Being a B can be a bit of a pain sometimes, especially with
role calls, and especially for things that really terrify you. As if entering
this weird new world wasn't frightening enough, the towering, intimidating
figure of Professor McGonagall had just informed us we'd be divided into
Houses in front of the whole school. I knew it was worthless to hope for
a lot of A's. I turned to the girl beside me. She had a clever look about
her, which made her a likely source for an answer.
"D'you know what we're supposed to do?"
She regarded me smugly. "It's just a hat you have to try
on. My sister's told me. It's no big deal."
"Not when you have to go first," I muttered.
"What's your name?" she demanded.
"Baddock."
The girl smirked slightly. "That your first name, then?"
I reddened. "It's not. And it's not funny."
"Yeah, Orla, you should talk about funny names," another
boy behind us interjected. I gave him a thank you grin.
Orla looked slightly affronted. "Quirke is a very fine
old name," she huffed, but she didn't talk after that. The boy who'd shot
her down leaned forward and whispered to me,
"She lives in the same town as me. She's a big know-it-all.
You'll want to avoid her."
"Yeah, I can see that now," I replied. "What's your name?"
"Graham Pritchard. Know which House you'll be in?"
Know? How was I supposed to know? I shrugged. I was about
to speak when McGonagall began herding us into the Great Hall. Here
it comes, I thought, my head pounding. I felt my knees wobble. I followed
the herd of first years up to the front, and waited in the long row in
front of the school. McGonagall's green robes swept by me, and I saw her
carrying a ragged and dirty hat. She set it almost reverentially on a stool.
"Eww! That's what we have to try on?" another B named
Eleanor (Branstone) breathed. Privately, I agreed. McGonagall reappeared,
holding a long parchment. We all watched the hat in silence for a moment,
then broke into song. I wasn't really listening to the song -- the thud
of my blood drowned out anything else trying to reach my ears. But I heard
McGonagall call out the first name.
"Ackerly, Stewart!"
A pale, scrawny boy with too much neck hesitantly approached
the hat. He sat down on the stool and put the hat on. Everyone in the room
waited. After a moment, the hat yelled out, "RAVENCLAW!" Ackerly left the
stage and headed toward the table that was clapping the loudest. This
can't be hard, I reasoned. And maybe there are more before--
"Baddock, Malcolm!"
Cripes! Second? That's an unpleasant surprise. Look,
there's no way of getting around it. You're used to it by now, alright?
Show them all it's dumb. I walked up to the stool, picked the hat up,
sat down, and set the hat on my head.
Immediately it slipped over my eyes, blocking out the
candlelit hall. A voice began whispering to me almost instantly. "I say,
young man, you're none short of pride, aren't you? Always want to be right.
You have little trouble getting help though. You're not right for Gryffindor
-- others don't concern you as much as yourself, am I right?"
Well, they usually do precious little for me,
I retorted. If something's worth doing--
"It's worth doing yourself," the hat finished. "Yes, I
understand. Well, you'll surely do quite well here. You have exactly the
traits that would make you happy in SLYTHERIN!"
It shouted the last word, and as I lifted the hat up,
I saw the table on the far right cheering the loudest. That must be
them. Relieved that it was over (and quickly too), I grinned a bit
and cast my gaze over the rest of the hall. What met my eyes was alarming.
The middle two tables were clapping, though with sudden expressions of
dislike upon their faces. On the far left, the entire table was shooting
me openly dirty looks. Two red-haired older boys were even hissing. I was
shocked. They don't even know me. Why are they acting like that?
Shaken, I walked down the stairs and reached the Slytherin
table. A tall, dark-haired boy with a slight stoop eyed me approvingly.
"Go down to the middle of the table," he ordered me. "The first Slytherin
of the year always sits with Snape and Draco." He looked at me with
a sharp, wry smile and a gleam in his eyes. "Malcolm. Malfoy. Isn't this
cute." I gaped, but I was in enough of a daze that I obeyed. The only adult
at the table was a greasy-haired man with sallow skin and a hooked nose.
This was probably Snape -- I'd heard about him from a kid on the train.
There was a space between him and a small fourth year with a smug expression
and a pale complexion. The boy looked at me almost lazily.
"Welcome to Slytherin House, Braddock," he drawled.
I corrected him, and Snape laughed harshly. I looked around
the table. A hulking seventh-year glared at me from opposite. A whispy
second-year girl was studying me with sunken eyes. After examining the
rest of the house, she seemed like the one who wouldn't hit me if I said
something wrong.
I leaned forward. "Why did all those people act like that
when I got Sorted?"
She laughed bitterly. "Because they're all idiots. As
soon as you come in here, three quarters of the school automatically hates
you for no reason at all. You never even get a chance, so you'd best get
used to it. You'll see what I mean."
The enormity of what she was saying hit me very heavily.
The unfairness of it boggled me. I thought of the two redheads hissing
at me.
You've just entered a cruel little world, Malcolm,
a voice said. If no one else will accept you just because of what you
are, then you'd better start looking for friends here.
"Creevy, Colin" became a Gryffindor, and the table that
had booed me burst into cheers. I peered over the big fellow across from
me (Warrington, I later found out) and began imprinting the faces of the
people at the far end of the room in my memory.
These are the ones who hates you, Malcolm. If the Gryffindors
are going to be like that to you, then to hell with them all. You've got
better friends than that. I looked at the sunken-eyed girl across from
me. She gave me a stange smile.
"So you see, then?"
I nodded, once. "Yes. I do."
