This one-shot ties directly into my novel Full Moon Rising at the end of Chapter 10 and Harry's Sorting, so if you haven't read at the very least that chapter then this may not make much sense. If you have, then you noticed that the Sorting was done from what I think is a Fourth-Person Point of View. (Correct me if I'm wrong… I'm basing my belief on half-remembered grammar school lessons.) Anywho, Fourth-person (or some such derivative) is from a character not the main's point of view, ergo Prof. McGonagall's reaction. It worked well for my purposes, but for shits and giggles (and the fact that the title of the chapter may have confused some people) here it is from Harry's (or Hawk as I call him) perspective. Please note, disclaimer and relevant information can be found at the end.

Full Moon Rising: Interlude

A Game of Questions

"…Finally, as if in answer to her question the Hat yelled out a word and the boy got up, set the Hat back down on its stool, and dashed off to join his Housemates. McGonagall was floored. She looked back at the Headmaster, but he was just as surprised as she. McGonagall stared after the boy for a moment, then shook herself out of her daze and called the next name, all the while thinking How in Merlin's name did James Potter's son get placed in Slytherin?" – From Full Moon Rising, Chapter 10

Harry Potter, called Hawk by his friends, particularly by Guinevere Flanagan, who outright refused to acknowledge the boisterous eleven-year-old by his given name, walked calmly up to the Sorting Hat's stool as if he hadn't intentionally made the harried Professor beside it call his name twice before he would answer. And in truth, he hadn't. He had merely been waiting for confirmation from his aforementioned friend that she wouldn't immediately dismember him when he answered to the "forbidden" title.

He felt more than saw the Professor—he hadn't been paying attention earlier, and so missed her name—let out a breath of relief as he approached the stool. He smirked at the thought as he picked up the Hat, but immediately frowned as he placed it upon his head. The damned thing was twelve sizes too big!

Really, such language! A voice in his ear startled Hawk out of his pout. And especially from a Firstie. Well, Mr. Potter, where shall we put you? Hawk experienced the oddest sensation, as if something was straining his very thoughts, letting the juices of his subconscious run in order to leave the pulpy masses of thoughts the Hat needed in order to Sort him. Hmm, the Hat began thoughtfully, you are an interesting sort. Intelligent and cunning, yet fiercely loyal to those you consider your friends and unafraid to prove that loyalty to the world. I dare say you'd do well in any of the Houses, but alas, I Sort so few of that ilk that you'd most likely be the only one of your House from now until Commencement. So, again I say Mr. Potter. Where should you be placed?

"I don't care," Hawk muttered under his breath, unsure if the Hat would pick up on his more immediate thoughts. "I have friends in most of the Houses, haven't you noticed? Just put me with one of them," he added decisively, crossing Hufflepuff of his mental list of possible Housing placements.

Well then. That being the case, how about a game?

"A what?" Hawk asked, startled.

A game. In order to determine the correct placement for you, as you obviously could go four different ways.

"As long as it's quick," Hawk muttered, listening to the beginnings of a curious Great Hall. "I'll bite. What's the game?"

'Tis a game of Questions, dear boy.

"How do I play?"

You have to ask questions, and call the other on a foul.

"Alright…"

Statement, one-love.

"You cheated!"

How?

"I thought we—"

Statement, two-love.

"What the hell?"

What in heaven? Ah-ha! Hawk got the game now. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, and if he'd been able to see himself in a mirror, he'd notice that his eyes had turned a brilliant purple—exactly the same shade as those of his friend Gwen.

"Where's that?"

Where's what?

"What are you talking about?"

Heaven… oh, damn.

"Statement!" Hawk crowed, grinning. "Two-one."

What're you doing?

"What's that you say?"

What are you doing?

"Repetition, two-all!"

Who are you?

"What's your name?"

What's yours?

"When I'm at Hogwarts?"

Is it different when you're at Hogwarts?

"What's Hogwarts?"

What are you, stupid?

"Foul!" Hawk grinned at blackness inside the Hat. "No rhetorical questions. Two-three, game to me."

I am impressed, the Hat admitted grudgingly. Not many have been able to trip me up like that. Therefore dear boy, I think your cunning will aid you the most in "SLYTHERIN!"

The Hall outside, which had just been whispering frantically fell deathly silent. The Slytherin table, however, although stunned at the Hat's decision did not contest it and roared loudly in approval. The other House tables could only look on with fear and sudden distrust of the Wizarding World's savior. Hawk, however, sketched a jaunty salute to the Hat and headed off in the direction of the Slytherin table, unperturbed at the sudden outpouring of distrust that was emanating most prominently from the Gryffindor table across the Hall where Hermione Granger sat, a little confused at the reactions of her Housemates. As Hawk looked on from his vantage point, he saw Hermione whisper something to her neighbor, who evidently explained the entire situation because the girl's eyes widened until they threatened to pop out of her head and try as he might, Hawk couldn't get his new friend to look him straight in the eye for the rest of the Ceremony.

Fin.

Standard Disclaimer: None of the recognizable characters and/or settings belong to me. They are the product of the very fruitful mind of one Jo Rowling. She was just kind enough to allow poor starving writers like myself to play with her spiffy new toys. Gwen, on the other hand, is of my own imagination and as such may not be lifted from this fic (or any others of mine she is featured in) without my permission.

Now, Explanations: The conversation between the Hat and Hawk is based loosely on the game of Questions played by Gary Oldman and Tim Roth in the screen production of Tom Stoppard's play "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead!" If you want a synopsis of the play, e-mail me. It'd take too damned long to summarize here. (That play by the way doesn't belong to me either). There are several websites that have quotes from the play—most of which are VERY amusing, I assure you. E-mail me if you want them too at kat.silvertongue AT Or do a google search. By the way if you haven't guessed it already, the title of Chapter 10 of FMR was supposed to be because of this conversation, but it didn't flow as well as I'd hoped, so here you go. Hope you've enjoyed the new look at the Sorting, and remember, a review is always welcome!