JKR owns HP

Note: I've decided that "Rowena" is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable, until convenience requires otherwise. Also, I am American, so "Z" rhymes with "family." Sue me. (Not you, JKR.)

Disclaimers: Opinions and prejudices are most emphatically those of the characters and not the author. For the kosher status of strawberries, and for the correct prioritization of mitzvos in situations with limited resources, CYLOR. Chapter contains a mild vulgarity.

And there was evening and there was morning, the first day (Genesis 1:5)

He had three new yarmulkes—black velvet, with no babyish name embroidery, appropriate for an almost-bar-mitzvah boy. Besides his father, he was the only boy in Kings Cross wearing one, as far as he could tell.

Last year, he had almost cried on the platform, but his trunk was full this time. He had his Kitzur, his machzorim; they had packed his old Bava Metzia right on top of the brand-new Mishnayos and a folder full of his father's sheets; a menorah, cotton wicks and the little metal spiders that held them in place, a bottle of olive oil wrapped carefully in plastic—even two small pots, one red and one blue, freshly toiveled in the back room at Torah Treasures.

After Shacharis that morning, Tatty had folded his tallis slowly and told Sholom to go on home. Yehuda had looked at him quizzically, and Tatty held him back, tilting his head toward the rabbi, who was deep in discussion with the shul caretaker. The rabbi had looked up to see them hanging at a distance, and patted the caretaker on the back and turned to them. "September first?"

Yehuda had nodded soberly. "The train's leaving at eleven."

"And are you ready?" He opened his mouth, but the rabbi stopped him with a hand. "That was a real question, Yehuda. Think about it before you answer."

He was quiet. He thought about Michael, and Terry, always Terry, and davening Mincha in the common room—the wild, electric tingle that rushed down his arm when he raised his wand—black Hebrew type hovering against the blueish morning light in the common room. Every morning, every day. Another year.

"Ye...yes," he said slowly. "I think so. About as ready as you could be, anyway."

At his hesitation, his father looked concerned, but the rabbi's face relaxed. "I'm glad. I would have been more worried if you'd fooled yourself into thinking you were completely ready. You've always got to leave room for questions."

"I always have questions," he laughed. "Ten of them, every week."

"If you can," the rabbi said. "I seem to remember a bit of a muddle last year…"

"Well, I've got an owl now," Yehuda said. "So it'll be easier, this time. I can send whenever I want without borrowing from the school."

"Good!" Rabbi Zeller said. "Hang in there—it won't be long before we have you back."

He jerked his head up. "What do you mean?"

The rabbi's smile seemed oddly strained this time. "Well, the sooner you get a handle on this—magic, the sooner it isn't a situation of pikuach nefesh, the sooner you can be back with all your classmates. And that's what we all want, isn't it?"

"Of course," he murmured.

"And how are you keeping up this year?"

He ticked them off on his fingers. "In Mishnayos we're doing Yuma. I'm going to try to finish that by Pesach. And Perek Hamafkid, and hilchos tefillin, and of course there's parsha as well."

The rabbi looked at his father. "Reb Meir, may you see much nachas from this little tzaddik!"

"Oh," his father said softly, his hand squeezing Yehuda's shoulder, "we already do."

"Hatzlacha," the rabbi had said. He'd held out his hand, and Yehuda had shaken it. Then he was home, he was saying his goodbyes to Esti-Sholom-Adina-Brochie-Eliyohu-and-Yosef, he was accepting their wishes for a safe flight. The memory made him queasy, now that he was in the train station staring at an empty track nine and the passengers disembarking on track ten; he didn't like lying. His father was staring at the brick pillar now, shaking his head. "We've really got to run at the wall…"

It was just as disorienting as it had been the first time. He saw what must have been five hundred red-haired Weasleys; the pale little girl from Flourish and Blotts, accompanied by a house-elf carrying a trunk five times its size; Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe, hugging and laughing. It felt odd that his father was seeing them too, stirring Hogwarts and Golders Green together into a disconcerting cocktail. The one person he didn't see was Michael, who had met Mummy and hadn't made it strange at all.

"Is that your friend?" Tatty asked, as one of the Slytherin boys jerked a nod at them. He was with a man with the same icy blond hair who had to have been his father. "He looks about your age."

"No, that's someone else, he's in one of my classes—"

There was a cough behind him. "Hello, Yehuda. Had a good summer?"

His stomach sank, but he made himself smile—they were all right now, they were sort-of-friends—and he turned around to greet the new face. "And this is Terry—" He cut himself off; he had almost said Tatty in front of them. "This is Terry. His father drove me home last year."

"Pleasure," Terry's father said, shaking Tatty's hand. "And this is—"

"I know who that is!" shouted a small boy. "He's the one from Golders Green!"

Yehuda looked up. A tall woman stood behind Terry's father, her hair uncovered, surrounded by blond-haired children of various sizes. The one who had shouted was the little Muggle brother, but there were also two tiny girls, one of them sucking her thumb, and the bigger boy, who was just as tall as Terry, but more baby-faced.

"This's Benjamin," Terry said, putting an arm around him. "He's starting this year."

"And he's scared!" said the Muggle brother. "He cried when we got his robes!"

Benjamin grinned, ducking his head. "So what if I did? Maybe it's because I'm going to miss you, huh?"

"That's my son, all right," the father said proudly. "Have you got everything, boys? Abby, give them something for sweets on the train—"

As Terry's mother shook a few silver coins into her hand, Yehuda looked inside his own bag—not his trunk, his small bag. His mother had packed carefully: sandwiches, grapes, and what looked like enough chocolate for a small army. She had given him the extra money from the shopping trip, too, so he'd be able to buy something from the cart.

"Don't forget to daven mincha," his father was saying when he looked up. "Shkiyah's about a quarter to eight here, but it'll be later so far north, likely just past eight—have you got your calendar?"

He patted the bag reassuringly. "I've got it right here; sunset's eight-oh-seven in Edinburgh, but I'll daven on the train just to be safe. And Mummy's given me lunch, and they sell fruit on the train—I can do it this time, Tatty. I did it before."

His father took a slow deep breath. "But this year is different. It's going to be your bar mitzvah this year."

"I know," he said. He wanted to take the same big anxious breaths that his father was, only he had to keep his face calm so his father would think he was brave. The truth was that he was scared, too. He had not stopped being scared since his father had told Professor McGonagall about Meyerson's peyos, since he had realized that there was no one to tell him how to be, because no one else was like him. He steadied his breathing and looked at his father, waiting.

"They gave you a bit of trouble about all the Yamim Tovim last year, so Mummy and I decided to play it safe." Tatty drew an envelope out of his pocket. "Mummy's written this, just in case. If there's any trouble—any trouble at all—about you coming home, I want you to give this letter to your Head of House. That's the one you see for permission, isn't it?"

He looked at the envelope. "What does it say?"

"Never you mind," his father said. "You just be sure to give it to your Head of House. Listen to me, Yehuda: magic or no magic, you are going to have a bar mitzvah. Mummy and I will make sure of that."

He wanted to believe it, but Hogwarts was not like Golders Green, and how could they know? Slowly he reached out to take the letter. He turned it over in his hand and looked back at his father.

"You two ought to board the train," Terry's father was saying, somewhere down the platform. "It won't be long now."

Terry ran a hand through his hair in a transparent attempt to look cool. "Got your trunk and everything, Ben?"

Terry's mother was kissing him and then Benjamin, and both boys shook their father's hand, a gesture Yehuda thought odd. Terry knelt to hug each little sibling in turn. Benjamin hauled himself up into the car.

"Watch your step there." Terry looked over his shoulder from the doorway. "Coming, Yehuda?"

"Yeah—"

Tatty stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait a moment."

"—in a minute," he finished.

Terry gave him a curious look as he scaled the last step and disappeared into the train. A minute later, Yehuda saw his face appear in the window of the compartment. He waved. Yehuda turned back to his father. He tucked the letter into his bag.

"It's not so long," he said bravely. "I'll see you at Chanukah!"

His father did not answer; instead, strong hands cupped the sides of his face. "Yesimcha Elokim k'Efrayim uk'Menashe," his father said hoarsely. "Yevarechecha Hashem v'yishmerecha…ya'er Hashem panav eilecha viy'chuneka…yisa Hashem panav eilecha v'yaseim lecha shalom…"

Hashem should protect me, he thought mechanically, Hashem should turn his face to me and give me peace. When he lifted his head, he could see Terry's nose pressed to the glass, watching him. Why did he have to be here? It wasn't that he was interrupting, it was that he was taking up space at the front of Yehuda's mind that should have gone to Tatty. He turned his head to kiss his father's hand, and they both turned to look at the looming train, unable to delay the moment any longer. The platform was sprinkled with only adults now, the children leaning out windows to say goodbye. He climbed up the steps and leaned over to yank the top of his trunk, his father pushing it from the bottom.

"Write to us as soon as you can," his father said. "Let us know you've got there safely—"

Whatever he was going to say caught in his throat: he was looking down at his father from the train; his father was pushing his trunk through the doorway, onto the Hogwarts Express. It didn't mean anything, he had to go, but at the same time he sort of wished they would beg him to stay.

"'Bye, Ta," he whispered.

After the door shut, it took few deep, shuddering breaths before he could compose himself and drag the trunk off the landing. Terry would be in the compartment nearest the door and was probably expecting to sit with him. He rolled the door back and found Benjamin and Terry sitting opposite each other, waving to the parents and the little brother and sisters through the glass. Yehuda's father stood there too, standing awkwardly and alone a few feet away, squinting anxiously until his eyes found him. He leaned across Terry to wave. Doors slammed, the train shuddered, the brakes disengaged; the platform moved past them, and they gathered speed, the station whipping past obscured by clouds of steam, and then they were gone.

His eyes stayed fixed on the spot where his father had been, where he would be again in three-and-a-half-months. His throat felt tight, but he did not cry. He let himself fall into the seat next to Terry. Benjamin's face stayed turned to the window. He thought he heard a sniffle.

Terry looked at him. "Can I ask you a question, Yehuda?"

He knew what it was going to be: yevarechecha. In his two months in the warmth of Golders Green, he had forgotten that it was strange to be frum. He could say no, but he supposed there was no need. He knew this like the back of his hand. Hashem should bentch you and watch over you—oh, but for Terry it would be God should bless you...He met Terry's eyes and smiled. "Sure."

"I mean…" Terry hesitated. "A religion sort of question?"

Was there any other kind? Benjamin was still looking out the window, for which Yehuda was glad. It was hard enough when it was just one person. "All right," he said patiently. "What is it?"

"What did your father say to you on the platform? He put his hands on your head, like this." Terry held his hands in front of him, palms down and thumbs overlapping. "Was he praying for you?"

"No—well, yes. He was giving me a blessing." He explained the bracha, clumsily translating viy'chuneka as 'he will give you niceness for no reason' because he did not know how to say chein in English, but Terry recognized it anyway. "He will be gracious to you?"

"I suppose so," he said, embarrassed. "It's what he says to each of us every Sh…every week, only I won't be there for him to say it, so he says it here. To make up for the rest of the year." His stomach twisted painfully as he thought of Friday night at home, his father blessing Sholom and going straight on to Adina. He wondered if you could say yesimcha on yourself.

Terry looked at him with sympathy. "I missed my family, too. Writing's not the same, but it's something…" The sun flashed in his face, making him squint. The train had left London now, and he had not even seen it go. Outside, neatly-kept green fields rolled by, dotted with the occasional cow. "…but it does take the owls some time to get back, it's not like being there…"

"I've got an owl this year—well, half an owl, really…" He spoke without thinking. "Have you seen Michael?"

Terry frowned. "Why do you need him?"

"Is that a flying car?" Benjamin blurted. The tension evaporated; they scrambled across the seats to crane their necks through the glass. It was hard to be sure; whatever the thing was, it kept drifting into clouds, and the sun was shining too brightly to look directly at it. "Why would you fly a car? You'd have to be mad."

"Cars don't fly," he said stupidly, then checked himself. He was on his way to Hogwarts. Maybe cars could fly, with magic; how would he know? "How can that work, anyhow? The engine needs electricity; it should just explode."

"It's not going to Hogwarts, at any rate," Benjamin said. "It would never get off the ground with all those Lockhart books."

"They aren't that heavy," Terry protested. "Are they, Yehuda?"

"I don't have them," he admitted. "My mother wouldn't buy them for me. She said it was a racket."

"Your mother's pretty sharp," Benjamin said, and giggled.

"Benjamin!" Terry said. "He caught a ghoul only using a tea strainer! It's in Gadding with Ghouls. Have you read them at all, Yehuda?"

"I couldn't have," Yehuda said. "I don't even have them. I suppose I could borrow them from the library if I need to. It's not like we're going to have a test on all seven of them at once."

"Eight," Terry said, "if you count the autobiography." Before Yehuda could stop him, he climbed cross the seat to reach the trunks in the corner. When he returned, he was carrying the stack of books, eight of Lockhart's beaming smiles thunking onto the table. "You can start now, if you want."

He touched the top one—Break with a Banshee—sorely tempted. Just a few pages, he told himself as he flipped through the introduction. When he looked up from chapter two, Terry had opened another one of the books, and Benjamin was openly staring. "You're fast. You could probably read them all by the time we get there."

That, he thought, was not a bad idea. He wished Benjamin wouldn't look at him quite so oddly, even for something innocent like reading quickly. With one finger, he pushed the stack of books toward him. "You can read them, too. We can all read them. It can be preparation for the year."

For the next while, there was no sound but the companionable silence of pages turning and people reading together. There were no more farms outside the window now, and the grass looked wild and untamed. They were traveling through a dark green wood when the door rattled open. "Anything off the cart, dears?"

"Have you got any fruit?" Yehuda asked.

"Of course, love, I made sure of that this year." She passed him two apples and a banana, and he handed over the money. "And anything for the two of you?"

"Three chocolate frogs," Terry said, "and three for my brother as well."

The hours passed quickly in their impromptu Lockhart book club. Occasionally Benjamin would clear his throat to read aloud something he found particularly outrageous, making eye contact with Yehuda but keeping a poker face when he looked at Terry. Yehuda had finished Break with a Banshee and gone on to Gadding with Ghouls by the time the compartment door opened again. "There you are!" Michael said. "I was looking for you!"

Yehuda glanced at Terry, and he knew they were both wondering the same thing: was 'you' only Yehuda, or was it both of them? Benjamin stepped into the awkward silence: "How'd you know we were in here?"

Michael dropped into the seat beside him. He was carrying a birdcage, which he placed carefully on the table. "I asked the trolley witch if anyone ordered fruit."

Benjamin laughed. Terry leaned forward. "Is that your half an owl?"

"Yeah," Michael said. Their owl peered at them irritably, its head tucked under a reddish-brown wing. "Squawked the whole morning, he only got quiet when we got to the station. What's that?" He pointed into Yehuda's bag, where the white envelope protruded out from on top of his sandwich.

He pushed it down hurriedly and folded over the top of the bag. "That's a letter that my parents gave me to give to Professor Flitwick. It's nothing."

"Then your mum or dad must know something about Hogwarts!" Michael said eagerly. "I thought they're Muggles, though?"

"They are," Yehuda said. He turned the envelope over in his hands, wondering if it was proper etiquette to give a wizard a letter on paper when everyone at Hogwarts used parchment. "Did yours ask you to write when you got to Hogwarts?"

"Of course. I hope he'll be able to make it. We've still got to train him to carry heavier things, like the girl in the shop said."

"Owls have to go to the Owlery," Terry said. "You'll need to get permission if you want to keep it in Ravenclaw Tower."

"Do you think I'll be in Ravenclaw too?" Benjamin said. For the first time, he sounded genuinely nervous. "Like you?"

"Maybe," Terry said. "But there's no telling, really. Mum was a Hufflepuff, and so were Grandfather and Grandmother. It doesn't matter, really; it's all the same classes no matter what house you're in."

"Anyway," Michael said, "I had to come find you, because he still doesn't have a name. My mum and dad have been calling him Anonymous all week, and that's not really a name for an owl. It's too long, and in any case it should be a name that both of us decided. Have you thought of one?"

"No." The truth was he hadn't given a thought to it, everything at home had happened so fast—Mummy carrying Baby Yosef out to the cab to leave for Israel, Esti herding them through the aisles for school supplies, him making funny faces at Eliyohu so he wouldn't cry in the store. "Have you?"

"You've got a ginger owl!" Terry exclaimed. "I've never seen one of those before."

"I know!" Michael said happily. "Yehuda picked him out. I think we should just call him Ginger and be done with it."

"Ginger is a girl's name," Yehuda objected. "He's a boy."

"There's boy names that mean ginger, too," Benjamin said. "Rusty?"

"Bit spot-on, don't you think?" Terry said. "Ravenclaws ought to call him Ferric Oxide, at least."

"What's ferracoxide?" Michael said. "A kind of murder?"

"Ferric, space, oxide," Yehuda corrected. "It's the science word for rusty, but's it's a bit long for an owl."

Michael shrugged. "Oxide could be his middle name—do we have to give him another name, though?" Yehuda looked at him, confused; Terry busied himself with the paper jacket of Travels with Trolls on his lap. Michael waited patiently, as though he were an exceptionally stupid child. "Another name. Like how you're Yehuda, but Anthony on the school lists?"

"Oh! No, of course not. He's a pet."

"Then that's settled." Michael poked a finger through the bars. "Oi, Ferric, get over here and bite my finger."

Ferric obliged.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" Yehuda asked. "Should we leave him with the trunks? He might get seasick on the boats."

"Oh, we're not going on the boats this year," Michael said. "That's only for first years—got to make a grand entrance for the Sorting, and all that. No, we're going in carriages. They've got these invisible flying horses—"

"Invisible horses?"

"Well, not quite invisible, I think some people can see them—"

"Thestrals?" Terry offered.

"Yeah, that was it." Michael looked out the window. "We'll be there soon, anyway."

It was getting dark. Under the table, Yehuda squirmed his hand into his bag, stroking the worn leather of his siddur. Terry had been all right so far, he'd only asked just the one question about Tatty's bentching him, and even then he'd given him a warning, a way to say no. The little brother seemed decent, too. But he could not bring himself to start davening. They would all stare at him, and he would waver between actual kavanah and putting on a performance for them…no, he would have a whole year for that, he needed one last tefillah in private.

He got to his feet. "I'll be back in a minute."

He heard the confused murmurs as the door closed behind him, leaving him in the quiet. There was an empty compartment straight across, and he let the seats envelop him. Ashrei yoshvei veisecha, od yehallelucha selah…the sunset behind the glass cast glowing patterns on the pages of his siddur, and his whispered words filled the silence.

Zocher chasdei avos, u'meivi goel livnei bneihem l'maan shemo b'ahava…

Grace us with your knowledge, insight, and intelligence…

Hashiveinu avinu l'sorasecha, v'karveinu malkeinu la'avodasecha…

Return to Yerushalayim your city…

Modim anachnu lach…

We bend our knees and bow and give thanks to the king who rules over kings…

When he came back in, the siddur closed in his sweaty hand, they did not ask where he had been. Outside, the dark mountains were passing more slowly, and he heard the faint whistle of the brakes being applied. A crisp and official voice sounded from nowhere: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

The train shuddered to a stop.

Benjamin's jaw was set, his face drawn and determined. "It'll be all right," Terry murmured, but his brother barely twitched in acknowledgment. They pushed out of the compartment, into the crowds thronging in the corridor, bottlenecking one by one through the small train doors. The cool night air smelled like the countryside.

"Firs' years!" Hagrid called from somewhere down the lamp-lit platform. "Firs' years, over here!"

Benjamin started toward him, then hesitated, looking at Terry as though for permission. "Go on," Terry said encouragingly. "We'll see you at the castle!"

They somehow got off the platform as Benjamin disappeared toward the pine trees, his back very straight, and they jostled through the doorway out of the station, the road outside. There were carriages standing there, a hundred of them or more, the shafts empty as though awaiting horses that would never come. He clambered up behind Michael, and Terry tumbled in behind them and shut the door. They bounced over rocky ground, disembarking out onto the grass in front of the castle.

The Great Hall glowed with floating candlelight, gold table settings glittering down the four long House tables, the benches already half full. At the head table, the professors were lined up in front of high-backed chairs—Professor Sprout, gray wisps of hair escaping from under a patched cap; Flitwick, gesturing animatedly to Madam Pomfrey, and—

"Oh my goodness," Terry whispered. "It's Lockhart! The new professor's not a Lockhart fan—it's Lockhart!"

Yehuda stood on his toes to see. It was the face from the cover of the book, attached to deep purple robes, talking to Professor Snape, who was standing as far from him as humanly possible and practically vibrating with disgust; after a few minutes, he turned and walked out of the room. Terry did not see; he was sliding into a seat at the second-to-last table. Across, Yehuda saw a few familiar faces: haughty-looking Zabini; blond Malfoy; Millicent Bulstrode, still taller than him.

They had barely sat down, the ghosts had just swept across the starry ceiling, when Professor McGonagall entered the hall, majestic in sweeping green tartan and a pointed witch's hat, a line of first-years straggling behind her. He scanned the huddle, wondering if he had looked so small and terrified last year. Professor McGonagall set a three-legged stool before them. As she placed the dirty pointed hat on top, he found Benjamin, gazing alertly around the hall as though he would be tested on it later. His eyes fell on Terry, and he gave a little wave. For a moment there was silence, then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:

"Good evening! Hogwarts welcomes you, first years from A to Z,

To join a grand tradition and an ancient family,

And as has been my duty for a thousand years or more,

I'll sort you into houses just as did our founders four:

Brave Godric, he took those who charged ahead, in peace or war,

The daring and the dauntless to a house called Gryffindor.

Sly Salazar took those of guile, the ones who played to win

If you want to pull the strings, you might belong in Slytherin.

Wise Rowena, she took those in whom intellect she saw

The ingenious and deep-thinking to the house of Ravenclaw.

Sweet Helga took all those who asked; to her that was enough

If you're faithful and hardworking, you might be a Hufflepuff.

Four founders joined in friendshipnotwithstanding how they differed,

Four houses make a home for every kind of witch or wizard,

Four opposites united in a rare phenomenon,

Four teachers built a school that lasted even when they'd gone.

Our founders are no longer, but I still sing their song,

And look inside your heads, and tell you where you might belong.

So welcome! May it be the first of many happy days…

Now call the poor unfortunate whose name begins with A!"

The ripple of laughter died away as Professor McGonagall unfurled a scroll of parchment. "When I call out your name, you will come up, put on the hat and sit on the stool. When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table. Alderton, Rebecca!"

The tiny girl whose name began with A grinned sheepishly as she made her way up to the stool. The hat rested on her head for a moment and then shouted out "RAVENCLAW!"

"All right!" Michael yelled, joining the rest of the table in applause. At the head table, Professor Flitwick stood on his chair and clapped. Rebecca Alderton froze, looking bewildered, but thrust the hat at McGonagall and scuttled off to a seat next to Penelope. "Sure she belongs in Ravenclaw? She doesn't even know where the table is."

"Well, it is hard to always be first," Yehuda said fairly. "The hat's got a point."

"Bagley, Heather!"

"It didn't say anything like that our year, though," Michael said. "Remember?"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Yehuda nodded. He sang under his breath: "Yet in wise old Ravenclaw if you've a ready mind, where those of wit and learning will alway—"

"Shh!" Terry said tensely, for Professor McGonagall had read out, "Boot, Benjamin!"

Benjamin detached himself from the little huddle of first years. His elbow hit the girl next to him and he paused to say something that looked like sorry, are you all right before trotting up to the stool. McGonagall placed the hat on his head. There was a long silence.

"Come on," Terry whispered, fists clenched. The rip at the bottom of the hat opened—

"SLYTHERIN!"

The cheers sounded lopsided: they should have been at the center of the applause, not hearing them from behind. Benjamin's eyes were wide. He looked helplessly at Terry from across the hall. McGonagall patted him on the shoulder, and slowly, as though in a daze, he removed the hat and slid off the stool.

"Slytherin?" Terry mouthed, as McGonagall called a boy named Cadwallader. His eyes followed Benjamin all the way to the last table, where some older boys were making room on the bench for him. "Slytherin? What was he thinking?"

"He didn't do it on purpose," Yehuda said. The hat only knew what you were thinking in the moment…

Terry turned on him furiously. "How do you know?"

Coote, Coplin, Creevey, then another two boys, "Eggleston, Andrew!" and "Fincher, Patrick!" were Sorted into Ravenclaw. Terry glared at them as though they had personally stolen Benjamin's bed in the dormitory, and craned his neck to look over at the Slytherin table once more.

The sorting went by quickly. A girl with a headscarf like an Arab was called, but she went to Slytherin, to Yehuda's relief; four M's—McKell, Mallory, Midgen, and Montgomery—were all dispatched in quick succession to other houses, but eventually "Randall, Leticia!" became a Ravenclaw, then Gryffindor took the next two, a girl called Robbins and a boy called Sloper, then another boy went to Hufflepuff, and finally there was just one first-year left, a small, red-haired girl who looked vaguely familiar. "Weasley, Ginevra!" Professor McGonagall said, and he realized why: she was the sister of Ron, and all the other Weasleys. "That'll be a Gryffindor," Michael said.

"You don't know that," Terry said darkly.

But she was, and the hall applauded for the final time as the Sorting ended. Michael craned his neck over at the Gryffindor table, where the two red-haired twins were ushering their little sister to her seat. "Where is Ron Weasley, anyway?"

"Dunno," Michael said cheerfully. "Maybe he decided to make a grand entrance. Can you eat, or do you have to…?" He motioned in the general direction of Yehuda's embroideryless yarmulke.

The food had suddenly blinked into existence on all the tables—platters of browned whole chickens, spices glistening in the candlelight, dark pink meat carved into slices, sausages and peas. That was right, the feast appeared out of nowhere; he'd forgotten that. There were vegetables, of course—mounds of cut-up potatoes piled in bowls, carrots stamped with lines of charcoal—but it had been a long summer, and his memory of Hogwarts was full of gaps, so it stood to reason that the house-elves' memories of kashrus had suffered the same fate. Instead, he poured a glass of water and tilted it to whisper Shehakol into the rim. He took a long drink, his plate still empty. A long way down the table, he saw Padma Patil doing the same.

"Ishn 'ere some'ing you ca' ea'?" Michael asked through a full mouth. His plate was piled high with foods Yehuda didn't recognize—meat in an odd shape that looked like a flattened pulke, a green vegetable that looked like sticks of stretched-out broccoli—but he didn't know if they were wizard foods, or just goyish. Michael swallowed so hard his eyes watered. "You've got to have dinner!"

"I had fruit and sandwiches on the train," he said truthfully. "Got to work it all out with the house-elves first." How different this was from last year, when he had sat on the bench, on the verge of tears for what felt like days. He was a bit hungry now, but not uncomfortably so. Instead of eating, he watched the Great Hall. He was not the only one: Terry was eating rather glumly, and he kept looking over at the Slytherin table. Yehuda looked back to the front of the room. Snape had finally arrived, bending over the head table and speaking urgently to Dumbledore. The food faded, replaced by desserts—treacle tart, pies that were chocolate ice cream buried in whipped cream—and Dumbledore left the hall, McGonagall sweeping behind him. Michael watched them go. "Better not be another troll."

Yehuda shivered. "Don't make jokes about that. That girl could have died." He scanned the desserts and saw a bowl of plain uncut strawberries, but he'd have to reach across Morag to get them, so he let it be.

Dumbledore returned, sweeping up the center aisle and raising one hand to still the chatter. The crumbs of dessert vanished. "Now that we have all packed away a delicious feast," he said, "I must trouble you once more with a few notices before we are off to bed. Our esteemed caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you all that students are not allowed out of bed at nighttime, and that it is far more pleasant for all involved when they look after themselves. As always, the forest remains out-of-bounds to all students not serving a well-deserved detention. And finally, I would like to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Professor Gilderoy Lockhart!"

The professor got to his feet and beamed at them all, and Yehuda got a good look at him at last. The hair was not quite as wavy or blond in real life, but there was no mistaking the whiteness of the smile. Many of the students, mostly girls, ducked their heads and giggled.

"Thank you!" he shouted. "I look forward to sharing my vast experience in defensive magic and hair care with the children of Hogwarts—and, if I do say so myself, with my fellow teachers!"

"Thank you, Professor Lockhart," Dumbledore said. "Now the hour is late, and there is nothing more to say that cannot wait for tomorrow, soI will bid you all a good night!"

Michael yawned. "Shall we go, then?"

"Yeah, let's," Terry said, swinging his legs over the bench, "but first I'm going over there to look after my little brother." He strode off past the prefects, who were shepherding the new Ravenclaws away from the table, toward the assemblage of Slytherins at the next table, not looking back to see if they were following.

"First years! First years, you're with us! This way to the common room! Boot! Khan! McGonagall wants a word with you!"

"Benjamin!" Terry pushed through the crowd. Benjamin stood between two other first-years, a stocky black boy and the pale little girl, and at the sound of his name, he looked at Terry, wide-eyed. "Slytherin? What happened?"

"I don't know!" Benjamin cried.

"Well, what did the Sorting Hat say?"

Benjamin looked flustered. "I—it couldn't decide, it was going on between Slytherin and Hufflepuff and finally it said Slytherin!"

An older boy stepped in front of them, a green-and-silver badge pinned to the front of his robes. "You'll see your brother later, Boot. And Ravenclaw Boot, you'd better get to bed."

"But—"

"He'll be all right," the prefect said curtly. "We're not going to eat him."

The swarm of Slytherins filed out toward the dungeon steps, sweeping Terry, Michael and Yehuda with them until they could no longer see the head of sandy-blond hair between the waves of cloaks. Terry was still sputtering with open-mouthed shock. "Between Slytherin and Hufflepuff? He can't be serious!"

"Serious is in Azkaban," Michael said. Behind them, Stephen laughed; the others just looked at him blankly. "Never mind. Are you going to wait out here all night for him to finish speaking with McGonagall? Or can we go to bed?"

Terry looked longingly at the doors of the Great Hall. "I don't even know where the Slytherin common rooms are…I suppose it's best to let him get on by himself, isn't it? That's what my dad would say."

"Dunno, mate," Stephen said. "Merlin knows you're the expert on little brothers."

A hysterical laugh bubbled out of Yehuda: "I beg your pardon?"

"Ah, no, that's right, Goldstein's got fourteen of them—"

They climbed the stairs in spurts, chattering and gesturing, and Yehuda marveled at how easy it was—the joke had fallen from his mouth before he had even stopped to think what it meant, if they would think about how big his family was, if it made him too different, if it made him too similar—it had just come naturally. Like talking to a friend.

Kevin caught up with them on the third floor. "Do you know what Seamus told me? Harry Potter and Ron Weasley got detention already! They flew a car all the way to school and crashed it on the lawn!"

"Cool!" Michael said. "Why didn't they tell anyone?"

"We were all at the feast, dummy!"

"How do they even give detention so early in the year?" Yehuda marveled.

"You got," Terry pointed out, then looked nervous. "I mean—"

"It's all right," Yehuda said quietly. He smiled. "I had two hundred lines after three weeks; that's got to be some kind of record."

"Not anymore it's not," said Kevin. "Harry Potter and Weasley didn't even make it to the feast."

They were on the seventh floor now, and that reminded him. He stopped, and the others turned to look. "I'm just going to see Flitwick; I don't want to end up with lines again." There were nods of understanding; good nights were exchanged, and he set off resolutely down the corridor and knocked on the familiar door.

"Come in!"

He pushed the door open. Flitwick sat at the desk, parchments scattered everywhere. "Ah, yes, Mr. Goldstein. I must say I didn't expect to see you so soon! Come in, come in."

He came through the door and perched gingerly on the edge of his seat, his bag leaning against his leg. "I thought I would come in here and go through all the holidays and when they are," he said. "So that we don't have any trouble again."

"Very responsible of you. Now, what would you like me to know?"

He opened his calendar on his lap. Why were his knees shaking? "I have a holiday on Monday the twenty-eighth that goes until Tuesday the twenty-ninth. That's the New Year. Then another on the sixth of October…" He turned the pages of the calendar, hearing his voice reel off Yom Tov after Yom Tov until he reached the two days of Shavuos on the twenty-fifth of May. "And that's all."

Flitwick nodded. It was almost as though he hadn't been listening at all. "Last year was a bit haphazard, wasn't it? Not much advance notice, all that miscommunication…we always do our best to accommodate as much as possible within the walls of Hogwarts. But as far as leaving the grounds goes, Hogwarts' policy is a maximum of five days' leave. Those days will be up to you, as I don't presume to know what can be done here and what there. Not to go home, you understand—to visit the Muggle village."

"Dufftown," he corrected. How could Professor Flitwick not remember? In his head, he began composing the letter. Dear Rabbi Zeller…Ferric could probably make it to Golders Green by tomorrow morning. "Is it all right if I come back soon to tell you? In a few days, I mean."

"Quite all right," Flitwick said, smiling and rolling parchment as though to signal their conference concluded. "Take all the time you need."

He didn't move. His throat was dry. "And…there's another thing."

"Go on," Flitwick said.

"My bar mitzvah. It's going to be on Monday the twenty-second of March, so I have to go home then, and then there's a…party that weekend…"

He knew immediately that it had been the wrong word to use. Flitwick's face shuttered like a blown-out candle. "You need to go home in the middle of the term for a birthday party?"

Yehuda froze. A birthday party? Oh no, no, no…the office seemed to swirl around him. He would explain it, he only had to find the words. Breathe. Flitwick. In. Out. He tried to focus. The office. It was only Flitwick. He became aware of his shaking legs, his numb hands curled around the handles of a bag. The letter!

"My parents sent this," he blurted. He bent down and fished out the envelope. "They told me to give it to you."

Flitwick tapped the envelope with his wand, and it unsealed and the letter slid upward into his hand. His eyes darted right to left across the lines, and his eyebrows began to raise. Yehuda could see his mother's handwriting through the paper, but he couldn't read backward. He immediately resolved to learn. The silence went on and on. He had a sudden vision of himself leining Vayikra in the center of the common room, eating oranges for the seudah, Michael spouting plastic cheeriness and Terry scrutinizing his every move—

With finality, Flitwick turned the paper face-down onto his desk. "Well," he said. "That can certainly be arranged."

"What?"

He had been expecting to fight, to cry—not to win. Flitwick drummed on the letter. His fingers were narrow and knobbly, like he had ten little wands growing from his palm. "How can I argue with this?"

"With what?" His eyes darted down to the paper. "Can I have it back?"

"No, no, no, this is one letter I'd like to keep…in any case, it certainly doesn't seem that your parents meant you to read it." Flitwick stood up on his chair, though he looked no taller for doing so. He flicked his wand and a file cabinet sprang open. The letter refolded itself and flew across the room. Accio! he thought, but Flitwick surely would not be amused, and besides, his wand was still packed. It was a small sacrifice for a real bar mitzvah. "Thank you, professor," he said fervently.

"Not so fast, Mr. Goldstein, we still have a problem!"

Dizzy with relief, he sank back into the chair. He was going to have a bar mitzvah, they were even going to let him choose when to leave so that he wouldn't have to count on them guessing the important days. Whatever it was, it would be all right. "What's the matter?"

"The problem, Mr. Goldstein, is that while your birthday party week lasts from March twenty-first through the twenty-seventh, spring holidays begin on April fourth. We can't have you missing that much class now, can we? So I am going to require that you return to Hogwarts for the week in between. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Yes." At that moment, he would have agreed to sit through double History of Magic every day for the rest of the year.

"Not even stopping to think about it! Hogwarts truly is an ancient family. Now off to bed with you, Mr. Goldstein, you'll want to be well-rested for Transfiguration first thing tomorrow!"

He heard Flitwick whistling merrily as the door shut behind him. It felt like hours had passed since he had entered, but he remembered where the door was, the spiral staircase behind it taking him up and up and up to the round platform outside Ravenclaw Tower. He squared his shoulders and knocked, and the voice rang through the small landing like a bell: "Is the answer to this question 'no'?"

He almost said "No," but stopped himself at the last second—that would make the answer yes, and that was different than no, but there had to be an answer, everyone else had gotten into the room, and it couldn't be yes, because then the true answer would be no and you would be wrong…how to disagree, but without saying the word?

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Lo," he said.

"Cleverly evaded," the voice chuckled, and the door swung open.

The common room was quiet, but not like it had been in June; a few books were stacked on the tables as though someone had put them down mid-chapter to go to bed, and a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. He crossed the room and climbed the steps, hearing faint strains of music. The door where they had slept last year now bore a sign reading SECOND YEARS, and inside, luggage was strewn around the room. Michael was sitting cross-legged on Kevin's bed, plucking random notes on a guitar. Kevin stood beside him, holding a black case over his face as though hoping it would hide him.

"Oh," Yehuda said. "Can you play guitar?"

"No, but he can!" Michael lifted the guitar and passed it to Kevin. "Go on, show him!"

Kevin's face looked like someone had set it on fire. He placed his fingers carefully and avoided their eyes, punctuating the strums with whacks to the guitar body. He sang, his voice softer and slower than normal: "In every life, you have some trouble, but when you worry, you make it double. Don't worry—be happy." He dropped his hands, and the room felt empty without the music. "Do you know any wizard songs, Michael? I want to learn something."

"Nah, you don't. Wizarding music sucks." (Yehuda winced.) "Play some more of the Muggle stuff!"

"Keep it down, you two," Stephen said. He jerked his head toward Terry, who was kneeling beside his bed and whispering to himself. "There's other people in here."

"Sorry." Kevin put the guitar down, still blushing. He zipped the case carefully and placed it in his wardrobe.

The dormitory became dim as one by one Stephen and Terry and Kevin finished moving clothes into the chests and put out their candles and drew the curtains around their beds. Michael went to shower. Yehuda unpacked too, setting aside the one pen and Muggle notebook he had brought to compose his inaugural letter.

Dear Rabbi Zeller, he wrote. He didn't have ten questions, but this was urgent, the rabbi would understand. If I could spend only five days at the Chabad House in Dufftown, what should they be?

He laid that on the nightstand and turned to a fresh sheet of paper. The words flowed easily: Dear Mummy and Tatty, this is to tell you that I got to Hogwarts. The trip was all right. I'm in my dormitory now. I'm a little tired, so I will sort out the kosher food again tomorrow. I gave the letter to my Head of House like Tatty said, and he said I will be allowed to go home for the bar mitzvah but I will have to come back in between Shabbos and the spring holidays. He hesitated, trying to find a way to ask respectfully, then decided that it was best to be straightforward. He looked a bit surprised when he read the letter. What did it say?

Tell everyone I miss them, and send a big refuah sheleima to Saba Reuven.

Love, Yehuda.

He folded the two letters together and addressed them to Rabbi Zeller, 33 Halswelle Road. "Michael?" he said softly.

Michael came out of the bathroom in pyjamas, toweling his hair dry. "Got your letters ready? Here, I'll get Ferric—"

They knelt at the window, the cage between them and the autumn breeze tousling the curtains, and Michael lifted the cage latch. The owl hopped out and extended its leg, waiting to be called into service. Michael looked at it speculatively. "Think he can manage it?"

Yehuda held out the letter. The owl gripped it, surprisingly strong, and looked at him.

"Bring this to Rabbi Zeller," he said. "Thirty-three Halswelle Road. And wait for him to write an answer, all right?"

His face turned away from Michael's, he muttered a perek of Tehillim as the owl sprang from the tower window and into the night, soaring toward London and beating its wings mightily against the wind.

He woke up early the next morning. The sun was bright, the curtains rustling, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. He lay still in bed with his eyes open for a moment before he sat up. It was time to play mashgiach.

In the kitchen, the house-elves were ladling porridge from huge pots into serving bowls, plating thin strips of meat and setting out milk in jugs, and the cabinet under the vegetable cutting table was just as he had left it, rusted challah knife and all. He wrinkled his nose at the mold-speckled pots and held up his brand-new ones alongside them to compare. "Can I throw these out?" he asked no one in particular.

"The things in the special cabinet is not belonging to Hogwarts," said a house-elf he didn't recognize. "It is belonging to who uses the special cabinet. Now it is Master Goldstein's."

He took that as a yes, and set about to inaugurate his pots with breakfast. The only thing he knew how to make was eggs, but the elves were baking bread nearby, kneading flour and salt and oil into brown bubbles; another house-elf was removing the finished loaves from a big brick oven. He wasted two eggs cracking them too hard on the edge of the countertop, another looked like it might have had a blood spot, and at one point he abandoned the eggs on the stove while he scuttled about looking for salt, but in the end he scraped a perfectly passable, slightly brown scrambled eggs out of the frying pan and onto the toast, washed, ran upstairs, and sat down beside Michael, out of breath. He could see Terry over at the Slytherin table, the two blond heads mirroring the Weasley twins' at the other end of the Hall.

Michael followed his gaze. "He giving you any trouble, Yehuda? Didn't drag you into his compartment on the train, did he?"

"No, he was all right." He touched his wand to his plate and the toast and eggs popped into existence. He felt absurdly proud. I made these! he wanted to yell, I made these at Hogwarts, without any grown-ups telling me how! And they even tasted good!

A hundred owls rushed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the crowds below. An envelope fell onto his plate, and Ferric swooped down to perch proudly on the edge of a milk jug. It was addressed in Rabbi Zeller's handwriting to Yehuda/Anthony Goldstein, Hogwarts. He tore it open eagerly.

Dear Yehuda,

After a great deal of consideration, these are my thoughts. Priority should be given to those mitzvos d'oraysa that cannot be practiced on your own, such as shofar, sukkah, arba minim, and Parshas Zachor. Megillas Esther is a mitzvah d'rabbanan; you cannot lein it from a Chumash. And while you can say the tefillos of Yom Kippur anywhere in the world, I suspect that you will find the day far more meaningful if it is spent with a kehillah.

Your "furloughs" should be taken as follows:

The first day of Rosh Hashanah – September 28

The second day Rosh Hashanah – September 29

Yom Kippur – October 10

Parshas Zachor – March 6

Purim – March 7

This is contingent upon your constructing a makeshift sukkah on school grounds—if that proves impossible, let me know as soon as you can, and I will recalculate. If this little fellow is up to the challenge, I would be glad to send you a lulav and esrog, and I'm sure your parents would be, too.

For further discussion, see the Chayei Adam, klal samach-ches.

"STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU—"

He jumped. "What is that?"

"Howler." Michael dumped a ladleful of porridge into his bowl as the woman's shouts bounced off the walls around them. "Sounds like Weasley's mum isn't too happy with him."

"I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE! LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT – I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME! WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS! YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED! WE'RE ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED, YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME!"

At the Gryffindor table, there was a foom! and the paper burst into flames, matching the redheaded Weasley's face and hair.

"Did you see the signs for all the different clubs?" Michael asked, as though nothing had happened. "There's Gobstones, and music, and there's even one for Muggle O.W.L.s—oh, and second years can try out for the Quidditch team—I'm gonna sign up!"

"I didn't see any of them," he said. "I came down early. You can play Quidditch?"

"I'm all right—nothing spectacular, but might as well. You never get on the team if you don't try out at all."

A hailstorm of paper airplanes flurried across the plates. He plucked one from the air and unfolded what turned out to be their course schedule for the year. At the head table, Professor Flitwick was launching another swarm across the room, this one aimed at the third-years further up the bench. It was time for class to begin again.

"What did your mum's letter say?" Michael asked as they headed off to double Transfiguration. "The one she gave you for Flitwick. Does she know him?"

"I don't know what it said." He kicked the door of the classroom open with more force than necessary. Furlough, what was a furlough? "Professor Flitwick didn't let me read it. He put it in his files."

Parchments were unfurled, new capsules of ink stood at the ready. The bell rang to signal the start of class, making them all sit up straight. The door opened, but it was only Padma Patil, hurrying to the last empty seat all the way in the back, and then Professor McGonagall came in behind her and shut the door. She strode up to the teacher's platform and called their surnames briskly. They wasted no time in reviewing last year's final, when they'd had to turn a mouse into a snuffbox. Five minutes in, Michael had tilted his chair onto the back two legs, his head lolling back to stare at the ceiling; Yehuda looked askance at him between words. "However, the animal remains an animal," Professor McGonagall intoned. "It only takes on the appearance of the target object." The animal stays an animal, he scribbled frantically; life and other intangible qualities, cannot be removed or altered through transfiguration…

Michael let his chair fall forward with a thump. "So if you transfigure something into money, it's not really worth anything?" he called out.

"Pardon?" Professor McGonagall looked over her spectacles at him.

Yehuda shrank under her scrutiny, but Michael plowed ahead. "We learned that any thing you can touch can be made into any other thing you can touch, right? But you can't touch being alive, so the mouse is still alive, it just looks like a snuffbox. You can't touch something being worth money either, right? If I transfigured a mouse to look like a Galleon, would it be worth a Galleon or is it still a mouse?"

"I would award ten points to Ravenclaw for your argument," Professor McGonagall said, "had you made it with your hand raised. Excellent question nonetheless—"

"But if it looks like a Galleon, it's a Galleon!" Mandy shouted. "What makes something worth money? It just has to look like it! Money's not alive!"

The argument went on and on until the bell—"Class dismissed," Professor McGonagall said, "we will begin next week with beetles into buttons"—then it was lunch, then Potions, then Mincha in the dormitory room, speeding through the words so he could get to History of Magic, the day a dizzying blur. Last was Herbology with the Slytherins, shuffling through the greenhouse doors behind some of the Slytherins—Malfoy, two bigger boys whose names Yehuda didn't know, and a girl with hair cut in a severe pageboy. "You wait until my father hears about this," Malfoy said.

"He's dumber than a Horklump," the short-haired girl said disgustedly. "You lot haven't had Defense Against the Dark Arts yet, have you?"

"Not until tomorrow," Yehuda said. He didn't quite know what a Horklump was, but he knew that it had entries in both One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi as well as Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and anything that qualified as both a beast and a fungus probably wasn't going to be inducted into Mensa anytime soon. He sat down in the row behind them, and Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "That's Blaise's seat."

"We don't have assigned seats here."

To his confusion, Michael burst out laughing as he squeezed past Yehuda into the next seat. "You tell him, Yehuda. Now let's get on with Herbology, I want to practice flying."

Malfoy's glare relaxed. "Are you trying out, Corner?"

"Of course, aren't you?"

"I'm already on the team!" Malfoy said proudly. "Seeker. My father got new brooms for the whole team—ever seen a Nimbus Two Thousand and One?"

"No!" Michael's eyes widened. "You're joking! Can I see it?"

Professor Sprout called for silence, and the moment of interhouse unity was over as quickly as it had begun; they spent the next forty-five minutes enduring the stabs of spiky bushes that seemed to be able to pierce their gloves, and finally, finally, the first day was over and they could go back to the Ravenclaw common room.

"See, those are the signs for clubs," Michael said, nodding at the bulletin board. Just as he'd said, there were signs up for Quidditch tryouts, for chess, for band (Kevin had signed his name in small, embarrassed letters), for calligraphy. He wondered if he had time to join that one, to improve his safrus—"Oh!" he remembered. "I've got to set up my other lessons."

Terry looked away too quickly, gazing at the opposite wall.

"Well, bring it down here," Michael said. He was sitting down already, next to Terry in a small circle of armchairs, a book open on his lap. "You don't have to hide up in the dormitory."

He looked around; Cho was poring over something written in Chinese, and Bronwyn's book seemed to be an illuminated Latin manuscript. Hebrew and Aramaic would not be out of place. When he returned, they were no longer alone: Benjamin was sitting on the chair next to him. He opened his folder and riffled through eighty-three pages of Yuma worksheets. The sheets for the first Mishna had a long list of words and phrases to translate, with follow-up questions that he could tell would need him to hunt through the text for clues. To finish it all by Pesach, he would need to do eleven or twelve pages each month—three a week; more if there were Yamim Tovim or exams to work around…

"Have you had Defense Against the Dark Arts yet?" Terry was saying. "What's Lockhart like in person?"

Benjamin took a long time to think before he answered. "Well…" he said slowly, "he…makes class very exciting."

Michael snorted. "I'll bet he does."

"He acted out how he caught the ghoul in the tea strainer," Benjamin went on. "A girl called Mercy Montgomery was the ghoul. I don't think she was very happy about it. Honestly I'd rather have learned how to trap a ghoul in a tea strainer than watch him act it out, but maybe we'll do that next time."

"Maybe you just don't understand his way of teaching," Terry said. "He's done so many great things!"

Benjamin and Michael were silent.

"What?" Terry said defensively. "The book is always better!"

Yehuda looked up. "Weren't you listening to the Slytherins? That girl said he's dumber than a Horklump!"

"I'm not taking any Slytherin's word for anything," Terry said, before looking guiltily at his brother. "Are they awful, Ben?"

"I suppose they are," Benjamin said slowly. "It's only been a day, you know. And we've mostly been at class, or I've been with you."

Yehuda really couldn't blame him. If he'd had a brother here…it was ridiculous, trying to imagine Sholom in the Ravenclaw common room. But if Sholom was here, and they ran to meet in the corridors between classes, or learned together on each other's four-poster beds, he'd never have known what Michael was like—or Terry, he supposed. Not if he'd had a friend from home. But Benjamin didn't need that; everyone here was like him.

"So." Michael leaned forward. "What's the common room look like?"

"A bit like a cave," Benjamin said eagerly, "and the walls are carved out of rocks, and there're these great glass windows, but because it's underground they face right out into the lake, so it's like the whole room is an aquarium."

"Creepy," Terry said flatly.

"And the password is Parseltongue," Benjamin finished, in a pained voice.

"Talking to snakes," Michael explained, at Yehuda's confused look. "Slytherin—the first Slytherin, I mean—could do it."

"Is that why the symbol's a snake?" he asked, remembering the dangling banners from last year's feast.

"It must be," Benjamin said. "The common room's got snake carvings and things everywhere—you ought to come down so I can show you."

Terry shuddered. "No thanks."

Glossary

Kitzur, short for Kitzur Shulchan Aruch. Condensed code of Jewish law.

Machzorim. Holiday prayer books.

Bava Metzia, literally "Middle Gate."

One red and one blue. Indicating meat or dairy status.

Toivel. Immerse new dishes in water after purchase.

Shacharis. Morning prayers.

Tallis. Prayer shawl.

Shul. Synagogue.

Mincha. Afternoon prayers.

Pikuach nefesh. Life-threatening danger, in which most of Jewish law is suspended.

Pesach. Passover.

Hilchos tefillin. The laws of tefillin.

Tefillin. Phylacteries.

Parsha. Weekly Torah portion.

Nachas. A feeling of pride in the achievements of one's child or student.

Tzaddik. Righteous person.

Hatzlacha. Success.

Daven. Pray.

Shkiyah. Sunset.

Peyos. Sidelocks.

Yamim Tovim. Holidays.

Yesimcha Elokim k'Efrayim uk'Menashe. May God make you like Efrayim and Menashe (Bereishis 48:20).

Yevarechecha Hashem v'yishmerecha, ya'er Hashem panav eilecha viy'chuneka, yisa Hashem panav eilecha v'yaseim lecha shalom. May God bless you and guard you, may God illuminate his face to you and be gracious to you, may God lift his face to you and grant you peace.

Frum. Religious.

Chein. Grace.

Siddur. Prayer book.

Kavanah. Concentration.

Tefillah, singular form of tefillos. Prayer.

Ashrei yoshvei veisecha, od yehallelucha selah. Fortunate are those who sit in your house; they will continue to praise you (Tehillim 84:5).

Zocher chasdei avos, u'meivi goel livnei bneihem l'maan shemo b'ahava. He remembers the kindness of [our] fathers, and brings a redeemer to their children's children for his name's sake, with love.

Hashiveinu avinu l'sorasecha, v'karveinu malkeinu la'avodasecha. Return us, our father, to your Torah; draw us close, our king, to your service.

Modim anachnu lach. We gratefully thank you.

Kashrus. Laws pertaining to kosher food.

Shehakol. Blessing on drinks and other miscellaneous foods.

Pulke. Drumstick.

Goyish. Non-Jewish.

Shavuos. Pentecost, commemorating the Jews' receiving the Torah.

Leining. Chanting the Torah.

Vayikra, literally "and he called." The Torah portion spanning Leviticus 1:1 to 5:26.

Seudah. Celebratory meal.

Lo. No.

Refuah sheleima. A complete recovery.

Perek. Chapter.

Tehillim. Psalms.

Mashgiach. Supervisor of kashrus (see above).

Mitzvos d'oraysa. Commandments stated explicitly in the text of the Torah.

Shofar, a ram's horn. Here, the public blowing of it.

Arba minim. The Four Species (Vayikra 23:40).

Megillas Esther, the Book of Esther. Here, the public reading of it.

Mitzvah d'rabbanan. A commandment not stated explicitly in the text of the Torah but deduced from its wording or established later on.

Chumash. The Five Books of Moses.

Kehillah. Community.

Lulav. Date palm, one of the Four Species.

Esrog. Citron, one of the Four Species.

Note: Shout-out to the Pottermore Sorting Hat for putting me in Slytherin and inspiring this chapter.