Of Shadows and Time (t.m.r)

7 | sorting

Across from them, Alphard smirked, his elbow perched carelessly on the table. "Oh, she fits, alright. Walks in like she owns the place. Slytherin's going to be a lot less dull now."

Celeste tilted her head, amused. "And here I thought you enjoyed dull. It leaves you more time for mischief."

Alphard grinned, conceding the point, and Walburga nudged her with her shoulder.

At Celeste's other side, Cygnus had sat down, looking as though the Sorting had left his nerves frayed. He poked tentatively at a slice of roast chicken before looking up at her with wide eyes.

"Do you think I'll do well here?" he asked, his voice small beneath the thunder of chatter around them.

Celeste softened, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. "You'll do more than well, Cygnus. You'll thrive. You're a Black — we always do." She shifted his plate toward him, piling on greens and a baked potato before handing him the gravy boat with a conspiratorial smile. "Eat. You'll need the strength if you want to keep up with your new house."

Walburga caught the exchange and gave a satisfied nod. "He'll do fine. I'll make sure of it, too."

"Not if I get to him first," Alphard teased, ruffling Cygnus's hair. The younger boy swatted at his brother but laughed, finally digging into his meal with more appetite.

For a moment, the world felt almost normal — family around her, laughter, food, warmth. But Celeste knew better.

This was the past, a rewritten fate, and she was living in the middle of it.

Her gaze drifted once across the hall, unbidden, toward where Tom sat among his circle. He wasn't laughing, nor talking loudly like some of the others. Instead, he sat poised, listening, his goblet untouched. Yet when her eyes met his across the distance, a ghost of a smile flickered on his lips — private, knowing, almost mocking.

Celeste turned back at once, forcing herself to focus on Cygnus, who was asking if he'd be allowed a second slice of pie. She chuckled, serving him herself.

If Tom Riddle thought she was an easy puzzle to solve, he was sorely mistaken.

The feast stretched on, golden platters replenishing themselves endlessly. Celeste sat gracefully, her silver goblet catching the glow of the floating candles above. Around her, the murmur of conversation grew into a tide of laughter and sharp-edged remarks, Slytherin voices distinct even amid the din of the Great Hall.

Walburga gestured across the table with a wave of her fork. "You should meet Violet Greengrass properly — she's practically family at this point."

Violet leaned forward, her eyes like polished jade. "Everyone's been waiting to meet you. A Beauxbatons transfer isn't something we get every day."

"Not every decade," Alphard muttered with a grin, earning himself a playful kick under the table.

Another voice, smooth and deliberate, joined in. "And certainly not one who looks like she's been raised to rule." A boy with sleek, pale hair and sharp features extended a hand across the table. "Cassian Selwyn. My family's told me about the Blacks for years."

Celeste shook his hand lightly. "Then I imagine you already know everything about me."

"Not nearly enough," Cassian replied, his tone halfway between charm and challenge.

Beside him, a tall girl with dark chestnut hair braided into an elaborate twist leaned closer. "Don't mind him. He thinks every new face exists to feed his ego." Her lips curled into a sly smile. "I'm Octavia Burke. My parents own Borgin and Burke's."

Celeste inclined her head, suppressing a flicker of recognition from her past life. "A useful business. No doubt very... resourceful."

Octavia's smile sharpened. "Precisely."

A round of laughter followed, the kind that cemented new bonds in shared arrogance. Even Cygnus joined in, though he clung to Celeste's sleeve like she was his anchor in the sea of older, confident voices.

By the time golden platters vanished and the last goblets drained, Celeste found herself caught in the current of her housemates' chatter — Violet discussing the latest fashion from Paris, Octavia smirking about how easily she could smuggle contraband into Hogwarts, Cassian trading quips with Alphard about Quidditch strategies.

"First-years and transfers, with me!" A commanding voice rose above the crowd. The Slytherin Head Boy, tall and immaculate in emerald-trimmed robes, raised a lantern high. His prefect badge gleamed like a polished mirror. "This way, to the dungeons. Stick close."

The Slytherins filed out, their laughter echoing through the stone halls. Celeste kept her hand lightly on Cygnus's shoulder as they descended into the cool, damp air beneath the castle.

Finally, the Head Boy stopped before a stretch of bare stone wall. He turned, lantern casting green-tinted light over his severe expression. "This is the entrance to our common room. The password changes regularly, and you are not to share it outside this house. Anyone who does will answer to me." His eyes lingered on the first-years long enough to make them squirm.

He tapped the wall with his wand. "This week, the password is Imperium. Repeat it, and remember it."

One by one, the students murmured the word. The wall rippled, then melted into an arched doorway, revealing the grandeur of Slytherin's common room.

The ceiling was low but elegant, supported by black stone columns that gleamed in the greenish light filtered through the underwater windows. The flicker of torchlight mingled with the shifting shadows of the Black Lake, casting an eerie, liquid shimmer across the walls. Plush emerald armchairs and couches were scattered across rugs woven with silver serpents, while the fireplace roared with enchanted green fire.

Gasps slipped from the mouths of first-years, and even Celeste felt her chest tighten. She had been here before — and yet, not like this.

"Dormitories are this way," a prefect announced, leading the girls toward a spiraling staircase lined with snake carvings. "Your trunks have already been delivered."

Celeste climbed with Walburga and Violet, their voices a low murmur of gossip. When they reached their corridor, she found her room tucked neatly between her roommates'.

The door swung open with a hiss to reveal a grand dormitory prepared just for her: deep green drapes with silver embroidery, a four-poster bed with velvet pillows, and a wardrobe charmed to expand endlessly.

Her luggage, neatly stacked, gleamed with Darcy the house-elf's careful polish.

Octavia, who was behind them, leaned on the doorframe, smirking. "Careful, Celeste. Some of us might start to envy."

Walburga gave a playful roll of her eyes. "Don't get too full of yourself. You're still new here."

Celeste only smiled faintly, setting her hand against the cool stone wall. "It's only fitting," she murmured. "After all, this is where I belong."

Walburga and Violet left her to settle with her new roommates. Octavia and been welcoming and offered to help and the others, well perhaps she would have to meet them properly tomorrow.

And yet, as she unpacked and the chatter of her new friends carried through the dorm, Celeste couldn't shake the quiet ache of memory. Belonging was a fragile illusion — one she would have to protect carefully.

For now, though, she allowed herself to breathe. She was home again, in Slytherin.