The freshn's collective awe at Dumbledore's effortless ceiling repair was instantly overshadowed by a far more primal, pressing sensation: hunger. The long, cold journey had worked up a ferocious appetite. Studying the Headmaster's flawless magic could wait; the imdiate priority was the stunning bounty of food that had magically appeared on their gold plates.
Albert, however, wasn't done with his ntal gas. He knew the secret of the feast: Dumbledore hadn't conjured the food out of thin air but had leveraged ancient Hufflepuff-related enchantnts, combined with the tireless labor of house-elves, to transport the banquet from the massive kitchens located directly beneath the hall.
He turned to the Gryffindor Prefect next to him, who was already aggressively tackling a mound of mashed potatoes. "How do you think the food got here so fast? Is it purely conjuration, or is it transport magic?"
The Prefect, his mouth full, simply shook his head and waved a dismissive hand, clearly uninterested in answering philosophical questions about catering while in the act of eating.
Albert sighed inwardly. The Prefect's response only confird his suspicion that while Gryffindors possessed great heart, they sotis lacked the... academic curiosity to explore the chanisms of the magic they took for granted.
The feast was imnse, an unparalleled spread of traditional British fare. While not what one might call "exquisite" dining, it was hearty, abundant, and clearly designed to satiate a thousand hungry stomachs. Albert, having snacked the whole way, was not starving, but he appreciated the quality. He carefully procured a fine cut of steak and began slicing it slowly. Across the table, Lee Jordan was enthusiastically gnawing on a chicken leg in each hand, a comical image of gluttony.
Midway through the al, the atmosphere gained another ethereal layer: the ghosts arrived.
They erged from the walls, from the floor, and through the tables, their arrival greeted with a mixed chorus of gasps, excited murmurs, and nervous freshman shrieks. The Gryffindor ghost, a shimring, transparent figure in elegant, ruff-adorned noble attire, was undoubtedly the famous Nearly Headless Nick.
Albert put down his fork and addressed the shimring phantom politely. "Excuse , Mr. Ghost."
The ghost paused, floating over the table. "I think, young man, I would much prefer you call Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington," he said, his voice a silvery echo.
Albert, impressed by his own capacity for instant recall (a handy trick his system likely helped with), recited the lengthy title perfectly. "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. I have a question. Could you possibly... be photographed? I an, can you appear in a picture?"
Sir Nicholas, clearly delighted that soone had bothered to use his full na—he absolutely loathed being known as the 'Almost Headless' novelty act—brightened considerably. "What? Photograph? I don't understand your Muggle term, boy."
"A picture," Albert clarified. "A visual record. Would you mind posing for a picture with another ti?"
"Ah, well, I suppose that can be arranged," Sir Nicholas agreed, flattered by the request. "If you wish to create a portrait one day, find ."
"Thank you. One last question, if I may," Albert pressed. "What exactly is a ghost? Is it simply the soul after death?"
Sir Nicholas paused, a mournful, shimring shadow crossing his face. "Wizards can choose to leave an indelible mark upon the mortal world, to walk ethereally in the places they knew during their lives. But only a few choose this path." He offered no direct confirmation of the 'soul' theory.
"A mory, then?" Albert murmured to himself, tapping his chin with his knife handle. "It doesn't seem quite like a simple imprint. So, is it truly the soul, intentionally anchored here?" He knew that souls were a very real, tangible concept in this world, given the horrific existence of Horcruxes.
When Albert looked up from his contemplation, he realized that a sizable portion of the imdiate Gryffindor table was staring at him, their chewing having slowed to a curious halt.
"What is it?" Albert asked, genuinely puzzled by the attention.
"Nothing!" they mumbled, quickly looking back at their plates.
"Still, I maintain you should have been a Ravenclaw," Fred slurred, his mouth full of sticky treacle tart.
"Swallow before you speak, please," Albert admonished him mildly.
"Why the intense curiosity about ghosts?" asked a freshman girl a few seats away.
"In the Muggle world, ghosts are fictional—they don't exist," Albert explained calmly, resuming his al. "Now that I have a chance to learn about these magical phenona firsthand, I'm not going to miss it." He paused, leaning in slightly. "By the way, if a ghost passes through you, it feels incredibly cold. Next ti, try to avoid it."
He didn't ntion that he'd just tested the theory by subtly reaching out a finger and poking Sir Nicholas, confirming the chilling sensation. Avoiding ghosts in the corridors during the winter months, he calculated, would be a high priority for comfort.
"It's true, there are no ghosts in the Muggle world," confird Shanna Wilson, a Muggle-born girl sitting two seats down. "My parents were absolutely certain the acceptance letter was an elaborate prank. When Professor McGonagall showed up for her visit, they nearly called the police to have her arrested for trespassing and harassnt." She laughed at the mory.
"My situation was similar," Albert replied with a genuine smile. "My mother almost called the authorities. People steeped in the scientific world resist any abnormality. They still half-heartedly hoped I'd go to Eton College."
"Wait, that Eton College?" Shanna asked, her eyes widening in surprised respect.
"What's Eton?" Lee Jordan asked blankly, imdiately confirming the vast cultural gap.
"It's one of the most prestigious, highest-ranked schools in the UK," Shanna explained patiently.
"Hogwarts is the best school!" George scoffed, offended on behalf of the wizarding world.
"Of course, it is," Shanna shot back, rolling her eyes. "There's only one magic school in the entire country, so by default it's the best. But ordinary people—Muggles—have thousands of excellent schools, and Eton is among the top three. That should tell you sothing about the alternative path."
"Sounds powerful, I guess," George conceded, unconvinced.
"Enough about us Muggles," Albert interjected, diverting the conversation. He looked at another girl across the table.
"I'm a half-blood," said Angelina Johnson, a sporty-looking girl. "My mother is a witch, and my father is a Muggle. They were completely open about it very early on, but we always lived in the Muggle world. I've been around magic since I was little, so the invitation wasn't a huge shock."
Alia Spinnet, the girl Albert had helped on the path, added, "I'm from a pure wizarding family. Everything here is normal to . My family was thrilled I got the letter and bought a brand-new owl imdiately."
As the main courses vanished, the dishes instantly replenished themselves with an array of desserts: trifles, ice cream, cakes, and huge bowls of steaming pudding. Albert chose a rich plum pudding and continued to listen to the freshn's varied and entertaining stories of receiving their Hogwarts letters.
When the last of the dessert plates vanished, Dumbledore stood up once more, silence imdiately falling over the hall.
"I am delighted to welco a new mber to our staff," the Headmaster announced warmly. "Please give a warm welco to Professor Bud Brod, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."
A very sparse, polite patter of applause followed as Professor Bud Brod, an elderly, slightly nervous-looking man, rose to acknowledge the welco.
"I have a few final notices," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling. "First-years, please note that the woods on the campus are strictly forbidden to all students. The rest of you would do well to rember that as well."
Albert glanced at the Weasley twins, whose eyes were already gleaming with the forbidden thought of the Forbidden Forest.
"Also, Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked to remind you that no magic is to be perford in the corridors between classes. And finally, the Quidditch tryouts will take place in the second week of this term. Anyone interested in joining their House team should contact Madam Hooch."
"Why can't we go into the Forbidden Forest?" Lee Jordan imdiately whispered, despite the explicit warning.
"Perhaps because there is inherent danger in the Forbidden Forest," Albert suggested dryly, looking directly at the twins, who were practically vibrating with illicit excitent.
"If either of you dares to step foot in that forest, I will write directly to Mum!" Percy Weasley, the aforentioned, impeccably neat older brother, leaned forward from his Prefect spot and glared at them with lethal intent.
"We won't!" the twins insisted instantly, though the forced, overly sweet sincerity in their voices suggested they had already ntally charted several routes into the woods.
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