Word count: 900

Written for: QLFC, main character 'Sorting Hat'

Writer's Block and Other Lifelong Regrets

The Hat reached deep into his mind, recalling words from decades before, and letting them swirl throughout his consciousness as he thought. He could envision the sorting ceremony of any year on record, and instantly recall the lyrics of any song he had sung, but none of these images could aid the current situation—that is, that it was August 31st, 2015, and the Hat had nothing.

It had been so much easier when the wizarding world was in the midst of war, when the Hat could make some dire prophecy and warning to the school, but now? Now, his biggest concerns were mothballs and dementia.

Yes, the centuries-old Sorting Hat was scared of old age.

But the point was that he had no ideas. What could a Hat of his age and esteemed wisdom possibly say?

His ragged mouth crinkled further, and his beady eyes squinted as he gazed into the depths of the Headmistress' office. Inspiration could come from anywhere. Once, he'd spied a particularly garish bowler hat sitting on an ornate hat stand and worked it into his song. Another year, paintings of the four Founders brought back old memories of the time when he was newly sewn.

But this year was different. Perhaps he was right about growing old, because nothing seemed to spark excitement in him anymore. Without Dumbledore to talk to—McGonagall, capable as she was, being no replacement for the lively banter the old wizard had shared with him on occasion—his existence was wearily uneventful.

Merlin, thought the Hat. Even his years with Scarfy, the scarf of sexual preference, had been more amusing than this! He'd hated the dratted, grin-stamped creation with a fierce passion, but the years they'd spent locked in Dumbledore's office were truly some of his... least unfavorite ones. They'd discussed the meaning of life, played Exploding Snap, and tested each other's House and preference until that fateful day when Scarfy was taken away.

The hat slumped, letting his worn-out fabric hang loosely from his hat-frame skeleton.

He had a few hours to think of something, anything, that would do.

Bright and early on September first, the Hat woke abruptly from his nighttime slumber. Peering at the Headmistress, who was busily perusing the day's Daily Prophet (presumably delivered by an owl just moments before) he spoke loudly to attract her attention.

"Good morning, Headmistress, inspiration to us all, et cetera, et cetera..." he drawled.

McGonagall glanced up, furrowed her brow, then returned to her intent reading. "Yes, what is it?"

"I was simply attempting to start a pleasant conversation. Don't mind me for being polite." The Hat pointedly looked away, muttering to himself behind the sound of rustling newspaper.

"I see."

There was quiet, and more paper rustling sounds. She wasn't listening, but perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

"I'm having sexual relations with Scarfy," the Hat said in the most convincing voice he could muster. "I thought you should know."

After McGonagall sat down, leafing through pages to the Wizarding World News section, he continued.

"Also, I haven't finished this year's pre-sorting song."

This, of all things, seemed to find its way into the witch's ears, as she sat up ramrod straight and stared at the Hat, her mouth forming a wide 'O' shape. "You what, Sorting Hat?"

He shifted, scooting backwards into the glass case, despite there being nowhere to move. "Yes, it seems that I may have. Forgotten, that is." With no shame whatsoever, he shrugged at the Headmistress, his entire body becoming of the movement. "I suppose it'll have to be improvised this year."

McGonagall's chin dropped even further, so much that the Hat could see right down her throat.

He gulped, or would have if he possessed a throat of his own. "I assure you that I'm as regretful as you are about the situati-"

"1,200 YEARS OF SORTING, YOU'VE HAD, AND NOW YOU DECIDE ON A COP-OUT?!"

McGonagall's face, still a bit pink in the cheeks, was angled towards him from her position at the front of the Great Hall. She glared in between sentences, silently daring him to make a fool of her.

The Hat coughed meaningfully.

This was his show.

The entire hall of children, professors, and ghosts was watching him, expectantly waiting for another glorious song that would honor the Founders, guide the first years, and honor the memory of the dead. The line of eleven year-olds stretched miles into the shadows of the entryway, and their scared little faces failed to move him. Even as his expression faltered briefly when he caught sight of a familiar-looking face—that was Potter's son, it had to be—it quickly returned to an old standby of his: vaguely disinterested.

Every year, he provided one of those silly songs, did as he was told, and returned to his shelf in the Head's office for another year of loneliness and self-reflection. Well, he'd had enough of that.

Maybe that was why he'd procrastinated on writing this year's song—because he wanted a bit of attention for once, not just casual appreciation. He wanted something more to think back on for the next 364 days. And who could blame him? The Headmistress was right; he'd spent 1,200 years sorting staring into children's minds, but failed to read his own.

He knew what he had to do.

The Hat opened his brim-mouth to sing...