Chapter 17: The Sorting Ceremony
"See those boats by the lakeshore?" Hagrid called out, raising his lantern so the flickering light revealed a row of small wooden vessels bobbing gently in the black water. "We'll be takin' those across the lake to the castle. But mind — no more than four to a boat! That's the rule!"
Russell eyed the boats skeptically. They looked barely large enough to hold two people comfortably, let alone four. But when Hagrid — a man built like a mountain — stepped into one, and it didn't so much as tilt, he relaxed. If that thing can handle half a giant, it can handle me.
He followed two young witches aboard, finding a place near the back.
"All aboard? Right then — off we go!"
Just as Hagrid raised his pink umbrella, a voice came panting from the edge of the woods.
"Wait! I'm not on yet!"
A boy stumbled out of the shadows, clutching his chest as he caught his breath. Without hesitation, he clambered into Russell's boat, nearly tipping it before collapsing onto the bench.
Hagrid gave it another minute, counted heads, and when he was satisfied everyone was present, he tapped the rim of his boat twice.
The vessels began to glide smoothly across the black surface of the lake — no oars, no sound but the gentle ripple of water.
---
Russell glanced around at his companions.
The two girls opposite him were chatting softly — clearly already acquainted. The one on the left had a long braid and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Beside her sat a delicate-looking witch with distinctly East Asian features — graceful and calm, her posture as precise as her voice.
As for the boy who'd just jumped in — his chest still heaved from running, and his short brown hair was a mess. Yet his fine robes, trimmed in gold, and the ornate family crest embroidered on his chest spoke volumes.
Even more telling were his hands — ten fingers, ten rings, each one glittering with gemstones that caught the moonlight like shards of stained glass.
"Ahem!" he cleared his throat dramatically, drawing everyone's attention. Russell frowned slightly, curious about what this peacock was about to say.
"Do any of you know," the boy began mysteriously, "why first-years must cross the Black Lake by boat — and in groups of four, no more, no less?"
The others shook their heads.
The boy's smirk widened. "Of course you don't."
He tilted his chin upward, basking in his own importance. "It's because, centuries ago, the four founders of Hogwarts — Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin — each arrived by boat, crossing this very lake before building the castle together."
The freckled witch with the braid gasped lightly. "Wow, you really know a lot!"
The boy looked like he might float off the seat from pride. "Naturally. I am Phineas Fawley — heir to the Fawley family. Ordinary people don't know these kinds of secrets."
He puffed up his chest, ensuring that his crest gleamed even brighter in the lantern light. He looked, Russell thought, like a peacock in mating season — shiny, self-satisfied, and utterly convinced of his own magnificence.
Unfortunately for him, no one else seemed impressed. The two girls simply exchanged polite smiles, and Russell looked away, unimpressed.
Probably a pure-blood elitist, Russell thought, suppressing a sigh. Ten to one, he's already calling everyone else mudbloods in his head.
And indeed, Phineas Fawley's smile wavered for just a moment. He was already thinking, A bunch of half-bloods… or worse, Muggle-borns. No wonder they don't appreciate refinement.
Still, he kept his face perfectly composed.
---
"Hello, Fawley," said the Asian witch suddenly, her voice calm and clear. "I'm Cho Chang. And this is my friend, Marietta," she added, nodding toward the girl with the braid.
Russell blinked. Cho Chang? That name rang a bell — and not a quiet one.
He remembered her from the stories: Cedric Diggory's future girlfriend… and later, Harry Potter's first love. Both seekers, both caught in tragedy and confusion.
Seeing her now, he could understand why. She was striking — not just pretty, but graceful in a way that seemed effortless. Still, Russell couldn't help but compare her, and in his mind, Wednesday Addams easily came out on top.
Pretty, yes, he thought wryly. But not nearly as terrifyingly captivating as Wednesday.
The boat rocked gently beneath them as they drifted closer toward the looming silhouette of the castle. The black waters shimmered faintly, reflecting towers that pierced the night sky — the promise of a thousand stories waiting to unfold.
And as Russell glanced at the faces of his new companions, a quiet realization settled in his heart.
For some reason, Russell found himself subconsciously comparing Cho Chang to Wednesday Addams — a thought that made him frown. Why would I even do that? He didn't have an answer.
As for Cho's best friend, Marietta — Russell remembered her too, albeit faintly. The timid witch who, during Umbridge's oppressive reign at Hogwarts, betrayed Dumbledore's Army by snitching on them. She had her reasons, sure… but it said enough about her character. Not exactly the type you'd trust with a secret.
"And you?"
Russell's train of thought broke as Fawley turned his self-satisfied grin toward him.
"What?"
"We've all introduced ourselves," Fawley said, shrugging with exaggerated patience. "It's your turn now."
Inwardly, he sneered. So rude. Typical of the lesser sort.
His mother had always told him that the Fawleys were born leaders — that their bloodline carried the natural right to rule over wizardkind. Phineas Fawley took that lesson to heart. As far as he was concerned, this boat was his first little kingdom, and these three… his first "subjects."
If I can't command a few half-bloods and mud— lesser-borns, he thought smugly, how can I hope to stand among pure-blood peers at Hogwarts?
"Russell Fythorne," Russell said evenly, his tone flat and polite.
Fawley inclined his chin, the corners of his mouth curving into what he clearly thought was a gracious smile. "Good. I'll remember that name."
He nodded at Russell as though bestowing a royal favor, his posture radiating condescension.
Russell said nothing, but his opinion of the boy had already dropped to the Mariana Trench. So this is what meeting Draco Malfoy must've felt like, he thought bitterly.
Harry Potter hadn't truly believed Ron's "all Slytherins are dark wizards" talk at first — not until Draco opened his mouth. One arrogant sneer had done what propaganda never could. Russell could suddenly see how that worked.
And predictably, the more Russell ignored him, the more energized Fawley became.
"Do you all know what's coming next?" he asked in a tone that suggested he very much wanted to be asked himself. "The Sorting Ceremony. The four founders left it behind as a test — only those who pass it can join their rightful houses."
He raised a finger as he recited, like a pompous little professor:
"The noble Slytherin, the wise Ravenclaw, the brave Gryffindor, and the loyal Hufflepuff."
A smirk tugged at his lips, as if he'd just remembered a private joke.
"Of course," he added smoothly, "the Hufflepuff House is where they send everyone who doesn't make the cut for the other three."
Cho's smile froze, but she said nothing. Marietta looked down.
Fawley puffed out his chest proudly. "Naturally, as heir of the Fawley family, I'll be in Slytherin. The finest of the four — and five-time consecutive winner of the House Cup. I expect this year will make it six."
Russell watched his self-congratulatory grin and couldn't resist.
In a calm, almost conversational tone, he said, "Even the poorest patriot of London's East End stands taller when he thinks of Britain's wealth and empire."
For a heartbeat, Fawley blinked in confusion. "What?"
Then came a soft, musical snort of laughter. Cho Chang had covered her mouth, her shoulders trembling as she tried to hold it in. Even Marietta scratched her head, not quite sure why it was funny — but amused nonetheless.
Fawley turned to glare at them, then back to Russell, whose face was perfectly neutral.
He didn't understand the words — but he understood the tone. And that was enough.
Russell had just mocked him, elegantly and mercilessly.
Fawley's proud expression stiffened, then cracked, the corners of his mouth twitching as his face turned a rather unattractive shade of pink.
So much for the heir of the great Fawley line, Russell thought with mild satisfaction, folding his arms. One little quote, and he's already unraveling.