A New Chapter

Date: September 1, 2026 Timeline: First Year, Hogwarts Storyline: Start of Schooling Roleplay: Solo Word Count:

A gaggle of 6 and 7 year olds were darting in and out of the crowd of witches and wizards that were currently waiting for the Hogwarts Train to arrive.

Rosamund briefly entertained the wild thought of joining them as they play with reckless abandon and nary a care for how they are perceived. Standing near a quiet corner of the station with her mother silently watching over the crowd and their house elf Primm fussing over her trunk, she tried to imagine how her mother would react to such an uncharacteristic burst of joyous insanity from her, and almost cracked a smile at the thought of her dramatically fainting at the sight.

Catching herself before she started grinning out of nowhere, she stealthily glanced at her mother, gauging whether or not she caught her daydreaming again, and sighed in relief when she saw that the woman was still watching the crowd with that particular stillness of a perfectly proper witch in public, spine straight and gloved hands folded. This was her last day with her mother before she leaves for Hogwarts, and she didn't want to part with another stern lecture about how proper witches patiently stay in attention of the present instead of disappearing inside her head every time there is a lull in external stimulation.

A brief glance at a disapproving Primm on the other side of her mother told her that she must not have been that successful in hiding her mirth.

Rosamund sighed again and carefully schooled her expressions back into a neutrally serene mask of a proper witch.

"Your trunk is charmed against tampering," her mother suddenly said, still not quite looking at her. "Don't let anyone else carry it. If a porter offers, decline."

Surprised at her mother's apropos over nothing, she just automatically voiced her agreement. "Yes, Mother."

"You'll want a compartment towards the middle of the train. Not the front; that's where the rowdiest children congregate. Not the back; that's where the more mature children distance themselves." A pause. "Sit with purpose. Don't simply take whatever seat is offered you."

Rosamund subtly nodded, filing away everything her mother just said. Alright. No dilly-dallying, got it.

She almost asked, then, whether her father knew what time or whether anyone had told him, wherever he was, that this was the day. The question arrived fully formed, and she turned it over and over in her mind, the way she'd learned to turn over everything before letting it reach her mouth. She could already hear the shape that the answer would take—something clipped, something about a meeting that couldn't be rescheduled, delivered in a tone that meant that the subject was closed. She didn't want that tone today. So, she let the question die a quiet death, folding it down small enough to fit nowhere anyone could see it.

"And the Sorting," her mother's voice didn't change, but there was something oddly resembling warmth in it, as if she wanted to convey comfort and assurance to her daughter but doesn't know how to express it properly. "You need not concern yourself over it. You know what you are. The Hat will only be confirming it."

This doesn't sound comforting to Rosamund at all.

"The House of Slytherin is not exactly what our family aspires to," her mother continued. "Ambition. Cunning. The sense to know what a situation requires of you and become it. Our family has always valued these virtues, and our Sorting thus aptly reflected what has always been there. It's simply where we've always been found." A beat. "You'll be found there, too."

Rosamund visibly swallowed her apprehension about such a magical artifact rummaging through her mind. She just nodded, because nodding was correct, and because she did not yet have the vocabulary to ask what exactly she was underneath the name, or what might happen to that certainty if the Hat took one look at her and disagreed.

A sharp whistle sounded in the distance, signaling the approach of the Hogwarts Train. Primm made a small, distressed sound as she doubled her efforts in adjusting the trunk straps to an acceptable fashion.

Mother's hand came up, not to smooth Rosamund's collar as was a habit borne from a hundred lesser occasions. This time, it simply rested for a moment at the side of Rosamund's face, gloved fingers cool even through the fabric.

"You'll write," she said, her eyes almost glowing with quiet intensity. "Every week. I expect—" she stopped. Whatever words had been coming caught somewhere behind her teeth, and Rosamund watched her mother do the thing she did best: Retrieve herself mid-sentence and set the broken piece down where no one can see the crack. "I expect a full account. Not the sort of letter that says nothing in three paragraphs."

"Yes, Mother."

The hand withdrew. The whistle sounded again as the train came to a stop and opened its doors. Families lingered by the doors, saying lengthy goodbyes and good lucks to their children, while the 6 and 7 year-olds stopped chasing each other and crowded their older siblings and cousins.

"Go on then," her mother said. "Don't dawdle at the doors like the others."

Rosamund picked up her trunk and went inside. She didn't look back until she found her compartment at the middle of the train just as her mother told her. But by then, through the smeared glass and the crowd, she couldn't find her mother's silhouette among the others.