xiii. in your head
Minerva led them inside, a tail of slack-jawed miscreants who walked before the inquisitive attention of the student body and stared at the ceiling, the candles, and the High Table with its stern array of waiting professors. They watched with their eyes wide open and unblinking.
Severus watched them too, his fingers tapping a soundless rhythm against his thigh.
He found the faces he knew first. Picking out the spawn of his associates proved a simple feat, even when Severus hadn't seen some of their number in years. Parkinson and Goyle, Crabbe and Nott, and of course Lucius' boy. There were others. He knew they slunk among their number even now, innocent faces and innocent soul who would be lulled by the Dark no matter how hard Severus or Albus or any of their professors tried to push them away. The latest passel of Death Eaters had arrived, but the question remained; who would they serve?
Severus lowered his gaze to the table and exhaled.
Merlin, he was tired.
Minerva set the Sorting Hat upon the stool, and it began to sing.
xXxXx
The last of the song died away amid generous applause.
Elara wrung her hands as the stern witch in square glasses started to call out names. It was happening too quickly—far, far too quickly. Her name was high in the alphabet, it was only a matter of time—.
She had learned much about her family in the past month. Too much.
"Black, Elara!"
The call stirred whispers in the hall like small bodies thrashing in the underbrush, animal eyes gleaming through the dark.
"Black?" they hissed.
"I thought they were all dead."
"Do you think she's related to—?"
"She has to be—."
"He was the last one alive—."
"Madman's daughter—."
Elara forced herself to walk because she couldn't just stand there. The stool was hard beneath her when she sat and she averted her eyes from the students, allowing McGonagall to drop the Hat over her head, plunging her into darkness.
It was only a matter of time before it was discovered, Elara thought, miserable. I wonder if they'll kick me out before the end of the week.
"I wouldn't be so sure. We're not accustomed to judging children by the sins of their fathers here at Hogwarts."
The sly voice speaking in Elara's ear spooked her, but she remained still, terrified.
"You're not mad. I'm just the Sorting Hat!"
Oh, Elara thought. Oh, how stupid of me—.
"You've a sharp mind," the Sorting Hat said, cutting off her self-effacing comments. "But the joy of learning for learning's sake has been stripped from you, hasn't it? My, what wretched things some people are capable of. You haven't the heart for Hufflepuff, too brittle now for kindness, a breath away from shattering—."
Elara flamed at the idea of being brittle. Nearby, a goblet shattered and a professor complained. The Hat chuckled.
"Yes, yes, I can see all that in your head, you know. It doesn't sit well with you, weakness. Your pride, your desire to reclaim identity from the travesties your family has committed—oh yes. I'll send you on to achieve your goals. Better be, SLYTHERIN!"
xXxXx
Hermione forced her foot to stop tapping and told herself to calm down, only for her foot to disobey and start tapping again.
A dreadful habit, her mother called it. It's very pushy, dear.
Hermione hated being called pushy.
"Granger, Hermione!"
She saw Malfoy sneer from the corner of her eye where he stood with his mountainous friends. Behind her, Harriet whispered "Good luck!" and Hermione felt lighter, fighting not to smile like a loon as she came forward to take her place. A friend. Harriet was a friend, wasn't she? Hermione had never had one before.
The Hat came down over eyes and blacked out the world.
"Hmm..." muttered a small voice. "I sense you'll be a challenge, girl. You don't live life in half-measures, do you? Nerve and cunning, loyalty and wit—but what shines above the rest?"
A rush of thoughts went through Hermione's head, a whirlwind of questions and ideas, things she wanted to ask the Hat and things she wanted to research later. What kind of magic could be put in a bit of cloth to make it read someone's mind? That sounded like the rare, inexplicable things Hermione wanted to understand and master.
"I'm not just any bit of cloth," the Hat countered. "There's ambition in you—great, great ambition. You want to be the greatest witch of your age? Well I know just where to put you—."
No, Hermione suddenly thought, swallowing. No, not Slytherin.
"Not Slytherin? Why ever not?"
Images of Draco filled her head, of Mr and Mrs Malfoy, of their scornful faces and passive aggressive moods. Mudbloods don't go to Slytherin, Draco had said. You'd best stay with the rest of the duffers!
Then she remembered that girl, Elara, and what she said on the train. "That's a bit silly, allowing one person to sully an entire House for you."
"She's right, you know," the Hat commented. "I see it all here, in your head. You want to be more than witty or brave or hardworking. Slytherin will lead you to greatness—but not if you let the actions of someone else hold you back. A boy's words can be cruel, a man's actions crueler, yet they only have power if you allow yourself to be swayed by it."
Hermione didn't want to be held back, didn't want to be swayed. No, she'd left behind too much, had sworn she'd do too much, to be hampered by the likes of Draco Malfoy. If Slytherin would help her be great and take her to the top of her ability, then Hermione wasn't going to let him take that from her.
"Better be—SLYTHERIN!"
xXxXx
"Longbottom, Neville!"
He was used to the muttering, of course. Used to the crying and the whispering and the incessant handshaking, had kissed his fair share of babies and had signed his name so many times his signature looked like it belonged to someone twice his age. He'd gotten used to it all a long time ago. He couldn't remember a time when that cocky grin and quick wink hadn't been an instant reaction for him.
Sometimes Neville really hated himself.
The Boy Who Lived. Really, Neville wasn't one to complain; he got to travel all over the world, train with some of the best wizards in their fields, meet interesting people. He didn't know how he'd done it, but something in him had killed Voldemort, hadn't it? He wanted to find that, make it the best it could be. The crowds could get frustrating, though. The touching, the role modeling.
Neville wondered what his life would be like if Voldemort hadn't hunted his family down. He wondered what would have happened had both his parents died; Grandma Augusta and Great Uncle Algie could be real ball-busters, and Neville didn't want to imagine what life would be like with them full-time.
The Hat came down on his head and he thought, Gryffindor.
The Hat said, "You'd do well in Hufflepuff. Your life is built on falsity. The House of Badgers would help you heal."
But Neville wasn't listening. He rarely listened to anything he didn't want to hear. Gryffindor, he thought again.
And so the Hat sighed. "Better be—GRYFFINDOR!"
The table of crimson and gold exploded.
xXxXx
"Malfoy, Draco!"
He could barely hear his own name over the wretched sound of the Gryffindors cheering. Bloody Longbottom, Draco seethed as he marched to the dais and the waiting stool. Longbottom the Loser.
Draco knew exactly what he wanted. There had never been a question in his mind or in his heart; he would make his mother and father proud. He wouldn't be outdone by stupid Mudbloods or blood-traitors or gits like Longbottom. He was a Malfoy! He was a Slytherin. He had always been a Slytherin.
The Hat knew it, too, because the mangy things barely brushed Draco's hair before screaming—
"SLYTHERIN!"
xXxXx
There weren't many people left and Harriet swallowed her nerves, thinking of all the dreadful hypothetical things that could occur once she took her place on the stool. Had anyone ever been denied entrance? Harriet was sure if it was at all possible it would happen to her.
"Potter, Harriet!"
The Great Hall still rang with excitement over Neville Longbottom's Sorting, so hardly anyone heard Harriet's name being called, and fewer cared. A pale, dark-haired professor at the far end of the staff table stiffened, and the Headmaster in all his aged splendor gave an encouraging smile as Harriet slipped to the front of the scant group. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her glasses and mounted the dais.
Professor McGonagall smiled slightly as Harriet sat—and the girl prayed to whatever deity listened to ragamuffin witchy runaways that Livi didn't suddenly decide to come slithering out of her clothes. That would be embarrassing, and hard to explain.
The Hat almost swallowed Harriet's head when it came down, and she held her breath.
"Well, well…isn't that curious."
What's curious? Harriet asked, because of all the odd things that had occurred in her life, a hat that could talk in her head wasn't too terribly surprising.
"You're curious, Miss Potter. Everything in your head."
I'm weird, aren't I? she thought with a dejected sigh. I'm a fr—. No, she wouldn't say that word, wouldn't even think it, because the Dursleys were hundreds of miles away and Harriet would never have anything to with them again. She didn't need them. She could survive on her own.
The Hat chuckled. "You DO sound a great deal like a Gryffindor. I wonder, though…."
Gryffindor? She shifted the Hat's brim to peek over at the House in question, at the students still clamoring to get a good look at the Boy Who Lived now trimmed in red and gold. She looked at Neville and resentment smoldered in her gut, just waiting for a fresh blast of air to leap into an inferno. The boy who got to keep his family. The boy who got fame and probably a legion of friends. Harriet doubted he had to live in a cupboard after his mum died. The bold and brave found homes in Gryffindor—but Harriet felt neither bold, nor brave. She felt petty and foolish. She wasn't worthy of Gryffindor, not really. She wanted to prove herself better than she was, better than that sharp sting in the back of her eyes. Harriet wanted to go where she could make her parents proud of the witch she would become.
"Not Gryffindor, eh? Better be—SLYTHERIN!"
Harriet rose, heart pounding, and all but yanked the Hat off of her head. She handed it to Professor McGonagall with a quiet word of thanks and rushed off the dais. She plopped onto the first seat she could find, which just so happened to be between Elara and a fifth year Slytherin who would later introduced herself as Gemma Farley. Sitting across the table, Hermione grinned at Harriet.
Elara had gone quite pale and only nodded meekly at Harriet's greeting.
The Sorting came to an end after Weasley—who Malfoy had sneered at in the entrance hall—went to Gryffindor and Blaise Zabini came to Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her list, picked up the stool and the Hat, and proceeded out of the Great Hall. The Headmaster—Dumbledore, Harriet reminded herself, thinking back to the header on her Hogwarts letter—stood, the voluminous material of his crimson robes rippling like fire when he raised his left hand for silence. Something strange occurred to Harriet as Dumbledore smiled.
"Gemma," she asked in a soft voice. "Does the Headmaster—is he missing an arm?"
The older girl glanced in Dumbledore's direction but no shock showed in her expression. "Yes. Happened before I came to Hogwarts, so he's been like that for awhile."
The wizard's warm voice rose above the chatter. "Excellent! It is wonderful to see you all again—or to see you for the first time." The Headmaster winked behind his half-moon spectacles. "Welcome to Hogwarts! Before we feast, please allow me these few words….Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak! Thank you!"
"And yes," Gemma gamely said when Harriet's mouth popped open. Dumbledore sat down. "He is a bit mad."
Harriet giggled and food appeared on the table—great platters and tureens of it, acres of edibles Harriet had only ever sniffed from afar while living with the Dursleys. Her month in the Wizarding quarter, however, had taught Harriet a love for potatoes and gravy, which she ladled onto her plate with unfettered relish. Elara eyed her as Harriet started building a volcano-esque mound and substituting lava with hot, delicious gravy, then snorted.
"Harriet, you really shouldn't play with your food," Hermione said, her tone uncertain.
"I'm not playing with it," Harriet assured her. "I'm going to eat it. Watch." She did just that.
"Ssss…." Dry scales rubbed against Harriet's skin as Livi, roused by the smell of food, poked his head out through the collar of her robes and almost caused Harriet to dump pumpkin juice in Elara's lamp. She had forgotten, of course, that the snake was invisible. "I want sssome of that, Misstresss."
"Which?" she asked under her breath, covering her mouth with her napkin.
"The dead thing before you. It sssmellss delicciousss."
'The death thing' was apparently a whole roast beef, which Harriet discreetly sliced the proper sized piece off of to secret away into her napkin, which she laid open on her lap beneath the table so Livi could eat. Normal snakes had particular dietary needs, but she'd learned from her textbooks that Horned Serpents and other magical snakes were freer in their restrictions, as long as they got the proper nutrients. Livi scarfed down his selection and Harriet disguised his pleased hissing with a cough.
She let her attention wander around the Hall, traversing the walls, the columns, up toward the ceiling enchanted to look like the sky, then down along the High Table. The professors ate their food and chatted with one another, each of them more different than the last; the giant sat at one end next to a tiny wizard who could only be as tall as Harriet's waist, and a woman reminiscent of great glittering dragonfly rambled on to stern and oblivious Professor McGonagall. Headmaster Dumbledore said something to Professor McGonagall with a slight wave of his hand and her lips went so thin they almost disappeared. A younger man in a purple turban flinched so hard when addressed he spilled chutney into his lap.
At the other end of the table, the wizards sat without conversation, quiet and dour as they ate or picked at their plates—and they were all wizards. The man Professor McGonagall had addressed as "Otho" at the castle's doors occupied the last seat, having slipped in through a side door with the giant earlier. His mouth moved with silent mutterings as he viciously stabbed his pork cutlet and hacked off a piece.
Next to him was a taller, gaunt wizard with pale skin and a prominent nose. Harriet was forcibly reminded of the dated scary movies Dudley would watch on the telly when Aunt Petunia wasn't home; he seemed shaded in monochrome, with his stark skin, the curtain of black hair coming down to his shoulders, and eyes as black as the deepest, hungriest pits in the earth. Harriet knew that because she sat near enough for their gazes to briefly meet. His face hardened before he looked away.
They last professor didn't look old enough to be a professor. He appeared barely any older than the eldest students chattering in the halls and was quite handsome, the symmetry of his features really quite striking in Harriet's opinion—but something of the young wizard didn't sit right with her, like a voice murmuring in her ear that she couldn't quite understand, no matter how she tried to listen. His tidy hair gleamed in the candlelight and so did his white teeth when he smiled at the Slytherin table.
Harriet suddenly thought about sharks swimming in the darkest parts of the ocean.
"Gemma," she asked again, the older girl glancing down. "Who are those professors sitting closest to us?"
Gemma didn't need to check who Harriet meant. "Those would be the Slytherin professors. At the end there with the light hair, that's Professor Selwyn. He teaches History of Magic. On his left is Professor Snape, the Potions Master, and on his left is our Head of House, Professor Slytherin."
"Slytherin?" Harriet parroted. "Did they name the House after him?" But no, that couldn't be right. Harriet knew that from Hogwarts: A History—and from the glare Hermione threw across the table. Gemma rolled her eyes.
"No. He's descended from Salazar Slytherin, the House founder."
"Oh. That's, er, interesting."
Dessert was served and though Harriet thought she was stuffed from dinner, she promptly ate far too much ice cream and decided that if they weren't dismissed soon, she might just fall asleep and spend the night right there at the table. She could use a treacle tart as a pillow. Her plans came to naught when the Headmaster stood again and the platters of sweets vanished without a trace.
"Another wonderful feast! Before you're seen off to your dormitories and comfortable beds, I must reiterate a few start-of-term policies. The Forbidden Forest on the grounds is, as its name would suggest, forbidden." Dumbledore chuckled. "As is magic in the corridors between classes, and all joke products purchased from the fine establishments of Gambols and Japes, and Zonko's. The first Hogsmeade trip for third years and above is scheduled to be in December, and Quidditch trials will be held next week for the respective House teams. Please contact Madam Hooch with any questions. At last, I would inform you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds and trespassing will result in a very painful death."
Sleepy Harriet blinked. Did I just hear him right?
"Bloody hell," someone farther down the table whispered.
Professor Slytherin continued to smile. Dumbledore seemed to look everywhere but at him.
"Now! Off to bed! Here's to wishing us all a fun and fulfilling term. You've much learning ahead of you all!"
Older kids titled "Prefects" gathered the first years and the student body departed en masse, the resulting babble of noise and jostling bodies doing little to wake Harriet. She felt a hand on her elbow and looked about to see Elara guiding her from the paths of bigger students who probably didn't even notice they were about to trod on poor short Harriet. Half the school departed in the entrance hall, climbing the sweeping marble steps to the floors above, and the other half took the stairs leading down. The group split again, and the Slytherins delved deeper and deeper, the light disappearing at their backs, torches wavering in shades of yellow and green and blue, the air crisp and heavy in their lungs.
Harriet couldn't remember the common room. In fact, had anyone asked how she got there in the first place, she couldn't have told them. All she recalled were floating orbs of emerald light and towering windows that looked out upon the black tide. Harriet laid down, felt blankets shift higher until they covered her and Livi, and heard the water sigh. She dreamt she was a Galleon tucked in a chest that had sunk to the very bottom of the ocean. She listened to the sea and when the hand came to scratch at the chest's lid, demanding to be let in, she rolled over in her bed of treasure and ignored it.
A/N: I imagine there's less than 300 students at Hogwarts in this AU, closer to 200, what with the MPA implemented. Rowling once stated that she considered Hogwarts to have a thousand students, but she wrote it in such a way that it'd be impossible to have that many students. The professors would have ran themselves absolutely ragged without any adjuncts, associates, or assistants.