“Your father was a Ravenclaw.” Meredith Ravescroft told me as we navigated King’s Cross station. “I expect nothing less from you. Best if we can make a Slytherin out of you, yet.” I rolled my eyes, as we passed through the barrier to platform 9 ¾ .
I would not mind being in Ravenclaw, if it only meant I’d feel closer to my father. I missed him terribly. It seems like his death did not affect my mother at all. It was like she had no feelings.
“Good-by, mother.” I said as I hopped onto the bright red train. Every other child was having a tearful good-by with their families. I only had my mother, and she was hardly such.
~
I was seated at the Gryffindor table for the famous opening supper.
After my father’s death my mother had moved us back to Europe, which was where Meredith grew up and met Jonathon Ravescroft at the renowned Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Rather than coming to take care of my transfer of schools, she left me with my godfather. I had neglected to tell my mother that I’d been sorted at a meeting during the summer. It was best for us both if I waited until we were sufficiently separated before I told my mother I was sorted into Gryffindor. Meredith would have been happier if I was a Hufflepuff.
To be fair, the Sorting Hat had sincerely contemplated Ravenclaw. And even more severely considered Slytherin. Apparently, I wasn’t compassionate enough to be thrown into Hufflepuff... or something. What gave the hat incentive to leave me in Gryffindor was beyond me. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t even exactly outgoing or confident. I had some nerve, I suppose. Chivalry? Maybe. I assumed I’d find out eventually. The hat was never wrong.
I sat quietly, listening attentively to the Sorting Hat, and catching snippets of conversation from those around me. Apparently the Hat had sung something a bit more original this year, as opposed to other year’s songs. The chatter around me dissipated as the Sorting began, but I didn’t know a single name that was called, so the ceremony held very little interest for me. The food suddenly appearing before me was new, but I’d skimmed some reading about it and tried to act as if it was no surprise at all. Normally the selective eater, I realized how likely I was to get fat staying here. Everything looked appetizing. Even the ham, which I normally wouldn’t touch. I attempted, and generally succeeded in trying a bit of everything and stuffing myself past reason. From what I gathered about Dumbledore, he was probably my favorite headmaster yet. I’d had three headmasters in her my years At Winchester, the wizarding school I’d attended in America. The first had passed away during the summer after my first year, and the rest had all been temporary replacements; the process of reinstating a new headmaster being far more complicated than I deemed necessary.
Though, that Umbridge woman bothered me. Anyone who wore that much pink could not be trusted. Or taken seriously. She also seemed like a controlling prick. Demanding authority and I did not mix.
As the Great Hall began to clear out, I noted a girl that I’d been sitting near was calling together the first years. As I thought about it, I doubted I’d be able to find my way to Gryffindor tower. Sure, I’d been shown the way the same day I was Sorted, but that was nearly a month ago.
Casually, I caught up with the girl. “Assuming you’re a prefect?” I asked curtly. I’d never been good at talking with people I didn’t know. I always felt evil if I was anything but excessively kind and polite to strangers. And every single person here was a stranger… This would be a long first couple weeks.
The girl looked at me, “Yes, can I help you?”
“I just don’t want to follow someone to the wrong common room. I don’t quite have the layout of this place down.” I replied with a gentle smile. The girl looked slightly quizzical. “I transferred from America. I’m a fifth year.” How odd it was to refer to home as America. And to think that over here, America was as good as foreign.
“Oh, me too. A fifth year, that is. Ron also.” She said, and a ginger boy on her other side glanced over curiously. “I’m Hermione.”
“Clarissa Ravescroft. You can call me Clary.” I replied in turn. The walk to the common room proceeded in a similar, friendly manner. I asked a few questions and so did Hermione. Ron didn’t say too much, until we had finally reached Gryffindor Tower.
“You know,” I said, “I’d love to get in a fight.” I’d always craved such. Why, I wasn’t sure, but doing something completely out of line had its allure. Maybe it was a sort of urge to rebel against my mother, or a thread of rebellion I possessed from the beginning.
“You mean a duel?” Ron supplied. We were all seated at a small cluster of chairs. I had assumed we were waiting for the boy I’d noticed them talking to during dinner.
“No, I mean a fight.” I grinned.
“You?” He said, looking me over in scrutiny.
“Yeah,” I said, looking at the Gryffindor-colored knickknack I’d picked up from the end table beside me, thoughtfully.
“I would suggest going after a Slytherin,” said Ron, “But that would mean I was encouraging you, and I’m not supposed to do that, am I?”
“No, Ronald. You are not supposed to be doing that.” Hermione reminded him.
“Slytherin?” I inquired, looking at him, intrigued.
“Yeah, if Malfoy was a bit scrawnier, it’d be funny to see him get his ass kicked by a girl, but I guess-”
“Making enemies, have you been?” I teased.
“He’s the one making enemies,” Ron muttered, eyes narrowing slightly.
“It’s impossible not to make enemies with Malfoy.” Hermione stated, obviously her dislike for this boy being greater than her disapproval of our conversation.
I smiled, “All the more reason. Hey- it will be my goal for fifth year to get in a fight with a Slytherin.”
He snorted in contempt, “I bet you that goal won’t be fulfilled.”
“A bet deserves a handshake.” I stuck my hand out immediately for Ron.
“You two!” Hermione hissed under her breath, obviously not pleased with the exchange. “You should know better, Ron!”
He took my hand, apparently ignoring Hermione, “And what’s the wages?”
“If I win, you have to eat twelve puking pastilles.” I offered. I had been quite intrigued by what I had heard of Ron’s twin brother’s array of sickness-inducing sweets, and so it was one of the first things that came to mind.
He grimaced, “And if I win,” He had to stop to think about it.
“I do?” I suggested.
“Do what?”
“Have to eat twelve puking pastilles?”
“Sure.”
The two of us concluded the handshake.
“You know I’m so going to win.”
“The bet or the fight?” He asked, “I doubt both.”
“I know I’ll win the bet, the fight I’m only eighty percent sure of.”
“Eighty percent?” He inquired disbelievingly.
“I’m not going to pick a fight I know I’ll lose.” I reasoned.
Hermione merely sat shaking her head in reproach.
