Chapter 3Chapter Text
It took me a long time to fall asleep that last night at the Residence, and then I had to wake up earlier than usual so that Gary could take me to the station. He was the youngest member of the staff, in his late twenties and with a lush, long hair that put my own wavy, tangly dark one to shame. He also had slight compulsive tendencies, making me check and recheck time and time again the departure time, and that I was carrying everything I'd need. What about your toothbrush? Did you pack enough socks? But at least he was kind enough to lift the heavy trunk for me into the van, and then back onto a trolley once we arrived at King's Cross.
He left me sitting on a bench on Platform 9, in the midst of a throng of commuters rushing this and that way, and convinced —with my help, and that of whatever tricks Dumbledore had employed to ensure the Residence's staff wouldn't inquire too much into the nature of my new schooling— that my train was about to arrive in a few minutes.
I waited there for a moment after he left, examining the people around me, and sure enough I quickly identified a small group that didn't fit in with the rest: a family of four, two adults and two kids, one of them pushing a trolley not unlike my own. Except that they were all dressed in elegant robes of muted tones. Somehow, their odd looks didn't seem to attract any attention from the other hurried travellers.
I saw them approach a pillar by the middle of the platform, and one moment later there were only two of them remaining. I stood up, and when I looked back at them, they were gone.
So that was the entrance, then. I approached the pillar moving quickly now, trolley in front of me, my hands grasping its bar so hard they'd likely leave twin imprints on it. My heart was beating fast as I walked purposefully and aimed straight at the wall of bricks. Right before I was about to collide head-first into it, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
And I promptly collided into something.
The trolley suddenly stopped rolling as I crashed into whatever it was, and I heard a sharp cry of pain coming from further ahead, followed by someone exclaiming "Seraphina!" I opened my eyes to see that I had indeed crossed the threshold —I was in a different platform now, the bright red locomotive of the Hogwarts Express puffing clouds of steam to my left. But my trolley had run straight into the woman from the family of four I'd seen before. Shaken, she was picking herself up from where she'd fallen to the floor. The man who I guessed was her husband —tall and gaunt and with his hair cropped short— was advancing towards me with a murderous expression in his eyes, wand out and already aimed my way.
"What is the meaning of this?" he was saying, spitting each word out.
"Whoa! Hey!" I said, scrambling to produce my own wand out of my pocket and aiming it his way. I hoped he'd be particularly sensitive to the wand-lighting charm, if a fight were to break out. "Sorry, it was an accident!"
"An accident," he said through clenched teeth, as if tasting the sound of it. But he seemed to calm down when his wife placed a hand on his shoulder, having recovered from her tumble. He looked around, probably realizing we were starting to attract the attention of some of the other parents nearby. "Don't you have eyes on your face, you utter buffoon?"
I tensed my fists, my wand seeming to be coming alive with magic. The nerve of this... bloke!
"I couldn't exactly see you through the pillar, could I?" I replied. "It was your own fault for not clearing the landing area!"
His eyes widened at that, and I was sure he was about to send a jinx my way when one of his children —a girl I put about four years ahead of me, with sharp cheeks and her hair in a ponytail braid— whispered something to him. He paused and looked me up and down, paying attention to my very Muggle clothing.
"Unbelievable. I keep saying it, if we allow this riff-raff to attend Hogwarts, it won't be long before the school's reputation is in tatters."
I was about to say something in reply, but he had already turned his back to me and was walking away with his family, as if I was now beneath his notice. So instead I put my wand back into my pocket and decided to let it lie. And with that remark of casual racism under my belt, I took a look around, advancing along the platform, trying my best so that it wouldn't sour my entire experience.
I was early, but there were already a good number of families with their offspring, boys and girls of different ages saying their goodbyes before boarding the train. I kept an eye open, but didn't recognize any of them. Which didn't really surprise me, since except for the Weasleys and possibly that Cedric Diggory character, I couldn't really remember the faces of any of the older kids at Hogwarts. Even those in my own year seemed fuzzy in my fore-memories, aside for the Golden Trio and a couple others such as Malfoy and company. And I suspected most of them wouldn't even look that much like their movie counterparts, anyway.
I approached a stand with a few copies of the Daily Prophet and took a quick look at the front-page, curious to see what the recent news would say. I should really start paying more attention to the comings and goings of the Wizarding World, I figured, but it was hard to do so while cooped away at the Residence, and without any money to pay for a subscription of my own.
The top heading was for Minister Fudge —his picture nodded softly and gave me a smarmy smile— and his new law regarding the breeding of magical beasts, which seemed to be the political hot button for the Summer of '91; but my eyes jumped to the article next to it, the one explaining how the Goblins would be increasing security measures at Gringotts after the attempted break-in.
So, the plot was afoot.
I sighed and advanced towards the train. I boarded one of the carriages near the middle, dragging the heavy trunk after me with some effort.
After much thinking, I had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. I held very valuable knowledge, knowledge that could certainly save lives. But at the same time I also knew that the good guys would end up winning; unless I started changing things to save this or that character, that is. I risked derailing the entire timeline into a complete catastrophe if I tried to intervene; the destructive potential of my actions far outweighing whatever help I could provide. Eyeballing it was simply too dangerous.
Another option I had considered was to come clean to Dumbledore: explain everything I knew, all about my unusual circumstances, and give him a neatly packaged list of the Horcruxes and key future events. Still risky, yes, but not as much if it was Dumbledore manipulating the timeline rather than me doing it. I supposed that would be enough to pre-empt Voldemort's return, but it would also put me in the cross-hairs. Not only Dumbledore's —who would have no qualms using me and my knowledge in whichever way he wished, ugh— but also the Ministry of Magic's, if word of my uniqueness was to ever reach their ears. I might survive the war —stop it from happening, even!— just to spend the rest of my life locked up in a little room, unspeakeables prodding at me. And what was the point of saving the world if you didn't get to enjoy it afterwards?
But more than that, I refused to see my life, my strange rebirth here, as simply a way for the universe or fate or whatever to ensure Voldemort was defeated. I didn't want to be... a mere tool, just here to deliver some valuable info to those at the top, always subjected to their decisions and their wants. There was life outside of Hogwarts, and I had a future to live for. One of my own, that belonged just to me, that I was still to build and that I pretty much didn't want Dumbledore to sacrifice in his altar of noble causes.
After all, the world was full with evil shit, magical or not; it wasn't my responsibility to fix it.
So, I was sticking to my plan: keep a low profile. Priority one: get good at magic, and change only what I need to in order to ensure my own safety, my own survival. And perhaps my own good fortunes, too. Priority two: maybe help save some of the victims if I could find the opportunity in the future, once I'd had more time to decide on which ones and how.
So with that in mind I avoided the compartments with occupants already in them and claimed an empty one. I took advantage of my early arrival to close the door, draw the curtains, and quickly change into my Hogwarts robes before storing my trunk away. That way I wouldn't need to do that later, surrounded by all the little twerps. And sure, perhaps I was also influenced by the way that man had looked at my Muggle outfit, so what?
I doubted for a moment whether to pull back the curtains again or leave them closed as they were, so that I could maybe enjoy an empty compartment for the duration of the entire trip. But I ended up pulling them back. I wanted a low profile, yes, but there was such a thing as going too far; I didn't want to end up as the brooding hermit who talked to nobody, which would also risk attracting attention, if for a different reason. Instead I retrieved the 'History of Magic' book from my trunk and started reading from where I'd left it the days before, determined to simply fit in.
It didn't take long for the door to open again.
"Hi. Can we sit here?" It was an older boy dragging a pair of hovering trunks, followed by a wiry kid my own age. They looked alike, both of them dark haired.
I nodded, removing my feet from the seat in front. I didn't recognize either of them, and the older one confirmed that to me:
"I'm Carl Hopkins, this is my brother Wayne. It's his first year. Yours too?"
"Sylvia Sarramond. I'm a firstie too, yes."
"Oh, that's brilliant! Perhaps you'll even end up in the same house! See? I told you you'd end up meeting people in the train," he said, elbowing his brother, who seemed intent on disappearing into the ground.
I gave them a beaming smile, because I had absolutely no idea who these two were. Which was brilliant indeed, since it meant I didn't have to watch my every word not to accidentally derail an entire timeline and ruin the world. We talked for a few minutes about favourite subjects and what not while the carriage filled up with more students and the train readied for departure, the noise of conversations and people walking past coming from the corridor outside. I wasn't surprised to hear that Carl's most hated subject was Potions, and I could hazard a reason as to why, seeing as he was wearing his school robes over a scarlet red tie, with a lion shield on his breast pocket.
I was about to ask for tips on how to survive unnoticed in Snape's class when the compartment's door opened again.
"Oh, you three are already wearing your school robes? Me too, of course. It's much easier this way, isn't it? Are you reading the 'History of Magic' textbook? I finished it two days ago, but now I've started 'Hogwarts: A History' and I find it much more interesting. Did you know that there are a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts? I hope I can find them all. I'm Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger. May I sit here?"
Shit.
I tried to think of a reason for saying no, but Carl was already introducing himself and his brother, and the girl with the frizzy hair was determined to sitting next to me. So I simply sighed and said "Sylvia Sarramond" and shuffled to the window seat. I opened my book again and pretended to go back to reading.
"-and was very surprised when Professor McGonagall brought me my Hogwarts letter and told me I was a witch. Both My parents are Muggles, you see, so I had no idea about magic being real. What about yours?"
"Ah," said Carl, a bit taken aback at the girl's machine-gun-like intensity. "We are half-blood, Wayne and me: our father is a wizard, but mum is a Muggle."
Then they all turned their eyes at me, the buggers.
"I don't know," I deadpanned. "Never met my birth parents."
And then there was silence, which suited me just fine, because at least it seemed to steal the wind out of Hermione's sails, who had been talking non-stop for the last half hour.
After a few moments Carl —being the Gryffindor he was— tried to necromance the conversation back to life: "Oh... uhm... so is that because of You-Know-Who? And... do you live with... uhm?"
"I am Muggle-raised," I explained, taking pity on him.
"Oh?" he said, surprised. "I thought you were... I mean, you seemed to know who Snape is."
Careful now. I shrugged, patted the cover of my book and said simply: "I pay attention, read ahead and such, you know. Also McGonagall took me to Diagon Alley, explained lots of things to me."
"Who is Snape?" asked Hermione, frowning slightly at me.
"It's the Potions teacher," explained Carl. "A proper git. He's also Head of the Slytherin house."
Which turned the conversation to the much safer grounds of which house we wished to be sorted into. Hermione of course gushed over Gryffindor, and asked Carl over a dozen questions in the span of five minutes, ranging from what the common room looked like to how many times they'd won the House Cup. Wayne claimed he wished to join the house of the lions too, but looked less enthused about it. "I just hope I don't get sorted into Slytherin," he added. Unnecessarily, to my opinion, because that didn't seem like a particularly probable risk for the subdued kid.
"I would prefer Ravenclaw myself," I said, sticking to the image I was beginning to cultivate. "I'm not... well, I'm not very chivalrous, but I enjoy reading. And a house where I can do that and get better at magic seems like a nice fit."
Not to say, the stupid online quizzes from my fore-memories had me pegged as a Ravenclaw, so I'd always identified more with the blue house. And with my superior self-discipline, maturity, and learning techniques, combined with the knowledge granted by my past life I was sure I'd soon look like the Ravenclawest Ravenclaw who ever Ravenclawed.
"But you can read books and learn magic in any house," argued Hermione. And she was arguing, because she was frowning and with her arms crossed. "Headmaster Dumbledore is considered the most skilled wizard alive, and he is a Gryffindor!"
I was about to give her a rebuttal, praise the merits of my future house when I double-checked myself. What was I doing? I could not risk accidentally convincing Hermione into not joining the lions. So instead I simply shrugged, muttered "Guess you're right," and went back to my book.
Which seemed to anger her further, for some reason. She was revving up for another assault when the door opened once more.
"Ha- hello. Have you seen a- a toad here? I seem to have lost my T- Trevor."
We all shook our heads, but Hermione stood up, sent an irritated gaze my way, and then walked out of the compartment with the boy, snapping the door shut in her wake. "Hi, I'm Hermione. I'll help you look for it. What is your name?..."
I let out a relieved sigh the moment I heard her voice fade in the distance. Carl gave me a charitable smile.
He said: "Intense, uh?"
I nodded. "Looks like I didn't make a good impression on her."
"Don't worry about that. If you end up in the same house you'll have time to get to know each other better. And if you don't..." He shrugged, as if to say 'who cares, then?'
The rest of the trip went on without incident, or intense girls. We talked some more about Hogwarts, about our respective home lives, and my visit to Diagon Alley —Carl and Wayne were particularly amused at how I'd managed to coax the stern McGonagall into buying me pretty clothes.
And if I did overstate how effective my arguments to her had been, they didn't need to know.
At some point the witch with the sweets trolley made a visit. The two brothers went all in: liquorice wands and chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes, and looked a tad sheepish when I didn't partake. I did have a couple of Galleons and a few Sickles and Nuts that McGonagall had left me with —for personal expenses, she'd said. And I did have a handful of British pounds I'd managed to scrounge over the years —some legally, most not— and that I still needed to exchange. But that was the full extents of my wealth, and I didn't want to squander it before we even got to the castle.
In the end I did ask for a pumpkin fizz, if only to stop the two kids from feeling self-conscious. And also to learn what all that fuss wizards had about pumpkins and pumpkin by-products was about.
It wasn't bad. Fizzy.
We fell into a companionable silence after that: me alternating between reading my book and looking at the rugged landscape of the Scottish Highlands out the window, my mind thinking of the challenges to come; the Hopkins talking low among themselves, playing some sort of trading card game which I eventually joined —I won a couple of cards, probably because the boys went easy on me, one of Dumbledore and one of Copernicus. Hermione did return a short while before we arrived at our destination. She didn't say much to me, and I returned the favour.
Getting off the train was pandemonium. I suddenly found myself stumbling down a steep hill in the dark and surrounded by screeching kids, all pushing and elbowing each other to get to the front of our little group, some because of raw excitement, others because of fear of getting separated or lost.
Not that it was a risk, given that Hagrid towered over us lamp in hand, like a duck mum over her ducklings, visible for miles around. He wasn't really a mountain of a man, I realized the moment I put my eyes on him. No, it was more than that. He was monstrous, in a way that was impossible without magic —or very, very unique genetics.
I guessed it was both of them, in his case. And I also knew he was supposed to be the kind-hearted, gentle giant; but I felt dwarfed and intimidated by his enormous presence all the same. He would have intimidated me even if I was still adult-sized, but being eleven it felt like beholding a titan who could crush my skull with his bare hands if he so chose.
I did my best to avoid his notice and ended up in a boat along with the younger Hopkins, Hermione and another girl with mousy hair I didn't recognize. Hermione being with me was concerning: wasn't she supposed to be in the same boat as Ron and Harry Potter? Or maybe not. I looked around, but I couldn't identify the occupants of any of the other boats just by their silhouettes.
The devil was on the details, and it was the details that I couldn't remember, so I couldn't get rid of that feeling of something being already wrong. Already different, somehow.
The feeling that I shouldn't be here; that this was not for me.
But then the boats turned around a bend of the shore, the lake opened up, and I entirely forgot about all that. Hogwarts appeared over us. The castle's vast and majestic silhouette an impossible sight full of dramatic towers and stone buttresses, contrasting against the darkness of the starry sky; the windows lit up in a warm, inviting-
"That there must be the Great Hall!" exclaimed Hermione. "Oh, and that is the Gryffindor Tower! It says in 'Hogwarts: A History' that the stairs to get there can move on their own, and that-"
"Shh!" I said. Then grumbled low under my breath: "Don't ruin it for me." I hadn't meant for her to hear that last thing, but in the sudden silence of the lake the whisper seemed to carry further, and I could feel Hermione's eyes on my back all the way into the docks and up the stairs we climbed afterwards.
My entrance into Hogwarts was half-surreal, half filled with trepidation. From the moment we disembarked and I set foot on the flagstone floors of the castle I couldn't stop thinking that there was no way this fairy-tale place could be real, that I must be dreaming somehow. And at the same time there was a complete solidity to the powerful stone walls surrounding us, to the elegantly arched ceilings. That realness, that familiarity of materials and construction would conspire to make me forget I was in a bloody magic castle, make it look like it was yet another old building, a cathedral or some old monastery like those I'd visited in my fore-memories. But then we would walk pass a moving portrait, or a floating candelabra and the vertigo of where I truly was would hit me once more.
I wasn't new to these sort of existential tensions, though. And in the end, the weight of the moment-to-moment present life won out, imposing itself by sheer stubbornness as it always did. And sure, I understood that this was a castle out of a children's book, but at the same time I couldn't deny that this was real; that this was my life now, apparently. And while children's book existed, children's worlds did not. Like the Muggle world I knew and despised, the Wizarding World was too an adult world, ruled and shaped by adults. And I wondered about which parts had been edited out of the first Harry Potter book, their nature too complex, too subtle for the light-hearted adventure story.
We gathered in front of the large doors I assumed led to the Great Hall, and there stood McGonagall like a gargoyle, causing everyone to fall into a hush with her mere presence. She surveyed the crowd, not paying me any special attention, and then said: "Welcome to Hogwarts," and launched herself into an explanation of the houses system, which I already knew enough about, so I let my eyes wander across the group of first years.
Now that we were under some more light I could recognize some of my classmates. I'd lost track of Hopkins before, but he was a little to my right, next to two twin girls who looked like they were of Indian descent: the Patel twins —or Patil, I couldn't remember. Over there was Neville Longbottom, who I'd already seen on the train. And the blonde kid with the narrow face and haughty airs could be none other than Draco Malfoy, which meant the two pudgier blokes next to him were Crabbe and Goyle —or Goyle and Crabbe. I noticed that Draco was also paying more attention to the crowd than to McGonagall, as if he too already knew everything there was to know about the different houses.
And then... Ah, there he was.
The Boy Who Lived didn't look like much. To be fair, none of us did —we were eleven, after all. He was somewhat weedy and dishevelled, the glasses dominating his face. He seemed out of place, as if he too wasn't sure he belonged here —which was a ridiculous notion, it was his name on the cover after all. Maybe he was overwhelmed. But mostly: he looked like a kid. Just a kid. You wouldn't imagine he would grow up to save the Wizarding World, to defeat Voldemort.
Hell, if he knew what I knew, he'd probably be well on his way to France by now.
Or maybe not. Maybe he would stare resolutely at that dark future ahead of him, and stubborn his way through it. Wasn't that his thing, after all? And I couldn't help but feel sad on his behalf. And guilty, because here I was with all the answers, and I was going to do nothing but hide in the shadows, let him take the brunt of it.
Then he shifted his weight and his eyes met mine for a beat. He quickly looked away, and gave his hair a fast sweep with his hand, positioning it so that his scar was covered.
Right. I guess I was gawking at a celebrity, wasn't I? I wasn't making a good impression on the Golden Trio so far. Now I only had to insult Ron's family for the hat-trick. The red headed boy next to Harry seemed unaware of me, though, so better to keep it that way.
McGonagall left, and there was a sudden commotion when the ghosts made their appearance. They were... odd. I had that memory from the movies that they were supposed to look and sound like people; floating, see-through people. And they did, for the most part. But when you looked at them out of the corner of your eye they seemed to lose definition, somehow becoming blurrier and misty; and their voices had an ethereal quality to them that I found strangely unnerving.
But I put them out of my mind because soon enough we went through the doors and into the Great Hall. It was... well, it was something.
Larger than in my fore-memories, the tables longer and the aisles wider, but somehow familiar at the same time. Bathed in the warm light of hundreds of floating candles; with colonnades at the sides that rose to disappear into the night sky overhead. And dozens of students already seated, looking at us with curiosity as we queued into the centre of the enormous room, lined up in front of the stool with the old hat on it.
And beyond the stool, the head table with the teachers: Dumbledore, now looking much more impressive —and unmistakable— in his flowing colourful robes rather than that old corduroy suit. A man in dark robes and with a hooked nose that I quickly recognized as Snape. The short professor of Charms —I couldn't remember his name, Flickit or something?— who looked as excited about the sorting as Snape didn't. Another name that eluded me was that of the stout grandmotherly witch who taught Herbology. But she was there, along with a few other adults I didn't identify.
But there was a notable absence, because the guy with the turban, the guy with Voldemort's face sticking out the back of his head —Quirrell, I believed his name was— was nowhere to be found.
It took me a moment to notice, and one more to scan the entire room in search for him and to realize that no, he wasn't here. And one more moment to start panicking, because... why wasn't he here?
The hat was singing, but I couldn't hear the words. A cold fear was filling my veins, my heart beating fast. What the hell was going on? He was there in the movies, I knew that, he attended the banquet after the sorting ceremony. But was he there in the books too? Did he join later? I racked my memories, struggling to remember every detail from a book I'd read a lifetime ago; literally.
I was still trying to recall when the sorting began, McGonagall's no-nonsense voice rising across the hall: "Abbot, Hannah!"
Shit. What was going on? Was this normal, expected? Or was it...?
I knew I wouldn't be able to recall it, not that small a detail. So what could I do?
"Hufflepuff!"
I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and approached one of the female students at the Ravenclaw table: "Ah... excuse me?"
"Brown, Lavender!"
I tugged at her robes. "Excuse me?"
She turned, no doubt surprised to see a firstie addressing her. "What? Uh, hi. Do you need anything?"
"Crabbe, Vincent!"
"Right, I'm sorry but... I was just wondering..." I pointed at the head table. "Do you know who is our Defence professor this year?"
She looked at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Slytherin!"
"I think it's... that one," she said at last, "the witch in the green cloak next to Professor Snape. Not sure what her name is. Why?"
Oh shit. Oh no.
"W- wasn't there supposed to be a Professor Quirrell, then?"
"Granger, Hermione!"
She shook her head. "No, you got it wrong. Quirrell used to teach Muggle Studies, but he's in a holiday or something of the sort. This year we have a new professor on that class too. But shouldn't you be paying more attention to-"
"Gryffindor!"
"Right. Thank you," I said, returning to my place in the queue, my legs feeling like jelly.
This was wrong.
Not Hermione going to Gryffindor; that was right. Among the only light in the tunnel I suddenly was trapped in. Because... what the hell? Quirrell gone, some nobody professor teaching Defence? What the...?
I had a moment of hope as I considered if perhaps the whole thing wouldn't happen. If perhaps Voldemort hadn't returned in the form of an unholy abscess. If perhaps the future didn't hold all those terrible things I remembered.
But it was short-lived, because I had read about the Gringotts break-in in the Daily Prophet. And I knew that it was Voldemort behind it. So what gives?
"Hopkins, Wayne!"
It was my fault. It had to be. I didn't know how, but my presence here was the only change I was aware of. And now this. Perhaps the day Dumbledore had visited me he was meant to reply to Quirrell's letter or something, and he hadn't and now Quirrell wasn't here and now the timeline train was off the tracks. Whatever it was, though, I had a deep suspicion it had begun with me.
"Hufflepuff!"
So what do I do now?
Well, I had to do something. If Quirrell —or someone else possessed by Voldemort— was out there and trying to access the Philosopher's Stone through other means, there was no longer any guarantee he wouldn't succeed. Which meant I'd need to act after all, if I wanted him to remain bodiless and things not to deteriorate into an early war. And sure, there was the tell-Dumbledore option, let him deal with the fallout; but I still saw that as a plan B. Or C, even. Still not looking forward to become another pawn on his board, thank-you-very-much.
So if I had to act, better to keep it on the low. Which meant I'd need to gather more information, and then maybe nudge a thing here and there to keep the timeline shipshape as best I could. But that changed my calculation: because if this was the lay of the land ahead, I couldn't simply Ravenclaw my way through my Hogwarts years. I'd need to stay close enough to the plot for my foreknowledge to be of use. And it didn't get any closer than the Golden Trio themselves.
Which meant, I had to get myself sorted into Gryffindor; if only because it would be the easiest way to eavesdrop on those three, and to earn enough trust as to subtly guide them into the proper path.
But I could do that. I would be their advisor in the shadows.
"Potter, Harry!"
A hush fell over the entire Hall, conversations dying as all the students on the tables focused on the Boy Who Looked Terrified. He advanced in silence and sat down on the stool. The hat started muttering to itself, and we waited. It felt endless, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. And then:
"Gryffindor!"
The table of the lions erupted in cheers, and I let out a breath. It was good to know at least not everything was out of whack.
The relief was short-lived, however, because after just a couple other students, McGonagall called: "Sarramond, Sylvia!"
Right, here goes nothing.
I advanced towards the stool, my fists clenched and my mind wondering if all my planning would be in vain; if the hat would not raise the alarm the moment it touched my head, shout out the interloper's secrets for everyone to hear.
At least most people weren't paying much attention to me, my name a complete unknown to all but Hermione, the Hopkins and a couple of the teachers, maybe. But the one who was looking at me most intensely was the Headmaster, oddly enough. Dumbledore followed my every move with the same focused gaze that he'd previously deployed on Harry.
I risked a glance at McGonagall as I walked up to the stool, but her poker-face was unbeatable. You'd say she had never seen me before. So I simply sat down, took a deep breath; and the Hat fell on my head.
"Hmm... Not a Hufflepuff, that's for sure. You aren't a fan of hard work, are you? Now, let's see..."
Wait, that was it? Straight to the sorting? No comment on the whole... uniqueness of my situation? Hell, even Ollivander had-
"Ah, but I'm just a Sorting Hat, and I have no understanding of a Seer's visions. Though if it is understanding you seek, then I could sort you into Ravenclaw, hmmm? Yes, I believe you would learn much there."
I disregarded the mention of me being a seer as the hat simply being confused as to the true nature of my fore-memories. But the offer was tempting, and I almost accepted right then and there. It was what I'd planned for, after all, and I could almost imagine how it would play out: how I'd be able to find out more about my own origins, slowly untangle the mystery of my fore-memories by piecing together clues taken from musty tomes and arcane parchments. It would be a long project, take me years probably, but at the end I would have my answer, one I'd been looking for since I was seven. I would have loved to say yes.
If there wasn't a madman outside the castle trying to come back to life, that is.
"I really, really need you to sort me into Gryffindor," I muttered instead. "If you've seen my memories you know why."
The hat sounded hesitant: "Oh, Gryffindor, hmm? Gryffindor is for the chivalrous and brave of heart, and-"
"Yes, yes, I know! But look, what I plan to do is certainly brave, isn't it? I'll be risking myself, going against You-Know-Who, sneaking around at night. That's peak Gryffindor right there!"
"Ah, a compelling argument! Still sure that you don't want to be sorted into Ravenclaw? Hmm... No? I see, I see. Yes, a good argument, but... you know in your heart that the bravest thing you could do would be to confess your visions to the Headmaster and seek his help, hmm...? But now I know where to put you, yes. You certainly belong in-"
"No, wait!"
"-Slytherin!"
Chapter 4Chapter Text
I stood up like a spring, removing the hat while muttering at it "You stupid piece of felt!" under my breath. But judging by the hat's smug expression, my outburst only seemed to reassure it of its decision.
And what sort of decision was that?! Slytherin was for pretentious pure-bloods coming out of stuffy family lines, which I most certainly was not. Sorting a probably Muggleborn into it was a recipe for a future of bullying or social isolation, at the very best.
But with no recourse, I walked up to the snake pit and plopped myself down on the bench, in front of a thin boy I didn't recognize —who gave me a quick perfunctory nod— and next to a girl with cascading blonde hair who didn't even acknowledge my presence. Malfoy was already there, two seats away, as well as his two bodyguards. At least I was able to pick the bench facing the rest of the Great Hall, so that I could keep the other tables in view.
Also in view was the head table, and I noticed that despite the next student after me being already on the stool, Dumbledore was still looking straight at me. His expression was serious and pensive, with a hint of resignation. He looked almost visibly older.
I avoided his gaze, tried to pretend everything was normal, and sighed in relief when he eventually returned his attention back to the proceedings, an eternity later.
What the hell was that about? He hadn't reacted like that for any of the other Slytherins, so why me? Was it because he was the one to personally deliver me the acceptance letter, was more invested in my sorting? Or because he assumed me to be a Muggleborn, and was worried about my future treatment?
There were some muttered conversations —specially coming from Malfoy's neighbourhood— but nobody talked to me and I returned the favour. The last few students were sorted quickly, with Ron Weasley going to Gryffindor as I expected, and the very last of them —'Zabini, Blaise!'— getting into Slytherin. A tall black boy who gave me a condescending smirk as he sat by my right side.
Stupid hat.
With the sorting now finished, Dumbledore stood up and pronounced his random words, back to his usual joviality —a joviality that I was starting to put under doubt, seeing as how quickly it came and went away. He clapped his hands, and the space in front of each of us filled with food: platters of roast beef, chicken and glazed ham; honey-glazed carrots and peas; pitchers overflowing with iced pumpkin juice and jars of butterbeer. So much food that the table let out a groan at the weight suddenly placed on top of it.
I dug in, following the example of the other kids —my housemates now, I guessed, and wasn't that a weird concept to come to terms with. At least the food was great: the meat tender and savoury, the butterbeer refreshing. I discovered I was famished after the long train trip.
People started talking in earnest then, the kids seemingly more relaxed now, and I discovered to my growing horror that most of the Slytherin first year already knew each other, and the topics of their conversations weren't that inclusive: they ranged from their plans for the Yule Ball at the Nott's estate to them agreeing that someone called Cygnus would probably congratulate Malfoy for getting sorted into Slytherin.
It allowed me to put names to their faces, at least. The thin boy in front of me was Theodore Nott, polite and cold and probably the son of a Dead Eater, if my memory didn't fail me. His demeanour was pretty much the polar opposite to Malfoy's flashy bluntness. Talking to him was Sally-Anne Perks, demure and measured, but not as much as the posh girl to my left: Daphne Greengrass, who ate with aristocratic delicateness, each and every bite measured and elegant. I didn't remember if her family liked to torture Muggles in their basement too, but I did remember her younger sister wouldn't grow old.
To the other side of Nott sat Pansy Parkinson, brown haired and snub-nosed, leading the chatter with the Malfoy princeling; and the bulky girl next to her was Millicent Bulstrode. I quickly pegged her as Parkinson's very own Crabbe-and-Goyle; and like them, she was more focused on the food than on the social niceties.
I wasn't the only straggler, thank God. Zabini next to me didn't seem part of the in-group —not that he minded it, judging by how he looked at everyone as if he was in a league all of his own; and the last girl —Tracey Davis, short and sporting a bobby haircut— didn't talk to anyone and simply ate her food with her eyes downcast, as if she wished to disappear entirely.
I was hoping I myself would slip more or less unnoticed too, but by the time the banquet was coming to an end Parkinson deigned to address me. She said: "Pass me those pumpkin pasties."
Just that. No pleases, excuse-mes, or even asking for my name. I figured that was how she talked to her house-elf or something. Just a command, and the expectation I'd simply do as told.
So I grabbed the tray and put it close to her, but just far enough that she wouldn't reach without having to stand up. She frowned at me.
I winked at her. "You didn't say the magic word."
It was like sharks noticing a drop of blood in the water, because a hush seemed to radiate across our end of the table when those words registered. Even Malfoy stopped jabbering for a moment, sensing the unfolding drama. Parkinson stood up, dragged the tray closer to her, and sat back down.
"It's so funny you talk about magic," she said, showing me a poisonous smile. "What was your surname again? Sarramond? I don't recognize it. Are you from a half-blood family, perhaps?"
And there it was, their supremacist nonsense making its appearance at last. It was always going to happen, though. And now I had to decide whether to downplay it, or maybe attempt to diffuse or dispel their suspicion by claiming some estranged ancestry on the continent or something of the like.
It was probably simpler not to lie outright —which they might be able to see through— and play up the orphan angle. My origins were a mystery in truth, so I could be honest about that, at least. The fact that it would leave my blood status in a limbo was also a welcome side-effect.
"I wouldn't know, I'm an orphan. I've never seen my birth family; wasn't raised by them," I replied easily, shrugging as I grabbed one of the pasties from in front of her. "They might all be dead for all I know."
"But you are one of us, aren't you?" interrupted Malfoy. "You must be, to be sorted into Slytherin. You were raised by wizards at least?"
I shook my head. "Raised by Muggles; didn't even know magic existed until this Summer."
He looked as if I'd just told him I'd been raised by wolves in the forest or something, his face a mask of disgust. "Wait! Are you telling me you were raised in a Muggle orphanage?!"
"Muggles don't have orphanages anymore. I went through a couple of foster homes, and now I'm at a group home. It's... sort of a house where a group of kids live together, with some adult staff and-"
"That does sounds quite like an orphanage," interrupted Zabini, looking amused for the first time since he sat down with us.
I tilted my hand in a so-so gesture. "Well, when you put it like that..."
Draco's eyes were about to roll out of their sockets: "So you're a Mud- a Muggleborn!"
"Maybe? I mean, I don't know. I'm Muggle-raised, if you want to be-"
But he was no longer listening. He turned to his sidekicks instead: "I can't believe the Sorting Hat would put a Mu- a Muggleborn in Slytherin! Wait until father hears about this!"
And the gossip seemed to spread like wildfire from there on, heads along the entire table soon turning to look at me in curiosity or open disgust. Parkinson observed all this self-satisfied, grinning at me like the cat that ate the canary. Even Tracey Davis seemed interested, shooting me quick glances. I rose an eyebrow at her, and she focused once more on her dessert.
I pretended to ignore it all and bit into my pasty. It tasted good, but not as much as I'd maybe hoped for.
The feast ended soon after that, and my attention returned to the head table where Dumbledore was once again on the move. His welcome speech was unremarkable for the most part: the Forbidden Forest was forbidden, as was the third floor corridor —so it was confirmed, then: the Stone was in Hogwarts. The only deviation from what I'd expected was his introduction of the new professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts as one Xenia Duskhaven, a former curse-breaker who had also been teaching at Ilvermorny School, in America. The witch in the green cloak stood up briefly to give us all a curt nod.
She was an unknown factor. Someone not in my fore-memories and that I could know nothing about. Was she in cahoots with Voldemort, or on Dumbledore's side? Or maybe she was on her own side, pushing her own agenda.
But I had a more immediate problem to deal with, because with the banquet now ended the Headmaster dismissed us, and one of the Slytherin prefects called for us to follow her down to our common room:
"Oi firsties, listen up! I'm Gemma Farley. You can call me Farley, or Prefect, or my favourite: Prefect Farley. Our common room is in the castle's dungeons, so follow me now and don't get separated! Sarramond, what's the problem? Afraid to join us?"
I looked up at the knowing smile in the prefect's face. A face I recognized: it was the girl with high cheekbones and a ponytail, the same one whose mother I'd trampled down with my trolley back at King's Cross.
I sighed. "No, just... apologies for, you know, before?"
She let out a bark of laughter —to the confused looks of the other first years— turned without a word and started leading the way, the rest of my new housemates following her. I shook my head and joined the group.
We went back through the same wide stairway that we'd climbed to get to the Great Hall, and advanced through stone corridors and down more flights of stairs, the air growing colder as we went on, the colours muted and the sounds of our steps echoing in the depths of the labyrinth of passageways that opened up around us.
We were descending some spiralling steps, with Farley explaining how this path was fastest than going through the Grand Staircase —which I was still dying to see— when Vincent Crabbe slowed down until he was by my left side. Then, out of the blue, he shoved his shoulder into me.
Or, more accurately, he tried to. But because he didn't know that my reflexes had been forged in the fiery hearth of the Elliot-and-Miles' conflicts of the late 20th Century —plus, he was Crabbe, like... not the brightest crayon in the box— he was utterly unprepared when I simply sidestepped his telegraphed attack without even breaking my stride, effortlessly getting out of his way. Surprised and without the support of the body he was intending to impact, he started tilting forwards dangerously, tripping on his own feet as he tried to regain his balance in increasing desperation.
Right before he was about to go rolling down, though, I managed to grab his arm and steady him again.
"Steep stairs, no?" I said.
He pushed my arm away. "Keep your filthy hands off me!"
I was about to reply with some cutting remark about his own table manners or lack thereof when the prefect's voice rose from somewhere underneath us: "Crabbe! Sarramond! What's the matter? Stop dilly-dallying!"
I shrugged and pointed at the stairs: "After you."
There was a momentary look of pure, undiluted loathing in his face, but reason prevailed and we climbed down the last steps without any incident, me palming my wand under my robes as we landed onto the corridor where Farley and the others waited, just in case there were more surprises waiting ahead.
She took us to a nondescript wall, said "Subterfuge," and a hole opened on it, growing to the size of a door. Then she turned to us: "The password for the next week is always on the noticeboard in the common room. Needless to say, never share it with anyone from the other houses unless you want a first-hand demonstration of the Cruciatus Curse." Her wolfish smile made it hard to know if she was serious or merely joking. "I'd also add not to share it with anyone in our own house either, because if remembering a password proves too challenging for any of you, you might not be a good fit for Slytherin; no matter what that old hat told you."
There were a couple of gazes going my way at that, as we rushed to follow her into the common room.
The lobby of an upscale hotel. That was my first impression, and what I likened the place to. Polished floors of emerald marble, engraved columns rising to an arched ceiling far above our short heads, walls covered in artwork and hung animated tapestries, enormous dark leather armchairs clustered in little archipelagos; and the tall windows, impossibly holding back the weight of an entire lake, and that now only offered a view of absolute darkness.
Our older housemates were already in the common room, having taken command of the seats and couches sometime before our arrival, and looked at us with bored curiosity as Farley explained the fundamentals: this is the boy's dorms, that is the girls'; bathrooms are there; better wake up and be on the common room in time for breakfast tomorrow morning, or hope that you could make it back to the Great Hall on your own.
She was winding down her explanation when a gravely voice interrupted her: "So, is it true, then? Do we have a mudblood now?"
We all turned to look at the speaker: a teenage boy, which I pegged as a sixth —possibly seventh— year. He was indolently leaning back on one of the leather seats, looking at me with cold eyes.
Ever since I first took real conscience of my own nature back on my seventh birthday, I'd been... unimpressed by adults or teenagers. I'd begun seeing them as I remembered from my fore-memories: without that innate respect and deference children my age were supposed to have towards those older and bigger than them. And while I admitted I could still learn from other people, my respect wasn't based on mere age. Adults weren't all wiser or more capable than me. I knew; I'd been one myself, after all.
And so I'd developed this habit of talking back freely, of challenging their orders and opinions when I didn't agree. I tended to treat them as if they were my equals, like it had been before I died.
But this teenage boy, he gave me pause. I held my tongue and swallowed hard.
Because he radiated danger, in some primal and subconscious way I couldn't really put my finger on, but that made me feel as if I was a mouse in front of a house cat. It was in how his face lacked any expression other than a subtle sardonic smile, how his eyes looked bored and soulless, or how his hand rested carelessly over a narrow, almost needle-like stick of a wand.
I was no psychologist, but even then I had no doubt: that teenager in front of me was a psychopath. An armed one, and surrounded my his own cadre of sycophants, judging by the cruel snares his mates were sending my way.
"Selwyn," started the prefect, "She-"
"She has a tongue, Farley," he interrupted. "Let's hear what she has to say for herself."
Farley didn't look happy, but she crossed her arms and remained silent, which spoke volumes about the hierarchy of relative power in the Slytherin common room, given that unlike the prefect this boy —Selwyn, apparently— didn't carry any badge pinned to his own robes.
And by now every pair of eyeballs in the room was focused on me, and my year mates had all taken one or two steps away, as if I was contagious or something. Or more likely, they just didn't want to stand on the line of fire.
"I... I don't know," I said, trying my best to keep my nerves under check, to appear self assured. "I'm an orphan. I was raised by Muggles, yes, but I never met my biological parents, so I don't know if I'm a—"
"Sarramond, is it? It doesn't ring a bell," Selwyn said, clearly enjoying my predicament. "Have you heard of a Sarramond family before, Burke? Flint?... Anyone?"
No one said a word.
"So you can see the dilemma I'm in," he continued, his voice almost a smug purr. "Because I take pride in the cleanliness of my house, as any proper wizard should do; and a mudblood in Slytherin... well, that just wouldn't do, now would it?"
My mouth felt dry. I wasn't sure what the threat was, exactly. But while I liked to think that Dumbledore and the other staff wouldn't allow an older student to seriously injure —or murder!— a first year, I also was very aware of the cavalier attitude displayed by most adult characters in the story towards child endangerment, so I wasn't willing to put that theory to the test.
I took a deep breath. All right, time to make use of my foreknowledge, even though I wasn't a hundred percent sure on this particular piece of lore: "But... I read that there were some Muggleborns sorted into Slytherin in the past," I argued. "Wouldn't that be a... a precedent?"
Selwyn's face took a sombre look as he addressed the room at large, rather than just replying to me: "Yes, at some points in the past our house wasn't as... thorough as it should have been. But we have raised our standards since, haven't we? And we shouldn't let them fall again into the filthy ground; we should pride ourselves in being part of the cleanest house, and keep it so. Past mistakes are no excuse for making new ones."
"Selwyn, have you considered she might not be a Muggleborn?" interrupted Prefect Gemma Farley, who seemed to have found a new source of courage. "You heard her. She admits to being raised by Muggles, but that doesn't mean her parents were Muggles themselves. She could just as easily be a half-blood."
"And what are the chances of that, Farley? Do you want to bet on it?"
She frowned. "Well, she was sorted in here, wasn't she? That skews the odds. Many half-bloods hid among the Muggles during the war, we all know that. If that's her case and her family didn't make it–"
He waved his hand dismissively: "If, if..."
"But it's like in that book of yours about the old pure-blood customs, Selwyn. Didn't it say anyone gets the chance to prove their own blood status if challenged? So what's it going to be, then? Are you going to deny that right to a first year just because you don't recognize her name, or are you going to honour your own words?"
For a moment I wondered why the prefect was defending me, but then I saw the way Selwyn and her locked eyes, Farley's hand clenched around her wand, Selwyn grinding his teeth, and realized that this wasn't really about me. These two looked like they had a prior history, and Farley wasn't so much defending me as opposing Selwyn for her own reasons. At the risk of coming to conclusions, this looked like one more battle on a war that preceded my arrival, a war for power and influence over the common room. I was just today's excuse.
But whatever her reasons, they suited me just fine. You go, girl!
Selwyn jumped out of his seat, his listless indolence vanishing in an instant, his wand not quite aiming at the prefect yet, but threatening to.
"Are you really going to come at me, Farley? The first day?"
She shrugged. "I am a prefect now, Selwyn; there are rules I have to follow, and make sure others follow too. Are you really going to force my hand?"
They observed each other in tense silence, and for a moment we all took a step back, sure that a duel was about to break out.
"Very well!" Selwyn said after a beat, spitting the words as he turned to me, his voice full of venom. "We'll delay the inevitable if that's what you want. You have until winter break, Sarramond. Either you prove that you aren't a mudblood by then... or you better not come back."
With those encouraging words he turned away and retreated towards the dorms, followed by his sidekicks and a moment later by the rest of the students still in the common room, now that it seemed the moment of excitement had ended.
Prefect Farley took the first year girls, me included, up a short span of stairs and into a large circular room with several four-poster beds, all of them draped in muted green velvet curtains and all of them facing a central lounge area with a stove, now off. The room should have felt oppressing, with the stone walls and the lack of windows; but the curtains, rugs and portraits that covered every exposed surface managed to soften the mood enough into making the place feel as somewhat of a soothing refuge.
Our trunks were already in place by the foot of the beds, so my year mates simply marched on towards their designated spots. I held back, loitering by the door.
"Thanks," I muttered to Farley.
She paused by my side and shot me a considering glance.
"Don't thank me yet, I might have pushed him too far... It's not like everyone in our house is a blood purist, mind you, but most people keep their mouth shut and so Selwyn and his ilk end up believing they're the kings of the common room."
My gaze was firmly forwards, observing the other girls unpacking their stuff. I said: "Not everyone is a blood purist, but blood status is still important, right? I guess expecting the hat to know what it was doing was too much to ask for. Any ideas on how to go about this?"
"I don't know; owl the Ministry, or hit the Library and ask for some books on magical bloodlines, look for your surname in there."
"Right. And when I turn out to be exactly what it says on the tin, what then?"
She gave me a shrug. "They can't actually push you out, you know. This is your house too. They might threaten you, and they might try to harass you, and use this or that jinx or curse or something. But there is only so much they can do without crossing the line; and this is Selwyn's last year at Hogwarts anyway. So if you make it to Summer, next year should be easier."
If.
I gave out a long sigh. Being harassed for months on end by a psychopathic racist teenager wasn't on my bingo card for this year. I could try to do it, but it would suck having to watch my back at every waking moment. And because of my fore-memories I wasn't as confident as Farley that they wouldn't resort to using the worst kind of spells on me. I knew something that she didn't: that some of those guys would surely end up becoming Death Eaters once Voldemort returned.
She lowered her voice and gave me a conspiratorial wink: "But if that doesn't suit you, well... I suppose there must be some reason the hat sorted you into Slytherin, after all."
Was she suggesting...? Well, yeah. I guessed I could cheat. I guessed in fact, I'd need to cheat, if I turned out to be as much of a Muggleborn as I suspected. The question was how to do that, exactly.
Not for the first time, I cursed the Wizarding World's obsession with blood status and the snake it rode in on. So many backward beliefs taken at face value... I couldn't wait for Hermione to become Minister of Magic.
Farley left us after that, with some last minute instructions and reminders to be up in time in the morning. Then I closed the door and finally walked up to my trunk.
My bed was the second clockwise from the door, between those of Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass —whose levitating hairbrush was busy at work while she leafed through the pages of a magazine. Parkinson and Bulstrode were opposite me, as far from my own bed as physically possible, which seemed like the ideal distribution to me. As I opened my trunk and changed into my sleepwear and dressing gown —under the privacy of the four-poster bed's curtains— I wondered vaguely if magic was involved in that. It seemed overkill, to use some sort of spell to ensure the most peaceful bed assignments for first year students, but also like something Wizards would do.
Or maybe it was the elves. Didn't the castle employ scores of them, to cook and clean and such? I guessed moving our trunks here from the train was part of their tasks. I would need to find a way to give my thanks to them. My adult memories told me that being in good terms with those people who handled your stuff —concierges and kitchen staff, janitors and waiters and house cleaners— was always a winning strategy. They might not rule the world, but they pretty much kept it running smoothly, and could easily ruin your day if they so chose.
I was placing my school robes back into the trunk when I noticed everyone else had paused in their own routines and they were all observing me.
"Wot?" I asked. Maybe a little more bluntly than warranted, but by this point I was already getting tired of all this pure-blood asininity. And it wasn't even the first day yet, technically.
There was a moment of silence, and then Parkinson pointed at my pyjamas and said in a disgusted tone: "What's that you are wearing?"
I followed her finger. The stamped fairies had stopped dancing and chasing each other and now they fluttered in place with arms crossed, giving her the stink eye.
"Uhm, fairies pyjamas?"
"I know what they are! They're giving me a headache! Merlin, you're so—!"
"It's... ah... a bold choice," said Sally-Ann Perks from her bed, wearing her own pyjamas with stars and moon motifs. Unfortunately for her, none of them were animated.
"It's childish, it's what it is," continued Parkinson, who herself was wearing the dullest nightgown ever made and was probably actually dying of envy at the sight of my faeries. "What are you? A child?"
"... yes? We are eleven."
"Fairies are for kiddies who still wet—"
"My sister likes fairies," interrupted Greengrass. Her voice was calm and neutral, almost as if she was making an offhand remark about the weather. She didn't even look up from the magazine open on her lap; but Parkinson shut up immediately.
Curious...
"She has good taste," I said after a beat. On my pyjamas, the stamped fairies were resuming their usual flight patterns. There was... a lot of motion, now that I thought about it.
"She does."
I turned my head back towards the other side of the room, to see if Parkinson had anything to add. But it seemed she was simply smouldering in place. It was this hidden hierarchy thing once more, I realized. On paper, we were all equal: first-year students at Hogwarts sorted into the same house.
But our house was Slytherin, which meant we weren't all equal: both Perks and Davis were half-bloods, I'd quickly learned during the banquet. But Tracey Davis was a lower class of half-blood, apparently, which would have put her on the lowest rung if it weren't for me taking that particular spot. And while the other three girls were all pure-blood, it seemed the Greengrasses were a step above the rest. Daphne pretty much acted like royalty, like she was a magical princess, and during the banquet I had noticed even some of the older kids treating her with the same sort of deference they gave Malfoy, or Nott.
I didn't know the motive, though, what reasons caused some families to be above or below the others. Perhaps it was money, or prestige; most likely it was just stupid blood purity. But whatever it was, or however absurd this game was, I was sort of forced to play it now. And with some luck maybe I could get Daphne, if not on my side, at least to act as a calming force in our dorm. A bulwark of sorts, one that could rein in Pansy Parkinson and Bulstrode's worse tendencies and stop them from acting out against me.
The question was whether Daphne was aware of this, or if she was simply going through the motions. She was only eleven, after all, and I doubted she was a little politician, calculating her every subtle move for maximum effect. God knew Malfoy wasn't. But her parents undoubtedly were; and they might have instructed her and drilled her on what her position meant, and how she should act while at Hogwarts. Plus, she did seem a tad sharper than the blonde twat.
Time to give it a try, then. See if she was aware enough of her own power to make conscious use of it. So I yawned and said to her: "Well, good night. Hopefully we'll get some sleep tonight without any noises waking us up; tomorrow is a big day."
She didn't acknowledge me, didn't turn her head even a fraction. But after a few seconds she said: "Yes, I hope that too."
I locked eyes with Parkinson first, then Bulstrode, to drive the hint home. They might have been Slytherins, sure, but again: they were also eleven years old, and those subtle are not.
Except for Greengrass, apparently. Note to self: don't antagonize Daphne Greengrass.
They seemed to forget about me, or pretend to. Good enough. But just to be sure I also placed my wand under my pillow —more to protect it than anything else, since I still didn't know any actual offensive spells; but I certainly did not want the two girls to put their hands on my actual magic wand oh-my-god while I slept.
I was tired, knackered from the whole train trip and the stress of it all; but still my eyes refused to close when the lights went out, and I simply laid there in silence, my gaze lost in the darkness of the windowless room as the other girls fell asleep one by one.
I was at Hogwarts.
Ever since Dumbledore had intruded into my life I'd known this day would arrive, but it had always felt distant and abstract. Even after witnessing all the magic back at Diagon Alley, the castle still remained fixed in my mind as something out of a fantasy book. Unreal. More a dream than anything else.
And now I was at Hogwarts. And tomorrow, I'd open my eyes and I'd still be at Hogwarts. And the day after that too.
I was at Hogwarts, learning magic.
It was an intoxicating thought, and I could understand why the school cast such a disproportionate shadow over the entirety of British magical society. It was simply... fascinating. Mysterious and mythical and so full of possibility.
And also danger. Because somewhere below us was a bloody basilisk, and so far nothing was going according to plan: I was supposed to be up at the Ravenclaw Tower, not deep into the dungeons and fending off murderous blood supremacists; and the plot —that incredible succession of near misses and unlikely events— seemed to be on risk of derailing, if it hadn't fallen of a cliff already.
The beginnings weren't auspicious, and I remembered the words of the Sorting Hat: 'The bravest thing you could do would be to confess your visions to the Headmaster and seek his help.'
It would be so easy, doing that: just find his office and tell him the whole story, rebirth and children's books included. And if his head didn't explode out of an existential aneurysm, I knew he'd handle it all. Make it all go away.
Including myself. My own future and freedom. Maybe.
Or maybe not. But the possibility was there, and the uncertainty was more than I could swallow. Walking into the darkness, trusting only this authority figure I didn't really understand and couldn't fully predict, was more terrifying than a basilisk.
Besides, I always had time to change course if I found myself exceeded by the situation, didn't I?