CHAPTER 27: THE RIGHT SORT


Sparhawk let his mind wander as the tiny boats they were on sailed through the dark and silent night. He was barely into his schooling and already it seemed he'd had the luck of picking up two wonderful children as friends. Neville, rather chubby and shy, always seemed one hair short of turning into a quivering jelly but seemed to find the courage to stand up for those who mattered to him. Hermione, bold, bright; she was rather determined and showed no fear in expressing her opinions - her rant when Neville broached the topic of House elves, the ones who would be taking care of their luggage had been impressive. Oh, they were precious.

And so too, he mused, looking around, were the other children who were currently staring around, half frightened, half anticipatory in the dim moonlight. Sparhawk would never admit it out loud, but he cared dearly for children. That was why, even though being appointed mentor to the young princess Ehlana had been a veiled insult by Aldreas and his incestuous lover, he had taken it with surprising calm. That was why, when they'd stumbled upon the dead child, courtesy of the Seeker, he'd become blinded by rage, and swore a sacred oath to slay the terrible creature. And that was why he would do his utmost to watch over these precious lives.

And in that vein, Sparhawk was skeptical of letting a group of excitable, sheltered eleven-year-olds get on unmanned boats in the dark of night, but apparently, that was the norm. He'd had a little chat with Hagrid about it, but the big man had rubbished his concerns of capsizing and drowning and what not. And he was watching his surroundings like a ...hawk, looking for the first sign of trouble he was sure would come.

And it came in the form of Neville. The boy had been relegated to another boat, with promises to meet up at the landing, as he and Hermione shared a boat with Hagrid. The little boy had been looking around curiously when a water bug skipped straight at him. He'd reared back in surprise only to fall into the dark, inky water. Sparhawk was halfway to stripping before anyone could even react. But he needn't have bothered for a giant tentacle deposited a wet, soaked Neville on board.

Standing next to him, Hagrid smirked. "See? Told ya."

"He's soaking wet." Sparhawk pointed out.

Hagrid's eyes suddenly widened.

"Cold night like this, he'll freeze."

Hagrid had the decency to look ashamed. "Shoulda thought o' that. Never usually happens see.." he took off his greatcoat, bunched it up, and eased into the water, holding it up above his head. Dog paddling over, he gave it to a thankful Neville who wrapped himself up in the huge garment, still warm from the half-giant's heat.

As Hagrid paddled back to their boat, Sparhawk pointed out another issue.

"Hagrid," Sparhawk said, looking at the bearded head that was bobbing above the water, "You can't get back in. It'll probably capsize."


And so it was that a group of first years and a dripping wet Hagrid climbed onto the underground harbour. Stairs led off to the surface on one side, but Hagrid led them to a door in the wall and knocked. It opened to admit a tall, thin witch in emerald-green robes. She had black hair though her lined face suggested she was somewhere about Adelaide's age. Her mouth was set in a thin line as she assessed the motley gathering. "Hagrid," she asked, her voice bewildered, "Why are you soaking wet?"

As Hagrid blubbered something about boys falling off boats and frostbite, the woman brought out a wand from beneath her robes (wink wink) and dried Hagrid and Neville off with a flick and swish. Hagrid muttered his thanks and went to check the boats. The woman opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by a loud ribbit from the boats. It was a testament to how stern she looked that none of the children sniggered. Sparhawk was his stony self as usual.

"Oye! Whose toad is this?" Hagrid shouted.

"Trevor!" exclaimed Neville happily and rushed to grab the toad, but slipped, and would have fallen in had Sparhawk not reached out and snagged his robes. As it was, they both overbalanced and would have fallen in, had Hermione not snagged Sparhawk's robes. As it was they all would have overbalanced and fallen in had...well, you get the picture. Anyhow, Hagrid grabbed the human chain and put an end to the fracas.

Eyeing them rather testily, the woman turned in a swirl of robes and led the first years into an antechamber. A great set of double doors rose before them. "Welcome to Hogwarts." said the woman, "I'm Professor McGonagall. The start of term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

'Somewhat like the four orders, then' Sparhawk mused.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." She seemed to meet Sparhawk's eyes for a brief moment and then quickly looked away.

"I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly." And she left the chamber.

Sparhawk mused. How would they be sorted exactly? Their place of origin? Random numbers? A test of some sort?

"How do you think we'll be sorted?" asked Hermione, looking a bit nervous, "I couldn't find anything about it in 'Hogwarts: A History?"

They both turned to look at Neville, the boy keeping a death grip on his toad. He shrugged sheepishly. "I dunno too. My gran was surprisingly tight-lipped about it."

"Maybe it'll be a test of some kind" mused Hermione.

Neville turned deathly white. "A t..t..test?" he stuttered.

"Well, yes, that sounds rather logical, doesn't it? And I've studied up too."

"You have?!"

"You haven't?" asked Hermione, slightly perplexed. Then she turned to Sparhawk. He shrugged.

"There were ... extenuating circumstances."

Hermione huffed. Clearly, she was rather disappointed in her two friends. Neville looked close to tears. Seeing him, she softened somewhat. "Well...it's okay. I'm sure we'll do well. School still hasn't started, so it must be something pretty easy."

Before they could discuss further, about twenty pearly white, slightly transparent forms streamed through the back wall and glided across the room talking to one another. Sparhawk's jaw tightened and a familiar graveyard reek, albeit very greatly reduced and just slightly there reached his nostrils. But these ghosts weren't like the ones he had seen, the ones of his Pandion brothers, grim in their black, rent armour, wearied by the great burden that Sephrenia 's spell had placed upon them. They looked...almost alive.

A fat man wearing a monk's robes was saying, "...forgive and forget, I say we ought to give him second chance."

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves. He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost- I say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years. The monk, in particular, seemed to be staring hard at Sparhawk. Suddenly he smiled, "First years, eh. I'm the fat friar. I hope some of you are sorted into Hufflepuff. That's my old house, you know..."

Before he could elaborate further, a sharp voice rang out, "Move along now. The Sorting ceremony's about to start."

Professor Mc Gonagall had returned. The ghosts flew away through the opposite wall.

"Now, form a line, " she told the first years, "and follow me."

They walked through the great set of double doors into a sprawling hall, its vaunted ceiling black like the...wait a minute, it was the night sky! Four long tables ran the length of the hall, each in different colours, with students in matching robes at each of them. Hundreds of candles floated about illuminating the hall in a warm glow. Aphrael had to see this.

His hand slipped into his robes, fingering his wand. Immediately, he felt Aphrael's presence. She wasn't too impressed, though. "I've seen better," she said.

"Oh stop being a child" he muttered and earned a weird look from Hermione. Oops.

"You're just jealous you don't have one." he thought back at her.

"I'm more a sprawling meadow with frolicking animals person myself, father. So forgive me if I don't see the taste in damp stone walls."

"What about the magic, then?"

"It's okay."

Shaking his head, he turned his attention to the front of the hall where Mc Gonagall was setting a cheap, worn-out hat on a stool.

He certainly wasn't expecting it to rip open its mouth and burst into song.

"Well, that was interesting," said Aphrael, sounding vaguely amused.

Sparhawk was thinking furiously. A sentient hat. Hats weren't sentient all by themselves, so that left only one option...

"Oh, don't squeeze your brain about it, father. It's not a soul bound to a hat. Power, or magic as they prefer to call it, can sometimes gain a sort of...life of its own. Consider me for instance. I am a part of Azash's power that differed from him and willed myself into existence."

Sparhawk's mind went blank at the implications of that little revelation. Dare he chase that line of thought?

"Oh father!" peals of silvery laughter sounded within his head, "I am no more Azash, then you are Bhelliom. And he is not my father. You are." and he felt a warmth inside of him. God, the child Goddess had all of them twisted around her little finger.

Meanwhile, the Hat had started being placed on the student's heads after which it called out a house. Now, this provided an entirely new dilemma. If it could read minds, then he was in for some trouble.

"Fret not, father. I'm pretty sure I can shield your mind. Just like I did against that old man over there."

And the sorting went on. Granger, Hermione ran over to the hat, muttering something under her breath and looking vaguely disappointed that all she had to do was put on a talking hat. She was sorted into Hufflepuff. The bully and his goons were sorted into Slytherin. Longbottom, Neville sat trembling under the hat all the while, and finally, it sent him to Hufflepuff. A red-haired kid was sorted into Gryffindor where he was welcomed by several other red-haired kids. Must be family. And on and on it went, but no Sparhawk.

He was beginning to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could just feel that something was going to happen. It was in the air. As his gaze drifted over to the teacher's table, he saw Dumbledore giving him a benign smile and suddenly, he knew what was going to happen. He swore just as Mc Gonagall called out "Potter, Harry James"

The hall broke out into audible murmurings. Hermione looked even more confused than before, possibly a bit hurt. Neville, for his part, looked absolutely gobsmacked. The little Malfoy over at Slytherin looked like he'd just eaten something sour. As he walked to the stool, temper tightly reined, hand clutching his wand in a death grip, he heard Aphrael whisper in his ear, "Peace, father."

What had the old fool been thinking?! Was this some ploy to make him accept his former identity? How did he even think that was going to work? Or was he being thrown as some sort of bait, luring in the Death Eaters so that they would be dealt with? In which case, he approved, but he would have very much liked to be informed. He hated surprises and he wasn't getting any younger.

"Oh, father," the child Goddess sighed, the sound seeming to breeze into his ear, "you know what this is about. You are trained in statesmanship, are you not?" And he realized. He was apparently some sort of magic baby that had murdered a dark lord when still smelling of mother's milk. A dark lord who had terrorized thousands for more than a decade, whom grown, trained wizards had fought and been killed for their troubles. And he had offed him with a tiny pinky Or his mother's sacrifice had anyway.

He was these wizards' beacon of hope or something along those lines. And maybe Dumbledore had been entrusted with his protection. But only he'd gotten himself kidnapped with some extras. And if it got out that the boy-who-lived, which was a ridiculous name, was a brain scrambled amnesiac, it might be a politically dangerous time for some people. Which was why they were trying really hard to maintain the status quo. But what did he want to do about it?

Well, he would do what he always did. Soldier on.

He walked up to the hat, gave Dumbledore a nasty glare, and pulled it over his head. The brim fell around his eyes. He couldn't help it. He was tiny now. He just hoped none of the other children had lice.

"There's a delousing charm on me" came a voice in his head, croaky and crumbly like old parchment.

"Poetic," it allowed, "Never thought you had it in you Sparhawk"

Sparhawk was beginning to feel uneasy. He just hoped Aphrael was right about the whole mind protection thing.

"Any other day, any other wizard, maybe her at her former power, yes."

His heart sped up. He reached up to yank it from his head.

"Wait! Don't take me off just yet. I won't tell anybody"

"Tell anyone what?"

"That you're definitely not Harry Potter. Not exactly a child. Not even of this time and place. And oh, that you've got what appears to be a magical being in you."

"That's Goddess to you" came Aphrael's sulky voice. All these voices in his head would drive him mad.

"I thought you said the hat couldn't read me," he thought out accusingly.

"As I said, if she were at her former power, yes. Even now, I do have some difficulty doing it and as for her, I cannot fathom the least about her. The enchantments placed on me are highly specialized, and it would take a lot of power, more than even a dozen wizards combined would have to defeat them. But enough about me. What about you?"

"Doesn't the fact that I'm a grown man in a child's body ring any alarm bells?"

"Well, if this were the catholic church, then yes. But as it is, I don't very much care about that. My job is to sort. And so I shall." Pederasty, it seemed, was an eternal phenomenon.

"And my secrets?"

"Safe with me. Oathbound."

"Well, I guess we can let him root in your head then, father." conceded Aphrael.

And without warning, he felt an alien presence in his mind. "Ah, " the hat exhaled, "much better. Now, where to put you?"

The hat went silent for a moment, then it sighed. "This is why adults are not sorted. Which children, it's easy. There's something dominant. With adults, except a few, they're well-rounded, with some slightly dominant qualities. Makes the whole process a lot tougher."

"I could help," Aphrael piped up, "I knew him from even before he was born."

"You lie, Goddess. For he is Anakha, and he is a dark room to you."

Sparhawk tensed. How did it know about that?

"Relax, Sparhawk. I can see whatever is important to my sorting. And this Anakha business...it vexes me"

Sparhawk remained silent.

"Most people I can make a fairly accurate projection of who they will be from who they are now. And with those and some consideration to their wishes, I gauge them and I sort them. But by your very nature, you defy fate, you defy destiny, because you are outside of it. I cannot predict a single thing about you, the enchantments refuse, so I will have to look at you now and I will make my choice. You are, of course, welcome to throw in your two knuts."

"My what?!" he almost shouted, before realizing it was talking about the currency.

"Gryffindor houses the brave, to be simple about it. The brave and the bold. The courageous, the risk-takers. Some tend to call it the house of the impulsive and the foolish, but bravery can be like that sometimes."

"Oh, if you're talking bravery, Sparhawk here has it in spades. Almost a bit too much for him, if you ask me. He likes challenging Gods on a regular basis."

"Ravenclaw is for those in the pursuit of knowledge, in all its forms."

"He may look like a barbarian, but he's actually got a sharp mind. Sephrenia said he was the best of her students."

"Hufflepuff is for the loyal, the hardworking. They take care of their own."

"Sparhawk's taken the meaning of loyalty to entirely new realms."

"Slytherin's for the ambitious, the cunning. They stop at nothing to get the job done."

"That second line right there. That sums up just about the entirety of the Pandion order"

Sparhawk was getting very tired of getting talked over. He cleared his throat. Which was a very weird thing to do, when you do it in your mind.

"You, Sparhawk. The four founders would have each given anything to get their hands on you. You took the battlefield against beings that would have made the Gods themselves quake. Yet you also had the bravery to look inside and confront the Elenian prejudice that rotted within you. A special kind of bravery that few possess.

You outstripped your fellow Pandions, not only on the field but in the magic arts, statesmanship, and the scholarly circles. Your keen intellect would have made you Rowena's favourite. Your undying loyalty to your queen, your friends, would have put Helga Hufflepuff herself to shame. And Slytherin. Your ambition, your sheer arrogance to challenge the Gods. Your ruthlessness in achieving your goals. Your oft-overlooked cunning. He would have coveted you."

"But then, your Slytherin qualities would have made Gryffindor wary of you and vice versa. And you never did seek knowledge for knowledge's sake. You always saw it as a means to an end."

"So where do we put him?" asked Aphrael. But Sparhawk was sure she knew the answer.

"Tarry a little. Let us ask the boy himself." Sparhawk bristled at that. But, for all intents and purposes, he was a boy.

Give me a minute, he thought back and sat in silence. Well, really, he'd been sitting in silence for quite a while now, but you get the drift.

Then suddenly a thought struck him. "Hermione. Why did you put her in Hufflepuff? I would've thought even Gryffindor. I think she evinced an interest in that one."

"You know I can't tell you" the hat replied.

He thought a bit, recalling the way her face lit up when Neville called them friends back on the train. And he understood. "Oh well, we can't have her separated from her first friends now, can we? And besides, I'd sleep a lot sounder with people who I know have it in their nature to be loyal. If you're going to ask me, Hufflepuff."

He thought he could sense the hat smiling. "Helga Hufflepuff was often seen as the weakest of the founders. And she was, by their standards. But she was also far stronger. For she was never just a single woman. And I think you comprehend what that means more than most, Sir Knight."

And then the hat screamed out, "Hufflepuff!"


A/N: ba dum tiss! Well, we all knew where this was going. Sparhawk, for those of you who've read the series, was always a team player, or so I thought. He had a lone wolf energy about him, but at the end of the day, he was part of a team. A significant part of it, but a part nonetheless. And besides, I would probably make a terrible mockery of Ravenclaw if I ever wrote it and there are very many ways to go wrong writing Slytherin. Hufflepuff is an easy choice. As for Hermione, I've always found it odd that the hat sorted her into Gryffindor. It seemed like a plot armor thing more than anything. So I've made my own plot armor thing and sorted her into Hufflepuff. And Neville. Well, throwing a quivering piece of jelly into the house for the brave and bold did not seem like a good idea. I feel this will make him grow more. If you've got any issues with the sorting, well, there's not much you can do about it, can you? Or can you? Well, you could write reviews and leave little suggestions that could subtly influence my thinking. You never know.

On another note, we've finally crossed 50000 words! yay! Any ideas on what we should do about that?

And for the discerning mind, there are a lot of dick jokes in this chapter too. A good indication of the days to come. Come. Snigger.

As always, read and review.