Chapter Text
The Sorting Ceremony at Hogwarts was always a spectacle. People often wondered how the Sorting Hat could be so aware, so intelligent—it wasn’t just any enchanted object, after all. But the truth about the hat’s nature was a closely guarded secret, one the current establishment had no intention of sharing.
The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as the First Years made their way inside. All eyes turned to James Jr., who waved with effortless confidence, like a prince greeting his subjects. Beside him, Ron stood tall, puffing out his chest with pride.
Amidst the sea of nervous First Years, a bushy-haired girl muttered frantically under her breath, her words a jumbled string of unintelligible syllables. Draco, already irritated by the incessant murmuring, opened his mouth to say something cutting—only to catch Harry’s gaze, a silent plea holding him back. Harry knew all too well the kind of nerves that came with arriving at an unknown place.
The girl had latched onto Neville Longbottom, who looked as though he might be sick at any moment. He nodded absently at everything she said, his eyes darting anxiously around the Great Hall. Harry caught snippets of her words—enough to tell she was Muggle-born and ravenous for knowledge.
Neville was perpetually unsure of himself, shrinking under the weight of expectation. He always seemed to trip over his words in front of James Jr., but Harry found him rather intriguing. For all his nervousness, Neville had an impressive depth of knowledge when it came to Herbology.
The Sorting Ceremony began, and a few familiar names from wizarding society were called. Hannah Abbott was placed in Hufflepuff alongside her friend Susan Bones, which surprised no one. Though they seemed unassuming, Harry knew firsthand how fierce they could be when provoked. He vividly recalled the time they had a spectacular row with Zacharias Smith—after that, he never dared cross them again.
“Granger, Hermione,” Professor McGonagall announced.
Harry’s gaze shifted to the bushy-haired girl as she stepped forward and perched nervously on the stool. So far, each student had been sorted fairly quickly, but this time, the Hat hesitated.
“That’s called a Hatstall,” Harry murmured to Tom Riddle, who was watching with curiosity. “It happens when someone has strong qualities for more than one house, and the Hat takes more than five minutes to decide. Professor McGonagall was one.”
Tom glanced at Harry and gave a small nod of appreciation. He seemed to like the way Harry explained things—straightforward and kind, never patronising. It meant Tom didn’t have to ask himself and reveal just how little he knew about this new world.
“Is there a reason that happens?” Tom asked quietly.
“Not really. There’s no pattern,” Harry replied.
At last, the Hat opened its mouth and declared:
“Gryffindor!”
The girl let out a breath of relief and stood, making her way to the Gryffindor table with a shaky smile, clearly grateful for the applause that greeted her and relieved to be out of the spotlight.
A few more names were called before—
“Longbottom, Neville.”
Harry’s interest piqued as Neville stepped forward. The Longbottoms were a well-known Light family, firmly rooted in Gryffindor for generations. However, Neville’s mother, Alice Longbottom (née Fortescue), came from a long line of Hufflepuffs.
Like Hermione, Neville spent a considerable amount of time under the Hat’s scrutiny. The delay set whispers rippling through the Great Hall, but at last, the Hat made its decision.
“Hufflepuff!”
Harry immediately noticed the smirks on James and Ron’s faces and let out a quiet sigh. He had expected as much.
Next, “Malfoy, Draco.”
Draco barely had time to sit before the Hat bellowed—
“Slytherin!”
Harry chuckled at the smug look on Draco’s face as he strutted towards the Slytherin table, looking for all the world like a particularly pleased peacock.
“Potter, Harry!”
The Great Hall fell into stunned silence. Every eye turned to him, the weight of countless expectations pressing down like a physical force. Everyone knew the Potters. Harry could feel the stares, the whispers, the curiosity burning through the air.
He cast one last soft smile at Tom Riddle before stepping forward, his expression calm, almost unreadable. He sat on the stool, and as Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head, a voice echoed in his mind.
Sorting Hat: Hmm… an interesting one, indeed. A sharp mind, always questioning, always learning. Ravenclaw would welcome you with open arms. But there’s something else… ambition, resourcefulness, a thirst to prove yourself. Slytherin could make you great.
Harry: (calmly) Slytherin, then.
Sorting Hat: Oh? Not many ask for it outright. Are you certain? Ravenclaw would nurture your mind, challenge you, push you towards greatness through knowledge.
Harry: I don’t just want knowledge—I want power. I want control over my own fate, to rise above those who think they know best.
Sorting Hat: Hmm… yes, I see that desire. But why Slytherin?
Harry: Power. Ambition. Strength. I’ve spent my life being powerless, pushed around. I won’t let that continue.
Sorting Hat: Ah, but knowledge is power, too. And Ravenclaws wield it masterfully. You could outthink your enemies rather than outmanoeuvre them.
Harry: I don’t want to just outthink them. I want to beat them.
The Hat chuckled, a deep, knowing sound.
Sorting Hat: Oh, you are a fascinating one. Well then, if you’re certain… best be…
“SLYTHERIN!”
A ripple of reactions swept through the hall. Draco looked relieved, while Dumbledore’s expression soured as though he’d swallowed something particularly unpleasant.
Harry smiled to himself. Without so much as a glance at his twin, he strode confidently to the Slytherin table, taking his seat among his new housemates.
“Potter, James!”
Silence fell once again as everyone turned their attention to the next Potter. The Hat barely touched James’s head before it bellowed—
“GRYFFINDOR!”
A thunderous cheer erupted from the Gryffindor table, as if the entire house had expected nothing less. James grinned and strutted over, basking in the attention.
A few more students were sorted before it was Tom Riddle’s turn. Harry felt a flicker of unease, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Draco, ever observant, caught the shift in his cousin’s expression and let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head in both annoyance and mild amusement at Harry’s interest in the new boy.
The Hat had barely settled on Tom’s head when it shouted—
“SLYTHERIN!”
For a brief moment, Tom’s carefully maintained composure slipped. A flash of something—shock, perhaps—crossed his face, but it vanished just as quickly. With his usual grace, he strode over to the Slytherin table and took the seat beside Harry without a word.
Before the meal could begin, Dumbledore rose from his seat.
“Welcome!” he declared, beaming at the assembled students. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”
Harry, Tom, and Draco exchanged unimpressed glances, rolling their eyes at the headmaster’s eccentricity. None of them had much patience for the old man’s theatrics.
The feast went on peacefully, with Tom quietly absorbing the conversations around him, determined to learn as much as he could about his housemates and the world he had been thrust into.
Once the plates were cleared, Dumbledore stood again, this time addressing the students with a more serious tone. He rattled off the usual school rules before adding, almost as an afterthought—
“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”
Harry frowned slightly and exchanged a glance with Draco, his mind already questioning why the supposed greatest wizard of the age would keep something so dangerous inside a school. But before he could dwell on it, his gaze landed on his twin, James, and Ron Weasley—both of whom were cheering and laughing as if Dumbledore had just issued them a personal challenge.
Something clicked in Harry’s mind.
It was going to be a long year.