March 31st, 2004 - the birth of Y/N Crimson.
Two years before the First Wizarding War (1995-2006) ended, the newlyweds - Caspian and Amaryllis - welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. A blessing from God himself accorded upon the good Brit...
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The last of the names were still being called, but Y/N had already stopped listening to the sorting in any meaningful way. By the time the sorting was over, Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. "Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
"Thank you!"
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Y/N furrowed her eyebrows.
Despite the headmaster's odd words, she shifted her attention to the Ravenclaw table around her, to the old wood of the bench under her hands, to the silver plates that had gone from bare to heaped in the space of a breath. A roast appeared in front of her, then potatoes, vegetables, a jug of gravy, and bread still steaming at the crust.
Sophie reached for the nearest dish first, ravenous as if she had not eaten all day. Seraphina took a more measured approach, filling her plate with an agonizing slowness that made another Ravenclaw slap the serving spoon out of her hand by the time she was done. Aurora stared for a second longer than the others, then laughed under her breath and helped herself to everything she could reach.
Y/N did not eat at first, for she was busy looking around. Her observations, for one, were that the Ravenclaw table had a different shape to it than the others. Less noise than Gryffindor. Less obvious performance than Slytherin. Still plenty of smugness, but it wore spectacles and decent manners and tried to pretend it was thinking about greater things.
Above the hall, the enchanted ceiling held the night in place. Stars hung there with indifferent precision. Candles floated between the tables, their light catching on glasses and polished cutlery, slipping over robes, making the silver threads in the Ravenclaw colours look sharper. At the staff table, the adults had settled into their own quiet arrangements.
Hagrid was easy to spot, large even when seated, while the lady in green — whom Y/N learned was McGonagall — looked like a speck seated next to the large man. An odd professor kept fussing at the fringe of his turban. The thin man beside him, with the dark hair and the severe mouth, looked as if he would rather be anywhere else.
The man did not look friendly. He did not look unfriendly either. His gaze moved across the hall with a flat, unimpressed expression. When it passed over the first-years, it did not linger. Not until it reached the boy at the other table with the scar and the messy hair — Harry. Y/N watched the smallest change in Harry's posture from across the hall, the way he slapped his hand over his forehead as if he had been burnt.
