To admit out loud that he was nervous would have been silly, but Callum still looked it all hunched over with his brow scrunched and lip looking awfully chewed up. He was standing in line behind Mirren Greyback whom he’d met in Diagon Alley and, despite insulting her cat, they seemed to have hit it off well enough for him to feel a touch more secure with her fiery bravado before him. Callum couldn’t deny it; the pair of them were oddly matched: both with flaming red hair, one a midget the other a veritable giant behind her. He wasn’t
usually self-conscious of his height. In fact, more often than not it helped him into and out of trouble when he needed it. But today, with all the eyes of the four house tables turning towards them, he stood out like a sore thumb and it was unnerving at best.
One by one, the first years were called to their houses. Callum watched with rapt attention, each name and each house more intriguing by the second. He’d never actually given thought to what house he wanted for himself before, only that he knew he couldn’t possibly fit into Slytherin and very much did not want to have to try. The other three houses seemed alright enough, each with their benefits and draw-backs. Hufflepuff seemed like the nicest of the lot, a crowd Callum could see himself fading into the background of. Never an individual, but never an outlier either. Ravenclaw seemed ambitious enough to keep him on his toes, but probably full of people that would make him feel bad for avoiding his studies. Gryffindor… well. Gryffindor was for people braver than him, but with the most lion-hearted of all souls. That was where Papa
and Grandpapa had been sorted after all. He knew they'd be disappointed if he wasn't sorted into their house and... well... deep down, he thought he might be too...
When his name was called, Callum squared his shoulders and stood taller than he felt, hoping to show some bravery despite the turmoil inside. He didn’t
adore the idea of a hat, or anyone really, inside his head. It was all chaos and scribbles up there most of the time, which was why he was so meticulous in writing everything down. What if the hat saw something up there, in him, that Cal himself was hesitant or unsure of? Would he be sorted into a house that only made him realize the worst of himself?
The seat was warm when he squirmed upon it, hands holding the sides anxiously. The voice that spoke to him was inviting, if a little surprising, and Callum felt himself breath out, forcing his concern aside. It was time to focus and be serious now. The hat muttered some things into his ear, searching and rooting and poking around. Callum tried to make it as easy as possible for the hat, locking down any stray thoughts and emotions as best he could. At last, the questions began and his brow pinched again in thought.
"What class are you most excited about?”
Instantly the first thought to cross Callum’s mind was
flying, duh. Flying and learning to play proper quidditch was any and everything Callum wanted most. He’d been thinking about nothing else all summer, in fact. He wanted to be the one out there representing his house, doing his best for them and for himself! The thought of playing as beater tickled across his memory from that afternoon with Mirren at Quality Quidditch Supplies. He still fancied the idea of being the one to protect his teammates from the bludgers. He liked protecting those he cared about, like Charlie’s baby sister when she’d fallen from that tree. Yes, definitely flying.
Oh, er— in terms of practical magic too I think Charms could be interesting. It was less intense than potions or defense against the dark arts, both of which seemed rather more involved and complex than Callum was prepared for. His mother was excellent at Transfiguration though, and Pa was just good at everything. Callum swallowed a small lump in his throat and hoped he would find a way to measure up.
"How would you deal with failing a test?”
Gut reaction: anger. Callum felt the sensation swirl like a pit in his stomach and he swallowed it down, trying to think clearly. Anger was the default of a gentleman who had no breeding, Mama used to say. You have to be better than that;
we have to be better than that.* Callum had never understood exactly what that meant but it floated to the forefront of his mind now. He supposed after anger he would feel disappointment. Disappointment at having failed anything and then regret, for not trying harder, for not being better. He resolved himself in that moment to ensure it never happened. He would study harder than anyone at the subjects he
didn’t like. Maybe that way, he’d never have to find out what it felt like to fail a test.
“Who is your hero?”
Pa. There simply was nobody else. Callum grinned to himself at the thought of his father. His father who did his best for thier family, and the little village near the estate. His father, who had taught him to fly, and be kind to even the lost kittens they’d found in the garden. His father whom, against all odds, had built an empire he wanted to entrust to his one and only son. Callum felt his throat run dry and quickly pushed the thought aside. His Papa was a hero for many reasons and aside from [insert name of Ballycastle Bats Keeper here], there wasn’t a man Callum admired more in the world.
"What would your friends say about you?”
Now here was an interesting one. Callum searched around in his mind for a succinct word to describe himself from any one of his friend's perspectives and failed spectacularly. They were all so unique in their own personalities, there was no real consensus. He tried to think of them each individually then and heard their voices come to light each time.
Imogen, Charlie’s older sister, often called him
“Brave. Protective. Hot-headed. Stupid.” He could practically see her rolling her eyes, that fond smile on her face as she ruffled his hair and walked away. Charlie would have laughed at ‘stupid’ and challenged it saying
“Callum is the smartest person we know! All he does is spend his time scribbling in that book!” Quincy, the youngest of the sisters who often stuck to Callum’s coattails after he’d saved her, liked to think he was quiet, shy, and sweet just like her. None of these descriptions of him seemed completely apt, Callum supposed. He saw himself as neither stupid, shy, or particularly brave… but protective? Well, protective was a word he supposed he could get behind.
"If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”
This question finally broke the composed facade the red-head had been trying to keep up. A swarm of insecurities all vied for first place.
Too many freckles… too tall… not English enough… not suited to run an empire… Callum slammed the door shut with a forceful snap and shut his eyes to try and concentrate. What one, big important thing, would he
actually change about himself if given the opportunity. All of these other things seemed so silly when you considered the actual scope and possibility of the question. He would grow into his height, mama always said; his freckles were a part of him. Not being English enough only meant that he was proud of his heritage and in reality, Callum wouldn’t trade Ireland for anything. As for running an empire… well, he supposed he had time yet. There wasn’t really any one big thing about himself Callum could think to change. Hazel eyes relaxing in their closed state, the young red-head let out a small breath.
Nothing. I will grow into who I’m meant to become no matter what.
* Because they are ‘new money’ upper class from middle, and Irish.
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