AUTHOR'S NOTE: Who said anything about Hermione being Trelawney? I'm out to prove that Obi-Wan, not Anakin, became Darth Vader! Oh, wait…that was my friends and me at tf.n. Never mind.

Chapter 3: The Last Re-Sort

Hermione was nowhere to be found, and Trelawney, once put back together, was unable to say anything because she was overcome with hysterical tears. She was brought into the hospital wing just as Harry was going out, and the only person who came to meet him was Snape.

"Feeling better?" the Potions teacher asked.

"Worse, actually," Harry grumbled.

Snape nodded empathetically. "Dumbledore said he knows of a good group counselor we can talk to," he said.

Harry snorted. "So after everything I've gone through in the past day, the best I can look forward to now is group therapy."

Snape shrugged. "I hear it worked for the Evils. We can at least try it."

Harry shook his head. "I don't want group therapy," he muttered. "I want my friends back."

Snape was silent a moment, then shrugged again. "I can't give you your friends back," he said, "but I can see to it that you make some new friends."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

They had arrived at the doors to the Great Hall by now. Snape opened the door on the left and motioned for Harry to enter ahead of him. Harry did, but he halted almost immediately. There ahead of him, in front of the teacher's table, sat a familiar stool with the Sorting Hat on top of it.

"What's this?" Harry inquired.

"You're to be re-Sorted," Snape told him.

Harry frowned, puzzled. "Why?!"

"I don't know, really," Snape replied, also furrowing his brow. "That just seems to be something commonly done in stories like this."

Harry turned haunted eyes on his newly-revealed father. "You mean there are other stories like this?"

Snape caught Harry's eye and raised his eyebrows. "There are a lot of sick muddleheads out there who lay awake nights thinking up things like this," he sighed. "Are you ready to get it over with?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's just going to put me back in Gryffindor," he said. "You know that, right?"

"You don't read much fanfiction, do you?" Snape countered with a smirk.

"I'll put it on my to-do list," Harry muttered, then set off up the center aisle towards the Sorting Hat.

A hush fell over the student body at Harry's entrance, and every eye in the room followed him. Snape came about two steps behind him, and it was he, not McGonagall, who picked up the Sorting Hat to place it on his son's head. He had argued about it with Dumbledore, but the headmaster had insisted, saying that it was not in his hands but the narrator's.

The Hat perched on top of Harry's frizzy hair and pondered for a long time.

Come on, Harry thought. You put me in Gryffindor before. Hurry up and do it again, you dumb, decrepit old thing.

I'm not dumb, the Hat told him testily. I talk and sing. And I really think I made a mistake before, so—

Before Harry could make any further argument, the Hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"

This announcement was greeted with boos from all four tables. "We don't want him!" Draco Malfoy shouted, tossing a piece of bacon at him. Ron flashed two fingers, first at Malfoy, then at Harry.

Snape turned to the Slytherin table, glared at Malfoy, and pointedly cleared his throat. At that cue, all of the Slytherins cheered, and several glanced nervously at Malfoy, as if afraid that he had a contagious disease.

"Take your seat," Snape told Harry. In an undertone, he added, "And don't mind Malfoy; he's all talk."

"Right," Harry said through stiff lips. "I don't suppose you could tell me how to find the writer of this deplorable story?"

Snape shook his head. "If I knew where she was," he replied, "she wouldn't be alive to keep writing it."