Sorting Error

Chapter 3

Tell No Tales

Percy poured cream into his tea and watched the spirals glumly. He was alone in the staffroom; he could be as glum as he liked. Teaching was far harder work than he had guessed. He was beginning to understand Snape's strictness. Indeed, he only hoped his own Potions classes were learning half as much. The only person who seemed remotely interested in what he had to say was Hermione Granger, and she was forever asking questions about arcane ingredients labelled in languages he didn't understand.

And the tea was never quite warm enough. In his time at the Ministry, Percy had learned to brew a near-perfect cup of tea; but here the house-elves were supposed to do it, and they always let it cool slightly on the way from the kitchen. Percy refused to reheat his tea. That was an abomination against nature. So he was stuck drinking the stuff lukewarm.

At least it was strong. And the cream was real cream. With it sliding down his throat, Percy could almost imagine his shoulders bulking out. He would be a commanding presence in a deep red robe, shifting other wizards toward their tasks with a flick of his wand; they would look up at him, admiring his strength and his great organizational talents . . .

"Bodkin!" a voice outside grumbled. The door creaked open, and Snape stalked into the room. Snape was hardly broad-shouldered and commanding; his hair was glued to his head and his coal-colored eyes seemed to have been buried in the back of his skull. Still, he made Percy feel scrawny and infantile. The daydream collapsed. Percy took a few more glum sips of tea, watching Snape over the rim of his teacup. Presence. That air of superiority. Why could Snape do it, when he couldn't?

Snape paced up and down the long room. The rows of wooden chairs scooted aside as he passed. Presence, Percy thought again. It was frustrating and unfair . . . But Snape did have it. Maybe Percy should pay attention. He could learn something important. Snape obviously had the support of the Board; he was the headmaster, after all. And he was very skilled in both Potions and the Dark Arts. Percy's family had always hated the man, but then his family had never been able to see the big picture. His father had lost several promotions through sheer lack of political observation, and his brothers (especially Fred, George, and Ron) had elevated that absent-mindedness into a positive virtue. Percy was different. He was awake, he was aware, he could think long-term-- and he wouldn't let petty family feuds stunt his growth.

"Did you have something to say to me, Mr. Weasley?" Snape inquired.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir!" Percy said hastily.

"You're absolutely certain? You haven't encountered any strange explosions? I'm not afflicted with horrible scars?"

"Oh, no, sir." Percy wondered where this line of questioning was leading. He had never been less certain what he was supposed to be saying-- except, perhaps, during the interview for this position, which Snape had conducted with his back to Percy, occasionally glancing over his left shoulder.

"Then, Mr. Weasley, you may cease peeping at me from behind your teacup, and address me in an adult manner, without the extraneous honorifics."

"Sorry, sir," Percy whispered. He set his cup down and glared at his tea, wondering how long it would take for it to chill enough for the cream to separate out again. Little droplets of congealed fat in a dark room on a cold September-- Percy realized he was maundering. It was far too early to abandon his new plan. He would learn from his superiors, no matter how unfriendly they seemed.

Percy took a deep breath and began again. "Headmaster Snape?" It was hard to suppress the "sir", but he would do it. "Could I ask for your advice, please?" Percy had learned early that nothing filled a man with goodwill like being asked to provide advice.

"Yes? What is it?"

Now Percy had to find a problem that he could admit without embarrassing himself further. The impossible class sizes? No. He was strong, he could find a way to enforce his will on fifty eleven-year-olds. The tea was simply petty. When in doubt, Percy thought, try the offensive. "It's . . . I don't like to criticize anyone unfairly . . ."

"But you are about to criticize. Do get to the point."

"Madame Beauregarde . . . She keeps interrupting my classes, and I was wondering . . ."

"How to lock the door? It's a very simple spell. Even your capabilities should not be strained."

"No, it's more-- a competent instructor would have lessons to prepare, courses to teach-- but of course she might be lonely or something . . ."

Snape chuckled, a grating sound that grew louder and quicker as time went on. "Are you implying that the illustrious Madame Marie-Suzanne Beauregarde is not eminently qualified for her position?"

"Naturally I would never imply anything of the sort about one of my colleagues, but I did feel some concern--" Percy said hastily.

Snape's laugh grated even more uproariously, then creaked to a stop. "How exactly would you rate your own qualifications?"

"I believe my NEWTs were rather exceptional, and my record since--"

"And how many people turned you down, before you had word of this position?"

Percy felt himself growing pale. He didn't want to think about those in-between days, the stacks of carefully calligraphed applications, the hunt for recommendations, his tiny, bare flat . . . "But Hogwarts is an honor, sir! It's always been extremely competitive!"

"HA!" Snape's laughter was almost threatening. "Perhaps you have had the fortune to avoid encountering Hagrid as an instructor? You believe that Sibyll Trelawney is a natural at Transfiguration? Werewolves and madmen enthrall you?"

"Sir . . . The thousand-year tradition . . ."

"And lack of benefits, mediocre pay, and constant residence in a drafty castle among a pack of puling children. Do you know how much a mid-level Potions researcher makes in industry? Do you?"

Percy shook his head mutely.

"More than your weight in Galleons, Mr. Weasley! Without death threats, Ministry interference, or prowling basilisks. Of course Beauregarde's unqualified. She's a hopeless old fraud. We all are, and we're bringing up a whole new set of them."

"Headmaster Snape, sir," Percy said desperately. "You seem agitated. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Snape didn't answer. He was gazing into the distance, eyes squinting as if he saw a bright light. "It will change," he said, so quietly Percy almost didn't hear him. "It will all change."

Snape stood still a moment longer, then stalked out of the room, leaving Percy caught between elation and despair. It was-- Hogwarts had to be an honor. Hogwarts was important. It had been one of the happiest times of his life, one of the best times of his life, and it would go on being that way. For everyone. Teaching at Hogwarts had to mean a lot; it had to be prestigious, for surely everyone always remembered respect for their professors, once instilled? Snape was simply feeling the stress of his position. Yes, that was it. Being Headmaster of Hogwarts must be a weighty and tiring responsibility.

And there was more. Percy still felt cold and small, thinking of Snape's angry laugh-- but Snape had not been laughing at him, not really. He had merely been expressing some of the discomfort of his lofty position. And he had chosen to confide in Percy. He had admitted that Madame Beauregarde was a fraud; and he had let Percy see a glimpse of his ambition, his grand plan for the future.

Percy vowed to make himself part of that plan.

***

Harry sat in the library, neatly folding paper planes and watching them fly around his books. If Ron were here, the way Ron used to be, then they could have two teams and play Quidditch in between their textbooks. And if Hermione were here, she would roll her eyes and tell them that if they couldn't stop thinking about Quidditch, in the library of all places, she wouldn't give them her notes for a week.

It was almost as depressing as not talking to Ron, actually, sitting in the library without Hermione. Harry didn't know if he could go on like this. He didn't know where Hermione had got to, either; she didn't hate him, theoretically at least, and it was unlike her to spend a lunch period outside the library, especially when NEWTs were less than a year away! But maybe she had an essay for Runes, or something.

Harry sighed and let his airplanes slump to the table. He was tired of sitting here, stupidly hoping that Ron or Hermione would walk in every time the door opened. He could go hang out in the stacks, stretch a little, maybe sprawl across an aisle instead of hunching in a chair. Yeah. Biggest plan he'd had in days.

Harry had only just established himself in the back of the Ancient Animals section when he heard footsteps. It was probably the librarian, coming to order him back to his hard chair. He shoved his books behind a thick row of volumes labelled Bonem's Guides to Bonny Beast Behaviour, and muttered an Inconspicuous charm. Hermione had discovered them last year, and Harry and Ron had practiced them obsessively, certain that they would prove useful in some battle against Voldemort. (And they had, too. Until Dumbledore had . . .) The charm wasn't foolproof, nowhere near as good as invisibility, but it was less likely to set off alarms, too. A book on wyverns snapped at him, but otherwise everything seemed to work perfectly. The footsteps tapped briskly past Harry's aisle, then stopped.

Tapping, Harry thought. It couldn't be Madam Pince, then; she was far too ancient and sensible to wear shoes that would tap so stylishly. And he doubted Parvati or Lavender would be caught dead in the library during lunch hour, when they could be flipping their hair or reading each other's tea leaves.

"Costumes, dwarven," a voice murmured, "Costumes, elven; Costumes, giant. God, not those! Costumes, grim-- just right for this drafty hole-- oh, here we are."

With a start, Harry recognized the nasal accent of his new Divination teacher. Was she really so enthralled by her clothing that she researched it during her lunch break? Maybe he should have expected Parvati.

"Costumes, haberdashery, Armenian! Does anybody give a damn?" Madame Beauregarde exclaimed. Harry was a little startled. He hadn't paid much attention in class on Tuesday, but Madame Beauregarde had seemed a bit like Trelawney, very given to swooping and wafting and the occasional attempt at French. Swearing didn't fit in at all. He wondered what she was looking for.

Well, he knew what Ron would do in this situation. And Hermione wasn't here to yell at them, so why the hell not? Harry stood quietly and began to rearrange the Encyclopedia of Etterlings. Just as he had suspected, the shelf had no back. Soon there was only one row of books between him and Madame Beauregarde. A polished emerald fingernail ran along the top of the row, rejecting one title after another.

"Costumes, haberdashery, contracts with!" Madame Beauregarde exclaimed. "Much better!" She pulled out a book, and the rest slumped sideways, protesting in high-pitched voices. Harry started away from the shelf-- but after a few moments, when nothing had happened, he was confident enough to put his eye back to the gap.

He was just in time to see Madame Beauregarde poke the book with her wand-- it began to wheeze softly, like a sleepy, ancient dog-- and slip it into one of her voluminous sleeves. She tapped her way out of the aisle, humming slightly. Harry heard her exclaim, "Bye, sweetheart!" to the librarian.

He darted to the end of the aisle and looked out, but Madame Beauregarde was gone. The book had gone with her; and the alarms were silent.

Harry slid to the floor, and wondered what he ought to do next. That was a suspicious action, if he'd ever seen one. But how sinister could a book on costumes really be? She probably just didn't want Trelawney stealing her fashion ideas. And any book that Voldemort could possibly want would be in the Restricted Section, right?

If Ron were here, Harry thought-- if he still cared-- he would yell, "I don't care! Just do something!" and then he would paw through the books near the one Madame Beauregarde had taken, searching for clues. Well, it was better than doing nothing. Harry spent a few minutes sorting through books on fashion, thinking sadly how much more fun it would be if Ron were there reaching for the same books he was, but all he succeeded in learning was that Armenian wizards favored floppy velvet hats with many tassels.

And if Hermione were here, and it was any year but this one, Harry decided morosely, she would tell him to go straight to Dumbledore. And he would, too. He'd finally learned his lesson. But it had come too late. Harry remembered Dumbledore telling Voldemort, "Your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness." Greatest weakness. The words boomed in his mind like drumbeats, echoing and reverberating out of all the empty, lonely passages. Nobody had understood what Dumbledore's words meant, or how seriously he meant them, until it was too late, until Dumbledore had already traded his life for Voldemort's defeat. Voldemort's defeat, and Harry's survival.

Sometimes, really late at night, Harry asked himself how long it would be before he got to die for somebody else, instead of the other way round. He was stuck alive, when everyone who loved him died. Either they died or their feelings turned to hate, like Aunt Petunia's. Like Ron's, probably.

Harry was almost glad when the lunch period ended, even though it meant he would have to endure Dark Arts with Snape. With Snape, who hated him just as much as anyone who had ever liked him could have done, when up till this year Defense Against the Dark Arts had been his best class. Harry toyed for a minute or two with telling Snape about the theft in the library; but Snape would probably just take points from Gryffindor, because Harry hadn't told the librarian or something, and then forget all about it. It wasn't like a stupid fashion book was important, anyway.

***

Hermione had known since her third year that, if absolutely necessary, she could listen to Binns' lecture with half her brain and use the other half for something more educational. Right now she was sketching diagrams in the margins of her notes: how did Fred and George manage to apparate into her bedroom? According to Hogwarts: a History they shouldn't have been able to apparate within the grounds of Hogwarts at all; but the expurgated History had already been proven false, and this was just another instance of its perfidy. She had spent most of her lunch period interviewing the twins about their methods, but her powers of persuasion had reached no further than the admission that they had taken the Knight Bus to the castle, and only apparated within the grounds. Evidently once within the barrier spell, it lost power; but apparation still had to be difficult, since none of the seventh-years had managed it in Hermione's memory. (As a prefect, she was certain she would have noticed students appearing in places they didn't belong.)

Now that she thought of it, Hermione remembered Harry saying something about Dobby appearing in places that he didn't belong-- with a cracking sound. So the house-elves had worked something out. She added a line to her diagram.

Meanwhile, Binns droned on. He was discussing the gold standard, and the ways in which the wizarding economy had been affected by the significant influx of gold after the establishment of trade with the Americas, particularly in light of the fact that much American gold was set about with protective spells that European wizards found difficult to counter. Hermione didn't know much about Aztec charms; she underlined the section, and decided she would look them up when she had a chance. Fifteen minutes till the lesson ended . . .

At exactly ten minutes to go, Hermione raised her hand. "Professor Binns?"

He continued droning. Hermione gave him exactly thirty seconds-- the comments on reshaping of jade were actually rather interesting-- and then tried again. "Professor Binns? I have a question."

Binns pushed his ghostly glasses along his nose. "Yes? What is it?"

"Could you tell us how the Sorting Hat was created?"

"The subject is covered in great detail in Hogwarts: A History. Now, as I was remarking, the Greater British Council for Matters of Fiscal Policy, Sorcerous Subcouncil Seven--"

"But surely as a professor of history you have insight that an introductory book cannot provide?"

Binns adjusted his glasses again, looking either flattered or nervous, Hermione couldn't quite tell.

"Please? We're all very interested." Beside her, Ron nodded energetically.

Binns actually removed his glasses and rubbed at them with a corner of his robe. Hermione wondered whether there was such a thing as ghostly dust. "The Sorting Hat was created by the Four Founders, each of whom included a splinter of his own essence." He coughed a bit before continuing. "I am not the true expert on the Hat; perhaps you should consult one of your other professors."

"Do you mean Professor Snape?"

Binns nodded, then shook his head. "You . . . No . . . Perhaps . . ." The cough escalated, from a dry hem! to full-blown hacking. He curled over, bending into the cough. His translucent robes shook around him.

"Are you all right, Professor?" Hermione asked.

The ghost waved his hand at her, and tried to straighten. "No! Ask--" And then something happened that Hermione would have sworn was utterly impossible. The lines on Binns' face began to fork, multiply. He had always seemed ancient; now he looked almost mummified. The white wisps of his hair were fading, leaving a scalp veined with faint red lines; then that too began to wrinkle. And the ghost himself began to fade. He was whispering something, Hermione was sure, but even from her place in the front row she could not tell what. It might have been "Nuh--" or "Muh--" . . . As Hermione strained to hear, though, he collapsed altogether.

The outline of Binns' ghostly form draped across his desk.

The class was silent for a good minute. Hermione slowly remembered that she was a prefect, and in charge. And this seemed to be her fault.