Chapter 7 – The Sorting

Cormac Wexley was still dripping on the floor.

Professor McGonagall gave him a look that could have frozen lava. Her expression didn't shift, but her wand flicked once—clean, controlled, effortless.

A gust of warm, dry air spiraled around Cormac, instantly evaporating the water from his robes. Unfortunately, it also fluffed his hair into an untamable ginger cloud.

"Let us try to enter our first castle with dignity, Mr. Wexley," she said crisply, then turned to the rest of the group.

Celene's eyebrows rose slightly. Arden, beside her, looked like he wanted to clap but was afraid to.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall said. Her voice was clear, deliberate, and powerful in its restraint. "In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and enter the Great Hall, where you will be Sorted into one of the four Houses. Each House has its own proud history and traditions, and you will remain part of that House for your time at Hogwarts."

She paused, her gaze sweeping across the faces. It lingered a fraction of a second longer on Celene than anyone else.

"Your House will be your home—your dormitory, your companions, and your academic family. It is not merely where you belong. It is where you grow."

Her eyes softened just slightly.

"And to those for whom this is your first step into the magical world—you are most welcome."

There was a subtle shift in the group. A few shoulders lowered. A few breaths were exhaled.

"Now. Follow me."

The walk through the castle was quieter than Celene had expected. The air was thick with magic—not the kind that shouted, but the kind that waited. Portraits turned to watch them pass. One suit of armor tilted its helmet as if trying to recognize someone. She could have sworn it muttered, "Fawley..." but when she turned, it was still again.

Stone staircases curved away into shadows. Floating torches flickered in sconces that had no wax. The stones beneath her shoes were warm. Ancient.

Finally, they reached the massive double doors of the Great Hall.

McGonagall paused.

"You will enter when called," she said. "Remain quiet. Remain calm. And remember—this hat has Sorted generations. It knows what it's doing."

The doors opened.

And Hogwarts revealed itself.

The Great Hall was cathedral-like—endless above, golden around, and glittering overhead. Candles floated in the air, casting light like raindrops of fire. The ceiling shimmered with starlight, reflecting the night sky outside. Celene recognized the enchantment at once—one of the oldest and most complex illusion charms ever created.

Four long tables stretched down the hall, each marked by the color and crest of a House. The Gryffindors were loud and laughing, red and gold flashing in their robes. Slytherins were more composed, dressed in emerald and silver, eyes sharp and quiet. Hufflepuffs smiled and shifted to make room for each other. Ravenclaws—her eyes lingered there—seemed quieter, more curious than loud. One student was already reading a book beneath the table.

The staff table stood at the far end. Professors of all ages and appearances sat watching them—some smiling, some neutral, some… unreadable. At the center sat an old man with half-moon spectacles and a long silver beard. Celene knew who he was, of course. But she focused on the chair before him:

An old, patched stool.

And on it, a hat.

The Sorting Hat looked like it had been stepped on, set on fire, and repaired with a spell and a wish. But the moment it twitched, the room fell silent.

A scroll was unrolled, and names began.

Celene stood, silent, as the Sorting unfolded.

Wexley, Cormac barely had time to sit before the Hat shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!"

The red table roared.

Selwyn, Thornwell was next. The Hat didn't hesitate.

"Slytherin."

He smirked, as though it were inevitable.

Whitmoor, Arden sat nervously. The Hat paused.

"Hmm… loyal, cautious… but oh, the questions in your head… yes. Yes, RAVENCLAW!"

Arden looked stunned but pleased.

Goldfinch, Linnea laughed as the Hat was placed on her head.

"Oh, this one's spirited," it murmured aloud. "Clever, too. Brave and bright… a mind like a compass… You'd do well in either."

Celene watched Linnea grin as she whispered something the Hat clearly found amusing.

"Very well then—GRYFFINDOR!"

The applause was thunderous.

Then—

"Fawley, Celene."

She stepped forward, back straight, eyes calm. The whispers had already started.

She sat.

The Hat fell over her eyes.

And spoke.

"Oh… oh my. You're a curious one."

Celene said nothing.

"So much thought… so much silence. Power, too—but not loud. Bloodline, yes, but not your path. No… you want truth. You want understanding. And you're not afraid of the cost."

A pause. A hum.

"You could do well in Slytherin, make connections, build power. You have the clarity for Ravenclaw, the bravery for Gryffindor, the patience for Hufflepuff…"

"But where," the Hat said, almost gently, "will you become who you are meant to be?"

Celene exhaled slowly.

"Ravenclaw, then," the Hat said. "But remember—your path will not be made by books alone."

"RAVENCLAW!"

She rose.

The Ravenclaw table clapped—not loudly, but with sharp, respectful energy. A sixth-year girl made space for her, eyes bright with curiosity.

"You've got the Hat talking to itself," she whispered as Celene sat. "That doesn't happen often."

Celene said nothing.

She simply watched the sky above, watched the lights flicker, watched the castle breathe.

Her place was here.

But her story was only beginning.