Chapter Three: The Sorting
"GRYFFINDOR!"
It was like an explosion had gone off at the far left table. Poor Longbottom didn't seem to notice, forever, and very nearly ran off with the Sorting Hat still on his head. Quite a few students were actually standing, and a pair of redheaded twins - likely the same ones that had been with Weasley and his mother on the platform - were bellowing "We got Longbottom!" over the din.
Professor McGonagall, a rather intimidating-looking witch reading a scroll of names, waited until most of the ruckus had died until she called someone called Morag. Her mouth was twitching like she was trying not to grin.
Malfoy elbowed her for about the hundredth time. "Remember, go for Slytherin, if you can."
He smiled at her then, a real, genuine smile, but it was just as easily her imagination. He was called and swaggered up to the chair a moment later; Harriet groaned.
The Hat had barely brushed the top of his head when it called out "SLYTHERIN," and casting one last glance at Harriet, he took his time to get to the table in the far right.
The Slytherin table was filled with students who more or less looked the same: smug, bored, and somewhat dangerous. According to the Hat's song, she would make her real friends there, but she wasn't sure if she could believe it. Surely, they were the most unpleasant lot out of the whole school.
The Hufflepuffs were next to them and were a sharp contrast. They looked the nicest, with the kindest faces. They were supposed to be loyal and patient; wouldn't they make better friends?
Considering that Harriet had never really had a friend before, she realized that maybe she wasn't the best person to go making conclusions about that sort of thing.
Ravenclaw - well, she knew she wasn't going to Ravenclaw. She wasn't an idiot, but it sounded like a House of kids who were just the opposite. She watched a few of them, and they held themselves high, but in a different respect than the Slytherin table.
Then there were the Gryffindors. They were the rowdiest, and supposedly, the bravest. Perhaps rash was a better word? They looked like lots of fun, plus they had Longbottom, a celebrity; they didn't seem that bad.
But did Harriet fit there at all?
Her aunt would probably think so. So would Snape, now that she thought about it.
She looked at the Slytherin table again. Malfoy seemed to think she would go there, or hoped so, at least. He was looking at her, and very discreetly, offered her a thumbs up. Was she cunning, though? Did she have what it took to survive a table of...that?
She wasn't feeling very brave, or loyal, or smart, or cunning at all. As a matter of fact, she felt a little sick as a new thought came to mind: what if she wasn't Sorted at all?
What if she didn't fit anywhere, and they sent her back to the Dursleys?
It wouldn't be that much of a surprise, she realized dully. She hadn't managed to be a normal person in the Muggle world. Her relatives had made a point of her freakishness, how unnatural she was. Some part of her had dared to hope that being a witch and coming into the Wizarding world would change that, but apparently, it didn't.
She didn't understand why the only person who bothered with her at all had to be a little jerk, and why, despite the fact he seemed determined to keep her around, he could only pick out all the differences between them, and point out what made him right, what made him better.
What type of person did that make Harriet?
She was so wrapped up in her worry that she almost didn't hear her name as McGonagall called her up: "Potter, Harriet."
The last thing she saw before the Hat dropped over her eyes was Weasley leaning over to whisper something to a black boy, glaring at her.
What's this? Oh, quite interesting...very interesting indeed...
A small voice had popped up beside her ear. Her fingers clasped around the stool, and she exhaled shakily.
Not a bad mind at all...very brave, very clever...and what is this? Talent, oh yes, lots of talent...and a nice thirst to prove yourself...a thirst to be, forgive me, great...
It's quite obvious, isn't it? I know the perfect place to put you, to help you on your way to greatness - without a doubt -
"SLYTHERIN!"
The Hat was pulled off her head, and feeling rather dazed, she took off toward a seat that Malfoy seemed to be saving for her.
Crabbe and Goyle were already seated across from them, and grunted in recognition. An older student was on the other side of Malfoy, one with a heavy jaw and dark eyes that shrank back in his face. He held out his hand for her, albeit stiffly, and said, "Welcome to Slytherin, Potter. It's Marcus Flint. I'm captain of the Quidditch team."
"Nice to meet you," she said, her eyes falling to a special pin on his robes. "What position do you play?"
"Chaser."
That was a new one. She would keep that in mind - Keepers and Chasers - until someone explained it properly.
Meanwhile, the Sorting continued. Weasley and the boy he was talking to both went to Gryffindor; the last student, a boy named Blaise Zabini, joined them at the Slytherin table before the headmaster stood up. The whole hall grew quiet.
Albus Dumbledore had a long, silvery beard and wore purple robes. He looked ancient, but had sparkling blue eyes. It seemed that there was nothing more that could please him beyond seeing all of the students at their tables, some looking to their empty golden plates and goblets eagerly.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
"Thank you!"
Harriet didn't know whether to laugh or not, but as her new Housemates were keeping a stony silence, she decided to clap quietly. She nudged Malfoy to ask him if Dumbledore was mad, but before she could say anything, heaps upon heaps of delicious-looking food appeared out of nowhere.
It wasn't that Harriet had been starved, exactly, but she certainly had never been allowed to eat however much she wanted. Enthusiastically, she filled her plate with a little of everything, shameless as she noted some of the students around her were trying to have manners.
"Pass the potatoes, would you?" she asked, about to bite into a plump chicken leg. Malfoy obliged.
"Hungry much?"
"Famished."
Crabbe and Goyle, however, stuffed themselves with no restraint. Around them, some of the other first years were discussing pompously their family life, but mostly, their bloodlines.
"Well, my great-great-grandfather founded the Cleansweeps," a girl called Parkinson was saying loudly. "And he was descended from Silvano Spiridon."
Harriet had no clue who Silvano Spiridon was, and she didn't care. Another girl, Greengrass, showed interest.
"Really? I think I'm related to him, too. Have you ever heard of Randall Spiridon? He wasn't as famous, but just as important in my opinion; he slew Olfy the Outrageous."
"Well, my father recently had the Minister of Magic over for dinner," Malfoy announced as he reached for the gravy. Parkinson's dark eyes glimmered, but Greengrass went back to her plate.
"Really?" Her eyes slid over to Harriet, but the latter tried to ignore her. "What about you, Potter? I know I've heard your name before."
"Well," she thought aloud, putting down her fork. She caught Malfoy's eye, and was half-tempted to make something up; it sounded like everyone else had been lying, anyway. In the end, though, she decided the truth was best.
"I have no idea. My parents were murdered when I was little."
Parkinson's eyes widened, and Greengrass actually looked up. "Oh. I'm sorry." She didn't sound very sorry at all, in Harriet's opinion, but she shrugged her shoulders anyway as if it were no big deal. "If your parents were dead, then, who raised you?"
"My aunt and uncle. What?" Malfoy was looking at her like he was trying to tell her something.
"...And she knows Professor Snape personally," he added after she said nothing, and immediately, about six pairs of eyes flickered up to the high table. Harriet nearly recoiled; she had forgotten that Snape would be there. He seemed to feel their gaze, but chose to single Harriet out, glaring at her.
"Er, yeah, you could say that," she mumbled.
"Oh, don't be modest, Harriet," Malfoy said with a great sweeping motion, his drawl creeping back. She wasn't sure she liked him using her first name. "He took her shopping in Diagon Alley. I ran into them when I went to get my robes."
"He really doesn't like me."
"Nonsense," he said dismissively. Greengrass was regarding her critically, but kept her silence.
Suddenly, Harriet's fork clattered on her plate and she gasped, her hand flying up to her forehead.
"Harriet?" Malfoy - Draco - asked worriedly.
She was more bewildered than anything; the pain had come just as swiftly as it had gone.
"N-nothing...It was nothing."
After Harriet and the other Slytherins had stuffed themselves into a stupor, a prefect led the first years to their dormitories.
The Slytherins dwelled in the dungeons, under the lake. Harriet tried to pay attention as to where they were going, but after a while, she couldn't help the fact that she was hopelessly lost. The dungeons seemed more of a labyrinth than the rest of the castle, not to mention they were drafty and dark.
"This is so cool," Draco said, and Harriet only agreed with a deflated hum.
At an expanse of blank, stone wall, the prefect abruptly stopped; Harriet nearly ran into Draco. The prefect turned to the wall and spoke to it: "Tete-a-tete!"
The first years watched closely as a hidden door revealed itself in the wall and slid open, revealing a lengthy, underground room. The stepped through, peering around as the wall sealed behind them.
The ceiling wasn't very high, and even though there was a beautiful fireplace aglow before them, Harriet didn't think it was very cozy, either. Greenish lamps hung from chains, and the furniture was done in lots of greens and blacks and grays. It was minimalist with a select few feature pieces. It was a place of negotiation, she decided, and while it was not necessarily sinister, it wasn't the epitome of welcoming, either.
The prefect directed the boys down one spur hallway from the common room, and the girls down another. Draco hastily bid her good-night before following Crabbe and Goyle, and promised to walk with her to the Great Hall for breakfast.
Hurrying after Greengrass, Harriet came to a windowless room with four-poster beds draped with luxurious, emerald curtains. Serpents were carved in the posts, and their trunks were already waiting for them.
Bulstrode, a girl with small eyes and broad shoulders, collapsed on her bed, and within moments, starting snoring into her pillow. Parkinson, on the other hand, took about an hour before she was ready to settle down, and even then, engaged Greengrass in another hour of mundane conversation.
Harriet listened for a while, her back to the other girls, but was mostly unconcerned. They discussed politics she did not understand while trying to up the other. Bulstrode's cat, a long-haired, scruffy black thing, clawed at Harriet's curtains until she swatted it away. It finally settled itself on Bulstrode's back, curled up, but it's yellow eyes never left the back of Harriet's head.
It was about midnight by the time Harriet managed to fall asleep. Greengrass and Parkinson had finally yawned out their good-nights to each other. She had a very strange dream, however, one that didn't have any of the girls in it. She and Draco were wandering, lost, through the dungeons until they found a cupboard door in the wall not unlike the one beneath the Dursleys' stairs. Naturally, they opened it. Snape emerged instantly, snarling, telling Harriet that there'd been a mistake and she had to go home. He then started laughing, a horrible, malevolent sound, and there was a flash of green light - it washed out everything, and Draco was screaming - no, a woman was screaming - and she woke up, trembling and sweating. She rolled over and went to sleep again.
When she woke up the next morning, Harriet couldn't remember the dream at all. However, she had quite the start anyway: the eyes of Bulstrode's cat were inches from her face.
