"Markham, Ky!"

Oooh, said the Hat, You're a tricky one, aren't you?

Just get it over with. Ky hated the thought of anyone reading his mind, which was a dark place with memories far too painful to share.

You could be great, you know. Slytherin might help you …

Over my dead body.

Ky glared at the dark inside of the hat. He had seen them from the line, brutish and ugly, sulking in their seats like hags deprived of human flesh. Some of these people – if only he knew their names – must be related by blood to the murderers of his own mother and father. Coming home after a late broom flight with the Dark Mark glittering over house was a moment that would haunt his nightmares all his life.

How about Ravenclaw? suggested the Hat. You're certainly intelligent enough. But then, pure theory never was your strong point, was it?

Put me in Hufflepuff, he said. Somewhere I won't draw attention. Somewhere safe.

The Hat let out an unmistakable sniff.

You underestimate Lady Helga's house, Mr. Markham. And as for being safe … whatever happened to the boy who wanted to fly so high he could touch the clouds?

Get away from my memories, you dirty flea-bitten rag!

His memories of flying – his father's proud laugh, his mother's drawings of him soaring across the walls, the pure exhilaration of the wind whipping through his robes – were like daggers to his throat. He had been so reckless, taking risks, never knowing how precious life could be until he saw death.

Still … part of him would give anything to be that boy gain.

What you need, said the Hat, is to find your courage – not the absence of fear, but the will to act despite it. Better be …

"GRYFFINDOR!"