Chapter 1: The scent of white lilies
The Highlands of her memory were always bathed in gold.
A young Ping Ping ran through the tall grass, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon. Around her ankles, wild White Lilies swayed in the breeze. As her feet brushed the earth, tiny golden sparks—like trapped sunlight—danced in her wake, swirling around her fingertips before vanishing into the air. She didn’t know what the glow was; she only knew that when she was happy, the world seemed to shimmer back at her.
"Ping Ping! Dinner's ready, little bird!" Her father’s voice was a warm call from the porch of their cottage. Her mother stood beside him, her arm tucked around his waist, their smiles the brightest things in the valley. Ping Ping ran toward them, her heart full and her lungs breathing in the scent of sun-warmed lilies—
"Ping Ping? We are here, my dear."
The golden sun vanished, replaced by the rhythmic rattling of a carriage and the cool, damp mist of Scotland. Ping Ping opened her eyes, her chest tightening for a moment as the image of her parents faded into the shadows of the past.
Professor Fig sat across from her, his kind, weathered face full of apology. "I’m sorry we are a bit late, but look..." He gestured toward the window. "We’ve reached it at last."
Ping Ping leaned toward the glass. Below them, the Highlands she had just dreamed of were sprawling in deep purples and blues under the moonlight. And there, carved into the cliffs like a crown of stone and light, was Hogwarts.
The Great Hall
The heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall groaned as Professor Fig pushed them open. Inside, the air was a thick, dizzying swirl of scents: the buttery warmth of Pumpkin Cupcakes, the smoke of a thousand floating candles, and the chatter of hundreds of students.
The hall went silent. Every head turned.
Professor Weasley stood near the front, her eyes searching the doorway. She had been waiting for the "Special Student"—the girl starting her journey as a fifth year.
"Sorry we're a bit late," Professor Fig announced, his voice steady as he led Ping Ping down the long center aisle.
Ping Ping followed behind him, her head tucked low. She felt small under the weight of so many stares. As she passed the long tables, the scents changed. She smelled the sharp, cloying Rose perfume of a girl leaning over her plate, and the heavy musk of old robes.
But then, as she neared the green-and-silver table, she felt a strange pull. A faint, ancient glow—the same one from her dreams—seemed to hum beneath the stone floor, vibrating in her very bones.
"Please," Professor Weasley said, gesturing to the four-legged stool. "Take a seat for the Sorting."
Ping Ping sat, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. The Great Hall was a blur of faces until the hat dropped over her eyes, plunging her into darkness.
"A late start... but a heart full of memories," the Hat whispered in her ear. "You carry the scent of the valley and a power that is very, very old. Where to put a soul that seeks to heal?"
There was a long, breathless pause. Then, the Hat shouted for the whole room to hear:
"SLYTHERIN!"
The green table erupted into applause. Ping Ping pulled the hat off, her eyes immediately darting toward her new house. She made her way toward the table, finding a spot near the end where there were a few empty seats.
As she sat down, a girl a few seats away leaned over with a bright, curious grin.
"Hi! Welcome to Slytherin," the student whispered, her voice warm. "I’m Imelda. Don't mind the staring—we just haven't had a surprise arrival in, well, ever."
Ping Ping felt a rush of relief wash over her. She offered a shy, genuine smile back. "Thank you," she replied softly. "I’m Ping Ping. It’s... it’s all very grand, isn’t it?"
"You'll get used to it," Imelda chuckled, turning back to her plate.
As Ping Ping began to relax, she reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice. But as she did, she felt that strange, familiar pull again.
A few seats down sat a boy she hadn’t noticed before. He wasn't talking, and he wasn't eating. He sat perfectly still, his silver, unseeing eyes fixed on the air in front of him. He looked like a statue carved from moonlight.
But as Ping Ping settled into her seat, she saw him tilt his head ever so slightly in her direction. His hand, pale and elegant, stilled over his glass.
In the middle of the heavy scents of the feast—the roasted meats and the sugary tarts—Ping Ping’s light, fresh scent of White Lilies drifted toward him like a quiet secret.
For the first time that night, the boy's stoic expression shifted. A tiny, almost invisible crease appeared between his brows, as if he were trying to understand a beautiful melody he hadn't heard in a long, long time.
Ping Ping didn't know his name yet. She only knew that in a room full of people, he looked just as quiet as she felt.
