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

I was on my feet, but Harry hadn't yet relinquished my hand; a warm glow was radiating through my body, and I felt paralyzed. His eyes were boring into mine, and the whole situation was making it impossibly difficult for me to breathe. I was dimly conscious of Hermione's voice buzzing in my ears, questioning Harry incessantly.

"But how do you know her? She's only just arrived at Hogwarts. Were you acquainted with her through your aunt and uncle?" Hermione stamped her foot impatiently when Harry didn't answer. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Harry, give her her hand back and talk to me!"

I noticed a slight red flush tingeing Harry's cheeks. He dropped my hand like it was a glob of slimy buboter puss. I felt my own cheeks start to burn and realized they must match his.

"Sorry, Hermione," he said awkwardly, running one hand through his lovely, messy hair. My fingers tingled as I imagined tangling them in his -

Whoa! I reproached myself, suddenly aware of the danger I was in. Stop that right now, Dublin Kellyn Farrell. You can't do this. You have other things you need to be concentrating on right now. Like learning quickly enough to keep the headmaster from regretting the day he agreed to take you on. And making it through the Sorting tonight in one piece. Plus, he's Harry Potter! Harry bloody Potter! He's an effing legend! What would he want with you?

Feeling exceedingly depressed and worthless but marginally more in control of myself, I forced my attention back to the conversation going on in front of me.

". . . so I was coming out of the statue and I saw her on the ground in the corridor," Harry was explaining. "I helped her up and . . . that's it," he finished, speaking quickly. He nodded at Hermione and his gaze flickered over to me ever so briefly.

Hermione smiled knowingly. "I see."

By that time, the red-haired boy had slunk out from behind the couch and joined us.

"Dublin, this is Ronald Weasley," Hermione said, gesturing in his direction. He was watching her warily, as though scared she might train her wand on him again, and standing tensely, poised, I suspected, to jump behind another large piece of furniture, should the need arise.

Hermione noticed, too. "Stop twitching, Ronald," she snapped. "Honestly. I'm not going to attack you."

He chuckled nervously, but he moved several steps closer to her, and extended his hand to me. "Hey. Welcome to Hogwarts."

As I shook his hand, I heard the faint chime of a distant clock striking the hour.

"Oh no!" Hermione exclaimed, grabbing my wrist and pulling away from the boys. "It's almost time for dinner! Dublin, you've got to get changed!" She dragged me off in the direction of a staircase on the other side of the room.

***

We skidded, panting, through the double doors into the Great Hall together. Tugging absently on the hem of the black wool uniform skirt Hermione had lent me, I glanced around.

The rest of the students were already seated, chatting noisily with each other at four huge tables that stretched almost the full length of the hall. Beyond them, positioned perpendicularly, was a fifth, slightly smaller table up on a raised dais. The entire room was bathed in a warm glow; I looked up and realized that the space was illuminated by thousands of tiny, delicate floating candles suspended over the tables, and by the light of the stars twinkling brightly overhead.

"The ceiling's bewitched to look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered to me. A moment later, she giggled quietly. "But you know that, of course. You've read Hogwarts, a History."

"Many times," I murmured, barely believing what I was seeing. I had greedily read and reread the information about the Hall and the ceiling - well, I had read every bit of the book multiple times, actually, desperate to soak up as much about Hogwarts as I could - but standing in the hall, really walking past the tables, seeing all the students in their school robes, and glancing up at the banners of the four house symbols and the intricate Hogwarts crest on the walls was a very different experience. My knees wobbled like crazy as Hermione led me toward the staff table, striding along at a rapid pace. A ripple of inquisitive chatter spread across the room as the students, a few at a time, noticed our arrival.

Finally, we reached the front of the hall. Professor Dumbledore got up from his seat at the high table and stepped to the front of the dais, raising his hands for quiet. Slowly, the noise subsided.

"You are not the first student in Hogwarts' long history to arrive late to dinner, Miss Farrell," the headmaster pronounced jovially. "Indeed, I believe there are a few here in this hall who have, on occasion, even missed the beginning of our start-of-term feast, for various reasons." His gaze shifted over to the Gryffindor table as he spoke. "But as far as I recall," he continued, focusing on me again, "no one has ever shown up late to their own Sorting before."

I stared resolutely at my feet, trying to control the vicious blush I felt creeping its way across my cheeks. "I'm very sorry, Sir," I apologized, my gaze still fixated on my footwear. I traced the outline of the black star on my black Converse sneaker with my eyes, not daring to look up into the Professor's face. What could I possibly say to excuse my late arrival?

"I had nothing to wear," I blurted out.

It was true. My aunt had dumped me unceremoniously outside the castle gates that morning with nothing but the clothes I had on, which happened to be a faded pair of jeans and a tight, worn-in t-shirt from a Muggle rock concert I went to before my parents died. I had figured that it wouldn't be appropriate for me to be Sorted in my ratty Brand New top, and Hermione had agreed, so, mystified as to why I had come to Hogwarts with nothing of my own but willing to help out, she had loaned me some of her things. It had taken her a while to find something that would fit me, though - my legs were probably a good 6 inches longer than hers, so most of her skirts had left my legs bare up the middle of my thighs. Just when I had decided I might rather go in my jeans, she had unearthed a skirt she had relegated to the bottom of her wardrobe, seeing as it was two sizes too big for her. I had quickly donned the skirt - it was still a little short for my liking, and it was a bit big around the waist, but it was better than my other options - and rushed out of the dormitory, pulling a sweater over my head as we left the common room and fastening a gold- and red-striped tie as we dashed through the corridors to the Great Hall, more than fashionably late for dinner.

Honesty may very well be the best policy for some people, I thought as I chanced a quick glance up at the headmaster and observed the bemused look on his face, but I'm not quite sure it's the best way for me to go. My life is just too ruddy unbelievable.

"Very well, Miss Farrell. You are here now, and I suppose that's all that matters," the professor intoned solemnly. It looked as if he was doing his best to appear stern and serious, but his twinkling eyes undermined his attempt at gravity.

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I had been pretty sure that Professor Dumbledore wouldn't change his mind about taking me on as a student just because I was late to dinner, but the way my life had been going lately . . .

"If Miss Farrell is ready, we should begin," Professor McGonagall interjected. She risen from the table and positioned herself at Professor Dumbledore's side.

"Indeed," the headmaster responded. "We can't keep these ravenous children waiting for their dinner much longer. Miss Farrell?"

"I'm ready, Sir," I said.

"Good, good. Then by all means, let us commence with the Sorting." Dumbledore waved his hand at a tiny stool that was sitting in front of the table. I figured he wanted me to sit, so I did.

Hermione smiled encouragingly and mouthed, Gryffindor! at me before walking away to take her seat at her House's table. I watched her sit down between Ronald and Harry.

Harry looked up and smiled at me. I felt a slow tingle travel all the way down my body. I smiled shakily back.

Big mistake. I am not a good multi-tasker. Apparently, it was taking all of my available mental capacity - which, at the moment, was not a large amount, seeing as I was a very undesirable combination of ecstatic, distracted, and terrified - to balance my body on the stool. As the corners of my mouth turned tremulously up, my bottom slipped to the left, and a moment later, I was tumbling off the stool, legs tangled, arms flailing.

Well, I mused exhaustedly, lying in a heap on the floor, at least it wasn't such a long way to fall.

The entire school burst out laughing, but I was too busy being disgusted with myself to care. Why? I shrieked in silent agony, attempting to work myself up into a respectable mental hissy fit inspired by self-loathing. Why am I incapable of performing even the most basic of human functions?

Oh, screw it, some remote part of my brain responded. There comes a time you just have to call it quits.

The rest of my brain considered the idea for a second and then, resigned, accepted it. I had humiliated myself too many times in the last several hours to be able to work myself up about adding one more tally to the score. Or one more bruise to my bum. Whichever way you want to look at it.

I picked myself up, dusted off my skirt, and perched myself primly back atop the stool, legs crossed, hands folded in my lap. "Excuse me, Professor," I said to the headmaster, "I'm ready to be Sorted now, if you don't mind."

God, I was thinking, please just let's get me off this stool before I have a chance to have another clumsy moment.

"Certainly," Professor Dumbledore replied. I silently thanked him for not making any reference to my impromptu imitation of a circus acrobat.

Or a circus freak, more like.

"Professor McGonagall, if you please?" the headmaster said.

I felt the professor slip something over my head from behind. I reached a tentative hand up to examine the object.

"I say!" a voice exclaimed in my head. "No touching! I am a priceless artifact!"

I withdrew my hand quickly. Sorry, I thought, too shocked to even care that I was conducting a conversation entirely in my brain.

"I suppose it's all right," the voice replied. "You didn't know any better, did you? Alright, now, down to business. My goodness, what to do with you? This is quite a conundrum. I sense passion in you, fire and courage, yes, and loyalty, dedication, intelligence -"

I'm sorry, I interrupted, craning my eyes upward, trying to get a glimpse of the thing on my head, but are you really a hat?

"- inquisitiveness, impatience," the voice continued blithely, ignoring my outburst, "and pride and - oh, my."

What? I inquired, curious to know what this thing that could apparently read my thoughts had discovered.

"Dumbledore!" the voice rang out. I don't know how, but I could tell that everyone in the hall could hear what it was saying now. "I need to speak to Dumbledore!"

I heard low murmuring begin amongst the students. I got the feeling that this was a little unorthodox. My gaze sought out Hermione; her brow was furrowed in a frown.

Professor Dumbledore stepped up beside me. "Please excuse me, Miss Farrell," he said, and he lifted the thing off of my head and placed it on his own. I noticed, as he did, that it was, indeed, a frayed, patched, worn, obviously ancient hat.

Well, what do you know, I mused.

I watched the professor's expression change from confused to something darker, more worried, less easy to interpret. I was filled with a sudden burning desire to hear what the hat was saying to the headmaster. What if it had determined that I wasn't worthy enough to attend Hogwarts? My God, even Lord Voldemort was admitted at one point, I thought. This can't be good. I concentrated intently, hoping vaguely that by sheer force of will, I could manage to overhear their conversation.

To my surprise, a moment later, I heard the loud, speculative chatter in the hall dim to a quiet buzzing. Then, clear as if it was on my head again, I heard the hat's voice.

"I simply cannot place her, Dumbledore," it was saying. "Her power cannot be tainted by the bitterness of the inter-house feuding. She is the last one; she is the key. Her power belongs to everyone. It must not be corrupted."

"But you placed all the others," the professor replied. "Every last one of them. Why not her?"

"She must work with all the Houses. She must help him bind them. She must help him overcome the hostility he feels for the others. She is to be the voice of reason, the unbiased link," the hat said. It paused for a long moment. "Wait. Someone is listening."

I snapped back to myself, shocked. The noise in the hall nearly overwhelmed me. I had to work very hard not fall off the stool again.

I realized that my head was throbbing. No, not throbbing - pounding. Pounding mercilessly. It felt as if a giant were tap dancing in my brain. I swayed on the stool, and I felt a hand grip my shoulder and steady me.

It was Professor Dumbledore. He had apparently finished his conversation with the hat because, in a booming voice that did nothing to alleviate the pressure of my headache, he announced, "Well! I know this is awfully unusual, but the Sorting Hat has decided that Miss Farrell is not to be placed in a House. She is a mid-year addition to our school, after all, and she will be a seventh-year; all our seventh-year girls have had years to build bonds and to develop a certain way of life to which they are accustomed. Miss Farrell will live in a room of her own, and attend classes with students from each House on a rotating basis. The Sorting Hat believes that this will be in everyone's best interests."

The Professor tightened his grip on my shoulder and added, in a low murmur that reached only my ears, "You may eat with the Gryffindors, Miss Farrell, since you are already acquainted with Miss Granger, and, I suspect, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. Please come see me in my office when you have finished your meal."

I nodded. I didn't think I was capable of speech.

The professor helped me to my feet, and I stumbled over to the Gryffindor table. I slid into a seat next to Hermione; I noticed that Harry had scooted over to make room for me. I flashed him a grateful smile.

"Oh, Dublin, you don't look well," Hermione said worriedly. She poured me a goblet full of Pumpkin Juice. "Here. Drink this. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I managed to gasp. But that really couldn't have been farther from the truth. My head hurt so much I could barely see straight.

In retrospect, I suppose there was a bit of a silver lining in my headache: the incredible pain kept me from thinking too hard about what I had heard the headmaster and the hat say, which was a blessing. I don't think I had enough left in me to even begin to process what had just happened. But at the time, I would have rather gone skinny-dipping in the castle lake than endure another minute of that excruciating, aching pain.

"Are you sure?" Ronald asked. "You're white as a sheet. I don't blame you, though. That was pretty weird, wasn't it? I don't think anybody's ever not been Sorted before."

"Ronald!" Hermione hissed in a low voice. "Not now! You are the most insensitive wart sometimes!"

The two continued to bicker in hushed tones. I tuned them out as best I could and concentrated on resisting the urge to lay my head down on the table between the fried chicken and the mashed potatoes that had appeared in front of me moments before.

I focused my vision on my goblet of juice. I watched, hypnotized, as the candlelight flickered, causing the cup to twinkle and glow. The edges of my vision grew fuzzy, and the flickered. I felt myself lose control of my body; I slumped down, and someone wrapped a strong arm around my waist to stop my fall. That's the last thing I was aware of before everything else faded to black.