Harry Potter and the Hermetic Arts
Chapter 12: The Whole Sorting Affair
After detraining, Harry found himself subjected first to a dangerous wilderness hike in the dark and then a ride in a decrepit dinghy. While the castle that was Hogwarts was certainly a wondrous sight rivaling the castle in the Disney logo, Harry was much more preoccupied with being a bit cold even in his jumper.
Disembarking the boat in an underground harbour of sorts, Harry saw the trog harassing the students, repeatedly shouting, "Oy, you there! Is this your toad?"
As it turned out, it was the toad of the previously toadless student who had been searching the train for his toad but then decided to cease his searching for the toad after talking with Harry. Apparently, Trevor was meant to be his toad after all.
There was another passageway after that, and then a long flight of steps, before the students stopped and the trog banged on a huge door with a meaty fist.
The door swung open promptly on the third knock, and the trog exchanged words with a tall woman with a severe face. From what Harry could catch at a distance, which was where he was relative to the conversation, she was Professor McGonagall.
The professor pushed the doors wide, and the boy saw inside the entrance hall behind them for the first time. It was sizeable, to say the least, larger than many of the houses in Little Whinging, but like every other magical building he had been in, was lit by fire and not electric lights, giving the large chamber the dull coloring of a poorly lit student film.
Professor McGonagall led the pack of students through the hall, and Harry could see the myriad faces making up the student body of the school, most talking loudly amongst themselves, a few watching the new student as they were led to their fate, which he soon discovered was an antechamber just off the hall.
The professor monologued for a bit, and Harry tuned her out; in his mind, he was wondering, among other things, how quickly his eyes would tire reading in such a badly lit environment and began trying to figure out some sort of superior lighting situation.
He came out of his reverie as the professor departed, or rather, he was drawn out of it by the bushy-haired girl besides him, who was whispering nervously to herself nonstop, seemingly with no beginning or end, a simple stream-of-consciousness verbal diarrhea that made very little sense coming from one of the most intelligent people his own age Harry had ever met.
"Wells, Wells," drawled the boy, grasping Hermione by the shoulder and shaking her gently. "Relax. Breathe. You's 'ready done all ya coulda fo' this."
The girl swallowed hard, then exhaled slowly before drawing a deep breath. "Thanks," she managed with a small, uncertain smile.
Suddenly, there was screaming, and Harry instinctively went for his switchblade, even though he had only had the knife for less than a day. Through the walls came a gaggle of ghostly figures, pearlescent and translucent, arguing loudly amongst themselves. Only after a moment did they notice the children in the room with them, but before they could say much to the new students, the professor had returned and ordered them to move along.
Harry then found himself queuing with his fellow students before being marched back into the hall via the scenic route.
As the boy scanned the room, making mental notes as he took in the sights, the stern professor placed a four-legged stool before the new students. Atop the stool was a pointed hat, dirty and clearly old from the number of patches sewn onto it.
Then the hat started singing from a tear near its brim, and Harry wondered if he had somehow been secretly dosed with the psychedelics that Martin liked to experiment with and then tell stories about, especially of his magic mushroom trips. Harry made a note to mental check if 'magic mushrooms' were magical after all.
The hat finished its song to a rousing round of applause, and McGonagall began calling out names of a roll of parchment. Harry barely paid attention as the queue began to shorten, though he did pay attention enough when Hermione was called to notice she had been sent to the house of Ravenclaw.
"Potter, Harry!"
Harry stepped forward, shedding his ball cap and fitover sunshades in one smooth motion and dropping them into his ever-present haversack. Meanwhile, the hall filled with whispers.
"Potter, did she say?"
"The Harry Potter?"
Taking a seat on the stool, the boy let the professor drop the hat onto his head, the rim falling well past his eyes.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Whatever the hat was doing, it was taking a while, but if nothing else, Harry could be patient. Living with his relatives had taught that, if nothing else, and it was a lesson he had learned well.
And so he waited.
And waited.
By now, the chattering in the hall had reached a low rumble, clearly expectant, and Harry finally tried a different tactic. Lifting the hat ever-so-slightly so he could see, he turned towards the professor and asked, "I'm sorry, is something supposed to be happening? I feel like I'm just sitting here like a wanker, wasting everyone's time."
Then, the entire hall was in an uproar, though it was only for a moment, as a simple steely look from Professor McGonagall was enough to silence the crowd.
"Mister Potter, what exactly do you mean?"
"Literally nothing is happening," said the boy. "I'm sitting here, waiting for something, anything to happen. Am I meant to be doing something?"
The professor quickly took the hat from Harry's hat, and immediately, it came alive. "I cannot sort this child," said the hat. "When I was on his head, I was being drawn into an empty void, almost as though he was not there at all."
The boy had thought the hall had been loud before, but it did not compare to the shouting and screaming that followed.
"Mister Potter, are you using occlumency?" asked the professor pointedly, ignoring the students.
"I don't know what that is, ma'am," said Harry, technically telling the truth even though he had an inkling what she meant. If state of mind could be used to fool a lie detector, maybe it could also be used to deceive an elderly witch.
"Mister Potter, it appears you will need to be sorted after the feast," said the professor as smoothly as she could. "For now, take a seat at the Gryffindor table."
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather sit with my friend at the Ravenclaw table," said the boy, nodding slightly towards Hermione.
"Mister Potter…"
"You're not going to take away my only friend, are you?" asked Harry, voice quivering and forlorn as he scrunched his face and made his breathing ragged and uneven, whimpering slightly. It was a trick Karen had taught him, and with the technique, he forced tears to well in his eyes as he shrunk in on himself to appear as pathetic as he could, shivering ever-so-slightly as he looked up at the professor with wide eyes, a picture-perfect tear rolling down one cheek.
"Very well, Mister Potter, you may go sit with your friend," relented the professor, and Harry nodded faintly, hiding the skip in his step as he made his way to the Ravenclaw table and plopped himself down on the seat next to the bushy-haired girl, wiping the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his robes.
"What was that?" asked Hermione, as the sorting continued.
"A technique," said Harry. "Actors use it to cry on cue."
The two friends continued to make small talk until the sorting was complete, at which point Hermione forced him to pay attention to the beardy man in extravagantly gaudy robes at the center of the table, who stood and spoke.
"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
"Thank you!"
As the students around him applauded, Harry turned to Hermione. "Who's that bakebrain?"
"That's Albus Dumbledore," said Hermione, clapping.
It was then that the bowls and plates lining the center of the long table were suddenly piled high with food, and instinctively, Harry's suspicious mind kicked into overdrive.
"Where did that come from?" he asked.
"House elves," answered a voice at the table, as the students filled their plates with food.
For Harry, it was an answer that told him nothing that he needed to know, and so while others ate and enjoyed their meal, he left his plate empty and instead looked around, observing the people around him in their seemingly natural habitat even as his stomach growl.
"Aren't you going to eat?" asked Hermione.
"Hermione, they have mind control magic," said Harry softly to avoid being overheard. "I rather not take my chances."
"You're being paranoid."
"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me."
"You'll have to eat sometime," Hermione reasoned.
"I've got cases of instant noodles, canned food and frozen fruits in my bag," Harry admitted. "Enough to last me until I can figure something else out."
Hermione only wrinkled her nose as she bit into a piece of meat pie.
~ooOoo~
Harry found himself in the boundless hall, alone with Albus Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, a man with long greasy hair and a sallow complexion, a squat professor with a huge beard, and a portly witch with a round face and unruly grey hair. The other students had exited the hall not too long ago following a warning about a forbidden forest, a deadly third floor, a ban on magic in the halls, trials for something called quidditch and a rendition of the school song sang with no consideration for harmony, pitch, volume, or for that matter, decency.
He was being sorted into a house through an interview, and he knew he would need to show them what they wanted to see, even if it was all an act to get him to where he needed to go.
"You are very brave to come to a completely different world," said Albus Dumbledore, eyes twinkling mightily as he looked upon the boy.
Harry shrugged, faking awe and distraction as he looked around the hall aimlessly.
"I know you must have lived a difficult life," continued the headmaster of Hogwarts. "You must be so brave, to have endured such hardships."
"I wouldn't call it brave," Harry said, playing small and weak, letting a tremble slip into his voice. "Dudley would beat me every day, and all I could do is curl up in a ball and take it. He was so much bigger and stronger than me, you see, and if I tried to stop him, he'd tell Auntie Petunia and Uncle Vernon, and they'd lock me in my cupboard without food for days. I was so scared."
From behind his feigned sorrow, Harry examined the looks of horror and shock on the faces of the adults around him. Apparently, McGonagall and the other professors had not known of the treatment he had been receiving at 4 Privet Drive, even if he was exaggerating for effect, but the grim determination in Dumbledore's eyes behind his cheery expression said more than his words.
"You must have wished to be brave, then," reasoned Dumbledore in as grandfatherly a manner as he possibly could, even though Harry could detect no honesty behind the performance.
"I only wished it would stop," Harry sniffled. "Or I was dead."
Harry could see the new revelation went over like a tonne of bricks.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "What about hobbies? What do you do for fun?" Dumbledore asked, with the intent of steering the conversation to a lighter topic.
"I never had time for fun," Harry lied outright, looking down pitifully at his shoes as he did so. "Auntie made me cook and clean and garden and take out the bins whenever I had free time."
"What about your studies?" asked the squat man, adjusting his spectacles.
"I was forced to do poorly," Harry admitted in a small voice. "If I did better than Dudley, Auntie and Uncle would say I cheated and lock me in my cupboard without dinner. And lunch. And dinner. And sometimes lunch and dinner."
As he finished his testimony, he surreptitiously scrutinized the faces of the adults before him between looking at the floor. He had presented himself as a friendless, pitiable coward with no discernable character traits beyond having been made to suffer great hardships in his life, eliminating both Gryffindor and Slytherin as possible destinations. There was a real chance he had set himself up for Hufflepuff, even though he would prefer Ravenclaw with Hermione, but even there, Harry could make things work, as long as he wasn't forced to be part of the ongoing feud between the rival houses.
"It's very brave of you to tell us this," said Dumbledore, desperately grasping at straws.
"I was only answering questions," Harry said, quivering slightly. "Am I in trouble?"
"Of course not," said the thickset woman motheringly, not a hint of deception in her manner. "What would you like to do, now that you're at Hogwarts?"
"I think I'd want to work hard to learn as much as I can," said the boy, frowning as in self-doubt. "I'm not very smart, so I don't know if my grades will be good, but I'd like a chance to just do my best without having to worry about having nothing to eat if I get good grades.
"And, if they'll have somebody like me, I'd like to maybe make a few more friends. I've never had any before I met Hermione in Diagon Alley."
"It's very courageous of you to have dreams despite everything you've been through," Dumbledore tried again. "Godric would be…"
"The boy's obviously a Hufflepuff," said the man with the long, greasy hair.
"But…"
"Shall we put this to a vote, then?" asked the stout woman. "All for Hufflepuff?"
Three hands went up, and it were the hands of the professors whose names Harry did not know.
Tucked away inside the sleeves, Harry clenched a fist in victory, though he did not let his feelings reach his face, which he kept hopeful. He could see Albus Dumbledore's face fall in disappointment at his house placement, which only confirm in his own mind the headmaster's place in the conspiracy against him, either as at the head, or at least as a willing participant.
Willingly, Harry allowed himself to be led away from the hall by the woman who was his head of house and had introduced herself as Professor Sprout. Even if it had not been his first choice, Hufflepuff was still a fine place to lay low and get his bearings, and it suited his hard-working temperament just fine.
He decided if Whiplash Hunter ever died, he would make his next runner a child who played up the broken-down street waif angle. If nothing else, it would be good practice, and an absolutely perfect way to disarm impressionable adults.
~ooOoo~
Harry Potter had not been what Albus Dumbledore had expected, particularly after hearing Hagrid's report from Diagon Alley. He had thought The-Boy-Who-Lived would be assertive and forceful, but instead, he seemed fragile and vulnerable, like he would break into millions of tiny pieces if a stiff wind had blown through the hall at an inopportune moment.
He was in his office, getting an earful from Minerva McGonagall even now for leaving Harry with the Dursleys, "the worst kind of muggles" as she called them. Dumbledore had not expected the boy to say so much about his treatment at the hands of his relatives and had never intended to give away that information himself, but now it was in the open, and he could not have stopped the boy from revealing those truths without appearing suspicious himself.
If it had been someone else, he would have thought it masterfully played.
Suddenly, Dumbledore was seized by a terrifying idea: what if Harry was headed down the dark path himself?
If Hagrid was to believed, all the signs were already there: Harry was capable of great anger, and despite his best efforts, Dumbledore had been unable to see into the boy's mind; in fact, when he had tried to look, it was as though there was nothing there, like he was completely devoid of any sentience, let alone intelligence or thought.
He already had every reason to hate muggles for the treatment he had received at their hands, and he might well have just played a move that would undercut Dumbledore's ability to control him through his living arrangements.
Behind his beard, Dumbledore smiled to himself. While it had been a masterful gambit, Harry was but a mere boy, and Dumbledore had been playing this game for many decades. If this was how The-Boy-Who-Lived wanted to go about it, then two could play the game.
As Minerva stormed out of his office, Dumbledore took up a quill and began composing a letter on parchment to Molly Weasley, one of his most ardent supporters. What he needed now was a pawn in the game that Harry knew nothing about, and young Ron would be a perfect instrument to guide Harry Potter back to the right and proper path, even if he had to drag him back kicking and screaming.
Author's Notes: Regarding Harry's Sorting, he really could have ended up in any house; he has the intelligence and drive to learn that would fit him in Ravenclaw, the fearlessness (not courage) that could put him in Gryffindor, the cunning and manipulativeness that would find him a place in Slytherin, and the diligence and loyalty that would make him a Hufflepuff. However, he also has traits that makes him unsuited for every house: learning is a means to an end for him, he is not particularly reckless, he does not believe the pureblood dogma that is commonly attributed to the snakes, and he's very unfriendly. Ultimately, he's a badger because it's his spirit animal: fearless, vicious, cunning, and protective of his own.
There is already fallout from Harry's actions, particularly his getting of his tattoo, which leads to further misunderstandings. In fact, an argument can be made that a lot of this story is people misunderstanding Harry and attributing motives to his behavior that would better explain their own motivations than his.
As always, feel free to leave reviews. Or don't. I can't make you do anything. Or can I?
Once again, my thanks to Shinshikaizer for the initial story treatment, and goalie12345 for copy-editing. Credit to bluminous8 of The Thief of Hogwarts for the concept of the sorting interview.