The rest of the first years made their way to the dais and the house tables filled out appreciably. Ralph Deedle was one of the last to climb up and sit on the chair. He seemed to shrink a bit under the hat as it thought for a surprisingly long time. Then, with a flourish of its peak, the hat announced, "Slytherin!"

        James was stunned. He had been sure that at least one, if not both, of his new friends would end up seated next to him at the Gryffindor table. Neither of them had joined him, however, and one of them, the one he least expected, had become a Slytherin. Of course, he conveniently forgot that he himself had almost succeeded in getting sent there. But Ralph? A Muggle-born if ever there was one? He turned and saw Ralph seating himself at the table on the far side of the room, being patted on the back by his new housemates. The girl with the sparkling eyes and the wavy black hair was smiling again, pleasantly, welcomingly. Maybe Slytherin House had changed, he thought. Dad and Mum would hardly believe it.

Finally, Headmistress McGonagall put the Sorting Hat away. "First years," she called, "your new house is your home, but we are all your family. Let us enjoy competitions wherever we may find them, but never forget where our ultimate loyalties lie. And now," she pushed her spectacles onto her nose and addressed the crowd over them. "Announcements. As always, the Forbidden Forest is off limits to students at all times. Please be sure that this is not a merely academic preference. First years may ask any older students- except for Mr. Ted Lupin and Mr. Noah Metzker, whose counsel you might wish to avoid on the matter-what they can expect if they determine to ignore this rule."

        James let the rest of the announcements roll over him as he scanned the faces of the crowd. Zane, at the Ravenclaw table, had pulled a bowl of nuts in front of him and was determinedly working his way through it. Across the room, Ralph caught James' eye and gestured wonderingly at himself and his new housemates, seeming to ask James if it was all right. James shrugged and nodded noncommittally.

        "Leaving us with one last order of business," the Headmistress finally said, to the accompaniment of a few brave cheers. "Some of you may have noticed that there is one empty chair amidst your teachers here on the dais. Rest assured that you shall have a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and that he is indeed a uniquely qualified and gifted expert on the subject. He will be arriving tomorrow afternoon, along with a full complement of fellow teachers, students, and associates, as part of a year-long international magical summit between his school and ours. I will expect you all to turn out tomorrow afternoon in the main courtyard for the arrival of the representatives from Alma Aleron and the United States Department of Magical Administration."

        Sounds of mingled excitement and derision erupted in the hall as the students instantly turned to discuss this rather remarkable turn of events with their fellows. James heard Ted say, "What is some old Yank gonna be able to tell us about the Dark Arts? What channel to watch them on?" There was a chorus of laughter. James turned around, looking for Zane. He found him, caught his eye, and pointed at him, shrugging. Your people are coming here, he mouthed. Zane clapped his hand over his heart and saluted with the other.

        In the midst of the debate, dinner appeared on the long tables, and James, along with the rest of Hogwarts, dug in with fervor.

        It was nearly midnight by the time James made his way to the portrait of the Fat Lady marking the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.

        "Password," she sang out. James stopped short, letting his green backpack slip off his shoulder and thump to the floor. No one had told him any passwords.

"I don't know the password yet. I'm a first year. I'm a Gryffindor," he added lamely.

        "Gryffindor you may be," said the Fat Lady, looking him up and down with an air of polite patience, "but no password, no entry."

        "Maybe you could give me a little hint this time?" James said, trying to smile winningly.

        The Fat Lady stared at him levelly. "You seem to have some unfortunate misunderstanding of the nature of the term 'password', my dear."

        There was a commotion on the moving staircase nearby. It swung into view and settled, lurching slightly, at the end of the landing. A group of older students clambered up, laughing and shushing each other conspicuously. Ted was among them.

        "Ted," James called in relief, "I need the password. A little help?"

        Ted saw James as he and the others approached. "Genisolaris," he said, and then added to one of the girls in the group, "Hurry it up, Petra, and don't let Noah's brother see you."

        She nodded, brushing past James as the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open to reveal the fire-lit glow of the common room. James began to follow her in when Ted threw an arm around his shoulder, turning him around and bringing him back out onto the landing. "My dear James, you can't imagine we're going to let you toddle off to bed at such an early hour, do you? There are Gryffindor traditions to think about, for Merlin's sake."

        "What?" James stammered. "It's midnight. You know that, do you?"

        "Commonly known in the Muggle world as 'The Witching Hour'," Ted said instructively. "A misnomer, of course, but 'The Witching and Wizarding Pulling Tricks on Unsuspecting Muggle Country Folk Hour' is just a bit too long for anyone to remember. We like to call it, simply, 'Raising the Wocket'."

        Ted was leading James back toward the stairs, along with three other Gryffindors. "The what?" James asked, trying to keep up.

"Boy doesn't know what the Wocket is," Ted said mournfully to the rest of the group. "And his dad's the owner of the famous Marauder's Map. Just think how much easier this would be if we could get our hands on that bit of skullduggery. James, let me introduce you to the rest of the Gremlins, a group you may indeed hope to join, depending on how things go tonight, of course." Ted stopped, turned and threw his arm wide, indicating the three others skulking along with them. "My number one, Noah Metzker, whose only flaw is his unwitting relationship to his fifth-year prefect brother." Noah bowed curtly at the waist, grinning. "Our treasurer," Ted continued, "if we ever manage to come across any coin, Sabrina Hildegard." A pleasant faced girl with a spray of freckles and a quill stuck in her thick reddish hair nodded to James. "Our scapegoat, should such services ever be required, young Damien Damascus," Ted gripped the shoulder of a stout boy with heavy glasses and a pumpkin-like face who grimaced at him and growled. "And finally, my alibi, my perfect foil, everyone's favorite teacher's favorite, Ms. Petra Morganstern." Ted gestured affectionately to the girl who was just returning from the portrait hole, stuffing something small into her jeans pocket. James noticed that everyone but him had changed out of their robes and into jeans and dark sweatshirts. "Is everything clear for takeoff?" Ted asked Petra as she met them.