A bushy-haired blond wizard pondered seriously for a moment.
"Dunno."
"You don't know what you're pondering?!"
Michael figured these two mates—Anthony and Terry—would shave years off his life.
As for that graceful-yet-ravenous dining etiquette he'd mentioned...
An orphanage scraping by always dreamed up ways to offload its charges,
pointless cruelties that battered the kids' bodies and spirits alike.
The only winners? The matrons,
armed with fresh excuses to scold and snap.
In that grind, Sean had been forced to pick up a few tricks, like etiquette—
meals, posture, bedtime routines, the lot.
Good thing I got out of there,
Sean thought,
or Matron Anna, facing the axe, would've made my life hell.
In the Hogwarts Great Hall,
Dumbledore bantered with the staff table,
Sean shoveled food;
Michael chatted up witches,
Sean shoveled food;
Terry jotted notes on Dumbledore's words,
Sean shoveled food.
Until the hall's clamor died down and the platters cleared.
"Now that we're all fed and watered,"
Sean caught Dumbledore's booming voice.
Fed and watered?
Not quite.
Sean thought wryly.
Dumbledore droned on with the three warnings: no third-floor corridor on the right, no Forbidden Forest, no night wandering.
"Now, before we all turn in, let's sing the school song!"
Dumbledore bellowed.
Sean eyed him, noting how every professor's smile froze solid.
He got why soon enough.
"That's awful."
Sean clapped his hands over his ears.
"If you don't want to listen, you've got to sing!"
Michael belted out with gusto, tone-deaf as he was,
"If you don't hex someone else first, they'll hex you!"
"Makes sense."
So Sean joined in:
*Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, teach us something useful, whether we're old and bald or young with scabby knees, our brains are full of strange and wonderful things.
For now they're empty and full of air, dead flies and bits of string, so teach us things worth knowing, bring back what we've forgotten, just like you would do, and we'll do our best to learn until we're wizened old. *
"You've got pipes!"
Afterward, Michael slung an arm around him,
Sean nodded—he'd borrowed a tune from a past-life pop hit, and it worked a treat.
At least the surrounding wails toned down a notch.
Before long, they trailed a lanky prefect out of the hall,
up the spiraling stairs,
up the spiraling stairs,
still spiraling up the stairs...
"These stairs are out to murder me!"
Michael slumped against the banister, done for.
"You just said the prefect's legs were out to murder you."
Anthony rolled his eyes.
"Oi?! Puddings are fair game, but words aren't—Anthony, that was between mates! How could you spill?!"
Michael, mysteriously re-energized, lunged to tickle Anthony.
By the time they reached the common room, Sean's face was ashen,
one more flight and his body would've given out.
"I've got to find a way,"
Sean wheezed, muttering under his breath.
The Ravenclaw first-years had all arrived,
the blond prefect beaming as they caught their breath.
Once everyone's lungs steadied, she spoke:
"Congratulations! I'm Prefect Penelope Clearwater, and I'm thrilled to welcome you to Ravenclaw House.
Our emblem is an eagle, soaring to peaks no one else can reach;
our common room sits at the top of Ravenclaw Tower.
Through the arched windows of this circular room, you can take in the whole Hogwarts grounds:
the Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest, the Quidditch pitch, the greenhouses.
No other house has this view.
Of course, plenty reckon it's no great shakes, but I can tell you,
once you master broom-riding, it's pure bliss!
Oh, and our house ghost is the Grey Lady.
Others say she never speaks, but she'll chat with Ravenclaws.
A little gossip: they say she lived in Rowena's time—maybe some connection there?
She's a godsend if you're lost or hunting something.
I know you'll have a smashing night.
Our four-posters are draped in sky-blue silk;
the wind whispering past the windows is ever so soothing.
One more time: congratulations on joining the cleverest, quickest, and most interesting house at Hogwarts!"
No fluff—just a crisp speech that lit up the first-years' eyes.
That was why Michael and the other Ravenclaws clapped like mad.
Broomsticks.
Sean remembered—top Ravenclaw Quidditch players did fly back to the tower.
He jotted that down mentally, slotting it just after "secure scholarship,"
then took a proper gander at the place:
the Ravenclaw common room.
Said to be one of the airiest, most spacious rooms in the castle,
a vast circular chamber with elegant arched windows, hung with blue-and-bronze silks,
offering Ravenclaws a stunning vista.
The domed ceiling glittered with stars; the deep-blue carpet below twinkled with more.
Tables and chairs, bookshelves dotted the space, and opposite the door, a niche held a white marble bust of Rowena Ravenclaw.
Beside the statue, a door led to the dorms above—Penelope was pointing it out now.
"Right, everyone queue up for a timetable from me, then through that door to the dorms—details on the back."
The prefect directed the little Ravenclaws with calm efficiency.
Sean took his—Potions, the beastliest, loomed first thing Monday morning, double period no less.
Urgency hit like a Bludger; he itched to dash back and cram Magical Drafts and Potions again—he'd only memorized it once,
and if his mind blanked mid-brew, the Half-Blood Prince wouldn't spoon-feed him.
"Sean!"
Michael whooped, delighted; Sean turned, puzzled.
"Gran says anyone who loves food that much can't be half bad!"
He waggled his timetable;
the back read: Room 404: Sean Greene, Michael Corner.
Hooked around the shoulders (Michael's doing) into the dorm,
they faced walls decked in blue-and-silver,
each bed with its own shelf, arched windows swagged in blue silk.
Sean skimmed it all, eyes landing on the thick azure duvet.
No more freezing nights, Sean thought.