"Potter, James"
The hat and the stool are the last obstacle between him and everything he can ever remember wanting. This is his future, his friends, his family. Yet he isn't nervous because that's not the way his mind works. He always gets the things that he wants and doesn't know any other way.
Hundreds of eyes are on him, and he takes the steps in two bounds, dark eyes sweeping over the professors in front of him; Dumbledore, with that twinkling smile that reaches his eyes, and the other students, waiting impatiently for the Potter boy and the other first years to get sorted, for the meal to commence. He isn't hungry himself, not after the cauldron cakes and licorice wands from the train.
He brushes his hair out of his eyes, grins at the severe professor reading from the scroll of names; he's sure he's met her before, has been introduced by his parents, but paying attention has never been his strong suit. He slides up onto the stool, so that his feet dangle a good foot above the ground. He pulls at the new robes that fit him in a way that he is unaccustomed to and eyes the Gryffindor table at the end of the hall where he knows he'll be sitting in just a minute.
The hat is lowered onto his head, nearly sliding down over his eyes but resting instead on top of his glasses so that he can still see everyone in the hall watching him.
"I was wondering when I would be meeting you, Mr. Potter" a gravelly voice sounds, as though in his mind. He might have jumped had he not known exactly what to expect.
"I remember your parents well, and your grandparents before them. Curious bunch I can tell you, great minds, ahead of their time, and clever. Your mother certainly excelled in Ravenclaw."
He's already shaking his head, forgetting that the hat can read his mind, but it certainly isn't finished its analysis.
"But I see you wouldn't fit there, oh no, you're much more like your father. A good match, the two of them. Hmmm…You have a certain penchant for adventure, a restlessness that will certainly get you in trouble, but could also take you far if you learn how to channel your talents… oh, yes, I'd say it's fairly obvious what to do with you, don't you think?"
"Yes!" he thinks back excitedly. Of course it's the most obvious thing to him, the only option he has ever considered. The hat continues to speak but he is barely paying attention to the words now that he has what he wants.
"Be careful Mr. Potter, your strength and loyalty will be tested. But it's your best chance at preparation. I wish you the best of luck in… GRYFFINDOR!"
Cheers erupt from the Gryffindors as he tears the hat from his head and heads for his house table from which many familiar faces smile and wave at him. He slides into place between the boys he met on the train and the snotty redhead whose name he can't remember.
"Alright?" he says to the frail boy named Remus who looks as though he is about to be sick. The boy nods faintly in reply and they all turn to the head table as Albus Dumbledore rises to speak.
It is many hours later, after the other boys have gone to bed around him that he digs through his trunk for his new set of pyjamas that he is surprised to feel the familiar silken material brush the back of his hand. Taking it in his fist, he withdraws his father's cloak, watching it shimmer in the dim moonlight that filters through the window next to his bed. He runs it through his fingers, already anticipating the next seven years and beyond. He rises and pulls it over his shoulders, watching in the mirror as his body disappears, leaving behind a floating head. He has done it many times before, but now, for the first time, it is his, and he is here, and there will be no stopping him.
"No way!" an impressed voice hisses from the darkness and he turns to see Sirius Black sitting up in bed, grinning.
"Oh yeah" is all he says in response, pulling the cloak up over his head.