“It isn’t like we can just order a new ghost from a mail order catalog,” Graham complained. “But still. It’s a real disappointment, coming into our last year with no Gryffindor Ghost, even if old Nearly Headless Nick was a bit of a nutter sometimes.”
“Speaking of last years,” Rose perked up, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning eagerly toward James. “What about your big meeting with McGonagall? What sort of secrets did she let you in on? You can tell me!”
James shook his head firmly. “We’re all sworn to secrecy.
Seriously. I’m forbidden from telling you a thing.”
“Come on,” Rose weedled, and then narrowed her eyes slyly. “I probably already know about it all. I just want to see how much they’ve finally let you in on.”
“You’ll have to wait until your seventh year,” James replied, raising his chin in what he hoped was a superior and lofty manner.
Rose rolled her eyes and drew her breath to retort, but at that moment Professor McGonagall called attention to the annual Sorting ceremony. James turned his attention to the head table, thankful for the distraction.
Holding the Sorting hat in her hand over a single wooden stool, Professor McGonagall called the newest students one by one to the dais.
As they came, each more tentative and nervous-looking than the one before, the professor lowered the Hat onto their heads and, after either a few moments or as much as a minute, the Hat would proclaim their new house in its high, reedy voice. In turn, the houses applauded their newest members and welcomed them to their tables.
As James watched, he could scarcely believe how young the first years looked. He was on the other end of that spectrum now—to their eyes, he was surely the impossibly older and worldly-wise seventh-year.
He remembered being in their shoes, thinking how much taller and more grown-up the seventh-years looked. If only he’d known then what he knew now: that seventh-years weren’t really any more confident or aloof than first years. They’d just had several more years practice at pretending to be.
Again, James remembered Professor McGonagall’s proclamation in the antechamber. This, incredibly, was her last Sorting ceremony.
Who would take over for her next year? Merlin, perhaps? Or one of the other longer-term teachers, like Professor Flitwick or even Neville Longbottom? As hard as he tried, he simply could not imagine anyone else holding the Hat by its tip, reading off the names in that clipped, stern voice.
And then another rather dismaying thought occurred to James: the Sorting Hat had not sung a song before its duties this year.
It was tradition that the Hat would regale the waiting students with some possibly amusing, possibly profound lyric that it had concocted between its annual duties. And yet during James’ first year it had not provided its customary tune. Nor, it seemed, did it plan to this year. Of course, as James had thought once before, after so many centuries of service, one could forgive the Hat for taking the occasional year off. But it struck him as especially troubling that, for whatever reason, his first and last years would be marked with no such musical diversion.
As the Sorting finally finished and Professor McGonagall took the Hat back with her to the head table, the entire Great Hall gave a round of hearty applause, half in welcome of their new housemates, and half in celebration that the night’s official proceedings were nearly over and they could all soon go to their respective common rooms for less formal First Night merriments. The only unfinished detail was the official start-of-term announcement from Headmaster Merlin, which James knew from experience would be brief and very much to the point.
“I hear Ralph was named Head Boy,” Rose whispered in James’ ear as the applause filled the hall. “Are you jealous?”
James glanced back at his cousin, certain that she was joking.
Her raised eyebrows and knowing half-frown told him that she was not.
“Of course I’m not jealous,” James shook his head fervently.
“That’s stupid. Why would anyone want to be Head Boy?!”
“Nobody becomes Head Boy or Girl because they want to be,”
Rose whispered as the applause died down. “They do it because of the people who want it for them, and the expectations that it confirms.
People expect Ralph to have ambitions because his dad is a big deal at the Ministry these days. But so is yours, if you hadn’t noticed.”
The room fell to silence on Rose’s last words, preventing any reply from James. All of a sudden, he didn’t know what his reply would be anyway. He frowned at Rose, but she merely looked past him, turning her attention to the headmaster as he took the ornate golden podium. Somewhat disgruntled, James turned around to watch as well.
“Greetings, students,” the big man proclaimed in his deep, rumbling voice, towering over the podium in his golden dress robes, his beard combed and gleaming with the exotic oil he wore in it for formal occasions. His heavy gaze roamed over the gathered students, marking each face. “And welcome to an all new year of lessons, camaraderie, and sport at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For new students, I am Headmaster Merlinus Ambrosius. I will save us all much time and attention by stating, as always: you may look to your older classmates to inform you of how we do things here on a day-to-day basis.
That is their duty and honor. Make use of the resources granted you, and if any should refuse you or lead you astray, you shall inform me personally so that I may show them the error of their ways. Our general rules are few but carefully enforced: the Forbidden Forest is forbidden for a reason. If you break this rule, the result will be at the very least instructive, so long as it is not deadly. Curfew is ten of the clock on school nights, eleven-thirty on weekends and holidays. Our dear caretaker Mr. Filch has been authorized to carry out whatever punishments he deems fit for those who ignore this schedule, and you should be under no illusions about the creativity he is wont to employ in carrying out his duties.”
As the headmaster spoke, he nodded toward the rear of the room, where Filch stood, as usual, near the main doors, slowly stroking the head of the ancient Kneazle cat curled in his arms. Filch offered a confirming nod that was more scowl than smile. James had learned over the past two years that, amazingly, Filch and Merlin were very nearly blood-brothers in their approach to law and order. Merlin kept the old caretaker in check mainly by giving him free rein in the small responsibilities that were granted him.