The Sorting Hat Switch

By Colorain

Disclaimer: Quite obviously, nothing actually belongs to me concerning Harry Potter, although my initials actually are JKR and I could have a lot of fun with that. The Lottenbys, the Harpers, the Woodburns and the Martins are mine, and I'm assuming basics on the plot are mine as well. Otherwise, it's JKR's! ;)

Author's Note: This is a very old premise for a story I had starting about a year ago. It's probably been done before, and in a fandom approaching eighty thousand stories, I'm sure the concept's popped up more than once. If it has, know I'm not plagiarizing merely because the chances of me finding such another fic among the throng are little to none. Now, one of the major things about this story is that it currently has no central narrator. I'm going to end up writing this thing in first person and third person, four times over. :) Now, I know that's annoying but it's my approach, and if you don't like it . . . well, there's a little button down there where you can "review" and let me know!

The Woodburn family of England is one of the purest wizarding families in the world. We can trace our roots back practically to the beginning of recorded history. So why haven't I, Marissa Woodburn, been rightfully sorted into Slytherin?

Daddy's going to hear about this.

I mean, I'm in absolute awe over this. Everything else was going perfectly. My Hogwarts acceptance letter had come right on time. Not that I'd had any doubt it would come — my entire family is magic, you know.

Honestly. Out of all the Houses I could have been sorted into — well, Hufflepuff is the absolute worst, but Ravenclaw is a close second. I mean, the people in there have no life. They actually . . . study for tests, and the like. Really. In films, good guys always win, but in real life? They finish last.

Things have been pretty terrible so far. I think . . . no, I know I'm going to talk to Dumbledore about this . . . abomination. I'm getting put into Slytherin whether he likes it or not.

Blue and bronze aren't even my colors.

~*~

Gryffindor. I'm sure you've heard of it — if not, why would you be bothering to read this? Anyway, when I was a little girl I used to think it might be something special, like a dangerous potion, or a mythical beast, or even an illegal Quidditch move. But it's not.

It's my new House at Hogwarts.

I'd honestly always thought I'd be pegged for Ravenclaw. I was always getting academic awards of one kind or the other: Laurette Martin, the Best of the Best. Of the Best.

But obviously not good enough to get into the House that I deserve. The House that deserves me.

Ravenclaws . . . Ravenclaws are like me. Not brave. Not adventurous. Content to sit on the sidelines and observe.

I can't be a Gryffindor! I simply do not have the personality.

~*~

I don't remember the train ride to Hogwarts, or the boat ride, or even walking into the school itself. The first thing I can remember is Professor McGonagall calling my name and dropping the Sorting Hat onto my head.

My first test . . . and certainly not my last.