Every year. Every bloody year. More and more children try me on, the brim tipping over their eyes, their little bodies fidgeting with anxiety and uneasiness. Their minds full of horrors.
The Malfoy boy, his mind painted with images of his father Crucio-ing him over a simple mistake. A misspoken spell that turned a plate into a frog instead of a cup. The boy was seven.
The Longbottom child, his uncle dangling him out a window by his ankles. Out a window! And nobody in the family seeing it for what it was, abuse, because it had shown he had magic. What if he hadn't had magic? What if the boy was a squib? His brains would have splattered all over the back garden.
The Granger girl, her parents demanding perfection. And when she didn't meet it...it made my heart (if you can say a Hat has a heart) sick. Countless hours into the night, poring over her books, the shadows under her eyes melding with the bruises. The flesh on her body wasting away, the pounds melting off, as she refused to eat in her quest for perfection.
The Weasley twins, lighthearted pranksters on the outside, but being tormented and molested by a neighbor down the road. He'd threatened to harm the other if they did not comply. They were as one soul in two bodies, and could not argue.
And well I remembered the Snape lad. His mind full of broken bottles and hidden bruises. His magic squelched with a rough Muggle hand. His only friend torn away by a chance Sorting. But he didn't belong in Gryffindor. He would never have been treated well in that House.
Crouch Jr., his tongue flicking out to one side even then. How I had wished for a true body, more than just the form of a Hat, when I read his mind. The torments his father put him through. When I learned from the Longbottom child's mind about the twists Barty Jr.'s path had taken, I was saddened but not surprised. He'd had so much potential-wasted for his father's demands.
Riddle-there was a demented child. Even then. I knew things would not go well. His parents, the experiences in the orphanage...no, I expected Lord Voldemort to rise.
And the Potter boy. Oh Merlin, the Boy Who Lived. Locked in a cupboard for ten years, neglected, battered, yet somehow his spirit still shines on. Every year, I look around the Great Hall, trying to spy his head of messy black hair, hoping against hope that he has not taken the turns He Who Must Not Be Named went down. So far, I have proven successful. I know he has a piece of Lord Voldemort's soul trapped in his mind. I see all, you know. But the light in his soul still flickers and has not gone out.
So many children. So many hurting, abused children and I can do nothing. It is part of the magic my creator imbued in me, that I cannot speak of another's Sorting to someone else. Not even to the Headmaster or Headmistress of the school.
So all I can do is wait. Wait and hope that it's not just the Sorting Hat that will see all.
And every year, I am burdened with a new crop of children's burdens.