Parallel
Her name is called and she walks with a quiet dignity, one that is not often see in girls of eleven, lacking the nervous energy that bubbles forth from so many of her peers. The Great Hall is silent, every eye fixed upon her as she perches upon the three-pronged stool and lets the timeworn hat be placed upon her head. It slips past her ears, obscuring her eyes and most of her nose.
Despite her morbid appearance, stray bits of tattered leather hanging down across her coal-black hair, she continues to exude a sense of poise and grace that has the professors leaning forwards in their chairs. Their knowledgeable gazes are fixed upon the back of her skull and though she cannot see them, a sliver of discomfort works its way down her spine as the feeling of being watched encompasses her.
"What a well-ordered mind," comments the hat, causing her to start as she hears it within her head.
A picture of austerity, she sits upon the seat and waits impatiently to be Sorted, eager to be done with the ceremony and the feast so that she may go to her dormitory and bury herself within the book she had begun reading on the train.
.
She's bouncing on the soles of her feet as she waits for her name to be called, eyes bright and alive with curiosity as she takes in the Great Hall. It's better than the books have told her, the floating candles and the enchanted ceiling seeming like concepts fresh from a fairytale. The entire hall is abuzz with soft chatter, students debating each fresh faced first-year that climbed the stairs to sit upon the three-pronged stool.
Her name is called and she rushes up the stairs, taking them almost two at a time in her zeal to experience all that there is on offer. Behind her, she can hear the chuckles of the other children – it isn't disconcerting to her though, she's had to put up with teasing all her life because of her reserved and bookish nature.
Books are her sanctuary and the library is her temple. She wonders whether the library of Hogwarts will welcome her as a new devotee, granting her access to piles of written treasure. Her eyes flick the hall as she settles back onto the stool and lets the hat be slipped onto her head.
It falls till the battered brim is balanced on the bridge of her nose and she sighs, knowing that she must look ridiculous, but for the most part her excitement deafens her to any and all negativity. She's eager, oh so eager, to find out where it is that her heart truly lies.
"Oho," mutters the hat and she nearly falls of the stool in surprise, unsure of how to proceed to the telepathically inclined hat, "I haven't seen a mind as well ordered as yours in over fifty years."
A picture of subtle brilliance, she balances upon the seat and waits patiently to be Sorted, allowing the hat to pick its way through her thoughts and memories. She's eager to go to bed and read by the light of a candle, hoping beyond hope that she can finish her newest novel before the break of day.
(*)(*)(*)
The girl taps her foot against the floor, waiting impatiently to be sorted into whichever house suits her best. She thinks that perhaps it will be Ravenclaw, or perchance she will be a Slytherin. She has the mind for either, she knows that for a fact, her parents have been praising her wit since she was old enough to walk.
Her fingers tap against the sides of the stool, her entire body trembling as the hat remains silent upon her head. She's never felt this nervous in her life – it's not easy for her, especially as she always strives to be self-assured.
"Your mind is sharp, like a keen edged blade," mutters the hat finally, and she preens as her wit is confirmed, "You would make a fine Ravenclaw."
She remains silent, though she wills the Hat to continue, to scream out the name of her house so that she may leave the dais – yet it goes on pondering in a mumbled voice that she cannot here.
"You are loyal though," she makes out, "to those who are loyal to you . . . and you aren't afraid to stand up for what you believe in."
"So better be:"
.
"Loyal to a fault, aren't you?" mutters the Hat, probing through her thoughts, coming to know her better than she knows herself.
She wonders which past event it must be filtering through to discern her apparent loyalty. Ideally, it's looking at the time she saved her cousin from drowning at the seaside by going in after him . . . or perhaps its peering into her memories of primary school, during which she had but one friend whom she protected with everything she had.
"You're not plain enough to be a Hufflepuff though," ponders the Hat, "and I sense a distinct lack of those traits that would otherwise see you rise high in Slytherin . . . so where to put you?"
"Does it really matter, so long as I can learn something new?" she asks, whispering because she isn't sure if the Hat can hear her thoughts. A deep chuckle reverberates through her skull, mellow and warm as the Hat responds:
"I can hear you just fine, child . . . so perhaps Ravenc– but what's this . . . You're a bold one, aren't you child?"
"I can be brave," she whispers, she's read that this Hat can see into her mind and can divine her future in the blink of an eye. If it says she's courageous – perhaps she's more than the bookish girl her peers have always made her out to be.
"I know, child . . . I can see it all, right here in your head. You will be great in . . . "
(*)(*)(*)
Minerva
.
Hermione
(*)(*)(*)
"Gryffindor"
"Where dwell the brave at heart"