wizards of renown,
Whose names are still well known:
Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,
Shrewd Sally, from fen.
They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,
They hatched a daring plan
To educate young sorcerers
Thus Hogwarts School began.
Now each of these four founders
Formed their own house, for each
Did value different virtues
In the ones they had to teach.
By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;
For Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide
Their favorites from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones
When they were dead and gone?
'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me
So I could choose instead!
Now slip me snug about your ears,
I've never yet been wrong,
I'll have a look inside your mind
And tell where you belong!
Applause erupted. Although – as Harry thought, joining in the clapping – Salazar Slytherin would probably have a stroke if the hat of his eternal enemy called him Sally to his face. This, by the way, would solve a lot of problems.
Professor McGonagall waited for the applause to die down and unrolled the list.
"When I call your name, you will come forward and…"
"Did you notice that one teacher is missing?" Hermione asked quietly.
"Yeah, the new guy is just that dandy," Harry nodded. "Did Dumbledore not find a second one?"
"Or maybe he will teach both subjects at once?"
"He'll bust, one person can't handle Defence and Potions."
"Quiet, you," Ginny noticed Professor McGonagall's stern look and cut off the discussion. The trio straightened up, Hermione blushed.
"Krass Adelia!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
"Creevey Dennis!"
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Harry mentally groaned, one fan was enough for him. He still remembered Colin's attempts to establish the "Harry Potter Fan Club" and plaster the Gryffindor lounge with his photographs. Now the younger one will surely come up with something, as sure as eggs.
"Congratulations, Dennis!" the older brother shouted.
"Hooray, Colin, I'm in Gryffindor! Also, I fell into the lake!"
"Wow, Dennis! See that boy over there? Do you know who that is?"
Ron shook his head and noticed
"It will be fun."
"Yeah, very," Harry agreed, waving at both Creeveys, and returned to the Sorting.
"Ramsay Lester!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Owens Tracey!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
In general, over three years he noticed a pretty interesting fact. Despite the fact that the Hat allegedly sorted students solely on moral qualities, it gave them a choice, as Harry knew from his own experience. But there was no bias in either direction – the faculties were filled more or less evenly. Although he had heard stories that at times the tables of one faculty or another were almost completely empty. It's probably detailed in Hogwarts History.
If you think about it, it was indicative – too many different forces are acting now, people are swung from one side to the other, and it turns out that the distribution of students is almost even. A cross-section of society. Because, no matter what anyone says – almost all Slytherin graduates served Voldemort, the opponents were Gryffindor and partly Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff – so, the middle on a half. Or is he making this up and confusing cause and effect?
Harry was even a bit surprised at his own thoughts, such reasoning was not characteristic of him. Influence of a teacher, perhaps?
Finally, Williamson Mod went to the Ravenclaw table, and Professor McGonagall took the hat away.
From his seat, flashing his half-moon spectacles, the headmaster stood up.
"I have a few announcements to make by tradition," he said, "but it would be unkind to make you endure them now. Eat, we will talk afterwards."
Professor Dumbledore clapped his hands, causing the tables to fill with food, and sat back down.
The students pounced on the food like a pack of starving dogs. Harry thought he was full, but looking at the table, he realized he was mistaken. Chocolate is nice, but it's not real food.
"Ron, please pass the steak," he requested.
His friend pointed to the plate right in front of him.
"Uh, Harry, it's right here."
Harry looked at the meat and, sighing imperceptibly, began to load his plate. It was overcooked for his liking, but he didn't want to complain to Ron.
After about twenty minutes, when everyone was finally full, Professor Dumbledore stood up again. He clapped his hands again, and the dishes disappeared from the tables.
"I hope everything was delicious, as always," the headmaster smiled. "Young growing bodies need good nutrition." Harry barely suppressed a chuckle; it seemed like Dumbledore was quoting Mrs. Weasley. "As I mentioned earlier, I have a few announcements. First, I remind you that the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden. Second - if we believe Mr. Filch, magic during the breaks is still prohibited. And he knows the school rules better than me."
A few chuckles were heard now. Dumbledore paused and continued, less jovially. The hall seemed to darken.
"Also, considering the unpleasant events of last year, I am obliged to announce some changes in the teaching staff. The position of Slytherin's Head of House will be taken by Professor Lyons."
A stern man, seated closer to the left edge of the table, stood up and bowed. Harry had seen him before, but had never crossed paths. There was applause, though as the boy noted – quite lukewarm, especially at the Slytherin table. This inspired some hope.
"Who is that?" Ron asked in a whisper, but no one answered, all were anxiously awaiting the continuation.
"The position of Potions Professor - Professor Robert Coldwell. Robert?"
This time, a dandy stood up. He looked around the hall, stylishly adjusted the collar of his robe, and waved his hand cheerfully.
"Show-off," Weasley commented.
The applause was even more sparse - many agreed with the characteristic that Ron had given, and remembered the previous one too well.
"As for the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore, as if apologizing, spread his hands, "he is somehow late."
"He - what?" Harry asked, not catching the voice.
"He's late, Mr. Potter," the headmaster explained with a smile. "Unfortunately, it happens even to the best of us."
Harry blushed and looked away. He doubted the headmaster was hinting at the story with the Weasley's Ford, but that's what came to mind.
"But that's not all," Dumbledore continued. "Also, this year will be very different from all previous ones. The fact is that the inter-house Quidditch championship will not be held this year."
A moment of silence hung, and then the Great Hall exploded like a bomb. Even the Slytherins joined in the general indignation, forgetting about the inter-house rivalry. Marcus Flint jumped to his feet, shaking his fists - just like both of the Weasley twins.
"Quidditch really brings people together," Hermione remarked sarcastically. Harry responded with a barely noticeable lift of the corner of his mouth, not wanting to upset the indignant Ron. Perhaps if he had grown up among wizards, he too would have been mad about Quidditch, but he was far more used to regular football. Not to mention that growing up in a cupboard didn't really foster a love of team games.
The headmaster tried to say something, but, in an unprecedented event, he failed. Someone started whistling. The professor had to pull out his magic wand and release a firework from it. Only then did the noise level slightly decrease, and not completely.
"Commendable love for sports," Dumbledore noted. "However, if you'll allow me, I will continue."
He waited until silence was restored and explained.
"The fact is that instead of the championship this year, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament."
Harry didn't understand anything, but judging by the rising whispers - some knew what he was talking about. Mostly - pure-bloods.
"The Triwizard Tournament," the director continued, "is a very old tradition, designed to unite the magical community. It was established many years ago by the heads of the Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang schools. One Champion from each school will have to pass three tests of their will, magical skill, and determination. The winner receives a prize - a thousand Galleons, and, of course - recognition."
He swept the hall with a piercing gaze. On many faces, the desire to become this Champion was clearly read.
"The tournament stopped being held about seventy years ago, due to the high mortality rate among participants," the director decided to cool down hot heads. "Therefore, this time an age threshold will be established - only applicants older than seventeen years old will be able to compete for the title of Champion. Delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive on the first of October. The selection of Champions will be carried out by an impartial judge and will take place on Halloween."
A storm rose in the hall again.
"But that's not fair!" Fred shouted loudly. "We're turning seventeen this spring!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, but these are the rules."
Fred didn't get a chance to object. As soon as he opened his mouth, the door of the Great Hall swung open with a bang. Heads turned in bewilderment. Harry instinctively raised his hand to scratch the back of his head, but stopped halfway and lowered it back. On the threshold stood the strangest man he had ever seen.
A short, absurd, completely twisted old man. Completely gray hair grew in chunks - the skull was completely covered with scars. And not just the skull - there were plenty of scars on his face as well. The old man had a wooden leg, like some kind of pirate. One eye was missing, and in place of the natural one was an artificial one, twice as large as normal. And this artificial eye constantly rotated like a spinning top.
A deadly silence hung in the Hall. The old man croaked and, clicking his wooden leg, headed for the teachers' table.
"Hello, Albus."
The voice was no more pleasant than the appearance - some kind of hoarse caw. The final straw for Harry was Professor Dumbledore, who smiled broadly at the old man and addressed the hall.
"Allow me to introduce you to Alastor Moody. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."
"Wha…?" Seamus hissed.
"Great Merlin, what's happened to him?"
"Is that really Mad-Eye Moody?" Ron asked again. "The one and only?"
"You know him?" Harry asked, shocked.
"Not personally, of course," Ron shook his head. "But he's one of the most famous aurors. Well, he was until he was retired."
"It was Moody who caught a large part of the Death Eaters who are now in Azkaban," Hermione added.
Harry took note of this information and looked at Alastor Moody with a new perspective. If all these were the signs of battles with Death Eaters, then the new teacher was impressive. Even somewhat intimidating. Lupin was right, Dumbledore didn't hire just anyone.
"The formal part of the evening is now over," the director announced. "First years, follow the prefects, they will show you your common rooms. The rest, I believe, can find their way on their own."
If Harry wasn't mistaken, that was permission to linger a little longer. He waited until the space around him cleared a bit, shook his head, temporarily banishing the thoughts of, what's his name? Mad-Eye? and turned to Hermione.
"Alright, about something else. What's up with this Tournament. Is it really as bad as I think?"
His friend bit her lip.
"I'm afraid, Harry, that it's even worse. In the last Tournament, all participants died."
Ron whistled.
"That's serious. But there's an age limit this year, right? And participation is voluntary, as I understand it, they only choose willing Champions. Although." a dreamy expression appeared on his friend's face. "If you think about it, a thousand Galleons!"
"Ron! Don't tell me you're planning to..."
Weasley wiped the blissful smile from his face and - a rare occasion - looked at Hermione as if she was an idiot.
"Calm down, I still want to live."
Harry frowned and muttered, now fully understanding Mr. Weasley.
"Bad timing."
"What exactly?"
"Noise, school delegations, probably fans," Harry listed. "Loads of strangers."
Ron nodded in understanding.
"At the same time, Dark Marks are flying around the country."
"And Death Eaters are marching."
"And the Padfoot is wandering somewhere nearby."
The girl threw up her hands.
"Stop it right now! You're overthinking things. I'm sure that Professor Dumbledore has thought about security." After a moment's thought, Hermione added, "Surely, Alastor Moody is at school for this reason."
Most likely, it was so, but Harry had a feeling in his stomach of impending doom. Or was it just a reflex to expect a nasty turn every school year? Maybe they were just in for a great spectacle?
Definitely not, someone inside his head said in the voice of Rita Skeeter, whom he had never seen.
Harry sighed and rose from the table.
"Well, we'll live and see. What's the new password, anyone knows?"
Going up to his dormitory, which now had a sign saying "4th Year", Harry walked to his bed, kicked his suitcase under the bed, and threw his robe on the back of a chair.
"Goodnight."
"Yeah, dreams," Ron muttered as he settled down. Neville and Dean with Seamus, who had left dinner earlier, were already fast asleep.
Harry climbed into bed and, pulling the curtain around him, took the Marauder's Map out of his pocket. He whispered:
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Oh yeah, he thought. It'll be a hoot, what mischief.
He carefully studied the parchment. All the teachers were still in the Great Hall, except for this new Caldwell, who had already gone to the dungeons. Filch was wandering around the Trophy Hall - did he really think that someone would roam the school today, or was it just a habit? Or maybe the caretaker has a stash there? In some Quidditch cup? Harry was slightly amused at the thought of the vigilant guardian of Hogwarts sipping wine from a golden goblet, and shifted his focus to the castle surroundings.
Empty. And all the secret passages - empty. Wherever the Padfoot might be - he is clearly not here now.
Harry expected this thought to calm him down, but for some reason, it didn't.