We Don't Sort The Voices In Your Head

by Kerriathechosen1

Philip Buchanon is not your ordinary boy. He's a wizard; his father, Howard LaFresque, is locked in Azkaban prison for being a Death Eater; and he has a voice in his head named Clarence. Philip's problem? Well, there are many - but the biggest problem now is, he's been accepted at Hogwarts, and he's about to be sorted into his house. And he's afraid it's going to be Slytherin.

Philip stepped into the Great Hall and was taken aback by the magnificence of the view. Thousands of candles were lit and dangling in the air throughout the room, floating so high above their heads that even Hagrid, the enormous gamekeeper (who Philip swore was not human), couldn't reach them. The sky ceiling above was a midnight blue, dappled with bright white stars, embodying the vastness of the universe. For a moment, Philip forgot he was in a building, and that it wasn't really the night sky. He was so swept away by his curiosity that he stumbled on his cloak, causing some of the other first-year boys to snort.

"Learn to walk, monkey," echoed a raspy male voice that didn't belong to any eleven-year-old, though it had the immaturity of one. Philip rolled his eyes and focused on his footing for the remainder of the walk.

The long House tables almost extended from one end of the room to the stairs that led up to the table of the professors. Dozens — no, hundreds of students clad in long, black robes were seated along the benches, heads of various sizes following the group of first-years as they made their way down the aisle. Some snickered and pointed; some were whispering to one another and shaking their heads; some rolled their eyes and complained about how tedious the ceremony was; some whined about how hungry they were.

Then Philip heard a girl who looked about fifteen mumble on his right, "That one's definitely a Slytherin." He felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten at the mere mention of the house. He was pretty sure she hadn't been talking about him, but even so, he was reminded once again of his worst nightmare, of waking up in Slytherin robes and finding that dark mark on his arm, of hearing Clarence's cackling in his ear just before he shot out of bed screaming.

"I'm not like them, I'm not like them, I'm not like them," he'd whisper to himself, over and over again while tugging his blanket up to his throat. Not like Clarence, who gave him daily headaches and hallucinations because he refused to do what he wanted, to hurt people with his magic. (Not that he could control it, anyway.) Not like his father, who'd been in Azkaban for the past ten years for his crimes as a Death Eater, supporting the darkest wizard of all time. Philip was ashamed enough of his background, of the people whose mere existence in his life was proof that he belonged in Slytherin.

'I'm not like them, I'm not, I'm not,' Philip thought to himself with every step, hoping that whoever was in charge of placing him in his house, where he'd be stuck living and be associated with for seven whole years, would realize that, too.

Finally Professor McGonagall stopped and turned around, fixing the first-years with a stern gaze that meant, 'Stop and don't you dare step a toe out of line.' Philip swallowed, his throat only feeling more dry and agitated as he watched her take a four-legged stool and place a battered old hat on top of it. Philip had never seen a hat in worse shape. Even from a distance, Philip could see dust particles sticking along the sides of the hat.

But the hat's disgusting appearance wasn't the part that shocked him the most. The hat began to move on its own, shaking itself to the side and causing dust particles to fall onto the floor. Philip glanced around, and all the first-years were staring at the hat with wide, shocked eyes. But when he looked behind him, students at the end of the tables looked amused, like they were in on some strange joke. Philip turned and pretended that this was normal, but then he realized the tears and creases on the hat were making a face, and he thought to himself that this was even stranger than Clarence.

"Ey, I take offense to that."

'Shut up, Clarence.' The last thing he needed was this voice in his head, making possibly the most crucial event in his life even more complicated and stressful. Philip could already feel a throbbing pain in his head, and wished again that his mother had conceded to buying him aspirin. His family may have been proud pure-bloods, but really, muggle medicine worked wonders. She could have at least taught him a spell to soothe his temple.

The Great Hall suddenly fell silent, and the eyes of the professors at the long table fixed their eyes upon the old hat. Suddenly, the creases and tears that made up its mouth began to move, and a haggard voice began singing out of it.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

"Oh, really?" Clarence mused. "I wonder if he can see me. What do you think, monkey?" Philip didn't respond; his nerves were beginning to get to him. What if the Sorting Hat saw Clarence and decided Philip was too crazy to attend Hogwarts? What if they sent him home — or, worse, what if they locked him up in some magic asylum? Nothing could be worse than that.

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Clarence snorted. "Yeah, I dunno about that. Yer kinda meek, and ya can't deny it when you're sweating holes in your pants right now."

Philip inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself down, but his skin was already moist with sweat. He cursed Clarence for making him aware of it, because now he felt uncomfortable, like it might show through his thick robe. He almost convinced himself the whispers he heard were boys pointing and snickering at him, like they knew he was about to have a nervous breakdown.

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuff are true

And unafraid of toil.

"Yeah, that's not you, either, kid. A patient guy might listen to what I have to say more often. I can provide some real great advice, you know."

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Philip rolled his eyes. Clarence's words had kept him from hearing the last verse of the song, so now he knew next to nothing about the third house.

"Yeah, like jumping out of a moving car," Philip murmured under his breath. One of the boys on his right gave him a confused look; he pretended not to notice.

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

"Yeah, THAT'S where you wanna be, monkey. I like the sound o' that house."

"No," Philip growled internally. "That's where you want to be. That's not me. I don't need to be around a whole house of assholes like you."

"I'm offended. You don't like good ole Clarence?"

Philip went back to ignoring the voice in his head.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The hat's song finished, and it bowed to each of the four long tables representing each individual house, before it went completely still. One could have mistaken it for a harmless inanimate object, but Philip wasn't fooled. His time with Clarence had proved to him that things weren't always as they seemed. He was more skeptical than most kids his age.

Professor McGonagall stepped up to the stool then and carefully picked up the sorting hat by its point. She then explained, "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted." Philip took a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare himself when she suddenly called out, "Abbott, Hannah!"

'Oh no,' Philip thought helplessly. 'Alphabetical order. I'll be one of the first.'

"Ha. This is actually kinda exciting. Look at all these suckers, sweatin' bullets in here. That girl's about as pink as a pig. Hmm, monkey or pig, take your pick, human."

'Shut UP, Clarence," Philip thought again.

After a moment, the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!" The entire group of first-years jumped, and the hall let out a chorus of mocking laughter. One of the boys, a blonde that Philip distinctly remembered but he wasn't sure from where, snapped his head back to glare at the upperclassmen, but no one paid him any mind. The hat was lifted off the girl's head, and she ran away to the Hufflepuff table. The next name called was in the B's, a Susan Bones, also sorted into Hufflepuff. Philip braced himself to be called next, but it was a Terry Boot, Ravenclaw. Then a Mandy Brocklehurst, Ravenclaw, and a Lavender Brown, Gryffindor, and Philip felt his heart would give out if he had to wait any longer through all the tension.

"Philip Buchanon!" shouted the professor, and suddenly the world seemed to shift. Philip felt like there was something weighing down his tongue, scratching at the back of his throat, making him gulp but it didn't remove the uncomfortable dry feeling. His ears felt twice as sensitive; every slight sound seemed to be twice as loud. And as he walked, he felt the eyes of dozens — no, hundreds of people watching his every move. He nearly missed a step as he made his way up to the Sorting Hat, which made Clarence cackle in his mind.

He finally made his way to the stool and sat down, facing the entirety of the Great Hall. His eyes roamed to the side, trying to avoid the hundreds of eyes watching him in curiosity, only to meet the intense, loathing stare of the greasy-haired professor standing next to the man in a turban. Philip shivered, and as his eyes fell to the floor and his brain tried to attach a name to the familiar face, Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head. Philip stared straight forward as it fell down over his eyes. He'd thought he might be able to see at least the brown color of the hat, or perhaps some magical enchantment would let him see through it, but no — instead, he was swimming in a pitch-black darkness. The hat felt cemented to his head; he couldn't turn in any direction if he tried. Philip could feel the rapid beating of his heart as he started panicking, but that was when the hat spoke up.

"I… I see… Very interesting," it said, in a thoughtful, somewhat disturbed tone. Philip realized that it's voice wasn't coming from around him, but rather, it was inside his mind. He felt Clarence's presence floating around inside, like it was searching for the other entity.

"Interesting? You seeing something I don't?" Clarence joked. Philip took a deep breath, hoping the hat wouldn't kick him out or toss him in Slytherin because the other voice in his mind pissed him off.

"... And what's so wrong about Slytherin, hmm?" Philip blinked, surprised by the hat's question — and that it was directed at him, not Clarence. In fact, the hat didn't even acknowledge Clarence's existence. Could he not know…?

"Oh, I can see everything in your head," the hat clarified. "I'm well-aware of that… existence you so despise. However, as I see it, this is your Sorting ceremony. We don't sort the voices in your head."

'Oh, thank god.'

"Hey! I'm stuck with this pipsqueak; don't I get a say in where he goes? I've been trapped in his head a shit-ton longer than you!"

The sorting hat ignored him and continued speaking to Philip. "That aside, what's so bad about Slytherin? It's in your bloodline. A noble house, surely you can agree, it has a history of holding some of the most successful witches and wizards of the past century."

'Yeah, like the Death Eaters,' Philip thought to himself. … But he realized quickly that it wasn't just to himself, it was to two different entities as well. While Clarence exclaimed, "Exactly!", the Sorting Hat simply chuckled.

"Yes, it does have a bit of a bad reputation, particularly in the last century, but Slytherin can pave the way to greatness! Since when has ambition been a crime?" Philip didn't respond, but the hat could sense his opinion was unchanged, so he continued. "All right, let's see. If not Slytherin…"

"No, no, NO — don't you DARE place him in that sunshine and rainbows, dim-witted, muggle-infested Hu—"

"RAVENCLAW!"

Philip sighed as the hat was taken off his head. The students at the third long table, the one next to the Slytherin house, was clapping the hardest, welcoming smiles on their faces. Some of the students waved him over, and he allowed himself a small smile as he rose to his feet and walked off toward the table. He couldn't remember a single thing about Ravenclaw, but it wasn't Slytherin, so that was all right.

"Hmph. Well, I suppose that one's not all too bad, monkey." Clarence was grumbling in the back of his head, and Philip felt his smile stretch into a wide grin; he always felt victorious when he was able to defy Clarence. He turned his head back to the sorting hat, and found that it was staring after him, but he couldn't tell what expression it was making. He almost stumbled into the table and allowed himself to forget all about the hat.

"You certainly took a while," one of the boys at his table stated. His complexion was dark, and he was rather tall and skinny for his age. His chocolate-colored eyes seemed to sparkle, and he was vibrating with excitement, like he was ready to start zooming in circles around the room. "I mean, compared to everyone else, that is. Not long enough to be called a hatstall. That's pretty rare. Me, they knew where I was going right away; the hat barely touched a hair on my head before it shouted my place. My dad was a Ravenclaw. You have family in Ravenclaw?"

Philip could barely keep track of what he was saying; he spoke a mile a minute. As soon as the boy mentioned family, his eyes wandered over to the greasy-haired professor, jumping in his spot when he saw the man's hateful eyes watching him again. "No. No, I don't." As soon as their eyes met, the man scowled and focused his attention back on the first-years.

"Heh. You really are clueless, aren't ya?" Clarence chuckled. "You monkeys have a shit memory." Philip ignored him, turning his attention back onto the rest of the ceremony. The names "Millicent Bulstrode" and "Draco Malfoy" definitely rang a bell, and they were both sent to Slytherin. Philip knew he must have met them much earlier in his childhood, but he'd repressed all that knowledge long ago. He didn't want to be associated with them the way his father was.

Then Harry Potter was called, and the room fell silent. Philip's eyes widened as he watched The Boy Who Lived hesitantly walk up to the stool. Harry Potter was in his year at Hogwarts. Harry Potter, Ravenclaw, Bulstrode, Malfoy, the greasy-haired professor, Clarence — this year was going to be full of surprises, wasn't it.

"Well, at the very least, it isn't going to be boring," Clarence mused.

Philip couldn't help but agree.