`The first-year line's dwindled to a stub, and Holly's dead-front, craning her neck like a meerkat. Name still unspoken. Panic's creeping.
Finally—McGonagall booms from the podium: "Holly Potter!"
Great Hall chatter dies instantly.
Just "Holly"? Meh. Add Potter? One family. Rare-ass surname—0.02% of Brits.
"Holly? Ain't it supposed to be Harry Potter?"
Whispers explode. Daily Prophet hyped the Boy-Who-Lived all summer. Everyone pictured a dude—the savior who punked Voldemort. Ten years of bedtime stories.
Today? Script flipped. Unless a second Harry's hiding, the legend just grew boobs.
Hundreds of eyeballs laser onto Holly. She freezes, knees knocking.
Then—Lynn's calm black gaze, subtle nod: Screw 'em. You got this.
Courage surges. Chin up, she marches to McGonagall, plops the Sorting Hat on.
Hat goes radio-silent. Three… four… five minutes. Longest stall in history.
Breath-held silence.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Lion table erupts. Pretty girl? Hell yeah—even if she ain't the scar-headed hero. Holly's top-tier hot; only the Patil twins (exotic twin vibes) come close.
"HOLLY!"
Hat off, she bolts, launches onto Lynn at the Gryffindor bench.
"Almost forgot how to walk—everyone staring. Heart attack city."
"Thanks!"
Sunshine smile, blinding.
That second? Lynn feels an icy knife to the skull. Phantom chill.
Glance up—teacher's table. Snape's abyss-black stare drills straight through him. Zero warmth. Pure void.
Expected, but damn—intensity off the charts. Lynn barely clocks the greasy hair before the glare forces his eyes away.
Left hand rises—casual as ever—ruffles Holly's hair like petting a kitten.
Somewhere: CRUNCH. Teeth? Bone? Who knows.
"You good, Severus?" Flitwick squeaks beside him. "Potion backfire? Your magic's spiking."
"I'm…" Snape hisses through clenched jaw: "…peachy, Filius."
"Huh?" Flitwick glances up, spots the shampoo shine. "Whoa, you washed your hair? About time—looks sharp!"
"If you're hungry," Snape icicles, "eat."
Flitwick clocks the mangled silver fork, oh shit, pivots to Sprout. "Pomona, that girl? Spitting image of Lily. Little angel back then, right?"
"Oh yes." Sprout, Herbology boss and Hufflepuff head, sighs nostalgic. Taught since 1920—older than McGonagall and Flitwick.
Snape's stuck. Flitwick's part-goblin, 70s prime, ex-world dueling champ. Could mop the floor with Snape and live to 300. Gryffindor sword? His if he'd sorted red.
Snape sinks lower, lips sealed.
Sorting wraps. Starving kids eye Dumbledore—he rises.
"Welcome!" Beaming. "New year at Hogwarts! Before we feast: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddments! Tweak!"
"Huh?" Holly whispers, even as platters poof full of grub.
She snags a meat pie, shoves one at Lynn. "Explain, nerd."
Lynn chews—juicy, crispy perfection. House-elves slay.
"Nitwit—Middle English 'nit' (louse egg) + 'wit' (smarts). Dumb as bug eggs. Gryffindor's brave, but reckless charge = suicide. Brains + guts = real lion."
"Blubber—double meaning. Crybaby (Hufflepuff's mushy side—tears flow when shit hits). But also whale blubber: fuel. Badgers grind obstacles with endless hustle and heart."
"Oddments—scraps. Ravenclaws chase useless trivia, dreamy bullshit. Dumbledore wants feet on ground—knowledge applied."
"Tweak—adjust. Slytherins twist rules, morals, whatever gets the W. Means-to-ends? Karma's a bitch."
"Damn." Holly claps. Nearby Gryffindors nod—sounds legit, pairs great with dinner.
"That Malfoy prick earlier," she whispers. "Karma tweak?"
"Or his belt slipped." Lynn shrugs, sips creamy mushroom soup—fresh.
Puddings vanish.
Dumbledore again: "Bellies full? Few notes."
"First-years: Forbidden Forest = off-limits. Some seniors too." Gryffindor snickers.
"Filch says no corridor magic. Quidditch tryouts week two—see Madam Hooch."
"Finally: Avoid painful death? Steer clear of the right-side fourth-floor corridor."
"Now!" Voice spikes—professors wince. "School song!"
Wand flicks—gold ribbons spell lyrics mid-air.
(Lyrics here)