IV. LET THE SHOW BEGIN
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❝The holidays linger like bad perfume,
You can run, but only so far❞
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"...PIU BELLA, LA MIA MELODIA..."
Was the only sound that could be heard inside the silent carriage, unbeknownst of the singer who was muttering it. She was just too engrossed in her thought to acknowledge the eyes that were on her as she watched aimlessly out of the window as they went through the large gates that were flanked with statue of winged boars.
The pouring reminded her of a certain memory from her childhood that caused her to remember the lullaby; her mum's singing with her melodious voice as she was cuddled up in her arms. Though lonely they were at that time, they still felt whole with the lullaby that her dad had created just for her.
The memory was too bittersweet for her to want to remember, but at the same time she wanted it to be imbedded in her mind so that she could remember the lullaby forever and so that she'll never forget it.
And she'll never, not even after life.
"...melodia mi guiderai..."
They watched her carefully, couldn't even be bother by the rough trundle of the carriage that was nearing the castle upon the hill, immersed by her enchanting voice that seem to have been used expertly before; it was as though the warmth that radiated as she sang, was visible.
Peculiarly, they weren't aware she could speak another language. Much less singing in it.
It was... captivating to say the least.
Her heartbeat rapidly in anticipation. Even with the window of the carriage curtained by a thick amount of rain, she could see the blurred and shimmering sight of the many light windows of the castle.
Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville snapped out of their dazes once Lucia wheeled her head to them.
She gave them a look that said: Well, what are you all waiting for?
Three of the four had reddish-pink tinting their cheeks, embarrassed by the fact they partially got caught by the girl. However, Ron who was ever-so tactless, merely shrugged and opened the door.
One by one they jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps as fast as they could, not wanting to get soak from the rain as much as they already were, and only looking up when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall and its magnificent marble staircase.
"Blimey," said Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, "if that keeps up the lake's going to overflow. I'm soak — ARRGH!" A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron's head and exploded, missing Lucia by just a few inches.
Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggered sideways into Harry, just as a second water bomb dropped — narrowly missing Hermione, it burst at Harry's feet, sending a wave of freezing water over his sneakers into his socks as another bomb was set above of Lucia unknowingly, drenching her robes and tidied hair immensely.
People all around them shrieked and started pushing one another in their efforts to get out of the line of fire. Above them was the floating poltergeist of Hogwarts that craved of mischief: Peeves. Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again.
"PEEVES!" yelled an angry voice. "Peeves, come down here at ONCE!"
Professor McGonagall, deputy headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling. "Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger —"
"That's all right, Professor!" Hermione gasped, massaging her throat.
"Peeves, get down here NOW!" barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles.
"Not doing nothing!" cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall. "Already wet, aren't they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!" And he aimed another bomb at a group of second years who had just arrived.
"I shall call the headmaster!" shouted Professor McGonagall. "I'm warning you, Peeves —"
Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely.
"Word of advice, Professor," Lucia began as she wringed water from her hair, "perhaps you should use the headmaster's name to scare him — or even the Bloody Baron would suffice. He's terribly afraid of them." She added with a sweet smile.
"I'll take that into consideration next time, Miss DiFiore," Professor McGonagall sighed exasperatedly She then turned to the bedraggled crowd and held a strong and stern stare at them before speaking sharply as per usual, "Well, move along, then! Into the Great Hall, come on!"
The moment they slipped and slid across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, the sweet smile disappeared from her once soft features as she mumbled curses under her breath, complaining to herself about her soaking appearance.
"When I see that bloody poltergeist again, I'll make sure he'll regret..." she muttered, clenching her fist, glaring ahead.
And she wasn't alone, as Ron, too, was muttering furiously under his breath as he pushed his sopping hair off his face.
The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils.
It was much warmer in here than it was out there, Lucia thought as she breathed out a sigh of relief. She didn't think she could handle the cold very well...
She walked behind Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville as they passed the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs before settling herself beside Neville, sitting across from the trio at the far side of the hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost.
Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and ensuring that his head didn't wobble too much on his partially severed neck.
"Good evening," he said, beaming at them.
"Says who?" said Harry, taking off his sneakers and emptying them of water. "Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I'm starving."
She didn't fault Harry for that even though the Lucia Beaumont part of herself was noting of how rude it was, but she had to remind herself that right now she no longer needed to put up the mask of the Beaumonts' over-achiever of an adopted daughter, but herself.
As Luciana DiFiore.
A deep look crossed Lucia's face before a smile erupted from her lips welcomingly. "Good... evening, Sir Nick!"
"She needs to tone down her joy level," said Ron under her breath. Lucia pretended not to hear him on the outside, but the next thing Ron knew, he felt a pain surging through his shin. He yelped. "BLOODY HEL — !"
"Hmm, I wonder when the first years are going to arrive?" said Lucia airily, looking around while ignoring the glare casted her way.
The Sorting of the new students into Houses took place at the start of every school year, and Lucia was lucky enough to watch as it commences. Though she wouldn't lie that it gets boring most of the time as they waited for the names to be called. It was simply a long waiting and a guessing game.
Just then, an overly excited, breathless voice called down the table.
"Hiya, Harry!"
It was Colin Creevey, a third year whom Harry was something of a hero to.
"Hi, Colin," said Harry warily.
"Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother's starting! My brother Dennis!"
"Er — good," said Harry.
"He's really excited!" said Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. "I just hope he's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?"
"Er — yeah, all right," said Harry. He turned back to the others, "Brothers and sisters usually go in the same Houses, don't they?" he said. He was judging by the Weasleys, all seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor.
"Oh no, not necessarily," said Hermione. "Parvati Patil's twin's in Ravenclaw, and they're identical. You'd think they'd be together, wouldn't you?"
Lucia hummed thoughtfully. Then she spoke: "I doubt it."
"And why's that?" Hermione cocked a brow.
"Knowing Parvati and Padma, no matter if they share the same blood or are twins, they're practically two different people. While one is loud, the other is quiet," Lucia said, pointing her wand directly at herself absentmindedly, "The Sorting Ceremony is like those personality tests you take in your spare time, right?" She said before a strong jet of stifling air blew through her face, drying her. "Parvati's personality is much suited in Gryffindor, and that goes the same for Padma."
Her tone of voice hinted a sense of fact, in which no one could argue with. Not even Hermione, who merely sigh in defeat. But Lucia smiled at them with a genuine dubious look that was almost endearing.
Almost.
"Bloody hell, do you stalk people or something?" Ron joked, hiding the enviousness he was feeling of her dryness unlike the soppiness he was currently in.
However, that smile was quick to disperse in a blink of an eyes. She looked ahead toward him blankly.
Ron seem to take a double take. "Wait — you don't do you — ?"
"Of course not," Lucia shook her head, frowning slightly. "W-Who do you think I am? I'm not a creep, I just tend to... to observe more that's all,"
"That's creepy," said Ron bluntly, causing Hermione to smack him and Harry to shake his head.
"No, it isn't!" her voice cracked. "I promise!" Lucia added quickly.
"We'll take your word for it then," said Harry, smiling at her.
Lucia wasn't convinced. That smile of his, to her, was somewhat deviant in some sort of way.
The more she looks at Harry the more she realised just how mysterious this boy really was. Sure, the whole Wizarding world knew of his background because it was never a secret, however were they really sure they know him? Perhaps she was just overthinking it, but as he smiles, for a split second she saw his lips twitched into a smirk. A cunning one even.
Lucia blinked at Harry, thinking she had just imagined it.
Yeah, Lucia thought, I'm totally imagining it. There was no way Harry Potter, the very epitome of Gryffindor, would ever be as cunning as a Slytherin. And from what she knew of him, he was more oblivious than he was cunning...
Yeah, that totally was it. Nothing more...
She smiled back at him, shrugging off the disturbing thought from her mind. The last thing she wanted was to make her school life not normal anymore. So, perhaps, it was best to be in Harry's good side than to be his enemy.
Because he was very unpredictable in his own way.
"— the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?"
Lucia broke off from her pondering thoughts and ventured her eyes to the staff table. The Defence Against the Dark Arts seat was still empty while the others were slowly being filled up. Yet she was not surprised by this. It was about time someone decided the spot was practically cursed to the bone. There was no teacher that lasted more than three terms, and that was a very well-known fact throughout Hogwarts. By now, they were going in with their fourth Defence teacher after passing three; one died mysteriously, another was a fraud and left with severe amnesia, and the other resigned.
The resigned one so happened to be one of the most normal teacher out of the three — minus the little furry problem he had going on of course, but he was the majority of the student's favourite by far. Too bad he had to resign; Lucia thought she liked him.
He was the most competent and caring too.
"Maybe they couldn't get anyone!" said Hermione, looking anxious.
"I'm just hoping it's not Snape..." muttered Neville. "Wasn't there a rumour about him going for Defence first but didn't get the job?"
Lucia patted his back reassuringly. "I hope it isn't Snape too..."
That would be a nightmare for not only her, but everyone in the whole school. Snape was not only a horrible person, in her opinion, but as well as a terrible teacher.
Potions were already dreadful, but Defence Against the Dark Arts? She would be failing more if that were the case, and she would not look forward to the scolding she would get from her adoptive parents...
Scanning the table, Lucia saw tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway grey hair. She was talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra's other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape —
Lucia flinched at the sight of him as she quickly turned away before he noticed her gaze on him.
She didn't like Professor Snape; it was as simple as that. His loathing gazes toward students reminded her a little bit too much of her adoptive mother to the point that discomfort or fear would usually well up in her heart whenever she was in his class. And like Mrs. Beaumont, there was no way for her to get rid of him, which left her no other choice but to tolerate his abuse as much as she could.
Mentally exhausted, sure. But she had to suck it up, as Damien, Hugo's little brother, once said to her. Or else, she'd just prove how whiny she could be...
There was this one conflicting feeling she seem to always get, and that was whenever the so-called Potion professor would go head-to-head with Harry due to some feud they have for some odd reason.
At first, it was unmistakably one-sided, but as time went on Harry began to reciprocate the intense feeling of hatred that Snape seem to have for him. And he didn't even try to hide it.
Everyone in school knew of how the two hated each other and sometimes Malfoy and his gang would use that as ammo against Harry. The thing was, no one knew why Snape acted the way he does around Harry, as though the boy stole something dearly from him — like his childhood blankie or something along those lines...
However, no one could blame Harry for hating Snape though, after being treated like rubbish all throughout the years. The fact that he surpassed Malfoy in terms of who Harry loath the most was simply remarkable in a bad way.
How can adult get to that point in life, fighting with a pre-teen?
Well, she wasn't sure, but she was putting bets on how he sucks at communication and people in general, which was the complete opposite of his potion-making skills. The latter is spectacular, the former...
Terrible.
On Snape's other side was an empty seat, which, assuming is Professor McGonagall's. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore's long, thin fingers were together, and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought.
"Oh, hurry up," Lucia heard Ron moaned in dismay, "I could eat a hippogriff."
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a lengthy line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Lucia was wet, it was nothing compared to how these first years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed.
All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school — all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was wrapped in what looks to be Hagrid's moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it looked as though he were draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protruded from over the collar, looking painfully excited.
When he had lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey's eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and mouthed, I fell in the lake! He looked positively delighted about it.
Professor McGonagall now placed a four-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song as it usually does and as soon as it finished, the Great Hall ran with applause.
"That's not the song it sang when it Sorted us," said Harry, clapping along with everyone else.
"The Sorting Hat creates its own lyrics for each ceremony," Lucia stated distractedly, "Didn't you know?"
Harry shook his head, frowning.
"Well, its got to be a pretty boring life, hasn't it, being a hat?" said Ron.
"Can't exactly imagine it playing croquet too, can you?" said Lucia.
Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment. "When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," she told the first years. "When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.
"Ackerley, Stewart!"
A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat down on the stool.
"RAVENCLAW!" shouted the hat.
Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him.
"Baddock, Malcolm!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
The ceremony went on and on. Gryffindor, like other houses, had welcomed their newcomers with the utmost cheers. Finally, it was Dennis Creevey's turn.
They watched as tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over Hagrid's moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into the hall through a door behind the teachers' table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming — a misleading impression, for many knew Hagrid to possess a truly kind nature.
He winked at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, even grinning at Lucia, who happily smiled back at him as he sat down at the end of the staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opened wide —
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted.
Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat, placed it back on the stool, and hurried over to join his brother.
"Colin, I fell in!" he said shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. "It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!"
Lucia chuckled. Dennis Creevey was an exceptionally adorable fellow.
"Cool!" said Colin, just as excitedly. "It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!"
"Wow!" said Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster.
"Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one with the black hair and glasses? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?"
Glancing at Harry, she saw him immediately looking away, staring very hard at the Sorting Hat, now Sorting Emma Dobbs. It was clear to see that he did not need another Colin in his heels.
The Sorting continued; children with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the four-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passed the L's.
"Oh hurry up," Ron moaned, massaging his stomach.
"Now, Ron, the Sorting's much more important than food," said Nearly Headless Nick as "Madley, Laura!" became a Hufflepuff.
"'Course it is, if you're dead," snapped Ron.
"Care for some toffees?" Lucia took out a small sweet with brown wrapping from the pocket of her robes after rummaging through it for some time, as though her pocket were an endless pit. She held it in front of Ron. "I bought it on the way back to the compartment after changing into robes,"
Ron narrowed his eyes at the sweet before snatching it. "It's all I have," he sighed and began unwrapping it.
"Be grateful I even gave it to you in the first place," Lucia rolled her eyes, scoffing.
"Twank ywou —" said Ron, mid-chewing.
Lucia smiled half-heartedly, trying to not make it known how mildly disgusted she was.
"I do hope this year's batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch," said Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as "McDonald, Natalie!" joined the Gryffindor table. "We don't want to break our winning streak, do we?"
Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row.
"Meh," Lucia sounded, shrugging. "I don't think it'll matter much this year. Especially with the secret event and all," She went to hand a toffee to Hermione, however the girl merely declined. She shrugged and passed the sweets to Harry and Neville instead, both of whom took it gratefully, along with a few first-years near her with a kind and encouraging smile.
"Pritchard, Graham!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
"Quirke, Orla!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
And finally, with "Whitby, Kevin!"("HUFFLEPUFF!"), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away.
"About time," said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.
Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome. "I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."
"Hear, hear!" said Harry and Ron loudly as the empty dishes filled magically before their eyes.
Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as all the students began load their plates with food.
"Aaah, 'at's be'er," said Ron, with his mouth full of mashed potato.
"You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," said Nearly Headless Nick. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."
"Why? Wha' 'appened?" said Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak.
"Peeves, of course," said Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. "The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast — well, it's quite out of the question, you know what he's like, utterly uncivilized, can't see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost's council — the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down."
"Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something," said Ron darkly. "So, what did he do in the kitchens?"
"Oh, the usual," said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits —"
Clang.
Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention.
"There are house-elves here?" she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. "Here at Hogwarts?"
"Certainly," said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."
"Why haven't I ever seen them then?" Hermione asked.
It was then Lucia decided to speak up: "Well, that's because they only come out at night when no one's around so they can do the chores without being bothered — or, well, in their opinion, 'bother' us." She swiftly pushed tomatoes onto Neville's plate, unbothered by the scowl that he had behind his look of startlement of her actions. "Once they caught you seeing them, they'll be gone in a split second with a little whoosh with them,"
"Did you just say, 'whoosh'?"
"Yeah. Got a problem with that, Ginger Ale?"
Ron gaped at her. "Ginger — she just called me ginger ale!" he whined to Harry, who look everything but concern about Ron's little 'predicament'.
Blinking blankly, tilting her to the side, she asked genuinely, "Should I call you something else then?"
"Yes," said Ron infuriatingly, "It's Ron and you know —"
"Gingerbread."
"You —" but his words were short-lived as she shoved a whole baguette into his mouth, causing him to shut up.
While Ron was busy half-choking and half-eating the baguette, Lucia turned to Hermione questionably. "Why do you ask all of the sudden?"
However, Hermione didn't answer but shrieked in disbelief. "You knew about this?!"
Lucia flinched at her tone, but composed herself quickly, asking: "K-Knew about what?"
"About the house-elves being here! How can you just accept that?!"
At how low and loud Hermione's voice was being, Lucia flinched once again, but this time in panic. She really hated being yelled at.
Lucia, desperate, wheeled around to Harry, Ron, and Neville for answers as to why Hermione was being outright aggressive with her, instead being in her normal state of passive aggressiveness; Neville couldn't answer her, also puzzled. Needless to say, neither Harry nor Ron was of any help as they were too busy stuffing their faces to even answer.
She tried her best not to look at Hermione's way, afraid that the unwanted tears would shed the moment she did by how piercing her gaze would be. God, does she hated being yelled at — did she said that already?
She really thought everyone knew about it...
"Well, they also hardly ever leave the kitchen by day," said Nearly Headless Nick, saving Lucia. "That's the mark of a good house-elf is that you're not supposed to see them."
But this seems to make the situation even more worse.
Hermione stared at him.
"But they get paid?" she said. "They get holidays, don't they? And — and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"
Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff slipped, and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck.
"Sick leave and pensions?" he said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"
Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her.
"Oh c'mon, 'Er-my-knee," said Ron, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. "Oops — sorry, 'Arry —" He swallowed. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"
"Slave labor," said Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labor."
And those mere words were enough to make Lucia understand. It seems to her that Hermione Granger had finally learnt about wizards unfair treatment towards house-elves — or even people who aren't wizards in general.
"B-But Granger, Ron's right. You're not helping them by not eating the food they fixed up so tirelessly for everyone, Granger," said Lucia quietly. "It'll only waste their efforts."
Hermione stared down at her plate. She had concluded her answer, and it was the opposite of what Lucia was hoping for: She refused to eat another bite.
The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings.
"Have some dessert at least," said Lucia quietly, as she tried to push a slice of treacle tart toward Hermione's way, only to be responded by a firm shook of a head from the girl.
Lucia looked down sullenly.
"Look," spoke up Harry after Lucia brought back the slice of tart in front of her, poking absent holes on it. Lucia glanced up at him peculiarly.
"What?"
"If you're not going to eat that, give it to me,"
Sparkles were practically evident in his eyes as he stared at the dessert so lovingly. Lucia couldn't help stifling a giggle.
"But you've already eaten three plates of them," she said, quirking her head amusingly. "Are you sure you could still eat —"
"You're talking rubbish," said Harry, snatching the plate from her grasp before she could say anything more. He took a bite of the tart, "I can eat dozens more of them if I want to." He jests.
"Didn't you just say that you can't eat anything anymore?"
"My stomach will just have to suck it up because this, Lucia, is Hogwart's treacle tart! It's one of the best treacles here — no, the whole country — wait, no, maybe the whole —"
Lucia shoved a spoonful of the tart into Harry's mouth, stopping him from further babbling about his love for the dessert. She nodded exasperatedly, "Yes, yes. You love treacle tart,"
"It's —"
"One of the best, I know."
She shook her head with a small smile curling her lips. Sure, treacle tart may be good, but it wasn't a sweet dish that she would devour everyday like Harry. She much preferred those sweet courses that her mum used to make for her when she was little; an iced sweet dessert containing droplets of green rice flour jelly, coconut milk, and palm sugar syrup made its way to her mind.
Damn it.
Now she was craving for it.
Thanks to her mum's Baba-Nyonya origin, she was introduced to many other cuisines that were around her part of the neighbourhood, such as Chinese or Malay cuisines that completely had changed her tongue all at once and her preferences in food began to change, though her mum didn't complain about.
She was pleased to know that her daughter had inherited her taste buds instead of her husband's 'weak' one.
"Shortcake, Hermione!" said Ron, deliberately wafting its smell toward her. "Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!"
But Hermione gave him a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that he gave up.
When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.
"So!" said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered," ("Hmph!" said Hermione) "I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices."
Dumbledore began droning about the usual forewarnings like the list of objects that were forbidden inside the castle that had unsurprisingly been extended through the years to the point it had reached four hundred and thirty-seven items, which Lucia reckoned it was Fred and George's doing, and a reminder to not go into the Forbidden forest, as well as the notice about Hogsmeade visit, when finally he said something that complete caught everyone off-guard: "...It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."
"What?"
Like Harry, Fred, and George, the members of each Houses' Quidditch teams were astonished by this announcement. They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak, but Lucia couldn't help but agree with their reactions as she felt a deep sense of disappointment sinking into her heart. Quidditch was one of the very few reasons why she still was going to Hogwarts — aside the law that made it illegal for her to not attend... and although she understood why, thanks to the rumoured event, the disappointment was extremely real.
She was sure if the former Quidditch Captain of her house, Oliver Wood, were to hear this, he would've been livid. Livider than he was when Gryffindor had lost against Hufflepuff last year.
And admittedly, that did brought back a smile on her lips. Dumbledore went on.
"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts —"
But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.
A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black travelling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers' table. A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling.
Lucia's eyes widened, stunned. She had only seen photos of him from the Daily Prophet, but never had she thought that she would meet him in person.
It was the Alastor Moody — or, also known as Mad-Eye Moody.
The former Auror reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words that Lucia could not hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.
He sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what's left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.
"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."
It was usual for unfamiliar staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him
"Moody?" Harry muttered. "Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?"
"Must be," said Ron in a low, awed voice.
"What happened to him?" Hermione whispered. "What happened to his face?"
"Dunno," Ron whispered back, watching Moody with fascination.
Lucia's eyes narrowed at the man; goosebumps animated through her body. "What do you think, Neville? Dark magic?"
"I reckon," said Neville to her, "It's not like being an Auror is a job you would get out unscathed," before he added, "I would know..."
She snapped her head to face Neville, a pitiful look present on her face. She knew of what happened to Neville's parents, and she understood why he never wanted to talk about it. Looking down to the peony locket on her chest, Lucia pursed her lips.
She knew the feeling all too well.
Moody seemed indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!" said Fred Weasley loudly.
The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.
"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar..."
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.
"Er — but maybe this is not the time... no..." said Dumbledore.
"Aww," pouted Lucia. "I wanted to hear that joke..."
Harry grinned. "A joke coming from Dumbledore would be more about socks than the literal joke itself."
"Hmm, you're not wrong, but you have to admit that sock jokes aren't all that terrible," she said.
"Uh-huh, sure," he said, "Sock jokes aren't all that terrible,"
"See —"
"...if you are an old man, Lucia," snorted Harry.
Lucia heaved out a sigh, "I spoke too soon..."
The two exchanged knowing looks before breathing out a small laugh.
"— where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament... well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation and allow their attention to wander freely."
"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."
"I-I'm sorry, but did he just say —"
"Death toll?" The two girls shared alarmed expressions.
But their anxiety did not seem to be shared by most students in the Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, completely disregarding what he had just said.
"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger. The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their shortlisted contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."
"I'm going for it!" Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, people were either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once more.
"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age — that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This" — Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious — "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion." His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Fred's and George's mutinous faces. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."
Lucia and Hermione shared a look of relief.
"Oh, thank goodness," said Lucia, shoulders slumping as though the tension that were on her shoulders previously were gone. "I would've thought the Ministry had finally lost their marbles."
"It doesn't really help still," said Hermione disapprovingly.
Unfortunately, Hermione was right. It wasn't going to change the fact that the participators of the tournament would be students and no full-fledge adults, and its history did not help its case.
"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!" Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody.
There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.
"They can't do that!" said George Weasley, who had not joined the crowd moving toward the door but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. "We're seventeen in April, why can't we have a shot?"
"They're not stopping me entering," said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. "The champions'll get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!"
"Yeah," said Ron, a faraway look on his face. "Yeah, a thousand Galleons..."
"Sounds a wee bit too dangerous, don't you think?" said Lucia anxiously.
"Come on," said Hermione, "we'll be the only ones left here if you don't move."
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Lucia, Fred, and George set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen from entering the tournament.
"Who's this impartial judge who's going to decide who the champions are?" said Harry.
"Dunno," said Fred, "but it's them we'll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, George..."
"Dumbledore knows you're not of age, though," said Ron.
"Yeah, but he's not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?" said Fred shrewdly. "Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he'll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore's trying to stop us giving our names."
"People have died, though!" said Hermione in a worried voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.
"Yeah," said Fred airily, "but that was years ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the fun without a bit of risk? How 'bout it, Lucia?"
Lucia blinked absentmindedly and quirked her head to the side. "Uh, well, no...?" she said hesitantly. "I think I would rather have myself tryout for the Quidditch team and play against Slytherin than sabotaging my literal life."
And she didn't think she could handle all the stress that came with the tournament, especially since she had other things to prioritise...
"Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get 'round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?"
"What d'you reckon?" Ron asked Harry. "Be cool to enter, wouldn't it? But I s'pose they might want someone older... Dunno if we've learned enough..."
"I definitely haven't," came Neville's gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. "I expect my gran'd want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I'll just have to — oops..."
Neville's foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville's memory was notoriously poor. Harry and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.
"Shut it, you," said Ron, banging down its visor as they passed.
They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. "Password?"
"Balderdash," said George, "a prefect downstairs told me."
The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and muttered "Slave labor," before bidding them good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls' dormitory with Lucia following suit, bidding goodnight to them.
She entered the said dormitory, the fourth years dormitory door wide open and when she took a step in, she heaved in the familiar and cozy sight that she had missed.
All her dormmates, including Hermione were at their respected bed, either talking or stowing away their belongings. She walked, beelining to her four-poster, scarlet covered bed that was placed right in front of the door, center of all of the beds. At once, she flopped on it, sighing:
"Welcome home,"