Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling, unfortunately. Also, if the real Lauren Williamson or Tony Speranza ever read this, which isn't likely, please consider my appropriation of your names to be a tribute to my best friend's mother and my favorite English teacher. And, Mrs. W, you are a Hufflepuff in the best sense of the word.
Chapter Two: A Very Unexpected Sorting
The door swings open, creaking, to reveal a rather severe-looking woman in dark red robes, who surveys the new arrivals with eagle eyes.
"I've got the firs' years, Professor," the big man says.
"Thank you, Hagrid," the professor replies. "Follow me, please." The last part is addressed to us.
The red-robed woman leads us across a huge stone entrance chamber. Staircases line either side and a towering door is set in the opposite wall. I'm guessing this opens onto the Great Hall, but we go into a smaller room to the side instead. There's a door at the other end of the room, which probably leads to the hall as well. Maybe they keep first years in this other room directly before the Sorting.
It turns out that's right, as the woman—Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, apparently—tells us we'll leave the room in a few minutes for our Sorting, and then briefly describes the four Houses. After McGonagall leaves the room, an unpleasant thought suddenly occurs to me. She's said we will be Sorted in alphabetical order, which means it's very likely I'll be first. Though I'm not exactly scared of being Sorted, I'd prefer not to be the very first to do so.
"Is anybody an A?" I ask, glancing around at the tight huddle of first years.
"What d'you mean, an A?" the curly-haired boy who was in my boat says rather aggressively.
"If your surname starts with A, obviously. I'm B and I want to know if I'm first."
"I'll be first, my name's Abbott," a boy whose thick blond hair hangs into his eyes says.
At that point, Professor McGonagall re-enters the room, and quickly shepherds us into a line. I end up last, behind James. McGonagall leads us through the other door, into the Great Hall. The Hall is enormous, with the four House tables stretching its length and the staff table, perpendicular to the other four, raised slightly on a dais. The arched ceiling, high above us, is enchanted to reflect the starry night sky. The line of first-years halts in front of the staff table, facing both the four Houses and a ragged, patched hat on a wooden stool.
I know it's the Sorting Hat, which will decide our fates at the school, but several of us, including the girl from the train, are looking at it in confusion. Their families probably haven't explained how the Sorting works to them, or they might be Muggle-born. Briefly, I wonder what it would be like in a Muggle family. Nobody in my family knows, or wants to know, anything about how Muggles live, except that their ways are inferior to magic. Maybe I'll get to talk with one of the Muggle-borns in my year sometime. Suddenly, a gash near the hat's brim opens like a mouth, and it begins to sing.
"A simple hat I may appear
But your fate I hold in store
Just try me on and you shall hear
Your place in houses four
A House for those of mental skill
Fair Ravenclaw decreed
Those strong in arts of pen and quill
Will in this House succeed
A House for those of gentle hearts
Sweet Hufflepuff professed
Of all the earthly arts
Honesty, to them, ranks best
A House for those of temper bold
Brave Gryffindor declared
This House, great honor will uphold
By those who always dared
A House for those of crafty mind
Sly Slytherin proclaimed
Those to Slytherin's House assigned
Will strive to lofty aims
So try me on, don't ignore
And let me quickly see
Which one of all the Houses four
Will hold your destiny"
As the hat finishes, the students and teachers applaud, some politely, others a bit more raucously. All these mentions of "fate" and "destiny" in the hat's song have made me a little nervous. I glance over at the Slytherin table, looking for my cousins. Andromeda, who's in her seventh and last year, is sitting near the head of the table. She smiles and waves at me. I smile back. Narcissa, who's a sixth year, is further down the table, whispering into the ear of a blond boy sitting next to her. They're both looking at me; she's probably telling him we're related. Behind me, McGonagall clears her throat. I glance back to see her opening a leather-bound roll book.
"When your name is called, please step forward and put on the hat in order to be sorted. Abbott, Terence!"
Terence Abbott steps forward, glancing nervously around the hall. He sits down, placing the hat on his head, and after a short pause, the mouth-rip opens again and screams, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
He gets up off the stool, putting the hat back, and half-walks, half-runs over to the Hufflepuff table.
The next name called is mine. "Black, Sirius!"
I make up my mind. Even though I'm weirdly anxious about which House I'll end up in, I am not going to walk out there tripping over my own feet. I am going to walk out proudly with my head held high, and I'm going to go to whichever House I go to with confidence. When I reach the stool, I take a quick deep breath and then jam the hat on my head. For a second there's total silence, the dark inside of the hat swimming in front of my eyes, and then a little voice—the hat's?—whispers in my ear.
"Let's see, what shall I do with you? You're a brave one, that's clear…bit too brave, to be honest. Bright as well. Talented. And no shortage of loyalty. An interesting rebellious streak…very interesting. Well, all things considering—GRYFFINDOR!"
I feel a little numb as I get up, putting the hat back on its stool. There's scattered applause at the Gryffindor table, but nothing like the volume from Hufflepuff when Abbott was Sorted there. I can spot people whispering to each other all around the hall, and even the teachers seem to be staring at me. Apparently the Black family's Slytherin history is well known. As I walk towards my new House table, I catch a glimpse of Narcissa's dumbfounded expression. If you keep your mouth open like that much longer, you'll choke on an owl. All of a sudden, I want to laugh really badly. Somehow I feel like that wouldn't go over well, so I end up making sort of an instinctual compromise and grinning from ear to ear.
James flashes me a thumbs up from the front of the hall. I sit down at an unoccupied spot on the Gryffindor bench as "Bletchley, Claudia!" joins Narcissa, who seems to have regained the use of her mouth and is now whispering to the boy next to her again, at the Slytherin table. I glance over at Andromeda, wondering how she'll have reacted. She raises a single eyebrow at me wryly—Bloody hell, I need to learn how to do that—and I shrug in response. My parents will be unbelievably angry when they find out. So much for "upholding the family honor."
"Evans, Lily"—the redheaded girl from the train—is the next to be sorted into Gryffindor. I scoot up the bench to make room, but she looks disdainfully at me and, though she sits down, turns away. What a prat. Several more new Gryffindors arrive—"Fishwick, Kathryn," "Lupin, Remus," "Macdonald, Mary," "Musson, Alice," "O'Connell, Jessica,"and "Pettigrew, Peter," the nervous boy who was in our boat. Directly after Peter Pettigrew, James is called. He's the only person, other than my cousins, at Hogwarts that I know at all, and he's friendly. I hope he'll end up in my House, and I know it'd be his first choice anyway. Sure enough, the hat is on his head for no more than fifteen seconds before it shouts "GRYFFINDOR!"
James yanks the hat off, beaming, and walks over, sitting down between me and Alice Musson. There aren't many first-years left to be sorted at this point. The curly-haired boy ("Rosier, Evan!") goes to Slytherin. I didn't like him anyway, he was way too in-your-face, and since I'm in-your-face too, it's probably a good thing we're not in the same House. "Ryan, Chloe!" is Ravenclaw. Snivellus from the train ("Snape, Severus!") gets his wish and goes to Slytherin as well, though without Evans, obviously. "Speranza, Anthony!" goes to Ravenclaw, "Suffield, Pheobe!" and "Telfair, Gloria!" join us at the Gryffindor table, and "Vanderlinden, Amelia!" is another Slytherin. Finally, with "Williamson, Lauren!"—"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Sorting concludes.
"About time!" James says. "I could eat a hippogriff!"
He's pretty loud, so several people overhear and laugh—me, Alice, Remus Lupin on her other side, and Peter Pettigrew next to me. Evans, between Peter and an older student, smiles slightly. The hall quiets when Albus Dumbledore stands, long purple robes flowing around him, to make the start-of-term speech.
"Another year comes. Another flock of promising new faces, and many returning ones as well. Now that you are all Sorted, and no doubt waiting hungrily for me to finish up, I see no point in parting you from your meal any longer. So, welcome to students old and new, and enjoy the feast. Pip-pip!"
As Dumbledore sits back down, the long House tables suddenly fill with food. There must be some sort of spell that transfers it from the kitchens to the Hall, because I know it's magically impossible to conjure food out of thin air—someone, somewhere, must have cooked it. The utensils seem to be made out of gold, which is polished so much that I can see my face reflected in the soup tureen in front of me. We eat off silver plateware at home, but it doesn't quite have this bright luster. Further down the table, Remus is examining his fork as well, but everybody else seems to be eating, and suddenly I realize how hungry I am, even though I ate a ridiculous amount of candy on the train. I help myself to roast potatoes and chicken, and soon everybody's eating, laughing, and talking, some with their mouths full.
The two Gryffindor boys I haven't already met seem nice enough. Remus, who's rather sickly-looking, with brown hair, blue eyes, and scars along his jaw, is somewhat shy, but obviously quite bright. Peter is short and chubby, sort of blondish, and pointy-nosed. He's a little overenthusiastic, but again he seems alright, so I decide not to hold his crying on the platform against him.
When the table clears itself and then refills with desserts, all four of us boys are passionately discussing Quidditch. Well, we're all discussing it at least—James is by far the most passionate. I really need to get into Quidditch more; almost everybody else is obsessed. James and Remus are debating Wimbourne's last match, against a team called Godolphin Cross, based near where Remus lives. Apparently one of the Wimbourne Chasers made a shot that Remus thinks was illegal towards the end of the game, and he says it should have been voided as a foul. James argues it was a fair shot.
"I was there, Runcorn distinctly fouled her—did you see what he did with his leg?"
"I was there too, Remus, it was completely legal, it was like this—"
James seizes a handful of little jam tarts from the platter in front of him.
"Alright, so this one is Runcorn, and this one is Cassidy—Sirius, would you mind sort of holding your hands up and pretending to be the goalposts—and she was sort of hovering around to the left of the goal, and he came in from this side, like this, and scored, legally—" Both tarts hover enticingly between my hands now.
"And suddenly, the goalposts go rogue and devour both players, shocking supporters of both teams—but they tasted DELICIOUS!"
All four of us are rolling around on the bench laughing now. Even Lily Evans giggles.
"Hey, look, I made Evans laugh! Mission accomplished!"
"Evans, would you like a Chaser?" James asks innocently, holding out a jam tart to her.
Evans is trying to look dignified now. "You have jam all over your face, Black," she says. I glance at my reflection in a bowl of trifle.
"I do not, it isn't all over my face, just sort of smeared around the mouth area."
"Well, it's still on your face."
"Can't deny it, Evans—oi, Remus, could you pass me a napkin?"
By the time the desserts vanish as well and Dumbledore stands up to give us a slightly longer speech about school rules, out-of-bounds areas and other minor inconveniences, I'm yawning, feeling the effects of waking up at five o'clock.
A couple of prefects take on the job of herding first-years up to Gryffindor Tower, the entrance to which is concealed by a portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress, who swings open on hinges when given the password ("Unicornis Lasvicit!".) The Gryffindor common room is a large, cozy circular room, with several fireplaces, and overstuffed red armchairs grouped around tables. The prefects separate us into boys and girls, and direct each group up a spiral staircase to our dormitory.
The first-year boys' dorm has a bed for each of us—smaller and more comfortable-looking than my bed at home, red hangings tied to the bedposts with gold tassels. Our luggage is in the rooms as well. My trunk and Lacerta in her cage are next to the nearest bed, which I climb into gratefully, not even bothering to unpack pajamas. I fall asleep within five minutes.
The next morning, to my surprise, I'm not the first awake. Remus is already gone, his bed empty and his trunk open next to it. James and Peter are both still asleep—James is lying face down with his head embedded in the pillow, which looks like a really uncomfortable way of sleeping to me. I change into my uniform, noting with a flash of pride that during the night someone, no doubt a Hogwarts house elf, has sewn Gryffindor insignia on all my robes.
Remus is already at the Gryffindor table when I go into the Great Hall, reading "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One," and eating a bowl of cornflakes.
"Course schedules are in!" he announces cheerfully as I sit down and reach hungrily for a plate of bacon. "We've got Charms right after breakfast. What d'you think we'll have first lesson? I was thinking maybe levitation, that's first page in the book."
"Levitation's impossibly easy; I could do that when I was practically a baby. I'll be bored out of my mind if that's first lesson."
"Well, I haven't tried yet, but is it really that easy?"
"Was for me."
Remus takes his wand out of his pocket and points it, glaring with concentration. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The piece of bacon I was about to stab on my fork rises into the air, jolting shakily back and forth.
"See, easy, right?" I lean forward and bite off the end of the bacon in midair. Remus laughs, losing his focus, and the bacon plummets downward into my pumpkin juice.
At that point, James and Peter arrive, and fall simultaneously on breakfast. We're all so busy joking around, eating, and spilling pumpkin juice whilst trying to fish bacon out of it that I barely notice when about a hundred owls swoop in, sailing over the Great Hall, and delivering parcels and letters to students.
"Er, Sirius, I think you've got a letter," Peter says, gesturing at the smoking red envelope that's been dropped in front of my plate.
"Oh, fucking hell." There is no time for grace or eloquence when impending humiliation is on the line.
The Howler bursts into flames, and my mother's shrieking voice fills the Hall. Peter plugs his ears.
"NEVER IN ALL MY LIFE HAVE I BEEN SO ASHAMED AND ASTOUNDED! THE VERY IDEA THAT A SON OF MINE WOULD BE SORTED INTO GRYFFINDOR IS SO REPELLENT I HAD NEVER EVEN STOOPED TO CONSIDER THAT YOU WOULD WIND UP THERE, DISAPPOINTMENT THAT YOU ARE."
I wince, looking down at my plate in embarrassment. I can literally feel everybody staring at me.
"IMAGINE MY HORROR WHEN I WAS INFORMED THIS WAS THE CASE. GENERATIONS OF FAMILY HISTORY—GREAT WIZARDS AND WITCHES, EVEN A HOGWARTS HEADMASTER—HAVE BEEN IN SLYTHERIN, AND YET MY FIRSTBORN SON GOES TO ANOTHER HOUSE, BREAKING FAMILY TRADITION, DISHONORING THE NAME OF BLACK, NO DOUBT ASSOCIATING WITH COUNTLESS UNWORTHY FILTH AT THIS VERY MOMENT."
This is worse than when she goes after me. It's bad to be yelled at and ridiculed in front of everybody, but much worse now that the whole school can see how bigoted my family is.
"SORTED INTO A HOUSE THAT WELCOMES MUDBLOODS AND EVEN HALF-BREEDS WITH OPEN ARMS, INSTEAD OF RECOGNIZED FOR YOUR HERITAGE AND LINEAGE! I DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT HAT FOUND INSIDE YOUR DEPRAVED MIND TO SPUR THIS DECISION."
And now my own mother is calling me depraved. I wish this was face-to-face, so I could give as good as I got, instead of being forced to sit here and listen.
"I KNEW HOGWARTS WAS ON A DOWNWARD SPIRAL WHEN THAT MUDLOVER ALBUS DUMBLEDORE WAS MADE HEAD, IN MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER'S DAY YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD TO BE PUT IN SLYTHERIN!"
"Of course she brings Phineas Nigellus into this." I mutter.
"THE WHOLE COUNTRY IS FALLING TO PIECES; EVEN THE DEPUTY HEAD OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AT THE MINISTRY IS A DIRT-VEINED MUDBLOOD. THE WHOLE SCHOOL IS PROBABLY INFESTED WITH FILTH."
"And now we have the famous Wizardkind-is-doomed speech." I say. Oddly enough, James actually smiles.
"WHO KNOWS WHAT SORT OF DISGUSTING BEHAVIOR YOU WILL BE EXPOSED TO? YOUR FATHER AND I HAVE DONE EVERYTHING POSSIBLE TO GIVE OUR SONS THE BEST GROUNDING POSSIBLE, AND NOW I HEAR YOU HAVE THROWN AWAY ALL OF OUR TEACHINGS, REJECTED ALL THE VALUES OF OUR FAMILY, AND DISGRACED US BY BEING SORTED INTO THE WRONG HOUSE!"
"Merlin, will she ever stop?" My hands are balled up into fists underneath the tablecloth now.
"I AM HORRIFIED BY YOUR ACTIONS, YOU IMMORAL BOY! I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO SHOW MY FACE IN FRONT OF PROPER WIZARDING FAMILIES WITHOUT THEM LAUGHING BEHIND MY BACK!"
"Actually, if you're showing your face to them, they physically can't laugh behind your back at the same time." I say quietly, getting a small measure of content out of talking back, even if she's not there to hear me.
" WHAT KIND OF EXAMPLE ARE YOU SETTING FOR REGULUS? ALL THREE OF YOUR COUSINS ARE SLYTHERIN. YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE CAN BE PROUD OF THEIR CHILDREN. BUT I AM FORCED TO DEAL WITH YOU!"
On that kind and lovely note, it's finally over. The burning letter shrivels into ash. Rosier, Snape, and a few others in our year are staring at me and visibly laughing from the Slytherin table. Narcissa is smirking. Andromeda keeps glancing over. She's flushed and embarrassed-looking.
"You'd think I held the bloody hat at wandpoint till it put me in Gryffindor, just to offend her."
About half the Hall seems to be staring in my direction. People are whispering at all four House tables, and as I watch a large man with a moustache up at the staff table says something in Dumbledore's ear. They're both looking at me. I don't really want to know exactly what they're saying. There's a tall fair-haired boy, a sixth or seventh year, probably, sitting right down the table from us, who's actually gone sort of pale.
James, Remus, and Peter all look shocked. None of them are going to want to be friends with someone whose mother is a psychotic harpy. They probably think I'm a pureblood maniac already. I glare in the general direction of a rather sad-looking kipper on James's plate. I'm biting my lip, and to my horror, there are tears of anger and shame in my eyes.
"If you want to sit somewhere else that's fine. Everyone's staring at the rest of you because you're next to me."
"I'm fine sitting here, actually," Remus is first to respond. "So, Peter, do you think Runcorn fouled Cassidy or not?"
Peter jumps a little—he's still staring at me, open-mouthed. "Umm, I wasn't there or anything. I don't really know. I'm not for Godolphin or Wimbourne, actually. My team's Kilkenny."
"Oh yeah, they've got a brilliant Seeker." James says. "Mironova is amazing. She caught the Snitch in thirty-two minutes when she was playing for Portree. Thirty-two minutes. I can't imagine what Kilkenny did to get ahold of her. A lot of gold must've changed hands, right, Sirius?"
As unbelievable as it seems, the other boys seem to be not only purposely steering away from the subject of my letter, but including me in their conversation as well.
"Yeah. Maybe Kilkenny's team captain sold his soul as well." I smile weakly at the three of them.
"Hey, they aren't that bad!" Peter protests. "Mironova will make them loads better anyway. You'll see, they've only played one game yet."
"Weren't they bottom of the league last year?" I tease.
"Well, yeah, they were. They'll get better, though."
"First time in maybe ten years it hasn't been the Cannons last," James says. "When you're topped by Chudley you know you're bad."
"How did they even get Mironova, if they're that bad?" I ask.
"Well that's the question, isn't it? How on earth did they score Mironova?"
"Dark Magic." Remus says suddenly in a mock-spooky tone. "Woooooo…." He moans dramatically.
We're all laughing our heads off again.