"Goyle, Gregory."
Malfoy's iron-colored eyes narrowed suspiciously as he examined his crony's shambling gait toward the four-legged stool. The large, floppy hat, an unbelievably old cone of animal hide that decided the fate of hundreds - no, thousands, or better yet, tens of thousands - of wizards and witches over the years, came down over the trollish first-year's face. There was a second's pause, in which Malfoy felt a wild panic of finding his friend a Ravenclaw - or worse, Gryffindor, but of course the hat barked out a secure "SLYTHERIN!"
Malfoy wondered what had come over him. Goyle, a Ravenclaw. He sniggered to himself at the thought of the big oaf in one of their Arithmancy discussions or Astronomy poetry readings.
He took off the hat and handed it to McGonagall, finding his counterpart, Crabbe, at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was immensely pleased to see them save a seat next to them, and felt himself grow bored as he waited for his turn to be Sorted.
"Malfoy, Draco."
He swaggered up to the stool, already sure of the answer. After all, he was a Malfoy, he was the son of a Slytherin, son of a Slytherin, son of a Slytherin, brother of a - Ravenclaw? Never mind that black sheep. He sat down, his omnipresent smirk now more obvious than ever, and took a quick glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction before the hat came over his smooth, whitish-blonde hair and sharp grey eyes.
"A Malfoy?" the hat was saying to him, a little surprised, with a mysteriously playful overtone in its voice.
"That's my name, don't wear it out," replied Malfoy laconically, liking the witty sound his thoughts took inside his own brain.
"I've been waiting for this a very long time," said the hat slowly, with a strange hint of cruelty and mirth in his searching voice, like a cat overlooking a trapped mouse it had been chasing for years.
"C'mon, just say it already," thought Malfoy impatiently. A few more seconds of waiting, and people might begin to doubt his eminent and obvious selection into the finest house of Hogwarts -
"HUFFLEPUFF!" screamed the hat.
An enraged Nundu could not bring a collective panic to some small, African wizarding village nearer to that of Malfoy's. He broke out in a cold sweat, his eyes popping out while his mouth developed an angry tic, and his pale face went positively pasty. His breath became short and he quivered in rage and disbelief before bringing himself to speak.
"NOOOO!" he yelled furiously, and tore off the hat. He ripped out his wand, paused for a moment, as he didn't know any spells just yet, and then began to hack at the Sorting Hat with it while screaming unintelligible, but undoubtably vile, obscenities.
"IT - WAS - A - JOKE!" squealed the Hat between its repeated floggings by the murderous first-year. McGonagall ran up to the stool and threw Malfoy off the sorry piece of leather. She held it up and examined the large amount of new holes and bruises in the ancient article of clothes critically.
The tear near the brim opened, and the Great Hall was deadly silent as it squeaked out a feeble "Slytherin" and then collapsed, unconscious, in McGonagall's hand.
"Damn straight!" yelled Malfoy, smoothing back his hair with one stroke of his hand.
He walked to Slytherin table.
Malfoy's iron-colored eyes narrowed suspiciously as he examined his crony's shambling gait toward the four-legged stool. The large, floppy hat, an unbelievably old cone of animal hide that decided the fate of hundreds - no, thousands, or better yet, tens of thousands - of wizards and witches over the years, came down over the trollish first-year's face. There was a second's pause, in which Malfoy felt a wild panic of finding his friend a Ravenclaw - or worse, Gryffindor, but of course the hat barked out a secure "SLYTHERIN!"
Malfoy wondered what had come over him. Goyle, a Ravenclaw. He sniggered to himself at the thought of the big oaf in one of their Arithmancy discussions or Astronomy poetry readings.
He took off the hat and handed it to McGonagall, finding his counterpart, Crabbe, at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was immensely pleased to see them save a seat next to them, and felt himself grow bored as he waited for his turn to be Sorted.
"Malfoy, Draco."
He swaggered up to the stool, already sure of the answer. After all, he was a Malfoy, he was the son of a Slytherin, son of a Slytherin, son of a Slytherin, brother of a - Ravenclaw? Never mind that black sheep. He sat down, his omnipresent smirk now more obvious than ever, and took a quick glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction before the hat came over his smooth, whitish-blonde hair and sharp grey eyes.
"A Malfoy?" the hat was saying to him, a little surprised, with a mysteriously playful overtone in its voice.
"That's my name, don't wear it out," replied Malfoy laconically, liking the witty sound his thoughts took inside his own brain.
"I've been waiting for this a very long time," said the hat slowly, with a strange hint of cruelty and mirth in his searching voice, like a cat overlooking a trapped mouse it had been chasing for years.
"C'mon, just say it already," thought Malfoy impatiently. A few more seconds of waiting, and people might begin to doubt his eminent and obvious selection into the finest house of Hogwarts -
"HUFFLEPUFF!" screamed the hat.
An enraged Nundu could not bring a collective panic to some small, African wizarding village nearer to that of Malfoy's. He broke out in a cold sweat, his eyes popping out while his mouth developed an angry tic, and his pale face went positively pasty. His breath became short and he quivered in rage and disbelief before bringing himself to speak.
"NOOOO!" he yelled furiously, and tore off the hat. He ripped out his wand, paused for a moment, as he didn't know any spells just yet, and then began to hack at the Sorting Hat with it while screaming unintelligible, but undoubtably vile, obscenities.
"IT - WAS - A - JOKE!" squealed the Hat between its repeated floggings by the murderous first-year. McGonagall ran up to the stool and threw Malfoy off the sorry piece of leather. She held it up and examined the large amount of new holes and bruises in the ancient article of clothes critically.
The tear near the brim opened, and the Great Hall was deadly silent as it squeaked out a feeble "Slytherin" and then collapsed, unconscious, in McGonagall's hand.
"Damn straight!" yelled Malfoy, smoothing back his hair with one stroke of his hand.
He walked to Slytherin table.