The Sorting Ceremony

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.

"It was in Hogwarts, A History, and honestly, don't any of you read?" she asked, slightly indignantly.

"Quidditch magazines, mainly," Ron admitted.

"Newspapers rescued from the trash, but only when the Dursley's weren't watching," Harry confessed.

"Outside of spell books and fell arcane tomes? Not that much," Milo said.

Hermione sighed.

"You should try it sometime, you might find it fairly enlighten—oh, my goodness!" Piles and piles of food appeared, suddenly, in front of them.

"Huh, neat trick," Milo said. "I knew the elves cooked their food by magic. Pointy-eared pansies never worked a day in their lives."

His last sentence drew a number of odd looks, but fortunately, most people were too busy digging in to pay much attention to him. Harry Potter in particular looked like he was about to cry tears of joy at the food laid out in front of them. Milo shrugged. To him, food was something to keep you from getting hunger-based check penalties. While the rest of the party was distracted by food (Milo made sure to cast Detect Poison before he touched any of it), Milo decided to check out the head table.

The teachers at Hogwarts were the quirkiest bunch of characters he'd seen since Milo had been hired to take out a gnome barbarian's band of performing cutthroats. One of them was wearing a purple turban. One of them was tiny (Milo couldn't tell, from this distance, if he was a gnome, halfling, or dwarf). One of them was Albus Dumbledore, for gods' sakes. The last, though… now, he was really interesting. Black cloak. Greasy hair. Hooked nose.

Necromancer, hands down. Milo grinned. Ladies and gentlemen, we have our dark wizard. Milo gave it a fifty percent chance that the professor was working for You-Know-Who, with the other fifty percent saying he was You-Know-Who. The only nail missing from his coffin was a goatee.

"Hey, Hermione, who's he?" Milo gestured to the obviously evil wizard.

"'Professor Severus Snape, born 1960, made Potions Master at Hogwarts in 1981 by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and as of 1991, is the Head of House Slytherin,'" she recited. "Hogwarts, A History, page 371."

"You're a very useful person to have around, you know that?" Milo asked. Hermione beamed. "Harry, listen up. Add Snape to your list, he's bad news."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked.

"Absolutely. I mean, just look at him. He's wearing all black, for goodness sake."

"Er, I don't mean to put too fine of a point on it, but we're all, also, wearing all black, Milo," Harry said, gesturing at his uniform.

"It's black of a different sort. We're in the sober, working black. He's in evil black. Back me up here, Ron."

"Fred and George say he's a smarmy git, and he favours Slytherin students outrageously," Ron said. "They also say that he's half bat, he can read your mind, and that shampoo spontaneously combusts when it touches his hair, but I think they made that last one up."

"He's probably just allergic to shampoo," Hermione said. "He's a professor. He can't be evil, or Dumbledore wouldn't let him teach here."

Milo barked a laugh. They clearly had very different views of education.

Harry abruptly clutched his forehead in pain.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked in concern.

"I was just looking at Snape, and suddenly my scar hurt," Harry said.

"The scar You-Know-Who gave you?"

"No, the other scar on my forehead, of course the scar Vol- You-Know-Who gave me," Harry snapped. Hermione blushed slightly. "S-sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be mean, I was just so angry all of a sudden… it was weird."

"I'd say that's basically proof," Milo said. "Harry looked at Snape, and his curse scar hurt. Ergo, Snape is evil."

"Sounds good to me," Ron voiced his agreement. "I mean, look at him. Seriously."

"I don't think we should just jump to conclusions like this," Hermione said. "One's fashion choices and hygiene, no matter how unfortunate, have no bearing on moral standing. Also, we should really tell an adult about Harry's scar, it might be important—he might need a healer."

"What does Snape need to do, eat a baby or something?" Milo asked. New PCs could be so thick sometimes.

"He hasn't even done anything yet," Hermione protested.

"She has a point," Harry added. "All he's done is sit there. Maybe he's a really nice bloke, and I don't think any of us know enough magic yet to say if my scar's reaction means anything. We should give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Fine, it's your adventure, after all. But can we at least agree to keep a close eye on him?" Milo pleaded.

They all agreed, albeit in Hermione's case, somewhat reluctantly.

Dumbledore then stood to make another speech, laying out some ground rules. The Forbidden Forest was—hah, yeah right. Milo couldn't imagine a better way to encourage students to go there and gain XP than to forbid them from doing it. Milo's ears really perked up at hearing about the forbidden, trapped, mysterious corridor, however. Harry laughed when he Dumbledore said that anyone who investigated it would die a painful death, but nobody else did. The Headmaster was serious.

Milo grinned. He loved this school already.

"I can't believe Quidditch is restricted to second years," Ron complained.

"What's Quidditch?" Harry, Hermione, and Milo asked simultaneously. Ron fainted into his pudding. Once he came around, he described the rules. It was some unbelievably dangerous-sounding sport (two of the players' jobs were to send heavy leather balls flying at the opposing team!) played on broomstick. As Ron explained about the Golden Snitch, Milo considered it thoughtfully. From what he could tell, the Seeker's success or failure completely invalidated everything that the other players did. It was as if the sport was set up entirely to give Seekers a backdrop to compete against.

"I like it!" Milo said. "It has everything. Magic, danger, and rules blatantly skewed for the PCs to shine. Harry, make sure to write this down." The Boy-Who-Lived dutifully added it to his growing list of plot-relevant items.

"I think it sounds stupid," Hermione declared, ignoring Ron's protests. "And way too dangerous to be allowed in a school setting. Flying in general sounds dreadful."

Dumbledore sent them all to bed, so Percy—as Gryffindor prefect—led the first years to their lair. En route, they were attacked by Peeves.

"Peeves! Show yourself!" Percy bellowed. "He's a poltergeist—be careful, he only answers to the Bloody Baron. That's the Slytherin ghost."

"Getting all this, Harry?" Milo asked. Peeves flew past, throwing sticks at Neville's head. "Prefect, that was an attack if I've ever seen one. Permission to retaliate?"

"Now, I don't think that will be necessary. He knows that if he goes too far, I'll tell the Baron," Percy said. "Besides—" Percy was interrupted, however, when Peeves unloaded a bucket of water on the prefect's head. "Hit him with everything you've got, Mr. Amastacia-Liadon. Everything."

"Glitterdust!" Milo shouted, the shower of sparks blinding the poltergeist for twenty-four seconds, now (level-ups were the greatest), and preventing him from turning invisible. Peeves, whirling in astonished fury, began dropping walking sticks, pies, and associated other miscellany on the students. "Feather Fall!" Milo cast, slowing their descent to a harmless speed. As a coup de grace, once the blindness wore off, then created a Silent Image of the Bloody Baron slowly drifting around the corner. Peeves bolted, leaving a trail of glittering dust in his wake.

"Well done!" Percy congratulated him, after using a Cleaning Charm to dry himself off. "Is everyone alright? Excellent. That was Peeves the Poltergeist, if you encounter him in the halls, it's best to find a member of the faculty or the Bloody Baron. He won't hurt deliberately hurt you—though his pranks can at times get out of hand—but he's irritating, and might make you late for class. After decades of certain disreputable Hogwarts students using Peeves as an pretext for tardiness, teachers have stopped accepting run-ins with the poltergeist as an excuse."

Milo couldn't believe they had random encounter within the castle walls. This school was awesome. Percy led them, finally, to the Gryffindor Common Room, which was guarded by a painting requiring a password. Milo hadn't realized that inter-house rivalry was quite so… heated… as to require secret bases and passwords, but it fit with his general theory of Hogwarts education.

Both Harry and Milo felt at home immediately upon entering Gryffindor tower, but for different reasons. Harry was overwhelmed at all of the magic and wonder, and glad to finally be rid of his abusive foster parents. The sense of camaraderie in the dorm was something new and amazing to him. Milo, on the other hand, felt the calling of all wizards everywhere, regardless of universe: wizard=tower, tower=wizard. He was excited for tomorrow, when he could fully enjoy the benefits of being fourth level, and memorize a whole slew of new spells. He decided, after a bit of thought, to add Levitate and Invisibility to his repertoire. He made sure to prepare an extra Silent Image in case of another run-in with Peeves.

The next morning was… interesting. Word had spread that the famous Harry Potter was attending school, and Milo's unfortunate friend was pestered with constant whispering and glances. Milo suggested that he borrow some makeup from Hannah (Hermione didn't seem the type) and hide the tell-tale scar (minor details only gave +5 to Disguise checks), but Harry adamantly refused, claiming it was the only reminder he had of his parents. Ron howled with laughter at the suggestion, adding that some eyeliner or, as he put it, "guyliner," would really bring out Harry's emerald eyes.

Their first class was Herbology, which Milo figured was safe enough. He was a bit concerned that learning about plants meant he might be obliged to invest Skill Ranks in Knowledge (Nature), or, Vecna forbid, Survival, but after clarifying that it was magical herbs they were studying, Milo was quite convinced his Knowledge (Arcana) would be up to the task. History of Magic was likewise no trouble at all, Milo spent the class trying to figure out what his immediate response would be when the ghost of Professor Binns invariably snapped and starting draining the students' Constitution scores, or when an evil Cleric showed up and seized control of the undead Professor with Command Undead.

Professor Flitwick apparently taught Charms, which was a problem for Milo. As a specialized Conjurer, he was obliged to drop two schools of magic—he chose Necromancy (he didn't look good in pale make-up and mascara) and Enchantment (he was uncomfortable about mentally controlling people). The Charms subschool fell neatly into the second category of spells, which Milo was forbidden from casting. Fortunately, the excitable professor, who Milo was convinced was some sort of deformed gnome, fainted dead away when he called Harry Potter's name while taking attendance.

"What have we got next?" Milo asked Ron.

"Uhh, let me check," the redhead said, patting his pockets for his schedule. "Transfiguration with McGonagall. I hear she's really strict."

"Transfiguration, eh? That… might be a problem," Milo frowned. That would involve, presumably, performing actual magic with a wand—something Milo hadn't even tried to do. He was worried that if he actually succeeded, he might wind up as a multi-classed Wizard/"wizard," and be doomed to spend the rest of his days as a walking joke of a character.

"Why's that?" asked a first-year NPC. The other Gryffindors had started following Milo around between their classes after word spread that he could scare off Peeves.

Professor McGonagall was so astonished that the entire class arrived on time (apparently, that had never happened before) that she awarded them five points for Gryffindor. After then warning them of the dangers of Transfiguration, she told them to try and transform a matchstick into a pin.

Milo broke out into a cold sweat, staring at the stick in front of him. Surely, wizards in this plane couldn't cast Polymorph Any Object at first level? That was an eighth level spell! Milo felt a bit foolish waving his wand around ineffectually, but he really wasn't sure what else he could do. Hermione, sitting next to him, had managed to turn her matchstick silver.

Milo's eyes narrowed.

"Prestidigitation," he murmured. It was a cantrip, a 0th-level spell, used for practice by novice casters—but it was also one of the most versatile. Milo preferred to think of it as Least Wish. One of its many effects was that it could recolour an object temporarily.

He then sat back smugly in his desk chair, satisfied with a job well done.

McGonagall passed by, giving encouragement and pointers to the struggling students she passed. Upon reaching Milo, however, she frowned and stared at the silver matchstick. To Milo, it was indistinguishable from Hermione's. McGonagall picked it up, examined it very carefully, and dropped it on the desk. It made a quiet, wooden tick.

"Mr. Amastacia-Liadon," she said sternly, "did you paint your matchstick?"

"N-No, Professor," he stammered. Drat, curse her cross-class ranks in Intimidate!

"Then bravo. One point for Gryffindor," she said grudgingly, before walking to Hermione. She frowned, and gave hers the same examination. She dropped it, and it gave a silvery metal ping! Upon colliding with the desk.

"Well done, Ms. Granger! It's been many years since I've seen someone change anything more than mere colour on their first try! Two points for Gryffindor!" Hermione turned slightly pink, and shot Milo a smug look when McGonagall passed by.

Next was Potions—with the Slytherins, no less. Whoever is involved in the scheduling of classes, Milo thought, should be awarded a medal. He couldn't think of a possible scenario that would lead to greater conflict than the obviously evil head of the obviously evil house teaching the heroes and villains together. Put a PC in a powderkeg like that, and there'd be an explosion, sure as sure.

Milo was the only Gryffindor smiling when they entered Snape's dungeon. Dungeon. It had been far too long since Milo had been in a proper dungeon, now all they needed was a troll or two to complete his day.

Milo didn't know what, specifically, was going to go down in the dungeon. But he knew someone was going to start a fight, and he knew who was going to finish it.

He chose his desk warily, deciding to go right in the dead-centre. The rest of the Gryffindors sat on the right-hand side of the classroom, leaving the left-hand side empty—a clear message for the Slytherins (whenever they deigned to arrive). From the border between the two groups, Milo could safely target the entire Slytherin first year with a well-placed spell on the first round of combat.

There is an infrequently-used rule (and Milo loved infrequently-used rules) called the ready action. A character can, on his turn, ready an action to do something specific when certain triggers, which he chooses in advace, occur—immediately. It allowed rapid action, as long as you were prepared enough.

As the Slytherins drifted in one-by-one (a few were covered in whitewash, mute evidence of Peeves' "humorous" "pranks"), Milo readied an action: Glitterdust in the centre of the Slytherin side of the room as soon as the first Slytherin acts offensively against a Gryffindor. That should cover it.

Snape walked into the room like a man with a purpose. He quickly called out attendance, pausing on Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he said softly. "Our new—celebrity." Draco and his mooks sniggered. The other Gryffindors sitting along the borderline—Neville, Hannah, and Lavender—sat tensely, their hands near their wands. Snape began his introductory monologue, lingering, a bit too lovingly for Milo's taste, on the 'subtle science and exact art of potion-making.'

"Potter!" said Snape, suddenly. Harry sat bolt upright, a brief look of terror on his face. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Milo frowned. Nothing, he thought. Except, of course, a gods-awful smell.

"I don't know, sir." Harry said. Ah, well, even Wizards fail a Knowledge check once in a while.

"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything," Snape sneered. Well now, that's just rude.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air, as did Milo's.

"I don't know, sir," Potter said, his voice barely shaking at all.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

Well now, there's no reason for him to act like that to the poor Gryffindor kid, Milo thought. In fact, the head of House Slytherin was acting downright offensively… Oh, crud.

"GLITTERDUST!"