"Why do you think we've been all called to the Great Hall?" Penelope asked by my side, her long curly blonde hair bobbing as we walked.
"No clue," I said, my hand reaching for my mouth to cover a yawn that threatened to split my face in two. "I had to cut my broadcast short because of it though, so I hope it's good."
It had been cut short by an announcement from Flitwick, though thankfully I had been able to play American Pie, I wouldn't want to break my promise to Tillery so early into it. Though Jarvey was rightfully annoyed, although he always was, so potato potato.
"Can you guys be quiet? You're making me anxious," Adrian muttered, his usually confident demeanor replaced with uncharacteristic nervousness.
I looked at him properly, noting the slight pallor to his normally golden-tanned skin. He kept fidgeting with the sleeve of his robe, a habit I'd noticed only appeared when he was truly worried about something.
We were walking with the rest of the Ravenclaws, Flitwick at the front of the group. His small stature (not that I could say anything about it) was rather comical as he led us through the corridors, occasionally having to skip to keep pace with the longer-legged students. Maybe I'd make a potion for him to change size at will someday, or perhaps the spellbook already had a spell for that.
As I thought of the spellbook, I felt it stir in my mind, the familiar weight of leather-bound knowledge pressing against my consciousness, but I dispelled the thought before it could materialize in my hands. The last thing I needed was to have a mysterious grimoire appear out of thin air in the middle of a school-wide gathering.
"Don't be nervous, I'm sure everything's gonna be fine," Roger said, the last of our group who was a Ravenclaw, as he grabbed onto Adrian's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"I don't know, I just have a bad feeling about it," Adrian insisted, his eyes darting nervously around the corridor as if expecting Peeves to pop out with a bucket of ice water.
Hmm, Adrian was pretty spot on, all things considered. After all, I knew what was going to happen in the Great Hall—not that I'd had a vision, but it was just based on what I knew about Dumbledore himself. The fact he hadn't said anything publicly made me think that he probably had other ways to locate the Sorting Hat, although I doubted it just because of how complex the hat's magic was. Tinkering with its charms would be stupid, although this was Dumbledore we were talking about, so who knew?
Either way, even if he had such a charm, I was sure the Room of Requirement would block it, at least I hoped so. The book had called it "Merlin's gift to me," which had to count for something, right?
"Oh yeah, and Roger," I began, changing the subject, "I didn't have time to tell you yesterday, but don't worry about the loss against Slytherin."
"Bah, who cares about the snakes," Roger replied, waving his hand dismissively. "They're just lucky it's my first year on the team, so I'm on the bench. Next year they'll see why snakes should be afraid of eagles."
I looked at him, a smile forming on my face that didn't quite reach my eyes. Roger's confidence bordered on delusion, but it was almost endearing in its naivety. Almost.
"I'm sure you won't," I said sagely.
"Thanks... wait, did you say won't? Shouldn't it be will? What happened to cheering me up?" Roger's face fell comically.
"Call it a bet on the son of a seer," I replied, tapping my temple knowingly.
Yeah, divination was a closely kept secret of mine, not so much my mother's. I boasted that she was the greatest seer in the Isles as many times as I could get in normal conversation, which wasn't a lot.
"Yeah, I don't want to hear it from probably the worst wizard to ever wield a broom in Hogwarts history," Roger shot back, a playful grin stretching across his face.
I was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his broom when the crowd ahead of us suddenly slowed to a halt. The chatter died down, replaced by a hushed anticipation that seemed to ripple through the assembled students like a wave.
The massive doors to the Great Hall stood open, and there at the high table, illuminated by hundreds of floating candles, sat Albus Dumbledore. His usual joyful demeanor was strangely absent, replaced by an expression I couldn't quite place—concern mixed with something that might have been anger?
McGonagall was seated at his side, her lips pressed into such a thin line they had almost disappeared entirely. The other professors arranged around the table wore similar expressions, ranging from puzzlement to outright worry.
However, my eyes weren't focused on either of the two head professors, but rather on the mythical phoenix, Fawkes, perched regally on the back of the Headmaster's ornate chair. The reason why my eyes were on Fawkes was because the beautiful beast was staring directly at me, his gaze unwavering and unsettlingly intense.
He couldn't recognize me in this form, could he?
No, calm down, Felix, I told myself firmly. Nothing can see through Polyjuice potion—well, almost nothing, and a phoenix wasn't on that very short list. Was it? No, definitely not. Probably not. Maybe not?
"Take your seats," Dumbledore's voice, which was usually so calm and warm, seemed to boom across the Great Hall with an authority that silenced even the most persistent whispers. "I have something to announce."
He couldn't be pissed, right? I mean, I was going to return the hat by next year. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. Well, as long as I had figured out how it worked first. Or copied its enchantments. Or both.
The Ravenclaws were the second house to be seated, the first being the Gryffindors, funnily enough, though that was most probably because of McGonagall's presence. Gryffindors weren't known for their punctuality, after all. We took our seats at our table just below the magnificent blue and bronze banner of Ravenclaw, its eagle seeming to watch over us disapprovingly.
The next to arrive were the Slytherins, led by Snape, who took his seat at the high table with his usual air of superiority. His eyes swept across the hall like a bird of prey searching for something out of place, safe to say my dislike for him had grown a bit more since he tried to shoot down my broadcast in the last two weeks.
More and more professors filed in, even Filch and Hagrid, whose enormous frame required him to duck slightly to enter through the staff door. A smile appeared on my face when I spotted the insidious librarian Madam Pince, who was still scratching at her ear. Looks like my little earworm hadn't left her yet. A small petty victory, but a victory nonetheless.
The last house to arrive was Hufflepuff, trailing in behind Professor Sprout, who looked unusually concerned. The Hufflepuffs, normally a cheerful bunch, seemed to pick up on the atmosphere, their usual chatter subdued as they made their way to their table.
The final professor to arrive was Sybill Patricia Trelawney, the professor of divination, also known by the students as the "False Prophet" because of how often her predictions went awry. Not that any other seer was much better, though I did think I was going three for three with my own visions, so I had to be pretty good, even if my divination wasn't really conventional divination magic.
I had my mother as a reference point for seers, and as such, I had never really gone out of my way to talk to or learn from Trelawney, which was also because she rarely left her classroom in the North Tower, preferring the comfort of her incense-filled sanctuary.
She was very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy, spangled shawl that caught the candlelight as she moved. Innumerable chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were encrusted with bangles and rings. Her hair was a wild, unkempt mess that seemed to have a life of its own.
It honestly made me wonder if all seers were or looked so distinct, so removed from ordinary wizards. Although I was sure I was normal. Yep, I was definitely one hundred percent normal.
Nothing unusual about me at all.
Just your average, everyday wizard who happened to be able to steal the memories of objects and had a grimoire that lived in his head.
Totally normal.
As Trelawney took her seat, whispering something to Professor Vector (professor of arithmancy) who looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else, the last murmurs of conversation died down. The Great Hall fell into an expectant silence, like the calm before a storm.
Dumbledore rose to his feet, his tall figure commanding attention without effort. When he spoke, his voice carried to every corner of the hall without seeming to raise it, a trick I'd always found impressive and had tried to replicate in my radio broadcasts with great success, if I said so myself.
"The Sorting Hat has been stolen."