Sorting

The faded brim of the Sorting Hat drooped over her eyes. Beads of sweat gathered at her brow. This is it, she thought. One moment, one tiny moment to shape the rest of my life. Images danced across her mind and receded again into dusk: her face, matured and demure, cloaked in emerald aspirations and silvery shadows; the warm, permeating light of the hearth fire, cast over soft yellow and black fabric; the haughty face of a she-lion tossing her head back in laughter and triumph; blinding stars cast in bronze on an indigo sky, illuminating a boundless sea of ink and parchment. She saw herself at the helm of a ship, her eyes glinting with sapphires and the sparks of dreams.

A quiet voice wandered into her ear. Quite the imagination, it said. She gulped. This was it. The moment. The brilliant, nail-biting, insomnia-inducing moment.

"Better be . . . RAVENCAW!" She breathed a sigh of relief, held in for months and smiled. Still half-among the haze of almost dreams, she wandered over to a sea of children clad in black, blue and bronze. The benches of the table were well-worn, the eyes around her bright, and the cheers filling her ears a ringing roar of welcome.

The Hall quieted as the next first year stepped up: a boy with curly blond hair and laughing eyes. A faint voice, barely audible above the air of anticipation, trickled into her ears. Welcome home, Isobel.