Catching Harry's gaze, Hermione followed his line of sight. When she spotted the short, stout middle-aged witch, her brows furrowed in disgust. "Dolores Umbridge. Why her?"
"Who are you talking about?" Ron asked curiously, turning toward the staff table. His eyes landed on the woman wearing a garish pink cardigan.
"Oh, what a lovely cardigan!" Ron said with a mock grin.
Hermione ignored him, her eyes scanning the staff table rapidly.
"No…" she murmured, "No, it can't be…"
"Hermione, I'm afraid your suspicions might be right…" Harry's gaze swept over the staff table, his voice laced with impatience. "What is the Ministry playing at?"
"I don't know…" Hermione rubbed her temple. "But we'll find out soon enough. After all, our first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the term is tomorrow."
Ron looked between Harry and Hermione, puzzled by their cryptic exchange. His attention, however, soon shifted to another unfamiliar face at the staff table—a thin, wiry old man seated at the far end. Curiously, the seats on either side of him were conspicuously empty, as though the unassuming figure carried some contagious plague that made everyone instinctively keep their distance.
"Hey, Hermione! Did you see that old guy at the end of the staff table?" Ron said excitedly, nudging her arm. "I'd bet anything he's here to replace Filch as the castle caretaker! Finally, that miserable old git's gone! No more—"
A figure clutching the Sorting Hat and a stool scurried toward the staff table, cutting Ron's triumphant cheer short. His words choked off mid-sentence, like a duck grabbed by the neck in a marketplace. Eyes wide, he watched as Filch, of all people, shuffled back to his seat at the table's end.
The bustling crowd gradually settled, and the Great Hall's doors swung open. Professor McGonagall led a group of bewildered first-years inside. Watching the nervous little faces, Harry couldn't help but recall his own Sorting all those years ago.
Under everyone's gaze, the Sorting Hat's mouth-like rip began to move.
"Long ago, when I was but a fresh-stitched hat, Hogwarts had yet to rise. Its four noble founders believed they'd never part. United by a single goal, their wishes aligned: to build the greatest school of magic and pass their knowledge down through the ages. 'We'll build this school together, teach together!' they vowed with resolute hearts. Yet they never dreamed the day would come when they'd turn against one another… History's lessons warn us now: Hogwarts faces peril. Enemies lurk beyond our walls, watching with hungry eyes. We must stand united within, or all will crumble from the inside. I've spoken plainly; I've sounded the alarm. Now, let the Sorting begin."
The hat fell silent, and scattered applause broke out, laced with murmurs of unease and restless discussion.
"Hermione, has the Sorting Hat ever given a warning like that before?" Harry asked, glancing at her.
"I don't know," Hermione admitted, shaking her head.
"It has, it has," Nearly Headless Nick interjected, poking his head through Ron's arm. "The Sorting Hat, in some sense, channels the will of the four founders. It feels a moral duty to warn the school when necessary, and if it senses—"
Nick's words halted as he caught sight of Professor McGonagall, her stern gaze sweeping over the chattering students. He pressed a translucent finger to his lips and sat bolt upright on the bench beside Hermione, the picture of propriety.
As for Ron, though having a ghost partially inside him was deeply unsettling, he stubbornly refused to shift from his seat, despite the empty spots to his right.
Under McGonagall's glare, the hall quickly quieted. She began calling names from the list, and when the final young witch scampered to the Slytherin table after the hat's cry of "Slytherin," McGonagall gathered the Sorting Hat and stool and exited the hall. Then, Dumbledore rose, spreading his arms wide in his usual welcoming gesture.
"To our new students, welcome!" he boomed, his smile radiant. "To our returning students—welcome back! There'll be plenty of time for speeches, but not now. Tuck in!"
Laughter and enthusiastic applause filled the hall.
In an instant, the plates before them brimmed with delicious food. Hermione resumed her conversation with Nearly Headless Nick.
"What were you saying before the Sorting?" she asked. "About the hat's warnings?"
"Oh, yes," Nick said, drifting out of Ron's body. Ron, looking pale, let out a long sigh of relief as the ghost vacated him.
"I've heard the Sorting Hat give warnings several times before," Nick continued. "Always when it senses great danger looming over the school. And its advice is always the same: unity. Strength through solidarity."
"It's just a hat," Ron said, piling roast ribs onto his plate. "How's it supposed to know the school's in danger? And unity? I've got no problem with Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, but Slytherin…"
He let out a derisive snort.
"I don't know how the hat knows," Nick replied, shaking his head. "But it spends all year in Dumbledore's office. I'd wager it overhears a thing or two there." He fixed Ron with a reproachful look. "And your attitude is rather problematic. Peaceful coexistence and cooperation are key. We ghosts, though from different houses, maintain close bonds. Take me, for instance." Nick puffed out his chest proudly. "Despite the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, I've never once considered quarreling with the Bloody Baron."
"That's just because you're scared of him," Ron said without looking up.
Nick bristled, deeply affronted. "Scared? Me? I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, have never once faltered in courage! Noble blood flows through my veins—"
"What blood?" Ron interrupted. "You can't possibly still have—"
"It's a figure of speech!" Nick snapped, visibly irritated. "I'm well aware that, as a ghost, I've lost certain pleasures, but—"
Ron, engrossed in his meal, completely ignored Nick's indignation. The slight infuriated the ghost, who shot into the air and floated to a seat far from Ron.
Hermione shot Ron an annoyed glance, her curiosity abruptly cut off.
As the food on the table dwindled and the last pudding vanished, Dumbledore stood once more.
"Now that we're digesting another splendid feast, I ask for a moment's attention for the usual start-of-term notices," he said. "First, the Forbidden Forest remains off-limits to students, as some of our older students should well know by now."
"Second, Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me—for what he informs me is the four hundred and twenty-sixth time—to remind you that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes. There are, of course, many other rules, which you can find listed on the notice outside Mr. Filch's office for those interested."
"Next, we have three changes to our staff this year. Professor Grubbly-Plank will take over Care of Magical Creatures from Professor Hagrid, and Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, will lead those classes…"
"And finally, we are delighted to—"
Dumbledore's words faltered. To everyone's surprise, he sat down, his expression one of amused curiosity as he turned to the woman in the pink cardigan, who had inexplicably grown taller and was now standing.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Professor Umbridge said with a simpering smile. "Thank you for such a warm introduction."
Her voice was high-pitched, breathy, and girlish, and when paired with her appearance, it sent a wave of revulsion through nearly every student in the hall. She resembled nothing so much as a toad draped in a pink cardigan, unabashedly flaunting her hypocrisy and ugliness.
"I must say, it's simply wonderful to be back at Hogwarts!" she beamed, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. "And to see all these happy little faces looking up at me!"
Harry glanced around. Not a single face looked happy. On the contrary, they seemed shocked that anyone would treat them like five-year-olds.
The staff table wasn't much better. McGonagall's lips were pursed tightly, Sprout's eyebrows arched high, and Snape… well, Snape never smiled anyway.
While Umbridge droned on with her tedious, formulaic platitudes, only two people in the hall wore smiles: Dumbledore, watching her with a gentle grin, and the small, wiry old man at the end of the staff table, his bright blue eyes observing her with keen interest as she wasted everyone's time.
After a full fifteen minutes of mind-numbing speech, she finally sat down.
Dumbledore began to clap, followed reluctantly by the other teachers, most of whom stopped after a perfunctory tap or two. A few quick-witted students joined in, but most had tuned out after her first few sentences, lost in their own thoughts, and didn't even realize she'd finished until Dumbledore stood again.
"Thank you, Professor Umbridge, for that most enlightening speech," he said, giving her a slight bow. "Now, as I was saying, given Mr. Filch's increasingly demanding duties, I'm pleased to introduce an old friend who will assist him in managing the castle. Please welcome Mr. Walton Greldrod!"
Amid sparse applause, the small old man at the end of the staff table rose, offering a modest bow and a smile to the crowd.
"He's got to be, what, eighty or ninety?" Ron muttered, eyeing the frail figure. "Him? Help Filch? Looks like Filch'll be the one helping him into a rocking chair. What's Dumbledore thinking, hiring a helper or a grandfather?"
Snickers erupted around Ron, who grinned, pleased with the reaction. Unfortunately, Hermione, deep in discussion with Harry about Umbridge's speech, missed his quip. Undeterred, Ron's mind wandered to the summer, recalling the book he'd swiped from Fred and George: Twelve Foolproof Ways to Charm Witches. He began plotting how to win Hermione's favor.
Ever since the Yule Ball in fourth year, Ron had been smitten with Hermione. Armed with the book's supposed secrets to winning any witch's heart, he was confident he could outshine Harry Potter and claim Hermione's affections—complete with the envious glares of the Boy Who Lived. And, truth be told, Hermione had looked stunning at the ball, perfectly matching his tastes.
The thought of one day besting the famous Chosen One and marrying the girl he fancied filled Ron with smug satisfaction. Of course, he'd rather not fall out with Harry entirely—years of friendship and the perks of being pals with the Savior were hard to give up.
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