Dean Thomas entered the Great Hall, numbly taking in the clouds of floating candles, the sheer, high walls that made him feel like he was at the bottom of a canyon, and the hundreds upon thousands of students who turned to glare at the small huddle of first years. He looked down the extraordinary length of the canyon-hall, and nearly turned back when he contemplated the great distance he had to walk to the front. It was simply too far to go under the judgmental stares of the entire school.

The small pod of first years began shuffling forward. Dean was carried with it.

And what would he do when he reached the end of that great walk? He was to be tested somehow, the boy on the train, Seamus, had told him. But what kind of test? What if he failed? Dean was nearly certain he would; he had just learned about this new world, and knew next to nothing about it. He was a stranger, a foreigner, non-native, just a displaced eleven-year-old kid.

"It's only a hat, it's only a hat..." Seamus was muttering, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Dean glanced at the boy, but then looked away quickly. Seamus was pale and frightened. Seeing someone who looked as nervous as Dean felt did nothing for his own confidence levels.

They had been walking for ages, gathering momentum slowly. Dean was swept along with them. Did the front of the Hall keep moving away? Dean swung his head around, desperate for some way to escape the scrutiny of the masses. He eyes travelled up the sides of the canyon, and up, and up… and his gaze didn't halt at vaulted ceiling, but shot up unexpectedly into a tranquil sky. Stars glittered down at him. The airy heavens seemed out of place inside of the firmly rooted stone castle, but he was glad to see the stars. Oddly, the infinity of space didn't make him feel as small as the hall had done. He felt big. He knew his place in relation to them, and he felt... watched over. The familiar sight of the stars suddenly bolstered his courage and in that moment, there was no mountain too great. Dean decided that he could take whatever test they wanted to throw at him, and he would beat it, with his wit, or nerve, or tenacity. Or maybe even his newfound magic...!

They had reached the front. Dean turned to face the hall. Students seated at four long tables faced him. The mass of people caused the confidence, or perhaps cockiness, he had just built up to waver some, but he was still left with a firm resolve. He could do this!

How would he do this, though? If it was a test... would it test his knowledge? He reasoned that the best course of action, at this moment, was to compile the every bit of information he had gained in his eleven years and set it at the forefront of his mind before his name was called and he would have to step up to the test. In later years, Dean would remember how ridiculous he had been, but at the time, it all seemed very rational. He started running through everything he knew (he could think of), trying to review (cram), prepare in for whatever what set to him. Dean thought, teachers had always placed a stupid amount of importance on maths, but there must be a reason, so he decided to start by running through his multiplication tables.

Twelve and two is twenty-four. Twelve and three is thirty-six. Twelve and four is… twelve and four is forty-eight!

The severe professor placed an old and frayed hat on a four-legged stool. The thick earthy fabric sagged under the weight of years. A rip near the brim suddenly opened like a mouth. The hat seemed to draw itself up, and then began to sing.

Its song mentioned sleek and tall top hats, and bowlers, and Dean's nervous mind reacted by supplying him with associations, images of other hats. Dean encouraged the connections, trying as he was to map out the web of his memories. He thought of hamburgs and coxswain's caps, panamas and boaters, opera hats and berets. Oddly, his mind also supplied 'la boina,' a beret in Spain, which is funny, because berets are French, and he remembered his school friend Jaime's mother, who was Guatemalan, complementing his 'boina roja,' and oh god what's the hat saying now? He had no word for that kind of hat, the one that was singing. A wizard's hat, he supposed. That makes sense.

Did he remember any Spanish he'd learned that one time from Jaime? Yo soy Dean, and me gusta pintar. I am Dean, and I like to paint.

The hat described the houses. He heard the phrase 'brave at heart.' His mother always said he had a good heart. He never knew what she meant. Chivalry… 'To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan' floated through his mind. He didn't remember where those words were from. Maybe one of his mum's magnets on the fridge? Yes, that was it. Someone wrote them in a poem... a king? A lord? The name he couldn't quite remember reminded him of the Arctic, or of the Swiss Alps. He heard the words 'true' and 'loyal' from the hat. Those are good things… so are wit and wisdom and cunning, the other things the hat was bringing up…

"…So put me on! Don't be afraid! And don't get in a flap! You're in safe hands (though I have none) For I'm a Thinking Cap!" The hat finished its song.

'Ah, so that's what it's called,' Dean thought. 'A Thinking Cap!'

Twelve and five is… is sixty! Twelve and six is sixty-five. No, seventy-two! Twelve and seven is…

The severe professor started calling names. Abbott, Hannah went to "HUFFLEPUFF!" The shout startled Dean, breaking his concentration. He had nearly figured out twelve and seven! He let out a small puff of exasperation.

Boot, Terry went to "RAVENCLAW!" Yes, that's fitting, thought Dean. That boy looks like a Ravenclaw. Wait, why did he know that? What was a Ravenclaw supposed to look like? Dean shook his head. Twelve and seven is…

More names were called. Commencing countdown, Dean thought. 10, 9, 8… What is twelve and seven? Nineteen. No, that's not right. Granger, Hermione went to Gryffindor. Her hair reminded him of lion… she must be fierce, he thought.

Malfoy, Draco was called. His name was tangy and metallic. He went to Slytherin.

The count goes on. 4, 3, 2, 1… The professor kept whittling down the alphabet as she called names, creeping inexorably closer to Thomas, Dean. "Moon"…Earth below the moon. Earth below us.… and then "Nott," slipknot and square knot and sailors know more about knots that he did, "Parkinson," made him think of Peter Parker, and "Patil" and "Patil" reminded him of the curry place down the street owned by the Patil family, whom Mum quite liked, and they were getting closer to his name and he wondered if he could remember the digits to pi but better focus on what he did know and what is twelve times seven? Twelve and seven is—

"Potter, Harry," was called, and sudden outbreak of hissing and sizzling distracted Dean again. It was whispering and gossiping he realized. He suddenly felt bad for the boy who caused the hisses… it sounded like a pit of snakes. He thought of pots and throwing and clay and earth and cool grass that snakes liked to slither through…

Twelve and seven is—

Twelve and seven is…

"Thomas, Dean."

Dean's frenzied thoughts stuttered to a standstill. He inhaled sharply, and looked up. There were the stars. It's time to leave the capsule, if you dare… he thought. There's no mountain too great! Now that the waiting was done, and he was walking forward with measured steps, he forced himself to be more calm, resolved, resigned.

He picked up the hat with slightly shaking hands. He sat down on the stool, moved to put the hat on his head. Eighty-four, he thought, just before the hat dropped and covered his eyes.

A voice whispered in his ear. "Interesting, interesting…" The hat seemed to be talking to him. Somehow, that wasn't surprising. "You're cunning and sensible enough, I wonder if Slytherin…?"

'Slytherin, Slytherin, which one's Slytherin?' Dean thought, trying to remember the words of the song.

"'You'll make your real friends…'" the hat supplied helpfully.

'Oh! "Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends,"' Dean finished the quote. 'Ends don't justify the means…' he thought.

"Of course, of course," the hat said. "Definitely not Slytherin… Well, perhaps Ravenclaw. Just look at this hurricane of thoughts… Eighty-four indeed…"

'1984,' Dean thought.

"What?"

'Nothing.'

"Those winds are still blowing, I see… and you've got the mind of an artist… perhaps Ravenclaw…"

Dean had expected the hat to shout the last word. It didn't.

"The mind of an artist indeed… You think of the glories of Greece and Rome, dream of the stars and of irrational numbers, whatever those are… The heart of an artist, rather. You've got a good heart."

'My mum tells me that.'

"And she's right! Truly, you've got a heart of gold—"

'Improbability drive.'

"What?"

'Nothing.'

"Hmpf. You've got a heart of gold, you're a lion among men, so it had better be GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat shouted the last word. As Dean got up from the stool and lifted the hat from his head, he thought he heard heard one last whisper, but paid it no mind.

There was a warm glow in his heart, as he glanced back at the stars one more time. He jogged to the table of red and gold and sat down next to the boy he'd met on the train. The boy turned and gave him a wide, happy grin.

"Welcome home, mate," Seamus said.

Dean beamed back at him. "You too," he said.

And he realized he was home, that he could make this home, as he sat talking and laughing with his new friends, eating pie, and generally having an excellent time.

Author's note: I posted this a while ago (last May), and it was my first piece of fan fiction! I just got around to revising it now. I don't feel bad reposting it because not many people (read as: no one) R&Red the original. I'd like to see if the revised version fares any better. I didn't change much, just added some much-needed polish. It's interesting coming back to it nearly a year later. At the time, I think I was trying to express, in a non-angsty form, inexorable movement toward something that you're dreading. Now, I think it's more about memory. Anyway, it's not much, but I'd appreciate it if you could review! Thanks for reading!