I do not own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, etc.; all I own is my little first-year OC, and even she doesn't have a name.
Enjoy!
Professor McGonagall's stern voice resounded across the near silent Great Hall, the odd whisper or smothered giggle being the only noise to break the tense atmosphere surrounding the intimidated, excited, terrified first-years crowded against the old stone steps at the front of the great dining hall.
One, smaller than small first year—the owner of the name from the stern professor's voice—stepped forward, away from the group of tittering young witches and wizards that now stood behind her. She climbed up the stone steps one at a time, on trembling legs and wobbly knees, her fingers wringing the front of her brand-new robe.
Intelligent young eyes darted from one corner to the next, occasionally pausing at a seated professor, a floating candle, or a stone statue, but never on the glaring heap of dark fabric before her. The young girl shuffled timidly to the stool, carefully sliding onto the worn wooden seat. Her eyes met Professor McGonagall's for a split second, before skittering back to a single point on the other side of the hall.
She flinched when she felt the weight of the Sorting Hat suddenly resting atop her head, a discordant hum vibrating through her skull as the Hat began to make a decision. It hummed, and chuckled, and made a noise of surprise, but it didn't say a word.
The little witch trembled, her fingers twisting the black fabric and her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. In a fit of terrified impatience, the girl began to mumble her wish, barely loud enough for even her own ears to catch, but hopefully loud enough for whatever god, goddess, or otherwise that may have been watching over her.
The Sorting Hat, however, could hear her loud and clear.
"Gryffindor, you say?" A surprised, rather disbelieving note entered the Hat's voice as it regarded the girl. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her shoulders were hunched and drawn up to her ears, and her fingers were still wrenching the front of her robes from one hand to the other and back again. "You'd make a good Ravenclaw, with that intelligence, maybe a Hufflepuff, with your loyalty, but a Gryffindor? Hmm."
The girl jumped, startled by the Sorting Hat's sudden words. Her voice trembled when she spoke, but there was a strength underneath the timidity, a spark that held the potential to become a roaring blaze, if nurtured and grown properly.
"Y-yes," she said quietly. "I-I want to be in Gryffindor." The Sorting Hat hummed again, this time in confusion.
"But why—ah, of course." The Hat chuckled as the girl's reasoning became suddenly clear. But before it could speak again, the little witch spoke, her words clear and her voice strong.
"I want to learn how to be brave. I want them to teach me how to be brave. I don't want to be afraid anymore." The Sorting Hat was silent. It was rare that a case such as this would appear. The girl may be better off in Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff, but she was young, and there was something in her that could just as well prosper with the Gryffindors.
"Very well," it murmured, so quietly that the small first-year could only hear a vague hum. She bit her lip, unsure of what the Hat would decide for her. She felt it shift on her head, and she clenched her aching fingers in anticipation.
The Sorting Hat opened its maw wide, as if taking a deep breath, and called out its decision, the single word echoing throughout the Great Hall.
"GRYFFINDOOOOR!"
So, this was the first fic that I was confident enough in to actually post, even though it's barely 600 words long, and at the moment it's only really just a one-shot. That being said, if enough people want it (heh, and this is where my hopes go up), I might have an idea or two to turn this into a full, multi-chapter story.
So, let me know what you think, I'm open for suggestions, and while flames may irreparably tarnish my self-esteem, I'll accept those too out of want for reviews.
Au revoir!
-Ink