"You deserve better, Neville."

"Thank you."

She nods.

Conversation proceeds apace even on the Head Table, where Hagrid drinks deeply from his goblet and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore seem to be talking about something.

Professor Quirrell, in his absurd purple turban, whom Dorea met at the Leaky Cauldron, seems to be talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

And very suddenly, the hook-nosed teacher looks past Quirrell's turban straight into Dorea's eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shoots across the scar on her forehead.

"Ow!"

"What is it?"

"My scar just hurt. I don't know why, it's never done that before."

"—that's worrying. Were you doing anything in particular...?"

"Just looking at the Head Table. I think one of the teachers looked back at me?"

He looks at the teachers, then at her. "Can't have been that, the teachers have nothing to do with—that."

"That? --Oh. That. I don't know, then."

Shrug. Dessert!

Mm, dessert.

Eventually the dessert, too, disappears, and Professor Dumbledore gets to his feet again, that action enough to bring the hall to silence.

"Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flash in the direction of the Weasley twins. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

"How seriously should I take that last?" she murmurs to Percy.

"Very, but... it's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere—the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least."

"Does he really think in a school full of teenagers no one's going to take that as a challenge?"

"He's... presumably put some protections?"

"Maybe..."

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cries Dumbledore. The other teachers' smiles become rather fixed. Dumbledore gives his wand a little flick, as if he's trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flies out of it, which rises high above the tables and twists itself, snakelike, into words. "Everyone pick their favorite tune," he says, "and off we go!"

And the school bellows:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,

"Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they’re bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,

"So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we’ve forgot,
Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot."

Everybody finishes the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins are left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducts their last few lines with his wand and when they've finished, he's one of those who claps loudest.

"Ah, music," he says, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

Percy starts leading the Gryffindors through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase.

Eee this place just gets more and more aesthetic.

The people in the portraits along the corridors whisper and point as they pass, and Percy leads them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries twice. They climb more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, until they come to a sudden halt.

A bundle of walking sticks is floating in midair ahead of them, and as Percy takes a step towards them they start throwing themselves at him.

"Peeves," Percy whispers to the first years. "A poltergeist." He raises his voice, "Peeves—show yourself."

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answers.