The train ride was magical.
For the first few minutes, then the novelty wore off and Margaret realised that she was in a cabin with four idiots. However, Crabbe and Goyle were oddly quiet. Margaret swore she heard some sniffling coming from Vincent, but she didn't say anything. Unlike Draco and Theo, Vincent and Greggory didn't dare look at her. Ever since her accident, they averted their gaze.
"I know for sure I'll be in Slytherin," Draco said confidently. "Both my father's and mother's families have almost all been in Slytherin. Then, by next year, I'll be on the quidditch team, and by fifth year I'll be chosen prefect and quidditch captain."
"It sounds as though you have all seven years already planned out," Margaret drawled, tearing her gaze from the scenery out the window.
"Well, what about you, then?" Draco asked, raising his eyebrows in question. She shrugged, returning to the countryside view.
"I can't say I have nearly as detailed of a plan as you," Margaret admitted. "As for my house, all the Ravens have been in Slytherin, but my mother's side had plenty of Ravenclaw. As far as quidditch goes, my parents never allowed me to be remotely near a broom. They considered it too barbaric of a sport for me."
"You're a halfway decent flyer when you tried my broom," Theo encouraged, and Margaret remembered one of the Nott banquets years ago. She was unsure what qualified for halfway decent. If anything, she didn't fall off the broom like Greggory who went wailing to his mother after falling a mere two metres, in turn getting them all in trouble. "Perhaps you should try out your second year. We all have first year flying lessons anyway. Who knows, you might be better than halfway decent with a bit of practice."
"My father attempted to have me excused from that course," Margaret said bitterly, recalling a late-night argument between her parents about disadvantages. "My parents want me to join the embroidery club." Draco snickered and Margaret gave him a glare.
"Embroidery club?" he asked with a mocking smile on his face.
"According to my mother, it's a club mostly pure-blood witches join. She said it would be good to surround myself with so called 'like-minded students'," Margaret said, letting out a huff of annoyance. She should be more excited about the next seven years; however, it was difficult enough attempting to plan past even her first few weeks of her first year. Besides, there were many other matters that pulled her attention away from the excitement she should be feeling. She didn't have time to think about being prefect or quidditch captain.
"Well, what about you, Theo?" Draco asked.
"Oh, Slytherin, 100 percent," he said. "Both families have been almost all Slytherin. My father said it's tradition. I'd be a disappointment should I be sorted into any other house, frankly."
"What house do you think Harry Potter will be in?" Draco asked in a low voice and Margaret straightened at the mention of the boy who destroyed the Dark Lord. She had heard stories from her parents about this boy. But, because they could only show their emotions to a reasonable degree, Margaret couldn't say how they felt about the boy who lived an unforgivable curse cast by the most powerful wizard of all time.
Whenever Margaret asked her tutors, they only shifted about nervously, looking around the room as though searching for the answer. The responses were the same every time. It was a regurgitated story from her history books.
So, Margaret wasn't so sure how to feel about the boy who vanquished the Dark Lord. He wasn't good or bad. He was simply... a fact of history.
"What's his family like?" Theo asked. "What houses were they in?"
"Beats me," Draco said with a shrug. "My parents never told me much about Potter. Just that he was a child, and he was able to defeat the Dark Lord. Some say he's the one to replace the Dark Lord one day."
"The Potter family was once highly regarded in high society. They were in contention for a place in the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Margaret offered. "Perhaps he's pure-blood. At least half-blood." Perhaps the Potter bloodline was stronger than the publisher of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had known at the time.
"He could be Slytherin," Draco mused, leaning back in his seat. "One thing's for certain, he's famous. Did you see the Prophet's article on him picking up his school supplies in Diagon Alley?"
"I don't read the papers," Margaret said stiffly, raising her chin slightly. "My father says they're full of rubbish anyway."
"Sure, the articles may be rubbish," Theo began, "but it certainly shows you what everyone is interested in."
"And everyone is clearly interested in Potter's debut at Hogwarts," Draco said.
"You had your own article," Theo countered.
"But Potter got front page," Draco retorted. Margaret shook her head, looking between the two boys. Margaret had assumed that, like her, Draco was always told how special and important he was. Perhaps according to his parents, it was the truth, but Draco wanted the rest of the wizarding world to know how special and important he was as well.
"Well, Margaret and I didn't get any mentions in the Prophet," Theo said and that at least satisfied Draco's ego for a brief, blissful moment. A smug smile tugged at his lips. Margaret didn't care to be known by the wizarding world.
"Wait," Draco said, his smile slipping from his face. "Margaret, you got a large section in the society pages when your father got arrested."
"Oh, just wonderful," Margaret drawled with a roll of her eyes. "Exactly what I wanted. Maybe you'd get front page if your father got arrested and half your face looked like mine." She turned sharply to him, pointing at her scared face and that made Draco shut up.
Good. He was getting on her nerves. Everything was a competition among all the boys. Even the adults. Though it was about different, more adult matters, of course.
She slumped against her seat, turning away from them again so they could only see the good half of her face. He was just an idiot. An egotistical idiot.
The conversation steered toward lighter topics after allowing a few minutes of silence for everyone to decompress. Margaret hated what had happened and for Draco to only think about the size of the article her and her family got in the Daily Prophet was shallow even for him.
She excused herself to change into the school robes before their arrival at Hogwarts. The robes were quite unremarkable. It was the lowest-quality outfit she had ever witnessed her mother purchase. The stiff fabric of the pleated skirt came just above her knees and no matter how much tailoring had been done to it, it never felt as though it fit right. Luckily, she was able to tie the Hogwarts emblem tie properly thanks to her Keeping of a Magical Home tutor. At least that lesson wasn't a complete waste of her time. The robes put together looked utterly drab, but at least everyone wore the same outfit.
Upon her return to the cabin and seeing the others in their own robes, she grew even more apprehensive. She had avoided looking at any reflection of herself while changing, but she felt a twinge of regret now. While she couldn't do anything about her scar, she could have at least checked her hair that her mother painstakingly brushed through and pulled into two scalp tearing Dutch braids.
"You shouldn't be nervous," Theodore said, nodding to her bouncing leg and she turned to him, letting out a long sigh.
"I don't understand how you're not nervous," Margaret said, and Theo shrugged.
"I guess I feel like I already know I'll be in Slytherin," Theo said with an air of nonchalance. Margaret desperately wished she was more like Theo. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. Or perhaps more like Draco who was so confident, he didn't have the time to worry about trivial things like being sorted into a house in front of the entire school. All their eyes would be on Margaret. They would see her.
Every. Ugly. Part. Utterly horrifying.
"It's probably because of her messed up face," Vincent muttered, and Margaret's gaze snapped to Vincent who couldn't even look at her while he insulted her.
"Why don't you say that louder and look me in the eyes?" Margaret threatened, but he didn't say anything more as the train began to slow, coming into the platform at Hogsmeade. Margaret looked to Draco who kept his head down.
Coward.
He had said – bragged even – how he wouldn't let anyone talk about her when they went to school together during her time at St. Mungo's. Now he acted like he hadn't heard Vincent say anything. Perhaps there were conditions to his fighting words earlier. She clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes.
Upon their arrival on the platform, she followed the flow of first years off the train. She could clearly pick out the Muggle-born witches and wizards as they looked around like children in a candy store. Everything was new to them, and everything was different from their little sheltered Muggle world. Hogsmeade wasn't even that exciting in Margaret's opinion. Certainly not compared to Wizarding Paris' shopping district or even Diagon Alley for that matter.
The waiting was nearly killing her as they filed toward a fleet of boats that seemed to steer themselves. Draco sat next to her and Margaret couldn't help but feel a bit of wonder as she stared up at the twinkling castle that sat neatly upon a cliff of etched rock, overlooking the Black Lake. She had seen it in newspapers, magazine articles and illustrated books, but it was something to behold in person. The sight of the castle instilled a bit of that excitement that she had felt when her father told her stories of his first time arriving at Hogwarts.
Upon exiting the boats, all of the first years were starry-eyed with wonder no matter their blood status. Even Draco was in a state of awe. They were led into the castle and the paintings on the walls greeted them with enthusiasm. Of course, at home, Margaret's family had many paintings that could talk and move, but to see the sheer number hanging upon the stone walls, leaving little to no space between the frames was impressive.
Each of the portraits must have been some important witch or wizard within the school or wizarding history. At home it was mostly old family members long lost and forgotten except for the painting left behind. Margaret found the talking paintings were quite helpful at times. At least in her home. They could be rather good spies if she befriended them. She wondered if they could be befriended here, too.
The line of first years slowed and came to a stop near the top of the stairs. She assumed that this was the entrance to the Great Hall where her mother said they completed the sorting ceremony. Her wonder was replaced once again with apprehension. She wiped her sweaty palms against her robes as she continued to look around, trying to note every detail to write in her letter to her father.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," a voice floated about the large entrance. Margaret looked up to see an older witch with a traditional pointed hat fashioned with a plume and emerald-green robes. "Now, in a few moments you will pass through these doors and join your classmates, but before you can take your seats, you must be sorted into your houses. There are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Now while you are here, your house will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn you points. Any rule breaking and you will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup." Margaret had heard that Slytherin won the house cup her mother's second and fifth years. She claimed that it was the greatest honour to be awarded the house cup as a student. Her father insisted that individual triumphs were to take precedence, but Margaret quietly liked the idea of winning the house cup.
"Trevor!" a young voice called, and Margaret was pushed to the side. A chubby boy rushed forward, diving for a slimy toad that croaked on the top stair just before the witch's feet.
Margaret bit her lip, watching for the old witch's reaction, especially after talking about rule breaking. Margaret wasn't sure inappropriate outbursts were necessarily against any rules at Hogwarts, but the witch didn't look entirely too pleased. From the moment Margaret was forced to follow certain rules, she realised that not everyone had the same rules as her. Hence, they were not privy to The Game. Some part of her was jealous that this round boy wasn't a player of The Game. However, the other part was slightly revolted at his inappropriate behaviour. She heard him mumble a quiet 'sorry' before retreating back into the crowd of first years. Even the way he said sorry was inappropriate and utterly un-polite. Impolite.
"The sorting ceremony will begin momentarily," the elderly witch announced before turning on her heel, her shoes echoing throughout the grand entrance before disappearing through the heavy doors that lead to the Great Hall.
Draco elbowed her in the side, nodding toward a boy with messy brown hair. Margaret noticed right away that he was not a player of The Game. It was in his posture along with his utterly unkempt hair. No self-respecting player of The Game would allow themselves to leave their shoulders fold in like this boy did or leave their hair an utter mess. Even a regular witch or wizard should have enough common decency to comb out their hair.
"It's true then," Draco said, garnering the attention of the messy haired boy along with everyone else waiting upon the stairs. "What they're saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts." That statement alone caused a rumbling amongst the first years. Some whispered excitedly as though they were in the presence of royalty. Others mumbled nervously. It seemed the stories of Harry Potter varied within households. He was a hero to some, a villain to others and something greater than a simple wizard to most. A living legend perhaps.
Margaret stepped back, not wanting any attention on her and it appeared that Theodore wanted no part in Draco's self-absorbed schemes either. Margaret knew she wasn't at home anymore. She wasn't surrounded by players of The Game. Draco seemed to have yet to realise that. Not everyone knew Draco and not everyone cared for families like them. Especially with such publicised names, it seemed like social suicide at Hogwarts to declare a name like Malfoy or Ravens or even Nott as proudly as Draco usually did.
"This is Crabbe and Goyle," Draco introduced his two lackeys without brains. "And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." The redhead next to Harry let out a snort of a laugh. Also, not privy to The Game. "Think my name's funny, do you? There's no need to ask you yours. Red hair and a hand-me-down robe. You must be a Weasley." Blood-traitors. That was the word associated with the Weasleys. Pure-bloods who turned against pure-blood ideals. They were almost worse than Muggles.
Draco turned back to his target: Harry Potter.
"You'll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter," Draco said. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." Draco held out his hand like he was asking for a seal of approval to begin a friendship. He was clearly taking too much advice from his father about making friends. And Margaret guessed Draco's father hadn't made friends who were not part of The Game in decades.
Lucius was old, so it had to be at least a few decades, Margaret assumed. She made a mental note not to do what Draco just did in an attempt to find friendship. She couldn't adhere to the rules of The Game too much if she wanted to make any friends who weren't players. Which, Margaret guessed, was the majority of the school.
"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," Harry responded, blatantly rejecting Draco's offer and hand in acceptance. Potter would have been eaten up and spit out in The Game anyway. Perhaps it was for the best, but Draco looked as though he had just been slapped in the face. Margaret wasn't sure if Draco had ever been rejected before.
It was an only child thing. But only for sons.
Before Draco could argue his case as a better friend than Weasley, the elderly witch returned, tapping him on the shoulder with a roll of parchment. She gave him that stern professor look and Draco returned to Crabbe and Goyle without a word of protest but looking rather dejected.
"We're ready for you now," she said, surveying the first years once more before leading them into the Great Hall. It certainly lived up to its name as Margaret entered, trailing after a sulking Draco. She couldn't bother to speak with him as she was awestruck at the beauty of the hall and its enchanted ceiling to reveal the night sky, or at least a night sky. It may not have been necessarily the exact one tonight. She couldn't be sure.
The candles floated overhead, bathing the hall in light. Margaret noted that there were four long tables. One for each house. Her stomach flipped as she wiped her sweaty hands on her robes once again. All eyes followed the trail of first years. She briefly wondered if everyone knew her name as well. It had been in the Daily Prophet not too long ago right next to the words 'former Death Eater'. While she tended to avoid the papers, she knew others didn't.
"Now," began the old witch, "when I call your name, you will come forth, I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses." She picked up the ratty, sun-bleached hat. It looked rather ancient, but then again, Margaret wasn't sure if there was necessarily a life span on a magical hat that's sole purpose was sorting children into their respective houses.
The list of names began, and Margaret could hardly concentrate. Her mind was going wild with all the possible outcomes. All the ways she could disappoint her parents from afar.
"Draco Malfoy," the witch called, and Margaret looked up.
"I'll see you at the Slytherin table," Draco said to her. So self-assured. At least his small skirmish with Potter didn't diminish his confidence in his house prospects. She watched intently as the old hat barely grazed his obnoxiously blonde hair before it called aloud, "Slytherin!" Draco smirked as the Slytherin table erupted into applause. Margaret shifted her weight, waiting, wiping her sweaty palms, feeling the butterflies in her stomach. Or maybe it felt more akin to the feeling of a school of wet fish flopping around out of water. Either way, she was nervous.
"Harry Potter," the witch called, and an oppressive silence fell over the hall. Tense. Everyone was waiting to see who would get the boy-who-lived. Who he would call his house. It took a long while. Too long. Much longer than expected. The hat upon the boy's head seemed to be in an inner debate and Harry looked to be sitting upon a chair intended for torture. The silence was suffocating.
"Gryffindor!" the hat called out finally, breaking the oppressive quiet. Margaret was surprised, but then again, she didn't know much about the Potter boy to begin with. The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers and applause. It was like they had won a quidditch match. She rolled her eyes. He wasn't anything special. At least, he hadn't proved to her that he was anything special outside of his feat as an infant. Margaret found they gave the Potter boy far too much credit.
Margaret was among the last of the first years to take their turn. She slowly stepped up after her name was called, looking over the tables of eyes all glued on her. Unfortunately, the novelty of Harry Potter being sorted into Gryffindor had worn off and all the attention turned to her. On her scar. On her hideous face. If they didn't recognize her name, they certainly judged her by her appearance.
"Well," said the hat pensively, its voice nearly making her jump out of the seat with a fright. "You have potential, young one. Yes, great potential. But, perhaps not in the house of your ancestors." Her heart dropped. Her father was going to be mad if she was placed in anything but Slytherin. Perhaps he would be alright with Ravenclaw. "You seek only to garner the approval of your parents?" She was raised to be that way. It was hardly her fault. "Should I place you in the house your parents would approve of it would hardly be of any benefit to you." If the hat didn't put her in Slytherin or Ravenclaw, she would be in for a howler. Or at least a sternly written letter. She couldn't imagine her mother sending a howler. Christmas holidays would be a nightmare. "A sensitive soul, seeking approval from those she holds dear even when they disapprove at every turn. I think I see another path before you." She held her breath, searching for Draco who sat at the Slytherin table, watching intently. "Hufflepuff!"
What? There was a hesitant spatter of clapping from the Hufflepuff table. The hat must've made a mistake. Draco, for the second time that evening, looked as though he had just gotten slapped. She wanted to ask the witch to place the hat back upon her head and force it to change its mind, but she didn't. That would be impolite.
Instead, she stood numbly, walking toward the Hufflepuff table situated next to the Slytherin table. No one got up to greet her or shake her hand as she sat. She attempted a smile, but perhaps it made her look more frightening than she already was as the students around her averted their eyes, pretending she didn't exist. Most of them must have read the Prophet article.
She dared a look up at Malfoy who still wore a look of disbelief. She was going to be hearing from her parents shortly. News would travel fast of the Ravens daughter with a scarred face was not, in fact, sorted into Slytherin where she belonged as the daughter of a former Death Eater.