The face reflected in the mirror ought to have been beautiful. The girl’s fluffy hair was blond, curling nicely around her shoulders. Her nose was pretty and perky, with a slight rise at the end. The red mouth was full and curvy, and the teeth were straight and gleaming white. Her eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, arched piquantly above long-lashed blue eyes. Each feature was classic, copied carefully from the copy of Witch Weekly that was sitting on the dresser within easy reach. Yet somehow, the overall effect was rather absurd.
“What’s wrong with it?” she wailed.
The mirror assumed a placating voice. “Do you think the eyelashes are perhaps a trifle too long?”
Snatching up the magazine, the girl compared her eyelashes with the model on the cover. “Long eyelashes are a sign of beauty!”
“It’s possible to have too much of a good thing,” commented the mirror dryly.
The girl sighed, and peered closely into the mirror. Her eyelashes were nearly a centimeter long, and very dark. “Maybe you’re right,” she conceded.
“You might lighten them a bit while you’re at it,” the mirror suggested.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her eyelashes. They receded back to their usual light brown ambiguity. Opening her eyes again, she looked despondently into the mirror. “They’re so boring!” she complained. “And when they’re long and dark, they make my eyes look better.”
“I do think the eyes could use some improvement,” admitted the mirror.
“I can’t do eyes,” the girl replied with a grimace. “I’ve never been able to. They’re the hardest part.”
“Of course they are. The eyes are the window to the soul,” the mirror said poetically.
“Oh, be quiet.” Leaning forward she tried again. The eyes changed from their previous insipid watery blue to a ludicrous bluish-purple.
“That would be a very nice shade for a dress,” the mirror commented helpfully.
Bluish-purple changed to a violent and unrealistic shade of turquoise, which was in turn replaced by a sickening puce.
“You know,” remarked the mirror conversationally, “I really did like your eyes they way they’ve always been.”
“Bland and boring?”
“They’re very pretty eyes.”
“They’re brown.” She screwed up her face and changed again.
“Brown is better than mustard. They’re getting worse and worse, dear.”
She gave up, and returned her eyes to their normal state. It improved things, but not much. “I look awful,” she moaned.
“Perhaps it’s the eyebrows.”
“They took me ages! They look just like Calista Belphoebe’s,” she exclaimed in anguish.
“Exactly. They’re very nice on a grown witch. You’re an eleven-year-old girl.”
Making a face, she changed her eyebrows back. “Eyebrows gone, eyes gone, lashes gone,” she lamented dramatically. “What next?”
“How about the mouth, dear?”
Her face a picture of defeat, she returned her mouth to its usual form.
The mirror let out a sigh of relief. “Much improved. That made worlds of difference. Now just one more thing “”
“I’m not changing the nose. I like this nose.” She was prepared to fight as long as was necessary.
“I wasn’t going to mention your nose. It’s a very nice nose. You’ve always been talented with noses.”
“Thank you,” she answered with a surprised grin. She contemplated her nose lovingly for a few moments, and then her pleasure melted away and was replaced by trepidation. “If it’s not the nose, what is it?”
“The hair, dear.”
“The hair? What’s wrong with the hair? It’s blond, isn’t it?” she cried defensively.
“It doesn’t flatter you. You don’t have to be blond to be beautiful, you know.”
“Yes, you do,” she replied morosely.
“Fine then.” The mirror sounded annoyed. “Don’t listen to my advice. I’m only your mirror. I’ve only coached you on your appearance since you were five. I know nothing about beauty. I “”
She changed her hair back to its usual light brown.
“Much better,” remarked the mirror, sounding ridiculously pleased with itself. “Try curling the ends . . . yes, that’s nice “ maybe just a little more . . . stop! That’s perfect. You look very nice.”
She surveyed herself discontentedly. “I look just like I did before I started.”
“No, no, you changed your nose, and did your hair very nicely, and your mouth is a little different.”
“I’m not ravishingly beautiful.”
“Few eleven-year-olds are.”
“But I want to be! I want people to notice me!”
The mirror laughed. “They’ll notice you. Anyway, if you come up with any brilliant ideas, you can always change once you get there.”
She shook her head gloomily. “Dad said he thought it’d be better if I didn’t change too much at school. He said it’d be too hard on my teachers and friends if they could never tell what I was going to look like.” Her face brightened. “Anyway, if I don’t let people know I’m a metamorphmagus, then I can use it without them knowing. Just think of all the tricks I can play.”
The mirror sighed. “I prefer not to imagine what outrageous looks you’ll put on yourself without me to watch out for you.”
She gave her mirror a fond glance, caught the eye of her reflection, and paused. “What about green? D’you think I’d look good with green eyes?”
Before she could launch into her next experiment, her father’s voice called her from downstairs. “Nymphadora,” he bellowed. “It’s time to leave! Stop fussing with your face, and come down.”
She sighed. Knowing her father, it was probably past time to leave, but at the moment she didn’t mind. Suddenly, when it came down to it, she decided that she really did not want to go to Hogwarts; she would be much more comfortable staying in her own room. She looked around; it was a very nice room, although at the moment it was quite bare. Her walls “ usually covered with posters “ were bare, and all her knickknacks and trinkets had been packed into her trunk. Still, she could put them back up . . .
“Nora “”
Looking up, she saw her father standing in the door.
“You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?” he asked.
She nodded. “Dad, what if . . .”
“What if is meaningless,” he interrupted. “Wait and find out what happens.” She looked at him helplessly, and he laughed. “You’re going to be late.”
“I know.”
“Your mother won’t be happy.” His face grew more serious. “She’ll be worried that you’ll miss the train. Come, we’ll talk on the way. Let’s not give her anything more to worry about.” He pulled her up and led her to the door.
She turned. “Bye,” she said to the mirror, as bravely as she could.
“Goodbye, dear.”
Saying goodbye to her mother was difficult, but she tried to sound lighthearted; she didn’t want to add to her mother’s worries. She could tell that her mother was trying to be brave as well, which made it worse; she hated to be the cause of that white line around her mother’s lips.
She and her father flooed into Diagon Alley, and took the Underground to King’s Cross. Her father was Muggleborn, and was therefore used to traveling this way; she, on the other hand, found it a novelty, and enjoyed every minute. He kept her amused with stories from his own first year at Hogwarts; he had known nothing about the wizarding world, and had rather bumbled through the whole year.
They dashed through the barrier five minutes before the train left; most of the other students were already on. After putting her trunk onto the train, her father hugged her. “I hope you have a great year, Nora. Do well “ but don’t work too hard; make sure you leave some time for having fun.”
“I will,” she answered, hugging him back.
“I love you, darling,” he whispered.
“I love you too, Dad,” she replied.
He caught her in one last big hug that lifted her feet from the ground. The whistle blew; laughing, he tossed her on as the train began to move. “Goodbye, Nora!” he called. “Good luck!”
Nymphadora watched until he was out of sight, and then walked down the corridor looking for a compartment. She was relieved to be hailed by Madeleine Grunsby, a second year whom she had known for some years, and spent the train ride laughing and eating with a bunch of second year Ravenclaws.
As the first years followed Professor McGonagall into the Great Hall, Nymphadora tugged her hair anxiously. She was here at last “ she had been looking forward to this moment ever since
she could remember. Now she was petrified.
Looking around, she was relieved to see that she was not the only frightened one. The girl next to her was twisting her hands, while a tall brown-haired boy was tapping his foot repeatedly. Another girl, a petite blond, was playing convulsively with her earrings. They all looked very nervous. Nymphadora pulled her hand out of her hair, and tried to look as if she knew exactly what she was doing.
Then the Sorting Hat began to sing.
And still had all my thread,
Good Gryffindor did care for me “
And wore me on his head.
Together with companions three
We traveled all about,
Each friend did have a different goal
To fulfill on our route.
Wise Ravenclaw, she sought to gather
Knowledge where e’er she went;
And to her home she brought dusty tomes
For the teaching to augment.
Avid Slytherin, he spent his time
Among castles and great halls;
Seeking to bring greatness back
To Hogwart’s lofty walls.
Brave Gryffindor, he started out
To bring aid to those in need,
And vowed to train his students
To continue this sort of deed.
Sweet Hufflepuff, she searched for all
The poor and the oppressed
To help them and to see if she
Could keep Hogwarts at it’s best.
Now I am older and more wise,
And getting rather bare,
Still it’s my job to sort you out
By which founder’s traits you share.
Whether you for knowledge thirst
Or yearn for greatness true,
If you are brave or seek to save,
I’ll know just what to do.
So come on forward and try me on,
For though I’m old I’ll see
Which founder you take after
And in which house you’ll be.”
Everyone clapped. Nymphadora, who had been told just what to expect, was amused to see some of the other first years looking shocked.
Then Professor McGonagall stepped forward, and her amusement changed to trepidation.
“Anielli, Guido.” A handsome, swarthy boy made his way forward from the back of the first years, and placed the hat on his head. Save for whisperings from the four tables, the hall was silent. “Ravenclaw,” called the hat, and Guido walked to the Ravenclaw table amidst cheers and shouts.
“Berridge, Josephine.” A dark haired girl detached herself from the crowd, and was sorted into Hufflepuff. The Hufflepuff table burst into applause.
A frightening thought hit Nymphadora. What if whatever house she was sorted into did not want her? She was not very interesting to look at; what if no one clapped? She wouldn’t be called until the end; what if everyone was too bored to notice her? To take her mind of her fear, Nymphadora began watching the people around her again. The foot-tapping boy near her had doubled his pace, and the hand-twisting girl had begun to bite her nails.
“Donnally, Kevin.” A sandy haired boy tried on the hat and became the first new Gryffindor.
“Dunford, Jonathon.” The tall brown-haired boy was placed into Slytherin. She watched him advance towards the Slytherin table, and wondered if all the rumors she had heard about Slytherins were true. Jonathon did not look mean or crafty. But then her attention was caught by the sorting once more.
The girl who had just stepped forward in response to McGonagall’s call was the girl Nymphadora had tried to create in the mirror that morning, or would have had she thought of it. She was not gorgeous in the manner of the models Nymphadora had always emulated; her features were not the type that would be found in a fashion magazine. Nevertheless, there was something distinctive about her, something that would make her stand out wherever she went.
She was tall and very thin, with a gangly sort of grace that belied her sharp elbows. Her hair, at least, was truly beautiful; it was a shade of golden-red that Nymphadora had never imagined, never thought to try out on herself. Gathered into a half-ponytail, it cascaded down her shoulders in a fountain of smooth waves, bright against her dark robes. She held her chin up as she walked gracefully forward and delicately sat upon the stool. Every move that she made was poised and dainty, and yet somehow she didn’t look the least bit affected; on her, it seemed natural and innate. If I walked like that, Nymphadora thought mournfully, I’d just look stupid.
Caught up in envy, Nymphadora was startled when the hat called out, “Gryffindor.” She watched as the girl made her way gracefully to the Gryffindor table and chose a seat at the very end, slightly separated from everyone else.
Nymphadora tore her eyes away and returned to watching the sorting.
“Farradey, Daniel.” Ravenclaw.
“Fletcher, Janet.” Slytherin.
“Holt, Marianne.” The earring pulling girl stepped forward and was sorted into Gryffindor.
She lost track of the names for a while, worrying about her fate. What if she was put in Slytherin? What if her new house laughed at her? What if they booed her? Suddenly she snapped back into reality. She had no idea how many people had been sorted. What if she had missed her name?
“Peale, Amelia.”
Sighing in relief, she chastised herself for not paying attention and watched closely as Amelia was sorted into Hufflepuff.
Names and faces blurred together in her anxiety. Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff . . . any minute now she would find out.
“Tonks, Nymphadora.”
Although she had been anticipating that the next name would be hers for the past five minutes, she still jumped when her name was called. She strode across the floor, trying to look confident “ and tripped over the stool and went crashing to the ground on top of it.
The school erupted into laughter. Her face burning, she scrambled up before Professor McGonagall could help her, and thrust the hat onto her head.
“Nymphadora Tonks,” said the hat, sounding faintly amused. “That was quite a spill you took.” Her blush had started to recede, but at the hat’s words it flared up again. “Don’t be embarrassed; the school is always ready for a laugh. Now I still remember the time when Godric himself mistook a floral decoration for an elaborate cake . . . and once Dumbledore let his beard fall into his soup and then stood up and gave a speech . . . but I mustn’t get sidetracked.
“Nymphadora Tonks. What have we here? You want to be beautiful, you want to do great things, and you want people to notice you “ yet you are afraid of being the center of attention. You love learning “ but only things that interest you. You’re kind and compassionate “ when you remember. You’ll risk your life for those you love “ but you’re afraid of small things like embarrassment. Where to put you?
“Ravenclaw? I think not. You don’t love learning as an end in itself. Hufflepuff? You’re kind and loyal, yes, but you tend to be thoughtless.
“Slytherin? Oh yes, you’re ambitious “ but your goals are not primary in your life. And you have no cunning. You display yourself to all who care to look; you trust people. Keep trusting, Nymphadora Tonks. Not Slytherin.
“Gryffindor? You’re afraid, yes I can see that “ but you have courage. Courage in the big things.
“Laughter is not all meant to hurt. Remember that. When Godric found himself taking a bite of peonies “ he laughed.” Nymphadora found herself smiling at the picture. “Yes, you have the capacity to laugh. I think you will find courage to face small things as well, Nymphadora Tonks.”
“Gryffindor!” the hat shouted. The table erupted in cheers.
Nymphadora took of the hat and put it back on the stool. Grinning widely in relief she began walking to the Gryffindor table “ and tripped over her feet again. For the second time, the hall burst into laughter.
Again, she could feel all the blood rushing to her face as she picked herself up. Completely mortified, she looked towards the high table. Dumbledore caught her eye and winked. Still blushing, Nymphadora looked back at him and smiled.
She chose a seat at the end of the table, separated from an older boy by an empty seat, and across from the girl she had noticed before. She was even lovelier and more distinctive up close. Her cheekbones were high enough that her thin face seemed almost exotic, and her eyes were impossibly dark blue. She was staring at the Sorting; she did not look up as Nymphadora sat down. Nymphadora used the time to study the other girl’s face.
As a metamorphmagus, Nymphadora had always been interested in faces, and had become much more observant than the average person. She was constantly pulling people’s faces apart and looking for features which she herself could emulate. However, this girl had some special poise that lent distinction to her features, which, except for her eyes, did not seem remarkable in themselves.
Feeling hopelessly outdone, Nymphadora leaned forward and caught the girl’s attention. Flashing her most confident smile, she spoke. “Wotcher! I’m sorry, but I missed your name.”
The girl gave her a slight, serious smile. “I’m Ninette. Ninette Fairchild.”
Nymphadora felt a surge of envy. Even the girl’s name was beautiful. Not like Nymphadora. Who had ever heard of a more absurd name than Nymphadora? Ninette was unusual, but pretty. Nymphadora was just unusual and absurd.
After a long pause, “You’re Nymphadora Tonks?” the girl asked softly.
Nymphadora took a big breath. She had been planning this moment for years. At home, her mother insisted on calling her Nymphadora. Her father called her Nora only when they were alone. Otherwise she was Nymphadora all the time, and she hated it. Now, she was here alone, and could choose her own name.
“Tonks,” she said firmly. “I’m Tonks.”
The two girls watched the rest of the Sorting in silence. As the last few names were called, Tonks began having trouble paying attention “ she could not wait to eat.
“Unwin, Helen.” The hand twisting girl walked forward and was sorted into Slytherin.
“Weasley, Charles.”
“Gryffindor.”
The boy two seats away from Tonks leapt into the air cheering. The freckled redhead who had just been sorted walked briskly to the end of the table and threw himself into the empty seat between Tonks and the older boy.
“Made it, Bill!” he announced with a grin, as Herman Wintringham was sorted into Ravenclaw.
“I knew you would,” Bill said proudly, though he looked relieved as well as pleased. “You’re a Weasley, aren’t you?”
Just then, Dumbledore called for silence and announced the beginning of the meal. Tonks stopped listening to the conversation next to her as the table was suddenly covered with food.
Suddenly she felt ravenous; the snacks on the train seemed a long time ago. The food both smelled and looked wonderful. The tables were practically groaning with it. Meats and breads and puddings and pies . . . it was an overwhelming sight.
She helped herself liberally to Yorkshire pudding and a Cornish pastry, along with a piece of shepherd’s pie. She was reaching for a warm roll when her hand bumped into the hand of the boy next to her, also in the breadbasket.
Jerking her hand back, she knocked over his glass of pumpkin juice into his lap. “I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, face burning with embarrassment. How many times is it possible to embarrass yourself in a single hour? she wondered.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied with a grin as he mopped himself up with his napkin. “I’m Charlie. You’re Ny-”
“I’m Tonks,” she interrupted. Gesturing to the girl across from her, who was watching them silently she added, “and this is Ninette.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, looking first at her and then at Ninette. His gaze lingered on Ninette for a moment, and again Tonks felt a wisp of envy. I wish I was beautiful.
There was an awkward silence, broken after a few moments by Charlie. “Can you pass me that black pudding?” he asked, gesturing.
Tonks complied, taking a large spoonful for herself on the way. She dug into her full plate with gusto, savoring every bite. “Isn’t the food here delicious?” she asked through a mouthful to no one in particular.
Nodding fervently, Charlie agreed. Tonks turned to Ninette. “D’you like it?”
“It’s very good,” Ninette replied in her soft voice. Tonks looked down and noticed with chagrin that Ninette’s dinner looked very different than her own. In contrast to her own heaping plate, Ninette’s mostly consisted of a spinach salad, along with a roll and a piece of chicken. She was eating very neatly, holding her fork delicately and taking small bites.
Suddenly Tonks felt oafish and uncultured. Hastily she swallowed her large mouthful, and looked ruefully down at her jumble of assorted food, all mixed together on her plate. How could she ever hope to compare with the beauty and manners of the girl sitting across from her? She couldn’t just put the food back “ she wouldn’t have even if she could. Despite her shame, the food looked tantalizing, and she was hungry. With mixed feelings, she began to eat.
She had barely finished her plateful when Charlie offered Ninette and herself some apple pie.
“No thank you,” murmured Ninette.
“Are you sure?” demanded Charlie, looking incredulous. “It’s really good, I already tried a piece.”
She cast down her eyes and shook her head.
“You’ll have one, won’t you Tonks?” Charlie appealed. “I guarantee you’ll like it.”
With a glance at the red-gold head across from her, she grinned and took the proffered slice. Perhaps being beautiful wasn’t everything “ Ninette did not seem to be having very much fun.
When, thoroughly satiated, the first years were led up to their dormitories, Tonks was to overwhelmed and full and sleepy to notice much of what was going on around her. As she stumbled into her new room, she was only aware of four large four-poster beds. She barely could keep her eyes open long enough to change into her pajamas and burrow under the covers of her bed.
However, once she was settled in, she woke up just enough to notice a slight figure with red-gold hair moving around the room gracefully long after all the others were in bed.