Lorelei Thurkell and the Philosopher's Stone

All through August, Lorelei Thurkell never bothered to think of a name for the raven. So, during the frenzy of packing for Hogwarts – with Spriggan and two more elves tearing through her room, arranging trunks and folding shirts – she would occasionally mutter a disinterested, “Quiet, bird.” The raven had grown used to her and to Spriggan, but anything unfamiliar or too loud set him off. He’d slam himself against the cage, leap about, scream, and fluff up his feathers. Lorelei sympathised. She disliked the racket as well. But the screeching – oh, the screeching – grated on her. A persistent worry clung to her: Mrs. Malfoy was overcomplicating everything. Trunks upon trunks of clothes, linens, dishes, quills – even stools – as if the children were sailing off to uncharted lands. Draco, still caught in the orbit of private tutors and long talks with his father – who seemed determined to drill in every last Malfoy virtue – didn’t see it. He basked in the spoiling. But Lorelei, whose tutor had ceased visiting entirely, and who now spent the whole day under the eye of madam, saw. Saw and endured. ‘I very much doubt I’ll wear half of these garments, madam,’ she said with careful restraint, halfway through her thirty-third change. She had counted them. Had it not been for the joy of going to Hogwarts, she might have been terribly annoyed. ‘You never know!’ said Narcissa Malfoy. Her gaze was both focused – as though the fate of the world rested on the choice of which gown to pack (after all, luggage space was not infinite) – and filled with quiet anticipation, touched by a faint trace of sorrow. The colour black did seem to dampen her spirits, and Lorelei Thurkell, firm in her decision to wear only that shade for the rest of her life, brought her little joy. Still, Mrs Malfoy brimmed with enthusiasm, and not without reason. Fine feathers make fine birds was one of Mrs Malfoy’s favourite sayings. It carried with it a truth important to any lady of standing, along with a touch of irony – the kind she could allow herself without losing dignity. It lent her the sparkle needed not to fade among so many equally pious women. Mrs Malfoy was a modern ideal – a lady virtuous, yet remarkable in all the best ways. Her beauty was undeniable, her dress always elegant, her manners refined. Every word she spoke was chosen with care. No false emotion ever broke through her expression – nor, indeed, any unbecoming feeling. One might suppose she did not even know what such a thing was. She hosted the finest gatherings, led light conversation with ease, charmed any guest – even the stiffest politician or his stern wife – danced with grace, and played the piano most beautifully. She was the best of the best. And rightly so – she came from the noble house of Black. But Lorelei Thurkell was not thinking of that now. Her mind was caught elsewhere, and the subject raised in conversation could not have come at a better moment. It allowed her to speak her unrest with an air of indifference. ‘Do you suppose I shall be sorted into Slytherin?’ Mrs Malfoy turned to her, faintly surprised. ‘Where else would you go?’ she said – then stopped herself. She spent a few silent moments smoothing the hem of a gown, as if the motion would conjure the right reply. Each second stole more of Lorelei’s hope. The truth does not linger in silence. ‘In truth, Lorelei, the Slytherin house does prize pure blood, of course. That is why it is the finest house – our age-old customs are remembered there. The order established by our forebears still lives within its walls. And its pupils, during their school years and long after, not only hold fast to the traits the founder valued – Salazar Slytherin – but cultivate them: talent, cunning, ambition, and purity of blood. He cherished them all, each one alone and all in harmony. So yes – you may well have a chance.’ Lorelei turned listlessly in front of the mirror. Mrs Malfoy, dressed in a black evening gown with a straight bodice and sheer sleeves embroidered with white lilies – mourning flowers – stood behind her. Lorelei ran her fingers along the fabric, soft beyond belief, and said with calm certainty: ‘If I am placed in Gryffindor, I shall drink poison.’ Mrs Malfoy did not speak at once. Whether she was examining the gown or pondering her words was unclear. But when she did respond, her voice was composed: ‘Do your best not to be placed in Gryffindor.’ But before she could be sorted into a house, Lorelei Thurkell first had to reach the school. And there was only one way to do that – by taking the Hogwarts Express, which departed from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King’s Cross Station in London. There were several means of reaching the platform, but of course, the respectable Malfoy family would not lower themselves to appear at a Muggle station. The floo network was active on the platform, and with the help of house-elves, it was no trouble at all to arrive there – along with seven trunks between the two of them – in a matter of seconds. Mr Malfoy stepped into the fireplace first, a handful of glittering powder in his palm, cast it down at his feet, and spoke the name of the destination clearly. Draco followed him. The elves apparated, disappearing from the room with short claps along with their things – they didn’t need the fireplace. Spriggan was not among them. That morning, as she woke Lorelei, she had confessed she would not endure it without weeping, so Lorelei forbade her to come at all. Spriggan then said her goodbyes, wished her a gentle school year, reminded her not to forget the morning and evening drops for her eyes, and asked that she soften her stubbornness – at least a little. Lorelei looked back one last time (not the last – she would return for the summer holidays) at the music room with the piano, where she used to read French poems to Mrs Malfoy. Of course she would not miss such nonsense. Not a little. Lorelei wrinkled her small nose. ‘Lorelei,’ said Mrs Malfoy. She was already standing within the hearth. ‘Do not keep us waiting.’ Her figure was lost in the enchanted flame, carried swiftly to its mark. Without pause, Lorelei Thurkell followed. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was already alive with voices and movement. The smoke from the locomotive curled in heavy waves above their heads, and cats – black, ginger, tabby, white – slipped beneath the feet of witches and wizards young and old. In the hum of a hundred conversations, one could hear the hoots of owls and cries of birds, and Lorelei’s raven, distressed by the crowd, let out screeches sharp and relentless, as if trying to drown them all. To calm him, she took a piece of black fabric and drew it over his cage, which one of the elves held tightly. ‘Where are Vincent and Gregory? I can’t see them!’ said Draco with a scowl, spinning his head around in every direction. Lorelei looked too, but no familiar face met her eyes, which puzzled her. Were there truly so many half-bloods and mudbloods? It was a troubling thought. ‘Don’t forget to write to me, Draco,’ said Mrs Malfoy, smoothing her son’s fair hair. ‘Keep yourself warm. The dungeons are cold, and more so when winter comes.’ Hogwarts School stood in an ancient eight-storey castle, to which the glowing scarlet train on the platform was now bound, and the Slytherin common room and dormitories lay within the castle’s lower levels. Of course, Draco would be sorted into that house, and so the warnings felt both timely and inevitable. ‘Lorelei, take care of Draco,’ said Mrs Malfoy, casting her only the briefest glance. ‘Of course, madam.’ ‘And do not forget to write, either.’ ‘Certainly, madam.’ ‘Remember, Draco, you carry the name of our house,’ said Mr Malfoy, with the solemnity of someone giving orders before battle. Lorelei saw that children had already begun to board the train and take the front compartments, but it would have been rude to hurry or be hurried. Mr Malfoy then turned his gaze to her. ‘You as well, Lorelei. Behave with propriety, maintain the manners your breeding demands, and avoid company that lacks refinement. We cannot have you picking up notions from–’ He coughed, but Lorelei needed no explanation. She knew whom he meant. ‘Draco,’ he said once more, fixing his son with a hard look. The boy stood taller. ‘Do not forget our morning talk. I shall await word from you.’ ‘Of course, Father. I will not fail you,’ said Draco, nodding. Her interest in what young Malfoy must succeed at, and what kind of letters his father wished to receive, was swiftly replaced by the need to move forward through the crowd. The elves, as always, took charge of the trunks, carrying them to the designated luggage carriage, and Lorelei and Draco, having exchanged parting words with care, made their way toward the train. It took some time, and the compartments were filling fast. Luckily, not so few that she had to sit with Draco. Meeting Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle on the way – his closest friends, though neither possessed wit nor manners – Draco rushed off into the heart of the train. They were pure-blood sons of pure-blood families, and for reasons unknown, regarded Draco as their leader. Lorelei settled into an empty compartment. She did not mind solitude, yet the thought that she would have welcomed Theodore’s company drifted in and out of her mind like mist. Wishing to occupy herself and avoid the sight of adult witches and wizards waving tearfully from the platform as the train began to move – no doubt saying farewell to their children – she opened the first book her hands found from the first-year reading list. It was The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. Lorelei had already read every book on the list, and was not at all pleased with the chance that had landed this one in her hands. Defense against the Dark Arts – boundless, formless, without laws or limits – seemed to her a meaningless affair when taught without any actual Dark Magic involved. And that was precisely what the book in her hands proposed, urging its readers to avoid werewolves by “steering clear of their known habitats and refraining from social contact,” and offering feeble spells and weak potions as solutions to the faintest traces of dark influence. Had the examples involved true Dark Magic, even by a little, these methods would have proved hollow at best – or at worst, brought about far more dreadful ends. She disliked the very principle: they were being taught to defend themselves from Dark Arts, not to understand them.How could one fight something one had never learned? Suddenly, the door slid open. A girl, about her age, peeked inside. She had reddish-brown hair and a gap between her front teeth – the sort Lorelei noticed the moment the girl opened her mouth. ‘Can I sit with you?’ Her voice was somewhat scratchy and loud. ‘There aren’t any seats left anywhere.’ Lorelei nodded once and said, ‘Of course. Sit down.’ The girl flopped into the seat across from her and smiled broadly, showing the gap even more clearly. ‘Hi! I’m Gabrielle. And you are?’ To ignore the question – and the gesture – would be impolite. Lorelei, pulling herself from the dull book she had no wish to keep reading, replied: ‘Lorelei Thurkell.’ She noted at once – Gabrielle had not given her surname. That was a clear mark of common breeding; it meant her family was not of the sort to be spoken of in introductions. Most likely, she was a half-blood – or, Lorelei cast her a cautious look – a Mudblood. There was also the chance she came from a poor pure-blood family; such families did exist, though Lorelei had never met their children, as the Malfoys kept them out of their circle. That would be preferable to the alternative, though not by much. In some way, Lorelei and the girl might stand on equal ground. ‘Do you like sweets?’ the girl asked out of nowhere, pulling a strange thing from her pale yellow bag, which had brown stripes running down the strap. The object drew Lorelei’s eye. She had never seen its like – and she knew all magical styles, old and new, from parties and promenades. Which meant, Lorelei winced, it was not magical at all. Was she truly a Mudblood? Ideally, it would be best not to speak to her at all. But Lorelei’s position did not permit her to reject or recoil from conversation, and proper conduct forbade unprovoked rudeness. She answered darkly: ‘No.’ ‘What? Why?’ Gabrielle’s mouth fell open in surprise. No manners whatsoever, Lorelei thought. ‘I do not like sweets,’ she said, and returned to her reading. “Avoid the Red Cap, a Dark dwarfish creature that lurks in places where blood has been shed and will attempt to bludgeon the unwary to death. And if you are unlucky enough to meet the Red Hood face to face, use the Smokescreen Spell and leave the meeting place as quickly as possible.” And what if the wizard, upon meeting the Red Cap, had already been wounded? Apparition would not be possible – Apparating with an open wound could lead to terrible consequences, even death. And the smoke would be of no use; the Red Cap would smell the blood and find the wizard even with his eyes shut. Lorelei pressed her lips together in displeasure. She ought to have borrowed a few books from the Malfoy library – it would have been a far better use of her time. ‘What do you like, then?’ asked Gabrielle. Her voice came through the sound of crinkling paper as she unwrapped a sweet. The question caught Lorelei off guard, but she did not think long. ‘Coffee,’ she replied. ‘Truly? Without sugar?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’re so grown-up,’ said Gabrielle, sounding impressed. Lorelei glanced at the dark green eyes opposite – the colour of old potion books – and the pale, open face framed by auburn hair. The words had pleased her more than she cared to admit, and for a moment she hoped Gabrielle might be a half-blood after all, not a Mudblood. Still, the sweets looked Muggle-made. She had never seen such wrappers before. Pupils passed their compartment now and then – some first-years like themselves, others already grown. The older ones stood out by more than their height: their school robes bore ties in various colours – silver and green for Slytherin, bronze and blue for Ravenclaw. Once, Draco passed by with his usual followers, gave a sharp look inside, and continued with an air of purpose. Lorelei remembered his father’s last words and wondered if he was searching for someone. ‘What are you reading?’ asked Gabrielle, breaking the near hour of silence. She had grown tired, it seemed, of the unchanging green fields beyond the window and was looking for a reason to speak again. ‘A Guide to Self-Protection,’ said Lorelei, without enthusiasm. ‘That’s from our school list, isn’t it?’ said Gabrielle, recognising the book. She straightened suddenly, her voice rising with alarm. ‘Are we supposed to read it before classes begin?’ ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Lorelei calmly. She could not imagine going to school without at least preparing oneself with the first-year reading list. ‘Do you like Defence Against the Dark Arts?’ Gabrielle asked. ‘I like the Dark Arts,’ Lorelei answered, without interest. The silence that followed felt unusually sharp, and Lorelei lifted her head to glance at the girl. Gabrielle looked slightly troubled, more confused than offended, and said, almost as if recalling a fact: ‘My mother says that’s a bad sign.’ Then, as though for clarity, and with clear pride in her voice, she added, ‘She’s an Auror.’ So, a half-blood, concluded Lorelei. Aurors were wizards employed by the Ministry of Magic to track and arrest dangerous criminals – known in common speech as hunters of Dark wizards. They were often respected in society, which explained the pride in the girl’s voice when she spoke of her mother. But Lorelei herself did not think of Aurors as important or worthy of esteem. All the Dark wizards she knew – Mr Malfoy, Nott, Rosier – who had used Dark Magic in their crimes, walked free. Some even worked at the Ministry. The ones Aurors usually caught were small, forgettable figures who had only just learned a few forbidden spells and could hardly manage those. Just a month ago, Mr Malfoy had read aloud over breakfast the news of a Mr Woods who had been arrested for reading a beginner’s book on Dark Arts. Mr Malfoy, smiling slightly, had recalled how just fifteen years earlier, Aurors had been helpless while Dark wizards burned homes and attacked people – mostly Mudbloods and Muggles. Mr Malfoy did not say aloud that he had been one of the attackers. He did not need to. The same mark that burned on Lorelei’s wrist, in memory of her parents’ death, the mark of the Dark Lord’s greatness, was branded on his left forearm as well. ‘There you are!’ A head with a hint of curls appeared in the doorway, followed by the rest of Theodore’s tall figure. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere for you, Lorelei.’ He dropped down beside her, cast a glance at the book in her hands, and gave a boyish smirk – a small dimple broke across his pale cheek. ‘Just passing the time,’ said Lorelei, a touch embarrassed, though her face showed nothing. She was proud of that. She had learned to hide her feelings to perfection. ‘Well, here’s how I pass mine,’ Theodore said with satisfaction, pulling a small, clearly old book from within his robe. Lorelei looked at the title – The Practitioner’s Abridged Grimoire – and caught her breath. She had seen it in a shop window the last time she visited Knockturn Alley with Mr Malfoy, who hadn’t let her buy it. The book held practical principles of Dark Magic, complete with examples and formulas. Knowing Theodore would hardly give it up so easily – and wanting it, even briefly – Lorelei cast a quick glance over his shoulder toward the door and murmured, as if surprised, with the proper air of innocent confusion: ‘Who is that?’ Predictably, Theodore turned, letting his guard fall – and Lorelei snatched the book from his hand, flipping it open at random. Realising the trick, Theodore protested, ‘Hey!’ ‘I’ll give it back when I’m done reading,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’ve barely read half of it. Give it back,’ Theodore reached for it again, but half-heartedly – and when Lorelei pushed his hand away, he did not try again. Gabrielle, watching all this, asked: ‘What book is that?’ Theodore faltered, then subdued the girl with a cold, indifferent glance before naming the title. Lorelei grasped why. In their world, where etiquette was more than mere sound and manners still held meaning – however rarely obeyed – speaking to someone without a proper introduction was no small fault. And so, the blame was partly hers. With regret, she acknowledged it. The moment Theodore entered the compartment, she should have introduced them. In failing, she had embarrassed them all. Her face unchanged, she moved swiftly to correct the oversight. ‘Mr Nott, allow me to introduce Miss–’ Lorelei turned to Gabrielle with a clear expression, urging her to provide her name. Perhaps her look lacked eloquence, or Gabrielle lacked sense – for the girl gave no name. The blunder hung in the air like smoke, and Lorelei quietly decided the blame rested with the redhead. ‘Would you like a sweet?’ Gabrielle offered timidly, holding out a small bit of chocolate in crimson wrapping. Theodore barely glanced at it. ‘Muggle-made?’ he asked, lips curled. ‘Yes…’ Gabrielle blinked, uncertain. Theodore shuddered as though she had poisoned his supper. With theatrical disdain, he turned away. ‘Vile,’ he muttered. Gabrielle scowled and turned to Lorelei, perhaps for kindness, or clarity. She received neither. Then Theodore turned as well, voice sharp: ‘You didn’t eat… that?’ ‘No,’ said Lorelei softly. Theodore had just opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by Draco, who stumbled breathlessly into the compartment as though he had fled from somewhere. Behind him came Vincent and Gregory. They sat wherever there was space – and by chance, Draco found himself beside Gabrielle. They caught their breath, seeming not to notice, or not to care, about the stiffness in the air. Then Draco burst out: ‘Who do they think they are!’ ‘I was bitten by a rat!’ wailed Gregory Goyle. Only then did Lorelei notice that he was clutching a bleeding finger. ‘Harry Potter,’ Draco declared with disdain, his lip curling. ‘A name made loud by others, but in truth, a fool.’ ‘Look!’ said Gregory, who had ended up next to Theodore. He opened his hand and revealed the wound. Theodore turned his face away and moved closer to Lorelei. ‘The rat sank its teeth straight into me!’ Theodore was not much concerned. ‘Did you find Harry Potter?’ he asked. ‘And what is he like?’ ‘A pitiful simpleton, unable to tell what is right from what is wrong,’ said Draco, lifting his chin. ‘Even after I kindly advised him whom to befriend and whom to ignore, he still turned his back – and chose that… Weasley!’ ‘Weasley?’ Nott echoed in disbelief. Lorelei, too, knew the name. Though the Weasleys had once belonged to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, in the decades since that list had been drawn, they had disgraced themselves by speaking openly of Muggle ancestry and voicing fondness for Muggle ways – something true-blooded wizards could never pardon. They were also notoriously poor and numerous, a fact Mr Malfoy never tired of mocking. “All the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford” – so he often said. Lorelei found it most amusing that Harry Potter – the boy expected by many to become the new Dark Master – had aligned himself with the Weasleys, promoters of pro-Muggle nonsense far removed from the true path of magic. How foolish those must feel now, who had hoped The-Boy-Who-Lived would rise and lay down pure-blood rule. ‘Then our fathers erred in placing hopes on Harry Potter?’ Theodore said. ‘Indeed,’ Draco answered sourly. ‘Mark me – he shall fall, just like his foolish father and mother…’ Lorelei looked toward young Malfoy, who had again begun to echo his father’s mannerisms. “Mark me” – yes, that was his father’s phrase. Draco caught her eye and gave a slight nod. ‘Lorelei is far more fitting than Potter ever could be.’ The entire compartment turned toward her. Draco continued: ‘She knows her place. She knows whom to keep near and whom to avoid. She understands loyalty, and scorn. Though, of course, no one forgets the shame left her by her bloodline…’ Just then Pansy Parkinson squeezed into the compartment. Into the already crowded space slipped Pansy Parkinson, their peer. Her upturned nose lent her a boyish look, and she stood much shorter than Lorelei, yet often gazed at her as if she were something scraped from a shoe. Still, she posed little threat unless her mother was near – and could even be amusing to speak with, for Pansy had little wit. ‘Thank goodness I found you!’ she declared in her usual whimper. ‘It’s nothing but Mudbloods everywhere – and Father warned me not to speak to them! Not even look at them!’ ‘I think that rat gave me rabies!’ Gregory cried. Pansy leapt back from him like from the plague, nearly falling into Draco’s lap. ‘Enough!’ Draco snapped. ‘You’re intolerable.’ Lorelei felt a headache beginning to rise. The vile manner of these heirs to the purest families filled her with a sadness as sharp as her disgust. She opened her book, seeking escape before the talk shifted again. ‘And who are you?’ asked Pansy, now seated between Gabrielle and Draco. Lorelei cast a brief glance toward the two of them. ‘My name is Gabrielle...’ ‘And what is your surname, Gabrielle?’ Pansy asked, narrowing her eyes, her crooked nose wrinkling with suspicion. ‘Vernham.’ Pansy thought for a moment, then declared: ‘I do not know that name.’ ‘Nor do I,’ added Draco. Theodore looked at Lorelei, who had gone silent, her eyes fixed on the air as though lost in it. ‘Are you a Mudblood?’ asked Pansy bluntly. And before an answer could come, she shifted away. ‘I...’ Gabrielle faltered. ‘You are so–’ ‘Vernham is a pure-blood family,’ said Lorelei. Heads turned once more toward her: Gabrielle looked astonished, Pansy doubtful, and Draco and Theodore quietly intrigued. ‘They are kin to the Lestranges, the Pruetts, and your own line, Draco. Your great-grandfather took Estella Vernham to wife. Surely you would not question the judgment of your own forebear?’ Pansy stirred. ‘Perhaps they were pure-blood then. Or she belongs to a lesser branch.’ ‘You do not know for certain, Pansy,’ Lorelei said, her tone sharp with frost. Her eyes were cold and direct, and Pansy wavered beneath them. Lorelei continued: ‘Do not disgrace yourself, or your family name, by behaving like a boor.’ Pansy glanced at Draco, seeking support, perhaps, but he, upon hearing of his ancestor, had already dismissed Gabrielle. He began once more to speak of Potter – how foolish he was, how vain. Soon Pansy joined in, and their talk circled the boy until journey’s end. At last came the conductor’s voice: ‘We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately.’ Then the train slowed, and finally stopped. Lorelei closed the book she had been sharing with Theodore. The children poured from the carriage in eager procession. Theodore kept close to her, and it was plain Draco, too, had no wish to lose her from his sight. Gabrielle, to Lorelei’s quiet surprise, also walked beside her with purpose. A man stood waiting at the station, taller than any tall man they had ever seen. ‘Is he a giant?’ Theodore whispered. Lorelei shook her head. Giants reached twenty feet, even twenty-five. This man was no more than thirteen. ‘That’s the gamekeeper,’ said Draco with a sneer. ‘Another one of Potter’s friends.’ ‘First-years! First-years, this way!’ the man called, waving them over. Once they had all gathered, he added, ‘Follow me! Mind your step!’ They stumbled and slipped along the narrow path that dropped steeply into the darkness. No older students walked among them – they had already vanished toward some unknown place. Lorelei wondered where they were being led, and why. Gabrielle, walking beside her, kept tripping and clutched at Lorelei’s sleeve, which was bothersome. Lorelei had to stop often not to fall herself. In the pitch dark, the girl could not see the scowl on her face, but every so often, Gabrielle murmured apologies. ‘Just a few seconds more, and ye’ll see Hogwarts!’ came the keeper’s voice from somewhere ahead. ‘Steady now! All together!’ ‘Ooooooh!’ came the soft, collective gasp. Lorelei’s eyes widened. They stood on the edge of a great black lake. Across the water, high upon a cliff, stood a vast castle of towers and battlements, its wide windows glowing with starlight. That was Hogwarts. No book could ever describe the beauty that the children saw before them. For the first time that day, Lorelei smiled. It was a small smile, and in the dark, no one saw it. ‘Four to a boat, no more!’ the gamekeeper called, pointing toward a small fleet of boats bobbing at the shore. Lorelei found herself seated with Gabrielle, Theodore, and Pansy. Draco, flanked by his usual companions, made a show of choosing a different boat. Daphne sat with them and managed a quick wave toward Lorelei. ‘All in?’ shouted the gamekeeper from his own little vessel. ‘Then off we go!’ The boats began to drift, their motion like glass sliding over glass. Not a single murmur stirred the air, save for the one boat where Lorelei sat – for Gabrielle had found her tongue the moment they touched the water. ‘I read that grindylows dwell in this lake,’ she said, watching the black waters with a rapt expression, ‘along with mermen, sea serpents, and even undines.’ Lorelei glanced at her, then turned her gaze again toward the castle – proud and ancient, built by the four mightiest magicians of their age, or perhaps of any age at all. ‘Duck your heads!’ the gamekeeper’s voice echoed as they approached the cliff. They bent low. Ivy brushed their backs as they passed into a cleft veiled in green. The tunnel beyond was cold and silent. Within moments, they reached a landing carved in stone. One by one, they stepped ashore. They followed the path upward in a single line. Stone steps wound beneath their feet. Only the lantern ahead lit their way. Gabrielle stumbled once more, clutching at Lorelei’s sleeve, and again. Lorelei’s silence held, though her patience did not. At last, they came to the base of the castle. A final stair brought them before a towering oak door. ‘All here?’ asked the gamekeeper. He raised a great hand and knocked twice. Silence. Then – the door opened. Though Lorelei was tall enough, she stood too far back to see. But she heard him say: ‘Professor McGonagall, here are the first-years.’ ‘Thank you, Hagrid,’ came the stern, clear voice. ‘I shall take them now.’ The first-years moved forward like a wave. Lorelei walked with them. The chamber they entered was vast – a breath larger than the great hall at Malfoy Manor. Lorelei looked at the walls, the pale stairways, the door behind which rose laughter and voices. It was clear that the school waited there. But they passed it. The little ones entered a small, empty room. It was cramped. Someone breathed close behind Lorelei. She frowned. Theodore met her eyes. He frowned too. It made her feel better. ‘Welcome to Hogwarts,’ came the voice of Professor McGonagall. Lorelei now stood closer to her than before, yet not at the front. ‘The welcome feast will begin shortly. But before you may take your seats at the tables, you must be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a solemn ceremony, for from this day until your final hour at this school, your house shall be your second family. You will study together, sleep in the same dormitory, and spend your leisure hours in the common room allotted to your house. ‘There are four houses at Hogwarts – Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each boasts a proud history, and each has produced its share of witches and wizards of great renown. While you are here, your successes shall earn your house points, while any rule-breaking shall cost your house dearly. At the end of the year, the house with the most points shall win the House Cup – an honour not lightly bestowed. I trust each of you will prove yourself worthy of your new family.’ Lorelei listened in silence. Gabrielle, beside her, breathed unevenly. Theodore dusted an invisible speck from his shoulder. Lorelei glanced around, noting the familiar and unfamiliar alike. ‘The ceremony shall begin in a few minutes, before the entire school,’ Professor McGonagall continued. ‘Until then, I advise you to compose yourselves.’ She walked to the great door, but before leaving, turned to say, ‘Please keep quiet.’ As soon as the doors shut behind her, a flurry of voices rose. Someone had lost something. Another asked what the ceremony entailed. One child said the room had too little air. Theodore smirked to himself. Lorelei imagined he was picturing himself already clad in silver and green, House Cup glinting in his hands. ‘Which house do you hope for?’ asked Gabrielle, her voice uncertain, directed toward Lorelei. ‘I do not know,’ Lorelei lied. ‘Nor I,’ said the girl with a shrug. ‘My mother was in Gryffindor, and my father in Hufflepuff. I cannot choose.’ Lorelei said nothing, but her opinion of the girl, already low, sank further still. ‘My parents were both in Gryffindor,’ she said at last. Gabrielle smiled. ‘Then perhaps you shall go there too.’ ‘Merlin spare me,’ said Lorelei. Theodore made a noise like a chuckle hidden behind glass. Ghosts appeared – some twenty or more – pale and glimmering, their forms wavering like candlelight. They passed through the chamber, speaking amongst themselves, seeming not to see the children at all. Lorelei, long accustomed to such sights, kept her eyes lowered. Her thoughts ran bitter. She had lied – of course she had. She knew well where she hoped to belong. But did she deserve to? If only... She sighed. ‘Out of the hall, at once,’ came the firm voice of Professor McGonagall, who had returned without a sound. ‘The Sorting is about to begin.’ Lorelei felt her limbs tremble. She tightened her fists, nails pressed to flesh, until her hands stilled. At least her face held calm. ‘Line up,’ the professor ordered, ‘and follow me.’ Lorelei walked, every step weighted with the knowledge that her moment had come.