A small girl stands at the side of a huge hall, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. She stares intensely at a stool placed in the very centre of a stage, trying to ignore the hundreds of people sat at the long, thin tables all staring in her direction. As other small bodies clamour around her, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply, as though trying to fight off wave after wave of nausea. Behind her back her hands squeeze and relax, squeeze and relax in time with her breathing. A boy backs into her and she jumps; her knees bend and her hands fly out in front of her, balled into fists. Her face is half panic, half fire. She looks for all the world like she's ready to fight. The boy turns around to apologise, sees her fierce expression and stops short. He frowns, and turns back to the stage.
The girl relaxes, a red flush now creeping up her neck. Her feet are cold. She too turns back to the stage, her eyes wide.
A hat has now been placed on the stool. It is ancient and ragged, covered in rips and patches. Her nose wrinkles.
There is a moment of thick, tense silence. The students at their long tables lean slightly forward in expectance as the cluster of tiny children recoil, ready for something horrific to happen. The girl watches, her lips parted slightly as a tear near the brim of the hat stretches open like a mouth, and from somewhere inside the hat, a voice starts to sing:
"Oh, I know I might look battered,
An ancient piece of tat,
But never underestimate,
The Hogwarts sorting hat!
There have been times of turmoil,
Of evil deeds and danger,
To battle, fear and death indeed,
Our fine school is no stranger.
But true, there have been good times,
The rise after the fall,
And through each age the Sorting Hat,
Has sat and watched it all.
You see, my friends, I've been around,
Since Hogwarts school was founded,
And a piece of each fair founders' mind,
Is in this hat compounded.
For when the school was started,
The four, they did dispute,
On who was to be welcomed,
To their teaching institute.
Said Ravenclaw: "The cleverest!
A school of minds collected.
Thirst for knowledge, zest for thought,
Will have them be accepted."
Said Gryffindor: "Tis bravery,
That sets a soul apart.
Our students must have courage,
Daring, nerve and strength of heart."
Said Slytherin: "If blood is pure,
And ambition is what drives them,
Then our school gates shall be opened,
For all of worth to come inside them.
"Well I don't care," said Hufflepuff,
"As long as hearts are kind,
Whatever child has magic,
Shall be equal in her mind."
When the bickering at last became,
Too much for them to bear,
'Twas Gryffindor who doffed his hat,
And chucked it in their air.
"Inside this hat we'll place our needs,
And thus it can decide,
Inside which of our houses,
Each young student will most thrive."
And there you are, friends old and young,
The story of my being,
Now pop her on your little heads,
I'll tell you what I'm seeing!"
The raggedy old hat closes its mouth and everyone stares at it in silence, only broken when the teacher who led them in begins to unfurl a long roll of parchment. She calls out a name: "Archibald, Henry!" and a boy starts, unsure of what to do. The girl feels embarrassed for him. The teacher beckons and Henry stumbles onto the stage, sitting down on the now empty stool while the teacher places the hat on his head. He is shaking.
After a moment, the mouth of the hat opens again and yells: "HUFFLEPUFF!" Henry trips down to a table full of yellow and black ties and clapping hands. That is it: he is sorted.
Now knowing what is to come, the girl smiles slightly. This should be easy, she thinks. As she ponders which house she will be put in, she loses track of the names called, and suddenly it is hers. In slow motion she sways clumsily onto the stage, relief filling her chest when she reaches the stool in one piece. The hat is placed on her head and to her surprise, a musing voice speaks.
"Hmm… definitely brains here," the hat says. She cringes, so sure it's loud enough for the rest of the hall to hear.
"And… oh yes, considerable power too! But it's uncontrolled, you have not yet discovered how to harness it… And have no particular ambition to do so… No good for Slytherin. Ravenclaw would certainly aid your way to proficiency… However, I see a great deal of turmoil in your past… Certainly has taken a great deal of courage to overcome. A fierce little thing; a fighter! Yes, yes I think that outweighs the rest. Definitely fit for GRYFFINDOR!"
Giddy, she gets to her feet and heads for a table of wildly cheering students. A smile spreads across her face, born of relief, adrenaline and the infectious grins on the faces who clap her on the back. It is a few moments later when she realises that all eyes are fixed intensely on the boy now perched on the stool, grinning cheekily as he waits for the hat to descend. "Potter – Is that what she said?" "So he's the son of…" The whispers begin.
The hat barely touches the boy's head. "GRYFFINDOR!" It cries, and the table erupts with glee. It is not until he sits by her side that the girl realises he is the boy who backed into her by the stage. She eyes him warily. He merely grins back.
"Briony Moore, right?" he asks.
She nods once. "But my dad calls me Red," she replies.
"Nice to meet you, Red," he says, "I'm James."
Something clicks in her mind. "Ah," she says quietly. James Potter. She raises an eyebrow. "Nice to meet you."
