Whitney Writes…

The large group trooped across the courtyard, up the steps into the entrance hall, through the reception hall, and then they all crowded into a small square antechamber. Cirice knew that on the other side of the doors before them now, lay the great hall. She could hear the cheerful music playing, could hear the buzz of conversation of friends, smell the tantalizing scent of the welcome feast.

“Steady now,” Hagrid said as softly as he could manage as they all awaited their queue to enter the great hall.

When it finally arrived, the doors were thrown open and Hagrid ushered them all in, waving them through the double doors. The first years streamed into the great hall, down the center, between two rows of long tables. The others students’ chattering fell quiet as siblings, friends, cousins, and neighbors were watched for. Cirice and Joanne walked arm-in-arm together and Cirice noticed Joanne craning her neck for a look at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. Surely she did not know anyone here?

The first years all lined up on the stage at the front of the hall, and an older woman with brown hair, greying at the temples, in an elegant bun stood at a podium with a scroll and a large brown witches hat sitting upon a stool beside her. She cleared her throat and called the first of the first years forth. Cirice found herself grateful that her last name began with an f.

“Cirice Forge,” the woman called, in what seemed like no time at all.

Circe squeezed Joanne’s hand one last time as she stepped out of the clump of first years to claim her house. She sat upon the stool, pulling her mousey-brown hair forward over her shoulder, and squared her shoulders. She saw the woman’s lips twitch in a subdued smile.

“Ready?” the woman asked her softly. Cirice nodded.

And the hat was placed upon her head. A feeling of warmth coursed through her, like a warm blanket had been wrapped about her shoulders while she sat before a fire.

A voice echoed near her ear. “Why hello, little Forge,” it said. “I remember your father, great man he has turned out to be, yes. But what of your mother?” It was quiet for a moment. “Ahh, Enid Sinclair,” it said with a warm-sounding sigh, “yes, such a bright girl she was. I sense a cleverness in you that would be well-suited in Ravenclaw, and yet….” it’s voice drifted off, as though pondering.

“And yet,” the hat continued, the feeling of warmth transitioning to a pleasant, cold sensation. It felt as though an arctic wind were coursing through Cirice’s veins, leaving her invigorated. “And yet, there is a fierce loyalty in you that belongs in Hufflepuff.” It was quiet for a few moments, and then, the hat’s voice rang out for all to hear:

“Cirice Forge, to Hufflepuff!!”

Inktober 2025, Prompt #19: ARCTIC🧡🖤👻🎃