First Year

It was the First of September, and all through the Hall… well, that's it for me. Not all of us can compare to the poetic talents of Clement Clarke Moore. After all, it took me nearly six centuries to move away from the limerick.

Yeah. Not proud of that.

Then again, considering both Helga and Robin are Welsh, I suppose they should be grateful I'm even singing in English, let alone coherently.

Nevertheless, even I recognized that this would not be one of my finest efforts.

A ridiculous tradition had arisen over the last several decades, for parents to not tell their children how they would be Sorted. I suppose it added to the mystique of the Welcoming Feast, but it still annoyed me greatly. I would have to waste a few stanzas introducing myself, getting students used to the notion that they would be sorted by a scruffy leather hat.

And yes, I was quite scruffy – I wasn't exactly capable of cleaning myself, after all.

Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.

From the minds of past students, I knew this to be the tenth year after the death of the former Lord Voldemort (though how that runny-nosed brat ever got away with the ridiculous anagram, I would never undersand).

I knew that the terrorists called Death Eaters were prone to target muggle-born students and their families, and that the few who survived to the Sorting Ceremony were far more harried than your normal first year.

Now, Salazar wasn't a big fan of muggles, but that mostly had to do with his daughter being burnt at the stake by rioting townspeople. The poor man was disgusted by how his legacy had been tainted. But such was the nature of our binding: we could not speak for any other purpose than Sorting.

It had been ten years since the First Wizarding War ended, and suddenly the number of muggle-born students skyrocketed. Somehow, more of them survived and willingly joined the Wizarding World when they were no longer faced with the prospect of mass extermination. Who knew?

So this year I had to amend my usual fare. It was not enough to merely segue directly to the Sorting. I had to introduce the very nature of the Houses and the four Founders.

You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those wit of learning,
Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.

Again, not my finest effort, but do you have any idea how hard it is to find a rhyme for 'cunning'? I was hard-pressed enough to fit some notion of friendship in there, though relying on others is a practical necessity of political ambition. But as it turned out, I made poor Salazar's House sound like a crowd of eleven-year-old Machiavels.

So put me on! Don't be afraid
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!

I bowed to each of the four tables as applause broke out – some barely politic, some wildly enthusiastic. I was pretty sure I even heard those Weasley twins hooting. It's remarkable how similar they were to their uncles, the late Prewett twins.

We turned our attention to the outer senses, and scanned the Great Hall for magical auras.

Whoa.

I checked again.

Whoa.

That's new. Very much so.

There were two people with dual auras. Seriously. What really freaked me out, though, was that the second magical signatures of both were basically identical. Not even twins had the same magical symmetry. This was like two parts of the same being, only one was slightly older.

The first I recognized as the former Muggle Studies teacher, Quirinius Quirrell. The second was standing by the door, apparently a first year student.

What was going on here?

I was barely paying attention when the Deputy Headmistress called up "Abbott, Hannah." Ah, the Deputy Headmistress. I first knew her as little Miss Minnie. She tries so hard to be strict, but I saw her at her Sorting, and she was the cutest, sweetest thing you ever—

WOW does this Abbott girl want to be in Hufflepuff. Who does that? The other three of us started heckling Helga, who stood bravely under fire, while Robin spoke comfortingly to her.

I was so distracted by overwhelming 'Puffiness, I almost forgot to visually scan the Hall. I took note of the second double-aura boy: messy black hair, green eyes, thin frame. Huh. If I'm not mistaken, that's Harry Potter. But he looks malnourished and skittish, not the picture of the Boy-Who-Lived everyone was expecting.

Robin interrupted our reflection by calling "Hufflepuff!" No kidding.

Okay, head in the game. Or heads. Mental implants. Whatever.

Next on the docket was "Bones, Susan." A nice aura, clearly loyal personality. Even from here I could tell she's a probable Hufflepuff. And here, we, go…

DANG, two of them? Seriously, who feels this strongly about Hufflepuff? The two girls are best friends and belonged there anyway. But still. The sheer determination to be a Puff was… well, a little frightening, even for me. Also, her aunt was Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,a and she had overheard a few interesting conversations. A few comforting words later, and "Hufflepuff!"

"Boot, Terry."

All right, so this kid's aura was definitely less 'Puffy. Some streaks of ambition, but it struck me as more tied to knowledge than personal advancement. Probably a Ravenclaw. And… yep, definitely a Ravenclaw.

Hey, after a millennium of practice, I'm a pretty good guesser. My consistent record kinda takes the fun out of it, but there's little else to keep me amused. This Boot kid was a half-blood, not much to keep my attention. Very little changes year-to-year, at least to my ancient eyes. "Ravenclaw!"

The Sorting continued. Boot was joined by "Brocklehurst, Mandy" in the House of 'Claws, while "Brown, Lavender" was the first to wind up in Gryffindor. None of us were particularly enthused by her mind. Seriously, pink?

"Bulstrode, Millicent" was our first Slytherin, and she truly belonged to that house. She knew she wasn't much of a looker, but was bound and determined to overcome that hurdle and make a life for herself.

Now "Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was an interesting specimen. His mind was like candy-land. His parents were members of the Muggle aristocracy, so of all the muggleborn students, he would probably be the best suited to mimic the aristocratic pureblood culture. Robin tried to convince him to enter Slytherin, but his loyalty to family and old friends held strong. Ergo, "Hufflepuff!"

"Finnegan, Seamus" came up next. He was half-blood, but his mother was quite the socialite, so he had overheard more than his fair share of interesting conversations. More than that, he didn't really belong to any house, so Robin offered him the choice. He took his precious time! At length he decided, and "Gryffindor" was called.

When "Granger, Hermione" was called, I could hardly wait to taste her mind. Her aura was swirling like a kaleidoscope. There were definite overtones of hyperintelligence, but that was balanced by her long-felt insecurity and determination to prove herself. It was a toss-up between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.

Good grief, young lady! How on earth did you manage to read practically every book on the the First Year reading list? Well, I certainly wasn't complaining. Her mind gave me more raw knowledge than any First Year in nearly a century. She had even read the latest edition of Hogwarts: A History!

At last, she and Robin came to a consensus, and "Gryffindor!" was called.

The next First Year to capture my attention was "Longbottom, Neville." Wow. Just… wow. This kid's childhood was all kinds of messed up. First on the docket: his parents were tortured to insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville was in the same room while it happened.

Yeesh. After twenty years, even the memory of Trixie's mind is enough to creep me out. That girl had issues.

Anyway: parents exit stage right, grandmother enters stage left. Mrs. Longbottom was apparently convinced that Neville would be a hero just like his father, and decided to make him act that way. The nagging, on top of the early trauma, made his magic retreat into itself. For most of his childhood, he thought he was a squib. No one bothered to point out that his green thumb was actually a form of passive magic. Helga was indignant.

Then, when Neville was eight, his great-uncle Algie threw him out the window. That's right. His uncle figured: well hey, whether a dead squib or a live wizard, either way works for him. His grandmother was so proud. After all, he had bounced!

Not for the first time, Godric's fingers were itching for his sword, and swore vengeance for the child's sake. Robin was very considerate, and we were all pleased that Neville found his place in "Gryffindor!" Hopefully he'd stand up for himself someday soon.

At the moment, though, he was so flustered he almost ran off with me. I was soon returned to my stool, and the Sorting continued with "MacDonald, Morag."

After her came "Malfoy, Draco." Lucius' boy, no doubt. Even his aura looked oily. None of us wanted to spend much time on his head, so we four did a quick round of 'nose goes.'

Salazar lost.

"Slytherin!"

The names seemed to blur together: Moon, Nott, Parkinson came and went in quick succession. The Patil twins were an interesting study in contrasts, then the incredibly mellow Sally-Anne Perks.

Finally, "Potter, Harry!"

Predictably the Hall broke out in whispers. For a second, it sounded like Salazar doing his parseltongue schtick. I couldn't see, not really, but I did watch as the dual aura hesitantly came up to the stool.

Okay, show time.

The brim fell over his head, and Robin spoke up.

"Hmm. Difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either."

By this time the four of us were already digging through his memory. Rowena screeched in indignation. "Not a bad mind, for something constantly told to 'not ask questions'!" Salazar growled something about 'those muggles', while Godric went to sharpen his sword. One thousand years, and he had kept his martial instincts.

"There's talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So, where shall I put you?"

It was around the time that Robin said "oh my goodness" that we all discovered something. There wasn't just a second magical aura; there was a whole second personality, with soul and memory and everything.

Holy crap. It was a horcrux. Riddle made horcruxes.

The four of us immediately hunkered down to extract the memories. There was so much. I saw all of Riddle's secrets, from his years at school to his rise as Lord Voldemort. It was intoxicating. No adult had allowed us on their head in seven centuries. After all, we were just a Sorting Hat. Idiots.

As we copied Riddle's memories, a thin voice came from the boy beneath us. Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin.

Salazar took a quick moment to huff with indignation, but even he conceded that meeting Draco Malfoy was probably not the best introduction to the qualities of his House.

"Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, no doubt about that—"

You know when Robin is just marking time when he talks like that. Harry had already decided against Slytherin House, and we do not Sort against the express wishes of the student. But at last we had finished wading through Riddle's memories, and Robin came to a quick finish.

"No? Well, if you're sure – better be" and at this Robin spoke aloud to the Hall "Gryffindor!"

Pandemonium. I vaguely heard the Weasley twins cheering "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

I hardly noticed. We four were occupied with Riddle's memories.

Only four students remained, none of them requiring even half my attention.

"Thomas, Dean." "Gryffindor!"

"Turpin, Lisa." "Ravenclaw!"

"Weasley, Ron. "Gryffindor!"

"Zabini, Blaise." "Slytherin."

And the Sorting Ceremony was over. Then the former 'little Miss Minnie' (now stern Mistress McGonagall) lifted me up and out of the Hall, and it was back to the shelf for me.

I wasn't really paying attention. This was a feast, and Riddle's memories were the banquet. We examined every moment, every detail of every scene, every word said and every thought left unsaid. And a week later, when we had finally sated ourselves, we returned our attention to the outside world and...

Oh.

Right.

Here I am.

I didn't do such a great job at pacing myself, did I?

So.

Another year, another Sorting.

And back to the shelf I went.

Bored.

Bored.

Unimaginably, inconceivably, unendingly bored.