Thanks to Ian’s suggestion, the fight among the new students at the start of term had been resolved perfectly.
Everyone accepted the outcome without complaint—everyone except Mr.
Malfoy.
After all, it was just a deduction of points, and besides, there was no guarantee any of them would even end up in the same house as Harry or Malfoy.
Still, the mention of the Sorting was enough to make the young witches and wizards’ nerves, only just beginning to settle, tighten right back up again.
“Fred and George told me the Sorting is a duel against a troll,” Ron said, looking rather pleased with himself as he shared the inside information he’d gotten from his two older brothers.
“A troll?” Neville yelped at the very idea, nearly dropping the toad he was holding.
“That’s impossible.” Hermione shot Ron’s claim down at once.
“Trolls are Class XXXX creatures.
There’s no way Hogwarts would make us fight something like that, even if Harry—” At the mention of Harry, Hermione’s confidence suddenly wavered, and her voice trailed off.
Perhaps it was the lingering goodwill from their “battle” together earlier, but this time Ron didn’t seem to mind her pushing back.
He merely shrugged and said, “Who knows?
Percy said he had to fight a dragon during his Sorting.” “Wait.” Harry cut in, curious.
“Who are Fred and George?
And who’s Percy?” Ron looked at him, puzzled.
“Didn’t I mention them before?
They’re my brothers.
All Gryffindors.” “The Weasleys have always been Gryffindors.
I don’t imagine I’ll be any different.” “You have three brothers, Ron?” The three of them were all only children, and hearing that Ron had three brothers left them more than a little envious.
But Ron didn’t look proud in the least—if anything, he looked thoroughly put-upon.
“Three?
Try five.
Thank goodness Charlie and Bill have already graduated, or you lot would be looking at six Weasleys in Gryffindor.” The three of them stared at him, still reeling.
But Ron wasn’t finished.
“I’ve got a sister too.
Ginny.
She’ll be starting at Hogwarts next year.” Seven children in one family—that was rare enough among Muggles, let alone wizards.
Sure enough, Malfoy, who had gone fairly quiet, couldn’t resist another jab.
“Yeah, well, the Weasleys breed like rabbits, which is probably why they’re so poor they can’t even afford a proper set of dress robes.” “You—!” Ron’s ears flushed scarlet with rage.
He yanked the old wand from inside his robes and pointed it furiously at Malfoy.
“Ron, don’t!” Harry grabbed his arm, holding him back, then turned to face Malfoy.
“Malfoy, if you’re that keen on another beating, we can set a time.
Tomorrow night, how about it?” Harry’s calm tone made Malfoy’s face flush red, then go pale.
He opened his mouth as if to fire back, but the throb from the corner of his lip reminded him to think better of it.
Just then, Professor McGonagall, at the head of the line, seemed to notice the commotion.
Her gaze swept over like a blade, snuffing out whatever nerve Malfoy had left.
“Potter, you won’t always have someone there to protect you.” With that parting shot, Malfoy glared at Ron once more before retreating with his two lackeys to the other end of the line.
Professor McGonagall’s stern eyes swept over the restless crowd gathered at the entrance to the Great Hall, her voice ringing out clear and commanding.
“Quiet, please, first-years.
The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin.
I expect you to greet this moment with proper composure.” With that, she led the small group toward the doors of the Great Hall.
Ron sheepishly tucked his wand away, though the flush hadn’t quite faded from his ears.
Harry patted him on the shoulder and murmured, “Ignore him.
We’ll deal with it after the Sorting.” He’d barely finished speaking when he caught a strange murmuring nearby.
Turning toward the sound, he saw Hermione anxiously smoothing her robes, her lips moving faintly.
Harry realized she seemed to be reciting something from Hogwarts: A History.
Neville was in an even worse state—his teeth were chattering so hard from nerves that he’d lost track of where he’d even put his toad.
Watching them, Harry let out a long sigh.
It suddenly struck him that he might be the only halfway normal person in their little group.
The line shuffled forward, passing through the massive oak doors, and the Great Hall slowly came into view.
Thousands of candles floated in midair, illuminating four long tables beneath a ceiling like black velvet strewn with stars.
At the tables, students from all four houses turned as one to look at them, as though standing at attention.
The first-years, barely through the door, were too awestruck to even breathe properly, and could only huddle close behind Professor McGonagall.
Ron swallowed hard and leaned toward Harry’s ear.
“Harry, what d’you reckon the Sorting actually is?
You don’t think it’s really trolls, do you?” “No,” Harry said, shaking his head, his eyes fixed on a battered, pointed hat that Professor McGonagall was setting down on a four-legged stool.
“I think…
maybe they just make us put on that hat?” “Huh?” Ron stared at him, wide-eyed.
A moment later, Harry’s guess was confirmed.
Professor McGonagall gave the roll of parchment in her hands a brisk shake and spoke, her voice ringing clear through the hall.
“When I call your name, you will come forward.” The old, patched, pointy hat suddenly split open along its brim, as if a mouth had opened, and a booming, good-humored song rang out through the hall: “Oh, you might think I’m just an old hat, but I have a mind of my own, and I can see straight through you.
Put me on, and you shall know just where you belong— Perhaps in Gryffindor, where courage lies buried deep in the heart; perhaps in Hufflepuff, where they are true and loyal, patient and honest, unafraid of hard toil; or if your mind is sharp, perhaps wise Ravenclaw, where the clever and learned always find their kindred spirits; or perhaps you’ll find yourself in Slytherin, where true friendships can be forged—though there are also cunning, ambitious souls who will stop at nothing to get what they want.” “Blimey, that thing can’t sing to save its life,” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear the moment the Sorting Hat finished.
Harry nodded in agreement.
He thought so too.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward and unrolled the long list of names.
“Now, when I call your name, please come forward and put on the Sorting Hat.” “Hannah Abbott!” A girl with golden braids stumbled forward, and the moment the hat touched her hair, it shrieked, “HUFFLEPUFF!” Cheers erupted from the table on the right.
At the staff table, Ian clapped along lightly, watching the proceedings with keen interest.
Here was yet another magical object with a mind of its own—and Ian had once heard that the Sorting Hat’s intellect had been imbued by Lady Ravenclaw herself.
That brought to mind a legend left behind by one of Hogwarts’s founders.
A crown that grants wisdom, is it?
Ian cast a strange sideways glance at the back of the head of the nervous man seated beside him—Quirrell.
What a waste, using a legendary artifact like that as material for a Horcrux, he mused silently to himself, though his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the Room of Requirement.
Perhaps tonight would be a good time to go take a look.
No classes until tomorrow afternoon, after all.
Ian made up his mind.
“Harry Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s voice pulled Ian’s thoughts back to the present, and at once a wave of whispers surged through the hall like a rising tide.
“Harry Potter—is that the boy?” “Yes, that’s him.
Did you see the scar on his forehead?
Oh, he’s trying to hide part of it.” “Which house do you think he’ll get, Gryffindor or Slytherin?” “Gryffindor, obviously—didn’t you see the sword at his waist?
That’s the mark of Gryffindor if I’ve ever seen one.” Every eye in the hall was drawn to Harry—even Dumbledore’s.
He sat with a goblet raised partway to his lips, his eyes fixed intently on Harry through the glass.
What no one else noticed was that two other people were also staring fixedly at Harry—though neither of them cared in the slightest which house he’d be sorted into.
Master, you must calm yourself, Quirrell urged silently, his eyes locked on Harry even as his mind raced to soothe someone who had no nose.
Hisss.
Harry Potter.
So he’s finally here, came a voice like a serpent’s hiss inside Quirrell’s skull.
Master!
Quirrell fought to keep his composure, sweat streaming down and soaking into his turban.
Fortunately, with all attention fixed on Harry, no one paid him any mind.
No one, that is, except Ian, seated close by, who noticed something was off.
A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes.
His fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, and a thread of red light, faint enough to go unnoticed, settled silently onto the black fabric of Quirrell’s robes.
The instant the red light touched him, Quirrell shuddered—so slightly it was barely perceptible—and the serpentine voice in his head cut off abruptly.
The other person watching was Snape.
Even braced as he was, seeing those brilliant green eyes again still left him unable to steady himself.
But it was the face beneath them that made his brow furrow tightly, an unfamiliar look of conflict crossing his features.
As for Harry, the focus of the entire hall, he drew a deep breath and, weathering the weight of what felt like every gaze in the room pressing down on him like something solid, walked toward the stool.
He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.
In the corner of his eye, he caught Ron silently mouthing “good luck” from the crowd, Hermione with a hand pressed anxiously over her mouth, and Neville frantically searching all around for his lost toad.
But a warm, encouraging look from the staff table caught his eye, and it settled him almost at once.
He sat down on the stool.
Professor McGonagall gently lowered the grubby, patched Sorting Hat onto his head.
The hat was far too big, nearly swallowing his sight entirely, and the smell of old books and dust filled his nose.
“Hmm…” A faint voice sounded near his ear, audible only to him.
“Difficult.
Very difficult indeed.” “What?
Mr.
Hat, may I ask—where exactly is your brain located?” “Would you mind letting me have a look?” Harry asked the hat curiously.
“…” The Sorting Hat fell silent.