What a rotten lot! My parents were right about Gryffindors - a lousy, arrogant lot. And the worst part? I’m one of them!
I was walking alongside an insufferable little Muggle-born with a camera going on and on about Harry Potter, trying to capture photographs of the enchanted ceiling. “Just think,” he said as he squinted at the shoddy photo. “We’re standing right where Harry was just a year ago!” I rolled my eyes.
“Harry Potter is a pathological liar with a hero complex,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of a hero complex? It’s a Muggle term.”
He looked hurt, and for a moment I felt sorry and almost said so, but he’d already disappeared into the crowd of other first-years. Anyways, I wasn’t nervous when it was my turn to try on the Sorting Hat. I sat on the stool and smoothed out my robes and waited for its whisper that Alnair described. “Ah,” hissed the Sorting Hat, “Cressida Foxglove. You’re far more difficult to sort than I might have expected.”
“What?” I thought it should be obvious. Both my parents and my brother were Slytherins. In fact, I’m certain all my family are Slytherins, save for one aunt, who I think was a Ravenclaw.
“Ah, yes, such a secret you hold tight to your chest, a great deal of confidence and shrewdness,” said the Hat, “trademarks of Slytherin, yes, but also of the likes of Minerva McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore.”
I got a chill down my spine. “I’m not like them!” “Slytherin and Gryffindor are not so different, you know. You’d do fine in Slytherin, but wouldn’t you wonder what might have been if you’d been a Gryffindor? A shame, a shame...you might not have the recklessness of a Gryffindor, perhaps, but you do have the idealism...”
“I am not idealistic,” I insisted. “You see in black and white, Miss Foxglove...which is why I must say GRYFFINDOR!” The first thing I saw when they lifted the hat off was Alnair frowning and staring at me from the Slytherin table. I wanted to cry and say it was a mistake, but they were already ushering me into a sea of Gryffindors who were whooping and cheering. I sat down beside the only girl who wasn’t screaming and clapping. She was frowning, actually. She had frizzy hair and large teeth and didn’t say hello or introduce herself, like everyone else was. After a moment, she seemed to notice me. “Oh, hello, I’m Hermione. Hermione Granger. Sorry, my friends haven’t arrived yet, and it’s just...odd. What’s your name?”
“Cressida Foxglove,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Who are your friends?” “Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter. I hope they haven’t gotten themselves into more trouble than usual...”
“The great Harry Potter, in more trouble,” I muttered, but I must have said it too loud, because she looked considerably less friendly, which is saying a lot as she wasn’t all that friendly to begin with.
“There’s no need to be rude,” she said coldly. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—” “I know exactly what you meant.” She gave me one last icy glance before turning her attention to a freckled redhead first year who was now making her way to the table. “Ginny! Do you know what happened to Ron and Harry?”
They became immersed in conversation and I turned my attention to the tablecloth. Stupid, moronic Gryffindors—what will I tell Mother and Father?
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