Sherlock would never admit it, but the night before his first day at Hogwarts had been a sleepless one. Unlike other students, he wasn't nervous about the classes, professors, or exams. He had stored every First-Year textbook and the whole map of Hogwarts in his mind palace and he knew he had as much magic in him as any wizard. He even had the relevant bits of Hogwarts: A History memorized so he wouldn't get lost like the ordinary first-years. Mummy had bought all of his supplies the week before—including a wand that was nine inches with unicorn hair, according to Ollivander—and his reddish brown owl, Redbeard, would keep him company and bring him plenty of sweets and letters from home. There was only one thing Sherlock couldn't prepare for.
The sorting.
Sherlock had been all of four years old when Mycroft had been sorted, but he could remember learning about it clearly. The hat had only touched his brother's head for four point two seconds when it shouted, "Ravenclaw!" It knew right away that Mycroft was clever.
"The others took at least thirty point three seconds," Mycroft had said proudly. "I suppose their brains were more difficult to find, seeing as they were so much smaller." A whole house of clever people and Mycroft was the cleverest of all. But now he had graduated and was getting ready to join the Ministry of Magic. He hadn't said so, but Sherlock deduced easily enough that he aimed to replace Cornelius Fudge as soon as possible. But that didn't matter. The point was that since he was gone, it was Sherlock's turn to be the cleverest. Now the Ravenclaws would be in awe of him, and he would have the best marks in the class, maybe even of the whole school as Mycroft had done. He grinned. It was all so exciting. He had to be in Ravenclaw!
As the light crept into his bedroom and the day officially began, Sherlock reminded himself that according to the data he had from Mycroft and his textbooks, the chances of him being in Ravenclaw were at least sixty-eight percent. His love of science and logic, his brilliant brainwork. The only thing that alarmed him was that he didn't read as many books as fifty-four percent of the other Ravenclaws, which was why he had begged his dad to help him get a library card that summer. He had been delighted that Sherlock had wanted to share something Muggle with him, seeing as he couldn't participate in any of the magic. Sherlock never told him his real reasons for fear Mycroft would find out. If he hadn't already, anyway.
"Sherlock!" Speaking of which. "Mummy insisted I knock on your door. Now that I've done that, I'm off to work." Sherlock rolled his eyes but got out of bed. He was already dressed in his robes and had his ticket for the Hogwarts Express clutched in his hand.
"I'm up, I've been up," he said, opening the door as he put on his hat.
"I see," Mycroft said, and that smirk told Sherlock he'd already observed the sleepless night. He was already dressed as well, in a suit and tie with his wand in his pocket and his umbrella twirling in his hand. "I just hope you weren't counting on being put into Ravenclaw."
Sherlock ignored him and joined his parents at the breakfast table, where the toast was buttering itself. Mrs. Holmes put her hands over her chest.
"My youngest boy, off to Hogwarts already. You look absolutely dashing in those robes, dear. And Mycroft, that tie really does bring out your eyes."
"Yes, I thought so too the first three times you said it," Mycroft said, barely maintaining his smile.
"Thank you," Sherlock said, beaming when Mycroft mouthed suck up. He reached for toast, although he felt too nervous to eat. "You and Dad will have the house to yourself for once."
"Don't remind us," Mr. Holmes chuckled. "It's hard enough you're going off to school, but now that Mycroft is going to the ministry every day, we're quite the empty nesters. I feel old."
"Forget old, I'm going to feel lost," Mrs. Holmes said, straightening Sherlock's hat. "I may have to go back to work when Mikey moves out, otherwise I simply won't know what to do with myself."
"You should, you know," Mycroft emphasized, disappearing into his bedroom and then reappearing with his briefcase. Judging by how small it was, Sherlock guessed the inside had been magically expanded. "Far better use of your time." Mrs. Holmes pursed her lips but didn't comment.
She clasped Sherlock's hand. "You will write to us as soon as you can, won't you? I'm dying to know what house you'll be in."
"Ravenclaw," Sherlock said, loud enough for Mycroft to hear. "Where else would they put a clever person?"
Mycroft gave a small laugh and ruffled his hair, knowing full well Sherlock despised it. "Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one."
"We'll see," Sherlock fired back, but inside he was panicking. Why did his brother have to set the bar so high? Good marks and OWLs he could manage, but how would he ever find a way to be social enough for prefect and Head Boy too?
Mrs. Holmes told him not to worry and put more food on his plate, but Sherlock didn't touch it.
Getting to the Hogwarts Express was boring; Sherlock had passed through the brick wall at King's Cross so many times during Mycroft's school years that the excitement of it had long worn off. However, being on the Hogwarts Express was delightfully interesting. Aside from the chocolate frogs and Bertie Botts, the kids in his class turned out to be more interesting than he expected. Although most of them annoyingly referred to him as "Mycroft's younger brother," there were a few he enjoyed watching.
When he had first got on the train with his trunk and Redbeard, who was turning his head this way and that in his cage, a girl with red pigtails stared at him in awe. At first he thought it was because of Mycroft, but then he heard her whisper to another girl, "He's so good-looking, Janine!" The other girl whispered, "Please Molly, I think Greg would be better for you." This "Greg" person turned out to be named Lestrade, and he offered to share a few trading cards with Sherlock when he sat in his car. Sherlock declined; he didn't care much about trading cards. After a few unsuccessful attempts to engage him in conversation, Lestrade turned to a boy named Carl Powers and began talking about Quidditch with him. Sherlock stared out the window at the passing countryside when a hand tapped his shoulder. "This seat taken?"
Standing in front of him was a very attractive first-year boy with sandy hair and warm eyes. Right away Sherlock set his brain to work and learned that he was half-blood from a family of both magic and military lineage, didn't have a lot of money, and was an adventurous type.
"No, go ahead." He scooted over and the boy sat down.
"Thanks, mate. The train's so crowded I thought I'd have to stand for the entire trip until my friend Mike Stamford showed me this car." He held out his hand. "John Watson."
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, smiling as he shook his hand. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Sorry?" John frowned.
"Where did your father serve? Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John stared but finally said, "Afghanistan. How did you—"
"Chains of a dog tag visible around your neck, your posture and haircut say military; it's obvious that someone in your family has that background. I admit it could have been your mother or an older sibling, but father seemed more likely."
John broke into a smile. "That's amazing!"
Sherlock smiled back. He was about to thank him when someone said, "Please, that's so easy." They turned to the car entrance and saw another first-year boy standing there with a smirk. He had slicked black hair and eyes that made Sherlock uneasy. Judging by the way John stiffened, he felt the same way.
"Is that really all you could get out of him, Sherlock? Come on, easy peazy."
Sherlock glared. This kid reminded him strongly of Mycroft. "Oh really? And who are you?"
His sharp tone did nothing to sway this boy's demeanor. He spoke in a high voice. "Jim Moriarty. Hi." He stepped into their car, much to Sherlock and John's annoyance. "Is that an eight-inch phoenix-feathered wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
John twitched his nose, looking angry as he moved his wand to his coat pocket. Sherlock widened his eyes. The eight inches was easy enough to see, but how Jim knew about the phoenix hair on John's wand he wasn't sure. Not only that, but he found he couldn't observe much about Jim other than that his eyebrows had recently been plucked. Interesting.
"Sorry, was there something you wanted?" John asked, none too friendly.
"Oh, not with you, Watson. Never with you," Jim said, shaking his head and barely taking his eyes from Sherlock. "But I'm sure you and I will be seeing a lot more of each other, Sherlock. In the same house and all."
"Maybe," Sherlock said.
Jim nodded. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He turned around and disappeared into another train car.
"Don't listen to him," John said, rolling his eyes and unwrapping a chocolate frog. "Nobody knows for sure what house they'll be in." He stuffed the candy into his mouth and spoke while chewing. "So what are you excited to learn?"
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Sherlock said. "That and Potions."
John nodded, eyes brightening. "Me too. I also like Herbology, thinking of becoming a magical healer someday. Like the nurse at Hogwarts."
Sherlock could picture that easily. "You'd be good at it," he said. "I'd love to be a potions master."
John tilted his head. "Maybe we can study together, seeing as we like some of the same things."
Sherlock nodded, feeling his heart lift a little. Between his encounters with Jim and John, he was feeling much better. If he couldn't be in Ravenclaw, at least he'd get a consolation prize.
By far the hardest part of the journey was waiting for all the pinheaded students to get off the bloody train and following Hagrid with the other first-years. Sherlock knew good and well where Hogwarts was and how to get to the Great Hall, thank you. It was lucky John was there to keep him from being bored to tears, or he might have gone crazy. He was beginning to fervently hope they would be in Ravenclaw together. Even if John wasn't as clever as Jim, he was certainly nicer, and every bit as interesting. Good looking too, Sherlock thought before brushing the ludicrous thought aside. He didn't come to Hogwarts to date.
At last they were shuffled into the Hall, which looked exactly as the books and Mycroft had described it. He noticed McGonagall carrying the stool and Sorting Hat from the corner and fought to contain himself. The older students and teachers were already there, pointing and waving to the first-years.
Sherlock recognized all of the teachers with the exception of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts one. Professor Martha Hudson looked like the grandmotherly type, smiling and waving at some of the students. A few students were whispering that she didn't seem like she could possibly be that powerful of a witch, but Sherlock had a feeling she was stronger than she looked. Maybe it was his imagination, but she seemed to have an especially warm smile for him and John Watson. He smiled back and found himself looking forward to her class.
"Silence, please!" McGonagall rapped her wand on the stool for attention. She began to explain the sorting ritual. Sherlock filtered most of it until she said, "This year we're doing something a little different."
Sherlock stood on tiptoe, tensing.
McGonagall held up the parchment scroll that contained the list of names. "For as long as we have done this ritual, tradition has dictated that we call you up in alphabetical order. However, at the suggestion of Dumbledore and some of the students—" the older students at the tables grinned—"We have decided to switch it up. This year you will be called in reverse alphabetical order, from Z to A." She sniffed just a bit, hinting at her disapproval.
"Yes! Thank God, I thought I was going to be the last one called," John said. He had a nice smile. Sherlock tried to return it but he was fighting back a groan. He had thought he was going to be toward the top of the list and now he was going to be closer to the end. Still, at least he wouldn't have to wait as long as the students with A names, who were moaning about how unfair the whole thing was.
Professor McGonagall either didn't notice this or didn't care, because she scanned to the bottom of the list and called, "Zane, Alan!" Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe. It was finally happening. The ritual that would set the course for the rest of his life was starting. He desperately wanted to do something. Go into his mind palace, make a deduction, run around in circles, something. But he could only stand there and wait.
"Watson, John!" John grinned and eagerly ran up to the hat. Sherlock watched with bated breath, hoping John would be clever enough for Ravenclaw. Alas, he only wore the hat for eight point nine seconds before it shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!" John pumped his fist, seemingly having gotten his wish. Sherlock's shoulders slumped. Oh well. At least if Sherlock somehow ended up in Gryffindor, he would have someone to talk to. Of course there was only a sixteen point five percent chance of that, but it was still a comfort.
He and John exchanged one last smile before turning to watch the rest of the sorting. Much as it pained Sherlock to wait, the line was at least moving quickly. He liked what he saw so far of the students being sorted into Ravenclaw. When Jim Moriarty's turn came, he danced up to the hat. He had tripped the student before him, causing Sherlock to dislike him a bit and begin to hope they wouldn't be in the same house. Jim carefully set the hat onto his head in a grand gesture, eliciting laughs from the students. Sherlock held his breath again, thinking he might get in Ravenclaw since he was apparently clever too. Maybe even a match for Sherlock.
He needn't have worried. The hat barely, barely, touched Jim's head before screaming, "SLYTHERIN!" Jim grinned widely as the Slytherins welcomed him to their table. Their cheering was especially loud since so far he was the first. He wiggled his eyebrows at Sherlock, who found himself almost backing up.
Much as he didn't like to consider the possibility, Sherlock thought there was a slight chance, maybe fifteen percent, that he'd end up in Slytherin. Although he could hardly be considered ambitious, his morals and respect for rules weren't exactly the best, and that was what Slytherins were known for. He didn't like the idea though. Besides Jim, he only saw two other people sorted into Slytherin before McGonagall got to the L's, Mary Morstan and Charles Magnussen, and he didn't care for either of them. He deduced right away that Mary was a liar and that Charles often became aggressive with people in order to get what he wanted. At first he thought that if there was one house he didn't want to be in, that would be it. But then he wondered if it might be an interesting one. John Watson may have been in Gryffindor, but he was the only one that wasn't boring. The rest were all obsessed with Quidditch, which Sherlock couldn't care less about and had never even bothered to learn the rules of. At least the members of Slytherin might be fond of playing games that were more exciting.
The line was getting shorter. The Lestrade kid went to Hufflepuff, as Carl Powers had. Molly did too, though her friend Janine had gone to Ravenclaw. Sherlock swallowed. After Hooper, there was only—
"Holmes, Sherlock!"
This was it. The moment Sherlock had been waiting for and dreamed of for seven years had finally come. He felt like he was floating as he paced toward the stool, which he unintentionally deduced had been magically repaired a month ago in preparation for this very day. He pulled his robes tighter around himself and took off his own hat.
The moment was spoiled slightly when he heard the teachers whisper to each other, "Oh, another Holmes boy! How lovely, Mycroft was such a pleasure to have in class. Wasn't he? Top marks, flawless OWLs, a prefect, and Head Boy, it's almost unheard of." Sherlock hunched his shoulders a bit but then straightened up. They weren't going to be talking about Mycroft for much longer. The minute he put on that hat, he would begin showing everyone what Sherlock Holmes could do.
There it was, as old and tattered as the books and his mother had described it. The hat and McGonagall gave him encouraging smiles. At last he sat on the stool and began counting the second he felt the material touch his head, slipping down his forehead.
Ravenclaw Ravenclaw Ravenclaw! He screamed silently. But his eyes shot open when the hat started speaking.
"Oh, most interesting. You've certainly got quite a brain, I must say." Sherlock flushed with pleasure, gripping the edges of the stool and trying to keep his smile modest. "Bit of courage too, I see." Sherlock noticed John Watson grin at that out of the corner of his eye.
"Yes, plenty of courage and cleverness both." Sherlock was about to burst with joy. "But there's something more here, too." Sherlock frowned. More? What do you mean?
"A strong drive, I should say." Drive? Was he bound for Slytherin after all? He caught sight of Jim Moriarty's smug nod and felt sick to his stomach.
"Dedication, determination, a lot to offer anyone who should take the time for you. Ah, I know just where to put you." Sherlock felt the hat squeeze his head a bit and he knew it was scrunching up its eyes and getting ready to shout. He bit his bottom lip hard and thought RAVENCLAW as loud as he could in hopes that the hat might hear him.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Sherlock bit through the skin of his bottom lip as his mouth fell open. No. No no no that can't be right. He blinked his eyes rapidly, his body so rigid and tense he nearly fell off the stool. The applause from the Hufflepuffs went entirely unnoticed. John gave a little shrug and a thumb's-up, but it was forced. Jim shook his head, his lips pursed. Mary rolled her eyes.
He could only imagine what Mycroft was going to say.
"Holmes, would you kindly make room for the next person?" McGonagall's sharp voice pierced his thoughts. Sherlock shakily got up from the stool and stumbled over to the Hufflepuff table, where the students were waving at him eagerly. He somehow ended up next to Molly, Carl, and that Lestrade kid whose first name he couldn't remember. He felt like he was going to be sick.
Hufflepuff. The one house he hadn't even considered because he didn't think there was any way it could be a possibility. Hufflepuffs were boring. Ordinary. Mycroft had said many times that Hufflepuff was where they put people who had nowhere else to go. Those dull folk who weren't brave, clever, or ambitious. He would never be special in Hufflepuff, or if he would it would be frustratingly easy. Oh God, Mycroft was never going to let him hear the end of it. He'd wear that infuriating smirk and speak in that condescending tone and Sherlock already couldn't bear it.
He had to be moved to another house. Tonight, before Mycroft had a chance to find out.
Sherlock mentally patted himself on the back a thousand times that night for having memorized Hogwarts: A History, because if he hadn't there was no way he would have been able to sneak around the school at night. As it was, he was struggling to get around the ghosts, the portraits, Filch, Mrs. Norris, and any teachers wandering around. Fortunately, he had managed to give them the slip many times by knowing how to hide in plain sight and using the memory charms he'd learned from his textbook to make them forget why they'd come that way in the first place.
After the sorting was over, Sherlock had barely nibbled at his feast and ignored Molly and Carl's attempts to talk to him. Eventually they gave up and conversed with that Lestrade kid, leaving Sherlock to make his plan. He wouldn't be going to the Hufflepuff dormitory. Such a thing would be as good as admitting defeat, and it wouldn't be practical to get attached to people he would soon be leaving. So after the feast was over, he had waited until lines began to form and the other first-years frantically searched for their prefects, and in the confusion he had slipped out.
Now he tiptoed through the dark halls until he was sure he'd reached Dumbledore's office. He knew from the tread on the carpet that he had gone back inside recently, and as far as Sherlock knew, he was the only one with the authority to transfer a student to a different house. The thought that he might be expelled or at least given a detention for sneaking out had briefly crossed Sherlock's mind, but he thought he would rather be expelled than spend the next seven years with dull folk.
That being said, he had a problem. Dumbledore's office was hidden behind a gargoyle. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it required some sort of password or maybe a spell to get past it, but Sherlock had no idea what that might be. Somehow he didn't think alohamora was going to be enough.
Sherlock quickly retreated into his mind palace. He had to review all of his information on Dumbledore. There were fourteen common types of passwords in the wizarding world, but Dumbledore was cleverer than the average wizard. He mentally perused the man's trading card, his biography, books on Hogwarts and magical seals, and had almost compiled a list of seven possibilities when suddenly he was spared the trouble. The gargoyle split in two and Dumbledore himself walked out, making Sherlock jump and automatically reach for his wand.
"What might you be doing out of bed?" Dumbledore asked, and Sherlock was relieved to hear that his voice was firm but kind. He stood up straight and put his wand back in his pocket.
"I needed to speak to you, sir," he said. "Please. I'm sorry to bother you at night, but it's important."
Dumbledore paused, then nodded. "Come in," he said, beckoning Sherlock to follow. When they had reached his office, Sherlock didn't mince words.
"Sir, I think the sorting hat made a mistake. It put me into Hufflepuff, but all the data I've gathered on that house confirms that I don't belong there." He began to panic when Dumbledore looked amused. "Please, I need to transfer houses."
"Oh? Why don't you belong in Hufflepuff?" Dumbledore asked him. Sherlock looked down. He had been geared up for a fight, expecting Dumbledore to as strict as McGonagall, if not more so. This gentle tone made him feel guilty.
"Because I'm clever," Sherlock said, knowing he did not sound the least bit convincing. "I know I'm cleverer than the Hufflepuffs, and they're all ordinary and I'm…different."
"You think the Ravenclaws are not ordinary?"
"Well," he thought that one over. "Not as much. They're more like me."
Dumbledore considered that. "I remember your brother was a Ravenclaw."
"Yes!" Sherlock said, raising his head. "And I'm every bit as clever as he is. I know I can make the highest marks of anyone in the class."
"No one ever said that you couldn't." Dumbledore gazed at the portraits on his wall, most of which were watching this conversation with amused interest. "A common misconception about the four houses is that showing the most of one trait somehow negates the other three. It is perfectly possible to be brave, clever, kind, and ambitious all at the same time."
"But I want to be clever more than anything!" Sherlock blurted.
"More than anything?" Dumbledore said, raising his silver eyebrows. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Is that all you think you have to offer the world? Do you really believe that being smart is better than being kind and caring?"
Sherlock's first instinct was to say yes, kind and caring people were boring, but he knew that wasn't what Dumbledore wanted to hear. "I'm more clever than I am either of those things." He swallowed and tried to put more emphasis in his voice. "I'm telling you, the sorting hat is wrong!"
"What sort of arrogance is this?" a lady in one of the portraits asked. "An eleven year old boy thinking he knows more than a thousand year old enchanted hat? Preposterous!"
Dumbledore held up a hand to quiet her. "Far be it for me to say that the hat is always completely accurate," he said. "Nevertheless, once a student has been sorted, the arrangement is final. I'm sorry you're disappointed, but you'd best go on to bed. You look tired."
Sherlock stood up taller and opened his mouth, ready to argue, make a deduction, cast a spell, whatever he had to do to make Dumbledore change his mind. But the look of pity and the kind smile on the headmaster's face, combined with the fact that he was tired after two sleepless nights, made Sherlock's lips quiver. Out of nowhere he felt his throat tighten and his face redden. He shut his eyes tight.
A brush against his cheek made him open them again as a tear slipped out. Dumbledore was kneeling in front of him with his hands on his shoulders. "If it's any comfort, Sherlock, I think you have a lot to offer the world besides your brain. I think the hat saw that you have a very large heart as well."
Sherlock sniffed, shaking his head a bit.
"Oh, but you do. You don't see it yet, but there was a reason you were chosen for Hufflepuff. I think you could help bring that house more recognition and glory than it has received in years." Sherlock smiled at that.
"Make no mistake. Your brother's brains will take him far; in fact, they already have. He'll have no trouble running the Ministry of Magic or anything else he chooses to pursue. However, something tells me you will have one very special thing that he won't."
"What?" Sherlock strained his ears. The idea of him having something Mycroft didn't was like a Christmas present.
"Friendship," Dumbledore said. "Love. Those are far greater gifts than all the knowledge in the world. And though he may never admit it, I think the day will come when Mycroft will wish he had a friend." He cupped Sherlock's cheek. "If I may offer a word of advice, don't push yourself to be a copy of your brother. It takes no great effort to be born with a magnificent memory and a strong mind, but to love and care deeply for another takes all the strength, wisdom, and tenacity of the human soul. And I think the hat saw that ability in you."
Sherlock nodded, wiping his face. "Thank you, sir," he said.
"You're quite welcome," Dumbledore said, standing up and handing Sherlock a tissue. "Now, I shall write you a note so that you won't face punishment if you should run into anyone on your way back to your dormitory. That way you'll be spared the trouble of practicing the art of disguise."
Sherlock giggled and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he scribbled something on a slip of parchment and handed it to Sherlock. "There you are. Now go on back and get some sleep. The Hufflepuff password is "Melon."
"Thank you. Good night." Sherlock took the note and made his way back to Hufflepuff, resigned to his fate but feeling a bit more hopeful about it.
Two of the other Hufflepuffs were still awake when Sherlock walked in. Carl sat up right away. "Is that Sherlock? Where were you?"
Sherlock was too tired to bother with a lie. "Just seeing Dumbledore about something." He climbed into the only four-poster bed that wasn't occupied and opened his trunk to change into his nightclothes.
"You saw Dumbledore? Is he really as grand a wizard as they say?"
"Well he didn't do any magic, Graham."
"Greg."
"Sorry." Sherlock slipped out of his robes and was under the covers quickly. "I see our roommates have been keeping you two awake."
"How do you—"
"Wrinkles in your clothes indicate tossing and turning, ruffle on your hair looks as though you tried to jam a pillow over your head, and although he's quiet now, Henry's sleeping posture has all the telltale signs of an intermittent snoring problem. That, combined with the fact that Tom ate three helpings of beans at the feast and Carl's got an air freshener up led me to the very simple conclusion that we've got noisy roommates."
They were silent for a moment, and Sherlock started to close his eyes when Carl whispered, "Wow. That's genius!"
Sherlock opened his eyes. "You think so?"
"Course it was. Bloody brilliant."
Sherlock smiled. "Thanks, Gavin."
"Greg."
"Greg."
He heard the rustle of their sheets, and then, "If you think you can remember my name long enough, do you want to join us in the common room tomorrow for a study session after classes?"
Sherlock didn't know what to say. The only time anyone had ever invited him to study with them was when they wanted him to do their work for them.
"Oh, do say yes," Carl said. "You're so brilliant I bet you'd know as much as the teachers."
Sherlock snuggled into the covers. "Okay." Well, he had gotten his wish to be the smartest person in his house. He still worried a bit that it would come too easy, but if he was honest, he felt warm inside when his classmates complimented him. And if he could help them with their homework, maybe word of his brilliance would spread and other kids in other houses would start asking him for help too.
He grinned. Maybe he could still have everything Mycroft did. Maybe he could even have more. If tomorrow went well, he could even have two friends- three if you counted John Watson- on his second day. Real friends, not just competitive rivals. He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep, comforted at the thought that even though he still thought the hat might have been wrong, there was at least a thirty percent chance that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.