The door swung open.
A dark-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood waiting.
The chatter died instantly.
Every first-year froze, like students caught whispering when the headmistress materializes at the back of the room.
Even Hagrid straightened up.
“First years, Professor McGonagall.”
“Thank you, Hagrid.
I’ll take it from here.”
Her eyes swept the crowd as she spoke, pausing on Hylan.
She held the look a moment, then turned away and pulled the door wide.
They followed her inside.
A grand marble staircase rose straight ahead.
Torches blazed along the stone walls, flooding the hall with light.
The damp chill of the Black Lake lifted off their robes.
McGonagall led them to a small chamber at the far end of the hall.
“Welcome to Hogwarts.”
She delivered the annual opening speech with practiced ease.
“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly.
But before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you must be sorted into your houses.
The Sorting is a ceremony of great importance…”
Her gaze passed over the bewildered faces.
She explained the four houses.
“Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.”
She finished with a final instruction.
“The Sorting takes place before the entire school.
I suggest you use the wait to make yourselves presentable.”
“I will return when they are ready for us.”
The moment she left, the room erupted.
Everyone wanted to know how the Sorting actually worked.
“Do we choose?
Or do the heads of house pick?”
“I heard there’s a test.
A thousand herb names from memory.
Or brew a potion on the spot.”
“That’s just exams.
My brother said they hit you with an Unforgivable Curse.
If you survive, you’re in.”
“That’s not a school.
That’s Azkaban.”
Hermione frowned at the wild speculation.
“Hylan, do you know how it works?
I read Hogwarts: A History, but there’s nothing about the Sorting in it.”
Generations of witches and wizards had kept the secret airtight.
Every year, they fed the new kids fresh nonsense.
It seemed to be a national pastime.
Hylan found the tradition boring.
So he decided to add his own fuel to the fire.
He shook his head, looking just as clueless as everyone else.
“No idea.
But maybe we can ask them.”
He nodded toward the ghosts drifting through the wall.
The first-years scrambled backward, pressing against the stone.
The ghosts, bored and aimless, spotted the fresh crop of wide-eyed faces and lit up like they’d found new toys.
One ghost pulled his own head off, tossed it spinning into the air, and caught it on his neck again.
Sometimes it landed backward.
He’d just twist it a hundred and eighty degrees with both hands.
The students flinched at first.
But the ghosts were friendly, and the act was genuinely impressive.
After a few rounds, the braver kids started critiquing the performances.
Wizards really did adapt fast.
Hylan approached a ghost in a ruff.
“Excuse me.
How does the Sorting work?
I heard they summon an animal from each house out of a hat, and you have to fight it.
Beat the lion, you get Gryffindor.”
The ghost stared at him.
A strange understanding passed between them.
“Oh, absolutely.” The ghost nodded gravely, steadying his wobbling head with one hand.
“Last year I saw a student eaten by the Gryffindor lion.
The Slytherin serpent got three more.”
Several first-years went pale.
Hylan heard crying.
Someone wanted to go home.
He put on a terrified face too.
Played along completely.
[Silver Tongue: Proficiency +7]
He was satisfied.
Sorry, classmates.
But your experience points are just too good.
“H-Hylan…” Neville’s face crumpled.
“I don’t think I can make Gryffindor.
I can’t fight a lion.”
Right.
Too much.
He’d scared the sword saint too.
Hermione’s eyes went wide.
“I have to fight a lion?”
Hylan tried to walk it back.
“It might not be true…”
That only made it worse.
The first-years panicked harder.
[Silver Tongue: Proficiency +9]
Hylan said nothing.
“Ron, you don’t look scared,” Harry whispered.
“Please.
A lion or a snake is nothing.
My brothers told me I’d have to wrestle a dragon.”
“Then I guess we got lucky.”
When McGonagall returned, the first-years looked like Flobberworms drained of every drop of slime.
Limp.
Defeated.
She frowned.
This batch seemed unusually subdued.
They shuffled into a line and followed her out of the chamber, through the entrance hall, and past a set of double doors into the Great Hall.
The hall was enormous.
Four long tables packed with students still left room to spare.
Gold plates and goblets gleamed.
Thousands of candles floated overhead, filling the space with warm light.
Beyond the candles, the ceiling wasn’t stone at all.
It was a sky of churning clouds and scattered stars.
Every first-year who noticed it gasped.
“It’s enchanted,” Hermione whispered.
“To look like the sky outside.
I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”
They stopped at the front of the hall.
The staff table sat on a raised platform.
Dumbledore occupied the center seat in deep purple robes, his half-moon spectacles framing kind, steady eyes.
The chair beside him was empty.
McGonagall’s, probably.
Next to that sat the Slytherin head of house, Severus Snape, his hair greasy and unwashed.
Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout, the other two heads, sat on Dumbledore’s far side.
Hagrid was there too, along with the annual Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
McGonagall placed a four-legged stool before the first-years.
On it she set a patched, grimy pointed wizard’s hat.
Some students flinched, still expecting a lion or a snake to burst out.
The hall fell silent.
The hat twitched.
A wide seam split open near the brim, and it began to sing.
The melody was nothing special.
But the lyrics made one thing clear: the Sorting meant putting on the hat.
Relief swept through the first-years.
Dirty and ugly, sure.
But better than fighting a lion.
McGonagall unrolled a long parchment and began reading names.
“Hannah Abbott.”
“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat shouted.
The Sorting went by surname, alphabetically.
Hylan’s last name, Prewett, started with P.
Same batch as Potter.
Neville and Hermione would go before him.
The list moved fast.
Soon they hit the G’s.
“Hermione Granger.”
Hermione shot Hylan a quick look, then nearly ran to the stool.
She pulled the hat on.
It twisted its brim and called out, “GRYFFINDOR!”
She pulled the hat off and caught Hylan’s eye, her expression saying everything: You were right.
Neville wiped his forehead on his sleeve and tried to steady himself.
Hylan’s divination was dead on.
He was going to make Gryffindor.
He felt it.
A real confidence, rising from somewhere inside him.
He scanned the crowd for Theodore Nott.
Theodore was glaring right at him.
Neville flinched.
But then he found Hylan’s face, and something hardened.
He straightened up and glared back.
Theodore’s face twisted with rage.
That spineless coward was staring him down.
It was infuriating.
And it was all Hylan’s fault.
“Neville Longbottom.”
Neville took a deep breath and nodded at Hylan.
“Walk slow, Mr.
Longbottom.”
“Okay.”
He crossed to the stool without tripping.
Nervous, but steady.
He pulled the hat on and shut his eyes.
A small voice murmured in his ear.
“Difficult.
Very difficult.”
His stomach clenched.
His hands gripped his robes.
What if the hat saw what a coward he was and sent him to scrub toilets?
His gran would be heartbroken.
Hylan would be humiliated because of him.
“Gryffindor… Gryffindor…”
He whispered it under his breath, trying to will it true.
But he felt his body go cold, the warmth draining out of him.
The silence stretched.
Students started shifting.
Then the hat bellowed, “GRYFFINDOR!”
Neville couldn’t believe it.
His body reacted before his brain.
The cold vanished, replaced by a rush of warmth.
He jumped off the stool and ran toward Hylan, shouting.
“Gryffindor!
Gryffindor!”
He was so happy he forgot to give the hat back.
Laughter rippled through the hall.
Neville froze, confused.
Hylan grinned and pointed at his own head.
Neville realized he was still wearing the hat.
He ran back, red-faced, and handed it to McGonagall.
The students who’d seen the confrontation with Theodore started jeering.
They called Nott’s name and rained down boos.
Theodore’s face cycled through white and red.
He glared at Neville and Hylan with pure venom.
He hadn’t believed Neville would actually get Gryffindor.
Hylan had called it.
The anger burned, but underneath it, relief.
At least he hadn’t taken the bet.
That made him feel clever.
Smarter than them, anyway.
The Sorting continued.
Harry was called.
Then, soon after, Hylan.
“Hylan Prewett.”