Sorting Ceremony

The boat drifted smoothly across the lake, drawing ripples in the dark waters as the travelled. Cyrna allowed herself to relax and enjoy the enchantment of the starry night skies and the looming castle. For a moment, she thought that being in this world was worth the risk of its dangers. That maybe she'd actually try to live in this world—as Perenelle had wished for her to do.

All that was left to be done was to be sorted into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff—Ravenclaw, probably. Merlin knew that she'd have better luck befriending Voldemort than being sorted into Hufflepuff. Then, she'd enjoy life for a few years at Hogwarts and try to figure out a way to leave the school in her later years. Even if she couldn't, she'd still be relatively safe in Raveclaw.

Professor McGonagall was there when the boats docked on the shore, and she brought all the first years into a room, telling them to wait in a very stern voice. Excitement and nerves were tangible in the air with some students practically vibrating where they stood as they chattered happily with the person beside them. From a distance, she spotted Harry and Ron together.

But Cyrna hid in the crowds, content to stay near Daphne because she was rarely mentioned in the books—Daphne was safe, so to speak. And though she had no thoughts on involving herself in politics, also knew that making political allies was beneficial—the wizarding community was a small community, after all. Having friends in high places was never a bad thing.

Daphne nudged her, "Nervous?" she asked.

She shook her head. Knowing what she knew from Harry's sorting, she could probably just ask to be placed in Ravenclaw. "No, I think I'll know where I'll go. You?"

Thousands of floating candles cast a merry glow on the hall. Golden cutlery gleamed on the four long tables, and faces upon faces stared at them as they were led to the front where a tattered hat was sat on a four-legged stool—and beyond it, the head table where all the professors were seated.

"Slytherin, probably," said Daphne, calling back Cyrna's attention, "I wouldn't mind the other houses, but I can't imagine myself elsewhere."

They all stopped when Professor McGonagall held up a hand. The ceremony started, and the hat broke into a song. Cyrna listened, nodding when they sang the stanza for Ravenclaw:

"Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind."

This was the house she needed. Wanted.

The song ended, and Professor McGonagall stepped forward to read the list of names in alphabetical order. So far, all the names she recognized had gone to the same houses as were written in the books. Hermione went to Gryffindor, and Daphne to Slytherin.

Cyrna joined the round of applause, then she felt someone sidle up to her.

"I can't believe she's in Slytherin," Harry muttered as he clapped.

Cyrna turned to Harry, and gave him a purposefully clueless look.

"Just surprised is all," Harry muttered, thinking of the pale girl from the bookstore that had got him the set of books for free. He'd been properly intimidated—how could he not?—but he had also appreciated what she had done for him and Cyrna.

Harry was soon distracted when the next name was called, and Cyrna quickly tuned out the sorting in favour of studying the professors at the head table. She saw a small professor who was practically bouncing with excitement every time a student was sorted into his house. Filius Flitwick. Part-goblin. Pomona Sprout, she thought as she spotted a squat little witch whose warmth reminded her of Perenelle. Next, her eyes swept over the Headmaster. When their eyes met, he quirked an enigmatic smile at her, eyes twinkling like they held all the secrets of the world—

Cyrna quickly averted her eyes as a mass of something rushed through her. She wasn't sure how she felt towards the man. Wasn't sure if she admired and respected the man for his genius strategy; for his ability to coldly and steadily lead the Light to victory, or if she (resented him)… the thin needle of ice that pricked at her chest whenever she thought of the Flamels had yet to leave.

"Potter, Harry," Professor McGonagall called.

Hushed murmurs rushed through the hall like wildfire. Cyrna glanced at the man beside the DADA professor and was not surprised to see him glaring holes into the boy.

Snape was thin, only a sheer few pounds from gaunt. His nose was as hooked as the books had described, and he had pasty, sallow skin framed by black—black hair, black brows, black eyes, black robes. Curtains of greasy hair hung limply, and though he was supposed to be the youngest professor, the frown lines that seemed to be permanently etched on his face, and the severity in his expression aged him.

He was not handsome by any means, but that wasn't what had made his character so interesting.

Cyrna flinched slightly when onyx eyes captured hers. Not icy like Daphne's, rather, it held a certain blankness and impassivity that was offsetting. It had her immediately wary. The lack of emotion was eerily reminiscent of the sightless gaze of a cadaver. Like a dead man walking.

Her eyes quickly turned back to Harry, praying desperately to whichever gods existed during the anticipatory silence that she hadn't fucked things up too horribly by her mild argument in the train. Rationally, she still thought it was rather necessary—because what if she really did end up in Slytherin? But in this moment, her emotions had gone haywire, and she could only wait with mounting anxiety.

Please be Gryffindor.

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