Caught, Once Again, by a Hot Boy, While Curled Up in a Ball, Eating My Hair

As I stood, stuck to my spot on the floor like the statue of the old witch behind me, a tall, wizened man in a purple cloak rounded the corner. My eyes were drawn, strangely, to his feet, which were shod in the most interesting pair of boots I had ever laid eyes on: black and shiny, with moving, shimmering pictures of planets, stars, moon, and comets and three inch heels, which were undoubtedly responsible for the clacking noise that had been my first indication that I was about to have company in my hallway . . . again.

Like he needs heels. He's already tall enough, I thought inconsequentially. He towered over me, making my perfectly respectable height of five feet, eight inches seem pitiably minute.

By this time, I had abandoned all pretenses of sang froid. But I must say that I was not overly preoccupied with the image I was projecting. Compared to my encounter with Harry Potter, nothing I could do or say could possibly be more mortifying.

I've always been a glass-half-full kind of girl.

Consequently, I was willing to disregard the fact that I was standing prone in the middle of a random third-floor hallway, looking, I am sure, extremely stupid, dispossessed of any idea of what was to happen to me next. I was on my feet, and my hair was flowing in loose waves down my back, not crammed into my mouth like before; I was on a roll.

And I have to admit that, distinguished and important though he appeared, my new visitor was not . . . well . . . hot, like Harry, being about 50 or 60 years older than me, I guessed. I must say, that made things a little easier for me.

"Ah," he murmured, smiling down at me. His long, white beard twitched like a puppet on a string as the corners of his mouth turned up.

I cleared my throat, at a loss. Faced with this new man's penetrating, wise, knowing gaze, I felt my newfound optimism evaporating. I couldn't think of anything that would possibly explain my presence, my behavior, or my slightly damp split ends.

I was saved the trouble as he spoke first. "You're not a student, are you?" Despite the upward inflection in his tone at the end of the sentence, I knew his words were an assertion rather than a question.

I coughed lightly. (God, what was with all the weird noises I was making? I was turning into a gibbering, gulping, throat-clearing, coughing mess, undone, I'm sorry to say, by a mad onslaught of nerves and a double-shot espresso at breakfast. Either that or I had consumption. I couldn't, at the moment, decide which scenario was worse.)

"Not . . . not exactly a student . . . per say . . . technically . . . well, no . . . not quite . . ." I managed to stammer incoherently.

Great. Once again, I made the assumption that despite my complete lack of composure, my rotten luck, and my unfortunate tendency to hopelessly botch any type of social situation whatsoever, it was safe to attempt a conversation with a life form other than my tabby cat. Shock of all shocks, my supposition was utterly fallacious.

The man smiled kindly at me. "I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster here at Hogwarts. May I inquire as to your name?"

Oooh, a question I could answer! I was ecstatic enough to attempt to return his smile, though I felt my effort was rather shaky. "Dublin, sir. Dublin Farrell."

I was treated to another warm smile. I felt marginally more at ease. This man was in charge of Hogwarts, he knew I wasn't a student, and yet he hadn't dragged me from the castle and tossed me out the gates. Besides, his presence was somehow calming, comforting, soothing - I felt as if I could trust this man with anything. I felt like he would understand.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Dublin," he said. "I assume you are here to enroll?"

I blinked. Just like that? I was overcome by the strange sensation that Professor Dumbledore knew more about me than I had told him. His eyes, peering at me over the wire rims of silver half-moon spectacles, seemed to wash over my body and mind, absorbing all my secrets and thoughts and memories. But his scrutiny didn't feel invasive. I didn't feel judged, I felt . . . protected. I felt as if he saw everything I had been through, everything I had done, and he empathized. He found me wandering uninvited through the halls of his school, and after approximately two minutes of conversation, in which I had uttered no intelligible words but my name (which was obviously no great accomplishment as far as dialogue goes) he had offered to take me in, tempted me with a place in his magnificent school.

As far as he knew, I could have been a desperate, maniacal serial killer. But I suppose, standing dumbly in the hallway, my hair drooping wetly over my shoulders, I didn't appear to threatening. I decided to go with the flow.

"Yes, Professor, I would like nothing more than to enroll."

"Well, that's settled them." He beamed at me amiably. "Please accompany me to my office, and we can discuss the details. I think you'll be very happy here, Miss Farrell. Welcome to Hogwarts. This way."

With a swirl of his plum-colored cloak, he was off, striding quickly down the corridor. I followed him up two flights of stairs, down another hallway, up another flight of stairs, down yet another staircase, and up two more. I stumbled along behind the Professor, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. It didn't help that I was gaping, openmouthed, I'm afraid, at the sights and sounds of the hallways of the castle as we sped through. Students scurried obliviously all around us, chattering and laughing. One boy, who looked to be about fourteen, was having an argument with his friend, another young student. As I watched, he screamed viciously, "You did too steal my Dungbombs, Michael!" pulled out his wand, and jabbed it maliciously at his companion, whose back was turned - he was stalking off in a huff. I was about to cry out a warning to the angry accuser's target when his wand flew out of his hand and he froze, stationary as a sculpture, his features fixed in a mask of gruesome rage. I skidded to a stop, awed and slightly unnerved. None of the other students seemed to find the occurrence atypical; they continued to gab unconcernedly, traversing the halls without acknowledging their petrified peer except to adjust their paths to move around him. I glanced at Professor Dumbledore, trying to judge his reaction. He was a few steps ahead of me, tucking his wand back into his robes. My jumpy, overworked brain finally put the pieces together: the Professor had immobilized the young boy to stop him from hexing his friend. I was mesmerized; I hadn't even seen him take out his wand, and I definitely hadn't heard him utter a spell. As I hurried to catch up to the headmaster, I looked over my shoulder. The boy was slowly regaining his faculties of motion. As I watched, his wand flew back across the corridor and tucked itself neatly in his pocket. Chastened, the boy scampered away in the opposite direction, shouting, "Michael, wait up! I'm sorry!"

Finally, we came to a halt in front of a stone gargoyle. I looked at Dumbledore, nonplussed. I thought he had said we were going to his office.

"Blood Blisterpod," I heard him murmur. Upon his words, the sentinel came to life and sprang aside, revealing a swirling staircase that spiraled up, up, up, moving on its own. I stepped gingerly onto the bottom step behind the Professor and gripped the banister convulsively. The next moment, I was lost in a slow whirl as we ascended. I had the unsettling, stomach-churning feeling that we were spinning into my future. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the ride stopped, and the headmaster pushed open a shiny wooden door. "Please come in, Miss Farrell," he requested. "We have much to discuss."