THE SORTING HAT

The moment the Sorting Hat's song ended, the Great Hall burst into appreciative applause, followed by a sense of anticipation as Professor McGonagall stepped to the fore.

'When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted – Abbott, Hannah!'

One by one, the new students came forward, tried on the Hat and awaited their fate. As was the case every year, the Hat's decisions were largely clear-cut, but there were a handful that were trickier to place.

The first of these was 'Finnigan, Seamus!'

A sandy-haired boy jostled through the throng of students and perched on the stool.

Let's see, let's see, the Hat told him. Yes, I see passion, and lots of it. Of course, Slytherin values passion most highly –

What! I can't be in Slytherin!

Why ever not? Slytherin will help you channel that passion – but if you insist … Now, passion can be used in many ways: it can make you hard-working, which Hufflepuff admires; or give you a hunger for knowledge, which would make you a Ravenclaw.

What about Gryffindor?

See, I would put you in Gryffindor, but I fear your fiery streak might lead you into trouble with your peers. The lion is the proudest beast of all, but too much pride leads to recklessness. Can you be trusted to enter the lions' den?

Yes, you silly hat, I want to be in Gryffindor!

Very well. But I warn you, Mr Finnigan: you are with these people for seven years, and you will not get along with them all the time. For now, though –

'GRYFFINDOR!'

Seamus rushed off to be replaced by 'Granger, Hermione!' who eagerly shoved the Hat atop her bushy brown hair.

Oh my, what a remarkable mind you have. If I have sat on a smarter young head than yours, I can scarcely remember it. Needless to say that Ravenclaw would be a most suitable home for you, where your thirst for learning can be wholly quenched … But wait – there's more to you than that, isn't there? Yes, yes … You have great spirit, I see that. And, after all, a person cannot succeed on brains alone. One needs a strong heart, courage in the face of adversity. And since you possess both, Miss Granger, you ought to be in –

'GRYFFINDOR!'

Hermione headed to the far left table, looking very pleased with herself.

Neville Longbottom proved to be an unusual case. The Hat had never came across someone so reluctant to be put in Gryffindor.

I can see your courage. It may be deep down, perhaps too deep for you to notice, but I can assure you it's there.

But – I'm clumsy! I'm not brave, I can hardly do magic! I thought I was a Squib until I got my letter –

Every great wizard started off as unassuming and anxious as you. You may not feel brave now, but you will with time. How can a person become courageous unless he is given the chance to find his courage? This is your chance.

But –

I remember both your parents sitting on this stool. I put them both in Gryffindor without hesitation. Courage runs in your blood. You are no Squib: You are a Longbottom. Now, get your sorry self to –

'GRYFFINDOR!'

In his eagerness to reach the Gryffindor table and out of the spotlight, Neville left with the Hat still on his head. The Hall rang with laughter as he returned it, pink-faced.

Ten minutes later, the Hall was filled with the sounds of loud conversation, the chinking of goblets and cutlery, and the wonderful smell of hot, rich food.

'So,' said Dumbledore to McGonagall, who had just returned from stashing away the Hat and stool. He swallowed his mouthful of roast beef. 'Young Harry will be taken under your wing. I won't pretend I'm not a little relieved about that.' He privately envisaged how Severus would have reacted had Harry been placed in Slytherin.

'I thought we'd agreed not to show the boy favouritism, Albus,' frowned McGonagall, helping herself to gravy. 'That we'd treat him as nothing more or less than a Hogwarts student?'

'I stand by that agreement; I was not insinuating otherwise, Minerva. But I can now rest assured that he is surrounded by the right people. He seems to have already befriended the Weasley boys, who I am sure will have a positive influence on him. Yes, I think everything has gone to plan so far.'

Further along the High Table, at the end nearest the Slytherins, Snape was listening to Quirrell's first-hand account of how he had obtained his ludicrous turban.

'… So the Prince t-took me to where the zombie hid, and handed m-me a wooden c-club. But I told h-him, "You c-cannot defeat a zombie by force. It will k-keep coming back unless you c-curse it away".

'And this African Prince was a Muggle?' asked Snape. His eyes flickered past Quirrell and across the Gryffindor table, finding those of Harry Potter's. At the sight of the boy's messy black hair and glasses, he experienced a stab of loathing and looked away. He returned to Quirrell's stuttered, garbled story without really listening, and cut open his roast potato with more force than was necessary.

Of course the boy had been Sorted into Gryffindor. Brave, heroic, wonderful Gryffindor. He was James Potter all over again. Except the tables had fully turned. The tormented would become the tormentor, and that thought made Snape's lip curl. Oh, he was looking forward to Potter's first Potions lesson.