The ceiling of the Great Hall was, quite simply, the most astonishing thing Josh Brown had ever seen. It was spangled with stars, and it was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, that the Great Hall did not open directly onto the heavens. Josh quickly looked down when Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of the first-year students. On top of it, she placed a pointed wizard's hat.
The Sorting Hat sang its song, and the hall broke into applause. Josh felt nauseous. He felt very small among so many people. Then Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a long roll of parchment in her hands.
—When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted —she said—. Abbott, Hannah!
A rosy-faced girl with blonde braids stepped out of the line, put on the hat, which slipped down over her eyes, and sat down. A brief pause.
—HUFFLEPUFF! —shouted the hat.
Josh watched closely. Bones, Susan, was also sorted into Hufflepuff. Boot, Terry, was the first Ravenclaw.
—Brown, Josh.
It was his turn. With a few admiring glances following him, the boy—slightly euphoric—stepped out of the line. Few people had paid much attention to him on the train, but now, as he walked toward the stool under the light of thousands of candles, his appearance seemed peculiar. To many, he resembled one of the professors; perhaps that was why few dared speak to him and why no one had sat with him on the train. He was a bit taller than the rest (perhaps because, as many would later learn, Josh had just turned twelve), had dull reddish hair, straight and noticeably greasy, hanging over a pale forehead. His nose was hooked and jutted out oddly from his face, giving him a severe, distrustful look.
Josh sat down and pulled the hat over his head.
—Well, well… —whispered a voice in Josh's ear, making him jump—. Interesting. I see quite a lot sitting here. And not just food, young Brown. I see a desire to prove yourself. You have a sharp mind, yes… but above all, you have iron determination. You want to be noticed. You want them to know your name.
Josh thought intensely: I have to be the best. I'm not going back to being just another nobody. They have to give me medals. Lots of medals.
—Medals, eh? —the hat seemed to let out a dry chuckle inside his head—. That ambition to rise above your circumstances, to secure your place in the world no matter the cost… Yes, that's very clear.
—SLYTHERIN! —shouted the hat to the entire hall.
Josh quickly took off the hat. He did not smile, but he lifted his chin with an air of importance as he walked toward the Slytherin table, where students banged their goblets and cheered. He sat at the edge, watching the others with calculating eyes.
The sorting continued. Josh felt his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched one student after another being sorted into their houses, until that boy stepped forward. When the hat shouted —GRYFFINDOR!— the explosion of cheers and applause drowned out any other celebration, while two identical redheads shouted —WE'VE GOT POTTER, WE'VE GOT POTTER— as the boy made his way to their table, where the redheads clapped him on the back.
Then Dumbledore stood up, spread his arms, and said a few words. Suddenly, the dishes filled with food.
Josh stared, open-mouthed. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on a single table: roast beef, roast chicken, chops, sausages, bacon, and steaks…
For twelve years, at St. Jude's Orphanage in London, mealtime had been a silent battle. It wasn't that they were deliberately starved; it was just that there was never enough. After all, the wars had affected the budget, and although Josh didn't know it, the money allocated before the First and Second World Wars never returned to the orphanages, so the caretakers had to make do with what little they had. If you got distracted, the big kid from bed four would steal your bread. Josh had learned to eat fast, elbows out, guarding his plate like a watchdog.
Instinctively, when a mountain of mashed potatoes and a tray of chicken drumsticks appeared in front of him, Josh lunged forward. He served himself a generous amount of food and, without realizing it, wrapped his left arm around his plate while eating with his right hand at breakneck speed, shooting furtive glances to either side.
A pale, sharp-faced boy, Draco Malfoy, watched him with a mix of curiosity and mild disgust.
—No one's going to steal your chicken, Brown —Malfoy drawled, though there was a note of amusement in his voice—. There's enough food here to feed an army of giants.
Josh froze for a second, a piece of meatball halfway to his mouth. He looked around. No one was fighting. No one was eyeing his plate with envy. Everyone was eating calmly. Slowly, he lowered his left arm, relaxing his shoulders for the first time in his life.
—I'm just making sure I'm well fed for when I become the greatest wizard in history —Josh replied, swallowing and trying to sound lofty to fit in, though he wiped a bit of sauce from his chin—. I've heard about that Order of Merlin… —Josh glanced toward the staff table, where Dumbledore was chatting—. Someday, when I invent the ultimate spell, they'll have to change its name. The Brown Award for Excellent Excellence. Sounds better, right?
Malfoy burst out laughing, and Crabbe and Goyle laughed stupidly, though they didn't quite understand. Josh didn't mind being laughed at. His stomach was full, he was in a house of clever wizards, and no one had stolen his dessert. It was the best day of his life.
∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron: at last, they managed to find their way to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost. But the joy ended quickly. They had Potions with the Slytherins.
—Snape is the Head of Slytherin House —Harry said—. They say he always favors them. Let's see if it's true.
Potions class was held in the dungeons. It was colder there than in the rest of the castle. Professor Snape began the class by taking attendance and, like Flitwick, paused when he reached Harry's name.
—Ah, yes —he murmured—. Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity.
Draco Malfoy and his friends snickered behind their hands. Josh Brown, who was sitting near Malfoy, did not laugh. He was too busy aligning his quills and his cauldron with millimetric precision, determined that his workspace would be the neatest in the classroom.
Snape finished the roll call and looked over the class. His eyes were black and cold.
—You are all here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making —the professor said, almost in a whisper, yet perfectly audible—. As there is very little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will doubt that this is magic…
Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances as Snape continued his speech about bottling fame and glory. Suddenly, Snape turned toward Harry.
—Potter! —he snapped—. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?
Harry had no idea. He looked at Ron, who seemed just as lost. Hermione Granger's hand shot into the air.
—I don't know, sir —Harry said.
Snape's lips curled into a mocking smirk.
—Well, well… clearly fame isn't everything.
Snape continued firing questions at Harry, humiliating him further with each wrong answer, ignoring Hermione's raised hand. Finally, Snape stopped looking at Harry and swept his dark eyes across the classroom, coming to rest on the Slytherin table.
They fixed on Josh.
There was something curious about the sight. Josh, with his reddish but extremely greasy hair plastered to his face, and that hooked nose casting a shadow over his parchment, was bent over his cauldron with feverish intensity. Snape stared at the boy a second longer than usual. Perhaps he saw something familiar in the second-hand robes, in the disheveled yet proud appearance, or in the boy's defensive gaze.
—Brown —Snape said softly. He did not use the sharp tone he had used with Harry.
Josh immediately looked up.
—Yes, Professor?
—Tell Mr. Potter… where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?
Harry hoped Josh would fail. But Josh straightened up, puffing out his chest. He had read the textbook three times back at the orphanage, just to make sure no one knew more than he did.
—A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it's used to save you from most poisons —Josh recited in one breath, with a slightly pedantic tone.
Snape kept his expression impassive, but there was the slightest nod, almost imperceptible.
—Correct. And tell me, Brown, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?
—They're the same plant, Professor —Josh answered quickly, smiling smugly toward the Gryffindor side—. They're also known as aconite.
Snape slowly turned toward the class, his cloak billowing.
—I hope you are all writing this down —he said coolly—. And it seems, Potter, that you should worry less about your fame and more about opening your books, as Mr. Brown has done.
Harry felt his face burn with shame and anger. Ron gave him a sympathetic nudge.
—Five points to Slytherin —Snape announced—, for a well-prepared answer.
Josh smiled—an irritating smile. Not warm, but triumphant. Take that, Potter, Josh thought as he wrote down the questions Professor Snape had asked along with their answers. Five points. That's just the beginning. When I win the Brown Award for Excellent Excellence, Snape will have to give me a thousand points.
An hour later, as they left the dungeons, Harry's head was spinning and his spirits were low. He had lost points because of Snape, and that Josh Brown fellow had made him look like a fool.
—That Snape… —Ron muttered—. Did you see how he looked at Brown? It's like he actually liked him.
—Yeah —Harry said, remembering the hooked nose and greasy hair they both shared—. I guess they understand each other.