Yellow Matter Custard

When Professor Dumbledore stood up, a few of the students were surprised. The Professor ordinarily spoke after the new first-years were showed inside the double doors of the Great Hall. But then again, "ordinarily" wasn't much of a way to describe the Headmaster, so no one thought too much of it.

The Professor smiled down at them from behind the barrier of his half-moon spectacles, omniscient as always. Tented fingers light on the table, waiting for absolute silence. He got it in only a few moments; the air with which he held himself requested especial attention.

"Students," he called to them. To Ron Weasley, his voice seemed even more papery than it had last year. Although Ron hated to admit it (even to himself), he knew Dumbledore was getting old. Hell, he was old, even for a wizard. Instead of exuding both a feel of ancientness and power, like a four-thousand-year-old pyramid, he seemed now like a crumbled ruin of an archaic castle. Cold and forsaken. Not by his students--or at least, not all of them--but by the people of the wizarding world who mattered; like Cornelius Fudge, like the reporters of the Daily Prophet.

"Damned Skeeter," he muttered. His was rewarded with a sharp elbow from Hermione.

"Pay attention," she hissed. Ron had missed the first few words of Dumbledore's speech, but they were mostly greetings. With a small effort, Ron tuned back in.

"--And although I know all of you are looking forward to embracing you new fellow students, there will be an... even newer student in your midst. Despite the fact that she should be in fifth year, it was discovered during your holidays that this girl has a latent talent for magic that wasn't revealed when she was eleven. And although some of the Ministry argued against it, I highly insisted that this girl come to our school with an average fifth-year's understanding of magic given to her. So, a Ministry official went to California, where she lives--"

An immediate buzz washed over the room. Hermione Granger felt a slight constriction in her chest. An American? At Hogwarts? It shouldn't be so much of a big deal. It was only a person from across an ocean.

And yet--

For some weird reason it was. Hermione knotted her napkin. She wondered what was so special about this new girl if she was allowed to have data charmed into her head and to come to Hogwarts four years late. Hermione considered herself the most sensible person at Hogwarts, so it was no wonder she had already come to the conclusion that there was something about this new student the Headmaster wasn't telling them. No shit, Sherlock, she thought.

Professor Dumbledore smiled calmly and waved the noise away. The many adolescent voices ground from a low roar to a dull murmur, and Dumbledore continued. "To California where she lives, magicked the amount of knowledge an average fifth-year knows into her mind, and took her to Diagon Alley.

"I'm not telling all of you this for the benefit of those willing to ostracize a so-called 'outsider'..." Here Dumbledore glanced at the Slytherin table out of the corner of his eye. He spared Draco Malfoy an especially long stare and got back to his speech: "Not to ostracize her, but to warn you all that this is a... momentous moment in this young lady's life, and I would like you all to treat her with respect for the first few weeks until she is at ease.

"She will be sorted after all of the first-years, so until then: Live long, drink well, and never associate with a troll's booth!" He beamed happily at them and sat among the very few patters of irritated applause. Even if most of the pupils hadn't been stunned into silence by this gigantic news, the applause still would have been small.

At that moment, Professor McGonagall swept into the room with a gaggle of first-years in tow. They all looked so incredibly small and silly in their tall, conical hats, but despite this fact, no one could spot someone passing for fifteen. Everyone shrugged to each other; she was probably hidden behind some of the taller firsties.

Professor McGonagall reverently set the Sorting Hat onto its three-legged stool and stepped back. As always, the kids looked at it with fear and the older students with expectancy. It was frayed even more than Hermione or Ron could remember, and the stitches that resembled eyes had the sunken feel of a skeleton-thin man who had aged fifty years in one summer. Ron fidgeted uneasily. He had gotten off the Hogwarts Express only half an hour ago, and already everything looked foreboding. He supposed that should be, considering You-Know-Who had gotten himself a body only a few months before and killed Cedric. The Hufflepuffs still appeared out of it. Cedric had been the star of their House... it wasn't as if Hufflepuff had anything going for it except dumb tenacity.

The rip near the Sorting Hat's brim that served as a mouth abruptly shuddered and cracked open in song:

"You all are wondering,

Smaller ones,

What I am here to do.

So can you guess?

Oh please have fun!

The time is almost through!

Will it be

The house that's golden;

Gryffindor, too true,

Or will it be the

Lower one;

Slytherin--black and blue?

Perhaps--not?

Draw your lot--

The time is almost through.

And so try that

Me, the Sorting Hat.

What does that mean to you?"

Again came that confused applause, but instead of being annoyed, it was troubled. The Sorting Hat's usual croaking, good-cheer voice was meanly happy; oily and teasing, like a big brother holding a sweet just out of his sibling's reach. The unpredictably short song hadn't even mentioned Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, just the two extreme Houses.

Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Black and white.

Good and evil.

Right and wrong.

Even the first-years sensed something was amiss; the edges of their group began to tremble with puzzled shifts and anxious whispers.

Harry Potter frowned slightly and tapped his fingers on the gold plate before him. Ron leaned closer and whispered, "What d'you think is up?"

Harry shrugged. "Hmm. Creepy though."

"Yeah, very."

"But you guys," whispered Hermione, "something is up."

"Why, thank you, Holmes."

"Who?"

"Never mind, Ron. Of course something is up, Hermione. The teachers know something..."

"It's not just the teachers. I'd bet Dumbledore knows something he hasn't told anyone--"

She stopped. Already, Professor McGonagall's crowish voice was pecking out the names from the paper, starting with "Abbot, Lucille!" The girl who could only be Hannah Abbot's sister stepped up, trembling like a cornered rabbit, and jammed the hat onto her head. When she was announced a Ravenclaw, her face turned as white as a drift of hail and she looked to her sister, who was sitting at Hufflepuff. When Hannah gently shook her head, poor Lucille dropped like a rock from the stool in a dead faint. Laughter was stunned out of them all, and pitiful Hannah blushed with shame for her sister.

Professor Trelawney volunteered to carry Lucille to Madam Pomfrey's office. She left the Great Hall, Levitating the skinny body, muttering, "And did anyone listen when I told them Mercury foretold of a head injury due to a height? No..."

When the next boy ("Arter, Geoffrey!") walked up to the stool, Hermione lowered her head again. "I'm sure there are thousands of people whose magical abilities are dormant until they're older, so why this girl? And why go so far as America?" Geoffrey was sorted and Hermione, Harry, and Ron clapped automatically with the others. "Don't they have their own school?"

"Magnuscane. It's in... er, Maryland." Harry and Hermione gave Ron an aghast stare. Ron's ears reddened. "So I know something Hermione doesn't," he muttered. "Bill went there a few years back for Gringotts... I'm not an idiot, you know."

Apparently Harry and Hermione did not know this, because they both glanced at each other, badly masking a shared look.

"Oh, shut up! Stop being such bastards."

After giving Ron another very hard gaze and asking him if he'd inhaled anything foreign lately, Hermione continued. "So we do know they have a school there. Why doesn't this student go to Magnuscane? She doesn't have to cross all of America and then the Atlantic just to get here if there is another school."

"And what's with the Sorting Hat?"

"Yeah..."

"It's acting all... cynical. When it spoke like that I felt like an idiot."

"Ron, we already went over this."

"Shut up, you--"

"Boys, boys. This needs to be taken seriously. What we have here is another scandalous mystery." She rolled her eyes, but that sarcasm couldn't hide the fact that she was interested, and when Hermione Granger wanted to find something out, then well by God she would do so! "I do hope whoever this is, she's smart enough to have read Hogwarts, A History. Especially in this situation. She has to adjust at an older age, and that's hard to do, particularly since we've a four-year head start on her.

"Wouldn't it be great if she were brilliant in Muggle Studies or Potions? And it wouldn't be bad to talk to someone who knows a little about Arithmancy or a bit on ancient runes..."

"Then talk to yourself, Hermione."

"Piss off!"

"And she swears too! Honestly, Harry, what's gotten into this girl?" Ron slapped a hand to his chest and let his jaw hang down in a parody of horror.

"Sure, fine. Be an ass, Ron. But about Dumbledore." Hermione's round face settled into seriousness. Her nose wrinkled a little and she bit the inside of her cheek. "It doesn't make much sense. Why doesn't he--"

Hermione would've continued, and her curiosity might have snowballed into a full-on rant, but at that moment there were only two children left before the Sorting Hat. One of them would be the last firstie, and the last would be the mysterious student. Since they were both girls, no one could pick her out by default. Ron pointed at the strawberry blonde one, but Hermione nodded resolutely at the dark-haired one. Ron shook his head. Hermione nodded. Ron pointed again to the strawberry blonde. Hermione shook her head, more vehemently. Ron whispered something in her ear. Hermione glowered. "Hmph," she scowled. "You're on."

The students waited with bated breath, when Professor McGonagall cawed, "Wyze, Winnifred!" and the strawberry blonde girl walked up to the Sorting Hat. Ron groaned and rested his head in his arms. Hermione pinched him and he wretchedly gave up a Knute.

"How could you know that?" he moaned.

"A woman's intuition," she replied calmly, breathing on the Knute and polishing it with her robes. "You're such a bad bettor, Ron."

Winnifred was put into Gryffindor, but her House didn't notice, much less the other three tables. They were all chattering, staring at the small brunette before them. Professor McGonagall consulted the list in one age-knotted hand and cawed, "Ziller, Rebekah!"

Everyone stopped in mid-sentence. Rebekah Ziller hopped up onto the stool and plopped the hat onto her head. The Sorting Hat was quiet for a moment, then it bellowed "Hufflepuff!" and a broadly smiling Rebekah skipped to her table.

Silence wreathed, invisible, throughout the Hall. It whisked around the students and teacher's throats, strangling them. No one could seem to find anything to say. So, was that the girl, or wasn't it? Sure, her last name was Ziller, which would be at the end of the firsties' list, but then again it could be a coincidence. Slowly, the silence evaporated and murmurs took its place. Professor McGonagall hadn't put the Sorting Hat away. She always put it away at the exact moment the last first-year was seated.

That meant there was still the mystery student left.

Ron's plain face broke into a relieved smile and he held out his hand. "Knute, please." Sulking, Hermione dropped the coppery coin into his palm. "Woman's intuition, please," Ron snickered.

"I actually pass my classes, don't I? Unlike you, Ron."

"If you get passed because of intuition, isn't that cheating?"

Hermione couldn't find anything to say to that. She had a phobia of cozening on schoolwork. Ron looked very pleased with himself.

Dumbledore rose. His fingers tented onto the table again, thin and trembling. He smiled warmly at the new students, and they gazed awe-fully back at him. Harry remembered the unblemished confidence he had had in the Headmaster that now was a tattered thing riddled with flaws and shriveled with disappointment. Dumbledore was great, but he was human. Humans weren't heroes. Of this, Harry was sure. There may be great men, there may be cowards among the men, but there were no heroes in the world. Heroes were for people who couldn't do anything for themselves and who whined and begged and fawned for the great among the cowards to help, please help, pretty please? Harry wasn't very open to the revered anymore. They held too many disappointments.

"Another year behind us, another before." Dumbledore's watery, transcendent eyes flickered over the room. "You first-years are all settled, I hope. Miss Abbot, your sister is fine, and wishes to visit you after the Feast. But before we have aforesaid meal, I understand you would all like to see this 'mystery student'. Professor, bring her in, please."

Professor McGonagall stalked to the double doors and creaked one open. She poked her head inside and muttered something. But she paused. She creaked open the door a little bit more and walked in. The students could hear her querulous voice croaking, and then both boors flew open with a bang. Professor McGonagall minced to the head table, her face screwed tight in anger. Hagrid followed, blubbering. The parts of his face that were visible were bright red in anxiety, and his beetle eyes leaked brine.

"Bu' Professor... un'erstan'... the boat warn't even... not even the boat!"

Professor McGonagall ignored him, and he ended up slouching back to his seat at the teacher's table.

"Professor!" said McGonagall. "Professor! Sir! She's not..." She checked herself, breaking her sentence, and waited until she was half a foot away from the Headmaster's ear before she shared whatever it was she had to share.

Dumbledore's face went blank, then angry. The anger grew into real fury. It was frightening. Winnifred Wyze, sitting only three spaces down from Harry, uttered an animal-like whine. Dumbledore straightened to his full height of six and a half feet. "PEEVES," he rumbled.

There was nothing for a few moments. Outside, the rain began to fall harder. Before it had been a weepy drizzle; now it was sheeting down in splatters that wetly smacked on the castle's slate roof. It was the only sound in the Great Hall.

Nearly Headless Nick quietly drifted from the Gryffindor table. "One moment, Headmaster, I'll fetch him." Just as silently, the Bloody Baron got up from his place at the Slytherin table and followed. They floated to the great double doors and disappeared. Literally.

Echoing like a memory, Nick's voice rebounded from the hall. Cackling returned his question. Nick's voice reverberated again. More cackling. Then the Bloody Baron howled a bellow that shook the floating candles and sent a widely smiling Peeves the Poltergeist hurtling and somersaulting into the Great Hall. He stopped before the class tables, wringing silvery water from his jester's cap onto the floor and chortling. Dumbledore glared fiercely at him, but Peeves was amazingly unaffected.

"Ickle firsties!" he screeched. "My oh my oh my, iddn't it lurvly?"

"Peeves," said the Headmaster in a reasonable tone. "Professor McGonagall tells me that you saw our newest student board one of the first-year's boats."

"That she did, so she did."

"Now, those boats are meant to be self-propelled."

"So they is, Headmaster, so they is."

"And I know that a poltergeist could easily possess that new girl's boat and have a little fun with it." Dubledore's tone was light and conversational. It did not match his lined face.

"Perhaps, maybe." Peeves did a back flip, making obscene hand gestures behind his back all the while. Seemingly, Peeves had forgotten he was transparent and that everyone in the room could see what he was up to.

"Now, Peeves, I'm only going to ask this once: DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT PUT THAT BOAT OFF COURSE?"

"Aye, but which boat, Headmaster?"

Before Dumbledore could do anything, the double doors banged open for the fourth time that night. Peeves flew away, doubled up with laughter and knocking down every suit of armor he passed. Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron were in hot pursuit; the rain cascaded at an all-time high, thundering down in a roar that drowned out even the Bloody Baron's wailing. Lightning threw everything into sharp relief, thunder almost deafened the clamoring students, when--

"Um... apparently there's like... a giant squid in your lake," said a person.

She was so frightened at that moment. Even through the layers of chill water that were soaked into her clothes, her skin prickled with nervous heat. She couldn't believe it. She hadn't even had a full day at Hogwarts and already things were going wrong. What had gone wrong, anyway? Oh, yes...

She had gotten knowledge from the Ministry, but that knowledge wasn't exactly like a Hogwarts fifth-year's. She knew spells, she knew how to brew potions, she knew Herbology, even a little bit on Runes--but she knew nothing about the actual school. Who the teachers were, the layout of the castle, the students, the rules--all of that was a blank except for the small bit on school Houses she had read in Hogwarts, a History.

She didn't even know how the first-years were to get to the school. Professor Dumbledore had escorted her off of the train, out of sight from the other students.

"Now, wait for Professor Rubeus Hagrid," the old man had said. She had met Hagrid in Diagon Alley the week before and knew she would have no trouble finding him. But she did not know that the school had a poltergeist, and she did not know that he could start working mayhem in her private boat.

Hagrid had finally found her, clapping a meaty plam on her shoulder.

"Jus' this a way!"

Anxiety biting at her innards, she'd followed.

He guided her to one of the oarless ferries and told her to wait for him once she made it to the other side of the lake. She was going to ask why she couldn't share a boat with a few other people, like the first-years were doing, but she supposed the rain was too loud for him to hear her, because he just walked away, shouting, "Firs' years righ' this way! Firs' years!"

She carefully stepped into the little boat. It pitched beneath her, and she wished that some first-year would mistake her for another and share her boat.

No such luck.

Hagrid ushered the students into boats, swerving them from her direction and herding them into others. She sighed when all of the little ferries started to drift to the castle looming ahead and her boat was still empty... save for her.

She was halfway across the lake when things started to go wrong.

She had been at the far left side of their little fleet, near the back, so when the boat shuddered and listed even more to the left, no one turned towards her when she called.

"Hello? Hagrid?"

The wood beneath her groaned, barely masking a fiendish giggle.

"Hagrid..."

When the boat's rocking became more frenzied and she was thrown from side to side, she screamed louder. "HAGRID?!?" The rain was filling up the bottom of the little vessel, and the sloshing water soaked her. She was well on her way to being terrified; out of sight from the fleet, much less Hagrid. Her knuckles gripped white on the prow of the boat, trying to hold herself steady. The ferry bucked beneath her and she was torn from the prow. She felt a fingernail rip sideways and off.

As quickly as it began, the violent lashing stopped. She was still for a moment. The place where her nail should have been throbbed.

She leaned over the water, panting. She was trying to see the fleet, but the misty rain was like smoke over the lake. "Hello..." she shouted, and she was ashamed even then to hear the quiver in her tone. Calm it down; if worse comes to worst, you can always swim to shore. Stop being a fucking pansy. Normally, she wasn't. But the past two weeks had been anything but.

You can always swim.

But this simply made her stomach clench. Swimming in this vast, black lake would be like stepping off an ice cliff into a precipice. She swallowed. Please, God, don't let it come to the worst.

She tried to position her feet clear of the water in the ferry and firmly on the wood. As she did, the boat gave one last heave and she fell headfirst into the ink water.

Before the yawning waves filled her ears--consuming her screams and belching a fear that could be felt--and a long, sinuous tentacle wormed around her waist, she was sure she heard the unveiled, manic cackle of a demon... or poltergeist.

It was another minute before the Great Hall had settled enough to see the girl in front of them. But when they settled, it was quiet enough to hear the drip of her clothes. No one could help but stare. It was odd. It was a travesty. It was undeniably, indubitably, definitely, without a doubt untouchably the most awesome thing any student had ever seen.

She was wearing her Muggle clothes.

Strange, but there it was.

Her skirt, stained a darker green by the rain, was linen and long, with an intricate design of gold beads sewed at the waist. She had been wearing a dark olive army jacket, but she had peeled it off and it hung, sodden, over one arm. Underneath her coat she was just as drenched. Her shirt clung like a second skin. It was a white billowy thing, with spaghetti straps, an Empire waistline, and a lace-up back. She stood, waiting.

Harry felt surprise dripping down his spine like the lake water on the mystery student's clothes. No one ever wore Muggle clothes on the first day of school. A few wore Muggle clothes on Hogsmeade trips, and a few more did during Christmas and Easter break, but never besides that. He looked at her feet. Her shoes were leather sandals that looked almost like something Jesus would wear. One was missing; presumably keeping the Mer-folk company now. Sandals, a tank top, and a light jacket?

In this weather?

This girl was stretching her luck.

Finally, after the shock of her clothes passed him, Harry found himself looking at her face.

It was a triangular face, with a sharp chin and sharp cheekbones. Her contradiction of a mouth was very round and small, and her nose was straight and short. Her eyes weren't something noticed right away; they weren't the brilliant green of Harry's eyes or the piercing gray of Malfoy's. From this distance, he supposed they could be blue-green, but he couldn't be positive. Her hair and already dried out a bit. It was blonde with large, loose curls and was pinned up in a bun with a... chopstick?

All in all, she was an extremely interesting person.

Professor McGonagall stood and pulled a card out of her pocket. She looked at it and called, "Evans,

Rory, please step up to the Sorting Hat."

She let out a breath and stepped up to the hat. It was on a three-legged stool, and was easily the tattiest thing Rory had ever seen. Placing her dripping coat on the rungs of the stool, she reached out a hand to it.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," it snapped. The slit near the brim grinned: the mouth of a hoary old cripple without teeth.

"Miss Evans. Do try me on and see what House it is you are to fate."

Its sniveling voice bit without teeth. She reluctantly picked up the hat and set it on her head. The brim seemed to constrict, and Rory kept in a grimace of revulsion. It reminded her of a boa crushing an unwary mammal. She lowered herself onto the stool before her knees could buckle. She didn't like that Sorting Hat.

Not at all.

"Hmm," said a little voice in her left ear. It was mocking and greasy. She wanted to rub her ears free of its congealed simpers. "Very interesting, very. More or less painstaking. That would put you in Hufflepuff, but what here? Analytical, very intelligent; that's a Ravenclaw in you if I ever sorted one... But how clever! Sibilant, you, and Slytherin could be your House... except how gallant thou art... Gryffindor...?

"No, what's in you is Slytherin and Gryffindor most of all. Did you see them, Miss Rory?"

"Who?" Rory whispered. She hoped no one saw her mumbling to herself like a fucktard.

"On the table to the farthest left, did you see the one with black hair? Glasses?"

"Yes?" Felt all the eyes bore into her like nails.

"He's the mascot of Gryffindor: The Hero Harry Potter. How darling! And the boy to the farthest right: blonde and austere."

"With gray eyes?" Quietly...

"Right again! How clever! Young Mr. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. If their two Houses are the strongest in Hogwarts, those two students are the strongest of their Houses. They are opposites, Miss Rory. Now, here is my question: Who will you sit by?"

She had seen both boys the hat described. The one with black hair looked like a jock, albeit a skinny one, and the other (Draco?) looked like a snob or a scene person. Both made her stomach knot. They looked like someone worth getting to know. Like either one could be the best friend she ever had. Or the worst enemy.

"Come now Miss Rory; which one? Tell me."

"Alright... which do you think?"

"You are what I know you are. You are

SLYTHERIN!" It bellowed the last word out to the Hall, and explosive applause, laughter, and groans rebounded deafeningly in the room. She slipped the hat off and walked to, now, her table.

The girl--Rory, her name was--sauntered to the Slytherin's side. Harry felt a small bit of disappointment. It would have been exciting to have her in their House. But then again, if she was in Slytherin, perhaps he didn't want to meet her after all. Dark wizards came out of Slytherin.

"Too bad," said Hermione. "Well, what can you do?"

"Nothing, if she's going there," said Ron. They both laughed.

On the other hand, Draco Malfoy gazed with tired curiosity at the approaching figure. Her one shoe squeaked with water, and he gave it a cold sneer of disdain. They absolutely did not work. And her hair would be in a hideous state if she didn't dry it. He hoped she wasn't wearing any eye makeup. He really didn't want to be near anyone with streaks of mascara running down her face like leaking raccoon eyes. And speaking of makeup...

Which was when he realized the only free chair at Slytherin was next to him.

Normally, every chair near him was taken, he being the epitome of Slytherin: vain, disarmingly handsome, cold, cruelly hilarious--no, he was understating himself, but so what? He had saved the empty seat for Goyle, who was in the infirmary with a cold. So...

Of course. Good fuckin job, Draco, you twat. Of all of the places... who does it happen to be?

Rory sat down next to Draco. "Hello," she smiled. Her voice was different; not high and stringy like Pansy's and not grunting and clotted like Millicent's.

Draco stared at her blankly. "Why are you talking to me?"

Rory rubbed her eyes. Dessert had just disappeared. She had sat through shepherd's pie and vanilla ice cream--the only two things that she felt she would actually eat at home--next to Draco Malfoy: the World's Biggest Ass and also the World's Most Alluring Male. How he did it, she didn't know. He had the rare talent of driving people off with his smug rudeness and pulling them to him with his charisma.

But now that she was at the Slytherin table and couldn't switch, she really wanted to go to the other table--Gryffindor. She wanted to meet that Harry Pothead and see what made him so special. Sure, she knew the whole Voldemort vs. Harry deal, but that didn't make him special, that made his name special. What it was about him...?

Dumbledore dismissed them, and as she was getting up she asked Malfoy, "What's this year's password?"

She didn't speak at all properly. Year was somehow transformed to yeer in her foreign mouth, and word to werd.

"Hmm... Dunno."

"Yeah, you do."

"How dare you contradict me."

"Prefects have the password, and you have a Prefect badge on."

"It's not mine."

"It says 'Prefect: Draco Malfoy'."

He glared sullenly at the floor. She followed him, only knowing that they were going down and down and down.

"Fine, it's 'marvel of blood'. Satisfied?"

"Very. Thanks."

"Uh huh. And get a different pair of shoes."

"What? How dare you!"

"What, did I insult them?"

"Only a little. These happen to be the greatest shoes in creation: all-leather handmade Jesus sandals. They are--"

"--Very gay shoes. Now leave me be. PS, you're missing one."

She looked down, as if just realizing she'd been going half-barefoot the entire time. "Oh... cum-guzzling gutter slut!!!" She stopped to look over her shoulder and the throng pushed Draco forward.

"Guzzling what?!?"

But she was already gone.

When they got to a blank wall, Malfoy shouted the password, and it slid back to reveal their House. As he walked in, he heard near the back of their group the uneven, wet smack of a pair of feet only half-clothed.

Rory felt excitement build up in her throat. The room was vaulted and dark. The dominant colors were green and silver, and the fireplace was huge. High-backed armchairs circled around it, casting shadows onto the ceiling. Rory both loved it and was unnerved by it. She hated her nervousness.

Before that Ministry official had come to her house, she had been normal, how she always was: laid back was what she was called. Now she was edgy. The Ministry official had said it was mostly because of that spell that had injected the liquidy neon glow of new intelligence in her brain, and it would wear off within a month. Already she was calmer than she had been, but she wasn't completely back to her old self. The thing that made up for it was her magic.

Rory went to a chair and sat down. Except for her shoe, she was completely dry; after finding her seat, she had taken out her wand and made a jet of warm air come out of it. Her wand.

That was what she wanted now. She pulled it out of her waistband, examining it. It was willow, fourteen inches, with a phoenix feather core. It was pleasantly springy and light. She couldn't wait for classes to start so she could practice.

Rory settled more into the chair. She stopped. She slid her eyes from side to side and, when no one was looking, she picked up a pillow and breathed deep its scent. She was right. It smelled of the undeniable, thick stench of pot.

Well, of course.

At Rory's old school, she had often been called a pothead because of her hippie-ish dress. She had, in fact, not touched a joint in a whole fucking year, but only her friends believed her. She'd had seniors come up to her, asking her to hook them up.

Rory couldn't believe it. It was just her luck she was put in the House where the chair cushions smelled like ganja.

She rolled off the chair and walked to the dark wood door with a plaque that said Fifth Years. The handle was an ornate ring instead of a knob, and she had to pull it out and turn it before it would open. Its greased hinges were silent as it swung inward.

Her dormitory was lovely.

The walls were deep green with silver sconces every two feet or so. Six beds lined the round perimeter, each with a trunk at its foot. The comforters were patchworked green silk. Silver bedposts came up from each corner, and white linen paired with emerald velvet made bed curtains. She found the bed with her trunk at the foot and began rummaging in it. She was glad the room was empty; she wanted to try something out before anyone else saw.

From the bottom of her trunk she pulled a record player. It was a novelty: instead of having a plug and needing an outlet, it was the kind that worked after you wound it up with a crank. Dumbledore had told her that no electronic items could be used at Hogwarts; the magic in the air interfered with them somehow and didn't allow them to work. So she had dug this old thing out of her garage and, after a solemn promise to her mother that she would not hurt them on pain of death, she had found her dad's old records and taken them with her.

She placed the record player on her nightstand and adjusted the volume. She put a record on the turntable, modified the rotation speed, and let the needle drop.

There was silence for a few minutes. Rory sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped and prayer-like. All she could hear at first was the hushing crackle of the needle dancing on the vinyl.

Just this; I need this...

Then, to her joyful ears came the sound of a jaunty piano intro and six beautiful words:

"Lady Madonna/

Children at your feet..."

She could have cried. Well, not really, but whatevs. Here at least was a piece of her life that couldn't be left behind. Good old John, Paul, George, and Ringo...

A sudden surge of homesickness enveloped her like an exhalation of second-hand smoke. She turned up the volume in an attempt to overwhelm it.

Rory listened to "Lady Madonna" twice before changing into her pajamas and slipping into bed.

The nervousness had left her--for the time being--when she drifted off.