The Theory of Magic (Book 1)

8 // Bitter Brews & Prickly Potions

Fi couldn't help but stare as the students began to flood the Great Hall.

She hadn't been around so many people, let alone children, in a number of decades. Certainly she had been to Diagon Alley and London and various other cities, but in those situations she and those around her had always been strangers, fated to cross paths but to never interact or to remember one another. Here, she was not an unknown. She was a professor, and those filling up the four tables below the dais would be her students.

Taking a settling breath, Fi held herself still. Crushing responsibility, here I come.

She wore her best robes, a black pair trimmed with green to add weight to her supposed alignment with Slytherin house, and on Fi's head rested one of those delightful wide-brimmed hats with a matching sash, a gift from Grigor that had arrived by owl that morning. Fi hoped to be able to repay the vampire some of the funds he'd loaned her over the years with her school earnings. She touched the hat's brim with a fond smile.

When Fi had taken her seat that evening, she had been joined by Quirrell—and at the last second she found an excuse to rise, and to switch spots as the Potions Master had stepped onto the dais. Snape narrowed his eyes but didn't mention the move, instead taking his seat with his usual efficient grace and flick of his robes. Fi congratulated herself on her ruse and for, once again, earning Snape's menacing regard.

They hadn't had an opportunity to exchange much more than the occasional nod or word of greeting when crossing in the halls or at the dining table. Truly, Fi and the others had been far too busy preparing for the term to gab about, but she felt the others had warmed to her somewhat, or were at least more familiar with her. Snape still looked unyieldingly stiff whenever he clapped eyes on Fi. Many a witch would be insulted, but Fi was curious, and maybe a touch anxious, to know what the Potions Master saw. She wanted to be above suspicion after all.

McGonagall looked up with surprise when Fi took Snape's typical seat. "Good evening, Minerva."

"Good evening, Delphinia. Are you prepared for classes to begin?"

"Oh, yes. I'm quite excited, actually." Fi grinned and straightened in her chair, feet scuffing the floor. She was rather short. Many of the seventh years she saw picking accustomed spots on the benches were taller than her.

The students filled the tables, wearing black robes relieved with spots of red or blue or green or yellow. Fi looked over them and felt a number of curious gazes turn her way as well. They all seemed terribly young to her, fresh-faced and bright-eyed—adorable and rascally children, every last one of them, even the scowling ones sitting at the Slytherin tables, or those too-tall seventh years almost ready to take their place in the adult world. Many wizards past their majority were still children to Fi; even Professor Snape was young, though he wore about himself a palpable cloak of maturity, some life experience that had aged him more than his physical years.

She had the urge to pinch chubby baby cheeks. I will not tell Ever. I will never hear the end of it. I told her I would be a right menace.

McGonagall rose and Fi glanced at her. "The first years should be arriving."

The woman marched off, nodding to those students who greeted her. Fi glanced by Minerva's empty spot toward Dumbledore, who sat in his larger chair with one hand on his goblet, fingers tapping the stem. Flitwick left the table to retrieve a stool and an old, ratty hat, which he placed in front of the professors on the dais before returning to his seat. Fi stared at the hat, puzzled.

Dumbledore leaned ever so slightly in his chair to address her. "It is the Sorting Hat, Fi."

"Sorting Hat?"