The Sorting Hat's choice of houses was were still on my mind even after the great feast has ended. Now all of the first-year Ravenclaws— a wide-eyed, unprepared bunch that I was ashamed to even be apart of— were being led up to the Ravenclaw Common Room. Being led was not my idea of the prefects being helpful. In fact, it made me feel weak. I had been dreaming about being a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor for so many years, I could find my way to the Ravenclaw tower blindfolded.

I couldn’t focus on the rest of the castle because the cursed Sorting Hat’s words were still ringing inside of my head. 

“Ravenclaw? Are you sure that’s where you would succeed? I have half a mind to place you in Slytherin— you’d fit in perfectly with that slippery bunch. They love knowledge, same as you and the Ravenclaws, but unlike Ravenclaw, they use it for their own good.” 

The bloody thing thought that I would do well in Slytherin! Me, of all people. Rose Weasley, daughter of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. I was the definition of Gryffindor— not Slytherin. 

My hands reached downward to the bag that was always worn around my shoulder. Seeking the comfort of parchment, I rubbed the brittle thing between my fingers. Everything that I had ever wanted was concealed in those papers. And being in Slytherin, that would have ruined everything that I had ever wanted. 

The constant, annoying buzzing sound of my housemates talking stopped, and I was jolted out of my brooding thoughts, distracted by the loss of noise. We were standing on the fifth floor, outside of a dark oak door. 

One of the prefects stood outside of the door and pointed to the bronze eagle that looked like it was about to take flight. 

“To gain passage into the Common Room,” she said, her voice cold and business-like. “You must knock twice on the door, using this knocker. The eagle will ask you a riddle, which must be answered correctly to gain entry.”

A freckly brown haired girl raised a hand. She was obviously a Muggle-born. You could always tell, how they blundered around attacking like a hippogriff trying ski. “What ha—“

“Name,” said the prefect. 

“My name’s Nina Chicegolu,” she said impatiently, then repeated her original question. “What happens if we get the question wrong?”

I rolled her eyes at the other first-year’s cluelessness. “It means that the Sorting Hat made a mistake in choosing you for Ravenclaw,” I said cheekily. 

Nina turned to me angrily, her freckles standing out on her pale face. “That’s a mean thing to say!”

I shrugged, secretly amused by the argument. I have to be used to getting challenged by underlings, I thought, when I’m the Minister of Magic, of course.

The prefect looked rattled. “First-years,” she said loudly,” don’t fight. Ravenclaw is your house, and everyone in it should be treated like your family.” She looked at me, over the heads of the other Ravenclaws. “Do you talk to your family like this?” she questioned. 

“No,” I said, and before she could make her point I added,” I treat them worse then this. They don’t really mind.”

There was a muffled laugh from one of the other immature first-years. 

Nina was standing in my direction with her hands on her hips. “Well, if you’re so smart and so much better than us, go answer the riddle,” she challenged. 

“Fine.” Pushing carelessly past my other peers, I made sure that I bumped into the ignorant girl on the way. I grabbed the tarnished bronze knocker and knocked two heavy thumps, strong and purposeful. 

The eagle slowly opened it’s eyes and beak. 

“What is the fully defined form of a Boggart?” Its voice was scratchy and hoarse.

I looked back at Nina, who was smiling cruelly. She had no idea what a Boggart was, being Muggle-born and all. I smirked at her and turned back to the knocker.

“A Boggart takes the shape of whatever the person facing it fears most,” I said importantly. “Therefore no one knows what a Boggart looks like, on account of being different for each wizard.” 

“Nicely cited,” the knocker said, and opened the door. I peered into the Common Room, where a couple of students were already warming up by the fire. Blue drapes were hung from the windows, and practical couches and desks were scattered throughout the circular room. 

Shooting a glance of triumph at Nina I turned around and entered the Common Room.

Sorry, Muggle-born, I thought gleefully, but this Weasley just won that round. I wasn’t going to be like my father or mother, who did everything Harry Potter told them to do. I’m nobody’s sidekick.