The Harpsichordist

Chapter Five: Sing, Sing a Song

Wendy was sitting on the balcony outside the library when a large brown owl glided over the trees and dropped a letter on her. "Huh?" She looked at the letter now sitting innocently in her lap. It was simply addressed to:

Wendy

in Luke's hand. How had the owl known where to deliver it? Any why was it delivered by owl to begin with? The owl had now perched on the balcony railing and was eyeing her expectantly.

"Hello, Wendy," came a voice behind her.

It was Davitt. "Hello," she replied, still staring at the letter.

"Oh, is that Luke's?" he asked.

"Yes, he just sent it to me--"

"No, the owl," said Davitt, pointing. "Is it his?"

"I don't know," said Wendy, finally looking up from the letter to see Davitt examining the owl. "It just flew over here and deposited a letter in my lap," she explained, showing him the letter. "I don't know who it belongs to."

"You might want to feed it before it tears your bag apart," he informed her. The owl was now beginning to peck at her bag, and its beak looked sharp.

"Oh," she said. "Um--what do they eat? I think I have some granola in there, but that's all..."

"They'll eat anything," he assured her. "Shall I take care of it? You'll want to read your letter, I'm sure," he offered, turning to pick up her bag.

"Oh, please," she said gratefully, carefully opening the envelope. Beside her, Davitt opened her bag and rummaged inside.

Dear Wendy,

You won't believe everything that's happened to me since I arrived. First of all, I'm safe and sound, so don't worry. I had to walk several miles from the nearest train station, though, when I first got here. Hear me groan at the memory.

Professor Snape's given me a tour of the school, and it's just very weird. Space doesn't seem to stay the same here. The outside of the castle looks like one thing, but the inside looks completely different, and, I swear, the floors move around. I've seen the staircases move with my own eyes.

The Gryffindor Tower ghost, Sir Nicholas, is very kind.

Wendy dropped the letter. Ghosts? She turned to ask Davitt, but he was busy with her bag of leftover granola. Shaking her head, she picked it up again, and laughed as she read:

I'm sure you just dropped the letter after reading that--yes, ghosts are real. It seems that wizards can choose when they die whether to stay in the world as a ghost. Very strange.

What else? Oh, yes. I have to give a placement exam to every student here--there are about three hundred--on Saturday and Sunday. They'll be arriving on Friday, and I must confess that I'm really nervous. How will they react to a Muggle teacher? Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, constantly tells me not to worry, that they'll be as respectful of me as of the other teachers, but they are teenagers. Ages 11-17--some of them are even 18, a few as young as 10, though fortunately not many.

I've made something of a friend in a house-elf (the housekeeping staff here is made up of small creatures with large ears, weird noses, and squeaky voices) called Winky. She's very shy and truly lives to serve, almost as though it makes her high. Odd. But it's not the strangest thing here, and that's saying something.

Oh, I can't forget to tell you about Hagrid and Firenze. Hagrid is a half-giant who teaches a class called "Care of Magical Creatures," which I suppose is a euphemism for learning how to deal with monsters, judging by the huge beasts he's managed to obtain for this year. A few years ago there were these things called "Blast-Ended Skrewts," crosses between manticores and fire-crabs, I think. I'm sure Davitt can explain these things to you, because my hand is getting tired.

Firenze--right. He's a centaur. I'm not kidding. He teaches Divination, fortune-telling. There's another Divination teacher, Sybill Trelawney, and she'd give any of the tarot-readers on Telegraph a run for their money. Shawls, misty voice--the whole business.

Okay, I'm going to go now. I'll write again soon.

Do write back--this owl should hang around until you do. Her name is Magdalena, but she'll answer to "Mag" or "Magda." You can also send her home--just give her the address, she's very intelligent.

Much love,

Luke

p.s. The Loch Ness monster is real--it's in this lake! A giant squid.

When Wendy looked up from the letter, Davitt was feeding the owl from his hands. "Good letter?" he asked, wincing slightly as Magdalena pecked his hand sharply.

"Yes," she said, then sighed. "It's just all so strange." She leaned back into the old chair. "One day, I didn't know anything about this, and now--ghosts are real? And the Loch Ness monster, too?"

Davitt shook the rest of the granola off his hands and sat down next to her. "You'll adjust," he told her gently. "It's going to be particularly difficult for a while, but it will get more comfortable."

* * *

"Hey! Get off me!"

"A Mudblood ordering me around? I don't think so, Mudblood. Goyle--get his arms." There was loud scuffling noise and a piercing yell. Then a drawling voice said, "You don't belong here, Mudblood, don't you know that? You're just a waste of space. I bet you don't know what the Cruciatus Curse is, do you?" He laughed maliciously. "If I had my way, I'd show you firsthand what it--"

Harry stepped out from the toilet and found the source of the noise. "Let him go," he said.

"What's it to you, Potter?" sneered Malfoy, though it sounded a little apprehensive.

"I said, let him go," Harry repeated, pulling out his wand.

Malfoy, whose own wand was pointed at the first-year's neck, glanced at it, then at Goyle, who still had the struggling kid smothered against his chest. "C'mon," he muttered, turning to go.

Goyle released the first-year, who wrenched himself free, stepping on Goyle's foot for good measure. Goyle howled with pain. "Stupid kid," he rumbled angrily, looking like he wanted nothing more than to thump him some more. But Malfoy was already halfway down the corridor, and, with a final dirty look at Harry and the first-year, Goyle followed.

Harry turned to the first year, who was glaring at the floor. "Are you all--" He broke off as the kid looked up at him.

"What are you doing here?" they said at the same time.

"You first," Harry said.

"I g-got a letter last July," Mark Evans said, stuttering a bit. "An owl flew through my window at the same time this woman came to the door to talk to my parents. They told me I was a wizard and that there was this school for people like me. I mean, I've had strange stuff happen to me for years, but I never thought it was normal, I mean..."

Harry just stared. This was the little kid that Dudley had constantly beat up on all last summer, the scrawny figure that Harry occasionally saw scuffing his way through the park in the late evenings, accompanied by a stressed-looking young man usually talking on his mobile.

"You're a wizard, too?" Mark was asking.

"What?--Oh, yes," said Harry, surprised.

It was odd, not having someone automatically know who he was. He'd grown so used to people who met him for the first time always knowing everything about him that he wasn't sure how to introduce himself. He could just imagine: Hello, my name is Harry Potter. There's a prophecy that says I'm the only person who can kill Lord Voldemort, I've barely escaped from him with my own life intact four times now, how about you? That would be a little strange.

He settled on, "Yes, this is my sixth year."

"Oh, wow," said Mark. He seemed to want to say more, but was looking very shy. "Well, thanks for helping me out with those jerks," he said, looking at something interesting next to Harry's left elbow. "I guess I'll see you around." And he left, heading up the corridor in the opposite direction of Malfoy and Goyle.

"What was that all about?" said a voice behind him. It was Ginny, who was coming back from the prefect's carriage. "I saw Malfoy and his cronies stalking back to the Slytherin area, looking like someone had stolen their favorite toy. Is he beating up on a first-year already?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Malfoy was threatening to use the Cruciatus on him."

Ginny gasped. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"I can't believe Malfoy'd do that," said Ginny, obviously shaken.

"Can't you?" asked Harry evenly. "Takes after his father," he added in disgust.

Ginny hmphed.

"And I know that kid from my neighborhood--Mark Evans. I never knew he was a wizard. Neither did he, apparently."

"Wasn't your mother's maiden name Evans?" Ginny asked him curiously a moment later as they headed towards their compartment.

A memory came to the surface--his father's voice calling, "Hey, Evans! Evans!" as a girl with long red hair stalked away, disgusted--"Yeah, it was. Strange," he said.

* * *
The Great Hall was full of laughing, chattering children now. Up at the High Table, Luke was sitting nervously next to Quivisianthe Sprout, hoping that this would go smoothly. He'd never been comfortable in front of people, and now not only would he be eating in full view of three hundred students, but Albus would be introducing him. They'd decided to let the students discover on their own that Luke wasn't a wizard; it might diffuse some of the inevitable problems.

"Some of our parents will not be pleased at having a Muggle teacher in the school," Albus had explained to him earlier that afternoon. "But don't worry about that--there's no one in the wizarding world who can do your job; no one has the proper training anymore. As I said before, it's a lost art."

And he wouldn't explain further.

Ah, well, Luke thought, watching Minerva lead a line of small, nervous-looking first-years into the hall. They arranged themselves in a row with their backs to the High Table, slightly to one side of the Sorting Hat sitting on its three-legged stool. Sprout had been most informative about the Sorting tradition. Luke wasn't sure he liked the idea, but he would watch before making a complete judgment.

The hat began to sing.

"A hat's a hat, is what they say,
It sits atop your head;
But I can cap them any day
Blue, black, brown or red.

I tell the tale every year
Of Hogwarts' founding four
But only when there's danger near
Do I branch out to more.

I'll sort you into houses here,
Ravenclaw the bright,
Gryffindor, who hold so dear
Bravery and might;

Hufflepuff already have
Lost one among their number;
But they hold fast to justice's stave,
They toil and never slumber;

Slytherins are cunning folk,
In peril for their souls;
Avoid the Dark, or you shall choke
Upon what he doles."

Apart from its dire warnings, the tune was very nice. Luke hummed along with it once he'd gotten it down, and somewhere around the fourth verse, began harmonizing with it.

When the hat had finished singing, everyone applauded, and Professor McGonnagall began to read off names from a long piece of parchment:

"Adams, Gilbert!"

A round-faced boy with thick blond hair stumbled up to the stool and placed the hat on his head; it completely covered his eyes. After a few moments, the hat shouted, "Ravenclaw!" and one of the long house tables cheered and clapped as Gilbert made his way to the table.

It was a little unnerving, Luke decided, having a hat declare which house you belonged in. He'd heard of school houses before, but he'd rather thought they were more of a formality, a way of grouping students who lived together, maybe had a common interest, like sports or volunteer work. Here at Hogwarts, though, it seemed to be a lot more than that: apparently wizards wore their house name with pride for the rest of their lives, and were judged by others on what house they'd been in. There were politics attached to all the houses: Gryffindor for the brave, Ravenclaw for the smart, Slytherin for the ambitious, though, lately, for the Dark, and Hufflepuff for the boring. He rather thought that the system encouraged stereotyping, and having a hat look inside your head and tell you where you belonged seemed to truncate any chance of a child discovering for themselves what kind of person they were. Especially at ten or eleven!

He watched "Evans, Mark!" go to Gryffindor, and "Felton, Thomas!" to Slytherin, and tuned out again, gazing around the Great Hall.

Most of the students were watching the Sorting, except for a trio at the Gryffindor table. Three students--looked like some of the upper level, perhaps fifth or sixth year--were deep in whispered conversation, their black, brown, and red heads close together. Over at the table where Slytherin House sat, a pale boy with sliver-blond hair was watching the Sorting with an expression of extreme smugness.

Luke realized that the hall's silence was now punctuated with whispers. He tried to remember the last name mentioned. Yes: "Lestrange, Rigel." What was the big deal?

The students from Slytherin, not just the pale blond boy, were looking all very smug, and the three other houses were looking at Rigel as though he were something evil and hated already. The kid was eleven, and everyone hated him already?

As Rigel sat on the stool, Luke heard some of the mutters: "Lestrange? The Lestrange?" "How did they have a kid while in Azkaban?" And from Sprout beside him, "The poor child--having that for parents!"

"What happened?" Luke asked her quietly, but she shook her head, watching the hat.

There was a good minute's worth of silence--you could have heard a pin drop in the hall. A few coughs were hastily stifled. Then, "Ravenclaw!" was proclaimed.

No one cheered. Rigel, who looked startled, stood up slowly, carefully placed the hat back on its stool, and walked with mature dignity to the Ravenclaw table. All eyes were on him. A few people scooted out of his way to make room, but no one shook his hand, no one clapped him on the back.

After a moment, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, rattled her parchment, and called out, "MacKenzie, Laurel!" and the ceremony continued.

When the last student had finally been sorted, Professor Dumbledore stood up. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but had said no more than, "Welco--" when a voice interrupted him.

"I've sorted every person in this hall,
The students, teachers, ghosts--I've done them all.
Yet one remains, unknown, behind me here:
Young man, the hat must know you for this year."

It was the hat, chanting in ten-syllable lines.

Whispers broke out all over the hall again, and all eyes were on Dumbledore. He smiled bemusedly and chuckled. "It appears that the Sorting Hat has decided to begin the introductions for me!" he exclaimed. He turned to look down the table at Luke. "Luke, I suppose it wants to sort you."

Luke stared at Dumbledore. "What?" he said, his throat dry. "Me?"

"Yes, you," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. He turned to the students. "May I introduce to you Professor Luke Navarra. As I'm sure you all noticed, music has been added to the curriculum this year. Professor Navarra, who is from America, will be teaching all of you. And it appears that the Sorting Hat would like to sort him!"

Sprout poked him hard in the side. "Go on!" she hissed encouragingly. "Just try the hat on!"

He stood up, the scraping of his chair sounding extremely loud in the silence. Aware that everyone was watching him, aware that he was undoubtedly turning bright red, he walked around the High Table and down the three steps to the main level of the hall. The fifteen feet between him and the hat seemed to stretch for a mile, each step lasting a century. But he was finally there, in front of the whole school, all of them whispering and muttering.

He heard one voice say, "I don't know why they want to teach us music--useless, in my opinion," and looked up. The speaker was an Asian girl of about seventeen, and she met his eyes, fully aware that he had heard what she had said, daring him to reproach her.

An eternity passed in that moment when their eyes met. Should he respond? Should he ignore her, pretend he hadn't heard? That would be the easy course. Just ignore it and keep walking. But he'd regret it forever if he didn't speak up--and he'd appear weak and easy to control to the students.

He stopped, stood in place for a long moment, and turned to look at her. "Young lady," he said, and his voice cracked. How embarrassing! He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Young lady, I would ask that you not judge the subject until you know something about it." Inspiration struck him. "I am sure that if you had any knowledge whatsoever about music, you would not call it useless." Everyone laughed, and the girl went brick red, looking away.

Luke sat down, feeling incredibly pleased with himself for handling the situation. His pleasure at not going to pieces was slightly marred as he realized that the stool was very short, just the right height for a ten-year-old. Minerva, whose thin mouth was not quite as thin as usual, ceremoniously placed the hat on his head. It did not cover his eyes, and he could see the whole school watching him.

Then a voice spoke in his ear. "You're wondering why I want to sort you."

Well, yes, Luke thought. I mean, I'm just a Muggle, and I'm not even a student.

"I could hear you humming along with me after the first verse tonight. Rare talent, that is."

Learning a tune? Luke asked incredulously. It wasn't even a hard tune, just a little ditty, up and down the octave--

"Yes, but you'll find most wizards can't do that. Music has a special power here, and a lot of families now neglect the training. Well, let's see where to put you."

It doesn't really matter, Luke told the hat. I don't think much of the house idea anyway, he confessed. It seems to cause a lot of prejudice.

"It does at that," the hat admitted, "but it's what I'm for. I warned them last year about the danger of division." It paused, as though sighing thoughtfully. "However, I shall sort you as tradition decrees. Let's see. You're perfectly intelligent, you're a very hard worker, but you're not used to being on display--oh, yes, I can tell, you hate being in front of the crowd right now. What else is there? Yes, you're quite talented, but you're not very driven. If you were more ambitious, I'd put you in Slytherin just to see the uproar it caused--a Muggle, sorted into Slytherin! they'd say. You're brave, though, yes, very brave. As much as you hate being right here, you're still doing it. You'd make a fine Gryffindor, or Hufflepuff. Not quite the mind for Ravenclaw; intelligent, yes, but not the same kind of wit. Well, which will it be? Gryffindor or Hufflepuff?"

The hat let the question hang--it was apparently waiting for him to decide.

Uh--isn't that your decision? he asked.

"From one who just told me that he thought the Sorting caused prejudice? From one who thinks that sorting students so young doesn't give them the chance to find out who they are?"

This was true, Luke thought irritably. He just wanted to get off this stupid stool. What difference does it make? he asked, nettled.

"There's a lot of politics involved, as you've guessed. Each house stands behind its members, defending them and supporting them. Whichever you choose, the students here will forever associate you with it."

Then I guess I should have authority. Whatever will make the students think that I'm in charge of them.

"Authority? Are you sure? It comes with a price--many students will dislike you for your label."

I'm sure.

"Well, if you're sure...then you want--GRYFFINDOR!" said the hat, shouting the name to the rest of the hall.

The students clapped politely, though the Gryffindor table on the far side let out a few catcalls. He caught a glimpse of the three students who'd been ignoring the ceremony before now applauding him. Luke stood up, gave the hat back to Minerva, and walked back to his seat at the High Table.

"Well, now that that's taken care of," said Dumbledore, laughter in his voice, "let us eat!"

And the food appeared on the tables. Luke was now used to strange things happening, so he served himself some vegetables and turned towards Sprout, who was serving herself roast potatoes. "That was interesting," he said.

"Mm," she replied noncommittally. She seemed a little disgruntled, but as the minutes passed in companionable silence, the tension dissipated. They ate for a quite a while before he remembered that he'd wanted to ask her something.

"What was the deal with that student?" he asked, "the one that everyone went silent for?"

"Oh," she said, swallowing, "it's a long story. Rigel Lestrange is the son of two of Azkaban's worst prisoners, Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange." She was evidently warming to her topic, because her eyes gleamed. "No one knows how it happened, but about three years after they were imprisoned, Bellatrix became pregnant. How anyone could do it in there, I don't know," she added, shuddering. "Anyways, the child was born inside Azkaban, but he was raised in Ministry foster care. You wouldn't want a child exposed to those Azkaban guards so young."

"Is that why everyone was startled?" Luke asked.

"Well, of course! You'd expect a Lestrange to go into Slytherin, that entire family have all been dark wizards," she said.

"Isn't that a little presumptious?"

"Isn't what?"

"Expecting a child to go into the same house as his parents? I mean, children are so different from their parents, you can't expect them to follow in their footsteps." He thought this sounded perfectly reasonable, but Professor Sprout didn't answer, and the tension was back.

When the meal was over, the plates cleaned themselves, and Luke leaned back in his chair. He felt deliciously full and tired.

Dumbledore stood up. "I have a few announcements to make, and two introductions. First of all, I am delighted to see each and every one of you back here. Hogwarts is the safest place for all of you to be, with events as they are."

There was a lot of muttering at that.

"We have two new teachers this year," he continued over the whispering. "You have all been introduced to Professor Navarra already, thanks to the Sorting Hat--" A few people chuckled at that. "--but there is one new teacher who couldn't be here tonight. Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be arriving tomorrow, and I invite all of you to drop by her office and meet her, Professor Nymphadora Tonks."

When the applause, which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table, died down, Dumbledore continued, "All of you will need to see Professor Navarra this weekend so he can place you into the proper class for this term. The lists of assigned times can be found in your house common rooms. Quidditch tryouts will be held in the second week of term; please see Madam Hooch if you are interested. As always, please note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. Argus Filch, the caretaker, would like me to remind you that magic is not allowed in the corridors between classes. I think that's everything. And now, it's time for bed."

The hall slowly emptied, students chattering, yawning, rubbing their stomachs.

* * *

The next day seemed to last forever. The auditions were split up into two days, with Slytherin and Hufflepuff on the first day, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor on the second. Most of the students, as the hat had predicted, had absolutely no training and no talent.

Somewhere around ten in the morning came a young man called Vincent Crabbe, though, who gave Luke some hope. Vincent knew nothing about music theory, couldn't play an instrument, but when Luke picked out a melody on the harpsichord--a beautifully maintained 18th century one, with two manuals and a lute stop, all the gadgets a keyboardist could wish for--Vincent sang it back to him in a suprisingly rich baritone voice. And when Luke asked him to sing harmony to his melody, Vincent sang wonderfully.

Most of the students in Slytherin House treated Luke with a modicum of respect, calling him "Professor," and "sir," though one or two said it quite sneeringly. Draco Malfoy, one of the few students who could already read music--"Oh, of course I can, my father taught me; all our family knows"--and could pick out a tune on the keyboard at standard sight-reading tempo (one... and... two... and... ), walked the line very skillfully between outright rudeness and simple disrespect.

In the afternoon came Hufflepuff House, with some more students who could already read music. All of the Hufflepuffs were very friendly. Most were a little uncertain of themselves, but they were all very open and honest. Hannah Abbott, the first of his afternoon auditions, reminded Luke of something he hadn't thought about yet--female hormones.

The students were instructed to line up outside his office, three students to every ten-minute block. When he opened the door and called out, "Is Hannah Abbott here?" a young woman of about sixteen answered. He followed her into the office, gesturing for her to take a seat by the harpsichord.

"Hi, Hannah," he said, smiling. He was trying to learn as many names as possible on these days, since he'd have to know all of them eventually. Blond hair, pale-pink skin, neither pretty nor ugly. Sixth-year, Hufflepuff.

"Hello, Professor," she said shyly. Then she blushed.

"Now, there's nothing to be nervous about," he told her. "I just want to know how much experience you have."

Her mouth twitched.

Oh, dear, he thought, remembering his own mind at sixteen. Experience indeed--completely the wrong word. Oh, well. "Have you had any musical training, Hannah?"

"A little," she said. "My parents have a clavichord and I can pick out notes; I'm not very good at reading music, though."

"Why don't you come to the keyboard and try to read what I have there?" He gestured to the music desk, which held a little minuet in C major, just something he'd written very quickly that morning.

Hannah sat down, still blushing furiously, and placed her hands over the keyboard. To his surprise, she placed them correctly, in what was known as the "cat's paw" position--fingers hanging loosely from the palms, the entire hand kept in front of the raised keys. She began playing, a little slowly to be sure, but in proper minuet style, with accents on every other bar and a lilt to the third beat.

Luke found himself smiling, wondering what any of his teachers would say if they knew where he was, with a student who couldn't read music very well but knew how to play a minuet.

"That was lovely," he said with genuine appreciation, when she'd finished. It was only sixteen bars long and had taken half a minute to play. "Do you know any musical theory?"

"Well, I know the theory of figured bass, but I can't--what's the word for playing it?--right, realize it very well."

"It's more than most people," he told her reassuringly. "It's a big advantage that you can already read music. Now, I'd like you to sing what I play."

He played for her a short tune, which she sang back to him, missing only a few notes, but getting the general idea.

"That was very good," he told her. "I think that's all I need. Can you send in the next person, please?" But she was still standing there, very pink. "Is there something else?" he asked her politely.

"Um, Professor," she said, her voice very nervous, "um, doyouhaveagirlfriend?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, not having understood what she'd said.

"Are you--I mean, do you--do you have a girlfriend in America?" She was extremely pink now, and Luke wanted to laugh.

He forced it down. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," he told her after he'd regained control of his expression. "I'm hoping she'll join me at Christmas."

"Oh." Her face fell. "Um. Thanks." And she left, sending in Susan Bones after her.

Later that morning, Luke shook his head at the all the wide-eyed, giggly girls he'd encountered so far. Hannah's interest had only been the start, with a few titters coming even from some of the second-years students. He wasn't handsome or anything, but he wasn't bad to look at. He was, however, much older than they.

And hungry, he realized as his stomach rumbled. He could still make it to dinner.

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was there when he walked in. He knew she had to be the one, because he hadn't met her at the staff meeting.

"Wotcha," she said brightly, as he sat down next to her. "The name's Tonks." She held out a hand, which he shook. She had a very strong grip.

Luke supposed "wotcha" was a greeting. "Hi," he said. "I'm Luke."

"Yeah, I know," she said, turning back to her beef. "You're that new music teacher from America--I can hear the accent."

She was very pretty, Luke decided, watching her as they ate and talked. Tonks, he learned, was a professional Auror--a dark-wizard catcher--but had gotten injured last June and had decided to take a year off to recover not only her strength, but also her nerves. "Most Aurors get injured on the job at one point or another, so it's no big thing," she said. "But I just don't feel ready to go back yet, and, honestly, these kids need a decent teacher."

"What do you mean?"

"Where have you been?" she said, surprised, then answered it herself, "Oh, right, America. For the past five years they've had one horrible teacher after another. First Quirrel, who taught nothing beyond legends and mythology--garlic, really!" she exclaimed, and then looked at him expectantly. He smiled weakly. "And then he wound up dead--"

"Dead?" Luke nearly choked, spitting food all over himself. "Excuse me," he said, reaching for his napkin. He wiped his mouth. "Um, dead?"

"Oh, yes," said Tonks absently. "He was possessed by You-Know-Who," she explained, as though that should be enough. "Then Gilderoy Lockhart, the smarmy git, who spent all his time telling them about things he'd supposedly done, but had actually just taken credit for--very handy with Obliviate, he was--and wound up in St. Mungo's with his memory gone. Then there was Remus Lupin. He did a good job, from what I've heard, but when they found out he was a werewolf--"

Luke did choke this time, and spat water all over the tablecloth. "Wer--werewolf?" he sputtered.

A look of comprehension came over her face. "You're a Muggle!" she exclaimed. "No wonder it's all such a shock--no wonder you don't know any of the history. I don't believe it--Dumbledore's finally hired a Muggle!" She laughed out loud.

"Keep your voice down," he warned her, aware that there were still a few students in the Great Hall, several of whom were now looking interestedly up at them as Tonks howled. "Albus wants to keep it quiet, let it filter its way through the students. I'll attract less attention that way."

She sobered immediately. "You're right, of course--sorry about that. Anyways, yes, werewolves--Remus Lupin. Right. So when everyone found out he was a werewolf, he left, and old Mad-Eye Moody got the job, only it wasn't him, it was a Death Eater who was impersonating him using Polyjuice Potion; and then last year they had that hag, Dolores Umbridge, a Ministry witch who kept them as downtrodden as possible. Of course, Harry Potter had his little group of students, and they learned quite a bit--"

"Who?"

"Harry Potter--oh, of course you wouldn't know--"

She paused. The serving platters had suddenly vanished--apparently dinner was over. "We can keep talking in my rooms, if you'd like," Luke offered. "There's so much I don't know, and no one's really explained it all."

* * *

He was cute; pity he already had a girlfriend, Tonks thought as she left his suite of rooms. But Muggles had a thing with long-distance relationships, didn't they? No Apparition, no Floo network; you had to travel to visit someone. Maybe it wouldn't last, she found herself thinking hopefully as she made her way up the staircases back to her own rooms. Then she mentally slapped herself for wanting to break up a couple.

She'd spent a long time explaining all about the events of the past sixteen years, and then about Harry and his time at Hogwarts. Tonks passed a familiar portrait, whose occupants, young ladies in crinolines, raised their eyebrows and looked down their thin noses at her pink hair. She smiled cheekily at them, and wriggled her fingers in greeting, squashing the tempation to make any ruder gesture.

Merlin, it was good to be back at Hogwarts. The rambling corridors, the food, the happy young people, the food, the house-elf service, the food... she laughed aloud. Cooking was never one of her strong points; she always managed to spill at least half of whatever she was trying to prepare, and then half of what made it onto her plate.

She had just sat down at the desk in her office, intending to begin a lesson plan, when there came a knock on the door. It was Harry.

"Wotcher, Harry," she said brightly. "Come in."

He came in, looking thoroughly miserable.

"How're things?" she asked.

"Why are you here?" he asked abruptly as he sat down. "I mean, it's great and everything, but why aren't you back at the Ministry?"

"I wanted to take a year off," she said. "After last June, you know, I had to go to St. Mungo's, and I just couldn't quite face the idea of getting back into it right away. Besides," she added with a grin, because he was looking even more upset, "you needed a decent teacher."

He looked a little less glum at that, though still depressed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's all my fault--if I hadn't been tricked by that dream, if I had done Occlumency a little better, then no one would have--would have di--been hurt."

Sirius, Tonks thought with a wave of anguish. "Oh, Harry," she said sympathetically. "It's not all your fault. If Dumbledore had told you earlier, it wouldn't have happened; if Sirius and the rest of us hadn't gone there, you all would have been killed. You can keep saying 'if' as long as you like, but it doesn't do anyone any good," she said gently, because he looked like he was going to cry. "But we have important things to talk about, Harry," she said suddenly.

"Yeah? What?" he said sullenly.

"Dumbledore's Army."

He brightened slightly. "You heard about the D.A.?"

Tonks nodded. "Yep. Dumbledore told us--the Order, that is--all about it. How you managed to whip thirty students into shape in a few months, how six of you held off as many Death Eaters, duelled them to a draw."

Harry was beginning to look slightly pleased with himself.

"It's a major accomplishment," she continued. "I'm--no, we--are really proud of you."

"Thanks," he mumbled, his cheeks pink.

"So, I need to know exactly what was covered, and what students were in the group, so I can plan the lessons accordingly."

Harry straightened his back, apparently without noticing, and frowned, obviously trying to remember. "We started with Expelliarmus," he began. "Then I moved on to Stunning, and Reductor Curses..."

Tonks was impressed. Harry's voice had undergone a major change when he began to talk about the D.A. It became firmer, more certain. Defense was definitely his strongest subject, and he evidently loved teaching it. He had an excellent memory, too, she realized as she scribbled down notes on each student. Harry remembered, even after the summer, each of the students' exact progress, and how far they had come with each spell.

Harry finally finished talking, and Tonks put down her quill. "Is that everything?" he asked.

"I certainly hope so." She stretched her arms over her head, then relaxed into her chair. "Looks like you managed to cover much of sixth year work. Especially Patronuses--though, as you've said, they still need work. It's very advanced magic, and I'm impressed that so many students could manage them."

"Well, there weren't any dementors around."

She laughed. "That's true. But I think that's all I need. See you in class, then!"

Harry left, looking much more cheerful than when he'd arrived.

* * *

Luke decided that the Ravenclaws on Sunday morning weren't as well trained as the Hufflepuffs and the Slytherins, and many of them seemed to think it a waste of time. Cho Chang, the girl who had made the comment at the Welcoming Feast, was particularly sullen as Luke told her she'd need to start at the beginning. Rigel Lestrange could read music, though, and wasn't too incompetent--nor was he competent. In fact, the boy was decidedly average.

Luke sighed as the last Ravenclaw, Terry Zabini, an older sibling of Blaise over in Slytherin, closed the door. It was lunchtime, and he was starving, but he had so much organizing to do that he didn't think he wanted to spend the hour in the Great Hall. Then again, he did want a break.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he said.

Tonks poked her head around. "Coming to lunch?" she asked brightly.

He groaned and shook his head. "No, there's too much work to do. I've just finished testing over two hundred students, and there are seventy more to go--all of Gryffindor House."

"Wow. You have to test them all?" asked Tonks, her eyes widening.

"Of course. I can't place them in musicianship classes without knowing how much they know already."

"And I thought I had it bad," she said. "I've just got to catch the students up on what they missed last year under Umbridge, and prepare them for this year's exams. Two years of work in one year."

"That's gotta be tough."

There was a moment of silence that became awkward as the seconds stretched.

"Anyways," said Tonks abruptly, "You should really eat something, or you won't last the afternoon."

"But I don't have the time to spend in the Great Hall--"

"No need. Is there a house-elf around?" she asked.

"Um, there's Winky, who cleans my room--"

"Winky!" Tonks hollered, making Luke jump. "Whoops, sorry," she said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

There was a faint pop! as Winky appeared out of nowhere. "Miss is calling Winky?" she asked.

"Yeah. Winky, can you bring us lunch for two?"

"Of course, Miss, right away." Winky disappeared with another pop! and was back a few seconds later, accompanied by several other elves, all wearing hand towels stamped with the Hogwarts crest and bearing a large silver platter full of sandwiches, jugs of juice, and pieces of cake. Luke watched in mildly stunned silence as the elves set up the meal on a side table. They arranged the plates of sandwiches and cake in the middle, conjured golden plates and goblets, and poured the juice into the goblets before disappearing. Winky remained. "Is that good, sir and miss?"

"Oh, it's wonderful Winky, thanks," said Luke gratefully. The elf disappeared.

"So," said Tonks as she sat down and grabbed a sandwich, "tell me about these tests."

Luke explained about dictation--"You mean you've got to write down what someone sings to you? That sounds hard!"--and about singing back--"But what if you can't remember it?"--and related the lovely way Hannah Abbott had played her minuet. Then he hesitated, wanting to tell her what else Hannah Abbott had done. Was it too personal? He didn't know Tonks very well... but she seemed very nice.

"And just as she was about to leave, the weirdest thing happened."

"Oh yeah?" asked Tonks, who was focused on the last bit of icing on her cake.

"She asked me if I had a girlfriend--" Tonks' eyes snapped up to his face. "--and I told her yes, but Wendy's in the U.S. and won't be here until Christmas." He smiled sheepishly. "She seemed really disappointed. But, I mean, I'm twenty-five, she's sixteen--how could she have a crush on me?"

Tonks' mouth was slightly open and her eyes were focused on Luke's chin. "Well, you're pretty good-looking," she said. Then she froze, as though just realizing what she'd said. "Er. I'll see you at dinner, then."

She scampered out of the room, leaving Luke confused. Wendy had always said she liked the way he looked, but Wendy was in love with him, and she was biased.

Never mind all that, it was one o'clock and he had Gryffindor House to prepare for.

* * *

Hermione scowled as she walked down the staircases towards Professor Navarra's office. Music! Of all things, why did they have to clutter up her schedule with music? If she'd wanted to learn about music, she'd check a book out of the library. Voldemort was back, Harry was in danger, and Dumbledore wanted them to learn how to sing? She made a small noise of disgust.

"Oh, hello," said a voice nearby. It was Vicky Frobisher, now a fourth-year and vice president of the Charms Club.

"Hello, Vicky," said Hermione cordially. "Are you here for your test, too?"

"Yes," said Vicky. "He's taking us in alphabetical order. And he's running behind." She sounded mildly annoyed.

There were a couple of nervous first-years hunched over by the wall, watching the two older girls converse. "Hello," said Hermione kindly. "I'm Hermione Granger, what are your names?"

"I'm Jane Gamble," said one girl, holding out her hand. Hermione shook it.

"I'm James Gamble," said the boy.

"Oh, are you twins, then?" said Hermione.

They nodded.

Jane opened her mouth to say more, but the door opened, and Luke poked his head out. "Vicky--uh--Frobisher?" he called.

Vicky got up, dusting off her hands. "See you," she said to the other three, and disappeared inside as Seamus walked out.

"Hi, Hermione," he said.

"How is the test?" she asked, hopefully not sounding too nervous.

"Oh, not bad," he said. "He just sings to you, asks you if you know how to read music, has you write a bit of dictation."

Hermione blanched. "Dictation?" she whispered. "We have to write down what he sings to us?"

"Yeah," said Seamus. "It wasn't too hard. You'll do fine, you always do," he added cheerfully. "See you!" And he disappeared off up the corridor.

Hermione stared at his retreating back. Seamus' cheerful reassurance, "You'll do fine, you always do," echoed in her head. Did she always do "fine" on tests? She supposed she did. But music--she knew next to nothing about music, although she could recite Weird Sisters lyrics with the best of them. Memorization was easy.

She slumped against the wall, feeling distincly uncomfortable. How would it look if Hermione Granger did poorly on a test? She could imagine the look of disappointment on her parents' faces if they heard she'd not gotten top marks on something. And what if--she shuddered at the thought--what if she completely failed? Hermione buried her head in her knees and ignored the Gamble twins' whispered conversation.

Time passed, and Vicky came back out. "He wants James," she said to the twins. James got up and went inside the room.

"How was it?" she asked Vicky.

"Oh, not bad. I've never been able to read music, so that's a big drawback. But he said my voice was all right, and I could carry a tune."

"How is he ranking us?" asked Hermione.

"I don't really know," said Vicky, frowning. "I think he just wants to know how much he has to teach us. Can you imagine," she added, laughing suddenly, "how much work that's going to be, teaching three hundred students? All on your own?"

"The other teachers manage just fine," said Hermione, feeling nettled for some reason.

"Yes, well, music's a lot more complicated," said Vicky matter-of-factly. "I have to go, Hermione. I'll see you around."

"See you."

Vicky left, and Hermione buried her head in her knees again. If she listened carefully, she could hear the faint sounds of music coming from the room in front of her. She didn't recognize the instrument, though. Her grandmother had a piano, and Hermione had, when she was much younger, sat at the bench and dribbled notes out of it, but she knew next to nothing about the instrument apart from how it sounded. Whatever was making the sound in there wasn't a piano, however. It sounded vaguely metallic and plonky.

The music stopped, and a few moments later, James came out. He grinned at his twin, who grinned back before entering the room herself.

"See you," James said to Hermione, and left.

She was now all alone in the corridor, with only her mounting nervousness and feeling of inadequacy. She wondered absently where the students after her were, then remembered that there was a twenty-minute break after her name. Well, with the way things were running late now, Professor Navarra would be likely to get a two-minute break after Hermione. Well, she told herself, it's not like my test's going to take that long--a few seconds and then, "Oh, you obviously don't know anything. I'll have to put you in with all the beginners."

She scowled again. Focus, she told herself firmly. She could hear more noises from inside the room, and two voices laughing--one high, one deep.

Then Jane came out, also smiling. "He wants you," she said to Hermione.

Hermione stood up, using the wall for support. She pressed her hands into the cold stone behind her, as though trying to get more than a physical sense of security from them, then entered the room. What was coming, would come, and she'd meet it when it did.

Professor Navarra's office was rather larger than the other teachers' offices, perhaps to house whatever keyboard instrument it was that was sitting in the middle. There was a desk off to one side, covered in paper--notepaper, Hermione noticed--and a handful of chairs.

"Hello," he said. "Hermione Granger?"

To Hermione's surprise, he pronounced her name correctly, not mangling it to "Hermy-own," the way others had. "Yes," she said, coming to stand in the middle of his office.

"Do sit down," he said, indicating the nearest chair. He sat down as well, settling a notepad on his knee. "Now, can you tell me what sort of musical experience you have?"

He was holding a pen in his hand, and Hermione stared at it a moment before answering. "None at all," she said.

"All right," he said, writing on the paper.

"Actually," Hermione began.

He looked up.

"My grandmother--she's a singer--had a piano, and I used to sit and it and pick on the notes. They sort of dribbled out, not really music..." she trailed off. She was rambling, and she knew it.

"All right," said Professor Navarra, and Hermione tried not to wince at the American accent. "Your grandmother sang?" he asked, evidently trying to put her at her ease.

"Yes, she was a singer for several years at the--well, at an opera house." Hermione supposed that any wizard teacher probably wouldn't know of the London Metropolitan Opera, which was a fully Muggle establishment, as far as she knew. She wondered sometimes, though.

"Oh, which one?" asked Professor Navarra, apparently interested. "Was it here in Britain?"

"The London Metropolitan Opera," she said, waiting for his look of blankness.

Instead, he smiled. "Excellent company," he said, scribbling away. Then he paused. "Wait--your last name's Granger? Is this grandmother Caroline Granger, by any chance?"

Hermione stared. How on earth would he know that? She nodded suspiciously. Then it dawned on her--the pen, the paper, the London Metropolitan... "You're a Muggle!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah," he said.

"And Dumbledore let you teach here?" she asked incredulously. "I'm sorry," she said hastily, realizing how rude that must have sounded.

"It's all right, Hermione--"

Another Americanism--calling students by their first names. Hermione shuddered inwardly.

"--just keep it to yourself. We want it to filter slowly around the school, rather than draw attention to it."

She nodded.

"Now, if you can come to the harpsichord and sing back to me?"

"What's a harpsichord?" Hermione asked.

"This," said Professor Navarra, leading her over to the keyboard instrument. "It's--" A pained expression crossed over his face as he pulled off a small board stretching over the body, parallel to the keyboard. "--a bit like a piano. Here, take a look."

Hermione dutifully peered in.

"As I press the key, it send the jack upwards to pluck the string. See?" He demonstrated for her.

Hermione could see how when he pressed the key, a small piece of wood with a small thorn on the end came up to pluck the string; when the key was let back up, the "jack," as he had called it, fell back down without plucking. "That's neat," said Hermione, and meant it.

"Now, we ought to get on with your exam, since I'm already running late. I'm going to play a short melody and then you sing it back to me."

He played six or seven notes, and Hermione stood there, completely unable to remember any of them. "Er," she said, "can I hear it again?"

He played it again, and she tried. She knew she was singing all over the place, but she tried. Though Professor Navarra's face was set in a wooden mask of no expression, Hermione could tell by his body language that she was completely off the mark.

After three more tries, he finally stopped her. "Let's just see if you can match pitch," he said brusquely.

Hermione felt like crying. She was the granddaughter of a famous singer, and she couldn't match pitch! He played a note, and she listened to it, hard. Then she sang a note, and they sounded different--but she had no idea whether she was higher or lower.

He played the note again, and she kept singing, her voice wavering and cracking, somewhere miles away from the actual pitch. It felt awful.

She couldn't take it any more. Hermione burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.

"What's the matter?" Professor Navarra asked her kindly, patting her on the back.

"I can't do this!" she wailed. "I'm supposed to be able to do anything, and I can't do this!"

"That's all right," said Navarra, still patting her. "There are a lot of students who haven't had any musical training; you're not the only one."

"But that's the problem!" cried Hermione. "I'm not like all the other students! I'm Hermione Granger, I'm the smartest witch of my generation, why can't I match pitch?"

She heard the professor sigh. "I'm sorry," she sniffed. "Maybe I should just go."

"No, don't," he said gently. "Let's get you sorted out first. If your grandmother was Caroline Granger, then there's no reason you shouldn't be able to match pitch. Music runs in the blood, just like magic."

"But Gram wasn't a witch!" Hermione wailed, now feeling thoroughly wretched. "I'm the first of my family to come to Hogwarts. What if--what if I got the magic genes instead of the music? Maybe that's why I can't sing," she said wildly.

"I'm sure you can sing, if you put your mind to it," he said confidently.

She looked up at him.

He smiled encouragingly at her. "Let's try and get you to match that pitch, and then you can go and wash your face, all right?"

Hermione didn't want to stay and be humiliated any longer, but he was a professor, and she was determined to do her best.

He hit a note on the keyboard. "It would be easier if the note didn't die away," he said absently.

"Oh, that's easy to fix," Hermione said, feeling a surge of confidence. This was something she could do. "The sound resonates in the wood, right?" she asked.

When he nodded, she took out her wand and thought for a second. "Elongatus sonorus!" she intoned, tapping the side of the box three times.

The harpsichord glowed purple for a second and seemed to wriggle in space, then was still.

Professor Navarra experimentally hit a note, and it resonated long after he'd struck it. He released the key, and the sound stopped.

"Wow," he said. "That's cool." He looked at Hermione admiringly, and she felt herself go pink. He was rather handsome.

"Anyways, let's get you to match that pitch." He hit the note again, and Hermione, feeling a little better, opened her mouth.

"Just sing, and I'll tell you up or down," Professor Navarra said over the noise. "Okay, up, up--no, not that far, back down--a little further up--there you go!" he exclaimed.

Hermione had run out of breath. "Try again," he said. She opened her mouth and let fly. "That's closer--up a little--up a little more--that's it!"

Hermione tried again, and again, and after several minutes, could mostly hit the pitch. It felt weird, though, as though something in her body weren't quite aligned.

"One more try," she begged as Professor Navarra glanced at the clock. His twenty-minute break was over.

He paused for a moment. "All right," he said finally. He hit the note again, and Hermione focussed all her attention on it, trying to feel the sound in in her bones.

She concentrated for a moment, then opened her mouth and sang.

There was a rush of wind as her voice matched the pitch perfectly, and all she could see for a long moment was bright gold light. She tried to stop singing, but couldn't, and stared around in amazement at the shimmering. Through it, she could see the professor gaping at her, his hand still poised over the keyboard, immobile. Hermione felt wonderful! Exultant, ecstatic, elated! The world was aligned, her voice matching perfectly--but she was running out of breath...

The rushing noise died, and the light faded, and Hermione slumped back into the nearest chair, exhausted.

"What the hell was that?" said Professor Navarra slowly.

"I--I don't know, sir," said Hermione, breathing heavily. She felt as though she'd just run several miles.

"Well," and he laughed, "I guess you can indeed match pitch if you put your mind to it. And don't call me sir--it makes me feel old."

Hermione laughed shakily.

"We'll have to ask Dumbledore about that, though," said Professor Navarra. "Why don't you send in the next person, and we can talk in class? Oh, before you leave, you'd better disenchant my harpsichord."