Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

it was very uncomfortable to have a ghost lean through you). ‘The Hat feels itself honour-bound to give the school due warning whenever it feels –’
    But Professor McGonagall, who was waiting to read out the list of first-years’ names, was giving the whispering students the sort of look that scorches. Nearly Headless Nick placed a see-through finger to his lips and sat primly upright again as the muttering came to an abrupt end. With a last frowning look that swept the four house tables, Professor McGonagall lowered her eyes to her long piece of parchment and called out the first name.
    ‘Abercrombie, Euan.’
    The terrified-looking boy Harry had noticed earlier stumbled forwards and put the Hat on his head; it was only prevented from falling right down to his shoulders by his very prominent ears. The Hat considered for a moment, then the rip near the brim opened again and shouted:
    ‘Gryffindor!’
    Harry clapped loudly with the rest of Gryffindor house as Euan Abercrombie staggered to their table and sat down, looking as though he would like very much to sink through the floor and never be looked at again.
    Slowly, the long line of first-years thinned. In the pauses between the names and the Sorting Hat’s decisions, Harry could hear Ron’s stomach rumbling loudly. Finally, ‘Zeller, Rose’ was Sorted into Hufflepuff, and Professor McGonagall picked up the Hat and stool and marched them away as Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet.
    Whatever his recent bitter feelings had been towards his Headmaster, Harry was somehow soothed to see Dumbledore standing before them all. Between the absence of Hagrid and the presence of those dragonish horses, he had felt that his return to Hogwarts, so long anticipated, was full of unexpected surprises, like jarring notes in a familiar song. But this, at least, was how it was supposed to be: their Headmaster rising to greet them all before the start-of-term feast.
    ‘To our newcomers,’ said Dumbledore in a ringing voice, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile on his lips, ‘welcome! To our old hands – welcome back! There is a time for speech-making, but this is not it. Tuck in!’
    There was an appreciative laugh and an outbreak of applause as Dumbledore sat down neatly and threw his long beard over his shoulder so as to keep it out of the way of his plate – for food had appeared out of nowhere, so that the five long tables were groaning under joints and pies and dishes of vegetables, bread and sauces and flagons of pumpkin juice.
    ‘Excellent,’ said Ron, with a kind of groan of longing, and he seized the nearest plate of chops and began piling them on to his plate, watched wistfully by Nearly Headless Nick.
    ‘What were you saying before the Sorting?’ Hermione asked the ghost. ‘About the Hat giving warnings?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Nick, who seemed glad of a reason to turn away from Ron, who was now eating roast potatoes with almost indecent enthusiasm. ‘Yes, I have heard the Hat give several warnings before, always at times when it detects periods of great danger for the school. And always, of course, its advice is the same: stand together, be strong from within.’
    ‘Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?’ said Ron.
    His mouth was so full Harry thought it was quite an achievement for him to make any noise at all.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Nearly Headless Nick politely, while Hermione looked revolted. Ron gave an enormous swallow and said, ‘How can it know if the school’s in danger if it’s a Hat?’
    ‘I have no idea,’ said Nearly Headless Nick. ‘Of course, it lives in Dumbledore’s office, so I daresay it picks things up there.’
    ‘And it wants all the houses to be friends?’ said Harry, looking over at the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy was holding court. ‘Fat chance.’
    ‘Well, now, you shouldn’t take that attitude,’ said Nick reprovingly. ‘Peaceful co-operation, that’s the key. We ghosts, though we belong to separate houses, maintain links of friendship. In spite of the competitiveness between Gryffindor and Slytherin, I would never dream of seeking an argument with the Bloody Baron.’
    ‘Only because you’re terrified of him,’ said Ron.
    Nearly Headless Nick looked highly affronted.
    ‘Terrified? I hope I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, have never been guilty of cowardice in my life! The noble blood that runs in my veins –’
    ‘What blood?’ asked Ron. ‘Surely you haven’t still got