Again, thanks for the response. I like writing these, so I'm glad people like reading them.

Chapter 4 – Albus

What's that phrase, butterflies in the stomach? Something like that, isn't it? You know, I've heard it before, and never really understood it. It just didn't make any sense to me at all. And I'd wonder, once in a while, just how anyone would even know what it felt like to have butterflies in the stomach. Unless you eat them. Alive. And why on earth would anyone swallow butterflies? It just makes no sense at all.

Until now. Not the swallowing live butterflies thing – that still makes no sense at all to me. But the butterflies-in-the-stomach thing makes sense now. It's the fluttery feeling, like tiny wings flapping in your belly. Nerves.

Right now, I've got that live-butterflies-that-are-really-nerves feeling.

Damn James and his Albus-in-Slytherin theory. I know he's just messing with me, but still, can you imagine a Potter in Slytherin? Or a Weasley, for that matter? I think I'd just faint, right there on that little stool, and then everyone would be talking about it for years.

What if it put me in Slytherin and I died of shock? Can you imagine? Harry Potter's youngest son killed by a sorting hat?

Would I be a ghost, do you think? I don't really understand why some wizards become ghosts and some don't. I'll have to ask one of the Hogwarts ghosts sometime. That is, of course, if I survive my sorting.

What if I get put in Slytherin, and my Uncle Ron dies of shock?

What if my dad does? Or my grandma? What if the sorting hat manages to wipe out my whole family? What if my whole family except for me dies? What then? Where will I go? Who will look after me? What will –

Stop, Albus, breathe. Breathe. Breathe. OK. I'm breathing. I'm calm.

Nerves don't agree with me, apparently. Nerves make me panicky and irrational. I wish I was more like James. Nothing ever bothers him. I've never seen him panic, get all weird and irrational and have to remind himself to breathe.

If I was more like James, I'd be stood here, all calm and probably even a little bit bored. I'd be just waiting for my turn, certain that I'd be sent to Gryffindor, knowing that there's no way in hell I'd go anywhere else.

But I'm not James. I'm me, and I'm very close to hyperventilating.

God, why does this thing take so long? I mean, if I could just get the hat on my head, get sorted, get it over with, I wouldn't keep forgetting to breathe, would I?

You know, breathing is supposed to be automatic. Unless, of course, you're me, and sometimes you panic, and suddenly find that unless you put some thought into breathing, you'll stop.

Is it normal for people to whisper so much during the sorting? It seems kinda rude, you know? That we're all stood here, nervous and stuff, and everyone out there is whispering and point and...and...

They're pointing at me. Oh. Well, I should've seen that coming, shouldn't I? I am, after all, Harry Potter's son.

Can't get more famous than that. Unless, of course, you happen to be Harry Potter.

I stop looking at the crowd then, because I don't like being stared at. Not that it'll help me, because I've just noticed that my fellow first years are staring too. Apart from Rose, of course, who is instead staring at the hat, looking rather pale.

Rose is nervous? Rose, who is almost as calm as James? Who, whenever I've admitted my own nerves over the last few months, has simply told me that the hat will put me where I belong, and that worrying will do no good?

Rose is nervous. And if Rose is nervous, then surely I have something to worry about?

If Rose is worried about where she'll be sorted, I should be terrified. I am terrified. Oh, no, what if the hat can't sort me at all? What if it just tells me I don't belong anywhere? What if –

Breath, Al, breath. In, out. In, out.

There. Better.

If I don't get sorted soon, I think I'll end up passing out.

"He looks even more like Harry Potter than his brother does." Someone at a nearby table whispered loudly, and I rolled my eyes. This is a common occurrence.

Does this mean everyone's going to expect me to be like dad? Because I'm not, you know. I can't imagine being able to figure out all the stuff he did, in his first year, and being able to defeat Voldemort in just a few months time. That's impossible. I can't imagine being able to kill a giant snake and rescuing my best friend's little sister –

Well, actually, I don't have a best friend with a little sister. Rose is my best friend, and she just has Hugo. Who is a boy.

Anyway.

"Another Gryffindor, do you think?" Someone – the same one, I think – muttered at that table.

"Maybe. Probably. Not gonna be a Slytherin, is he?"

"Ha. Doubt it. Don't look anything like a Slytherin, that one. He'd last about five minutes in that house, then they'd eat him alive."

Laughter, hastily stifled.

Last five minutes? Oh, would I really? You know, I may not be Harry Potter, but I am his son. I'd be able to hold my own in that house.

If, of course, I decided I wanted to be there. Which I don't.

"Malfoy, Scorpius."

I recognised him, from where my dad and Uncle Ron had been looking earlier. He looked paler now, and I guess that nerves. Or maybe it's just the lighting in here, because he didn't look at all nervous as he walked forward, sat on the stool, and let the hat drop over his face.

I expected it to scream Slytherin instantly. Instead, it seemed to be taking a while to decide. So long, in fact, that I glanced at Rose, surprised. She, however, didn't look at me, her eyes still glued to the hat. What, is she trying to telepathically communicate with it?

Before I could nudge her and ask what she was doing, the hat opened it's – uh – rip, and yelled "Slytherin". No surprise there, then.

The boy handed the hat back, and then walked over to the table, his face blank.

Then, see, I was distracted. Because it just occurred to me that M is very close to P in the alphabet. And my surname is begins with a P.

Oh, no, that's way too close, I'll be sorted in a matter of minutes, and – and –

And breath, Al, for crying out loud.

If James could hear my thoughts now – both the panicky irrational ones, and the reminders to breath, he'd probably hit me round the head.

Wouldn't blame him, either.

And then I realised that I hadn't been paying attention at all to the names being read out. And it's a good job I realised when I did, because the next name was mine.

"Potter, Albus."

I barely even noticed everyone whispering, louder and louder, because all I could think about was what the hat would say, where it would put me.

I sat on the stool let the hat be dropped over my head. And waited.

Ah. Another Potter. Seems just yesterday I talked to your brother.

"It...ah...it was a year ago." I murmured, because it seemed to expect a reply, and what else can you say to a statement like that?

I know. But I remember all the sortings I've ever done. Even your father's.

"My – my dad's? But that was – uh..."

A lot of years ago, I know. But I remember it. However, we're here to talk about you, not your father.

I didn't reply to that, because I didn't know what to say.

Ah. Your father has told you, then, that I will take your choice into account.

"Oh. Uh, yeah, he did."

I see. Tell me, then, Albus Potter, where do you want to go?

"I...uh...I don't know." I replied, then remembered what those boys had said while I waited. "Maybe Slytherin. Just to prove I could manage it." I told it.

Really? And here I was, thinking you'd be just as opposed to Slytherin as your father was.

"Er...You don't like being told where to put people, do you?" I asked, because that's the way it seemed to me.

Not really. You'd think, after all these years, students would trust me to put them where they belong, wouldn't you?

Still, he sounded more amused than mad.

"What about my dad? I mean, if he'd been in Slytherin, everything would have been different, wouldn't it?" I asked carefully.

Maybe. But your father was a special case, Albus. You must know the story –

"Voldemort's soul, I know. OK, well I've only got my soul. So where do you think I should be?"

He was silent for a long while, and I thought maybe he hadn't heard me. Then he spoke.

Not Slytherin. I don't think you'd do well in there at all.

"So it's Gryffindor then?" I asked flatly.

You don't want Gryffindor?

"I...I don't know. I thought I did, but...well, I sort of want to see what people would say if I...wasn't..."

But you understand, I trust, that those are all the wrong reasons to want a different house.

"Yeah. I know. OK, listen, put me where ever you think I should be. I trust you."

You trust me? You trust easily, Albus Potter.

What was that supposed to mean? "Is that a bad thing?" I asked. He paused before answering.

Time will tell. GRYFFINDOR!

The last shout surprised me, and abruptly ended the conversation, as the hat was pulled from me instantly. Blinking, I looked at the hat – but now it was still and lifeless – and then had little choice but to head to the Gryffindor table, where James had saved me a spot.

"Hey, little brother." He said brightly. "You took a while. Trying to talk it out of putting you in Slytherin?"

He was smirking, but I shook my head.

"Trying to talk it into putting me in Slytherin, actually." I replied. James looked at me for a moment, then laughed.

"Uh-huh. Sure. You're no Slytherin little brother."

Well, that seems to be the popular opinion, anyway.