Written for QLFC
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Beater 2
Prompt: The Sorting Hat (POV)
Additional Prompts: 10. (emotion) paranoia, 11. (dialogue) "Hey! Don't objectify me."
Words: 1938
A big thanks to Emily for betaing!
For a long time, the Sorting Hat was the only enchanted magical piece of clothing at Hogwarts. It was a lonely existence, sometimes. The Hat sat alone in the Headmaster's office for most of the year, save for the Sorting Ceremony. He was expected to spend the year composing, but he wasn't stupid. Each song took about a week, written in the summer before new students arrived.
The Headmaster didn't usually talk to the Hat, either. He—or she, of course—didn't ask for help or opinions, or even acknowledge the Hat most of the time.
For the first thousand years, that was how it was. Life was monotonous, sometimes boring, and rarely fulfilling. The Hat was barely ever mended, and became scruffier as time passed, and the pristine condition he boasted of in the time of Godric Gryffindor slowly disappeared.
It wasn't much of a life, but it was a life nonetheless.
And then Albus Dumbledore came around. The man was larger than life, almost as powerful and imposing as Godric himself. Albus Dumbledore was different. He was energetic, enigmatic… had the Sorting Hat not been a piece of clothing, he would have fallen in love.
As it was, he merely admired the new Headmaster, more so when the man talked to him.
The Hat never replied. He didn't speak aloud, much less to humans; that just didn't happen outside the Sorting Ceremony.
But even with the quiet, life suddenly became a lot more interesting. If Albus Dumbledore wasn't arguing with Ministry officials, he was guiding confused students. If he wasn't collecting obscure Muggle sweets, he was waging a war against the dark wizards of the world.
But perhaps the strangest thing Albus Dumbledore had ever done took place on October 19th. The year was 1963, if the Hat recalled correctly, and it had been a relatively peaceful week.
So the Hat wasn't surprised when Albus Dumbledore sauntered into his office and announced: "I've got great news for you!"
Something had to happen that week, and that something was apparently engineered by Dumbledore.
At first, the Sorting Hat wasn't sure what to think. But there was no one else in the room with them—the phoenix was out flying somewhere—, and despite the Headmaster's cheer, the Hat couldn't help but feel nervous.
After all, it wasn't often that he heard such an announcement. Given the Headmaster's uniquetaste, it could be either good or bad.
When Albus Dumbledore stepped back, the Hat knew: it was bad.
There, over Albus Dumbledore's shoulder, was an innocuous scarf. Colored and smiling, he was looking around; the scarf was an enchanted magical piece of clothing. The Hat growled to itself, not yet prepared to speak aloud.
But the scarf seemed to have no such reservations. He grinned at the Headmaster and said, "Thanks, Dumbledore, I think I'll like it here!"
No. No-no-no-no-no.
"And don't worry if helping students find themselves in this manner is too progressive for some people," the scarf was saying. "Knowing one's sexual preference is important. I think they'll understand it eventually, if not this year, then the year after."
Is he replacing me?
The Sorting Hat had been doing his job for over a thousand years. There was no way a colorful—and admittedly beautiful—scarf was going to take his place.
.oOo.
Two days later, the Sorting Hat was still fuming. The scarf—identified as the Scarf of Sexual Preference, which was a still-pending title—was now on the Hat's shelf. Why on earth he had to share with such a… lowly… object, the Hat had no idea.
And yet, despite the Hat's open hostility towards the Scarf, the Scarf hadn't retaliated. He smiled and tried to make conversation. He offered to help with song composition and tried to gossip about some of the more obnoxious students.
The Sorting Hat was fuming.
No one could ever be better than him, especially not some new, snazzy scarf that was kind and open.
.oOo.
On the third day, the Hat finally cracked.
The headmaster had ceased talking to him, now consulting solely with the Scarf—the Hat's previous paranoia was becoming reality. When Albus Dumbledore—who was slowly losing his credibility in the Hat's eyes—left the room, the Hat turned to its new companion.
He let out the previously-contained anger. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"What?" the Scarf asked innocently, flashing his stupid smile.
"You know… the thing you're doing. This—this 'I'm better than you' thing you've got going on!" The Hat couldn't believe he was trying to play innocent. "Don't think you can fool me. I see the way you string the Headmaster along, all those colors and smiles and laughs. You're not amazing, you're nothing but a scarf!"
"Hey!" The Scarf frowned, but he didn't look angry yet. "Don't objectify me!"
"Objectify you?" He couldn't believe this ridiculousness. "You're objectifying yourself! You flounce around, all 'Yes Sirs' and 'That's a great idea, Dumbledores', and I'm just pointing it out! You're nothing more than the way you present yourself—obnoxious and unnecessary—so of course I'm objectifying you. Not to mention the fact that you are an object."
The Scarf blinked innocently. His eyes widened as comprehension dawned in them. "You... you hate me."
"Yes."
"But… why?"
"Why?" Come to think of it…
"Is it because I'm new?" The Scarf's look was anything but trustworthy, but the Hat listened anyway, just in case. "Because I've seen it in students. They're scared of change and competition, so they close themselves off to it and to new opportunities. When they're faced with anything they're uncomfortable with, they lash out."
"Are you… are you comparing me to a teenager?"
"Yes."
Well, that's certainly a standpoint. The Hat thought for a moment. He knew enough about teenagers to accept their desires and motivations, and what the Scarf was saying wasn't false.
"Hey," the Scarf said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It's okay if you're a bit scared. I know I would be, if someone new came into my life."
"I…" The Hat knew that if he had been human, he would have blushed. As it was, he just felt horrible: Hogwarts was all about celebration and acceptance. As its mascot, the Hat was supposed to be welcoming and kind. "I'm sorry."
"No harm done." The Scarf shuffled over. "That was rude and annoying, but I think we can move past it, right?"
"Right."
.oOo.
"You know," the Scarf said several days later, after they'd spent hours bonding, "I left my old school because I was replaced."
"Oh," the Hat said. Yes, that was his greatest fear, but to have it actually happen… he shuddered. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's alright." A half-shrug. "I believe that things happen for a reason. I was replaced because I had to come here. I had to come here because you were repressed and lonely."
"That's some philosophy," the Hat muttered.
"Oh, cheer up, Sorty!"
"'Sorty'?" Something's wrong with my ears, dear Merlin.
"Yeah." Another shrug, then a grin. "You're the Sorting Hat. Hence, 'Sorty.' I like to be called 'Scarfy', but that's just me. Nicknames make everything so much more friendly, don't you think?"
The Hat didn't think so, but it was better to agree than to argue. He nodded. "Fine."
"Great!" The Scarf—Scarfy—wiggled his way closer. "So the other day…"
The Hat rolled his eyes. Great. That was what the days had turned into. Total boredom had become incessant chatter, and he was annoyed, of course, but… but. There was something about the Scarf of Sexual Preference, something other than his obsession with friendship and romance, that drew the Hat in.
.oOo.
Weeks passed, and the Hat's life had completely changed. It was no longer lonely and boring. The days were long and interesting, and spent in the company of Scarfy.
Once he got over his initial hostility and reservations, the Sorting Hat—or Sorty, as he was now known to his friend—began to enjoy the other magical object's company. It was the last thing he ever would have expected.
Albus Dumbledore even started consulting with him again, asking both the Hat and the Scarf for help and advice. He wanted to make Hogwarts a better place, he said, and who better to talk to about it than magical objects who looked into students' minds?
The Headmaster proposed odd ideas and went about saving the world from evil. Life went back to normal.
.oOo.
1964 was a good year.
The Hat fulfilled his New Years' Resolution of writing independent poetry as well as music, went on summer vacation with Scarfy and Albus Dumbledore, and found love.
It was the latter that was the most exciting, however enjoyable the former had been.
It was a chilly day, the draft in the castle making the Hat's loose stitching ache. He and Scarfy were cuddled against each other when Scarfy suddenly moved away.
"You alright?" the Hat asked.
"Yeah." Scarfy gave an affirmative wiggle. "Just… I have a question."
"Go ahead."
"How old are you, Sorty?"
"That's hardly a polite question."
"I never said it was going to be a polite question. Humor me? Please?"
The Hat shrugged. "Fine. A thousand years, I think, give or take."
"Wow." Scarfy hadn't been alive that long—they'd discussed their ages before, but not in detail—and seemed impressed. "In those thousand years, Sorty, have you ever been in a relationship?"
"Excuse me?"
"A relationship." Scarfy repeated. "You know, that thing that two beings who are attracted to each other get into? It's supposed to bring happiness and support. Ever been in one?"
"Romantically, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Oh." The Hat thought for a moment. "No."
Scarfy looked despondent, the way he usually did when the Hat was being dismissive; he talked so often of loving love. "No, neither have I."
Where is this heading? "And?"
"And…" Scarfy paused, looked around, took a deep breath, and looked the Hat straight in the eyes. "I like you."
"Oh."
"I like you. In a… in a romantic way. And yeah, this is sudden and whatever, but romance is supposed to be spontaneous and ridiculous, and to hell with realism, so…" He shifted his eyes. "I like you. A lot. What do… uh, what do you think?"
"I think it's a very spontaneous confession." The Hat tried to remain pragmatic. Where Scarfy always followed the heart, he tried to be more reasonable. But Scarfy was right: romance was supposed to be spontaneous and ridiculous, and to hell with realism.
"And?"
"And I think I second that notion." There was nothing intellectual about romance. "I think… and don't take my word for it completely because I'm just a beat-up old hat with no clue about any of this… Scarfy, I think I like you, too."
.oOo.
Whenever there was a draft in Albus Dumbledore's office, the Sorting Hat moved closer to Scarfy. It made more sense for them to be closer together because of organizational issues, but more than that, they liked each other.
It had been years, and still, some days, especially when the draft was heavy, the Hat felt the romance as acutely as it had before.
They cuddled and whispered sweet nothings to each other, words that they'd picked up over years of eavesdropping on the thoughts of overly hormonal teenagers.
They advised the Headmaster, but he mostly let them alone, once saying: "Who am I to interrupt happiness?"
Of course, as they were enchanted magical objects, there was no such thing as an end to their courtship. They could get married, they could date, they could fight—they had forever.