“Susan Bones—Hufflepuff!” “Justin Finch-Fletchley—Hufflepuff!” The Great Hall was a riot of candlelight and floating banners.
At the front of the room a battered, wrinkled hat sat on a stool, its mouth torn wide as it sang and twitched.
Every so often some reckless first-year would reach up and give the brim a squeeze, drawing a series of strange, muffled chuckles from the thing.
Name after name left the hat’s mouth.
The students already seated at the four long tables clapped—some with real enthusiasm, most with the polite indifference of people who had seen this show before.
Even the Gryffindors and Slytherins managed to keep the peace for the length of the ceremony.
Among the remaining first-years, children waited with the usual mix of nerves and excitement, watching each classmate step forward, take the hat, and walk off to a new table while the hat muttered its running commentary.
One boy stood apart from the rest.
He was thin, pale-blond, dark-eyed, and clearly lost.
His gaze drifted over the floating candles, the translucent ghosts drifting through the air, the entire impossible scene.
Everything felt both familiar and completely wrong.
It took him a long moment before he managed to speak under his breath.
“Who am I?
Where am I?
What the hell am I doing?” “Strange… I was dying on a hospital bed a second ago.” A clear, sharp voice cut through the hall.
“Ivan Hals!” Professor McGonagall stood beside the stool, parchment in hand.
When no one moved she frowned and called the name again, louder.
“Ivan Hals!” Still nothing.
Even Dumbledore turned his head with mild curiosity.
Older students began whispering.
“Who’s Ivan?
Got some nerve.” “Maybe he got lost and missed the whole thing.” “This should be good.” The other first-years edged away from the blond boy until he stood alone under every eye in the hall.
“Mr.
Hals, please come up here,” McGonagall said for the third time.
“Me?” Ivan pointed at his own chest.
The situation felt strangely familiar, though he couldn’t place why.
“Yes.
Quickly, if you would.
There are other children waiting.” Even after four attempts she showed no real irritation.
She simply assumed the boy was nervous.
Someone shoved him from behind.
Then the first-years in front of him, as if they had rehearsed it, began pushing him forward one after another until he stumbled onto the platform.
“There you are, child.” McGonagall’s hand settled on his shoulder and guided him firmly into the seat.
The Sorting Hat dropped onto his head.
The hat wriggled.
“Hey, kid, don’t be shy.
You’re not the first one to freeze up here.
Close your eyes and it’ll be over before you know it.
Doesn’t hurt a bit.” Ivan rolled his eyes.
He had been standing with the first-years long enough to form a few educated guesses about what was happening.
Part of him still refused to believe it.
Was this actually Hogwarts?
The school of witchcraft and wizardry?
But that was— The hat’s voice cut in right beside his ear.
“Yes, of course this is Hogwarts.
You’re not dreaming.
I can guarantee that a hundred percent.” “I’m guessing you’re Muggle-born, aren’t you?
Every few years we get a few who refuse to believe magic is real.
They keep trying to pull a long-eared rabbit out of me.
I tell them the hat is empty.
They never listen.” The Sorting Hat rambled on with its dry jokes, the tear in its mouth stretching almost to the brim.
The knowledge that the thing could read his mind made Ivan slam every stray thought shut.
He forced his head empty.
It didn’t entirely work.
Under the hat’s influence, fragments of memory flickered through him like a broken slideshow—disjointed pieces he couldn’t assemble.
A witch in her thirties with long golden hair, teaching him magic.
Her mouth moving.
Then a sudden, sharp spike of fear.
The Sorting Hat muttered that it had never met a first-year whose thoughts were quite this chaotic.
It was also surprised the boy was not Muggle-born.
Children raised in wizarding families usually knew about Hogwarts.
A cold sweat beaded on Ivan’s forehead.
The memories the hat was skimming belonged to the body’s original owner.
If this continued, there was no telling what secrets might surface.
He tried to focus on anything trivial.
McGonagall cleared her throat.
The Sorting Hat finally fell silent.
Ivan exhaled.
Curiosity remained, though.
Which house would it choose?
“Hmm.
Optimistic.
Clever.
Rather fond of overthinking.” The hat drew the words out, then dropped its voice to a near-whisper.
“And you know a little dark magic as well.” “I know dark magic?” Ivan murmured.
The earlier memory flashed again.
“Oh yes.
An old and rather rare piece of dark magic,” the hat confided, as if sharing gossip.
“Interesting stuff, in my opinion.
Lets a person see things they would rather not see.
Some have used it for pranks.
You might try that someday.” “Though Dumbledore would certainly prefer no one did,” it added dryly.
“So where am I going?
Slytherin?” Ivan was curious about the dark magic, but the immediate priority was getting the mind-reading hat off his head.
Of the four houses, Gryffindor demanded courage—or recklessness.
Ravenclaw wanted intelligence and a hunger for knowledge.
Slytherin looked for cunning and real magical talent.
Hufflepuff was the kindest and most inclusive, especially good with food charms—the natural home for any glutton.
A bit of dark magic fit Slytherin perfectly.
Or maybe the hat would decide he was clever enough for Ravenclaw.
Ivan allowed himself a brief flicker of vanity at the thought.
“No, no.
Neither of those.” The hat’s tone turned almost amused.
“This might disappoint you a little, but Slytherin usually only takes the truly gifted ones.
So…” “Gryffindor!” The hat’s voice rolled across the entire Great Hall.
“Gryffindor?” Ivan lifted the hat from his head, startled.
He hadn’t even had time to argue with its assessment of his talent.
“Yes, yes.
That’s where you belong.” The Sorting Hat sounded completely certain.
“I’ve never been wrong.
You have the right qualities.”