“Rumour has it Harry Potter is in this compartment.” The blond’s gaze found the scar and a smile spread across his face.
“Ah—so it’s true.” He extended a hand.
“I’m Draco Malfoy. Fortunate I found you. My father has told me all about the Weasley lot. A person of your standing shouldn’t be forced to associate with the wrong sort.”
He held out his hand, completely missing the narrowing of Harry’s eyes.
“Mr Malfoy, we’ve met before. Not only was I apparently so insignificant you forgot, but you also managed to insult one of my first friends. Had you been civil this time I might have given you another chance. Instead the first thing you do is insult the people I’m with. Congratulations—you’ve proven yourself every bit as stuck-up as my relatives.” Harry’s voice dropped to a low, icy register that seemed to frost the windows.
“I deal with the Dursleys enough at home. The last thing I need is more of them here. I’d appreciate being left alone.”
Malfoy’s eyes widened.
His hand remained outstretched for a moment before he sneered and withdrew it as though struck.
“When my father hears about this, you’ll regret spurning House Malfoy!”
“Am I supposed to know who your father is?” Harry gave a short, humourless laugh.
“Clearly I don’t. So that’s not much of a threat, is it?”
Malfoy snarled, spun on his heel, and slammed the compartment door behind him.
After the train finally reached Hogwarts the Sorting Ceremony began, and Harry caught his first proper look at the Sorting Hat.
The possibilities it represented set his mind racing.
How had such a thing been created?
Were Thought runes woven into its fabric?
Perspective runes, perhaps?
Some variant of Perception must be stitched into the lining somewhere.
Cloth made a poor magical conductor—how, then, had the enchantment been rendered permanent?
Could the right combination of runes make anything permanent?
Could they make something sentient?
Could he fashion a familiar from pure runic construct?
No—that was foolish.
He already had Hedwig, and she would never forgive the slight.
Still… etching runes into other materials held promise.
Skin, for instance.
Tattoos.
“…Potter… Harry Potter?”
“Huh?” Harry shook himself and looked up to find Professor McGonagall frowning down at him, tall and severe.
“Oh—right.” He grimaced, rose, and walked forward to the stool.
Ah, Mr Potter.
Quite a number of interesting theories about my creation, I see.
Harry flinched at the voice inside his head and glanced around, seeing only the shadowed interior of the Hat.
“Um… is this the Hat?” he whispered.
Indeed.
Heldric Rowzar, if one wishes to be formal, though most simply call me Hat.
Kindly refrain from “Flopsy.” I would dearly love a pair of arms solely so I might smack the Headmaster whenever he insists upon that ridiculous name.
And for the record, my creation relied far more upon charms and enchantments than runes.
Most wizards never reach your level of facility with the latter, and the Founders preferred methods less likely to explode in their faces.
“Oh. Would my way have worked?”
Without question.
It would have taken years to perfect, but there is more than one way to trim a mandrake.
Now then… where to place you, where to place you… Hmm.
I have not faced this many possibilities since your mother—and then your cousin, you know.
“My cousin?!”
Not the one you are thinking of.
A very distant relation—fifth cousin once removed, or something equally tedious.
“Cousin” was simply shorter.
I settled on Hufflepuff for her in the end, but that is truly the only House ill-suited to you.
Slytherin would serve you well… though in these past weeks your interests and talents appear to have shifted considerably.
Runes are a fascinating speciality, and Ravenclaw would open many doors.
Yet I also see that fierce impulse to charge forward regardless of consequence or obstacle.
Godric would approve most heartily.
So many choices…
“Ravenclaw is the house for people who like to read and study, isn’t it?”
I would not reduce it quite so baldly, but yes—more or less.
“And Slytherin for the cunning and ambitious?”
In general.
Though pure-bloods lacking stronger defining traits often land there as well.
“And Gryffindor is for the reckless?”
The Hat gave a rolling laugh inside Harry’s mind.
I do like you, Mr Potter.
Do not let poor Minerva overhear that particular summary.
“Do I get a say? Where did Hermione and Neville go? Ron has brothers here—they’re in Gryffindor, aren’t they?”
All the current
Weasleys,
Mr Longbottom, and Miss Granger are indeed in Gryffindor.
Still, I maintain you would thrive among the Ravenclaws.
That thirst for knowledge and experimentation aligns perfectly with dear Rowena’s legacy.
“I’d prefer to go with them, please. Neville looks as though he could use a friend, and Hermione seemed interesting on the train—even if she was a bit bossy. The twins didn’t even pester me about the scar. I’d really rather be with them. Please?”
Well… if you are certain… better be—
“GRYFFINDOR!”
The Hat’s final shout rang through the Great Hall.
Harry smiled, whispered a quiet thanks, lifted the ancient fabric from his head, and hurried toward the cheering table to sit among the people he had met only hours earlier.