"Can I call you Tori? You know Tori, I'm a great friend."
"I don't get it, why are you being nice to me?"
"Maybe I don't want to see you friendless."
When Victoria Silvers, who comes from a long line of Slytherins, is sorted into Gryffindor her life...
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The day of Dumbledore's funeral did not match the feeling Tori had in her gut.
The warmth of the sun caressed her face as she followed Fred and George in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the centre of them: there was a marble table standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was the most beautiful summer's day.
An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs: shabby and smart, old and young. Most Tori did not recognise, but there were a few that she did, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vividest pink, Remus Lupin, with whom she seemed to be holding hands. Molly and Arthur, Bill supported by Fleur and followed by She, Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragonskin.
Then there was Madame Maxime, who took up two-and-a-half chairs on her own, Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, the hairy bass player from the wizarding group the Weird bisters, Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus, Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley, and some people whom Tori merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the Hog's Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering insubstantially in the gleaming air.
People were whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in the grass, but the birdsong was louder by far. The crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of affection for both of them, Tori saw Neville being helped into a seat by Luna.
Tori felt Fred squeeze her hand tightly as Cornelius Fudge walked past them towards the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual; Tori next recognised Rita Skeeter, who, she was infuriated to see, had a notebook clutched in her red-taloned hand; and then, with a worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon her toadlike face, a black velvet bow set atop her iron-coloured curls. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away.
The staff were seated at last. Tori could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row with Professor McGonagall. She wondered whether Scrimgeour or any of these important people were really sorry that Dumbledore was dead. But then she heard music, strange otherworldly music and she began looking around for the source of it. She was not the only one: many heads were turning, searching, a little alarmed.
"In there," whispered Fred whispered in Tori's ear.
And she saw them in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of the Inferi; a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange language she did not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music made the hair on Tori's neck stand up and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As she looked down into the wild faces of the singers he had the feeling that they, at least, were sorry for Dumbledore's passing.
