Ralph’s frown turned offended as he glared at Deirdre, but James smiled and nudged him with an elbow.
Millicent Vandergriff stood near Julian Jackson, leaning lightly against the arm of a sofa. She met James’ eyes and gave a secretive little smile and wink. James nodded back at her, still smiling. She had changed her hair over the summer. Her long, straight locks had been trimmed to a shoulder-length blonde bob that swung lightly whenever she turned her head. James was less surprised that she had made the change than that he had actually noticed it. Millie Vandergriff had always been merely a background face in his world: funny, a little crude, and boisterously loud from her space at the Hufflepuff table, but generally forgettable. The new haircut changed her somehow, at least in his mind. For the first time, she struck him not just as a rather shrill laugh ringing in the halls or a whispering component of some inexplicable female cabal outside the door of the girls’ bathroom. Now, suddenly, she was a fairly fetching and curious girl who had, for whatever reason, taken some nominal interest in him.
As James watched, she sat down next to Julian and engaged the other girl in some animated but low-key conversation.
After a few minutes, Professor McGonagall entered, bringing with her an air of hectic gravity. The room quieted immediately and most of the students drifted into seats or clustered in knots against the outer pillars. The former headmistress circumvented the room until she stood with her back to the dark hearth, her eyes ticking over each face in a quick inventory.
“A few brief words as you enter your final year, students,” she said with no preamble, pitching her voice low, by her standards. “As you may imagine, there are certain responsibilities that go with attaining your seventh year. For better or for worse, you are now the standard bearers for everything that this school represents. Your younger classmates will look up to you as examples and role models. Some of you will rise to this responsibility, and indeed have done so already throughout your terms. Others,” she paused briefly and flicked her gaze over several faces, peering at them over her spectacles, “will struggle even to represent your own best interests, much less those of your fellows. To those who fall into the latter category, allow me to be perfectly clear: we expect better from you. The school expects better from you. And you should expect better of yourselves. You will soon embark on a new journey outside of these familiar walls, and there you will not find merely docked house points for flouting rules. Heed me, for this may be the last time anyone offers you this warning.” She paused meaningfully, letting the weight of her iron gaze settle over the room like a cold blanket. Then, she softened slightly, raising her chin and drawing a breath.
“There are, however, certain privileges that accompany these responsibilities,” she said, almost with a note of reluctance. “I’ll thank you, as you may guess, not to flaunt these to your younger classmates.
Let them discover them as you are about to now.” She produced a small scroll and unrolled it in her thin hands, beginning to read: “As per tradition and administrative decree, seventh-years shall not require special permission to access the restricted section of the library.”
James blinked and glanced around the room, curious to see if anyone else found this a particularly exciting privilege. Rose would be thrilled with it, he knew, but no one else in attendance showed as much as a raised eyebrow.
“Further,” McGonagall went on, still reading from the scroll, “Certain classes may be exchanged for an equal length of work in the career field of your choosing, by arrangement with the headmaster and/or related professor, not to exceed more than ninety minutes per week.”
This did inspire a response from the gathered students, who glanced around at each other and stirred in their seats, clearly excited at the prospect of trading class time for some hands-on experience, perhaps even outside the school. James glanced aside at Ralph. They had both toyed somewhat idly with the idea of going into Auror training, more for lack of any other ideas than a particular passion for the career. Did this mean they could actually trade class-time for trips to the Ministry of Magic with James’ dad? Could they actually accompany him and his partner, Titus Hardcastle, on the occasional raid or investigation? It seemed almost too tantalizing to consider, and yet perhaps it was actually possible.
“The Forbidden Forest is still forbidden,” McGonagall soldiered on, quelling the sudden hiss of whispers that had erupted around the room. “However, with the permission of the headmaster, myself, or Professor Hagrid, you may conduct your own expeditions into the Forest for any of a list of prescribed purposes, including but not limited to: the gathering of potion ingredients, observation of certain magical creatures, herbological gardening and cultivation, and limited recreational activities.
“Additionally,” the professor said, lowering her scroll. “As many of you may be aware, this castle is endowed with many secret passageways, hidden chambers, and unmarked amenities. Some of these you will surely have discovered either by illicit exploration or by word of mouth from less scrupulous former graduates. What you may have heretofore utilized secretly and in part, you are now granted full and sanctioned access to. Tomorrow evening at ten o’clock sharp, after your classmates are confined to their common rooms and dormitories, Mr.
Filch will take you on a tour of these amenities. You are neither to map these places, record any passwords, nor share in any way their locations, purposes, or benefits with any other students.”
Here she met James and Ralph’s eyes, pointedly. “Is that perfectly clear?”
James nodded, as did the rest of the gathered students. Even as he did, however, he wondered if this was a promise he could truly keep.
He imagined how Rose would respond if she knew that they had kept such tantalizing secrets from her. She would probably die of outrage.
“I certainly hope you can abide by these rules,” McGonagall said, the doubt in her voice deliberately evident. “Because your freedom to use such amenities is dependent entirely on your ability to keep them secret. Please do not test me on this.”
“Finally,” she went on, now heaving a deep sigh and removing her spectacles, allowing them to dangle on a fine chain around her neck.