The Sorting Ceremony concluded with admirable speed.
When the dust settled, Maurise found himself seated at the Ravenclaw table.
It was an acceptable outcome.
Furthermore, he had finally laid eyes on the legendary Harry Potter. The boy was small, skinny, and had been promptly sorted into Gryffindor. Maurise stared at him for quite a long time, eventually catching the boy's attention. Potter, seemingly sensing the weight of the gaze, turned and offered a shy, tentative smile.
He looked like a perfectly ordinary child.
Maurise committed Harry Potter's face to memory before dismissing the subject entirely. He turned his attention to the translucent figures drifting around the Hall. He had a sudden, intrusive urge to grab one of the ghosts and ask exactly what it felt like to float.
"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
Albus Dumbledore sat down. With those four nonsensical words, the banquet officially began.
The abundance of food far exceeded Maurise's expectations; it was vastly more exquisite than anything he had ever been served at the orphanage or his previous schools.
The only tragedy was the absence of dessert.
If it were up to him, he would have started with cake. The traditional order of courses seemed terribly inefficient.
Fortunately, just as the students began to slow down, the golden platters cleared themselves and instantly refilled. This time, they were piled high with sugar: treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs, jam doughnuts, and raspberry gateaux.
"That's more like it."
Maurise contentedly dragged a massive slice of raspberry cake toward his plate.
Throughout the meal, the Ravenclaws around him chattered about everything under the sun. Maurise, however, turned a deaf ear to their conversation. His world had narrowed down to the plate in front of him.
As the sweet, tart flavor exploded across his tongue, he narrowed his eyes in pure bliss.
Perhaps noticing the anomaly at the table who was solely focused on inhaling sugar, a female student sitting opposite him finally spoke up.
"Er… hello? Could you pass the chocolate cake sitting in front of you?"
Maurise felt a pang of heartache at parting with the confection, but he politely slid the platter across the table. It was only then that he properly looked at the speaker. She had a kind, friendly face that made her immediately likeable.
"Thanks," she smiled. "I'm Cho Chang, by the way. Second year."
"Maurise Black. First year," Maurise introduced himself briefly.
"I'm Marietta Edgecombe," said the girl with reddish-blonde hair sitting next to Cho, leaning in with curiosity. "So, Black, what on earth did the Sorting Hat say to you? You were under there for ages."
"Call me Maurise. As for the Hat… well, it called me a fool." Maurise shrugged, reaching for another tart.
The two girls exchanged a glance.
"Oh, I doubt that," Marietta laughed. "Fools don't end up in Ravenclaw."
"If you say so," Maurise replied noncommittally.
At that moment, a pearly-white, translucent figure drifted directly over Maurise's head. Seeing an opportunity, Maurise immediately looked up and waved his fork.
"Mr. Ghost! Could you come down here a moment?"
The ghost was dressed in a tunic and ruff, wearing a hat with a plume, looking for all the world like he had stepped out of a medieval painting. Judging by the fashion, he had been dead for quite some time.
"Young sir? Were you calling for me?"
The ghost turned, executing an elegant bow. His transparent body shimmered with a pearlescent sheen in the candlelight. As he floated down to Maurise's eye level, Maurise realized the man was undeniably handsome.
"Are you dead?" Maurise asked, cutting straight to the chase.
"Painfully obvious, isn't it, my dear friend?" The ghost spread his arms wide, adopting a tone of dramatic pride. "I perished in pursuit of true love! I drank a goblet of fatal poison. A tragic, romantic end to a poetic life."
Maurise blinked. He felt like the ghost was bragging, but he wasn't entirely sure how one was supposed to compliment a suicide.
"Er… sounds nice," Maurise offered hesitantly.
"May you also find such a romantic death one day," the ghost said, bowing again. "Farewell, my friend."
With that questionable blessing, the ghost drifted upward, passing effortlessly through the floating candles before vanishing into the enchanted ceiling.
Cho watched the ghost disappear and leaned in, lowering her voice. "I'd advise you not to talk to the ghosts too much, Maurise. Most of them are… well, a bit unhinged."
"Agreed," Marietta nodded fervently. "Especially the Bloody Baron. He's covered in silver blood. It's dreadful."
Maurise thoughtfully sliced off a piece of cake. "I think they're interesting. Though, why are there so many ghosts at Hogwarts? Surely they didn't all die on the premises?"
If that were the case, the school's safety record was even worse than he suspected.
Cho wiped a smudge of cream from the corner of her mouth. "I'm not sure about the numbers, but I've heard Hogwarts is the most haunted place in Britain."
"How many are there, exactly?" Maurise pressed.
"Hmm, that's a tough one," Marietta tilted her head, thinking.
"There are exactly sixty-eight of us."
The voice came from behind Maurise's left ear.
He turned to find a ghost dressed in incredibly elaborate, aristocratic clothing. He wore a ruff collar and a velvet jacket that looked quite dashing, provided one ignored the gruesome, gaping wound in his neck. His head was wobbling precariously on his shoulders, held on by only an inch or so of skin and sinew. It looked as though a stiff breeze might knock it off completely.
"Oh, it's you, Nearly Headless Nick," Cho said, making the introductions. "He's the resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."
"I would prefer Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, if you please," the ghost corrected stiffly. He offered a bow, a risky maneuver that caused his head to loll dangerously to the side. "But I am delighted to meet a young gentleman with such an interest in the spirit world."
Marietta looked surprised. "Are there really that many? I've been here a year and I've seen maybe twenty."
Sir Nicholas smiled somewhat patronizingly. "My dear girl, it is only natural you see so few. Many ghosts, particularly the ones who have been around for ten or twelve centuries, prefer not to mingle with the living. We who attend the feasts are actually the minority."
"Sir Nicholas, could you come a little closer?" Maurise asked suddenly.
Though puzzled, the ghost drifted forward. "Certainly, young friend. Did you have a question?"
"Just Maurise is fine."
Maurise reached out his hand, attempting to pat the ghost on the shoulder.
Predictably, his fingers passed straight through the ruff and into the ghost's neck, meeting no resistance other than the sensation of plunging his hand into a bucket of ice water.
Sir Nicholas froze for a moment, then let out a hearty, booming laugh. To him, this wasn't rude; it was a classic parlor trick.
"You cannot touch the dead, sir!" he proclaimed proudly. "We are quite beyond your grasp!"