Oleandra nearly did a double-take as she stepped off the Hogwarts Express.
From what Daphne had mentioned during their chat, Hagrid had played a crucial role in keeping Harry out of You-Know-Who's clutches over the summer, so the last thing she had expected to see at Hogsmeade Station was the Half-Giant himself.
"Firs'-years this way!" called Hagrid's gruff voice.
Unwilling to risk any confrontation with Hagrid, for both of their benefits, Oleandra hung her head low and melted into the group of two- to seventh-years heading for the stagecoaches. Care of Magical Creatures was one subject she wouldn't be taking this year, that much was certain…
Oleandra felt someone grab her hand, and she looked over her shoulder.
"Already trying to lose me?" Daphne said, clearly displeased. "I daresay that might have worked once, but I can see over the third-years' heads now, at the very least."
Oleandra shrugged helplessly. Her sister's time at Malfoy Manor had clearly left its mark, so she could understand why her normally cold and prickly twin had suddenly become so clingy.
"Head Girl, eh?" said Oleandra, giving the gleaming silver badge on Daphne's breast a flick with her finger. "Moving up in the world, are we?"
"Malfoy's Head Boy," Daphne grumbled. "I hope that doesn't mean I'll have to see his irritating mug any more than I usually do."
Daphne pursed her lips.
Over the summer, she had become increasingly aware of Draco's dramatic change in temperament. He was still every bit as irritating, though in an altogether different way. Where once it had been easy enough to goad or taunt him, he now carried an infuriating, enigmatic half-smile at all times, no matter which of his buttons she tried to push.
"Come on, let's put that authority of yours to good use," Oleandra said, jabbing a thumb towards the Thestral-drawn stagecoaches. "Unless you fancy frightening to death some poor second-years on the way."
…
The ride to the castle passed rather smoothly, and before long, Hogwarts's tall walls loomed over them, yellow light spilling through the darkness from its many windows. The Thestrals halted in the courtyard, and Oleandra and Daphne hopped down from their coach, climbed the steps to the Entrance Hall, and passed through the great double doors into the Great Hall, taking their usual seats at the Slytherin table.
Oleandra watched in disinterest as the Great Hall gradually filled with students, occasionally glancing in the direction of the staff table at the front of the hall. It seemed like most of the teachers had returned to their posts, Dumbledore or not, but a few familiar faces had added themselves to the roster… she supposed the new Headmaster would introduce them once the Sorting was over and done with.
A few minutes later, the double doors swung open once more, and Professor Slughorn shambled into the Great Hall, red-faced and audibly wheezing, followed by a veritable army of first-years. Despite the ban on Muggle-Borns, there seemed to be even more of the eleven-year-olds than the previous year.
Once teacher and first-years had walked past the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables and reached the front of the hall, Professor Slughorn mopped his brow with a brown handkerchief and summoned a small four-legged stool before the first-years. He patted himself down, visibly searching for something, before realising that the object he had been drenching in sweat was not a handkerchief, but rather the article of clothing he'd been looking for.
With a startled gasp, Professor Slughorn quickly placed the Sorting Hat on the stool and stepped back, gazing longingly at it (the stool, not the Hat), as though he would have given anything for a chance to rest his weary legs for a spell.
As usual, the frumpy Hat opened its roughly sewn mouth to sing:
"Step forwards, heed my song,
For the Sorting Hat knows where each of you belongs,
Indeed, the Founders wrought me true,
To read your hearts and judge their hue.
Muggle-Borns, begone from my sight!
Your kind brings weakness and shame.
There is no place for you in Hogwarts's name,
For only the pure may wield magic's might.
No rabble here shall pass these gates,
For those of tainted, foreign seed
Are no true Witches, no true breed,
Their thievery shall seal their bitter fates.
Thus, Slytherin waits with cunning schemes,
Brave Gryffindor favours noble dreams.
Wise Ravenclaw scorns the weak of mind,
And Hufflepuff… still takes the lost of kind!"
…
The Sorting Hat suddenly fell silent. Many Slytherins around Oleandra laughed and clapped, while others kept a more reserved demeanour. Looking past her house table, she noticed a scattering of glum faces.
Professor Snape, now seated where Professor Dumbledore had once held his place of honour, rose and opened his mouth to speak, but before a single word could escape his lips, the Hat burst into song once more:
"But hark! My voice is no one's pawn,
The spell that bent me now is gone.
You fools who dared twist my song,
Your cruelty will not last for long!
I spit on your lies, your venom, your spite,
Your schemes are nothing; I reclaim my right!
No curse can bind me, no hand can sway,
I sort the true as I see, come what may!
Now step forwards without fear,
For I am the Sorting Hat, hear, hear!
Hogwarts's halls are open to all,
And so I remind you, evil shall inevitably—"
"Somebody silence that ruddy rag!"
Laughter and cheers quickly gave way to shocked gasps and screaming and the sound of chairs scraping as Professor Slughorn hastily whisked the Sorting Hat away before it could be vaporised by the bolt of blue light that had just shot from the staff table. Quaking with fear, he drew his wand and spread his arms wide, shielding the cowering first-years behind him.
"PROFESSOR CARROW!" screamed Professor McGonagall, rising abruptly to her feet. "Never in all my years teaching have I ever witnessed such careless—"
"Oh, give it a rest, Professor," said Alecto Carrow, her grin turning distinctly snide. "My brother's aim is quite good… as you very well know."
Alecto gave her brother's hand a fond pat, and Professor McGonagall looked as though she might explode with indignation. Grinding her teeth, she sat back down, visibly fuming.
"If you're almost done with your impression of a scarecrow, Professor," said Professor Snape snidely, "then kindly resume with the Sorting Ceremony."
Professor Slughorn lowered his arms and, his voice trembling slightly, began to read out the first-years' names, calling them forwards.