WDtBaH Chapter 2/?
Where Dwell the Brave at Heart
by Harikari
Disclaimer: Don't own em'. JK Rowling and some other lucky people and companies do. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm writing this for fun, not profit.
A/N: Thanks so much to those who commented last chapter! Feedback is begged for appreciated!
-----
Chapter Two: The Malfunctioning Hat
"Malfoy decked him?" Ron was sitting directly across from Harry at the Gryffindor table and was gaping at his friend like a disbelieving fish. "But I've seen Zabini. Zabini is huge."
"I know," said Harry.
He was getting a little tired of Ron asking him about the fight. He had informed the redhead of every possible detail pertaining to it, and still the teen didn't seem to fully believe or comprehend it. Of course, Harry wasn't sure he believed or comprehended it himself. This made him feel a bit empathetic toward Ron and his shocked state. Still though, the bespectacled Gryffindor was growing weary of the subject.
Ron let out a great, disappointed sigh. "I can't believe I missed that." He looked at both Harry and Hermione with a hurt expression, as if it were somehow their fault that he'd decided to go to the prefect compartment early. "I'm never listening to mum again. I was the first one there for the meeting!" He shook his head. "For you that makes sense," he said, waving a hand in Hermione's direction. "But for me?"
Harry had to agree with his friend. Ron was not normally a person who showed up early for anything, most especially anything even remotely to do with his classes or prefect duties.
"So," Ron went on as if he had never stopped to whine about listening to his mother, "what happened after you got rid of that nosy Hufflepuff?"
"She's Head Girl, Ron." Hermione said this in a tone that suggested she thought the Hufflepuff deserved some respect.
"What happened, Harry?" Ron persisted, no hint of apology in his voice.
"Nothing happened," said Harry. A steady hum of chatter still filled the Great Hall, though it seemed to be getting softer and softer as the time for the first years to be sorted crept nearer. "Malfoy took his trunk and his owl and left."
"Left?" The redhead let out a low 'hmmm' of disbelief and shook his head. He leaned back, and it seemed as if he were now lost in his own thoughts.
Harry was glad. Ron's contemplative silence would give him a chance to take stock of the rest of the hall.
Green eyes swept across the three other house tables and toward the High Table. Harry saw that Dumbledore had ambled in sometime during Ron's ranting and was now sitting in his usual, high-backed chair. The headmaster's twinkling eyes caught Harry's and he winked. The Gryffindor managed a small smile in return before looking away.
Harry was still terribly embarrassed with the way he had acted in his fifth year. Of course, he hadn't exactly acted so rudely toward Dumbledore without good reason. Dumbledore had kept important information from the Gryffindor for years. Information about the prophecy involving he and Voldemort. Harry ignored the confused flush rising on his skin - partly from embarrassment, partly from remembered anger. He didn't want to deal with that right now.
"I wish things would hurry along," said Hermione, who was sitting to the left of him. She gave Harry an encouraging smile when he looked over at her, making him wonder if she'd seen his brief exchange with Dumbledore.
"Yeah," agreed Ron. "I'm starving."
Harry was rather hungry himself. He hadn't had anything to eat since about noon - and then it had only been a few pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs from the trolley on the train.
Just as the teen was considering digging into his robe pockets for smushed and melted leftovers the Great Hall doors swung open and Professor McGonagall marched in, followed closely by a group of first years. The first years looked terrified, and Harry took a moment to remember his own sorting. He'd been nervous and worried - all in all it hadn't been a very pleasurable experience.
The first years were tucked in close to each other as they walked the expanse of the hall and approached the High Table. Some of them were looking up at the enchanted ceiling with awe. Harry looked up too and saw that tonight the ceiling was dark and cloudy, concealing most of the stars.
Professor McGonagall placed the familiar four-legged stool in front of the first years; on top of the stool sat the frayed and dirty Sorting Hat. The first years looked at the hat with confusion splashed across their faces; everyone else waited expectantly. The hat twitched. The rip in the brim of it that served as a mouth opened wide, and the hat began to sing:
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black..."
The hat went on. Harry squirmed in his seat. He wasn't sure what, but something about the song was bothering him; nagging at him.
Harry shot a look up at the High Table and saw that a few of the Professors were frowning. Even Dumbledore was frowning, which was never a good sign.
The hat finished its song. There was some scattered, unenthusiastic applause. Professor McGonagall straightened her stance and pulled a scroll from the depths of her long robe. Harry knew this to be the scroll with the names of the new students listed on it.
"When I call your name," McGonagall was saying, "you will put on the hat and then sit on the stool to be sorted." She looked down at the list in her hands. "Brockelhurst, Anne!"
Harry watched as a girl with dark hair down to her waist walked nervously up to the stool. She grabbed the hat and put it on.
"It was the same song," Hermione said suddenly, as if she had just realized something.
Harry turned to her. "What?" He noticed that Ron was nodding at what Hermione had said and looked over at the redhead. "What?"
"The song," answered Ron. "It was the song the hat sang back when we were sorted, Harry!"
"Oh," said Harry. His friends were right, of course. The song that the hat had just finished with was the same song he'd heard during his own sorting. That's what the nagging feeling was. That's what was wrong. Harry abruptly felt as if a horde of hyper butterflies were trapped inside his stomach.
The Gryffindor had been under the impression that the Sorting Hat spent all of its time sitting on a shelf in Dumbledore's office, thinking up the next year's sorting song. "Maybe it's lazy," he suggested. His friends turned to stare at him. "I mean, it is pretty old."
Ron shrugged; Hermione shook her head in the negative.
"Meyers, Liam!" called McGonagall.
"I'm pretty sure a hat can't feel fatigue," said Hermione.
Liam Meyers was sorted into Gryffindor. Harry, Ron and Hermione broke into applause with the rest of the Gryffindor table.
"No?" Harry felt sick. He wasn't sure why the stupid song issue was bothering him so much; the only thing he was sure about was that it was bothering him.
The ceremony went on. Finally, eight new Gryffindors had joined their table and McGonagall was calling the very last name.
"Williams, Michael!" The last first year stepped determinedly up to the hat, and was sorted promptly into Slytherin. Harry watched as Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll. Finally, the sorting items were being put away. Finally, it was time to eat.
The Professor bent to get a grip on one of the sorting stool's legs and pulled.
It didn't budge.
There was some muffled laughter throughout the hall, but the butterflies in Harry's stomach seemed ten times worse. He shot another quick look at Dumbledore and saw that the Headmaster was glaring in the Sorting Hat's direction; the frown on the old man's face was now much more pronounced.
"Do you need some help, Minerva?" Professor Sprout was craning her neck to get a better look at her colleague and speaking in a very loud voice. McGonagall ignored her. The expression on the woman's face was even more severe than usual. She gripped the stool more tightly and tugged.
Still, nothing happened.
"I don't understand," said McGonagall. She seemed flustered and none to happy. "What could possibly...?" She let her sentence trail off into nothing and tried again to lift the uncooperative piece of furniture. "I don't understand," she said again, when it still refused to move.
Dumbledore got slowly up from his seat at the direct center of the High Table and made his way over to the Professor. "What seems to be the problem, Minerva?" he asked in that deceptively cool voice of his. A voice that suggested nothing unusual was going on in front of him - and even if there were something unusual going on it certainly wouldn't trouble him any.
Before McGonagall could answer the Headmaster had gotten his wand out - he'd literally pulled it from thin air - and was tapping at the Sorting Hat and stool with an investigative air.
"What do you think it is?" Professor McGonagall asked him. She frowned and swept her eyes around the Great Hall, as if suddenly realizing the number of eyes that were set on her and Dumbledore. "Perhaps we should dismiss the students..." Before anyone could argue that there was no way they were going to be dismissed because they hadn't even eaten yet, the Headmaster spoke up.
"Now really, Minerva. I don't think there's any need for that just yet. In fact, while we-"
He was cut short by Professor McGonagall's startled yelp. The scroll in her hand had suddenly turned a violent red color - she let it drop to the floor, where it rolled a few inches before coming to a stop at Dumbledore's feet. "It burnt me," she said, alarmed. "It actually burnt me. As if it were some sort of..."
"Spell," finished Dumbledore. Eyes glittering with something other than mirth, he bent to pick up the scroll. It wasn't red anymore. It had returned to its normal color and looked as innocent as scrolls usually looked - as innocent as they usually were. Carefully, with only the very tips of his fingers, the Headmaster managed to unroll it. He held the paper up close to his face. His eyes were obscured by his glasses as he studied the list of names. He stopped dead, just for a moment, when he reached the very end of the list.
Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt in his chest. What is it? What in the hell is wrong?
"There's another name here," Dumbledore said. He was looking at McGonagall. "A name you didn't call."
"What?" shouted McGonagall. "That impossible! I've called all the names on the list. The first years are all sorted!" She was shaking her head and her bun was bobbing. "I've called all the names on that list!" Harry wasn't sure if he thought the woman was overreacting or under reacting to the situation.
"Not all of them," said Dumbledore. His voice was flat. He turned his head. His eyes swept quickly over the Hufflepuff table, the Gryffindor table, the Ravenclaw table...
Harry followed the Headmaster’s example; his gaze landed on the Slytherin table. Most of the Slytherins were gaping back at the rest of their schoolmates, wide eyed. Some - the ones who didn't seem to have been paying attention to the Sorting Ceremony at all - were talking animatedly at each other. These particular Slytherins fell immediately silent when they noticed the eerie quiet in the Hall, and the attention they were receiving.
"The name!" squawked McGonagall. Harry swung around in his seat and saw that the woman had grabbed the scroll away from Dumbledore. She was gawking at it stupidly. "There's another name, a new name here! It's-"
"Draco Malfoy," Dumbledore boomed. His voice was so loud that the name seemed to linger in the air of the hall for several long seconds. "Would you come up here, please?"
-----
"What's going on?" one first year asked from the end of the Gryffindor table. He'd hissed the question, and was looking back and forth between Dumbledore and the Slytherins with huge eyes. "Is this supposed to happen? What's going on?" If anyone had turned their eyes to look, they would've recognized the first year as Liam Meyers.
No one turned to look.
Harry's gaze, along with nearly everyone else's in the Great Hall, was focused on Draco Malfoy.
The blond looked surprised. His whole body tense, he was sitting ramrod straight and staring at Dumbledore. "Er...What?" he asked into the silence. "What?" Harry noticed that the Slytherin’s hair, which was usually pristine, was now standing up in odd places - some of it had fallen to obscure his eyes and face. The dark circles under his eyes and the line of deep scratches on his neck that had caused Pansy and Hermione to gasp in surprise earlier stood out starkly against his white skin. His school robe looked decidedly rumpled. There was even an unnatural redness spread across his right cheekbone, though Harry wasn't entirely certain if this was leftover from the fight on the train, or just a blush due to all of the unexpected attention.
"Mr. Malfoy?" The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. He didn't look happy about having to ask more than once.
The surprise written plainly across Malfoy's face warped. It turned to anger. His eyes were narrowed when he finally replied. "I didn't do anything if that's what you're thinking. I haven't done anything. I'm not going up there!" His voice, which had been rising throughout the speech, broke a little on the last word. Harry was startled to realize that Malfoy was frightened.
"Please, Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore after a pause, and both his face and voice were a bit softer.
"I...alright." Not even Malfoy seemed capable of resisting the Headmaster's orders for long. Harry noticed Pansy Parkinson slapping the blond's arm in a 'hurry up' gesture before Malfoy stood and walked stiffly toward the High Table.
He stopped at McGonagall's side. "I didn't enchant that scroll," he said stubbornly. McGonagall was looking at the bedraggled Slytherin in a way that suggested she wasn't sure whether to scold or console him. Dumbledore didn't answer the blond. Instead, the old Headmaster seemed to be considering the Sorting Hat.
"Perhaps something's wrong with it. It is rather old, isn't it?" Malfoy asked this, but McGonagall and Dumbledore ignored him. Harry saw the tightness of the Slytherin’s jaw, the way he was wringing his hands together. The bespectacled teen suspected he might be rather pleased with the situation - Malfoy in some sort of trouble - if he weren't so utterly nervous himself.
"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said finally, looking up from his consideration of the stubborn items. "Would you be so kind as to take up the hat and have a seat?"
Harry's mouth dropped open. Next to him, Hermione made a startled little sound. Ron's expression didn't change; the redhead continued to gape at the scene before him, disbelieving. There were surprised little murmurs of sound throughout the hall. "What's going on?" some murmurs said. "I told you Dumbledore was nutters," said others. And also, "He can't be sorted again...can he?"
Harry leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table hard.
"Sir?" inquired Malfoy politely. He seemed thrown by the request. "Take a...? You're serious?" He looked doubtful.
Before the Headmaster could answer McGonagall gripped the blond's shoulder firmly with one thin hand and bent to hiss something into his ear. Harry imagined it was something along the lines of 'just do what the Headmaster says, Mr. Malfoy' - only probably more stern and vicious.
The Gryffindor watched in awe as Malfoy shot a look at the High Table. The blond's eyes landed on Professor Snape, who was the Slytherin Head of House and undoubtably the blond's favorite authority figure at Hogwarts. But Snape wasn't looking at Malfoy. Instead the greasy haired man was staring straight at the Headmaster, his eyes narrowed.
Apparently Malfoy would receive no help from his favorite professor this time.
"Please Mr. Malfoy," urged Dumbledore. "If you would just..." He tapped the edge of the stool with his wand again - it made a hollow thunk thunk noise and the old man looked imploringly at the Slytherin in front of him.
Feeling strange and detached, Harry watched as the blond stepped closer to the stool.
"Really?" Malfoy was looking somewhat green.
This time the Headmaster didn't reply.
The Slytherin took another step, bringing him as near to the stool as he could get without bashing into it.
Harry held his breath. He could feel his fingernails digging into the wooden table, making grooves.
And suddenly, in a move so quick Harry might've missed it if he'd blinked, Malfoy snatched up the frayed Sorting Hat, placed it roughly on top of his head, and dropped down onto the stool.
For a moment, there was absolute silence. Every eye in the hall was fixed firmly on the seventh year Slytherin.
From atop Malfoy's head the patchy hat twitched inquiringly. Seconds ticked by. The blond's expression morphed slowly; from resigned, to angry, to furious. "This is ridiculous!" he snarled finally. His face was shifting rapidly from red to crimson. "It doesn't make any sense! There's absolutely no way-"
"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall broke in, even as the seventh year continued to rant, "just do as the Headmaster..."
Harry was trying to listen to them both, his gaze shifting from the irrate woman to the now brick red Malfoy, then back again. Next to him Hermione's eyes were huge, across from him Ron's expression was oddly ecstatic...
"GRYFFINDOR!" bellowed the hat.
Malfoy's mouth snapped shut. McGonagall stopped mid-lecture, an unnatural sort of squeaking noise emerging from her throat. Harry blinked.
There were several seconds of complete and utter silence in the hall.
"Well then," piped up Dumbledore a long moment later. "Mr. Malfoy, Professors Snape and McGonagall? Would you three come with me?" He turned to face the rest of the hall. "And as for the rest of you," he said, giving his wand a sharp little wave, "welcome to another - or your very first - year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enjoy."
The tables were quite suddenly covered with food - feasts had popped into existence at all the house tables, dominated by large flagons of pumpkin juice and gold platters piled with turkey and ham. There was no movement for a heartbeat. And then, a soft hum of noise started up and students began to gingerly fill their dinner plates.
"Huh," breathed Hermione. Ron was shaking his head back and forth, slowly.
Harry watched Dumbledore leave the Great Hall, two wooden-faced professors and a ghost pale Draco Malfoy trailing him.
He looked at the grand feast in front of him, then down at his own empty plate.
He wasn't really very hungry anymore.