"There are four houses at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying clearly through the Great Hall. "Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. Yet no matter which table you sit at, each and every one of you is first and foremost a student of Hogwarts."
He spread his arms wide, his half-moon spectacles catching the golden candlelight above. "So I hope you will all learn to set aside old assumptions and stand together. Unity, after all, is one of the strongest forms of magic we possess."
Applause swept through the Great Hall again, warmer and louder than before. Even the students who did not entirely agree with the Headmaster's words still clapped along, because no one with sense was going to make a scene in front of every professor in the school.
"Now then," Dumbledore said, his smile returning to its usual twinkle. "The feast may begin. Let us enjoy it together."
The empty golden plates were suddenly no longer empty. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steak, boiled potatoes, jacket potatoes, chips, peas, gravy, Yorkshire puddings, and great dishes of vegetables appeared all at once, filling the four long tables with steam and rich, savoury smells.
The food was hearty rather than delicate, the sort of meal that belonged to an ancient castle full of hungry students rather than some polished Muggle restaurant. Still, there was something wonderfully satisfying about it, especially after a long journey, a nerve-racking Sorting, and a hall full of strangers staring at you.
"This looks amazing," Harry said, helping himself to a little of almost everything. He spoke as if he could hardly believe the food was real, and for a boy who had spent years in the Dursleys' house, a feast that appeared by magic probably felt like a miracle.
"Mm-hmm!" Ron agreed around an enormous mouthful. He had a chicken leg in each hand, and his face already shone with grease as he ate with the focused determination of someone who took dinner very seriously.
At that moment, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. Dozens of pearly, translucent figures drifted through the entrance, floating above the floor as if gravity were only a suggestion and not a rule.
Some of the ghosts chatted with one another, their voices airy and faint beneath the noise of the feast. Others laughed, twirled lazily in mid-air, or swept above the tables with the easy confidence of long-time residents returning to familiar territory.
"What are those?" Harry asked, jerking back slightly as one ghost passed near the Gryffindor table. His hand tightened around his fork, though he seemed more startled than afraid.
"They are the Hogwarts ghosts," Percy said, evidently pleased to have a chance to explain something. "There is no need to be frightened. They belong to the castle, and they do not harm students."
"Look there," Percy added, pointing toward a ghost hovering above the Gryffindor table. "That is our house ghost."
The ghost wore a ruff around his neck, the stiff, wheel-like collar making his pale face look even more solemn. He gazed along the Gryffindor table with a wistful expression, as though he had seen the same sight so many times that it now made him both happy and sad.
"Ah, another school year begins," the ghost said softly. "So many new young witches and wizards in Gryffindor, and so many familiar faces already gone."
There was a loneliness in his voice that made the words linger. Every year brought a new class to Hogwarts, and every year another group left; for the ghosts, the castle changed constantly while they remained exactly where death had left them.
"You are the fixed point, sir," Tyler said with a small smile. "The rest of us are the passing current."
The ghost turned toward him, interest flickering across his transparent features. "Oh? And what do you mean by that?"
"I mean that you will always be here at Hogwarts," Tyler explained. "Students come and go every year, graduating, leaving, and being replaced by new ones. But you remain, watching the castle change around you."
"Oh, yes," the ghost said, his expression brightening. "That is rather well put. I do not believe I have introduced myself properly—Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."
"I know who you are!" Ron blurted, looking up from his food with sudden excitement. "My brothers Fred and George told me about you. You're Nearly Headless Nick!"
"I would prefer," the ghost said, looking rather uncomfortable, "that you call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."
"Nearly headless?" Seamus Finnigan asked, leaning forward with open curiosity. "How can you be nearly headless?"
Tyler did not bother listening closely to the rest of that conversation. He already knew enough about the Hogwarts ghosts: Gryffindor had Nearly Headless Nick, Slytherin had the Bloody Baron, Ravenclaw had the Grey Lady, and Hufflepuff had the Fat Friar.
The Grey Lady was actually Helena Ravenclaw, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw herself. As for her history with the Bloody Baron, it was a tangled mess of old guilt and unfinished emotion, and even death had apparently not been enough to make either of them let go.
The Fat Friar, by comparison, was much easier to understand. He looked cheerful, round-faced, and good-natured, the sort of ghost who seemed more likely to comfort a nervous first-year than frighten one.
Tyler turned slightly and looked across the aisle. Jamie was sitting almost directly opposite him at the Slytherin table, which was close enough for them to speak if they leaned in, though far enough away to make the separation between their houses impossible to ignore.
"How is it?" Tyler asked quietly. He kept his voice low, letting the noise of the feast cover the question.
"Tonight," Jamie murmured, leaning in just enough for Tyler to hear. "Eighth floor. The castle has a room that answers what you need."
Tyler understood at once. The Room of Requirement was hidden on the eighth floor of Hogwarts, one of the castle's strangest and most useful secrets, and even one of Voldemort's Horcruxes had once been concealed there.
"Fine," Tyler said. He gave the smallest nod, then turned back toward the Gryffindor table as if nothing had happened.
At the staff table, Dumbledore noticed the brief exchange between the two boys. For a moment, his gaze seemed to lose focus, and the sight of them sitting at different tables yet still leaning toward each other drew him sharply into the past.
He remembered another clever boy, another dangerous friendship, and a closeness that had once seemed brighter than the future itself. He and Gellert Grindelwald had long since taken different roads, but age had not erased the memory, nor had victory made it painless.
Dumbledore sighed softly. It was such a quiet sound that no one at the student tables heard it, and by the time anyone might have looked his way, the Headmaster's expression had returned to its usual unreadable kindness.
When the students had eaten their fill of the main course, the dishes vanished. In their place appeared puddings, ice cream in every flavour, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs, jam doughnuts, and enough sweet things to make half the younger students stare as if Christmas had arrived early.
Hogwarts might not have served the most refined meals in the world, but the desserts were difficult to criticise. The only real danger was eating too much too quickly, because several of them were sweet enough to make a person regret having a second helping.
Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Neville began talking about their families while they worked through their puddings. Ron spoke with the easy confidence of someone used to a crowded home, while Harry listened more than he talked, carefully avoiding saying too much about the Dursleys.
Hermione, meanwhile, had somehow ended up discussing lessons with Percy. She looked far more interested in course books and class expectations than in dessert, which made Ron glance at her as if she were a creature far stranger than any ghost.
Up at the staff table, the professors were speaking among themselves as well. Professor Flitwick chatted animatedly with Professor Sprout, McGonagall looked stern but relaxed, and Snape sat with his usual sour expression, like a man who had personally been offended by the existence of joy.
"Ah!" Harry suddenly hissed. He flinched and pressed a hand to his forehead, his face tightening as if a sharp pain had stabbed through him.
"Harry, what's wrong?" Tyler asked, though the moment he saw Harry's fingers press against the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, he understood.
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