A/N: Essentially, what you recognize belongs to the goddess that is J.K. Rowling, and what you don't belongs to lil' ol' me.

10 Years Later

After arriving at the King's Cross Station and sprinting through the barrier into Platform 9 3/4, Genevieve Snow was bidding her already teary-eyed father farewell. He was nostalgic, to say the least.

"I met your mother on this very platform so many years ago. Even then, she was the one of the smartest witches in the school. Adventurous, too. Knew before laying eyes on the school that she wanted to be an Auror, and she did it too. Died doing what she loved. Died making a better life for you and me. You . . . are so much like her." He paused, wiping his eyes. "Have fun and learn all you can, Gen."

"I will," she promised. "Hogwarts won't know what hit it." She pondered for a moment. "Dad?" She began tentatively. "Do you think I'm going to be a Ravenclaw like Mum and you?"

He thought for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted. "You are, by far, the most talented witch since her, I know it already. But I will," he punctuated each word. "Be exceedingly proud of you, no matter what. Even if you get put in Slytherin," he joked, while Genevieve wrinkled her nose in disgust. They laughed, but they knew what was coming. She sobered.

"I'll miss you everyday." Never an outspoken child, her father was her best friend, without a shadow of a doubt. And she knew the seven years she'd spend at Hogwarts would be spent alone, with her books. Not that her books were boring. In fact, as a Muggle-born, her father had quite the stash of interesting Muggle fiction. And she'd already read through her school books, making notes so as to be ready. Unlike most kids, she didn't mind isolation. It was peaceful, productive. And she didn't need friends. She had her father, and she had her books. That was quite enough.

The train whistled, a warning of its impending departure. She rushed to get on, and, with one last wave, turned away from the life in which she'd grown up.

Finding an empty compartment (score!), she sat down, reviewing her schoolbooks once again, then opened To Kill a Mockingbird, a fascinating tale of a small Muggle town. Occasionally, children would bustle through the hallway, glance into the room, and scurry away. What they didn't see was a small smirk on Genevieve's lips. If there was anything that repelled children, it was books.

She stayed like this for most of the journey, sometimes stopping to eat, change into her robes, or simply enjoy the scenery flashing by. She'd even played a game of solitaire with a deck of old playing cards from her father's childhood. Eventually, the train slowed, and she readied herself for what was to come.

Getting off the train, the first years were greeted by a large man. Surely at least a half-giant, Genevieve mused to herself. He seemed nice enough though, nothing like the horrible tales she'd heard of full-blood giants. Maybe she'd befriend him. Even with her personal goals, a cup of tea and conversation would be nice every now and then.

She occupied her own boat, silently marveling at the ever closer castle and mentally comparing it to the descriptions of Hogwarts, A History. Entering the castle with a strict-looking, businesslike Professor McGonagall, whom Genevieve was already sure she'd like, she followed the wave of students, thinking to herself. If Dad was anything close to right, the Sorting will come soon. Sure enough, the crowd quieted as a Professor McGonagall began reading from a scroll of names.

Genevieve closed her eyes, reminding herself of her father's words. 'I'll be proud of you, no matter what.' Shoving all queasiness aside, she slowly went over each House's attributes in her mind. Brave Gryffindor, Smart Ravenclaw, Loyal Hufflepuff, Ruthless Slytherin, she chanted.

Before she knew it, the words, "Snow, Genevieve" had rung through the air. Ignoring the shaking of her legs, she made her way to the stool, where the hat was placed upon her head.

"Ah," The Sorting Hat spoke into her ear. "Quite a difficult choice indeed. You have boundless knowledge, yet a thirst to know more. Despite your ambition, you value morality above success. And yet, your goal here isn't to make friends."

Even though she knew the Sorting Hat could see into her mind, the sound of someone, or something really, saying this out loud made her uneasy. She knew friends were important, of course, but school was a place of teaching and learning.

"A wise sentiment, indeed. I believe, however, that I can rule out Hufflepuff and Slytherin." Genevieve breathed a sigh of relief. As far as she was concerned, she was out of danger. "Happy about that, are you? Had a feeling you would be. But hm, where to put you now? Gryffindor or Ravenclaw? Such a hard decision."

'If I may ask, sir, why Gryffindor? I'm certainly not brave.' Genevieve asked mentally.

"I most certainly disagree," countered the Sorting Hat. "You don't have obvious courage, no. But you carry a quiet strength within you, a willingness to do what is right and defend others, despite all odds. It is a kind of bravery I don't see often anymore. You may not care for companionship, but you certainly won't stand for cruelty, or even indifference. That is precisely what makes this decision so complicated. You're an aspiring scholar with strong morality. Hm."

The Sorting Hat continued to debate with itself, occasionally muttering softly in Genevieve's ear. It was then that she noticed. Time had passed, and many of the students, first years to seventh years, stared up at her in shock. She knew. She was a Hatstall. Much like Professor McGonagall herself, the Sorting Hat was at odds over whether to put her in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. And, from the looks of it, it was taking even longer than it had with McGonagall. Then the Sorting Hat addressed her.

"I believe I have come to a conclusion. You do indeed have intelligence to rival the most studious of Ravenclaws, but your personality leads me to the conclusion that you should be a . . .

"GRYFFINDOR!"

With one last quivering breath, Genevieve leapt down from the stool and joined the Gryffindor table. She could feel eyes burning into her back. A voice interrupted her thoughts.

"That was quite the wait back there," a Gryffindor Prefect with fiery ginger hair remarked. "Mind if I ask you what the Sorting Hat was considering?"

Careful not to allow her still anxious and bewildered attitude to show, she answered, in as firm a voice as she could muster, "Ravenclaw or Gryffindor."

"Nice," the boy replied. "You must have serious intellect if it took the Sorting Hat that long to decide. We could use some brainpower here. I'm Charlie Weasley."

"Genevieve Snow. Though I'm sure you already know that. And yeah, that was pretty nerve wracking. But anyways, seeing as how you're such a model student," she motioned to his badge with a slightly joking manner, "got any tips for a little, insignificant first year?"

Charlie snorted. "Anyone who knows of my family wouldn't come close to calling us 'model students', unless you count Percy." He leaned forward a bit. "And he can be a bit of a prat sometimes." She giggled. "But if it's tips you want," he paused for a moment, thinking. "Beware of Snape, you don't wanna get on his bad side. Listen to McGonagall, she's a bit no-nonsense, but definitely worth respecting. Come to all the Quidditch games - if you don't, I'll kick you; I'm the Captain and Seeker." He said this last bit with almost convincing seriousness and Genevieve laughed softly, making a mental note to do just that.

"Do you play Quidditch?" He asked, as though this determined if she was worthwhile or not.

"No," she confessed. "Haven't got the coordination. I surpassed myself by not tripping on the way here. But I swear I'll come and cheer you on. Deal?"

Charlie smiled. "Deal."

Just then, Dumbledore stood to address the students. "Welcome to another year of learning important things to forget by next year. But before you start rioting out of hunger," he joked, "Enjoy!"

Food appeared before them, and while eating, and sometimes chatting with Charlie and his little brothers (twins in her year that had also been Sorted into Gryffindor), she savored every bit, vowing to write her dad every detail. Maybe . . . Maybe friends weren't such a hopeless cause after all. Perhaps she could indeed squeeze in some fun amidst her studies.