“You had better quiet down.
The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin.” With a single sentence from Professor McGonagall, the first-years fell instantly silent.
Lynn stood toward the back of the crowd, making no effort to squeeze his way to the front.
Looking at the massive doors of the Great Hall ahead, he knew very well that the real trouble wasn’t which house he would be sorted into.
It was that the Sorting Hat would make contact with his mind.
For ordinary first-years, this was just sorting.
For him, it was a risk of having his deepest secrets laid bare.
Ron clutched his rat cage, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
Harry stared at the great doors, his fingers tucked anxiously into his sleeves.
Hermione held her book tightly to her chest, her lips moving silently as if she were still memorizing *Hogwarts: A History*.
Lynn swept his gaze over the three of them.
Perfect.
One nervous, one bewildered, and one ready to ace a test.
This was exactly how normal first-years should look.
The doors swung open.
The sounds of the Great Hall washed over them.
The low murmur of voices around the long tables, the light clinking of cutlery, and the faint crackle of burning candles overhead blended into a single hum.
As the first-years walked in, many looked up at the ceiling.
The night sky stretched out above them, the starlight seeming to press down directly between the beams and pillars.
Ron drew in a sharp breath.
“Every time I heard someone talk about it, it sounded different.” Hermione immediately corrected him in a whisper, “It’s a magic ceiling.
It’s written about in *Hogwarts: A History*.” Ron looked at her.
“You actually read the whole thing?” Hermione didn’t look back.
“Why else would I buy it?” Harry’s tension eased slightly.
Lynn didn’t stare at the ceiling for too long.
First, he looked at the four long tables.
Gryffindor was the most raucous.
The Weasley twins had already spotted Ron and were waving at him with highly mischievous grins.
Over at the Hufflepuff table, several students smiled warmly at the newcomers.
Ravenclaw was quieter.
They weren’t merely looking at the first-years; they were observing how the first-years observed the Great Hall.
The Slytherin table was far more orderly.
Draco Malfoy sat there, chin held high, though his eyes immediately sought out Harry.
Excellent.
Some were busy finding where they belonged, some were busy choosing sides, and some were busy nursing grudges.
The first lesson of Hogwarts: people were far livelier than textbooks.
Lynn then looked toward the staff table.
Snape sat there, his black robes draped around him like a shadow that actively disinvited guests.
His gaze rested on Harry, lingering far too long.
It wasn’t ordinary dislike.
There were old scores in that look, a suppressed, unspoken hatred, and a touch of complexity that he had forced down himself.
Lynn took one look and immediately averted his eyes.
Don’t stare at Snape.
The man’s tongue was as sharp as a potion cutter, and his heart harbored twenty years of unhealed wounds.
Anyone who poked at that would suffer.
Right in the center of the staff table sat Albus Dumbledore.
With a silver-white beard, half-moon spectacles, and eyes of bright blue that carried a smile, he didn’t appear to be openly sizing up the first-years, yet it felt as if nothing escaped him.
The moment Lynn stepped into the Great Hall, he felt that very gaze sweep over him.
It wasn’t heavy.
But it was precise.
Like someone looking through a bookshelf and seeing exactly which book you had pulled out.
Lynn maintained the exact curiosity expected of a first-year.
He didn’t dodge the look, nor did he meet it.
He simply stood in the crowd, playing the part of an ordinary newcomer.
The safest place for a spectator was never the corner.
It was the most reasonable empty space within the crowd itself.
Professor McGonagall placed a worn, patched hat onto a four-legged stool.
The Sorting Hat was patched, its brim frayed and soft, looking as though it had been flattened by generations of nervous students.
Ron let out a visible sigh of relief and whispered, “So we don’t have to fight a troll.
That’s brilliant.” Harry turned his head.
“Did your brothers say you did?” Ron’s face stiffened.
“They told me a few different versions.” Lynn offered a quiet, deadpan comment: “Congratulations.
You won’t have to prove you can survive just to eat dinner tonight.” Ron glared at him.
“Thanks.
That makes it sound even worse.” The next moment, a tear near the brim of the old hat opened wide.
It began to sing.
The Great Hall fell silent.
The song spoke of the four houses, of courage, wisdom, loyalty, and ambition, and of how Hogwarts would welcome every child who came to its halls.
The older students clapped practicedly.
Lynn clapped as well.
His applause was neither too fast nor too slow, matching the rhythm of those around him.
Yet his entire focus was on the hat.
This was no ordinary magical item.
It could speak, judge, and choose.
More importantly, it could touch the mind.
It carried the residual will left by the four founders, sorting countless young witches and wizards into different houses year after year.
To an ordinary first-year, it was just the Sorting Hat.
To Lynn, it was like an old door that swung open and shut of its own accord.
And behind that door lay the oldest rules of Hogwarts.
Professor McGonagall unfurled her roll of parchment.
“Hannah Abbott!” A blonde girl stepped forward, so nervous she nearly missed her seat on the stool.
The moment the hat dropped onto her head, it shouted: “HUFFLEPUFF!” Applause erupted from the Hufflepuff table.
The girl breathed a sigh of relief and quickly hurried over.
Then, one by one, the first-years stepped forward.
Some were sorted the instant the hat touched their heads.
Others waited until their faces turned pale.
The atmosphere in the Great Hall rose and fell with the applause, tense yet lively.
Until Professor McGonagall called: “Hermione Granger!” Hermione walked up quickly, as though a single slow step would violate school protocol.
The hat had barely touched her hair before it shouted: “GRYFFINDOR!” The Gryffindor table burst into applause.
Hermione let out a sigh of relief, trying her best to look composed as she walked over.
“Draco Malfoy!” Malfoy stepped forward.
The hat had barely grazed his head when it screamed: “SLYTHERIN!” Applause rang out from the Slytherin table.
Malfoy took off the hat and cast a glance toward Harry, the corner of his mouth curving into a triumphant smirk.
Ron whispered, “See?
I knew it.” Lynn didn’t reply.
The hat had sorted him instantly, which only meant Malfoy’s path had been paved by his family long ago.
He might not know what lay at the end of that path.
But he knew exactly which way he had been taught to walk.
The names continued down the list.
“Ron Weasley!” Ron nearly tripped over the hem of his robes.
He handed Scabbers’s cage to a nearby first-year and hurried up.
Fred and George Weasley clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm at the Gryffindor table.
The hat lingered on Ron’s head for a moment.
“GRYFFINDOR!” Ron ripped the hat off as if escaping an execution dock and bolted toward his brothers.
Fred and George flanked him, wrapping their arms around him and whispering something that made Ron’s ears instantly turn red.
Professor McGonagall continued.
“Harry Potter!” The Great Hall went exceptionally quiet.
The sound didn’t vanish completely, but it dropped to a low murmur.
Many students craned their necks.
At the staff table, several gazes sharpened.
Harry stood frozen for a second before walking toward the four-legged stool.
When he sat down, the hat dropped over his eyes, blocking his view.
Lynn stood in the crowd, watching the scene play out.
The first piece of the main story’s board had landed on the stool.
It took longer than the others.
Whispers began to ripple through the Great Hall.
Ron stared at Harry from the Gryffindor table, forgetting to lower his fork.
Malfoy watched too, his face taut.
He looked as though he were waiting for a result he refused to admit was important.
Finally, the hat roared: “GRYFFINDOR!” The Gryffindor table erupted.
The cheers seemed to shake the starry sky above the Great Hall.
The Weasley twins stood up and chanted: “We got Potter!” “We got Potter!” Harry took off the hat, a look of bewildered relief on his face.
As he walked toward Gryffindor, Ron patted the seat next to him enthusiastically.
Hermione looked up at him as well.
At that moment, it felt as though Harry had truly been caught by a place he could call home.
Lynn clapped along, though his mind remained perfectly clear.
Harry was in Gryffindor.
Voldemort was still on the back of Quirrell’s head.
Scabbers was still in Ron’s cage.
Snape would still be misunderstood.
The grand play remained unchanged.
There was simply one more person in the audience.
Professor McGonagall’s voice soon rang out again.
“Lynn Grey.” A brief murmur swept through the Great Hall.
It wasn’t loud, but it was enough for Lynn to catch a few words.
“Grey?” “Prince?” “Muggle family?” “The one from Diagon Alley?” Over at the Slytherin table, heads turned.
Draco sat up straighter, his expression souring.
Clearly, he still remembered their less-than-dignified encounter outside Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall’s fingers pressed against the edge of the parchment.
Snape finally tore his gaze away from Harry and locked it onto Lynn.
That look was cold and piercingly precise.
Like spotting a surname that shouldn’t exist among a pile of old letters.
Lynn walked forward.
Neither too fast nor too slow.
His shoes tapped against the stone floor, the sound swallowed by the vast hall.
The four-legged stool stood ahead.
The old hat’s brim drooped, like a mouth waiting to hear a secret.
Before sitting down, Lynn saw Dumbledore lightly raise his eyes.
No warning.
No intervention.
Just watching.
Lynn sat down.
The hat fell over his head, blocking out most of his vision.
The light in the Great Hall dimmed, and the surrounding noise drifted away.
Then, something drew close to his mind.
It wasn’t a curse.
Nor was it a violent intrusion.
It felt more like a familiar old caretaker walking up to a door with a ring of keys, habitually wanting to push it open and take a look inside.
It had seen too much of children’s nerves, pride, fear, and wishes.
Thus, it took for granted that every door would open for it.