Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—it had been quite a few years since that title had ceased to rattle her, but that was not to say she was completely used to it by now. Headmistress for nineteen years and there were still times when she walked into her office and felt like an imposter. Still, as she looked out over the Great Hall, thousands of candles shimmering in mid-air and the second through seventh years eagerly finding their way to their seats, it felt right. She couldn't imagine ever leaving Hogwarts. They would have to carry her cold, dead body from the grounds—mind you, some days that event felt closer than others. How Albus had exuded so much energy she would never know. Perhaps it was the sherbet lemons….

The castle ghosts were making their way into the Great Hall, and Minerva knew that the new first years would be waiting in the small chamber off to the side of the entrance hall. Filius was most likely at that very moment explaining the house system to them—"Your houses will be like your families…." She could still quote it without faltering, and she imagined the little faces peering at Filius in the glow of the fire-lit sconces, awed and frightened at the same time. Small hands were nervously fiddling with their robes, and tenuous bonds of friendship prompted some to stay close to those they had already met on the train. Goodness but she was getting rather sentimental in her old age.

Just then she heard the doors to the Great Hall crack open, and Filius poked his head through to see if she was ready for him to lead the children in. It looked like all of the older students were seated and waiting, whispering animatedly amongst themselves. A quick glance to her left and right down the High Table told her all of her colleagues were likewise seated and waiting, all except—Rilla Radcliffe bustled down the row of seats, outrageous scarlet robes rustling around her, and slid into her place on Minerva's immediate left with a sly wink. Minerva resisted the urge to roll her eyes, smirking at her friend instead, and nodded to Filius, giving him the go-ahead.

Close to sixty new first years trailed behind Filius as she watched. Half of them could barely concentrate enough to put one foot in front of the other—they were gawping so badly at their new surroundings—and the other half stared straight ahead as if headed to their execution. Minerva felt a familiar tugging in her chest and took a deep breath to steady herself. The children had only just arrived and already they had a place in her heart. She noted with interest a few particular students, children of graduates she had taught almost two decades previously. Potter, Weasley, and Malfoy would bear watching; hopefully they had not inherited their parents' penchant for mischief. She would make sure to keep her eye on another first year as well, Sophie Turner. After the tragic accident a little over six months previous, and the opposition Minerva had encountered ensuring the poor girl would, indeed, be attending Hogwarts, there would no doubt be lingering wounds not yet healed.

The first years briefly jockeyed around for places along the front of the Great Hall while Filius went about getting the stool and Sorting Hat set up, and soon the Hall was filled with the newest rendition of the Sorting Hat's song.

Oh, Merlin. Scorpius Malfoy was absolutely not as courageous as he had previously thought. On the way up the stairs, his palms had begun sweating. Waiting in the anteroom off the Great Hall, he had started to feel quite flushed and warm, beginning to tug at the collar of his robes and adjust his hat nervously. Walking down the center aisle of the Great Hall, with hundreds of pairs of eyes on him and the rest of his classmates, Scorpius had begun to frantically imagine every possible horrific scenario – from the Sorting Hat telling him that he was a Squib, to being Sorted into Hufflepuff, to tripping over his own feet, to his own father storming into the Hall and demanding that Scorpius be put in Slytherin. Now, standing in the front of the Hall, watching each successive first year be called up to the stool with the frayed old Sorting Hat to face his or her fate, Scorpius was practically in a full-fledged panic attack.

Oh, Merlin. He was going to be in Slytherin. But what if he wasn't? If he were in Gryffindor, what would his father say? But even worse, what if he were put in Hufflepuff? He would never get anywhere in life! No one respected Hufflepuffs! Merlin! Ravenclaw, he supposed, wouldn't be so bad. But Harry Potter was in Gryffindor. What if he were Sorted into Gryffindor, and his father disowned him? What if he got kicked out? Would he be able to stay at Hogwarts? Maybe Harry Potter would find out, and maybe he would adopt him, and maybe then he would discover Scorpius' great talent and would start training him to be the next great Auror…

With his imagination getting the better of him, Scorpius almost missed Professor Flitwick calling his name. Starting to attention, Scorpius stepped up to the stool with his hands only slightly trembling.

I have to be in Gryffindor. I have to be in Gryffindor. I have to be in Gryffindor.

Flitwick levitated the hat to settle it atop Scorpius' head, being unable to stretch his arms high enough to reach it himself. As the ragged cloth settled around his ears, Scorpius closed his eyes and started listing all of the reasons he wanted to be in Gryffindor.

I want to be like Harry Potter. I want to be a hero. I want to be an Auror. I want to save lives. I want to succeed. I want to have friends. I want people to like me. I want people to know me for my name, not my father's. I want to be like Harry Potter.

Ah, Mr. Malfoy, the hat whispered in his mind. You want a great many things for one so young. Your ambition is great, and your skills will match your desire if you are willing to work at them.

I'm willing to do anything. I'll do anything. I can do it! Scorpius insisted, making promises that he knew he would keep if only … if only …

He crossed his fingers under the edge of the stool which he was clutching so tightly.

Yes, I am sure you can. And you will. But your purposes, Mr. Malfoy, belong not to the House of Gryffindor, as you desire, but rather to the House of SLYTHERIN!

The Hat's proclamation startled Scorpius, who not only was decidedly not finished with that conversation but also was not very keen to move himself to the table which had just been declared as his for the next seven years. Disgruntled, Scorpius hopped off the stool with as much grace as he could muster. No one looked surprised. Barely restraining a sigh, and struggling to maintain a proud façade, Scorpius reluctantly moved to join the Slytherins. The entire table looked inordinately pleased.

Oh, Merlin.

Ezra Butler, Professor of Transfiguration—he thought the title suited him well, and why shouldn't it? He had always been top of his class in transfiguration during his time at Hogwarts, and his pureblood family background had practically ensured that he would one day have a title as honored as that of Professor. It really had come as no surprise to him five years ago when he had been asked if he would like to be considered for the position after the then-current transfiguration professor had resigned. He heard through the grape vine that she had gotten married and wanted to leave Hogwarts so she and her new husband could start their family. Even just thinking about it now made him scoff to himself in amusement. Why would anyone leave behind a professorship to have a family? And at any rate, being a confirmed bachelor gave him…options—room to maneuver. Although, he had noticed the new, young DADA professor, Rosalind Alcott, down at the other end of the table, and making sure she felt welcome was just being polite, wasn't it?

The Sorting Hat had just finished its song—it sounded as if the old hat was back to its theme of equality and unity for some reason—and Ezra casually leaned back in his chair at one end of the High Table. With over sixty new first years to sort into houses he knew it might be a while before they were able to begin the feast.

He nudged Aurora Sinistra, sitting on his right, and smirked, whispering, "Interested in making any bets this year, love?" His eyes danced as he watched her mouth twitch, fighting off a smile.

"What have I told you about calling me that, Professor Butler?" She kept her eyes on Filius, about to begin the sorting. "Besides, you are too young for me, dear." Then with a sideways glance and a wink she answered, "There's sixty-three, let's make it nineteen, Gryffindor; fifteen, Hufflepuff; seventeen, Ravenclaw; twelve, Slytherin."

Ezra chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I would have thought that a bonus, but have it your way, love. Sixteen, fifteen, thirteen, nineteen."

He relaxed against the back of his chair once more and began paying more attention to the sorting, watching for tells. A girl with dark, straight hair and nervous brown eyes approached the stool to be sorted. Her hands were clenched as she sat down, and she flinched when the Sorting Hat was placed on her head. Muggleborn. He could usually tell these things. And the boy after her, he walked purposefully to the stool and sat straight-backed while the hat deliberated. He was most likely a pureblood.

"Malfoy, Scorpius!" Flitwick called out.

Ezra sat up straighter in his chair and noticed his colleagues all leaning forward ever so slightly in anticipation. His school years had overlapped slightly with Draco Malfoy's, two years if he remembered correctly—Draco had not returned for his seventh year. Now Ezra was interested to see how closely Scorpius Malfoy would follow in his father's footsteps. And from the conversations he'd had with the other professors, he knew they were even more interested, more invested in the outcome, than he. They remembered Draco better, knew the trouble he had stirred up at times, and were still wary, to a certain extent, of the ties the Malfoy family had had to Voldemort. Prejudices born from terror were hard to shake.

"SLYTHERIN!"

A look down the table showed him the glances the other professors shared with each other, subtle nods and muttered exchanges. They had all assumed Malfoy would be in Slytherin, and they had been right. Aurora was unconsciously biting her lower lip, Rilla had turned to whisper something in Minerva's ear, and even Filius appeared to be on edge as Malfoy found a seat with his fellow Slytherins. They feared history would repeat itself. Ezra found himself in a different position than most of his colleagues since he was one of the youngest faculty members, but his interest in the sorting was rising as they waited for the particular names they knew would be coming soon.

"Potter, Albus!" was the next anticipated name.

Everyone, students included, was paying close attention to this particular sorting. The name "Potter" would not be forgotten at any point in the foreseeable future. And as for the boy's first name…Albus. It was common knowledge amongst the Hogwarts faculty that he was named after the late Albus Dumbledore. And while Ezra certainly respected his memory, he understood those professors who had taught under Dumbledore's leadership felt a particular kind of connection to the boy because of his name. Not usually one to feel sentimental, Ezra found himself hoping Albus Dumbledore's namesake would not do anything to disappoint them.

Curiously, the hat seemed to be taking its time on this one—Ezra had expected Potter to be put into Gryffindor straight away. He turned his gaze to the Gryffindor table and found Harry Potter's oldest son actually looking nervous. There was a first time for everything.

Finally the silence was broken as the Sorting Hat reached a decision and yelled, "SLYTHERIN!"

A shocked silence fell over the whole of the Great Hall, and Potter appeared to be frozen to the stool for a moment. No one seemed to be able to believe what they had just heard. The son of Harry Potter in Slytherin? Now that was a change. Again, Ezra looked to the other professors to gauge their reactions. He was known for his own outspoken views, but he knew well enough to pay attention to how his colleagues handled situations—those who had been at Hogwarts since even before he was a student.

Aurora looked completely shocked, while Septima—two seats further down and on the other side of the potions professor, Crispin Wry—appeared decidedly concerned, her brow furrowed with worry and possibly some disappointment. Towards the other end of the table Neville's reaction was a bit more controlled. He seemed a little surprised, but Ezra thought he looked more thoughtful than anything else. Perhaps being Potter's godfather gave him some insight that the rest of them did not have. Minerva's was a similar case, but her restrained response was harder to read. There was a little surprise, to be sure, but as for any other emotions or thoughts running through her head it was anyone's guess. Ezra had hoped that as a professor he would be able to figure the strict Headmistress McGonagall out, but so far it was still a coin toss most days whether or not he could understand her. He did love a challenge though, and he smiled a little to himself as he turned to pay attention to the rest of the sorting. Potter had taken his place at the Slytherin table, and while Filius had resumed calling names, there was still a certain tension in the air.

The rest of the sorting went by without much to note. A young, blond girl with hazel eyes turned out to be Sophie Turner, the girl Minerva had informed the faculty of previously. Her parents had been killed earlier in the year—pro-equality radicals from what Ezra had heard—and Minerva wanted the professors to be aware of her situation. She was sorted into Hufflepuff unsurprisingly. And finally Rose Weasley was the last to be sorted, landing where everyone expected her to in Gryffindor.

"Nineteen, fifteen, seventeen, twelve; Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. What are you going to give me, Ezra, dear?"

Oh, Merlin. James Potter had never been so embarrassed in his whole entire life. His little brother … a Slytherin! His reputation was ruined! How was he supposed to be the scion of Gryffindor House when his own brother traitorously belonged to Slytherin?!

Well. There was nothing for it. James Potter had a reputation, and he had to live up to it. Brother or not, a Slytherin was a Slytherin. From now on, Albus was on his own. He'd had his chance to be in Gryffindor – he'd lost. James had always suspected that his brother had a darker side, but to be in Slytherin …! Well. He would just have to take care of himself, because James Potter did not take care of Slytherins. Not even his brother.

Oh, Merlin.

Rilla Radcliffe, Professor of Ancient Runes and Head of Hufflepuff House—it all sounded rather dramatic to her, dark and mysterious even, which suited her just fine. She barely resisted a yawn as Minerva concluded her introductory remarks and began the feast. Minerva was truly a dear friend, but she was so…well, boring when it came to things like speeches—certainly the opposite of Rilla herself, with her flaming red hair and robes to match. Bangles on her wrists jangled as she reached for the pitcher of pumpkin juice, and her long, colorful beads knocked against the edge of her plate. If asked, though, she was undoubtedly more tasteful than Sybill, the poor dear.

"So who wants to be the first to comment on Malfoy and Potter? I know I was certainly not the only one paying attention." Rilla turned to her left, "Septima, darling, would you pass the roast potatoes when you are finished with them? I must say I wasn't surprised at Malfoy, but Potter—thank you, dear—I never would have thought, would you?" She didn't seem to notice Septima had started to respond as she charged ahead. "Potatoes, Minerva? If one really thinks about it, I suppose his father had to have some ambition in order to defeat Voldemort." She was somehow managing to pass food, talk, and eat all at the same time. "What do you think, Minerva?" Minerva knew better than to try and answer at this point. "Ginevra has proven rather incisive and eager to get ahead in her line of journalism. Maybe the pair of them do have some sort of Slytherin tendencies? But looking at it another way, the child is Albus' namesake, and I can hardly imagine Albus Dumbledore in Slytherin, can you?"

Rilla took Minerva's suddenly clenched hand in her own. "Why, Minerva, you are white as a sheet, whatever is the matter?"

"Maybe she has finally realized being your friend has doomed her to a life of silence," Septima drawled drily.

Rilla elbowed her pointedly in the ribs while still keeping a concerned eye on Minerva, and Minerva quickly shook off her pallor and laughed—albeit somewhat nervously.

"No, no…I just realized that once again Hogwarts has a Potter, a Weasley, and a Malfoy in her halls. And to be frank, I might be too old to deal with the consequences," she stated wryly.

"Nonsense!" Rilla laughed and turned back to her food, but she glanced at Minerva suspiciously. She didn't half believe Minerva's explanation, but she would not press the issue—for now. Sixty-six years of friendship had taught Rilla that patience was the better part of valor when confronting her.

They ate in silence for a short while, observing the students and marveling at their energy and enthusiasm. The castle ghosts floated in and out of the room, occasionally passing through students and eliciting shouts of surprise. All in all, it was the kind of night that filled Rilla with a peaceful contentment that had not always been so easy to come by.

Minerva was the first to break the silence again.

"On the subject of the sorting, Rilla, I trust you noticed that Miss Turner was placed in your house."

Rilla's mood sobered instantly, and she slowly sat back in her chair, giving Minerva her full attention.

"That poor child…Minerva, she looked positively terrified…. And you said her aunt and uncle were difficult when you went to talk to them?"

Minerva's voice was strained as she replied, "That's putting it mildly."

"Well then…" Rilla sighed, concern etching her face. "I'll be sure to keep an eye on her, pay extra attention to her. Merlin knows she needs someone on her side, someone to actually give a damn what happens to her," she finished bitterly.

Looking down at her hands worrying the fabric of her robes on her lap, Rilla stilled when Minerva laid a gentle hand on her own. She looked up and shared a sad smile with her dearest friend.

Then suddenly, like the flipping of a switch, her countenance changed as she looked at the table and exclaimed, "Ah, my favorite part of this feast—the pudding! Now really, Minerva, you'd better get yours while you can. Before you know it, it will be time for you to give the start-of-term notices and lead everyone in the school song—I'm certain you'll be a triumph!"

Minerva groaned audibly, and Rilla laughed out loud, noticing a few of the first years eye the Headmistress nervously.

"Oh, and later on tonight, my dear, remind me to tell you something." Rilla grinned cheekily and winked at Minerva when she rolled her eyes. "I have a theory about Ezra and our lovely, new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Miss Rosalind Alcott."

Oh, Merlin. Rose Weasley had never been happier to sit down on a bench. Not only did it mean that she officially belonged to Gryffindor House (Mum and Daddy would be so proud!), but it meant that she no longer had to rely on her trembling legs. Her knees had been knocking together ever since Al had been Sorted into Slytherin. They'd been friends since birth. They were cousins. They shared the same blood. If Al could be a Slytherin, surely she could have too! She almost wanted to, just to be with Al. But … Merlin, Slytherin! She didn't know that her father would ever forgive her for being a Slytherin!

What would her father say about Al being in Slytherin? Daddy was always talking about how all Slytherins are evil. But Al … Al wasn't evil, was he? He was just Al! He was the nicest one in the whole family! Well, except for maybe Louis. Hufflepuffs were always the nicest ones.

But … what did that mean for Al? Surely this couldn't be right! Hufflepuffs were nice, Slytherins were mean, and Gryffindors were good. That's how this was supposed to work. It's what Daddy had always said, and Mum had rolled her eyes but … it had always seemed true.

She had told Al on the train that the Sorting Hat knew what it was doing, and she thought that she would be okay with it putting her in Slytherin if that's what it thought was best. When it came right down to it, though … she didn't think she would. She'd been terrified of being Slytherin. She wanted Gryffindor. She got Gryffindor. But Al got Slytherin. So what did it mean?

She didn't think that Al could automatically become evil just by being in Slytherin. Surely not! But … what did this mean for their friendship?

"Hi, I'm Maddy," the blonde girl sitting on Rose's right introduced herself with a broad grin, pulling Rose out of her thoughts. "It's short for Madeleine, but nobody calls me that."

"Rose," she smiled weakly in return.

"Nice to meet you!" Maddy beamed. "Have you met the others?"

Maddy proceeded to introduce Rose to several of the other first years sitting nearby – there were loads of first year Gryffindors, but Rose was only introduced to the five sitting nearest to her at the end of the table. Ainsley, a dark haired boy with a snub nose, a wicked grin, and a heavy Scottish accent. Winston, a posh Muggleborn with a twin brother, Winthrop, in Ravenclaw, who claimed he and his brother were supposed to be going to a very good Muggle school called Eton and it had taken a lot of convincing for his parents to agree for them to come to Hogwarts. Anna, a tiny girl with curly brown hair, intelligent eyes, and a ready smile. Adhira, a remarkably pretty Indian girl with a sharp sense of humor. Laurel, a quiet girl with long, stick-straight brown hair and a serious mien that nodded gracefully when introduced and ate her meal with marked elegance.

Overwhelmed with new names and information, Rose tucked away her worries about Albus for another time. She would think about it when she was alone and had some time to really consider it. For now, she was in Gryffindor, and she was happy about that, and it was time to make some friends out of her new housemates. There were an awful lot of them, though …

Oh, Merlin.

Minerva gazed out across the Great Hall as the last of the students trickled out the doors. The other professors were most likely in the staff room or their rooms by now—or in Neville's case The Leaky Cauldron where he lived with his family. Rilla wouldn't be, though. She had given Minerva a meaningful look as she exited the Hall, and Minerva knew her friend was going to go check on Sophie. As brash and bold and occasionally inappropriate as she could be, Minerva knew she never had and never would again meet another human being with the same capacity for compassion and love as Rilla Radcliffe.

Candles started to wink out across the room, and with a wave of her wand Minerva banished them all. Another year, another sorting over. She may have been joking about being too old earlier, but the way her joints protested as she struggled to her feet in the solitary darkness told the real truth. And even if age itself was not the cause, she had seen too many battles and hospital beds in her lifetime.

Minerva made her way down the length of the table determinedly, one foot in front of the other. She would go back to her rooms and wait for Rilla to show up—an almost nightly ritual when time allowed, with tea and conversation, commiseration, support. She recalled Rilla's "theory" and chuckled silently to herself. Her friend might be surprised to know she shared the same sentiments, although she'd let Rilla have her say before voicing her own thoughts on the matter. It might be amusing to string her along for a bit first. All in good fun, of course.

The sight of the staircase in front of her gave Minerva pause and also reminded her of all that was troubling her. With each step she took up the cold stairs in the silent gloom another weight was added to her shoulders. The Malfoy child. Sophie Turner. Rilla's demons. Albus' namesake—Merlin, forgive her fears.

Rilla had noticed her slip-up at dinner, and if—when—she brought it up she would deserve the truth.

Minerva had reached the gargoyle guarding her office and rooms, and she gave it a tired smile.

"Phoenix."