Being reborn as Harry Potters twin sister was not on Melisandre's bucket list. Then again dying wasn't either.
After meeting Death or rather Mortem, Melisandre is shocked to see Harry Potter, who died peacefully at age 197 and is dumbfounded to hea...
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'ɪᴍ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏꜱᴛ.'
— Better be —."
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Melisandre heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall, the sorting hat was taken off her head and she stalked towards the Hufflepuff house with a false confident aura, not that anyone else was aware.
She was so shocked at her house cheering that she had hardly noticed the polite cheers that she was receiving from the tables, notably the small round of applause from the Slytherin table, the first years side of course. And the cheers she was receiving from the Hufflepuff table.
As Melisandre walked towards the Hufflepuffs, some of who were clapping and shaking her hand, the robes on her body had become lined with a soft yellow as she took a seat on the rickety wood bench.
The great hall seemed to never have a quiet moment as the names were read off in alphabetical order, Mel's ears rang once again as the hall erupted in cheers after a young girl was sorted into Ravenclaw.
When the last name was read out Professor McGonagall straightened her posture and rolled up her scroll, taking the sorting hat and stool away before returning to her seat between Professor Quirrell and Headmaster Dumbledore who had moved towards his golden podium.
The old man rested his hands on the sides of the golden podium, his twinkling eyes swept over the crowd picking out groups of potential and individuals who could be utilized, moulded into his ideals, who's ignorance bred out their ability to see the truth.
With a small unseen smirk he held his attention to the eager crowd, all who awaited his presence, their cheerful eyes following his every move, with satisfaction crawling up his spine he opened his arms wide as if welcoming them.
As if he was beckoning them, to reside in his warm embrace, the old man was a vulture preying on the weak and downed, ready to clean up the pieces left behind.
Albus Dumbledore was a collector of sorts, a conman who decided that maybe you were worth something to him, worth something to the world, that silent proclamation was enough to poison to the wandering sheep.
His antiquities remained in the shadows of his affections, collecting things that were broken, that were weak, things that were vulnerable because they were just that to him. Things. Objects to control and extort.
