For a moment we're all the same. Muggle- and wizard-born alike crane their necks in disbelief, gaping upward to where the Hall simply empties into the sky. A blonde boy to my left pokes the winking girl in the side, making a comment. She shakes her curly head and mouths something back. Another pair of purebloods, I think vaguely, without dropping my gaze—I'm entranced by the floating candles, wondering how permanent the spell is, how you lift something into the air and make it stay there.
I let my eyes drop from the candles to the bright banners draped across the walls. An eagle, a badger, a lion, and a snake—no, a serpent. The gleaming eyes and languid curve of the deep green body proscribe the more commonplace appellation. The school Houses. This is one bit of information that I do possess—though even lacking it, there would be no difficulty in making the connection with the four enormous wooden tables stretching the length of the room.
At the front of the hall, above the long staff table, a quadripartite crest emblazoned with a large 'H' combines the four mascots in an uneasy union. My eyes drift downward as a stately witch at a golden podium clears her throat. Swathed in magnificent emerald robes, the headmistress calmly makes herself heard above the din of teenagers. I remember her name and the strength of her handshake. At nearly eighty years old Minerva McGonagall still holds herself like a warrior.
Silence falls as McGonagall's austere voice echoes through the hall despite the lack of a microphone. A standard but cordial greeting. The gathered students shift excitedly, and it crosses my mind to wonder if end-of-holidays gloom even exists here.
Doubtful.
McGonagall gestures, and a young witch with blonde highlights and a breezy smile enters the room, carrying an unidentifiable something, and accompanied by an arthritic cat. Seconds later the lump in her arms resolves itself into a stool and a battered hat, which she sets on the stand directly in front of the golden podium. Inside the slightly overlong sleeve of my robe, my nails bite into my palms. McGonagall explained all of this. But here's the bit I'm unsure about—how can a hat, even a magical hat, possibly decide for me where I belong? What does it matter if the thing reads minds? Some days I can barely read my own mind.
A name is announced. Like the inadvertent shudder of an overworked muscle, the nervous crowd contracts slightly as the first of our number, blonde and slight, approaches the hat.
Pause.
I almost stumble back as the hat twitches open its brim and bellows a name. It took barely five seconds.
"Hufflepuff!"
Those few seconds were more than sufficient to correct my self-denial. It does matter. A lot. Minds are private for a reason. I keep lots of stuff in mine.
The next one takes longer. Brunette. Protruding chin. Thirty seconds.
"Gryffindor!"
The list goes on. I pay close attention at first, scrutinizing my peers, trying to guess where they'll end up. My nails are digging harder now, and I make a concentrated effort to unclench my fist.
Name.
Shout.
Applause.
The hat takes its time with some students. It perches on the head of a dark-eyed girl for almost two minutes before declaring her a Ravenclaw.
None of this feels real.
The list is alphabetized. Deciding that fretting will have absolutely no effect on my own Sorting, I allow my attention to wander over the hall. Each of the four segregated tables erupt with sound when a student joins their number.
What will my House be?
"Hatfield, Laura!"
I snap back to the front. If we're getting into the H's, it's time to pay attention.
The hall holds its breath.
"Slytherin!"
My name is called when two-thirds of my classmates are still waiting to be sorted. They part before me, a silent Red Sea, and offer shy smiles as I step forward to perch on the stool. I catch a glimpse of my scarlet-streaked palm just before the hat slips over my eyes. I clench my fist tightly. There's more silence inside.
I almost jump when the voice sounds in my head.
Well, now.
Silence.
I raise my eyebrows. Somewhere in the back of my head Mother is nattering on about the importance of first impressions. Despite what she says, I actually am capable of dredging up some charm when meeting a stranger. But this stranger can read my mind, so all bets are off. In seconds this thing will know my true nature, whatever that means.
It doesn't take long for my true nature to reveal itself.
"Thanks. I was hoping for something a little more…conclusive."
A throaty chuckle.
Another tricky one. I do adore the tricky ones.
"I imagine that most people are enigmas in their own heads," I think at it irritably. "Even if they're dull in reality. I know the general Founders' criteria, but what's the basis of your categorization? Self-image?"
The chuckle sounds again—next to my ear? Inside my head?
Oh no, little one. Much deeper than that.
My pulse quickens. It's highly uncomfortable, thinking with the knowledge that this ratty bit of patched leather, I mean, obviously astute magical artifact, is sifting through my head. Deeper. What does that mean? Tricky. Does the hat say that to every student? Or do I simply not belong here, either?
And yet, why should I belong to a certain House? What's their grounds for characterization? Personality is inherently multidimensional. Can you just sum a person up like that?
Uninvited memories from primary school flash through my mind. Okay, maybe some people…
I retreat into my head, gathering what I remember of the four Houses. The Sorting Hat follows along and I picture it nodding sagely.
Ravenclaw. Of course, you would venture there first. You have a mind Rowena herself would admire, but there's something else…quite intriguing…
It waffles on in that vein for a minute. I file the words away, wishing I'd drilled McGonagall a little more closely when I had the chance.
Gryffindor. Where dwell the brave at heart. You have half a mind to try your luck there, don't you? I daresay you inherited your father's daring as well as his impatience with stupidity.
Rage explodes like white fire in my mind. I quench the blaze purely out of habit, stiffening my arm against the urge to rip the rag of leather off my head. How can it know about my father? That's a door I keep firmly locked.
The hat meanders on, feigning oblivion.
But then there's your mother, so lost in your new world. You get just as much of your courage from her, you know. And something that comes less naturally.
Somehow, you really care.
"…about what?"
Other people. There's nothing in your head to say that love is worth the effort you put into it.
I stiffen again, gripping the edge of the stool. "What are you—of course I care about people." There is nothing wrong with me.
Humanitarian sensibilities that have very little to do with what you are. Though they may have everything to do with what you become. I don't read the future, Annie, I read potential. Humans forge their own characters. Did you know that Sorting used to occur after the second year at Hogwarts? By thirteen, character is more firmly set. And the Founders had had the chance to observe the survivors.
I, on the other hand—all I have are building blocks. You're still so young. You love, I think. With time, you might love deeply. But you had to teach yourself, didn't you?
Anger mounts again at the back of my skull.
"Get out of my head."
Take a look at your options, Andrea. Where do you belong?
"Right, because I have a choice."
Oh, but you do. The voice is silky as ice, settling into the crevices of my brain as though to smooth and conceal, but the effect is the opposite. I want to scream, hurl it away, fling it off as easily as it lifts the thoughts from my head. I settle for gritting my teeth.
"We've already established that I'm a freak."
The hat chuckles.
So I can choose. There's not much question about what.
"Ravenclaw."
I know you, Annie. You don't love knowledge for its own sake. You could never bear the dull brashness of ordinary thinking. Nor do your loyalties extend to the conventionalities Gryffindors thrive on.
I reel. This is my 'choice'?
"If you want unconventional, I'm quite capable of being my own House."
We both know that's not quite true. There's Hufflepuff—
"Not an option. Hufflepuffs are distinguished mainly by their mediocrity. Or, if you will, their humanitarian sensibilities."
Can you tell the difference?
I grit my teeth again.
"I can tell you that I have no intention of leading a life free of expectation. Or of building it around shattering a stereotype of incompetence. Hufflepuff… does not apply to me."
There is no other way to put it, and the hat doesn't argue. It does go quiet for a moment before resuming, more ponderous than before.
Expectations can transform you.
"I didn't say I'd conform to them."
Another chuckle. Have we arrived at last?
"Where's that?"
The burning ambition that's all your own.
"Are we still doing this? I thought the psychoanalysis was finished."
You certainly would do well in Slytherin.
My heart speeds up.
"Not Slytherin. Take your pick of the others if you won't take mine, but not Slytherin."
What do you want?
"Not Slytherin."
What do you want, Andrea?
The words are so cliché, I hate them for being true.
"I want to make a difference. I want…to be…different."
I grip the worn edge of the stool. The flames continue their merry crackling, but my mind is frozen over, crystallized, and I can't remember how to feel warmth. The hat lifts from my head but the murmur of gathered voices is muted, the hall's clashing colors a swirling fragment of dream that's sinking away and leaving me behind.
But I'm still here, right? Because somewhere above a thousand blank faces I can still hear the shout reverberating through the hall.
"Slytherin!"
Vaguely I wonder if sound waves, like candlesticks, hang in the air forever.
And then the room erupts into applause.
