Chapter 11

The first years all filed into the Great Hall apprehensively as McGonagall explained about the four houses. Milo mentally filed them into: house for the PCs, house for the villains, and two NPC houses to make up the numbers. Fair enough.

The other first years around him were nervously discussing what they thought the Sorting Ceremony would entail. The group conclusion seemed to be that it would be some sort of horrible test, performed in front of everybody. Milo's post-level-up elation hadn't passed yet, but he still wished he hadn't burned so many spell slots on helping Neville find that toad. There was a kerfuffle as a group of ghosts drifted through the walls, but Milo was already ready for this. He shuddered to think of what he would have done in this situation had he not met the late Professor Binns the other day.

The students were formed into a line alphabetically by McGonagall, and once more Milo cursed his last name. Why couldn't he have been Milo Liadon-Amastacia instead? The only person in front of him was a pink-faced, blonde girl.

"Wh-what do you think I'll have to do?" she asked, the signs of abject terror on her face. "I'm first! Why am I always first?" she asked.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Milo said. "They expect everyone to do this test, remember? So how hard could it be?"

"B-but…"

"And besides, they wouldn't start out every year by humiliating all their new students."

"Maybe it's all just a cruel joke, and everyone will laugh at me," she said through tears.

"If they do, I'll unleash magical hell on them," Milo muttered. What he meant was, 'if they do (that to me) I'll unleash magical hell,' but that's not what the frightened young girl heard.

"You would? For me? Th-thank you!"

"Don't mention it," Milo said, slightly embarrassed, and cast about for some fairly generic encouraging platitudes. "You're braver than you think. Just keep that in mind, and confidently walk up there, and whatever happens, happens. Uh. There's bravery in everyone, you just have to look," he finished, somewhat lamely.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," McGonagall said to them. "Abbott, Hannah!"

The girl looked determined as she walked up to the stool, and while in another life she might have been sorted into Hufflepuff (not that that's anything to be ashamed of, of course), perhaps it was because she was thinking I'm braver than I think, I'm braver than I think, I'm braver than I think, when the hat was placed on her head, it only took a moment before it bellowed:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Amastacia-Liadon, Milo!" McGonagall said. Well, here goes nothing.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted after barely touching his head, and his new house applauded as if it wasn't already a foregone conclusion. Gryffindor was clearly the house for main characters. To confirm his suspicions, Neville, Hermione, Ron, and Harry were all sorted into Gryffindor (although, oddly, the hat seemed to have a hard time deciding with Harry). Draco and his minions, however, were sent to Slytherin. Milo wondered briefly what would have happened if one of Crabbe or Goyle had been sent to Gryffindor—or, perhaps even worse, Hufflepuff. Milo looked around the tables, and found that, oddly, the plates and dishes were all empty. He shrugged and pulled his Everlasting Rations out of his utility belt, and started munching.

"Whacha got there?" Asked Hannah, who had, for some unimaginable reason, sat next to him at the table. On Milo's left was Hermione, followed by Harry, Ron, and Neville.

"Everlasting Rations," Milo explained, gesturing to the blue silk pouch. "They're not very common—I heard about them in an obscure book, and had to get them custom-made—but they're super handy. Every sunrise, the bag fills itself up again."

"Convenient," she said somewhat dubiously. "They tasty?"

"You know, I don't think anyone's ever asked that before." He thought about it for a moment. "Tastes a little like granola, only even less."

She made a face.

"You don't think we were supposed to bring a lunch, do you? They will feed us?" she asked. Milo shrugged.

"Hermione?" he asked, on the assumption that she'd know.

Hermione paused briefly, as if doing a mental catalogue search for the relevant information, before reciting as if from memory:

"'Hogwarts is world-renowned for owning some of the best cooking elves, and prides itself in never having one complaint for its dining experience. Durmstrang Acadamy, by comparison, has received four-hundred and forty-four complaints as of the 1991 fifth edition of this book,'" she said. "It's in Hogwarts, A History. You should read it sometime."

"Elves?" Milo asked incredulously. "For cooking?" Milo had never known an elf to approach within twenty feet of a frying pan, and doubted that a single solitary potato the world over had ever been peeled by delicate, elven hands. Milo was convinced that they were holding out on a rare, Arcane-version of Create Food and Drink, because otherwise, their civilization would have crumbled to dust about two weeks after creation.

"Wish I was rich enough to own an elf," Ron said dreamily. "I'd never have to clean my room again."

Milo's brain heard the sentence, of course, but rejected it immediately with a notice: 'Does not parse.' Own an elf? He must have misheard. Before he could ask, the Headmaster spoke.

"Wecome!" Dumbledore said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin, I would like to say a few words. And they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

And then sat back down again.

"Is he… a bit mad?" Harry asked.

"Well, yeah, he's a bit of a nutter, but some people say it's a disguise and he's really a genius," Ron said.

"He seemed normal when I last talked to him," Milo said.

"And you don't get to be Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards by collecting bottle caps," Hermione said. "Or by being stark raving mad," she added.

Everyone looked at her again.

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