Filotimo

The door immediately swings open. A tall, black-haired witch wearing emerald green robes stands there, staring at the crowd of students. She continues to stare, her gaze piercing, and Lucas decides then and there that she is not someone to be trifled with. Nope. It’s not worth it. 

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid informs her.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulls the door open wide. The entrance hall is large enough to fit the Big House in it, tall like the skyscrapers in Manhattan. Flaming torches cast a warm glow upon the halls, bright and homey. The ceiling is too high to make out, and a majestic marble staircase facing them leads to the upper floors.

They follow Professor McGonagall across the weakened stone floor. Hundreds of voices echo from a doorway to his right—older students and professors, probably—but Professor McGonagall takes the first years into a small, empty chamber outside of the hall. They crowd in, standing closer than they usually would do, gazing around nervously.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall announces. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room.

“The four houses are each called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Lucas follows her gaze to the boy who kept losing his toad, and a lanky, red-headed boy—maybe some relative of Fred and George? He does have the same skin tone and fiery hair. 

"I will return when we are ready for you," she informs them. "Please wait quietly."

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" Lucas hears Harry ask the red-headed boy.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Lucas nearly laughs. Of course Fred would say that. Why wouldn’t he? Is there anything funnier than messing with your own brother and facing his outrage? Is there anything more amusing than watching your own brother fall for your tricks, despite him knowing exactly what you’re like? Knowing exactly what your tells are, how you carry out each trick? 

There’s a sort of vulnerability in the way that siblings operate. Being tricked over and over again, but ultimately trusting that it won’t be too bad; that they’ll be there in the end to pick you over everyone else. 

It makes him miss Luke. He misses him more than anything, because despite it all, Luke had always had his back. He was always there. Luke has his flaws (don’t they all?) but he’s Lucas’s brother, and in the end, they get each other. They’re not quite the same, like how their names aren’t exactly the same, but ultimately, at their core, they’re not so different. Perhaps they’re not exactly the same, each only an imitation of each other, but they’re similar enough, and that’s enough. It’s enough for blind trust to foster, to trust that no matter how hard Luke tricks him, he’ll always be there for Lucas.

Deep down, Lucas knows that if Luke asked him to jump, he’d ask how high.

Lucas’s eyes flick towards the door that Professor McGonagall had disappeared behind. It’ll be any second now—Lucas can feel it, a resonance that echoes deep within his bones. He just wants to get this over with. One test, and everything will be over. One test, and Lucas won’t have to deal with the uncertainty of his… position, in this school. 

Lucas knows that he’ll most likely be in Slytherin. Especially when the Malfoys are his entry into this world, especially when he’s only one generation removed from divinity. It doesn’t mean that he wants it. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hope that he’ll end up somewhere else, so he won’t be forsaken by the entire world.

Screams echo in the chamber, and Lucas flinches. Screams echo, and pearly-white figures float through the room, translucent and numerous. Screams echo, and a shiver crawls up Lucas’s spine as a pit grows in Lucas’s stomach at the thought of the dead not being able to move on. The ghosts argue, and something twists inside him.

"Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance," a stout little monk says.

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really a ghost—I say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost sporting ruffs and tights has just noticed the first years.

Silence echoes, louder than any sound before. Lucas can almost hear a dull buzzing, like the calm before the storm. 

"New students!" the Fat Friar exclaims, smiling around at them. "About to be sorted, I suppose?"

A few people nod quietly.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" the Friar says. "My old house, you know."

"Move along now," a sharp voice interjects. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

Professor McGonagall strides into the room, casting a cutting gaze at the spectres. One by one, the ghosts drift through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall orders, “and follow me.”

Lucas grimaces. Great. No going back, now. If he ever could. As they walk out of the chamber, back across the hall and through a set of double doors and into the Great Hall, Lucas sucks in a breath, staring at the room. Annabeth would love this. The hall has a high, vaulted ceiling, silver dots glinting like eyes amidst the dark colour of the ceiling. It looks like the sky, the stars even brighter than the stars over Camp Half-Blood. Thousands upon thousands of candles light up the hall, suspended above the four long tables, occupied by other students, their hundreds of faces shining under candlelight. At the front of the hall is a table occupied by the staff, which Professor McGonagall leads them towards. 

A four-legged stool is placed, and Lucas eyes the frayed and extremely patched wizard’s hat on it. It looks capable of eating someone.

For a moment, everything is silent. Then, the hat twitches, and a wide rip opens wide like a mouth, as the hat begins to sing. It’s terrifying. 

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
So you can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a thinking cap!"

As the hall rings with applause, Lucas frowns at the hat. He doesn’t like the hat. The hat is horrifying. The hat is sketchy. The hat is a terrible singer. Not for the first time, Lucas wishes that he could go home.

Professor McGonagall steps forward, scroll in hand. “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she explains. “Abbott, Hannah!”

Lucas sighs. He hates this. Nothing good will come out of telling people who they’re supposed to be like, he can tell. Still, he watches as more and more people get sorted. A few get sorted into Slytherin, and Lucas’s stomach twists as boos echo through the hall. 

Eventually, his name is called.

“Malfoy, Draco!"

Lucas steps forward. The hat is placed on his head.

“A Castellan, eh?” a voice echoes in his mind. Lucas keeps his face impassive. The feeling of the hat’s voice is an uncomfortable and invasive one, though he tries to not let it show. “And a demigod, too. My, my, it’s not every day that a child of Hermes walks in here. There are legacies, of course, but generally Hermes likes to stay away from this world, with the exception of business.”

Legacies is a term that Lucas is unfamiliar with. Unfortunately for him, the hat does not seem inclined to explain, and so Lucas leaves the gap in his knowledge. He’ll figure it out eventually.

“Let’s see,” the hat muses. “You demigods really come in all sorts. I see that you’ve got an eye for mischief and schemes. Resourceful and stubborn. My, my, you’re certainly a loyal one. You’d do anything for your friends and family, wouldn’t you? Even if it killed you or forced you to become someone you hate. You’re certainly ambitious too, with grand plans for the future.”

There’s a certain house that the hat is leaning towards, and Lucas doesn’t like it one bit. He’d rather not be cut off from the rest of the world, forever judged because of something outside of his control. He’s already seen it—children being booed by their peers because they are different, because they’re somewhat similar to the one who massacred hundreds, maybe thousands.

“Are you sure?” the hat asks. “You could be the one to make a difference, you know. You could bring honour back to the Slytherins. Everyone remembers Tom Riddle, but who remembers Merlin? Who remembers the other Slytherins who shaped the world? Who remembers that children are not their forefathers?”

The hat pauses, then adds, “In Slytherin, you could be the one to remind them of that.”

Okay. Maybe being a Slytherin wouldn’t be so bad. He can’t deny that there’s a certain appeal to it. Slytherin should be the house of the great, yet it has become the house of bigots and villainy. Why not do his best to change that? Generations of children have been cast aside by the Wizarding World. Who is to say that they have ended up the way they are because no one is willing to give them a chance?

“Well, that will be SLYTHERIN!” 

The hat’s voice echoes through the hall as it makes its decision, and as Lucas takes off the hat and moves towards the Slytherin table, he can’t help but feel like this is something he’ll regret in the long run. Nevertheless, Lucas sits himself at the table, next to a ghost with blank eyes and a gaunt face, robes splattered with silver blood. The chains on his body move as he continues to stare at the students.

There’s not many people left, now. Lucas watches as the people waiting in line dwindle. A couple Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws, some Gryffindors, a mere handful of Hufflepuffs… The line shortens, and Lucas waits. Then…

“Potter, Harry!”

Whispers broke out. 

“Potter, did she say?”

“ The Harry Potter?”

Lucas eyes Harry. He looks… nervous. He’s got a right to, of course, especially when the hat’s decision will either make or break him. People are fickle—that much he knows—and they especially love to criticize the famous. It’s hard, facing the world when you know that no one likes you because of something outside of your control. It’s hard, making a stand and deciding that the hard choice is something worth taking.

Of course, there’s nothing that says that Harry would make a good Slytherin. Lucas doesn’t know him well enough, and as much as it would make his job easier, he doesn’t expect Harry to want to be one. Who would, when stereotypes are all Slytherins are known for? Lucas can’t be sure that he particularly wants to be a Slytherin, either.

When the Sorting Hat finally yells "GRYFFINDOR!" to the entire hall, Lucas winces as the hall nearly trembles with the onslaught of sound. Lucas sees another red-headed boy get up and shake Harry’s hand—probably another one of Fred and George's siblings. Fred and George jump up, yelling "We got Potter!" and the ghost in the ruffs he had seen earlier pats Harry's arm as he sits down opposite to the ghost. 

Lucas scoffs. Typical. How many people would cheer if Harry got sorted into Slytherin?

The last few people are sorted in a blur. A heavy, swirling feeling in his gut emerges, thick and cloying. He can almost taste it in his mouth. Eventually, a dark-skinned boy sits next to him, the sorting having concluded, and Lucas glances at him, offering a crooked smile. Blaise Zabini. His family is surrounded by quite a few rumours, and though they haven’t spoken much, Lucas is sure that they could become good allies, at the very least.

Albus Dumbledore stands up, officially ending the Sorting Ceremony. He’s beaming—beaming in a bright way that irks Lucas for some unknown reason. His arms are spread wide in an open gesture, and Lucas seethes. He’s not sure why. He’s not sure why he feels that Albus Dumbledore has no right to be this happy. He’s not sure why, but he seethes anyway.

"Welcome!" he declares. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sits back down. Lucas scoffs, unheard amidst the cheering.

Food appears on empty plates, piling up until they almost fall over. There is roast beef, roast chicken, pork and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, and gods know what else. They are drizzled with thick sauces and sprinkled with savouring herbs. They drip juice and spread a lovely aroma through the hall.

Lucas takes a bit of roast chicken and some potatoes. He doesn’t have much appetite. He never really had much of an appetite. Sometimes eating feels like a chore—just something you have to do to stay alive. Lucas has never put much thought into eating luxuriously. It’s just not worth putting on weight when there are monsters out for his blood. As long as he’s full, it’s fine.

The ghost stares at him, eyes burning through his soul. Lucas ignores him. Soon enough, he’s pulled into a conversation, with Pansy leading it.

“Pity Potter isn’t with us,” Pansy muses. “He could use the help.”

Theodore Nott scoffs. “You just want to be friends with a famous guy,” he argues. “I mean, fair, who wouldn’t, but he wouldn’t even fit in. The Potters were Blood Traitors through and through.”

“Were,” Pansy points out. “He’ll definitely become one now, I’m sure. Especially with those Weasleys .”

“Maybe he’ll be open to inter-house friendships,” Lucas suggests. “There’s nothing saying that students from different houses can’t be friends.”

“Still.” Blaise purses his lips. “A friendship between Slytherins and Gryffindors? That’s never going to happen. You saw how practically the entire school booed at us. Good luck with befriending Potter, now that he’s one of them .”

Maybe he always was. Stereotypes are a powerful thing. But Lucas says none of this. There’s no use dwelling on things outside of his control. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says instead. “We’ll see.” After all, he did meet with Harry before Hogwarts, even if that was a total trainwreck of a first meeting. A meet-awful, perhaps. But Lucas has hope that Harry won’t judge too harshly. He has hope that Harry will be willing to give him a chance.

Lucas pokes at his dinner. He doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.

Eventually, after meals and dessert, the food vanishes, and Dumbledore stands up once again. The Great Hall instantly falls silent. 

"Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest in the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore spares a look somewhere at the Gryffindor table.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

A few chuckles echo in the hall. But Dumbledore does not laugh, and the teachers’ smiles become stiff, and a sense of dread curls within Lucas’s stomach. 

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" Dumbledore exclaims.

Dumbledore flicks his wand as if he wanted to get a fly off the end and a long, golden ribbon flies out of it, where it rises above the staff's table and twists itself into large words.

"Everyone pick your favourite tune," Dumbledore instructs them, "and off we go!"

And the school sang:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now, they're bare and full of air, 
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot."

It’s… chaotic. Everyone ends at different times, and in the end, only Fred and George are left, singing a slow funeral march. It’s horrid. Clearly nobody has talent. Dumbledore conducts the last notes, and as they finish, he is one clapping the loudest. 

"Ah, music," he declares, tears in his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Slytherins are led by one of their prefects, Gemma Farley, and she leads them out of the Great Hall, down a set of stone steps, and into the dungeons. She leads them down the drafty corridor and in front of a stone wall. As they walk, Lucas is reminded of the Oracle’s words.

“Ladon’s namesake dwells beneath lake and stone.”

He supposes he should’ve known. That doesn’t stop his mouth from being filled with a bitter and sour taste, knowing that it was fate that he would end up in Slytherin. That doesn’t stop the spite-filled part of him wondering if he could’ve changed the course. It doesn’t stop him from wondering if it’s all up to fate. Is anything he does a choice? Or is it all woven by the Fates already?

It doesn’t matter, Lucas supposes. After all, there’s nothing he can do. Not even the gods are above the Fates, and crossing them would be a bad idea.

Gemma leads them inside the common room, and to their dormitories, separated by boys and girls. Tired and drained, Lucas heads directly to bed.

In his dreams, he sees a wheel and the moon crashing down.