Disclaimer: So the cap belongs to JKR. I'm only playing.
A/N: Personal challenge, a drabble. 500 words, and a bit of an Idea. What really goes on in the mind of a Thinking Cap? An unlikely character study.
THE SORTING HAT
Existence was peering into minds, seeking truth. Or seeking surface thoughts, at least. It knew enough of humanity to see who they were on the outermost inside. It didn't really have eyes; but there are many different kinds of sight. And it knew enough of people to know what they were, as well.
And what it was.
Hat, cap, bonnet, helmet, hood. Wool, canvas, twill, leather, fur. All these and more, it had seen in the minds of the children.
It was made to protect, though not from the elements.
To sort.
Its maker had been a witch, with magic in needle and thread; power, lent to a labor of heart and hand. One of the Four, clever and kind enough to leave something of herself to the School they had made together. Before the seams had splintered, leaving only legends in their wake. Now, in her memory, it stitched the lives of the future together, in patterns that would make or break the world.
It saw them all, though there were many that it did not see. But what it had was enough – those few who could destroy and create, seam-rippers and seam-menders, sat under its brim. For some, the way of the future was obvious. For others, time was needed. Time to see. Time to sort.
It had a mouth. It could have called itself the poorest weaver; one who could only use what was given to forge newness. But it had a funny kind of wisdom. And it understood, in a vague sort of way, that bonds between people were both stronger and weaker than the thread that bound its essence to life. To sort.
It was enchanted, of course. What in the Wizarding world wasn't? Enchanted to think and learn, but more importantly, to hold and remember. In a moment of pragmatism on her part, enchanted to repel moths, louses and time. But mostly, it was just enchanted.
To sort.
It supposed that it was sentient, if thinking was all that was required for that. It had a purpose and an existence. It could judge, weigh, measure – and evaluate the consequences of its choices.
Some of which were harsher than others.
Some of which were rightness, grown wrong under the influence of past choices. The pattern stretched out of time.
After all, everyone had the ability to split seams, or to repair them. Far fewer did both, or chose to.
The four. The future. The opportunity . . .
It only heard later, through the murmurings of the castle, what they had called themselves. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
And it could feel the whisperings of Fate's sister, Chance. Sometimes low, sometimes humming in the very weave of its cloth.
It did not think it believed in destiny, after all. Because, you see, there is always a Chance . . .
To change.
To sort.
A few pieces of cloth, loose and ragged seams, and a twist of magic.
It was enough to change the world.
Fin