Hundreds of families milled about Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters as they did every year on September first. Parents fussed over their children one last time before they left, and older students ran to see their friends for the first time in months. Owls hooted indignantly; cats wailed to be let out of carriers; one student frantically weaved around the platform asking every person she passed if they had seen a rat.

Standing apart from the rest was one family, comprised only of a mother, a young daughter, and a striped owl flapping about in a cage on top of the girl’s trunk. The mother had a stern look about her, and her gaze flitted about the platform. Her daughter had inherited the woman’s pouty lips and sharp features, but while her mother’s eyes were filled with suspicion, underneath the girl’s square glasses was barely contained excitement.

The girl’s name was Imogen, and this was the first time she had left Selwyn Manor in two years.

“Remember, when you’re at Hogwarts—” her mother said.

“I know, Mum,” Imogen said.

“Don’t you interrupt me, young lady,” her mother snapped, “When you’re at Hogwarts you represent the Selwyn family, and that is exactly the sort of behavior we cannot afford on our name, especially not these days. Do you understand me?”

Imogen nodded, her eyes downcast. Neither of them said what ‘especially not these days’ was supposed to mean. They neither needed nor wanted to.

“I said: do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mum,” Imogen said softly.

“Good. Now I expect you to study hard and get good marks. No slacking off. I know how clever you are, and I’ll know if you aren’t applying yourself.” Her mother’s gaze softened, and her mouth curved into a small smile. “And, of course, have fun.”

“Yes, Mum.” Imogen brightened. She lifted her owl cage in one hand and tried to hoist her trunk in the other.

“Write often,” her mother continued, “I didn’t buy you Adalbert so he could laze around all day.”

“Of course,” Imogen said, finally managing to maneuver the trunk and cage into a position where she could carry both.

“I’ll see you at Christmas break.”

“Bye, Mum.”

“Goodbye.” Her mother chuckled at Imogen’s obvious eagerness to get going. With that, Imogen turned her back on her mother and lugged her things up the steps of the scarlet steam train, apologizing to Adalbert every time his cage bumped into the wall. The train was already packed with students, and she had to fight to make any headway. By the time she found an empty compartment, it was almost time for the train to leave. Somehow she managed to heave her trunk onto the luggage rack without too much of a struggle, though she elected to keep Adalbert’s cage on the seat next to her. Finally she could sit down and take a breath.

With a quick glance at the compartment door’s window, she reached down her shirt and pulled out a small, silver locket held on a chain around her neck. It opened with a click. Inside was a photograph of a man with unruly red hair and crinkles around his eyes, which were the same shade of silver as Imogen’s.

“Hi, Dad,” she whispered, a soft, sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

As always, he didn’t reply.

A shadow passed in front of the door. She had the locket snapped shut and tucked back in her shirt in an instant. No sooner had she returned her hand to her lap than the door creaked open.

“Hi,” said a young girl with a nervous voice. She was bundled up in enough layers to get a person through the dead of winter, and a cat carrier rested on top of her trunk. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

Imogen’s heart sank. She’d really hoped to keep the compartment all to herself.

“Of course,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Thanks.” The girl dragged her things inside and heaved them up onto the rack with so much huffing and puffing that Imogen briefly wondered if it was a passive aggressive way to ask for assistance. As soon as she sat down, still breathing heavily, the door to the compartment opened again, and another girl entered.

This girl was dressed even stranger than the first. Either she had already changed into her robes—which were flowy, and decorative, and couldn’t possibly be regulation uniform—or she had arrived at the Muggle train station in them. What was most bizarre, however, was the staff in her hand that stretched well above her head.

“Hi!” she said as she lugged her trunk inside, seemingly oblivious to Imogen’s stare, “So what’re your names?”

“I’m Stryga,” said the nervous-sounding girl.

“Your name is Nordic,” the other girl said excitedly.

Stryga nodded slowly, then gestured to the staff. “I like your stick.”

“Thanks!” the girl said, “It’s a quarterstaff, made with butter fruit wood. You can whack people with it.”

Imogen blinked. “Butter… fruit?”

The girl nodded. “From the butter fruit tree, in the Philippines. They make velvet apples, and the wood is very uniquely colored. Also, I’m Callida. Hi!” She looked at Imogen expectantly.

“Oh—Selwyn,” Imogen said, shaking herself out of her shock at Callida’s strange intensity, “Imogen Selwyn.”

At that moment, a third girl poked her head around the still-open door. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, nodding her head at the seat next to Imogen, where Imogen had deposited Adalbert. Imogen suppressed a sigh and pulled the owl down between her feet.

“Hi, I’m Callida!” said Callida as the new girl made her way into the compartment.

“Charlotte,” said the girl. She was small, with snow-white hair, clutching a strange, slightly unnerving doll in one hand while she lifted her things to the luggage rack. Imogen and Stryga introduced themselves again.

“We were just talking about wand woods,” Callida told Charlotte. This seemed to confirm Imogen’s suspicion that Callida’s staff functioned as her wand, which only raised several more questions.

“My wand’s vine and occamy feather,” Stryga said.

“Do you know what kind of vine?” Callida asked, while at the same time, Imogen frowned.

“Occamy feather?” Imogen said, “That’s not a wand core.”

“What do you mean?” Stryga asked.

“I mean that’s not a wand core.”

“But it’s in her wand, so it has to be,” Callida reasoned.

“Well, Mr. Ollivander says there are only three real wand cores,” Imogen said, listing them off on her fingers, “Phoenix feather, unicorn hair, and dragon heartstring.”

“Who’s Mr. Ollivander?” Callida asked.

Imogen stared. “Garrick Ollivander? The Garrick Ollivander? The world’s best wandmaker?”

Callida tilted her head. “By whose measure?”

“Pardon?”

“How do you know he’s the best?” Callida said, “‘Best’ is very subjective. Was there a study? Who was included in it? What variables were measured? What are his qualifications?”

“His qual—He’s an Ollivander,” Imogen said, “They’ve been in the wandmaking business since… since they invented the wandmaking business.”

“But does he take into account the wandmaking practices of other cultures? What about Japanese or Native American materials? Or is this a very Eurocentric view of what’s best?”

Again, all Imogen could think to do was stare. She was saved from having to answer by the shrill blowing of the train whistle. Lurching forward, the Hogwarts Express slowly pulled away from the station. Imogen watched out the window as two eccentrically dressed women waved enthusiastically at the train. Callida lit up and waved back. Somehow, it didn’t surprise Imogen overly much that she knew them.

As the train began to pick up some speed, her thoughts drifted along the tracks to their destination at the end: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her earlier excitement about going to a new place returned, but this time the natural nervous energy that accompanied it took on a despairing note. This train ride marked the first interaction she’d had with children her own age in years, and she had enough social awareness to realize it hadn’t gone well. If she was this awkward around only three new people, how would she cope at Hogwarts with its hundreds of unfamiliar faces? The last time she’d even spoken to anyone outside her family—unless she counted her house-elf, Witton, who in her mind was part of the family—was almost two years ago. After her father’s death and her mother’s trial, the Selwyns had retreated from the public eye.

The word ‘Transfiguration’ brought her attention to the conversation now going on in the compartment, where Callida was listing the subjects they would take.

“… And Potions, and History, and Flying, and Herbology,” she said, “I’m most interested in History of Magic. I hope we learn about ancient magical practices, and pagan deities, and did you know the first wizards were called shamans?”

She kept talking, but her mouth moved so rapidly, and she jumped from topic to topic so quickly, that Imogen struggled to follow along. Stryga listened with rapt attention, while Charlotte looked somewhat dazed. Eventually, there was a slight lull in Callida’s nattering while she took a breath, and Imogen jumped in.

“I heard the History professor is supposed to be really boring at Hogwarts.”

Callida let out a strangled squawk of horror. “But it’s history! How can they make history boring?”

Imogen shrugged. “My mum says he’s a ghost, so maybe that has something to do with it. That’s assuming they haven’t replaced him, of course, though apparently he’s been there forever, so probably not.”

“A ghost? As a teacher?” Charlotte said.

“Imagine being a person and dying…” Stryga whispered, almost wistfully.

Even Callida gave her an odd look.

“What do you mean, ‘imagine being a person?’” Callida said.

“I just meant, you know, what would it feel like? To be a ghost?” Stryga said quickly, turning to Imogen and Charlotte, “So what subject are you most excited for?”

“Transfiguration.” Imogen didn’t have to think to come up with her answer. She had already read her textbook cover to cover over the summer, and she’d even practiced a couple of the spells inside, though she hadn’t mastered any of them yet. Luckily, her mother had been willing to turn her shaky attempts at creating matchsticks back into needles. Now that she was heading to school, the detransformation spell, Reparifarge, was second on her List of Spells to Learn.

Charlotte shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. I’m actually half.”

“You’re half?” Callida tilted her head.

“Half… I forgot the term. My dad’s a wizard, but my mother isn’t,” Charlotte said.

“Half-blood,” Imogen supplied automatically, though inwardly she was shocked to discover it. Aside from the doll she still held in her hand, the girl looked so… normal. It was hard to believe she had a Muggle parent.

Charlotte nodded, seemingly oblivious to Imogen’s surprise. “I am really interested in dragons, and magical creatures, and just learning more about the world. It’s all so new to me.”

Callida nodded excitedly. “Creatures are cool. Like the Loch Ness Monster. That’s a plesiosaur!”

“No it’s not,” Imogen blurted out before Callida could go off on a tangent, “It’s a kelpie.”

Callida stopped mid-word, her mouth still half open. She looked like she wasn’t used to being interrupted and wasn’t sure how to respond. In Imogen’s head, her mother’s parting words seemed to echo through time, and she cringed.

“Well, maybe,” Callida said, recovering from her shock, “But can we really know for certain what’s down there?”

“Yes,” Imogen said slowly, “we really can. Magizoologists have studied the Loch Ness Monster for decades. Maybe the Muggles don’t know what she is, but that’s because Muggles are dumb. We know it’s a kelpie.”

“Muggles aren’t dumb,” Callida protested.

Oops. That was another thing Imogen’s mother had warned her against, which, in her irritation, she had forgotten. “In polite society,” her mother had told her, “it isn’t appropriate to imply Muggles or those with Muggle blood are inferior in any way.”

“But how can they be equal if they don’t have magic?” Imogen had asked.

“We may know better, but it’s important that we keep that knowledge a secret around those Muggle-loving fools, because they can and will use it against us.”

In the present, Callida continued. “Just because they’re ignorant doesn’t mean they’re dumb. They know loads of stuff wizards don’t.”

“Like spaceships,” Stryga said.

“And ballpoint pens,” Charlotte added.

“Space… ships?” Imogen pictured a sailing ship, like what the Muggles foolishly called a galleon, floating in empty space. “That can’t be real.”

“It is,” Charlotte said, “The Americans even put a man on the moon.”

Imogen scoffed. “No one can go to the moon. It’s too far to Apparate, and brooms can’t go that high.”

“Rocket fuel can,” Charlotte said.

“The Rocket Charm doesn’t do that either,” Imogen said. Despite her frustration, she could sense she wouldn’t get anywhere on this point. “Besides, my point was that we do know what the Loch Ness Monster is, and it’s a kelpie: a magical, shapeshifting, aquatic horse.”

“Aha!” Callida exclaimed, “You said she can shapeshift, so she’s a kelpie and a plesiosaur.”

“What in Merlin’s name is a plesiosaur?” Imogen cried.

They argued like this for several more minutes, only conceding that Nessie might be a kelpie whose preferred form was that of a plesiosaur when a little old witch came by the compartment pushing a candy-laden trolley. While the other girls perused her wares looking for something they’d like, Imogen counted what was left of the money her mother had given her for her school supplies.

“How many chocolate frogs can I get for eight Galleons?” she asked.

The trolley lady looked taken aback. “Let’s see, that’s ten Sickles to a frog, so eight Galleons is… one hundred and thirty-six Sickles, which brings your total up to thirteen chocolate frogs.”

“Er…” On second thought, perhaps she didn’t need that many. “How much for five frogs?”

Imogen came away from the transaction two Galleons and sixteen Sickles poorer and five chocolate frogs—a far greater currency in her opinion—richer. She opened the first box and let the frog bounce around for a bit while she looked at the card. This was one she didn’t have yet: a vanishing entertainer named Xavier Rastrick. She caught the chocolate frog as it made a bid for freedom out the door. While she nibbled on one of its arms, she pulled the other chocolate frog cards out of their boxes, leaving the frogs themselves for later. She got one of the ever despised Beatrix Bloxam; a Norvel Twonk, who, according to the card, saved the life of some Muggle kid; a Circe, who was so famous for turning lost sailors into pigs that even the Muggles knew about her; and, lastly, an Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore, second only to Merlin himself in greatness… and the first name on Imogen’s List of Enemies. She scowled down at his picture. His twinkling eyes and serenely smiling face seemed to taunt her.

Dumbledore was the reason her father was dead. He may not have cast the killing spell—though for all her mother told her, he might have—but is was his orders that led to Mr. Lucius Malfoy knocking on their front door two years and three days ago to break the news that her father, Cygnus Selwyn, was dead. Killed by Dumbledore’s own private army. The Order of the Phoenix.

That night marked the first time in Imogen’s nine years that she had heard her mother cry.

“What’re those?”

The unexpected noise made her head snap up, suddenly jolting her back to reality. Stryga was looking at the chocolate frog cards in her hands.

“Oh, they’re these cards that come with every chocolate frog. People collect them.” Imogen gave her a curious look. “You’ve never had a chocolate frog before?”

Stryga shrugged and shook her head.

Imogen looked down at Dumbledore’s face again, and she made a decision. “Here, do you want my Dumbledore card?” she asked, holding it out, “I’ve already got one of him at home.”

Stryga’s eyes lit up, and she accepted the offering with a chipper “Thanks!”

Callida took off her hat, dropped one of the caramels she’d bought from the trolley inside it, and returned the hat to her head. Imogen decided not to ask the obvious question. Right now, she was two for two when it came to unpleasant conversations with the girl, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to risk a third. She could only hope Callida didn’t get—or wasn’t already, depending on her year—sorted into Slytherin.

As time passed, the scene outside the window changed from green fields to lush, rolling hills, then again to rough-capped mountains. The sky turned from blue to orange to inky black.

An intercom crackled to life, startling the four girls, and a voice spoke through the speaker. “The Hogwarts Express will arrive at Hogsmeade Station in five minutes. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be delivered to the castle separately.”

“We still need to get dressed!” Imogen exclaimed.

They scrambled to get their robes out and pull them over their heads, with the exception of Callida, who sat there chattering away about something or other while the other girls struggled. Imogen glanced at her reflection in the window to make sure she looked presentable, and instead she discovered she was still wearing her glasses. She groaned inwardly and quickly slipped them out of sight into her robe’s wand pocket. She hated the way she looked in glasses, and she’d meant to put them away before anyone from Hogwarts saw them.

As the train rolled to a stop in the village station, Imogen woke Adalbert up from his nap to say goodbye.

“Wait, pets stay here too?” Callida asked.

“I think so,” Imogen said, nodding, “I assume there’s house-elves that take them up along with our trunks.”

Callida removed her hat again and gently tipped it on its side. To Imogen’s surprise, a large bat slid out onto the seat, still munching happily on a sticky square of caramel.

“I thought we were only allowed an owl, cat, or toad?” Imogen asked incredulously.

Callida merely smiled in response.

They all made their way through the crowded corridor and off the train. As Imogen stepped onto the platform, she glanced up and nearly tripped back into the train. Not ten feet in front of her, separated by a sea of students, was a man the size of a bear with enough hair to cover one too.

“Firs’ years, follow me!” he called out, swinging a glowing lantern to help herd students his way, “This way, firs’ years!”

Imogen caught Stryga’s eye, shrugged, and followed the other girls from her compartment to the small crowd of first years surrounding the man. She wondered if he had been the victim of a botched Engorgement Charm as a kid.

While they waited, Callida asked him, “How do you maintain such a high beard density?”

“I ‘aven’t shaved once in me life,” the giant man said proudly.

Once students stopped filing off the train, he did a quick headcount of the first years around him. “That everyone? Alright, come with me.”

They followed him down a narrow, dirt path lined on either side by dark trees. Everyone was too busy trying to keep their footing on the slippery ground to talk, and for several minutes the only sounds that pierced the silence were the crunch of footsteps and the faint whisper of wind in the trees. The lights of Hogsmeade faded into the distance, leaving only the giant man’s lantern to light the way. It occurred to Imogen then just how easy it would be for a stranger to lure the unsuspecting first years away for malicious purposes.

All thoughts of half-giant man eaters left her mind the moment they rounded a bend and the path opened up onto a vast, black lake. A fleet of small rowboats lined the shore.

Most magnificent of all was the sight across the lake. Atop a sheer cliffside was Hogwarts Castle itself. Lights glittered in every window, and towering spires stretched up to meet the stars. It was breathtaking.

The giant man gave them a long moment to take it all in, then waved an enormous hand at the rowboats. “Everyone pick a boat. They can’t hold more ‘an four people at once, so don’t sink ‘em.”

The first years clambered into rowboats. There was a small commotion when a pink-haired girl tripped on her way into her boat and fell face-first into the lake, but the rest of them found a boat without incident. Imogen stuck with the three girls she met on the train, and together they claimed one of the last boats.

Once everyone was safely in their rowboats, the giant man, who had a boat all to himself, shouted, “Forward!” With no help from the students, the boats started to glide across the lake, leaving ripples in their wake. Imogen watched, awestruck, as the castle drew closer.

When they reached the base of the cliff, and Imogen had to crane her neck to see the school above, the giant man called out, “Watch your heads now.” The students in the first boats ducked, and they slid right through the ivy curtain covering the cliff face. They passed through a long, stone tunnel that dripped water onto their heads. If Imogen had to bet, she would say it was taking them all the way underneath the castle.

Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a small cave with places to dock the boats. Everyone climbed onto land and followed the giant man and his lantern up a narrow flight of stairs, emerging at last into open air near the entrance to the castle. It looked even grander up close.

The giant man led them up wide, stone steps to the massive front doors. He raised an enormous fist and let it fall against the wood.

Almost immediately, the doors swung open to reveal a large entrance hall lined with gleaming suits of armor. Directly in front of them stood a tall woman in emerald green robes who looked like her stare could quell even Imogen’s mother. Imogen hoped her choice of fashion didn’t mean she was head of Slytherin House.

“Here you are, Professor McGonagall,” the giant man said, “The firs’ years.”

Imogen recognized the name from her acceptance letter, and she was worse than the Slytherin Head. According to her mother, Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was the Transfiguration professor.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Professor McGonagall said, “First years, if you would follow me.”

She led them down the entrance hall. A low rumble of voices could be heard behind one door they passed, which Imogen assumed the rest of the school was behind. The next door led them to a smaller room that they all crowded into following Professor McGonagall.

“Did you know,” Callida whispered as they filed in. It wasn’t clear who she was talking to. “This castle was built in Norman Romanesque and Gothic styles? You can clearly see the influence in the arches.”

Once everyone was inside, Professor McGonagall quieted Callida with a stare and clasped her hands in front of her. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said, “For the next seven years, this castle will be like your second family. In a few minutes, the Sorting Ceremony will begin, determining where and with whom you spend those seven years.”

Stryga raised her hand. After a quick nod of permission from Professor McGonagall, she asked, “Professor, why is the school called Hogwarts?”

Professor McGonagall stared at her for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. “The four houses are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each house has its own strengths and merits, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards.”

She continued to speak, but at the mention of Slytherin House, Imogen stopped paying attention. Both her parents had been in Slytherin. It was the house of Merlin, the house of nobility, the house of those clever enough to get their own way. Imogen had no doubt she would be sorted into Slytherin as well.

“The Sorting Ceremony is one of the most important occasions of your school career,” Professor McGonagall continued, “and it will take place in front of the entire school, so I suggest you take it seriously.” She leveled a pointed look first at the pink-haired girl still soaking from the lake, then at Callida, who was busy explaining to Stryga how the first green dye for cloth was made with arsenic and gave deadly ulcers to the house-elves who worked with it.

“I’ll return in a moment when we are ready for you,” Professor McGonagall said. She disappeared into the entrance hall, leaving the first years alone in the chamber.

They glanced around at each other. One short, blond boy cautiously asked, “So… How do we get sorted? She never said.”

“My brother said you have to duel the Heads of Houses,” said a boy with bright red hair and freckles, “but he also said he got the scar on his hand from the Slytherin Head, and I’m pretty sure I was there when he got it chasing the twins around the garden. He was probably joking.”

“Who’s the Slytherin Head?” Imogen asked.

“Professor Snape,” the boy said, “My brother hates him. Says he’s a right prick.”

Imogen’s heart sank. ‘A right prick’ sounded about right. According to a pair of Daily Prophet articles a couple months into her mother’s brief stay in Azkaban—when her Aunt Hortensia had done her futile best to keep her out of the loop, and Imogen had resorted to scouring discarded papers for any mention of the Death Eaters—Professor Severus Snape might have been a follower of the Dark Lord himself who, if she read between the lines of Dumbledore vouching for his innocence in the second article covering his release, possibly turned traitor for the officially non-existent Order of the Phoenix.

She didn’t have long to dwell on it, however, because Professor McGonagall reappeared to tell the red-haired boy, “There will be no need for that sort of language at Hogwarts, young man.” She held the door open wider, and the first years filed after her back through the entrance hall and to the door Imogen remembered hearing the rest of the school behind.

Several students gasped when they saw the interior of the Great Hall, and Imogen could see why. It was so much grander than any dining hall she had ever seen. Four long tables laden with golden plates and goblets filled most of the space, with hundreds of students sitting at each table. At the head of the room was a fifth table where the professors sat. Countless floating candles lit the place, accompanied by silvery ghosts dotted here and there amongst the tables, but by far the most impressive sight was the ceiling. It arched up and up and seemed to disappear, melding with the night sky and glittering stars beyond it.

Professor McGonagall set a small stool in front of the staff table, and on it she placed the oldest, rattiest wizard’s hat Imogen had ever seen. She glanced at the blond boy who had asked about the Sorting Ceremony, but he looked to be shaking in his shoes and didn’t seem in any state to talk.

The brim of the old hat split open at the seam, and without warning, it burst into song. Imogen blinked in shock. The singing lasted several minutes, its lyrics detailing the founding of Hogwarts and the traits each founder valued for their house. After it ended, Professor McGonagall stepped forward and unfurled a large scroll.

“When I call your name, please come up to the stool and place the hat on your head,” she said. She rolled out the scroll a little further. “Ali, Badeea.”

A nervous-looking girl wearing a blue headscarf walked to the front, sat down on the stool, and put on the hat. Almost immediately, the brim ripped open again, and the hat shouted, “RAVENCLAW!”

The table second on the right erupted in cheers. Badeea Ali hopped from the stool, returned the hat, and hurried to the cheering table, grinning from ear to ear.

“Baldwin, Vincent,” Professor McGonagall called.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

This time, the table farthest on the left clapped, and the boy sat there.

“Billingsley, Malcolm.”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Caplan, Diego.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Copper, Benjamin.”

The anxious blond boy looked distinctly green as he scurried to the front and put on the hat. Unlike the others, who all got sorted within seconds of the hat touching their heads, he sat on the stool for several minutes of silence. Just when Imogen began to wonder if there had been a mistake, the hat called out, “GRYFFINDOR!” and the students at the far right of the hall burst into applause.

“Corvus, Callida.”

Callida grinned. The hat had barely touched her head before it shouted, “RAVENCLAW!”

A few more students were sorted before the first Slytherin ended up being “Lee, Barnaby.” Directly to Imogen’s left, the table started cheering.

“McNully, Murphy.”

A blond boy in a wheelchair rolled to “RAVENCLAW!” after slight deliberation, then Professor McGonagall called, “Michaelson, Charlotte.” The half-blood girl from the train stepped forward and put on the hat.

Finally, it snuck up on Imogen. Professor McGonagall adjusted her scroll and said, “Selwyn, Imogen.”

A jolt ran down Imogen’s spine. Her mouth felt suddenly very dry as she walked to the front of the hall, and she became uncomfortably aware of just how many eyes were on her right now. She sat down and placed the hat on her head. The murmur of the older students died down as the cloth slid over her ears and eyes.

“Now what have we here?” said a soft voice in her ear, “A Selwyn, eh?”

If she weren’t so nervous sitting here in front of the entire school, she would be so excited by the idea of a hat enchanted to know what must be Legilimancy, but as it were, she frowned. You say that as if it’s a bad thing, she thought.

“Not at all,” the hat said, “I see you’ve made up your mind already.”

Yes.

“Why do you think you belong in Slytherin?”

My entire family’s been in Slytherin, she thought, inexplicably wary of this line of questioning. I can’t go anywhere else.

“Can you, can you,” the hat said, “Not even… Ravenclaw?”

What? No!

“And why not?”

Because—because I want Slytherin! Even in her head, the argument sounded weak and childish.

“Your interest in difficult and obscure branches of magic—Legilimancy, spell invention, Animagi—not for personal gain or glory but simply because they’re ‘neat;’ your dedication to studying your Transfiguration textbook over the summer because you were bored at home; your tendency to ask ‘why’ at every given opportunity… These are all overwhelmingly Ravenclaw characteristics.”

With every example the hat gave, the temperature in Imogen’s veins seemed to plummet. What are you saying?

She felt the hat shift on her head.

“No!” she said out loud, forgetting for a moment that the hat knew Legilimancy. Her cheeks flushed with heat.

Time ticked on, and the hat continued to argue with her. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t get into Slytherin. What would her mother think when—if—she found out?

“You shouldn’t base your decisions on the question of what your mother would think,” the hat said. With that, it opened its mouth again, and Imogen’s heart sank somewhere in the region of her socks.

“RAVENCLAW!”

In a daze, she stood up and started walking toward the Ravenclaw table, almost forgetting to put the hat back on the stool. She barely remembered making her way to the far end of the table and dropping onto the bench near Callida and another first year named Rowan Khanna. Scalding heat prickled at the corners of Imogen’s eyes, and she fought to keep the tears from falling.

Callida leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Imogen snapped, “I’m fine.”

“Well that’s blatantly a lie.”

Imogen ignored her and squinted pointedly toward the front of the hall. She froze. She’d been so caught up in the Sorting Ceremony, and there had been enough people in front of her to obscure her view of the High Table, that she had forgotten all about him. Now, however, she had a clear line of sight on the ornate center seat, the headmaster’s seat, where Albus Dumbledore sat watching “Snyde, Merula” on the stool. Imogen’s face reddened again, not from shame this time, but from anger.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Dumbledore clapped politely with the rest of the staff, his eyes following the girl to the Slytherin table. As she passed Imogen’s seat, Dumbledore seemed to lock eyes with Imogen for a moment, a slight frown forming on his face. Then Professor McGonagall called “Stringer, Calvin” to the front, and they broke eye contact. Still, Imogen couldn’t shake the feeling that, in that brief moment, he had stared into her very soul.

After Stringer came “Tonks, Nymphadora,” who turned out to be the pink-haired girl. She walked up to Professor McGonagall before taking the hat and said, “Please don’t call me Nymphadora, professor.” A chuckle rose from the student body.

Another few students were called up, until Stryga was the only one left. She sneezed and nearly fell off the stool as the hat shouted, “HUFFLEPUFF!” The entire school applauded this time, while Charlotte welcomed Stryga at the Hufflepuff table.

The Sorting Ceremony was over. As Professor McGonagall took the stool and hat away, Dumbledore stood up. He raised his hands, and the hall fell silent.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice easily carrying to the back of the hall, “to another year at Hogwarts. I know you’re all eager to eat, so without further ado, let the feast begin!”

All up and down the tables, the empty platters and bowls filled themselves with heaping portions of the finest food Imogen had ever seen. Her mouth fell open in awe. How many house-elves must the school have to manage such a feat, and more importantly, how did they pull it off? They couldn’t have conjured the food. Everyone knew food was one of the exceptions to Gamp’s Elemental Law of Transfiguration. However they had done it, the meal was delicious. She made a mental note to ask the first house-elf she met, if she could, for the roast potato recipe to send home to Witton.

Slowly but surely, she ate her way through the spread in front of her, avoiding eye contact with Callida and Rowan, who spent the time discussing various wand woods and the Khanna family tree farm. Imogen kept glancing up at the staff table against her better judgement, and each time she caught sight of Dumbledore, a sour feeling settled deeper in her stomach.

Finally, when everyone was finished, the main course vanished from the tables, only to be replaced almost immediately by dessert. When even that had disappeared, Dumbledore stood back up, and the hall fell silent again.

“Now that we are all pleasantly full—or, in some cases, overfull—” Dumbledore turned his twinkling eyes toward a tiny, balding professor who looked distinctly uncomfortable. “It is time for us to go to bed, but first I have a few announcements to make. First years should know that the Forbidden Forest is, as the name suggests, forbidden to all students.”

A dark-skinned, bespectacled first year at the Slytherin table looked disappointed.

“Quidditch tryouts for all houses will be held in the second week of term. Any interested parties should contact Madam Hooch for their team’s allotted time. Lastly, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you that no magic is permitted in the corridors, and all students must be in their common rooms by ten at night. And now, it is off to bed.”

On that cue, the students all started standing up and slowly meandering to the doors. An older boy with a prefect’s badge corralled the first year Ravenclaws to lead them out of the Great Hall. Imogen watched the Slytherin first years following her cousin, Felix Rosier, with longing.

The Ravenclaw prefect, who introduced himself as Chester Davies, led the eight of them up stairs and down corridors. Imogen wondered how the boy in the wheelchair would fare until he did something with his chair arm and started floating. By the fifth corner they turned, Imogen was all turned around. She couldn’t imagine ever finding her way back to the Great Hall for breakfast in the morning.

Finally, they reached a staircase that curled up tight, dizzying circles, and at the very top, Chester stopped them. They stood in front of an aged, wooden door with no handle or keyhole, just an ornate bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. Chester lifted the knocker and let it fall.

Its beak opened, and it spoke in a soft voice. “This thing all things devours; birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stone to meal; slays king, ruins town; and beats mountain down.”

Imogen stifled a groan. A riddle. The password to the Ravenclaw common room was a riddle. The next seven years would be a nightmare.

“That last part… could it be a dragon?” Chester asked, “What do you think?”

The first years eyed each other, surprised he was asking them for advice.

“Well,” said an Asian girl with long red hair whose name was Tulip Karasu, “it would fit the devouring bit.”

“But what ‘grinds hard stone to meal?’” asked Rowan Khanna.

“And what eats trees?” asked Andre Egwu, a black boy with some sort of Quidditch pin on his lapel.

Imogen rocked back on her heels, trying to think of some way to solve the riddle, but her brain was moving slowly after the large meal. Before she could even begin, Callida spoke up.

“It’s ‘time!’” she said, “I know this riddle. It’s from The Hobbit.”

“The what?” Andre said.

“The Hobbit. It’s a Muggle book about little people who eat all the time.”

This time, Imogen had the good sense to keep her thoughts to herself on the ridiculous improbability of a magical door knocker caring about some dumb Muggle book.

“Let’s try it,” Chester said, thankfully before Callida had a chance to go on about the book. Chester turned to address the door. “The answer is ‘time.’”

“Correct,” said the knocker. Shockingly, the door swung open.

The Ravenclaw common room was a large, circular chamber with an airy atmosphere. The ceiling was domed and painted with delicate, twinkling stars. Blue and bronze silks hung from the walls between high, arched windows. Directly across from the door was a round niche filled with bookcases and, in the center, a white marble statue of a woman. It was, Imogen begrudgingly admitted to herself, rather beautiful.

Chester beckoned them to gather in front of the statue. “This,” he said, “is Rowena Ravenclaw, our house founder. If you’d like to come closer, you can read her motto on her lost diadem here: ‘wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’ These are the words we Ravenclaws live by.”

The sour feeling in Imogen’s stomach returned at the mention of ‘we Ravenclaws.’

“I know you’re all tired, so I’ll skip the history lesson and go straight to the House Cup,” Chester continued, “As Professor McGonagall probably told you, the House Cup is awarded at the end of the year to the house with the most points. They’re tracked in those big hourglasses you may have noticed in the Great Hall. Now, Ravenclaw hasn’t won the House Cup since I was a first year, and it is vitally important that we win again this year. I’ve got a lot riding on this. So you do everything you possibly can to earn house points. You answer questions in class; you volunteer to help professors outside of class… whatever it takes. Most importantly, you do not break the rules. You do that, you lose house points, and if you lose house points I will find out about it. I’m counting on each and every one of you. Understand?”

They nodded.

“Good. Now, dormitories are down those stairs. Keep going until you see the door marked ‘first year’ with the right gender.”

Imogen trudged down the stairs, trailing well behind the other first years, who were listening as Callida wondered out loud if Professor McGonagall’s robes were made with the blood of house-elves. The weariness that always followed a big day and a big meal had really settled into Imogen’s bones. She barely registered the design of the girl’s dormitory: circular, like the common room, with beds and wardrobes spaced out on the outer wall. All she cared about was finding the bed her trunk had been deposited by and collapsing onto it.

The other girls stayed up chatting excitedly, but Imogen just wanted the day to be over. Maybe if she went to sleep now, she’d wake up in the morning in her bed at Selwyn Manor to find it had all been one long nightmare brought on by pre-start of school nerves. But she’d never been good at fooling herself.

As she pulled the curtains closed around her bed, another chilling thought wormed its way back to the forefront of her mind: her mother would expect a letter all about her exciting first day soon. Imogen dreaded having to write it. What would she even say? ‘Hi, Mum. Turns out I wasn’t good enough for Slytherin, but that’s okay because if I don’t answer a riddle correctly, I can’t get into my common room anyway. I’ll be sure to say hi from you to Dad’s killer next time I see him.’

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and this time she let them fall.