Is this someone famous in the wizarding world?
Praeris suddenly remembered, she had heard of this person at the Leaky Cauldron.
That morning, she had practiced "Alohomora" and "Nox" back to back. Some spells needed a target to cast on, after all. "Petrificus Totalus" being the obvious example.
She was never the type to learn only what was in front of her. One spell always dragged a pile of extras along with it.
Take Alohomora. Before that spell existed, wizards used "Portaberto", blunt, graceless, just blasting a hole through the keyhole. Praeris had only tried it on her Leaky Cauldron door after she'd already mastered Reparo. Then she learned the Anti-Alohomora Charm on top of that, the one specifically designed to keep wizard burglars out. And while she was at it, she read the full history of unlocking charms and learned their origins traced back to African wizards.
2 spells in one sitting left her wrung out, body and mind. She needed something to clear her head. For the first time, she went downstairs at the Leaky Cauldron outside of mealtimes.
The place was buzzing. Every witch and wizard in the room was talking about someone called "Harry Potter", a boy with a lightning-bolt scar, they said. A miracle. An infant who had defeated the dark wizard known as You-Know-Who.
Praeris let out a quiet "huh" in the back of her mind. She walked past the crowd and leaned on the counter. "Ceylon black tea, Tom. Extra leaves, light milk, light sugar."
"Then why bother asking for Ceylon? Just order black tea." Tom's British soul roared to life. He'd even forgotten, for the moment, that this child had unnerved him just a few days ago. "And this is a pub. Where do you think I'm getting tea leaves from?"
"The red tin under the counter. Left-hand side." Praeris tilted her head thoughtfully. "Unless — is it because Madam Puddifoot gave it to you? That would explain a few things." She nodded, as if this settled a deep philosophical question.
Tom gave up entirely. He crouched down and dragged out the tin. "I don't know why I bother talking to you. Less milk, less sugar — right!"
He had absolutely no idea when this child had spotted the tea leaves Madam Puddifoot gave him. He couldn't even bring himself to touch them.
Praeris beamed at him. "Exactly right. So why is everyone talking about Harry Potter?"
She didn't actually know who Harry Potter was. That was irrelevant. The moment she opened her mouth, she sounded like someone thoroughly briefed on the subject.
"Because he turned up here this morning," Old Tom said, setting down the cup. "He's starting school this year. You weren't around." He gave her a look. "And this is nothing like Ceylon."
"Thank you!" Praeris said, in the tone of someone making pleasant conversation. "It's just strange to think about. How does an infant defeat You-Know-Who? Everyone seems to accept that he did — but is there really no other possibility?"
"The prophecy says what it says." Old Tom shook his head. "It foretold his existence. His parents died in the attack. He was the only one who walked away. There's nothing else to go on."
Praeris pressed a little further and pieced together the full shape of the Harry Potter story.
The whole memory lasted maybe 1 second.
She blinked back to the Great Hall. The person who had just stood from the stool, it was the same eavesdropping boy from before, the one who'd been so terrified he might not get in.
Praeris felt a mild twinge of something. She couldn't quite blame herself. He had looked so small and lost and out of place. It hadn't even occurred to her to compare him to the legendary boy-savior everyone kept talking about.
The legendary boy was sorted into Gryffindor.
She supposed that tracked. The last person to stand against Voldemort had been Headmaster Dumbledore, also of Gryffindor. Maybe it was a Gryffindor curse. Maybe it was just destiny doing what destiny did.
Praeris quietly mocked the coincidence in the back of her head.
"Prince, Praeris!"
She walked to the stool in small steps, sat down, and put on the hat.
"Why do you consider opposing Voldemort a curse?"
A voice spoke inside her head.
She did not like this. Not at all. Speaking inside someone's head without permission, it was like an intruder letting themselves in.
"Oh, please! You put the hat on yourself!"
The Sorting Hat sounded genuinely offended.
Fine. Then call it answering the door without knowing who's on the other side. And yes, I do think it's a curse. If You-Know-Who had never learned of his existence, his parents would still be alive.
I'd rather call a prophecy what it is: a trap. Do you know the Oedipus effect? Oedipus spent his whole life running from the oracle's fate. He ran so hard and so far that he ran straight into it. Killed his father. Married his mother.
You-Know-Who learned that only one of them could survive, him or the child born at the end of July. So he went to kill Harry Potter. And Harry Potter killed him instead. If he had never known the prophecy, none of it might have happened. But he knew. And knowing meant he couldn't ignore it. Couldn't walk away from it. He fell into the very fate he was trying to prevent.
"But because of that, he became a hero to everyone. He has real courage. He isn't afraid to face what's in front of him."
Do you actually believe he isn't afraid? Did anyone ever stop to ask whether he wanted to be a hero? Heroes carry responsibility. Heroes pay prices. Becoming one without any choice in the matter, that's not a story. That's a tragedy.
"Fair enough. Considerable intelligence. Your heart isn't bad — genuine compassion in there. But you think differently from most, and there's an ambition to change your circumstances that runs quite deep. I hope someday your view shifts."
"Slytherin!"
To everyone watching, the hat had hesitated for a very long time. What they didn't know was that it had simply been having a conversation.
This was unusual. Slytherin decisions rarely took long. Draco Malfoy's had taken practically no time at all, the hat barely touched his head before it called it.
The curiosity from the Slytherin table was visible. They weren't even trying to hide it.
Bulstrode looked pleased. She leaned toward the girl beside her and said, "This is Praeris Prince. Interesting one. You'll like her."
Then she turned to Praeris and rattled off introductions: "Praeris, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and, wait, why did the hat take that long?"
Pansy had short black hair and a small face. She wasn't tall, and she wore an expression that said she had already judged everyone in the room and found them wanting. Daphne had long blonde hair and a high, sharp nose bridge. She had her chin propped on one hand and looked like she was thinking about something entirely unrelated to all of this.
"It wanted to chat." Praeris shrugged. "Probably hadn't talked to anyone in a while."
Prefect Marcus didn't mind Bulstrode jumping ahead. He liked it when people got comfortable. He waited until the girls had sorted themselves out before stepping in to introduce himself to the first-years.
Shortly after, the Sorting ended. Dumbledore announced that everyone could eat.
Praeris swallowed the instinct to bow her head in prayer before meals, looked over the table, and helped herself to a modest plate, a little beef, some vegetables, nothing more.
It was a convent habit. Most of her life had been spent in a state that hovered between not quite hungry and not quite full. Even on Christmas, when the table was laden, they never ate until they were satisfied.
The priest used to say that full stomachs made children slow and cloudy-headed. It was one of the few things he'd said that Praeris actually agreed with.
Across the table, the boys had moved on to Harry Potter. They seemed very invested.
"I have no idea what he's so pleased about." Draco Malfoy let out a short sound through his nose. "Does he actually think Gryffindor is something to celebrate? He looks like someone who's never set foot outside his village."
Praeris thought of the pigs at the Sutherland farm. They made the same sound.
Draco Malfoy. Same pale complexion as her, pale blond hair, chin tilted up as he spoke. Arrogant, clearly. The 2 large boys flanking him watched his every move with the patient attention of people waiting to be told what to think.
"The Bloody Baron put a damper on his entrance," Bulstrode murmured to Praeris.
Praeris knew the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin ghost. That would be the blood-soaked figure sitting across from Malfoy. "He was scared?"
"If he heard you say that, he'd combust." Bulstrode smiled with great satisfaction. "He'd never admit it."
Dinner ended. Dumbledore gave a speech that no one particularly needed to hear. Then Marcus gathered the first-years and led them down.
Unlike the other houses, Slytherin's dormitories were underground. Marcus walked them steadily downward, and the air around them grew damp and cold as they went, the corridors dimming to something shadowed and still.
Marcus stopped in front of a stone wall. He turned around.
"Through this door is the common room. You'll need a password to enter. This term, it's 'honor.' It'll be updated on the notice board inside. Check it every morning before you leave."
He walked them to 1 final door, the girls' dormitory, pointed it out, and headed off with the boys.
"I'm getting this fire higher. Merlin, it's cold in here." Bulstrode rubbed her arms vigorously.
Praeris lay down on her bed. The firelight moved across the curtains in slow, shifting shapes. She didn't think about much of anything. Sleep came the same way it always did, quietly, without resistance.
Term started, and with it, a new kind of busyness. Specifically: the library.
Praeris was still upset about the money. She had paid for a battered book, out of her own pocket, when Hogwarts had been sitting on a library this size the whole time.
What was paradise? This. This was paradise.
She took up residence in it almost immediately, operating on the principle that every book read here was a book she hadn't wasted money on.
Millicent complained about it at the dinner table. "I almost never see you. You don't seem like a Slytherin at all, more like a Ravenclaw."
Praeris pulled one corner of her mouth up. "By that logic, Professor Snape would've been poached by Ravenclaw years ago. That I would genuinely regret."
Even Pansy laughed. Draco slapped the table. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that."
➤ Next: Pure-Blood Supremacy