Chapter 8 - Hoggy Warty Hogwarts

1st September 1991

Harry shivered slightly as he stepped onto the platform. He wasn't sure if it was the cold air or just his nerves. Perhaps a bit of both. He looked around the platform packed with students of all sizes—their black Hogwarts robes slightly shimmering in the dim light of old gas-style lamps—shuffling around to probably find their friends. One of the lamps—which Harry guessed was actually running on magic—was bobbing slightly. It took a moment for him to realise that it wasn't one of the platform lights but a lamp being held high by the already tall Hagrid.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" the booming voice of Hagrid echoed all over the platform. On noticing him, he gave Harry a slight nod. "All right there, Harry?"

"C'mon, follow me—any more firs' years? Mind your step, now! Firs years follow me!"

The first-year students began following Hagrid down a steep and narrow path. It was pitch dark; the path flanked by thick trees on either side. All the students were silent, sticking close so as to not get lost along the way.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

As he turned to look up where Hagrid was pointing, Harry found himself joining all the students in their collective awe of the sight in front of them. The path had opened onto the edge of a great black lake—a high mountain on the other side. Perched atop it, a massive castle, the many windows in its towers and turrets sparkling in the starry sky.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, drawing Harry's attention away from the castle of Hogwarts. Harry saw the fleet of little boats that Hagrid was pointing at. Harry and Ron entered one of the boats, trying to keep their balance as the small vessel rocked underneath them. The girl from earlier—Hermione—seemed to be eager to join them. But to her obvious dismay, two rather plump boys joined them instead. Harry let out a sigh of relief as he watched her go to another boat instead; he had found her a bit too overbearing when she had visited them earlier.

"Watch out for Trevor, Nev," said one of the new boys on the boat. Harry turned to look at him. He had a dark face and hair as black as his own, though they were styled differently. If Harry had to say, it looked like a poor imitation of a rock star's haircut—something that didn't suit the boy's face very well.

The other boy, who was checking his pockets for something, had short blond hair—the style old fashioned. He retrieved something out of his left pocket, holding it tightly in his hand. Harry recognised it as a toad; it must be the boy's pet.

Harry's wandering eyes locked with gaze with the black-haired boy—he just smiled casually, giving Harry a greeting nod.

"It's pretty sick, isn't it?"

It took a moment for Harry to realise that he wasn't talking about an actually ill person but instead referring to the castle they were headed towards. Harry turned around in the boat to take another look at it.

"Yes. It is," said Harry, his eyes taking in the glimmering lights in the castle that were being reflected in the dark water of the lake. Before Harry could add anything else, Hagrid's voice boomed again.

The boats started moving at once, gliding across the lake, which seemed smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

As they silently approached the castle, Harry felt a weird sensation build up inside him. He remembered getting a similar feeling when he had entered Ollivander's at Diagon Alley—only this time it was much more potent.

"I'm Ron. Ron Weasley," said Ron, drawing Harry's attention back inside the boat. Ron and the two other boys were making introductions. The blond boy with the toad went next.

"I'm Neville Longbottom."

"Mark Smith," said the other boy, "Are you Fred and George's brother?" he asked Ron, who nodded with a slight reluctance. Harry had gotten the impression earlier that Ron wasn't fond of being recognised as someone else's brother. Harry realised that he was the only one left.

"I'm Harry Potter," he said, silently watching their reactions. The blond boy—Neville¬¬—widened his eyes in surprise as his eyes flitted towards Harry's forehead, looking for the 'famous' scar. Mark, on the other hand, showed no sign of surprise. He just stared at Harry for a few moments—his head slightly ċȯċked, as if he were examining some rare specimen. After a long minute, he finally spoke.

"Nice to meet you."

Harry recognised it to be a measured response; the boy had wanted to say something more—ask something of him. Harry was glad. He could do with another person who didn't want to know how he defeated a dark lord as an infant.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle until they reached a kind of underground harbour, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

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As the door swung open, Mark saw Professor McGonagall standing in emerald green robes—she looked much more in place in them than she had on their trip to Diagon Alley. The large man who had escorted them spoke to her.

"The fir's years, Professor McGonagall"

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

With a surprising strength for her frame, Professor McGonagall pulled the large and heavy door wide open. Beckoning the students to follow, she began walking with long purposeful strides. As they moved along the grand stone corridor, Mark could hear the 'aahs' and 'oohs' of the other students behind him. It wasn't that he was unimpressed by the grandeur of the castle; he had simply seen it before, back when he had gleaned Professor McGonagall in Diagon Alley. Besides, he had other thoughts occupying his mind right now.

Just a few minutes ago, Mark had introduced himself to the most interesting person he had ever met—Harry Potter. Not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived—to be honest, Mark didn't understand the hero-worship of a boy who had supposedly killed a dark lord as a baby. No—the reason Mark found him interesting was that Harry Potter was the first person who Mark had found impossible to glean.

His mind was there; Mark could always sense someone's presence around him. But when he tried to enter it, he found himself lost in obscurity—as if trying to find his way in an extremely dense fog with a visibility of mere inches. It was—fascinating.

As they walked past a large doorway, Mark could sense the presence of hundreds of students behind it—it must be the rest of the school. Professor McGonagall just walked past it, however, leading them instead to a smaller chamber in which they all crowded.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall in a tone that immediately silenced the whispers and chatter amongst the students. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly." Her eyes roamed around the room, the students now hanging on to every word.

Mark zoned out. He had already gleaned and listened to Professor McGonagall's speech. Not surprisingly, it was the same one every year. She explained the House system, the points that they would earn and lose for their conduct, and the general instructions about following the rules and listening to prefects. Nothing odd. Nothing new.

Once she was finished, she suggested that they smarten themselves up for the ceremony. Her eyes lingered on the dark smudge on Ron's nose, a disapproving look on her face. When they met his own, Mark gave her a small grin. She acknowledged it with a slight nod, a hint of a grin on her thin lips.

"Please wait quietly," she said. "I shall return when we are ready for you."

Mark watched her leave the chamber, the whispers resuming the moment she disappeared.

"How exactly do they sort us?" he heard Harry ask Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot. Something about a test—wrestling a troll or something," the redhead replied nervously. Mark ġrȯȧnėd inwardly. Trust Fred to try and prank his brother on his first day.

"I don't think Fred was serious," said Mark. "They wouldn't test us before teaching us anything."

Ron nodded in understanding while Harry's face regained some colour. Mark reckoned he was much more nervous than he was letting on. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, began whispering about the spells she had already learned in preparation of whatever test awaited them.

Before he could say anything to calm the hyper-anxious girl, several people suddenly screamed. Mark turned to see about twenty pearly-white figures streaming in through the back wall. Ghosts.

"New students! About to be Sorted, I suppose?" he asked. Mark nodded automatically along with

the rest of the students. The rather jovial monk clapped his hands.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff then! My old House, you know."

'Well,' Mark thought, 'if that was a Hufflepuff, it can't be as bad as Neville said. Even their ghost is cheery.'

Any further thoughts and conversation were cut short when Professor McGonagall entered the chamber and asked the ghosts to move along—they complied at once. She then turned to the dumbstruck students and gave instructions to form themselves into a line and follow her silently. She walked ahead—her pace even swifter than before—and led them towards a large doorway— the one that Mark had noticed before—the entrance into the Great Hall.

Once inside Mark's jaw hung open in awe. Even though he had seen it before, both in Hogwarts: A History and while gleaning into Professor McGonagall's mind, the sheer scale and realism of the vast ceiling—enchanted to look like the night sky—was breath-taking.

Levitating candles illuminated the room which was occupied with four long tables where all the older students were seated. Another table at the top of the hall seated the teachers. Mark immediately recognised the Headmaster—Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—seated in a tall gold chair at the centre of the table, his long white beard glowing softly in the candlelight.

Mark attention was soon drawn back to Professor McGonagall, who had now placed a small three-legged stool in the middle of the room. Upon it sat the Sorting Hat. Even though he had been expecting it, Mark jerked back a little when the brim of the old, ragged hat ripped open like a mouth and began singing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

... none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

Thunderous applause followed the song, and Mark joined in almost involuntarily—the only first year to do so. He couldn't help it—he would always appreciate a well-composed rhyme, no matter its source. Professor McGonagall unrolled a roll of parchment and cleared her throat, silencing the Hall full of students immediately.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!" she called out the first name.

The girl to whom it belonged shuffled out of the line and went to sit on the stool. The hat took a moment, before shouting out its decision in a rough, raspy voice.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

She proceeded to the table underneath the yellow and black banner—depicting a large badger, the symbol of Hufflepuff—to the cheers of her new housemates. Susan Bones was next, and she too was sorted into Hufflepuff. Terry Boot and Mandy Brocklehurst were sorted into Ravenclaw and joined their house underneath the blue and silver banner, adorned with a large bronze eagle.

Lavender Brown was next, and she became the first Gryffindor. As she walked towards the table underneath the scarlet and gold banner, which depicted a roaring lion, Mark noticed that she received the heartiest reception yet. In contrast, Millicent Bulstrode—who was sorted into Slytherin—received a largely reserved welcome. The students sitting underneath the green and silver banner were as composed as the regal serpent that was the symbol of their House.

Mark looked at the impatient faces seated at the tables and realised that the dinner was being held up by the sorting. His thoughts tapered off to food, and he wondered what would be served for dinner afterwards.

Mark tried giving his new friend a reassuring pat on the back, who turned and gave him a grateful smile before walking towards the wooden stool. His nerves must have been on an edge, for he stumbled a little on the way, drawing a small round of laughter from the students.

The laughter subsided when the sorting hat, placed on Neville's head, took longer to give an answer than it had taken with anyone else before. Mark could make out that his friend—whose eyes were covered by the oversized hat—was arguing in whispers with the hat. Whatever it was about, Neville evidently lost—he stomped away in anger when the hat finally shouted "GRYFFINDOR!"

Mark watched as Neville made his way to the Gryffindor table, a set of redheaded twins enthusiastically welcoming him. Once he was seated, Neville's eyes wandered onto Mark, and he gave him a wave. Mark replied with a thumbs up; he was happy that his friend had gotten into the House he dėsɨrėd.

He had almost fudged up any chance of friendship with Neville earlier today on the Express. The one-time Mark had decided not to glean into someone's mind before a conversation, he ended up stumbling onto the sėnsɨtɨvė topic of Neville's parents. Thankfully, they had been able to recover the conversation and struck a friendship. It was times like that when Mark wondered how normal people managed to converse without stepping on to each other's toes.

In all, he was glad now. Aside from Neville, Mark had also managed to befriend Fred and George, two of the most energetic people he had ever met. He wondered what his Dad would think of that—his shy, introverted son managing to make three new friends before even reaching the school.

Turning his attention back, Mark witnessed the sorting of a pair of twin girls. Interestingly, Padma Patil and Parvati Patil were separated into Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively; Mark reckoned they must be as different in their personalities as they were identical in their appearance.

His musings were cut short when the hall broke out in loud whispers; those akin to rumours and gossip. Mark realised that the reason behind it was Harry Potter; The Boy-Who-Lived was about to be sorted.

He watched as the thin, short boy with messy hair and round glasses walked over to the stool and sat on it. The moment the hat was placed upon his head, it was as if the entire Great Hall had held its breath.

It took time. If Mark had to guess, it was about as long as it took with Neville, if not longer. Harry, who Mark noticed had been gripping the edge of the stool tightly, slumped in relief when the hat finally called out its decision— "GRYFFINDOR!"

The reception which the boy received was the loudest one yet. Even students at other tables were applauding, while the students from Gryffindor were going crazy. Fred and George were yelling, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" while they danced in a jig, and Harry seemed to shrink in all of the attention that he was receiving.

"SMITH, MARK"

Mark snapped to attention, slightly surprised that his name had been called. There must not have been anyone between him and Harry. Silently cracking his knuckles, he moved to towards the three-legged stool and the fate that awaited him. The moment the hat slipped over his eyes, a voice spoke directly inside Mark's mind.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Interesting. Oh, very interesting indeed. Haven't seen one of you at Hogwarts in a long time. Why—oh yes, I see."

Mark was getting increasingly confused. Instead of talking to him, the Hat was lost in its own crazy thoughts.

"My thoughts are far from madness, Mr Smith. Looking inside another's mind is a daunting task indeed, as you very well know."

"Sorry," he whispered quickly. "I meant no disrespect. Wait, you know about —"

"Indeed. Your ability is a rare one, Mr Smith, even amongst the greatest of wizards."

Mark froze. He hadn't planned on telling anyone about it.

"Oh, don't you worry dear boy. I'm bound to secrecy. After all, the fact that you made it here —" the hat trailed off. "Now, where to put you?"

Mark relaxed. With a slight curiosity, he listened to the Hat's scrutiny of his characteristics.

"An excellent mind indeed, with a thirst for knowledge. Abundant creativity too. Hard working—sometimes, I see. Ambition and courage in plenty, and bravery and cunning as well. Difficult, yes. Very difficult to decide"

Mark found this interesting. He had never really considered himself hardworking or cunning.

"You've seen a lot haven't you?"

The words ran down Mark's back like a glass of ice water. Judging from the hat's tone, it had found those memories inside his mind. He wondered whether the Hat was just some clever piece of magic or if it was actually sentient.

"Indeed. I am sentient—at least in the sense you use that term. After all, life and death is a circle—there is no beginning."

"I mean no offence sir," Mark tried to immediately apologise. He decided to try and placate the Hat. "Do you—Do you have a name?"

"Oh my. I haven't been asked that question for many years. I believe the last time was twenty years ago…" The hat was lost momentarily in some dreamy memory before it replied to Mark's question.

"To answer your question, Mr Smith, I do indeed have a name, one that my maker gave me a thousand years ago—Elijah"

"That's a nice name." Mark immediately realised how stupid that sounded. He decided to ask something else. "Do you have the same ability as me?"

"In a manner of speaking. You know, you may want to read more about it if you wish. The libraries at Hogwarts are quite extensive."

"Okay. Thanks, I guess."

"Of course. Now the question still remains. Where do I put you?"

"Wherever you decide."

"Really? You would willingly give up a chance to choose your future House?" Elijah asked incredulously. "This is a forked path, Mr Smith. Each one leads to vastly different destinies. You would leave that decision upon an old hat like me?"

"I don't believe in destiny," Mark whispered. "Besides, you aren't just any old hat. You've stuck around for a thousand years, looked into what—hundred thousand minds? More? You're adequately qualified in my opinion."

"Well reasoned. Very well-reasoned, indeed. How about Ravenclaw? With your mind, that's where you'll be expected."

Mark shrugged. He had meant what he said earlier.

"Hmm. Hufflepuff is another path; one on which you'll be likely to make friends. You certainly didn't mind that option when you talked to your friend earlier on the Express."

"Anywhere's fine."

"Really? Even Slytherin? Hmm. You certainly have the required traits. But you won't be welcome there, given your parentage. Are you willing to take that path?"

Mark thought about it. Fred and George had told him all about the prejudice Slytherin had against first-gen wizards—all things non-magical, really. But he knew that already, and his decision still stood.

"I'll manage."

A booming laugh filled his mind. Of whatever reaction Mark could have expected from Elijah, this was not one of them.

"You leave me no choice Mr Smith," the sentient hat said, once it had calmed down. "I tried everything, and you still persisted. You are a rare wizard, and I do hope to talk to you again someday. Now, let me send you to the only place where you truly belong—"

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"GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry joined in the applause as he watched Mark place the hat back on the stool. As he walked towards their table, the Weasley twins and Neville were applauding the loudest. The boy seemed to have made a few good friends in his House already.

Mark had taken the longest to get sorted; a little longer than both Neville and him, according to Percy Weasley. The Gryffindor prefect had been explaining the concept of a 'Hatstall' to Hermione Granger that Harry had overheard.

He now watched as "Thomas, Dean"—a boy darker than Mark and taller than Ron—was sorted into Gryffindor as well. After "Turpin Lisa" was sorted into Ravenclaw, it was his friend Ron's turn. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to him.

"Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Professor Dumbledore, who Harry recognised from the Chocolate Frog Card he had found on the Express earlier, stood up to address the students. He seemed to be in a genuinely happy mood, smiling as widely as his outstretched arms.

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Harry was caught unaware by the eccentricities of the Headmaster. As Percy put it succinctly, "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes."

Any further thoughts were quelled by the appearance of the feast. Harry piled his plate with a little of everything. Not used to being allowed to have as much as he wanted, Harry was a bit hesitant at first. When he witnessed how the others were eating, he relaxed considerably.

People were taking everything and anything from the large silver serving plates. Mark was attacking his plate with manners that would have made Aunt Petunia proud, yet still managing to eat faster than everyone else around him. Except for Ron of course. Unconstrained by the shackles of table manners, his friend was simply shovelling food into his mouth as quickly as he could.

The food was all delicious, and the ghost in the ruff seemed to think so too. Harry found out that Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—or as he was more commonly known, Nearly Headless Nick—was the resident ghost of Gryffindor tower. His moniker was well earned in Harry's opinion—the man had died due to a botched beheading, leaving his head hanging from the neck by a thin strip of skin and sinew. Any normal individual would've lost their appetite at the sight; but these were hungry growing students, who just laughed at the sight while munching on a chicken leg.

As soon as they finished their food, desserts appeared. Harry reached for his favourite—treacle tart. Beside Harry, Percy and Hermione were discussing the upcoming lessons. Some of the other students started talking about their families. Seamus told about his muggle father and magical mother, while Neville talked about how his Gran had brought him up, and how they had tried forcing him to show any signs of magic during childhood, accidentally or otherwise.

Harry snorted to himself. It was ironic really, how his and Neville's positions were reversed. After all, the Dursleys had tried their damnedest to stamp out his freakishness, as they had so kindly informed him on his birthday.

Glancing up to the head table, Harry saw Hagrid drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell—who Harry recognised from his visit to the Leaky Cauldron—was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.

"What is it?" asked Percy.

"N-nothing."

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look — a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

"Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy.

"Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to — everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape."

Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again.

Once the desserts disappeared, Professor Dumbledore got up to speak again. The hall fell silent.

"Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their. House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I wish to inform you that that the rooms on the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor are out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a painful death."

Whispers broke out amongst the students, and Harry found himself laughing a little.

"He's joking, isn't he?" he asked Percy.

"I don't think so," said Percy, "Must be something important. They usually inform the prefects —"

"Please do not fret," Professor Dumbledore spoke again, trying to reassure the students. "There are some potentially dangerous experiments being performed there, which would not be safe for any curious souls to stumble upon." The whispers amongst the students died at that, and even Percy gave a nod.

"Now, before we retire to our beds, let us sing the school song!"

Harry watched as Professor Dumbledore drew his wand—an ornate and delicate stick, made of black wood and having small knots along its length. He gave a casual flick, making the words of the school song appear above him, written in a flowing golden ribbon.

"Everyone pick their favourite tune!" The students joined him singing,

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts"

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