Getting things sorted

Chapter 11: Getting things sorted

Heather stood in the entrance with Daphne, waiting along with the rest of the first years. Her attempt at blending in failed when two boys approached her at the same time. One was the slightly pudgy boy from earlier—Neville Longbottom, the so-called Boy Who Lived. The other was Draco from the clothing shop.

Neville got to her first. "You're Heather Potter, right? I'm Neville Longbottom," he said, puffing out his chest. "My gran always said the Potters were good people. So, you should be honored that I'll let you be my friend."

Heather blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. "I'm sorry... what?"

Neville repeated himself. "I said, you're allowed to be my friend." 

Heather glared at him, her disbelief quickly turning into irritation. Her instincts had been right—he was a pompous git. "No, thanks," she said flatly.

Before Neville could reply, the other boy, who had been quietly smirking, burst out laughing. "What an absolute idiot," the blonde boy said, pointing at Neville.

Neville's face turned red. "Shut up, Malfoy! At least I don't have to buy my friends like you do with Crabbe and Goyle."

The blonde boy—Malfoy, apparently—snorted. "Crabbe and Goyle are loyal because they respect me, not because they're scared of me like everyone is of you. Tell me, Longbottom, do you ever get tired of being a chubby little fraud?"

Heather sighed, glancing at Daphne, who looked like she was enjoying the show. "Are they always like this?" she muttered.

Daphne shrugged. "They hate each other, obviously. They always fight like this at the noble parties… I'm sure it's going to be a fun 7 years with them around."

Draco shoved Neville hard in the chest. Neville, not to be outdone, grabbed Draco by the front of his robes and yanked him forward. Before Heather knew it, both boys were on the ground, wrestling and snapping at each other like feral animals. She crossed her arms and watched in disbelief as the argument devolved into chaos. 

She pretty much decided then and there she wanted nothing to do with either of them.

The two stocky boys from earlier, who must have been Crabbe and Goyle, ran forward to help Draco. They were barely five steps in when Ron Weasley, of all people, charged at them with another boy trailing behind him. 

"Leave him alone!" Ron shouted as he jumped on Goyle's back, arms flailing.

The other boy joined in, screaming something about protecting the Boy Who Lived. Within seconds, it was a six-person pile of shouting, punching, and shoving on the cold stone floor. 

Heather pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is ridiculous," she muttered.

Before anyone could do more damage, a tall witch with sharp features stormed into the hall. She froze at the sight of the brawl and then exclaimed loudly, "What is the meaning of this?"

Heather sighed. That had been the wrong question to ask. Immediately, the gathered first years erupted into a cacophony of shouting. At least a dozen voices started yelling over each other, trying to explain what had happened. 

"He started it!" 

"No, he did!" 

"They called Neville fat!" 

"They're just jealous he's famous!" 

The older witch looked like she was regretting every life choice that had brought her to this moment. She took a deep breath, pulled out her wand, and with a quick flick, the boys were all yanked apart by invisible magic and left dangling in midair like misbehaving cats.

"In all my years as a professor, I have never seen such behavior from first years!" she scolded. Her sharp gaze swept over the group. "I should take fifty points from each of you, but since none of you have been sorted into houses yet, that will have to wait. Clean yourselves up and follow me. It's time for the Sorting Ceremony."

The boys landed on their feet with varying degrees of grace, grumbling as they dusted themselves off. Heather exchanged a smirk with Daphne as they followed the witch—who introduced herself as Professor McGonagall—into the Great Hall.

Heather was stunned when they entered. The room was massive, with four enormous tables stretching from one end to the other, each packed with students. There were hundreds of them, all staring curiously at the first years as they filed in. At the far end of the hall, a smaller table sat on a raised platform, where a group of older witches and wizards, presumably the professors, were seated.

In the center of the hall was a stool with an old, raggedy hat perched on top. Heather raised an eyebrow. That was the famous Sorting Hat?

McGonagall stood next to the stool and began calling names in alphabetical order. One by one, students walked up, placed the hat on their heads, and were sorted into one of the four houses. Polite clapping followed each name, though the first years waiting to be sorted seemed far more interested in gossiping about each other.

Daphne was eventually called and confidently stepped forward. The hat barely touched her head before shouting, "Slytherin!"

Heather clapped for her new friend, watching as Daphne joined a table full of green-robed students who welcomed her warmly.

The hall quieted significantly when McGonagall called out the next name. "Neville Longbottom."

All eyes turned to the Boy Who Lived, and the whispering began again. Heather caught snippets like, "Which house do you think he'll be in?" and "He has to be a Gryffindor!"

Neville walked up to the stool with a swagger, his chest puffed out like he owned the place. "I'm going to be in Gryffindor," he declared loudly before sitting down.

The Gryffindor table cheered, and even McGonagall gave him a small smile. 

The hat was placed on Neville's head, and after barely a second, it shouted, "Hufflepuff!"

The hall went silent, and then, as if on cue, laughter erupted from the first years still waiting to be sorted. Heather clutched her stomach, laughing harder than she had in years. 

"What? No!" Neville shouted. "I can't be a stupid Puffer! I'm the Boy Who Lived! I killed You-Know-Who!"

Heather wiped tears from her eyes, still laughing. "You didn't kill shite, Longbottom."

The entire hall went silent again. Hundreds of eyes turned to stare at Heather flinched under the weight of their gazes, but took a couple deep breaths and held her head high. She was proud of herself for not buckling under all those stares.

There were even more whispers such as "That's her!" or "The youngest Archmage in history!"

Neville looked like he was going to explode. "What did you say?"

Heather's green eyes started to literally glow, causing numerous students to gasp and point at her.

"I said you didn't kill anyone. Killing stains the soul, even if it's done in self-defense. Anyone who's taken a life has a small black stain on their aura. You don't have shite." Her cultivation technique was meant for her to devour evil souls to empower herself further, of course she'd have a way to determine if someone was actually evil or not. She could see if someone has ever taken a life or not with a glance.

The hall broke into whispers again, students leaning across tables to talk about what Heather had just said. 

"You're a liar!" Ron Weasley shouted from somewhere behind her. "Neville's a hero. Everyone knows it!"

Heather didn't even turn around. "Then everyone's wrong," she said. 

McGonagall cleared her throat and called out the next name on the list. "Heather Potter."

Heather stepped forward, casually pushing the flustered Neville out of her way. He sputtered indignantly as she plopped herself down on the stool and pulled the hat onto her head.

Heather suddenly heard a voice in her head as she tried to tune out the whispers and stares from the Great Hall. 

"Well now... you are an interesting one," the sorting hat said. Its voice was low and gravelly, but oddly conversational. "You've got power—more power than any student who's graduated from these hallowed halls, even. That kind of power can be quite corruptive, you know."

Heather scoffed in her mind. She'd dealt with bullies and power-hungry idiots her whole life, and she'd sworn never to be like them. "I don't hurt people who don't deserve it," she thought back sharply.

"Fair enough," the hat replied. "Not my place to judge, anyway. You're not the most messed-up student I've had over the years. There was this one kid back in the late '30s... holy shit. Now his mind was absolutely a nightmare." The hat started rambling, clearly enjoying itself.

Heather rolled her eyes. "Could you get on with it?" she interrupted.

"Oh, right!" the hat said, sounding almost sheepish. Then, it called out loud, "Yeah, you're definitely going to Slytherin. No other house would survive with you in it."

"BETTER BE SLYTHERIN!" the hat yelled.

The Slytherin table erupted into cheers, clapping and hollering as Heather removed the hat and stood. Across the hall, two other tables groaned in disappointment. For some reason, the Gryffindor table was glaring at her like she'd personally insulted them. Heather didn't care. She kept her head high and strode over to sit next to Daphne, who was grinning as she made room for her.

"Welcome to Slytherin," Daphne said. "I knew you'd fit right in."

Heather smirked and sat down, folding her arms as the sorting ceremony continued. A few more students were sorted, but Heather barely paid attention until Ron Weasley's name was called.

Ron walked nervously up to the stool and put the hat on. After a moment, the hat declared, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Ron jumped up from the stool, cheering loudly. "Yes! I'm going to be best friends with the Boy Who Lived!" he yelled, running over to the Hufflepuff table.

Heather blinked in disbelief. "Did he just sabotage his own sorting just so he could be in the same house as a celebrity?" she asked, her voice carrying just enough to draw some snickers from nearby students.

"He sure did," Daphne said, nodding. "Not that there's anything wrong with Hufflepuff... it's just... they're the rest, you know? No one actually wants to be in that house."

Heather didn't respond, but she couldn't help but feel a little secondhand embarrassment for Ron.

The final name was called, and Blaise Zabini was sorted into Slytherin. The tall, dark-skinned boy walked calmly over to their table and sat down by himself, away from everyone else. Heather watched him for a moment, wondering what his deal was, but she didn't get the chance to dwell on it.

The entire hall gasped as piles and piles of food suddenly appeared on the tables in front of them. There was every kind of dish Heather could imagine—roasts, pies, potatoes, vegetables, desserts—and it all smelled incredible.

Heather let out a happy squeal, unable to contain herself. She'

d never seen so much food in her life. Grinning from ear to ear, she grabbed a plate and started piling it high, ready to dig in.