Chapter 3: The Sorting
There was something singularly awful and exciting about standing in front of millions of students in a line of witches and wizards that were younger than Clara by two years, waiting to be sorted by a hat that had just sang to them. In Beauxbaton, there were no houses. The day that you entered the chateau, you were put into classes by your last recorded magical class.
Clara had never been somewhere… Her lips tipped down as the students in front of her shuffled forward, her eyes sweeping around the great hall. Dirty wasn't a good word to use. Worn, maybe? Yes. Her lashes fluttered uncertainly as she flicked her eyes to the polished wood that poked out between an array of plates, all a dull white. Everything was so dizzyingly different here than in Beauxbaton, Clara thought, shutting her eyes tightly. Four long tables with benches instead of proper seats ran all the way to the great doors at the end of the hall.
In France, there was always a cold, quiet that encompassed every room. Small, circular tables had made up the Beauxbaton great hall covered with baby blue tables and china to match. Instead of stone walls ringed with gargoyles holding bowls leaping with flames, the walls of her old school had been barely walls at all, made nearly completely of glass. Chandeliers had gleamed with light above the females of Beauxbaton. Now - Clara glanced up at the inky sky above that made up the ceiling of Hogwarts - candles hung suspended in the air, flickering against the night sky above.
It made the small French girl strangely disquieted. There had never been very much noise in Beauxbaton, the very atmosphere warranting the females to speak softly. But here, no one ever seemed to be quiet. Everything was so loud. A flash of thunder lit the small windows lining the wall of the great hall, making the chatter of the British students in the hall swell in a sort of contest. Clara's head throbbed painfully.
Up ahead, Clara caught sight of a long line of wizard and witches, all in colorful robes, most with a curious twinkle of mischief and amusement. Split between the two long tables was a stiff chair which held a wizard with long silver hair that seemed to blend into his beard. Sparkling eyes peered above half-mooned glasses.
Sitting in front of the long table was a small stool with a rather stout woman standing beside it with a cheery smile and a rosy tint to her cheeks, calling forth nervous student after nervous student to sit on the stool and have a raggedy hat thumped on their heads.
"SLYTHERIN!" A small slit formed in the dusty fold of the hat and a thick, old voice exclaimed from the fabric. Clara flinched at the sudden roar that came from a table to her far left, all in green robes as the boy bounded from the chair.
"DESCHAMP, CLARA!" At first, Clara didn't move from her place facing the chair, unsure of how to proceed as her ears were bombarded by a million yells.
"GRYFFINDOR!" Somone to her right shouted.
"SHUT UP, DINGUS! YOU COULDN'T TELL MERLIN FROM A MUGGLE ON YOUR BEST DAY!"
She hardly knew what they were saying, so quickly were they hurtling insults at each other.
"Come along, dearie," the stout woman whispered with a friendly smile, motioning to the stool. Cautiously, she obeyed. If she was being honest with herself, the whole procession of the sorting and the houses confused her. Dismally, she remembered her readings on Hogwarts. Although they were sorted into different houses, all students were given the same courses. In fact, Clara had found that the sorting was more to determine...constitute.
Briefly, Clara caught the scent of burning cloth and old books before a loud voice sprang clearly through the hall:
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The table in front of her, all its occupants wearing honey-yellow robes, burst into cheers, a few jumping up in their excitement.
"Oh dear - welcome," the pudgy woman gushed pulling her up into a warm hug that Clara honestly didn't know how to respond to. The scent of earth and warm, sunkissed flowers reached her, Clara's nose twitching as the urge to sneeze came over her, the top of the witches hair tickled her nose. She was a whole head shorter. Finally, with one final squeeze, she pulled away, her eyes watery as she motioned for Clara to go toward the still cheering table. "Just over there. Just over there. Don't be shy now."
A flash of fiery red hair caught her eyes as she made her way tentatively to the table. She blinked, sitting at the long table directly beside her own were witches and wizards in red and right in there midst were the two twins that she had met on the train. Slowly a smile formed on George's lips - Clara was 90% sure it was true because his robes were slightly more wrinkled, especially around the collar and tie - his brother grumbling something to the stunning, leanly muscled witch beside him. An odd sort of warmth ran through her as he sent her a wink, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like: don't worry, Clara love. We'll convert you to the dark side still.
It was the sort of warmth that came from finally recognizing someone in a sea of strange faces.
"Why isn't she speaking?" Clara blinked again, her attention immediately snapping to the table that she was now standing at.
"Well, maybe it's because you're staring at her, you big balloon," a girl with flaming, red hair and the strangest pair of blue and green eyes that Clara had ever said quipped.
"That's not nice!" Another girl with big brown eyes and a yellow, sunflower bow in her curls scolded, making room beside her as a boy with equally curly brown hair sat beside her, looking slightly wide-eyed with dejection. Both had the startling glow of daybreak, warm and fire-golden in the moments that it began to burst across the horizon. "You look nothing like a balloon, Archie."
"But she said I did," he whispered back, clearly unconvinced as the freckled girl rolled her eyes, scooting over to make room for Clara which she quickly took, becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that all eyes and smiles had turned her way.
"Ignore the Vansteen siblings," the fiery witch confided to her, pouring her a cup of steaming cider and taking a tray of cookies from a person just a few seats away from her.
"You shouldn't ignore anyone!" the witch with the bow gasped, peering around her brother to give Clara a concerned glance. "It's mean."
"Isolation is the worst possible punishment. Along with being burned alive... and maybe other, slower means of torture...," a Hufflepuff sitting across them nodded, spreading jam across a biscuit. He smiled brightly at Clara. "Jam and toast?"
"Um, no - no thank you." Clara had never been so -Well, honestly bombarded by kindness - in her whole life.
"Well, what are you lot waiting for?" the ginger demanded, glaring down the line of curious witches and wizards. "Give her some food and introduce yourselves. She's obviously a -" Her eyes cut to Clara. "I'm sorry. You look a might too old to be a first year."
"Fifth year -"
"Oh goodie!" Bow-Witch exclaimed, clapping excitedly and slapping her brother who was still staring sadly at his empty plate. "Did you hear that, Archie? She's a fifth year. We can show her around -"
"I don't think-" another boy across from her started, looking up from a worn paperback. Round, thick-framed glasses sat atop his nose, a curly mop of hazel-colored hair sliding to obscure random chunks of his face at completely inopportune moments before he was able to push it away.
"We saw her first!" the girl retorted furiously. "You should have spoken up sooner, Callum instead of reading over that stupid little, muggle book again. You've already read it fi-"
"MUGGLES ARE JUST AS SIGNIFICANT TO OUR WORLD AS WATER IS TO THE MER-" the bespectacled boy bellowed, slamming his book so hard against the table that nearby silverware and plate jingled in protest.
Down the table, there was a splatter of, "hear, hear," along with some groans and grumbles. Obviously, this was a well-tread-upon subject.
"Here we go," the ginger beside her grumbled and the bowed witch sighed, setting a hand beneath her chin as the bespectacled wizard stood, face reddening.
"Move aside Cornelius Fudge; we have a representative," Archie murmured.
"I REFUSE TO LET TYRANTS AND TROLLS RUIN THE GREAT NAME OF THE MUGGLE!" The bespectacled boy roared on, sticking a finger in the air as he stared to the sky. "Sure their funny heating systems are so numerous that you may think - hey, are these funny little panted creatures ever warm? - but it is up to us to understand. And to help them find other means to warm their food because frankly, they possess too many."
"Ah," the bowed witch suddenly gasped, the wizard's paperback in her hands. She glanced at Clara with an understanding smile, showing her the cover filled with odd little cartoon drawings of metal boxes. "He's moved onto Toasters, Heaters, and Other Wonders of the Heated World."
"Better than that - what was it called?" The freckled witch's brows creased in thought. "Kitten Island? Bunny? Animal something."
"Playboy," Archie said knowingly, nodding sagely - and a bit dreamily.
"I'm so sorry to say this now," Clara started hesitantly, silencing even the bespectacled future Minister of Magic. "But I have no clue what any of your names are."
A smile brightened all the faces surrounding her.
"So glad you asked, love," the ginger beside her grinned, throwing an arm around her shoulder.
"We should really get nametags for all the new lads that come in," a wizard a few seats away said knowingly and a couple nodded in agreement.
"Name Tags would take away the personal touch, Richard," the bowed witch said before smiling warmly and sticking a hand out to Clara. "Molly. Molly Vansteen."
And so it began.