I sat down in the first open compartment and waved to my mom immediately, willing her not to cry. She was a nervous wreck, so I smiled to prove that I could handle this. Anything to make her let me go to Hogwarts. I was joined by two 11-year-olds, who were whispering furiously about houses. As the train pulled away I let my face relax, and started to worry. At least the first years were doing this the right way, coming here at 11 and working your way up. My family had just moved to England from America, and I was still adapting to thinking of our new apartment—no, flat—as home.

As I watched the countryside go by I thought of my old home. I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity, promising myself that I wouldn't do it the rest of the year, and thought of the pine forests and raw beauty of Maine and the Appalachian mountains. I highly doubted there were moose in the UK, and just thinking of them here made me laugh under my breath. I wondered how I would compare to the rest of the students, what "year" the headmaster would put me in, and what the houses really were, not to mention which one I would be put into.

I pulled myself out of that train of thought just in time to hear one of the first-years ask about the sorting hat. My dad (having come here before) had explained as much of Hogwarts traditions to me in the two days that we had, but I couldn't remember much of what he said. They didn't know all that much about it, but I overheard the basics. Luckily, they didn't ask me about it, because I knew less than they did.

The train finally pulled to a stop. I stood up and followed the first-years out of the compartment. When I stepped off of the train I looked up and gasped, almost forgetting to keep moving so others could get off of the train themselves. The place was just so big!

A very large man was calling for the first-years, and I stopped, indecisive. Thankfully I didn't have to decide, because a woman with a stern, but not unkind, expression came up to me.

"Grace Cooley?"

"Yes, that's me."

"I'm Professor McGonagall, and you need to come with me." She started walking immediately, still talking. "We will sort you before the first-years. I will introduce you, you will walk up and put the hat on. It will tell everyone your house. Headmaster Dumbledore has placed you in sixth year, so that you are with your age group. You will attend some of your classes with them, but you are more advanced in some areas, so will be placed in classes more suitable to your ability. Well, here we are, I shall go and talk to the first-years, you wait here."

"Here" was a nondescript door leading into a nondescript classroom. All of the other doors looked pretty much the same. I began to wonder how people found their classes, but didn't get very far when the professor walked back out, a large gaggle of 11-year-olds following her. I fell in with them, and we went to the Great Hall to be sorted.

We walked through a large set of double doors, into a gorgeous, and MASSIVE, room. I tried not to gawk at everything, and everyone. This school was a lot bigger than my old one. I caught a glimpse of a sour-faced boy with almost-not-quite-white hair before my attention was pulled to the front by a singing hat. I looked around, but the other kids seemed not to think it was impressive, so I tried to look nonchalant until the end, when Professor McGonagall started talking.

"This year, in addiction to our first-years, we have a transfer student from America. She is a sixth-year: Grace Cooley." I walked up to the chair as normally as possible, and sat in it, putting the hat on my head.

Hmm...It seemed to think for a second, and yelled, "SLYTHERIN!" This was immediately followed up by loud clapping and cheering from one table, and polite claps (and grimaces) from the other three. Using that as my cue, I put the hat back on the chair and walked to the rowdy table.

I sat down, and noticed that the blonde was also in this house. I kept my mouth shut, still nervous, and allowed the sorting to go by in a blur of clapping, cheering, and hoping no one talked to me. One of the first-years who was in my compartment sat down next to me, giving me an odd look in the process.

When it was over, and the feast started, I gained the courage to look around. The people around me were chattering about inane things, so I put myself to the task of eating. I was asked some questions, but my unsatisfactory answers quickly halted any other attempts to pull me into a conversation. Well, at least until we got to the commons, which was in the dungeons of all places.

Another sixth-year, Pansy Parkinson, took me to the sixth-year's dorm and I unpacked, then headed back down to the commons, a muggle book in my hand, hoping to avoid attention. I took a seat on an empty couch, and, seemingly instantaneously, was swamped by people asking me questions.

"You really came here from America?"

"What is that book you're reading?"

"Did you fly across the ocean or apparate?"

"What's it like in America?"

"Did you go to a wizarding school there?"

"What was it called?"

I answered as many as I could—"Yes, Eight Cousins, fly, different, yes, Appalachia Wizardry"—but I was overwhelmed and they were coming so quickly that I couldn't hear them all. It didn't help that every time I looked up that blonde was staring at me with his gray-blue eyes. It was disconcerting, and I was sure that he knew that. After about ten minutes of this, he spoke up.

"Are you a pureblood?" I stared at him blankly.

"Excuse me? A what?"

He laughed, a surprisingly unpleasant sound, and said, "A pureblood. Two wizard parents. Do I need to spell it out for you?" He smirked at me, and the two boys next to him laughed darkly, gutturally.

"Well, aren't we high-and-mighty?" I retaliated. "Yes I am a 'pureblood,' as you call it, but what does it matter who your parents are? It's up to each person individually to become a good wizard; they can't be skilled for you."

A hush descended on the room. Apparently I had either said something wrong, or butted heads with the wrong person. My bet was both. I half expected him to call me a Yankee, forgetting that he probably didn't know what that was. As it was he just smirked, an expression that seemed to twist his face enough to be called unhealthy. I found myself wondering if he ever smiled, or even had a pleasant expression on his face.

Talk slowly started up again. Pansy tried to claim the boy's attention, probably to talk about me, but he still stared at me, and continued to until I left the room for bed.