Chapter Ten: That Poor Old Hat

Standing in the Great Hall, watching the other kids be sorted, Harry thought about the song, and considered the four houses. On the train, he'd remembered Frigga's lesson on the magic of the souls of places. The train was full of laughter and intrigue (probably gossip), but Hogwarts was filled with quiet dignity and strength. The Great Hall reverberated with the power of the long-ago Founders, memories and souls fashioned, moulded, and finished here.

This was a place of power, a natural reserve of magic, which could be used for good, or for ill. He would try to keep that in mind. And to continue to pay attention—the castle was huge, and the palace was huge, and if the palace had a myriad different functions and atmospheres, Hogwarts doubtless would, too.

He decided all of this whilst listening to McGonagall's explanation of the houses. He ignored the arrival of the Hogwarts ghosts—their first appearance, as it were. If magic were real, ghosts were a given—they featured in plenty of muggle stories, and belief in them was much more accepted amongst muggles than magic, perhaps because muggles were possessed of a sixth sense (some of them, at least). A castle was bound to have at least some ghosts, and these seemed innocuous—not like the fake-ghosts known as "poltergeists". He dismissed them as uninteresting and unimportant, for the moment. He had no desire to look at the ceiling, enchanted invisible the better to display the sky overhead.

Then the Hat had started to sing, and he'd leant back, fascinated, to stare, smiling a bit as he heard Ron grumbling next to him. Something about the twins misleading him.

Of the four, he thought that Ravenclaw, with its focus on study and wit, seemed the best fit for Loki, and Thor was a natural Gryffindor. And, as he had resolved to be like Thor, even before the dreams had started using names, he'd have to do his best to convince the Hat to put him in Gryffindor.

Not to mention that that was where Ron Weasley said his whole family ended up. That meant Ron probably would be there, too. Another good reason.

The first recognised name to be called was, of course, Hermione Granger. What was a surprise was that, after several minutes, the Hat called out "Gryffindor". He frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Surely her fixation on books meant that she was best suited to House Ravenclaw?

Hmm.

Neville Longbottom also went into Gryffindor, and the Hat had scarce touched Malfoy's head before it screamed "Slytherin". Different people took more or less time. Presumably that meant that the sorting was a more complicated process than Malfoy made it seem with his short sorting.

Before he knew it, it was his turn. He was unprepared, despite being forewarned, for the way that the entire room turned as one to stare at him.

Well, except for his former fellow unsorteds, that was. He swept his gaze around the room, and his eyes caught on Ron, who nodded, and gave him a small, encouraging smile.

He closed his eyes, opened them after a moment, and walked up to the stool bearing the Sorting Hat. Under McGonagall's watchful gaze, he lifted the Hat off the stool, and sat down on the stool, instead. There were plenty of reasons why everyone thus far had sat—habit, tradition, or just for something to do. But, somehow, he suspected that, while a Hat was rooting around in your mind, it probably made sense that you'd be…slightly less aware of the world outside, yourself.

The stool was there to stop people from collapsing, as puppets with cut strings.

Oh, he wished that hadn't been the simile that occurred to him right before putting on a mind-reading hat.

Perhaps it reminded him of something.

My, well, this is unusual, said the Hat, into Harry's mind. Harry started, as he felt the very familiar tension, the tingling, the urge to run. Fight or flight, they called it, and he had nothing to fight. Perhaps—

I beg your pardon. What's unusual? he asked, because one thing that the Dursleys had truly not botched with him was manners. He'd been raised to be polite and proper. Even, as it seemed, to a talking hat.

I don't think I've ever sorted a god before, the Hat mused, causing Harry to go utterly still. It wasn't talking about—

Now, look here, you. I'm not a god—those are just dreams. How do you know about them, anyway?

"There's nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can't see", the Sorting Hat quoted its own song back at Harry. Right. He remembered it saying that.

Let's see, it was saying now. Plenty of wit and wisdom—I see you already figured that out. Not big on fair play, are you, though? And you do have a slytherin desire to prove yourself, and the desire to prove your worth to your father—to prove you could be a worthy king—

That's not me, Harry said, finally catching on to where the Hat was looking. I'm not Loki. I'm Harry Potter. Didn't you hear my name called?

Could the Hat hear? Well, why not? Might as well assume, and perhaps be proven wrong.

Denying the truth will not help you in facing the inevitable, my lord. All it will do is make you that much more the unprepared, when Thanos comes for you.

Harry shivered, not knowing why, at the name that was familiar, and not, at the same time. He'd never heard it spoken before—he was sure of that—but the mere mention of it heightened the tension through his whole body, and made dread settle deep into his bones.

The being? The one that had twisted—?

Oh, all right. Let's see here. You skived off your lessons rather, looking for information about your dreams, which I don't think a Ravenclaw would be able to stomach doing. Knowledge for its own sake, whether here or there, and libraries are not the sorts of places requiring a strategic mind. As for Hufflepuff—well, you do have a rather warped sense of justice, don't you? Only to be expected, after living with those Dursleys for so long. But you are loyal to those you love, and, while a bit underhanded in your tactics sometimes, you strive to be a man of your word. Still, not Hufflepuff, I think. You would be alone in a crowd, there.

That just leaves Slytherin and Gryffindor. You came to this school seeking for a means to be like your brother, to prove yourself to your family by being the "good guy". Perhaps I was wrong to categorise that as ambition. Love is your guiding force, the guidance of your mother, the authority of your father, the protection of your brother. Slytherin would lead you down a bad path, and, whether you put it that way or not, in those words or not, what you seek for is redemption. Slytherin would lead you away from that road.

He wondered if the Hat was only paying attention to itself, or if it was actually listening to his pleas of not Slytherin, not Slytherin.

You're in luck, then, my lord. I choose the students' houses not only owing to the traits they possess, but also by their values, the traits they wish to possess. I guide them to the houses that will help them to become who they wish to be. And never fear: for better or for worse, at great cost, with no reward possible, I keep the inner worlds of the students I sort a secret. None shall learn your secrets from me, my lord.

Well, too lazy and vengeful for Hufflepuff, too fixated upon the interests of the moment for Ravenclaw, and the slytherins would lead you from your desired course. I suppose, if you wish to become the best you can be, if you seek for the grandeur of legendary heroes—and gods—it had better be "Gryffindor!"

The Hat yelled the last word aloud, and Harry was reaching to pull it off, mind already whirring back into life to process all that had just happened, when the Hat added, in what passed for a low whisper among mental voices, Be careful, Your Grace. Perhaps you sensed it: a corner of your mind is not your own. Tread with caution around it, for that way lies madness.

Harry shivered, but was past correcting a piece of headwear. He pulled off the Hat, unseeing, and set it gently down onto the stool, barely hearing the twins' cries of "We got Potter! We got Potter!" as he processed the last, ominous warning of the Hat.

And who was "Thanos"? He shivered again, at the name. There was far more reaction to that name than there should be. He'd barely reacted at all to the mention of Voldemort, and yet this man, this being, whoever it was, whom he didn't know, whose deeds he couldn't name, filled him with such lethargy, weighed him down so that he could only shuffle towards the red-and-gold table?

Stark's colours, he thought. He was too tired to filter his thoughts, whether there was any justification to them. He'd told the Sorting Hat that he wasn't a god, and the thing had done the sentient headwear equivalent of patting him on the head and saying, "there, there".

He sat there, brooding, until he heard the name "Weasley, Ronald!" be called, and his attention returned to the moment. There was not a doubt in his mind that, if even he had come into Gryffindor, Ron would do the same.

But he remembered the strength Ron had given him, before his own sorting, and locked eyes with Ron. Another smile. Another nod, as if they were personal belongings being handed back after a checkpoint.

Ron would do it, but that didn't mean that Harry couldn't show his support.

And, sure enough, it didn't take half as long to sort Ron as it had to sort Harry. Ron also looked far more relaxed, posture loose and comfortable, as he slid into a seat next to Harry. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, and grinned, and Harry found that he was smiling, just a little, too. Hermione Granger, seated across from them, gave a tentative smile and wave, and then returned to watching the sorting with rapt attention.

There were only a few students left, of course, with "w" being at almost the very end of the alphabet, and then Dumbledore stood to give a speech to Welcome them (back) to Hogwarts.

It was a very odd speech. Harry wasn't sure how seriously to take it.

The moment Dumbledore seated himself, the plates in the centres of the dining table filled with every type of dinner imaginable (and quite a few Harry'd never heard of). The Dursleys had never quite starved him, per se, at least as he reckoned it, but they'd always kept him on shorter commons than even Aunt Petunia's. He had the ordinary caloric intake equivalent of a ham-and-cheese sandwich per day (two, on a good day!). And, while he'd heard that you could cause yourself serious problems, going from eating very little to overindulging, he couldn't resist piling his plate with some of the foods he'd always wanted to try, but had never had the chance to.

Meanwhile, conversations flared up around him. Initially, he was content to listen, as Hermione badgered Percy Weasley about the courses for the year, and he reassured her that they would be starting small (that made sense, but the tension still lingering in his muscles loosened just a little at the pronouncement). Next, he paid attention to Seamus Finnigan, who was explaining that his Dad had married his Mum before she'd revealed that she was a witch. "Bit of a nasty shock for him," Seamus said, with a grin, and most of those within earshot laughed and nodded.

Harry thought of Loki, thought of the secret that had at last torn the dream-family apart, and turned to Seamus.

"How is it funny, exactly?" he asked, in his politest voice. "I mean, I'm guessing from your reaction that your father, after a brief period of adjustment, reacted well to the news. But that could very easily have gone much worse—for your mother, and for you."

He thought of the Dursleys, Aunt Petunia's resentment, the universal hatred of magic that permeated the Dursley household. Ron sent him a sharp look, as if reading his mind.

"Suppose your father mistreated your Mum and you—or filed for divorce and left her to take care of you by herself? There's a lot of tension caused when people are even of different religions than one another. Suppose your father had been an old-school Christian, who believed that witches were all evil, in league with the devil, and it wouldn't be murder to get rid of such a threat to the community?"

"Well, they knew each other well enough that she could guess how he would react—"

"Then why wait until after they were married—when it was too late to fix many of the problems with less extreme measures—to tell him?" Harry cut in, leaning towards Seamus.

Seamus didn't have a ready reply. "I—I dunno. They always seemed okay with it. They laughed about it—"

"I hadn't thought about that," said the boy sitting next to Seamus, taller than Ron, and more solidly built, with short-cut black hair, and dark skin. His head tilted back, as he considered. "Maybe you should write your Mum and ask…?"

Harry tuned them out, again.

"No one thought I was magic at all, until one day, when I was nine. My great-uncle Algie was dangling me out a window, but Aunt Enid asked him if he wanted a slice of pie, and he let go…but I bounced, all the way down the road. He was so pleased that he bought me my pet toad, Trevor."

Neville held up the toad as he mentioned him. Harry facepalmed, and rounded on Neville.

'"Really? Is this the sort of thing that's considered 'acceptable' in wizarding society? Suppose you hadn't bounced? Are you sure your uncle wasn't trying to kill you? And what sort of consolation prize is a toad who keeps running away from you?"

"I like Trevor," Neville protested. "And I know that Uncle Algie didn't want to hurt me. He was just so worried that I didn't have magic at all, see—"

"—that it justified child abuse?"

The tension at the table stretched out, as a taut cord. He could feel the eyes of the entire side of their table on him, but he refused to back down. Asgard was one thing, but there was no way a magical society on Earth was this backwards…was there?

"Harry," said Ron, a simple word, just his name, but said in a tone that he couldn't readily identify. "Please, calm down. It's good that you're worried about the world's injustice, but you can't fix things by alienating your friends. As Seamus said, you don't know all the circumstances, and Neville doesn't seem bothered by it. I know you're just trying to help, but…people do need to fight their own battles."

"Right. I'm sorry, Seamus, Neville. I…I just—"

He would not admit to them that personal experience made him keenly aware of the dangers of which they seemed so indifferent. Neville gave him a timid smile, as if, really, he was just glad that Harry seemed no longer on the warpath. Seamus was less forgiving; he crossed his arms, and scowled, but nodded, as if to say, I'll let it go this time. With them back to their own conversations, Ron rounded on Harry.

"I know you do not know me, and I know too little about you, and perhaps this is presumptuous of me to say, and I hope that you will forgive my saying this, but I think perhaps you are lashing out, thinking about something else. You seem…preoccupied, ever since the Sorting Hat finished sorting you. Distracted. Is there something you wish to speak about?"

Harry shivered again, thinking of the familiar name that the Sorting Hat had used. Once spoken, the name seemed to have burrowed into his mind like—like—he didn't even know what. A mole? He'd probably have an easier time finding a relevant simile if he weren't steering clear of everything involving minds, or human beings. He closed his eyes, as if to clear away the Sorting Hat's words, and warning.

"I don't know, myself," he said, because it was easier to admit, with his eyes closed. "Something the Hat said…a name…." He could feel Ron tense in anticipation. Why could he sense that tension in the air? Or was it that, somehow, he knew Ron's mind too well? But that made no sense either. "I think he said…Thanos."

He whispered the name, as if it were too dangerous to be spoken louder. Perhaps it was. He couldn't place it, after all. It might belong to anyone, or anything.

"…'Thanos'?" Ron repeated, and Harry flinched. He didn't even know why. He just did. And then he thought of what he'd been considering before: a puppet master, manipulating even gods from the shadows. A formless, vague threat, given at last a name. He now understood the wizarding world's reluctance to speak the name "Voldemort". Would it be better to say it, or to not?

"Harry?" asked Ron, bending over him. Harry had no idea when Ron had moved; he'd been too engrossed in his own thoughts. Ideas were starting to churn in his mind, but none of them were good. He wanted to banish them all from reality.

He slaughters the half of every world he conquers, and calls it mercy.

He was fairly sure that that was Loki's voice, or a memory of it, but one he couldn't place. It felt as if the world were unraveling around him, beneath him, and he'd fall into the void….

"Harry!" Ron cried, and whacked him on the head. Harry shook his head violently, but felt oddly grateful that Ron had managed to dislodge his thoughts from wherever they'd been heading. Nowhere good, he knew.

And then he remembered the Sorting Hat's entire warning.

That way lies madness.

"I'm very sorry, Ron. What were you saying?" he asked, dragging himself back to the present with a monumental effort. He wasn't even resentful in the slightest of Ron's sudden act of violence.

"I believe you were lost in your thoughts, there. They did not seem very pleasant."

"They weren't," Harry said, bowing his head. "I think…you'd better make sure I don't get lost in those thoughts again. The Sorting Hat warned me it might happen, but I didn't even see it coming."

He was babbling, looking up at the row of teachers at the staff table. Were any of them capable of protecting him from the greatest threat—which seemed to originate from his own mind?

"I will," said Ron, an oath sworn with immense, and suiting, gravity. He followed Harry's gaze to the staff table. "But you—"

"You can't tell anyone," he protested. "Please, Ron."

Ron bowed his head, and then nodded. "Then, I will be your sole sentinel, if you require it of me. While flattered by the trust you seem to place in me, I wish that you would let others help you, also."

Harry nodded absently, as his gaze alit upon a teacher with pale skin, an aquiline nose, and long, greasy black hair. sitting next to Professor Quirrell, who now wore a purple turban. Why? Who knew?

As he glanced at the former, the man turned to him with a fierce glare, their eyes met, and a sharp pain shot through his scar, and he winced, clutching it in his left hand.

"Harry, are you alright?" Ron demanded. It was probably too many scares in too short of a time.

"I'm fine," Harry muttered. Huh. Maybe he had internalised Asgardian bravado.

"You are not fine," Ron said, frowning. The pain made it difficult to make out Ron's expression, exactly, but he could still recognise a frown when he saw one. "Perhaps you should—"

"It's nothing," Harry repeated. "Just growing pains, I expect," he said, voice deliberately light. He'd fooled plenty of people with his feigned levity.

But, apparently, not Ron Weasley, who seemed to be determined to be his bodyguard, or something.

"From your scar?" he asked. "I saw you clutching your head, just now—"

"Who's that teacher speaking to Professor Quirrell?" he demanded of Percy. Percy, while not exactly pleased to be interrupted, seemed to recognise the urgency in Harry's voice, as did Ron, whose expression said, this is not over, young man. Harry resisted the powerful urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, you already know Professor Quirrell, do you? No wonder he looks so nervous: that's Professor Snape."

"Snape?" Harry repeated, forehead crinkling as he pondered this new information. Had he, perhaps, heard that name before? From Mum?

"The Head of Slytherin House," Percy elaborated. "And everyone knows how much he hates anyone who isn't in Slytherin. And Quirrell has the job Snape's been applying to for years: Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. No matter if the job is jinxed."

"Jinxed?" repeated Harry, eager for any distraction. Percy nodded.

"No teacher has lasted for more than a year in the position for decades. Almost everyone agrees that the job must be cursed, somehow."

Huh. Well, that made a lot to think about.

He was still thinking about everything that had happened a short while later, when the plates cleared themselves, and Dumbledore stood to give a second, more traditional speech, in what seemed to be a usual style for him—a mixture of light-hearted wit, and genuine warmth and concern. Parsing out what was meant to be taken literally, what metaphorically, and what was only a joke was something of a task.

He decided that the warnings concerning prohibited activities and items was sincere, as well as the gravely-delivered threats concerning the Forbidden Forest, and the third-floor Charms corridor. As the latter was inside, he hoped that said corridor was well-labeled. To do otherwise seemed to be inviting trouble.

He almost forgot about Ron's determined fixation with getting him treatment for his unknown ailment. It was a bit like Thor being the overprotective big brother to Loki, and, while it was nice to have someone—even a stranger—care about Harry's well-being, it was also…well, rather trying. He was used to having to take care of himself, by himself. He had no idea how to react towards someone wanting to help him.

"My scar hurt when I glanced over at Professor Snape," he said, as they walked through the corridors, following Percy to the Gryffindor Common Room, as they'd never been, and didn't know the way. Also, there was apparently a password. "That's all I know. But I don't think it has anything to do with…you know…Thanos." He managed to force out the name.

"Anything else I might say would be pure conjecture. For instance, the notion that Snape might hate me, personally, when he could just have easily been glaring at you, or someone else in Gryffindor, or just the gryffindor table in general. Call it a hunch, perhaps based on the bias of experience."

He shrugged, and spread his arms wide. "Now, you know as much as I. Now, will you leave me be?"

"Your scar—"

"Doesn't even hurt anymore. It was just a brief flare of pain, which immediately subsided. Don't you have your own problems to deal with?"

He hadn't meant to snap at Ron, but Ron was being overbearing, and Harry had had a rather…exciting day. He needed time to process it, and Ron seemed almost determined to prevent this. That was a paranoid thought, there.

They arrived at the portrait hole a short time later. Ron had not said a word more.